“Just accept it and move on,” my mom said when I was eleven.
She, my brother, and I had been walking the crowded streets of Flushing when an elderly white woman had run up, screaming, “You don’t belong here! Go back to your country!” I quickly explained to my mom what had happened, translating for her. She looked at me with no sign of anger or surprise—as if she’d heard this a thousand times before.
I tried to forget what had happened, to “move on,” but the memory stayed. It maddened me I’d stood motionless. Why hadn’t I stood up for myself and my family? Every time I relived the incident, a dark shadow made of fear and shame overtook my body.
The shock of that day led me to begin noticing more inequalities, especially subtle ones. I first observed this at home, a traditional Korean household where boys are preferred. High expectations were placed upon my younger brother and my prospects considered limited. My family discussed who’d eventually take care of our parents in the future. I exclaimed I would, since when I become a surgeon, I can support my parents and give them better opportunities. But my grandmother stated only my brother could as he is male and more capable of securing a successful career. Even outside of home, I saw gender inequality, like how advertisements associate power, security, and strength with men, while beauty, innocence, and passivity are assigned to women.
Noticing sexism so often made me increasingly aware of racism around me. I had so many questions and started reading more about inequality. Both sexism and racism seem to deem one group as “better,” oppressing a group for their identity. I discovered something called intersectionality and how many systems of discrimination shape our lives. Although the incident with the elderly woman was painful, I’m grateful it happened; it led me to examining the world around me in a more critical way. My frustration and anger made me determined to never accept the status quo if it is wrong.
But I still struggled with speaking out due to my shyness, and in those moments, that shadow of shame and regret descended.
Back in June, the Black Lives Matter movement went viral, although that injustice has been ingrained for centuries. Eating lunch with my mom, I saw an Instagram post explaining why BLM is important to Korea. Although this would be the least of her cares, I showed her the post showing the history of slavery and the Civil Rights movement. While trying to elucidate the facts, I placed myself in her shoes: maybe she hadn’t initially seen BLM’s importance because she comes from a homogenous country where racism hasn’t even existed until recently. My mom realized how symbolic this movement is to Black people and all of us; she became immersed and wanted to help. I was stunned. I felt inspired, realizing I could have a real impact on how a person perceives an issue. That day sparked a confidence in me, and I began to burst from that dark shadow of fear.
I’ve replayed the incident with the elderly woman over and over again, wondering how I’d react if it occurred now or tomorrow. The scene has changed over the years. Today, this is how it’d go: I wouldn’t show anger but try to understand why she felt this way, if she experienced something that influenced her to attack me. I’d try to speak to her so she understands I’m a human being and American—no different from her. Even if I weren’t able to change her mind, I could show her a different viewpoint.
I can’t “just accept it and move on.” I won’t stay in the shadow anymore and remain timid, waiting for someone else to speak up. I’ll challenge myself to live outside of what’s safe, encountering the world with empathy, respect, and perspective.