A PRison well Furnished

For most of my life, my bedroom was not truly “mine.” While it was furnished modestly with basic necessities, an onlooker could peer in and assume it was staged for sale— all surfaces devoid of any indication of a tenant. My room was a reluctant sanctuary. I sought it out in moments of escape, allowing my emotions to seep out as its emptiness confirmed my worst fear: my identity was as absent as my sense of belonging. Within its walls, I confronted a void that echoed my internal discord, reminding me of my struggle to find my true self amidst the barren surroundings and quiet house.

My parents were taught cultural ideals of peace and compliance, ideals they ingrained in themselves with the expectation I would do the same. Emotion was discouraged, for it undermined the deference I was trained in. Emotion was the catalyst for disunity within our household, disrupting the precious mundaneness of the modest suburban lives my parents yearned for. Refusing to be the one to shatter those sought for moments of tranquility, I molded myself into the image of an obedient daughter, striving to minimize conflict by bearing the weight of my struggles in solitude.

My proficiency in suppressing my emotions served me well until the fateful day when my armor of innocence fell away, revealing a world riddled with adversity. As a new transfer entering sixth grade, I set off on a determined search for coveted confidants among my peers. However, my longing for acceptance resulted in naive choices which exposed me to outright racism. Classmates took my placid nature for an inability to express myself, which only served to amplify their behavior.

Though the pit in my stomach hinted at the wrongness of it all, I masked my embarrassment in hollow laughs. I kept the peace as I had been taught, forcing myself to adhere to their bigoted social structure that kept me around for comic relief. I only allowed the shame to resurface in the seclusion of my room, transforming it into a jail cell, one that forced my feelings out when I entered and sucked out the remains upon leaving.

Believing that I was alone in my experiences, I was willing to accept my treatment. I realized the fault in this assumption when I saw my cousin on the receiving end of a “make me a sandwich” joke from her older brother. She was 10. Her contorted expression echoed one that had surfaced on my own visage, in the safety of my room. I saw the familiar weight of acceptance on her shoulders as she pressed her lips together and moved to obey him. For the first time, I fought against the practiced meekness and docility. Confronting the issue, I vowed never to let those expectations define either of us, recognizing the power in breaking the cycle of oppressive behavior.

Today, my room remains the same. The walls and space are empty, but I am not. The reflection in my mirror reveals a person no longer confined to a shrinking existence. I have learned to claim my space, to quell the biting guilt that once haunted me. The emptiness that once defined me now reflects a space I plan to fill as I seek out the identity I long suppressed: someone who wants to challenge the societal expectations put upon her. The emotions I believed to be a weakness sustain the empathy that propels me to fight. The strength I have found in embracing my presence enables me to act as a voice for those who still struggle to find their own. As Asian Americans, as women, we are taught to endure, taught to acquiesce to the institutionalized racism that is normalized and reinforced across generations. Yet, only through finding the courage to subvert this contrived peace can we acknowledge our unspoken traumas and change. Only then are we able to heal.