Te Awakairangi, Autumn 2022

I was born in Te Awakairangi (Lower Hutt) just north of the capital city. Home for me was a sleepy suburb of Taitā along Te Awakairangi (the Hutt River). I have lived in Ōtautahi (Christchurch) for the last decade. I was never meant to be away for this long.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Dad and I were stuck in bumper-​to-​bumper traffic. He drove in from Te Awakairangi to pick me up from the office as I was in Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara (Wellington) for a meeting. Work offered to put me up in a hotel, but I knew my parents would be upset if I didn’t go home. Instead, I was staying with them for the night.

Dad is a quiet man, so we drove in silence. I looked out the window at the passing scenery. When we took our exit and crossed the river, we went past rows upon rows of identical state houses. These were nestled in the valley between the river and the bush. Most of them were built by returned soldiers following the Second World War.

The car scrambled up the driveway. We sped past the window paired with lime green shutters which overlooked the street. The off-​white exterior walls of the house were stained brown by years of exposure to dust from the quarry across the valley. The car eventually rolled to a creaky stop.

「我返屋企啦.」 (I’m home!) I announced while I got out of the car with my luggage.

I took off my Doc Martens. As usual, I struggled with the laces before I threw them to the ever-​growing pile of shoes. When I finally got through the front door, the aroma of rich sauces, fermented beans, and dried herbs assaulted my senses.

「返屋企啦，就食得飯啦。無唔記得裝香.」 (Are you home? Dinner’s nearly ready. Don’t forget to burn incense.) Mum instructed me from the garage.

「哦.」(Okay.) I shouted in return.

We offered incense as a way to venerate our Ancestors. We would ask for their protection and guidance through our daily prayers. Our family altar is located in the living room. I lit three sticks of incense as I approached the altar. In the centre of the makeshift altar is a red plaque with the words 「黃門堂上」 (Venerable Wong Ancestors.)

「黃門堂上，保佑黃家上上下下，出入平安，身體健康.」 (I pray to the venerable ancestors who reside above, protect our household, and grant us safe passage and good health.) I chanted and bowed three times before placing the incense sticks in the shrine.

“Who will remember me once I’m gone?” I wondered if my descendants would honour me this way. “What’s my legacy?”

I bowed one more time before leaving the altar. The scent of sandalwood clung to my nostrils. As the smoke drifted into the air, my eyes followed the white wisps. I closed my eyes and reflected on the legacy of my forebears and how I came to be here.

My Ancestors come from a region called Lingnan (嶺南) named after the Nanling (南嶺) mountains. This encompasses the present-​day provinces of Guangdong (廣東) and Hainan (海南) and the autonomous region of Guangxi (廣西) in Mainland China; Hong Kong (香港); Macau (澳門); and the northern and central provinces of Vietnam. More specifically, I trace my ancestry to the localities of Sze Yap (四邑), Fatshan (佛山), and Tungkun (東莞).

My Ancestors, who lived in this expansive area, established a distinctive way of life known as 嶺南文化 (ling⁵naam⁴man⁴faa³; Lingnan culture). This culture was characterised by the admixture of Indigenous 百越 (baak³jyut⁶; Baiyue) and 華夏 (waa⁴haa⁶; Huaxia) peoples. My Huaxia Ancestors originated from the Yellow River Basin. They migrated to the Lingnan region as a result of war and famine. We can still trace the southward journey of my Ancestors by referencing the 族譜 (zuk⁶pou²; genealogical book) of the 黃 (Wong) clan. These meticulously kept volumes of family history include details for over 150 generations of my clan.

Those who lived in this region popularised 飲茶 (jam²caa⁴; Yumcha), 越劇 (jyut⁶kek⁶; Cantonese opera), 南拳 (naam⁴kyun⁴; Southern-​style Chinese martial arts), and 舞獅 (mou⁵si¹; lion dancing). Beyond these tangible aspects of Lingnan culture, the Huaxia also brought with them complex religious belief system combining 儒家 (jyu4gaa1; Confucianism), 道教 (dou⁶gaau³; Taoism), and 佛教 (fat⁶gaau³; Buddhism) with folk religious beliefs.

Of the three institutionalised belief systems, Confucianism is definitely the most inflexible. Confucian thought is a complex philosophy with a focus on the five constants of 仁 (jan⁴; benevolence), 義 (ji⁶; righteousness), 禮 (lai⁵; propriety), 智 (zi³; wisdom), and 信 (seon³; sincerity) and the four virtues of 忠 (zung¹; loyalty), 孝 (haau³; filial piety), 節 (zit³; continence), and 義 (ji⁶; righteousness). These rites have maintained discipline and order within families and communities.

