I remember the first time I was called chink.
I remember picture day in middle school and the photographer asked me if I could open my eyes any wider.
I remember being asked if so-so was my brother or if we were related.
I remember being asked if I knew Karate, Kung Fu, or both.
I remember being made fun of at lunch for the pork floss and rice my parents packed me for lunch.
I remember being asked where I’m from, no really, where are you from?
I remember being asked if I speak Asian.
I remember people being surprised I didn’t have an accent and that I speak English so well.
I remember being asked how do Asian parents name their kids? By throwing a spoon down the stairs.
I remember being called chinaman.
I remember being told I should just take an American name - my name too hard to pronounce.
I remember approaching the checkout line and everybody stepping out of line.
I remember being told to go back to where I came from. Orlando?
I remember being taught that if I mind my own business, be kind, and stay in my lane I will be accepted into this country.
I remember the victims being turned into a number, names deemed insignificant, and stories of the lives they have lived untold.
Today I am hurting.
Today I am angry.
Today I am tired.