Youth / OPINION : ‘I Wish People Would Ask My Name, Not Mix’

When most people hear “mixed” or “biracial” they usually think black and white. I’m different. My father is black and my mother is Japanese American. Once, in my Asian studies class, a white student asked me what I consider myself to be. I said, “black and Japanese.” She said, “But I mean what do you put down?” I said, “black and Japanese.” Is that so hard to understand?

On “check one” ethnicity boxes, however, I was Asian until the 11th grade, when I “became” black. My mom said it would be easier to get into college. I can identify somewhat with both of my cultures, even though I was raised in a Japanese family.

Recently, I was at restaurant with my Japanese mother and stepfather, my half-sister, who is Japanese and Chinese, her husband, who’s white, their son and my niece. I was the only black face in the colorful crowd, and this white man was staring at me. He stopped eating and watched me like he didn’t like me or want me to be there. I didn’t say anything, but once I got home, I freaked out. I started screaming and crying. “Why can’t I just be who I am? Why can’t I be one or the other?” I cried in my mother’s arms. She told me there’s nothing I can do about it and I’m beautiful the way I am. She’s been telling me that all my life. It helps, but she’s my mother. She’s supposed to say those things.

My earliest memory of feeling like an outcast dates back to my preschool years. I attended a private Buddhist preschool in Little Tokyo. All of the children were Asian. Once again, I was the only black person. One day, I came home and told my mother that I was tired of being this color and wished to change it.

As a preschooler, I remember telling my mother that I wanted “spaghetti hair,” like my Chinese and Japanese half-sister, instead of my “meatball hair.” When I was in elementary school, my mom cut my long hair and it poufed out into an Afro. I was devastated. I wore a hood over my head when I went to a friend’s birthday party.

However, I never did chemically relax my woolly mane. Many people have complimented my hair as it is.

Because I do not look like them at all, I have never really felt acknowledged by most Japanese people. Appearances can be deceiving sometimes. They probably see me as just another black girl, even though my middle and last names are Japanese, I have grown up eating Japanese food and I go to a Buddhist temple. No one in my family speaks Japanese regularly, but I am in my fourth year of studying the language.

Most of the racism I have experienced has come from my own “brothers” and “sisters,” meaning black people. Some black people seem to think that because I am mixed, I feel I am superior. I am labeled a “sellout,” “Oreo,” “wannabe white girl” or conceited because I speak properly and get good grades. I was supposedly not “black enough” to go out with my ex-boyfriend, who was black. I was afraid to join the Black Student Union for fear of being rejected.

My friends come in all shades, from many backgrounds and both sexes. My closest friend and boyfriend are both black, but most of my friends are Asian. I choose to be with people who love me and accept me as I am.

It has taken me 18 years to reconcile the two sides of myself, and I am still working on it. I subscribe to Essence (a black magazine), but I do not know how to dance. I own a kimono, but I do not like to eat with chopsticks. I sympathize with both black and Japanese people who experience racism. I do think it is possible to be happy despite the ignorance of others, but it is frustrating sometimes. I just wish that when people meet me they would ask me my name before blurting out, “What are you mixed with?”