A Prayer about Racial Issues (Or, A Prayer That’s Scary to Pray)

A couple weeks ago, I received an email from one of the pastors in my local church. He asked if I could lead a prayer at our upcoming evening worship and prayer service. (We have one of these every month.) The area he asked me to pray for is one I’m passionate about: the racial issues in our country. I was honored to be asked. But the overwhelming feeling I had when I responded with my “yes” was fear and dread. Our church is predominantly white; the demographics of our congregation reflects the demographics of our city (which is statistically one of the whitest cities in America). Let me be clear: I LOVE my church! It’s a great church with wonderful people. But what was being asked of me was still terrifying. I voiced my fears to my husband:

  • “How on earth am I supposed to lead a congregation to pray as one about something in which we’re so divided?”
  • “How do I—a woman of color in a predominantly white space—lead a prayer about racial issues in a way that won’t get labeled ‘divisive,’ but is still honest and genuine?”
  • “What happens if this doesn’t go well?” (This was my biggest question/worry. Did I mention that my husband’s on pastoral staff at this church?)

I labored over the words I’d pray, crafting the words while whispering again and again, “God, I can’t do this. Please help me!” He gave me words. And I prayed them on my own each day leading up to the service. Alone in my living room, I felt the weight of the words. This is not a safe prayer, I thought. I felt something else, too. Something beautiful was happening.

Last night, as I walked up the steps of the platform to lead our congregation in prayer, my heart raced and I unsuccessfully fought to stop shaking. In my fear—yes, I did it scared!—I kept my head down and my eyes on my iPad. As I prayed, I heard something I hoped for but didn’t expect: voices rising in agreement. There were only a couple times when I felt the crowd get quiet. My husband prepared me for this: “There will be moments when they’ll get quiet because they don’t know yet how to pray about some of these things. They’ll get quiet so they can listen and learn. It’s a good thing. Just keep going.” I remembered his words and kept going all the way to the “amen.” Something indeed happened last night. It felt as though something hard that needed to be broken was beginning to break. This is just a beginning. I wrote in my journal after I got home, “I feel it—really feel it. Hope.”

After the service, a number of people asked if I could send them a copy of what I prayed. This morning, I got more messages with the same request. So here it is. What follows are the words I spoke and prayed (including a couple notes to myself to breathe) at Central Assembly in Springfield, Missouri on the evening of Sunday, February 6, 2022. May we continue to pray these words. And as we do, may we learn to live them.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We’re going to pray about the racial issues in our country. [Take a breath.] And I know that as soon as I said those words, every single one of us felt something and our minds got loud with ideas and beliefs. And the range of thoughts is so wide that it can seem too insurmountable for us to be able to pray as one.

So here’s what we’re going to do:

  • Everyone, hold out your hands in front of you, and clench your fists. (No hitting! We’re not about to fight each other!) Prayerfully imagine that in your fists are all the things you think and feel when you hear the words, “racial issues”…because we’re not going to be able to pray as a unified voice until we deal with what we’re holding in our fists. 
  • As I begin, I want you to pray, “God, here’s all my stuff. I want to give You access to all of it.”  And when You’re ready, I invite you to open your hands in surrender to Jesus. If you need more time before you’re ready, that’s okay. The important thing is that we all move a little closer to God in this moment.

Let’s pray:

God, we’re symbolically holding in our fists 

  • ways we believe we’re right and others are wrong,
  • ways we’ve allowed ideologies to hinder us from loving well,
  • maybe feelings of apathy or annoyance, 
  • or a desire for things to be better and exhaustion by the weight of it all,
  • maybe disillusionment, anger, or disappointment in our brothers and sisters in Christ, 
  • maybe pain or even trauma. 

Some of the things we’re holding are right in Your eyes and some are not. For most, what we’re holding is complicated. And all of it needs to be surrendered to You—whether for repentance, or so You can sanctify it to be used for Your glory, or so You can do Your miraculous healing work. 

So God, here’s all our stuff. Help us surrender it all to You.

If you feel ready, go ahead and open your hands and pray with me:

Jesus, we surrender it all to You. We give You access to all of it. Align our hearts to Yours and let Your will be done in and through us.

So now we lift up our church, our community, and our nation.

God, we lift up the Black community.

We lift up the Native American community.

We lift up the Latino community.

We lift up the Asian American and Pacific Islander community.

