Speak up. Because it matters.
By: Kay Nguyen
Tags: Personal, Journalism, Asian American, Social Media

I can’t speak to experiences I’ve never had because of the privilege that exists by my mere existence and the convenient shield of falling into the model minority model.

But what I can speak from is my experience with complicity having the most serious of consequences. I know the current moment is not about me nor am I trying to insert myself where I have no place. This is merely a personal reflection.

I worked in an industry (and work in yet another) where the rules of ethics and decorum were written by white men. And there is seldom questioning of it. Less than one percent of people in the newspaper industry looked like me.



I worked for a news organization in rural America that through no fault of its own other than complicity failed to deeply examine issues in the community. When more immigrants moved to the community years later, the true problems emerged. Could I have helped change that by being a louder voice?

At 17 and too young to vote still I worked for Sen. Carl Levin’s reelection campaign and Obama for America in Michigan. I saw hope and change.



I thought I was doing the right thing and knew enough about policy to apply it in an even-handed manner. I sat back as I saw policies I help write lead to the most tremendous of consequences.

-Live stream video guidelines I helped write led to the original censure of the story of the tragic killing of Philando Castile on social media.

-Curation guidelines I wrote regarding hate speech have evolved and been used to stifle conversations about race and the very things those rules sought to work against.

-I stood by as I used curation guidelines and then saw subsequent lack thereof let false stories run rampant, fueling hateful rhetoric affecting the 2016 election. Putting aside any partisan politics or other issues that have arisen in the past four years, a politician who threatens to use the might of the military against his own people should be troubling to all.

I’ve worked in or adjacent to journalism for half my life and am of course a proponent of free speech. The line stops when the speech itself amounts to violence or a threat in and of itself.



I vowed to never sit idly by and be a bystander if I knew there was a clear right or wrong. I long covered “both sides” or “all voices.” This cannot be the case any longer.

I’m proud to have worked for an organization that spoke up and uncovered a dark truth about the issue of military sexual assault. I saw firsthand how my friend and coworker, an injured war veteran, came under fire for simply saying the truth — that men and women who laid their lives on the line to serve this country were being violated and attacked by the very men and women who also swore to serve and protect this country and vowed to be brothers and sisters in arms with them.

Threats were lodged against his elementary-age daughter. For telling the truth: a simple inconvenient truth that was enough to disrupt the power structure that runs from a local recruiting office in Everytown, U.S.A. to the Pentagon, Capitol, and White House.



A few years ago, as I reckoned with my complicity, I came to the realization that I would only work in spaces where I could make as much impact as possible with the skills and labor I share. I am incredibly timid and afraid to speak up because I had always been told my voice didn’t matter by everyone. I was the quiet timid Asian girl. Because that’s what I was supposed to do. Because I was told I couldn’t speak on oppression because I had grown up with the privileges of being a middle-class model minority. Because we’ve assimilated so we should stay quiet so as not to rock the boat.

For the longest time, I thought I couldn’t be a trial attorney and speak in the courtroom on behalf of others. I gravitated to legal assistance work that could be done behind a desk and speak to people one-on-one.



I loved direct legal services and found the biggest service provider of them — the United States Army. This job description of being able to both serve and protect my country, serve and protect servicemembers, and being able to help called to me in the most profound way.



I worked to make myself fit for the job not just physically but to become a better advocate. After being terrified my entire life to use my voice, I worked to finally leverage it. I was so afraid of standing up in front of people and arguing, I put off writing a moot court brief until the day before it was due because I knew turning it in would mean the next step of preparing for oral arguments.

Unbeknownst to anyone, even one of my closest friends and teammates, everything changed for me the day we stood up on stage together to make our arguments in front of decorated judges. That day, I made a commitment to inserting the voice I found into the place where it could make the most impact.



Less than 10 percent of the United States Marine Corps is made up of women. That percentage is even lower in the officer ranks. In January, I set off to begin the journey. In February, I was limping and down for the count. I beat myself up each and every day for not being able to physically withstand the training that would have allowed me to earn the honor and privilege of serving my country and use my voice — as an attorney, as a leader, as an American — to help others.

I’m a first-generation American — a daughter of immigrant parents who grew up in a country marred by the violence of war. They are exhausted and reckoning with their own trauma. This has caused a deep misunderstanding between us as they beg me to not go to such extremes so help others.

It’s been deeply painful to try and explain my existence and passion to them. We haven’t spoken meaningfully in months. I’ve cut myself off from one of the most important support systems one could have. All because they don’t believe I should have a voice, nor should I use it.



I don’t know what’s next, but it’s deeply important that I be able to use my voice. It’s not the most important, nor is it always right. But I’m here to learn. I can’t begin to understand, but I can help amplify after my history of using existing power structure to stifle voices in the name of evenhandedness.