I am complicit
On the years I spent perpetuating stereotypes of Asian women, and the journey to rediscovering my identity
When I moved to Chicago from the Philippines at six years old, I spoke fluent English with a Tagalog accent. My first grade teacher berated me constantly, and I unnecessarily ended up in an ESL program. There, I spent two years saying the word “set” over and over until my short E sounded American enough.
In high school, I wanted to shake the stereotypes of the studious, quiet (read: nerd) Asian kid badly. So instead, I became the Asian girl who liked “white people” things: art, punk shows, indie movies, and, well, white guys. Asian guys were boring, and their parents looked warily at my unnaturally colored hair. White parents were cool and, if I married into an easy last name, I would never have to spell my maiden name for anyone ever again.
I had white friends, and white boyfriends, and I beamed proudly when their white families complimented my lack of an accent. “You speak great English,” they would say. “You aren’t like the other ones.”
I was officially, acceptably American.
As part of my acceptably American duties, I giggled politely at race-inspired pickup lines. Younger men offered to “love me long time.” Older men would tell me they reminded me of some woman they met in Vietnam — with a short A.
I also nodded in agreement when customers at my hourly jobs told me I “looked too smart” to be making coffee/clearing fitting rooms/manning a host stand. How did they know I was a computer science major with a Dean’s List GPA? Perhaps they saw it in my almond-shaped eyes.
What I didn’t realize then was that I wasn’t shaking any stereotypes at all. I was playing right into them while simultaneously spurning my own culture, all in the name of “acceptance.”
It was after I moved to the San Francisco area in my early 20s that I started to question my own behavior. There, I was surprised to meet other Asian-Americans whose experiences differed vastly from mine. They were chefs, musicians, and graphic designers. They took up space, had opinions, and advocated for our community. I had assumed these were luxuries reserved for white people, but these people were unapologetically Asian.
While living and working there, my past interactions came into clear focus and I began to feel resentment toward myself. For years, I had affirmed people’s perceptions of Asian women as both subservient and sexual. I consented to their unwanted behaviors with every laugh, smile, and polite nod. Those stereotypes persist today — and I am complicit.
Once I realized that being Asian didn’t have to mean fitting into someone else’s mold, accepting myself and my cultural identity took precedence over being accepted by others. I proudly introduced myself as a first-generation immigrant and spoke up about things that mattered to me. I empathized with other Asian friends and colleagues rather than judging their lives and career choices. I started dating a Chinese-Filipino man who also struggled with, and overcame, his parents’ expectations. We’re married now, and have a two-year-old.
The past may be immutable, but I can change the future. Like me, my kid will know the value of education and hard work, and the taste of ube macapuno cake on special occasions. But she won’t make herself small for anyone, and she won’t be the object of someone’s desire if she doesn’t want to. She will be exactly who she wants to be, even if it disappoints us.
Thank you for reading. If you’ve made it this far, please consider supporting these important non-profit organizations in my hometown, Chicago:
- AFIRE Chicago, a community organization dedicated to serving the needs of Filipino domestic workers, seniors, youth, and undocumented immigrants
- Asian Youth Services, an organization offering after-school programs and parochial school scholarships for at-risk youth
