I.

The first time you experience racism, you are in the first grade at a new school and too young to know that racial discrimination can happen to all people of color—not just the black girl in the corner of the classroom. You watch the white boy in front of you pull at the corners of his eyes and tilt his head this way and that, singing, “Ching chong, ling long,” while your classmates snort behind their little white hands. And you can’t help it—all laughter is infectious at this age. You laugh with them, hoping that they don’t notice you glancing at the teacher, silently begging her to tell this boy to stop because beneath the laughter that bubbles out, there is a sob building in your throat, aching and deep. You glance at your teacher, silently asking, “Is this okay? Is this normal?” She dips her head lower into her grading.

 

II.

The first time you learn that silence means safety, you are in the third grade, and you catch the girl beside you reading off your test paper. She sees you watching her and quickly looks back down at her own test. After class, you tell the teacher that the girl was cheating, and at the end of the day, before your mother picks you up, the girl from your class marches up to you, surrounded by her sentries, and calls you a tattle-tell. Her stony-faced friends with their pink painted nails and high set ponytails nod in silent agreement. The next week, you are condemned to isolation. Your classmates know the crime you committed, and they are careful not to sit too close to you in class or eat with you at lunch. After the week is over, the girl and her posse decide to forgive you, all at once, and you grasp at the miracle of a second chance. “We’re your friends,” they explain, smiling and talking slowly. “Everyone knows you’re not supposed to tell on your friends.”

 

III.

The first time your best friend makes you cry, you are in the sixth grade, and you have earned a higher seat in orchestra than she has. You practiced together every day after school until the chair test. You know how hard you both worked for this, but when the directors place you six seats ahead of your best friend, you know that you aren’t allowed to celebrate. You aren’t allowed to do anything but keep your gaze low and nod in agreement as she rages and accuses the teachers of favoring you because you’re Asian, because it’s naturally easier for you to be good at the violin.

 

IV.

The first time you catch yourself wishing you were white, you are a freshman in high school, and your math teacher has just passed out the grades from the last test. While your classmates lean across the aisles to compare grades, you sink lower into your seat, feeling the heat of humiliation rise into your neck, through your cheeks, and settle on the tips of your ears. Your skin turns as red as the large 63% circled at the top of your paper, and before you can hide those taunting pen marks, the white boy behind you snickers. You hear him whisper to his friend, “Hey, you beat the Chinese girl.”

 

V.

The first time you begin to understand racism, you are a freshman in college, third in line for coffee. It’s loud and busy, and you must speak up to be heard. You order your dirty chai and join the other customers waiting for their drinks. Someone taps your shoulder, and you turn, facing a smiling stranger. His skin glows pale, and his eyes shine like amber in the sunlight that pours in through the window. “You speak really good English,” he compliments. You blink twice. “I speak English well,” is what you don’t say. Instead, you beam at him and offer a quiet, “Thank you.”

 

VI.

The first time you fear for your safety in this country is the first time your mother dismisses it. The pandemic has just spiked in America, and you are quarantining alone. You huddle in your apartment, blinds shut against the light, clutching your phone with a trembling hand as you ask your mother to send you a box of face masks. She asks why you can’t go out and buy them for yourself, and you hesitate before you respond. You don’t know how to explain that you are less afraid of getting sick than you are of strangers looking at your Asian features and accusing you of bringing the virus to America. You don’t know how to explain that you and your sister feel like you’re in danger every time you step foot outside your homes. You don’t know how to explain that face masks are the only thing providing some sliver of protection against strangers who might attack you on the street. So you tell her the only thing that doesn’t require an explanation—the only thing she, a white woman, will understand. “I’m just afraid of getting sick.” A week later, your package finally arrives, but even then, you stay inside. Even then, you fear whatever awaits you on the other side of the front door.