A Lonely Planet When You're A Fish Out Of Water

Today, while I was screening a Chinese-made film titled 24 City, it really hit me how homogenized that country's citizens are. I kept trying to put myself into the picture and wondering how I would fit in living somewhere where everyone looked like everyone else, except me. Certainly, I have felt that before in America, especially whenever I've attended a particular event that didn't draw other folks of color. But on a daily basis for the rest of my life? I'd be crazed.

I remember visiting Japan with my mother and sister years ago. We spent nearly a month traveling in Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, Nara, etc. At first, it was absolutely fascinating to attempt deciphering the language that I heard all around me. Even with a Japanese mother from Japan, I only know mostly nouns so I was trying to pick up on entire phrases. But after awhile, to my shock, I began to miss the sound of English which I only heard whenever my sister and I were having a conversation. Most of the time, she and I were together. So, I did have someone to talk to without having to search for the correct Japanese words to communicate. Still, there was a deep sense of loneliness that enveloped me whenever we were out in public and I couldn't understand anyone else around me. That's a picture of my sister in Tokyo, above.

Being that one different person in any group can be an uncomfortable experience. But most monoracial people don't have to deal with that situation unless they travel outside of their communities. Not long ago, I asked a good friend of mine--who happens to be a monoracial Caucasian man--if he wanted to attend a black arts festival in Atlanta with me. Now, I've known this friend for years. We often talk politics and he considers himself extremely liberal and progressive. Besides visiting each other in our respective home states, we've also travelled to other distant locales to attend various events. So, I was totally unprepared when he answered my question with, "No. I don't think I'd be comfortable at a black festival." I was stunned and replied, "So how do you think I should feel? I have to be a person of color every day when I walk out my door, and where I live 75% of the population is white. Should I just stay in the house so I don't have to feel uncomfortable?" My friend didn't answer. I really don't believe he understood what I was getting at, and it really saddened me because if someone as bright and aware as he is doesn't get it, then there's no hope for the rest of humankind. Or, is there?

Hey, we're moving closer to making our Watermelon Sushi film. In June, we'll be auditioning talent for the principal roles. So, if you live in L.A., please be sure to send your reels, resumes and headshots according to the breakdowns on the Hip Hapa Homeez group page at Facebook. That way, we can schedule you for an audition. Most likely, auditions will be held in Hollywood and the fabulous nissei rapper Miwa Lyric will be on hand to assist (www.miwalyric.com).

Shout-outs to Lily Anne Welty for sending the DVD about Japanese/black kids in Japan. I'll report on it as soon as I watch it. btw, if you're in Asia and you're AfroAsian and you're interested in being interviewed by Lily Anne, let me know. She's on a search for biracial babies born between the 1940's through the 1960's.

Mahalo nui loa also to Paulette Thompson for remembering that The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai had "good" aliens that were all of color and "bad" aliens that were all monoracial Caucasians named John. Paulette also sent me two links that I'll try to post next time. One of her comments was that actress Meg Tilly was born Margaret Chan, but after her white mother divorced her Chinese American father, Meg was taught to keep her Asian ethnicity a secret. The other is about a woman in an interracial relationship.

Now, here's an interesting article that flips the script. It's about a black family who adopted a white child.

http://www.newsweek.com/id/194886/page/1

In honor of my transracial adoptee buddy, Anjulie, I have posted her beautiful-ness, above.

One Love!

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Sakura Seasoning

Yo, it's hana-mi (flower watching) time!

Last weekend, while pink petals fell like silent snowflakes from cherry trees lining the Seattle Center, I made my way over to its grounds. Just past the Experience Music Project (Microsoft partner Paul Allen's dedication to Jimi Hendrix), I found the Seattle Cherry Blossom Festival in full bloom (yeah, pun intended). A three-day cultural event sponsored by the Japanese Consulate, this matsuri is an annual shindig. But this year, besides the usual activities of dance, ikebana (flower arrangement), judo, kimono dressing, shodo (calligraphy), and taiko (drumming), the festival also featured a Hapa Booth.

A friend on the committee who knew of my passion for blendies invited me to help out at the Booth. So, for three days, I mixed and mingled with hapas, their parents or other relatives, and their friends. Through a whirlwind of exchanges, I felt a spiritual connection with so many multiracial folks who willingly shared their stories--some sad, some glad.

The Hapa Booth itself was simply decorated with photocopied pictures of mixed-race Japanese. After all, it was the Japanese Consulate's event so no other hapa Asians were featured. But that didn't deter hapas of all combos from approaching us to "talk story". Since the Japanese community has one of the highest out-marriage rates, numerous visitors started their sentences with, "My mother's Japanese and my father's..." Or, "My father's Japanese and my mother's..." And, the numbers of hapas hailing from Hawai'i clearly outnumbered everybody else.

Besides photos, there was also a laptop looping video clips of Jero's (with his obachan in pix here) performances. Although curiosity from those who'd never heard of him was strong, their interest sometimes bordered on incredulity, and I wondered if they saw him as a novelty rather than as a serious enka singer.

I also discovered that, unfortunately, a lot people still have a misconception about the word hapa. Many think that it describes someone who's half Asian. I know I've written this before, but hapa is simply the Hawai'ian mispronunciation of the English word half. Being limited to 12 alphabet letters, the Hawai'ian language does not provide phonetics that would permit a Native to say h-aaa-lll-fff, so the word was softened to ha-pa. Native Hawai'ian language also ends every word with a vowel so it would be impossible to say h-aaa-lll-fff anyway. Initially, when the first Europeans arrived on the islands, they were referred to as ha-ole, or "no ha". Ha is the sacred breath that was expelled before the Hawai'ian king, but Europeans didn't know that so they didn't do it. Thus, "no ha". Hapa haole were the offspring of Native Hawai'ian and European parents. These days, haole is pronounced by locals as "how-lee" and is sometimes used derogatorily against whites. But back in the day, even Princess Ka'iulani was hapa haole with a Native mother and Scottish father.

Besides trying to come up with a quick definition of hapa that was palatable to the surging crowd, I also dispensed information about mixed-race organizations to those requesting resources. It's all good and well to point to photos that show that the world is rapidly blurring its racial lines, but for those who are still having a rough go of it, it's nice to know that there are organizations out there for us. Shout-outs to MixedChicks.com and SwirlInc.org!

Among monoracial people drawn to the Hapa Booth, most of the responses were positive although some clearly appeared puzzled about the very notion of race mixing, or why it would even be celebrated or publicized. A board set up on an easel accompanied by post-it notes and pens invited comments from the audience. Some were ordinary; some profound. But one actually said, "Hapas? Get over it."

Well, the only thing this hapa is getting over tonight is finishing this blog post.

btw, in celebration of my upcoming birthday during the first week of May, I'm planning to add quick interviews with various hapas here on this blog. If you'd like me to talk to you, please drop me a line. It doesn't matter where you live, or what your combo flava is, I want to hear from you.

hiphapa@comcast.net

And, here's a reminder that our Watermelon Sushi producers are still on a talent search. If you haven't already sent us your DVD or headshot, it's not too late. Check out the breakdowns on the Hip Hapa Homeez group page on Facebook. And, sign up to join us while you're there.

Also, if you've purchased a Hapa*Teez t-shirt, let us know so we can give you credit for contributing.

Meanwhile, can you stand one more photo of cherry seasoning?

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Insults Or Ignorance?

Honestly, the amount of insults hurled toward me by monoracial folks lately seem to be growing exponentially. It makes me wonder if something's been added to the drinking water.

Last week, I wrote about two people who attributed my ability to earn good grades and academic achievement to my "Asian side". In both instances, I was flabbergasted by their thoughtless remarks.

