Tag Archives: Identity

Getting Out of My Own Way

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The work that is most valuable is often so hard. Ugh.

Yesterday, I was all reflective and hopeful as I wrote down some goals for the new year including being more intentional with my time and energy, setting boundaries and sticking with them, and reading and writing more.

I also wrote this: “I’d like to be kinder to myself.  I’d like to make self-care a priority, and take the time and space that I need to do what I know works for my physical, mental and spiritual health. I’d like to feel less guilt and let go of that which I will inevitably feel more quickly.”

Then, of course, I got tested.   Because transformation doesn’t come without going through the fire.

These were little tests, but they made me recognize how far I have to go. I’d like to be honest in my struggle, so you also can see how far I have to go:

  1. I was introduced in an e-mail to students at my son’s school as Mrs. Hsieh. I don’t go by Mrs. Hsieh ever.  When referred to by my last name, I go by Ms. Hsieh or Mrs. [Husband’s Last Name] or, preferably, by Dr. Hsieh, which is what I refer to myself as when I need to do the Bob Dole 3rd person self-referencing.  I wish this was a great feminist conviction, but it’s not. It’s about accuracy.  Correcting this subtly, by signing the e-mail “Dr. Hsieh” should not have been a big deal.  I was just claiming my right to be called by a title I’ve earned. It wasn’t calling out the other parent because I understand that the intention was to find the most appropriate title of respect for me. But, let me tell you, the problem.  I literally spent a long time (like cumulatively over an hour) stressing about this.  Seriously, this is not a big deal. I know that intellectually, but, as I discussed with my son, during dinner, I worried about “coming off” a certain way with the other parent, especially as I don’t feel 100% a part of the school community. I didn’t want to be myself because I was worried about the perception of someone else.
  2. I was reading (yay, for another part of my resolution) some really powerful work on Asian American feminism and Women of Color Politics and was really struggling, not conceptually or theoretically, but in actually thinking about the ways in which Asian American feminism (specifically) and WOC feminism (more broadly) do and/or do not inform the choices I make and the identities I empower, in so many ways, even in the above incident, in terms of claiming space. But, also in acknowledging the differences in the struggles among Asian American communities (and my own privilege as Taiwanese American) and between Asian Americans and other POC/WOC in the US in ways that build coalition, strengthen solidarity, and are authentic. Though, in writing this, I realize that reading, engaging, and reflecting in these ways are powerful, intentional and critical to my own growth, as a person and a scholar (thus fulfilling multiple goals for the year), I also struggle with a guilty sense of somehow not being enough, of doing the work too late or in the wrong way. My insecurities pull me towards voicelessness and I’m forced to push back in ways that are really uncomfortable for me. I find myself constantly being pulled towards saying what others want to hear to fit in, and that is how I lost my voice in the first place.
  3. Finally, after all of this reading and reflecting, and guilt, I read a friend’s blog post that landed in a weird way for me, and I said something about it.  First off, I don’t like to say anything less than glowingly positive feedback to anyone about anything that they’ve written (unless they ask for critical feedback) because it is such an act of courage to write vulnerably and share broadly.  Secondly, this is my friend and brother, and I had a feeling that my response would land critically and might be triggering.  But also, this is my friend and my brother, so I had to say something, because sometimes, when we journey together, we need to check each other, especially when something doesn’t sit right with us.  Still, the whole thing made me uneasy, probably because it is triggering for me to say something if there’s even a chance that people will react poorly to it. There it was again, this theme not wanting to be myself, or honor my own voice, because I was worried about the perception of someone else.

So all of this is teaching me that I have so far to go.  In pushing to challenge the model minority stereotype, which I’ve benefited from extensively, I know that I have to get used to raising my voice in these seemingly small interactions with people in my everyday circles (and of course, beyond them, although this, for some reason, is easier for me), not because it’s an obligation or the right way to enact Asian American feminism, but because, I am tired of self-censorship that doesn’t represent who I really am.

That is scary. It involves imperfect interactions that can be messy and leave me feeling uncomfortable. It involves faith that people and relationships are stronger than the oppressive structures that unconsciously inform our everyday lives. Or that, if they aren’t, and we can’t get through this with me being authentic, then maybe I shouldn’t be investing my time and energy in the ways I tend to automatically.

This is intentional.

This is hard.

Growth is hard.

But I can only move towards my greater work if I can get out of my own way.

