Alton Wang

This is the same university president that promised students, on the heels of our #AFAMisWhy protests and organizing to save our African American Studies program on campus, that the university will hire and breathe some life back into AFAM. This is the same university president that expressed sympathy and concern for the African American Studies majors without classes to take. This is the same university president that stood alongside students protesting on the streets of Middletown against police brutality. 

This is a university president that decides it is acceptable to face a room of students of color and tell them that ethnic studies is dying. This is a university president that decides it is okay to tell these students of color, because we're totally not threatening because we're Asian. 

This is a university president that sat at a table and bluntly told me that my right to exist in the curriculum is fading. 

Consider, for a moment, why he believed it would be okay to make such a comment in this space, at this moment in time. Understand that every student in the room were Asian/Asian American Pacific Islander, and that there were no black or Latino students at that table. Understand that our Chief Diversity Officer, sitting two seats from me and across from the president, echoed the president's remarks and justified his position. 

Asian Americans have long served as a racial wedge in this society, whether sometimes we have been forced to (think Bill O'Reily's stupid and racist comments), or have been complicit (think anti-Affirmative Action folks). 

I guarantee you that had there been black students sitting across from him instead of Asian, the university president would not have dared to declare that ethnic studies is dying. 

President Roth, I assure you—despite what your "friends in ethnic studies" are telling you, ethnic studies in this country is not dying. Because a discipline may evolve over time to attract different mediums, different foci, different points of discourse, does not mean it is over. Because some people might be more interested in studying black and brown bodies in pop culture does not mean that is ethnic studies. Just because some people may not immediately jump to teaching an African American history course, or Asian American history course, does not mean that they do not study ethnic studies. 

In a spoken word poem, Jade Cho and Isabella Borgeson say, 

"I never knew I had a history in this country until college. The first time I stepped into an ethnic studies classroom felt like coming home."

By declaring ethnic studies on the verge of death, President Roth, you are robbing students the chance of learning their own histories. You are robbing the chance of giving students that have felt like foreigners in their own country the opportunity to see themselves in American history. 

"Imagine what it's like to speak yourself into existence for the first time" (another quote from the same poem by Cho and Borgeson).

You would not know. Our curriculum is white. Our history is white. Our ability to speak ourselves into existence is a burden we students of color have to bear within our own organizations. 

I have said before, and I will say again: every student, every person, has a right to learn their own histories. I have yet to receive this opportunity from this institution. 

Instead, I have to teach myself my own history, to help my peers learn their own histories, and to clamor and beg for an actual professor to teach an Asian American history class. 

I have never taken an Asian American history class, yet I sit with a room of fifteen students every week, guiding discussion and teaching Asian American history.

How is that right? How is that fair?

Yet my shock comes not from the fact that he made this ignorant comment and tried to defend it for the rest of the lunch hour, but instead that he thought it would be an acceptable comment to make in front of Asian students. 

I am not your wedge.

Do not think that you can look at my yellow face and tell me ethnic studies is dying, and that I would be okay with it. Do not tell me this after I have stood and shouted alongside my black peers clamoring for some hope in African American Studies, do not tell me this after I have spent unnecessarily long parts of my Wesleyan career fighting to see people who look like me in the curriculum.

Do not tell the hundreds of black and brown students on this campus that the study of their histories, their lived experiences, their culture, their oppression is something of the past, that ethnic studies already had its "heyday" a decade or so ago.

Yet, reader, please explain to me why in 2015 on Day One of the Fresh Off The Boat Era I still find myself in the trap of needing to explain to more white people what racism is, how racism manifests itself, and that yes—comedy and satire can be pretty freaking racist. 

Over the years, I recognize my own growth in understanding these concepts, these truths, and how to talk about them. I thank my mentors and peers that have guided me in finding my voice for the work of anti-blackness, for finding my convictions in fighting racist Asian stereotypes, for developing a vocabulary in which I have the ability to write this post and have these conversations. 

