In Response to Microaggressions
by Alan Guo (PO ‘23)
It’s not our responsibility to make our microaggressors regret their wrongs — that should lie on the microaggressors themselves. But it is our choice to empathize, understand, and forgive.
Growing up as a Chinese-American in Midwest Ohio suburbia, I’m no stranger to outright racism.
From being called ‘dog-eater’ and ‘communist’ to being told to “go back to where you came from” by neighbors down the street, I’ve experienced this unabashed hatred firsthand within the community I call home. However, these occurrences personally don’t bother me much anymore — I’ve come to accept that while there are plenty of overtly racist people, they are certainly not the majority. I’ve learned to laugh these isolated incidents off, and to keep moving along.
On the other hand, my experience with microaggressions has been quite the opposite. I wasn’t even sure what exactly a microaggression was until this summer, when I completed training for my role as a mentor in Pomona’s Asian American Mentorship Program (AAMP). With my newfound knowledge of microaggressions came the acute awareness that discrimination, beyond crude slurs and hateful remarks, is oftentimes masked under everyday statements and questions. Contrary to what I had believed before, I realized that prejudice is everywhere, from our daily interactions with each other to the systems built around us. It came with the realization that microaggressors are a majority.
It was this aspect of microaggressions — that they are insidiously widespread — that made them so aggravating. From hearing things like “Where are you really from?”, “Your English is really good!”, and “What religion do your people follow?” to being treated like a second-class citizen due to my race, I just couldn’t brush off these microaggressions so easily. I had come to believe that, through these microaggressions, nearly everybody around me occupying these positions of power discriminated against me. I was determined to be hyper-aware of microaggressions within every interaction, searching for this evil in everyone around me.
These thoughts and emotions came to a head when I received the response to an email I had sent to my younger brother’s science teacher. While helping my brother with his homework, I wrote an email to his teacher asking for clarification on some questions.
Upon reading her response, I was immediately put off — she had misspelled both my name and my brother’s name throughout the reply. I was outraged — how could she deny me the ounce of respect required to spell my name correctly? By failing to reach this basic level of respect, I felt dehumanized.
Perhaps this incident was the straw that broke the camel’s back, the metaphorical match for my newfound worldview that reeked of gasoline. I found myself conflicted — filled with an overwhelming, wrathful anger, mixed in with thoughts of brushing the incident off as an ‘honest accident’ and ‘letting it go’ as I had so often done (and had been taught to do) in the past.
AAMP training had shown me how to identify microaggressions, but it didn’t show me how to respond to them. I didn’t want to passively enable these incidents by remaining quiet, but the anger and outrage characterizing today’s ‘cancel culture’ didn’t feel right either. This conflict led me to ask,
“How should I approach microaggressions, especially as an Asian-American Christian?”
Deeply troubled, I confided in a good friend and mentor about my dilemma. In response, she asked me this question:
“How do YOU, as someone who occupies positions of privilege, experience accountability and openness for those whom you accidentally microaggress?”
I hate to admit it, but that moment was the first time I truly, deeply reflected on times when I myself had committed microaggressions — times when I was not the victim, but the perpetrator. Just as how I had realized that many microaggressions were unknowingly committed against me, the many microaggressions I had unknowingly committed against others dawned on me.
When I had microaggressed others, it wasn’t out of malice, spite, or malicious intent; it was from genuine mistakes borne out of the positions of privilege I was raised in. And the times I learn the most from these mistakes are when I’m taught with kindness and respect — not when I’m vindictively shamed and judged.
These realizations led me to reflect on the anger I felt towards my brother’s science teacher. What purpose was my anger meant to achieve? Would a furious email detailing how her misspellings made me feel dehumanized and discriminated against help her see the error of her ways? Was my fury truly directed towards an earnest effort to correct her wrongs, or was it seeking a scapegoat to pin my resentment on?
I realized that in my anger, I had judged this middle-school teacher, a woman whom I had never met in my life, to be a patronizing racist — when she was probably just like me, someone unaware of the microaggressions she committed.
I realized that even my knowledge of microaggressions was a privilege of sorts — I realized just how fortunate I am to have learned about these injustices so I can better myself. Not everyone has the same opportunity to learn about these everyday hidden transgressions; many are unaware of their microaggressions because they simply don’t know what a microaggression is. It’s not our responsibility to make our microaggressors regret their wrongs — that should lie on the microaggressors themselves. But it is our choice to empathize, understand, and forgive.
I’m not saying that anger stemming from microaggressions is unjustified, or that we should passively excuse our microaggressors. Microaggressions are wrong, and there is no excusing the hurt and the damage that they cause.
What I am saying, however, is that we should be careful with how we direct our anger. In my experience, people are not normally seeking to offend when they commit microaggressions — they are simply unaware of the privilege they occupy. Thus, if we seek to correct these injustices, it would be more effective to direct our energy at the root of the problem — the society and structures in place that cause these offenses to happen — rather than the people themselves.
