You Be The Decoy

There’s a phrase I hear often when I’m in conversation with other people of color.

“I could never get away with that.”

It’s usually said lightly, almost casually. But there’s weight underneath it. A shared understanding that doesn’t need explaining. A recognition shaped by lived experience.

For a long time, I didn’t realize how early that knowing had taken root in me.

In my mid-30s, after joining an affinity group, something cracked open. It was the first time I had been in a room full of peers (other first-generation Asian Americans) people whose instincts, hesitations and humor felt familiar in a way I had never known to look for. What surprised me most wasn’t the sense of belonging. It was the realization that I had lived most of my life without it, and hadn’t noticed the absence.

As the formal group ended, friendships remained. And within those friendships, patterns surfaced. Shared truths many of us had been carrying quietly. That phrase kept coming up when we talked about white friends, classmates, coworkers: “I could never get away with that.”

Recently, during meditation, a memory from my teenage years surfaced that helped me understand why that phrase still lands so deeply.

I was a teenager when I became friends with a group of girls from a nearby school. They had a developed a habit of shoplifting... name brands, trendy clothes, the kind of boldness that comes from believing consequences are unlikely. I never joined in. I knew, even then, that I had the kind of body that gets watched in stores. The kind of kid whose backpack gets searched “at random.”

The worst offender was the daughter of a state trooper.

One day at the mall, after I again reminded her that I wouldn’t steal, she waved it off and told me not to worry.

“You’ll be the decoy,” she said. “You’re perfect for it.”

We entered the store separately. Moments into browsing, I was questioned about my intentions. Asked where my parents were. Asked if I had money. I remember the heat in my body, the stillness I slipped into, the quiet annoyance of being singled out while she moved freely, filling her bag. I bought a shirt I didn't want, with my own money, of course.

That moment wasn’t only teaching me about theft. It was teaching me about visibility. About who absorbs risk and who is protected by proximity to power. I watched her walk out untouched while I was policed simply for existing.

Standing there, I remember wondering if this was how our friendship would always feel... me carrying the exposure so she could remain comfortable. I also remember realizing, clearly, that it wasn’t something I wanted to keep participating in.

In equity work, we talk a lot about unlearning. But unlearning requires remembering. Remembering where you learned to stay small. Where you learned to calculate. Where you learned that survival looks like compliance.

That moment didn’t teach me about stealing. It taught me about boundaries. About noticing when closeness comes at the cost of safety. About recognizing when someone else’s comfort depends on your exposure.

Many of us in BIPOC communities learn to draw boundaries long before we have language for them. I thought of it then as knowing when to step back. What I didn’t yet understand was how often that instinct would be required of me, or how quietly those costs would accumulate over time.

I see now why that memory stayed with me. Why it echoed later in friendships, workplaces and spaces.

As an adult, the pattern shows up differently.

It shows up in food policy council meetings where some people’s questions are answered thoughtfully while mine are met with silencing and promises of follow-up that never come. In farmers market partnerships where urgency and ego override care and responsibility to community. In white-founded “BIPOC spaces” where efficiency is valued more than impact, where being “reasonable” means staying quiet and strong disagreement gets labeled unprofessional.

So when I hear someone say, “I could never get away with that,” I feel a quiet recognition. Because some of us grew up knowing, without being told, that ease belonged to other people. That being “good” often meant being agreeable, unobtrusive, useful.

I’m still unlearning that. Still loosening the grip of a role I was handed early.

I won't be the decoy anymore.