Youth reflections on Anti-Asian racism: An essay by Elaine Chang
When Professor Lin Fang wanted to learn more about anti-Asian racism during the pandemic, she and Hong Fook Mental Health Association worked with youth in the Greater Toronto Area to share their perspectives and reflections through photography, visual arts, poetry, perusal essays, and video.
The essay below is by Elaine Chang, one of the youth who participated.
Visit the My Script, My Voice website to view more projects and click here to learn about Project APPA (the Asian Parents Participatory Action Project).
“If you correct your mind, the rest of your life will fall into place.” – Lao Tzu
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How can you redirect the taut, unwilling branches of a tree that has long entrenched its roots into unwelcoming, rocky soil?
It knows no better than to force those tendrils deeper into the dirt, searching for the few nutrients it may find. Either it has accepted its fate or it knows no other.
An unknowing prisoner never complains aubout serving time if he’s unaware of being imprisoned.
Poeticism aside, the reality is that this scenario is true. Not knowing or not willing to know is the virus causing undetected, conventional racism.
Easy to ignore, difficult to fix, it haunts and lurks within the backdrop of every interaction. Oftentimes, there is no malice in the voice that speaks it, only habit. You didn’t get 100%? How? It hurts to know that you are only an insignificant blip in the world of “normal.”
Maybe maths isn’t my subject. That, unfortunately, would crumple the fragile box with walls of stereotype that we indiscriminately are thrust into.
On the other hand, what if you live obediently within those walls? You make the best of your manufactured characteristics. You thrive. Say you get 100%. Do I win then?
Of course not. You are not interesting, unique or someone to be celebrated. In fact, you’re not really even intelligent, you really just hit the status quo; a mean value that ticks off the I am valid checkbox. The I am acknowledged checkbox lies just below it; unchecked.
No one is really valid or benefitting in this situation. It’s a choice to be different and ridiculed for incompetence or to be the same and unacknowledged for your accomplishments. Like a sick game of “would you rather” — would you rather be the only different face out of a million, or just another of the million?
It’s such a black and white decision. One or the other. Yin and yang. Ironic.
You struggle within your bounds. Pushing, pulling. Highschool slips by.
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Change of backdrop. You make it through the years of twisting to accommodate the paper-thin walls of the box.
You make it to a university average for the likes of you. Still. It’s enough to prevent the worst of the snarky comments and side eyes. You picked to study a degree in finance.
(One of your cousins wanted to pursue a career as a musical artist. You hadn’t heard from him in a while; he didn’t come to family gatherings anymore.) He broke too freely from the walls of the box. Too far for redemption.
You on the other hand, you managed to tame and stifle that passion for literature and writing back in highschool. The look on your parents’ face when you presented them with your finance degree was possibly worth it. That’s what you remind yourself before you sleep every night. Repetition is possibly one of the strongest forms of persuasion.
You repeat that it was all worth it as you walk into your first job interview.
The interview goes averagely, like much of your highschool career, before the interview asks: Tell me why you think you make a good person for this job. You can’t help but think of your mother who had told you, surely, this question would be asked. She is, to your chagrin, right as per usual.
Carefully, you hit all of the buzzwords. You start with a brief synopsis of your passionate highschool journey to this point. Then comes the teamwork scenarios, the declarations of determination and the assertion of leadership. Oh no. The interviewer didn’t like the last one. A hasty “we’ll give you a call” slips out as justification for the swift end of the meeting. Your mind buzzes with confusion as it processes the rejection.
Rejection is a familiar feeling. It stirs up other familiar feelings. Bitterness, loss of direction, self-resentment. They come and go, each delivering their stings diligently.
Am I in another box? You feel the answer like a rock in your gut, but you still look it up. How was I supposed to know that we’re the “model minority” for being hard-working, submissive and willing to work without autonomy? You think. No one talks about what comes after all those years of school.
Unfair, isn’t it? You’re made to be an overachiever, top of the class, alum of a prestigious university. Then, you’re ordered to be a meek, unaspiring worker who exists only to toil under the rule of another. No one tells you this, of course, this is for you to find out on your own. You can never win.
Of course I can’t win. I’m not the one playing here. It’s the character they made me out to be. That prestigious valedictorian is playing right now, and losing. So what good does it do to play into their stereotypes? To skirt and dance around the walls of the box? It doesn’t do any good at all.
Well. Lucky for you, change is not bound by time.
That night you open up your leather-bound journal for the first time in four years. Your pencil touches the paper to create the satisfying scratching sound of feelings given form.
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You tell yourself something different this time, walking into an interview. You tell yourself that it’s worth it to be here because the thought of it makes you happy.
The interview goes well. In fact, they hire you on the spot, exclaiming support for your passion, determination and initiative. You leave the building with a smile on your face and a manuscript tucked under your arm. It reads Seeking New Soil, by you.
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How can you redirect the taut, unwilling branches of a tree that has long entrenched its roots into unwelcoming, rocky soil?
You replant it. In a place where it flourishes. The buds burgeon with a hopeful green. The roots grow strong and steady. The supple branches stretch for the sky limitlessly. The walls of the box tear.