On the other end of the philosophical spectrum is Taoism which provides balance to the rigidness of Confucianism. Taoism emphasises the virtues of 無為 (mou⁴wai⁴; inaction) and 自然 (zi⁶jin⁴; naturalness). Aspects of life beyond our control could be described as 緣份 (jyun4⁴fan⁶; predestination) or as I like to call them, fateful coincidences. Taoist practitioners also adhere to the 三寶 (saam¹bou²; three treasures) which include 慈 (ci⁵; compassion), 儉 (gim⁶; frugality), and 不敢為天下先 (bat¹gam²wai⁴tin¹haa⁶sin¹; humility).

道 (dou⁶; Tao) is the fundamental in Taoism. Tao can be represented by the太極圖 (taai³gik⁶tou⁴; Yin Yang symbol). This represents unification of the oppositional, yet complementary forces of 陰 (jam¹; Yin) and陽 (joeng⁴; Yang). Yin can be described as the passive or negative principles in nature while Yang can be described as the active or positive principles in nature. The curvy line represents the non-​linear divide between these cosmic energies. The contribution of each force is proportional to the other, one force cannot exist without the other.

Tao is best cultivated within the individual. Fundamentally, we are all the sum of our parts. This is known as 自道 (zi⁴dou⁶; the Tao of the self) or the personal way of being. The proportion of Yin and Yang will differ between individuals. Contemporary interpretations have reduced the semiotics of Yin and Yang to represent feminine and masculine energies. However, this is not entirely true. This is because within Yin there is Yang and within Yang there is Yin. Tao exists beyond the binary.

The last of these belief systems is Buddhism which is based on the teachings of the Siddhartha Gautama –​ the Buddha (the awakened). This belief system originated in present-​day North India, but it has since been shaped by folk religious beliefs when it arrived in the Huaxia heartland. Proponents of Buddhism aim to liberate themselves from earthly attachment by attaining spiritual enlightenment. Those who fail to do so are doomed to 輪迴 (leon⁴wui⁴; samsara) and face the consequences of 因果 (jan¹gwo²; karma).

These beliefs allowed my Ancestors to live harmoniously (at times) by cultivating 自道 (zi⁶dou⁶; way of the self) and 關係 (gwaan¹hai⁶; interpersonal relationships). This syncretic belief system is known as 三教 (saam¹gaau³; the three teachings). We are “born Confucian, live Taoist, and die Buddhist”. Failure to cultivate these personal and interpersonal relationships will lead to a loss of 面 (min⁶; face, esteem) and 臉 (lim⁵; face, reputation).

Over generations, Lingnan cultures diversified into recognisable ethnolinguistic groups such as 本地 (bun²dei⁶; Punti, Cantonese), 客家 (haak³gaa¹; Hakka), 蜑家 (daan⁶gaa¹; Tanka), and 河老 (ho⁴lo⁵; Hokkien), to name a few. We have acquired different identity frameworks to position ourselves within our dynamic culture. We use descriptive terms like 本地人 (bun²dei⁶jan⁴; local) or 外地人 (ngoi⁶dei⁶jan⁴; stranger) to establish our identity as native or foreign. However, we also have had to position ourselves as 自己人 (zi⁶gei²jan⁴; one of our own) or 外人 (ngoi⁶jan⁴; outsider) within our diasporic communities.

Up until the late-​twentieth century, the Lingnan region was also known as the “Home of the Overseas Chinese”. Some early Ancestors left the homeland for greener pastures across mainland and maritime Southeast Asia. They also had the unfortunate luxury of living on the doorstep of Treaty Ports ceded to the 「八
國聯軍」 (Eight-​Nation Alliance) following the Opium Wars. As a descendant of my Lingnan Ancestors, their culture and belief systems have had a major influence on my world-​view. My heritage is an inalienable aspect of my identity. However, since leaving our homeland, our heritage holds little currency in contemporary Aotearoa. Instead, we are assigned reductive labels such as Chinese or Chinaman, and even a colourful array of slurs. These diminutive categories ignore the complexities of our communities.

In a final act of reduction, our communities have been folded into an aggregated identity, “Asian”, through the process of racialisation. US academics first coined this socio-​political process “to signify the extension of racial meaning to a previously racially unclassified relationship, social practice, or group” (Omi and Winant, 2015). The definition was further refined with the inclusion of racial formation which is “the sociohistorical process by which racial identities are created, lived out, transformed, and destroyed”. Racialisation is grounded in coloniality/​imperialism, white supremacy, and anti-​Blackness (Karim, 2017).

