I’ve sat in rooms with million-dollar donors, foundation leaders and nonprofit boards. The faces are often diverse — until they’re not. More than once, I’ve looked around and realized I was one of the only Asian Americans in the room.
It’s not because we lack wealth. Asian Americans have the highest median income of any racial group in the U.S. and are accumulating wealth at a historic rate. A new generation of entrepreneurs, tech leaders and professionals is emerging with real financial power. At the same time, the AAPI community is the fastest-growing racial group in the U.S. and remains incredibly diverse — spanning more than 50 ethnicities and over 100 languages. This diversity includes wide disparities in income and access; yet, less than 0.2% of philanthropic dollars go to Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) organizations.
This isn’t just a statistic — it’s a reality I’ve lived.
As the past president of Asian Family Support Services of Austin (AFSSA) — a nonprofit that supports AAPI survivors of domestic violence — I’ve witnessed the uphill climb to secure funding for Asian-focused causes. Despite being under-resourced for years, we received a $2 million grant from MacKenzie Scott’s Yield Giving in 2024. That gift was transformational — but it also underscored how rare and overdue this kind of investment is. For many AAPI nonprofits, such a grant is not just support — it’s survival.
Even within our own communities, philanthropy often feels invisible. I cofounded the Ivory Bridges Foundation to support first-generation college students. In the process, I discovered that while many Asian Americans give generously, they do so quietly — often to family, churches or causes abroad. Public, institutionalized philanthropy isn’t something we’re taught. Talking about money, much less giving it away in a visible way, can feel uncomfortable — taboo, even.
Comedian Jimmy O. Yang once joked that Asian parents don’t brag about how much they spend — they brag about how much they save. That hits close to home. In many Asian households, the value isn’t in being flashy — it’s in being frugal, discreet and responsible. Giving isn’t about public generosity; it’s about quiet duty. But that cultural reflex — while rooted in care — can also reinforce a kind of philanthropic invisibility.
For decades, mainstream philanthropy didn’t just overlook AAPI communities — it ignored them entirely. After the 2021 Atlanta spa shootings and the rise in anti-Asian hate, some emergency funding appeared. But this reactive model of giving — only during crisis — fails to address the chronic underinvestment in AAPI leadership, health, education and infrastructure.
Meanwhile, the organizations serving our communities are often told we’re not “underserved enough” or “invisible enough” to merit support. The model minority myth — the idea that all Asian Americans are uniformly successful, self-sufficient and high achieving — has been used to minimize the struggles of AAPI communities and pit us against other communities of color. At the same time, the perpetual foreigner narrative frames us as outsiders, no matter how many generations we’ve been here. Together, these myths have done real damage. When funders can’t see our pain or our potential, we’re written out of funding priorities altogether.
The good news is that change is possible. Campaigns like Give In May and institutions like Asian American Futures are elevating AAPI giving and leadership. But they can’t do it alone. Philanthropy — both individual and institutional — must actively confront the gaps.
That starts by understanding the cultural context. Many Asian American families practice a version of philanthropy, just not by name. Giving is relational, private and often channeled into family concerns or community traditions. I’ve met donors who give generously to local temples or to pay off a cousin’s debt — but who balk at the word “philanthropist.”
In many East Asian cultures, the concept of guanxi — a network of relationships built on mutual trust, loyalty and long-term reciprocity — plays a central role in how people give, help and support one another. Building guanxi takes time and consistency. It’s not transactional. In philanthropy, this can mean that partnerships and funding opportunities require patience, cultural fluency and sustained engagement — something traditional grantmaking structures often don’t accommodate.
It’s also worth remembering that AAPI communities are not a monolith. The category includes over 50 ethnic subgroups, dozens of languages and vastly different migration histories, access to wealth and levels of visibility. Southeast Asian refugees, Native Hawaiians, Pacific Islanders and South Asian Americans often face very different barriers than East Asians. Without disaggregated data, those nuances are lost — and philanthropy ends up reinforcing the very invisibility it seeks to alleviate or solve. To fund AAPI communities well, we need to understand them deeply.
Research underscores this need. Organizations like AAPI Data have revealed significant disparities among subgroups in education, income and health outcomes. The Urban Institute emphasizes that without disaggregated data, policies and philanthropic efforts may overlook the unique challenges faced by different AAPI populations. Furthermore, the Center for Effective Philanthropy’s findings show that AAPI nonprofit leaders often experience less-favorable interactions with funders, highlighting the need for more informed and equitable philanthropic practices.
At the same time, foundations and institutions rarely invest in building relationships with Asian American communities. Outreach is limited. Representation on funding panels is minimal. And many AAPI-serving organizations are small, under-resourced and lack the back-office capacity to meet complex grant requirements. That creates a self-reinforcing cycle: No funding means no infrastructure; no infrastructure means being deemed “unready” for funding.
To break that cycle, we need action on three fronts.
First, Asian Americans must start viewing giving as both a cultural value and a civic responsibility. Visibility matters. Giving publicly — whether as an individual, a family or a business — is a way of asserting presence in a sector that often overlooks us. We need to normalize the idea that we deserve to be both funders and funded.
Second, institutional philanthropy must treat AAPI communities as a priority, not a footnote. That means engaging AAPI-led organizations when AAPI communities aren’t in the news, investing in leadership pipelines, and reconsidering what “need” looks like for differing communities. It means asking not just who has the loudest voice, but whose needs have gone unheard the longest.
And finally, we need to redefine what philanthropy looks like. It’s not just large foundations or wealthy donors — it’s everyday people deciding to give intentionally, speak up for overlooked causes, and support systems that reflect their values.
I didn’t grow up calling myself a philanthropist. To be honest, I didn’t think I qualified. In my mind, a philanthropist was someone older, more accomplished, and giving away millions of dollars — names on buildings, not people like me. It wasn’t until my friend Dr. Anthony Heaven, on the faculty at the Lilly Family School of Philanthropy, challenged that archetype that I began to see things differently. He reminded me that philanthropy isn’t about age or wealth — it’s about intention, impact and visibility. Every dollar given, every organization uplifted, every name added to the roster of givers — it all pushes back against the invisibility we’ve been handed.
We’re not invisible. We’ve just been quiet. But in a world that mistakes silence for absence, it’s time to give — loudly.
Charles Lu is a former NIH executive, education leader, and real estate entrepreneur whose cross-sector work focuses on educational equity and economic mobility.
