Otherness: Being Asian in America

Asian, yet mixed. Pinoy, Borica, Rusa. A blending of love. Each generation a closer acceptance of who we are. The alien. The outsiders. Trying to assimilate into whatever whiteness we can. Don’t call them out. Be nice, have a sense of humor. Don’t let them see it get to you.

Growing up

From the time I was born till the time I left California, there was no doubt in my mind that I belonged. Childhood innocence wrapped me in a stiff cocoon, oblivious to the workings of race, class, and societal structures. All I knew was I liked the sunshine but did not appreciate the heat. Our world was a mixed place with faces that looked like my own and some that varied shades of cream. It seemed like no consequence.

The Summer of 2002: The Big Move

It was my first time remembering being on a plane. Flying to a new reality would be the foundation for my growing up. Small town, Alaska. I think the first time I really noticed that race was precarious, controversial, and topical was when I went to public school. In second grade, I was the new girl in school. The excitement from my classmates was to compare me to the girl who had just left. All that seemed to fade away and was replaced by ignorant curiosity. So...what are you? Are you Chinese?

As an eight-year-old girl, I had never come into what my ethnic identity was before rude encounters made me question. In my mind, I was American and human just like my classmates. I experienced something confusing, deep hurt, and exclusion. To be singled out as a kid leaves an impression on you. Even careless words by kids have the ability to sink into the heart. There is power in words. The Bible talks about the tongue having the power of life and death, and man are hurtful words spoken over a kid like poison. I can understand that we were kids, but children learn messages from their parents and the environments they are surrounded in.

Through questioning and storytelling, my mother unfolded the rich heritage of my Puerto Rican Baba, Russian Papa, and Filipino Father. Our background came alive with lessons of God’s hand on our ancestry with stories too wild and crazy to be properly told in these writings. My eyes became opened to the beauty of our culture. Yet, I only understood a small window of oppression and obstacles faced because of our race.

High school started and to a girl who was sheltered most of her life, it felt like a coming of age movie. There was of course the grappling of one’s identity that really took the spotlight. And for me came a sense of not belonging anywhere. It felt like I was living in a world that wasn’t designed for me. That no matter how confidently I entered a room, I wasn’t enough. I felt like I didn’t even belong in my own skin. It was like I wanted to be white just to feel at ease walking down the hall, so people wouldn’t stare. Just so girls wouldn’t try to figure me out and then come to the conclusion that I’m pretty (for not being white). I used to wish I had blonde hair and fair skin so boys would notice me. This shit adds up and does a number on your mental health. Looking back I think I was low-key depressed. It was a constant cycle of wake up, go to school, do homework, vedge on tv and go to bed ~repeat~. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t shake the feeling of otherness.

It’s difficult to put into words my lived experiences with racism since many of my encounters have been sly and at face value innocent. But here is a glimpse of what it’s been like.

• Observing white people making friends easily with other white people, but feeling like I have to try my hardest to be friends and to mold myself into the version that I think they’ll accept

• Getting called exotic

• Being told I’m not dateable

• Being told, “I’d date you if I was into Asian women.”

• Wishing my eyes weren’t hooded when I was a kid and holding my creases so I wouldn’t have a monolid

• People assuming I’m quiet

• People asking what are you

• Apologizing for the food I brought to school

• Feeling isolated and invisible

• I had a friend who didn’t understand why ethnic minorities get scholarships to college

• People never pronounce my last name right

• Grouped together with the other Asian kids

I went to college which opened up the vernacular of feelings I had my entire life.

Marginalized/ Racial profiling / Racism / Microaggressions / Rose colored glasses

I was given space to explore and talk about my experience for which for so long I had ignored or thought was trivial.

As I learned more about the intricacies of racism, my eyes became more aware of how it worked in my immediate world. My freshman year all but two BIPOC kids on my floor were all in the same part of the hall, called “the dink.” I’m pretty sure my roommate and I were put together because we were both Asian as we had nothing in common and our schedules were completely opposite.

I came to college fully knowing that I was in the minority. Their BIPOC pamphlets did not trick me. I knew I wouldn’t be in the majority, but I thought it would be different than the small white town I grew up in.

