New York Times Punks Out: Hot, Hapa Mess!

Well, as promised, below is the link to the New York Times "Mixed Messenger" article on hapas which was not even written by a hapa, but by the Jewish mother of a hapa daughter. After you read the article, please return to my blog to read my rebuttal which was not accepted by the New York Times' short-sighted editors.

Even if they had edited it (it was too long for both the Letters and OpEd pages), I would've been happy just to see them acknowledge an article about hapas written by a hapa. And, people wonder why race relationships in this country are so bad! If I, a Japanese-black woman, decided to write a piece on what it means to be Jewish, I'd either be laughed out of town or hideously chastised. Instead, the vice versa is perfectly acceptable.

Sign me,

Disgusted.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/23/magazine/23wwln-lede-t.html?ex=1206936000&en=a75aa4c5e7d2072f&ei=5070&emc=eta1

March 25, 2008

Editor/Op Ed, New York Times

Dear Editor,

I was very surprised to read an article in your publication about hapas written by someone who is NOT hapa. Just because a mono-racial person has a biracial child doesn't make her an expert on hapas. And, in Ms. Orenstein's case, that goes double (pun intended).

First of all, for her to write that Senator "Obama has increasingly positioned himself as a black man" is wrong. Most biracial people aren't allowed to choose their own identity, but are thrust into one by mono-racial people based on nothing more than their physical appearance. She also makes no mention of the One Drop Rule, a legacy of slavery that is still in effect today--which is substantiated by her next remark:

"White America, too, has a vested interest in seeing him as black (as) it's certainly a more exciting, more romantic and more concrete prospect than the "first biracial president"...

Please. White America wants Senator Obama identified as black in order to perpetuate the One Drop Rule, which was enforced by white slave masters seeking to ensure that their property never fell into the hands of their half-Negro slave offspring.

The anti-miscegenation laws Ms. Orenstein refers to were enacted to prevent WHITES from intermarrying. Period. Those laws were based on the concept of white supremacy and were enforced to keep white blood from being tainted by any other race. Certainly, no one would arrest a black man and an Asian woman who married, or vice versa.

Ms. Orenstein is also misdirected when she says that hapa is a Hawai'ian word meaning half. Native Hawai'ians didn't have a word for half because they had no concept of it. If Ms. Orenstein had done her homework, she would've learned that hapa is a mispronunciation of the English word half. Hawai'ian phonetics, which adds vowels to endings of words, would dictate that half comes out sounding like hapa. Half-a. Hapa.

Ms. Orenstein's article is rife with misinformation. If your paper's intent was to educate the mainstream about hapas, you should've asked a genuine one like Jen Chau, head of the largest mixed-race organization in the world--http://www.swirlinc.org--to comment.

In fact, there are dozens of well-known hapas who write, speak and promote hapa-ness that would've given a much clearer and more accurate picture of what it means to be biracial. Thanks to Ms. Orenstein, we now have a hot, hapa mess on our hands.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi Lena Winfrey

btw, that's Jen Chau above, right, with my friend Doris when I visited both in NYC in 2000.

HAPA Birthday, Sistah B!

March seems to be the month for birthdays, and today's belongs to someone special--my sister, Beverly Rhea. I won't say here how old she is, but I will give her props for being the first person I've known to really push the biracial agenda.

Back in the very early 1990's, b.r. (as she refers to herself) had the idea to write a book about mixed-race people. She called a few multi-racial folks that she knew in Seattle and got them to come over to her Madrona home on a weekend afternoon. Unfortunately, b.r. is the consummate hostess, and ended up spending most of her time refreshing folks' drinks and serving them delicious munchies. Meanwhile, what was supposed to have been a session for note-taking towards the book ended up being more of a bitch session for what all racially unidentifiable people have come to declare the worst question to be asked by a monoracial person: "WHAT ARE YOU?"

In the past, the question would so infuriate me that I'd merely stare down the questioner and reply, "A human?" Or, "What do you mean, exactly?" Or, "I'm a Venusian from Venus." In other words, I didn't want to play the game which puts the questioner in the seat of authority and me in the position of the accused.

