Marriage and Marriageability: The Practices of Matchmaking between Men from Japan and Women from Northeast China 9781501750168

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MARRIAGE AND MARRIAGEABILITY

MARRIAGE AND MARRIAGEABILITY The Practices of Matchmaking between Men from Japan and Women from Northeast China Chigusa Yamaura

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS  ITHACA AND LONDON

 Copyright © 2020 by Cornell University All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850. Visit our website at cornellpress​.­cornell​ .­edu. First published 2020 by Cornell University Press Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Yamaura, Chigusa, 1977–­author. Title: Marriage and marriageability : the practices of matchmaking between men from Japan and ­women from Northeast China / Chigusa Yamaura. Description: Ithaca : Cornell University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019046099 (print) | LCCN 2019046100 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501750144 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781501750151 (epub) | ISBN 9781501750168 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Intercountry marriage—­Japan. | Intercountry Marriage—­ China—­Manchuria. | Dating services—­Japan. | Dating Services—­China—­ Manchuria. | Ethnology—­Japan. | Ethnology—­China—­Manchuria. Classification: LCC HQ1032 .Y34 2020 (print) | LCC HQ1032 (ebook) | DDC 306.84/518–­dc23 LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2019046099 LC ebook rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2019046100

 For Todd

Contents

Acknowl­edgments Note on Naming, Translating, and Converting Introduction: Beginnings

ix xi 1



1.

From Manchukuo to Marriage

25



2.

The Making and Unmaking of “Unmarriageable Persons” in Japan

45

Creating “Similar” O ­ thers at Transnational Matchmaking Agencies in Japan

67 93



3.



4.

Marrying Up, Down, or Off in Dongyang



5.

Gendered Investments in Marriage Migration

116



6.

Crafting Legitimate Marital Relations

141

Conclusion: Yen or En? Notes References Index

167 181 189 199

Acknowl­e dgments

Woven throughout this book are the generosity, kindness, encouragement, strug­ gles, frustrations, desperation, and both tears and laughter that many ­people have shared with me over the years. I am hugely grateful to t­ hose who helped me in the pro­cess of researching and writing this book. First, my thanks go to the ­people I met during my fieldwork both in Japan and China. I ­really appreciate their generosity in letting me be part of their lives and their kindness in caring about my health and safety, regardless of what­ever they themselves might have been facing. Although I began my research into the industry of cross-­border matchmaking with a rather critical eye, the time spent with them made it pos­si­ ble for me to understand the intimately h ­ uman dimensions of this phenomenon. Without their munificence and help, I could not have managed the “not-­always-­ easy” fieldwork and this book could not have been written. Although they all appear u ­ nder pseudonyms in the book, I can visualize each face and my sincere hope is that they are all ­doing well in Japan, China, or wherever they may be. My gratitude also goes to ­those who have helped me turn my fieldwork into a work of ethnography. I am deeply indebted to Louisa Schein. Her analytical eye pushed me further in examining and making sense of ­these practices and her belief in me kept me ­going. I was also very fortunate to work with Bruce Grant. His intellectual and emotional support helped me survive through the pro­cess of writing. It was his comments that added a final twist to the argument in this book. I would also like to thank Parvis Ghassem-­Fachandi, Laura Ahearn, and Ulla Berg for providing both critical feedback and support. I first encountered this phenomenon in 2002, and I would like to thank Chris Nelson and Mary Ann O’Donnell for sharing my impulse that this was worthy of studying and encouraging me to continue my explorations of it. Many other p ­ eople helped me in the pro­cess of writing this book at multiple stages. My thanks go out to Eunsung Lee, Laura Lovin, Sarah Wise, Satsuki Takahashi, Simone Delerme, Margarita Huayhua, Oh-­Jung Kwon, June Hee Kwon, Caren Freeman, and Lily Chumley. I am particularly grateful to Allison Alexy, Glenda Roberts, and Jesook Song for their feedback, which pushed me further and helped me form a more nuanced perspective. At Cornell University Press, I am extremely grateful to Roger Hayden, who originally showed his interest in this proj­ect, and Jim Lance, who subsequently supported me throughout the pro­cess with his kindness and always warm and ix

x

Acknowl­e dgments

understanding encouragement. Without Jim’s belief in this proj­ect, this book would not have been completed. My affiliation with the Nissan Institute of Japa­nese Studies at the University of Oxford provided me scholarly and emotional support when writing and rewriting this book. My thanks go to Sho Konishi, Ian Neary, Takehiko Kariya, and Hugh Whittaker. I am particularly grateful to Roger Goodman, whose intellectual passion for anthropology and Japa­nese society helped me advance my argument. Wolfson College at the University of Oxford also provided the ideal environment in which to complete this book. My thanks also go to Greg Noble for his generosity and critical feedback while I was a visiting researcher at the Institute of Social Science at the University of Tokyo in 2017. Numerous research grants from Rutgers University enabled me to conduct my preliminary fieldwork between 2006 and 2008. My long-­term fieldwork from 2009 to 2010 was funded by grants from the National Science Foundation and the Konosuke Matsushita Memorial Foundation. In addition, I received the Association for Asian Studies and the China and Inner Asia Council (CIAC) small grant to fund follow-up research in 2013. An ­earlier version of chapter 1 appeared in article form as “From Manchukuo to Marriages: Localizing Cross-­Border Marriages between Japan and Northeast China,” in the Journal of Asian Studies 74, no. 3 (2015): 565–588. Some portions of the material used in chapters 3 and 4 also appeared in the article “Marrying Transnational, Desiring Local: Making ‘Marriageable ­Others’ in Japanese–­Chinese Cross-­Border Matchmaking,” in Anthropological Quarterly 88, no. 4 (2015): 1029–1058. Fi­nally, indeed, it has been a long journey to see this final manuscript published. My deepest gratitude goes to ­those who witnessed this journey from beginning to end, from near and afar. My parents, Shigeko and Yoshiki Yamaura, believed in me and provided me much comfort with their assurance that they w ­ ere always t­ here to support me. My parents-­in-­law, Jan and George Hall, consistently showed much interest in and enthusiasm for my work. Jan also kindly read my introduction and helped me rewrite it to reach a wider audience. My sons, Oscar and Lewis, w ­ ere born in the m ­ iddle of this journey. Without them, this book should have been published much e­ arlier, but with them, I managed to enjoy much laughter during the last phase of writing. Fi­nally, I cannot finish ­these acknowl­ edgments without thanking my partner, Todd Hall, who made this proj­ect pos­ si­ble. He has read through literally hundreds of dif­fer­ent iterations of this proj­ect and consistently offered critical feedback and encouragement. His enduring faith in this proj­ect and in me made completion of this book pos­si­ble.

Note on Naming, Translating, and Conver ting

Throughout this book, I generally romanize Japa­nese names and words using a modified Hepburn system and Mandarin Chinese names and words using the pinyin system. To protect the confidentiality of my in­for­mants, all of their names as provided in the text, as well as ­those of the marriage agencies, are pseudonyms. Except for the names of large cities, such as Tokyo, Dalian, and Harbin, the names of all other communities where my in­for­mants lived, including the names Xinghai and Dongyang, are pseudonyms. All translations are mine u ­ nless other­wise so identified. When provided, original Japa­nese words or phrases are denoted with “Jp” and original Chinese words or phrases are denoted with “Chin.” Japa­nese yen and Chinese yuan renminbi (RMB) amounts and their approximate converted rates in US dollars are provided as they stood at their respective times in the course of my fieldwork. As a result, t­ here may appear to be inconsistencies in conversion throughout the text as the rates changed over the period of my fieldwork. The changes in the exchange rate also form part of the backdrop to the ethnographic stories provided ­here.

xi

Introduction

BEGINNINGS

“Welcome to China!” Using the few Japa­nese words they knew, the local Chinese staff greeted an incoming client from Japan. It was late July 2007, a warm summer day. The client in question, Mr. Matsuda, was a Japa­nese man on a matchmaking tour.1 He had just arrived in Dongyang from Tokyo with a marriage broker. The trip had not been short, requiring first a two-­hour flight, then a four-­hour drive by car from the nearest international airport. The h ­ otel where the local staff welcomed this new client had at one time been the best Dongyang could offer. Over the past several years, however, a number of newer and more modern h ­ otels had emerged to eclipse it. The ­hotel was still respectable, but the design of its building and interior gave a dated impression. Nevertheless, the broker had continued patronizing this same h ­ otel; it was the one he had used since starting his brokerage business in 1995. ­After exchanging greetings and introductions with the local staff and translators in the ­hotel lobby, Mr. Matsuda quickly proceeded to check in. The broker told him, “Please go to your room, change your clothing, and then come to Suite 819 in twenty minutes.” Meanwhile, we—­the local staff members and myself—­ went ahead to Suite 819, where the staff had prepared personal profiles and maps of Japan and Japa­nese cities. ­These maps ­were for showing potential Chinese brides where exactly Mr. Matsuda lived. The local broker went down to the h ­ otel lobby to meet the waiting Chinese candidates. Outside, the sky gradually darkened as the day entered the early eve­ning. About twenty minutes l­ater, Mr. Matsuda knocked on the door. He had exchanged his casual chino pants for a navy suit. He was in his mid-­forties, worked 1

2

INTRODUCTION 

at a well-­known Japa­nese electronics com­pany, and had never been married. By Japa­nese standards, he would prob­ably be described as “ordinary looking” and, at somewhere around 165 centimeters tall, a ­little shorter than average. The staff members told me that although he had dated a Japa­nese ­woman in the past, he was so indecisive that he could not make up his mind to marry her. When he came in, he looked a ­little intimidated. A local translator asked in Japa­nese, “Are you ner­vous, Mr. Matsuda?” “Yes, a ­little, this is my first time d ­ oing this,” he answered. A Japa­nese staff member sought to assure him, saying, “Please ­don’t worry about anything, we ­will translate every­thing and if you have any questions, please let us know.” Soon thereafter, the local broker came into the room, escorting with him three Chinese ­women. The three w ­ omen wore modest makeup and colorful summer dresses; they looked anxious, but also curious. A local staff member asked them to sit on the couch. The translator introduced Mr. Matsuda to the w ­ omen. Then the broker asked one of them to stay and the other two to wait outside. In the past, matchmaking meetings had been held with groups of up to ten Chinese w ­ omen sitting across from one Japa­nese man. When the Japa­nese man asked a question, all the Chinese candidates would answer in turn. More recently, however, some clientele had expressed that they felt uncomfortable meeting all the w ­ omen together in a group, and the broker had consequently switched to a one-­on-­one format. The translator said: “Mr. Matsuda, ­here is Ms. Gao’s profile. Do you want to ask any questions?” He looked at the translator and timidly asked: “Well . . . ​what should I ask? I am so ner­vous.” She translated this to Ms. Gao. Ms. Gao responded, “I am also ner­vous.” When the staff member translated this back to Mr. Matsuda, they all laughed and somehow it broke the ice. Ms. Gao was in her early twenties, slim, had a small face, long straight hair, and large eyes. The broker commented in Japa­nese to him, “She is r­ eally pretty [Jp: kirei],” and he nodded. Matsuda asked, “Do you know anything about Japan?” She said, “I know ­there are bullet trains.” He asked, “Are your parents alright with you marrying a Japa­nese man?” “Yes, they consent,” she replied. “I like golfing and skiing, do you play golf and ski?” Matsuda asked. “No,” she quickly replied. “What do you do when you have time off? I usually go to the movies, sing karaoke . . . ​do you like karaoke?” “So-so,” she responded.

Beginnings

3

Matsuda continued, “Are you studying Japa­nese now?” “Not yet,” she responded. He then inquired about her favorite cuisine and songs, and asked if she had any questions for him. She said, “No.” ­After approximately twenty minutes, the first meeting was over. A staff member asked Ms. Gao to wait outside. Then, the second ­woman entered the room. She was with her parents. Mr. Matsuda greeted her parents, saying, “Thank you very much for coming.” Ms. Yang and her parents sat on the couch. The broker introduced him to the three of them, saying, “Mr. Matsuda lives in Saitama prefecture.” Her ­father asked, “How far is it from Tokyo?” Mr. Matsuda answered, “approximately two hours by train.” Although his answer was translated, the broker added, “Well, it is about one hour, very close to Tokyo.” Knowing from his experience that proximity to larger cities was impor­ tant for many w ­ omen, the broker stressed, or even exaggerated, the town’s closeness to Tokyo. Ms. Yang then herself asked, “Do you live by yourself now?” “Yes,” Mr. Matsuda replied. Her ­father asked, “How is your ­mother ­doing?” “She is ­doing well and still very healthy.” Ms. Yang asked, “What are your hobbies?” “I like traveling,” Mr. Matsuda replied. “Have you been to Shanghai or Hong Kong?” “No, I ­haven’t. This is my first visit to China.” Then, Yang’s ­father said with enthusiasm: “I have three ­daughters and she is my second d ­ aughter. She has not married b ­ ecause she was waiting to meet you! I am already retired and have no financial prob­lems, so d ­ on’t worry about us. Her ­mother is still working at a watch factory.” Mr. Matsuda ner­vously smiled, and asked Ms. Yang, “Would it be pos­si­ble in the ­future to live with my parents, if necessary?” “How old are they? How is their health?” Yang asked. “Right now, they are d ­ oing well. They are seventy-­five years old.” Yang replied, “Maybe not right ­after I relocate to Japan, but in the ­future it might be pos­si­ble to live together.” Matsuda added, “Right now, since it is just myself, I live in a one-­bedroom apartment, but if I marry, I would prob­ably buy a h ­ ouse for my ­family.” Yang’s ­father suddenly asked, “Do you like China?” Matsuda responded, “Yes, I think China is so spacious and nice, and looks like Hokkaido.”

4

INTRODUCTION 

­After another twenty minutes, the broker ­stopped the conversation and asked Ms. Yang and her parents to wait outside. The third ­woman came in and sat on the couch. Apparently, Matsuda had already spoken with her via the Internet (at “an Internet matchmaking meeting,” a ser­v ice provided by the same agency). He greeted her, saying, “We talked ­earlier on the Internet.” Ms. Zhang was in her late twenties and from a town neighboring Dongyang. She had long curly hair and was wearing a summer dress. She was only a ­little shorter than Mr. Matsuda. Since traveling to Dongyang on the morning of the matchmaking meeting was too difficult, she had arrived the day prior. The broker had asked me to share a ­hotel room with her the night before. We ­were almost the same height and soon learned that we w ­ ere also the same age. We chatted about many dif­fer­ent topics, including our favorite Chinese foods, fashion, and so on. Before ­going to bed, she told me: “I think, ­after all, marriage is not about romance. It is about having a stable [Chin: anding] and peaceful [Chin: pingan] life.” Ms. Zhang had already seen Mr. Matsuda’s profile, including pictures of his ­house and ­family, before the meeting. She was ready to agree to marry him even before he proposed. Ms. Zhang also seemed to be the one the broker was strongly encouraging Mr. Matsuda to choose. During the matchmaking meeting, the broker repeatedly stated, “She is the best girl.” The meeting began and their conversation covered topics similar to ­those discussed with the other ­women, such as hobbies, karaoke, cooking, traveling, and so on. Mr. Matsuda also asked if she liked ­children. She said yes, and expressed that she definitely wanted to have ­children should she marry. When Ms. Zhang left, we—­Mr. Matsuda, the translators, the brokers, and I—­ were all exhausted. Nonetheless, we w ­ ere not yet finished. It was standard procedure that the client had to choose whom he wanted as a ­future bride shortly ­after the last meeting; often this choice was made within twenty minutes of the last meeting ending. Mr. Matsuda now had to make a decision. The broker asked him: “What s­ hall we do? The last girl looked to be the best, ­didn’t she?” “Yeah, I think so,” Mr. Matsuda answered. “So, is it Ms. Zhang? Is that your final decision?” The broker looked at Mr. Matsuda’s face. However, Mr. Matsuda still appeared undecided. The broker asked, “Do you want to see her again before making a decision?” Mr. Matsuda seemed unable to make up his mind. The broker pressed, “Well, if you came all the way to Dongyang, ­you’ve got to make a decision.” It is in­ter­est­ing to note that the broker seemed to know what Matsuda was thinking. The broker asked, “You are debating between Ms. Gao and Ms. Zhang, ­aren’t you?” The second candidate, Ms. Yang, had been eliminated.

Beginnings

5

The broker flipped Ms. Yang’s profile over. The broker told him: “Ms. Gao had very attractive, large eyes. But Ms. Zhang is more domestic [Jp: kateiteki] and prob­ably good for marriage.” While Mr. Matsuda was trying to decide, the local broker came in and apologetically conveyed that Ms. Gao was not interested (Chin: ta bu tongyi). That moment de­cided the engagement between Mr. Matsuda and Ms. Zhang. During the “engagement dinner” that night—­a large Chinese meal of multiple courses served at a circular t­able seating ten p ­ eople—­Mr. Matsuda and Ms. Zhang sat next to one another. They did not, however, talk to each other, in no small part ­because they lacked a common language with which to communicate. But Ms. Zhang poured beer into Mr. Matsuda’s glass a number of times, and each time he thanked her. As the night wore on with many dishes, drinks, and multiple toasts, the broker repeatedly urged the c­ ouple to hold hands and put their arms around each other’s shoulders. At first, the c­ ouple looked hesitant to do so. But when the broker took Mr. Matsuda’s hand and put it in Ms. Zhang’s hand, they both shyly smiled. They assented to the broker’s request, bordering on an order, and a photographer took pictures so as not to miss this moment of “intimacy” (and document it for the purpose of visa applications to come). The following day, they went on a date with the translator, photographer, and myself in tow. We visited some sightseeing spots. I overheard Mr. Matsuda saying to the translator, “If it had been pos­si­ble, I would have wanted to marry a Japa­nese ­woman.” Mr. Matsuda left early the next morning for Japan; he returned to Dongyang the next month for the wedding ceremony. Ms. Zhang, for her part, started learning Japa­nese and would leave for Japan six months l­ater in February 2008. The ­couple had a child in 2009, purchased a ­house in 2010, and had a second child in 2012.

In this book, I offer an ethnographic study of the making of marital relations across borders. Specifically, I explore the experiences and trajectories of participants involved in cross-­border matchmaking and marriage practices between Japan and northeast China during a period stretching from 2007 to 2013. In the course of my research, I repeatedly witnessed virtual strangers whose only encounter was one brief matchmaking meeting come to perceive one another as prospective marriage partners. Many knew l­ittle more about the person sitting across from them than that he or she, respectively, was “Japa­nese” or “Chinese.” In almost all cases, they ­were complete strangers lacking even a common language with which to communicate. So how have and do t­ hese marriage practices come to be? That is the core question motivating this book. And to answer that question, one must pose a second, more specific question as well: How is it that the

6

INTRODUCTION 

Japa­nese men and Chinese w ­ omen who participated in t­hese practices came to see one another as potential marriage partners? To provide a ­little background, the transnational marriage agencies described in this book emerged within a very specific historical and geo­graph­i­cal context. Transnational marriage agencies (Jp: kokusai kekkon shōkaijō) specializing in introducing Chinese ­women to Japa­nese men first appeared as a significant phenomenon in Japan in the 1990s. Some marriage brokers ­were professionals for whom the brokerage business was a full-­time job. O ­ thers ­were amateurs, often themselves part of a Japanese–­Chinese ­couple. Many of t­ hese marriage agencies had an online presence. Indeed, numerous male clientele that I met in the course of my research had found their way to a marriage agency via the Internet. Although ­there are marriage agencies in Japan that introduce w ­ omen from other countries as well, including the Philippines, Thailand, Rus­sia, or Vietnam, at the time I was conducting my research agencies introducing Chinese w ­ omen constituted the majority within the transnational marriage industry.2 In contrast to existing work focused on the marriages of non-­Japanese ­women to Japa­nese men living in the countryside (Faier 2008, 2009; Higurashi 1989; Kuwayama 1995; Shukuya 1988), the agencies I studied provided matchmaking ser­vices primarily to white-­collar Japa­nese men in urban areas. And many turned to ­these agencies only ­after unsuccessfully attempting to find a Japa­nese bride through domestic matching ser­vices. A good portion of the men I interacted with also stated to me that at the age of forty or fifty—­the average age of men seeking transnational marriages—it was almost impossible for them to find a “suitable” bride locally. This was not made easier by the fact that many of them, despite being in their forties, still wanted a bride who was in her twenties, or at the very latest, early thirties.3 Although it is typical in both Japan and China that husbands are older than their wives, such large age differences ­were not as common in marriages between same-­nationality partners. In northeast China, two towns, which I w ­ ill refer to using the pseudonyms “Dongyang” (in Liaoning Province) and “Xinghai” (in Heilongjiang Province), w ­ ere major bride-­sending communities. The backgrounds of the Chinese w ­ omen from ­these areas who sought Japa­nese husbands varied, and w ­ omen ranged in age from being in their early twenties to their fifties. They w ­ ere primarily unskilled workers, usually employed as salesclerks in local markets or as waitresses at restaurants. In some cases, they w ­ ere simply unemployed and studying Japa­nese while waiting for their chance to be paired with a Japa­nese husband. A variety of broker networks made ­these marriages pos­si­ble. Some ­were based on kinship ties, such as was the case with one Japa­nese husband of a Chinese bride who acted as a broker in Japan while his Chinese brother-­in-­law played the part-

Beginnings

7

ner role of broker in China. In other instances, the networks consisted of friends or acquaintances. Notably, ­these brokerage agencies ­were all commercial businesses. That means they made a profit from the brokerage fees they charged both men and ­women. Brokerage costs varied, but for Japa­nese men, they usually ranged from one to three million yen (approximately US$11,000 to US$33,000); such a price would include a several-­day matchmaking [Jp: omiai] tour to China, a wedding, and other ser­v ices, including assistance with the relevant paperwork.4 ­These fees went to the Japa­nese brokers. Fees for ­women ranged from RMB 20,000 to RMB 130,000 ($3,000 to $20,000) and went to the Chinese brokers. The w ­ omen usually paid a down payment when they wedded and handed over the remaining sum on receipt of their spousal visa. Often, although not always, Chinese brides received betrothal money from their Japa­nese husbands. In many cases, this money was used ­toward brokerage fees, although it was rarely enough to cover the total costs. To outline the growth and practices of the cross-­border marriage industry between Japan and northeastern China is not, however, to fully answer the central question of this book, which requires also asking how and why participants came to view one another as potential marriage partners. Observing matchmaking pro­ cesses in Japan and China, I was repeatedly struck by the ways potential marriage partners w ­ ere created. Participants did not come to desire their potential partners ­because they somehow conceived of them as “exotic,” “traditional,” or alternately “modern,” phenomena frequently highlighted in work on other transnational intimate relationships. Quite the opposite; I observed that Japanese–­Chinese matchmaking practices attempted to create “proximate ­others” based on perceived similarity and familiarity. I found all this puzzling in light of the state of relations between Japan and China at the time. To put it bluntly, relations between Japan and China during that period w ­ ere far from friendly; the history of Japa­nese colonialism and war responsibility persisted as a source of bilateral tension. This further raised the question of how it was pos­si­ble that matchings between individuals from countries with such antagonistic relations could come to be viewed as legitimate ­unions. I would come to learn that the conditions of possibility for ­these transnational practices w ­ ere inextricable from local histories, ideologies, and norms. Understanding con­temporary practices of crossing borders between Japan and northeast China for the sake of marriage thus entails exploring and theorizing (1) marriage and the construction of marriageability; (2) the influence of the local; (3) the politics of similarity, proximity, and familiarity; and (4) the implicit ideologies pertaining to marriage itself. ­These constitute the major concepts and themes underpinning the arguments of this book, and it is to t­ hose I now turn.

8

INTRODUCTION 

Marriage and Marriageability First and foremost, answering the question of how participants came to see one another as potential marriage partners requires bringing marriage into the analy­ sis. This may seem obvious, but this has often become obscured by the current scholarly interest in gendered migration. Cross-­border marriages are indeed a form of gendered migration, but cross-­border marriages also crucially involve the construction of marriages. Unlike “dating ser­vices” or “sex tours” to other parts of Asia, many of the men and ­women I met desperately wanted to marry. For some, mobility was perceived as a central benefit; for ­others, it was reluctantly accepted as a necessity for the purpose of marriage. It would therefore be inaccurate to view marriage simply as a tool or means of migration, facilitating global flows of ­women. Rather, in the contexts I examined, marriage—as a locus of meaning—­plays a role not only in the practices of negotiating mobility but also in marking and imagining, often with effort, the bound­aries of potential marriage partners. In the increasingly time/space compressed world of t­ oday, Appadurai (1996) notes that five forms of “scapes” have emerged, which he describes as fluid and irregular flows of technology, media, finance, ­people, and ideologies on a global scale. Drawing on t­ hese conceptions, Constable further suggests the existence of “marriage-­scapes” (Constable 2005, 3) within which it is pos­si­ble to seek a marriage partner by crossing national borders. Yet she stresses that marriage-­scapes not only produce gendered patterns of movement; they also “are ­shaped and ­limited by existing and emerging cultural, social, historical, and political-­economic ­factors” (2005, 4). In other words, not just any pairing of a “poor” country with a “rich” country produces a marriage-­scape. ­There are limits. And yet, such limits still remain to be fully explored. What limits t­ here are and how such limits are negotiated constitute impor­tant themes in this book, ones that are inseparable from the concept of marriageability. I use the term marriageability in two senses: (1) the ability to be socially perceived as an individual worthy and capable of marriage; and (2) the conceptualization of o ­ thers as potential marriage partners. T ­ hese two meanings of marriageability concerning, respectively, the self and the other are always interlinked. To see certain ­others as marriageable, we also need to know the contours of our own marriageability. This book maintains that marriageability is negotiable and its limits can be reworked and stretched, but at the same time it also remains restricted within the confines of multiple values, norms, and ideologies. That is, given the historical, cultural, or social context, not every­one can be “a suitable marriage partner.” Thus, locating marriageability does not simply involve looking at the individuals who engage in t­ hese cross-­border marriages. It also entails examin-

Beginnings

9

ing how p ­ eople symbolically construct community bound­aries (Barth [1988] 1969; Cohen 1985) and how, within such communities, p ­ eople imagine comradeship and commonality (Anderson 1983). My use of the term marriageability is influenced by the anthropological concepts of endogamy and exogamy. Exogamy denotes marriage outside a certain category or group, whereas endogamy describes marriage within a certain group (Stone 2000). Groups, by nature, entail borders. Dumont makes precise use of t­ hese categories, and states that the range of permissible marriage is determined by an outer limit (the unit of endogamy) and an inner limit (the unit of exogamy) (1983, 39). Almost a half ­century ago, Lévi-­Strauss (1969) observed, “Any society is both exogamous and endogamous” (45–46). For instance, he explained, the Australian aborigines practice clan exogamy, but tribe endogamy. What Lévi-­Strauss called “true endogamy” was “merely the refusal to recognize the possibility of marriage beyond the limits of the ­human community” (1969, 46). As he explained, the Eskimos of Norton Sound exclusively portrayed themselves as “men” and did not recognize neighboring p ­ eople as “men” such as themselves. Such inability to perceive o ­ thers as men s­haped their notions of marriageability in impor­tant ways. He further explained, “It is merely a question of knowing how far to extend the logical connotation of the idea of community” (46). Such flexible and even strategic notions of community bound­aries and the ability or inability to conceive o ­ thers as proper marriage partners constitute crucial ele­ments in the cultural practices of Japanese–­Chinese matchmaking I observed. It is impor­tant to note that focusing on marriageability means not treating marriage as a given. Indeed, as Borneman observes, “The empirical neglect of nonmarried in anthropology impoverished our ability to theorize h ­ uman sociality” (2005, 31). Not every­one can, ­will, or wants to marry. Within the existing lit­er­a­ ture on marriage, one major strand of scholarship tends to treat marriage as an existing site where vari­ous inequalities are reproduced (Collier, Yanagisako, and Bloch 1987; Lamphere 1974).5 Such analyses focus on preexisting marital relationships, and therefore treat marriage as an already created (postmatrimonial) arena. For this strain of scholarship, the idea that individuals would be in a marital relation is, to some extent, taken for granted as a point of departure. On the other hand, the studies that do focus on the creation and transformation of marital relationships tend to focus on an individual’s degree of agency in choosing a partner, ­whether in the form of “arranged marriages” or “love marriages” (Ahearn 2001; Collier 1997; Hirsch 2003; Hirsch and Wardlow 2006; Illouz 1997; Wardlow 2006). Although ­these studies provide valuable insights, in t­hese portrayals the practice of marrying someone (or, precisely, a member of the opposite sex) is again taken for granted, with a marriage partner ­either chosen by oneself, by

10

INTRODUCTION 

one’s ­family, or by other social and cultural f­actors (and in practice, ­these distinctions are hardly drawn). But where do we locate within studies of marriage the overlooked unmarried and ­those who seek but cannot find a marriage partner? Must studies of marriage always presuppose married or would-be married subjects?6 Finding a partner and creating marital relations often involves effort, work, investment, and sometimes compromise or even failure. Accordingly, to examine marriageability is also to examine what can happen when one realizes one’s life does not precisely match one’s cultural values or what is taken for granted—­such as when one does not find a suitable marriage partner by a certain age. I ask what kinds of imaginings make it pos­si­ble for individuals to conceive of and seek an alternative in such situations. As I w ­ ill show, a suitable marriage partner is not simply chosen, but rather marriageable o ­ thers are the products of l­abor, imagining, investment, and compromise. The above observations, of course, are not l­imited to cross-­border marriages. That is, marital norms are not only stretched in cross-­border ­unions but are also always confirmed or negotiated, or both, in any marriage. Same-­nationality marriages, even so-­called love marriages, also entail such l­abor. “Is this the right person?” “Can I be happy with him/her?” “Am I making the right decision?” “Do I know this person completely?” “How much of a compromise should I make?” “Can marriage change my life?” “Is this a proper ­union?” “­Will my ­family accept this marriage?” And on and on. Even finding a partner in a domestic context entails imagination, negotiation, and the stretching of vari­ous bound­aries, norms, and values. By exploring marriage and marriageability, the following chapters investigate the meanings of ­these Japanese–­Chinese brokered marriages as well as ­those of marriage more generally. What w ­ ere ­these marriages for the participants, a­ fter all? Indeed, the meanings attached to ­these marriages ­were multiple. Cross-­border marriages w ­ ere variously understood as a means to gain financial security and betterment, to enact gendered roles, to be seen as normal, to construct a “healthy” personhood within an expected life course, to have a ­family, to achieve mobility, or to possibly attain something ­else or even more. And the vari­ous meanings attached to t­ hese marriages w ­ ere not necessarily mutually exclusive. For instance, one could seek the appearance of normalcy bestowed by marriage while si­mul­ta­ neously also viewing marriage as a means of financial betterment. And sometimes participants might need to negotiate or compromise on one meaning in order not to negate o ­ thers. Moreover, as we w ­ ill see, in many cases what participants sought from t­hese cross-­border marriages differed l­ittle from that which was sought from domestic marriages.

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Colonial Histories and the Local The ways participants created marriageable o ­ thers was also deeply s­ haped by both the larger historical context and the local beliefs and expectations in which they ­were embedded. For one, the transnational marriage agencies I researched should not be viewed as an isolated business trend, but rather as only one part of a larger history of flows of ­people between northeast China and Japan. This history includes the settlement of the area by Japa­nese colonists (1931–1945), the repatriation of Japa­nese citizens a­ fter the war (1945–1958), the return migration of Japa­ nese war orphans in ­later de­cades a­ fter the resumption of diplomatic ties between Japan and China (the late 1970s–1980s), and then the subsequent migration of the war orphans’ c­ hildren to Japan (the late 1980s) or, in many cases, t­ hose who had assumed such an identity (1990s). During the 1990s and 2000s, ­labor mi­grants from ­these areas—­encouraged by stories they had heard from Japa­nese returnees to their community—­also went to Japan on trainee visas. Yet this colonial history and its subsequent legacies are more than simply a “backdrop” against which current transitional linkages have been established; I found them continuously interpreted and reinterpreted by differentially situated actors both in Japan and China as they sought to explain the flows of ­people between the two locations. Con­temporary matchmaking practices between Japan and northeast China w ­ ere a “site of memory” in which “a sense of historical continuity persists” (Nora 1989, 7). More precisely, multiple actors actively recalled and reinterpreted colonial and postcolonial memories of Manchuria in their efforts to make sense of the pre­sent. The idea that past colonial relationships influence patterns of migration, including marriage migration, is not unique to this study of Japanese–­Chinese marriages. For instance, scholars have observed the influence of colonial pasts, in par­tic­u­lar marriage migration patterns from the Philippines to the United States (Constable 2003), or from the Indian subcontinent to the United Kingdom (Charsley 2005, 2012). But ­these linkages are often examined on a nation-­to-­nation level. My work brings to the fore the experiences of the local in such relations. To be clear, I employ the term “local” to refer to the context of the immediate social and cultural community within which participants find themselves. To designate values or beliefs as local in no way means that they are necessarily exclusive to a certain subnational or even subregional level. For instance, the social value placed on w ­ omen “marrying up” into a higher socioeconomic class is one scholars have found to be broadly shared across many communities in China (Ebrey 1991; Gaetano and Jacka 2004; Zhang and Sun 2014). However, many of the Chinese brides I encountered experienced it as local, in the sense that it formed part

12

INTRODUCTION 

of the fabric of expectations that confronted them within their own communities. My primary aim is not to show how subregional or subnational values are distinct from ones putatively shared nationally, even if in some cases they ­were. Rather, my intention h ­ ere is to analyze transnational–­local relations, that is, the ways transnational pro­cesses both w ­ ere ­shaped by and played out in the context of specific and immediate social and cultural communities (Gaetano and Jacka 2004). That said, ­there are, for example, impor­tant differences across regions and locales in China in terms of both the historical experience of Japa­nese imperialism and the con­temporary changes accompanying China’s more recent economic development. Correspondingly, how p ­ eople remember Japa­nese colonialism or what opportunities they have for upward mobility do vary greatly depending on the locale. ­These differences, in turn, can play a key role in shaping how w ­ omen encounter, make sense of, and engage with seemingly national values such as ­those concerning the need to “marry up.” To focus on the local is therefore to examine how participants’ lived social experience within the context of their own immediate communities influences how they understand and become involved in transnational flows. At the time of my research, the majority of Chinese brides g­ oing to Japan came from northeast China, the site of the former Japa­nese puppet state of “Manchuria,” established in 1931 as part of the Japa­nese imperial proj­ect.7 It is not a coincidence that many Chinese brides came from towns that ­were home to Japa­nese nationals during the time of Japa­nese colonialism, or where numerous Japa­nese ­children ­were left ­behind as that colonial proj­ect ended in war­time defeat in 1945. Indeed, the unique colonial, postcolonial, and transnational past of that area was deeply interwoven into the narratives with which both Japa­nese and Chinese participants sought to explicate the flow of brides to Japan. To wit, Japa­nese brokers and other Japa­nese participants explained marriage migration by claiming that the Chinese w ­ omen felt a degree of familiarity with Japan. They described said feelings of familiarity as stemming from historical connections and the “contributions” of Japa­nese settlers to their communities. Needlessly to say, such narratives denied both the darker side of Japa­nese colonialism and the possibility that Chinese ­women had “ulterior” motives for marriage. In contrast, within the communities in which I lived in China, marital migration to Japan was described as a natu­ral outcome of “familiarity” or a product of “blood ties” between Japan and the locals. ­These they saw as created by the graciousness of the local Chinese who had saved Japa­nese ­children left orphaned ­after the war by incorporating them into their families. By addressing the specific local histories and communities within which the participants ­were embedded, this book thus supplies a more complex picture of

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the logic of desire (Brennan 2004; Constable 2003). The term “the logic of desire” implies that desires are not simply feelings that emerge in individual minds (although it is individuals who actually feel desire), but are also ­shaped by wider po­liti­cal and economic f­ actors (Mankekar 2004; Rofel 2007; Zhang 2007). Focusing on local particularities allows the following chapters to offer a more fine-­ grained examination of the logics of desire, one that a wide-­angle lens view of national-­scale relationships cannot capture. Moreover, to localize cross-­border marriages is not to deny the global inequalities that generate gendered migration, or to remove the local from the national context. Rather, the following chapters reveal how the participants’ situatedness within the norms, values, expectations, and histories of their immediate local communities form an impor­tant part of the story of how they came to see transnational marriage as an option.

The Politics of Similarity, Familiarity, and Proximity As participants navigated issues of both their own and their partners’ marriageability, I found a further set of concepts to be playing a key role: proximity, familiarly, and similarity. In the course of my fieldwork in Japan and northeast China, I was struck by repeated statements I heard from marriage brokers, Japa­ nese men, and Chinese w ­ omen that worked not to distance Japan and China but to depict them as more proximate. Such statements included references to cultural familiarity, racial similarity, geo­graph­i­cal proximity, and historical relatedness. ­These seemingly positive—­and even generous—­framings ­were employed to render the matching between Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women more appropriate, legitimate, and even natu­ral. While Japan and northeast China are indeed geo­graph­i­cally close, such physical distance does not solely determine feelings of proximity. For instance, Heilongjiang Province is much closer to Rus­sia than Japan. Nonetheless, I have yet to meet locals in Heilongjiang who would claim any feelings of proximity to Rus­sians. Thus, proximity as deployed ­here does not denote a geo­graph­i­cally given distance, but rather a distance that is felt and created in shifting contexts. For Chinese in­for­mants, Rus­sia was an unfamiliar, foreign place where they knew no one. Japan, on the other hand, was a place where many friends and relatives resided. While investigation into the production of differences has been a key task within the field of anthropology (Comaroff 1995; Fabian 1983; Gupta and Ferguson 1992; Said 1979), I found that it is equally impor­tant to interrogate the production of similarity, proximity, and familiarity between communities. Anthropologist Simon Harrison argues that the concept of similarity is never absent, even

14

INTRODUCTION 

where differences are highly stressed (Harrison 2002). Instead, perceptions of similarity can be the reason for creating difference; in other words, difference is produced precisely to differentiate oneself from similar o ­ thers. To wit, Sigmund Freud’s concept of the “narcissism of minor differences” highlights the strong tendency among t­ hose who are seemingly similar to exaggerate their differences and distinctiveness ([1931] 1957, 72). I use ­these three terms in this book: similarity, familiarity, and proximity. Although in certain contexts, par­tic­u­lar terms ­were used more often than o ­ thers, ­these three terms are not mutually exclusive. For instance, in describing Chinese ­women as similar in appearance to Japa­nese ­women, an in­for­mant also implied that said similar appearance produced a feeling of familiarity, and thus Japa­nese men did not perceive them as being totally alien. When locals in a par­tic­u­lar community in China portrayed Japan as a familiar place that they knew, this also fed into a feeling of geographic proximity. For ­those who used ­these terms, they conveyed a sense that t­here was some form of connection, relation, or resemblance with the designated party, and thus that party was not wholly foreign. By addressing the politics of similarity, familiarity, and proximity, I am not arguing that t­ here are more similarities than differences, that differences w ­ ere absent among the Japanese–­Chinese ­couples I studied, or that we should take participants’ claims of familiarity and proximity at face value. Differences and similarities always coexist. Yet t­ here remain impor­tant questions as to who, when, and for what purposes puts stress on which similarities, proximities, familiarities, or differences and why. Highlighting the roles conceptualizations of similarities, familiarities, and proximities play within ­these pairings does not deny the existence of differences; my aim, rather, is to shine light on a par­tic­u­lar way Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women dealt with ­those differences. Indeed, my ethnographic accounts reveal the tactical nature of the production of similarity, familiarity, and proximity, as well as the kinds of inequalities produced and yet masked through such pro­cesses. And such productions of similarity, familiarity, and proximity in this context w ­ ere particularly remarkable considering the national relationship between Japan and China, both in the past and the recent pre­sent. Scholars have demonstrated how historically each country attempted to differentiate itself from the other and create a hierarchy (Robertson 1998; Tanaka 1993; Young 1998). Even ­today, where enduring po­liti­cal tensions have been triggered by vari­ous events, the sources of such strug­gles, among ­others, are frequently linked to Japa­nese colonialism and Japa­nese war­time responsibility. The most recent po­liti­cal tensions at the time of this writing, provoked by the Senkaku/Diaoyu dispute, occurred in 2012. Specifically, in April, the former right-­ wing mayor of Tokyo, Ishihara Shintaro, proposed that the city of Tokyo should

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purchase the islands. This led the Japa­nese government to act preemptively to “nationalize” the islands before Ishihara purchased them. As a result, tensions further intensified between Japan and China, resulting in the largest anti-­Japan protests since the resumption of diplomatic ties in 1972. In more than one hundred cities in China, protesters marched on September 18, 2012 (the anniversary of the “September 18 Incident” in 1931, or “the day of humiliation” in China).8 ­These protesters attacked Japa­nese restaurants and supermarkets, Japa­nese companies, Japa­nese cars, and other ­things “Japa­nese.”9 While this book is not about the po­liti­cal disputes between Japan and China, it is remarkable to find the residues of colonialism at work within the con­temporary context in two such very dif­fer­ent ways: as fuel for furious protests and as a basis for feelings of “proximity” within the realm of transnational matchmaking. While large anti-­Japan protests frequently occurred in southern China (for instance, protests did not happen in Dalian in 2012), the locals I met in northeast China also held extremely negative views of Japa­nese colonial be­hav­ior. What I found was that the feelings of proximity ­were not generated by denying the past; rather, the past was itself narrated into such discourses of feeling. The production of similarity, proximity, and familiarity within t­ hese relations indicates the ambiguous space that Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border marriages occupy; they are not based on the notion of difference or its reverse, sameness. Some transnational intimate relationships involve the exoticization of difference (Brennan 2004; Kelsky 2001). As Brennan observes, gendered and racialized differences in par­tic­u­lar are exoticized, erotized, and even commercialized for the purposes of profit. The desire for difference can make certain cross-­border marriages pos­si­ble. Conversely, other forms of cross-­border marriage utilize a form of “sameness” to make certain matches legitimate. Conceptions of community bound­aries and the inequities they entail become obscured when cross-­border marital relations are created based on notions of sameness, including ethnic “reunions” or “alliances” (Charsley 2005, 2012; Schein 2005). In par­tic­u­lar, scholars point to the roles that the invocation of past familial or national ties play in intraregional cross-­border marriages. For example, Nicole Newendorp observes that marriages between Hong Kong men and w ­ omen from mainland China are described as a “reunion” of “Chinese” families (Newendorp 2008, 10–11). Such notions of “reunion” are also observed in marriages between Korean men and Chosŏnjok (ethnic Korean) ­women in China (Freeman 2011). Shu-­mei Shih (1998) demonstrates that the idea of “Greater China” plays a role in making an imaginary fusion across mainland China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. Within such an imaginary, the strategic deployment of the terms “national” and “transnational” among t­ hese three areas reveals the ambiguity of their relationships. T ­ hese studies critically show that for intraregional

16

INTRODUCTION 

marriage migration, it is not only difference that is valued in making marital relations, but also the shared sameness that p ­ eople separated by geo­graph­i­cal, or even po­liti­cal, bound­aries are perceived to have as a product of the past. The strategic deployment of “sameness,” however, ­either through conceptions of shared ethnicity, language, history, or past cultural heritage does not quite work for Japanese–­Chinese marriages. The Japa­nese husbands and Chinese wives do not have a shared common language. Their marriages are not about the “reunion” of anything. Therefore, to naturalize or legitimate Japanese–­Chinese ­unions, a dif­fer­ ent tactic is necessary. Indeed, I did not witness a notion of “sameness” invoked in ­these marriages but rather a sense of “proximity” that created a vague site of negotiation. Thus, the practices of citing similarity, familiarity, and proximity expose a grey area between difference and sameness—­not dif­fer­ent, but not the same. Due to such ambiguities, negotiations can be very flexible. For one ­thing, perceived similarities in the context of Japanese–­Chinese marriages ­were articulated in ways that ­were very hierarchical.10 By claiming Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women are similar, marriage brokers and Japa­nese men si­mul­ta­neously reinforced Japa­nese notions of what Koichi Iwabuchi calls “similar but superior” or “in but above Asia” (2002, 8). Iwabuchi argues that modern Japa­nese national identity has “always been i­magined in an asymmetrical totalizing triad between ‘Asia,’ ‘the West,’ and ‘Japan’ ” (2002, 7). He claims, “While ‘the West’ played the role of the modern Other to be emulated, ‘Asia’ was cast as the image of Japan’s past, a negative portrait which illustrates the extent to which Japan has been successfully modernized according to the Western standard” (7–8). The perceived similarities between Chinese w ­ omen and Japa­nese men I witnessed w ­ ere always hierarchical in that it was always Chinese ­women described as being similar to Japa­nese, but never Japa­nese men described as similar to Chinese (detailed in chapter 3). As my following chapters show, stigma can become attached to marital pairings that involve culturally unaccepted differences, foreignness, or distance. The contexts I examine offer examples of how Japanese–­Chinese marriages w ­ ere stigmatized in their relevant marriage markets and how ­those defamed attempted to destigmatize them (see chapters 2 and 4). It is impor­tant to note that within such contexts, notions of similarity, proximity, and familiarity served to aid efforts at destigmatization by offering socially acceptable justifications for marital relations, even on a transnational scale.

“Normal Marriage” To look at how marriages are made acceptable is also to engage the influences and content of pervasive marital ideologies and reveal implicit marriage normativi-

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ties. Correspondingly, a last concept key to the efforts of this book is that of “normal marriage.” In the course of my research, I repeatedly heard comments from ­those outside of ­these practices that explic­itly or implicitly designated ­these cross-­ border marriages as non-­normal. Even participants themselves would confide that society did not view their marriages as “normal.” The ideal of “normal marriage” is one that contains multiple social norms and expectations concerning what constitutes “common” or “regular” marriages. And this ideal played an impor­tant role in shaping participants’ be­hav­ior and choices. It was reinforced whenever participants worked to make their marital relations appear as natu­ral and legitimate, often by stressing similarities, familiarities, and proximities. It was also apparent as the yardstick against which other members of society mea­sured ­these marriages when criticizing or expressing suspicion ­toward them. We can see ­here how the idea of non-­normal or abnormal marriages is dialectically constituted by the ideal conception of “normal,” “natu­ral,” or “regular” marriages (Goffman [1963] 2009). In other words, to study the seemingly “uncommon” ways marriage is created is to also si­mul­ta­neously investigate how the outer contours of “normal marriages” are constructed. In discussing the limits of marriageability and their relationship to “normal marriage,” Elizabeth Povinelli’s analy­sis of the limits of liberal recognition in Australia provides a useful parallel (1998, 1999, 2002). Examining state and public discourses about genital mutilation within the context of Australian multiculturalism, Povinelli observes that the practices of genital mutilation w ­ ere seen as intolerable and beyond a commonsense limit of nationalism (1998, 577). She describes two dif­fer­ent ways we can perceive the concept of “the limit.” The first way is to see a limit as designating that “which lies beyond or outside any par­tic­ul­ar idea, practice, or social group” (1999, 633–634). The second is that “­every limit is the explanation, name, or phenomenon produced by the contradictions and anx­i­eties of any given discursive field” (1999, 634). In other words, in the first meaning the limit designates what lies outside relatively stable practices or ideologies, whereas the second reveals how practices or ideologies themselves are produced and reinforced by the notion of their limit. In other words, following this second understanding, the bound­aries between tolerance and intolerance are not simply “out ­there”; they are generated by anx­ie­ ties about ­those very bound­aries. This second conceptualization of limits is the one deployed in this book when examining how Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border matchmaking practices implicate the limits of marriageability. Indeed, to investigate the be­hav­ior of participants in and outside observers to t­hese marriages is to observe how, according to the second conceptualization, the limits of tolerable and intolerable marriages are generated. In par­tic­u­lar, such limits become vis­i­ble in the practices of participants

18

INTRODUCTION 

who seek to destigmatize their pairings and justify themselves vis-­à-­v is socially created ideals of “normal” or “regular” marriage. Correspondingly, this notion of the limits of normal marriage plays an impor­tant role in answering the central question of this book concerning how participants render one another as marriageable. To be clear, by juxtaposing cross-­border marriages and “regular” marriages, I do not mean to highlight how unique or deviant ­these cross-­border marriages are. Nor do I mean to investigate how and at what point individuals made the decision to engage in cross-­border marriages instead of “regular” marriages. T ­ hese questions assume the bound­aries between cross-­border and “regular” marriages are stable and clear. Moreover, they also suppose that the practices of cross-­border marriages lie beyond or outside the limit of commonsense “regular” marriages. And although I w ­ ill be attentive to multiple scales of in­equality within cross-­border marriages, this in no way means to suggest that ­there are no inequalities within so-­called regular marriages. It is not that existing “regular” marriages have a commonsense limit, but rather that the practices of engaging and articulating this limit continually produce and reproduce what constitutes “regular” or “normal” marriages. It is impor­tant to also note ­here that “normal” marriages are rarely scrutinized for their validity in the same manner as cross-­border marriages are. To illustrate, I draw another analogy from Elizabeth Povinelli’s The Cunning of Recognition (2002), in which she examines the legitimating practices of Australian multiculturalism and indigenous traditions. According to her analy­sis, common sense within “mainstream” Australian society is seen as self-­evident—­whether so-­called mainstream ideas or practices are “common” is never asked. On the other hand, seemingly “uncommon” practices belonging to indigenous actors are required to adhere to an almost impossible ideal form of authenticity to be accepted. In a similar manner, “normal” marriages and “non-­normal” marriages are almost never evaluated based on the same criteria. While “normal” marriages are seen as self-­evidently legitimate without examining what exactly it is that is au­ then­tic about such relations, “non-­normal ­unions,” including ­those of cross-­ border c­ ouples, are constantly asked to demonstrate their legitimacy. Nowhere is this possibly more evident than in the pro­cesses of immigration and the official crossing of national borders. It is further impor­tant not to forget that inequalities exist not only within marital relations but also as pertains to marriage itself. In Japan and China (and certainly other places as well, although to differing degrees), virtually every­one is situated on a marriage track. Regardless of one’s interest in marriage, individuals are expected sooner or ­later to marry an appropriate partner. Not marrying is seen as a choice requiring explanation or the result of a personal failing. The

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question “Are you married?” is common in China. While such a question has become slightly more taboo in Japan, it remains quite common for older relatives to ask when their grandchildren or nephews and nieces w ­ ill marry. (And ­after marrying, the next question ­will be one inquiring when they ­will have ­children.) ­Those who are not married by a certain age or engage in a dif­fer­ent form of relations are thus seen as failing to meet a social requirement. Matthew Kohrman (1999) describes how he observed a local in China declare, “He’s lame, who would want to marry him?” about a man who had difficulty walking (890). Although excluding him from the local marriage market, such a statement does not exempt him from judgments based on understandings of the marriage track. Such a man occupies a marginal place and possibly ­will never marry, but he is not freed from the normative evaluating gaze of marital expectations. If a man is able bodied, like many of ­those who engaged in cross-­border marriages, such expectations and marginalization are heightened. The marriage track is also time sensitive—­there are age-­related expectations as well.11 ­Children are ­future marriage partners in waiting, while t­ hose who pass a certain age are seen as having fallen ­behind and missed their win­dow. Claiming that a marriage track exists does not mean that every­one equally desires to marry. Some may have no interest in marriage and o ­ thers may wish for dif­fer­ent forms of intimate relationships. Nonetheless, while no reasons are asked why someone would want to marry “normally,” explanations or excuses are required for not marrying or marriages that are “not normal.” So while differences and inequalities are seemingly more vis­ib ­ le in cross-­border marriages, they also exist within “regular” marital relations as well as the institution of marriage itself.

In brief, ­these key concepts that I have described above—­marriageability, the local, the politics of similarity, familiarity, and proximity, and the “normal marriage”—­all play interrelated and interlocking roles in my efforts to answer the core question of this book: How have and do t­ hese marriage practices come to be? And again, key to making sense of t­ hese practices is asking how it is that participants in Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border marriages came to see one another as potential marriageable partners. For without the participants being able to conceive of one another as potential spouses, ­these marriage practices would not be pos­si­ble. To be honest, I did not start out with t­ hese concepts in mind, but rather developed them over the course of my research to make sense of what I was observing. To conclude, I ­will briefly discuss how I went about conducting my research and the considerations this involved.

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INTRODUCTION 

Researching the “Prob­l ems” of Intimate Lives I first encountered the phenomenon of cross-­border matchmaking between Japa­ nese men and Chinese w ­ omen on the Internet, not unlike many of the Japa­nese men I met during my fieldwork. While online access to transnational marriage agencies was available to anyone with an Internet connection, this did not mean that access in general would be easy. The issue that t­hese agencies ­were dealing with remained a very private and intimate ­matter. Consequently, my first challenge was how to actually find a way to meet the ­people who ­were involved in ­these seemingly very personal practices. I called and e-­mailed a number of transnational marriage agencies in Japan, but only a few responded to my inquiries. China Love was one of them. Their chief broker, Mr. Tanaka, kindly welcomed me to their agency’s office in Tokyo in the summer of 2007. ­After our first meeting, he surprisingly invited me to accompany one of their matchmaking tours to China the following month. My encounter with China Love in 2007 marked the beginning of a very generous rapport throughout my fieldwork. They not only allowed me to be pre­sent at the agency whenever I wanted but also permitted me to look at the profiles of their male and female clientele and carry out a demographic survey. Visiting them on almost a daily basis, it was in their reception room that I would meet many of the Japa­nese men who became my in­for­mants. L ­ ater I would come into contact with other major transnational marriage agencies, and several of t­ hese would also invite me to conduct interviews and accompany their matchmaking tours to and wedding parties in China. Although many of the Japa­nese marriage brokers ­were aware of the stigma attached to Japanese–­Chinese brokered marriages, in their view their intentions ­were good ones: to help “unmarriageable ­people” find marriage partners. Thus, from their perspective, it was not simply about making a profit (although this was part of it); for them, their efforts w ­ ere an expression of goodwill on their part, an act of helping ­others in the domain of their intimate lives. Consequently, in meeting with me brokers w ­ ere also seeking the opportunity to convey the message that not all transnational marriage agencies ­were “bad.” Knowing their business itself to be widely stigmatized, they also wanted to differentiate their own agencies from t­ hose that w ­ ere seen as more “shady.” The brokers and staff members knew that they w ­ ere dealing with very sensitive and private issues, and they did not want to further stigmatize the marriages they brokered. Hence, by allowing me to observe their business they w ­ ere in part seeking to demonstrate their legitimacy.

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Once I was able to make myself pre­sent at the marriage agencies or on matchmaking tours, my second concern was how to ask a seemingly inappropriate question. In Japan, one of the most central questions for me—­“Why do you want to marry a Chinese bride?”—­was also one of the hardest to ask. As noted above, commercial cross-­border matchmaking practices w ­ ere not culturally neutral; they carried the connotation of being a resort of “unmarriageable” p ­ eople. As a Japa­nese ­woman born and raised in Japan, I was never ­free from awareness of such images and values. Consequently, to ask the above question felt rude and insensitive, as if I was interrogating a “prob­lem” in the in­for­mant’s intimate life. I was faced with the dilemma of being a culturally competent Japa­nese person (who knows what not to ask) and being an ethnographer (who should be able to ask any question). Upon meeting Japa­nese male participants for the first time, I rarely asked the above question right away. ­After introducing myself and my proj­ect, we would often engage in casual conversation unrelated to cross-­border marriage, and then I usually sat next to them and observed as they paged through w ­ omen’s profiles and discussed t­ hese with the staff members. With time, however, and without my prompting, some men did seek to explain to me why they ­were considering marriage to a Chinese ­woman. For one ­thing, having spent time together—in some cases, even sharing the joys and discomforts of traveling in China together—­made us closer. I also became one of the very few p ­ eople who knew what they ­were ­going through to find a bride. More impor­tant, they also came to know that I would not criticize or judge their practices. As many Japa­nese participants, even ­after marriage, ­were unwilling to share with or disclose to ­others the story of how they had found their partners, they deemed me a safe interlocutor. My hesitation to ask—­which I initially thought to be a disadvantage—­actually constituted an alternative method to hear their answers: to be pre­sent in a nonthreatening manner u ­ ntil they felt ready to talk. In China, meeting ­people who ­were involved in ­these practices, both brokers and Chinese ­women, was less straightforward. In Dongyang, Chinese staff members at a brokerage branch office often invited me not only into their office but to matchmaking meetings as well, and this assisted me greatly in finding in­for­mants. But in Xinghai, it was initially more difficult to locate local female in­for­mants. An impor­tant reason for this was that few brokers w ­ ere willing to identify themselves as such. Many told me that they w ­ ere “just helping friends or relatives” to find a Japa­nese husband. Receiving money in return for introducing a foreign marriage partner was technically illegal in China. Therefore, brokering was conducted u ­ nder the guise of “assistance” and brokerage fees w ­ ere described as an expression of “gratitude.” Correspondingly, Chinese brokers ­were generally unwilling to introduce their female clientele as that would reveal the true nature of

22

INTRODUCTION 

their business. In real­ity, many of them barely knew the ­women whom they ­were “assisting.” As a result, in Xinghai, I had to find Chinese female participants via other pathways. Local Japa­nese language schools ­were one way of meeting would-be and recently minted Chinese brides. The subsequent introductions I received from ­these contacts to their broader networks of friends and acquaintances w ­ ere a second. That Xinghai was a smaller town also meant that it was pos­si­ble to meet additional participants while simply “hanging out” with preexisting in­for­mants (for example, at the central market). Indeed, in contrast to my interactions with Japa­nese in­for­mants, it was easier for me to “just hang out” with Chinese female participants. For one, I was closer to them in age. Also, it was more acceptable ­under the norms of female friendship. I not only followed them to their matchmaking meetings, engagement parties, and wedding parties, but also shared with them informal lunches, dinners, and shopping excursions ­after their Japa­nese lessons. Asking Chinese ­women, “Why do you want to marry a Japa­nese man?” was somewhat easier, but their responses to this inquiry more often constituted answers to the question, “Why do you want to go to Japan?” Should I have intentionally separated the questions of “­going to Japan” and “marrying a Japa­nese man”? In real­ity, it did not make much sense for many of the Chinese ­women I met to isolate the two. When choosing to register with the marriage agencies, their hope of finding a Japa­nese husband was almost always intertwined with their plans of migrating to Japan. By conducting multisited ethnography, I was offered a win­dow into the experiences of both male and female participants. Although dif­fer­ent in many ways, ­whether men or w ­ omen, Japa­nese or Chinese, I was engaging issues involving their intimate lives. At one point, using e-­mail, I even tried to si­mul­ta­neously follow participants’ experiences as they unfolded on both sides of the matchmaking pro­ cess. I thought this would make it pos­si­ble for me to better understand what shared (or unshared) feelings ­these potential ­couples might harbor prior to marriage. This, however, quickly put me in a difficult and ethically uncomfortable position. On one occasion a­ fter a matchmaking meeting, a potential Chinese bride confessed to me being very excited about marrying and ­going to Japan. But I already knew that her Japa­nese interlocutor was not interested and would soon terminate phone and e-­mail correspondence. Shortly thereafter, I de­cided that when I was with ­women, I would seek to understand their experiences only from their perspective, and when I was with men, likewise. Eventually, this method helped me engage more closely with my in­for­mants: we ­were flustered together, worried together, and surprised together. Due to differences not only in my positionality in relation to my in­for­mants, such as my age, gender, nationality, but also in the social and physical environ-

Beginnings

23

ments, the ways I conducted my fieldwork needed to be tailored to the particularities of my respective sites. In the massive urban space of Tokyo, my fieldwork was conducted mainly at institutional sites, such as agencies or seminars. I had ­little hope of simply ­running into participants on the street. Conversely, in Xinghai, due to it being a smaller-­sized town, my spontaneous encounters with locals ­were an impor­tant means to gather data. Due to t­ hese differences, at times I felt as if I was looking at dif­fer­ent phenomena tied together only by the same label. Even within China, the phenomenon of cross-­border matchmaking did not constitute a unified practice. I came to learn that cross-­border matchmaking was not something homogeneous but instead a rather muddled, contradictory, and multifaceted assemblage. This book, therefore, reflects ­people’s shared but also very dif­fer­ent experiences with cross-­border matchmaking.

