A Second Longer
Author’s Note: This was written for the annual Reeve’s Speaking Contest hosted by The Peddie School in 2022. This piece was named honorable mention.
My grandfather was born in 1943 in Chongqing, China. As World War II progressed, Japanese troops bombed the entire city, forcing my grandpa and his family to hide in caves in the mountains. He then moved to the Nationalist capital in Nanjing, but he suffered another loss – his mother died, succumbing to tuberculosis a few months before antibiotics were publicized. And in 1948, my grandpa sought the small island of Taiwan, fleeing from the communist attacks. My grandpa prospered in Taiwan for a while, starting a business and a family. But after a few tragedies, my grandpa packed up his bags again, this time for the so-called “Land of the Free”.
When my grandpa stepped foot on this land, he expected the American Dream. He believed that hard work brought success. For everyone. But he didn’t realize that he couldn’t find jobs, received significantly lower wages, was spat on, called slurs, and was targeted for hate crimes. Over the years, my grandpa became numb to the racism he faced. He dresses in plain colors, avoid predominantly white areas, and never stays out too late, and he told me to do the same. As a kid, I thought he was just cautious, nothing more.
I always recognized that racism existed – but I didn’t notice it in my life. I grew up in my own bubble, pretending that everything I heard was just curiosity. Here are some of the actual questions I’ve been asked as a kid: “Where are you really from? Do you actually eat dogs? How do you pronounce your name? Are you good at math?” And classically, “How is your English so good? You don’t even have an accent!” Ever since elementary school, teachers have repeatedly called me a different Asian girl’s name. “It’s just a little mix-up,” I tell myself thousands and thousands of times. In textbooks, people like me are sick, yellow-skinned creatures, and in modern history, overtly smart robots striving to steal your job. I never thought anything of it, for history, was in the past and had no impact on the future, right? The part of me that felt hurt on the inside was just sympathy for my ancestors, right? It wasn’t racist, right? They were simply mistaken.
Right?
Sure I’ve always been micro-aggressed, but I never associated myself with those dead Asian women on the screen. But as I grow to resemble more and more like them, it all started piecing together. That uncomfortable feeling sitting in the pit of my stomach was from facing constant discrimination. I excused the racism I faced for over a decade and finally, my anger was boiling over. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I can’t stand it any longer.
What enrages me, even more, is that there are lots of people in this country who believe that systemic racism doesn’t even exist. That my suffering right now, the suffering of half of this nation, is invalid. Because the 339% increase in anti-Asian hate crimes, the murder of 6 Asian women in Atlanta, the brutal attacks on Asian seniors, the stabbing of Christina Yuna Lee, the death of Michelle Go, and so much more doesn’t prove to you that racism exists. “No,” they say, “the perpetrators were just having a bad day.” Then, their “bad day” occurs 365 times a year. No more excuses.
My grandpa faced war and death too many times in his life. But racism, racism hurts him the most. The recent attacks on the AAPI elderly community only made him even more hyper-vigilant. He rarely leaves the house. He refuses to go on walks. He fears his neighbors. All the blood, sweat, and tears he put in to finally “make it” and live his “American Dream” reversed within a year. This is not the America my grandparents believed when they stepped off the plane. But in a way, it never was. Though it seemed like a more accepting society three years ago, COVID only unearthed the racism hidden underneath blankets of normal life. It’s the “Land of the Free,” after all. But people like me or my grandpa, will never be free.
I can’t take a second longer of seeing another person who looks like me reported dead.
A second longer of fearing to ride the subway or walking the streets alone.
A second longer of worrying if my grandparents are still alive.
A second longer of seeing another eye pulled back.
A second longer of being called a “chink”.
A second longer of being called the wrong name.
A second longer of being ignored.
A second longer of being less of a person.
A second longer of being blamed for the pandemic.
A second longer of being spat on.
A second longer of being pushed to the side.
A second longer of being told that I’m overreacting.
A second longer.
A second longer.
