It’s been a long while since I’ve posted on the To Loosen the Mind site. Not to worry, though. I’ll be back up to my regularly scheduled blogging once the academic year comes by again.

In the meantime, while we are in summer mode, I encourage you to check out this site for The Fresh Air Fund. When I was teaching on Long Island, a young boy introduced me to the Fresh Air Fund — he was a Black student who was attending the very wealthy, prestigious, and privileged school where I taught. Each day, he would dress up in his collared shirt, tie, and khaki pants and attend school. But, we would spend much of his free period talking about how he didn’t really fit in. He was really struggling.

One of the few times I saw him genuinely happy was when he’d talk about his summers in Maine. He was part of the Fresh Air Fund and escaped the city, the stress of his home life, and the temptations of hanging out with kids on the street by spending his summers with a generous family in Maine who opened his doors to him.

After a year, the student ended up leaving the school, his home, and the stress and it was his host family that took him in. I’m sure that changed his life.

If you are interested in and able to be a part of this tranformative program, please check out the Fresh Air Fund site. You can help create a better experience for a young person in need — right here in our own neighborhoods.

http://freshairfundhost.org/

Peace,

Liza

At that time, the school campus where I was teaching was renovating the Upper School building, so we had all of our high school classes in trailers Modular Units. It was pre-texting and pre-Emergency Management on a global scale. We, as Head Advisers, knew we only had a few minutes until the entire campus would enter into a panic. At a wealthy private school just outside of the city, we were well aware that many of the parents worked in the Financial District. The Head Advisers walked out of the Modular Units only to have military jets fly overhead, so close it felt like they could buzz the top of the athletic center.

Quickly, the high school students communicated and were gathered into a conference room where we frantically tried to call their parents. Teenagers, who just a few hours before were fiercely arguing whether or not their skirts were too short (they had to pass the “knee test”) or whether their collared shirts were, in fact, in dress code, were crying for their Moms and Dads. The Middle School division was carefully addressing what was happening in the city just miles away from the school; The Lower School Division — they had to pretend as if nothing was going on. The teachers, through their tears, needed to be cheery for their young students who could not even comprehend what was happening.

Parents arrived. Dismissal and accountability procedures were set into place.

It was a day that seemed to never end. As teachers, coaches, and the adults who were nearest to the children, we had to serve as their parents until, thankfully, their parents returned to get them.

Except for one.

A student in my middle school class lost his father in the Trade Center.
Countless others lost their uncles, friends of parents, and parents of friends.

I still remember the smell of the air the next morning. It was a mix of metal, fire, burning paper, and acid. As we learned more about what happened, it was a smell of hate. Of sadness. Of pain. Of fear.

Over the past decade, I have grown close to a few military families who have spent more time away from their spouses and children as they have served in the Middle East. I’ve celebrated (virtually) a welcome home, and within a few months, a deployment of my friends. I’ve been a support for a friend whose husband was deployed while her child was going through chemotherapy. I’ve reconnected with high school friends who have served, and some who are still in service to our country today. And, while I don’t agree with war, I do respect sacrifice. I respect bravery. I do respect courage.

I do not celebrate the death of a man, for I know that his death does not represent the death of hate. It does not represent the death of terror. Of terrorism. Nor of intolerance.

My heart races with anxiety when I watch my husband play Call of Duty; I cannot imagine the feeling that the soldiers felt as they were feet away from their target. I cannot imagine the feeling that the families of those soldiers felt as they heard where their son, husband, brother, uncle was going.

Within minutes of reading that Osama bin Ladin had been killed, I felt relief, pride, and closure. Within another minute, I felt sadness, heartbreak, and anxiety. I thought of my student — an American female who wears a hijab. I thought of my former student whose father was not here to see him graduate from the school at which I taught. I thought of the people — who have never sacrificed a day to fight in the war, nor known anyone who had lost their life on 9/11 , nor actively held the hand of anyone who is serving away from their families — who thought the honorable way to celebrate was to party and “Get.Drunk.” I thought of my anger and disgust at the images of select groups of people in the Middle East burning the US flag on 9/11. And, I felt those same feelings of anger and disgust as I saw the images of select groups of Americans cheering on 5/1.

We were no better for doing the very thing that we hated.