 

These are a few of my favorite things…

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I love fresh cut flowers, from a florist, prepared with care & artistry

On day 4 of the 30-day writing challenge I’m currently doing with my friends, Wes, Darlene (and now Anna!), Darlene did a post on some of her favorite things, which is a wonderful topic to spark the gratitude that I so deeply feel in my life, so I’m going to list some of my own favorite nouns (people, places, things, and ideas), not necessarily in order:

People (some of these people overlap and I’m putting the people in categories because I don’t want to forget anyone specific):

  1. My family
  2. My friends
  3. Many of my former students
  4. My church family
  5. My academic network & community
  6. My Team World Vision running group

Places:

  1. Home
  2. Hawaii
  3. Delicious fine dining restaurants (especially high quality Asian fusion restaurants)
  4. Bookstores
  5. Tea shops
  6. Somewhere quiet in nature
  7. Fancy hotels

Things:

  1. Car rides
  2. Fresh cut flowers (see above)
  3. A clean and organized room (you would not know this by coming to my house….ever)
  4. Learning
  5. Delicious food, all of the foods
  6. Running, especially in the morning, and to explore new places or when they give me shinies (that I pay for) to finish races
  7. Travel
  8. A perfect cup of jasmine tea
  9. Writing
  10. All things Pusheen & Hello Kitty, and most super adorable cute (kawaii) things
  11. When people actually listen to the words coming out of my mouth instead of what they think I’m saying and then respond appropriately (this is not happening, at this exact moment, in my home, by one of my favorite people)
  12. Singing

Ideas/Feelings:

  1. Faith
  2. Hope
  3. Love
  4. Compassion
  5. Gratitude
  6. Joy
  7. Peace
  8. Respect
  9. Mutual understanding
  10. Identity
  11. Humility
  12. Justice

So, now, if you don’t know me, you probably know me, because this is pretty much me, in a list of favorite things.

Reclaiming My Writer Identity

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Photo by Art Lasovsky on Unsplash

I was on my way into work this morning and listening to Dare to Lead by Brené Brown when she began talking about “creativity scars” — these powerful moments where someone in authority communicates to us that we aren’t good enough at some creative endeavor, and we internalize that message and believe it. And then we live it like it’s the truth.

When I was a young girl, I loved to write.  Creative writing was my hobby. I started a young adult fiction novel modeled loosely after The Babysitters’ Club meet The Junior High series (hey, I grew up in the suburbs where these were my model texts at the time). I wrote a ton of poetry. I entered my school’s creative writing contest every year and generally placed, even winning one year with a short story about a community of rocks based on “pebble people” souvenirs that I had seen in a small shop in Solvang, CA.

Then in 6th grade, we were assigned to write a scary story.  It was likely around this time of the year, given that Halloween scary stories are pretty standard fare for creative writing assignments.  I wrote about a mastermind clown who scared a young girl by coming alive and doing mean things.  At the end of the story, the girl woke up and the clown winked at her.  I didn’t particularly love the assignment and it wasn’t perhaps my best work.  But, I was shocked to receive the rubric equivalent of a D on the piece with the comment, “Too cliché.”

Let me tell you, in 6th grade, I didn’t even know what that comment meant (I remember asking my mother and then looking it up…in a dictionary… because I am old and the internet didn’t exist back then). And, I certainly did not know enough about the genre of horror to know that my scary clown, waking up from a dream, story was “too cliché.”

But that comment stuck with me for years.

It left a deep creativity scar.

I stopped believing I was a strong writer.

I stopped believing in my voice.

I kept writing academically, but with little confidence.

I tried to make my language as academic as possible to get it right and please my teachers.

Fast forward to writing the final chapter of my dissertation where my chair was flummoxed at the fact that I couldn’t insert my voice into my recommendations chapter.  She was mostly confused that I couldn’t translate the way I spoke and articulated my voice in person into my academic writing which she said was actually “over-academic” (which I heard as a compliment because I had been cultivating “over-academic” for years!). But her comments were equally confusing to me. For years, I thought that my writing wasn’t about my voice, but only about my data. Yes, I made interpretations, but wasn’t that a weakness of my work? Shouldn’t I minimize who I was in my work and stick to evidence?

The answer (academically) was (mostly), “Yes, AND” — that there is room for data and voice, that there is power in my positionality in relation to my data, that my experiences mattered. And they still matter.

My advisor’s counsel helped me to realize that there was a place for my voice  in my writing and helped me to begin healing the deep creativity scar that I had towards writing outside of fully academic contexts.  This blog has helped a lot too.

