A few weeks ago I went with Dylan to Gameboi at Rage. It was my second time clubbing in West Hollywood and my first time at a gay Asian theme night. Unfortunately I never went to any gay clubs when I was living in Hong Kong, so I can't really compare how a club here catering to an API crowd and one back home that just happens to have many Asian (Hong Kong Chinese). After pre-gaming in Dylan's car to avoid expensive drinks, a thing my mother would commend me for doing when I told her about it on skype, I was ready to see the queer API clubbing scene. It may have been my level of intoxication but for once I did not feel that self conscious about my intense Asian glow because of the numerous others around me that were just as red. Dylan being the good host that he is, introduced me to a lot of his friends, and in between the lapses in conversation, I had a chance to look around. I saw a predatory old Caucasian rice queen creeping on someone next to him on a couch. This made me wonder if the Caucasian man had any awareness of the colonialist power dynamics and exotification that some of our readings establish him as perpetuating. At the same time I wondered if the Asian man next to him unknowingly had some internalized racism, was heavily influenced by white beauty standards, or was using the relationship as a means to ascend the racial hierarchy. Then were all the other API around me here and sticking their "own kind" because they were sticky rice?
So who is a club/night devoted to queer API for and what purpose does it serve? Is a place like Gameboi meant to provide a safe space for queer API to gather without fearing having stereotypes or preconceived notions of dominance projected on them, or simply for queer API that like other queer API? I personally appreciate having a place like this, not only because I tend to be "sticky rice" (if I'm even allowed to say that since I'm Eurasian), but also because of the low API population at the 5C's I still find myself feeling like there aren't many other queer API men. Going to Gameboi was oddly fulfilling for me in thinking that all these random people I was dancing with somehow shared part of my identity and had similar life experiences that I could relate to. Were the people around me others who viewed themselves as identifying equally with both being queer and API or were they at Gameboi because it is a unique middle ground that bridges the two communities in which they don't feel completely comfortable in.
I'm curious as to whether a location like this can be used for queer API community organizing. The environment of a club isn't for everyone and promotes the creation of certain relationships over others. I'm sure you'll find examples of couples that met in a drunken night of dancing, but I don't think clubs really foster this sort of development. I may have this impression cause I mostly find myself on the dance floor where the music is loud to the point that it's difficult to exchange names let alone have a conversation. The same can be said for building friendships at a club. All of these people come from different places and unless you attend regularly or connect to individuals outside of the club setting (online/offline), all I can see this sort of experience amounting to is a drunken make-out sesh. I guess that brings back the question of why people come to a place like Gameboi...more "investigating" will be had once I'm done with thesis =P
Part 1/2 (apparently this is too long to fit in one post… I think the blog might be trying to tell me something)
Unfortunately, I was not able to attend any of the class’ official field trips. However, I have done quite a bit of queer work on campus this semester and have tried to incorporate what I have learned from this class into that work to increase its sensitivity to intersections of queer identity and API identity.
Some of the most rewarding work I did this semester was in the planning of Spectrum. I worked with friends/representatives from SOCA (Students of Color Alliance at Pomona) and AAMP (Asian American Mentor Program at Pomona) to make this party a safe space for students who feel left out of the mainstream party culture of the 5Cs – a culture that is dominated by whiteness and heteronormativity. We used a unique advertising campaign (credit to the incomparable Faye Wang for that!) that emphasized the kind of space we wanted the party to be for people. The hope was that anyone who saw one of those flyers and was intrigued enough to come would be someone who really wanted a party like that; in turn, a room full of people looking for a safe space to let loose would turn Spectrum into the party we wanted it to be.
From my experience with Spectrum, I learned about the non-linear nature of organizing. There is no way for organizers to make a group-based activity like a party into everything they want it to be on their own. The job of the organizers is to be in conversation with different groups of people and draw connections between their concerns and desires. Through these connections, various groups are able to come together to create what it is they want through collective action. It is not simply a process of “organizers make the party and then partygoers enjoy it.” The relationship between the organizers and participants in the organizing is complex and fluid – reminiscent of the Freirean pedagogy we discussed at the beginning of the year. Shared desire for Spectrum and conversation about what it should be was what made it what it was.
I would like to take a moment to reflect on my work as QQAMP (Queer, Questioning, and Allied Mentor Program) head mentor this year, especially in relationship to how the various mentor groups on campus relate to one another, and how coalitional organizing and identity-based organizing do not have to be viewed as mutually exclusive categories.
My work as QQAMP head mentor may be seen solely as queer work – as opposed to API work – but of course, this is the kind of false dichotomy that serves white supremacy and heteronormativity more so than it serves people. Many members of QQAMP identify as API – if I have to refer to my work as queer activism with some implication that that does not have any overlap with API activism or any other sort of activism, I am being forced to assert sexuality or gender identity as separable from race, class, religion/belief system, and ability and therefore somehow separately “mentorable.” Ideally, in the future, the various mentor programs from the colleges would collaborate with one another to provide mentees with mentors that better suit their requests. This includes some of the benefits of coalitional organizing without sacrificing the utility of identity-based organization for the purposes of the mentor programs. I would also love to see a standardized mentor training that all 5C mentors must take part in, in addition to any specific training they receive for their program (I have taken part in planning meetings with deans for this, but it always seems like institutional forces do this work half-heartedly and it never really gets off the ground).
Also, I’d just briefly like to mention how much I’ve enjoyed attending Q&A events this year. Thank you Kelly and Candace (and Bonny and Emily)! I’d also like to include a brief story that illustrates some of the institutional barriers to work addressing issues of queer people of color on campus, but also in the same way shows one of the many reasons why it is so important.
Two of my co-workers/friends at the QRC are trying to start a QPOC group through ASPC – they have officially registered it with ASPC and have made a proposal for a budget next year. At their budget hearing, they were repeatedly questioned (read: bullied) about the purpose of a QPOC group. According to one of my friends, none of the questions were about how they had outlined their intended use of the requested budget – it was all about why it is even necessary to have a QPOC group when the QRC already exists and resource centers for students of color exist. Both my friends emphasized the need for a space that recognized the intersection of their identities as queer students and as students of color. One member of the ASPC Senate in particular was not letting up, and made my friends feel very attacked. It should be noted that it is not a routine practice in these budget hearings to question why groups exist – only why they plan to spend money they way they have outlined and why ASPC should help them with that. This kind of institutional resistance to recognizing and addressing the lack of resources for queer students of color is frustrating and upsetting, but I share this story to underline the importance of the kind of work that Q&A does and the importance of doing this work in the face of institutional resistance. (Also, if the QPOC group doesn’t get funding because of the ignorance of some ASPC senators, we’re going to raise Hell – don’t you worry!)
I haven't finished writing my project yet, but I just have to say: Zach, I can't even deal with how fucked up that is. If the QPOC group doesn't get ASPC funding, I propose that our entire class storm a Senate meeting (which is open to everyone, by the way, and not just the senators). I can probably guarantee the use of Spang's megaphone, if necessary.
(Agreed. Zach--please raise some serious Hell. It really is quite incredible how this kind of shit still happens on campus.)
And onto my post (1/2) When I signed up to take Queering Asian America, I assumed that it would be a perfect complement not only to my interests but to my work on the AARC's Queer and Asian (Q+A) Committee. While there was overlap, of course--both in ideas and in the people with whom I found myself interacting--the class provided me with a very different experience than I expected; the class and my experiences within broader queer API communities did not fit as seamlessly together as I had at first imagined they would.
Since last September, I have been involved with Q+A, which is dedicated to provide a safe space to discuss issues pertaining to the queer API community at the Colleges. With rough beginnings, Q+A did not really get off its feet until late in the first semester, when our Q+A Talk series began. The Q+A Talks were frequent lecture events, in which we would invite a guest--typically a professor or author-- to speak to students over lunch. After planning and attending a panoply of these events, I realized that my participation was primarily that of a listener; although I had dialogued about a lot of these issues with friends, within these organized community spaces I found myself attentive, yet not participating in the same way that I would in other kinds of venues. Q+A Talks for me thus might be more aptly described for me as Q+A Lectures (or something slightly less formal and academic, haha). While they sparked their own dialogue on campus, my personal involvement with these events was participatory in the way that I was physically present, but often did not find myself actively speaking within them.