But one thing that I got pretty tired of real quick was the constant need to explain to (sure, sometimes good meaning) white people what racism is and how, for example, they, the left leaning liberal at an "upstanding," "progressive" academic institution, can too be racist. 

This work is not the burden of any person of color. This work is not the burden of those that have pushed forward with their lives within these systems of oppression and racism. This work is not ours to bear. 

Yet this is the work we do. In academic classrooms discussing race, we always have to start where the inevitable ignorant person is—in explaining what race is, how racism works, etc. I've sat in classes time and time again feeling like these discussions benefit not me, but instead only the white students in the class, to give them the "toolkit" seemingly necessary to talk about race in some "PC" manner. 

In these classrooms, students of color are the ones that have to raise their hands and point out that yes, professor, that image you're sharing is racist, and to say that you cannot have a full discussion about anything—whether it is the American government, the media, or history—without considering the dynamics of race. 

My favorite part is when I'm told, "But I don't think that's really racist."

My immediate thought? This line that I've heard many a time in spoken word poetry, "You can't claim that racism doesn't exsit if you've never known what it means to survive it."

Do not ask me why something you're doing is racist, do not try to justify why your racist actions "aren't racism," and do not expect that it is my job as a person of color to be obliged to entertain this conversation. 

This is to the supposedly well meaning person ignorant of race everywhere (regardless of color): Educate yourself. Do not expect to be taught by those who have worked tirelessly to move the conversation beyond what race and racism is to how we struggle against it. 

My voice is not a classroom to educate you on your racism or on society's racism. My voice speaks so loudly as to drown out your ignorance. 

However, this is all not to say that educating people is work I refuse to do. This remains what I am most passionate about, and feel feverishly inclined to do, despite my slight cynicism here today. This work remains important, and I have not lost sight of that.

I loved popular culture/media from Asia because I saw myself in them.

This is not weird to me as it is for some of my friends that have laughed about it, nor is it illogical by any means. Turning to Taiwanese TV, Korean pop music, and/or Chinese dramas, I could see people that resembled myself as the heroes and not the sidekicks. I could see people that looked like me stand in the spotlight, unwaveringly and unquestioningly. I could immerse myself in a world where, for a moment, I could picture myself as being the lead protagonist and not the irrelevant extra. 

Even when I had zero clue what these Korean pop bands were singing, I sung along. When I had absolutely no understanding of what part of Chinese imperial history a television drama was rooted in, my eyes remained glued to the screen. 

This is why media representation is important. 

It is important because I grew up feeling like I didn't "belong" here. It is important because I grew up thinking that I can't ever be the lead protagonist, that I can't grow up to be the President, that I can't stand under the spotlight without being cast under a white man's shadow.

Media representation is a problem for all people of color, but the way the problems have manifested itself for Asians and Pacific Islanders are particularly troubling. 

When I was in elementary school, my mom enrolled me in a tae-kwon-do class. I hated it at first, but then quickly lost any feelings of animosity—because that's what Asian men on TV and movies do, right? We are supposed to be good at these forms of martial arts.

When I thought of what a "nerd" looked like when I was younger, the first image in my mind was of the Asian geek on the screen, furiously typing away at a computer with oversized glasses and two spoken lines of utter uselessness. 

Whenever I saw an Asian contestant—or anyone who looked like they could possibly be Asian—appear on a TV competition (American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, etc.) I immediately rooted for them. It did not matter how good (or sometimes how bad) they were, but I would be sure to vote whenever I could and give whatever votes I had to them because for a few more moments, I could see someone that had my skin color on the screen.

On the flip side, whenever an Asian face would come on the screen—whether it would be in a competition/reality show, on the news, etc.—and was portrayed in a negative light or sang horribly in audition, I would be furious. I was angry that they would go on TV for the entire country to see how bad they were—or in my mind, we were—at whatever talent or skill. I was angry that the small chance of positive representation was wiped away.

