(No, not the Fall, as in autumn the season, the Fall of Democracy) 

As I was walking to the office this morning, I saw the sculpture of the Indigenous Chief on 7th Ave. This is one of the very first photos I took on my very first snow day in Calgary. It’s been 10 years. And while I’m feeling nostalgic on a beautiful brisk fall morning, I couldn’t help but feel this city, this place, is rejecting me like cancer.

For those of you who don’t know (Well, most of you, since Canadian politics is a lot quieter and a lot less insane compared to the things that are going on around the world), yesterday, a small group of citizens (around 60,000 conservatives) elected the next Premier of the province, someone who is a known Trump fan, against the vaccine, and campaigned upon the ideology of everything against the federation and federal. In her lengthy 20 minutes victory speech, in the barrage of attacks on progressive parties and politicians, vaccines, education, and healthcare, no mention of LGBTQ and other human rights (aside from the call to be compassionate to seniors). It is deliberate. We all know the “grassroots” conservatives that support her hate people like us, and by not bringing this up, she hopes to have the cake and eat it too. Federally, we have a Conservative leader that flirts with the alt-right, white supremacist, and veiled length video of “Make Canada great again” in the form of woods. 

A lot of my Canadian friends have tried to calm me – dismiss my concerns as overblown and overt anxiety. “We’re not that bad” – they said. “Canada is still a lot more moderate than in the US” – they said. I wonder if anyone has experienced this feeling of “others”, this feeling of “you are welcome here because you are who you are and we like you and your talents and your tax dollars, but your people we don’t want”. During the height of the pandemic, articles about Chinese immigrants in BC (and even ON). Articles about the “replacement” theory gain mainstream recognition. The ongoing attack on the trans community, even from the leader of a major party in Canada. You are welcome here in Alberta until you are a visible “other”; until you stop being the courted vote, the successful able body cis person. 

I remembered vividly 10-11 years ago, having a conversation with my friend from Singapore, a gay immigrant, discussing leaving or staying in Singapore. You may not know this, but Singapore has one of the most anti-LGBTQ laws and a hostile environment for developed countries. The country is beautiful, wealthy, safe, etc. but teachers do get fired for being gay, gay marriage is NEVER going to be a possibility, and when I left gay sex is still a criminal offense. Anyhow, my friend said, “If you love a place, you don’t leave, you stay and make it better. You stay and you changed it”. 

I did stay in Vietnam. I went back to Vietnam. I tried to make a difference from a position of strength and power. And all I had was rejection and heartache. And I left in heartache. 

People often mistake me for being resilient, adaptive, and being able to make huge fundamental changes. They don’t know that I’m the one who leaves. Sometimes, winners win by quitting toxic environments and situations that are no longer beneficial and nurturing for them. 

I guess, now, we will have to see, if I have enough courage and if I love this place enough to stay, and change it, and make it better.

The upside of having a honeymoon three years after the wedding, and eight years after meeting a person, is that you get to discover and get to know them all over again. “I know what I signed up for.” And when we are both a lot older (but only a little bit less cute), it can be, well, romantic. 

France, to its credit, is an epicenter of culture, the arts, religious buildings, and religious arts. To say I didn’t enjoy it is a lie. The paintings, the cathedrals, the architecture, the sculptures, everywhere you look, there is a stunning piece of art and religion displayed in plain sight. It’s magnificent, really. 

So it should come as no surprise that we were in a church at least once a day. I felt like we went to more churches than we have in the whole year. 

I have a complicated relationship with Christianity and Jesus. I mean, I do appreciate the point in time and the richness of history and culture Christianity brought to Europe, and humanity in general. I do believe in the story of Jesus and his leadership and sacrifices for these people. Yet, as a person, Christianity (and its followers) have rarely been kind to me and people like me. And as I wander about another grand palace for the Pope or the grand cathedral of another epic scale, I couldn’t help but wonder, what blood of the colonized, blood of the Indigenous, and the blood of the peasants who built these grand palaces and places have spilled in the name of faith? With the rise of Christo-fascism in North America and the continued oppression of LGBTQ people in Singapore, it is hard to fully appreciate all this grandeur. “I wonder how often people in Europe think about this kind of thing?” – Dan pondered. To which I respond “It’s funny how the oppressors rarely have to think about their history, isn’t it?”. As the sunlight lit up another stained glass window, refracting the most stunning display on the stoned arches and walls, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Are you there God? Do you see what we have done in your name? Did Jesus die for our sins so Republicans can own guns and regulates others’ choices to health care, to immigration, and to marriage”. Yes, you can argue I’m too ‘woke’ to be pondering these things while visiting just another church, but isn’t it what “faith” is, to invoke deeper questions about life and humanity, not just another building?