Upon hearing about the US completion of this mission, I prayed for the safety of those who continue to serve away from home. I prayed for the safety of my friends and students who are frequently perceived to not “be American”. I prayed for the many victims of hate, particularly in the name of religion.

I prayed for the people of all religions, who are often taught about exclusion rather than inclusion. I prayed that our nation, our world, and the world’s people find equal opportunities to celebrate life. I prayed for the closure that this event brought to many families. And, I prayed for the road ahead for many families who may now be called into service.

At first, I struggled with the duality of this celebration — the celebration of both death and life. But, I am realizing that the event can have multiple emotions because it is not a singular event. Rather, it is a moment that brings both sadness and joy; peace and heartache; success and defeat.

It brings closure to some and open new wounds for others.

I most certainly do not take a position of telling anyone how to feel. I do ask that we reflect deeply upon what has occurred, did occur, and will occur.

My thoughts and prayers for peace go to the families of those who were lost on 9/11, the victims of hate based on religious and cultural identities of Americans in the years following, and the safety of all those who have lived in service to our nation.

I pray that we respect the duality that this brings,  that we understand our community of memory is both shared and different, and we uphold human dignity by seeking to  unite rather than divide.

While brushing my daughter’s long, tightly curled hair (which she inherited from her Puerto Rican’s dad side of the gene pool), she hesitantly asked me about a “bad word.”

“Can I say it, Mom? Can I tell you what the bad word is?” she asked me.

“Go ahead, honey. Tell me what the bad word is.”

“D-u-m. Dumb. Is dumb a bad word, Mom?”

“Well, first of all, it’s d-u-m-b, though I have no idea why, and it’s a bad word if you are calling someone dumb or if you are making fun of someone. Otherwise, it’s just a word. Why? Where did you hear it?”

She smiled widely. I heard it in this song, “Chinese people, Chinese people, Chinese people are so dumb!” She extended her forefingers. I knew exactly what was happening next. My early childhood years stuck me in my stomach, and I could feel the heat rising from my bile. She pulled at the corners of her eyes, mimizing her wide Latina eyes into squinty, chinky, silts of skin.

“Jo! NO! That is NOT funny.” I could hear the anger of a thousand Asian children in my voice. I could hear my own timid, shy, and careful voice hush my rage.

“But, all the kids laugh when Robbie sings it at school! I think it’s so funny!”

We sat down against the rim of the bathtub, placed the wide tooth comb on the floor and held hands. We talked for the next few minutes about the song, about her family — the other half of her Puerto Rican/Filipino heritage — and that the song makes fun of people who look like her mother.  We talked about how making fun of people — any types of people — is hurtful. She said she didn’t want to say anything to her friends because she was afraid they wouldn’t like her anymore. She was afraid that if she told them about her mom — that her mom was Asian — then they wouldn’t want to be her friends anymore if she didn’t think the song was funny.

She’s seven. And, the truth is, the kid in her class heard it from somewhere. He heard it from somewhere, someone, who thinks the song is funny or who thinks Chinese people are D-U-M.

They are seven. Though obviously Asian, I grew up on these songs, too. I heard all sorts of racist and homophobic songs growing up, many of them I can remember the words to even 30 years later.

But, someone taught these seven-year-old kids this song. And, with the latest viral YouTube video here (reposted from Colorlines since the original was pulled down), these songs, beliefs, and language that disparage Asians are still prevalent today.

Organizations like ASPIRE fill a need for so many of us. Some of us need ASPIRE so we can feel connected to a family. Some of us need it so we can  feel connected to a cause. Some of us need ASPIRE so we can feel connected to ourselves. But, for all of us, we need ASPIRE as a statement of Asian sisters participating in reaching excellence.

Asian Americans are widely viewed as “model minorities” on the basis of education, income and competence. But they are perceived as less ideal than Caucasian Americans when it comes to attaining leadership roles in U.S. businesses and board rooms, according to researchers at the University of California, Riverside.

This study is so obvious fascinating for so many reasons.

I go to meeting after meeting, professional conference after professional conference, panel discussion after panel discussion, and I am usually the only Asian American in the room. Sometimes, no lie, the only Asian American in the building. Okay, I’m lying. I’m probably not the only Asian American in the building; but, I’m sure as heck one of the few who I see out in the public light speaking my mind, facilitating workshops, stirring up controversy, and doing what I do best: BEING A LEADER. What do we need? We need more Asian Americans in leadership.

