I have not been as conscious of my appearance as I have been over the past few weeks. Like many women who work from home in the U.S., I have been comfortable in soft pants with elastic waists during these difficult times. Makeup is a thing of the past. Cookie crumbs on my shirt or a messy topknot are directly related to the amount of anxiety I feel at any given moment. In these ways, we are probably similar when we look in the mirror. But some of us are not.

I am Chinese-American. That is as obvious as the nose on my face, the eyes that disappear into half moons when I smile, the long black hair that catches the wind on a windy day.

When I go out for a walk or shopping, I tie my hair up, wear a baseball cap, sunglasses and a mask. I try to avoid exposing myself as much as possible, not only to protect myself from the virus, but also to protect myself from the people who somehow hold me responsible for the global pandemic. It was my mother's advice.

"You can never be too cautious these days. 'Cover up. I don't even cough in public. I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

Above all, my mother is a surgeon whose patients' lives are in her hands. She came to the U.S. alone from Taiwan after college with only two suitcases and some money sewn into the lining of her coat, first to get her PhD in cancer immunology and then her MD. In our conversation, however, it was unclear which she feared more: the virus or the publicity of my being Chinese in the age of coronaviruses. [My father grew up in New Orleans in the 1950s, before the civil rights movement began. His survival strategy: throw the first punch. As the next generation in my family - the first generation born in this country - I developed a different form of self-defense. My parents raised me to believe that being excellent meant defending yourself. My parents always told me, "If you excel, they can't deny you." So I defined myself as a high-achieving student, student body president, and captain of the squash team. Later, I became a New Yorker, a writer, and an editor-in-chief. Success was my cover, and I thought it would become a new identity in itself. But in all those efforts, I forgot what protection was for. To not be white in America.

Instead, I focused on building my American armor. The tears I shed as a child when I was bullied in the schoolyard motivated me to climb so high that I would never have to share airspace with ignorance again. Being an Asian American woman became my super power. I was able to outshine, outshine, outshine anyone.

Until this virus came along. My mother taught me that viruses are tricky things. It mutates and changes over time. It affects different individuals differently. It also has a life cycle. Early in the outbreak, when the RNA/DNA sequences that make up the virus are first unleashed, hungry, and ready to spread, the virus grows and grows. Panic is itself a virus. Its pathway is the same.

It is tempting to point fingers to identify where the fear mongering begins, but pointing fingers is what got us here in the first place. Fear, like a virus, is always here, waiting for the right environment, the right host. Fear and its nasty companion, racism, arrived on the shores of this country with the first explorers and settlers. It is embedded in the DNA of this country.

In recent weeks, the world map has turned red with mass infection. Tens of thousands have died. Many more will fall ill. The city streets are empty and people are taking refuge in their homes. Markets fell. We live on Netflix and Fresh Direct. Across the country, at bus stops, schools, supermarket aisles and parking lots, outside homes and businesses, America has become a minefield for people with faces like mine. In my home state of New York, the Attorney General has even set up a hotline to address the increase in assaults against the Asian American community.

Just a week ago, I suggested to my sister that she stock up on Tylenol and cough syrup in case she or her husband got sick.

"No way. I don't want to take that risk."

"What a risk." "It's for your health to get medicine just in case."

"I can't believe they think I'm sick and might infect people. I don't want to do that. You never know what people will do these days." [Not because I was brave, but because I had a racial blind spot. It was obvious to everyone but me. Hi Joyce, you must be Chinese." As I paid my bill, I called out to the others in line at the counter as if I were trying to be a pussy. Even in the midst of a pandemic, I wanted to be liked.

"I'm not sick," I said with a self-deprecating laugh. 'I'm a planner. I like to be prepared for any eventuality." I shrugged my shoulders in a Zainfeld-like manner. The only reason the other guests didn't smile was because they were New Yorkers being New Yorkers.

In light of my sister's remarks, I reconsidered my actions. If I had not been Asian, would I have felt the need to explain myself? None of the other customers justified their purchases. Had I already begun to succumb to the energy shift in the atmosphere? Or was I just being paranoid?" I am now hyper-aware of my mixed feelings of remorse on top of the double burden of being a person of color.

I have always been grateful for the plethora of privileges I have enjoyed throughout my life: a supportive family, education, and career opportunities. In recent weeks, I have found a new appreciation for some recently revoked privileges, such as the ability to go to the drugstore to protect my health without explanation or second thought. The ability to walk through Central Park and the streets of the city I call home as I used to. To feel welcome and safe in the life I have built for myself. Little did I know that those were gifts that could be taken away from me.

I come from a family of fighters and survivors. I remember my mother going to the hospital every day to care for her patients despite the onset of cancer and the vulnerability of age. Cancer does not succumb to coronaviruses. I think of my father, who won the resentful respect of the good old boys of my childhood with each and every beating. I think of my Chinese grandmother who survived the Japanese army during World War II by running away from them at night. Never once have I heard them express fear for all the anxiety, danger, and hardship they experienced as immigrants. At least not by name. I have no fear. When I want to regain my fortitude, I remember their sacrifices and their daily courage.

Let me be clear. I know now that saying this out loud is also a hard-won privilege, something my parents never had. I fear for my family. I am afraid of people who look like me. I fear the strong and the weak alike. The Chan family's excellent insurance policy does not protect us.

The coronavirus was a wake-up call for me, a reminder of the dark side of human nature, but also a shaking of a new self-awareness. To hold two conflicting ideas in one's head and acknowledge that both can be true is one of the greatest mental modifications. I can be fearful and yet fight. I can be proud and need support. I am both Asian and American. I cannot control what happens in the world around me, but I can take responsibility for my thoughts and actions.

"The virus has a peak and will eventually die," my mother explained to me over the phone. She can't do anything about her excellence and competence. It runs in my family. While she cannot protect us from disease or ignorance, I take comfort in the knowledge my mother imparts, in her ability to fluently deconstruct the complex and the ridiculous. How viruses can be weakened by their own mutations. How changes in environmental factors such as social distance create barriers to infection. How hosts (humans like you and me) begin to recognize immunity. We want to flatten the curve of fear as well and weaken the toxicity of hate.

Until this is all behind us, my mother's advice to you as a doctor and as a mother is to keep doing what makes you strong and happy. Wash your hands. Take off your shoes at the door. Do your work. Exercise. Eat well. Connect with friends. Don't overthink. Be safe.

These are principles that we should hold on to beyond this time of coronavirus spread. But what we have learned about ourselves in this moment of crisis, conflict, and contemplation will remain, imprinted on us as if encoded in our DNA.

Joyce Chang is working on a novel inspired by her family. Follow her on Instagram @thegetgo (opens in new tab).

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