I am enough

I am not enough

My mother is Japanese, and my father is a European New Zealander. I am *hafu*. *Hafu* is the Japanese word for "half," and it is how people with mixed roots are referred to in Japan. I was born in New Zealand but moved to Japan when I was six years old, staying there until I finished high school.
Throughout my life in Japan, I was often questioned about my ethnicity and complimented because of it. I frequently encountered comments like: “Are you *hafu*?”, “Do you speak English?”, “Where are your parents from?”, “Is your hair color natural?”, “I wish I had big eyes like yours,” “I wish I were as pale as you,” “I wish I had a tall nose like yours,” and “I wish I were *hafu* so I’d be fluent in English.” In Japan, being white is often regarded as more attractive, and fluency in English is highly valued. These questions and compliments made me feel pressured to meet the expectations associated with being white.
As a child, I did not speak English, but people often refused to believe that or questioned why I didn’t speak it. They would ask, “Why can’t you speak English even though you’re *hafu*?” I would explain that I had no relationship with my father because my parents were divorced. Upon hearing this, people always apologized, which made me feel as though I was being labeled an unhappy child. However, I was not unhappy, and I disliked being categorized in that way.
People only saw me through the lens of my ethnicity. I resembled my mother, especially since our eyes were identical, but people often commented that my eyes looked “*hafu*-ish.” My height was average, and my mother told me she was the same height as I was at my age. Nevertheless, people frequently remarked that I had long legs and a great figure. I wondered how they could perceive my body shape through my school uniform. I wanted people to see me as an individual, for who I truly am.
I began to realize that people only saw what they wanted to see in me—that I was perfectly bilingual, and as pretty and tall as many of the *hafu* models in Japan. I felt pressured to be someone I couldn’t be, and it was painful when people expressed disappointment that I was more Japanese than they had expected. Someone once said behind my back, “Rosae’s nose is Japanese-ish.” My nose wasn’t tall enough. A friend told me, “Your face looks quite Japanese-ish,” as though I wasn’t supposed to look Japanese. One of my classmates repeatedly accused me of lying about my language abilities, refusing to believe that I didn’t speak English. I showed him my English test score, and he fell silent. My classmates even took a vote on whether I was prettier than my best friend, who was also *hafu*. “There’s no way you’re gonna win,” they said. I wished I looked whiter and prettier, like my best friend. I always hid my English test scores because I feared disappointing people. During COVID-19, I was afraid of taking my face mask off because people would find out that my nose wasn’t tall. I was ashamed of the way I looked. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t speak English. I was scared, that someday, someone was going to point out that I wasn’t enough as a *hafu* girl.
I returned to New Zealand to study. Here, people only see me as Asian, as someone who doesn’t belong in New Zealand. A nurse once asked me, “Where are you from? Let me guess... Korea? Hmm... Sudo... but you have a very Western first name.” I simply told her I was from Japan because I was tired of explaining my background, but it hurt to deny part of my identity. A guy at the reception of the building where I live asked me where I was from. When I replied, “I’m from Japan and New Zealand,” he said, “Wow, your English is good! I really want to go to Japan one day.” It felt as if he did not acknowledge my Kiwi identity. My hospitality teacher didn’t record “European New Zealander” as part of my ethnicity. I didn’t point it out because I was afraid she might think I didn’t look the part.
A stranger shouted to me and my friends “Hey Chinese!” while we were speaking Japanese. It made me angry and sad because I felt like an outsider, again, but my friends laughed it off. I felt disconnected from them because they did not share my frustration. I thought maybe I could have laughed along if I were fully Japanese like them. I did not feel like I belonged to either the Japanese or the New Zealander identity.
As I reflect on my identity struggles, I realize now that I hated myself because I was being stereotyped by Japanese society. Low self-esteem is a common issue for many people in Japan, especially for women. Those who made me hate myself probably hated themselves and projected that onto me. However, I still struggle with my identity because this realization has made me resent part of my identity—Japan. I am a work in progress, but I am enough.