Facing the Complexity of Identity: An Asian Woman's Journey
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Chapter 1: Understanding the Model Minority Myth
I am a Thai woman with Chinese ancestry and a first-generation immigrant. After dedicating 22 years to the tech industry, I transitioned from corporate life to establish my own business, where I coach and mentor tech leaders. The events following the tragic killings of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor prompted me to reflect on my own experiences with racism and the subtle racism I faced growing up. I explored my Asian privilege within the tech scene in Silicon Valley, where I found that I had encountered more sexism than racism. This led me to the concept of the "model minority," a term commonly applied to Asian Americans, which Wikipedia defines as “a minority demographic…whose members are perceived to achieve a higher degree of socioeconomic success than the population average.” My Stanford education, lucrative tech salary, and presence in the industry ticked all the boxes for this label. Yes, I fit the mold of the model minority in San Francisco.
Last year, I engaged deeply with the topic of race, reading extensively, taking my children to Black Lives Matter protests, and continuing my coaching work with women, people of color, and immigrants. I concentrated on navigating the challenges of the pandemic, burying myself in work while embodying the model minority persona.
I chose to overlook the media's portrayal when the former president referred to the “Chinese virus” and the “kung flu.” In my liberal San Francisco environment, I reassured myself: “Nobody takes those statements seriously,” while disregarding the reality that many Americans held different views. I noted the increase in hate crimes against Asian Americans but naively thought they would cease once President Biden took office. Unfortunately, that was not the case.
The reality hit me hard last week, and I could no longer ignore the escalating violence. I had previously avoided the distressing news about attacks on elderly Asian Americans in Oakland and San Francisco. The tragedy of eight people being killed, six of whom were Asian women, in massage businesses in Atlanta was a wake-up call. I could no longer remain indifferent to the intertwining issues of racism and sexism that surrounded me.
Sexism and Racism: A Dual Struggle
I believed I was privileged as an Asian woman, often trying to conform. Throughout my Stanford Computer Science education and my tech career, I was frequently one of the few women in a room full of men. In the early stages of my career, I mimicked the authoritative leadership style I observed in white men. It took years of self-reflection, vulnerability, and building confidence before I could embrace my own leadership style, characterized by empathy and emotional strength.
While I was familiar with sexism, racism was less recognizable. In college, I briefly explored Asian American communities but retreated when I was labeled a "banana"—yellow on the outside, white on the inside. I accepted this term as a badge of honor.
In the tech industry, Asians were not considered a minority. At Facebook, our focus for diversity hiring was on women, African Americans, Latinx, Indigenous people, and veterans, with Asians and whites making up the majority. I had never felt the sting of racism in my comfortable tech bubble.
Confronting Racism in San Francisco
As I emerged from my self-imposed ignorance, I felt both fear and sorrow. As a first-generation immigrant, I came to the U.S. for a better life, marrying a white American and raising biracial children.
Upon finally facing the news I had ignored, I encountered a familiar photo: a woman of Thai-Chinese descent holding a framed picture of her father against a backdrop of a golden Buddha statue. This image resonated deeply, reminding me of my father’s funeral. The story of Vichar Ratanapakdee, an 84-year-old immigrant who was murdered while caring for his grandchildren in San Francisco, struck me with profound grief. He resembled my father in age and appearance. Watching the surveillance footage of his violent attack was unbearable.
Having spent 18 years in San Francisco, I had been somewhat shielded from the current wave of anti-Asian racism. Reflecting on my experiences, I remembered walking confidently through urban spaces as a woman. I was familiar with the unspoken rules—walk with purpose, avoid eye contact. My office was situated near downtown, close to the Tenderloin, yet I experienced overt racism outside of my workplace. I recalled a moment in the Mission District when a man hurled racial slurs at me, belittling my identity. I returned home, feeling ashamed and desiring to fit in.
Another painful memory surfaced from a playground visit with my biracial children. A white woman approached me, speaking slowly, as if uncertain of my English proficiency. When she mistakenly assumed I was a nanny, I snapped back in anger, asserting my identity as the mother of my child. I shared this story with my husband later, masking my hurt with humor.
Reflecting on these encounters, my heart aches for the reality of racism in this supposedly liberal region.
The Pain of Intersectionality
As I absorbed the narrative surrounding the Atlanta shooter, my heart ached with indignation. The media’s portrayal of the assailant as simply having a “bad day” and framing the attacks as non-racial was infuriating. I am weary of the societal tendency to hypersexualize Asian women and excuse the perpetrators of violence.
Memories from my twenties resurfaced. While traveling with my white boyfriend, I faced discrimination while applying for a visa in Turkey due to stereotypes surrounding Thai women. The embarrassment and anger from that experience lingered. Another instance of harassment occurred in Vietnam, where I was subjected to stares and comments, judged for a conflict I had no part in.