December 7th was my least favorite day throughout elementary school.
Every year on that day, an intercom announcement would blast through the classrooms to owe remembrance to the attack on Pearl Harbor. Every year, I would sit in my seat and pray for the moment to pass. My sister and I were the only Japanese students in our school district, and I single-handedly carried the feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and shame at the mention of my home country. Back then, I didn’t quite understand where those feelings came from, but my discomfort showed through flushed cheeks and sweaty palms.
“Stop looking at me. I wasn’t even alive back then…” I would think to myself while dodging the side-eyed glances of my classmates. They probably didn’t mean to make me feel bad, but the isolation of carrying these struggles on my own dented my self-worth anyway.