Last week, on national day of writing, I wrote the following tweet:

In my most honest way, this was a reclamation of my writer identity.

Creativity scars are harmful. They can silence voices that need to be heard.

But we can heal from these scars, reclaim our creative identities, and tell our powerful stories of surviving and thriving.

I am a writer. What is your creative superpower?

On Meeting My Mom (Again) at 40

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My mom and me, less than a year before she died at one of my HS cross-country races

For my 40th birthday, I asked friends and family to help me find my mom again.

If you follow this blog with any regularity or if you know me in real life, you will know that it has been almost 25 years since my mom passed away, suddenly, in a car accident.  It is the single event that has most shaped my life and defined who I am as a person.

I was 16 when my mom died.

In the last 10 years of her life, I was arguably the closest person to her on a consistent basis.  My mom was a single mom.  My brother left for college when I was 7 and although we lived close by to my aunt and her family, it was really the two of us, most of the time (except for school and work, of course) for many years.

But, I was 16 when she died.  And the memories of a 6-16 year old about her mom (and who my mom had to be for me during those years) are different than those who knew my mom before there was a me, or as someone other than mom, or even, in the case of my brother, as a mom in very different circumstances.

Several friends and family members shared memories of my mom with me — photos, small stories, longer letters.  Some of my favorites were memories of my mom climbing on the roof of our house to fix something on our roof (instead of calling a repairman) because she thought she could just figure it out and do it for cheaper (and this was pre-internet days where she could look up how to fix it).  I also loved the memory of my mom caring for my brother who got a very serious case of the chicken pox as an adult.  I remembered driving down with my mom and her bringing down thick Chinese loquat syrup to help sooth my brother’s throat and making a special savory egg custard (she did this when I was really sick too) because he couldn’t swallow much more.  I loved her entrepreneurial spirit, starting small businesses selling tiny “huggie bears” (clip on Pooh knock-off bears from China) until Disney put a cease and desist on those imports (the irony of now living down the street from the Mouse) and flavored popcorn that she used her chemistry background to make just perfectly, in small batches in our kitchen.  A friend shared with me that my mom’s smile always came out when she talked about me, and how proud she always seemed to be.

There were also stories from before I was born: My mom carrying my brother through snow in the driveway when the family lived in upstate New York after trying unsuccessfully to shovel the deep piles that had collected during the day.  My mom, as a young person, in Taiwan, raised by my grandmother, who was also a single mother (widowed when my mom was 75 days old), being a very good student, tutoring others to help earn extra money.  My mom always having a “famous grin” and a no-nonsense attitude. My mom always supporting my brother through every violin concert, play and award ceremony, “even when the budget said she couldn’t.”

Like any person, my mom wasn’t perfect.  She could be stubborn and angry. She could hold onto anger and be loud in that anger, fighting passionately when she believed she was right. But, as my brother said, she was also the first come to our rescue when we fell, and the first to comfort us when we didn’t succeed at something we tried.  She was the one who told us to stay true to ourselves, to marry for love and not for any other reason, to stand firm in our convictions.

In meeting my mom, as an adult, I see so much of myself.  Of course, I realized some of this before reading the memories shared with me, but, in reading them, I see it even more. My mom was fiercely independent and she wouldn’t back down when she believed she was right.  She was courageous, the first in her family to immigrate to this country, alone, as a graduate student.  She loved her children, her sometimes grumpy son and her headstrong daughter whom she sometimes failed to understand.  She could become super frustrated easily, but was incredibly loyal to those she loved. She had an unforgettable smile, an undeniable kindness, and a deep faith.

The best gift of my 40th birthday has been having my mom there to celebrate with me.  She is always with me, but now, more than ever, I realize that who I am is so much my mother, in big and small ways. And that gift is so incredibly precious.

Sometimes You Open Yourself Up & You Break

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My grandmother (my a-ma, my mom’s mom), me, and my mom

I began this 40 day journey to my 40th birthday with reflections about my mother on Tuesday.  Then, yesterday, I went to see Crazy Rich Asians with my dear friend Tami (I know, not opening weekend like most respectable Asian Americans, but in homage to my immigrant upbringing and increasingly introverted self, at a mid-week, matinee showing with a gift card, sneaking in contraband milk-tea and Taiwanese pastries).  Honestly, I only went to see the movie because it’s such an important hallmark of representation for the Asian American community.  I had read the synopsis and spoilers and I really didn’t think I was that interested, but, you know, for the good of the people.

