About seven or eight years ago, my grandfather, who has never been to the States, asked me to do two things on our weekly Skype call. First, visit the railroad museum in Sacramento; second, to look around the railroads of California and be mindful of the contributions of our fellow countrymen — and my fellow Chinese-Americans.

Me, being the idiot I was in middle school, said something along the lines of: “Well, you can’t really see traces of the Chinese laborers along the rails anymore — and also, Sacramento is a dump.”

Not my finest moment.

But now, looking back, what my grandfather was actually insinuating behind those requests was perhaps the most poignant, powerful and assertive understanding of Chinese-American identity I’ve ever heard, which is made doubly impressive by the fact that the man had never actually been to America. It was strong, unapologetic and beautiful — and I can’t express how regretful I am for not being able to fully understand everything until very recently.

I never understood what it meant to be Chinese-American. It had always been easy to quietly submit to the “perpetual foreigner” stereotype that is constantly being projected onto me. Sure, it bothered me when it happens (when the clerk assumes you don’t speak English — when you stand in the U.S. citizens’ line at customs and get a weird glance — when they ask you “no, but where are you really from?” or compliment you on your lack of accent …) and sure, I fought it where I could, but most of the time, it was just a sigh followed by resigned acceptance.

And I never understood how wrong that stereotype was.

I never understood that I always had a right to be here. That I am not a foreigner in California, when it was my people who arrived here early, toiled and perished in slave-like conditions to build the railroad, to literally pave the way for everybody else to have a smooth and quick journey into this land. That it was the hands of Chinese-Americans who built this state and toiled in her fields to make it the golden state that we know and love today.

I guess my grandfather wanted me to see all this in person.

And because I didn’t, and because I didn’t learn or didn’t remember, I never understood that my presence here is no more foreign than that of anyone else (Native Americans exempt). That my existence here as a Chinese-American man is unapologetic and not subject to anyone’s permission or approval. That I am not a foreigner — that my people built California, and California is my country.

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And it’s not just about me or Chinese-Americans in general. This is the Chinese-American story I discovered, and this is my identity. But all people of color in this country — who, as of November 8, 2016, find themselves suddenly feeling like they no longer have a place here — have some kind of story like this, a story which especially must not be forgotten in Trump’s America. The Chinese-American story is by no means special — it is a shared experience of all of us whose forefathers toiled, sweat and bled and gave their labor and travail to build this country and make it into what it is today. They worked her farms, paved her roads, bled in her wars, and it is these sacrifices that built America into what it is today. We and our ancestors before us built this country, and being here is our birthright, and one we must assert with strength and without apology to anyone who would dare deny the validity of our existence, our being and our American experience.

Contact Terence Zhao at zhaoy ‘at’ stanford.edu.