Written by Nhu Hong Pham
“Racial self-hatred is seeing yourself the way the whites see you, which turns you into your own worst enemy.” — Cathy Park Hong, Minor Feelings
Hong’s words echo in my mind as my feeling of inadequacy continues to be my worst enemy. I have always strived for the better, to be better. For many year,s when I first set foot in Europe, I yearned to look like I belonged in this Western land. I strive to talk on the same level as White people with minimal cultural (or racial) hurdles. I am not necessarily concerned as much about my perceived self-worth as how the white world would validate it for me.
All these efforts of educating myself about democracy, imitating the way people dress or behave, reading about every country’s government, barely floating with a broken third language, stripping off every internal bit of me to recreate a new, white self. My own justification says I’m not doing this out of external pressure, as if it is legally or socially bound to do so in order to have a foot on this land. Rather, there’s an intangible, internal force to perform upon myself, proving a point in which I’m different (a.k.a I can be one of you too) and “we’re not all the same.” I learned and read news about European politics, learning the taste differences between different wine from different countries, etc and still envy people for their skiing trip and feel left out when I can’t contribute or relate to a conversation about skiing (so silly, isn’t it?).
If there are two people standing in front of me, one looks caucasian and the other asian, I would immediately and subconsciously prefer striking a conversation with the caucasian one rather than the Asian—because I perceive our interaction as cringe as I probably have this tendency to judge the other based on how “white” they are. We would possibly both glance at each other for only 5 seconds, yet understand what sort of ordeal each of us has to go through, to integrate, and to prove you are not “like them” – the stereotypical Asians. So I pretend and delude my mind that the other asian in the room is not worth the effort, while being conscious about the same dynamic and struggle that we both undergo. I don’t want to be seen as two Asians sticking to each other because that would be labelled as “not integrated” enough or making the white people feel less keen to start a conversation with (one of) us because “they’re so culturally bound that there’s no room for culturally-challenging identity to step into.” Any other Western white groups of people can hang out and be together without being stigmatised as much, but when Asians do, we are seen as “not open-minded enough” and are left aside. On this assumption, two Asians in the room avoid each other, barely look at each other in the eyes. Instead of being curious and friendly toward each other, just like how I would be to white people, I end up becoming my own racialised victim while painstakingly pulling myself out of the well of self-derogation. Instead of showing solidarity for each other, my subconscious signals the other person our mutually-agreed distance with unspoken hostility, yet empathetic just after the very first, quick lock of eyes.
So do I prefer to talk to white people more because they provide a sense of reassurance that my effort of blending in is validated? That I am qualified to talk to white people in the eyes of other whites? Are they to be viewed as superior, so I desperately try to assimilate into conversations with white people? To prove to myself that I am worth and perhaps, to some, meant to be here. Why do I think my culture is “inferior” to theirs? I can’t pinpoint what it is that particularly makes me feel this way. Perhaps coming from an “exotic” culture and now living in a dominantly white society, I am in no comfortable position to think I am on the same level with someone, culturally speaking. But when will this torturous feeling of not being enough end?
After I stumbled upon literature on Asian identity, the model minority myth, exposing myself to streams of thought from Asian academics and writers like Cathy Park Hong, something started to click in me. As I experience this life, growing more confident about myself and where I stand in this world, I’m more accepting of myself and of the identity I carry and let evolve over time. Yet, the performance doesn’t end easily. That old anxiety still creeps in when I’m in a room with other Asians—will we be seen as sticking to each other? The internalised hierarchy still whispers its judgments sometimes. I still catch myself calculating, measuring, performing. But now, at least, I can see it happening. I can name it for what it is: not a reflection of my worth or my culture’s worth, but the residue of a system that taught me to see myself through eyes that were never meant to see me clearly.
