This is for the Asian/Pacific 

Islander 
American 
social 

justice 
community 
at 
the 

University of Michigan — the 
people who have become my 
family.

Dear Family,
The time I’ve spent with 

Asian-American 
men 
who 

claim to be so “intersectional 
feminist” has proven we’re 
clearly standing at the wrong 
intersections. 
Because 
for 

boys 
who 
call 
themselves 

“involved in the community” 
of A/PIA activists, who hold 
high 
positions 
in 
A/PIA 

social 
justice 
and 
cultural 

organizations, they seem to 
have forgotten that you can be 
A/PIA and be a woman at the 
same time. I’ve spent so many 
late nights with other women 
in this community, whispering 
about a comment made on 
their sexuality by a boy who 
brands himself as “trying to 
be cognizant of his privilege.” 
And yet, that’s the whole 
point: we whisper. Because 
any 
attempt to open 
this 

conversation has been brushed 
over with performative nods 
of agreement and assuring us 
they’re trying their best. But 
I don’t fuck with the Social 
Justice Warrior label being 
used as a point of pride and a 
defense; this conversation does 
not belong on the sidelines 
between women in hushed 
voices anymore.

Dear Family,
These microaggressions that 

manifest into jokes and side 
comments matter. Laughing at 
a girl for telling you that she 
abstained from sex will impact 
her self-esteem and might 

drive her to make decisions 
she doesn’t completely want to 
make. Calling girls “trashy” for 
being in a sorority is not only 
condescending, it’s objectively 
wrong. If your friend tells you 
she doesn’t want to be felt 
up at a party, saying “what’s 
the big deal?” is incredibly 
disrespectful to her personal 
autonomy. And it seems so 
ridiculous to say these things 
to people who are supposed 
to know this already, yet it 
is somehow still necessary. 
Because 
these 
comments 

evolve into reputations, and 
reputations 
create 
impacts, 

whether 
being 
denied 

leadership positions, not being 
taken seriously in academic 
settings or losing confidence 
in your own work and general 
self-esteem.

Dear Family,
In 
a 
community 
where 

women care just as much, work 
just as hard and sometimes 
know twice as much as their 
male counterparts, they put 
up with receiving half the 
credit, especially in large A/
PIA organizations. Women in 
these spaces are constantly 
treated as if we’re just working 
on a fun social justice project, 
rather than doing the same 
work that the men are doing. 
We’re told our visibility “isn’t a 
problem like it used to be,” and 
that plenty of places are run 
by women now, so obviously 
the problem has been solved. 
Men 
leading 
organizations 

expect to be applauded every 
time they mention supporting 
women of color, but constantly 
ignore, diminish and push 
aside the work women in 
their own organizations do. 
They claim to be allies while 
talking 
over 
us, 
repeating 

points we have already made, 

belittling the efforts we put in 
and conveniently forgetting to 
give credit where credit is due. 
They think they’ve worked for 
everything they have while 
completely 
forgetting 
the 

support they’ve received from 
women of color along the way. 
And social justice is not an 
area you have to know the most 
about at all times, but in terms 
of leadership, some women 
are more qualified than some 
men to answer questions and 
explain concepts, yet don’t 
earn the same respect men do 
in this community.

Dear Family,
I am worried this will be 

brushed off as just another 
one of those feminist things. 
I especially don’t want the 
applause from white pussy 
hat-wearing 
feminists, 

because this is pertaining to a 
community that has been hurt 
by white privilege as well. But 
I’m worried the conversation 
among ourselves will conclude, 
yes, 
of 
course 
we 
should 

respect women, but then die 
out when it comes to making 
concrete action.

Dear Family,
I have so much love for this 

group of people, and I am 
proud of what we are trying to 
achieve. But it is not acceptable 
for these women to put in the 
work without receiving the 
recognition. It’s not acceptable 
that so many of them feel 
badly about their own choices 
or sexualities because some 
boy told them they should be 
ashamed. So it’s definitely 
not acceptable for men in this 
community to read through 
this article and not make 
strides for concrete change.

