Categories that bind: Transgender,crossdressing,and transnational sexualities in Tokyo

Abstract

This article investigates “toransujendā” (transgender), “josō” (male-to-female crossdressing), and “otoko no ko” (boy/male daughter) as categories that bind through ethnographic research in Tokyo’s contemporary josō gyōkai (scene and business circles). Building on queer and transgender scholarship, I ask what these categories mean, what they do, and how they figure in trans people’s everyday lives and the institutionalization of seidōitsuseishōgai (Japanese translation of Gender Identity Disorder). I argue that categories are imbued with asymmetrical power relations and operate affectively, emerging from contact between bodies and practices. Ultimately, they are important sites for questioning categories of “gender” and “sexuality” in transnational sexuality and transgender studies.

Introduction: How categories figure

Ever since she was 10 years old, Stefanie has practiced “josō” (male-to-female crossdressing) in her everyday life. ¹ The twenty-year-old identifies as “toransujendā” (transgender) and is romantically attracted to cisgender men. To her, josō feels shizen ni (natural) because she thinks of herself as onna (woman) or onna ni chikai (close to a woman). A college student majoring in information technology, Stefanie works part-time two to three nights a week at a josō/otoko no ko (boy or male daughter) cafe-and-bar I call “Paradise,” which is located in Akihabara, an area in Tokyo where fans of anime, manga, and video games gather. ² Stefanie usually takes great care to do her makeup, adopting a kawaii (cute) aesthetic, and styles her long dyed brown hair at home before heading for her shift. Her love for koi (thick) makeup is well-known at Paradise and on more than one occasion, I overheard customers complimenting her on her appearance or discussing makeup techniques with her.

Stefanie’s simultaneous use of “josō” and “toransujendā” to refer to herself raises several questions about what these two categories mean and how they might work for different individuals. Since the 1990s with the advent of “toransujendā,” when activists transliterated and introduced the English word “transgender” to advocate their causes, why does Stefanie still use “josō” to describe herself? Perhaps part of the reason is linked to her job at the josō/otoko no ko cafe-and-bar, an establishment where employees dress as a different gender and attend to customers, where a network of people including Stefanie gather under the signs “josō” and “otoko no ko.” Yet, it is worth asking what individuals understand about these categories in the first place and how they are related to each other. Queer and transgender studies scholars have long explored how gender and sexuality categories operate, where they come from, and what practices and relationships they enact (Hemmings, 2007; Sedgwick, 1990; Valentine, 2007). ³ This follows from Foucault’s (1977: 144) genealogical approach of “excavating the depths” of historical discourses and conditions to show how they produce and continue to shape the present. Hence, the more important question is not what meanings can be derived from “josō” and “toransujendā,” but what these categories do and how they figure in the everyday lives of transgender people and the institutionalization of “seidōitsuseishōgai” (Japanese translation of “Gender Identity Disorder”; henceforth GID) in Japan. ⁴ More broadly, what implications might thinking categories have for transnational studies of sexuality and transgender?

This article interrogates “josō” and “toransujendā” as categories of gender and sexuality through ethnographic research in Tokyo’s contemporary josō gyōkai (scene and business circles) in the 2010s. I draw on scholarship on transnational sexualities, which has underscored the uneven constructions of sexual subjectivities across national contexts and asymmetrical power relations and unequal knowledge production embedded in certain categories and practices (Blackwood and Johnson, 2012; Grewal and Kaplan, 2001). Following this, categories like josō and toransujendā are not neutral and the ways in which individuals embrace, reject, or reinvent them should be investigated. In his ethnography of the category “transgender,” Valentine (2007: 15) contends that “gender” and “sexuality” themselves are “neither self-evident experiences nor natural explanatory frameworks.” To complicate things, gender and sexuality are not always disentangled in Asian contexts (Chiang et al., 2018). I therefore regard josō and toransujendā as important sites for thinking overlapping gender and sexuality categories in the Japanese context. I argue that “josō” and “toransujendā” are not only imbued with power, but also circulate and function affectively to inform individuals’ subjectivity. Certain individuals are bound to “josō” because they are familiar with the vernacular term denoting a long history of gender variance in Japan. “Josō” has been used as far back as 712 to gloss various forms of feminine presentation in theater, literature, and the entertainment industry (Saeki, 2009). At the same time, other individuals may feel ambivalent about “toransujendā,” a modern term originally imported from the United States and adapted by local LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender) activists to designate individuals whose configurations of gender do not align with what is assigned at birth.

While both categories enable Stefanie to express herself as a woman, not all gender-variant people think of themselves in terms of “josō”; likewise, not all individuals who practice josō identify as “toransujendā,” such as her cis-heterosexual colleagues at Paradise. This does not mean that Stefanie’s and her colleagues’ understandings of josō and toransujendā are wrong as each person has their own mapping of similarities and differences, which may or may not converge with known or established gender and sexuality categories. What I am interested to mine is why certain categories are “stickier” for some people than others. “Stickiness,” as Ahmed (2004: 90) posits, is not what happens when we adhere to something; rather, it is an “effect of the histories of contact between bodies, objects, and signs.” Only after Stefanie repeatedly used “josō” to describe herself and over the years imagined herself and is regarded by others as a “josōko” (young josō individual) does the category becomes sticky for her. Through such recurring interactions between Stefanie’s body, her embodied practices, and other people’s bodies, the emotion she feels towards “josō” emerges and meaning is created. Being sticky, the category “josō” can also “block” the flow of things and “bind” other signs together (Ahmed, 2004: 91). This combination of binding and blockages constructed through contact between Stefanie, the media, and other individuals in everyday life impacts how “josō” and “toransujendā” are taken up today.