Thus, to be spoken to--and to listen--as a member of queer API communities is something that has characterized my formal involvement this year. These are relatively new communities that I work in and identify with, both at the Colleges and beyond. Maybe that is one reason why I do not speak, publicly, as much as I would like--as I instead patiently absorbed words that began to shape what it even meant to be queer and API. Maybe I felt some sort of understanding that warranted my silence, or a sense that my own contributions sprang from nothing "legitimate." Nevertheless, how I found myself involved with queer API communities was through listening at a multitude of formalized events, punctuated by rigorous debate within my personal social circles.
In March, Kelly and I went to an AQWA (Asian Queer/Trans Women Activists) event called Queersay, which was a panel discussion from five individuals involved in queer API issues: Alice Hom, D'Lo, Doreen Wong, riKu Matsuda, and Gina Masequesmay. Again, I found myself in the position of attentive yet shy listener, as each panelist articulated their experiences in queer API activism--which ranged from running local performance workshops to catalyzing national coalition-building. During his presentation, riKu mentioned that we face a constant struggle to define our terms. What does AQWA even mean, and who is it for? Who are we including when we say the "queer API community"? Who are we trying to include, and who isn't getting the memo? With full knowledge that these terms are malleable and unwieldy, for the purposes of organizing it is crucial to articulate who we are talking about and what we are even doing.
Considering riKu's comment within an academic frame, I've thus realized that our class is a space in which a defining of terms has been constant and crucial. Contrasted to the events where I've felt comfortable as purely a listener, from the very first day ASAM 197 was an environment where I felt the need--as well as the pressure--to dialogue. Outside conversation-over-dinner-with-friends kinds of settings, our class clearly pushed me to think more about and actively practice how to talk about queer API issues, with individuals who both do and do not identify with a queer API community. As we have spent so much questioning our definitions--or trying to make our own--there has been no room in our class for unspoken understandings or comfortable silences. And as much as those processes of trying to articulate ideas, construct arguments, and distill readings was often a tenuous one, with all sorts of words and ideas spilled, it was a valuable experience to deal with the (conceptual, and by no means pejorative) mess. This class left me with a sort of queer space, which I have come to see as a dialogical one--one that never really finds or holds a position, but is cycling within a constant change of definition that does not make yesterday's definition any less valid (but only for yesterday). From working with a sketchy syllabus to collectively trying to figure things out, ASAM 197 for me was a change in position--moving from listener to active speaker and participant--that leaves me with much room to keep continuing all of its discussions, and of course, to keep discussing.
This class was, to me, about navigation. Navigating our communities, our interactions, and ourselves. This idea came up in numerous readings and lectures, but it was most evident during the class discussions. Through the various experiences I had in the course of this class, I learned a lot about how we navigate, both as groups and individuals. During the semester, I attended a lecture by Gayatri Reddy in which she read from her forthcoming essay, "Queer Desi Formations: Marking the Boundaries of Cultural Belonging in America." In it, Reddy focuses on the experiences of queer Indian men living in Chicago and their interactions with various communities. She sets up an opposition between the older generation of queer South Asian activists and the younger, less active men in the community. I found this opposition to be among the more interesting portions of her essay in that it exemplified the types of differences that can often create friction between groups of people involved in these types of "diversity" struggles. This opposition, in particular, was due to approaches. The older group was read as "a bunch of fags" who were overtly sexual/crude in all interactions and flaunted their homosexuality in a burlesque-style dance through their lives and communities. The younger group, on the other hand, fell closer to the "Model Minority," both as queer subjects and as citizens; they were willing to background their sexuality and their Indian origins to play by the rules of the dominant society. Reddy found - as did I - that it was hard to decide which approach was more appropriate. On the one hand, the overtness of the older generation was off-putting even to other queer men, and thus could have been doubly so to non-queers. However, the younger generation was portrayed - and rightly so - as not wanting to work to maintain the gains of those who had come before them, but rather to simply enjoy the fruits of their labor. If the older crowd had played by the rules, there would be no such thing as a queer South Asian identity in Chicago. However, if they continue, they may remain a socially abject group, unable to take part in the "value-added American" status that Reddy outlined.*
I noticed similar disagreements within our class. For example, the debate around notions of "culture" and "cultural experiences" split us between relegating "cultural experience" to capitalist privilege and celebrating cultural experiences as valid forms of contact. It is not my place to say which approach is correct, and both Reddy's lecture and our class showed that different approaches need not remain out of synch entirely, and sometimes opposition can be more fruitful than synthesis. If we failed to admit the privilege inherent in eating sushi (to name one example), we would deny the structures in which we are operating. However, if we did not believe in cultural experience, then we could not have made a trip to Gameboi or planned to participate in the May 1st March. Any time you get into issues regarding queerness, ethniity, culture, etc. you will inevitably come up against notions of protected "borderlands"^. The question remains; how do we work around them? I am queer. I am not A/PI. How then, can I "queer Asian America?"† Or rather, what is my role in this area? To answer this, we need to go back to Eric Estuar Reyes' observation: "Focusing on specific issues and practical action provides the basis for collaborative efforts across ethnicity, sexuality, residency status, and other differences." That sentence is, in my opinion, the most important thing that I read in this class. The class itself, from meetings with API Equality to the Reddy lecture to the class itself, illustrated this idea in ways that I am still sorting through. I did learn, however, that there are ways for each of us to be active participants in various barrier-breaking struggles in our own way, and it is finding the fruitful balance of tension - between cultures, approaches, ideologies, and people - that is often times the most difficult.
*Reddy presented "value-added Americans" as those with the "added" component of "ethnicity," i.e. some muddy form of "culture" which is not in line with the dominant US forms. ^An idea attributable to multiple authors. † Perhaps my reading of the course title is flawed, and it is not an active process that I need to undertake, but rather something that was illuminated for me by the course.
There we were talking, just you and me. But I wasn’t saying anything, and the words flowing from your mouth weren’t yours. I could tell. They belonged to something greater, and so there you were spitting them out but your eyes didn’t match; I swear your eyes didn’t believe you. So I began to run, afraid of your mismatched words, your mismatched eyes. I ran to the door, past the door I’d be safe, but when I opened the door, I was nowhere. So I ran to the next, and then the next, but all of them led nowhere and I was back with you, only it wasn’t you, it was someone else, someone with the same mismatched eyes and words. It was a dream, but it wasn’t a dream because the fear was real. My sweat was salty, and that was real. My hands were shaking, and I was no longer in control, and that was real. And so there I was in a room with doors leading nowhere, with a bunch of yous speaking words that weren’t yours, trembling. You didn’t think you were attacking me, but I could feel myself shrinking. Down, down I shriveled and you grew taller and taller, and I was almost so caught up in you that I didn’t see the others, the others who were small like me.
“Come here,” one said, “Don’t be afraid.” Her eyes believed her words so I wasn’t, and I went. “Step on my shoulders,” she told me, so I did. And then I looked back at you and you weren’t so tall, and your words weren’t so intimidating.
Coincidence, perhaps? While clearing the throng of unnecessary files in my laptop this week, I stumbled upon my forgotten, angst-filled journal I wrote the summer before coming to college. It included my random thoughts, spanning from my obsession with the name “Matthew” to my would-be responses to the Advocate articles and my feelings about having conservative Chinese parents. I wrote it so I would “remember this stage of my life. It may not be—and God I hope it isn’t—the highlight of my life, as I am only 17, but I want to preserve these memories like nostalgic photos.” Although it would be most wise to delete it entirely, (you cannot imagine how embarrassing this journal is) I am going to post parts of it to juxtapose how I was with how I am now. How did college change me? How did ASAM 197 change me? And who knows, I might read this blog post in a few years and observe how I am going to evolve in four years. I wrote in my first post:
“Those whom we admire—our teachers, our peers, our parents—idealize the bildungsroman, one’s rite of passage. To evolve from naïveté to maturity. I consider this period my bildungsroman as I am beginning to learn about, to express, and to have pride in myself. I hope to conclude this journal fearless. Without shame.”