Speaking of “woke”, I think I started looking at the arts now differently than a decade ago. Fun fact: I took an Arts history course in Singapore years ago, so I generally know what the period is, who these painters are, and their general styles and aesthetics. And man, they are beautiful. They are a signifier of time, and history, and religion, and world views that are unique and stunning. I would argue that not very many contemporary arts these recent years have invoked similar responses (“You can’t just put a giant lollipop in the middle of a museum and call it “arts” and commentary on the current society”). However, as I walked through hours and hours of museums after museums, I kept pointing out to Dan the skewed worldview of the arts. “Oh, look, another young woman who is so busy that she went to work with half her boobs hanging out! Oh, look, a beautiful woman who takes a nap in the middle of a park in the nudes while all the clothed men stare at her. Oh, wow, white Jesus”. Also, how many times and variations do we need to depict Jesus being tortured. Maybe that’s why I have always loved landscapes and architecture paintings of the past. And yes, that is reading too much into these works, but, isn’t it just like faith, arts are meant to trigger deeply subjective, deeply personal responses?

So yes, Paris and France live up to their reputation when it comes to the stunning Art and Religion scene. I’m just no longer sure if Art and Religion is my scene anymore. I’m not sure if I am ever refined enough, or religious enough, to live here (thank God I don’t live in France.)

My church is my people and my art is my voice. I guess my people are just not Christian, and my art is not that of men who view the world as serving their own narrow-minded desires.

Dan’s friend once belovedly called him the “Cultural Slave Driver”. And so while we were planning for the trip, we decided that we would go to the 3 castles nearest to Paris (and by “near”, it’s like an hour train each way. and he insisted “there are 10-13 of them. these are very close). 

So I put away my thoughts about cute berets and fancy cafes and hot French men, and hop on a train to see kings and queens and their lavish life from centuries past. To be fair, these castles are stunning. They are large labyrinths with thousands of rooms with decorative patterns and objects. Walls and ceilings are filled with paintings and sculptures. Everywhere you look, it’s a piece of history and a moment in time of these people, these “leaders” of the past.

The garden was stunning. It’s miles and miles of well-groomed trees and plants, flower beds and fountains, more sculptures, and even more stunning architectural designs. Everywhere you look, there’s a mythology, a story, an extravaganza celebration of culture and arts. Yet, I couldn’t shake this nagging feeling, all that is encompassed in 1 word “guillotine”. I know I’m strange. Also, as a person who grew up in communism and has been personally impacted by it, I’m weirdly aligned with the peasants and the poor instead of the kings and queens. These castles are not even regular residents. They are hunting estates. They are hideaway places so these so-called leaders can hide away from the people they “govern”. Which is both despicable and cowardly. And as I see one more intricate clock and one more fancy gold carved vase, I keep having this nagging feeling that “fate” and “destiny” and even “God-given right to govern” are just excuses from the rich and the powerful to rule over the less fortunate. This is just the French people. Don’t get me started on the colonialism bs. 

Of course, Dan made a very compelling point that everywhere we go, we see castles and monuments from the past. Gold temples in Thailand. Old kings residence in Vietnam. I went to a couple of medieval castles in the UK. It’s fun and great to see castles from France, from a time of the Resonance, the Revolution, and all that came with that history. But about the 6th-hour mark and the third castle, that same nagging feeling (coupled with the hangry-ness of not having decent food in a Disneyland-like touristy place) has turned me into a bitchy monster. (And I do feel bad about it)

And of course, on the night of day 3 of our trip, news of the British queen being very ill broke. (Spoilers alert, she passed away a day later, which caused some “interesting” ripple effect to our trip – more on that later). Fun fact: The Queen is STILL the head of state of Canada (and now, yes, we are stuck with King Charles). And of course, Lord Kenny, the Premier of Alberta, is a known monarchist. I know some people in Canada care about the queen and they were deeply affected by that, so not to be too insensitive, but I care very little about the death of the Queen. I’m sorry. I mean, she’s 96 years old. She has served her whole life. People die (Old people die even more often). She lived a full life. She had all these beautiful homes and estates and castles. And it’s ok to grieve and mourn her. Just don’t expect the rest of us to do the same (The funny thing, I realize, about Westerners is that they want everyone to do the thing they think is important. You know. Be a Christian. Buy more guns. Don’t say gay.) I mean as a person from a colonized country, as a person who has a job and pays taxes, it is hard for me to feel anything for the British monarch. 

