How comfortable are you watching JJ Chinois?

I haven’t had very much exposure to “underground” productions, and I definitely wasn’t prepared for the content or presentation of Terminal USA or JJ Chinois.

It’s actually very funny that I was so surprised, because I thought I knew exactly what JJ Chinois would be about after Prof. Lee’s references to its transsexual themes. I’ve attended a couple of fashion shows/beauty pageants featuring transgendered individuals in San Francisco, and a disproportionate number of the contestants were Asian, so I thought “JJ Chinois” might be a look into this potentially “underground” culture.

I suppose I was wrong to think that there is just one narrative that includes being Asian and being transsexual, but I am really interested in the links nonetheless. As I watched JJ Chinois, I wondered about the male Asian body and sexuality. How does the average viewer feel about the homosexual Asian male, considering that the Asian male is generally emasculated in media portrayals? Is there a different charge associated with the Asian homosexual male vs. that surrounding the white homosexual male?

And how does this relate to the large percentage of trangendered individuals who were Asian in the shows? Is it just because I was in San Francisco, home to a fairly large number of Asians/Asian Americans, that the proportion was so great? Or is there something about Asian culture that lends to making the surgical switch with less difficulty?

So I left more questions than answers here. About Terminal USA—I found an interview with the filmmaker, who was funded by PBS to make this segment as part of an “American Families” series. I’m not sure how it made it into the mainstream (any portion of the movie, really) or if the satire was clear enough to be educational. I look forward to hearing other peoples’ thoughts on this as well.

Here's the interview with Jon Moritsugu:
http://crowndozen.com/main/archives/001402.shtml

All Kinds of Asian

We were asked to watch Mississippi Masala with the previous two films in mind, so here I consider some similarities and differences between the three depictions of Asian Americans coming into adulthood.

In any of the films, one could see that being Asian American placed the main characters in unique social niches, affected to various degrees by economic status and social expectations. The teens in BLT and Monkey Dance, and Meena in Mississippi Masala, knew the culturally-based hopes their parents held for them even when they were silent. In BLT, these parental pressures were something the audience might infer, as there were never adult authority figures on screen. Yet the common result of cultural norms (expectations from inside) and American stereotypes (expectations from outside) was not an outright rejection by the young adults, but rather narratives of adolescents struggling to find their own identities while acutely aware of what everyone else expected. Trends have been discussed, but ultimately I feel as though the characters just wanted happiness for themselves and for their parents (except for maybe BLT’s Steve). It was the internal negotiation of opposing needs that we saw playing itself out.

How much did their specific ethnic backgrounds matter? I think that each Asian group depicted—East Asian, South Asian, Southeast Asian—arrived and continues to exist within its own American context. In Monkey Dance, the parents were refugees of the Khmer Rouge genocide; in Mississippi Masala, Meena’s parents were exiles of Idi Amin’s anti-Asian regime, originally affluent in their homeland of Uganda; in BLT, the high school seniors were raised by upper middle class parents, who I assume came to America and worked very hard within the system to provide comfortable lives for their children. The disempowerment associated with being a refugee was visible to various degrees between Meena’s parents and those of the Cambodian students. Choosing to flee to America out of some sort of necessity meant that the children would not be able to freely pursue personal desires, whether those were educational or social. The BLT characters, on the other hand, seemed to be getting exactly what they wanted. Socioeconomic conditions mattered here.

Regarding how outside communities perceived the main characters, I believe it really depends on the level of “threat” each immigrant group poses to previous settlers. It came out in Mississippi Masala that Indian families were seen as “foreigners,” and “nothing but trouble” because of their economic accomplishments upon entering the U.S. Demitrius receives the criticism: “[He] think he got a white chick.” He angrily asserts to Meena’s father that Indians have come in, and instead of siding with African Americans, chose to employ the same oppressive attitudes as white society. The stereotypically competitive Asian American students push white students out of positions that would otherwise be theirs in colleges. Though this specific theme was not addressed in BLT, I saw it as a factor in the tension between “white jocks” and the Asian American characters. But perhaps this is drawing too much from outside information. Lastly, the Cambodian American students did not address any feelings of racial conflict within their social and economic spheres, but you could see it in their parents’ generation—Cambodian immigrants who were trained as professionals in their home countries were regarded as uneducated once in the U.S., then relegated to cheap labor positions. Establishing Cambodian refugees as a low-threat population economically has allowed for existence of a harmoniously unfair social structure. But of course, this is changing.

