82, 56 and the Space In Between

Two flower bouquets in front of a grave marker

If my mother were living, today would have been her 82nd birthday.

She, however, died over 25 years ago, at the age of 56, in a car accident.

In my logical mind, I know that, it is likely, given my mom’s age, she might have died of natural causes by now, had her life not been cut short 25 years, 9 months and 20 days ago.

Of course, that is my logical mind.

In my heart, I think about what one more day, or month, year or decade, would have been like with my mother. I wonder who I would be today if she were still here, where I might be, how my life would be different.

I wonder these things often, but more often at this time of year.

I have learned over time that these moments of wondering are part of the lifelong process of grieving and making space for all of the things: for missing my mom, for reconciling the truth of her imperfections and my own, for making peace with the fact that there was so much left unsaid and unresolved as there always will be between a teenager and her mother, of knowing that she loved me deeply and I loved her deeply, of holding close that even though I didn’t get to tell her one last time that she must have known how much I loved her, of working through regret, of embracing what I can hold on to, of continuing to move forward even though for her time will forever stand still.

There are many days that, despite the deep love that I am surrounded by, I feel the deep void that she left. I feel alone and desperately need her love, her reassurance and her comfort.

Then there are days that I feel closer to her than I ever have, as a mother, as a resistor, as a survivor of so many traumas meant to defeat me.

People who knew my mother tell me that they see her in me, that I resemble her both in physical appearance and in spirit. They tell me that hearing my laugh is like hearing hers.

I hold onto these things tightly, but more tightly at this time of year.

Happy birthday, Mommy.

I miss you often, but most often at this time of year.

The Pain of Exclusion, The Power of Community

Picture of Asian Americans on a Zoom together

Some of the NCTE Asian American Caucus Family at Today’s Rogue Happy Hour

Community is such a powerful place to dwell.

It was a little over four years ago that a random Asian American woman approached me on an escalator in a convention center and asked if I wanted to come to a meeting of the Asian/Asian American Caucus of the National Council of Teachers of English.

There were many things going through my head at that moment. Here are a few of them:

  1. Who is this random woman?
  2. What?! There’s an Asian/Asian American caucus of NCTE? Where has this been all my life?
  3. Wait, what if I’m not Asian American enough for these people?

Fortunately, I went to the meeting, which was not huge (maybe 15-20 people), but was affirming. That random woman,  Jung Kim, ended up becoming a close friend, running partner (although she’s way faster and has way more endurance than I do) and collaborator, my missing rage-filled, Korean American, English teacher, Oxford comma-loving sister, and someone who helped me to embrace and discover that however Asian American I felt or didn’t feel in any moment wasn’t just (or even mainly) about my own inadequacies, but about the systemic denial of affirming spaces, our own stories, and critical community for Asian Americans.

Fast forward four years and the Asian/Asian American Caucus of NCTE (#AsianAmAF) has become home and family to me. Filled with laughter and good spirited competition, memes, nerdiness and tons of love. Strengthened by solidarity and community. The caucus includes so many people that I so deeply admire and feel so proud to call friends. It brings me such joy and a sense of belonging that I hadn’t thought possible in a conference that often tops thousands of attendees.

In this moment, this space is so desperately needed.

Community Traumas, Painful Rejections, and Quiet Dismissal

It has been such a hard year, for everyone really, but since this is my blog, I wanted to take space to speak to the pain of this year through an Asian American lens.

As an Asian American of Chinese descent (although I most often identify as Taiwanese American), watching the painful racist and xenophobic rhetoric fueling a rise in discrimination and hate crimes against Asian Americans has been heartbreaking and painful. It is a reminder of how easily Asian Americans go from being the “model minority” to the “perpetual foreigner” and “yellow peril.” It is a reminder of how precarious safety and acceptance are for Asian Americans.

On top of this, having multiple Asian American-focused panels and presentations, that were first accepted by NCTE, fail to make the second round of cuts when the conference transitioned to a virtual platform, was painful. While as a caucus, it was wonderful to see many incredible panels still go forward in the program, the pain of having these presentations cut without a real understanding of why was hard.

But it was not surprising.

In co-writing our book on Asian American teachers, as Jung and I look at the stories of our participating teachers, we see time and again what was missing from their experiences: lack of Asian American teachers, lack of Asian American curriculum, lack of critical racial identity development in educational spaces.

In so many spaces this year, I have realized the ways in which Asian American voices are left out. This is not a new realization, but this year, with so much racial uprising in response to so much pain inflicted by the continued extrajudicial killing of Black people at the hands of the police, disproportionate deaths of Indigenous people and people of color at the hands of COVID, and dehumanizing detainment of immigrant people, the gap between the solidarity we are enacting and that which we need is particularly striking.

