As the United States approaches the 250th anniversary of its independence, communities across the country are preparing to commemorate this historic milestone. Yet for many Asian Americans, the emotions surrounding this anniversary are complex. While the nation celebrates 250 years of freedom, democracy, and self-determination, Asian Americans continue to navigate the legacies of exclusion, unequal access to citizenship, and ongoing challenges related to immigration and belonging.

Asian presence in the United States dates back centuries, but for much of American history, Asians were legally barred from naturalization. The Chinese Exclusion Act, the Asiatic Barred Zone, and other discriminatory immigration policies prevented generations of Asian immigrants from becoming citizens, owning property, or fully participating in civic life. It was not until the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 that large-scale Asian immigration became possible, reshaping the demographic landscape of the country.

Today, Asian Americans are one of the fastest-growing racial groups in the United States. Yet many still face prolonged waits—sometimes decades long—to obtain permanent residency or citizenship due to quota backlogs. At the same time, recent ICE enforcement actions and heightened anxieties around immigration have created fear and uncertainty for many families. In this climate, the idea of celebrating 250 years of independence can feel emotionally complicated.

Still, this anniversary offers Asian Americans a powerful opportunity: to assert our belonging, highlight our contributions, and claim our place in the American story.

Asian Americans have shaped the nation in countless ways, building railroads, cultivating farms, serving in the military, advancing science and technology, enriching arts and culture, and strengthening communities. From early pioneers to today’s leaders in business, medicine, education, and public service, Asian Americans have helped define what America is and what it can become.

The 250th anniversary invites us to tell these stories boldly and unapologetically. It is a moment to remind the nation that Asian Americans are not newcomers to the American narrative—we are contributors, innovators, and bridge-builders whose experiences reflect both the struggles and the aspirations of the country.

AAUC, in partnership with other community organizations, is preparing a celebration later this year that will honor this dual reality: the pride of being part of America’s ongoing journey, and the responsibility to advocate for a more inclusive future. The event will highlight Asian American history, honor community leaders, and create space for dialogue about immigration, equity, and civic participation.

At a time when global conflicts and domestic tensions have subdued the national mood, Asian Americans can use this anniversary to promote unity, understanding, and shared purpose. We can uplift stories of resilience—of families who overcame exclusion, of immigrants who waited years for citizenship, of youth who are shaping the future with confidence and creativity.

Most importantly, we can affirm a simple truth: Asian Americans belong here. Our histories, our labor, our cultures, and our dreams are woven into the fabric of the nation. The 250th anniversary is not just a commemoration of the past, it is an invitation to shape the next chapter of America’s story.

Vietnam

Hanna began with Vietnam, the war that perhaps most durably shaped the Americans’ pessimistic view of war and later the demographic map of cities across the U.S. “First, you have the justification, which was to stop the spread of communism,” Jack said. “Then you have escalation, and then came the overwhelming military deployments.” Millions of soldiers and civilians died. The Khmer Rouge’s rise and the resulting killing fields became a catastrophe in itself, claiming two million Cambodian lives. This produced its own wave of refugees in the years that followed.

“Once you go into a country that is not your own to fight a war, you have to develop alliances and relationships with the people in the community there,” Hanna said. “And if you lose the war and retreat, those people are at risk.” The obligation to those allies was real, he argued, but the plan to honor it was almost entirely absent. “We had no specific plan how to assist them thereafter.”

What emerged from that failure of planning was the U.S. Refugee Act of 1980 and the creation of the Office of Refugee Resettlement, the modern framework for absorbing displaced populations, built not from foresight but from a moral reckoning after the fact. “That began the system, so to speak, of how we have these immigrants come to the United States and be absorbed and acclimated,” The system has improved over the decades, he acknowledged, but it remains far short of what a best-case response would look like.

Somalia

Somalia, Hanna said, represented a somewhat different kind of intervention, one driven as much by humanitarian crisis as by ideology. A devastating famine and a civil war had torn the country apart by the early 1990s, and the United States entered in 1992 ostensibly to stabilize the situation. But he was careful not to reduce it to simple altruism. “Many times there are other factors involved that are above and beyond just ideological political matters, including corruption, including famine, and other countries’ ulterior motives for their own political and economic purposes.”

