This is part three of a series
showcasing
underrepresented
narratives within the Asian/
Pacific
Islander-American
community. Kai Mason is a
junior majoring in English on a
pre-law track. On campus, she
is the president of the University
of Michigan Slam Poetry and
creative
director
of
ROGUE,
a fashion publication working
to bring social, economic and
environmental
consciousness
into fashion. Follow ROGUE on
Instagram
(@reallyrogue)
or
contact Kai at kaimason@umich.
edu.
The Michigan Daily: Tell me a
little about your family history.
Mason: My mom and dad are
both immigrants. My mom came
here from Japan for graduate
school. My dad came here from
Jamaica when he was six. They
met at a café.
I grew up with a really
strong influence by my mom,
who was a Japanese teach er at
both American and Japanese
schools. She really pressed our
Japanese side on us, and we
went to Japanese school every
Saturday and school in Japan
every summer. We didn’t really
get a chance to learn about
Jamaican culture from my dad.
I still identify as both Black and
Asian, though, because I was
always the “other” wherever I
was. I was very aware of the fact
that I didn’t look like everyone
else or live like everybody else.
So I identify as both; I usually tell
people that I’m half-Japanese
and half-Jamaican.
TMD:
How
has
your
perception of your identity as an
A/PIA shifted over the course of
your life?
Mason: I grew up in very white
environments, so until about
first grade, I really believed I
was white. In first grade, though,
we were learning about Martin
Luther King Jr. and someone
said, “If it weren’t for MLK,
Kai wouldn’t be here.” I was so
confused, because even though I
knew that I was a different color
than everyone else, I didn’t think
anyone else noticed. It was also
around this time that whenever
I went to Japan, people would
ask me if I was
(a
Black
person). I didn’t
know what
this word meant at the time, so I
would say that I didn’t know.
In middle school, my school’s
friend
groups
were
very
segregated by race. The white
kids hung out with each other,
and the Black kids hung out with
each other. There weren’t many
Asian kids, but the ones we had
were absorbed into the white
kids. I started feeling really
conflicted about where to go —
was I more Black, or more Asian?
I ended up hanging out with
white people, because that’s who
I felt the most at home with.w
One day, I just had a random
epiphany: I wasn’t more of one
thing than another — I was
both at the same time. I could
create my identity, and I could be
whatever I wanted to be. I was
reading a lot of books by mixed
authors at this time — my mom
had this book called “Half and
Half”, which was an anthology
of short stories by mixed writers.
I was also reading “The Color
of Water”. I think this really
helped me, because until then,
I had never read anything by
mixed people about being mixed.
I didn’t know that other people
could relate to my experiences.
TMD:
Among
these
experiences of grappling with
your identity, how have you
found ways to celebrate who you
are?
Mason: I can get caught up in
the social justice aspect of my
identity sometimes, but it has
been so cool to be able to live
multiple cultures. Who gets all
of the opportunities that I have?
Who has my mom and my dad?
That’s the first thing that people
usually say, like, “Wow, that’s so
cool,” and it is! It’s really easy to
forget how fun it has been.
I’m also so thankful for how
close these experiences have
made me to my brother. He’s
the person I can most closely
identify with, since we grew up
experiencing the same things
in (and in-between) the same
communities. We talk a lot about
our identities, and I’m so glad to
have him. If I were alone in this,
it would be a lot tougher.
It’s also really cool how
close you get with people who
understand you. I’m so close
with the mixed people in JSA
(Japan Student Organization)
because we get it. Yeah, I’m just
really thankful for how cool life
has been.
TMD: Earlier, you mentioned
being asked about your identity
in Japan. As you move about the
world, how do you feel like other
people might label you at first
glance?
Mason: It really depends on
the person — everyone but Black
people think I’m just Black.
They’re not wrong — I am Black,
but I’m also Asian. They’re both
huge parts of my identity that you
can’t factor out, and I especially
can never factor out. But I think a
lot of Black people know that I’m
mixed. They’re like, “Oh, are you
mixed Asian?”
TMD: Do you think that has
affected your relationship with
the larger A/PIA community on
campus?
Mason: I don’t really know,
actually. I know that it has
definitely affected the way that I
perceive myself and others, but I
don’t know if it really affects my
relationship with the community
because that’s always been my
relationship with the community.
It’s really exhausting, but I’m
so used to Asian people being
like, “Oh, why are you so good
at Japanese?” Every time I meet
a new Japanese person, I have
to give them my whole life story,
like, “So, I actually am Japanese.”
I grew up speaking Japanese —
it’s my first language — but every
time I meet a new person, I have
to explain myself.
I
don’t
think
that
has
happened as much here as it
does in Japan. The U.S. is a lot
less homogeneous than Japan, so
people understand more quickly
and are more open to the idea
of multiculturalism. In Japan, I
could tell people my entire life
story and they still could reply
to me in English, because they
cannot get over the fact that
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, April 2, 2018 — 3A
I
knew
the
Pledge
of
Allegiance before I knew my
own parents’ names. In fact,
I have a distinct memory of a
smug kindergartener testing me,
asking what their names were.
She snickered when I bashfully
replied, “Mommy and Daddy?”
