The Asian-American Writer, a Perpetual Foreigner
By: Samantha T. Le
Tags: Writing Life, Raceinamerica, Asian American, Writer, Life Purpose

VOLUME 1 | AWAKENING

The Asian-American Writer, a Perpetual Foreigner

The brilliant author Min Jin Lee recently shared a story on Twitter that punched me in the gut. Her tale of a Yale History professor telling her to get tutoring for remedial English was eerily similar to an experience I had with the celebrated author and chair of my college’s English department. Unlike Min Jin Lee, however, I was an average English major with no prizes under my belt. Nor have I gone on to write any books. However, now that I’ve returned to writing, it is a moment I keep turning over in my mind.

My path to this encounter was not straightforward. In fact, I only became an English major by an accident of circumstance. The original plan was to major in psychology because it was a science. That way, there would be a potential path to medical school, which was a life direction that would have brought my Asian parents great relief and happiness.

I settled on psychology because my high school AP Psychology teacher was the first “real” person I admired. She commuted 50-something minutes from Manhattan into the westernish part of New Jersey to teach us. She was a Hitchcock blonde with cool girl Buddy Holly glasses who had a real love of the subject. She treated us like adults and never taught us with cloying enthusiasm, which felt liberating. Her model of coolness felt attainable, so I took my AP credit to college, ready to study psychology.

Regardless of my admiration for my high school psychology teacher, my heart wasn’t 100% into this plan because I was harboring a secret dream of being in a band. New York had just exploded with the Rapture, rock dance parties, niche music blogs and amazing shows every night of the week. I could see it, touch it, feel it, smell it. It was all right there at my finger tips. However, the obedient, good Asian daughter in me knew I couldn’t take this pipe dream home to Mom and Dad, hence, the psychology major plan.

But the creative soul in me was itching to break free and she didn’t want to give in to the good Asian daughter, so I hedged my bets. While enrolling in psychology classes I also signed up for music theory, did ear training and took an internship with a record label. The job mostly consisted of me sitting in the label’s empty Union Square loft alone to answer a phone that never rang. To fill the time I mostly ended up taking selfies with my 3 gigabyte digital point and shoot while posing on their expensive midcentury modern lounge chairs.

Meanwhile, I was really struggling with the psychology classes. I barely passed Perception, I spent most of my time in Abnormal Psychology trying not to fall asleep at the 9 am start time, and when I got to Statistics, I found myself completely bewildered by the mathy, graphy aspects of it. By the end of my third semester, I had achieved the lowest GPA of my life and my father threatened to pull me out of my expensive private college if I didn’t get my grades up. I don’t know how serious he was about that, but it scared the shit out of me.

In my fourth semester, I developed a rehabilitation plan that included 1. shuttering my rock star dream because I tried to “jam” with a cool pianist who had dressed up as Karen O for Halloween and I completely clammed up during the session, and 2. taking more classes in the English Department.

Although I have been a voracious reader throughout my life, English as a subject to study was not on my radar. I performed much better on the math section of the SAT, skipped the AP English test in high school, and was intimidated by the well-read, privately-educated students in my college freshman writing seminars.

The first class I took in the English Department was solely to fulfill a curriculum requirement, but American Literature Since 1945 ended up being the first class I truly enjoyed. I was mesmerized by my professor’s intellect, worldview, analytical prowess and extensive collection of oxford heels. I liked her class so much that I thought if I took more classes like hers I would get good grades and boost my flagging GPA.

I wasn’t an especially good literature student, but I found myself more engaged with the material, which helped make my rehabilitation plan a success. I was back to being a student with good grades. When it came time to declare a major, I decided that I needed to include English because I had fallen in love with the subject. However, I was still afraid to disappoint my parents by graduating with a “useless degree”, so I planned to double major in psychology. One for them, one for me.

The day that I was supposed to turn in the paperwork for both majors, I discovered that I was supposed to get two additional signatures for psychology. This tiny hurdle became my excuse for only handing in the English Department paperwork. The creative soul in me finally won over the obedient good daughter.

For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to really chase something I wanted and it produced a personal Renaissance. I discovered a love of 19th century European novels and film theory and felt emboldened enough to join the college magazine where I wrote absurdly snobby music articles. I was really getting into a writing groove and feeling pretty good, so when other students recommended that I enroll in the chair of the English Department’s class, I gave it serious consideration. At first, I was hesitant to take it because I was unnerved by her status as a famous author and I wasn’t particularly interested in early American literature.

In the end, I took the class because I thought it would be an opportunity to learn from someone important and I imagined it would be good to rise to the challenge of reading material that didn’t naturally draw me in. Looking back however, I think I gave in to the obedient daughter in me. The version of me who makes decisions because she thinks she has to do things the way other people do them.

It was immediately clear to me that the class would be a struggle. I couldn’t maintain enough interest in the syllabus to keep up with the weekly reading, which meant by the time I had to write the first paper, I had nothing to say. Never one to miss a deadline, I handed in hastily written work and was called into office hours to answer for it.

With a look of concern on her face, the department chair, the renowned author, suggested that I get outside help for my English as a second language. My paper would not cut it for the class and she didn’t want to have to fail me. She asked me what country I was from. Suddenly, the Chair’s cozy office atmosphere evaporated and the walls of books in her office felt like an oppressive, musty tomb. I remember the feeling distinctly. My stomach tightened as my heart began to pound in my ears. I think I floated up, above myself. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run away. I wanted to disappear forever into the ether.

Was this Important Person telling me that my writing was so flawed, so poor that I no longer spoke English? If I was a white student, would she make this same assumption? I doubt it. She probably would have assumed that the white student had been too lazy or disengaged with the class to hand in a good paper. She might suggest a revision or give her a warning to try harder. But for me? No, she didn’t think I was being careless or lazy. To this distinguished person, my Asian Face meant that I wrote a bad paper because I didn’t speak English.

I gritted my teeth and steeled my eyes from tears as I firmly told her as I have told so many others, “I was born and raised in New Jersey.” The experience left me raw with resentment. I remember feeling anger, but what I can’t seem to remember is where it was directed. Was it only at the Chair? Was it at the whole department? The college? Whiteness? I didn’t know what to do. Eventually, I reported the incident to my advisor who confirmed that it was indeed a highly problematic situation. But nothing happened after that. I ended up just burying the memory deep in my mind and leaving it there to rot.

It wasn’t until I read Min Jin Lee’s Yale story that I stopped to truly reflect upon my own experience. What impact did it actually have on me? Did I stop writing in part because of this incident? Did I hesitate when writing because people might think that I couldn’t speak English if I made a mistake? On the surface, it seems like no. I went on to finish my undergraduate and graduate degrees in English. I still dreamed about writing a novel. In fact, I fantasized about getting published just to prove the department chair wrong. But then again, I never did get to writing. Maybe I’ve been more wounded than I could see?

I don’t really have the answers to these questions, but the one thing I can see now is that I must stop doing things because of other people. All of the times that I made decisions motivated entirely by outside forces, I’ve clouded my aspirations, I’ve lost track of my ambitions, and I’ve misidentified my personal values. It is in this fog of confusion that I’ve been unable to see what drives me, what demotivates me. Without seeking this insight, I’ll continue to feel lost. I think this is why Min Jin Lee’s story struck me so hard. It was a reminder of how much work I have left to do.

At least I’ve taken the first step, writing for myself and no one else.