Art has always been political—it glorified the ruling class and the dominant religion. Now, museums are acknowledging the art of other political views.
Some people privileged in the majority culture scorn this. But their reactions reveal the limitations that have been put on BIPOC and LGBTQI communities. Judging by the current political trend in the United States, where nearly half the electorate supported reactionary and racist candidates, the struggle for equality, opportunity, and the right to one’s voice is more important than ever.
I was seventeen and standing in my high school art classroom when I took Deng Ming-Dao as a professional name and as a declaration of my Asian American identity. Looking back, that name unites art, writing, the personal, and Dao.
After fifty years, I can say the effects have been a mix of bad and good. On the bad side, no one can remember my name; people are confused by the Chinese practice of putting family name first; and banks and tech companies have changed their policies to recognize only legal names. No one at my publisher’s order desk can pronounce my name or the word “Dao.” And as I wrote earlier, Asian people don’t find me American enough and white Americans don’t find me Asian enough.
What’s the good side been? I’ve had to ask repeatedly whether I was “fated” to write about Dao. My paternal grandfather chose Ming. (All the male cousins of my generation have the same middle name.) My mother took the selection to her father, who paired it with Dao. The phrase “ming dao” is in the Confucian classics (“The ruler must make the people’s wealth abundant while understanding Dao, trust, and righteousness.” —Yangzi Fayan). It can mean the Dao of Daoism too. My grandfather was an ardent Christian. Why did he choose that word?
The other way it’s been good to have a professional name is that it separates the personal from the public. As my ordinary self, I stumble around, but in my public role, I feel obligated to give only the best and the ideal.
Some people prefer to separate the political from the spiritual. But where did that come from? Scholars who wanted academic purity? A separation of the secular and sacred? Those are assumptions useful in certain constructs but hardly absolute truths. Moreover, the Chinese classics such as the Daodejing and the Yijing, for example, always combine the philosophical, political, and spiritual. Separating the political from the spiritual is not related to traditional Chinese culture.
All my Chinese language teachers, Taiji teachers, and my master were immigrants. My grandparents were immigrants. I am Chinese American and grew up in and around San Francisco’s Chinatown. I am creative. I am political. I am spiritual.
I stand for my people. I stand for the art that is my heritage. I stand against injustice. None of that is about attacking people. It’s about representing the best of what made me—and showing the best of what I make.
I also have to keep learning. A Chinese name can be a challenge. Ming-Dao can be a question: “Do you understand Dao?” Such a question takes a lifetime to answer.