These days, folks are much more discreet, or "PC" as it's called, and will ask instead, "What kind of name is Yayoi?" Of course, my answering "Japanese" only adds to their confusion, and causes them more anxiety since it's obvious that I don't look pure Japanese.

The only time in my life I didn't mind being questioned about my race was during the times I lived in Honolulu. There, as most people know, everyone seems to be mixed and when they ask me what I am, it just feels like they want to compare notes. "Oh, you're half Japanese? So is my best friend Leilani! I'm half Korean, myself."

It may sound hypocritical, but it's not. It's all about the purpose of the questioner. People who put me on the defense do so because their questioning forces me to have to explain myself. They seem to be saying that my appearance indicates that I don't belong, and they want to know what I'm doing in their world. On the other hand, when other mutli-racial folks inquire, it's more out of a sense of solidarity. "You're half black? So am I! Filipino and black!" And then, we bond.

Omedetto gozaimasu, Beburee-san! That's her in the photo above, at age 2, with my beautiful mother in Germany.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Remembering Racial Moments

I call them Racial Moments because, like most mixed-race folks, I don't tend to think about race all day long. Of course, I do right now because of my film, chapbook, upcoming musical, t-shirts, and comic strip all involving biracial issues. But, under normal circumstances, much like the average mono-racial person, I'm just me. Having made that clear, I do confess to experiencing, now and then, a Racial Moment--a memory of something significant that's steeped in race.

At a meeting this evening, conducted by an arts organization promising to fund worthy projects, I was casually taking notes on how to apply for artists' grants when one of the speakers walked in. I recognized him as a local filmmaker who, upon being introduced to me in the past, had promptly turned his face. Although he is one of my mother's people, I felt that he may have been showing his disapproval of her choice in a mate by ignoring me, the result of that union. I'll never know because I never asked him.

But if that is the case, this man would be shocked to learn that not only did my mother, a first-generation Japanese woman, marry a black American soldier, but later, when he divorced her, paired up with a Caucasian air force retiree. Clearly, my mother holds no animosity towards any racial group. But neither is she unique among so-called Japanese war brides. In fact, I remember growing up on military bases after World War II when many of our neighbors were Japanese and German women married to both black and white American soldiers. Additionally, many of the folks in our 'hood were Filipinos, Puerto Ricans and Mexicans--all who joined the U.S. military in a move towards American citizenship. It was an idyllic, multicultural time when no one ever asked, "What are you?"

But, back to my mother. I remember the times when she and her Japanese girlfriends would stay up all night while their men were "in the field". The soldiers were sometimes away for days, training outdoors somewhere. Meanwhile, these seemingly delicate women would gather at one lady's house and, while sipping whiskey or green tea, smoke cigarettes and play hanafuda--a Japanese game using tiny, colorful cards. If Emiko was there with her front gold tooth and permed hair, we'd eventually hear her raspy voice yelling at her two half-black boys, "Stee-bee! Lay-mon!" Although their names were Stevie and Raymond, it was the best she could muster. Her pre-teen boys were always fighting and forcing poor Emiko to shout at regular intervals, "Lee-bee lone, I say!" It was her attempt at telling them, "Leave him alone, I'm telling you." Like his father, Stevie was tall and large-boned while his younger brother, Raymond, was frail and light-skinned. I always liked Emiko. For some unknown reason, she often wore a Chinese dress (if you know anything about China, Japan and WWII, you'd be puzzled, too). Even though Emiko gave off a vibe that said she could take down a sumo wrestler, her heart was tender. I felt sorry for her because of her bad boys. Sometimes I think she wished she had two gentle girls like my mother's, but I don't think she was ever sorry that her children were half-black.

But that's how it was with my mother's friends. Those Japanese ladies were so blase about their mixed-race children. They might've fussed over their nappy heads, but they were never derogatory or demeaning in their speech or actions towards them. They loved their children no matter how much their skin or facial features differed from their own. My mother didn't look at me or my sister with repulsion and think, "Yuk! What's up with their hair?" Of course, she had some difficulty in managing our locks, and I do recall her being distressed whenever we wanted to leave it loose in what she referred to as "making hair so bushy". But her remarks were never directed towards us with any sense of racial superiority.

