When I hear Toisan
My name is Claudia. I’m half Toisan, half Korean, and American born — I’m an Asian American woman. Growing up as an Asian American in a diverse neighborhood, I always felt “normal”. I’ve encountered a handful of moments where I’ve noticed my differences and lightly questioned my identity, but I never felt like I didn’t belong. As a daughter of immigrants, I’m always aware of the hardships of the immigrant story, but never truly understood the impact of racism that Asian Americans have faced, until March 17, 2021.
On March 17, 2021, an elderly Chinese woman was attacked while walking in San Francisco and successfully defended herself from the assailant using a wooden board. What struck me about this footage was beyond her valiance — it was the sound of her voice. She spoke in Toisan, a dialect of Cantonese. A language that is personal to me.
In my experience, it’s rare to encounter another Toisanese person, even here in the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia tri-state). I grew up in an English-speaking household as my parents, who are Toisan and Korean, needed to speak English to communicate. As a result, I don’t speak or understand either of my native languages. My Toisan grandmother, who lived with us, was an integral part of my childhood.
Since my grandmother passed, hearing Toisan fills my heart with warmth. When I hear Toisan, I think of when we watched PBS cartoons on Saturday mornings while eating Chinese almond cookies dipped in sugary black coffee. I think of the wall in her room collaged with drawings I made for her, each one signed “grandma” in Chinese. I think of the Chinese gummies she snuck into my pockets behind my parent’s back as a secret treat. I may not understand it well anymore, but when I hear Toisan, I feel at home.
In the footage of the elder woman attacked in San Francisco, she cries out with terror and fear in Toisanese. I understood what she said — it was the first time the sound of Toisan brought great pain to me. I understood because my grandmother used similar words when telling me to be careful whenever I left the house. I guess she was afraid, and at the time, I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand because I always felt like I belonged. I’m American born and my parents have been here since they were preteens without ever going back, not even to visit. This country is part of who we are.
In my culture, we always put family first, especially our elders. The family of the Toisan woman in SF started a Go Fund Me to cover her medical costs that reached nearly 1 million in donations. She repeatedly insisted that she wants to donate all of the funds to AAPI campaigns – that “this issue is bigger than her”. I can’t help but think this act is an example of my culture and how it’s growing in this country. From my perspective, I think we are now realizing that in this country, our community is our family too. Even in this painful, confusing time, it gives me hope to see my culture grow – we are beginning to look out for each other just how we do so well with our immediate families.
The Asian American community is not known to be loud-spoken. The typical protocol is “don’t attract attention or make a scene”. It is almost as if our social conflicts are the cost we pay for the American dream. In a conversation about the rise in hate crimes towards AAPI, my mother asked me “I wonder, what is our responsibility as an Asian?” I could hear her desire to take action and I couldn’t answer her question at the moment — I felt helpless. In my experience, expressing emotions is uncommon in an Asian household. When writing this story, my perfectionism struck me. I was afraid of criticism and judgment – both within my community and outside of it. I was initially uncomfortable – afraid of straying from “the typical protocol”. Expressing emotion is a right that many of our parents don’t know how to utilize due to cultural differences between our generations. But after thinking about what my responsibility is, I realized the importance and reward of speaking up. A voice is valuable and impactful. As an Asian, I am born into a deep and rich culture with strong values. As an American, I can speak up and share my stories with others who may not know of the personal impact of racial and social injustice towards the AAPI community. As an Asian American, my voice can be used to show the colors of my culture and elevate my community. With my voice, I hope I can answer my mother’s question.
This story has opened a space for conversation about something very important to me – my culture. It’s the start of my personal journey of outwardly expressing my feelings as someone who is proud to be Asian American. It’s sharing a part of me with those who may want to learn and will hopefully better understand the personal impact of the world we live in. To the AAPI community – if you are experiencing emotional unrest, it is okay to feel so. It’s human to not feel okay. For those who are feeling compelled to share, I encourage you to do so because your story is valid. With our voices, there is hope for change.