Abstract
This autoethnography reflects the author’s devastation and recovery after being victimized by a stranger amid a surge of racist and anti-Asian attacks during the pandemic. Triggers and images impact her mental health which highlights her need for professional trauma therapy. During healing, she discovers how leaching images and triggers can spark fear and anxiety. The author lives the irony of both a culture of campaigns against anti-Asian racism and a culture of violence targeting Asians. Overall, the autoethnography provides a deeper sense of the social and cultural issues involved in the post-traumatic effects of anti-Asian racist incidents.
Keywords
“Fuckin,’ bitch!,” he yells. Removing his mask, he spits on my car window and smears the spit in circles with his hand. “Fuckin’ bitch!”
Who are you?
“Fuckin’ bitch.”
I don’t know you.
Both hands pound my car.
Stop, stop!
Both hands shake my car.
Will you stop?
One hand removes his mask.
Help. What the fuck?
Spits on window.
Stop pounding. Stop it, you animal!
Smears spit on window.
Pounding.
“Fuckin,’ bitch.”
Like a movie, I recall the incident in freeze-frame mode. Reality suspended, I’m in a dystopian flick with a psycho on the loose. Finally, the red traffic light turns green and I accelerate. After a few blocks, I pull over to a safer space; don’t drive when shaking. I turn off the ignition to decompress, to process, but am overwhelmed when everything returns; circuit breakers broken. I hold back the tears. What just happened?
I had just finished a teacher evaluation at an elementary school and about to shop for a birthday present. But now, I can’t drive and can’t breathe. My heart races as the vision of his hostile face and pounding fists return. He was a well-dressed white man in his late 30s–yelling at the top of his lungs. At me!
But the incident loops endlessly. At the intersection, a male shadow runs up to my car and pounds his fists on my car. Pounds and pounds, both hands then shake my car, up and down and up and down. Then calls me a name, pulls off his mask, and spits with a loud swoosh. Spreads the oyster for good measure on the window. Then pound and pummel, repeats the vicious name calling.
Time seems frozen, just like the red light. Forever, I had wished for a green light, but only turns green after he runs away. Slowly, I breathe, the deepest breath I can manage. Chanting, I will be fine, will be fine.
The therapist’s voice instructs, “On a scale of zero to ten, where zero is no disturbance or neutral and ten is the highest disturbance you can imagine, how disturbing does it feel?” “Ten,” I respond. “Okay, go with that,” she says.
Rapidly, my eyes follow the blue dot going back and forth on the screen. Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) sessions are considered an effective trauma treatment. I was asked to record beliefs, triggers, images, emotions, or sensations I experience between sessions. The blue dot goes back and forth at moderate speed, left and right, then left and right. The therapy process provides bi-lateral stimulation back and forth and returns me to the scene.
Did I resemble a girlfriend who betrayed him? Is he a virulent misogynist? Does he hate all Asians? A huge screw-up on his part. Why me?
Such maniacal actions should have a consequence but culprits are rarely caught. No one physically hurt or murdered. A car wash will remove the spit but how to remove the rip in my sense of self, my cocoon of security?
A strong wave of revulsion sweeps through me as I lower my head to stretch the back of my neck. Hold one, two, three seconds and stretch for another three. Leaning my head forward, one, two, three. Take a deep breath, feel the diaphragm protrude. But my stomach churns with a tight feeling. Totally, disgusting streaks of whitish spit on the window! My mind escapes into the secret life of Walter Mitty. Hey,
As he shakes my car, the light turns green and I accelerate. Drag him along the street, faster, I accelerate and a thud against the wheels, clunk, clunk as I hit the brakes and skid with a screech. Are you trapped under my car? Like a fish on a hook with a barb. He wails. Awakened by this daydream, score one for the forces of Good vs. Evil, though I’ll have to check google for a chop shop.
The therapist interrupts my reverie, “When you think of the incident, how true do those words, I’m insignificant, feel to you now on a scale of one to seven, where one feels completely false and seven feels true.”