The first few days of the trips were … interesting. I did really enjoy it, to be fair (given the overall negative tone of this note). I’m reminded that I married a nerdy history buff who needs very little food or water and walk around for hours staring at old buildings and reciting all these myths from ancient Greece or Rome. I’m reminded that I am stubborn af, and only one of us can read maps (spoilers alert, not Dan) but the other one is the one with the working phone. I’m reminded that we are two very very different people who somehow found each other, somehow got stuck with each other in this vast universe where one can be born kings and queens, or peasants, and all of that can go away and crumbles like bricks from the past. Dan is reminded that I am loud and embarrassing, and I like to say the word “guillotine” out loud in French public places (maybe I should try “Eat the rich”, but I prefer low-fat diets). 

Yes. Our honeymoon is like our relationship. Confusing as hell to outsiders. Romantic af in the weirdest way to us. 

 The Honeymooners – Day 1: Paris in the rain

People romanticize Paris. They romanticize the rain. Paris in the rain is made into movies, into songs, into arts, and into memories of people. Paris is extremely romantic in the rain. 

Except I am a cynic, and I hate the rain, and we were on our honeymoon with a spreadsheet of itineraries full of things to do outdoors. 

On the first day to Paris, after 8 hours on the flight, a little groggy, a lot hungry, and the hubby decided we need to go up a hill to visit the Sacre-Coeur (the Sacred Heart) cathedral, I was (understandably, in my defense) a bit hangry and bitchy. And then it rains. Not the drizzle romantic let’s put on the umbrella and walk under it kinda rain. It’s a flash flood rushing down the hills of the funicular kind of rain. 

We had our raincoats on, but we decided to take shelter underneath the streetlights. People ran away from the rain. We waited. The 20 days ahead of us are going to be interesting, I thought. I, a tech nerd, decided that I will not need my data roaming. He, someone who already spent too much time on the phone, will have roaming on for work and will use it to navigate us. I, an assertive type-A person who makes snap decisions in seconds will now have to take the lead from a meticulous, research-oriented, overthinking every little decision we have to make. I, a talkative Anglophone will have to rely on a more reserved, more rule-following Francophone. He, a devoted Christian and a history buff, loves to see museums and churches, to learn about the lives of kings and queens and politicians. I, a free-spirited artsy fartsy person who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the Monarchy in any country, just want to eat macarons and drink coffee while checking out European cuties in cafes. This would be a fun ride. 

People romanticize honeymoon. They romanticize lovers. 

But just like Paris in the rain, our life is not a romance novel. Our life is messy. Someday it’s a flash flood. Some days, it’s full of rumbling of thunder and flashes of lightning. 

In a weird, Paris in the rain way, our life is just as beautiful. 

And maybe even a little romantic.

This is the timeline of a love story 

• 02/2014: They met, as friends
• 01/2015: They started dating
• 01/2016: They moved in together
• 05/2017: They moved to a new house
• 11/2018: They got engaged
• 08/2019: They got married
• They planned their honeymoon for April-May 2020
• January 2020 – with the news about a new disease originating from Wuhan, they booked their Italy trip for September 2020, thinking it would be over by then
• 16th March 2020 – Covid was declared a pandemic. The world stood still
• They rethink booking their honeymoon for September 2021
• March 2021: Vaccines became available to the general population in Canada 
• July 2021: Alberta declares the best summer ever
• September 2021: Delta wave. More lockdown.
• March 2022: Omicron wave. The vaccine mandate becomes a political lightning rod.
• May 2022: The Premier of Alberta stepped down. They launched a tech product. Their pandemic travel bank is expiring end of September. Vietnam, a destination of choice, is getting back into quarantine due to the Covid case count increasing. 
• July 2022: Monkeypox becomes a concern. Hot girl summer is in crisis. 
• So they decided, “Fuck it, let’s go to Europe”

