Neither here nor there
By Tomi Haffety
Tomi Haffety
Throughout this article, I refer to myself and other mixed people as mixed ethnic people. Although I used to refer to myself as mixed-race, I believe that a conscious effort should be made to move away from the construct of ‘race’. The liberation from this social construct is an important step for marginalised people, because of the inferior position that it puts us in compared to those with white privilege. I believe that mixed ethnic people can use any term they want to describe themselves, because this too is something that I have grappled with and try hard to change, most prominently moving away from the rhetoric of being ‘half’ something. Mixed ethnicity seems to encapsulate my identity better than other categorisations, since it does not take into account my cultural background, which is something separate to my ethnicity, in a way that I do not believe race does.
A few months ago, I struggled to have an honest conversation with a close friend about my ethnic identity. It was painful and jilted; I was unable to say anything for what felt like ages as I realised that I had never before spoken about my complex feelings of displacement and the struggles of being of mixed ethnicity. Since this conversation, I have felt a prolonged sense of confusion surrounding my connection to my mixed British-Japanese heritage. This is not a new feeling, rather a new variation of the same questions that I have always asked myself: if I am seen as Japanese in Britain, but seen as British in Japan, where do I belong?
Neither here nor there.
Growing up with a Japanese mother and a white British father, it has always been difficult to navigate my ethnic and national identity. Around the same time as the racially motivated Atlanta shootings of eight people, six of whom were Asian Americans, which brought on a wave of support for the AAPI community, I was spending a lot of time researching identity politics and racism, encouraged by what I was reading in the news and on social media. Becoming more educated on the struggles of British Asians and American Asians, I felt emboldened by the outpouring of support and solidarity for Asian people and the resistance against the acts of racism that have increased during the COVID-19 pandemic. It was a formative experience until, one day, I asked myself: am I ‘Asian enough’ to be involved in this defiance? I have always been seen, by both white and Asian people, as the other. My Japanese family—as well as Japanese society more generally, which has a conservative view on mixed ethnicity and non-ethnically Japanese people—has always told me that I look completely white, not Asian at all. In Japan the presence of mixed ethnicity people dilutes the ethnic homogeneity of the population. I have never spent longer than a summer holiday in Japan and can speak very little Japanese—so when I’m told by Japanese people that I am not Japanese, I cannot help but agree. Even as a mixed white and Asian person, I carry a degree of white privilege compared to those of other mixed ethnicities, as Japan seems to rank certain ethnicities higher than others, white being the most desirable. This is seen widely in Japanese popular culture, namely the refusal by many to see Naomi Osaka as Japanese because she is black, although she represents Japan when playing tennis. Further, the skin-lightening culture of ‘bihaku’, meaning beautiful white, valorises white skin and idolises white skin as the most desirable. I am seen as white in Japan not only because of my appearance but also cultural norms and my personality, which is saturated with British humour and actions, thereby further distancing me from what is considered the ‘Japanese way’. Not fully accepted by Japanese people, I feel distanced from my Asian roots.
Tomi (in the yellow kimono) surrounded by her sisters
I am looking forward to familiarising myself better with my heritage, with plans to live in Japan after graduation, in an effort to spend more time in the country that I feel so connected to and yet so alien in. Yet, I am still afraid that even living there will not adequately counteract the feeling that I do not belong there as a native, even though I possess Japanese citizenship and have familial roots there. In contrast, Britain is an ethnically diverse society where the increase in mixed children highlights changing patterns of ethnicities and a growing acceptance of a multi-ethnic population. Thus, growing up here I was amongst biracial friends as well as my three sisters, so being of mixed ethnicity was somewhat normalised for me. However, in line with the theory of hypodescent—the assignment of biracial people to the minority group—I am still seen as Asian.
“Often, spaces that feel safe for BIPOC can sideline mixed people, forgetting that we don’t have the same exposure to the culture as they do, or haven’t had all of the same experiences that other BIPOC can relate to.”
There is opportunity for BIPOC spaces to make room for mixed people, while acknowledging the different experiences we have is part of the acceptance into whichever culture we choose to identify with, if any. When I am seen by others as Japanese but feel removed from my Japanese heritage, it imbues a number of conscious feelings that I am constantly trying to navigate to better understand my own identity. This involves forging an identity outside of the binary and reductive categories of ‘mixed British and Asian’ that has always confused me, or worse still, the marginalising ‘mixed other’ category that does what it intends, othering and alienating me in both Britain and Japan.
The disquieting realisation that I do not fit in anywhere—too Japanese to be British, too British to be Japanese—has left me living in a perpetual no man’s land. Trying to navigate my identity has become a considerable part of my life, and a lonely one. Although I am lucky to be surrounded by mixed friends and family, I have never vocalised my feelings to anyone until the accidental conversation with a white British friend. This conversation itself seemed to inculcate more confusion into the situation, however, as I realised how difficult it is to relate to someone who has never questioned their own ethnic identity and has no questions about what others see them as, or how they should act in order to fill a certain stereotype. I appreciate their, and anyone else’s help in opening a dialogue about this issue, but have come to realise that, ultimately, this is a conversation that only people who relate to the struggles and triumphs of being mixed can have. From this formative experience, I was also forced to examine the subtleties of white privilege. Whiteness is not just an ethnicity, but a historically constructed position of power that is recognised not just for its inherent privileges, but lack of disadvantages, whereas other ethnicities in Britain are constructed through their lack of privilege in relation to whiteness. Ultimately, I am jealous that people who occupy the majority ethnicity don’t go through life navigating the difficult task of asking where they belong and don’t have the constant questioning of racial identity stalking every major decision.
