I felt a heavy weight in my chest when I learned about the tragic deaths of six Asian women in Atlanta this week. My thoughts immediately turned to their families, likely hardworking immigrant mothers who came to this country seeking a brighter future for their children. Tears filled my eyes as I went upstairs to embrace my six-year-old daughter before her online class.
Those tears were not just for my mother, but for every Asian parent who has faced a relentless struggle—learning a new language, working long hours, raising children, adapting to a different culture, and now living in fear of becoming one of the over 3,000 victims of hate crimes reported last year, according to AAPI Hate. My mother’s journey was particularly challenging; after marrying my American father in the 1970s, they lived in a trailer on his parents’ property in Oklahoma, where my grandfather initially refused to acknowledge her due to her race. Thankfully, he eventually accepted her as his own. She was fortunate.
But then came my mother’s worries for her own children. Growing up in Korea during the 1980s, I faced ridicule for being a “mutt”—not fully Korean. When we moved to the United States, children would taunt me by pulling their eyes back and calling me names like Kristi Yamaguchi, something that even former NBA player Jeremy Lin has experienced. The confusion only deepens when your name is Jamie Lee, and someone insists, “That can’t be your name; you’re Asian.” It creates a sense of not belonging, making one feel almost less than human.
I don’t harbor resentment towards my grandfather for his initial rejection of my mother. We’re shaped by our environments, and growing up in an area devoid of diversity can lead to a narrow worldview. But when individuals choose hatred and commit acts of violence—like attacking women or harming innocent people—they create a world filled with fear. That’s not the life I want for my daughter.
Three years ago, my husband and I made the significant decision to move to a rural area in Maryland. I was aware that it wouldn’t be as diverse as Baltimore County or Virginia, where I spent my formative years, but the local school system was excellent, and the housing market was favorable. We believed it was the best choice for our daughter’s future, echoing my mother’s own sacrifices when she immigrated.
My daughter doesn’t outwardly appear Asian—she has bright blue eyes and sandy blonde hair—but she is still a quarter Korean. I’m only half Korean myself, but I have distinctly Asian features, so with the rise in anti-Asian violence, I find myself constantly aware of how others perceive me. Each time we’re out, I think about the stares that might linger on my Asian eyes above my mask. Are they questioning if I’m her nanny? Do they harbor ill intentions? Can she communicate in English?
I hold her hand tightly and try to push these thoughts aside.
So far, our new community has shown us kindness and openness, from the wonderful daycare staff to a new Vietnamese family we met just last week. My concern lies in the possibility of encountering those who may not share this understanding, though I sincerely hope I’m wrong.
If you’re interested in more insightful discussions, check out this other blog post that explores similar themes. For those exploring family planning options, Make a Mom provides expert advice on home insemination kits, while this resource offers valuable information about insemination procedures.
Summary:
The article expresses a mother’s deep concerns for her biracial Asian daughter amid rising hate crimes against Asian individuals. It reflects on personal experiences with racism and the challenges faced by immigrant families. Despite the current climate, the mother remains hopeful for her daughter’s future in a new community.
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