Every great adventure always starts with “Fuck it, let’s go”

We went on a 6-hour hike last Saturday. And on Sunday afternoon, we sat around on our deck in the sun and read books. We were quiet. We were not interacting with each other. And as I look at him (squinting in the sunlight with his usual frown-y eyebrows), I thought to myself “We need more days like these.” People assume that joy comes from “active” participation, like a romantic trip to Paris (which we are going to do soon!) , a 6-hour-hike (which we need to do more of), etc. but there is this quiet, mundane, subtle happiness that is just being around each other, on a deck, as the sun beaming down on us. Joy comes from all forms of togetherness.

Cis straight male white (CSMW) friend: Did you know, there’s “gay white male privilege” now? I didn’t know that
Me:  It’s been here forever. It’s called Intersectionality
CSMW friend: Next they will be coming for you, “gay Asian male privilege”. 
Me: It’s already a thing. Literally, just Google Intersectionality
CSMW friend: I’m so blessed
Me: Yep, the ability to indulge in ignorance is a privilege

White guy online slips into my DM: Hey, I’m a professional comedian. I see that you are a local photographer
Me: Nice to chat with you
White guy: So, where are you from?
Me: Canada. I’m Canadian.
White guy: Really though, where are you really from?
Me: Are you really asking?
White guy: Relax, it’s a bit. Have a sense of humor
Me: Maybe you should drop the professional before your comedian title.
(Conversation ended)

White old man slips into my DM: You’re a delicious young man.
(Conversation ended)

Asian friend(s): So, you’re with a white guy, you must really like white men right?

(Gorgeous gym bunny) Men who post inspirational stories on Instagram about “overcoming the odd” (usually of being fat or “undesirable”) who I know for a fact in real life that is so rude to other queer women, people with disability, and “fat” people. 

Gorgeous men of colors who post inspirational stories on Instagram about “overcoming the odd” (usually of being fat or “undesirable”) who only date other gorgeous white men.

I don’t talk about these often (Well, at all). But lately, it’s been bothering me. I mean, the only thing that bothers me more than white men being racist in the queer community is men of color being racist in the queer community. Yes, I said “Men” – and I mean it. 

I guess I’m really never “over” it. The formative years in Singapore, in California, and continuously with the conservative (i.e. racist) gay community in Calgary, it’s just… 

Controversial opinion, I know. At least I’m honest about it

So shove your inspirational Instagram story up your ass

I could hear my mom scoff as she tells me to go put some clothes on and this whole Canadian suntanning thing is not for us Vietnamese people. Growing up, she will chase us around the house to put on sunscreen, a hat, and a mask so we won’t get dark. There were times when I bought into the whole concept of fairer and brighter skin (The global market for skin lighteners was worth $8.6 billion last year, and is forecasted demand reaching $12.3 billion by 2027). I gave up that silly idea (because usually, it takes me 6 months indoors in the winter to go up one shade, and about an hour for me to turn crispy, like a spring roll, in the sun. 

It is apt that we spent the Summer Soltice – National Indigenous Peoples Day in the mountain, hiking, and appreciating the earth. It’s appropriate that I’m finishing “Brading Sweetgrass” (Please read t if you haven’t. It’s a series of short essays, a very easy but tremendously insightful book)

When I was young, it was all about “getting”. Getting out of poverty. Getting ahead. Getting scholarship. Getting the promotion. Getting that new job title. Getting a house, a car, a retirement plan. Achieving is baked into my DNA, to a point that I vibrate with anxiety whenever I am not achieving.

Dan asked me the other day, “What brings you joy?”

Which, as I get older, and as I try more often to reflect on my Buddhist roots, it’s the non-attachment things that bring me joy. Arts. Gardening. Coaching. Volunteering. Opening schorphandage. Ironically things that have very little or almost nothing to do with material things and getting.

So, as the sun sets behind the mountain, on the longest day of the year, as Indigenous people have always been here before us, I reacquaint myself with mother earth

And ask myself “How can I bring back to the earth what I am taking, and how can I get, and give, in an Honourable and Sustainable way?”

Ah, one more question for the collection of “My life has no answers, just better questions”