I got a full read from DeFiore & Company, but as with most things I do, I love to collaborate because I know I come up short without the talent of others. Even so, I decided to post the first two chapters on my birthday (I barely have a working title).
The TLDR:
In Culture Matters, Greg Taniguchi delivers a sharp, unfiltered work of narrative nonfiction built on a single premise: culture and branding are the exact same act, the management of expectations.
Anchored in his perspective as a fourth-generation Coloradan of Japanese ancestry, Taniguchi uses four generations of family receipts as his primary case study. From WWII internment tags and Adams County beet farms to ’90s San Jose tuner shops and 14-hour BOH sushi line shifts, his deeply lived experience serves as the proof base to expose a universal pattern. Through this sharp lens, he demonstrates how corporate “con’fusion,” lazy restaurateurs, media shorthand, and algorithms routinely strip the labor, history, and specificity out of living traditions across the entire American food landscape.
Written in a direct, slang-heavy voice that is equal parts confrontational and fiercely loyal to the quiet work of pioneers, Culture Matters proves that authentic culture is never manufactured by marketing teams. It is earned in the details, and most of America is still missing them.
CHAPTER 1: All the White Kids Will Beat You (Said My Mom)
My brand is not to lie or to outright bullshit you, so even though this is my memoir of sorts, it unfortunately won’t have the fidelity or vibe of 4K or a cloud connection when it comes to the details of a conversation. Unfortunately, my details will feel like dial-up (you know, “hang up the phone, I’m on the internet”), not the vivid clarity of Betamax, but glorious 480p VHS.
I wish everything I talked about had a ton of sensory details like: “The ribeye sizzles over crackling flames, its charred crust giving way to tender pink meat that melts on your tongue. Salt air mingles with woodsmoke as you sip the amber whisky, its vanilla warmth cutting through the beef’s richness.” Yeah, that’s AI.
Fortunately or unfortunately for you, you won’t get any of this because I can barely remember what I did last week, and I sometimes forget people I’ve known at one time. I’ll also cite or say that “I don’t remember” when I don’t, and I’ll be upfront as much as possible, because I always read things and think, “C’mon, did this really happen, and how much of this story did you really remember, or are you embellishing?” (I also forget clothes that I have, so I end up wearing the same thing, which I prefer cuz simple.)
This is as far as I go with sensory details. I present a scenario where I tell the person, in a room with four walls, “Choose a wall where you think a window should be.” Within a second or two, they point and say, “That one.” I ask, “Are you sure?” They respond confidently, “Yeah.” I press further: “But how do you know?” And they say, “Oh, I just know.”
So, a massive floor-to-ceiling window is installed, which reveals, within inches of that glass, a solid brick wall. I then say, ‘If you would have chosen the wall to the left of it, you would have had an amazing ocean view, but you never asked.’
‘If you had asked and listened, you’d be looking at the ocean right now.’
I often tell that story because so many people think asking questions means they aren’t knowledgeable or able to call the shots. They want to give the appearance that they know everything, and that they’re bringing something valuable to the table. I have experienced this firsthand and see it so often. People thriving on the appearance of doing good and appearing knowledgeable, versus actually doing good by not making assumptions and asking questions to make the best possible decision based on all the information they can acquire.
This reluctance to ask questions isn’t just a hypothetical; it’s something I’ve seen play out time and again, with deep roots in my own life.
I never realized until almost a decade later that the behavior I exhibited was a reaction to how one of my parents treated me. They never asked questions. They did whatever they wanted, and if something blew up in their face because they didn’t ask questions, they’d simply blame me for not telling them what they needed to know. They’d shrug off responsibility.
Experiencing that as a kid from a parent was only the tip of the iceberg of what I would experience growing up. Now that I’m writing this manuscript, I see those weren’t actions or words of encouragement; they’re ingrained in my head from my upbringing cuz Asian. (When I confronted the parent for saying it, they’d say, ‘If you’re so smart, ignore it.’)
So, I want to manage your expectations by expressing upfront that it isn’t easy for me to share my memoir because I’m always asking questions and in an eternal state of listening. These are my observations as an American of Japanese ancestry, viewed through a branding and marketing lens and informed by my decade and a half of writing and blogging about Japanese food and culture. I’m aware there’s a lot I don’t know. I’m not claiming omniscience, that’s ‘infinite awareness’ for you simpletons (I needed a synonym and had to look that word up). I am the antithesis of a parent, and I’m simply saying this is my experience, offered from where I am currently in life, even if I’m accidentally positioning my window to look directly into my neighbor’s bedroom. I also know this is the point where you’ll be deciding whether or not to invest your time in my writing, because it doesn’t matter what I say or write if you wouldn’t even want to be in a room with me, ocean view or not. Also to give you a heads up of what’s to come, I’ll get into identity in the next chapter and branding/culture in the one after that, but first you need to know the lens I’m looking through.
