Asian American Issues: From Identity to Action @asianamericanissuesasb - Tumblr Blog

Parents’ Immigration Story

My parents came to the U.S. as refugees from the Vietnam War. They left a few years after the fall of Saigon, so they experienced some of the hardships imposed by the authoritarian communist government. My mom’s family came to America in a few groups with her older siblings coming with my grandpa first, and she and her younger siblings came later. My dad’s family first went to a refugee camp in Thailand, and then, they flew to America. Both of my grandparents had some connection to the U.S. military, which allowed them to be able to escape from Vietnam.

When they arrived in America, they were sponsored by Church families, and they subsisted off of the social safety net. Initially, it was difficult for them to learn English and blend in with their classmates, and they faced hardships acclimating to the culture in America. For my mom’s side, they have a strong sense of family values because they were the only Vietnamese people in the area, and they relied on each other through thick and thin.

My grandparents worked intense labor jobs to provide for their families, and my parents relied on government assistance to fund their higher education pursuits. Luckily, they were able to secure well paying jobs and provide a great life for me in America.

Initially, they felt isolated since they were the only Vietnamese people within their respective neighborhoods, but they eventually found a Vietnamese temple where they met. This temple has been a cultural hub for Vietnamese Buddhists, and now, there is a thriving Vietnamese community in the area.

-ZN

Personal Migration Story

My family was one of the many that immigrated to the United States following the 1965 Immigration Act, which prioritized the admission of highly educated professionals from East and South Asia. Both of my parents went to the United States to attend rigorous STEM graduate programs after graduating from similarly rigorous universities in China. After completing their degree programs, my parents settled in Montgomery County, Maryland due to its proximity to my father’s job in the federal government. That is where I was born and grew up.

I never really thought twice about how migration impacted my family until later on in my life. On the surface, nothing seemed to separate my peers and I, who all lived in an affluent part of the highest median income county in the state. I wasn’t conscious of being “Asian American” until maybe middle school. Though there were relatively few Asian American students in my school compared to others around the county, they all seemed to share similar backgrounds to my family.

It wasn’t really until mid-high school that I started questioning how ubiquitous my migration story was among my peers. Though many Asian Americans in my magnet high school also came from post-1965 professional families, many did not. This was difficult to reconcile with the stereotypes that I both upheld and were hurt by in middle school, which assigned the typical model minority characteristics to all Asian Americans, regardless of background. It was then that it clicked that perhaps the hyper-selectiveness of the 1965 Immigration Act cohort was responsible for this myth, and not innate “cultural” traits which I could not identify among my Asian American peers. Given this seemingly obvious information, it pained me that so many of my peers still fully believed in this myth. When they recognized it, it was only to condemn its negative effects on their mental health, while they continued to uphold their classist and anti-Black viewpoints.

I like to think that I’ve come a long way since then, but also recognize the areas where I need to learn more. I’ve become incredibly interested in transnational migration as it impacts Asian Americans and other racialized groups across the world. I hope that one day migration will not be weaponized to create/reinforce racial and labor stratification, and instead that free movement without borders will be celebrated.

-Amy

migration story

"You girls are lucky to go to school here. I didn't have that luxury."

My mother crossed the ocean from Taiwan to America for the sake of education–not just to attend graduate school, but to embody the ideals of intellectual freedom she'd long studied and aspired to. Having taught as an English teacher in Taiwan, she'd tell my sister and I stories about corporal punishment and forced obedience, how she'd bring the stick down fast and then slow at the end to soften the blows she was mandated to give out. She told us about conformity, about schedules jam-packed with cram school and students stretched and wrung out through the day until they were left threadbare at night, only to wake up and renew the process. "There was no such thing as freedom of thought," she told us. "No individuality. Just study."

So at age 23, my mother became the first and only of her family of eight to leave the island. She didn't know much about different spots in America except that she wanted to be fully immersed in American culture–which made it in some ways perfect that she wound up in rural Moscow, Idaho, a predominantly white town that existed solely for the purpose of the state university, where the singular restaurant that had "oriental" plastered on its window served food that all tasted like soy sauce. She was met at the airport by the president of UI's Taiwanese Cultural Society, one of only three Taiwanese students in the 8,000-student school. She was in about the most American environment she could get, and she delighted in her newfound freedom. She cut a few classes, went to a football game. She and her three new Taiwanese friends stuck together: they had to, in a world where no other faces looked like their own.

