Dear Teachers, I Am Not Your Perfect Asian Student

Needs to speak up :(

My middle school advisor hesitated. “I wouldn’t have put that frowny face, but, yes, we’d all love to hear your voice more in class.” 

I nodded, promising to try. My mother beside me didn’t comment. Parent-teacher conferences were a nuisance for the both of us; it was always the same comments on my quietness. My parents never cared. Class participation was a frivolous American standard. 

Still, I was not just a quiet student. I was silent. During all of middle school, I can count on one hand the amount of times I willingly spoke up. It wasn’t that I never had anything to say — it’s just nothing ever made it out. Ideas would begin as nascent possibilities; then, they would gain form and shape. My hand would twitch, ready to shoot up. Words would climb up my throat, ascending, ascending … and stop, caught in a thicket at the back of my tongue. My half-raised arm would lower. 

Heartbeat slowing, I’d be consumed by both relief and self-loathing. In every class, everyday, this happened. I blamed shyness, except that wasn’t quite right. The fear that clenched my gut when I imagined contributing to a class discussion didn’t purely come from social anxiety. It was something far more nuanced and inexplicable: I felt that if I jumped in, I would be intruding in a place where I was not welcome. If I voiced my thoughts, I would come off as egotistical. But if I relegated myself to a corner, everyone would stop resenting my presence. 

Where did this twisted philosophy come from? Was this just narcissism? Or was it something more? 

As I entered high school, I noticed discrepancies between how teachers treated me and how they treated other students: every compliment was begrudging, every critique levied with a strange tinge of glee. When teachers would display my work, they always left it anonymous; when they did the same for others, they proudly shined the spotlight. Perhaps they were being courteous of my “shyness,” but they praised students who were just as quiet. I scrutinized every interaction they had with me, every gesture.

But what could I do? Go up to them, voice trembling, and beg for encouragement?

Middle school and high school were formative years for me, as they are for everyone. My identity was an amorphous mass that needed refinement and guidance. But what could I do? Go up to them, voice trembling, and beg for encouragement?

Once, I asked my friends for their insight. I felt vulnerable, revealing my need for affirmation. What they said shook me: apparently, I came off as too “scholarly” and “self-sufficient.” They pointed out another student — the valedictorian of our class, in fact — who was treated even more curtly than I was. Scholarly? Self-sufficient? What did that have to do with anything? Except there was a common denominator between me and every single student with similar experiences: we were all Asian. 

When this epiphany struck me, I saw all of my years of inner turmoil, frustration, and confusion fall into place with startling clarity. Of course, I can’t blame it all on bias — I was shy to an extent. But that is a flimsy explanation for all that transpired. I still remember one time in eighth grade when we had to present an argument. I chose to argue against standardized testing. My teacher then asked with bulging eyes, “Wait, you support standardized testing?” I was flustered. I had told him I wasn’t. What middle-schooler was gung-ho for the SATs and ACTs? I suppose I looked like it.

The American education system as a whole — not just my school — seems to suffer from the assumption that Asian students are too competent to need extra attention from their teachers. This is an extremely damaging offshoot of the Model Minority Myth. While I’ve only mentioned my experiences so far, I am not alone. An online exhibition by the USC Pacific Asia Museum and the USC Asian Pacific American Student Assembly showcases individual stories about the harmful stereotype: “deteriorating mental health,” “the way some of my teachers grouped all of the Asian students together diminished my cultural identity,” “My dad … told me ‘You’re Chinese. You endure. You can’t ask for help like white people,’” and more. So much more. 

Despite what some of my teachers thought, here was the truth: I was terrified.

Despite what some of my teachers thought, here was the truth: I was terrified. I was just as uncertain of my place in this world as every other student. I was just as starved for praise; I was just as desperate to know the extent of my worth. The same thoughts bogged me down: am I good enough? Do I fit in? Do they like me? And a single uplifting word would have buoyed me to the same heights as everyone else. 

Junior year, things turned on their head. My AP Literature teacher was unlike any other teacher I ever had. She treated me like I was normal — in other words, an imperfect person. The first time she offered me praise was in the first month of school — she called my tidbit of analysis a “mic drop” moment — and I swear, I felt this warmth suffusing my heart for the whole day. She gave me equal space to improve; her criticisms were no harsher than her criticisms for others. I never felt like a failure from her suggestions, simply that I had the potential to do even better. During private conferences with her to discuss my writing, she was always attentive to my concerns and always quick to reassure me. 

The effects of this class were dramatic. Once the expectation to be perfect fell away, I started to raise my hand. I became eager to enter the fray of discourse, to step out from the shadows. Somehow, by the end of my junior year, I managed to shed the meekness and timidity of my past. Did I change? Or was I simply freed? These days, I think it was the latter. It was as if all I needed was a single sign, a single invitation, to stop pretending and finally flourish.

I’m a college freshman now, and the confidence I gained in her class was crucial in my transition away from home. I no longer define myself by only intelligence; I have my empathy, my humor, and my passion, but I also have my moments of sadness or anger, and that’s alright. I’m still vibrant.

To those of you who don’t think us Asian students need help — we do. We need it more than you can fathom. So compliment that student you think is too independent. See the light in their eyes — that’s a flame you just kindled. And, someday, when it’s blazing, they will still remember your words. I know I do.