My American Dream: The Journey of a Young Asian American Woman in Politics

My name is Christy Lam and I am a third year Computer Science Student at Georgia State University. Now, you may be wondering, why is an aspiring web developer here to speak about her political journey?

It’s funny because if you told me months ago that I’d be giving my first ever political speech, I would’ve checked your temperature and advised you to go home. Because for a long time, I didn’t see myself in politics at all. In fact, I didn’t see people like me in politics at all. My political journey started when I realized that the rooms where decisions were being made didn’t have enough people like me in them.

I am the first in my family to be born in America. The first in my family to receive a formal K-12 education. And the first in my family to go to college. My parents never had that chance. In fact, my mother wasn’t educated past the 2nd grade because in Vietnam, education isn’t a right, it’s a privilege. So, every time I step into a classroom, I carry her sacrifices with me. I am the living embodiment of the dream she never dared to have. I am my mother’s American Dream.

But even in America, where education is a right, the path wasn’t easy. I grew up in a low-income community and attended Title 1 public schools my entire life: schools where cockroaches roamed the hallways, where fights broke out nearly every week, and where underfunding meant overworked teachers.

English wasn’t my first language so I took ESOL classes until the 8th grade. And even when I became proficient, I realized English wasn’t just about speaking, it was also about survival. I remember a parent-teacher meeting in elementary school where my teachers urged my parents to stop speaking Vietnamese at home because they believed it would prevent me from learning English – prevent me from succeeding in life.

So I learned to speak English like it was a mask, covering parts of myself just to be understood. But no matter how well I spoke, no matter how much I tried to fit in, I could never take off my skin. I could never take off my features. I could never stop being seen as an Asian American woman. That was an extremely weird label for me because for a long time, I felt disconnected from my own identity. I’m too Asian to be American but I’m also too American to be Asian. Catch-22, I know.

And as I learned more about my identity, I realized fitting in wasn’t just about how I spoke or even how I presented myself, it was also about the spaces I was trying to step into. I rarely saw Asian people in politics, let alone Asian women. As of 2025, Asian American and Pacific Islander women only make up 1.7% of all voting members in Congress. And as I get older, I realized representation is not just about visibility – it's about power. Who holds it, who gets a say, and who is actively being silenced.

But the fight for power and representation isn’t just about government officials or policymakers. It’s about the people whose voices are often unheard – the ones who remind us why this work matters in the first place. One of those voices, I met in a psychiatric hospital. You see, in 2021, one month before I graduated high school, I attempted suicide.

Because I had just turned 18, I was placed in the adult psychiatric unit, surrounded by people decades older than me. I heard stories from people struggling with addiction, parents who couldn’t support their children, veterans battling PTSD – people who felt like the system had failed them. And in the middle of a pandemic, when the world was already on fire, it felt like no one was coming to save us.

There was only one other person there my age. Let’s call him Bob. Bob was from Barrow County, GA. and just like me, he was a suicide survivor. Even though we both just turned 18, our lives couldn’t have been more different. He had been in and out of jail. His parents were incarcerated. He grew up in extreme poverty. He was the only caretaker of his younger sister. And he was heavily involved in gang activity. He described in excruciating detail the experience of watching his high school best friend be murdered in a drive-by shooting. His best friend died in his arms. He even told me how he carried pieces of his friend’s skull home to cope with his death.

It was unfair that stories like these don’t get highlighted in the news. How he struggled every day with PTSD, carrying burdens no one his age should ever have to bear. The system had failed him, over and over again.

His story, like mine, reminds me why I’m here. Because politics isn’t just about government – it’s about the people the government is supposed to serve. It’s about fighting for those who have been ignored, left behind, and counted out. It’s about making sure no young person ever feels like they have no place in this world.

But let’s be honest for a second, being young in politics isn’t easy. I know I’ve had my fair share of powerful people challenge my presence, dismiss my voice, and make me feel like I have to earn my right to take up space.

As a sexual assault survivor, I know what it means to be silenced. To have my pain minimized. To be told, in both subtle and brutal ways, that my voice doesn’t matter. That at the end of the day, I’m a quote unquote “emotional woman.” And I’ve encountered men who didn’t just overlook women – they made it painfully clear that these spaces were never built for us.

Right now, in 2025, young people across the country are terrified of what’s ahead. We’ve seen what Trump’s administration has done to this country before, and the thought of living through it again is horrifying. We are watching in real time, our rights, our democracy, and our futures be put at risk.

But just as one administration alone cannot fix America, one administration alone cannot destroy America.

Fear cannot be the thing that dictates our future, it has to be action. The only way to fight back is to take up space, to step into rooms where people don’t expect to see us, and to demand to be heard.

I am standing here before y’all as my family's American Dream: a daughter of immigrants, a first-generation college student, a proud product of public education, and a young female leader who refuses to be silenced.

Women who look like me are already breaking barriers, and empowering all of us. Women like Amanda Nguyen, a survivor who stood before Congress and rewrote the law to protect sexual assault survivors and is now the first Vietnamese American woman in space. She is my personal hero, not just because of what she has achieved, but because she reminds me of what’s possible. And of course, women like Vice President Kamala Harris, the first Asian and African American Vice President, breaking barriers for women in leadership. And a little fun fact, her election was the first presidential election I was old enough to vote in. Anyways, my point is, these women, and so many others, have paved the way for young women like me to believe that we belong in these spaces.

Even though they’re already making historic changes and creating spaces for everyone, I don’t want to wait for someone to create a space for me. I am actively making it. Because when women, especially women of color, step up and lead, we don’t just change policies – we change the whole damn world.

I don’t need permission to exist in these spaces. In fact, none of us do. That’s why tonight is so important. We’re not just here to talk about leadership, we’re here to build it. To create a future where no immigrant, no survivor, no woman, no person of color, and no young person ever feels like they don’t belong in politics.

If I can survive my history of sexual assault, survive my suicide attempt, and still graduate high school during a pandemic – not just on time, but in the top 10% – then I know we, as young people, can survive whatever battles we’re facing. And now, I’m about to graduate college as a first-generation student, standing here before you all as living proof of what’s possible.

It’s funny what happens when you take up space, when you refuse to shrink yourself down, when you show up, speak up, and claim your seat at the table. But just like I refused to let my circumstances define me, we must refuse to let others define our future.

Because this isn’t just about me, it’s about all of us. We are young, and we take up space.

So to every young person in this room, remember this: You belong here and your leadership matters. And if anyone tells you otherwise? Prove. Them. Wrong.

We don’t just step into these spaces, we build them. We don’t just step into history, we make it.

Because this? This is my American Dream.