I was about 11 when I had my first taste of racism.
Asians are more or less racist. I can say that truly, because I am one. A very mixed Asian, at that. Growing up, everyone assumed I was another race because of my fair skin. On paper, I belonged to a certain darker-skinned race.
I moved from Country X to Country Y. Country X’s education system was not as strong as Country Y’s. The principal of that primary school was, ironically, raised and educated in Country X.
They saw only two things on my file: my race and where I had come from. And from those two lines, they decided I would not cope with math and English.
I was already a thinker at that age. I remember thinking: But I am of a fair-skinned race known for their intelligence and innovation. Why would I not cope with math and English?
My mixed family meant one of my grandmothers had been adopted by a white English-speaking man. She was raised fluent in the language. She went to school. All her children and grandchildren were fluent in English.
So I thought: No. This person will not judge me by my race and put me in a box I do not belong in.
When I started that semester, I had already missed three months of school. I had two months before midterms.
And boy, did I show them.
Even my teacher was sceptical that I could catch up. Not only did I catch up—I came in 6th in a class of 30. By the end of the year, I was in the top 4.
When I was 12, we sat a major exam that would determine which school we qualified for. This is Asia—every parent wants their child in the best possible school. I did well enough to get into my parents’ alma mater: a top 10 school.
So never judge a book by its cover.
Because sometimes, the book turns out to be worth the read after all.
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