Just over a year ago, I took part in a week-long job on campus, where I would help organise an annual reunion event for students and alumni from my faculty. During that week, I met a few professors and staff members for the first time.
One of them was an elderly woman. When I introduced myself, I said my name and mentioned that I was hafu. In Japan, hafu is the romanised version of the English word “half,” commonly used to describe someone of mixed race. I am often asked whether I am “half,” usually based on my face or my name. It has been a familiar word my entire life. In recent times, some mixed Japanese individuals prefer the terms “mixed” or “daburu”, meaning “double”, suggesting fullness rather than halves. This reflects not only a shift in language, but also in cultural attitudes, as more mixed Japanese people push back against limiting narratives and assert the right to define themselves. A few hours after our introduction, the woman approached me again.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about something you mentioned earlier. Why did you refer to yourself as hafu? Don’t you dislike that term? Isn’t it offensive?”
When she said this, I didn’t know how to respond. I knew she wasn’t trying to insult me. If anything, she seemed concerned. I sensed she wanted to signal that this was a safe, inclusive space. Her question implied that by using the word hafu, I was diminishing myself.
I have been called hafu my entire life in Japan. Most of the time, it hasn’t been said with malice. Some might argue that I am simply accustomed to it. That I have normalised a “problematic” term. But that is not the case. I understand the critique: that “half” suggests incompleteness. And yes, I do not see myself as half of anything.
I am 100% Japanese. 100% British. 100% mixed. 100% myself. Yet I also do not feel compelled to replace the word.
In that moment, I told her that when someone asks about my background in Japanese, I continue to use hafu because it communicates what people already mean to ask. It is a word widely understood. It may not be perfect, but neither are the alternatives. If we adopt daburu, will that one day become outdated too? Will there always be a newer, safer term waiting in line? If the connotation surrounding daburu becomes negative, then we will move onto the next term. When that new term becomes outdated, then comes the next safe term. I would rather not have to change which word suits my identity best this frequently.
Language evolves, and labels rotate. But my identity does not change with vocabulary trends.
I do not call myself hafu because I agree with the literal meaning of “half.” I use it because it is a social shorthand. It is a way to move through conversations without turning every introduction into a seminar on racial theory.
What unsettled me about that interaction wasn’t the question itself, but it was the assumption behind it. The assumption that I must be harmed by the word I chose for myself. For me, identity is less about finding the perfect term and more about deciding that no single word will ever fully contain me.
Call me hafu, call me mixed, call me daburu. None of those words are the whole story. And that is precisely why they do not define me
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