I used to want to be white more than anything

You’re in kindergarten when you make your first best friend. She’s African American and you’re Korean American, but that doesn’t matter because to you, colors are pretty and the rainbow wouldn’t be so beautiful if it consisted of just one color.

You’re in second grade when your best friend is called a word. You dare not repeat it because after seeing the tears run down her face, you know it’s a bad one. It starts to dawn on you that the coloring book pages of Martin Luther King Jr. you worked on in class mean more than just smudges of crayon running outside the lines.

You’re in fourth grade when you hear the word “chink” used for the first time. You laugh along with the other kids because you don’t understand, don’t comprehend, and don’t really get that they’re talking about you. It’s not any fault of theirs, of course, because kids are innocent and they don’t know any better; because ignorance is acceptable until suddenly it’s not.

You’re in seventh grade when you turn on the TV and can’t see yourself reflected in the beauty that the world – your­ world – prescribes only to white women. There are no monolids in eye makeup commercials and when you look at your eyes in the mirror, you think back to the word “chink” and can’t help but laugh at the irony. All the boys you like at school only have crushes on the white girls with blond hair and eyes the size of dinner plates.

You feel less than human and you want more than anything to be white.

You’re a sophomore in high school when there’s a part of the building called the “Asian Wing” because that’s where all the Asian kids hang out. You avoid that part of the building because you don’t want to be just another Asian kid. You know what it feels like to be put in a box; it’s what you’ve grown up with and you resent it.

You’re a junior in high school when you’ve finally had enough. You’re sick of labels and what you want is to be considered anything other than the smart Korean girl who plays violin really well. You hate being told, “You’re so pretty for an Asian girl.” You despise that you’re expected to be good at math when in reality you got a C on your first semester progress report and other people’s expectations make you feel ashamed, small, and stupid.

You’re a senior when you realize it doesn’t matter what people think. Stereotypes are only conducive to those close-minded enough to perpetuate them. You have incredible friends of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and they teach you to love every part of yourself unconditionally.

You feel loved and accepted and at peace with the color of your skin and the shape of your eyes and the self-fulfilling stereotypes you certainly don’t fall under.

But now you’re in college and you’ve decided it does matter. You see the Asian race being silenced and trivialized, and it hurts to know that the strong voice you once thought you could have is heard as barely above a whisper. You joke to your best friend about how the only TV show you can think of with a predominantly Asian cast is called “Fresh Off The Boat.”

You watch Chris Rock call for diversity during the Oscars while perpetuating Asian stereotypes by making three Asian children the punchline of a Asian math and child labor joke.

You realize that the problem is so much bigger than yourself, and you sit down to write an article about it in the hope that your voice will inspire awareness and perseverance in those of all ages, colors, shapes, sizes, preferences, and backgrounds.