Anti-Asian Racism Already Threatens My Future Children
Some will say America is better than this — it’s not
For the longest time, whenever my mother dreamed of a baby, she’d call me to talk about my future children. She’d describe in vivid detail the child’s mix of features, curly hair, and fat cheeks. If she saw a blonde baby, she’d ask if I was dating una rubia, or someone possessing whatever other characteristics she knew didn’t exist in me. The answer was always a resounding no. No, I wasn’t dating una rubia. No, I wasn’t even thinking about kids.
My mother still dreams of grandchildren, but their features have changed. Dirty blonde hair has become the darkest shade of brown; light eyes have transformed into black, tear-dropped wells. Rather than some imaginary rubia, my mother’s imaginary grandchildren now reflect my real-life partner’s features. But the most significant change is that I’m at the point in my life where these imaginary children feel more real. My cousins and friends have welcomed kids into the world, and I find my mind drifting to the things I’ll get to teach: the carve of a snowboard through a hardpack, the snap of a jab against a heavy bag.
But then I catch a glimpse of the news, and I realize that the most important thing I’ll have to teach my children will be about hate.
