Anti-AAPI (Asian American and Pacific Islander) hostility and violence have been on the rise in America. As divisive racial rhetoric and actions grow in our country, the real-life impact of those words manifests as outright acts of violence and harm against the AAPI community. COVID-19, a virus that knows no boundaries like race, culture, economic status, or country, was spitefully renamed the “China Virus” and the “Kung Flu”—all because of the origin of the first cases. Much like the aftermath of the George Floyd murder, layers and layers of hateful vitriol have emerged in our communities and GOSW, in partnership with our friends at the Meyer Memorial Trust, decided that it was time to speak up…and speak out…about this important issue. As we continue building our equity practices, it is in these moments that we must open our minds in order to better understand issues that impact the communities that we serve, and today, we stand in solidarity with and in support of our friends and colleagues in the AAPI community by sharing their stories.

Though I grew up in a racially diverse town, I was brown in a world that only seemed to recognize Black and white. I learned the carols for Christmas, then the dreidel song for Hanukkah, and as time went on the seven days of Kwanzaa. But I never expected that anyone would know of Durga Puja or Saraswati Puja. Bilingualism meant that you could speak Spanish, but definitely not Bengali. Every day, I labored to build a bridge to connect to others’ worlds, but few were interested in traversing that bridge to see my world.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I learned about their own childhoods, growing up amidst the turbulence of war in Vietnam, and how those early experiences shaped their orientation to the world around them.

So many refugees and immigrants share this experience and trauma of having lived through violence and war before they come to the US, so it particularly pains me to see the rise of physical and verbal attacks on Asian-Americans (and vulnerable elders) in this past year, fomented and enflamed by the anti-Asian rhetoric spouted by the highest leaders in the country.

The Indian workers were beaten, one was thrown out of a second story window, and eventually all were forcibly put on trains and sent south to Portland. The next day, the St. Johns Review decried the violence, but described “the Hindus” (most were Sikhs, not Hindus) as “an undesirable class of citizens by reason of their grotesque appearance and filthy conditions.”

To a degree, there are factors that I can control, or at the very least prepare for and come to expect. What I can’t control are my almond shaped eyes, my dark skin and black hair.

Imagine the courage it takes to deliberately get yourself arrested in order to protest an unfair law.

On March 28, 1942, Minoru Yasui, purposefully broke the curfew established by President Franklin D. Roosevelt under Executive Order 9066, that restricted dusk to dawn movement of Nationals from Germany, Italy and Japan, as well as all Americans of Japanese descent. This order was FDR’s response to Japan’s bombing of Pearl Harbor, precipitating the United States entry into World War II against Japan, and their German and Italian allies.

A few weeks ago, I called my mom, as I often do, on my way to the Japanese market to ask what she wanted me to pick up for her.

The market has been a vital source of connection to our culture and community, often the only place we can find the foods that are essential and important to us. But being in a high-risk group for COVID-19, my mom has not been able to go there since the beginning of the pandemic, making the trips I make there more important than ever. Fresh mochi can be balm for the spirit when you’re stuck at home.

We have heard similar words before, including the 14th amendment, Civil Rights Act, and Voting Rights Act. Yet none would say that simply declaring it has ever made it true. Due to the country’s long history of white backlash in response to racial progress, it is easy—but simplistic and damaging—to reduce our experiences to only a “white” and “non-white” dynamic.

The pandemic exacerbated hate against Asians and Pacific Islanders (API). We know from history that in times of crisis, people project blame onto a group or race. In the case of this pandemic, people think that all Chinese are to blame. This, of course, is founded in ignorance. Back in January 2020, we started to see things happen here in Portland, perhaps even earlier. People accused those of Chinese descent of bringing the virus to Oregon.

Confused, I walked back to my desk, opened my computer and sent a message to a colleague, another Asian American woman: “Did you make some guy coffee this morning?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Why?”

“He just thanked me for it,” I replied, rolling my eyes.

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One dish called the Triple Delight with stir fried vegetables, shrimp, chicken, and beef in a brown sauce was the star of the show. If things got really busy, I may have been asked to bus some tables or shovel snow from the sidewalk. In the before times, if you drove down SE 82nd Ave in Portland or visited any number of Chinese restaurants across the state, you may have observed this exact same scene playing out. These businesses are family affairs, and everyone pitched in.

The threat of harm and worrying about potential harm has always loomed over my experience as an Asian American since I came here from India at 4 years old. My mother worked as a nurse in New York City and brought my grandmother and me from India to be reunited with the family. My grandmother and I did not speak a word of English but very quickly learned that some in this country did not welcome our arrival.

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My mother would raise two kids in America and work as a successful career software engineer -- eleven years of that career at Intel. My parents credit the massacres at Tiananmen Square as the moment they decided to leave mainland China.

Although I appreciated my parents’ boldness in coming to the U.S., I didn’t always want this skin I was born into. Being told that your home smells funny, that your eyes are too small and slanty, that your English is pretty good for a chink, that your family should “go back to where they came from, that you’re too different to be equal – those things hurt.

As a first generation Indian American, I routinely navigate a complicated terrain of interpersonal questions and assumptions about identity, family, community, and a vision of ‘the American Dream.’ The sacrifices made by my own family and community to achieve this vision are painful to recount and important to name.

I recall summers when my friends went off to summer camp in Vermont or to visit their cousins in Maine, while I boarded a 24-hour flight to India for three months. My summers were filled with Indian comforts – bhel puri (Indian street food) and a fresh glass of nimbu pani (lemonade), cooling off from monsoon summers. For as long as I can remember, I have oscillated between my identities – am I Indian or am I American? As if these inherent parts of me cannot mutually exist.