In February 1992, my family immigrated from Hong Kong. My parents were worried about what would happen when the city returned to Chinese rule, and we were privileged and fortunate to be able to move to Los Angeles, where we had relatives.
A month later, Rodney King was violently beaten by Los Angeles police officers. Next month, after their acquittal, the riots broke out. We could see the silhouette of the downtown skyline from the backyard of our home. I remember faint plumes of smoke billowing against the hazy orange sunset.
I was 6 at the time and had no idea what was happening. But I remember my parents distraught, wondering what happened and where we had just moved to: a country whose commitment to human rights and values exists only in ornate prose?
Now, 28 years later, from Rodney King to George Floyd — and who knows who’s next — what has changed, really?
John F. Kennedy said that “those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.” Is it any surprise the anger and outrage fanning across the country? And will we once again ride down that slippery slope from exasperation to resignation, waiting for the next tragedy to come full circle?
Amid a pandemic, a different pestilence has once again reared its ugly head. Only this is not some new strain of a deadly virus, but one that has long ravaged American communities across centuries. It is about the lack of respect for human lives and beings. It is about the racist privilege inherent in a system that prioritizes the values of some lives over others.
On a drive to Oakland this afternoon, I saw this graffiti message on the side of a building: If you don’t respect existence, expect resistance.
As long privilege and injustices continue, there will be no end to the tears, frustration and exasperation. The needless deaths and cries for breath. We live in a society where protests against brutality lead to more brutality. Where those who report and keep us informed about injustices are themselves the target of brutality. Where, in Orwellian fashion, all lives are equal, but some are more equal than others.
Individually, we respond to public and personal tragedies and injustices in different ways. Some talk and express feelings openly. Others prefer to grieve privately and digest internally.
I have been fortunate so far to not have been a target of abuse and brutality. There have been what I would consider mild discrimination and disparagement about my Asian heritage. But definitely nowhere to the extent of what Black, Brown and non-white peoples continue to endure. Because I feel I have been largely “spared,” I often struggle with what to say in these moments. What do I know?
Sometimes, the search for the “right” words can cower one from saying anything at all, at the risk of being disingenuous and inauthentic. Sometimes, in the rush to “say something,” we turn that risk into a reality.
That has been one reason why I have felt so uncomfortable to write this. I know I am not alone. I am usually careful with words; I like to listen more than I speak. Listening sometimes speaks volumes louder than saying something, anything.
But sometimes, nothing is more deafening than silence. And if this is not the time to speak, then when?
You don’t have to do it publicly. But talk to somebody. Listen. Respond. Engage. Do not be a bystander. Write. Donate. Vote. No matter how many people hear it, you have a voice…
…until you don’t.
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out — because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out — because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out — because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me.
— Martin Niemöller
