Breakfast with Baachan
Whenever I sleep at my parent’s house, I wake up to a note under my door that says, “キアナちゃん朝ごはんreadyです。ばあちゃん” “Kiana, breakfast is ready. —Baachan” I go downstairs to her apartment and sit under her kotatsu (her heated table) as she warms up my tamagoyaki and miso soup. She always puts chopped cabbage on my plate, even though I hate it, because she read somewhere that it prevents cancer. Her miso soup is more like miso stew with how many veggies she packs into it. And I can never wake up early enough to eat at the same time as her, so she sits and chats with me while I eat.
It was over one of these breakfasts that I asked Baachan about her experience as an Asian woman living in America. Until the recent attacks, I have never felt prompted to ask her about what she’s endured. She said of course she’s been discriminated against. She has had people call her home, telling her to go back to where she came from. She said that she is worried about my uncle moving back to California because he is small and looks very Japanese.
After this conversation with Baachan I asked my mom. I knew that when my mom was little, kids in her class would make fun of her because she couldn’t speak English, and she would fight back by karate chopping them in the middle of their backs on the playground. Other than that, I had never heard of any other discrimination against her. It’s not like we talk openly about it at the dinner table. This time, she told me of her experience living in Alabama with my dad, a local news anchor and white male. She recalled times when they would be walking down the street with their kids, and people would recognize my dad, glance at her, look at their mixed children, and look confused. It was as if they were wondering why my dad would ever want to be with my mom, an Asian woman. And unlike when she was in elementary school, my mom had to stay composed. She couldn’t react to their judgments.
My face doesn’t look Japanese like theirs do. I have never received any kind of discrimination or hate based on the way I look. I do remember feeling embarrassed bringing my onigiri (rice balls) to school in my lunchbox, even though none of my friends made fun of me. I knew I was different and all I wanted to do was fit in. But even then, most of the comments I have received have been about how cool it is that I am half Japanese... My heart hurt hearing about Baachan and my mom’s experiences with racism. I was furious thinking that someone would call Baachan, telling her to go back to where she came from. Don’t they know how difficult it was for my grandparents to immigrate to America? Don’t they know that they have worked and fought their whole lives to give their children and grandchildren a chance to live a better life? They couldn't possibly say such horrible things if they knew them that way.
My family’s experiences with racism are not rare. If nothing else, recent events have opened my eyes to the hatred and discrimination that so many other Asian families face. And I know that not everyone views Asian people as less than or inferior. But I hope that we can move forward as a society with more love. I don’t want my Baachan to be afraid to go outside, or anyone’s baachan’s for that matter. America is beautiful because of the different cultures and people that fill our country. Our lives are richer because of the unique backgrounds and viewpoints that we bring. I hope that we can embrace our differences, rather than discriminate against others because of them.
“When you really know someone you can’t hate them. Or maybe it’s just that you can’t really know them until you stop hating them.” Orson Scott Card
I love being half Japanese. I love having my history rooted in determination and hard work and Asian culture. And I love Baachan. If you could have breakfast with her, you would fall in love with her too. I promise.