Race is a social construct, but that’s not to say that it’s fake or doesn’t actually exist. It does actually exist. We have made it real, and it carries with it very real consequences. The following are just a few ways that race has been made real in my own life. Some of them have stories, some of them don’t. But they should all remind us that our words and our actions are powerful:

1. White people will still treat you like a person of color.

A personal story: The first time I remember becoming aware of my race was in the fourth grade. I was one of the few students of color in my school. Sometimes, as my class would walk past another, one teacher in particular would stop to feel my hair. Why? While everyone else had smooth, soft hair, mine was thick and coarse. My body became exotic, a novelty. And to this day, I have always hated my hair.

I am reportedly the reason my white classmates couldn’t get into good colleges. They didn’t work as hard as I did. I watch as old men expect my father to be passive and submit to them. He is a strong man. Old women still compliment my English. English is my first language. My professors ask if I can read Chinese. I am not Chinese. Even my own friends make fun of me by squinting their eyes. I do not have squinty eyes.

2. Unless they’re colorblind.

The new racism has no racists. Luckily, colorblind racists are easy to spot. They are very insistent on being not-racist. Not-racist people will call you a “whole person.” Not-racist people will not “see you any differently.” Not-racist people will deny that a massive systemic problem still exists. MLK took care of that with a speech and a march — See? Minorities don’t need to be violent.

Ironically, not-racist people will still call people of color “they.”

3. Asian people will say that you’re not one of them.

When I told an Asian friend that I would be speaking to the Diversity in Education class about my experiences growing up, she responded, “What experiences? You have no experiences.” As if the names, the bullying, the prejudices, the discrimination, the every day waking up and wishing that I were somewhere else other than in this body weren’t enough.

I could never quite get a smile out of the Asian kids in high school. My father didn’t even teach me his own language. And when I mustered up the courage to ask the beautiful Chinese girl I always saw around campus for her phone number, I was still the creepy American guy. This is because…

4. Your birthplace will define your blood.

“Where are you from? […] No, where are you really from? […] Oh, so you’re not actually Asian.”

My only other less preferable conversation begins: “What are you?” The proper response is to walk away with your dignity. Your dignity was never intended to be a perverse civility which engages the curiosity of the ignorant.

5. You will never quite fit in.

This is hard especially when you’re young. Adolescence can be summed up as a constant, dramatic quest to fit in with others. When you see all the other Asian kids sticking together, they will not want you. “Our group is already too big,” they will say. “Sorry,” they will say if you’re lucky.

Some people will say that you get “the best of both worlds,” but I find this to be highly contentious. Being biracial doesn’t feel like being one whole person who can seamlessly travel between two worlds outside of us. Rather, it feels like the two worlds are inside of us — and they’re always at war.

We’re at a fork in the road, but we’re not allowed to go either way.

And maybe this is why biracial Asian-Americans suffer an above-average rate of depression and related mental disorders. Maybe the “sorry” wasn’t enough to hold us together.

6. Every relationship will be an interracial relationship.

My first love interest was as white as a sheet of paper. She had a “thing” for Asians and thought I looked like an anime character. People asked her, “What’s it like being with an Asian guy?”

The first time I fell in love was with an African-American girl. She was kind and understanding, but I always wondered what she said when people asked her what it was like dating a white guy.

I once heard someone ask my Filipino significant other whether she considered us an interracial couple. She said, “I don’t care; he’s cute.” I liked her.

7. Teachers will erase your identity.

My memory has never been very good, but I’ve always memorized everyone in the roll call so I could speak before the teacher got to my name. I didn’t want the attention, the “You’re gonna have to help me out here,” the “Wow, we’ll get through it by the end of the semester,” the “How long did it take you to learn your own name?,” the “I’ll just call you Zach from now on.”

My name is not a burden.

8. Sometimes you will feel that you are appropriating your own culture. You will not know whether you are.

Is it so wrong for me to follow the beads around the mala and pray for peace in the world? Will any food I make inevitably be inauthentic? And when I admire how handsome my father looked in his clothes as a boy, am I appreciating my heritage or am I just another hipster kid with a culturally insensitive fashion preference?

I live in a society which tells me that I must look and act like neither my father nor my mother.

9. You will never know how to take action.

Are you a minority in solidarity, or are you the white savior?

Besides, how could someone like you help when no one wants you around anyway?

Clearly you haven’t been effective at social relations in the past, so why don’t you just grin and bear it because we don’t want to cause any trouble. It would be a bad example for the children.

10. You will not know what you see when you look in the mirror.

Or when you pick out makeup, or make an avatar online, or look at a fashion magazine. And what’s up with your hair? I have stepped back into the shower too many times because there’s just too many things to fix.

The pressure of being Asian-American comes from the expectation to be perfect.

11. I reserve the right to revise my story.

I know; this is one point more than I originally promised, and it’s not even about other people. It’s about you. Call it an unreliable narrator or a shady business deal, but please don’t be upset that I didn’t stick to anyone’s (even my own) expectations.

Being biracial is a lot like writing. Sometimes you don’t know where you’re going. Sometimes you go back and try to delete the stuff you don’t like. Sometimes things turn out differently than you had expected. But all the while, you are discovering. You are an artist.