I Was Taught To Be Silent, and I Listened

Many people would call me the quiet type.

But that wasn’t always the case. When I was really young, before my brother was born, I’m told I was quite the tomboy. Always playing outside, climbing things I wasn’t supposed to, and standing up for my friends. I somewhat remember those days. I remember being the leader of my little group, rallying my cousins into backyard adventures and bossing them around like a tiny empress. My parents were quite proud of that in fact. I remember them telling everyone how I was in charge whenever my male and female cousins were around. They would brag about how my grades were always better than all of my cousins. How I was braver than all of my cousins. They called me smart, bold, and strong. They told everyone that I could outrun all the boys and outsmart them too. It felt great.

We moved to America and the praise continued. I had lost all of my friends, a lot of family, and anyone with who I could communicate aside from my parents. But I still had my parents’ praise. That was until my brother was born. Suddenly that all changed. Everything I had been praised for in the past became a way to attack me. If I tried to boss my brother around, I would get screamed at and lectured about my place for hours by my father. If his grades were less good than the grades I got at this age, it was because I wasn’t helping him enough. If he ever got scared or hurt, somehow it was my fault for not protecting him. It was like the spotlight turned. Not only was I expected to give up my staring role, but I had to do it without making a scene. No more loudness or bravery. No more leadership or stubbornness. No more taking up space.

And so I adapted. I became quieter, smaller, and softer. I did not fight back when my brother got the attention that used to be mine. I just became quiet. I learned to get approval in other ways. By making things easier for everyone else. By not complaining. By doing everything I could to make my brother’s life and my parents’ lives better. And they loved me once again. My family told everyone I was “so polite.” My teachers called me “mature for my age.” Even strangers told me I was a “good girl” like that was the highest form of compliment in the entire world. And for a long time, I believed them. There was nothing more I wanted to be.

I learned that being silent meant I was doing something right. That swallowing my thoughts made me kinder and that making myself smaller was noble. But it wasn’t kind or noble. It was survival. I didn’t think of it as being silent back then, I thought I was being good. In school. At home. At family gatherings where my parents friends talked over each other and the men got drunk by 3:00 PM. I was always the girl in the corner, smiling politely, making my plate small, cleaning up after everyone, fetching things they needed. Just making my existence smaller. And I was praised for that. I had found a new niche for myself, but even that did not last.

In the course of a couple of years, my behavior was quickly taken for granted. It wasn’t enough to be quiet, respectful, or obedient. It wasn’t enough to be a good daughter, good student, or a good girl. The things I went out of my way to do were now expected of me, and I had to do even more. Help more. Take more. Be more. But never forget my place.

I swallowed my thoughts. Bit back every sharp or funny thing I could have said. Took on more chores. Got more extra credit. Smiled when I wanted to cry. Laughed quietly when I was confused or uncomfortable. I became really good at nodding. Really good at pretending I had nothing to say. I didn’t think of it as silence back then. I thought of it as being good. It took me a very long time to realize that the silence I had adopted wasn’t me being good, but it was just me being invisible in a way that made everyone else more comfortable. And it took even longer to realize the silence and behaviors I thought I had chosen for myself, were actually something that had been trained into me by my family.

By the time I became a teenager, I didn’t want to be that anymore. Everything was so raw and new. I felt so much. I was so full of wants, questions, desires, feelings, and shame. Shame that I didn’t even feel was mine, but that I carried anyway. Boys had already started to notice me before this. But this is when I really learned to avoid saying no. There were moments where I wanted things, but didn’t feel like I had the right to want them. There were countless times when I said yes just to be liked, to feel chosen, or because I thought it was the only way to be seen at all.

I thought being desired would make me powerful, and at times it did make me feel powerful. Even if that wasn’t true. I thought that if someone really wanted me, that they would fill all the spaces where I used to be praised. they would make sure I wasn’t forgotten. But more often than not, I just ended up feeling small in brand new ways. They would call me beautiful, but I never felt seen. They would give me the touches that I longed for, but would always take it farther. They made me feel wanted, but only as long as I stayed easy to handle and compliant. I slept with several of my friends in high school. All these white boys who quickly learned sex was all I was good for. And so it didn’t take long to find attention and praise from older men.

I talked to older guys online at first. A lot of them. Anonymous usernames of older men who typed like they knew things about the world I didn’t. They told me I was mature for my age, asked for pictures of my body, and said all the things I thought grown men were supposed to say to girls they wanted. But then I found I could get attention from older men in real life too. Men at the mall. Visiting fathers from other schools during band events. Advisors and judges in academic competitions. Even a teacher. I loved the attention. I became the kind of girl who always said yes. Yes to things I didn’t understand. Yes to things I didn’t want. Yes to being touched, being praised, and being claimed. I loved how easy it was to get these men to praise me. And slowly, I noticed that a pattern had started to emerge. All of these men had something in common. They were all white men.

I didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time. Just that they saw me. They paid more attention to me than my friends or family even. And that all felt so incredible. They would make comments about how “exotic” I looked or how polite I was, like it was a compliment. Like I was some delicate little secret they were lucky to have discovered. There were times in bed where I moaned because I thought I was supposed to. Because silence in that moment felt worse than pretending. For a lot of my teens I faked it. Not just orgasms, but I faked interest, comfort, and warmth just to feel their eyes on me.

