Interview #147 — Jinghua Qian
by Maddee Clark
Jinghua Qian is a writer often found worrying about race, resistance, art, desire, queerness and the Chinese diaspora. Eir work has appeared in The Guardian, The Monthly, Them, and once on a brick wall.
Jinghua Qian is the 2020 LIMINAL x HYPHENATED Writing Fellow. Read more about the fellowship here.
You have a very diverse practise. How did you start writing, and how has your writing evolved over time? What mode of writing feels most comfortable to you?
I don’t think I ever started writing, really, I think I just never stopped. I was a bookish, indoorsy kid with a relentless internal monologue so it’s what I did to entertain myself. As a teenager, I chronicled every waking moment on Livejournal, I made zines, I had some microfiction published by Next Wave when I was maybe 17. When I was at uni, I fell in love with slam poetry, so for a while I was mostly doing spoken word and performance as part of this little troupe called the Ladies of Colour Agency with Raina Peterson and Loretta Mui. I was putting on shows like POC THE MIC and making radio and organising protests and gradually I started writing more essays and criticism. The essay is probably the form that feels most comfortable to me still because it mirrors the rhythm of my mind. It lets me change gears easily; I can shift from the visceral to the conceptual and take detours through my various obsessions.
I’ve also worked as a journalist and editor in a news media setting, which is a totally different beast. I think it’s made me a lot more disciplined as a writer, with a more rigorous and material approach—but it’s also deepened my appreciation for the unruliness and ambition of literary writing.
I do enjoy working across a range of practice because I have so many divergent impulses and political preoccupations that sort of naturally take different forms. But it also hasn’t been a deliberate process for the most part. The work that feeds my soul doesn’t pay my rent so I’m also guided by what’s possible, what I need to stay afloat.
You were a performer and slam poet for many years. What was it like for you doing the rounds in Melbourne’s slam poetry scene?
It was such a different time. The slam poetry scene that I came into, circa 2007, was really intensely white and male. I was a woman then and I’d often be the only woman of colour in a line-up and all the guys would be doing these poems that were kind of like early Childish Gambino, like revenge of the sleazy nerd, literary incel sort of thing. So it was pretty uncomfortable sometimes.
I was really grateful to meet people like Lian Low, Maxine Beneba Clarke and Eleanor Jackson, and in 2010 I started POC THE MIC as an explicitly anti-racist people of colour performance night to create space for work I wanted to see and to help us find each other. It was pretty magical working with you on that. I suppose the Melbourne art and lit world made me aware that I’d always have to make both the work and the platform or context for the work. I always want my writing to be part of a conversation. These days there are so many incredible events and publications run by and for women of colour and queer and trans and disabled writers, and all sorts of interdisciplinary and transnational collaborations. It feels like such a lush richness and it’s a delight to be part of it.
It really does sometimes feel like a different world to the one we organised POC the Mic in. The territory has shifted for writers of colour in so many ways here. Do you share your writing with your family? What feedback do they give you?
Most of my relatives don’t really read English for pleasure. And my Chinese literacy is very basic. So there’s quite a deep love of literature in my family, but we don’t share a literary culture at all. In a way it’s probably helped me be more daring, not having them in mind as the reader.
My parents are more engaged with my work as a journalist. When I was making radio, my mum would listen to my shows, and she’d follow the stories I wrote for Sixth Tone; we’ll talk about current affairs, Chinese politics, bias, censorship and the media landscape, but not the fabric of the text. My cousins do read my writing, and we have good conversations on how our experiences overlap and diverge when it comes to migration.
In 2016, you moved to Shanghai to work at Sixth Tone, a newly established English language media outlet, and then came back a few years later. Why did you want to move to Shanghai, and what has the transition back to Melbourne been like?
Honestly, I moved to Shanghai because I was depressed, I hated my job, we’d just broken up and it felt like there was nothing for me here. I needed a hard reset, and it worked: I had to really hit the ground running as soon as I got there, learning everything I could about China and news journalism very quickly, and also reorienting a lot of my thinking that’s rooted in the west, specifically in the experience of being non-white in Australia. So that was exciting and refreshing, and it was particularly amazing to be part of the team at Sixth Tone before it launched, building it from scratch. Spending time with my grandma and getting to know the city again, on my own terms as an adult, was really special too.
Returning to Melbourne has been a little disconcerting. I’m back in the same place—literally the same flat—while emotionally and intellectually I’m in quite a different place now. I’ve tried to hold onto the focus I found in Shanghai and to resist getting sucked into the punishing, repetitive conversations that waste so much time for artists of colour in Australia but it’s not easy.
What are the differences between working at Sixth Tone, and the Australian writing scene? It seems like there was a distinct shift between the deeply personal voice of your poetry and essay writing and then journalism method where you tell other people’s stories.
Moving from literature to journalism, and from Australia to China, was a huge shift in terms of method, pace, ethical framework, and industrial context as well as voice and style. It took some adjusting to get used to the more impersonal voice of news media but I’d worked in comms before and I’d done press for various activist collectives so I was kind of used to switching between different registers. But in Australia I was always working across a lot of different projects, whereas at Sixth Tone I didn’t have time for anything else, especially once I became the head of news. The work was all-consuming, and on top of that, I couldn’t get involved in anything that could compromise our editorial independence.
