When I read novels by Asian American women, there's a feeling of empowerment I can't deny that is so not what I experience when I simply see Asian American women. All my life, it felt competitive to see other Asian American females. Well, comforting and competitive. Comforting because, thank god there's someone here who might understand me. But then the internal battle ensues to determine who's superior. While I don't think I actively have motives behind my gaze, judgment, or interactions, I know it's there, if I'm being honest. Usually it's polarizing: how much better they are, or how much better I am. "Better" means "better Asian," I guess. Whatever that means, in whatever context we're in. Until I get to know them, it doesn't really stop. Sometimes not even.
But in novels, I see them through their writing. And they see me. We're actually more similar than not.
I used to think men's clothing was boring and then I learned that many men I knew just didn't dress to their greatest potential. Recently I've had thoughts of being a man, to think about the potential of just how good fashion could be on a man's body. Then I'll remember it's actually just about how skinny you are, and then how tall you are-- respectively-- no matter your gender. So, actually, no, I don't wish to be a man anymore because everything else they're taught is all wrong and fucked up. Even though Cliff has made me secretly obsessed with having a daughter of my own, as well as my own relationships with my mother and sister, sometimes I think about a son. There's no such thing as a perfect parent and there will be shortcomings, but can I dream that I help develop an emotionally intelligent, sensitive, and expressive boy? To do away with unregulated anger, aggression, and violence. It's okay to cry. It's okay to be sad, hurt, embarrassed. You can cry everyday for the rest of your life and I will still love you. But I guess it also depends if all the other parents are fucking it up for their boys. I wonder about my nephew, who will likely grow up in an environment that encourages really perplexing ideologies about gender.
Sometimes I get depressed thinking about how so unlike everyone I am. Isn't that everyone? Everyone wants to be accepted, to not be the odd one out, to be on the same comforting path everyone else is on, and have the same kind of aspirations, and look like that skinny/tall person who looks good in anything. But then I'll come to my senses (usually after my period ends). Part of what's beautiful and interesting about humans is that everyone is different, even though we're brainwashed to buy all the products and clothes to make us look like white people. One day it occurred to me that I'm comparing myself and doing the things that work for blonde, white women (ie. obtaining "beach waves" by spritzing expensive salt water in my hair), and since then, I can't name one white person I wish to look like. I still gawk at and admire some white features, and can acknowledge attractive faces, but mostly, they get sick all the time and age poorly, so... not sure why we put them on a pedestal???
Writers notice and welcome minutia of human behaviors and appearances, which is a part of my love for novels. So it does exist! People who appreciate what you perceive as deficiencies. Maybe because most people don't write out their thoughts, they don't know that they truly value your quirks (that's the hope).
It took me a long time to start owning my Asian Americanness. Now it feels like a superpower to be Asian American, even as some people in this country want to hurt us and tell us to go back to China or whatever. At least in liberal spaces, white people seem to think highly of Asian Americans if you look cool enough and can cook Asian food or show them around Ktown.
One of my mom's biggest insecurity is speaking her broken English. The other day she wondered that if she spoke perfect English, maybe the cashier at Target would have been friendly with her the same way she was friendly with the white customer before her? No, I said. You and I are the same in their eyes. They're cool with us until they're not, in which case we should go back to where we supposedly came from.
