I grew up flying under the radar, with a neurotypical brain that could learn in a traditional academic setting and enough self-awareness to play to my strengths when it came to school. My parents didn’t get involved in my education because they didn’t have the language capabilities and time to do so. And frankly, they probably didn’t care. They knew that left to my own devices, I’d figure it out. There was no other option. The few times I asked my parents for school help (hello, third grade math quiz marked with a red “SEE ME” on top) left me feeling scared and inadequate, so that was incentive enough for me to wing it and rely on non-family members for help. Luckily for all of us, I could get by. The mottos we live by in my family of origin: We don’t cause trouble, we don’t ask for “extras”, and we are persevering. The expectation was that I would get above-passing grades and if I was in trouble, I’d figure it out myself or else deal with my dad’s disappointment at home.
As an adult, I navigate the world with an invisible sticky note posted on my forehead: “Just being pleasant and not at all a burden here! Not asking for anything extra! I’m very, very easy to get along with and non-threatening and won’t cause you any trouble!” This makes advocating for my kid SO uncomfortable. Advocating for my kid means that I’m sticking out, and goes against many of my survival instincts. My brain is filled with too many too’s: Am I asking for too much? Being too shrill? Too whiny? Too pushy? Too unreasonable? Too argumentative? Too Asian Dragon Lady? Too Asian Tiger Mom? Too helicopter-y? Am I too wedded to my own agenda, at the risk of harm to others who have it worse than me? Can I package my advocacy in a nice, pleasant, and non-threatening way? Preferably one that says, Hey, I’m very easy to work with here, and I come to you in peace!
Of course, larger systems want individuals to be filled with doubts as it comes to asking for “too much” because this keeps resources and power in the hands of and available to those who already hold resources and power.
I envy people who walk through the world like they BELONG here. These people carry themselves with the ease that comes from owning their space and feeling unconditionally loved. Their parents probably told them “I’m so proud of you for trying” when they got C’s, attended honor roll ceremonies, and published declarations of love and pride (complete with baby pictures, of course) in senior yearbooks. These loved people are pleasantly firm and confident when they speak up, because their lived reality is one in which they usually get what they need or ask for.
My parents, especially my dad, knew that America would never look at them as if they fully belonged - nor me and my sister for that matter. We wear our Asian on our faces. People would always look at them as the hotel maid, the taxi driver, the awkward guy who doesn't speak good English. The invisible service in the background. Or, the scary opposite of invisible in more recent history: To be visible as those who share origins with the “Kung flu” or “China virus”. My dad knew that wearing Asian faces meant that we got fewer passes and less leverage to self-advocate. So both parents made sure to teach my sister and I to never ask for too much, have a strong grasp of the English language (see: Dad’s dreams of me writing a book), always be grateful for anything we got, and to leave every interaction with a net positive for the other person. My dad knew that loving us proudly, tenderly, affectionately - being soft - wouldn’t help us survive. He made sure to pound us down and make us strong before the world got to us.
It was a beautiful survival strategy that got my sister and I to where we are today, in white collar jobs that are respected and with upward financial mobility for us and future generations. It also left within me the seedling fear of being a burden when I ask for “too much”. The Otherness I wear on my face is like the background hum of a fridge - it’s always there, and we’re all always aware of it, even when we’re not. So, it’s on me to be careful what I ask for. “Because,” my survival skills remind me, “Did you even EARN it? Do you deserve this?
I want my kids to be those envied people who walk through life with belonging and ease. I want them to feel empowered to affect outcomes so that they can get their needs met. Would that be the progression of intergenerational immigrant belonging? The uncertainty of first and second generations: “I need to prove my belonging.” Maybe the third generation gets the privilege of a proclamation: “Here I am! I belong here, I deserve to be here and ask for things, and get the things I ask for.”
Nothing will motivate me to get out of my comfort more than the urgent need to make things different for my kids. So, Little Love, while you may never realize nor appreciate how hard it has been for me to grow and keep up with you, this work I will continue to do. You are worth the discomfort, the self-doubt that comes with advocating for you. And though my efforts may be clumsy, in taking these steps, I'm practicing the ownership, ease, and belonging I pray that you (and I!) embody one day.