Overview of the Book The following chapters move back and forth between Japan and northeast China. Due to the dif­fer­ent ways I interacted with my in­for­mants across divergent contexts, the style of the chapters tends to vary accordingly. Some chapters (in par­tic­u­lar, chapters 4, 5, and 6) are more ethnographically oriented, whereas o ­ thers (chapters 2 and 3) speak to wider social perceptions and discourses. The order of the chapters to some extent reflects how ­these marriages ­were contracted, with the initiative being located in the agencies in Japan; however, content across the chapters is not arranged in strict chronological fashion, and the lived experiences of participants detailed in one chapter might have unfolded concurrently with ­those described in another. Chapter 1 addresses the role of historical narration and its relationship to cross-­ border marriage practices between Japan and northeast China. By focusing on the differing historical narratives of transnational links between Japan and northeast China, I show in par­tic­u­lar that notions of familiarity, proximity, and quasi-­ kinship ­were at the center of how participants made sense of con­temporary cross-­ border marriage practices. Chapters 2 and 3 focus on the ways cross-­border marriages w ­ ere created and perceived in Japan. Chapter 2 provides an explanation of how, despite shifting social contexts, marriage still mattered in con­temporary Japa­nese society. Against this background, it looks at how the category of “unmarriageable” persons was created and stigmatized, but also negotiated, as it pertained to Japanese–­Chinese transnational matchmaking. Chapter 3 builds on chapter 2 to further analyze how male participants in Japan attempted to destigmatize their cross-­border marriages. It examines their efforts to legitimate transnational pairings by strategically recasting them as “almost” endogamous marriages among “similar” partners.

24

INTRODUCTION 

In chapters 4 and 5, I move to northeast China. In chapter 4, I visit Dongyang (Liaoning Province) and explore how marriage with Japa­nese men became a conceivable option for the ­women ­there. Chapter 4 looks at how local marital values and norms s­ haped ­these ­women’s decisions to engage in cross-­border marriage. It analyzes their paradoxical negotiations between local norms and transnational alternatives. In par­tic­u­lar, deploying the concept of “marrying off,” it demonstrates how marriage itself can also be a goal of marriage. Chapter 5 examines how a dif­fer­ent local context (Xinghai, Heilongjiang Province) influenced the ways ­women enacted marriage and migration. In a community where it was socially expected that one should go to Japan, marriage migration to Japan had become a strategy and gendered site of investment for ­women. By paying expensive brokerage fees, many w ­ omen actively produced the circumstances of their marriageability and commodified their marriage. But despite their active efforts, their sense of subjectivity within t­ hese pro­cesses remained unstable. This was due to the unequal and dependent nature of the mobility they engaged in, namely, marriage. In chapter 6, I move between Japan and northeast China, while my in­for­mants are stuck in between. By examining suspended and declined visa cases, this chapter analyzes how marital relations became sites of regulation. I illuminate the ways cross-­border marriages came ­under suspicion and participants ­were forced to perform marital relationships that ­were more “ideal” and “normatively acceptable” than ­those expected of ­couples in Japan. Even if partners have chosen married life with one another, they still require the approval of the state. In the concluding chapter, I come back the question I asked in the introduction: How have and do ­these marriage practices come to be? The conclusion also offers some “afterward stories.” As t­ hese stories reveal, the issue of marriageability remained something with which participants continued to grapple, even within so-­called happy marriages. The conclusion also discusses how shifting perceptions of global power dynamics have subsequently influenced the meanings associated with cross-­border marriages and migration from China to Japan. Albeit looking at dif­fer­ent places, diverse actors, and dissimilar phases of the matchmaking pro­cess, read together t­hese chapters constitute an ethnographic portrait of how marriageability can and is negotiated on both local and transnational scales. What this book reveals is the myriad dynamics involved in how participants came to conceive of and render one another potential—­even if not always ideal—­marriage partners while navigating their own marriageability across borders.

1 FROM MANCHUKUO TO MARRIAGE

­ fter a three-­hour drive from the city, we w A ­ ere fi­nally getting close to a town I ­will call Xinghai. The November scenery was already dark grey; the land had been harvested several months before and was now waiting for the long, freezing winter of northeast China. I was squeezed in a m ­ inivan with a Japa­nese marriage broker, Kimura, two local Chinese staff members, and a Chinese ­woman who had just married a Japa­nese man in Harbin. Xinghai, a town of nearly a quarter million, is the place where First Love, a transnational marriage agency, operated its brokerage business. We turned off the virtually empty tollway and approached Xinghai. I gradually was able to make out local residents g­ oing about their business among a mix of old-­style flat ­houses, small family-­owned stores, recently erected buildings, and dusty construction sites. Kimura turned to me and exclaimed: “Welcome to the Mecca of Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border marriages! The specialty [Jp: tokusanbutsu] of this town is Chinese brides and the main industry [Jp: sangyō] is brokerage work.” Chinese brides in Japan t­ oday herald primarily from northeast China. In line with the broker’s portrayal of it as the “Mecca” (Jp: mekka) of Chinese brides, Xinghai indeed constituted one of the major bride-­sending communities to Japan. During my stays in Tokyo and Dongyang, I repeatedly heard a similar refrain, that of the feelings of familiarity and closeness residents of northeast China feel ­toward Japan. In the words of one Japa­nese broker, “­people in Dongyang have feelings of familiarity [Jp: shinkinkan] ­toward Japan.” When I moved to Xinghai, however, such exhortations found further elaboration as the legacy of Manchuria and Japa­nese colonialism conspicuously came into view. For instance, a local 25

26

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resident of Xinghai told me, “­People in Xinghai have feelings of familiarity [Chin: qinqie de ganjue] ­toward Japan,” or as another local put it, “Xinghai has historically unique intimate [Chin: miqie] relations with Japan.” In many cases, they additionally articulated their narratives using the notion of “blood ties” (Chin: xueyuan guanxi) between Japan and Xinghai. Given the ongoing po­liti­cal tensions and hostilities between Japan and China, it was remarkable that in­for­mants described such intimate feelings between the very place that was colonized and its former colonizers, and that this in turn was seen as the basis for con­temporary cross-­border marriage practices.

This chapter examines how dif­fer­ent historical narratives are deployed to render con­temporary transnational intimate relations comprehensible, and how such narratives play a role in remapping colonial memories, national subjectivity, and notions of marriageability. Although ­there ­were surface similarities in the discourses of familiarity and closeness employed by Japa­nese and local Chinese in­ for­mants, I came to learn that they ­were the product of very dif­fer­ent assertions of historical subjectivity and strategies to legitimate marriage migration. The cross-­border marriage industry between Japan and northeast China is not solely a product of gendered economic inequalities; it is also rooted in relationships, and even imaginings, generated by specific historic contingencies and interpretations. In this chapter, I illuminate the ways multiple actors mobilized historical narratives to legitimate such transnational practices. Specifically, I focus on the dif­fer­ent narratives used by Japa­nese and Chinese brokers and other locals. On the Japa­nese side, many Japa­nese in­for­mants deployed a positive narrative of a historical relatedness forged by colonialism. This effaced Japan’s colonial and war­time culpability by stressing Chinese ­people’s familiarity (Jp: shinkin kan) with and friendliness (Jp: yukōuteki) ­toward Japan. On the Chinese side, the locals in Dongyang and Xinghai described feelings of familiarity (Chin: qinqie) with, proximity (Chin: jin) to, and intimacy (Chin: miqie) ­toward Japan. But it is impor­tant to note that the ways locals in Xinghai experienced and enacted the past generated explanations of cross-­border marriage that also deviated in key ways from t­ hose to which I was exposed in Dongyang. Precisely, many locals in Xinghai made further tactical claims of “blood ties” (Chin: xueyuan guanxi), and in ­doing so, interpreted marriage migration as the “natu­ral” product of “following blood ties.” The aim of this chapter is not simply to give an account of the historical background of Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border marriages, but rather to investigate the ways current cross-­border marriages are rendered comprehensible in light of history. My ultimate goal is to demonstrate that the notion of familiarity embedded



From Manchukuo to Marriage

27

and enacted within the Japanese–­Chinese marriages examined ­here is enfolded in multiple layers of historical, po­liti­cal, economic, and cultural meaning. Revealing such relations shows how seemingly positive claims, such as ­those concerning familiarity or intimacy, are also produced within both past and pre­sent power dynamics. Moreover, as my ethnographic data show, the forms and implications of desires for border crossing are s­ haped by local particularities. Thus, by addressing the specific local histories within which the participants are embedded, this chapter aims to produce a more complex picture of the logic of desire at work, one that incorporates local differences in ways a discussion of large-­scale nation-­ to-­nation relations cannot capture. In ­doing so, I suggest an alternative logic by which colonial memories create (dissimilar) conceptions of familiarity key to negotiations of marriageability.

From Manchuria to Bride-­S ending Communities Manchukuo (Jp: manshūkoku/Chin: manzhouguo) was often one of the key terms brokers in Japan and China invoked when seeking to explain the origins of con­ temporary cross-­border marriage practices. When I would ask brokers why the Chinese brides primarily come from northeast China, “Manchukuo” was one of the main answers; as many put it, “northeast China used to be Manchukuo.” And yet, such a statement carried dif­fer­ent connotations depending on the speaker. Even within northeast China, the locals in Dongyang (Liaoning Province) and Xinghai (Heilongjiang Province) attached dif­fer­ent meanings to the term “Manchuria.” Following the Russo-­Japanese War (1904–1905) and the colonization of other parts of Asia (Okinawa in 1879, Taiwan in 1895, and ­Korea in 1910), Japan established the puppet state of Manchuria in 1932. In addition to seeking to create a “utopian” country in Manchuria (Duara 2003; Matsusaka 2001; Watt 2009; Young 1998), a goal that was never practically implemented, the Japa­nese state propagated an image of Manchuria as a huge, fertile expanse in an effort to recruit Japa­nese nationals to ­settle ­there.1 By the early 1930s, about 240,000 Japa­ nese nationals had moved to cities in southern Manchuria (Tamanoi 2009, 15); by August 1945, 6.9 million Japa­nese nationals ­were living outside of the Japa­ nese main islands and 2,214,000 Japa­nese nationals (1,550,000 civilian and 664,000 army) resided in Manchuria (Watt 2009, 2, 39). Japa­nese migration to urban areas in Manchuria was intended to serve industrialization, including the building of the Manchurian railway. Although Dongyang was not a large city like Dalian, Shenyang, or Changchun, the mi­grants to

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Dongyang ­were nevertheless primarily involved in business and industry, or ­were military and government officials. On the other hand, many of t­ hose who migrated to the northern part of Manchuria ­were middle-­scale farmers. They ­were “encouraged” to migrate to Manchuria as “man/mō pioneer groups” (Jp: man mō kaitakudan) so they could obtain their own land (Ide 2008; Nakajima 1990).2 ­These farmers ­later explained that they had heard or assumed that the Japa­nese state purchased the land from Chinese locals (Hayashi 1983, 10–11), although the latter had actually suffered from having their land expropriated by the Japa­nese colonial authorities. Such perceptions would subsequently contribute to impor­tant differences in memories and narratives of Japa­nese colonialism in Manchuria. Japa­nese farmers in Manchuria often emigrated as f­amily units or would-be ­family units.3 In early August 1945, however, young and able-­bodied males ­were recalled to join the armed forces. When the Soviet Union entered the war on August 8 and advanced on northern Manchuria on August 9, the Japa­nese nationals who remained ­there ­were mostly ­women, ­children, and the el­derly. When Japan’s defeat became certain in August, military troops and their ­family members began securing transportation to more major cities, where they sought ways of returning to Japan. The August 15, 1945, surrender of Japan triggered a massive reverse migration. Repatriation stories vary drastically depending on where individuals had lived in Manchuria. As Soviet troops advanced on the northern borders of Manchuria, the remaining Japa­nese settlers attempted to reach train stations in the hope of returning to Japan. However, due to the chaos resulting from the Japa­nese surrender, the Soviet Union’s advancement, and the intentional destruction of the transportation system by the Japa­nese army, many ­were not able to find their way back to Japan. ­Those who ­were unable to return to Japan and remained in China, a large number of whom at the time ­were ­children, ­were called war orphans (Jp: zanryukoji/Chin: ribenyigu), or “the Japa­nese orphans left ­behind.”4 Although war orphans existed in all three of the northeastern provinces (Liao­ ning, Jilin, and Heilongjiang) of China, the majority of t­ hese orphans ­were stranded in the northernmost province of Heilongjiang due to its geo­graph­i­cal proximity to the Soviet Union, the urgency of escaping from the Soviet troops, and the inability of settler families to reach the trains that would transport them to the coastal areas. For ­those who resided in the southern or m ­ iddle regions of Manchuria, their repatriation stories ­were somewhat less arduous. Dongyang was one of the coastal neighboring towns. While t­here ­were some war orphans left in Dongyang, their numbers ­were far fewer than ­those stranded in Heilongjiang Province. According to existing memoirs and local narratives, Xinghai was the site of a bureau headquarters with food stocks for Japa­nese troops. Thus, many fleeing



From Manchukuo to Marriage

29

Japa­nese settlers believed that they could at least receive help and food from the troops stationed t­ here. When they arrived, however, the entire deployment had already departed, leaving the refugees stranded.5 Approximately 5,000 to 8,000 Japa­nese nationals arrived in Xinghai (Nakajima 1990). Of ­those, some 2,000 to 2,500 survived the hunger, freezing winters, and threat of typhoid fever by being incorporated into Chinese families or marrying locals (Hayashi 1983). ­Here the interpretation of t­ hese events—­whether local Chinese “­adopted and helped” or “bought and sold” war orphans—­varies depending on the teller.6 From 1946 ­until 1948, 1,046,620 Japa­nese returned to Japan, and from 1953 to 1958, an additional 302,506 returned with the help of the Japa­nese and Chinese Red Cross organ­izations (Ide 2008).7 However, in 1958, due to the lack of diplomatic ties between Japan and the ­People’s Republic of China (PRC), all communication and connections w ­ ere severed. This began to change ­after diplomatic ties between Japan and the PRC w ­ ere established in 1972. In 1981, the Japa­ nese government began providing support for groups of war orphans to visit Japan to identify relatives. T ­ hose who w ­ ere able to prove their roots and find blood relatives regained Japa­nese citizenship.8 Nearly forty years ­after the Japa­nese defeat, this began a pro­cess by which a large percentage of ­these orphans would gradually return to Japan with their families.9 The Japa­nese government also allowed the orphans’ spouses, ­children, and grandchildren to reside in Japan. The orphans’ visits to Japan at the time w ­ ere widely broadcast on Japa­nese tele­v i­sion, which reveled in presenting the drama and emotion generated by scenes of orphans and their blood relatives reuniting ­after years of separation. ­These war orphans, so called even if they ­were already middle-­aged, w ­ ere treated as victims not only of Japa­nese imperialism but also of a postwar government that had ignored their existence for de­cades. Nonetheless, ­after their return to Japan, the orphans still faced numerous difficulties due to a lack of language skills and insufficient government support.

Remapping and Reconstructing Memories The constitution and reconstitution of knowledge about the past is importantly linked to changes in global and national contexts (Fujitani, White, and Yoneyama 2001). On the one hand, many local in­for­mants in China expressed to me that the war was a ­thing of the past (Chin: guoqu de shi). Yet on the other hand, the con­temporary movements of ­people between Japan and northeast China, in par­ tic­ul­ar in the form of marriage, still worked to evoke colonial and postcolonial memories in multiple ways. The narrative of what happened in the past between

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Japan and northeast China was deeply intertwined with how participants made sense of con­temporary cross-­border marriage practices and vice versa. I argue that ­these con­temporary transnational matchmaking practices ­were additional, yet unexpected, “sites of memory” (Nora 1989) where “a sense of historical continuity persists” (Nora 1989, 7). They ­were unexpected sites of memory ­because the practice of seeking a marriage partner across national borders was not a site where the reconstruction of memory has traditionally been thought to occur. In t­ hese “sites of memory,” however, dif­fer­ent actors—­not just the male and female participants in ­these matchmaking practices but also nonparticipant local residents in both Japan and China—­attempted to reconstruct knowledge of the linkages between past events and pre­sent phenomenon. The site of memory ­here was not solely a geo­graph­i­cal site but a transnational practice. In other words, it was the con­temporary transnational movement of ­people through which certain memories ­were renarrated, reworked, and legitimated. The reconstruction of memory also involved issues of identity and morality. As Paul Ricoeur (2004, 81) argues, the mobilization of memory operates in the ser­v ice of the demand of identity. Knowing what happened in the past is connected to knowing who we are. John Eidson (2000, 579) also argues that the field site may be regarded as a site of memory, which suggests “a public arena in which actors cultivate forms of historical understanding, which are, in turn, expected to provide t­ hese actors and their audiences with means for orienting themselves to o ­ thers, to their surroundings, and to themselves.” Hence, specific understandings of the past and historical narratives also provide frameworks to make sense of and reaffirm one’s identity and further orient how we act in a certain context (Antze and Lambek 1996, xii; Halbwachs and Coser 1992, 47; Morris-­Suzuki 2005, 24; Wertsch 2000, 518). As Geoffrey M. White (2000, 496) argues, stories about the past are devices for “self-­fashioning.” White further claims that narratives—­ repeating and renarrating well-­known past events—­are discursive practices to render past events comprehensible and persuasive. He states, “In producing, enacting, circulating (or simply consuming) stories of the past, social actors create and objectify the realities in which they live” (2000, 497). Therefore, cultural memories are not simply a reflection of the past but rather “social actions” (White 2006) and “cultural tools” (Wertsch 2002) for groups of ­people to conceive their unity and peculiarity through common images. Moreover, memories are formative and normative (Assmann and Czaplicka 1995, 132). Memories serve as the moral stories of certain communities. Thus, I also suggest that con­temporary cross-­border matchmaking practices did not constitute isolated phenomena among their participants; they also played a role in how participant communities remade and rearticulated their national subjectivity, colonial memories, and norms of marriage.



From Manchukuo to Marriage

31

In what follows, I seek to analyze the (re)formative and normative historical narratives provided by multiple actors to demonstrate the ways the participants in the cross-­border marriage industry attempted to conceive of and even moralize their (and ­others’) desire to cross national borders. I look at three specific facets. First, I examine how the con­temporary transnational marriage industry was understood within a specific historical colonial and postcolonial context and ask how dif­fer­ent memories w ­ ere implicated in con­temporary narratives. Second, I investigate how con­temporary cross-­border marriages, conversely, ­were deployed, recoding and remaking colonial and postcolonial memories on both sides so as to reclaim historical and national subjectivity. Third, I explore the ways par­tic­u­ lar local narratives ­were appropriated to make sense of and legitimate a certain form of border crossing.

“Humane” Colonialism and Transnational Links “We ­will provide you with the w ­ omen from my hometown [Jp: kokyō].” This was a catchphrase that one broker used to promote his agency, China Love. Curiously enough, the broker, Mr. Tanaka, was a Japa­nese national—­but he was born in Manchuria and had lived ­there ­until the Japa­nese surrender in 1945. During interviews and casual conversations, he repeatedly stated, “Dongyang is my first hometown, and Tokyo is my second.” He often nostalgically shared his memories of Manchuria. For him as a child at that time, Manchuria was a g­ reat place with spacious land, beautiful nature, and the privilege of unrestricted play space (as compared with the experience of Chinese nationals in Dongyang). Although he also remembered the experiences of repatriation and hardship a­ fter relocating to Japan, he trea­sured his childhood memories of Manchuria. ­Because of that, he claimed that he still loved Dongyang and the ­people of Dongyang. It was ­because of t­ hese nostalgic memories that he returned to Dongyang during Japan’s boom years to seek business opportunities. He also visited the ­house in which he used to live. One of the current local staff members had happened to be the resident of “his” old ­house. He also expressed that he wanted to fulfill the Chinese ­women’s dreams of ­going to Japan to experience the good life (Jp: yutaka na). When I met him, he had (since 1995) already brokered 252 marriages between Japa­nese men and Chinese w ­ omen from Dongyang, in addition to 168 marriages between Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women living in Japan. As far as I know, Mr. Tanaka was the only broker who was actually born in Manchuria. But other brokers also deployed the narrative of “familiarity” with Japan. As another broker told me, “Dongyang historically has familiarity with

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Japan.” However, in the eyes of the male clientele, Tanaka’s personal connection to Dongyang, one forged by colonialism, gave him more authority when it came to introducing ­women from ­there. China Love was the largest brokerage agency in Dongyang. Although he did not speak Chinese, his claim that he was born in Dongyang made his brokerage work appear more reliable. His assets included not only a hometown, but also the ­women from the town. According to him, his brokerage work helped the w ­ omen of Dongyang, their families, and even the economy of the community. The idea that ­there existed an ongoing legacy of Japa­nese benevolence in the area dating back to the Japa­nese colonial period was elaborated for me by Japa­ nese participants in Xinghai. It was the broker from First Love, Kimura, who first told me the history of Xinghai and described the intricate connections that extended from the history of Japa­nese war orphans to the current cross-­border marriage industry. According to him, the marriage brokerage business works so well in Xinghai precisely ­because of its unique local history during the colonial and postcolonial eras.10 He explained: During the Manchurian era, many Japa­nese farmers contributed to communities ­here by cultivating farms and building bridges, railroads, and buildings. Although some hold the image that Japan invaded China, in terms of Manchuria, the main objective was cultivation [Jp: kaitaku]; ­there ­were few killings and robberies. So, as compared to other areas, such as Nanjing, that have r­ eally strong anti-­Japanese sentiments, ­there are many pro-­Japanese p ­ eople ­here. In describing the colonization of Manchuria as relatively “humane,” he differentiated the experience of the colonial subjects in Manchuria from ­those in other parts of China. By linking con­temporary marriage migration with the history of war orphans, the broker’s narrative further validated residents’ friendliness to and aspirations for being close to Japan. He told me: “In Xinghai, t­here ­were many war orphans. The fact that the war orphans exist shows that Chinese p ­ eople ­were not that hostile to Japa­nese p ­ eople. If they had ­really hated the Japa­nese, they would have killed all Japa­nese ­children who ­were left ­behind.” The narrative, however, does not end ­there. He also described how the war orphans who returned to Xinghai ­after leaving for Japan in the 1980s had spread rumors about life in Japan. When they visited their Chinese relatives in Xinghai, they told every­one how wonderful and clean Japan was. From Japan they also brought with them large sums of money. This is the reason, Kimura said, many w ­ omen in Xinghai now want to marry a Japa­nese man and go to Japan. In his view, he was therefore “helping” such Chinese ­women realize their aspirations.



From Manchukuo to Marriage

33

Such a narrative was not unique among Japa­nese in­for­mants who knew Xinghai. In January 2010, I visited the Japan-­Xinghai Friendship Association in Tokyo.11 Although the association’s aim was to commemorate the orphans who had perished in Xinghai and build friendship between Xinghai and Japan, the director was also aware of the phenomenon of brokered transnational marriages. The director told me that although he was not an expert on transnational marriages, he knew that many ­people in Xinghai w ­ ere friendly to Japan, or ­were pro-­Japan (Jp: shin nichi). Then he went on to say: Actually, Japa­nese p ­ eople in northern Manchuria w ­ ere just ordinary farmers and did not harm the communities t­ here. Some of them had a good relationship with the local ­people and Chinese ­people did not have strong feelings of hostility t­ oward them, so Chinese p ­ eople raised the Japa­nese ­children left ­behind. Their affection ­toward Japan is also the reason many p ­ eople from Xinghai want to come to Japan ­today. During my interview with the director, he also explained to me the historical background against which the current marriage industry operates. He said: The establishment of the monument for the Japa­nese war orphans was indeed proposed by one of the war orphans residing in Xinghai. In 1963, the famine crisis also affected Xinghai, and one of the female war orphans tried to cultivate unpopulated areas and found numerous corpses of war orphans who died of hunger and disease. She told the local government that she wished to build a tomb for t­ hese perished orphans. Her request was officially permitted by the PRC central government, in par­tic­ul­ ar by Zhou Enlai. Zhou Enlai also claimed that the Japa­nese pioneer groups ­were victims of Japan’s imperialism, separating them from the Japa­nese military government. Although the director showed appreciation and re­spect for what he described as Chinese ­people’s kindness, he also said that many war orphans ­were actually “sold” to Chinese ­people as workers, and many orphans had a ­really difficult time in China. However, he still recognized China’s “friendship spirit” (Jp: yūai seishin) ­toward Japan. The director told me: “My friends in northeast China also have feelings of familiarity [Jp: shinkin kan] with Japan. It is also possibly b ­ ecause one out of four ­people in Xinghai have relatives in Japan.” Overseas Chinese in Japan are contributing greatly to the economy in Xinghai and thus, he said, the local government also actively supports interaction with Japan. Then, the director mentioned the illegal migration that relied on counterfeit orphan status. He said, “yet now it has become difficult to obtain counterfeit

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orphan status in China, and thus, marriage is seen as another option for coming to Japan.” The residue of Japa­nese colonialism looms large in the accounts provided by the broker and the director. They repeatedly asserted that current transnational links between northeast China and Japan descended from the vestiges of the failed Japa­nese imperial proj­ect. ­Running throughout their accounts was the claim that this proj­ect, or at the very least, the conduct of Japa­nese settlers associated with it, was “humane.” Moreover, it was the humane treatment of local colonial subjects during the colonial era that subsequently enabled Japa­nese war orphans to survive in Xinghai. Put differently, it was the benevolence of Japa­nese settlers that was the original wellspring of the friendliness and familiarity deemed to exist between northeast China (and in par­tic­ul­ar Xinghai) and Japan ­today. That said, in­for­mants also viewed the willingness, and even eagerness, of Chinese to go to Japan as indicative of Japan’s superiority and advancement in modernity to the status of a “better place”—­a narrative itself reminiscent of the discourse of superiority used to justify and legitimize the original colonial proj­ect. This discourse demonstrates how the pro­cesses of selective narration generated the perception that the ordinary Japa­nese who migrated to Manchuria (some of them who subsequently also became “victim orphans”) w ­ ere not “colonizers” but rather “friendly providers” to northeast China. Lisa Yoneyama (1999, 11) has discussed how the memories of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki ­were ­shaped by the perception that ordinary Japa­nese ­people ­were the passive victims of historical conditions, which she called “phantasmatic innocence.” In addition to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, memories of the ground b ­ attle in Okinawa, the bombing of major Japa­nese cities, and the repatriation of Japa­nese nationals from northeast China a­ fter the Soviet advance all contribute to the notion that the military leaders and elites ­were responsible for the tragedy, while ordinary Japa­nese civilians ­were the “[victims] of the war and the nation’s colonial policies” (1999, 11). This phantasm of Japa­nese civilian innocence also denied ordinary civilians’ autonomy and responsibility. That t­ hose who w ­ ere left b ­ ehind in China w ­ ere primarily ­women and c­ hildren further plays into this perception of phantasmal innocence. Within popu­lar Japa­ nese discourse, Japa­nese orphans in Manchuria are portrayed as lacking autonomy or agency. They are seen as victims not only of the failed Japa­nese colonial proj­ect but also of historical turbulence and the postwar Japa­nese government. ­Those who express sympathy with the war orphans, including the Friendship Association, can be critical of the Japa­nese state. Yet although some incidents perpetrated by the Japa­nese military, such as the rape of Nanjing, w ­ ere the target of criticism even by the Japa­nese marriage brokers, the brokers and director did not describe the pioneer groups in the northern part of Manchuria as “colonizers.”



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The establishment of Manchuria and the sending of pioneer groups, which created the very reason that Japa­nese nationals resided in Manchuria, ­were never a target of criticism by Japa­nese in­for­mants or ­were simply ignored. Instead, the be­hav­ior of pioneer groups was resignified as “giving” to Xinghai, both then and now.12

Moralizing the Other’s Desire The transnational links created by Japa­nese colonialism provide an arena for multiple interpretations of desire. Many Japa­nese men who visited China on matchmaking tours w ­ ere concerned about the ­women’s motivations and occasionally asked me why certain Chinese ­women ­were willing to marry Japa­nese men. Some of them ­were worried that the Chinese ­women would marry them only for money or a visa. Many Japa­nese men conducted Internet searches to investigate for themselves the circulating stories of “fake marriages.” They often found accounts of ­women who dis­appeared as soon as they arrived in Japan. Although ­these stories ­were not totally false, on the Web alternative reasons for w ­ omen having run away—­including difficulties in the marriage or abusive relationships—­were easily eclipsed by anonymous writers’ assertions that the ­women’s original intent was duplicitous. Partly influenced by such stories, the question of what made Japa­ nese men appealing and desirable to Chinese ­women was one to which not a few prospective Japa­nese clientele wanted to know the answer. This put Japa­nese marriage brokers in the position of explaining w ­ omen’s motivations. In par­tic­ul­ar, when the Japa­nese men ­were concerned about possibly hostile feelings ­toward Japan (Jp: han nichi kanjō) among Chinese, the brokers typically responded by saying that ­people in northeast China ­were friendly to Japan. For example, the way Kimura explained the historical connection between Xinghai and Japan to me on my first trip to Xinghai (noted above) was the same way he explained it to his male customers. Kimura told his customers, “­After war orphans went back to Japan, they spread the stories among their relatives left ­behind that ‘Japan is a good place,’ and more and more ­women came to desire to go live in Japan.” According to Kimura, ­women’s desires to marry Japa­nese men ­were historically constructed on and embodied by other locals’ “real experiences” (Jp: jittaiken). Although many Japa­nese men who visited Dongyang or Xinghai on matchmaking tours ­were aware of the history of Manchuria, few knew the par­tic­u­lar history of Xinghai and its war orphans. Hence, their views and knowledge ­were ­shaped by the lens provided by their marriage brokers. Kimura told me that he usually explained to his male customers that it was not that ­these Chinese ­women wanted to marry and go to Japan to escape from poverty but rather that the w ­ omen

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had familiar and positive feelings t­ oward Japan due to this historical connection. Tanaka likewise explained to his clientele not only the historical connection between Japan and Dongyang but also framed this with his own personal links to and familiarity with the brides’ community due to his long residence ­there. The multiple claims of familiarity with Japan and historical relatedness provided a legitimate reason—­separate from material desire—­for the men to make sense of the ­women’s motivations. Consequently, this par­tic­u­lar historical narrative not only rearticulated Japa­ nese colonialism in Manchuria, positing positive local feelings t­ oward Japan and Japa­nese “contributions” to northeast China; it also provided legitimating and morally acceptable grounds for Chinese ­women to want to marry Japa­nese men. Dif­fer­ent actors are interested in such narratives for dif­fer­ent reasons. For the brokers, such narratives promoted their business, whereas for the male clientele, they elucidated the moral economy of their female Chinese counter­parts. The narratives explicated the fact that Chinese ­women ­were seemingly yielding to them not ­because theirs was a “marriage of con­ve­nience,” but rather as a result of the latter’s positive feelings ­toward Japan. To a lesser extent, similar narratives existed in Dongyang. According to one local official who was often invited to wedding ceremonies between Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women as a representative of the city, cross-­border marriages in Dongyang started in 1990. Since the mid-1990s, he shared, the locals gradually gained opportunities to go to Japan for work. T ­ hose who went to Japan started establishing connections, which eventually lead to brokerage networks. Starting in 1996 (a year ­after China Love was established), marriages between northeastern Chinese w ­ omen and Japa­nese men had drastically increased. The official continued, “The locals had found out that Japan is much more advanced and the living standard is much higher than in Dongyang.” Yet he also provided additional reasons why many local w ­ omen ­were willing to marry a Japa­nese man, stating: “They are the same Asians and have yellow skin. Since they are alike, they also have similar lifestyles and customs [Chin: sheng­huo xiguan]. Westerners have dif­fer­ent lifestyles. Japan is also geo­graph­i­cally close. This also explains why more w ­ omen in the north go to Japan than t­hose from the south.” He added: “Some p ­ eople still have bad images of Japan due to history. Yet history is what happened in the past. I think few p ­ eople in Dongyang have bad images of Japan now.” It was much ­later that the broker in Dongyang, Tanaka, confessed to ­there also being more pragmatic reasons for his choosing Dongyang. During the course of my fieldwork, fewer and fewer ­women came to register in Dongyang, and other agencies ­were forced to shift their recruitment from Dongyang to dif­fer­ent areas, such as Xinghai. Yet Tanaka continued to insist that he would only introduce



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­ omen from Dongyang. I once sought reconfirmation from him that the reason w was ­because it was his hometown. He smiled wryly and said: “Well, I often say that. But brokerage work in China is illegal. So you have to have connections with the local officials to avoid trou­ble. Since I am originally from Dongyang, the local officials are more flexible with me. I cannot do brokerage work in places like Xinghai ­because I d ­ on’t have any connections.”

Saving the “­E nemy’s ­C hildren”: Reclaiming Historical Subjectivity I moved to Xinghai again in February 2010 for a longer period. During my first five-­month stay and two ­later trips t­ here (September 2010 and July 2011), I was able to learn more about the relationship of Xinghai to Japan from a local perspective. Upon beginning my fieldwork in Xinghai, I was surprised by both how e­ ager locals ­were to tell me about Xinghai’s history with war orphans and how hesitant they ­were to talk about the marriage business. In response to hearing my research topic, many local residents counseled me that to understand pre­sent practices I needed to first study Xinghai’s history. ­Others sought to discourage me from studying transnational marriages by describing the topic as too sensitive (Chin: mingan); instead, they too suggested I study the history of the war orphans in Xinghai. But as a result, it was not the history itself that I became interested in further investigating. Rather, what piqued my interest w ­ ere the reasons b ­ ehind the locals’ repeated exhortations that I should learn the history of Xinghai. Why did the locals perceive history to be so impor­tant? I started to pay attention to and question how they narrated the paths from the past to the pre­sent. And thus it was in Xinghai that I encountered the discourse of blood ties (Chin: xueyuan guanxi). For instance, a local resident who owned a Japa­nese school and sent many students and brides to Japan claimed, “Xinghai has familiar [Chin: qinqie] feelings ­toward Japan.” He further explained that both the basis of this relationship and the motivations of ­people who wanted to go to Japan ­were based on blood ties between Japan and Xinghai. He said: “Japan and Xinghai have blood ties [Chin: xueyuan guanxi]; almost all the families ­here in Xinghai have relatives in Japan. This is why many p ­ eople from Xinghai go to Japan t­oday; other­wise, ­people ­wouldn’t go.” It is impor­tant to note that the locals did not see said blood ties as the natu­ral product of a benevolent past colonial relationship between Japan and Manchuria. One night, I was having dinner with a local ­couple in their early thirties. The wife identified herself as the third-­generation descendant of a war orphan; however, the Japa­nese government had not officially accepted her grand­mother’s

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documentation as proof of her status. All the same, she was still hoping to receive official permission to go to Japan with her Chinese husband. During the dinner, she explained, “The relationship between Japan and Xinghai is r­ eally unique [Chin: teshu]. My grand­mother is Japa­nese, and t­ here is a blood tie between the communities.” Yet as the eve­ning went on—­accompanied with beer and food—­ her husband started referring to the horrific be­hav­ior of the Japa­nese ­toward the Chinese during the war, exemplified by the Nanjing Massacre and Unit 731.13 He claimed, “Can you believe that ­human begins ­were called maruta [logs] and used for brutal experiments?” He was also critical of the recent textbook controversies and the visits of Japa­nese prime ministers to Yasukuni Shrine.14 Nonetheless, he argued, Chinese ­people saved the enemies’ ­children for humanitarian reasons, even though it was difficult to even feed themselves at that time. As he put it, “Chinese p ­ eople are the only p ­ eople in world history who saved the c­ hildren of the ­enemy.” To him, the war orphans’ memorial also symbolized the Chinese p ­ eople’s generous attitude ­toward the “­enemy.” He asked, “Who in the world would make a monument for the ­enemy except Chinese?” According to him, local Chinese had generously incorporated the war orphans into their families as ­children or as wives and, as a result, this created blood ties with Japan.15 The significant point for the local narrative was that the Chinese ­people “voluntarily” rescued war orphans b ­ ecause of their humanitarian spirit (Chin: rendao zhuyi). Indeed, I repeatedly encountered in­for­mants who described Japan as having invaded northern China and saw Japa­nese as having plundered their land. Thus, in their view it was local Chinese humanitarian l­ abor that created the subsequent blood ties with Japan. In other words, it was not b ­ ecause of the character of Japa­nese colonialism that friendship and familiarity existed between the two ­peoples, but in spite of it. It was kindness on the Chinese side occurring ­after colonialism that forged ­today’s transnational blood ties. By reclaiming subjecthood in this historical context, Chinese locals refused to simply be passive recipients of Japan’s imperialism. Although only very few adoptive parents (Chin: yang fumu) who incorporated orphans into their families are still alive ­today, the locals saw themselves as active historical agents responsible for building the bridge between Japan and China.

Blood Ties Go Transnational: From “Brutal Enemies” to “Blood Relatives” If blood ties ­were established when the orphans w ­ ere incorporated into Chinese families, they did not immediately have transnational implications. Adoptive parents and war orphans themselves often concealed their Japa­nese identity, and the



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c­ hildren grew up as Chinese. During the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), revealing oneself as Japa­nese could be risky, for one would be suspected of being a spy (Ide 2008). Close to a de­cade ­after the establishment of diplomatic relations in 1972, the possibility for the orphans to return to Japan still remained uncertain. It was only in the early 1980s that orphans who w ­ ere able to identify their blood relatives started returning to Japan. ­After the PRC announced its policy of reform and opening up, p ­ eople in Xinghai also gradually experienced a transformation, starting in the early 1990s. According to local in­for­mants, during the 1970s and the 1980s, t­ hose who married Japa­nese first-­or second-­generation orphans had not even thought about the possibility of migrating to Japan. They told me that ­those who married Japa­ nese female orphans w ­ ere usually poor farmers who could not afford to marry a Chinese bride. One local provided an in­ter­est­ing comparison: “Marrying a Japa­ nese w ­ oman at that time was like marrying a Viet­nam­ese ­woman ­today.”16 Moreover, with few exceptions, the local p ­ eople had ­little knowledge of Japan at that time, even as some with orphan status began to depart in 1981. One local stated, “We had only heard that ­there ­were tele­v i­sions in Japan.” Another local added, “It was also b ­ ecause p ­ eople did not think that making money was a good t­ hing at that time; every­one was the same.” The first generation of war orphans started retuning to Japan in the 1980s; the second generation began departing for Japan in the 1990s. It was at this time that ­those who went to Japan began reporting back that the differences between Japan and Xinghai ­were huge. During the early 1990s, ­those who had departed ­were described as the “real” descendants of orphans, and they w ­ ere not necessarily motivated by the goal of earning money in Japan. Through personal connections, however, p ­ eople gradually became aware that the daily income in Japan was far higher than even the monthly income in Xinghai. The differences appeared enormous. Starting in the mid-1990s, a­ fter most of the “real” second-­generation orphans had left for Japan, “fake” second generationers also started emigrating to Japan as well. It was on my third visit to Xinghai in July 2011 that I learned more about the existence of “fake” (Chin: jia) war orphans. The issue of fake orphans was not a welcome topic in Xinghai, especially in front of visitors. During a dinner with several local in­for­mants whom I had met a number of times since my first visit, I asked them to explain more about how ­people had migrated to Japan since the 1980s. One of them identified himself as a “fake” orphan who went to Japan in 1995 using a counterfeit h ­ ouse­hold status. A ­ fter spending three and a half years in Japan with his Chinese wife and two c­ hildren, he de­cided to come back to Xinghai. Since he did not have any plans to return to Japan, it was easier for him to talk about his “fake” status.

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Wang, this “former” fake second-­generationer, told me that from 1996 to 1998 the majority of ­those who went to Japan ­were fake. According to the local residents at the dinner, during the 1980s and 1990s, it was easy to manually change one’s ­house­hold status (Chin: hukou) from being Chinese to being a Japa­nese offspring. If they went to the police station (Chin: pai chu suo) and paid about RMB 50,000, the officers changed their status right away. If ­people had friends at the police station, it could be cheaper, but then they had to buy gifts when they returned to Xinghai. ­Whether real or fake, however, when they returned to Xinghai, they all came bearing impressive amounts of gifts and money. However, this era came to an end when Japa­nese local governments started uncovering fraudulent orphan families, some of whom ­were deported and are now back in Xinghai. Since then, it has gradually become more difficult to counterfeit one’s status, and with the introduction of a new computer-­based hukou system, it is almost impossible to change a person’s status manually. Consequently, marriage migration through brokers was then seen as the easiest way to go to Japan. I asked when ­people had begun to speak of blood ties between Xinghai and Japan. One local related, “In the 1980s, when some war orphans started ­going back to Japan, no one actually wanted to go to Japan at that time. Among the second-­ generation orphans, usually only single, unmarried ­people went to Japan.” Apparently, ­going to Japan was not necessarily welcomed, and the discourse of blood ties was not common. Nevertheless, as more ­people went to Japan, more locals ended up having relatives in Japan. When encountering friends or relatives coming back from Japan, the notion of blood ties came to be deployed to demonstrate closeness to Japan and mitigate hostile feelings. As one local put it: “Well, ­because almost every­one has relatives living in Japan, it is not nice to criticize Japan in front of them. So we talk about blood ties to stress familiarity between Xinghai and Japan.” Therefore, although “blood ties” w ­ ere established in 1945 between war orphans and the locals in Xinghai, t­ hese blood ties themselves did not have any real significance at the time. War orphans w ­ ere raised as “Chinese,” or in cases where the locals knew their Japa­nese identity, they ­were mocked as xiao riben guizi (small Japa­nese dev­ils) (Okubo 2006, 18). Through migration, however, the image of Japan as an “­enemy” or as “unfamiliar” gradually transformed into one described as “familiar,” a “better place,” and further, as a place where “blood-­related relatives” live.

For Money or Blood? While the notion of blood ties was crucial to local understandings of con­temporary marriage migration, not all of the local community members viewed t­ hese mar-



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riages positively. Some local individuals even criticized ­those who married Japa­ nese men by saying, “They are marrying for money and ­don’t understand emotion [Chin: bu dong ganqing].” When I was invited to dinner during the first week of my stay in Xinghai, one individual even responded to my question by saying, “That can be described in one word: money” (Chin: jiu shi yige zi: qian). The idea that Chinese ­women married Japa­nese men just for money was widespread in the community, and some ­women openly talked about it (see chapter 5). I met Tang Xiaoli at a Japa­nese language school in March 2010. Xiaoli was in her late twenties, divorced from her Chinese husband, and had a seven-­ year-­old son. She married a Japa­nese man in December 2009 and was attending a language school while waiting for a spousal visa. She seemed to be r­ eally excited about ­going to Japan and asked me what kinds of jobs would be available for her. Knowing that she was ­going to a town in the countryside and considering her ­limited language skills, along with the effects of the Japa­nese economic recession, I was not optimistic about her chances of finding a job. However, she had heard many stories from her friends relatives, and their further acquaintances that “­people can earn 10,000 yen per day in Japan.” Xiaoli left Xinghai in April 2010, called me from Japan, and expressed her frustration with not being able to find a job. Another bride, also in her twenties but at a dif­fer­ent language school, Xie Hui, was a charming young w ­ oman with a number of boyfriends in Xinghai. When we ­were hanging out in the market, we often met male friends who would ask her to dinner. Yet she confessed that she never seriously thought about marrying any of them. Her cousin married a Japa­nese man a c­ ouple of years ­earlier and lived in Osaka. Seeing how whenever she came back home to Xinghai she came bearing nice gifts, Hui’s ­father also asked the same broker to introduce a Japa­nese man to his ­daughter. Eventually, Hui married a man from Tokyo. For younger Chinese brides, the conceptions of familiarity w ­ ere manifested on yet a dif­fer­ent scale. For many ­women, like Xiaoli and Hui, who did not always show an interest in the colonial past, familiarity with Japan was experienced on a more private level, through having relatives or friends in Japan. In many cases, due to geographic dispersion, ­after arriving brides would only meet their relatives in Japan infrequently. Nonetheless, ­women’s familiarity with Japan was felt as more personal due to their ­actual relatedness to ­others already residing ­there, not ­because of community “blood ties” with war orphans whom some of them had never met. ­Because they would be marrying into a “familiar” place, Japa­nese men, seeming strangers they met only for a short time, came to be seen as marriageable persons. Indeed, many w ­ omen did not feel t­here was anything terribly unconventional about marrying a Japa­nese man, as many of their friends and relatives had done so already.

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That said, marriage to Japa­nese men and marriage migration provoked mixed feelings within the community. On the one hand, ­these marriages ­were often criticized as being motivated by money. Some Chinese ­women contributed to ­these images and, like Xiaoli, openly discussed the benefits of marrying Japa­nese men. Some local men joked that since many young and pretty Chinese ­women ­were marrying Japa­nese men, the poor Chinese men had to go to Vietnam to find brides. On the other hand, marriage migration seemed to be, to some extent, accepted within the discourse of vari­ous forms of blood ties. T ­ hose who w ­ ere not fond of marriage migration also employed the notion of blood ties to stress the unique connection between Xinghai and Japan, partially explaining why ­women are willing to marry Japa­nese men. Depending on the context, money or blood became the rationale to justify migration patterns. Accordingly, marriage migration to Japan was partially described and legitimized by the idea of marrying into a “blood-­related” community. Marrying into a blood-­related community was perceived as dif­fer­ent from marrying into an unfamiliar community. Moreover, in this context, blood ties became not only individual genealogies between war orphans who returned to Japan and their relatives remaining in Xinghai, but also a genealogy and transnational link between the communities themselves. And once personal connections w ­ ere established, blood-­related f­ amily members became symbols of a more grounded relatedness. As Janet Carsten (2011) argues, blood, like other fluid substances, has symbolic potential, containing a “transformative effect on the nature of the person and that person’s relations with ­others” (2011, 25). The narrative of blood ties in Xinghai constituted a symbolic linkage between spheres as well as persons. T ­ hose who had never been to Japan or who did not have any relatives in Japan somehow w ­ ere seen as “related” to Japan by means of blood ties. Marrying into a related place was conceived as a “natu­ral” phenomenon, while marrying a Japa­nese man was si­mul­ta­neously seen as a strategy to gain transnational and social mobility. This was evident in the explanation that Ning, a former government official, provided me when discussing marriages not only between Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women but also between second-­and third-­generation Chinese living in Japan and Chinese residents in Xinghai. He blurred the notion of blood ties by noting that it was not clear ­whether it was “Japa­nese blood” or “Chinese blood” that created the link between the two communities. By saying that “it is more appropriate for Chinese ­people to find a Chinese marriage partner,” he indicated that the “thickness” of “Chinese blood” in the second and third generations would make them “Chinese” rather than “Japa­nese.” Thus, it was more suitable and natu­ral for ­people with “Chinese blood” to marry ­people with “Chinese blood.” Blood ties ­were perceived as an essential quality that connected communities, ­people, and kin.



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Ning’s claims that Chinese should marry Chinese might appear to contradict the notion of Japanese–­Chinese marriages as based on blood ties. Ning did mention that marrying Japa­nese men was not an ideal means to migrate to Japan. Nevertheless, he also in the same conversation employed the meta­phor of blood ties for Japanese–­Chinese marriages and accepted that blood ties link communities. In other words, although the obvious marital motivation of money was condemned and mocked, marrying into a community with blood ties was legitimated and naturalized. Chinese ­women who married Japa­nese men occupied an ambiguous position where discourses on blood and money w ­ ere competing and contested. It is in­ter­est­ing to note that the local residents, including brides, rarely described Japanese–­Chinese marriages as based simply on the mutual, personal choice of two individuals. The w ­ omen’s motivations ­were described as money, blood, or an ambiguous mixture of both. Blood ties ­were viewed as a legitimate basis for mobility, whereas the mobility gained by marrying a Japa­nese man was partially scorned by other local ­people. Hence, blood and money ­were classified differently as a basis for mobility; they also had unequal legitimacy. Although the locals told me that the reasons of money and blood suggested two dif­fer­ent rationales for the movement of ­people, following “blood ties” to Japan was not in­de­pen­dent from the notion of money ­either. As the locals explained, the l­ater wave of migration in the 1990s and the migration of fake orphans to Japan was also apparently based on financial interests—­namely, earning money in Japan. But again, the notion of blood ties, or the notion of relatedness based on the idea of kinship, produced a naturalized legitimacy, even if kinship relations also w ­ ere a means to access re17 sources.

Same Bed, Dif­f er­e nt Dreams On the surface ­were seemingly similar terms, yet ­behind them ­were divergent meanings mobilized as part of very dif­fer­ent strategies to legitimate the phenomenon of Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border marriages. In this site of memory, historical subjectivity and colonial memories ­were reconstructed and, si­mul­ta­ neously, marital norms and desires for certain “border crossings” w ­ ere negotiated and reworked at multiple locations and scales. In making sense of the phenomenon of marriage migration, historical narratives did not simply reflect a certain understanding of local history and historical contingency. They ­were selective, creative, and shifting. Furthermore, in the pro­cess of historicizing Japanese–­Chinese marriages, the participants in ­these matchmaking practices also engaged in the negotiation and rearticulation of marital norms. By deploying par­tic­u­lar notions

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of blood ties and familiarity, Japanese–­Chinese marriages w ­ ere rendered more legitimate and “natu­ral,” concealing manifold power relations. This chapter has aimed to further reveal the complexities of the logics of desire. In par­tic­u­lar, ­going beyond the discussion of “difference” or “exotic ­others” that generate imaginings and transnational desires (Constable 2009; Kelsky 2001; Suzuki 2005), this chapter demonstrates how the deployment of “familiarity” offers an alternative reading of transnational intimate relations. Analyzing transnational marriages within East Asian contexts complicates discussions of West–­ East dynamics, whereby fantasies about the West (or the East) play a major role in reproducing power inequalities. This illustrates the ways multiple layered notions of familiarity, ­shaped by a colonial legacy in East Asia, ­were at work in rendering transnational intimate relations pos­si­ble.

2 THE MAKING AND UNMAKING OF “UNMARRIAGEABLE PERSONS” IN JAPAN

The transnational marriage agency, China Love, is located in the center of Tok­ ­yo. During the first several months of my research in Japan, it became routine for me to visit China Love on a daily basis. The agency opened at ten in the morning, but it was not usually ­until mid-­afternoon that their clients would begin to appear. China Love operated its brokerage work out of the sixth floor of a small building. While their suite was not large, it still had space enough to contain one main office with a lounge area, two small rooms, and one further room that served as the personal office of the chief broker. The walls of the lounge area ­were covered with more than a hundred colorful, professionally taken wedding photos of brokered ­couples. Randomly piled on a coffee ­table ­were several thick blue file folders; they contained the profiles of male and female clientele. During the first several weeks, my visits had a more formal tone; whenever I arrived, the chief broker invited me into his office for conversations he described as “interviews.” ­After several initial sessions with him, he suggested that I also speak with other female staff members who worked in the office. So a­ fter a while, I started sitting in the lounge area, chatting casually with the female staff members. Gradually, my presence in the lounge became a natu­ral feature of the agency. It was t­here that I also had numerous interactions with male clientele. Talking to a male client for the first time, however, made me ner­vous. What if they demonstrated hostility t­ oward my research? Would they see me as an aggressive, American-­educated feminist who would criticize their buying “mail-­order brides”? I somehow assumed that the p ­ eople who would come to such an agency might not be the nicest one would encounter. When the broker and staff members 45

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introduced me to their clientele, I tried to be as polite, pleasant, and friendly as pos­si­ble. I first met Mr. Kato in March 2009, on a day when I was interviewing the chief broker, Mr. Tanaka, in his office. During the interview, I heard the sound of cheerful voices coming from the lounge outside, where customers usually look at Chinese ­women’s profiles and talk to the staff. I assumed that a customer had arrived and was chatting with the staff members, but the tone of the conversation was so jovial it made me curious. Tanaka and I walked out of the office, and Tanaka introduced me to their very out­going client, Mr. Kato. I presented myself as a gradu­ ate student studying cross-­border marriages and sat next to Kato on the couch. Before I could ask any questions, Kato started telling me that when he was a college student in Tokyo, he had been a member of a student club (Jp: sākuru) in which ­there was a student from Taiwan. It was since then that he had been interested in “Chinese-­type” (Jp: chūka kei) ­women. Kato, who was in his late thirties, had been a member of China Love for a month; this was his third visit. Again, before I could ask him anything, he told me he was not necessarily interested in foreign w ­ omen. Rather, he stressed: “I am looking for the best ­woman regardless of nationality. So this does not mean that I do not have any opportunities to meet Japa­nese ­women. I am visiting Tokyo this weekend from central Japan, where I am originally from. Before I came to China Love ­today, I also met a Japa­nese ­woman my friend introduced to me.” He noticed that I was taking notes, and he said he might not constitute a good sample case for my research, ­because he was not the ste­reo­typical man who would come to this agency. He then reiterated that he wanted to look for the best w ­ oman, regardless of her nationality.

Who was a “good sample case” for my research, I wondered. Who was the ste­ reo­typical man that Kato, and possibly I, w ­ ere imagining? Indeed, was it my preconceptions about “­those who would marry a Chinese bride” that made me ner­ vous about talking to them? What kind of images ­were associated with “­those who would seek a Chinese bride,” and how w ­ ere such images related to notions of marriageability? This chapter locates the phenomenon of cross-­border marriages within the broader social context in Japan, against the backdrop of local norms, values, and social changes that ­shaped not only how male participants came to be involved in cross-­border marriage but also how they w ­ ere seen by ­others and saw themselves. Crucially, while broadly held social expectations concerning marriage ­were impor­tant, so too was the more specific category of “unmarriageable persons.” Indeed, by participating in cross-­border marriage, men had to engage in complex negotiations of their own marriageability.

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Although seemingly obvious, it bears stating explic­itly: the men involved ­ ere seeking marriage partners and marriage. Within existing research generw ally, the local ­factors that create and shape the demand for marriage partners are generally called “pull ­factors.” Frequently cited pull ­factors include a shortage of brides and “marriage squeezes,” stemming from imbalanced sex ratios as well as transformations in gender relations and expected gender roles (Kim 2010; Thai 2008). According to such analyses, men who are socially and eco­nom­ically “disadvantaged” face difficulties finding local marriage partners (Tseng 2010, 33; Yang and Lu 2010). Apart from socioeconomic ­factors, men’s age or “disadvantageous personal traits” can also be seen as “disadvantages” (Yang and Lu 2010, 23). ­These “disadvantages” are often used to explain certain men’s “undesirability” and thus inability to find a local ­woman to marry, or, in other words, their “unmarriageability.” The notion that unmarriageablity was generated by ­either socioeconomic or personal disadvantages informed the images of international marriage agency clientele that I repeatedly encountered within Japa­nese society. During my fieldwork, when I introduced and explained my proj­ect to ­those who ­were not involved with transnational matchmaking practices, they often responded with remarks such as “­those unmarriageable p ­ eople [Jp: kekkon dekinai hito] who could not find a Japa­nese bride go to China, d ­ on’t they?” The perception that was already attached to ­those who could not find a local wife, or a conational marriage partner, was not only that they ­were marked by some form of “disadvantage” but also that they ­were a certain type of person, namely, an “unmarriageable person.” But ­under what conditions do persons become “unmarriageable”? What determines this social position? And how do ­those who are labeled “unmarriageable” comprehend this category? As this chapter ­will show, an increasing number of p ­ eople, willingly or unwillingly, are remaining single in con­temporary Japan. Thus, bachelorhood was not a condition ­limited to ­those seeking a Chinese bride. ­Those who voluntarily remained single in Japan might end up being categorized as e­ ither “unmarried” or “unmarriageable.” But paradoxically, despite even finding a marriage partner, Japa­nese men seeking a Chinese bride would also never be fully f­ree from the image of being “unmarriageable.” It is impor­tant to note that one aim of this chapter is to eschew viewing terms such as “disadvantaged” or “unmarriageable” as denoting taken-­for-­granted, preexisting social categories or as describing the discernible innate qualities of an individual. Instead, I ­will seek to show how such categories are produced and articulated through the practices and ideologies associated with marriage and marriage seeking in Japan, themselves in turn informed by social conceptions of the “natu­ral life cycle” in Japa­nese society. ­These ideologies and practices both made

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marriage expected of participants and, at the same time, stigmatized them as they pursued it. In what follows, building on existing work and my own analy­sis of media and government research, I survey the shifting landscape of marriage seeking in Japa­ nese society, where previous assumptions concerning “natu­ral pairing” no longer applied. Second, I address how, paradoxically, marrying a Chinese bride through commercial brokers reaffirmed men’s status as “unmarriageable.” Third, my ethnographic sketches demonstrate how participants categorized as “unmarriageable” attempted to negotiate their marriageability.

