My whole life, I’ve been embarrassed to be a fourth-generation Asian-American. Unlike my second-generation friends and classmates, I never grew up speaking more than one language, and I often found myself learning about Japanese cultural traditions through textbooks rather than in my childhood. I recognize how ridiculous it sounds, especially because being in America longer confers a certain amount of privilege, but growing up, I had cultural imposter syndrome.
This led me to constantly search for what could make me an “authentic” Asian-American. Was it learning hiragana, katakana, and kanji? Was it regularly cooking tamagoyaki and other Japanese dishes? Or was what I was looking for a wild goose chase — was that permission slip to call myself Asian impossibly out of my reach just because I was so far removed from Asia?
My discomfort with my fourth-generation status was multiplied when I entered the Pilipino Workers Center (PWC), my host site. There, I was surrounded by people who felt sure and comfortable in their identities as Filipino-Americans. Meetings open with small talk with Tagalog, and it’s a given that staff pay attention to events happening in the Philippines, like the recent transition of presidency. PWC members also have a sense of shared cultural identity tied to their roots in the Philippines. While I had to google who Noel Cabangon was, to the members of PWC he was a national treasure of which they had memorized many of his songs. Even those who weren’t immigrants themselves had strong ties to their roots and an undeniable sense of cultural credibility.
Throughout the summer though, my experiences at both CAUSE and PWC gave me a new sense of identity as an Asian-American, and a new consideration of what my “roots” really were. Since my CAUSE cohort was composed of other Asian-Americans, the majority of which were from California, my identifying trait became where I was born rather than what race I was. In the same way that the staff at PWC feels about their roots in the Philippines, I feel about my home in Hawai’i, where my family has resided for generations after coming over as sugar plantation laborers. I have no doubt that colonialism contributes to this, but mainland experience is always valued higher than work or school in Hawai’i. Without me fully realizing it, the “superiority” of mainland education pushed me away from my roots.
Despite my physical distance from Hawai’i, I feel a similar sense of obligation and passion for my home and loved ones there that I’ve witnessed at PWC staff meetings when we discuss happenings in the Philippines. While I have no right to the land as a non Native Hawaiian, I do still have a duty to give back to the place that raised me, to my roots. While I may not fit the narrative of the second or first gen Asian-American experience, I also carry valuable cultural ties to places and people I no longer see everyday.
My search for authenticity has led me to many places. It led me to Japanese language classes, to obon festivals, and most recently, to CAUSE. And though I’ve spent so much time learning how to write an essay in Japanese or researching Japanese foods, I didn’t realize one important thing. How lonely it’s been. Caught up in trying to prove my authenticity to others for myself, I neglected just how much being Asian means being a part of a community.
From my intern cohort to networking events with AAPI leaders, at CAUSE, I am surrounded by reminders that I am not alone. Attacks and injustices may happen to us as individuals, but that doesn’t mean we can’t heal as communities. While my internship at CAUSE ends this week, I hope that the community we’ve created this summer stays with me for a long time.