The metaphor of the moon continues to captivate me as I study identity development in persons of mixed ancestries like Byron Fija. In 30 years of research I have learned that identities can not be quantified. Human affiliations and attachments can not be reduced to percentages. If I explain to someone who I am as “half Japanese” and “half Irish,” it is only for the sake of simplifying things for the listener. I have never met anyone who really felt “half” anything. We all feel a more complex sense of having multiple parts that we are learning to accept and appreciate, balancing their influences and blending them into a synergistic whole. This whole self is greater than the sum of its parts.

People like Byron have also taught me that we do not want anyone, including parents, to tell us who we are based on their limited vision and restricted understanding. We do not want to be controlled by society’s definitions and labels that place us in categories and classifications. We do not want to be confined to boxes that threaten to divide and separate people. We do not even want our identities dictated by parental needs and expectations. We seek self understanding and connections to our many parts. We embrace ways of living that are authentic, meaning expressive of who we are and where we are at home. We desire self definition, the ability to name and label who we believe ourselves to be.

When Half is Whole is a book of stories of the developmental journeys of people with mixed ethnic backgrounds. I gathered these stories from individuals in the United States and Asia whose lives blend Asian and American in their families, whether biological or adoptive. The themes of their lives involve balancing, connecting, and finding meaning in their roots. The stories show how they have engaged in the process of becoming not “half” this or “half” that but whole human beings. In searching for their roots, they discover connections that bring them into contact with communities and their journeys engage them in healing themselves and healing others.

For parents of children who are of different kinds of mixed backgrounds When Half is Whole provides an intimate view into the complex world of identity development. One of the consistent messages I have received from numerous “mixed” people is a sense that parents think they understand their children but in reality do not. Seeing the world through the eyes of their children is much more of a challenge than they realize. Listening to the kinds of stories told in this book is a way of enhancing understanding.

President Obama could help us by using his personal experience to provide leadership in this area. His assertion that he is African American gives him an identity and affiliation with a group of people to whom he is connected through his father’s ancestry and lived experience. But it is only in claiming all of his ancestries that Obama will help us to move beyond the rigid and confining definitions of race and ethnicity. His reasoning that he is black because that is what others see is insufficient as he knows that he is much more than that by what he has received through his mother. Society tells him that he must keep that part hidden, like the dark side of the moon, but more openly embracing all his heritages would give a powerful message that we can all do the same.

I started out writing When Half is Whole thinking that it was a book only about mixed race people. But by listening to the stories of others I began to realize that is was more than that. It is a story about human development of all people. We are all fragmented and made to feel less than whole. We all have parts that others do not see and that we ourselves have lost connection, deny, or reject. But we are striving toward wholeness and this could be called our journey of healing and development. Everyone can see themselves in the moon, whether new moon, crescent moon, half moon, or full moon, there is always much more to us than what meets the eye.

But in the midst of his great sorrow, he discovered Chio’s journal and was uplifted from a feeling of complete exhaustion, receiving comfort, consolation, and encouragement, as if he could hear her voice, alive, reading her words. He also had kept a journal and the idea came to him to put them together. He found that it filled each day with a small purpose that helped him forget the emptiness of his life alone and his failing health. The fruits of his labor, Two Trees: A Couple’s Cancer Journal, became his spiritual rehabilitation and his legacy to their love as he followed his wife, together in cancer.

When Chio was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2005, Soh became her caretaker. He dedicated his life to helping her battle her illness. But his task was complicated when he too was diagnosed with stomach cancer the following year. Although he had expected to outlive her, suddenly he was concerned whether he would be able to care for her until the end. Soh became both caretaker and fellow traveler, following along as Chio moved through stages of cancer, facing each challenge before he did. She became his teacher of living and dying.

Trying to make sense of their predicament, Soh asked her,

“What have we done wrong? Why have we met such tragedy?”

Chio answered, “We have done nothing wrong, it is just our fate.”

She even sees this fate with gratitude: “Because we are having this strange experience I can empathize with the feeling of those who suffer, I can be one with them.”

It is this very compassion that Soh believes caused Chio’s cancer—her bountiful kindness in caring for her depressed mother. But while Soh bears a grudge against her mother, Chio accepts this as her fate and even says, “I wish I had been kinder to my mother.”

Soh reflects on the great irony in his belief that Chio’s cancer in her lungs was caused by kindness, and his, in the stomach, by anger.

Chio tells Soh that she accepts all of life as her destiny and God’s will. She is at peace. A nurse tells Soh that she has never seen someone so stable in this situation and he too is amazed.

“How can you be so bright and cheerful when you have such a serious illness?” he asks.

Chio smiles and replies, “Because I am grateful for the kindness of those around me.” Her words of thanksgiving echo throughout the journal—giving thanks to those who care for her, thanks for beauty, thanks for truth. Chio, an artist, notices and acknowledges the small things in life as blessings—a simple meal of rice and miso soup, the nurses who serve her, those who deliver her food, her sons and their wives, her natural medicine, her hospital medicine, morning exercise, just reading a paper leisurely and living at home like a “heroine with her partner.”

Shortly before her death Chio wrote, “I may not be long in this world, it may be the terminal stage for me but every morning I am thankful for the gift of life, being able to take a deep breath of a flower’s fragrance. Last night Soh told me tomorrow was our wedding anniversary and he would buy me flowers. In bed, I wondered why I had received such a wonderful husband. Maybe it was my grandmother’s prayers. But such a man is wasted on a woman like me. Others must be jealous. Thank you.”

Chio’s thoughts are not all peaceful. She does not want to be a burden to others. When she feels she wants to live longer, she worries that living longer may make it difficult for Soh who is also preparing to die but feels he must live for her.

As Soh observes Chio’s acceptance, he continues to ask why he has cancer. He moves from blaming her mother for his cancer to wondering if he wished it on himself. Chio tells him, “You have really become my comrade-in-arms. I’m sorry for the stress I caused you.” When Soh hears this he realizes that through his illness he has bridged the gap that divides those with cancer and those without. He writes, “Being called by Chio her “comrade in arms” gives me a peaceful feeling of oneness.”

Soh accompanies Chio through the final stage of dying, interpreting her slight nod to his question “Are you ready?” as a request for a “24 hour sleep” injection that delivers her from her agony. He soon enters the same hospice, accepting his cancer without extreme interventions. On the last page Soh writes that putting Two Trees together gave him greater appreciation of Chio’s kindness and strength.  He is thankful that fate has “delayed his execution” and granted him the time to complete both his caretaking and his book. As he reflects on their life together of 44 years, he writes that “all that remains is gratitude.”

The Intima: http://www.theintima.org/following-you-together-in-cancer.html

When I heard this story I thought, Oh, it’s already started. People see colors and label according to what they see. The little cousin saw white and labeled the baby white. But mom is Japanese as well as Irish and Scottish. Dad is Irish as well as African American and American Indian. The baby is therefore all of these. But he is already being labeled by a single category, a race.

And he is already being looked at in relation to his family. The little cousin was intrigued  because to him mom is probably white and dad black, so put black and white together and what do you get? A white baby?

If all that was involved was the child’s fascination, there would be no problem. But it doesn’t stop with a child’s innocent curiosity. Soon social judgment kicks in. People will make different assumptions about who the child is if they see him as black than they would if they saw him as white. People will treat him differently. The child will absorb all of this and the way he sees himself, his identity, will be heavily influenced.

One day the white saviors may come running to help protect him from the black man beside him who is his . . . kidnaper?  When he is with his darker skinned grandmothers will they be regarded as his . . . nannies? If he has a darker skinned sibling in the future will one of them be seen as . . . adopted?

The little boy’s reaction is natural. His perceptions and thoughts are simple. But as we grow older we hopefully learn that families are complex. Genetics are complicated. Families are also made up of people coming together in many different ways, including remarriages, adoptions, donor sperm and eggs.

As adults we show our ignorance in simplistic judgments about families and their members. Some of these judgments are disturbing, some are hurtful, some are dangerous. A child’s innocent remarks provoked all kinds of thoughts and concerns in me about this baby’s future. But at least for now he is just a baby, a wonderful and mysterious creation.

When we realized that she could no longer live alone in Japan, we brought Obaachan to the U.S. to die. No one actually said that but we all knew it was true. After all, grandma was 99 and how many more years could she possibly live? Better to die among those she loved the most, we reasoned. She could pass her few remaining years in peace and would be able to die surrounded by her only child and grandchildren.

Since she had never actually lived anywhere else in the world for 99 years we decided it would be best to call it a trial and tell her that she could return to Japan if she decided that it was the best thing to do. But since she could no longer live alone, should she decide to go back she would have to enter a nursing home there. She moved in with my mother and older sister in Massachusetts. I was in Tokyo.

Days passed and tensions mounted. As the time approached for a decision to be made I received a phone call from my older sister who does not speak Japanese, requesting that I ask Obaachan what she wants to do.

“Okay,” I said, and when the phone was passed, asked, “What do you want to do Obaachan?”

“I think I should go back.”

She gave the phone to my sister and I translated into English.

“She thinks she should go back.”

This answer did not satisfy my sister who insisted, “I want to know what she wants to do, not what she thinks she should do.”

“Okay, let me ask her again.”

“Big sister wants to know what you want to do Obaachan.”

“Well, I think your mother wants me to go back.”

I translated this too.

My sister said, “That might be true but I want to know what she wants to do.”

“Okay, I’ll try again.”

“Obaachan, don’t worry about what you think mom wants, what do you want to do?”

“I think your sister’s husband is not comfortable with me here.”

I translated this too, but my sister said, “Tom’s fine with whatever we decide. What does she want to do?”

“Sister says her husband is fine with you here. She wants to know what you want to do.”

“It’s probably better for everyone if I go back.”

My sister was getting a little frustrated. “I’m not asking her that. I want to know what she wants. Tell her that if she wants to stay, I will take care of her.”

“Big sister says if you want to stay she will take care of you.”

“I appreciate it, but I should probably go back.”

“She thinks she should go back,” I told sister, realizing we were back where we started.

She replied, “I just want to know what SHE wants to do.”

I was also exasperated, “I know you do, but maybe she just can’t answer your question in the way you want her to.”

There was a silence, then my sister said, “Okay, I understand.”

Obaachan went back to Japan a month later. She moved into the nursing home without complaint. She is still there today. Would she have been happier in the U.S.? I don’t know. There were tensions with my mother, and there could have been incredible problems with health insurance that would have exhausted all her savings before the bills were passed on to us. And how would she have communicated with doctors, nurses and caregivers?

Though I feel sad and imagine that she is lonely this is the way she is living out her last years. Maybe she really did want to come home to Japan, where she was born, where her mother died, where she herself wanted to die. Perhaps she could never express her desire, but perhaps she needed to be where things were familiar—the way things looked, smelled, the natural world of home. Maybe she couldn’t stand losing memories.

It was her choice, I say to comfort myself. But what does this mean? Could she ever really choose what she wants—a woman raised at a time and place in which a woman’s desires did not matter, a woman raised in a society in which she could only see herself in a contextual web of relationships? When we asked her “What do you want to do?” could she possibly see her wishes simply as personal, individualistic desires? What Obaachan wants and has always wanted is what is best for all her loved ones.

Amy describes her two girls, Sophia and Lulu, as having “brown hair, brown eyes, and Asianesque features.” They both speak Chinese and Sophia eats “all kind of organs and organisms, duck webs, pig ears, and sea slugs, critical aspects of Chinese identity.” Yet, on their first trip to China, the girls are treated as spectacles, drawing curious crowds, even in cosmopolitan Shanghai, when people stared, giggled, and pointed at the “two little foreigners who speak Chinese.” At the zoo, when the girls were taking pictures of the baby pandas, the crowd was taking pictures of the girls.

Later, back in the U.S., when Amy refers to the kids as Chinese, Sophia corrects her, “Mommy—I’m not Chinese.”
Amy insists, “Yes you are.”

Sophia responds, “No, mommy—you’re the only one who thinks so. No one in China thinks I’m Chinese. No one in America thinks I’m Chinese.”

Amy is upset, but not swayed. She writes, “This bothered me intensely, but all I said was, ‘Well they’re all wrong, you are Chinese.’”

To me, this is a great message to give your kids — Don’t let others tell you who you are. You determine who you are. Don’t let anyone take away your identity. You need to know who you are, accept it, and assert that identity to others.

What more could a parent do to affirm a child’s identity? Exactly what Amy does, give them resources to strengthen and assert their identity—taking them to China, introducing them to Chinese foods, and providing the greatest gift of all, language. They speak Chinese. This ability empowers them to claim a Chinese identity—if they want to.

Whether the kids choose to emphasize their Chinese identity is up to them. The college years are often a time of ethnic identity exploration and young people can find great meaning in embracing their ethnicity and joining a community of others who feel the same way. But we all have multiple identities, and the kids may find that their ethnicity has little meaning for them compared to other interests. This is a personal choice. Some young people of mixed ancestry identify as Asian, where others join groups like Harvard’s HAPA (Half Asian People’s Association), and describe themselves as “mixed Asian American.” Others consider drawing lines between different ethnic groups a form of racism, and say their ethnic identity is situational, depending on where they are.

Some Hapa do not accept who they are, wishing they were more like their friends and idols. Too often kids from multiethnic backgrounds like Amy’s, who are Chinese and Jewish, are influenced by the reactions they receive from others about their identity. As Amy’s kids found out on their trip to China, others are quick to classify you, and to tell you who you are and who you are not. When people kept telling them that they were not Chinese, they could have decided it’s easier to just accept what others say. This is when Amy’s message of defiant self-affirmation can be crucial to the child, empowering them to assert with pride and confidence, “Well, you’re wrong, I am Chinese.”

Kathy and I looked over and there were three of our Japanese American friends at another table smiling at us, one with a mischievous grin. Sandy had jokingly pointed out that I was a mixed blood amidst a group of full bloods. Kathy and I smiled back at them and returned to our conversation.

But Kathy suddenly surprised me by saying, “Actually, I’m kind of mixed too; my mother is from Okinawa; like an interracial marriage to Japanese.” I looked over at my friends and remembered that one of them had told me his father was Chinese. Hey, that makes three of us and only two of them!

I recalled this incident when I read yesterday in the New York Times that while Asian Americans still have one of the highest interracial marriage rates in the country, Asian Americans are marrying other Asian Americans more often than in recent years. The article reported that many of these couples are of different ethnicities, such as Chinese-Indian and Filipino-Vietnamese. This means that mixed Asian Americans will continue to increase, and that many of them will not be apparently ethnically mixed. Of course, these individuals exist now and the diversity among any ethnically defined subgroup of Asian Americans is far greater than assumed. Little is know about their experience, and I think they are generally not regarded as Hapa and may not consider themselves to be Hapa. But as for others, such as black Asians, who now feel excluded from Hapa circles, a space to express mixed ancestries may be appreciated. Developing these welcome spaces is a challenge facing Asian American communities.

When I asked my friend Kathy Kaya if she identified with “hapa,” she told me there are two reasons why she has not:

“One is that some multiracial Hapa I have met questioned my “Hapa-ness” because I don’t look mixed-racial, so I have not sought out or associated with Hapa groups. I am happy to hear that many JA’s who identify with being Hapa have found ways to be proud of and to celebrate their Hapa identitities and their Japanese heritage. However, I can’t help but wonder how many more people could feel connected with positively identifying as Hapa if there were a more inclusive construction of Hapa identity, rather than what I have experienced as a view that excludes certain groups of people.

I think the other reason why I do not associate myself with a Hapa identity is that it seems to me to perpetuate the dominant view that the only people who can call themselves Japanese or Japanese American are “pure” Japanese. The word hapa itself signifies that you’re “only half.”  Interestingly, I have had some JA’s tell me that they consider me a JA because I can “pass.” They don’t seem to see how that notion in itself diminishes my Okinawan identity as well as diminishes people of mixed race and/or mixed ethnicity. Why shouldn’t I be able to claim both identities, or just one if that’s who I am?

To be honest I’m so tired of other people attempting to define who I am or who I’m not—I’m not really Hapa and I’m not really Japanese American because I am half Okinawan—or making me feel like I don’t belong.  I think it was these experiences that inspired me to create a space in my dissertation research where a diverse group of JA’s (specifically Sansei women) could bring their whole selves to the group and feel seen and heard.  It’s also why I gravitate more toward the concept of being Nikkei, which I believe includes ANYONE of Japanese ancestry.

With the high rate of sansei and yonsei interracial and interethnic marriages/partnerships, there will be a growing number of JA’s who will have multiracial and multiethnic backgrounds. How can we open the circle of inclusion and create welcoming spaces for the multiplicity of JA identities and diverse experiences of future generations rather than maintaining narrow conceptions of what it means to be Japanese American? I think it is important to create spaces where people can connect on that which is common to all as well as connect on the things that diversifies the group and makes individuals unique.  While this is a challenging endeavor, I think this can be accomplished without excluding certain groups of people and fostering dominant relations and structures.  I know that I have much to learn about my own conditioning to dominant beliefs and values and would welcome a place where I could connect with others and we could learn from one another.”

I introduced myself to the Irishman by my father’s family name Murphy and watched as he stared at me in seeming disbelief and confusion before uttering, “Well, it’s a good name anyway.” I recalled this incident recently as I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a bunch of other Irishmen. The Boston Globe carried an interesting story that day—St. Patrick’s Day Holds Mixed Emotions For Some—that introduced some other Irish who celebrated their heritage with complex feelings.

There was Ryan McCollum, whom others usually think is black, and Mari Tanaka, who everyone labels as Japanese. Many of the growing population of people who claim a multiethnic heritage have Irish roots. But the joys of embracing Irish roots are complicated by the challenges of being multiethnic. Their identity assertions are often met with incredulity and challenged. As Kelly Bates, a mixed-race Irish-American put it, “I always feel this deep kinship with Irish people in Boston, but I don’t always feel like they have this kinship with me.”

This may be especially common among those labeled as black, even though Irish and African Americans have much in common. They were once both stigmatized by other Americans and worked and lived in close proximity, but as the Irish “became White,” antagonisms grew over labor rights, housing and public school desegregation, expressing themselves as racism. But some multiethnics are mending this rift by telling their stories. Alex Haley, the famed author of the classic African American identity novel, Roots, wrote Queen about his Irish roots. And President Obama nearly became O’Bama after visiting Ireland and proclaiming his Irish ancestry.

Of course, there are self-proclaimed Irishmen in the United States who tell multiethnic Irish that we are not Irish. I encountered this reaction constantly when I was growing up among Irish Americans in Massachusetts in the fifties and sixties. It is one of the reasons I came to identify more with my Japanese side.

“You don’t look like a Murphy.” I was always told. And I came to accept their judgment and think of myself as Japanese and not Irish.

But on St. Patrick’s Day as I belted out classic songs like Foggy Dew, I was feeling a bit Irish. I realized that the difficulty in being Irish is not mine, but a status complicated by racial divisions and hierarchies. I, and other multiethnic Irish, will encounter challenges to our authenticity. But we can empower ourselves by knowing our Irish family roots, language, and history, to prove our Irishness.

Because of our physical appearance, being Irish is a less apparent part of our identity. But we are reminders that every Irish person doesn’t look like a stereotypical Irishman. Irish come in all colors. And the next time someone says to me, “You don’t look like an Irishman,” I’ll just have to say, “Well I am Irish, and this is what I look like, so I must look like an Irishman!”

Despite her deterioration, Julia always smiled when we were together. I doubted her sincerity at first. Why wasn’t she crying? Why wasn’t she raging against her cruel fate? Instead, Julia expressed gratitude and appreciation for the doctors, the nurses, her family, me, and the good life with which she was blessed.

Julia became my teacher. When she sensed that I was scared for her, Julia would look into my eyes and say softly “You know, we are not our bodies.” As we sat there together, my hand resting in hers, we would occasionally fall into a peaceful silence. With her kindness and compassion, she calmed my fears.

I was not religious, but I knew that something profound was happening through my relationship with Julia. Was I being awakened by empathy, a deep sense of awareness of our connection as humans? Was I discovering that inside her body, as in all our bodies, a soul was ripe to be free? I still struggle to describe the way anxiety subsided in me and I was bathed in her peaceful radiance. All I know is that Julia helped free me of my fearful response to such severely disabling conditions as hers.

While I still can not imagine what it is like to live in a body like Julia’s day after day, she showed me the possibility of seeing beyond the visible physical realities. Whether we call it compassion or soul or something else, awakening to a different worldview can make even such an extreme and seemingly tragic life rich in its moment-to-moment beauty. Seeing Julia gracefully embrace the profound physical changes in her life revived my appreciation for the resilience of the human spirit.

I know what I look like. I’ve seen my face in the mirror before. But I forget that others might see me differently than I see myself. And I know who I am. But I am aware that others usually do not know me.

I was reminded of this while riding in a taxi with my 108 year-old grandmother in Matsuyama, a city on the island of Shikoku. Incredibly, she still likes shopping and chatted excitedly as we drove downtown to Mitsukoshi, her favorite department store. The taxi driver eyed me for a while in the rear view mirror before asking the inevitable question, “Where are you from?” I tried to dampen his curiosity. “Tokyo,” I answered curtly. But he was not easily discouraged, “I mean which country?” “Country?” I repeated, as if it was a dumb question. “I think Tokyo is in Japan, isn’t it?”

He looked at me strangely before laughing nervously. He was puzzled. He expected me to say America. Of course I could say America. My father was American and I lived there half my life. But I could also say Japan. I was born here, my mother, wife and children are Japanese and I have lived the other half of my life here. Then again, I could also say that I am multicultural, multilingual, multinational, transnational, international or a global citizen, not just a citizen of any one country.

My grandmother sitting beside me interrupted my musings by declaring to the taxi driver, “He’s an American, from the United States.”

I was about to protest, “Yes, but I am also Japanese,” but knew that it was futile; after all these years living in Japan, working for a national university, even legally becoming a Japanese citizen, she still thinks of me as her beloved American grandson.

“He grew up in America. That’s why his Japanese is a little funny,” she explained.

“Oh, so that’s why; he’s American! I thought he sounded a little strange,” the taxi driver said. “Japanese is really a hard language, isn’t it?”

It can’t be that hard if you learned it, I was tempted to say, but just kept quiet. After all, I am often told that I look different and sometimes am told that I talk a little differently. And if you look different and talk differently then you are likely to be seen as a foreigner in Japan, regardless of any other qualities you possess.

But to me, all the people who are citizens of Japan are Japanese. It doesn’t matter how they look or how they talk. I even think that some of those who are not legally citizens but have lived here a long time or their whole lives might be regarded as Japanese. In my view, including more people as Japanese will benefit society and is the way of the future.

I am often reminded that not everyone thinks the way I do. To my grandmother and the taxi driver, a person is either Japanese or American, one or the other, but not both. For them, Japanese is defined narrowly and does not include those who look different, talk differently, or think and act differently.

Later that night after I had left my grandmother at her home I got into another taxi. The driver eyed me in the rear view mirror before asking, “Where are you from?”

There are times that I feel it is my responsibility to educate others about the reality of multiple identities, hidden identities, stereotypes and racial profiling and so on, but it was late and I was tired so I just answered, “America.”