My mother had found her intellectual freedom, and she loved it. But there were other sharp contrasts from Taiwan: namely, the irony that she was studying English and had been an English teacher in Taiwan, yet here in America, cashiers and waiters would often cock their heads at her English, growing impatient at her pauses between words. She would find herself apologizing, Sorry, my English is bad, even though she had mastered the language enough to teach children and navigate a new world by herself. Her English was good enough to soon marry my dad, a German American with virtually no knowledge of Taiwanese culture or the Mandarin language. Good enough to sing English pop songs to my sister and I as babies, to teach us new words, to bring us up in what was to her view an entirely American way of education.

It was, of course, not entirely American: remnants of her traditional values of family and obedience would always seep into her teaching and discipline. Yet it was American in its sense of loss. My mother never introduced my sister or I to our language, to our holidays, to our culture; in the process of trying to achieve an "American education" where Mandarin would not hamper our development of English, we were stripped of half of our identities. If I asked her anything about Taiwan she would say I haven't lived there in eighteen years, how would I know anymore; if I brought up the topic of Asian American identity my father and her would raise their eyebrows at me–to them I was just American. My sister and I would beg our mom to bring us back to Taiwan, and we did make that journey, three times. But even then there was always a degree of separation. To my mother, the migration had been final, and returns were finite. She wanted our family to be American. So there we were, and here we are.

-Anna

As I begin to write this final reflection, I feel a pinch of sadness and unwillingness to let this course go just yet. It is remarkable that this ten-week course has concluded while I sometimes feel as if it had just begun. I came into this ASB uncertain of what to expect and open to gaining new knowledge.

I never was an avid reader, but I deeply enjoyed all our class readings. Readings that taught me the origins of the term “Asian American,” the racism and violence inflicted on members of the Asian community (that is too often overlooked), the conflicting ways Asian Americans are represented in the media, and so much more. I entered this course aware that I did not know much about Asian American history and the struggles of the larger community. Now, I am leaving it with more insight and knowledge on the problems that impact Asian Americans and their fight for justice.

Despite not being able to participate in the traditional Spring Break trips, I am glad to have taken this course now, especially now. The start of the Covid-19 pandemic ignited anti-Asian sentiments and hate crimes. Crimes that ranged from microaggressions to full-on confrontations. However, anti-Asian hate crimes was a topic spoken about in communities of high Asian densities but not around the country. It was only after the recent Atlanta shooting did the entire nation truly address the problem. It is heartbreaking to see that it required the death of eight individuals to shine light on the severity of hate crimes on the Asian American community. Such a sacrifice should not be necessary.

I am grateful to have learned so much from this ASB course, to have found a place to reflect on difficult topics, and to have built a welcoming space to share deep thoughts on recent events. I am walking away with a greater desire to learn about Asian American history and answer my lingering questions.

- Grace

There is much to be cynical about. Half a year ago, racial tensions soared alongside emboldened white nationalists. Two months ago, an insurrection built upon fear and misinformation challenged the legitimacy of American democracy. As I write, the world turns a blind eye to the recent spike in anti-Asian sentiment.

In moments such as these, it’s not unreasonable for our faith in our systems to wither, for our confidence in change to dwindle. It’s very natural to examine the world, and our very small place in it, and to wonder just how our voice can lead to any meaningful change. I don’t believe this cynicism is a product of cowardice or apathy — it’s human.

But throughout the course of this program, I found myself witnessing moments of genuine change, stories where individual action, however small and insignificant it may seem, contributed to a greater purpose. From the grad student who coined the term Asian-American to the communities that rallied against corporate exploitation, these moments of action serve as a reminder that every individual has the power to shape the world for the better.

I don’t believe that this ten-week course is meant to be comprehensive, covering every conceivable aspect of our Asian-American identity, and I think that’s perfect. As I reflect back on these past ten weeks, I find that I leave with more questions than I entered with, a testament to just how much more I have to learn. I leave with broadened horizons, having ventured into fields that I previously was blind to. And I leave with an appreciation of my own potential for action.

