Reflecting on my identity as an Asian-American and the recent anti-Asian violence

When I was fourteen, a boy said seven words to me that colored, quite literally, my whole existence: You’re so normal, I forget you’re Asian.

In that moment, I felt important and chosen. I internalized those words and decided that’s what I wanted to be: Normal. And I guess that meant not Asian.?

That was one of my first minor feelings. Cathy Park Hong says that minor Asian-American feelings are defined by a depressive range of emotion from shame or resentment to paranoia, and the lack of catharsis also means they linger in you for a long time. That resonates deeply.

Anti-Asian discrimination has often been dismissed and ignored, but the recent racist acts of violence toward Asian-Americans and the silence in mainstream media has emboldened me to share my perspective. I thought for so long that talking about my experience might be self-indulgent or insensitive to other groups — but I realize now that sharing my story doesn’t minimize anyone else’s or take away from the discrimination that others face — but just helps make our collective voices heard.?

All my life I prided myself on being able to observe and adapt to any situation. It wasn't until I was older that I realized that this "skillset" was actually my attempt at assimilation or code-switching, rooted in a desire to be “normal.” I remember when I started Corporate America at age 21, I joined an all-white team that often discussed their family lake houses, favorite crockpot recipes, and American classics. I couldn't relate — so I bought a crockpot. I went in everyday diligent and attentive: watching my white peers engage. Over time, I found myself being rewarded for behaving like my white peers, hearing I was "articulate" and had so much "leadership potential". And it was like I was fourteen all over again, trying to hear the words: "you're so normal, I forget you're Asian."?

Last spring, friends of mine shared their concerns of not wanting to be near Asians in public — or worse, Asian strangers who didn't speak English — because they assumed they likely had COVID. I felt compelled to expose the misinformation and the subtle xenophobia. I wasn’t used to calling out my friends, especially when it required drawing attention to the fact that I also was an Asian person, and suddenly felt very aware of my identity. When I spoke up, barely anyone stood up for me or even acknowledged it. In fact, the conversation moved on and I felt guilty for making the group feel uncomfortable. The same smart, activist friends who were loud about ensuring none of us used plastic bottles to save the planet, were noticeably silent when there was discrimination toward a friend right in front of them. I felt so invisible. It shattered something in me and cemented the belief that Asian pain doesn’t matter in America. And almost, just almost, I believed it didn’t matter, either.?

Moving to California has been liberating to me in so many ways because it was here where I truly learned to claim my identity as an Asian-American and take up space. As I’ve tried to unpack the joy and shame of being Korean-American, I realized that in my pursuit of “normal,” I was actually perpetuating racial hierarchies and white supremacy rhetoric. This realization spurred me to teach myself Asian-American history that I didn't learn in school. I became more aware of the nuanced and complex relationships between Black and Asian communities in America (e.g. LA Riots!!!), how the harmful narrative of the Model Minority started as a calculated tool for America to rebuild war relationships with Japan and to divide other minority groups, and also the beauty of how Asian-Americans gained many rights, and even their name, thanks to the activism of Black communities.?

Watching videos of Asian elders getting assaulted in the Bay Area this week felt particularly traumatic and too close to home. I wanted to turn them off and ignore what was happening because it hurt. But I was reminded of the visual of seeing Officer Thao turn away last summer as George Floyd was being murdered, and I don’t want to be silent or complicit when I see injustice happening. I don’t want silence to be our legacy. "Normal" doesn't serve me anymore.

In light of recent events, I hope we all acknowledge and condemn anti-Asian racism. I hope we stop considering it not significant or serious enough to be taken seriously. I also hope we remember the importance of inter-community solidarity between Black and Asian communities. It is a lie to believe that either or is the enemy, and it would be too easy to blame longstanding racist narratives between the two communities. We must choose solidarity, and speak out against both anti-Asian racism and anti-Black racism. We should be against discrimination for ALL communities.?

If you’ve made it this far — thank you for reading. I hope that by sharing my story, other Asian-Americans are encouraged to share their stories and that other groups feel compelled to learn more and be allies.

To learn more about Asian-American history and anti-Asian racism:

• America's long history of scapegoating its Asian citizens
• Model Minority Myth again used as a racial wedge between Asians and Blacks
• A politics of our time: reworking Afro-Asian solidarity in the wake of George Floyd's killing
• On Anti-Asian hate crimes: who is our real enemy?
• Coronavirus reminds Asian Americans like me that our belonging is conditional

To follow more voices in the AAPI community:

• Jezz Chung — Writer, Creative Equity Advisor, Transformation Facilitator
• Jerry Won — Founder + CEO of Just Like Media and Dear Asian Americans
• Michelle Kim — CEO @ Awaken