The other day my mother told me a story.
She was at the store when a stranger, a white male, started to stare at her. Beginning to feel uncomfortable, she moved to a different part of the store. Then she saw him follow her in the parking lot. He approached her and asked her a question:
“Are you Filipino?”
Maybe to some this may seem an innocent question, but to me and every other Asian woman, it’s a loaded one. Especially after a year where reports of Asian American hate crimes have spiked, and the majority of incidents reported were against Asian women.
An uneasy feeling and the general demeanor of this stranger caused my mom to abruptly end any conversation and leave. She told me she’s been extra cautious ever since.
I had already been feeling nervous. A few weeks ago a friend reached out and asked how I was holding up and if I had experienced anything. Luckily, I can say I haven’t. I’ve spent the majority of the last year safe at home and surrounded by supportive family and friends.
But when I got a notification last night about the shootings in Atlanta, where six of eight people killed were Asian women, I felt a pit grow in my stomach.
At the time of this writing, it hasn’t been confirmed that the killing spree was racially motivated. Regardless, the Asian American and Pacific Islander communities are scared. Reports on the rise of Asian hate were already concerning, and it feels as though this tragedy was something we saw coming.
I could wax poetic about how much injustice this is, that America can be better than this and that we must rally behind the message of #StopAsianHate. But I can’t. Because, truthfully, I don’t feel those things.
At the moment, I feel a lot of pain. I feel worried. I feel afraid. And I feel these things largely not for myself, but for my Asian American brothers and sisters. The anguish within the community is palpable.
I spent some time this morning reflecting on my own experiences. I was not born in the United States, but everything I know about race is a result of my time here.
Being kicked off a playground because my presence was “scaring the other kids.” Being told it was great that I could understand my mom’s accent. Constantly having people approach me and ask if I spoke English, or even approaching me assuming I didn’t and immediately jumping into a different language. Kids laughing at my “weird” food. People making games out of guessing what ethnicity I looked like. Attending college information meetings and being told I stood a good chance because I could “get the minority benefits,” as if I hadn’t spent years working just as hard or harder to prove myself.
I have always been made to stand out. For a long time all I wanted was to be like everyone else, but the way I looked would not allow it.
My experiences aren’t unique. They haven’t ever crossed the line of violence, but the same cannot be said for so many over the last year.
I heard about Asian Americans standing in line and getting sprayed with Lysol, being told to “go home.” I watched as headlines filled with news about incidents like a man being attacked with a box cutter on the subway in New York, another being assaulted in Los Angeles.
From coast to coast, the hate kept coming. Escalating.
Sixty-one percent of the anti-Asian reports were against women. Name calling, shoving, being coughed at or spit on were all common incidents, as well as more violent ones like beatings and burnings.
The report from Stop APPI Hate is startling and telling. For those who want the data, it’s all there, much of it tracing back to the racial nicknames, slurs and anti-Asian used by leaders discussing the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic.
There’s also ample information on the history of Asian hate in the United States and the idea of the “perpetual foreigner.”
Yes, the history and the evidence is there. But that’s still not what I want to focus on.
I just want to describe how it feels to watch so much hate be directed toward people you love. People you know would do anything for this country. People who gave us so much just to be here only to be told they can never belong.
It feels like heartbreak. Only it’s worse than that, because you know that you, too, at any time could be the next number added to that list.
Last night eight families got the worst news of their lives. I’ve spoken before about the power of words and messages, and the events in Georgia once again proved that dangerous rhetoric can have very real, unthinkable consequences.
There will be conversations about where we go from here. I hope they are listened to and lead to real change. This pandemic will end, but the hate will not, unless we can take an honest look at what needs to change.
I want to promote the message I’ve seen floating around the Asian American community, one that we would all do well to remember moving forward:
Ethnicity is not a virus. Hate is.