I saw it. I liked it. I laughed. I cried. I saw so much of my story on the screen.

I mean, I’m not married to someone who is crazy, rich or Asian, so not the central romantic plot of the story, but Constance Wu’s Rachel Chu was so familiar to me, an academic, raised by a single mom, who hadn’t ever been to Asia (so it seemed) until her adulthood, and who struggled with her Asian American identity.

Then, this morning, at 5am, with my 3-year old (who had crawled into bed at 4:22 am) lying on my chest, I began to cry.

By 5:10, it was a full-on shaking sob, loud enough to awaken my husband who, with some alarm, thought our daughter had smacked me a good one across the face in her sleep (this was a viable possibility as this has happened many a time in the past) and offered me an ice-pack.

Then, my daughter woke up, also thinking she had hit me, and wanted attention of her own because suddenly her hand hurt, perhaps from the impact of thinking she struck my face.

So, I took a few deep breaths and went from grieving daughter mode to competent mommy mode, and took care of her.  I told my husband why I was crying and he gave me a big hug. There were lots of hugs before the family left this morning, but also no more real tears because mornings are hectic when you’ve got to catch a 7am bus (my son) for school and it’s one drop-off for the Papa carpool of kids.

But now, it’s 7:17, which seems like a perfectly appropriate time for reflection before an 8am call and the start of a workday where I’ll need to be in competent academic mode. In those 10 minutes between 5-5:10 am when mist turned to sob, here’s what I was thinking.

The parts of Crazy Rich Asians that touched me the most, perhaps unsurprisingly, were the few scenes with Rachel and her mother.  [Note: If you haven’t yet seen the movie, you may want to skip to the next paragraph, although I’ll try not to put many plot spoilers here] In the first scene with the 2 of them, Rachel’s mother tells her that though she has a Chinese face and may speak Chinese, in her head and heart, she is different.  And in that moment, I felt named what I have experienced most of my life.  (Jenn Fang, of Reappropriate, writes about this beautifully in her Washington Post article) Later, just after the climax of the movie, Rachel asks her mother about her past life, and apologizes to her because of the impact she feels she’s had on her mother’s life direction. Her mom says to Rachel that she (Rachel) doesn’t need to be sorry about her (mom’s) past life because all of her past life led to her best thing–being Rachel’s mom. I don’t really know if those were the exact words, but that was the sentiment, that all the sacrifice, change, risks, trials that Rachel’s mom had gone through had been worth it because of how proud she was to be Rachel’s mom. And, that was my mom, too. I know that this is how she felt about me, and I have felt so many times (as a child and teenage, and as an adult) regret for the way that I shifted her life, and a desire for my success to make-up for her sacrifices.  This was my heart on the screen.  Finally, in the pivotal Mahjong game towards the very end of the film, as Rachel is walking out of the parlor, after powerfully claiming her right to be “good enough” despite attempts to shame her because of her (and her mother’s) past, she proudly takes the arm of her mother, who gives one direct look at Eleanor Young, before walking out with Rachel and preparing for their journey home.

I couldn’t process this yesterday, but in the early hours of the morning, I felt deeply the loss of my own mother, not just the physical loss, in that she will never be there to walk in during the most painful, beautiful, and important moments of my life, but also the loss that comes from not knowing who my mother was as a whole person.  Rachel didn’t really know her mother’s story.  I didn’t know my mother’s either.

While I was probably the person who was closest to my mother for the last 15 years of her life, I was a child, who was uninterested in who my mother was as a person, because, honestly, who cares who their parents are as people when they are trying to develop who they are as a person? Developmentally, that comes later. It comes when you go through those adult moments and want to know what it was like for your parents in that moment (particularly your same gender parent). It has come so many times in the last 23 years.  But my mom hasn’t been there to ask the questions that only she could answer.

So, this morning, I thought that the time has come to piece together who my mom was, as best I can.  I know it will be imperfect, but it will be better than having no memories.  This morning, I resolved to ask people who knew her to tell me their memories and stories of her, to help me to know who she was as a person, to help me to get a piece of myself back through getting some of her back, before it’s too late. I know it’s been almost a quarter of a century since she died, but I am hopeful.

For my brother’s 40th birthday, 10 years ago, I asked that people send me letters or stories for him and put together a book.  For my own 40th birthday, I am asking that people who knew my mom or who know people who knew my mom, Ming-mei (Lois) Chen Hsieh, to tell me their stories, to bring my mom home for my birthday.  To give my children a chance to know their grandmother who they will never get to meet in this life.  Please, even if they are small stories, and if you could pass this blog along if there are people I don’t know.  I’m easy to find on the internet and Facebook and happy to share my e-mail address if people message me.

