My heart dropped when I heard the tragic news of the recent killings of Asian women in the Atlanta area. It made me think of their families, likely hardworking immigrant mothers who sought a better life for their children. As I walked upstairs to embrace my six-year-old daughter before her online class, tears welled up for my mother and for every Asian parent who faces the daunting challenge of adapting to a new culture while raising children. They also live with the anxiety of being among the over 3,000 victims of hate violence reported last year, according to AAPI Hate.
My mother’s journey was particularly tough. When she married my American father in the 1970s, they lived in a trailer on his parents’ property in Oklahoma. For nearly a year, my grandfather refused to acknowledge her due to her race. Fortunately, he eventually accepted her as family. But then my mother had to worry about her own children facing similar prejudices. When we lived in Korea in the 1980s, I was teased for not being fully Korean. When we moved to America, I was subjected to ridicule, with kids pulling their eyes back and calling me names, something even former NBA player Jeremy Lin has faced. It’s a painful experience when someone questions your identity because of your name, like when someone said to me, “But that can’t be your name; you’re Asian.” It’s an isolating feeling, as if you don’t belong anywhere.
I don’t harbor resentment toward my grandfather for his initial rejection of my mother. People are shaped by their environments, and growing up in a place lacking diversity can limit one’s outlook. However, when individuals choose hate over acceptance and resort to violence—like attacking innocent people—it instills fear in others. I want so much more for my daughter.
Three years ago, my husband and I made the significant decision to move to a rural county in Maryland. I knew it would be less diverse than where I grew up, but the excellent school system and affordable housing made it appealing. We hoped it would set a solid foundation for our daughter’s future, much like my mother did when she came to America.
My daughter may not appear Asian—she has striking blue eyes and sandy blonde hair—but she is still a quarter Korean. Even though I am half Korean with prominent Asian features, the rise in anti-Asian violence has made me hyper-aware of how others perceive us. As we walk together, I often wonder what people think: Do they see me as her nanny? Are we at risk of an attack? Can she communicate in English?
I find solace in squeezing her hand and pushing those thoughts aside. So far, our experiences in this town have been filled with welcoming and kind-hearted people, from the wonderful daycare staff we met early on to a new Vietnamese family we connected with last week. My concern is that we may eventually encounter individuals who don’t share that understanding, but I remain hopeful that my fears are unfounded.
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In summary, my fears for my daughter stem from a legacy of prejudice and violence against Asian individuals. As we navigate our lives, I hold onto hope for a more accepting future, while also being acutely aware of the challenges we may face.