Spill Stories Part II: Black in Asia

Recently, I went to visit my mom and take a break from the city.

It took about five weeks to break out the photos upon photos that my mom had taken over her life. And it had been a long time since I had seen them. The photo negatives and the yellow envelopes that hold memories and moments. My favorite photos were the ones of me growing up in Japan. I held those photos the longest as my mom recounted places we had gone and the adventures we had.

My earliest memories of my childhood have always been set in Japan.

My dad was a Staff Sergeant in the Air Force and had been stationed at Yokota Air Force Base, Japan. We moved there when I was around one year old and stayed for five and a half years. For a little over a year, we lived off the military base before housing became available. I remember our small apartment, filled with many sliding screen doors and hardwood floors. My dad worked at the legal office and my mom taught English at a neighboring primary school.

It’s weird looking back on your childhood, especially in pictures. You can pinpoint different parts of the day. Remember the people or even a specific toy, and laugh at the outfits that were in style at the time. So much paisley print!

Lately, I’ve been navigating these feelings and memories of nostalgia. Every day I would set off with my mom to go to her work. I would sit behind her desk, sometimes paying attention to the lessons she taught the other students or other times reading and working on my activity books. My mornings were filled with thousands of hours of English lessons which in reality wasn’t that much, but to a child, this was not fun at all. But recess, recess was my favorite time of the day. No work, just play.

Being the only black kid, of course, I knew I was different from everyone else at my Japanese international school. I was reminded of this every time we left our home. People would stop my family to take pictures of us. I admit my family’s drip was amazing but the surprise photo ops happened because the Japanese strangers, literal people who were on the street, had never seen black people before. Anytime my dad would dance in public people would say he was Micheal Jackson because he could moonwalk. Not all black people look alike; insert eye-roll. And don’t even get me started on the numerous times people would. Touch. My. Hair. In my thesis, I will explain why you should never touch a black woman’s hair.

I made friendships on the jungle-gym. Despite the interactions I had in the world outside of the classroom, my mother’s students became my friends. We would pass notes when my mom was handing out assignments and share candy they had gotten from other teachers and soon I was asking my mom if I could go play with my new friends after school. I was welcomed into their homes during holidays and family events. I remember learning about my friends’ different traditions, trying new foods, and learning new words and phrases for everything around me.

One day after leaving the playground my mom caught me speaking Japanese to one of my friends. She likes to remind me of this moment, any time we’re talking about Japan: “I heard you talking to your friends on the playground in Japanese. And I asked you, ‘Charnell, are you speaking Japanese? When did you learn to speak Japanese!’ ” and my reply was very matter-of-fact for a four-year-old, stating, “I learned it from my friends, Mommy. I teach them English and they teach me Japanese.”

I think what surprised my mom the most was that despite the negative interactions we had outside our home and her classroom, I learned another language. Childhood me wanted to learn more about Japanese culture even though I was looked at like a foreign body.

Of course, now all I can do is count and pick up on some things here and there but I used to be fluent, I swear!

Years later, I still remember when the cherry blossom petals that smelled so sweet colored the streets light pink. I remember the intense beat of the taiko drums being played during summer festivals and colorful dragons dancing in the parades. I remember my friend’s grandmother teaching us how to conduct a Japanese tea ceremony at the age of five. I remember my friends Sasha and Christine, who went by their American names on base at school but by their Japanese names at home.

Japan will always be my first home, filled with positive and negative memories of culture and community that will always be a part of me. Those experiences influenced who I am today.

It’s weird looking back on your childhood, especially in pictures. I mentioned growing up in Japan to one of my friends, Emeric, and we talked about nostalgia and childhood innocence — how things we loved and held dear to us are uncovered with words we didn’t know before that describe the problematic structures of society. Emeric said,

“Those experiences in your childhood are real, and the older you get the more the meanings of those experiences expand.” And that really stuck with me.

The fantastical memories were shown in a new light.

Yes, there were smiling moments captured on camera but there were also moments of eye-rolls, anger and frustration that need to be remembered too. This fact doesn’t ruin the memory but develops it. It brings growth and dimensionality to the present and it brings realism and accountability to the communities I call home.