Connie Chung: The woman, the myth, the legend

As a public figure, Chung wasn’t characterized by racist stereotypes. She was intelligent, smart and great at her job. Simply by being herself, Chung showed us that not only do we belong in this country, but that we can be more than what others assumed or thought they saw. Chow echoes this sentiment when she says she never felt any pressure to be Chung, but that for her, Chung represented what she could become in the United States.

Connie Chung is mother

Once Chung takes the stage, she shares anecdotes from her life and from her career. Despite her short stature (from certain angles you can barely see more than her head from behind the lectern), she commands the audience and we’re all hanging on her every word. She diligently follows her notes filled with speaking points, but she’s also present in the moment, commenting on a recent college football game between state rivals University of Washington and Washington State University, calling out specific individuals in the audience, and giving props to the venue staff for organizing the evening’s event. At one point, Chung even interrupts herself mid-story to exclaim, “Oh! There’s a fly! Can you see him?” and points out the insect in question, which has landed on the lectern.

Halfway through the event, Chung is joined by retired Seattle TV journalist and a broadcast legend herself, Lori Matsukawa, who will be interviewing Chung. The first thing Matsukawa says as the pair sits down is how great it is to finally meet Chung—because she’s been called “Connie” her entire career.

Matsukawa’s declaration is met with laughter, but there is truth to it. Many AA+PIs may have seen Chung as representation for the community, but for those of us who followed in her journalistic footsteps, she was a pioneer. She opened the door. And the proof is in the dozen or so current and former AA+PI women journalists in the audience—from multiple generations, representing various disciplines. We are all here to pay our respects to the queen.

Unlike Matsukawa, I was never called “Connie.” I’m a couple generations removed from having that distinction. However, when I was in college and early in my career, I was often asked by Cambodian aunties and uncles if I wanted to be the next Connie Chung. My immediate answer was always a resounding, horrified, “No!” Not because I didn’t respect or admire her. It was the exact opposite, in fact. Chung was (and still is) such an icon, I could never imagine myself reaching her heights. (Also, I’ve never had any desire to be on TV, choosing instead to pursue a career in print—and now digital—journalism, so I saw my path more as “Connie Chung adjacent,” running parallel to her broadcast track.)

Journalism is already a very non-traditional career path in most communities, and the AA+PI community is no exception. Like many immigrant parents, mine weren’t exactly thrilled when they learned this was what I wanted to do as a career. But as uncommon as it appeared to be, Chung showed them that being an Asian American journalist—and a successful one, at that—was at least possible.

Our collective origin story

Chung doesn’t do any sort of signing or meet and greet at the end of the event—not surprising since she’s touring all over the country and keeping contact with others to a minimum in order to stay healthy—but I was fortunate enough to have met her back in 2010.

It was only two years into my career and I was in Los Angeles for a convention with (fittingly) the Asian American Journalists Association (AAJA). I was at a pre-convention mixer, mingling with fellow journalists, when we heard that Chung had arrived. Like many others in attendance, I joined the growing line to meet and have my picture taken with her. Honestly, I don’t remember anything from our conversation. I’m pretty sure I blacked out during those few minutes. But I do remember my excitement, as well as her warmth and friendliness. I also remember marveling at the fact that this woman, who was not that different from many of our Asian aunties, was the reason any of us in that room were even able to do what we do.

Since Chung broke into the news business, hundreds of AA+PIs have followed. Some, like she did, cover hard news (something she loved and had to fight to be able to do in order to be taken seriously), while others specialize in other areas such as sports or pop culture. Some of us are even able to focus solely and specifically on the API diasporic communities—something I never would have thought possible when I began my career more than a decade and a half ago.

But all of this is possible. The fact that many of us can now choose the type of journalism we want to do shows just how far we’ve come. And it’s all thanks to Chung. Because none of us would be here, if not for her.

There is no AAJA without Connie Chung. There is no JoySauce without Connie Chung. There is no “by Samantha Pak” without Connie Chung.