It was at a local barbecue joint in downtown Lexington, Kentucky, when a tall man approached the table where I was sitting with my two daughters, 4 and 2. He lingered there long enough, just looking at us, that I’d begun to hatch an escape plan. I’d already broken into a full-blown sweat before I even realized what he’d just done: spit on my 2-year-old, his saliva landing on her thigh. He then walked away, muttering the N-word under his breath, oblivious to the inaccuracy of the insult.
I was born and raised in Malaysia. I am biracial, of Malay and Indian descent. I came to the United States after falling in love and marrying my blond, blue-eyed American husband. Though I am brown and my husband white, my children, born here in America ― true blue Americans ― are neither. They have an indiscernible olive skin tone, but they are not white.
My neighbors and community voiced their silent agreement, condoning such a vile act when they offered no defense, no comfort, not even acknowledgment that it happened.
The entire restaurant, all white diners from what I could see around me, had watched the incident, avoided eye contact with me, and carried on with their lunches, glancing at us from time to time, confirming what I knew to be true already: We were the others.
I’m also treated very differently when I’m with my white husband than when I’m on my own. People have yelled at me, “Go back where you came from.” Retail assistants have followed me around stores, saying, “There is nothing here for you.” A woman at a makeup counter once denied me service, glancing past me at the white woman behind me in line, telling her she was ready, as if I were invisible. But the glob of spit that hit my daughter that day was a whole new low. I could hold it in and tolerate my pain when the aggressions were directed toward me, but it burned me in a way I hadn’t felt before to see my children subject to such indignity.
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What can you say?
How do you think a person should react to something like this being done to their child?
I was born and raised in Malaysia. I am biracial, of Malay and Indian descent. I came to the United States after falling in love and marrying my blond, blue-eyed American husband. Though I am brown and my husband white, my children, born here in America ― true blue Americans ― are neither. They have an indiscernible olive skin tone, but they are not white.
My neighbors and community voiced their silent agreement, condoning such a vile act when they offered no defense, no comfort, not even acknowledgment that it happened.
The entire restaurant, all white diners from what I could see around me, had watched the incident, avoided eye contact with me, and carried on with their lunches, glancing at us from time to time, confirming what I knew to be true already: We were the others.
I’m also treated very differently when I’m with my white husband than when I’m on my own. People have yelled at me, “Go back where you came from.” Retail assistants have followed me around stores, saying, “There is nothing here for you.” A woman at a makeup counter once denied me service, glancing past me at the white woman behind me in line, telling her she was ready, as if I were invisible. But the glob of spit that hit my daughter that day was a whole new low. I could hold it in and tolerate my pain when the aggressions were directed toward me, but it burned me in a way I hadn’t felt before to see my children subject to such indignity.
A Man Spit On My Toddler And Called Her The N-Word. It Changed How I Understand America.
"Perhaps there have always been men who want to spit on 2-year-old brown girls, but the brazenness I’ve witnessed has escalated; in fact, it now soars."
What can you say?
How do you think a person should react to something like this being done to their child?
