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