BEGINNINGS
The
Black-Asian
Coalition
was started in January 2015.
Sean Dajour Smith, a class of
2017 alum, and Sarah Hong, a
class of 2016 alum, connected
through their community action
and social change minor and
their shared interest in coalition
building. Sarah wanted to create
a space where members of the
Asian Pacific Islander American
community could confront anti-
Blackness. Smith, on the other
hand, thought it could be an
opportunity to link people who
did not necessarily interact daily.
“We just wanted to get friends
in
the
room
who
wouldn’t
normally be in the room together,”
he said. “It started as a Black-Asian
solidarity conversation.”
The first meeting was held
in February 2016 at the Shapiro
Undergraduate
Library,
and
the initiative grew from there.
Intentionality in building the
space became a deeply rooted
value from the beginning, even
with the naming of the group. “One
of the things that Sean mentioned
was when he organized before he
came to U-M, other people would
call and use the Black community
when it was helpful for them, but
never reciprocated the effort,”
Hong said. “So we wanted it to be
intentional that this is a space for
addressing the anti-Blackness that
exists within our community.”
The coalition was a success.
They met six times during that
semester, with roughly 50 total
attendees. However, when Hong
graduated in May 2016, the BAC
disappeared for a short time.
PHASE TWO
The BAC would never have
restarted if not for a chance
encounter. While walking across
the Diag, Smith ran into a friend,
Sean Liu, a class of 2016 alum,
who wanted him to restart the
BAC. Smith was reluctant to
begin meetings without an Asian
co-organizer, but Liu persuaded
him to reach out to a friend of his,
Business senior Chelsea Racelis.
While Smith initially felt unsure
about a new partner, he was blown
away upon meeting Racelis. He
believed she valued the same
principles of intentionality and
coalition-building he did. Seeking
one
more
facilitator,
Smith
approached LSA junior Zainab
Bhindarwala about joining the
coalition as an organizer. Drawn in
by the concept, Bhindarwala was
also swayed by the “strong sense
of purpose and urgency” displayed
by Smith and Racelis. After their
initial meeting, they met several
times to plan and build the space
as intentionally as possible.
ORGANIZING
THROUGH
RELATIONSHIPS
At the University of Michigan,
community
organizing
is
most
often
associated
with
structured organizing and mass
mobilization. The BAC takes a
different approach. From their
organizing
experiences,
the
founders believed there was a lack
of spaces dedicated to fostering
relationships between different
groups of people. They also wanted
to create a space where people
would feel energized instead of
the burnout often associated with
social justice. These principles
led to the BAC’s focus on face-to-
face interaction and sustainable
change that persists after the
emotional high from the latest
rally.
“Once you see people affected
of those you hold dear and near,
your views on a lot of things can
shift,” Smith said, “and you start to
fight because you have that sense
of accountability for others.”
LSA junior Kortez Brinson,
a BAC participant, also stated
the
importance
of
creating
connection. Prior to attending the
University, he was an organizer in
the Mikva Challenge Foundation
and Chicago Student Union. There,
he sought similar community-
organizing experiences and the
BAC fit that need.
“To me, a lot of the organizing at
the University has a lot of emotion
in it, a lot of structure, almost
too much structure,” he said. “In
the BAC, we’re focused more on
coming into this room and getting
back to what organizing is. A
lot of what that is is getting into
communities, coming together
and networking with a bunch of
people we don’t know.”
The BAC believes that by
bringing two unlike groups into
a room together, it can create
friendships,
and
from
there
inspire these two groups to build
coalition together. Instead of
focusing on the growth of the
coalition,
Smith,
Racelis
and
Bhindarwala care more about the
growth of individuals.
“We created a centralized space
so individuals could have a context
to connect with one another,”
Smith said.
In building these individual
relationships, they hope that it
will encourage them to support
one another. This idea is rooted
in the notion that if the BAC
stops existing, these individual
relationships will continue to
persist.
“When you get a Black student
and an Asian student that feel
comfortable and willing to hit each
other up just for a conversation,
you officially can say you’re
successful,” Brinson said. “From
these connections, you get passion
and understanding between each
other that can make change in
society.”
INTENTIONALITY
Instead of advertising, the
group relies on word of mouth
and personal networks to bring
new people into the space. It
believes that it shouldn’t have to
persuade people to come to this
space because it believes people
should feel compelled to come to
this space on their own beliefs and
morals — things that BAC doesn’t
want to influence.
