My heart ached when I heard about the tragic deaths of six Asian women in the Atlanta area recently. My thoughts immediately went to their families, likely hardworking immigrant mothers who came here seeking a better future for their children. As I made my way upstairs to embrace my six-year-old daughter before her Zoom class, tears streamed down my face. I felt sorrow not only for the victims but also for my mother and all Asian parents who face the daunting challenges of learning a new language, adapting to a different culture, and now, the terrifying reality of being part of the over 3,000 individuals targeted by hate violence this past year, as reported by AAPI Hate.
My mother’s journey was particularly challenging. When she married my American father in the 1970s, they lived in a trailer on his parents’ land in Oklahoma. For almost a year, my grandfather refused to acknowledge her due to her race, though he eventually came to love her as his own daughter. She was fortunate. When she had children of her own, she worried about the cycle of discrimination starting anew. Growing up in Korea in the 1980s, I faced ridicule for being a “mutt” and not fully Korean. After moving to America, I was subjected to taunts, with kids pulling their eyes back and calling me names like Kristi Yamaguchi—a name even former NBA star Jeremy Lin has been called. It was even more confusing when my maiden name, Jamie Smith, led someone to question my identity by saying, “But that can’t be your name, you’re Asian.” It’s a feeling of not belonging, of feeling almost dehumanized.
I don’t harbor resentment toward my grandfather for his initial lack of acceptance. We are shaped by our surroundings, and growing up in a homogenous environment can breed ignorance. However, when someone chooses hatred and resorts to violence against others, it creates an atmosphere of fear, which I never want for my daughter.
Three years ago, my partner and I decided to relocate to a rural county in Maryland. I was aware it wouldn’t offer the same diversity as Baltimore County or Newport News, Virginia, where I grew up, but the excellent school system and affordable housing made it an attractive option. In many ways, I was mirroring my mother’s decision to move to America.
My daughter doesn’t appear Asian—she has bright blue eyes and dirty blonde hair—but she is still a quarter Korean. I am half Korean, and with the recent spike in anti-Asian violence, I often feel hyper-aware of how we are perceived. Each time I walk with her, I wonder if strangers see my Asian features above my mask. Do they think I’m her nanny? Are they judging us? Can she communicate effectively? I hold her hand tightly, striving to dismiss such anxious thoughts.
So far, our new community has been welcoming, filled with kind and open-minded individuals, from the wonderful daycare teachers we met upon arrival to a new Vietnamese family we encountered just last week. My hope is that we continue to meet understanding people, though I can’t help but fear the opposite.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the author’s fears for her biracial Asian daughter, highlighting personal experiences with racism and the challenges immigrant families face. It emphasizes the importance of community acceptance and the ongoing concerns regarding safety in the context of rising hate crimes. The author expresses hope for a future filled with understanding and love.
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