She was petite, smart, reserved, and fit the obnoxiously bigoted stereotype of a “China doll.” She was hardworking and compliant, and her grades in school were outstanding. Oh, and yes, she was also great at math. 

But everyone already knew all this about her. All anyone had to do was to take one look at her. It was expected without exception. The fact is, no one ever doubted, much less even considered she could be any different than this. She did what her parents and teachers asked of her and she did it exceptionally well. She played tennis and the violin. Even her handwriting was impeccable. 

My best friend had a perfect family, with a perfect house, on a perfect street. 
Her family had achieved the American dream in one generation. From an outsider’s view, my best friend had a perfect life. 

When I was 12, Merri introduced me to a friend of hers named Pat. We met at the movie theater where Merri warned me ahead of time, “Make sure to tell him you’re 13.” I wasn’t in the habit of lying, so I acquiesced to the idea that I’d decide what to say at the time if he asked. He didn’t ask. 

Merri was my very best friend throughout high school, and she was a first-generation Japanese-American. Pat’s parents were Japanese immigrants living in Hawaii before it became a state. His parents endured the brutal internment camps in the USA… the ones where, after the surprise Pearl Harbor attack, our government rounded up citizens who had Japanese descendants and took away their livelihoods, property, and personhood by placing them in internment camps … just in case they were spies. Pat and I ended up being high school sweethearts and had a wonderfully supportive relationship all four years of high school. 

Merri and Pat went to the same high school and she and I would spend a lot of time together at their school’s basketball games to cheer for Pat, who was only 5’8 but, was such a good basketball player, he played point guard on the varsity team as a freshman. Pat was an outstanding student and one of the nicest people you’d ever meet. He was popular, a hard worker, excelled in basketball, and worked 30 hours a week on top of studying for his advanced placement classes. 
Merri and I mostly played tennis or hung out at my house studying with Pat. We rarely went to her house. She had an older brother and a much younger brother. She also had a sister a year younger than me. 

One day, I found out why we’d rarely go to Merri’s house. 

She held a secret that she would not tell a soul.

At age 12, I didn’t know what a minority was. I didn’t know about racial discrimination, and I certainly didn’t know what the model minority myth was. But what I did know was my friend was in trouble and I had to help her. 
One day she just blurted it out. 
She told me her brother had been beating and raping her for almost three years.
After my initial shock wore off, 

I knew I had to do something. I told my mom her secret. 
My mom was an administrator in her school district and she got her help immediately. 
My perfect best friend had been carrying a secret that no person should ever have to bear. 
I imagine this secret could be one from any family. But this secret came from the perfect minority family. 
Could this have been any family? Or was there added pressure in her family to be perfect? Did the fact that she belonged to a historically minoritized group add to the pressure? Did it make it less likely to be reported because it would shatter the stereotype? 
I have no idea. 
It wasn’t until a few years later, I found out Merri’s father had been beating her mother in the same fashion. It was a family-wide secret. The eldest son was copying the father’s role modeling. 
Many times, we hear about the minority minority myth and we view it based on what it does to impact other people who are members of historically minoritized groups. We talk about the resentment. We talk about the constant comparisons wondering why all non-“white” people cannot achieve what many Asian Americans have. We talk about colorism. We simplify the truth in order to blame the people we have minoritized. We revel in the fact that in-fighting within the communities we have collectively oppressed, makes it so even they can’t get along. We ignore the fact that this, too, is due to “white” supremacy. It is just another byproduct of our hate.… 

All these things are painfully real. 

But I digress… 

My objective for this essay was to write about one aspect of the model minority myth… what the pressure must feel like living up to such an unachievable standard. I wanted to focus on a small part of the world that I knew about; my best friend Merri and the added pressure she must have felt to live a perfect life to the world while harboring a brutal reality of depraved abuse. 

I guess my point today is simple. We make assumptions about what we believe about others. We think we know. But the truth is, when it comes to what others are enduring, a lot of the time, we have no clue.