I grew up asking my parents why we lived in the United States. Clearly, we didn't belong here. I could open a magazine—any magazine, from fashion to news, from entertainment to home improvement—and face after face would be white, white, white. Why didn't we move "back home"? 

Because where was home? How can this country be my home, if I am no where to be found?

When I found the news that Fresh Off the Boat was picked up by ABC, I was nervous but elated. This happiness comes not from whatever story the show will tell (it's based off of the memoir of celebrity chef Eddie Huang), but instead the very fact that, for the first time in a long, long time, I can see myself in the plot as something more than a minor character. 

Media representation is important. We cannot have more generations of yellow and brown kids growing up thinking as if they have no stake in this country—because the media tells them this country has no stake in them. This translates to lower political ambition, lower career ambition, and less engagement in their broader communities.

Media representation is important, because I'm tired of feeling celebratory of triumphant because there will be one show on TV that has Asians as central to the plot.

I previously did some research and found out that there was an Asian-American studies push of sorts back in the mid-2000s, the Asian Asian American Initiative (AAAI), which was funded by a grant from the Freeman Foundation. I reached out to some professors that were involved with the Initiative that were still at Wesleyan, and got the following response from a professor in the American Studies department: 

American Studies and the Center for the Americas participated in this initiative in the hope that it would help us persuade the administration, once the grant ended, that a line in Asian American history should be added to the Wesleyan faculty. Unfortunately, the administration was not persuaded to do that. Since the grant ended, American Studies was authorized to hire, jointly with the English Department, a scholar in Asian American literature to replace a position that had been left vacant for a number of years. In the course of that search, the English Department was authorized to make a second faculty appointment in Asian American literature. These are important additions to the Wesleyan curriculum, but sadly we still lack any Asian American history.

"Unfortunately, the administration was not persuaded to do that." Naturally, I became curious as to why this was a case, and sent an email out to the Asian American Student Collective listserv here at Wesleyan, and gotten various responses from alumni which were fantastic. One of which, an alum from the class of 2008, responded: 

There was a sense of shock and disbelief that Issac had been denied tenure. We tried to organize, write articles, and stage protests, but it happened during senior week when most of campus was gone, so we didn't have much of a voice. The administration seemed to feel that our strong Asian Studies program was sufficient. We tried, as a student body of AAPI students, to convey to them that AAPI studies is a wholly separate discipline, and one that Wesleyan was doing a disservice to their students by not offering. We were dismayed that the sense was that having one or two classes here and there in the AmSt or English departments was sufficient.

Issac refers to Professor Issac Allen, who was denied tenure shortly after the Initiative came to an end (which was a separate issue but happened to coincide with the AAAI ending). 

What struck me the most about this email, however, was the following: "The administration seemed to feel that our strong Asian Studies program was sufficient. We tried, as a student body of AAPI students, to convey to them that AAPI studies is a wholly separate discipline." 

True, Wesleyan has a longstanding and well entrenched East Asian Studies department which now encompasses the College of East Asian Studies, but this is not Asian American studies, nor does the name of the program even include Asian American experiences. 

Why is it that Wesleyan has an entire department for East Asian Studies, looking outside the US to Asia, but this year, if you search up "Asian American" in our online course catalog, only one course appears.

So let's acknowledge the fact that there may not be as much interest in Asian American Studies as a full program or department, but heck, a couple more courses to learn about history or politics and not just literature could be a good start.

The Asian American Student Collective is currently tackling this issue, pushing for—at first—an Asian American history course. American Studies and the College of East Asian Studies is on board to support us, and we want you to help as well. Here is a letter for you to sign to join us in advocating for bringing an Asian American historian to come to Wesleyan as a visitor, and you can reach out to me for more information. 

Among these organizing efforts, my friend Jennie He '16 and I have applied to facilitate a student forum next semester, titled "History, Gender, and Sexuality through the Lens of Asian American Voices." This is one of those moments in which we are taking matters into our own hands—if we cannot get the education we are looking for from the institution, we can only teach it to ourselves. 

