Here we celebrate viewpoints from traditionally disenfranchised communities.

Marginalized Voices: Part Two

A wrought-iron gate surrounded the entrance to the neighborhood. As kids, we’d easily sneak under it and venture out into the abandoned factories, relics of communist China. The gate served a more symbolic purpose: Where would we really go? What was there to escape to, beyond an urban graveyard? I was 2 when my family moved from Virginia to Langfang, which was then a small city on the outskirts of Beijing.

Mom found Christianity as a teenager in Los Angeles. Her parents were addicts and criminals, so she sought refuge in anything that would take her away from the dysfunction of her childhood. My dad, coming from a middle-class family in Washington, was a student at UCLA when he met my mom at her church. He was a fundamentalist, avowed Reaganist and, in his words, a warrior for Christ. My mom adopted his fundamentalism as their relationship progressed—not so much out of her own personal inclinations but as a supplemented desire for stability and regiment.

After finishing his undergraduate degree, the two moved to Virginia where he was pursuing his dreams of being a lawyer at an unranked Christian law school. It was there that they had my siblings and me. My dad tried his hand at law but never succeeded and suddenly found himself with four kids, student loans and no direction. Then, on a particularly innocuous church service one Sunday morning, he found an escape route from the incessant houndings of loan collectors.

Our Trip Abroad Turned Into a State of Religious Zealotry and Fear

The mission trip was only supposed to last three months. He’d travel around rural China sharing the “good word.” As the end of the trip approached, he began to understand there was nothing left for him in the States—no glory, no adoration. All that awaited was an ocean of crushing debts. During his time there, my dad connected with a network of missionaries who ran orphanages in Langfang.

I was 2 when the rest of us moved to China to join him. There were five families, each with their own orphanage. Nearly all the homes in our residential complex were empty. It was designed in the early 2000s to mimic American suburbia, and the developers hoped to attract wealthy expats. The houses were strange, the architecture idiosyncratic—staircases leading to nowhere, cabinets that didn’t open, plastic mirrors, exposed plumbing, faux chimneys, bathrooms with no toilets and empty indoor pools. Wild ivy swiftly claimed the unoccupied homes, crawling into the shattered windows. When we were young, my brothers and I would dare each other to sneak into the empty units. Silence covered the interiors like dust, insulating the houses from the cicadas outside.

The other families were all missionaries and all harbored their own secret failures that they’d rather leave behind, along with their lives in America. Each family, in some shape, was running from something; each family was an outcast. The men in the States were overlooked as oafish zealots—but in China, they were saviors and saints and warriors for Christ. Fanaticism infiltrated every aspect of our lives, at every scale. In a gated community in rural China, they were able to censor us children from things deemed ungodly—things like Halloween, television, non-Christians, the sites and sounds of the world outside those wrought iron gates.

The community was upheld by a currency of fear. The men, acutely aware of the fragility of their egos and the dissonance between their status in the States versus China, used violence to subjugate the commune to their will. Wives were beaten. Children were beaten. Chinese help was berated. Experts in the art of gaslighting, they never failed to find a Bible verse to justify their actions.

We Escaped My Father’s Violence and Abandoned Christianity

There was a hierarchy of social classes, with the patriarchs at the top governing the wives who would rear their own children. At the bottom were the Chinese—the nannies, the help and the orphans. None of the men were qualified, and each claimed to have been led by a calling, some higher power that deemed them worthy enough to be contacted by God himself. All their stories centered their own grandeur paraded as God’s.

The men would return to the States for sermon tours at churches across America, raking in donations, telling poor Americans that they, too, could take part in the salvation of poor Chinese. During the sermons, the men were heralded, their egos pampered in compensation for their lack of adoration before moving to China.

When I was 11, my mother finally divorced my father. Together, we escaped his violence and moved back to America. In California, where we lived, I was exposed to a vastly different world of rich flavors and stimuli. Eventually, I would abandon Christianity and its dogma of colonial violence. I ran in the opposite direction of everything I was subjugated to in China. I moved to New York, embraced my queerness and became a model.

During this period, by some freak coincidence, my agent discovered Rebecca, a girl whose family were our neighbors back in Langfang. She also moved to New York and rejected her father’s indoctrination. Reconnecting through our mutual agent, we made plans to have dinner together. I took the A train to meet her in Brooklyn. We dined at a trendy vegan restaurant, drank negronis and recollected on the bizarre nature of our upbringing, in an environment diametrically opposed to it.

