The recent trends on social media regarding Asian cultures, particularly East Asian cultures, are nice in retrospect; however, the constant gentrification of these trends deludes the significance of what it means to be vulnerable about deeply rooted traditions and practices. When scrolling through TikTok or Instagram, it is apparent that people are not afraid to rename or “rebrand” aspects of other cultures to make them palatable and digestible for the white audience to engage with and consume, which devalues their genuine nature and highlights questionable intentions. This shift in appreciation to appropriation signifies the lack of respect and societal understanding when altering the cultural significance of the dish, piece of clothing, history, and/or language.
Although I am not Chinese myself, I am Asian, and that distinction matters. My relationship to the “In a very Chinese time of my life” trend is not one of ownership over Chinese identity, but of proximity to the ways Asian culture is flattened, aestheticized, and consumed. Anti-Asian racism floats around social media and has never felt any sort of resolution, especially considering how COVID-19 was treated, the rise of K-Pop, particularly the backlash of Asian artists not speaking English, and how to look more Asian through makeup. Therefore, racism does not differentiate neatly between ethnicities, nor does appropriation. When one Asian culture becomes a seasonal aesthetic, it reverberates across the broader Asian diaspora. We are often grouped together when it is convenient for stereotyping, yet separated when it comes to recognition and specificity.
The phrase “Chinese time of my life” suggests that Chinese identity is a temporary atmosphere, as if it is something someone can wear and toss away when they are done. It is presented as a soft, docile, and nostalgic era defined by porcelain dishware, herbal soups, and calligraphy prints. For many non-Asian influencers, this “era” reads as an introspective and worldly concept, easy to misrepresent. However, for those of us who grew up in white-majority spaces and navigating our Asianness, culture was never a phase. It was something we were teased for, misunderstood for, and pressured to assimilate. This is what makes the trend feel dystopian. Identity becomes a mood board. Heritage becomes a filter. The algorithm rewards aesthetic cohesion, and not prioritizing the cultural context is problematic. When Chineseness is framed and structured as an aesthetic chapter for people, right alongside “French girl summer” or “tropical beach girl,” it reinforces the idea that culture is interchangeable and consumable. The implication that an individual can experience the pleasure of cultural differences without inheriting the vulnerability that comes with being racialized.
Moreover, the trend of “brothy rice” or the “hotpot bomb” illustrates this dynamic in a sense that Asian culture is easily disposable. Across various Asian cultures, rice porridge or soup paired with rice has existed for centuries, such as congee, juk, lugaw, khao piak, and other regional names. Yet, on social media, the dish is often introduced to mainstream audiences as “brothy rice,” which strips the linguistic roots of the dish. The rebranding feels subtle but significant. Suddenly, a dish that may have once been dismissed as “strange” or “ethnic” becomes cozy, minimal, chic, light, and healthy. This transformation suggests that the barrier was never about flavor or texture; it was about proximity to Asianness. Although I am not East Asian, I recognize this pattern across cultures. Foods that once elicited wrinkled faces and pinched noses in school cafeterias are now reimagined in curated kitchens. Fermented vegetables, rice-based meals, and herbal broths are staples in Asian households long before they became wellness trends. These meals are nearly sacred for the emergence of growing in white-majority spaces. Thus, the renaming of these dishes erases origin while preserving profit and praise. This reinforces a troubling reality that culture becomes acceptable once it is detached from the bodies historically associated with it.
This generational tension stimulates an exhausting conversation among Asian Americans that had to assimilate and distanced ourselves from customs that marked us as different. Now, watching those same markers circulate as enviable and chic feels disorienting. Validation seems to arrive only after culture is filtered through whiteness and presented as discovery rather than inheritance. The dystopia lies in this quiet inversion. The same traditional clothing, dishes, and language that once prompted mockery now signal refinement and taste. But the people whose families carried those traditions are not automatically freed from stereotyping or scrutiny, even in their own spaces. This aesthetic of being Asian moves faster than justice. Thus, being Asian during this peak moment means holding two truths at once: that visibility for other Asian Americans is affirming, but that commodification can feel hollow. The tension lingers in every scroll, every rebrand, every video from a white creator promoting something relating to Asian culture. Because while some get to enter and exit their “Chinese era,” “Asian Aesthetic,” others, like myself, remain racialized long after the trend fades. When the algorithm moves on, we will still be here facing the effects of gentrification. We are living identities that were never meant to be erased in the first place.