Growing up in East San Jose, I remember those times when I was embarrassed to bring my mother to back-to-school nights because she didn’t speak English, how I felt the unfairness of caring for my schizophrenic father at the age of eight, and how I grew frustrated that my younger brother suffered from autism and seizures while there was nothing I could do. I didn’t see the need to be opened about the challenges I faced and this way, it all became normalized.
School and after school programs became my sanctuary. It was the part of my day where I left like I had full control over the outcomes. I knew that education was my only out of East San Jose and that despite the situations going on at home, I could live the “American dream” that many immigrant families wanted for their children. Though at times the dream seemed difficult to attain with the lack of support from home, teachers and local community members kept me hopeful. Fast forward after college and into the corporate world, I thought I hit the jackpot. I spent my hard-working money on fancy excursions and eating at five-star restaurants in all means to fit into a world that I worked so hard to be a part of. It was an uber ride that ended taking me into a different direction. The Uber driver and I were chatting about my job in data analytics and what that really means. As we arrived at my mother’s house, he was surprised to drop me off in East San Jose, where no one even heard of Uber. In that moment, my heart sunk. I tried to draw the map in my mind of how I would get my mother to understand how the concept of Uber works, knowing that I needed to explain how smartphones operated, how there’s this application in which you would contact someone random to pick you up. I felt the friction of my two worlds colliding and realizing I would never be able to be in one space without analyzing where my privileges lie. Experiences like the Uber ride showcase how the disparities of my education and my upbringing led me to become a “rare” case. I’ve since changed my title from Data Analyst to Ms. Ngo, a San Jose math teacher and coach. It’s been one of the most rewarding and challenging experiences of my life. There’s a deep connection I have with my students knowing their experience growing up in East San Jose, yet feeling a strong disconnect when my Latino students only see the privilege I have as an Asian woman. The past and the future share a complicated relationship; the better I understand my past, the more I can actively determine how it impacts my future. I will never be able to change the struggles my family faces nor will they go away. However, by connecting my experiences and my privileges as a first-generation, straight, educated, Asian-American woman, I can be in those conversations that open doors in education for folks like me, and bind together a circle of hope and equity. --Angie Ngo
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I have privilege. And that’s a large reason for why I’m here, in a couple of key ways.
That’s not to say I haven’t worked hard – with both of my parents born and bred in the Midwest, hard work and accountability were ingrained into my mind at a young age. When I fought with either one of my two brothers (or both at once), the punishment was swift – my dad would point to the ground and simply say “20,” and I would drop down and performed the requested push-ups. It didn’t matter the location – at home, at the grocery store, in the airport…he definitely got some dirty looks from other parents. The accountability extended beyond just myself though. At one point, when I was 14, my dad and I attended my 12-year-old brother’s basketball game, in which he played quite poorly. Not because of any mistakes, but rather a poor attitude – lots of pouting on the court, lack of hustle – all of that. We got back to the house, and the punishment was running laps around the yard. Not for my brother, though. My dad turned to me and told me that as his older brother, his attitude was so heavily impacted by my influence. So I jogged, and my brother, though not ordered to, jogged beside me. My dad once told us a story; I forget the specifics, but somehow involved one brother carrying another for miles (maybe in the snow?), and someone asked “isn’t your brother heavy?” The carrier responded, “he’s not heavy, he’s my brother.” “He’s not heavy, he’s my brother” – I’ve heard that phrase thousands of time now, and though the surrounding story has faded from my mind, the lesson hasn’t. Hard work without passion for what you’re doing though is worthless, and my mom taught me about that. My parents met in business school, both incredibly successful in their own ways. After taking time off to have me and my brothers, and realizing how much she loved kids, she took night classes at a local college to get her teaching degree, and subsequently taught elementary school students for the next 30 years. With an MBA and a teaching credential, she often received offers to move into more senior roles – multiple times being solicited to lead the elementary school, but every time turned them down. I remember asking her about it when I was in high school – and her reasoning was simple – she loved working with kids, those roles had less interactions with kids, so the answer is “no.” Screw the prestige, ego boost, and all of that - why make it more complicated than doing what you enjoy most? Okay, so, hard work, doing what you love – both awesome lessons. And it would have been easy to take those and run with them, and take for granted a lot of the privilege I was born into. For me and my brothers, all straight, white, males, attending a fairly homogeneous private school in a well-off Philadelphia suburb – the bubble was real. I credit my parents, again, for recognizing that and acting on it. One day in 6th grade, my brothers and I hopped in the car with my dad, and we drove 30 minutes down to a rec center in South Philly. I spent the next 6 years of my life, through high school graduation, making that same drive every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, playing basketball and baseball with the rec center teams down there, with more racial and socioeconomic diversity on a single team than I had across my entire high school. I made incredible friends, and learned a lot about the world I was born into, and all that I was shielded from. I’m a wealthy, straight, white male, and with that comes a lot of unearned privilege. I made it to college by working “hard.” But I worked “hard” without worry of being profiled by police simply walking down the street, like one friend told me about. I worked “hard” without having to work a side job throughout high school to support a family with a single mother already working two jobs, like another friend did. And I worked “hard” without worrying about stray bullets on my walk home from school, like the one that killed my teammate his Junior year of high school. Working “hard” had completely different meaning for me versus my friends down there. Cory Booker often cites the quote “don’t act like you hit a triple, when you were born on third base” – and it’s something I’ve come to realize pretty strongly – I was born on third base. So what do I do with that privilege? Do I reject it? No. It’s there, as a fact, and it’s impossible to “reject.” Do I ignore it? Had I stayed in that bubble growing up, it may have been easy float along in blissful ignorance, taking advantage of the centuries-old structures that give me a massive leg up, since I would have known nothing else. But I can’t do that now; I don’t want to do that now. I think there’s another option – to acknowledge it, to understand it’s impact, to use it for good, to “do” good. I don’t think I would have had this success in my career without the privilege that I did nothing to earn. I wouldn’t be in this program, however, without having recognized that privilege, acknowledging it, and starting to take steps to harness it, to “do good.” I spent four years after college working in investment banking and consulting. I worked hard, and I liked it. The problems were challenging, and my coworkers were great. But it wasn’t until I started working in education, spending a year and a half at a edtech non-profit, that I realized what it meant to really love my work, like my mom did. I can still work hard and do what I love – but my experience and recognition of that privilege made me realized I’m not going to love something unless I’m working hard to attack those historical structures that gave me that leg up but create so much injustice. On the wall of the rec center is a quote that I’ve walked by and read probably thousands of times now. It’s attributed to Jackie Robinson: “A life is not important except in the impact it has on the lives of others.” That’s what I’m measuring myself up against, and I wouldn’t love my work unless it’s making a real difference in the lives of those around me. What I love to do is work in education. I’m not sure where exactly (yet), but I can guarantee it in some way will be working towards ensuring that a good education like the one I benefited from is less of a privilege and more of a right for students across the country. --Billy V. |
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