Dear White Family Member who Tone-Policed Me After 6 of My Asian Sisters Were Murdered by a Racist White Man Having a “Bad Day,” Who Blamed Asian Women for His “Sex Addiction” and Yes, I’m Still Very Angry
Content Warning:
1) Discussion and images of violence against AAPI, 2) Silencing and tone-policing 3) Racism in the white families of transracial adoptees, 4) White feminism
Dear White Family Member,
I’ve been meaning to write to you regarding our Facebook interaction a couple weeks ago, but like you, I am exhausted. Like you, I’ve had a shit year. Like you, the pandemic + my job + my kids + everything else is getting to me.
But unlike you, a group of women who look like me were murdered for the simple fact of their race. Unlike you, I look like them. Unlike you, I am a woman of color who has had a lifetime of experiences as a woman of color in a deeply white supremacist society.
A few summers ago, when we were celebrating your father’s birthday, you gave me your review of The Hate You Give by Angie Thomas. I hadn’t read it. You said you had wished it had gone deeper, that it presented more complexity, but that it was YA, so its simplicity was to be expected. I was 1) glad to learn you were reading the book, and 2) assumed you had some background with anti-racism. And I was comforted. Ahhh, I thought, relaxing into the idea that there was another white ally in the family.
So unfortunately, I was taken off guard, shocked and startled, when you came at me on Facebook when I expressed anger at the lack of advocacy in my white community only days after a racially-motivated mass shooting. In your very, very brief apology, you said you’re trying to understand and be better. I said I believe you. I said I trust you, which I realized was not true after I typed it. Instead, I want it to be true. And perhaps that is one reason I am writing this.
In “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” Audre Lorde laments the fact that women of color often bear the burden of educating white women. She says:
“This is an old and primary tool of all oppressors to keep the oppressed occupied with the master’s concerns. Now, we hear that it is the task of women of Color to educate white women — in the face of tremendous resistance — as to our existence, our differences, our relative roles in our joint survival. This is a diversion of energies and a tragic repetition of racist patriarchal thought.”
Nicole Chung, a writer I respect and admire, recently said this:
And, yet, here I am — because as much as I resent educating white women, I resent being silenced even more. (And yes, I mean white women because I expect so much more from a sisterhood. I can’t even with white men right now.)
You mentioned that you have a lot to learn. You didn’t ask me to educate you (which I appreciate). And, yet, here I am.
But this, this is not really for you.
This is for me. And this for my Asian sisters who are tired of being silenced, invisiblized, and ignored. This is for the Black women - thinkers, writers, artists, and educators - who have taught me so much. This is for all of us who have been told to shut up by white people who couldn’t face their own guilt, discomfort, or perceived threats to their privilege.
What Happened?
Late on March 16th, we learned that there was a mass shooting in Atlanta at 3 different Asian-owned spas. We watched the events unraveling. The cops and the media were not yet reporting on a motive.
But we knew.
Asian women knew.
My BIPOC sisters knew.
My white abolitionist/ally friends knew.
On March 17th, the reality of what happened took hold. We woke up to our Asian community in panic, in pain. We listened as Captain Jay Baker said that the shooter’s justification for the murders was that he was at the end of his rope after having a “bad day.” We also learned that in a recent Facebook post, “Baker urged his friends to ‘place your order while they last’ along with a photo of the T-shirt calling COVID-19 an ‘imported virus from CHY-NA.’”
As the news kept rolling in, we also learned that the murderer blamed his sex addiction for his actions, further triggering all my Asian sisters who have been fetishized, exoticized, objectified, stalked, harassed, assaulted, abused, and raped by racist white men and serial Asian predators.
That day, we couldn’t work. We couldn’t talk. We cried. We texted each other. We bought weapons. We organized memorials and rallies, convened with community, made art to process it all. We donated money. We posted on social media, post after post, crying out in pain. The overall feeling was terror, anger, and sadness.
Five white people reached out to me individually. At the moment, I was so distressed, I felt grateful for any acknowledgement of what was happening. In a post online, I expressed gratitude and called it an outpouring of love. Why I felt it was an outpouring breaks my heart. For someone used to being invisible, five seems like a lot.
By March 19, the event seemed to have passed for most white people in my community.
On March 20, I posted this on Facebook:
It was to this post that you tried to silence me. Not only had white people been silent about the anti-Asian violence, but you, as a white person, demanded my silence, too.