I’m sure if it was capable, my tan
face would have turned bright
red.
Despite
my
embarrassing
lack of knowledge about my
family, you could ask me to
recite the preamble of the U.S.
Constitution and I would chant
it verbatim to the tune of a
Schoolhouse Rock song.
When I was in first grade, my
sister was the only third grader
moved to tears during our school
play while singing “This Land
is My Land” to a montage of
veterans’ homecomings. I knew
then nobody loved this country
as much as we, as immigrants,
did.
Then we moved to Florida,
and it was abundantly clearer to
me this love was unrequited.
In second grade, my sister and
I were on the bus to the YMCA
after school when we were asked
if we were Christian. When we
replied that we were Muslim,
my classmate conspiratorially
informed us that we were going
— here he paused dramatically,
so I will too — “down there,”
whispering and pointing to
the ground like the fact that
we were going to hell was the
world’s most obvious truth.
In third grade, I was delighted
to be in with the cool kids. The
most popular boy in class even
graced me with an inside joke.
We would bond over our shared
love of Harry Potter, and he
would greet me with a, “Look
out, she’s got an AK-47 in her
pocket!” and a boisterous laugh.
I had no idea what an AK-47
was and at the time I only had
the vaguest concept of 9/11, so
I would giggle along with him,
thinking nothing of it.
In fourth grade, a new girl
joined our class, and from
the second I saw her, we had
a connection. I saw her tan
skin like black tea in a sea of
milk and I latched onto this
girl whose darkness mirrored
mine. We were delighted when
people asked if we were twins,
and it didn’t even occur to
us this question was rooted
in a racist veil that couldn’t
distinguish
between
our
different ethnicities, features
and colorations and instead only
saw “Brown.”
In fifth grade, I was on my
way home from Egypt with my
mom and my sister, running to
get through customs to catch
our connecting flight. At this
point, I was unfazed by the
disgusted gaze of onlookers as
my mom frantically directed
us in Arabic because I had
experienced the same look in
grocery stores as she walked
silently,
shoppers
grimacing
at the sight of her hijab alone.
However, up until that point, I
truly had more faith in authority
figures. My mom walked up
to one of the TSA agents in
charge and made our case that
we had less than an hour to get
to our gate, asking if there was
anything he could do — just as
we had seen another family ask.
He had given her an obvious
onceover and promptly directed
us to another line leading into
a separate room. Our relief at
the five-person line was short
lived as we noticed that there
was an obvious demographic
in this alternate room of other
Brown people in turbans and
cultural identifiers. The TSA
agent forcefully told my mother
not to touch the bags, saying
my scrawny sister and I could
carry the bags from our month-
long trip onto a table almost as
tall as I was. Our bag had been
thoroughly
examined,
each
article of clothing scrutinized
and our souvenirs confiscated.
We left the room later than
people behind us in the first
line, and my fifth-grade self
felt naked, violated and close to
tears.
I could go through every
year of my life with a traumatic
incident,
concluding
how
I
came to terms with racism and
learned to not let it affect me.
I could say I learned to laugh
in the face of ignorance and
racist people around me were
rendered speechless by the
American confidence that oozed
red, white and blue with every
step I took and word I spoke.
But that isn’t the truth. I was
so scared of becoming the scary
Arab-Muslim everyone feared
that I lost myself, retreating
into a shell of a person who hid
her culture and religion and felt
the constant need to reaffirm
her Americanness, to prove her
patriotism.
I’m here now to say that I am
an angry Arab.
I’m angry my best friend
in
elementary
school
recommended a skin lightening
cream to me, and I’m angry I
begged my mom to buy it for me.
I’m angry I was so obsessed
with being fully American that
I never had the chance to speak
to my grandmother in Arabic
before she passed.
I’m angry a woman in our
small town took off her head
scarf because she didn’t want
her kid to be bullied at school.
I’m angry I was never taught
to feel beautiful with my dark
skin and darker body hair.
Most of all, I’m angry I felt
the need to prove myself to a
country that I never made prove
itself to me. I was taught as the
daughter of immigrants to love
America, and I think it’s about
time America showed love to its
immigrants.
Combating the Monolith: Part III
Show love to America’s immigrants
PRIYA JUDGE
Assistant MiC Editor
Báñame en acetona
y píntame trigueña
porque con mi apariencia
parezco todo menos puertorriqueña.
Tengo el cabello lacio
y la piel tan blanca
que no importa cuánto me queme el sol,
se nota en mis entrañas.
No me criaron en el campo
y he tenido el privilegio de ser privilegiada,
pero solo porque no hablo como el jíbaro
no significa que no amo a mi patria.
Pero esa es la magia, ¿no crees?
De la raza más diversa del mundo.
Aquí todos somos diferentes,
de Condado hasta más allá del jurutungo.
Lo que nos une es el amor,
La furia, el fuego, la pasión,
Que nos hace cantar como el ruiseñor
Cuando
hablamos
de
nuestro
Borinquen
encantador.
NADA ELDAWY
MiC Contributor
NATALIA SANCHEZ
MiC Contributorw
Boricua con tinta de gringa
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