The publishing industry’s demand for marketable narratives of trauma within Asian and Asian American literature is not only redundant, but depoliticizes Asian American identities to one of victimhood.
By Sandra Li
MAR 19, 2024
Senior year of high school—a time marked by anticipation for the future, the promise of newfound independence, and for many, the lingering echoes of a global pandemic. As COVID-19 began to recede from the forefront of our minds, so too did the surge in anti-Asian racism that had cast a shadow over our communities.
Amid these tumultuous times, I found myself grappling with questions of identity and representation. In my English class, we were tasked with selecting independent reading material for a major project. Eager to explore narratives reflecting my Asian American heritage, I carefully considered my choices. Two books stood out as potential guides: Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong and Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. Both seemed like natural choices, acclaimed works that I hoped would illuminate the complexities of my identity.
I dove into the pages of these celebrated—and not unimportantly, commercially successful—texts, but an unsettling realization began to take root. Despite their literary merit and widespread acclaim, the books shared a troubling commonality: an overarching narrative of Asian trauma that left me feeling hollow and unfulfilled after finishing them. In a time when our communities were enduring the dual threats of a catastrophic pandemic and rising xenophobia, these narratives felt more like an all-too-familiar echo of the stereotypes and misrepresentations that had plagued our collective consciousness for years prior than any kind of literary liberation from them.
As I turned the final pages of each book, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something essential was missing—that the richness and diversity of Asian and Asian American experiences were being overshadowed by a singular focus on trauma and suffering.
This “single story” that the publishing industry seemed to be gathering Asian authors around began to become hard to ignore. These stories, while significant in presenting the struggles that many have faced and certainly honest to a given writer’s personal experiences, were but one facet of our true collective story, a fact that bestseller lists seemed to be missing.
As an avid reader and aspiring writer of Asian descent, I’ve often found myself grappling with the portrayal of our narratives in the publishing industry. Reading novels that painted this almost insular narrative, that left little breathing room for any other kind of story, prompted me to question not only the work being published, but also the systemic barriers and biases that shape the industry’s perceptions of Asian narratives, lives, and identity.
For me, there had always been an undeniable thrill in discovering novels written by Asian authors. In the years between 1950 and 2018, an overwhelming 95% of all books published in the U.S. came from white authors. This lack of representation not only limited the diversity of voices available to readers but also instilled a narrow view of the world. And in a study by the book brand Wonderbly, more than a third of children felt that they did not feel represented in books. Throughout my childhood, I often found myself searching for characters who looked like me, whose experiences mirrored my own, but too often, those stories were few and far between. The overwhelming dominance of white authors in the literary scene meant that the narratives shaping our understanding of the world were largely homogeneous, leaving little room for narratives to reflect the rich perspectives that we hold.
Bestselling titles like Michelle Zauner’s Crying in H-Mart and Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous provide an inside look into the collective experiences of marginalization, discrimination, and intergenerational trauma and the author’s intimate inner lives. Memoirs like these reaffirm readers’ parallel experiences and articulate their shared experiences on paper. There’s no doubt that these works have helped to pave the way for Asian and Asian American authors in a historically racist industry, to share their stories and reclaim their narratives.
However, there are clear risks associated with the publishing industry’s emphasis on narratives of marginalization and trauma within Asian and Asian American literature. By almost exclusively publishing and pushing stories of pain and suffering within a historically white practice, the book industry rules out the joy and everyday moments in life that we collectively experience and enables the propagation of harmful stereotypes that portray Asian and Asian Americans as passive victims, rather than active agents of change.
This trauma-genre habit has led to growing ethical concerns surrounding exploitation and sensationalism, as authors feel pressure to conform to these recurring beats of suffering, potentially compromising the authenticity and integrity of their work in order to create a “marketable” narrative. The tendency for the publishing industry to focus disproportionately on certain types of trauma can lead to the trauma voyeurism effect, where prioritizing trauma narratives that cater to external expectations risks commodifying that trauma, where stories are exploited for their shock value rather than being treated with sensitivity and respect.
I must admit, I did fall into the deep rabbit hole down this line of Asian American literature and immersed myself in stories that portray Asian identity through trauma and marginalization. And without even realizing it, I’d internalized these ideas and let them become a part of how I see myself. Looking back, this kind of literary crash and burn begs the question: What stories are we meant to believe about ourselves, when the publishing world around us only makes certain ones available to us?
When I started college—with new books and new people finally within reach— I found myself relying upon conversations that centered on shared hardships and marginalization, using them as a bridge to connect with my fellow Asian peers. This kind of connection—one born out of communal pain—was real, valid, and in many ways useful, but I realized that by solely focusing on our struggles, I was missing out on the opportunity to embrace the vibrant and multifaceted aspects of our identities, too.
It was a wake up call to seek connections rooted in celebration and solidarity, rather than exclusively in shared adversity.
As we stand on the brink of possibility, it’s vital to face this looming shadow by directly examining and questioning the stories we both share and absorb. Conforming to the demands of a shortsighted publishing industry means confining ourselves solely to tales of victimhood, which ultimately diminishes the richness of our humanity and reduces our identities to mere side notes in a history written by others. But within truly diverse, subversive narratives, we uncover not only our struggles but also our triumphs, aspirations, and dreams.
Sandra Li is an English and communication studies major at Northeastern University.
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