A similar, yet different, process of racialisation can be observed in Aotearoa. The British colonial administration collapsed societal structures of tangata whenua (Indigenous peoples of Aotearoa) such as hapū (kinship group), iwi (extended kinship group), and waka (allied kinship groups) into a singular Māori (native) racial identity (Sankar et al., 2022). In a similar vein, the development of a pan-​European Pākehā identity established a white racial identity. This Māori-​Pākehā binary racial distinction is a direct product of colonisation. Over time, this Pākehā identity was reconfigured to a raceless settler identity and the dominance of Pākehā whiteness proliferated through the systems and structures of Aotearoa.

While tangata whenua continue to be racialised within this bicultural model of the state, the racial invisibility of Pākehā in society means “for non-​white tauiwi [non-​Māori] this often results in a default assimilation process [which] is facilitated by a human capital model of migration” (Sankar et al., 2022). Asians in Aotearoa, as with other non-​white tauiwi, are expected to assimilate with the dominant norms of Pākehā whiteness regardless of our diverse social, cultural, or linguistic identities. This dual heritage enables “the double erasure of Māori mana motuhake [self-​determination] and of non-​white tauiwi from the national narrative” (Sankar et al., 2022).

Racialisation enforces white supremacy. It is a continuation of Aotearoa’s colonial legacy. Within my community, there is a perception that we are destined to assimilate to whiteness. As our links to the homeland weaken over time, our identities are reduced to our racialised bodies. We inexplicably become outsiders to our own people. Even our language has evolved to distinguish local-​born identities such as 土生 (tou²saang¹; local born) and 竹升 (zuk¹sing¹; bamboo shoot) to indicate our cultural deficiency. But this does not have to be the way. We are only now beginning to understand how race and ethnicity interplay with our complex “emergent identit[ies]” (Pang, 2003). Our identities are a synthesis of the cultures and belief systems of our homeland, our wider diaspora, and our host nation. We have the tools to reclaim our identities.

Ōtautahi, Autumn 2019

I was attending a workshop called Understanding Sexuality and Gender. It was facilitated by a prominent Queer organisation that came down from Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara to educate us, public servants, about sexuality and gender. Like most of the people in the room, I was doing this workshop as part of my professional development, but I was also there out of curiosity. Even though I was part of this Queer community, I still wondered what it meant to be Queer.

The origins of the word Queer are highly contested, but there is evidence of the word being used in place of homosexual, gay, and lesbian since the late-​nineteenth century (Jagose, 1996). It did not take long before Queer was popularised as a slur in the twentieth century. The reclamation of Queer as a self-​descriptive label for people with diverse expressions of gender, sex, and sexuality is only a recent phenomenon since the 1990s. There are still some people who refuse to associate themselves with this word due to its history with homophobic abuse.

An understanding about the etymology of a word does not guarantee an understanding of a word –​ to be Queer. In Aotearoa-​born Queer academic Annamarie Jagose’s monograph, Queer Theory: An Introduction (1996), she explained in academic poetry that “[Q]ueer describes those gestures or analytical models which dramatize incoherencies in the allegedly stable relationships between chromosomal sex, gender, and sexual desire”. This definition suggests Queer exists in opposition to norms generated by endosex, cisgender, and heterosexual identities.

Jagose (1996) further contextualised Queer identities within American philosopher Judith Butler’s post-​structuralist feminist framework whereby “gender operates as a regulatory construct that privileges heterosexuality” in relation to French philosopher Michael Foucault’s operations of power and resistance. Although this interpretation of Butler’s argument was only in reference to lesbian and gay subject positions, it is implied the deconstruction of gender norms through a Queer lens legitimises non-​endosex, non-​cisgender, and non-​heterosexual identities.

With the expansion of a Queer identity to encompass all people with diverse expressions of sexual orientation, gender identity, gender expression, and sex characteristics, so has the definition of Queer when framed within Western philosophical traditions. Therefore, Queer and “Queer theory and politics necessarily celebrate transgression in the form of visible difference from norms. These Norms are then exposed to be norms, not natures or inevitabilities” (Stewart, 2018). At the most fundamental level, a Queer identity is about deconstructing societal norms which have been ingrained in our systems and structures.

