Sex Ed as an Asian in the South

Education has been an integral part of human history, allowing each generation to develop beyond what is currently known. Sciences build upon what is already understood to discover the next innovation. History hopes to avoid previous mistakes. English courses foster an appreciation for the stories of different cultures. But one type of education is dedicated to promoting safety: sex education. However awkward this education may be, it is certainly better than silence.

Being born in the South and having attended primarily white, all-boys private schools, I was raised surrounded by conservative thought that emphasized chivalry and reservedness. But it’s hard to reconcile this emphasis on modesty with education on the taboo, especially when you’re dealing with boys who struggle to take anything seriously. My elementary school’s solution: monthly grade-wide meetings titled “Building Boys, Making Men.”

As a sixth grader, a chunk of time on the first Tuesday of every month was set aside for this program, during which the school’s chaplain, principal, or Dean of Students would lecture us on the fundamentals of manhood. We were all given a book written for the program, with each chapter representing a different “lesson.” Like those moral talks your parents try to give when you make a simple, insensitive joke, these sessions were uncomfortable, as each of us put on our best fake listening faces. Lessons varied from talking with the opposite gender (in fairness, the school was all-boys from kindergarten to sixth grade) to handling peer pressure and alcohol (I foolishly believed I would never crack to that vile substance).

However, the worst lesson by far covered chapters eight and nine: “Understanding Puberty” and “Purity and Porn.” Put 80 twelve-year-olds in a big conference room and talk about their bodies: you either receive dead silence or sustained, awkward laughter.

For forty minutes, the chaplain rambled on about our “changing bodies” and “newfound attraction to the opposite sex.” He spoke about how sex is a natural part of a healthy relationship, but that we must be careful about who we choose as our partners. Afterward, he transitioned to the internet and the presence of porn. He warned about its temptation and consuming nature, and how it was “disrespectful to the female population,” reducing women to objects of carnal desire. 

Throughout the entire lesson, no one said a word. We had heard warnings about “Chapter Nine” from older students, but no one was expecting this. After the spiel, the chaplain opened the floor for questions, promising to answer anything, regardless of topic. No one dared to say a word until one of my classmates (whom I’ve now known for 18 years) decided to take him at his word. 

“When was the last time you had sex?” 

Without missing a beat, the chaplain answered, “Last Tuesday.” 

For a group of sixth graders with no concept of what a “healthy amount” was, we were appalled. No one expected the lesson, the question, or the answer. The rest of the day was uncomfortable, to say the least. 

Unfortunately, my personal sex education extended beyond school. While others might have had a genuine sex education that covered the processes, anatomy, and safe practices, my exposure was limited to “respecting the activity.” Instead, my real sex education came from my parents.

Both my mother and father are doctors: an obstetrician-gynecologist and a urologist, respectively. What their practices meant was that they had easy access to detailed diagrams and models of the human anatomy, specifically the genitals. They made sure to capitalize on that access.

One sunny Sunday when I was in fifth grade, my parents sat my fourth-grade sister and me down for the “birds and the bees” talk. While other parents might have broached the topic slowly, with the whole “when a mommy and a daddy really love each other” speech, my parents wasted no time getting into the nitty-gritty, showcasing their numerous models. My sister and I were subjected to the most uncomfortable hour of our lives.

My family was certainly not the norm for many Asian American families. Many Asian families tend to avoid having these explicit, uncomfortable talks with their children. Cultural norms of shame and modesty often lead parents to force obliviousness in the name of propriety. In fact, for some Asian households, the emphasis on honor results in priorities shifting from open communication to more reserved interactions. In a study of 359 Vietnamese parent-child dyads, only 25% of the parents were aware that their child had a significant other. Moreover, 61% of parents reported feeling uncomfortable discussing sexuality with their children.

Just as Asian tradition silences this discussion of the taboo on the grounds of avoiding what should be a private matter, Southern conservative thought also tends to shun the discussion of sex to preserve its moral values and family structure. Openly speaking and educating about sex might be seen as openly promoting the act in a way that is antithetical to the religious or moral expectations of social order. By promoting sex, some conservatives believe they are encouraging sexual exploration and permissiveness.

However, the lack of any further education on safe sex could easily have been harmful for me or my peers. Similarly, had my family chosen avoidance of these tough discussions, I might have entered college lacking crucial knowledge about protecting myself. Teen birthrates are consistently higher in Southern states than in Northern states for all races, pointing to an education discrepancy being the contributing factor. Sex education that primarily promotes abstinence does not adequately prepare these students for sexual activity.

So while respecting the taboo may help create a polite society, having those tough, uncomfortable talks is just as necessary to ensure that we are safe and well-informed. As such, I am grateful for my parents and their decision to have “the talk,” though they could have kept a few of those models at the office.

Tyler Dang ’28 (tylerdang@college.harvard.edu) is still recovering from these traumatic events.