The Jackets I Wear

Students at the American School in Japan share personal essays exploring the theme of identity as part of their creative nonfiction class. Each essay is followed by a critical reflection by the student on the project, process, and their writing experience. These essays are presented unedited by TIE to preserve the authenticity and originality of the student voice. 

"Cheung?” 

There’s a pause, a moment of confusion in the substitute teacher's voice as she scans the attendance list. I’ve felt it coming, the hesitation, the way she squints at the letters. I raise my hand to save her the effort. "Here." 

I am Japanese. And Canadian, legally. My passport says so. But Chinese? Not officially, not on paper. Yet every time my last name is read aloud, there's a side of me that floats in a cultural limbo. By blood, I’m as much Chinese as I am Japanese, but this part of me feels like a hand-me-down, a jacket in the wrong size. 

Whenever I get asked, "Where are you from?" My answer changes depending on the setting. If everyone around me says "Japan," I’ll say “Japan,” too. It’s simple, and no one questions it. After all, I look Japanese, and here, in Japan, that answer seems expected. But if people start mentioning cool places like New York, London, or Madrid, I’ll go with “Canada.” I tell them I hold a Canadian passport and that my dad’s family lives there. Sometimes, though, I wonder if that’s entirely honest. Am I really "from" Canada if I’ve never lived there? It's almost like a game, one where I get to choose who I am based on what will get the least questions. Or maybe, what will get the most interest. But then I think of people who claim they’re from the U.S. just because they hold the blue passport. I think of the question itself: Where are you from? So simple, so innocent, yet it unravels to an uncontrollable spool of thread. Is it the room where your first cry echoed of cold walls? The house layered with the clutter of half-forgotten memories? Or is it something less tangible, when the rhythm of your pulse feels right somewhere, the way the light falls just so, turning air into belonging? Perhaps it’s none of these. Perhaps it’s just a name, stamped and sealed by someone else’s hand, a destination you didn’t choose but must carry. 

“Canada, huh? Your dad’s from there?” a teacher asked once. 

I nodded. “Yeah, his whole family lives there.” 

“You must go a lot, then?” 

“Yeah”, I let that statement settle in, as if that single word explained everything about why Canada could be my answer. I could’ve added that I’d never actually lived there, only visited, or that I’ve memorized the Air Canada call sign from Tokyo to Toronto (AC2). But what would it matter? Would any of it make Canada more like home? A stamped passport doesn’t soften the sharp edges of the cold there, nor does memorizing the Air Canada call sign make it home. It’s just a fact, like how snow falls in Toronto while cherry blossoms bloom in Tokyo. 

When I think of the noun, identity, I think about my dad’s family. For him, Toronto is woven into him like the threads in his favorite jacket. He has parents in Toronto, he earned his Master of Business Administration at York University, in Toronto. Before moving to Japan, he would drive his red Porsche 944 in Toronto. When I’m with my dad in Canada, I understand his part of a world that's connected there. Canada is where he calls home, and when I’m there, it’s where I feel I belong too. I also know for certain I belong in Japan. I was born in this country, I’ve spent my whole life in Japan, my whole life in Tokyo, my whole life centered around Japan. There’s no part of my daily life that doesn’t speak to my Japanese side, abusing the public transport, visiting shrines on New Year’s Day, or doing my photoshoots during Shichi-go-san. My mum’s family’s history is woven into the country’s traditions. Along with her older brother, he never went to international schools, never studied English, never stepped into the cosmopolitan world I live in today. She wore the neatly pressed uniform of her high school, the pleats crisp and the collar always straight, loving her randoseru. Every morning, she rode the packed trains, the randoseru tucked under her arm as she stood shoulder to shoulder with salarymen, the faint smell of newspaper ink in the tight carriage. 

