We married in December 2008 and, as is common traditional Chinese custom, we hung chuang hua on our front door, a decorative representation of the Chinese character xi. It’s our culture’s equivalent of the American “Just Married” sign affixed to the back of motor vehicles. Like the “Just Married” signs, the marital chuang hua is not intended to stay up permanently, but only for the duration of celebrations. And like many an American Christmas tree or holiday lights, that thing just stayed up until now. We never got around to taking it down.

Anyway, my husband and I recently commented that we ought to take the chuang hua down. Then I got that letter today from the community association, which incensed me to the point that now I intentionally want to leave that thing up. I shot back a response letter, framing the chuang hua as a religious and cultural practice. I don’t know if it’s religious, really, but the Chinese use the character xi for chuang hua because it is believed to bring good luck and marital bliss. (The character xi means “double happiness.”) So it’s sort of religious. Kind of. I mean, are you going to dispute it?

I am refusing to take down the “red foil from the front door” now, as the letter demanded that we do. And the thing is, if I had never received this letter, I would have probably taken down the chuang hua this weekend, out of my own volition and desire not to be one of those people who still have Santa Clause lawn ornaments in front of their houses in July. But now–oh now–that thing is staying up and the community association will have to sue me and win a court judgment for me to take it down.

Also, my narrator’s voice is beginning to annoy me. Oh, never a good sign. Never a good sign…

People’s lives are not paintings.

Back when I was into that whole Academia gig, I published papers and law review articles on white privilege, postcolonialism, and other theories in critical race studies. I have led coalitions in my heyday, I have marched, I have protested, I have spoken out, and I have participated in grassroots movements. On a day to day level now, I spend over 55% of my free time (yes, free time, as in outside of what I already do at the office) providing pro bono legal services to Chinatown. Make no mistake, I love my community with the kind of zealous love that few from it share.

And yet back in college when I wrote a paper exposing the many hypocrisies of the Asian community, citing examples, some of the groups and individuals that got made into an example came forward and accused me of hating my race.

Why had they concluded that I hated my race? Because I criticized it. Why had I criticized the Asian American community? Well, of course because I secretly wished I was white, and really, really wanted to be loved by white people.

Many Asian groups on campus had rallied for censorship. White people turned it into a First Amendment issue. Some members of those Asian groups asked, “What does religion have to do with this?” And that made me feel like saying, “My points in the paper exactly.” The piece had criticized Asian Americans for shirking from their civic duties and being politically ignorant.

Anyway, as I said, that was all past tense. It came up recently however when I published something else, a personal narrative about my experiences in mainland China.

First, that piece caused certain individuals to accuse me of being a sell-out. Apparently to them I criticized China for the intentional purpose of pleasing white people and lending credence to an already prevailing Sinophobia. Second, that college publication came up as further proof of my self-hatred for being non-white. Who says bygones are bygones?

I can’t understand the censorship. That personal narrative had been as factual as I could have made it. It is fact that when I stood outside the Forbidden City and pointed at the giant portrait of Chairman Mao while making a passing comment about him being a fat, horny fascist who fucked 13-year-old virgins because he thought it’d make him immortal, soldiers pulled me out of the line I had been standing in, detained me for five minutes and strictly ordered me never to do that again.

It is fact that when I wanted to talk about the banning of Falun Gong in China with a taxicab driver, he tensed up and warned me never ever to talk about Falun Gong publicly in China. So when I was not in a public arena, when I was home in the private quarters of my cousin’s apartment, I raised the Falun Gong issue again, and she tensed up, started whispering, like maybe somebody might hear, and told me that’s something nobody there talks about. What do you mean nobody talks about it? A religion/philosophical practice gets summarily banned in a country and nobody wants to talk about it?

It is fact that China suffers from pollution. There is smog over Beijing that puts a great shadow over it, makes it impossible to ever see blue sky or the sun. There is graffiti on historic landmarks like the Echo Wall. There is garbage and litter on Huang Shan, Yellow Mountain, otherwise one of the most beautiful places on earth I have ever seen.

