By Sofia Fujiwara-Widell

One year, as a gift for my birthday, my sister gave me a poetry book by Ijeoma Umebinyuo. It contains my favourite poem to date, which spoke to me on some unnamable level. It reads:

So,

here you are

too foreign for home

too foreign for here.

Never enough for both.

Titled ‘Diaspora Blues’, by now these words have probably been circulated and quoted by the likes of Pinterest and Facebook, but when I read it at the time, they sang to me. 

I was raised in Japan by a Japanese father and an Argentine mother. My siblings and I all attended an English private school. The first thing people tend to say when they look at my features with curiosity, trying to categorise them and fit them into a space they can understand, is ‘Wow, how exotic!’ 

While my mixed heritage and what comes with it may seem exotic and a linguistic advantage to some, my childhood felt anything but advantageous to me.

Once puberty kicked in, I became somewhat obsessed with my looks and trying to feel more ‘Japanese’ – whatever that meant. My battle with the sun began, particularly hard during the summer months. 

My skin was naturally tinted and even on the most sunless, cloudy years, I couldn’t escape the hidden olive hues of my skin. I spent my school lunches in the shade, avoiding the sun like a vampire that would burst into flames upon contact. I would also go to the salon and get my naturally wavy hair permanently laminated and straightened. The procedure took hours, burning my eyes and scalp.

My efforts did not matter to my Japanese side of the family and my Japanese friends; they could see right through them to my ‘otherness’. I spoke English like an American, and in the heat of the Japanese summer, even my straight perms could not keep the humidity from frizzing up my hair. I was too foreign for here. 

My childhood summers spent in Argentina, on the other hand, consisted of my cousins referring to us as ‘our Japanese cousins’, and passersby catcalling me ‘Oye, Chinita!’ on my way to the kiosko. 

I spent those days watching telenovelas, drinking mate and indulging in the sweet medialunas and alfajores from the local pastry shops. I didn’t understand all the slang on TV, nor did my family relate to some of my idiosyncrasies. Although I was embraced like family, I was too foreign for home.

What does the ideal summer day look like for me now, today? It looks like embracing the little baby hair curls that surround my face and letting the sun kiss my skin. Drinking some cold green tea (or a cheeky cocktail), laughing with friends and reminding myself to be grateful for the rich cultures I grew up in. 

I may get an odd look here or there because of my tattoos, my curvy shape, my almond-shaped eyes or my English, but that's fine too. I will never be enough for both, but I’m okay with that. I occupy a space in between that is uniquely mine. It is in this space that I am truly my authentic self.