Learn Katakana: The Full 46-Character Chart + 4 Common Traps

Here's the good news first: katakana isn't a second set of sounds. It's the same 46 syllables you already met in hiragana, wearing sharper clothes — straight lines, hard corners, almost no curves. If you can read か (ka), you already know what カ (ka) says. The full chart is a few paragraphs below, and reading it takes about five minutes.

So why does katakana have a reputation for not sticking? Exposure. Hiragana turns up several times in every line you read, while katakana might appear once or twice in a whole paragraph. It isn't harder than hiragana. You just meet it less often, which means the practice has to come from you instead of arriving free with every sentence.

That's why the chart is the short part of this guide. The rest is the four things that actually trip people up afterwards. First, the look-alike characters シ (shi)/ツ (tsu) and ソ (so)/ン (n). Then the long vowel mark ー that hiragana doesn't have, the rules that turn English words into katakana spellings, and the katakana words that only look like English. Get those four and you can read words nobody taught you.

Every cell below is one character and one syllable — the katakana first, its romanized sound second. Read each row across as the five vowels in order: a, i, u, e, o. There's no new sound here for you. If you know the hiragana grid, this is the same grid in a different outfit.

The dashes are real gaps, not omissions: the y row has no yi or ye, and the w row keeps only ワ (wa) and ヲ (wo). That last one, ヲ (wo), is a grammar particle in hiragana, and you'll almost never write it in katakana. ン (n) is the odd one out, in a good way. It's the only character that stands for a consonant alone, which makes it the only way a Japanese syllable ends without a vowel.

The shapes have a different backstory from hiragana, and it explains why they look the way they do. Hiragana came from whole kanji melted into cursive; katakana came from cutting a piece out of a kanji and keeping only that. 阿あ (a) gave its left shoulder to ア (a), and 加か (ka) gave its left half to カ (ka). 千せん (sen) gave its top to チ (chi), and 呂ろ (ro) gave one of its two boxes to ロ (ro). They grew out of notes written into Chinese texts to help read them aloud — shorthand, made to be fast. That's why the whole set is angular and low on strokes.

And a realistic pace, since you're not learning new sounds. If hiragana is already comfortable, two short sessions a day for a few days is usually enough to read the chart unaided. Reading katakana inside real words takes longer — that's what the rest of this guide is for.

Katakana marks a word as standing outside the ordinary native vocabulary — and "outside" covers more ground than most charts admit. Loanwords are the biggest group: コーヒー (koohii) (coffee), ケーキ (keeki) (cake), テーブル (teeburu) (table). Foreign names and place names come next, which is where your own name will live: カナダ (kanada) (Canada), イタリア (itaria) (Italy).

Then there's the part beginners rarely hear about. Sound effects and onomatopoeia are usually written in katakana, which is why comics look like they're shouting in it. Animal and plant names take katakana on menus and in science writing, even when the word is entirely Japanese. Katakana also works as a typographic raised voice — the rough equivalent of italics — so an ordinary word can be spelled in katakana purely for emphasis.

Put those together and one small line of a café menu is already a katakana workout:

コーヒーとケーキをください (koohiitokeekiwokudasai)

Coffee and cake, please.

Two things separate all four: where the short marks sit, and which way the long stroke sweeps. In シ (shi) and ン (n), the short marks stack on the left, one above the other, and the long stroke comes in low and sweeps up to the right. In ツ (tsu) and ソ (so), the short marks sit across the top, side by side, and the long stroke starts high and sweeps down to the left.

Once you have that, telling the pairs apart is just counting: two short marks give you シ (shi) and ツ (tsu), one short mark gives you ン (n) and ソ (so). So シ (shi) is two-marks-plus-upward, ツ (tsu) is two-marks-plus-downward, ン (n) is one-mark-plus-upward, ソ (so) is one-mark-plus-downward. Say that out loud twice and you've spent more time on it than it will ever cost you again.

This is also the one place where stroke order stops being a formality. The direction of that long stroke is the difference between the characters, so if you write them in the wrong order your own handwriting turns ambiguous. Practice these four with an animation in front of you rather than copying a printed shape.

