Scattered All Over the Earth

by Yōko Tawada

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.