The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
8 — Wednesday, February 9, 2022
On Sunday Jan. 26, student
organizers from the Indian Amer-
ican Student Association and the
United Asian American Orga-
nizations came together to host
an intimate dialogue about the
re-examination of South Asian
Queerness — a much-needed first
of its kind. Before the event was
underway, I sensed something
irresolute in the air of the dimly
lit Hussey Room at the Michi-
gan League. Though, more likely
than not, it was just me and my
unfamiliarity with safe Queer
spaces that also reflected my eth-
nic identity. To ease my nerves,
I channeled my inner reporter
and quickly introduced myself to
IASA Social Awareness Co-Chairs
Meghana Kandiraju and Sahana
Prabhu and IASA Co-President
Shaunak Puri, who welcomed me
and shared their enthusiasm in
hosting this unique event.
As folks settled down, Kan-
diraju and Prabhu encouraged
attendees to speak to one another
about their experiences with the
LGBTQ+ community — as an ally
or as a member — in the realms
of
mainstream
media,
fam-
ily dynamics and cultural values.
Though the prompt was unmis-
takably catered to a predominant-
ly cishet audience, individuals
shared their support, their qualms
and their collective desire, among
other things, to slowly integrate
what little media representation
does exist for Queer South Asian
people into the purview of their
most immediate families. Within
the South Asian culture, especial-
ly within family dynamics, exists
deeply rooted gender norms and
general nonacceptance of Queer
identities. This discourages many
Queer South Asians from coming
out, and for the lot that do, there
often remains the underlying
familial expectation of eventual
cisheteronormative
marriage.
One individual went on to express
how she felt it her duty as a cis-
gender, straight woman to talk to
her family about Queerness under
her relative privilege of social
and cultural security. As she and
other cishet people indulged in
their well-intentioned sentiments,
when it came around to the Queer
attendees, there was a notable
stoicism among their responses.
For my half of the table, learning
about Queerness was a matter of
personal experience.
The Co-Chairs then delved into
the forgotten sexual diversity of
South Asian culture dating back
to the Kama Sutra and early Tamil
Sangam literature. The Kama
Sutra is an ancient Indian Sanskrit
text full of prose and poetry on
sexuality, eroticism and emotion-
al fulfillment in life. As Kandi-
raju and Prabhu noted, both these
precolonial texts had segments
dedicated to the homosexual rela-
tions of their time, but were often
overlooked by the enactment of
restrictions and fines that grew
more punitive well into the Medi-
eval empire, the Mogul empire
and the British empire.
They went on to explain the
effects of British colonial rule on
Queer rights, which started with
the Offenses Against the Per-
son Act in 1861. This act codified
consensual and nonviolent sod-
omy under physical and sexual
acts of violence, resulting in a life
sentence. Further, it begot Sec-
tion 377 of the Indian Penal Code
which directly criminalized any
intercourse “against the order
of nature,” including consensual
homosexual activity. The law was
only recently ruled unconstitu-
tional in 2018.
In response to this historical
context, many attendees started
to realize much of the current
anti-Queer sentiment within the
diaspora stems directly from its
legal implementation due to Brit-
ish colonialism.
Next,
Puri
introduced
the
Criminal Tribes Act of 1871 which
specifically targeted “eunuchs,”
a stigmatizing colonial term that
refers to individuals who do not
conform to British ideas of mascu-
linity and gender. This inherently
ostracized the Hijra community
as well, a once venerated, diverse
community of intersex people,
asexual people, non-binary peo-
ple and transgender people that
held important religious and gov-
ernmental authority during the
Mogul empire. In the late 20th
century, people across the South
Asian Diaspora advocated against
this law and for the recognition
of the Hijra community. Then, in
2014, the Indian Supreme Court
finally
recognized
Hijra
and
transgender people as a “third
sex,” or “third gender” as indi-
cated by the language used by the
court system. This legal recog-
nition served to safeguard their
rights under the Constitution and
laws made by Parliament and the
State Legislature, and it marked
a huge human rights victory sig-
nifying the expiration of another
legal British influence.
