In The Arms of Your Significant Being: The Amerasian

Rider always knew how to get to me. All she had to do was to call me Amerasian and she knew that it would ruffle my feathers. Of course she would never do it with malice.

According to Wikipedia, Amerasians are children born to Asian women fathered by American servicemen throughout Asia. What is implied, but not explicitly mentioned is the fact that these children and their mothers were left behind to fend for themselves. Ostracized by their respective society, these half-breeds never allowed to assimilate into their native culture and lived as outsiders. The term for Amerasians in Japanese is especially haunting: senso otoshigo. Quite literally, children dropped as a result of war.

It bothered me terribly growing up in Japan and being referred to by this phrase. Of course it shouldn't have, as it didn't apply to me. Well almost. While my father didn't desert us and we grew and lived as a family, the part about being an outsider was always present. I made light of it, as it's the way I usually deal with sensitive and hurtful subjects, but it did bother me as I was never not fully accepted within the Japanese community. And upon my move to American, I also sensed that I would never quite fit here. Whether in college or in corporate America, I was always an in-between. Oddly, because of this "fit" issue, I thought about moving to Hawaii while in college. I took a trip during spring break and It just did not appeal to me. Hawaii reminded me of the communities surrounding the military bases in Japan and the pigeon English never quite rested well with me and somehow represented the worst of multi-culturalism.

With this in mind of my background, a few incidences occurred recently which made me start to rethink and ultimately feel ashamed of my self-absorption.

It all started rather innocently with a telephone conversation with Rider. As usual we kidded with each other--I've gotten less sensitive about the Amerasian thing with her. I was still smiling to myself about how silly we can be as I settled into Murakami Haruki's book of short stories. I found myself on familiar grounds with his writing style as I read the story "Tony Takitani." It's a touching story of love and longing for a lost love. I've seen the movie adaptation, which was brilliant, and devoured the story. I had also forgotten that it was a story of a child whom was mistaken as an Amerasian because of his given name, "Tony". Not quite the common Japanese name, but a name given to him by his godfather, a GI who played the clarinet with Tony's father, a noted Jazz musician. H-m-m-m, I thought, I had forgotten about the Amerasian thing. Funny given my recent banter with Rider about the Amerasian thing.

I was still thinking about the story the following day, as I greeted Morita whom I had arranged to have drinks. Morita was an interpreter who specialized Korean-English legal translation. Being of Korean mother and Caucasian father, Morita was, as with myself, sensitive to the plights of half-breeds. We eased into our conversations as we had quite a bit to catch up. I asked Morita whether there had been any interesting gigs recently and apparently there was this jaunt as press conference interpreter for Yahoo dealing with the Korean press recently. However with another round of drinks, Morita welled up a bit as the story of the more recent assignment unfolded.

Apparently Morita took on this immigration case involving a Korean family whom had overextended their stay on a tourist Visa. Long story short there were three of them--the mother, an older sister and a younger brother. Apparently the older sister had somehow arrived earlier and after much hardship, I assume, graduated recently with a Master's from a noteworthy Ivy League school. The mother had also applied and successfully petitioned for legal residency. But the legal case was for her son. And it was a deportation case hearing.

Apparently the son had been caught with possession of marijuana. A small amount, which would have meant a misdemeanor for you or I. Unfortunately for him, it meant the immediate halt of his permanent residency application and he faced immediate deportation. Of course what it really meant was being returned to a country where society shunned him. As an adult of mixed breed and of no formal higher educational schooling, it would surely mean trotting the path of an outcast.

Morita had tears welled as the story was told to me. I had a lump also. While we didn't really comment, we knew all too well the consequences. Being an outcast was hurtful enough. And now in his adult life to be alone with no family, walking the streets with the eyes of society beating down on him. It's the same as if being rejected by your own mother.

Fast forward to today. The post delivered my Netflix movie: The Beautiful Country--a brilliant film written by Sabina Murray [she's of Filipino descent, won the Penn/Faulkner award and has worked with Terence Malick]. Directed by Hans Petter Moland, a Norwegian director whom I'm not familiar with but apparently much acclaimed, it's such a beautiful, moving and heart-grabbing masterpiece. The topic? What else but an Amerasian who after much tragedy leaves Vietnam in search of his father. Of course the one hour and forty-seven minutes captures his tragic life and journey, but in the end, the bittersweet reunion with his father is beyond what any words may describe. It brought tears to my eyes as the ending of the film faded and the kind of film which brings you to your knees and makes you think not twice, but three times. And truthfully, there shouldn't be too many things in life which you needn't think three times. Unfortunately, there are.

I've always been incensed when mistaken as those from subordinate Asian cultures--meaning I always held in high regard the Northern Asian cultures as being more refined. But as I've given more thought over the past few years and certainly the last few weeks of the plight of children whom have experienced the wrath of men and the lifelong resultant plight, I feel ashamed of my smugness. The pain I felt as I child was but just an insect bite given the enormity of pain felt by my fellow Amerasians.

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Sidenote: the title links to aahope.org. Hope lives in limited sprinkles.