'The Ritual of Civic Apology' in America

When I don't have lived-in experiences of racism and Asian sensitivities in America, I sometimes avoid reading stories about it. It isn't my place to comment. I don't mind living in the US or anywhere else for a few months or years, or be a frequent visitor, but I've never really wanted to uproot and move out to another city. 

I wasn't intending to read this piece, but 'Tacoma' popped out. There's also a whole other thing about Japanese concentration camp in Puyallup where Japanese residents in Seattle were forcibly sent during World War II. The Japanese residents were incarcerated for the duration of the war. It isn't just global politics at play, it's also deep-rotted historical racism. 'My country' and 'people like me'.

So for the love of Washington state, and a curiosity the perspectives of the author, I read it. It's 'The Ritual of Civic Apology' by Beth Lew-Williams, published in The New Yorker on September 13, 2025. 

More than a century after driving out their Chinese residents, cities across the West are saying sorry, with parks, plaques, and proclamations. But it’s seldom clear who they’re talking to—or what they’re remembering.

The Chinese Exclusion Act (1882) and widespread discrimination in the California Gold Rush were primarily a 19th-century phenomena, but the 18th century laid the groundwork for later anti-Chinese sentiment by creating a European narrative of 'contempt' for humans and all things Chinese, except its antiques, I suppose.

The author was at the University of Puget Sound, a liberal arts college in Tacoma. She was invited to give a speech about anti-Chinese violence in the American West. The author is a Professor of History and a Director of the Asian American Studies program at Princeton University. Even before the entire lecture started, a Tacoma councilman spoke with the author, and apologized on the behalf of the city of Tacoma, seemingly addressing the room, but the apology kinda landed on her. 

In November, 1885, the white residents of Tacoma, Washington Territory, drove out their Chinese neighbors. It took only hours. Armed with clubs and pistols, vigilantes went door to door, herding more than three hundred men, women, and children through the streets and out of town. As the forced march began, rain started to fall. Two of the expelled died of exposure; the rest made their way to Portland by foot or rail. Days later, arsonists returned to burn what was left of Chinatown. No one came back. For decades, anyone who tried was run out again. That history was the subject of my talk. It was why I had come to Tacoma.

The Tacoma councilman looked at me. I felt the instinct to respond—to match his gesture with one of my own. I know what he tells his children; I tell mine the same: when someone apologizes, you accept. But this apology wasn’t mine to take. I let it hang in the air.

The author identifies as a fifth-generation Chinese-American. She details her experiences while looking at small-town archives in the West. In this piece, she looks at Tacoma mostly. She noted how 1991 saw a global rise of contrition over anti-Chinese sentiments of the past, and there was a suggestion for Tacoma city to apologize and acknowledge the 1885 expulsion. 

This also discusses about racism against Asians, and anti-Asian sentiments, anti-Asian violence. The author doesn't shy away from talking about Asian hate in the wake of the BLM movement in 2020, especially of black perpetrators against Asians. It's sad when a people of color incites violence against another group of people of color.

There is a Tacoma Chinese Reconciliation Park located within Jack Hyde Park. It was officially opened in September 2011. The main pavilion is named 'Fuzhou Ting', donated by Fuzhou in Fujian province, which is Tacoma's sister city in China. Yes, I have visited the venue. 

The piece ended with the author taking a stroll along the 'Walk of Remembrance' in Monterey Bay. This is the walk to remember the burning of a fishing village in 1906 in Point Alones in Pacific Groves. This is an annual 2-mile walk starting at Pacific Grove Museum of Natural History and ending at Hopkins Marine Station. She asked to see the site of the fishing village that laid just beyond the Hopkins Marine Station. Donald Kohrs, the station librarian took her to see it. 

We walked the perimeter of the property. He showed me where Gerry Low-Sabado’s ancestors had built their home, the field where burials took place, the enormous rock from the photos. He spoke about the fishermen’s skill, their contributions to early marine science, the presence of Chinese women and children—and the fire. His tone was elegiac, but not apologetic.

He’d been researching the Chinese presence there for years, but only recently, he said, had anyone else started to care. The Walk of Remembrance. The plaque. Bui’s resolution. They had stirred something. A student was planning a project. A writer had reached out. A documentary crew had come. Fifty descendants had shown up for the most recent walk. I wasn’t the first person to wander in unannounced and ask to see the site.

As I listened, I didn’t hear reconciliation. I heard recognition—belated, partial, and ongoing. The city’s apology hadn’t healed the wound. It hadn’t tied the past to the present with a unifying metaphor or conjured some collective grace. The apology had done only what it could: made the silence harder to maintain.