An author whose name I have forgotten once wrote that it is the responsibility of citizens in all nations to identify and confront the great lie they and their fellow citizens believe to be the truth. Of the many possible deceptions, the one I often select is the belief that we Americans are the first and only nation in history to be free from a caste system. As with all great lies, these beliefs become mind-forged manacles, causing people to blame themselves for falling short of the lofty promises embedded within the deception.

Visiting cultures that have well-defined and openly communicated caste systems often presents a paradox: it leads to a feeling of greater freedom in the face of acknowledged truths. In these societies, individuals who break the mold are celebrated in their culture’s music and stories. This stands in stark contrast to our own society, where the pervasive myth of a casteless existence masks the hierarchies we often choose to ignore.

Feudal Japan, particularly during the Tokugawa Period (1603–1868), adhered to a rigid caste system. Above this system stood the Emperor and priests, excluded from the caste system’s hierarchies. At the lower end, excluded as well, were ethnic minority Ainu, descendants of slaves; those in professions considered unclean, such as butchers, executioners, and tanners; as well as actors, wandering bards, convicted criminals, prostitutes, and courtesans. Even today, descendants of these groups may still encounter discrimination in hiring and marriage from other Japanese.

Leaving those who “mattered,” four distinct levels within the caste system emerged. At the pinnacle were the military rulers, the broader military establishment, and their militias—commonly known as the samurais. The caste system was unyielding, yet its rules were explicit, ensuring that everyone knew their designated place—whether they accepted their role or resented it.

Surprisingly to many Westerners, the second-highest level comprised the farmers and agricultural peasants. Rightly so, as they are the guardians of our sustenance. The deep reverence for those who work the land underscores a profound respect for the foundations of life—a sentiment that appears markedly diminished under the green from money thumbs of Big Ag.

The third level was reserved for artists, builders, and those dedicated to their crafts. The ethos of this level persists in modern Japan; indeed, it may have been what inspired my living there for so long. The respect for craftsmanship, the dedication to honing skills, and the pride in creation all resonate deeply within a value system that cherishes meticulous artistry and labor.

The fourth level was reserved for the “parasites” of society: the merchant class, “who did not create anything and therefore did not earn their status in society.”¹ In both Japan and America, this once-lowly class has been elevated above all others, now celebrated as business professionals, bankers, hedge fund managers, C-Suite executives, and MBAs. They are known as “rent seekers,” not aiming to contribute positively to their culture but instead seeking to position themselves as middlemen between two productive entities, hereby extracting “rent” in the form of fees—a private tax levied within the marketplace. The irony of the merchant class’s brutal revenge for their historical exclusion from the upper echelons of society is not lost on me.

The Tokugawa reign committed a critical oversight: they failed to regulate the merchant class. “Merchants, on the other hand, carry on an insignificant occupation… It should be of no concern to the government if they ruin themselves.”¹ Over 265 years, the merchants did what capitalists are known to do—they amassed great wealth and made themselves indispensable by exploiting all of society’s choke points. By the mid-1800s, they had effectively strangled the Tokugawa regime, installed their puppet in power, and transformed the country into a militaristic force that committed atrocities for profit under the guise of nationalist pride, utilizing a bastardized, cherry-picked version of the Tokugawa period’s legacy. In doing so, they converted the population into wage slaves. This transformation from a society that once held merchants in disdain to one that permitted them to dictate the nation’s destiny serves as a stark warning to all societies.

The artists, artisans, and builders have survived into the modern age more successfully than other groups, yet they, along with all Japanese citizens, continue to labor under their merchant class overlords. Coming from a builder’s class family myself, I’ve closely observed the evolution of the builder’s segment of this caste into modern construction workers. It is in this transformation that I find a deep personal connection to Japan’s historical narrative.

The most striking difference at any construction site in Japan, compared to those I have observed elsewhere in the world, is the high-quality security and safety walls. Holes in the fence—strategically placed at heights accessible to children, average females, and average males—allow the curious to peer in at the workers through the safety of plexiglass. Additionally, the fences often feature large displays showing decibel levels, including the maximum allowed, the maximum level monitored for the latest workday, and the current reading. Large information placards affixed to the fences provide the community with a wealth of details about the project, including contact information should the project in any way become a nuisance to the neighborhood. These thoughtful measures, attention to detail, and respect for their culture’s social contract are all fuel for the envy within.

My old soul is warmed by the sight of elderly men, clearly former construction workers, who stay active as flagmen, adeptly managing orange cones to direct traffic and ensure the safety of pedestrians at equipment entrances. They answer questions from passersby, make sure the work crews keep dust wetted down, and professionally control the traffic of inbound and outbound construction equipment and personnel. There are more duties, I’m sure, that I am unaware of. Given that I cannot envision any corporate type preserving such an “unnecessary” expense, I am inclined to believe it’s due to the Japanese mafia’s significant influence over the construction industry. Tokugawa’s spirit seems to persist, shielding the useful and productive members of society well into their twilight years from the merciless merchant class. There is a certain poetic justice in witnessing the remnants of an old order continuing to protect those who create and build, even in a world that has largely overlooked their worth.

I once remarked to a friend how surprised I was to see yet another building seemingly appear overnight on a long-vacant lot. It was explained to me that in America, the construction industry allocates only 20% of the project time to planning and a whopping 80% to execution, particularly in coordinating all the subcontractors and suppliers, which often results in the infamous delays.

In contrast, the tradition and practice of the Japanese construction industry allocates 80% of a project’s time to meticulous planning, including coordinating all subcontractors and suppliers down to the exact number of screws needed, all of which are stored before even opening the gated construction fence. Once everything is in place, the entire well-oiled machine springs into action to complete the remaining 20% of the project leaving the impression that the building materialized overnight. This meticulous approach underscores a deep respect for the process, embodying the belief that excellence is achieved through careful preparation and coordination, which leads to yet another paradox: this admirable process comes at the cost of a uniformity that isn’t so admirable.

All this came to mind when I stumbled across the scene in this week’s photograph. It perfectly encapsulated all my thoughts: the merchant class on the ground, scurrying to collect rent from those who produce, while the builders, elevated above them as Tokugawa himself thought they should be, continued their productive work. The symbolism was too poignant to ignore—a vivid representation.

But Ricky… not all businesspeople are bad and unproductive; they are important parts of the economy. To the former point, unlike most, if someone tells me they are “in business” with a tone suggesting I am expected to honor their elevated position in the American caste system, they only receive suspicion and an eye roll, as I will not tolerate being spoken to in that manner. Until proven to be a productive member of our culture, I presume they adhere to their caste’s nature. Regarding the latter objection, Confucians never said merchants aren’t necessary—they are, akin to mosquitoes, which also play an important role in nature. For a fun and insightful video explaining what you didn’t know about the mosquito, click here. And yes, I am aware of the paradoxical irony in prejudging those elsewhere in the caste system as lesser. Irony, the delicious spice of life.

And now… know the photograph.

¹ Class and Contradiction: Merchants and Expression of Wealth in the Tokugawa Period by Kate Carey.