That alone is cause to be optimistic.

—eyw, reflection 3

As I sit down to write this reflection and gather what I’ve learned over the last nine weeks, I’m struck by the notion that there is always more to learn—and while I’ve had the privilege to engage in various readings, conversations, and media regarding Asian American issues and perspectives, it seems there will always be another avenue, another nuance to consider.

I feel a little more at peace with that now, I think. Before, I had always felt like I was lacking in my knowledge of Asian American history, issues, even identity. Like many Asian Americans, especially those surrounded by lots of white folk growing up, I had always rejected both the Cambodian and Asian aspects of my identity. It was only upon entering college that I took my first Asian American Studies class with wide eyes, and since then, it’s felt a bit like I’ve been playing a game of perpetual catch-up where the more I learn, the more questions I have, and in that way the unknown becomes larger, more poignant. But maybe that’s a good thing—maybe it only means that there's a wide expanse of my identity and history left to explore, and I’ve begun taking the first necessary steps into that long journey.

I think what I appreciate about classes like these is how they demonstrate that this exploration doesn’t have to take place by ourselves. Hearing others’ thoughts and experiences is grounding; there’s this overwhelming sense that we’re all just trying to figure things out, somehow or another, and at the very least we can tackle bits and pieces of that process together. And slowly, gradually, I think we begin to understand more about ourselves and the ways we’re connected to those around us. Taking the time to revel in this has been a source of comfort, especially in a moment where we are all so separate from one another.

-LC

For me, solidarity means being human and having empathy. Sympathizing is easy by just feeling bad for others, but empathizing has a more active role of trying to understand what others are experiences. I think solidarity is especially important among BIPOC because it brings people together to have enough momentum to have positive changes. I’ve personally struggled as lot with practicing solidarity because I always feel like I’m not doing enough especially when there people in the frontlines who make organizing/activism their careers. But over time I’ve realized that practicing solidarity can come in many different forms and doesn’t require me to be at every protest/event. Instead I found that educating myself and those who are close around me to be an effective form of practice solidarity.

Growing up I didn’t really realize my privilege as an Asian American especially in an area with a lot of Asians. It was very easy to fit in and most people had shared experiences and culture that created a monolithic identity. But at the same time, I realized I fell into the trap of the Model Minority Myth. We were young and not well informed, so it was easy for my circle to become an echo chambers. Parents would praise hardworking students and warn us to not get in trouble like other ethnic groups. Looking back now, I took a lot of things for granted like not being profiled for color of my skin .

I remember reading an IG post that explained solidarity for Asian American during BLM well. It was something along the lines of we should show up to the protest/be present but we should be at the back. While we all have our own issues, we shouldn’t be claiming other groups’ problems as our own. Instead we should be giving up space to let others lead and have a voice. We should be there to support, educate ourselves, and present, and I think this how we should continue to practice solidarity in future movements

-Thomas

Solidarity for me means empathy but with an element of active participation. I have always wondered why my (white) American dad thought that I shouldn't speak out against injutices because of its supposed futility, while my Vietnamese mom would be actively commenting on Facebook threads. My form of solidarity mostly takes place now in attending events that highlight the intersection of race and other issues (like technology, politics), and consuming videos on social media that center the marginalized voices. I would like to engage in more conversation with politically active students from said communities on campus.

In the early years of my immigration to the States, I used to think that the plight of the identity groups I'm not a part of are irrelevant to my life. It was when I started taking STS and philosophy classes (one particular class this summer), that I really came to be aware it's not a "black" or "Muslim" issue, it's the systemic potential and reality for targeted mistreatment of a demographic.

I think Asian-Americans have an obligation to participate in the movements that on the surface do not seem to concern them. They do not need to actively acknowledge that they share the same common oppression; rather, they can participate as fellow people who do not support the white male-dominated social structure. The way that Asian-Americans participate I think should take into account what the main communities at stake think is best, but they should be allowed to disagree on what tactics they thought are best also.

