Op-eds
I remember going on a hike with my dad years ago in a pleasant, liberal suburb of the Bay Area in California. We were conversing in Chinese when this older, white man and his daughter approached us. He began ranting about how we "lived in America," and for a while, my dad and I just stood there confused.
We thought he needed directions, and we were trying to help him. Then, suddenly he said, "Here in America, we speak English," and finally, it dawned on us. He approached us because he couldn't stand the fact that we were speaking Chinese in a private conversation. We just stood there silent for a few seconds, then my dad took my arm.
"It's not worth it," he whispered, as we walked away. The incident stuck to me like a tiny pin that would prick my conscience every few years. I totally understand my dad's approach and agree that it was the right move — he wanted to deescalate the situation, and he wanted to protect me.
At the same time, it frustrated me because I grew up in the United States my whole life. I spent elementary school singing about living in "the land of the free" and middle school memorizing my unalienable rights to “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." Why is it, when our cultures are attacked, we are expected to just accept it?