In what follows, I first contextualize the various categories pertinent to this study, such as josō, otoko no ko, and toransujendā, situating them within Akihabara culture and trans movements in Japan. To provide the background in which this research was conducted, I also discuss my fieldsite and methods. Next, I investigate the process in which Stefanie employs some categories to express herself and not others and the implications this usage has for contemporary trans discourses. Subsequently, I examine the different attachments Tobari, Stefanie’s cis-heterosexual colleague, has to “josō” and how they are often constructed on free-to-air television in terms of “otoko no ko.” In my conclusion, I briefly consider how thinking about categories contributes to transnational sexuality and transgender studies.

Mapping categories: Akihabara and trans movements in Japan

“Josō” is more expansive than the English term “crossdressing” and can denote the practices, subjectivities, and ways of being of dressing as women or wearing women’s clothing. In the contemporary context, “josō” mostly refers to male-to-female crossdressing. “Josō” is not a singular category; there are many levels of josō. One needs to look no further than josō gyōkai to see a hodgepodge of bars, clubs, events, salons, and other businesses designated as “josō.” For instance, drawing on fieldwork in the 1990s, Mitsuhashi (2008) has examined josō bars and clubs in Kabukichō, an entertainment and red-light district for straight people near to but separate from Shinjuku Ni-chōme (henceforth, Ni-chōme), Tokyo’s gay and lesbian district. A more recent example of josō gyōkai is Propaganda, described on its website as “Japan’s largest josō event” and a “free space” where people can wear whatever they want without being restrained by their gender (Josō nyūhāfu puropaganda, n.d.). Held every Saturday in Ni-chōme consisting of live shows by music performers, talks by invited speakers, and dancing to music by professional disc jockeys, Propaganda ended its 9-year run in March 2016. Although drag queens might be considered as doing a kind of josō, my interlocutors understand themselves as not doing drag. As one josōko and Paradise customer who used to frequent Propaganda explains to me, the drag queen culture hails from the United States as a flamboyant theatrical performance—sometimes to express a gay identity-based politics—which is different from their non-identitarian josō practices in Japan. Many of my interlocutors appear unaware of or refrain from participating in local LGBT—including trans—movements, which complicates the efforts of scholars and activists I discuss below.

Following Mitsuhashi (2015) who regards “otoko no ko” as the 21st-century version of “josō,” I see “otoko no ko” as individuals’ reinvention of “josō.” Although the two categories are closely related, “otoko no ko” is a contemporary category situated in Japanese popular culture that has fractured from “josō.” In the 2000s, the slang “otoko no ko” emerged from the two-dimensional, such as anime, manga, games, and the internet, to describe male-assigned characters who closely resemble bishōjo (beautiful girls) (Kawamoto, 2014). Online users discussed otoko no ko appearing in games and manga they consumed, such as Junai GirL (Pure Love Girl), an adult game released in 2001 by RUNE/CAGE featuring a josō shōnen (boy) “heroine.” Josō shōnen manga such as Yubisaki miruku tī (Fingertip Milk Tea) (2003-2010) and Otome wa boku ni koishiteru (The Maidens are Falling for Me) (2006-2008) also became well-known among mainstream consumers. ⁵ In everyday life, however, “josō” and “otoko no ko” appear to overlap for individuals. Regardless of their gender identity and sexual orientation, my interlocutors have no problem referring to themselves interchangeably as josōko, otoko no ko, and—sometimes—josō danshi (boys). ⁶ They also do not restrict themselves to sites designated as “otoko no ko” but participate in the larger josō gyōkai, such as the josōko customer who attended Propaganda. Hence, except for bringing attention to specific terms my interlocutors use, I will use “josō” throughout to refer to them and their practices.

In the late 2000s, among those who practice josō, young beautiful individuals who aimed to embody shōjoteki na kawaisa (girlish cuteness) began calling themselves “otoko no ko,” catapulting an otoko no ko boom in the 2010s (Yoshimoto, 2015). This coincided with the end of the maid boom where maid cafes staffed by young costumed cisgender women experienced a slowdown in business (Galbraith, 2011). Around the same time, the first josō/otoko no ko cafe-and-bars staffed by young crossdressing employees in Akihabara, Hibari-tei, and Paradise were established in 2008. ⁷ Hibari-tei opened as a futeiki eigyō (irregular business) on certain weekends and its floating presence across Akihabara was thought to create a virtual experience for customers, 60% of whom were said to be cis men (‘Josō danshi’, 2009). Similar to Hibari-tei, Paradise initially opened as a futeiki eigyō at a rented venue and eventually became a permanent fixture due to customers’ positive responses. At its height, the otoko no ko boom comprised an explosion of specialized magazines like Wai! and Otonyan featuring anime, manga, and adult games and the know-how to practice josō, “B-men” (Before face/transformation) and “A-men” (After face/transformation) photos and videos uploaded to social media and niche websites displaying the makeover process, and shows and beauty contests on college campuses and beyond, notably Inoue Miya’s Tokyo Cosme Boy beauty contest (Inoue, 2012; Kinsella, 2020a, 2020b; Yoshimoto, 2015). However, this form of mainstreaming also angered otaku—individuals invested in anime, manga, and games—who wanted to safeguard two-dimensional otoko no ko characters from so-called “three-dimensional otoko no ko” (Kawamoto, 2014). ⁸