The result was nearly 98,000 Somali immigrants eventually making their way to the United States, with the largest concentration settling in Minnesota, a fact that would loom over the broader discussion of the ICE incursions (the topic that AAUC upcoming summit in Minneapolis plans to address). What distinguished the Somali community, he argued, was the degree to which it had organized itself. “There was a high rate of naturalization that occurred for them, and that is very, very unique, and I think a reflection of the strength of the self-organization that the community has gone through.” It was a point that would echo later, when Kim Sin held up the Somali community as a model his own Cambodian community was still striving to emulate.

Iraq and Afghanistan

Hanna grouped the post-9/11 wars in Iraq and Afghanistan together, not because they were identical, but because they shared a common origin point and a common pattern of consequences. Both were launched in the wake of September 11, 2001, though the justifications diverged sharply.

The Iraq War, he said, was sold to the American public and to Congress on the claim that Saddam Hussein possessed weapons of mass destruction. “Did not exist,” Hanna said flatly. “A complete failure as far as the justification is concerned.” The humanitarian consequences were staggering: over 600,000 Iraqis killed, millions more displaced. American forces withdrew in 2011, only to return in 2013 and 2014 when the vacuum they left was filled by ISIS. “We still have about 2,000 troops there,” he noted, a presence that continues without a clear endgame, two decades after the original invasion.

Afghanistan presented what Hanna called a more defensible justification, given Al-Qaeda’s operational presence there following 9/11. But the outcome was similarly grim. Over 100,000 Afghan civilians died, along with 2,400 Americans. And the withdrawal, when it finally came in August 2021, was chaotic. The Taliban moved swiftly to consolidate power, and the Afghans who had spent years cooperating with American forces — translators, administrators, soldiers, civil society leaders — were left acutely exposed. “The consequence was disastrous,” Hanna said. “And we still suffer the consequences of that political, economic, and military defeat.”

More than 190,000 Afghans eventually immigrated to the United States on the grounds that they had assisted American efforts and that the U.S. bore a moral and legal obligation to protect them from Taliban retribution. But Hanna argued that obligation has since been abandoned. “Sadly, in my opinion, America has failed with regard to the obligations it has to the Afghans,” he said. “And now is not letting any of them in, and just this past week has decided to send them to the Congo.”

Syria

Hanna saved Syria for last, describing it as personal as it is the country of his own heritage. A civil war that ground on from 2011 to 2025 produced what he called one of the largest refugee crises in recent history: 13 million people displaced, 7 million of them driven across international borders. “It was one of the largest groups of refugees since WWII,” he said. The United States absorbed approximately 50,000 of those community members, a fraction of the total, and a number that has now effectively been reduced to zero under the current administration. “That has been practically completely terminated,” Hanna said, “as it is with the Afghans, since the new administration has come into power.”

Taken together, he argued, these four cases, and the dozens of other interventions that Fong would display in a closing slide, reveal something important about the relationship between American foreign policy and American demographics. “These are just some of the examples of what’s occurred in the past,” Hanna said. “There are common experiences. America goes into these wars, and what are the consequences of us leaving — and in many instances having failed military efforts — and the refugees and immigrants it creates? The lessons are there, if we choose to learn from them.”

Kim Sin’s Story

After Jack provided the historical context, the town hall’s guest speaker offered the human story behind it. Kim Sin is the co-founder of the Cambodian American Partnership of Minnesota and a longtime community advocate based in Rochester. He was three years old when his family fled Cambodia.

Describing his earliest memories of the camp on the Thai-Cambodian border, he said, “I thought that was my home. Then I got very curious, wanting to know why I could not leave the barbed wire fence.” His mother’s answer came slowly and heavily, Cambodia was under the Khmer Rouge, and because his father had been a soldier, the entire family would have been executed had they stayed. “My family had to take a risk and escape,” Sin said. “All the educated, all the wealthy, all the people with knowledge were executed because they were considered a risk and a rebellion against the new government. That’s why we are here.”

