‘You’re Good Looking — for an Asian Guy’
Bling Empire’s Kevin Kreider opens up about sex appeal and Asian masculinity
In the world of dating, where everyone wants to love and be loved, I found myself plain out of luck. Even though I had so much love to give, it often went unreciprocated. This was the case with both Asian and non-Asian women. Maybe you can relate.
Seriously, over the years of my dating history, I’m convinced I’ve heard it all: “I don’t find Asian men attractive.” “You’re good-looking — for an Asian guy.” “Sorry, I don’t date Asian men.” “My ex was Asian, and, well, he ruined it for me.” (As if her ex represented all Asian men.)
Often in the same conversations revolving around race and relationships, I’d hear whispers of “I don’t date Black guys.” The delivery was more hushed. The double standard drove me crazy. Frustrated, I’d ask, “Why the hell are you so loud and proud when you say you don’t date Asian guys but you have to whisper when it comes to other races?” The subtext I was trying to get at: Why is it okay to blatantly avoid one race while avoiding other races on the down-low? Racism is racism.
“The social currency the world has given us is bullshit, and it’s up to us to change it.”
In the past, I deeply internalized these rejections. Self-deflated, I would project my self-loathing onto the various women I was dating. I’d think negative thoughts like “I can’t believe you’re so racist against your own kind.” “You’re brainwashed by white supremacy. You’re making us look inferior and bad. It’s embarrassing!” When caught up in this web of emotions, I realized that these women were holding up a mirror and reflecting all the things I didn’t like about myself. Only by investing in my mental health was I able to learn the power of pressing pause and accepting that I had to meet people where they were in their personal journey of racial reckoning.
Plus, if I’m being completely honest, I was at a place where I had to press pause on dating Asian women because I was so hurt by them telling me over and over again that they would never date an Asian guy and that they only found white men attractive. As painful as it was to repeatedly be told no, I also reminded myself daily that I was worthy of love and that my dignity as a human being shouldn’t be wrapped around race.
I find my lack of success in the love department to be somewhat ironic, amusing even, since I carved my way into the entertainment industry as a professional model. (Hey, the beauty industry isn’t as glamorous as you think!) A small claim to fame: I was the first Asian American male model to greet guests at the Abercrombie and Fitch on Fifth Avenue. It wasn’t until I took on more serious modeling gigs in southeast Asia, where I was told that I’d find more “success,” that I ran up against some truly toxic racism rooted in colonialism.
I still remember walking into my first modeling assignment in Singapore. I came in sporting a tan after tanning at my gym (for context, I’m already pretty olive-skin toned). My agents were appalled. “You look like a slave worker; it’s going to be hard to book you,” they told me. “We already have a job lined up for you, but is there any way you can lighten your skin first?” Their ignorant comments made my skin crawl. But it also got to me.
From that moment on, I couldn’t escape this colonial lens that constantly determined beauty standards by proximity to whiteness. It was sickening. Day in and day out, I was told that white bodies were the most desired and sought after in the industry, followed by Hapas (half Asian, half white). Ethnic Asian Americans were basically third-class citizens, and while there might be exceptions here and there for sartorial purposes, like when they wanted a really foreign look (also problematic), I was never really the model that proved to be an exception to the rule.
What resulted was a downward spiral of defeat, shame, and a sense of naivety that I ever thought I would have equal footing in an Asian country. I was constantly overcompensating, trying to prove that I was equally attractive as everyone else in the white-dominated modeling industry. But the reality is, I was pretty much set up for failure. The experience left me disliking myself and my race even more. It’s hard to describe the feeling of powerlessness when you’re stuck in this negative feedback loop. I started gaslighting myself: Why were Asians so self-loathing? Why couldn’t we just see ourselves as beautiful? What’s wrong with me?
In one of my conversations with an average white male model who had found modest success in Singapore, I asked him point-blank why he chose to come to Southeast Asia and why he chose to stay. His response, in its stark honesty, was chilling: “Because here, I’m God.”
