This is the first part of a series on Chinese American identity. This was originally written on March 20th, 2021. I was reminded of it after the recent horrific Monterey Park shootings.

On May 25th 2020, after the death of George Floyd, I was furious, shocked, and deeply saddened. I spent the next month scrolling through Twitter, donating, organizing, learning — compelled by the injustice against Black Americans and the righteous anger to do something.

Almost one year later, on March 17, 2021, the Atlanta parlor shooter murdered eight people including six Asian American women. I felt numb. I avoided the news; I didn't read Twitter.

I am a Chinese American man.

Why did I have these different reactions?

Over the past few days since Atlanta, I've been unpacking this question. The answer has struck to the very core of my identity.

I was born in Anhui, China, a province a few hours away from Shanghai and immigrated to the United States when I was two and a half. Like many children of my generation, my parents immigrated to the US for a better life after Deng Xiaoping re-opened China to the West. For most of those two and a half years I was raised by my grandparents — my nainai and yeye.

My parents found jobs as software engineers, at a large private technology company in Redlands, California, an hour and a half east of Los Angeles. My local public elementary, middle, and high schools were all within one mile of each other.

In kindergarten, at Smiley Elementary School, my parents walked me into the administration office, and the office lady asked "what's your name?" "I'm Tianchen!" I said with an ear to ear grin. She stared down at me. "Uh...I can't pronounce that. You need an American name" she informed me coldly. This was one of my first tastes of Asian American discrimination, and it went over my earnest, five year old head. I went home to mom and dad and told them I needed an American name.

I started going by "Michael", and growing up in a predominately white, upper middle class suburb of LA, I always wanted to fit in. I had friends, but I knew I wasn't popular. At recess when I called "ching chong" and "konnichiwa," I knew I didn't like that, but I kept my head down and kept walking.

My mom encouraged me to play sports and pursue my passions, and I got into sports because I enjoyed them, but also because I didn't want to be seen as only be good at school like "the other Asians." I sampled soccer and roller hockey, and chose competitive golf.

Alongside that, I took violin and piano lessons, but stopped because I wasn't any good at them. But I also stopped because of something deeper — I felt they were too stereotypically Asian. I was a straight A student, but I always said "oh, I suck at math" to my white friends. I grew out my hair long and wore Etnies to be like a SoCal (white) surfer / skateboarder boy.

Underlying my push towards the things I enjoyed was a darker pull — I did everything I could to distance myself from the shame of being Asian in America.

Cathy Park Hong, the author of "Minor Feelings" writes: "In America, Asians are second in line to be white; second in line to be erased."

Growing up, I eagerly awaited my turn for erasure.