Julia Zhou

    As I zoomed over several continents at 900 miles per hour back to good ol’ Uncle Sam, I carried a newfound burden. A change from the naive, lively girl of two weeks before could be seen in the slouch of my shoulders, enduring an mammoth weight. Past the cultural and historical expertise I’d gotten to develop, I’d come to a new understanding of the biases a marginalized person such as myself must face in this day and age. More than anything, however, I’d learned that though peoples’ bias may stem from stereotyping and the lumping together of people of a single identity, the most detrimental and common kind of bias is the kind that appears without any particular reason. And it can appear in ourselves, growing as a parasite deep inside.

Heidelberg, Germany is often lauded as a sector in Germany with the most beautiful scenic views and strong historical imprint. Entering Heidelberg in our rented van, I pressed a palm against the window, buzzing with excitement. My mom’s Trip Advisor had long built a high expectation for this area, and my family was looking forward to visiting the castles and cobblestone roads. Heading to lunch, a very pink man in a yellow polo shirt and khakis walked past us. His bald, sun head gleamed in the sunlight. 

“Chink.”

Stunned, my face burned with embarrassment and offense. The level of humiliation I felt at that moment seemed to equal standing in the center of a circus tent, shiny red clown nose and all. My mom laughed. “Was that supposed to be racist?” She shrugged off something that I found super offensive. It was at that moment that I realized my mother, at 44 years old, had normalized this kind of behavior. She’d faced racist, attacking words and actions, and must have, at some point, reacted in a way as shocked as me. But, the constant barrage of actions in this way had numbed her perception of what was unacceptable. This realization caused even more shock to me than the initial confrontation. It was one thing that there was a single racist person in Heidelberg, Germany, but the fact that such things occurred so often that my headstrong mom found it just “amusing” made me upset. Was this what was to be expected in life as a colored person? 

This encounter perhaps awoke a sense of realism in me. Before I’d carried naivety with me. Maybe I’d previously acknowledged what came with my tan skin and almond eyes, but had chosen to look another way, out of pure optimism. Had it been hope? Now I can see a glimpse of what my future might look like. As successful a woman I can be, I’ll never reach a level of social acceptance simply based on these deeply ingrained biases. It scares me to realize that America offers only equality in name, and not in being. 

I feel what the previously mentioned encounter shows how, even beyond stereotyping, people have an automatic bias against Asian, or colored, people. People may have the bias that Asian people eat dogs, and are intelligent but socially incapable. And yet, lots of racism just comes from an inborn hate for Asian people. This seems obvious: what kind of person could have a reason to hate an enormous group of people? Isn’t racism just that? But from an inside perspective, this is quite the epiphany. Knowing that people will dislike you simply based on your skin tone seems foundational to racism, but is upsetting to hear. 

Still, if an alien from a civilized planet were to see such behavior, they’d doubtless find systemic racism and biases unfounded and totally random. I suppose much of the reason can be attributed to slavery and the disrest that emerged from mass immigration. Upon the advent of slavery, white people in particular saw African people as lesser than them, due to themselves having total control over them. Later, as people began immigrating from Europe and Asia to the States, xenophobia could be found even in the cases of the white people from European countries like Ireland or Poland. But at some point in the timeline, the white Americans must have connected with the European immigrants out of similarity in appearance, and instead centralized their hate on Asian people, until they found merit in exploiting the numbers of Chinese immigrants to build but a railroad. It had a lasting effect on American people, even nowadays.

“Go back to your own country!”

“They’re stealing our jobs!”

And yet, many white Americans seem to find joy in being racist, just to be racist. They’re happy to be angry just to be angry, ironic as it sounds. And Asian people must be the easiest target. 

This idea of “internalized racism” can too be applied to other groups of marginalized people. Women, for one. And internalized homophobia is such a current issue, with the LGBTQ community being attacked on social media platforms and in political settings. People part of these groups of people too can carry these internalized biases. Someone may face insecurities or think themselves inferior to people outside their community, simply because they’re colored, a woman, or queer. Of course, this applies to so many groups of people. I’ve felt shame when I’m the singular Chinese person in a predominantly white setting, particularly in sports.