We lift up everyone who’s part of the majority culture.

The needs are many.

We pray for demonic strongholds to be destroyed. Break the strongholds of racism and white supremacy in our country and even our churches. Disturb what needs to be disturbed and change hearts. 

We pray for repentance to continue and to be thorough. We’ve come a long way, but still have far to go. Help us to repent and bear fruit in keeping with repentance. As Daniel, Nehemiah, and others repented for the communal sins of Israel, we repent of our nation’s sins as well as our own.

  • In commenting on MLK’s “I Have a Dream Speech,” Mrs. Coretta King said: “At that moment it seemed as if the Kingdom of God appeared. But it only lasted for a moment.” God, there was a moment when it felt like we were on the brink of racial healing, but it only lasted for a moment, and too many returned to business as usual. 
  • We repent of our prejudices, the ways we’ve wrongly judged, painted groups of people with broad strokes, or turned people into demeaning caricatures. We repent of the actions and inaction that flowed from these ways of thinking. 
  • We repent of disobeying your command to care for the foreigner and the ways we’ve treated ethnic minorities like they are “other” and do not belong.
  • We repent of the ways we’ve upheld or been complicit with unjust systems.
  • We repent of choosing to be colorblind when the dream of Your Kingdom is not one of ethnic erasure but one that envisions every nation, tribe, and language worshiping together before Your throne. Give us eyes to be color brave, to see the beauty of our ethnicities and the ways they reflect the image of God.
  • We repent of choosing comfort over bravery. 
  • We repent of participating in racial jokes or degrading comments, whether we were the one speaking the words or were complicit with our laughter or silence.
  • We repent of being silent when we should have spoken up in either correction or encouragement. 
  • We repent of getting so caught up in ideologies and partisan talking points that we’ve allowed ourselves to treat people—fellow bearers of the image of God—as though they’re the enemy.
  • We repent of getting so caught up in debate that we fail to listen, show empathy, compassion, and love.
  • We repent of treating racial issues as though they’re problems “out there” and neglecting to care for those among us who are hurting.
  • We repent of the times we’ve prayed without action and the times we’ve acted without prayer. 

I pray for us to not settle for superficial peace, but to be agents of healing and justice. 

  • Give our lawmakers the wisdom to correct unjust laws and systems.
  • Raise up more Christians like Bryan Stevenson to advocate for the victims of our unjust laws and systems and work towards equity.
  • I pray for the violence against Black and brown bodies to stop. Oh, God, we denounce violence in all its forms. We denounce violence that’s inflicted on anyone. This week, with the start of Black History Month, at least 13 Historically Black Colleges and Universities were forced to close due to bomb threats. Oh God, we cry out for true peace in our land. As we often pray for a shield of protection when we travel, we pray for a shield of protection around ethnic minorities.
  • In “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” Martin Luther King lamented, “So here we are moving toward the exit of the twentieth century with a religious community largely adjusted to the status quo, standing as a taillight behind other community agencies rather than a headlight leading men to higher levels of justice.” Oh God, may we be a headlight leading people to higher levels of justice! Give Your Church—here at Central and throughout our country—the wisdom and anointing to be brave in calling out unjust attitudes and systems, to be brave in doing the work of racial reconciliation, and to be brave in praying for and working towards shalom in our land. Holy Spirit, lead us and help us lead the way. 

[Take a breath.]

Since the start of the pandemic, there’s been a drastic rise in Anti-Asian violence. Asian Americans have been bombarded with videos of people who look like us and our parents being attacked and murdered. A couple months ago, there was news of an Asian man who was shot multiple times. He was about my father’s age and was killed in Chicago’s Chinatown, a place my father frequents. So when I saw the news headline, without thinking, I instinctually looked up the details of the story to make sure it wasn’t my father. This is a glimpse of what racial trauma looks like.

Jesus, we lift up those who are hurting and suffering racial trauma. 

  • We’re hurting. And sometimes the pain is too heavy and hope feels impossible. Oh Jesus, You understand wounds. So we welcome You into our pain and we bring You our lament. We bring You all our anger and frustration, all our why-s and how longs. 
  • We pray for every BIPOC person who is carrying trauma in their bodies and their spirit. God of all comfort, I beg You to heal us. 
  • Help us as we absorb yet another insensitive comment, dirty look, or hurtful action. Keep our hearts soft and our armors strong. May we forgive and, at the same time, not internalize the racism we experience.
  • Help us when the news of another assault or murder triggers our trauma and fear. 

