Why I Majored

I was always the contrarian growing up. Whenever anyone would tell me what to do or what to agree with, I would always ask them why. I would dodge their commands and ask them, Why not the other way?, Why not that way? Why, in your words and in your logic, should I do this? It wasn’t because I wanted to upset anyone or come off as difficult. I just wanted to know. I wanted to see if their reasons coincide with the things that felt right to me. I wanted to make sure that everything I did was because I believed in it and it would be the kind of thing I would do myself, without anyone’s influence. When I first came to William and Mary, the first student group that I became a part of was the Filipino American Student Association (FASA). And no, this isn’t an advertisement for you to join FASA. A notable number of people in FASA are APIA majors. People would sometimes kid and say that by joining FASA, you were guaranteed to be talked into taking an APIA class or even becoming a major. And of course, when I joined, it was one of the first things suggested to me. Obviously, it’s not a bad thing to take an APIA class because it was recommended by someone, but I was just extremely set on my decisions not being affected by others. I stood my ground and was adamant about it. I would not be an APIA major because people told me to. I would not be swayed into it. I would not be pressured into it. I would decide.

The first APIA class I ever took was in the spring semester of my freshman year. It was Asian American History with Professor Thelwell. Every Monday and Wednesday, I would waltz into Blair 229 at 3:27 pm and sit in the second row on the first chair closest to the door. I knew no one in that class. No familiar face I recognize. No pact made with a friend. No one.

But I loved it. And to this day, it continues to be my favorite class I’ve ever taken in college. The first thing Professor Thelwell asked us in that class was “Why are you taking Asian American History?” As answers were being shared one by one across the room, I thought about how to verbalize the feelings that I hadn’t taken the time to define. I thought about the generations of Asians before me and their kids, some of them my peers. I thought about my own migration. I thought about how my own kids will have those experiences. What made me take that class could not be summed up in a simple answer. It was me wanting to know what the past generations went through for me to be here. It was me wanting to know what it means to be here. It was me wanting to know what I would be putting my future generations through by being here. What hardships are they going to face? What history that I am passing down to them in America? What is this American fabric that I am sewing them into? But of course, I didn’t say this. No, this was too personal to say in front of people who were only going to hear it for only two quick blinks of their eyes and forget the second I finished speaking. All I said was a simple statement, hoping that the implication was enough. “I’m Asian.”

All throughout the semester, I would stay up until 4 am in Andrews to do the readings after rehearsals for FASA’s culture show. And it wasn’t a mentally agonizing crawl to the end. Not always anyway. It was like taking a walk for miles and miles through a field or a forest. Yes, you’re tired. Yes, your feet hurt. Yes, your shoulders are just begging for a bed to lie on. But the view.

The greens you see and the blues of the sky. The trees look as they always do and the sky looks as it’s always been, permanently there. By no means is any of this extraordinary, but why does it feel like the world is completely different. This has always existed whether I knew about it or not but why does it seem like the inception of a new world.

And it isn’t always pretty. No pastels to soften up any realities. No hazy lines creating a dreamy world. But they are real. You see the darks and the lights. The most beautiful pictures of communities coming together with the ugliest pictures of exploitation tearing people apart. A battered hand holding another. A beating hand hitting another. While sometimes things can feel exasperating or disheartening, I don’t regret any of it now. I would rather inch forward slowly than stand stagnant and place a wool over my eyes. I took another class fall semester of my sophomore year, Intro to APIA. Taking that class opened me up to the present, to what was currently happening. Not our collective past. Not my generational future. Now. I saw how it was all around me. The media’s narrative and lack thereof. The discourses about the progression of the field. The community building and outreach efforts. I was reading papers and articles about current or recent events. This isn’t history, I thought. This is happening here and now. And I am alive for it.

By Andrea Dalagan ‘22 APIA and Sociology Major

“I stood my ground and was adamant about it. I would not be an APIA major because people told me to. I would not be swayed into it. I would not be pressured into it. I would decide.”