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This essay is the first winner of the Racial Discrimination Essay Contest organized by Solidarity Christian Community Development Association (SCCDA) in partnership with Mosaic Conference.

Growing up in Philadelphia I’ve been lucky to be immersed in many different cultures and backgrounds. I went to a predominantly Asian school in the heart of Chinatown and to a culturally inclusive high school. However that doesn’t discount the multiple times I have faced racism. 

One of my most vivid memories of facing racism was in middle school, when I was going to a birthday party where I only knew one person. I walked in and instead of being greeted by introductions, I was greeted by someone immediately coming up to my face and saying, “ching chong.” I wanted to confront them for being ignorant and rude, but my mom always taught me not to make a scene so I chose to ignore it. 

However, this single moment sparked the first time feeling of wanting to blend into society and wanting to become like the white people I saw all over my instagram feed. I started to assimilate, dying the ends of my hair blonde, and speaking less of my native language. Slowly but surely I became more “whitewashed.” 

Going into high school all I wanted to do was fit in with the crowd. I refused to bring my mom’s homemade food to school worried that people would make fun of me, in hindsight her food was much better than any lunch the school provided. I also refused to participate in cultural days like International Day where students would dress up in their culture’s clothing because I didn’t want anyone to make fun of my batik (traditional Indonesian cloth). 

One thing I have noticed in high school is that racism against Asians is almost normalized, and it’s never talked about. I, like many others, have been trained to take jokes about the Asian bird flu, coronavirus, and to accept the stereotypes that come with being Asian like eating cats and dogs. Instead of calling jokes and stereotypes like that out, my mind has been trained to laugh and go along with the crowd, almost like it was second nature. I didn’t think much of the normalization of this racism until recently when I looked back and examined my high school experience. 

A memory recently came into my mind when I realized I truly started to lose my native tongue. It was Christmas break of freshman year; I went to a friend’s house to exchange gifts. I was used to speaking English with my friends and Indonesian with my parents. I received a call from my mom asking when they should come pick me up and I replied saying 5:30 in Indonesian. Just like that the whole room burst into laughter. At first I didn’t know what they were laughing at but I soon realized that they were laughing at what I said. They were laughing at my expense. She soon stopped laughing only to start mocking what I said. This made me feel so ashamed of my own language. 

To this day when I get a call from my parents in front of my friends, I exclusively speak English in the fear that people will make fun of me. Instead of calling her out and saying that it hurt my feelings, I sat there and laughed. I went along with the crowd once again. I felt so uncomfortable and almost sick to my stomach. I was embarrassed and humiliated that they were continuing to laugh and mock me. 

After this moment pieces of my cultural identity continued to chip away after being ridiculed for being different. All of freshman and sophomore year, I fixated on what else I could change about myself to be seen as one of them instead of sticking out like a sore thumb. I changed the clothes I wore, the way I talked, the way I styled my hair, and the way I did my makeup all to conform. I wanted so badly to not be looked at as an outsider just because of the sole fact that I was Asian. Even after all of the changes I made, I realized that I could never be like one of my friends. 

It wasn’t until my junior year I decided to take back my cultural identity. I started to make new friends through field hockey, and they were so open about their different cultures and backgrounds. We could relate to having strict parents and eating foods that might be seen as weird by others. We embraced our cultural differences and it helped make me more open to sharing my culture. That year was the first time I participated in International Day; I wore my batik clothes for the first time in years. After suppressing my cultural identity for years and idolizing the need to become like my friends, I started to become more proud of being Indonesian. 

I still feel uncomfortable speaking my language in front of people just because I’m afraid of the stares I could get or hearing the stifling laughs of those around me. I think that’s one of the outcomes of facing ridicule for your culture first hand, shame. Instead of having pride for the beautiful language, clothing, and land of Indonesia, I had shame. The feeling of shame for culture is long lasting, it doesn’t go away in a month or two, or in my case, a sports season. 

After years of assimilating and being ashamed, I can’t instantly revert to the person who was once so proud of being Indonesian, it takes time.  I slowly have to build up the courage that was stolen from me to share my culture with others. 