That’s why I love ASPIRE. ASPIRE is an organization of amazing Asian American women who are committed to learning about, sharing, and passing on leadership that empowers others. ASPIRE rooms are filled with dedicated, motivated, passionate, and socially just women who strongly believe – and practice – thoughtful mentoring. And, through these interactions, meetings and shared spaces, we encourage leadership.

At a fairly early age, and I mean in my 20s, I was taught I could be a leader. I was taught that I had the confidence, the intelligence, and the maturity to actually influence minds, hearts, and pocketbooks of people. I was encouraged to study Public Speaking, was mentored through effective lesson planning, lead professional workshops, and facilitated difficult and meaningful dialogue. I took charge over groups, programs and projects. Outside of my family, (my parents still believe in a “low profile” kind of existence) I was taught to tell my story, to serve as a spokesperson, and to be the public face of a number of causes and organizations. And, I was speaking out about things that my family – my culture – told me I shouldn’t be talking about: race, power, racism, privilege, personal issues, strength, and leadership.

In short, I was groomed for Leadership.

But, don’t get me wrong. I fought for every single step I’ve taken. I’ve had to battle stereotypes, bust through some glass ceilings, and work 200x harder just to get a seat at the table. And, despite my ability to work across the aisle, to approach situations with confident assertiveness, and possessing the qualities of  an outstanding leader, I walk every day in a body that is still poked with the glass shards from above me. I feel the sting of the bamboo ceiling, the cuts of the glass ceiling, and the every day assumption that I am not a leader. And, if I don’t walk carefully or duck my head low enough, the glass ceiling reminds me that its there. Every day.

If there are no examples of leaders of your race or gender, you’re less likely to believe you are leader-like and consequently you don’t aspire to be a leader,” he explained.

I’m 35 years old young. I’ve been a professional student since I was 5 years old. I’ve seen a lot of people, been to school with a lot of students, and played with lots of kids in the school yard, study room, on the athletic fields, and in road races. I have never had an Asian American teacher. Never. I have never been in a classroom where an Asian American stood in front of me and taught me, encouraged me, or learned with me. Now, the statistics show that Asian Americans are high achievers in education, in doctoral programs, and in post-doctoral programs. Yet never, ever, have I had an Asian American (or Asian national, for that matter) educator.

I’ve never had an Asian American coach.

I have never had an Asian American supervisor or boss.

I have never had an Asian American adviser or mentor.

And, only last year, did I work on a staff with an Asian American colleague.

I am currently the only Asian American director at my work.

I’ve been around the educational and professional block a few times, and yet the neighborhood has looked remarkably unremarkably the same.

So, if We are a model minority. If We are a culturally educated population. If We are supposedly surpassing the majority population in jobs and taking over coveted spots in higher education, then why are We not in leadership?

Asian Americans represent approximately 5 percent of the U.S. population and are projected to account for 9 percent of the population by 2050. However, they account for only .3 percent of corporate officers, less than 1 percent of corporate board members and about 2 percent of college presidents, despite their higher representation in business and professional occupations.

While there are institutional and structural challenges (along with inherent biases) for Asian Americans in leadership, I strongly believe that the first step is in being aware of the very stereotypes that we, and others, hold of us as Asian Americans:

Traits often associated with Asian Americans, such as social introversion, emotional withdrawal, verbal inhibition, passivity, a quiet demeanor and a reserved manner.

For many of us, those traits are true (just as they are with any person, regardless of race). Our challenges as Asian Americans — if we aspire to leadership positions — is in breaking down those stereotypes in a genuine and functional way. Know the stereotypes. Come up with a personal strategy that is comfortable for you, genuine to you, and resonates with you. Then, use those strategies to bust through the glass/bamboo/shit covered ceilings. Once you do, once you’re on your way, inspire other Asian Americans. Let them know it’s possible. But, do more than just tell them. Show them. Help them. Work with them. Mentor them.

It’s not that we aren’t good leaders.

It’s that we are perceived not to be.

