"My 'type' wasn’t just a preference: It was an algorithm shaped by media and colonial history."

I received my first lesson in desirability politics via an unexpected text. A white boy from my high school, who wouldn’t make eye contact in the hallways but somehow found my number, sent me a message one night: “Is it true what they say about Asian pussies?” he wrote, followed by a string of winking emojis.

I was 14. I didn’t understand, so I Googled it. And then I understood too much.

That night, something lodged itself deep in my subconscious. At the time, I didn’t have the language for it, but I felt the weight. To be seen was to be exoticized. To be desired was to be othered. My body wasn’t just mine; it carried assumptions, stereotypes and histories I hadn’t agreed to. It was my first realization that attraction isn’t just neutral — it’s racialized.

Growing up as an East Asian girl in a predominantly white town felt like inheriting an unspoken rulebook on desirability. First, it was a slow accumulation of images, cues and social reinforcement. In school, girls debated who was the hottest: Zac Efron, Ian Somerhalder or Chace Crawford. Seventeen Magazine’s “Hot Guys of the Summer” lists were exclusively white. I saw how the most popular girls gained social currency when the most popular boys flirted with them.

I wanted that. Not necessarily them, but what they represented: acceptance, validation, proof that I could belong. I convinced myself of multiple lies: that I simply got along better with white boys, that I just happened to be more attracted to them, that holding hands with someone white would make my “Otherness” disappear.

And so, my dating life became a rotation of white men who, in retrospect, viewed me as something between a conquest and a curiosity. There was the white finance executive who proudly told me I was his “first Asian.” The Polish fitness guru who needed to call me his “Chinese bitch” to finish. The doughy-faced man at the club who whispered in my ear, “I wish you were off-the-boat Asian, so you wouldn’t know how to speak English.” Then, there was my white ex, who cheated on me with another East Asian girl ― then updated his bio to “Stop Asian Hate.”

If you’ve looked into interracial dating patterns, you already know the statistics: Asian American women prefer dating white men over men of any other race, including their own. But what motivates these preferences is more tragic than romantic. Studies show AAPI women often seek white partners for economic security, assimilation and social mobility — even when those partners fetishize them. Simply put, we are conditioned to put up with a lot.

Chasing white validation made my own identity and heritage feel insufficient. I taught myself to minimize anything too Asian — avoiding speaking Chinese in public, tossing my mother’s homemade Chinese lunches, hesitating to order chicken feet at dim sum.

But if I had been conditioned to see white boys as the ultimate prize, then what did that mean for the boys who looked like me? I wish I could say I was immune to the stereotypes about Asian masculinity, but I wasn’t. The messaging was relentless: Asian men were nerdy, awkward “nice guys,” but never the ones who got the girl.

In middle school, through the gossip grapevine, I learned an Asian friend had a crush on me. I dismissed it immediately. Not because he wasn’t attractive — I just hadn’t considered him. I had already absorbed the idea that dating a white boy would elevate me socially. That was the priority.

And then there were Asian women. I wasn’t just dating white men — I was competing with other AAPI women for their attention. I saw them not as friends, but as threats (albeit unbeknownst to them). To comfort myself, I crafted a fragile self-affirming mythology: I’m different from the other Asian girls. I have layers. I have individuality. If a white boy had to choose from a lineup, I convinced myself I’d stand out.

My mind clung to reminders of my uniqueness: I like film and the arts. I lift weights. I play competitive chess. But the more I repeated it, the hollower it became. What if I’m not as different as I think? Then the fear twisted into something even uglier: What if they are more unique than me? What if I am the forgettable one?

Instead of seeking solace among other AAPI women, I retreated into a self-imposed exile, ashamed of my own scarcity mindset. Where was my feminism? Where was my solidarity? These thoughts festered in the shadows of my mind: the shame, the fear, the humiliation of knowing I had been complicit in my own erasure.

It took another Asian woman to show me what I had been too ashamed to see. She was petite with a straight-layered haircut, a few years younger than me. She lived on the other side of the country, and I had never met her before. She was also the woman my white ex-boyfriend had been cheating on me with.

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/asian-woman-stopped-dating-white-men_n_67d44392e4b0c55eb8c10cff

tl,dr she marries some TURD.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5695633&forum_id=2#48756769)

jfc asian men

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5695633&forum_id=2#48756847)

Date: April 14th, 2025 8:48 PM

Author: (-_-) (-_-) (-_-) (-_-)

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5277642&forum_id=2#48847481

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5695633&forum_id=2#48847515)

TAKE YOUR MEDS, GRANDPA GOOK

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5695633&forum_id=2#48898034)