I did not know the road to finding who I am would lead me here, or perhaps that it would lead me here so quickly, but this would be my greatest gift.

Sometimes you open yourself up, and you break.  And you reach out to community (some of whom you don’t even know) to help put you back together.  I know my mom made a difference in people’s lives.  I need those stories now more than ever.

Mommy and Me

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My mom and me at my baptism

My mom is by far the most influential person in my development.

I say that she is the most influential person even though she died when I was 16, and I’ve now lived almost 2/3 of my life without her.

This morning, on my habitual morning scan of Facebook, I came across this New Yorker piece, “Crying in H-Mart” and immediately, I thought of my mom.  Like the author, I lost my mother before I felt I should have, and, like her, random things can still (23.5 years later) send me sobbing in public places (often movie theaters, actually, where at least I can hide my crying in the darkness of the venue).

However, I wished that I could relate more to the cultural connection that Michelle Zauner shared with her mother.  I rejected most of my Taiwanese heritage growing up, in a fruitful and futile attempt to become more “American” (which, at that time, I thought of as cultural assimilation). Recently, the loss of my aunt, my mother’s only sister, combined with my own desire to support my children in embracing their cultural heritages, have helped me to realize the importance of reconnecting with and reclaiming my cultural identity. I’m working towards knowing who I am and who my mother was before the generation that knew her passes on.  It’s hard for me, and painful.  I don’t really know the people who knew my mom well as a young person, and, as extroverted as I seem, I feel so culturally awkward among older Taiwanese Americans. I’m working on it, and working towards it, because I have little hope that people are going to come flooding me with stories about my mom, before I knew her, out of the blue.  I know I have to ask. I know they’re likely to share.  But, I’m working towards it.

After reading “Crying in H-Mart,” I went on my morning run.  On my run, I thought about my mom at my age.  I realized that my mom would have been just about my current age when I was born.  It is 40 days until my 40th birthday.  I came home and calculated our respective ages, and realized that when my mother was my age, I would have been 14 days old.

That realization hit me hard.  I think of how similar and how different our lives are.  At my age, my mother had a 2-week old infant and a 10.5 year old son.  Her marriage was moving towards dissolution.  She had a graduate degree in chemistry but had never finished her doctorate after postponing it when my brother was born.  She would soon make a trek across the country to move to a small, mostly White suburb of California, to stay with my aunt, uncle, cousin and grandmother, leaving the friends and life she had established in upstate New York, to start a new life, as a single mother, near her family.

After my mother and father divorced, my mom withdrew from many of the connections she had previously.  She had to focus on taking care of my brother and me, working multiple jobs, earning new certifications, doing the single mom hustle (i.e. doing it all without any thought or time for herself).  In the midst of all her work commitments (which included weekends), she still found time to take us to church each Sunday, to make grocery shopping a special adventure (I did not know that grocery shopping was an errand and not a treat until well into adulthood), to foster connection within the family and to ensure we were studying hard.

She did this so that I could have my life. At almost 40, with my own 3-year old, 12 year old (and 2 grown daughters), a solid marriage, a doctorate, and an academic job (where I still hustle, but more out of drive than necessity), I have some comfort in that I have much of the life she would have wanted for me.

But, I also, more than anything, wish that she was here with me.

And so I am aware, perhaps more than many (almost) 40 year olds, that I am on borrowed time, that I need to model self-care for my children, that I need to leave them signposts about who their mother is, that I need to guide them to know their heritage, that I want them to be proud of who they are, that my life matters, that today is a day to make a difference, that loving hard is the best gift, that loving hard endures long after we are no longer here.

And now, I am crying at my computer, in my home, rather than in an H-Mart grocery aisle (although I may treat myself to a grocery shopping adventure after all of this), but I am grateful also for my mom’s legacy, for what I do have of her. For how hard she loved and how much she gave, and how blessed I am to be her daughter and how blessed I am that I still have time to grow.

I love you, Mommy. And I miss you. Somedays more than others, but every day. Thank you. I see you better now. Thank you.

Finding my way home

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A screenshot of my successful application submission for my second Bachelors degree

It has been a long time since I’ve been an undergraduate.  Over 18 years, to be exact.  I was a student (on and off) for 10 years of those 18, but the application process has really changed since the mid-90s when I last applied to be an undergraduate.

