Growing up in Japan, I was always treated differently because of how I looked: Curly hair, freckles and English conversations with my mom at the grocery store set me apart from the crowd. I tried to convince myself that the reason I felt othered was because I was too sensitive, and had nothing to do with how people treated me.
Recently, I hopped into a cab from Shibuya with my non-Japanese friend. While chatting in English with my friend in the backseat, I directed our driver in perfectly detailed Japanese.
“Your Japanese is really good,” the driver told me when we were paying. “Better than a Japanese person.”
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