A Splinter in My Heel: A Digital Vent from an Asian in a Bright City
The caucasity of the microaggressions I have faced lately are truly astounding. They are as micro as they come—ranging from failed attempts at assuming my “country of origin” to assuming that English was my second language—yet they remain an irritant, like a splinter stuck in the heel of my foot five miles into a half marathon. And even that is putting it kindly — it’s more like several paper cuts on the part of your finger where the band-aid doesn’t sit comfortably, if at all. OR like stubbing your toe on an antique dresser in the middle of Homegoods. The metaphors end here.
I have been on record as the guy who goes out of his way to see the best in people. The one who tries fervently to unearth the nuance and study it meticulously — mostly to my own detriment. Maybe that sliver of my identity is what (I assume) makes me appear docile, domesticated, and open to these comments.
Ever since moving, I feel like I have been exposed to a new brand of whiteness. One that isn’t afraid to call itself out as problematic while simultaneously not shying away from being problematic. In the span of three months, I have experienced more micro aggressions than I have in my five years of being only three miles from West Hollywood (a topic for another piece). I have been fetishized for my race, assumed to be from five different Asian Countries (none of which were correct), and even worse, left defenseless to fend off these aggressions by myself, despite having friends who claim to have my back.
And there’s the splinter.
I have longed to be a part of a community, a family, of my own choosing for so long, but I’m slowly realizing how little I see myself in these spaces I’ve cultivated. I am now seeing how I have no frames of references, no cultural shortcuts, no real understanding of who I am or interests from them into understanding who I am. Yet I stay. Yet I grit my teeth and bear it.
Yet I smile and nod because to walk away with my head down sobbing is the worst possible alternative.
Where is the support when the support is needed? Where is the supposed allyship when the situations actually arise? Where is the effort? It’s not like I am asking for much, but maybe that’s the problem—I’m not asking. When support is the given, when should one feel empowered to vocalize for more? Should one feel empowered at all?
It isn’t even about finding the nerve and the power to ask the question—these words now out in the digital space show my need and is asking it in pure prose. But, personally, I just don’t have the actual energy to say it. It’s as if every splinter and every paper cut drain a little part of me, and the more successive they become the less time I have to repair. To heal. I am often left lying on the ground, metaphorically bloodlet, with barely enough energy to whine.
Consider this me asking for support. Consider this me hoping for more. Consider this me pleading for kindness. Because this is all the energy I have for now.
