Early European explorers, such as Marco Polo, romanticized Japan as a florid and peaceful kingdom, as rich in culture as it was in gold. Some later chided it as being backward and fiercely isolationist. But Marco Polo had never been to Japan, and other Europeans met with little success in trying to establish ties, and so little was known about Japanese culture in the West until after the Meiji Restoration when Japan, facing Perry’s black ships, cast off its veil and burst onto the international scene. The new international exposure came at a time when Japan was calling on every one of its people to unite in rapid industrialization and nation building, which gave many in the West the image of Japan as a culturally homogenous nation. The appearance of this new Japan fused with the old and persisting views of Japan as a distant, mysterious, and exotic place. The events of the Twentieth Century again redefined the perception of Japan, adding other ingredients to the recipe: honor, cruelty, resilience, and many others. All of these elements, old and new, good and bad, became amalgamated with the notion of a monolithic Japanese culture - a notion with which I was imbued.
　 Four years ago, I began learning Japanese. What first attracted me to the language was an affinity shared by many Americans for Japanese cultural exports. It was my friends in college that introduced me to the intriguing films of Juzo Itami and Hayao Miyazaki, the fascinating sounds of Cornelius and The Boredoms, and the baffling variety shows that appeared on Channel 26 every Sunday night in San Francisco. Although my friends and I majored in very different subjects, we eventually agreed to take a Japanese language class together. For a year I studied diligently and excelled in the class and gained a great deal of insight into Japanese culture from three excellent teachers, but the view of Japan they presented did not deviate from the view of Japan as a monocultural nation.
　 At the time I was a history student and had studied the histories of various regions across the globe. I had studied the ebb and flow of the Chinese Dynasties, the rise and fall of European empires, and the dignity and grandeur of ancient South America without ever having left the United States. As a student and even as a young child, I have always enjoyed historical sites. I believe that they provide meaning and gravity, a concrete link from the past to the present that cannot be attained in a classroom. As I progressed in my studies, I felt that I was lacking this kind of experience, so that fact combined with an acute case of wanderlust led me to apply for a scholarship to study abroad. Three months later, I was stepping off of a plane at Kansai International.
　 I was confident that my rudimentary Japanese would help me find my way around and even allow me to have a descent if superficial conversation. But when I arrived at my home-stay on the outskirts of Osaka prefecture, I found that linguistically I was rather unprepared. My home-stay family spoke in a rhythm and cadence that I had never heard from my Tokyo born teachers, and the trouble I had understanding them was further exacerbated by the regional differences in the Japanese lexicon. Shortly before I left the U.S. my Japanese teacher said that she was looking forward to hearing my Japanese after I returned from the study abroad program. I assumed that she wanted to see how much progress I would make immersed in the language. But then she said with a smile "You’ll have an Osaka accent."
　 My preconceptions about a culturally homogenous Japan quickly vanished. Before that, I had no knowledge of the regional differences so apparent and celebrated within Japan. But in fact, those differences are just the tip of the iceberg, and over the past three years, I have learned about many other divisions within the culture that transcend the locally based dialects, fashion tastes, and regional food specialties. The history of Japan before the Meiji Restoration was rife with political and social, as well as regional divisions many of which still have echoes present in the culture today. But the unity that has defined recent Japanese history is waning. The nationalistic zeal of the Meiji Era is gone, as is the focus and unity that helped Japan pull itself out of the ashes of the Pacific War to become the world’s second largest economy. Not only is Japanese culture not homogenous, it is in a state of transition, a state of redefinition fueled by its profoundly deep divisions.
　 It was not long before the conversations I had would reveal the state of cultural transition that Japan was in. Once when I asked an acquaintance of mine about what problems he thought Japan was facing today, he said: "There’s too many old people." Although I had heard that said before, it took me by surprise. I tried to contain it, but I knew my face must have given me away when I saw him start to smile. I struggled to break the silence but could not think of an appropriate response. "I know," he said pointing to his nose. "I am an old man." I had heard Japanese people complain about the growing pressures caused by the aging population many times before not only from my classmates, but also from people of their parents' generation. But this was the first time that I had heard it from a man well into his sixties, a man who would begin almost every conversation with an update about how many days were left until he could retire. He was happy and relieved to be retiring soon, but he knew that he would not have had such confidence and security had he been born even just a few years later.