It is fact that many Chinese women attend nightclubs with the goal of having a one night stand with a white man. They don’t want to be with Asian men. They consider the number of white men they have slept with as something to brag about. It is fact that Communist propaganda bombard the airwaves, on the radio and on TV, of media created for the sole purpose of inducing nationalism and ethnocentricism. And yet everywhere one turns, there is the evident worship of money, capitalism, and the West.

For writing about what I saw, I was accused of selling out, of portraying China in a negative light because that’s what white Americans want to hear, want to read about.

If I air China’s dirty laundry, no one sees it as an act motivated by a fundamental desire for progress, a desire to change China for the better. Instead, they see it as self-loathing. When did self-criticism for the actualization of self-awareness become self-loathing?

Of course at that age I feigned to be utterly grossed out. “Ew. Your passion is Mom? Ew. And anyway, why is your passion a person? I thought it should be like a hobby or something.”

Figuring it’s been too many years since he responded to that question and the possibility that he has forgotten all about it being quite high, I asked him the question again yesterday. And his answer hadn’t changed. He said he was good with computers and all things related to electronics, and his passion was “that woman who is still sleeping upstairs. Can you believe she’s still sleeping? It’s almost noon.”

I told him that in the last decade and more, I have asked those two questions to countless people, and many of them have given touching answers. They said their passion was helping people, fostering change, making a difference in this world, art, literature, coding. I couldn’t recall anyone who had named a person as his or her passion.

“Well,” said my father, “when you say the word ‘passion’ and I think of all its definitions, when I think of what that word brings to mind, I see her. Nothing, and no one else. I think of what makes this world so colorful and beautiful to live in for me, and I think of only her. So then I conclude she must be my passion.”

Aw, Dad. You’re such a sap.

People always want to know what your novel is about. Well, it’s about four social outcasts who are marginalized by the community they live in and who come together to perpetrate mass murder. More importantly, the novel is about the psychological aftermath of their act. When I say that, I sound crazy. Because only crazy people would want to write a fictional account of the Virgina Tech shootings. By the way, it has nothing to do with the Virginia Tech shootings. If my story is based at all on an actual event, then there’s a closer connection between it and the Tokyo subway sarin incident. I don’t know why people I tell this summary to always think of Virginia Tech first.

Then, of course, if at some earlier point the person I’m speaking with recalls that I described my novel as “Asian American literary fiction,” the person wants to know how it’s “Asian American” based on that plot summary.

Also, I’ve encountered a problem. The narrator is part of two distinct communities, and narrative-wise, as a writer I have to reconcile both communities in the novel to give the story a sense of unity. In reality, the two could coexist parallel to one another, but in fiction, there needs to be some sense of, I don’t know, but the two spheres have to come together in some way, and I can’t figure out how. Totally stuck.

FYI to those thinking of writing a novel. DON’T TELL PEOPLE ABOUT IT. If you do, then they will ask you every time they see you, “So how’s the novel coming along? Tell me about your novel. Tell me about your novel. Tell me, tell me, tell me…” And no matter how tough you think you are, at some point it’ll unnerve you and hinder the actual novel-writing process.

I write with an activist spirit, but I prefer not to compromise art simply to promulgate my personal ideologies. The line between activism and art is hard to locate, however. I write to express my essence and as an Asian female living in the United States, racism, feminism, and cultural imperialism come into play. Not writing about my experiences in these realms would be disingenuous. Writing about it runs the risk of coming across as proselytizing, as somewhat angry and bitter, as flaunting the I’ve-been-marginalized card.

When re-reading my manuscript (what I have of it so far), story and politics intertwine like fibers of rope. I cannot pull out one without unraveling the other. Is that really what I want? I’ve read works where story and politics are layers. I haven’t the artistry to make my novel layered. It’s just rope.

As an Asian American artist, one faces an audience of stiff-lipped folk with their arms folded. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Too much Asian Americanism and people tell you to get over yourself. Too little of it and people accuse you of being white-washed, ignorant, entrenched in self-denial. You can’t write in an art vacuum. You can’t write fiction like a middle-aged white male, but you weather just as much hostility if you write like Frank Chin.

