Yet the beauty of it is learning that all of those pieces, even the painful ones, fit perfectly together to create the masterpiece that is me. Stories, pain, conflict, joy, resilience, creativity, courage, and even anger have all brushed their unique strokes and colors onto the canvas of my life and invite me into an opportunity to become whole as I welcome all of the pieces of myself.
Here we have a story; that doesn’t live happily ever; after but goes on, nevertheless. We don’t know exactly; what happened to grandma, only; she is with them like voices in leaves.
Even now my soul responds to her tune; Motherlands still shelter their own; Always hold on, even when you go, go, go
When you put two halves together you make a whole. This is basic math. But when you merge different ethnicities the rules of math change.
We are not a myth, Of a minority nor a monolith, Foreign, we are perpetually not. Asians aren’t a footnote, An afterthought
In writing on the exhibition, Megan Kim stated: “To work in co-creation with another woman of color, someone who also lives within particular marginalizations, is to threaten the ways in which whiteness would strive to divide us.”
By Michael Stalcup
My friends have a car in Louisiana
that they say we can use
for the year they’re away.
We just have to go get it
and drive it home
safely. We don’t even think
about having my wife
drive back alone, but
for the first time
the thought strikes:
I might not be safe
on my own either,
my Asian face and skin
a sin
in this America.
Photo by processingly on Unsplash
Michael Stalcup is a Thai-American missionary living in Bangkok, Thailand. His poems have been published in Sojourners Magazine, First Things, PAX, Red Letter Christians, and elsewhere. He co-teaches Spirit & Scribe, a workshop integrating spiritual formation and writing craft. You can find more of his work at michaelstalcup.com.
By Emi Kanda
To the employee at the DMV:
I’m glad you like your Samsung watch
And your Toyota,
But those are two different products
From two different countries.
And I didn’t make either of those
So, no need to thank me.
To my ex-boyfriend’s mom
“With the Vietnamese hairstylist” (God bless her heart):
Boba without boba is a smoothie
That thing over there, is a mango,
And my Thanksgiving is still traditional
If we have eggrolls, mashed potatoes, and turkey.
To that guy on Hinge
(Fairytales did NOT prepare me for dating apps):
I’m not wasting time on no sick person,
So please, stay away,
If you’ve got Covid, or pneumonia, or the yellow fever.
To my Filipino coworkers
Who choose to see me for my heart
And not by the fact that I don’t speak their mother tongue:
Thank you for not making me feel othered,
Othered like I did in college.
Clearly not blue eyed and blonde,
But not embraced among those who only
Ate with Asians,
Sat with Asians,
Dated Asians,
Seemingly only spoke with Asians,
I was othered. A stranger to my own race.
Between the one who wants a Korean girl so she speaks the same language as his mother
And the California hipster chasing perfect, fair skin and freckles,
Who was left to be attracted to me?
Othered because I did not realize not everyone
Gets asked, “where are you from?” and has to rack their brain
To decipher what that question means.
Am I from Chicago? Illinois? The United States?
Do you mean to say, “I can’t tell what type of Asian you are?”
‘Cause I’m Japanese and Filipino, put it together,
I’m a spicy jalapeño, baby.
Othered because I cannot trust you are into me for me
If you post pictures with your Asian friend group
And studied abroad in China
Forgive me for reading into things,
But how am I supposed to know better?
(Mistrust isn’t from naivete, it’s from experience.)
Othered because I cannot trust I am into you for you,
And I’ll blame the TV instead of my own cultural shame
For telling me to wait for a white Prince Charming.
Maybe I can shake off the utter fear of having children,
If they can be what my heart has decided is most desirable:
Beautiful, Hapa children.
(This is messed up, I know, but bear with me
As I bare my heart
Because I will probably never see you again
So somehow, you are safer for me to tell my story.)
Othered because my ethnicity is not my identity
My parents lived to assimilate and fit in,
Cut off their languages from me (for me?),
Married outside of the homogenous norm
To them, my race is the reason
I made the school play, was accepted to that university
In their own use of the diversity token
They leave me minimized to what I cannot change, unremarkable,
Unseen.
And I am Starbucks, crop tops, avocado toast American,
Distancing myself because I am embarrassed of those Asian stereotypes,
And yet,
Not so basic,
As I want to be.
I am pumpkin spice lattes,
But also matcha green tea.
I am honor-shame culture,
But choose to grow, to be vulnerable, to fight the barriers to speak.
I am words of affirmation
Met instead with acts of service,
Navigating love languages and language barriers,
Fed by grandmothers
Who cook dish after traditional dish for me
(Even though there’s only a few I’ll really eat)
But hey – that’s love. So, I take it with me.
I am a proud product of grandparents
Who uprooted their lives for their children,
And of their children first learning to know God, love God,
Holding on to their marriage
By the skin of their teeth.
Though unintended,
I’m left with baggage,
General sins and structures –
I am desperately trying to break free.
I am a tool by which God is prying open closed doors
And shattering locked chains,
I am breaking free from the cycle
By going to therapy, making a budget,
Living in my own home –
I hope one day my sisters can join me.
I am privilege that my family could never dream of having,
Because every sacrifice they made
Pain that they endured
Barrier they overcame,
Was for me.
A step,
A step,
One terrifying step at a time
To acknowledge and name, then to grieve and reclaim this
“Otheredness”
So one day I can rejoice in all God has created me and my tan skin to be.
Because in Jesus,
In Jesus,
I am understood, from my head to my foot,
He made me Emi:
Asian American,
And free.
