Rest in Resistance Against Racial Violence

In the summer of 2021, a crimson unmarked SUV splashed an unknown liquid through the window at a Chinese American woman on the sidewalk. This wasn’t a random piece of news I doomscrolled through on Instagram or Twitter. It was an intentional act of discrimination against me in Asheville, North Carolina, in the middle of the pandemic.

This wasn’t an acid attack, but I did check myself for burns. Huddled on the curb, waiting for the officer who never came, I wondered if it was urine that soaked through my polka-dot wrap shirt. Over an hour later, I stood up shakily and rearranged my shirt. The craft beer from the Wedge Brewery tasted like urine and fear that night. Questions burbled up from my cup instead of foam: “What if they never find them? What if they do, and they never admit it? What if I’m just … overreacting?” I just swallowed it all — the fear, the hatred, the questions, ingested it hoping to digest it.

Did you know I wasn’t alone? That Asian American women were twice as likely to report hate crimes from 2020 to 2021 alone? People say I was lucky because I didn’t die. Unlike Ruthie George, an Indian American student who was viciously raped and murdered in the parking garage of the UIC library. It could have been me. It could have been my mom on that midtown sidewalk in March 2021, when a racist curb-stomped an elder and left her for dead in the middle of the day. It could have been my auntie just waiting outside the Flushing bakery when she was sacked by a young bigot. It could have been my son and me in the park being told to go home, that I don’t belong here. It could have been us, but it wasn’t. At least, not at that time.

My son Kai’s first experience with discrimination happened two months ago at a Costco parking lot when he was a little over 2. He sat in a shopping cart, babbling with me as I put away groceries. I wonder what he saw when the white Karen in the Porsche pulled in a little too close and a little too fast. I wonder if he saw the terror in my eyes as I desperately told her to stop, pointing to him, and finally, out of exasperation, tapped her battering ram of a car. I wonder if he heard her, ranting and cursing wildly, truly understood her when she couldn’t find fault with my Midwestern accent and attacked him instead: “Does he even understand English? Oh yeah, I put that in just for you, you little bitch.” Her voice still echoes and haunts me, a phantom I exorcise from my memory so it won’t possess my son.

Today, Nashville, Tennessee, sure feels like San Francisco in 1882. It feels like Gila River, Arizona, or Jerome, Arkansas, circa 1942. Or maybe it actually feels like 2025 in the wake of a “project” and a president who vows to deport people of many backgrounds but undocumented Chinese Americans first. It did happen, it is happening, it could happen. 

In the wake of George Floyd’s brutal attack, the independent school where I once worked put on a series of digital salons for the Black American community. For all of our teachers and staff, it was necessary, crucial, and timed to affirm our community in this way. It was a beautiful response to a terrifying reality. The words from Nubya Garcia’s “Together Is a Beautiful Place to Be” welcomed students into my classroom on a cafe blackboard I decorated. That’s how I viewed my school: a dream for us and an open door. The door that opened with those salons gave me hope for potential racial solidarity among our communities. 

However, I experienced more singularity than solidarity during the COVID pandemic. Certain administrators’ treatment of Asian Americans left me no place to scream except in my head. When I created an Asian American affinity group, the DEI director initially warned me against it, inquiring if there was an actual need among the students.

In the closing faculty development days prior to summer break that year, the counseling staff created a reflection on activism and COVID the past year: the fear, the frustrations, the resistance, and the triumphs. It was a moving presentation … except no AAPI people were featured or mentioned at all. Well, not until I sent in my feedback, and an apologetic email and addendum were released after school was out for the year. During another faculty session, the DEI director changed the narrative of the affinity group completely. He told teachers that students alone created the group. On that bare Powerpoint slide with a few bullet points, I was written out of existence from a group I had co-created. 

News outlets said the pandemic was our fault. The president said as much too. Who cared about us? It was maddening that we were dying in the streets, and I could barely make room for this self-professed inclusive school to talk about it. In the incessant waves of sexual assault, murder, and violence against Asian Americans, that same school put out a single Instagram post. It was not enough to just acknowledge hurt in a little black box with white lettering when the sidewalks were marred red with our blood.

