On Liking Japan, and Why Don’t You Love Mexico?

When someone I know asked me this question—or, more accurately, when it felt like they were questioning me—it was as though my cultural loyalty was on trial. They accused me of not respecting native symbols like traditional saint amulets or religious traditions as much as I do Japanese ones. I countered by saying I liked Mexican coffee and wine, but their retort—“those are products of globalization”—dismissed my words as superficial.

I celebrate Día de Muertos. In fact, it’s the only holiday I truly care about because I can strip it of its Catholic connotations and adapt it to a personal reflection rooted in memory and association. Once, I gave this person a Japanese amulet, an omamori, and told them not to open it. When they later admitted that they had, I silently felt upset.

Later that month, they sent me a video criticizing Japan for exploiting foreign workers from impoverished countries. It felt like another attempt to impose their beliefs on me—something I dislike as much as a religious zealot knocking on my door to preach. I responded with similar criticisms, but about China, to which they replied, “Yeah, but Japan and Manchuria.”

Of course, I’m aware of Japan’s flaws: a stagnant economy, systemic sexism, and the atrocities committed during its imperial era—in Korea, the Philippines, and yes, Manchuria. Japan’s wartime crimes rival those of Germany, but unlike Germany, Japan has yet to confront that history fully. I’m not blind to these issues. I can see the cracks in the things I admire. I’ve removed the rose-colored blindfold.

But why is liking Japan a sin? Why must it imply that I don’t love Mexico—or that I’m betraying my culture by writing this in English? Look, I like Mexico just as much as anyone else. Mexican street food, for example, is among the best in the world, and I can’t go a day without real salsa—not the watered-down version served in touristy taquerías. But I don’t feel obliged to wear a nationalist jersey, and I understand that all cultures are touched by globalization. Japan’s influence, however, left a unique mark on me.

During two miserable years at a private Catholic school—nothing more Mexican than Catholicism—the nuns mocked me. I found solace in playing Super Mario and watching what I thought were American cartoons. In public school, where I was bullied for not being an extrovert, I escaped by exploring Hyrule in The Legend of Zelda and dreaming of becoming a Knight of the Zodiac. While my family clung to traditions rooted in a religion with European origins, I read about Shigeru Miyamoto, watched Super Campeones, and coped with loneliness and hunger by dreaming of making games like Mega Man or learning karate to fend off bullies.

Japanese culture grew with me. My first real-life hero was a man from Kyoto—Miyamoto—whose childhood explorations of nature inspired the worlds I adored. While others, like my sister, looked northward in admiration, I wondered about Tokyo, dreamed of tasting okonomiyaki, and learned to use hashi thanks to a stranger in a Japanese restaurant. Over time, Japanese culture became my grounding force and, later, my lifeboat during battles with depression and anxiety.

I’m here, as I said in another of my writings, thanks to Japan. I grew up dreaming of the worlds Shigeru Miyamoto created, and that dream led me to understand—not just consume—the culture that shaped me. It has given me lifelines that neither lucha libre nor Chavo del Ocho ever could. So I endured, and I endured, until I finally took a plane. My goal wasn’t Akihabara for anime (though I enjoy it) but an adventure of temples, nature, and shrines (though I did visit the Nintendo Tokyo store).

I hope this answers the question. And yes, I feel better now that it’s off my chest. As for why I embrace English? That’s a story for another time: また前.