An Excerpt from “Passport to Shame,” a Memoir of Addiction and Recovery

Content warning: The following article contains details of addiction and sex trafficking that could be triggering. 

“So ashamed that the ancestors of eight generations can even feel it.” – Chinese Proverb

I hate myself! This was one of my earliest thoughts as a Chinese boy in the United States. I wasn’t white like those I saw on television. I wasn’t Black like those in my neighborhood. I was an Asian immigrant. I was an outsider, a foreigner, the “other.” It was 1976 and I was 4 years old. I hated looking different, speaking different, and having different customs and traditions from mainstream America. The first English words I recall hearing were, “Ching, chong, chong!” Not exactly the most welcoming reception. The first question hurled our way was whether we ate rats or dogs. I cringed and began distancing myself from my Chinese background.

This cultural contempt and self-loathing became evident when my parents spoke to me and my brothers in Chinese and I responded in English. I was embarrassed and ashamed of our heritage. I winced when they spoke Chinese in public. I wanted nothing to do with them in any setting, public or private.

In addition, the values of Asian collectivism and groupthink that my parents and other relatives tried to impress on me and my brothers clashed with American ideals of independence. We were being taught at school to speak up, question authority, and think critically, while at home our parents stressed the importance of obedience, harmony, and never questioning authority figures like teachers, elders, and parents.

How would all of this impact our sense of identity and shape how others viewed us or how we saw ourselves? 

I was enamored with what TV could do to me. It transported me to another world, where I could escape the fear of crime and trying to navigate this country on my own. I was the first in my family and extended family to go to school in the U.S. I was trailblazing both for myself and the entire Louie family; my grandparents, parents, uncles, and aunts had never gone through the U.S. educational system from kindergarten to college and into a mainstream American workplace. I was the tip of the spear, and no one would be able to relate to my new experiences. Each transition, juncture, or challenge would need to be tackled on my own. The expectations were high and, with nowhere to go with the fears and anxiety, I looked for ways to numb out. Television was one of my earliest ways to do so.

My needs for nurturing, comfort, support, and validation came through the shows. Masculinity was shaped by watching “Magnum, P.I.,” “Buck Rogers in the 25^th Century,” “Battlestar Galactica,” “CHiPs,” and “The A-Team.” I found what family could look like in “The Brady Bunch.” The parents portrayed such love and tenderness to their children, even when there were disagreements and challenges. There were hugs, kisses, and compliments. Even in admonishment, there was love. I wanted that for my family but knew our Chinese culture of emotional stoicism wasn’t going to provide it for me, so watching it on TV was my substitute.

During the summers, I discovered soap operas such as “The Young and the Restless,” “As the World Turns,” and “Days of Our Lives.” These soaps had me transfixed like never before. I saw love, or what I thought was love, being demonstrated in the form of romance. When the actors kissed, I viewed this as the most intimate act of human connection. Is this what was needed for me to be close to another human being? I was only 10 years old when the connection between romance and sex as the ultimate expression of closeness was formed in my mind. I was too young, shy, and poor to feel a girl would like me, so I never entertained the thought of kissing a real girl. Nudity wasn’t as accessible as it is today, but some friends had cable TV where pornographic movies were “scrambled” (i.e., a form of encryption to control access to paid content). While we couldn’t see anything, we could hear the moans and groans.

There were girls in my classes that I wanted to ask out, but I was too shy to do so. The fear of rejection was too strong. Instead, I resorted to going out and meeting women in bars. That felt safer because everyone was drinking, and I didn’t have to do as much talking. In other words, I could let my body do the talking for me by flirting, dancing, or kissing. Learning how to read body cues became my way to gauge if a woman was interested. This was preferred; there were no words of rejection to deal with. In what seemed like a blur, I had a handful of casual sex partners — I’d get drunk, have sex, and then continue the sexual encounters for a short time, before moving on to another woman. In one memorable early encounter, I was kissing a woman and liked her enough to ask if this meant we were a couple. She responded, “No, we’re just making out!” That was hard to hear, and it steeled my belief that relationships weren’t desired of me, so the hunt to keep things solely sexual continued.

