When COVID Meets West
(Republished from LinkedIn)
Two months ago, I published an essay on inclusion and growing up Asian in America “before we were everywhere.” [i]
Expressing solidarity with other minority groups more overtly subjected to backlash at the time — thanks to a President whose rhetoric has roused sleeping xenophobes everywhere — I added (with apologies for quoting myself):
“I harbor no illusions, by the way, that I’m not ultimately in the line of fire, too. No Asian ought to, in my view. In the grandiose, nativist’s dream of weeding out non-white from white, we are all within range… Still, in my day-to-day life — at least for the moment — I occupy a more ambiguous, less directly threatened space, just to the side of the bullseye.”
And now here we are:
I can’t lie. My situation before the COVID outbreak already felt precarious. I have been job-searching since December. And because I am a woman — of a certain age; of color — whose corporate job was “eliminated” at about the same time in my life that I’ve seen many women (of all colors) pushed out of the workforce, I’ve inevitably toyed with DEI questions about glass ceilings and bamboo ceilings and ageism, and whether any of these could have played some small part — directly or indirectly — in the professional arc I found myself living through.
Of course I’ll never know. And I’ve tried not to let nagging questions of this kind mess with my psyche, so that I could get on with the task of figuring out next steps. To move forward, not backwards.
And I was doing pretty well.
Now, though, as my city (New York) becomes the new epicenter of the pandemic, and as the U.S. looks poised to become the next Italy or maybe worse (possibly much worse, thanks to a leadership style of bluster and bravado that set the country back weeks and daily reveals itself to be anything but leadership), the added worries about physical health and financial survival in a rocky economy make it a little harder to keep blinders on.
Yet nothing has gotten to me as much as the recent news about the rise of anti-Asian backlash in the form of racial slurs and physical attacks and aggression, which surely will keep pace with the spread of the virus across the U.S., if not the entire Western world.
It’s hard to overstate the level of pugilistic anger that has rankled my psyche as a consequence. Enough that I find it difficult — forgive me — to read some of the Pollyanna pronouncements about the overwhelming goodness and positivity people are seeing emerging from this crisis.
I see these positives, too. But the negative threat feels more immediate and menacing. And mentally, I’m gearing myself up for a tidal wave of hate that may be coming my (our) way.
Concerns about glass and bamboo ceilings pale in my mind now, by comparison.
Will I be spat on if I decide to wear a mask, taking a walk down the street or heading to the grocery store?
What must it feel like to be Asian and working on the frontlines in the medical field right now? I can only imagine. Are you going to be harassed and verbally provoked as you make your way to the hospital in an effort to save lives?
I begin to contemplate seriously whether I ought to think about leaving the U.S., long-term, worrying that my daily sense of life here may be altered, well after the virus has passed, because my historical mind knows something of the past and anticipates the coming of another protracted era of anti-Asian xenophobia.
I feel immense gratitude toward the many who have acknowledged their awareness of this growing threat. And who have spoken out against it.
If this is you, and you are speaking from a place of safety, you cannot know how welcome and comforting your words are to me.
If you are a fellow person of color, and you speak from a position of having been in the line of fire yourself, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
At the same time, I confess to a depth of animosity even more intense (if that’s possible) toward our U.S. President, who deliberately stirred the pot and fanned the flames in plain sight for weeks; then tried to gaslight and deny he was doing any such thing, when we all knew well he was.
It is hard, as some will counsel, to “rise above.” To be best.
I know the biggest threat right now in the U.S. is the coming of death, in numbers that many of us have been shielded from exposure to all our lives. And trying to prevent and minimize this must be top of mind and uppermost on everyone’s agenda. I hope some greater sense of community and common humanity does emerge from the battle ahead.
Yet I really fear for anyone of East Asian descent in the U.S. right now — friends, relatives, and strangers. And I will for the next many years to come.
In no time at all we’ve moved from the side of the bullseye to the center. And as much as I always knew it could happen, the reality under these circumstances is heartbreaking.
Two months ago, I had the freedom and luxury of expressing empathy toward others more directly harmed than I. Now I must ask for empathy and solidarity from friends, colleagues, and acquaintances still lucky enough to reside in the safe zone. Or those already familiar with having been chosen racist target of the month.
As we brace ourselves in America for what is our turn in battling COVID-19, please spare a moment of awareness for your Asian and Asian-American friends and colleagues, here in the U.S. and the West generally, and know that our spirits may be clouded by this added dimension, even as I and others press forward in a show of unity.