Rick Rubin taught me something valuable: ‘Treat everything you create as a diary entry. Don’t create for the outcome. You wouldn’t care what people think about your diary, right? Create to create. By the way, I only heard that video accidentally as I reached for my phone, and as it was playing, it was falling off the edge of my bed. Sometimes the most valuable insights find us when we’re not even looking; you just have to be listening.
There’s assumption-making and embellishment, and then there is sharing my thoughts or expressing my feelings wasn’t something I think we did as a family. One example of that was at one of my grandparents’ funerals. I can’t remember if it was my grandfather or grandmother, though I feel like it was my dad’s dad. What I do remember is my dad sitting in his suit during the service at the Buddhist temple in downtown Denver. The square-shaped interior of the building had an ornate golden Butsuden shrine at the back that spanned nearly the entire wall. Just like any other Sunday. The steel folding chairs with green padded cushions reminded me of a time when things were built to last. They were all lined up neatly in rows. The smell of incense filled the air.
As I sat there, I looked over at my dad, and I noticed that throughout the entire ceremony, not once did he shed a tear or even look like he was going to cry. I remember being sad and on the verge of crying too, but I held it back.
That funeral stayed with me through the years that followed. Maybe it’s a Japanese thing because I remember in high school, there were only two Japanese females I knew outside of the temple. When one of them saw a mutual friend crying, she said something to comfort her that I still remember. As she sat beside our friend, she patted her on the shoulder and said, very stoically, ‘I know why you cry, but it is something I can never do.’ Yeah, she busted out the ole T-800 line from Terminator 2 when he was giving John his farewell before being lowered into the vat of molten steel. I laugh every time I think back to it.
Then throughout the next couple of decades, I thought I had maintained that composure, and I only cry when stepping on a Lego. And even though I love movies, most of them haven’t made me shed a tear. The stoicism I witnessed at that funeral seemed to have taken root in me. But in the last decade, everything began to change. I started feeling more emotional and generous, with no clear reason or trigger.
I’ve never done LSD, DMT, ayahuasca, or anything else mind-altering. Sure, alcohol can affect body chemistry in various ways, but I’ve always drank. If anything, I do so more moderately these days. Maybe it’s just lowered testosterone that comes with age except I workout almost daily. If that’s the case, it’s probably also hinting at my own mortality. So maybe I better show some emotion eventually. But whatever the reason, my emotional landscape has shifted substantially.
Before, I never gave a cent or a buck to a panhandler. Now I give whatever I can, such as buying meals, handing out my favorite Chrome gloves, raising $13k through a GoFundMe called Your Stomach Loves Us with friends and giving it all away, or initiatives to help small and micro businesses like 303 Night Market. I’ll keep this list short because hyping my own actions makes me cringe. Either the impact speaks for itself or it doesn’t. I’ve even gotten more emotional than usual over imagery, music, movies, and the T-800 giving a thumbs up. (Not that I’m spilling everything here. Some stoic habits die hard.) And if that’s all just from drinking? Then do your job, liver. WTF.
This shift coincided with my passion, not in my loins for kids, but for food as a cultural expression. While others channeled their emotional energies into families, I found myself increasingly drawn to the stories, histories, and communities that gather around tables and traditions.
Without the traditional anchors of marriage and children, I’ve found my roots in community instead. My emotional evolution isn’t fueled by a 12-pack. It’s my way of contributing to culture through food rather than genetics.
One reason I never went down that path of marriage and kids is because I heard things like “All the White kids will beat you,” things that instilled doubt or fear. That’s what I heard from one of my parents when I oddly decided to enter the IronKids triathlon. This means I was between 7-15 years old, and I assume I was in the upper range of that age range. My guess as to why I entered it was because I love bicycling, and I still do. Also, the swim lessons I took over Japanese language school paid off, except my nihongo is no bueno.
Also, thinking back now as a semi-mature adult (“semi” because no kids), I am surprised that I entered one on my own volition. I don’t see myself as someone with the physical prowess of a dolphin or panther. I am more panda-like: someone who likes to chill and eat instead of producing offspring.
