chapter 3
Last semester, I took an APIA (Asian Pacific Islander American) studies class with a legendary instructor. I had heard that she was going through some legal troubles with the school, but I wasn’t aware of what the situation was until the university decided to unlawfully and unjustly terminate her this semester. I was appalled but unsure if I could do anything.
Luckily, there was an outspoken student in our class who happened to also be involved in the IGR program with me. We had talked about our professor and the discriminatory practices of the university together, so she reached out to me about organizing a sit-in with her. I had never done any organizing before, so I was excited to participate, but weary of my lack of experience and possibly coming off as performative.
Throughout the next week, I made announcements in my classes and tapped into my different circles to invite people to the sit-in. I felt thankful and happy to receive questions and promises to come from a good number of people in those circles. However, I somewhat subconsciously didn’t plug the sit-in to my church, Living Grace Ministry (LGM). Of course, I told some of my closest friends--who I’ve notably become close to through our mutually shared interest in social justice in a Korean Christian context--but after four years of being with this ministry, it seems I’ve lost a lot of faith in them. Somehow, I didn’t expect many of them to show up--but I also didn’t give them the chance.
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This is perhaps at the root of my questioning. Although the Korean American church came together as a result of oppression within the White church and White society, we still perpetuate oppression in the ways that we were taught to do so. I see in my community elitism and colorism, subtly wanting only to associate with other Korean people and looking down on especially South and Southeast Asians. I see sexism, cissexism and heterosexism, upholding what I believe to be misinterpretations of the Bible’s take on binary gender roles and relationships. I see classism, assuming everyone to have been brought up in the same way with the same resources. I see anti-Blackness, appropriating BVE and Black-made dance moves while not inviting our Black congregation members to hangouts. I see ableism, calling people “crazy” and avoiding anyone who doesn’t fall into normative social expectations. The list goes on.
But I’ve also seen my pastor ask for help planning a dialogue about race for our ministry. I’ve seen underclassmen wonder about the importance of asking for people’s preferred gender pronouns. I’ve seen some friends subtly calling out queerphobic jokes. I’ve seen how they’ve helped my own learning in significant ways.
I must also acknowledge my own role in perpetuating these -isms, and perhaps consider that my wanting to distance myself from this group is to distance myself from my complicity in oppression. I’ve witnessed enough Privilege Guilt to know that absolving myself of upholding oppression doesn’t actually help dismantle oppression--but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I only started my social justice journey a few years ago, and I don’t feel I’ve been the great activist I sometimes act like I am. Sometimes, my activism just feels performative, respectable, icky.
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“Thank you so much for organizing this sit-in, Minji. I just get so happy when I see East Asians doing good work because people like you give us such a better name,” said a first year Korean American student I’ve recently gotten to know through social justice spheres. I avoided eye contact and shook my head, awkwardly laughing.
I felt like such a phony. The night before, I had hung out with one of my main circles but didn’t even tell them about the sit-in. I also had plans to see them later that night. What kind of activist am I if I can’t even bring my own networks closer to inclusion and equity?
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