“Lifelong Singles” and the Making of “Marriageable” Persons Over the past several de­cades in Japan, the media has devoted significant attention to the “social prob­lems” of Japa­nese marrying ­later and at lower rates. Concern over ­these issues has been exacerbated by the fears of national decline associated with Japan’s sinking birthrate. Marriage is still considered to be the sole legitimate site for creating families in Japa­nese society (Hertog 2009). Consequently, the increasing numbers of Japa­nese remaining unmarried is viewed as a key cause for the rapidly declining fertility rate, the aging of Japa­nese society, and, ultimately, the shrinking of Japan’s national population. In fact, should ­these trends continue, an overhaul of the national health care and pension systems ­will also be necessary.1 Against this background, t­ here has been a growth in state and public focus on the category of “lifelong singles.” The term “lifelong single” (Jp: shōgai mikon ritu) denotes a statistical category used by the Japa­nese government, defined as single persons over fifty without a marital history. According to this definition, persons who have remained single up u ­ ntil the age of fifty are considered unlikely to marry l­ater in their lives. Government statistics show a rapid increase in the percentage of the population that falls into this category. In the 1960s and the 1970s, only approximately 2 ­percent of men and 3 ­percent of ­women ­were still single at the age of fifty. In 2010, however, statistics showed that 15.96 ­percent of men and 7.25 ­percent of w ­ omen ­were “lifelong single persons.” Moreover, the major national newspaper, Asahi, estimated that if this trend continues, by 2020, in Japan 30 ­percent of men and 20 ­percent of w ­ omen would be “lifelong singles,” and by 2030, single-­person ­house­holds would constitute more than 40 ­percent of Japa­nese society (Asahi 2010). The Japa­nese government has taken action to increase the marriage rate. For instance, on January 24, 2005, the Ministry of Economics, Trade, and Industry

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established a committee named “The Committee Studying What the Marriage Industry ­Ought to Be in the Era of the Low Birthrate.” The report suggested that a continued decline in the birth rate might affect citizens’ lives by producing economic stagnation. At the same time, this “crisis” was also linked to the social norms attached to marriage in Japan. Although the report did not deny or criticize “new forms of families,” such as de facto marriage or extramarital ­children, it did clearly state that its research was based on and aimed to maintain “our nation’s existing f­ amily systems,” which referred to “(legally) marrying and having a ­family.” This investigation included survey data generated from targeting the “unmarried.” ­Here the “unmarried” ­were defined as ­people between the age of twenty and forty-­four who w ­ ere not married (the l­egal Japa­nese age for marriage is sixteen for w ­ omen, eigh­teen for men). ­These “unmarried” ­were divided into two categories, “­people who do not marry” (individuals who willingly stay single) and ­those who “have difficulty in marrying” (individuals who wished to marry or, in report parlance, “unwillingly stayed single”). ­Those who “unwillingly stayed single” ­were further divided into eight categories according to the reasons for their inability to marry. Some of the categories w ­ ere related to their external environment, such as a lack of opportunities to meet potential partners or the decline in community matchmaking functions, whereas o ­ thers w ­ ere related to personality issues, such as their lack of communication skills or ideas about marriage. The report also stated that although traditionally “marrying and having a ­family” in Japan had been facilitated by relatives or the community, and more recently by relationships at the office, due to changes in social structures and the national consciousness, fewer ­people ­were following ­these pathways to marriage. Thus, the report advocated government assistance in ­these functions, in par­tic­u­ lar by stimulating the marriage industry. Thus, “marrying and having a f­ amily” was seen as being the original, “natu­ral” course of life, and other life options w ­ ere treated as aty­pi­cal. In its conclusion, as a policy recommendation, the committee presented two goals for the ­future status and function of the marriage industry. The first was that the marriage industry should be a “life design industry,” which provided assistance not only in matching men and ­women but also in designing their lives. The term “life design” denoted the idea of providing guidance concerning “how to live” by including marriage as a part of one’s life, as well as how to maintain a balance in one’s life ­after marriage. The second goal was that the marriage industry should offer “life solutions,” aiding in “social care” through multiple ser­v ices such as counseling and consulting as well as employment and health, which would transform individuals in order to prepare them for and orient their lives ­toward marriage. In this manner, the unmarried became a target of analy­sis and

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intervention, constituted as a group requiring outside assistance to be transformed into “marriageable persons.”

Healthy Population, “Natu­r al Life Course” While the Japa­nese government may have categorized “lifelong single” persons as ­those over the age of fifty, the socially expected marriageable age came much ­earlier. ­There is a word in Japa­nese for the ideal age range within which ­people should marry: tekireiki, which translates as the “appropriate marriage period.” This period is generally assumed to be dif­fer­ent for men and ­women, based in part on the assumption that ­women face greater restrictions due to issues relating to declining fertility. In the 1980s, common sayings described w ­ omen as “Christmas cakes” or “New Year noodles,” as no men would be interested in them once they passed the ages of twenty-­five or thirty-­one, respectively. Although t­ hese sayings have become obsolete, age remains a highly relevant ­factor when it comes to finding a marriage partner. During an interview, one domestic marriage broker told me that a w ­ oman’s chances of finding a suitable match at a marriage agency drastically diminished a­ fter the age of thirty-­five; few men would choose a ­woman over that age as a marriage partner. Although this period is extended for men, to remain single into one’s late thirties or early forties was still seen as something unusual. It is impor­tant to note that in Japan, being unmarried is not simply perceived as some neutral, default personal status. Like many other socie­ties,2 mainstream Japa­nese society views ­those not married by a certain age not simply as “unmarried,” but also as likely “unmarriageable.” This in no small part stems from the social assumption that a normal and healthy person can and ­will marry a suitable partner of the opposite sex by a certain age; marriage is seen as a part of one’s normal life cycle (Edwards 1990; Gennep 1960; Turner [1969] 1988). Failing to fulfill this normative pattern therefore prevents an individual from attaining full personhood (La Fontaine 1985, 131). Indeed, when I tried to ask some Japa­nese men at the transnational marriage agencies why they wanted to marry, their answers ­were often vague. I received responses such as, “Well . . . ​it is better to be married than not” (Jp: mā, kekkon shitahōga yoishi). Such answers stemmed not from uncertainty about marriage, but rather appeared to come from seemingly unexamined assumptions that marriage was the “natu­ral” ­thing to do. Mary Brinton (1992) observes that the life cycle stages in Japa­nese society are very orderly. One life event follows another, such as marriage, childbirth, owning a ­house, retirement, and so on. ­These suc-

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cessive events are also age-­congruent, that is, ­there is low variation in timing across individuals. Ofra Goldstein-­Gidoni also proposes that t­hese life course expectations and practices have come to be seen as “natu­ral,” or what she calls the “natu­ral order of t­ hings” (2012, 58) and embedded within social structures in Japan. In par­tic­ul­ar, she argues that the transitions of life stages constitute a sequence of gendered social roles, such as from single man, husband, to ­father, each respectively with its own par­tic­ul­ ar gendered expectations.3 Notions of normalized and naturalized life cycles similar to ­those described by Brinton and Goldstein-­Gidoni—in par­tic­ul­ar, ideas about the age by which one needs to be married—­seemed to be implicitly held by many of the men I met at the transnational agencies. To be clear, ­these ideas are not static. As in many other countries, Japan has been experiencing a transformation in the structure, ideology, and practices of ­family and marriage. Over the past several de­cades, ­there has been a steady decline in the birthrate, longer “delays” before marrying, and even emerging ac­cep­tance of the idea of remaining single (Ronald and Alexy 2011, 13). Nonetheless, as Goldstein-­Gidoni (2012) also notes, although ­people in Japan ­today have more life choices, including having a nontraditional f­amily or staying single, ­whether such diversity is widely accepted and approved by the general public (or more closer social relations) is another question. The proliferation of options does not mean that ­these are all equally valued or accepted in ­society. Moreover, not all who remain single are necessarily choosing to reject marriage. The Japa­nese media frequently attributes the current so-­called marriage squeeze or decline in the marriage rate to changes on the part of Japa­nese ­women.4 But it would be a mischaracterization to say the prob­lem is that Japa­nese men want to become married whereas ­women do not. A good number of unmarried Japa­nese ­women also desire to find a partner. Nakano (2013), for instance, observes that although many ­women desperately want to marry, they are also waiting to find an appropriate partner with whom they can create a mutually supportive and intimate marital relationship. Many ­women, in par­tic­u­lar ­those who are established in their ­careers, find it difficult to locate a partner who would not leave them doubly burdened with duties at home and at work. Specifically, while many Japa­nese ­women want to continue working outside the home, many Japa­ nese men do not show themselves willing to participate in maintaining the ­house­hold. In other words, the “marriage squeeze” exists despite the fact that ­there are both men and ­women who in real­ity want to marry; a key prob­lem is the gap in expectations, including changing conceptions of a “suitable” partner, a “proper marriage,” and a desirable gendered division of l­abor.

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The consequence is thus a contradiction: marriage is still seen within Japa­nese society as a natu­ral step in one’s life cycle, but for a good number of Japa­nese it is no longer “naturally” occurring. This paradox is highlighted by Japa­nese sociologist Yamada Masahiro in Konkatsu Jidai (The Era of Marriage Hunting), his best-­selling book on marriage, coauthored with the journalist Tohko Shirakawa (Yamada and Shirakawa 2008). His argument is basically as follows: In premodern Japa­nese society (­until the Edo period), ­people did not have the option of choosing their occupation. Instead, ­people w ­ ere supposed to inherit their ­family’s occupation. In a similar manner, ­people did not have the option of choosing their marriage partners. Parents chose their sons’ or d ­ aughters’ spouses based on the f­ athers’ status. In short, ­there was neither the need nor space for any specific activities dedicated to ­these two events (finding an occupation and finding a partner). Consequently, ­people did not pay much attention to t­ hese two events (Yamada and Shirakawa 2008, 12–13). In contrast, Yamada states that in modern society, the freedom has emerged for individuals to choose both their occupations and their marriage partners. U ­ ntil recently, however, ­there ­were still vari­ous restrictions in Japa­nese society. For example, when students graduated from college, their schools or alumni networks helped them find jobs. Within par­tic­u­lar networks, students who sought a job during a certain period ­were almost guaranteed to find a job without much effort. ­After Japan’s boom years collapsed in the 1990s, however, vari­ous areas w ­ ere liberalized, including job hunting. Consequently, finding a job became difficult, in no small part due to the termination of the recruitment agreement for college students (shūshoku kyōtei) (1996),5 the launch of the Equal Employment Opportunity Law (1985, 1999), and the decrease in job opportunities. Accordingly, shūkatsu (job hunting; a combination of two words, shūshoku, which means “job,” and katudō, which means “activity”) became necessary to find a job (or land a better job). He argues that liberalization also created inequalities between t­ hose who could find a good job and t­ hose who could not. Some students might get better jobs, while ­others might only receive nontraditional positions, such as jobs with only part-­time hours, and ­others might not even find any job at all. Yamada uses this model of social transformation as an analogy for the evolution of marriage in Japan. U ­ ntil the 1980s, it was common to find a marriage partner with support from one’s workplace or community. For instance, it was not unusual for male and female employees holding jobs at the same workplace (albeit with dif­fer­ent statuses) to marry, or a ­brother to introduce his ­sister to a friend. Thus, encounters between males and females during this period w ­ ere routinely arranged through social connections. With the emphasis on economic liberalism during the 1980s, however, opportunities for social encounters ­were also liberated, producing an unequal distri-

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bution of chances for individuals to meet members of the opposite sex. Dating and sexual relationships in premodern society ­were automatically linked with marriage; however, in modern society, they did not necessarily direct p ­ eople ­toward marriage. Moreover, ­people’s values and lifestyles, particularly ­those regarding the division of ­labor based on gender, diversified and now created more obstacles to marriage. In short, ­because ­there ­were more options and freedom—­ not only when it came to finding a job but also concerning finding a marriage partner—it became more difficult to marry someone via customary practices. As a result, finding someone to marry now requires activity (Jp: katsudō) and more personal effort. It is the inequalities created by liberalizing trends that reward personal ability and effort that have both made it difficult for par­tic­u­lar individuals to find jobs and also prevented some from finding marriage partners. According to Yamada, this is the cause of the modern “marriage squeeze.” In short, in Japan marriage is still deemed a natu­ral life stage needing to occur within a specific period, but achieving this stage now requires personal effort and ability. And not all individuals in Japa­nese society are understood to be up to the task.

Asian Brides and “Unmarriageable” Men For the Japa­nese government and also for Yamada Masahiro, marriage agencies, sometimes also called “introduction ser­vice agencies,” formed part of the ser­vices that could assist individuals on their path to marriageability. Indeed, most of the men I met at the transnational marriage agencies had initially visited domestic “introduction agencies” to find a Japa­nese bride. The marriage industry itself is not new in Japan. The first marriage agencies that utilized computerized matchmaking ser­v ices or psychological tests emerged in the 1970s, and at the time of my research ­there ­were more than 3,700 to 3,900 such institutions in Japan (West 2011). ­These institutions included so-­called go-­ between ser­v ices (86.7 ­percent) in which matchmakers personally mediated personal meetings based on each side’s requests, data-­matching ser­vices (8.4 ­percent) in which individuals input their information and wishes into a computer to find a suitable match (often with the “assistance” of an agency’s staff members), and Internet matching ser­vices (3.1 ­percent) in which no matchmakers w ­ ere involved. Unlike casual online dating ser­v ices, marriage agencies specifically targeted individuals who ­were expressly looking for a marriage partner. Although commercial matchmaking ser­vices have been advertised quite prominently in Japan since the mid-2000s, ­there seemed to be an implicit separation between the domestic and nondomestic marriage markets. Apparently, domestic

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marriage brokers and state policy did not consider transnational marriages to be a solution to the so-­called marriage squeeze. In interviews with domestic marriage brokers, the conversations did not touch on the topic of transnational marriages ­unless I initiated that line of discussion. Domestic marriage brokers also had certain presumptions about ­those who utilized the ser­v ices of transnational marriage agencies, who they understood to be farmers or fishermen residing in the countryside. Thus, for many brokers with clientele in urban areas, transnational marriages ­were something quite dif­fer­ent from domestic marriages. Even some domestic brokers who dealt with transnational marriage brokers did so secretly. One female domestic marriage broker who had connections with China Love said she did not—­and would not be willing to—­mention transnational marriages on her com­pany’s website. Even if she sent a number of male customers who had experienced difficulties in finding a Japa­nese bride to China Love, ­those referrals ­were made unofficially. Recommending non-­Japanese Asian ­women to Japa­nese men could be considered offensive. Some men who came to China Love confessed that when domestic marriage brokers first suggested marriage to a Chinese ­woman, they felt offended and did not want to accept the broker’s advice. One man said, “I did not want to compromise that much [Jp: soko made wa dakyō shitaku nai].” Thus, marrying a non-­Japanese ­woman was often seen as a compromise, an undesired option chosen when one gave up on finding a Japa­nese bride. ­Those who visited transnational marriage agencies w ­ ere seen as—­and also often themselves felt—­excluded from the domestic marriage market. When marriage becomes a means to regulate and “normalize” ­people and their life cycles, this mechanism also works to exclude t­ hose who do not fit the so-­called category of normal—­able-­bodied marriageable persons. John Borneman (1996) observes, “marriage ­today is one of the few positive rights that has attained nearly universal consensus” (216) regarding recognition and protection in both the l­ egal and social realms. Thus, marriage is claimed as a universal ­human right like life, liberty, and happiness. He continued, “­because of this world ideology, the connections of marriage to the assertion of privilege, to closure, death, abjection, and exclusion are rarely seen and therefore rarely examined” (216). He forcefully argues that marriage operates as an exclusionary apparatus. Drawing on Borneman, Matthew Kohrman (1999) similarly demonstrates the ways exclusionary marriage practices contribute to constituting marginal categories such as “the disabled” in China (892). It is through exclusionary marriage practices, such as ­those that determine who can or cannot marry and whom ­people can or cannot marry, that the “disabled” category shapes the identities of the men he researched.

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The analy­sis of Japanese–­Chinese matchmaking pushes us further in investigating how marriage operates through such exclusionary means. Unmarriageable persons are viewed as having missed the chance to marry, facing vari­ous obstacles or prob­lems, or simply socially inept. According to the brokers, it was ­those who ­were excluded from the domestic marriage market but yet still wished to marry who would come to transnational marriage agencies. Thus, the act of coming to a transnational marriage agency already presupposed a certain stigmatized social position. ­These perceptions had their roots in the history of cross-­border marriage between Japa­nese men and non-­Japanese Asian ­women. The “importing” of brides from other Asian countries originally emerged as a phenomenon in the Japa­nese countryside as a solution for rural bride shortages. Starting in the mid-1980s, group matchmaking tours ­were administrated by local governments and private commercial institutions for rural men. In par­tic­u­lar, Asahi village in Yamagata Prefecture (located in northeast Japan) constituted a pioneer site where the local government or­ga­nized matchmaking ser­vices to pair local Japa­nese men with w ­ omen from the Philippines (Kuwayama 1995; Shukuya 1988). Asahi village was a typical example of a location where the shortage of brides was seen as a serious issue. This “shortage” was due to an imbalanced sex ratio, caused in part by ­women’s changing values and internal migration to cities on the one hand, and the per­sis­tence of a conservative system of ­house­hold and familial obligations on the other. So while young ­women (as well as second and third sons) chose to move to the cities, the eldest sons ­were expected to remain b ­ ehind in the village with their parents. Since the early 1980s, concerns grew about the shortage of brides in Asahi, and this came to be linked to survival of the village. In this context, the local government tried many dif­fer­ent strategies to find ­women who ­were willing to marry their local men, including finding Japa­nese ­women from other parts of Japan. In 1985, ­after many failed attempts to recruit Japa­nese ­women, the local government sent a group of Japa­nese men to the Philippines with the support of a private brokerage com­pany. The matchmaking tour lasted one week. During the tour, each Japa­nese man met three to five Filipina ­women. Even if some ­women turned the man down, he still had almost a 100 ­percent chance of finding a bride (Shukuya 1988, 47). The Japa­nese men returned to the Philippines a month l­ ater to be married. The two trips to the Philippines, wedding ceremony included, cost 3,000,000 yen. All the money was given to the private brokerage com­pany, not to the local government. ­After the first trip in 1985, nine ­couples ­were brokered within a year. By 1995, t­here ­were 1,006 foreign brides in Yamagata Prefecture (Kuwayama 1995, 13). The strategy a­ dopted by Asahi village attracted the attention of other

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areas that had similar bride shortage issues. Consequently, in the mid-1980s, several other local governments also started organ­izing group matchmaking tours to the Philippines. As Kuwayama explains, the sending countries have changed over time. In the mid-1980s, the primary sending country was the Philippines. In the early 1990s, South ­Korea overtook the Philippines, but due to ­Korea’s subsequent economic development, since 1992, brides from China are now the most prevalent group (1995, 16). As Kuwayama explains, however, brokerage work in the countryside was not simply viewed as a “business,” but rather as the “voluntary” action of local brokers and the local government in support of the rural population (1995, 17). T ­ hose who acted as local brokers ­were usually ­those who ­were trusted in the community, often el­derly ­people. ­These ­were the same individuals who previously had acted as go-­betweens to match suitable partners within the village. T ­ here was some criticism of ­these matchmaking arrangements, with even locals drawing comparisons to ­human trafficking. Yet for ­those involved, the brokerage business was not simply intended as a commercial enterprise but also meant to be an expression of “goodwill” (Jp: zeni) on the part of the local government and respected individuals. It was portrayed as seeking to help rural men find brides and ultimately support the local community in sustaining its reproduction (Higurashi 1989, 236; Kuwayama 1995). Regardless of w ­ hether or not “goodwill” was involved, in Japan ­these matchmaking tours ­were often criticized and mocked by the national (and more urban-­ based) media, which characterized them not only as recruiting “mail-­order brides” (Shukuya 1988), but as involving “bride-­hunting tours” (Shūkan Shinchō 2006) and “buying brides ­under the name of matchmaking” (“Miai 30 man kekkon 400 man opushon de konzen kōshō mo aru akireta uchimaku” 2006). Nakamatsu (2005) observes that public discourses concerning Asian brides often centered on the ­women’s poverty and rural origins, the backwardness of the sending countries, and thus on the w ­ omen’s status as economic victims. On the other hand, Japa­nese men from rural areas w ­ ere also portrayed in the media as engaging in backward—­even irrational—­marital practices and feudalistic customs (2005, 411). For the most part, however, Japa­nese men’s unmarriageability was viewed as stemming from their social circumstances: they lived in the “backward” countryside. Suzuki, for instance, observes that the men’s inability to find a spouse in rural areas was in part due to the “economic and psychological consequences of Japan’s modernization and institutional constraints” (2003, 94). Socioeconomic status and geographic location rendered ­these men undesirable and “unmarriageable,” and in Japan this latter image had come to adhere to men participating in brokered cross-­border marriages with Asian ­women more generally.

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What’s Wrong with Them? When I started my research, I was also trying to figure out what made participants “not normal” or “undesirable,” and thus “unmarriageable” in the domestic marriage market. I conducted a demographic survey of male clientele at one transnational agency. Surprisingly, the bulk of the clients t­ here ­were not the socially and eco­nom­ically disadvantaged p ­ eople one might expect. The majority ­were white-­collar businessmen (53 ­percent), followed by self-­employed men (14.3 ­percent), public servants (10 ­percent), corporate executives (6.8 ­percent), specialists (5.3 ­percent), schoolteachers (3.7 ­percent), and retired men (1 ­percent), with “other” also being a category (4.5 ­percent). The men lived in Tokyo (26.5 ­percent), Chiba (24.2 ­percent), Kanagawa (21.9 ­percent), Saitama (8.3 ­percent), Nagoya (4.5 ­percent), Nagano (3.7 ­percent), Shizuoka (2.2 ­percent), Tochigi (2.2 ­percent), Gunma (1.5 ­percent), Niigata (1.5 ­percent), and Ibaragi (1.5 ­percent), with other prefectures being a very small number (6.8 ­percent).6 According to this data, t­hose who resided in urban areas constituted over 80 ­percent of the clientele. Although I was only able to conduct formal demographic surveys at one agency, I also gathered information about the Japa­nese men who employed transnational matchmaking ser­v ices at three other agencies through interviews. At ­these other agencies as well, the ste­reo­typical “full-­time farmer” was rare. Indeed, it was not uncommon to hear that their clientele worked for globally well-­known companies, a mark of high status in Japan. If the traditional demographic “pull ­factors” did not completely explain their “undesirability,” was it pos­si­ble that they had “personal shortcomings”? Age was certainly one f­actor. The transnational marriage brokers at the agency called their Japa­nese clientele who ­were ­under the age of forty “golden eggs” (Jp: kin no tamago). They claimed that the younger men would attract more Chinese ­women, so their brokerage work would be easier. Indeed, I encountered few men u ­ nder the age of forty. The small number of men in their late thirties that I did meet ­were likely to be turning forty soon. Once, when a man in his late twenties came to the agency, the staff members could not hide their surprise; one staff member directly asked him, “Why do you think you want to marry a Chinese w ­ oman at your age?” The assumption b ­ ehind this question—­that age was one of the impor­tant f­ actors guiding men’s choices to seek a Chinese bride—­demonstrated assumptions about age and marriageability in Japa­nese society. But age was rarely seen to be the sole reason. My conversations with staff members often centered on the male and female clientele. The brokers and staff members always tried to figure out the reasons ­behind why their customers w ­ ere unable to find a conational wife. Discussions about the men frequently touched on their “weirdness” (Jp: hen). Take, for example, Mr. Honda, who visited Dongyang for

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his wedding ceremony in August 2009. I was in China at the time, and I joined him at the airport and shared a car with him to Dongyang. My first impression of Honda was that he was young (mid-­thirties) and friendly. During the four-­hour drive to Dongyang from the airport, the Chinese driver told me that it was first time he had seen a Japa­nese customer have such a lively conversation with another person. Other Japa­nese men he had seen w ­ ere very quiet and unfriendly. Honda had also brought much less luggage with him; indeed, he only brought one shirt for his entire four-­day trip. L ­ ater, in Dongyang, a local staff member told me, “Mr. Honda is normal [Jp: futsū] except the fact that he is dirty; that is why he cannot find a Japa­nese wife.” In the end, the “normal” or even positive attributes he possessed ­were ignored or dismissed, and it was the “strange” ele­ments of his character on which staff members focused. Mr. Honda was unmarried and looking for a Chinese bride; correspondingly, staff believed that it had to be his intrinsic shortcomings that prevented him from finding a Japa­nese marriage partner. Due to this reasoning, personal shortcomings frequently came to overshadow the more seemingly “normal” or even positive aspects of the person involved. Mr. Yamanaka was another male client at China Love. He was in his fifties, a divorcé, and had taken guardianship of the child from his previous marriage. Being an accountant at a multinational corporation in Tokyo, his income placed him within one of the highest brackets in Japan. He also took responsibility for the majority of the ­house­work in his ­house­hold, including cooking and cleaning. While looking for a Chinese bride, he was si­mul­ta­neously working to send his ­daughter to a top-­ranked university, one from which he also graduated. To t­ hese ends, he even moved his residence into the vicinity of the university. At first glance, he appeared to be a ­father who was making ­great efforts to forward his d ­ aughter’s education. According to the staff members at China Love, however, ­there ­were manifestations of “personal shortcomings” that made finding a Japa­nese spouse difficult. One staff member stated that his personality was too meticulous and too fussy, and that was the reason no Japa­nese ­women wanted to marry him. Matchmaking meetings with him, she said, ­were like job interviews. The same staff member also secretly confessed to me that she thought his divorce from his Japa­nese wife was due to his personality. In focusing on the failure of his marriage, no one considered the fact that he had previously been able to find a Japa­nese wife in the first place. For many of ­those who visited the transnational marriage agencies, their personal shortcomings would in one way or another be “identified” among the brokers and staff members. If it was not a personality trait, it was often their appearance that was considered to be their shortcoming, such as being too short. Willingly or unwillingly, once clients started looking for a Chinese bride, they would be seen as having some sort of personal issue.

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In short, the stigmatized image associated with marrying a non-­Japanese Asian ­ oman originally stemmed from the par­tic­u­lar history of “Asian” brides in Japan. w The ste­reo­typical images of “unmarriageable men” and “Asian brides” w ­ ere mutually constituted. The difficulties Japa­nese men experienced in finding a partner ­were not initially seen as a result of their personal attributes. However, images of undesirable locations and the men themselves as undesirable came to overlap. This was further exacerbated for ­those who lived in urban areas and had white-­ collar jobs. And most of the men I met at the transnational agencies ­were urban residents who did not necessarily have any good socioeconomic excuses for their plight. Social explanations for why they w ­ ere still single thus shifted to some lack of personal effort or ability to find a spouse. The typical question thus was, “What is wrong with them”? The bound­aries between “unmarried” and “unmarriageable” are not always clear or fixed. Between the black and white of ­these two categories, ­there exists much grey. As the success rate of the domestic matchmaking industry is only about 3 to 10 ­percent (Yamada and Shirakawa 2008, 122) it was not simply ­those who visited the transnational marriage agencies who w ­ ere unsuccessful in their efforts at finding a domestic spouse. But ­those who failed to find a spouse within the domestic matchmaking industry found themselves occupying a space between the categories of “unmarried” and “unmarriageable.” The possibility still remained that they might successfully find a domestic partner in the near f­uture. However, as soon as male participants gave up on marrying a conational and visited the transnational marriage agencies to find a Chinese bride, they ­were deemed unable to find a Japa­nese wife, or, more bluntly, ­were referred to as “­those unmarriageable men.”

Negotiating Unmarriageability, Reshaping Personhood The last part of this chapter demonstrates that socially created unmarriageable persons are not necessarily passive recipients of their status; they can also act to reshape their personhood and pre­sent themselves as marriageable. That said, such attempts may miscarry if other actors fail to participate or respond. I encountered one client, Kato, described e­ arlier, a number of times at China Love during my fieldwork. On one occasion, I asked him how he had come to China Love. Kato said that he had found it through the Internet. He confessed that it was ­really terrifying to enter the agency for the first time. He had never been to any other transnational marriage agency. Kato stressed that it was quite frightening not only ­because he had to provide his personal information to the agency, but also b ­ ecause ­these kinds of agencies might be involved in the illegal trafficking of ­women. He

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viewed a number of transnational marriage agencies’ websites and thought that China Love appeared to be the best one. Some agencies advertised that “you can marry within three days!” but statements like this made him even more apprehensive, so he avoided such agencies altogether. Although t­here was another agency he contacted and felt comfortable with, that agency only provided matchmaking tours to China, whereas China Love additionally offered matchmaking parties and meetings with Chinese ­women in Japan. I asked Kato if he was specifically looking for a Chinese ­woman in Japan (Jp: zainichi) or if would he be willing to go to China if he found someone nice. He said that he might go to China, but since he thought it impor­tant to see the person a number of times in order to know her personality (Jp: ningensei), it would be more realistic to find a Chinese ­woman in Japan. He again stressed that he thought he also would be a suitable partner for a Japa­nese ­woman and thus did not care at all about nationality. He said he might go to China during the coming Golden Week (a set of national holidays during the first week of May), and added that if he went, he was planning to stay t­here for ten days or so to ­really get to know the ­women he would meet. Kato started to flip through the profile books and said: “It gives me a ­really awkward feeling [Jp: iwakan]. It is as if I am flipping through a cata­log. It’s ­really awkward.” I asked him what kind of ­woman he was looking for. He immediately responded to my question, replying, “I d ­ on’t know.” A ­ fter a ­little pause, he continued: “I do not know anything . . . ​but I r­ eally like talking, so her language ability would be impor­tant. However, I ­don’t know how much of her personality I ­will be able to discover by merely talking with her. Therefore, I need to meet with her a number of times before I make the decision to marry her.” I told Kato that I had been to Dongyang two years ­earlier and had observed five matchmaking meetings ­there. He was surprised to learn that I had been working on this research topic for quite a while. While laughing, he asked me ­whether ­those Japa­nese men looked like him, pointing to himself and his clothes (a corduroy brown jacket, a black pair of pants, and a shiny grey scarf, all of which I thought looked pretty stylish). I said that ­there ­were a number of men and they all looked very dif­fer­ent. ­There ­were younger men as well as older men, so it was a ­little difficult to generalize. He interpreted my comments as an effort to be polite and tried to change the topic. Our conversation was sporadic, and again Kato started to look through the profile books. Then, Kato confessed that his ­mother (his ­father had already passed away) was completely opposed to him marrying a Chinese w ­ oman. He had told his ­mother that he visited the agency the other day and she had replied, “Are you crazy?” Kato was a second son, but he had a better relationship with his ­mother than with his elder ­brother. Therefore, Kato was expected to inherit his m ­ other’s

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small com­pany. He thought she would come around if they ­really sat down and discussed it. Over the next several weeks, Kato met numerous Chinese w ­ omen who resided in Japan. ­Because he was allowed to go out with several ­women si­mul­ ta­neously, Kato had been meeting with two w ­ omen in parallel. However, he could not bring himself to make a decision for marriage. I frequently visited China Love and was often ­there when Kato came by (usually on weekends). ­After meeting Kato several times, including at shared dinners with the broker and other male clientele, Kato shared with me that ­there was one ­thing he could not give up: he was looking for a pure ­woman, meaning a virgin. ­After having the Internet omiai with several Chinese ­women, Kato fi­nally de­cided to visit China during Golden Week. He was planning to spend ten days, just as he had initially said he would do. I encountered Kato at China Love again shortly ­after he had returned from China. Kato explained to me how his trip went. He had first visited Dalian, where one of the China Love staff members helped him meet several w ­ omen. He was not satisfied with any of them, however. He then visited Dongyang, where China Love had a branch office. In Dongyang, with the support of local China Love staff members, he met several ­women. ­There, he fi­nally found his match. Although he was originally interested in another w ­ oman, she seemed not to have any feelings for him. Kato said, “I could have married a prettier ­woman, but I chose my wife based on her personality.” To make sure his prospective bride was a virgin, Kato subtly asked the broker to inquire if the w ­ oman had had any previous relationships with men. What Kato did not expect was that the broker would ask her this question in front of every­ one, including the female staff members. This caused an awkward, even uncomfortable, atmosphere. However, Kato ­later acknowledged that he appreciated the broker d ­ oing this, ­because Kato was able to learn that she was indeed a virgin. The ­woman, Song Liang, accepted Kato’s proposal and they ­were engaged. But when he came back to Japan, his m ­ other and b ­ rother reacted with strong disapproval. His friends w ­ ere also surprised, and in some cases, even troubled by his engagement. They told Kato: “You are not the type of person who would marry a Chinese w ­ oman. You do not have to go for an international marriage. It is not too late, we ­will introduce you to some Japa­nese w ­ omen.” Kato told me, “They think that international marriages are for t­ hose unmarriageable types of men.” But Kato himself was also uncertain about his decision. The next month he was to revisit China to register his marriage and hold a wedding ceremony. During the time before his trip, Kato repeatedly visited China Love on the weekends and talked to the staff members about his concerns. Ultimately, Kato married his Chinese bride and held the wedding ceremony as planned. During the subsequent months as he waited for his bride to arrive in Japan in early September, he frequently returned to China Love to discuss his worries.

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Stigma, Erving Goffman (1963) claims, is an undesired difference from what the “normals” anticipate; the “normals” are t­ hose “who do not depart negatively from the par­tic­u­lar expectations at issue” (5). If individuals are expected to marry a certain person at a certain age, ­those who came to the transnational marriage agencies had often failed on two accounts—by not marrying by a certain age and by not marrying a Japa­nese person. Like Kato, many of the male clientele I met at transnational marriage agencies recognized to some extent the stigmatized image—­that of being “unmarriageable”—­attached to the practices in which they ­were engaging. As Goffman notes, however, stigmatized individuals can also control information about stigmatized attributes. Goffman provides two perspectives on stigma. The first is that the stigmatized individuals assume their differences are known or evident, such as having a physical disability, which he refers to as “the discredited.” The second is that their differences are not known or not immediately perceivable, which he labels as “the discreditable” (1963, 4). For the discredited, one possibility for the mitigation of stigma is for the “normal” to cooperate by acting as if the known differences ­were irrelevant. The discreditable, however, also often have the option of managing information about their stigma. For example, stigmatized individuals can choose ­whether to display or not to display evidence of their stigma, to tell or not to tell, and to choose to whom, how, when, and where they disclose their differences (42). In other words, stigma management pertains mainly to public life; hence, male customers’ social narratives of themselves played an impor­tant role, something in evidence when they talked to brokers and to me. Being an “unmarriageable” man and engaging in cross-­border matchmaking practices ­were typically invisible forms of stigma. In public interactions with anonymous ­others, participants did not have to reveal their marital status and did not have to display their involvement in cross-­border matchmaking practices. Even if ­these men went out in public with their Chinese wives (as opposed to wives of other nationalities), their Chinese wives might be able to pass as Japa­nese (more on this in chapter 3). The ­people they primarily had to negotiate with ­were their ­family members, friends, and o ­ thers who already knew about their situation. It is impor­tant to note that I found the matchmaking pro­cesses a crucial site where participants negotiated stigma and personhood. Although t­ here was no means to control information about their age, male clientele w ­ ere still able to manage other pieces of information. In par­tic­ul­ar, an issue where t­ hese men could themselves narrate their stories was in explaining how and why they chose to create intimate relationships with a par­tic­u­lar other: w ­ hether they came to transnational marriage agencies ­because they could not find a Japa­nese bride, or ­whether they could have found a Japa­nese bride but voluntarily chose a Chinese bride. To negotiate and negate certain stigma, Kato had to make other associated stigma vis­i­ble to distance himself from ­these. He repeatedly stressed that unlike

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other men, he was not choosing a Chinese bride due to his inability to find a Japa­ nese wife. That is to say, to destigmatize himself, he still had to stigmatize o ­ thers who came to the same agency for the same purpose. Even prior to interactions with ­others who might look at them with curiosity or even contempt, many Japa­ nese men had internalized such stigmatized notions, and thus the only way to destigmatize themselves was to make the presupposed stigma vis­i­ble and then differentiate themselves from it. Moreover, the need for destigmitization was not l­imited to interactions with ­others in face-­to-­face contexts. Sometimes Japa­nese men saw themselves as needing to mitigate their stigmatized image vis-­à-­v is a more generalized public—­ “social eyes” (Jp: seken no me), as some men put it—or ­imagined social ­others whom they might conceivably encounter in the f­ uture. One man from the brokerage agency First Love, Uehara, tried to manage the information about his engagement during a matchmaking tour in an even more complex way. Uehara was in his late thirties, a self-­employed hairdresser living in Tokyo. I first met him on one of the wedding tours to Harbin administrated by First Love. Uehara had gone to study abroad both in China and the United States. He also spoke some Chinese and visited China a number of times privately before he de­cided to go on a matchmaking tour. During the last phase of a wedding tour, the broker Kimura explained to Uehara the visa application pro­cess and the necessary documents that Japa­nese men must complete. Ueraha, who just the day before had gotten married, wanted to talk to Kimura about his approach. Uehara told Kimura that he used to work part-­time for the immigration bureau in Tokyo and thought that he might still know several ­people ­there. He did not want ­those ­people to know that he found a bride via a matchmaking tour. Instead, Uehara wanted to tell them that he had met his wife in Harbin through introduction by a friend. Having already visited China several times privately, he believed his story would also make sense to his f­ amily and other friends. Uehara further told the broker that he was planning to send his wife to a Japa­nese language school in Japan, and asked her to keep her hometown, Xinghai, secret from other students in class. He worried that p ­ eople might guess from the name of her hometown that she had come to Japan through a matchmaking ser­ vice. Since consistency is one of the most impor­tant ­factors in applying for a spousal visa, Kimura warned Uehara that once he determined his story, he would need to repeat the same narrative on all documents ­under any conditions. His wife also needed to provide the same exact story when she applied in China. Still, Uehara wanted to take this more complicated approach to hide his participation in a matchmaking tour and keep secret the a­ ctual story of how they met. Kato and Uehara, while realizing the stigma imposed on their practices and themselves, also tried to negotiate their positions. This negotiation was not solely

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with individuals but also with social norms and ideologies. Whereas Kato attempted to separate himself from the so-­called typical men who came to transnational marriage agencies by stressing his voluntary participation, Uehara tried to hide his involvement with the matchmaking ser­v ice altogether. By ­doing so, he was further stigmatizing the practices of participants. Kato was indeed able to manage his stigma to some extent when at China Love. The staff members would back up his claim by saying, “You could have found a Japa­nese wife, c­ ouldn’t you?” Yet Kato’s attempt seemed to fail with his f­amily members and friends, who claimed that regardless of ­whether it was voluntary or involuntary, seeking a bride at a transnational marriage agency was something only an “unmarriageable person” would do. Uehara, on the other hand, sought normality by altering the narrative of the stigmatized relationship in which he engaged not only vis-­à-­v is government officials but also the many ­people he and his wife would encounter in the f­uture. Uehara told me that he was not the one I should interview and politely asked me not to contact him regarding my research in the ­future. When I met Kimura four months ­later, he told me that Uehara’s wife had just recently arrived in Japan. Apparently, their application had been approved. The negotiation of personhood is not a one-­way street but rather is embedded within certain dynamic relations (Carsten 2004; Kondo 1990; Myers 1979; Rosaldo 1984). As Spencer E. Cahill (1998) claims, the person is constituted by relying on ­others and publicly vis­i­ble persons are collaborative manufactures. He claims, “person production” reveals how “­those who l­ abor in the interactional production of persons are equipped with systems of social classification and identification” (136). Nonetheless, interactional person production is not always equally produced by two counter­parts (Cahill 1998, 138–139; see also Abelmann 1997; Bacigalupo 2004; Desjarlais 1997). Therefore, without the cooperation of ­others to some extent, the status of being “marriageable persons”—­understood as ­those who could have also found a Japa­nese bride, or t­ hose who met a Chinese bride through more acceptable means—­would be discredited.

Conclusion: The Paradox of “Unmarriageable Men” In late fall of 2009, while on another tour with First Love to Harbin, I met a Japa­ nese man, Mr. Shimizu, who was in his late thirties, had a master’s degree in chemistry, and was working for a globally known Japa­nese cosmetics firm. Mr. Shimizu was tall, clean, polite, and friendly. He was stylish, and I even found him rather handsome. He grew up in Kobe but was now working and living by himself in

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Tokyo. I joined a dinner with him and his new fiancée a day before their wedding party. His ­mother and s­ ister from Japan had also come to take part. He appeared to be quite kind and gentle t­ oward his f­ uture wife, a w ­ oman in her early twenties. Whenever conversations in Japa­nese left his wife out, he requested that the translator convey what they had been talking about so that she could also join in. I found myself wondering why he had come to First Love, and soon discovered that the broker was also pondering this very same question. Indeed, Mr. Shimizu was an unusual customer for First Love. ­Were Japanese–­Chinese matchmaking practices changing such that such “handsome” and “gentle” men would also come to China? A ­ fter spending five days with this man, the broker confessed to me that he did not find any faults with this customer. Thus, the broker concluded, “Mr. Shimizu came to this industry by ­mistake. . . . ​He was not supposed to be h ­ ere, but somehow became involved with this industry by m ­ istake.” For the broker, this “special” customer was an exception; his job was to provide “unmarriageable persons” with the ser­v ices needed to find a Chinese bride. The broker was even a ­little concerned about this customer’s pos­si­ble “effects.” If other Chinese w ­ omen realized that t­here are men like him coming from Japan, it might raise their expectations and brokering would be ­really difficult in the ­future. Thus, the broker sought to conceptually separate this man from his regular clientele; he was a unique case. That said, in the view of Mr. Shimizu’s ­mother and ­sister, marrying a Chinese bride was something only an “unmarriageable” person would do. And therefore he was also “unmarriageable.” ­Toward the end of the wedding tour, the ­mother confessed to me: “I ­don’t know why he missed the chance to marry during his marriageable age [Jp: tekireiki]. I won­der what was wrong with him.” Indeed, Mr. Shimizu had employed domestic marriage agencies over the past several years but could not find a bride in Japan. The m ­ other appeared to be very unsatisfied with her son’s marriage. Despite marrying a Chinese w ­ oman and thus, by definition, becoming a married person, she remained unconvinced that her son was a “marriageable person.” She had fantasized about establishing a good relationship with her daughter-­in-­law. She had hoped that they could visit cafés together and chat occasionally. Now she felt she would not be able to have such a ­future ­because her daughter-­in-­law was Chinese. She said that language difficulties would make their relationship difficult. For her, her son’s marriage just sadly confirmed his “unmarriageability” a­ fter all. Instead of assuming that the popu­lar perceptions of “disadvantages” capture traits that fully explain men’s reasons for not marrying domestic partners, in this chapter I have sought to analyze the ways conceptions of unmarriageable persons ­were intricately linked to the internalized order of life cycles within Japa­nese society. Marriage continued to be viewed as a natu­ral step on the path of one’s life

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cycle, and this played an impor­tant, if not key, role in participants’ own motivations to seek brides. And while “naturally” finding a marriage partner was seen to have become more difficult, societal change was not generally perceived as reason enough for a lack of success in the domestic marriage market; it had to be a product of personal attributes or (in)ability. And thus the irony that even if participants w ­ ere able to become married individuals by engaging in brokered cross-­border marriage practices, they w ­ ere still seen as “unmarriageable” for having been unable to achieve a “natu­ral” marriage (read, a marriage with a Japa­nese ­woman).7 So, paradoxically, by marrying a Chinese bride, participants simply confirmed that they ­were “unmarriageable” men. Marrying a Chinese bride at the agency always entailed connotations of “not marrying” in light of standard expectations—­not marrying by a certain age, not marrying a certain person. In short, it always signified the negation of something, something that should have happened in the first place. Marriage may be seen as a universally necessary life step in Japa­nese society, but not all marriages are perceived equally. Marriage does not guarantee marriageability. Marriageability is not simply one’s ability to marry, but rather the ability to find a suitable bride at the appropriate point in one’s life. Participants ­were aware of this; as a result, where pos­si­ble, they sought to negotiate an appearance of marriageability within the context of the matchmaking pro­cesses. But attempts to destigmatize their practices might fail if ­others did not cooperate. And what is more, in seeking to destigmatize themselves, participants frequently sought to distance themselves from ste­reo­types associated with the “deviant” nature of cross-­ border marriages in which “­others” engaged. By ­doing so, they reaffirmed the shared social preconceptions underpinning ­those very stigmatizations.

3 CREATING “SIMILAR” ­O THERS AT TRANSNATIONAL MATCHMAKING AGENCIES IN JAPAN

In late November of 2009, I attended a set of matchmaking meetings at a café in a ­hotel lobby in China. Initially, I was just an observer, sitting off to the side. But ­after a ­little while, a local staff member expressed to me her concerns about her translation abilities and requested my assistance in making the meetings go more smoothly. The client involved was a Mr. Yoshio Sakai, a public servant in his early forties. He lived in a city in central Japan. Although he looked quite ner­vous at the outset of his meetings, with time his demeanor gradually relaxed. ­After meeting two Chinese ­women, he seemed to be more at ease and comfortable when talking about himself. He had enrolled in several domestic matchmaking ser­vices, yet had not been able to find a bride. He felt that entering his forties had made it ­really difficult. He came to China on a three-­day matchmaking tour a­ fter mulling over the option of a Chinese bride for over half a year. ­After the first two meetings, he confessed: I ­really debated ­whether or not to come to China. When a domestic marriage broker first recommended a Chinese bride, I felt so offended. I did not want to compromise that much [Jp: soko made wa dakyō shitakunai]. Yet looking at the Chinese w ­ omen, I realized that they are not that dif­fer­ent from Japa­nese ­women. I never thought about myself having a Chinese wife, but this kind of dispelled my reluctance ­toward marriage with a Chinese ­woman. His ambivalence about coming to China to find a bride was not uncommon. When I was visiting the agency in Tokyo, I saw a marriage broker express his 67

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sympathy for this. Like Sakai, he said, “Initially, no one wants to go to overseas to find a bride.” As a marriage broker, his job was to introduce Chinese ­women to Japa­nese men; however, he also repeatedly told me that the best marriage actually should be between conational partners. He said: “Japa­nese men actually should marry Japa­nese w ­ omen. That is the natu­ral [Jp: shizen] ­thing.” He continued, “They all wanted to marry a Japa­nese ­woman, but they w ­ ere rejected, so they had to seek Chinese w ­ omen as a substitute [Jp: dairi].” Mr. Kimura, another Japa­nese broker, also explained to me that the customers at his marriage agency also did not initially want to seek a Chinese bride, but many of them came around to thinking that it is all right to marry a Chinese w ­ oman. He continued, “Chinese ­women are located on the edge of the boundary of the tolerable [Jp: shōganai no kyōkaisen].” What made Chinese ­women capable of being a “substitute” for Japa­nese brides? What made participants think that Chinese brides could be like Japa­ nese brides? What kinds of bound­aries did they draw or stretch to make sense of their marriages with Chinese w ­ omen? In short, what made t­ hese certain o ­ thers “marriageable”?

This chapter explores the lived experiences of Japa­nese men at transnational marriage agencies and asks how they came to view Chinese ­women as marriageable. I am especially interested in the ways marriage brokers and male clientele at transnational marriage agencies actively worked to reconceptualize t­ hese Japanese-­ Chinese marriages. As I repeatedly witnessed during my fieldwork, the participants in t­ hese marriages ­were aware of the stigma attached to Japanese–­Chinese marriages and sought to legitimate their own intimate relationships as ordinary marriages between two “similar” p ­ eople. So while the spouses might come from dif­fer­ent cultural, economic, and linguistic backgrounds (being almost complete strangers upon marriage), male participants in t­hese marriages frequently described their transnational marital relationships as “not that dif­fer­ent” from other domestic marriages, as well as other forms of partnerships resulting from matchmaking in Japan. In analyzing transnational intimate relations, scholars have critically discussed ­women’s motivations and desires, and addressed the impor­tant role of ­women’s agency in forming t­ hese relationships (Brennan 2004; Constable 2003, 2005; Johnson 2007; Kelsky 2001). On the other hand, while men’s motives and desires for ­women have been examined, men’s agency has often been understated or taken for granted.1 This is likely b ­ ecause within unequal global flows of p ­ eople, men are often seen as ­those, at least partially, who are “in charge” of ­these flows (Massey 1994). Not only are men not the ones who ­will need to relocate ­after marriage,



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they also can freely cross national borders to visit candidate brides and possess the ability to invite (or not) potential wives to their own country. ­Women usually have to wait for visits, letters, phone calls, or a proposal (Brennan 2004). Moreover, due to the frequently noticed gender-­based age gap (older men and younger ­women) in transnational intimate relationships, it seems to be treated as rather obvious what is the source of men’s desire for the w ­ omen; in other words, desires for pretty young w ­ omen are seen as more legible than young w ­ omen’s desires for older men (the social construction of legitimate desire is discussed more in chapter 6). Therefore, analyses of ­women’s agency draw more scholarly attention. During my fieldwork, external observers often asked, “Why is she marrying him?” but few asked, “Why is he marrying her?” Given such context, the Japa­nese men’s hesitation in engaging in cross-­border marriages deserves further attention. Some men visited transnational marriage agencies while si­mul­ta­neously expressing that they felt as if they w ­ ere making a compromise. How did they act to render “not so desirable” options “acceptable” when engaging in the practices of border crossing? This chapter argues that their be­hav­ior entailed the creation of “marriageable ­others.” In other words, Japa­nese men engaged in the production of “marriageable communities,” whereby they ­imagined their potential partner as belonging to a community from which an acceptable mate could be chosen. In this sense, a marriage partner is not only to be selected, but also has to be “made” within and through the negotiation of multiple gender, racial, national, and transnational norms and imaginings. In the course of matchmaking and their subsequent marital lives, male participants attempted to produce this marriageable community, and thus frame their own relationship as an “almost” endogamous marriage. In creating “almost endogamy,” I demonstrate how male participants crossed certain borders and bound­aries while concealing and reframing ­others. This worked to constitute ­these marriages as ordinary pairings between two similar and thus suitable persons. It also allowed male participants to perceive their own marriages as still within the bounds of the appropriate, as not having transgressed the cultural norms of marriage. ­After arguing that we need to view the concept of endogamy as flexible and not denoting a fixed rule, I explore the ways male participants and brokers rendered brokered marriage with a Chinese ­woman “almost endogamous.” First, I discuss the ways the marriage market was framed to retain a “neighborhood community feeling,” even as it came to be stretched overseas. Second, I examine how Chinese ­women ­were rendered conceivable marriage partners. Third, I highlight how the financial aspects of brokerage ser­v ices ­were recast as conventional and familiar ele­ments of the marriage pro­cess. It is impor­tant to note that t­hese legitimating pro­cesses also served to mask certain inequalities and disparities. The

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last part of this chapter conversely shows how disparities when revealed ­were presented as ordinary by appropriating existing discourses on gender differences.

“Cross-­B order” Endogamy Anthropologists have long used the concepts of endogamy and exogamy when describing marriage rules in vari­ous communities (Dumont 1983; Lévi-­Strauss 1969). Marriage always entails notions of borders and bound­aries (Constable 2005, 12; Oxfeld 2005).2 Heterosexual norms of marriage require the crossing of bound­aries of gender and sex, and the incest taboo necessitates a crossing of lineages. If one of the advantages of exogamy—­looking beyond one’s own community for spouses—is to develop alliances with other groups (Stone 2000), what are the advantages of endogamy? Among o ­ thers, Stone explains, “Along with material property, valued but more abstract assets such as power, prestige, and social status can be kept within a group through endogamy” (2000, 202). In other words, if men find a spouse within their own community, they can, or at least can presume to, maintain their own values, norms, and ideologies (­women’s advantages in conjunction with endogamy w ­ ill be further discussed in chapter 4). Speaking historically, in Japan the bound­aries of what is considered endogamous have not been firmly fixed. For example, Jennifer Robertson examines how the concept of blood has played a crucial role in the ideology of nation-­state building in imperial Japan (Robertson 2005). In discussing the state ideology for creating the “New Japa­nese,” Robertson illuminates how “ethnic national endogamy” (329) was constituted based on transmitting pure blood through eugenic marriage. To create a superior “Japa­nese race” for the nation based on ideological and vari­ous scientific discourses, the imperial state discouraged marriage with blood relatives and promoted eugenic marriage, a concept Robertson calls “eugenic endogamy” (343). Accordingly, the imperial state encouraged Japa­nese ­people to avoid marriages with blood relatives, marriages that w ­ ere previously perceived as “strategic endogamy,” and instead promoted marriages from all over, yet inside, Japan. For example, the state encouraged marriages between men from the south and ­women from the north (344). Thus, strategic endogamy between blood relatives was replaced by eugenic endogamy within Japan to create the pure blood, supposedly superior “New Japa­nese.” How is the practice of endogamy conducted in con­temporary Japan? Japa­nese anthropologist Chie Nakane observes, “marriage between h ­ ouse­holds of similar standing is the widely prevailing ideal in almost e­ very locality in Japan” (Nakane 1967, 160; cf. Applbaum 1995). She further explains: “such a marriage circle ­will not normally extend beyond the range of ­people with a common way of life and



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a similar type of economy, and where the villages already have some kind of economic and social relations with each other. This is ­because ­house­holds of ‘similar standing’ not only implies similar social and economic backgrounds upon which the activities of the h ­ ouse­holds are centered, but also the sharing of familiar knowledge” (Nakane 1967, 161). Similarly, Applbaum observes that arranged marriages are not simply the introduction of two persons for dating, but importantly entail the question of “identifying the proper category of individuals one should marry” (1995, 1). Thus, he asks, “How do you marry the proper stranger?” (1). Applbaum further explains that the proper stranger is someone with “some basis for association,” for instance, someone known to a ­family member, at the same workplace, or someone from one’s neighborhood community. As he interestingly puts this, “arranged marriage should be with someone from the category of knowable, as compared with unknowable strangers” (2). Chizuko Ueno (1995) further notes that, remarkably, the practices of endogamous marriages are observable even within so-­called love marriages. Whereas love marriage might appear to weigh romantic feelings over social attributes, c­ ouples in such marriages nevertheless tend to adhere to endogamous matching in terms of education, occupation, residence, and age. Ueno thus posits that endogamous princi­ples hold in ­these marriages as well, the reason being, she argues, is that romantic feelings do not emerge should ­couples not recognize each other as similar in standing (77). When examining cross-­border marriages, ­these concepts remain highly relevant. However, the endogamous categories are not fixed but rather contentiously negotiable. In par­tic­u­lar, the phenomenon of cross-­border marriage invites consideration of how the conceptual limits to which the concept of endogamy pertains are being stretched or redrawn on a transnational scale. Transnational marriages may involve the crossing of racial, ethnic, or national bound­aries. But exactly what types of transnational marriages constitute border crossing is not always clear. For instance, Louisa Schein (2005), in discussing marriages between Hmong men in the United States and Miao ­women in China, argues that ­women consider ­these marriages as coethnic and thus still within their community even while they occur at a global scale. Correspondingly, Hmong men conceive themselves to be marrying a bride from their homeland. As a result, ­these transnational, seemingly cross-­border marriages are actually perceived as ethnic ­unions. The key is ­whether or not the marriage is perceived as within a community as opposed to across communities, regardless of the physical distances and po­liti­cal borders crossed. “Community” implies commonalities among its members (Anderson 1983; Cohen 1985), and bound­aries must be continuously marked to differentiate one group from neighboring ­others. As Cohen argues: “Relative similarity or difference

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is not a m ­ atter of ‘objective’ assessment—it is a ­matter of feeling, a m ­ atter which resides in the minds of members themselves. Thus, although they recognize impor­tant differences among themselves, they also suppose themselves to be more like each other than like the members of other communities” (1985, 20–21). Drawing on works that complicate our understandings of crossing, endogamy, and community bound­aries, I use the term “cross-­border endogamy” to capture the seeming contradiction that the participants produced by creating marriageable communities on a transnational scale. As described above, the term endogamy signifies the social rules that limit marriage to within one’s community, such that members of that community do not cross any inappropriate borders to find a mate. If we view ­these Japanese–­Chinese marriages from the perspective of national endogamy, participants are crossing national, ethnic, and racial borders, and thus may be perceived as engaging in a stigmatized form of exogamy. When confronting the idea that marrying a conational partner is still considered to be a Japa­nese cultural norm, and marrying a non-­Japanese Asian w ­ oman is mocked in society (Faier 2009, 3; Suzuki 2003, 91), how do the participants seek to remain within certain bound­aries even while still crossing national borders? What I repeatedly witnessed at transnational marriage agencies was that participants engaged in destigmatizing practices and sought to emphasize—­and even create—­similarities, thereby reframing and stretching existing bound­aries to produce “marriageable communities.” Participants ­were not rebelling against prevailing norms; quite the contrary, in their efforts to render Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border marriages “almost endogamous,” it was upon ­those ideologies already available in Japan that they drew. Notably, their efforts to rework the bound­ aries of “familiar” and “unfamiliar” w ­ ere never neutral or apo­liti­cal. In creating “endogamy” across national borders, certain inequalities or dissimilarities perceived as socially or culturally undesirable w ­ ere concealed while other, more preferred differences w ­ ere stressed—­all in order to make the marital relationships involved appear more “natu­ral.” It bears stressing, a “natu­ral” marital relationship in Japan was also already understood to include certain inequalities. Thus, in the pro­cesses of rendering Chinese w ­ omen marriageable persons, matchmaking pro­ cesses relied on, revealed, and reproduced certain ideologies of racial, national, and gender in­equality in Japan.

