Ortiz
culturally or linguistically diverse to rest on the false belief
that they must adopt society’s values and mores while rejecting their own. Even a small dose of pluralism will do
that to you. Yes, I’m learning my new lessons well.
Peeling away suffocating layers of personal devaluation
and racism built up over decades isn’t easy. I have been
forced to deal with my own deeply held racist beliefs, ones
that have kept me ignorant for so long. In so doing, my
worldview has been transformed, becoming less naive and
far less familiar. I struggle to keep my feelings of anger under control when I think about what was done to me. I am
no longer blind to overt racism and am obligated to confront it. I’ve lost some friends who no longer share my values and beliefs, and I’ve made others who do. People I have
long admired are beginning to appear as reflections of my
former self. From the familial (the views of my Mexican
American wife’s family against bilingual education) to the
familiar (Jesse Jackson’s and Maya Angelou’s comments on
the dangers of recognizing Ebonics), the values of the dominant culture continue to be well learned. I’ve become aware
that assimilation infects even those whom we believe to be
immune from it. Racism is truly a disease born of ignorance
and perpetuated, rather covertly, by the dominant society
in the fertile breeding ground of children’s minds. It can
lay there dormant, yet ready to spring to life when trig-
gered by events that evoke highly emotional responses that
erupt from deeply felt convictions with little or no basis in
fact.
Miraculously, my experiences during the past 3 years of
my life have led me to affirm, not reject, my native culture
and language. Rather than trying to transcend them, I have
accepted and embraced them as part and parcel of who I am
and what I do. I see now that they are assets, not liabilities;
that they are valuable, not worthless; and that they are indeed very relevant, not unimportant. I’m recovering those
fundamental aspects of my humanity that were stripped
from me by a society that didn’t value them. I’m reclaiming my culture, my language, my ethnic heritage, even my
fundamental relationships with my family. Much to my
delight, I’ve discovered that I have much in common with
my parents, the very people whom I believed to be so inferior because they couldn’t speak English well, the same
people I tried so desperately not to be like. Thank God
they retained many of their personal values and attitudes
rather than adopt ones that society and I believed they
should have. It is rather sad, though, that a son has to wait
35 years to find out how wonderful his parents really are.
Thirty years of assimilation will do that to you. One year of
pluralism will fix it. Yes, today you’d never know just how
racist I was, if you met me on the street.
Personal Narrative: Growing Up Biracial
TOC
Electronic Journal: To print this article select pages 12-14.
Mary A. Fukuyama
My earliest memories of childhood are of my preschool
years, living in a large brick home in Denver, Colorado. Of
significance to me at that time were the back alley as a play
area and a concrete sloping banister on the front porch steps,
which functioned nicely as a slide. This house was a place
where Japanese Americans and Black Americans lived together. I knew my parents were special because they were
responsible for this “house” called “Brotherhood House.” I
did not know at that time the story of my parents’ meeting
in an Idaho internment camp during World War II, their
subsequent marriage, and their geographic moves east of
Washington and Oregon, their birthplaces. I did not know
why Japanese Americans were “relocating,” nor did I understand the significance of my parents’ interracial marriage at the end of World War II.
When did I first learn about racism? I was sheltered from
racism by my parents, as best they knew how. Only as an
adult did I learn that my father helped to desegregate the
Denver YMCA pool by swimming in it with his Black friends.
Race did not have personal meaning for me until, as a young
child (age 4 or 5), I was mocked by another child for the
shape of my eyes. I was confused by this; it happened when
we were on vacation in a strange city. I did not understand,
but felt affronted and a little scared by it.
12
During my elementary school years our family lived in
Iowa, an intentional sanctuary removed from the virulent
racism against Japanese Americans that was prevalent on
the West coast after World War II. Indeed, I may have led a
life protected from hostilities against Japanese Americans.
Later in life, I asked my father why we had moved to Iowa.
His response was “to get a job as a minister, which would
not have been possible in the West.”
My memories of racial incidents primarily revolved
around one little girl (whom I did not like) who called me
an Eskimo. Of course I had no idea who Eskimos were, but
I knew I was not one and would argue with her about it.
Nevertheless, my dark brown hair and eyes stood out in a
mostly White, fair-haired population. In another incident,
again while traveling by automobile across country, an older
White woman was rude to my father at a gas stop. He explained to me that the woman probably thought he was an
American Indian, people who are treated badly because of
race. I found this explanation confusing but was comforted
in thinking that she was in error to treat my father badly.
What was this phenomenon, which I later knew to be prejudice? I remember that to say words like “nigger” or “Jap” was
wrong and hurtful, and I was instructed about this by my
mother at an early age. I remember my mother saying that
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Growing Up Biracial
she had friends who were Black or gay, and that somehow
that was especially important to her. I discovered an explanation of prejudice in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s popular
musical South Pacific, through a song that said, “You’ve got to
be taught, to hate and fear . . . people whose eyes are oddly
made.” I wondered deeply about this, but, truthfully, cannot
recall talking about it with anyone. It felt good to have it out
in the open, however, to have prejudice named.