Still, conscious perpetuation of
social harm against the Hijra com-
munity and South Asian Queer
people continues today. Historical
legal progress only goes so far to
protect individuals from rampant
hate crimes, damaging stigma and
forced invisibility within and out-
side the diaspora.
There’s
something
really
cathartic in learning about the
gradual Queer liberation in South
Asia through the renunciation of
colonial legislation, and Kandi-
raju explained it perfectly when I
came up to her later:
“There is such a rich and deep
history with regards to South
Asians and Queerness. However,
when these two identities are
brought up, they are often seen
as mutually exclusive — but this
clearly isn’t the case,” Kandiraju
said.
Clearly. And clearly, there’s a
long way to go, but maybe Queer-
ness was never meant to feel so
alienating within South Asian
existence. Queerness is a multi-
tude of things that transcends any
single identity or experience, just
like the diaspora itself. The South
Asian experience is inherently
polylithic among its eight differ-
ent countries, but ethnic assimila-
tion to the model minority myth,
a white supremacist ideology that
upholds
cisheteronormativity,
diminishes this diversity. It leaves
little to no room for intersectional
identities, let alone Queerness.
South Asian cishet individuals
who implicitly subscribe to the
model minority myth thus use
this idea in order to perpetuate
Queerphobia within the diaspora.
Even so, recognizing the impor-
tant roots of Queerphobia within
our culture does not absolve us of
the responsibility to actively fight
against it today.
For the second segment of the
presentation,
UAAO
President
Gina Liu delved into the redefi-
nition of Queerness and Queer
activism within the diaspora. She
started off by recognizing the his-
torically derogatory definition of
the word Queer as well as its rec-
lamation in Queer liberation. She
then explained how non-western
countries are othered for their
lack of conformity to western ide-
als, and in turn, homosexuality
has now been duped into white
progressiveness and ulterior pink-
washing under what is refered to
as “homonationalism.”
Through
homonationalism,
nationalist regimes operate under
the guise of progressiveness by
associating homosexuality with
their ideals. In their ostentatious
performance of Queer liberation,
they distract attention from their
more oppressive policies. Israel’s
campaign as the “gay mecca” of
the Middle East is an extreme
example of how pinkwashing is
used to violently advance Zion-
ist, anti-Muslim rhetoric. This
ongoing campaign is a direct PR
attempt to overshadow violence
against Palestinians as a whole
while aggrandizing Israel’s Queer
rights agenda as the ultimate lib-
erator of Palestinian and Arab
Queer people.
Similar strategies are utilized
by the radical right in the United
States to push across conserva-
tive agendas while remaining
palatable to woke America. Queer
liberation in America is thus pos-
ited as the savior of young Queer
immigrants, and being Queer as a
member of a non-white diaspora
is erroneously propogated as a
privilege of white progressiveness
unattainable in the homeland.
This
perception
of
mutual
exclusivity between being a Queer
person and South Asian, to many
families, means that the adoption
of such “western ideals” takes
away from traditional culture.
When South Asian immigrant
parents say, “We’re not American
in that way,” they are telling us
that Queerness is contradictory to
our heritage — yet precolonial his-
tory teaches us that we are inher-
ently South Asian in that way.
After introducing the facade
of western Queer politics, Liu
importantly made note of the oft-
invisible histories of South Asian
Queer people and Queer activism
in the United States. She indicated
the presence of same-sex relations
as early as the first wave of Indian
immigration in the 1880s particu-
larly among Punjabi men, while
explaining how, as mentioned
in Nayan Shah’s book “Stranger
Intimacy: Contesting Race, Sexu-
ality and the Law in the North
American West,” they were often
accused of crossdressing by white
men because they did not conform
to expressions of European man-
hood. Additionally, she mentioned
the role of publications such as
Trikone Magazine and Anamika
Magazine in celebrating Queer
identities across the diasapora
and aiding the decriminalization
of sodomy in many countries.
All this to say that seeing our-
selves in history is important, and
in some ways, validating, but his-
tory itself is seldom exhaustive.
