Beer With the Enemy: The Willingness to Connect

No matter how long ago, some experiences remain as if it was yesterday. And no matter my birthplace or being of Japanese descent, I am an American. To an elderly Japanese man, I was his enemy.

On a hot, humid summer evening in 1991, I finished my workday as an intern reporter in a small countryside town in Japan to meet up with two friends for drinks. The presence of foreigners wasn’t common in this more remote region, which was one reason why the local Jaycees partnered with Sacramento State University to have a few college students spend a summer in their town to build cross cultural relationships.

That evening as we walked into the bar, all eyes were on us. After a bit of friendly small talk in Japanese with a few patrons, an elderly man could be seen a short distance away sitting on a barstool gazing intently our way. He gestured to come sit with him. Normally, we would stay amongst ourselves to catch up on the day in English, but on that night, we grabbed our beers and took the open seats by him. He greeted us in a calm, reflective manner and began to share his story of being a soldier during WWII fighting the Americans. As he spoke, I was unsure if he had animosity towards us Americans as he reflected on his pain of war. Yet, he continued to talk; and we continued to sip and listen.

In seeking connection, I shared with this elderly man how my mother was a child during WWII and hid in the caves of Okinawa and would have died for Emperor Hirohito if necessary. On the other hand, my father was an American soldier in the USAF stationed in Okinawa while fighting in the Vietnam War…another war, another time, fighting with another country. I am the descendant of both…of pain and hope.

I was no expert in helping this elderly man resolve his pain, but my friends and I had time to sit, sip, and listen. As this man treated us to the next rounds of drink, we shared our stories of what brought us to Japan. He shared in all the years since the war, he had not been in company with another American and was grateful to finally have beer with the enemy. His heartache from destruction, loss, guilt, and shame didn’t disappear; yet he was able to build a bridge towards peace by sitting with us Americans who fifty years prior, a generation ago, was his enemy. Tears of gratitude fell down this elderly man’s face as we finished the last rounds of Asahi and called it a night.

Thirty plus years later, to present day, this two-hour interaction has remained one of my most impactful experiences. Being willing to create a connection with another person who sees me as different, even an enemy, and holding the space to sit and share has led me to try to do the same for others. Even when we remain in our differences, stories have a way to bring people together. And when we allow ourselves to pause, open our minds and hearts to another, and even think differently together as we share our stories, we can find a higher level of connection that heals and shapes a more impactful path forward.

I never saw this man again after leaving the bar, yet the experience led to an acceptance of my struggle of being biracial and bicultural. I acknowledge that in the homogenous society of Japan, I am a “Gai-jin” (a foreigner) even with a Japanese bloodline of aunts, uncles, and cousins who still live in the country. And in the United States, my looks are different enough to create questions of my heritage and ancestry. Previously, I would have felt defensive and tired of the inquiries. As I returned to the United States to finish my last year of college at Sacramento State, I began to welcome the questions, appreciate the curiosity, and use it as an opportunity to seek connection with others as we all are descendants of pain and hope.

Thank you for reading. As you reflect on this piece, I would love to hear what resonated with you. Perhaps you're willing to share an impactful encounter you experienced that shaped how you relate to people?