I was really blessed to meet Crystal my freshman year. She is also Filipina and we’ve bonded over so many wonderful parts of our culture. She has always made me feel welcomed and accepted exactly with where I am.

For most of college though, I felt not white enough to truly fit in with my white friends and not Asian enough to fit in with those kids. I felt stuck. In the middle of Americana culture and my mixed complicated heritage where I felt like I could never be Filipino enough.

It’s tough and a lot of my feelings of hurt have been buried by being proud of my family heritage, finding my identity in Jesus, and feeling like my hurt didn’t matter because other people in the BIPOC community have it worse.

The hate crimes against Asians did not begin during the pandemic or after the Atlanta shooting. They’ve been steeped into our country’s fabric (Japanese internment camps, anti-Asian immigration laws), yet Asian-American history has been wiped out of our school’s history books as a way to wash our country’s hands-free of blood and bigotry. The shooting in Atlanta was a shock wave sent through the AAPI community. During the past week, I was in denial, shock, then rage, hurt, sadness, tears. Then the burial of hurt came bubbling up and I’ve been a wreck as I’ve forcefully had to reconcile what it means to be a mixed Asian-American, second generation woman living in the United States in 2021. Talk about fear, sexism, and racism. And it doesn’t stop there. It’s anything but simple when past hurt has been encountered in my church back home. People that I know. People that I grew up with. Spewing dangerous ignorant comments around. The injustice to their words is deafening. It makes me angry. The anger that boils in your stomach and then to your blood. The anger that makes you sick to your stomach. My dad calms me and reminds me that there are parts of people, but it doesn’t mean it’s all of who they are. That someone’s actions are not the whole picture. Honestly, I have racist tendencies too. But that’s not who I am. It’s a hard space because I want to stand up and I will stand up when something is wrong. When injustice is present, I also have to reconcile the ways I perpetuate wrongful behaviors and attitudes. No one is exempt from the work of reconciliation and undoing our selfish ambitions towards others, it is a lifelong work no matter the individual.

One thing I’m learning is that being a follower of Jesus brings healing, but that healing is not linear.

I’m navigating how to see people through the lens of learning, understanding, and empathy. To call out when something isn’t right and love people right where they are at. Is ignoring a problem/person going to make them go away? No. Is screaming, anger, and exclusion going to change any system? No. Where there is hate for people there is no love, no light, and no hope.

We must be able to recognize how to put our foot down in love. And to communicate and humbly hold ourselves accountable knowing that we - that I - have fallen short on upholding justice, loving well, and putting others before myself.

All the voices from the AAPI community have rung so beautifully as they’ve spoken a mosaic of experiences. Our hurt and feelings of degradation are never a reason for why we should be ashamed of our culture or where we came from. Hearing so many stories and emotions has made me feel like I am not alone in my experience as Filipino-American.

I always want to be in a place of learning to grow and understand the complexities of race in America. There are still things I am growing in and trying to have grace for others also learning. It’s not easy. It’s damn hard when part of the essence of who you are is attacked in some way. It can be easy to use my words in attack mode and it's hard to stop and love and listen to even those who seem to hate you. It’s hard to be patient and kind and to be slow to anger.

This is a bit of processing for me but I’m reconciling all these intricacies and trying to make sense of it all. And some days I feel exhausted by the stupid harsh reality of racism and the sin that is in the world. It’s a juxtaposition of feeling seen, yet unseen. For a shooting to grip me with the words I’ve been holding back most of my life is both healing and trying. It’s hard when society sees Asian success as a remedy to the racism received. There is no comfort in dealing with racism. It’s work that doesn’t lend itself many accolades. Trying to understand how others have experienced racism is deep empathy - knowing yet never quite knowing.

So, thank you for reading. This was therapeutic writing down all these thoughts that I’ve been ruminating over trying to get the feelings out into words. They aren’t perfect or maybe the best thought out, but it’s my experience and nothing about it was perfect. It’s messy and something that I have to bring to Jesus every day because I can’t figure it all out on my own.

If you have any questions or want to discuss anything I wrote respectfully leave a comment below.

Love,

Tabi