My heart felt heavy when I learned about the tragic loss of at least six Asian women in the Atlanta area. Instantly, I thought of their families, likely hardworking immigrant mothers who came to this country seeking a better life for their children. Tears filled my eyes as I made my way upstairs to hug my six-year-old daughter before her online class.
These tears were not just for my mother, but for every Asian parent navigating the complexities of life in America—learning a new language, working full-time, raising children, and adapting to a different culture—all while fearing they might become one of the thousands of hate crime victims reported in the past year, as noted by AAPI Hate. My mother’s journey was particularly challenging; when she married my American father in the 1970s, they lived in a trailer on his parents’ land in Oklahoma. My grandfather initially refused to acknowledge her due to her race, but eventually, he accepted her as part of the family. She was one of the fortunate ones.
As a mother, she faced the daunting task of ensuring her own children wouldn’t endure the same struggles. Growing up in Korea during the 1980s, I was teased for being a “mutt,” and upon moving to America, I experienced more bullying—kids would pull their eyes back and call me names like Kristi Yamaguchi. Even my maiden name, Patricia Smith, prompted disbelief from others who thought it couldn’t possibly belong to an Asian person. It often left me feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere.
I don’t harbor resentment toward my grandfather; he was a product of his environment, shaped by a lack of diversity. However, it’s the individuals who choose hatred and violence that truly concern me. I want to shield my daughter from that fear.
Three years ago, my husband and I made the significant decision to relocate to a rural county in Maryland. I knew it would be less diverse than Baltimore County or Newport News, Virginia—where I was raised—but the excellent school system and affordable housing made it a worthwhile choice for her future. I found myself echoing my mother’s journey.
My daughter doesn’t visually conform to typical Asian traits—she has bright blue eyes and dirty blonde hair—yet she is still a quarter Korean. While I am half Korean and carry distinct Asian features, the rise in anti-Asian violence makes me acutely aware of how I’m perceived in public. I often wonder what people think as we walk together. Do they assume I’m her nanny? Are they judging me? Can she communicate in English?
I squeeze her hand and try to dismiss these anxious thoughts. So far, our experience in this town has been overwhelmingly positive, with kind and open-minded individuals, including wonderful daycare teachers and a new Vietnamese family we recently met. Yet, I can’t shake the worry that we might encounter people who lack understanding; I hope I’m mistaken.
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In summary, as a mixed-race Asian mother, my greatest fears revolve around the societal challenges my daughter may face. While I strive to provide her with a nurturing environment, I remain vigilant about the prejudices that exist and hope for a future where love triumphs over hate.