This past weekend, I was at a children’s/YA creative retreat featuring Asian American voices at the Highlights Foundation in rural Pennsylvania. It was amazing and joyous and all of the things I could have possibly hoped for. To be in community with other Asian American folks, to be working towards the creation and sharing of our stories, and to have protected time (and amazing food) to work towards that goal — it was like a dream. To make it even more magical, I was surrounded by some pretty amazing writers, some of whom I was lucky enough to have called friends going into the retreat and then leaving with some new ones as well.
With that said, I had a deep sense of imposter syndrome going into the meeting. I hadn’t been writing stories for decades, would generally rather sleep than wake up early to write, and I hadn’t published anything creatively since my high school literary magazine. You get the point. The community was so welcoming, though, I left feeling invigorated and renewed.
Besides the food and company, I was also excited to be in nature. As an avid runner, I always bring my running shoes when I travel; it’s one of the best ways to see a place (especially if you can wrangle a friend to join you). Coming from the flat streets of the Chicago metro area, the wooded hills of Pennsylvania seemed like a treat. Sadly, no one from the retreat joined me on my runs — I think my intro as an ultra-runner might have scared some folks off… For those new to the term, an ultra-runner is someone who runs races longer than 26.2 miles. I have a 50 mile race this coming weekend and a 100 mile race in a month.
I will admit my biases and say that I get nervous about running in rural areas alone. Right after the Atlanta spa shootings that targeted Asian women, my family and I went camping in Missouri. I was very nervous about being a lone Asian woman out running and made sure I shared my location on my phone with a friend (in Chicago…but at least someone could track me) before heading out, and I didn’t run with my headphones like I usually do. Thankfully nothing happened, but I hated feeling anxious during my run.
I once got into a Facebook debate with someone about whether runners of color felt safe running in rural areas. This was at the height of Trump’s racist rants. Over a dozen people (all white) chimed in on why they thought this was ridiculous. I pointed out how it didn’t matter that they were nice white people or supposedly lived in nice white areas, that being a person of color and running by Confederate flags or knowing people who’d had cars swerve towards them while out (and this was an Asian woman friend out walking with her dog and baby), they could not answer this question for us nor try to invalidate our fears. As expected, there was a pile-on that I was being racist towards white people. However, one white man from rural Georgia did take up my offer to talk more off the page. Over messenger, I explained to him my experiences (and those of others I knew), and why I felt anxious running alone in these areas. He apologized for these experiences and hadn’t known things like this happened, that he was not like that and that the people he was close to were not like that. He offered to run with me if I ever ended up in his neck of the woods. We both left that conversation feeling a share sense of humanity for one another. And I was grateful, that for at least that one person, my story had made a difference.
Because I was doing a longer run at the retreat, I decided to run the roads instead of the trails. I had done a shorter run on the trails the day before and between everything melting and all the rain, there was a lot of water on the trails near the Highlights campus. Country roads are always a little iffy, though, as vehicles can come flying by and don’t often expect runners (or pedestrians). Despite tensing a bit each time a pick-up truck came by, nothing happened and the views were gorgeous.
I will admit I winced a bit when I saw a few political signs. They all added to my sense of unease in being a visible minority alone on the roads. However, it was when I encountered the following sign that I felt my sense of safety diminish.
Having had folks shout “Chinese” and “f’ing J**” at me in passing in the past, I harbored no belief that anyone who was so vehemently anti-Chinese and pro-Trump would care to differentiate that I was Korean. I hated that running was something I found joy and refuge in, and it was being ruined by that sign. Running stills my mind and allows me to just be in my body without the usual hamster wheel of noise. But even while trying to enjoy a simple activity, my status as female and Asian marks me as a potential target. I have seen many women post about running in rural areas while carrying a weapon, most often it’s for protection against animals but it’s also for people (and there are times they have had to draw their weapons). Something that makes us feel strong and capable can also remind us we aren’t always.
I’ve heard people ask me (and others), “Why do you have to make everything about race?” When I went out for this run, I didn’t try to make it about race; yet I was reminded that I was not white. When I was in San Diego this past February and a street performer made a crack about being “almost American” to my Korean family as part of his banter, I wasn’t trying to make it about race. But here we are. I share these stories with my students when I teach to help illustrate that I am not trying to make things about race, yet these are the experiences — the microaggressions or blatant racism — I encounter as a marginalized person moving through the world. It’s important to share these stories with the world. So whether I am writing young adult fiction, an academic article, or this blog post, or standing in front of a classroom, I bring my full self — with all the joy and pain that entails.
And just as sharing my stories and experiences with that man in Georgia made a difference, I am heartened that all of our stories can make a difference. So, despite that bit of ugliness, my time at the retreat reminded me how powerful it is to be in community with one another and to feel excited that there so many others working to do that. It is because stories are so powerful that people are trying to ban them and to silence us. It is our stories that will bring us together to effect change. I believe this and will continue working and writing to do so and hope you will as well.
This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Darius Phelps (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series).