——Catherine

When I think about the ways I want to practice solidarity with other BIPOC, I tend to trouble myself over the guilt that I am not doing enough. While I know there’s no good to ruminating—it often prevents me from taking action in the first place—I think I’m slowly starting to come to terms with how I as an individual want to dedicate my time to activism. While I greatly admire those on the front lines of protests, or those who spent their days organizing rallies and campaigns, I’ve always had a hard time envisioning myself in those roles. What I have found great refuge in, though, is studying these movements and sharing my knowledge with those around me (as minimal that knowledge might be). Though I know this is not all that solidarity can and should entail, learning more theory and the historical grounds for these topics has soared my confidence in engaging with others about them.

There was a quote I heard someone say last quarter, which I don’t recall exactly—but it was something about learners being needed to inform fighters, and fighters being needed to bring a learner’s knowledge into action. Of course, in an ideal world, we’d all be both, but I tend to think of myself on the former side of the spectrum. Thinking about activism in this way has alleviated a lot of the pressures I previously felt upon myself, and encouraged me to take the time to have many more conversations with people in my life who either agree or disagree with my views. Conversations alone are surely not enough to create meaningful change in policy; however, they do help illuminate why this meaningful change is so necessary in the first place.

-LC

Solidarity

Solidarity is simply being able to come together, to unite, and to share common interests or feelings without the concern of being judged. Much of solidarity derives from empathy and the willingness to listen to others. Practicing it allows diverse individuals to bond over similarities without having to pay too much attention to our differences, which is often what divides populations. Unfortunately, I feel that I have not practiced solidary within the context of being Asian American. Despite growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area (the hub of Asians, especially for the Chinese), I never quite found a community where I could discuss Asian American-related issues or even what it truly means to be Asian American. Most of my Asian American peers and friends did care much for this identity--it just existed and they acknowledged it.

During the early years of my life, I did not realize that my particular ethnicity provided me with privileges that not all Asian Americans have. As a Chinese American in San Francisco, it was quite easy to find others who look like me and blend peacefully into that crowd. I have also exemplified the model minority myth: I was a strong student, never caused trouble, and was generally liked by my teachers and peers. I am now even attending a prestigious university, meeting the expectations of my peers and family. Furthermore, I also had the advantage of being very light-skinned and never had to experience discrimination on the basis of skin tone. These experiences are definitely not applicable to all Asian Americans. So, it is extremely important to recognize the diversity in the term “Asian American” as well as the diverse experiences each group encounters in America. Lastly, just because we are Asian American does not mean that we should only fight for our rights. Asian Americans have a place in the Movement for Black Lives, #LandBack, and other movements because we are ultimately all striving for collective liberation. - Grace

for me, solidarity means

feeling comfortable around a certain group of people because, without even having to ask, you know they acknowledge and embrace your identity. My high school’s Asian Affinity space filled the void of living thousands of miles away from home, and it was the ultimate place of solidarity over the past few years. Since laying the foundation of this safe space during my sophomore year, I ended up finding a new family that has taught me how to be a proud Chinese-American, a confident upstander, and, perhaps most importantly, an empathetic listener. Every two weeks, I brainstormed discussion questions for the gathering. Over trays of Asian takeout, we shared our stories and opinions about anything from favorite milk tea flavors and childhood tv shows, to the model minority myth and media representation. In this intimate space, I found comfort listening and relating to my Asian and Asian American brothers and sisters, and this kind of unconditional solidarity has taught me a handful of life lessons (perhaps the most important one being that micro-aggressive actions have macro-impacts).