But, the perception isn’t just in the mind. It’s institutional. It’s structural. And, it’s real. We need to find ways to productive increase Asian American leaders in positions of influence so that we can show — as a community of people — that we are good leaders. That we are agents of change. And, that we are here.

As kids, we always geared up for Christmas and Easter. I’m sure the few Jewish students and the even fewer Atheists at my school somehow managed to get swept right into the mix of Catholic and Christian holidays.
But there was one day — one day — where everyone seemed to share the same interest. The same background. The same heritage.

That day was St. Patrick’s Day. A day when, no matter if you were Asian, Black, Hispanic, Jewish, or Italian, you were Irish.

Sure, slight correction. You may not have been suddenly and magically made Irish for the day, but you sure as heck wore green. A sea of children became unrecognizable as the chill of the March landscape became overwhelmed with kelly green, lime green, dark green and white green. If we moved fast enough, our group of children appeared to be wisps of grass blowing in the cold March air.

Everyone wanted to be Irish.

Working at a Catholic college, the ramp up to St. Patrick’s Day reaches epic proportions. Though many do share the ethnic Irish heritage, few embrace foundations of the religious meaning of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. Rather than attend church in observance of a holy day of obligation, many go to the local church, the Church of Beer. And, like nearly everything on that day, even the beer is green.  No matter where you go or who you are, you are wished a “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!”

Though my family is not Chinese, we celebrate Chinese New Year. We don’t go all out — we don’t close up shop, surround ourselves with family, nor eat until our bellies extend past our knees. Rather, we take key aspects of the tradition and share it with our children. Admittedly, we Google which Lunar New Year it is and which animal sign is associated with that year. We wear red. We clean the house thoroughly the night prior. We sometimes get a new haircut (if we’ve planned enough in advance). I have a stash of red envelopes in my office drawer that I take out once a year and present to my kids.

On that day, I wish everyone I meet a “Happy New Year.” Mostly, I get funny looks. Usually, I have a second to explain that it’s Lunar New Year. Then, I nearly always get “But, Liza, you’re not Chinese.”

My response: “Recognizing that others celebrate traditions around the world isn’t dependent on me being that identity.”

I’m not being un-authentic. I know that I’m not Chinese. And, I know not to go so far as to offend a cultural tradition that spans thousands of years. I don’t pretend to be Chinese nor do I pretend to know more about Lunar New Year than the average person. But I do know that we need to expand our view of who’s holidays we celebrate, who’s holidays we hear about, and who’s holidays we see as weird or strange.

I want my children — my students, my colleagues, my friends, strangers — to be reminded that our country is made up of many different cultures and traditions. That the beauty of the United States is that people have the freedom to celebrate their faiths and beliefs without persecution. And, of course, we don’t always live up to that foundational belief of our country when we deem other people’s cultural traditions as “not-American.”

I recently was having coffee with a Vietnamese friend of mine who said that, earlier, a white woman smiled at her and said, “Happy New Year.” Though the exchange was brief and seemed friendly, my friend was pissed off. “Why the heck does she have to assume that I’m Chinese? This whole we-all-look-alike mess has got to end!” she exclaimed. “Girl,” I replied. “I kind of give that lady props for even knowing it was Lunar New Year. After all, how many people don’t even give a damn right now or who think that celebrating lunar-rabbit-anything is some ancient Chinese secret?”

I admit. On Chinese New Year, I wish everyone a “Happy New Year”, too. But, it’s not because I ignorantly think everyone is Chinese; I do it because I want to honor that we almost never get to celebrate our cultural heritage and most certainly never have it recognized by our fellow Americans. When I wish you a “Happy New Year”, it’s because we share a community of memory, a shared experience of simply having black hair, almond shaped eyes, and an assumption of what we sound like even before we open our mouths. We share a common experience of being both invisible and being a model of success. We share a common experience of being both loved and hated. We share a common experience of being both motivated and overbearing.

While we may never be able to know every cultural holiday nor every cultural tradition, it is important for us to include the diverse perspectives that make up our country and society. So, if I wish you a Happy New Year or Happy Saint Patrick’s Day or Happy Easter, Rosh Hashanah, Eid Sa’eed, or Happy Earth Day .. it’s because I want you to know that we can respect traditions of others. That, to be a truly inclusive society, we must include the traditions of others.

