A Statement from a Participant of the ‘Oxford Study’
A personal essay on the experience of dating white men as an Asian woman in Melbourne.
Context: The term ‘Oxford Study’ is a fictional study that was popularised in TikTok comment sections of videos that depict the interracial relationship of an Asian woman and a white man. The term is used to point out and critique the phenomenon where, particularly Asian women, chose to date white men instead of a person of colour, implicitly addressing the colonial history between the two races. This colloquial term has come to label my own personal preference in romantic relationships and allows me to explore the depths of this term with dating in Australia and pairing with my own internalised racism and colonial mindset.
Ever since I was a child, I had countless crushes on fictional characters: Fred from Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! (1969), Peter Pan in the 2003 film, Sky from Winx Club (2004), The Beast—specifically in his beast form—from Beauty and the Beast (1991), and Kyo from Fruits Basket (2001). A true lover girl at heart. All my crushes had the same characteristics: white, blonde, and blue-eyed. And if they didn’t have those qualities, they would be monsters.
This specific type never changed. Every man I thought to have been in love with was white. There was something about white men I found so physically attractive. I couldn’t place my finger on it—I still can’t—it wasn’t their bone structure or fairness of skin; it had no specific identifier. It was almost like it was ingrained in me. Like I was born with this attraction. And the shame that comes with it continues to eat at me from the inside out, like a festering disease.
Whenever I caught myself gazing a little too long at a curly-haired brunette white man, I could feel my ancestors shake their heads from above. Asian shame is a heavy burden to hold, so much is unloaded in a small amount of time with little to no words, and the weight is unbearable since I stand at 4’10”. The worst thing is how it shaped a perfectionist out of me, making me overexert myself more than I should at every given opportunity. With this perfectionism running bloodstream deep, it infected every thought and eventually shaped how I viewed the woman who stood in front of the mirror.
So, how does an Asian woman living in a predominantly white society grasp the fact that she is a visual minority? How does Australia’s standard of beauty make room for other ethnicities? Is there room? How does a perfectionist cope with not looking like Australia’s version of a “perfect” beauty? This line of questioning sat inside me, right between my heart and lungs. Whenever I stepped out of the shower, steam fogging the mirror, I would grimace at the reflection of my tan skin and black hair, and I would say:
I wish I was white.
When I started dating around, this colonial mentality only grew. If I flirted with someone, I would always ask myself:
Do they wish I was white? Am I a fetish to them? Something exotic?
Even if I was proven wrong, even if they genuinely liked me, it didn’t stop me from scrolling through their ‘Following’ tab on Instagram to determine if I was their type. I would investigate every account that had any semblance of a woman’s name and religiously stalk all her photos, comparing their sun-kissed skin to my olive one.
It was only when I met my most recent ex, The Engineer, that this internalised illness was diagnosed. On our first date, I straightened my hair so my wild, exotic curls would be hidden; I intentionally didn’t overdress; and I did my makeup light as to resemble all the girls that must have come before me. He told me about his hobbies—tennis, golfing, reading—and I couldn’t help but feel inadequate. I was not raised in the stereotypical Asian way where I would be forced into an instrument I would end up hating, instead, I was raised with no hobbies to my name. (Writing is my vocation). The pit in my stomach that hated everything I was, could not have been more jealous of this stranger from Hinge telling me how he has a beach house, and that he occasionally plays golf with his dad. I’m barely close to my parents, I cannot speak a lick of Tagalog, and I know nothing about my cultural history. I could not be less Asian, but even worse, it didn’t make me any more white.
When The Engineer and I started dating, the racial disparities between us weren’t immediately apparent. It was only when he met my friends, and I met his family, that I saw the unbridgeable gap between us. The Engineer met my friends first as they are more like family to me than my blood relations; this was the make or break of the relationship for me.
I booked an Italian restaurant because he couldn’t use chopsticks well and I didn’t want his first impression to be that he was uncultured. We sat down at dinner, and he was quiet—half nervous, half speechless—leaving me to do all the talking. There we were, a table of four, with my two Vietnamese friends, a Filipino like myself, and him. The dynamic could not be more off. When dinner finished, my friends and I debriefed. They didn’t like him, but they knew I did, and respected that. So, I stayed.
When it was my turn to meet his parents, I dressed as the stereotypical Girl-Next-Door; black turtleneck, checkered pants, and my hair straightened and tied. Classy. Sophisticated. Familiar.
It was now my turn to be the outsider.
They talked about their travels as a (complete) family and stories of The Engineer’s time at a prestigious public school. They even asked about the Philippines, and I couldn’t respond. As white-washed as I felt, I didn’t have this. I didn’t grow up travelling the world; I didn’t attend a school with multiple floors and brick walls; I didn’t grow up with both parents. I could not be more different from the people sitting across from me. It was here that my internalised racism and colonial mindset could not have been stronger. I wanted what my boyfriend had. I wanted to live the white experience.
~*~
But it was this relationship that put into perspective the sickness I’ve caught, and how badly it has changed my worldview—how I longed for a white saviour to save me from my otherness.
It made me look in the mirror to confront this disease that has shaped my dating experience in Melbourne. To confront the disease that colonists brought with them on that ship. And now I’m here. Accepting the radiance of my skin and the culture my bloodline comes with.
If Oxford were to study the occurrence of this interracial pairing, I wonder what their findings would be. I wonder if they would justify this pairing rather than contributing to the internet’s critique. I wonder how much of it they’d find to be nature vs. nurture. I wonder…