This essay must truly seem all over the place. But the message I’m trying to make known here isn’t just about the singular experience of encountering an ignorant, old white dude in some obscure German countryside. It’s really about the collective experience as a marginalized person in a world where it seems everything is against you. Everywhere you turn, racist people may abound, and it’s difficult to overcome the idea that someone dislikes you just because you’re YOU. If the western beauty standards, negative media representation, and major political occurrences weren’t enough, this constant fear and insecurity causes you to begin to believe that you really aren’t as good as anyone else. 

It hurts. 

Since that experience in Germany, my understanding of race and such has grown immensely. On the flip side, I now battle with constant self-doubt stemming from the internalized racism I myself carry. I constantly seek to make myself as unthreatening as possible to fit in, seeking the approval of others. I always feel like I have to do the most to match up with others of another race. And I know that, like my mother, I’ll never be given the absolute same opportunities as others, as an Asian woman. 

But I can do something to change that.

What information and influences help form the person you are?

Although I’ve had many mentors and life lessons in the past, books and reading remain my main source of information and my main influence. Regardless of the kind of literature, be it nonfiction such as memoirs and autobiographies or realistic fiction, I always seem to resonate most deeply with written word. For example, the “Evil Genius” helped me become someone more aware, and the “The Hunger Games” series encouraged me to be active in the care and help of those less fortunate. Still, Malala Yousafzai’s memoir has offered me the most influence

Malala Yousafzai is a source of inspiration for most people. As a citizen of Afghanistan under the Taliban, she was given two dire options: to give up her education and inalienable rights as a human because of her being a woman, or to fight the higher power. Her memoir, I am Malala, written with Christina Lamb, details the consequences of her choice to fight for girls’ rights to education and freedom; at a young age, she was shot in the head due to her role in advocating for her rights, and wrote on her blog and took part in journalism to spread awareness. 

At the impressionable age of eight years old, I first read Yousafzai’s memoir, and was shocked to learn the violence and injustices women under the Taliban were forced to endure. Malala’s story inspired me to look deeply at my own lifestyle and appreciate my education and liberty, regardless of my gender. This aspect of Yousafzai’s story resonated with me, changing me for the better, sculpting me into someone grateful, respectful, and open-minded to others’ struggles. 

Other than the unspeakable hardships Malala braved, I was in awe of her behavior and response to her adversity. Whilst many children in comfortable situations may glorify the idea of skipping school or not receiving an education, Malala persistently grappled for the right to learn. She was relentless in her passion for schooling, which caused her to make extreme sacrifices and be put in exceedingly difficult situations. This idea stuck out to me, because as someone passionate about learning as well, I felt like it was important to take a page from Malala. As a competitive person eager for success, I sometimes go to extreme lengths to further learn about a subject or improve at something. Other people may find this unsettling, or credit that to tiger parenting, and I feel as though I must give up what I wish to pursue for the approval of others. Malala’s perseverance and striving for what she felt strongly about prompted me to go to lengths to do what I am zealous about. Although I face obstacles far from what Malala and her peers faced and continue to face, I feel as if I can learn from their experiences.

​Response to 1:

Some people despise writing because they think it can make their nightmarish trauma seem more real. For others, writing about human experiences can make their own struggles seem insignificant. Personally, writing is something I do for myself, not just academically.

I admit that I don’t have a spotless conscience or character. On many occasions, I’ve attempted to step into my delicate cerebrum and erase any troubling memories. Unfortunately, I’m always forced to live with my mistakes and trip-ups. After all, I’m only human.

However, I’ve found a solution to my woes. I know what you’re thinking: “She read a self-help book and found a way to perfect herself! She has now discovered the cure for cancer!” You’ll be disappointed to learn that I didn’t find a nostrum for my troubles, and did not, in fact, discover a cure for cancer. Rather, I learned that writing about my feelings is infinitely better than containing them. This realization came to me after a band audition.