I will never fully compartmentalize my childhood and the ways religious violence had infiltrated my psyche. But sitting at that restaurant was the closest thing to a full circle moment I’d had found so far. Together, we expressed exasperation about the peculiarities of life in the commune and all its specific traumas. But we also found solidarity in each other. Awareness that we were not alone—that we escaped together.

My father moved our family to rural China, and his fanaticism for Christ infiltrated our entire way of life.

I Grew Up in a Cult-Adjacent Missionary Commune in China

Most people get massages to relax, but as the daughter of a masseuse, massages have the opposite effect on me.

I realize just how confusing that might be. I spent 15 years helping my mother run her massage parlor, including spa, massage and nail services. There is a major difference between living as a masseuse’s daughter and working as her makeshift receptionist. I try to think about the perspective of the customer: whether they find my enthusiasm charming, if they leave a tip after or if I spend the whole time quiet enough so the sounds of Zen music fill the air.

My mother, a Chinese immigrant, and I do our best to create packages for tourists that are cheap ($20 for manicures) and relaxing (add an optional hot stone massage to the pedicure). Sometimes, the customers come in for something to alleviate their muscle aches; other times, they request sexual services we don’t offer. I’ve never really understood how to reject a customer’s message request for sex, so I ignore most messages on our parlor’s social media accounts.

Because of my background, I want to respect the massage industry. I grew up near Asia, where, as far back as my memory goes, my family devoted their lives to owning a massage parlor.

Growing up in the massage industry, I was already used to a world of discrimination and ridicule, like strange looks and stares when people hear that my mother works as a masseuse.

Massage Parlors Aren’t What You Imagine

The massage parlor, with its heavy curtains and an eerie silence, seems to evoke fantasies of underground dark activities. Classmates sometimes ask me questions about the business, but I change the subject to talk about anything other than the topic that’s consumed me for over a decade. For a long time, I answered to no one except customers interested in massage or spa services.

The massage business is intense and money-driven. Masseuses—many of them immigrants looking to make as much money as possible in the shortest amount of time—are driven to upsell their clients. A one-hour body massage can turn into a 90-minute service for a few more bucks.

But to presume all masseuse workers contribute to an illegal sex industry is utterly and disgustingly wrong. I’ll hear my friends who tell me massage parlors are shady, not knowing that immigrant mothers and daughters toil long hours in these places so their kids and family can sit in an office. Even the most relaxed person gets tired of relaxing others, never mind women of older age who lack the English skills necessary to communicate their pain. No 50-year-old immigrant mother, if given the chance, would want to stand for an hour massaging another person. I’ll hear about masseuses who offer prostitution services. If someone wants to provide such illegal services, that’s not my place to judge, but how many of them do it by choice and not circumstances?

What does it mean to grow up as the daughter of a masseuse? When I worked as a journalist during COVID, I started to share my opinions about the shootings that took the lives of eight people in Atlanta massage parlors. My parents, overlooked as immigrants their entire lives, struggle to understand a 21-year-old white man’s sex addiction and a temptation that he wanted to eliminate. But they granted me, their daughter, the gift of an English-language education. As I mend their words and thread their stories, I think about the female victims and their ties to race, class and gender. These women have families at home and abroad; they have stories they want to share. People assume the children of immigrant masseuses will be defenseless against their cruel words. As a journalist, I prove them otherwise. 

My Feelings About the Massage Business Are Complicated

I receive raised eyebrows whenever I tell people my mother is a masseuse. Friends ask me if she offers happy endings. Despite working as a journalist, I struggled to put into words the stories of my mother, other masseuses and their shared experiences. To tell narratives about a story so personal to me was, in hindsight, work that involved overcoming my own shame.

Most people respect my stories about massages, I think. After releasing an opinion piece on the Atlanta spa killings, I received an outpouring of heartwarming messages. Friends, family and even teachers I haven’t heard from in years reached out to comfort me. Emails filled my inboxes with gratitude, and despite the occasional toxic email, I heard again and again that I was lucky to have made it. One person, in particular, had written to me about his desire to speak for the Asian community but worried that he lacked the language or confidence.

Whenever I pass by a massage parlor, I feel a mix of anxiety and intrigue, hoping the signs will offer me solace and reminders of home. But I am a student, too, and I am aware of the skepticism that comes with reporting on masseuses. As the daughter of a masseuse, I worry about the biases of speaking about the massage industry. I wrestle with telling an objective story and the sympathy I wished that the media would grant to my own family. Where in this journalistic world do I belong? What’s right, what’s wrong and how do I find my place in the Asian American community? These are questions that will continue to bother me every time I hear someone speak of the massage industry.

