How Do Asian-Americans Break Through the “Bamboo Ceiling”?

Whenever I ask people if they have any Asian and Asian-American blog ideas, the typical response I would get is: Have you written about the model minority? And the answer is no, I haven’t directly addressed this topic (and am not particularly excited to tackle it) because I didn’t think I had anything substantial to add to the already robust literature on model minorities.

But, as it would happen, I stumbled upon an interesting term dealing with the model minority stereotype that I have not heard before: “the bamboo ceiling”. Going in the same direction as my last article on Asian-Americans and leadership, the bamboo ceiling is like the so-called glass ceiling. Women and many people of color say they hit a glass ceiling when it comes to executive level or leadership roles in the workplace, but do Asian-Americans face additional hurdles and get shut out of top jobs because they are seen as model minorities?

Watch out for the shards

Asian-Americans have the highest level of education and income in the country. Yet, according to a story on NPR and DiversityInc, Asian-Americans make up only 2.6 percent of the corporate leadership of Fortune 500 companies. Asian-Americans have the education and the skills and abilities, but why are they not better represented in corporate America?

Is this institutional racism? Do Asian-Americans not look or act like how leaders are supposed to look and act? What are our associations with Asian culture and model minorities and what is our understanding – the norms and expectations – of leaders in Fortune 500 corporate America? Do model minorities not possess leadership attributes?

Asian-Americans are dealt a double whammy. For starters, the organizational culture of corporate America is set up in such a way that people who are not white and male are already at a disadvantage. The farther you go up within an organizational structure, the more white and male, the less minority and female those organizations almost all become. Second, when people think of leaders and of Asians, there is almost no overlap between those two terms.

We’ve only moved the old boy network into the good ol’ boys club

In my last article, I wrote of my own personal struggle to balance both Asian and American values, particularly staying modest yet having a presence in a group. It may well be the case that many Asian professionals arrive in the workplace with a set of cultural behaviors, such as ways to relate themselves to superiors and elders, that is a recipe for invisibility. These behaviors include having a hard work ethic where you are focused on pleasing your boss and doing an outstanding job on your assignments, so that social relationships are put on the back-burner, or you don’t let others know of all the good work you’ve been doing.

Yet, even if you are gregarious and brag often about all that you have done for the organization, your colleagues and others who meet you may still see you as a smart, hardworking, and unthreatening model minority. I know, because despite how I acted during my 4-week business program with the Fullbridge Program, my coach told me that I have “soft edges” and do not need to worry about being perceived as disrespectful or mean. I thought, at times, that I overstepped and was quite mean, but I was “soft” enough so I got the benefit of the doubt.

This, then, is the bamboo ceiling that Asian-Americans face in the workplace: goody-two-shoes, unlikely to reach leadership positions that need tough, authoritative personalities. Asian professionals and leadership roles don’t quite match up. The bamboo ceiling exists, and it’s a bitter reality.

Growing Up as a Chinese-American

I am an ABC, an “American-Born Chinese.” My parents were born in China, but I was born in California.

California has long had a vibrant Asian population; I blissfully grew up in an Asian bubble. Kids did not tease me on the playground nor did they pull the corner of their eyes while chanting pseudo-Chinese sounding words.

Hey. Kids are jerks.

The dichotomy that many Asian-Americans expressed while growing up somewhat baffled me: I couldn’t relate to the hardships they faced in trying to become “more American.” I did not understand why they would feel embarrassed to use chopsticks in public, or why they would opt for the “all-American” burger or slice of pizza at lunchtime. I was not ashamed of my Chinese heritage and I openly practiced them without the need to hide my roots. I used chopsticks along with forks and knives in the same meal; I added wasabi peas to trail mix and brought it to school for snack time. For lunch, I ate chow mein with hot dog bits.

I felt that my Chinese practices and American practices seamlessly fused together. Growing up, I did not push aside the Chinese side of myself.

But I wanted to.

