I Don't See Skin Color or Eye Shape

Growing up, I never really felt a sense of my Asian-ness. One time, when my sister told my parents she wanted to be a journalist, my mother pulled us aside and started crying and screaming that as long as we live "the white people" will never see us as one of them. My sister ended up studying human biology. I never really made that connection until now.

Society (at least in DC) has never made me feel different for being Asian and I never felt a strong societal pressure telling me that being gay was anything but ok. Ironically, gay society (which I have only recently been immersed in) has made me keenly, and at times painfully, aware of both. To be gay and Asian in DC is to be discriminated against. And this is obnoxious because gays bitch a big game about how they want to be treated as equals and cry to Lady Gaga about acceptance, but gay men are some of the most prejudiced people I've ever met.

In terms of a preference towards Asians, men typically fall into three categories. There are guys that just come out and say it. Per the essential question on OKCupid, "Would you strongly prefer to go out with someone of your own race?" they answer, "Yes" unabashedly or "No, not strongly..." They say things in person like "no offense, but I'm not into Asians." Even so, the honesty can be refreshingly efficient. At least I know not to bother. 

The second group of guys like to point out "I taught English in North Korea and I built village pumps in East Africa... I'm not racist." In light of their service, it's probably true that they aren't racist. But not being racist and being able to see [love] somebody beyond their race isn't quite the same. In the end, they are colorblind only in principle. In practice, they never go out with ethnic guys and usually fall for that tall, lanky white guy that makes clothes out of hemp and plays in a kickball league.

Lastly, there are the guys that actually are into Asians. But in typical gift/curse fashion with them it doesn't feel natural or organic. They don't see you as just another person that they happen to like and happens to be Asian. They like you because you are Asian. They want to speak to you in Chinese and discuss anime and K-pop. I don't even listen to K-pop. Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is K-pop? Does K stand for Korea?

I sometimes talk to white people about my racial qualms because it's interesting to get their perspective and, because I know it's there, I kind of just want to get them to admit they are the tiniest bit racist. They usually just laugh everything off and tell me that racism in 2012 is unfathomable. "Oh my god shut up, don't say that! You just need more confidence." I don't really know how to dignify a blatant attempt to sweep a legitimate issue under the rug but it's safe to say that white people don't want to discuss race issues because, for them, when nobody talks about it, it doesn't exist. 

I realize these are blanket statements about race that do not necessarily hold true in all cases. Maybe guys don't avoid me because of my race. Maybe it's because I talk too much about Mariah Carey and Desperate Housewives and the lingering racial issues of the 21st century. Maybe I do, in fact, lack confidence. Maybe, just maybe, I say "maybe" too much. I'm also aware that I'm presenting a very limited perspective: scorned Asian challenging the oppressive white man. There are plenty of other ways to look at this, like, why am I so obsessed with white people?

My roommate's parents recently came to visit from New Hampshire, where they've lived all their lives. Their curiosity about my "culture" was kind of endearing but it also spoke to a lack of exposure that is probably the culprit behind all of this unpleasantness. They asked me if I "liked being Asian in America." Not knowing how to answer that without bawling my eyes out and reciting a paragraph from The Joy Luck Club, I told them it's had its ups and downs. 

This is when his mother said, "How could it possibly be bad, you have all that incredible food." And then his father asked me why there isn't a word in Chinese for love.

But Really My Main Issue Is His Mouth

Remember when the Jonas Brothers came out and everyone thought they'd be as unsuccessful as The Mofatts but then they were actually kind of successful but then they faded back into Mofatt-level obscurity? That's the presidential campaign trajectory that I envision for Santorum. 

The first time I saw Santorum, he was last on the left in a long line of circus acts engaging in one of the early republican debates. I only recall two things about him. 1) He looked like my genetics TA, but considerably less confident. 2) His stage presence was so shrinking that he actually made Ron Paul not look like Estelle Getty for once. I wrote him off immediately, like I wrote off Adele when she guest starred on Ugly Betty or when Rihanna had a concert in the ghetto ass shopping mall in my hometown whose anchor stores include Marshalls, Wet Seal, and Ruby Tuesday.

Inexplicably, he's created a viable candidacy since then. Well, it's not completely inexplicable, given how weak the republican field is and the inherent stupidity of Americans. But seriously, do people not see his weird fucking mouth and his smarmy smile. He does this thing where he purses his lips and his chin disappears into his neck. I haven't seen something so disgusting and tight since I took that picture of my asshole with my iPhone. Just kidding, I've never done that and there is no evidence of it anywhere.

There are more substantial reasons why he belongs on a soapbox in a Power Ranger costume on the corner of the Chinatown Metro station instead of in the oval office. Most of it has to do with his religious zeal, which I feel like he thinks is really endearing and cute. But actually, it's like, not.

