The Model Minority

Continued from Shirts vs Skins

For those of you who happen to be here at this site for the first time, I guess you should know that not only am I an Asian but I am also a gay man. So, I can speak of my experiences being a minority in two distinct categories—three, if you include "comic book collector."

A lot of people think that Asians are the "model minority," which when I was younger excited me, because I thought this meant that I would have a career in haute couture. I practiced walking down the runway endlessly in my bedroom. Imagine my horror when I found out this really meant that I was expected to be a pocket protector-wearing math nerd, or a metal-mouth band geek. I was mortified.

The main difference I think is that when people look at me, they see an Asian, not a homosexual. Of course, this is until they hear about the way I idolize Sarah Jessica Parker, and then the jig is up. I mean the woman is a goddess—she made it ok for grown women to wear tutus on the streets of Manhattan.

I have been lucky I guess. I have no telling mannerisms that I am a gay. Despite my literary flourishes in this blog, I am sad to say that I am just a "regular guy". I do not have a high pitch voice. I do not have excessive hand gestures. I do not have frosted hair.

Others are not so lucky. When some gay men talk, a pair of capri pants falls out of their mouths. When they shit, a pair of capri pants falls out of their asses. This is the reason the hideous fashion statement that is men's capri pants won't go away.

Some people think that if we do not act stereotypically gay, then we would not be subject to all the discrimination that we claim we face. Some people say "why do gay people have to shove their gayness in my face all the time?" Some people think that if we turn off the switch, if we don’t talk about who we are, we would all be accepted into society and everybody would live happily ever after.

Well, honey, let me ‘splain something to you. Even though I am not your average flaming homosexual, I do not "act" straight. I don’t turn anything on or off, except my penis pump. If you cannot tell that I am a card-carrying faggot, it is not because I have misled you by subduing my instincts to swish.

And for my other gay brethren who may lisp, sashay, wear flannel or think of Home Depot as their second home, I would say, by and large, they are not acting either. They may take it up a notch for special occasions like an awards show or a really, really good sale, but I would say generally, this is the way they are.

So if you want the more stereotypical of us to turn this "off," you’re asking us to be someone else. Now you’re asking us to "act."

It is too hard to act anything for more than 5 minutes. Y’all should know that, after all, you weren’t really enjoying giving oral sex to your lover last night. You just pretty much moaned and mmmmm’d your way through it, hoping they would just cum already.

Even Disney theme park castmembers only have to act for 30 minutes at a time. We are supposed to act like somebody else 24-7. We're supposed to wear shirts with an ungodly percentage of polyester; use non-salon approved products to wash our hair; wear our underwear until it disintegrates.

You think this should be so easy, but you do not understand its ramifications.

To let you understand the magnitude of this, not only can you not try on that pair of Manolo Blahniks for kicks, it also means that if somebody asked you to bring your significant other to a function, you have to say no. It means that if somebody asked you why you are crying, you can’t tell them that your girlfriend is sick and in the hospital. It means that when you have children, one of you will have to sit out their school play. It means when other people have pictures of their families, their loved ones, their friends at their desk, all you can put up on yours is the picture of your dog Rusty.

It means that when you want to hug or kiss or hold the person you love’s hand, all you can do is look at them in the eye and hope that they know what you feel.

Next: The Rant

---

Shirts vs Skins

Once, at a gay bar, a drunk guy stumbled his way towards me, reeking of a mixture of sweat, CK One and alcohol. If it was closing time, I might be willing to ignore this combination of odors, but at 12:30a.m., I didn’t want to seem too desperate. There’s time enough for that later.

"Where are you from?" he slurred.
"I’m from Chicago," I tentatively replied, not sure why he was talking to me.
"No, no! I meant, you’re Asian, right, so like where are you from?"
I looked at him blankly.
"C’mon, say sumthin’ in your native tongue," he cajoled.
"Cun-nee-leeng-gus," I said.
"Cun-nee-leeng-gus," he repeated. "What does that mean?"
"It means 'I love my mother' in my language," I replied.
"Wow, can you write that down so I can tell my mother later?" He said. "Write down your phone number too."
"My pleasure," I grabbed a napkin and wrote down the syllables and the number to my favorite Chinese take-out.

I was really surprised by this guy’s question. I mean, I made sure to park my rickshaw where you couldn’t see it.

I also have a typical Midwestern accent, so your only tip-off that I was not born in the good ole U. S. of A. would have been that I, like Avril Lavigne, have a tendency to pronounce David Bowie’s last name "Ba-wee" instead of "Bo-wee."

Normally, I would find this only mildly annoying. I would just say I’m Chinese-Filipino and be done with it. Maybe it was the Attitude I was getting from the royal queen bitches parading at the bar that night that put me on edge, making me unforthcoming to this drunk.

I found it offensive that he assumed that despite my Aberzombified attire, I was anything but a corn-fed Midwesterner—you can check my toilet, I’ve got the corn kernel encrusted poop to prove it. I even use an extra-strong deodorant to get rid of that fresh-of-the-boat odor.

Being treated like a "skin" or racial stereotype is a universal experience: Latinos, blacks, white people from Canada—we’ve all experienced it. We cannot control what assumptions, prejudices, stereotypes, people put upon us. It’s a part of human nature, like a short-cut to getting to know someone. I mean, I do it all the time when I meet new people: if you talk to me, I assume that you want to go to bed with me.

There are certain things that you can do to control people’s impression of you: your job, your car, the smell of your feet. When people look at me, they see that I wear designer labels, fancy watches and Italian shoes, and they conclude that I have maxed out my credit cards. For me, it’s really important that people don’t think I’m boring. I think it’s much, much more interesting to be superficial.

But there are certain impressions that I cannot control. That is, despite what logo shirt I wear, it is the color of my skin, the shape of my eyes, that registers in the back of your brain.

(Continued)

-----
*I realize of course that cunnilingus is not spelled like it is above. Don't shoot me. :)