Well, there's more. Earlier this month, I attended a monthly get together of artists, writers and other creatives. Walking in late, I spotted a friend at the large table so I sat across from her. During lunch, most of the attendees chatted with others they knew, too. But towards the end, a couple got up to leave when the Caucasian man suddenly leaned over to introduce himself. As always when speaking to Westerners, I spoke my name with clearly enunciated syllables. I watched as the man visibly wrestled with a question gnawing at him.

"Where's that from?" he said, before changing his query to, "What kind of name is that?"

Warily, I answered, "Japanese."

Most of the time, the response I get when I reply with that answer is, "Really? You don't look all Japanese."

So, that's what I was prepared for when, instead, the man looked at me intently. "That doesn't sound like a Japanese name," he told me with an air of authority. "It has too many consonants. Most Japanese names start with a K or M," he added.

Incredulous, I looked over at my friend sitting across from me but she, herself a monoracial Caucasian, said nothing.

"Actually, a lot of Japanese names start with Y," I replied. "My mother's name is Yuriko, her mother's name is Yone, and..." I trailed off as I realized that I had no obligation to explain anything to this stranger who already thought he knew it all anyway.

Since he had the nerve, basically, to let me know that he knew more about Japanese culture than I did, I wanted to respond with something really flip, like; "Tom? What kind of name is that? Is it English, because most English names have two or more syllables so your name should be Thomas, shouldn't it?" Alas, I'm a peaceful type who doesn't like confrontation so I just smiled weakly. After the man left, I leaned in to tell my friend how insulted I felt, but it was too loud in the restaurant and she didn't seem to grasp my agitation.

Then, last night on a thread that I was a participant of, one of the women became upset over some of my stated opinions. In a final hurrah, not only did she call me the "B" word, but also flung at me her conviction that I was a coward who hid behind, quote, "all that ridiculous hip hapa stuff". Ridiculous? Since she's a monoracial African American, I had to wonder what she had against mixed-race folks.

On to better news. The producers of Watermelon Sushi in our Tokyo office are revving up for more action so keep checking back for updates. Meanwhile, calling all talent, get your submissions to us by visiting the Hip Hapa Homeez group page on Facebook. There, you can read the breakdowns and get the address to send your headshots, resumes and DVD's. And if you sign up to join us, you'll be in a group that includes luminaries like Todd Bridges, Kool Mo Dee, Professor Griff, Jasmine Guy, Oran Juice Jones, Patti LaBelle, MC Lyte, Biz Markie, Lonette McKee, Bern Nadette Stanis, and more. We're about to get real serious here, folks.

Finally, it appears that haru (spring) has arrived. Check out the pix of sakura (cherry blossoms) in my 'hood, above.

Funny, that my mom likes to make gohan (rice) with ume (plum) which turns the rice a little pink. I started calling it sakura gohan. At the left is a pix of the sakura norimaki we recently ate.

And, below is a photo of my Mom cutting her birthday cake last week. Notice her red eyes caused by haru allergies. As for her age, well...if you're that interested, please drop me a line at hiphapa@comcast.net

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Bad Comcast, Insults, Interracial Alien Abductees, And HAPA B-day!

Thanks to Comcast, my post is a day late. I don't know why they started messing around with their servers at the exact time I was finishing up, but they did and now I have to start all over. Apologies.

Yo! Hip Hapa Homeez,

It's been another busy week of dismantling misinformation about multiracial people, and I'm exhausted. Sometimes, I get so tired of preaching and teaching that I just let stuff slide. How about you?

A couple of days ago while out walking, I ran into the bus driver with whom I had shared my woes about a difficult class I took last quarter. Since he drove the bus to the campus daily, I often complained to him about the homework that I struggled over. Coincidentally, he was familiar with the subject and tried to encourage me. When I had last seen him, I was sweating a bad grade. Surprisingly, I ended up doing better than I anticipated. Spotting him on my walk, I expressed my delight at earning a decent grade. Laughing, the driver replied, "Well, that's the Asian half of you." I was speechless. Since he's Asian himself, I wasn't sure if he was just attempting to create a bond through our cultural connection. I wanted to ask, but didn't, if he thought it possible that my black relatives might value education more than my Japanese ones. I'm sure he meant no harm by his statement. After all, Asian immigrants in America do have a reputation for being academically inclined. However, I've read articles that indicate the true model minorities are Haitians. That's right; those refugees that arrived packed in rickety boats off the shores of Florida are considered to be the most achievement-oriented in this country--counting numerous doctors, nurses and lawyers among them.

Awhile back, a Caucasian man made a similar remark when I mentioned some academic accomplishment I'd realized. "You're so smart," he said. "It must be the Asian in you." Of course, I was stunned. Was he saying that the black in me was not as bright as the Japanese? I wanted to ask if he knew who invented the traffic signal light, or who came up with the idea of blood transfusions that saves millions of lives worldwide. Hint: Neither were Asians.

And, what about Obama then? Do you think world leaders sit around thinking, "That guy is so smart. It must be the white in him." Is it a good thing then, that Obama identifies himself as an African American?

I suppose there are worse things that monoracial people can say to us mixies. Yet, I find myself often thinking that as a whole (pun intended), we humans have a long way to go.

Recently, I ran into a former classmate who is half white and half black. As we discussed being biracial, he revealed that he and his brother were treated differently as they grew up. My friend is "high yella"--golden skinned with green eyes and "good" hair. His brother, he told me, had darker skin and tighter hair. I explained that my film, Watermelon Sushi, is about this very issue--how people are perceived to possess certain traits based on nothing more than their appearance. Just when did having a darker shade of skin become an open invitation for scorn, anyway?

Earlier in the week, I was at a local copy shop when I began conversing with a young African American woman who was assisting me. Reading her name tag, I mentioned that I had a friend who shared her unusual name, but who lived back East. The young women then shared with me her complicated family history and all the places where they had resided. Then, very casually, she explained that her father had not been raised by his own mother (her grandmother), but by his grandmother (her great-grandmother) because--here the young woman lightly brushed the back of her arm with her fingers--his skin was too dark.

Can you imagine being rejected by your own mother because of something so irrelevant as the shade of your skin? If your own mother won't accept you, what hope is there for the rest of the world embracing you? Folks, we just suck.

On another note: Thanks to the quick eye of Rachel Herault, I had to revisit my March 19th blog post titled "Where Are the Extraterrestrials of Color?" If you recall, I was in a tizzy after viewing the Hollywood film Knowing, starring Nicholas Cage as an MIT prof who unravels a series of numbers that add up to doom for planet Earth. While he's busy figuring out that we're on a collision course with the Sun, several aliens (all monoracial Caucasians) intervene. I was miffed that none of the aliens were of color, and posed the question; how come the future is so white when there are more Chinese on the planet right now than anyone else? I even insinuated that Hollywood is sending a subtle message that aliens can only be Caucasian because they possess a superior intelligence proven by their ability to travel all the way to our planet. Anyway, Rachel reminded me that a couple who was actually abducted by aliens in the 1950's was interracial. Barney Hill was black and his wife, Betty, was white. In the TV movie based on their story, they were played by actors James Earl Jones and Estelle Parsons. The fact that I remember the most about the Hills' adventure is Betty's drawing of where the aliens had come from. Although she drew stars that didn't exist at the time of her kidnapping, years later scientists discovered them in the sky.

Please keep your cards and letters coming, Hip Hapa Homeez. I love hearing from you! And, don't forget to sign up to join our Facebook group--Hip Hapa Homeez. Remember our Hapa*Teez t-shirts and our open call casting for Watermelon Sushi, too.

