III

A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE

9

Taica Hsu      Chow Mein Kampf

While attending my predominantly white elementary school, I did my best to fit in by acting white—speaking English without an accent, having white friends, and wearing “normal” clothing. Even though I looked different from most of my classmates, I never felt different, at least in terms of race. I always had friends, and my academic ability was never attributed to my race.

My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Dali, gave us a quiz every week to test our knowledge of the times tables. Wayne, a white classmate, and I consistently finished first and second, making no errors. For some reason I became known as the “Human Calculator,” and Wayne was simply my competition.

“Wayne, how did you do on the eights?”

“I think I got most of them right. How about you?”

“Yeah, me too. It was a little harder than the sixes or the sevens.”

“Yeah, but we always finish first.”

While I enjoyed the title, I never thought it was due to my being Chinese, or that I was expected to be better at math because I was Asian. My affinity for numbers followed me throughout elementary school, earning me blue ribbons in various math competitions and a plaque for first place in Superstars, a monthly worksheet of challenging math problems that was given to all students.

In fifth grade, my teacher recognized my passion for mathematics and nominated me for the gifted students program. I skipped almost six hours of regular class per week to spend time with similar students, studying topics such as the rainforest and chaos theory. My teacher expected us to embrace new forms of learning and assessed our performance through skits, plays, simulations, and Toastmasters, a program that enhances public-speaking skills. We were also expected to keep up with regular coursework. Consequently, I developed a special identity—that of one who deserved to skip regular classes to fraternize with the elite. That identity was shattered on the very first day of gifted class.

The students around me were capable of handling metaphor, representation, and, above all, creativity. I was not. Or perhaps I was just too shy, too insecure to share a novel response with the class. Whatever the reason, I left the teacher unimpressed, frustrated, and skeptical about my special placement in the class. Failure was a hard pill to swallow, and it left me vulnerable. In an all-white class of gifted and talented students, my race became a salient factor for the first time in my life. Why can everyone else see the fishing hole when I can’t? Why can everyone else deliver a public speech confidently when I can’t? I searched for an explanation for my obvious differences from the rest of “the club.” Naturally, I blamed my race. After all, Asians were supposed to be good at math but also timid, shy, and less outgoing than their white counterparts. Although I was not as hyperaware of these stereotypes in fifth grade as I am now, I do remember feeling different because of my physical appearance and linking that difference with my failures in the gifted class. I allowed my own internalized racism to stunt my growth as an individual: instead of working hard to improve my speaking ability and my facility with words, I figured I would never be as good as others when it came to verbalizing my thoughts and chose instead to focus on my strengths.

What perhaps sets my experience apart from that of monoracial individuals is the fact that I questioned why I didn’t have the best of both worlds. If I am half white and half Asian, why shouldn’t I be good at math and creative and outgoing? Since we cannot pick and choose the genes we get from our parents, I figured my Asian side dominated my white side. I used this hypothesis to explain my physical attributes as well, since most people thought I looked more Asian than white. I despised this notion, perhaps even more than I rejected my timidity. People can’t tell by looking at you that you’re an introvert, but race is there for everyone to see.

Middle school proved to be slightly better, at least in terms of racial diversity. I continued in the gifted program, which was now a completely separate team, so all of the students who were sorted to the top traveled together. While I am not a proponent of tracking in schools, I must say the environment was extremely conducive to learning. As many more races were represented in the classroom, I began to broaden my definition of what it meant to be “gifted.”

Although I do not remember meeting other Asians, I did meet the first person my age that I knew was also biracial, half African American and half white. We started dating in seventh grade, perhaps more because of peer pressure than physical attraction. As I look back, I remember being enamored of the attention and the social status that accompanies dating an attractive and popular girl. Hidden beneath the surface, however, was the lingering fear that this wasn’t for me.

