I didn’t grow up thinking of myself as political. Like a lot of Asian Americans, I grew up just trying to survive. I grew up in a country that never let me forget I didn’t quite belong.
I was born in Winnipeg to Chinese and Burmese immigrant parents who crossed continents for a shot at something better. We moved to the Bay Area in the early ’90s, settling in Fremont before it became the Fremont people talk about today. It wasn’t polished or prosperous yet, but it was livable. My parents saw something in it, just like they saw something in this country. They saw the promise, and they did what immigrants do: they bet everything on it.
They believed in the American Dream — not as a myth, but as a plan. A belief that hard work, family, and sacrifice could lead to a better life. What they wanted isn’t uniquely Asian — it’s deeply American: Safety. Education. A fair shot to build something lasting. Asian American values have always aligned with the country’s highest ideals, even when the country didn’t see it yet.
At school, I was the “quiet nerd”— too Asian, too smart, too different to blend in. I wasn’t at the cool kids table because my shoes were always ratty and my clothes were from the second-hand store. I wasn’t picked for the team. I acted like it didn’t bother me. I laughed when they laughed, stayed quiet when they stared. I told myself invisibility counted as strength.
I didn’t know how to be liked, but I knew how to build. I spent my free time learning how to write code, not because someone told me to, but because it gave me a way to contribute. And perhaps more important, a way to matter. When people dismissed me, I answered with a better product. When they underestimated me, I shipped something cleaner, faster, more elegant. I didn’t push back with noise — I let the work speak.
Every project I launched, every tool I improved, every bug I crushed was part of the same quiet answer: I belong here, whether you see it or not. I didn’t need to fight to prove I was strong. I just had to keep building until no one could ignore what I’d made.
I didn’t have connections. I didn’t have wealth. What I had was a hand-me-down computer and a city phone book. At 14, I cold-called local businesses from the Yellow Pages until one paid me to build a website. That’s how I learned: If I wanted a future, I had to build it myself.
I studied computer engineering at Stanford, helped build early Palantir, and cofounded Posterous, a blogging platform Twitter eventually acquired. Years later, I cofounded Initialized Capital and backed companies like Coinbase and Instacart. That journey — like so many others in our community — wasn’t handed down. It was carved out of nothing but hustle, faith, and code. Asian American values don’t just belong in the American Dream. They’re the engine of it.
We spent our whole lives trying not to make noise, trying to stay safe by staying out of the way. But when our community came under attack while city leaders looked away, silence stopped being an option.
For me, and thousands of Asian Americans across San Francisco, that moment came when our elders were being assaulted in broad daylight. That was when then San Francisco District Attorney Chesa Boudin’s office let violent criminals walk free. When a 94-year-old grandmother was stabbed and the man who did it walked away with probation, that’s when the quiet became fury. That’s when we raised our hands, not to volunteer, but to say: enough.
And when we finally spoke, we were branded as “conservatives.” We were accused of being confused. We were told that we were being used by the right, that we didn’t understand the nuances of justice reform. But we understood something more basic: We understood that our families were being attacked. We understood that safety is not theoretical. It’s the condition for everything else we want to build.
Asian Americans didn’t grow up dreaming of protests or recalls. But when you stab our elders, when you punish our children for succeeding, when you treat our right to build wealth like a threat instead of a legacy, we organize. Safety, education, prosperity — these aren’t abstract ideals to us. They are lived values. And when we see them fall apart, we don’t look away. We do what we’ve always done. We carve our own destiny.
I remember what Fremont used to be. Families like mine didn’t wait for it to become great. We made it better. We demanded stronger schools, safer streets, real opportunities. Over time, more people came. Test scores climbed. Property values rose. Fremont became one of the most sought-after school districts in the country, not because someone gifted it excellence, but because working-class immigrant families demanded it and made it.
The same thing happened at Stonestown Mall. What used to be a dying retail space turned into a destination. Not because of luxury brands, but because of Asian small businesses. Boba shops, hot pot restaurants, skincare boutiques, modern cafes — these weren’t just commercial upgrades. They were signals of belief, the green shoots planted by Asian Americans who saw possibilities where others saw decline.
We live in San Francisco. We’re raising two boys here. I’ve donated hundreds of thousands of dollars not because I want clout, but because I want this city to work, for families, for the next generation of builders, for everyone. When our leaders stopped delivering safety and accountability, I spoke up, not as a technology leader, but as a dad. As a citizen. As someone who still believes this city can be the beating heart of innovation and dignity.
Asian American values are American values. Our belief in family, education, community safety, and the right to prosper are the very ideals the Founders crossed rivers and risked their lives to defend — life, liberty, and the pursuit of something better. We live those values not because we inherited them but because we earned them. We believe in this country because we helped build it. We’re not asking to belong anymore. We already do. And now we lead like it.
Want more Asian Voices of San Francisco? Email Forrest Liu at forrest@thevoicesf.org