A not-Japanese-enough American’s perspective on mixed Asian identity
When I tell people I am ethnically and culturally Japanese, there’s always a look of surprise on their face, often followed by, “wait, really?” It normally does not impact me because I know I do not look Japanese, but it does remind me that others do not always see me for what I feel I am. I am not Japanese enough. I shop at Japanese markets, I eat Japanese food, I learned a small amount of Japanese at one point, I identify as Japanese, but I have never been to Japan, I do not speak with any of the blood-related Japanese members of my family besides my mother, and I grew up in California. I feel the need to constantly prove my Japaneseness.
Identity is a complicated concept. Does simply eating the food of a certain culture make someone a member? Does someone also have to speak the language? Shop at the specific markets? What differentiates someone who just likes the food, happens to speak the language, or shops in the local shops from an identifying member of that group?
Identity is constructed through different actions and choices such as the use of cultural symbols and the incorporation –i.e. eating– of culturally significant food. I use field notes I took describing my food practices throughout this piece as examples of my participation as a Japanese-American person in Japanese culture.
I am currently a student living in Paris, France, and I live with a non-Asian roommate. The pressure to appear Japanese is self-inflicted and living with someone who is not Asian simultaneously adds and takes pressure away. I feel I must prove I am Japanese to some extent; yet she would not know the accuracy of everything I say about Japanese culture. If my favorite restaurants aren’t Japanese, how could I be a part of Japanese culture? Often when I go out to eat, I choose a restaurant called Omusubi Gonbei which serves a childhood favorite of mine, onigiri, a rice ball wrapped in seaweed often with salmon inside. I have the rewards card and everything. Yet, every time I go to order, I feel like an imposter.
Within my food journal, there are many instances of me going to Asian markets, restaurants, and eating Asian food. Part of it is because I simply like Asian food. The Japanese aspect of it is to both prove my Asianness and connect with my culture. I will be further exploring this connection of incorporation and symbolization to both prove and connect to my Japanese roots.
Incorporation as a means of cultural identity
Incorporation is “the action in which we send a food across the frontier between the world and the self between outside and inside our body” and “once past the lips and down the gullet the substance becomes at least cognitively a part of the organism.” Eating is an intimate process because the food we ingest becomes a part of us. Does eating a certain culture’s food make someone a part of that culture?
Individuals choose which food items they ingest, and their cultural identity can influence this choice. The following excerpt is a moment where I was walking between my classes, eating a Japanese snack.
The passage was quiet, except for the sounds of other people’s footsteps. No one was talking. There were no noticeable smells, except that of a trash can when I walked by. It smelled strong. It filled my nose with an unpleasant smell and interrupted me getting my passion fruit mochi out of my bag. After I passed the trash, I turned my backpack onto the front of my body, opened the zipper, and rifled through my lunch bag to find my mochi. It was kept in a thin plastic case with a sticker of the Aki logo slightly askew in the center. My mask was still on my face, under my chin. I swung my backpack back around and grabbed the corner of the package. I separated the two plastic corners, opening the plastic container. The mochi inside was soft and drooped when I picked it up. The texture of the mochi itself was chewy, stretchy, and almost elastic. It pulled as I took each bite. The cream inside was soft and aerated.
There are two aspects of this excerpt which I would like to highlight. The first is the choice of snack. Mochi is a traditional Japanese snack. The “absorption of a food incorporates the eater into a culinary system and therefore into the group which practices it unless it irremediably excludes [them].” Therefore, by eating a Japanese snack, I solidify a place in their culinary system. A second aspect is the context in which I ate the mochi. By eating it while I was walking, in a space not meant for eating, I did not outwardly take the time to savor my food and properly enjoy it. This is against Japanese customs. However, I waited to move past the bad-smelling trash in order to enjoy it as much as I could in the context I could eat it in. I did not have the luxury to sit at a table and savor the flavors, and if I had waited until the next day, the mochi would have gone bad. I ate the mochi in multiple bites, making sure to finish the bite in my mouth before taking another. The choice of eating mochi and taking a moment where I was mostly alone and calm to eat further connects me to my Japanese identity through the mochi’s incorporation into my body.