I didn’t always enjoy these encounters. I didn’t even always feel safe. But I did it anyhow. Because if I could make someone else feel good, maybe I’d feel something too. I just went through the motions, doing anything for a bit of praise or attention. It didn’t matter how it made me feel. If I could make someone feel good, then that might make me feel something too. And anything was better than nothing. Because if I could be the kind of girl they fantasized about, young, soft, and obedient, then that meant I mattered to them.

They would whisper compliments in my ears. They guided my inexperienced hands to explore their bodies. They taught me how to please them, and began to share their dirty secrets with me. They would tell me about their girlfriends, their wives, their daughters’ friends, and even their daughters. I learned never to be shocked or repulsed by their wants. They would praise me and threaten me in the same breath. And so I learned to always say yes. And that mantra carried over into all of my sexual encounters with white men during my teenage years. I became the kind of girl who said yes to everything, regardless of the act or the partner. I sucked off a taxi driver while he grouped my body. I went down on a married man in a changing room and got banned from my favorite clothing store. I let a man piss in my mouth. I slapped myself while a man held me down under his foot. I let a man whip my bare pussy with his belt. I didn’t fully comprehend what I was doing, saying yes to things that left me feeling uncomfortable and confused. To things that caused me in pain, or left me feeling used and exploited. But it didn’t matter, because in those moments, I didn’t have to confront the emptiness within myself.

I didn’t have to worry about what my parents thoughts. These men, often older, seemed to know exactly what they wanted from me. They would take me under their wing, showering me with attention and affection, making me feel special and desired in a way I rarely experienced outside of that dynamic. Their paternalism was palpable. They treated me like a daughter and like a slut. A subtle yet insidious blend of affection, condescension, and possessiveness. These older white men saw me as a project, a curious specimen to be shaped and claimed as their own. They would lavish me with praise, telling me how wonderful and alluring I was, and how lucky they were to have such a beautiful, compliant, little Asian girl at their disposal. And they would abuse me in new ways every time.

I learned to read what they wanted and give it to them. A smile, a lowered gaze, a little laugh. I would stick out my tongue on command. Swallow their semen if asked. Let them abuse me just for a smile. All the while, I wore their attention like a second skin. It didn’t protect me, but it helped me disappear in a way that still felt like being chosen. I don’t know if that makes sense. But it did make me feel like being chosen. Like being wanted by these men made me worth something. And when you grow up learning that praise is conditional, that love can be taken away the second someone else enters the room, you learn to do anything to get it and keep it.

If a white an looked at me with hunger in his eyes, it lit something up inside me. I would go out of my way to get their attention and fulfill their desires. I would hide different clothes in my bag when I left the house for school. And then I would change. Shorter shirts, lower necklines. I changed in my car almost every day. But that wasn’t the only changes. When my clothes changed, so did the rest of me. My personality became different too. My laughs became softer, my sexuality took center stage, and the yeses all became easier to say.

There were things I let happen, and things I offered to these men, not because I wanted them, but because I wanted them to want me. Because if they touched me, then they would give me more attention. If they moaned, they would praised me. And if they orgasmed, they would always tell me I was amazing. Always. Even if I hated the act itself, even if I felt hollow afterwards, I would still be filled by their approval, and that was better than feeling nothing at all.

I can’t even count how many times I’ve heard the words “You’re amazing” or “No one’s ever done that for me before.” Those phrases were like sugar poured into the hollow space inside me. The words kept me doing things I didn’t always like, just to hear them again. They always wanted more, these white men. It was never ending. They wanted more of my body, of my submission, of my total surrender. And I was desperate for their fleeting affections. I would comply without hesitation. When they commanded me to crawl, I would drop to my knees and scurry across the floor. When they told me to go down on them, I would go as deep as I could and then even farther. When they asked to finish on my face, I would stick out my tongue. When they wanted to fuck my ass, I would bend over for them.

This was not because I wanted to do it. Not because I enjoyed it even. But because I had learned that if I gave these white men what they wanted, they would give me what I needed. When they commanded me to spread my legs wider, arch my back more, or bite my lip until it bled, I would obey without question. When they spanked me, choked me, pulled my hair, twisted my nipples, or slapped my face, I moaned and smiled for them. Because in those moments of total submission, I felt the closest to earning their admiration. I felt loved.

When I went to university, I changed once again. No longer did I have to continue swallowing my feelings, my fears, my pain, and my tears. They were mostly gone. So as an adult, I learned to make it mine. Now when I kneel, it’s not because I was taught to lower myself, it is because I want to. When I bite my tongue, it’s not for fear or shame, but it is a playful restraint. And when I listen, in that eyes up, obedient little girl way, that is not weakness, but the power that they gave to me.

So yeah. I was taught to be silent. By parents, aunt and uncles, teachers, and friends. The world told me to be silent, and I listened. But that silence is on my terms. And sometimes, it says more than words ever could.