You must not be aware that there is a national crisis of anti-Asian violence happening right now. You must not know that in the US last year, during the pandemic, hate crimes went down by 7% but rose by 150% against Asians. You must not know that in NYC, hate crimes went up by 1900%. You must not know that Stop AAPI Hate’s newest report recorded 3,795 anti-Asian hate incidents between March 2020 and February 2021 and that over 500 were recorded in 2021 alone. You must not know that most attacks are not being reported and so are not included in those numbers.
Here is a sample of my social media feed.
Along with posts like this:
And this:
You couldn’t have possibly known that the morning you attempted to silence me, I learned that a Korean adoptee within my adoptee community spoke out about anti-Asian violence publicly and then was tracked down, targeted at her work, and shoved down a flight of concrete stairs from behind, ending up in the hospital with a severe concussion and bruises all over. She is afraid to go back to her job, so now is out of an income. I also learned that another Korean adoptee was picking up take-out for her family and a white man in a truck yelled out his window that he wanted a massage.
You couldn’t have known that I woke to a report from an Asian woman in my community about being verbally assaulted when she was getting vaccinated. A white man said, “You chinks don’t serve this vaccine. It’s for Americans. It’s your fault that we’re in that mess to begin with,” and then when he discovered that she was pregnant said, “For fuck’s sake. You even have the nerve to breed more of your own kind?! I hope it dies, you fucking bitch.”
You couldn’t have known that this January, one of my friends here in Portland spent the day at the police bureau because a white man called her a Jap, told her to “go back to her country” — and tried to abduct her.
And, and, and, and…I could go on and on and on.
You couldn’t possibly know my friends have bought mace, and that they’re carrying knives for protection, that I now carry a metal fighting stick with me in my bag, that going to grocery store feels dangerous, that I worry about taking my trash to the curb because I have heard too many stories of people getting verbally attacked and spit on by casual passersby in their neighborhood, “regular-looking” white folks walking their dogs. You couldn’t possibly know that the other day I met a friend at a park for a walk and she was late. When I was texting her about her ETA, a jogger had run up behind me and I hadn’t noticed. I about had a heart attack.
You couldn’t know that my children fear for my safety and don’t want me to leave the house.
No, you certainly couldn’t have known these things.
But you did know that 6 Asian women had just been massacred in a racially-motivated mass shooting that has been blown off by the police as a white man’s “bad day.”
And you still said what you said.
If you did not know about this crisis, it is because the media does not cover it. It is because you are not seeking it out and are not following diverse enough platforms. It is also because for decades, many Asians in the U.S. have kept our heads down, partially because of our proximity to whiteness has meant that we also have proximity to white violence — physical violence, verbal attacks, microaggressions, exclusion, gaslighting, invisibilization. And silencing.
In our bodies, we know the consequences for speaking up.
Tone-Policing & Dirty Deleting
I’ve been thinking a lot about white women’s responses to women of color’s anger. At the core of your comment was a classic defense of your privilege. As an educated white feminist, you are likely to know the term “tone-policing.” White feminists would rarely tolerate such behavior from the men in their lives: “Well, if you want us to stop sexually assaulting you, you have to ask nicely.” Please apply this to racism also — and your own.
Other people reading this will wonder what it is you said, and I can’t quote it because you deleted it. I am not sure why you deleted it, whether it was to try to protect my feelings (too late) or because you were ashamed or because you feared people would come after you. Maybe a mix of all of the above? (Read about dirty deleting). Maybe, as your comment implied, you just didn’t have the energy to engage, but to dump that on a woman of color — and then flee because you’re too stressed out — is highly problematic.
I wish you wouldn’t have deleted your comment. It is important that other white people see what is said to women of color, what we’re up against, and when you delete a post, you take away the opportunity for education: your opportunity, my opportunity, and others’ opportunity. None of us can learn from further discussion. You ran away from facing your own racism but left it for me to deal with.
A LOT of emotional labor goes into responding to racially problematic/violent comments (I literally struggled typing because I was shaking so hard), so when you deleted your words, you deleted my words (and my friend’s comment, too). You continued to silence me. You, as a white woman, made the choice to post something deeply problematic about my experience of white supremacy. Then you deleted everything and took control of my digital space, denying my voice yet again.