So, happy day to you!

My heritage roots come from a series of islands that have indigenous villages of people who would mistakenly be identified as African. Through colonization, immigration, and cross-pollination, I have roots of Chinese, Spanish, and local Pinoy. My skin is light, my hair is light, my eyes are colored light brown while their shape are distinctly round-and-almond. My brothers have coarse hair, dark brown skin, dark brown hair, and wider noses than my own. Yet, we come from the same two parents.

In this latest NY Times article “Black? White? Asian? More Americans Choose All of the Above”, I am reminded of both my own What are you? questions but also that of my children, who in my opinion, truly identify with two distinct heritage backgrounds: Filipino and Puerto Rican. Like with any marginalized group that experiences isolation, young people of mixed heritage backgrounds are finding solidarity and a shared experience with one another. Where the what are you? question is usually served with a heaping dose of eye-rolling, individuals from blended heritage backgrounds are sharing stories — some painful, some hilarious — of “that totally happened to me, too!” and “I know what you mean!”

Many young adults of mixed backgrounds are rejecting the color lines that have defined Americans for generations in favor of a much more fluid sense of identity.

Does the increase in multiracial families mean, as so many like to leap, that “racism, prejudice and discrimination are slowly losing their power”? I always say, there’s personal racism/prejudice/discrimination which, I guess, you might be able to say blended families are beginning to deconstruct. We are starting to embrace the fluidity of identity, a concept that human development practitioners have always believed. That, with each life stage and each new experience, we have opportunities to grow and incorporate new ideas into our lives.

No one knows quite how the growth of the multiracial population will change the country. Optimists say the blending of the races is a step toward transcending race, to a place where America is free of bigotry, prejudice and programs like affirmative action.

Pessimists say that a more powerful multiracial movement will lead to more stratification and come at the expense of the number and influence of other minority groups, particularly African-Americans.

I have noticed an interesting occurrence as I work with college students around issues of identity. For the population I serve, there isn’t a formula for how students identify: I have some students of mixed heritage of White and Black or Asian who strongly identify with one or the other. As the aunt of a few biracial children where 1 parent is White, I want them to know that the “White” part is just as relevant — just as important — as the Asian or Puerto Rican side. They need to know that being 1/2 White holds significance, that it holds information about what they will know about and experience about the world and our society.

While I don’t believe that multiracial identity signals the destruction of racism (if it was only that easy!), what this does signal to me is movement in the direction of not just having to choose ONE thing. I believe this signals a move away from everything being so black and white (no pun intended!). That we can, indeed, be both black and white. We can, indeed, be both White and Asian; Puerto Rican and Filipino; or all four and more. In recent months, passport applications have changed to include “parent name” from “father and mother.” More and more places are adopting gender neutral bathroom signs; more and more people are referring to “parents or guardians” rather than just “parents.” And, more progressive environments are moving away from the assumption that everyone has a father, mother, one of each, or both.

None of us want for our children to be excluded. Whether it’s a spot on the soccer team, a seat at the cafeteria table, or a chance to be in the school play, we seek to include our own children. That seems a natural role for us as parents.

How are we including the stories, lives, and experiences of all children — of all adults — in our world?

Make it a daily practice to ask yourself, how am I including all voices and all people in that which I do.

So, it’s MLK Day. What are you going to do?

First off, let’s ask the question “Why should you do anything?” After all, it’s been a long year (17 days) already with numerous snow storms (no matter where in the country you live!), and today seems like the best day to sleep in, stay inside, and keep the pajamas on until morning.

And, as the Director of Intercultural Affairs, an office that lives by the mission of educating for social justice, challenging others beyond their own comfort zone, and being a social reminder of caring for others … that’s exactly what I’m doing today.

Props to my staff members who are working today, though. One is facilitating move-in for the remaining college students who stayed home to watch the game before returning back to school; The other is hosting a reflective exercise called Community Build which challenges participants to see the shared needs within a community.

Me? I’m here. I’m in my pajamas. And, with 20 degrees outside, slick ice and snow, and three small children, I’m going to stay here.

