Youngmi Mayer Is Gen Z's Cool Wasian Auntie

Young Wasian (white-Asian) women, particularly of the anti-establishment variety, are often hard-pressed to find elders. That is: those who have lived our identity crisis of an upbringing and have the wisdom to circumvent it without pathetic cop-outs. When my roommate recommended Youngmi Mayer’s new memoir, which they read while working at the book’s publishing house, I almost shot it down by reminding them that I don’t read (except for Julia Fox’s memoir). Against my cynicism, I’m Laughing Because I’m Crying lived up to its name and became the second book I’ve read obsessively from start to finish since my teens.

The book contains both hilarious truths and deep reflections, relatable in unexpected ways; the dismissal of authority in reaction to an overly scrutinized upbringing, being chastised by a mother for threatening suicide; the hair-pulling conundrum of being both categorized and category-less; being locked eternally in a revolving door of fetishization and replacement. Mayer’s ability to confront life head-on, starting over fearlessly and successfully — and her laissez-faire attitude doing it — are a reminder that things can be heavy, but not everything has to be so serious.

Youngmi Mayer is a multi-hyphenate culture creator; a comedian, podcast host of Feeling Asian and Hairy Butthole and an entrepreneur, who helped build restaurant Mission Chinese from the ground up with her ex-husband Danny Bowien. Her Instagram, a page of memes, silly pictures and unedited videos, reveals an influencer unconcerned with airbrushing. After meeting up with Mayer to talk about her book (and to be therapized), she’s also solidified herself as someone to look up to. We talked about binaries, emotional rehabilitation, taboos and MILF-dom:

What does the book’s title [I’m Laughing Because I’m Crying] mean to you?

I really wanted to dive into binaries, and the concept that laughter can come from sadness. In many Eastern cultures, people make jokes during sad times, whereas in Western culture it’s taboo to make a joke at a funeral, for example. My family members who lived through the Korean War developed this skill as a way to cope with the immense amount of trauma they went through. It’s not just an Asian thing, but a lot of us in this generation are closer to trauma because our parents went through it, so we learn these coping mechanisms too.

You play with comedic relief so well in the memoir; is that what your internal dialogue is like?

My internal dialogue is so insane, I can’t explain it. In terms of my emotions, I’ve had an arc with my relationship to them. I grew up very ‘Asian’ so showing my emotions was seen as a sign of weakness. I remember being out with my mom and a white woman was crying at a restaurant. My mom’s like, “Wow, what a fucking show-off. Look at her! She thinks she’s the main character!” She would say things like, “Some people are so selfish, can you imagine crying and ruining someone’s dinner? Just because you’re sad?” I carry some guilt about emotions being performative, so this was something I had to battle over the years. This week, I’ve been crying a lot on the subway.

You have a lot of feeling to catch up on.

Yeah, I think so too. It’s all gushing out of me. I think since I started working in a creative field, too. It’s good; it fuels what I make. I just sometimes worry because it’s very dysregulating.

For artists, emotions can be a currency. You have to be tuned into that, otherwise you’re not taking part in a human experience. The dysregulation is destabilizing, but it’s better than feeling nothing, right? I’ve been in an emotionless era recently and it sucks.

You should get into a toxic relationship. On purpose.

Should I?

I have done that. I had this epiphany in therapy that I was living this dead life, where I didn’t feel anything, I was in a dead-end relationship. Overnight, I decided, “I’m gonna live my goddamn life!” and I purposely got into really shitty relationships. It was horrible.

How old were you at this point?

I was 33.

So would you recommend this to everyone?

Well, you’ll lose your mind and want to kill yourself. But, I felt like I had never fallen in love before because I was too scared, so I wanted to prove I could do it.

You hadn’t fallen in love before 33?

I never fully let myself, it was a protective thing. I write about it in the book, I’d find someone that felt safe, and not fully invest my emotions. Then I broke through that because I realized feeling heartbroken is better than feeling nothing. Now, I’m in a state of constant pain and agony so I should dial it down… but it makes me funnier. I sound like such a douchebag, but do you remember the end of my book?

With your mom and aunt bonding over how much they hated her husband?

Yes, the fact that he had been dead for about ten years at that point, but to my mom he was alive, is awesome. She was so angry that he had cheated on her that she totally forgot he was dead. When I saw that, I realized: What is living? If somebody’s not going to remember how much of a fucking dirt dick you are?

That’s a legacy!

