A lot of thought goes into being Asian-American these days. For me, this starts with a somewhat frenzied search for identity. Even before the Atlanta shootings on March 16, I was struggling with an identity crisis. I have had multiple identities – swimmer, writer, journalist, daughter, sister, single person, woman who identifies with the pronouns she/her/hers. I am an ABC, an American-born Chinese, and the daughter of first-generation immigrants. That said, for the first time in my life, I have found myself scrutinising the shades of what could be discrimination, bias or ignorance. Daily existence is now viewed through the lens of race/ethnicity, something completely foreign to me. At the swimming pool, my ritual of greeting fellow swimmers with “good morning” elicited a “konnichiwa” from a woman. Before I could correct her, she disappeared. It seemed somewhat comical and yet it lingered a bit, an unappealing aftertaste. “How do you say hello in Chinese?” a friend asked. “ Ni hao ,” I said. “It sounds like ‘yee haw’, what they say in Texas when they are drunk,” my friend joked. “It’s ni hao ,” I said, matter of fact. “Yee haw, yee haw,” they laughed. “Stop it,” I said, stunned at my anger. I have become hypersensitive. Bold headlines are etched in my mind. “There were 3,800 anti-Asian racist incidents, mostly against women, over the past year”, said one, quoting the Stop AAPI Hate National Report released last month on attitudes towards Asian-Americans and Pacific Islanders. Anti-Asian crime is surging and in large part sparked by the pandemic, according to a UN report last year. A study published by the American Journal of Public Health suggested that Donald Trump’s “China virus” tweets played a significant part in anti-Asian tweets and was likely to have perpetuated racist attitudes. Recent events and headlines seem surreal when I have been relatively shielded from discrimination and bias. Yet the negative events, including the recent surge of shootings across the US, are affecting my decisions. For many Asian-Americans, the implications of discrimination and violence have affected freedoms, including travel, where one studies and lives, and whom one befriends. I once considered taking a solo road trip across the country. I once imagined visiting more rural places, maybe Arkansas or Alaska. Once, I was comfortable walking alone in a park at dusk in the city. I no longer am. Being Asian-American and a woman feels vulnerable and a bit like living in a bell jar. On my Facebook newsfeed, I have seen Asian-Americans with dual citizenship consider uprooting to move to Taiwan or Singapore so they and their children can be closer to their cultural roots and avoid discrimination. Others with university-age children are reconsidering where they should attend. My father, who has worked and lived in the US since his early 20s, gives my sister and me fresh bits of advice: “If someone honks at you, don’t honk back ... I think New York and California are the only two places for Asians.” Where we can avoid it, don’t say our last name, since “Wu” sounds similar to “Wuhan”, the Chinese city where the first Covid-19 infections were reported. There is an added level of anxiety when it comes to my parents, now in their 70s. With more folks being vaccinated and businesses reopening, they are starting to go out again. Should they? It’s a consideration. The flipside of the immense negativity is that corporate America and organisations both public and private are placing greater emphasis on diversity and inclusion. Human-resource managers are on alert to recruit more people of colour, especially women. Diversity committees are springing up. In many ways, it is a good time to be an Asian woman. While I have never wanted to play the racecard, I could if I wanted to (although I do not). Current events have also created a good chance to share more of my experience of being Chinese-American. They have given me a window to connect with colleagues I would never have discussed such prickly topics with. After the Atlanta shootings, I found myself asking colleagues whether we could hold a discussion about it or have a moment of silence for the victims. I was not sure how this would look but I was proud I brought it up. Unlike our parents’ generation, Asian-Americans of my vintage and younger needed to speak up. The discussion that transpired ended with each of us committing to something further. I committed to continuing the dialogue. May is Asian-American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month. I find myself marking it by signing up for a noodle-making class, and at work, creating a resource toolkit that includes references to Asian contributions to the United States and films that depict the Asian-American experience, such as the Oscar-nominated Minari . Things are looking brighter. Maybe it is the season. Spring is here, the daffodils are out and the percentage of Americans being vaccinated is rising. While people are rightfully cautious, they are travelling again. The US Senate is voting on the Covid-19 Hate Crimes Act, designed to expedite the review of hate crimes connected with the pandemic. All things to celebrate even as one considers how to straddle the realities of bias and discrimination. I am hopeful there will come a day when there is little to consider. Amy Wu is an award-winning journalist based in New York who has worked in California and Hong Kong