The response was a tragedy. I grieve for the administrator who told me to find community elsewhere, and I grieve for the director who never gave me credit. I grieve for me, the teacher who had my entire curriculum surrounding Gene Luen Yang’s “American Born Chinese” banned by a fundamentalist parent. In one fell swoop, the parent silenced protagonist Jin Wang with a witch hunt supported by the admin. I am grieving the discrimination that has never disappeared, only coming and going with the tide of people who look like my son, my spouse, and me.

Unlike the disillusionment of Manifest Destiny, I view history as a series of spirals. The same issues pervade the culture again and again. Yet, I still have hope because you know what distinguishes spiral orbits from ordinary ones? Propulsion. That little bit of resistance, just a smidge, is what ensures an object in space never appears in the exact same spot ever again. Despite my experiences of racist attacks, I never approach it exactly the same way. 

I have the worst type of survivor’s guilt, the kind that wakes you up before your alarm.

The kind that keeps your blood pressure up at night.

The kind that activist Will Lex Ham noted Vicha Ratanapakdee’s relatives turned to in the wake of his vicious murder, the kind that turns “tragedy into mission.”

The kind that recognizes protecting my peace is the best type of resistance because that’s what racists always wanted to take from us, throughout American history: the ability to rest and resist both. The choice but also the confluence.

The kind that remembers all the Vincent Chins, the Ruthie Georges, the Vicha Ratanapakdees, but also the Yuri Kochiyamas, the Wing Lukes, the Larry Itliongs, Philip Vera Cruzs, and George Takeis. The Jhumpa Lahiris, R.F. Kuangs, Stephanie Foos, and Jeff Yangs, making us seen on pages and podcasts. The Sandra Ohs and the Daniel Dae Kims on stages and screens. The Wong Fu Productions, Kina Grannises, and Anna Akanas that defined a digital generation. The Joanna Hos at our schools. The Chef Padma Lakshmis and Edward Lees who remember mother tongue through taste. The Youngmi Mayers, the Hasan Minhajs, and the Ali Wongs who are crying but laughing anyways. The Bruno Marses, the musician H.E.R.s, and the Linda Lindases, killing fascists with guitars and chords. The Simu Lius and the Kumail Nanjianis who reminded us we were strong. The Constance Wus, Henry Goldings, Harry Shum Jr.s, and Lana Condors who reminded us of all the ones who needed love before in Asian August. The I.M. Peis and Maya Lins who built up entire nations’ memorials only to have those they honored tear down AAPI identity. The Kamala Harrises who reminded us that the fight isn’t over yet. 

The fact is, you and I are not alone: We are here, together, seen. You are more than they bargained for, and don’t you forget it. You’re not alone, and perhaps you’re still figuring out what to do, how to do it, and when to embark. Perhaps you’re worried that none of it will ever be seen as enough by people who don’t truly know you and your story. Know today that any of your words, whether spoken, sung, or written, deserve to be heard and read. Your words will be enough. I recently took a writing class from Silk Jazmyne, and I confessed my imposter syndrome as a writer. They told me Zora Neale Hurston once said, “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” You are here, with the collective us. When you are ready, break through the silence with us.

We’re going to be alright because our joy cannot be quantified. It is boundless and formless, like space, like breath. Did you know that researchers found that the universe literally hums and pulses with space-time? Every molecule inside you is constantly dancing with the echoes of your ancestors. So, let’s take it all in, our collective memory. Our hope and grief and delight. Our youth who are badasses, saints, and sinners all. Our multitudes of losses and wins and sometimes ending in a draw. 

Together now, for real. Breathe in … it’s going to be alright. Breathe out … everything you were told you couldn’t be. Breathe in … the goodness of every side-splitting laugh you’ve ever taken … breathe out … all the toxic spaces you’ve had the misfortune to be in. Breathe in … you’re everything the ancestors could ever have dreamed or hoped for and more. Breathe out … you’re already doing the work. Breathe in … all the love you come from and carry on. Breathe out … know thyself and thy resistance. 

Maya Lin once said, “To fly, we have to have resistance,” so welcome to the revolution, baby. We’ve been waiting for you.

Cover: Courtesy of Yuè Yuan