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Weak in the Knees: Revisiting the "Nice Chinese Boy"Taking an appreciative second look at Beautiful Asian Men (and a third, and fourth...)
The first time an Asian man made me weak in the knees, I was watching a video, God of Gamblers (Du Shen) starring Chow Yun-Fat. In the movie, he plays a suave and sophisticated gambler, the best gambler in the world. The movie opens with a high-stakes match that is like a cross between martial arts and magic tricks with dice and mahjong sticks. With his very expensive tux, hair slicked back, and cool James Bond demeanor, he took my breath away. Then he accidentally gets conked on the head by some small-time hoodlums, and he completely loses his memory (and his mojo, to mix movie metaphors). The hoodlums give him some old clothes—plaid shirt and too-short pants—and his hair sticks up every which way. He laughs too loud, talks too loud, and responds only to chocolate (so they name him "Chocolate.") He looks like a dorky computer nerd still stuck in the 70’s, and he has been reduced to the mental abilities and social skills of a child, a dorky child at that. I recognized my own stereotype of the "Nice Chinese Boy" and I cringed. How could the same man be so stunningly beautiful and irresistible one moment, and so awkward and annoying the next? It was the same person, so the main difference was hair gel and clothes. Am I really so shallow? Was it just my misfortune to come of age in the 70’s and 80’s? Or was it time to rethink Asian and Asian-American men?
Childhood Conditioning
Growing up, I received many lectures about how I had to marry Chinese because I was Chinese. However, the only Chinese boys I knew growing up were my older cousins and George (who was just like a cousin)—and you are not supposed to find your own cousins attractive. Add on the Chinese custom of calling friends who are slightly older than you "Older Brother" to show respect and that doomed any possibility of romance from the very first "Hello Brother." Even though I went to UC Berkeley and was surrounded by Asian and Asian-American men, I did not really "register" them as love prospects. I think I had imprinted on Asian men as relatives and saw them all as brothers and cousins, and I did not know how to change that switch in my head. My last year in college, I saw the documentary, Slaying the Dragon, which was about stereotypes of Asian women in the media, but also interviewed a few Asian American women who talked about internalizing the message from television and movies that heroes are always white, blond, and blue-eyed. I realized that that was my experience, too. Even my mother was always talking about Charlton Heston (in his Moses days, not his NRA days) and Robert Redford. There were no Chinese or Asian heroes. The few Asian leading characters in movies—The King and I, Gandhi, and The Last Emperor—were all played by white or hapa actors (I remember hearing that half-Asian actors were chosen because they were more palatable to white audiences than full-blooded Asians). The few supporting roles given to real Asian men were wimpy or comic (and who never got the girl) like Mr. Sulu, Arnold in Happy Days, and Mr. T and Tina. Realizing that I had been brainwashed during all those years of Happy Days, Welcome Back Kotter, Starsky and Hutch, the Six Millon Dollar Man, and Dallas; not to mention the influence of musical stars like Peter Frampton and the Beach Boys; I tried to resist my programming, but it was too strong and I wondered if it was too late. It’s not that I refused to date Asian or Asian-American men (like some women do), but only one ever asked me out. The one time I had a crush on a Japanese man, I introduced him to my Japanese language instructor (who was Caucasian), and he started going out with her. Maybe we were all victims of the same programming.
"N.C.B.s", Liberated Men, and Real LifeI used to have all these weird theories and generalized assumptions about Asian and Asian-American men. I thought they were all spoiled by their mothers (especially if they were only sons), were all male chauvinists, and would expect me to do all the housework if we got married. I wanted a more egalitarian relationship, and I thought only white guys could be liberated.
Relatives tried their best. "He’s so tall," they would begin, describing the newest "N.C.B." they wanted me to meet, thinking that I was too tall at 5’5" to ever find a Nice Chinese Boy. They occasionally tried to set me up with N.C.B.s from Taiwan, but I thought for sure that Asian-born N.B.C.s would be even worse than the American-born variety. I don’t know where I got these strange ideas, but I was absolutely sure that they were true. I thought I knew everything. Among the many reasons I married my husband was that my housemates and I were so impressed the day he mopped our kitchen floor. He nonchalantly replied, "Well, somebody’s got to do it." He also did my laundry for me sometimes, and was an incredible gourmet cook. A real, live, liberated man! Add on a trendy haircut, flawless academic pedigree, and stylish clothes, and how could I resist? These days I watch (with increasing envy) my friends’ tall, suave, charming, and well-dressed Asian husbands—both Asian and American-born—cook meals, bake cakes, take the kids to Chinese School, help the kids with their homework, take turns feeding the baby, and hold down a high-powered dot.com or engineering job, too. My own husband, on the other hand, is at work seven days a week, from 8:30 in the morning until 10 or 11 at night. Wait, I thought only Nice Chinese Boys worked so hard. And how did all that style and trendiness I thought I was getting turn into sweatshirts and drawstring pants? Is it too late to get a refund? As my friend Kirsten used to say, "Life is showing you up."