McKayla identified more strongly with her African American side and sometimes complained about her “light skin.” Most of her closest friends were full African American, but for some reason she had a thing for a half-Asian boy who was shorter than her and obviously less developed. During our three-month relationship, I felt puny and, quite frankly, emasculated. McKayla was much taller, had large breasts, and typically attracted jocks who were much taller and more masculine than me. At one point she even told one of my best friends—Jamison, a muscular jock who hung out with me in private, but never during school—that I didn’t have much pubic hair. Ironically, it was with Jamison that I shared my first homosexual experience. It shouldn’t be surprising, then, that when I found out a year later that Jamison and McKayla were dating, I was more envious of McKayla than of Jamison.

Recently, through Facebook, I reconnected with McKayla and discovered that she too has had homosexual relationships. Although she identifies as bisexual, I find it intriguing that our union was not the match either of us really wanted. We laughed and joked that if middle-schoolers were more accepting of same-sex relationships, perhaps both of us would have come out earlier.

Jamison came over almost every weekend for sleepovers. One night, he initiated a conversation about a long pillow he found in my room.

“What do you use this for?”

“Sometimes I sleep with it at night,” I replied.

“I have an idea. Let’s put it between us and pretend we are each other’s girlfriend,” Jamison suggested.

I was excited and petrified at the same time. Does he want to have sex? What if my parents hear us? Does he want to be my boyfriend? I’d better lock the door.

Jamison and I dry-humped the pillow for thirty minutes, continuously moaning our girlfriends’ names. McKayla. Katie. McKayla. Katie. The interactions intensified with future sleepovers until there was no longer a need for the cotton barrier.

“Do you want to do the pillow thing?” Jamison asked.

“Sure,” I replied, already with a slight erection.

That night I performed oral sex on him and I remember thinking, “Does this mean I’m gay?”

And so I added one more item to the “being half Asian” list: slow sexual and physical development (but not homosexuality). It was becoming clear that my racial background was more a curse than a blessing. Jamison was white, and also taller, stronger, more attractive, and better equipped (so to speak) than me. He represented the standard of male beauty and behavior, even though he engaged in sexual activity with other males behind the scenes. Jamison also could easily cover his homosexual tendencies—or “curiosities,” as he liked to say—since he acted and talked like a typical male. I, by contrast, had a higher voice, a smaller body, and the stereotypical mannerisms that society attributes to gay men. These characteristics were beginning to manifest themselves more and more as the middle school years passed by, and more and more people began to notice. Therefore, my Asian side not only stunted my development but also prevented me from hiding my true sexuality for a longer period of time.

In retrospect, I believe that Jamison and I interpreted our activities behind closed doors in different ways. Although I eagerly anticipated his embrace, I felt that he used our escapades simply for sexual pleasure. After he got off, he was done. I always wanted more—affection, attention, time to cuddle. He wanted to sleep. I doubt that Jamison cried for hours like me after we missed the chance to say good-bye before I moved to California. I doubt that he desperately searched for my lingering scent when he returned home. I doubt that he waited by the phone every weekend in anticipation of the next sleepover. Jamison was my first love; I was his “experiment.”

Years later, during the summer of my sophomore year in high school, Jamison admitted that he frequently participated in threesomes with both girls and guys. Was he gay too? I pondered this for years. To this day, I have no idea where Jamison stands in terms of his sexuality. My best guess is that he plays the part of a heterosexual white male quite well and sleeps with men on the side. I must admit, I used to covet his chameleon-like identity—what Kenji Yoshino, a gay, half-Japanese Yale law professor, aptly calls “covering.” As always, I blamed my Asian genes for my inability to float through society unnoticed: that small, femme Asian boy must be gay. Why can’t I be Jamison? Why can’t I just sleep with other men? Thankfully, although I was tortured by such thoughts as a teen, today I wear the pink triangle with pride as an ambassador of the gay community.