As a working mother who has no “cleaning crew” or “live-in nanny” or even children old enough to use cleaning solutions in the house, I use days off as a great time to catch up on household chores that will never get done during the work week. So, yes, as the director of intercultural affairs on MLK day, I will be doing 2 loads of laundry, getting meals ready for the week, and attempting to clean and vacuum my house in my pajamas.

But, be not fooled.

MLK Day is significant for me. It’s the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s work that most inspires me — not just his vision for human equality, but his passion for justice, peace, and shared love. I also use this day as a time to remember that Dr. King was not just about the feel good sentiments that are emphasized about his life. Be not fooled. Dr. King was incredible because of his unrelenting commitment, drive and action to call people — our country — out on its most horrific ideas and actions.

If you are inspired to leave the house today and engage in your community, nearly every single town (or at least a town nearby) hosts a Day of Service. Please, please open your local paper or go online to your town’s site and check out what has been arranged. If not a Day of Service, many organizations (churches, mostly) are hosting Teach Ins.

If, like me, you are unable to go out (not unwilling…but unable), here are a few ideas for the at-home version:

1. Get online and go to the King Center (www.thekingcenter.org) to read some of Dr. King’s sermons, teachings and writings.

2. Read this neat story from Clarence B. Jones, a friend and speechwriter for Dr. King, about his recollection of the “I Have a Dream” speech.

3. Spend 17 minutes and watch the original speech by Dr. King.

4. Flip through the photo images of Dr. King during the Civil Rights Movement

5. Crafty? Have your children trace and cut out paper in the shape of their open hand. Ask them “How might we be able to lend a helping hand each day?” Depending on their age, they might mention how they might help you — make their beds, clean up their toys, put their clothes away. Encourage them to then see how they might help others outside of your home — talking to a new friend at school, not wasting water, recycling paper. Let them color the hands in, post them in your house, and share with them that Dr. King believed that we are all responsible for lending a hand to others.

6. Want to know a bit more about what MLK believed and how timely it is for us now? Check out (an older) video from Ill Doctrine about 10 Other Things MLK Said. One of my favorites!

Do what you can. While some folks go all out on this day to engage in community service, some of us cannot.

MLK Day. It’s not a day off. It’s a day on.

I sort of joke with my parents when I see them interact with my children, their grandchildren. When they come to the door, my parents immediately hug my children, tell them how much they love them, how much they have missed them since the last 24 hours when they saw them, and ask them what they’d like to eat/drink/play with/have.

“See,” I say to my daughter who secretly ‘wishes she was Grandma’s daughter’. “It’s so much better to be the grandchild than the daughter. When I was growing up, Grandma never told me she loved me.”

My kids don’t believe me.

They absolutely cannot believe that a world exists where their grandparents — my parents — didn’t explicitly say they loved me or my siblings. They don’t believe that we never held hands with my parents, never received a hug or a “good job”, and never felt like we were good enough.

They will never know the grandparents — my parents — who told us we were too fat, not smart enough, or that we were too lazy. They will never know the people who said that a 98% on a test included a 2% failure. They will never know the people who stated that if we had 20 minutes to watch television, then we had 2 hours to practice piano, violin, or study more.

So, when I saw the title in the WSJ that “Chinese Mothers are Superior”, I cringed. I knew exactly what it would be. It would be in praise of discipline, structure, and intentional activity. It would criticize the praising of children, the emphasis on play and imagination, and the over affection that many Western parents show by calling their children “little buddy” or “pal” or giving them a “good job” at every mediocre event.

I knew I would be faced with my own upbringing by Asian immigrants and my knowledge of Western child development.

In simply reading the excerpt from the WSJ, I knew that each of Chua’s examples would be pulled from my own life. I also knew that my children would never be able to relate to her stories. For, after all, I am not a Superior Chinese Mother.

I am, however, to borrow from my friend Delia, a “kick ass Asian American parent.”

My children — ages 7, 4 and 1 — are disciplined. They have been taught to respect their elders and their peers. They have not been allowed to give up in any situation, even if they do not like the activity. We have signed them up for soccer, karate, gymnastics, and even new schools. And, despite their early protests at each one of these events, I have never let them quit. I’ve emphasized lessons in perseverance and seeking a positive lesson out of a negative experience.

But, they have also been hugged, told they were worth love, and encouraged. They have been told that 98% is awesome and that they are as interesting — if not more interesting — than some of my friends.

