How I Survived Japanese Kindergarten as a Southeast Asian

I was bullied relentlessly, but, thanks to a little girl, my life (and my name) changed.

Me in Japanese kindergarten, 1978

Trigger Warning: This essay talks about bullying. Please take care of your mental health while reading.

“Laaanjuuuu?” The teacher called out the class roster as she protruded her lips like a duck.

She glanced around the room of eager children sitting on colorful mats. My name is Ranju, not Lanju, I thought, as I raised my hand sheepishly, my cheeks hot with frustration.

As Ms. Takahashi checked my name off her chart, Bulldog Akiko giggled as her apprentice, Kae, followed with rumbustious laughter.

Life as a Nepali in a Japanese kindergarten was rough, to say the least. But this is not a sob story. It’s about how a little girl helped me survive Japanese kindergarten, and how, as a result, I changed my name.

“She called me Lanju again,” I would tell my mom for the umpteenth time.

“They can’t roll their Rs. How many times do I need to tell you?” Mom would mutter as if I had said the most ridiculous thing.

It’s not that I had anything against my teacher and her Japanese tongue. It’s just that it made me the butt of the joke in my Japanese kindergarten.

You gotta understand. I was four. And she was the adult, and that alone meant she had the key to banish me into the abyss of rejects or open the door to the approving eyes of Bulldog Akiko and Kae.

Simply put, in my little mind, it was a matter of life and death. My teacher had to roll those Rs.

I don’t think my parents knew my name would be my biggest hiccup when they decided to leave their hometown. That must have been the least of their worries.

One, it’s no small feat to migrate to another country. Two, Dad was raised in near-poverty in Kathmandu, but went on to earn a graduate scholarship to an Ivy League in New York. He was then offered a coveted position as a civil engineer at an international company in Tokyo.

Mom and me, 1978

I did have one thing going for me. Mom was well-liked by the Japanese. She was pretty and fair and easily passed as one. She could eventually speak, read, and write Japanese and, in time, spoke like a native.

When she came to pick me up, I would grab her pinkie and drag her around the room, pretending to show her my drawings. I thought that perhaps if my classmates saw her, they would think I was hafu (part Japanese, part something else), which was the best type of Japanese you could be.

I was the only gaijin (foreigner) in my class. I knew this because of those bullies. They reminded me daily that I was indeed an alien who had no business being in the same space as them.

“Gaijin, gaijin!” they would yell like a public service announcement.

Lunchtime was the worst. Every noon, I took refuge in the same spot behind a giant oak tree, away from the buzzing noise of children playing hide-and-seek.

My solace was obento (lunch box). Giddy with anticipation, I would open it to find garnishes Mom had carefully arranged—carrots carved like bunnies, black sesame seeds sprinkled on white rice, and ginger-spiced fried chicken.

With every bite, birds chirped merrily around the sun-kissed tulips, butterflies fluttered joyfully, and the branches curled up to embrace me, like my mom’s belly, safe and warm.

“LLLLLLAAAAANJUUUUU,” Bulldog Akiko would yell. She always managed to find me. Her straight, black hair swaying perfectly as she marched towards me. “Go back to your country, you weirdo!”

Kae would follow while other kids watched the spectacle. I would close my eyes and squeeze them tight. God, please make me vanish, and I promise I’ll help Mom with the dishes. But I didn’t disappear. Sigh…God sucks.

“It’s Ranju, not Lanju!” I would snap back when I mustered the courage to do so, and Bulldog Akiko’s face would wrinkle like a bulldog (thus my nickname for her). They were a gang of two among their own while I was an unwelcome menace stepping into their territory, literally.

Me on the right with my sister, wearing a kimono, 1977

Throughout the time I grew up in Tokyo, I would press my nose towards my upper lip to make it flatter and pull the outer edges of my eyes. I did that without fail for months, convinced I would look more Japanese if only I persisted.

But it never worked.

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I remember the day when my world changed from black and white to a vivid, bright hue.

As usual, my teacher would summon us to find a partner to do activities together. I would wait, but no one would pick me, forcing me to partner with the teacher. But that day, the teacher motioned for me to come over to meet a new girl named Junko.

Junko’s grin revealed a wide, toothless smile full of mischief. Her eyeglasses were too big for her face and made her eyes bulge, but she looked like an angel from where I was standing. That day, we crafted origami (crafting paper) of all colors into a flower, a hat, and a crane and lined them up on the table.

I remember this so clearly, like it was yesterday. That’s because the heavy fog that had settled on my life had lifted for the first time. I could finally see the bright, blue sky that stretched above me. We giggled, held hands, and ate obento behind that giant tree where I used to hide from the bullies.

She didn’t seem to care that I was darker than the other kids or that I had a long nose, or that my name didn’t sound like the others. I walked with a lighter gait, my shoulders no longer hunched, and I looked forward to kindergarten.

My mom noticed it, too.

“Does the teacher still call you Lanju?” She asked one day, perhaps because I stopped mentioning it.

“Yep,” I said as Mom waited for me to start my rant—I didn’t.

When I became older, I asked her why she named me June. She said one day, out of the blue, I asked her to change my name to my best friend’s name, citing it was easier to pronounce than Ranju.

Apparently, my parents didn’t take me seriously when I first asked, but I insisted. It started casually, with them calling me Junko, but eventually the “ko” dropped, and it became June. They then formally changed the name on my passport.

I have no idea what her last name is or where she is now. But I’ll never forget her as my angel who didn’t care about my origin, my skin, or my name.