For the record, I did complete the triathlon, and at the tail end of it, a random White lady was there at the finish line cheering me on, which I’ll never forget because my own parents were nowhere to be seen, plus I’m just a random Asian kid. That totally surprised me, which is why I remember it. It was gestures like that I wonder how much does it play into how and who I am today. What I do know, I do thank everybody who has emailed me or sent me money in support of my blog. Out of those gestures, one of the most recent ones that reminded me of that lady was a very nice message from Janis Ian. She’s a Jersey-born American singer-songwriter and is renowned for her “introspective folk-pop music and socially conscious lyrics” (I researched that) during the ’60s. She achieved fame at 15, when I was building makeshift rafts made of random floaty things and playing in local rivers, she was off releasing her 1966 single “Society’s Child.” That single reached No. 14 on the Billboard Hot 100 and addressed interracial romance (I still remember how controversial Jungle Fever was in ’91). In 1975, she released her biggest hit, “At Seventeen,” which is one of my favorites from the album Between the Lines, peaking at No. 3 and earning her a Grammy nomination.
Ian has produced over 20 albums, blending folk, jazz, and pop with themes of love, loss, and identity. She also published a memoir, Society’s Child (go check it out), in 2008 and, as an openly lesbian artist, advocates for LGBTQ+ rights. With those accolades under her belt, plus the fact that my blog didn’t make it easy for her to message me, her sharing my content with her millions of followers was that extra nudge I appreciated.
To me, that is how I define my life, like her, or the totally random lady. To help encourage others across that finishing line, because yeah, others can and will beat you, but making the effort and staying persistent is what matters. I’m also glad I am on the side of do, versus do not (thanks, Master Yoda, for being that other inner voice).
Speaking of boundaries, like that triathlon, I just did it, but there are things I thoughtfully plan on not doing in my manuscript. The first thing I won’t do if you haven’t already noticed is to provide any major specifics about either my mom, dad, or siblings, because I’m not writing that type of memoir. I’m not going to go into much depth about their backgrounds, and this is the only chapter where I’ll mention anything about who any or either of them are. It’s solely meant to provide a broader picture of what type of and how I grew up in a very Americanized environment. So, almost everything I know about Japanese food and culture, I learned on my own. That’s reflected in my sister and brother, who are as Japanese as a Jessica Albacore sushi roll, and I’m fairly sure my brother identifies more with Greek culture due to all his Greek American friends growing up more than anything.
As for specifics that relate to my upbringing involving food and culture, I’ll be ambiguous about both of my parents, referring to them only as “one parent.” Like, one parent enjoys food and has traveled abroad; however, neither of my parents is all that knowledgeable about Japanese food and culture. On more personality-driven attributes, one parent doesn’t appreciate food in general and eats very little Japanese food or knows anything about it. They use and reuse old takeout box lids as a plate because they can’t appreciate or enjoy a meal, or any of the details.
Now, these are all personal bits, and that is the extent you’ll hear about any of that. The main takeaway is that I love food, and I enjoy sharing a meal with others (I’ve done dinner parties and Thanksgiving meals for a lot of foreign-born friends with no place to go or celebrate with on holidays). I also value, respect, and appreciate my ethnic food culture, which is why I put so much effort into learning more about it. That’s something I hope everyone will do, regardless of what you did or did not learn from your parent(s).
Lastly, the rest of my brand, my ethos, or my main character development, told expositionally, goes as follows. I’m a 4th generation American and Coloradan who has lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and most recently Los Angeles the last 24 years. True to my Colorado connection, I relate a little to a fellow Coloradan from South Park (aka Evergreen), Eric Cartman, because he does what he wants (well, not as selfishly as my big-boned little homie). He lives his life like I do.
An example of that, after a couple of decades in and out of the automotive aftermarket, I wanted something more. So I did something only a one-name artist could do and reinvented myself. Armed with both my first and last name still intact, I did the same thing, cuz YOLO.
I then spent the last decade focused on writing about Japanese cuisine in American food culture. This is because I have a family that dates back to my great-grandparents who helped feed this country, first as farmhands, and then through their own farm in Brighton, Colorado.
I did this because, as an American of Japanese ancestry, I saw the garbage the mainstream media was constantly putting out, the branding and foolish marketing of businesses, then later, the oblivious food influencers, and now AI. So I had to do something, and even though writing wasn’t my thing, I started Yelping in 2007. Then in 2016, I started my blog, oishii-desu.com, meaning “it’s delicious” in Japanese.
