“Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”

It was the first day of my subspecialty rotation. I’d left my husband, friends, and my home to spend the next six weeks some 2500 miles away. Like most third-year medical students on the first day of a new rotation, I felt a mixture of anxiety and anticipation for the challenge ahead.

Arriving on the twelfth floor before dawn, my badge did not work. As I waited for someone to come by, I double- and triple-checked the instructions saved on my phone to verify it was the correct floor—a ritual all too familiar.

A few minutes later, I saw a tall man in scrubs walking towards me. I politely asked,

“Hi. Do you mind letting me in? My badge isn’t working for some reason.”

“Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?” His deep, stern voice boomed with authority.

Feeling the immediate need to assert my presence as a petite Asian female, I replied confidently, “Yes, I’m sure.”

He opened the door, and I went to locate the team’s meeting place where two people, who I correctly assumed to be fellows, were going through patients’ charts.

“Hello, good morning,” I said, introducing myself.

Neither flinched.

I sat down beside the only table in the room. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?” echoed in my ears.

One fellow jumped up to grab his patient list from the printer, and I seized another opportunity to make my presence known.

“This is the fellows’ lounge where students are supposed to be, correct?”

“Are you a new student?”

“Yes, this is my first day.”

“Then, yes.” He left without comment to do his pre-rounds.

Another third fellow flounced in, complaining to the fellow who had been silent at her computer. Neither looked my way. I felt invisible.

While I awkwardly listened to their conversation, the same tall man who let me in walked in and immediately recognized me,

“Oh, you’re a student? I’m Mark, one of the fellows. Have the others introduced themselves? That’s Em and Jeff.” Jeff waved halfheartedly; Em remained unbothered.

And that’s how my week began. Interestingly, throughout the whole day I was in the OR, Em never acknowledged my presence, though she joked and talked about her weekend with everyone else.

The next day I mustered up the courage to enthusiastically greet the fellows in the room, expecting indifference. Despite how I was treated, I made sure that no one felt invisible to me. I introduced myself to everyone in the OR and connected with all the staff, helping with set up and break down after each case. I made sure that the patients knew me and understood that I would be scrubbing in and observing their operation.

On Tuesday, I met Dr. Nicholson. She bought me coffee, and we connected over our love for Korean food. She took me under her wing, and my week began to look brighter.

On Wednesday, Dr. Nicholson asked me to shadow Em. Jeff walked me over to her office.

“Hey, I brought a gift for you; Dr. Nicholson wanted her to shadow you for a bit.”

I winced at his sarcasm.

She looked at me and back to him, “Well, I’m really busy, so –” her voice trailed off.

“I’m so sorry, I’m only here until 3:00. Don’t worry about me and do what you have to do. I’m just here to observe.” I put my things down on a chair.

Why do I have to apologize when I’m exactly where I am assigned to be?

I kept quiet both in the office and exam rooms as Em cheerfully interacted with patients. Despite how I felt about her, I was happy to see that she cared about her patients—she was a good doctor.

One bubbly, elderly patient who came in begging for her drains to be removed, bantered with Em until she noticed me behind her.

“Hello! Don’t we know each other? I have seen you before.”

“Really? Do I look familiar?” I had been in this state for less than a week but had already been mistaken for someone else numerous times.

The patient explained why I looked familiar and where else in the hospital she may have seen me. Em interrupted:

“Who are you talking to? There’s no one there!” she laughed and stepped in front of me to obscure the patient’s view.

I may have laughed if “invisible” wasn’t exactly how she had made me feel all week.

“The girl behind you, the student!” The determined lady adjusted herself to see me.

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, stop it, I know her!” The lady insisted, fruitlessly “recalling” where she (never) met me.

My heart sank. Is this supposed to be funny? Am I really supposed to laugh? I felt lost—too befuddled to even react. So, I did the easier thing at that moment: I faked a smile and brushed aside the humiliation.

Em’s dismissive behavior wouldn’t determine mine. Before I left, I mustered the strength to look directly in her eyes. “Thanks for letting me observe. You’re a good doctor. Keep doing what you’re doing.” I meant every word I said.

“Aww, you’re sweet,” she beamed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When I walked in and cheerfully greeted everyone in the workroom the next day, Em turned and nodded. Was she finally seeing me?

Mark walked in and began chatting with me, “So, where did you grow up?”

I’m often asked this seemingly simple but loaded question.

“Well, I was originally born in South Korea, but—”

“Well, obviously,” he commented.

“What do you mean?” I asked but dreaded where this is going. “Do I have an accent? Is it my intonation?”

“That’s exactly it—your intonation. You don’t sound like you’re from here.”

I have lived in the States for 21 of my 27 years. I learned to read and write with my first-grade American classmates in a little Michigan school. When instructed to color in pictures of crayons with names of colors printed on them, I copied my classmate next to me.

Later, as I described my first day of American school to my curious mother, comparing it to my school days in Seoul, she giggled at my coloring worksheet.

“What’s so funny, Umma?”

“Yuna-yah! You colored the pink crayon black and the black crayon green! You got these all mixed up!”

“Umma, I just copied the guy next to me!” We both laughed. “I thought he knew!”

He didn’t. I was happy and relieved to realize that most of my classmates didn’t know how to read in their English language. I should be able to catch up quickly.

Now, 20 years later, I hear that I don’t sound like I’m from here. Colleagues and patients have said that my English sounds so “American.” Now I’m told that the way I speak announces that I’m foreign, not from here.

I worked with Mark in the OR for the rest of the day. He involved me as much as possible, and I appreciated his guidance. When I was closing an incision, another fellow noticed that I didn’t have enough light.

“Can you even see?” she asked, adjusting the light.

“She’s an Asian with glasses, what do you think?” – said Mark.

“Hey, that’s racist!” I blurted out, shocked. I looked around the theater—two nurses, a scrub tech, an anesthesiologist, the other fellow—but no one said a word. I tried to focus on suturing.

He seemed to think it was a clever joke, “Don’t report me now… Watch me get fired or something.” He chuckled, well aware that his comment may cost him dearly, if reported.

I was in shock for the rest of the day. The last place I had expected to hear such a blatantly racist comment was in a professional setting, from a highly educated person.

I wish I could tell everyone in the OR that day that I’ve been told I’m “pretty for being an Asian” and called “kiddo” and “little one” by seniors and attendings. That an elderly white male patient asked me for a massage during pre-rounds. That nurses are dismissive of me until they learn I’m 27 and married. That I’m often mistaken as some other healthcare worker. That these things happen to many petite, Asian women in medicine.

I wish I could have shared with Mark that while I’m sure he has a good heart, his unopposed comments to me were unprofessional, offensive, and hurtful: not acceptable in the OR or anywhere else. I wish I could caution the staff that silence is compliance. I wish I reminded Em that I am human. Truth is, I wanted to speak up for myself but couldn’t find my voice. I left the hospital that evening, drained, wondering where I was supposed to be, if not there.

Asians and non-Asians alike have been shocked to hear my story. But unfortunately, this is not only my story. It’s the story of the 72,627 Asian women physicians in the U.S. and thousands of female Asian medical trainees who frequently feel unseen or minimized. [1]

This leads me to wonder: Is this the best medicine can do? Do the words, “Do no harm” only apply to patients, or to all our colleagues? At what point do we actually speak up: at microaggressions, ignoring, preferential sidelining, or only at outright racist comments and behaviors? Just one voice would have made me visible.

Today, I ask on behalf of all my fellow Asian women in medicine: Are we supposed to be here?

Yuna Han is a medical student.