Anxiety, depression and all
Cal in Color

I wondered how the call with my parents, who quietly offer more support than I could ask for, caused more stress than calls from UHS and friends combined.
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I wondered how the call with my parents, who quietly offer more support than I could ask for, caused more stress than calls from UHS and friends combined.
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I quickly grew to resent my Chinese side. I hated my monolid eyes, my parents’ accented words, my mother’s ethnic dishes and anything else in between.
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From a young age, I was afraid of being expressive and taking up space. I learned to make myself smaller and quieter so white people would feel comfortable.
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Obviously, I knew that I was Brown. But in their attempts to make me feel included, my Ukrainian family made me feel even more othered.
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There’s an initial pinprick of fear that makes me wonder whether knowing that I transferred from a community college would make people see me differently.
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For some immigrants and BIPOC like me, being expressive with our identities can be more challenging than it is for white, non-immigrant people.
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She’d assumed I was a cleaning lady rather than a kid doing a chore for her parents. I wondered if she would have assumed the same had I been white-passing.
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As a biracial, multicultural immigrant, I am always drifting across these lines, not quite belonging on either side, perpetually gliding over boundaries.
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Skin color is deterministic in our society. Though we walk side by side, my white family and I walk through different worlds.
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Being a BIPOC who had a traditionally white upbringing, I come from an odd position: I am both racially privileged and not privileged.
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