I remember that the United Nations (UN) was revered in
my family. We had a plastic model of the UN at my house,
and I was really impressed when I saw the real building in
New York City when I was 13. Such were the values floating around the ethos of my family home amidst the chaos of
cooking and cleaning for a family with five children in the
1950s. However, growing up in the Midwest in isolation
from other persons of color, and geographically distant from
the Japanese side of the family, gave me a distorted view of
myself. I grew up feeling “different” without really knowing
why. I did not discover my ethnic and biracial identity until
much later in life.
What was it like growing up as a biracial person? First of
all, we didn’t talk about it. Perhaps my parents’ greatest
worries were “How do we pay the electric bill and what do
we do about David’s medical problems and who’s looking
out for the twins?” If there was a discussion on race, it had
the tones of an argument. For example, “Who do I look more
like, Mom or Dad? What color is my hair, black or dark
brown?” Honestly, I could not see the resemblance between
my mother and me until I was well into my 40s! Growing
up in a White environment, I felt different and resentful.
The question of “What are you?” was common. I would say,
“half-Japanese,” apologetically. People would say, “You don’t
look Japanese.” Sometimes I wanted to belong to a Native
American tribe because I somehow thought they would be
sympathetic to the “half-breed” experience. I didn’t know
anyone else who was biracial except my siblings. I probably
spent most of my childhood wishing I could be someone
that I wasn’t.
College was a liberating experience, and there I began to
claim a positive ethnic identity. I studied abroad in Japan
with an American study group during my sophomore year,
and, for the first time, my last name was pronounceable and
had special meaning. My White peers were envious of my
name because I could get a name (signature) stamp made in
kanji (Chinese characters). I started to appreciate dark hair
and almond-shaped eyes. For the first time, I started to appreciate my father’s appearance. I fell in love with Japanese
culture, and somehow that was a beginning for selfappreciation. I also met some college students from Hawaii,
and they could see that I was biracial. My enthusiasm for
being racially recognized was dampened, however, when I
heard them call me hapa haole, a derogatory phrase for “halfWhite.” I felt caught in a Catch-22 situation, racially.
As a young adult, I still wanted to fit into White culture. I
married and changed my name to the Anglo-American name
of my husband, and I merged into White culture as much as
possible. I tried to fit into the dominant White culture
throughout my 20s. Even with a dose of positive Japanese
identity from my studies in Japan, I felt childhood shame
about being part Japanese. As my marriage fell apart, and I
concurrently began graduate studies in counseling, I began
to discover new layers of my identity as a woman and as an
ethnic person. However, this was not an easy path. I was
called “half of a minority” in a counseling center staff discussion on affirmative action. I was called “not ethnic enough”
by militant women of color. Nowhere did people affirm the
“both/and” of being biracial. In graduate school I decided
that it was all right for me to claim an Asian American identity, largely facilitated by participating in an Asian American
studies program. Many of the Asian American students with
whom I talked also had grown up in isolation, had dealt with
racism, and had stories about oba-san (grandmother) and
eating rice. I could relate to and identify with the Sansei
generation (third generation).
As many graduate students will do, I studied myself
through my dissertation research on Asian Americans and
assertiveness. I still remember reading a social psychology
study in which persons’ racial identities have a reverse chameleon effect; that is, that which is different from the reference group will stand out. I began to believe my experiences were validated.
Another profound experience happened to me during
graduate school when I sought counseling. I went to see a
Japanese American counselor while I was working on my
ethnic identity development. One of the most significant
events that I experienced was during our last session. She
said that she appreciated working with me because she did
not get to see many Asian American clients. She validated
my Asian American identity! If there’s anything to be learned
from this experience, it is that counselors are powerful agents
in affirming ethnic and racial identity, and these issues need
to be addressed in counseling.
After my divorce, I took back my family name, but it wasn’t
easy. It took me a couple of years to do this, probably because of my family-of-origin issues, but also because it meant
putting my ethnicity on the line, no more hiding my ethnic
origins. It also has meant dealing with the occasional antiAsian phone call, frequent mispronunciation of my name,
and continuous misspellings. I counteract this with remembering that my name means “good luck-mountain.”
How has racism affected my life path? I entered and
stayed in this profession as a means of finding and affirming myself, and, in turn, do the same for others. I’ve made a
commitment to include multicultural issues in my work,
and I define multicultural in its broadest terms to be inclusive. I enjoy meeting other biracial persons and am happy
to see young people who come from biracial backgrounds
participating in the Asian American student groups. My
story is not over yet; it continues to evolve.