I take it one day at a time, immersing myself back into the culture and learning more so I can tell others about it. Years of being proud have been stolen from me because of a few key moments of being taunted. I’ve come a long way from changing myself and hiding my culture in freshman and sophomore year, and I still have ways to go, but at least now I can proudly and unapologetically reclaim my Indonesian heritage.

Saturday, March 27, presented a beautiful evening for a luminary walk through Salford (Harleysville, PA) Church’s cemetery. The walk was the kickoff event for a week-long outdoor memorial on the church grounds to remember those who have died from COVID-19. 

The memorial, titled COVID Remembrance and Hope, invites members of the congregation and the broader public to reflect on losses due to the pandemic, both locally and around the globe. 

“This has been a year like no other, for all of us,” shared Pastor Beth Yoder.  “We have known loss, disruption, and upheaval, and we have seen more clearly some of the harsh realities that shape our nation and our world.” 

From Saturday, March 27, to Saturday, April 3, an interactive prayer wall is open to the public on the porch of the historic stone schoolhouse behind the church. The memorial coincides with Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter, in which the final days of Jesus and his death by crucifixion are remembered. 

When people ask me how many children I have, I usually hide behind humor as I smile and say, “It depends on how you count them.” Do they mean how many biological children I have? Do they mean how many children in our blended family? Do I dare tell them about our baby boy in heaven? Somehow, that question never gets easier.

As a newly married couple, George and I desperately wanted to have a child together. After several painful years of infertility, we finally got the good news that we were expecting!

I launched into “nesting” mode. I read books on pregnancy, decorated the nursery and babbled to anyone who would listen about my dreams for this little life inside of me. And, our precious gift was due in December. Could anything be more perfect? We couldn’t wait.

It was an uneventful pregnancy. But, about two weeks before my due date, my doctor noticed something was wrong. That evening, December 9, 1993, our son was born and died due to a cord complication. We named him Stanley. He had blonde hair, blue eyes and crooked pinky fingers like his dad.

Our family was devastated. The next day was my baby shower. My mother had the awful task of calling everyone to tell them her grandson had died.

My recovery was emotionally difficult. It was Christmas, usually my favorite time of year. Surrounded by bucolic images of a young mother, Mary, cradling her newborn son, I was bitter that I didn’t have a baby to hold.

People’s reactions to our loss varied. Many were compassionate and thoughtful. One out-of-state friend arranged for our local supermarket to deliver prepared meals. My cousin offered to redecorate our Noah’s ark-themed nursery. A co-worker proactively told my work associates about our loss, so I would be spared the dreaded question, “What did you have?”

Unfortunately, some friends shied away from us or broke ties, because they didn’t know how to respond. In truth, we didn’t either.

During those first few months, my emotions ping-ponged from sadness to overwhelming grief to outright, screaming-in-the-car anger at God. How could God do this to us?! To our baby?! I was ashamed that I had these thoughts. I felt so alone. I felt that even God had abandoned me.

Several months later while still raging at God, I heard a song that reminded me that death was not part of God’s plan – and that God knew exactly how I felt. God understood what it was like to watch his son die. And because of that painful sacrifice, I could hold onto the promise of someday cradling my precious boy again. It was a profound “God moment” amid my grief.

I realized that God hadn’t abandoned me. But I had railed against him. Could there be a pathway back?

A faith-based book on pregnancy loss helped me put my fear in perspective. Like a toddler who, in anger, pounds their fists against their parent’s legs and says, “I hate you!” The parent understands that the child is hurting and loves them despite their emotional outburst. 

I encourage you to step beyond discomfort to reach out to those who have lost a child or grandchild – whether a miscarriage, an infant or a child lost through abortion. Walk with them in the moment. If the loss was a while ago, let them know you remember and care. Give them space to talk about their precious child. Remind them of God’s love. Love them.

Editor’s note:  This is an abbreviated version of Cami’s full story, which you can read here, which first appeared on October 15, 2020.