I cannot recall anyone else who has treated me the way you do.
You treat me as if I were Japanese. Well, I am Japanese, down to the very core of my being. But the thing is, you treat me as if I looked Japanese.
Even as a young child, I was conscious of being perceived differently. Later, I learnt why. According to my Japanese mother, my father had been an English-Indian biracial man, and though she never said this, I worked out myself that she could not have seen him more than a dozen times. In my childhood there were nights when I lay in bed and fantasized about meeting my father, our first meeting, our only one perhaps, but nevertheless our meeting as father and son. I have long since given up on that fantasy. Now I hope and pray he never shows up on our doorstep. I cannot afford to have my everyday peace disturbed by a stranger.
Did I say no one has treated me the same way you do? I was exaggerating. Actually, my mother does. And my grandmother, too.