Entering the workforce, punching the clock and living paycheck to paycheck. She worked late hours, balancing stacks of documents in gray cubicles under fluorescent lights. She found solace in small izakayas, the kind with cracked wooden signs and the smell of grilled skewers wafting into the street. She would sit on a worn stool, sipping a highball or a glass of sake, laughing with coworkers. “It was a way to unwind,” she tells me, her voice stinging with nostalgia. “Everyone did it. You just worked hard and didn’t complain.” 

Completely Japanese. 

But what does it mean to not feel Chinese? 

I’ve set foot in China maybe twice. I’ve seen it in spy movies, learned about it in AP World, and caught fragments in my relatives’ accents. I know it through stories, family anecdotes, the occasional photo. But daily interactions? A passport? A feeling of belonging? No. My trips to Canada are frequent; China, not at all. Still, my last name, ‘Cheung,’ is a constant reminder. It’s Chinese, from my dad’s side. When typing it in Japanese, I have to scroll past emojis to find the characters: ??. Unfamiliar symbols, as distant as the identity itself. Feeling like a jacket someone gave to me without explanation. I don’t speak Cantonese,

I don’t understand it, I can’t even read it. At family dinners, the divide is clear. My mom and I sit on one isolated side, on the other, my dad’s family chatters in Cantonese, the syllables quick and rhythmic, like a song I try to pretend I can sing. I pick at my rice, listening to their laughter rise and fall, feeling like an outsider at my own family dinner. Being frank, the guilt creeps in during these quiet moments. I don’t speak Cantonese. I don’t understand it. I can’t even write my own name in its native characters. But my dad’s family doesn’t mind; they speak to me in English, ask me for Japanese phrases with the enthusiasm of tourists. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Japanese again?” they ask, and I feel the roles reverse, but still feel as if the gaps widen. Should I feel bad for not knowing it? But my parents never made me learn Cantonese; my family there speaks to me in English. I realize now how little of the language I know, even how to say my own name has faded from memory. Language is like a tailored jacket, it holds you, shapes you, makes you belong. Without it, I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes, too stiff and unfamiliar. 

A lot of it might be the decisions I made in my early years that I’ve kept until now. I remember, I was intrigued, maybe jealous of the people that came from cool places. Like in elementary school on the first day of each grade year, we would do the usual of ‘what's your name’, ‘where are you from’, the usual. Some kids got to say extravagant places like Sydney or Lisbon. But mine? “Nori, Japan.” It was simple. Mundane, even. No one remembered that answer; no teacher commented on it. I wanted to stand out, to say something that sparked curiosity. So I started adding, “I’m half!” It felt like a lifeline to something more interesting. But half-Japanese, half-Chinese? That didn’t carry the same intrigue as being half-Swedish or half-Brazilian, combinations so far apart you’d need to spin a globe to connect them. My two countries sat side by side, a short light apart, no need to cross vast landscapes or hemispheres. It felt...ordinary. Empty. I envied the kids who had something to share, something that made the room pause and listen. I wanted that, too. So I started adding “Canada”. It was like owning a reversible jacket, one side was vibrant and eye-catching whereas the other was plain and familiar. If I was asked to show it of, always turning it to the brighter side. But sometimes, the jacket, one that's undeniably mine by inheritance, didn't quite fit. I hold it up, turn it over in my hands, and wonder if it looks as cool as the ones others are wearing. Sometimes, I want to leave it hanging in the closet, reaching instead for something I think will make me stand out more. 

But I really think it’s because I never learned the Chinese language. Language is the root of a tree, the spine of a book holding everything together. It’s the key to a house I’ve never entered, the melody of a song I’ve never been taught to sing. Without it, I stumble, peering through a double-pane window at something just out of reach. Language carries the rhythm of a culture, the weight of its stories, the unspoken rules hidden in every syllable. Without it, I am a guest at the edge of the dinner table, wearing a mask and pretending to belong. My laugh comes a beat too late. My hands hover, uncertain which dish to take first. My smile feels tight, a performance for a scene I don’t know how to play. I sit stiffly, trying not to knock over something fragile, caught in the space between what should feel familiar and what feels foreign. I’m there, but I’m not truly part of it. 