I don’t know whether I should say “My writing is more activism than art” or “My writing is more art than activism” or “My writing is both” or “My writing is neither.” I shouldn’t have to say any one of the above, but that’s most likely not going to be an option. I’m not saying every one of us must explain our actions and expressions, but if you keep on burning crosses on front lawns, at some point you have to stop and give your reasons.

The lack of appreciation for being American from recent immigrants who attain U.S. citizenship status irks me. These Chinese immigrants only think in terms of what U.S. citizenship can do for them financially and professionally, and feel no civic duty whatsoever toward America. A large part of the prejudice and hostility against recent Asian immigrants comes from the sense that they take, take, and take, and don’t give back. They don’t partake in community service. They believe that begrudgingly giving up taxes every year is sufficient contribution on their part. They won’t even consider themselves American. “I’m Chinese,” they say to you proudly, offensively, with zeal. Yeah well then why do you have a U.S. passport? “Oh, because it’s more advantageous for me to have a U.S. passport than a Chinese one.” Not everything is black and white. Not everything functions in a purely legal application. And that’s coming from a law grad.

“If China and the U.S. went to war, I’d easily side with China,” they say. If that’s how a person truly feels, then they shouldn’t bother applying for U.S. citizenship. I don’t deny that the Taiwanese heritage is as integral to my identity as my immersion in American culture. If Taiwan and the U.S. went to war (for some completely bizarre hypothetical reason), I’d definitely be torn. Many conflicting thoughts and sentiments would sear through me. I couldn’t “easily” choose any side. My parents understand the concept of citizenship. When asked what they would do if America went to war with their motherland, they admitted it would be extremely tough on them because America is their home now. That kind of attachment to country and nation is what one ought to feel before applying for citizenship. Before a recent immigrant experiences that kind of affinity to the American land and the American people, she shouldn’t bother with citizenship at all.

People forget the 15th Amendment came before the 19th Amendment. And that got me thinking. Which do I identify with more: marginalization by way of my gender or marginalization by way of my race?

Gender.

I can identify with all that is biologically, sociologically, and psychologically associated with being a woman. Not so with being Asian.

In either the academy or the professional realm, any time the going got a little tough, the women were there for me. When I needed someone’s confidence, I went to a woman regardless of her race, not an Asian man.

Asians don’t stick up for each other unless something abhorrent that really shocks the conscience happens, like a hate crime. And even then, it’s not exactly reflex. As an Asian, you’re on your own. Asians don’t stick their necks out for other Asians if it means it will compromise their own social standing among whites. That’s why you never see huge Asian movements. Asian women may stand up for Asian women though; and Asian men for Asian men. Gender makes the difference, not race.

So forgive me for siding with my gender over my race. 

In this country, it’s more challenging to be a powerful woman than it is to be a powerful minority man. The rationale is a man, no matter what his race, won’t go postal on you just because he’s menstruating this time of the month. The rationale is a man, no matter what his race, won’t miss work because he has morning sickness, will be delivering a baby that day, or has to switch to part-time work now to take care of said baby.

A man with some balls, no matter what his race, is always an admirable thing. A woman with some balls, even if she’s a privileged white woman, is still freaky, scary, and not to be trusted.

A minority man going cutthroat for the gold is beating all odds. A woman going cutthroat for the gold is condemned for “not knowing her place in the world,” which is, you know, the kitchen or the secretary’s desk. We’d like to think we’ve progressed beyond that, but we really haven’t. No one chastises a woman for not pursuing higher education, for not putting everything she’s got into her career. A man who doesn’t make something of himself in his career, though, is definitely chastised for not quite being a “full man.”

And let’s not even talk about being a minority woman. Or a minority gay woman. Then the less visible and vocal you are, the better it is for us all. Really. Either way, it’s that woman-factor on top of being minority or being gay that really breaks us.

So forgive me for siding with my gender over my race.