My family decided to move to California when I was fourteen years old, the summer after I graduated from eighth grade. After shoving the last box into the back of my mom’s black Bronco, I sat in the passenger seat with tears in my eyes. My mom and I waved good-bye to my sister and my dad as I left my childhood in the dust. Jamison was supposed to visit me the night before, but he failed to show, which intensified my depression. I cried for hours in my closet, a prisoner of my own sexuality.

Our move to California was not optional. Five years earlier, my father had secretly started gambling large amounts of money at a nearby racetrack. After discovering a racing receipt in his back pocket, my mom hired a private detective to monitor his behavior. But it was too late. My father had already tapped into our family savings, lost it all, taken out a second mortgage, and, to top it off, refused to collect money from his lucrative construction jobs. With debt accruing and nearly no income, my mom and I were forced to move in with my great-grandmother, who lived three thousand miles away.

My mom had her own way of describing my father’s financial irresponsibility: “If I were standing outside in the freezing cold and one of your father’s friends was also outside, your father would give his jacket to his friend.” I once thought that the crude metaphor meant my father did not love my mom. I realized years later that what she meant was that my father has a lot of pride and, knowing that his family would always love him, needed to appear strong and generous to those on the outside—friends, employers, business partners—at the expense of his family. My mom attributed this to my father’s Chinese heritage, claiming that gambling was rampant in Asian communities. I, however, question whether this was the cause: my father could have been from any racial background and still have developed a gambling addiction. What I view as the most characteristically Asian of my father’s actions throughout this scandal was his complete lack of emotion, which is precisely what I blamed for my failure in the gifted class. He never expressed sorrow or remorse for his actions and appeared entirely unaffected by our forced move to California. I must have inherited my father’s indifferent attitude toward life’s obstacles, which would explain my decision to focus on my strengths (mathematics and logical reasoning) and to abandon my weaknesses (language arts and public speaking).

I knew my dad was wrong, but even to this day I have never heard the slightest admission of guilt, or even a simple “I’m sorry.” Thus, the tension between our family cultures intensified even further. My white mom wore her emotions on her sleeve and explained, with considerable remorse, the events that necessitated uprooting our life. My Chinese dad never said a word about the situation, at least to me. He said he would stay in Florida, take care of things, and meet us in California. Simple. It shouldn’t be surprising, then, that he was the only one with dry eyes when our family split.

Watching my parents deal with their emotions in such different ways made being white more attractive to me. I did not enjoy suppressing my emotions, particularly those related to my secret sexual identity. Yet I felt confined by my Chinese dad’s approach to emotion: keep it in, don’t talk about it, hide it. Why couldn’t I be more like my white mom and share my true feelings? If both my parents were white, would coming out have been easier, less taboo? I suppose gender roles added another layer of confusion to an already complex situation. Society characterizes men as emotionless and rational, women as irrationally emotional. Therefore, I question whether my dad adheres more strongly to the male or the Asian stereotype. Both identities certainly contribute to his inability to accept my identity as a gay, biracial male. Lest I shame my father even more, I relegated my emotions to the confines of the same closet that had, until high school, successfully concealed my sexuality.

Attending a new high school in a different state exacerbated the biracial duality that first reared its ugly head in the academic arena. As I traveled from class to class, I wove in and out of older students who towered over me. Once again I felt puny, underdeveloped, and, this time, insignificant. The other Asian students I passed stood at eye level, which prompted me to identify more strongly with my Asian side, at least in terms of physical attributes. My behavior in the classroom could also be characterized as stereotypically Asian: I listened intently to the teacher, never said anything unsolicited, and consistently completed all of my schoolwork. The identity conflict emerged when I went home to my white mom and great-grandmother. Both of them have blond hair and blue-green eyes, and my dark brown hair and milk chocolate eyes occasionally produced the suspicion that I was adopted. To complicate matters further, we lived in California for two years without my father, the only real connection I ever had to my Asian heritage. As a result, the layers of white got thicker and thicker.