A second tier of look-alikes causes the rest of the mix-ups, and naming the difference is again the whole cure. ク (ku), ワ (wa) and ラ (ra) differ by where the corner sits and whether a stroke crosses. チ (chi) and テ (te) both have a top bar — チ (chi) hooks left at the bottom, テ (te) drops straight. ヌ (nu) and メ (me) differ by one stroke, as do コ (ko) and ユ (yu). For a self-test, take one short word with two rivals in it: シャツ (shatsu) (shirt) puts シ (shi) and ツ (tsu) side by side. If you can read that one, you're past the hard part.

A bar means hold the vowel before it for one more beat. Hiragana stretches vowels by adding another vowel character; katakana uses this single bar for all of them. So コーヒー (koohii) is ko-o-hi-i, four beats, not two — and ラーメン (raamen) is ra-a-me-n, three. In vertical writing the bar simply turns and runs down the page.

Beats carry meaning in Japanese, which is what makes the bar worth its own section. ビール (biiru) (three beats) is beer; ビル (biru) (two beats) is an office building. Same consonants, same order, different word. Read the bar as decoration and you've said something else.

The bar is also where English vowels usually land when a word is borrowed. A stressed or long English vowel tends to come across as a full extra beat. Cake becomes ケーキ (keeki), card becomes カード (kaado), soup becomes スープ (suupu). An -er ending usually turns into アー (aa). That pattern is the bridge into the next two sections, because it's half of what makes an unfamiliar loanword readable.

Everything you learned about voicing marks and small kana in hiragana transfers with no changes. The two dots — 濁点だくてん (dakuten) — turn a crisp consonant into its buzzing twin: カ (ka) becomes ガ (ga), サ (sa) becomes ザ (za), タ (ta) becomes ダ (da), ハ (ha) becomes バ (ba). The small circle gives you the p sounds: ハ (ha) becomes パ (pa). One mark, twenty-odd extra syllables, no new shapes.

Small ャ (ya), ュ (yu) and ョ (yo) glue onto an i-column character exactly as before: キャ (kya), シュ (shu), チョ (cho). And the small ッ () is still a held beat that doubles the next consonant, as in カップ (kappu) (cup) and ベッド (beddo) (bed).

Katakana does add one thing hiragana never bothered with: extra combinations for sounds that native Japanese words don't contain. A big character plus a small vowel gives you ファ (fa), フィ (fi), フェ (fe), フォ (fo), ティ (ti), ディ (di), ウィ (wi), チェ (che), シェ (she) and ジェ (je), and the character ヴ (vu) exists for a closer v sound. You don't memorize these as a list. Read the big character, then the small one, and the sound falls out: フォーク (fooku) (fork), パーティー (paatii) (party), チェック (chekku) (check).

Learn these four tendencies and most loanwords become readable on sight, without looking anything up. They're tendencies rather than laws. Older borrowings and words from other languages go their own way. But the four cover the majority of what you'll meet on a menu or a shelf.

Rule one: every consonant gets a vowel. A Japanese syllable ends in a vowel or in ン (n), so any stranded consonant picks up a filler, usually u. Milk becomes ミルク (miruku) (mi-ru-ku) and strike becomes ストライク (sutoraiku) (su-to-ra-i-ku). After t and d the filler is o instead, because the u versions would change the consonant: hint becomes ヒント (hinto), bed becomes ベッド (beddo). This is why borrowed words come out longer than you expect — count the beats and the word is usually right there.

Rule two: l and r share one row. Japanese has a single liquid consonant, so both English sounds land in the ラ (ra) row. Light and right both come out as ライト (raito), and the only thing that separates them is context. Rule three: v goes to the バ (ba) row. Video is ビデオ (bideo), violin is バイオリン (baiorin); ヴ (vu) is available for a closer v, but everyday writing usually reaches for バ (ba).

Rule four: th goes to the サ (sa) or ザ (za) row, depending on whether the English sound is voiced. Three becomes スリー (surii), thank you becomes サンキュー (sankyuu), and the becomes ザ (za). Run all four rules together with the long vowel bar and you can decode a word you've never seen. Computer, with its stranded consonants and its -er ending, arrives as コンピューター (konpyuutaa).

