As a “sansei” or “third generation” Japanese American child, my identity was always an internal conflict for me. My mom would talk about how she was forced to take eight years of Japanese schooling yet retained little to none of it, while my dad never spoke Japanese at all. They said it was because, growing up, it was more important to be known as American. When I got accepted to private school in kindergarten, my grandmother’s first reaction was, “Good! Now she’ll learn good English.”
Both my parents regretted never learning Japanese, so in an attempt to please them, in the seventh grade, I chose to study Japanese as my second language — though I shortly gave it up for French when they couldn’t afford to send me to study abroad in Japan.
I ended up working my way through college, financing my own study abroad in France and becoming conversational in French, only to find upon graduation that when applying for a restaurant job in Hawaii, the only language employers cared about was Japanese.
Over the next 20 years I exercised my two years of middle school Japanese daily, directing our “Nihonjin” guests to the restroom, thanking them for their patronage and even counting back change for them.
Looking back, it seems ironic that I met my first “issei,” or “first generation” Japanese friends in high school, at a time when I, like my parents when they were my age, was looking to disassociate from my ethnic heritage.
While my parents were of the post-World War II generation — too young to have borne witness to President Franklin Roosevelt’s executive order authorizing the forced detention of more than 120,000 Japanese Americans into internment camps — the fierce desire to prove their identity as Americans nonetheless defined their generation.
I, on the other hand, prioritized Western culture and language as the linguistic ideal presented to me growing up, by Hollywood, by the media and subconsciously, by my own household.
Meeting my issei friends was my first experience in feeling proud to be Japanese My issei friends were the fi rst people to tell me my Japanese name, which means “Morning Child,” was beautiful. They would settle boyish disagreements with karate sparring matches, a sport I wasn’t allowed to participate in as a child, but that I had deeply wanted to learn. They spoke fluent Japanese, only switching to English when remembering to include me, yet always encouraging me to practice so I could be closer to my heritage.
As we grew older, my dad, who himself had served two tours in the U.S. Army, began to tell my sister and me stories of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, a World War II Army unit comprising all-volunteer nisei, the majority of whom were from Hawaii. The pride with which he described the 442nd as the most decorated unit — for its size and length of service — in the entire history of the U.S. military — was as though he, himself, had served alongside them.
“Go for Broke!” he would exclaim. This gambling term, which meant to risk it all for one big win, was their motto.
Almost 30 years later, as I see the name “Go for Broke” grace cocktail menus in restaurants across Waikiki, I am reminded of the brave Japanese soldiers who, amid racism and bigotry, risked everything in their steadfast determination to prove their loyalty and devotion to their country, and of the pride their story gave back to my dad and so many Japanese Americans.
In 1944, the 442nd liberated the town of Bruyeres, France from Nazi occupation, and to this day it remains Honolulu’s sister city.
Ingredients:
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1.0 oz iichiko Shochu Silhouette
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0.5 oz Briottet Crème de Banane
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0.5 oz John D. Taylor’s Velvet Falernum
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0.5 oz Fresh-pressed lime juice
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1/8 teaspoon Matcha Powder
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2.5 oz Fever-Tree Club Soda
Method:
Dry-shake all ingredients, except Fever-Tree Club Soda, without ice. Add Fever-Tree Club Soda and pour over ice into Japanese ceramic teacup. Garnish with grated nutmeg and a lime wheel.