It would mean leaving behind the discipline and pragmatism. My parents avoided all frivolous expenditure that they believe would distract me from my studies. They saw vacations as something that would divert my focus from school and make me long for “fun”, so I stayed home during school breaks and learned the multiplication tables instead of going to Disneyland. I did not have stuffed animals or game consoles: such toys had no place in our household. Nor did I have jewelry and accessories. My parents were not going to encourage me to be some flirty “party girl” who cared more for fun than academics.

Diversity even in sleepovers

That goes to say, I did not enjoy the themes of the American “coming to age” culture: sleepovers, parties, dating. I wanted my childhood to be about the whims and enjoyments that categorize mainstream American youth, but it was an unrequited fascination.

Yet, I don’t resent my upbringing, though I do wonder whether I would be the person I am today without it. Would I still have the habit of compromising more than I should? Would I be more vocal with my thoughts and opinions? Would a more liberal upbringing have made me more self-confident? Would I still have had my eating disorder?

I know that I am who I am today because of my parents and how they raised me. I am grateful for my family and for the part they have played in making me the person I am proud to be today, shortcomings and all.

14 Signs that You’re a “Twinkie”

Ever been called a “twinkie”? “Banana”? A “white-washed” Asian? These names connote that an Asian individual is “yellow on the outside, white on the inside,” having lost touch with his or her “original culture”. Asian-Americans who achieve a high degree of assimilation into dominant culture may identify with the labels; however, used derogatorily, the monikers misunderstand the complexity immigrants undertake to negotiate between identities: creating a new life in a foreign land inevitably entails a cultural tug-of-war, with casualties on both sides. Further, the assimilation experience varies across ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and economic status.

This list doesn’t define you, but it offers some markers of your degree of assimilation. Politically correct enough for you?

1. Your high school friends were all white.

The only Asian person to ever walk the halls of Bayside – going, going, gone…

2. You speak your ethnic language at an elementary-school level, or less. You can’t read the characters, but you know your food names.

And sometimes you only know one, not even in your own dialect

3. You weren’t spanked as a child. (While disciplining children physically is controversial in the West, it’s traditional in many Asian countries.)

Second place is the first loser!

4. You prefer using forks to chopsticks.

It’s really simple…

5. Your mother’s a bad cook.

Awkward

6. You play the drums or the guitar, not the violin or the piano.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing

7. You’re uncomfortable talking about your Asian-American identity, preferring your “colorblind” perspective.

8. Tiger Balm isn’t your immediate solution for mosquito bites.

9. You say that you only date white girls/guys.

We’ve covered some of that here and here

10. Your parents just encouraged you to “do your best” in school without regard to your grades.

While others might be more familiar with the “Asian dad” meme

11. You’ve watched two, maybe three animes, in total, including Pokemon or Sailor Moon.

Well, Pikachu is yellow… on the outside…

12. You’ve never gone to karaoke.

Once again, that’s not necessarily a bad thing

13. You have a low tolerance for spicy foods. You go light on the wasabi, tteokbokki, and Szechuan anything.

Yikes! Feel the burn!

14. You’re adopted.

Ah, well

14 Signs that You’re a “Twinkie”

Ever been called a “twinkie”? “Banana”? A “white-washed” Asian? These names connote that an Asian individual is “yellow on the outside, white on the inside,” having lost touch with his or her “original culture”. Asian-Americans who achieve a high degree of assimilation into dominant culture may identify with the labels; however, used derogatorily, the monikers misunderstand the complexity immigrants undertake to negotiate between identities: creating a new life in a foreign land inevitably entails a cultural tug-of-war, with casualties on both sides. Further, the assimilation experience varies across ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and economic status.

This list doesn’t define you, but it offers some markers of your degree of assimilation. Politically correct enough for you?

1. Your high school friends were all white.

The only Asian person to ever walk the halls of Bayside – going, going, gone…

2. You speak your ethnic language at an elementary-school level, or less. You can’t read the characters, but you know your food names.

And sometimes you only know one, not even in your own dialect

3. You weren’t spanked as a child. (While disciplining children physically is controversial in the West, it’s traditional in many Asian countries.)

Second place is the first loser!