I initially did my blog on the side all for free; I didn’t monetize my site until five years later. However, during the pandemic in 2020, my site traffic was garnering tens of thousands of views. Except, a couple years later, Google changed the rule books, which destroyed a lot of small- to medium-sized bloggers; so I felt like the natural progression after almost two decades of writing was to do a long-form piece. A direction I chose because the audience would have to actively engage with my writing instead of me assaulting them with constant updates asking you to like, comment, and subscribe, which I once did, but it’s not for me.
I understand how many books and papers, especially in academia or in specialized fields, exist to establish that their authors are smart or experts in the field. I, on the other hand, know better. I intend to stay in my lane, so I write things anecdotally and simply so that “even a Greg could understand,” and I do it knowing that my perspective may be very limited. What sets me apart is that when I do swerve, I make sure to do the research, and I’m the dude who reads the article versus letting the headline suffice.
I’m also cool with being Asian-guy #2 in a supporting role. It’s the role I held when I helped build several brands in the automotive aftermarket and one in the R/C industry, working with the owners/founders. This isn’t cuckery, I just know where I stand because I’m a collaborator, and this is the basis for my entire approach to everything I do. #squadgoals. Working with others, I become a force multiplier, kind of like how listening to music can up most people’s game (fingers crossed, I’m not on par with elevator music).
When it comes to food and information, I’m the type that will try to eat everything. I consume it all, and I don’t see information as bad, good, medium good, badder, baddest, left, right, or whatever label you want to affix to it (no labels bro). I just take it all in like a humpback whale because, like a bad meal, you will just crap it out the back like with all things your body has milked for whatever sustenance; and what I do take in, it might be adding some level of nourishment unbeknownst to me, except you won’t know if you aren’t open to it all.
As for how I see anybody reading my content, I see it as one piece in a 10,000-piece puzzle which may or may not shape your view on things, but that is all up to you on how critical that piece is. I’d hope for the middle, but if I’m a corner piece, dat’s coo (I actually learned this from my sister, except she used a book in her analogy).
I respect your time too, so I’m coming correct, not with some narcissistic fiery garbage heap where you’re left wondering, “What’s the point?” My focus is something worth your time, cuz I lack main character syndrome, thanks to my parental units. No Industrial Design degree meant I had to work three times harder just to get a shot at any opportunity. So my memoir’s not just about me; it’s about what I’ve seen, observed, and realized from a micro-to-macro level, from nori (seaweed in Japanese) to redlining. I want a layered memoir.
Yet, don’t get me wrong, I still wrestled with, ‘yeah, but does that mean I have anything worthy of someone spending $5–16 dollars for my content?’ Which by the way I know because I looked it up to see how much I’d have to set you back financially. Also, doing what I’m doing goes against my first rule of STFU, unless I put in the time to know anything about what I’m commenting on (yeah, genius). It’s my first rule because I’ve been around a lot of smart people, and when you’re in that environment, aside from things flying over my head (like speaking to someone who built laser interferometers), I quickly realized that I really don’t have much to offer during a lot of conversations, other than staying quiet. This mentality carries over to how I treat the comments section via social media, which isn’t mandatory, because do we need another comment, influencer, blogger, or writer?
Yet here we are (this guy, writing a book). Yeah, I get it, but my main motivation is why I do things. I know what failure feels like, and if I can help someone avoid going down that path, that’s what I’m out to do.
After my first business failure in my early 20s, my sole goal became “how not to go out of business.” I constantly thought, If I can learn not to do that, it’ll be my redemption arc. So I used every role I held to test and apply every tactic I picked up over the years at the companies I worked for. Yeah, it took me that long to have something potentially worthwhile to say. It also turns out most business owners have that same goal in mind, which is reflected in their success.
So here I am, not just here to collect a paycheck.
I do not thrive on the idea of, or the attempt, but the results of my efforts. Prime example: a previous charitable effort where I faced criticism despite good intentions. I found out that no good deed goes unpunished. So, to be upfront, my sole intent is to emphasize how much all of our cultures in the form of our food should mean to us and to one another. Food is something we can all relate to, so for the sake of my story, that is what I’m telling my story through, which I hope gets everyone thinking about their own culture.
With our current zeitgeist, if you were to ask me if I would ever write a blog or a book a decade ago, or even a year ago, I would not have been able to fathom it. It only came about because this memoir was written with the assistance of AI, just not the way you think. I used AI as a tool, not a ghostwriter, because it’s currently not that capable. It removed barriers so I could put this on the page. AI didn’t write this; it just leveled the playing field so I could share my voice. Every chapter, every sentence (even the ones that started as fragments or run-ons), every remark, and every attempt at humor was mine. The AI just helped clean up the mess so your eyes wouldn’t bleed, without stripping away my voice.