Around the time otoko no ko first materialized in the early 2000s, some trans activists like Torai Masae and Kamikawa Aya were lobbying to bring about legal gender change after the first official sex/gender reassignment surgeries (SGRS) were performed in Japan. ⁹ Although this legislation required stringent conditions, trans activists pushed ahead because they worried about not having a second chance, resulting in the 2003 passing of the Act on Special Cases in Handling Gender Status for Persons with Gender Identity Disorder (“GID Act” for short) (Oe et al., 2011). ¹⁰ Nonetheless, not everyone celebrated the GID Act’s passing; many criticized its reinscription of the gender binary, pathologization of trans individuals, and marginalization of gay and lesbian issues (Dale, 2020; Oe et al., 2011). For instance, scholars and activists like Mitsuhashi Junko, Tanaka Ray, and Yonezawa Izumi embraced “toransujendā” as a means of intervening in the GID discourse. ¹¹ For them, “seidōitsuseishōgai” is a medical diagnosis by physicians for individuals whose heart’s sex/gender (kokoro no seibetsu) does not match their body (karada no seibetsu) (Mitsuhashi, 2008: 362). ¹² However, being “toransujendā” depends on a person’s wishes and decision about their sex/gender, which would affect various aspects of their life, such as in the social, cultural, and somatic senses (Tanaka, 2015; Yonezawa, 2003). Unlike GID, toransujendā appears less restrictive and can potentially encompass diverse forms, including josō, nyūhāfu (new-half) and okama (effeminate gay men).

That said, “toransujendā” is a modern invention that was introduced to Japanese people during the 1990s queer movement and perhaps due to this, the category is seldom used at the everyday level. To be clear, I am referring to the term “toransujendā” and the framework of transgender as novel, not that gender and sexually variant individuals, who have always existed in Japan, have only now emerged. Instead of toransujendā, Dale (2012) observes that terms like okama, new-half, and seidōitsuseishōgai are frequently adopted in popular discourse. “Okama” (pot) is a slang for effeminate gay men, the application of which as Valentine (1997) notes, often conflates gender and sexuality. “New-half” is an English loanword coined in Japan in the 1980s to characterize someone of mixed gender—that is, half woman and half man—or someone who has partially undergone SGRS and typically works in mizu shōbai (euphemism for the Japanese sex and entertainment industry) (McLelland, 2004; Mitsuhashi, 2008). Despite some trans scholars’ and activists’ repudiation of the GID discourse and its depathologization in the World Health Organization (WHO) and Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition (DSM-5), it remains common for individuals in Japan to self-identify as seidōitsuseishōgai. Depending on the individual then, “seidōitsuseishōgai” can be said to be both an identity and a medical condition. These differences not only in how people use and understand the aforementioned categories but also how they become attached to them warrant more investigation. My study offers insight into this by examining how individuals negotiate “josō” and “toransujendā.”

Fieldsite and methods

In the sections that follow, I present material gleaned from ethnographic research I conducted in Tokyo between 2015 and 2017, which included a continuous 12-month period of long-term fieldwork, namely, participant observation and semi-structured interviews. During this period, I resided in the city close to Akihabara where Paradise, my main fieldsite and among the first josō/otoko no ko cafe-and-bars to open in the area in the late 2000s, was located. Paradise was an ideal fieldsite, being at the center of the otoko no ko boom and well-known among members of josō gyōkai, even though it was not situated in or near Ni-chōme. To protect the confidentiality of my interlocutors, I have changed the name of my fieldsite (Paradise is a pseudonym). Although Paradise’s owners gave permission for me to go public and insiders can probably guess my fieldsite, I refrain from doing so as it potentially puts my interlocutors at risk. For various reasons similar to those for desiring online anonymity, such as perceived threats to their real identity and managing social boundaries between different groups, networks, and environments (Kang et al., 2013), my interlocutors only ever used adana (nicknames) to refer to themselves and other people within the space, that is, real names were rarely—if at all—exchanged. Aside from requesting for their verbal consent (to avoid exposure via a paper trail), I also asked them to choose their pronouns in English and pseudonyms—which are different from their adana—for the purposes of this research.

My positionality as a non-Japanese non-transgender-identified Asian woman and transnational feminist and queer studies scholar based in the United States (at the time of fieldwork) shaped my research in various ways. At Paradise, where employees and some customers who practiced josō prided themselves on becoming beautiful, my boyish figure, short hairstyle, lack of makeup, and casual ensemble of T-shirt and slacks initially rendered me out of place. However, because I spent copious amounts of time and money as a regular customer who frequented the establishment twice to thrice a week with each visiting amounting to two to three hours and setting me back ¥3000-5000 (US$27-45.50) on average, I was able to observe Paradise’s comings and goings during business hours and speak to participants more casually. As an English-speaking foreigner, I was sometimes roped into attending to non-Japanese customers—usually tourists—who could not communicate in Japanese. As an unpaid intermediary between employees and non-Japanese customers, I performed part of the labor myself and bonded with employees over their labor. After forming relationships with my interlocutors over time, I eventually gained some individuals’ trust and permission for an interview. I conducted 29 in-depth interviews with the owners, most of the employees, and a sampling of customers, some of whom practiced josō and identified as josōko/otoko no ko. Interviewees, who are predominantly in their twenties, thirties, and forties, hail from different backgrounds and locate themselves variously as asexual, bisexual, pansexual, transgender, and heterosexual. Interviews focused on their understandings of josō in relation to their practices and/or consumption, experiences of working at and/or frequenting Paradise, and relationships with other individuals within the establishment and josō gyōkai.

