The Conscious Bridge

I don’t feel right continuing to create content without first talking about the reality of life in Japan as a diasporic child.

Here, anyone of mixed race is referred to as Hafu—a term originating from the English word “half.” Personally, this label has always left a bad taste in my mouth. What do you mean, half? I am half Japanese, which implies I’m not fully Japanese… just a part of it. This ideology reinforces the idea that we aren’t entirely Japanese, and therefore, not truly Japanese at all.

There are, of course, pros and cons to this. A pro is that you’re often given a kind of grace. If you make a minor linguistic mistake, or if you decide to be a little rebellious and stand out—whether in mannerisms, fashion, or otherwise—you are automatically forgiven. No one questions why you might sometimes step out of line; after all, you were never considered fully Japanese to begin with.

This mindset has deeper roots. Ever since Japan’s defeat in WWII, the country rebuilt its society by actively adopting Western standards and capitalism. But this inclination isn’t new. Throughout Japanese history, there has been a pattern of conquering and unifying, of constantly defining and refining what it means to be “Japanese.” We take immense pride in Wa (和), or harmony. Maintaining this harmony often means acting collectively, syncing our actions with societal expectations. We bow in unison; we uphold famously high standards of customer service to earn the world’s admiration for Japan.

But if you don’t meet the strict definition of “Japanese,” you are, in the eyes of many, not too different from a gaijin—an “outside person.”

When I was in elementary school, I was the only Black-mixed student in the entire school. There were a few students of other nationalities, like Thai and Chinese, but the vast majority were Japanese. I was often called Gaijin by my peers, and it did hurt. I was born in Japan, grew up with Japanese food, entertainment, and customs, and I only spoke Japanese. I would sometimes speak gibberish to mimic how a foreigner might speak English, and everyone genuinely thought I was fluent. Sure, my dad is a gaijin, but I couldn’t get over the reality of how people saw me. I used to emphasize stories about my Japanese mom to find common ground with others, but it didn’t help much.

Fast forward to college. By this point, I had lived abroad and could actually speak English. I thought it was inevitable for people to see me as a gaijin. The concept of Hafu had also become more familiar in the country, with growing trends, more international marriages, and more hafu celebrities appearing in the media. We even had famous athletes like Naomi Osaka representing Japan with her biracial background. Nevertheless, a new issue emerged within hafu communities: white-mix, Asian-mix, and black-mix were all treated or perceived very differently.

As I learned more, I found this wasn’t just my personal observation—it was a documented social hierarchy. Here’s a breakdown of the stark contrasts:

• White-Mixed (白人系ハーフ)
  • Perception: Often romanticized and placed at the top of an informal hierarchy. They are seen as exotic, fashionable, and talented.
  • Media Portrayal: Heavily featured as models, actors, and TV personalities (e.g., Rola, Becky). They represent a “cool” and desirable internationalism.
  • Social Reality: While still “other,” they benefit from the positive association with Western whiteness. They are often assumed to be native English speakers, which can open doors. However, this “positive” stereotyping is still a box that denies their full identity.
• Asian-Mixed (アジア系ハーフ)
  • Perception: Occupies a complex middle ground. Their acceptance is heavily influenced by Japan’s specific historical relations with the other Asian country (e.g., Korea, China, Philippines).
  • Media Portrayal: Significantly less visible than white-mixed hafu. When represented, it’s often with less fanfare.
  • Social Reality: They may face “ethnic fatigue,” constantly having to explain their background. They might not look “foreign enough” to be automatically recognized as hafu, yet not “Japanese enough” to be fully accepted, leading to a unique form of invisibility.
• Black-Mixed (黒人系ハーフ)
  • Perception: Faces the most pronounced discrimination and stereotyping, rooted in global anti-Blackness. They are often hyper-visible and subjected to negative tropes.
  • Media Portrayal: Historically scarce in mainstream representation. This is changing with global stars like Naomi Osaka and Rui Hachimura, who are prompting a national conversation about race.
  • Social Reality: Routinely faces blatant racism, from discriminatory treatment to invasive curiosity (like unsolicited hair touching). They are commonly stereotyped as athletic, aggressive, or criminal, and their identity as Japanese is most frequently and forcefully denied.

When Kendrick Lamar released Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers, I fell in love with the song “Count Me Out” on the first listen. In it, he talks about the exhaustion that comes with being constantly relied on, even while he’s struggling with his own flaws and inner battles. The song reflects on moments of doubt, guilt, and self-forgiveness. It feels like a conversation with himself, balancing pride and vulnerability. He admits to his mistakes but also shows resilience, suggesting that even when others count him out, he’s still learning and growing. It’s both confessional and empowering, highlighting the tension between wanting redemption and accepting imperfection.

In the end, ‘Count Me Out’ is more than a song; it’s a manifesto for selfhood in a world that demands simplicity. My journey through Japan’s racial hierarchy and my search for self have taught me that the demand for harmony—Wa—often comes at the cost of individual truth. Kendrick’s music champions that individual truth, even when it’s messy and inconvenient. It reminds me that the goal isn’t to be fully seen or understood by a society that sorts people into boxes of white, Asian, or Black mix. The goal is to find that peace within yourself, to acknowledge your flaws and your strength in the same breath. My identity isn’t a problem for society to solve. It is a story for me to live, to struggle with, and ultimately, to forgive and love on my own terms.