By Premrudee Mepremwattana

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if only-

Process

It started the summer I moved to the States. That summer was a storm of unfamiliarity and constant confusion, in bolts of ink and spirals. Where I came from, there is no talk of “race”, there is just one race– Thai people. Sure, tourists came, and some stayed, but I had never given it much thought. The day I stepped into the airport, I realized, consciously and fully, for the first time, that I did not look like everyone else.

From then on, race became fixated within my mind. I wondered and wondered. Over time, as I sparked conversations, witnessed situations, felt the experiences and emotions I encountered, I grew familiar with terms such as “white-passing”, “reverse racism”, and “model minority”. I began hearing about others’ experiences, prompting thoughts about my own, and with it, brought along many, many questions.

As with everything else, fascination fuels my words. I found myself writing about race, diversity, inclusivity, identity, and the concept of belonging. As I started applying to writing contests and submitting to literary magazines, the published or awarded works I saw often were centered around the struggles and hardships of marginalization. Such works dealt with the incredibly real and valid pains of being a member in such communities. As I flickered through the pages, I shed tears, hung my head, and cried my heart out because I felt seen. I know so many more did too. I felt represented. Representation and diversity are of paramount importance in popular media, and their necessity has been increasingly appreciated and emphasized.

What I had not realized was that these works I had come to love reading and writing – works by authors of oppressed communities that grappled with the raw details of our experiences – had become so commercialized in mainstream media, building the expectation of the sort of work that should be written and brought forth by such writers. I was writing about being put in a box, but by being told that these were the only stories I should write, I felt I was being put into yet another box. I also discovered that oftentimes, such works tend to look past the beauty and joy of being part of such communities, because writing about marginalization and oppression wins awards. I knew this. I knew this as I pulled up a new Google Document and wondered about what I wanted to write, or rather– what they wanted me to write. What they said I should be writing. What they would award me for writing.

Because even as we open our mouths to speak, we realize, sitting at the edge of our tongues, there is already a narrative written out for us. So when we write, and when we speak, we’re clawed with doubt. I have so many stories to tell. So many thoughts to share. But who gets to choose which ones are read and heard? Who gets to speak? If only I could.