It is an advantage that they cannot tell you people apart. It has always been easy to disappear as an Asian woman. You people. The number of times I’ve been mistaken for Japanese or Korean or Lao women decades older or younger, several shades darker or lighter, for my own mother once I hit puberty. You people, said the eyes of the annoyed barista who pushed a coffee I hadn’t ordered into my hand, insisting we’d just spoken, that I’d wanted double espresso, low-fat milk. You people! cried the teens at LAX who insisted on taking my photo, certain they’d snagged a K-pop star in disguise.
