My mom didn’t know how to navigate the New York subway when she first immigrated to America. On her first commute to her job, she stopped at the Port Authority employee’s desk to ask for directions. A line started to form behind her because she didn’t understand the directions given. “Oh my god, hurry up! I can’t believe this foreigner is wasting my time!” someone complained behind her. The employee told the person to wait their turn but to no avail. The complaints grew louder and louder the more the employee tried to defend my mom. Mom held her tears until she understood the directions. But the minute she boarded the subway, she broke down in tears. My mom would go on to face many more racist incidents as an Asian woman. And she would also go on to stay silent whenever it occurred, afraid of what would happen if she ever retaliated. Her main goal was to put food on the table for her three kids, even if that meant holding her tongue to do so. Racism took my mom’s voice. And it took many things from me too. Despite being born in the Philippines, I can’t speak my family’s regional Filipino language, Cebuano. When our family moved to America, my parents stopped speaking to me in Cebuano because they were afraid I would get teased at school for having an accent. Even though Cebuano was my first language, I now only have the conversational skills of a 3-year-old in this language. Racism took away my mother tongue. Racism forced my family to colonize themselves. Despite my parents’ efforts to protect me from bullying, it still happened. My elementary school, middle school, high school, and college are predominantly white institutions and Asian people make up less than 5% of the student population. When I was in kindergarten, my teacher asked the class to share where they were born. When it was my turn to share, I proudly said I was from Cebu City in the Philippines. The whole classroom erupted with laughter and told me my birthplace sounded funny. There was another time when our class went on a field trip and my classmate saw a person walking their dog and exclaimed, “Look, Pauline! It’s your dinner!” I understood the concept of racism much earlier than my white peers because racism stole my childlike innocence. Middle school was much more brutal. When I started liking boys I often heard phrases like, “I would never date an Asian girl.” And as my classmates became more self-conscious of their appearance, they also became more observant of mine. Multiple classmates would tell me my nose was flat and wide and would point out how the hair on my upper lip and arms was too dark. At the age of 13 I understood; I was never going to be “The It Girl” because I don’t have eurocentric features. Racism destroyed my self-confidence. Although Asians are a rapidly-growing racial group in America, we are severely underrepresented in politics and the media. The lack of Asian representation was highlighted when COVID-19 began and many Asian Americans fell victim to hate crimes. Many mainstream media outlets did not speak of this issue until it came to a head with the Atlanta mass shooting this March. It took over a year for the mainstream media to recognize Asian American suffering. As if this wasn’t enough, many people, including the administration at my college, refuse to recognize the Atlanta mass shooting as a racially motivated crime. My college refused to stand in solidarity with their Asian students and still has not apologized for their neglect. Today, racism from COVID-19 threatens to take away our ability to feel safe. People are ignoring Asian plight in an attempt to silence us. I refuse to be silenced. My immigrant mother did not sacrifice her voice just so I can lose mine too. My mother’s story shows me that her sacrifices were never made in vain. Everything I do in my life is to honor the sacrifices my mom made when immigrating to America. So, although people expect an Asian woman like me to be docile, I will always use my voice and platform to be vocal about social justice. My mother is the reason why I am a Political Science major pursuing a career in law. I want to use both my degrees to be a representative voice for the Asian community in politics. As the President of the Asian Student Union at my college, I use my position to confront the school administration about their lack of support for their Asian students. I’ve had private meetings with the college President, his cabinet, and school faculty, discussing how it is an abomination to not recognize the Atlanta mass shooting as a racist hate crime, and how all faculty members should publicly stand in solidarity with their Asian students during this difficult time. I’ve recommended policy and operational changes to my college administration and resource department, and I’ve represented the Asian Student Union by speaking at public events with 50+ participants to address the rise of anti-Asian hate crimes and to rally campus solidarity. To further engage with students, I co-authored an article that was published in the school newspaper, sharing the difficulties of being Asian in America and how students and faculty can be allies. My mom’s story will always be the fuel that powers me to be an activist. Racism will try to write a narrative for its victims and will try to take everything from them. Yet, my experience as an Asian activist taught me that racism will never take my voice. If anything, my advocacy for Asian people has taught me I’m the opposite of what racism says; I am beautiful. I am resilient. I am outspoken. My voice is powerful and belongs in white spaces where I am not welcomed. And I, not racism, control the narrative of what it means to be Asian.