Asian Americans need to talk louder—especially in our own communities—about Ferguson, about the protests across the country, and about Michael Brown because we cannot idly stand complicit to a system that systematically denies basic human rights to a subset of members in the broader American fabric. 

However, what I'm writing here isn't calling for some magical people-of-color solidarity to appear to fight white oppression. Solidarity is important, this absolutely goes without question. Without solidarity and support from various communities, systems of power and oppression cannot and will not crumble or change. 

Yet what I'm talking about is something even simpler than that. The realities of Mike Brown, of Eric Garner, of Sean Bell, and of countless other black lives claimed by police brutality and a system of injustice should be enough to rally cries of anger and pain from all of us. 

This MLK quote has been floating around (rightfully so) a lot these last few days: "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." And he was right. (Side note: it would be just really freaking great if people will stop saying, "What would MLK think about this violence?", "What would MLK [this] or [that]?" The American narrative has already co-opted MLK's once controversial and "threatening" movements—do not forget how he was once so hated by the American public.)

I also believe that injustice towards anyone is a threat to justice for anyone.

The events that have occurred in Ferguson are not singular, unique events. These incidents happen all the time—our society is constructed in such a way that we (collectively) value a black life far less than a white life. 

As Asian Americans, we should be angered by Ferguson. We should be angered by not only this miscarriage of justice, but by this system of inequality and racism. We need to recognize that for some of us, in our skin, we will never be targets of the criminal justice system. Yet we must also realize that for others—including in the AAPI community—the system is functioning just the way it was meant to be when it was built. 

We must stand up and refuse to be anyone's racial wedge. We must assert our own desire for justice, for equity. We must not stand silently and watch as Ferguson goes down in flames, and think that this does not affect us. 

After all, despite this fickle hyphenation, we are Asian Americans. We do not live in a silo where racism and discrimination do not touch us—because they do.

But remember: when we talk about Ferguson and Mike Brown, when we talk solidarity, when we talk about all this, we must recognize who we are talking about, and avoid trying to wrangle/shift the conversation. So, no. I do not accept #AllLivesMatter as social commentary nor do I accept #AsianLivesMatter, etc. That's not the point. We must fight one battle at a time, and right now, the country and the world is finally paying attention. Do not dilute the message. 

There is not a week that goes by that I don't wish that I could transfer somewhere else, somewhere where not only is the weather warmer, but the people too.

But I could never leave Wesleyan. 

Growing up, I never learned how to speak. Words came out of my mouth just fine, conversation was easy, but everything I said always felt foreign to me. I laughed along with these peers of mine when I was bullied by them, no matter how painful or scarring the words were.

They were just words, right? Nothing worse. Remember, I was told, so many others face situations much more difficult than you. Words were meaningless and just filled with childish ignorance, they can't do anything to you. 

Growing up, I never learned how to speak. The words that I begun to use to define myself in my own mind were the ones these bullies threw onto me every day. I laughed along with them, scoffing at my weakness, and took in all the words they used on me. 

Be quiet, so many others face situations much more difficult than you.

Silence will get you through the day. 

I needed to get out. 

My only thoughts were to succeed in school, to get the best grades possible, to open as many doors available and pick the one that takes me furthest away from here. 

And I did. 

From the moment I stepped foot onto Wesleyan, I felt like I had a stake in this place around me, and I felt like I finally had the chance to not let the people around me define who I am but let me define myself.  

I started to realize that when I opened my mouth to talk, people were actually listening. I realized that I actually felt like I was finally speaking for myself, and that the words coming out of my mouth were finally my own, and not anyone else's. 

Wesleyan gave me back my voice. 

Wesleyan allowed me to be who I am in my entirety, and gave me the opportunity to grow in ways I had never before imagined. The people I was surrounded with consisted of some of the most supportive people I have ever encountered in my life, and they taught me more than I could've imagined. 

The remaining fragment from my past that I have not been able to shed is how easily the words of others affect what I think of myself. 

So yes, Wesleyan is a place like any other where horrible things happen. And yes, Wesleyan is a place like any other where we work together to make this school a better place. 

