An Update One Year Later:
I read every word from last year's post that my nimble, dry hands typed and was overcome with a heavy heart. I was a different person then. But I'm still the same first-gen of my family to be born in America, fighting her identity across two countries where one is home and the other my maker. I've since surrounded myself with more Asian (American) artists, literature, music, Facebook groups—a safe haven of community, a sense of belonging, and a strive to be like that of my idols. But, how much has changed? A year ago, March 16th, 2021, in Atlanta, Georgia, eight people were mercilessly killed of which six were Asian women, working in spas and massage parlors. I remember their names popping up on my feed once again in memoriam, and subsequently disappearing the next day. Names that are Americanized or shortened, mispronounced and never corrected, names that stereotype the person before you even meet them. I live in terror, still. Especially for my small stature of a mother and grandmother, who frequent their Vietnamese communities (usually in the high crime and gentrified neighborhood of White Center in West Seattle and Little Saigon in Downtown Seattle) because an American cashier won't understand my grandma's thick Vietnamese accent as she attempts broken English. I don't want to admit that I am conflicted over May, or APIDA Month, but I am hit with this guilt over where attention is distributed to marginalized communities who are mourning their own kin. Black Lives Matter objectively becomes a trend to society, only resurging out of convenience and at the cost of another body lost. Latine and Indigenous communities are still searching for lost sisters, mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and girls and women everywhere. Middle Eastern families are constantly under scrutiny and Western and domestic forces that leave millions of people, children, adults, or the elderly, dead. Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders are begrudgingly still the model minority and the fragile and helpless "tiger lily" trope that is an excuse to oversexualize and desensitize us to our own discrimination. I have yet to accept my grief because it is only felt by few. I have yet to see a world that offers love for the communities that need it most. Wherever the news decides to focus on, please remember that we can only hold so much within ourselves. That your grief and sadness is honored even if no one knows, inner or outer circle. We can band together and through our experiences find a common ground that offers opportunity, communal care, and more importantly, a reminder to celebrate who we are aside from our trauma. Our oppression does not diminish our agency. I firmly believe there is power in numbers, and every passing day is another reason why America needs to undergo deep and intense reformation. Maybe you already knew this, and maybe I needed to write these words for me. And so, May still arrives and since then the release of Shang-Chi and its star-studded cast left Asian Americans everywhere cheering for joy. Kumail Nanjiani has become one of the most beloved actors for his humor and good looks. Chloé Zhao and Suni Lee are young, female, Asian gold medalists in both Winter and Summer Olympics. We are reminded of our losses and wins as is the reality of many marginalized groups. Asians (Americans) continue to accomplish "first's" in Hollywood's eyes, but must double our efforts still in exposing injustices that are left unheard and unseen. The finish line is far from visible, but what is most important are the people on the sidelines, whoever shows up, as we make our way forward. As you take in my words, dear reader, I hope that you never forget to love who you are in spite of all that has burdened you. I hope you find victories in both small and big places. I hope one day my children with their Vietnamese blood surging through their veins, and your children, dear reader, never have to question the suffering of others and work to spread love and kindness. April Showers bring May Flowers, and so, May Flowers bring Asians Joy. ____________________________________________________________ May 21st, 2021 Would you believe me if I said I used to want to be white? I was an elementary school kid on the playgrounds with a diverse cohort of students, and yet, a majority of them, even the Asian Americans, thought it was funny to call me a "chink". Not far into my senior year of high school, I had a break-through moment when a teacher outwardly admitted to me that it was hard to distinguish myself and a peer of mine because we looked so similar. I was a Vietnamese American with short hair and donned either a flannel or button-up. My friend was a Chinese American with long hair and wore leggings on a regular basis. Our friends had no problem addressing either of us respectively, so why was it a recurring and arguably acceptable thing for teachers, all of whom were white, to not only lack the effort to remember our names but to try and play it off as a joke? These events are only some of the experiences I have had with individuals, mostly white, who abused their privilege and positionality to then discredit or invalidate my feelings when I called them out or made a game out of how many times someone mistook me for an Asian American that did not at all resemble me. It is hard to celebrate a month where it was not until my senior year of high school that I embraced this part of my identity. It is hard to celebrate a month where I am distraught with news after news of acts of violence against Asian Americans (especially elders) who are bloodied or dead while their perpetrator runs free. It is hard to celebrate a month where even within the confines of my Asian American (emphasis on the latter) and my white partner's home, my racial and ethnic identity are disregarded. And so, I celebrate quietly. I give a "like" to Instagram posts trying to shed light onto this month and reasons why they're proud to be part of the APIDA community. I "hoorah" in solidarity when my Asian American peers passionately speak to me about why this month matters to them. But dear fellow reader, do not mistake my reservedness as not being proud. I am filled with joy and love as much as the next person. I take pride in my identity and the way it intersects with my queerness or other parts of who I am. I love my small wide nose. I love that my eyes switch between having creases or not. I love my thick black hair. I love to say my last name properly because for so long I had pronounced it otherwise. I love my immigrant family and the sacrifices and risks they took to get to America. I love the smell of pho and knowing the difference between spring and egg rolls. I embrace every stereotype, every nuance, every detail that comes from my racial and ethnic identities. And so, I hope dear reader, that when you see someone like me, or anyone who fits within the Asian diaspora, that you understand why such a month exists and its necessity. If I could go back in time when I remained complacent to someone shutting me down or disrespecting me, I would. And yet, it is people like them that gives me all the more incentive to fight back. Because if no one else, who will? Dear reader, the very act of resistance and rebellion is above all else, founded in love. When you walk into the next Asian American restaurant and eat our food, make an effort to learn its history and the correct pronunciation of their name. When you listen to music from Asian artists, do not make fun of our mother tongue simply because the layers of intonation, context, pronunciation, sound funny to you. When you sit to get your nails done, I can assure you that whatever those hard working employees having to deal with your gross feet and hands are saying, is none of your business. Check in on your Asian American friends when the news comes up because I can guarantee they would rather have someone uncomfortably reach out than nothing at all. And more so, do not use this month to forget the persistent efforts of other marginalized groups. The U.S. has thought it upon themselves to dedicate one out of twelve months to celebrate a minority, but for us, it is everyday. I write this out of anger. I write this out of love. I write this and hope that one day, I won't have to worry about going to the store. Thank you for reading. And if you are a fellow Asian American taking the time to read this, thank you as well. I hear you. I see you. I'm with you. -Kimberly Le (daughter of two Vietnamese immigrants)
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January 2024
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