“Six,” I respond.
“Go with that.” The blue dot goes back and forth. The man’s abuse and disrespect made me feel insignificant. No respect, no acknowledgment of shared humanity. No nothing. Perfectly, his is face fits into the blue dot. I focus as my eyes blink and blink. My hands clench. I need to reprocess his facial image. Taking a deep breath, I focus on the blue dot, the blue dot. Irregular heartbeats and memories induce an out-of-body experience, a protective coating from the abuse.
Maybe a detox with extra spirulina could rid me of the toxicity and night terrors? I have been waking up to, “fuckin’ bitch,” ringing in my ears incessantly. I should have yelled back . . .so many things . . .
What’s the matter? Why the Why Why do you hate me?
The therapist guides me, “On a scale of zero to ten, where zero is no disturbance or neutral and ten is the highest disturbance you can imagine, how disturbing does it feel?” “Eight,” I respond. “What new thoughts come to mind?” “It made me feel unworthy.” “Okay, go with that.” The blue dot goes back and forth.
A slow-motion nightmare of his spit lands on my window with the bystanders agog at the bus stop. Irregular pound, pound, and shaking my car laced with profanity, tagging me a foreigner.
Me, born and raised in Canada, from parents born and raised in Canada, a foreigner? I had experienced other racial attacks before (Lee, 2008, 2021) but this is the first incident with spat. Luckily, he spat outside of the car window or I would have to worry about covid as well. Wish I had a Q-tip to preserve his DNA as evidence.
It’s a world of extremes where my doctorate allows me a career in higher education that I love while, become a victim of racist attacks by people who only see what’s on the outside. Maybe a forehead tattoo: “I’m just as Canadian as You, Moron!” would do the trick.
Passerbys know so little about me but doesn’t seem to matter. Other past racist assaults from elementary school to university level are triggered again. I take in more air to calm down; if I let that maniac destroy my mental health, he’s won.
“When you think of the incident, how true do those words, I’m unworthy, feel to you now on a scale of one to seven, where one feels completely false and seven feels true” “Five,” I respond. “Go with that,” the blue dot repeats left and right.
Okay, he’s sick. He didn’t look homeless but with extreme violence in his voice and deed makes me wonder if he was drugged up. I regret freezing instead of responding in like fashion. I could have raised my middle finger, kept it raised while my eyes pierced him. But that might have sent him completely off the edge. What is your name to engrave on your tombstone?
If only. . . If only I had the presence of mind to grab my phone to film him! “What comes up for you now?” The blue dot stops. “My hands clench again,” I say. “On a scale of zero to ten, where zero is no disturbance or neutral and ten is the highest disturbance you can imagine, how disturbing does it feel now?” “Five,” I respond. “Go with that.” The blue dot begins.
My chest releases with some relief but are my thoughts getting reprocessed? I count down, five, four, three, two, one, and tell the beast inside to remove the unprocessed negative thoughts. I want to strip off my t-shirt, soaked with sweat and put on a fresh linen top. Redress my bod-assert my former confident personality. Assume the identity I was before the incident. The white linen top is the nicest thing I have in my wardrobe and makes me feel happy.
And so I give myself a short lecture about letting go, resolve it was just horrible random craziness that happened. I was in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time, nothing personal.
“What would you like to believe about yourself, instead?” the therapist asks. “I can deal with it if it happens again,” I say. “Think about the original incident. Pretend you experience it now, and repeat these words, ‘I can deal with it if it happens again,” she says. The blue dot returns.
Maintaining a mental balance is a struggle, a chemical one: high stress mode releases cortisol and increases my heart rate and blood pressure. Imagine reliving it all again. Call it strategy or superstition but I prefer to disavow the possibility of a repeat performance. Was this a rehearsal?
Never thought I could be haunted by a moment in time. His short brown hair and brown eyes, something pink. Maybe tomorrow I will awake one step closer to evicting this maniac from my traumatized memory bank. One step closer to desensitizing. Self-talk says the psycho was someone with individual characteristics and opinions fueled by hatred. Has he not seen the rallies and campaigns to end racism and hate, #StopAsianHate? “I can deal with it if it happens again,” I repeat.