Our Father, there’s so much brokenness. But You are the Lord of righteousness and justice, God of miracles and infinite possibility. Heal our land. Amen.

Reclaiming My Ethnic Identity

A few months ago, in “An Asian American’s Awakening, I wrote these words:

So I’ve made a decision: I’m not hiding anymore. What does that mean? Honestly, I’m not completely sure. I’m just going to let this journey take me where it will. Here’s what I do know: I bear the image of God and I’m not going to be a part of tearing down the imago Dei in me anymore.

What follows is a continuation of this journey of reclaiming my identity and an invitation for you to do the same.

When I was in high school, my history teacher talked about the Filipino “savages” that came at Magellan the explorer with their clubs shouting, “Ooga, Ooga!” I will never forget my humiliation as my classmates turned and looked at me. In that moment, I felt ashamed to be a Filipina, and even more shame for feeling ashamed. So when I stumbled on a collection of poems by Justine Ramos, a Filipina American author, with a piece called, “Ferdinand Magellan,” I knew I had found something special. In sharing her own Magellan story, I could feel the tension in her body and the wrestling with her identity as the other students in the class stared at her. And in reading her story, I was also reading mine.

Telling our stories is important. And something powerful happens when we see ourselves in the stories of others.

But what happens when we’ve mostly been erased from the stories that are told, when the only time we make it into the narrative, we’re villains and “savages”?

Both of my parents immigrated to the States from the Philippines, so I’m second generation American. I grew up in the Chicagoland where many of my closest friends were also second generation Fil-Ams (Filipino Americans). We weren’t related, but they were my sisters and brothers and their parents were my titas and titos. Our parents spoke to us in Tagalog; we answered in English (with some Taglish thrown in). We lived in America, but we were tethered to the Motherland. 

Now I live in Springfield, MO, one of the whitest cities in America. I’ve code switched—hidden my Filipinaness and acted more white in order to blend into white spaces—for so long that I feel disconnected from an important part of my identity. I miss Tagalog, sitting down at a table where patis (fish sauce) is one of the condiments, and being greeted with the words, “Kain na!”–”Let’s eat!” I miss eating with my kamay (hands). I miss fancy events where men wear barongs, women wear dresses with big sleeves, and people dance the Tinikling. But most of all, I miss feeling at home in my Filipinaness.

So now, months before I turn forty years old, I’m reclaiming my ethnic identity. It isn’t easy. (I have one Fil-Am friend where I live. One. Two if you count her four-year-old daughter.) I’ve been listening to podcasts to learn Tagalog grammar so I can finally be able to formulate my own sentences aside from the ones I know only because I heard them a million times growing up. I’m reading books that tell stories and details that have been left out of American textbooks. (How old were you when you learned about the Philippine-American War or that the Philippines was colonized by Spain and then the United States?) And I’m exploring art, movies, music, and poetry where I see reflections of my ancestors, culture, and myself.

It’s time to reclaim my story. It’s time for all of us to reclaim our stories.

A BOOK FOR ALL ETHNICITIES:

Becoming All Things: How Small Changes Lead to Lasting Connections Across Cultures, by Michelle Ami Reyes

If you want to understand the importance of all of our ethnic and cultural heritages in a theologically robust way, this book is a goldmine! Here are a couple of my favorite excerpts:

“No matter your ethnicity, skin color, or cultural values, you have been made as a bearer of God’s image with dignity and worth equal to every other person. If you don’t value your cultural identity, you are not valuing a vital aspect of the image of God within you. If you don’t value the cultural identity of another person, you are not valuing the image of God within him or her.”

“The words of Scripture challenge us to step into other people’s histories and stories, to see through their eyes, to mourn for their pain, and to build better futures for one another. Justice is not a distraction from the gospel. It is a core message of the gospel. The life of Jesus declares this to be true, and if you want to prioritize the gospel in your life, then the pursuit of justice on behalf of others must be an essential component of your faith. Like Paul, become the weak. See the world through their eyes. Only then will people truly begin to see Christ in you.”