In the first week of class we went around, as an ice-breaker, asking why we signed up for “Queering Asian America.” My artificial reason: “because my sister really liked her Asian-American studies class at UCLA.” My actual reason: to study myself/people like me. But, of course at the time, nobody could know that because I matter SO MUCH!! And though I would prefer to think I transcend that, that mentality of fear still lingers, even if marginally.
The transition to college is my bildungsroman; it is where I form my identity without conforming to norms I was conditioned to glorify in high school. Indeed, I was more comfortable in my first few weeks at Pomona than my previous four years in high school. ASAM 197 exemplifies this change in culture which I admire so much. A class that not only identifies but also embraces non-White, non-heterosexual identities. It was so foreign to me, but I am grateful that I could be a part of it. Yet, the readings in the class themselves are trivial to me. The discourse and the people who are so passionate about the subjects are what made ASAM 197 invaluable.
In the fourth post in my journal, I explicitly wrote that “I am more gay than I am Asian.” That is no longer true. Not because I am more one than the other, but because I no longer compare them. What I took most from this class is that identifies intersect, and that they cannot be quantified and aggregated. Though I tried, as apparent in various disturbing posts in my journal, I cannot differentiate my experience as API from my experiences as queer. Back to Zach’s post, this is why I wholeheartedly support your effort to help establish a QPOC organization.
Since ASAM 197 is my first DDP class, I am not an expert in the subjects in which many of you seem be well-versed. It is difficult for me to identify power dynamics and political rhetoric in most circumstances, but I do recognize their value. While analyzing my world with a new critical lens is daunting, (I typically take economic courses) I do plan to utilize and expand on what I have gained. This summer I have an internship in LA with Asian-American sexual health organizations. I could never have imagine doing ANYTHING like this, especially since I used to avoid being associated with the API community. As I muse how I have changed in one year, I do not pinpoint any moment that marked my drastic transition. Rather, the small nudges, including taking ASAM 197, pushed me to where I am now.
Much of this semester I have been thinking about spaces, their importance, and how I move through them. One space has been our class where we have intentionally focused on queer API issues in a learning environment. Outside of the class I have often found myself in API spaces on campus, if not always queer-identified ones than usually political in some ways. There was also my experience in going with members of the class to Gameboi. The main question on my mind is the appropriateness of myself as a white male in these API spaces and how I am seen in them.
On the one hand I have good friends in the API community who are more likely to share my leftist politics than most of the white folk on campus. When it comes to my emotional self it is often harmful for me to hang out in hegemonically “white spaces” so I consciously avoid it. My fear, however, is that in the process I may unintentionally colonize spaces for API folks, warping their original purpose. Despite the fun I had at Gameboi (and it was a lot of fun) I partly felt that it was not a space meant for me and I don’t think it should be at all. Reading Thomas’s comment I can see the value in a queer API club space and understand why it exists. What I don’t understand is myself in relation to it. Because the experience was fun I would not mind going again, but the nagging question is what would it mean. My close friends would probably understand, but to anyone else in the club would I just appear as another rice queen (If perhaps a rather young one)? Would to not go if the opportunity arose be some kind of capitulation?
To move through API spaces, and leftist political spaces in general, to me is a continuous process of proving my own credentials, of showing that that I am aware of my whiteness and the implications it has. I do not think this is a terrible thing, as I would rather be challenged than become unintentionally colonizing. I also think that the reality of this issue for me is much less fraught than the lives of many of the queer API folk we have read about, and may be me more complaining than a serious grievance. After all I am rarely seriously materially threatened by most spaces and my very ability to move is a consequence of privilege.
For purely emotional reasons then, I wonder if I will ever find a space that fits me and my politics, where I will not feel guilty by my very presence. This class has been rewarding in forcing me to articulate these thoughts, but it has also shown the problems in forging safe spaces for all aspects of one’s identity. Indeed, the reality of such a space may in the end be an illusion, but I would rather continue to struggle than become complacent and thus risk hurting someone else.
Candace and I almost don’t make it to Queersay. I’d squandered the first half of spring break trying to read Gender Trouble, then made a dusk-to-dawn trip to Joshua Tree Park that took a lot out of me -- it’s exhausting, you see, to listen to Rebecca Black’s “Friday” and Rihanna’s “S&M” on loop for four hours straight, especially when you have a friend with perfect pitch. I text Candace Friday afternoon to wave off the trip we’d planned. But she gently shames me into realizing just how rude it is to cancel last-minute when thesis demands the extensive blocking of every movement of every minute of the day, and we set off on a Saturday afternoon to LA. Spoilers: I do not regret this decision.
We arrive early because of some tardiness anxiety (mine; a vestigial phobia from high school, back when I was an unrefined crazy), so we walk a couple of blocks to Starbucks. The sky is cloudy and the wind lends a dense, cold grey to match the concrete pavement. We get coffee and walk back to the Asian Pacific American Legal Center and into a room full of familiar faces: riKu spots us almost immediately and gives a warm welcome, though I blunder through an awkward hug (I can’t believe he remembers us from the Q+A a few weeks ago!). I spot D’Lo and Alice Hom as well; we are told that Gina Maséquesmay is running late. It is initially gratifying to see that queer organizing in Claremont has not been totally off the mark, considering that four out of the five panelists have been featured at 5C events this semester.
But in the hours that follow, I cycle through excitement, exhaustion, apathy, inadequacy, and edgy anxiety. I am unprepared for how draining this is -- I feel compelled to match the passion and dedication exuded by each panelist with an equal investment of telepathic solidarity in the form of emotional/intellectual engagement. When Gina talks about her ignorance of her sexuality while attending Pomona, I wander back to the excruciatingly heteronormative sponsor groups of first year; when riKu describes his worship of Professor Eve Oishi due to shared identities, I ponder the political chasm between my academic advisor and me; when D’Lo mentions his San Fernando Valley upbringing, I think back to growing up in Orange County without knowing, really, what it means to grow up in Orange County; and when Alice explains how she came to write a dissertation about queer API organizing, I wonder about the ways in which my own thesis might be queered. I watch the moderator reluctantly cut off each speech, and at the end of the panel, I am immobile, glued to my seat with an overwhelming desire but inability to take back all of this learning to Claremont. Candace and I engage in some half-hearted networking over catered Thai food with other members of the queer API college community, but I am too weighed down by the process of internalizing what I'd just heard. The drive back to Claremont is similarly burdened: I must apologize again to Candace for my sullen and anguished attempts at conversation.
(2/2. and sorry about the deleted posts! I keep noticing mistakes I have to correct and clarifications I should make.)
The language that I use to describe this experience makes it difficult to present this in a positive light. I am still rendered emotionally mute when I recall the trip, and I am not terribly pleased by how unintelligibly self-absorbed this reflection has become. However, I am taking this opportunity to be completely and brutally honest with both the class and myself: the culture of empowerment and activism can be a lonely environment when everyone around you seems to be exactly where they need to be. Dylan likes to point me out as an AARC intern with lots of programming experience (SO not true, by the way), but I am constantly reminded of how much I need to grow every time I speak in this class -- I have a bad habit of becoming mired in trying to define things instead of translating that energy into activism and organizing. At Queersay, I started the slow and painful process of recognizing -- REALLY recognizing -- the privileges I enjoy as a student at the Claremont Colleges. I complain an awful lot about how little my chemistry major means to me, but I am beginning to understand how embarrassingly immature I have been.
So in conclusion, I'm writing this as a public pledge to: 1) be more humble and conscious of how my politics affect my relationships with my friends, family, and peers; 2) seek out and actively participate in social justice movements in LA, not just in the safe spaces of Claremont; 3) stop complaining about the incongruity between my academic and political aspirations and look for ways to contribute with my scientific background; and 4) be forgiving of myself and others when we do not meet expectations, both in our political and personal lives.
I am immensely grateful for the thought-provoking and humbling conversations we've had in our class: you have compelled me to critically examine my own perspectives of being queer and API and have allowed me to imagine things I would never have imagined on my own.