I have always been a decent clarinetist, with musicality and passion. Since I was nine, my parents have honed this inkling of talent. Unfortunately, at an audition for my region’s band, nerves got the best of me: playing a scale, I squeaked, and although other parts of the audition went well, I agonized over the fact that if I had played my scale free of that mistake, acceptance to that band could have been inevitable. Though I was later accepted into the band, damage had been done.

Afterward, I wrote about everything I felt out of despair, and I realized how much better I felt. Writing was an escape, like a hole into which I could whisper my  secrets — not unlike King Midas’ barber. Writing used to feel like a burden – something I only did on a whim. I felt like if I wrote about my struggles, I would be forced to live with them forever, after reliving the experience. Now, I’ve realized how satisfying it can be to let all of your words flow out of you, rather than having them churn inside of you.

Yes, this is the cure-all to my struggles: writing as therapy. Seated at my laptop, I feel ready to let loose the words that have been churning inside me. The final result of seeing my own, original words on paper (well, virtual paper, to be fair) is always more than therapeutic. After auditioning for that band, I was reminded that writing was always there to heal my wounds.

Response to 3:

At the center of the frame, a woman weeps. Behind her, a building is taped off. It’s dilapidated, porches torn off buildings, material scattered on the ground. The woman’s expression is one of absolute desolation.

The war in Ukraine is one of extremity. There were approximately 4,000 casualties as of late February, but especially after the situation in Mariupol, in which more than 5,000 people were killed, the numbers have risen greatly. 

Needless to say, the events of the Russian-Ukraine War are simply horrific. Civilian homes have been bombed, and according to to Ukrainian government press releases, thousands of Ukrainian civilians tortured and murdered, committing alleged war crimes. Millions have fled from Ukraine. 

I find it so surreal that something so awful is occurring. These past few years have taken a toll globally; there have been deaths and unrest of great proportions, due to the pandemic, the Black Lives Matter movement, as well as many other developments. Now, the “situation in Ukraine” and “Russia’s  invasion of Ukraine” have elevated into a complete war between Russia and Ukraine, and the result is appalling. It’s very hard to imagine something so awful happening to people overseas when I’m sitting in the comfort of my home in complete safety. Still, I feel for the Ukrainian people, as well as the Russian civilians fighting to protest the warring.

When I think about the pain people must feel when leaving their loved ones, or hearing about the deaths of thousands of their people, I get a gut wrenching, heartbreaking feeling. I cannot even begin to understand the misery of losing your home, your life, your friends and family, your country. 

Children my age are suffering. They are holed up in shelters across Ukraine and Poland, among other places. They are dying in bombed buildings. They are learning in Polish schools, learning and making friends, but haunted by the thought of their friends left in Ukraine. What if I were one of them? What if I were one of the children forced to watch their parents die in Mariupol? I can’t imagine.

We must end the war in Ukraine. When I look at the aforementioned picture of the woman standing in front of the broken-down building, head buried in her hands, distraught washes over me. People are dying. People are feeling empty inside, thinking about their loved ones now lost. Every single picture taken of the Ukrainian War is worth looking at and crying over.

Drafts:

As a child, I understood that it would be impossible to be happy as an adult unless I got a good, financially stable job, and had previously gone to a high-tier, possibly Ivy League university, meaning that going to an excellent high school was a must, meaning that I had to display excellence in every part of my academic life and extra-curricular activities. 

My parents instilled this knowledge in me, and eventually, before everything I did, I paused to think: Can this benefit me in a way that can get me accepted to a prestigious high school, leading me to a successful college experience at an Ivy League school (or at least Stanford), and result in me being economically well-off, allowing me to have children and live life until retirement in a lax manner? 

This has shaped me as a person, influencing my every decision and performance. 

In some ways, this has motivated me to be my best self. Understanding my path to happiness, I am motivated to try my best to achieve success, which not only secures a solid step up the ladder that is my path to happiness, but also increases my self-confidence, telling me that I had what it took to be happy and successful if I continue to have this work ethic. The more I succeed, the more I have the wish to succeed. I am happy to say that although this idea is something that’s been ingrained inside of me, I still have found a passion for learning, even if it started as something necessary for me to do to flourish.