Voices that were once limited due to distribution are no longer, thanks to the internet, and my voice to effectively communicate wihtout (the occasional spelling error) or grammar issues is now possible. No overpolishing (trust me, what you’re about to read sounds nothing like what AI would produce because it deleted this parenthetical cuz “polished”). No rewrites. Just grammar, flow, and the occasional someone to bounce an idea off to help flesh out a thought, or to say it’s flesh, not flush.
I couldn’t even imagine it because I’m not here to preach, and I don’t care to argue because my most common response to anyone trying to argue is “ok.” Also, if you’re all about owning the other or your objective of any discussion is to win, have at it foo. I’m here to share my observations growing up, through my branding and marketing lens, and blogging for the last nine to eighteen years. I do it because I care about where humanity is headed with AI (intellect) and robotics (physicality) on the horizon, and this is what I think I can do to help shape our culture through food with all of your help because it takes a village, and even the court jester matters. The goal: I’m looking for others who are collaborators, seek common ground, and thrive on nuance.
I wrote this because I don’t need a director yelling “more passion” at me either because I’m passionate AF about the things I’m interested and involved in, so I know I often come across as intense. I love what I do, and I’m constantly battling to be more moderate, except I sometimes have a tendency to come off sounding like a dickhead (believe me, keep reading). I say a lot of things where I’m like, ‘damn, I think there was probably a better way to say that.’ Which is why you should know, I’m always thinking in my head, you jackass, try to be more like Keanu Reeves—or WWKRD: What Would Keanu Reeves Do? For starters, I know, not be an a-hole.
So let me recap it all up for you. I’m like a panda. I care. I say things so simply that even a Greg could understand. I value nuance and common ground, and I’m passionate about the things I’m involved in, which means I can and will sometimes rub people the wrong way. It’s why I constantly think, WWKRD (with a runner-up being iShowSpeed). Oh, and I don’t consider myself a writer. I know that’s not exactly a selling point for a book, but I say it out of respect for actual writers. Even though I tell myself to stay in my lane, I put in the work, researching other writers, learning the craft, trying to level up enough to be worthy of your time. If I pulled that off, thank you. And hey, it worked that you can achieve anything you put your mind to.
I mean it when I say we all have stories worth telling. During my hour-and-a-half drives, listening to a public radio show about everyday people (I won’t name which, polarization ruins everything especially when you think you’re the good guy, and you do not have the humility to realize maybe you’re the bad guy), I realized how many amazing stories we carry. Every guest, regardless of background, had something compelling to share. With AI here and only getting better, our stories are like fries in the seat cushions, tucked away, but not for long. They need to be told while they’re still ours to tell.
So here I am sharing mine, cuz I’m still in this race. K’den. Let’s do it.
(By the way, I had always liked the Choose Your Own Adventure series of books as a kid, and like the example I gave above of my writing, if you prefer a more anecdotal approach of my background, start with chapter 6. If the first chapter didn’t faze you, keep reading).
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CHAPTER 2: I Am an American, Period
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While writing my manuscript, I knew I wasn’t going to say “Japanese American.” I was going to put American first and foremost, then “of Japanese ancestry.” I thought about this when listening to Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, because my ears were barraged by more than a dozen French words: mise en place, brigade, chaud-froid, garde-manger, entremetier, poissonnier, rôtisseur, pâtissier, sous-chef, chef de cuisine, bain-marie, chiffonade, confit, velouté, foie gras, terrine, cassoulet, coq au vin, bouillabaisse, escargot, ratatouille, daube, chateaubriand, vichyssoise, tarte tatin, crème brûlée, soufflé, charcuterie, rillettes. If I had to read his book aloud, I could not even pull off a Pepé Le Pew level of French. Yet no one ever questions Bourdain’s American-ness, so that is one reason why I am emphasizing this approach. I refuse to be trapped in the perpetual foreigner syndrome that hyphenated identities can perpetuate. The other reason is not because of me. I am doing it for three prior generations. I was just born here, and I did not do anything to be in the US, unlike those who came over on a ship like the Hawaii Maru, which was a 9,482-ton Japanese troop transport ship built in 1915 by Kawasaki. That ship brought my maternal grandfather to America. If I claimed some sort of entitlement for simply being born here, I feel that would be some major BS.
Here’s exactly what I’m talking about entitled just being born someplace. There was a time, probably around 2007, when I was visiting Colorado from California. Probably via one of my social media posts I had made about being back, a Colorado-based business owner I knew had said to me online, “Thanks for visiting, but now back to California you go.” I said something like, “Bitch, I am a native of Colorado, and my family helped feed your little bitch ass.” Now, did I use all those expletives? I don’t remember, but that is what I was thinking. I just remember him saying back in a semi-remorseful tone that his family was also in or around Brighton, which compounded the dose of STFU.