Stephanie's innocence and "Asianness"

As the only significant female (and adopted) character in “Better Luck Tomorrow”, Stephanie is an especially interesting source of discussion. She is the cheerleader with a solid academic record (3 honors classes and a 3.8 GPA), who dates the rich-kid Steve and is Ben’s secret object of affection. Though Stephanie associates closely with Ben and Steve and certainly knows the other main characters, she remains relatively oblivious to their dealings. Her struggles do not extend to ruthless overachieving, a cocaine habit, and violent crimes, as Ben and his Asian American friends experience (perhaps a result of the pressure-cooker environment in which they perceive themselves to live).

If we look at these themes, it is easy to discount her as comparably worry-free. Some have even commented that her being adopted by non-Asian parents is the cause; Stephanie has not been subject to the same expectations and omnipresence of Asian parents. Upon looking closer at Stephanie’s character, however, it is apparent that she has her own very legitimate problems that simply don’t get camera time. The mention of her seeing a therapist is an indicator that her life includes difficulties. Her story is just a different one for a different movie.

Regarding Stephanie’s potentially being “less Asian”, I think it’s important to look at BLT as a whole. Any of these characters could really be of a different color—none of them dwell specifically on the struggles associated with Asian American life. One could say that their actions are a function of their backgrounds—I do agree that the overachieving aspects are often more associated with Asian Americans than other minority groups—but it doesn’t say anything about Stephanie and why her character is the way she is. Though non-Asian parents raised Stephanie, it doesn’t necessarily make her a well-assimilated member of American high school culture. It is clear that she is attempting to define herself, but aren’t all high school students trying to do the same? At the same time, she says that she is confused about her identity as a daughter, which might apply for anyone in the same position, regardless of race.

In the same way Ben, Virgil, Darik, Han and Steve’s fates are not absolutely tied to their being Asian (they could just as well be white and find themselves in a gang together, making the same choices), there is not a specific mold that Stephanie must fit in order to be truly “Asian”. The adoption does not make her any more or less Asian, she just happens not to go down the same paths as the other characters.

Chineseness and Chinese Restaurants

As I’ve always been interested in food culture and anthropologically dissecting trends, the series “Chinese Restaurants” naturally appealed to me. I found that the documentaries tackle far more than these basic areas, however, and that filmmaker Cheuk Kwan did an impressive job at provoking questions about heritage and diaspora—at least for me, a Chinese American whose mother and father’s parents made their livings in Indonesia and the Philippines before sending their children off to the U.S., respectively.

I had many thoughts on the film series, so I am attempting to touch briefly on the most important ones here. First, there were certain recurring themes in each Chinese restaurant owners’ story: assimilation vs. Chinese distinctiveness in new homelands (which was sometimes reflected in the food they made), choosing to work hard and make sacrifices for the economic security of the next generation, meager beginnings or humble entries into their destinations, and a Chinese tendency towards business and self-employment. Despite whatever niche each interviewee had carved out in his or her country of settlement, these ideas factored into their stories; perhaps this makes them uniquely Chinese matters.

In Norway, the Cantonese-speaking couple put in long work hours that they knew compromised closeness with their children. The husband had jumped all over Europe looking for decent work opportunities, and finally found this option to be a profitable one. He catered to a distinctly Norwegian clientele, providing a more “Western” restaurant front for customers while holding his employees to “Chinese” work standards. In Peru, the medical doctor and “achifa” owner acknowledges the great sacrifices his parents made for their children; he is firmly grounded in Peruvian culture and embraces his dual identity; his Chinese peers are descendents of indentured laborers—coolies working on railroads and sugar plantations. In Cuba, the Chinese are an accepted presence in Cuban culture—they are said to have “exquisite” tastes and a sophisticated nature, according to the native Cubans. But as the Chinese people have become such an integral part of the population, the food has changed too: it is mostly fried and salty, and the noodles are made in the same way as Italian pasta. Pizza graces the menus of most Chinese restaurants. Here is an undeniable story of assimilation. These stories are all unique, but also have uniquely Chinese aspects to them.

Lastly, each family and restaurant owner in the documentary had so much character; each man or woman represented some part of history, the Chinese narrative in (fill in country of settlement). This stands in stark contrast to the depiction of many restaurant owners in Som’s “Chinese Restaurant Drive Through”—people who opened brand-name buffets that deliberately catered to American tastes at low cost (as the food quality leads one to assume). The author describes a Chinese buffet owner who takes his lunch break and fills his plate with white rice and watermelon. It says a lot about his respect for food from his own kitchen. I’m really interested in the explanations for this phenomenon—maybe American culture has forced the Chinese restaurant tradition into a more unfortunate, even shameful chapter.