The Asian American political movement was grounded in critical and transformational solidarity with other people of color and Indigenous communities in the Third World Liberation Front which constitutes the global majority.

Yet, so often, in conversations about racial justice and equity, Asian American voices are forgotten.

We are told not to center ourselves when the struggles of others are so much greater. We are told that we must unlearn our anti-Blackness (of course we must) as if we do not recognize the painfulness of the anti-Blackness in our communities, as if we cannot focus both on anti-Blackness and on the painful realities of being unable to even talk within our communities because of linguistic, generational, and political barriers. As if we don’t also struggle with self-hatred and anger at our communities for the trauma we’ve experienced and the way we’ve been positioned against one another. We come to hate ourselves because we are not presented with an understanding of the ways in which systems were designed to divide us. We come to find ourselves constantly ashamed because we are never affirmed. Many of us have to find our own ways to develop language to talk about this, and when we do, we feel deeply betrayed that we were never invited into the conversation in the first place.

We lose our voices advocating for representation, fighting for Asian American inclusion in people of color spaces, fighting for the inclusion of counterstories of solidarity, fighting for an understanding of the dire need to support critical racial identity development for Asian Americans, from youth to adulthood.

Sometimes we are met with simple indifference.

Sometimes we are met with empathy but not with action.

We are too often dismissed.




Sometimes, by our friends and colleagues, people we love deeply.

It hurts so much.

It is exhausting.

Reminders of Hope in Community

But, there can be healing in resistance, particularly when it comes in community.

When we find joy in the embrace of one another; when we find solidarity and strength.

When people hear and hold our hurt, not as more or less, but real, because pain is not a competition.

We have much to contribute and continue to push forward, seek coalition, do the work in love.

Community is a powerful place to dwell.

I hope for ever more of it as we continue to move forward in a journey towards justice.

Dear Friends

Dear Friends,

A few weeks ago, I tweeted, “Work is an addiction that will literally kill you. We are all replaceable to institutions, but not to those who love us. Reminding myself because I need to hear it.”

I was feeling the heaviness of all the labor, paid and unpaid that I have been doing, certainly since March, in a pandemic, but long before that, for over 40 years, to prove my worthiness to multiple individuals and institutions, when my worth should have been evident in my humanity.

Addictions are so hard to break.

But here is what I am realizing as I fight against this addiction, as I fight for the right to my life, for the space to thrive, for the time to dream, as I fight to use the privileges that I have to live my life in a way that honors the sacrifices of my ancestors which gave me these opportunities:

We cannot foster transformation within oppressive structures.

We cannot freedom dream without time, energy, space to dream.

Of course, we are tired. We are working so hard and seeing so little change.

If we “blow it all up” (metaphorically) to start from ground zero, there will inevitably be so much collateral damage, and this is not humanizing.

If we work through intentional, incremental change, it will be painful and exhausting. We should expect this pain and exhaustion. But it is not easier to bare when you expect it.

There is power in being seen and affirmed, in weakness and in strength. This is innately human, the need to be seen and affirmed. The need to be embraced for our whole selves, even when we are broken.

Some days, weeks, moments, survival actually is the only goal.

Follow through makes the vision realizable.

Being valued in word alone only goes so far. Actions speak loudly. Who do we show up for?

Our stories and experiences matter. Sometimes, we have the words another needs. We never know when that moment is.

Community carries me when I cannot stand on my own.

Cycles of grief and trauma may come to remind us of our deepest humanity.

My friends, this is a hard season for me. You may not see the challenges, but they are always there for me in the background. Sometimes I hide it better than others. If I don’t hide it from you, it is either because I am just too tired to hold it in anymore or because I trust you to carry it with me. PLEASE DO NOT ASK ME WHAT IS GOING ON. If I want to tell you what is going on, I will. But if I don’t and you love me, I ask that you hold space for me, in my full humanity. Just hold space, and maybe pray or offer blessings. I continue always to move forward because I have never had a choice and I do not have a choice now. I will, I am sure, one day, be okay, maybe later today, maybe in 6 months, maybe in 5 years, but I am moving towards better. I trust my community and myself to get me there. I acknowledge that it is a process.

I share this letter with you now, in the openness of my humanity and in a public forum, because I am not ashamed of my humanity. I want people to know that people are carrying things that you may have no idea about, people you admire, people you love, people that love you and are there for you.

Because feeling the pain of humanity is a start, being honest about where we are is a start. It is not always inspiring, but humanity is not always inspiring.

We have to be able to be with our whole truth.

This is my truth.

Peace to you all, and deep love.