At night, the streets of Tokyo transform into blinking neon lights. And young, pretty girls on bulletin boards summon men to come in. In the summer of , I was an year-old fresh out of high school. That night, I was approached by a vivacious Australian girl. She asked me if I was interested in working at a Kyabakura , a hostess club where men come to chat with young girls who pour them drinks, talk, and sing the occasional karaoke.
I figured, why not? I never told my friends either for fear of judgment. It was going to be my exciting, big secret. My parents moved from Nepal to Japan when I was two. I considered myself Japanese in a lot of ways.
I spoke the language like a native and my mannerisms reflected that too. My only connection to Nepal was through my parents when we visited relatives during summer vacations.
I looked Nepali, but I was far from it. My first taste of Japan was rough. I was bullied relentlessly in kindergarten for looking different. It got better when my parents enrolled me at an international school in first grade.
But, outside of school, the country was still a battleground. I hated looking the way I did. I despised my long nose, my frizzy hair, and my skin color. I wanted to look more like a kawaii cute anime character.