Which brings me back to that filmmaker. Some would venture that when Asian American men see mixed-race Asian children that aren't theirs, it may remind them that their women are mating with men of other races in droves. The last time I checked, out-marriage rates among Japanese American women were at 80%. And, if the Asian man is not an American, there may be some residue of resentment--a reminder that their side lost the war and their women became the spoils. As horrible as it sounds, the reality is that women often become brides of their enemies because their own homes are so devastated, leaving them with no choice but to start all over in the winner's country.

But memories can never be destroyed. And, I will always cherish mine of sneaking into the dining room to watch my mother and her Japanese girlfriends play hanafuda. While billows of cigarette smoke hovered over them, they'd munch crunchy osenbe and speak in rapid-fire Japanese, all the while loudly laughing and slapping those cards down on the towel-covered table. Every once in awhile, a mixed kid with dark brown skin or straight, blondish hair would enter the room whining about something, and the mother would casually reach out to comfort her child.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Stayin' Widdit

Unlike in the past (I know, I know), I'm challenging myself to blog daily--so, here goes.

Earlier this week, I was interviewed by a local newspaper reporter writing an article about biracial people followed by a genuine studio photo shoot. As I went through the process of bringing myself into this mixed-race frame of mind (as you blendies know, we don't go around focused on being mixed 24/7), I realized I had too much to say on the subject to keep it short. Indeed, the phone interview spanned some 1-2 hours. I just couldn't stop talking!

Besides the usual negative stuff--society at large identifying mixed-race folks according to what they look like physically--I also had some positive observations to share, i.e., being biracial means having two cultures to draw from which can make life pretty darn interesting, especially if you enjoy eating collard greens with inarizushi.

Only the weekend before, I got into a heated bickering session with an actress pal who identifies herself as African American. During our conversation, I brought up the "Obama dilemma"--that he (and others) has chosen to call himself black as opposed to biracial--and, I cited the One Drop Rule as the reason (more on that in another blog). Well, my friend (like many African Americans) was not happy with my assessment. Hey, as proud as I am of being black, I'm also proud of my Asian ancestry, and I'd never dream of excluding my mother from the credits in the creation of "the me who I am today". My actress buddy was not having it so I opted out by telling her, "I don't argue about biracial issues with monoracial folks." As mortified as she was, she would've felt the same had a Caucasian person attempted to tell her what black is/was/will be. Yet she had no problem telling me what biracial is/was/should be.

(In another blog, I'll address why African Americans get so upset when hapa black people want to claim the other side of their identity.)

It's really interesting to note how mixed-race people, generally, are able to transcend group affiliations, and that's the way it should be. Had it always been that way, slavery of a certain race of people could never happen. If folks didn't have the capability of separating by ethnicity, they could never deem one group superior over another. I'm not advocating that a biracial world population is the answer to a better planet, but when humans can't bunch up together according to race and pit one group against another (which is usually the case--pitting, that is), there just might be a chance for understanding and harmony. Even if there isn't, even if we end up segregating ourselves by other categories (like those who wear red versus those sporting blue), we will at least have a sense of what all races share in common.

Now, culturally, there may be differences. Based on my own experiences, I find Japanese society to be highly organized and systematic. I understand it because part of that is inside of me, cultivated by my issei (first generation Japanese) mom. On the other hand, I also feel a strong sense of music which often releases itself without inhibition. I recognize that as an outward expression present in many African cultures. And, that is also inside of me, thanks to my dad. So, what to do? Repress one of those urges to the detriment of the other? Hey, I'm hip to both of them because I am both of them. Two races, two cultures, two ways of being, but one person.

In closing today's ramblings, I have to say that my sister's kid may be an interesting look into the future. This manchild in his early 20's has an African American father and, of course, my Japanese/black sister for his mother. As a baby, toddler, and teen, he spent many summers living with my issei mother and her Caucasian husband. Throughout his adult life, he's dated women of different ethnicities. Today, this kid proudly showed me a photo of his girlfriend, a woman who is half Samoan and half white.

Until next time--oyasuminasai, bon nuit, later.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi