“What do you mean?” He says, flicking the left turn signal. The car glides forward. My father has always been a smooth driver. His hands gently grip the wheel. The vehicle seems to turn before he even exerts any pressure.
My eyes squint as the midday sun flashes through the windshield. The blinding light pauses my train of thought. The lull in the conversation fills with the ticking of the left blinker.
“I mean, Korean film is blowing up right now. And a lot of the films that are coming stateside are movies that are really graphic, even extremely sexual. Look at The Handmaiden, for example! For people who are seen as quiet and submissive, I’m surprised that these types of movies are coming out of these countries, no?”
The words spill out, practiced and rational. Over sips of beer and table fries, my friends and I had discussed the notion that Park Chan-wook’s latest work — rich with eroticism and dripping in intimacy — revealed a surprising new take on Asian culture. Who knew that these narratives and perspectives existed amongst communities whose cultures were dependant on respect, order, and obedience? Who knew?
My father keeps his eyes on the road. He continues to drive.
In that moment, I recall stories that reinforce my position. Stories of innocence and well-intentioned praise that feature adults with trusting faces and earnest smiles. These adults don’t look like me or my parents. I am full of these moments. In my youth, I felt that these stories made me strong and gave me power over others. What I didn’t realize is that this power was rooted in assumptions that others made about me. And while these assumptions weren’t overtly negative, they were made in ignorance.
Like when in Ms. Wright’s eighth grade science class, I proceeded to defend myself from my classmate Michael and his accusations that I had stolen his prized lead pencil. To be clear, I stole the pencil. But when he brought Ms. Wright, her frizzy red hair flaring while her sandals squish beneath her heavy feet, over to investigate the situation, I made a decision. I kept my head still and raised it slowly. I looked her dead in the eye and told her that the pen was mine. She contemplated my words for a moment. She carefully examined me, stared into my eyes. And then just like that, she broke her gaze. When she declared me not guilty, the intensity of my proud smirk is only equaled by the shock of Michael’s jaw drop. I had won.
Then, as she walked away, she mentioned that my innocence had been decided because “I know that he would never lie to me.”
I beamed with pride. And yet, I don’t know why I was awarded this credit of trust. Michael was an equally conscientious eighth grader. He was a sandy haired, Catholic, all-American son of four who dutifully attended church every Sunday and blasted the Notre Dame (his father’s alma mater) fight song from his trumpet at the end of every school band rehearsal. We were both good students. And yet there I was, the magical student who never lies. On paper, we may have been similar, but we differed on a single attribute: Michael was white, I was Asian. And so, I was seemingly more trustworthy. Seemingly more responsible. At 13 years old, I finally discovered my superpower and, best of all, I hadn’t had to endure any life-altering trauma to attain it.
This superpower came in handy on numerous occasions during my teenage years. Without so much as a fleeting introduction, I was a favorite of parents across town. When friends told their folks — many whom I had never met — what they were up to on a Friday night, the inclusion of my presence quelled fears and brought ease. On the way to get in some adolescent trouble, my friends, always in jest, would say, “I just told my parents I’m with you, so we’re all good.”
This phenomenon happened enough times to the point where I started to notice a pattern beginning to form. A pattern that, on the surface, seemed like a compliment, but was rooted in something else. Do I say something? What do I say? I wish your parents didn’t think I was a good influence? It’s unfair that everyone thinks I’m responsible?
That’s when I realized I was trapped. Trapped by this phenomenon where, instead of people seeing you, they only see the person the world has told them you are. This representation of you isn’t an offensive version, it’s not even wholly inaccurate, but it is a blunted, muted you. This version erases the color, the nuances, and the voice of who you really are. And without that voice, it becomes harder and harder to show them the real you.
I imagine this feeling is akin to being trapped under a thick sheet of ice. At first, there is a sense of shock. The cold rush of realization. The first reaction to struggle and fight, to search for a hole and to take in a gasp of air. You beat against the ice and hope that someone on the other side will hear. You grow weary. The water numbs and weighs you down. Despite your protests, the cold envelopes and welcomes you. But you continue to fight. And surely, a punch against the ice causes a crack to form. You will be able to surge through.
The individual that surges through may not possess stories that shine a light on the best of who you are. You may not always have admirable stories of trustworthiness or elegant tales of laughter and good decisions. But it is important to share the stories you know. These stories make up all of you. And that’s what people need to see. Because the stories they see will be used against you. The stories they know will be used as excuses to compare you to others with different skin tones, languages, and cultures. The stories they know will be used to erase who you are in service of their priorities.
The stories I know are beautiful and complicated. Families who have started new lives in a foreign country. Husbands who expect praise for sending children they never speak to off to boarding school. Sons who mirror their mother’s career instead of their father’s. Grandmothers who, instead of the older granddaughter, take the younger grandson aside to tell the family history. Classmates who tell me that picking at their scabs brings relief. Teenage girls who enter their first relationships with men who have twenty more years of practice. Sisters who quickly climb the corporate ladder. Cousins who are both paralyzed and freed by family expectation. Friends who are teeming with ambition that belongs more to their parents than to themselves. These are the stories I must remember.
And yet, in a single moment, they can all be forgotten.
He continues to drive.
If I had had these stories in mind, maybe my father’s response wouldn’t have felt like such a revelation. The engine hums as the car picks up speed. I sit in the seat, waiting for his response. His brow furrows. Other cars whip past us and are left behind. A passing cloud shades us for a moment from the midday heat. The hum grows louder as we barrel up the highway. Once we crest the hill, the sound settles and lowers to steady whisper.
“Will. The only people who think Koreans are quiet and submissive are people who aren’t from Korea,” he replies. There’s a turn up ahead. He grips the wheel a little tighter.
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I tweet about indie movies, the cross-section of Asian-American and pop culture, and my millennial failures at @its_willyu.
You can follow my visual, never-ending journey to #SeeTheNew at @its_willyu.
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About the writer
William Yu is currently a freelance writer and former advertising senior strategist. During his experiences at TBWA\Chiat\Day and SapientRazorfish, Yu worked on brand strategy and digital projects for brands like BNY Mellon, Accenture, Verizon, and Mastercard.
Yu created #StarringJohnCho, an award winning (2016 Shorty Award for Best Use of Hashtag and the 2016 American Advertising Federation Mosaic Award for Multicultural Digital Campaign) social movement that literally shows you what it would look like if today’s Hollywood blockbusters cast an Asian-American actor as their leading man. The project has garnered over 1 billion impressions worldwide and continues the conversation regarding the lack of Asian-American representation in film.
His work has been featured domestically and internationally from major media outlets such as The New York Times, BBC, CNN, NBC, CBS, The Huffington Post, Buzzfeed, and The Hollywood Reporter, and more.
He is based in New York City.

