The Burden of the Unsaid
Reflections on the Impact of Silence as an Asian Woman Navigating the Fallout of this Year
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with silence. Growing up it was a frequent companion and as an introvert I even found solace in it at times, yet the older I got the more difficult it became. As an Asian American woman I’m used to a world where I can be invisible, hyper-sexualized, tokenized, and even hated or attacked based on the the way I look. I’ve noticed how easy it is for people to be unpleasantly surprised when I’m not as meek as they’d assumed, yet I’m also judged for being too quiet when I take a step back. With these dynamics at play I’ve always found myself navigating spaces carefully, however nothing has challenged my views of silence more than this past year.
My Halmoni was the closest thing to an immortal being in my life. A kickboxer into her 70’s and Zumba fan into her 80’s right up until COVID struck, I’d joke with her that she’d outlive all of us which was honestly for the best since I couldn’t imagine our family without her. When I got the call last year that her sudden change in habits was due to brain lymphoma, it felt like having every bit of air sucked out of me. I’d called her recently to remind her once again to stay safe inside, and like clockwork she brushed off my concern for her and just wanted to know when I was coming back to the Bay Area. My heart hurt telling her I couldn’t yet due to the pandemic, but that I’d be back as soon as I could. I think often about how that was our last full conversation.
Watching a loved one experience cancer is undeniably horrible, but to do so in a pandemic and amidst a wave of anti-Asian violence has felt overwhelming at times. With Asian elders and women being targeted even more, I caught myself once with a horrible thought: “thankfully she at least can’t live by herself right now so she’s not out alone.” When all I wanted was to somehow protect and support my family, being physically there meant weighing all the risks of hurting them. I get enraged thinking about how the disease that Asians are being blamed and attacked for is what has painfully kept many of us apart, not to mention how it exasperated problems with our medical system. As if we did this on purpose and aren’t also struggling in its wake. Shortly after the pandemic struck I remember crying at an Asian market overhearing two elderly women speaking in Korean. Hearing Korean has often made me think of the comfort of home, beautiful and joyful all at the same time. Almost a year later I cried again hearing Korean, only it was listening to the names of several of the women murdered in Atlanta.
The silence that’s followed me throughout this year has often taken on a heavy, ominous presence. It sits with me in the conversations I’ve had almost weekly with students, colleagues, or other loved ones who’ve shared their grief and trauma from the past year and I lack the right words besides “I’m here for you, how can I help.” It’s followed me through a year of increasing hate incidents that went unnoticed and unacknowledged by most including those close to me, and enveloped me after the mass murder in March when people finally were confronted with the reality I’ve been living with yet still couldn’t seem to see the API community as more than a second thought. In meeting after meeting where I shared my grief and experiences as an Asian woman to try and spark action, yet I watched people look at me as if they couldn’t understand what I was saying. Silence impacts every API student, staff, and faculty who’ve told me they’ve rarely felt truly seen this year, and it sits with me now as institutions around me say there isn’t bandwidth to focus on this. The burden of holding space for APIs and trying to educate others all alongside our already demanding roles now fallen on those already harmed. Then, when I finally stepped away from work, it followed me through the airports and hallways of the hospital, my hands shaking with anxiety.
There’s such pain in losing a loved one and I’ve struggled grappling with the specific type of pain I’ve felt watching mine lose pieces of herself not knowing how much time is left. In just a few months I watched her age years, and when I felt like I couldn’t take much more, silence hit me gut wrenchingly when she suddenly could no longer say my name. Soon after she could say nothing at all. I’d always imagined sharing joyous momentous occasions with her, and I’ve wondered if it’s okay to grieve what I’ve lost even if it hasn’t happened yet. Could I miss someone deeply when they’re sitting in front of me?
Michelle Zauner’s essay “Crying in H-Mart” has always moved me, and in one section she relates grief to feeling like being left alone in a room with no doors. I’ve felt my own grief come unexpectedly and rapidly, throwing me against the wall with no way out. It happens when I glance at Korean books and ingredients in my apartment or the empty jars I’ve collected for making banchan. When I open my wallet and see a folded note from her that I’ve carried for years. Randomly I once starting crying after pulling out a yellow bowl thinking of how much we’d laugh at “Deal or No Deal’’ (my Halmoni hated when folks didn’t take a good deal). I’ve often experienced these waves of grief then quickly gathered myself before my next meeting, thankful that Zoom can hide my bloodshot eyes. I’ve held the cumulating heartbreak of this year rather privately although I feel its weight every day, protecting myself from the dismissiveness I’ve often experienced. I’ve doubted whether it was worth it to open myself up to people who chose silence when I needed solidarity, or to once again hear “I had no idea it was that bad.” To be told simply to go to therapy as if that’s the answer to all problems, not even acknowledging the barriers to services for the API community and the fact that even as a more privileged individual, the psychology workforce is so white dominated that every therapist I’ve felt could be a good fit has said “no new clients” and I had to pause looking.