He touts his obsession with the "ideal" family/society/government like some cracked out whore trying to sell his utopian concept that exists under the freeway bridge. In reality, his ideal is just a rehashing of 1950s values repackaged with a doomsday ultimatum. He would have us all living in Pleasantville before Tobey and Reese show up. He's Kirsten bitch mother from Mona Lisa Smile.

Santorum has religious blinders on. He wants everything and everyone to be a certain way that would give him, (and the rest of the rich, white, catholic men in society) a sense of power and security. "Put women where they belong and gay people where we can't see them!" Don't let his damage-control backtracking on Fox News fool you, he wants women out of the army and into aprons. He wants black people to stop being so poor and gays to stop being so gross. But all of this conversation is baffling to me because who is the president to tell us how to live our lives? For somebody who so readily vilifies the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khoemeini, he sure is acting like him - even more offensive in a country where church are state are supposedly separate.

All his interviews have done nothing but allow him to flesh out the haughty contradictions in his platform. Like his unwillingness to acknowledge the needs of the poor, even though their tax dollars paid for his lobbyist salary. Like his argument that global warming is concoted by the government to get their hands in our lives, even when he wants a hand in every woman's uterus. Or his readiness to welcome every last baby that is conceived, which is tempered by a lack of  support for a stronger welfare system and universal healthcare for all the little miracles born to poor and neglectful parents. "Uh, it's a bit much," I imagine him saying, right before he flashes his trademark smile.

I Blame All This On Grindr

I don't actually have any groundbreaking new material to talk about but I'm trying to post more often and this is my last chance to squeeze one more January post in. So. 

The dating game is at a complete and utter stalemate. Even still, I can't pry myself away from playing, though I have much more pressing and productive things I could be doing like developing my biceps and studying for my federal tax exam.

Why do I even get into it if every last guy ends up a disappointment? 

Because the beginning is so sweet, when you exchange names and mutual interests. Because he tells you that you are adorable and that you should meet for coffee or drinks. Because it's so exciting to go to his apartment and watch TV in his bed with your socks still on. Because the first kiss is always electrifying to some extent, even if there's no chemistry there. Because if he doesn't call you the next day (or week), maybe he's just busy. Because when he tells you you're "adorable, but..." you can seek some solace in your cuteness. Because even though he's hurt you, you'll get over it soon enough. Ah, because the next one, surely he will be different. 

See, there are a lot of reasons.

My friend and I were on the phone today theorizing reasons why guys never seem to want to keep seeing me after the first or second date. The top three potential reasons were: I look better in pictures that I've meticulously doctored in Photoshop; I smell really, really bad; white guys will only ever respect Asians enough to treat them as casual things on the side that they can dump on a whim and not feel badly about at all.

This habit has become obsessive and it's clearly destructive to my psyche. But I feel like in some ways I've been too overstimulated (by my iPhone, obviously) so that my baseline level of excitement is impossibly high. I just want to feel something so I grasp desperately at anything that presents itself, whether I know inwardly that it's going to damage me or not. There's also a chance that I do this because I'm tired of being alone and feeling unwanted - and that last pesky bit of optimism hasn't been extinguished yet.

See, all old themes.

"I Like Having Too Many Friends"

I have a lot to say; I always do. I just feel so emotionally-exhausted that I dont know if I have the words in me these days. I'm also regular-exhausted. I have this free 3 [consecutive] day pass at the WSC but everytime I go there's a new receptionist who perpetually thinks it's my second day. I've gone 5 days in a row now. I can't feel my arms.

The picture of complete and utter loneliness that I paint around myself is not entirely true. My situation could be worse. I could be a black, lesbian Jew - I could be Aneesa from Real World Chicago. But I've done ok, working with what I've got, in the district of desperation and dismissiveness. I go on a steady stream of dates, (I'd say an average of 3 first dates a week). I went on three last Thursday alone. The problem is these dates almost always end with, "I'd be cool with messing around, but let's just be friends."

Now I don't know about YOU guys, but I don't give handjobs to my friends on the Metro. So my general reaction to these overtures is something biting like, "THIS IS NOT AMERICA'S NEXT TOP BEST FRIEND." It's insulting to be told you aren't qualified for the upper echelon of dateable guys; what about me isn't good enough for them? Since I'm dating exclusively white guys, it kinda puts me right back in San Francisco in the mid 1800s, "You're ugly. Go build me a railroad."

Somebody on OKCupid put it perfectly when he said gay guys no longer form relationships via their daily lives. Everyone's on an online website or on Grindr where the pool is seemingly limitless. They make split-second judgements without making the effort to observe any other personal qualities. In doing so, "the perfect guy" is potentially bypassed for a "total babe" who is a total nightmare. This guy is either a genius or as pathetic as I am. Perhaps both.

