The Exotic One
50 Cent is undoubtedly one of the most controversial rap stars in Hip Hop. Over the years, he has been in altercations with Wendy Williams, the Starz Network, Oprah Winfrey, Floyd Mayweather, a host of other rap artists, the New York City Police Department, and even his own son. Just a few months ago, in July 2020, the rap star was back in the news again.
This time, he was in contention with black women across the globe for the remarks made about his love for exotic women and his dislike for angry black women.
In his appearance on the Young Money Radio Podcast, the rapper states that he dates outside his race and advertised his preference for exotic women by saying, “…it’s different … it looks like it just comes off a boat … it’s something foreign … it’s something you just can’t get.”
Now, based on 50 Cent’s definition of what exotic means, he is far from wrong. But, black women were not taking his comments lightly. Especially when it gave the notion that they, in comparison, were common and far from what exotic is perceived to be.
This discussion piqued my interest as it jarred my memory to the year, 2016. I’d just arrived in Japan and was still adjusting to my work environment. Being from the Caribbean, also meant I was still adjusting to the fact that in the land of the rising sun, being on time means you are late, and being late was just plain disrespectful.
With this in mind, on my third day at my new job, I was taking the stairs two at a time trying to get to my small cubicle before 8:00 am when voices stopped me.
Oh, there she is. The exotic girl coming up the stairs.
I glanced behind me to see who they were talking about and in shocked amazement realized it was me. I was a black woman in Japan. A country with little or no ethnic or racial diversity. I was the odd one out. I was an exotic one.
And, what exactly did that mean? Did my unfamiliar look make me more alluring and beautiful? Was I fawned over by men and women alike? Not quite.
Being exotic in Japan meant a seat left vacant in the train, no matter how crowded it got, as people refused to sit beside me. It meant cameras pointed at my face trying to sneak a quick pic. It meant small children rubbing my skin to see if the color would come off.
It meant local men asking me to play --- using the code word for sex as if asking for entry to my body was merely a game. It meant being told I cannot use the local gym because I wasn’t fluent in Japanese.
It meant being compared to Monchhichi, a stuffed toy monkey. It meant furtive glances and blatant stares. It meant un-asked for hands trying to touch my hair.
Navigating being a woman, a black woman, is just as hard in Japan as it is in any other place. Being exotic didn`t help. It was not a saving grace.
Over time, I have learned to adapt. I’ve learned to accept the fact that I will always be the only black face in many spaces, and I’ve learned not to care. Unlike America, being black in Japan comes with less racial tension. I, like most expats here, are grouped into a category called gaikokujin. To them, I am merely foreign --- someone who is not Japanese.
Although, depending on where I travel, I still attract a lot of stares. It is good to admit that I am beginning to feel like I am less and less of a novelty here.
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