Chapter OneANGRY LITTLE ASIAN GIRL
When I was in graduate school in the early 2000s, I took an intensive Latin course over the summer to fulfill my foreign language requirement. I was twenty-six years old and had just finished my first year of the PhD program in English at Harvard University. It had been a rough year, full of crushing self-doubt about whether I belonged in graduate school at all. That summer I lived on the first floor of an old Victorian house with no air-conditioning and a mouse problem that I discovered only after finding tiny turds in my toaster oven. Every morning, I walked the twenty minutes to campus to join a class of about fifteen students, mostly college kids and graduate students like me trying to pass our language exams. Our instructor was a balding white guy in his late twenties who was finishing up his doctoral degree in classics and fancied himself an amateur comedian. For three hours a day, he marched us through Wheelock’s Latin, tossing in bad jokes when our attention flagged. One day, in the middle of a lesson, he cracked a joke that ended with a punch line about a dog (canis—the only Latin word I still remember) being taken to the back of a Korean restaurant and eaten.
The class laughed, and I felt myself turn hot with anger and shame. I was the only Asian person in the class. I did not smile, even after the teacher made eye contact with me and I saw his face tighten. Shit, I forgot there was an Asian student in here. I went home that day in a fury. I confided in some of my friends, who assured me I wasn’t overreacting. The joke was racist, period. It never crossed my mind to confront the teacher. He was grading me, and I really, really needed to pass the class.
Instead, I went passive-aggressive. I put on my bright red ANGRY LITTLE ASIAN GIRL T-shirt and wore it to class the next day. On the front of my shirt was a cartoon of a scowling Asian girl, both her middle fingers raised. I’d bought the T-shirt earlier that year after stumbling across the Angry Little Asian Girl series online. Created by Lela Lee in 1994 while she was a student at Berkeley, the comic attacked the model minority myth, that hackneyed stereotype that Asian Americans are quiet, passive, acquiescent. Because Angry Little Asian Girl was “small and relatively cute,” Lee wrote, people assumed she’d be sweet and polite. They were wrong. She was full of rage. She fought with her parents, clapped back at microaggressions, and swore a lot. The comic was a cult hit in the Asian American community, but when Lee tried to bring the series to television, she was told by network execs that her proposed show was “too racially charged” and that Asians weren’t a strong enough consumer market.* Apparently, Angry Little Asian Girl was too angry, too little, and too Asian.
In retrospect, putting on the T-shirt was a dumb way to protest, but it was the only way I could tell my teacher “fuck you.” Oddly enough, he got the message. Maybe it was my T-shirt, or maybe it was my death stare, but after class, he asked me to stay for a few minutes and apologized for his offensive joke. I could tell he wanted me to say it was no big deal, but I could barely look him in the eye. Walking to a coffee shop on Mass. Avenue afterward to get started on that day’s Latin homework, I realized I was still trembling with anger. I did not forgive him. He had apologized only because he’d gotten caught.
* * *
I trace my birth as an Angry Little Asian Girl to the dawn of puberty. I hit adolescence at the same time my mother hit menopause. It was the late 1980s in Los Angeles, and while my parents worked long hours, I spent my time watching MTV music videos and calling in requests for George Michael and Terence Trent D’Arby from our landline. This was the era of sky-high bangs, Hammer pants, and Jordan high-tops, none of which my mom would let me have. Between the two of us and our raging hormones, there were screaming fights, some of them physical. I remember being eleven or twelve and talking back to my mom—maybe I wouldn’t practice the piano, maybe I swore at her—and cowering in the laundry room as she pounded on the door with a rubber hose. Another time, she threw a full bottle of Sunny Delight at me. It missed me, landed on the floor, and exploded. She had a visceral hatred for our television set—we watched an appalling amount of TV while she and my father were at work—so she tried to smash the television set multiple times, finally busting it in such a way that no matter how hard my younger sister and I tried, we could get only black-and-white static.