Ok, so let's say I get why people wouldn't necessarily want to be with me. The larger problem I'm wrestling with is its effect on me. Why does it matter? Why can't I be like the rest of these bumbling idiots, content with going on an endless string of first dates until Mr. Perfect falls right into my lap? How come I can't stick my toe into the pool without falling in and drowning?

The truth is, I notice problems with every guy I date too. Mr. Thursday was slightly effeminite, mildly arrogant, and a Republican. Mr. Friday was selfish, awkward, and had this really consicupous stain on his front tooth. Red head #1 was immature, transient, and looked like a dinosaur. Thor was Icelandic.

The difference between me and all the other men is that I search inwardly for ways I can make a relationship with an otherwise imperfect person, perfect. They, on the other hand, only look for reasons why it won't work and treat each one as a dealbreaker. Maybe it's only fed by desperation, but I feel for people, imperfections et al. White people only care about themselves - finding somebody to satisfy their needs. And so the real question becomes: is it worse to settle with somebody or grow old with nobody? 

I suppose the verbiage is still in me, I just have to dig a little deeper these days.

Reflections, Regrets, Resolutions

I've been thinking a lot about time lately. The holidays provide the perfect backdrop for my temporal affective disorder. The one, two, three combination of Christmas, New Years, and my birthday are relentless. They simultaneously remind me of how quickly the last year has passed and how slowly the time ahead of me seems to move. They emphasize how desperation can stretch for months onto a year and happiness can only last for a day, and in some cases, just a few seconds.

Christmas as a young adult is always letdown. The traditions I remember from my childhood have all been abandoned and family togetherness is contrived- merely an excuse for my parents to get me in a room with them and warn me against dating anything but an Asian girl. My sister somehow escaped this purgatory. It turns out San Francisco is just out of arm's reach. I should move there.

My parents and I went to Great Falls on the Potomac on Christmas day. Standing on the bridge above the gushing rapids, my father felt the need to unload some philosophical musings about how time is like water: it seems never ending but the water you see right now will be gone in a moment and you will never see it again. This was depressing. Then my mom made a comment about how if I ever abandon or disappoint her, she is going to jump into the falls headfirst. "How about if I jump instead," I bargained in my head.

New Years was less of a downer. I went to New York City this year; its frenetic pace and the masses of unfamiliar faces helped me forget about my "DC problems" for a few days. Also, I imagined myself as Michael Fassbender in Shame. That was fun. 

New Years Eve, at around 11pm, I text a guy that I'm seeing to wish him a happy New Year. He texts back, asking me what I'm up to. Turns out we are both in NYC, both in East Village. He doesn't want to meet up. The ball drops. And then I go home.

Birthdays are especially hard. I spend the entire year building up immense expectations that this is the one day out of the year that the people I care about will want to make me happy, that the universe will somehow allow everything to go my way, that I will feel loved. Not so. I worked all day, went to dinner with my mom (apparently after not receiving a text from this cute guy that wanted to buy me dinner- not sure if I believe him when he says this now), went home, watched Modern Family, went to bed. I don't even like Modern Family. The only thing more disappointing about the actual day is the fact that I have to wait a whole year to experience it again.

At the moment, I don't know how to feel about time. In some respects, it moves too quickly and I feel like every part of my life is out of control. In other respects, it moves too slowly and I feel like there's no passion, no excitement, nothing to live for.

In the new year, and my 23rd year of life, I've made the resolution to let go of everything behind me and strive to be a better, happier person. But aside from waking up earlier, eating less meat (interpret this however you want), and investing more in my 401k, I don't exactly have any fabulous ideas that will make me the cute, upbeat, loveable guy that I want to be. More importantly, I wonder if change really is easier to achieve now, when the "new year" concept is just an overblown celebration of the arbitrarily selected Julian calendar. WHAT DO THE ROMANS KNOW ABOUT MY LOVE LIFE? 

Maybe my dad was right. Perhaps true happiness exists only for a moment in time, and when that time passes, it's gone forever.

Can We Take Today Off the Calendar Please

It's been eight or so years since I began my "gay life," marked by the moment I realized that my adulthood would be different (read: difficult) and there was no way to deny or avoid it. I had one last girlfriend during my gay life. She wasn't really so much a girlfriend as she was an asexual beard. But we both got some sort of self-esteem boost out of our dysfunctional relationship and I hear she's doing quite well for herself now so I don't feel too bad about it in retrospect.

Despite my dutiful and supportive beard, I was miserable the first half of my gay life. I thought about what would happen if my parents and my friends found out. I worried about how I would hide my sexuality during college. I lay in bed most nights wondering, "Why me?"

