We Can End Asian Hate

I was the only Asian girl at Hazardville Memorial Elementary school. I had good friends, teachers, and loving parents. Yet I was still forced to confront the fact that I was different. Walking down the school bus aisle occasionally became a gauntlet, with kids pulling their eyes wide into squinty faces, chanting “Ching chong chong.” There were persisting questions about my proficiency in kung fu, or if I was a math whiz. People assumed my family owned the only Chinese restaurant in town (we didn’t). 

 Some days, I sat in the lunchroom groaning, staring down at my thermos full of noodles, wishing that, just for once, my mother would pack a sandwich like the other kids. It felt like a blinking, neon sign above my lunchbox. So many things that made me different, that I should have been proud of, I tried to hide. I wanted to be like the others. In reality, I already was. 

I learned early on that it was better to focus on things I could control, rather than other people’s opinions of me. And outside of occasional teasing, I had a great childhood.

My father came to the US with $20 in his pockets on a one-way flight. It was one of those, “When I was your age.” stories that lacked any exaggeration. He lived in a densely packed apartment with six other Chinese graduate students who were also studying engineering. The US had a shortage of engineers and had invited them to study here.

It’s hard to overstate the sacrifice my parents made coming to the United States. They left everything behind, their own families, the holiday rituals, their friends, and so many smaller pleasures we take for granted. All so that they could create a better life for us. They always pursued this dream on the back of hard, honest work.  

There were no “quick, cheap” flights from Connecticut to China. Consequently, my parents felt a strong calling to teach us about the rich culture they’d left behind. Being the child of Chinese immigrants was not a childhood you coasted through. They valued this incredible opportunity and weren’t about to let their children squander it. Before I could play outside, I had to practice my Chinese characters and do my homework. Saturday was piano lessons. Sunday was Chinese school. There was a strict routine, little negotiation and high expectations. It was a standard that I sometimes struggled to meet, particularly as my talented brother maxed out everything and achieved the dream of going to an Ivy League college.

 Because of my family’s humble origins, money was given the utmost respect. The air conditioning only ran when guests were visiting. Leaving the room without turning off the light was the highway to trouble. If I didn’t eat my dinner, I was given a lecture about “the poor kids in China who would love to eat this food”. There was no getting money on command. Everything was earned. But it was from a place of love, and we still always felt like we had enough. These experiences developed our work ethic, values, and discipline, the backbone of the American Dream.

 I understand the existence of stereotypes and don’t allege there is zero truth to them. I’m a realist. I try to see the world for what it is. My issue is that stereotypes are prone to unintended consequences. They get exaggerated, falsified, and misinterpreted. They get used to put a huge, diverse population into one bucket. They get used to divide us more and teach racism. One person’s joke is another person’s fact. The language we use affects people’s attitudes towards each other. Referring to COVID-19 as the “kung flu” and giving 6th graders tests, asking about Chinese people eating cats and dogs does little to help. 

As one could imagine, I’ve been deeply troubled by the recent attacks on Asian-Americans. I’m not particularly outspoken about public events or politics. I’m the proud owner of a thriving business. We serve and respect clients of all backgrounds and perspectives. I’m focused on moving forward and expanding opportunities for my team. 

But I am also the daughter of two Chinese immigrants, who are now older than the 65-year-old woman who was attacked. My children are mixed. My ex-husband, their father, is white. They were raised in a diverse environment that was full of mutual acceptance. Their childhood was proof of immense progress. So much so, that the recent targeted violence is alien to them.

Like many mothers, I was very protective. When my children were young, I held them and whispered, “I got you.” It was my assurance that I’d do anything to keep them safe. I explained all of the simple truths of life, as they peppered me with endless questions. Today, I struggle to find the right words. Because what can I say? How do you explain senseless hate? 

I raised my children to be strong, to work hard, and have self-respect. As a child, I chose to see past hurtful comments, to see the reality that I was different and that was OK. My children should be proud to be an American, and also proud of their Chinese roots, just as any other descendant of immigrants are, Irish, Italian, and beyond. They should never feel shame just because ignorance still exists.

 My goal was always to give my children an even better life than the amazing one I’ve had. They have, so far. I love this country. It has been very good to us and created amazing opportunities. But it’s heartbreaking to see the rise in violence against those we still choose to see as different. As well as the hurtful rhetoric that fuels it.

Hate is hate. I condemn the anti-Asian violence on the strongest terms. I encourage those of you who agree to do the same. It is our actions that create change. This isn’t the America that we are destined to be. My heart goes out to all those affected.