Throughout my life, I have mostly lived in Japan, while also having experience living in and visiting England. Over the past five or so years, I’ve become increasingly aware of the different ways people perceive me depending on where they are from. This article is a reflection on those experiences, how one identity can seem complex to some, yet be quickly simplified into “oh, so you’re a …” by others.
In Japan, I am most often perceived as non-Japanese: a foreigner who happens to speak good Japanese, or at best, someone who is “half.” I’ve received countless comments from strangers, especially at university, asking whether I am Japanese, or expressing surprise at my ability to speak the language. This piece focuses on those experiences, as well as comments from people I’ve actually gotten to know such as friends, teachers and classmates. People who, after some time, made it clear how they truly see me.
Despite having Japanese heritage, a clearly Japanese first name, and native-level fluency, many of my Japanese friends at university, and even foreign exchange students, don’t fully see me as Japanese. Instead, my “British side” stands out to them. My behaviour, my sense of humour, even my loudness at times are traits that make me feel foreign in their eyes. The irony is that I don’t feel extremely British either. Much of what I embrace, love and adapt to myself about British culture comes from my time on the internet. Being a member of the British diaspora, memes, films, and online spaces teach me about my other culture. In a way, I’m adapting or performing something I’ve learned digitally. So while British people might see me as culturally not fully British, in Japan, that same version of me is often interpreted as entirely Western.
Among international students, I’m often seen as “not very Japanese” for a different reason. I tend to understand their cultures more easily, especially Americans as we share a language and I’ve absorbed a lot of their cultural references online. Some American friends have even described me as “the kindest Brit they’ve ever met,” which I always find amusing, considering I might be their only real-life reference point. With other Asian international students, there’s often light-hearted banter about me being “the least Asian.” Some Chinese students have approached me specifically because I seemed more approachable, as I am someone who looks mixed and speaks English rather than being “fully Japanese.” To them, they find it hard to socialise with the Japanese students so they found comfort in me. Again, this is less about who I am, and more about how I’m read.
One comment that stuck with me came from a South African exchange student, who joked that I sounded like “a Japanese guy trying to speak with a British accent.” There was no malice in it, but it reflected something interesting: as my original Essex accent fades, what remains is a kind of neutral, international South England accent. To him, it didn’t sound “authentically British,” but rather like something learned. He perceived me more as Japanese.
Most of these experiences have taken place during my university years, but similar patterns existed earlier in my life.
When I was in secondary school in England, I was “the Japanese boy.” My school was very diverse, but there were far fewer East Asian students compared to White, Black, and South Asian students, so I stood out. Even though people knew I was mixed, that wasn’t what defined me. A group of Black boys in my class used to call me “Goku,” referencing the anime Dragon Ball. It wasn’t said in a mocking way, but even when I was walking with my non-Asian dad, they still called me it. Even in those moments, to them, I was simply “the Japanese one.”
Back in Japan, during high school, I attended what would be described as a “yankee” school. A rough environment full of children who struggled during their junior high years. In my first year, I had a small group of friends, including other mixed-race students, foreign students, and some Japanese students. One year into a friendship with a Japanese classmate, he suddenly asked me what my “real name” was. Confused, I asked what he meant. He explained that he thought “Keigo” was just a Japanese name I used, and that I must have a separate “foreign” name. To remind you, we had been friends for a whole year. I was 16, and I was genuinely shocked that he had quietly questioned my identity for that long.
These assumptions weren’t limited to peers. I’ve had various comments made by teachers that I found to be interesting.
An American professor once used me as an example in class while discussing who would have been allowed to vote in 1800s America. “Only me and Keigo,” he said, referring to white men. The class consisted of him, a white man, students from Japan and China, and me. He repeated this more than once across multiple classes. Each time, I couldn’t help but think about how mixed-race people were historically treated in the U.S, how they were excluded, even despised. It made me question the simplicity of his example.