Sin spent three years moving between camps before being flown to the Philippines for six months of medical screening and processing. The camps were orderly in their way, governed by permission slips and barbed wire, rationed food and routine uncertainty. “Me and my sister would have to line up, holding the same bowl, and we would get a rice porridge,” he recalled. “My mom would sit in the sun, waiting for food distribution.” There was no school. There was no stability. There was only the next camp, and then the next.

Aid workers showed refugees American films, glimpses of a country that seemed almost fantastical. “It showed, like, it was heaven on earth,” Sin said with a laugh. “Big houses, mansions, luxury cars. I was just praying to come to the U.S.” He paused. “When I got to the U.S., the perspective that Hollywood portrayed was not the way that I imagined.”

Arriving in America

Kim was six years old when he landed in Rochester, Minnesota, speaking not a word of English. The support systems of the early 1980s were, by his account, almost nonexistent. “We didn’t have a really supported system in place back in the early 80s,” he said. “It was new to the U.S. government, they didn’t even have any structure.”

Families were required to report to government offices every three months to maintain healthcare and cash assistance, with little guidance on how to navigate those bureaucracies. Transportation was a constant problem. “We didn’t know how to use a taxi. We didn’t know how to use the transportation that a city offers. There was no one to help and guide our community.” Grocery stores were out of reach. The housing they were placed in was cheap, but it was also isolated. “They kind of threw us into a community,” Sin said. “They put us in the worst of the worst.”

Those who needed help getting to a doctor’s appointment had to pay out of pocket for assistance, a crushing burden. “If you had six people in your family, you’d have to pay more. The most would be $100, the least $40. But back in the 80s, that was a lot of money.” Even small costs added up to impossible math for families with no income, no language, and no map of the system they’d landed in.

And then there was the matter of who Sin was at home versus who he was expected to become at school. “I had to live in two cultures,” he said. “My parents were trying to pull me not to stray away from Cambodian culture, but at school, my peers, the environment — it was pulling me to live and be an American. It was very, very tough.”

The Weight That Carries Forward

Fong asked Sin to explain intergenerational trauma, which comes up in a lot of conversations he has with the Southeast Asian American community.

“A lot of the parents and grandparents were experiencing the Khmer Rouge War,” he said. “They saw people getting killed in front of them, family members executed in front of them. So coming to a new country, even though the kids are growing up here or born here, there’s a lot of restrictions.” The fear that had kept parents alive in Cambodia, including hypervigilance, secrecy, distrust, followed them into American living rooms and didn’t know how to stop. “The trauma of their past experience during the Khmer Rouge War carried on with them.”

When children pushed back, as American children do, parents often couldn’t distinguish normal adolescent independence from genuine danger. “They fear of losing their kid. They hear about kidnapping, people getting murdered in America. So the trauma just keeps going.” The result was a growing distance between generations, and within that distance, damage. “There’s a gap that keeps on pushing and pushing, and there’s tension, and there’s abuse in that, where the father feels the kid is not giving them respect. And when they come to a new country, the respect is gone.”

Fathers who had been engineers, lawyers, or government officials in Cambodia arrived in America to find that none of it transferred. “Doctors, lawyers, engineers — when they come here, they end up cleaning toilets, doing housekeeping work, because their status in Cambodia did not carry over,” Sin said. “Knowing that their status as a toilet cleaner is an embarrassment for them, it was tough. They feel degraded.” Without professional standing, without language, without a pathway back to the life they had known, some turned to alcohol, gambling, or worse. Their children watched. “Parents become alcoholic, they have gambling issues, and that makes it harder for the younger generation — they’re being pulled and prevented from moving on.”

Yen Marshall, the AAUC’s board president, joined the conversation. She and her family fled Vietnam by boat. “Depending on how we left that situation, we have a different view on how to kind of move forward,” she said. But she also described a dynamic that played out in households across every immigrant community on the call: children who learned English faster than their parents suddenly found the family’s power structure quietly, uncomfortably reversed. “In a short time, your kids know more than you, they’d be your translator when you go and ask for help. With that table turned around, the frustration builds, and when they’re not doing things the way that you feel they should, the conflict inside the house is huge.” Her father, who had run his own business in Vietnam and employed multiple people, arrived in America washing dishes in a restaurant. The shame and disorientation of that fall, she said, had nowhere to go. “There’s no way for them to communicate it out.”

The consequences showed up in statistics that still trouble Sin today. “In the 80s and 90s, there was a high number of suicides. We see a lot of young generation, they shot themselves, they couldn’t deal with the issues at home.” Girls dropped out of school, became pregnant in junior high. Boys joined gangs. “They were using a high number of drugs that was causing them to be suicidal, and some of them overdosed. Some of them died in their cars, sleeping in the car.” He paused. “That was a big issue within our community.”

Fong asked about the comparison to other Southeast Asian immigrant communities and whether Cambodians had fared differently than Vietnamese or Hmong Americans. Sin didn’t soften his answer. “We are considered the lowest and least educated community. The last time I got the report, 58% of Cambodians are failing in school.” He attributed part of this to a wound that is uniquely Cambodian.

Michael Siv, a Sacramento-based advocate and filmmaker whose own family fled Cambodia, joined the conversation, offering this grim distinction, “The Khmer Rouge is our own people. A quarter of the population massacred. There’s not a lot of dialogue about when your own kind just massacred your whole country.” He drew a pointed contrast with other refugee communities. “The Hmong can blame America, they can blame Laos or the Vietnamese government. But for Cambodians, nobody really talks about it. Your own people pretty much just massacred your whole country. So, there’s a mistrust in creating that conversation.” That silence, he argued, has made the communal reckoning necessary for healing almost impossible to begin, and has contributed to a fragmentation that distinguishes the Cambodian American experience from that of other Southeast Asian communities. Sin agreed: “It’s very hard and emotional for the elderly to share. A lot of tears. A lot of complication. We try, slowly, to get them to share their feeling about their past.”

What Healing Looks Like

Fong turned the conversation toward recovery, asking what communities and organizations are doing to address the psychological burden carried across generations. The responses from around the call converged on a single word: community.

Charlene Reyes, 19, a Sacramento member of the youth organization Young and Rooted and the daughter of immigrant parents said, “I can’t say much about what the older generation is doing to find healing,” she said. “But I know that even in the younger generation, kids my age, kids younger than me, they are affected by our parents’ past and the trauma they went through. It’ll always be with us, throughout the generations.” What has helped, she said, is simply not being alone in it. “A lot of kids of immigrants — I’m first generation, my mom was an immigrant, my dad’s an immigrant — it shows that there’s a lot of people, a lot of kids, that have parents that are like that. I’ve seen it help a lot of these kids. I’ve seen it help myself. To know that we all have the same sort of struggles, similar enough that we can understand each other without even talking about it.”

Yen Marshall echoed that, drawing on her own experience as a boat refugee from Vietnam. She described a particular burden that many first-generation immigrants carry but rarely name: survivor’s guilt. “A lot of people died on that journey leaving,” she said. “Being the survivors, we felt very lucky already. But what about all those who died and couldn’t make it?” That guilt, she argued, became a kind of fuel. “Part of the immigrants, the generation that came here, felt that it was their responsibility to make a difference, not just in their own lives, their family, but the community surrounding them.” Building up the community, she said, was how many first-generation immigrants processed what they had survived. But communication remained the great obstacle. The trauma left people frustrated and inarticulate, unable to express what they carried. “There’s no way for them to communicate it out.”

What she came back to, ultimately, was the same thing Charlene had said, and the same thing Kim Sin had said: the need for places where people can simply be together without explaining themselves. “Community is a place to unwind, to reconnect, to take a breather — even from your own family,” Marshall said. “Building a strong community where new immigrants, or even older immigrants who’ve been here for a while, can reach out and lean on you — I think that’s one of the best ways to move forward.”

