For a moment, I hold my index finger pressed on the power key of my computer, booting it to life. It doesn't take long for the dark screen to promptly light up a black and white image of Minneapolis city, which I have set as my background. Lately, I am starting to spend more time online; on the screen, a food reviewer cuts open a steak in one swift, smooth motion, revealing a beautiful red cross-section. I watch as he slowly and dramatically puts a piece into his mouth, chewing gently and making comments about its tenderness and delightful flavors. My mouth salivates, my eyes stay fixed, and my ears perk to the eloquent words of the reviewer. Defeated, I let the reviewer take control of my mind, filling it with desires and an odd feeling of a change. Even now, however, I still recall how my parents would tell me about the impurities and dangers of eating undercooked meat: an age-old tradition that’s passed down to keep us safe from food poisoning. 

It’s a little past 11 PM and I can hear my parents returning from work from the resounding squeak coming from the door. With nearly twenty years of repetition, they move reflexively, like the turning of old chains and gears, settling down quickly and immersing themselves in their devices. As if acquiring their needed sustenance, my father opens the channel to get his regular feeds of news while my mother opens her social media app to get hers. They're completely engrossed in what they're doing until my mother speaks with a troubled voice, "there was another Asian assault on the train today." She turns and gestures toward me, "be careful on your way to school, the story says that black people are aggressive and would attack Asians for no reason." She’s at it again. My parents have been warning me to stay away from this group ever since I was a child, treating them as if they were an ever-present threat. I eventually grew up developing their mentality and at the same time, inadvertently, learned their ways of addressing black people too. This became a serious issue after I entered fourth grade.

That time, there was a black classmate who I eagerly avoided as cautioned by my parents. We had never talked, played, or fought with each other, but there was a fear instilled in me: I believed that he was a creature who would harm me, like a wild animal. I gossiped about him with my friends and used words I learned from my parents until I was reported. I remember the first time I was pulled out of class to be reprimanded by a dean, my chest warmed with what felt like a tiny fire burning inside. “You spend more time with him at school than you do with your parents at home. Don’t you ever call him that again.” My heart pounded fast and powerfully as if struck continuously by a hammer. The fire that was burning with shame then suddenly blazed into an angry perplexity. Did I really say something so terrible?  As punishment, I was held in detention for seven days in the dean’s attempt to amend me and to make me understand that what I had said were not merely curse words, but a seldom language used to dehumanize a person. It was then that I understood what a racial slur was. 

My mother goes back to scrolling her phone, striking up a conversation with my father about the latest headlines: Asian American hate. I listen to their discussion on how black people are the main perpetrator of Asian hate, which I know is not entirely true, but they’re more convinced by what the ‘experts’ have to say than whatever I have to. Although I have long stopped using racial slurs after that incident, my parents continue to do so. After all, they have no one to reprimand them, no one to hammer the depth and seriousness those words can have into their hearts. They allow filtered information online to influence them and then pass it on to me because they think it will keep me safe. Sometime later, as if signaling the end of their day, a little notification pops up regarding low battery; they retreat to their bedroom to rest and I, feeling the little fire no longer inside me, close the computer for good.