Angry Reader of the Week: Julianne Hing

Hey, everybody. You know what time it is. It's time to meet the Angry Reader of the Week, spotlighting you, the very special readers of this website. Over the years, I've been able to connect with a lot of cool folks, and this is a way of showing some appreciation and attention to the people who help make this blog what it is. This week's Angry Reader is Julianne Hing.

Who are you?

Julianne Hing

What are you?

Journalist, fifth-generation San Franciscan, granddaughter of a paper son, snackaholic, taco evangelist, boba obsessive.

Where are you from?

That pocket of San Francisco where Chinatown meets North Beach and Russian Hill. The stretch of Irving where the boba shops outnumber the bars and coffee shops put together.

Where are you?

The future, also known as Los Angeles.

What do you do?

I'm a reporter at Colorlines. My job is to make the relevant compelling, be it juvenile justice reform, education politics or health disparities. Not in an "eat your vegetables" kind of way but more because real and pressing issues which impact all of us are unfolding everywhere. My reporting is my attempt to expand the conversation on race, class, gender, culture and politics, and to make sense of the messiness. On good days I'm paid to be a student and go find answers to questions big and small, including questions my readers might not even know they're interested in.

On the rough days I am basically a professional stalker.

What are you all about?

Who knows. These days though in my off hours I am really into cooking, eating, and reading and writing about cooking and eating. One of my biggest moments last year was making my great-grandmother's wonton recipe by myself for the first time. She's a woman I never met, a legendary cook, the mother of my mother's mother. Especially because I'm fifth-generation, a lot of my cultural identity is wrapped up in food and my bonds with my family. It was a special thing. It helped that the wonton turned out okay, too.

Immediately after making that momentous batch, I realized the secret to wonton: you can fill them with whatever the heck you want. I feel like there's some larger lesson there, and when I figure out what it is you can read about it on my personal blog. It's called The Snack House.

What makes you angry?

Ideologues. Unchecked racism and sexism, misogyny, homophobia and transphobia in its many blatant and insidious forms--which means I never run out of reasons to be angry. I used to generate anger like a lit stove does heat. It was really powerful fuel for me. But I can't really live off it anymore.

Also: old Chinese aunties who cut in line at the butcher counter and then play dumb when I catch them. And what makes it worse is my Chinese is only good enough to order my meat. I don't know how to say: "Who do you think you're fooling?" I'm only capable of an impotent stare. I suspect that being able to cut in line with impunity is one of the perks of old age, so it's one of the reasons why I so enjoy getting older.

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