At the end of the day, though, the positive ways that I have experienced solidarity in the AA community does not necessarily mean there exists solidarity among all of us. I’ve had the privilege of meeting many Asian American students (like those in this course) who care deeply about our history, current events, and issues. But when I leave my liberal and education-oriented bubble, I find myself encountering many Asian Americans (relatives and strangers) who could care less about solidarity, and perhaps nothing breaks my heart more than seeing a divide within my own community. The AA community must first acknowledge the diversity of our own family: we are more than only Chinese, Korean, or Japanese. We are also Cambodian, Laotian, Hmong, Vietnamese, Filipino, and the list goes on: only when we begin to understand the complexities of our stories can we stand in solidarity with each other. And once we stand in solidarity with each other, we can (and we must) make our activism intersectional. Although it may not seem like it, there does exist a seat at the table for us when it comes to #BLM or #Landback or any other fight for liberation. And we must take that seat, whether it’s as an observer or as an active participant. Liberation for Black or Brown or Indigenous people should be just as important to us because collective liberation is be the ultimate goal. As someone who has felt excluded and invisible within this seemingly Black and white country, I know our identity can be confusing – if everything seems like it only has two sides, where do we fall as Asian Americans? Many see us as somewhere in the middle of the spectrum – not explicitly oppressed (although racist incidents over the Pandemic has changed that) but also not explicitly accepted into the dominant culture. I oppose the spectrum entirely because it is defined so black-and-white-ly, but I do view our positioning in “the middle” as a privilege. Personally, I understand what it’s like to be racially-harassed in a predominantly white culture, but I also understand what its like to be rewarded for my race (eg. in the classroom bc I’m asian). Having both of these experiences has made me a lot more inclined to express solidarity to others, and I think the same could be said for a lot of other Asian Americans. - OW

on solidarity

For me, solidarity stems from understanding and empathy – from hearing the stories of others and broadening our own horizons to become kinder and more welcoming individuals. Solidarity means sharing these stories and spreading this humanity to those who have not had the opportunity to hear these stories themselves. My vision of solidarity operates on a small, axiomatic scale, where, through individual demeanor, behavior, and positive influence, the broader societal conscience can be guided towards a greater good.

I shy away from visions of solidarity that conjure up villains in my mind. It’s incredibly easy to lay blame upon entire groups, associate ignorance with those we disagree with. But it’s incredibly difficult to truly hate anybody after hearing their stories, connecting with them on an individual level. Solidarity to me is not about us versus them, but rather, about building a larger us, a larger collection of individuals that can understand each other, empathize with each other’s suffering. There is much pain behind the liberation movements of our modern day, many hardships that linger from a colonial past. But change cannot leave anyone behind; progress must be inclusive.

There’s the famous quote by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, "well-behaved women seldom make history". Its meaning has been co-opted through the years to imply that bold, brazen reform is necessary for progress. But Ulrich’s original intent was to highlight all the women who had quietly struggled to shift the status-quo. I believe that both interpretations are equally valid, but I resonate greatly with the latter. One does not need to be a revolutionary to create change; rather, by simply incorporating the ideals into our lives and spreading them through our conduct, we can inspire a steady march towards progress.

– eyw, reflection 2

My family moved to the States in 2015, and when I say my family, I mean it very specifically: my Vietnamese mom, my American (step)dad, and me. There are multiple narratives as to why we moved here. I often tell folks who seem to already subscribe to the rhetoric (and reality) that "immigrants make America great" that my parents wanted me to have a better education. There are other narratives. I mostly subscribe to the view that we came to the States to live under a freer sky. In my more cynical moments, I viewed our move here as a result of my American dad’s desire to return to his soil. In my even darker blips, I viewed the move as the equivalent to what Viet Thanh Nguyen described as the American guilt to pay back the debts the country owed to Southern allies in Vietnam.

Was the process difficult? There are many ways to slice this one. For my mom, she navigated through numerous bureaucratic obstacles, chief of which was proving to the U.S. embassy that 1) she did not marry dad to get a U.S. citizenship, and that, oh, they were actually in love, and 2) she had money. U.S. migration laws were specific in their clauses of the terms in which they would let the spouse of a U.S. citizen come into this country.

For me, I was done with my country as it stood. It was really helpful that I grew up receiving elements of a Western education and cultural knowledge - so assimilation into a small rural American town's mostly white high school proved somewhat easy. However, as the years went on, I came to be vividly aware of how I faced different legal conditions from my mom, a sort of invisible barrier between us. My mom would become American years after, while I would still have to wait a few. What originally was two scrawny Vietnamese women and a big Caucasian bear turned out to be two Americans and the lone Vietnamese. It made for interesting family dynamics.

Catherine

I spent the first thirteen years of my life in Shanghai, adopting habits from the people around me. At a dining table laden with plush soup dumplings and freshly fried spring rolls, I trained myself to always wait for the oldest person to begin eating before picking up my own chopsticks; as the younger sibling, I imitated the spontaneity with which my brother recited the ad-libs of rap songs mid-sentence; as a student in a British international school, words like “banter” and “mates” became native to my vocabulary.