Expectations at the Wedding Banquet

As I sat at home this past winter break flipping through onDemand movie options, I was pleasantly surprised to find “Wedding Banquet,” a film featuring Asian themes and Asian faces. I selected the movie, intent on understanding the Mandarin portions without using subtitles, and got off the couch two hours later having enjoyed the storyline and integration of modern American and traditional Taiwanese culture.

The second time around, I persuaded a friend to join me in viewing “Wedding Banquet” and ensured him that it wouldn’t be a sad movie. I answered honestly—my recollection was that Wai-Tung, Wei Wei and Simon’s narrative was a more humorous one, with funny very-“Chinese” scenarios interspersed throughout. But this time, watching the younger generation of characters selfishly fool Wai-Tung’s parents (basically, the entirety of the movie) was actually very painful. I felt bad for Wai-Tung, too, subject to strict traditional expectations of filial piety, and unable to find acceptance from his very own parents. I felt sorry for Wei Wei, who desired an ideal American family life complete with handsome Chinese husband and child, and for Simon, who was cut off by language barriers, a cultural outsider.

The whole faux-wedding fiasco was incited by Wai-Tung’s desire to fulfill his parent’s wishes while secretly maintaining his own “Americanized” lifestyle, as well as Wei Wei’s need for a greencard. Wai-Tung’s conflict reminded me of a piece in Screaming Monkeys—“She Casts off Expectations” by Phoebe Eng. Eng tells a story of her Taiwanese mother’s best friend, who died after her children chose lifestyles that defied Chinese expectations, commenting: “That is how deep expectations run. Don't live up to them and you run the risk of your parents going mad and dying of disappointment and shame.” (Eng 170) It’s hard not to see how very important a grandson and heterosexual wedding are to Wai-Tung’s parents, who look as if they might die during the City Hall marriage ceremony. I sat horrified just imagining how they might feel at that moment.

Eng’s conclusion is that Asian children are not really respecting parents by forgoing their own wishes to match tradition or expectations. It is the realization of a son or daughter’s own, potentially modern desires that really pushes a family forward, since all parents really want is for their children to be content. Parents’ “wishes” are merely guidelines they perceive to be instrumental in achieving happiness. The final exchange between Mr. Gao and Simon, in which Mr. Gao acknowledges Simon’s romantic relationship with his son, illustrates the point well (though he does still desire a grandson). Honest communication and expressions of self may be key to the parent-child bond, even amid constructs of what is socially expected or hoped-for. Preservation of tradition doesn’t mean much if it causes resentment and denial of identity. Ang Lee, through “Wedding Banquet,” ended up conveying this basic idea.

Power to the "other" through Kung Fu

My younger brothers both have Bruce Lee posters taped on their bedroom walls (though the 15-year-old one has recently replaced his with images of UFC favorites), and apparently a whole generation of Asian American males has done the same. Watching “Enter the Dragon” this week was my first Bruce Lee experience, and I could easily see why so many of my peers (or a handful of Asian American male friends at Brown) have admitted to modeling their lives on his. Lee’s character is strong, fearless, composed, and confident; he garners respect for his skill in martial arts and also for his unquestionable morality. Bruce Lee is a challenge to the media and advertising industry’s favorite “all-American” man, whose blonde hair and bulky muscles make him look so very natural with a football in hand.

Vijay Prashad’s “Kung Fusion” article shed light on the polycultural appeal of kung fu, especially within Asian American and black communities. He writes: “Kung fu gives oppressed young people an immense sense of personal worth and the skills for collective struggle. Kung fu, Bruce pointed out…‘develops confidence, humility, coordination, adaptability and respect toward others.’” (133) The respect and confidence underdog youths seek through martial arts (as Prashad describes) is something I know well.

My youngest brother, now a freshman in high school, is probably at the height of awkwardness and identity-confusion. Tall and lanky, he has immense disdain for the football players that pick on him and the “jocks” who make fun of his being Chinese (which baffles me, by the way, considering we live in a relatively diverse and absolutely liberal part of NorCal). He found martial arts a few years ago and with it discovered a new kind of confidence, bordering on cockiness. The skills have actually distanced him, more than anything, from what he considers the “mainstream,” and I doubt he is alone in this experience.

Drawing from this week’s sources and personal observations, I can say that martial arts has become an outlet for the “other” in American culture, which includes the oppressed. It provides a sense of empowerment, but at the same time further cements one’s status within that “other” category. So it makes sense on many levels that Bruce Lee is the image of strength that Asian American males can most easily (or acceptably) aspire to match: he is an Asian face, is anything but the norm, and has no desire to prove strength the “all-American” way. Being the “other”, then, is a good thing—it’s just too bad that all these images are so polarizing.