A COUPLE BOOKS FOR THE FILIPINX DIASPORA:

Full disclosure: I’m not a fan of expletives and I typically don’t recommend books that contain language I wouldn’t use. However, there are some exceptions and these books are among them. The expletives and strong language in the following books are minimal. And they serve the purpose of historical accuracy (such as quotations from historical figures) or expressions of intense emotion. But if you have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to strong language, these books may not be for you.

A History of the Philippines: From Indio Bravos to Filipinos, by Luis H. Francia

This book dives into the history of the Philippines from pre-colonial days to the present. Though this is an amazing resource for a Filipinx wanting to learn about their ethnic heritage, this is a book for everyone. By including perspectives and parts of stories that were left out of our history textbooks in the US, it challenges the way we view European and American history and adds insight to discussions about racism, colonialism, militarism, and even missiology.

Halo-Halo: A poetic mix of culture, history, identity, revelation, and revolution, by Justine Ramos

This is the book I mentioned earlier with the poem called, “Ferdinand Magellan.” In a podcast, I heard Ramos talk about how publishers told her that her themes were for “too specific of an audience” and that she should try to write for a wider, more general audience. I’m so glad she didn’t diminish the power of her words by diluting her creativity! This book is a work of art. Through her slam-style poetry, Ramos gives insight into the experiences and psyche of the Filipinx diaspora. At times, her words feel like lament. Other times, like revolutionary anthems. This book was like a healing balm to my soul.

In the Author’s Note, she wrote:

“My poetry is dedicated to all the textbooks that left my country and culture out of the narrative. My poetry is devoted to anyone who has ever uttered “Hirap Buhay ‘Merica” [“Life’s Hard in America] under their breath…As you turn the page, you’ll read snippets of frustrations and reflections. You’ll read flashes of my childhood, a peek into the crevices of my heart and memory. You’ll hear outrage, hope, and a desperate call for advocacy and awareness. These pages contain the tears of those who have lost a sense of themselves, those who have let the world define who they are, and the strength of those who, like me, are on the journey of finding themselves again.”

WHAT ABOUT YOU?

Are you on a journey of reclaiming your identity? What are you doing to reclaim the pieces of your story and culture you have lost, forgotten, or never had? I’d love to hear from you! (You can share in the comments.)

What Silence About Racism Sounds Like (and Words BIPOC Need to Hear)

“We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormenter, never the tormented. The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.”

~Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986

As a woman of color navigating all the ways this past year has brought my racial pain and trauma to the surface, there are words I need to hear from the people in my life:

“I see you.”

“I’m here for you.”

“I’ve got your back.”

For those of you who are leaders, I need to hear the same from the leadership of the organizations and institutions I’m part of:

“We see you.”

“We’re here for you.”

“We’ve got your back.”

Why is this so important? Because, as Elie Wiesel states, “Silence encourages the tormenter, never the tormented.” For me personally, when the people in my life or the organizations I’m part of offer silence in response to racial pain, what I hear is NOT compassion or empathy. What I hear is:

They do not see me.

They are not here for me.

They do not have my back.

My journal is a place where I feel freedom to express all the things I’m too timid or scared to say out loud. Over the past year, I’ve written in my journal, “I wish they would try. But in order to try, they’d first have to care. And I don’t know anymore if I believe they care.”

So if you care, please don’t believe the lie that silence is the best option. At the least, it can be hurtful (or even feel like betrayal) to those who are hurting. At most, it can embolden those who have deep racism in their hearts and desire to harm racial minorities. Say something!

I know that some of you are reading this and thinking, “I’ve wanted to say something to my friends (or the people I lead) who’ve been hurting during this season, but I haven’t been able to find the words.” I get that. It can be scary to want to say something but to also be afraid of saying the wrong thing. If coming up with the “right” words has felt like an overwhelming and impossible task for you, or if you read the three sentences I shared earlier and thought, “That’s what I’ve been trying to say but I didn’t know how!”—you’re welcome to use them! It doesn’t have to be word-for-word exactly what I wrote. There are so many ways you can express these messages! The important thing is to express them and mean them!

Let’s take a closer look at these three sentences:

“I see you.”

This is the bare minimum. This shouldn’t be controversial. Yet, unfortunately, I know that for some, it is. If you love someone, these words should be easy. The other two sentences are dependent on this one. “I see you” can sound like:

  • “I’m listening.”
  • “I see your pain. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
  • “I see the image of God in you.”
  • “I see your uniqueness. I see your beautiful personality, your giftings, what you bring into a room, the ways you make me better.”