Then I moved to boarding school in the U.S. circa late 2016, and something that I had always conceived as a habit – watching the news, debating about foreign policy, protesting legislation – turned out to be innate to people’s identities here. Before, politics had been an aloof foreigner; her history, personality, and relationships were all code words that I felt too young to decrypt. But what I had once watched in comfort from a distance was then something I confronted daily as my friends worried about their families and their futures.

On the evening of October 19th during my freshman year, the girls in my dorm convened around the TV to watch the final presidential debate. Unlike everyone else, it was my first time intentionally tuning into a political channel. Immigration, healthcare, and police brutality. Black Lives Matter and All Lives Matter, pro-choice and pro-life, red-state and blue-state. These words made up a language unknown to me, but every girl around me was fluent.

I spent that night (and much of the year) observing the political turmoil around me, binge-watching political comedian Trevor Noah, and Googling. Lots of Googling: How can one win the popular vote but not actually win? What is democracy then? In the pale of winter, what’s Trump’s secret to maintaining that vacation glow?

Clearly, politics can mold a person’s identity in America, and I wanted it to mold me, too. It wasn’t until I shifted from researching by myself to experiencing first-hand with others that I really understood the importance and influence of politics. But when I told my parents how empowering it felt to protest on International Women’s Day, stay silent for a day as an ally to the LGBTQ+ community, write articles on microaggressions and white privilege for school publications, they warned me to be careful.

They had grown up in Mao’s China, where the slightest hint of political protest would, at the least, result in censorship, at the most, “reeducation” and death. To them, politics meant obeying authority and keeping the status quo.

Understandably, my newfound political engagement unnerved them. For every opinion I formed, they thought I was putting myself in danger of some unknown power that could at any moment swoop down and erase me. While my sense of self solidified, their understanding of me evaporated.

The Hong Kong protests have especially challenged family conversations. My immersion into a pro-democractic country prohibits my ability to navigate productive dialogue about the demonstrations with my parents. It would be easier to dismiss my parents’ attitudes if they were strangers, but as my role models, they challenge me to sympathize with both sides.

In a world full of conflicting opinions and biased news, I am only beginning to grasp how and why it is so difficult for people in disagreement to come together; my parents and I act out the same inability to understand each other. Neither “side” is wrong, but it takes a desire to listen and probe in order to acknowledge all truths. Patience with others, which I had first learned at the dinner table, proved to be much more than a mannered habit; it is something I need to practice everyday. Perhaps, though, it is over a meal that we can best create space for difference, all of us taking turns to offer a dish and taste what others have brought to the table.

As for certain legislation that my family faced before me – my parents immigrated to the U.S. to pursue a college education, and so did their parents (my grandparents). I actually haven’t had the courage to ask how how they navigated certain exclusionary legislation and racist experiences, but I intend on doing so soon. – Olivia

Growing up, I only got bits and pieces of my family history, but it was always enough to understand the amount of perseverance and hard work that was needed to get to where we are today. My family’s migration story began around the mid to late 1980s. My family at the time were going through economic struggles where my grandfather’s business went under after a trusted employee decided to embezzle funds from the business. At the same time, political tensions between Taiwan and China were rising as China refused to recognize Taiwan as an official country. With the recent failure of the business and political tensions, my grandparents thought it would be best to escape any potential of a war and went to America for a fresh start.

Like many immigrant families, they didn’t know much English and tried their best to quickly assimilate to society. My mom ended up stepping up and guided the family to create a wholesale business in downtown LA. I still remember waking up early as child to “help” carry packages to the swap meets and played with the calculator as if I was charging people.

While I never personally lived through the struggles of my family, it still has shaped who I am as a person. Understanding my family story explains why we are here in America in the first place and why there are only a couple of us in the States. Understanding my family origins while being born here gives meaning to what being Asian American means to me and helps me process my identity as it relates to my family. Growing up there were times where I felt alienated as someone who wasn’t Asian enough to my family but at the same time wasn’t American enough as well. It was only after understanding my family story that I was able to come to accept the Asian-American identity, and ultimately I was only able to have my story thanks to my family.