Dear Family,
I love you, but we have some 

work to do.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Thursday, November 9, 2017 — 3A

When people learn that I am 

half-Chinese the reaction is like 
watching 
someone 
figure 
out 

that math problem they had been 
stuck on: some mixture of a new 
revelation and old knowledge that 
they finally combined. It’s as if my 
race is some ambiguous thing to 
be discovered. I’m exotic looking, 
vaguely ethnic, somehow different 
— I’m not quite white. 

With this, in the years I spent in 

majority white institutions I got the 
full spectrum of Asian jokes and 
stereotypes.

“Well, of course you got an A.”
“But your mom made you take 

SAT prep courses didn’t she?”

“You’re a woman and Asian? 

You must be the worst driver on the 
road.”

“You know, I’ve never been with 

an Asian girl before.”

When I was younger this was 

strange to me. I lived my first nine 
years in America, how was I not 
fully American? Everyone around 
me was white, my dad was white, 
my grandparents were: I didn’t 
quite understand what it meant to 
be Chinese.

***
At age 6 I visited China for the 

first time. My mom’s family lived 
in a small town called Kangbao, 
where my laolao and laoye lived in a 
small mud-brick house. There was 
one large bed that we all shared 
and the pillows were hard and 
filled with beans. My laoye was a 
traditional Chinese doctor, though 
he was forced to stop practicing 
during the Cultural Revolution. My 
uncle raised sheep, which he let us 
chase around with the dogs. My 
grandparents didn’t have internet, 
so my sisters and I passed time 
watching “Mei Hou Wang” or 
Chinese “Tom and Jerry.” 

In that small town, I was a 

celebrity. One day my sister and I 
attempted to sit in on a day of classes 
at the local school, but eventually 
were asked to leave, as we were 
a novelty deemed too distracting 
to the students, who refused to do 
class work in lieu of staring at us. 
Later, some of the students would 
track us down and ask for pieces of 
our hair to keep to remember us. 

Walking down the street people 

would stare and shout: 

Wai guo ren!
Foreigner. 
***
By the time I was a teenager, 

I had grown used to my Chinese 
identity, and understood what that 
meant in the mostly-white suburbs 
of Michigan. I was not white. Here 
I was the Chinese girl, and that was 
fine. 

At age 15, my move to China 

should have felt like a move home — 
it was anything but. Suddenly I was 
surrounded by people who were 
more Chinese than me. Despite 
being at an international school, I 
had many American-born Chinese, 
Taiwanese and Hong Kongese 
peers. To them I was one of the 
“white kids” and with that there 
was an ingrained social hierarchy. 

The white kids were the popular 

ones. They went to bars and clubs 
on the weekends (foreigners are 
never asked for ID, even if they look 
15). They didn’t try very hard in 
school. They took fewer AP classes. 
They went to less prestigious 
universities. 

The 
Asian 
kids 
were 
the 

intellectually superior ones. They 
took SAT prep courses on the 
weekends. They participated in 
a variety of clubs and did charity 
work on the side. They aimed for 
the Ivy leagues. 

I hovered in the middle. Not 

white, not Asian. 

Among my white friends I was 

one of the “smartest” in the friend 
group. I went out with them less 
often in order to prepare for exams 
or the SATs. With my Asian friends, 
I was more of a slacker. I applied to 
Michigan with the intent to attend, 
not as a dreaded safety school.

In both groups, I existed on the 

margins. Drifting in between, with 
friends on both sides, but never 
really feeling at home in either. 

***
At home, my family jokes that 

I am the “whitest” daughter. 
My Mandarin is the worst (I am 
functionally illiterate and scarcely 
conversational), I don’t eat meat, 
excluding me from a variety of 
traditional foods, and most of all 
I “act white” — something hard 
to define, but easily recognizable 
when you understand it. 

Ironically, I am also the most 

“Asian” looking of my sisters. 
When alone or with just my 
mother, people often assume that 
I am simply Chinese. In Shanghai, 
people would always immediately 
speak to me in Mandarin and 
consequently look disappointed 
in 
my 
grammatically 
horrific 

response. My family often remarks 
at how similar I look to my mother 
when she was this age. 