My first gay relationship marked a turning point in my gay life. Today marks two years since. I remember driving home the night we started dating officially (though we were only ever official in our heads) thinking to myself, well I guess I'm pretty lucky after all.

Tralala.

In the time since my last post, I've been trying to move forward with gay life. More accurately, I've been trying to live regular life without suffering a nervous breakdown in a public place. For the most part, I've been successful, though I do tend to drag my feet and look down at the ground a lot like I'm Macy Gray in the music video for "I Try." Life is hectic, I don't know if that helps or hurts.

I still think about "it" a lot, though thinking about it at all is probably thinking about it too much. It's probably unreasonable to not care for four months and suddenly suffer a massive epiphany/stroke and start caring. A friend pointed out to me today that I tried, and he tried, and it didn't work out, so I should just let it go. She also suggested that what I really missed was intimacy and not him in particular. I hate people who are all, philosophical and insightful on Skype. I just want you to tell me my hair looks nice.

I wonder what it's like for him to love somebody new. I wonder if he thinks about me on occasion. I wonder how he can suddenly do without all the things he used to love about me. These thoughts are depressive though. For the moment, it seems like the best thing to do is to bottle up all my questions and doubts and fears inside of me in the hopes that one day I'll forget that they exist.

In truth, all of this posturing is hypocritical. I've been on a steady stream of dates since the summer. The fact that none of them has led to anything seems kind of like it's my own fault and it's certainly aligned with the kind of luck I've come to expect. 

I used to worry if being gay meant everyone in the entire world would hate me. Now I worry if it means nobody (other than my beards) will love me. And while I spent the first half of my gay life wondering, "Why me?" the second half of my gay life (this is assuming I don't make it through 2012) is mostly defined by the question, "Why not me?"

The Irony In My Life No Longer Impresses Me

I was feeling manic on Sunday night after Once Upon A Time and before Desperate Housewives so I googled "gay-friendly therapist, dc." Finding one that seemed to have a particularly sympathetic looking headshot, I sent an email urgently asking for a first consultation as soon as possible. She emailed me back the next day, "First consultations are $350." Miraculously, I felt better instantly.

It's downright prophetic that I wrote about TBA in my last post because 3 days later a friend texts me, "Do you know the new guy that TBA's dating?" I was, in fact, not aware that he was seeing somebody. This was one of those shoot-the-messenger moments. I resisted.

I suddenly felt like I was being kicked in the stomach and the back of the head, simultaneously. The guy he met right after me turned out to be somebody serious. Being the dramatic diva that I am, I sent the most awkward and ridiculous message I could have possible come up with, "Do you love him?" He said, "what?" and then a few minutes later,"yes."

I felt the kicking again. How could two people who were basically each others entire lives just move on? Well, I guess the real questions is, why did one move on and the other one didn't? It's tough to imagine all the things he used to do and say to me, he's now doing and saying to this new guy. I wonder if he makes him happier than I did and I suddenly feel this strange connection to Adele.

This question is more or less answered by the fact that TBA also came out this summer. He decided not to go to Princeton but to stay in the area for a job. I wonder if this is the work of the new guy too, getting him to do and feel things that I could not. Ultimately, I will go down in history as a footnote in TBA's little black book, the boyfriend that was always in the shadows and a little bit insane. This new one seems more real.

I was dropped, I see that now. And I also know now that anybody who says they will love you forever can wake up one day and decide that they don't anymore. Four months after the fact, I should care less than I do. Perhaps it seems like I'm only upset that he found love sooner than I did. But the truth is I'm upset because he found somebody to love and I think I'm still in love with him.

There are many more questions I would like answered. But although knowing may satisfy my curiosity, it will probably only make me feel more horribly inadequate and depressive. The best strategy here is to go back to what we were doing just a few days before, not talking to each. For me, it takes a conscious effort to not pick up my phone and tell him that I want nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms. For him, it's rather effortless. It doesn't seem to matter to him whether he contacts me or not, and when he does, he comes off surprisingly glib. Yesterday morning, out of the blue, he said to me "if you are looking for new music, the new florence + the machine album is fantastic." This might be the last thing he ever says to me and I'm always going to wonder if it was spam...

Compounded with the rest of my problems, I feel especially helpless - like I'm drowning and there is nothing for me to hold on to. People say, "just move on" like it's that utility bill sitting on my desk that I've been putting off. They say, "don't think about him" as if the new season of Top Chef, white Hyundais, Angry Birds, Fresca, Pop music, the very thought of college, and a million other things don't remind me instantly of what we were together.

I was on OKCupid tonight hoping to spark up a conversation with a rando internet freak that would somehow result in the love of my lie. I clicked on a profile that looked somewhat promising and there he was, standing in the background of this guy's profile pic. TBA was wearing a shirt we bought together, smiling.

How fucked up is that?