By Celine Fang
I recently traveled to Tuskegee, Alabama, to attend the World Conference of Mayors—an experience that stirred something far deeper than I expected. Tuskegee isn’t just a town with history—it *is* history. From Booker T. Washington’s legacy of education, to George Washington Carver’s scientific breakthroughs, to the trailblazing Tuskegee Airmen, this land embodies the endurance, brilliance, and sacrifice of Black Americans over centuries.
It was within this environment—rich with memory and mission—that I began to reflect more clearly on what it means for Asian Americans to step forward and celebrate the 250th anniversary of the founding of the United States—not as guests, but as stakeholders.
The American story doesn’t begin with us. For over 400 years, this land has been shaped by the lives and labor of Black Americans, Indigenous nations, and white settlers. The founding principles of liberty, justice, equality, and self-governance have been ideals we’ve all struggled to define and realize—sometimes falling short, sometimes moving closer.
As Asian Americans, we entered this story in waves—building railroads, running farms and shops, fighting in wars, facing exclusion laws, and quietly raising generations. Yet, due to a long gap in immigration caused by discriminatory laws, many newer immigrants have inherited contributions without continuity. We remember the railroads, but not always the small-town stories. We know the sacrifices, but not always the daily life details that create emotional and civic belonging.
I was reminded of this while visiting small towns where, time and again, elderly residents asked me, “Where are you from?” It used to make me uncomfortable. But now, I see it differently. Many of them remembered Asian neighbors, shopkeepers, or friends from decades past—faces that once were part of their community fabric. Their question wasn’t rejection; it was recognition delayed. A puzzle piece reappearing after generations.
It’s time we step forward—not in defense of our place in America, but in fulfillment of it.
At Tuskegee, I was joined by Dr. Zhang, who drove nearly 12 hours across three days to take us everywhere we needed to be—city to city, hotel to venue, meetings to meals. He offered rides, shared meals, and joined late-night and early-morning conversations. He gave a heartfelt, spontaneous speech honoring Black leadership and calling on all of us—Asian, Black, white, and beyond—to come together in upholding the founding ideals of this country. He didn’t speak to promote himself—he spoke to reconnect the missing links between our communities.
We weren’t there for photo ops. We were there to participate. We sat at different tables, joined side gatherings, listened at the hotel lobby past midnight, and spoke up when it counted. We connected with press members, cultural ambassadors, lobbyists, community developers, and spiritual leaders. It became clear: the WCM network is much bigger than one event—it is a living movement that recognizes history, addresses inequity, and builds toward generational impact.
And yet, across Asian American spaces, I’ve observed another pattern. In striving to succeed, we sometimes turn inward—competing, comparing, elevating ourselves even against one another. But America’s founding principles weren’t designed for self-promotion. They were created for self-governance, shared responsibility, and collective liberty. We don’t claim our stake by being the most visible—we claim it by being the most engaged, the most present, the most connected.
We must remember: we didn’t get here alone. White educators, pastors, and employers—often quietly—opened doors for immigrants who didn’t speak the language. Black neighbors extended trust when others withheld it. Indigenous peoples carried spiritual wisdom and land stewardship even as they were displaced. We are not the only builders of America—but we are now part of the building.
That’s why I brought Chinese American leaders into the WCM gathering—not to showcase status, but to quietly say: We’re here. We care. We’re listening. We’re contributing. Our traditions—lion dances, red envelopes, and mooncakes—are cultural cues that say “we belong.” But presence alone is not enough. It’s time to help shape the nation’s future as full civic partners.
Through the shared initiative of collaborative individuals and organizations, the Asian American 250 effort must go beyond city stages and mainstream headlines. We must also reach the small towns, rural counties, and overlooked places—because in those places, sometimes the only Asian American presence is a single Chinese restaurant owner, who has become the reference point for an entire community’s understanding of Asian identity. In such places, that person is the face of our community—quietly representing all of us.
And they deserve to be part of this story, too.
As America prepares to mark its 250th year, we are not here to compare histories, but to honor them. To add our stories—our grandparents’ labor, our communities’ struggles, our own civic awakening—to the mosaic of this country.
This is a call to my fellow Asian Americans: The 250th is not just a milestone. It is an invitation.
Let us rise—not to be recognized, but to be responsible. Let us walk forward—not as observers, but as stakeholders. Let us honor the ideals of liberty, equality, and unity—not as abstract symbols, but as values we’re ready to fight for, alongside those who have been doing so for centuries.
We are not “them.” We are not “those people.” We are We the People. And now—it’s our turn to show up.