When Race Becomes a Wound You Didn’t Expect

I was born Japanese and German, but I was raised in a Black community from the very beginning.

My family, my friends, my church family, my mentors—my whole world was Black. The culture, the traditions, the love—it’s what I know. It’s what shaped my spirit. I have embraced it my entire life because it’s the only home I’ve ever known in my heart.

That’s why it cut so deeply when, later in life, I began to experience moments where race was used against me—by people within the very culture that had nurtured me. In Las Vegas, I was called names that reduced me to my skin color. More recently, in a professional setting, the “race card” was pulled in a way that silenced me and questioned my integrity.

I understand that discrimination is not limited to any one race. I also know the pain of watching people I love face it. But when it comes from people you love, respect, and consider your own—it hits differently. It feels like a fracture in your soul.

I share this not to attack or divide, but because I believe we can’t heal from what we never name. We live in a time when racial attacks—subtle or blatant—have become normalized. And yet, the only way forward is through conversations that are honest, respectful, and rooted in a desire for understanding.

I still love the Black community. I will always honor the culture that raised me. But I also hold space for the truth that healing sometimes means acknowledging when you’ve been hurt—even by the people you thought would never hurt you.

Love doesn’t erase the pain. But love can guide us to see each other fully, without the need to wound one another with the sharpness of race.