I am a Muzukashii Woman

Growing up, I always felt a disconnect from my Japanese culture. One complex concept is the expectation of being “normal.” If you are different, or call attention to yourself in any way, you’re considered hazukashii: embarrassing. If you are difficult, you are muzukashii. Memories of my childhood from elementary school and beyond are flooded with muzukashii. Every time I was loud, direct, honest, and curious — muzukashii.  

One day, my elementary school gave out midterm report cards. I was a focused straight-A student, so I was excited to get my envelope and open the card. But when I scanned down the list of grades, I saw an “F” next to “Social.” My stomach dropped. Not only did the “F” mean my parents needed to sign the card, but I would also be benched while all the other kids played. 

At recess, when I sat down to watch my classmates play tetherball, my teacher walked over and sat next to me. He asked me if I knew why I was there, and I shook my head. He explained that I was too disruptive, that my job as a student was to listen. He said it’s not okay for me to keep asking questions out loud during class, that I should just keep them to myself. I recall him being very kind, but something viscerally felt wrong about what he said.

I brought the card home for my mom to sign, and I will never forget the disappointment on her face. It is my earliest memory of her telling me: you are muzukashii.

As I grew up, muzukashii followed me into the tech space in Chicago, where I found that many places proclaim they want to celebrate our individuality, but what they really want is for marginalized people to stay quiet and to get their work done. I refer to this as “the hypocrisy of individuality.” Companies “do their part” by including Equal Employment Opportunity Employer language on job postings while they tell people who are trying to effect real change to stay in their lane. The saving grace for tech in Chicago is that there are people who will stand up with you. The “strength in numbers” mentality truly exists, which forces change at companies. Although I felt supported, I continued asking myself: How are organizations truly supporting individuality and empowering us to be ourselves at work? 

When I moved to Portland, I discovered muzukashii and hazukashii are ingrained into the cultural climate of the city. It was worse than the experiences I had in Chicago. Even if people agree with your point of view, they prefer a passive aggressive approach and would never dream of being outspoken. I learned this the hard way many times, but one specific situation always jumps out at me.

During one D&I (diversity and inclusion) event, I thought I was in a safe space and discussed my concerns with the city’s culture with a group of allies and people of color. We talked about what we could do to empower others in the workplace, and how to become better allies for other marginalized communities. Afterward, a female executive approached me. She was a woman of color who had been mostly silent during the discussion. She told me that Portland is not the type of place where I can speak openly and critically about white people or other privileged groups, no matter how right I am. She had stayed silent because she felt so uncomfortable with my suggestions on how privileged communities can better support us.

“White people in Portland will consider you ‘unlikable’ because you come off as difficult and uncooperative,” she said. I told her I appreciated her insights and would take her ideas into consideration. 

I realized my unconscious bias then: all women and people of color were empathetic to my struggles and that we were on the same team. But that was wrong and a woman of color called me difficult, loud. Everyone constantly told me I was muzukashii and told me how I should change my approach to everything. I missed the friends and strangers in Chicago who empowered me to live my truth. In Portland, I felt invisible.

After a breakdown, I had to take medical leave from my job. For years, I had worked so hard on my mental health to overcome trauma from my experiences with racism and misogyny. I was disappointed in myself; I blamed myself. I felt I was regressing in my journey.

My relationship with my therapist had been great. But when I went to my therapist for the first time after my breakdown, I questioned his perspective as a white man and his ability to speak with me. He listened while I laid everything out. When I was done, he said, “I want to make sure I tell you that I validate your experience.” This was something I hadn’t heard from a single person in this city for a long time.

“You kept repeating ‘difficult’ and ‘irrational,’” he said. “But what those words actually mean to who you are is empathetic, intelligent, feminist and bold.” He said there was nothing wrong with any of it. “If people feel uncomfortable, it’s because they know something needs to change.”

These are all things I knew, but hearing it from him sparked something within me. The realization that people would rather stay silent than speak up, because it’s so much easier. 

I was allowing myself to give in, to shut down, so people wouldn’t have to do the work. I backslid to my childhood point of view, where the more silent you are, the more you are liked. The less marginalized people speak, the less work others have to do to support us. I was giving them power. Realizing all of this changed everything. Since then, I have moved forward in my time here so differently.

Roxane Gay’s collection of short stories, Difficult Women, discusses the complexity behind unconventional women and human connections. It made me feel seen and heard, but also opened my eyes to other experiences I could do a better job of supporting. She coined the phrase “difficult woman” and granted me the ability to use it in such a positive, confident way. Now, when people say I’m difficult, I say “Thank you.” When people shut me down or interrupt me, I reclaim my time. I call out hepeating the second I hear or see it. I respect others and demand respect in return. I am a muzukashii woman. I am a difficult woman.

Sakura Cahero has worked in tech since 2015 in both sales and product support roles. They moved to Portland in May 2018 and were previously a resident of Chicago, IL. When not working, Sakura enjoys intersectional activism and exploring Portland with her wife. They are also the proud parent of two cats named Penny and Moana, and a pit bull mix named Joe. Connect with Sakura on Instagram.