Last night was a night to be pampered. I had scheduled a hair cut, and color touch up, and after my hair appointment, I felt so confident—I took this picture and it was never posted.
It would have felt odd to post something. As I opened Instagram, I saw a video of an elderly Asian woman who made the news headlines because she beat a man who attacked her with a bat. I watched the video and it only took one time for her face and cry to be etched my in memory.
I felt a heavy weight on my chest, as if someone had taken a forty pound dumb bell weight and pressed it onto me—pushing and shoving me to the ground. I thought, “that could have been my mom.”
I believe I was 13-years-old when I had experienced and understood the first racist incident that I witnessed happening to my mom. It was Mother’s Day. My mom and I had just finished church and driving home, she pulled into a gas station to fill our car up. As she pulled into an open space, another car pulled in faster. The driver honked and when he stepped out of his car, he yelled “CHINKS” and gave my mom the middle finger. My mom, in the driver’s seat, resilient, strong and calm, reversed the car and backed out and said to me in Vietnamese, “it’s okay, there are plenty of spaces.”
I am confident I had experienced racism before, but for some reason, that had been the first time I processed how I felt, how my mom felt. Was part of me feeling embarrassed? Ashamed? Anxious? Why did he need to say that to us? Why did he need to make it racist? Why did he do this on Mother’s Day out of all days? I wanted to say something to that man and looking back, I wish I had. I made a vow to never be silent again.
Last night, my dad and I talked over Facetime. “We’re staying home. You don’t have to worry about us. Mom and I rarely go out—not even for groceries. It’s okay.”
When did this happen?
When did the world become a place where my parents, immigrants who turned proud American citizens, who broke the sea in half to make it to America by boat—feared to catch the coronavirus AND to be beaten to death for wanting to grocery shop? For wanting to get food for survival?
When did my Black American friends fear for their lives? Obeyed police officers, lived their lives, only to be murdered?
When did race become such a negative thing? An EXCUSE to KILL and claim lives?
Two weeks ago, I visited a friend to say ‘goodbye’ before their move out of state. It was a fantastic night, much needed time with good company over a glass of wine. She asked, “hey, what can we be doing to help Asian Americans right now?”
That has been a question I have been grappling with for weeks. The reality is racism and acts of hate, crimes against Asian Americans and other people of color is not new. What’s new is that people of color are fighting back.
What’s different is that the system that was supposed to be loyal to all Americans has failed us.
I am tired. I know you are probably tired too. I don’t have the answers. I just know I needed to say something.
If you’re looking for a place to start, I suggest starting with the following.
Follow Asian American reporters. Read their articles and support their reporting. My two favorites are Dion Lim, an Asian American T.V. anchor out of San Francisco, and Betty Yu, also a reporter out of San Francisco. They both cover a lot of Asian American hate crimes. Look at the photos. Read about what’s happening.
Create safe spaces at your work place where topics like this can be discussed. I am currently in communication with my employer to consider an employee resource group. Change starts with all of us. This stuff doesn’t fall on only human resources, or members of the leadership team.
Help inform others. Post about hate crimes on social media so people are aware these things are happening. Consider re-sharing articles that promote Asian American businesses.
Say something. Do more. Don’t be a bystander.
Brenda