My mom is Japanese, from Tokyo, Japan, and my dad is American, from Newport, Rhode Island. When I was a baby, my mother would speak to me in both Japanese and English. I still know a few Japanese phrases, but they don’t come naturally for me, since my mom and I gradually switched to just English after I entered preschool. Although I like to identify as equal parts Japanese and American, I’ve come to realize that I will never know fully a part of my mom or the Japanese side of myself because I will always think and feel in English, rather than in Japanese.
I came to this realization during our last family trip to Japan when I went for tea at my Great Aunt Takako’s apartment in Tokyo. My mom and I walked up a narrow staircase with my great Aunt to her apartment. There, after my Aunt Takako served us tea with neatly arranged omanju sweet cakes, I found myself sitting at that small kitchen table while she and my mom spoke in Japanese – smiling gently, laughing loudly, and reminiscing about this and that. My mom tried to include me in the conversation at first, translating and explaining, but soon they were immersed in conversation and seemed to forget that I was there. I sat up very straight in my chair and smiled and nodded along with the conversation – trying my best to read their body language and faces, but after a while, my mind started to wander. Then, I looked at my mom’s face. She looked so different from when she is in the United States. My mom moved to the United States when she was in Second Grade and she speaks and writes English so flawlessly that I often forget that she isn’t a native speaker. At home, she speaks with composure and intention – crafting each sentence skillfully and mindfully. However, here she wasn’t composed and intentional all, instead she seemed to glow with emotion every time she spoke. She was relaxed, comfortable and at home. I could feel a tangible sense of kinship between her and her aunt – a shared history, culture and understanding woven into each word they spoke. The Japanese language enveloped her in a sense of belonging, acceptance and even love.
There is a part of me that understands some of this. When I encounter others who share my Japanese heritage, I’ve felt small bits of what I think was making my mother’s face glow at that kitchen table. For example, whenever I hear the word samishii (which translates to “lonely” in English), a deep lonely feeling wells up in my chest just as it does for my mom and all other Japanese people, which goes way beyond “lonely.” When I hear the word suppai (sour), I feel a pinch of sourness on my tongue. But these are just tidbits and I can never be totally enveloped in the total sense of belonging, acceptance and love that the Japanese language and culture offer because I don’t quite look Japanese and more importantly, I don't speak Japanese other than the few words I’ve managed to remember from my childhood. It reminds me that I am always a bit on my own and a bit on the outside. It never quite leaves me – the fact that I am always slightly lost in translation, and that defines who I am.