“We don’t need to convince
anyone to come, because if we
need to convince someone, then
that person isn’t intrinsically
motivated to engage with the
space,” Racelis said.
While
unconventional,
the
technique seems to be working.
More than 60 people were at
the last meeting and half had
never been there before. This has
become a common theme since
the first meeting last January.
Rather than the same set of people
attending, from the experiences of
Michigan in Color’s interviewees,
more often than not, a majority of
the room is filled with strangers.
When
organizing
meetings,
the three focus on intentionality
and inclusivity. Every decision is
chosen to meet their overarching
goals of combating anti-Blackness
and remaining accessible for all.
“We held a session about
colorism and that was good
because
it
affects
multiple
communities in different ways,
but it also has global reach,”
Bhindarwala said. “It comes up in
very different ways in Black and
Asian communities, but everyone
there could relate.”
However, intentionality should
not be confused with structure.
While the three are deliberate
in their actions, they try not to
impose their agendas in the space.
They intentionally build a space
with the hopes of producing
organic conversations.
WHY THE BAC MATTERS
For many participants, like
Music, Theatre & Dance senior
Stone Stewart, the BAC is a unique
space on campus. It is a chance to
hang out with friends, meet new
people and deepen understanding
of others’ experiences.
“If someone told me that I was
about to go to this social function
with 90 strangers, then I would
have no reason to go,” Stewart
said, “but it works with BAC.”
“A lot of people want to have
diverse friend groups, but it
can be hard to reach out and it
can be awkward,” Bhindarwala
said. “Being in the same space
at the same time can stop this
segregation.”
Black and Asian students learn
from one another — an intentional
construct. In other spaces, Black
students
are
often
expected
to teach others about systemic
oppression — an emotionally
draining process that can dissuade
Black students from returning.
“We recognize that when Black
people are entering the space,
they feel like they might have to
be educators as Asian folks are
trying to decolonize their own
anti-Blackness,”
Bhindarwala
said. “We put emphasis on making
sure that Black folks don’t feel like
educators.”
This space fosters learning
and encourages each group to
engage with the other. With the
understanding these two groups
come into this space with largely
different purposes, there is a
common understanding that this
is a space to engage and to build
relationships with each other
in hopes for them to separately
collaborate outside the BAC. To
Stewart, he believes this space is
“so fundamentally human and it’s
all about building that genuine
connection with others.”
Yet this space is special in
which these two groups come
together for many reasons, one
of them being to learn about how
these two cultures interact.
“Whether we realize it or not,
Black and Asians take a lot from
each other, good or for bad,”
Stewart said. “Most of the time we
just aren’t interacting.”
There was a general sentiment
held by the participants about the
necessity for this space on campus.
In the dominant narrative, Blacks
and Asians are often used against
each other in order to invalidate
the struggles of Blacks in the
United States. Interviewees from
both racial groups felt that same
tension. Stewart, who identifies as
biracial (Japanese and Caribbean),
said, “I think Black and Asian
people and the way we are
portrayed in society are at such
odds with each other.” Brinson,
who is Black, shared a similar
sentiment, saying: “I believe there
is a lot of tension between Black
and Asian students. Not even
naturally, more so that there are
forces pushing the tension.”
This has ripple effects and often
influences how these two groups
are raised and taught to view each
other.
“The overall goal (of BAC) is
that if we’re in a neighborhood
together, I’m comfortable enough
going up to an Asian family and
saying, ‘Hello, how you doin’?’ I
want my kids to kick it with their
kids, to actually have a good time
with them,” Brinson said. “We’re
still both minorities, we’re still
both working hard to establish a
foundation in this world, but we
are not enemies, and we are not
competing against each other.”
THE FUTURE
As the BAC continues to grow,
so do the organizers.
“Doing BAC and even just being
with Sean and Zainab has taught
me a lot about organizing,” Racelis
said. “You can organize from a
place of real love, and now I like
surrounding myself with those
people.”
This idea of organizing from a
compassionate place was reiterated
in our interview with Hong as well
who said: “We have that call-out
culture in social justice, but we
shouldn’t be shaming people in
that way, (but) because (BAC) is
so open and willing to listen, we
are more peaceful and willing.”
Organizing from a place of love
and compassion is also evident
with how BAC participants engage
with the space. BAC participants
have reiterated how they enjoy
being in this space beca
use it’s where participants feel
empowered to bring their full
selves to every meeting.
Additionally,
the
organizers
are working to incorporate the
feedback and needs of the BAC’s
participants.