To gain more perspective, I also immersed myself in josō gyōkai in other parts of Tokyo. For example, I attended Diffusion, a josō/otoko no ko event in Kabukichō that was said to surpass Propaganda, visited Onna no ko Club (girls club), a josō salon-bar in Ni-chōme, and consumed programs portraying josōko/otoko no ko on national television. Although all these sites are distinct from Paradise, I observed some overlaps in the participants. For instance, some attendees of Diffusion were also customers at Paradise and Onna no ko Club and occasionally made guest appearances on television. Despite these overlaps, I also noticed vast dissimilarities in terms of the meanings they assigned to the category “josō.” This is coherent with my observations at the relatively small site of Paradise where employees and customers shared diverse understandings even as they converged on “josō.” One of my main difficulties was thus that of tracing connections between these highly individualistic individuals who gathered under the same sign. As Valentine (2007) notes, this presents an ethnographic dilemma which assumes that the researcher studies a coherent community when this may not be the case. Hence, while I use “josō gyōkai” to denote a diverse network of individuals practicing josō or desiring to do so, interested in josō/otoko no ko culture and/or individuals, and attending events and patronizing or working in establishments designated as “josō,” in reality, it resembles a web of small groups of people who are engaged in the ebb and flow of josō.

Some participants also cite the increasing presence of josōko/otoko no ko on mainstream media, notably variety programs, as a shorthand to explain what “josō” or “otoko no ko” means to them. Scholars have previously criticized televisual depictions of okama, new-half, and onē (older sister; queen) personalities as hypervisible and heavily stereotyped (e.g., McLelland, 2004; Mackie, 2008; Maree, 2020). While I do not disagree with them, I wonder if, despite the media’s tendency to normalize and contain queerness, such representations might also enable some josōko/otoko no ko to make sense of their practices and subjectivities. It is from this perspective that I examine a short six-minute news feature portraying the otoko no ko boom in ZIP!, a “morning information program” (asa jōhō bangumi) broadcast by Nippon Television on weekdays, as an example of how individuals who engage in josō may draw on media to produce meanings about the categories “josō” and “otoko no ko.”

Community and the circulation of categories

Describing what she calls the “Shinjuku josō toransujendā” community in the 1990s, Mitsuhashi (2008: 260) positions josō individuals and their practices under the umbrella of “toransujendā.” She traces the beginnings of this community to the mid-1960s when Fūki, one of the first clubs for “josōsha,” opened in Shinjuku Golden Gai, a small area full of bars and restaurants within Kabukichō. “Josōsha” is specifically used to index gender-crossing amateurs who belong to the Shinjuku josō toransujendā community as a means of distancing from “josōko,” a term originating in the 1950s and 1960s gei (gay) community to describe men-loving individuals who practice josō—otherwise known as “josō gei” (Mitsuhashi, 2008). Mitsuhashi’s location of the Shinjuku josō toransujendā community in mizu shōbai (again, sex and entertainment industry) suggests that it owes its existence in part to bars and clubs like Fūki, which implies that the GID discourse is not the only framework to understand gender-variant individuals. As discussed earlier, the GID discourse is problematic for reproducing institutional power relations and pathologizing transgender individuals through its mistranslation and misinterpretion of “seidōitsuseishōgai” as “disorder” and “disability.” ¹³ Mitsuhashi (2008) challenges the GID discourse’s dominance by identifying five distinct groups comprising the Shinjuku josō toransujendā community: josō gei, fetishists who obtain sexual pleasure from practicing josō, narcissists who develop sexual arousal from practicing josō, individuals who feel seibetsu iwakan (gender discomfort) and materialize as women, and those who are diagnosed as GID. ¹⁴ Out of these five groups, only the last one aligns with the GID discourse. As Valentine (2007) observes in the US context, a “community” is not one that already exists but is deliberately and continuously built by different groups of people located in different places who come together under “transgender.” Applying this to the Shinjuku josō toransujendā community, we should scrutinize and ask: Who is included or excluded in such a community and on what basis? Although Mitsuhashi usefully identifies the aforementioned five groups encompassing individuals who interact with one another, she does not discuss the basis of their inclusion nor if they refer to themselves as “josōsha” in the first place.

My discussion of how individuals who engage in josō either include themselves or are included in josō gyōkai through using certain categories will help us to understand the shifts in categorization. This is especially so in the contemporary context where a younger generation of josō individuals in Akihabara seems to have moved beyond the five groups Mitsuhashi has identified in the 1990s. Based on my field data, young josō individuals appear to resist all five groups except for trans-identified individuals like Stefanie who experience seibetsu iwakan. For instance, nowadays they use “josōko”—a term originating in the gei community—to simply denote young individuals who practice josō. This suggests an active and ongoing process of reinventing older categories as well as constructing new ones like “otoko no ko.” In the next section, I ask how and why these terms and categories circulate in specific sites and are embraced in particular ways and understood in relation to each other. I draw on the example of Paradise and trace how individuals at the cafe-and-bar negotiate “gei,” “josō,” and “toransujendā” and the ways in which they intersect or not. The subsequent section will focus on the connections between “josō,” otoko no ko,” and “josō danshi.”

