A caution before you proceed with reading: this is a messy, raw narrative that doesn’t have the tone of levity or the quirky graphical representations that I typically employ in my writing.  This is just me, struggling in a dialectic.

Over the last few months, I have slowly processed my emotions on what has been a “third rail” topic of discussion for me: racism against Asian Americans.  It’s been a challenging topic for me to broach due to a number of reasons, which include:

• Asian Americans exhibit some level of racial privilege, which appears in educational attainment and some income levels if the data is not disaggregated
• Asian Americans have been perpetuators of racism, but have simultaneously been the victims of racism by both white people and other communities of color
• It feels immensely challenging for me to have a conversation about the above point because I feel guilt and/or shame for taking up space from women, Black and Latino folks…
• …yet not speaking up makes me harbor resentment for not having a channel to express my anger and fear
• Save for a few college courses that I sought out, I have never been taught the history of Asian Americans, our subjugation, our movements, and/or our liberation…
• …which means that I have never had formal education about the hardships that Asian Americans have endured nor have I had substantial exposure to Asian American civil rights leaders…
• …and as a result, I am constantly trying to figure out how to be an Asian American advocate, leader, fighter, and ally.  I am constantly fearing that I am failing to be that person I don’t see in the world
• I feel like this is a huge misuse of bullet points and an excuse for one giant run-on sentence, but thank you for hanging with me
• Finally, until recently, the misguided goal I have had for much of life has been to assimilate to whiteness, which has obfuscated my ability to embrace my Asian American identity

Although all of the above points are important, I want to elaborate further on the false aspiration of assimilation.  For a long time, I desired nothing more than to fit into the dominant culture of the US and much of the world – white culture.  White culture was my television, my presidents, my reminder that there was a better life than the one I lived.  I posited that if I was able to make it into and be accepted by white culture, then I would feel accepted, validated, and able to navigate the world freely.  In this perverted logic, to “make it” was to fade into a culture that was foreign to me – a culture that has, ironically, construed me as foreign.  Success, acceptance, and life was assimilation.  Assimilation was erasure.

After a few years of working and navigating the world, I was hit with a harsh reality.  It doesn’t matter how well I speak English or if I use articles or prepositions correctly in my speech.  It doesn’t matter how many books I read.  It doesn’t matter how much of an Anglophile I am or how much Jane Austen I claim to love.  It doesn’t matter who my friends are, who I date, who I hang out with, or who I admire.  It doesn’t matter what my job is, what my title is or how much money I make.  It doesn’t matter because I will never assimilate into whiteness – I will always be an Asian American girl from a Vietnamese refugee family who is decidedly not white.

It takes a moment like COVID-19 to prove how much of a false narrative assimilation is.  The cloak of assimilation dissipates when looking Asian makes you a target to be spit at, yelled at, harassed, bullied, or the target for an acid attack.  No cares about your assimilation story nor will that story provide protection when you phenotypically look like the villain.  That’s the striking thing about racism – your story is flattened to one dimension where no one cares about where you’ve been, where you plan to go, or what you stand for.  You are just the story ascribed to your skin.

I’ll end with a story that I have thought a lot about for more than a decade:

I went to a university that, at the time, was predominantly white and very wealthy.  More than half of the student body could afford to attend this very expensive institution without any form of financial aid.  I had come from a neighborhood that was the complete opposite of that – working class with few wealthy or white people save for the teachers that drove in every day to educate us.  In an effort to fit in at my university, I went to Goodwill and purchased a Ralph Lauren polo – a used version of the shirt that so many of my classmates wore (confoundingly) with the collar popped up.  As much as I wore that black polo with the illustrious red horsemen logo, I couldn’t help but notice that my shirt was always a little more faded than others.  I also noticed that I still felt like an outsider despite adorning the attire of an insider.

I think about that shirt a lot.  I think about how I felt like a kid in a costume playing a role that never fit.  I think about the symbolism of the situation.  From far range, I (barely) looked the part.  On closer inspection, I was just an Asian kid in a faded second-hand shirt that was discarded by someone who had more.