We are still on a journey, both as a community and academically, to understand what it means to be Queer. It is perhaps the vagueness of Queer which gives this ever-​evolving identity its social and political currency. The lack of definition resists the academic obsession to classify identities into discrete categories. “It is not simply that [Q]ueer has yet to solidify and take on a more consistent profile, but rather that its definitional indeterminacy, its elasticity, is one of its constituent characteristics” (Jagose, 1996). It is up to us who are part of this ever-​evolving community to determine who is one of our own or who is not.

Of course, the workshop did not go into this detail of defining what it means to be Queer or what it means to have a Queer identity.

“These are the words we use for our Rainbow community in Aotearoa.”

The facilitator flashed several terms on the screen: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, and Non-​binary.

I was surprised to see Queer was not on that list. Perhaps the facilitators wanted to keep this workshop palatable to the general audience.

“We also have terms specific to our Māori and Pacific Rainbow communities.”

Even more words flashed on the screen: Takatapui, Whakawahine, Whakatane, Tangata ira tane, Mahu, Vaka sa lewa lewa, Palopa, Fa’afafine, Akava’ine, Fakaleiti, and Fakafifine.

“What about our Asian communities?” I asked. I was genuinely curious.

“Well, those terms don’t exist –​ as far as we’re aware,” the facilitator replied.

“Oh,” I was surprised. They seemed quite confident with their answer.

The facilitator saw my quizzical expression and paused briefly to reflect on their answer before they extended their response. My expressions can at times be unintentionally loud.

“I’m sorry, but we haven’t actually come across any.”

All the attendees, largely Pākehā, nodded their heads affably. I was the only visible Queer person there. I was also the only visible Asian person in the group. I sat there feeling invisible, like I did not exist.

The lack of mainstream terminology does not indicate recognisably Queer identities are absent across Asia. Diverse expressions of sexuality were frequently referenced in Hindu texts (Siker, 2006). These sexual relationships flourished in pre-​colonial India and were considered to be “very natural, normal and inevitable emotional aspect of human sexual life” (Parekh, 2003). In dynastic China, accounts of prominent historical figures regularly featured same-​sex relationships such as the tender romance between Emperor Ai of Han 漢哀帝 and Dong Xian 董賢 which was immortalised by the idiom 「斷袖之癖」 (passion of the cut sleeve).

However, sexuality is only one facet of Queerness. The presence of diverse expressions of sex and gender can still be observed in communities across contemporary Asia such as nat kadaw in Myanmar; phuying, phuying prophet song, or phet thee sam in Thailand; hijra in India and across South Asia; khawaja sara in Pakistan; and bissu of the Bugis people in Indonesia. There is also evidence of gender fluidity in Japan through the practice of wakashu and in China where male-​identified bodies exclusively in 戲曲 (hei³kuk¹; Chinese opera) played 旦 (daan³; female roles). It was common practice for these actors to continue presenting as female off-​stage.

Despite the illustrious history and continued presence of Queer identities across Asia, Queer people living in Asia experience the highest levels of discrimination, criminalisation and punishment, and intolerance (Lee and Ostergard, 2017). In some cases, the erosion of Queer rights was a direct result of European imperialism and colonisation where former colonies inherited laws criminalising non-​cisheteronormative behaviour such as India (Upadhyay, 2020) and Hong Kong (Kong, 2012). The continued enforcement of discriminatory legislation was justified through reinterpretation of traditional values and belief systems.

Even though I was brought up speaking Cantonese, I was never taught to articulate different Queer identities. One of the first words I learnt was 基 (gei¹; gay), which is a phonosemantic borrowing from English. I was later introduced to a laundry list of unsavoury terms to describe recognisably Queer behaviour such as kem¹ (camp), 型 (naa²jing⁴; girly), and 娘娘腔 (noeng⁴noeng⁴hong¹; sissy). These insults were grounded in misogyny and were used to emasculate men. Any behaviour that was viewed as non-​cisheteronormative lay on the spectrum between 變態 (bin³taai³; mentally disturbed) and 雞姦 (gai¹gaan¹; to bugger).

When I reflect on my own cultural values, there appeared to be an extreme dissonance between the language used to describe Queer behaviour and my belief systems. Neither Buddhism or Taoism held strong views on diverse expressions of gender, sex, or sexuality (Siker, 2006). In the contrary, there is a dedicated Deity, Tu’er Shen 兔兒神, who oversees the sexual and relationship between men. The only caveat I could identity stems from Confucianism which ensures the maintenance of gender roles and the duty of male heirs to maintain the bloodline. This meant Queer behaviour was generally tolerated within family units, but there was an expectation for offspring.