“Throughout my life, I have been the victim of painful microaggressions and racist remarks that I have always downplayed and not responded to, because I thought that I was not ‘Asian enough’ to feel the true effects of racism.”
Only now that I understand the impact of these experiences on the exploration of my identity can I understand the impact of the theory of hypodescent, and no one can take away the experiences I have had as a British East Asian. It does not matter that my father is white or that I have less obviously Asian features; I do not look white and that is enough for me to be seen as the ‘other’.
Tomi’s parents when they were younger at a Japanese matsuri
I enjoy exploring Japanese culture, finding myself drawn to watching Japanese films and listening to Japanese music, and trying, but mostly failing, to cook Japanese food that tastes like my mum’s. But part of me feels like I am making up for lost time, filling myself with knowledge of the arts and culture as if it will make me more Japanese in order to prove to other Japanese, and Asian people, that I have reason to be given the label when I feel so culturally British. When surrounded by Asian peers, I find it easy to relish in shared cultural jokes or norms, but this comfort is impaired by an omnipresent imposter syndrome. Similarly, when surrounded by white peers I often feel like the burden of being the token Asian friend is inflicted onto me, people turning to me when referencing Asian culture and talking about issues of ethnicity and identity when I do not feel that I know enough about my Japanese heritage to sufficiently fulfil their expectations. But I increasingly find myself asking, what does it even mean to be enough? If we were measuring by bloodline and citizenship, then I am both Japanese and British. In the end, I have to ask myself: why does it matter? Who am I trying to prove my ethnicity to? After recently reading a visceral excerpt from Michelle Zauner’s ‘Crying in H-Mart’ I began to think about all of my subtle traits that are inherently Japanese. Finding the rhythm of rock-paper-scissors unfamiliar because I grew up using janken instead, for example, or the automatic tadaima that I call when I return home. These small instances of Japanese culture infiltrating my British childhood help me to realise that I am a site of flexible divergence between two cultures, and that fact makes me feel extremely unique.
John Agard depicts my feelings with astounding relatability in his poem ‘Half-Caste’, which I stumbled upon by accident a few days after my formative conversation. In his poem, Agard fights against the harmful semantic of describing mixed people as a ‘half’ of something. The line ‘I will tell you de other half of my story’ is especially impactful because I feel as though I have not yet explored another part of myself since I haven’t experienced Japanese culture as deeply as I have British culture. In this way, I feel as though I cannot yet claim an ethnic identity that I feel comfortable with. I am so proud of both sides of my heritage, and I relish the opportunity to share Japanese culture with my British friends, knowing that they appreciate this too. It only takes a trip to the Rice Wine Shop in Piccadilly to satisfy my nostalgia for my grandma’s cooking, or eating dorayaki in the middle of Chinatown, surrounded by people also yearning for a taste of home, to realise that binary categories of identity mean nothing in the face of memories and emotional connections to a place. Reflecting my own feelings towards the confusing characterisation, Agard’s poem depicts a move toward realising that just because a person is made up of multiple nationalities and ethnicities, we are not ‘half’ of something. Seeing yourself as this can often manifest in feeling neither here nor there, a feeling that I am all too familiar with. Not ‘white enough’ to be white, but not ‘Asian enough’ to be Asian, I have struggled to navigate my mixed ethnic heritage instead of celebrating the fact that I have access to two cultures, and have the chance to be a citizen in two countries. Growing up, there were questions about my mixed ethnic background that I never addressed, because I simply didn’t think it had much of an impact on me, however as I reached young-adulthood I realised how pivotal this is to my understanding of who I am, and who I want to be. While becoming more comfortable talking about my confusion surrounding my mixed ethnic upbringing, I have also become more confused and still have the uninterrupted questioning of my identity as I begin to make important decisions for my future. That said, I feel closer to knowing who I am, and the qualities that make me who I am regardless of my ethnicity. For now, instead of seeing myself as fitting in nowhere, I am now trying to see myself as fitting in everywhere.
Tomi is a mixed British-Japanese student currently studying Geography in her third year at University College London. She has written for various student publications, and is currently Editor-in-Chief of The Bloomsbury Geographer, a journal based at UCL’s Geography Department, as well as the Documentary Producer for UCL Film and TV Society. Originally from Sheffield, she enjoys watching films (mainly nuanced Japanese or Korean cinema), reading books (anything from Japanese classics to American detective novels), and has recently found a love for road cycling in her native Peak District. Her Instagram is @tomihaff and Twitter is @tomihaffety.