Asian American Feminist Writing Workshop — Personal Statement

21 hours to the deadline, I realized I hadn’t yet submitted my application to the Asian American Feminist Writing Workshop, presented by Kundiman & the Asian American Feminist Collective. So at midnight on Halloween, nursing the beginnings of my cabernet headache, I sat down to write.

A few years ago, I was having dinner with my mom. Since their divorce, I’ve expanded my resolve to be present — possibly making up for years of absence while working abroad, and while locked in my room as an angry teenager.

Over pasta & wine, our conversation drifted to my aunt — her older sister in Wisconsin, who I haven’t seen since I was young. I remarked — “You know, I always thought Aunt Robin looked half-white.”

My mom paused, and said — “Well. She is.”

In this moment: I realized how much I don’t know, I don’t know — about my own family.

They say certain events catapult us into a longing: to know our family’s story, is to know our own. For me, it’s unfolded in layers over time.

The cold water of divorce wakes you to your parents as not just parents, but people. In my mother, I wonder how much I can see my own future. We are fine on our own, we demand the most from ourselves, and we are never satisfied.

Seeing my grandmother — I sense she is far away, inside time and inside herself, even when she is right here next to me. When I ask her story from others, I get versions of resignation: we may never know.

And for myself: this past year, in breaking up with my partner, my job, and my geography — never before has the adage of self love ripped into me so deeply. To be in loving relationship with any person, place, or thing; we must be in loving relationship with our self.

Along the way, I’ve realized the contradiction in my work as a storyteller & researcher: ever-attuning to the stories of others, but not knowing my own.

And we cannot heal what we cannot name.

They say trauma — in a person — looks like personality; in a family — looks like family traits; in a people — looks like culture (Resmaa Menakem). There is violence imprinted in our institutions, our heritage, our identities. For how many generations will it echo?

In simplest form, I am searching for my self. I admire most the writers that do this, and let us in. And I know there is so much I have yet to learn, through the lens of feminism, race, and history.

I did not grow up with feminist texts. But I do believe I grew up with feminism, as a way of being.

I did not grow up with a history of Asian America. But I did have my automatic recitation to the “What are you?” question by age eight. (“I’m half Chinese and half Korean. My father is Chinese, born in Taiwan. My mother is Korean, born in Japan. They both moved to the States when they were very young.”)

I did not grow up recognizing the exception of a father who cooked most of our meals, a Korean grandfather who had to choose between the white and black restrooms of the 50’s, and a childhood where no one made fun of my lunch.

Cathy Park Hong & Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie speak into the duality of a single story. In scarcity, it is danger; in abundant company, it is beauty. That is why I’m writing today.