Editor's Statement - Maybe Family
by Simon Wu
I know I may come off as a nihilist that shits too much on Pride month.
I’ll say shit like “Pride is just a catalyst for Pink Capitalism,” “Cishet people shouldn’t be allowed at Pride,” “Pride was never created for people like me.” Maybe it’s because I’ve read too much Edelman, maybe it’s because I genuinely believe I have no future.
Or maybe it’s because I’m still scared, still frustrated, and still ashamed of who I am.
Maybe it’s because I’m running away from my worries and problems,
Maybe it’s because I’ve pretended so long to be fearless and bitchy and independent that I forgot what it felt like to cry, to want to run into the arms of my Mom and Dad and just sob,
And for them to hug me back tighter, crying as well,
And to hear them whisper in my ear through choked breaths, the words: “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be scared. We are a family, and nothing will make us love you less.”
And for the first time in a long time, I’ve tasted that feeling once again. But I know deep down that it’s not something I can act on.
The truth is, I’m scared of it. I’m scared to look for acceptance, for understanding, and for love once again, because I know that nine hundred ninety-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine times out of one billion, it will just end in rejection, betrayal, and hurt all over again. It will end with the words, “I love you—except for your queerness," words which on face might seem like progress, but deep down have scarred me countless times with pain, frustration, confusion, and humiliation.
I don’t understand what you are telling me. I don’t understand that kind of “love.” I AM gay. If you don’t love my gayness, how can you love me? Do you not understand either? And why are you not making an effort to do so? Why do you run away at every mention of my queerness, why are you not willing to learn? Am I not worth the effort to you?
Maybe you just can’t see it, maybe it’s because I’ve gotten really good at hiding my pain. Maybe I’m finally desensitized to it. Maybe I’ve just accepted that one day, I will just leave home and never turn back—that I don’t need my biological family because I will just choose a new family later on.
And while I fully recognize the significance, necessity, and validity for queer folk to be able to choose their family, I’m not just queer. I’m Chinese. And for me, biological family isn’t just something you’re supposed to be able to walk away from.
Family is supposed to be the strongest bond in the entire world.
Family is supposed to be there for you, no matter what kind of shit Life throws your way.
Family is supposed to accept you back with open arms, no matter how far from home you’ve wandered.
Family is supposed to share the burden of your pain, to back you up against all adversity, to support you through your struggles.
Family is forever.
Family is unconditional.
And for many, many years, I’ve believed that family is a lie.
That family will always hurt you, no matter how many chances you give them,
That family isn’t glued together by love, but by necessity,
That family is forever, but not unconditional,
Like a haunting spectre that hunts you down, no matter how far you run--
A chain. Or an anchor. Or a prison.
Maybe I still believe that. I probably do.
Or maybe, deep down, I can also hear a voice in the guttural chambers of my empty, choking heart.
Maybe this voice is telling me to give family another chance.
Maybe this is the voice reminds me every night before I go to sleep to silently thank my family and all they have done for me and wish for them to be safe and happy the next day.
Maybe this is the voice that convinces me to send them an invitation to my future wedding, even though I know the pain I will have to bear when I walk down the aisle with two empty seats in the front row.
Maybe this voice makes me wonder how I’ll feel 30 years down the line, guilt ridden by my parent’s deathbed, during their last parting breaths, wishing I had shared more of my life with them. Maybe they will regret it too.
Maybe this is the voice that gives me hope, the incessant craving for a picture of the future with my mom and dad even just barely visible in the frame,
A raw, screaming, empty wish that my body so vehemently desires, that maybe this time I will get my one in a billion chance to hear the words—no, fuck it, I don’t even need words—just a squeeze of the hand, just a tight hug, just a single moment when I can look into their eyes and genuinely believe all the times they told me “I love you no matter what”.
And maybe it’s about time for me to listen to this voice instead of just hear it. Maybe all the optimism, hope, and stories of Pride—despite how cheesy and whitewashed they can be—have finally gotten through to this thick, stubborn, gay skull of mine. Maybe this voice is the music I so desperately crave. Or maybe it’s like a song stuck in my head--not an annoying one, but the kind of song that makes me want to sob and scream on the ground every time I slow down and listen to the lyrics, because it’s just too fucking real, it’s too fucking familiar.
I have thought, for a very long time, that after I graduate from high school, I was going to leave my home and never look back.
I’ve had second thoughts for a long time. Now, I’m having thirds. Thirds, fourths, fifths, sixths--and I’m going to keep having second thoughts, up past nine hundred ninety-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine, so that maybe, in one of these second thoughts, I will hit that one in one billion--the one in one billion where I don’t turn away from my family, but turn back to them. Statistically speaking, it’s bound to happen at least once. And once is all I need.