Flower Drum Song: Refreshingly Asian American

While I am well aware that “Flower Drum Song” contains many elements that could leave bad tastes in the mouths of Asian Americans—from the typecast characters to the ambiguously disdainful handling of traditional Chinese culture—there was something extremely refreshing and unique, something comfortable about a cast formed (almost) entirely of Asian characters. I honestly felt that Juanita Hill, in the role of Auntie Liang, didn’t do so badly as a Chinese American middle-aged woman either.

In many ways, this musical (or the book from which it was adapted) was a truly Asian American production; it combined elements from both worlds—Chinese and American—that a person not of both spheres could not have produced. Perhaps it is that I spent years learning Mandarin Chinese and am grateful for any opportunity where the skills prove useful. Master Wang, in his super-Chinese glory, curses “son of a turtle” after hanging up the telephone—it is a literal translation of a commonly used Chinese swear, a very old-man sort of exclamation. While a non-Chinese author and playwright could haul in a traditional Chinese bed frame that invokes dynastic legacy, or emulate Chinese dress with a neck-to-ankle qipao, the incorporation of such close-to-home language is invaluable. Auntie Liang and Master Wang use titles of “my sister’s husband,” and “my wife’s sister,” each time they address one another. It may seem excessive, or odd, but it’s Chinese.

And by having every speaking role played by an Asian person, the inherent ethnic tensions or comparisons are bypassed; here, the characters are simply people, who create their own places in society through means not racially defined. It frees me of the propensity to size up the Asian character up to his Caucasian peer, to scrutinize how he is portrayed or why it is so. Of course there are so many things wrong with Chinese representations in “Flower Drum Song,” but I certainly enjoyed the bits that made me feel “at home” in its bizarre Chinatown universe.

Asian Blepharoplasty: Cultural Rejection?

Annie* comes from a small California city known for its affluence, and—for the Bay Area—its rather skewed demographic makeup: 15 percent Asian and otherwise almost entirely white. She spent her high school years clad in Abercrombie, surrounded by friends and a number of admirers. And one summer, on a routine family trip to Korea, Annie made the choice to undergo double eyelid surgery.

“She came back and everyone said, ‘Oh, she looks so different now.’ They said she was cuter,” a classmate recalled.

Does Annie’s background story matter? Perhaps it is everything, or maybe it means nothing at all—but as a Korean American teen who chose to surgically alter her epicanthic folds, Annie has undeniably become part of a recognized trend in the Asian American community. Asian American women are looking to blepharoplasty, or eyelid plastic surgery, in numbers far greater than their “occidental” counterparts.

Figures support that blepharoplasty is growing in popularity throughout Asia and the United States: in 1997, 159,232 patients in the U.S. underwent the procedure. By 2006, this number had increased to 209,999. After further research, I will be sure to include statistics representing Korea and China, nations that have become popular destinations for Asian Americans seeking the double eyelid. There, consumers find potentially better quality, or more Asian-specific surgical techniques at a lower cost than American physicians offer. (Though eyelid surgery specialists are not a rare find in Southern California: check out www.drmeronk.com/asian/asian-eyelid-epicanthal.html, featuring a non-Asian doctor who attempts to explain the difference between Asian eyelid surgery and “occidental” eyelid surgery.)

Hypotheses as to why Asian and Asian American females are choosing this procedure vary, yielding a similarly diverse range of community responses. Some criticize those who undergo the transformation as wanting to look “more western” or “more Caucasian”, shunning their Asian heritage. If this was the case with Annie, her having grown up in a predominantly white community may have been a causal factor in her choice. Can the Asian eyelid surgery trend be attributed to Asian Americans being steeped in American culture and media images?

A Korean American friend who grew up in the same Bay Area town says that the desire for “larger, rounder” eyes comes from a Korean belief about facial features: eyes that are more slanted are associated with deceptiveness or shifty character, whereas “bigger eyes are just…better,” she said. If this is true, the motivation to undergo plastic surgery is not necessarily connected to a Caucasian aesthetic ideal. She continued that cosmetic surgery in general has become an essential part of modern Korean culture. Those who hope to make it to celebrity status, whether in television or music, are expected to have undergone some sort of procedure. Eyelid surgery, my friend said, is so common and comparatively minimal in Korea that it is sometimes not considered a surgical operation at all. But perhaps it is impossible to look at modern “Korean” conceptions without considering globalization and the resulting, much broader cultural milieu from which these ideas draw influence.