I didn't attend any of the official class field trips, although I hope to attend the May 1 March. I decided not to attend the Gameboi trip in part because I was dying to go see Climbing PoeTree but also I did feel uncomfortable.
The Event As an AARC intern, I have been fortunate to attend some of the Q&A lunch events. Attending these events has been interesting because I’m constantly thinking about how the class functions and to what purpose. I know initially when I signed up I didn’t think there would be any separation between class and on-campus work.
But on to the talk first. One talk that stood out to me was when Raja Bhattar, Assistant Director of Campus Diversity and Inclusion at the University of Redlands, came to deliver a presentation. His talk focused on South Asian queer identity. It was very interesting to hear about his earliest experiences, and how he initially found much conflict between his queer/South Asian/religious identities. But more than just his own personal story, this talk really made me question and reflect on our own resource centers and the relationship between the administration and students. For example Bhattar went into some of the issues that he sees in his on campus work, namely the very visible reminders that communities are oftentimes constructed on singular identities. I thought about his position as well as the institutionalized resources offered to students here. I know as a Scripps student, for a long time I thought the best thing would be to have a paid staff member with expertise on AAPI issues. Over time, and after working for the administration for 2 years, I started to reconsider that. Similarly, for the longest time I would do just about anything to get students of color on campus. Then I seriously, seriously reconsidered that approach and recognized how simplistic and ultimately counterproductive that might be. I started thinking about these shifts in my own opinions as well as how institutions of higher education structure and offer these resources.
Creative Project As this is my last semester at Scripps, I had some freedom in choosing the classes I wanted to take. I honestly cannot say I remember what first drew me to the class, but I’m very glad I ended up here. I have to admit, walking into the class and having Professor Suh tell me it was up to the students as to whether I could join the class or not was a bit confusing at first. I quickly began to understand what a “student-run” class entailed once it actually started, though; it was definitely not something I had ever experienced before. I really wish I was more creative and could come up with something inspiring for the class to do, but I decided instead that I would, in my own words, write a thank you note to the class highlighting the things that made it special to me.
Dear ASAM 197,
I would like to say thank you for perhaps the most memorable class I have ever taken. First, I would like to thank the Claremont Colleges. As flawed as they might be, this class was still offered, and for that I am grateful. Professor Suh, I would like to thank you for offering us the freedom to teach one another and to explore with the ways we wanted to do things and for giving us the structure that kept us going and kept us thinking, growing, and questioning. I think this class is unique, and though I don't know much about its history, I am glad those students had the dedication and passion to see this through. To the committee, that has to pass the class through to keep it in next years registration options, thank you! I am not sure you know how exciting and invigorating a class like this can be. To all the students in the class- THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! It is really you that make this either a fun experience or one to dread. I have to admit there were times when I was a little annoyed at having to get up off my bed to walk to the humanities building (especially when it interrupted my House Hunters International episode... in the countryside of France), but coming to a class where I knew we would probably be discussing something interesting, watching a funny youtube clip, or even having polite arguments over words/issues/theories, made it all worthwhile. It was really fascinating to hear you all talk and to hear about your lives. I loved being an active participant in the class and being able to learn so much about this important topic. Sometimes the readings were so frustrating I threw them to my floor and had to stop. However, I think we all felt that way sometimes and I was happy that the classroom provided a safe space where we could all come to class and express our frustration without feeling bad or insulting anyone. I am thrilled we started to change the readings around and have speakers come as it made it even more of our own class and our own experience. Thank you to our speakers! You all were amazing and brought in such great stories, history and insights! I was so proud of our class for the numbers we were able to pull in for Brandon Lee. I kept turning around and counting :) I also want to say thank you to our room, which was moved around a lot and offered us the opportunity to sit together on the floor, around our tables, meet in corners in small groups, and even venture to all new spaces (at least for me it was new!)! Anyways, basically thanks again for everything!
Also, I just wanted to add (but it doesn't really fit into the thank you note)-
I am going back to DC this summer to work at an organization called So Others Might Eat (SOME) that works to break the cycle of homelessness. I worked there last summer and this winter break, but will be going back to a full-time position. I love working there and always feel like I learn a lot. However, this class has actually made me feel like I can now contribute even more to the organization. I think I can take a lot of what I have learned from this class and apply it at SOME. The homeless population in this country faces a lot of issues, and a major one is recognition. They are often marginalized and forgotten by people and/or the government. They need to be recognized, and the only way for that process to begin is by having a voice. At the present time, unfortunately, they have no voice, and a lot of people still don't believe they should have a voice. So many people consider homeless people to be in the state they’re in because of their own choices or actions. Some may think that they are homeless because they are drug users, or crazy. Yes, there are homeless people who are drug users and those that have mental health issues, but think of the economic times right now! Many are homeless because they lost their jobs, because they were raised in poverty, because they have not had a good education, etc. Often I hear people say they have helped the homeless by working at a food kitchen or donating money, and thank you! That is very important to do, but it is not really enough. The organization I work for has a food kitchen, shower and clothing rooms, a crisis shelter, a shelter for the abused elderly, addictions recovery centers, employment training, mental health services, transitional housing, affordable living for single adults, affordable living for families, elderly services, medical facilities, etc. I am not trying to just feed people, I am trying to give them the knowledge and support they need to take back control of their lives. I know it might kind of seem like the class and homeless people don't connect, but I really think there are connections. In both cases there are issues of visibility, stereotypes, difficulties accessing the same things as majorities, etc.
For me, gay clubbing has been a vital part of my life since my freshman year. Every Friday, my friends and I get all fire hot (literally, a 20/10), meet in West Hollywood, and start to make the boys fall like dominoes. Since we started clubbing at age 18, our primary stomping grounds have always been Gameboi/Tigerheat. However, as time went on, since most of my clubbing friends are Asian American, we have come to visit Gameboi a lot more since they like the atmosphere of it a bit more than Tigerheat. Because of this, Gameboi has always been a place I associate with the words “fun”, “dancing”, “alcohol”, and “bathroom sex.” Taking ASAM197 though has opened my eyes, mainly to various issues I had no idea had been plaguing the club since its inception.
What exactly sparked this epiphany? To be flat out honest, it was colliding the classroom with the club (literally.) Bringing my classmates to Gameboi finally made everything click for me. Yes, I had been doing the readings and learning in class, but I always kept my academic life and clubbing separate. Being with my classmates on the dance floor, however, was the equivalent of having a large meteor penetrate my pregnant mind. I noticed, for once, “power politics” at the club. All the creeping old white men, the dynamics between the “sticky rice” and the “rice queens”.....suddenly in one epiphany I was able to find a meeting ground between the classroom and the club, and this is all thanks to my classmates coming with me, so I thank you guys who came so much for teaching me these things.
However, what probably disturbs me the most about this club is management of it. Before I did not care much, but after our discussions in ASAM197, I have to wonder....why exactly is the club run by two old white guys and not an Asian American? Would it not make more sense for an Asian American to found and run a club aimed at Asian Americans? To me, the answer is obvious and a bit sickening, but perhaps I have just grown cynical of the white majority since the advent of our class. Perhaps too cynical to even trust myself. I feel I am too far into the “game” now to back out, and I will openly come out and say I am a “rice queen.” One of those with “yellow fever.” I do not know why I have this type of preference or why it is there, it just always has been (I can even remember crushing on my aunt’s boyfriend when I was a child.) I will allow everyone to judge me however they want based on this, but it is something I cannot help and something I do not see myself trying to stop anytime soon. The class has taught me new ways to view myself, other rice queens, potato queens, and sticky rice as well. The class has taught me that being a rice queen means one has inherent issues, and honestly I believe that is true. However, if I am happy, and if my boyfriend is happy, I do not see anything wrong with it, and I will do my best not to abuse my white privilege (or half white privilege) as a vice against my partner in the future. I hope this all makes sense.
