I have to admit something. Sometimes, I question whether my role as a writer stems from my ability to embody the persona of an angry Asian American woman. A sneaky voice whispers in my ear, and I start to wonder if I’m just a token Asian presence in these publications, a convenient checkbox for diversity initiatives. It feels almost gratifying to think I’m a spicy addition for not fitting the mold of the quiet, obedient stereotype.
Truthfully, part of me relishes the idea of getting compensated to stir the pot. While I don’t appreciate the threats to my safety or my family’s, I can’t deny the satisfaction of riling up fragile white men online. If they choose to let me occupy space in their minds, that’s their call — I’ve made my choices too.
But here’s the truth: despite the perceptions out there, I don’t consider myself an angry person — and I don’t want to be. I prefer joy over constant rage, though I recognize anger can be a powerful catalyst for change. And yet, I find myself filled with frustration.
There’s just so much negativity around, especially from white individuals. It’s exhausting to witness the continuous efforts to uphold white supremacy. From the creatively bankrupt individuals commodifying mahjong while disrespecting Chinese culture, to the TikTok user perpetuating offensive stereotypes about Asian women, to the alarming increase in anti-Asian hate crimes since COVID-19, there’s plenty to be upset about as an Asian American.
I’m appalled that white supremacists act with impunity, often supported by the highest office in the land. I feel disheartened that white supremacy seeps into every facet of life, with white women often causing chaos in various groups while women of color bear the emotional burden.
We become scapegoats, blamed for stirring the pot whenever we highlight the systemic issues that allow entitlement to flourish among these women. It’s infuriating to receive accusatory messages from our own communities, claiming we are anti-white or unfair for creating spaces that don’t cater to them.
How can anyone, regardless of their background, not feel anger in this climate? On top of that, I’m furious that despite the perpetual foreignness imposed on Asian Americans, many of us unwittingly participate in anti-Black narratives. It’s maddening to see Asian Americans vocally oppose anti-Asian racism while remaining silent about anti-Black racism. The fact that 31% of Asian Americans voted for Trump in 2020, up from 18% in 2016, is disheartening. It’s painful to see many in our community prioritize proximity to whiteness over the fight for justice and equity.
In a world like this, anger feels like a natural response. Yet, even my anger is manipulated against me. There’s a fear in my mind that suggests I’m only valued for being a source of controversy. “If you stop being angry, they won’t need you anymore,” it whispers.
While I appreciate that the stereotype of Asian American women is often one of calmness, I resent how even my dissent can be twisted to serve a white supremacist narrative. This is a consequence of underrepresentation — it’s why women and people of color often grapple with imposter syndrome. Racism, among its many harms, diminishes our humanity.
No amount of positive feedback can change the fact that I am often reduced to a stereotype. But I refuse to let that define me. I will continue to express my anger and seek joy because they can coexist. I won’t be confined to any single narrative.
I embody multitudes. My existence alone is a form of resistance.
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Summary:
This article explores the complex feelings of anger and frustration experienced by an Asian American woman grappling with societal expectations and racial stereotypes. While acknowledging the validity of her anger, she emphasizes the importance of joy and resistance against reductive narratives.
Keyphrase: Asian American identity and anger
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