Up Close and Invisible

As an Asian American, I’ve always felt a little out of place in the United States. Even in New York City, perhaps especially in New York City, I’ve grown used to feeling invisible. When I started working as a photographer, I realized that this was, actually, an advantage. My work takes me all over the city, and I interact with a huge range of people. No matter what first impression people have of me based on my appearance, no one views me as a threat. I could be a tourist or even just a kid taking pictures for fun. That moment of uncertainty comes in handy when I only have a moment to get a shot — when lingering too long would get me questioned, stared at, or confronted. 

When the coronavirus began slamming New York in early March, you could feel a low-level sense of unease spreading across the city. In supermarkets, people piled items into their carts as if a hurricane was approaching. Politeness began to evaporate. My wife started asking me to wear a mask when I went outside, but because no one else was, I felt self-conscious. I didn’t want to play into the stereotype of the overcautious Asian.  

On trips outside in early spring, there was a beautiful emptiness in the city. For weeks, Midtown Manhattan was inhabited only by bored cops, hungry-looking homeless people, and drunks slouched on street corners. The ecosystem that normally supports office workers and tourists — the food carts, delis, restaurants, and retail stores — closed down in their absence. Cars rolled through red lights with impunity. I felt as if I had the city all to myself.  

The protests that followed the death of George Floyd shattered the city’s eerie calm. I initially contemplated going to Minneapolis, where Floyd was murdered, but soon realized that I didn’t need to leave New York to cover what had become a nationwide movement. I loaded my car with a helmet, gas mask, backup cameras, and a second set of clothes. I have covered violent protests in Baltimore, North Dakota, Cairo, and Hong Kong — but never here, in my own backyard. 

Police vehicles were destroyed, set on fire, and graffitied. Heavily-armored cops struggled to keep up with the protesters who had taken over the streets. As thousands peacefully marched to bring attention to police brutality and racial justice, opportunists looted stores. I could feel the energy of the people pumping through the streets, both electric and angry. Even observers, like myself, were not spared: One looter punched me in the face and took one of my cameras. It was difficult to resist involving myself in this moment of history, to be a part of the story. But as a photographer, I know to be quiet, patient, and watchful. I’ve seen my colleagues get confronted and threatened for doing their jobs, and sometimes I escape merely because of the way I look. 

The months since the protests have sparked a lot of intense discussion on Facebook groups and journalism listservs that I subscribe to. There’s been a lot of talk about privilege — but it often comes down to white people lecturing each other about people of color. They may be well-intentioned, but still, I’ve never been comfortable lumping all minorities together. 

If I’ve learned anything from 2020, it’s that “Asian invisibility” is another form of privilege. And I wrestle with that fact every day.