A few weeks ago I went with Dylan to Gameboi at Rage. It was my second time clubbing in West Hollywood and my first time at a gay Asian theme night. Unfortunately I never went to any gay clubs when I was living in Hong Kong, so I can't really compare how a club here catering to an API crowd and one back home that just happens to have many Asian (Hong Kong Chinese). After pre-gaming in Dylan's car to avoid expensive drinks, a thing my mother would commend me for doing when I told her about it on skype, I was ready to see the queer API clubbing scene. It may have been my level of intoxication but for once I did not feel that self conscious about my intense Asian glow because of the numerous others around me that were just as red. Dylan being the good host that he is, introduced me to a lot of his friends, and in between the lapses in conversation, I had a chance to look around. I saw a predatory old Caucasian rice queen creeping on someone next to him on a couch. This made me wonder if the Caucasian man had any awareness of the colonialist power dynamics and exotification that some of our readings establish him as perpetuating. At the same time I wondered if the Asian man next to him unknowingly had some internalized racism, was heavily influenced by white beauty standards, or was using the relationship as a means to ascend the racial hierarchy. Then were all the other API around me here and sticking their "own kind" because they were sticky rice?
ReplyDeleteSo who is a club/night devoted to queer API for and what purpose does it serve? Is a place like Gameboi meant to provide a safe space for queer API to gather without fearing having stereotypes or preconceived notions of dominance projected on them, or simply for queer API that like other queer API? I personally appreciate having a place like this, not only because I tend to be "sticky rice" (if I'm even allowed to say that since I'm Eurasian), but also because of the low API population at the 5C's I still find myself feeling like there aren't many other queer API men. Going to Gameboi was oddly fulfilling for me in thinking that all these random people I was dancing with somehow shared part of my identity and had similar life experiences that I could relate to. Were the people around me others who viewed themselves as identifying equally with both being queer and API or were they at Gameboi because it is a unique middle ground that bridges the two communities in which they don't feel completely comfortable in.
I'm curious as to whether a location like this can be used for queer API community organizing. The environment of a club isn't for everyone and promotes the creation of certain relationships over others. I'm sure you'll find examples of couples that met in a drunken night of dancing, but I don't think clubs really foster this sort of development. I may have this impression cause I mostly find myself on the dance floor where the music is loud to the point that it's difficult to exchange names let alone have a conversation. The same can be said for building friendships at a club. All of these people come from different places and unless you attend regularly or connect to individuals outside of the club setting (online/offline), all I can see this sort of experience amounting to is a drunken make-out sesh. I guess that brings back the question of why people come to a place like Gameboi...more "investigating" will be had once I'm done with thesis =P
Part 1/2 (apparently this is too long to fit in one post… I think the blog might be trying to tell me something)
ReplyDeleteUnfortunately, I was not able to attend any of the class’ official field trips. However, I have done quite a bit of queer work on campus this semester and have tried to incorporate what I have learned from this class into that work to increase its sensitivity to intersections of queer identity and API identity.
Some of the most rewarding work I did this semester was in the planning of Spectrum. I worked with friends/representatives from SOCA (Students of Color Alliance at Pomona) and AAMP (Asian American Mentor Program at Pomona) to make this party a safe space for students who feel left out of the mainstream party culture of the 5Cs – a culture that is dominated by whiteness and heteronormativity. We used a unique advertising campaign (credit to the incomparable Faye Wang for that!) that emphasized the kind of space we wanted the party to be for people. The hope was that anyone who saw one of those flyers and was intrigued enough to come would be someone who really wanted a party like that; in turn, a room full of people looking for a safe space to let loose would turn Spectrum into the party we wanted it to be.
From my experience with Spectrum, I learned about the non-linear nature of organizing. There is no way for organizers to make a group-based activity like a party into everything they want it to be on their own. The job of the organizers is to be in conversation with different groups of people and draw connections between their concerns and desires. Through these connections, various groups are able to come together to create what it is they want through collective action. It is not simply a process of “organizers make the party and then partygoers enjoy it.” The relationship between the organizers and participants in the organizing is complex and fluid – reminiscent of the Freirean pedagogy we discussed at the beginning of the year. Shared desire for Spectrum and conversation about what it should be was what made it what it was.
I would like to take a moment to reflect on my work as QQAMP (Queer, Questioning, and Allied Mentor Program) head mentor this year, especially in relationship to how the various mentor groups on campus relate to one another, and how coalitional organizing and identity-based organizing do not have to be viewed as mutually exclusive categories.
ReplyDeleteMy work as QQAMP head mentor may be seen solely as queer work – as opposed to API work – but of course, this is the kind of false dichotomy that serves white supremacy and heteronormativity more so than it serves people. Many members of QQAMP identify as API – if I have to refer to my work as queer activism with some implication that that does not have any overlap with API activism or any other sort of activism, I am being forced to assert sexuality or gender identity as separable from race, class, religion/belief system, and ability and therefore somehow separately “mentorable.” Ideally, in the future, the various mentor programs from the colleges would collaborate with one another to provide mentees with mentors that better suit their requests. This includes some of the benefits of coalitional organizing without sacrificing the utility of identity-based organization for the purposes of the mentor programs. I would also love to see a standardized mentor training that all 5C mentors must take part in, in addition to any specific training they receive for their program (I have taken part in planning meetings with deans for this, but it always seems like institutional forces do this work half-heartedly and it never really gets off the ground).
Also, I’d just briefly like to mention how much I’ve enjoyed attending Q&A events this year. Thank you Kelly and Candace (and Bonny and Emily)! I’d also like to include a brief story that illustrates some of the institutional barriers to work addressing issues of queer people of color on campus, but also in the same way shows one of the many reasons why it is so important.
Two of my co-workers/friends at the QRC are trying to start a QPOC group through ASPC – they have officially registered it with ASPC and have made a proposal for a budget next year. At their budget hearing, they were repeatedly questioned (read: bullied) about the purpose of a QPOC group. According to one of my friends, none of the questions were about how they had outlined their intended use of the requested budget – it was all about why it is even necessary to have a QPOC group when the QRC already exists and resource centers for students of color exist. Both my friends emphasized the need for a space that recognized the intersection of their identities as queer students and as students of color. One member of the ASPC Senate in particular was not letting up, and made my friends feel very attacked. It should be noted that it is not a routine practice in these budget hearings to question why groups exist – only why they plan to spend money they way they have outlined and why ASPC should help them with that. This kind of institutional resistance to recognizing and addressing the lack of resources for queer students of color is frustrating and upsetting, but I share this story to underline the importance of the kind of work that Q&A does and the importance of doing this work in the face of institutional resistance. (Also, if the QPOC group doesn’t get funding because of the ignorance of some ASPC senators, we’re going to raise Hell – don’t you worry!)
I haven't finished writing my project yet, but I just have to say: Zach, I can't even deal with how fucked up that is. If the QPOC group doesn't get ASPC funding, I propose that our entire class storm a Senate meeting (which is open to everyone, by the way, and not just the senators). I can probably guarantee the use of Spang's megaphone, if necessary.
ReplyDelete(Agreed. Zach--please raise some serious Hell. It really is quite incredible how this kind of shit still happens on campus.)
ReplyDeleteAnd onto my post (1/2)
When I signed up to take Queering Asian America, I assumed that it would be a perfect complement not only to my interests but to my work on the AARC's Queer and Asian (Q+A) Committee. While there was overlap, of course--both in ideas and in the people with whom I found myself interacting--the class provided me with a very different experience than I expected; the class and my experiences within broader queer API communities did not fit as seamlessly together as I had at first imagined they would.
Since last September, I have been involved with Q+A, which is dedicated to provide a safe space to discuss issues pertaining to the queer API community at the Colleges. With rough beginnings, Q+A did not really get off its feet until late in the first semester, when our Q+A Talk series began. The Q+A Talks were frequent lecture events, in which we would invite a guest--typically a professor or author-- to speak to students over lunch. After planning and attending a panoply of these events, I realized that my participation was primarily that of a listener; although I had dialogued about a lot of these issues with friends, within these organized community spaces I found myself attentive, yet not participating in the same way that I would in other kinds of venues. Q+A Talks for me thus might be more aptly described for me as Q+A Lectures (or something slightly less formal and academic, haha). While they sparked their own dialogue on campus, my personal involvement with these events was participatory in the way that I was physically present, but often did not find myself actively speaking within them.