This is my mom’s side of the family, and my grandfather received an award presented by the Japanese consul in San Francisco on December 11th, 1972 for his contribution to the United States as an Outstanding Citizen (there’s also a pic of him with Crown Prince Naruhito, later Emperor). In 1977, he received the Outstanding Farmer in Adams County award. Then there are all my family’s military contributions: my dad and uncle (both US Army; my uncle is buried at the Punchbowl), my great aunt (DoD/USFJ), and two great uncles whose service in the 442nd Regiment I never knew about till I wrote this. All served this country. So not only am I a fourth-generation American with family who served this country, but I am a fourth-generation Coloradan. If you are getting off on identifying as the quintessential Coloradan or the default American, fuck off.
By the way, he did apologize or backtrack to some extent; I remember, which is good because personally, I liked the guy, so he’s not a total douche. I am merely pointing out the tribal and nativist gatekeeping attitude people have, because all of us are American. Where we are geographically at the moment is probably not due to our own doing, but due to the efforts of our family and the people who came before us. This is why I put American first: it is as much the default, not the exception.
It didn’t start off as the default, and I have been asked what my nationality is throughout my life. Strangers have asked me the same damn question millions of times: “What’s your nationality?” I always say, “American.” Then comes the inevitable follow-up: “Okay, but where were you born?” I reply, “Colorado.” Without fail, no tangent about “Is that where Bob Denver lives, or do you ride horses?” That’s only Californians who diverge like that; they push back. Yeah, no, they are on a mission to find out “what am I”: “No, I meant, where are your parents from?” My response stays steady with my fuckery: “My dad was born in Stockton, California, and my mom in Denver, Colorado.”
By now, they’re clearly frustrated, but I’ve got the stamina of an OG troll, I don’t cater to stupid. So I know what’s coming next: “Okay, but your grandparents?” At this point, I’m just being difficult with my cherry-picked responses: “Hawaii,” since my maternal grandmother and paternal grandfather were born there. That gets me, “So you’re Hawaiian?” I come back with, “Nah, brah, they were locals, not Hawaiian. Big difference.” In Hawai‘i, “Hawaiian” means Native Hawaiian ancestry, not just living there, something most mainland haoles won’t know.
Finally, I fess up: “If you’re asking about my ethnicity, I’m Japanese.” They’ll say, “That’s what I meant!” and I hit them back with, “Then why didn’t you ask that in the first place?” It’s ha-rare-ree-us, a troll move, sure, but I’m not here to cater to stupid when it comes to the difference between nationality and ethnicity. I’m American, period, and they need to come correct with their questions.
It’s not just strangers, either. Back in high school art class at Thomas Jefferson in Denver, a substitute European-American teacher leaned in and said, ‘Your English is very good.’ I, with an emo-like haircut covering one eye, snapped back, because I don’t think I’d ever had a teacher say that to me, ‘Why wouldn’t it be? I’m fucking American.’ Her face froze in shock, and then she walked away. Keep in mind this was the late ‘80s; most kids, me included, had never spoken to a teacher like that, which is probably why I still remember it.
These assumptions weren’t limited to educators; they extended into everyday encounters, as I experienced years later in the 1990s at a stereo shop in San Jose.
At the stereo shop (Alpine decks, subwoofers, Clifford Intelliguard alarms, the whole 90s aftermarket vibe), a Viet dude asked, “What are you?” It caught me off guard because I’m so used to White people guessing my ethnicity so I blanked: “What do you mean?” He clarified his question, and I answered “Japanese American,” and he said, so, you’re half White? No, I was born in the US, so I am Japanese and American by nationality.
I do not recall if that was my exact response, but the confusion it caused led me to learn the differences between ethnicity, nationality, and race, and it’s stuck with me ever since.
Years later, I realized these questions are common amongst us Asians, we always ask this casually because, within the Asian community, especially in LA or SF (more on CO later), many of us identify and have a strong connection with our ethnic backgrounds, and yes, I am arrogantly speaking on behalf of the Asian community. Except, I highly doubt European Americans commonly ask one another this question, and they probably ask each other what state they are from or their favorite mayo brand.
