I am writing this almost a year later, wondering how it can still be taking over my life. It tears at my soul like a nasty disease; it pauses briefly, giving me a moment to gasp for air, before it sinks its claws back into me and pulls me under.
Everyone has bias. I don’t believe in human objectivity. Whether you are informed or not, that’s your bias. If you do or don’t care, that’s your bias. This story is my bias. Before you read this and either support me or hate me, just understand that I have bias. However, you must also understand that although this story gave me a biased opinion, it’s still an informed one.
My best feminist. I really like that saying. Thanks @seekrefugeco for coming up with that and reminding me of what I have to celebrate this Valentine’s Day. On this 14th of February, I want to highlight 14 of the women that without, I don’t know what, where, or who I’d be. To all the women in my life, you are brilliant, talented, incredible, and I am beyond grateful to know you.
When I was little, I used to be one of those girls who wished that they I were white. My parents immigrated to the States in the 90s, having previously lived under Communist rule in China. That being said, I never had the type of mom who would help out in the classroom or know how to bake cookies, and I was never a “daddy’s girl.” I had to learn a lot of things on my own, and it wasn’t easy.
Yeah, yeah, so you’ve heard it before. Journaling is a good way to relieve stress, compartmentalize things you have to do and does great things for your mind overall. How many times have you been told to journal to relieve stress or to pick it up as a hobby? I cannot remember how many times I had been told before I actually started. I picked out a cute little journal over the summer with the intention of starting to journal when school started in August.
First, I love you for everything about you, and I think that you are one of the most beautiful people that I’ve ever seen. I love the way that the sun illuminates your skin — the natural glow that gleams effortlessly among the pigmentation of your melanin. It is the most beautiful shade of brown and earth, and when I feel overwhelmed and insecure in a sea of white, it is the first thing I want to see to wrap me in its embrace.
Sometime last year, my friends and I were chatting, and somehow—I don’t remember how—I had mentioned that my name, Monica, is not the name I was born with.
A (white) friend asked me what it was, and I responded that the name I was born with—my Korean name—is Yejoo. He opened his mouth, tried to pronounce it, and asked me what it meant. I shrugged and said I didn’t know and that it probably meant a grassy field, or something.