Of course, the Cantonese I acquired as a heritage language speaker was less refined. Now I have adopted neologisms such as 同性戀 (tung⁴sing³lyun²; homosexuality), 雙性戀 (soeng1⁴sing³lyun²; bisexuality), 跨性別 (kwaa¹sing³bit⁶; transgender), 雙性 (soeng¹sing³; intersex), and 疑性戀 (ji⁴sing³lyun²; questioning). These terms were coined in the 1950s to facilitate translations for European academic models of gender and sexuality. My lack of native vocabulary to describe these Queer identities in Cantonese might suggest greater cultural and sociolinguistic processes at play –​ most definitely beyond the scope of this book.

Our current understanding of recognisably Queer identities is framed within Western philosophical frameworks. With this in mind, what is the relevance of Queer within an Asian context? They are similar in the sense that they both resist to be defined. We can easily pose a similar question of what it means to be Asian. Some Queer Asian academics who occupy this space use “Queer, again, not as self-​definition of individuals, but as a political denominator for linking sexuality with broader political positions from an intersectional lens” (Al-​Ali and Sayegh, 2019).

Black feminist legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw coined intersectionality to examine the multidimensionality of Black women’s experiences in the US (Crenshaw, 1989). In an interview, Crenshaw described intersectionality as “a lens through which you can see where power comes and collides, where it interlocks and intersects” and was not meant to be a “grand theory of everything” (Columbia Law School, 2017). It is an analytical framework to understand how intersecting identities contribute to experiences of discrimination and privilege. Some identities may include race, class, Indigeneity, ethnicity, religion, disability, gender, and sexuality.

Queer, as it currently stands, is shorthand for deconstructing societal norms through a white lens. Some Queer Asians reject Queer as it is viewed as a foreign term from “the language of the closet”, while others embrace these borrowed terms as a way of protecting their communities from conservative societies (Semerene, 2019). Even in my Cantonese, I am moving away from pejorative terms like 基 (gei¹; gay) to homegrown terms such as 同志 (tung⁴zi³; comrade) to establish a recognisably Queer identity accounting for a Punti Hong Kong context. This term was co-​opted from Mandarin into Cantonese by Hong Kong-​based columnist Michael Lam 林邁克 to trivialise the communist regime to the north (Lau et al., 2017). Only time will tell whether I adopt this new identity framework.

Queer identities are fluid, inclusive, undefined, and ever evolving. Queer Asian identities are even more so. Marathi human rights activist Sharif D. Rangnekar poetically defined what it meant to him as a Queer person, as a Queersapien: “Queerness exists outside the box. It is defined by the indefinite, the expanse, the width and length, the roundness of the Earth. It is coloured by colours. It isn’t one colour. So, seeing things from a [Q]ueer standpoint or lens or view isn’t about one idea or thought either. It is as diverse as it can get. It recognises that there are many ways to live as many ways to die” (Rangnekar, 2022).

Ōtautahi, Summer 2022

My partner, Jake, and I were looking for a flat to rent. Jake is English and he moved to Aotearoa when he was a teenager. We have lived together in some shape or form for nearly three years –​ almost as long as we have been together. When Jake’s flat disbanded, we decided to move in together. It felt like the next logical step of our relationship.

We applied for a rental property north of the central city of Ōtautahi. We spent two years building a home together. I was heartbroken the day we received the email from our property manager informing us that we had to move out of our rental in Edgeware. We had no choice as the owners intended to sell the property in the new year.

We applied for a two-​storey townhouse in St Albans close to Edgeware Village. We did not want to move far as we liked the neighbourhood. We were close to Jake’s work, I was only a twenty-​minute bike ride to the university, our rugby club rooms were nearby, and most of our friends were within walking distance. I affectionately called it “the Gaybourhood”.

“You’ve passed the background check with flying colours. I’ve spoken to the owner about your condition,” the property manager told me over the phone a few days after the viewing.

“What do you mean by our condition?” I was surprised by the odd phrasing.

“What I meant is that I suggest you meet with the owner before you sign anything. She seems uncomfortable with your … arrangement,” the property manager clarified.

“Bugger.” I was in disbelief. This was the first time I had encountered a problem with my same-​sex relationship. “Sure, we can meet the owner tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where are you from?” the owner asked me when Jake and I arrived at the townhouse. She was a middle-​aged Pākehā woman.

“Well, I grew up in Wellington,” I replied honestly.

“No, where are you really from?” the owner insisted.

