In a thought-provoking lecture, acclaimed author Rebecca F. Kuang delved into the topic of Asian American representation in literature, exploring its evolution, impact, and the challenges it presents to writers today. Kuang, known for her bestselling works including the Poppy War Trilogy and Yellowface, drew from her personal experiences and extensive research to paint a nuanced picture of representation in Asian American literature.
Kuang began by recounting her childhood love for Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club, a novel that resonated deeply with her experiences as a young Asian American, which wasn’t exactly an easy find. She recalled, “I would scour the public library to find books that had any Chinese characters in them,” highlighting the lack of Asian representation in literature at the time. She noted, “there were only two books I found that were by Asian authors,” emphasizing the significance of minimal representation to her younger self.
Kuang explained how her draw to The Joy Luck Club stemmed from the book’s nuance, depth, and individuality which distinguished it from typical portrayals of Chinese characters in literature. “It depicted depression, but with a Chinese flavor, fraught intergenerational relationships, and meaning being lost between languages,” Kuang reflected. This early encounter with representation sparked Kuang’s interest in Chinese culture and affected her relationship with her cultural identity.
However, as Kuang’s understanding of, and involvement with literature evolved, so did her perception of representation. “Representation has always been a double-edged sword for Asian American authors,” Kuang stated, highlighting the tension between authentic storytelling and the pressure to represent an entire community.
“We either criticize a work for being too representational while forgoing the aesthetic, or criticize it for not being representative enough.”
R.F. Kuang
She traced the history of Asian American literature, revealing how early works were often tailored to reinforce the ‘model minority’ perception of Asians. During the Cold War era, these narratives were weaponized to portray America as a tolerant, liberal democracy where race was no barrier to success. In contrast, Asian culture, particularly Chinese culture, was often depicted as traditional, restrictive, and suffocating.
Kuang empathized with these early authors, acknowledging that “assimilation meant survival back then,” but questioned the political function of representative work in today’s context. She pointed out that “the tragedy of attempting to be representational is that it gets in the way of good storytelling.” Kuang questioned the contemporary expectation that any work featuring Asian characters should serve as a statement for the achievements of the entire Asian American community. She illustrated this point with the example of Crazy Rich Asians, a film celebrated as a representational win despite depicting only a small slice of the Asian experience.
“We either criticize a work for being too representational while forgoing the aesthetic, or criticize it for not being representative enough,” she explained, highlighting the no-win situation many Asian American authors face. This paradox creates a challenging environment for writers, where authenticity and creativity can be stifled by the weight of representing an entire community.
Kuang also addressed the diversity within the Asian American community itself, emphasizing how the “lazy obscure representative framework” ignores important differences in class, culture, and political interests. This oversimplification, Kuang argued, “hampers rather than facilitates important Asian American political organizing.”
She stressed the importance of recognizing the varied experiences within the Asian American community, noting that “Asians have differences in priorities and interests amongst themselves. Categorizing them under one representative umbrella ignores all these differences.”
While many contemporary writers distance themselves from ethnic belonging to avoid fulfilling readers’ expectations, Kuang takes a different approach. “I try to add nuance and attention to the limits of my experience,” she explained, reminding her audience that, “I cannot teach them about every Asian American experience, I can only tell my particular story.”
Despite her critiques, Kuang admitted to a lingering conviction that representation matters. She posed thought-provoking questions to her audience: “How do you theorize the necessity of seeing someone who looks like you achieve the things you hope to accomplish? And how do we discuss this need to be seen in a way that doesn’t reduce our complex stories to cultural or racial essentialism?”
Acknowledging that there are no easy answers, Kuang proposed a reframing of representation. Instead of seeking complete avatars of entire lived experiences, she suggested finding value in small moments of recognition- inside jokes, familiar accents, characters reminiscent of friends and family, or depictions of favorite dishes.
“Representation is the paradox of Asian American studies. However, a part of the answer must be a reframing of representation into the tiny overlaps between many different lives.”
R.F Kuang
“Recognition feels like somebody winking at me, like they’re saying, ‘yes, you know, you felt it too’,” Kuang explained. This approach allows for a more nuanced and inclusive form of representation that doesn’t bear the burden of speaking for an entire community.
Kuang concluded by emphasizing the ongoing nature of this discussion. “Nobody knows the answer,” she said. “Representation is the paradox of Asian American studies. However, a part of the answer must be a reframing of representation into the tiny overlaps between many different lives.” And with this framework, Kuang opens up new possibilities for authentic, diverse storytelling that resonates with readers while respecting the complexity of individual experiences.