Early 2006, something happened that shook the entire Asian-American community to its core.
In Ferguson, Missouri, a white police officer's gun "accidentally" discharged and killed an innocent American woman. A grand jury refused to indict him. No charges. Nothing.
The rage was instant and white-hot.
It didn't matter what the law said or how many technicalities protected the officer; to Asian-Americans across the country, this was proof; raw, ugly proof; that systemic racism was alive and well, hiding in plain sight under the flag and the badge.
A man murdered an innocent woman and walked away without even losing his job. No amount of legal jargon could paper over that.
Social media (still pretty new back then) exploded. Asian-Americans flooded forums, listservs, and the still-baby version of online activism. A White House petition shot past six figures in days.
William Chen, one of the petition organizers, was shaking with anger when he heard the news. This was the "land of the free"? The same country that preached equality while Native Americans and Black Americans carried centuries of debt on their backs? Black communities had learned to make noise and fight together, so they'd clawed out some progress. Latinos were at least partially folded into the mainstream. But Asians? Less than 6% of the population, almost zero political power, always the quiet model minority; until we're the scapegoat, the punchline, or the corpse.
William remembered 2016 in his past life: NYPD officer Peter Liang, Asian himself, thrown under the bus for an accidental shooting while white officers walked free every week. The Oscars that same year, when the host cracked "jokes" about Asian kids that made the room roar with laughter. The discrimination never stopped; it just shape-shifted.
Not this time. Not in 2006.
William and a handful of organizers decided enough was enough. If nobody else was going to speak for the "Silent Asians," they would. They scheduled a massive protest march; not in Ferguson, not in D.C.; but in Philadelphia. The birthplace of the Declaration of Independence. The city where Martin Luther King Jr. once marched. Let freedom ring, right?
They reached out to every Asian-American elected official they could find. Crickets. Not one RSVP. The same politicians the community had fundraised for, phone-banked for, voted for; silent.
William was gutted. They needed a speaker; someone with name recognition, someone who could turn a thousand marchers into a movement. But Asian-American celebrities were rare, and the ones who existed weren't touching this with a ten-foot pole.
Mainstream media? Already ignoring the story completely.
So William did the only thing left: he put out an open call online.
"Looking for any prominent Asian-American willing to speak at the march. Rights aren't given; they're taken."
Thousands answered the call. People flew in from California, Texas, Seattle; old grandmothers with canes, teenagers skipping school, first-gen immigrants still carrying accents from Guangdong to Saigon. They carried hand-painted signs and banners that read:
"First they ignore you. Then they laugh at you. Then they attack you. Then you win."
"Fair treatment for ALL."
"JUSTICE. NOW."
Philly PD escorted the march; four bicycle cops in front, three patrol cars in back; but they kept their distance. The chants echoed down Broad Street:
"WE WANT JUSTICE!"
"NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE!"
They carried giant portraits of Martin Luther King Jr. to force bystanders to look. Black Philadelphians stopped, read the flyers, nodded in recognition. A few even joined.
William kept scanning the crowd, praying some recognizable face would step up. A Black pastor had already given a fiery speech about solidarity among minorities, but they needed an Asian voice. Someone the cameras couldn't ignore.
Then the crowd started buzzing.
A young woman with long black hair, black leather pants, denim jacket, and boots that meant business strode toward the stage. She moved like she owned the street.
Whispers rippled outward.
"Isn't that the American woman running for office?"
"Assembly candidate Chen finally showed!"
Candidate Chen took the mic first; short, sharp, powerful.
"We always wait until there's a crisis to stand together," she said. "That has to change. We need to be in the room when the laws are written, not just marching when they're broken. I've been told my whole campaign that I don't belong; because of my face, because of my name. Today we say: we do belong. The media can ignore a thousand Asian faces, but they can't erase the seed we're planting. One day we will no longer be the Silent Minority!"
Thunderous applause.
Then; another woman climbed the steps.
Long black hair framing a small, pale face. Sharp, slightly upturned eyes that somehow looked sweet and fierce at the same time. Red lipstick, confident smile.
The crowd lost it.
"JOY GRANT?!"
"No way; THE Joy Grant?!"
"The director? Here?!"
William's jaw dropped. He'd seen Source Code. Everyone had. And now the biggest Asian-American name in Hollywood was walking straight toward the microphone in the middle of a civil-rights march.
Joey Grant grabbed the mic like she'd been doing this her whole life.
The sun caught her hair and turned her into a silhouette of pure fire.
And when she started speaking, every single person on that Philadelphia street knew they were watching history.