It is final exams week, which normally is a celebratory time of the year because of the opportunities to spent time with family and friends. But I sit here in reflection and cannot help but think about something that a student told me last school year.
A little backstory: like much of this country, our school was, err, is going through some things. Long story short, we needed a space to talk, and there was a need for a space to understand and empathize.
Last May, a few students and staff members organized an all-day equity panel. Participants sat in the auditorium to share their experiences living in their skin to an audience that consisted of mostly students, with a healthy sprinkle of faculty. Some shared about being people of color(s). Others about their gender identification. Some about sexual orientation. Classes ebbed and flowed into the large space throughout the day, some returning three or four times to hear from a new panel each period.
I was asked to share my experiences about being an Asian American male. At first it felt like one of those times that I was asked to speak on behalf of “my people,” which often meant all of east Asia. But after listening to the organizers, and after seeing the events leading up to the panel, I had a strong feeling this would be quite different.
I did not know if I was prepared, let alone comfortable, to share my stories. As an Asian American male, I was raised to keep to myself, to be compliant, and let others do the talking; I was taught to avoid my opinions and conflict as much as possible. But my personal journey as a person of color has helped me to move past what my parents, Chinese immigrants, taught me.
The first session I really wanted to just listen, so I sat in the audience while the panel sat on stools near the stage. But then I was spotted and asked to take a stool at the front. I recall exactly where I was sitting, second to last seat, stage left. I was nervous. My heart raced as I listed to students and staff members share their stories.
Then the microphone was handed to me, and I shared my story.
Growing up Asian American in the United States was…interesting. I never really experienced the negative prejudices that the other speakers shared. Instead, I found myself caught in the middle: I was “given” a tremendous amount of privilege because my race has, historically, been viewed as the Model Minority, being compliant with white dominant American society.
Being caught in the middle was really confusing growing up, and I did not realize I was dead center of the Color Line because the conversation about race was nonexistent in my household. My first memory of race happened in kindergarten, a time when I knew I was Chinese American, but thought I was white. In retrospect, it seems really weird and silly to think that, but when there was little to no conversation in my household about the differences between my Black, Brown, Tan and white fam, five year old me saw what I saw: two shades of skin tones.
Fast forward a few years and I am walking the playground leading my posse, yes I was the king pin of my elementary school group. We were really into Super Street Fighter II at the time, and we were assigned a character based on…characteristics. For reasons unknown to me at the time, I got pinned as the Chun-Li, the sole Chinese character (duh). I could go on about the race and gender stereotypes that exist in the SF franchise, but I will save that for another day.
As my childhood progressed, I did not really encounter many race related issues. Looking back, I think the two biggest factors for this are my parents’ decision to live in a predominantly white Jewish neighborhood in Chicago, instead of Chinatown like my cousins, and being Asian American, with all of the privileges that come with it.
What was unique about my upbringing was the opportunity to learn about different races, ethnicities, and nationalities from my friends and schoolmates. My social circles in grade and high school looked like the United Nations, and it was an experience that, from my perspective, rarely exists in today’s world. But what was missing from those developmental years, and even still today, was a positive role model that looked like me.
Yes, my father was a positive role model for me, as were grandfathers, uncles, older cousins. But when I looked at mainstream media, because let’s face it, that is where many of our kid’s role models are, there were so few Asians positively represented. In my eyes, I had Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan, two phenomenal Asian men that brought aspects of East Asian culture to the Wild Wild West. But as great as Lee and Chan were/are, the reality is that they both still made a living doing the single most stereotypical Asian thing: martial arts.
Outside of media, the number of Asian role models was equally as low. I had one and a half Asian teachers from preschool through twelfth grade, and one in college, with current numbers estimating around two percent of active teachers being Asian (US Department of Education). I recall only two Asians in the police force and one in active duty for the United States armed forces; approximately two percent of the national police force and four and a half percent of the US armed forces are of Asian descent (Data USA; US Department of Defense).
My Black and white peers had so many more role models than me from both a mainstream media and every day life perspective. In all honesty, it upset me and made me feel quite alone, and to some extent I feel the same way today.
Because of the lack of representation, I found myself idolizing the role models of my peers. Like many Asian Americans growing up in the 90s, I embraced hip hop culture, especially rap music. I listened to and appreciated the truths of Tupac, Mos & Kweli, Lauryn Hill, Common, and Black Thought. I empathized with the struggles of being a person of color in White America. Could I really understand what it was like to be Black? Absolutely not, especially with the privilege that society has bestowed onto me as a Model Minority. However, I saw parallels in many experiences; I found solace in the music and culture.
I pass the microphone to the last speaker and they speak their truth. The panel ends. Hugs are given. Tissues are thrown away. Teachers gather their students in preparation to exit the auditorium. One of my fellow Asian/Pacific Islander students, Michelle, walks up to me before she leaves for class. What she said has stuck with me since that day in May.
“I just wanted to let you know that I feel the exact same way, and look up to you. Thank you for being one of my role models.”
Since May 9, 2017, I have been thinking about those words Michelle shared. I think about and reflect on my experiences as a teen caught in the middle, not knowing where or how to fit in. I think about the students I have the privilege of serving, and the struggles they face in a world that has not significantly changed since I was in their seats.
Not minimizing the importance of those things, the thing I think about most is the importance for me to continue to teach. I have never viewed myself as a role model for others. Not that I am a bad person, or that I do bad things. I just never saw myself in that role for someone.
Approximately half of the United States student population identify as non-white (National Center for Education Statistics). The teaching force is wildly disproportionate, with over eighty percent of teachers identifying as white (US Department of Education; American Association of Colleges for Teacher Education). I have always recognized the power and influence teachers have on students, but have not thought about the magnitude of it. What if I had multiple Asian teachers throughout the various stages of my academic career? Would I have made the same life, academic, and career decisions? Would my parents have been more involved in my academic life if they knew I was being taught by someone who looked like us? What about my fellow students of color? Would things be different for them? Research suggests that it would be. Cherng and Halpin suggest that learners of all races and backgrounds prefer teachers of color.
Hiring and retaining teachers of color is much easier said than done. Longitudinal research reports that the turnover rate for teachers of color are similar to new teachers (G. L. Partee). Some of the biggest factors are similar to how and why Black and Brown students struggle in schools: lack of support, and access to resources and opportunities. While the 2000s called for a push to hire more Black and Brown teachers, the support and opportunities to grow professionally were, and continue to be, minimal at best, which continued the trend of teachers of color leaving the profession (M. D. Anderson).
Support in the teaching profession is something that I have been much more aware about over the past few years. While I do find emotional support from fellow teachers of color and white allies in my building, there lacks actual structures for constructive discussion towards change, and I suspect that this is the case in many schools across the country.
After Michelle finished speaking, I did not know how to respond. I thought about crying because her words hit me hard. They continue to be the driving force for me to stay where I am. I thought about crying because younger me wished for someone to look up to like she shared with me.
But I did not cry. Instead we hugged it out.
Thank you, Michelle. You have no idea how important those words are to me.