4. You prefer using forks to chopsticks.

It’s really simple…

5. Your mother’s a bad cook.

Awkward

6. You play the drums or the guitar, not the violin or the piano.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing

7. You’re uncomfortable talking about your Asian-American identity, preferring your “colorblind” perspective.

8. Tiger Balm isn’t your immediate solution for mosquito bites.

9. You say that you only date white girls/guys.

We’ve covered some of that here and here

10. Your parents just encouraged you to “do your best” in school without regard to your grades.

While others might be more familiar with the “Asian dad” meme

11. You’ve watched two, maybe three animes, in total, including Pokemon or Sailor Moon.

Well, Pikachu is yellow… on the outside…

12. You’ve never gone to karaoke.

Once again, that’s not necessarily a bad thing

13. You have a low tolerance for spicy foods. You go light on the wasabi, tteokbokki, and Szechuan anything.

Yikes! Feel the burn!

14. You’re adopted.

Ah, well

Why My Asian Parents Love “The Godfather”

I remember summer from thirteen years ago, days where I spent endless hours playing in the green grass outside my apartment: getting dirt on the bottom of the sundresses my Chinese grandmother had painstakingly made, scuffing my shoes, stepping in mud, and hiding behind bushes. My best friend was the girl who lived directly above me, who wore her long hair in pigtails and chased me around the building; we’d climb over fences, hide from our parents, and sneak food from the kitchen to eat on our adventures. We were best friends, close enough to be family. While we were discovering this lesson hiding behind thorny bushes and smashing red berries, my parents were learning the same from one of the greatest movies of American cinema: The Godfather.

For nearly every year after their first viewing, they tried to get me to watch the movie with them. When Harry Potter became popular, they watched the films with me and swore that The Godfather was a thousand times better, deeper, and more exciting than a boy wizard could ever be. When I became interested in the silly teen romance novels that silly young teenagers often read, they told me to watch The Godfather and report back to them about love, and how the bonds between families, nations, and ethnicities were infinitely stronger than the temporary lust of adolescents who barely knew how to drive.

I didn’t listen to them, because I was convinced that their fascination was old-fashioned and boring, and that my generation’s storytellers have perfected filmmaking and novel-writing, which was still rough and being polished thirty, forty years ago. I procrastinated in watching the movie, pushing it off for years upon years until the winter break of my sophomore year in college, when I was suddenly struck by a sudden desire to watch the movies that I’d shirked from for a long decade.

(Photo: expatlingo)

They were worth the wait. For three hours I sat before the television, my eyes glued to the screen, afraid to blink for fear of missing some subtlety in the actors’ motions that would have ruined the rest of the plot. My mom sat by my side, pointing out the motivations behind the Godfather’s actions that I didn’t understand. For example, when Sonny Corleone publicly disagreed with his father before others, he was warned to “never tell anyone outside the family what you’re thinking”.

It’s a common theme for Asian parents that their children, the newer generation, don’t understand the bonds of families and the strength of nationalism. For the most part, this is true. As I watched the members of the Corleone family willingly sacrifice themselves and put their lives on the line to defend their family’s honor, I respected them for making the sacrifice that I know I personally could never choose.

I now understood. The movie was perfect for them: a Chinese couple who had recently immigrated to the United States in search of the American dream, but faced the challenge of overcoming a language barrier, discrimination, and struggling to synthesize the closed and conservative Chinese culture with the open and liberal American mindset. They found their answer contained in the plastic tapes of Francis Coppola’s The Godfather, where the opening scene beckoned them in, and the charm of Michael Corleone kept them watching.

They understood why the Families depended on Don Corleone. He had made the sacrifices necessary and dirtied his hands so his children could live happy lives, just like how my parents gave up a comfortable life in China – their social circle, their homeland – to raise two Chinese-American children in the nation of dreams. This was the ultimate love, beyond any pretty words from fluffy novels. And this was the first time I understood this.

My parents watched the interactions between the characters evolve from loyalty, love, and care to cold, merciless business transactions, and felt themselves moved in ways they’d never expected – especially by an American film. And I, through an Italian family, came to understand my own Chinese roots.