By Christopher Chin

I remember when I realized I was Asian.

It was a comment on the school playground—that I was hanging out with a “white boy.” Before, there was no difference between us. My friend and I just had fun together. But after that comment, I looked in the mirror and realized I was different.

Growing up in Bayside, New York—I was surrounded by Asian people. I thought all of America was like this—that we were the ethnic majority. I felt safe, included, and ready for my American dream—to be a famous Hollywood composer.

Like other kids, I was obsessed with films like Star Wars, The Lion King, and Spider-Man—yes, the very first one with Tobey Maguire. To me, the coolest parts of those movies weren’t the dazzling action scenes the other boys liked—or even the characters. It was the music. I would hum the melodies all the time. And when I learned to play piano and violin—like every other Asian kid—the house was never spared my musical enthusiasm.

I began to write my own music, and in college, I was a composer for short films. I got into film music programs, learned from amazing teachers, and saw my American dream slowly come together.

But there was one problem.

I looked in the mirror and realized I wasn’t just Asian. I wasn’t white. I wasn’t like the composers for Star Wars, The Lion King, and Spider-Man—no matter how many times those franchises were rebooted.