The therapist had suggested I use a secure container to put disturbing stuff in it like thoughts, images, sounds, smells, memories, and emotions. Thus, I will put my trigger words in a sealed Ziploc bag in the freezer with the unsafe words: pink, spit, bitch, Oakridge Mall.
“What comes up for you now?” The blue dot stops. “Really feel the cool air on my face,” I say. “On a scale of one to ten, where zero is no disturbance and ten is the highest disturbance, how disturbing does it feel to you now?” “Two,” I say.
Could I prove it was an anti-Asian hate crime? Or would the defense attorney chip away at my reactions to soften the anti-Asian edge to this act of violence? I had read a news article (Bloomberg, 2021) describing my city as the “Anti-Asian Hate Crime Capital of North America.” But in fairness, a well-respected journalist refuted the allegations in a later article (Vancouver Sun, 2021). The pandemic has no doubt exacerbated the depersonalization on the streets. Police seem to be puzzled at the rise of stranger assaults (The Province, 2022).
Throughout the province, one out of every two residents of Asian descent reports experiencing hate incidents and racial epithets. Many have been spat on. Story after story about victims, with an episode shown on a Canadian news television program. We hear of a professor asking for help with the yearly Asian Gold Day Ribbon campaign to stop anti-Asian hate. And another professor asked me to participate in her anti-racism research. Victims marshall their forces. More rallies are held with “#Stop Asian Hate, Stop Misogyny, End Racism!” slogans. But there is no cessation in attacks, punching, stranger assaults, and robbery, shoving on pavement, beatings, stabbings, subway slashing, a Chinese women set on fire, and attacks causing death. Is this the new normal? Really not a joking matter. How many breaths do I have left?
I want to be strong, not silent. Maniac, leave me alone and go away. Why’d you have to mess up my happy life? Were you a school bully who tormented others? Why do you hate Asians? According to police, spitting on someone is sufficient to lay a charge of assault. But spitting on a car? Nevertheless, the additional vitriol directed at me and physical rattling of my car should end in arrest. The criminal code states the “. . .willful promotion of hatred” is an indictable offense and liable for imprisonment or punishable by summary conviction. Blatantly, this was a promotion of hate in a public venue. But I can’t charge someone without evidence. I wonder if there were video cameras or witnesses but nothing, I have nothing.
I briefly toy with the idea of re-assembling his hateful face with an online IdentiKit, similar to a tool used by the police. But I prefer to drag his visage to the trash bin.
“What words go with the picture that expresses your negative irrational belief about yourself now?” “I should have done something,” I say. “Go with that.” The blue dot moves.
Back and forth out of this rattrap. Go away, leave me alone as you don’t know me, I don’t know you. I did not know either how such action could weigh on me. Bondage to the heaviness in my chest. I want it to go away and not get worse. But there are more Mitty distorted ideas about what I could have done with a gun. I pretend to point it at his face. A 38-caliber revolver, a gun I don’t know how to use. A bullet in every chamber, I would spin it, the click, click noise and smile at the barrel. A cold and dirty barrel pointed right at his mouth. Spin the cylinder again for click, click, click. Every chamber full as my thumb twitches and twitches and then boom.
“I did the best I could,” I had said in an earlier session. “What comes up for you now?” “I feel wounded.” “Go with that.” The blue dot begins.
Now, there is some calmness within me. Thick, womblike quiet with silence. Could almost see the word peaceful, along with the phrase, “He isn’t worth the agony.” From the moment it happened, I have been a maelstrom of volatility, up, down, and sideways. No wonder I am exhausted. Th truth is, his eyes scared the shit out of me. Unlike eyes I have ever seen before, no pity, no sadness, no humanity, just rage.
“On a scale of zero to ten, where zero is no disturbance and ten is the highest disturbance, how disturbing does it feel to you now?” “Two.” “Go with that.”
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