In my Japanese schools, I often heard teachers use the phrase “normal Japanese people”. While not intended to be harmful, it was often used in contrast to students like me. One teacher, trying to reassure me and other biracial individuals during a difficult lesson, said not to worry because “even normal Japanese people wouldn’t understand this.” The intention was kind. But I am fluent. I am Japanese. Being subtly placed outside of that category still didn’t feel right.
Another teacher, who genuinely supported me, would constantly simplify her Japanese when speaking to me. No matter how complex my own language was, she would respond with overly basic vocabulary, asking if I understood words that children learn in early elementary school. She would say things like, “Kanji is so hard, isn’t it? Poor you,” before checking if I could read very simple characters. I liked her, and I knew she meant well, which made it harder to process.
Back at university, these moments continued in different forms.
During a group discussion, one of my classmates presented our ideas by separating us into “the four Japanese students” and “the exchange student.” A few minutes later, another member of the group, someone I had known for two years, turned to me and asked, “Wait, Keigo, are you Japanese?” That moment stayed with me. After years of speaking in Japanese, being addressed by my Japanese name, I was still being reconsidered.
The most frustrating and the worse ones thus far are the interactions with people I’ve just met, especially younger students. A common situation is this: I greet someone in Japanese, and they react with visible shock, saying things like, “Wait, he’s Japanese? He speaks Japanese?”, often while talking about me as if I’m not there. My first thought is always: excuse me, who are you?
I understand curiosity. I understand that I may not look “typically Japanese.” But why express that surprise so loudly, and directly in front of me? Why not simply adjust your assumption internally and move on? What makes it more uncomfortable is that these same students usually follow strict social norms with others. Using polite language with seniors, showing basic respect. Yet with me, those rules often seem to disappear. It’s as if I don’t quite “count.”
One time, after greeted my friend who was with two girls I had never met. I greeted them in Japanese, and they acted surprised, all giggling and laughing. They continued discussing me in front of me, as if I couldn’t understand them, even after clearly hearing me speak. Again, it just felt like ignorance without bad intention, but I chose to ignore them and continued speaking to my friend. In another instance, a Korean student fluent in Japanese asked, “Wait, he speaks Japanese?” despite me standing right there. I remember feeling annoyed that not only Japanese people, but even non-Japanese students were jumping onto this same reaction.We hadn’t even exchanged a glance beforehand, he only said it after a mutual friend spoke to me in Japanese. I replied, “Yes, I do. Do you?” He didn’t seem to realise the point I was making.
Finally, an uncomfortable experience once happened at a part-time job. After I spoke to a customer in polite Japanese, she looked at my foreign surname on my name badge and said loud enough for others to hear: “Is this boy okay speaking Japanese?” I said nothing, because that’s expected in customer service. But I couldn’t help thinking how differently that would be received elsewhere. Eventually, I requested to change my badge to display my Japanese name instead.
Overall, I’ve experienced far more doubt about who I am in Japan than in England. Of course, I’ve spent more time here, but the difference is still noticeable. In England, I was clearly “the Japanese one.” In Japan, I exist in a space where I am constantly being reassessed. At times, I’m happy to explain my background. But when people question the most obvious aspects of who I am, or react with exaggerated surprise, it becomes exhausting. Especially when, even after understanding, they still don’t fully see me as one of them. Because of this, I’ve started to distance myself from people who react that way, especially the students I had just met. Instead, I try to surround myself with those who accept my background without making it the centre of everything. Even if they don’t fully understand my experiences, we can simply enjoy each other’s company.
My point isn’t that people should immediately know who I am at first glance. Nor am I saying people should avoid asking questions altogether. Curiosity is natural. I just think people can do better in how they express it. I’ve made assumptions about others too, but I choose not to voice them carelessly. If I ask, I try to do so in a way that shows genuine interest, not doubt or confrontation. Identity is personal. And sometimes, the difference between curiosity and discomfort comes down to how, and when, you choose to ask.
Leave a Reply