On reflecting on her everyday life in Tokyo as a mixed-race individual Coomes writes, “A mixed-race body moving through homogeneous spaces often inspire attempts at conversations of classification” (2018). As I walk through the city I am constantly being eyed by all different kinds of Japanese people. They look at me and I see them at work. Heads turned in high attention, assessing judging, pondering: what is she? A foreigner? An expat? Military affiliation? Trying to figure out what I am. Japanese people of all ages would comment on my appearance and mannerisms in front of my face, expecting that I was illiterate in their language (I was not). They try to classify me as one of the inhabitants among a homogenous society, trying to find my place. I stick out like a sore thumb. They never once stop to think I am one of them.
At a younger age there were many times I wanted to be like everybody else: pure Japanese. I thought that would make my life much easier. I hated the fact that my skin was white, and my hair was blonde. In Japan it was never hard to be singled out as “different” because of my Western looking appearance. Here in America, however, I could typically assimilate into the white crowd without much effort. There was no “oohing” and “awing” at my features, but I would frequently get comments on my physical appearance after people learned where I was from. Comments such as: “Your skin is so fair, but when I saw your eyes, I knew you had to be Asian” or “What are you? You’re not from here, are you?” This body of mine seemed to inspire the same disquietude and curiosity in others as it did in me.
I was born in Tokyo, from an American father and a biracial Japanese-American mother. Japanese and English are both my native languages. To be viewed as a foreigner in my own country, where I grew up, to have to convince those of the same race as me that I am one of them, to defend my rightful identity is a constant reminder that I can never truly be Japanese. I think to myself… isn’t it ironic a place thought to be so welcoming, so kind, so international, views me as an exotic commodity? A rare sighting of an extinct animal. A dead spirit animated. But as I learned over time, the key to surviving as an outsider in a society is to turn the discrimination and marginalization into an advantage. Belonging and not belonging at once is a pill that is hard to swallow. Your identity is constantly being mediated between how others perceive you and how you perceive yourself, but the beauty in this is that it offers you with a second sight. A deeper perception of your surroundings. Growing up abroad, in a conservative Asian society, taught me it can be challenging for members of a certain community to conceive the existence of an individual who can embrace values from more than one group.
Communities are strengthened on the basis of a shared experience, whether it be a main language, a main culture, or common moral values. I challenge the harmony of the Japanese community by trying to assert myself as a member of this group. Despite having lived in Japan my whole life, considering it to be my home, I still value American individualism over Japanese collectivism. My personality and behavior compromise Western traits as much as they do Japanese, which are very different from each other. That’s what makes it hard to believe I am Japanese, because at the same time I live the same common experience of a Japanese, my identity is defined by what my body represents at face value: the “other.”