6 Asian women, shot and killed

Another assaulted here in Portland

I had something else cued up today, more funny journal entries from an insecure pre-teen which will resume next week.

But, after the hearing about of six Asian women who were shot and killed in Atlanta last night, I am finding myself with boiled blood and something I can’t name, stuck in my throat.

When COVID-19 started to really hit last year, exactly one year ago, it was St. Patrick’s Day. A day my siblings and I love because we got to surprise everyone at school, that we are in fact Irish too. My mom would send us in dressed like St. Patrick’s Day Christmas trees, golden shamrocks from her mom around our necks.

One year ago, we were in Portland driving around gathering the last minute supplies. We were heading to Canada where we could ride out the lockdown with Ian’s family in Quebec. We had a brand new baby daughter not just two months old and there was too much uncertainty around us here. I had a small prickle run down my spine listening to the news call out Wuhan and China every odd sentence, our president mocking this with puns and small laughs. Ian’s driving us down the Old Port and the roads are congested with desperate partiers hoping to get one last beer in before curfews and shutdowns. My two ancestral worlds colliding before my very eyes, the hierarchy plain as day.

In my grandmother’s hometown, Bangor, Northern Ireland.

A common exchange on St. Patrick’s Day for me will go a little something like this:

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day!”

"Oh, yeah, I guess we’re all Irish today!”

I used to say, “I get it, I don’t look Irish to you, so no harm no foul.” But as I get older, I’m starting to realize how much that stay silent mentality arms the ignorant with slurs, bricks, balled fists and guns.

On Monday, a ten minute walk from my front door, an Asian mother was harassed in her car with her children inside of it. They still haven’t caught the suspect but they released his name.

The keys to my car are dying right now. This morning when I put my daughter in her car seat, I had locked my keys inside, something that isn’t supposed to happen with electric sets. I tried my spare and those seemed to jam up too, completely dead. I panicked, but luckily Ian was right there, holding her while I crawled in through the trunk which was the only door that would open.

On the way to daycare I kept playing scenarios in my head. What if that happened to me, to us, and my keys didn’t work? What if I couldn’t lock out someone smashing my mirrors. Do I buy a gun? A knife? I curse myself for quitting taekwondo at yellow belt. I fantasize about decorating my entire car with red tassels, Chinese characters, kitty bobble heads, and a banner in the middle that says, “I AM HOME.” But then I think of how that puts a target on her car seat. I feel sick again.

I think about how I’ve spent a lifetime of excusing myself or correcting others about where I’m from. Portland is such a small city with little Asian diversity, I find myself looking around for other Chinese mothers to nod back at me and say we’re ok. I think about getting lost in the Chinatown swarm of Toronto, being safe in numbers. Here I feel so outed and for the first time in a while, vulnerable. For this hate crime to happen steps from my home, my fight or flight mode is engaged but the needle is just spinning in circles.

A part of me sighs with hands in the air saying, well, there’s not much I can do. Just be careful, be alert. Needle points: somewhere between fight & flight.

Last night I hit a wall with my writing and I felt so defeated looking at my pages. Why is this story important to tell, and will people even think it worth while, valuable? Fuck it, just forget it. Needle points: Flight.

Preparing our family’s celebratory corned beef and cabbage this morning, which will take nine hours to simmer, I fantasize about correcting those who assume, “Oh Ian’s family must be Irish? McCracken? I correct them, saying it’s actually my family. McNeilly” Needle points: small fight.

I think about my daughter, who will lose chunks of her heritage if I don’t keep them around. Increasingly I think about her new journey as an American/Canadian, those titles come with enough conflict already. I think about how staying silent protects only the ones slinging the hate.

Write the damn book. Needle points: fight.