***
At the University of Michigan 

and across the country, racial 
tensions are high. Hatred and 
bigotry walk the streets unafraid of 
consequences. People of color need 
support now more than ever. 

In the Ford School of Public 

Policy, there is a group specifically 
for students of color, but I’m 
not sure if I should join. Despite 
knowing my own identity as an 
Asian woman, I and others don’t 
always see me as a person of color. 

In 
discussions 
of 
diversity, 

I’m often overlooked. Last week, 
when someone I work with was 
criticizing low diversity numbers in 
leadership in our organization, she 
counted out two women of color — 
notably excluding me. However, at 
other times, I have been told that 
I am obviously a person of color. 
I had a friend who told me that I 
would always be identified first 
as Chinese before anything else 
because my minority identification 
would always hinder me. 

My face is ambiguous — vaguely 

ethnic, somehow different. People 
are unsure where to categorize 
me — hell, sometimes neither do 
I. Most forms only allow you to 
choose one option when it comes 
to race, so every time I must choose 
between those two boxes I must 
choose how I want to identity 
myself: white or Asian? 

At times, I also cannot relate to 

the same experiences as some other 
people of color. I generally do not 
face discrimination based on my 
appearance or encounter racism on 
a daily basis. Because of this, I feel 
like I cannot always fully identify 
with other students of color, and it 
causes me to fear that they do not 
fully accept me as a person of color. 

With 
every 
discussion 
of 

diversity and every group for 
students of color, I face anxiety 
and uncertainty over whether or 
not others will see me as a person 
of color. Despite knowing my own 
experiences and interacting with 
my Chinese culture everyday, this 
fear of not being respected as a 
person of color is something I still 
struggle with. 

My identity as half-Chinese (or 

halfie or Wasain) is something I 
am incredibly grateful for, as my 
family life and cultural experiences 
have been so much richer because 
of it. Despite the challenges 
I enumerated, China and my 
heritage are incredibly important 
parts of my life that I would not 
change for the world. 

Being Black in a white world 

is 
exhausting. 
While 
other 

people get to live their lives, 
oblivious to instances of racial 
injustice, Black people are not 
afforded that same privilege. 
Several non-Black students did 
not know about any of the racist 
things on campus — the spray-
painted praise of Dylann Roof, 
the N-word written on various 
spaces and several racist posters 
— that occurred on campus 
before I mentioned them. While 
I lived my days in increasing fear 
and growing discomfort, they 
were unaware that anything 
was even going on. While I 
remain slightly on edge because 
I don’t know who among my 
peers would love for me to not 
be at this school, or who would 
casually call me a n-----, I also 
have the burden of having to 
teach people about what is and 
what isn’t racism, on the daily.

Frankly, 
I’m 
annoyed 

constantly 
teaching 
people 

about what racism actually is. Do 
you know how frustrating it is to 
teach person after person about 
history that they could easily just 
look up? On one hand, I am happy 
to help shed light on issues that 
people may otherwise not have 
thought about, but on the other 
hand, it gets tiring. I’m tired of 
having to explain to you why the 
Confederate flag is a symbol of 
the heritage and history of hate. 
I’m tired of having to explain to 
you why me calling you a racist is 
not nearly as bad as you actually 
doing something racist. I’m tired 
of having to explain to you that 
racism lies much deeper than 

skin. You having one Black friend 
does not mean that you’re not 
racist. Just because you smiled at 
a Black person one time when you 
were 5, doesn’t excuse the fact 
that you yell n---- at frat parties 
when rap songs come on. Calling 
yourself an ally yet continuing 
to let racist friends and family 
be racist does not help anyone, 
and acting as if you’re colorblind 
certainly does not help me. But 
I don’t have the time to tell you 
this. Not when your president 
doesn’t value Black lives. I don’t 
have time to explain to you why 
your tendency to read anger into 
anything I say is supporting a 
negative stereotype when I have 
to go to a march to let people 
know that I will never let them 
forget, pretend or ignore the 
fact that my life matters. I can’t 
assuage your white guilt when 
I have to follow the news day in 
and day out because yet another 
unarmed Black person was shot 
by a police officer, and I want 
to know if they’ll finally get 
justice this time, though I know 
that is often not the case. When 
you’re trying to pretend that 
your 
Confederate-flag-owning 

relatives aren’t supporting a 
history of hate, I’m trying my 
hardest to not be upset by white 
friends who I know mean well, 
but still can’t really see white 
privilege.