Yes, that’s a great legacy! At least you’re not forgotten. So that’s my advice: cheat. Cheat on your wife. She’ll never forget you.

So how has dating and parenting at the same time been for you?

I was really surprised to learn about single mom phobia when I got divorced, but I quickly realized that it’s more of a societal taboo, not a real dating issue. Honestly, I have never had this many men interested in me; there are so many thirty year old guys that are into young single moms. I have never had more sex in my entire life than I’m having now, I’ll just say that. It’s like society doesn’t want the secret to get out that single moms are doing fine. My situation is a bit unique because I’m not actively looking for a life partner, though. I know a lot of single moms who think marriage is the goal.

That’s so relieving to hear. My circle is mostly queer, and we’re always talking about ways to deconstruct the monogamous, nuclear family ideals that we were taught. It’s cool to hear it works in practice.

I’m also queer, and I think because of that identity, our groundwork is already really liberating when it comes to relationships. We don’t subscribe to the heteronormative, white-picket fence, cookie-cutter ideal. I never aspired to live that kind of life, never even wanted to get married; I have no idea why I did. Every day I was married I was miserable and trying to get out of it, so I never struggled with the “I’m getting old, I have to find the one,” thing. It’s good to hear younger people are thinking that way.

Speaking of identity, what was your experience like being Korean-American and growing up in Korea, unlike most Wasians we know here in America?

It's a different narrative because most Asians here were bullied for not being white enough, whereas I was bullied for not being Asian enough. The added layer is being mixed, because I’ll sometimes get this sense of othering from American Asians who don’t accept Wasians because we’re perceived to have more white privilege. I think my book will be interesting for Asian Americans because of those perspectives.

I’ve definitely experienced that. It really goes both ways with people being suspicious about differences.

Yes, and it’s weird when you’re biracial, because in either space, you’re always different. There’s always a level of discomfort and not having a fully shared perspective.

In your book, you mention that Korea felt more authoritarian than America. I’m curious what being anti-authoritarian looks like there.

I was very interested in thinking about the comparison of the two when I was younger. Growing up, I was taught that America was very free, and I hadn’t lived here yet so I believed it because in my mind Korea was so strict that America couldn’t be worse. Then I got here and quickly realized it’s actually maybe worse, but how it’s expressed is different. It’s literally a police state here. In Korea, there’s no tangible feeling of oppression everywhere you go, it’s just a very subliminal widespread attitude. It’s a very observant culture where everyone is waiting on you to do the wrong thing. Old Koreans are entitled to criticize you, everyone is overly concerned with external perception and if you do anything out of line, someone is going to ridicule you. It feels less overtly violent, more like an evil ball rolling down a ramp made up of everyone’s arms outstretched to support it. I remember living in Korea after moving back from Saipan, and I was like, “I’m going to wear whatever I want,” Then in a short period of time I started presenting more conventionally because I just didn’t want to deal with four thousand old ladies telling me that I couldn’t wear a tank top. It sounds so silly, but it really whittles down your spirit. It’s passive betrayal versus active aggression, and that’s the manipulation in microaggression: you can’t retaliate. In Korea you can’t say ‘fuck you’ to an old lady criticizing you, like you can here. Being anti-authoritarian there is hard, because this culture exists everywhere.

Does that culture have anything to do with why you started comedy?

I think it was pent up from the years I spent betraying myself. Growing up being gaslighted by my parents and society into thinking nothing I did mattered, and nothing I felt was real. Eventually, I just snapped and realized “Oh my god, all of it matters! I’ve wanted to say this all my life!” I think it was this extreme epiphany I had when I was thirty-three that pushed me into this career, and I just couldn’t go back. I would rather die doing open mics at any bar for the rest of my life, than only be a stay at home mom.

Why did you stick with it? Why was it such a healing practice?

I felt like I had no choice, I just knew I had to do it. A lot of people ask me how I deal with bombing on stage, or when no one laughs at my jokes. I have to remind them that I don’t do comedy for external validation, I do it because I have something to say. The sweet spot for me is if I can say what I want to say and people laugh too. I think the people that ask me those kinds of questions have this perception that creating art is only for external validation. With some "artists," you see them overly contorting themselves to fit everyone’s expectations, but there’s no substance. For me, what makes all art really beautiful is the balance between saying your piece and doing it in a way that people will enjoy hearing it. Sometimes you get that, and it’s perfect.

Photo courtesy of Youngmi Mayer