I’m a Chinese Latina who used to downplay her heritage. Here’s why I stopped

I’m a fourth-generation Panamanian, born and raised, the Latina descendant of Chinese immigrants. Spanish is my mother tongue. From my love of tostones to my salsa-dancing skills, nothing ever separated me from my Latino friends and colleagues – except my Asian features

(AFP via Getty Images)

About six months into lockdown last summer, I got a text from my dad saying, “I spoke with the doctor. We can’t give your mom more chemo. Only a better quality of life.” 

I wanted to hop on the next flight home, but, due to Covid, there were no flights for twelve more days. I live and work in Miami, but my parents live in Panama, where we are from. As soon as Panama opened its borders, I hopped on a plane and flew home, arriving a day and a half before mom took her last breath. A month prior, my 86-year-old maternal grandmother had died alone in a Panama hospital from what the doctors first thought was the flu. It was Covid.

Because Panama’s Covid restrictions prevented funerals, I helped my father commemorate my mother by building a website where people could express their sympathies. Processing scanned pictures of my mom and grandparents at various ages, I stared at my computer for hours, painstakingly building an album. And I saw in my face a reflection of theirs – my straight black hair, my bridgeless nose, my monolid eyes –– a face that I never thought much about until it became clear people were blaming anyone who looked like me for starting the virus.

I’m a fourth-generation Panamanian, born and raised, the Latina descendant of Chinese immigrants. Spanish is my mother tongue. I speak English with a Panamanian accent and we didn’t speak Chinese at home. Moving to Miami for work had made it easy to connect with myLatinidad (my “Latinity”). From my love of tostones to my salsa-dancing skills, nothing ever separated me from my Latino friends and colleagues – except my Asian features.

When Covid hit, my social media feed started to fill up with friends making a case for calling it the “Wuhan virus” or, better yet, the “China virus.” They asked, faux-innocently, “Don’t we call the Spanish flu ‘Spanish’ because it originated in Spain?” when challenged. Others started making jokes about Asians eating bats, which made me wonder if they only blamed China or also anyone Chinese or Asian. These discussions chipped away at me, one doubt at a time, leading me to a disturbing question: Am I ashamed of being Chinese?

My rational side knew the pandemic was not my fault. Yet, I still felt an illogical responsibility. During the height of the mask shortage, I bought a sewing machine, researched the best patterns and materials, and started sewing masks for hospital personnel to wear on top of their N95s. My living room turned into a makeshift factory, and mask-making became a second job.

I had been aware of Anti-Asian sentiment since well before Covid. In 2016, when the public’s perceptions of China soured, I remember my Korean American friend telling me that her brother had been strolling around his neighborhood when someone launched a bottle filled with urine at him. They shouted, “Go back to your country!” This proclamation became the mantra of the year as videos emerged with people yelling at Asian Americans, “Go back to China!” and, “Stop taking our jobs!”

But it wasn’t until June, weeks before my grandmother died, that hate struck home. It was an average afternoon. As I drove home from grocery shopping, I noticed a neighbor standing on the sidewalk. He seemed to spot me through the windshield. Suddenly, his arm flew up in anger, his fist clenched and his middle finger raised. Stunned, I kept my window rolled up, and although I wanted to speed away, for some reason I slowed down, pulled in by his furrowed brow and the rage in his eyes.What had I possibly done to him? I thought, knowing I couldn’t get out and ask him. After that, I stopped taking casual walks around my block, and I couldn’t stop wondering: Should I be more afraid of the virus or my neighbors?

From March 2020 to February 2021, Stop AAPI Hate (AAPI meaning Asian American and Pacific Islanders) received close to 3,800 reports of anti-Asian acts nationwide. Physical assaults made up a shocking 11 percent of the incidents. Around Lunar New Year, an older man in San Francisco was fatally attacked, and another in New York endured a slashing that required almost a hundred stitches to reconstruct his face. In Los Angeles, an attacker punched an Asian American man in the eye while shouting, “All f***ing Asians gotta die.”

Asian Americans were being pushed, kicked, stabbed, and killed while posts from advertisers wished us a “Happy Chinese New Year!”Sure, I thought, I’ll forget about what’s going on because my Instagram feed is full of red blocks, gold-accented posts, and heart emojis. I felt pandered to and invisible at the same time.

And it keeps getting worse. I grieve the news of yet another fatal attack in Oakland and the shootings in three Georgia spas that mainly employed Asian women – women whose names are barely mentioned. As invisible as they are in mainstream news, I already know the faces of these women. In some way or other, they resemble my grandmother’s, my mother’s, and mine.

While I was home with my father in Panama after my mother’s passing, I found that helping him was as helpful for him as it was for me. It started in the kitchen. He had rescued my grandma’s recipe box and, for dinner one night, I selected a handwritten index card grandma marked as “Spectacular!” The words appeared on top of a recipe of a beef pie seasoned with Chinese Five Spice (a mix of cinnamon, fennel seeds, anise, Sichuan peppercorn, and cloves). As we ate, I imagined she was still with us.Yeah, Grandma, you were not kidding. Spectacular is an understatement. Later, I took on my mom’s closet, sorting things into two piles: Give Away or Keep. That’s when I found my mom’s traditional silk Chinese dresses. Remembering how much it meant for her to be of Chinese descent, I decided to keep them. 

A few months later, before I returned to Miami, my boyfriend flew to Panama to visit me. To my surprise, during a dinner with my dad and brothers, he proposed.My mom would have loved being here, I thought, and then it dawned on me –– she would not be at my wedding. She would also not get to meet my future kids, should we have any.

My fiancé and I talk about what our family will look like and the kind of life our kids will be born into and grow up in. He is a US-born Black man of Haitian descent, and we know skin color will directly impact how the world sees and treats our kids. Add to that the increase in anti-Asian crimes, and we can’t help but wonder what will happen if our children inherit any of my defining features.

I’m grateful I’m not going through this alone. I recently watched my fiancé dedicate his Toastmaster speech to speaking up and acting against anti-Asian hate crimes, and feeling his support made a tear roll down my cheek. In my grief, I realized how powerful it is when others acknowledge our community’s pain. Attacking discrimination, as with any anti-racist movement, requires action from within and outside the community. I feel frustrated and fearful, but hopeful seeing how Asian Americans and allies across the country are turning their frustration into action with resources for joining the movement to stop anti-Asian hate. 

Before the pandemic, my Asianness primarily marked how people saw me. But now, it’s a more significant component of how I see myself. My fiancé and I are getting married later this year, and for our engagement pictures, I will wear a red Chinese dress. We’re also having a Chinese tea ceremony as part of the religious service. Serving tea to each other’s new in-laws will symbolize the union of our Haitian American and Panamanian Chinese families. In doing so, I’m embracing my heritage and reclaiming who I am: proudly Latina and Asian. Panamanian and Chinese. Not a source of intrigue anddefinitely not a disease.