Bottom line: I don’t always 

have time to be your teacher. It’s 
difficult, stifling and annoying 
to always have to sugarcoat 
what I need to tell you about 
your varying degrees of racist 
actions. Instead of flat out telling 
you that the #AllLivesMatter 
movement is racist because it 
exists to overshadow the point 
of #BlackLivesMatter, I must 

coddle you by saying, “I know 
you mean well, and I’m glad you 
want to be an ally, but all lives 
already matter, yet according 
to the cops...” I must be the 
politest, and the gentlest in my 
wording, or else you won’t even 
hear my point because you hear 
“racist” and think, “You called 
me racist — how dare you?” As 
a result of the systemic racism 
that has infected this country, 
each day I have some form of 
injustice to be upset by, but 
when I want to convey this to 
you, my words must be gentle 
as a lamb, even though you 
weren’t so gentle when you said 
Colin Kaepernick was dumb for 
kneeling and “protesting the 
flag” (fun fact: That isn’t what 
he was protesting). My words 
must be soft, and carefully 
chosen, so as not to upset the 
white person who is struggling 
to admit to their own racism, 
which is maddening because it 
quiets what I would prefer to yell 
from the rooftops: Yes, you may 
not believe me but this is indeed 
racist! I’m tired of policing my 
words to help to you realize what 
is and isn’t racist. My world, 
in terms of racial injustice, is 
difficult, jarring and sometimes 
scary, and yet the world has to be 
insulated for you.

I do not want to be your 

teacher, but despite this, I know 
that I must continue to be it. I 
can’t let people go on not being 
aware of their own racism, even 
if it drains me to repeatedly 
teach them. Despite loving the 
empowered feeling that I get 
from being Black and socially 
aware, I’m tired of the burden 
being placed on me to teach 
people who don’t want to be 
educated.

“That baby is so white,” 

a stranger said aloud at the 
grocery store, alarmed at the 
sight of a dark Southeast Asian 
man carrying a pale baby 
girl. It was 1998, potentially 
1999. I wish I had my own 
recollection of that day, but 
the “white baby” was me.

This day was nevertheless 

interesting. It was the day I 
became known as “the white 
girl” in my family, something 
that oddly stuck with me 
throughout the years, growing 
up as a Filipino-American kid. 
It was my alternate identity, 
like my own weird version of 
Hannah Montana to Miley 
Stewart.

Both of my parents are 

Filipino and came to the 
United States shortly before 
I was born. I grew up hearing 
them speak Bisaya (a Filipino 
dialect), but I was almost 
exclusively spoken and read to 
in English.

From 
very 
early 
on, 

I 
identified 
as 
Filipino 

American. But as the years 
passed, this identity of mine 
became 
confusing, 
and 
at 

times it diverged into two 
separate entities that clashed.

Flash forward to 2003. “Bye, 

my palangga,” my mom said as 
I took my first step onto the 
school bus for my first day of 
kindergarten. At the time, I 
didn’t know what “palangga” 
meant (later on, I learned that 
it meant “beloved”). I was 
reading and speaking English 
at a second-grade level, but my 
Bisaya vocabulary was limited 
to common household words, 
pet 
names 
and 
frustrated 

exclamations. 
Occasionally, 

my parents would put on 
“Mga Awit Bulilit,” a DVD 
of Filipino children’s music 
videos. 
I 
sang 
along 
to 

“Bahay Kubo” and “Pen Pen 
de Sarapen” religiously by 
reading the Tagalog subtitles. 
I never learned the English 
lyrics. Nor did I ever learn the 
difference between Bisaya and 
Tagalog, the most commonly 
spoken 
language 
in 
the 

Philippines.