But Wesleyan has given me back my voice, and no matter how hard the fuck you want to try, you're not taking it away from me this time around.

And for me, that's Wesleyan's saving grace. 

Acknowledging his misogynistic and homophobic tendencies, Frank Chin in "Racist Love" illustrates a point that serves as a good start for this issue: 

The privileged foreigner is the assimilable alien. The assimilable alien is posed as an exemplary minoirty against the back example of the blacks. Thus the privileged foreigner is trained to respond to the black not the white majority as the single most potent threat to his status. The handicapped native is neither black nor white in a black and white world.... His pride is derived form the degree of his acceptance by the race of his choice at being consciously one thing and not the other... The races absorb and accept the stereotypes of each other invented and pushed by whites, and, in doing so, authenticate these stereotypes and serve white supremacy by breeding interracial contempt.

While this excerpt I've chosen here does not specifically get at Chin's discussion of racist hate (what Latinos and blacks experience) versus racist love (what Asians experience), it does speak to something that begins explain the rift that exists in the POC community. 

White supremacy's success story is the assimilation of Asians (specifically Chinese Americans) into the fold of white racism, Chin argues, and by feeding the material necessities to successfully assimilate, the white majority has "created" an assimilated minority whose members are typically economically viable and politically silent. 

There are evidently issues with this argument, and one thing a friend of mine, Lynna Zhong, iterates eloquently that sums up a lot of the issue is that "the thing that's completely false about the model minority myth is that it rests on the assumption that Asian-Americans have indeed picked themselves up from the bootstraps of oppression."

Now, just quickly, something that has to be said. Stereotypes, including the ones that pervade Frank Chin's "Racist Love," are problematic, usually wrong, and never all-inclusive. The diversity of the Asian diaspora and the realities of hundreds of thousands of Southeast Asian immigrants in the United States bring into question the nature of the model minority myth entirely.

However, the diversity of Asian America is not what I'm questioning here or exploring through these words I've written. I sincerely was disappointed and concerned with the backlash Chinese Americans produced surrounding SCA5, a piece of legislation that I strongly believed would allow higher education in California to begin to tackle the restraints of institutional racism head on for many black and Latino youth. 

And the effects of this are beginning to ripple. Representative Ted Lieu recently lost six Democratic endorsements over the Affirmative Action debate, and as Reappropriate writes,

An Asian American politician who takes a stand against affirmative action is taking a standing against diversity; and, if he chooses to take that stance, the least he can do is offer an explanation for his position. To date, neither he nor Liu or Yee — nor Congresswoman Judy Chu, for that matter — have offered an in-depth explanation to their constituents reconciling their core Democratic values of diversity and inclusion with their stance against affirmative action.

The white dominated reality of 21st century America requires people of color, including Asian Americans, to stand up for each other. I have been heartened by the many conversations and activists across the country that I've met over Twitter on these divisive issues, and the strength they show to stand in solidarity with one another. 

Now, this solidarity needs to expand. Asian America can no longer afford to be quiet, and as recent developments have shown, we do have the force to invoke change when we stand up. We just need to stand up for the right reasons now to be on the right side of history. 

The model minority myth is 1) damaging, 2) not positive or post racial, and 3) simply untrue. Whenever I see Asian Americans embracing this myth, I worry that the white supremacy has indeed won. But they haven't so long as we are able to recognize our oppressions, especially these microaggressions AAPI face today, and push back. 

There are numerous Asian American organizations and activists doing this good work and standing up for not only themselves, but in solidarity with other people of color, and I encourage the currently dormant parts of Asian America do to the same. 

A few weeks ago, in conversation with my father arguing over SCA5, I realized also that these are the conversations we need to have over issues of race as well as racism that does exist within the AAPI community. Blacks and Latinos are not the "ghosts" (鬼) the Chinese language sometimes uses to demonize other people (a la The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston), but are other minorities that are oppressed, as we are, just in different ways.