I am slightly older and removed from the situation.  After years of striving, failing, processing, and rebuilding and after weeks of reading and bearing witness to several injustices against Asian Americans, all I can really say is fuck that Ralph Lauren polo.  It was never meant to fit people like me, never meant to embody who I am, never meant to be more than a symbol of an unattainable, warped dream.  Besides, who wants to pay $60.00 for a dumb ass shirt?

I am left with many questions during this state of anger and reconstitution: If not assimilation, then what?  If not performing a role, then how to be?  If not waiting to have a story ascribed to my skin, then what story will I write for myself?  If not a bystander watching my own people become victims of racism, then how will I fight?  If not, then how?

I am remembering a man I once loved to hate and who I now hate that I sort of love: the late Kobe Bryant.

I am a very big basketball fan – “very big” being quite the understatement.  I consume basketball media like it’s a bag of Chicken McNuggets (another thing I am a fan of, especially when served in denominations of 50).  I get into passionate arguments with other NBA fans – especially the one I married – which often results in my father chiding me for the “unnecessary” strife I bring into my marriage.  I love Houston basketball in particular and as a non-Angeleno, I loathe the Los Angeles Lakers and their franchise savior, Kobe Bean Bryant.

Let me underscore that previous sentiment: I hated Kobe Bryant.  I hated that he played statistically inefficient basketball, necessitating an inordinate amount of impossible shots relative to the points he actually scored (among NBA fans, he is a classic “chucker”).  I hated that he was mythologized for his work ethic despite being a poor leader who shamed his teammates, ostracized nearly everyone around him, and was heralded for being a dick – a dick who won.  I hated him for all the aforementioned objectionable qualities and that he succeeded in spite of these characteristics — an 18-time NBA All Star, 5-time NBA Champion, and an MVP who beat my team every. fucking. time.

Most of all, I hated him because of what the media now called “the incident in Colorado” – an “incident” of sexual assault that transpired between him and a 19-year-old girl.  “I now understand how she feels that she did not consent to the encounter,” he wrote in his apology.  In 2020, particularly in the land of the Lakers and state of Kobe’s residence, we now call that rape.  I hate that I have to argue that this is true.

And yet, Kobe’s sudden passing on the Calabasas Hills spurred me to think about how to sit with complex, very human narratives.  Although it is true that his beloved basketball resume contains some unsavory details, it is also true that he brought significant joy to fans across the world.  The same man that created pain for a young woman nearly 20 years ago is also the same man that was a fervent advocate for women’s sports – especially for his young (now deceased) 13-year-old basketball playing daughter, Gigi.  The isolating, “untouchable” teammate on those storied Lakers teams also mentored dozens of current NBA players and became a powerful political activist – encouraging younger players to become politically active and to do more than “shut up and dribble”.

As a writer, I feel frustrated by the flat singularity of popular narratives – you’re either good or bad; right or wrong; saint or sinner.  I think the world would be a more tolerable place if we could create space for a more nuanced narratives that allow us to sit with the complexity and wrestle with the messier themes of life.

Here’s what I am sitting with:

• I am not the victim of the “incident in Colorado”.  My hatred is one-dimensional and theoretical, premised on my ignorance of where the victim is in her journey and whether she has forgiven her perpetrator
• Although it is challenging, people can change and evolve
• If we truly believe in rehabilitation over recidivism in our criminal justice system, shouldn’t we begin with practicing forgiveness in our personal lives and in our judgement of public figures?
• The words “I’m sorry and I apologize” are meaningless words if they’re not backed up with belief and action.  Can actions alone, such as becoming a female sports advocate, act as an apology if the words are not spoken?  
• Kobe was a basketball player, a father, a bad teammate, an advocate, a problematic dick, and a beloved public figure it is very human to be all of those things. 

Fuck you, Kobe, for killing my Rockets basketball hopes and dreams.  I love that you brought joy to so many of my friends.  You seemed like a great father.  I hated you, but now I am sad that you’re gone.

Also, I hate that Kobe probably loves how much I hate him. 