Liu wrapped up by reminding
audience members that there is
inherent value in our own expe-
riences as we navigate very cis-
heteronormative and colonized
spheres, saying, “Even if none of
this existed, even if (this was) the
first generation of Queer Asian
people, that doesn’t make (your)
experiences any less impactful or
relevant.”
It was 8 p.m. on the Saturday
before Winter term began, and I
was sitting on my bed at home in
Chicago unraveling my box braids
— the most recent hairstyle I had
that soon grew outdated for me
after a few weeks. I was planning
on having a peaceful night filled
with self-care practices and HBO
movies, but as soon as I finished
undoing my braids, I got a text
from the hairstylist who was sup-
posed to do my hair: “Sorry, I have
to cancel tomorrow, something
came up.” While it may seem
inconsequential for her to cancel
on me, reading this text made my
stomach drop. Usually, I prefer to
wear protective hairstyles when-
ever I can because they require
less maintenance, which is per-
fect considering how busy my
day-to-day schedule is. I wanted
to do this before coming back to
campus because I knew I would
quickly become busy as soon as I
got to Ann Arbor. But having my
stylist cancel on me completely
threw a wrench in my plan.
Before panicking, I immediate-
ly texted my usual go-to stylist,
and she regrettably informed me
that she was on vacation. Next, I
called a friend, asking if she could
do my hair, and she apologetically
told me that she wouldn’t have the
time to do so before classes start-
ed. Lastly, I even tried booking a
hairstylist that I’d found on Insta-
gram, with whom I immediately
made an appointment when I saw
an opening … just for her to can-
cel on me within the hour. I soon
became fed up with trying to find
a new stylist to do my hair — I was
leaving at 6 a.m. the next morn-
ing for Ann Arbor, and my options
were slim. I was left with only one
choice: I had to get it done myself.
I immediately went to my bath-
room and started brainstorming
what to do with my hair. I knew
I couldn’t attempt a style that
was too complex considering the
limited time that I had. Every
time the frustration with my hair
reaches a new peak, I always grab
my scissors, only half-jokingly
thinking about shaving my head
entirely. It would surely be a lot
less work to deal with. I’ve expe-
rienced this moment too many
times before — getting frustrated
with my hair to the point where I
just don’t want to deal with it any-
more.
During my sophomore year of
high school, I was invited to an
extravagant 16th birthday party
at a bowling alley for one of my
friends. On the morning of the
party, I woke up and instantly
knew I was going to have a bad
hair day. With every style I tried,
I grew increasingly annoyed with
my hair, and finally, I texted my
friend that I woke up with a sore
throat and that I wouldn’t be able
to make it to the party. In hind-
sight, my hair didn’t look that bad,
but I was so bogged down by the
idea that I had “difficult” hair
that I had just given up complete-
ly for the day.
When I was a junior, I did in
fact take a pair of scissors to my
hair, cutting nearly all of it off and
forcibly beginning my natural
hair journey. At the time, I got so
fed up I felt it would be simpler to
start all over from scratch. This
moment served as a catalyst for
a transformational hair journey
in which I had to learn how to do
my own hair, rather than relying
on my mom to take care of it for
me. Since then, I’ve slowly been
on the path to becoming better
at styling my hair by myself. For
the first year, doing my own hair
felt incredibly tedious. I endured
many long nights and sore arms
from just washing, conditioning
and trying to style my hair into
two-strand twists. Now, I can tell
when it’s time to give my hair a
detox, I always know when I’m in
need of a trim and I have my wash
day routine down to an exact sci-
ence.
However, I’m still a novice at
braiding my own hair, so when
all of my stylists canceled on me,
I was forced to enlist some help.
I came knocking at the doors of
my two older sisters’ bedrooms
and to my relief, they came to the
rescue. Around 9 p.m., my sisters
began to help me part my hair
and braid it down. For over six
hours, we watched movies, lis-
tened to music and had amusing,
yet heartfelt, conversations about
relationships and our love lives.