Even decades later, the most oblivious Asian Americans think “American” means “White,” feeding the perpetual foreigner myth. An example of this is when I talked to someone at the Japanese market in? 2024?—talking to a Hapa girl (hāfu in Japanese, which means mixed race) in Colorado. It went something like this: “So, you’re half Japanese and what?” She said, “And White.” I pressed, “Okay, yeah but what ethnicity?” Her answer: “I don’t know, Idaho?” (I think that’s the state she said.) I was like, “WTF, I meant German, Italian, English, Dutch, etc.” Yeah, she had no clue, she reflects a lot of Americans, especially Coloradans. It’s why I’ll be using “European Americans” in this manuscript because if we’re labeling everyone else that way, the same should apply for my White homies, like from Idaho because European Americans shouldn’t be the default American.
Then there is the Asian and White dynamic that there can only be two Asians cuz cognitive load. In pop-culture, King of the Hill exemplifies this with this skit: Hank asks, “So, are you Chinese or Japanese?” Kahn replies, “I live in California last twenty years, but first come from Laos.” Hank goes, “Huh?” Kahn clarifies, “Laos. We Laotian.” Dale chimes in, “The ocean? What ocean?” Kahn snaps, “Laos! It’s a landlocked country in Southeast Asia. It borders Thailand and Vietnam!” And Hank circles back: “So, are you Chinese or Japanese?” (Season 1, Episode 1). Hilarious, because it’s spot-on, people always seem to only guess are you Chinese or Japanese?
This kind of binary thinking in pop culture mirrors broader societal tendencies, such as the intense focus on pronouns and misgendering, where nuance is often demanded, yet rarely extended to ethnic identities. If you asked, “So, are you male or female?,” it’d be no bueno, and it would be grounds for you to be expelled from the planet via a rocket launch to low Earth orbit because we have become a very intolerant society. How can I say intolerant? Well, this Asian American has never had the luxury, or some would say entitlement or audacity, to expect the masses to know my ethnicity just by looking at me, because this is commonly said and joked about, “You all look the same to me.” On the flip side, I can differentiate French folks and especially Russians from one another, and within the Asian community, many of us can tell what the other is, either by facial features, skin tone, or the way we dress, except I don’t expect everyone to be able to do this.
Strong cultural identities remind me of the time I was in Appleton, Wisconsin. We were cruising down College Ave, and I saw Asians in this neck of the woods, not a common sight, well, except for the Hmong community (I love their bumper stickers “you’re Hmong friends” cuz of the incident). I told my friends, “Holy chit, they be Japanese.” They hit me back with, “How do you know that?” I said, “Well, if you had my trained eye, you’d spot it from the way the Japanese dress, like the murse, the male purse, and more importantly, the walk. The dudes sort of lean forward and trudge along.” It’s been a while for me to instantaneously recollect (being back in Colorado has dulled those senses), but I remember the gait and pacing amused my chiropractor friends when we were in Japan. Especially the women and their walk, with teeth as mashed up as their sporadic footwork, giving Keyser Söze vibes.
These instances of recognizing cultural traits from a distance highlight my Jason Bourne-like elite operative skills through my own experiences with language and heritage expectations.
On that trip to the Midwest, seeing those Japanese in the “middle of nowhere” (or what I call Wisconsin), I’m reminded how it wasn’t always like that and how most Nihonjin or Japanese aren’t aware of the history of Japanese Americans like my late dad. He was interned in a concentration of ethnically Japanese during WW2 (you see what I did there, I said “concentration,” because it wasn’t an ethnically diverse summer camp, and “interned” sounds innocuous). His individual number was 26285F, which is what he was designated as when he was interned as a 2- to 5-year-old, and it didn’t matter that my dad and his family were American citizens. None of that mattered; they were all forcibly removed from their home in Stockton, California, and dumped in hastily constructed barracks covered with tar paper on swampland, regardless of whether they spoke Japanese or English. The U.S. was at war with Japan, and if you were incarcerated in an American camp, guess which language it might be beneficial to know and speak.
Not many Americans are aware of this history, but if you are a foreign national, or a first-generation American, it would not be expected of you to know, which is why a random Asian dude got into it with me in front of my business in San Jose, California, off of Saratoga Ave, with Yaohan (a Japanese market chain that later became Mitsuwa) as the anchor business, and the other, a popular bay area spot, Round Table Pizza. The strip mall was very first-generation Asian, so I am in FOB (Fresh Off the Boat) territory, so when this dude first asked what I was, that was the typical MO amongst us Asians, but when he asked if I spoke Japanese, and I told him, “No, I don’t,” he wasn’t having it with me not speaking Hello Kitty. This was back in the mid-90s, so I remember it happening because it was probably the first time I had an Asian talk hella chit to me, but I don’t remember all the specifics. All I remember was his tone, and how pathetic he thought it was that I didn’t “know my language.” Also, as for how I responded back, I hella don’t remember and I’m being hella bay area with my response.
