May 3rd was the day my family immigrated to the US, now twenty-four years ago. It’s also the day the last little flame of the riots of 92 went out, now twenty-eight years ago. Time is weird, isn’t it?

When Anne Frank was about my age, she documented her life hiding in her attic from 1942 to 1944 in her diary. During the horrific World War II time, she was not only confined to a small space but lived in fear. Getting flour for a birthday cake was a luxury and she had limited supplies of everything.

When our son Bart was only three he voiced emphatic dislike of his handsome Asian face. He wanted to ‘fit in’ to the Caucasian world he’d known since arriving home at age five months. His message was loud and clear, that even at a tender age, his self-esteem was wrapped up with his adoption, Korean heritage and being a “stranger in a strange land”.

The first email was innocuous enough, considering that faculty on the community college at which I was an assistant professor had been following the news about the first confirmed case in New York. His daughter had been attending school not too far from our campus, and in the days following that discovery, we would ask, “Do you think anyone on our campus…?” The sentence would often go unfinished.

During the COVID-19 quarantine, many people have tried new things while stuck at home, like baking sourdough bread or crocheting. Of course, it’s hard to be productive 100% of the time when you can’t leave your house, so the most popular quarantine activity by far is probably binge-watching TV. When we first started self-quarantining in our apartment in the Boston area, my fiance and I were already halfway through the k- drama Itaewon Class on Netflix.

You were born on the first day of spring, the sign of something new. I remember holding you to my chest to cherish your very existence. If ever there was a time when love could be touched, it was then.

The highlight of my coronavirus quarantine has been the appearance of the H Mart logo on Instacart’s homepage. It showed up one day, an unassuming red and white logo, in the midst of other primary colors, with the word “Ethnic” underneath. The minute I saw it, I did a little jig at my end of the kitchen counter and announced the discovery to my husband at the other end.

Being an ally means spreading awareness, signing petitions, donating if you have the means to do so, and calling out racist behavior. Being an ally as an Asian American means doing all of the above, while also looking at the specific ways in which we have either perpetuated or been compliant in allowing racial injustices towards the Black community to continue. Now more than ever, it is important for us to step up in support.