My father’s absence and his life-changing financial blunders, coupled with my dependency on my white family members, eventually severed my will to self-identify as Asian. The choice, however, was not conscious; I only began to acknowledge my self-loathing behaviors after almost two years of college. I took every opportunity in high school to correct people: “No, I’m not Asian. I’m half Asian.” On surveys and standardized tests, I checked “white” if no “biracial” option was available. When I spent time with my Asian friends, I found solace in the fact that I looked different and reasoned that since I was half white, the traditional standard of beauty, I was more attractive. As a twisted consequence, I started to surround myself with more and more Asian friends, most of them female. It was easy to do, since my Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes were predominantly white and Asian. Whenever I hung out with Asians, I would reject their Asian features and think (to myself, of course) that I could never be attracted to an Asian person. My early dating habits would reflect this belief.

The layers of being gay and white grew thicker when I joined the swim team my sophomore year. Swimming is not the most masculine sport, but with the tight Speedos and fit male bodies, I could live out my fantasies under the guise of athleticism and boosting my résumé for college applications. While changing and showering, I had to conceal my ever-growing attraction for Brandyn, a teammate who was a year older. Brandyn, who identified as black, was much taller and better endowed than me (this was becoming a pattern, much to my disappointment). We became close friends very quickly, which became evident to those around us, and they questioned our sexuality: “Are you and Brandyn boyfriends? You hang out all the time.” Although we repeatedly denied it, I secretly wanted a boyfriend and dreamed that Brandyn would be my first.

One night, in the middle of one of our many phone conversations, I decided to reveal one of my darkest secrets for the first time.

“So, I’ve done stuff with guys before. My friend and I had sleepovers and we used to play around.”

“Really? Me too,” Brandyn replied calmly, with a hint of surprise and excitement in his voice.

“Cool. With who?” I inquired, now with a slight erection.

“One of my best friends in middle school.”

“That’s pretty much when Jamison and I started out. We fooled around but never had real sex,” which to me at that time meant anal intercourse.

It felt so good to get that off my chest, especially with someone who shared a similar experience. Unfortunately, I still needed to defend my sexuality.

“I still like girls, but it was fun to fool around with a guy.”

“Yeah, same here,” Brandyn agreed.

“Have you ever had real sex with a guy?”

“Nope. Never. It could be fun, though.”

As this point my erection was rock hard, and somehow I knew that Brandyn would be my first. I was scared, though. Did this mean I was really gay? What if I still got turned on by girls? Whenever I masturbated, I always thought about boys; the same was true of porn. It seemed that the more “gay” things I did, the closer I got to actually being gay. This was not what either of my parents had planned, especially my father, who I knew desperately wanted me to raise a son of my own. He reminded me of this fact when he reentered my life toward the end of my sophomore year to open a Chinese restaurant less than a mile from where we lived. It was a full house—me, my mom, my father, and my great-grandma packed into a tiny one-bedroom. My desperate need for privacy would soon reveal my darkest secret.

Brandyn and I hung out at his place two days after the memorable phone call. We were alone, sitting on his bed and contemplating whether or not we should go into the closet and fool around. Funny that we were already “in the closet” and yet felt the need to go into a real one to act on our sexual desires. After ten minutes of flirtatious debate, we entered the closet in his bedroom, and thus began my relationship with my first true boyfriend.

Brandyn and I continued to fool around into my junior year of high school. We took advantage of our parents’ work schedules and alternated houses so as not to arouse suspicion. One day after school I invited Brandyn to my house, anticipating that my parents would not be home until 10:00 p.m., after the Chinese restaurant closed. This would give us plenty of time to mess around and get rid of any evidence—lube, condoms, rumpled sheets. After having sex in my bed, we fell asleep in each other’s arms. Although I remember hearing the outer metal door open and a key being inserted into the inner door, I was still half asleep and too unconscious to react. Brandyn and I opened our eyes and saw my father staring at us from no more than fifteen feet away.

“Get out of my house!” he yelled, pointing to the door.

