Scenes in the life of a weeaboo

On my latest interviewing project, I’ve been approaching people at conventions and asking whether they identify as otaku. It’s been fascinating. However, when they turn it around ask me what I identify as, I tell them I’m a weeaboo.

I’m only half joking, as you know from a recent post I wrote. After all, unlike the word otaku, I can’t argue that there is any positive connotation at all with this word.

I have an admiration for Japanese culture that isn’t always expected or appreciated in a white person. In fact, my interest in Japan came long before my interest in anime, back in the first grade when my Girl Scout troop tried sushi. I have to work hard not to be offensive, for example, when I wanted to wear my yukata to my birthday party at a Japanese restaurant, I called ahead to see if it was okay with the staff.

“Why not? We’ll be wearing them too,” the hostess told me. But not everyone thinks that way so I have to be careful.

In the privacy of my home, I can indulge to the fullest. And that is why John and I bought a Japanese serving set from World Market the other day. We made Miso Chicken Donburi from my cookbook and served it with a side of miso soup and pickled things. (I didn’t have daikon so I used olives and pickles.)

My photos didn’t turn out so well, but the meal was delicious. It was wonderful to give in for an evening and unapologetically do what makes me happy.

Do any of the academics reading this know if there is a word for guilt about cultural appropriation? Please let me know.