Building the Basket Back

Sin closed the meeting with a message that was honest about the scale of the problem and clear-eyed about what it will take. The Cambodian community, he said, is like “a broken basket, we’re trying to weave that basket back together, but it’s just hard to pull that bamboo string back. It’s going to take many, many generations.”

His own model of leadership, he explained, is rooted in this: “I don’t need your money, but I need your participation. That’s the difference.” Through the Rochester Cultural Center, which he helped found, and through his work connecting with Somali, Vietnamese, and Hmong leaders across Minnesota, he has been studying what makes other communities resilient. “I see why they are so successful. It’s because they know how to support each other. And that’s what our Cambodian community needs.”

He saved his most direct words for the broader audience — for the non-immigrants and policymakers and fellow advocates on the call. “It’s hard to live in a situation where your family’s not educated, where your family doesn’t have the resources. We need to help them in a way that lets them move forward and be able to live the American dream.” He thanked AAUC for reaching out and asking the simple question: what can we do to help your community? “Coming together is so important,” Sin said. “I’m just one person. But how do I build new leadership. That is the challenge I see.”

In closing, Fong reinforced a broader argument that America has never fully accounted for the human cost of its foreign wars. A slide he shared at the close of the session catalogued dozens of military interventions over the past 60 years, from the Dominican Republic in 1965 to the current conflict in Iran. He called it, with sarcasm, “the U.S. military resume.” “We don’t really factor in the cost of refugee displacement when we enter these wars,” he said. “Each of these has produced displaced populations, people with varied stories and circumstances, coming to America.”

Editor’s Note: AAUC encourages you to get involved in commemorating the 250th Anniversary of the Declaration of Independence by submitting a story or hosting a local event. For more information and to join the mailing list visit DOI250AA.

Celebrating Social Progress Since the Founding

In 1776, when the founders of the thirteen North American colonies resolved to separate from the British Empire, they confronted the unprecedented challenge of designing a nation grounded in reason rather than inherited monarchy or religious dogma. The drafting committee of the Declaration of Independence had to articulate the origin of political authority and define the relationship between the people and their government. Thomas Jefferson, as the principal drafter, with contributions from Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, crafted the sentence often called “the greatest ever written”:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

This formulation asserts that rights arise naturally at birth and that individuals delegate limited authority to their elected representatives to form a government. This arrangement constitutes a social contract that holds public officials and governmental institutions accountable. On this basis, the Declaration maintains that whenever a government becomes destructive of these ends, “it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government.” Abraham Lincoln later distilled this principle as “government of the people, by the people, and for the people.”

This philosophical framework represented a major milestone in the history of political thought. However, the realization of its ideals has been an ongoing process. At the time of the Declaration’s signing, “all men” applied only to white male property owners, excluding women, enslaved people, and Native Americans. Although discrimination persists, a central dimension of American social progress over the past 250 years has been the gradual expansion of equal rights to all people.

Finding Common Ground in Twenty-First-Century America

The principles articulated in the Declaration unified a diverse population of colonists, immigrants, and pilgrims by defining a shared foundation and common aspirations. Today, the United States confronts a transformed global economic order, an AI-driven technological revolution, and demographic changes that are leading toward a minority-majority society. Meeting these challenges and developing solutions that benefit all Americans is a matter of collective interest.

The question, therefore, is whether the same principles—now understood to include all individuals—can once again help Americans find common purpose and renewed aspirations.

We commemorate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration because of its self-evident truths, its affirmation of human equality and unalienable rights, the Constitution that safeguards those rights, and the democratic institutions based on checks and balances together provide a durable framework capable of guiding a diverse population through peaceful evolution. The collective wisdom derived from multiple civilizations and cultural traditions surpasses that of any single source. Embracing a pluralistic society and strengthening a multiethnic democracy offer a path through which the American people can create a brighter future for generations to come.