My parents immigrated to the United States from Korea in the early 1970s. My dad had come here as a student, my mom as a nurse. But twenty years later they were now toiling at a fast-food restaurant called Pioneer Chicken, trying to sell enough wings and biscuits to stave off bankruptcy. My mom was less than five feet tall and never topped a hundred pounds. Yet I was physically frightened of her, even after I outgrew her. Her rage was incandescent. She was in her forties, stuck in an unhappy marriage, working long hours at a restaurant where employees stole from the register and customers threw corn on the cob in her face. The country was sliding into a recession, business was shitty, and now her oldest daughter was rebelling.
The irony is that everyone—I mean, everyone—thought my mom was absolutely adorable. I would watch strangers approach her and ask if she was Miyoshi Umeki, the Academy Award–winning Japanese actress who starred in Sayonara and Flower Drum Song. For years, I assumed this was a case of white people thinking all Asians look alike, but then I saw a photo of Umeki and gasped. She was a dead ringer for my mom, with the same pixie haircut, round cheeks, and impish smile.
My mom knew how to turn on the charm around strangers—usually white people, but also fellow Koreans. Partly it was about saving face. Called chae-myun, this code of behavior is common to many East Asian cultures and values harmony and honor. It’s a kind of social armor. You might be broke or unemployed or depressed, but you cosplayed prosperity and success. For some Koreans, that meant driving luxury cars (even if you couldn’t afford the payments), or mimicking a happy marriage (even if your husband was beating you), or bragging about your kid’s straight A’s (even if they were suicidal).
For my mother, chae-myun meant being decorous and polite in public, even when she was filled with roiling anger in private. It was far too shameful to reveal the truth behind the facade. To the outside world, we were a model minority family—quiet, undemanding, hardworking. But on the inside, we were falling apart.
* * *
Around this time, my father suffered a freak accident at work while trying to fix a broken oven. An employee had put a large pot of water to boil on the stovetop, and my dad jostled it while working on the oven underneath. The pot was a relic, with a bottom so warped it was more rounded than flat. It capsized onto my father, drenching him in scalding water. Despite the pain, my father dried himself off, changed his shirt, and kept working until closing time. Only then did he take himself to the emergency room, where he was diagnosed with first- and second-degree burns all over his face and body.
At first, my mother didn’t tell us what happened, lying and saying that my dad was asleep in their room. We knew something was up, though, because the door was always locked and he never came out, not even for meals or work, and soon we were certain he was dying or already dead. When my mother finally let us in, my father was lying in bed, his body wrapped in gauze like a mummy. Half of his face and neck had been burned off, as well as most of his torso, and he was covered in raw pink ulcers that would later turn crusty and black. The room reeked of ointment. My sister and I cried, unable to hug him because the pressure was far too painful. In that moment, I felt anguish but also blooming shame. I tacitly understood we were not to mention my father’s accident to anyone. It was too private, too grotesque. To our friends and acquaintances, we kept mum.
Not long after, my father returned to work. He had to. My mother couldn’t run the restaurant by herself. He returned to Pioneer Chicken with a bandaged face, visibly marred to any customer who came in.
“What happened?” people asked him.
“An accident.” My dad would shrug.
My father was stoic. Saving face even when his face was literally disfigured. Watching him, I felt my own face contort, trying to suppress a rage I did not yet understand.
* * *
I had always found refuge in school. I was an excellent student, eager to please and starved for the affirmation I didn’t get at home. I was the kind of kid who diligently sharpened my pencils every night and joyfully picked out new binders and notebooks at the beginning of the school year. I dreaded weekends—two whole days stuck at home with no friends, no teachers, just my unhappy family.