Taking a Second Look, and a Third, and Fourth…
After Chow Yun-Fat showed me that it was possible for me to "break my programming" and be attracted by Chinese men, I started noticing more and more beautiful, handsome, and charming Asian and Asian-American men around me. At the same time, all the white guys around me seem to be middle-aged, balding, and pot-bellied—I don’t even "register" them anymore. I jokingly tell myself, "Next time, I will definitely marry Asian." (Of course, I will probably be 60 before I get my "next chance," but when one is married with three kids, one learns to live vicariously.) First there was Apolo Ohno, the babe of the last Olympics. But he is so young—a babe in both senses of the word—that these feelings I am having are not only unseemly but unsettling. Then one day my friend C. and I were hanging out at the local Chinese bakery and café when a beautiful young man in his early 20’s walked in. Black hair with a hint of curl like mine, golden brown skin, quiet demeanor. I jabbed her with my elbow and she swiveled her head completely around. We gawked. We oohed. We giggled into our cups of tea. Of course, since we were disguised as two women with four kids between us, he did not even see us. That night I tried to write poetry about "The Boy in the Bakery" like I used to when I lived in Kathmandu, a city much more conducive to poetry, but it had been too long and I could not do it anymore. The following week, I went to an Asian American Studies Department function and met a hunky young faculty member in his late 20’s with a cute accent, jet-black hair, and bulging muscles EVERYWHERE. I couldn't tell you what he looked like, I was so distracted by all those muscles. He was so hunky I couldn't even look him in the face. I certainly couldn't talk to him. I have not felt this way in a really, really, really long time. I was completely adrift.
When giving a talk for a local high school about Asian-American history for MLK Day, I had the kids think about what came to mind when they thought about Asian Americans, then I hit them with a bunch of photographs of famous Asian Americans that defied all stereotypes. Since they were teenagers, I focused mostly on famous actors, musicians, and sports figures, including: Dean Cain ("Superman is Chinese?"), Yao Ming, The Rock, Rapper Jay-Z, James Iha, Linkin Park, Hiroshima, DJs Q-Bert and MixMaster Mike, Rob Schneider, Yo-Yo Ma, BD Wong, Tiger Woods, Rick Yune, Garrett Wang, M. Night Shyamalan, Wayne Wang, David Henry Hwang, and I ended with Keanu Reeves looking oh so cool in the upcoming Matrix sequel. Between their excited gasps at recognizing their favorite stars and their puzzled, "He’s Asian?" I could almost hear the stereotypes falling to the ground and shattering on impact. After the talk, I scrolled through the pictures one more time with my friend D., and I asked, "Where were these Beautiful Asian Men when I was single? And don’t say they weren’t born yet." Next time, I will definitely marry Asian.
Celebrating Asian Men: NCBs, BAMs...and Now RAMsWhen a normally politically-astute friend criticizes Washington Governor Gary Locke's rebuttal to President Bush's State of the Union address with snippy comments about how he needs to update his hair and wardrobe and develop some more flair, I feel a little irritated. Part of this is because I can still feel the tension between my old Nice Chinese Boy stereotype and my newfound appreciation for Beautiful Asian Men. I defend our Real Asian Man of the day, but I secretly wonder: If I really did have a second chance, would I actually date or marry an Asian man -- a Real, a Regular Asian Man -- with all his bumps and bruises? I try to imagine Governor Locke with Apolo Ohno’s long wavy hair and soul patch and…well…um…You try it. I am relieved to realize that it is more than hair gel after all. Maybe I am not so shallow as I fear. Or perhaps I have at last broken free of my "programming." I can still feel its influence, but I am not a slave to it any more. I celebrate Beautiful Asian Men and Regular Asian Men now because I am finally able to see them through my own eyes rather than through those of someone else's stereotype. Next week, BD Wong is coming to Ann Arbor to give a talk. I am so excited. I have been a huge fan of this B.A.M. ever since I first saw him in M Butterfly in New York—my first Asian-American play and my first Asian-American heartthrob. I can still see him standing on the stage taking off his black designer suit and daring his lover to look and see him as he really is. As I write this, I suddenly realize that BD Wong is also the first, the only Asian man I have ever seen naked, thanks to that scene. The realization make me feel odd, a little regretful, as if there is something very impoverished about my experience in life. Before, I never even realized that I was missing anything. I know, as the Arts editor of Asian-American Village, I should be preparing some serious interview questions for this respected actor, but instead all I can do is giddily fantasize about him: Frances & BD. Accomplished and hunky, not-too-young and not-too-old, familiar like a brother and beautiful like a lover. I imagine asking this Tony-award winner to autograph my chest the way trashy teenagers ask football players to do. It is hard to be dignified when you are weak in the knees. BAM!
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