Arigatou Gozaimasu, Always

A Post-Japan Identity Reflection

So—I vacationed in Japan.

I went in solo; with a high-effort, high-reward itinerary: luxury stays, shinkansen rides, a ferry, and a packed light strategy for a very intentional streetwear haul. I did well.

(Still waiting on a shipment of Labubu plushies—missed them after two hours in line. Such is the price of culture.)

I booked a ryokan with a private onsen. Memorized ferry times. Practiced “Arigatou Gozaimasu” in Roma-Ji five times on the train platform until it felt right. When I finally said it, I had a friend’s voice-note in my ear: part radio voice, part gentle reminder—“Arigatou Gozaimasu. Always”.

I typed notes, sometimes in a notepad—other times in a thread on iMessage. Going from the Prince Gallery in Tokyo, to the spaces between Kyoto tatami floors and Naoshima's art island—the narrative I came back with is about tone, care, and the invisible design of being human to each other. Proof points provided upon request.

My experience of Japan stunned me. The architecture, the art, the fashion. A chef made me tartare from his best cut, and I'm still thinking about the coffee omakase.

But what stayed with me was the consistency of care. Tamago made just for me at breakfast. Prada associates who walked me to a cab. A mom of three who noticed I was stuck in the train doors and gently freed my arm. I met friends made in cafés, elevators, museums, galleries, and lounges. I moved with intention and was met with the same. Even virtually—through a Ninja WiFi device and AI translation apps—connection found a way.

People thanked me, sincerely, for my business. I left cookies and hand-written Arigatou Gozaimasu notes on a table overlooking Tokyo’s skyline.

Names matter. Tone matters. In Japan, the tone was clear: Arigatou Gozaimasu. Always.

And when I got back, I wrote these lyrics.

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Names (a remix inspired by Saint Levant's Nails tune)

But they used to trip on my names
Two flags, one face
Cross waters, with grace
Earn stars, keep the pace
Write my script in all the frames
So don’t trip, don’t trip on my names

From Cairo to SF,
Said I'm soft, so I sharpened my aim
Learned to code sweat into grace
Taught myself how to move in this space
Not too loud, quiet so it lands
Symbolic jewelry, passport in my hands
Lines divide, but don't take the bait
I connect. Move on. Narrate the weight

Too Arab for comfort, too femme for the game
Too many layers for one arc to name
So I flip it—play different
Arabic wishes, English refrains
Breaking bread where both worlds remain
Blend and reclaim
Now I just stamp when I land on plains

Used to wait now I walk past the lanes
I'll run out of paper before I run out of places
And I’ll bring it back home to the Bay,
So don’t trip on my names.

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Customs asked if I had any food. I told the truth: I have outfits. They said “Welcome home, Jacqueline.”

I keep returning to Saint Levant's language —the unapologetic mix of Arabic, French, and English. It sounds like how I feel when I’m most myself. His work reminds me that sometimes it’s not about switching languages, when we need to remix the narrative. Same beat—new framing. A mindset shift—a change of heart.

That's the thread I'm pulling through everything I do. On Common Threads, in my writing here, and in the way I move through rooms and borders.

The future is in building new patterns, across lines. Starting with names, opening with tone— reframing to reconnect. If we're lucky, even AI might help us get there faster.

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Thanks for reading. If you’ve ever had to choose between names, tones, or stories—or just want better words across contexts—reach out.