By Naomi K. Lu
T
he COVID-19 pandemic has left a devastating impact on millions of lives around the world. Though the most devastating losses of a pandemic will always be the lives extinguished and the suffering of those left behind, this pandemic has also cost people everything from graduations and weddings, to homes and jobs. Though I was not spared from different, more tangible losses, the most impactful loss for me was the destruction of an idea. Because of COVID-19, I lost the American Dream.
As a third-culture kid, America was truly the land of dreams. In Mandarin, America literally translates as “beautiful country.” Despite being thousands of miles away, the third culture kids in the community where I grew up strongly identified with whatever country was listed on their passports. I vividly remember a youth retreat where the ice breaker was to divide up by country and cheer as loudly as possible for your motherland; Americans were by far the loudest, rivaled only by the Texans (they separated themselves) and the six Australians whose rousing cries of “AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OI OI OI!” managed to be heard despite the thundering roar of American cries. American patriotism was alive and well in our communities overseas, even though many of us had spent far more years in our host countries than back “home.”
Our lack of awareness as to the realities of what life in America looked like frequently resulted in massive disappointment and disillusionment upon returning to the States. Those who return either love it or hate it; I rarely meet individuals who fall between these polar opposites. To many, the American Dream goes as follows: Nice house, nice job, nice spouse, nice kids, with a white picket fence to tie it all together.
For me, this Dream was very different for a young, mixed-race, Chinese American growing up in Asia. I thought about America constantly. America was Cheetos and Reese’s peanut butter cups; rolling meadows of lush green grass, sunsets of pink, gold, and purple, and the flitting of fireflies at dusk on a warm summer’s eve. As a lonely child who didn’t fit in, America was a place of belonging and freedom. The greatest country on earth, where anyone could be anything. Where all were welcome. Where there would be a place for me. America was hope.
And then I returned.
The culture shock, isolation, and the identity crisis of moving from the only country I’d ever known were to be expected. However, I was completely unprepared for the kind of otherness I’d feel as an Asian American. I took pride in my status as a foreigner in the country I grew up in. I had no idea I was even more of a foreigner in the country of my birth. Never mind that my grandmother was white; she was the daughter of West Virginian coal miners, in this country so long that I don’t even know when she immigrated. My own confrontation with race took much longer than expected.
In high school, I was barely phased when someone told me they didn’t think I could speak English when we first met. Internally, I could justify these comments because I happened to be an Asian American raised in Asia. I suspect I would have understood racism, stereotypes, and microaggressions far earlier had I actually grown up in the United States. There would have been no excuses for such behavior, and I would have had to face the reality that one look at my face was all it took for people to think that they knew me.
There was no singular moment of racial reckoning for me. Just as a storm gives away its presence by a darkening sky and a strange smell that lingers in the air, the quiet dissatisfaction rumbling within me built over years. It was only after COVID-19 began spreading with a swift and deadly force that I was forced to open my eyes to a country that continues to view me—and my people—as “other.” Shock, followed by fear, spread through me as the most powerful man in the United States referred to the novel coronavirus as the “Chinese flu” and the “Kung flu.” Before COVID-19, I was used to being stared at by people, typically when I traveled outside of major U.S. cities, but I dismissed their gaze as simple curiosity. Now, every look from a stranger left a sense of unease that caused me to look over my shoulder constantly. Was I in danger too? My fears were not unfounded, the rise in hate crimes against Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders proves as much.
I was left to grieve the loss of an idea. The country I longed and hoped for as a child did not exist. My identity as an outsider would not have changed even if I had grown up here. I am torn between two worlds, yearning for somewhere, anywhere, to belong.
What remains after 2020 resembles the path of a tornado. Destruction is rampant, especially here in the United States. But 2020 was not purely a year of extremely bad fortune. It was a year where the dark underbelly of the United States was finally visible to the light. Division and prejudice are nothing new; 2020 just happened to be the year when inequality was made visible in such a way that the only way to ignore it would be to live as a hermit with no technology. Just because the America that I lost never existed does not lessen the pain of grief. I mourn, I accept, and I move forward.
There is something holy in otherness. A lack of belonging in this world directs our gaze home—where our true selves are wholly accepted and perfectly loved. We yearn for what we do not have, and as Christians we have hope that what is to come is incomparably greater than anything we could presently possess. I have found freedom in this place. My life no longer needs to be dedicated to forcing myself into a box that was not made for me. The borders of my universe have infinitely expanded. My sense of purpose has been refined through this year, and I am constantly in awe of how God uses the darkest things to bring light.
This is not to downplay how detrimental and fundamentally wrong racism is, or to glorify injustice and suffering. It is also not meant to cover grief with toxic positivity. Though I believe that God can bring purpose to any kind of pain, that does not serve to minimize the significance of pain’s impact. An awareness and acceptance of otherness does not mean that we should stop fighting for equality and equity. For me, the reality of otherness brings me peace, as I no longer blame myself for my lack of belonging.
I think it will take time before I am fully aware of the impact that COVID-19 had on my life. For me, 2020 became a year of silence—a journey through solitude by an unwilling pilgrim. Though initially the isolation seemed like it would break me, it has proven to be one of the most fruitful periods of my life. Only in this quiet place was I able to fully confront my otherness. The lessons I have learned and the growth that I have experienced during this time will shape the rest of my life. I have a newfound boldness in speaking out about these issues of race and discrimination, while also experiencing the humbling realization that there is still much I do not know. Dismantling beliefs I had about this country and my identity also served to heal some of the false beliefs I had about myself: I am not less than because I do not belong. Embracing otherness allowed me to embrace myself.
I believe in a future where Asian Americans are no longer seen as perpetual foreigners, and our voices are valued and heard; however, I also find that there is relief in accepting that this is not the present reality. From here, I rest, regroup, and look for my role in bringing that vision to fruition. Though the night continues, I can see glimpses of the dawn as I rest in the promises of the Creator. “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11, NIV).
Photo by ahmadreza jaffari on Unsplash
Naomi K. Lu is a Chinese-American Third Culture Kid who grew up in East Asia. She has her B.S. in Integrated Social Sciences and will be entering graduate school studying psychology in Fall 2021. She is passionate about Asian mental health, depression treatment, and suicide prevention. She currently lives in California with her dogs.