It is Pride week in Calgary (I know, just as most LGBTQ+ rights and human rights in Alberta and Calgary, Pride comes a lot later for us). As I look back and reflect on my life, something stood out to me. Something that I didn’t quite understand back then. I wanted to share this with you. Because if you are a member of the community (especially if you are a trans member of the community in this moment in time), I am sorry that it seems hard, almost impossible right now, but it does and will get better. For the straights, if you are around my age, I suspect that you are parents by now, I would like you to read this and consider this, and if your child ever comes out to you, look at this as another tiny story in the vast oceans of stories out there of how, when queer people are accepted and loved for who they are, they will flourish. Let them live. Let them flourish. Love them (and if you really, really can’t, just shut the fuck up and stay out of the way)
20 years ago, I took a community drawing class at night at UPenn (because I have loved the arts my whole life and have only been self-taught, I wanted to have some structured instruction). For my final project, this was what I drew. The piece is titled “The Invisible Man”. It’s a self-portrait of an invisible man. His portrait, as he sees himself, looks sad and crooked. He has a T-shirt and a ball cap on (I used to have an army crew cut haircut to save money).
I was, as someone would describe it, a happy-go-lucky child. I talked too much, too loudly, and I was curious about everything. I genuinely thought I was good at everything (I know. I was, as the kids call it, “cringe”). In communist Vietnam, I was constantly told to maybe turn it down a notch. In industrial Singapore, where everything is about that A+ in University, about that “best” category, it gets even worse. The compulsory Army service makes Singaporean men even more “macho”. “That’s gay” is a common insult. So for those next few years of my life, I went through life as an invisible man. I dressed myself the way that our Asian culture and society accepted. I had girlfriends (and even though I truly loved and cherished these women, I felt sad and inadequate for them). I was reserved at Penn. I was not telling my employer what I was really good at. Even to some of my really, really close friends, whenever I approach the subject, they would say, “Nah, you are not gay. You don’t look/act gay”. I don’t blame them, because in the media, on TV, everywhere you go, queers are just stereotypical effeminate, asexual, harmless jokes, and not real people with real-life struggles.
I know, it is hard to imagine it now.
Below is a picture taken in Malibu in January 2010. I still had a horrible haircut. My teeth were extremely crooked. But look at this smile. I would say this was one of those first few times in my adult life that I actually felt … lighter. It was one of the first few times in my adult life that I felt “cute”, and “alive”, and unburdened, like a future is possible and a future that doesn’t have to be a horrific image of lies and deceits. It wasn’t because I was on the beach of Malibu, or because I was working at a tech startup, or because I was starting to have a career that provided me with a brighter future for my family. This was a picture that was taken by my first boyfriend.
That was a tumultuous relationship. When you’re 24-25, navigating a queer relationship for the first time in your life, with someone in their 40s, who has been out for a long time, and navigating a very different stage of their life, it was not easy. We were incompatible in a lot of ways, forcing our incomprehensible cultural and aspirational differences to fit together by the sheer force of emotions. However, I am forever grateful for him. He was kind and patient, and he waited for me to come into myself. When we both realized and decided that the version of me was not what he wanted to be with in his life, we parted ways. But this smile remains. This feeling of weightlessness and of hope remained. I am telling you this story because, dear reader, I want you to know that all of my problems weren’t solved because I found a man (Men never solved any problems. Codependency on others never solved any problems.) In fact, I found a much better man for me AFTER I went to therapy, sought to untangle my trauma, and solved my problems.
I won’t bore you with my life story. I wrote a book about it. If you want to read more, let me know, I will gift you one.
Fast forward to now, I am forty. I am Canadian. I wear whatever the fuck loud color things I want. I travel the world. I am a VP of a tech company of 300 people. I am married to a man my age. I have better haircuts, and I had adult braces for my teeth. I’m not afraid to be darker-skinned due to my tan.
I still talk too much, too loudly, and I am still curious about everything. I still make people laugh. I know what specific things I am good at. I make meaningful, close-knit circles of friends and people I choose to share energy and time with. Some 25-year-olds have called me Zaddy.
Of course, this is a very simplified, very linear version of my story. Life is complex. It was and is still full of ups and downs. Sometimes, I get into this thought pattern of self-pity, “If I were straight”, “If I were born Canadian”, “If my parents were rich”, etc. While true, they are not helpful. I wanted to focus on the amazing things and the amazing people that have happened to me. As a takeaway for this piece, dear readers, I’d like to take you back to the beginning
When queer people are accepted and loved for who they are, they will flourish. Let them live. Let them flourish. Love them (and if you really, really can’t, just shut the fuck up and stay out of the way)
Pace Fine Arts 