Here Is My Beginning,

Head down, sunglasses and mask on, baseball cap pulled low, I grabbed what was on the grocery list from my mother as quickly as possible. My father’s voice echoed in my mind as I sped through the produce section. Don’t stay longer than you have to.

The first wave of the pandemic back in March 2020 brought Asian xenophobia into full throttle. Even in my small Caucasian town, I was noticing strange interactions. Whether it was the disapproving shake of a head or a full-on racial slur, it incited fear in me I couldn’t shake. And this proved to be difficult to ignore when I was consistently the only Asian person in the room. I was a child again-kids were stretching their eyes sideways at me, singing ching chong in accented voices, laughing at the food I brought for lunch. I was “ugly”; “smelly”; and, worse, an outsider.

In seventh grade, I was assigned a family tree presentation. I interviewed my grandmother and grew excited over the stories she told about our family, who created a soybean milk company to get protein to lactose-intolerant children, reforested the Korean Peninsula after the war, and built schools. I stayed up perfecting my poster, carefully cutting and pasting pictures, and ironing my traditional Korean hanbok. For the first time, I was excited to talk about my family.

But the other presentations were about white families on big Southern porches with family crests embossed onto their giant door knockers. I felt silly next to those photos in my dress. My ears started ringing and cheeks started to burn. The colors suddenly looked gaudy and childish; the rainbow sleeves too loud-not at all like the intricate silk tapestry I had spent hours ironing the night before. I took off my jade headpiece and stuffed it into my bag.

I presented as quickly as possible, rushing through the details, leaving out my favorite parts to just get it over with. My shame rushed back-my three-generation household, missing out on “normal” weekends because of Saturday Korean school, my slanted eyes, my grandmother’s inability to speak English. I wanted so badly to be the same as everybody else.
So I taped my eyes so they would appear larger, dyed my hair, and changed what I wore. I stopped attending Korean school and bought cafeteria lunches. I made the friends I longed for but still felt out of place. No matter how much I changed, I was never quite “right” enough to slide into place and fit in. Chronically inadequate-a feeling that no amount of flavored lip gloss could fix. I was still the little girl who was too afraid to eat her lunch in front of her classmates.

This estrangement followed me to boarding school, where I was shunned by Asians for being “too white” and rejected by Caucasians because I wasn’t. Some of the other girls in my freshman dorm had dubbed me a “rich, white, suburban girl.” Even though I had been trying to be the girl they described for my whole life, their words still stung in a way that left me stunned. My self-loathing only amplified when I faced rejection because I didn’t fit into the singular definitions of “white” or “Asian.” I was both and neither, which meant I didn’t belong anywhere. I didn’t rediscover my identity or gain self- confidence until I was around sixteen.
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But part of this newfound self-confidence was rooted in the fetishization of Asian women, because it felt like I had become desirable overnight. I had grown out of my lanky awkwardness and crossed the fine line between “girl” and “woman,” simultaneously painting a target symbolizing adulthood on my back. “Rich, white, suburban girl” was quickly replaced by “exotically beautiful,” and being so starved for recognition, I took whatever I could. People told me I should be flattered, so I was. When you’ve been an outcast your whole life, being not only acceptable but also coveted feels like an insane victory. The concepts of deeply engrained racism and fetishization never crossed my mind. I still feel bad for the girl who thought that burying her shame would work if she lost herself with it.

It is easy to believe what you’re told as a kid, especially when you’ve been waiting to hear it all your life. Then why did I somehow know, deep down, it wasn’t really me being accepted, just my potential to fulfill a stereotype?

I was only able to truly confront my racial shame when I was able to look in the mirror and not see someone who was so painfully different or derive worth from being a sexual preference. The comments surrounding Asian stereotypes that were so ingrained in student culture started to slide off more easily. My skin grew into Teflon, and soon, nothing that used to bother me could stick. The more years that passed, the more unapologetic I became. I had found the only truth I needed inside the walls of my house and in my family history, and I wasn’t going to suppress it out of fear any longer.

Come March 2020, the self-acceptance I had nurtured since high school was cancelled out by fear. The eyes, hair, and body I had grown proud of became identifiers that were used against me. I was in middle school again, standing in a sea of blond hair.

Still, I kept up with current events. Korean faces were on the front lines of the pandemic, searching for a cure. I watched their case numbers drop as they gained better control and understanding of the virus and became the model for handling Covid. Thousands of miles away, my heart swelled for the country fighting for the future amid the racial tension and violence that petrified me.

I remember how insignificant and disempowered I had felt all my life. I recall the shaking in my voice and ringing in my ears during my family tree presentation. How could I ever forget the stinging in my eyes from holding back tears while people made fun of me on the school bus “behind my back”? Or when random people started to message me on social media, saying that “they had never been with an Asian girl before”? How could I forget trying to learn to live while experiencing perpetual disgust and fear? It was time to stop acting as if I had done something wrong.

The fear didn’t dissipate overnight and is long from gone, but I made slow progress. I can leave the house without hiding my face and trying to melt into the background. People’s second glances no longer make my stomach churn. I stopped making an active effort to be invisible but, rather, aim to be impossible to miss.

I’m not a statistic, an outsider, or predisposed to be a victim of violence. The unnerving state of the world is not an excuse for regression. I should never shrink away from adversity or diminish myself out of fear. It is time to stop hiding what makes me feel special. It is time to stop snuffing out my words because they make other people “uncomfortable.” It is time we emerge into the world unafraid, ready, and willing to fight.

I am a part of the Ahn family. I am proud. That is more than enough.

This is me finding my voice.