the intersectionality of queer and asian-american identity

[Originally published 7/20/24]

This post consists of snippets pieced together from my Ethnic Studies final paper last semester. It was the first time I've written a formal essay on a part of my experience that is so vulnerable, but I finally felt ready to talk about it.

Last year, my English teacher assigned the poem Self-Portrait Has So Much Potential from the Chinese-American poet Chen Chen.

“I am not the heterosexual neat freak my mother raised me to be / I am a gay sipper, & my mother has placed what’s left of her hope on my brothers'"
Another line from Poetry in Noisy Mouthfuls goes “Whoa—that’s what it felt like, 17, kissing a boy for the first time / Can’t forget it / Can’t forget when my mother found out & said / This would never have happened if we hadn’t come to this country”.

My experience of the confusion of clashing identities poured out onto a piece of paper: the ecstasy of liberated desire despite the aftereffects of overconsuming guilt of failing to meet cultural expectations.

Chen Chen’s poems details his experience as a queer individual discovering and embracing his identity despite the prejudice faced from his conservative mother. He pokes fun at the difference in ideologies while conveying a sense of sorrow that he is unable to live up the expectations. Most importantly, there is an unmistakable and necessary duality in his writing that draws out empathy in his readers: there is no distinct right or wrong, no hero or villain. His mother was raised differently and had suffered enough turmoil bringing the family to China; it seems appropriate for Chen Chen to play his part and pay his mom back by becoming the person she wanted him to be. Perpetually caught in an identity impasse, Chen Chen conveys a universal sentiment of frustration and relentless internal turmoil of LGBTQ+ Asian Americans.

When I was in seventh grade, I was introduced to the LGBTQ+ community through the singer-songwriter Troye Sivan. I felt support for the community and began consuming LGBTQ+ multimedia: streaming girlinred songs, devouring queer romance novels like Boy Meets Boy and researching their stories. In other words, I was striving to find representations because my nearby Asian community did not exhibit a trace of it. Known notoriously among friends as the girl with poor taste in boys, I had been certain I was heterosexual, but I was questioning nevertheless. Naively unaware of my Asian heritage’s conservative views, I brought up the topic to my mother one day, and it soon became clear that she did not support the community although she stated firmly that she would tolerate the people. Henceforth, I developed an irrational yet intense fear that one day, a realization would dawn on me that I was, in fact, a lesbian. I was terrified of my mother’s disapproval if that happened because for some reason, being attracted to women was a puzzle piece that did not seem to fit within that image of the “perfect, studious Asian girl” I yearned for at that age. The Asian model minority stereotype was something forced upon my mind from as young, and like Chen Chen, I wanted to obey filial piety by filling the mold of a cardboard cutout Asian that I believed my mother wanted, when in reality it was because American culture has for centuries deemed those traits as proper and desirable. In the Asian community, this default sexuality is perpetuated. Once, when I happily discovered one of my Asian friends’ short films exploring her struggles against implemented heteronormativity and showed it to my mom, she dismissed me and referred to the two female love interests as “best friends”. There have been multiple times when my parents’ friends have made snark homophobic remarks and all the adults laughed along, digging the needle of fear deeper under my skin. What’s more, I was ashamed of myself for being scared. Was I homophobic? There was no way I was, but then why was I fearful of my identity? One year later, I uncovered the term “internalized homophobia” and after reading about the phenomenon, I finally understood the isolating and self-destructive shame that gradually began to leave my body. Now, I am open to exploring my sexual identity once I’m older and would fully accept myself if I were bisexual. Now, I recognize that my former shame was not accidental, but suffered by many LGBTQ+ Asian Americans due to systemic structures that placed white heterosexuality on a pedestal of virtue.

Though subtle and complex, one’s sexual identity can greatly influence other people’s perceptions in relation to their race, especially being Asian American and LGBTQ+, two seemingly polar identities.

From a survey conducted by University of Washington, gay Asian Americans are seen as “more American”. In the study, a group of UWash students were asked to rate how “American” a certain hypothetical individual was, from a white man to a gay Asian man or woman. More importantly, although gay Asian people were viewed as more American than their heterosexual counterparts, they never reached the unwavering certainty of American-ness assigned to the hypothetical white people. I have felt this unattainable label of nationality myself: in futile attempts at assimilation into a white supremacist and eurocentric society, I would spend money on material products, change my speaking patterns, immerse myself in “American” practices that felt unnatural, dropped passions and cultural traditions. But no matter how what I do to adopt stereotypically American characteristics, I never feel like I’m truly American. This is the result of many years of racism against Asian Americans and white superiority, wiping out “foreign” cultures to conform to the “superior” American and white-dominated culture.

Political ideologies also greatly influence the public perception of a group of people, which in this case, ties to American exceptionalism. America has been known as a more LGBTQ+ friendly country compared to Asian countries. Myths that American values of freedom and liberty are the first of its kind and superior to all other cultures is a way of cultural imperialism, setting American values as the benchmark to which all other cultures are compared. As a result of American exceptionalism, many Americans tend to shut out ideals that oppose their gold standard, so Americans tend to be more accepting of people with a sexual identity that aligns with America’s political views since Asian countries are infamously known to encroach on LGBTQ+ rights. LGBTQ+ Asian Americans are therefore placed in a very unique position. Because of their sexual orientation, they seem to be more integrated into American society, even if they still experience racial discrimination. On the other hand, even if they stepped one foot into the “America" social circle, they feel as if they are also leaving a foot behind their cultural heritage.

The model minority stereotype is often seen as a harmless stereotype that posits Asian Americans as hard-working, successful, and most importantly, self-sufficient. In this case, the stereotype is harmful to Asian Americans: they are less likely to seek help and support because they are expected to deal with issues on their own. Kay Patel of “The Talon” sarcastically recites the familiar command to “keep your head down, don’t think about what they call you, it doesn’t matter what they say if you get past them, if you get the money”. Evidently, there exists a pressure in the Asian American community to prioritize financial success over personal authenticity, the suppression of which may be deteriorating for one’s mental health and self-esteem. Unfortunately, being queer and Asian reinforces a lot of stereotypes of Asian men being meek and effeminate, which may force them to conform to two stereotypes for their race and sexual identity. Furthermore, Libeow from American University proposes that Asian Americans and other groups who have been model-minoritized are simply “fulfilling a role and function that’s helpful to maintaining a system where white people are ultimately viewed as being the most powerful”.