Potentialities and limitations of categories

I first met Stefanie during one of my initial visits to Paradise one winter evening. Seated next to me was a gregarious cisgender man in his forties who called himself “Hiro” and was also there for the first time. Hiro chatted amiably with Stefanie and Suzu, a delicate-looking eighteen-year-old employee and a high school student. In contrast to Stefanie’s tan and curves, Suzu was tall and lithe with alabaster skin—the standard of feminine beauty in Japan. Both wore thick makeup and were captivating in their own ways, but they could not be more different. A sociable Hiro let on that he was currently on vacation from Nagano, a neighboring prefecture, and had just gone bar hopping last night at Ni-chōme. While Hiro flirted with both employees and asked multiple personal questions about themselves (e.g., how old they were, if they were still in school, etc.), his attraction to Stefanie became obvious when he made it known that she was just his type. Soon, Hiro, who declared that he is “bai” (bisexual), asked if Suzu and Stefanie frequented Ni-chōme. “We’re not gay (watashitachi gei janaiyo),” Stefanie said by way of explaining why they have never been. Since they do not identify as “gei,” they saw no reason to visit Ni-chōme. Besides, Stefanie pointed out, they also felt disinclined to go there because Ni-chōme was male-dominated.

Stefanie’s rejection of “gei” to describe Suzu and herself indicates that for them, “josō” expresses their feminine selves and desires to become women, as opposed to a drag queen, whose elaborate theatrical performances may be used to express gay identity. Here, Stefanie’s self-identification is defined in terms of what she is not (“gei”) and where she has not gone (Ni-chōme). Although their performances may be described as a kind of josō, drag queens are seldom called “josōko” or “otoko no ko”—terms my interlocutors use. As compared to drag queens’ flamboyant performances, josō individuals regard their practices as grounded in the everyday. However, what complicates this is that many individuals, including Suzu’s and Stefanie’s colleagues who practice josō but identify as cis-heterosexual, can be labeled “josōko” or “otoko no ko.” With the rise of the otoko no ko boom, cis-heterosexual josōko have increasingly become featured in mainstream media. (I will return to this in the next section.) For better or worse, this has shaped the public’s opinion of josō as divorced both from “gei” and “toransujendā.” While this raises important issues of cooptation and cis-heterosexual appropriation of LGBT practices and categories, I want to focus here on why Stefanie understands “josō” as separate from “gei” but not “toransujendā” and cis-heterosexual.

Stefanie may have been influenced by contemporary discourses based on Japanese trans movements in which toransujendā—often heterosexual—individuals are regarded as distinct from cis gei men; in other words, a modern separation between gender identity and sexual orientation. However, this division has not always been a clean one since as recently as the 1990s, Mitsuhashi included josō gei people in one of her five groups within the Shinjuku josō toransujendā community. Prior to this in the 1960s, the gei and josō worlds split into two so that hypermasculine cis gei and feminine presenting josō gei individuals began to occupy separate instead of the same bars in Tokyo (Mitsuhashi, 2008). This historical context may explain why despite the overlaps between these categories, contemporary josōko/otoko no ko in Akihabara insist on ontological distinctions between “gei” and “josō.” This can be seen in how Stefanie firmly distances Suzu and herself from Ni-chōme, which she assumes is predominantly for gei-identified men. While Stefanie is not wrong, Ni-chōme also houses a smaller number of “mix bars” and other establishments, which are open to diverse genders and sexualities and can even accommodate cis-heterosexual people. One notable example is Onna no ko Club, a josō salon-bar established in 2012 which provides wigs, clothing, shoes, and makeup for customers—including cis women—to feminize themselves. Since the salon-bar is located in Ni-chōme, gei-identified josōko/otoko no ko potentially patronize the establishment. Hiro’s question to Suzu and Stefanie may not be that strange after all because the boundaries may be blurred for those who regard themselves as simultaneously gei and josō and thus more complex than Stefanie imagines.

It was not until several months later in an interview that Stefanie explained to me how she arrived at “toransujendā”—“T” for short. Since she is neither “gei” nor “bai” and does not think of herself as “otoko” (man) but as “onna” (woman), she surmised that she must be T, having shifted away from the gender assigned at birth. In the past, Stefanie used to agonize over these categorial distinctions. Now, however, she thinks she is a lot better. In her own words, “Because all of these [components] are me” (zenbu watashi dakara). As compared to the past, she feels more accepting of her way of being and just wants to enjoy a “girl’s life” (garusu raifu). At the moment, she is leaving the option of whether or not to undergo SGRS open.

Stefanie’s embrace of T to describe herself reveals that “josō” expresses a “real” inner self and understanding of herself as a woman, not a performative act or indication of gei identity. This mirrors contemporary understandings of toransujendā as based on gender identity, as compared to those of gei based on sexual orientation. From this knowledge and by eliminating other categories, Stefanie understands herself as T. Her use of “T” also signals potential alignment with scholars and activists who regard toransujendā as “ikikata” (way of life) (Tanaka, 2015: 46) and seidōitsuseishōgai as a medical condition. Even if she does not take part in any kind of trans activism, a highly self-reflexive Stefanie embraces T because the category is proximate to her subjectivity at the time. On the one hand, this process of negotiating categories and arriving at T appears to give her a sense of security in knowing and accepting who she is as well as the language to convey her way of being to other people. On the other hand, she seems to realize the limits of categories, which can be seen from her present feelings of accepting herself as a whole as opposed to nailing down one precise category to articulate who she is. As scholars (Lunsing, 2003; Valentine, 2007) have noted, real-life trans and crossdressing experiences often transcend such seemingly neat categories. Perhaps because of this, we might say that Stefanie inhabits a space somewhere in between T and josō. This can be seen from how she employs T and josō simultaneously to refer to herself instead of thinking of them in mutually exclusive terms. Despite arriving at T after some struggle, josō remains sticky for Stefanie after imagining herself and her practices in terms of josō over the years. Subsequently, as she came to know contemporary trans and josōko/otoko no ko discourses, she has bound them all together.

