My version of #Thisis2016
The New York Times published a video version of Michael Luo’s open letter to a woman who told him and his family to go back to China. The video features Asian-Americans telling their stories in the form of tweets, using the hashtag #Thisis2016. They cut deep. I can relate to almost every single one.
I don’t know if people realize that these racist comments occur in the most ordinary, every day settings. Streets, grocery stores, and even educational institutions. And with that, a couple of my own experiences.
@ kroger in ann arbor, michigan
Grocery shopping with family is one of my favorite things to do when I go back home from college. I beeline to find the frozen eggos when a boy, who couldn’t have been more than 10-years-old, brushes by me and mutters, “fucking chink.”
@ paris, france during a school trip. spring 2016
My friends and I decide to go to a cafe near our hotel to work on our stories. We’re in Paris on an assignment with the Washington Post to cover the refugee crisis. We sit in a cafe outside, sipping our café au laits while intensely typing away. Suddenly, a man approaches me and starts talking loudly. I ignore him because he is speaking in French, and I am not fluent. I hope that my disinterest will make him move on. But then he bends down, inches closer to my face, and begins to scream, “Ni hao! Ni hao! Ni hao!”
I stop typing, feeling the heat rise to my face and his spit on my cheek.
@ a college frat party
A horrible, racist moment at Northwestern University my sophomore year. Imagine hearing the words “Ching chong chinese balls” by some white guys at the asian fraternity house. You can read about the full story here.
@ chinatown in DC, last week
It’s close to 8 p.m. My sister and I leave after a delicious bowl of ramen and head towards the national mall to walk off our food coma. A twenty-something-year-old eyes us and says “Konichiwa!” and bows at us.
Neither of us flinch. We continue our conversation about boys, but in my head I keep thinking about what just happened. I wonder if she is annoyed as I am. I wonder if he knows that we are Korean, not Japanese.
@ the whitney museum in new york, summer 2016
My friend and I are on the top floor, admiring some work created by younger artists. We exchange smiles with an elderly, white couple, and I strike up a conversation about a piece of art that I don’t seem to understand. We share a laugh. My friend and I learn that they are members of the museum. They learn that I am living in New York, and my friend lives in New Jersey. Suddenly, the white woman says that she knows the “best” dimsum place in town. Have you heard of it? It’s in Queens. Oh, you must go! Here’s the name and address. It’s so authentic.
How did we get here? I think to myself.
@ everywhere
Where are you from?
I was born in Michigan, but I lived in Korea for middle and high school. Now I’m back for college.
Oh, so are you an international student?
No. I was born in the U.S.
Oh.
Finally, I want to reiterate something else that Mr. Luo said in his letter:
It’s this persistent sense of otherness that a lot of us struggle with every day. That no matter what we do, how successful we are, what friends we make, we don’t belong. We’re foreign. We’re not American.
