I was once a stranger in a foreign country. I went to Japan because Honda of America asked our family to go. I had a home, a support system, a way to communicate with people back home and, ultimately, a plane ticket home. But for three years, I learned what it felt like not to quite fit.

Before we moved, I spent a year learning Japanese language and culture. At the time, I thought some of it was a little excessive. I had met Japanese people. They seemed like people. I figured the culture would be similar.

Nope, not at all. The houses were different. The bathrooms were different. The food was different. The expectations were different. I had to put my bed away every morning because I slept on a futon on the floor. I learned quickly that things that seemed perfectly normal to me were not necessarily normal there.

Then there was the language. There is something completely humbling about sitting in a room and realizing everyone else understands what is happening except you.

I remember one particular experience especially well. A group of American wives and I were traveling near Mount Fuji when we stopped at a small restaurant in a tiny village. There were only two people inside. An older Japanese man came rushing toward us and told us they had no room for us.

There was plenty of room. I was embarrassed and my feelings were hurt. But I also knew something I could not see.

My grandfather had served in the Navy and fought in Japan during World War II. Before I left for Japan, he told me he would not come visit me. I understood. Whatever that man in the restaurant remembered or felt, I didn't know. I only knew that I was experiencing a tiny glimpse of what it feels like when someone looks at you and sees something other than the person standing in front of them….. READ MORE…