When I was twelve, I started attending a private all-girls school located in a wealthy LA neighborhood straight out of a John Hughes movie. (In fact, Pretty in Pink was shot at a nearby mansion.) My father balked at the tuition, but my mother insisted they could make it work by practicing extreme frugality, cutting back on things like clothes, food, and health insurance. Driving through the neighborhood for the first time, I marveled at the wide streets, the stately Tudor homes, the massive lawns, so different from the shabby dingbat apartment buildings and bungalows in my own neighborhood. In my secondhand uniform, salvaged from the school’s lost and found, and my saddle shoes, purchased two sizes too big to last longer, I felt like an impostor and clown.
My new school was cloistered and conservative, a legacy of its origins as a finishing school for the daughters of LA’s white, Protestant elite. Though it had since rebranded itself as a college-prep school dedicated to empowering young women, it still clung to antiquated rituals like mother-daughter luncheons, father-daughter dances, and graduation ceremonies where girls wore white debutante dresses and carried bouquets. Of course, I didn’t know any of this at the time. My mother just told me the school was for smart girls and that I was lucky to get in.
Over the next six years, my gratitude would sour into resentment and then a helpless rage. Where I had once been a teacher’s pet, I soon developed a reputation for having a bad attitude and a problem with authority. Unlike my parents, I couldn’t control my face in public. “When Julia participates in class, she makes it clear she wishes she were anywhere else,” one teacher wrote on my report card. Another noted, “Julia has a negative attitude, but I am sadly getting used to it.” I was called a wild card, someone who wasn’t a team player. No one, it seemed, could understand why I acted this way—not my parents, not my teachers, not my classmates. What did I have to be so angry about?
* * *
In eighth grade, a year into my new school, my English class spent the year reading autobiographies and then writing our own personal essays. It’s a familiar assignment to anyone who has been in an introductory English class, a seemingly straightforward way for teacher and student to get to know each other. The overarching theme for the year was “coming of age.” Who were we? What was our identity? How were we transforming from girls into young women?
My teacher was a pear-shaped white woman with brown teeth and frizzy hair named Mrs. Church. Mrs. Church’s favorite thing to tell me was “take a chill pill.” That year, I was obsessed with the TV show American Gladiators and went to a taping at Universal Studios with my friends, where I screamed my undying love for Nitro from the bleachers. I was so extra, so emotional, so hyper—basically, an average thirteen-year-old girl.
I’d always loved reading, but eighth grade was the year I discovered I loved writing. In particular, I loved writing about things that made me angry, which encompassed everything from my algebra teacher to the Ku Klux Klan, the topic of my final research paper. We had read Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre that year, and I could easily identify with Jane’s rebelliousness. The novel traces the life of Jane, a young orphan, from a miserable childhood living with her aunt and cousins to her grim education at a charity school to her employment as a governess in the household of a brooding master. For the narrator, Jane, writing her autobiography allowed not only a measure of release but also a measure of revenge. Jane might have been “poor, obscure, plain, and little,” but she was also an angry little English girl. Writing Jane Eyre was how she got back at everyone who had wronged her—her mean aunt Reed, her stupid cousin John, the tyrannical schoolmaster Mr. Brocklehurst, even the manipulative Rochester.
I wrote two autobiographical essays for Mrs. Church that year. Both were filled with rage. But only one got a positive response.
The first essay was about being Korean American and how I felt torn between my parents’ culture and American (i.e., white) culture. I wrote about how I wasn’t good at math, how I fought constantly with my mother, and how I didn’t even like kimchi. The last part was a lie, a detail I fabricated to emphasize just how un-Korean I was. In retrospect, it makes me cringe. I actually love kimchi, but I was so determined to reject all things Korean and embrace all things American that I was willing to perform, to fake disgust in order to emphasize how unique and unstereotypically Asian I was.
Mrs. Church loved the essay. She gave me an A and asked to show it to our head of school, a blond helmet-haired woman who wore skirt suits and looked like a Republican lawmaker. Mrs. Church thought it would help provide insight into the assimilation struggles of young Asian American girls at the school. I was thrilled. I’d always been jealous of Mrs. Church’s favoritism of a white girl a year ahead of me, a girl who was a widely admired writer; who was beautiful, rich, and snobby; who would later go to a fancy Ivy League school, where she was a legacy. I saw this girl as my competition, even if she didn’t know that I existed. I was a good writer, too. I had important things to say, too.