Today, after 2-hours fighting with the Cal State Apply system (and some help from a very nice staff member who was able to finally able to fix, or circumvent, a bug that was preventing me from updating my profile information, and thus submitting my application), I officially began what I hope will be a journey towards reclamation of my cultural heritage, through learning about Chinese language, history, culture and current Asian American experiences.

Over the last few years, but especially in the last several months, I’ve realized that the loss of my heritage languages (I consider both Mandarin and Taiwanese to be my heritage languages) has cost me so much. As I was sitting with my aunt in her final days, although she could still speak English with me, I struggled with not being able to communicate with her Mandarin speaking caretaker and saw the gratitude in her eyes when her doctors spoke Taiwanese and Mandarin with her.  I’ve been hesitant to go to Taiwan or China (despite my son learning Mandarin for the last 7 years) because of my shame at not being able to speak. I mean, if we’re keeping it 100% real, I’ve felt shame in local Chinese restaurants for not being able to speak.

But it’s not just about language.  When my mother passed away, many parts of me felt like they died as well. My mother was, in so many ways, my lifeline to my culture. Because she wanted what was best for me, she chose to promote my greater mainstream cultural assimilation.  It paid off in some ways.  I got into many great colleges, graduated from one of the best public universities in the nation (Go Bears!), pursued post-graduate work and am well respected professionally. I also speak perfect, accent-free (American) English and am neither housing nor food insecure. I own my home and have an amazing life partner and great children.  So, by all those measure, I guess I am successful.

But I have never been able to shake the feeling of not being good enough. I was a teenager when my mother passed away, at the height of teenage rebellion, having long rejected her attempts to teach me Mandarin at home. As a single mom who didn’t enjoy freeway driving and who didn’t have a lot of disposable income, the 35 miles and cost of Chinese school made it not realistic for us.  Besides, we only had weekends to spend together as a family, and Sundays, we went to church. Family and faith were important to my mom.  Culture was too, but I suppose she hoped I would figure it out in college.

I might have, if she hadn’t passed away so suddenly when I was 16.  Or at least, maybe I wouldn’t have run so far away from my ethnic and racial identity.  I don’t know how my life would have been different if my mom hadn’t died, but I know that it would have been different somehow.

I want my own children to know who they are, as Taiwanese Peruvian Americans.  I want them to have a strong sense of their multiple racial/ ethnic/ national identities, the strengths and struggles people with these (and other) identities have faced. I want them to see how they fit into the tapestry of American culture and the ways in which they will likely face and hopefully surmount, in coalition with others, the structural barriers set up for them because of who they are.

But I can’t do that if I don’t have that knowledge for myself.

So, at (almost) 40, as an (almost) tenured associate professor, I’m beginning on this journey, in the place I’m most comfortable…the classroom.

It hasn’t been easy. I’ve already had to fight with my internal monologues about how ridiculous I am for going back for a second bachelors degree at this point in my life (and career); convince my close friends that I’m not crazy for taking this on; deal with an automated application system that wouldn’t let me change my profile information so I could SUBMIT my application; stress about whether I actually have even met the gen ed requirement in oral communications (on paper) even though I’ve been an oral communications professional for over 15 years; waste money on sending more transcripts than I needed to because I didn’t realize how the transcripts were structured.  It’s been a journey.

But already, I’m learning compassion, for myself, but also for my students who have likely also gone through these struggles and many more. I am recognizing what privileges I have (academic, institutional, financial, citizenship) and in the midst of these humbling experiences (which I’m sure I’m just beginning), I am developing strength to advocate and kindness towards who I am becoming.

And I am excited that, although the path may have been long and winding, I am finding a way back home, to a (more) cohesive Asian American and Taiwanese American identity.

When You Don’t See Yourself in Your Heroes

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As a child, I wanted to be two things: a scientist and a mother, just like my own mother had been.  My mother was my hero in many ways.  She raised me as an older single mom; she did everything she could to put my education first; she was a role model as a person of integrity, courage and intelligence.

