Evolving the story of the immigrant and the outsider

BY WILEY WEI-CHIUN HO

Good writing often emulates what’s come before, but great writing speaks to the future by challenging the status quo and advancing social discourse. This is especially true for stories about the outsider—of immigrants and minority groups—where stereotypes have grown not only stale but harmful.

As interest increases for narrative abundance, the time has come at last for more diverse storytelling. Stories about outsider groups share themes of alienation, exile, disadvantage and underrepresentation. Writing beyond what already exists then becomes an urgent and worthy consideration for every writer working today.

I have been pondering how to do justice to my own outsider story, how best to avoid cultural clichés to tell an immigrant story that is not a mere echo of the stories that have preceded mine. My family was one among thousands of families that migrated in the 1980s and 90s from Taiwan and Hong Kong to countries like Canada but then became transnationally split for economic and political reasons. I am working on a book about growing up in such an “astronaut family.” It is a specific, yet familiar, outsider story.

As a first-generation immigrant and writer of colour, I struggle with issues of representation. Will readers from a different background understand where I’m coming from? Will readers of a similar background recognize my story? How can one story represent a whole social phenomenon?

Though it would be easier to lean on cultural tropes to establish a quick connection with my reader, the story I wish to tell must stand apart from other diasporic stories. This is because every wave of migration is carried on specific currents of circumstance and chance, and breaks on shore in its own unique moment.

Although I’m writing about events that happened decades in the past, I am writing in 2022 with today’s knowledge and sensibilities around decolonization and social justice. Just as society has become more cosmopolitan, the immigrant story has evolved. Yet, all too often, stereotypes linger. Stereotypes that limit understanding of minority groups and cause grave harm to those who are already marginalized.

As a writer, I want to do better.

Telling my story today, I have the privilege of being able to stand on the shoulders of writers who came before me. I also have the responsibility to carry the outsider story forward, to bring new understandings from our current moment, to breathe life into nuanced characters that don’t reinforce stereotypes. The work, then, is to resist the lowhanging fruit that has become overripe and rotten. Specifically, I want to challenge myself and other writers to:

Do away with cultural lowballing. Tropes abound about the immigrant, from the tirelessly hardworking newcomer to loud accents and smelly foods. While stereotypes may work for easy recognition, they make for lazy writing and dull reading. Not only are they predictable, they reinforce characterizations of already disadvantaged groups. It’s time to discard cultural stereotypes or, if we are deft enough, upcycle them.

A brilliant example of the latter is Charles Yu’s Interior Chinatown, winner of the 2020 National Book Award for Fiction. Not only is it a hilarious commentary on the state of Asian typecasting in Hollywood, it subverts the stereotype of the Asian man by overtly naming him Kung Gu Guy, Generic Asian Man, Background Oriental Male, and Delivery Guy and then conflating them all into one interchangeable character. In my own writing, I have begun including nonEnglish terms and concepts which are both interesting and challenging. My sprinkling of Mandarin and Taiwanese terms is often not italicized or even explained. I let the context do the wor k and trust my intelligent, contemporary reader to do the unpacking.

Center the outsider. Today’s readers expect the unfiltered voice of the “other.” When writers manage to bring forth authentic voices and fresh perspectives, it enlarges our understanding of the world.

Souvankham Thammavongsa’s How to Pronounce Knife is an excellent example of centering the voices of the marginalized. In each exquisite story, she subtly challenges clichéd views about refugees and social outcasts. The book went on to win the 2020 Giller Prize and became a bestseller, underscoring the increasing willingness of publishers to bring more diverse stories to a ready and interested audience.

Evolve our use of language. Language is powerful and has the ability to lift or harm. How can we do better with our use of language? Figures of speech that casually reinforce oppression and violence against marginalized groups must be checked. Rather than default to metaphors and expressions that underpin negative views toward minority groups (unless it is for a specific effect), we must shift away from oppressive language that perpetuates the dominant narratives. This involves moving away from, satirizing, or calling out mainstream standards around beauty, goodness, capability, and desirability.

For instance, in Disfigured: On Fairy Tales, Disability, and Making Space, Amanda Leduc does a superb job of showcasing the voices and bodies of the underrepresented and underappreciated. She challenges the mainstream ableist view of what’s beautiful and celebrates the charm of all bodies.

Embrace original names. Should non-English writers use easily pronounceable names or has the time come to use the names given to us at birth? I was born (my surname is the first character followed by my given names). It roughly sounds like Ho Wei-Chiun, the spelling of which was first transcribed on my immigration papers. After arriving in Canada and starting school, my father gave me the name Wiley, after Wiley & Sons, the publishing company that appeared in many textbooks. Though this good English name was intended to help me fit in, kids at school teased me, calling me “Willy” or “Weirdy.” I knew going by Wei-Chiun would have been worse, so I remained Wiley, which became my legal name.

Today, I use all my names: Wiley Wei-Chiun Ho. This feels the most representative of my immigrant story and one I can finally be proud of. I’ve noticed other writers of colour doing the same. The reclamation of one’s birth name may seem simple, but it is an act of resistance against cultural assimilation. It also speaks to the need for all of us to be seen as individuals.

As writers, we have a chance to be at the forefront of anti-oppression and shift the collective consciousness toward and true inclusion. Evolving our storytelling skills is part of that work. As such, it is no longer desirable or acceptable to employ hurtful terms, tropes, or themes that blinker us from the diversity and complexity of our world.

There is, of course, no easy prescription for how to do this. But we can be mindful of how we employ language and how our words can land, how our stories and even our names can subtly advance issues around marginalization and representation. As writers, we can contribute to the evolving discourse by writing fresh stories about complex characters that can walk confidently into the future.

Wiley Wei-Chiun Ho identifies as Generation 1.5, inhabiting the haunted space between places, cultures and identities. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies and literary journals. Wiley is revisioning her first book, a memoir about growing up in a Taiwanese-Canadian “astronaut” family.