|
 |
A Grain of Rice by Kevin Imamura When I was 10, my mom decided it would be in our best interests if my sister and I would attend Japanese-language school on weekends. Being half-Japanese and wanting to fulfill some sort of pride in my ancestry, I figured, "What the hell, why not?" My weekends didn't have a whole lot going for them and my sister would be accompanying me, so it might even be fun. Plus an older friend of mine had gotten wrangled into going by his mother, so at the very least, I knew I wouldn't be suffering alone. Off we went to this tiny school near Crenshaw Boulevard in South Central Los Angeles. I had high hopes for myself. My delusions of grandeur included becoming fluent in Japanese and winning the respect of my parents and grandparents--none of whom spoke the language in their homes. Part of me felt like it would be the right thing to do, and the other part of me just wanted to be different from the kids I went to regular school with. At the time, I didn't know too many kids who could speak a second language, so becoming fluent in Japanese had the potential to raise my coolness factor significantly. Well, my hopes for coolness were quickly squashed when we arrived in a classroom full of first- and second-grade full-blooded Japanese kids who came from homes where their parents did speak Japanese--fluently. My sister, my friend Kenneth, and I all looked at each other with horror and amazement in our eyes. Damn. Back to square one. Moms forgot to tell us about the slight age difference between us and the rest of our "classmates." From there, things just got better. We were introduced to our teacher, a lovely old lady who spoke about as much English as the Japanese first graders. At this point, I came to the conclusion that any aspirations I had weren't to materialize. Achieving honor for my family would not come as easily as I'd hoped. After our initial introduction to the teacher, I was quickly dubbed "Keebin"--much to my chagrin--and so began my learning process. I don't really remember what was taught on those weekends; I know we learned how to write our names and probably a few words, but that was it. |
 |
|
The highlight of the school session (which lasted a total of three-and-a-half
grueling hours each Saturday) was when recess came. After the second weekend,
the three of us quickly figured out we weren't going to fit in--and didn't feel
a tremendous amount of pressure to try. When I did manage to muster up enough
courage to talk to some of the other kids on the playground, I got a different
kind of language lesson from the older kids: "Hey! Who the fuck are you, and what
the fuck are you looking at!?" Not wanting to get my ass kicked by some mop-haired kids wearing Izod shirts and Town & Country shorts, I backed away and quickly resumed hanging out with my sister and Kenneth. Boy, it sure felt wonderful being accepted. I don't know how long we kept going back to the school, but it was probably somewhere around two months. It didn't really matter, though, because once our moms found out what kind of language we were learning on the playground, our weekend classes quickly came to an end. |
|
If you think being a half-Japanese kid and trying to fit in at a Japanese
school sounds ridiculous, try to fathom the level of acceptance my sister and
I were greeted with when our parents enrolled us in summer camp at Centinela
Park in the heart of Inglewood. Imagine if you will, two grains of Cal-Rose
rice drowning in a sea of chocolate chips. Summer camp wasn't so bad--I just had to remind myself that no matter what everyone kept telling me, I wasnt Chinese and my name wasn't Bruce Lee. Although it was pretty rough going at first, things got a little better. By the end of the summer, I'd discovered rap music and got my first exposure to the art of break-dancing. The following summer everything changed. Mom finally let us stay home, and more importantly, I discovered skateboarding and punk rock--the two things that showed me sometimes it's better not to fit in at all. |