Note: In addition to silence, there are many ways to convey, “I don’t see you.” Some of those ways include arguing instead of listening, gaslighting, defensiveness or making it about yourself when people are sharing their stories of pain with you.

“I’m here for you.”

This one takes a little bit of time, effort, and compassion. This looks like sitting with someone’s pain—even if it’s uncomfortable. “I’m here for you” can sound like:

  • “If you need to cry or vent, I’m here.
  • “Can I give you a hug?”…when it’s safe to do so.
  • “Can I bring you coffee or a meal?”

“I’ve got your back.”

This one takes some courage. You might get some pushback from those who haven’t taken the time to examine their negative racial biases. But know this: The dignity and worth of BIPOC are worth it! In addition to using your voice to speak up, “I’ve got your back” can sound like:

  • “I want to be your ally.”
  • “I want to grow in this area so I can do better.”
  • “I want to protect you. I will come to your defense if someone tries to harm you.” (These words need to be backed up by action if the opportunity arises!)
  • “Can I sit with you at church?” Or, “Can I come with you when you go to [insert place where they may need an ally to help them feel safe]?”
  • “I want to give action to my words. I don’t just want to say things need to be better; I want to do concrete things to help bring change.”
  • “We need your voice! I’m going to amplify your voice any way I can!”
  • If you’re in a position of leadership: “How can we do better?” and “How can we come alongside you?”

One more thing: If you can’t mean these words, please don’t say them. I don’t mean that as a slam. It takes repentance and work over time to be able to say each of these things. It’s also a progression: You can’t have someone’s back when you’ve never been (or aren’t at least willing to be) there for them. And you can’t be there for them if you don’t see them (which includes seeing their pain). So if these are words you’ve never said to someone experiencing racial pain or trauma, start by prayerfully examining yourself and asking God, “Since words are the overflow of the heart, what in my heart (and mind) needs to change so I can say these words?” If you can say, “I see you,” but you don’t think you can honestly say, “I’m here for you,” or “I’ve got your back,” bring that to God and be honest about why you feel that way. And then let God shine a light on everything in your heart that wants to hide. Will it be easy? No. But will it be worth it? Yes!

This is where healing begins.

Stories of Why Asian Representation Matters

I wrote these words and shared many of them on social media before the Atlanta massacre on March 16, 2021. I considered waiting until a later time to share them on my blog. But one thing the recent tragedy has brought to light is how the limited representation of Asian Americans combined with the weaponizing of terms such as “Kung Flu” and the fetishizing of Asian women has done tremendous harm and has even put lives in danger. I hope that by sharing stories like these, maybe we can start to cultivate change.

Story No. 1:

I went to an art supplies store to look for a certain set of markers that included nine skin tone colors. No luck. The closest thing I found was a six-piece set of skin tone colors—the darkest color a medium brown and none of them were even close to matching mine. I gave up and left the store with a single, green marker for coloring pictures of leaves.

When I got home, I did a search on the internet and found Crayola’s Colors of the World collection—24 beautiful shades ranging from porcelain to deep browns. As I added the marker and colored pencil sets to my Amazon cart, I found myself getting emotional. Memories of drawing self portraits in art class and awkwardly staring at the peach and brown crayons, decades of trying to lighten my skin and avoiding letting my skin tan, years of feeling ugly because “beautiful” photos didn’t include women who had any features that looked like mine. I confronted it all with my Amazon cart. (“Medium deep golden” is the color of me!)

Story No. 2:

When I heard about Raya and the Last Dragon for the first time—the movie with the first Southeast Asian Disney princess—I cried. Full-on, intense, happy tears. I turn 40 this year and I’ve waited my entire life for this! I wish I could tell little, seven-year-old me (or even 25-year old me) that one day my dream would come true. A strong Disney princess who has brown skin and a nose like mine, eats congee, and even has some Filipino martial arts moves—what a time to be alive!

I’m the daughter of Filipino immigrants and most of my closest friends growing up were also the children of Filipino immigrants. They were like cousins and their parents became surrogate titos and titas. I grew up feeling very connected to my Filipino heritage. Now I live hundreds of miles from home in one of the whitest cities in America where I have one Filipina friend. We got to watch Raya together while eating halo-halo.

