Scattered All Over the Earth

by Yōko Tawada

As they see no connection between art and skill, they think that no matter how good a person is at drawing, she shouldn’t do it unless she feels destined to be an artist. There might be something to that.

Europeans must think of handwriting and drawing as two completely separate things. If not, why are they so ashamed of a lousy picture when their terrible handwriting doesn’t bother them at all?

In the country where I was born, people didn’t think much of this sort of talent. Someone who worked hard but rarely spoke was considered much more trustworthy. A man who’d slogged silently away at some project for decades, then one day mumbled something like, “You know, I sometimes think that this might be what I’ve been trying to do all these years,” would be regarded with awe. A young person who was always going on about new things to try or improvements to make, telling her elders how much better things would be if they’d leave everything up to her, on the other hand, would get hit over the head with a hammer of words. There was an old saying, “The nail that sticks up gets hammered down,” and a game besides, called “Whack-a-Mole,” invented just to give people practice at hammering down those pesky nails.

I refused as politely as I could. If people saw me on TV, someone might recognize me when they saw me later, walking around town and use that as an excuse to talk to me even though they had nothing to say.

Some woman said we didn’t need language anymore now that we have emoji, which seemed to me to be missing the point. If her son broke her favorite vase what would she do — draw an angry-face emoji for him?

“You can’t understand the new poverty using Engel’s coefficient,” I answered coldly. “The percentage a poor family spends on food today is quite small. They can buy cheap processed foods; for instance, with the catchphrase Geiz ist geil (stinginess is cool) ringing in your ears, you can buy meals to heat up in the microwave for only one euro. “They’ll definitely make you sick if you eat them every day, but they don’t let that bother them. That’s what it means to be poor now.”

I learned lots of things from George. He was the one who taught me the word “postcolonialism.” And he told me that lots of people who consider the word “Eskimo” racist think it’s enough just to replace it with “Inuit,” even though strictly speaking not all Eskimos are Inuit. Just as not all gypsies are Roma.

But anyway, I can’t see what’s wrong with “those who eat raw fish.” To me, eating fish or meat raw when it’s fresh seems much more civilized than boiling your food until it turns to mush.

I had no reason to criticize some country across the sea I knew nothing about, and while I wasn’t especially proud of being an Eskimo — unlike George, I had no romantic illusions about Eskimo culture — I didn’t feel inferior, either. But all the same, living in Copenhagen, I was driven into a sort of ethnic corner. The minute they saw me, people put me into a certain category. If you were to give that category a name, it wouldn’t be “Asian,” or “Muslim,” or “person of color,” or “immigrant” but definitely Eskimo. When I bought a hot dog at a stand, the man would look surprised as he gave me my change, as if he was thinking “You Eskimos eat sausages?” At the barbershop I’d point to a photo in the catalogue and say, “This is the style I want,” only to hear the scissors whisper, “Didn’t know you people liked anime-inspired hairstyles.” I’d order a drink at a club and see in the bartender’s eyes, “Your Eskimo liver doesn’t have the enzymes to break down alcohol. Drink this and you’ll pass out.” It would have been easier if they’d just called out, “Hey you, Eskimo!” but nobody did. Though they weren’t cruel, they must have thought it was best not to have much to do with me, because they never looked me in the eye. I felt like my body was wrapped in cellophane stamped with the word Eskimo on it — when people saw me, their eyes stopped on the surface, and never went any deeper.

I was just sitting there, staring into space when a young woman who was wearing a business suit but looked more like a student asked if I’d mind if she sat across from me. I don’t much like looking into a stranger’s face while I eat, but — thinking how sad I’d be if someone refused me a seat in a crowded restaurant — I couldn’t say no.

My mother isn’t repetitious, nor does she stick in lots of extra adjectives. So why do her explanations always feel so long and drawn out? I tried to listen patiently, swallowing to suppress my irritation. My father never listened to her, and I’d always been determined not to be like that, but those stinging nettles of his seemed to have taken root in me.

It was too late now, but I regretted never having studied Eskimo languages. Not that I wasn’t interested, but knowing how thrilled my mother would be if I started researching Eskimo languages, maybe I’d been subconsciously avoiding them.

So when you learn a language you shouldn’t see it as something entirely new. You should tell yourself you’re remembering a language you used to speak a long time ago.

People are always saying the humanities are dead so it’s strange how many conferences there are.