Not Your Fetish, Not Your Fantasy: Why Safety Feels Different for Asian Women

Understanding Gendered Racial Stereotypes and Safety Challenges Faced by Asian Women in the Rideshare and Gig Economy

Not Your Fetish, Not Your Fantasy: Why Safety Feels Different for Asian Women

Every time I pull into a dark parking lot for a late-night pickup, I feel that familiar tightening in my chest. Not fear exactly—just a quiet readiness. A mental note to stay alert, to angle my phone camera slightly toward the back seat, to keep my hand near the lock button.

For a lot of women in rideshare, that’s just common sense. But for Asian women, the layers run deeper. Because our danger isn’t only physical—it’s also psychological. It’s the stares that linger too long. The compliments that aren’t really compliments. The riders who call us “exotic” like it’s a greeting.

They might not say it out loud, but their tone, their smirk, the way their eyes travel—all of it speaks one message loud and clear: You are not a person to me. You are a fantasy I’ve seen before.

And that, right there, is why safety feels different for us.

The Weight of the Stereotype

Growing up, I didn’t have the words for it. I just knew that movies, music videos, and even cartoons seemed to cast Asian women in one of two ways: the quiet, submissive “lotus blossom” or the fiery “dragon lady.” There was no in-between.

By the time I started driving rideshare, I saw those same images reflected in real life—especially during late shifts when alcohol and ego mix freely in the back seat.

“Wow, your voice is so soft.”“I’ve never had an Asian driver before.”“You must be from Japan or Korea, right? My ex was Thai.”

Sometimes, they’d say things meant to sound innocent but loaded with meaning. A few have tried to flirt. One or two made “jokes” that left me gripping the steering wheel tighter.

And the thing is, I shouldn’t have to laugh it off just to keep the ride calm. But that’s what we do. Because we know what can happen when we don’t.

When “Nice” Turns Dangerous

The world often tells women to smile, to be polite, to not make a scene. For many Asian women, that expectation is doubled. Our cultures teach us to avoid confrontation. Our parents tell us, “Be respectful, even when others are not.”

But that quiet conditioning can cost us safety.

I remember one night, a passenger—mid-30s, business suit, smelled like whiskey—got in and immediately started making small talk. Nothing unusual. But halfway through the ride, his tone changed.

He leaned forward and whispered, “You remind me of this actress I saw once… real innocent, but probably wild when she wants to be.”

I froze. My heart pounded, but I smiled—reflexively. Because politeness was my shield.

I said, “I’m just here to drive, sir.” He chuckled. “Oh, come on. Don’t act shy.”

I dropped him off safely. But for days, I replayed it in my head, wondering if I’d done enough to protect myself or if I’d just survived out of luck.

That’s when I realized something: Asian women don’t just fight for safety in the world—we fight for the right to be seen beyond men’s projections.

A Father’s Lesson

My dad used to tell me:

“Respect yourself quietly, and others will hear it loud.”

At the time, I thought he meant modesty. Now I know he meant presence.

Safety begins with how we carry ourselves—not because harassment is our fault, but because self-assurance communicates boundaries before we even open our mouths.

When I start a ride, I greet every passenger confidently and clearly. I keep conversation professional. If someone crosses a line, I don’t shrink or stutter anymore. I say, “That comment makes me uncomfortable. Please stop.”

The silence that follows usually says everything I need to hear.

What They Don’t See

When you’re Asian in America, you learn early how to translate not just language—but behavior. We adapt, anticipate, and over-prepare, because we know that mistakes for us can be interpreted as incompetence, or worse, defiance.

In rideshare, that invisible labor never stops.

We smile even when our gut says don’t.

We laugh off ignorance to keep things safe.

We double-check locks and scan faces in mirrors, calculating risk every second.

People see a calm woman behind the wheel.

They don’t see the mental checklist running in her head:

• Is the rider sitting directly behind me or to the side?

• Does the app have the address right?

• If something goes wrong, will anyone even believe me?

It’s not paranoia. It’s survival.

And what’s exhausting is how normal it’s become.

How Society Fetishizes Fear

Let’s be real—America’s obsession with Asian women didn’t start yesterday. It’s centuries deep, rooted in wars, colonization, and Hollywood scripts that taught the world to see us as fantasy props.

So when someone says, “You’re so exotic,” they’re not just complimenting you. They’re revealing a worldview—one where you’re not a neighbor or coworker or driver. You’re a category. A checklist of traits someone saw on a screen once.

That dehumanization isn’t harmless. It bleeds into real life—into the workplace, into dating, into the rideshare car at 1 a.m. It shapes how people talk to us, touch us, tip us, and treat us.

And it makes us feel like we have to constantly prove our right to exist safely.

Building Safety Beyond the App

No safety feature in a rideshare app can fully protect women of color. Panic buttons, camera alerts, ID verifications—they help, but they don’t fix perception.

Real safety begins with awareness—by naming what we go through, by refusing to minimize it, and by building community among those who get it.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Know Your Boundaries—Before You Drive

Set your limits early. Decide what kind of conversation you’re okay with, and practice ending one politely but firmly. “Let’s keep the ride focused on directions, please” works wonders.

2. Trust Your Intuition

If something feels wrong, it probably is. Cancel, reroute, or pull into a public place. Don’t apologize for protecting your peace.

3. Keep Evidence Easy to Access

Dashcams, tracking links, and emergency contact shortcuts are not paranoia—they’re preparedness. I tell my friends: safety tools don’t make you weak; they make you wise.

4. Find Your Circle

Join networks of women drivers—especially Asian and other minority women. Share tips, stories, and encouragement. There’s healing in being understood without explanation.

5. Reclaim Your Image

We don’t have to let the world decide who we are. Post your story. Use your voice. Correct the narrative that paints us as stereotypes. Every time we tell the truth about our experience, we chip away at the fantasy that puts us in danger.

Why It Still Matters

Sometimes people say, “You’re overreacting. It’s just a compliment.”

But that’s because they’ve never been reduced to a stereotype that follows them into every room.

Asian women are not delicate dolls or mysterious temptresses. We’re complex, capable, and human. We have accents, scars, opinions, and ambitions. We work long hours and hold down multiple jobs. We navigate cultures, expectations, and stares—all while just trying to get home safely.

So no, it’s not “just” a compliment. It’s a symptom of a society that confuses attraction with entitlement.

The Hope Beyond Fear

What gives me hope are the small shifts I see. More riders calling out inappropriate behavior. More women sharing safety stories online. More allies listening without defensiveness.

The more we speak, the harder it becomes for others to ignore our reality.

And when I drive now, I think of every woman—Asian or otherwise—who’s out there doing the same. Each one of us pushing back against the fear, reshaping what respect looks like, redefining what it means to be seen.

Because we are not your fetish.

We are not your fantasy.

We are women with names, families, and stories worth hearing.

We are the heartbeat of this country’s gig economy. And we’re done being silent passengers in our own lives.

With grace and solidarity,

 —Mai-Ling Vu 🌸😊

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Drop me a line. I’d truly love to hear your thoughts, your stories, and the moments that have challenged you.

Let’s bring to light the things too many people still feel they have to face in silence.

Your voice matters, and together we can make it heard.