Thus, to be spoken to--and to listen--as a member of queer API communities is something that has characterized my formal involvement this year. These are relatively new communities that I work in and identify with, both at the Colleges and beyond. Maybe that is one reason why I do not speak, publicly, as much as I would like--as I instead patiently absorbed words that began to shape what it even meant to be queer and API. Maybe I felt some sort of understanding that warranted my silence, or a sense that my own contributions sprang from nothing "legitimate." Nevertheless, how I found myself involved with queer API communities was through listening at a multitude of formalized events, punctuated by rigorous debate within my personal social circles.
(2/2)
ReplyDeleteIn March, Kelly and I went to an AQWA (Asian Queer/Trans Women Activists) event called Queersay, which was a panel discussion from five individuals involved in queer API issues: Alice Hom, D'Lo, Doreen Wong, riKu Matsuda, and Gina Masequesmay. Again, I found myself in the position of attentive yet shy listener, as each panelist articulated their experiences in queer API activism--which ranged from running local performance workshops to catalyzing national coalition-building. During his presentation, riKu mentioned that we face a constant struggle to define our terms. What does AQWA even mean, and who is it for? Who are we including when we say the "queer API community"? Who are we trying to include, and who isn't getting the memo? With full knowledge that these terms are malleable and unwieldy, for the purposes of organizing it is crucial to articulate who we are talking about and what we are even doing.
Considering riKu's comment within an academic frame, I've thus realized that our class is a space in which a defining of terms has been constant and crucial. Contrasted to the events where I've felt comfortable as purely a listener, from the very first day ASAM 197 was an environment where I felt the need--as well as the pressure--to dialogue. Outside conversation-over-dinner-with-friends kinds of settings, our class clearly pushed me to think more about and actively practice how to talk about queer API issues, with individuals who both do and do not identify with a queer API community. As we have spent so much questioning our definitions--or trying to make our own--there has been no room in our class for unspoken understandings or comfortable silences. And as much as those processes of trying to articulate ideas, construct arguments, and distill readings was often a tenuous one, with all sorts of words and ideas spilled, it was a valuable experience to deal with the (conceptual, and by no means pejorative) mess. This class left me with a sort of queer space, which I have come to see as a dialogical one--one that never really finds or holds a position, but is cycling within a constant change of definition that does not make yesterday's definition any less valid (but only for yesterday). From working with a sketchy syllabus to collectively trying to figure things out, ASAM 197 for me was a change in position--moving from listener to active speaker and participant--that leaves me with much room to keep continuing all of its discussions, and of course, to keep discussing.
This class was, to me, about navigation. Navigating our communities, our interactions, and ourselves. This idea came up in numerous readings and lectures, but it was most evident during the class discussions. Through the various experiences I had in the course of this class, I learned a lot about how we navigate, both as groups and individuals.
ReplyDeleteDuring the semester, I attended a lecture by Gayatri Reddy in which she read from her forthcoming essay, "Queer Desi Formations: Marking the Boundaries of Cultural Belonging in America." In it, Reddy focuses on the experiences of queer Indian men living in Chicago and their interactions with various communities. She sets up an opposition between the older generation of queer South Asian activists and the younger, less active men in the community. I found this opposition to be among the more interesting portions of her essay in that it exemplified the types of differences that can often create friction between groups of people involved in these types of "diversity" struggles.
This opposition, in particular, was due to approaches. The older group was read as "a bunch of fags" who were overtly sexual/crude in all interactions and flaunted their homosexuality in a burlesque-style dance through their lives and communities. The younger group, on the other hand, fell closer to the "Model Minority," both as queer subjects and as citizens; they were willing to background their sexuality and their Indian origins to play by the rules of the dominant society. Reddy found - as did I - that it was hard to decide which approach was more appropriate. On the one hand, the overtness of the older generation was off-putting even to other queer men, and thus could have been doubly so to non-queers. However, the younger generation was portrayed - and rightly so - as not wanting to work to maintain the gains of those who had come before them, but rather to simply enjoy the fruits of their labor. If the older crowd had played by the rules, there would be no such thing as a queer South Asian identity in Chicago. However, if they continue, they may remain a socially abject group, unable to take part in the "value-added American" status that Reddy outlined.*
I noticed similar disagreements within our class. For example, the debate around notions of "culture" and "cultural experiences" split us between relegating "cultural experience" to capitalist privilege and celebrating cultural experiences as valid forms of contact. It is not my place to say which approach is correct, and both Reddy's lecture and our class showed that different approaches need not remain out of synch entirely, and sometimes opposition can be more fruitful than synthesis. If we failed to admit the privilege inherent in eating sushi (to name one example), we would deny the structures in which we are operating. However, if we did not believe in cultural experience, then we could not have made a trip to Gameboi or planned to participate in the May 1st March. Any time you get into issues regarding queerness, ethniity, culture, etc. you will inevitably come up against notions of protected "borderlands"^. The question remains; how do we work around them?
ReplyDeleteI am queer. I am not A/PI. How then, can I "queer Asian America?"† Or rather, what is my role in this area? To answer this, we need to go back to Eric Estuar Reyes' observation: "Focusing on specific issues and practical action provides the basis for collaborative efforts across ethnicity, sexuality, residency status, and other differences." That sentence is, in my opinion, the most important thing that I read in this class. The class itself, from meetings with API Equality to the Reddy lecture to the class itself, illustrated this idea in ways that I am still sorting through. I did learn, however, that there are ways for each of us to be active participants in various barrier-breaking struggles in our own way, and it is finding the fruitful balance of tension - between cultures, approaches, ideologies, and people - that is often times the most difficult.
*Reddy presented "value-added Americans" as those with the "added" component of "ethnicity," i.e. some muddy form of "culture" which is not in line with the dominant US forms.
^An idea attributable to multiple authors.
† Perhaps my reading of the course title is flawed, and it is not an active process that I need to undertake, but rather something that was illuminated for me by the course.
There we were talking, just you and me. But I wasn’t saying anything, and the words flowing from your mouth weren’t yours. I could tell. They belonged to something greater, and so there you were spitting them out but your eyes didn’t match; I swear your eyes didn’t believe you. So I began to run, afraid of your mismatched words, your mismatched eyes. I ran to the door, past the door I’d be safe, but when I opened the door, I was nowhere. So I ran to the next, and then the next, but all of them led nowhere and I was back with you, only it wasn’t you, it was someone else, someone with the same mismatched eyes and words. It was a dream, but it wasn’t a dream because the fear was real. My sweat was salty, and that was real. My hands were shaking, and I was no longer in control, and that was real. And so there I was in a room with doors leading nowhere, with a bunch of yous speaking words that weren’t yours, trembling. You didn’t think you were attacking me, but I could feel myself shrinking. Down, down I shriveled and you grew taller and taller, and I was almost so caught up in you that I didn’t see the others, the others who were small like me.
ReplyDelete“Come here,” one said, “Don’t be afraid.” Her eyes believed her words so I wasn’t, and I went. “Step on my shoulders,” she told me, so I did. And then I looked back at you and you weren’t so tall, and your words weren’t so intimidating.
Coincidence, perhaps? While clearing the throng of unnecessary files in my laptop this week, I stumbled upon my forgotten, angst-filled journal I wrote the summer before coming to college. It included my random thoughts, spanning from my obsession with the name “Matthew” to my would-be responses to the Advocate articles and my feelings about having conservative Chinese parents. I wrote it so I would “remember this stage of my life. It may not be—and God I hope it isn’t—the highlight of my life, as I am only 17, but I want to preserve these memories like nostalgic photos.” Although it would be most wise to delete it entirely, (you cannot imagine how embarrassing this journal is) I am going to post parts of it to juxtapose how I was with how I am now. How did college change me? How did ASAM 197 change me? And who knows, I might read this blog post in a few years and observe how I am going to evolve in four years.
ReplyDeleteI wrote in my first post:
“Those whom we admire—our teachers, our peers, our parents—idealize the bildungsroman, one’s rite of passage. To evolve from naïveté to maturity. I consider this period my bildungsroman as I am beginning to learn about, to express, and to have pride in myself. I hope to conclude this journal fearless. Without shame.”