Say a child celebrates Christopher Columbus on October 12th. Would we immediately vilify them for memorializing a racist and colonizer, for not knowing better? I’d hope not — I’d imagine that we would instead patiently teach this child how that action can be hurtful, so they can learn and grow from the experience. I believe our response towards our unintentional microaggressors should be the same. Our instinct should be to actively open up discussion, to gently educate them with grace and respect — so they can grow and learn from their mistakes, so that we can all progress together.
But what if my offender knowingly commits these transgressions against me? What if they are fully, intentionally aware of the pain, hurt, and division their words sow?
My answer remains the same: even in the face of my deliberate transgressors, I should still aim to treat them with grace, love, and forgiveness — a feat that is admittedly easier said than done.
As a Christian, I say this by considering the transgressions I’ve committed against God. I know with certainty that as a human, I am not perfect — in fact, I’m far from it. In my relationship with God, among many other transgressions, I knowingly curse (Ephesians 5:4), use His name in vain (Exodus 20:7), covet (1 Timothy 6:6–10, Luke 12:15), feel hatred towards a fellow brother or sister (1 John 3:15) — all of which causes Him great grief and sorrow (Ephesians 4:30). However, despite this, despite how much I knowingly choose to hurt God through my actions, He did not forsake me or cut me off. Instead, God willingly chose to forgive me and allow me to atone and grow from every sin I commit, every mistake I inevitably stumble into. Despite my infinite transgressions against Him, God continues to grant me grace, love, and forgiveness (Hebrews 8:12, Daniel 9:9, 1 John 1:9) — this forgiveness is a gift that I both do not deserve and am eternally grateful for.
Through His love and forgiveness, He gives us the chance to learn, to grow, to change — He gives all of us the opportunity of redemption. (Ephesians 1:7, Colossians 1:14).
So then, if God continues to forgive me, why should I refuse to love and forgive those who commit transgressions against me? If God can forgive even the most despicable of sinners, if God can forgive me, who am I to cut off or hold a grudge against those who have hurt me? If God believes that we can all change for the better, who am I to doubt Him?
Furthermore, the Bible tells me that we are more than our mistakes. Take Paul, the founder of the early church and author of many biblical books that reflect great truth about the character of God. In his life, Paul was far from perfect: he fervently persecuted Christians and notoriously stood by as a righteous man was stoned to death (Acts 8:1). In spite of this, God didn’t forsake Paul — He did the opposite. Changing from our past wrongs, our past lives, is a process that takes time. I call on us to forgive one another, to see beyond our past shortcomings and failings, to give each other a chance for redemption — the same chance that God gave to Paul, and to all of us.
To clarify, when I say ‘forgive’, I’m not claiming that our response to those who harm us should be meek and passive. It’s never wrong to directly confront those who commit transgressions against us on the wrongs that they have committed. Even Jesus angrily confronted his transgressors (Matthew 21:12–17, Matthew 23:1–4, Matthew 23:33, John 2:13–22), and in the Bible, we are called to rebuke our brothers and sisters, should they sin against us (Luke 17:3). What I am saying, however, is the second part of Luke 17:3 — “…and if they repent, forgive them.” Let’s give each other the space to grow and learn from our mistakes, and let’s not hold our past transgressions against each other.
I’m also not saying that we must always be perfect in loving those that hate us, that we must flawlessly forgive each and every transaggressor we face with open arms. I by no means am capable of such a feat, and I don’t expect anyone else to be either. The beauty of my faith is knowing that no matter how hard we try, we can never be perfect. But despite our imperfections, God still loves all of us and forgives our failures — through following God’s example, we can constantly grow from our mistakes and improve ourselves day by day.
And while I am an Asian American Christian, I believe this response of forgiveness is in the best interest of everyone. I say this because in times of polarization like today, where neither side is willing to communicate with each other, it’s easy to lose sight of why people hold their differing beliefs. It’s easy to forget that everybody’s experiences are valid — even those across the aisle. We can’t put out a fire by pouring gasoline. Cancelling and shaming one another will only further divide us. Reaching across the aisle, unifying what is separate, is a process that must include everyone — especially our microaggressors. To build this dialogue across the aisle, we need to invite discussion, to listen to the other side — and this begins with empathy and forgiveness towards those who have wronged us.
When faced with a microaggression, we must remind ourselves: what are we trying to accomplish in our response? Is it to simply give ourselves a fleeting sense of self-righteousness, of superiority in that moment, or is it to teach another person their wrongs, to lead them in the right direction? Are we reacting out of a hatred for one another, or out of a wish to learn from each other and grow together? I call on us to rise above this cycle of hate, and remind ourselves of the innate beauty that is our ability to grow from our shortcomings. I call us on to forgive, to listen, and to respond to each other with love, kindness, and grace.
