I had the privilege to speak tonight at “Out Loud: A Social Justice Arts Event,” put on by my church and our Social Justice committee — It was an amazing and inspiring evening of visual and performing artists that spoke their truth powerfully in advocacy for a just society. I was so grateful to lend my voice and story to this gathering. Below, I share my piece from this evening, in its entirety.

Embracing My Truth…Out Loud

I am not your model minority….or am I?
On the outside that may be what it seems, living out the American Dream.
BA, MA, then PhD from an elite world-renowned university. Perfect middle class family.
Speaking “accent-less” English flawlessly.
But we are all more than we seem.
And, I’ve always had a truth to speak, but, I was taught that I should be silent…so I struggle with the complexity of respectability and identity and who I am v. who I should be, and who will be there with me, if I stand my ground…or if being me and speaking out freely means I will stand alone.

In 6th grade, sitting next to a new friend who had moved from Taiwan to California via Alabama, a boy next to me leaned over and said pointedly, “Why don’t you tell her to go back to where she came from?” I didn’t have the academic label of racist nativism, but I knew his request made no sense, even at 11. “Why don’t you go back to where you came from?” I replied. He looked at me confusedly, “Huh?” he said. “Well, unless you’re Chumash or Barbareño, you’re not from here, either you see?” I began, before the substitute teacher called out to me, “Betina, please be quiet. No talking.” I had never been admonished by a teacher. I said nothing but felt the red heat rising to my cheeks. The boy glowered at me. I felt ashamed. I felt alone.

I wish I could tell that little girl that she was brave to speak her peace, that she should be proud not afraid, that this would not be the last time she risked being shamed for standing up for someone she cared about nor the last time she felt shut down for speaking truth. But instead she sat there questioning whether her voice had done anything.

I kept going and growing, silently counting the days, months, years until I could leave the safe but silent spaces where I grew up. I wanted so much to be liked and accepted but I felt more and more alone.

And then I left, and went to UC Berkeley, a place where I thought I’d finally feel free, where I’d finally find me, a place rich with history of struggle and solidarity. But there as well, I struggled to see my own identity, on the one hand being pulled to be the model minority, on the other never being quite radical enough comparatively. Who was I to speak of injustice when others had it so much worse than me? Who was I, but a Chinese American girl, who did not even speak the language of her ancestry? Certainly not your model minority. Not really Chinese then you see, a girl of the So-Cal suburbs, but as well as I could speak English, I was still never quite American either. I was neither. Surrounded by those who looked like me, I still felt ashamed. I felt alone.

I wish I could tell that young woman that she could be brave enough to speak her peace, that she should be proud not afraid, that this would not be the last time she risked feeling shame for struggling with her own identity. But instead she sat there questioning whether her voice was worth anything.

I became a mother officially 3 times in less than 20 weeks, giving birth and then adopting. In motherhood, I thought I’d finally feel free, I’d finally find me, in the faces of these three; a HAPA baby and two African-American teens. Son of my flesh and daughters borne of the sorrows of having lost our mothers prematurely. When my girls faced educational and institutional inequality, it came naturally to raise my voice in advocacy. But when mental illness and post-traumatic stress came knocking at our door, I lost my voice and found inadequacy. Certainly, now I was not your model minority, suffering silently. I felt ashamed. I felt alone.

I wish I could tell that young mother that to reach out for help is the ultimate bravery, that she could be both proud and afraid, that this would not be the last time she risked feeling shame for struggling with inadequacy. But instead she sat there questioning whether her life was worth anything.

Then finally, the choice became one of fighting alone and invisibility or finding redemption through reaching out to community. I spoke out. I reached out. I got help. I found out that I may have been broken and imperfect but I was not alone. And there was no shame in vulnerability, that in fact, there was power in the inadequacy of my humanity because it drew me closer to authenticity. I finally began finding me.

These days, I work daily to address the inequalities of a schooling system that continues to treat children like mine differently from one another and differently from how they might view me. I teach teachers to recognize that students are not all the same, but that each one shares the right to honored humanity, to support individually, to become the best they can be. I teach teachers to draw from their identities to recognize how who they are shape who and what they teach.

And, these days, I still struggle with the complexity of respectability and identity, who I was, who I am, who I will or who I should be. I struggle with my story and my vulnerability, especially as a member of the academy. I struggle with my voice and truth telling even in my community, and I wonder if you will still stand alongside me. Because I will keep struggling.

I was taught to be silent, but I’ve always had a truth to speak.
So, I am not your model minority, but I am working each day to create a model of what it means to be me.