Multicultural Identity

Me and My Cultures: Japanese, Bangladeshi, American

I’m often asked, "What are you?"—obviously referring to my ethnicity, not my nationality. And honestly, I’m not always sure how to answer. Sometimes I start with my parents, sometimes with where I was raised, and other times with my ancestry. Each time, the answer changes, not because I’m confused, but because I carry pieces of multiple places, and choosing just one feels unfair. One of the most common questions I get is: "Which country do you like more? What do you identify with?" That’s a difficult question.

But to be perfectly blunt, this is how I see it:

I was born in the United States, but my earliest memory is actually from Japan. My parents had me attend school there for a bit, and it happened to be during the time when I began forming lasting childhood memories and gaining a sense of the world around me. I was in Kobe, Japan, going to school alongside my brother and cousins. I remember walking into class on the first day—tanned compared to my classmates—but I don’t recall being bullied. Maybe I was too young to notice, or maybe I just didn’t care. I was more focused on not making mistakes and doing my best with my not-so-perfect Japanese.

I remember walking to school with my hard-shell backpack—the kind uniquely recognizable in Japan. Our whole family would come pick us up, and we’d walk past the rice paddies singing songs. We played with frogs and little lizards in the water gutters (which, in Japan, are actually clean). The playground was magical—complete with unicycles, gymnastic bars, and a huge field where we played soccer or anything we wanted. I remember trying to swing high enough to jump off and stick a perfect landing.

I also have early memories from India and Bangladesh. We visited often, and once stayed for few months. I "looked" more Indian/Bangladeshi than my mother and brother, so I didn’t attract as many stares as they did. My mother, though, was frequently photographed when we went out. We stayed in a small village and played outside catching birds and fishing. My favorite job was tending to the fire for cooking on a traditional clay stove. I’d blow air into the flames using a long straw-like pipe and search for leaves and wood to keep it burning. I never knew what the aunties were making, only that it smelled delicious. Dozens of different fish curries would be laid out, and our large family—sometimes 30 to 40 people—would all eat together. We’d sing, dance, and talk until the night ended, retreating to our designated rooms.

In India, we stayed in hotels and ordered room service. I still remember the yellow coconut shrimp curry from one particular hotel. My brother and I would fight over the last shrimp, only for our uncle to swoop in and take it himself.

But what do I identify with?

Growing up in the U.S., I was surrounded more by Japanese culture—especially through my host family experience. Most of the athletes who lived with us were Japanese, and Japanese was the primary language spoken at home. My father spoke it fluently, and never emphasized the need for me to learn another language. I regret that now. My skating coaches were Japanese too. I could never escape the language or the culture.

Yes, we went to Hindu temples and celebrated pujas, but I didn’t really understand why. I remember dressing up in traditional clothes and being stared at for growing up outside the community, for not looking quite Indian. I never got to speak to the girls my age because they spoke languages I couldn’t. I did Indian dance, but have no memories of bonding with the other girls. Maybe I was just shy. I also joined a Japanese singing group but again, the language barrier and my shyness kept me quiet. Until I moved out for university, our home was filled with Japanese and international influence—but rarely anyone from my dad’s side.

At university, I joined two Japanese clubs and decided to minor in Japanese. By then, I had developed a deeper interest in the culture. My mother was the president of the Japanese Women’s Association, and her events were a must-attend. I spoke Japanese at home, and in high school, I was the only Japanese girl in my grade. I became the “model citizen” of Japanese culture, always trying to prove I was Japanese through my language, appearance, and mannerisms—sporting bangs, dressing traditionally, doing everything to be seen as valid. Because every day, people told me I wasn’t. And I knew I wasn’t fully American either. But I was both—and more. I was lost.

Then COVID hit, and I decided to spend over seven months in Japan to immerse myself in the culture. With classes online, my Japanese improved. But eventually, I got tired of constantly having to prove myself to people who didn’t matter.

Then I entered a beauty pageant representing Japan—and won. And the first reaction from most was, "How dare you? You don’t look the part." But what part should I look? Where do I belong? What would you reduce me to? America? If we apply the same logic, should only a Native American represent the United States? Why is it just me who is questioned, even when I carry the blood of my people? Bangladesh? A place I love but never got the chance to learn its language or dive deeply into its beautiful culture and history. Where do I go? Where do I compete? What am I?

At the end of the day, I am Kaya Chakrabortty.

Kaya—derived from the Japanese word Miyabi, meaning elegance, when written in kanji. And Chakrabortty—undeniably Bangladeshi. My name alone tells the story. My existence is my proof. So no, I will not continue proving myself to those who will never understand. I know who I am. I know where I belong, and I know how I belong in this world.

And that, I believe, is what matters most.