However, there were many times I couldn’t understand my mother.  As a first generation American-born child, I wanted to be like every other kid at my school.  However, my immigrant mother refused to let me socialize in the same ways my friends did, insisting I stay home and study and that I couldn’t date until college.  She was also weird to me, in her own life. She did not speak up when she was unfairly passed over for a job promotion, even though she was over-qualified and would tell me an earful about it at home. She chose not to make me learn my native language because my brother had been tested for English Language Development classes (despite being recommended for honors English) when he marked that he spoke two languages on the Home Language Survey when he entered school, even though she said I’d later regret it.  At these moments, my mother seemed, at best, to be an enigma, and at worst to be overprotective, overly cautious and over-reactive.  I know now that she wanted the best for me and was doing her best, seeking security and putting her hope in my future, trying to avoid anything that might jeopardize that future, but I wish I had someone to help me figure that out then. It would have saved much heartache on both our parts.

When my mother died in a car accident, I was 16 years old.  In her absence, the closest things to heroes to me were my best friend’s family and my teachers.  My best friend’s family took me in when my mom died.  They were kind and loved me in their own way, but it was a very, very lonely time. (They were White, which will be important later, but wasn’t important at the time.) I wasn’t myself because I didn’t know who I was. All I felt was overwhelmingly lost. The only thing that I thought I was good at was school, and it was the only place where I felt like I belonged.

The love and support of my teachers were likely part of the driving force behind my eventual choice to become a teacher myself.  My teachers loved me and I loved them.  I did everything I could to be the best student in every subject. I worked hard; I did extra credit; I never complained.  I went back to school three days after my mom died (she died on a Friday so I’m not even sure that I missed a full day). I literally fulfilled every part of the “Model Minority Myth” in my academic life.  School was the safest and most secure place I knew.  It took the place of my home in many ways.

For many, many years, my life has been driven by this desire for validation in academic settings.  Whether as a student, a teacher, a teacher educator or an academic, the loss of my greatest hero at a critical moment in my life sent me reeling, and looking for a way to establish my identity.  I made many poor choices in my personal life, but at least, in my academic life, I was getting it right.

And I was getting it right by playing by the rules of the system–observing until I knew what those rules were, then becoming strong at them so that I could establish my worthiness in any academic situation, and avoiding any situation in which I might not be the best, for fear of losing my fragile worth.

I’ve internally struggled greatly with the compromises I’ve made along the way: staying silent rather than advocating for the things I believe in; not doing the research I’m most interested in doing for fear that it wouldn’t be the “right” research to do (i.e. the research valued by others); saying yes when I know that the right thing (for myself as a person) would be to say no.  I couldn’t figure out why I was so deeply conflicted and struggled so much to be my true self within this educational setting that I so deeply valued–why my values, my work and my voice weren’t always aligned the way I wanted them to be.

Until Friday morning.

I was sitting in the first morning of the 2018 Institute for Teachers of Color Committed to Racial Justice (feeling, as always, somewhat like an imposter, and certainly less woke than probably x% of the people in the room) and co-founder, Rita Kohli, asked how many of teachers of color we had had in our K-12 schooling experience.

I literally could not remember.

I began furiously thinking through elementary school and I got halfway through middle school before she had moved on with the activity.  I obsessively began listing my teachers (why hadn’t I thought about this before?) and, finally, when I finished my list of 35 teachers, I could count a single non-white teacher.  That teacher, a Latino man, had one of the least culturally responsive classrooms I had been in, helping to kill my love of science by having us read daily from a college textbook and take notes to prepare for the Advanced Placement exam.

And things suddenly began to unravel a bit.  My (White) teachers were not racially identified to me because whiteness was such the norm of my schooling.  I did not have an Asian-American professor until my undergraduate work, and not one in education until my post-baccalaureate work.   I could not find my voice in many issues of education because I loved my (White) teachers and I was worried that speaking up FOR what I had needed would be betraying all the kindness they had shown me. I was worried that they would think less of me and that I would be dishonoring my family and my teachers whom I respected greatly.

I’m still sorting through this. But, it’s important to me.  I needed a role model that understood me culturally, so that I could have someone to aspire to be like.  Especially as someone who lost my mother as a teenager, I needed an Asian-American adult who could really get me and guide me at a critical point in my life.  I only know that this is what I needed because I now have a mentor who is Asian-American who has helped me so much in this academic journey (even though we have VERY different acculturation and generational experiences).  I needed someone who could affirm my identity, and at that time, it would have been extremely helpful for that person to be a person from my own racial group or with similar culturally experiences.

