[Tiny Essay] Identity Crisis
I know the way people see me depends on the way they see themselves
I originally shared this story on Instagram as part of an ongoing experiment inspired by the short-form storytelling of zines, prose poetry, and the Japanese form zuihitsu (plus the urge to just stop overthinking and say something with the words I have right now). I’m sharing it here to make it accessible to people who aren’t on Instagram, but you can check it out in its original form here.
Within less than a week, I’ve heard both these things:
“You’re white passing. So am I.”
“I’m not white passing, and I don’t think you are either.”
I know the way people see me depends on the way they see themselves.
A couple weeks ago, someone mentioned the phrase “identity crisis” in the context of mixed-race people. It bothers me that this phrase follows us. I think about my identity a lot, and I often feel the “crisis” of anxiety in general. But I don’t think of myself in terms of having an identity crisis. I know who I am.
Instead, I’m almost always bracing myself for how others will see me, what they’ll expect of me as a result, how they’ll respond if I act outside their expectations. I have no idea how anyone will see me, whether they will determine I’m like them or not like them (and then, do I want to be like them or not like them?).
Looking “ambiguous” (especially with lighter skin) comes with privilege. It also means there’s not much space for us to talk about our experiences with race because we don’t fit into a neat category. I’ve seen a lot of mixed-race Asian and white people call themselves simply Asian or describe themselves as looking white. I’ve done both of these at different points over the years, but neither feels quite right to me.
I do look Japanese, I think, but not in ways people are always conditioned to see. We’ve been trained to see race in shorthand: skin color, hair color and texture, eye shape, etc. Being read as white through this shorthand is a privilege, and it’s also a failure of imagination.
At the same time, calling myself just Japanese feels like I’m trying to get away with an incomplete story, including to myself. What about my dad? Do I distance myself from him in the way I describe myself? Is that because I grew up in the US, where every part of Japanese cultural preservation takes effort (first my mom’s, now also mine) or because he and his whiteness complicate my story about myself in an uncomfortable way, and part of me wants the neat categories too?
I’ve been thinking and writing about these issues for more than 10 years, and still they can feel raw and triggering — and boring and encumbering, all at once. All this to say, if you feel any of this, I want to talk with you! Just because our stories are often flattened doesn’t mean we have to tell ourselves a flattened story.