40 years ago.
It was 1979 and I d been invited to a match in Jackson Heights, Queens, by my middle-school
classmate, Billy Mora. A mix of neighborhood kids I didn t know were there, including one who was
taunting me, relentlessly, with racial insults about my Chinese heritage. I was just 12 years old.
I m crying as I write this. I m crying a lot these days. Swept up in emotions recalling the hate I endured in my youth for something I have no control over, my race and my features.
The recent spate of attacks against Asian Americans has ripped open old wounds. It followed months of our being scapegoated for the coronavirus pandemic and culminated in the Atlanta spa shootings. I m angry that four decades after my ordeal, the racism continues.
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