In 
fourth 
grade, 
I 
sat 

down at the sticky cafeteria 
table and excitedly opened 

my 
lunch, 
ginaling 
with 

white rice. “That looks like 
dog food,” my best friend 
muttered. “Is that Chinese? 
Aren’t you Chinese?” a boy 
asked. “I’m Filipino,” I said for 
the 100th time, not sure why 
I even bothered to explain it 
again. I knew I would be met 
with “What’s that?” and “Can 
you teach me words in your 
language?”

“I 
can’t 
really 
speak 

it,” I would say, followed 
by 
expressions 
of 

disappointment. 
“My 

language” was English. How 
could I teach my friends a 
language that was practically 
foreign to me?

At 
school, 
I 
was 
the 

stereotypical Asian kid who 
usually did well in school, 
had strict parents, took off my 
shoes upon entering the house 
and ate “weird” food with a 
fork and spoon instead of a 
knife and fork.

But at family gatherings, 

I 
was 
the 
whitewashed, 

Americanized 
girl 
who 

couldn’t understand Tagalog 
or Bisaya and was unaware 
of what life was like in the 
Philippines. My aunts, uncles 
and 
cousins 
would 
speak 

drawn-out sentences in Bisaya 
and tell me to respond. “I 
can’t really speak it,” I would 
say, followed by the same 
disappointed looks I would 
get 
from 
my 
classmates. 

Only these stabbed harder. 
They came from people who 
knew what they were talking 
about, while I didn’t know 
a thing. Even if I slightly 
understood what they said, I 
always hesitated to respond, 
fearful 
of 
butchering 
the 

pronunciations.

I 
already 
had 
enough 

criticisms constantly hanging 
over my head: “You need to get 
a tan,” “Why didn’t you ever 
learn Bisaya?” “Your hair is so 
thick, it looks so unkempt.” I 
didn’t care to be reminded of 
my other perceived flaws that 
made me “less Filipino.”

From a young age, my fair 

skin, unruly brown hair and 
language inabilities made me 
feel like an outsider in my own 
family. To my peers unaware 
of 
Filipinos 
and 
Filipino 

culture, I felt like an imposter. 
I confused myself with the 
ideas of not being Filipino 

enough, not being American 
enough or being too much or 
too little of either.

It was only recently that 

I finally became completely 
comfortable with the identity 
I had assumed in the very 
beginning: Filipino American.

My advice to anyone else 

who has felt like an outsider 
in your family, an imposter 
to your friends or both: You 
aren’t.

I know, it’s really frustrating 

to hear your mom gossiping 
about you over the phone to 
your aunt in a language you 
can’t even understand. Yes, 
it’s irritating when people ask 
you to speak words “in your 
language” or ask, “Where are 
you really from?”

I could go on and on about 

the annoyances (and there 
are many more I haven’t 
experienced 
and 
therefore 

can’t speak on).

In spite of them, your 

identity is yours, and it can’t 
be altered by other people’s 
perceived notions of “less.”

You are not “less” of a person 

because of the languages you 
can or can’t speak, the color of 
your skin, the texture of your 
hair, the food you eat or the 
way you eat it.

You are your own complete 

person, and while you may not 
always be able to speak for 
other people who share your 
identities, you also shouldn’t 
always let other people speak 
for you.

I am Filipino American. 

I eat my ginaling, sinigang, 
adobo and rice with a fork 
and spoon. I know every song 
on the “Hannah Montana” 
soundtrack, the words to “The 
Star-Spangled Banner” and 
the tune of the Philippine 
national anthem, among other 
great music pieces.

When I graduate from this 

American university, I hope to 
one day visit the Philippines 
and contribute to the place 
my parents once called home. 
One day, I will be able to hold 
a conversation in Filipino 
— not only to respond to my 
relatives’ gossips about me 
but also to reach another 
population 
of 
people 
and 

connect more closely with my 
culture.

I am still growing and 

learning, but I am enough.

Filipino American, enough

Sidelined conversations The annoying burden 

of being your teacher

Reflections on being a halfie

ISABELLE ROSALES

MiC Columnist

STEFFI CAO
MiC Columnist

AAREL CALHOUN

MiC Columnist

LYDIA MURRAY

Daily News Editor