My friends and peers can describe me as a hard-working and overachieving individual with an undeniable possessiveness and thirst for being the absolute best, They say I find it satisfying to learn and master new concepts. Without the information that to be happy, I had to be successful in all aspects of my teenage-adult life, I would not be the person I am today. I now have an inborn sense of motivation to be a better version of myself and learn more, having found the passion to do so thanks to my path to happiness changing my lifestyle.

Response to 1:

I’ll be very honest – I have a very short temper. This is partly due to me being constantly overwhelmed when doing something that is competitive and relies a lot on hard work. Sometimes, I feel like everyone out there can be successful without much effort at all, but I constantly have to work hard to get to even an eighth of the success others experience.

Over time, I’ve found a solution to my woes. I know what you’re thinking: “She read a self-help book and discovered a way to do things next to no effort! Where can I get it?” You’ll be disappointed to learn that I did not read a miraculous, fast-acting nostrum for my troubles. Rather, I performed badly at a band audition. 

I have always been a good clarinetist. If you were naive, you might even think I was gifted; a prodigy, almost! Since the age of 9, my parents honed this inkling of talent, bringing me to weekly private lessons with a seasoned clarinetist and teacher, and buying me clarinet books and tools based on my needs. I improved quickly, but at the audition for my region’s band recently, nerves got the best of me, after hearing the talent some of the other clarinetists displayed: playing my 3-octave F major scale, I squeaked loudly, and although playing the assigned piece went well, I cried once the auditions were over. 

Afterward, I wrote about everything I felt out of despair, and I realized how much better I felt. Writing was like an escape, or perhaps a hole into which I could whisper my thoughts and secrets — not unlike King Midas’ barber. 

Yes, this is the crazy, cure-all solution to my struggles: writing as therapy. With time, I felt confident enough to write more, not just my personal experiences, but also fiction, poetry, and more! Seated at my laptop, I feel ready to let loose the words that have been churning inside me, even ideas that had momentarily popped in my head. The final result of seeing my own, original words on paper (well, virtual paper, to be fair) is always more than therapeutic. After that horrible experience auditioning for a band, not only did I get a wake-up call reminding me to work hard when pursuing my dreams, but I also was reminded that writing was always there for me to feel better and to heal my wounds.

Some people despise writing because they’re afraid to see themselves naked and vulnerable on paper. For some, writing fiction can make the hardships they’re dealing with seem more real or insignificant. But for me, writing is something I do for myself, and not just to look good on a resume.

Response to 2:

Basketball has always been a passion of mine. My father has been filled with a fervor for basketball since even his college days, and in 3rd grade, he shoved me into the competitive world of basketball. Without even so much as a day’s worth of practice, I went to a try-out for my local basketball team. Some young basketball players and enthusiasts were already very skilled and filled with technical knowledge about the game, while I struggled to even dribble my ball with confidence. Naturally, thanks to my poor performance, I did not make the team, but after that day, I was filled with an intense passion for basketball.

In the years that followed, I did improve greatly, and played on summer teams, but not once did I make the team. Although I had become an above-average basketball player, the skills of my peers were superior, and I struggled with this cruel reality. 

There have been times when I have been confident in my performances at the try-out but was told that I did not make the team. It’s as hard to deal with rejection for me as anyone else, and I was crushed. That painful day, I cried and cried, convincing myself that if I just gave up basketball, I would feel better. Later, I realized I had a penchant for basketball, and it was more than just the pride in making a team that attracted me to the notion of basketball.

Two years ago, I tried out for another team, and although I made it, I felt ostracized by the close-knit and unaccepting community of girls on the team. They’d all known each other for years and were mostly caucasian, so I struggled with fitting in, eventually joining my current team. 

This team has not only nurtured my performance and skills, but has also given me a community to be a part of, and I made friends. I can now say that I have overcome the struggle of being a novice in basketball and having a hard time finding a community I was comfortable in.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover” is one of the most well-known maxims in English literature – it represents the idea that you cannot judge a person’s character before getting to know them. Ironically, though the saying has been used to teach a life lesson about people to children, it can apply to literal books. While some books may appear to be shallow and only to be read for entertainment purposes, they may have deeper meanings which examine real life and can teach life lessons.

