Sometimes I can pass off as a white woman. Sometimes people will think I am from Russia or some former Soviet satellite country, but when they look at my name they realize I am east asian, and it’s so humiliating, to be ousted as an asian woman, like being stripped of my clothes in the middle of the street. I would fain rather roll my eyes, show them the white of my eyeballs and walk away when they say “Oh! So, you are asian!”
Sometimes I am tempted to check the little box that says “white”, but then the inevitable humiliation of being exposed as an asian woman overcomes me like a dark cloud. I wish I could drown in a bathtub full of white men’s semen—let their White cum wash over me—from which I would emerge, reborn, with a high nose bridge, naturally blond hair and blue eyes, and no epicanthic fold, like a pure white woman. On the other hand, if I were fully asian-looking, I would probably have an easier time as well, because everyone will just think I am asian and would never ask me dumb questions, but the problem is that people sometimes mistake for being white, and somehow when I reveal to them that I am actually Japanese I am almost immediately brought down a peg. People started to think less of me; they never say it out loud but—I am not stupid!—they would very subtly hint at it, through their slightly changed attitude, a little relaxation of their facial muscles, or the slightly raised voice, or the innocent little remarks with smirks on their faces that just drive me crazy. People would start to question me, quietly in their hearts, whether I am not the product of an American GI Joe and a Japanese comfort woman, or perhaps whether I went through thousands of cosmetic surgeries to achieve my white appearance like those Korean women do, and it’s so hard for them to believe, “No! No! No! I was born this way.” I am indeed just a White-looking Japanese woman, but the inevitable questions, especially from the lesser humans would ensue: “Who are your parents? What about your grandparents?” And the final “ah-ha” movement. It’s so exhausting. But it’s too late for me now. Hopefully my children will have better lives than I had.