Listening & Learning
22.80
Before I begin, I would like to preface by saying that I am no expert; I do not have any answers, and it is in no way my intention to take focus away from black narratives. But, as outcries reverberate across all fifty states and the globe, I believe it would be remiss of me to not speak up. I dedicate this volume to furthering my understanding of what it means to stand in solidarity—how to listen and how to learn.
In the wake of events these past few weeks, I’ve had to step away from the ever-flowing stream of social media; to collect my thoughts.
In these moments, I sit with two versions of myself—present and past, to ask, wholeheartedly, what it means to stand in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement. As an Asian-American, this starts by looking at my own biases.
As COVID-19 spread across the country, our communities grounded to a halt. And just as it’s easier to focus on an object at rest, the stillness made us see our nation’s greatest disparities. Black Americans were disproportionately affected by the health crisis and Asian Americans increasingly became targets of hate crimes. It became frustratingly and shamefully clear that the “model minority myth” not only failed to protect any of us in times of uncertainty, but that white institutions have always weaponized it to propagate anti-blackness. In The Color of Success, Ellen Wu, Associate Professor at the Indiana University Bloomington, adds the following color to this idea:
The backdrop of the growing Civil Rights movement in the 1960’s caused white Americans to double down on the model minority myth, as “proof that the right kind of minority group could achieve the American dream,” on their own and without support. “The insinuation was that hard work along with unwavering faith in the government and liberal democracy as opposed to political protest were the keys to overcoming racial barriers as well as achieving full citizenship.”
These disparities, though more visible now, have long existed. I don’t want to focus on my narrative here, but I wish to recognize one aspect. As a previous member of a predominantly Asian hip-hop dance crew, I’ve cherry-picked elements from black culture—particularly hip-hop dance and music—for my own benefit without a proper appreciation for the culture. It provided me with community, expression, joy, and I can no longer atone for that kind of complicity. Going forward, I will also call out such cases in myself and others around me.
James Baldwin famously said, “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced”, and I believe such is true for the self.
Before we can listen and self-educate effectively, we must create the capacity for it. The outflow of donations, pre-drafted e-mails, and antiracist curricula across social media is awe-inspiring, but without space within ourselves to listen, I frankly cannot disassociate viral hashtags and two-click-solidarity from performance. The notion that we can earn solidarity through an activism laundry list is a dangerous oversimplification of the issue, and it begs the question: when there is no audience, how can we ensure our values remain resilient?
On the pendulum of either engulfing one’s self in social media or taking a step back for mental clarity, I have benefited and am learning from the latter. I encourage my fellow non-black readers to use that time to face one’s past complicity—seeking not an absolution of guilt, but a greater capacity for compassion that equips us to take action within our locus of control—who we influence, what we consume, how we spend our money—with sincerity. For therein lies, as it always has, our fundamental responsibilities to seek discomfort, to consider the invisible forces at play, and simply, to just be decent.
