Journal Entry for George Floyd

Speaking to My Asian Folx

What does it mean to be Asian in America?

To assimilate?

What an insidious goal, to fit in. Always vacillating between fitting in and standing out, to prove to others that I’m not THAT asian.  When I peel back the choices I’ve made, the friendships I’ve built, the personalities I’ve developed, what do I see? I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be white; I’m obsessed with whiteness. 

To submit?

The model minority myth is fucking dangerous. A tool to pawn us as oppressors, while fooling us with fake offerings of acceptance and status. It’s scary. I can see some versions of myself becoming some version of former Officer Tau Thou; supporting the white person in charge; working for their approval—maybe then I’ll be accepted.  Are we at fault for being fooled? We can’t let it happen again.

To make change?

"But I’m not white, it doesn’t apply to me.”

"But I’m not black, I shouldn’t take up that space." 

I’ve learned to dominate the room to prove I’m not submissive, but I feel safest when I make myself small, hidden under the cloak of logic and obscurity. Nothing applies to me if I keep myself safe in the shadows. The real conversation stays black and white. 

No—fuck all of that.

The REAL conversation lies in the shadows. 

Where my grandma tells me I shouldn’t date black. Where my parents move us into the rhite neighborhoods. Where silence is normal and loudly heard. I may not be included in the biggest conversation, but I am included in mine.

No matter how unseen, used, and small we feel, we are important and our actions hold heavy stakes in this white society. We’ve always known this; the death of George Floyd is not the exception.