Not all trans people view “josō” favorably, as Tsuruta (2009) finds in her ethnography of the GID community in Japan in which she interviewed various trans individuals mainly in their twenties and thirties between 1999 and 2008. Tsuruta’s (2009: 77) MTF (male-to-female) interviewees describe “josō” as “chūtohanpa” (halfway) because they feel that individuals who practice josō look neither like men nor women. While Tsuruta (2009) concludes that such negative perceptions of josō stem from her interviewees’ own anxieties of not being recognized as “women,” these perceptions also operate to exclude toransujendā-identified josō individuals like Stefanie who do not follow the GID discourse. The reality is that many trans individuals have an in-between status as they are in different stages of transitioning. For Stefanie who has not yet decided whether to undergo SGRS or not, she identifies as T and a woman but continues to struggle in her everyday life with being classified as “male” by the authorities. Hence, individuals who “count” as trans in Tsuruta’s study appear to be those who adhere as closely as possible to the GID discourse, which remains problematic for being predicated on gender normativity. GID-identified individuals are perceived as desiring to transition either into a man or a woman often through SGRS. Moreover, the GID discourse privileges individuals who can afford SGRS and are employed outside mizu shōbai while further marginalizing those who can neither pay for surgery nor find work in other industries. This is in part what Mitsuhashi complicates when she locates the Shinjuku josō toransujendā community in mizu shōbai. Stefanie’s continued embrace of both categories josō and toransujendā as equally valid for individuals to employ therefore aligns with trans scholars and activists like Mitsuhashi who similarly repudiate the GID discourse because of how it limits trans people’s understandings of themselves. In the next section, I discuss how the reinvention of categories like josōko and construction of new categories like otoko no ko within contemporary josō gyōkai may breathe new life into this conversation.

Attachments to josō

“I can become a self I’m usually not. [I think] it’s called ‘henshin ganbō’? Yes. I like being able to henshin (transform),” Tobari explains when I ask why he practices josō. “Henshin ganbō” refers to the strong desire to change one’s appearance. The light-skinned twenty-two-year-old employee and Stefanie’s colleague at Paradise is slim, wears light makeup, and has long straight hair fashionably dyed in red, which he assures me is not a wig. Unlike Stefanie, Tobari is cisgender and romantically attracted to women. For Tobari, josō is all at once considered a form of fashion, shumi (hobby; taste), and “cosplay” (kosupure). A portmanteau of “costume” and “play,” “cosplay” refers to the practice of dressing up as fictional characters from anime, manga, and games. Perhaps this is unsurprising considering that Tobari is an avid anime and manga fan and previously trained at a voice acting vocational school. After graduating a year ago, Tobari is now a “freeter” (furītā), or irregular employee. ¹⁵ Later in our interview, it became clear that Tobari’s josō practices and the part-time job at Paradise also align with his aspirations to become a voice artist (seiyū). Tobari is interested in enacting onnarashii shaberikata (feminine way of speaking), which he claims few employees, such as Stefanie, can achieve. Being able to speak in a feminine manner, Tobari feels, makes certain individuals like Stefanie more superior in their josō practices.

Tobari demonstrates a different attachment to “josō” from Stefanie, although both describe this in sticky terms. For Tobari, josō is tied to henshin ganbō, the inclination for physical transformation, whereas for Stefanie, josō is natural, evoking a strong sense of nostalgia and familiarity stemming from having practiced josō as a child and throughout her formative years. Moreover, Tobari and Stefanie also share different subjectivities and motivations for practicing josō. Unlike Stefanie for whom josō expresses her identification as a woman, that is, her transness, Tobari is a cis-straight man who does josō to portray another—albeit differently gendered—self. Tobari also seems to fall outside DSM-5’s definition of “transvestism” or “transvestic disorder,” which characterizes deriving sexual excitement and emotional distress from dressing as women (APA, 2013). Since Tobari neither desires to become a woman nor is he sexually aroused when he is in josō, he might be said to have neither GID nor transvestic disorder. Perhaps for Tobari, whose practices are not (yet) captured by existing categories and understandings, the ambiguity and openendedness of “josō” remain useful.

It would seem as if the only things Tobari and Stefanie have in common are Paradise, their workplace, and the stickiness of “josō.” However, I find it curious that few have questioned their adoption of “josō” or even the category itself. Building on earlier discussions, in addition to asking why Stefanie uses “T” and not “gei” or why she identifies simultaneously as “T” and “josō,” I ask why taking up “josō” seems natural for her. Moreover, why are the josō practices of cis-heterosexual individuals like Tobari generally uncontested by trans-identified josōko like Stefanie? Underlying such questions is the assumption based on older discourses of identity politics that LGBT and heterosexual identities are fixed and innate as opposed to fluid and socially constructed. Following Sedgwick (1994), who defines a person’s gender and sexuality as non-monolithic, genders and sexualities are not only plural but also harbor the potential for mutability. If we understand “josō” as situated within specific social and historical contexts, individuals converging around “josō” may well have diverse practices and ways of being. They may also disagree with what josō constitutes, who can practice, and how its meanings can change over time. Among themselves, the consensus is that both trans-identified and cis-heterosexual individuals may practice josō and their practices may be similarly or differently termed as “josōko” and “otoko no ko.” For Tobari and Stefanie to then manifest different attachments to “josō” demonstrates this shared understanding of josō.

