This I Believe
Isabella Kang
Fearing the standard. Fearing not being socially accepted. Fearing for my life. That’s my life as an Asian-American. I’m a prime example of what they do not like. They do not like my eyes, my face, my skin color. My culture. They say ‘hard work pays off,’ but not when it’s me. Not when their ancestors are from Asia. They reject my traditions because my traditions are not the same as theirs. There’s a regime which I do not follow. I was 13 years old when I learned the value of isolation. I learned that people will isolate me because I am different, because I am Asian. Nobody could’ve prepared me for the ‘real world.’ The world where they offend people with slurs and hate crime our grandparents. It shouldn’t have frightened me like it did. On the bus, back home. The aisles covered in dirt with clusters of conversations in between, filling in the empty space. I tried to stay as quiet as possible, but my presence was enough to capture his attention. He was what the school dreaded. He was my bully. My Umma and Appa had told me about the things they were told when they first came to America. I assumed our generation was different now, that the morals used previously against people of color were filtered out. I was wrong. He used the power of slurs against me. He used the five-letter word used against my ancestors many years ago. The word rang so fluently with every syllable enunciated. This is what was seared into my head. I got off the bus, walking up my lengthy driveway. I could feel my nose getting stuffier, my vision getting blurrier. I could feel the wind slashing my hair up against my face. The tall trees towering over me. As the slur hunted me down, I thought about the history woven into my blood. The origin of the language I speak. My Halmeonis, Hal-abeojis, Imos, and Samchons of the past. But I learned only one thing. My culture is untouched, even by the words used millions of years ago. Nobody--even him--can corrupt my heritage. I believe in the impact of every word one may say, I believe in the faulty history of racism, I believe in the melanin in our skin. I believe all are equal. Our stories will be passed on from generation to generation. My grandchildren will feel secure knowing their place in this world. We people of color shall no longer have to fear the standard, fear not being socially accepted, fear for our lives.
Isabella Kang
Fearing the standard. Fearing not being socially accepted. Fearing for my life. That’s my life as an Asian-American. I’m a prime example of what they do not like. They do not like my eyes, my face, my skin color. My culture. They say ‘hard work pays off,’ but not when it’s me. Not when their ancestors are from Asia. They reject my traditions because my traditions are not the same as theirs. There’s a regime which I do not follow. I was 13 years old when I learned the value of isolation. I learned that people will isolate me because I am different, because I am Asian. Nobody could’ve prepared me for the ‘real world.’ The world where they offend people with slurs and hate crime our grandparents. It shouldn’t have frightened me like it did. On the bus, back home. The aisles covered in dirt with clusters of conversations in between, filling in the empty space. I tried to stay as quiet as possible, but my presence was enough to capture his attention. He was what the school dreaded. He was my bully. My Umma and Appa had told me about the things they were told when they first came to America. I assumed our generation was different now, that the morals used previously against people of color were filtered out. I was wrong. He used the power of slurs against me. He used the five-letter word used against my ancestors many years ago. The word rang so fluently with every syllable enunciated. This is what was seared into my head. I got off the bus, walking up my lengthy driveway. I could feel my nose getting stuffier, my vision getting blurrier. I could feel the wind slashing my hair up against my face. The tall trees towering over me. As the slur hunted me down, I thought about the history woven into my blood. The origin of the language I speak. My Halmeonis, Hal-abeojis, Imos, and Samchons of the past. But I learned only one thing. My culture is untouched, even by the words used millions of years ago. Nobody--even him--can corrupt my heritage. I believe in the impact of every word one may say, I believe in the faulty history of racism, I believe in the melanin in our skin. I believe all are equal. Our stories will be passed on from generation to generation. My grandchildren will feel secure knowing their place in this world. We people of color shall no longer have to fear the standard, fear not being socially accepted, fear for our lives.