Imago Dei: My small ode to AAPI heritage month

To my beautiful Asian brothers & sisters who live in a reality that demands so much of them - as women, as exotified, orientalized play-things, as fobbish, American, American-ish, wife, wife-to-be, -- should be, can't be, single & seeking, single & not seeking; As men, too feminine, too slim, too small, too short, emasculated, Jackie Chan look-a-like, must have a black belt; daring-to-dream big, pushing the boundaries of your culture - their culture, standing on shoulders of immigrant legacies daring to dream for pies in the sky, never catching a break, meeting standards and expectations, upholding roles and traditions, breaking tradition, making new traditions while trying to keep honor and avoid shame. Believing in your strength and capacity without disrespecting your elders. No one pausing to ask if you're okay. Buzzing forward at 10,000 mph, attempting perfection. In everything. Teetering between two worlds. Tottering between glimmering new horizons & beautiful, must-be-preserved customs. Forgetting parts of yourself to fit in. Rejecting parts of yourself to make it.

Breathe. Remember to choose yourself.

The self that feels complete. 

Pizza-eating, kimchi-munching, Asian-sitting, not-Harvard-bound, basket-ball loving self.

You are Imago Dei. Beautiful. Just as you are.

No less. No more.

All those voices will be there when you return to the mire.

Hold tight to your soul, lest you become only but a shadow of your true self.

It can take years to recover the pieces.

It can take decades to render the original canvas and know what it once was and is meant to be.

Breathe. Remember to choose yourself.

The self you know is 100%

Fork-only-eating, Taglish-only-speaking, Westernized, male Feminist, progressive self.

You are Imago Dei. Beautiful. Just as you are. 

No less. No more. 

Rend your soul from the grasp of those who give nary a glance at the precious cargo they've taken hold of. Who consume you and discard you. Who know you, but don't know YOU. Whose conscience is dim to the glorious readable chapters of your novel. Not just the chapters of the "American Dream" saga, where you can read about Jackie Chan, Jet Li, Lucy Liu, Harold & Kumar, the art of telemarketing and eating dog. It includes the appendix citing Japanese Internment, Domestic Worker exploitation, Refugee status, Aloo Gobi, 1947 Partition, Fish sauce & Dinogoan, Hawaii's illegal annexation, Comfort women & Islamophobia. It includes the footnotes about bi-cultural identity in a hyper-racialized world, intersectionality, and what the acronym AAPI stands for. 

Choose yourself.

Imago Dei.

Beautiful.

Just as you are.

In honor of AAPI Heritage month

Inspired by Kathy Khang's blog post:

http://www.kathykhang.com/2016/05/19/mental-health-aapi-awareness-month/#comment-3452

Turning Point

Age 9, I applied to be student government secretary. 

Feeling tiny, small and out of place I approached my teacher with my application. 

"Are you ready to give a speech?" Ms. Witcher, my 4th grade teacher said. 

I squeaked to myself slightly and felt my heart begin to race.

A speech? In front of people?!?!?!?!

                      But who would listen to me anyway?

               I 

                        was 

                                     that 

                                                 nice

                                                         quiet

                                                                    (asian?)

                                                                                  girl.

                                                                      I 

                                                        shrank

                                         within

                         myself.

"Nevermind!" I said. And ran away. 

I remember the slightly disappointed look on Ms. Witcher's face. The soft wrinkles of 

her mid-60 year old face slightly frowning, wondering why I didn't even dare to try. 

Why didn't she give me a pep talk? Tell me that I was capable -- That I had a voice worth listening to. 

I remember talking myself out of the opportunity to run for student gov't secretary. 

"You're not actually that popular." 

"Who would vote for you?"

"What would I have to say that's worth them picking me?" 

I remember telling my parents about it. 

What I don't remember is their response. Did they encourage me? 

There's a blank space there...

..

..

..

..

..

..

7th grade year. Concert master of my orchestra. 

8th grade year. Ditto. 

Ditto till I graduated from high school. 

I coached, I taught, I led sectionals.

Nowhere else did I feel so confident behind my violin. 

Did I actually have clout? 

I'm 

         still

                 that 

                          quiet 

                                    (Asian?) 

                                                  girl/teenager.

                                        We'll

                         see

             I 

guess. 

Age 24. InterVarsity Campus staff minister (member, just to be safe.)

It was the next step that made sense. Grateful for a lineage of mentors.

Janet. Michelle. Genese. 

Grateful for allies. 

Mark. 

Not all places feel safe. 

I remember walking into a ministry outreach meeting. 

    ed  

Su          nd

                             rr ou              BY MEN.

I'm 

         still 

                 that 

                           quiet 

                                     Filipina (Asian on the harder days)

                                                                                         WOMAN.

                                                                        Where's 

                                                              my 

                                                place

                                     in

                          this

  conversation?

Boy the testosterone was thick. 

Am I really the only person that's going to raise their hand? 

Am I really the only person who's going to wait for the other person to finish talking? 

Must I assert myself always? 

Thank goodness one gentleman noticed my hand up, or heard the little gasp of air I made that one makes when they are wanting to say something. I really can't remember. 

The meeting ended. TIME TO GO!

Age 26. Fairview United Methodist Church. March 30, 2014. 11:20am.

The last butterfly left my stomach as I stepped onto the pulpit. 

He made my mouth like a sharpened sword,

                                                                                                                                      in the shadow of his hand he hid me;

                               he made me into a polished arrow

    and concealed me in his quiver.

All I remember is my voice sounding slightly distant, echoing through the speakers. 

(Is my mic on?)

Notes before me. Ephesians 5:1-8. 

(Just open your mouth.)

Remember this moment. This turning point. 

YOU CANNOT FAIL.

(Is my voice really that high-pitched?)

(How weird. I'm not that nervous.)

(Am I really talking?)

                                                                                                                                        now. :)

                                                                                                                              back

                                                                                                                    turning
                                                                                                             no 

                                                                                             There's

                                                                          WOMAN.

                                                           Filipino American 

                           quiet (only when I'm shy)

                  that        

         still

I'm