When I was five, I immigrated to America from China with my mom and dad in search for a better future. We didn’t have much because we’d spent most of it getting set up in this new country — a low income apartment, a $500 dollar Oldsmobile and Asian grit.

My mom was a high level nurse in China — she was Deng Xiao Ping’s son’s nurse. And like many accomplished immigrants settling in a new country, she had to return to school to earn her nursing degree again to continue doing what she’d always been doing.

To pay for nursing school, she worked at a Japanese restaurant as a waitress. It was the best paying job that would employ someone who looked like us in our Midwestern town.

On the night of the Atlanta shooting, I didn’t know what to think. I felt desensitized. Like, of course it happened. It’s been happening. But this time it felt different. It kept nagging at me. For days. I felt sad. Then upset. Then after seeing the press conference of the police mentioning that this guy had a “bad day,” I was furious.

I’m left thinking about the last moments of these women’s lives. The terror they felt. The thoughts they had. Thoughts about their sons, daughters, husbands, friends, parents. They came to this country, just like my family did. For a better life. Grinding and sacrificing for the next generation. And that’s why this kept nagging at me. Had our circumstances been just a little different, this could’ve been my mom. And this is why it hurts so much.

My fellow 哥哥, 弟弟, 姐姐, 妹妹, my Asian brothers and sisters, uncles and aunties, this feels like an attack on all of us. Because in their eyes, we are never FROM from the right place. We will always be the other, the perpetual foreigner. We will never assimilate because we will never be white. But fortunately being white isn’t our destiny. Because being white isn’t a prerequisite for greatness.

And my dear Asian sisters, mothers and aunties, I know you experience the world as women in a much different way than I. I just want to let you know that I stand in solidarity with you and I support you and I’m here for you.

I’m a storyteller, a filmmaker. My parents aren’t proud of what I’m doing, but for the most part, they’ve accepted it. I love them. I appreciate their sacrifices. I understand what they want for me is safety, success and comfort. Things they were not afforded.

I also understand that it’s difficult for us to speak out. Not only are we silenced by white supremacy, but we’re also silenced by the forbearance of our collectivist culture. But I urge you to be strong, to be courageous, to give voice to those that can no longer do so.

I urge you to be empathetic, giving, nurturing but also firm. Share your sadness, your pain and your anger because we are human. Add to the crescendo of our collective voice in fighting for our lives. Because they’re killing us and we’re defending our right to live. To exist. To just be.

Be seen. Be heard. Because we are still alive. To give voice to what it means to be Asian. To give voice to what it means to be American.

Trevor Zhou is an LA based award-winning writer, director, activist and AAAFF alumni, winning both the audience and jury prize at the festival for Best Short Film with The Waltz. His foray into the industry began when he was serendipitously cast as a "real person" in a national commercial saying the word "trains." Reviews of his performance were favorable. His most recent short thriller/horror, Out of Order, is now playing on the festival circuit. Trevor is currently working on his directorial feature debut, Ann Arbor, a bittersweet love letter to his hometown.