Today, my first book at MTV Books, My Life: Growing Up Asian in America, officially publishes. In “celebration,” I decided to write an essay about my experience, which proved way harder than expected.
The idea for My Life: Growing Up Asian in America came to me shortly after I started at MTV Books in February 2021. The country was in the midst of rising anti-Asian hate and just weeks away from the shooting in Atlanta that would leave eight dead, including six Asian American women. I wanted to create a book that would celebrate our community and fill it with thoughtful pieces about the Asian American experience by some fabulous, talented people. Each contributor was given a prompt: Can you describe a moment from your past that highlights your experience as an Asian American, including how you felt in the moment, how you responded, how you wish you had responded, and/or why the moment remains meaningful? I had a very Nicole-Kidman-as-Virginia-Woolf-in-The Hours vision of the book, that the essays would capture the idea of “A woman’s whole life, in a single day, and in that day, her whole life.” I was excited to see what the contributors would bring to the table, what memories stood out as character defining.
My hopes for the book are lofty, that the essays will spark conversations among Asian Americans and their non-Asian friends and family and that they will make other Asian Americans feel seen and empowered. The book aims to highlight the rich diversity of the Asian American community—23 million people representing more than twenty nations. And it is in that last hope for the book that I’ve come to a realization: I’ve spent my whole life with an idea of what it meant to be Asian American…and I wasn’t it.
I convinced myself a long time ago that I’m not a good Asian American. I was good as concerned the model minority myth—good grades, good manners, (mostly) good son, good worker—but not good as a representative of the Asian American identity. I was only “half Asian,” and barely that since I felt no connection to my Vietnamese background. I loved the food, but I didn’t know the language, I knew none of the traditions, and I celebrated none of the holidays. Growing up, people could tell that I was something (“What are you?” they’d ask), and when I told them I was half white and half Asian, I’d get a response like, “That’s why you’re good at math!” or “Whatever you are, you’re still a fag!” Never did I walk away from those interactions thinking “I’m Asian American” or “I’m white”—I was neither and both, a confusing thing for a kid in a country that wants you to fit a simple category. I’ve often felt out of place among large groups of other Asian Americans—the “full” ones, i.e. the “real” ones—like when I’d go to Diho Market with my mom or into Chicago’s Little Saigon. Same goes for big white crowds, though to a lesser degree since they were much more common where I grew up.
I’ve carried that feeling of “neither and both” throughout my adult life. In my twenties, my agent would send me to auditions for Asian American parts. I’d walk into the room and find a bunch of East or Southeast Asian American guys waiting, and instantly, I’d assume I wasn’t getting the role because I wasn’t Asian enough. (Same went for auditions for specifically white or Hispanic characters—my agents played the numbers game with me, sending me out for anything where I could maybe pass. But joke’s on them because I booked nothing!) When it came to dating, it was either “I hope I’m Asian enough” for guys who were into Asian men or “I hope I’m white enough” for those who weren’t. In my professional life as a book editor, I have felt ill-equipped to weigh in on the authenticity of projects with Asian or Asian American characters or themes in the face of feeling like everyone expects me to be an expert.
Of course, I know that I’m Asian American, that people see me as Asian American, and yet, I struggle with the preconceived notions that the identity carries. I feel like I let down both Asian Americans and non-Asian Americans (in other words, all Americans) with my near nonexistent knowledge of “my people.” They see me and think, Why don’t you know more about your heritage? Don’t you have any pride? They hear me read from a Vietnamese menu and think, This guy’s accent sucks! They look at me and think, He’s not one of us. Stupid, useless thoughts that I’ve carried around for years. Early on, I delegitimized my identity as a person of Asian heritage, while others took it upon themselves to delegitimize my identity as a white person (I didn’t even have to ask!). And in that sense, I have often felt community-less.
For me, everything comes back to my mother. My mom left Vietnam in 1972 with her new white American husband (a soldier) along with a newborn son and a second on the way (I’d arrive a few years later). She was an only child to a single mother and arrived in America alone. She spent her days with her three sons, doing her best to raise her kids to be “good Americans.” For me, she was what it meant to be Asian in America. Because I had/have such conflicting feelings about her, I had little interest in understanding where she was from or what she was going through. When I came out as gay to her twenty-five years ago, the conversation forever shifted the dynamics of our relationship. I’ve spent my adult life being Asian American without any real connection to the person who gave me that identity.
And so here I am, in my forties, feeling like I know nothing about what it means to be Asian American. Meanwhile, I’m editing a book about the rich and varied experiences of members of our community. I see myself in the stories that keep landing in my inbox. Mark Kramer, Riss M. Neilson, H’Rina DeTroy, Michelle Myers, Kimiko Matsuda-Lawrence, and David Kwong all write about what it means to be mixed race, and I feel a connection. Heather Jeng Bladt shares that her lack of knowledge of her family’s history made her feel like an outcast among some of her Asian American classmates, a feeling I could relate to. At our (fabulous) 92Y event, SuChin Pak speaks about her lack of curiosity in knowing her family’s history (until recently), a sentiment that makes me feel seen. Like Kim Tran, my coming out is met with silence by my mother. Like Nathan Ramos-Park, I am told that Hollywood doesn’t want what I have to offer (too often, the words are in my own voice). Like Ellen K. Pao, it takes me a long time to figure out that simply working hard is not enough. And like Teresa Hsiao, I think back to all the time wasted, in my case on trying to fit into a box and be what others wanted me to be.
At length, it dawns on me. All these years wondering if others felt the same, pretending that the slights and indignities didn’t matter, avoiding conversations that would have helped me better understand myself. And now, evidence that I wasn’t alone. I’m not a bad Asian American; there are no “good” or “bad” Asian Americans—that’s a false dichotomy I created in my head. And it’s not that I know nothing about what it means to be Asian American, I just know what I know. (I said I got good grades, I never claimed to be smart.) This is my Asian American story, one voice among millions of others that round out the grand diversity of our community.
I’m grateful to My Life, for giving me ownership of my narrative and for making me feel part of something bigger. In terms of my other goals for the book—that it would spark conversations and make people feel seen—it has done both for me. While making the book, I’ve done more conversing and reflecting than I have in many, many years. And I’ve shared my stories with loved ones—my husband, my mom, my friends. I hope you find the book equally meaningful.
