By Jennifer Ju
Facing Ourselves
Jennifer Ju
Gook. Chink. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. That isn’t true, though. Names hurt. Words matter.
I had hoped that times had changed a lot since my childhood. It had been a while since I had heard the ugly and ignorant imitation of an “Asian” language hurled at me as I walked by, or heard mocking laughter as strangers jeered at me, their fingers pulling at the corners of their eyes.
“How do you blindfold a Chink?” they would call out. “Use tooth floss!”
I would walk away as fast as I could, wishing I could disappear.
To be seen and unseen – this is a minority’s dilemma. At least, it was for me. Even though I was born in Ann Arbor, Michigan, I knew that others saw me as a foreigner, and I desperately wanted to be seen as a “true” American. I refused to speak my parents’ native tongue at home and eventually lost the ability to speak it. I watched Growing Pains, Wheel of Fortune, and Friends. Part of me wished that I was blond-haired and blue-eyed, an all-American beauty.
“I wish they all could be California girls,” as the song goes. You want to be seen as an American, which means banishing the “otherness” of your ethnic background, wishing it to be invisible.
That, of course, is impossible. As a minority, you cannot disguise your “otherness.” The human brain has evolved to constantly scan, analyze and judge our surroundings. We cannot stop our brain from doing this even if we try; it is the brain’s strategy to help keep us safe. So, too, will each of us instantly appraise and categorize one another, even if our intentions are innocent.
So how do we celebrate each other’s differences and yet also recognize our shared humanity? How do we listen to one another with the goal of understanding and coming together, rather than falling into the role of attacker and attacked? How can we acknowledge past mistakes without defensiveness, or without feeling the need to deny or avoid when we feel shamed? How can we develop a nuanced understanding of race and ethnicity without lumping all brown or yellow or black people into generic categories? How do we become aware of own biases, overt or subtle as they may be? How can we communicate with clarity and compassion?
I don’t have the answers. The last thing I want is to be considered a spokesperson for an entire race or ethnic group.
I do think, however, it is time for us to discard the false mantle of complacency. It is time to wake up.
I used to ignore derogatory remarks, telling myself that I am above engaging in such a demeaning interaction. But now, words are not the only things that can hurt me; fists can. Or worse. Now I think about what I would do if someone tried to run me off the road in a fit of hate when I jog outdoors and contemplate wearing a hat to disguise myself. Now I worry about my aging parents getting attacked when they leave their home.
I never imagined, as I held my son for the first time in the hospital 15 years ago, that one day the thought would flash across my mind that it is lucky he doesn’t look Asian, so I don’t have to worry about his safety. Denial and complacency, I have learned, do not engender progress.
I hope we can start to talk about these issues with our family and friends, seeking to understand rather than divide. I hope we can create ever-broadening circles of acceptance and celebrate our differences. I hope we learn to love and accept ourselves more. I hope we learn to truly love and accept each other. I hope we can really listen.
Jennifer Ju, MD is a physician who is a graduate of the Brown University family medicine residency program. She is also an actor and writer who has performed in various theatres across the state and whose plays have been produced locally. Ju has also presented numerous online and in-person workshops on mindfulness, health and wellness for parents and children, as well as for pre-K-12 educators in New Haven and Fairfield counties.