I was a Freshman in a predominately white college in the South when Wiz Khalifa released “Black and Yellow.” I remember every single time it blasted on the sticky frat house speakers, my black friend and I would jump up and down; screaming and pointing at ourselves while all of our white peers laughed uproariously and lifted their solo cups in acknowledgement. At 18, it felt like an inside joke. At 28, it feels like an attempt at reclaiming an inevitable joke that would be made at our expense if we didn’t make it first.
A private, liberal arts college with a graduating class totaling less than 200 – I remember being 1 of maybe 10 Asians; a recollection validated by the current 4% Asian representation in the student population, a full decade after I enrolled. Hailing from New York, I witnessed a kind of modern segregation my Northern friends scoffed at; insisting I was exaggerating for entertainment than relaying the reality. Such disbelief verified their race-blindness, but I’ve never felt more yellow than when I sat with my friends at a Southern lunch table before being asked why I “wasn’t sitting over there” – at a table full of Asians I didn’t know, by a white girl who was asking out of sheer curiosity because our friend group was the sole exception to the tables separated by race, sports teams, and social castes.
I was a heavily-tattooed, unnatural-blonde, Korean-American living in a predominately homogenous community in South Korea before the “Black Lives Matter” movement erupted in the very country I abandoned for its bigotry. A large part of me is overwhelmingly proud of the global reach of the BLM movement, but an equally valid fraction of my soul is simmering with skepticism at a nation that rejected fully-Korean me – for not appearing “Korean” enough – before jumping on a bandwagon social media wave in direct opposition of the culturally-definitive xenophobic reality I know to be the truth.
A garage elevator at Roosevelt Field Mall with a total of 3 people – my preteen self, my Korean mother, and a black male. My mother exaggeratedly clutches her purse to her chest in patent panic because she is “trapped” in an enclosed space with a “hook-een;” the Korean word for “black person” where “hook” is “dirt” and “een” is “person.” Our entire culture has relegated this race to “dirt people” and yet we audaciously assume we have an automatic seat of solidarity at the minority table.
How can we lift our fists in fellowship without first confronting our mothers and grandmothers? How can we stand as allies without addressing the insidious racism in our neighbors and pastors? If you know what it is to be Korean, you also know what it is to chip away at a culture of deeply ingrained racism in addition to unyielding misogyny and classism.
A news outlet releases the identity of Derek Chauvin’s wife, a Laotian-American. Comments include: “China is the only place for you now,” “Back to the rub-and-tug for her… or the nail salon,” and “OMG he is married to a corona woman. Asians hate the blacks, so I am sure she is not divorcing him over this.”
A Harlem DJ posts his first Chinese food meal post-quarantine on social media. Comments include: “I ain’t eat that shit since the virus started,” “SMH can’t support them people no more,” “Keep playing with that rona,” and “Good old rat, cat, and dog they feed the hood but don’t eat themselves.”
A Moroccan comedian posts a video of him pranking an unsuspecting Asian man. Comments include, “Don’t get close to them Asians – ronavirus” and refer to the bystander as “Lu Kang,” “Jackie Chan,” “Ling Ling,” and “Yi Yong.”
An Asian police officer stands guard while his colleagues brutally beat a black male in the back of their vehicle before one kneels on his neck for 8 minutes. The man, named George Floyd, dies as a result. The only comment that can be made is, “Black Lives Matter.”
I was on the 6 train when 2 black people wondered aloud where the nearest McDonald’s might be. I interjected, giving them specific directions, and they smiled in sincere thanks. They then conferred in an audible sidebar, saying “She’s so nice” and “Plus she talks good, not like one of them ching chong accents.” It was meant to be a compliment, but what separates that moment in the heart of New York City from that lunch table in the middle of Georgia?
There is a direct correlation between racism and poor education; another reason why Karens, with all of their privilege, have no excuse. The pervasive roots of racism within our societal systems have ensured inadequate opportunities for minorities so when the majority of racist insults I endure come from the mouths of black people, I can attribute most of it to ignorance. However, I can’t help but wonder if they are, in part, unconsciously misdirecting their own mistreatment.
In the way someone bullied becomes a bully, in the same way those who are abused grow up to become abusive, there is a cyclical nature to the force of pain; as if it must be passed on instead of defeated. But hatred isn’t converted; it’s taught, it’s created – which means it can be destroyed. Black racism is louder, more overt; white racism is subtler, more covert – but both are at record highs in equal measure of the widely-spread pandemic we are being blamed, but aren’t responsible, for.
Karens hide behind a veneer of education and propriety, clutching their pearls. Their bigotry may be limited to complaints to management and white collar disdain but at street level, Asians are literally being spit on and derided by other minorities as harbingers of the virus; stereotyped as one nationality which is then viewed as a disease – rather than a myriad of shades within a yellow spectrum that spans from eggshell to umber, from Mainland to Pacific Islander. Most of us have been born here, most of us “speak with no accent,” and none of us are looking for a pat on the head for our “good English.”
Right now, Asians are viewed as an epidemic. For most racists, “Asian” has just become a synonym for “COVID-19.” However, if yellow people have been relegated to happy-ending masseuses and dry-cleaners, black people have been reduced to criminals and rapists. If yellow people have been dismissed as dog-eaters and nail shop employees, black people have been denigrated as drug addicts and convicts. I see the difference in urgency, my eyes are open to the crisis. But the heart of allyship demands a mutual relationship in which we are supportive of each other; rather than holding up just one end.
I am by no means undermining the “Black Lives Matter” movement with an “All Lives Matter” moment. I fully acknowledge all the ways in which our race has benefitted from the “Model Minority” myth and how yellow complicity has contributed to the continued disenfranchisement of blacks. I see through the machinations of the system that is pitting us against each other and I am a witness to the inconveniences for me that are experienced as innumerable deaths for you.
“Black Lives Matter” – first and foremost. This is a self-evident truth. However, in order for my community to credibly support this claim, we must first dismantle the deep-seated prejudices in the hearts of our friends and family who harbor such hatred. As our ally, I hope the black community will challenge any bigoted views regarding yellow culture within their own circles so a genuinely-founded allyship can begin to bourgeon in the stead of empty words and social media posts.
There is no easy way for me to look my mother in the eyes and call her a racist. I berated her in the elevator that day, appalled by the prejudice so plainly written in her face, but this was the first tentative toe print in a single step of challenging one member of a multi-generational, highly-conservative, Korean-Presbyterian family that is uniformly anti-gay, anti-feminist, racist, and has already disowned me for my shamefully expansive array of tattoos.
My family is also the smallest sliver of a frightening majority of like-minded, old-fashioned chauvinists in a country desperately clinging onto discrimination. This foundational uprooting is going to be difficult, uncomfortable; sometimes seemingly impossible. But I believe in the importance, I believe in the work, and I believe in the emerging progress that gives me the strength to change the hearts of people I had failed to move on my own.
I want to be honest. I want to confess the ugliness of black racism within yellow communities and I want to confront the reality of yellow stereotyping within black society. I want to open up a conversation. I want to tackle the transference of hatred from both sides. I want to start with my family, so I can then challenge my cultural community, so I can then stand against the systemic injustices of our society.
I want to ream racism at the root, so I can raise my fist to support “Black Lives Matter” in all conscience. I want to educate my mother, but I also want to enlighten the people, both black and yellow, preaching performative allyship before getting their own houses in order. I want to be a part of something real; minorities truly seeing and supporting other minorities.
I want to be a part of a “Black and Yellow” where there is more emphasis on the “AND” instead of the “black” or the “yellow.”
noted things 