For example, Tobari discusses josō individuals’ onnarashii shaberikata in terms of skills. The more feminine josō individuals sound, the more superior they are regarded. Although most customers and employees talk about josō in terms of dressing, I find Tobari’s emphasis on speech interesting for aligning his practices with those of Stefanie. To claim that some josō individuals can be more skillful than others shows that their practices are perceived as voluntary in that they have to carefully construct their feminine voice. Tobari’s practices are performative, but perhaps not an example of drag or what Butler (1993: 22) calls “performativity,” the “compulsory repetition of prior and subjectivating norms, ones which cannot be thrown off at will.” Butler’s notion of gender performativity appears to be involuntary, whereas Tobari’s practices enact a gender that is chosen at will. Moreover, unlike the subversive performances of drag queens, Tobari’s josō practices can be characterized as a kind of voice acting performance or cosplay, that is, turning into different characters by putting on costumes and imitating their mannerisms, which ultimately function to reinscribe the gender binary. However, in his ethnographic study of cosplayers, Truong (2013) suggests that josō cosplayers simultanously contest normative masculinity and reinforce certain feminine norms and in doing so, enable them to experience a different self. This could explain Tobari’s josō practices in terms of complicating certain aspects of gender norms while reinscribing other aspects.

Complicating otoko no ko as fashion and play

Another way to interpret Tobari’s josō practices—and this is a popular narrative promoted by mainstream media in the advent of the otoko no ko boom—is that they are not tied in any way to eroticism, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Since the mid-2000s, increased popular cultural representations of individuals who practice josō have led many to dub this the otoko no ko boom. Although both cis and trans people may practice josō, the majority of josōko often visible on mainstream media usually insist that they are cis-heterosexual. For instance, in summer 2011, ZIP!, a morning television program, introduced “otoko no ko” as one of the words that was nominated for the 2010 U-CAN Keywords-of-the-Year contest and defines the category as “men who practice josō as a kind of fashion.” This scene is followed by a montage of videos and images featuring different aspects of the josō boom, such as josō makeup courses and websites catering to josō fashion. The camera cuts to the narrative of a “josō danshi” named Ando (a pseudonym), depicting him first as a “salaryman” (male white collar worker) in a black suit walking out of a train station and later as an otoko no ko wearing a blouse, cardigan, long lace skirt, and handbag crossing the street. The camera follows Ando back to his apartment. The narrator declares in voice-over that Ando possess an array of makeup tools, women’s clothing, and men’s suits and neckties as he displays these items for the camera. Responding to the question of how he got started with practicing josō, Ando explains that in high school, he observed his female classmates put on makeup and decided to give it a try. He adds that practicing josō is “sugoi tanoshii” (incredibly fun) because “one is able to be oneself” (jibunrashiku irareru). Subsequently, the interviewer asks if Ando might be a new-half and interested in men. Ando flatly denies it on both counts with “chotto kimochiwarui” (kind of gross).

In this sequence, ZIP!’s construction of “otoko no ko” is congruent with most representations staged for public television, particularly variety programs, in that they function to maintain the status quo and conflate gender expression with gender identity and sexual orientation. By demonstrating how Ando vehemently refutes being new-half and takes offense at the suggestion that he might be attracted to men, ZIP! proves that he is undeniably cis-heterosexual. However, these questions posed to Ando already assume that until proven otherwise, his josō practices might be connected to homosexuality and trans subjectivity. On the one hand, ZIP! simultaneously draws on and reinscribes popular beliefs of josō as an individual simply satisfied with wearing makeup and women’s clothing but otherwise identifying as a cis-straight man (Tanaka, 2015). On the other hand, the camera’s—and audience’s—invasion into Ando’s private space and interrogation of his gender and sexuality upends this stable reading. Contrasting scenes of Ando’s two sets of clothing and accessories and his dramatic transformation from B-men (salaryman) to A-men (otoko no ko) visually challenge existing notions of femininity and masculinity. Yet, it is Ando’s admission that he feels more like himself in josō than dressed like a man that destabilizes ZIP!’s definition of otoko no ko as fashion the most. This raises the question of what exactly “otoko no ko” means for Ando and if he shares similar or different attachments to josō with Tobari.

Extending otoko no ko as fashion through play, ZIP!’s representation reinforces gendered divisions between work and play in Japanese cultural identity. ZIP! juxtaposes Ando’s salaryman appearance with his otoko no ko appearance, associating work with productivity and “hegemonic masculinity” and play with consumption and dressing as a woman. ¹⁶ Ando epitomizes hegemonic masculinity as a middle-class heterosexual salaryman who embodies class, national, and gender ideologies (Roberson and Suzuki, 2003). In contrast, josō femininity is relegated to spaces outside the workplace, namely, play and leisure, which may explain otoko no ko’s origins in the two-dimensional. Many josō cosplayers perceive their activities in terms of shumi (again, hobby) and kyōmi (interest), which falls within the realm of asobi (play) and leisure but is separate from shigoto (work) (Truong, 2013). Similarly, Tobari’s simultaneous understandings of josō as shumi, fashion, and cosplay do not appear contradictory as they are all considered play.