Before I had time to say anything, Brandyn slipped past my father and out the door. My father left shortly thereafter without acknowledging me at all, and we would never speak of what he had seen until my sophomore year of college, more than three years later. I remember being less worried about my father’s reaction than about Brandyn’s well-being. Since this was before the viral presence of cell phones, I did the only thing I could do: I drove to Brandyn’s house, hoping that I would find him walking home. Sure enough, I saw him walking along a busy street, made a U-turn, and picked him up. On the way to his house, we discussed how frightened we were and whether or not this meant we would have to end our relationship. Although we assured each other that it would not, social pressures would eventually bring my first gay relationship to an end.

Brandyn and I spent less and less time together, even though we continued to have sex until my sophomore year of college. We agreed to stop dating because of the enormous pressure we felt from living at home and being in the closet. As despicable as it sounds, I became embarrassed and uncomfortable around Brandyn during my junior year and his final year of high school. I would avoid him during lunch and engage in only limited conversation during swim practice. Although part of me missed him during my senior year, I was relieved to know that the only other classmate who knew I was gay no longer attended my school. In an effort to suppress my homosexuality even more, I fabricated a crush on a Korean girl who was part of my cohort of friends. I knew I was lying to her, myself, and Brandyn, but this was the only way I knew to get rid of being gay.

Melisa and I were friends throughout high school and shared many of the same friends. She was full Korean, and the differences between us in terms of Asian influence were obvious. Melisa spoke Korean at home with both of her parents and her brother, and they ate traditional Korean food almost every night. She also attended a church with a congregation that was almost entirely Asian. Socially, Melisa was held to stricter rules, especially when it came to dating. Although her parents never knew we were romantically involved, Melisa warned that they would be devastated and disapproving if they found out, because I was not Korean. Her father was apparently very traditional when it came to dating and marriage and refused to acknowledge any suitor who was not Korean.

Getting insights into Melisa’s full-Asian life reaffirmed the benefits of being only half Asian. My parents never mandated racial parameters for my partners, although it was assumed that I would date and marry a woman. I could negotiate my curfew and never had to speak in anything but English. Lastly—and this is something for which I still feel guilty—I had only one parent whose accent caused me embarrassment and, to some extent, shame. Melisa’s parents both had heavy accents and spoke limited English in my presence. Although I never broached the subject with her, I always wondered if she shared my sense of humiliation when introducing her parents to native English speakers. I took comfort in the fact that my white mother participated more frequently than my father in school functions and was often the first of my parents to meet my friends.

Melisa and I dated during the last few months of my senior year of high school and into the summer, right before I left for college. A bunch of my friends, all of whom were white, Asian, or a combination of the two, slept over the night before I left for college. We drove to the airport in a caravan of three vehicles, crying the entire way while listening to a CD of our favorite songs. Before ascending the escalator past the airport checkpoint, I hugged each of my friends, shielding the depth of my sadness behind my dark sunglasses—a technique I probably picked up from my father. Melisa was last, and as she gingerly lifted the sunglasses from my eyes, she sighed, “You can’t hide your true feelings from me.” We kissed, and she sent me off with a ten-page handwritten letter about how our love would never end and how we would remain close, despite the three thousand miles between Los Angeles and my college in New England. The irony was that I cried more for Shawn, my half-Thai, half-white friend, with whom I had shared another scintillating homosexual experience that summer.

During high school, when I had noticed I was mostly in the company of Asians, I also became hyperaware of the number of boys and girls in our group of friends. I was always more satisfied when the boys outnumbered the girls; more testosterone, of course, helped to confirm my heterosexuality. Shawn, who was the only boy at my eighteenth birthday party, asked me, “What other boys do you hang out with?” I could tell that he was anxious about the idea that he was my closest guy friend, especially with rumors circulating that I was gay. Perhaps he could also tell that I had a huge crush on him.