When the Asian American teen returns from a trip to China or Korea with changed eyelids, her peers are sure to notice and their reactions will certainly vary. Just like any other sort of cosmetic plastic surgery, blepharoplasty gathers all of the usual criticism or praise and comes with the same expected high costs and recovery tribulations. Yet unlike breast augmentation or liposuction, it carries an additional aspect of being tied strongly to ethnicity. It is reported that 15 to 20 percent of Asian individuals have the “double eyelid” that is common among people of non-Asian descent. Is an Asian American woman’s choice to change her eyelids a statement about her feelings surrounding Asian identity? Maybe she doesn’t know the answer herself.

*Annie's name has been changed.

Yellow Men and Freaks

In a course last semester about disabilities and community, I scrutinized media portrayals of people with disabilities, and found that the more often lack of portrayal conveyed a message in itself. I connected the way people with disabilities are treated onscreen to the way Asian Americans traditionally have been—-members of both groups are either invisible, given minor non-speaking roles, or cast as perfectly stereotypical characters.

In the disabilities class, we watched Tod Browning’s “Freaks,” a film made in 1932. "Freaks" is about a circus group that includes Hercules the strong man and the beautiful Cleopatra, but also, of course, “freaks”: midgets, conjoined twins, and individuals with “shrunken” heads or no limbs at all. The beautiful and boastful “normal” performers treat the freaks with great disdain, although there are able-bodied characters who show kindness and befriend the sideshow characters. The midget Hans falls in love with Cleopatra, and as she toys with his emotions a tragic story develops. At the end, the “freaks” stage a violent, revengeful attack on Hercules and Cleopatra that leaves the two victims disabled as well.

Throughout “Broken Blossoms”, I continually found parallels to “Freaks” that stand stronger now as I look back on both. Filmed in 1919, “Broken Blossoms” is perhaps an earnest attempt at progressiveness in the same way “Freaks” was. The intended message is that the Yellow man is an “Other”, though with a kind heart and good intentions. He finds himself enamored with the helpless girl, Lucy, and does all he can to please her. At the end, he kills her abusive father and stabs himself in grief over her death.

In both films, the “Other” is presented as good-natured, but the difference and potential for danger looms in each (only to be realized at the end). Both stories are products of the times: mainstream audiences have explicitly prejudiced conceptions of Chinese people or people with disabilities, so the directors’ attempts to tell an alternate story are still tainted by prevailing assumptions. My question is: does the overwhelming context of prejudice surpass the overarching attempts to challenge stereotypes?

The FOB in "Chan is Missing"

What I thought would be a film about a detective search turned out to be a serious questioning of Asian American identity, a mystery much broader than one man’s disappearance. I found Wayne Wang’s approach in Chan is Missing to be very fresh and thought-provoking, in spite of (or perhaps, as a result of) the film having been shot in such a rough format, with few cinematic frills.

Of the many ideas presented in the movie, the concept of the “Fresh-off-the-Boat” (FOB) Chinese is the one I am most eager to discuss. I suppose I learned the term “FOB” relatively late, (When I asked, as high school freshman, what FOB meant, my Asian American friends who tossed the word around expressed disbelief at my naiveté). I thought it was a term used by youth of our generation to describe our parents, many of who had emigrated from East Asian homelands. It holds some degree of endearment, but I certainly sensed a great deal of disdain in its use—what person would want to be called a misfit, an accented and unfashionable foreigner? Alternatively, do FOBs think the concept is appropriately, humorously fitting? And—God forbid—might I be a FOB?

Now, armed with broader knowledge (through relationships with so-called “FOBs” and even a scholarly work that addresses the term’s origins), I feel more comfortable articulating my feelings about the term. Feng, in “Being Chinese American, Becoming Asian American,” states that FOB is a creation of the Asian-Born Chinese (ABC) to stabilize his own identity. Chan is Missing gives us plenty of opportunities to realize the truth in this idea, surprising me by using “FOB” throughout. Any character who criticizes Chan Hung’s refusal to assimilate is one who has strived to find a niche within Mainstream America at the expense of their own Chinese-ness, his wife and the businessman Mr. Li are two examples. Meanwhile, those who recognize his alternative traits, his patriotism or “hot-headed political activist” (Feng, 205) leanings, afford him greater respect and dimension. Steve expresses frustration with Chan Hung’s FOB-like antics, yet it is Chan Hung who plays up this FOB idea and teases Steve with exaggerations. The various accounts of Chan Hung in the film indicate that he is a truly complicated character.

To some, “FOBs” are Asian immigrants clueless in the American setting, hopeless foreigners. Using the word is a tool for distancing oneself from a potentially embarrassing, long-standing stereotype. But perhaps it is worse to be an ABC uncomfortable in your own skin than a FOB who truly exists beyond simplifying assumptions.