Maybe it’s an addiction—like gambling, or buying lottery tickets. The reward, the grand prize—it’s so big, so fantastical, so absurd to think that you might win—and it’s the irrational hope for that chance, that one in one billion chance, that keeps you coming back for more. Maybe that’s why I hesitate to leave my family behind. Maybe this time could be my one in one billion—and I could never forgive myself if I blew it.
And maybe I just feel guilty. Maybe it’s all the times when I couldn’t bring myself to say “I love you” to my parents, maybe it’s all the times when my Mom would look at me, genuinely worried, asking me “do you really love me?”—and maybe I’ve started to believe that I was a bad son too, that I should give up on my family and hope they do the same.
The only problem is, I’m Chinese—and if you’re Chinese, (as my parents have told me ever since I was a little boy) your family doesn’t just “give up” on you. Family is something that is worth fighting for, something worth waiting for.
And I know that I come from a position of privilege when I say this—I recognize that my ability to even have a platform, a community that nourishes and celebrates my identity—is much more than what many, many others have. Is it greedy for me to want more? Maybe. Probably not.
I am ashamed of a lot of things about myself, but there are two things that I vowed never to be ashamed of—the fact that I’m gay, and the fact that I’m Chinese. That would be a disservice to the thousands of queer and Chinese activists that have paved the way for my position of privilege. It would be a disservice to my parents, who—despite my constant laziness, bitchery, and stubbornness—continue to see me as an amazing, capable human being, even when I can’t.
Like it or not, Mom and Dad, you made me the person who I am today. I know I don’t say I love you to you two a lot, but I don’t think it’s something that needs to be said. Maybe this is my way of saying I love you.
I was originally planning on writing an angry post about how disappointed I was in my family, for stigmatizing my queerness, in the queer community, for stigmatizing my Asianess. And maybe I will finish that post one day too. But not today. Today, it just feels wrong. I’m going to follow my emotions, my choked empty heart. I’m following what FEELS right. And today, it’s taking me in a whole other direction.
What changed today?
I watched a video. Twenty times. I’ve also cried twenty times today—and not just wimpy tears rolling down my cheeks, but twenty full-ass sobbing sessions. It’s a dance video made by Eugene Lee Yang, titled “I’m Gay”:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qpipLfMiaYU
Funnily enough, not a single word was spoken, and yet so much was said. I didn’t understand at first why I was so emotional. But then I realized, through my choked tears and snot, that I wasn’t crying because I was sad. I wasn’t crying because I was happy either. I was crying because I was relieved, because I finally recognized that THIS, this was the genuinely first time I could honestly believe myself when I pointed to the screen and said, “me too”.
It was the first time I felt this kind of emotion resonate within me, encapsulated by someone else—the feeling of what it’s like to not only be queer, not only a queer Asian, but a queer Asian American. And it was such a raw feeling—I feeling that made me so vulnerable yet so fucking proud at the same time.
Maybe I DO owe my revelation to Pride. That’s the beautiful thing about the Queer community—our art inspires millions of amazing people across the world to do the same. And the platform that Pride month creates for this kind of dialogue catalyzes the spread of these kinds of stories.
This one scene in the video gets me every time: Eugene descends a flight of stairs in full drag, surrounded and celebrated by his chosen family, which is suddenly ripped apart when a gunman comes in and shoots everyone to the ground. Eugene falls too, kicked and beat by people wearing white clothes before. And while he is left alone, bloodied and beaten on the ground, he reaches up for help. Half of his family, wearing black clothes, reach out to help him up, while the other half in white clothes pushes them away. And after that, I’m not even watching the rest of the video because I am so busy bawling into my pillow.
And finally, I accept that I don’t want just half of my family. I want all of it. And I’m NOT fucking greedy because of it. I just want my Mom and Dad.
And Dad, it’s Father’s Day. I didn’t buy you a gift. I didn’t make you a card. But what I decided to do for you today was so much more difficult. And as I am writing this, right now, I’m having my twenty-first. It’s so fucking hard. But for you, I’ve decided to listen to that voice inside my heart. This is me finally opening up to you. I’ve decided that no matter what happens, I will come back for this family. Even if this time doesn’t work, I promise to keep trying. No matter how many more times you will turn me away.
This is my one in one billion.
This was me taking the picture for our future.
And no matter how many times it gets ripped apart, I will do everything in my power to mend it back together. And I hope you will do the same.
Happy Pride
Pride <3
And @eugeneleeyang, thank you.
