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ARTICLES:
Eurasian Experience
My
Half Identity By Kanna Livingston February 2003 I could start by telling them that I am an obsessively messy person; I transport the mound of clothes on my bed onto my floor every night so that I can sleep without my nose in a sweater sleeve. Or that I love to read, especially books that make me laugh out loud in embarrassingly public places. I could even go as far as to tell them that I'm afraid of heights, particularly those that loom over giant, screaming waterfalls. But they always stop me at the very beginning of my introduction, before I can get into all that, the minute I say that I'm from Japan. I always have to stop there, take a breather, and plunge in. "You're Japanese?" They'll ask me in a quizzical tone, one that I swear I've heard before. Maybe it was when I dialed the wrong number and someone named Barbara Cole wanted me to try again. But this was no Barbara Cole, and I didn't need the telephone directory to know that I had the right nationality. Nevertheless, they'll want to make sure that I've got it right. Then they'll say: "But you don't look Japanese." I don't look messy, either. I try really hard to keep the tangles out of my hair and if I wear mismatching socks, I always wear pants. No, I don't look Japanese, and the reason why is because my father is American. "Oh, so you're half Japanese," they'll say, their eyes shining with clarity. They'll say "half" exactly the way it's typed: italicized. And I wince at hearing those words, feeling somehow compressed, restricted, and excluded from the "pure breeds." If I am half Japanese, then where does that half end; where do I begin not being Japanese? Would a bar of chocolate have to introduce itself as being "half chocolate, half milk"? Do people start off their conversations at sophisticated cocktail parties saying, "Oh, I'm half of my father's genes and half of my mother's. How about you?" No, of course not. People would feel awkward in their expensive shoes. Then why, I wonder, do people feel the need to dissect me, peering into my face as if I were a "What's missing from this picture?" puzzle in the newspaper. Well, what's missing, they'll realize, is the jet black hair color, the dark eyes, the low nose and the national flag sticking out of my head. But please, hear me out for a second of pure sincerity: I am not half Japanese. I am Japanese. I am American. My blood doesn't divide in the middle of my veins, neatly lining up like sweaty kindergartners after recess. It all streams together in a steady flow and if people could only see that, there would be no need for any of this "half" talk. When I was a child, I lived in the suburbs of Osaka, Japan. We lived in a small apartment and when we looked out the window, we saw the house right next to us. And when we looked out the back door, we saw the house right behind us. For me to frisk about in a grassy backyard, I would have to take a quick plane ride. But I was content with frisking about in the parking lot with the cement to cushion my fall. The population under our roof consisted of my Japanese mother, my American father, my younger brother, and Joey, a feisty Chihuahua who had to be smuggled in like an illegal immigrant due to strict rules. In all honesty, I would have been a happy girl regardless of Joey's existence, but since he was no bigger than a pair of scissors (but equally sharp), I managed to stay out of his way (and his snippy teeth). I had a splendid childhood. Of course, I did. But somewhere along the line, I realized that other people didn't know me like my family did. They didn't know that I was born in a hospital in Takatsuki, or that I ate rice with dried seaweed for breakfast, just like them. They didn't know that I, too, sat down to watch the summer cartoon festival (a golden line-up, the best of the best) on television and could understand every word. They just couldn't see past my brown hair and my brown eyes. If I stayed in one place long enough, they got bored and stopped looking at me. But among the homogeny of the society that I grew up in, it was hard to escape feeling like I didn't belong. My worst fear was being pointed at in crowded places and being called a "gaijin," which objectively means "foreigner." But to me, it was loaded with negativity. I hated being a foreigner in my own home. I hated being looked at, and wished I could carry Joey under my arm so that he could nip at pointing fingers. I would never do that, of course, because I was not a violent child (and also because Joey was steadily solidifying my everlasting fear of Chihuahuas; I wouldn't dare pick him up). I
attended an international school from the age of four to the age
of 18. It was exactly the sort of environment that I needed: the
one place where I felt like I could belong without blending in.
My closest friends were just like me, with dual nationalities. We
made up names, calling ourselves "mutts" and "hybrids."
I became obsessively interested in the "mutt"; I believed
that bicultural people had a world of their own. It was an amazing
thing that we could identify with both cultures, and most of the
time we took it for granted. It was the only way to be. I couldn't
be Japanese without being American, and vice versa. It was an all
or nothing deal, and I opted for having it all. There were other times when my bicultural identity seemed to be something altogether different from an American identity or a Japanese identity. I seemed to fall somewhere in between the two, if I had to be placed somewhere. In the midst of a conversation, I would realize just how lacking my knowledge of the U.S. geography was and that I had no clue what "Fraggle Rock" was (apparently it served as a cornerstone in American children's lives, shaping them into healthy adults). Or, I would be reading an English novel on the train, surrounded by Japanese novels, and receive a call on my cell phone. From the English in my hands and the English in my voice, it would be almost impossible for others to know my bicultural identity.
It wasn't until quite recently that I became adamantly opposed to the label, "half." I think it came about around the time I left the international school that I had attended for a big chunk of my life, and started college in America. I was pulled away from a familiar, comfortable environment, one in which I never had to explain my identity because everybody already knew. In a strange, new environment, I began to hear the word, "half," as condescending, politically incorrect and rudely inaccurate. But I still felt the need to use it when describing myself for the sake of being understood by others. Although I grew up looking Caucasian in an Asian country and occasionally faced difficulties figuring out where I stood, I was able to overcome my obstacles and gain confidence. So, the last thing I wanted to hear when I began my life in America was: "Don't worry, you don't know this because you're only half American." People didn't mean to offend me with their comments. They were simply justifying things or clarifying the situation so they could understand me better. Now that I had the physical appearance that (somewhat) belonged, people found other aspects, like my knowledge, that made me feel like an alien, once again. It was the little things that wormed their way into my consciousness and refused to fade away. It wasn't that people were discriminating against me or trying to make me feel alienated; they simply didn't realize that their words were affecting my grip on identity. I am not half of anything. My identity has no boundaries, nor do my experiences. Because I am bicultural, it does not mean that I'm lacking anything. On the contrary, I like to think that I have the best of both worlds. I like to think that I have more. Growing up looking different or knowing different things has helped to shape my identity, and rather than make me an insecure person with no self-confidence, it has done the opposite. I have learned to appreciate what I have that is different. I appreciate the fact that home for me is oceans away and yet because I am also American, I can call America home, as well. And I've been through too much to be affected by a name; people can call me whatever they want, but they can't expect me to play the role. I know who I am, I am confident in that, and it has taken me years to find out. Please don't call me "half." You can call me "double" if you want. But really, don't those labels sound ridiculous? About
the Author
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