Expanding the Marriageable Community As you know, most Japa­nese long used to live in rural communities as farmers [Jp: nōkō minzoku]. Marriages used to occur within local communities in Japan. A man from the mountains and a ­woman from a



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nearby riverside used to meet and marry. However, as society transformed into an information society, a man from the north could then marry a w ­ oman from the south. Nonetheless, as society has further developed eco­nom­ically, many Japa­nese ­women are not willing to marry, so men then turned their eyes to Chin-­chan [i.e., a ste­reo­typical Chinese w ­ oman’s name] at the Chinese noodle shop in their neighborhood. When they ­were not even able to marry ­these Chinese ­women in their neighborhoods, they then crossed the sea, g­ oing to find Chinese brides in China. In short, Japanese–­Chinese international marriages are still based on the idea of community marriages in Japan—­a transnational marriage broker in Japan. This was the story a broker told me during my first visit to a transnational marriage agency in Tokyo in the summer of 2007. I was intrigued by his subtle way of ambiguously situating ­these Japanese–­Chinese marriages. Of course, as a commercial marriage broker, his job is to recruit Japa­nese men who ­were willing to marry Chinese w ­ omen; thus, he needed to make t­hese marriages appealing to potential customers. Nonetheless, he employed a par­tic­ul­ar narrative to make ­these Japanese–­Chinese marriages appear unremarkable. He did not lay claim to the values of cosmopolitanism or even stress romantic feelings within ­these marriages; instead, he reframed Japanese–­Chinese marriages as nothing more than slightly expanded versions of customary marriages. But while the marriage broker stressed that Japanese–­Chinese marriages w ­ ere an extended variation of customary “community marriages” (Jp: chiiki kekkon), he also explained that the men who went to China to find a bride w ­ ere ­those who could not find a bride in Japan. Thus, by paying expensive marriage fees and crossing national borders, men who w ­ ere “unmarriageable” in the eyes of Japa­nese ­women became “marriageable” in China. Crossing borders played a crucial role ­here for ­these men to find a marriage partner, yet the very fact that they ­were crossing borders was obscured in the broker’s rendering by stressing an expanded conception of the neighborhood and stretching its seeming aura of normality onto the practices of brokered matchmaking. How does the notion of marriageability require the conceptual ability to imagine ­others as sharing in some similarity? Marriage brokers and male clientele often explained to me that it would be simply unimaginable to marry a black, Puerto Rican, Filipina, or Viet­nam­ese ­woman. It was not realistic for them to envision marrying a w ­ oman who seemed to be from a distant place, perceived as sharing nothing in common. Especially for ­those who ­were at first seeking Japa­ nese brides, “dissimilarity” was exactly that for which they ­were not looking. The perception of difference would further enhance their feelings of “transgressiveness,” making all the more salient their deviance from the normative goal of the

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initially desired domestic marriage. To repeat a quote from a Japa­nese broker cited previously, “Chinese ­women are located at the edge of the boundary of the tolerable [Jp: shōganai no kyōkaisen].” If this is the case, how do the Japa­nese men come to view Chinese w ­ omen, who ­were seen as on the “edge of the boundary of the tolerable,” as marriageable, and what do they think they have in common with such Chinese ­women? The broker’s story above about the transformation of marriage from something that occurred within a neighborhood to something that now spanned across the sea actually mapped onto the structure of the ser­v ices China Love offered. China Love consisted of two sections. One was for matchmaking with Chinese ­women who already resided in Japan; the other dealt with Chinese ­women who lived in China. The staff members called the former zainichi (living in Japan) and the latter ­either genchi (local to China) or kaigai (overseas). While the two sections ­were officially distinct and each section had its own website, names, and dif­fer­ent sets of ser­v ice fees, in real­ity their ser­v ices ­were intermingled. Male clientele followed primarily two paths to become members of China Love. The first was followed by a group called “customers from the network,” and the second followed by a group called “direct customers.” In Japan’s matchmaking industry, t­ here are a c­ ouple of major matchmaking networks consisting of hundreds of small and middle-­sized marriage agencies. As compared with large marriage agencies that operate only within their own circle of members, small-­and middle-­sized agencies often shared their customer information. Through this network, the clientele who belonged to an agency could meet clientele from a dif­fer­ ent agency. China Love also belonged to this network. China Love had a close relationship with a number of domestic marriage agencies that, at their peak, introduced more than ten male clients to China Love per year. The customers from this network ­were not “active” seekers of Chinese brides, however. When domestic marriage brokers had a hard time finding good matches for ­these men, they recommended that the men visit transnational marriage agencies. Then, domestic brokers would send the men’s profiles to China Love. On the other hand, “direct” customers ­were ­those who discovered China Love online, or by encountering mention of it in newspaper articles or on tele­v i­sion programs, and de­cided to contact China Love of their own initiative. The staff members often described ­these customers as more “active” and having “better qualities” (or “higher-­level” qualities) than ­those from the network. Although they de­cided to come to China Love on their own volition, many of t­ hese direct customers had tried domestic matchmaking ser­v ices previously. Nonetheless, ­these members w ­ ere seen as more active since they at least knew how to gather information online and acted on their own accord. ­Whether “direct” or “from the net-



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work,” all customers usually first registered for matchmaking ser­v ices in Japan instead of visiting China. China Love offered monthly matchmaking parties and individual meetings at the agency with Chinese w ­ omen already living in Japan. At the monthly parties, which took place in a nearby restaurant, each male client had seven to eight minutes to talk one-­on-­one with zainichi Chinese female attendees. The men and ­women sat across from each other at the restaurant’s t­ ables, and so e­ very seven to eight minutes, the men moved to the next seat while the ­women remained where they ­were. China Love arranged for drinks and a light lunch to be provided. At ­these parties, most of the Chinese ­women spoke Japa­nese. Considering that the participation fees ­were 5,000 yen/US$50 for men who ­were members and 10,000 yen/US$110 for men who w ­ ere nonmembers, whereas w ­ omen could participate for ­free, the staff members always invited more ­women than men so that no man had to wait to talk to a w ­ oman. During my fieldwork, I observed thirteen parties, usually consisting of about ten men and thirteen ­women. ­After the participants finished talking to one another, they filled out a form indicating their first, second, and third preferences. The staff members then input the data into a computer program. At e­ very party, somewhere from two to five c­ ouples ­were matched. According to the staff members, however, t­ hese ­couples rarely went on to marry. The staff members agreed that domestic transnational matchmaking was not easy. They claimed that Chinese w ­ omen who already resided in Japan w ­ ere not that dif­fer­ent from Japa­nese ­women. That is, they not only spoke Japa­nese and looked Japa­nese; they could also be as demanding and picky about men as Japa­ nese w ­ omen. At monthly parties, the staff members also shared the participants’ answer sheets with me. I frequently found that while men usually filled out all three choices, the ­women’s sheets ­were left blank, indicating they did not find any men they liked. When I talked to some of the Chinese ­women during and ­after the matchmaking parties, a number expressed that it was quite exhausting to talk to Japa­nese men b ­ ecause they did not know what to talk about and men often did not initiate the conversation. Yet parties gave male participants opportunities to interact, possibly for the first time, with Chinese w ­ omen. Many then came to realize that, as one male participant put it, “talking with a Chinese ­woman is not that dif­fer­ent from talking with a Japa­nese ­woman.” The most common phrase I heard from the men was, “Talking with Chinese w ­ omen did not feel at all unusual [Jp: iwakan ga nai].” ­After a party in April of 2009, I returned to China Love’s office with the staff members and some of the male participants. ­Those who had been paired as ­couples had gone off for a walk or to get coffee, and among them was the most popu­lar man at the party. He had been paired up with the most popu­lar ­woman. ­Those who remained at China Love ­were ­those who had not found a match. A man

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sitting next to me in the reception room whined half-­jokingly: “They ­were not that dif­fer­ent from Japa­nese ­women ­after all. A young, handsome man took all the ­women!” In the eve­ning, the broker invited ­those who did not find a match out for dinner. Over the course of the meal, Tanaka repeatedly advised them to visit China to find “purer” and “more innocent” ­women. “Let’s go to Dongyang together; ­women in China are purer than Chinese ­women in Japan.” For many Japa­nese men when they first walked into China Love, visiting China was not seen as a realistic option. Nevertheless, the structure of China Love’s ser­v ices worked to gradually expand the perceived marriageable communities of male clientele to the point that they came to see Chinese w ­ omen in China as conceivable marriage partners. This was one of the first steps in the pro­cess by which the Japa­nese men came to view Chinese ­women as marriageable. The next section addresses how ­these pro­cesses further continued as men engaged in selecting bridal candidates from China.

Making Similar Fellows I met Mr. Kitamura when I was visiting the marriage agency. Mr. Kitamura was a college gradu­ate in his early forties who lived in Tokyo and worked in the general affairs division of a well-­known organ­ization. He had recently divorced his Japa­nese wife, whom he had met through a domestic matchmaking ser­v ice. They had one d ­ aughter, but his former wife had taken custody of her. Kitamura’s f­ ather owned two apartments in Tokyo, both of which w ­ ere part of Kitamura’s inheritance. He also owned a newly built ­house in Tokyo. Although his income was modest, he would certainly not have any f­ uture worries about his financial situation. Following his divorce, Kitamura had revisited his original marriage broker. He did not view remaining single to be an option. However, the marriage broker told him that it would be impossible for him to find a Japa­nese wife due to his age. Even if he happened to miraculously find a Japa­nese ­woman, she would at the least be in her late thirties or early forties. That outcome apparently did not appeal to him. ­Because of this, Kitamura turned to the possibility of transnational marriage. I asked him if he had thought about a specific nationality. He told me that he had first thought about marrying a Korean, as his nephew was married to a Korean ­woman. He had researched Korean brides online and realized t­ here ­were few agencies that introduced Korean ­women. He said he never thought about Filipina ­women ­because, as he put it, “Basically I wanted to marry a similar person [Jp: onaji yōna hito].” I asked him what he meant by similar. He replied: “Our f­ aces and cultures are almost the same [as the Chinese]. I heard that Chinese w ­ omen



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re­spect and look ­after their parents, and my ­sister also told me that many Chinese follow Confucianism. I also wish to look ­after her parents. Religion, customs, and traditions long existing in Japan all came from China.” He told me that some Chinese ­people live in the apartment that his ­father owns in Tokyo. He explained: “When I was talking to them, I did not feel any incongruity at all [Jp: iwakan]. Sometimes they left the door open, as we used to do long ago in Japan and as ­people still do in the countryside.” The agency’s male clientele often made comparisons between Chinese w ­ omen and Filipina ­women; Filipina w ­ omen constituted the second-­largest non-­Japanese bride population in Japan. A female broker explained to me: “Some Japa­nese men thought about other nationalities as options, but usually they chose Chinese ­women first. This was due to the Chinese ­women’s skin color, their use of written characters (kanji), and customs. If the men married Filipina w ­ omen and walked outside with them, p ­ eople would look at them with curiosity b ­ ecause the two look so dif­fer­ent. ­People would certainly notice this difference.” She added that Rus­sian ­women would be too dif­fer­ent in their eating habits, and their bodies are generally too large for Japa­nese men. When I asked another male customer, Mr. Iguchi, ­whether he ever thought about marrying a w ­ oman of a dif­fer­ent nationality, his answer was prompt: “No way! I did not want to marry a Filipina ­woman ­because their skin color is dif­fer­ent. I wanted to marry someone whose skin color is the same.” Japa­nese men at other marriage agencies also discussed the importance of the ­women “looking Japa­nese.” During a wedding tour administered by another agency, I accompanied two newly married c­ ouples to a photo studio; at the time, I overheard the two Japa­nese grooms chatting. Mr. Uehara told Mr. Ogawa: “When Chinese girls come to Japan, the first three months w ­ ill be a ­battle [Jp: shōbu]. If they obtain some strange habits [Jp: hen na kuse] during the first three months, they ­will carry them throughout their life.” Ogawa agreed with him. Their conversation was not only about how the w ­ omen should act but also how they should look. Ogawa was more optimistic than Uehara and said, “My wife does not look like she is Chinese, and it should be okay, as no one ­will notice it!” All the same, while shopping afterward, Ogawa repeatedly told his Chinese bride, “­Don’t buy that, it looks so Chinese,” and “You cannot wear that in Japan.” On the way back to their h ­ otel, Uehara said, “They cannot wear any clothing purchased h ­ ere in Japan.” Ogawa added: “I hope that she w ­ on’t bring anything from China. She can just come without any luggage.” The similarities between Japa­nese and Chinese ­were not seen simply as a natu­ral product of phenotypes. Although participants might describe their skin color and bodies as similar, discipline was still required to transform a “Chinese” into a “Japa­nese.”

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The work of male participants to transform their Chinese wives into Japa­nese revealed how similarity was not something automatic. Indeed, the statements above about Chinese fashion suggested that resemblance between Japa­nese and Chinese should not be interpreted as simply natu­ral.3 But that said, the concept of similarity can be strategically employed to reorder bound­aries. For example, Ara Wilson (1988) has shown that American cata­ logs of Asian brides represented Asian ­women as not only dif­fer­ent and exotic, but also “Westernized,” aiming to some degree to make marriage to them seem endogamous for potential American male clientele. Although stressing resemblance may work to redraw bound­aries, such strategic constructions of similarity never fully eliminate power inequalities.4 Lieba Faier has explored the ways Filipina w ­ omen who came to Japan as entertainers w ­ ere portrayed as “good brides” (Jp: ii oyomesan) and “more Japa­nese than young Japa­nese ­women t­ oday” (2009, 152). Faier critically demonstrates that Filipina ­women learning to do ­things in “the Japa­nese way” reinforced the ideal of “traditional Japa­nese ­women,” one that young Japa­nese ­women ­today ­were perceived as not willing to perform. Although Chinese brides are also described as being “like Japa­nese ­women,” my aim is to excavate the premise that presupposes Chinese ­women possess the potential to pass as being Japa­nese, even before starting their marital lives. Through the pro­cesses of fashioning resemblances between the Japa­nese and the Chinese, ­these marriages ­were “naturalized” as they came to be viewed as falling within socially permissible bound­aries (Newendorp 2008; Shih 1998). What I call the politics of similarity does not involve forcing o ­ thers to become similar or assimilated, but rather stresses “natu­ral” and “innate” similarities to ­others. Thus, assimilation seems less obvious and less forceful based on the assumption that similar ­things naturally belong to the same category.5 While excluding “dif­fer­ent” ele­ments from a group implies noticeable power inequalities, including “similar” ele­ments into a group might appear to imply friendliness and generosity but mask the power inequalities involved. In other words, including “external” or marginal ele­ments based on similarities is seen as less violent than excluding “internal” members based on differences. The felt commonality among members also involves the expression or feelings of equality and egalitarianism, while masking inequalities. The practices of participants in Japanese–­Chinese marriages reveal how certain notions of visual appearance and form (Jp: sugata, katachi) ­were deployed as a premise that concealed the power of inclusion and assimilation. The comment “you look like a Japa­nese” was deemed a compliment concerning not only the ability of Chinese wives to successfully adapt to Japa­nese daily customs, but also, ultimately, their malleability and marriageability. Nonetheless, since such com-



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ments are treated as flattering remarks, they are masked as apo­liti­cal even if “Japa­neseness” actually overrides—­and eventually extinguishes—­“Chineseness.” Thus, the notion of “similarity” in t­ hese contexts entails asymmetrical relationships. The similarity between two counter­parts does not always mean that they are equal.6 I repeatedly heard comments such as “Chinese w ­ omen look Japa­nese,” but never “Japa­nese men look Chinese.” Visuality as a presupposition, although not an assurance (Roth 2002; Tsuda 2003a, 2003b), makes Chinese ­women malleable so that they can be included in the marriageable community without crossing the borders of being marriageable.7 Such discourse plays a crucial role in rendering ­these marriages endogamous. Thus, t­ hese men are not necessarily viewed as crossing borders or transgressing cultural norms, in par­tic­u­lar due to the idea that the marriages are between two “similar” ­people. It is impor­tant to note that in many cases, similarities are not just something to be found but also to be created. A local staff member once told me, “all Japa­ nese men who married Chinese ­women somehow try to find commonalities, even an ‘aura’ [Jp: funiki], but if they cannot find any, they want to say that it was then ‘fate’ [Jp: en]. But from the beginning, they themselves picked the w ­ omen based on the pictures and profiles. Maybe marrying someone who shares no commonalities makes them a ­little embarrassed [Jp: ushiro metai].” The idea that similarity originally was based on the standing of an individual’s ­house­hold has come to overlap with a similarity generated through the perception of like phenotypes and disciplined bodies. In that pro­cess, the Chinese w ­ omen are transformed into “knowable,” “malleable,” “disciplinable,” and therefore, “marriageable.”

The Price of Marriage Although Chinese ­women came to be viewed as marriageable by being cast as “almost like Japa­nese,” ­these marriages still carried an aura of stigma due to their association with money. Bluntly, matchmaking involved the exchange of money. The transnational marriage agencies’ websites clearly described their fees. Below are the lists of ser­vice fees for two agencies: China Love and another transnational marriage agency, Wedding China. China Love provides the following list of fees on its website. The list includes: 1. Registration fees: 50,000 yen (US$550) 2. Matchmaking tour: 150,000 yen (US$1,650) 3. Marriage fees: 1,950,000 yen (US$21,450), including ten professional wedding photos and a wedding ceremony with three t­ ables

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It also offers optional ser­v ices, including: 1. Aftercare ser­v ice: 290,000 yen (US$3,190) 2. Brides’ Japa­nese language and cultural lessons in China: 200,000 yen (US$2,200) The website explains that all of ­these charges ­will be taxed (5 ­percent).8 The marriage fees also included travel insurance for visiting China, airline tickets to China (economy class), the car transportation between the airport and Dongyang, h ­ otels in China (including three meals per day), bridal coordinators (local staff members), matchmaking meetings, transportation fees for ­women who came to the matchmaking meetings, and a wedding ceremony. The gifts to a bride and her ­family ­were not included in t­ hese ser­v ices, but China Love prepared a gift package (perfume, tobacco, and a digital camera) for 50,000 yen (US$550) as an additional option for purchase. On top of this, grooms ­were supposed to give at least 200,000 yen (US$2,200) to their brides as betrothal money, called yuinō kin. If a customer purchased the total package and included personal spending related to this marriage, the entire pro­cess could end up costing as much as 3,500,000 yen (US$38,500). China Love’s “aftercare ser­vices” provided support for the marital relationships that it had brokered, and most of the male clientele willingly purchased this ser­ vice.9 Some men told me that they de­cided on China Love precisely b ­ ecause they offered an aftercare ser­v ice. China Love also had a refund policy that operated in the case of a bride ­running away within one month of her arrival in Japan. In such a situation, China Love would refund 2,000,000 yen (US$25,000) to the male customer. China Love had not yet had to refund any customers at the time of my fieldwork; it had, however, offered several “discount” tours for ­those whose first marriages through China Love ended in divorce. Wedding China offered two packages. The basic course (1,680,000 yen; US$18,480) included a three-­day matchmaking tour and a four-­day wedding tour. The two tours included airfare, accommodations, transportation, meals, translation ser­v ices, an engagement party, a wedding party, wedding photos, administrative support for a spousal visa, and other related fees. In addition, the total course (2,200,000 yen; US$24,200) included a better-­quality wedding party, wedding rings, a made-­to-­order Chinese bridal dress, a sightseeing tour in Harbin, marriage fees, a wedding ­album, living expenses for the Chinese bride prior to arrival in Japan, e-­mail translation support, letter translation support, international phone cards for the Chinese bride, language lessons for the Chinese bride, passport fees, and the airfare for travel to Japan. In addition, male customers w ­ ere required to pay betrothal money (200,000 yen; US$2,200) and ­were expected to



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give gifts to their brides and their brides’ parents. Wedding China also provided aftercare ser­v ices, which w ­ ere included in the price of both packages. As we can see from t­hese expenses, matchmaking involved obvious economic transactions, and marrying through transnational marriage agencies was not inexpensive. Their ser­vices, which included “aftercare ser­vices,” “refund policies,” and package upgrades carried the connotation of a transaction involving “commodities,” as if one had to ensure that the commodities ­were treated well and functioned as desired ­after the purchase. Other agencies, such as First Love, also offered dif­fer­ent ser­vices depending on the package that the male customers purchased. Of course, the more expensive the package, the more dedicated the ser­v ices they offered. Extras included the option of having a wedding party at a better ­hotel or receiving more extensive assistance when dealing with spousal visas. Romantic China even provided a discount package for men ­under the age of thirty. For male customers over the age of thirty, their packages w ­ ere about $2,000 more expensive.

Creating Trust in Brokerage Work The monetary aspects of matchmaking practices w ­ ere apparent as described above. ­There was no effort to hide such costs. Rather, clearly stating prices was considered to be more sincere and honest. But how did participants deal with such noticeable commercialization given the stigmatized feelings that many male customers expressed? The brokerage work began when agencies started receiving calls from potential male clientele. While some agencies operated via e-­mail and telephone (most likely ­because they did not want to invest in a dedicated space for receiving customers), China Love has always invited potential clients to visit their offices before joining. The brokers, Tanaka and Shen, explained to me that since they did not have anything to hide, it was impor­tant for clientele to be able to visit, see them in person, and be convinced of the trustworthiness of their ser­vices. Kimura, a broker operating his business in central Japan, also told me something similar, and he also tried to meet his potential customers in person whenever pos­si­ble. Once male clientele became members of the agencies, they often described their relationships with brokers with the term “trust” (Jp: shinyō). Many customers chose a par­tic­ul­ar agency b ­ ecause they thought that the agency was more trustworthy than other similar agencies. They thought that they could rely on the brokers and staff members ­because of their perceived honesty and support. It is impor­tant to note that ­these trusting relationships ­were specifically between brokers and their clientele, not between potential brides and grooms.

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Interestingly, before creating an intimate relationship with their Chinese brides, male customers first attempted to establish a trusted relationship with their brokers. Or even more precisely, the production of a trusting relationship with brokers seemed to be a prerequisite for seeking a Chinese bride through their marriage agencies. Since male clientele paid significant amounts of money for the brokerage ser­ vice, the importance of trust seems to be understandable—­the men involved felt anxious about the possibility of being deceived by marriage brokers. Many had heard “from somewhere” that other brokers had introduced ­women who never came to Japan, or arranged marriages with brides who ran away as soon as they arrived, all just to take money from their customers. Indeed, during my fieldwork, I did witness a ­couple of marriage brokers who dis­appeared without completing their brokerage work, so that the clientele ended up paying money for nothing. I also observed brokers concealing from the men that they had also charged their ­future bride, leaving them with large debts (detailed in chapter five). Thus, the male clientele needed to know w ­ hether the brokers w ­ ere ­really ­going to do what they advertised. Trust was not seen as necessary solely for the reasons given above, however. If it was only to avoid fraud, their relationship would still remain at the level of buyer and seller. H ­ ere, the production of trust further entailed the creation of certain social relationships. In other words, the notion of trust worked to transform perceptions of the nature of their relationship, and this was ultimately linked to how they conceived the brokered marriages themselves. Commercial brokerage work involved multiple forms of “affective l­ abor.” “Affective ­labor,” according to Hardt and Negri, is one aspect of “immaterial ­labor” (2004, 108) that provides the ser­v ices and information at the heart of economic production. The brokers at transnational marriage agencies provided not only information about potential brides; they also offered emotional care and support to male members who ­were looking for a bride. It is impor­tant to note that Hardt and Negri observe: “The l­abor involved in all immaterial production, we should emphasize, remains material—it involves our bodies and brains as all ­labor does. What is immaterial is its product” (2004, 109).10 As affective l­abor, the brokerage work also created and re-­created certain social relationships. The interactions between brokers and their clientele consistently worked to blur the bound­aries between commercial brokerage ser­vices and more traditional practices of matchmaking (Jp: omiai) and using go-­betweens (Jp: nakōdo). This was particularly striking ­because numerous terms deployed by con­ temporary brokerage ser­vices ­were analogous to traditional customs in Japan. The term nakōdo (go-­between) conventionally described an older ­couple who would help in facilitating a marriage, from arranging the initial engagement up to organ­



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izing a ceremony. A person who assisted in matchmaking was called a sewa nin. Often a sewa nin continues on to act as a nakōdo ­after the ­couples they introduce become engaged. Nakoudo is usually described as an older c­ ouple whose own relationship is good, who know the marrying c­ouple well (Vogel 1981), who are trusted persons, and who are willing to counsel and look a­ fter the ­couple even ­after their wedding (Applbaum 1995). Therefore, the job of the nakōdo—­one that is less prevalent in Japan ­today—­goes beyond the ­simple introduction of individuals. Many of the transnational marriage agencies’ clients ­were willing to purchase their ser­v ices, including “aftercare,” but at the same time they ­were hesitant to view their practices as buying marriage itself. Many men displayed anxiety or feelings of guilt about projecting the image that they ­were buying a bride, especially when they looked through the cata­logs and compared the ­women’s profiles (see also chapter 2). Such feelings could cause prob­lems. For instance, while meeting with several Chinese ­women, Mr. Takai explained to staff members that he wished to spend one hour with each ­woman, which was considered a long time for such matchmaking meetings. He explained his reasons: even if he w ­ ere not interested in a certain w ­ oman, ending a meeting any sooner would be impolite. It would seem as if the meeting was an audition. The local staff members, conversely, disagreed with Takai’s idea and said: “It would be ruder if you are not interested in her and yet she still has to be ­there; if you do not plan to marry her, ­there is no reason for her to be ­here. She wants to go home.” However, such anxiety and guilt could be ameliorated by blurring the bound­ aries between the commercial and noncommercial aspects of matchmaking practices. The work of brokers went beyond the “paid ser­v ices” they offered. Based on this philosophy, Tanaka often invited his new and old customers (and me) out to dinner and drinks. When he heard that a c­ ouple had a serious fight, he sent them tickets to Tokyo Disneyland to help them with reconciling. It was also his ritual to send a gift ­every time ­couples had a newborn baby. Part of China Love’s marketing strategy was to avoid divorce as much as was pos­si­ble. Tanaka and the other staff members at China Love often claimed very few of their brokered marriages ended in divorce, contrasting themselves with other agencies that introduced w ­ omen who would become “runaway brides.” Many ­couples also returned to China Love bearing gifts to demonstrate their appreciation and update the staff on how they ­were ­doing. This also enabled me to meet with married ­couples and establish contacts for my research. When I visited China Love, the staff members often served me cakes, cookies, or Japanese-­ style sweets (Jp: wagashi) that they had received from previous customers. ­Every year, China Love received numerous New Year’s cards from their clientele, which ­were posted on the walls (see figure 1). Old clients also came back to talk about their newborn babies, new ­houses, and other life happenings. Regardless of the

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FIGURE 1.  New Year’s cards posted on the wall of the agency in Tokyo. Photo by author.

expensive fees they paid to the broker, they also expressed their gratitude for the work conducted by the brokers. Bourdieu (1990) notes that economic capital can operate in the euphemized forms of symbolic capital, that is, disguised u ­ nder the veil of enchanted and euphemized relations. In par­tic­ul­ar, the symbolic aspects of relationships, such as ­those among kinship, neighborhood, and work, prevent certain types of economy from being conceptualized as economic. This requires constant l­ abor devoted to making and maintaining relations in the form of care or attention. Trust, or more precisely, “the inherent quality of a person who inspires trust” (1990, 128), is another impor­tant form of investment in l­ abor for creating such veiled moral relationships. It entails collective continuous l­ abor devoted to maintaining misrecognition, which might take the forms of trust, gratitude, generosity, or moral debt. Whereas ­people use vari­ous forms of payment in intimate relations, as Viviana A. Zelizer argues (2000), they can also differentiate monetary transactions according to the definition of the relationships. By blurring the bound­aries be-



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tween commercial marriage brokers and go-­betweens, the clientele at the marriage agency understood their payments not as buying a bride or marriage, but rather as obtaining trust. Zelizer states, “It is not the money involved that determined the relationship’s quality, but the relationship that defined the appropriateness of one sort of payment or another” (2000, 818). Indeed, the relationships between the brokers and most of the married ­couples did not end when they married (Lu 2005). While some c­ ouples had more frequent contact with brokers due to prob­lems, many c­ ouples maintained their relationship with their broker even when their marriage was ­going go well. Tanaka often explained to me that China Love was like a pseudofamily (Jp: giji kazoku) where he acted as a f­ather. He helped his customers find a bride and continued to care (Jp: sewa) for them into their married life. He stated that his job did not end when he brokered marriages but also included support u ­ ntil they had ­children. This, he claimed, is b ­ ecause once they have c­ hildren, their marriage would become more stable, and ­couples that reached this stage rarely got divorced. When I visited China Love in summer 2011, a broker, Shen, brought me up to date with stories of clients whom I previously had met between 2007 and 2010. This c­ ouple purchased a ­house; that ­couple had a second baby; yet another ­couple was having a difficult time due to economic issues; some men still had not found a suitable bride; and some men ­stopped visiting China Love. A few ­couples had divorced, and in some cases the men involved had returned to China Love for a second attempt. Fi­nally, some men married Japa­nese ­women in the end. When I asked about specific ­couples or p ­ eople I had met, the broker had recent information on almost all of them. She told me: “If we just take money from the male customers and only do our work from a business perspective, t­ hose customers’ marital lives would not work. Trusting relationships are necessary.” It is impor­tant to note that the role of monetary transactions in creating intimate relations is not unique to the transnational matchmaking industry. Vari­ous intimate domains involve such transactions, including childcare, domestic work, el­derly care work; arguably, the most comparable domain is the domestic matchmaking industry (Cheever 2003; Rivas 2003). Domestic marriage agencies also provide ser­vices for men and w ­ omen who seek marriage partners in Japan. P ­ eople pay money to become members, gain access to the profiles of members of the opposite sex, attend matchmaking parties and meetings, and marry. It is in­ter­est­ing to note, however, that the media has rarely criticized domestic matchmaking ser­ vices for the commercialization of intimate relationships. ­These ser­v ices are seen as providing opportunities for encounters (Jp: deai) between ­people who have the equal right to accept or decline proposals. T ­ hese monetary transactions are thus given a dif­fer­ent meaning.

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The discourses and practices of the male clientele and brokers engaged in transnational matchmaking w ­ ere thus neither new nor unique. Even t­hose who are not transnational c­ ouples might ask their parents or friends for support and advice. Sometimes, ­couples may need someone to whom they can safely grumble about their marriage. Yet if ­couples ­were seen as participating in stigmatized relationships based on the way they met, telling o ­ thers about their prob­lems might further stigmatize their marriages. The marriage agency was not only a supportive venue but also a safe place where c­ ouples could deal with their issues and trou­bles. Indeed, since precisely t­hese practices are not entirely new and unique, participants w ­ ere able to see their marriages as “ordinary” arranged marriages established through introductions by trusted persons. They partly, and creatively, relied on existing practices and discourses. By d ­ oing so, they also decommercialized and thus destigmatized their marriages. It is impor­tant to note that although traditional forms of matchmaking ­were “unpaid” assistance, they ­were also not ­free from economic transactions. As another transnational marriage broker at Wedding China in Heilongjiang explained to me, p ­ eople might think that local go-­betweens did not receive any money for introducing a bride to a groom, but actually, economic transactions took place in other areas such as in the organ­ization of a wedding party at the go-­between’s relatives’ ­hotels, through the taking of photos at the go-­between’s f­ amily studios, or even ­after the marriage when c­ ouples ­were supposed to buy ­things from a go-­between’s store, and so forth. Eventually, the broker claimed, go-­betweens ended up receiving almost the same amount of money the commercial brokers ­were receiving from their customers. Economic transactions ­were simply a ­little more obvious in the case of con­temporary transnational matchmaking, he concluded. Conventional matchmaking practices w ­ ere “unpaid” ­labor by other local community members, especially ­women (Boris and Parreñas 2010, 2; Hochschild 2003); brokerage ser­vices engaged in commercial activities while still seeking to maintain this nuance.

“They Are Just Men and ­Women”: Naturalizing Gender Differences Differences are, of course, exposed within married ­couples as a result of living together; differences are not unique to cross-­border ­couples. But ­after having invested in the imagining of similarities, how are such differences managed within cross-­border ­couples? The staff members frequently spent time responding to current and previous clientele who sought assistance in solving marital prob­lems. When I was at China Love, staff members w ­ ere often on the phone. Sometimes they would even spend



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two to three hours talking with a client. The requests they received ranged from ­those who asked for ­simple translations to help settling a quarrel to even arranging a divorce. Recently married clientele would often perceive their marital lives during the first few months as very challenging and chaotic. Sometimes, Japa­nese husbands called China Love b ­ ecause they did not understand why their wives w ­ ere crying or getting upset. C ­ ouples also visited China Love when they needed a third party to intervene in their conflicts. While simply providing translation could solve some of the issues, it was not always con­ve­nient for ­couples to call or visit China Love e­ very time they had difficulty communicating. Moreover, a Chinese staff member, Li, often told me that the required assistance was not simply translating between the Japa­nese and Chinese languages, but also mediating between the two cultures. Li tried to teach the Chinese brides about Japa­nese customs and even the traits of Japa­nese men. For instance, she would tell Chinese brides that “Japa­nese men rarely express their affection openly.” According to the broker, Shen, a common source of conflict was financial issues. For instance, a c­ ouple might have dif­fer­ent expectations and wishes concerning the size of the remittance to go to the wife’s parents in China. Shen explained to me: “Of course, ­women want to send remittances to their parents. However, they should not ask their husbands for 100,000 yen per month; that would be too much. They could ask for 20,000 or 30,000 yen but would have to consult with their husbands. It is our job to tell wives about the real­ity of their husbands’ financial situations.” Although many ­women I met sent some form of remittance, the amount varied depending on their financial situation. Some w ­ omen sent remittances from their husbands’ salaries on a regular basis; ­others brought money and gifts home when they visited their f­amily ­every year or e­ very few years. Conflicts revolving around money could also arise from small daily occurrences. One day, Li was on the phone with a male customer whose Chinese bride had come to Japan three months before. He bought his wife cosmetics ­every month. His wife had started taking his gifts for granted and s­ topped expressing gratitude. He was dissatisfied with his wife’s attitude and called Li for advice. He was frustrated ­because not only did his wife not understand what his gestures meant but also ­because her way of talking was too direct and often sounded rude to him. ­After hanging up, Li told me that she strongly advised men not to say ­things like, “They do this ­because they are Chinese.” She said, “Japa­nese ­people often ask me ­things like, ‘Are all Chinese like this?’ or, ‘Are t­hese unique Chinese characteristics?’ but t­hese are not ­things ­people should say in transnational marriages.” ­After marriage, brokers and staff members often advised Japa­nese men to de-­ emphasize nationality and national character. Moreover, when listening to men’s complaints about their difficulties communicating, Tanaka often stated, “­After all, they are just men and ­women.” Then, he continued, “Men and ­women are

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dif­fer­ent creatures; they w ­ ill never understand each other.” According to Tanaka, marriage is conventionally “proposed by men and accepted by ­women.” Hence, men have to take the initiative ­because men are to provide and ­women are to receive. This idea emphasized men’s activeness and w ­ omen’s passivity. Tanaka often gave this advice to t­ hose Japa­nese men who still hesitated to visit China to meet ­women. Tanaka also made such comments when he was talking with other clients. Matsui, who married but then divorced a Chinese w ­ oman found through China Love, returned to the agency to seek a new Chinese wife. He confessed that in his last marriage to a Chinese ­woman, he was too busy with work and did not have time to attend to his wife’s life in Japan. One New Year’s holiday, his wife returned to China and never came back. Two years had passed since the incident, and now he had a new, more stable job, and so he de­cided to seek a bride again. Matsui had met a number of Japa­nese w ­ omen through a domestic matchmaking ser­vice, yet somehow nothing serious had come of the encounters. Tanaka repeatedly encouraged Matsui to seek a Chinese bride in China, yet Matsui was a l­ ittle hesitant ­because of the language barrier. A ­ fter finishing a meeting with a Chinese w ­ oman residing in Japan, Matsui was not fully satisfied with her. He concluded, “Male–­ female relationships are the most complicated ­things in the world.” Other brokers also shared the understanding that the male–­female relationship was the key in cross-­border marriages. In par­tic­u­lar, many believed that male–­female relationships w ­ ere “irrational.” For instance, Aoki, a broker at Wedding China, told me he was concerned about correspondence between newlywed husbands and wives without the use of a proper translator. Sometimes, c­ ouples would use a dictionary or online translation ser­vice, which often produce strange translations. Aoki said: “We ­don’t know what can happen in a relationship between men and ­women. Anything can happen and a small ­thing might damage their relationship. They might even break up before starting their marital life in Japan.” A pos­si­ble breakup before a ­woman arrived in Japan might occur, according to him, not b ­ ecause they do not speak the same language or do not know each other well enough, but ­because they are “men and ­women.” Moreover, each ­couple’s miscommunications and differences ­were portrayed as gender differences, or due to sex-­based divisions of ­labor. This way, the sources of conflict w ­ ere rendered as “natu­ral” outcomes of male–­female relationships. Why is it impor­tant to de-­emphasize nationality and emphasize gender differences? How do gender-­based accounts transform the nature of their conflicts? How does stressing gender differences—­being a male or female—­instead of national differences work to resolve and soothe conflicts, misunderstandings, and disparities, and consequently destigmatize their marriages?



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To understand their practices, I find helpful Bourdieu’s notions of “doxa”—­a sense of real­ity that is experienced as a natu­ral world and taken for granted—­and “orthodoxy”—­straightened opinion that aims at restoring the state of innocence of doxa (1977, 164–169). The broker’s comments reaffirmed differences or the division of power between the sexes as self-­evident, and this, taken for granted in a “natu­ral” world, secures what Bourdieu calls “unity in division, that is to say, hierarchy” (165). Thus, the “self-­evident” belief is also the basis for power inequalities between certain groups. It is impor­tant to note that ­these taken-­for-­granted everyday ­orders can be challenged. Nonetheless, in such crisis situations where the self-­evident world is contested, Bourdieu claims that language or extraordinary discourse gives a systematic explanation to extraordinary experiences (170). That is, drawing legitimacy and authority from dominant groups, discourse reproduces, secures, and defends the integrity of doxa (169). Thus, when the limits of doxa are questioned voluntarily or involuntarily, discourses play a crucial role in relegitimating taken-­for-­granted worlds. Feminist scholars have questioned seemingly “natu­ral” distinctions between males and females and have argued that distinctions, such as public/private, production/reproduction, or po­liti­cal/domestic, are the products of ideology (Collier, Yanagisako, and Bloch 1987; Martin 1991; Rosaldo 1980; Yanagisako and Delaney 1995, 9). However, ­these differentiated categories are still widely employed and treated as natu­ral in many socie­ties, including Japa­nese society. T ­ hese seemingly natu­ral differences are employed not only to separate sexes but also to ease communication between them (such as “Men Are from Mars, W ­ omen Are from Venus” by John Gray, 1992).11 Marriage, particularly heteronormative marriage, involves a tactical arrangement of similarities and differences. Heteronormative marriage is generally between two similar counter­parts, but it is also between two dif­fer­ent genders. According to this ideology, the naturalness of marriages between two dissimilar counter­ parts or between individuals of the same gender is to be doubted. The practices of brokered Japanese–­Chinese marriages engaged in reaffirming the marriages’ ordinariness in two ways: stressing physical similarities between two counter­parts, as well as emphasizing differences and inequalities between the two genders. Discourse about what w ­ ere considered to be natu­ral gender differences at China Love ­were particularly emphasized when marital relationships came u ­ nder stress. Participants would question their own marriages, since they perceived their difficulties as aty­pi­cal (for example, linguistic misapprehension). I witnessed repeatedly how conflict or the pos­si­ble failure of a marriage would elicit efforts on the part of brokers and staff to restress and affirm differences between men and w ­ omen as the most salient. Moreover, by verifying certain differences and inequalities,

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t­ hese marital relationships ­were also redefined as ordinary in ways that obscured other divisions and hierarchies. The broker Tanaka also used this gender-­dichotomous image to explain ­house­hold finances. Some men w ­ ere concerned that they might have made the wrong decision by marrying a person who had high financial demands. Nonetheless, Tanaka’s strategy was to show that Chinese w ­ omen’s financial demands ­were not the undesired consequence of marrying someone from a developing country, or a product of their marital relationships being based on financial ties. Rather, Tanaka sought to reframe financial demands as the product of natu­ral gender differences. According to Tanaka, in any marriage, the role of the man is to provide, while ­women are to accept what they are told. Tanaka’s favorite sexually tinged joke was also to connect this dichotomous image with the idea that men insert (Jp: ireru), while w ­ omen accept (Jp: ukeru). Thus, men should initiate action on their sexual desires, while ­women should not reject this. Most notably, ­these discourses ­were employed to console or persuade male clientele, as brokers considered ­these discourses capable of explaining and justifying conflicts between Japa­nese husbands and their Chinese wives as a function of gendered differences that, at base, w ­ ere actually complementary. Scholars have long noted that conceptions of the complementarity of gender roles constitute a key ele­ment of how marital relations are conventionally envisaged in Japan (Allison 1996; Borovoy 2005; Dunn 2004). And such complementarity by nature involves difference, as it is only by playing dif­fer­ent roles that men and ­women are understood to be able to thrive together within ­family life. Gender was thus a realm in which difference between spouses was not only permissible but necessary. And yet, the practices of Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border matchmaking practices also show how socially acceptable differences w ­ ere confined to the realm of gender; the larger context within which t­ hese differences ­were expected to exist was still one of supposed similarities. Thus, potential gender complementarity—in that o ­ thers might be willing to play a certain gender role—­ did not alone render t­ hese matchings conceivable. Many Chinese w ­ omen I met ­were not willing to seek a “Western” husband, nor w ­ ere many Japa­nese men I met willing to consider other nationalities, since in both cases ­these ­were described as “too dif­fer­ent.” In short, while conceptions of complementarity between marriage partners entailed difference in gendered roles and be­hav­ior, it also required establishing or asserting the absence of significant differences in other domains. Indeed, acknowledging the conflicts in ­these marriages as something other than the result of gender differences would further stigmatize them and provide evidence that they ­were brokered based on con­ve­nience. The last ­thing participants wanted was to have their marriages perceived as involving two strangers who sought an easy way to achieve their goals through an unnatural arranged interna-



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tional pairing. To avoid this image, conflicts needed to be cast as part of the ordinary strug­gles that any c­ ouple must face. Japanese–­Chinese matchmaking pro­cesses negotiate the limits of doxa, while still relying on doxa. Although Bourdieu discusses challenging doxa in terms of the relationship between the dominator and the dominated (1977, 169), at China Love, t­ hose producing the discourses and listening to them wished to reaffirm taken-­for-­granted assumptions about marriage. By rendering a brokered Japanese–­ Chinese marital relationship as one simply between a man and a w ­ oman, participants could avoid perceiving themselves as transgressing social norms. Such masking emphasized the relationship across sexual and gender bound­aries, while downplaying other borders and differences. By d ­ oing so, marriage became a place where differences and inequities ­were reproduced as something that was only natu­ral between genders.

Conclusion: Natu­r al Differences, Intolerable Disparities This chapter has sought to demonstrate that the male clientele and marriage brokers involved in the transnational marriage industry in Japan not only participated in matching and commercial exchange but also the negotiation, production, and rearrangement of meanings, bound­aries, and norms. The matchmaking practices used to render cross-­border marriages endogamous si­mul­ta­neously obscured, rearranged, and/or stressed stretched bound­aries. In the pro­cess, the brokering of Japanese–­Chinese marriages also depended on available discourses of gender and marriage in Japan. However, cross-­border marriages ­were often stigmatized ­because they w ­ ere seen as transgressing the social norms of marriage, which, I argue, involves national endogamy. As their marriages w ­ ere seen as transgressing certain norms, participants needed to work harder to reframe their relations as not totally outside the bound­aries of legitimacy and ac­cep­tance. To make their ­unions ordinary, the male participants—­with the help of marriage brokers—­ not only reproduced but also revealed the ideologies concerning appropriate similarities and differences that “regular” marital ­couples ­were supposed to have. Their anx­i­eties further drew the line between tolerable and intolerable matches by situating theirs in the former and ­others types, such as marriages to Filipina ­women, in the latter. By analyzing the destigmatizing practices in cross-­border marriages, one finds that the pro­cesses used also reveal and appropriate the existing norms and ideologies of marriage, matchmaking, and gender in Japan with their inherent power relations in tow. For many of the male participants, the meanings associated with marriage to Chinese ­women and ­those of marriage in the

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domestic contexts came to be overlapped and blurred. And such overlap rendered ­these cross-­border matchmakings imaginable. Yet it is impor­tant to remember that whereas gender, racial, and economic inequalities affect any marital relations, they have par­tic­u­lar influence on the dynamics of individual cross-­border marital relationships. In the cross-­border marriages I witnessed, it was always the Chinese ­women who relocated to Japan. As a result, they ­were the ones who found themselves in a more difficult, risky position due to the vulnerabilities created by multiple dependencies and uncertainties. The following chapters now turn to ­women’s experiences in northeast China.

4 MARRYING UP, DOWN, OR OFF IN DONGYANG

I first came across Ms. Han Meiling in a profile cata­logue at the agency in Tokyo in early March 2009. Her photos looked like they had been taken at a professional photo studio. She was holding sunflowers, sitting in a chair, and smiling. Just a few weeks ­later, I saw her “live” online at the Tokyo office; she had a matchmaking meeting via Skype with a Mr. Sakiyama. I would encounter Meiling on further occasions ­after that, being witness to her second Skype meeting with Mr. Sakiyama a week l­ater, and also observing a Skype meeting she had with a dif­fer­ent Japa­nese man two weeks subsequently. As a result, in late July when I met her in Dongyang in person for the first time, I felt as though I was meeting someone I had already known for a long while. But of course to her I was a complete stranger. Han Meiling was in her mid-­twenties, a high school gradu­ate, and a childless divorcée. Her first marriage had been at the age of twenty to a Chinese man. Her ex-­husband’s demeanor had soon changed ­after they married; he often became drunk and violent. Their relationship very quickly ended in divorce. ­After that, Meiling had moved back to her parents’ ­house and worked as a salesclerk at a clothing shop in the market. Her income was modest, but it was enough since she lived with her parents. One day, she found a newspaper advertisement for a marriage agency dealing in Japa­nese men. She called the agency, but at that time she was simply curious; she liked Japa­nese animation and often watched it online. The broker asked her to stop by the office to register. For w ­ omen, registration itself was f­ree. In the initial weeks ­after having registered, she anxiously awaited a call from the broker that would invite her to a matchmaking meeting,

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but no such call came. So, she said, ­after t­ hose first weeks she had almost forgotten about the w ­ hole t­hing and went back to living her life. She had several Chinese boyfriends, but she did not think seriously about marrying any of them; none had stable jobs. Although she said that her parents did not put too much pressure on her to marry soon, she did not want to be stuck in the status quo of her current life. As she was a divorcée, she also realized that it would not be easy to find a suitable partner in Dongyang. Then, a c­ ouple of months a­ fter registering, the broker invited her for a chat via Skype with Mr. Sakiyama. Mr. Sakiyama was scheduled to have Skype conversations with three dif­fer­ent ­women in a row that day; Meiling was the first ­woman with whom he spoke. I ­later heard that during their first online encounter, she did not immediately experience any feelings for him. She just felt comfortable talking with him. Mr. Sakiyama, however, became interested in Meiling and asked the broker for the chance to speak via Skype with her again before he visited China. During the second meeting with Sakiyama, Meiling told him that she would give him “a sixty out of one hundred points”; that is, he received a barely passing grade. She told him that if they w ­ ere to marry, she would not want to have a child for at least a year. She first would want to become accustomed to life in Japan before thinking about having a baby. Sakiyama agreed. She also told him that she would not want to just stay home. ­After learning the Japa­nese language, she would want to work outside the home. Sakiyama also agreed. He told her that in the ­future he hoped she could also help him manage his soon-­to-be inherited apartment. A week ­later, Meiling had another Internet meeting with a dif­fer­ent Japa­nese man at the agency. Not many w ­ omen ­were invited for Internet meetings by multiple men, so Meiling was one of the few w ­ omen who had—­albeit ­limited—­options. This time around, she bluntly told the broker that she could not stand this latter individual (Chin: shoubuliao). Consequently, Meiling agreed to meet Sakiyama in person in China. None of the agency staff members w ­ ere optimistic about their match. They suspected that Meiling would prob­ably decline his proposal b ­ ecause, as they put it, “they d ­ on’t match” (Jp: tsuriawanai). In the brokers’ eyes, Meiling was a young, pretty, and smart girl, whereas Sakiyama was a clumsy man in his forties. Regardless of such concerns, when Sakiyama visited Dongyang in early May, Meiling agreed to marry him. Sakiyama returned to Dongyang in late May to register the marriage, and they held a wedding ceremony. ­After marrying Sakiyama—­but while still awaiting her permission for Japa­nese residency—­Meiling quit her job and started attending the language and culture class administered by China Love. Her residency permission was approved in early September, and she departed for Japan in late September. I also would l­ ater learn that Meiling had at the time told her friends and relatives she was ­going to Japan for work and kept her marriage a

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secret. She said that she did not want to tell ­others the ­actual reason ­until she was confident that her marital life in Japan would be stable and secure. Several weeks ­after Meiling left China, I received an e-­mail from Sakiyama. He wrote: “Meiling told me that her reason for coming to Japan was not ­because she loves me. I am worried about what is g­ oing to happen between us.” Several days ­later, the Tokyo staff members let us know that, surprisingly, Meiling was pregnant. The first ­thing that came into the local staff members’ minds was that the baby might not be Sakiyama’s. They knew that Meiling had had a Chinese boyfriend up ­until she left Dongyang. Fortunately, however, they soon found out that it indeed was Sakiyama’s baby. Although Sakiyama did not know of the staff members’ concerns (or the fact that Meiling had had a boyfriend in China), he gained confidence from one broker’s statement: “If she did not like you, she would definitely have used a condom. But she ­didn’t. So she is ready to have a life with you.” Five months l­ater, I visited Meiling in Japan. She was still pregnant at the time. She said: “I did not imagine that I would be a h ­ ouse­wife! Soon, I ­will have a baby and ­really become like a shufu [house­wife in Japa­nese].” She laughed. Instead of working outside the home or attending Japa­nese language lessons, she was spending most of her time at home, watching tele­v i­sion and chatting on the Internet. ­Going shopping was also part of her almost daily routine. Whenever Meiling needed something, such as new maternity clothing, Sakiyama left some bills on the ­table before he left for work. Han Meiling was neither a representative nor an exceptional case of a ­woman who chose to marry a Japa­nese man. Indeed, t­ here ­were no typical or exceptional cases. Although the ­women all traversed similar matchmaking procedures, their experiences varied considerably. Nevertheless, Meiling was not the only one who was willing to move to Japan despite not being fully content with her husband. And in Meiling’s case, she did not even want to tell ­others that she had married a Japa­nese man. What does such ambivalence tell us about the meanings cross-­ border marriage holds for the ­women involved?

By focusing on one major bride-­sending community, Dongyang, this chapter investigates the ambivalent feelings participating Chinese w ­ omen held ­toward their cross-­border marriages with Japa­nese men. Like Han Meiling, many ­women si­mul­ta­neously expressed a mixture of willingness for and hesitation ­toward their marriages with Japa­nese men b ­ ecause, as this chapter shows, cross-­border marriages with Japa­nese men ­were considered to be both a source of shame and privilege. They ­were sources of shame ­because they indicated that the w ­ omen involved could only find marriage partners by crossing national borders; such marriages signaled that they ­were not “desirable” marriageable persons in their

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local community. Yet such marriages ­were si­mul­ta­neously a mark of privilege as they meant that t­ hese ­women had been chosen by someone who might possibly provide them with a secure life. What is more, by marrying the w ­ omen also ­were able to exit the social category of “­those whom no one wants.” The observation that marriage involves both benefits and drawbacks is not unique to cross-­border marriages. Nonetheless, this duality was especially evident in the experiences of ­women in Dongyang who engaged in cross-­border marriages with Japa­nese men. To make sense of this duality, this chapter examines how the ­women’s perspectives on cross-­border marriage with Japa­nese men ­were deeply ­shaped by the values and social context of their local community. ­These values included the notion that, by a certain age, w ­ omen should marry a husband who ­will provide a secure ­future. Ideally, this husband should belong to an equal or higher socioeconomic category. T ­ hese values also involved the expectation that it is ­women who should relocate to the ­house­hold and community of their partner. Granted, such marital values are quite widely shared in other parts of China and are by no means exclusive to Dongyang. What is therefore impor­tant to examine is how the ­women in Dongyang experienced and enacted such values given their position in their par­tic­ul­ ar local context. In short, ­women w ­ ere situated in the local context, both in relation to the transnational and within the spatial unevenness of con­temporary China (Hairong 2003; Oakes and Schein 2005; Zheng 2004). Indeed, key to comprehending the experiences of the w ­ omen I met in Dongyang was their ambiguous social status, one that did not quite fit any of the categories proffered by existing scholarly lit­er­a­ture. Previous work on marriage migration in China has shown how migration can be a strategy, with some ­women seeking to move from rural to urban areas to find work and also, hopefully, a ­future husband. For such ­women, marriage is a means to escape from the countryside and secure a ­future in the city (Beynon 2004; Gaetano and Jacka 2004). ­There is, however, also work on w ­ omen who already reside in urban areas and are well educated with professional ­careers. ­These ­women do not feel that they need to depend on marriage as means to secure their f­ uture (Zhang and Sun 2014). Hence, despite pressure from their parents to marry, they may remain single, becoming what has been labeled in China as shengnü (surplus ­women). The ­women I met in Dongyang, however, w ­ ere neither rural mi­grants nor single, metropolitan professionals. Indeed, Dongyang itself could be described neither as metropolitan nor rural. As a prefectural-­level city, Dongyang was not as big as other neighboring cities, such as Dalian or Shenyang, but that said, it was still a destination for mi­grants from the countryside. And the w ­ omen clearly saw themselves as dif­fer­ent from their rural counter­parts; in fact, not a few w ­ omen I met made fun of mi­grant nongmin (peasant) ­women working in Dongyang. And

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while ­women in Dongyang might try to move to bigger cities, such as Beijing, to find better-­paid work, this was not viewed as falling ­under the standard rubric of rural–­urban l­abor migration. B ­ ecause Dongyang provided both a relatively urban standard of living and con­ve­nient access to larger cities, few ­women complained to me about residing ­there. For most of the ­women I met, escaping Dongyang (or even China) was not their main motivation for engaging in cross-­border marriage. But although Dongyang was a relatively large city, it was without a university and offered ­limited opportunities for education and stable employment. ­Those seeking higher education left for other cities and then often stayed on in their new location to work. Consequently, the majority of w ­ omen I met in Dongyang w ­ ere, at most, high school gradu­ates. They had unskilled and sometimes temporary jobs, working, for example, as salesclerks or waitresses. So they did not quite fit into the category of shengnü; they w ­ ere not t­ hose “single, urban, young, well-­educated ­women with stable jobs that bring in a decent income” (Zhang and Sun 2014). Bluntly, no ­women I met at the transnational marriage agencies strug­gled with the choice of ­career versus marriage. ­These ­women and their families firmly believed that marriage was one of the few means available to them with which to secure their ­future. And remaining single in Dongyang beyond the age of twenty-­five made many feel quite desperate. Consequently, they did not marry Japa­nese men for the purpose of escaping rural life or a life of “backwardness”; rather, they did so to escape their singlehood. It was not their educated status or established c­ areers (Constable 2003) that threatened to deny them a marriage partner but their age. So their dilemma was that they felt pressure to marry by a certain age, but did not particularly wish to leave their community.

Marrying Up, Marrying Down, or Marr ying Off? To marry up—­also referred to as the practice of hypergamy—is to marry into a community with higher social and economic position. The expectation that ­women should marry someone of similar social and economic standing (mendang hudui), or, even better, marry upward within ­these categories is one widely shared within Chinese society. As Ebrey (1991) writes, “­After marriage, a ­woman’s status ­will be largely determined by the social and economic standing of the ­family she has joined, and so she ­will gain by marrying ‘up’ into a prosperous ­family” (5). Marital practices thus offer ­women an opportunity generally not available to men for upward mobility (Freeman 2011; Schein 2005).

