This is an excerpt from my novel "She is Alive". The scene takes place in a prison cell where the main character, Hana, is recounting her story to a journalist, Nitadori.

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When I was six, my father and mother often took me to see art. They specifically choose Kyoto to raise me for its tendency to mix tradition with the experimental. I grew up being taught this constant push and pull between the old and new. “It’s all invented anyway,” my father used to say. He understood that the Japanese could sometimes be rigid in their ways of thinking, so he made sure to instill within me a sense of adaptability. My mom gave this to me naturally.

Being Jamaican, she was used to having a few jobs at once while holding down an interesting and creative life to boot. She was a painter and used her art to communicate stories from her island life. Rather than remorse, it was more about the challenge. Her images did not agree with the typical story of “little island paradise” that is so often ascribed to Jamaica. She spoke of the injustices of gentrification, and slavery mindsets that set precedent for how economics runs the country today. Although glad to be fiscally stable and socially safe, she missed the vibrancy of her island culture.

Japan was colder and more reserved in its expression. My parents’ relationship often confused people in Kyoto. Because people had a strong tatemae, they didn’t overtly show it, yet they communicated it. Wherever they went, the eyes would haunt me. I could feel the pang of glaring on my hair, my face, and body. I remember going to the zoo, one day, and I felt close to the octopus in the aquarium. People came by to stare and point fingers at it. I was akin to this long legged sea creature in too many ways. The octopus's dreadful dark ink was my skin.

Foreseeing that this could be a burden, my father and mother went above and beyond to raise me self-secured. They assured me that my color was my best feature and that I have a responsibility to show people why I loved myself.

***

Nitadori took a breath as she finished her last notes. Scanning over the last words that she wrote, she finally looked up.

“Did you ever feel outright mistreated in Japan specifically because of your skin color?”

I smiled. This question was always directed to me from Japanese who thought themselves pure. Whenever I explained my experience with discrimination to other hafu or foreigners, they would simply acknowledge and concede. “Pure” Japanese would always question me as if I use my oppression to get attention. Annoying as it is, my duty is to educate. Otherwise, we’ll be here for centuries more.

“Yes,” I said.

She rocked backward a bit, seemingly taken aback by my curt response.

“And…how has that altered your perception about living in Japan?” she asked.

Now she questions my allegiance to country, I thought.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

I knew she was playing the journalist game for the warm-up round. It was about time I flipped the script.

“Have you ever thought of hafu or foreigners living in Japan as visitors?” I asked.

“Well, most foreigners living here are temporary. That is a fact. Japan’s population is still mostly Japanese,” she responded.

“This is true. While 98-something-% of this country is absolutely and fully Japanese, many hafu and foreigners are adopting Japanese citizenship,” I said.

She stayed silent for a moment.

“They might have a Japanese passport, but they are not Japanese.”

She said it. That’s a start.

“What makes a Japanese person Japanese more than a Japanese passport?”

“The spirit.”

“What about the law? According to the constitution, citizens are to be protected against discrimination. Yet, we still see plenty of cases where that isn’t true. What about the FLM?”

“What is that?”

I rubbed my forehead. The largest minority demonstration in Japan’s history and this educated journalist doesn’t recognize it.

“The Foreign Lives Matter movement. Have you heard of it?” I asked.

“Ah! I’ve read an article or two about it before, but that fad is over now, no?” she asked.

“No, the movement is still very much alive. That group has ties to my story, would you like to know more?” I asked.

She sat up in her chair and readied her pen, saying, “Go ahead.”

I sighed.

Hatred is the child of ignorance. Those that know must attack the hate at its root, I reminded myself.

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