I know that not everyone gets to have a mentor that looks like them.  In some families (including ours), the parents don’t even look like all the kids.  But, it is something that shaped my perception of who I was and could be at a very critical point.  Again, this post isn’t to discredit the incredible mentorship and love that I’ve received from a multitude of mentors from across racial boundaries, but it is to say, if anything, that teachers of color matter.  It matters who children and adolescents see around them, how people in their racial groups are portrayed, and what about their racial groups are valued (or ignored). It certainly mattered in the trajectory of my life.  And the realization of how much it mattered will continue to fuel the work I’ll do for the rest of my days in this world.

Embracing My Truth…Out Loud

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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.

Complicity, Contradictions, Criticality: The Challenges of Finding a Voice

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I don’t even know how to characterize this week except to quote from the title of Angela Davis’s collection of essays, interviews and speeches to say that, “Freedom is a constant struggle.”  Dr. Davis, in this text that I’ve been listening to on the long drives to visit with my aunt or the shorter drives around town, discusses the collective, global struggles of oppressed peoples and the importance of collectivity, coalition, and extending the struggle for freedom beyond civil (and human) rights towards freedom and equality.  She argues (and I agree) that this will not come without the dismantling of structures of oppression including prisons and our current ideologies of “security” which are founded on corporations and individuals profiting from dehumanization of groups of people to maintain control of societies through fear and separation.

In light of the white supremacist rallies in Charlottesville, Virginia of this past weekend, which are not just indicative of the persistence of white supremacist ideologies in the US, but demonstrate how they have been emboldened in this current political time, I find myself, as an individual, standing at the intersection of multiple identities (Chinese American, Asian American, Social Justice Educator, Teacher Educator, Mother) and struggling.  I have been selective in how and where I raise my voice, particularly in relation to social media.  I am more outspoken on Twitter than on Facebook, but more through retweets and amplifying thoughts than through offering original thoughts.  On Facebook, I did engage in one dialogue countering notions akin to color blindness and brought forth the importance of naming white privilege as critical in beginning to dismantle structures of oppression on a friend’s Facebook thread with another Asian American woman. But, I regretted this engagement. I felt that this discussion didn’t lead to very productive, critical reflection. Instead, it turned into defensive justification of points of view (hers and mine).  I was frustrated with the time invested in this conversation (and others like it) and with how these conversations leave me angry and frustrated with the fact that within Asian American communities (particularly East Asian or Chinese American communities, of which I am a part), individuals often choose to align themselves with dominant discourses and fail to speak out against racism in our society, buying into notions that white privilege is divisive and that racism really isn’t so prevalent, that we can work our way to freedom and success if we just continue playing by the rules.

The problem is, racism is inherently divisive with very real consequences for people.  When we fail to acknowledge that racism (systemic, embedded in institutions) at a societal level inform our actions subconsciously (and for some more consciously, with or without justification), we continue to perpetrate and benefit from (if we have forms of privilege) this racism.  The logic leveled against me was that no one is “given privilege,” that it is earned by themselves or their ancestors in good or bad ways.  At that point, I just had to leave the conversation because I just got too frustrated.  I fail to understand how being born a certain race or to certain parents is a form of earning any privilege or rights, and that the mere fact that one was not born a certain race or to certain parents should deny them these rights.  Then I was informed that language is powerful and that we should use it to unite and not divide.  I agree with this.  Language is powerful.  And we should use it to unite, but who are we uniting? For what ends?  Are we united in confronting injustice?  Can this be done without calling out injustice for what it is?

I don’t know.  But, the thing is, I left the conversation.  There are many conversations I just don’t enter into, or don’t enter into unless I am in a space, with people with whom I feel comfortable.  I am EXTREMELY non-confrontational, and this troubles me.  Freedom is a constant struggle.  Struggle means confrontation.  I hate confrontation.  Yet it is necessary to move forward.  Discomfort is necessary to move forward.  I am confronted.  I wonder where my commitments are and where I am complicit to the oppression of others (Black & Brown others, fellow Asian Americans, religious minorities, immigrants) because my privileged fear allows me to remain silent, because I don’t want to be judged by the people I know.

So, I’m calling myself out, and I’m being honest about the fact that I’m struggling.  My commitments call me to make a louder, larger stance.  My identities call me to find quiet ways to contribute to the resistance without putting myself on the front lines.  I don’t know if that’s simply privilege or complicated privilege, complicity, self-care, or just a different form of resistance.  I don’t really want to make this about me, but I also don’t think I’m alone in this struggle.  In trying to find my voice, I want to be honest.  In trying to be authentic to all the parts of myself, I want to share where I am in this struggle with you.  Because the struggle against injustice and for freedom are real, and I need to find a way to participate productively, sustainably, and in coalition.