Shawn and I became friends in the middle of our junior year of high school. I secretly wanted Shawn during the entire time that I dated Melisa, which led to my infidelity the summer before I left for college. Shawn’s family invited me on a month-long trip to Germany, which would have been financially impossible if they had not offered to pay for everything except the plane ticket. Shawn’s wealth attracted me, particularly because my family had struggled financially. My grandparents surprised me with a plane ticket as a graduation gift, and with that I was off on my next gay adventure. I remember feeling torn about the fact that Shawn was Asian. For so long I had rejected Asian characteristics, and now I was lusting after someone with those very features. Shawn, however, was tall and only half Asian, which I convinced myself attracted me more than a full Asian would. He also was one of the few guys with whom I was close.

During the trip we stayed at the home of Shawn’s relatives. For the first few nights Shawn and I slept apart, but eventually we started sharing a bed. Every night before we fell asleep, I would gradually inch closer and closer to Shawn’s side of the bed—first my hand, then my foot, then my entire leg. After a few days I took a chance. One night, when I thought Shawn was asleep, I ran my fingers across his face and over his lips. No response. I did it again. No response. I continued caressing his face until he finally said, “What are you doing?”

“Does it feel good?” I responded gently.

“Yeah, kinda. But it’s kinda weird.”

“Let me know when you want me to stop,” I suggested coyly.

Shawn said nothing else and we fell asleep, our bodies touching.

Although Shawn ejaculated twice by my hand that summer, there was absolutely no reciprocation, and he maintained that he was straight. Regardless of his sexual orientation, I knew that I was succumbing to my sexual desires and enjoying it. I no longer talk to Shawn, but I’ve caught myself wondering on occasion if he too struggled with a gay, half-Asian identity.

I traveled to college with my father, the parent who knew the least about me and the least about American culture. Since I was attending an Ivy League school, my father thought I would have to wear a suit to every lecture. (Any student who has worn sweatpants to class knows this is certainly not the case.) We discussed our competing views about and expectations for college while we shopped for the typical items—bathroom supplies, clothes, and gear for my upcoming freshman canoeing trip—and the not-so-typical items that my father insisted we purchase: a rice cooker, yellow medicine, dried squid, and a bamboo plant for good luck. Although I protested briefly, it was these very items that made me feel the most at home while acclimating to college life.

My dad and I met my first classmate in the elevator of the Hanover Inn. Naomi, who was African American, was traveling with both of her parents, who were dressed very formally and spoke English without an accent. The fact that all three were significantly taller than my dad and me exacerbated the differences I perceived in our socioeconomic status: Naomi’s parents appeared well educated, while neither of my parents had graduated from college; both of Naomi’s parents accompanied her to college, while my mom stayed at home because of financial constraints. I exited the elevator wondering how I would fit in as a biracial gay student from a less affluent background. There had to be others like me, right?

The next student my father and I encountered was my freshman roommate, Damien, a white boy from upstate New York. He too had traveled with both his parents, who also were nicely dressed and appeared well educated. After most of the parents left, my roommate and I quickly became friends with another set of roommates on the same floor, Wanda and Paige, who were both Asian. We ate meals together, studied in the common room, attended frat parties, and even went on road trips, all before the spring of our freshman year. Although we were close, I was still hiding the biggest part of my identity.

One night in the spring, when the snow had already melted, I walked into Wanda’s room wearing a T-shirt and mesh shorts and lay down next to her in bed. This was typical of our relationship, and there was never any sexual tension—obviously. Lying next to Wanda was comfortable, and by that time I considered her my best friend at college. Eventually she would become my best straight friend. After about fifteen minutes of cuddling, I initiated the most important conversation of my life, which lasted less than sixty seconds.

“Wanda, what do you think of bisexual people?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s weird . . . or wrong?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay. I think I’m bisexual.”

“Okay.”

