Recently, my mother sent a picture of our traditional Hinamatsuri dolls.
In the past, my sister and I helped her unpack each doll – about 16 in total – and arrange them on a precarious platform in our living room.
This time, it was just the emperor and empress sitting on top of the family piano.
The picture was gorgeous, but something felt wrong. I quickly realized that it embodied how it felt growing up Japanese American: beautiful but abbreviated.