Though I can’t provide the quote of your post, it was a hearty paragraph. Here’s my translation, what you really said between the lines:
“I read books, y’know. You don’t know me! You don’t know what a good ally I actually am or any of these other nice white people who might also feel shame reading your post, so you’re just being judgey and mean and shallow in your thinking. You don’t know about white people! There’s a better way to get your message across than to shame us. Say it nicer, and then we can hear. You obviously don’t understand “the complexity” of white people’s lives and their need to post fun things (yay, spring!) because our lives are hard during this pandemic, too. Our lives are hard. So if we want to post pictures of our gardens, let us hold onto any little joy we have without shaming us!”
Then you also said something like: “I appreciate your post and am here for you. I support you, but — ”
No, stop right there. This is gaslighting. This is toxic. You can’t silence someone in one breath and then say, “But I support you” when you’re making everything all about you.
To add insult to injury, I am an adopted Korean American woman. I grew up in a white family and white community, surrounded by racism — both implicit and explicit — which is a common experience for transracial adoptees and the norm for Asian adoptees.
After the murders in Atlanta, post after post, forum after forum, conversation after conversation, I saw the same question from Asian adoptees: Did your family check on you? And too often, the answer was “No.” And too often, when Asian adoptees brought up the massacre themselves to their white families, when they wanted to talk about anti-Asian violence, how they were hurting and scared, how they want their Asianness to be seen, validated, respected and protected, there was intense refusal, denial, anger, aggression, and silencing in their white families. So much gaslighting.
The day you responded to my FB post, I checked my white adoptive mom’s FB page, just to see if, per chance, she had at least posted about the shootings. I doubted it, and I should’ve respected my own boundaries with her. I had hoped for at least a “thoughts and prayers” post about the victims of the shooting.
Instead, I found this:
It is bad enough to face racism from strangers, but to be the only person of color in a white family is its own kind of trauma, especially when that family is racist (and denies it, refuses to look at it).
These are the contexts in which BIPOC live. So when you castigate my anger and require me to honor the “complexities” of your white life without honoring the complexities of my non-white life, then you are participating in white supremacy. When you center your white experience and white comfort, when you angrily defend your white privilege, you are committing an act of rhetorical violence.
And this is one way white privilege works for liberal white feminists.
Many liberal white feminists advocate for BIPOC when it’s easy, or trendy, when it involves reading a good book or watching a movie, when they get some kind of gain from their advocacy, like an improved reputation, more notoriety, social acceptance. They acquire the language, listen to the popular podcast, put the signs up in their yards, buy the t-shirts, and post the slogans.
But when shit gets real, when it involves owning their own racism, sitting in a lot of discomfort, questioning their actions and those of their white family and friends, many lash out at BIPOC with rhetorical violence. They center their whiteness. They protect other white people, and they defend their privilege. (Please read: “When Feminism Is White Supremacy in Heels” by Rachel Cargle and follow her on social media. It is brief.)
Whiteness is a colonizing force. White folks replicate and enforce it. Many BIPOC internalize it, which can eat us up on the inside as well as cause us to replicate it in the world. Whiteness defends whiteness. In “Know Your Whites,” Tressie McMillian Cottom says “Whiteness, the idea, the identity tethered to no nation of origin, no place, no gods, exists only if it can expand enough to defend its position over every group that challenges the throne.”
White Women & The Weaponization of “Complexity”
I had a conversation with a good friend the other day, an Asian American doing anti-racist, social justice work. We talked about how dangerous liberal white feminists are because they are insidious. They know the language, show up to the rallies, donate their money, so we let down our guard. We let them in, but when we challenge them, they cry. They justify. They attack. They center themselves as victims, and then whiteness comes in to protect them. It’s the pattern. And protecting the sanctity of white women is generations deep. How dare we challenge them and their goodness? White liberal feminists are some of the modern protectors of white supremacy, but they refuse to see it. (You really, really need to read Rachel Cargle’s article: “When Feminism Is White Supremacy in Heels.”)