AAPI Contributions to the American Story

Long mischaracterized as “economic threats” or “perpetual foreigners,” Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders (AAPI) have been integral contributors to the American story. We, too, affirm the truths expressed in the Declaration of Independence.

Commemorating the Declaration’s 250th anniversary offers the AAPI community an opportunity to deepen our understanding of the “American DNA” embodied in its founding principles. For many first-generation immigrants, this understanding helps bridge the psychological gap between feeling like outsiders and embracing an American identity. For future generations, it reinforces both love of country and pride in their ancestral heritage.

In an immigrant nation, the status of any minority group is shaped by its contributions and leadership. The 25 million AAPI Americans—constituting 7.2 percent of the population—have already made, and will continue to make, distinctive contributions as the United States enters an AI-empowered, pluralistic era. AAPI communities must participate fully in the America250 commemoration as stakeholders and storytellers. As heirs to ancient civilizations, AAPI Americans can bring the essence of their cultural traditions into American economic, social, and political life, thereby enriching the national fabric and advancing democratic leadership.

While the AAPI community shares certain interests, it is equally an inseparable part of a broader community of shared destiny with all Americans.

Achieving Our Shared American Dream

The assertion that “all humans are created equal” lays the foundation for the United States as a land of opportunity. This principle is the core of the shared American Dream. In his 1931 work The Epic of America, James Truslow Adams described this dream not as one of material wealth, but as:
“a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.”

Martin Luther King Jr. further refined this vision by calling for a society in which individuals are judged solely by “the content of their character.”

Achieving this shared dream requires both sociological and biological processes. Social progress often emerges through negotiation, conflict resolution, and legislation enacted through democratic institutions. Such progress occurs gradually, but it transforms society on a broad scale. Interracial marriage accelerates integration at the individual and family levels. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the multiracial population grew from 9 million in 2010 to 33.8 million in 2020—a 276 percent increase.

Recognizing that humanity is ultimately one, we must strive for a society in which every person can achieve their full potential and live a fulfilling life. Communication and interaction across different backgrounds foster understanding and appreciation. Appreciation cultivates respect, and respect builds the trust necessary for collaboration.

As we commemorate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, it is up to all of us to work together toward realizing our shared American Dream.

Get Involved

AAUC encourages you to get involved in commemorating the 250th Anniversary of the Declaration of Independence by submitting a story or hosting a local event. For more information and to join the mailing list visit DOI250AA.

DOI250AA is a national, community-guided initiative of the Chinese American Community Action Planning Council. We are an independent effort shaped by Asian American leaders, educators, bridge-builders, and supporters across the United States. For more information, visit doi250aa.net.

Both featured elders in their 90s sharing firsthand accounts of wartime suffering. At the Chinese commemoration, four survivors spoke emotionally in Mandarin about the Japanese military’s brutal invasion from 1937 to 1945. Their stories—of infants silenced to protect hiding families, of young women raped and murdered—were haunting. These were war crimes, yet unlike Germany, Japan has never formally acknowledged or apologized for them. Remarkably, the speakers expressed no bitterness toward the Japanese people.

The internment story was told by Ms. Sudo, a frail Japanese American woman, accompanied by her son. Through photos and facts, she described how her family of ten children was forcibly relocated and confined for four years. Her camp housed 200 people per cabin, watched by armed guards. Despite poor conditions, children received schooling from outside teachers. Her siblings bore lasting trauma—some served in the U.S. Army, and others never spoke of the camps again.

Over 120,000 Japanese Americans were unjustly imprisoned under the Enemy Alien Act. Few Americans today know of this history, and even fewer understand the atrocities committed by Japan’s imperial military.

These events reminded me that the same ethnic group can be both victim and perpetrator, depending on circumstance. Is this human nature—or the result of our environment?

War breeds atrocity. Racism fuels war. What will it take to build peace?

As we reflect on the stories shared in these October events, we are reminded that history is not just a record of facts—it is a living memory carried by those who endured its weight. The voices of WWII survivors, both in China and in the U.S., speak to the resilience of the human spirit and the urgency of truth-telling.