In the first week of class we went around, as an ice-breaker, asking why we signed up for “Queering Asian America.” My artificial reason: “because my sister really liked her Asian-American studies class at UCLA.” My actual reason: to study myself/people like me. But, of course at the time, nobody could know that because I matter SO MUCH!! And though I would prefer to think I transcend that, that mentality of fear still lingers, even if marginally.
The transition to college is my bildungsroman; it is where I form my identity without conforming to norms I was conditioned to glorify in high school. Indeed, I was more comfortable in my first few weeks at Pomona than my previous four years in high school. ASAM 197 exemplifies this change in culture which I admire so much. A class that not only identifies but also embraces non-White, non-heterosexual identities. It was so foreign to me, but I am grateful that I could be a part of it. Yet, the readings in the class themselves are trivial to me. The discourse and the people who are so passionate about the subjects are what made ASAM 197 invaluable.
In the fourth post in my journal, I explicitly wrote that “I am more gay than I am Asian.” That is no longer true. Not because I am more one than the other, but because I no longer compare them. What I took most from this class is that identifies intersect, and that they cannot be quantified and aggregated. Though I tried, as apparent in various disturbing posts in my journal, I cannot differentiate my experience as API from my experiences as queer. Back to Zach’s post, this is why I wholeheartedly support your effort to help establish a QPOC organization.
Since ASAM 197 is my first DDP class, I am not an expert in the subjects in which many of you seem be well-versed. It is difficult for me to identify power dynamics and political rhetoric in most circumstances, but I do recognize their value. While analyzing my world with a new critical lens is daunting, (I typically take economic courses) I do plan to utilize and expand on what I have gained. This summer I have an internship in LA with Asian-American sexual health organizations. I could never have imagine doing ANYTHING like this, especially since I used to avoid being associated with the API community. As I muse how I have changed in one year, I do not pinpoint any moment that marked my drastic transition. Rather, the small nudges, including taking ASAM 197, pushed me to where I am now.
Much of this semester I have been thinking about spaces, their importance, and how I move through them. One space has been our class where we have intentionally focused on queer API issues in a learning environment. Outside of the class I have often found myself in API spaces on campus, if not always queer-identified ones than usually political in some ways. There was also my experience in going with members of the class to Gameboi. The main question on my mind is the appropriateness of myself as a white male in these API spaces and how I am seen in them.
ReplyDeleteOn the one hand I have good friends in the API community who are more likely to share my leftist politics than most of the white folk on campus. When it comes to my emotional self it is often harmful for me to hang out in hegemonically “white spaces” so I consciously avoid it. My fear, however, is that in the process I may unintentionally colonize spaces for API folks, warping their original purpose. Despite the fun I had at Gameboi (and it was a lot of fun) I partly felt that it was not a space meant for me and I don’t think it should be at all. Reading Thomas’s comment I can see the value in a queer API club space and understand why it exists. What I don’t understand is myself in relation to it. Because the experience was fun I would not mind going again, but the nagging question is what would it mean. My close friends would probably understand, but to anyone else in the club would I just appear as another rice queen (If perhaps a rather young one)? Would to not go if the opportunity arose be some kind of capitulation?
To move through API spaces, and leftist political spaces in general, to me is a continuous process of proving my own credentials, of showing that that I am aware of my whiteness and the implications it has. I do not think this is a terrible thing, as I would rather be challenged than become unintentionally colonizing. I also think that the reality of this issue for me is much less fraught than the lives of many of the queer API folk we have read about, and may be me more complaining than a serious grievance. After all I am rarely seriously materially threatened by most spaces and my very ability to move is a consequence of privilege.
For purely emotional reasons then, I wonder if I will ever find a space that fits me and my politics, where I will not feel guilty by my very presence. This class has been rewarding in forcing me to articulate these thoughts, but it has also shown the problems in forging safe spaces for all aspects of one’s identity. Indeed, the reality of such a space may in the end be an illusion, but I would rather continue to struggle than become complacent and thus risk hurting someone else.
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ReplyDelete(1/2)
ReplyDeleteCandace and I almost don’t make it to Queersay. I’d squandered the first half of spring break trying to read Gender Trouble, then made a dusk-to-dawn trip to Joshua Tree Park that took a lot out of me -- it’s exhausting, you see, to listen to Rebecca Black’s “Friday” and Rihanna’s “S&M” on loop for four hours straight, especially when you have a friend with perfect pitch. I text Candace Friday afternoon to wave off the trip we’d planned. But she gently shames me into realizing just how rude it is to cancel last-minute when thesis demands the extensive blocking of every movement of every minute of the day, and we set off on a Saturday afternoon to LA. Spoilers: I do not regret this decision.
We arrive early because of some tardiness anxiety (mine; a vestigial phobia from high school, back when I was an unrefined crazy), so we walk a couple of blocks to Starbucks. The sky is cloudy and the wind lends a dense, cold grey to match the concrete pavement. We get coffee and walk back to the Asian Pacific American Legal Center and into a room full of familiar faces: riKu spots us almost immediately and gives a warm welcome, though I blunder through an awkward hug (I can’t believe he remembers us from the Q+A a few weeks ago!). I spot D’Lo and Alice Hom as well; we are told that Gina Maséquesmay is running late. It is initially gratifying to see that queer organizing in Claremont has not been totally off the mark, considering that four out of the five panelists have been featured at 5C events this semester.
But in the hours that follow, I cycle through excitement, exhaustion, apathy, inadequacy, and edgy anxiety. I am unprepared for how draining this is -- I feel compelled to match the passion and dedication exuded by each panelist with an equal investment of telepathic solidarity in the form of emotional/intellectual engagement. When Gina talks about her ignorance of her sexuality while attending Pomona, I wander back to the excruciatingly heteronormative sponsor groups of first year; when riKu describes his worship of Professor Eve Oishi due to shared identities, I ponder the political chasm between my academic advisor and me; when D’Lo mentions his San Fernando Valley upbringing, I think back to growing up in Orange County without knowing, really, what it means to grow up in Orange County; and when Alice explains how she came to write a dissertation about queer API organizing, I wonder about the ways in which my own thesis might be queered. I watch the moderator reluctantly cut off each speech, and at the end of the panel, I am immobile, glued to my seat with an overwhelming desire but inability to take back all of this learning to Claremont. Candace and I engage in some half-hearted networking over catered Thai food with other members of the queer API college community, but I am too weighed down by the process of internalizing what I'd just heard. The drive back to Claremont is similarly burdened: I must apologize again to Candace for my sullen and anguished attempts at conversation.
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ReplyDelete(2/2. and sorry about the deleted posts! I keep noticing mistakes I have to correct and clarifications I should make.)
ReplyDeleteThe language that I use to describe this experience makes it difficult to present this in a positive light. I am still rendered emotionally mute when I recall the trip, and I am not terribly pleased by how unintelligibly self-absorbed this reflection has become. However, I am taking this opportunity to be completely and brutally honest with both the class and myself: the culture of empowerment and activism can be a lonely environment when everyone around you seems to be exactly where they need to be. Dylan likes to point me out as an AARC intern with lots of programming experience (SO not true, by the way), but I am constantly reminded of how much I need to grow every time I speak in this class -- I have a bad habit of becoming mired in trying to define things instead of translating that energy into activism and organizing. At Queersay, I started the slow and painful process of recognizing -- REALLY recognizing -- the privileges I enjoy as a student at the Claremont Colleges. I complain an awful lot about how little my chemistry major means to me, but I am beginning to understand how embarrassingly immature I have been.
So in conclusion, I'm writing this as a public pledge to: 1) be more humble and conscious of how my politics affect my relationships with my friends, family, and peers; 2) seek out and actively participate in social justice movements in LA, not just in the safe spaces of Claremont; 3) stop complaining about the incongruity between my academic and political aspirations and look for ways to contribute with my scientific background; and 4) be forgiving of myself and others when we do not meet expectations, both in our political and personal lives.
