When my grandma used to bring over Inari, I hated it. The little brown lumps were very unappealing when I was just looking for a good California roll. They were white, salty, and perfectly cylindrical. At this point in my life, I had never really thought about being half Asian, and I was glad that my race made me stick out among my peers. An important part of standing out for me was the food that I ate. I was happy to impress people with my ability to use chopsticks to pick up each piece of my cultural cuisine, the California roll, and receive comments for eating it with soy sauce and wasabi, garnishes that were so different than what my white friends ate.
As I grew older, I began to become more aware of being mixed. In elementary and middle school, I was always seen as just a Japanese kid; being half white was never even part of the question. Perhaps as a result of meeting more Asian kids in high school, I became acutely aware of being mixed. I realized that I fit in with my Asian friends as easily as I did with my white friends. I had never seen myself as white before and I wanted so much to be Japanese like I always thought I had been, like my grandmother and my father. I realized also that all of my white friends began to eat sushi. They loved California rolls like I did and used chopsticks like I did. I was no longer culturally different for eating sushi because the sushi I ate had now become normal “white” food. I remember the frustration I felt when people said they loved sushi and when asked what kind would reply with some Americanized name for a sushi roll which was about as Japanese as they were. However, I could never express this frustration openly, because I consumed and enjoyed the same sushi that they did. This posed a threat to my identity insofar as I realized that the food I ate was no longer supplementing my half white appearance and making me more Japanese as it may have before. I realized that to identify with my culture I could no longer eat just any sushi; I would have to eat sushi which white people wouldn’t eat. Around the time I started high school, I went to lunch with my family at my favorite Japanese restaurant. I ordered tonkatsu and my dad ordered a poke bowl. After I finished eating, he wanted me to try some fish. I hurriedly accepted, excited at the opportunity to prove myself Japanese. I had eaten raw fish before, but not often for the reason I remembered as soon as I put the first piece in my mouth. I didn’t like it very much. The bluefin was tough and cold, and the flavor was anything but appetizing to my palate at the time. My dad noticed and laughed as I gagged and struggled to get it down. As my dad laughed at me, I asked for more. I put pieces in my mouth and I pretended to chew and then took a sip of water to take the small pieces of tuna down like pills. It was only a few moments before my father took note which only gave way to more laughter. This laughter was only another reminder of how I was not Japanese and that this placed a divide between us. He would never think of me as really Japanese no matter how much I wanted that to be my culture: I just ate the Japanese food that white people did, I didn’t speak Japanese, and I didn’t look Japanese. I continued to order dishes like this to make myself like it. I ordered nigiri and forced myself to eat every piece of bloody tuna. I wanted to like it so badly because I needed to, I did not want my father to see me as just another white kid who loves pretending that they like Japanese food. I wanted to be like him and my grandmother and eating the food they loved was a connection that was culturally important to me. I wanted to be Japanese like they were, and I wanted people to see me that way. All of these events and realizations occurred more recently than I would like to admit and sometimes I still find myself trying to force down one more piece of nigiri despite having hated the last four pieces. Diet is only one part of my struggle with wanting to be Japanese, but I choose to write on it because there is a lesson that I can learn from my experience with it. At a dinner party here, I remember being taken aback by a tray of inari sushi. My grandmother had since passed away and would never bring us more of those she made. Remembering her and all of the times I had turned it down, I took a piece and cautiously began to eat, and this time I continued eating. I am now coming to terms with being half white, and I know that I will never be Japanese despite how much I want to be. I can, however, still embrace it as part of me. I don’t have to love every Japanese dish, but I should enjoy what I do like. I still don’t really like eating nigiri or sashimi, but after trying it at that party, I always crave the sweet taste of Inari. That is why this dish means so much to me now, and I encourage you to try it or even make it (if you possess those cooking abilities which I do not). Here are some links to recipes, enjoy! https://www.japancentre.com/en/recipes/53-inari-sushi https://www.japancentre.com/en/recipes/53-inari-sushi
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