I’m grasping to find the right words to share how these past few weeks have made me feel: I’ve been devastated, defeated, then furious. Heart in the pit of my stomach at how so many still don’t understand; I wish I could shake the indifference or hate out of them. I wish I could scream—only I can’t. Injustice and hypocrisy fall short on deaf ears; it’s impossible to reason with those who refuse to open their eyes. I could cry angry, heartbroken tears right now. (As I write this, I feel the wetness welling in my eyes, the growing tightness in my throat.) I’m frustrated by this world. And I’m even angrier with myself for not being more outspoken. Being gentle isn’t enough anymore—and I say this as a first-generation, Taiwanese-American woman whose upbringing revolved around bending, not breaking; keeping your head down to win in the long run; avoiding attention or outing yourself as a stick in the mud, because that’s how we lose the game here. I understand the mindset, I do: it’s how my parents were able to survive and make a life for themselves in a country that rejected them 30 years ago and still does…