When liberal white feminists tell BIPOC and our allies that we don’t understand the complexity of a racist situation, they’re attempting to dominate the situation and assert superiority/authority over us. It is a strategy of silencing that serves to protect their privilege. I spent a nearly two decades in higher education; I can’t count how many times white women have weaponized the concept of “complexity” regarding racism. Honestly, I’ve done it myself, and I’m not proud of it. Racism is inherently complex (and in some ways, it’s actually really simple), but it’s not a complexity you, as a white person, get to weaponize against us. Accusing BIPOC of not understanding “the complexity” or a racialized situation is condescending AF. Stop it.
Just after George Floyd was murdered, a liberal white feminist, who had been a friend of mine, made a post on FB about how not all police were bad, and that she just wanted to be a voice of reason in all the emotion and honor the “complexity” of the situation. Her tone was like she was doing us a favor by giving us her unique insight into the “complexities,” as if folks calling for change couldn’t possibly know more than she. Enter the good, white woman who can shine a glorious light upon the confusion and lead us all.
In her essay, “Thick,” Cottom writes, “who is allowed to speak with authority is a political act.” She notes that persuasive speech is most effective when the “one speaking can make a legitimate claim to some form of authority.” But women of color are denied this authority. Specifically, Cottom states, “Black women have been categorically excluded from being expert performers of persuasive speech acts in the public that adjudicates our humanity [my italics].” In other words, when white folks insist on their authority and superiority over BIPOC knowledge, they are not just managing words but are determining the value of our lives.
The fact is: Most white folks, especially those who tone-police and so easily readily defend your privilege, can’t imagine the complexities of BIPOC lives. Whereas, the reverse is not true. BIPOC are drowning in a sea of whiteness. It’s all around us. We live in white worlds, at our jobs, in the media, in our segregated cities, and there are grave consequences to not understanding the complexities of white lives. As a strategy of survival, we are forced to understand and accommodate “the complexities” of white people’s lives.
And while other white people certainly have a role in helping you learn, they can’t teach you the complexities of OUR experiences. Your white friends can help. They can get you started. White folks are sometimes more equipped to handle the frustration of other white people’s ignorance. But if you stay there, you’ll always stay in your own safety. You’ll remain in a white supremacist bubble. The depth comes from listening to, centering, and amplifying BIPOC voices, even when you feel like the target of anger. If your anti-racism workshop facilitator is a white woman, ask yourself why, especially when there are so many women of color doing this work, who want to do this work, who support themselves and their families with this work. If most of the articles, essays, and resources you’re consuming about racism and “how bad things are today” are written from white perspectives for primarily white audiences, then you’re limiting yourself.
As a fiction writer, of course, I think fiction is an amazing way to immerse yourself in another experience, but much of it is also meant to entertain you. Reading a good novel by a BIPOC author is not work. That’s delightful. That’s a luxury. That’s leisure. And it’s isolated. It’s easy to read a good book, pat yourself on the back and call it a day, check that one off of your tidy anti-racist to-do list.
Read challenging, uncomfortable books and articles by BIPOC that have nothing to do with you. Follow social media platforms that are by BIPOC and for BIPOC. You, as a white person, don’t always get to be the intended audience. Get okay with that. It’s not all for you. And you don’t have to comment. You don’t have to insert yourself into the conversation. You don’t have to be at the center.
Read our anger. Read our rage.
Sit with it. Sit with us.
Listen: I have made many mistakes. So many mistakes. I know it feels awful to be called in or called out. I hate to even think of the shame response I’ve had when I’ve hurt people around these issues that are so close to my heart. I also know what it is like to have to always be aware of my words. The fear of saying or doing the wrong thing is real. I have that, too. I don’t want to hurt people, but I do. I want to get it right, but I don’t. I don’t want to be part of the problem, but I am.
But also note many women of color have had to choose our words carefully for most of our lives when we inhabit white contexts. We constantly censor ourselves: Are we going to have deal with the blowback of this statement? (Yes.) Are we going to sound too angry? (Yes.) Will white people I care about dismiss or attack this? (Yes.) Will this affect my job and ability to support myself and my family? (Yes.) The anxiety of communication permeates so many of our words.
The Uses of Anger
Black women have been leaders on this topic for generations. Lately, I’ve been obsessed with Audre Lorde’s 1981 talk titled “The Uses of Anger,” in which she lists out numerous examples of white women’s relationship to Black women’s anger. Her first bullet point directly speaks to our Facebook interaction:
“I speak out of direct and particular anger at an academic conference, and a white woman says, “Tell me how you feel but don’t say it too harshly or I cannot hear you.” But is it my manner that keeps her from hearing, or the threat of a message that her life may change?”