At the impressionable age of eight, I read “I am Malala”, an autobiography written by Malala Yousafzai depicting her life and struggles as a prominent teen activist. She grew up in Pakistan, a country the group referred to as the Taliban rules, and threatens the safety and education of young women and girls. As an activist, Yousafzai has written in her blog and advocated against the Taliban through many pipelines of journalism, and has raised awareness over the Taliban’s tyrannical and seriously harmful rule in other Middle Eastern countries as well, including Afghanistan. Yousafzai’s autobiography at first glance is a call to action working to inspire children to fight for safety and basic human rights, but furthermore, I grew in character thanks to this book. I drew from this book that a thirst for knowledge is necessary in changing the world. Malala not only fought for security, but also for education for girls, something that most privileged American students may snub. I have had a thirst for going above and beyond in finding knowledge and information, and I was inspired to take action and take that extra leap and sacrifice to gain that information, which scares some people. Although I don’t have to go through the same physical and emotional labor/hardships that are as tangible as girls under the Taliban, I am takjing a leap that most would not.

Taliban has become prominent in the news, took over Afghanistan, current e

On a trip to the library with my family, my mom found two books titled “Genius Squad” and “The Genius Wars” which looked to be part of a series. She remarked that the series looked like good reading material for me, and I was then left with two thick books with cheesy titles and weird illustrations on the cover. Although I was at first doubtful that the books could have any value for me, I was quickly proved wrong. 

Read for myself. 

Cadel is, simply put, an outcast. Though Disney Channel archetypes of the typical geek always seem to be the loyal sidekick who is surrounded by supporters in awe of their genius, Cadel is a lone wolf who is set apart by his attitude, obstinance, cold demeanor for anyone but his best friend, and his crippling genius. That’s one of my favorite things about these books: the author retains some parts of realism, even in such an unlikely setting. Cadel is disliked for his rudeness and condescending manner. Cadel’s character is something I can truly relate with – at times, I feel like I need to change myself because of my unlikable traits, like being a know-it-all, or being garrulous. Cadel improved himself to have better tact and to observe tough situations better, so why should I keep being a tactless, quick to speak, slow to think kind of person?

The family dynamic in Cadel can be bittersweet in many aspects. Although the author tries to depict it as the once-in-the-lifetime opportunity of finding parents that geniunely understand and love you for who you are, it feels undeserved, based on Cadel’s parents’ (Saul and Fiona Greeniaus) loving nature towards Cadel and his neutrality. It took a lot of thought to understand that this was exactly what was being represented – a parent’s unconditional love. This sudden epiphany led me to putting two and two together: at times in life, when you’re at your worst, it’s hard to imagine that your parents would love this version of you. You may cry yourself to sleep thinking that your parents might as well have abandoned you at young age, especially after your hurtful actions that day, but the next morning, pancakes are waiting for you at the breakfast table, and you realize that parent’s truly do have unconditional love. When writing this, I turned over my words over and over in my hands, trying to come up with a way of describing this enigma that is the magic of parenting, so I drew an example from “The Genius Wars”. Cadel messes up badly at the end of the book. He speaks about Prosper English, who believed he was his biological father, with love, while disputing with his parents. His parents would have been crushed; Prosper had tried to murder and hurt Cadel on multiple occasions, but Cadel defended him. This may just be the most hurtful thing you can say to a parent, and the book then ends, leaving the Greeniaus’ reaction to the reader. But, we know Cadel’s parents will still love Cadel as their own, because a parent’s love is more than any callow child can comprehend. This has brought me closer to my family in intangible but huge changes. I feel like I can now understand the frustration of my parents in our arguments, and can sympathize with them, even if it’ll be years before we can have the same experiences. Thus, “Genius Squad” and “The Genius Wars”, while sporting a shallow facade, has deep meanings that have influenced me to be tactful, open-minded to changes of my own character, and a loving, sympathetic daughter.