Processing Atlanta: Perspectives from an Asian American Woman
I’ve often refrained from sharing my opinions on the internet, and in my writing and photography, I shy away from casting myself in the spotlight in fear of taking up space not meant for me. I know now, in light of the tragedy we faced in Atlanta last Tuesday, that this space is meant for me and other Asian women to take up. And if this space does not yet exist, it must be made. Our opinions and our voices always have and always will matter, regardless of the world’s inability to listen.
I do not speak for anyone but myself in the following piece, but I hope my words can bring some comfort and validation to those who are grieving and grappling with this reality as I am.
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I woke up on the morning of March 17th to several ambiguous texts from my Asian friends about Atlanta. I had not read the news, but I could tell from the tone of the messages and my friends’ reluctance to name the tragedy that I should brace myself and prepare for the worst. And though I did, nothing could have prepared me for the pain I felt while reading the first headline in the news.
8 Dead in Atlanta Spa Shootings, With Fears of Anti-Asian Bias.
I scrolled through the article in shock, unable to process the murders themselves, much less the media’s denial of a racist motive. Because it was finals week, I spent much of that day vacillating between loud sobs and studying on autopilot as I thought of these women, who went to work that day not knowing it would be their last — women who looked like my mother, my titas and my late grandmothers; women who looked like my mothers’ friends and the mothers of my friends. My heart breaks every time I think of them and picture their smiles, which the world will no longer have the privilege of seeing.
With every article I’ve read since that day, I have found myself uncaring of the details of the crime itself. I do not want to know more about their deaths, what time they were killed, or who was killed first; I want to learn more about their lives.
Chanel Miller, artist and writer of the New York Times best-selling memoir Know My Name, shared artwork in response to the tragedy, which has both nurtured my love for the Asian community as well as my rage towards those who threaten us:
I am still left wondering these things, and I am grateful to the families of the victims for sharing these pieces of their lives as we grieve for and with them.
I did not and do not care about their murderer, whose reasoning about race playing no role in his decision to “eliminate temptation” — and the media’s willingness to believe him — angers me to my core. I refuse to learn anymore about this man or his motives than I already have. I do not need to read the news to know that his actions are a product of the white supremacist state we live in, one which has normalized and condoned violence against Asian women for centuries.
I will instead focus my time and energy on learning about the victims. And saying their names.
Delaina Ashley Yaun.
Paul Andre Michels.
Xiaojie Tan.
Daoyou Feng.
Soon Chung Park.
Hyun Jung Grant.
Suncha Kim.
Yong Ae Yue.
May they rest in peace.
The day after their deaths, I didn’t have eloquent thoughts of my own to express my grief, so I instead turned to the words of Sun Yung Shin, whose art created space for the anger, fear, and sadness I felt after hearing the news. Her word puzzle, which can be seen in the image below, contains exactly 80 words, and though I have yet to find all of them, I’ve found comfort and validation in the few that I have seen. Here are some that caught my eye: Community. Solidarity. Assistance. Elders. Imperialism. Colonial. Trauma. Hold. Heal.
In a piece accompanying this puzzle, Shin writes: “Anything poets and artists can do to make the status quo strange–in this case to attempt to expose human cultures of structural dominance–as constructed may help reveal how violence is often born and propagated on the seemingly “neutral” or “disembodied” premises of language.” She is absolutely correct. My goal with this piece, which started off as a personal way to process my shock and sadness, is to make the status quo strange for those who have normalized crimes like these or brushed them off as a byproduct of a white man’s “bad day.”
The distorted self-portraits that I’ve created attempt to reflect how I felt that day and have felt ever since. Confused. In fear. Hurt. Enraged. I have spent the past few days wondering how my features, my culture, and my identity — the sources of my deepest pride — could also be the source of another’s deepest hatred. In the image directly above, I attempted to capture that duality and this distortion of myself at the hands of another.
While these photos are of me and my body, the distortions of my identifying features attempt to highlight how this is not about me; this is about us. The millions of Asian women living through this reality, many of whom — like me — have had the experience of being confused for one another, homogenized and sexualized by the male gaze. While I can only speak about my own experience as a Filipino-American woman, an experience that has been deeply privileged by my education and socioeconomic class, I know that I’m not alone in experiencing these emotions and this frustration.
So much of the sadness I feel at this moment, as I continue to process this tragedy, is rooted in this fear for my community, my family, and other women like me. But even more of my sadness is rooted in the thought of the communities and families that these women were taken from.
In an interview with NBC, Randy Park, the 23-year-old son of the late Hyun Jung Grant, described one of their last happy memories together, which occurred a little over a week ago. The article reads: “She somehow discovered an electronic music song called “The Business” by Tiesto, which turned out to be very old to her son. “I had already heard the song,” Park said.
The mother and son danced around, laughed and smiled. It would be the last time they would.”
Thinking of this final moment of joy for their family, and all the little moments of joy that Randy, his mother, and the families of all the victims will never get to experience, breaks me in ways that words will never be able to describe. I cannot even begin to imagine what this experience must be like for those who knew the victims personally.
As we continue grieving, I hope that the art accompanying these words is as comforting as it is unsettling. I hope it forces you to grapple with the centuries-long history of violence against Asian communities, the damaging influence of American imperialism in Asia, and the sexualization of Asian women that has come with it, our eyes serving as unfortunate targets of male sexual violence. I hope that in reckoning with these difficult truths, we can turn to our communities to find love, care, and healing amongst each other.
To those reading this who are similarly grieving and in pain, I am here for you, I am here with you. To my fellow Asian women reading this, I am here for you, I am here with you. I hope that one day, the portraits we share of ourselves are no longer distorted by white supremacy, by the male gaze, by senseless murders, or by the loss of our own. I hope that the pride that I take in my identity can one day be met with love and respect instead of violence and hatred.
Until then, I will grieve this heartbreaking tragedy in community with those whose love lifts and holds me on our darkest days, and I will think of my favorite words from Sun Yung Shin’s puzzle:
Hold.
Heal.
May we hold each other, may we heal each other.
To those we lost that day — thank you for gifting us with your presence and for bringing joy to those who were lucky enough to have known you.
I will hold you in my heart forever.
Therese Santiago (she/her) is a Stanford senior studying English & Comparative Studies in Race and Ethnicity. She is passionate about racial justice, community organizing, photography, and stories that move people. She can be contacted at tsantiag@stanford.edu.