　 Japan, like almost all industrial nations is facing a population crisis. In Japan, as in Europe and the United States, there was a large boom in population following World War II that was followed by steadily declining birthrates. Now that the "Baby-boomers" are nearing retirement age and starting to leave the workforce, there are fewer and fewer people to replace them and dealing with the burden of the growing population of retirees is becoming increasingly difficult. But in Japan, the problem is more complicated than that.
　 What makes Japan unique, or at least different from western societies is the Confucian tradition that with age comes status. In Japan there are still many signs that show the effects that Confucianism still has. The lifetime employment system, although faltering, is still in tact: the longer you work for a company, the greater your salary becomes. Many Japanese companies put more value on longevity and age than on productivity. But a change in this way of thinking is not only imminent, but already beginning and can be seen by the changes in the hiring and firing practices that are becoming trends in Japan.
　 With the chronic economic stagnation, even large Japanese companies are starting to be forced to do the unthinkable: layoff loyal, long-term employees. The effects are more serious than a tremor in the security of the lifetime employment system. The homeless population in Japan is ballooning, the average age of whom, according to a recent report in the Asahi Shimbun, is 55.91. One need only to take a walk through Tennoji to see that most look quite a bit older. To add injury to insult, in recent years the news has been sprinkled with stories of random beatings and even murders of homeless people by gangs of young thugs. This comes on the tail of an earlier trend of random acts of violence committed against middle-aged businessmen during the early years of the Heisei Era.
　 While the rise in this particular type of crime is definitely frightening, it is obvious that the average Japanese person is not on the prowl, preying upon unsuspecting homeless people and intoxicated salary-men stumbling home at night. However, the attitude of a good portion of the younger generation definitely lacks any sort of inherent respect for the previous one. Many of my friends from college, now searching for work, often complain about the failings of the older generation whom they blame for the recent economic downturn. Rather than cite the economic boom of the Eighties as evidence of their elders’ contribution and the source of the opulence they enjoyed as children, they blame them for failing to sustain it. The term "Bubble Generation" has become a term of derision; I have seen few people in their twenties that can say it without sneering.
　 Changes in the way that older people are treated in Japan are not limited to simple generational estrangement. There are also changes in how older people view themselves. Terms like Obasan and Ojisan that once conveyed a familial respect now convey a different meaning. In some retirement communities and hospitals that deal in geriatric medicine, the terms have been dropped from the protocol of how to address the patients for fear of making them "feel old." Others seem to be using the terms in an almost comical fashion, more so by people who are referring to themselves. Almost every time that I have heard an older woman refer to herself as Obasan it was after hearing an account of how she elbowed other customers out of her way at a bargain sale. But women are not the only ones poking fun at themselves. I was told by a woman in her twenties about an interview she had with a middle-aged recruiter who constantly referred to himself as Ossan rather than by his own name. After hearing that, it is not so shocking anymore to hear the phrase "there’s too many old people in Japan" from anyone.
　 For better or for worse, changes in the way older people are viewed and treated are occurring in Japan, changes that have been caused by dips in the economy and shifts in demographics that are echoing throughout society. But there is another strong current of cultural change flowing in Japan as well. This current is flowing strongly and wearing away the archaic and stifling cultural notions about proper gender roles.
　 When I first came to Japan, I was living in the suburbs of Hirakata City in Osaka Prefecture. One thing that really struck me as I wandered around trying to familiarize myself with my surroundings was the almost total absence of men. I saw boys playing at the park after school and the occasional deliveryman, but that was it. It seemed to be a town of women. Where were the men? They were in the city of course, working, and had I walked into any office, I’m sure that after I got past the secretaries, I probably would not see another woman until I left.
　 In Japan there is a rather strict division of labor based on gender. But not everyone is unhappy about it. I have met many women whose major goal in life is nothing more than finding a husband with a good income and being a housewife for the rest of their lives. Actually, that seems to be the typical life course. After college men and women will find jobs and then search for a spouse. After marriage, the wife will quit her job, often under pressure from her superiors, and become a housewife while the man continues to work and support the family financially. And while that is not necessarily a bad thing, what many Japanese women, and men, complain about is the lack of choice when it comes to legitimate full time employment and the difficulty there is in deviating from this life-course.