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Upon marrying, ­women in China have also conventionally been expected to adhere to the norms of patrilineality (to leave their own f­ amily to become a member of their husband’s) and patrilocality (to leave their community to live at their husband’s location) (Croll 1981; Fan 2008; Lavely 1991). Indeed, for many Chinese w ­ omen the assumption still exists that they should be the one in the marriage to move away from their f­ amily into the home and community of their partner. But leaving one’s own community for marriage, especially when it involves ­great distances, can entail much anxiety and hardship. As Rubie Watson (1991) notes, “The majority of Chinese brides enter their husbands’ families and communities as strangers” (350). Married mi­grant ­women are “double outsiders” (Tan and Short 2004) in the sense that they are outsiders to both a new ­family and a new community. In short, mobility upon marriage is a double-­edged sword: on the one hand, it offers the possibilities of upward mobility, a more comfortable life, and escape from the countryside, but on the other hand, it also can involve separation from a network of social support in one’s natal community, potential loneliness, and even discrimination within the destination community. What is more, what exactly constitutes “marrying up” is in itself not so straightforward. For instance, Nicole Constable (2003, 167) asks, “How useful and accurate is the notion that Asian ­women who marry Western men marry ‘up’ ”? When a Chinese ­woman marries a Western man, it might seem that she is marrying up by moving to a more industrialized country. As Constable points out in her research, however, many of the Chinese w ­ omen she met who married American men ended up seeing themselves as marrying down in terms of education and class. This is b ­ ecause a significant number of the marriages she examined ­were between well-­educated Chinese w ­ omen and working-­class American men. ­Women’s experiences in Dongyang with cross-­border marriage to Japa­nese men further complicates how we make sense of “marrying up.” Many of the ­women I encountered did not see their marriages as a ­simple form of upward mobility. Granted, in terms of education, class, and even their a­ ctual living standards, a good number of the ­women I met ­were indeed marrying “up.” Their Japa­nese husbands ­were in many cases college gradu­ates and white-­collar businessmen living in urban areas. However, considering the reasons ­behind why they de­cided to engage in cross-­border marriage, not a few felt that they ­were marrying “off ” as opposed to “up.” ­Here, I use the term “marrying off ” instead of simply “marrying out” to highlight the nuanced difference between the two. Whereas the term “marrying out” focuses our attention on ­women leaving their communities, it takes the act of marrying someone for granted. Marrying off, instead, highlights marrying itself as a goal of action, which can also result in one marrying out, up, or even down. And although marrying up and marrying

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off are not mutually exclusive, I found that for ­women in Dongyang the objective of marrying off to escape singlehood often outweighed, at least at the time of seeking a mate, the goal of marrying up. All this is to say that by crossing national borders, the w ­ omen ­were not transgressing or challenging local norms or gender ideologies. Rather, the ­women’s physical departure from the local by engaging in cross-­border marriages ironically was a way for them to conform to local marital norms. As they grew older, they saw themselves as needing to marry out—­and where pos­si­ble, up—to secure their ­future. Japan offered that opportunity.

Too Old to Marr y Ms. Pei Xu was one of the ­women I followed from the beginning of her journey, starting at a matchmaking meeting. She was a thirty-­six-­year-­old divorcée. She had dated her would-be ex-­husband for five years before marrying him while still in her early twenties. When they married, they did something unusual for Dongyang: she did not move into his natal home; he moved into hers. But a­ fter a while, he gradually s­ topped coming home, and instead repeatedly went out drinking with his friends. She thought this was ­because he felt uncomfortable living in her ­house. Their marriage lasted only a year, and a­ fter her divorce she left for Indonesia, where she spent several years as a singer and dancer for Chinese-­Indonesian (Chin: hua qiao) tourists. In this job, she was able to save enough money to buy a car and an apartment in Dongyang upon her return. When I met her, she had retired from singing and was working as an in­de­pen­dent trader, buying clothing in China and selling it in Indonesia. She enjoyed her work and was relatively content with her life. But she also realized she was approaching forty and felt she could not continue in her current job forever. When I had just started my research in Dongyang in July 2009, Pei Xu was invited to a meeting with a Mr. Goto from Japan. Mr. Goto was in his sixties, recently retired from a satellite com­pany in which he had worked for more than four de­cades. His ex-­wife (Japa­nese) had passed away several years prior. Goto explained that his wife was a very patient wife, who also took care of all the ­house­hold chores. A ­ fter several years passed, Goto came to think that he wanted someone with whom to spend the rest of his life. Yet he confessed to me that at the domestic marriage agencies he had visited, no Japa­nese ­women had wanted to marry a retiree. Goto came to visit Dongyang, and it was at a h ­ otel ­there that he met Pei Xu. During their meeting, two staff members (Ms. Yano and Ms. Chen) and I w ­ ere

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also pre­sent. ­After showing Xu where Goto lived on a map of Japan, Chen asked Goto if he had any questions: Goto: How much does she know about Japa­nese culture and customs? You know, in Japan t­ here are customs; for example, it is w ­ omen who need to compromise [Jp: oreru]. Yano (instead of asking Xu): We w ­ ill teach all the w ­ omen about Japa­ nese culture and customs before they leave for Japan. It should be okay [Jp: daijōbu desu]. Goto: What kind of life do you want? It seems that in terms of mores [Jp: dōtoku], Japan has a higher level than China. Chinese ­people cross the street haphazardly, and ­there are ­people ­here even walking on the highways. Chen (asking Xu in Chinese): What kind of life do you want? Xu (answering in Chinese): I want a stable life [Chin: anding] and a better life than now [Chin: bi xianzai hao]. Chen (in Japa­nese): She said that she wants a stable life with a higher level than her current one. Goto: What do you mean by a higher level? I d ­ on’t think that her life would change that much. She already has a car and a h ­ ouse h ­ ere. I am also already retired. Yano and Chen looked at each other and realized that Chen had translated something that she should not have, or that Xu’s direct answer was not ideal in this context. Chen (restating in Japa­nese): I am sorry as I think I mistranslated. I did not mean that the standard of living should be higher, but she wants a life where a wife and a husband work together to cooperate [Jp: issho ni kyōryoku]. Goto: I thought so. It is not about a level or something. I also want a life where simply being together is enjoyable. In that sense, it seems that we are like-­minded [Jp: kiga aisou]. ­ fter the fifteen-­minute meeting, Chen asked Pei Xu about her impression of A Goto. She responded by saying she would accept his proposal and agree to marry him. Early the next morning, Goto, Xu, and Chen went to Shenyang to visit the Consulate-­General of Japan (to obtain certification that Goto was single) and then to register for marriage. This pro­cess usually took a w ­ hole day. B ­ ecause the car did not have enough space for me, I stayed in Dongyang with the local brokerage staff. The plan for engaged c­ ouples was usually then to return in the eve­ning and go to the fanciest Western-­style restaurant in Dongyang for dinner. That eve­ning

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on the way back, however, Chen called and told us that the ­couple preferred to pick up something to eat in the car, as they wanted to go to a barber. I was a l­ ittle confused by their change of plans. Being the day before the wedding, why did they need to skip dinner at a nice restaurant to visit a barber? If Goto needed to have his hair cut, he could go to a barber in Japan. The next morning, I learned that Xu had asked him to dye his hair black for the wedding photos. When Yano asked Goto if every­thing was okay at the barber’s the previous day, he said, “Yes, but ­people usually tell me that I look young, even if I d ­ on’t dye my hair.” They held their wedding ceremony that night. Over dinner on the last day of Goto’s stay, Xu posed Goto a question, using the translator. She asked, “What if I get fat in the ­future, are you still okay with that?” Goto answered: “That is not good! ­Women always have to be pretty. If they stop caring about their appearance, they are not ­women anymore.” When the translator told her what he had said, Xu made a painful grimace. She first asked the local staff not to translate anything that she would say next. Then, she started complaining about his chauvinistic attitude. On the way back to the brokerage, a local staff member told me: “Xu Pei is still pretty, but she is getting close to forty. Even if she is pretty, it is dif­fer­ent from when she was in her twenties. She needs to find a way to ­settle down before becoming forty.” A ­couple of months ­later, during an interview with Xu at a café, we talked about the day before the wedding. She admitted that she had asked Goto to dye his hair black. She continued: I did not tell my friends about his real age. I told them that he is fifty-­two years old. Only my ­family knew that he is actually sixty-­four years old. In Japan, I ­wouldn’t mind at all if he has white hair ­because no one knows me ­there. But in Dongyang, if someone saw me walking with an old man, ­people might say something about me l­ ater. So I asked him to dye his hair. Recalling the day of the matchmaking meeting, Xu explained to me that although she would not have had enough time to consider the proposal when she was invited to the meeting, she already knew Goto’s basic details from his profile. She knew she was ­going to accept his proposal even before she had met him based on his attributes (including his economic status and residence). I asked the same question that I asked many Japa­nese men, “Have you ever thought about marrying other nationalities?” She answered: “Never. I never thought about marrying or ­going to Eu­rope or Amer­i­ca. I only want to go to Japan.” I asked why. “I think that the Western lifestyles and customs [Chin: sheng­huo xiguan] are too dif­fer­ent. The West is also too far,” she answered. She also had several friends

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already living in Japan and knew that t­ here ­were many Chinese p ­ eople in Japan. She also knew that some ­women married Korean men. She rejected that option, however, saying: “Korean men could be abusive. Many ­women who married Korean men are now returning to Dongyang to escape from them.” Although she did not have a­ ctual friends with such experiences, she participated in circulating such rumors. Yet Xu’s perspective on marriage to a Japa­nese man was ambivalent. To explain Japanese–­Chinese marriages, she said: In Dongyang, ­women who cannot find a marriage partner in China would marry a Japa­nese man. For me, it has been difficult to find someone whose attributes [Chin: tiaojian] are better than mine. Even if I might find someone, t­ hose men [with good tiaojian] would choose a pretty, young w ­ oman in her twenties. I am too old. My age is the only obstacle. Marriage is not the best way to go to Japan. It is not something that I can talk about proudly. I did not tell all my friends about my marriage. I want to come back to Dongyang during Chinese New Year. My ­father said that I could come home, but not with Goto. He said that he would be embarrassed if our neighbors saw him. My f­ ather is sixty-­seven years old, and Goto is sixty-­four years old. He thinks that I made a decision to marry without considering anything. My ­father does not ­really have a bad impression of Japan, yet he is concerned about Goto’s age, it being such a sudden marriage, and my ­going to a faraway place. As compared to the other Chinese brides I met, Xu, having an apartment and car, was relatively well off. That did not mean Xu was confident about her ­future, however. Her savings ­were dwindling and her income as a trader was not stable; she still saw finding a partner as the best way to secure her ­future. Whereas the age at which a person is considered “old” varies across China (Farrer 2002; Gaetano 2008; To 2013), it was clear that age played a crucial role in finding a partner. In Dongyang, a­ fter the age of around twenty-­five, many ­women and their parents started to become anxious (Chin: zhaoji) about finding a partner. In another town, Xinghai (see chapter 5), it was even ­earlier; ­after the age of twenty, parents and relatives started looking for good prospects. In short, age was one of the key components of marriageability for w ­ omen. A local told me: “If the w ­ omen are already twenty-­seven or twenty-­eight, it is almost impossible to find a partner locally. The men between twenty-­eight and thirty years old with good attributes (Chin: tiaojian) are usually already married. If a ­woman’s attributes are good, it is more difficult for her to find a suitable partner; such w ­ omen ­will usually find Japa­nese or Korean husbands. I know one ­woman in my neighborhood. She is twenty-­seven and ­really pretty, but she could not find anyone locally.”

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Another ­woman, whom I first met in China while she was visiting her ­family, told me when we met again in Japan: “When I married, I was in my late twenties, which is way too late to find a partner in Dongyang. So my ­mother said that if I could marry, I should go wherever I could do so. I think that transnational marriages are for ­those who cannot marry locally. If I ­were in my early twenties, I would never marry a Japa­nese man.” She continued: “I can go to China once or twice per year, so I think my circumstances are more fortunate than t­ hose of o ­ thers. My husband also gives my f­ amily money: 600,000 yen [US$7,300] twice a year when he gets a bonus. But I d ­ on’t want to live in Japan forever. I am asking my husband to move to China when he retires.” Although the ­women I met w ­ ere not necessarily the poorest of the poor, and financial support was impor­tant, what they sought was not simply a tool to improve their economic standard of living. The migration of t­ hese ­women was not a “survival strategy” (Brennan 2004, 23) per se, whereby one sacrifices and sells herself or marries out to escape poverty.1 Marrying a Japa­nese man was not seen as the ideal option for many other ­women I met. But it was also a means to avoid a social dead end, one including uncertainty, loneliness, a predictable life, and even the status quo of singlehood. Remaining single was even seen as a pitiful state—­ not simply ­because single ­women did not have a secure ­future (Ebrey 1991; Fan 2008; Ngai 2005; Watson 1991), but also b ­ ecause this implied that no one wanted them.2 In other words, singlehood was equated with undesirability. In such contexts, crossing national borders worked to renegotiate ­women’s marriageability. ­Those who missed the opportunity to marry in the local context engaged in what Hung Cam Thai calls the “convertibility of social worth and re­ spect” (Thai 2008, 10). Drawing on Bourdieu’s social field theory, but further expanding it to transnational fields, Thai argues that transnational social fields can be sites where vari­ous forms of capital are convertible from one form to another. He observes that highly educated “unmarriageable” Viet­nam­ese ­women in Vietnam can be marriageable for working-­class Viet­nam­ese men in the United States and vice versa. Therefore, social worth in marital choice can be convertible on a transnational scale. It is impor­tant to note, however, that such convertibility did not work across just any transnational scale. As Xu claimed, she was not willing to marry just anyone from anywhere; she excluded, for instance, “Western men.” So why was “marrying a Japa­nese man” seen as an acceptable—­albeit not ideal—­option? ­Here, the feeling of “proximity” played a crucial role. Many w ­ omen described Japan as a close place. Geo­graph­i­cally, from Dongyang to Japan, it took a c­ ouple of hours by bus to reach the airport of a larger neighboring city, and from ­there it was only about two hours by plane to Japan. They had the feeling that “they could always come back.” And this proximity was felt to be cultural as well; as

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Xu explained, Japa­nese ­were seen to have a “similar lifestyle” (Chin: sheng­huo xiguan). It is also impor­tant to note that the opportunities offered by transnational convertibility ­were not available to every­one. During my stay in Dongyang, I met a number of w ­ omen who had attempted to find a Japa­nese husband and yet w ­ ere never invited to any matchmaking meetings. Alternately, some w ­ omen ­were invited to matchmaking meetings but w ­ ere never selected. At one branch office, I met a ­woman, Li Fang, who registered in March 2009, but ­after a year and a half still had not heard anything from the broker. So when I encountered her, it was ­because she had de­cided to come by the office again. Fang explained that all her friends ­were married and she was ­really in a hurry and desperate (Chin: zhaoji). She was twenty-­five years old, and for her, the age of twenty-­five was too late to marry. Fang said: “My ­mother is also desperate. I cannot just wait forever. If I have to wait for another half year [to hear from the broker], I w ­ ill be in trou­ble.” As the broker explained to her, matchmaking meetings might take place in the coming week, but then again, they might also not occur ­until much ­later; they simply did not know when the meetings would happen. Furthermore, in many cases, ­women would not be invited for matchmaking meetings at all. Fang said: “­Women in their thirties do not have the right to choose [Chin: meiyou quanli]. If someone is in her thirties, she may be chosen by a man once, but if she declines him, she does not know when her next chance ­will be. So she cannot decline him.” I asked about the ­women in their twenties, and she said that ­women in their twenties still have the right to choose ­because they ­will prob­ably have another chance. As Fang was leaving the office, the broker told her that whenever he found an appropriate man (Chin: heshi de), he would contact her. In practice, though, it was not a m ­ atter of finding a “suitable” person for her. She had to be chosen by a Japa­nese man for a meeting. The staff member explained to me that since she was very tall, almost 180 cm (5.9 feet), her chances of being invited to a meeting ­were slim. Her height meant that few Japa­nese men would be interested in her. Although she was invited for a matchmaking meeting once, as of my last visit in 2013 I had yet to hear that she had any luck finding a husband through China Love. In short, as the ­women involved strug­gled to negotiate their marriageability on a transnational scale, local expectations and values played crucial formative roles in their decisions to cross national borders to marry. Indeed, they w ­ ere not seeking to escape local communities and pressures but rather w ­ ere attempting to navigate and pursue local norms on a transnational scale. Their willingness to cross national borders to marry was closely coupled with their efforts and strug­ gles to conform to local expectations (see, for example, Johnson-­Hanks 2007).3 I do not mean to suggest that their desire to marry off totally ignored the financial

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dimensions of marriage. Indeed, financial betterment was a ­factor, as it was in any domestic marriage as well. Nevertheless, the conception of marrying up alone could not capture the ­women’s anxiety when it came to a ­future in which they might possibly remain single. The next section further discusses how ­those who ­were not chosen ­were perceived in the local community.

Uneven Opportunities for Marriage and Mobility As the above illustrates, the cross-­border marriages I studied ­were constituted by two uneven counter­parts: it was the men who chose, and the ­women who moved. So although Chinese brides moved across national borders, they did not initiate the flows, nor w ­ ere they in charge of their movements (Freeman 2011; Massey 1994). It was the Japa­nese men who for the most part initiated the movements and de­cided which ­women could relocate to Japan. Mobility was not granted simply based on class or gender; it was only available to t­ hose who ­were chosen as “suitable” marriage partners. Correspondingly, while the practices of brokered marriage with Japa­nese men offered some w ­ omen the opportunity to find a marriage partner, ­these practices did not pre­sent the same chances to every­one. The brides’ Japa­nese language teacher, Zhao Xiaohong, was a single ­woman in her mid-­twenties who had been born in Dongyang. Although Xiaohong had never been to Japan, she had majored in Japa­nese at a college in Dalian. Her Japa­ nese was indeed quite fluent, so much so that I was surprised to hear she had not lived in Japan. She also liked to watch Japa­nese dramas online, and ­because of that, knew much Japa­nese slang. Upon graduating from college in Dalian, she had returned to Dongyang. When I met her, she had already been working for almost two years as a Japa­nese teacher at the school administered by China Love. In that period, she had taught a good number of Chinese brides, and a local staff member told me that she would be the person most knowledgeable about them. Xiaohong and the brides met on a daily basis, and ­after class they often went shopping and dining together. Moreover, while other local staff members ­were seen as persons of the agency (Chin: gongsi de ren), the brides saw Xiaohong as a friend or confidant. Indeed, when the brides had something to complain about, they always complained at the school; Xiaohong was an ear for the brides’ grumbles, worries, hopes, and distresses. She also maintained contact with a number of brides ­after they left for Japan. Xiaohong sometimes shared with us gossip concerning who had divorced, who was having extramarital affairs, and so on. ­Because Xiaohong spoke Japa­nese so well, many ­people asked her if she also wanted to marry a Japa­nese man. Although Xiaohong denied any such interest,

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her pictures w ­ ere displayed on the websites of other marriage agencies in Dongyang. A local broker once asked Xiaohong about ­these pictures, as well as a short self-­introductory film that was posted on one website. Xiaohong denied any responsibility and stated that she had not sent her pictures to anyone. She suggested that perhaps someone e­ lse had sent them. When another staff member asked her about it, she answered the same ­thing. None of the staff members believed her. They told me that she indeed wanted to marry a Japa­nese man but could not b ­ ecause she was “chubby” (Chin: pang) and “not pretty” (Chin: bu haokan). By Chinese standards, Xiaohong was “fatter” than her students at the school. She also wore glasses. Although in conversation with the brides Xiaohong herself often commented on the appearance of ­others—­such as who was pretty and who was overweight—­the staff members’ evaluation of Xiaohong’s appearance was particularly harsh. The staff members frequently made fun of Xiaohong, saying she was fat and not pretty. They even called her the Japa­nese word for “dowdy middle-­aged ­woman” (Jp: oba san). By using such terms, the staff members’ comments went beyond her appearance to criticize her be­hav­ior and personality. Although in Dongyang marrying a Japa­nese man was not perceived to be an honor, it was often still deemed the option most available to t­ hose who w ­ ere seen as “pretty girls” (Chin: piaoliang de nühaier). Ultimately, they ­were the ones who ­were likely to be chosen by the Japa­nese men from among the many candidates. Since the brokers invited four to five bridal candidates at a time to the matchmaking meetings, the w ­ omen ­were well aware that o ­ thers ­were also meeting the same Japa­nese man. Sometimes in the meetings, the invited w ­ omen even had to sit on the same couch across from the Japa­nese man and accompanying brokerage staff. And ­after the matchmaking meetings, they had to wait together outside the room for the man’s decision. That said, as noted above, many Chinese w ­ omen who registered at the agency ­were never even invited for matchmaking meetings. Xiaohong was one of ­those w ­ omen, and the broker and staff members ridiculed her for it. Her inability to marry a Japa­nese man, or more precisely, her helplessness despite her “secret” efforts, was linked not only to her appearance but also her perceived marriageability and undesirability. Sometimes ­women can work to pre­sent themselves as desirable wives in matchmaking meetings by smiling in a friendly manner and/or showcasing their hobbies or skills, such as cooking. Yet they have only a short period of time during the matchmaking meeting to do so, and the staff members told me that in the end the Japa­nese men w ­ ere often only looking at the w ­ omen’s ­faces. Not being invited to any matchmaking meetings, Xiaohong did not even have the chance to advertise her cooking abilities or fluent Japa­nese.

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Pei Xu, who was thirty-­six years old at that time, was older than the other brides, yet many p ­ eople viewed her as very pretty (Chin: hen piaoliang). She had lightly curly, long brown hair, a slim body, big eyes, and was always fully made up. She also spent a lot of time and money taking care of her hair and skin. In contrast, another bride, Wang Lijuan, was thirty-­four and was not considered pretty. As a result, the fact that she was “chosen” was treated with some disbelief. Whenever something unfortunate happened to her, such as the initial refusal of her visa, or her husband not being nice to her, the broker frequently said: “She was not supposed to marry a Japa­nese man, yet somehow she was able to do that. But it was some kind of luck or even ­mistake [Jp: machigai].” Moreover, as Lijuan’s Japa­nese husband was a contract worker—­which was also unusual for a client of China Love—­the staff members told me that he did not expect too much from his potential bride, and thus Lijuan was suitable for him. The implication was that if he had been a white-­collar businessman, he would not have chosen her. Thus, w ­ omen’s attributes w ­ ere used not simply to explain their ­actual mobility or immobility, but also to further differentiate between t­ hose who ­were worthy and unworthy of marriage and upward mobility. In other words, the ­women’s features w ­ ere associated with the quality of marriage and mobility that would ensue. While working on one’s body or appearance can be a proj­ect in which bodies are subjected and disciplined (Foucault 1979; Zheng 2003), ­there are also limits. For the Chinese ­women I met, conceptions of who was pretty and who was not ­were not easily altered. On the one hand, general appearance could be framed in terms of the rural–­urban dichotomy. For instance, when the w ­ omen witnessed the female peasants on the street, they pointed out their darker skin colors and dowdy clothing. Yet, on the other hand, for many w ­ omen I met, beauty was seen as almost innate. Although t­ hese ­women ­were not regarded as poor, neither w ­ ere they particularly affluent. Their beauty options consisted of buying inexpensive facial masks or occasionally visiting hair salons. Although Xiaohong tried ­going on a diet and adopting the same hairstyle as other brides, she still remained in their eyes a “fat” and “unappealing” ­woman. Even Xu Pei, whom numerous ­people described as pretty, viewed her own appearance as not what it was when she was in her twenties. While she worked on her appearance, she also felt the limits to preserving her beauty as she aged. Hence, the ability to find a marriage partner, or more precisely, to be chosen as a bride, was crucial not merely for potential mobility; it was also a key indicator of one’s marriageability, beauty, and worth. ­Here what Doreen Massey labels “the power geometry” (1994) shapes not only the differential movement and flow of p ­ eople but also how such differentiated movements reproduce and reinforce the local norms and meanings attached to

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marriage and personhood. Massey argues that in the age of time–­space compression, p ­ eople in dif­fer­ent social groups have dissimilar relations to flows: “Some ­people are more in charge of it than o ­ thers; some initiate flows and movements and ­others ­don’t” (149). Indeed, the Chinese ­women I met in Dongyang ­were not “in charge” of their mobility. Their mobility became pos­si­ble only when Japa­nese men chose them to be their brides. Such mobility, however, was not simply a function of their membership in certain social groups or classes, but also conversely ­shaped and reinforced social categories of worth—­that is, who is worthy of marriage—­and ultimately the centrality of marriage in the local context. In other words, the access, potentiality, and quality of mobility was not merely a consequence of their relations to the flows Massey describes but also worked to differentiate ­women and their value—­those marriageable and unmarriageable, t­ hose worthy and unworthy of upward mobility in the local community.

“Japan” as a Source of Frustration and Privilege The last part of this chapter looks at another dilemma with which the w ­ omen strug­gled: “Japan.” It was a source of both frustration and prestige. As shown in ­earlier chapters, Dongyang’s historical relationship to Japan was perceived as less substantial than that of Xinghai. While t­ here was less anti-­Japan sentiment ­there than elsewhere in China (especially compared with the south), not many individuals possessed direct connections to Japan. Most of the ­women only knew friends who had migrated to Japan for marriage before them. They had a relatively good image of Japan itself—­they thought of it as “clean and nice”—­but si­mul­ta­neously held mixed or negative images of Japa­nese men. In contrast to work that suggests that some non-­Western ­women desire Western husbands b ­ ecause they believe Western men to hold more liberal and egalitarian attitudes about gender (Constable 2003), the Chinese ­women I met generally saw Japa­nese men as more “backward” in this area. Although w ­ omen did express the belief that they shared more with Japa­nese than Western men in customs and lifestyles, t­ hese commonalities w ­ ere not seen as extending to gender ideologies. Unlike Chinese men, who, according to the brides, often cooked and took care of h ­ ouse­hold chores, Japa­nese men ­were said to be more chauvinistic (Chin: dananzi zhuyi). Correspondingly, many ­women expressed frustration when they ­were expected to fill the role of “the Japa­nese ­woman,” a role seen as not simply entailing a gendered division of ­labor but also a position of inferiority vis-­à-­v is men. For instance, the Japa­nese language teacher, Xiaohong, told me that Chinese w ­ omen often became upset when they learned the Japa­nese term for “husband” (Jp: shu-

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jin). Shujin is written with Chinese characters as zhuren (which means “master,” “host,” or “owner”). They think that the term is not respectful of w ­ omen. Many ­women criticized some gender inequalities while taking ­others for granted. For instance, no ­women complained about relocating themselves to Japan upon marriage. Even if they ­were not enthusiastic about crossing national borders, they accepted that their move was part of marriage. Whereas many ­women wished to work once they acquired the requisite language skills, they also assumed that their Japa­nese husbands would be the primary breadwinners. Many ­were also aware that ­house­hold chores ­were the job of ­women in Japan. The ­women also accepted the complementary roles in marriage to some extent. Hence, many w ­ omen initially showed no hesitation when it came to attending “culture” lessons offered by the staff members from China Love. ­Every weekend, a local staff member invited the Chinese brides for cooking lessons. The local staff member, together with a chef at a Japa­nese restaurant in Dongyang, taught them to make basic and easy Japa­nese dishes, such as rice balls, miso soup, and stewed beef and potatoes. When three brides attended the lesson together, it could be a fun event as they cooked while making fun of each other, joking about whose rice balls looked better. Nonetheless, gendered aspects w ­ ere never absent. When looking at Japa­nese utensils for c­ ouples, a bride complained, “Why are men’s chopsticks longer than w ­ omen’s and why are men’s tea mugs larger than ­women’s?” The dif­fer­ent size of utensils, which is usually taken for granted in Japan, was a sign of gender in­equality to the Chinese w ­ omen; t­ hese ­women had internalized the reduced gender differentiation of the Maoist era (Freeman 2011).4 Many Japa­nese men expected their Chinese brides to not only play a gendered Japa­nese role but also to look and act like a Japa­nese person (see chapter 3). How, then, did ­women respond to Japa­nese men’s attempts to make them look Japa­ nese? In many cases, the Chinese ­women in question often did not know what their grooms ­were talking about due to linguistic barriers. Translation by the agency’s staff members was tactically ­limited; the staff would not translate what they ­were not supposed to. This is also ­because their business was to broker marriages, not to help ­couples get to know one another better. As a staff member told me: “­These marriages would not be contracted if the ­couples understood each other well. Their marriages are made on the basis of mutual misunderstandings [Jp: kanchigai].” Nonetheless, the ­women did not simply accept the attempts by their husbands to make them more Japa­nese. When aware of them, they complained about and criticized such efforts. But on the other hand, the w ­ omen also realized that looking Japa­nese could be a source of prestige, as it entailed not only their ability to refashion themselves but also material benefits. Many ­women expressed frustration and resentment when they w ­ ere excessively asked to act Japa­nese by their husbands. Japa­nese language classes ­were where the

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Chinese brides exchanged their stories with other brides, commiserated, and sometimes also competed to show who received the most expensive gifts from their husbands. One day in August, Ms. Liang Song came to class and told us: “I am not feeling well ­today. Last night, my husband said on the phone that my Japa­nese still sounds like a foreigner. So my husband is trying to arrange intensive language lessons five days per week for me!” Song’s husband, Mr. Kato, whom I met in Tokyo, asked her to study not only conversational Japa­nese but also correct grammar. When I met Kato in Tokyo, he also claimed that he did not want his wife to speak “foreign-­sounding Japa­nese” (Jp: gaikokujin mitaina nihongo). The teacher and other brides ­were also upset and indignant. A bride said: “Of course! ­Because we are not Japa­nese! We ­will never speak like the Japa­nese. Then they should have married a Japa­nese wife. But they ­couldn’t. Maybe it was cheaper to marry a Chinese wife!” She continued: “Your husband is such a chauvinistic male. You are so pitiable [Chin: kelian]. Get a divorce!” However, the ability to refashion oneself as a more Japanese-­looking or Japanese-­sounding person was not simply a sign of one’s ability but also a sign of material and social privileges not every­one could receive. Purchasing new, more “Japanese-­looking” clothing or attending language schools with their husbands’ financial support was available only to some, not all, Chinese brides who moved to Japan. Song departed for Japan several weeks ­later. She attended language classes almost daily in Japan. Ironically, the bride who criticized Kato now envied Song, saying: “My husband does not allow me to go to a language school ­because it is too expensive. He is so stingy.” While many ­women complained that their husbands requested that they act Japa­nese, being faced with a lack of resources for them to adapt to Japa­nese society was seen as even worse. For instance, one bride complained that her husband did not give her a Japa­nese name, while other brides who came to Japan from the same agency all had new Japa­nese names.5 While Song attended a private language school almost e­ very day and improved her Japa­ nese, other brides could only afford to attend f­ ree lessons offered by community volunteers once a week. Some brides wore clothes purchased in Japan, but o ­ thers continued wearing the clothes they brought from China. The w ­ omen encountered difficult and contradictory negotiations concerning keeping their Chinese identity and the gains that ­were part of transforming themselves into being more Japa­ nese. Ironically, their wish to keep and gain often clashed. Gaining “Japa­nese” ­things was both a privilege and the object of frustration. Although many brides complained about being “made Japa­nese,” the resources they could use to act Japa­ nese w ­ ere seen as a benefit that they gained from their marriages. Looking Japa­nese also included their attire. When they first came to an agency or a matchmaking meeting, most of the w ­ omen came in the same clothing they

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typically wore. Japa­nese staff members looked at ­women’s profile pictures sent from Dongyang and often told me that the ­women did not understand what Japa­ nese men would look for. They frequently gave advice, such as how to dress (in a skirt or dress), how to sit with their knees tight together, and to smile. Also, if they had long hair, instead of pulling it back, they ­were told to let it hang down in front of their chest. Staff also stressed that they did not need pictures taken at a professional photo studio. The extravagant makeup, dresses, and artificial background used by ­these studios would be too much for potential Japa­nese husbands. The latter would prefer, the staff continued, natu­ral makeup and ­simple, yet feminine clothing. ­After they married, ­women started thinking about their life in Japan and ­things they would bring to Japan. Their criteria for consumption gradually shifted to ­whether or not they could bring an item to Japan, and this also entailed ­whether or not it would help them “look Japa­nese.” The brides w ­ ere somehow aware that what was popu­lar in China was not necessarily so in Japan. For instance, one bride explained that in China, clothing with a lot of sparkling ornamentation was seen as cute and popu­lar, but in Japan, s­ imple clothing in dark colors was more popu­ lar. Looking at Japa­nese fashion magazines available in Dongyang, brides also stated that Chinese makeup sought to be flamboyant, while Japa­nese makeup appeared natu­ral. Although sometimes they looked at my clothing and compared it with their own clothing to find the differences in taste between Japan and China (I was often wearing dark, s­ imple clothing), their images of what was “Japa­nese” also came from elsewhere. Teacher Xiaohong, who was seen as more knowledgeable about Japan, was seen as able to decide which clothing, hairstyle, or makeup, looked Japa­nese. One day, Xu came in a seemingly new jacket. I inquired if she had bought it recently. Xu answered no, but then asked me if she could bring it to Japan. I said, of course she could, the color of the jacket was very nice. Xu further asked, “but can ­people tell if I am Chinese in this jacket?” pointing to some shiny ornaments on it. Then teacher Xiaohong said, “they w ­ ill prob­ably know that right away.” Xu suddenly changed her mind and said, “then I ­won’t bring it!” This kind of conversation was not ­limited to her or this occasion. Even when they ­were not asked to wear certain clothing, many ­women consciously selected the attire they would buy and bring to Japan according to the criteria above. Lieba Faier (2009) observes that the local residents in Central Kiso in Japan described Filipina ­women who ­were married to Japa­nese men as ii oyomesan (good brides and daughters-­in-­law), which worked as a way to define the standard be­hav­iors of young married ­women and discipline them accordingly. By calling some Filipina ­women but not ­others ii oyomesan, Faier argues, “they interpellated them into gendered discourses of kinship and national belonging” (155). Yet it is impor­tant to note, Faier further claims, that Filipina ­women who are labeled as

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ii oyomesan do not simply accept the Japa­nese way of ­doing ­things but also negotiate their per­for­mance of ii oyomesan to create their transnational subjectivity, including challenging the negative images of Filipina w ­ omen in Japan. As suggested by Faier, looking Japa­nese also carried multiple connotations for the w ­ omen. It involved a disciplinary mechanism for assimilating the Chinese brides into the “Japa­nese ­people” (albeit w ­ hether such a homogenous group exists in the first place is another question). Nonetheless, the Chinese brides also took plea­sure in looking Japa­nese when it was made pos­si­ble by the material benefits their marriage brought.

Anxiety and Unease about Border Crossing While feeling some pride and prestige for being chosen as the wife of a Japa­nese man, many ­women also si­mul­ta­neously expressed a sense of uneasiness and even embarrassment about their marriage and relocating to Japan. Many w ­ omen actively sought out the chance to marry; yet marrying out from their community was not their original intention. The status of being married gave many w ­ omen a feeling of security, yet actually crossing national borders made them anxious and uneasy. During the Japa­nese language lessons in Dongyang, Pei Xu often expressed concerns about her spousal visa application. Since marrying Goto at the end of July 2009, she had been left waiting in Dongyang for the necessary certificate of residency (Jp: zairyū kyoka) from Japan. Xu was especially concerned about the age gap between herself and her husband (she was thirty-­six and Goto was sixty-­ four). She had heard rumors that c­ ouples with a large age gap had more difficulty obtaining visas. ­Every Thursday at noon, Xu received a call from Goto in Japan. Goto was always punctual, calling at exactly 12:00 p.m. ­Because Xu did not understand what Goto was telling her, she de­cided to stay at school ­until 12:00 p.m., so that Xiaohong and I could translate Goto’s call. Their calls generally lasted about ten minutes or so, and they usually talked about the weather, Goto’s daily life, and plans for Xu’s life in Japan. One Thursday at the end of September, Goto called her promptly at noon. Instead of talking about the regular topics, such as the weather, Goto’s first words ­were, “Your certificate of status of residency for Japan has been approved!” B ­ ecause we had put our ­faces ­really close to her phone, we also heard it. Xiaohong and I looked at each other, got excited, and told Xu, “­Great!” We translated for her quickly: “Chin: shouxu xialaile!” However, Xu appeared rather dumbfounded. Goto continued: “Tomorrow I ­will visit China Love with the doc-

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uments, and the documents w ­ ill arrive in Dongyang prob­ably next week. When you receive them next week, please go to Shenyang to apply for a visa. Also, ­don’t forget to apply for a passport.” Again, we translated. Xu still looked shocked by the news. They continued their phone conversation for several minutes, talking about the weather and so on. ­After hanging up the phone, the three of us ran up to the calendar hanging on the wall. Xiaohong tried to figure it out: “If the document arrives in Dongyang next week, the following week ­will be the National Day holiday, so you cannot go to the Japa­nese embassy in Shenyang then. So, if you go t­ here the following Monday, and it usually takes a week to issue a visa, then you can go to Japan by the end of October!” Xu made a ­really painful face and looked like she was about to cry. We went out for lunch. While in the elevator, b ­ ecause Xu seemed to be ­really worried about ­going to Japan, I told her that even if the visa was issued quickly, she could go whenever she was ready. Xu said, “I am not emotionally ready yet [Chin: wo haimei xinli zhunbei hao].” Xiaohong told her: “You w ­ ere concerned about ­whether or not your application would be approved, and when it is approved, you are so sad and almost crying! You should be happy!” Indeed, the other day, Xu had been worried about ­whether her spousal visa would be issued without any delays or prob­lems. Yet when she received the call that her certificate of residency had been approved, she was almost ready to cry—­not happy tears, but fearful tears. Pei Xu’s worries about “not ­going to Japan” and “­going to Japan” confused me at first. But as I came to know more ­women, I discovered that Xu was not the only one whose aspirations, hopes, hesitations, and distresses shifted with her everyday experience. Just as Xu was not willing to tell ­others about her marriage to Goto, other ­women displayed similar preferences. While Xu was still attending Japa­nese lessons, Ms. Wang Lijuan joined the class. Lijuan, a thirty-­four-­year-­old divorcée with an eight-­year-­old son, married a Japa­nese man at the end of September. Although her former Chinese husband took guardianship, Lijuan lived with their son. When she married a Japa­nese man, Mr. Noguchi, who was in his early forties, bureaucratic errors prevented them from holding a wedding ceremony. Two months ­later, Noguchi came back to Dongyang for the wedding ceremony and the taking of photo­graphs, which w ­ ere impor­tant as “proof ” of their marriage for the Immigration Office. During the day at the photography studio, Lijuan told me that her “friend” might not make it to the wedding ceremony. I interpreted what she said as meaning that one of her friends might not come.6 So I told her that this was disappointing, but not to worry. However, it turned out she was not referring to one specific friend, as no one came. The local agency staff members prepared two

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t­ ables. Each ­table could seat approximately ten ­people. As planned, one t­ able was for Noguchi’s guests and the other was for Lijuan’s guests. As no one came from Japan for Noguchi, the local staff sat in as his guests. The party was supposed to start at 6:00 p.m. Although we waited for Lijuan’s guests, indeed, no one came. The staff became worried and even embarrassed, as one of the ­tables was empty. Initially, someone suggested filming the wedding video from ­angles that would omit the empty ­table. Fortunately, also pre­sent w ­ ere two other male customers from Japan and their prospective Chinese brides. A local staff member suggested that some of us move to the other t­able, so it would look as if both t­ables ­were occupied. A ­ fter five or six p ­ eople moved over, both t­ ables had some guests, and thereafter the wedding ceremony could begin. The following day, Lijuan told me that she had not invited anyone on purpose. She said that she did not want o ­ thers to know that she was marrying a Japa­ nese man. If she had told some of her friends, then other p ­ eople would soon know as well b ­ ecause Dongyang is a small town. So while the local staff w ­ ere waiting for her guests, she already knew that no one would come. As other brides departed for Japan, Lijuan was the last bride left waiting in China for a certificate of residency. A local staff member asked me to teach her more practical forms of conversation on Fridays. Teacher Xiaohong was also happy, as she was able to take an extra day off. As I sat in on her lessons from Monday to Thursday, and had individual conversation practice with her on Friday, we naturally spent more time together. On the one hand, Lijuan was very much willing to go to Japan. She repeatedly told me that the Japa­nese ­people, in general, are of a higher quality (Chin: suzhi hao) than Chinese ­people. Japan, in her view, was very clean, unlike China, where p ­ eople threw garbage everywhere. On the other hand, however, while Lijuan was hopeful about ­going to Japan, she also wanted to postpone her departure as much as pos­si­ble. At that time, she had been married for one month. She still had to possibly wait four to five months before departing for Japan. She stressed that she did not mind waiting and was not at all in a hurry to go to Japan. She said: “I can wait ­until next spring or even next summer. When the time comes, I ­will go, but if not, it is ok that I do not go right away.” Yet when her certificate of residency was rejected for the first time in early February, she became very upset and desperate to depart for Japan (see more in chapter 6).

Conclusion This chapter explored the multiple dilemmas w ­ omen in Dongyang faced when engaging in cross-­border marriages with Japa­nese men. Remaining single was not

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a desirable or acceptable option for a number of reasons, not the least ­because marriage was viewed by both w ­ omen and their larger community as necessary for securing their ­future. This notion that one should marry by a certain age to secure one’s ­future—­while certainly widely shared within China—­interacted with the local social context of Dongyang to create pressures for ­women to seek brokered cross-­border marriages with Japa­nese men. Securing one’s f­ uture entailed securing both one’s marital status and financial well-­being, and while the latter was seen as linked to the former, the former also had a value in and of itself. This chapter underscored the argument that conceptions of marrying up and marry down are subjectively as opposed to objectively determined (Constable 2003; Freeman 2005; Thai 2008). But in many cases, w ­ omen more than anything felt pressure to “marry off ”—to marry for the sake of no longer being single. Staying single not only was thought to leave ­women financially insecure; it also placed them within in the category of “­those ­women no one wants.” Many scholars have examined the relationship between inequalities and marriage, but this work has generally focused on inequalities within marital relations, primarily between men and ­women. Marriage, however, also creates disparities between t­ hose who are married and ­those who remain unmarried. For ­women in Dongyang, marriage was a privilege not only b ­ ecause it would secure their f­ uture and could bring material benefits—­clothing, travel, language lessons, and so forth—­but also b ­ ecause it separated them from “helpless single w ­ omen” whose attempts to find a Japa­nese husband had failed. Indeed, across the many Chinese ­women I met, the meanings attached to marriage ­were multiple and diverse. By introducing the notion of marrying off, this chapter also suggests that marrying itself should not be taken for granted. W ­ hether one is marrying “up,” “down,” “out,” or simply “off,” they first have to find a marriage partner. The conflicts that many ­women in Dongyang experienced in Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border marriages stemmed not only from the unequal constitution of marriage between its two partners, but also between the married and the unmarried.

5 GENDERED INVESTMENTS IN MARRIAGE MIGRATION

I arrived in another major bride-­sending community, the town of Xinghai in Heilongjiang Province, in the winter of 2010. My original plan was to arrive before the Chinese New Year in order to meet brides who had come home from Japan to visit their families. What I found was that no one was willing to introduce me to any of ­these ­women. Being without in­for­mants or concrete plans left me quite anxious. Ultimately, however, this pushed me down a path that, while at first seemingly unrelated, would help me better understand why Xinghai was a major sending community. Precisely, not knowing what to do or where to go during the New Year, I made a call to a f­ amily (unaffiliated with the bridal industry) whom I had met in Japan a month prior. Fortunately, they invited me to stay for the New Year with them at their h ­ ouse in an outlying village. Spending time with this local ­family unexpectedly provided a win­dow into why Japan was such a popu­lar destination for many of the residents of Xinghai, not just potential brides. The village was located about fifteen minutes by car outside of Xinghai and consisted of approximately seventy to eighty h ­ ouse­holds. The villa­gers w ­ ere primarily farmers. Their work began in April, so during the winter they enjoyed a long break. Ms. Gao and her husband had just returned from Japan, where we first met. Her mother-­in-­law was a Japa­nese war orphan, and it was that status that had permitted Gao’s ­family to move to Japan. Gao herself had lived in Japan since 1995. Her ­children, a son and d ­ aughter, now also lived in Japan and had remained t­ here over the New Year. Gao had, however, brought her grandchildren with her: two ­little girls (ages seven and ten), and a one-­year-­old boy. Despite having had a number of dif­fer­ent jobs during her fifteen years in Japan, including being a janitor and 116

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working in a dry-­cleaning shop, she confessed that she could not speak Japa­nese well. Our conversations ­were only ever in Chinese. During the week of the New Year, neighbors gathered e­ very day at Gao’s h ­ ouse to play mahjong. At first I sat with them in the large communal room, watching them play, but at some point, unable to tolerate the cigarette smoke, I sought refuge in Gao’s bedroom. ­There I found Gao watching tele­v i­sion and we struck up a conversation. I asked Gao how many p ­ eople from the village had moved to Japan. She tried to count for a moment: “That ­house had war orphans, that ­house was for marriage,” and then she looked at me and said, “they have all gone” (Chin: dou zoule). By marriage, she was also referring to marriages between ­people in Xinghai and second-­or third-­generation war orphans living in Japan. She said that in one way or another, each ­house­hold had sent someone to Japan. ­After she and her husband had retired, she had returned to Xinghai and bought an apartment in town. She rented it out and lived in the newly built h ­ ouse where we ­were spending the New Year. She was now involved in preparing a trainee visa for her nephew to go to Japan, but she admitted that he would not be able to earn much with that visa status. All the same, they still intended to send him to Japan. One after­noon, a friend of Gao’s two grand­daughters came to visit, and the three of them gathered together to watch a drama on the Internet. For some reason, one of the grand­daughters became upset with her friend and angrily reproached her, “Does your ­family have money?” She continued, “My f­amily has money! [Chin: wode laojia you qian].” Her ­sister chimed in, “My f­ ather’s and ­mother’s monthly incomes are RMB 400,000 ($60,000) and RMB 200,000 ($30,000)!” Considering the amounts of money involved, I assumed they ­were talking about annual income, not monthly income. Yet the distinction mattered ­little to the grand­daughters. I l­ater asked Gao about the incident, and she told me that the ­little girl’s ­family had not sent anyone to Japan. It struck me that it was not only brides who sought to go to Japan, but also other members of the community—­ men and ­women, young and old.

This chapter’s primary aim is to examine how Chinese w ­ omen in the town of Xinghai navigated their marriageability. And in ­doing so, it offers a picture of cross-­border matchmaking practices that, due to differences in the local context, is distinct in a number of ways from Dongyang. In par­tic­u­lar, this chapter ethnographically demonstrates how par­tic­u­lar local expectations ­shaped both ­women’s desires and the pressures they experienced. What is more, it explores the ways w ­ omen saw themselves as active subjects in t­ hese matchmaking pro­ cesses, even if t­ hese feelings of agency w ­ ere unstable, as they could become hostage to f­ actors outside their control.

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In the post–­Mao period, the aspiration for mobility became much more common in many parts of China. Accordingly, following the introduction of “reform and opening up” policies and with a corresponding decline in the enforcement of the ­house­hold registration system, China has witnessed not only large-­scale movement from rural to urban areas internally but even new flows of p ­ eople 1 transnationally (Chu 2010; Ong 1999; Sun 2002). And yet, the migration of Xinghai residents to Japan followed a slightly dif­fer­ent arc. As outlined in chapter 1, the flow of ­people between Xinghai and Japan had already begun in the 1930s— at that time from Japan to Xinghai—­and then subsequently, especially since the 1980s, in the reverse direction—­from Xinghai to Japan. The notion in Xinghai that one should go to Japan thus had a longer history. And indeed, many had seen relatives, neighbors, and friends depart to Japan—as repatriated war orphans, as genuine or counterfeit descendants thereof, or via other pathways. Consequently, for many locals Japan felt as if it was very close, and the idea that one should go to Japan seemed natu­ral, even taken for granted. All the same, regardless of such local expectations, when I conducted my fieldwork in the 2000s, getting to Japan was no longer so easy: it required significant investments of effort and resources and was beset by a variety of obstacles, including tougher visa standards. Within that context, marriage migration was one of the few remaining means available for locals to go to Japan, albeit a very gendered one. And even for ­women, such opportunities ­were not so easily realized. Many ­women had to pay significant brokerage fees, and even ­these ­were no guarantee that one would be able to migrate to Japan. In short, ­women found themselves struggling with the twin pressures of communal expectations that they leave for Japan and pragmatic difficulties—­including fees, visa applications, and such—­ that pursuing such mobility entailed. Their strug­gles and investments also complicate ­simple notions of agency and de­pen­dency within ­these pro­cesses. Although in many cases of cross-­border marriage, ­women are not fully “in charge of [their] mobility” (Massey 1994), scholars have nonetheless examined the importance of ­women’s agency and subjectivity despite the constraints of such marital relations (Constable 2009; Freeman 2011; Pessar and Mahler 2003). ­Women in such relations, for instance, may actively select partners (Constable 2003), use marriage for upward mobility, or even employ cross-­border marriage to escape familial pressures at home (Chao 2005). The Chinese ­women in Xinghai also experienced a sense of subjectivity, not just when it came to selecting partners or making the decision to migrate but also ­because they themselves ­were paying money for the chance to marry and move to Japan. Indeed, few ­women thought that they ­were simply passive objects of exchange that ­were being sold or commodified: it was they themselves who chose

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to spend money; they actively participated in commodifying their marriages, their potential Japa­nese husbands, and even their own person. That said, however, their sense of agency remained very fragile, as ultimately their departure to Japan depended not just on the money invested but also other ­things beyond their control. In what follows, I offer an ethnography of the local context in which w ­ omen from Xinghai w ­ ere choosing to go to Japan, a study of the financial transactions involved in matchmaking practices, and a look at the dynamics of departure. My goal is to demonstrate the complex interactions among local values and w ­ omen’s aspirations, investments, and experienced pressures. By ­doing so, I further show the ways ­women held complicated and contradictory attitudes ­toward their participation in cross-­border marriage.

Japan as the Object of Familiarity and Unfamiliarity What made Xinghai distinct from other places in China was its outward display of familiarity with Japan. Almost all restaurants and stores, with the pos­si­ble exception of a few older establishments, supplied Japa­nese translations on their signage. Usually the lettering on signs for stores consisted of Chinese on the top and Japa­nese translations below in smaller letters. When I first arrived, I was fascinated by the Japa­nese on ­these signs and often walked around the town looking at them. To be honest, I was also often privately amused by them. Many ­were literally translated from the Chinese in ways that would strike a native Japa­nese speaker as strange and even funny. For example, “Dawei [a name that implies ‘greatness’] supermarket” (Chin: dawei chaoshi) in Chinese somehow became “A big greatness chooses the supermarket freely” (Jp: ōkii i ha supāmākettowo jiyū ni sentakushimasu) in Japa­nese (see figure 2). I subsequently gleaned that many of the signs w ­ ere based on computer translations; hence the unnatural results. In other instances, the translation might be right, but ­those who created the signs did not know Japa­nese and thus d ­ idn’t know which way to a­ ngle the letters. Some stores also appropriated the names of locations that had personal significance for their o ­ wners, such as the names of cities they had visited or in which they had worked in Japan, such as “Tokyo Supermarket” (Chin: Dongjing chaoshi) or “Nagano Con­ve­nience Store” (Chin: Changye bianlidian). I asked some locals why all stores displayed Japa­nese signage. A teacher at a local Japa­nese school told me that many p ­ eople from Xinghai went to Japan ­because Xinghai and Japan have a unique relationship. He continued, “We want to show friendliness [Chin: qinqie] to Japa­nese, and when they visit Xinghai, they see Japa­nese names and it is con­ve­nient [Chin: fangbian] for them.” I l­ ater learned

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FIGURE 2.  A store sign with a Japa­nese translation in Xinghai. Photo by author.

from a government official that a local rule had been issued requiring businesses to display Japa­nese translations on their signs. Due to Xinghai’s history with war orphans and its subsequent boom as a destination for matchmaking tours, Japa­nese journalists or researchers sometimes visited Xinghai. Yet as far as I knew, ­there ­were few Japa­nese tourists in Xinghai apart from t­hose who visited for matchmaking meetings or participated in the Japa­nese pilgrimages to the war orphan monuments ­every summer. One government official claimed to me that they wanted to establish Xinghai as a place that had an exceptional relationship with Japan. Thus, displaying familiarity with Japan was also part of a local effort to create Xinghai’s uniqueness. The town had even recently developed a qiaocun—­a quarter where t­ hose who went to Japan built large and extravagant h ­ ouses while they themselves still lived and worked in Japan (see figure 3).2 The built environment is a good site for ethnographic analy­sis. Julie Chu (2010), for instance, has studied the transformation of the built environment in Fuzhou, where locals created lavish buildings and ­temples with overseas remittances from the United States, and yet the locals in that area experienced a feeling of displacement as a result of their own immobility. This contrasts with the assumption in other scholarship that feelings of displacement accompany mo-

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FIGURE 3.  Unoccupied h ­ ouses in Xinghai. Photo by author.

bility. Like the village Chu studied, the locals in Xinghai also ­shaped and ­were ­shaped by the built environment. The use of the Japa­nese language in Xinghai was not a new phenomenon. When I was in a car passing through one of the nearby villages, the locals pointed out a sign for a local village and said, “Look, you see it says er ban [Group 2] t­here? The name and sign ­were originally made during the period of Japa­nese colonialism to group h ­ ouse­holds in the village But p ­ eople still use this name t­ oday” (see figure 4). H ­ ere, Chinese locals still employed and displayed the Japa­nese names created by Japa­nese colonizers. Nonetheless, the more recent displays of Japa­nese signage carried a dif­fer­ent connotation. T ­ hese ­were made by the locals themselves. They ­were not simply for Japa­nese tourists. Rather, t­hese signs played a role in creating certain values regarding mobility and familiarity with Japan. This ostensible familiarity with Japan was evident not only in the store signs; ­there ­were also many p ­ eople who w ­ ere studying Japa­nese. In a town so small that I could completely traverse it by foot in u ­ nder twenty minutes, t­ here ­were more than six or seven Japa­nese language schools. I visited four of them, and each school had more than forty to fifty students. Their teachers w ­ ere Chinese nationals who had spent some time in Japan, ­either as students or workers. Their students ­were all hoping to go to Japan, ­either to work, study, marry, or re­unite

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FIGURE 4.  The “Group 2” sign in Xinghai. Photo by author.

with their families. Furthermore, when I visited public showers or just wandered around the markets, it was not uncommon to encounter Chinese w ­ omen speaking to their ­children in Japa­nese. Such ­women generally had Japa­nese husbands and had brought their c­ hildren back with them from Japan to visit their families. More in­ter­est­ing to note is that the Japa­nese yen was also part of many residents’ daily life. When I visited a local bank with a friend, t­ here ­were several ­people at the ­counter depositing Japa­nese yen; ­there was also a handwritten sign stating the rate of yen–­renminbi conversion that was updated daily. ­Those who received Japa­nese yen in cash w ­ ere waiting to exchange their holdings at the best rate pos­si­ble. In a town that sought to display familiarity with Japan, however, what was significant was a simultaneous lack thereof. The displays indicated an in­ter­est­ing contradiction in that seeming familiarity (“Japan” was everywhere) and unfamiliarity (mistranslations, misinformation, and odd appropriations) coexisted. In a place where one out of four families claimed to have relatives living in Japan, many I encountered told me that they had lived in Japan, worked in Japan, or studied in Japan, and if not they themselves, their friends or relatives had done so. But at

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the same time, it also seemed that many had not had the chance to personally interact in much depth with Japa­nese ­people. ­Those who claimed that they had lived in Japan did not want to talk to me in Japa­nese and frequently told me that their Japa­nese was not good. Even ­those brides who ­were waiting for spousal visas never personally asked me to practice Japa­nese. Furthermore, while many locals had seen Japa­nese men visiting on matchmaking tours, few had actually seen a Japa­nese w ­ oman like myself. In terms of my research, this was an advantage. When I made a new local friend, he or she would want to introduce me to ­others as his or her “Japa­nese friend.” Sometimes, I was invited to dinners only so that the host could show me to their friends. When being introduced, I was described as “pure Japa­nese” (Chin: chun riben ren), in contrast to ­those who ­were naturalized Japa­nese. In such a local context, g­ oing to Japan was not simply an individual strategy, but rather, as the next section shows, had become embedded within local expectations.

