On raising multi-cultural children

I was born in a 1972 to a Japanese mother and Black father. My father was stationed at Misawa Air Base and it was during his service there that he met my mother. And it was there that I was brought into the world.

But we didn’t stay in Japan long. As a military family we moved frequently and headed to the United States around the time I was three or four. I didn’t speak English when I arrived, but it wasn’t an issue. I didn’t have an expansive vocabulary and quickly learned English. It’s a shame though. Today my Japanese language vocabulary is about the same as it was when I was three or four, but that’s another post.

As my mom struggled to acclimate to the US culture, I was unequivocally raised to be American. But, I was also raised to be a Black American woman, more than a woman of dual nationality. I’m not sure when or how this occurred, I just remember always being referred to as “Black” or “African American.” I struggled with the over-simplification of a person (me) that I felt was more complex. Even as I prepared for college, I needed help (or confirmation?) so I asked my dad, “What bubble should I fill in here?” He responded without hesitation, “Black/African American.”

Of course, my Japanese heritage wasn’t completely ignored. My mom always prepared Japanese foods and when I was school-age, I spent weekends at the San Diego Japanese School learning the language, culture and more. Though, not much stuck because at the end of the day, I was always labeled, “Black.”

I never felt totally comfortable with that. Not because I didn’t appreciate my ethnicity, but because I struggled with the idea of labels. I was frustrated with people’s innate need to categorize me into a single category of people. And when they couldn’t figure me out, I was asked, “So, what are you?” Every time those words fell upon me, I felt diminished to a check box. I wanted to be defined by who I was on the inside, not the assumptions people formed based on the outside.

Today, I’m the mother of three beautiful, multi-cultural children. Though, my kids are just one-quarter Japanese and three-quarters African-American, their ethnicity always remains a mystery for people outside of our family and friends. Often, they are mistakenly labeled Puerto Rican, Filipino, Indian, and more. My insides turn when I’m getting to know a new mom and she looks at me and my kids with a puzzled curiosity, then asks, “So, what are you guys?”

An immature version of my former self wants to curtly reply, “We’re human. How about you?” But I hold back and politely describe our cultural make-up. At which point I usually hear, “Oh…interesting…” and we’re left with an awkward pause as each of us tries to figure where to take the conversation from there.

Despite my irritation over ethnic labels, I also recognize its value. Everyone wants a place to belong, and for better or worse, we build communities around our cultural identities. And there is confirmed value in that. I want my children to know and love the richness and diversity of their ethnic background; it’s important.

So, as with everything in motherhood, I take it day by day. And I trust that as life unfolds, my focus on raising confident, responsible and contributing children will be enough to manage the conflict I feel with labels.

*image credit: Flickr/? kacyphoto

Tagged as: biracial children, culture, ethnicity, multicultural families, multiracial families, raising children, self-images