Bonus: I think getting to watch her four-year-old daughter get into the movie moved me as much as the movie did! Watching this little girl gaze at Raya gave me hope. She’s growing up in a very different world than the one I grew up in, a world where “beautiful” includes her and she’s empowered to be strong.

(And in case you’re wondering, Raya and the Last Dragon was wonderful and lived up to the hype!)

I’ll leave you with a couple thoughts to consider:

  • Representation matters because people matter. Every single person is created in the image of God. Our ethnicities are a part of the way we reflect the Imago Dei. To diminish anyone’s ethnicity is to diminish the Imago Dei in them.
  • Representation for people of color doesn’t mean removing representation of White people. There is space for all of us! The attitude that White people lose if people of color get a seat/voice is scarcity mentality and is antithetical to the Gospel and the Kingdom.

The name of this marker is “medium deep golden” and it’s the color of me!

An Asian American’s Awakening

What follows is something I wrote months ago when America was reeling and grappling with questions about race. I’ve been unsure of whether or not I wanted to share these words. They’re not exactly “on brand” for my blog. And as time continued to pass, I thought maybe these words would feel like I was trying to talk about something people have moved on from. But then a friend experienced something. Something I’ve experienced and wrote about in these paragraphs.

I’m done hiding. 

During this season, I’ve been taking a hard look at ways I’ve chosen to “assimilate” into white culture (or rather, hide my Filipino-ness). 

Being a woman of color in predominantly white spaces is tricky. I rarely experience explicit hatred—that doesn’t mean it has never happened—but there are things that lie under the surface. The often asked “Where are you really from?” and “Did your husband meet you on the mission field?” remind me that for many, I’m forever a foreigner. I was born here. This is my home, but I don’t really belong. 

And then there’s the issue of what’s safe for me to talk about. I learned early that to talk about my heritage is taboo. Friends could talk freely about the culture of whatever European country their ancestors hailed from, but conversations about my Filipino heritage were unwelcome. This unwelcoming would manifest in a few ways: being made fun of, being told to “go back to my country,” or someone quickly changing the topic. (Note: As for someone quickly changing the topic, this was never something someone would do only once. They never allowed me to speak openly about my heritage even when they spoke openly of theirs).

And then there’s the perceived language barrier. The key word: “perceived.” I speak fluent English with good grammar and a Midwest accent. Yet people still ask me, “Do you understand English?” It’s difficult to prove my intellect to someone who struggles to believe I understand the language I’m speaking fluently. In a similar way, there’s also an assumption that I’m ignorant of American history and culture. As for culture, I get that things were different in my house as both my parents are immigrants. But outside of my house, everything in my life was as “American” as my white counterparts. In fact, because I had to go back and forth between the Filipino culture inside my home and the American culture outside my home, I grew up with a greater awareness of cultural elements many people take for granted and don’t notice.

I was talking about this to a friend recently. She’s Chinese—born and raised in China—and moved to the US as a grad student. When she heard my experiences, she said, “I’m glad I’m not an Asian American! That sounds really hard!” To have to hide an integral part of who I am…Yes, it’s hard.

Over the years, I’ve been extra careful to not assume someone was treating me a certain way just because of my race. It gets hard when I’m in a store and a worker follows me around. One store clerk yelled at me while I looked at skirts. Or the many times when I’m in a women’s boutique and none of the workers will give me service of any kind unless my white husband says to them, “Can one of you please help my wife?” I try to ignore this stuff, smile, and move on. 

I’ve found ways to adapt. I’ve assimilated. Or rather, I’ve hidden my Filipino-ness. I’ve dropped Filipino mannerisms. I eat with my hands far less than I used to. I’ve avoided the sun to ensure my skin stayed as light as possible (and I’ve used papaya soap to try to lighten it even more). I’ve done whatever I could to blend into predominantly white surroundings. And because of this, it has been easy for some people to forget that I’m not white. Someone actually told me, “When I see you, I don’t see an Asian; I just see a white girl.” Don’t get me started on all the ways that statement is so so SO wrong. And that’s the thing: I’m NOT white. I’m 100% Filipino. So if you can’t see my Filipino-ness, you can’t see me. (I’m also 100% American. So if you look at me and only see ways I’m other, you can’t see me either.)

So I’ve made a decision: I’m not hiding anymore. What does that mean? I’m not really sure. I’m just gonna let this journey take me where it will.