By Jamie Cho, Ph.D.
I’m not very cooperative. I’m not particularly patient. I can’t claim to be wise. But I do have an unrelenting commitment to justice, and I’ve found courage in myself I didn’t know existed.
As a U.S.-born Asian American woman with a terminal degree and the ability to navigate systems that once excluded my parents, I carry many privileges. I have economic stability. I live in a part of the country where my reproductive rights remain intact. I also thought I could write articles like this without fear of retaliation.
With recent news about the censorship of Jimmy Kimmel, and the long line of children’s book bans that have been going on for years, I shouldn’t be surprised that my articles have also garnered the wrath of someone who doesn’t want to be called a racist but is more than willing to engage in racist behavior.
And so, despite all of my privileges, I still feel the sharp edges of oppression as a woman of color.
I live with the awareness that someone’s bias, conscious or not, or someone’s malicious intent, could strip me of an opportunity, damage my reputation, or take away a fundamental right. That’s not paranoia. That’s lived experience.
So I ask: What would you do if you saw someone being harmed by the system? What if you knew that standing up for them could take years, demand countless hours, and come at a personal cost? Would you still show up? Would you still speak up?
I’ve been fortunate to know people who, without any reservation, stand up against injustice. They offer their expertise, their presence, and their quiet courage. For years, I have walked alongside and been in awe of their determination, strength, and unrelenting commitment to justice, even when they themselves became targets. We often imagine bravery as something loud and cinematic. But more often, it shows up in small, consistent acts: sitting in a courtroom in solidarity, checking in on someone being targeted, or challenging a flawed process when it would be easier to stay silent.
At a recent workshop, my colleague and I led a conversation on disrupting whiteness, the cultural ideology that assumes there is one natural and superior way to be. It rewards compliance and punishes dissent. I shared how people often see me as a “troublemaker” because I don’t fit the model minority stereotype. I don’t stay quiet. I don’t comply for the sake of politeness. I don’t “go along to get along.”
But my purpose isn’t to cause trouble. It’s to call out injustice and demand better from the systems we all navigate. If that makes me a troublemaker, I’ll wear it like a badge of honor.
Not long ago, a police officer gratuitously and in writing described an adjudicated harasser with yet another pending protection as “very cooperative.” That phrase struck me. What does it mean to be seen as cooperative in this system? Is it easier if you’re white? If you flirt? If you have a dog? Is it something I, as a woman of color, will ever be called, no matter how hard I work, how much I achieve, or how gracious I try to be?
That officer wasn’t just delivering paperwork. He was providing a service for public safety. The comment, unsolicited and unnecessary, wasn’t neutral. It was a reflection of a system that defaults to comforting those who harm while discrediting those who resist being harmed.
The comment cut deep. Being exceptional has never been enough for women like me to receive unsolicited praise. I’ve stood in rooms with white male colleagues who are introduced as “Dr. So-and-so,” while I’m addressed by my first name. It’s not about titles. It’s about the respect that some people are granted automatically and others are forced to earn again and again.
The system silences us. That is because it was never designed for us or meant to serve us. We’re constantly reminded of how little we are believed, how easily we are dismissed, and how disposable we are made to feel.
We are not given the benefit of the doubt. We are not presumed innocent. We are not seen as vulnerable or deserving of protection.
For Asian American women, especially immigrants, this isn’t just a feeling. It’s a pattern. It’s a reality.
Even police interactions reflect it. When an Asian American attorney offered to assist a white officer in serving papers to the harasser, he dismissed her entirely. He ignored her expertise, rejected her offer to help, and brushed off her attempt to guide him via FaceTime. Minutes later, he stopped responding to her texts altogether.
Why aren’t we allowed to be angry? Why aren’t we allowed to be frustrated when we are repeatedly ignored and disrespected by the very institutions that claim to protect us?
When the survivor’s attorney, another Asian American woman, pointed out that interpretation services were inadequate, I doubt the judge saw her as “very cooperative.” More likely, he saw her as aggressive. Or unyielding. But why shouldn’t she speak up when something is broken?
This system expects Asian American women to be silent. Compliant. Obedient.
And even then, we are not called cooperative.
When we self-advocate, when we demand proper interpretation, trauma-informed courtrooms, or simply to be believed, we are labeled difficult. We certainly aren’t called “very cooperative.”
So I think it’s time to reframe what it means to be cooperative. If being cooperative means staying quiet while injustice thrives, then no, I won’t be very cooperative. And I won’t be censored, because I have things to say in the name of justice. If that makes me uncooperative, I’ll continue to wear it as a badge of courage. And I am proud to know others who will, too.
Jamie Cho is a consultant, professor, and scholar in the field of Education in Washington State.
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