Sometimes I find myself wanting to yell this at other people. One of those times was today, when yet again, I handed my membership card to the ticket seller at BAM, and she looked at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes, and asked, “This is you? Can I see another form of ID?”
The same person has done this to me before there, and she isn’t the first person in the world to do so. Sometimes I say something wry or dryly funny to make it less awkward for both of us. Today I handed her my driver’s license, waited while she processed my credit card, took my ticket, walked outside, and cried.
I cried for a couple hours. I left the movie early (it was I Am Not Your Negro and I feel like there’s probably some kind of irony there) and on the way out, asked the membership representative how I would go about cancelling mine. She asked if I minded telling her why, and through tears, I tried explaining that I, with my Asian face and Irish name, was tired of being treated like I couldn’t possibly be someone who paid $85 for a BAM membership, of having my identity questioned because my race didn’t match my white name.
As I tried to explain, it occurred to me that I sounded like I was making a big deal out of nothing. She tried telling me she was sure the people didn’t mean to treat me with suspicion and that the protocol for confirming member’s ID’s has changed, and so on and so forth. I gave up.
I walked down the street still in tears, feeling guilty and like an overemotional jerk because this was nothing compared to the prejudice and bigotry African Americans, Latinx people, and Muslim people experience on a way more frequent basis because of the color of their skin, their faith, etc. Then I thought of a line from an Everyday Feminism piece I read a while ago:
“I thought because the racism I knew was different from the kind my Latinx and Black friends were familiar with, that it wasn’t legitimate. Wasn’t real. Wasn’t that bad. Yet while our experiences as Asian Americans differ from other groups, we — like all other people of color in the United States — live with the daily ramifications of white supremacy. And that distinguishes us from white America.”
I continually find myself trying to keep my mouth shut about any instance of racial bias I experience, because I find myself placing more value on the experience of other minorities, determining that their voices need to be heard more than mine. I feel guilty for the privileges I experience as a person of color with white parents, for the privileges I experience as that mythical “model minority,” for being of a race that has historically exhibited so much anti-black racism. I struggle regularly to remind myself that I am still a racial minority who experiences racial bias, and that it’s not okay.
Particularly recently, I’m struggling with finding a space in feminism where I feel like I belong. More and more it seems like most calls I hear for intersectionality, for dismantling white feminism, focus almost solely on the inclusion of black and brown bodies. For the most part, I don’t have a problem with this. The Black Lives Matter movement, for instance, has been vital to raising awareness and affecting change. Still, the emphasis for inclusion of black and brown people makes me hyper aware that I am none of the above. I am not enough of a minority to be included in those calls, but I also am not white, and Asian racism is very real.
It chips away at your spirit. No one is raising awareness about the fact that the Asian homelessness population is vastly understated and ignored because of the number of Asians who won’t admit to being homeless due to cultural ideas of pride. It’s so frustrating that Asians are unfairly held to higher standards in the college admissions process than any other racial group, but are assumed to deserve that unequal treatment. It was heartbreaking to cheer for Chris Rock’s “Oscars So White” monologue, just to have him turn around and exploit Asian stereotypes for a joke. The racism is different, but it exists.
I also struggle with feeling like I am Asian enough to demand that Asians be seen and heard and represented, but I’m realizing more and more that it’s necessary. The ticket seller at BAM wasn’t in the box office when I left, but I wish she had been, so that I could’ve told her that I am not my white man’s name.
I wish I could go back in time and tell all my peers in high school who ever made a joke rooted in my race that I am more than my Asian eyes.
I wish I could tell the white man who stalked me in college that I am more than my Asian hair and skin.
I wish I had known, back then, that it was okay for me to demand to be seen and heard, from this space between fixed identities.
See me now. Hear me now. I’m here.