~SWu
I know I may come off as a nihilist that shits too much on Pride month.
I’ll say shit like “Pride is just a catalyst for Pink Capitalism,” “Cishet people shouldn’t be allowed at Pride,” “Pride was never created for people like me.” Maybe it’s because I’ve read too much Edelman, maybe it’s because I genuinely believe I have no future.
Or maybe it’s because I’m still scared, still frustrated, and still ashamed of who I am.
Maybe it’s because I’m running away from my worries and problems,
Maybe it’s because I’ve pretended so long to be fearless and bitchy and independent that I forgot what it felt like to cry, to want to run into the arms of my Mom and Dad and just sob,
And for them to hug me back tighter, crying as well,
And to hear them whisper in my ear through choked breaths, the words: “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be scared. We are a family, and nothing will make us love you less.”
And for the first time in a long time, I’ve tasted that feeling once again. But I know deep down that it’s not something I can act on.
The truth is, I’m scared of it. I’m scared to look for acceptance, for understanding, and for love once again, because I know that nine hundred ninety-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine times out of one billion, it will just end in rejection, betrayal, and hurt all over again. It will end with the words, “I love you—except for your queerness," words which on face might seem like progress, but deep down have scarred me countless times with pain, frustration, confusion, and humiliation.
I don’t understand what you are telling me. I don’t understand that kind of “love.” I AM gay. If you don’t love my gayness, how can you love me? Do you not understand either? And why are you not making an effort to do so? Why do you run away at every mention of my queerness, why are you not willing to learn? Am I not worth the effort to you?
Maybe you just can’t see it, maybe it’s because I’ve gotten really good at hiding my pain. Maybe I’m finally desensitized to it. Maybe I’ve just accepted that one day, I will just leave home and never turn back—that I don’t need my biological family because I will just choose a new family later on.
And while I fully recognize the significance, necessity, and validity for queer folk to be able to choose their family, I’m not just queer. I’m Chinese. And for me, biological family isn’t just something you’re supposed to be able to walk away from.
Family is supposed to be the strongest bond in the entire world.
Family is supposed to be there for you, no matter what kind of shit Life throws your way.
Family is supposed to accept you back with open arms, no matter how far from home you’ve wandered.
Family is supposed to share the burden of your pain, to back you up against all adversity, to support you through your struggles.
Family is forever.
Family is unconditional.
And for many, many years, I’ve believed that family is a lie.
That family will always hurt you, no matter how many chances you give them,
That family isn’t glued together by love, but by necessity,
That family is forever, but not unconditional,
Like a haunting spectre that hunts you down, no matter how far you run--
A chain. Or an anchor. Or a prison.
Maybe I still believe that. I probably do.
Or maybe, deep down, I can also hear a voice in the guttural chambers of my empty, choking heart.
Maybe this voice is telling me to give family another chance.
Maybe this is the voice reminds me every night before I go to sleep to silently thank my family and all they have done for me and wish for them to be safe and happy the next day.
Maybe this is the voice that convinces me to send them an invitation to my future wedding, even though I know the pain I will have to bear when I walk down the aisle with two empty seats in the front row.
Maybe this voice makes me wonder how I’ll feel 30 years down the line, guilt ridden by my parent’s deathbed, during their last parting breaths, wishing I had shared more of my life with them. Maybe they will regret it too.
Maybe this is the voice that gives me hope, the incessant craving for a picture of the future with my mom and dad even just barely visible in the frame,
A raw, screaming, empty wish that my body so vehemently desires, that maybe this time I will get my one in a billion chance to hear the words—no, fuck it, I don’t even need words—just a squeeze of the hand, just a tight hug, just a single moment when I can look into their eyes and genuinely believe all the times they told me “I love you no matter what”.
And maybe it’s about time for me to listen to this voice instead of just hear it. Maybe all the optimism, hope, and stories of Pride—despite how cheesy and whitewashed they can be—have finally gotten through to this thick, stubborn, gay skull of mine. Maybe this voice is the music I so desperately crave. Or maybe it’s like a song stuck in my head--not an annoying one, but the kind of song that makes me want to sob and scream on the ground every time I slow down and listen to the lyrics, because it’s just too fucking real, it’s too fucking familiar.
I have thought, for a very long time, that after I graduate from high school, I was going to leave my home and never look back.
I’ve had second thoughts for a long time. Now, I’m having thirds. Thirds, fourths, fifths, sixths--and I’m going to keep having second thoughts, up past nine hundred ninety-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine, so that maybe, in one of these second thoughts, I will hit that one in one billion--the one in one billion where I don’t turn away from my family, but turn back to them. Statistically speaking, it’s bound to happen at least once. And once is all I need.
