She Rucy On My H-Mart Until I Cui

Asian American women are not good at writing. Most of them, anyway. The good ones are ethnonationalists and they like their anonymity. They come with their own baggage. Nobody likes a mouthy woman.

Anyway, an Asian woman wrote a bad short story again, and the internet is seething about it. Since the last time I posted on here, white people have been emboldened by Twitch streamers and fitness gurus who are afraid to eat McDonald's, to retake their rightful place as the Alexanders of the Earth. They're just waiting for the green light to do so. Should be any day now. In the meantime, they will be tweeting about how they are not bugmen during their lunch breaks.

Asian guys are, as always, mad that the Brooklyn-based MFA writer's boyfriend was white and not Asian. Had he been Asian, I'm sure the bros would have been able to find it within themselves to cry in H-Mart with her. But the boyfriend was white, so now they have to talk about how overplayed Rucy's literary motifs are. What are you? A fag?

For the record, I only got about halfway through Hatchling, and then I skimmed the rest. It was awful, obviously. She's a Wallace Stegner Fellow in fiction at Stanford University, whatever that means. She's supposed to write some dogshit and then ingratiate herself with another Writer of Color so they can write "A beautiful, haunting meditation on Asian American identity" in each other's jacket blurbs. It's forex for people with Bachelor's degrees.

Rucy did have a good line in there. Or, it was honest, which I can appreciate. "I wanted to be, unlike the last time I shared a roof with those who loved me—my parents—beheld rather than beholden. To exist and to owe nothing, except to myself." They keep telling you who they are, and you keep hoping there is some other way they can be. Rucy, and every other Asian American woman who writes chinkslop, believes freedom from any duty or obligation you have as a woman, an Asian, an Asian woman, is a moral victory as long as you kind of have complicated feelings about it. As they like to say, Asian women don't belong to anybody. There is a very morbid conclusion to that thought. We can look around to see where it has led us to. 

There is this expectation that this type of Asian American woman will eventually have to come around someday. In reality, they're just a certain type of person. Their inability to write about anything but their white boyfriends, how their parents don't really understand them, or how they feel about dating their white boyfriends doesn't really say much about them other than they have been severed from their people's past. They can only intellectualize what they believe is a conflict between their desire to preserve their bloodline (they call it traditions or culture) and their desire to catch syphilis at a beach or something. The former was never there to begin with. They are defined by a negative. They don't have a place in that throughline between us and the generations before us. Their kids will look like they're from Kazakhstan, and they will be named Kai Liao-Rosenberg. I'm sure they're genuinely nice and lovely people; they're just ghosts. We do not have a common future with them. Bloodline is a real thing.

If you love women, which you do, you kind of just have to accept them for what they are. They lack a useful sense of shame. They're idiots in their own, special way. I think it's charming sometimes. You don't have to like it, but you do have to stop them from pooping their pants in public. Our grandpas and their dads knew this. Kai Liao-Rosenberg's mom would probably say they were misogynists, I don't think she could say they were dumb.