“Well! Let's conclude our conversations and get back together!”
When the small group discussion portion of the professional development session I was attending ended, an overwhelming sense of relief washed over me. If I had stayed in the session longer, I might have had to leave the meeting room and find a hidden place to cry; Not tears of joy, per se, but frustration; frustration I often feel when I am kicked out of conversations. It's not that I don't have anything to say or that I don't have the words, but I'm selective in how and when I speak, and that doesn't always fit the group vibe.
While it may be incomprehensible to many that a small group discussion between teachers evokes anything more than fun, camaraderie, and camaraderie, to me these spaces seem extremely isolating when I am the only Asian educator. Whether I'm in an online breakout room, in a small group in person, or on a speaking shift, when I'm with professors who approach me from a non-Asian, continental, and largely suburban perspective, I know I'll end up being the receiver of people who talk to me and not to me.
If it were just me, then my own personality and temperament would be to blame, but it's not just me. There are enough local Asian American colleagues with similar stories to suggest it might be something rooted in our identity and not just who we are as individuals.
As an Asian American teacher, I believe I have a responsibility to bring the stories of my students and my community to spaces where there is little understanding of either, even when no students are present, so that our schools and classrooms can speak authentically to the world. people. diverse experiences of Asian American students and teachers.
While not all teachers on the mainland will have Asian and Pacific Islander students or work closely with Asian Americans from Hawaii, our experiences and perspectives are part of the American story. When you tell our stories, I want you to tell them faithfully. I want you to remember that there are humans behind these stories. But first I need a chance to talk.
Authentically Asian and totally American
Hawaii is where I grew up unashamedly Asian, but completely American. Being several generations away from our ancestral lands, my family, like most people I grew up with, did not feel the same need to assimilate compared to those in diaspora communities on the continent. Instead, we merge into a distinct culture through The experience of our great-grandparents on the sugar plantations.in which each ethnic community retains its identity and cohesion and resists the pressure to lose them completely through assimilation.
The decade I spent studying and living on the continent made me realize how different our perspectives are and the differences between our communication styles. While those raised in a Western cultural ethos are more independent, outspoken, and eager for their voices to be heard, I was raised in a completely different cultural ethos, one that values modest humility. I was taught to defer to others and let everyone speak before I spoke. Honestly, talking about myself in general sometimes makes me uncomfortable. It feels like bragging, and bragging is one of the gravest social sins you can commit in my culture.
While no communication style is objectively better or worse than the other, in my world my ways of sharing and being heard are very much at odds with the dominant culture of the West, leaving me outnumbered and in the minority. When there is an unconscious expectation that the voices of those who look like you are the only ones heard and prioritized, everything and everyone else becomes an outlier and an anomaly.
One of one and one of many
At school and among my fellow teachers and educators, there are spaces where I am the only Asian American born and raised in Hawaii, and spaces where I am one of many; In these “one-only” spaces, discussions often follow a predictable trajectory. Even before the group has met, teachers will start introducing themselves and connecting in pairs or triplets that I always end up excluded from. In general, it is irrelevant whether there are specific protocols, as the discussion proceeds freely, with some teachers speaking for disproportionately long periods and others intervening opportunistically in the flow. Inevitably, time will run out and everyone else will have had a chance to share, except me, who will be left to talk when no one else seems to care, or even notice.
Asian invisibility has been described as the phenomenon whereby our individual ethnic identities become overshadowed by a more generalized dominant culture stereotype. These stereotypes often manifest themselves when we are confused with each other or assumed that we are all the same interchangeable person. My experience is similar to what a colleague described as “people see through you”: literal invisibility and non-personality. These feelings are confirmed in the rare cases where I can utter a word, in song. In these cases, my contributions are often met with awkward silences and downcast glances, almost as if a ghost had just spoken.
However, my experiences in “one among many” spaces contrast sharply. With local Hawaii educators, whether we know each other or not, conversations feel much more relaxed and equal. Yes, there are still those who tend to talk more than others, but there is also less need for people to prove themselves.
In meeting the other members of my department when I was hired as a new teacher, I discovered that one of the veteran teachers was a classmate from my parents' high school, another teacher lived a mile from where I had grown up, and a fellow first The teacher of one year went to school with my cousin and got engaged to my cousin's golf buddy.
As serendipitous as these connections may seem, this is indicative of the local community and culture of Hawaii. There is a mutual respect that I don't feel in other spaces. It is a respect born of a multiethnic island culture where people from different backgrounds have had generations to find a way to live side by side with each other, and where there are only one or two degrees of separation between you and the person sitting next to you in a group discussion.
In this type of environment, I feel safe to speak. On the other hand, since I spend most of my time in predominantly white spaces with mainland professors, these spaces are usually the exception, and far from the norm.
We are stronger when all our voices are heard
As a teacher, I wear multiple hats: not only in my classroom with my students but also as a public figure. As the 2023 Hawaii State Teacher of the Year, I am the human face of my school and community. I have had the opportunity to participate in professional meetings with teacher leaders from across the country and feel the weight of responsibility to bring our perspective to the table. Our cultural perspective as educators born and raised in Hawaii is uniquely significant, and our perspective as Asian American teachers can enrich the national conversation about race, ethnicity, and identity for all of our students.
We are a multi-ethnic community living in a small geographic area and we know a thing or two about building relationships and respecting differences. For that perspective to be heard, teachers must form the vanguard; teachers who are willing to listen (and I mean, really listen to) the voices of Asian American teachers like me.
