When I was six, a pretty blue butterfly died in my school’s playground. I remember watching the rest of my friends kneel down and pray for it without having an idea of what to do. I had never prayed before. I had never been taught to. So, I did what any conforming six-year-old would do, and knelt down, too. It was the first time I felt like I was different from everyone else.
I grew up Buddhist in a Christian-focused school system. And while I now know that most of the people around me are mature enough (or really don’t care enough) to not treat me differently because of my religion, from Kindergarten to almost the end of elementary school, it was something I was scared of telling others. It was this enormous secret that no one else but me could know. I thought people would make fun of me or think I was weird. For so many years, my religion was something I was ashamed about. Everyone I saw surrounding me was similar, and yet different than me.
One time in elementary school, one of my teachers wanted to compare her church’s traditions to our church’s traditions, so she asked which of us went to church. Almost every hand in the classroom went up. So I put up my hand. Had I ever gone to church one day in my life? No. But I wanted to fit in; I wanted to be liked. And some part of me told me that I couldn’t be liked if I was viewed as different.
Had I ever gone to church one day in my life? No. But I wanted to fit in; I wanted to be liked.
“So what?” you might be saying, “You felt a bit different from your peers. That’s not that big of a deal. Everyone feels that way. You still had your parents who understood you or who could at least listen to you. Right?” But that wasn’t the case either. My parents are from Japan, where Buddhism is much more popular. Where Christianity isn’t the norm. Therefore, the way they felt about our religion greatly differed from mine.
Nothing showed this to me more clearly than what happened during the December of first grade. One of my teachers had us write what we did for the holidays and read it out loud to the class. Almost all my classmates said that they went to church, or that they at least prayed. So I wrote down that I went to church, too. How could I tell the truth and say that I didn’t go to church? That I didn’t pray? That while I celebrated Christmas, it wasn’t for any religious reason; it was just for fun? I still remember when my parents saw my paper when I brought it home. They just laughed and asked why I lied.
How could I tell them? How could I tell them that I was ashamed? That I was afraid of being ridiculed? How could they understand? They had both grown up as the majority, while I hadn’t. How could they understand that, while being Buddhist wasn’t a big deal to them, it was to me?
How could they understand that, while being Buddhist wasn’t a big deal to them, it was to me?
I never thought I would ever tell anyone about all of this, to be honest. It’s so far in the past now that it always felt like something that I would always keep to myself. But when my friend asked me if I would like to write about my experiences, I jumped at the chance. Because I want to get this out there. I want to find people who went through what I did, and I want others to realize how growing up as a minority feels. But most importantly, I want adults to realize that if you create a society where one religion, or one race, or one anything really, is highlighted, you’re creating an isolating environment. That by focusing on one thing, you’re teaching someone that they’re not normal. Teaching them to be ashamed of themselves because of how they were born. Or how they were raised. And honestly? That’s the worst emotion one could feel.
Karen Matsui is a freshman at Paul Laurence Dunbar High School.
This piece can also be found at The Hechinger Report, an independent education news site.
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