Being an Asian woman is incredibly multifaceted and although there’s pain, there’s also so much joy. My Halmoni is undoubtedly one of the best people I’ll ever know, and while I can likely thank her for my stubbornness and fierce independence, I’d also like to think I take after her care and love for others. Known to throw together a huge Korean meal all by herself (while refusing to let anyone else clean) if it made someone happy or feel welcomed, I cherished time with her growing up. Surrounded by ingredients in jars that were probably as old me and various linens or cushions she’d sewn completely by hand, I was mesmerized by how easy she made everything look.
We often bonded over food and I learned quickly that asking for recipes was futile since there’s no measuring in Korean cooking (in true fashion she’d also tell me I’d only learn the secrets if I moved back to cook with her). A silver lining in my parents’ divorce was that she’d come stay with us, and as a kid I was selfishly thrilled since I knew not only would I get in less trouble with her around, but there was always comfort in her presence. I’d come home to her in the kitchen or playing piano and everything felt brighter. Cooking almost everything from scratch, she’d give me a look and say “I know your favorites” when I’d excitedly sit down at the table. In a world where I was pushed to grow up fast and always worry and care for others, she reminded me that I was still a child and both seen and cared for as one. I’ve found sometimes that people from cultures who don’t share the same reverence for elders struggle to understand where I’m coming from or how special these bonds are. Whether laughing at hours of bad reality TV together or at me fumbling over Korean words she’d try to teach me, she helped me bridge my two worlds. Growing up I struggled with my identity because I never fit in with the Korean crowd at school and thus didn’t feel Korean enough, but was still very aware that I was different. In a powerful way she helped me feel more connected to my roots and as soon as I was big enough I’d wear her hanboks beaming, proud to be Korean and molded partially in her image.
I recently talked to my aunt about how my Halmoni would respond with “I love you too much” when told “I love you”. Asians are often portrayed in the media as quiet, cold, and unfeeling, but this quote is how I see us. The first time she met my partner she helped him pick bags of oranges and lemons to take home because he briefly mentioned liking citrus, and she loved me harder by loving him. Despite growing up in a patriarchal, misogynistic environment, she empowered me as her only granddaughter to do whatever I wanted as long as I was happy. She endured so much to give her family the best life possible, and loved us unconditionally and fiercely despite all her hardship. It isn’t lost on me that in a year where life felt unbearable at times, it was the people who were already carrying so much on their plates that showed up for me in incredible ways. It was the mothers who were navigating new roles I could only imagine that still took the time to check in, and the people of color in particular who often held space for me despite facing so much of their own pain. To them I’m eternally grateful, but I admit it still frustrates me that this is an all too common role we have to play.
As we near the end of Asian & Pacific American Heritage Month, I want people to acknowledge that you cannot celebrate our culture without confronting the ways that white supremacy and complacency has and continues to shape our lives. I’ve found solace in pieces discussing the angering presence of white silence especially now where there’s so much information on the causes of movements fighting for the liberation of marginalized communities. When injustices are shared so widely for everyone to see, how could people not speak up for our right to not only exist, but thrive in a country built by exploiting us? Our reality hasn’t changed even though it feels like most people have moved on. We are still here. Attacked, angry, heartbroken and exhausted, but still fighting.
Silence still carries the same baggage, but as time passes I’ve surprisingly found power within it as well. I feel it in communities I’m a part of where I know solidarity exists, and the body language that affirms “I see you, you’re not alone.” In the wonderful relationships that have blossomed even virtually. My Halmoni no longer speaks but the love between us is still there, beautiful and everlasting. It’s in the ways she leans on us like we’ve done with her for so long, and the meals I get to prepare for her now like she did for me. When I feed her specific pieces of food I chuckle thinking “I know your favorites”. A powerful presence exists in the gentle silence we share sitting next to each other outside, soaking in some sunlight. When I look at her and say “saranghaeyo…I love you” and she smiles softly, I believe she’s still telling me “I know…I love you too much”. Although we can never get back that stolen time I’m learning to cherish what we have left, sharing countless words that go unsaid. Filled with too much love and never enough ways to show it.
