Recently, I found myself giving my parents a warning, the kind they used to give me when I was younger. I told them to be careful when they go out, that they might be targeted by verbal or even physical abuse. It felt like our roles had reversed, a strange and unsettling shift.
Growing up in Houston, their cautions were a constant echo in my childhood. The world, they told me, was not always welcoming, and it saw us as outsiders. They advised me to stay close to family, to stick with “our kind.” This protective advice, rooted in their experiences as immigrants, shaped my early understanding of America.
YouTube thumbnail of a video related to Asian American experiences, illustrating John Cho's concern for his parents' safety during rising anti-Asian sentiment.
The COVID-19 pandemic, unfortunately, has unleashed a wave of anti-Asian sentiment and hate crimes, sparked by the virus’s origin in China. Across the nation, Asian American families are having similar conversations, sharing stories of abuse on text messages and social media, always ending with the now ominous phrase, “stay safe.”
The underlying assumption when I was growing up was that assimilation would guarantee safety. Becoming “American enough” was the goal, and my parents encouraged my brother and me to watch television, hoping we would learn to speak and act like “natives.” The aspiration was that by adapting and integrating, race would no longer be a barrier for our generation.
When I embarked on my acting career, perhaps influenced by all that TV, I began to see a glimmer of my parents’ hopes materialize. Doors seemed to open, and interactions with strangers felt more welcoming. In some ways, I started to experience life in a way that felt less defined by race. However, life has a way of reminding you that your racial identity remains a defining aspect of how you are perceived.
Sometimes, it’s a subtle microaggression, like a salesperson greeting you with “konnichiwa.” Other times, it’s a series of events that highlight the persistent racial profiling. During a press tour with Kal Penn in 2004 to promote “Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle,” a few years after 9/11, we experienced this firsthand.
Traveling across the country to cities like New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and Seattle, a disturbing pattern emerged. At each airport security checkpoint, Kal was invariably pulled aside for a “random” search. On one occasion, our friend Gabe, who is white, joined us. As we went through security, Kal was selected for a search, while Gabe and I passed through without incident. We waited for Kal, and Gabe, looking into his backpack, suddenly realized he had forgotten to remove a large hunting knife from a recent camping trip.
The stark contrast was a sobering reminder. While Gabe, a white man with a hunting knife in his bag, sailed through security, Kal, an Indian American actor, was consistently subjected to extra scrutiny.
This pandemic has become another such moment for Asian Americans. It’s a jarring reminder that our belonging in this country can feel conditional. In one moment, we are seen as Americans, and in the next, we are perceived as perpetual foreigners, blamed for bringing the virus to the US.
The “model minority” myth, while seemingly positive, can be equally insidious. It creates an illusion of “racelessness” for some Asians, masking the realities of systemic racism. By placing certain Asian groups on a pedestal, it silences those who speak out against injustice. This myth is used to argue that the system works, and if some groups aren’t succeeding, it’s due to their own failings, ignoring the structural barriers that exist.
It conveniently ignores the fact that a significant portion of Asian Americans live in poverty. The model minority myth serves to maintain a status quo that disadvantages people of all backgrounds.
Perhaps the most damaging aspect of this myth is its silencing effect. It subtly encourages Asian Americans to internalize and perpetuate it. It influences our parents, who in turn, encourage us to accept it. It offers a false sense of protection, making you believe that you are “one of the good ones,” safely navigating racial biases.
The seemingly positive stereotypes of Asians – hardworking, good at math – contribute to the misconception that anti-Asian sentiment is somehow less severe, a milder form of racism. This allows for the dismissal of the current surge in anti-Asian hate crimes as trivial, isolated incidents. Consider the prevalence of comedians who readily make jokes at the expense of Asians, while being cautious about other racial groups.
However, alongside these false positives, darker stereotypes persist: the sneaky, job-stealing, corrupt foreigner. I recall being accused of cheating on a Latin quiz in high school, and my teacher asking, “Why are Koreans such cheaters?” reinforcing a harmful generalization.
During times of national crisis, these negative stereotypes resurface and dominate. My wife’s family was unjustly incarcerated in internment camps during World War II, despite her great-uncles serving in the U.S. Army. Vincent Chin, a Chinese American, was brutally murdered in 1982, scapegoated for the Japanese auto industry’s success. More recently, an Asian woman in Brooklyn was attacked with acid, becoming another victim in the escalating wave of violence against Asian Americans.
I immigrated to this country in 1978 at the age of six and became a naturalized citizen in 1990. During my citizenship ceremony, the judge asked if I would defend the country in uniform if called upon. It was a question I hadn’t anticipated, but I answered yes, and I meant it. I embraced the citizenship my parents sought for me, and I believe I have spent my life earning it. I refuse to let anyone tell me or anyone who looks like me that we are not truly American.
The coronavirus pandemic has underscored our interconnectedness and mutual reliance. A widespread problem demands a comprehensive solution, not fragmented approaches. We cannot advocate for some while ignoring the plight of others. Like a virus, unchecked aggression can spread rapidly. It is crucial to recognize that this hate is not distant or insignificant; it is happening in our communities. If you witness it, speak out. If you hear it in your workplace, say something. If you sense it within your family, address it. Stand up for your fellow Americans.
John Cho is an acclaimed actor known for his roles in the “Harold & Kumar” and “Star Trek” film series.