Their testimonies challenge us to confront injustice, to recognize the pain inflicted by war and racism, and to ask ourselves what kind of future we are shaping. In honoring these elders, we do more than remember—we recommit to building a society rooted in empathy, accountability, and peace.

Let us carry their stories forward. Let us educate, advocate, and unite across communities. And let us never forget that silence enables injustice, but remembrance can inspire change.

The Mid-Autumn Festival, also known as the Moon Festival, is a cherished tradition across East and Southeast Asia. Rooted in moon worship and harvest celebration, it honors the full moon as a symbol of reunion, abundance, and reflection. Central to the festival are tales like that of Chang’e, the moon goddess who ascended to the heavens, and the Jade Rabbit, eternally pounding elixirs in lunar solitude.

Growing up in Hong Kong, I experienced the festival in its full vibrancy. Children gathered on public terraces, each carrying handmade lanterns lit with real candles. The air shimmered with color and warmth as we paraded our glowing creations through the night. The scent of mooncakes filled the air, their golden crusts hiding lotus seed paste and salted egg yolks. Families reunited under the moonlight, sharing stories, laughter, and quiet joy.

Years later, I am living in Minneapolis and participating in a Mid-Autumn Festival organized by local Asian American associations. While the effort was heartfelt — with performances and manufactured large red lanterns hanging from the ceiling — the atmosphere felt subdued. The magic I remembered was missing: no candlelit lanterns, no spontaneous terrace gatherings, no moon-gazing rituals.

The answer to rekindling that glow lies in intentionality and community. To revive the festival’s essence, we must go beyond surface-level celebration. Lantern workshops, mooncake tastings paired with storytelling, and terrace-style gatherings in public parks can recreate the communal magic.

Even China’s modern Chang’e lunar missions offer a poetic bridge. Since 2007, the China National Space Administration has launched a series of robotic missions named Chang’e, each pushing the boundaries of exploration:

• Chang’e 1–2: Orbited and mapped the moon’s surface.
• Chang’e 3–4: Landed rovers, including the historic far-side landing.
• Chang’e 5–6: Returned lunar samples, including the first from the moon’s far side.

These spacecrafts are engineering achievements and reflect our culture. Just as Chang’e flew to the moon in legend, these missions carry the hopes of a nation skyward. Imagine children crafting lanterns shaped like moon rovers, learning about both the goddess and the robot named after her.

Whether through myth or machine, the moon connects us all. And each year, as it rises full and bright, it invites us to remember, to dream, and to reach.

The Filipino American National Historical Society established FAHM in 1992, and it was officially recognized by the U.S. Congress in 2009. October was chosen because the first recorded presence of Filipinos in what is now the United States occurred on October 18, 1587, when Filipino sailors, called “Luzones Indios,” landed in Morro Bay, California, aboard a Spanish galleon.

Filipino Americans have since become the third-largest Asian American group in the U.S. with 19% of the Asian population. They have a presence in military service, healthcare, education, arts, and more. From early Filipino farmworkers in California in the 1920s and 30s, to Filipino nurses who have formed the backbone of America’s healthcare system, their contributions have helped shape American society in significant ways.

FAHM aims to educate people about these histories, which are often overlooked in mainstream narratives. Events throughout the month include lectures, film screenings, cultural performances, and community gatherings.

Importantly, FAHM distinguishes itself from cultural celebrations by focusing on history, highlighting key events like the Delano Grape Strike of 1965, led in part by Filipino labor leader Larry Itliong, and the longstanding presence of Filipinos in Louisiana since the 18th century.

In celebrating Filipino American History Month, communities across the country reflect not only on past struggles and achievements but also on the ongoing efforts for representation, equity, and recognition in American society. It is a time for learning, honoring, and celebrating Filipino American identity and legacy.

