The Best Way to Honor AAPI Heritage Month

Kimberly Hiroto, Ph.D., is a clinical geropsychologist specialized in working with older adults and those living with chronic illness.

Source: Kimberly Hiroto, Ph.D., used with permission

by Kimberly Hiroto, Ph.D.

This month honors Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) Heritage month, while at the same time we also see the increase in hate and violence toward these same communities and especially to our elders. In the spirit of honoring heritage and amplifying the need for solidarity, compassion, and recognition of our common humanity, I’ve been graciously invited to share my story and my wish for a more peaceful future.

The ongoing surge in hate crimes against our AAPI communities harkens back to WWII and the incarceration of Japanese Americans. My parents and grandparents, themselves first-, second-, and third-generation Americans, were part of this cohort. I grew up hearing about, but rarely speaking of “camp”—as though it were some desired vacation spot. It was a prison camp: guards stood watch in towers armed with machine guns aimed toward prisoners, barbed wire surrounded the area, and wooden shacks provided limited shelter.

My maternal grandmother was in her early 20s when she, my grandfather, and their two infants were forced from their homes, limited to one suitcase per person. They huddled in the horse stalls of a racetrack while waiting to be moved like cattle to another state. My grandmother traveled separately with the other nursing mothers. My father, then 5 years old, was separated from his family due to illness, uncertain if he would be reunited. Like others at this time, they asked neighbors to watch over their belongings, only to return years later to nothing.

The neighbors who were once friends became strangers, worse yet aggressors. The few who offered assistance or compassion were often other people of color who knew what oppression felt like. Like many others, my grandparents survived unimaginable pains and trauma, but kept them private because that’s what we do: we gambaru, or persevere in silence. This is a cultural value, but it also aided their survival in a harsh society.

My family’s experiences are in my blood, my DNA, and I refuse to be silent. I share this pain to honor my ancestral resilience and to voice the struggles they endured. I share this pain so you can see the type of wounds we carry: generations deep with themes of oppression, persecution, violence, and dehumanization. These themes pervade the stories of immigrant experiences, indigenous colonization and erasure, the harm inflicted on LGBTQIA+ communities, the exclusion and abuse of those with disabilities, and the exploitation of and violence toward those forced here through slavery. If we all look closely enough, we’ll likely find these stories in our own families.

So I invite you in to grieve with me, to rage with me, and to advocate with me. To join me in looking inward to understand how we are agents of a system rigged to benefit some and deny others. It’s easy to look outward—a quick Google search provides the histories and traditions of other groups. What’s harder, what these times demand of us, is to delve within and examine the implicit biases we’ve inherited across generations. To consider how we inhale a system of oppression, and exhale its effects. To recognize that silence keeps us complicit with a system that determines whose humanity and life matter.

These times call on us to speak out and speak up. We must show our solidarity with those of us who see our parents, our grandparents, and ourselves in the faces of those targeted by hate. Your words may not heal deep wounds, but they can validate the pain. They can push against the narrative we’ve heard time and again: “you don’t matter”; “that didn’t happen”; “you’re being too sensitive.” Let us bear witness to each other as full humans, not just professionals or colleagues, but as humans with distinct family histories and intersectional identities living in a complicated and fraught society. Let us speak out when we see injustice and harm perpetrated against others, especially those made vulnerable by systemic oppression, and let us call each other in to co-construct communities that act in solidarity with our shared humanity.

As mental health professionals, we honor the person-hood, suffering, and resilience of our patients. Let us do the same for each other and ourselves. Your statements of solidarity are appreciated, but they will not move us toward equity or inclusion. To do this, we must look within ourselves, within our institutions and our practices. This is what will also help sustain our pipelines of diverse students and colleagues. We must look for what is and is not being said. We must listen closely to the silence and we must fill that void with expressions of compassion, humility, and the voices of those straining to be heard.

Kimberly Hiroto, Ph.D., is a clinical geropsychologist who focuses on training and clinical practice in geropsychology, end-of-life care, and equity, diversity, and inclusion. She is also a member of the American Psychological Association (APA) Board for the Advancement of Psychology in the Public Interest. The views expressed in this post are reflective of Dr. Hiroto and do not express the views of BAPPI or APA. This post is an edited version of an essay Dr. Hiroto wrote for the Society of Clinical Geropsychology newsletter.