The massage industry isn’t as dark as people presume. Masseuses are people, most of them women, with parents and children and partners and loved ones. They have names and meaning and purpose and hope. They work in the massage industry because parlors provide them with not only opportunity but also a sense of unity and comfort otherwise lacking in English-dominated workforces. 

I’m Giving a Voice to Immigrant Masseuses

Now that I’m grown up, I feel a responsibility to defend those without a voice, especially masseuses whose native language is not English. For instance, the ongoing accusations against football player Deshaun Watson represent the voices of 24 women who sued him for sexual misconduct during massage appointments. In a different state and at a different time, these women could have been my mother—their voices forever silenced because they lacked the wealth and power of a National Football League quarterback. Though the NFL announced the suspension of Watson for 11 games and a record $5 million fine, he leveraged his status against women. To imagine his tall frame in small rooms, against intimidated women, frightens the rest of the massage industry and me.

The short answer to the question of what it’s like to grow up the daughter of a masseuse is, “I’m not sure.” One of the main reasons I rarely broach the topic is that I can’t stand the influx of questions that follow. It is both an honor and a burden to avoid a conversation about the massage industry. If the massage industry is riddled with mystery, my answers drift to other matters: Why was I born to a masseuse? Why do my parents not speak English? Why must this industry be filled with judgment?

Such sentiments resurface each time a person asks me a question. But once I’m alone with my thoughts, reflecting on the power of masseuses, a switch turns on. I feel worried and confused, but I experience an exciting thrill in challenging what’s rarely been challenged. In that sense, I expect, I’m coming to terms with my identity as the daughter of a masseuse and helping uncover an industry rarely discussed with positivity.

This is the massage industry, after all. Thousands of masseuses across the country and I are in this together. The people behind the curtains need receptionists behind the counters as much as clients need therapists. And I’m being allowed to join, with pride and childhood memories, in this fraught but necessary conversion about a bustling industry. I’m being asked to provide inconclusive answers.

This means that I am extra aware of all the moving parts that make up the conversation about masseuses and that a part of me will always fear how the narrative spins. While this might suggest a withdrawal from all dialogue related to masseuses, I find that it’s a wary but optimistic approach that makes me more confident, more connected, more aware.

The next time a person asks me about the massage industry, I hope to be equally enlightening and respectful, educating but listening. I’ll be there as a critic, a defender and a proud daughter of my mother—an immigrant masseuse.

Deshaun Watson. The Atlanta shootings. Americans misunderstand what my mother's work is all about.

I’m the Child of an Immigrant Masseuse

Born in Mexico City, my mother and I made the same trek as my ancestors before us, long before borders and certainly before conquistadors tried ripping my indigenous roots from the earth through rape, enslavement and germs. Somehow, I'm still here. We survived. We made it.

I was 6 when my mother and I crossed a desert that's taken many uncounted lives of people like me trying to get to a country that would hate us, that would tell us to come the “right way” while creating prisons and entities to detain, separate and kill us. There is no pathway. Oh America, I've never taken a well-beaten path in my life. I've been making my own way since my little feet ran, ached and bled to get here.

It took seven days to cross, three of them without water. The only food we had was powdered doughnuts. Try choking that down when your mouth's as dry as the desert around you. Lips too dry and cracked to part. My mother did what she thought it took to give me the best opportunities in life. It would all be worth it in the end, so we had to risk our lives for the shot. 

I Was a Latchkey Kid as My Single Immigrant Mother Worked Multiple Jobs

We got to the United States, and my mother got to work immediately, taking multiple jobs, always rolling with the punches and figuring it out when employers refused to pay her earned wages. I learned later how common that is for us. I went to school and loved it. I took care of myself when I got home until my mom got home from work, whatever time that was. I usually saw her some mornings or on the weekends if she didn’t work or go out at night. It was just us, a young woman and her daughter, always trying to make it. Everyone around us was on the same hustle, just trying to make ends meet. My mom did whatever it took to keep the roof over my head, no matter who knocked her or looked down on her choices. She was a single mother doing the damn thing all alone.