­G oing to Japan as a Social Expectation As a broker in Dongyang had warned me, the brokerage systems in Xinghai ­were more complex, unstructured, and under­ground than ­those in Dongyang. Although ­there ­were many agencies listed on the Internet, few brokers ­were willing to meet with me to be interviewed. Some brokers responded to my e-­mails, but when I told them that I was in Xinghai, they ­stopped replying to me. I visited some of the branch office addresses listed on the agencies’ websites but found no a­ ctual agencies at ­these locations. The few brokers who did agree to meet me ­were ­those carry­ing out relatively structured brokerage ser­vices, with ­actual offices where recruitments took place or with seemingly reasonable fees for the w ­ omen. Consequently, I had difficulty locating Chinese brides during the initial stage of my research in Xinghai. Nonetheless, whenever I met locals and talked to them about marriages with Japa­nese men, almost all of them knew someone who was married to a Japa­nese man, confirming that many matchmakings (Chin: xiangqin) ­were occurring in the town. ­After not being able to find any brides for several weeks, frustrated, I de­cided to regularly visit local Japa­nese language schools instead of relying on brokers. ­There I easily found brides. It is in­ter­est­ing to note that once I located several brides at the schools, it became much easier to find more. Some brides asked me to translate phone calls with their Japa­nese husbands; some asked me exactly what their husband’s business cards said or where exactly their husbands lived. I visited two schools on a daily basis. Despite the fact that the principal of each school insisted that a greater proportion of their pupils ­were “hard-­working” (Chin: nuli

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de) students preparing for study abroad as opposed to brides, both schools had a considerable number of the latter. I also met a number of locals who ­were planning to go to Japan for other reasons. One female student had recently graduated from high school and was hoping to study abroad in Japan. A ­ fter listening to what other students who married Japa­nese men had to say, she said, “I still ­don’t want to marry, I want to go to Japan as a student.” She had relatives living in Japan, and she was intending to stay with them while she studied. She spent several weeks preparing to study abroad. She took the standardized Japa­nese exam and applied to a vocational school in Japan. Although the vocational school accepted her, her application for a student visa was declined. She then ­stopped coming. The school principal informed me that once a student’s application for a student visa was declined, ­there was no pro­cess of appeal or opportunity to reapply. Therefore, the only way remaining for this young ­woman to go to Japan was for her to marry a Japa­nese man. Unlike this individual, many of the ­women I met did not even have the option of applying to study abroad b ­ ecause they had not obtained a high school diploma. For them, marriage was from the start their only pos­si­ble path to Japan. My encounter with Sun Hua also came about in an unexpected way. I met Sun Hua, who was married to a Japa­nese man, when she happened to rent a room in the three-­bedroom apartment where I was living. Although she seemed to be relatively old compared to the other Chinese brides I had met thus far, especially in Dongyang, her experience turned out to be not an uncommon one for marriage migration in Xinghai. Indeed, in Xinghai it was not only young ­women who engaged in cross-­border marriages with Japa­nese men. Based on what I knew from Dongyang, I once asked a Xinghai local, “Not any ­woman can marry a Japa­nese man, right?” She replied: “Well, anyone can. Even if you are old and ugly, you can. But you have to pay a lot of brokerage fees and find an old man.” Skeptical, I prodded her further, asking: “­Really? Anyone?” She answered: “I think so. All of my friends and acquaintances who wanted to go to Japan went sooner or l­ater.” Apparently, ­there ­were significant differences between cross-­border marriages in Dongyang and Xinghai. Sun Hua was a forty-­nine-­year-­old w ­ idow with a twenty-­year-­old son who lived and worked in a neighboring town. Her Chinese husband had passed away two years prior. Since then, she had moved from her village (Chin: xiang) to the town (Chin: xian) of Xinghai and had taken up a number of temporary jobs at restaurants, h ­ otels, and public showers. Sun Hua married a Japa­nese man in December 2009 via the introduction of a broker. Although she had given out her picture to friends, the invitation to a matchmaking meeting was unexpected. Mr. Kanai, Sun Hua’s Japa­nese husband, was in his sixties, lived in Nigata, and at

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that time worked as a driver. The broker had originally planned to introduce Kanai to another ­woman in Harbin. But when that ­woman did not show up for some reason, the broker called Sun Hua to ask that she travel to Harbin as quickly as pos­si­ble to act as a substitute. Sun Hua immediately boarded a bus and, ­after a three-­hour bus ­ride, arrived in Harbin and met with Kanai. They agreed to marry the following day. They spent a few days together in Harbin before Kanai left for Japan, where, upon his return, he registered their marriage and applied for Sun Hua’s spousal visa. When I met Sun Hua, she was studying Japa­nese in Xinghai while waiting for her visa. She said: “When my [Chinese] husband died, it was r­ eally hard. It was so hard that my hair turned white. So, I just wanted a change of environment and sought a Japa­nese husband. Living alone is just so hard. I just want someone on whom I can depend. I just wanted to leave the country [Chin: chuguo]. My son agreed with this, so long as I was happy with a transnational marriage. My son also said that living alone is r­ eally difficult. My ­brother also agreed. My parents at first opposed my g­ oing. They asked what I would do in Japan at the age of fifty. They thought that a fifty-­year-­old ­woman w ­ ouldn’t be able to find a job t­ here.” She continued, “I am so pitiable [Chin: kelian de].” When Kanai departed China, he gave Sun Hua 30,000 yen ($350). By the time that I met her, though, she had spent almost all of this money on school fees. She started working as a waitress for roughly ten hours per day, earning a daily wage of approximately RMB 30 ($5). She faced needing to soon move out of the apartment b ­ ecause she could no longer afford the monthly rent. Tang Xiaoli was another bride whom I met at a language school. A ­ fter class one day, she asked me to accompany her and a friend, also a recent bride, to an Internet café to check the status of their spousal visa applications. Both ­women had married at around the same time. Xiaoli was in her late twenties. Hanging out with Xiaoli left me with a complicated, often contradictory, impression of brides in Xinghai. She was a divorcée with an eight-­year-­old son. Yet she still lived with her ex-­husband, and the two of them often worked and ate together. One day, she invited me and two other friends from the language school over for dinner. They w ­ ere also married to Japa­nese men and awaiting their spousal visas. Xiaoli’s ex-­husband also joined us. Furthermore, Xiaoli told me that one of her friends would bring her husband (Chin: laogong). I assumed that meant her Japa­ nese husband was visiting. She came with a Chinese man, however, which totally confused me, but I thought it was inappropriate to ask her who the man was. ­Later, in private, I asked Xiaoli. She said, “He was her husband [Chin: laogong].” I asked: “But ­didn’t she marry a Japa­nese man? What do you mean by laogong?” Xiaoli laughed and said, “Fake husband [Chin: jia laogong]!” I was further confused and asked again, “So, why ­didn’t she just marry him?”

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This time, Xiaoli sighed: “How can she marry him? He does not have money!” ­After that, I began referring to her ex-­Chinese husband as her “laogong” and to her Japa­nese husband by his last name. Xiaoli’s visa was approved shortly thereafter. A few days before her departure, she was working in the market, selling fish. I spent a day sitting with her in front of the fish tank. She asked, “Do you think I can find a job in Japan?” I answered, “Well, if you learn the language, t­ here might be some jobs.” She looked so restless and said: “I am so scared [Chin: kepa]! Promise to come see me when you are back in Japan.” When interacting with the locals and w ­ omen like Xiaoli or Sun Hua, what struck me was that, for them, the question was not why they wanted to go to Japan, but rather how and when they would go. Sun Hua’s plan to go to Japan did not exist in a vacuum. The notion that hope for a “new life” lay in Japan was embedded within the community in Xinghai. Among the locals, the precise motivations individuals had for ­going to Japan ­were never ­really a topic of discussion. Whenever I asked, many residents responded to me by saying, “­People can make RMB 700 a day in Japan.”3 ­Whether the goal was making money, seeking a higher standard of living, acquiring a better education, or escaping from loneliness, “Japan” was always already ­there. Many locals explained to me that they would not be willing to move to a new place without already having a social network ­there. In Xinghai, transnational migration, that is, g­ oing to Japan, seemed more feasible than other options, including relocating to larger cities in China, where the residents of Xinghai would not know anyone. Ironically, however, ­those who married Japa­nese men ­were often ­those who lacked a network in Japan and thus depended on commercial brokers. The destinations for migration are often locally specific. In the case of Xinghai, the choice to go to Japan did not necessarily require exhaustive decisionmaking.4 Every­one seemed to take the notion that one should go to Japan for granted. Nonetheless, the aspiration to go to Japan was not always evenly distributed across members of the local community. For instance, the only male student in my small group at a Xinghai Japa­nese school repeatedly told me that he did not want to go to Japan. Nevertheless, he came e­ very day to study Japa­nese. Once, in response to his insisting that he did not want to go to Japan, I said, “Then ­don’t go” (Chin: bu qu ba). He then explained, “But my parents want me to go b ­ ecause I have relatives living in Japan, but I actually ­don’t want to go.” In analyzing the ways mobility creates a transnational imagination in a certain local context, Wanning Sun (2002) also observes that locals experience desires, fears, and ambiguity about mobility. Sun shows that for urban Chinese in the 1990s, ­going abroad—in par­tic­u­lar ­going to Amer­i­ca—­was the “only game

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in town” (51). ­Going abroad became a locus of social expectations. When an individual had such an opportunity, he or she became the object of envy. However, Sun also showed that given a chance to go abroad, the person in question’s “decision has been somewhat made by someone ­else on his behalf, not by himself. Social pressure is one ­factor” (51). In a similar manner, not g­ oing to Japan for the male student was to go against his parents’ wishes and, more generally, against social expectations. The only re­sis­tance he could perform was by per­sis­tently protesting at school that he desired other­wise. Although the expectations surrounding “­going to Japan” ­were quite prevalent in Xinghai, the pathways to Japan ­were, in practice, ­limited. For instance, it was nearly impossible for locals to obtain a tourist visa. Obtaining a trainee visa was at the time also becoming more and more difficult. To receive a student visa, one needed at least a high school diploma, but more often a college diploma was favored, in par­tic­u­lar if the applicant wanted to go to a big city. Marriage migration was not considered an ideal strategy, but it offered a chance at mobility for ­those without direct relatives, a social network, or education. In a context where migrating to Japan was not only seen as pos­si­ble but had also come to be taken for granted as desired, not taking this opportunity contravened social expectations and values. As Lila Abu-­Lughod (1986) argues, the power of social ideology is that it frames norms as “values.” Correspondingly, to seek or express certain desires is not to fulfill an obligation but to confirm one’s ethics or morals. In such contexts, an individual’s actions serve as a “means to perpetuate a system of power relations” (238).5 As migration to Japan symbolized a better life, it was assumed that t­ hose who had the chance should act on it. Desire and hope for a specific form of mobility—­going to Japan—­had come to be understood as a socially expected practice, even an “ordinary” life path for locals. But that said, to realize t­ hese values was no easy m ­ atter—it was both expensive and difficult. Precisely in what ways is the focus of the next section, which examines how the ­women financially invested in marriage migration to Japan.

How Much Is Your Marriage? As I became more familiar with Chinese brides in northeastern China, I soon realized that one of the t­hings that preoccupied many of them was the issue of payments. The ­women had to pay brokerage fees (Chin: zhongjie fei) to Chinese brokers for their marriages. Japa­nese men’s payments went to Japa­nese brokers, and Chinese w ­ omen’s payments went to Chinese brokers. Brokerage businesses that charged for arranging transnational marriages ­were technically illegal in China. However, unofficial brokerage work could be conducted u ­ nder the label

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of “help in introducing” marriage partners. As shown in chapter 3, the payments required of Japa­nese men generally w ­ ere explic­itly listed on the agencies’ websites; in contrast, the payment structure for w ­ omen was more ambiguous. Thus, while the Japa­nese brokers often maintained that they did not require the Chinese ­women to pay any fees, Chinese brokers might nevertheless be charging them money. Moreover, ­those who acted as brokers in China ­were frequently friends, acquaintances, or relatives—­people who rarely identified as professional brokers, despite even sometimes having business cards. Due to ­these dynamics, it was difficult to locate local brokers for interviews. When I asked so-­called brokers about their work, they often said, “I am just helping my friend to find a partner.” The brokerage fees varied greatly depending on the location. Although the ­women in Dongyang also paid brokerage fees, ­there they ­were seen as reasonable, and usually ­women did not have to incur debt to pay them. During my fieldwork in 2009–2011 in Dongyang, the average cost ranged from RMB 20,000 to 40,000 (approximately $3,000 to $6,000), whereas in Xinghai, it ranged from RMB 80,000 to 130,000 (approximately $12,000 to $20,000).6 As locals in Xinghai told me, the cost had been rising yearly in line with increases in local commodity prices. The Chinese ­women in Xinghai usually paid the first part of their brokerage fee as a down payment. When their status of residency certificate for Japan was issued and the ­women ­were ready to leave, they paid the remainder. I witnessed that some ­women claimed a refund when their visas ­were declined; a visa refusal meant they would be unable to depart for Japan and their marriage would end in divorce. Thus, the brokerage fees w ­ ere interpreted as payments not simply for the purpose of securing a marriage partner but also to successfully realize migration to Japan. The ­women I met in Dongyang also paid fees. Some w ­ omen complained that the payments ­were not all calculated equally, but none complained about the ­actual payment itself. As one ­woman said: “I am not complaining about the fee itself. I think we should pay something for their work. But I am just upset about how the broker charged me a ­little more than the other brides. Prob­ably, I am older than other brides, so the broker thinks I should pay more.” In Xinghai, I came to know who paid how much by listening to the conversations among brides. Usually, when the Chinese brides in Xinghai met each other for the first time, the first question they would ask was, “How much?” (Chin: duoshao qian). I learned that Tang Xiaoli paid RMB 110,000 ($17,000) and that Sun Hua paid RMB 130,000 ($20,000) when they first met each other in my room. I also found out that Xie Hui paid RMB 70,000 ($11,000) when her acquaintance asked her on the street how much she had paid. When married, the Chinese ­women often received betrothal money called yuinoukin from Japa­nese men, ranging from 300,000 to 500,000 yen ($3,300 to $5,500); all this money made its way to the Chinese brokers eventually. When

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­ omen married through brokers who w w ­ ere friends, some did not receive any betrothal money. Ironically, the so-­called official brokerage ser­v ices (listed on the websites in Japan, such as China Love, First Love, and Wedding China) offered ­women a safer path to departure than introduction through “friends.” So-­called friends might be novice brokers ignorant of the procedures required to successfully apply for a Japa­nese visa. Many ­women recognized that the brokerage system was complicated by the existence of multiple brokers beyond the immediate broker with whom they had a relationship. When a ­woman I met at a Xinghai Japa­nese school came to visit my room and asked me to call her Japa­nese husband in Japan, she expressed how frustrated she was by this brokerage system. She had paid RMB 130,000 ($20,000) to her broker. She angrily told me that multiple brokers whom she did not know would split her money; each broker would take RMB 30,000 to 40,000. She said that she had money ­because she had just sold her ­house. But instead of spending her money on brokerage fees, she wanted to take it to Japan. She asked me to call her husband in Japan and explain what was g­ oing on. Informing on the brokers to her husband, of course, could have jeopardized her situation. If her brokers knew about this, they might have s­ topped helping her with the application pro­ cess. When I called her husband, he did not answer the phone, which left me with a mixed feeling of relief and sympathy for her situation. It is impor­tant to note that as stipulated by their agreements with their Chinese brokers, Chinese ­women ­were not supposed to tell their Japa­nese husbands about t­ hese payments ­until they arrived in Japan. Many ­women also knew that if their husbands learned of their debts, they might terminate their marriages. If they found out that the w ­ omen had paid money, the locals explained, the men would not want to assume the remaining debt and would think that the w ­ omen married only for money. But some ­women did decide to tell their husbands a­ fter arriving in Japan. When I was voluntarily teaching a Japa­nese class at a Xinghai Japa­nese school, I was stunned to find in the supplied textbook sentences such as “Please give me money,” “when I married, I also paid money,” “I had to give all the money you gave me to the Chinese brokers,” “I did not receive the money you sent me,” “please believe me,” “my ­father is sick, I need money,” “I want to build a h ­ ouse for my f­ amily,” “my ­brother is getting married, he needs money,” “I have to find a job ­because I have debt,” and so on. As a volunteer teacher at the school, I read t­ hese sentences in Japa­nese aloud to the students. Yet no one made any comments or appeared to find ­these sentences odd or funny. They just repeated ­after me. The textbook was written by some teachers in Xinghai several years ­earlier and was widely distributed across several other Japa­nese schools in Xinghai as well. Sun Hua, who went to a dif­fer­ent school, also owned the same textbook.

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Despite the brokerage fees being expensive, many ­women in Xinghai estimated that they could repay t­ hese debts once they arrived in Japan. For instance, Xiaoli repeatedly told me that according to her friends living in Japan, “­People could make 10,000 yen per day in Japan”; therefore, Xiaoli estimated she would be earning 310,000 yen (approximately $3,500) per month, almost the equivalent of an annual income in Xinghai. I was concerned about the truth of such rumors given Japan’s economic situation; even a person with fluent Japa­nese could not find such a lucrative job. Moreover, p ­ eople did not usually work a full thirty-­one days per month, and the cost of living in Japan was much higher. However, Xiaoli was not convinced by my warnings. Her ­sister’s ­daughter lived in Japan, and the rumors from her relatives and friends in Japan sounded more believable to her. As discussed in chapter 1, such rumors ­were not entirely inaccurate when describing the Japan of the 1980s and 1990s. Sun Hua was less ambitious than Xiaoli. She sometimes claimed that if she had a place to live and food to eat, that would be enough for her. Then again, other times she also stated that if she could send 50,000 yen per month to her son, then it would be enough. Marriage and a job in Japan ­were almost always linked. When I revisited Xinghai in the fall of 2010, a female school principal at the Taiyang School explained: “­There are fewer students marrying Japa­nese men lately. This is ­because the Japa­ nese economy is not that good, and many brides cannot find a job t­ here.” When I visited her again in the summer of 2011, she told me that the March 11 earthquake had a negative effect on ­women’s marriage migration to Japan. Many ­women in Xinghai ­were concerned not only about the earthquake but also about its effects on the economy.

Who Is Commodifying What? The marrying out of ­women to men in more “eco­nom­ically advanced countries” has long been criticized as a practice that reduces them to being “mail-­order brides” (Glodava and Onizuka 1994). Such critics claim that the w ­ omen involved are also often duped into the sex industry, or that they are being forced to sacrifice themselves to support their families. Moreover, concerns about cross-­border marriages extend to how the ­women may be objectified in the pro­cess. Critics perceive the brides to be portrayed as if they w ­ ere “commodities” and thus alienated from their own bodies or l­abor. This interpretation stems from the fact that the ­women are presented as if they w ­ ere objects that men can choose, compare, and acquire in exchange for money. Thus, following this logic, w ­ omen are voiceless and denied the right to choose their marriage partner.

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Anthropological discussions of marriage have also looked at gendered mobility, employing frameworks based on concepts such as “patrilocality,” “the exchange of w ­ omen” (Lévi-­Strauss 1969), or “trafficking in w ­ omen” (Rubin 1975). Rubin posits that the exchange of ­women suggests men have rights their female kin as ­women lack: more precisely, men have full control over the sexual destinies of their female kin. In general, migration through marriage is more feasible for ­women than for men. As far as I knew, ­there ­were no agencies introducing Japa­nese ­women to Chinese men. Chinese ­women ­were marriageable in the eyes of Japa­nese men in part due to shared norms of patrilocaliy—­that is, it is the ­women who relocate themselves to their husbands’ communities—­and also in part due to the fact that they would subsequently be dependent on their husbands, which the men viewed as acceptable and even desirable. It was expected that the Japa­nese men would be the breadwinners and taken for granted that the ­women would rely on their husbands for money. Most Japa­nese men viewed work outside the home for their wives as optional, not the necessity many Chinese ­women believed it to be. Thus, even if the ­women did not speak Japa­nese, this was not seen as a major issue. The wives ­were expected to gradually learn Japa­nese while living with and off their husbands. But t­ hese same gendered expectations and norms conversely meant it was unlikely Japa­nese ­women would consider Chinese men marriageable; from the perspective of Japa­nese ­women, neither moving to China nor supporting a dependent husband ­were generally seen as socially attractive options. It is impor­tant to note commodifying practices on the Japa­nese side. Chinese ­women ­were indeed listed in cata­logues posted online by transnational marriage agencies in Japan. They ­were numbered, compared, and ranked by Japa­nese men. However, the fact that they w ­ ere objectified in this manner did not mean that in the pro­cess the ­women ­were totally alienated from the matchmaking practices.7 The Chinese w ­ omen I met in Xinghai rarely talked about their Japa­nese husbands as individuals. Some ­women did not even know their husbands’ occupations. One ­woman studying at a Japa­nese school, upon showing me her Japa­nese husband’s business card, asked me what her husband did for a living. But more often they talked about brokerage fees and where they w ­ ere g­ oing in Japan, imagining that it would be easier to find a job in urban areas. And although most Japa­nese men viewed their Chinese brides as dependents, few Chinese ­women intended simply to rely on their husbands for the remittances they w ­ ere planning to send back to Xinghai. On the ­whole, they intended to repay the debts they had incurred by themselves. Ironically, through the eyes of some Chinese brides in Xinghai, Japa­nese men ­were often seen as commodified objects—­vehicles for seeking a better standard

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of living. While the prices that the Japa­nese men had to pay ­were fixed regardless of which w ­ oman they selected, the fees Chinese w ­ omen paid varied depending on the attributes of the individual they married. T ­ hose who married someone who lived in an urban area, especially Tokyo, paid more than t­hose who w ­ ere partnered with someone from a rural location. ­Those who married younger Japa­nese men ­were also charged higher fees. What is more, the ­women also commodified their own marriageability in terms of their age and perceived attractiveness. When Xioali or Sun Hua learned that Xue Fei paid much less than themselves, they rationalized this as being ­because Xue Fei was younger and perceived by many as prettier. Consequently, whereas the Japa­nese male customers engaged in a “good faith economy” (Bourdieu 1990) by casting their pairing to be an “introduction to” instead of a “purchase of ” Chinese brides through practices such as courtesy visits and gifts to the brokers (as discussed in chapter 3), the Chinese w ­ omen in Xinghai openly talked about the payments involved and the potential returns they entailed. Put differently, the Japa­nese men engaged in an “invisible” contract, whereas the Chinese ­women engaged in a “vis­i­ble contract” (Peebles 2010, 229).8 Numerous transactions and individuals ­were embedded within multiple gendered, national, and transnational structures (Ortner 1996) within which the ­women ­were neither solely subject nor object. The positions of subject and object in the pro­cesses of commodification are not mutually exclusive. Two actors can mutually objectify and commodify one another. By making investments and circulating information and rumors about who paid more or less for what, the ­women involved ­were also actively engaging in commodifying practices. All the same, the ­women remained within a set of unequal relations. The Chinese w ­ omen ­were more vulnerable, not only in relocating but also in staying ­behind. The dependent nature of their marriage and migration meant that ­women’s feelings of agency ­were unstable and not completely ­under their control. This was most acute as ­women faced uncertainties regarding their departure, the topic of the next section.

When Departure Becomes an Obligation For ­women in Xinghai, marriage migration offered the potential of a return that might be much larger than the investment, that is, the possibility of not only repaying their debts but also creating access to transnational links, jobs, money, better lives, status, and, possibly, a good marital relationship as well. While marriage was a means to go to Japan, it also signified multiple opportunities and even limitless potential for their lives. In this sense, they ­were brides as well as mi­grants

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(Agustín 2006). Yet the return was neither immediate nor guaranteed. The w ­ omen might obtain some of t­ hese ­things but not all of them. This is not simply an advancement strategy for financial ends (Brennan 2004); investment, as a strategy, entails abstract and ambiguous notions of expansion involving time lags and risk.9 What I want to highlight h ­ ere is that while marriage was a tool or “a part of the deal,” in Agustín’s words (2006, 35), it was more than simply a means to an ends. That is, to render marriage a feasible strategy, the ­women involved had to depend on and reaffirm the very practices of marriage. Since it was a marriage, in par­tic­ u­lar one guided by the norms of patrilocality, w ­ omen in Xinghai not only w ­ ere given the opportunity to leave their own community, upon marrying they w ­ ere expected to, and w ­ hether or not their marriage migration would become a real­ity hinged on outside forces. In other words, they w ­ ere ultimately still dependents. Contrary to ­women I encountered in Dongyang, some ­women in Xinghai ­were desperate to leave a­ fter they married. The length of waiting varied and was unpredictable. For instance, some ­women received a certificate of residency within two weeks. O ­ thers took significantly longer or ­were even refused. It seemed impossible to explain why. Many locals hypothesized that t­ hings went faster for brides who w ­ ere moving to the Japa­nese countryside, whereas for t­ hose g­ oing to big cities, such as Tokyo, obtaining a visa was r­ eally difficult and often required much time. ­Others said that younger applicants or ­those marrying a richer husband would have an easier time. Xiaoli, who married a man (in his late thirties) in Yamagata, received a certificate of residency within three months. Sun Hua married a man in Nigata. Unfortunately for her, however, certificates of residency for Nigata ­were issued in Tokyo, the strictest immigration bureau. It is impor­ tant to note that immobility assumed dissimilar meanings for ­those who had once thought they would be leaving (by paying brokerage fees), yet somehow came to be faced with unrealized or unsuccessful departures. When departure is suspended or even fails, the desires are directed not at what one lacks, but rather what one has lost. Such loss was often experienced as not only a personal disappointment but also a public embarrassment. One after­noon, I was hanging out with Xie Hui on the main shopping ave­nue in Xinghai. Like Sun Hua, Xie Hui would also regularly encounter many acquaintances in such a location. We met one who asked Xie Hui, “You ­haven’t left yet [Chin: hai mei zou]? When are you leaving?” Xie Hui just answered, “Not yet.” ­After her acquaintance left, Xie Hui told me: “She asked the exact same question a ­couple days ago. T ­ hings do not change so quickly. But I know she w ­ ill still ask me again.” Indeed, it was common practice in Xinghai for friends and acquaintances to ask the Chinese brides when they ­were leaving. Initially, brides

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could simply respond to such questions by saying “not yet.” ­After having waited for over three months or even a year, however, such questions became ­really difficult to endure. Brides themselves did not know when or even if they could depart. To pay her Chinese brokers, Sun Hua borrowed RMB 60,000—­roughly half the brokerage fees—­from her b ­ rother. Sun Hua’s departure thus was an issue for him as well. When I met her in the fall of 2010, she told me that ­because her ­brother kept asking her when she was leaving, she did not want to visit her ­family ­house where her ­brother lived. The question of “When are you leaving?” became a repeated burden for t­ hose whose departure was pending. When departure becomes a public affair, immobility also implies a public display of suspension. In this sense, the Chinese brides occupied what Turner ([1969] 1988) called the “betwixt-­between” state. Such a state is one of “liminality,” where “­there is the state of outsiderhood, referring to the condition of being ­either permanently and by ascription set outside the structural arrangements of a given social system, or being situationally or temporarily set apart, or voluntarily setting oneself apart from the be­hav­ior of status-­occupying, role-­playing members of that system” (504). The state of liminality is a temporal status from which individuals move symbolically to an often higher status.10 In liminality, individuals can become more critical of the structures to which they used to belong. The Chinese ­women in Xinghai who ­were ready to leave symbolically, although not physically, possessed a transnational, but liminal existence. Once their paperwork was in pro­cess, they often quit their jobs and solely attended Japa­nese school. Yet the irony of such liminality for the ­women was that even if they subsequently wanted to look for a new job or de­cided not to go to Japan, it was harder to return to their preliminal life. They could only surpass the liminal state by moving forward. That also meant that if they did not move forward, they could end up remaining in liminality virtually in­def­initely, losing their standing in their own community. On one after­noon in April, I was chatting with Sun Hua in my room and mentioned that I had heard at the school that day that visa applications for thirty ­people, not only for marriage but also for studying abroad, had been declined. I immediately realized that telling her this was a m ­ istake. Sun Hua suddenly started crying, saying: My (former) husband passed away, and then I remarried, but if I have to get divorced again, I would completely regret remarrying. I am just so scared [Chin: kepa] ­every day. I am so worried and so scared. If my visa is not issued and I cannot go to Japan, I would totally regret having married at all. When my (former) husband died, I just wanted to change

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my environment. I just wanted to leave the country [Chin: chuguo]. If I could just leave, every­thing would be fine. My parents opposed this marriage as I am old and they did not see what I could do in Japan. Yet I made a decision myself and married. But if this does not work and I cannot go to Japan, it w ­ ill be ­really hard for me. I d ­ on’t have a job ­here now, no money for living. I already gave money to the broker. It is just extremely stressful [Chin: yali henda], I am very scared ­every day. I totally regretted my sharing the news, and I tried to cheer her up. I told her that we should wait a ­little longer. I tried to tell her that her visa should be okay and that she should not worry too much. But Sun Hua started crying again. She said: “I cannot even find a job ­here. Who wants to hire someone who might leave soon?” The only option for her to escape her current situation was to depart. The w ­ omen who ­were just waiting w ­ ere in a ­really difficult position. They could not find a stable job, and, if they did not receive any money for living expenses from their Japa­nese husbands, their lives w ­ ere quite tough. If the men did not contact their wives, the w ­ omen had l­ ittle means of reaching them. Some men did not even pick up the phone. The ­women ­were just waiting, and this was a terrifying daily real­ity. (A discussion of waiting is further detailed in chapter 6.) One after­noon, I met Sun Hua, and we w ­ ere hanging out on the main shopping ave­nue. We again encountered an acquaintance of Sun Hua’s. In her twenties, the acquaintance had married a Japa­nese man, and, she said, b ­ ecause her Japa­nese husband was in his forties and had a high-­ranking position in his com­pany, her visa had been issued quite quickly. She told us that b ­ ecause of her husband’s attributes, she had had to pay RMB 110,000. Now she was ready to leave Xinghai and relocate to Japan. As we walked along the street, we again passed by some ­women talking to each other: “It has been a while, did you just come back from Japan?” Sun Hua looked at them and said, “Every­one came back from Japan.” She looked a ­little angry, disgusted, and scornful, and yet also sad. Ironically, the pressure to leave was produced by the gendered opportunity for migration and the ­women’s investment in it. When the ­women in Xinghai aspired to go to Japan, departure was the object of desire. Although it was not always the case that they ­were successful, the ­women could seek out a marriage by sending off their pictures and accepting proposals. But once they w ­ ere married and had paid the associated fees, departure became obligatory. The most unfortunate cases that I witnessed w ­ ere ­those in which the w ­ omen had paid money, but the brokers had dis­appeared and they had lost contact with their Japa­nese husbands (as ­will be discussed in chapter 6). Losing a supposedly already-­gained opportunity for migration was more difficult to deal with than having never had it in the first place. Departure evolved from desire to obligation. If they ­were stuck in a failed

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marriage, it was also impossible to marry another man. As it was marriage, they could not seek multiple opportunities at the same time; to seek out a new chance, they needed to first obtain a divorce. Sometimes, the certificate of divorce could be issued with money and guanxi, but this would be yet another extra financial burden for the ­women. When I visited Xinghai in the summer of 2011, at a time while Sun Hua’s visa application was still pending, Xie Hui told me that ­after a wait of sixteen months her visa had fi­nally been issued. While we ­were hanging out on the shopping ave­ nue, she encountered some acquaintances who again asked her when she was leaving. This time, she had an answer. Smiling, she proudly said, “I am leaving on the 26th.” Although she was also concerned about her new life in Japan—­she was ­going to be living with someone whom at that point she only met several times—in that moment, she appeared more relieved than anything ­else.

­A fter Leaving for Japan ­ fter the Chinese ­women actually left for Japan, to many locals, they ­were simply A “gone” (Chin: zou le); they would become a presence again when they returned to visit the community with gifts and money. Yet for the w ­ omen who left, their journeys still continued. Even a­ fter arriving in Japan, w ­ omen continued to be torn between having a sense of agency and being dependent. Indeed, what Xiaoli experienced in Japan illuminates the contradictory ways ­women’s active engagements in seeking their own pathways obscured their very de­pen­dency. When I went back to Japan in June 2010, Xiaoli was still in Yamagata Prefecture. But she herself did not even know where she lived. I asked her where the closest train station was and what the main buildings around her area ­were. She just knew that t­ here was a public library near her h ­ ouse. She went t­ here ­every day to use the Internet. I used Google Maps and located the library to which she had referred. It was not too difficult, b ­ ecause ­there was only one library among the large rice fields. Taking a twelve-­hour overnight bus ­ride from Tokyo, I met her ­there in what was an almost empty public library. During the two days that I was visiting, Xiaoli asked for assistance with a number of urgent tasks. She asked me to help her open a bank account, buy a cell phone, and find a job. First, we opened her bank account. Unfortunately, the cell phone store was closed that day. Finding her a job proved to be the most difficult. ­There ­were not many stores in her town. In addition, she did not speak Japa­nese well. ­Because we did not have a car, we used bicycles to travel around and inquire at the local shops if ­there ­were any job openings; when that was unsuccessful, we boarded a local train to seek out more locations. It was the first time that Xiaoli

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had been on a local train. We visited several places, but found no jobs. We had lunch together, and I treated. She said, “You visited me and I ­don’t even have money to treat you to lunch.” A ­ fter searching all day for job openings, we w ­ ere exhausted. When I left Xiaoli at the train station, she looked extremely sad and was on the verge of tears. A month ­later, in July, Xiaoli called me and said, “I am in Tokyo now.” “What? How did you get ­here?” I asked surprised. “I just took a bullet train.” “Did you have money? ­Were you able to buy a ticket?” “I just said ‘Tokyo’ at the ticket ­counter and gave them some money that I had borrowed from my friend.” Apparently, ­after we had opened her bank account, she asked a friend to wire her some money. I was astounded. I also learned at this time that she had a relative (her ­sister’s ­daughter) who was married to a Japa­nese man and lived in Tokyo. She was temporarily staying with her. I then asked, “Does your husband know about this?” “I left without saying anything. So afterward, I just called him and said that I am in Tokyo.” “And?” I asked. “He asked me when I was coming back, and I said I d ­ on’t know.” “That’s it?” “Yep, but I am not sure if I understood him correctly.” I was again astonished and did not know how to respond to her. I told her that I would come to see her as soon as I could. Meeting her was again difficult. She first suggested that we meet at Tokyo station. I tried to explain that Tokyo station was enormous and that it was almost impossible to meet t­ here ­unless we precisely specified the location. We discussed several pos­si­ble places to meet and ended up choosing a Korean supermarket in Shinjuku. The July weather in Tokyo was hot and humid. When we fi­nally met at the supermarket, I was sweating profusely. We walked to a nearby McDonald’s to talk about what was ­going on and what she would be ­doing. By that time, she had already left her ­sister’s ­daughter’s ­house and found a “temporary” job at a massage parlor. She did not have a massage license. When I asked, she told me that her job just involved “normal” massages. She also lived at the massage parlor where she worked. Xiaoli’s main concern was to find a job in Tokyo as soon as pos­si­ble. We went through several f­ ree newspapers for Chinese speakers in Japan to see w ­ hether t­ here ­were any good job openings. We visited one agency advertising jobs specifically for Chinese p ­ eople. Finding a job for someone who does not have the requisite skills and housing was extremely difficult. ­After visiting a ­couple of agencies, we

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found a potential job for Xiaoli. It involved stocking items in a supermarket and did not require any Japa­nese language skills. The job also offered accommodation. But it was located a small distance outside Tokyo, and the hourly wage was 800 yen ($9), which was about average. We estimated that Xiaoli could make at least 150,000 yen ($1,750) per month. A ­ fter having endured the extremely hot July weather to find this position, I felt relieved and hoped that t­ hings would work out for her. Xiaoli turned it down, however. She explained that it was not con­ve­ nient and not enough money. She thought that she could make more money at her current “massage job.” Although she was not proud of her massage job, b ­ ecause it did not sound reputable (literally, she said “it sounded bad”—­bu hao ting), she still preferred it to a daytime job in a supermarket. Extremely exhausted, we went back to Xiaoli’s workplace/room. Located in an apartment building, the sign on the door said, “Welcome to Tropical Massage!” Xiaoli worked from 8 p.m. to 5 a.m. in the morning. She received half the price of each massage she performed. She said, “sometimes bad customers try to touch our bodies, but usually they are nice.” When I left, she promised, “next time we meet, I ­will have a job and ­will treat you to dinner and a drink.” A year ­later, when I visited her in the summer of 2011, Xiaoli had changed. Her former boss had fired her from her original job ­because “she was too fat.” She was now working at another massage parlor. This time, she had a new iPhone, new hairstyle, and money. As promised, she treated me to lunch at a Chinese restaurant. Xiaoli told me that she visited her Japa­nese husband once ­every three months. When she last visited her husband, she had to give him some money, ­because her husband no longer had a job. Last time, she spent 100,000 yen visiting him, eating out, and providing him and his son with cash. I thought that this arrangement sounded like a so-­called fake marriage. I asked, “Have you ever thought about getting divorced?” She quickly responded: “No, I never thought about getting divorced. Getting divorced is troublesome [Chin: mafan].” Indeed, she needed him in order to renew her spousal visa in several months. She said that her situation was easier and better now ­because she had time of her own for working and hanging out with her Chinese friends in Tokyo. She said that her husband also preferred this arrangement b ­ ecause she could make more money in the city. Thus, neither of them w ­ ere ­eager to divorce. Her husband even asked when she wanted to have a child. Xiaoli answered him with “maybe several years ­later.” She ordered several dishes and beer for us. Xiaoli said: “When I had just arrived ­here, I thought that a 10,000-­yen bill was r­ eally valuable and it would be hard to spend it all at once. But now I spend it so easily and quickly and do not

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think it to be that valuable anymore. I just spent 50,000 yen on my new iPhone.” She was constantly on the phone talking with her friends in China. I asked, “How is your son ­doing?” “Okay,” she answered. “What about your laogong?” I asked. She looked at me and said: “He already remarried in Xinghai. I cannot believe it.” Her ex-­Chinese husband had left to work in Shandong right ­after Xiaoli had departed Xinghai. But in the short time since, he had returned to Xinghai and found a ­woman to remarry. She expressed anger and said, “I cannot believe it, it has been only a year, and he is already remarried.” Then, she got a call from someone and started talking, laughing, and seemed to be enjoying the conversation. I asked, “Who is it?” She smiled, “My friend [Chin: pengyou].” “Man or ­woman?” I asked. “What do you think?” she laughed. ­After finishing lunch and drinks in the mid-­ afternoon, she left for work, and I left for home. We promised that we would meet again when I returned to Japan, possibly the following summer. Although she had run away from her husband’s h ­ ouse, she did not have any intention of seeking a divorce. Eventually, she was planning to go back to her Japa­ nese husband ­because, a­ fter all, she was still a dependent. She had succeeded in coming to Japan, but to pay back the debt she had acquired, she still had to seek out opportunities to make money. She used her social network in Japan to find her way to and in Tokyo. Although she had discovered a way to make money, it, ironically, had produced a situation in which her Japa­nese husband was financially dependent on her. To continue working on her upward mobility, she had to take care not only of t­ hose left b ­ ehind in Xinghai but also t­ hose left b ­ ehind in Japan, namely, her new husband and his son. At the same time, she also had to depend on that same Japa­nese husband to maintain her spousal status. ­Because the locals in Xinghai expected that ­women who migrated to Japan would have no trou­ble in sending their ­family remittances, the notion that ­women would strug­gle to find a job was unimaginable. Brides also did not want to worry their families or share with their families what they did, such as working in massage parlors. But not finding a job seemed worse. Although locals in Xinghai might perceive the ­women’s mobility as accomplished and complete once they had left for Japan, many of the w ­ omen from Xinghai found they w ­ ere not yet done. They had to continue seeking opportunities while concealing their strug­gles from t­ hose remaining ­behind. And the w ­ omen who ­were still in Xinghai kept hoping for a “better” life in Japan based on their stories.

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Conclusion As compared with the w ­ omen in Dongyang (chapter 4), the w ­ omen in Xinghai actively sought cross-­border marriages and aspired to migrate to Japan. Japan was considered to be very proximate; it was understood that g­ oing to Japan was a good way to make money and a life for oneself. When the local community at large became invested in transnational linkages with Japan, the questions locals asked ­were not “why do they want to go to Japan?” but rather “why w ­ ouldn’t they want to go to Japan?” With Japan embedded in local expectations in Xinghai, marriage became an advantageous strategy for ­women in the community to realize ­those expectations. Many ­women made the decision themselves, even when on some occasions it involved divorce from a prior Chinese husband. In a way, they acted on their desires, albeit desires that ­were ­shaped socially and historically (Mankekar 2004; Rofel 2007; Schein 2004). While the ­actual pathways to Japan ­were becoming fewer and narrower, their community and lived environment left many locals convinced that Japan should be the target destination for pursuing their f­ uture. As this chapter demonstrates, even within northeastern China cross-­border matchmaking practices remained multifaceted; marriage migration to Japan was perceived and experienced very differently by participants depending on the local norms, ideologies, and values within which they w ­ ere embedded. Situated within the local environment of Xinghai, many w ­ omen made significant investments to accomplish the goal of marriage migration. While ­these ­women still had to be chosen by Japa­nese men at the matchmaking meetings, they did not view themselves simply as objects of commodification. They possessed a sense of subjectivity and actively engaged in discourse and practices that commodified their marriage, the Japa­nese men who would be their husbands, and even their own persons. But at the same time, they ­were never entirely in charge of their mobility. By virtue of the pro­cesses of marriage and migration, they remained dependents in unequal relationships, with all the vulnerabilities that entailed. Neither fully subject nor object, both acting and being acted upon, the Chinese brides of Xinghai sought to realize their paths according to local expectations on a transnational scale.

6 CRAFTING LEGITIMATE MARITAL RELATIONS

“Let’s call him again,” said Sun Hua. Sitting on the bed in my room with Sun Hua, I was dialing for the ninth, possibly even tenth, time since the day before. A ­ fter several rings, a voice on the other side of the line again repeated, “this is a voice mail ser­v ice” and I hung up. “What is he ­doing? Why d ­ oesn’t he pick up the phone?” Sun Hua was extremely frustrated. It had been almost six months since Sun Hua married Mr. Kanai, whom she had met when the latter had come to China on a several-­day matchmaking tour. Other brides who had married around the same time had already left for Japan. But Sun Hua was still waiting to hear the results of her spousal visa application. To make ­matters worse, her Japa­nese husband was not letting her know what was happening. So, ­because she could not speak Japa­nese, she asked me to call him again and again. It had become a ritual whenever we met: we would start by trying to call him from my room, chat for a bit, try calling again, go out shopping and get something to eat, come back, and then try calling yet again. But Kanai only rarely picked up his phone. We wondered: Was he avoiding his Chinese wife? Or was he busy working due to the debt he had incurred by marrying her? Buying an international phone card was a financial burden for Sun Hua. Whenever pos­si­ble, I suggested using my Skype Call account to save her money. When I first met Sun Hua in early March 2010, we assumed that she would be leaving for Japan before I did, so I had promised to visit her the next time I returned to Japan. Come mid-­June, however, I ended up being the one departing for Japan first.

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When I left Xinghai to go to Tokyo, Sun Hua asked me to meet Kanai in person and ask him about her application pro­cess. I kept calling him whenever I had the chance. A ­ fter a month and a half, fortunately, in August, I was able to make an appointment to meet with Kanai when he and another Japa­nese man came to Tokyo to visit the immigration office. The reason for their visit to the immigration office was to ask why their spousal visa applications had been denied. ­After his consultation with the immigration bureau, we met in the lobby. With Mr. Kanai was a Mr. Hara. Both had married Chinese ­women in Xinghai the previous December while on the same matchmaking tour, and both of their new spouses’ applications had been declined a c­ ouple of months ­later. We went to a cafeteria nearby and had lunch. Hara said: “What a pain! They are not g­ oing to tell us exactly what was wrong with our application forms.” For Hara, it was his third attempt applying for a certificate of residency for his Chinese wife. Hara showed me the section on his rejected application in which the applicant had space to write a statement. I quickly took note. It read: I have been living alone for a long time and have been feeling lonely. Then I saw that my neighbor married a Chinese w ­ oman and was living a happy life. I thought that I also want to live like them. So I asked them if they could introduce me to a friend of his wife. I first talked to my wife over the Internet. I had a good impression of her and I de­cided to go to China to see her in person. In China, I found that we got along well, so we de­cided to marry. I would like to spend time together with my wife, and my wife is also willing to take care of me, so I hope that you w ­ ill give my wife a visa. Hara said the officer had claimed that his paperwork was insufficient. When he asked the officer for further explanation, the officer had pointed out that his wife did not speak Japa­nese. The three of us found this reason unconvincing, since we knew that many brides had lacked Japa­nese language skills but ­were still given visas to come to Japan. Another w ­ oman who had married around the same time in Xinghai had already received a visa and arrived in Japan—­all without any Japa­nese language ability. Kanai and Hara said that if they knew what was wrong with their paperwork, they could try revising it again. But without knowing the precise reason, they had ­little chance of being successful. They would again have to wait for several months, prob­ably only to be declined yet again. Hara now started to think about getting divorced—­all before experiencing married life with his wife in Japan. Applicants, like Kanai and Hara, are often confused by the immigration pro­ cess. Although the immigration officers might have a par­tic­u­lar reason for rejecting an application, as Hara complained, they did not always tell the applicants what was missing or “unreasonable.” Their cases ­were not unique, for I witnessed



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many suspended and declined applications. And yet it was also true that some brides received a visa within a month without experiencing the frustration of waiting. Some brides could cross the border more easily than o ­ thers. Even when ­couples ­were already “legally” married both in China and Japan, certain types of marital relations w ­ ere still not deemed legitimate enough to justify the wife moving to Japan. What facilitates and eases certain border crossings, and who can be included in Japa­nese society? Moreover, what kinds of “relationships” are admissible into Japa­nese society?

The previous chapters have demonstrated that negotiating marriageability was not simply an individual act—­others, including brokers, friends, ­family members, and sometimes even “­imagined o ­ thers” such as the gaze of society (Jp: seken no me) ­were also intricately involved in ­these pro­cesses. In par­tic­ul­ ar, for participants, always in the background was the concern about w ­ hether or not ­others perceived their pairings as acceptable matchings between mutually marriageable individuals. The role of third parties in constituting the acceptability—­even viability—of their marriages became especially vis­i­ble when the Chinese wives actually tried to cross national borders. For cross-­border ­couples, marriage does not in itself guarantee that participants w ­ ill be able to experience marital life together. They have to be legitimated by the state. By looking into border practices and the crafting of “legitimate” relationships, this chapter addresses the ways certain marriages are authorized and legitimated at the border. In par­tic­u­lar, by tracing suspended and denied marital relationships, this chapter investigates a key site where the membership politics of the nation-­state and the ideology of marriage intersect. In other words, it examines which marital relations can be included in the Japa­nese state and which cannot. As Mae M. Ngai observes, the politics of inclusion and exclusion articulates a desired individual, or “a desired composition—­imagined if not necessarily realized—of the nation” (2004, 5). As many scholars have shown, what constitutes “desired individuals” is always influenced by conceptions of race, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, and/or class; differences in t­hese categories implicate dissimilar degrees of access to entry into the nation (Garner and Moran 2009; Luibhéid 2002; Luibhéid and Cantú 2005; Ngai 2004).1 My ethnographic materials further show that ­those who inhabit the racial and gendered category of “Chinese ­women” are not equally treated at the border. Some brides gained permission for entry within a month, whereas ­others ­were never admitted. What determined their acceptability? Some forms of migration depend on relatives as sponsors. O ­ thers rely on employers, an applicant’s “skills,” or specific qualifications. Marriage migration, however, rests on a dif­fer­ent manner of validating a legitimate entry. Certificates

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of residency and spousal visas are not simply issued based on an individual’s status or attributes. To gain a spousal visa, what is impor­tant for the immigration officers is to inspect the kind of relationship presented in the paperwork. In other words, it is not merely a question of “­whether or not this person is desired or suitable for entry.” Instead, it is a question of legitimate relationality, that is, ­whether or not an individual has a legitimate relationship or a reasonable explanation for their marriage. In short, the relationship itself is a site of regulation. It is impor­tant to note that such regulation works to produce multiple levels of exclusion, not simply the physical exclusion of bride mi­grants, but also the deterrence of certain relationships and marital lives. When the entry of Chinese ­women was denied or suspended, it is not simply that their mobility was delayed; their marital lives ­were also deferred. Furthermore, even ­those who already have membership in a society (Japa­nese male citizens) can face having their marital lives denied. Therefore, immigration control works to both exclude undesired individuals and reinforce normative marriages, thereby rejecting “inappropriate” marital relationships. Consequently, I argue that cross-­border ­couples find themselves having to conform to “ideal” normative standards as opposed to ones that reflect general social practices. Thus, instead of inquiring into demarcations between two types of marriage (“fake” and “genuine”), I ask how the very categories of “genuine” and “appropriate” relations are themselves created at the border. T ­ hese pro­cesses do not simply draw or depend on local practices; they reproduce ­these normative expectations pertaining to marital relations.

Cultural Practices of Bureaucracy For ­those whose paperwork was declined, like the two Japa­nese men described above, what was confusing was the ambiguity in the explanations given for rejection. Most of the c­ ouples I met first married in China, w ­ ere registered by the husband in Japan, and then applied for a certificate of residency for the wife to come to Japan.2 Thus, t­ hose who w ­ ere waiting to join their husbands in Japan already possessed a ­legal marital status in both countries. When the Chinese w ­ omen received a certificate of residency from Japan, they then went to the Japa­nese embassy in China to receive their spousal visa. It usually took one to three weeks, and as far as I know, few cases ­were declined subsequent to this stage. I had never heard of brides being rejected at the border when entering Japan through an airport immigration checkpoint. What was difficult and time consuming was first obtaining a certificate of residency in Japan. This paperwork, including both its



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required documents and additional voluntary documents, was the key to having a marital relationship approved. Michael Herzfeld (1993) observes that regardless of Weber’s portrayal of bureaucracy, which views it as constituted by rational, disinterested, and formal regulations, bureaucratic practices are actually rooted in cultural symbols, ideology, and everyday values. Furthermore, the ambiguity of symbolism can be used in rhe­toric justifying inconsistent bureaucratic decisions. Drawing on Mary Douglas’s statement that “dirt is ­matter out of place,” Herzfeld claims: “Even this happy formalism has been too often and too easily treated as a sort of static axiom, allowing us to forget that the bound­aries of place itself are contestable. T ­ hose who actually do the job of delineating the contours and extent of place also get to say what is dirty, what is holy, and who is reassuringly and familiarly clean. They, not nature, define the ordinary; and like all ­human actors, they may have to defend their choice” (45). Following Herzfeld, my aim is not to highlight the systematic or total control of the state but rather the ways intangible notions of legitimate and reasonable marital relations are negotiated. Legitimacy is not simply an issue of the law. Although gaining a certificate of residency is a l­egal pro­cess, ­legal and cultural values are not totally separate. For instance, Mark D. West (2011) observes that judges in Japan play a crucial role as arbiters of emotions and intimate relationships, highlighting “the illusory nature of the line between what we think of as ‘law’ and what we think as ‘nonlaw’ in an area that is central to being ­human” (9). By tracing the experiences of c­ ouples involved in the immigration pro­cess, this chapter demonstrates how legally and socially legitimate relations are constructed. In the pro­cess, I ­will show how values and ideologies are not simply exposed and si­mul­ta­neously reproduced but also how contradictory norms (or double standards) are applied to cross-­border marriages. Scholars working on marriage migration in Eu­rope observe that cross-­border marriages are judged based on the morality of intimate relationships, drawing on ideologies of autonomy, gender equality, and love (D’Aoust 2013; Eggebø 2013; Fernandez 2013). For instance, Fernandez (2013) claims that in Denmark companionate, love-­based marriages are not only considered the foundation of “true” families and “Danishness,” but also of the nation as a modern liberal state. Therefore, cross-­border marriages—­often considered to be forced marriages or marriages of convenience—­are seen as immoral and threatening to the state. Similarly in Norway, Eggebø (2013) observes that while the immigration administration asks pragmatic questions regarding intimate relationships, such as the economic situation of the c­ ouple or time spent together, the ideal of the “pure relationship”—­“a situation where a social relation is entered into for its own

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sake” (Giddens 1992, 58)—is used to judge cross-­border marriages, deciding ­whether or not they are marriages of con­ve­nience or “real marriages.” When “love” is conceived as an ideological premise of marriage, as t­ hese studies suggest happens in many Eu­ro­pean countries, one of the criteria by which to distinguish “sham” marriages is that they lack “love.” Furthermore, seemingly obvious inequalities within cross-­border marriages—­not only economic disparities between the countries but also age discrepancies—­are seen as indicative of a lack of individual volition. To counterchallenge such images of “sham” relations, attempts to conform to normative intimacy may be essential for efforts to be legitimated by the state. However, if gender equality and love are not an indispensable part of the ideology of marriage, what kinds of relations are seen as fake relations? Or more precisely, when love is ambiguously situated within the ideal of marriage in Japan—in a context where marriage and romantic courtship are seen as two separate issues, where love marriage is seen as ideal, and yet w ­ omen’s economic security is also viewed as an impor­tant part of the marriage—on what standard are cross-­border marriages judged? Moreover, when the gendered division of l­abor is seen as a more natu­ral part of marital relations (chapter 3), how are inequalities within cross-­border marriages perceived? Are cross-­border ­couples required to overcome higher hurdles than other “regular” u ­ nions? In the remainder of this chapter, I ethnographically elaborate on three issues. First, I focus on how marriage relationships become a site of regulation and ask what kinds of relationality gain legitimate entry. Second, I explore the ways legitimate relations are crafted through expert knowledge and resources. Third, by examining how individuals experience, maneuver, or fail within bureaucratic systems, I argue that border practices are not simply about individual strug­gles against the state or social norms. Rather, individuals are also embedded within ­these cultural and social values and norms. This chapter is not an analy­sis of ­actual declined or approved documents. I did not have access to ­those documents. Rather, my focus is on ­people’s experiences and interactions during the paperwork pro­cess. For the purposes of this chapter, I ­will use the term “membership in society” instead of “citizenship.” It is impor­tant not to equate the first admission with citizenship. Entry does imply possibly acquiring citizenship in the ­future; however, ­these are neither equal nor equally sought by the Chinese brides I met. Indeed, not all mi­grants wish to gain citizenship in their receiving countries. Although entry as a spouse is on the citizenship track, the assumption that they are seeking citizenship sooner or ­later reinforces the idea that Chinese brides want to escape from China for good. Many Chinese brides might indeed eventually decide to become naturalized Japa­nese citizens, especially ­after they have had ­children and



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settled down. For a large percentage of ­those who ­were waiting to depart for Japan, however, citizenship was not a priority, or even a preference. When I asked female participants if they would be interested in gaining citizenship, many expressed hesitation. Since the Japa­nese and Chinese governments do not allow dual citizenship, gaining Japa­nese citizenship would mean they needed to renounce their Chinese citizenship. Numerous ­women relayed that if they became Japa­nese citizens, they would have to apply for a visa to visit their f­ amily in China, which they thought would be too troublesome (Chin: mafan). What many ­women hoped to gain was “mobile livelihood,” the ability to move freely between Japan and China. Thus, a good number of ­women told me that permanent residency (Chin: yongzhu) would be the best. I do not mean to neglect the ways citizenship offers differential treatment for the members of a society; nonetheless, I want to stress that attaining citizenship is not always every­one’s goal, especially when it may involve the dilemma of abandoning one’s original citizenship. Citizen and noncitizen are not dichotomous categories; t­ here are gray areas between them, and some mi­grants prefer such grey areas. Accordingly, this chapter focuses on first entry as opposed to assimilation and naturalization pro­cesses ­after the entry.

Relations as a Site of Regulation In both Xinghai and Dongyang, marriage was considered an easier path to Japan than other forms of migration. This was not unique to the context of Japan–­China cross-­border migration. Other scholars working on transnational migration have also observed that ­family reunions are more privileged forms of border-­crossing than, for instance, l­abor migration or smuggling (Anagnost 2000, 2004; Constable 2003; Eng 2006). However, not all ­family reunions are treated equally. For instance, Constable contrasts two dif­fer­ent forms of f­amily reunions: transnational adoption and marriage. Transnational adoptees are not only seen as innocent but also as enabling white middle-­class parenthood. Moreover, Constable claims, whereas transnational adoption evokes sympathy ­toward ­those who are unable to have ­children, such sympathy is not elicited for t­ hose who are unable to find local wives. ­Because babies are seen as innocent and thus devoid of agency, adoption from developing countries carries the connotation of a heroic rescue story. Brides, on the other hand, are seen as far from innocent, and their motives are often ­under suspicion. In analyzing Asian brides in Japan, Nakamatsu (2005) also observes that whereas Asian brides are portrayed as victims of poverty, they are also seen as “calculating” actors (406). Thus, creating a ­family with mi­grant brides evokes more complex and skeptical reactions within Japa­nese

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society. Furthermore, even among transnational marriages, certain marriages face longer wait periods and more restrictions even a­ fter relocation (Friedman 2010a, 2010b). In par­tic­u­lar, some cross-­border marriages confront suspicion not only regarding their authenticity but also their feasibility, and even morality. Simply put, ­legal marital status alone is not sufficient to claim the right to enter a country. Existing studies on migration have critically analyzed the ways that individual bodies are disciplined at the border (Fassin 2011; Garner and Moran 2009). Mark B. Salter (2006), for instance, argues, “the bordering pro­cess constituted by the decision to include/exclude is a dialogue between body and body politic requiring the confession of all manner of bodily, economic, and social information” (170). Desired bodies and undesired bodies are separated so that undesired bodies are excluded.3 Nonetheless, what has received less attention is the “relations” in which individual bodies are located when crossing borders. The importance of the relationality of bodies is not ­limited to marriage migration. Other forms of migration also inspect the “appropriateness” of relations between and among dif­fer­ent bodies. ­Here I am interested in how the immigration policies and controls in Japan have situated nonmembers in relation to Japa­nese nationals. By reviewing other means of migration to Japan, my intent is to highlight how individuals’ “proper” relations to Japa­nese nationals play a key role in making crossing borders feasible.4 Authorization of admission is deeply rooted in the membership politics of the nation-­state. Since World War II, Japa­nese immigration policy has under­gone several transformations. In par­tic­u­lar, during the period of economic growth during the late 1970s and 1980s, shortages in the l­abor force had an impact on migration flows to Japan. In par­tic­u­lar, the Japa­nese ­bubble economy (1986–1991) created a ­labor shortage for “3D jobs” (“dirty, dangerous, and demeaning,” in Japa­nese called 3K: kitsui, kitanai, kiken). This also made Japan an appealing destination for mi­grant ­labor (Chung 2010). A 1990 policy revision, however, decreed that only four categories of visas ­were allowed to engage in unrestricted economic activities.5 “Spouse or child of a Japa­nese national” was one of them.6 This meant that marriage migration offered the right of immediate, unrestricted economic activity. While the state officially allowed only skilled ­labor mi­grants, in real­ity, a large number of unskilled mi­grants ­were also temporarily employed on trainee visas. ­These ­labor mi­grants w ­ ere temporary residents, and thus not members of Japa­ nese society. In other words, their bodies ­were deployed only for physical ­labor, which while crucial for the Japa­nese economy, did not mean that they became valued as impor­tant members of society. While unskilled physical l­abor is primarily the domain of male workers, female mi­grants often work in other fields. For instance, since the late 1970s and



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1980s, ­women from the Philippines, Thailand, South ­Korea, and Taiwan have migrated to Japan to work in the so-­called entertainment or sex industry (Allison 1994; Douglass and Roberts 2000; Faier 2009; Parreñas 2011; Suzuki 2000). The “entertainment visa” was originally granted to dancers or singers; nonetheless, many w ­ omen with this type of visa worked as hostesses in pubs, clubs, or in the sex industry. ­Labor and marriage migration can be closely intertwined for ­women. Mike Douglass (2000) notes that “marriage and l­abor recruitment are intermingled as foreign w ­ omen are brought not only for their reproductive function of bearing ­children for rural ­house­holds, but, are also taking on many agricultural duties as rural Japan continues to be depopulated of its prime-­age ­labor force” (112–113). Female mi­grants ­were viewed as engaging in reproductive work not only as wives in Japa­nese families but also for the nation. Nonetheless, ­here again, regardless of the importance of their roles in Japa­nese society, they ­were not permitted full membership. Parreñas (2011) observes that marrying or giving birth to a Japa­nese citizen conditions the integration of long-­term residents in Japan. Thus, she refers to the Filipino mi­grant community as “sexual citizens not only to underscore sex as a primary condition of their belonging but also to acknowledge that their citizenship, that is, their terms of belonging in Japa­nese society, involves sexual relations with Japa­nese citizens” (179). Although she also notes that we are to some extent all sexual citizens, as reproducing the population is the responsibility of citizens, the status of being the wives or m ­ others of Japa­nese citizens as a path to citizenship magnifies this notion of sexual citizens. What I wish to highlight ­here is that in order to be a “sexual citizen” or engage in reproductive l­abor, one enters into a relation requiring a counterpart. If mi­grant w ­ omen are sexual citizens engaging in a marital relationship, Japa­nese husbands are also becoming sexual citizens by marrying and pursuing a married life. If reproducing the population is the responsibility of citizens, unmarried persons are not full social citizens even if legally residing in Japan. This also means that denying the entry of certain bodies, in this case, brides, also means the denial of married life and full social membership to waiting husbands in Japan. In other words, ­there are multiple levels of exclusion. This, of course, does not mean that exclusionary pro­cesses apply equally to the brides and grooms involved. ­Those who are physically excluded from society certainly experience more uncertainty and anxiety. Still, the denial of brides is not solely about the brides’ entry; it is also about the marital f­ uture of the brides and grooms together. In short, marriage involves two counter­parts; if one of them cannot enter society, both lose their chance at married life together.