At the time I think I anticipated a more dramatic reaction, for better or worse: “Oh my God, no way!” “Really? That’s great!” “Kiss me and prove it.” Regardless of what I thought would happen, Wanda’s reaction was perfect for me at that moment in my coming-out story. She didn’t change her tone of voice, she didn’t distance herself from me on the bed, she didn’t judge, and, best of all, our relationship only grew stronger. Wanda gave me the confirmation I needed that being gay was okay. Her choice of words sent that very message.

I returned home the summer after my freshmen year and saw old friends, including Brandyn and Melisa. I came out to a group of ten friends at the same time and used the story about Shawn and Brandyn to make the process a little more comforting. Once again, my friends were overwhelmingly supportive and, to be honest, not surprised. I confided in them that telling my parents would be far more difficult. A few of my Asian friends even posited that my dad would be the hardest to tell. It turned out they were right.

I came out to my parents over winter break during my first year at college. One night I told my dad I was going to hang out with Brandyn, to which he retorted, “He’s weird. I don’t want you to see him.” In the back of my mind I knew he could not escape the image of me and Brandyn in bed together. It tore him up inside, but he did not have the courage or the words to express how he truly felt. So I did it for him.

“You know what, Dad, I’m gay!”

“No, you’re not!”

My mom walked in from her room. “What did you say?” she inquired, half asleep.

“I’m gay. And Dad doesn’t want me to see Brandyn, but I’m going anyway.”

My parents walked out to the backyard in silence, and I could hear their subsequent conversation.

“How could you let him be like this?” my father said, jabbing at my mom.

“I had no idea, Stan.”

“He’s not gay. I’ll take him to a strip club and prove it.”

For the next three years, my father’s parting words every time I left for college were not “I love you” but “Make the right decisions.” I knew exactly what he was referring to, but the word “gay” never came out of his mouth after that historic night. Eventually he stopped asking about my love life, and he stills lives in complete denial about my identity. My mom, by contrast, is extremely supportive. Throughout my college years, she would call and tell me about the latest LGBTQ drama she watched on Lifetime, meanwhile crying over the phone. My mom and my sister are the only family members who have met any of my significant others. My Chinese family still thinks I will get married to a beautiful girl and, they hope, have a boy to continue my father’s bloodline.

I graduated from college with a newfound sense of self, a respect for my own sexuality, and a burgeoning desire to make the world a safer place for LGBTQ youth. For the first time in my life, I made gay friends with whom I was open, comfortable, and real, and for the first time, the world saw the real me.

I currently teach high school math in San Francisco. Although I was hesitant to come out to my students during my first year of teaching, I have since become the adviser to the Gay-Straight Alliance, and I now come out to all my classes every year. While I forget exactly what it felt like to be in the closet, I can certainly empathize with students who fear being “outed.” My goal is to make school a safe space for students to reveal their identities without any repercussions. Who knew that the scrawny, half-Asian boy who dated girls would become a gay advocate?

I still struggle with the perception of my race in the gay male community and my own attraction to full-Asian gay men. Homophobia certainly exists within LGBTQ spaces and manifests itself in gay men as the desire to date only “masculine men.” Asian men are stereotyped as having more feminine characteristics, and thus we often feel emasculated—exactly how I felt next to McKayla—and viewed as less desirable by some gay men. As a result, I have become hypersensitive to the reasons why gay men are or are not attracted to me: Do they like me because I am exotic (half Asian)? Do they not like me because I look too Asian? How do I cover my more effeminate (read: Asian) characteristics and features? I am still haunted by my childhood desire to look more white and to differentiate myself from my full-Asian counterparts. I hope to overcome these hurdles in time and fully accept my mixed racial background. Then, and only then, will my gay identity and racial identity truly exist in harmony.

After graduating from Dartmouth, Taica received his Master’s from Stanford University and currently teaches in a high school in San Francisco. As faculty adviser to the Gay-Straight Alliance, he works to create a safe space for all LGBTQ youth and their allies. Taica is an advocate for social justice in schools. He dresses in drag to combat homophobia and heteronormativity while educating youth about the differences between gender and sexual orientation.