Last, but not least, here's a shout-out to Moms. HAPA b-day! I tried to wish it on your special day, but see 'bad Comcast', above. Omedetto gozaimasu! The photo above is one of Moms at the earliest age we could find. Here (bottom left), she's a 16 year-old nanny, out boating with her employer's family.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

New News And Old

That matriarchal maven Madonna is back in the news again. Once again, the controversy revolves around her attempts to adopt a Malawian child. The adoption of her now three year-old son, David Banda, whom she acquired in 2006 caused a ruckus because it was felt that Madonna used her big name and big bucks to bypass Malawi rules and regulations about adoption. It seems she was allowed to have David without being a resident of the country for at least one year, and circumventing the required 18-24 month waiting period which applied to everyone else.

Further, it was downright weird since David's father was still alive. Instead of giving David's father money so he could raise his own child, Madonna seem to be playing the role of a rich white woman purchasing a poor black boy. Now, that may not be the case at all, but anyone who is sensitive to the enslavement of black Africans by white Europeans would be alarmed at the implication. Even with David's father waiving his rights and insisting that he wanted Madonna to raise his son, one has to wonder why. Why would any father of any child prefer to have his own son reared by a stranger?

This time around, Madonna has her sights set on a young girl whose mother is also dead. But like David, the girl has a living father. Just when is it okay to adopt a child, anyway?

I have a friend of Indian descent who was adopted by a Caucasian couple who also adopted other children of color. Although my friend had birth parents who were living, she was a sickly child and her family couldn't afford her costly medical expenses. Now in her 20's, my friend recently met her birth family. Since this wasn't my experience, I can't say what is right or wrong. But I know if I had been raised by other people and later, in my adulthood, discovered that I had a living parent or parents, I'd be mighty mad. I'd wonder whether or not my folks did all they could to keep me. I'd probably even wonder if they really loved me. But like I said, I don't know the complete circumstances. Maybe you have a similar story you'd like to share. If you're a transracial adoptee, please drop me a line at hiphapa@comcast.net and unload.

Also in the news is a resolution proposed by Senator John McCain, of all people, requesting a presidential pardon for the now dead boxer, Jack Johnson. Johnson, an unbeatable black champ, was arrested in 1913 for violating the Mann Act--"taking women across state lines for immoral purposes". Although the Act was meant to prevent pimps from pimping prostitutes, it was used against Johnson because he dared to date and marry white women. Besides knocking out so many white boxers, he had the nerve to collect the spoils, aka white women. Johnson spent a year at Leavenworth prison and his record was tainted. And now, McCain, who personally voted against honoring Martin Luther King, Jr. with a federal holiday, has introduced this potential pardon to Obama. Life. It's so cyclic, ain't it?

Finally, I want to thank all of you, my supporters, for hanging in with me and continuing to read this blog, buying Hapa*Teez t-shirts, and keeping in the mix with our Watermelon Sushi film. And, a very special thanks to Amina Kangiwa of MixedChild.com for such an incredible interview session this evening. Although her site won't be up until this summer, I'm confident it's going to be all we mixies want. Amina, who is Filipina and Nigerian, is a journalist who knows how to get to the heart of race matters. We spent hours on the phone tonight talking about our similar AfroAsian ethnic and cultural backgrounds.

Until next week, stay hip, stay hapa, stay homeez! And, don't forget to send me a Friend Request on Facebook--and join our Hip Hapa Homeez group, too. The last time I checked, Bern Nadette Stanis--Thelma--from Good Times was a member!

Above is a pix of our matriarch, my sister and me in the German woods.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Visitors

I admit I'm a consummate hostess. Back in the day, my sister and I would entertain rooms full of folks in our tiny one-bedroom apartment near Seattle's Lake Union. Thinking back now, I wonder if our neighbors suspected us of dealing drugs or being prostitutes because of our many visitors--mostly men--who'd stop by for a drink (usually coffee or something stronger) and a chat. Sometimes, one of them would scoop us up for a couple of games at a nearby pool hall. Other times, we'd go check out a Bruce Lee or Blaxploitation flick. And, still other times, we'd cruise to Seward Park for a jam session with my sister playing her twelve-string guitar.

In any case, more than loving to entertain, my sister and I loved being entertained. Our friends ranged from a naive white guy from Florida named Paul, who also played guitar and would duet with my sister, to a brother named Donzell whose cousin Goat was often the butt of his jokes. Donzell drove a Brougham and would take us dancing at various nightclubs until we'd finally stop for breakfast at an all-night Chinese restaurant on Broadway. There was Femi from Nigeria, Allan from L.A., and Darryl from round the way--my sister's classmates from the University. Interestingly, none of these men were quote unquote boyfriends, but rather acted as substitutes for the brothers that we lacked. Of the ladies, I remember Mila, a Filipina whose children all had black fathers. My sister's friends, Linda and Tien, were Japanese American and Vietnamese, respectively, and also had black husbands. Although not that common in the 1970's, interracial coupling between Asian Americans and blacks did happen. During this time, Asians weren't acceptable for marriage by whites, and most of the Asians we knew were either with other Asians or with blacks.

Just sharing stories with our friends helped shape our views of the world back then. In those days, before the Internet and instant exchanges, my sister and I often met new people in public places and through other friends. Each one had a tale to tell, and that's how we learned. Today, I meet people through every method imaginable. But my friendships are still just as rich and rewarding as ever.

This weekend, while I stayed with my mother, two friends notified me that they'd be in town so I invited them over.

Albert, an educator originally from Ghana, was driving from Oregon to Washington on his way to fly to a seminar in Maine. Although we'd been friends for years, we'd never met face to face before. Unfortunately, Albert arrived just as the NHK taiga series, Atsuhime, began. As any of my regular readers know, I am totally addicted to this show. I could hardly peel my eyes away from the screen as I instructed Albert where to sit and hang his coat. With the dog frantically pawing his legs, and my mother firing questions at him about his personal life, it was all my guest could do to maintain. My eyes glued to the TV screen, I'd periodically turn to look over my shoulder at Albert and explain the scene at the Ooku with Atsuhime and her ladies-in-waiting during the countdown of the Satsuma overtaking Edo castle. My mom's husband, in his failed attempt to be sociable, commented on how homely the real Atsuhime was compared to the actress playing her. As we ate the square wontons filled with vegetables that my mother made, she needlessly explained to Albert that they contained no meat because of my vegan diet. Observing their efforts to communicate, I served as an interpreter throughout. My mother doesn't speak Twee and Albert speaks no Japanese although two of his cousins live in Japan where they both have Japanese wives.

Shortly after Albert left to continue his trip, Heisue arrived. This young student from Seoul currently attends school in Boston and has undertaken an intensive project about Korean warbrides. Upon entering their living room, she bowed towards my mother and her husband, and we were all charmed. Proclaiming herself to be "global", Heisue told me the reason she spoke English with an American accent was because of "Sesame Street". Sipping green tea, Heisue and I discussed the importance of her work. Some of the warbrides she interviewed had been abandoned by their American military husbands once they arrived stateside. Yet they survived. We talked about how life had been for their mixed-race children with the additional burden of not having their own fathers in their lives. And, I took Heisue on a journey from the time before I was born, to my mother's early childhood. Even though my stories helped Heisue piece together her project, I was the one who felt cleansed. The communication between Heisue and my mother was fairly clear and they each spoke a few words of the other's language. When my mother remembered a Korean song, she began singing it and Heisue joined in. I wish I would've had my camera as it was one of those moments in life never to be repeated. Heisue was stunned that my Japanese mother knew all the lyrics to this very traditional Korean love song, and so was I. Then, my mother trotted out a calendar she's had forever featuring Korean models on each page. Like the time last year when she broke out the homemade kimchee for a mixed-race Korean friend, my mother was seriously trying to connect. Maybe that's where my sister and I inherited our penchant for making and keeping friends.