I’ve visited Japan and Great Britain to claim my “roots.”
For the longest time, I thought my emotional reserve and
politeness was from the Japanese side of the family, but
then I found that the British are pretty reserved and polite,
too. I have experienced this through my extended Anglo-
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13
Fukuyama
American family members who get together at large family reunions and never say anything impolite to each other.
(What is thought is another matter, I’m sure.) When I’m
being polite and reserved, I’m never sure if it’s my Japanese or British ancestors looking over my shoulder! (Probably both!) I connect with the immigrant experience
through identification with my Japanese grandparents. My
grandmother, who lived to age 97, never learned to speak
English. I relate to the Anglo-American experience through
stories of my Anglo-American relatives settling the Oregon
territory as nineteenth-century pioneers. How has racism
affected me personally? I have experienced hurt, pain, fear,
shame, and “disempowerment.” I have also felt guilt when
I’ve worked on issues of privilege related to my skin color.
Perhaps most painful, I have felt unworthy and have
struggled with issues of entitlement. Racism has caused me
to feel not as entitled as a “full-blooded” individual.
However, I want to address the positive effects of biracial
identity. Being biracial, it is impossible for me to fit into one
category. By definition, I participate in deconstructing the
prevailing paradigm of racial categories. I am reminded of
the bumper sticker that reads, “Subvert the Dominant Paradigm.” I continue to fill out forms by checking both Asian
American and White. I affirm the “both/and” of ethnic origins and racial affiliations. I have found that the process of
identity development takes a long time. I would like to live
in a world where multiracial and multiethnic people are validated. I wish biracial children could grow up in multiracial
and multicultural environments where differences are regarded positively, not as liabilities. I act as a bridge between
cultures, and I feel comfortable being on the margin or edges
of groups rather than in the middle (this includes class issues, e.g., I live in a transitional neighborhood).
At this point in life, I see that I am carrying out my parents’ commitment to fight racism. The fact that my father’s
family was imprisoned for the duration of World War II
makes me aware that no one is immune from persecution
and that we must unite to resist oppression in all forms, all
of the “isms” that separate us and deny us our birthright of
human dignity and respect. As a counselor, I am sensitive
to the oppression with which clients struggle, and I use an
empowerment model of counseling with them. I value the
contributions of “allies” (persons with power who assist
disempowered peoples to gain equality). I need all the help
I can get! Truly, with combined efforts, social justice and
change are possible.
Confronting My Own Ethnocentrism and Racism:
A Process of Pain and Growth
TOC
Electronic Journal: To print this article select pages 14-17.
Mark S. Kiselica
I am a White man who is about to reveal a part of my soul
to the world, and I am frightened by the risk I am taking.
You see, the subjects I am about to discuss—ethnocentrism
and racism, including my own racism—are topics that most
Whites tend to avoid. We shy away from discussing these
issues for many reasons: We are racked with guilt over the
way people of color have been treated in our nation; we fear
that we will be accused of mistreating others; we particularly fear being called the “R” word—racist—so we grow
uneasy whenever issues of race emerge; and we tend to back
away, change the subject, respond defensively, assert our
innocence and our “color blindness,” denying that we could
possibly be ethnocentric or racist.
I have felt this way most of my life. For the longest time,
I didn’t consider myself to be ethnocentric or racist in any
shape or manner. After all, I genuinely abhorred the Ku
Klux Klan. I had a couple of African American and Cuban
American friends as a boy. I was a nonviolent youngster
who had never hurt any ethnic or minority individuals. I
admired Martin Luther King, Jr. I always supported Democrats who fought for the oppressed.
Nevertheless, I had no clue that I was ethnocentric and, to
some extent, racist—yes, racist—and that I missed out on
much of what life has to offer because of my “isms” and the
14
racist world that surrounded me as a boy and a young man.
I am hoping that you will listen to my story with understanding, because it is scary and difficult to divulge some of
my human frailties in public. But I remain hopeful that my
disclosure may provide some glimmer of insight into the
process of confronting one’s own racism. So I will speak
from my heart, entrusting you with the intimate details of a
very personal, often painful, and always growth-producing
journey.
It may help to preface my story by providing you with a
descriptive picture of me, for I now realize that my physical appearance has greatly affected my experience of the
world and, in some respects, shaped the story you are about
to read. I am a 40-year-old White man, a very White man,
about as White as a person can appear. I have blond hair,
blue eyes, and fair skin. I am long and lean, standing 6 feet
tall. Although my ancestry is half Slovak and half Irish, I
have been told at varying times that I look German, Scandinavian, or Polish.
I never realized until I was in my late 20s how much
privilege my physical appearance afforded me, even though
all of my ancestors were poor and I was born into a lowermiddle-class, blue-collar neighborhood. Throughout my
early years, I also was totally unaware that my appearance
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