When our next essay was assigned, I got cocky. Mrs. Church’s approval was like a shot of adrenaline. I suddenly felt powerful, brave, like someone who could harness words to speak truth to power. People in authority wanted to hear from me. I had access to the head of school’s ear!
Emboldened, I decided to write a screed on what I saw as the obvious race and class hierarchy at our school. Of course, I didn’t use those words. Instead, I wrote about how the “popular girls” at our school were invariably white and wealthy and (often) blond. I ranted about how they breezed through life, how they didn’t bother to befriend those of us who were brown or Black or on financial aid, how they excluded us from their cliques and parties. It was an easy piece to write because it felt so true. How could anyone not see what I was describing? I was sure Mrs. Church would love it and would again ask permission to show it to our head of school.
I was devastated when Mrs. Church returned the essay to me with a B (which I thought was a punitive grade) and comments that it was poorly argued, overly emotional, and unconvincing. What? I thought to myself, feeling sick to my stomach. At that point, I was still ravenous for teacher approval. I knew I’d gone too far. I’d let my passion get the better of me and produced an essay that was full of unwelcome, misdirected rage. Maybe my writing was crappy, after all.
For a long time, I believed that this essay was a failure of thought and execution. I no longer have a copy of it, so I have no way of knowing if Mrs. Church was right and the essay was sloppy and weak. I’ve since taught high school English myself, and I know well how students can think they’ve written something brilliant yet be blind to its flaws. I also know how memory can play tricks. Maybe I got a B+. Maybe Mrs. Church wasn’t as critical as I remember.
But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it was the target of my anger that so unnerved Mrs. Church. In the first essay, my rage was directed at my mother and cultural expectations of what it meant to be a good little Asian girl. The enemy, in my mind, was Korean values (patriarchy, stoicism) and racial stereotyping (Asians as compliant and good at math). In the second essay, my rage was directed squarely at white supremacy. Why did the white girls in my class enjoy so much privilege? Why did no one want to talk about it?
Back then, I had the words to describe the struggle of assimilation. We’d read Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston’s Farewell to Manzanar that year, and I’d felt a pang of recognition at Houston’s attempts to fit into white American society. Assimilation was something Mrs. Church—and by extension, white America—heartily endorsed. It required minoritized Black and brown populations to merge into the white majority mainstream. By raging against my mother and Korean cultural values, I was proving how American I was.
I did not yet have the words to describe the struggle against white supremacy. Nor did I understand that the model minority myth I so disdained was itself a tool of white supremacy. In my mind, Mrs. Church was one of the good guys. A nice white teacher helping her student speak out against oppressive Asian culture, plucking her essay from class as representative of the experience of Asian American students and serving it up to the head of school. Treating her like a token.
But with the second essay, I’d bitten the hand that fed me. I’d gone too far, too harshly, and directly indicted whiteness. Mrs. Church was white. She was not rich—her teeth betrayed her class status—but her racial identity trumped her class identity. At least that’s what I suspected, then and now. My anger had repelled her. I did not show enough equanimity. I was making it about race when it was much more complicated and nuanced than that.
So why were we reading Jane Eyre in this class? Jane was a moody, depressed, and rebellious heroine. She fought with her aunt and cousins. She talked back to Mr. Brocklehurst. She hated the beautiful, rich, snobby Blanche Ingram. Yet here we were in 1990, reading it at an all-girls school, elevating it as a proto-feminist text. Look at how defiant and passionate Jane was! How willing to stand up to injustice!
An angry little English girl was a role model. An angry little Asian girl was not.
Maybe I needed to take a chill pill.
Copyright © 2023 by Julia Lee
