I was never just Japanese, because my parents needed
Us to be Americans They planted a hyphen in my ethnicity,
Sown by their incarceration in young adulthood.
Like many of his peers, my father served in the Army
Fighting not just for his country but for his race,
So his fight continued after the war and he enlisted.
His children. We never flew Koi on Boy’s Day;
Walked into anyone’s house, including our own with shoes
On; used chopsticks only in the dark of our kitchen.
I came to think of myself as White whenever a mirror
Was not in front of me until I came to Hawai‘i
And was surrounded by walking mirrors in Moiliili.
I became so awkwardly comfortable with my new
Identity that I did not notice how Japanese I had become
Until the time my parents came to Hawai‘i and we walked
Into a roadside diner with an American name. In the open,
On every table, were bottles of Kikkoman shoyu.
My father kept picking one up and staring at it.
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