I am immensely grateful for the thought-provoking and humbling conversations we've had in our class: you have compelled me to critically examine my own perspectives of being queer and API and have allowed me to imagine things I would never have imagined on my own.
I didn't attend any of the official class field trips, although I hope to attend the May 1 March. I decided not to attend the Gameboi trip in part because I was dying to go see Climbing PoeTree but also I did feel uncomfortable.
ReplyDeleteThe Event
As an AARC intern, I have been fortunate to attend some of the Q&A lunch events. Attending these events has been interesting because I’m constantly thinking about how the class functions and to what purpose. I know initially when I signed up I didn’t think there would be any separation between class and on-campus work.
But on to the talk first. One talk that stood out to me was when Raja Bhattar, Assistant Director of Campus Diversity and Inclusion at the University of Redlands, came to deliver a presentation. His talk focused on South Asian queer identity. It was very interesting to hear about his earliest experiences, and how he initially found much conflict between his queer/South Asian/religious identities. But more than just his own personal story, this talk really made me question and reflect on our own resource centers and the relationship between the administration and students. For example Bhattar went into some of the issues that he sees in his on campus work, namely the very visible reminders that communities are oftentimes constructed on singular identities. I thought about his position as well as the institutionalized resources offered to students here. I know as a Scripps student, for a long time I thought the best thing would be to have a paid staff member with expertise on AAPI issues. Over time, and after working for the administration for 2 years, I started to reconsider that. Similarly, for the longest time I would do just about anything to get students of color on campus. Then I seriously, seriously reconsidered that approach and recognized how simplistic and ultimately counterproductive that might be. I started thinking about these shifts in my own opinions as well as how institutions of higher education structure and offer these resources.
Creative Project
ReplyDeleteAs this is my last semester at Scripps, I had some freedom in choosing the classes I wanted to take. I honestly cannot say I remember what first drew me to the class, but I’m very glad I ended up here. I have to admit, walking into the class and having Professor Suh tell me it was up to the students as to whether I could join the class or not was a bit confusing at first. I quickly began to understand what a “student-run” class entailed once it actually started, though; it was definitely not something I had ever experienced before. I really wish I was more creative and could come up with something inspiring for the class to do, but I decided instead that I would, in my own words, write a thank you note to the class highlighting the things that made it special to me.
Dear ASAM 197,
I would like to say thank you for perhaps the most memorable class I have ever taken. First, I would like to thank the Claremont Colleges. As flawed as they might be, this class was still offered, and for that I am grateful. Professor Suh, I would like to thank you for offering us the freedom to teach one another and to explore with the ways we wanted to do things and for giving us the structure that kept us going and kept us thinking, growing, and questioning. I think this class is unique, and though I don't know much about its history, I am glad those students had the dedication and passion to see this through. To the committee, that has to pass the class through to keep it in next years registration options, thank you! I am not sure you know how exciting and invigorating a class like this can be. To all the students in the class- THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! It is really you that make this either a fun experience or one to dread. I have to admit there were times when I was a little annoyed at having to get up off my bed to walk to the humanities building (especially when it interrupted my House Hunters International episode... in the countryside of France), but coming to a class where I knew we would probably be discussing something interesting, watching a funny youtube clip, or even having polite arguments over words/issues/theories, made it all worthwhile. It was really fascinating to hear you all talk and to hear about your lives. I loved being an active participant in the class and being able to learn so much about this important topic. Sometimes the readings were so frustrating I threw them to my floor and had to stop. However, I think we all felt that way sometimes and I was happy that the classroom provided a safe space where we could all come to class and express our frustration without feeling bad or insulting anyone. I am thrilled we started to change the readings around and have speakers come as it made it even more of our own class and our own experience. Thank you to our speakers! You all were amazing and brought in such great stories, history and insights! I was so proud of our class for the numbers we were able to pull in for Brandon Lee. I kept turning around and counting :) I also want to say thank you to our room, which was moved around a lot and offered us the opportunity to sit together on the floor, around our tables, meet in corners in small groups, and even venture to all new spaces (at least for me it was new!)! Anyways, basically thanks again for everything!
Yours,
Rebecca
Part 2
ReplyDeleteAlso, I just wanted to add (but it doesn't really fit into the thank you note)-
I am going back to DC this summer to work at an organization called So Others Might Eat (SOME) that works to break the cycle of homelessness. I worked there last summer and this winter break, but will be going back to a full-time position. I love working there and always feel like I learn a lot. However, this class has actually made me feel like I can now contribute even more to the organization. I think I can take a lot of what I have learned from this class and apply it at SOME. The homeless population in this country faces a lot of issues, and a major one is recognition. They are often marginalized and forgotten by people and/or the government. They need to be recognized, and the only way for that process to begin is by having a voice. At the present time, unfortunately, they have no voice, and a lot of people still don't believe they should have a voice. So many people consider homeless people to be in the state they’re in because of their own choices or actions. Some may think that they are homeless because they are drug users, or crazy. Yes, there are homeless people who are drug users and those that have mental health issues, but think of the economic times right now! Many are homeless because they lost their jobs, because they were raised in poverty, because they have not had a good education, etc. Often I hear people say they have helped the homeless by working at a food kitchen or donating money, and thank you! That is very important to do, but it is not really enough. The organization I work for has a food kitchen, shower and clothing rooms, a crisis shelter, a shelter for the abused elderly, addictions recovery centers, employment training, mental health services, transitional housing, affordable living for single adults, affordable living for families, elderly services, medical facilities, etc. I am not trying to just feed people, I am trying to give them the knowledge and support they need to take back control of their lives. I know it might kind of seem like the class and homeless people don't connect, but I really think there are connections. In both cases there are issues of visibility, stereotypes, difficulties accessing the same things as majorities, etc.
For me, gay clubbing has been a vital part of my life since my freshman year. Every Friday, my friends and I get all fire hot (literally, a 20/10), meet in West Hollywood, and start to make the boys fall like dominoes. Since we started clubbing at age 18, our primary stomping grounds have always been Gameboi/Tigerheat. However, as time went on, since most of my clubbing friends are Asian American, we have come to visit Gameboi a lot more since they like the atmosphere of it a bit more than Tigerheat. Because of this, Gameboi has always been a place I associate with the words “fun”, “dancing”, “alcohol”, and “bathroom sex.” Taking ASAM197 though has opened my eyes, mainly to various issues I had no idea had been plaguing the club since its inception.
ReplyDeleteWhat exactly sparked this epiphany? To be flat out honest, it was colliding the classroom with the club (literally.) Bringing my classmates to Gameboi finally made everything click for me. Yes, I had been doing the readings and learning in class, but I always kept my academic life and clubbing separate. Being with my classmates on the dance floor, however, was the equivalent of having a large meteor penetrate my pregnant mind. I noticed, for once, “power politics” at the club. All the creeping old white men, the dynamics between the “sticky rice” and the “rice queens”.....suddenly in one epiphany I was able to find a meeting ground between the classroom and the club, and this is all thanks to my classmates coming with me, so I thank you guys who came so much for teaching me these things.
However, what probably disturbs me the most about this club is management of it. Before I did not care much, but after our discussions in ASAM197, I have to wonder....why exactly is the club run by two old white guys and not an Asian American? Would it not make more sense for an Asian American to found and run a club aimed at Asian Americans? To me, the answer is obvious and a bit sickening, but perhaps I have just grown cynical of the white majority since the advent of our class. Perhaps too cynical to even trust myself. I feel I am too far into the “game” now to back out, and I will openly come out and say I am a “rice queen.” One of those with “yellow fever.” I do not know why I have this type of preference or why it is there, it just always has been (I can even remember crushing on my aunt’s boyfriend when I was a child.) I will allow everyone to judge me however they want based on this, but it is something I cannot help and something I do not see myself trying to stop anytime soon. The class has taught me new ways to view myself, other rice queens, potato queens, and sticky rice as well. The class has taught me that being a rice queen means one has inherent issues, and honestly I believe that is true. However, if I am happy, and if my boyfriend is happy, I do not see anything wrong with it, and I will do my best not to abuse my white privilege (or half white privilege) as a vice against my partner in the future. I hope this all makes sense.