Above is a photo of one of the very first visitors I can remember--a fellow soldier and friend of my dad's in Germany.

In friendship forever...

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Where Are The Extraterrestrials Of Color?

This week I attended a press screening for the film Knowing starring Nicholas Cage as an MIT professor with a young son. Because his wife died recently, the prof has taken to drinking a lot while pondering the meaning of life. He even lectures his students about the randomness of it all.

The movie opens fifty years earlier as elementary school children each contribute a piece of artwork to a time capsule. All the students are happily coloring and drawing, but one girl is obsessively writing rows and rows of numbers. What does it mean? I'm not going to give away the plot in case you plan to see this movie, but I will reveal that it involves the world coming to an end and "good" aliens rescuing "the chosen". And, just who are these chosen? Out of the billions of folks on planet earth, the lucky two that the aliens save happen to be the granddaughter of the little girl who wrote all those crazy numbers fifty years previous, and the professor's son.

Of course, the two children (who we assume will be the Adam and Eve of the new world) are mono-racial Caucasians. And, so are the aliens. In the scenes that take place 50 years earlier, it's historically accurate to show an all-white school. And later, most of the crowd scenes correctly feature various ethnicities. But as far as the aliens being portrayed by four white actors, three of them male, all I can say is why? This lack of colored folks as extraterrestrials bothered me so much that I posted the question on Facebook: Why are there no aliens of color in American films? Besides Brother From Another Planet, I couldn't think of any others. Several of my friends, however, came up with names like Damon Wayans in Earth Girls Are Easy and Louis Gossett, Jr. in Enemy Mine. There was mention of Billy Dee Williams and James Earl Jones in Star Wars, and Whoopi Goldberg in Star Trek, too. Still, the names of actors of color were rare. Besides, all the ones mentioned were black, and my question was meant to address all people of color including Asians, Indigenous folks, Latinos, and even biracial people.

Are we to assume, based on the film Knowing, that there are no people of color in the future? How does that compute when people of color dominate the world population right now? What happens to all of us then? If anything, futuristic films should heavily feature the Chinese.

One thought that persists in engaging my mind is that extraterrestrials are, in Hollywood's eyes, synonymous with superior intelligence. After all, they manage to find their way to Earth while earthlings haven't, so far, visited other planets. Is there some subtle message emitting from Tinsel Town that says people of color aren't smart enough to be a part of the future? Of course, a progressive director like John Sayles, often flips the script. Thus, the irreverent Brother From Another Planet.

I've been so disturbed by this lack of colored aliens issue that I vow to write a script about space creates of various hues, especially biracial ones. That's how I see the future, don't you? With so much race mixing going on these days, multiracial people are bound to be the dominant majority some day. So, why not aliens?

Meanwhile, friends, fans and family, we're still casting for Watermelon Sushi, we're still selling Hapa*Teez t-shirts to finance the film, and we're still recruiting members for our Facebook group called Hip Hapa Homeez. Join us today. Where else can you have rapper Kool Mo Dee as your Veep and group members like MC Lyte and Patti LaBelle?

Speaking of aliens, that's my sister and me in the pix above on a subway train in Tokyo. Note the flash of light around my head. Could it be my aura, or my alien antennae emerging?

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Racial Responsibility

Aloha all,

A Facebook friend recently posted an article asking whether people of color are held to a higher standard than whites whenever something bad goes down. Like when Chris Brown beat up Rihanna and news sources cited O.J. Simpson and Ike Turner, other black men known for violence against women.

"What about Jean Claude Van Damm?" someone asked. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't advocate any man hitting any woman (or anyone else for that matter), but it did seem odd that media lingered on violent colored folks, and not so much on others who have also done damage.

The FB article posed the question of whether people of color are more responsible for representing their communities as opposed to whites. That posting was so timely because just this weekend I had a conversation with a white friend that blew me away. I was telling him about a documentary I watched called Crips and Bloods: Made In America, and how I thought the filmmakers left out an important chunk of history. Although this film features incredible archival footage, the storytelling seems a little hurried. We go from blacks leaving the southern plantations to joining the industrial revolution in Los Angeles' aerospace companies encouraged by World War II. After flourishing in segregated neighborhoods, blacks start experiencing job layoffs, absentee fathers, drug-addicted mothers, and voila! gangbangers. Well, after a riot or two, that is. Okay, I thought. What's missing here?

Years ago, I heard the late playwright August Wilson speaking at a Seattle theater. A white woman in the audience asked him what he thought was the worst thing that had happened to the black community. An audible gasp was heard as Wilson replied, "Integration." The biracial Wilson (his father was a white German) then explained that during segregation, blacks were forced to rely on each other--buying from each other's stores, hiring each other for various services, and keeping it all in the 'hood, so to speak. But with integration opening up doors that were previously closed, blacks who were more educated and affluent began exploring the idea of moving into previously all-white neighborhoods. In time, the black communities they left behind became neglected ghettos. Middle-class homes morphed into government projects. Black businesses folded for the lack of demand. Drug dealers became the new entrepreneurs. Other races moved in with liquor stores and pawn shops. Black people in black communities grew impoverished--leading to alcoholism, drug addiction and that elusive missing male parent.

Watching Crips and Bloods, I remembered Wilson's harsh words and thought that's probably what happened in the Los Angeles' black neighborhoods where those gangs were born. I said as much to my white friend, and his response surprised me.

"They should've never left," he replied.

"What?" I answered. "Are you saying middle-income blacks should have never left their black neighborhoods? Would you say that to a white person? Would you say, white person, you are responsible for your entire race?"

My white friend admitted that he wouldn't, and realized his error at suggesting it. But his words echoed through my mind for several days afterward. Why did he automatically think people of color should be more responsible for their own kind? My friend is a loving and generous person with no outward sign of racism. Yet his words had slipped so easily from his lips. Was he an unwilling victim of institutionalized racism?

As usual, I have many questions and no answers. Of course, the greatest irony is that without integration, neither I nor August Wilson might have been born biracial.

I do encourage you to watch Crips and Bloods if you get the chance. Some of the interviews with ex-gang members will chill your blood, but hearing their stories will also give you a greater understanding of the domino effect of racism that allows poverty to turn into a lack of respect for life--anyone's.

Speaking of films, Your Hip Hapa is in the research phase of launching a distribution company for films by and about mixed-race people. Hollah at hiphapa@comcast.net for more info.

I leave you with a pix of beautiful Santa Monica, above. Located only miles from some of the most gang-infested neighborhoods of Los Angeles, it's a city that some residents of those very 'hoods have never visited in their entire lives.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

HAPA Post-Hina Matsuri Day!

Omedetto Gozaimasu!

On the third day of this third month, Japan celebrated Hina Matsuri. A festival for girls, its major activities include bringing out dolls from the closet, dusting them off, and displaying them in neat rows on seven red felt steps for all to see. But these dolls are not just any dolls, and definitely not the type to be played with, since they are miniature depictions of Japan's royal family and their attendants.

According to Wikipedia, Hina Matsuri began during the Heian Period of 794 to 1185, but doll displaying wasn't popularized until the Edo Period of 1603-1868. Originally, dolls were viewed as possessing evil spirits and, when set afloat on a boat in the river, would carry said bad luck away. Today, Hina Matsuri is a way to wish girls good fortune, health and happiness, and to encourage their positive growth into women.