I got a job when I was 15. It was then I started saving because I was going to college—I always knew it. Everyone around me told me I would never be able to do anything with my degree; there was no point in school for someone like me. I didn't listen. I respected my mother and her sacrifices, and I was going to fight for my dreams. I went to the community college near me and got my associate's degree. That was my first taste, and I loved it. All the while, I looked for a way to apply for citizenship. There wasn't one. Not without going back, paying thousands and waiting a decade while you wish on a star. I wasn't about to undo my mother's work, and take my life in reverse. The very life she risked so we could get here.

I continued on my path, applying to the state college knowing I'd never be eligible for any scholarships. I saved every penny I made working my job and paid $8,000 every quarter, cash. I did it; I got my bachelor's degree, graduating summa cum laude. My mother was there. All two of my best friends cheered and celebrated my victories. They were now young mothers with their babies in tow—baby Isaiah also cheered me on. They always said I could; they always believed in me. I was offered many jobs that I turned down because they were not paying my worth. I had my damn bachelor's, graduated with honors: They were going to pay me. I tried to apply for my citizenship, astounded at the difficulties. I was denied again. 

Here I was, still being told there was no path for me. In sixth grade, a girl in my class called me a “beaner.” I was angry. My friend was angry—it was on. My friend took me to the bathroom and showed me how to fight, then told me I'd have to run it one-on-one. Like many times before in my young life, I’d have to do it alone. I whooped her ass.

Those words that embarrassed me and enraged me caused a reaction that would cost me dearly. The police were called because someone filmed it. I was handcuffed. I was a kid, only 12. I was not American enough. For whoever gets to decide that, fuck you. America told me I ruined my chance of ever being a citizen when I was 12.

As an Immigrant, Nothing Is Handed to You and Everything Is Earned

I went back to school to get my master's degree, graduating magna cum laude. My friends cheered me on with their kids in tow again. My mother celebrated. Baby Isaiah was now 3, cheering loud like his mother. Meanwhile, I was still hunting for this pathway to citizenship all these white folks around me always talk about. I was offered many jobs from firms, none enticing enough. I finally accepted an offer from a firm that I thought the salary was fair (ish). I got a work visa two weeks before starting at the firm; that's the only thing I could get.

I work at a tax firm. My co-workers are all white, and I found out they were very Republican and conservative, unsurprisingly. I'm the diversity around here. During the Trump era, they all told me their stance on immigration policies, the DREAM Act, affirmative action and anchor babies.

I’ve worked my ass off on multiple projects in different departments because I love my job and I'm damn good too. I’m still paid less than my white counterparts and the men around here. I work on twice as many projects as anyone in my firm. I no longer live in poverty. I don't have any wealth to pass on to my future kids yet because my mother gave me this opportunity, gave me what she could, what she had. I have to save because she never had a 401(k) or retirement plan. There was never anything to save; we often went without. I was the plan. So I've got her.

I'm excellent with numbers. I run accounts for the major cell phone companies you get your phones from; it's probably how you're reading this. I run accounts for companies you buy from on the regular. I'll be working on international accounts next quarter. When it's time for me to buy a house, I'll be doing it myself. All my white co-workers had their schooling paid for with a college fund that's been there for them since birth, and their parents are handing them down payments for their first home and gifting $100,000 for weddings.

I've been to two weddings. You see, even when we make it, we don't make it. But that's another story.

My Mexican Roots Are Ingrained in the Americas

During the Trump era, I had to refill my work visa, and they asked about my mother, so I couldn't. I didn't. I work here still with an expired visa that I hope they don't check on. I've made my own path. I've broken ceilings. My little feet ran, and I was tired. My mother worked multiple jobs and hustled, yet we were poor. When I crossed, we huddled together. Why then, America, do you deny me? I’m still here.

I'm from the fifth most populated city in the world. My ancestors built the oldest city on the American continents and did it on water. The world travels to Mexico City for our cuisine, museums and culture. We are home to the oldest university on the American continent—yes, surprise United States, it's not Harvard. You're not the only America; these are the Americas, making me American as fuck.

For now, you have me at a stalemate. I'll sip my Starbucks and be reminded of my resilient blood pumping through my veins as I watch a monarch land next to me at the end of my morning run. He will travel on to my city. I can't go back yet to enjoy the beautiful secrets my Aztec ancestors have hidden in my city, but I've come this far. I've dug deep inside myself and pulled out all my creativity, out of necessity. Where there is no pathway, I will make one, like my mother before me.

America, my roots are so deep in this land, you can never tell me I don't belong. I'm here.

Once you've made it to the United States from Mexico, you haven't really made it.