Shopping at Asian food markets versus the local Monoprix
The use of specific ingredients is important to many cultures, and even in large Metropolitan cities, not every ingredient is available at the typical grocery store. This is why specialty stores are often so important to minority communities. In Paris, there is one Japanese grocery store I go to if I am in the area, Kioko, and another called K-mart which I often frequent. K-mart is a Korean market, but it offers products from around Asia. On a trip there, I went to the far right of the store, so I could systematically go down every aisle. I first chose Kikkoman’s yakitori sauce. “I stopped in front of the rice. I remarked to my roommate that I had rice at home,” but then I saw Nishiki rice, the rice my mom buys. I said to my roommate, “I love this rice, and I would get it, but it’s too expensive.” Shopping on a student budget required some sacrifices, so I normally buy the “riz rond” at my local Monoprix.
Shopping at an Asian market can symbolize a connection to that culture. Individuals outside of the cultural set can shop there, but its existence partly began as a resource for members of that community. The flavors and ingredients found at these markets serve as symbols of that culture. A symbol is a culturally significant communal object or concept with observable characteristics. Miso paste, yakitori sauce, furikake (a rice seasoning), and udon noodles are the ingredients I mostly purchase which symbolizes my connection to my heritage. I even go to a second Japanese market when I am in the Japanese quarter so I can purchase furikake in the same packaging I used when I was growing up. When these flavors are not available, individuals will attempt to “duplicate the traditional flavors of their cuisine” with other ingredients. When I first moved to Paris, I didn’t know how to replicate the flavors of my childhood. My first purchase was a rice cooker. I was 15 when I realized rice cookers weren’t the only way to make rice, but having one brought me a sense of comfort in my new home. In my first attempt to cook in Paris, I made rice, pan-fried some carrots and zucchini, and doused it with soy sauce. It was quite salty to say the least. Over my three years here, I have built up my Japanese ingredient repertoire and have succeeded in making my childhood favorite dish: Japanese curry.
There is a sense of pride and connection to my Japanese culture when I shop at K-Mart or Kioko. When I buy rice or soy sauce at Monoprix, I feel as though I am cheating or not being a “good Asian.” Many of these pressures are self-imposed. There is a sense my identity is at risk if I buy Asian food at Monoprix, then I am simply the white girl who likes Japanese food instead of a Japanese-American celebrating my culture’s cuisine.
The Chopstick as a Japanese Cultural Symbol
Chopsticks are widely used in Eastern Asia as both a utensil for eating and cooking. Mary Douglas discusses the coding of a meal and describes: “Meals properly require the use of at least one mouth-entering utensil per head.” However, her analysis does not interrogate the use of a proper utensil as she focuses more on the coding of the meal instead of the coding of the utensil. Using chopsticks is taught to many young Asian children as a necessary life skill. In my food journal, I used chopsticks many times, most notably when cooking and eating gyoza. Often, I will cook gyoza in the morning and bring it to school for lunch. I was met with difficulties one morning when I tried to lift the gyoza out of the pan with my chopsticks, but they were slippery after steaming them. I resorted to stabbing my gyoza because I was late for school. When I ate my lunch, I made sure to eat my gyoza properly, holding my chopsticks 2/3rds of the way up and eating them in multiple bites. I was careful not to stab them as chopsticks should never be used to stab food, only pick it up.
In her analysis of Japanese obento boxes, Anne Allison discusses the use of chopsticks. She explains that “children were ordered to bring their obento with chopsticks,” as forks and spoons were seen to be too easy to use. The “usage [of chopsticks] marks not only greater effort in skills on the part of the children but their enculturation into being Japanese.” The proper use of chopsticks reveals an introduction to Japanese culture. Although I did not grow up with obento boxes, I did grow up with the pressure to use chopsticks when eating Japanese food. If I did not use chopsticks, I was portrayed as lazy and unwilling, especially at my Japanese aunt’s house or at a Japanese restaurant where using a fork was seen as a cop-out. Thus, when eating gyoza on the eight floor of my school’s building, I felt the pressure to properly represent my culture in fear of being seen as an imposter who did not respect cultural symbols. The use of chopsticks symbolizes the adoption of Japanese culture and improper use reflects poorly on the individual who is seen as not skillful enough and not Japanese enough.
Food’s cultural takeaways
The creation of identity is a complex and nuanced process. Belonging to multiple cultural groups can increase the tension within an individual to prove they belong to these groups. By eating culturally significant food, using proper utensils, and shopping at culturally significant places, one can strengthen their connection to that part of their identity. Future continuations of these concepts include the questions of What defines identity?, How does this change across cultures and individuals?, and How does an intersection of different cultures influence one’s identity? These questions may remain unanswered, or at best, partially answered. Each individual has their own construction of their identity, making a fractal of stories, experiences, and definitions. So, what does identity mean to you?