October Filipino American History Month Celebrations

Filipino American History Month Celebration, Long Beach, CA, October 7, 2025

San Diego Filipino Film Festival, San Diego, CA, October 10-12, 2025

Pinoy Festival Las Vegas, October 10-12, 2025

Historical Fil-Am Tour w/ Prof. Tiongson, Washington, D.C., October 11, 2025

3rd Annual Bayanihan Festival, Elk Grove, CA, October 12, 2025

Filipino American Block Party, San Francisco, October 18, 2025

Houston Filipino Street Festival, Sugarland, TX, October 18, 2025

FilAm Fiesta, Los Angeles County Library, October 18, 2025

Filipino American Fiesta, Ventura, CA, October 19, 2025

FilAm Fiesta, Anaheim, CA, October 24, 2025

Filipino American History Month Symposium, Portland OR, October 26, 2025

City of San Francisco, multiple events and activities

FilCom Center, Honolulu, HI, multiple events and activities

Filipino American National Historical Society, Chicago, IL, multiple events and activities

By the early 20th century, Chinese families had established small grocery stores throughout the Delta, primarily serving African American communities who were often excluded from white-owned businesses. These stores became vital fixtures in segregated towns, with Chinese Americans occupying a unique racial space, neither fully accepted as white nor relegated entirely to the status of Black. They were frequently marginalized, facing exclusion from public schools and certain legal protections, yet they managed to carve out a niche for themselves within a rigid caste system.

The Chinese community remained relatively small but tightly knit, building churches, forming associations, and creating informal social networks to maintain cultural traditions and support economic growth. Over time, Chinese Americans in the Delta pushed for educational rights, eventually gaining access to white schools in the mid-20th century.

By the late 20th century, with the decline of the small-town grocery business and increased educational and economic mobility, many Chinese families moved to urban areas or out of the region entirely. Today, while few remain, their legacy persists in the oral histories, cultural institutions, and family-owned buildings that dot the Delta.

The Chinese in the Mississippi Delta represent a powerful story of resilience, adaptation, and identity formation in the face of racial segregation and economic hardship, contributing a unique thread to the broader tapestry of Southern and American history.

Related Event

Rural Chinatowns & Hidden Sites Conference, October 15–17, 2025, Memphis, Tennessee. Hosted by 1882 Foundation.

Recommended Reading by AAUC

The Legacy Of The Mississippi Delta Chinese, NPR, March 18, 2017

The Mississippi Delta Chinese 100 Years Ago, Antropology News, April 17, 2025

The Real History of the Complex Relationship Between Chinese and Black Americans in the Mississippi Delta, Smithsonian Magazine, May 13, 2025

HAP’s comprehensive programs span five key areas: workforce development, children and family services, economic and community development, health and wellness, and social enterprise. The organization’s services include workforce training, a CDFI (Community Development Financial Institution) for small business loans, youth enrichment programs, and mental health support. HAP’s approach is rooted in cultural sensitivity and a deep understanding of the unique challenges faced by the communities it serves. With over 80% of its board and staff identifying as Hmong, Southeast Asian, or immigrant/refugee, HAP remains a trusted and vital resource, working to foster a stronger, more inclusive Minnesota.

Summary

Connecticut has become the first state in the U.S. to mandate Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) studies in K–12 public schools. The law was passed in May 2022 and is taking effect this fall. It aims to provide students with a more accurate and inclusive understanding of American history. Rather than limiting lessons to cultural celebrations, the curriculum focuses on historical context, contributions, and challenges faced by AAPI communities.

At Simsbury High School, English teacher Michelle Henry has been ahead of the curve, piloting an AAPI course for the past three years that offers college credit. With guidance from the University of Connecticut, students explore AAPI history through topics like the Japanese incarceration during WWII and the Chinese Exclusion act, while also researching their own family histories. Henry believes this helps students, especially those from AAPI backgrounds, feel seen and connected. Former student Langley Hong said the course deepened his understanding of his Korean heritage and strengthened his bond with his grandparents. Henry emphasizes the importance of empathy and says AAPI content can be woven into various subjects, not just standalone classes.

Read story by Jeremy Chen on the NBC News Connecticut website.