　 Although there have been many efforts to relax the gender based restrictions, the division shows little sign of waning. In 1986, Japan passed the euphemistically titled Equal Employment Opportunities Law, which attempted to force a change in sexist hiring practices. But in fact it worked to solidify them with its two-track employment system. Work was divided into two tracks: the career/management track (Sogoshoku) and the general/clerical track (Ippanshoku). As the law’s name implies, equal opportunity was given to men and women to join either track, but the fact that, as recently as 2000, the career/management track was 97% male and the general/clerical track was 94% female shows that the lingering notions of men’s and women’s proper in Japanese society are still very strong2.
　 The division of labor is as rigid and stultifying for men as it is for women. I had long heard of the world famous Japanese salary man who works incredibly long hours and never takes a day off. This kind of career does not seem too appealing to many young Japanese men, many of whom did not see much of their father during their childhood. This resentment and their commitment to be better fathers have led to some changes including mandatory paternity leave. But small concessions like these do not seem to be enough to motivate some men to enter the regular work force. Recently I asked a group of junior high school students, two boys and two girls, about their "dream job." The girls’ responses were ambitious and admirable: one wanted to be a Japanese teacher and live in Europe and the other a pianist. Both of the boys responded with a newly coined yet immensely popular word: "free-timer."
　 Continuing a decade long trend, many young men and women are choosing to forgo the rigors of full-time employment and spouse hunting and opting for more flexible, although lower paid, part-time work. The flexible work situation provides benefits to both women and men who are searching for greater economic freedom rather than economic power. The "free-timer" phenomenon has many of the conservative elements in Japan in a panic as it threatens many of the traditional hiring practices and, some even say, the health of Japanese society itself. "Free-timers" tend to wait longer to get married, have fewer or no children, and because the make less money, contribute less to the economy as both producers and consumers. It seems that only when the effects of this trend are seen as more disastrous than a workplace filled with women and men who are equally respected will the real cultural change take place.
　 Change is inevitable for all cultures and by no means is it always a change for the better or for worse. Usually it is a mixture of both as the change occurs atop the many currents affecting it. So while Japanese culture is in a state of redefinition, it is not necessarily in a state of crisis. For thousands of years Japan has been fostering one of the most unique and resilient cultures in the world to match its equally unique history, and the recent decline of centrality in Japan today is by no means an aberration.
　 Before the Meiji Restoration, centrality was the exception rather than the rule. During the Edo period the powerful feudal rulers, the Daimyo, were forced to make periodic stays in Edo, and their subjects were generally forbidden to travel freely in and out of other Daimyo’s domains. This was done in order to keep the Daimyo from joining forces against the Shogun. Proceeding the Edo period was an era when Japan had no central ruling authority. The Warring States Period, or Muromachi Period, is thought by many political historians to be a time of chaos, a step backward for Japan as development was paralyzed by regional conflicts. But it is also thought by many to be a time of great cultural progress, a time of rebirth, for although there was no central authority, the cultural advances made during that time were some of the most important for Japan. The Muromachi period is credited for such cultural advances as the creation of the tea ceremony, ikebana, Shoin-zukuri architecture, Zen Buddhism, Noh drama. All are readily recognizable worldwide as uniquely Japanese.
　 How will the Heisei Era be remembered? Will it be seen as a time of cultural rejuvenation, or a time of economic paralysis? Considering the fact that both culture and economics are fluid, it may be hard to tell, but judging by the outcome of the Muromachi Period, it is definite that culture is the more permanent. That leads me to believe that Japan’s struggles to redefine its culture will be neither fruitless nor forgotten.

1 "Poles Apart: While some elderly Japanese look for ways to spend or invest their copious savings, others are scratching just to get by, " The Asahi Shimbun "
July 21, 2003, IHT/Asahi ed.
2 Beverley Bishop, The Diversification of Employment and Women’s Work in Contemporary Japan (Melbourne: Trans Pacific Press, 2000)