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Natu­r al Coupling, Legitimate Motives One day in November 2009, I accompanied two newlywed c­ ouples and their marriage brokers to visit the office of international marriage registration in Harbin; ­there I saw fifteen ­couples waiting to complete their paperwork. At one point I paused as I became aware that I honestly could not distinguish who was married to whom. Most of the c­ ouples ­were escorted by several other individuals (prob­ ably brokers). Since the c­ ouples did not talk to or even look at each other, I could not ­really tell who w ­ ere the brides, grooms, or brokers. One man, who appeared to be in his seventies, was sitting next to a w ­ oman, seemingly in her twenties. When I realized that they w ­ ere a ­couple, I somehow almost felt embarrassed to see them. ­Were they ­really married? Could she r­ eally receive a spousal visa? Then, I asked myself, Why do I feel embarrassed and awkward, looking at seemingly “unmatched” ­couples? What did I want to find in ­those ­couples? What would have convinced me that their marriages made sense? The criteria involved in the paperwork for the visa w ­ ere rooted in cultural values and norms. Building on Foucault, Sara Friedman (2010a) observes that immigration interviews, which require “truth,” demand that immigrants speak about their intimate relationships with citizens. In analyzing Chinese marriage mi­grants to Taiwan, Friedman argues, “the demand for truth and the expectation that statements take a certain form are already embedded in power relations that deny to ­those who speak the truth the ability to define the content of the categories themselves” (172). Although the task of immigration officers is to separate “au­then­tic” and “fake” marriages, Friedman also shows that the “sign” of authenticity is not simply to disclose intention, but “index shared social understandings about what constitutes conventional marriage practices (how one courts and decides to marry) and proper deportment and appearance for a married w ­ oman” (174). Thus, interviews “draw on and reproduce a deeper level of shared social knowledge about what a real marriage should look like” (174). It is impor­tant to note that “what a real marriage should look like” is not simply an expectation concerning the certain roles a wife should occupy but also includes what constitutes “appropriately” matched ­couples. That is, individuals are not simply judged on their own qualities but also in relation to another person, a citizen. The status or validity of individuals is relationally created. Furthermore, the social criteria for judging such relations complicate commercially brokered cross-­border marriages. Indeed, the ­couples I met did not ­really have “relations” except for their status as a legally married pair and a history of a few personal encounters. My conversations with brokers and o ­ thers outside t­ hese relationships also confronted me with the ideal of what marriage should look like and what counted as



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“normal” (Jp: futū) and “natu­ral” (Jp: shizen) couplings. During an interview, one domestic marriage broker expressed a slight hostility ­toward cross-­border marriages. She had once considered establishing a network of connections with transnational marriage agencies. She thought that introducing transnational marriage agencies to her clients might help in reducing the large number of perpetually unmarried male customers at her agency. As a result, she met with a number of transnational marriage brokers and Japanese–­Chinese c­ ouples. One agency even invited her on a matchmaking tour to China. Ultimately, she de­cided not to establish any relationship with ­those agencies. She said: “I saw a number of ­couples. They ­don’t look like married c­ ouples. They just look like f­ athers and d ­ aughters.” And she further continued: “I ­don’t understand how such pretty young w ­ omen can love old men. I d ­ on’t think they are real marriages a­ fter all [Jp: honto no kekkon jya nai].” The domestic broker’s comments revealed, first, that love should be the basis for marriage, and second, that ­there are limits to the types of ­people who certain individuals can or should love. “Love” appears only in a certain relation, according to her, and definitely not between a “pretty young ­woman” and an “old man.” ­Those who ­were involved in the brokering businesses also did not always have positive perceptions of the ­couples they brokered. A local staff member told me: “Often Japa­nese men choose a young and pretty w ­ oman, without considering their own status [Jp: mibun]. I ­don’t know why they think they can psychologically and financially support t­ hose pretty w ­ omen. If they r­ eally want to have a stable marital life, they should choose a relatively old and plain [Jp: jimi] ­woman.” When she witnessed a ­couple (a man in his fifties, and a ­woman in her late twenties) that was in the pro­cess of getting divorced, regardless of the fact that she also had assisted in brokering their marriage, she stated: “Undoubtedly, they ­wouldn’t do well. He should have chosen an older and uglier w ­ oman.” During another interview with a broker, he told me that he was getting tired of his job and was about to quit. He had worked as a broker for ten years, but he said that when he started the brokerage work, it was dif­fer­ent. The quality of the male and female customers as well as the nature of the marriages he brokered w ­ ere dif­fer­ent. He recalled: “At that time, Japa­nese men ­were ­those from the countryside. They w ­ ere good p ­ eople who somehow could not find any brides in Japan. ­Women ­were also relatively old w ­ omen who had simply missed the chance to marry in China. So it used to be that unmarriageable men in the countryside married unmarriageable ­women in China.” He continued: “In recent years, the customers have changed. Now, men are so picky, stingy, and roku de mo nai, and they want to marry someone twenty years younger than themselves.” He added: “The ­women are also becoming more arrogant. They are just thinking about making money.” According to him, it was acceptable and even ethical that two

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unmarriageable persons marry. Yet marriage between a picky old man and a pretty young ­woman who sought money was not acceptable. Such comments implied a certain notion of “proper marriage” and “appropriate matches,” the idea of who can love whom, or where intimate relations can emerge. Not conforming to such models would create suspicion, and it was assumed that the individuals involved must be marrying for something ­else, ­either money (or with money), citizenship, or the purposes of exploitation. Thus, ­these marriages ­were not for the goal of marriage itself. But then, what is marriage for the goal of marriage itself? How is love relevant or irrelevant in making marriage legitimate? In analyzing Japa­nese courts and ­legal cases, Mark D. West (2011) observes that the Japa­nese courts define marriage as a “­mental and physical ­union of a man and a ­woman that in the eyes of society can generally be thought of as a marital relationship” (89). West highlights that according to the judicial definition of marriage, marriage requires a m ­ ental u ­ nion, physical and sexual u ­ nion, and importantly, “society must view the relationship as ‘marital’ ” (91). This latter social appearance of marriage includes cohabitation, cooperation, and mutual aid (Civil Code art. 752; West 2011, 93). It is impor­tant to note that although love marriages have become the norm in Japan (Hashimoto and Traphagan 2008), love in marriage is not included in such a ­legal definition. What is noteworthy ­here is that marriage has to be represented as such “in the eyes of society.” Such a definition makes it more difficult for applicants, since they have no sure means to demonstrate their relationship is indeed legitimate and they have to navigate the assumed yet unstated commonsensical expectations that apply to marriage. Notably, not all commercially brokered cross-­border marriages w ­ ere denied visas. Regardless of their lack of a common language, sustained courtship, or knowledge about each other, some brides ­were bestowed a spousal visa. On the other hand, ­there ­were ­those who ­were denied, and in many cases, ­these ­were the ­couples who did not “look like they should be married to one another.” Cultural values of coupling are often unstated. Upon marriage, many domestic ­couples usually enjoy the social cele­bration of their u ­ nion. Questions such as “do they ­really love each other?” are rarely asked and certainly not appropriate to ask. However, ­whether or not the majority of domestic ­couples actually belong placed in the category of the “normal marriage” is another question. For example, according to a survey conducted by a research institution in Japan,7 when answering the question as to why they wanted to marry, the top three answers among Japa­nese are: wanting to have psychological stability (59.7 percent), wanting to live with someone they love (59.2 percent), and not wanting to be lonely in their old age (49.9 percent). While “love” is one of the reasons, avoiding potential loneliness (which was not seen as an appropriate reason for the transnational marriage



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cited above) nevertheless was a frequent answer for why p ­ eople sought marriage in the domestic context. Nonetheless, domestic ­couples do not have to explain why they are marrying when they register their ­union. Moreover, marriage as a means to achieve economic security—in par­tic­u­lar for ­women—­still remains a salient motive in Japa­nese society.8 Conversely, transnational ­couples have to explain and convince government officials as well as o ­ thers that their marriage is legitimate and somehow normal. To overcome such suspicions, cross-­ border ­couples have to be more “ideal” than pragmatic. Such an ideal model also includes love as the basis of marital relations. If ­couples do not match what is seen as normal in “the eyes of society,” they have to publicly demonstrate their love in a manner that overcomes social suspicions.

Crafting “Legitimate” Marital Relations on Paper Even ­after marrying Chinese ­women in China, many Japa­nese men kept returning to visit the agencies. Providing assistance with the application for a spousal visa was an impor­tant part of brokerage work. Among the male clientele ­were also ­those who had never possessed passports and had to apply for them for the first time to visit China. Thus, while brokerage work starts before the men visit China, it also continues a­ fter marriage. This section looks at how “legitimate” relations are crafted on paper. Caren Freeman (2011) offers an excellent ethnography of how kinship relations are verified based on minute details within documents. Chosŏnjok ­labor migration from northeast China to South ­Korea entails paperwork that proves applicants’ kinship relations to South Korean citizens. In the pro­cess of proving kinship relations, small ­mistakes or unintended errors can prove devastating. By providing the required documents, such as a letter of invitation or a genealogy of kinship, Freeman paradoxically demonstrates how carefully crafted “falsified” documents may have a better chance of being accepted than genuine documents based on unadulterated kinship connections. In a dif­fer­ent context, Julie Chu (2010) also observes how dif­fer­ent bound­aries between “smuggling” and “­legal” migrations are drawn. For would-be mi­grants in Fuzhou, China, fake marriages are perfectly ­legal ­because the documents are real. Thus, state documents distinguish ­legal and illegal exits (117). The authenticity of a relation is based on the apparent authenticity of the documents, not necessarily a relation itself. If validating kinship relations involves accurate genealogies and genuine letters of invitation from receiving relatives, how can marital relations be verified based on documents? If validating kinship is thought of as confirming an already

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established link (although in real­ity it is not always the case), verifying marital relations is a dif­fer­ent ­matter. Genealogy does not say anything about the authenticity of marital relations. Moreover, a certificate of marriage only demonstrates ­legal marital status, not the “authenticity” of the relationship. H ­ ere again, ­there are double standards for domestic and cross-­border marriages. L ­ egal status is not sufficient to validate the relationship. They need something more. What, then, exactly authenticates a cross-­border marital relationship? ­Here, I look at the pro­cesses of paperwork and the contexts in which “legitimate relations” are crafted. Legitimate relations are created by expert knowledge and resources. Such knowledge makes noncustomary practices into materials for pre­sen­ta­tion. Once ­couples marry, the first part of the paperwork pro­cess is conducted in Japan. Assistance with paperwork is frequently part of the brokerage package. Staff members often exchange phone calls and e-­mails with male clientele to make sure every­thing is written properly. Some men ­were very concerned about the instructions, and even made overnight trips to visit the agency to receive instruction in person. In addition to the many forms and documents that applicants have to submit, one of the most impor­tant documents is called a written inquiry (Jp: shitsumon sho). ­After providing an applicant’s personal information, including occupational information, the applicant is asked to provide a detailed explanation of how the relationship began. The first question concerns when and where the applicant and his or her spouse first met, including the specific day and place. The next question asks about the pro­cess of how the ­couple came to be married subsequent to their meeting for the first time. This section needs to be explained with a precise time line. It also states that the applicant can use more space if it is necessary and suggests that the applicant can additionally supply more supporting evidence, including photos, letters, and rec­ords of international calls as proof of the explanation provided. The form also asks w ­ hether or not t­ here ­were any persons involved in introducing the ­couple. If the introducing party was a marriage broker, the applicant is required to provide information about the agency. The exact day, place, and means (photos, by phone, in person, e-­mail, or other) also need to be specified. The relationship between brokers, the applicant, and his or her spouse also requires explanation. The form specifies that simply stating that the introducing party was a “friend” or “acquaintance” is not sufficient.9 A further set of questions addresses how the ­couple communicates. One question is about the language that the married ­couple uses in daily life. Then, other questions ask the native languages of both; to what extent the ­couple understands each other’s ­mother tongue; and if the applicant’s spouse understands Japa­nese,



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how he or she learned it. Fi­nally, a question asks how, in ­those cases when they cannot converse due to linguistic difficulties, they communicate with one another. The form further asks questions regarding the wedding ceremony, if t­ here was any. It asks the specific day, place, and attendees (which members of each ­family attended). Other questions include the ­couple’s marital history, history of residency in Japan (if already living in Japan), history of visiting the spouse’s country, history of deportation (if any), and information about ­family members (including which members of the ­family know about the marriage). Some versions of the written inquiry form also ask for a map of their h ­ ouse, which might be used by immigration officers to visit their ­house for inspection.10 ­There have been numerous books published to guide applicants through the immigration pro­cesses. For instance, Okuda (2008) advises potential applicants that e­ very fact should be written down correctly. If t­ here are even a few inconsistencies or deviations from the facts, the document might be judged as false. He maintains that it is also impor­tant to specify when someone introduced the c­ ouple and ­whether it was one person or two. A false report on brokers can influence the outcome of an application. It may depend on w ­ hether or not the introducing parties ­were professional brokers, or acquaintances or friends acting out of “natu­ral goodwill” (Jp: shizen na zeni). They also advise that obtaining a certificate of residency for Chinese wives is often not easy, and thus an applicant should visit their wife in China at least two to three times before marrying and at least one or two times ­after marrying as well. The marriage brokers I met also provided similar advice to their clientele. Although they offered all-­in-­one matchmaking/wedding tours, they usually recommended two-­visit packages (with matchmaking and wedding tours conducted separately). During matchmaking and wedding tours, brokers often asked ­couples not only to take photos together but also requested, and even urged, them to hold each other’s hands, kiss one another’s cheeks, and so on. In addition to wedding photos taken professionally by photo studios, photos in “natu­ral settings” ­were impor­tant. When c­ ouples went out for a walk or to eat, it was seen as good for a photographer to constantly accompany them. Brokers further advised their male client to keep all rec­ords of communication with their Chinese wives. For instance, one man proudly spoke of accumulating more than fifty pages documenting ­e-­mails and international calls. Even when marriages occur between Japa­nese men and Chinese w ­ omen already living in Japan, the ­couple still needs to submit paperwork to apply for a spousal visa. Although such a procedure is easier than in the case of marriage with a Chinese w ­ oman in China, the brokers always make sure to take pictures of ­couples who are participating in matchmaking meetings. The brokers usually said,

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“Let’s take a picture together, it might be a good memory [Jp: omoide] for the ­future if you happen to have destiny [Jp: en] and marry.” By ­doing this, the agency was able to keep a picture of “the day they first met.” The manuals written by l­awyers, public notaries, and other “experts” suggest that the most determinant ­factor is the potential continuity (Jp: jizokusei) and stability (Jp: anteisei) of marital relations (Kishimoto 2005; Nishimura 2009). They advise that an applicant’s occupation, income, and ability to financially support dependents may influence perceptions of the potential continuity and stability of marital relations. In par­tic­u­lar, w ­ hether or not marital relations are seen as “normal” (Jp: seijyō na kankei) can also shape w ­ hether a marriage is classified as stable. Furthermore, even if already married, the ­couples who convey a feeling of incongruity (Jp: iwakan), or give off the impression (Jp: yōso) that they might divorce within a half year ­will be seen as facing prob­lems maintaining their marriage. Kishimoto (2005) suggests that an applicant should also provide pictures of their ­future home as proof that they w ­ ill live together, including photos of the entrance, bedroom, living room, and kitchen, and even pictures capturing his and her toothbrushes or coffee mugs. In addition, an applicant can also offer proof of remittances to his wife to show that he already financially supports her. To demonstrate financial stability, which is crucial for maintaining marital relations, it is best that applicants have a monthly income of more than 200,000 yen. Fi­nally, he suggests that love letters can also be proof of love. Although submitting ­these documents is voluntary, without t­ hese documents, it is quite difficult to obtain a spousal visa. Thus, ­these documents are not legally mandatory but rather normatively required as means to differentiate one’s marriage from so-­called fake marriages. Again, l­egal and immigration experts repeatedly stress that “continuity” and “stability” are key terms. The continuity and stability of marital relations are seen as manifesting the “substance” (Jp: jisshitsu) of ­these relations. As Sha (2008) argue, marital relationships are not simply ­matters of law but are also constituted by substantive relations based on cohabitation, mutual cooperation, and shared living (99). ­Others suggest that to obtain the status of spouse of a Japa­nese citizen, the relationship should not only be lawfully valid but the c­ ouple must also engage in appropriate activities based on socially accepted ideas (Jp: shakai tsūnen jō) (108). Crucially, evaluations of continuity and stability do not simply examine the past history of the ­couples, a history most of the ­couples do not have. Rather, they are about a presumed ­future: ­whether or not they ­w ill maintain their marital relations.11 Unlike t­ hose who seek to define what constitutes substantial marital relations in the eyes of immigration officials, my interest ­here is to explore how the “substance” of marital relations is not simply “proved” but rather crafted by accumu-



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lating information, files, and rec­ords. The act of accumulating information about relations and courtship is not necessarily a function of conducting a search for a marriage partner. However, such practices ­were made pos­si­ble with assistance from the marriage agencies. Thus, participants often crafted their paperwork based on the brokers’ knowledge and experience. Marriage brokers ­were seen as “experts” who ­were acquainted with the “know-­how” necessary to smoothly navigate the pro­cess. Creating valid documents was also impor­tant for agencies b ­ ecause it further produced the agencies as credible vis-­à-­vis prospective customers. The broker at China Love often proudly told me that his agency had not arranged any marriages that ­were permanently declined. During an interview with a public notary who often provided support for spousal visas, he informed me that “loneliness” does not qualify as a legitimate justification for marriage. I asked him what, then, is needed to persuade the officers. The public notary said, “they have to convince the officers that their marriage is legitimate by showing, for example, the rec­ord of their telephone calls, e-­mail correspondence, proof of visiting China more than once, and pictures of them together.” He added that while their pictures are impor­tant, if they do not match well, they might face difficulties, and in general, ­couples who look alike are more likely to receive a visa sooner. Also, “gentle looking” (Jp: yasashisōna) persons would have more of an advantage. He further continued, “Although the immigration officers know that they are not normal marriages, applicants still have to show proof of intimacy and love.” Hara’s application, as noted above, was declined; his loneliness obviously did not qualify in validating the legitimacy of his marital relations. Neither did the fact that he had visited China three times authenticate their relations. Hara was sixty-­seven years old and already retired. His Chinese wife was in her mid-­forties and lacked any Japa­nese language skills. What e­ lse could he do? Ironically, Hara and Kanai did not have support from their “brokers.” They told me that their brokers ­were just Japanese–­Chinese ­couples who lived in their neighborhoods. ­These neighbors had started acting as go-­betweens and ­were not professional marriage brokers. T ­ hese unofficial brokers believed that they had provided a significant ser­vice by introducing wives from China. Nonetheless, their relationship with t­ hese “friend-­like” neighbors/brokers became quite problematic when the latter dis­ appeared with their money. Neither Hara nor Kanai had computers at home. Whenever they called China, they used prepaid phone cards and did not know how to keep a rec­ord of their calls. Simply visiting China several times was apparently not sufficient as proof of the stability of their marital relations. At China Love, e-­mails in Japa­nese from Japa­nese husbands to their brides go to local staff members first. The staff translated them into Chinese before sending them to the bride, and, at the same time, could keep a rec­ord of all e-­mail

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correspondence. However, not every­one could successfully accumulate such a data trail due to lack of knowledge and resources. Keeping rec­ords of personal communications and interactions is not a natu­ral habit for many p ­ eople. To craft a complete, tangible pile of proof of legitimate relations, they had to know from the first day they met and throughout their long-­distance courtship what they had to rec­ord and keep. For example, Wang Lijuan married a Japa­nese man in September of 2009 (as discussed in chapter 4). Her first attempt to apply for a visa application was declined. When I saw her in Dongyang in late winter of 2010, she was r­ eally depressed about the news. She was upset not only ­because her paperwork was declined but also b ­ ecause her husband, Noguchi, did not tell her immediately. When he called and told her the result of the application, it was almost already two weeks ­after he had received the letter from the immigration office. Wang Lijuan felt that her application had not been taken seriously. At the same time, Noguchi also called the agency about the declined paperwork. Their case was, of course, not the first declined case that the broker had encountered. Yet the broker knew what to do next. The broker’s subsequent instructions w ­ ere prompt. The broker asked Noguchi to visit Dongyang one more time to see Wang Lijuan and make sure to take a lot of pictures together. The broker immediately contacted the local staff regarding Noguchi’s visit, so that t­ here would be someone waiting to pick him up at the airport. Also, the broker asked Noguchi to call his wife as much as pos­si­ble and keep a rec­ord of the calls. ­After Noguchi visited her in China, the broker instructed him to submit proof of the visit—­including photos and a copy of his passport stamp—to the immigration office again. According to the broker, visiting more than once, ideally at least three times, was crucial to getting her visa approved. Noguchi visited Wang Lijuan two weeks ­later. Ironically, this time, Wang Lijuan did not have a good experience. ­Later she told me that when Noguchi visited her, he was not nice. They spent the majority of his visit at a ­hotel watching tele­v i­sion to kill time and save money. Sometimes he did not even talk to her. A local staff member had to intervene when Lijuan started crying ­after Noguchi refused to go for a walk with her. ­After he left, Lijuan started feeling that something was wrong with their relationship. Regardless of his be­hav­ior in China, Noguchi continued to follow the broker’s instructions and called her a number of times. Lijuan ­later confessed that whenever he called her, he was just complaining about how hard his life was and how l­ ittle money he had, and so she did not enjoy the conversations at all. It was at this time that Lijuan started becoming more and more concerned about g­ oing to Japan. All the same, his third visit paid off. The certificate for Lijuan was approved within three weeks of its resubmission. Lijuan received a spousal visa and arrived



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in Japan several days before I was planning to go back to the United States. I soon visited her. As Noguchi was working, I took Lijuan out to explore her neighborhood and have lunch. She was relieved that she had fi­nally arrived in Japan, but at the same time, worried about her new life with Noguchi. A ­couple of weeks ­later, the broker at the Tokyo office updated me on her situation. Noguchi and Lijuan had visited China Love. While sitting in the lounge, he suddenly blurted out that he did not love her anymore and wished to divorce. Lijuan fainted. ­After a week of back-­and-­forth discussions, Lijuan assented in return for 1,000,000 yen ($11,000). The broker told her that even if she might want more compensation, considering his employment situation, asking for anything more might hurt her chances to even receive that amount. So, the broker convinced her to take what she could get at that point. When I visited her in the summer of 2011, she was in Shizuoka, working at a factory on a short contract. Her spousal visa would soon expire, as would her work contract. She was desperate to find other ways to maintain her ­legal status in Japan. I asked if the agency was willing to help her find another opportunity to stay in Japan. But she was not willing to ask for help. She told me that the agency had not at all been nice to her. The broker said that they would charge her 30,000 yen for introducing her to another Japa­nese man. Lijuan also told me that she could not even participate in the monthly matchmaking party ­because she was too old compared with other female participants. She did not tell her ­family about the divorce. She said: “If I told them that I already am divorced, they would be worried about me. So I just told them that I am still in Tokyo and working during the day. I ­won’t tell them my cell phone number. When I need to contact them, I just Skype them. If they ask me about my situation ­here, I just tell them a ­couple of words, and say I am busy and hang up the phone.” She expressed that if she had to go back to China, it would be ­really embarrassing. Thus, she needed to find another legitimate way to stay in Japan. So while Lijuan’s entry was approved, her relationship failed quite rapidly. Although their marriage was never described as based on love during the matchmaking pro­cess, a lack of love was the reason cited by Noguchi for terminating their marriage. Brokers knew how to make marriages appear stable on paper, but they could not always help ­couples stay together in real­ity.

“I ­D on’t ­R eally Know My Wife . . .” It is impor­tant to note that it is not simply the state, bureaucrats, or nonparticipants in ­these marriages who ­were suspicious of cross-­border marriages.

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­ hose who ­were personally involved in ­these marriages sometimes also express T doubts. Such suspicions of one’s own marital relationship could also slow down or even damage the pro­cess. The participants did not exist outside the social norms of “appropriate” or “legitimate” relationships; they ­were also themselves embedded within the pro­cesses in which cultural values s­haped appropriate relations. Existing work focuses on how bureaucrats are also actors who strug­gle to make decisions based on norms and ideology (Becker and Clark 2001). However, what is understudied is how applicants also strug­gle in a pro­cess that was influenced by cultural values. The participants displayed contradictory attitudes ­toward the migration pro­cess: the applicants ­were desperate to obtain a certificate of residency, and yet, si­mul­ta­neously, suspicious of each other’s motivations. When I met Sun Hua for the first time in March, she had told me that Kanai would be coming to visit her in two weeks. She asked me to accompany them to translate, and we also planned which restaurants to visit and so forth. The next time he called her, however, his plan had changed. He told her that he would possibly visit her the following month. As time passed, Kanai repeatedly told Sun Hua that he would visit her as soon as he had time and money. Kanai’s schedule kept changing, and when I left Xinghai in June, he had still not come to China. Sun Hua originally rented an apartment in town for Kanai, as she thought that he would not like to stay in a ­house without r­ unning ­water or an inside toilet. As time dragged on as Kanai’s plans became repeatedly postponed, Sun Hua became unable to financially maintain her stay in the apartment. Although still awaiting his visit, she moved out of the apartment and temporarily went back to her village. She also ­stopped attending the Japa­nese school as she did not have enough money to continue. While waiting, she also learned how other brides had been able to accelerate the approval of their visa. For instance, she heard that a rec­ord of remittances would also prove the authenticity of their relationship, ­because it would demonstrate that she was already financially dependent. If a c­ ouple was “fake,” it was highly unlikely that the husband would send money to his wife before she came to Japan. So she sent Kanai her bank account number by mail. I accompanied her to the post office. She also included pictures of herself, their wedding, and her son. Sending an international express package was not financially easy for her. Nevertheless, she chose the express option so she could track it. Kanai received her package and told her that he had visited a bank in his neighborhood. Yet, he said, somehow he could not send any money ­because the local bank did not know how to set up a transfer. This explanation made Sun Hua suspicious, but she tried to show understanding, rationalizing that “maybe it was a small local bank” or “maybe he is too old to ­handle ­these international transactions.”



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Nonetheless, as time went on and Kanai continued postponing his plans, Sun Hua gradually became distrustful. Becoming frustrated about the w ­ hole pro­cess, Sun Hua started saying, “he is deceiving me [Chin: pian wo].” She claimed that it should be taken for granted that a husband financially supports his wife. If he is not willing to do so, he must be deceiving her. She repeatedly asked: “Why d ­ on’t Japa­nese pick up the phone? We Chinese always pick up the phone immediately.” Her mistrust ­toward him increased when Kanai failed to answer her calls a number of times. Sun Hua guessed that he might be avoiding her for some reason. She suggested that we use someone ­else’s phone so that he would not know it is her who is calling and might pick up. This strategy did not work ­either. During the last several weeks of my stay, I spent a lot of time with her, just calling him again and again. Sometimes, we would leave a message, but still he did not call us back. Such waiting is not a unique experience for mi­grants. ­Whether ­legal or illegal, waiting is often a part of migration procedures (Chu 2010; Coutin 2005; Newendorp 2008).12 Yet waiting experiences vary. For example, Constable (2003) observes that during such waiting periods, the American husbands expressed more frustration and anger ­toward the bureaucratic pro­cess than their wives from China or the Philippines. She explains that the ­women from China and the Philippines expressed less frustration, anxiety, and anger in part b ­ ecause they ­were more used to dealing with inefficient bureaucratic systems, and thus had low expectations. She also adds, “­women w ­ ere simply less involved with the U.S. side of the bureaucratic pro­cess” (189). Unlike the ­women Constable studied, the Chinese ­women I met did express frustration and anger. Their frustration was directed not only at the Japa­nese bureaucracy but also ­toward their Japa­nese husbands. For the ­women I met, not being personally involved was not the source of less frustration; rather, it was the cause of their frustration. Not being able to communicate directly due to linguistic difficulties, the w ­ omen’s vexations w ­ ere also caused by their inability to know what was happening. Some w ­ omen complained about the system, but o ­ thers also complained about how their husbands did not work hard enough to navigate through the system. Moreover, the ­women in Dongyang and Xinghai experienced the waiting period differently. In general, w ­ omen in Dongyang received a certificate of residency more quickly than w ­ omen in Xinghai. Brides from Xinghai faced greater hurdles b ­ ecause Xinghai was viewed as a place “notorious” for runaway brides and fake documents. And professional brokers usually assisted the ­women in Dongyang, while not all the ­women in Xinghai had such support. ­After I left in June 2010, the situation did not change much. I called Sun Hua from time to time to learn about her situation. Most of the time, she was just waiting.

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So I also kept calling Kanai and left a ­couple of messages so that Kanai could call me when he had the chance. In late September, Kanai called my cell phone in Japan. He tried to explain his situation. He said: Actually, a bride who married at the same time as us has already arrived in Japan. But I heard that she ran away. B ­ ecause of that, p ­ eople around her told me not to send my wife any money ­until she ­really comes to Japan. I do not r­ eally know my wife yet since we just met once. If she ­really can come to Japan and support me and live together, I am willing to send her living expenses, but if not, I am a ­little hesitant to do that. You seem to spend more time with my wife, so you might know more about her than me. I am not sure if she is coming to Japan b ­ ecause she likes me. Other w ­ omen marry Japa­nese men only as a step t­ oward upward mobility and run away as soon as they arrive in Japan. If my wife is that kind of person, I am wondering if I should send her living expenses now. If she is ­really willing to devote herself to me, I could send her 10,000 yen or so even though my life is not that affluent. I have also been asking in many places how I can receive a visa sooner. But it seems that it is ­really difficult. Someone told me that if I pay money, like 3,000,000 yen, for ser­vices, I could get more support for paperwork. But when a man’s income is around 3,000,000 yen per year, it is ­really difficult. I am trying hard. If she is serious [Jp: honki], I ­will also be serious. So please tell her that. Sun Hua also knew that another bride had run away. She stressed: “I am not that kind of person. I would not run away!” As an anthropologist, assisting in the paperwork pro­cess was a tricky issue. I was ­there neither to promote nor hinder cross-­border marriages. Although I did not want to completely reject any requests from ­those who ­really needed help, such as by translating or calling, I si­mul­ta­ neously realized that ­there was ­little for me to do. In early October 2010, Kanai called me and said: “I just got a call from Sun Hua’s ­sister who is in Yamagata Prefecture. She asked me if I am thinking about her seriously. She said if I ­were serious, she would also help us.” I was worried about losing contact with him again and told him that I would call her immediately and call him back soon ­after. I called Sun Hua and let her know that her “­sister” had called Kanai. I asked if she has anything that she wanted to tell him. She said: “If he does not come to China sometime soon, I want to get divorced. My friend already got divorced and received a refund. I am the only one who has not received a refund b ­ ecause my husband has not agreed to get divorced yet. I want to get divorced and get a refund as soon as pos­si­ble.” When I called Kanai



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back, I carefully and politely told him what she had said. Kanai responded: “Well, if she does not like me anymore, ­there is no way, but if not, I think I still love her even if I cannot call her often as I am busy with work. But I think I want to hang in t­ here a ­little bit and want to live with her. Now the broker who helped me is missing, and so ­things are messy ­here. But I am also trying to save money to visit China. It might take time, but I hope that she could be patient and wait for me.” I called Sun Hua back immediately. This time she screamed: “I also still love him! I know he also loves me! But if he does not come to China, we cannot move on! He does not even send me any money. I just want to get divorced as soon as pos­si­ble!” Ironically, it was my first time to hear the word “love” from them. Just when Sun Hua was ready to move on to the next opportunity, “love” hindered her from ­doing so. She still had to wait for a few more months, or possibly even forever. Was it better for Kanai not to love her—so that he would be willing to get divorced? Indeed, love would not do anything for them; they needed legitimate proof. Although both seemed to be willing to live together, they w ­ ere also mutually suspicious. They had met only once for a few days when they w ­ ere married. Their mutual suspicion prevented them from effectively accumulating proof of their relations. Their situation did not get better. I visited Xinghai in the summer of 2011. When a ­couple of locals picked me up at the airport, Sun Hua also came with them. She was working at a public shower affiliated with the h ­ otel where I was staying and was still waiting. This time, she did not even know if Kanai had reapplied for the paperwork. She looked frustrated and said, “I still have to leave the country [Chin: chuguo].” Her goal at that time was not to go to Japan but to seek a divorce and receive a refund from the brokers. Sometime ­later ­after I had left, I heard from other locals that Sun Hua had left to work in Beijing. When I was in Xinghai in the summer of 2011, she had been talking about the possibility of ­going to Beijing and had already met someone in Xinghai who could possibly introduce her to a job ­there. At that time, she also told me that ­there ­were many old men living alone in Beijing, so she could also work as a helper. But recalling her married status, she lamented, “But, I am still married, I cannot even marry an old man in Beijing!” While their paperwork was being regulated and examined at immigration desks, the marital ­couples themselves also scrutinized their counter­parts and relationships. Sometimes, it was difficult to build a trusting relationship a­ fter only meeting once or twice. Ironically, the longer the pro­cess took, the more suspicious the c­ ouples became of their counter­parts. Some w ­ omen grew worried that their husbands had deceived them. On the other hand, the husbands also became

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anxious that their wives might run away once they arrived in Japan. While waiting, the men w ­ ere also surrounded by public discourses and gossip about runaway brides. Sun Hua was not alone in her experience of ­these pro­cesses. When I was invited to make dumplings for lunch at the home of one of Sun Hua’s friends, I met three other ­women in similar predicaments. They ­were also brides married to Japa­nese men and they, too, w ­ ere still waiting for certificates of residency. Like Sun Hua, t­ hese ­women had lost contact with their Japa­nese husbands and did not know what had happened to them. All three asked me to call their Japa­nese husbands. While making dumplings, I called their husbands a number of times. None answered their phones that day. All the ­women ­were trapped between marriage and divorce. ­Unless their Japa­nese husbands agreed to a divorce, their brokers would not refund their down payments. U ­ nless they w ­ ere officially divorced, they could not find another husband. They w ­ ere suspicious of not only the paperwork pro­cess but also their brokers and their husbands. Another day, during lunch, I met a Chinese man who was a second-­generation descendant of Japa­nese war orphans and had run a Chinese restaurant in Japan. He had recently divorced his Chinese wife, who had become a permanent resident in Japan via their marriage. Now, he had come back to Xinghai on a short trip to find a new wife. The locals ­later told me that usually the visa pro­cess is much easier and faster for a Chinese bride who marries a Chinese husband living in Japan, b ­ ecause marriage between conationals who speak the same language and shared the same culture appeared more real (Chin: zhen de). The man was in his mid-­forties, around the same age as the Japa­nese men who visited Xinghai to find a bride. He was also trying to find a bride in her early twenties; this age gap was also about the same as what was typical between Japa­nese husbands and their Chinese brides. Nonetheless, his marriage was likely to be seen as more au­then­tic, natu­ral, and legitimate.

More Suitable and Loving than “Normal” One of the Japa­nese men who married a Chinese bride, Kato, ­later confessed to me: “Retrospectively, it was like gambling b ­ ecause I married someone I barely knew. But I was ­really lucky. I can now say with confidence that my wife has a ­really nice personality.” His wife, Song, also ­later told me that marrying someone whom you barely know is risky. Nonetheless, both expressed to me individually that they ­were ­doing well and ­were satisfied with their marriage. But Kato was concerned about other ­couples he had met during his matchmaking tours.



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He mentioned that two other ­couples ­were not stable and their relationships ­were at risk [Jp: abunai]. He also told the staff members, “they (the other two ­couples) are not well suited [Jp: tsuri atte nai]; I think they still have a risk of divorce.” For him, the success and stability of marital relationships was to be judged not only based on ­actual married life but also on the suitability of the two partners. This chapter has explored the ways relations become a site of state and social regulation and suspicion. It showed that denied or suspended marriage migration produced multiple levels of exclusion, not only of undesired individual bodies but also of inappropriate relations and marital lives. Marriageability was not simply negotiated at an individual level. When asking who is worthy of marriage, the very meaning of “marriage,” or precisely, “normal marriage,” is reconstituted and reinforced. The experiences of such denials or suspensions varied. Brides and grooms also had dif­fer­ent frustrations and anx­i­eties. The denial of marital relations may have involved hardship for Japa­nese grooms, but it was the Chinese brides who depended on ­others for ­legal entry and status, and thus faced more uncertainty and anxiety. Even when waiting ner­vously, most Japa­nese grooms could and did continue with the routines of their daily lives; Chinese brides could not maintain such an everyday routine. Some Japa­nese men ­were concerned about the pro­cess and carefully followed the instructions given by brokers. O ­ thers ­were themselves suspicious of their wives, and sometimes even ­stopped contacting their wives to terminate their relations. Since they ­were married, however, ending communication would not end their relationship. L ­ egal action was required for divorce. T ­ hose ­women who ­were trapped between marriage and divorce faced the most difficulty in finding a way out. ­Couples in a domestic context may also face social suspicion of their relationship. Nevertheless, the perceived “unsuitability” or “unnaturalness” of their pairing does not prevent domestic c­ ouples from experiencing married life. Giving the impression of being likely to divorce does not result in any delay in starting their married life together. Cross-­border marriages encounter not only social inspection but also state examination of their marital motives, suitability, and sustainability. They ­were tested to ensure that participants ­were pursuing “marriage for marriage itself.” This notion, however, was not simply a derivative of local marital practices. To receive a visa, cross-­border marriages had to be more ideal and more normatively defensible than local marriages. The idea of what marriage should look like was reproduced and reinforced at the border. This chapter has also revealed the contradictory and ambiguous relationship of love to marriage in Japan. While social conceptions of marital relations place much emphasis on “natu­ral” or “suitable” matching, the perceived importance of

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love was never totally absent. Sometimes, love was seen likely to naturally emerge if ­couples “fit.” If c­ ouples ­were not perceived as mutually suitable, their relations ­were not seen as holding the potential for love. Love was not seen as the sole basis for marriage, but without the appearance of love, c­ ouples in cross-­border marriages had difficulty proving their legitimacy. In par­tic­u­lar, the display of love was required more of “unsuitable” ­couples, and thus cross-­border marriages between Japan and China faced a more difficult task; they had to pre­sent more legitimate and more loving relations than ­those married domestically.

Conclusion

YEN OR EN?

I met Lili in the ­earlier stages of my fieldwork in China. A local staff member thought that she and I might get along and introduced her to me. From then on, we met on a regular basis to chat and catch up. Lili had been a client at the transnational marriage agency for almost a year and was also one of the broker’s favorites. She was in her late twenties and several years e­ arlier had worked for a year in Japan on a trainee visa. Since returning to China, she had been working at a Japa­nese restaurant as a waitress. It was during this time that the broker had found her and recruited her for his agency. ­After having worked several months at the Japa­nese restaurant, she took a job at a Japanese-­owned com­pany in Dongyang. Since she spoke Japa­nese well, the broker thought that she would make a ­great potential bride for a number of his Japa­nese clients. Whenever the broker visited China on a matchmaking tour, he also met Lili and took some pictures for updating her profile on the website. She had a number of matchmaking meetings with Japa­nese men, a few of which I also attended. For approximately four months, she even pursued a long-­distance courtship (­after meeting on the Internet) with one male customer. When we ­were out for dinner together, she seemed excited about receiving a call from him. However, when he ­later came in person on a matchmaking tour, he did not choose her but rather another Chinese w ­ oman for marriage. When I left the field in the fall of 2010, Lili was still single. It was in the summer of 2011 that I heard from a local staff member that Lili had found a husband. The Japa­nese president of the com­pany where she worked had ­really liked her and thus introduced her to his own son. They had married, and soon ­after, she left for Japan and became pregnant. A local staff member who 167

168 CONCLUSION

was close to Lili informed me that she was happy. Lili had told the staff member, “Marriage is, ­after all, about fate [Chin: yuanfen].” During the course of my fieldwork, “fate” [Chin: yuanfen/Jp: en] was an expression I frequently encountered, both in Japan and China. At many dif­fer­ent times and places, fate was used to explain marriage. For example, Japa­nese clients sometimes would express their gratitude ­toward the broker by saying, “thank you for knotting our fates.” Fate was also used to make sense of marriages that failed by saying, “we w ­ ere not fated to be together a­ fter all.” The use of fate in the context of domestic marriage was also quite common, both in Japan and China. In Japan, saying “We ­were not fated to be together,” or more literally translated, “we did not have fate” (Jp: en ga nakatta) is a phrase, even a cliché, used for breaking off a relationship without providing an a­ ctual reason. On the other hand, successful matchmaking was often attributed to having “good fate” (Jp: yoi en). A broker at a Tokyo office told me that marriage between Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women should not be based on yen (Japa­nese money), but on en (fate). Both Japa­nese words, yen and en, have the same pronunciation, but are written with dif­fer­ent characters and have totally dif­fer­ent meanings.1 Brokers certainly knew that Chinese w ­ omen ­were in most cases not r­ eally marrying for love but for vari­ous other ­things, including seeking a more secure ­future, obtaining a better life, and wanting a pos­si­ble return on their investment. Still, this broker maintained that t­hese marriages should not be guided by material motives alone; marriages based purely on a material foundation would not last. But the broker stated that marital relations that lacked a basis of financial stability w ­ ere also untenable. In her view, if a ­couple did not love one another initially, in the beginning at the very least they needed financial security for their relationship to survive. So yen ­were also necessary. A local staff member in China once told me that many Japa­nese men often used the word en, saying, for instance, they had “good fate” (Jp: yoi en) with their Chinese bride. However, she sarcastically retorted, “they said it was fate, but they had chosen the ­women themselves based on their pictures and profiles, and they had come to China by paying brokerage fees to marry them.” She continued: “Perhaps they feel guilty about finding a bride through commercial matchmaking ser­v ices and they do not want to believe that the ­women marry them for their money. So they want to believe that it was en, even if it was actually their yen.” ­These plays on the words yen and en (or yuanfen in Chinese) reveal the contradictions, ambivalences, and attempts to make sense of paradoxes that surround participants in transnational marriage practices. Cross-­border marriages w ­ ere in no small part rendered feasible due to the economic status Japan held in the global economy and the commercial brokerage ser­vices that took Japa­nese men to China



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to find a bride. Nonetheless, economic ­factors alone do not help us to fully understand the strug­gles, compromises, hopes, and aspirations that participants experienced by engaging in t­ hese practices. Many men and w ­ omen ­were desperate. And often they attempted to comprehend and legitimize their own experiences by appropriating and navigating locally and historically embedded conceptions and norms. Such local and locally historicized conceptions and norms also played an impor­tant role in the negotiations, imaginings, and attempts of participants to expand marriageable communities on a transnational scale.

This book began by asking, how have and do t­hese marriage practices come to be? In examining local–­transnational dynamics, this question has revealed itself to be deeply intertwined with a second one: What makes ­others marriageable? To answer both questions, I have examined multiple, disparate, and yet related aspects of transnational Japanese–­Chinese marriages, including the colonial legacies of Manchuria, local notions of marriageability, and marriage “markets,” the dynamic interaction of local norms with global migration flows, aspirations for mobility, and the state and social legitimatization of marital relations. I have argued that for ­those involved in the pro­cesses of marriage migration between China and Japan, it was the tactical deployment of socially and historically created conceptions of proximity that rendered their partners marriageable. Such notions of proximity ­were locally created and ­shaped by deeper regional histories, but they also played impor­tant roles in mobilizing individuals to further partake in transnational flows. Throughout this book, I tried to reintroduce a discussion of marriage into the analy­sis of cross-­border marriages. As I came to know more and more grooms, brides, and ­couples—­and interacted with them in person—­I came to realize that cross-­border marriages ­were also about “marriage.” This seems so obvious. However, it was by looking at their experiences, not simply in terms of transnational practices or migration, but also in terms of marriage itself, that helped me to better understand their strug­gles. By marrying, many ­were attempting to obtain a partner, the status of being married, financial security and betterment, “normal” personhood, pro­gress in their life course in line with social expectations, and, quite simply, a life. Vari­ous dif­fer­ent aspects of marital norms played an imperative role in shaping Japanese–­Chinese cross-­border matchmaking and marriages. It is impor­tant to note that in this context, marriageability and proximity ­were intricately intertwined. While conceptions of proximity ­were differently interpreted by Japa­nese men and Chinese w ­ omen, both deployed ideas of proximity in negotiating marriageability, bound­aries, and borders.

170 CONCLUSION

Rethinking “Regular” Marriage I witnessed a number of ­couples divorce and a number of c­ ouples do very well. Nakano and Qi ­were considered one of the “successful” ­couples that China Love had brokered. Nakano’s first marriage through China Love failed ­because his bride changed her mind and de­cided not to come to Japan. Yet his second marriage with Qi went very well. At first they lived in central Tokyo for several years. Qi found a part-­time job at a bakery, as a result of which her Japa­nese improved significantly. They had their first child in 2009 and bought a h ­ ouse in a Tokyo suburb. They often volunteered at the monthly matchmaking parties. By the time I met Qi for the first time, her Japa­nese was quite fluent. The staff members at China Love also ­were very happy when the “successful” ­couple was pre­sent, for it allowed other male customers to see what Japanese–­Chinese ­couples could look like. When they married, Nakano was in his late forties and Qi was in her late twenties, a not untypical age gap in the context of transnational marriages. Nakano was one of the few men I met who also enjoyed visiting his wife’s ­family in China. Whereas some Japa­nese men preferred to stay at a h ­ otel if they accompanied their wives to visit ­family in China, Nakano stayed at Qi’s parents’ ­house in a suburb of Dongyang. He seemed not to mind the home’s lack of a shower and indoor toilet. Nakano and Qi both seemed satisfied with their marriage. When they married, Qi’s ­father was strongly opposed. But having then seen how the ­couple was getting on in Japan, Qi’s ­father would ­later express gratitude to their broker when the latter was on a visit to China. Her ­father even asked the broker to introduce a Japa­nese man for her younger s­ ister as well. T ­ hings all seemed to be g­ oing well. Nonetheless, Nakano confessed to me: “When someone asks how we met, I still hesitate to tell them. We did not marry ‘normally.’ ” The perception that they did not marry in a “regular” or “natu­ral” way haunted many c­ ouples, even if their marriages appeared to be thriving. I want to return to the ­couple with which this book started. I revisited the ­couple described in the introduction of this book, Matsuda and Zhang, in early summer of 2013. I went to see Zhang whenever I was back in Japan. It was my first time visiting them since they had had their second child and purchased a ­house. Matsuda picked me up at the nearest train station by car. When we arrived at their ­house, Zhang was chatting with a neighbor who also had small ­children. It was a big, beautiful h ­ ouse. When Matsuda had purchased land for their new ­house, he had de­cided to buy adjacent lots meant for two homes in order to build one large ­house. He believed a larger ­house would provide a better environment for their ­children. Qi happily agreed. ­After lunch, when the ­children had gone to nap, the three of us sat down on a couch in their spacious living room to relax. We started talking about China Love. Qi remembered other ­women who had registered



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with China Love at the same time as herself. Matsuda recalled when he went to China and met Zhang for the first time. Matsuda said, “We did not have any time for courtship at all.” He continued, “It was more like it happened out of impulse [Jp: ikioi].” Zhang said, “It was risky, ­wasn’t it?” Matsuda replied, “It was like gambling.” Zhang asked, “So, you ­don’t regret marrying me now?” Matsuda responded, “Well, it would have been better if I could marry a Japa­ nese ­woman.” “Me too. If I could find a Chinese husband, that would have been better. But I could not find any Chinese husband at all that time. We are in a way both unmarriageable ­aren’t we?” She laughed. Zhang added: “I ­really c­ ouldn’t find anyone, and I almost felt that anybody would be fine. Well, I should not say that anybody would be okay. ­There ­were also disgusting men. But I desperately wanted to marry.” Their conversation was not hostile at all; if anything, it had an even somewhat nostalgic tone to it. They both had compromised. Yet they both seemed to be satisfied. Zhang told me that Matsuda was r­ eally nice and gentle both to her and their ­children. He rarely got upset. He was not talkative, but ­really considerate. Since he was nice, her f­ amily in China also liked him very much. They w ­ ere planning to visit Zhang’s f­ amily in China in early August of 2013. When I met them again in China, I joined a dinner with Matsuda, Zhang, and her ­family and relatives. Every­one seemed to like Matsuda, trying to converse with him using s­ imple Chinese or En­glish words. When I last saw them, they ­were busy with raising their two ­children. ­After meeting Matsuda and Zhang in Dalian, I flew to Beijing to meet Sun Hua (discussed in chapters 5 and 6). From her friends in Xinghai and her son, I had learned that since my last being ­there she had moved to Beijing and married a Chinese man. She had returned to Xinghai a few times in the interim and filed for divorce from her Japa­nese husband, Kanai. They had never had the chance to live together as a married ­couple, and, in the end, Sun Hua never heard anything further from him. One of the local government officials with whom Sun Hua established an acquaintance during my fieldwork had helped her with the divorce proceedings. She never found out what became of her marital status in Japan. She also never received a refund from her brokers. Upon moving to Beijing, she had at first worked at a small h ­ otel, and it is t­ here that she had met her new Chinese husband. During the first months of her time in Beijing, she had suffered from a severe allergic skin reaction, and it was her would-be husband who had cared for her. They had subsequently de­cided to marry, but she had maintained her ­house­hold registration in Xinghai where she

172 CONCLUSION

continued to receive RMB 400 per month in pension money from her first Chinese husband who had passed away. When I met her, Sun Hua was debating ­whether or not to transfer her h ­ ouse­hold registration to Beijing. Sun Hua had found night-­shift jobs at the Shangri-­La H ­ otel for both herself and her husband; they worked from nine at night to seven in the morning, and the job included two meals and access to a shower. When I arrived in Beijing, Sun Hua told me by phone to take the airport bus to the Shangri-­La ­Hotel. I did and found Sun Hua waiting for me out front in her ­hotel uniform. She was already dressed for work, and with her makeup she looked younger than before. She took me to her home, and ­there I met her new Chinese husband. It was early eve­ning, and he kindly prepared several dishes for me to eat for dinner. He shared with me that he had been to Japan in the 1980s, where he had worked as a chef in a Chinese restaurant in Tokyo. While eating, he showed me several photos taken of him in Tokyo. He complained that his boss in Tokyo had duped the employees and confiscated a large percentage of their salaries. As a result, he had also had to work as a janitor during the night to earn sufficient money. But with that money, he had been able to return to Beijing and purchase the apartment in which they ­were living. The apartment had two bedrooms, and while neither it nor its furnishings ­were new, it was tidy and well maintained. They let me stay in one of the rooms. The fact that he owned real estate was one of the reasons Sun Hua had de­cided to marry him. He had also provided money so that Sun Hua’s son could purchase an apartment. Sun Hua told me they w ­ ere like-­ minded in that they both wanted to go to Japan. Sun Hua and I spent three days together in Beijing. She took a day off and we went to Tian­anmen Square, ate at Kentucky Fried Chicken, and walked around and talked. She seemed to be happy and satisfied with her life now, but at times she also expressed frustration and sadness about not being able to go to Japan. She told me that her new husband was a nice person, although he sometimes could be a bit rough. He was to retire in the coming year and receive a monthly pension of RMB 4,000. He had told her that she would not have to work, but she was still willing to do so, and the additional RMB 2,000 would make their life easier. She shared with me her plans to travel within China, to visit her son who now lived in Sichuan and other members of her f­ amily in Xinghai. She also confessed to occasionally daydreaming about what her life would have been like if she had been able to go to Japan. In China, one often finds oneself having to cross wide roads full of oncoming traffic. I never fully mastered the art of crossing such roads by weaving among the vehicles as they sped by. Whenever we crossed the road together, Sun Hua held my arm so that I would be safe. She advised me that one should not try to reach the other side of the road in one dash. Instead, carefully observing the traffic, she



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told me, we should proceed “one step at time” (Chin: yi bu yi bu); we would cross one lane, stop and wait for a break in the traffic, then cross another lane, and again wait for a gap in the traffic coming from the opposite direction. ­There was no need to be afraid of stopping in the m ­ iddle of the road as traffic zoomed past us on both sides. Sooner or l­ater, we would reach our destination. ­After I left Beijing, this remained with me—­“one step at time”—as I thought about how she dealt with the happenings and strug­gles in her life.