In our mixed-up house, we had dolls on display year-round. My mom's kind of a "sloppy" Japanese (see: naming me Yayoi when I was born in May) so she bent a lot of rules. Since her dolls weren't miniatures of the Emperor and Empress, I guess it was okay to have them collecting greasy dust on top of their heads and their cases, if they had one. Like every Japanese woman in America, my mother had what I call the sakura doll; a lady in a red kimono wearing a black pie-shaped hat tied under her chin, with a big branch of cherry blossoms (sakura) slung across her shoulder. Since I was the biggest neat freak in the house, it was my job to clean the case the lady lived inside with Windex. I also sprayed Pledge on all the kokeshi dolls (the armless, legless ones with bobbing round heads) that were stored inside my mother's china cabinet.

Even though I cared for my mom's dolls, I never entertained the idea of playing with them. That was reserved for the dozens of dolls my sister and I collected as Xmas and birthday gifts. I think we got at least two apiece annually.

We had our baby dolls that were all Caucasian since it was the only flavor dolls came in while my old a** was growing up. We also had a few toddlers, and even a high-heel wearing, grown lady with breasts.

Heavily influenced by our environment, my sister and I named our earlier dolls Mary Ann (she had a rubber ponytail), Mary and Sue (twin rubber toddlers), Linda (a baby doll that really wet her pants), and Lu Ann (pierced ears, pearl earrings and high-heeled feet). But our later dolls got more exotic names like Uneeda and Golly-a. For some reason, my sister and I were obsessed with our dolls' hair and ended up combing most of the synthetic stuff out so that they all became bald. Thank the stars, Mary Ann had a rubber ponytail. Even though my mother yelled at us for doing it, we just couldn't stop. I wonder now if our behavior was due to our inability to comb our own thick, wavy locks that my mom would, with her rough hands, deal with.

In all of our growing up years, my sister and I never once owned an "ethnic" doll, although I do recall seeing a few rare black ones around that time. Certainly, there were Japanese dolls that could be bought at gift shops or sent by relatives in Japan. But they were always so stiffly dressed up and expensive, that all we could do was gaze at them.

Nowadays, there are even mixed-race dolls which would've been a real treat for us. As I explained today to a grad student interviewing me about multiracial issues (thanks, Stacie!), not seeing your own face's likeness onscreen, in print publications, or even on dolls made me feel as if no one like me existed. But this lack of validation also gave me one wild creative streak and led me to draw people who looked just like me. Unfortunately, after graduating from art school, I realized that skill was a handicap because my freelance clients wanted me to draw only mono-racial people, particularly Caucasians. That's just the way it was in the 80's.

Hey, you're a doll for reading this. And, if you're on Facebook, please send me a friend request. We're getting ready to pimp our Hip Hapa Homeez group with more bling. With over 300 members, and so much action HAPA'ning lately with Watermelon Sushi, we'd love to invite everyone to get involved. Yes, we're still casting, and you can read submission details at the Hip Hapa Homeez group page. And, yes, we still have Hapa*Teez t-shirts available. This movie is a movement about us, ya'll, so please join us.

That's me and sis, b.r., above with Mary Ann and one of the Twins.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Haru Ga Kita!

Yes, my Japanese-speaking tomodachi, believe dat. Spring is coming! Along with bringing us longer, stronger, brighter days, Haru will also, I hope, envelope us in lightness. It's been a heavy Winter, and I'm ready for something luminous.

My friend Terra called today to say that she really enjoyed reading the blog about my father that I posted a few weeks ago. In it, I mentioned that he had been enslaved along with other black children in his Texas town, and forced to pick cotton for local whites. Terra's words today really encouraged me. And, because she is of Asian and Jewish descent, I know she gets the whole mixed-race bag and why it's an important topic.

After Terra's call, I went about my day and as Fate would have it, ended up in a conversation with a mono-racial Caucasian woman about my ethnicity and family. When I told her about my father suffering from fighting overseas in a segregated military for a country that denied him civil rights, she broke out in a wide grin and said, "Well, that's over. Now we have a black president!"

Somehow, she seemed so proud of this fact that she was inadvertently dismissive of what my father had endured. But I just smiled back weakly. How could I ever educate her about the atrocities committed against black folks since our forced migration from the Motherland 500 years ago? How could I tell her about a 14-year old Chicago boy named Emmitt Till who visited Mississippi and was beaten to death by white men for talking to a white woman? How could I convey to her the many revolutionaries whose lives were arrogantly ended by those who fought against change during the Civil Rights movement? How could I tell her of all that occurred to others in order to bring us to this intersection of having a "black" president? I knew I couldn't, so I simply left the conversation.

What would you have done? I know those of you who are mixed or of color have encountered many such moments. What did you do? What would Buddha do? Drop me a line and let me know.

Well, the subtitled version of NHK's Atsuhime is on its last episode this weekend, and at the same time a new taiga has begun. Tenchijin had been shown at least twice before but, without subtitles, I couldn't really figure out what was going on. Last week, though, the first episode aired with subtitles, and I'm addicted even though it's about two males--a local lord currently 13 years-old and his five year-old vassal. I'll miss the girls of the Ooku, but this has promise. I never thought I'd see anyone who could cry more than Atsuhime, but the kid playing the kid in Tenchijin cried buckets--on cue!

Nodojiman was also interesting last week because another brother won. I can't remember his name, but he was from Brazil and cried both when he was selected as a finalist and later when he won the Champion. The poor guy was so nervous that he forgot how to speak Japanese when the announcer asked him personal questions. My mother laughed and said, "Jero better watch out. Somebody going to beat him. He better hurry up and practice more."

As for all those Oscars going to Slumdog Millionaire, no comment. People of every racial persuasion keep asking me if I have seen it or will see it, and I tell them I don't think so. For one, I've been reading a lot of articles, especially on the BBC, that indicate the child actors, who really live in those slums, were exploited. I don't have any facts. I'm just repeating what I've read. But, right now, I don't feel comfortable contributing to anyone's exploitation--especially children's. Further, there are two perfectly talented Indian women filmmakers--Mira Nair and Gurinder Chadha--who could've made such a film. Although they've had successes in the past, I haven't seen them doing anything lately. It just makes me wonder; is it a gender or a race thing? But, hey, if you've seen the flick, and you think I'm wrong, drop me a line.

Right now, I'm working on a proposal for the Mixed Roots Film and Literary Festival to be held in June, so if you'd like to be on a panel or part of a workshop, drop me a line so I can factor you into my submission. One of the topics I'll offer will be about blogging and new media, but I'm also considering presenting one on relationships.

We're still in open casting call for Watermelon Sushi, too, so email me for a copy of the breakdown. And, I promised to post that link to the AAPEX blog--thanks, Jaz!--so here it is:

http://africanamericanplaywrightsexchange.blogspot.com/2009/02/yo-its-yayoi.html

And, here's a vid clip to entertain you this Spring:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bi9wttT8TZE&feature=related

Finally, that's my baby sis, b.r., doing her Sakura thing in that pix above many moons ago. The story is that she was slated to appear in a dance recital with three other girls with Japanese moms. On the day of, b.r. was riding her bike, fell down, and scratched one of her cheeks pretty badly. My clever, creative mother cleaned the wound, then added lots of rouge to both cheeks to make it look as if b.r. was just naturally rosy.

Ja matta ne.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Dang Links!

