How Easily 'fugees Forget

Times like this bring out the worst in people. We are truly living in a time like no other. Where the emergence of social media leads us to learning things about each other that we normally wouldn’t know. Like the fact that people don’t really understand what systematic oppression is. Like the fact that people in your own village contribute to white supremacy. Like the fact that people who you thought was down, really ain’t. I’m hurt. I’m hurt because #KeithLamontScott was shot and killed by police. I’m hurt because he was innocent. I’m hurt because he’s not the only, the first, or the last Black person to be shot and killed by the police this year. So this is what it feels like to have this happen in your own hometown. To have a precious life be taken by those who swear to protect our precious lives, in a place that is familiar, that is comforting, that is home.

I write this knowing that I come from a place of privilege in this situation. My pain is nothing compared to the pain of those who’s family members have been killed. My pain is nothing compared to the pain of those who walk daily with fear and anxiety in their hearts, wondering if their mother/brother/child/own life will be devalued next. My pain is nothing compared to that of Black person living in Amerikkka. I only write about my own pain and suffering now, in the hopes that those who share my background will understand the situation and why I stand where I stand.

My father was a refugee. People will get tired of hearing this. But it’s a fundamental part of who I am and who WE are as Southeast Asian Americans. I’ll never forget and neither should you. As a teenager, my father and his father huddled together in a tiny, tarp-covered canoe and floated across the Mekong River from Laos to Thailand. They sought a refugee camp and place they would be safe. They wouldn’t have fled if my grandfather weren’t facing persecution from the government as a former soldier on the side of the Americans during the Secret War. This is what it feels like when your own country won’t protect you. This story isn’t unique. This is the shared history of all Southeast Asian Americans. We came on boats.

We were settled in low-income neighborhoods, with high crime rates, high police presence, and little help from the government. We survived how we could.

Our neighbors were African-American. We went to the same schools. We shopped at the same stores. We got our food stamps from the same DHHS. We were bullied by the same police officers. We were shot and killed by the same law enforcement (#SayTheirNames #SylasoneAckhavong #JonathanFerrel #ChieuDiThiVo #KeithLamontScott). 
How easily 'fugees forget.

I guess not everyone grew up the same way I did. Maybe you got “lucky”. Maybe your family got resettled in place where you never experienced the things I did. Maybe you grew up in a neighborhood where the police never showed up, except to help you when you called. Maybe you grew up among white people, who helped you get everything you needed to succeed. Maybe you never noticed they treated you like a ugly-cute pet. Do you think they’ll take to the streets when you get shot by the police?

The ones who understand your oppression will. That’s why I hurt when a Black life gets taken. The system has been set against Black people and people of color from the beginning. From the time Europeans invaded Africa, stole land, resources, and people. They came on boats. And from that time, have been treated as separate and unequal in the country of Amerikkka.

What hurts me now and will continue to hurt me is that people with refugee backgrounds like mine seem to have forgotten that they come from a place of struggle. They say things that hurt me and contribute to white supremacy and I wonder how they can have so little compassion for people who have suffered so much and who have suffered alongside us for so long.

If you aren’t Black:

Don’t tell Black people that obeying the police will prevent them being shot.

Don’t say someone deserved to die for holding a gun; looking for help after their car broke down; for wearing a hoodie.

Don’t police Black expressions of grief and pain. Don’t tell Black people how to protest their oppression. You don’t understand their pain and never will.

What if someone told our Southeast Asian parents to sit down and be quiet? Where would we be?

How easily ‘fugees forget.