As you may know, my partner and I got married this past September.  It was a wonderful affair, particularly since it melded my Chinese-Vietnamese family of 40-plus members with my partner’s large Chinese family of 25-plus members.  Added to this great mix of familiar faces were several of our chosen family members – the people we have the privilege of calling our friends.  That is a beautiful story for which I have far greater things to say.  However, today’s newsletter does not revel in nostalgia.  Today’s newsletter is redolent with a far less celebratory feeling.

Today’s newsletter is about the Wedding Industrial Complex.

As a child, I never thought I would get married nor did I ever dream of having a wedding.  I grew up exceptionally homosexual, weary of dresses, and loathed parties in which I was the center of attention.  On top of all of that, my understanding of weddings was shaped by the many traditional Vietnamese weddings I was forced to attend.  For those of you who are unaware, Vietnamese weddings must have at least 3 of the following 5 criteria to be considered Vietnamese:

• Bride/Groom you do not know, probably your doctor’s third nephew or the guy who delivers water to your house
• Someone unironically singing Celine Dion’s “Power of Love” and/or Bryan Adam’s “When a Man Loves a Woman”
• Your uncle throwing up in the backseat of your Nissan Quest and/or Toyota Previa
• Your mom or aunt disappointed that the Bride/Groom went for 12 course option as opposed to the 15 course option with the Peking Duck, those cheap fucks
• Sad, punctual white people

My worldview shifted when I fell in love (that bitch.*) and gay marriage was legalized.  My partner and I decided why not celebrate our community and our union through a non-oppressive, non-heteronormative party that we can call a “wedding”?

Friends, let me tell you about what weddings do to people – in this case, me.  I – a person who doesn’t mind eating a bag of Cheetos for breakfast or who wears denim on denim by choice – suddenly cared about some bullshit.  Let me describe:

Wedding Planner:  What kind of glasses do you want?
Me:  There’s more than one option?
Wedding Planner:  Why yes, there are Collins glasses, mason jars, wine glasses, and martini glasses.  If you’d like to do shots, there are shot glasses.  Each glass has a function.

Friends, here is where you the trap begins.  The great irony of wedding planning is that it is a very educational, illuminating experience.  You are planning a highly emotional, incredibly symbolic, and very personal event for a large group of people.  You are doing so in concert with someone you love.  And yet, if you do this experience correctly, you will NEVER have another wedding.  So, all this hogwash that you learned will not be used again.

For instance, here are some of the most informative lessons of wedding bullshit that I learned – lessons that are now obsolete:

• Fig 1 is a chart that outlines the infinite shades of white concocted for weddings as well as accurate descriptions of said shades.
• Fig 2 highlights the confounding correlation between how expensive something is with how old (“rustic”) it looks.  Note that if something looks like it has been lit on fire, it probably has been lit on fire and is exceedingly expensive.
• Fig 3 is a Venn diagram that shows the overlaps between gay rights and weddings.  Note that there aren’t very many overlaps.

Given that most people are planning a wedding for the first time, there is very little lived experience to build off of – not even that off-the-chain surprise birthday party I had at Celebration Station in the 7^th grade.  Friends, you are left to consult with other people, which further pushes – shoves you – further into the trap.  You can’t consult with family because they are biased.  Family will always, inevitably swing in either telling you do nothing (no glasses!) because it is too expensive or to choose the most expensive option because of the delusion of optics.  Friends try to help, but because wedding budgets are highly variable, all they can offer you is tealight candles from Ikea – especially the lesbians who seem to be operating some kind of underground tealight candle exchange.  Your partner can be semi-helpful, but she is probably so sick of you and all the decisions and is more than likely passed out on a bed somewhere at 8 PM, hardly moving either from being dreadfully exhausted or dead – it’s hard to tell.

This is the trap.  You’re on your own, left to consult with the “experts” – the blogs, the wedding planners, etc.  And so, here, in the lurid depths of the Wedding Industrial Complex, is where you land:

Me: I’ll take all the glasses.

And I did.

*Editor’s Note: That bitch…that I love.