Thursday, September 29, 2011

Why point out what we already know

Small talk with gay men I meet is like a river with many tributaries that all flow into the same delta. No matter how it starts or where it winds, I’m inevitably asked about the big O. “How long have you been out?” Or its fraternal twin, “How out are you?”

In the Western narrative of what it means to be “gay,” coming out, that pivotal moment when one goes from being unsure, afraid, or ashamed, to being proud of one’s sense of self, is mythically defined as the moment of rebirth into a new life. Just as the O question is predictable, so is the narrative that accompanies the answer. Always marked by various stages of denial, internal conflict, and eventual acceptance, the journey of sexual self discovery for a gay man is envisioned to culminate in the cathartic moment when he confidently proclaims to the world that he is gay—“coming out of the closet.” As such, coming out is thought to be not only a matter of publicly acknowledging one’s sexual preference, but also a reflection of an individual’s positive appraisal and commitment to being gay in a heterosexual society—whatever that might mean.

To come out, then, is to mark oneself as a specific type of person, one who takes on a specific type of identity, one who leads a specific type of life. Coming out is so important that asking someone how out they are is like asking them how gay they are. Asking them when they came out is like asking them when they were born. Some men I know celebrate it as a second birthday, much like former alcoholics who mark the end of one life and the beginning of the next. If you’re not “out” entirely, then you’re simply not gay enough.

The problem here isn’t the nature of coming out or of living out and proud all the time. All the more power to those who do it. The problem is the belief among many gay men that not coming out is a mark of shame and denial. According to The Gay Almanac, being in the closet is considered “the confining state of being secretive about one’s homosexuality.” The problem is the way that some of us who live out loud judge those who do not. For too many gay men, there is a clear line between being out and “hiding.” Sometimes, they believe so strongly in the power of being out that they deliberately out others. But is this dichotomy between being out and being closeted so easy to draw?

For me, and for many other men I’ve met in my life, being “gay” is a constant negotiation rather than a momentary declaration that changes one’s life forever. Rather than being “out and proud all the time,” gay Asian men vacillate between being “gay,” being “Asian,” being “gay and Asian,” depending on the situation. While one can easily read this vacillation as being out when convenient and hiding when not, such an argument would simply reinforce the very Western notion that not focusing on my gayness as being my central identity somehow diminishes my life overall.

From my perspective as a gay man of color, the problem of putting such importance on coming out, being out, and living out reinforces the Western notion that there is only one way to be gay—and that all other ways of being gay, obviously including mine, are simply not enough. It’s as if, once we decide to be gay, we have to leave all our other identities behind. I see this often with gay white men. Once they come out of the closet, they sever all ties with their former self. Almost overnight, all of their friends are gay, all of their activities are gay, and all of their support systems are gay. But not all of us have the comfort of seamlessly entering the gay community. For some of us, the entry is rather bumpy.

Many gay activists like to believe that there aren’t issues of racism within the gay community; they like to think that they are above oppressing others. These folks are not simply blind, they are deluded.

Looking around any gayborhood, any gay magazine, or any other place where “gay” is visible, one thing becomes blatantly clear—“gay” is very, very white. Certainly, gay men of color will tell you stories of explicit racism in the gay community. These forms of racism include being excluded from leadership roles in gay organizations to being denied entrance to gay bars. But for me, explicit racism is easy. You can point to it, name it, and then fight it.

Subtle forms of racism are a bit more difficult. Racism in its subtle form seeks to erase the experiences of non-white folks, whether gay or not. It’s about not seeing myself in gay magazines and being told at gay meetings not to muddy the waters by trying to interject issues of race and racism and confusing them with gay issues. But the most subtle is being told exactly how I should be gay. In the Western narrative of what it means to be gay, it isn’t enough simply to be happy with the person we are, but we must also actively accost others with our happiness.

“What do you mean you’ve never told your mother?” my gay white friends ask me. It’s more than a question, it’s an accusation: “How could you not tell your mother?”

The better question for me is, “Why in the world would I?” A friend who also never “told” his mother, summed it up best when he said, “For me, telling my mother that I’m gay would be like telling her that the sky is blue and expecting her to be surprised. I know I’m gay, she knows I’m gay. We don’t routinely spend time pointing out the obvious.”

I’ve never sat down with my mother and had the “Guess what, Mom” discussion. But to be fair, I don’t think my sister ever sat her down to explicitly tell her that she’s straight. Yet somehow, my mother figured out that her daughter is straight and that her son is gay. She asks about my “friend” and tells me never to move to Wyoming; yes, Matthew Shepard’s horrible death even made it to the Korean cable news channel. I just don’t think discussing my sex life is high on her list of things to do; I certainly have no desire to discuss hers. If I ever wake up one morning straight, then I’ll call my mother. That would be news.

