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I don't joke when I say that William Hung is the most famous Asian American in the world right now. Beyond his innumerable talk show and halftime performances, Hung's primary vehicle of notoriety remains the Internet, where MP3 remixes of his infamous prime-time audition proliferate alongside improbable duet fusions like "Can't Get Will Out of My Head." You can download your very own William Hung A.I.M. buddy icon. And you can purchase your own Hung T-shirt on eBay, emblazoned with his -ready rebuke to Simon Cowell, "I already gave my best. I have no regrets at all."
Thus appropriated by pop bricoleurs around the world, H2theG has assumed a persona far removed from the painfully geeky wannabe we met in January. As his album title informs us, he's an inspiration, an unlikely success story that flies in the face of the show's soul-crushing bitchiness. But that's a partial description at best. Indeed, far more plucky (and lovably talentless) caterwaulers have come and gone, no $25,000 recording contracts awaiting their signatures.
For American pop fans, the prospect of a linguistically challenged Oriental belting out the latest hits has served as a fail-safe source of entertainment for years. In the late '90s, there was the much circulated rendition of Lou Bega's "Mambo No. 5" sung by a Chinese deliveryman. In the '60s, there were the Kim Sisters, a Korean-born trio who crooned accented versions of American chestnuts on The Ed Sullivan Show. How far we've come!
Attempts to label the Hung phenomenon as thinly veiled racist mockery inevitably come up against one incontrovertible fact: Many of Hung's fans are Asian American. Williamhung.net, probably the most widely visited of Hung's fan sites, is run by one Don Chin, who claims his site celebrates "William's true talent and comical ability." At UC-Berkeley, where the 21-year-old Hung is a student (and now a party circuit staple), former Daily Californian editor in chief Ron Lin likewise applauds Hung's gumption. "Will Hung is a scrappy underdog, unashamed to go onstage and pursue his dream," Lin wrote. To say his performance resembles a negative stereotype is "like saying any Asian American who does well in a math class also perpetuates existing stereotypes."
Are Asian Americans too sensitive when it comes to less-than-flattering mass media representations? "That's a sensitive question itself," says Lin. "It's really difficult for Asian American males to break through and [Hung] may not be the most appealing example." In the not so distant past, watchdog groups like the Media Action Network for Asian Americans eagerly protested the likes of MADtv's Asian manicurist Ms. Swan, as well as Mr. Wong, the animated Web series from the now defunct icebox.com, in which the titular houseboy was repeatedly goaded by his blonde boss into pronouncing words like cotillion. As an erstwhile fan of both caricatures, I find it strange that these groups have remained silent with regard to Hung, who, unlike Swan or Wong, is a real person, and whose cultural impact will be more lasting and potentially harmful.
Call it selective advocacy. Or falling asleep at the wheel. When MANAA sticks its head up its own ass, it effectively gives the public permission to mock away. Silence as a form of complicity is nothing new. But for Asian Americans, it often seizes us at the worst possible moments.
Most people know or have met a William Hung, and I met mine while I was interning at a multinational investment bank as a computer programmer. His name was Clark, also a programmer, but assigned to a different division. Our paths crossed frequently, however, and we interacted with many of the same people.
Clark was a smart coder but a horrible dresser, and few failed to notice either trait. Clark also spoke in an impenetrable pidgin that rendered most oral communication futile, so his success at the bank was limited from day one. Still, he worked hard, almost monastically, and as far as I know, never once missed a deadline.
Investment banks, being what they are, compel after-hours socialization, and it was in these settings that the extent of Clark's outsiderness came to the fore. Fair-headed bankers would sidle up next to him at the bar, throw an arm around his pencil neck, and bellow, apropos of nothing, "Clark, you are the man!" Much smirking and swigging would ensue, and then they would turn to me, flash a smile, and wink. Not knowing how to react, I would smile back.
The ambiguously racist overtones that marked those barside interactionsand that mark America's current obsession with William Hungcome with at least one clear-cut take-away: Clark/William is not a man, but a walking grotesque and a self-parody. (Which is what makes attempts at satirical imitation, like Jimmy Fallon's on SNL, both lame and redundant. Hung requires no further comic elaboration.)