Try these, instead.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/arts/music/17rone.html?_r=1&scp=3&sq=ronettes&st=cse

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Film-Festival-Radio/2009/02/08/Film-Festival-Radio

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Ethnically Ambiguous Folks Of Yesteryear

I know that a lot of us mixed-race folks think we still have it tough even with biracial Obama in the White House. I mean, here we are in 2009 feeling the need to publish books, make films and hold conferences about why we should be validated as folks who identify with two (or more) races. Even the marvelous Mixed Chicks of L.A. are holding a Mixed Roots Film and Literary Festival in June. I mean, none of this stuff existed when I was growing up--which, truthfully, was so long ago that your grandmother probably doesn't even remember. So, although I think the world has some distance to travel in learning about us mixies and what it means to be multiracial, I do believe that we have made some progress.

For instance, back in the 60's and 70's, there were few faces of color (let alone blendies) gracing magazine covers or looking out from TV or movie screens. Sure, there was the occasional "token". Sidney Poitier put a lot of fearful white minds at rest with his graceful manners and non-threatening "Magical Negro" movie roles. And, there was Victor Sen Yung playing the harmless Hop Sing--the Chinese houseboy/cook on the cowboy TV series Bonanza. And, I'm sure there were others that I just don't recall at the moment.

But the appearance of anyone looking ethnically ambiguous like myself was so rare that I would remember that person forever. If I saw that person on TV, I would get up close to the screen and just stare. I would try to find info (back in the day before the Internet) in my mother's Good Housekeeping magazines or my own teen publications. And, if I discovered a photo in one of them, I 'd obsess about that person to the point of ridiculousness.

Honestly, I can't remember how old I was when I first noticed the all-girl group The Ronettes. Like a lot of female singers of their time, The Ronettes sang sweetly about a lot of mushy stuff--tunes about romance, about teen angst, about breaking up, and about making up. Produced by Phil Spector, this group caught my eye because although they appeared to have black blood, they also had light skin and long hair (before weaves became common). They also hailed from New York so I just assumed they were Puerto Rican.

Somehow, growing up biracial, I really connected with Puerto Ricans. While we lived on military bases, many of our neighbors were Puerto Rican. My best friend in grade school, Sondra, was Puerto Rican. Later, when I was old enough to analyze just what Puerto Rican meant, I realized that the ones I knew were mestizo--a mix of Indian, Spanish and African--because of the history of their island. Perhaps it was that reality of them being a combo of races like myself that drew me to their culture.

Sadly, Estelle Bennett of the Ronettes passed away last week. I know little of their personal lives except they were ripped off and sued for royalties, and that the lead singer, Ronnie, married then divorced Spector. But I wondered how it was for them growing up in New York as mixed-race children. In Estelle's obituary, it reports that she and her sister, Ronnie, were black, American Indian and Irish, while the third member of their group, Nedra Talley, was black, Indian and Puerto Rican. In other words, throw in the kitchen sink! Yet these ladies' ethnicities was something that was never written about anywhere that I recall. It just wasn't an issue back in the day of One Drop Rule.

But here we are some 46 years after the Ronettes had their first hit, and things are changing. Next year, the U.S. Census will allow us, for only the second time in history, to choose more than one. Poor Estelle. Reading her obit, I wondered if any of her purported mental problems were caused by her inability to forge a racial identity. I'll never know.

Here's the link to the New York Times article:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/arts/music/17rone.html?_r=1scp=3&sq=ronettes&st=cse

And, here's a link to Janice Malone's Film Festival Radio show that I was interviewed on last week:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Film-Festival-Radio-/2009/02/08/Film-Festival-Radio

And, one more. Here's the link to the interview I did with Jaz Dorsey for AAPEX:

http://africanamericanplaywrightsexchange.blogspot.com/2009/02/yo-its-yayoi.html

Okay, boys and girls. Keep the cards and letters coming. Watermelon Sushi is still casting, and we could be looking for you. So, go to Facebook and join the Hip Hapa Homeez group where you can read a copy of the casting call.

In honor of the Ronettes, that's a pix of me, above, looking my most Ronette-like self in the 1980's.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Valentine's Day Hearts To Midnight Velvet

Aloha!

I don't know if you celebrate Valentine's Day, but if you do I hope the day will be all you want it to be, with the one you want it to be with--regardless of race.

Last week, a catalogue called Midnight Velvet arrived at my home. Now, I'm not one to order stuff through the mail, but after thumbing through it I took a closer look because I noticed its pages contained mostly upscale clothing for sale. (I did once aspire to a fashion career, after all.) Imagine my surprise when I discovered on page 14 (how significant is that number?) a photo of an interracial couple modeling formal outfits. She, clearly a bright-skinned sistah, is dressed in a gold two-piece dress while her white male companion is wearing a beige linen suit. Hold up! I hear you saying, what makes you think they're a couple just because they're on the same page together? Well, besides flipping it by presenting the male as the white partner, the art director of the photo layout is clearly letting us know this couple is romantically linked because they are holding hands. Wow. I almost felt like buying something from Midnight Velvet just because they had the courage to display such a pairing. Alas, their merchandise isn't really my style. But here's their website if you'd like to compliment them about forwarding the mixed-race agenda on our behalf: http://www.MidnightVelvet.com

Speaking of love, the taiga series Atsuhime just gets sadder and sadder. The week before last, Shogun Iemochi died leaving Kazunomiya a young widow and Atsuhime a young grieving step-mother. But the saddest part is that it appears we've arrived at the end of the series. Of all the taiga I've watched, Atsuhime has been my favorite. Obviously, because she's a girl. But what a girl! Did she invent feminism, or what?

I don't know if you caught the controversy around teen star Miley Cyrus recently, but it seems so yesterday that any kid her age would make fun of Asian folks by pulling their eyes up in a slant with their fingers. I mean, come on, now. I remember all that "Chinese, Japanese, American Knees" b.s. from way back in the day. But what excuse do people Miley's age have? They are the most educated in terms of having access to instant information. They have been exposed to other cultures and ethnicities in ways nobody of any other generation has. Further, with her fortune and fame, one would assume Miley has the best tutors and teachers money can buy. Are they not teaching her awareness, manners, or what?

Well, things just keep moving on with the movie, Watermelon Sushi. While reels and headshots from talented actors continue to tumble in, we've also been reorganizing our production staff. Besides our producers in Tokyo and Nashville, it looks as if we may soon add another in New York. Stay tuned for more info.

btw, my interview with Janice Malone last Saturday, February 7, was a lot of fun. You can listen to it here: http://www.filmfestivalradio.com

And, I'll let you know as soon as my interview with AAPEX is posted.

Please don't forget about the Hapa*Teez t-shirts and your rear crawl credit. See http://www.cafepress.com/hapateez for more info.

And, remember to check us out at the Hip Hapa Homeez group page on Facebook. Sign up to join us. After all, what other organization can you belong to that has the famous old school rapper Kool Mo Dee as its Veep of Music Production?

Hollah!

Here's to a HAPA Val's Day if you do that sort of thing. My dad and my friend Brian Parker obviously do. I'm holding cards they sent me last year in the photo above.

Until next time, I send love from...

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

My Father

Dear Regular Reader,

If you think I write a lot about my mother, you're right. I mean, I can't get away from that woman. My sister and I have always been dominated by her strong personality, but our mom is also like our third sister--only bossy because she's the mother, after all.

This week, I'll fill you in a little bit about my dad. That's him in the photo as a young soldier in Germany. The Winfrey's (some who are first cousins to THE Winfrey--Ms. Oprah) are planning a family reunion this summer, and my father and I plan to attend. I just hope there's something vegan I can eat in Arkansas.

Although I've written about my dad extensively in an essay included in the anthology Brothers and Others published about seven years ago, I'll brief you here.

