Given the horrors faced by Asian-Americans as of late, the title is already enough to provoke. More so, because the first sentence already speaks of a Chinese-born character’s death. But, it’s not from a random act of violence, as some might think, but from a freak accident. From there, it’s already easy to gauge that no part of Rebecca F. Kuang’s fifth novel alludes to recent harrowing news. On the contrary, most of the turmoil here is internal or, at most, on social media, when Twitter was still Twitter. Still, that doesn’t make Yellowface any less riveting. 

Kuang was born in Guangzhou in 1996, but moved to the United States by the turn of the millennium. Growing up in Dallas, she was always adept to articulating her thoughts, especially as a member of Georgetown University’s debate team. It was during her gap year, however, when she finally pursued writing. This led to her completing the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2016 and the CSSF Novel Writing Workshop in 2017. In between, she started drafting her first novel, a military fantasy inspired by 20th-century China politics and the Second Sino-Japanese War. And by age 22, she was already a novelist, with her debut, Poppy War, even spawning two sequels, 2019’s The Dragon Republic and 2020’s The Burning God. 

This marks Kuang’s first attempt at reality-rooted fiction, following her said breakthrough trilogy and 2022’s Babel: Or the Necessity of Violence. It’s also her first shot at modern-day satire. And it’s one that hits dangerously straight to where she treads: the publishing industry. It’s curious how she even scored this deal, given how the book borders on firing shots. Whatever the case, let’s be thankful she did. 

The story is narrated first-person by June Hayward, a hapless writer trapped in the shadows of her college frenemy and more successful contemporary, Athena Liu. Given their complicated relationship, she isn’t sure why they even still hang out. Nevertheless, she’s the first person Athena invites to celebrate her new Netflix deal. She’s also the last to see her alive. 

Just before Athena fatally chokes on a pandan pancake, she tells June about her new manuscript about Chinese laborers in World War I. It’s pegged to be her most ambitious work yet. And, once again, June’s bound to go second fiddle. But with Athena now dead in her apartment, the draft has nowhere to go. That’s June’s cue to hatch her outrageous plan. 

The second chapter has June editing Athena’s work and subsequently passing it off as her own, dismissive of the fact that she’s Caucasian. Yet, somehow, her publisher still takes the bait and, finally, it’s June’s time to shine, albeit vicariously. In the process, she’s also re-christened as Juniper Song, with her features tweaked to look vaguely Asian. It’s the only way readers will buy the whole act. And, for a brief period, they do. But while the eventual book, The Last Front, does sell, the charade is soon revealed. And Kuang sure doesn’t hold back on June’s comeuppance.

The online attacks begin by the second half, as anonymous trolls expose both June’s plagiarism and pretenses. By then, the story escalates into a gripping pseudo-whodunnit, as June desperately tries to trace her saboteurs, while guarding her stolen fame. That’s when the book becomes most absorbing. Even we’re so deep into June’s delusions, we’re no longer sure about her real identity (or race). And props to Kuang for tricking us into sympathizing with such a deceitful character that we almost condone her cultural appropriation. Even we are fooled by June, who never runs out of justifications, even when she thinks she’s being pursued by Athena’s ghost.

The thrill reaches its peak when the culprit is finally exposed. It’s a climax akin to a slasher film’s killer reveal. The only difference here is that the final girl is an entitled racist jerk. There’s nobody to root for here, obviously. There are no heroes where white privilege and tokenism are the norm.

More than taking jabs at cancel culture, Yellowface continues to shed light on low-key racism, where minorities are still forced to seek approval to succeed, thrive, and, in extreme cases, even simply function. It also reminds us of the cruelties we’re bound to face in identifying with our passions, because not everyone is destined to earn a break. All these insights are brazenly blended together by Kuang’s keen observations and sharp writing. 

The ending does not offer any redemption. There’s hardly room for any, when everyone’s so heartless and self-absorbed. So, much as the cynical tale ends on an abrupt whimper, it’s the right direction to take arc-wise. Truth is, this isn’t Charles Dickens Yuletide fare where someone just becomes likable after being haunted thrice in a row. In this audacious cautionary tale, everyone’s swallowed by the system and character development plays no role. No one ever said that, for a piece to define a generation, it must gloss over the ugly parts and highlight only the ideal. This book, for one, doesn’t, but it rings true just the same.