Author, activist and musician, David Siu performing on the violin, breaking his way past stereotypes and creating his own story.
By David Siu
“Taking a deep breath, I draw my bow across the strings, trying to get the notes just right. My fingers stumble through the same passage, over and over again. My arm is growing tired, my mind has worn thin. Meanwhile, my chin rests loosely on my black ebony chinrest, my brows furrowed in frustration. I’m not angry, I’m exhausted. I sigh, take a deep breath, and try again. Why can’t I just play it the way it’s supposed to sound? Practice feels endless, and the music that once inspired me now feels like a chore.”
Many young Asian Americans are introduced to music as a non-negotiable part of their upbringing. Taking weekly music lessons isn’t a choice. They’re an expectation from family, from parents. From an early age, children are often enrolled in piano, violin, or cello lessons; they are pushed to attend rehearsals and lessons multiple times a week. For some of them, the instrument becomes a second language. But for others, it becomes a heavy weight on their shoulders.
For immigrant parents, music represents both discipline and opportunity. “Practice now, thank me later,” is the phrase constantly repeated. Committing the time to rigorous perseverance and practice builds essential life skills. Learning an instrument can improve memory, concentration, and problem-solving, all of which are objectively positive qualities. Above all, it is a symbol of cultural proof that their children are achieving something tangible, something respected.
Walking into almost any youth orchestra or music conservatory in America, a familiar pattern emerges: a field of young faces, many of them Asian, playing on their instruments with intense concentration. From Suzuki group classes to prestigious competition stages, Asian students are often front and center; disciplined, technically flawless, and deeply immersed in the classical tradition. It’s a sight so common that it no longer surprises anyone. But what’s often left unsaid is how this image reinforces a larger, burdensome expectation: that Asian excellence is automatic, inevitable, and forced. That we’re not creative or curious…we’re just good at following rules.
This expectation is tightly intertwined with the model minority myth, a narrative that casts Asian Americans solely as hard-working, high-achieving, obedient, and quietly successful: the poster child of integration into American society. It’s something that has become ingrained in American culture. The Asian child, brilliant, virtuosic, and trained like a machine for recitals and international competitions. It paints this picture of us as diligent overachievers who excel without complaint, who are “naturally gifted” at math, science, and music.
The reality, of course, is far more complicated and far more damaging than that.
This stereotype, like many others, contains only a slight sliver of the truth. It entirely misses the deeper, and much more human story. It takes away from the experiences of individuals who began their musical journeys out of obligation, only to discover a real love for the instrument. Or an individual who is nowhere near a musical “prodigy”, but still finds enjoyment in learning music.
The model minority myth isn’t a compliment. It’s a trap. It flattens our stories, hides our struggles, and leaves the true person behind. It implies that our worth is tied only to our productivity, that our value lies in how well we perform, not in who we are. In the music world, it manifests as assumptions that Asian musicians are technically brilliant but lack passion or originality. Teachers and judges may praise our precision while questioning our expressiveness. We’re expected to play the notes flawlessly, but not write them. Interpret them, but not feel them.
It’s a subtle but deeply racialized belief: that we are excellent imitators, not creators.
And when we fall short of these expectations, when we struggle, burn out, or simply want to quit, we are often made to feel like we’ve – not just personally, but culturally – failed, that we are letting down our families, our communities, our entire race.
This is the hidden harm of the model minority myth that dehumanizes us. It makes our exhaustion invisible. It frames our discipline as destiny, rather than the product of effort, sacrifice, and sometimes pain. It ignores the moments we cry in practice rooms, the times we want to quit, the joy we rediscover only after we’re allowed to play freely, on our own terms.
And worst of all, it silences the voices that don’t fit the mold. What about the Asian American kid who wants to pursue jazz, or rap, or traditional Filipino kulintang? What about those who want to compose, produce, or simply not play music at all? The model minority myth makes these paths feel like rebellion instead of valid self-expression.
To fight back against this myth is to reclaim our complexity. To recognize that we are not a human machine. That we are artists, thinkers, feelers, and fighters. That behind every “perfect” performance lies a personal story that deserves to be told on its own.
So the next time someone hears a young Asian violinist playing a flawless concerto, the first thought should not be, of course! The thought should be, what’s their story? What do they feel as they play? What dreams do they hold beyond the stage?
Because only then do we begin to see the full humanity behind the music. Asian Americans belong in music not just as performers, but also as composers, bandleaders, producers, and innovators. We belong not because we can succeed, but because we’re human beings with stories to tell and sounds to share.