This house is where my mom spent her childhood, before she took the train south, alone at fifteen, to work in a shoe factory.

As I looked at the shabby house, it struck me how little I truly knew about her or the world she came from. My mother has no childhood photos. A single graduation picture from middle school is all that remains from that time.

I realized that I knew little about the person I love most. That was when I recognized my own ignorance and began to truly listen—to the people around me, to our community.

A Malaysian Chinese scholar who once faced discrimination in his homeland but later became president of an R1 university. An American mother who adopted two Chinese children—one with special needs—and became part of our community. And many more.