Born in Richmond Texas in 1927, my father was the oldest of three boys and a girl belonging to Andrew and Eleanor Winfrey. A chauffeur and maid, respectively, Andrew and Eleanor saved their money and built a small hamburger stand. It was the first eatery for blacks in Richmond, and, as the years passed, my grandparents grew it into a barbecue cafe with indoor dining. (Today, there's a monument to my grandfather in Richmond.)

As a child visiting during the summers, I would wait on customers and drink strawberry soda in that smoky cafe. Behind the restaurant, my grandparents raised animals they would slaughter for everything from ribs to chitlins. Thinking about it today, my vegan stomach turns. But back in the day, it was a source of pride knowing that my kin owned their own business. That, plus I was known to scarf more than a few pigs' feet.

Not satisfied with having just a cafe, my grandfather also learned bricklaying and built several houses. The family lived in one and rented the others to tenants. But by the time my father turned 18, he decided he wanted to see the world. He wasn't crazy about the idea of working in his parents' b-b-q joint forever, and all the successful black men he knew of in his small country town had joined the military to acquire their bling. So, my dad signed up for the Army.

Well, he ended up seeing the world, all right. He was stationed in the Philippines, Korea and Japan where he met my mother. Later, he was sent to Germany (we went with him) and several other American military bases. But my father also experienced a segregated military before President Truman desegregated it. While my dad was overseas fighting for America, America represented by the Army approached restaurants and shops near military bases in foreign countries and ordered them to either serve only its black or white soldiers--but never both at the same time. Once he returned from serving his country overseas, my father struggled to find a place to live in Washington state.

Several weeks ago, I read an article about the book Slavery By Another Name by Douglas Blackmon, and it triggered something my father had told me about his childhood. He'd said that after class each day, he went to work picking cotton. Naively, I replied that it must've been nice for him to have earned some money. But my father corrected me, and clarified that neither he nor the other children were ever paid for their labor. Instead, the white people who would round them up after school each day were still practicing slavery when it was clear that slavery had been declared illegal nearly 80 years before. According to Blackmon's book, slavery continued in the south until 1945--18 years after my father was born.

If you'd like to know more about my father, I still have a few copies left of Brothers and Others. Drop me an email at watermelonsushi@comcast.net, if you're interested in getting one.

And, if you're not busy this Saturday, February 7, at 4 pm, you'll have the opportunity to listen to me being interviewed by Janice Malone at http://www.filmfestivalradio.com. Please tune in to hear us discuss multiracial issues as well the Watermelon Sushi film.

I'm also anticipating an interview with playwright and Watermelon Sushi Associate Producer Jaz Dorsey of Nashville. I'll keep you posted about when the article will appear on the AAPEX blog.

Meanwhile, if you're on Facebook, join our group on the Hip Hapa Homeez page. Dude, we're hip, we're hapa, and we're homeez!

Until next week, I am...

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

Hau'oli makahiki hou, omedetto gozaimasu, and happy new year...again. Yes, it's Lunar New Year (or at least it was on Monday), and time for the Year of the Ox. Or as my mother calls the animal, "cow". "Cow," she will say, "is god." Whether I respond or not, she will go on by listing all the things people take from cows--from their milk to their flesh to their hides to make boots. Even when I argue, in my best vegan voice, "That's murder!", my mom will continue praising the god-cow and its useful body parts snatched by humans regardless of its refusals. "But Mom," I'll protest, "That's why Hindus worship cows. They're sacred so you shouldn't eat them."

I love listening to my mother "talk story" as they say in Hawai'i where everyone has a tale to share. (Check out the storyteller, below, at the Hawai'i state library.) I'm not sure why she's so good at it, but over the years I've heard my mom repeating all of them endlessly without wavering. Her facts are always the same, and the details she provides paint such visually rich pictures that I always feel like I'm right there at the scene.

My mother's stories range from the time when she was a little girl of six (when her father died and left their family penniless) to the time when she first arrived in America aboard a ship that landed in Seattle to many, many tales beyond. She tells stories of living in Richmond Texas in the 1950's when it was segregated and a white bus driver conspiratorially advised her that she need not sit in the back with my father's black relatives. She talks about my paternal grandmother who taught her how to wring a chicken's neck and fry it for my dad's lunch. One of my mother's favorite stories is about going to New York after learning English from our southern black kin and asking the bellhop to bring her "soda water". Of course, he brought her seltzer because at that time in New York if you wanted a soda, you'd call it a "pop".

My mother's stories have entertained me and my sister for decades. Even her husband perks up with attention whenever she begins with, "When I was little girl, stay Japan, I not have nothing. My daddy die, then we so poor." Evidently, my mother's family owned a hair salon with six employees, but the business burned down during a devastating earthquake. A year later, just as he rebuilt the salon, my maternal grandfather suddenly became ill and died. That threw the family into a tailspin with my grandmother forced to raise five children by herself.

Another time period that yields many tales are the childhoods of my sister and me. My mother loves telling the story about how as a baby in Texas my sister cried all night keeping her awake. I was three at the time and fast asleep as my mom relates it, but my sister could not be placated. As my mother walked to the bathroom cabinet and reached up to get a lamp to light the room with, something crawled over her bare feet. Looking down, she saw a snake sashaying away to hide behind the dresser. Quickly lighting the lamp, my mom grabbed a hoe and hunkered down in her bed watching for the snake to come out. Surprisingly, my sister suddenly stopped crying. (During this part, I always remind her that my sister was born in the Year of the Snake.) Hours later, in the still of the night, the snake crept from its hiding place, and my mother jumped up and chopped that poor creature into bits. Depending on my mood, I'll either tell my mom that she was very brave or, if I want to get a reaction, I'll chastise her for killing a helpless animal.

My mom is always filled with so many stories, but I think the most dramatic ones that she shares are about her life in Texas. After all, there were no Asians living in our little country town then, and she was treated like an oddity--except for by my dad's people. Talk about culture shock! I can't imagine moving somewhere where absolutely no one looked, spoke, ate or behaved like me. But she did it, and she earned some rewarding life experiences for it.

That's why I think it's so important to reach across cultural lines and invite someone different into your life. Interracial couples do that all the time. Just think how boring life would be if

every single human on earth was of one race.

Just remember this new year is Ox time and those animals are stubborn and pragmatic. This could prove to be one really s-l-o-w year.

Speaking of time, it's hard to believe that it's been one year since I began blogging regularly about mixed-race issues. I actually started Watermelon Sushi World in 2006, but with no time to invest in it then, I let it languish. What really brought me to attention was you. You guys are so encouraging and your comments throughout the last year are so appreciated. Please don't stop. And, please consider emailing me your mixed-race stories so that I can include them in a future blog. Email me at hiphapa@comcast.net

Oh, and here's a reminder that the producers of the Watermelon Sushi film are still checking out talent for our principal characters. Although we've received some nice reels and headshots, we're open to looking at more. We want to give everyone a chance, so please spread the word. Although we don't have our locations set yet, it doesn't matter where you live. It's a new world and even though this year may be slow as an ox, we can always bring you to us wherever we end up.

Here are some photos of my mom showing off her new boots (no, they are not made of "cow") and a hilarious note she posted on the fridge about her dog, Muffin. I added the "e" to her "befor".

Gung Hay Fat Choy to all of you from...

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Obama Triggers Flashback To Germany

Yesterday, on That Day, I was scheduled to speak about biracial issues at a local high school. But when the kids tramped in, all they wanted to do was watch the streaming of the inauguration. As their teacher frantically fiddled with a computer, I tried to get the students'

attention. But, they were having none of it. Instead, I heard incessant complaining about why the streaming wasn't already happening. "I better not miss my president," one aggressive young lady warned us. After ten minutes of clicking keys, the teacher gave up and herded the kids into the cafeteria to watch the big screen TV with other students. Meanwhile, she and I headed to the library.