I was depressed and felt intense shame during these sexual encounters. I never cared about my health, so I didn’t wear protection. If anything, I was hoping I’d catch AIDS and die, which would validate my feelings of worthlessness and defectiveness. I was torn over my sexual behaviors. I yearned for a relationship but had no idea how to get it. I had been preconditioned by American media and machismo into believing that bedding as many women as possible was my ticket to masculinity. This became my pursuit in college, regardless of who I hurt.

In Montana, I felt like I was the only Asian guy in the entire state. The fear of racism, stereotypes, and teasing was paramount. Not only was I worrying about external perceptions of me, but there were also internal ones within my own culture I had to confront. My parents and relatives didn’t want me to work as a t.v. news reporter as they said there were no Asian men on tv at the time.. I felt a crushing sense of cultural responsibility to prove them wrong and uphold my family name as the oldest son and first family member in this country to receive a college degree. I wondered, what if I don’t succeed in this career? Will my parents disown me? Will the wider Asian community back home reject me? I told myself that failure was not an option. The fear and potential shame of bringing dishonor to my Asian community, ancestors, and family weighed heavily on my conscience.

The anxiety that fueled these questions, doubts, and concerns swirled through my being. Even if I had wanted to talk about it, who could I turn to? This was before e-mail and cell phones. I had a landline, but I didn’t have long-distance telephone service because I wanted to save money, and chose isolation instead. The isolation sealed my distorted belief that I could not truly trust anyone in my deepest time of need. I would have to tackle these challenges alone.

I now believe that my distorted views were the result of strong Chinese values of obedience and honor. I was the disobedient son. I had defied my parents’ wishes for me to become a teacher. My sexual behaviors were disgraceful to my family name, even if they were unknown. The shame grew as the behavior and associated feelings of fear, disappointment, and pain continued as well.

No one knew I was viewing porn via magazines, DVDs, and the internet. If anything, the professional expectations to “make it” increased my porn usage to multiple times a day, lasting a couple of hours each time. I dared not utter a word about this, even to my fiancée.

The secrecy was burdensome, and it had to finally come to an end. I could not hide behind denials or rationalizations. I had to acknowledge to my wife and myself that the tentacles of pornography and sexual objectification of women had strangled the intimacy of our marriage. I could also finally acknowledge I was a porn and sex addict, which I wasn’t able to do when we had gotten engaged just a couple of years earlier. 

In the ensuing months, we were officially divorced. I felt like a failure not just to myself but to my immediate family, grandparents, deceased ancestors, church, and the Asian community at large. The double stigma within my culture of divorce and addiction haunted me. How had this happened? How could I be so weak? God must hate me.

******************

He asked me if I was American, and when I said “yes,” he led me down a dirt path that ended at a glass window with three dozen women on the other side sitting in rows of clay or dirt. They were wearing bathing suits, and each had a small number pinned to their waist. The woman I had selected was put in a room and I was asked to go in. I, of course, assumed she was a prostitute, and this was how things worked in Bali. I paid her $50, and we had sex.

I felt something was off but was unsure what it was. The entire experience felt dark and sinister. The women didn’t seem to have any choice and appeared to be held captive. They took directions from the men who were there. They never talked back or disagreed. They simply listened and complied.

I didn’t think much more about it until years later, when sex trafficking became known to the general population through popular culture and outreach efforts. One outreach took place on a Sunday morning during the announcement period prior to the main service at my church.

My heart skipped a beat as I made the connection to my own experience in Bali and the strong possibility it was part of a sex-trafficking ring. I believe the women I saw that night were taken from their families, thinking they were going to work in a legitimate business, only to be trapped in a life of endless sexual trauma and despair. The pit of my stomach still can’t fathom how far down my addiction had taken me.

“Passport to Shame: From Asian Immigrant to American Addict” was released on Jan. 9, 2024, by Central Recovery Press. Learn more about the author at www.samlouiespeaks.com. 

Links on this page lead to Mochi Mag’s Bookshop.org storefront, where every purchase supports both your reading journey and ours.