It’s two days after eight people were shot dead in Atlanta, GA.
I didn’t read any news on Tuesday. Yesterday morning, Wednesday, I was walking in the woods, catching up with a friend about our lives, our families, navigating the pandemic. It wasn’t until I got home that I started reading the headlines, and saw that seven of those who died were women, and six of those seven were Asian women. I immediately despaired. Were these attacks part of the recent rise in racially motivated violence against Asian-Americans?
Reading more, I was shocked, alarmed, heartbroken, but also unsurprised. The shooter was a white man, but at this point, the investigation was ongoing, and the murders hadn’t been labeled a hate crime. Initially the reports focused on the killer, describing him as a church-going, god-fearing man who sought to eliminate his victims because of a sex-addiction. And here’s where I was unsurprised; the victims were Asian, invisible, transparent, easy to dismiss.
I am Japanese-American, Asian-American, a woman, a visible minority, and an American citizen. I was born in Hawaii, grew up in Denver, and spent a considerable amount of time living abroad. That time abroad was the most untethered I’ve felt from the labels of my identity. In another country my race and ethnicity weren’t the first thing people thought of when they met me. There was freedom in not being a visible minority, in blending in, in adding to the mix of faces around me rather than being singled out for it.
Growing up, I remember the importance of learning how to fit in, making sure I was following the rules and not causing any trouble. I remember wanting to be Hawaiian instead of Japanese, because everyone thought Hawaiian was cool, but Japanese was a stigma. I remember being called yellow, a Jap, being confused for Chinese or Korean, being harassed, being followed because the guy told me, he had “a thing for young Asian girls.” I wanted to ‘assimilate’ and become invisible, because maybe life would be easier and more straight-forward.
But here’s the catch. As an Asian-American, you can work hard, roll with the punches, and try not to stand out too much but that’s not enough. The racist stereotype of the stoic, soft-spoken Asian has made it easy to disregard and dismiss us. It reminds me of the exchange I’ve gone through so often I’ve lost count, “So where are you from?” Me: “Denver.” “No, I mean where are you really from?” Me: “Uh, Denver.” At that point the person moves on because they haven’t heard the answer they really wanted to hear.
We need to change these conversations, stop the hate, and actually see and hear the Asian-American community. As Cathy Park Hong tells Morgan Ome in an interview for The Atlantic:
“I think many Asian Americans have never talked about it, and so white people still don’t believe that Asian Americans face racism. Because we’re invisible, the racism against us has also been invisible. This is why it’s important that people are speaking up to show: “Actually, this has been happening, and there’s been a spike. But at the same time, this has been going on for a long time. We just haven’t really talked about it. And now we’re talking about it, and you have to pay attention.”
As today turns into tomorrow, I hope that people don’t forget the women who died, and that these horrific events don’t simply fade into the background. Show up for your Asian, Indigenous, Black, and Latinx friends, show up for your community. Acknowledge the history of racism and violence against Asian Americans. Let’s see and support one another, and end the erasure and pain of invisibility.