For me, strongly identifying with my Asian identity has always provided me with a healthy sense of self-worth, long before it dawned on me that I like men. The lessons I learned as a racial minority in an often-racist society gave me the armor to combat the racism I see in the gay community. Am I expected to give up that part of my life? Should I relinquish that part of my identity?

Leaders in the gay community argue repeatedly about needing to be inclusive. Perhaps what we really need is a new way of measuring “gayness” other than our willingness to live “out and proud” all the time. The belief that for gay men to be truly happy they must confront others with their gay identity privileges a Western view of what it means to be gay. Focusing on coming out as the universal requirement to being gay puts the experiences of gay white men at the center while pushing the experiences of other gay men to the margins. Of course, there are countless numbers of gay Asian men who have actively come out to their friends, their families, the guy at the market, etc. Many of my gay Asian friends, even those who have not yet had the Guess what, Mom talk, feel a tremendous amount of pressure to engage in that conversation.

But I wonder if they ever ask themselves why. Is it for them; their families; or does it fit the
Western model of what it means to be gay? Certainly, we shouldn’t have to hide who we are from anyone. But is there only one way of being who we are? I’ve never told a single person in my family that I’m gay, yet somehow, everyone knows. More importantly, nobody cares. If I told them, they would have to confront what that means in a very public way, and confrontation is so Western. I just don’t see any need or benefit of pointing out to my mother that the sky is blue.

*this essay was previously published in "first person queer" edited by richard labonte and lawrence shimmel.

The "state of" Gaysian America

It’s difficult, I think, to talk about a “state of “ anything. How does one go about discussing complex issues in a few hundred words? What are the important points that need to be covered and who decides?

When asked to write this particular op-ed, I imagined a different trajectory, one based on racism in the gay community, homophobia in API communities, the prejudices inflicted on gay Asian Americans, and the perils of negotiating both an “ethnic” and “sexual” identity in a society that values neither of what we have to offer. I’ve made a living writing about racism found in the gay community, written countless pieces, been interviewed by magazines and newspapers, and given talks around the country, all to sympathetic audiences composed almost entirely of other Asian Americans, both gay and ally, or academics invested in issues of race and racism. Then it dawned on me. Writing such a piece, I would be, once again, preaching to the choir. I’m certain the audience for this paper, being who they are, will nod and agree with such a piece. Perhaps even sigh with understanding. Maybe shake their head and remember similar events that have marked their lives or similar thoughts that have crossed their minds. Some will ask what can be done, it will make some seethe in anger ready to rile the troops, and others will answer with “nothing.” But perhaps what is needed now is a different approach, perhaps now is the time to clean our own house before we begin demanding that others clean theirs.

Certainly, there is racism in the gay community and homophobia in API communities. By now, it is so well documented in both the academic and popular literature that to deny its existence would be an act of utter suspension of disbelief. Sadly, so much of it is directed towards Gaysian Americans. When it is, we mobilize, we stomp our feet, and we lick our wounds of the hurt feelings that racist attacks usually leave. The problem here is that, all too often, we go back to our lives. And all too often, our lives involve the subtle actions that reinforce the very things that upset us, that justify the treatment that we receive, and not only maintain hierarchies of race but contributes to them.

Self-reflection is a painful endeavor. It leads us to challenge our own beliefs, our attitudes, and perhaps most troubling, our actions. It leads us to question how it is that we are contributing to our own “problems” – not simply shift the blame onto someone else, when shifting the blame is so much easier than looking in the mirror and scrutinizing all our own demons.

I suppose there are many ways that we contribute to our own demise. But I want to speak specifically about our desires. Our desires are rarely about “preferences” but mark the way we build hierarchies of worth. When we mark some as being more desirable, we are marking them with more worth, more value, and more power.

When we put white men on a pedestal and deem them more desirable and more attractive than our API brothers, somehow more worthy of our affections and our time, we reinforce the erroneous and dangerous belief that our worth is less. It reinforces the attitude that we can be seen as less valuable because we see ourselves as less valuable.

By now, I’ve heard all the excuses. Some men have told me that dating other Asian guys would be like dating their biological brothers or they just simply want something “different.” But why is it that the desire to not date someone “like our brothers” or someone “different from us” rarely extends to black men or Latino men? Why is it that someone not like our brothers or different from us is always a white man? What are we saying about our own worth when we make subtle arguments that somehow white men have more value than our “brothers”? I have to wonder, when I hear my gay Asian brothers say things like, “I don’t find Asian guys attractive,” what they see when they look in the mirror? Who stares back at them?

It’s time for us to examine our own desires, challenge our own values, and turn the lens of self-reflection on ourselves. Rather than simply reacting to events, circumstances, and situations that infuriate us, we need to critically evaluate our own roles in creating those same events, circumstances, and situations.  Before we can demand that others see us as equals, we need to see ourselves as just that. When we make second-class citizens of our own brothers, we ensure that all of us will be treated as second class, and therefore – second best.

*this op-ed is forthcoming in The International Examiner.