To drown out my insecurities, I turned to alcohol and partying to fill an empty hole that was getting chipped away at constantly. But what I was really doing was escaping myself and trying to be somebody else. I was uncomfortable in my skin as an Asian man. In hindsight, my dependence on alcohol, drugs, and the lifestyle that came with it was a coping mechanism. When I was partying, I forgot that I was Asian, and it seemed like others, in their drunken stupor and oblivion, forgot that I was, too. It was the only time that I felt like I truly connected and belonged in the world, unattached to any label. Just me. Just Kevin.
By 2013, my mental health was shot, and my body turned against me. Anxious and depressed, I lost nearly half of my hair on my head from a condition called alopecia areata, a severe form of stress-induced hair loss. To add insult to injury, I was now a self-conscious, balding model. My doctor told me I needed to take my health seriously and gave me two weeks to get my act together and make active changes to my lifestyle. At first, I didn’t want to get help because I believed that getting help was for loonies and weak people. I was also afraid of judgment.
But I did it. Getting sober, taking responsibility for my health, starting a multi-step holistic practice — in short, adulting — changed my life. It also meant contending with a lot of my inner demons, all directly related to my Asian male identity.
It was during this time of personal recovery that I came to terms with masculinity in all of its toxic forms. I think masculinity is just a tough subject for men to tackle in general but especially for Asian men because we don’t want to be reminded of all the ways society has emasculated us. So we don’t talk about it.
We fool ourselves into believing that ignoring the problem is going to make the problem better and that talking about it will make it worse. I’ve had some conversations with other Asian American men, and they tell me, “You talking about it isn’t masculine.” And lately, I’ve been firm in speaking out and saying, “Actually, you know what? No, I think talking about it makes it actually more visible for us to address because to address a problem is to first know it’s there, then learn to cope or change it or change yourself.”
What’s upsetting is when I’ve heard other Asian men talk down to others instead of actually helping them. When was the last time someone talked down to you and you actually listened and felt inspired? Getting help is already so difficult for people suffering from mental health issues. I personally needed an ear to listen to and empathize with my situation, not be talked down to.
My understanding of Asian masculinity has evolved over the years. And I understand that I’ve been part of an industry that is complicit in peddling toxic masculinity. It’s an ongoing journey of education, self-love, and acceptance. Something I’ve had a difficult time, well, accepting. I’m currently at a place where I believe Asian masculinity is just feeling like I’m enough — not below anyone because of skin color, social class, or place in life and knowing I am lovable because I am worthy of it. At the same time, I want to keep myself accountable and continue to grow while doing my best not to hurt others in the process.
As hard as it is to admit, even though I’ve spent a lot of effort working on my self-esteem issues (and being privileged to have the resources to work on self-care), it still really hurts and makes me feel insecure when an Asian woman rejects me to my face by saying, “I’m over Asian men” or “You’re like my brother.” It makes me realize that there is still so much more work that needs to be done to have conscious conversations about Asians hating on other Asians and the unconscious bias and preference toward other races other than the Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) community. I know it’s hard to have these conversations because it’s difficult to be vulnerable and to share your insecurities and your experiences without being judged. But we need to.
“The way I see it, Asian women being hyper-sexualized and Asian men being conditioned to believe they’re not masculine enough are essentially two sides of the same coin.”
In light of the recent Atlanta shooting spree targeting Asian women and the rise in anti-Asian violence, I think it’s extremely important to have more honest, open conversations about our race. The way I see it, Asian women being hypersexualized and Asian men being conditioned to believe they’re not masculine enough are essentially two sides of the same coin.
And that’s what I think people don’t understand or talk about enough. When I talk about Asian masculinity, it’s all related to harmful stereotypes projected onto the AAPI community — of not being seen as strong enough or not having executive presence or not being able to (fill in the blank). Whatever the stereotype, it’s all paraded under the same banner of structural and systemic racism.
So let me be clear: Talking about Asian masculinity has everything to do with addressing centuries of anti-Asian hate and ignorance, and I challenge more Asian American men to speak up and recognize their humanity. The social currency the world has given us is bullshit, and it’s up to us to change it. I’ll be here to support you.