- Thomas Hsieh

I’m not the best at writing about these things. I’m never sure if I should milk the tragedy or transcribe the details with an apathy reminiscent of Meursault from The Stranger. Even now, though I’ve extracted the story many times, I feel its solemn weight against my chest.

My parents arrived in America as Cambodian refugees, pre- and post-Pol Pot. I was surprised to learn that my dad was the one who landed in 1975, before the Killing Fields. My mom was not so lucky, though that feels wrong to say considering my dad’s PTSD is much stronger. It’s been 45 years, Lindsey, your dad is fine! Shut up, me—let me dwell. My parents came to the United States because their country was dying and they did not want to die next.

Communists, Lindsey! They came because of the damn communists!

The Khmer Rouge saw instability as their chance for revolution and created the labor-murder camps in 1975. By then, my mom’s village had already been bombed, and my dad’s family likely dead. My mom thought the new leadership would mean peace, so she stayed. She was nine.

She came down with dysentery in the camps. She told me how blood and shit ran down the side of her ass because she couldn’t sit up straight, nor did she care enough whether she lived or died.

Hold on, what about-

In 1979, the Vietnamese drove the Khmer Rouge out and all hell broke loose. While everyone else raided the remains of the camp for stray valuables, my mom went into the fields and gathered up all the vegetables she had been deprived of for the last several years.

She walked to Thailand with her mom and sisters. At the refugee camp, they enjoyed the occasional delivery of rations and avoided their Thai caretakers.

Caretakers? Don’t you mean-

And a year later, she was on a plane to Wisconsin. 1982, Long Beach. 2000, Long Beach Memorial Hospital, where a chubby little girl named Li-

What the hell, Lindsey, why are you leaving out so many goddamn details!

I’m pissed off, that’s why! I’m pissed off!

love and duty.

Growing up in New York, in a melting-pot suburb comprised of both old-money patriciates and young immigrant families, it was difficult for me to ever forget my family’s diasporic identity. But though I was aware of this identity, I was never fully conscious of just what exactly it entailed. I knew a few basic facts about my parents’ migration. I knew that my parents were the only members of our large extended family who decided to weather the journey. I knew that they were poor, landing at the airport with only a hundred dollars to their name. I knew that they struggled to make ends meet after I was born, deciding instead to send me back to China to live with my grandparents.

For a long time, these scraps of their story were sufficient to keep my curiosity at bay. I rarely pondered over the details of their migration — the “whys”, the “hows” — and instead choose to focus on how I might escape our immigrant past. My parents, in their great stoic silence, never touched upon the details either. It was only in recent years, after recognizing the beauty of our heritage, that I finally explored this chapter of our history.

My parents were among the generation of young Chinese who grew up and developed alongside the nation around them. The massive economic engine that today roars was still cold and dormant when my parents graduated from college. It was in this lukewarm economy, driven by several chance factors, that my parents decided to embark upon the journey to the United States.

My parents were both well-educated, having graduated from one of the top universities in China. But they were poor. It was only through leveraging their education that my father was able to successfully petition for a visa into the States, on the condition that he complete his PhD. As my father worked long hours in his lab, my mother took care of home and hearth, salvaging thrown-away furniture and gathering any food she could find.

I was born during this difficult time. As my father worked to complete his thesis and my mother juggled her commitments, the decision was made to send me back to live with my grandparents. I would live with them for two, three years before I returned to the states. During this period, my father would receive his PhD and begin his search for a job. My mother would find work at a nearby community college.

My early childhood coincides with this uncertain period, as my father abandoned his academic past in search of pragmatic employment. My parents were perpetually stressed during this period, but the difficulty of their lives never bittered the love they showed towards me. I was insulated from their immigrant difficulties and allowed to grow, pursuing subjects and hobbies I enjoyed.

There is a happy ending to the story. My father settled into a well-paying job after a long search. My mother found her own happiness outside of her work.

Though I never experienced the traditional immigrant struggles, the experiences of my parents greatly shaped my own attitude towards the world around me. I inherited my father’s sense of duty towards family, my mother’s unwavering love towards those close to her. I will never fully understand my parents’ struggles of immigrating to a new country, the challenges of leaving behind the people I love. But their journey will forever be a part of me.

– eyw, reflection 1

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