This article is a reflectional piece, and is meant to help out others who are affected by racism. It is not intended to offend anyone by any means. If you have any concerns, feel free to email mt-holyoke@hercampus.com
In today’s world, I feel like it can be very difficult to communicate our thoughts and feelings with others. We’re told in school to be open and non-judgmental with our peers, but in the real world, criticism is everywhere. Just scrolling through Facebook, you can find countless strangers writing their thoughts down, seemingly not caring if their words are hurtful to others.
For my article this week, I wanted to take a more serious route and discuss something that I’m sure many of us have experienced in our lives before: racism. Everyone experiences racism differently, but my hope is that some of you will be able to connect to my story and realize you’re not alone in feeling belittled by others.
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My name’s Olivia. I was born in 1998, in China. Somewhere during the first few months of my life, I was brought to an orphanage and kept there until October of that year, when my parents flew to China to adopt me. When I was brought to the United States, I became a sibling to my older sister, who was also adopted from China. And from there, my family suddenly became multicultural: Chinese, American, and Italian.
I was seven years old when I had my first encounter with racism. It’s been twelve years since it happened, but the memory is still very clear in my mind. In second grade, my teacher held a circle time every day. This was when the entire class would sit on the rug together, and I remember this particular meeting was about our upcoming Heritage Day. Our assignment was to make a food that came from our home countries. The teacher went around, asking every student which country they would be researching and making food from. When she came to me, I confidently said, “I’m Italian, so I’ll bring in some Italian pastries.”
I wish I had had a camera at that moment to capture all of the shocked faces of my classmates. Right as the words had left my mouth, everyone began firing questions at me.
“You’re Italian?! But you look Asian!”
“Why aren’t you doing China? You’re from there, right?”
“If you’re Italian, why don’t you look like your mom?”
Looking back on it, I realize their questions weren’t meant to be offensive– they were seven year olds. They were simply curious. But at the time I was deeply hurt by their curiosity and remember feeling my face heat up. My teacher eventually got them to settle down, but I went home that day with my confidence crumbling. It was like my thoughts were split in two, and they kept battling with each other.
You’re Italian! Mom is Italian, and you were raised in an Italian cultured home. You’re practically made of pasta.
But you are ethnically Chinese. Chinese blood runs in your veins. You should recognize that.
Just because you were born in a country, doesn’t mean you have to follow its customs. You don’t remember living there.
It was on this day when I became highly aware of my unusual ethnic identity. While I knew I was Chinese, I certainly didn’t identify with the culture. Most of the time when I thought about my ethnicity, I labeled myself as Italian. Up until that circle time in second grade, I’d never put much thought into who I was in terms of race and ethnicity.
I wish I could say the racist comments ended there. But unfortunately, they got more frequent. For the next five years or so, I heard an endless cycle of comments about my race that made me angry and upset. I had complete strangers come up to me and make fun of my eyes, or claim that I was given up for adoption because my biological parents didn’t want me. I knew they were being ignorant and rude, but their words still left a scar.
In school it was just as bad. I had kids come up to me during recess and ask me all sorts of questions, that varied from “Do you speak Chinese?” to “Why are your eyes so small?” to “How come you’re Asian but your parents are white?” “Did your real parents not want you?” I didn’t (and honestly still don’t) understand why these kids always asked me these questions. Was it a bad thing that I wasn’t related to my family? On those days I went home asking my mom some of these questions. And she always told me to ignore those kids. She loved me and my older sister just as much as my younger sister, who was her only biological child. She told me to never doubt that, no matter what anyone said.
The racist comments faded for a year or so, but then hit me again in seventh grade, when I was twelve. Middle school had been a tough few years for me. For starters, I was going through puberty (like most middle schoolers). I was very insecure at this time about my appearance, and the relentless bullying I experienced didn’t help.
The nastiest remarks I heard were in my art class. I recall being absolutely miserable that school year, since none of my friends were in my classes. I sat at a table in the back of class with a few boys I didn’t know. Coincidentally, we were at the table located the farthest away from the teacher. When she was giving the class instructions, the boys would take the opportunity to scrutinize me, saying their thoughts aloud.
“Look at that Asian girl,” they’d snicker. “Her eyes are so small.”
“Does she speak English?” they giggled one day, while we were supposed to be working on a painting.
There was one conversation we’d had that put me over the edge.
“Hey,” one of them said to me once. “You’re Asian, right? Can you help me with my math homework?”
“I’m not good at math,” I’d replied honestly.
“What?! You’re not? You’re not a real Asian, then.”
You’re not a real Asian, then. That final sentence, that closing comment…it felt like my confidence was crumbling before I could process it. I’d been teased about my ethnicity and struggling to identify myself for years. Hearing that boy say that to my face in such a factual way was the final blow I could take. I remember going home crying that day, telling my mom what he’d said. Finally, after a month of trying to ignore their racist comments, I asked my mom to switch schools.
The racist comments stopped after that year. My new middle school had much kinder students. I didn’t hear another remark about my ethnicity again until high school.
But it was a small moment, a miniscule racist jab about my ability to do math. I’d heard it countless times before.
It was one of the first times I was able to overlook a racist insult thrown my way.
Today, I’m proud to announce I’ve learned how to handle most racist comments, jabs, and observations. As a little kid I used to be so shocked and upset when others would criticize my appearance and ethnicity. Over the years, the words have stopped scarring me as much. Of course, I still wish people would learn to keep their racist thoughts to themselves, but for now I’ve learned to ignore their words and move on.
I am not defined by the words people throw at me.
I am my own person. I decide which labels describe me and which ones don’t.
I am one of many who has experienced racism, and is looking forward to a future where racism doesn’t exist.
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