Is McNeil-Sensei a Neee-gah, Too?

In a Japanese school where most bilingual / biracial kids prefer to blend in, Risa stands out without apology. What happens next reveals the cost of being visible—and the power of being heard

There’s a 13-year-old biracial girl among my 1st-year students. Her name is Risa. She’s what the Japanese call Hāfu—half-Japanese, half-something-else. In her case, half-African American. She’s cute, kind of favors Rue from Hunger Games, or Naomi Osaka, or maybe what’s-her-name from Dune. She’s got the best of both worlds and speaks English and Japanese fluently. After a few years living in Mississippi, her family recently moved back to Japan. She transferred into my school mid-semester and seemed to be adjusting just fine.

That is, until today.

There’s also a returnee in the same class—Hideki. A “pureblood” Japanese kid who’d spent several years in the UAE. He went to an international school over there, so his English is solid, too.

What I didn’t know until now was that a bit of a rivalry had started between them.

Risa is... let’s say unusually outspoken for a Japanese schoolgirl. She isn’t shy about showing off her English. Which is rare. Most English-speaking Japanese students I’ve known go undercover. They downplay their ability so thoroughly you’d forget they ever studied abroad. If they speak to me at all, it’s with one eye over their shoulder, checking who might overhear. Around their friends, they bury the English like a family secret. They know what happens to the nail that stands out.

But Risa? She’s out here flossing fluency like it’s her birthright.

Hideki’s not exactly shy either, but he’s no Risa.

Apparently, lately he’s been teasing her—enough that she felt the need to tell me. Caught me in the hallway before class.

“Mr. McNeil, Hideki says I have an accent.”

“Really?” I said. “Let me hear you. Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Umm... what does your father do?”

“He’s uh Petty Officer in the Navy. Been in the Navy since befo’ I was born. He’s from Mississippi and you kinda remind me uh him...”

“Well, Risa, I think Suzuki-kun is right. You do have an accent. It’s a southern one. Kinda like my mother’s. Only a slight one, though. But big deal! He’s got an accent too. His is British. I’ve got one, too—though I might be losing it. Everyone’s got some kind of accent.”

“He said mine was a Black accent.”

Now, how the hell would he know that?

“What do you think he meant by that?” I asked. Outwardly, she looked fine—perky, light. But I could hear something else in her voice.

“I dunno. But he made it sound like that was a bad thing. Is it?”

“There’s no such thing as a Black accent. And if there were, it wouldn’t be bad. Don’t pay him any mind.”

Every time we talked, Japanese eyes nearby were locked on us, ears tuned in like a podcast they didn’t wanna miss. Seeing a fellow student—one of their own—speak to me in flawless English was rare. I worried it might hurt her standing. So I kept our interactions to a minimum. Risa, on the other hand, seized every chance to show out.

During class, it became clearer.

When I asked a tough question, only two hands ever shot up: Hideki’s and Risa’s. I tried to avoid calling on them too often—figured it felt more fair that way. But they had as much right to speak as anyone else. Hideki seemed to get what I was doing and held back. Risa? Not a bit. She’d raise her hand for everything. She’d even ask questions or make comments, then translate herself into Japanese for her classmates. I’ve never seen another bilingual student do that without being begged to.

Yep. I could see it. This wasn’t about language. It was about pride. About visibility. About who gets to shine.

Jealousy, plain and simple.

I didn’t know what to do just yet, but I planned to bring it up at the next meeting with my dispatch company. I doubted my Japanese co-workers would have any better ideas, but maybe they’d seen something like it before.

In three years of teaching, I’d met a few returnees who spoke English well. But all of them knew instinctively to keep it low-key. They understood that what gets you attention can also make you a target.

Then the next day, Risa ran up to me again—this time with a friend in tow. Still bubbly, still bouncing.

“Hi, Mr. McNeil,” she chirped.

“Hey Risa. What’s up?”

“Well... it’s kinda funny,” she said, twirling a strand of hair. “But not.”

“What is?”

“Hideki called me a Nee-gu-ro.”

“A what?”

“It’s bad, right?” she asked, half-smiling. “I thought so...”

“Wait... what did he say exactly? Maybe you misheard?”

“I don’t think so. He said I was a nee-gu-ro. And also neee-gah. I know that one’s bad. I just wasn’t sure about the other.”

My stomach knotted.

“Did you tell your homeroom teacher?”

“No, I just wanted to tell you. I figured you’d understand.”

“Well, I—”

“I says to him... I says, ‘Is Mr. McNeil a neee-gah, too?’”

“What?”

“But he didn’t say anything. He just—”

“Wait, wait. Let me get this straight. He called you a Negro and a nigger?”

She nodded.

“Thanks for telling me, Risa,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I’ll look into it. If he says anything like that again, let me know. Alright?”

I walked away stunned, wondering what the hell I should do.