Wither Japanese–­C hinese Cross-­B order Matchmaking? On a four-­hour bus ­ride to Dongyang in 2013, the bus drove on a highway that ran parallel to a partially completed rail line, one that I was told would eventually make it pos­si­ble to travel between Dalian and Dandong in only half an hour. When I was in Dongyang in 2009, I had heard p ­ eople talking about high-­speed rail between Dalian and Dandong, but had not seen any real construction underway. By 2013, railway lines had already opened up connecting Shenyang and Harbin with a travel time of only just about two and a half hours. While ­there ­were no plans to connect Harbin and Xinghai at that time, the locals believed that at some point in the near f­ uture ­people from Xinghai would be able to travel to Harbin within twenty minutes or so. If so, flying to Japan from Harbin Taipin airport would become even more con­ve­nient. I left the field in the fall of 2010 and would return twice, once in 2011 and once in 2013. During my visit in 2013, I could feel that ­things had been gradually yet certainly changing. The changes I felt ­were not simply the result of the material conditions that many locals pointed to, but also the “structure of feeling” (Williams 1977); something was not the same as the way t­ hings ­were but was still in the pro­ cess of being in formed. This was reflected in Japanese–­Chinese matchmaking activities, which by 2013 had drastically dwindled. Since leaving the field, three of the major marriage agencies with whom I had interacted have closed their doors. Although many brokers had told me that they did not intend their business to be a lifelong profession, the ­actual closure of their businesses was still quite a surprise for me. If I had gone into the field only a few years ­later, I prob­ably would have made quite dif­fer­ent findings. The peak years of the industry w ­ ere 2003–2005 for Dongyang and 2005–2008 for Xinghai. I thus had been a witness to the decline of t­ hese practices, although even in 2013 some brokers w ­ ere still busy communicating with potential customers. During my research, I had repeatedly heard from brokers how tiring and frustrating the business was. They had also told me that their frustrations had of late

174 CONCLUSION

been on the rise. For instance, a broker from one agency complained about the attitudes of Japa­nese male customers—­that although their “quality” (Jp: shitsu) was worse, they had become more demanding. He continued, “but since they paid money, they felt like they should get what they paid for.” Another broker was tired of caring for married ­couples. He complained, “sometimes, Japa­nese men treat their Chinese wives like ‘defective products’ [Jp: furyō hin] when they are dif­fer­ ent from what they had originally expected.” Such frustrations led him to think that the amount of stress he suffered from his work was not worth the money he was making. Consequently, by the end of 2012, one broker completely quit his brokerage business and sought dif­fer­ent opportunities elsewhere. Before ending his brokerage work in Xinghai, he had traveled to Vietnam. He had been exploring another potential site for recruiting brides for Japa­nese men. He confessed, however, that “Vietnam is too dif­fer­ent, ­there is no way I can do brokerage work ­there.” I asked what was so dif­fer­ent. He said, the brokerage practices ­were dif­fer­ ent, ­women ­were dif­fer­ent, and “­things are completely dif­fer­ent ­there” (Jp: mattaku chigau). He gave up on that idea, and when I last saw him was involved in the business of assisting students in studying abroad in the United States. Another broker posted a note on his website in 2011 stating that he would not be accepting new customers. He also stated, however, that he would be willing to assist ­those who ­were already married through his agency if they had any prob­lems or needed help. By 2013, his website dis­appeared. When working as a broker, he was based in Xinghai. A ­ fter stopping brokerage work, he had returned to Japan, and when I checked in 2013 was helping at home with his parents’ business. Although other ­factors also influenced t­ hese brokers’ decisions to end their businesses, one of their complaints was ironically about the “commercial” aspects of their work. They labeled ­women by numbers; created policies, pro­cesses, and websites; and participated in making Chinese ­women look like “commodities.” They also treated Japa­nese men as “customers” and, if they paid more, provided better ser­v ices. When their interactions with customers and the relationships between brides and grooms became too commercialized, however, they started having second thoughts about their work. At the end of my research, China Love remained one of the few surviving agencies. Nonetheless, the main focus of their work had shifted t­oward brokering marriages for Japa­nese men with Chinese ­women who already lived in Japan. Not only w ­ ere brokerage fees cheaper for ­these marriages, but it also did not require Japa­nese men to cross national borders to meet potential Chinese brides. When I visited Dongyang in the summer of 2013, I found only one bride still waiting for her certificate of residency. Since the brokerage did not run its own Japa­nese school anymore, she was attending a dif­fer­ent Japa­nese language school. China



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Love had brokered more than twenty c­ ouples per year during its peak. In contrast, they brokered two cross-­border marriages in 2011, five in 2012, and at the time of my visit in 2013, only one. On the other hand, in 2012 they w ­ ere able to broker fourteen marriages between Japa­nese men and Chinese w ­ omen living in Japan. The broker, Tanaka, confessed to me, “The era has changed.” This decline in matchmaking was in part a product of economic developments in China. China’s GDP surpassed Japan’s in 2010; regardless of ­whether their own, ­actual living standards had personally improved or not, many I encountered in China w ­ ere aware of this shift. During my visit to Xinghai in 2011, locals proudly told me that China had become the second strongest economic power in the world, and at some time in the f­uture would surpass the United States as well. Some added, however, that in terms of the quality of their individual lives, China was still only at one hundredth place in the world, so they still had to work hard to catch up with the rest. All the same, for many the growth of Chinese national economic power seemed to have an uplifting effect. In Xinghai, many new apartment complexes ­were u ­ nder construction, not only in the center of the town but also in the surrounding countryside. As I walked around the town and observed so many new buildings, I asked locals who would actually move into ­these ­houses. According to local in­for­mants, the number of ­houses built already exceeded the town’s population. Some of the flats might not be sold. O ­ thers might be bought as second or third flats as a form of f­uture investment. I heard concerns that if the price of housing should decrease, many would lose significant amounts of money. One of the locals I met had already purchased a second flat for the purpose of his retirement. He said, “Now ­people in Xinghai are not afraid to spend money.” He continued: “but this does not mean that we all have money. Prob­ably only 20 ­percent of ­people in Xinghai actually have money. The ­others borrow money to buy ­houses or cars. If other ­people have something, we also have to have it.” In Xinghai, although most of the Japa­nese schools ­were still open, their enrollment had declined significantly. Fewer brides attended Japa­nese classes, and the majority of the students learning Japa­nese ­were ­those who hoped to study in Japan. The president of a school told me that now many families could afford to send their ­children to study in Japan. Since Chinese students studying in Japan could work up to twenty hours per week, their parents only needed to help them with the tuition; they could earn their living expenses in Japan. Sending them to large cities such as Tokyo was still difficult due to visa issues, but sending them to small towns, especially in Kyushu, had become much easier. One Japa­nese school sent eleven students to Japan in 2011, and twenty-­seven students in 2012. Regarding the change in matchmaking, one local told me: “Before ­women sought brokers to marry a Japa­nese man and paid expensive fees, but now brokers

176 CONCLUSION

seek ­women ­because not so many w ­ omen want to go to Japan anymore. The brokerage fees became a ­little cheaper as well.” Although ­there ­were still some ­women seeking to use marriage as a means to move to Japan, another local told me, “before, we had to go [Chin: yinggai qu]; now we can go, but we do not have to” [Chin: qu ye keyi, bu qu ye keyi]. Another topic I repeatedly heard mentioned during my 2013 visit was the changing exchange rate. When the rate was good, it was 10,000 yen to RMB 800. But in 2013, it had dropped to 10,000 yen to RMB 617. A number of locals told me of the rate change; they could quote an exact “617.” Considering this drop in the exchange rate, some locals had become hesitant about ­going to Japan. So was it “yen” a­ fter all that motivated Japanese–­Chinese matchmaking? Was it simply economic f­ actors that dictated transnational flows? A l­ ittle dumbfound by such changing attitudes, during a dinner with several locals, I asked: “What happened to ‘blood ties’? D ­ idn’t ­people go to Japan based on the idea of blood ties?” They looked at each other, and then one of them said, “Well, war orphans and their ­children had already gone to Japan by the late 1990s.” Indeed, it was true. The majority of t­ hose who ­were able to enter Japan u ­ nder the label of “blood-­ related” relatives had left Xinghai by the late 1990s. But that was also true in 2010 when I first heard the term “blood ties” used to explain marriage migration. This illustrated again just how the term blood ties did not have a fixed meaning in the first place. As discussed in chapter 1, the significance of blood ties had shifted within changing historical, economic, and po­liti­cal contexts and relations. As Zelizer (1996) puts it, “In order to make sense of their complex and often chaotic social ties, p ­ eople constantly innovate and differentiate currencies, bringing dif­fer­ent meanings to their vari­ous exchanges” (484). As locals related to me, it was not simply that they had more money than before; rather, it was their feeling that they could spend more money than ever before. The meanings of economies, relatedness, and flows are historically par­tic­u­lar, and my research at a specific period in the Japan–­China relationship had only captured certain moments, snapshots of such shifting meanings.

A Further Wrinkle: The National–­L ocal Disconnect Shifting relations ­were also observable in other areas. In early August 2011, several weeks ­after I left for the United States, I encountered a Japa­nese newspaper article about Xinghai. It stated that the local government in Xinghai had constructed a monument for Japa­nese pioneer groups in late July 2011. They also held a ceremony, inviting ­people from Japan. This symbolic repre­sen­ta­tion of



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“friendship” with Japan was severely criticized by p ­ eople in other parts of China, particularly on the Web. The critics argued that the building of such a monument opposed China’s basic national princi­ples and values. Consequently, the local government demolished the monument only ten days l­ater. The Japa­nese newspaper article editorialized, “This incident showed that the generation who received anti-­ Japan education during the Jiang Zemin era are the dominant population in Chinese society, and at the same time, it also revealed one aspect of Chinese society, which prioritizes national/ethnic emotion over law.”2 This incident was also featured in the Chinese media. One Chinese media source ran an article entitled, “Xinghai: For the Japa­nese Pioneer Groups, [It] Embodied Chinese National Generosity.” ­Under this almost sarcastic title, the article continued with criticism of the memorial: “The Xinghai government built a memorial for the Japa­nese military invaders to attract investment from Japan by spending RMB 700,000.” The article also cited attacks from the Web: “Why do we need them (Japan) for the GDP?” “For investment, what are we begging for?” and “For ­little Japan’s dirty money, are generous Chinese nationals shaking their tail and begging for pity while forgetting national humiliation and discarding dignity?” The local officials in Xinghai responded to such criticism by stating that the monument was not for economic purposes but for promoting peace and war remembrance. On the w ­ hole, however, the Xinghai government did not mount much of a challenge to their detractors and demolished the monument almost immediately. The local narrative in Xinghai was engaging in what James V. Wertsch calls a “dialogic relationship” (2000, 525) with the national historical account. Wertsch argues that historical narratives are dialogic responses to other narratives, and responses might be clarifications, rebuttals, friendly extensions, and so forth (525). Dissimilar historical narratives between p ­ eople in Xinghai and Japan existed si­ mul­ta­neously, each seemingly in ignorance of the other, yet interacting through a space created by surface similarities. However, the local historical narratives also remained in dialogue with another narrative, namely, the national one. As Ted Swedenburg (1991) states, mainstream nationalism has imprinted specific national histories in p ­ eople’s minds; however, many local versions of the past may exist “as long as they do not directly contradict the official story” (175). The local narrative of Chinese p ­ eople’s generosity t­oward Japa­nese war orphans did not challenge national discourses of the war­time past. It highlighted Chinese munificence as the basis for current ties to Japan. Yet when the surface similarities between this and the Japa­nese discourse of benevolent colonialism became vis­ib ­ le on the national level, thus introducing a third audience, it became unsustainable. ­After this incident, the local government also terminated the policy of “Japa­nese signage” for shop signs discussed in chapter 5. Now it was up to the store o ­ wners

178 CONCLUSION

to decide w ­ hether or not they would display Japa­nese translations. In 2013, I saw that some new stores did not have any Japa­nese signage. Swelling tensions between Japan and China also influenced the change, both felt and materialized. Po­liti­cal tensions had always existed; however, the anti-­Japan demonstrations triggered by the dispute over Senkaku/Diaoyu islands in the fall of 2012 ­were some of the largest seen in the history of Sino–­Japanese relations following diplomatic normalization. Whereas the tensions had waned slightly by the time I visited in early summer 2013, the outlook on the relationship did not appear optimistic.3 I saw several ­Toyotas in China with the sticker, “The Diaoyu islands are China’s” (Chin: Diaoyu dao shi zhongguo de), and rode in a taxi that bore a sticker reading “We d ­ on’t need to negotiate with Japan, just conquer them.” In general, however, the local in­for­mants and friends I knew ­were as welcoming as before. Such tensions caused anx­i­eties for t­hose who w ­ ere planning to go to Japan. The general feeling among ­those I encountered was that it was “inevitable” that war would occur between Japan and China in the near ­future. In such a context, it also became harder for potential Chinese brides to convince their parents to endorse their plans to marry a Japa­nese man. And if war happened, many ­women ­were worried that they might not be able to come home. In Japan, many ­people with whom I talked displayed a ­little more optimism. Married ­couples experienced a gap between Japan and China. Witnessing anti-­ Japanese demonstrations in China on tele­v i­sion, many Chinese parents became worried about the anti-­China demonstrations that they thought must be happening in Japan. I met a bride who received a call from her parents asking her to come back to China as soon as pos­si­ble. She told her parents that nothing out of the ordinary was happening around her in Japan. Nonetheless, when she went back home to visit her ­family a half year ­later, she de­cided not to tell ­others that her husband was Japa­nese; instead, she pretended that she was married to a Korean. ­After the demonstrations in September 2012, ­there ­were no new calls of inquiry at China Love. The office was ­really quiet at that time, the broker said. Yet ­after a month had passed, they began to receive calls again as they had before and ­were back in business. Nevertheless, many Japa­nese men preferred to avoid visiting China. Matchmaking tours to China decreased drastically in number, while matchmaking meetings with Chinese ­women already residing in Japan remained at the same level, or even increased. Si­mul­ta­neously, it being several years ­after the peak era of cross-­border marriages, the agency began receiving repeat customers: t­hose who had become divorced in the meantime ­were now returning again as clients. One of the stranger situations I ­later heard about concerned two men who found themselves both sitting together in the lounge of China Love’s



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offices looking at w ­ omen’s profiles. When one of them found a w ­ oman he liked and asked the broker to set up a matchmaking meeting, it turned out she was the other man’s ex-­wife. They had divorced shortly ­after she arrived in Japan from Xinghai. Looking through the agency’s profiles of Chinese w ­ omen living in Japan, I found a number of w ­ omen who had recently come from Xinghai. One staff member joked, “We have entered the era of recycling.”

Yet Another Gendered Global Flow Meanwhile, local staff in China also found other business opportunities. When the matchmaking industry entered a decline in 2009, one local broker in Dongyang had started exploring other opportunities for making a living. At first, he became engaged in a business that sent Chinese locals to work temporarily in Singapore. By 2012, he had further expanded his operations to include matchmaking ser­v ices between local men in China and w ­ omen in Vietnam and Cambodia. His customer base was rural Chinese men who lived in the vicinity of Dongyang. He claimed, “­These ­women are much more hardworking than Chinese w ­ omen.” When I visited him in 2013, he had just come back from a three-­month trip to Cambodia. Still using the same office where he had previously arranged Japanese–­ Chinese matchmaking meetings, he was busy filing paperwork for Chinese–­ Cambodian marriages. He told me that he had originally recruited w ­ omen from Vietnam. But recently, the Viet­nam­ese government had started restricting marriage migration. In Cambodia, he said, it was still pos­si­ble to recruit brides for Chinese men. He charged Chinese men RMB 70,000 in brokerage fees. According to him, ­women did not pay any money. He continued: “Cambodia is like China in the 1960s. Poor parents have five or six ­children.” By 2013, he had already brokered more than ten Chinese–­Cambodian ­couples in one community. His transnational plans did not stop t­ here. He was thinking about the possibility of sending Viet­nam­ese ­people to Japan on trainee visas, or importing Viet­nam­ ese rice to North K ­ orea. He was also hoping to visit Japan on an investment visa. I did not know which plans w ­ ere realistic and which w ­ ere fantasy; yet the shifting power geometry (Massey 1994) had given him opportunities to be “in charge” of mobilities. I had already heard about matchmaking ser­vices that paired rural Chinese men in Xinghai with brides from Vietnam while I was ­there in 2010. While I did not personally encounter any Viet­nam­ese brides, I met brokers who ­were offered a variety of transnational matchmaking ser­v ices, not just matching Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women, but also Korean men with Chinese ­women and Chinese men

180 CONCLUSION

with Viet­nam­ese ­women. A local staff member in Dongyang once asked me: “Where do you think the next potential bride-­sending community w ­ ill be? I think it ­will be North ­Korea. If they open up, North Korean ­women ­will no doubt be exported to Japan and South ­Korea, and possibly all over the world!” While certain gendered flows of brides had dwindled, other flows from dif­fer­ent parts of the world had emerged. Such flows are never without their own meanings.

Notes

INTRODUCTION: BEGINNINGS

1. Following common practice, the names of in­for­mants given in the text are pseudonyms to protect their anonymity. So too are the names of marriage brokerages and smaller towns provided in the text. 2. In 2011, international marriages constituted 4.3 ­percent of the total number of marriages in Japan. The marriages between Japa­nese men and Chinese ­women, in turn, constituted 44.4 ­percent of all marriages between Japa­nese men and non-­Japanese ­women. ­Those with Filipino ­women constituted only 22.8 ­percent (Japa­nese Ministry of Health, ­Labor and Welfare, 2011). 3. During interviews with Japa­nese men, they often indicated that a “suitable bride” possessed reproductive ability. Especially for men seeking their first marriages—­but also including t­hose seeking a second marriage—­they expected their wives to have c­ hildren. Accordingly, ­women in their forties or fifties ­were not deemed suitable as reproductive brides. 4. All the approximate Japa­nese yen-­US dollar-­renminbi conversions throughout this manuscript are as of 2010, ­unless other­wise specifically stated. 5. For instance, according to Collier and Yanagisako, “at the heart of kinship theory lies an analytic dichotomy between ‘domestic’ and ‘political-­jural domains’ ” (Collier and Yanagisako, 1987, 4). This dichotomy assumes that a domestic sphere is “dedicated to sexuality and childrearing, associated primarily with w ­ omen, and a ‘public’ sphere of l­egal rules and legitimate authority, associated primarily with men” (4). 6. Studies of the politics of gay and lesbian marriages provide critical insights h ­ ere. Warner, for instance, claims: “Marriage sacrifices some c­ ouples at the expense of o ­ thers. It is selective legitimacy” (1999, 82). As long as the meaning of marriage relies on the state, Warner argues, the state ­will continue to regulate the sexual lives of the unmarried. 7. Other studies examine alternative transnational destinations for Chinese w ­ omen. For instance, ­women in Beijing or Shanghai primarily marry men from the United States (Gaetano and Jacka 2004), ­women in Guangdong Province marry men from Hong Kong (Gaetano and Jacka 2004), w ­ omen in mainland China marry men in Taiwan (Friedman 2015), and Chosŏnjok (ethnic Korean) ­women in northeast China marry men from South ­Korea (Freeman 2011). 8. On September 18 in 1931, Japa­nese forces attacked the barracks of Chinese troops in Shengyang. This day is designated as marking the start of Japan’s invasion of northeast China. 9. The Japa­nese government reported that the damages caused by the protests totaled more than 10 billion yen (approximately US$100 million). Many protestors carried signs invoking Japan’s imperial past and linking the territorial dispute to Japa­nese war­ time responsibility (“Hannichi demono songai nikkei kigyō 100okuen seifu tōbenshō,” Asahi, November 13, 2012). 10. In analyzing marriages between Taiwanese citizens and their spouses from mainland China, Sara Friedman (2015) observes that the perceived similarities can also become a threat. As she notes, “the prob­lem lies in fears that ­these differences are being ‘smuggled in,’ so to speak, ­under the cover of similarity, making them all the more threatening b ­ ecause 181

182 NOTES TO PAGES 19–35

Chinese spouses potentially introduce them into the heart of families that reproduce the Taiwanese nation” (2015, 19). 11. Recently in China, the term sheng nu (leftover ­women) has emerged in the media to describe unmarried w ­ omen over the age of twenty-­seven (e.g., Leta Hong Fincher, “China’s ‘Leftover’ ­Women,” New York Times, October 11, 2013). ­These “leftover ­women” are usually professional and educated ­women who also have high expectations for their marriage partners (To 2013). 1. FROM MANCHUKUO TO MARRIAGE

1. This migration proj­ect was specifically targeted at certain parts of Japan suffering from an economic recession due to the rapid decline of silk values and a shortage of land due to overpopulation (Ide 2008). 2. Kaitaku in Japa­nese is translated as “cultivation.” Thus, ­because they w ­ ere engaged in “cultivation,” ­these mi­grants w ­ ere rarely described by the Japa­nese government officials as “colonizers.” Manmō in Japa­nese referred to manshū (Manchuria) and Mongolia. 3. Some Japa­nese ­women ­were recruited as brides for husbands in Manchuria they had not even previously met (Izutsu 2004). 4. According to the Japa­nese government, a “war orphan” (zanryū koji) is defined as a Japa­nese national who was ­under twelve years old when left ­behind in China. ­Those who ­were older than thirteen years old are defined as “left b ­ ehind ­women” (zanryū fujin). In public discourse, however, the term “orphans” (zanryū koji) was often employed for both of the above categories. Ide (2004, 6) criticizes the usage of the term “orphans” not only ­because the orphans w ­ ere already ­middle aged but also b ­ ecause many of them actually had parents in Japan. 5. Empty ­houses in Xinghai ­were used as camps for t­ hose who arrived. Thus, ­those who became war orphans in Xinghai ­were not t­hose who initially migrated to Xinghai. They had settled in areas in the further north. Many of the Japa­nese nationals who had resided in Xinghai left before ­those from more northern areas arrived. 6. For instance, Nakajima (1990) shows that many war orphans themselves described themselves as “being sold” by and to Chinese p ­ eople. 7. ­Those who ­were repatriated to Japan ­were called “hikiage sha” (repatriates), and they also faced many difficulties in Japan due to their status of “returning from Manchuria” (Tamanoi 2009; Watt 2009). 8. The letters of certification issued by the Chinese government w ­ ere not always accepted by the Japa­nese government when giving Japa­nese citizenship to war orphans. They first visited Japan with visitor visas and needed to locate relatives who w ­ ere willing to sponsor their return to Japan. 9. The state’s support for the visits of orphans’ groups continues to this day; in 2010, however, ­there ­were no newly identified orphans in China. That said, I met several self-­ identified second-­generation war orphans in Xinghai in 2010, but the Japa­nese government has not accepted their status as war orphans. 10. ­After victory in the Russo-­Japanese War in 1905, Japan acquired land rights on the Liaoning Peninsula, which became a foothold for Japan’s invasion into northeast China. ­After the Manchurian Incident in 1931, Japan occupied Manchuria (1932–1945) and installed a puppet government. 11. The association was established in 1993 and sends a group of Japa­nese tourists to Xinghai e­ very year to visit the war orphans’ monument memorializing four thousand to five thousand orphans who died and w ­ ere buried ­there. 12. Anthropological work on exchange (Mauss 1954) observes that giving always entails receiving and giving back. Exchange is the basis of society and creates the link

NOTES TO PAGES 38–51

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between givers and receivers. This logic is applicable h ­ ere. When the meanings of giving are dif­fer­ent for two parties, however, their expectations for receiving should also differ. For instance, actors in Japan and China both thought their actions ­were “giving,” and thus they both thought the other owed them. 13. During the Nanjing Massacre, within a period of six weeks Japa­nese soldiers killed somewhere between 40,000 and 350,000 Chinese civilians. Japa­nese soldiers raped between 20,000 and 80,000 w ­ omen (Chang 1997; Yoshida 2006). Unit 731 was a Japa­nese military research unit built near Harbin that conducted biological and chemical warfare experiments. Such research also included the use of Chinese and Rus­sian captives for h ­ uman experiments. Between 3,000 and 12,000 ­people are believed to have been murdered by Unit 732 (Williams and Wallace 1989). 14. Yasukuni is a Shinto shrine that claims to honor the spirits of the Japa­nese war dead. Japa­nese prime ministers’ visits to Yasukuni Shrine have provoked diplomatic disputes between Japan and other Asian countries over Japa­nese war responsibility. 15. All able-­bodied Japa­nese men ­were recalled to join the army in early August 1945. 16. During my fieldwork in Xinghai, g­ oing to Vietnam to find a Viet­nam­ese wife was an emerging phenomenon. As locals explained, to have a Chinese bride, a Chinese man had to prepare RMB 200,000, yet to have a Viet­nam­ese bride, he would only need RMB 50,000. 17. Brackette F. Williams (1995) argues, “It is interpenetration of social ideologies of power and classification that allows us to make cultural sense of myths of origins and shared substance” (203). In her analy­sis of how power differentials are naturalized and legitimated, Williams argues that the identification of persons as kin entails mechanisms to socialize nature and thus naturalize the classification systems. Her analy­sis also shows that kin and relatedness are produced based on mutual interests and desires for relationships. Therefore, kinship is created based on mutual interests for social actions: “To move p ­ eople to resources and resources to ­people” (205). I believe that it is impor­tant to add to this idea Janet Carsten’s notion of relatedness (2011), which is rather inclusionary. Williams argues, “The motivation to create kin directs the se­lection of criteria above and beyond shared physical substance as well as what meaning-­in-­action is given to ‘facts’ of shared physical substance” (1995, 205). 2. THE MAKING AND UNMAKING OF “UNMARRIAGEABLE PERSONS” IN JAPAN

1. In the government and media discourses, both the declining marriage rate and the declining fertility rate have come to be seen as urgent prob­lems in con­temporary Japan. For example, “The 1.29 shock” referred to the alarm expressed when the birthrate fell to 1.29 in 2003, a first in the postwar era. According to a government report, a birthrate of 1.29 falls far short of the “population replacement level,” which is estimated to be 2.08 (Japa­nese Declining Birthrate White Paper 2004). 2. Kendall, for instance, argues that in K ­ orea and most likely elsewhere, “Even without the visual marker of a married man’s or ­women’s coiffure, marriage still implies membership in an adult universe” (Kendall 1996, 7). Thus, unmarried men are not “men” but simply “boys” who do not possess full membership in society. 3. According to Emiko Ochiai (1996), the postwar Japa­nese ­family was standardized based on such gendered divisions of ­labor, with men as breadwinners and ­women as professional ­house­wives. 4. As journalist Shirakawa puts it, “­Women do not marry; men cannot marry” (2002). As Japa­nese ­women entered the workforce and gained more economic in­de­pen­dence, marriage for them has changed “from duty to desire” (Collier 1997). Implicit in this is the idea that w ­ omen are not encountering desirable partners.

184 NOTES TO PAGES 52–78

5. An agreement initiated in 1952 between schools and employers deciding the starting day for recruitment. 6. I conducted a demographic survey based on the members’ profiles. Only the staff members and agency members can access t­ hese profiles, but China Bride kindly allowed me to use the anonymized data for my research. The profiles included 149 Japa­nese men, 203 Chinese ­women who resided in Japan, and 377 Chinese ­women who resided in China. The reason why the amount of Chinese ­women’s profiles numbered much higher than Japa­ nese men was that the agency retained the profiles of already-­married Chinese w ­ omen, while married Japa­nese men w ­ ere removed. The staff members told me that the pictures of married Chinese ­women ­were sometimes used to identify what type of ­woman Japa­ nese male customers liked. 7. I further explore this topic in chapter 3 u ­ nder the label of “national endogamous marriage.” 3. CREATING “SIMILAR” O ­ THERS AT TRANSNATIONAL MATCHMAKING AGENCIES IN JAPAN

1. Men’s motivations for transnational intimate relations are discussed by Nobue Suzuki (2005), Thai (2005), and Constable (2003). For instance, Suzuki observes that Japa­ nese men expressed masculine desires to help Filipina w ­ omen by taking advantage of the huge discrepancies in the Japa­nese and Philippine currencies (Suzuki 2005, 143). Although ­these male desires and fantasies are observable, few works have discussed men’s strug­gles to make such decisions. In other words, male desires are seen as more straightforward and less fraught than female desires. 2. Ellen Oxfeld similarly argues that marriages among Hakka Chinese in China, Calcutta, India, or Canada are viewed as the reproduction of a “de-­territorialized ethnic community” (2005, 32). 3. In the context of con­temporary transnational matchmaking, the construction of difference obviously played a part in representing Chinese brides, especially in the agencies’ advertising campaigns. But in many cases, advertising stressed the similarities in appearance and figure (sugata, katachi) between apanese and Chinese more than their differences. It is in­ter­est­ing to note that the production of differences between Japan and China is more prevalent in popu­lar media and academic contexts. This was partly ­because Japan and China historically characterized each other as nationally and racially dif­fer­ent, marked most vividly by Japan’s colonization of China and postwar disputes over the legacy of that era (Tanaka 1993; Young 1998). Even ­today, the Japa­nese media sometimes depicts Chinese ­people as possessing dif­fer­ent racial characteristics and even dissimilar DNA, all of which is thought to make them more barbarous and primitive (“Nihon yo uchinaru bōeiwo, Ishihara, Shintaro,” Sankei Shinbun, May 8, 2001). 4. Tomoko Nakamatsu (Nakamatsu) showed how certain images of “Asian brides” are created in the Japa­nese marriage industry by manipulating cultural, racial, and economic differences, as well as the similarities between Japan and the rest of Asia (2005, 407). Nakamatsu argues, “Race markers ­were at times diminished and at other times amplified, depending on if the par­tic­ul­ar marker was compatible with marriageability or not” (407). Similar to what Nakamatsu finds, the marriage agencies I studied also presented Chinese ­women on their websites with terms such as “pure” ( jyun sui), “artless” (soboku), or “like Japa­nese ­women from the past.” However, I felt that t­hese phrases ­were more common on the websites than in ­actual conversations held at the agencies. 5. It is impor­tant to note that this strategic rearrangement of bound­aries is not ­limited to the production of marriageability. During Japan’s imperial era, discourse emphasizing Okinawa’s resemblance to Japan in terms of linguistic roots and culture rendered its imperial annexation seemingly apo­liti­cal (Christy 1993).

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6. As Koichi Iwabuchi (2002) argues, the construction of national identity in Japan has always been i­magined in asymmetrical relations among the West, Japan, and Asia. Thus, Japan’s relationships with other Asian nations are described in Japan as “similar but superior” (2002). Iwabuchi contends, “As the only non-­Western imperial and colonial power which invaded geo­graph­i­cally contiguous Asian regions, Japan resorted to an ideology of pan-­Asianism to camouflage its imperial ambition” (2002, 8). Thus, Japan’s national identity is created not simply by the dichotomy of Japan–­West or East–­West, but rather Japan–­West–­Asia. 7. Roth (2002) has noted that for Japa­nese Brazilians, what is required is Japa­nese linguistic ability and appearing to look Japa­nese. 8. This happened as of 2009. 9. Melody Chia-­Wen Lu (2005) shows that the cross-­border marriage businesses in Taiwan also provide “­after sales ser­v ices” (286). The ­after sales ser­v ices help facilitate the brides’ adjustment in Taiwan and mediate conflicts among newlywed ­couples. Although such ser­vices demonstrate the commercial aspects of t­ hese businesses, Lu argues that some marriage brokers also feel that it is a moral responsibility to voluntarily provide such support before and ­after marriages. According to Lu, some matchmakers and brides build up a friendship based on ­there being an extended period of assistance. 10. Eileen Boris and Rhacel Salazar Parrenas (2010) similarly discuss the intensification of commodification in con­temporary global capitalism. Although the commodification of intimacy is not a completely new phenomenon, they argue that the current moment can be characterized by its intensification. Intimate l­abor involves bodily and psychic intimacy, including listening, talking, or just being t­ here emotionally for someone. Drawing on the notion of affective ­labor, Akiko Takeyama (2010) also argues that an “affect economy” has developed in the ser­v ice and entertainment industry in postindustrial Japan. Takeyama focuses on host clubs in Japan where male hosts voluntarily commodify themselves into desirable objects, offering romantic excitement to their female customers. Female customers purchase drinks and ser­v ices at the host clubs, which creates profits for the hosts. 11. John Gray argues that men and w ­ omen speak dif­fer­ent languages: “When misunderstandings arise, remember that we speak dif­fer­ent languages; take the time necessary to translate what your partner ­really means or wants to say” (1992, 91). 4. MARRYING UP, DOWN, OR OFF IN DONGYANG

1. Denise Brennan makes a distinction between a survival strategy and an advancement strategy when discussing sex workers in the Dominican Republic (Brennan 2004, 23–24). Brennan states that a survival strategy is a means to simply survive by selling sex. On the contrary, ­those ­women who sell sex to foreign tourists use an “advancement strategy” (2004, 23) as a fast track to economic success and to improve their lives, including through marriage and migration to male tourists’ home countries. 2. James Farrer (2002) also showed in his interviews with a young ­woman in Shanghai that when ­women are unmarried, their ­mothers are afraid that “­people ­will think no one wants her ­daughters” (159). 3. Jennifer Johnson-­Hanks (2007) observes that Cameroonian ­women’s desires for marriage with Eu­ro­pean husbands derive “more from local history than from global politics” (642). She claims that seeking a foreign husband does not necessarily transgress local gender ideologies but rather offers a means to fulfill local expectations of proper womanhood and marriage. 4. Caren Freeman (2011, 111) observes that Chosŏnjok ­women who migrate from China to South ­Korea also talked about “Chinese gender equality” and “Korean patriarchy” to articulate their cultural conflicts when they adjusted to marital life in South K ­ orea.

186 NOTES TO PAGES 110–148

5. Many ­couples I met officially or unofficially created a “Japa­nese name” for the Chinese wives with characters more familiar in Japan. Such names w ­ ere often created for “con­ ve­nience” (Jp: benri) when living in Japan; sometimes the Chinese characters in w ­ omen’s names did not exist in Japan, and other times, it was just to avoid the “wrong impression” (Jp: hen na gokai) in society. 6. In the Chinese language, a friend and friends can be described with the same word, pengyou, as the word does not differentiate between singular and plural. 5. GENDERED INVESTMENTS IN MARRIAGE MIGRATION

1. “Reform and opening up”(gaige kaifang) refers to economic reforms started in 1978. 2. Chu (2010) also observes that in Fuzho in China, the large homes called “American guests” ­were built with remittances often flowing from f­ amily members in the United States. It is in­ter­est­ing to note that some “American guests” built through overseas connections ­were left unoccupied, empty, and unfurnished. 3. Julie Chu (2010) has also noted that when she asked why Fuzhonese are willing to risk being smuggled into the United States, they explained to her that US dollars are “simply bigger [bijiao da] and better [bijiao hao] than Chinese RMB” (166). 4. For the ­women in Dongyang and Xinghai, ­going to South ­Korea is sometimes an option, but many ­women conveyed that ­going to ­Korea is only considered an option when an attempt to go to Japan fails. 5. Saba Mahmood (2005) further argues, “norms are not only consolidated and/or subverted, I would suggest, but performed, inhabited, and experienced in a variety of ways” (22). 6. First Love in Xinghai charges w ­ omen RMB 40,000, but the broker admitted that the ­women might be paying extra fees to other brokers who “introduced” First Love to them. 7. And in fact, although the ­women gave their pictures to the brokers, many did not know that their pictures ­were being posted online. 8. The expansion of economic or symbolic values by giving and returning (credit/debt) involves a ­future orientation with “par­tic­u­lar temporal regimes as p ­ eople ­labor to build the increment demanded by the ­future in exchange for actions in the past” (Peebles 2010, 230). 9. Chu (2010) uses the notion of “credit” to demonstrate the domain for producing value among the Fuzhounese in China. The credit signifies “confidence or approval of an action of another, as deferred payment and the flip side of debt, and positive balance of account” (7). 10. Following van Gennep (1960), Takeyuki (Gaku) Tsuda (2003a) observes that transnational mi­grants are in a state of liminality, where mi­grants are between two socie­ties and not truly part of ­either. Tsuda examines Japa­nese Brazilians’ return migration to Japan. Japa­nese Brazilians are socially marginalized in Japan, and their dissimilar social status from Brazil is suspended. They became unskilled factory workers in Japan. 6. CRAFTING LEGITIMATE MARITAL RELATIONS

1. Scholars have also demonstrated that migration and citizenship controls may delimit the bound­aries of the nation-­state while si­mul­ta­neously reconstituting its bound­aries and disciplining citizens and would-be citizens (Kim 2011; Lan 2008; Newendorp 2008; Ong 2003; Pratt 2005). 2. Although it is not impossible to marry first in Japan, some complications are involved in this pro­cess. All the ­couples I met married first in China and then registered in Japan. 3. In analyzing immigration control in the United States, Eithne Luibhéid (2002) similarly observes that immigration control is a “key site for the production and reproduction of sexual categories, identities, and norms within relations of in­equality” (x).

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4. Such relations might shift ­after crossing borders. Lieba Faier (2009, 3) shows that Filipina entertainers came to be seen as ii oyomesan (an ideal, traditional Japa­nese bride and daughter-­in-­law). 5. The four categories are permanent residents, spouses of Japa­nese nationals, spouses of permanent residents, and long-­term residents. 6. Another visa category is “trainee” (kenshū), which offers a one-­year work permit for skills training, yet in real­ity, many trainees work as low-­wage laborers. 7. http://­www​.­macromill​.­com​/­r​_­data​/­20090224konkatsu​/­090224konkatsu​.­pdf. 8. For instance, the survey research administrated by Nihon Seinenkan in 2000 shows that 32 ­percent of ­women answered that financial insecurity in the ­future was one of the reasons they de­cided to marry. 9. Some brokers told me that their agencies already established good reputations for brokerage work so that their names would smooth the pro­cess. 10. During an interview with a public notary, he noted that few immigration officers actually visit ­couples in person nowadays due to ­there being too many marriages. 11. In analyzing cross-­border marriages between Taiwanese men and mainland Chinese ­women, Pei-­Chia Lan (2008) observes that the immigration interviews go beyond examining the authenticity of marital relations and also inquire about ­whether or not ­couples are “happy” and ­will be able to maintain and manage their relationship in the f­ uture. 12. Newendorp (2008) observes that during the waiting period to re­unite with their husbands in Hong Kong, ­women from mainland China often experience paradoxical upward and downward mobility in a shifting economic context. Whereas some w ­ omen who married Hong Kongese husbands waited where they grew up, o ­ thers moved to nearby cities, such as Shenzhen. In such cities, the w ­ omen had access to p ­ eople, goods, ser­v ices, and ideologies, as well as comfortable standards of living. Given the economic growth of mainland China and the economic recession in Hong Kong, some wives then experienced “downward mobility” when they migrated to Hong Kong. CONCLUSION: YEN OR EN?

1. The Japa­nese word en and the first half of the Chinese word yuanfen are the same character. 2. To protect the anonymity of the town, I have de­cided not to reveal the original newspaper source. 3. No large anti-­Japan demonstrations happened around September 18, “national humiliation day,” in 2013.

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Index

Abu-­Lughod, 127 affective ­labor, 82, 185 aftercare ser­v ices, 80–81; and discount tours, 80–81; and refunds, 80–81, 128, 162–164, 171 age, 19, 49, 71; Chinese w ­ omen’s, 6, 20, 94, 102, 104, 125, 132, 182n11; differences between ­couples, 6, 69, 112, 146, 164, 170; Japa­nese men’s, 6, 57, 76, 81, 101–102; of lifelong singles, 48–50; and marriageablity, 50–51, 65; marrying by a certain, 10, 19, 62, 66, 96, 97, 115 ageing society, 48 agency, 9; of Chinese ­women, 6, 68–69, 117–119, 132, 136; and de­pen­dency, 24, 131–132, 136, 139–140; of Japa­nese men, 6, 47, 68; of war orphans, 34 Agustín, Laura, 133 ambivalence, 67, 95 American men, 78, 98, 161 Anderson, Benedict, 9, 71 Appadurai, Arjun, 8 appearance, 106–107; of Japa­nese men, 58; not pretty, 106–107; overweight, 106–107, 138; pretty, 42, 69, 94, 101, 106–107, 151–152; similarity of, 14, 78, 184n3 Applbaum, Kalman D., 70–71, 83 arranged marriage, 9, 71, 82, 86 Asahi village, 55 Asian brides, 53, 56, 59, 78, 147, 184n4 assimilation, 78, 147 authenticity, 18, 148, 150, 153–154, 160, 187n11 Beijing, 97, 163, 171–173 betrothal money, 7, 80, 128–129 betwixt-­between, 134 Bloch, Maurice, 9, 89 blood ties, 12, 26, 37, 38, 40–44, 176; transnational, 38 Borneman, John, 9, 54 Bourdieu, Pierre, 84, 89, 91, 103, 132 breadwinners, 109, 131 Brennan, Denise, 13, 15, 68–69, 103, 133, 185n1

bride sending communities, 95, 116, 180 Brinton, Mary, 50, 51 brokerage: business, 1, 6, 21, 25, 32, 37, 45, 55–57, 69, 81–82, 86, 100–101, 123, 127, 129, 151, 153–154, 168, 174; fees, 7, 21, 24, 118, 124, 127–134, 168, 174, 176, 179 (see also money); illegality in China, 21, 127; networks, 36; unofficial, 127, 157 bureaucratic practice, 145–146, 161 Carsten, Janet, 42, 64, 183 cata­logs, 60, 78 certificate of residency, 112–114, 133, 144–145, 155, 160; rejection of, 114, 142; waiting for, 164, 174 Charsley, Katharine, 11, 15 China: and anti-­Japanese education, 177; and anti-­Japanese protests, 15, 178, 187n3; and anti-­Japanese sentiments, 32, 108; local governments, 33, 120, 171, 176–177; PRC government, 33, 147, 196n8; spatial unevenness of, 96 Chinese husbands, 38, 41, 113, 124–126, 139–140, 164, 171–172 Chineseness, 79; and clothing, 77; and identity, 110 Chinese w ­ omen: ages of (see also age); on the boundary, 68, 74; as commodified products, 174; financial demands on, 90; living in Japan, 31, 74–75, 102, 155, 175, 179; on looking like Japa­nese, 77–78; percentage of international marriage in Japan, 181n1; as pure, 184n4; social profiles of, 6, 97, 184n6; as substitutes, 68, 125 Chu, Julie Y., 120, 153, 186n3 citizenship: Japa­nese, 29, 149, 152, 182n8; and membership in society, 146–147; sexual, 149 Collier, Jane Fishburne, 9, 89 commercialization: in domestic matchmaking, 82, 86; hostility ­toward, 8, 56, 83, 174; of intimate relationships, 85; of matchmaking practices, 81; in the transnational brokerage business, 7, 21, 48, 53, 55, 82, 83, 85, 91, 126, 150, 152, 168

199

200 INDEX

commodification, 81, 132, 140 compromise: in finding a partner, 10, 54, 67, 69, 169, 171; in Japa­nese culture, 100 conflicts: Chinese w ­ omen’s, 115; financial, 87; marital, 87–91 Constable, Nicole, 8, 11, 13, 44, 68, 70, 97, 98, 108, 115, 118, 147, 161, 184n1 continuity: historical, 11, 30; marital, 156 convertibility of social worth, 103 courtship, 157, 171; and distance, 158, 167; romantic, 146 Cultural Revolution, 39 Dalian, 15, 27, 61, 96, 105, 171, 173 debts, 129–132 demographic surveys, 20, 57, 184n6 departure, 99, 114, 119, 126, 129, 132, 135; suspended, 133–134 desire: Chinese w ­ omen’s, 35, 68–69, 104, 117, 135, 140; to cross borders, 27, 31, 35, 43, 126, 127, 133, 140; for difference, 15; Japa­nese men’s, 69, 74; the logic of, 12, 13, 27, 44; to marry, 19, 51; material, 36; and obligation, 132, 135; sexual, 90 difference, 14, 16, 19, 71–72, 86, 111; age, 6; within China, 12, 23, 27, 117, 124; of Chinese brides, 184n3; concerning understandings of Japa­nese colonialism, 28; desire for, 15, 44; gender, 70, 86, 88–91; narcissism of minor, 14; production of, 13, 14, 72; undesired, 16, 62, 73, 77 division of ­labour, 51, 53, 108, 146; and ethics, 127 divorce, 58, 76, 80, 83, 87, 93, 99, 110, 139, 140, 156, 159, 163, 164, 165, 170; certificates of, 136, 165, 171 doubts, 160 doxa, 89, 91 dumont, 9, 70 economic developement: in China, 12; in Japan, 148; in South ­Korea, 56 economic liberalism, 52 endogamy, 9, 70; advantage of, 70; cross-­ border, 70–72; ethnic national, 70, 91; and eugenic, 70; and exogamy, 9, 70; flexible, 69; and marriages, 69 engagement, 5, 61, 63; parties, 5, 22, 80 equal employment opportunity law, 52 ethnic reunion, 15, 71 exchange, 118; commercial, 91; currency rate, 122; for money, 79, 130

Faier, 6, 72, 78, 111, 112, 149, 187n4 familiarity, 7, 12–16, 19, 23, 25–27, 33, 38, 40–41, 44, 119, 120; historical, 12; the politics of, 13; and unfamiliarity, 119–122 ­family, 10, 71; and blood ties, 42; in China, 9, 97, 116, 117; of Chinese w ­ omen, 80, 87, 98, 101, 103, 129, 134, 139, 147, 155, 159, 170, 171, 172, 178; in Japan, 49, 51, 90, 183n3; of Japa­nese men, 63, 64, 155; migration to Manchuria as, 28; negotiating with, 62, 143; pseudo-­, 85; reunions, 147; transnational, 147 fertility rate, 48, 50 financial security, 10, 168, 169 flows, 8; between Japan and northeast China, 11; of ­people, 68, 118; who is in charge of, 68, 105, 108, 118, 140, 179; of ­women, 8, 180 Freeman, Caren, 15, 97, 105, 153, 181n7, 185n4 Freud, Sigmund, 14 Friedman, Sara L., 148, 150, 181n7, 181n10 friendliness, 28, 32, 34, 78, 119 friendship, 33, 34, 38, 177; female, 22 Gaetano, Arianne M., 11, 12, 96, 181n7 gender, 69, 70; border politics and, 143, 145, 146; in China, 99, 105, 108, 109; of Chinese ­women, 92; complementarity of, 90; differences, 70, 88–90; division of, 53; ideologies of, 99, 108; in­equality, 72; Maoist ideology of, 109; and migration, 8, 13; naturalizing, 86, 90, 91; positionality of, 22; roles, 47, 90; transforming, 47 gendered: division of ­labor, 51, 53, 108, 146; investment, 116 Gennep, Arnold van., 50 Giddens, Anthony, 146 gifts, 40, 41, 80, 81, 83, 87, 110, 132, 136 Glodava, Mila, 130 go-­between: nakodo, 82, 83; sewa-­nin, 83 Goffman, Erving, 17, 62 Goldstein-­Gidoni, Ofra, 51 good faith economy, 132 Harbin, 25, 63, 64, 80, 125, 150, 173 Hardt, Michael, 82 Harrison, Simon, 13, 14 heilongjiang, 6, 13, 24, 27, 28, 86, 116 Herzfeld, Michael, 145 hesitation: author’s, 21; Chinese w ­ omen’s, 95, 147; Japa­nese men’s, 69 history: of ­couples, 156; of cross-­border marriages, 55, 59; of Japa­nese colonialism (Manchuria), 7, 11, 32, 35–37, 43, 118;

INDEX 201

marital, 48, 155; and narrative, 26, 30, 31, 43, 177; of Sino-­Japan relations, 178; of war orphans, 32, 35, 37, 120; world, 38 Hochschild, Arlie Russell, 86 Hong Kongese men, 15 hukou, 40 hypergamy, 97. See also marrying up immigration: bureau in Tokyo, 63, 133, 142; office, 113, 142, 158; policy in Japan, 148 immobility, 107, 120, 133, 134 inclusion, 78, 143 incongruity, 77, 156 inequalities: in cross-­border marriage, 19; between genders, 89; global, 13, 26; within marriage, 18, 89, 92; between the married and the unmarried, 115; masking, 14, 69, 72, 78; reproducing, 9, 14, 52, 53 internet: and marriage agencies, 6, 20, 35, 59, 123; and matchmaking, 4, 53, 61, 94, 142, 167 intimacy, 26, 27; prob­lems, 20, 22; proof of, 5, 146, 157 investment, 118, 119, 132, 140 irrational, 56, 88 Iwabuchi, Kōichi, 16, 185n6 Jacka, Tamara, 11, 12, 96, 181n7 Japan: as an ­enemy, 38; and frustration, 108, 109, 110; images of, 36, 108, 111; perceived superiority of, 34; and prestige, 109; and privilege, 95, 108, 110; rural, 6, 41, 54–56, 77, 149 Japa­nese: brides, 68, 73; culture and customs, 100 Japa­nese colonialism, 7, 12, 14–15, 25–26, 28–29, 32–35, 38, 121; perceived as humane, 31, 36, 177 Japa­nese government: attitude ­toward population, 48, 49, 50, 53; attitude ­toward war orphans, 29, 34, 37; and border politics, 143, 153; in Manchuria, 28, 33; Senkaku/ Diaoyu, 15 Japa­nese imperialism. See also Japa­nese colonialism Japa­nese language schools, 41, 63, 110, 125, 174 Japa­nese men: ages of (see also age); as chauvinistic, 101, 108, 110; in the countryside, 6, 54, 55; and divorce, 58, 76, 88, 142, 159; social profiles of, 20, 57; white-­collar, 6, 57, 98, 107 Japa­nese war orphans, 11, 28–29, 32–35, 37–38, 40, 42, 117–118, 120, 164, 176, 182n5,

182nn8–9, 182n11; being sold, 29, 33, 182n6; fake, 39 Japa­nese w ­ omen, 39, 63, 75, 171, 183n4; in Manchuria, 182n3 Jilin, 28 jobs: brokers’, 65, 68, 73, 85, 87, 151; finding, 41, 52, 125, 126, 129–139; and konkatsu, 52–53; and marriage, 130; 3D jobs, 148; white collar, 59 kinship, 6, 43, 84, 111, 153 knowledge expert, 146, 154, 157–158 Kohrman, Matthew, 19, 54 Korean men, 8, 15, 102, 179 Kuwayama, Norihiko, 6, 55, 56 language: a lack of common, 5, 16, 152; school, 41, 63, 110, 125, 174 legitimacy, 18, 20, 43, 89, 91, 145, 157, 166 Lévi-­Strauss, Claude, 9, 70, 131 liaoning, 6, 24, 27, 28 life course: age-­congruent, 51; expected, 10, 51, 169; natu­ral, 47, 50, 52; and the “natu­ral order of t­ hings,” 51 lifelong singles, 48, 50 liminality, 134 local: community, 40, 56, 96, 105, 108, 126, 140; expectations, 104, 117, 118, 123, 140; norms, 24, 46, 99, 104, 107, 140, 169; values, 119 local community: in China, 40, 105, 108, 126, 140; in Japan, 56, 96 love: capacity for, 151, 152; and legitimacy, 152, 156, 163; letters, 156; and marriage, 9, 10, 145, 146, 152, 153, 159, 165, 166 mail order brides, 45, 56, 130 Manchuria, 11, 12, 25, 27, 28, 31–37, 169, 182n2, 182n7, 182n10; railway, 27 Man-­mo pioneer groups, 28, 182n2 marriage: benefits of, 42, 96, 109, 112, 115; buying, 83; with co-­nationals, 47, 57, 59, 68, 72, 164; of con­ve­nience, 145; customary, 73; evolution of, 52; as an exclusionary practice, 54, 55, 149; ideology of, 143, 146; judicial definition of, 152; and love, 9, 10, 71, 146, 152; the “marriage track,” 18, 19; non-­ normal, 17, 18; “normal,” 16, 17, 18, 19, 152, 157, 165; registration, 150; regular, 17, 18, 170; to secure a ­future, 96, 99, 102, 103, 115, 168; socially accepted, 152, 153, 156; time sensitive, 19 marriageability: age and, 57, 102, 132; Chinese ­women’s, 78, 103, 107, 132; definition of, 7;

202 INDEX

marriageability (continued) discussion of, 8–10, 19, 73, 169; limits of, 17; marriage and, 6; negotiating, 24, 27, 46, 48, 53, 59, 103, 104, 117, 132, 143, 165, 169; and the politics of similarity, familiarity, and proximity, 13, 19, 169; and unmarriageability, 47, 56, 65, 106 marriageable community, 69, 72, 79 marriage agencies: domestic, 65, 74, 85, 99; transnational, 6, 11, 20, 50, 53, 54, 55, 58, 59, 60, 62, 64, 68, 69, 72, 74, 79, 81, 82, 83, 97, 131, 151 marriage brokers: domestic, 50, 54, 67, 74, 76, 151; transnational, 1, 6, 13, 16, 20, 25, 32, 34, 35, 54, 57, 67, 68, 73, 82, 85, 86, 87, 91, 151, 155, 157 marriage migration, 11, 12, 16, 24; in China, 96; in Eu­rope, 145; as not ideal, 127; to Japan, 42, 43, 118, 127, 130, 140, 148, 169; and ­labor, 149; legitimating, 26, 176; and return, 132; from Vietnam, 179 marriage partner: cannot find, 10, 47, 97, 102, 115; co-­national, 42, 47, 58; naturally finding, 52, 66; proper, 9, 10, 76, 105; prospective, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 24, 69 marriage-­scapes, 8; limits of, 8 marriage squeeze, the, 47, 51, 53, 54 marrying: off, 24, 97–99, 115; out, 98, 112, 130 marrying up, 11, 98, 99, 105, 115. See also hypergamy Massey, Doreen B., 68, 105, 107, 108, 118, 179 matchmaking: meeting, 2, 4, 5, 21, 22, 58, 60, 67, 80, 83, 93, 99, 101, 104, 106, 120, 124, 140, 155, 167, 178, 179; party, 60, 75, 85, 170; tours, 20, 21, 35, 55, 56, 60, 120, 123, 164; wither, 178 memory: of ­couples, 156; as a site of, 11, 30, 43 Mendang hudui, 97 migration: gendered, 8, 123; to Japan, 127, 148; marriage, 12, 24, 42, 127, 128, 130, 140 miscommunication (misunderstandings) between, ­couples, 88, 109 mobility: upward, 12, 97, 98, 107, 108, 118, 139, 162; who is in charge of, 68, 105, 108, 118, 140, 179 money: betrothal, 7, 80, 128, 129; brokerage fees and, 7, 21, 24, 118, 124, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 133, 134, 168, 174, 179; making, 39, 43, 126, 151; marriage for, 35, 40, 41, 129; remittances, 87, 120, 131, 139, 156, 160 morality: and desire, 31, 35; and economy, 36; and memory, 30; of relationships, 145, 148; and trust, 84

­mothers: Chinese ­women’s, 3, 103, 104; Japa­nese men’s, 3, 60, 61, 65 multisited ethnography, 22 Nakamatsu, Tomoko, 56, 147, 184n4 Nakane, Chie, 70, 71 Nanjing, 32, 34; massacre of, 38 national character, 87 natu­ral (see also normal): blood ties, 43; gender differences, 86; lifecycles, 51, 52, 66; relationships, 16, 78, 89; translation, 119; and unnatural, 90 naturalization, 123 Negri, Antonio, 82 Newendorp, Nicole DeJong, 15, 78, 161, 186n1, 187n12 Ngai, Mae M., 103, 143 Nora, Pierre, 11, 30 normal: as a concept used by Goffman, 62; lifecycle, 50, 51, 54; marriage, 16, 17, 18, 64, 151, 152, 153, 156, 164, 165, 170; non-­, 17, 18, 19, 57, 157; and normalcy, 10, 73; person, 50, 54, 169; and weirdness, 58 obligation, 127, 132, 135; familial, 55 Onizuka, Richard, 130 ordinary: doxa, 89; Japa­nese civilians, 33, 34; life path, 127; looking, 2; marriage, 68, 69, 90, 91 orthodoxy, 89 Parreñas, Rhacel Salazar, 86, 149, 185n10 patrilocality, 98, 131, 133 ­People’s Republic of China (PRC), 29, 33, 39 permanent residency, 147 personal shortcomings, 57, 58 personhood, 10, 50, 59, 62, 64, 108, 169 Philippines, 6, 11, 55, 56, 149, 161 politics of similarity, proximity, and familiarity, 7, 13–16, 19, 78–79, 143 positionality, ethnographer’s, 22 Povinelli, Elizabeth A., 17 power geometry, 107, 179 privilege, 31; ­family reunion as, 147; Japan as, 95, 96, 108, 110, 115; marriage as, 54 profiles, 57, 184n6; Chinese ­women’s, 1, 20, 21, 45, 46, 79, 83, 168, 179; at domestic agencies, 85; Japa­nese men’s, 20, 45, 57, 74 pro-­Japanese feelings, 32, 33 proposal, marriage, 61, 69, 85, 94, 100–101, 135 proximity: feelings of, 15, 16, 26, 103; geo­graph­i­cal, 14, 28; historically created, 169;

INDEX 203

to large cities in Japan, 3; the politics of, 7, 13, 14, 16, 19 pure relationship, 145 rationality, legitimating, 144, 146, 148 Red Cross organisations, 29 reform and opening up (in China), 39, 118, 186n1 refunds, 80, 81, 128, 162, 164, 171 relatedness, 41, 42, 183n17; and blood ties, 43; historical, 13, 26, 36 repatriation, 11, 28, 31, 34 Ricœur, Paul, 30 Robertson, Jennifer, 14, 70 Rubin, Gayle, 131 rumours, 32, 102, 112, 130, 132 “runaway brides,” 83, 161, 164 rural-­urban: dichotomy, 107; migration, 97 Rus­sia: advancement of, 28, 34; and ­women, 77 Russo-­Japanese War, 27 Salter, Mark B., 148 sameness, 15–16 Schein, Louisa, 15, 71, 96, 97, 140 shame, 95 Sheng nu, 96, 97, 182n11 Shenyang, 27, 96, 100, 113, 173 Shih, Shu-­mei, 15, 78, 184n3 Shirakawa, Tôko, 52–53, 59 similarity, 13, 14, 19; asymmetrical relations, 78, 79; destigmatization and, 16; and difference, 13, 14, 15, 71, 73; perceived, 7; racial, 13; sharing, 73; tactical production of, 14, 16, 78. See also the politics of similarity, proximity, and familiarity singlehood: in China, 96, 97, 99, 103, 105, 114–115, 167; in Japan, 47–51, 59, 76 Sino-­Japan relations, 178; diplomatic resumption of, 11, 15; Senkaku/Diaoyu dispute and, 14, 178 society, the eyes of, 152, 153 Soviet Union, 28 stability: financial, 156, 168; marita1, 156, 165; psychological, 152 stigma, 16, 20, 23, 48, 55, 59, 62–64, 66, 68, 72, 79, 90–91; and destigmatization, 16, 18, 23, 63, 66, 72, 86, 88, 91; Goffman and, 62 Stone, Linda, 9, 70 subjectivity: Chinese ­women’s, 24, 118, 132, 140; national, 26, 30, 31 Sun, Wanning, 126 survival strategy, 103, 185n1

suspicion: mutual, 163; ­toward cross-­border marriage, 17, 24, 147, 152, 165 Suzuki, Nobue, 44, 56, 72, 149, 184n1 Swedenburg, Ted, 177 textbook controversy, 38 Thai, Hung Cam, 47, 103, 115, 184n1 Tokyo, 1, 3, 20, 23, 25, 41, 45, 46, 57, 58, 63, 65, 67, 73, 76, 77, 84, 93, 95, 110, 132, 133, 136, 140, 142, 159, 168, 170, 172, 175; coming to, 137–139; as hometown, 31; mayor of, 14; proximity to, 3 trafficking, 56, 59, 131 translation, 67, 80, 87, 88; ­limited, 109; mis-­, 100, 119, 120 transnational adoption, 147 trust: creating, 81, 82, 84, 85; dis-­, 161 Turner, Victor W., 50, 134 undesirability, 47, 56, 57, 59, 103, 106; of cultural dissimilarities, 72; of locations, 59 unfamiliarity, 119, 122 United Kingdom, 11 United States, 11, 63, 71, 103, 120, 159, 174, 175, 176 unmarriageability: in China, 108, 151, 171; of ­people in Japan, 20, 21, 23, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 53, 55, 56, 57, 59, 61, 62, 64, 65, 66, 73, 151, 171; Viet­nam­ese ­women and, 103 unmarried, 10, 40, 47, 48–49, 115, 149, 151 Viet­nam­ese ­women, 42, 103, 174, 179, 183n16 visa: applications for, 5, 63, 64, 112, 113, 118, 124, 125, 129, 141, 142, 153; entertainment, 149; pending, 136; rejections, 134, 142, 143, 157, 158; student, 124, 127, 134; tourist, 127; trainee, 11, 117, 127, 148, 167, 179; written inquiries concerning, 154–155. See also certificate of residency Watson, Rubie S., 98, 103 Watt, Lori, 27, 182n7 Western men, 98, 103, 108 Wilson, Ara, 78 Yamada, Masahiro, 52–53, 59 Yanagisako, Sylvia J., 9, 89 Yasukuni shrine, 38, 183n14 Zainichi Chinese ­women, 60, 74, 75 Zelizer, Viviana, 84, 85, 176