“Don’t forget to thank me when you become president!”Â
It’s something my dad always said to me when I was growing up. The first time he told me that was when I loudly questioned something that I was taught in Sunday school. I don’t remember what the lesson was, but what I do remember is the confidence — but also, the uncertainty — I felt about my dad’s statement.Â
As a young kid, I never thought to question my boldness and sass. After all, they must be good traits if my dad believed they were. I saw it constantly on the TV when my dad would watch his nightly news: big men speaking loudly of large promises. If they got to a position of power with the same attitude as I had, maybe I could become president one day.Â
However, that idea was quickly shot down when I got into middle school. It was during this time that I internalized the ideas that strong wasn’t feminine, bold wasn’t pretty, and a leader wasn’t a woman. It was hammered into me until I believed that I had to be less aggressive in order to not scare away boys. I made myself fit this mold of what a girl — specifically, an Asian American girl — was supposed to be.Â
In hopes of assimilating at my predominantly white high school, I continued trying to make myself “less” — less opinionated, less loud, and less political. And when I got to my predominantly white college, I did the same. But it felt disheartening, as if I was letting my younger self down.Â
Finally, something shifted in me this semester. One day, I was scrolling through TikTok before class and I came upon the now-viral clip from Alex Cooper’s Call Her Daddy episode with Vice President Kamala Harris. I was about to scroll again — I was already exhausted by all the election content and in no mood to watch another campaign-related video — until Harris said something that stopped me: “There are a whole lot of women out here who aren’t aspiring to be humble.”Â
To hear a woman, especially an Asian American woman, say that was groundbreaking. To me, it felt like that one statement allowed women, particularly women of color, the space to be more than just likable. She reaffirmed that women can want more beyond a house and kids, and that no woman should have to feel like they have to be “less” themselves in order to be accepted and tolerated.Â
The moment was emblematic of Harris’s whole campaign. In just 107 days, Harris showed the country that women of color can be bold, loud, and opinionated — and that it’s not a bad thing. In her campaign speeches, she proved herself to be poised and strong, not quiet or submissive. As the first presidential candidate to work in all three branches of the government, Harris became a prime example of the prowess and power that women of color possess, and inspired countless women and girls to embody these traits with pride, rather than shove them down to be more palatable. It made me realize that if the country had an Asian American female presidential candidate like Harris when I was growing up, the idea of becoming president wouldn’t have felt so absurd or unattainable as it did to my adolescent self.
On election night, I was heartbroken to see more and more states turn red instead of blue — inevitably leading to Harris’s loss. After the election was called, people took to the internet saying that her loss proved once again that even though a woman of color can be well-spoken, educated, and highly qualified, but it still may never be enough. Despite this, I still believe Harris’s campaign serves as inspiration for many — especially the little girls of color in this country. Harris showed them that their dreams don’t have to be contained, that they don’t have to be “less.” She showed them that representation matters because it builds confidence, encourages new ideas, and empowers whole communities and individuals. And she showed them that they really can aspire to be successful leaders — maybe even president one day.