The rules run backwards too, which is how you write your own name. Break it into consonant-plus-vowel units, then add u or o wherever a consonant is left stranded. Send any l to the ラ (ra) row, and stretch long vowels with the bar. Chris comes out as クリス (kurisu). The free name-to-katakana tool on this site does the same job in one click and shows you the reading. It makes a good answer key for an attempt you've already made yourself.

A katakana spelling tells you how a word is said, not what it means. Some of these words were assembled in Japan out of English parts and have a meaning of their own — 和製英語わせいえいご (waseieigo), "English made in Japan." マンション (manshon) is a modern apartment building rather than a mansion. コンセント (konsento) is an electrical outlet. ベビーカー (bebiikaa) is a stroller, and サラリーマン (sarariiman) is a salaried office worker.

Meaning can also narrow or shift on the way in. スマート (sumaato) usually describes a slim build rather than a clever mind, so a compliment you meant one way can land the other. These are worth knowing, not worrying about: being understood is the normal outcome, and a puzzled look is a cheap, friendly correction.

One more reason not to assume: plenty of katakana words never came from English at all. パン (pan) (bread) came from Portuguese, アルバイト (arubaito) (a part-time job) from German, アンケート (ankeeto) (a survey) from French. Sound out a katakana word, get nothing in English, and your reading isn't the problem — the word just has a different passport.

Recognition is built by meeting characters inside words, not by re-reading the grid. The chart is a reference, and it stops teaching you anything about ten minutes after you first read it. What you want next is katakana-dense text, and it's easy to find: drink and dessert menus, convenience-store shelves, product category signs, sports, and any list of foods.

Country names make the best first drill, because they check your own answers for you. Sound out カナダ (kanada), イタリア (itaria), ブラジル (burajiru) and オーストラリア (oosutoraria) and you'll know instantly whether you got them right — no answer key needed. Then move to your own name, your city, and the foods you actually order.

Two habits do the rest. Quiz yourself instead of re-reading, and space the reviews out so each character comes back just as it's getting shaky — retrieval is what welds a shape in place. And write the four look-alikes by hand a few times each in the correct stroke order, since that's the only one of these skills your eyes can't build alone.

If you already read hiragana, you're learning 46 shapes for sounds you know. With a couple of short sessions a day, most learners can read the chart within a few days. A week is comfortable. Reading katakana fluently inside real words takes longer, because the words are long and you meet them less often. The gap closes with reading, not with more chart time.

Hiragana first, and it isn't close. Hiragana spells grammar and native words, so it appears in every sentence you'll ever read and pays you back from day one. Katakana is the natural second step, and it's faster than the first because the sounds are already yours — you're only learning what they look like in a new outfit.

Mostly because you see it less. Hiragana gets reviewed for free by every line of Japanese you read, while katakana might turn up once in a paragraph. The angular shapes also give your eye fewer distinguishing curves, and four of them come in two confusable pairs. None of that makes katakana difficult — it makes the practice deliberate, which is why reading katakana-heavy text beats staring at a chart.

Split your name into consonant-plus-vowel syllables, then add a filler vowel wherever a consonant is left stranded — u most of the time, o after t and d. Send any l or r to the ラ (ra) row, and stretch long vowels with the bar ー. Chris becomes クリス (kurisu). If a version of your name has already caught on in Japanese, that spelling wins over the rules. Our free name-to-katakana tool will show you one to check your own attempt against.

In シ (shi), the two short marks stack on the left and the long stroke sweeps upward from the bottom. In ツ (tsu), the two short marks sit side by side across the top and the long stroke sweeps downward from the top right. The same test separates ン (n) (marks left, sweep up) from ソ (so) (mark on top, sweep down) — those two just have one short mark instead of two.

Our kana page runs the loop this guide describes, for free. Every katakana comes with a stroke-order animation, a handwriting-style face so the printed shapes don't surprise you later, audio, and quizzes that space your reviews out for you. The four look-alikes are exactly where the animations earn their keep. And when you want the transcription rules from the other direction, the name-to-katakana tool will spell any name you give it — start with your own. Same 46 sounds, sharper clothes. The clothes are the only part you were ever learning.