In the first place, Tobari and others presume a stable work–play dichotomy when it is a modern invention that only came about after the mid-nineteenth century with the structuring of working and non-working days (Daliot-Bul, 2009). These seemingly clear divisions between work and play are also troubled by Ando’s and Tobari’s social standing and the kinds of play they engage in. Following Allison (1994) who argues that the salaryman’s heterosexual play in hostess clubs is often sanctioned if it extends work and work-based relationships, perhaps the practices of the more privileged Ando can be said to sustain economic productivity, but not for Tobari who is a freeter. However, as Kam (2013: 163) contends in his ethnography of the label “otaku,” men who “enjoy inappropriate consumption” for their gender remain feminized. From this, if we consider Ando’s and Tobari’s josō practices “inappropriate,” then we could say they potentially destabilize their work and undermine their own masculinity through their play.

Scholars (Hendry, 2002; Raveri, 2002) have argued that although often perceived as outside of work or the reality of everyday life, play remains significant for its ability to influence those who play and challenge social and cultural norms. Although Ando’s and Tobari’s josō practices might be characterized as play, they should not be trivialized as their practices have the potential to shape their own subjectivity and contest social—especially gender—norms. For example, ZIP! attempts to frame Ando exclusively within the otoko no ko as cis-heterosexual narrative but it instead reveals the complexity of doing josō. Like Tobari, “josō” is sticky for Ando as he understands the category in terms of enjoyment and expressing a different self. While reflecting neither his gender identity nor sexual orientation, Ando’s josō practices might be interpreted as gender presentation on the margins of femininity and masculinity. Scholars (Dale, 2012; Kinsella, 2020a) have described otoko no ko as a category that does not fit into existing categories and a reaction to this condition of belonging nowhere. Ando’s and Tobari’s josō practices, therefore, raise important questions about what feminine and masculine gender expressions are, how their boundaries are demarcated, and who can embody them. Josō becomes a site for exposing the constructedness of “doing gender,” a concerted effort to accomplish gender by managing and comporting oneself in normative feminine or masculine behavior (West and Zimmerman, 1987). Yet, in the process of doing gender, West and Zimmerman (1987) argue that while socially constructed, differences between femininity and masculinity are often used to reinscribe an essential gender identity. This paradox is illustrated by the display of men’s and women’s clothing inside Ando’s tiny apartment and Tobari’s enactment of feminine ways of speaking as distinguishing josō from non-josō practices. Although these differences normalize femininity and masculinity, they also expose them as social constructions. By trying to fit into normative femininity as an otoko no ko and normative masculinity as a cis-straight (salary)man, Ando’s and Tobari’s doing of gender calls into question the very structures that reproduce these inequalities.

Conclusion

By examining “josō” and “toransujendā” as important sites for interrogating gender and sexuality, I have argued that they are categories imbued with power which circulate to effectively shape individuals’ subjectivity and are in this way evolving and at times out of place. Drawing on Ahmed’s notion of “stickiness,” I have demonstrated how “josō” is sticky for josōko, otoko no ko, and josō danshi, regardless of their gender identity and sexual orientation. For these individuals, “josō” derives from continuous exchanges between their bodies, their practices, other people, and popular culture to generate new and reinvented categories like josōko and otoko no ko. For instance, although “otoko no ko” originated in anime, manga, games, and the internet to describe two-dimensional characters, the category was adopted and adapted by young beautiful individuals based on their own consumption and interactions with likeminded individuals at sites like Paradise. Granted, josō’s stickiness is not only about proliferating new meanings but can also block the flow of things while binding other things together. As I have shown, Tobari’s and Stefanie’s attachment to josō blocks their questioning of the category, which is taken as a given, while also binding trans and cis-straight individuals together in the same space.

Through thinking categories, I intervene in transnational sexuality and transgender studies in two main ways. First, thinking about categories troubles a progressive narrative in which US.-inflected trans activism, institutionalization, and legal and medicalized frameworks tend to be regarded as the model of rights and citizenship for all gender-variant individuals in Japan and elsewhere to follow (Aizura, 2012). Such a narrative elides trans and gender nonconforming people’s everyday practices and experiences situated in specific cultural, historical, and geographical contexts since how and why they take up certain categories and what these categories mean to them are different. For instance, Stefanie employs josō to express her femininity and subjectivity as T, whereas Ando and Tobari, who self-identify as cis-straight men, engage in josō because of other motivations like shumi, fashion, and (cos)play. As a vernacular category, “josō” is arguably more expansive in terms of the meanings it can proliferate as compared to how “transgender” and “crossdressing” are regarded and embraced in the United States.

Second, in thinking about categories as non-static, I complicate straightforward representations and understandings of josōko/otoko no ko as cis-straight play and fashion and trans people as enacting a stable GID identity through reproducing the gender binary. Such representations limit how sites where gender and sexuality are negotiated “become the conditions of possibility of new subjects” (Grewal and Kaplan, 2001: 671). For example, Ando, Tobari, and Stefanie contribute to reinventing and constructing new categories, which are important for transforming their bodies and subjectivities. Despite their different socioeconomic backgrounds, gender and sexual subjectivities, and motivations for engaging in josō, Stefanie’s and Ando’s practices converge on just wanting to be themselves, whereas Tobari’s practices lie in transforming the self. Describing her attachment to “josō,” Stefanie says simply “I can be more like me,” (watashi ga watashi rashikuaru), repeating “watashi” (I; me) twice for emphasis on the self. This echoes Ando’s expression that “one is able to be oneself” and contrasts with Tobari’s claim, “I can become a self I’m usually not,” where both use “jibun” (self) to highlight their individualism. Their dynamic and self-reflexive embodiments of josō transcend seemingly clear lines demarcating cis, trans, or otherwise, demanding us to make sense of their experiences in new ways.