Accuracy, impartiality, truth as an end in itself, and to some extent the effacement of the writer: these are fundamental principles of news reporting. They’re not principles I completely accept. And of course, journalists have vigorous debates about those principles, about what impartiality means in a conversation that’s structured through various power relations. What does ‘balance’ look like for international reporting on China when news production is shaped by market forces, by Chinese government censorship, by orientalist frameworks, by geopolitical interests?
I loved being part of these conversations, and actually I really enjoyed having to write super quickly, condensing the entire process of telling other people’s stories and all the responsibility involved in that to just a few hours, and kind of erasing myself and my authorship. It made sense to do that in China, where I’m not really part of the story, where my own perspective is peripheral. I also appreciated working in a more collaborative way and having access to a broader audience while finding ways to enshrine some of my values into editorial standards, especially in relation to coverage of trans issues. But I also knew that neither China nor journalism could be a complete, permanent home for me, or for the way I think about writing and the world. I want something with more breath and texture, more creative ambiguity, more political intention.
The work that feeds my soul doesn’t pay my rent so I’m also guided by what’s possible, what I need to stay afloat.
That idea of truth as an end in journalism—I think that’s part of why your shift into that form of media interested me, because your relationship with truth, secrets and disclosure has always seemed complicated.
Yeah I guess I have a sense of truthfulness as something that’s not just about factual accuracy but also candour, resonance, precision, clarity of purpose, and so on. There are so many ways to tell a story and I’m always curious about the power relations embedded there: who benefits, what’s left unsaid, how do you decide where the centre is, where do you start and finish.
I’m also drawn to mysticism, to metaphor, to things that are unknowable or that you can only get at obliquely. We’ve talked a lot about growing up Catholic; I think Catholic prayer and parables have informed how I think about narrative, ritual, and the material of language. As a child I experienced prayer in such a visceral way even when the words went over my head. So the tl;dr of it is that I’m deeply invested in truth-telling but that goes beyond what you might call representation. And maybe I’m equally invested in silence, in the power of keeping a fistful of secrets. We often hear about promoting marginalised voices but less about respecting silence. Sometimes the most valuable thing you have is your inscrutability.
None of that is a natural fit with the contours of the newsroom. But at the time, I was quite desperate to break out of my life so it made sense to do something that was out of character. And simultaneously, when I moved to China I left behind this menagerie of aliases that I’d accumulated over the years—pen names and stage names and online identities. Now I just have the one name that I use for everything. That’s a big shift, too: it feels dangerous and heavy and full to write using the name my grandfather gave me.
In your experience, how have the conditions for freelance writers of colour changed over time in Australia? What have been some of the challenges of doing the work you do in this industry?
It’s a volatile, heartbreaking industry for everyone: low pay, no work rights, a deeply unequal power dynamic between freelancers and media organisations. For writers of colour, there’s also racism, tokenism, and whitewashing and warping of complex ideas to fit into a narrative of diversity.
There are a lot more writers and editors of colour working in Australia now than 10 years ago, and I think there’s more awareness across the sector around racism, cultural appropriation, ableism, sexism, transphobia and other dynamics—but also more tokenism and bad-faith lip service to inclusion instead of real commitments to justice.
Volatile and heartbreaking is a good way to describe it. What kinds of strategies have you used to carve out some space for yourself in the industry? We’ve talked before about fear of self-promotion and the tendency of many of us to downplay our successes and talents.
One strategy is to organise: Creating spaces like POC THE MIC and Myriad, which is a collective that I cofounded with Darcy T Gunk to create performance and exhibition opportunities for trans and gender diverse artists and performers. Working with Djed Press, Peril, Mascara, 3CR Community Radio, and of course Liminal and Hyphenated. Connecting and organising with other freelancers through our union (MEAA), the Study Hall network, various Facebook groups, and campaigns like Pay the Writers. Basically, building communities that both run alongside the industry, putting pressure on it to shape up, while also offering islands of understanding within it.
Hmm, but it’s also funny that I answered this way because obviously I find it a lot easier to celebrate community and advocacy projects than to champion myself as a writer. Writing grant applications or website copy where I have to talk myself up really feels like pulling teeth. I think everyone hates doing that stuff but it’s worse in arts and writing where it’s so personal as well. You’re putting your entire self up for rejection over and over again with every pitch. I find it horribly awkward to suggest that maybe my work is actually good. I don’t have a strategy for that but you get used to the discomfort. Plus, eventually you will encounter people who are truly terrible at their jobs, yet who somehow hold positions of great power while your brilliant friends are struggling on the margins, so you can let that rage push you into claiming some space.
I think sometimes writers get a little dazzled by the idea that it’s such a privilege to have a platform at all. But it shouldn’t be, culture shouldn’t be this rarefied thing, and we deserve industrial rights as much as anyone.
What are some of the ideas you would love to write about but haven’t found a platform for yet?
