By Jamie Cho, Ph.D.
When someone walks into a courtroom as a seasoned attorney or as a highly educated community advocate, that person could reasonably expect to be treated with the dignity and respect they deserve. And yet, for Asian American women, it is not our experience, our education and the hard-earned letters after our names that determine how we are treated in the courtroom. It seems that the way we look, unfortunately, matters more in that regard.
As Asian American women, we are constantly judged by our physical features, the way we dress, and the way we speak. White men have their own blatant ways of making us feel like dehumanized objects: fetishized, and hypersexualized and silenced. Yet, it is not only white men who perpetuate this type of oppression. Men of color, including Asian American men, can also internalize stereotypes and hierarchies that lead them to act with, and perpetuate, patriarchal power.
As an observer and in some ways a chronicler over the last three years of court cases involving a Chinese American elder survivor, who has been the victim of aggressive and egregious anti-Asian hate from her white neighbors, I have found that every interaction with the court system and law enforcement has been steeped in racialized misogyny.
Today’s court hearing- probably the 14th- was no different. The judge, an Asian American man, patiently allowed the petitioner, the racist white neighbor, representing herself, to spew lies, pretend to be the victim, and weaponize the court system to garner support for her own anti-Asian vendetta. In contrast, there were a couple of times when the judge became visibly annoyed with the Asian American female attorney and made clear that he held the power within the courtroom. When the attorney started speaking in a way that the judge experienced as having been interrupted, the judge curtly and sternly warned her not to interrupt him, and then the judge ordered the Asian American lawyer, who was standing to see an exhibit to “sit down,” like putting a toddler in the corner.
Furthermore, today, the Asian American attorney was informed for the first time that the court would be using simultaneous translation—after more than a dozen hearings had relied on consecutive interpretation. This change meant the attorney would no longer hear the interpretation being provided to her client in real time. Concerned about past errors and misinterpretations during proceedings, she asked whether the court recording would at least include the Mandarin audio track so that any material issues could later be identified.
In response, the judge noted that the Mandarin track would not be part of the record and launched into a condescending explanation—mansplaining—that court interpreters are certified, as if the attorney were unaware. Of course, she was well aware of court interpreter certification. Her question aimed to ensure that her client received meaningful and accurate interpretation in a high-stakes legal proceeding that could impact her client’s freedom.
The judge again insisted that certification alone was sufficient and there would be no record of the Mandarin interpretation, stating that the court—and by extension, the attorney and her client—must simply “trust” the interpreter’s accuracy. This circular reasoning failed to address the core concern: that without any way to verify what was interpreted, the respondent might not fully understand the proceedings or be able to respond meaningfully—undermining her access to justice.
In another instance, when the survivor raised her hand to alert the court that the interpretation had stopped, the judge responded again with detectable irritation that since she had a lawyer representing her, she should speak to her own attorney, not to the court directly. In his patronizing tone, the judge assumed the survivor was trying to speak out of turn, when she was flagging an important disruption to her due process because interpretation services had been interrupted. This attitude of being bothered by a victim is how racialized misogyny intersecting with language injustice expounds the inequitable burden on immigrant women of color.
Similarly, a few months ago, in an interaction with a police officer who was called to document a violation to the 10-year protection order in place, I was told to lower my voice when trying to persuade the police officer of the violation. I was frustrated by waiting for them for three hours to be so quickly dismissed. This man of color used his power to scrutinize my manner of speaking, rather than listening to the important things I had to say.
The power dynamics witnessed in court and with police make me deeply uncertain that we have folks in power who can act fairly, and doubtful that their power is used for what is good and right. What I have seen is that judges misdirect their power toward putting Asian American women in their place, which is so unfairly determined by historical stereotypes and derogatory ideas of inferiority, subordination, and “foreignness.” Why must an Asian American woman fight for justice in a courtroom to also have to fight against the racialized misogyny of the judge?
The judge’s shortness with the Asian American female attorney and her Asian American client – a victim-survivor- has cascading effects. It sends a message to the aggressor that she can continue to marginalize and silence her victim with no consequence. It sends a message to the survivor that she will not be protected. It sends a message to the attorney that she has to think twice about whether the cost of using her voice is worth the benefit she earns from using her voice. And everyone observing those micro-interactions internalizes those patriarchal and racialized power dynamics and hierarchies.
Despite the very real challenges, we—as Asian American women—continue to rise. When the Asian American attorney was told to sit down, she complied. But after serving her brief “punishment,” she stood back up—without permission—stepping forward with agency and determination to see the map again and be the strongest advocate possible. The victim-survivor was reprimanded for raising her hand, but she still raised her voice to self-advocate. Her very presence in court is a testament to her resilience, her courage, and her unwavering refusal to be defined only as a victim. Instead, she stands as a survivor. I was tone-policed by an officer with a gun, yet I still said what needed to be said.
We all hold power—though some possess it in more official or institutional forms than others. Those entrusted with such authority carry an even greater responsibility to use it in the service of justice. And with that power should come a commitment to lead with love and empathy.
Walking into the courtroom and seeing an Asian American man as the judge, I wish we could assume that he understood how racialized dynamics are infused into systems and daily practices. I would hope that he could understand his power as a man, and the way he upholds oppression, implicitly and explicitly. Dream with me, and call for accountability, that one day all judges will be trained to know better and do better in the name of justice.
Photo permissions: Jamie Cho
Jamie Cho, Ph.D. (she/her) is Director of Public Education in Beloved Community Initiative at Seattle University’s College of Education. In partnership with schools across Washington, she works with public school leaders to enact change that centers relationships, love, and care. Her scholarship in education focuses on creating joyful, equitable, and just learning experiences for all children. An educator, she draws from her varied experiences to translate theory into practice toward realizing just educational systems.
Leave a Reply