I’ve spent most of my life avoiding other people’s anger and believing that my anger is dangerous. My anger has been been forbidden. As an adoptee, any expression of discomfort, struggle, or outrage at racism was met with statements like: We don’t see color. Only racists talk about racism. You should be grateful. You could’ve been an abortion. You’re making a bigger deal of something small. Just ignore it. The silence and racial isolation was a terrible burden. I had zero racial mirrors, no role models, no mentors — or anyone to help me process or understand my experience.
For years, I feared my own anger. I feared I would cause trouble. I feared hurting people or drawing attention to myself. I feared my anger was selfish, out of control. I feared conflict and alienation and isolation. I feared I was wrong. I feared I didn’t know enough to speak.
A few years ago, I came across a passage on anger in Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. I had been so used to thinking of anger as something to be feared, avoided, and gotten rid of. Instead, Cameron says:
Anger is fuel. We feel it and we want to do something. Hit someone, break something, throw a fit…but we are nice people, and what we do with our anger is stuff it, deny it, bury it, block it, hide it, lie about it, medicate it, ignore it. We do everything but listen to it.
Anger is meant to be listened to. Anger is a voice, a shout a plea, a demand. Anger is meant to be respected. Why? Because anger is a map. Anger shows us what our boundaries are. Anger shows us where we want to go. It lets us see where we’ve been and lets us know when we haven’t like it. Anger points the way, not just the finger. In the recovery of a blocked artist, anger is a sign of health. Anger is meant to be acted upon. It is not meant to be acted out. Anger points direction. We are meant to use anger as a fuel to take the action we need to move where our anger points us. With a little thought, we can usually translate the message that our anger is sending us.
Sloth, apathy, and despair are the enemy. Anger is not. Anger is our friend. Not a nice friend. Not a gentle friend. But a very, very loyal friend. It will always tells us when we have been betrayed. It will always tell us when we have betrayed ourselves. It will always tell us that it is time to act in our own best interests.
I no longer have the time, energy, or interest to silence my anger because I’m getting clearer and clearer that this anger that I carry is for accountability and social change — it is righteous. It demands change. Lorde says, “Anger is an appropriate reaction to racist attitudes, as is fury when the actions arising form those attitudes do not change.”
Anger is important. Lorde says, “Anger is loaded with information and energy.”
My anger does not seek your pity, which might be worse than your apathy. Don’t be mistaken that the movement is only to help liberate BIPOC. BIPOC communities are finding each other. We are allying with others on the margins, and we’re creating a new world together where we center the fight against white supremacy and systems of oppression. With or without white folks, we are doing things with ourselves and for ourselves.
I lost my entire adoptive family this year because they could not face my anger at their racism and the fucked up childhood I had as an adoptee, and though this hurts tremendously, and though I experienced yet another loss of my adoptive parents in addition to my biological, their loss is greater. Because racism demands that they give up some of their humanity.
When you only see us as our food, or the entertainment we provide (books, film, music, sports), or cultural capital to prove that you’re not one of “those” white people, then you lose. When you accept us only on your terms, only when you have the time and energy, only when it’s not too uncomfortable, you give up some of your humanity and integrity.
When you are defensive, when you center whiteness, when you reinforce white supremacy, you give up on your own possibilities. You miss opportunities for expansion. You miss out on enriching your life, giving it more texture and depth. You give up on friendships. You shut out the intelligence and insight, the joys and celebrations of other people. You give up on the gifts of diverse culture. You eliminate that the opportunity for the irreplaceable joy of solidarity and shared purpose, of watching the way we all expand when we do it together.
And if your response to this letter is: “I already do this. I already know most of this.” Then, ask yourself why you felt the need to silence my anger and condescend to me about the racially-motivated murders of my Asian sisters?
This post might make you feel bad. I’m learning to be okay with that. But know I do not write with the intention to make you feel bad. I mean no harm or malice, but I get to have a say in my own experience. I get to respond to the racist violence in my life, and I get to do it on my terms — and with anger. For as Lorde says, “I cannot hide my anger to spare your guilt, nor hurt feelings, nor answer anger: for to do so insults and trivializes all our efforts.”
Because anger is the appropriate response to racism.
Your Asian family member,
Joon Ae
