Enough with the ‘Rich Asian’ Stereotype, Already

"I am poor."

These are the words that Amy Lau, the anti-heroine in Netflix's Beef, scrawls on the car of her nemesis. It's a cruel choice of words, because it's true for him. And yet, why is lacking money such an effective insult? And why, in a show with a nearly all-Asian cast, does this particular jab pack such a punch?

There seems to be a popular narrative that sorts Asian people into two groups: those for whom money is no object, and the rest of us. And it’s no surprise that the former is the one getting more attention. TV producers launched a whole genre of reality shows on the heels of Crazy Rich Asians’ success, including Netflix’s Bling Empire, a foray into “LA's wildly wealthy Asian and Asian American fun seekers as they go all out with fabulous parties, glamor and drama,” according to the show’s description; Max’s House of Ho, which follows a Vietnamese American “living large in Houston;” and Bravo’s Family Karma, a peek into the lives of glamorous Indian American families in Miami.

It’s not hard to see why producers would take this route, given the success of the Kardashians, Real Housewives franchise, and countless other reality series focused on the upper echelons of society. As Mark Tseng-Putterman wrote of Crazy Rich Asians in The Atlantic, “It’s noteworthy that this is the sort of story that industry advocates and audiences have coalesced around—one that eases collective anxieties about Asian and Asian American difference by adopting the universal aesthetic of the ultra-rich.”

It’s also notable that Kim’s Convenience, one of the few examples of a popular show featuring working class, English-speaking Asian people, was produced in Canada, not the United States.

Of course, it’s not the responsibility of a particular show or movie to portray an entire racial group. These movies and shows have increased AA+PI representation and helped shift tired stereotypes about the desirability of Asian men in particular. Still, the disproportionate attention given to the "crazy rich" when overall representation is still so low is concerning. It’s also notable that Kim’s Convenience, one of the few examples of a popular show featuring working class, English-speaking Asian people, was produced in Canada, not the United States. (It was also discontinued, giving birth to a spin-off centered on one of the show’s white characters).

While reality shows may play up the glitz-factor, the wealth divide isn’t an illusion. According to a 2018 analysis, Asian people in the United States have the highest income gap of any racial group—a gap that grew by a staggering 77 percent between 1970 and 2016 (a growth rate that was also higher than any other racial group). And according to the Economic Policy Institute, about one in 10 Asian American children fall below the poverty line. Between extremes, there is plenty more nuanced division. A senior manager at a tech company may not necessarily live like a one-percenter, but the struggles he faces are likely very different from someone who works as a caregiver or cleaner, or who lacks a stable job. Still, many of us shy away from acknowledging these divides, just as Americans in general often avoid discussions of class.

The problem with focusing so much on wealthy people while ignoring the wealth gap, is that it allows a dominant narrative—the "model minority" myth—to persist, while obscuring the realities of millions of people. Even shows supposedly more grounded in normal life skew upper class. Mindy Kaling’s Never Have I Ever gives non-white teens a chance to see more diversity on-screen, but the characters, who live in giant houses and seem destined for elite colleges, occupy a rarefied world. While an Asian teen viewer might see characters who look more like them, they are not necessarily seeing kids who are like them. Among some Asian American ethnic subgroups, access to higher education is far from guaranteed. As one writer for The Center for American Progress shared, “High national attainment rates for Asian Americans as a single collective obscure very low college graduation rates and inequitable college access among certain Asian American ethnic subgroups.” For example, the article states, only 17 percent of Hmong and Cambodian Americans hold at least a bachelor’s degree. Yet, there remains a perception that Asian students are all college-bound star students.

That Amy wants her business to be acquired by Jordan’s is an apt metaphor—she feels she can only be successful when she’s literally been bought by a wealthy white woman. It’s as if nothing is more important than distancing herself from the “wrong” kind of Asian (read: poor, seedy, untrustworthy).

One exception to televisions’ tendency to skirt around class tension is Netflix’s Beef. It’s unfortunate that the disturbing revelations about one of the show’s actors cast such a shadow over the show, justified as this shadow may be, because the way that it handled the interplay of race and class among Asian Americans shined a light on an oft-overlooked dynamic. As ambitious business owner Amy Lau desperately vies for the approval of investor Jordan Forster, she is haunted by the fear of slipping back to her working class roots—which would make her more like her new arch rival, the conniving, down-and-out Danny Cho. That Amy wants her business to be acquired by Jordan’s is an apt metaphor—she feels she can only be successful when she’s literally been bought by a wealthy white woman. It’s as if nothing is more important than distancing herself from the “wrong” kind of Asian (read: poor, seedy, untrustworthy). That kind of thinking directly benefits those who seek to subjugate minorities, whether intentionally or just because of white supremacy’s ubiquity, because it pits them against one another. When there’s an “us versus them” mentality within Asian American culture, the ruling class wins.

 

An element of colorism runs through perceptions of class. To an extent, the association between darker skin and manual labor goes back centuries in many parts of the world, including Japan, partly because farming would expose people to more sun. In the United States, people with roots in Southeast Asian countries have historically been more likely to be working class for many reasons, some of which are overtly political. (For instance, the United States incentivized Filipino immigrants becoming nurses). Another poignant scene, which occurs in the Hulu coming-of-age comedy PEN15, shows how even children associate having darker skin with service work. When Maya, a 13-year-old girl of Japanese descent, is making a video with the white, popular girls from school, they decide it makes sense for her to play the servant, “Because you’re, like, different than us…because you’re, like, tan.” She laughs it off, but is clearly hurt by the incident.

There’s a logic to wanting to align yourself with those in power. Gaining access to an elite college, landing a fancy job, and buying a house in a “good” neighborhood will almost certainly result in more resources, options, and material comfort. But social acceptance might come at a cost, requiring you to emulate the behavior of the white upper class, and master all of the social norms—written and unwritten—required to fit into it. Even if you are among those who have already achieved "success," you may never escape the sense of striving on a rigged hamster wheel. Confronting inequality means admitting that some of us have significantly more privilege than others in our community, and that it’s possible for class to play a larger role than race in shaping our values and identities.

Confronting inequality means admitting that some of us have significantly more privilege than others in our community, and that it’s possible for class to play a larger role than race in shaping our values and identities.

For producers, it may very well be easier to make a popular show about rich people in beautiful settings, with beautiful things. On the flip side, documentaries tend to hone in on the most marginalized among us. While those stories may be important to tell, they can become exploitative if they focus solely on the shock factor of violence or trauma, without a holistic depiction of life for their subjects. Meanwhile, there is so little depiction of life between these two poles of privilege and extreme poverty.

In real life, it’s just as easy to self-sort by associating only with people of a similar socio-economic status. But whether on or off screen, ignoring the working class is a missed opportunity to create a shared sense of power that is not rooted in a capitalist hierarchy—one that does not prescribe a single path to success, dependent on the Jordans of the world, but rather, many paths, not all of which include a high income, or require near-perfect assimilation into white culture. By rejecting the idea that only the rich are worthy of attention and respect, we can reclaim power over shared identities and re-center them to something deeper, stronger, and more expansive. That will come not from distancing ourselves from those who don’t “measure up” by material standards, but by making the concerns of those at a disadvantage the concerns of everyone.