“People want opportunities to
be together. Now we realize once
a month isn’t enough to meet,”
Racelis said. “Many ask if it’s every
Saturday, and now we have a lot of
momentum. We want to facilitate
different ways for people to come
together. Whether through movie
nights, potlucks, etc.”
Racelis
spoke
about
how
members haven’t even touched the
majority of the content that they
discussed when initially building
this space.
During our interviews with
Smith, Racelis and Bhindarwala,
they
spoke
about
Smith’s
metaphor for the BAC. He often
compares this space to an airport:
“We wanted focus more on the
individuals. We wanted to build
everything on the ground and
then (let them) take flight, rather
than building while in the air.”
The idea behind this metaphor is
there is power in facilitating the
context for these individuals to
interact with while they’re in the
same space. Participants in the
BAC are often active members
of their own communities and
student organizations. Each of
these student organizations and
individuals can be seen as a plane
that comes into the BAC. They land
for an hour, develop relationships,
re-energize themselves, connect
on a humane level and then leave
once the hour is done. In hope,
BAC works to use this hour as an
incubator for building meaningful
relationships across these groups
that will persist outside of the
BAC.
The
BAC
organizers
continuously emphasize that this
space is temporary. BAC may exist
now, but in a few years, it may not.
Knowing this, the organizers hope
that they foster a space conducive
for these individual relationships
to flourish and persist, and that
the relationships and mindsets
created will last for a lifetime.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Thursday, November 16, 2017 — 3
One day in 1975, 21-year-old
Giang Lê decided to skip class
for the first time. He sat outside
his dormitory at Van Hanh
University in Saigon with a few
friends when a car suddenly
braked in front of them. Giang’s
mother signaled from the car
and told him to pack — a choice
that would change his life
forever.
It was the spring of 1975 and
the Vietnam War was coming
to a close, with a northern
communist victory in sight.
Giang’s family of 10 had lived
through most of it, including
the Summer of Flames, a series
of communist attacks in 1972.
“It wasn’t unusual to go
to school and hear someone
had gotten killed,” he said.
As
class
president,
Giang
organized
strikes,
but
was
wary of classmates who were
“undercover informants for the
communists. They would try
to drive demonstrations away
from our goals, turning into
anti-American protests.”
Three of Giang’s brothers
were studying abroad in the
United
States
while
Giang
stayed
in
Vietnam.
Only
students
who
passed
the
Baccalaureate with top honors
could apply to college overseas,
something Giang credits to
school
shutdowns.
Failing
students were drafted.
Staying
behind
was
an
enlightening
experience
for
Giang.
“It allowed me to see the real
Vietnam,” he said. “I had the
opportunity to participate in
leadership with my fraternity
and do a lot of charity work.
My brothers, who lived only in
Hue and Da Nang, didn’t know
what the rest of the country
was like.”
However, Giang’s mother,
Nhan, knew the family had
to
flee
the
violence
and
destruction.
To
persuade
her
adamant
husband,
she
said they were just going to
visit their sons abroad. “She
was very street smart,” he
said. At the airport, Nhan
carried Vietnamese embassy
papers
with
the
family’s
identifications. She folded the
letterhead to make the papers
look like official American
documents and waved them
in front of police, who were
overwhelmed with hundreds of
desperate people. “This was a
turning point,” Giang revealed.
“We left and I had $1 in my
pocket.”
Leaving
Vietnam
also
presented
a
complexity
of
emotion.
Initially,
Giang’s
family was ecstatic to escape.
But, “It was a very sad day.
I felt like I betrayed my
country and my friends. They
were giving students guns,
preparing
for
bloodbath.
I
knew we were losing the war
to
the
communists.
They
were barbaric; I was sure
many friends would die. I had
organized funerals for their
families. I can’t believe I did
that. I never cried until the
end. After we landed in the
Philippines, I couldn’t speak
for
days.”
The
Vietnamese
government
announced
surrender to the North soon
after.
From
there,
Giang
went
to Guam for a few months,
then a camp near Panama
City. He barely knew English.
He
contacted
his
brothers
and stayed in Middletown,
Conn. After settling down,
Giang graduated from Central
Connecticut State University
with a bachelor’s in accounting.
Embracing America, Giang’s
late parents gave back to the
community and created cultural
touchstones for the Vietnamese
population, opening a local
grocery store, video store and
establishing Hai An Pagoda, a
Buddhist temple, where Giang
is now president.
