The Art Corner: Reclaiming Our Righteous Rage with Kim Thai
Today we speak to Vietnamese-American writer, producer, and teacher Kim Thai about the meaning of labels, living as a first-gen queer person in the US, and the power of storytelling as healing.
Every time I prepare for an essay, I have to find a way to get out of my head. This is because, in preparation for said essay, everything I see becomes a piece of the puzzle, so much so that I try to find pieces everywhere, even where there aren’t. This process can be overwhelming, and it is filled with ego. In these moments, I must find a tenderness that will distract me from this attachment to production, and I often do so in artists whose work leaves me mesmerised. Today, I got lost in the work of Ocean Vuong, a Vietnamese-American writer whose novel On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous is as heart-wrenching as it is soothing.
It is no accident, Ma, that the comma resembles a fetus — that curve of continuation. We were all once inside our mothers, saying, with our entire curved and silent selves, more, more, more. I want to insist that our being alive is beautiful enough to be worthy of replication. And so what? So what if all I ever made of my life was more of it?
Vuong’s work infuses his personal story and the quest for identity as a tool for healing, and it is absolutely beautiful. The uniqueness of personal essays is that they have a double function: they can function as healing tools for both writers and readers who relate to them. Kim Thai’s essays have a similar way of arriving into your heart, and she is in the art corner to tell us about her journey. Thai is a writer, Emmy-award-winning producer, social justice advocate, and mindfulness teacher, the thread that unites all her work is the reframing and search for identity and healing, as well as the dismantling of internalised conditionings of racism and capitalism.
“Many of the essays and pieces I put out into the world are rooted in my own lived experience as a queer Asian woman and having to go through those different transformations” Kim Thai
Her energy is incredibly welcoming and tender, and she oozes an honesty that is unique to find. “There were many times growing up that I felt very alone in my own experience,” she confesses, explaining the role that representation had for her growing up, “and now so much of the essays and pieces I put out into the world are rooted in my own lived experience as a queer Asian woman and having to go through those different transformations,” she says. She continues, “I think the most profound art comes from a place of truth, and I felt that it was a very vulnerable thing to do to share my own journey, one that has surprisingly become an act of service”. She explains to me that at first, most of her work involved telling the stories of others, because she felt her story was not important, but it was when a friend reframed it for her as an act of service that she realised that this was her path.
I ask her about the role of labels in our society, sharing that though I am not for the enforcement of labels, I do understand their power especially when it comes to representation. Thai explains to me that this discourse is obviously nuanced, that for her representation is extremely impactful, and I agree that it is definitely a way to infuse joy, courage and hope — the things that patriarchal capitalism abhors- into those who feel misrepresented. “My take on labels is that I wish we were in a world where we didn’t need them- But that’s not the reality,” she tells me “For me, it all comes back down to the ownership of the labels. See, there is power in language as a writer, so if I’m able to reach more folks because of my intentional use of certain terms and ideas, and make them question that, or make them flip it on its head or look at it in a way that they never have before, then I’ve served my purpose”. I truly appreciate us being able to hold the nuances of this conversation from a place of tenderness, and I cannot agree more on the power of words and language as the foundation of my work. But I see labels being increasingly co-opted everywhere, especially in discussions about pronouns. To me, it comes down to each person being able to express themselves in whatever way they want. Thai tells me that many of her queer friends prefer not to be labelled for example, whilst others find power and healing in defining their own identity.
Most of Thai’s work involved telling the stories of others, because she felt her story was not important, but it was when a friend reframed it for her as an act of service that she realised that this was her path.
Both Thai and I, however, have found the biggest healing and power in storytelling, and both of us have had a long journey to understanding that. “My parents immigrated to the United States in 1977 as Vietnam War refugees,” she writes on the Tricycle, “Their love for one another helped them navigate an apocalyptic post-war Saigon while raising a newborn. Through unwavering love, resilience, and a series of miracles, my parents survived two years of separation under the totalitarian Viet Cong government and managed to sneak out of the country below deck in a fishing boat in the middle of the night.” She tells me she grew up knowing that her family had a really powerful story but at first, she didn’t think it was a story worth telling. “It wasn’t until someone really framed it as an act of service that helped me get over that hump. You know, and I’m very service-driven and service minded.”
Being first generation Vietnamese child growing up in a predominantly white neighbourhood, she says, planted a very deeply rooted internal racism towards her culture and identity. She felt angry when she saw people embracing their cultural heritage, and as she grew up she realised these were the narratives she wanted rewritten. This is a reality for many immigrant families striving to integrate in the United States; a friend of mine, of Mexican heritage, recently told me that her parents never spoke Spanish to her and that she never learned it until she was an adult.
Watching the US from the outside, I often question how difficult it can be to feel welcome in a country that has the arrogance to put the word “American” before the word “Dream”, especially as the ultimate thing to aspire to. As a woman, I can relate to the anger and frustration of trying to chase a dream full of obstacles- simply because of your identity. I grew up with parents who both had anger issues, but only one was labelled hysterical and unable to “control her emotions”, I will let you guess which one that is. Still today, there is a staggering gender pay gap, and women, especially women of colour who are paid 36% less than men and 12% less than white women, do not have the same economic, social, and political opportunities as men.
“I’m sure it’s political. And for me, it wasn’t until I went through heartbreak that I understood the power of anger in creating change.” Kim Thai
I ask Thai about her relationship with this anger that she so tenderly wrote about for The Cut. “Well, how much time do you have?” she says, and we laugh together. “I grew up in a culture and in a family where sometimes anger felt like sadness, perhaps repressed.” We discuss the political weight of anger, and who is allowed to be angry, and who isn’t. “Everything’s political. I mean, this beautiful Lily that’s next to me.” she says turning towards the flower next to her “I’m sure it’s political. And for me, it wasn’t until I went through heartbreak that I understood the power of anger in creating change.” She is talking about the frustration of feeling misrepresented in the wellness industry which led her to create GaneshSpace, a mindfulness organization that creates healing spaces for historically excluded communities and social justice education for all.
As in the subject of anger in the United States, we begin speaking about the protests after the murder of George Floyd, the wave of anger and destruction that followed it and how this was framed as unjustifiable in the narratives of mainstream media. “I mean, centuries of oppression and violence towards these people because of the color of their skin, and they’re not allowed to be angry? It’s still happening to them!” she says with outrage. And now, I ask her, how is your relationship with anger? “Right now I am trying to just sit with it, and understand what is the wound, the hurt, underneath that anger”. Perhaps, I think, this is a way to reclaim our righteous rage, by tending to our wounds.
