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In third grade, my teacher read The Faithful Elephants by Yukio Tsuchiya aloud for story time. Her eyes zeroed in on me, the only Asian student in a class of milky-white faces, and one of a handful in the entire school. “Emiko,” she said, “how do you say this?” She tapped her finger against the author’s name on the front cover. I froze on the spot. I still remember the heat in my cheeks, which I’d later recognize as shame. Of course, I didn’t know how to pronounce the name. I was just learning to read, and my parents and I didn’t speak Japanese. But there had been an expectation that I should know the correct pronunciation because I looked a certain way. Because my first and last name were of the same origins.

Sometime later in the school year, in the lunch line, a student tipped their eyes in an exaggerated slant and sang the song from Lady and the Tramp to me. You know the one: “We are Siamese, if you please … ”

My life is cataloged by these events. Students taping their eyes up and chasing me around at recess. A teacher calling me half and half. A Japanese foreign exchange student confused by my mannerisms. Jobs I was denied because my name sounded too foreign (they thought I didn’t speak English). A stranger asking what I was. These events were small chops of a knife, bifurcating me. All spoken with subtle underlying contexts: you are not Japanese enough, you are not American enough, you are not enough.

I believe change is coming, but it is slow and hard won.

At an early age, I was forced to swallow the fact that people existed in this world who would only see certain parts of me. I have my own children now. And I worry about them. Will they experience the same things as me? How will people speak about them? How will they learn to speak about themselves? How will they find themselves in America? Will they ever feel as if they belong somewhere? I wrote Tokyo Ever After for my children. For all those kids out there that straddle two worlds, never feeling at home in either. And who, like teenage me, more than anything, longs to find a place where they fit in, where they can turn on the television or walk past billboards, or read books and see their reflection. The reality is this might not happen in my kids’ lifetime. I believe change is coming, but it is slow and hard won.

"...it is for everyone out there who feels stuck between two cultures. But more so, it’s for all those out there searching for their place in the world."

But for now, there is this book. And it is for everyone out there who feels stuck between two cultures. But more so, it’s for all those out there searching for their place in the world. By the way, I think I’ve figured it out now—the key is to build a space uniquely for you. Tokyo Ever After is truly a book of my heart. It is a story I wished existed when I was a little girl. One that feels like a hug, like a hand holding you tight, whispering it will be okay. You are okay. You fit right here beside me. You are whole and complete, just as you are. I see you. You are, and always have been, enough.