On an ordinary afternoon, with sunlight pooling through the window and the hum of the kettle in the background, I asked my question offhandedly. Why didn’t you ever teach me Cantonese? 

Looking up from his laptop, the light reflecting different directions of his glasses. He sat back in his chair, like turning the question over as if a jacket he hadn’t worn in years, checking if it still fits. “It’s about priorities,” he said, “Language is your foundation—your mother tongue. That’s what your mom speaks, so for you, it’s Japanese. You build everything else on top of that. Then there’s English. It’s practical, useful. Cantonese? I don’t even use it much myself. I don’t speak Mandarin either. It just didn’t seem as important.” 

“So it wasn’t important enough to pass down?” 

“It’s not about importance. It’s about giving you what you need first. You’ve got a strong base now. If you want to add Cantonese to the mix, it’s yours to pick up.” 

I thought about what Dad said. His words slipped into the quiet moments when I wasn’t looking. Language as a foundation—it made sense. I could see it in the way Japanese felt natural, like a well-worn jacket, and English fit snugly over it. But Cantonese? That was the jacket left on the rack, unworn and unfamiliar. 

Writing this essay, I wonder if I could claim it now, pull it on and feel its weight. Would it drape comfortably, or would it hang awkwardly, a reminder of how much I’d missed? Maybe it isn’t about fitting perfectly. Maybe I will pick up the jacket, dusty and forgotten from the closet. Maybe I will give it a second chance.

Reflecting Super Hard 

Why did you pick this topic? Was it easy or hard to write about something? 

I chose this topic because it’s a question I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember. A question without a clear answer. Explaining where I’m from has always felt complicated, like trying to summarize a book when you haven’t read it for the class discussion. When Ms. Anjali mentioned that the essay could be used to explore a personal question, this idea immediately stood out to me. It felt like the perfect opportunity to dig deeper into something I’ve often avoided fully unpacking. There is a lot to explore in this topic and I think I could’ve written an extra 1000 words if it wasn’t for the word restriction. Evidence of this would be me writing 1000 words in the first checkpoint as when I got into the low, I didn’t stop and never did I feel like I was forcing myself to write to the end. 

What aspects of this essay are you most proud of? 

I'm proud about choosing a good topic. I am proud about asking my dad about this lingering question. I am proud about my essay as a whole! ere wasn’t much I struggled with apart from getting some information but I am thankful for the feedback which steered me into the direction of asking my dad directly about what HE thinks about this question that I have been caring for a long time. I’m also happy that I was able to write with ease on this essay although that did have its drawbacks as I caught myself telling more than showing because there was so much information I just wanted to put down onto the paper. I had to re-read the paragraphs multiple times to first, make sure if it made any sense and second, add the complexity of showing where I found the analogy of the jacket which ultimately turned into a theme and the title. 

Pieces that influenced my writing. 

One of the writings that influenced me was e Coroner's Photographs. I remember how much Brent Staples told us about this memory, to be honest I was quite shocked at how open he was to discuss undoubtedly one of his biggest tragedies in writing form, to the world. It showed me how open I should be about my own writing and not to shy away with personal complexities. (To an extent so I am comfortable ofcourse.) Another, is his use of show not tell. I thought his story was the easiest to recognise the imagery and the motifs of the photographs he used for his writing style. Inspired by this, I used the jacket analogy also as a recurring motif in my story to explore different themes as well. Additionally, I am a big fan of his ending. I like how he finished the story, but kept it open? As if he could write a sequel to this story but he decided to end it by looking at the photographs he was explaining before. It influenced me as I learned that this can form the true message, the heart of a story, allowing for reflection/ending without a definitive answer. 

The second piece of writing that inspired me was On Witness & Repair. Similar to the Coroner’s Photographs I was inspired by her writing not shying away from exposing her grief and complex emotions to the world. It left me thinking about how vulnerability can be a strength in writing. By connecting the story to bigger themes of identity and history it made me realize that the personal can carry more weight when it reflects something bigger, something others can connect to.