Where are you from?

A self-documentary on origins

by Leanne Yanabu

Racial distinctions are pretty vague. But when you are perceived to be a certain kind of person by many people for a long time, eventually you start to believe the validity of that distinction.

When I was growing up I used to say I was Japanese. Of course I was an American by virtue of being born in the U.S., but I thought of myself as Japanese. It didn't occur to me to call myself Okinawan because I didn't realize that the two groups spoke two different languages and were culturally quite different.

I began to realize how very American I was when I lived abroad for two years. But even after I returned, on occasion I would still say I was Japanese.

But the truth is I'm not Japanese. I came to this realization when I lived with other students who were Japanese. I mistakenly thought I would have something in common with Akane, my first housemate who was from Japan. I thought we would get to be friends, maybe by exchanging language lessons or something. Osmosis, maybe. I thought we would have cultural things in common.

Didn't happen. We were very different. The links between Japan and Hawaii had become outdated. Her English was poor and my Japanese non-existent. Akane was not interested in pursuing a friendship with the descendant of an ancestral exile. She had her own friends from Japan. I don't speak Japanese and I know next to nothing about Japan. I was no more Japanese than I was Malian, and probably less so since I had at least lived in Mali for two years whereas I had never even been to Japan.

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