Maybe it’s an addiction—like gambling, or buying lottery tickets. The reward, the grand prize—it’s so big, so fantastical, so absurd to think that you might win—and it’s the irrational hope for that chance, that one in one billion chance, that keeps you coming back for more. Maybe that’s why I hesitate to leave my family behind. Maybe this time could be my one in one billion—and I could never forgive myself if I blew it.
And maybe I just feel guilty. Maybe it’s all the times when I couldn’t bring myself to say “I love you” to my parents, maybe it’s all the times when my Mom would look at me, genuinely worried, asking me “do you really love me?”—and maybe I’ve started to believe that I was a bad son too, that I should give up on my family and hope they do the same.
The only problem is, I’m Chinese—and if you’re Chinese, (as my parents have told me ever since I was a little boy) your family doesn’t just “give up” on you. Family is something that is worth fighting for, something worth waiting for.
And I know that I come from a position of privilege when I say this—I recognize that my ability to even have a platform, a community that nourishes and celebrates my identity—is much more than what many, many others have. Is it greedy for me to want more? Maybe. Probably not.
I am ashamed of a lot of things about myself, but there are two things that I vowed never to be ashamed of—the fact that I’m gay, and the fact that I’m Chinese. That would be a disservice to the thousands of queer and Chinese activists that have paved the way for my position of privilege. It would be a disservice to my parents, who—despite my constant laziness, bitchery, and stubbornness—continue to see me as an amazing, capable human being, even when I can’t.
Like it or not, Mom and Dad, you made me the person who I am today. I know I don’t say I love you to you two a lot, but I don’t think it’s something that needs to be said. Maybe this is my way of saying I love you.
I was originally planning on writing an angry post about how disappointed I was in my family, for stigmatizing my queerness, in the queer community, for stigmatizing my Asianess. And maybe I will finish that post one day too. But not today. Today, it just feels wrong. I’m going to follow my emotions, my choked empty heart. I’m following what FEELS right. And today, it’s taking me in a whole other direction.
What changed today?
I watched a video. Twenty times. I’ve also cried twenty times today—and not just wimpy tears rolling down my cheeks, but twenty full-ass sobbing sessions. It’s a dance video made by Eugene Lee Yang, titled “I’m Gay”:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qpipLfMiaYU
Funnily enough, not a single word was spoken, and yet so much was said. I didn’t understand at first why I was so emotional. But then I realized, through my choked tears and snot, that I wasn’t crying because I was sad. I wasn’t crying because I was happy either. I was crying because I was relieved, because I finally recognized that THIS, this was the genuinely first time I could honestly believe myself when I pointed to the screen and said, “me too”.
It was the first time I felt this kind of emotion resonate within me, encapsulated by someone else—the feeling of what it’s like to not only be queer, not only a queer Asian, but a queer Asian American. And it was such a raw feeling—I feeling that made me so vulnerable yet so fucking proud at the same time.
Maybe I DO owe my revelation to Pride. That’s the beautiful thing about the Queer community—our art inspires millions of amazing people across the world to do the same. And the platform that Pride month creates for this kind of dialogue catalyzes the spread of these kinds of stories.
This one scene in the video gets me every time: Eugene descends a flight of stairs in full drag, surrounded and celebrated by his chosen family, which is suddenly ripped apart when a gunman comes in and shoots everyone to the ground. Eugene falls too, kicked and beat by people wearing white clothes before. And while he is left alone, bloodied and beaten on the ground, he reaches up for help. Half of his family, wearing black clothes, reach out to help him up, while the other half in white clothes pushes them away. And after that, I’m not even watching the rest of the video because I am so busy bawling into my pillow.
And finally, I accept that I don’t want just half of my family. I want all of it. And I’m NOT fucking greedy because of it. I just want my Mom and Dad.
And Dad, it’s Father’s Day. I didn’t buy you a gift. I didn’t make you a card. But what I decided to do for you today was so much more difficult. And as I am writing this, right now, I’m having my twenty-first. It’s so fucking hard. But for you, I’ve decided to listen to that voice inside my heart. This is me finally opening up to you. I’ve decided that no matter what happens, I will come back for this family. Even if this time doesn’t work, I promise to keep trying. No matter how many more times you will turn me away.
This is my one in one billion.
This was me taking the picture for our future.
And no matter how many times it gets ripped apart, I will do everything in my power to mend it back together. And I hope you will do the same.
Happy Pride
Pride <3
And @eugeneleeyang, thank you.
~SWu