During the ceremony, I went over in my mind all the interesting paths that I've seemingly crossed with Obama. There's the fact that his mother attended Mercer Island High School near Seattle where I've resided on and off for a number of years. As a child, Obama lived in Honolulu. Well, I've lived in Honolulu, too--twice. My buddy, Lucy, currently lives in Kailua where the Obama's vacationed recently and where I visited Lucy's home last fall. Obama went to Occidental College in Eagle Rock. Several years ago, I spoke to a class there about biracial issues. I also met Anjulie, a transracial adoptee from Seattle, who has since become my good pal because she was in the class that I spoke to that day. And, I have a close friend who lives in Eagle Rock which is also the location of a newspaper that I used to write film reviews for. As for the inauguration, I'm acquainted with the poet who read the poem since she's a good friend of a friend. I seem to know a lot of folks in Chicago who knew Obama, too. And, the list goes on. Crossing paths these days is not so extraordinary given the world of social networking sites and instant communications. Still, it's something to ponder. Will I make the ultimate crossing with Mr. O with an invite to the White House? Now, that would be a trip!

While I watched Obama yesterday, I--of course--thought a lot about his biracial heritage. Later in the day, I appeared on the Mixed Chicks Chat special podcast to add my two cents about the subject. I had to admit that I was disappointed that Mr. O himself has said little about being mixed. Sure, he's referred to himself as a "mutt" and has revealed information about growing up with white grandparents, but it's not like he's in constant conversation about what it's like being biracial. Certainly, I don't expect him to push aside his presidential duties to focus on the multiracial agenda. Yet, I wish he'd do more.

For one thing, 2010 will be only the second time in the history of the U.S. Census that those of us who identify with more than one race group will be able to check more than one box. Think about it. For most of my life (which has been a l-o-o-o-ng one at this point), I've had to deny one of my parents. And, because the One Drop Rule for African Americans has been so prevalent, the person I had to pretend didn't exist inside of me was my Japanese mother. Even though she's influenced me more than any other living being on this planet, I, in effect, have had to announce to the world that she was no part of me. So, yes. I do believe that Mr. O could be a little louder about us biracial babies. Let's see if he does so once we get past all the economic and international problems we currently face.

Thinking about Obama, I also realized that most of the time when monoracial people use the term "biracial", they mean people who are half white and half black. That took me back to the time when my family lived in Germany where my father was stationed for three years. After moving back to the states, we ended up in an all-white neighborhood where no one would speak to us much less allow their children to interact with my sister and me. It was a lonely time for us, but she and I made good use of our solitude by nurturing our creativity.

But the really interesting thing to me now that I'm older and can look back is how white folks in Germany were nothing like the white neighbors in our Washington state home. For one thing, a lot of German kids then had black fathers. And the white Germans we knew were very friendly. Was it because they lost the war? The white American soldiers that worked with my father were friendly, too. Was it because of the Army?

As much as I prefer the idea of pure peace, I realize that having armed forces is a necessary thing. One of the benefits of being in the Army is that everyone is pretty much equal. Being forced together makes people learn tolerance. In civilian life, our white neighbors had the option of ignoring us, but in the military we all had to get along.

In these photos, clockwise: A soldier friend of my dad's visits us in Germany and sits my sister on his lap. Next, I believe this woman's name was PeeWee. She was German, and I don't remember whether or not she had a family. It seems everyone liked having my sister sit on their lap. In the next photo, we're having a picnic with a girl name Bridget, her German mother, Carmen (in the center, who is biracial), her German mother, my sister and me. The last photo is of me playing in the snow with two friends. I don't recall if they were German or American, but they never called me any derogatory names like our Washington neighbors did.

Until next time, I am...

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Good Luck, Good Fortune

Do you believe in good fortune? Do you know people who always seem to luck out? You know the type; they get in a car wreck, but--fortunately--they only sustain minor injuries and, on top of that, the insurance company is paying them big time.

One of my neighbors recently sprained his back and got a brand new truck out of the deal. Personally, any injury would be too much of a sacrifice for me, but I always wonder about people who manage to luck out of what would have been an otherwise disastrous situation.

Some folks say it isn't about luck at all, but about faith. But aren't we talking about the same thing? I mean, no one can prove that anything exists beyond our mundane lives. Yet people all over the world stake everything they know on a belief that their brand of paradise exists just on the other side of their demise.

Personally, I'm more into metaphysics than religion, but it's interesting to note that neither belief system can be 100% guaranteed. My background is in Astrology, and I earned a degree from a school that Dr. Walter Coleman founded in Puerto Rico and New York. In the early 1990's, I read Astrology charts on a radio show, and I once belonged to the prestigious NCGR (National Council for Geocosmic Research). Although I discover a lot of accurate information when reading people's natal charts, I can't make predictions that are absolute and infallible. I don't believe anyone can.

Growing up, my parents each had her/his own beliefs. Like most Japanese people of her time, my mother practiced a mix of Shinto and Buddhism. Besides putting photos of her diseased parents inside her gohonzon, she often fed wild birds and exhibited great empathy towards those less fortunate than herself. But she never formally practiced any particular religion, and she'd admonish my sister and me about the existence of a higher power. In her broken English, she would chide, "God not say nothing. Only people say."

My father, on the other hand, came from a typical Southern Baptist black family. So, Sunday church attendance was mandatory for him, my sister and me. That is, until she and I got old enough to rebel. Luckily for us, my father was stationed away from home for long periods of time--up to two years, sometimes--and my sister and I took full advantage of it. With a foreign mother who didn't quite get all the customs of America, we had it pretty easy when it came to forging our own activities. But whenever my dad was around, my sister and I had to endure the scratch of starchy dresses, Jergen's lotion rubbed into our "rusty knees" and, along with embroidered handkerchiefs knotted around our coin offerings, we'd be taken to church.

Somehow, time has changed nothing. Today, my mother's married to an atheist. She still gathers table scraps to feed the wild birds hanging out in her front yard, and she still tears up whenever she watches the news. As for my dad, he still attends a Baptist church, still says grace at meal times, and still believes that you go to "heaven" after you die.

Then, there's Yours Truly (or Your Hip Hapa, I should say) who still reads Astrology charts and Tarot cards, and is absolutely riveted by Crop Circles and any sign of extraterrestrial life. For decades, I've believed that a higher consciousness is awakening in humankind, and that the portal to greater knowledge will open according to the Mayan calendar in the Age of Aquarius in 2012. I can't prove any of it, and I could be wrong, but it's just what I've always felt.

How about you? I'm really curious about mixed-race people and their personal beliefs. Most people adopt the religion of their parents. But what happens if you have parents of different races? Or, for that matter, parents who have different beliefs? Back in the day, there were issues whenever Catholics married Protestants, and vice versa. Drop me a line and let me know about how being biracial helped shape your belief system.

Meanwhile, here's a reminder that our producers have begun casting for principals for Watermelon Sushi. If you'd like to see a copy of the Open Casting Call, please drop me a line. If you're on Facebook, navigate to the Hip Hapa Homeez group page and read it there.

In keeping with my theme, above are some photos of the gods. The golden Buddha is my mom's favorite while the one next to it was snapped at a tea shop in Los Angeles. The Buddhas on the wall were taken at a fusion restaurant on Oahu. I've forgotten the names of the two ceramic Japanese gods sitting on my mom's table, but maybe you know. And, finally, there's Zoltar, the psychic who dispenses fortunes on Santa Monica's Pier.

Good Luck, ya'll!

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi