This illustration and poem combo explores my feelings around invasive assumptions and advances people have made in regards to my Japanese-American identity. More often than not, fascination of my heritage derives from media's depiction of Japan and other vaguely Eastern depictions on screens big and small. A non-exhaustive list includes anime, Japanese period pieces (primarily samurai), kaiju movies, weird commercials, overworked salary men, etc.

In Japan, "いらっしゃいませ" (Ira'shaimase) or "Come on In" is a common phrase people would hear when entering a store, restaurant, or commercial space. When patrons enter or graze curiously in front of the store, employees at these places would often shout this phrase or simply mumble it under their breath as courtesy. I took this phrase sarcastically - inviting people into my space if they're willing to go through various levels of their biases in order to see me and other Asian-American people as complex humans."

Follow me

to the Family Room

where hangs the finest American curtains

from Japan.

When you do, maybe you’ll look closely

below the protective layer

of model minority prestige,

how my past lives weaved 

patterns of countryside, urban life,

generational homes

with sunlit grids of Butsudan, flower shops,

and an unforgettable lace

of suicidal nationalism.

The curtains will cast shadows onto me

for everyone to see:

Yes-Men, Salary Men, Robotic Men,

“Exotic, sexual, but still nice” women

nodding politely to narcissist bosses 

who expect tight lips,

nodding politely   

to 65 year old white men,

who see me as young enough to fantasize

yet old enough to consent

to marital questions in the “too close for comfort” economy seating 

on United.

You’ll sit with voracious curiosity

on the sofas, a rusty mahogany

built from a colonial past -

Shadows of thousands

dead from “my people’s” imperial spread 

and destruction. 

The cushions will hide

fistfuls of shame and crime.

Mites

nibble away at memory 

despite their screams

to be heard

by a denying country.

Maybe you’ll notice the ceilings lights, made 

from thousands of cranes for hibakusha - 

my grandfather, my great aunts and uncles, unborn babies 

buried in the ashes, remnants 

Of hope

Of promises

Of a bomb

Of bodies 

Of lies,

Of lies,

Of deadly lies.

If you join me in the Kitchen,

you’ll see a handsome spread of outside expectations.

A table colored by sushi, dumplings, miscellaneous fish,

Rice,

Chopsticks.

Onlookers expecting flavors

of mecha-robots and screaming Super Saiyans

Against the background of masterfully painted scenes -

“Oh you speak Japanese?

Blurts an ecstatic wide-eyed "weeb"

“Kawaii!”

“Oishii!”

“But also, Why are Japanese people

so lonely?”

But if you take a bite

You may realize

That the sushi tastes like New Jersey’s Route 3,

fermented for 18 years -

greased by motor oil -

acrid yet sweet with a 1:00AM diner hospitality.

The dumplings, wrapped with perfect English,

Leave a history of bilingual failure.

The fish, with its sumptuous juices

Holds more than orchestras and anime OSTs -

You will taste flavors like Cardi B, Beyonce

Beatles, Ariana Grande

And the rice isn’t just rice

reflecting back your whiteness-

superior enough to question and comment 

the hues and sensations of my Orient.

This grain is not just a Color 

that institutions, funders, white gaze try to scrub away 

under the running tap

and slap onto the emotional chopping block 

to suck out all of its marketable wokeness 

This grain smells of all my homes: 

my ancestral home, my birth home, my home away from home -

Memories conjured from sweet, hot steam 

embrace the dry air of this New England apartment

colored by makeshift　仏壇, protected

with thriftstore picture frames and おみやげ keychains, 

This grain, with thousands of others just like it,

emit steam from a lovingly gifted electric pot,

that you might mistake as 

a robot.

In my Bedroom,

I’ve decorated the walls

With mirrors.

Mirrors that reflect

back - 

back to my birth home,

back to my ancestral home,

back to my regrets of bilingual failure

back to my memories of a last breath

and resisting the pull of voyeuristic oppression olympics

back to me -

back to back / I come face to face

with bodily autonomy and insecurity,

with high-functioning depression

with hopes for the future and dread for what's to come,

with those I love dearly looking 

back at me / seeing me,

Individual pieces of me

collecting those into some form

of a person they imagine me to be.

And I’ve spread my bed

With soft comforts

Like painting at daybreak,

Like running with a slight breeze

At 65 degrees, cloudy.

Like Netflix Kdramas that overpromise

Like the Beatles my mom used to hum -

Like rice,

Like steam,

Like the person 

I want to be.

But why should I tell you any of this?

You’re not even here.

You haven’t even made it

into the Family Room.

You haven’t even knocked.