They see me experience emotions: crying at commercials, laughing at movies, and yelling at the television. They hear me dialogue with my husband, sometimes agreeing but mostly disagreeing. But, most importantly, they have been encouraged to do the same. They have argued with me, told me they were upset, and demonstrated ranges of joy.

And, every morning and every night, no matter what happens, they are hugged and kissed.

Of course, once the WSJ article made its way sufficiently around the internet, people quickly came to Chua’s defense. Not in defense of what was written, but in defense of what was not written. She told of the lessons that were learned — the similar lessons that I, too, learned as a parent — of acknowledging the way we were raised and moving forward.

Though the air has been cleared, one of the greatest things the mis-representation of the Chua excerpt has raised is awareness of the pressures of the model minority myth. Asian American youth have one of the highest suicide rates, and many adults have come out to say that they, too, had considered the pressures of growing up under unrelenting expectations.

Enough conversations (both online and in person) have occurred about the pain and consequences of the model minority expectations. And, thankfully, the article helped to spark the conversation and keep it on the forefront of our awareness.

I’m an ally-purist. I believe that being an ally is more than just putting up a sticker on your office door. It’s more than a rainbow keychain. It’s more than saying you have a _______ friend (insert Black, Asian, Gay, DisAbled, etc) or that your ______ (same inserts) thinks you’re cool. Being an ally means acting and reacting; moving forward and reflecting backward; and stepping up when you’ve failed. Being an ally means calling more attention to your failures than your successes. So, I’m coming clean here and calling out a few of the many, many times when I’ve failed to be an ally. Reflecting back doesn’t mean wallowing in the past. Rather, it means learning from the past so that we don’t repeat it.

My senior year in college, I went through the “trying to be down” phase. I was the 21 year old who called things ghetto. I’m sure at age 21 I referred to things as gay, lame, or crazy. I was too ignorant to realize my own ignorance. And, at age 21, I was supposed to be an adult. In a few months after graduation, I was attending a major urban university and beginning my internship in a very openly gay and supportive school. Despite having attended a diverse undergraduate college and being somewhat involved in the multicultural organizations, I was ignorant. My years spent in a predominantly Irish/Italian Catholic town — one in which race, ethnicity, social justice, equality was never brought up — kept me sheltered from the rest of the world. Heck, it kept me sheltered from the bustling city just miles from my own doorstep. I grew up with negative stereotypes about Blacks, Latinos, people with disabilities, individuals who identified as gay, the poor, the formally uneducated, and even negative stereotypes about my own Asian people. My earlier college years never challenged me on those notions, and I continued to hold on to them through my senior year in college.

I remember — very well — sitting at a dining hall table with a number of Black and African American women who I worked with in my last year of college. I remember trying to be cool. I threw around racial slurs, racial stereotypes, and hurtful remarks. At one point, a white woman who was sitting with us turned to me and said, “Liza. That’s enough.” I remember saying, “I’m just kidding. They know I’m just kidding!” I was too ignorant to even realize I had gone too far; instead, I blamed the group of women for “not being able to take a joke.” Yea, I was that girl…. Needless to say, those women never talked to me for the rest of the semester.

While I remember that day so well, I don’t remember the day I realized I was a total jerk. I remember having feelings of sadness, embarrassment, and shame. It wasn’t a particular program, moment, book or speaker who woke me up; rather, it was a progression of learning that made me realize what I had done back in 1997. In 2000, I had gone to a shopping mall to do some wedding shopping, and I saw one of the women who had sat at that original dining hall table. She approached me with a smile, surprised that we were seeing one another in this random shopping mall. We hugged, and she said, “It’s so good to see you!” I felt embarrassed. I wanted to say something at that moment — apologize for my rudeness, my ignorance, my stupidity. But, I couldn’t find the words. Our encounter was brief, and after she walked away, I began to cry. Though she didn’t seem angry or upset (and she could have chosen to walk by me and not say anything), I felt ashamed. In 2009, more than a decade from that first encounter, I got back in touch with this woman as well as with a few others who sat at that dining room table. I wrote them lengthy apologies for what I had done, what I had said, and what I had failed to learn back in 1997. None of the women said they remembered that day at the dining hall; I have never forgotten it. There was something very healing about asking for forgiveness. To acknowledge when I have failed as an ally, and especially as a newly reformed social justice practitioner, has been the most impactful exercise of my life.