I realised in that moment that she had no interest in my upbringing. What she wanted to know was why I spoke with a New Zealand English accent, but I was not “white”.

“Great,” I thought to myself. “Not only is the owner homophobic, she’s also racist.”

At this point, Jake was seething. After three years of being in a relationship together, he knew when I thought something was not right. Microaggressions like when she refused to shake my hand but had no problems greeting Jake. No one asked Jake where he was from.

“You know what, I’d like to look over the paperwork again before signing,” I suggested to the owner and the property manager.

Jake understood this to mean “Let’s get the fuck out of here”, so we gathered our paperwork and promptly vacated the property. There are some battles that are not worth fighting. This just happened to be one of the many countless examples of racism and homophobia I have experienced as a Queer Asian person in contemporary Aotearoa.

In this book, I share my perspectives on my on Queer identity, and how this identity has been mediated by my Cantonese heritage and upbringing in Aotearoa. It was these seemingly inconsequential interactions which have made the greatest impact on how I navigate this lived place. I have deliberately used the terms Asian and Queer to describe my identity. I could have chosen more nuanced terminology to describe my identity, but I chose not to because being Queer and Asian are intrinsically linked to my experience in Aotearoa.

The closet I refer to in the title of this book refers to the systemic and structural barriers that discourage an individual from disclosing their Queer identities. These closet spaces can exist as a physical or metaphysical construction. For example, discrimination, unconscious bias, and legislation criminalising Queer behaviour are all forms of systems and structures used to enforce cisheteronormative behaviour.

Brown (2005) examined closet spaces within built landscapes and found that the closet is “a term used to describe the denial, concealment, erasure, or ignorance of lesbians and gay men [et cetera]. It describes their absence –​ and alludes to their ironic presence nonetheless –​ in a society that, in countless interlocking ways, subtly and blatantly dictates that [cisgenderism and] heterosexuality is the only way to be.”

The closet can also be perceived as state of being where individuals may either remain closeted or to come out of the closet. Some benefits of coming out include improved psychological well-​being, increased self-​esteem, decreased distress, diminished risky behaviour, improved interpersonal relations, and enhanced relatedness to key institutions such as in the workplace (Corrigan and Matthews, 2003).

On the other hand, the cost of coming out includes physical harm, social avoidance by others, social disapproval, and increased self-​consciousness. However, this framing of the closet and Queer identity formation is grounded in Eurocentric individualism as it suggests that there is personal choice in remaining closeted or coming out.

There is a growing need to re-​examine the universality of the coming out process as it is innately a “Westernised, white, cisgender, gay, male” experience (Han, 2009). This is because people who occupy intersecting marginalisation in society may also occupy multiple closets and may continue to experience systemic and structural barriers.

Thomsen (2021) interviewed Korean American gay men living in Seattle through talanoa (dialogue) to examine their coming out process. Some of these gay men developed an adaptive tool described as a narrative of convenience to defer the need to come out so they could continue to weave between their sexual identity and their families.

These gay men developed this adaptive tool based on necessity as a result of their cultural values, migration pressures, and their communities mediated through the lens of Christianity. However, some of these gay men rejected the narrative of convenience by coming out publicly as they no longer wanted to be associated with the wider Korean American community.

Some Aotearoa-​based academics are considering related processes such as letting in as a more realistic framing of the coming out process for individuals within our Queer and Ethnic communities Nakhid et al. (2022). The concept of letting in originated from diasporic Queer People of Colour in the US. By bringing families into the closet, Queer individuals can co-​construct their identity with their family and community.

This letting in process enables the maintenance of interpersonal relationships and conflict avoidance, and acknowledges the importance of status in the community of their family. Whether someone chooses to come out or let in, the path to living an authentic life may not be a straightforward process. Progress is not linear or chronological and people may have found themselves one step out of the closet like I have throughout my experience.

In this book, I have adopted an autoethnographic approach to understand how I have navigated the coming out process as a person who occupies intersecting marginalisation. This approach was championed by Adams (2011) who examined his own lived experience of the closet. Like Adams (2011), I have included personal experience; anonymised informal and unsolicited conversations; and mass-​mediated representations of Queer Asian identities.

My intention for this book is not to contribute to sociological theory or to create a guide on how Queer Asians come out/​let in in contemporary Aotearoa. Furthermore, this book is not meant to uncover some universal thread that weaves the estimated 19,500 Queer Asian adults in Aotearoa together (Stats NZ, 2022). Instead, the purpose of this book is to provide a deep dive into the ongoing identity formation process for just one of these individuals –​ mine.