One idea is an essay on whataboutism in China and Australia, and on imperialism, genocide and Islamophobia in both countries. My whole life, whenever I’ve tried to talk about any social or political issue in Australia—particularly racism—people will come at me with “what about China”. And then when talking about China—particularly the abuses in Xinjiang—people will go for this stock retort of “what about the west”. So I want to talk about whataboutism as a strategy for silencing dissent but also kind of try to answer those questions that have been asked of me endlessly, to try to twist this deflection into an invitation. Both countries are inescapably part of my intellectual and political frame and both have normalised violence in different ways. It’s something my mind has been stuck on for a while so I think I’d better write it.
I’m also drawn to mysticism, to metaphor, to things that are unknowable or that you can only get at obliquely.
Over the past ten or so years, we’ve had multiple conversations about the political utility of writing, and the differences between cultural activism and direct action. Your position at times was that writing is less useful than other kinds of activist work. Where do you sit on this question right now?
I think I’ll always be back and forth on this one. You make fun of me for it but you know I have this kind of old commie anxiety about not doing something real. Like Lesbia Keogh (Harford) says in Jeff Sparrow’s biography of Guido Baracchi: “Certain ways of living are wrong... We don’t like to think that we live in houses other people have built for us, wear clothes other people have made for us, eat bread other people have baked for us and that in return for all this service we have added a few figures or talked for a couple of hours.” At the same time I do think that culture is real, that writing is real work, that in fact writing probably has more material impact than a lot of jobs these days. And even putting aside political utility, I think beauty is important. Beauty is meaningful and worthwhile. I think about how powerfully I have loved this or that song, how many times one good strong sentence was enough to get me through an ugly time, and I know that’s not inconsequential.
Right now I’m feeling pretty optimistic about writing and what it can do. There’s so much that’s possible in arts and literature that doesn’t feel possible anywhere else—more imagination, humanity, ambivalence, depth, authenticity. In comparison a lot of activism can’t reach as far; it’s too embedded in the moment and driven by tactical considerations. But then sometimes writing feels like the slowest way of effecting any kind of change and I get impatient. So I like to do both. Recently I’ve been helping a bit with the Undocumented Migrants Solidarity campaign, and in a month we raised $60,000 for undocumented migrants in Australia. That was really heartening. Organising with a collective is also something that helps me feel grounded.
Basically, I’ll panic about the state of the world, feeling guilty and ineffective as a writer and needing to get my teeth into something more immediate and tangible, shift over, and then after a bit I’ll feel suffocated and have to break free and retreat into monastic writer mode. I suspect I’m just going to alternate between these two existential crises for the rest of my life. I’m also trying to teach myself that you don’t have to feel guilty for existing and then bury that guilt in work.
Do you have any advice for emerging writers?
Try to separate the business, craft and community aspects of writing as much as you can. Everything is connected, but you can get really lost in the tangle. Think about what you’re trying to do so you’re not caught off-guard when you’re offered an opportunity that actually doesn’t fit. Get comfortable with saying no and hearing it. You’re allowed to hold back as much of yourself as you need. Reserve your unpaid labour for things that really matter—for work that isn’t possible through capitalism.
Find your community, support your peers, advocate for yourself. But also set aside time for writing: the other work is important but “being a writer” doesn’t make you a writer. Writers write.
Who are you inspired by?
You! And so many of our friends—not only writers and artists but all of us trying to heave this beast of a world into another direction, trying to look after each other. Failing, learning, being brave.
What are you listening to?
I’ve got really into making mixtapes in quarantine so I’ve been listening to a pretty wide range of music—sultry pop, Chinese shoegaze, reggae, whatever comes up on shuffle. Sometimes I try to do the Pomodoro thing where I work for 25 minutes then put on a Colors video.
Today I’ve been listening to this Radii megamix of YEHAIYAHAN, a Shanghai-based artist who’s got this immensely varied oeuvre—she’s worked with electronica, hip-hop, dub, Chinese ethnic minority folk composers. I think her family is Manchu but she grew up in the south, in a very ethnically diverse part of Guizhou, before moving to Shanghai 15 years ago and collaborating with seemingly everyone in the scene there, so she draws from all these different musical practices and traditions and it sounds just incredible.
What are you reading?
This will make me sound like such a trans cliche but I’m reading Ellen Van Neerven’s Throat, Daniel Mallory Ortberg’s Something That May Shock and Discredit You, and Eileen Myles’s I Must Be Living Twice, dipping in and out of the two poetry books while taking the memoir one chapter at a time. It makes for an interesting, unintended three-way conversation. I usually read novels in a few feverish sittings but everything else I like to read in this weird braided way.
How do you practice self-care?
Badly! Honestly I’m not great at sleeping, eating, exercising, having a body. I’m a bit better, maybe, at taking care of other people who take care of me. I guess I try to get enough alone time and groundedness so I’m not a pain to be around.
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
Unbelonging, which is an opportunity for solidarity.
Right now I’m feeling pretty optimistic about writing and what it can do.
Find out more
Interview by Maddee Clark
Illustrations by Viet-My Bui