I must’ve stared at a blank text box for over a month now, unable to write much beyond an attempt at the title if just to give my thoughts some semblance of direction. I wrote, deleted, and tried again: “A Call to Action Against Anti-Asian Violence;” “Protect our Elders; “Why We Must Address Rising Hate Crimes Against Asian-Americans.” All were riffs of what I’ve consumed in the last few weeks, each one more foreign than the next on my fingertips. I would be a fraud to title anything with such confidence. There’s truth in the words, no doubt—education and mobilization of support are desperately needed—but in my mouth, they’re new. Crunchy. (Not to mention, there are plenty of activists and organizations who have done the work tenfold: AAPI Women Lead, Apex for Youth, Asian American Federation, Hate is a Virus, Stop AAPI Hate, to name a few.) For me to unpack years of internalized racism or guilt and claim enlightenment would only dilute the message instead of amplifying it. To be clear, my inability to talk about the Asian-American experience doesn’t stem from a lack of awareness. It’s the opposite, in fact: hyper-awareness can be debilitating. A combination of my…