I’ll Never Raise a Child in Japan. Here’s why.
Growing up Southeast Asian in Tokyo
My earliest memory of growing up in Tokyo is in kindergarten hiding behind the trunk of a giant tree.
“She has to be somewhere,” someone whispered.
“I bet she’s hiding again,” another snickered.
Cautious as a rabbit, my ears followed the murmur until it faded. I then sped past a group of children giggling with their friends to find another hiding spot — usually the bathroom.
No one looks for you in the bathroom, not even the teachers. It was perfect.
Hide and Seek
Random kids on the streets would yell gaijin! gaijin! (foreigner, foreigner) and point at me like it was a public service announcement. I came to know it meant I was different and that was a curse.
One day, my sister and I were eating ice cream while walking home from school. A bunch of schoolboys stomped toward us.
A chubby boy placed his face inches from my sister’s and growled, “Stop eating Japanese ice cream!” He then slapped the ice cream right out of her hand.