Emi Kanda loves good food, vulnerability, and Jesus. She grew up in a beautifully diverse suburb of Chicago and graduated from Wheaton College with a BS in Applied Health Science and a minor in Spanish. Emi is a relational, justice-oriented Christian who finds deep value in her vocation as a case worker for underprivileged communities and a high school youth group staffer. You can tune in to her shenanigans, devotionals, and Chicago-based resource highlights on Instagram.
Kaylyn Brown shared this piece at the Stand for AAPI Lives & Dignity in Howard County, Maryland on Sunday, March 28, 2021 (1 of the 14 cities for the national rally)—
Kaylyn Brown is a Korean-American transracial adoptee. Born in Korea, raised in rural PA, living in Baltimore. Wife, mom, minister. She/her/hers. Follow @mrskaylynbrown on Instagram.
By Diane Dokko Kim
“You’re being oversensitive!
It’s really just a joke.
It wasn’t meant to offend.
You’re easily provoked.”
When worldly people curse
And take The Lord’s name in vain
Are Christians being “oversensitive”
At hearing His name profaned?
Who gets to deem
If an expression is offensive or not?
When is it appropriate
To censure someone's thoughts?
In this case, I’d like to think
The answer is patently clear.
Yet I’ve been troubled to observe
A lack of empathy, here…
When (only) six books were pulled
By Seuss’ own estate
What was the reaction?
Relieved or outraged, irate?
These titles had been pulled
For offensive and racist content
But the interwebs protested
Vocal in their malcontent
For me, I don’t appreciate
“Slant eyes” (“If I Ran The Zoo.”)
When Asians have been getting attacked
I should hope it disturbs you, too.
I feel the same offense
For our Imago Dei Black brethren
To see them caricatured and
Stereotyped as barefoot heathens.
I suspect the Seuss-defenders
Have never had to endure
The sting of, “Go back to your country,
Ching-Chong-Chinaman!” type-slurs.
Better to ask BIPOC
What our thoughts & lived-experiences are.
Why indignant social media posts
Disappoint us from afar.
One ought not to dismiss a pain
From which you’ve been exempt.
Mockery insults injury
By dressing wounds with contempt.
Correction is not canceling.
Wrong should be called out for what it is.
Instead, we swallow camels
And strain gnats through a sieve.
Human beings are complicated.
Duplicity & paradox is our lot.
We’re equal parts virtue and wonder,
AND full of selfish rot.
Why not hold conflicting truths
That co-exist in reality?
Like, “God accepts & loves us as we are;
Too much to just leave us be.”
Representation matters to me.
It should matter to everyone, too.
Because kids grow up into adults
Who act on images they view.
Who gets the right to deem
If a book is racist or not?
Shouldn’t we all evaluate
Our assumptions and biased thoughts?
Even the highly regarded
Should evolve in greater understanding.
Better to say, “I was wrong, I’m sorry.”
Than to double-down, grandstanding.
To actualize a more compassionate world
Myopia rendered obsolete
Everyone should be quick to listen,
Slow to speak, and even slower to Tweet.
Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash
Diane Dokko Kim is a disability ministry consultant, national speaker, and author of Unbroken Faith: Spiritual Recovery for the Special-Needs Parent (Worthy, 2018). Her work has been featured in Joni and Friends, Christianity Today, LifeWay, Bible Gateway, Parenting Magazine, Moody Radio, Orange, and Jen Hatmaker’s For The Love Podcast. Connect with her at dianedokkokim.com where she blogs on life, “Wrecked, redeemed and repurposed."
By Breanna Chov
Our elders are thrown to the floor,
Our families are stabbed,
Our community is ridiculed.
And again, we are met with deafening silence.
But there is no silence,
When insecurity rages in the body that wonders if her nail ladies are talking about her in foreign whispers.
There is no silence,
When inconvenience strikes you because English is not our first language.
The silent void is filled when
You “ching chong” us,
Write our unfamiliar foods off as smelly,
Emasculate our men,
Fetishize our women.
You love to wear our clothes as costumes,
And pat yourself on the back for being open to foreign foods...
As you stuff yourself with orange chicken.
Screw your “yellow fever.”
We have shared our foods,
Worked hard to be your frontline worker,
Overcome a history of trauma,
All to be here. To succeed. To belong.
To make a new home.
Yet you still blame us,
Kill us,
Hate us.
My bones scream-
At the “allies” who don’t see me.
At the communities who share our pain, yet are a part of causing it.
And at my ancestors who made us silent survivors,
Whispering to me, “don’t make waves, they’ll see us.”
With Lunar New Year coming up, I look forward to a time of celebration, but at the same time, the death of #VichaRatanapakdee and another spike of violence against Asian Americans, cause deep grief in me. These events and the tension of emotions that arise with them, reflect the complexities of our experiences as Asian Americans.
This poem was written to reflect the anger of Asian Americans, and more specifically my anger. The feeling can be more easily hidden than expressed, but however jarring our anger might be, I believe the world needs to see it. We deserve for the world to truly see us, not just as model minorities, but people who experience deep anger, sadness, joy, shame, pride. I hope this poem gives you freedom to express the fullness of the Asian American experience.
For more information on recent events, click here.
Photo by Soragrit Wongsa on Unsplash
Breanna Chov is a second generation Vietnamese-Chinese woman who is passionate about growing in compassion, connecting with people, and seeking good for her community. When not writing, educating, and advocating for the people and justice, she collects and perfects family recipes. Twitter: @breannachov