Today, Giang lives in Darien,
Conneticut with his wife and
daughters. He is a corporate
vice president at New York
Life. Though Giang leads a
very successful life, he never
forgets his past and how hard
his parents worked.
“I will always try to do
community
work
and
help
others. My me always said it
doesn’t matter if you go to a
big school and get prestigious
degrees, it’s what you do for
society that counts.”
Focus, luck and perseverance:
My father’s road to success
Firm roots, fluid futures
The Black-Asian Coalition: Past, present, and future
VALERIE LÊ
MiC Contributor
November is Puerto Rican
Heritage Month, a time to
acknowledge the past, act in
the present and hope for the
future. In the aftermath of
Hurricane Maria, we have
been wrestling with feelings of
guilt, despair and anger. Guilt
for not being there, despair
with feeling useless and anger
with institutional apathy. For
all the people who have felt
this way, this is for you. We
write this in honor of those
who are on the island, of those
came before us, of those who
are hopeful, of those who are
fighting across seas and still
loving the same island que nos
dió a luz — that gave birth to
us, that brought us light.
Too often news clips and
press releases fail to capture
the way Puerto Ricans feel
in their own words, so we
interviewed six Puerto Rican
women who are defining for
themselves what it means to
be Puerto Rican. Being Puerto
Rican has never been, is and
will never be a monolith of
experience,
but
one
thing
connecting us is how we carry
Puerto Rico, and that which
came before us, in our hearts.
This is our story in our words.
When we were young our
mothers would say, “Te las
arreglaste para nacer en una
isla,” “You figured out a way to
be born on an island.” Not the
island of Puerto Rico, but the
island of Manhattan (Gloriela)
and Hawaii (Angélica). Despite
this poetic coincidence, we
often found ourselves feeling
inadequate.
We
wanted
to
be born on that island, not
this one. We longed to be
surrounded by the sounds and
smells that enveloped us and
let us know we were home.
When
asked
what
Puerto
Rico means to her, Yomaira
Figueroa, assistant professor
of Afro diaspora studies in the
departments of English and
African American and African
Studies
at
Michigan
State
University, said, “This island …
that is both a homeland and an
impossibility. … I am so proud
of our diasporic histories and
how we have cleaved to ‘home’
across generations and against
structures and policies that
were created to sever these
ties.”
So how do we strengthen our
ties? Our struggle to reconcile
responsibility
and
respect,
of dancing the lines between
insider and outsider, reflect
the consequences of colonial
policies governing Puerto Rico,
wherein Puerto Ricans living
in
the
continental
United
States have greater political say
than those on the island. Given
these geographic and political
dynamics, how can we engage
respectfully with our island
counterparts? Where do we
go from here? Recognizing the
poderosas (powerful women)
already doing the work feels
like a great start. The women’s
voices
woven
throughout
this
article
exemplify
the
different and beautiful ways
Boricuas are empowering each
other to continue reclaiming,
remapping and rebuilding our
beloved Borinkén.
María Levis Peralta, founder
of consulting firm Impactivo,
spoke about the importance
of
leveraging
our
political
opportunities: “Puerto Rico
has one nonvoting member in
Congress. This means that at
the federal-level Puerto Rico
only
has
advocacy
power.
Thankfully, our power is more
expansive than many realize.
Puerto Ricans in the diaspora
are one of the most powerful
tools we have to make our
voices
heard
in
Congress.
Congress members listen to
their constituents and we must
utilize our political power to
advocate for our island and
its future.” We are already
powerful and through our
relationships with each other,
we are empowered to make
change.
Through
teaching
students about the real-life
consequences of colonialism
—
like
Delia
Fernandez,
a
professor
of
history
at
Michigan
State
University
— the work and voices of
Boricua’s
communities
are
able to highlight the political
fortitude
of
ancestors
and
elders who taught us how to
remain resilient in the face
of oppression. During Puerto
Rican Heritage Month, we are
ecstatic to celebrate Boricuas
who are using their voices and
stories to disrupt disparaging
narratives about Puerto Ricans
and improve the lives of those
on the island and those in
the
diaspora.
Remembering
Figueroa’s words, “I am bound
up with my kin, ancestors and
communities on our island and
in diaspora,” our futures are
linked and we women are the
ones whom we are waiting for.
ANGÉLICA DE JESÚS
&
GLORIELA IGUINA- COLÓN
MiC Contributors
ASHLEY TJHUNG
Managing MiC Editor
&
ADAM BRODNAX
Senior MiC Editor
This is our story
in our words
It’s what you do
for society that
counts