Last week, 8 people (6 of them Asian women) were killed at three different Asian massage parlours in Atlanta, Georgia. Earlier this year, a Thai American was murdered on the street, and a Filipino-American was slashed across the face, just two incidents in a string of attacks against Asians this year alone. There has been a significant increase in anti-Asian sentiment, as well as an increase in assaults against Asians since the rise of COVID-19.

Unfortunately, none of this is new. Asians the world over have had a long history of being associated with bringing disease. We have long been described as the “yellow fever”. There has been negative sentiment over waves of Asian immigrants flooding Western countries and “taking jobs” even though immigrants are usually the people willing to do the work Westerners are not willing to do. The migrant labour force is often who we have to thank for the food we have in our grocery stores, the cleanliness of our streets and public buildings, and more. Historically, Asian labour has been used to build railroads and mines, but our lives were seen as being more expendable than others. In the United States, Chinese people were unable to testify, Chinese women were barred from migrating in case white men fell in love with them and procreated, and they were unable to become citizens.

To this day, remnants of those original anti-Asian sentiments linger in our society. The coronavirus has been described as the “China virus” and the “Kung Flu virus” by former president Donald Trump, further legitimising anti-Asian xenophobia and racist attacks. Those carrying out racist attacks do not care to distinguish between who is Chinese, Filipino, Thai, Vietnamese or otherwise—anyone who appears to be Asian can be subjected to violence or verbal attacks, which has also exposed members of the Pacific Islander community to violence as some Pacific Islanders can look Asian.

As a first-generation immigrant I have often avoided bringing attention to my Asian heritage. Being one of a handful of “different” kids in my class when I started school in Australia at age 10, I felt that my difference would bring me unwanted attention or led me to be bullied by my peers. In true model minority style I worked to blend in, to excel in all aspects of life, to speak without an accent, to be more popular with all the other (white) kids in my class, and in many ways, distance myself from my culture and my upbringing. In my adulthood, I have had (white) people say “you’re the least Asian person I know” (something I talk about in this video) or talk about how I’m “not really Asian”. At the time, I half-heartedly accepted these statements as compliments, signs of acceptance in a world where I have been “othered”, but I have since come to realise that statements like these further legitimise the idea that I should conform to certain ideals in order to be accepted in Western society.

The model minority stereotype is extremely pervasive and is something generations of Asians have bought into in order to be accepted; but this is also used against us and other people of colour (read: 'Model Minority' Myth Again Used As A Racial Wedge Between Asians And Blacks, “Asian Americans Are Still Caught in the Trap of the ‘Model Minority’ Stereotype. And It Creates Inequality for All” and “Are You Unconsciously Buying Into The Model Minority Stereotype?”). Anti-Blackness is deeply rooted in many Asian cultures—you need only take one look at the skin-whitening creams and all the popular hair & makeup styles and plastic surgery options in any Asian country to see that we glamourise “being more white”, perpetuating colourism within our own communities and distancing ourselves from our own cultural identities. To be more white is to be more affluent; more successful; more worthy of your place in the world. Having darker skin meant that you came from poverty or were considered dirty. Even my own parents discouraged us from developing a darker tan than what we already had, and most Filipino parents would. It is even common in many Asian families for parents to squeeze their children’s noses so that they would become less broad and develop more like a pointy, Anglo-Saxon nose (my father certainly did this to myself and my sister in our childhood).

The model minority myth is used as “proof” that systemic racism doesn’t exist and that other minority groups simply aren’t trying hard enough to fit in; meanwhile, generations of Asians work to excel in every capacity of life in order for our lives to be deemed worth something; in order for our bodies to be able to live safely and comfortably in the same spaces as white people. But is it really so far-fetched to wonder if we could be accepted and loved even if we were as mediocre as the next person?

With this perceived excellence and acceptance comes the other side of the sword: because we have assimilated into Western society so well, I have had people question the legitimacy of racism towards me or other Asians. People I know personally have said, “you’ve never actually experienced racism though, right?”. Violence and racism against Asian people has been made historically invisible, swept under the rug, because if everyone knew the truth—that Asians are exposed to racism, colourism and more—it exposes a crack in the lie fabricated by white society that racism doesn’t exist. It’s a lie so insidious that Asian people themselves question the legitimacy of their own racial trauma; we suffer in silence to avoid bringing attention to ourselves and to this toxic, global issue we all must face.

The recent attacks on Asian people have barely made headlines, and when they do make the news, there’s debate over whether it’s a hate crime at all. Our proximity to whiteness means that any violence against us can be excused or seen as anything but racist.

I have never perceived the same kind of violence, suspicion and aggression that Black & Indigenous people face, but this does not mean that I have not experienced racism. Apart from my regular day-to-day experiences and micro-aggressions (people making assumptions about where you come from, for example), I have been spat at; called a mail order bride; told “I speak English really well”. I have been told by an older white male that he “didn’t think I was Filipino because Filipinos are usually ugly”; just to name a few.

We strive so hard to be accepted into Western society, yet we continue to be exploited, marginalised and under-represented in the media, positions of leadership and more.

The history of all this runs so deep. We have often been too scared to talk about it; too scared to draw attention to ourselves in this light. Too long have we held our own trauma in our bodies, silenced into submission—but this last week, and in this last year especially since Black Lives Matter, I have seen the Asian community step up and break their silence. I have seen us become outraged enough to stand up against racism, and brave enough to vocalise our own experiences. I want to see us keep fighting against a system designed to oppress people of colour—because what affects one of us, affects all of us. I do not want to live in a world where I have to be worried for the safety of my parents, or for my future children—and I don’t want you to have to live in that world either.