It's strange, how you're unwilling to list yourself as "Interested in: Men" on facebook.com even as you're growing increasingly open and comfortable with your homosexuality. And yet you Facebook Advanced Search, now and again, for other gay boys who are not so self-consciously closeted, feeling yourself grow more and more lonely as you flip through albums filled with pretty faces, realizing that you'll never be confident enough to date any of them.
Growing up Asian and gay is something like what you've read. But cultural alienation is only one of the dimensions you have to face. These various layers of identity — gay, male, Asian, Princeton student — every one has its unique set of demands, and when they collide, tragic implosion is inevitable.
There seems to be a tacit obligation to straightness and success when born Asian; even before conception, your parents expect you to one day produce a six-figure salary, two adorable grandchildren and a beach house in the Bahamas for them to retire in.
And me? I can't even do the whole gay thing right. Gay culture is strange in that every Out.com model has enormous pecs clearly defined beneath tight-fitting Armani Exchange T-shirts. It's a culture that responds to marginalization by fascinating itself with fashion: We may be fags, honey, but your outfit is so last season. Gay boys don't count calories simply because they're gay; it usually stems from an intense fear of unattractive flab.
So why not stop complaining and head to the gym? As it happens, the perfectionist curse kicks in, and I can't even get myself to get on a Dillon Gym elliptical because I don't have time, or I'm just not into lifting or some other uneasy excuse created to cover up deeper feelings of inadequacy.
It's a strange feeling, this never-feeling-good-enough. As much as I reject most simplistic psychological explanations, it's hard to discount the importance of upbringing in the adolescent's construction of self.
I have never really doubted that my parents love me.
Even when they unexpectedly found out the unhappy truth that I liked boys, they tried not to make it a big deal. But they always expected something in return. They felt the need to push me a little, you know, to help me along.
So when I didn't get great grades, I probably wasn't trying hard enough. Push.
And when I didn't want to go into business, I probably wasn't putting in enough effort. Push.
And when I came out, well, I was probably just being lazy again.
Push.
The thing is, all those tiny little pushes become this one big, endless push. And that desire for your child's success you assumed was so innocent becomes a form of self-rejection to them. The problem is that when they grow up, the only way they can try to find some satisfaction in life, some reason to keep going, is to push themselves into that feeling of constant self-rejection.
In some perverse way, I like that feeling of emptiness because I understand it. It makes sense to me, I suppose.
But strangely enough, I'm starting to realize that maybe I'm not completely hopeless. And I'm trying to find ways of honestly articulating these strange, messy fears coherently on paper. And it really does help.
Two years ago, I couldn't even tell anybody that I was gay. One year ago, I wasn't able to write about it. Who knows? Today, maybe, I'll finally find the courage to do something stupid and cheesy, like come out on Facebook.
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