My Predominantly White Institution

by Lindsay Feng

cover art by Yoo-Jing Kang

At the predominantly white private institution I attend in the suburbs of  Massachusetts, I walk with a chip on my shoulder. As an Asian American, I am grouped with the rest of the invisible BIPOC demographic on campus. We are excluded from the get-go because the second we step foot on campus, we are reminded that we are “other”, that we don’t belong, and that our voices are of lesser value. While I am still learning to navigate ignorance and microaggressions hurled my way, it has not been an easy journey. 

My first day of sophomore year began as mundane as ever. I was grouped with four students for “team-bonding” orientation activities. One of them was a good friend of mine, while the others I frankly had no desire to speak to. It was the typical “follow the trail and complete the tasks” scenario where we would solve puzzles to win points and progress onwards, like a reality game show. Thrilling, I know.

Suddenly, my monotonous day was turned around. In the middle of a math-related task, a white student in my group turned to us and said jokingly, “We got two Asians in our group so this will be easy, right?”

He grinned as if he’d just said something hilarious. Instantly I turned to my Asian friend and gave him a look that read Did this mother f*cker just say what I think he did? First day back, and I’m already dealing with this nonsense? Should I say something? How do  I even reply to that? 

After an awkward pause, the boy reached out to shake my hand, still grinning and explained, “Hey, it’s just a joke, you get it, right?” My head was spiraling with internal rage, but I succumbed to his joke and responded, “Yeah.”  Now looking back, I wonder: What was I thinking? Why would I do that? But what could I have done? Neither my friend or I were confrontational people. I didn’t want conflict, especially with a random boy I’ve never met before, which is why I let it slide.

And then I smiled. As if I thought what he said was funny and justified. I gave him the validation he desired- I compromised my own integrity and self-respect to please a white boy with no self-awareness nor empathy. By swallowing his joke instead of calling him out for his bullshit, I lost a part of myself to the system that protects and upholds white ignorance. 

At that moment, I felt incredibly small. I let him minimize my identity in our first and only encounter, and I, in shock, had minimized myself too by playing along with feigned nonchalance. And let me tell you, it hurt.

“Coping” by Yoo-Jing Kang: “This photo collage represents the deep grief I feel as an Asian American and Korean American woman. So much of the time, I’ve felt that AAPI grief is hidden, ignored, and de-centered. I took this photo during a wave of deep grief the week of March 15th- the week of the Atlanta shootings. I was on a call when suddenly, I felt tears fall down. For me, tears are a sign of healing and strength. Allowing myself to feel deeply and grieve is a way to take up space and be unapologetic about my reality.”

The model minority myth is getting old. While it’s true we are labeled with “good” stereotypes—being good at math and being hard-working and obedient— it’s a card played too often by white people to keep us in check. The model minority myth is a backhanded compliment reducing billions of Asians to subservient, one-dimensional roles where all we are good for is conformity. When you, as a white person, reinforce this archaic belief and confer it with every Asian person you meet, you are suppressing us. You are telling us that this is our only place in society, and dehumanizing us until all we are are tools dedicated to the function of a dominant white world.

I’ve spent countless days grappling between my various identities as an Asian, a woman, a friend, a creative, an idealist; but at my predominantly white institution, I am nothing more than my race. In the eyes of my white counterparts, minorities are defined by our appearance above other aspects. It is the center of our identities—our defining factor—and because of this, our individuality nearly becomes inexistent.

This brings me to my next racist experience. I was in the library one night studying with friends—again, nothing unusual. I got up to use the bathroom, and on my way, I noticed a lone dog outside the window, wandering aimlessly in the heavy snow. I wondered, What’s that dog doing out there by itself? Well, we all know where this is going. A boy nearby, known for his racist humor, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Lindsay, we don’t eat dogs here”.

He smirked at me and a nearby audience, a group of white girls whose eyes were wide open with nothing to say. I wanted to throw up. Was this for real? What did this white boy just say to me? I felt myself turn red, flushed with overwhelming anger and confusion. Does he not have a filter? Did he not realize what he just said was immensely racist and unacceptable?

But I was alone. Surrounded by my white peers feeling too uncomfortable and defenseless, I found myself stunned without words to retaliate. It was me against all of them, so I’d already lost the second the words left his mouth.

Forget the bathroom, I thought, storming back to my study room where all of my friends were similarly struck by my experience. One of my friends immediately grabbed my arm and marched me out of the room in a rage, determined to say something to the boy. As grateful as I was for her solidarity, it was not enough to spark my own courage. I let my fear of confrontation and conflict take over, pulling back at her arm to say no.

And he got away with it, like they always do. People still tolerate this boy today, dismissing blatantly racist remarks as “dark humor,” accepting him still because they don’t want to face the hard truths.

“Lindsay, we don’t eat dogs here” replays frame by frame in my mind often, and I know it is something that will stay with me forever.

Do you see it? This is systemic white oppression. They say disturbing remarks, and carry on with their lives without taking accountability or educating themselves on their ignorance. We carry their hateful words within us forever as we are the ones forced to adjust. BIPOC cater to society, and society caters to white people.

This system, however, is perpetuated by everyone in one form or another. Sometimes it’s the ones you think should be on your side that hurt you the deepest, which brings me to my final story.

Back in freshman year when no one was sure of themselves, mealtimes could be especially awkward given our lack of social skills. I would often find myself sitting at meals with the most arbitrary group of people, making surface-level conversation and pretending to be interested in others when I really wasn’t.

One day in particular, I found myself in another fairly uncomfortable group. I barely knew the people I was with and the whole situation just felt off. I forget most of the content of our conversation that afternoon, but I do remember it was one of the most frustrating experiences of my life. The same boy who’d asked me about dogs in the library was there too, so naturally the conversation grew racist almost at an instant. They asked me where I was from, even though they knew full well I’m from Hong Kong. “Japan? Tokyo?” they joked, but I wasn’t getting the joke. Is this some form of white comedy I was unaware of? Ridiculing other people’s identities?

They were intentionally pushing me, and honestly, I was afraid. Angry was an understatement. I was being taken advantage of in a situation where I was vastly outnumbered, and it was fucked up.

The one person at the table I expected to stand up for me was another Asian guy, but he did the exact opposite. He joined in on the fun, compromising his dignity and mine to please the white majority. “Lindsay,” he said, “Seriously you’re the least Asian person I’ve ever met.” Others laughed. This was all a petty game at my expense, and I had never felt more small and ashamed in my life. Enough, I thought. I forcefully grabbed my tray of half-eaten food to dump it near the kitchen, and stormed out of the cafeteria with my middle finger high up in the air.

If you know me in real life, you know I don’t often partake in conflict. I keep to myself and the people I love, but at my predominantly white institution, that is not enough. 

Today I want to take ownership of some of my racist experiences and the ways they have impacted my growth and identity. While my past self was unable to defend herself outnumbered and in the face of ignorance, I have come far enough now to confront these encounters informed, self-assured, and with maturity.