We got the chance to spend qual-
ity time together, which doesn’t
happen as often now that we’re
all so busy with our academic and
professional lives. I’m not sure if
I had ever been more grateful to
have two older sisters. By 3 a.m.,
we were exhausted, and our fin-
gers were beginning to cramp, but
finally, my hair was done. Even
though I knew I’d be running on
three hours of sleep, I was filled
with the immense relief of not
having to worry about my hair for
the next few weeks. At the end of
it all, my eldest sister turned to me
and said, “This was cute and all,
but don’t ever let it happen again,”
and we laughed. While she didn’t
show it on her face, I knew she
was glad that she got to spend the
time with us as well. A situation
that started off as stressful and
anxiety-inducing ended in a tir-
ing, yet heartwarming, moment
between my sisters and me.
Trigger warning: this article
contains descriptions of murder
and gun violence, mentions of
gender-based harassment, race-
based harassment and sexual
harassment.
The Asian woman-white man
coupling has been a long-run-
ning joke and stereotype that
is still cycling through the col-
lective consciousness of Ameri-
can popular culture and online
platforms. As much as I hate
to admit, there is some truth
to the stereotype. Indeed, an
Asian woman-white man cou-
ple can be spotted frequently on
city streets and university cam-
puses as well as in other left-
leaning spaces in recent years.
However, I was not aware of the
terrifying existence of a violent
incel community online com-
posed of East Asian men until
fairly recently. This community
assembled in response to Asian
women dating out of their race
at a higher rate than any other
gendered racial groups, and
perhaps to a lesser extent, their
emasculation at the hands of
popular culture.
Incel is short for “invol-
untarily celibate,” a term co-
opted by straight, cisgendered
right-leaning young men who,
due to one reason or another,
find themselves deprived of
sex
and
relationships
with
women.
Upon
first
glance,
their strange philosophy and
vendetta against women may
appear pathetic, but the extent
to which they have taken their
misogyny is beyond extreme.
In several subreddits which
are now banned, these men
discussed violent revenge plots
and fantasies they would insti-
gate against “Chads” and “Sta-
cies,” which are incel slang
for attractive young men and
women. “Chads” and “Stacies”
are almost certainly racialized,
as they are common names for
young, white people, and with
that whiteness comes implied
attractiveness as well as tra-
ditional masculinity and femi-
ninity, accordingly. Aside from
the fact that incels in general
are
overwhelmingly
white,
East Asian incels are in a league
of their own, as they focus
more on their own racial iden-
tity. They also especially focus
on their female counterparts,
blaming their interracial mar-
riages as the source of the East
Asian incel’s personal misery.
One of the most infamous
incels was the lone gunman of
the heinous 2014 San Diego Isla
Vista killing who was of mixed
white and East Asian descent.
He had released a 140-page
manifesto detailing his life
and citing his hatred toward
his circumstances, such as his
mixed heritage and parents’
divorce, as contributors toward
his perceived social rejection
and misogyny. He then went on
to murder his housemates and
seven sorority girls at the Uni-
versity of California, Santa Bar-
bara, whom he considered to
be the physical manifestation
of “Stacies” and the embodi-
ment of the women who reject-
ed him. He then went on to
murder 2 of his housemates, 1
other man, and 3 sorority girls,
before committing suicide. The
gunman perceived his Chinese
heritage as a deciding factor in
his attractiveness, and conse-
quently, as the reason for his
failure with women.
The manifesto was fueled by
self-hatred
and
internalized
white supremacy. The gunman
attributed his “dorkiness” to his
Chinese identity and cited his
jealousy towards another fully
Asian man receiving attention
from a white woman, who was
the only type of woman he was
attracted to. Him being only
attracted to white women, of
course, echoed his own inter-
nalized racism, as further evi-
denced by his resentment for
his Chinese mother for her
interracial
marriage
to
his
father. His self-hatred, mixed
with an inferiority complex
over full-blooded Asian people,
had perhaps manifested in his
brutal murder of his house-
mates, who too were young
East Asian men, as well as the
sorority girls.
Reexamining South Asian Queerness
Embracing my hair with open arms
The ricecel phenomenon
Design by Reid Graham
Design by Janice Lin
Design by Zoe Zhang
EASHETA SHAH
MiC Columnist
UDOKA NWANSI
MiC Columnist
ZOE ZHANG
MiC Columnist
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com