You may find this hard to understand but I didn't realize that I was Japanese until I went to America as a graduate student. I was born to Japanese parents, and grew up in Japan, but I didn't have a clear identity until that time.

I moved to San Diego, California, in 1983. I was aged 23. I made friends with people from around the globe: Thais, Koreans, Europeans, and Americans. And, to my surprise, through them I was able to see my true self for the very first time. With my yellow skin, black hair and slanted eyes, I realized then that I was Japanese, that I was Asian. I couldn't see that in Japan because everybody else had yellow skin, black hair and slanted eyes. (Back then, young people didn't dye their hair.)

My closest classmates were Lee (Korean) and Henry (Taiwanese). From them I learned that Koreans and Taiwanese hated Japan because of its wartime aggression. Yet Lee, Henry and I somehow overcame national animosities and became good friends. We cooked together, ate stir-fry and rice together, and discussed cultural issues, sometimes by writing Chinese characters that we all understood. Through my Thai friends, I found common Asian culture, and was surprised to discover that they knew Doraemon, the popular Japanese cat-like robot. They gave me Doraemon presents for my birthday, and we even had a special Doraemon handshake as our greeting.

Until I went to America, I was basically a Japan-hater. I was ashamed of the country's wartime atrocities. I was ashamed of the corrupt government. My education in Japan had consisted of learning about the industrial revolution, the Great Depression of 1929, and Greek philosophers. In my mind, I was a part of Western civilization. I may have learned Chinese at university and majored in Japanese history, but when it came to Asian civilization, I was ignorant. It was only in the U.S. that I came to appreciate the positive aspects of my homeland: industrial products are good; most Japanese are industrious, honest, and basically reliable; and the food is great. In Japan I didn't like "sashimi" (raw fish), but in San Diego I came to love it.

Embracing my "new" identity was relatively easy. The issue of national pride, though, was more complex. One year when my university in San Diego held a cultural night, the Japanese students were asked to perform something. I didn't even have a cotton kimono so I borrowed a polyester one -- the kind you find at a souvenir shop in a Japanese airport -- from my Thai friend. (I think it was her bathrobe.) On the night, my Japanese friends and I didn't know what to perform, so we sang "sakura," a cherry blossom song. We didn't know the words to "kimigayo," Japan's national anthem, which is generally interpreted as a song to hope for the long reign of the Emperor. (Earlier this month, my son entered a Japanese elementary school. At a welcoming ceremony I attended, "kimigayo" was played. But other than the students in the sixth grade, few parents and fewer teachers were singing.)

The contrast with Americans couldn't be more different. The Stars and Stripes is everywhere -- locals stand and look at the national flag with their hands on their chest even at a little league baseball game. I found this open display of patriotism surprising. And nowhere was it more apparent than at the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984. I found myself naturally cheering for the Japanese teams, and feeling glad whenever I saw the Hinomaru, Japan's national flag, raised. But I couldn't display the same sort of patriotism as my American friends did when their flag was raised. (Someday I hope all Japanese can proudly sing their national anthem.)