Jump forward several years, or probably decades later, and now if anyone gets into it with me about language, I could bring up that my mom grew up on a farm in Brighton, Colorado, and only spoke English to her Hawaii-born mother, or English-speaking pops from Kumamoto, Japan. If that is not enough, there is also my dad who grew up in the Five Points neighborhood, and lived in the Skyland area in Denver, and did not have much need for speaking Japanese in a predominantly Japanese or Japanese American and Black neighborhood, post WW2. Except, I don’t mention either, and I just say “No habla bro,” because maybe it’s also the same reason why Bruce Willis, Katherine Heigl, and Christopher Walken aren’t speaking German when they’re at their local Wienerschnitzel.
Every immigrant-looking person in this country has heard “speak English” at some point, and there is no emphasis on being multilingual in the land of speak Murican, but I have taken, I think, upwards of four years of “¿Dónde está la discoteca?” Add in, that when my sister and I were given the choice of Japanese language school at the Buddhist temple on Saturdays, or swim lessons on Sunday at Denver University, there was an obvious choice. First of all, we should not have been given a choice, but if you as a parent want to let the kids decide, my knowledge of anime and cartoons, along with my side stroke, breast stroke, back stroke, and freestyle allowed me to successfully complete an Iron Kids triathlon. BTW, our next door neighbor is George DiCarlo, an Olympic swimming star who brought home two medals from the 1984 games, setting American records in both the 400 and 1500-meter freestyle events. Also, don’t think that I did not wish later that I had learned Japanese, but it is harder to learn if you look slightly Japanese because they expect you to not sound stupid when the words start coming out of your mouth, so the bar is set high. So, I can confidently say that my swimming ability is a lot better than my Japanese or Nihongo.
This obliviousness to Asian cultures, spanning all races, including Asian-on-Asian interactions, even extends to the realm of American slurs, where I’ve chosen to pwn one for my writing. It’s a slur every Asian American has heard: being called a “ching chong.”
Some people may know of Alexandra Wallace, a student at the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), who posted a YouTube video titled “UCLA Asians in the Library” in March 2011. In the video, she, a blonde, boobified, Sacramento-born and raised “good American girl (her words),” had her epiphany about Asian students, where she complained about their behavior in the library, such as speaking loudly on their cellularmaphones. She then went full retard and said, “Ohhh! Ching chong, ling long, ting tong! Ohhh!” to mock all my Asian peoples.
Hearing that took me back to the 80s, long before Wallace was born, because I was probably 11 to 14 years old (based on my research using complex mathematics). Since DPS (Denver Public Schools) had mandated a desegregation policy up until 1995, I rode the bus to the other side of town to go to Cole Middle School, and I had to include this little detail.
I didn’t initially hear all these slurs for a year or two because of a cute older White girl who protected me from being picked on. I don’t think I have ever told this to anyone because it’s not something I casually drop about my 11+ year-old self. It wasn’t until she went off to high school, the floodgates opened, and the slurs poured in because she was no longer there to defend me, and I seriously appreciated her and her parents for producing such a good hooman.
Except, I’m flipping the script on this silly slur against Asians. Instead, I use it for “you people.” The people of all races who may exploit or be oblivious to various Asian cultures (including Asian-on-Asian, Brown-on-Asian, White-on-Asian, Black-on-Asian), the full color spectrum level of stupid.
Why it matters: because if fools who aren’t Japanese doing a Japanese restaurant can add a whole lot of stupid by calling teppanyaki (griddle) Japanese room heaters, a hibachi (a space heater), I can work to turn this slur into an adjective, or “ching chong behavior” committed by all races.
Some might wonder how, but does it work with Asian-on-Asian level of stupid? Why yes it does, bruh, like the many Asians who expect others to pronounce phở correctly but then say “wag-you,” it’s wa-gyu. That, to me, is straight-up “ching chong” level behavior. If you’re an influencer on social media (no shortage of Asian food influencers), look it up before you speak: “ching chong.”
However, if you’re a regular Javier, Jane, Jerome, or Ji-eun, no biggie, you’re not expected to know because Mont Blanc, Hermès, and even Mercedes are often mispronounced. Most people DGAF, not that they should be forced to. It would be great if they did, since we Americans are a very multicultural country, and mispronouncing foreign words, from A to Zed (I’m trolling my own), being foreign word adverse is just what we do in the land of the free.
Thank you for reading
