My mother is the Asian-est of all Asian women. She is short. She is loud. She has an opinion about everything. She cooks in an apron, keeps the apron on when she eats and refuses to sit down until every dish is clean, and every scrap of food is put away. She pushes fruit into my hands, pulls out ferreted-away portions of almonds or granola bars, tells me to eat. She steals lemons from strangers’ trees. 

She is not submissive. She is not easily contained. She has opinions, thoughts and feelings that you will hear regardless of your desire to do so. She commands a cadre of international students at her job, being the mother they left behind, feeding them, housing them, offering brusque advice in rapid-fire Mandarin. She charges her way through life, headstrong, determined, unafraid of anything or anyone.

My understanding of being an Asian woman comes from this — and that’s why this makes me so angry.