Facebook has a funny way of challenging former behavior. Recently, a friend of mine from elementary school posted a photo of our 3rd grade class at the State House. Individuals tried to figure out who was who — the bad haircuts masked many of our former faces. Quickly, a number of friends who, much later in life came out as LGBT, began to talk about ways of knowing they were gay back in those photos. I began to reflect on the many students who still feel unsafe coming out as college students. I felt the need to call out my own behavior by apologizing for not creating an environment where my former 3rd grade classmates felt they could be who they authentically were back in school. They waited — for many reasons, I’m sure — until they reached adulthood to date partners of their same sex, marry, and start families.

One particular person — a man who I have known since 1st grade — has always stuck with me when I think of LGBT ally work. I remember sitting on the bus with him and watching school yard kids play “The Fag Test.” I remember this distinctly because I had refused to partake in it. Essentially, a classmate would take your hand, palm down, and begin to vigorously scratch the top of your hand. If your skin peeled off, leaving an awfully painful mark, you were NOT a “fag.” If you made the person stop before your skin peeled off, you were “a fag.” I didn’t want to take the test. I feared pain. I feared being called “a fag”, even though, truthfully, I had no idea what that word meant. I just knew it wasn’t good to not have the mark.

I lost track of that male friend, but had connected back with him through some other mutual friends much later in life. I remember someone telling me that he had finally come out of the closet. I made a snide remark (one I had learned from a college friend) that “D is so far in the closet, he has discovered Narnia.” I thought it was funny, clever, insightful. Never did I think, or own, that it could have been hurtful, offensive, ignorant. I see my friend now, in a loving relationship with a wonderful man and now the father of 2 beautiful boys. Though we all knew, somehow, that D was gay, even when we were little, it was never spoken about in our lives. I think of D whenever I fail as an ally to the gay community. I think of D whenever I fail to speak up against homophobic remarks, “funny” jokes, or witness the pain of a student still living an inauthentic self.

Allies don’t rest in the joy of a job well done. Allies continue to reflect on the ways in which we have failed to stand up for others, failed to speak up for ourselves and our identities, and failed to create space for dignity and respect. Though it hurts to reflect on those moments, those moments keep me grounded in what I am called to do — to serve a greater good, to serve a greater version of myself, and to serve a greater purpose on our planet.

In what ways have you reflected on past behavior that has shaped your current behavior?

You’ve probably noticed – I haven’t been blogging on here much. There are a few reasons for my brief race-hiatus — emotional fatigue, not enough time, discouragement — but the most compelling one is that I have had to focus a great deal on my health. I’ve made the decision to have a double mastectomy in the next few months, and so much of my reserve brain power has been allocated to wrapping my cells around cancer.

Yet, as with most things, race is not something I can put back into a corner for a later day, a sunny day, or another day. So, here are some of the best links I’ve been reading that ring true to me and my life.

I’ll be posting a few times in the next few days — feeling inspired for the first time in a while. So, stay tuned for those. In the meantime, here are some great pieces that I’ve read recently:

Keep Your Hands Off the Hair: ” This week we’re going to talk about hair. To touch — or not to touch, that is the question. And as far as I’m concerned the answer is nearly always, no.”

South Philly Asian High School Students Victims of Attack: “Another example of ways in which our school systems fail in protecting our children”

Learn More about the Health Care Bill: As the mother of a sick child, the friend of families who care for sick relatives, and as someone going through a body disfiguring surgery in a few months, I am passionate about the health care reform. I believe that Health Care is a right, not a privilege. Yet, it is a privilege I live with each and every day. I am thankful the President has moved forward with this bill, and I also know that a number of my friends are not thankful (and absolutely oppose this bill). I’m open to hearing all sides and “to loosening my mind.” In the next few weeks, I’ll be posting thoughts from my Liberal, Conservative, and Middle friends. In the meantime, here is a link to follow the plan straight from the source.

Can We Stop Using the Term “Ally”? Great point. Instead of being an “ally”, just be someone who does the right thing. Well stated. (hat tip to What Tami Said)