on the atlanta shootings by Rona W. '23

Content warning for hate crimes, anti-Asian racism, gun violence, sexual harassment.

Like many, I’m heartbroken over the shootings that happened in Atlanta recently. I’m heartbroken as an American citizen, but also as an Asian woman. It feels like a brutal knife to the heart in a year full of blades. If you are interested in supporting the victims, their GoFundMes are here.

This write-up isn’t intended to be activism or a thinkpiece about race. This is just me working through my own feelings as an Asian American who exists right now.

it’s been a long year

Anti-Asian sentiment in America is not new, but this last year has given it more room and confidence to gnash its teeth loudly and openly.

In a grocery store parking lot, a woman forced open my friend’s car door to ask why he was there if he was Chinese. Other friends avoid riding the subway or walking alone on the street. Seemingly every week, a video clip of someone’s grandparent being shoved, beaten, or slashed goes viral. 

When I heard about this latest attack, I immediately texted my friend Steven T. ‘20, whose mother works at a salon. In the past, we’ve spoken at length about our experiences growing up Asian in predominantly white communities, but this time, I didn’t know what words to reach for. I asked him to stay safe, but the request felt empty. How could any of us ensure our own safety when someone could storm into our lives and open fire at any given moment?

I didn’t cry. Mostly, I felt bone-deep exhaustion and muted grief, the kind of grief that has learned to avoid demanding attention.

what we talk about when we talk about anti-asian racism

Something that feels lost in the conversation is intersectionality. Six out of eight victims are Asian women. To me, this situation feels slightly different from the anti-Asian hate crimes fueled by the pandemic, although the current climate most likely emboldened the killer. But the narrative that some media has spun–that he is a sex addict who wanted to kill sex workers at spas he frequented–leans into the hypersexualization of Asian women.

Sometimes I get DMs from men who think Facebook/Twitter are dating apps. The latest one, from a forty-year-old white guy I had no mutual friends with, said that he “had a thing for Asians.” When I ignored him, he sent sexually explicit messages about things he wanted to do to me. It was more than just gross and cringe-inducing. It gave me this slithering unease and unshakeable suspicion that one day, someone with this same attitude may hurt me or someone who looks like me.

I’ve been told that I’m lucky to be fetishized, that this is a form of acceptance. It is the same acceptance we extend to adorably furry creatures in cages, the ones we select to come live in our houses and sleep in our beds.

after

For most of my life, Asian Americans have felt like footnotes within our country’s story. Until college, I never saw an English-language movie with an Asian lead. Last fall, when I searched up election polls, Asian voters were often not included as a racial demographic due to insufficient data. Now, I don’t know how to respond to recent overwhelming support. 

Growing up, I was taught to keep my eyes averted and my mouth shut. My parents were born near the end of Mao Zedong’s reign, and while they escaped the worst of his leadership, they still carried the belief that occupying as little space as possible offers the best protection. Both of them were college students in Beijing during the Tiananmen Square Massacre of 1989 and witnessed firsthand the deadly consequences of protest. Last summer, I was at home in Portland; when federal agents dragged demonstrators into unmarked vans, my family asked me to not leave the house. 

But last weekend, my mom went to a protest. She stood in the parking lot of our local grocery store and held a sign asking others to Stop Asian Hate. Maybe change doesn’t only come as a seismic shift. Sometimes, it’s a ripple of quiet decisions. 

There’s a Chinese fable about an old man who lives near a pair of mountains. He tries to dig them up to remove the obstruction. When called foolish, he says that while he might not be able to finish the task himself, he believes that, through the efforts of himself, his children, his grandchildren, and so forth, the mountains will eventually be removed and the path forward will be cleared. 

The future is in all of our hands. Let’s shape it into something beautiful.

I was inspired to write this after reading Ben O. ‘19’s fantastic blog post “Hope”. I thank him and other MIT Admissions bloggers for opening up conversations about racial justice.