Stay Weird.

Heavy California rains last week had engendered a floral superbloom, and streams of butterflies were migrating en masse up north. Instead of witnessing the spectacle in open fields, as I’d hoped, I was staring out at the LA cityscape from the Americana parking lot, at the seemingly infinite pairs of dancing butterflies that peppered the sky. Love was, literally in the air, as my first relationship came to a close..

Our chemistry is good, we laugh at the same things, I feel like I can talk to you, just...

I had a sense this had been coming. What had started as a negligible drift had grown into a maw of unresponsiveness in the past week. I was anxious, hurt, sad, even angry, until my oldest friend reminded me that, “he’s probably mixed up too.” After a few days, I knew it couldn’t be anything else - that I was a dead man walking.

I feel like you’ve reached a place where you feel things about me I don’t feel for you…

It was true. I felt so strongly about him, and had been so eager to spend time together, to plan future dates, that I hadn’t realized his recent reluctance had stemmed from something deeper.

I tried –  

I know you did.

I wish –  

I know. Me too.

I like you, but…

But you don’t love me. That you can’t love me. It’s okay. You don’t have to say it.

I’m sorry –

He looked like he was on the verge of crying. I told him there was nothing to be sorry about. I thanked him for giving me something wondrous and full of joy to look back on. We hugged, and went our separate ways.

Three miles from home I broke down in my car, devolving into a streams of tears and giant, ugly sobs.

I like you, but…

Somedays I feel like I’ve heaved self-work into becoming someone easy to like, but impossible to love.

I think back to the time he had a rough day at work, and I drove through L.A. rush hour traffic to have dinner with him

“Andrew’s here!” he said, as we embraced in his living room. “My boyfriend is here!”

I felt so appreciated.

But that wasn’t love.

I think of the way he embraced, and was even charmed by, in my neuroticisms, my peculiar insistences; my queer and sometimes roundabout diction.

I felt so accepted for who I was.

But that wasn’t love.

Because he didn’t love me.

“And no one will. It took thirty years of searching to find someone who would put up with your bullshit, and now you’ve gone and blown it.”

I lash out at myself, like a snake that had been waiting until I was alone.

I shuttle the nascent thought away.

I’ll be alright.

But it will take time

to get used

especially since I came out in high school. But there was a line on NPR this morning about how coming out isn't just about telling the world who you are, it's about owning who you used to be.

“Representation!” repeated ad nauseum, is the battle cry. The folks who’ve privately expressed their exhaustion to me understand the stakes are high - don’t confuse fatigue for indifference! - but there’s no faster way to turn what should be a celebration into a chore than telling someone they “have to” do something, instead of offering a perspective for consideration.

So for any folks who are feeling, as I was, trepidatious or even cynical about seeing the film, he’s my take:

Part Cinderella-story and part My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Crazy Rich Asians is a fresh, bright and fun take on the familiar rom-com formula. The movie manages to incorporate elements of immigrant identity and heritage without sacrificing its charm and light-heartedness, leaving something for everyone. As TIME put it, “...to sell Crazy Rich Asians solely as a breakthrough in representation—as important as that is—[is to] do the picture a disservice.”

Crazy Rich Asians would’ve been noteworthy even if it was a brainless, uninspired film with a clunky plot and bad acting - after all, other folks get to make those movies all the time.

Expecting just that, I left the theatre delighted at the diverse array of personalities, and pleasantly surprised at the film’s handling of more topical themes. Early in the film, Kerry Chu (played by Kheng Hua Tan) cautions her daughter (Constance Wu), “Your face is Chinese. You speak Chinese! But in your head, and in your heart, you’re different,” setting the stage for the various confrontations that await her overseas.

The more I look back, the fonder I grow of the film. I liked the sets, loved the music, and yes, at times, was surprised at how heartening it was to see a collective ensemble of Asian faces on screen.

The film is not without its flaws. In staying faithful to the book, the movie tests its audience’s ability to keep track of the multitudinous cast and their various interrelationships. Well before its release, the film was also met with criticism about casting decisions, representation of Singapore, and much more.

I admit, before seeing the film, I was also overwhelmed in trying to discern which controversies were warranted and which were exaggerated. In retrospect, the advice I would’ve given myself is this: it’s absurd to try and make up your mind about a movie you haven't seen yourself. Leave that weight outside the theatre; you can always come back to it afterwards. Celebrate this good thing, and the struggle and sacrifice it took to produce this labor of love. Enjoy the movie for what it is.

I went out to look for jobs a cafe today and by chance overheard the person sitting next to me talk about city politics.

I recognized her as a teacher running for city council in the city I grew up  and taught in.

My heart races whenever I think about that time but I introduced myself and we talked. She's exactly what the city needs. Intelligent and Passionate and full of of good ideas.

She spoke with so much optimism and spirit and will to do good.

She reminded me of what I was like before everything went south. . . . And deep down inside, who I wish I still was 

It hurt like freight train to the gut  to remember how much I used to be able to care and give

To be so in touch with feelings I've starved myself of in order to survive . . .

"You were THAT teacher"

"That was beyond the pale, what they did to you" "They still talk about it” "It must've been traumatizing."

It felt so validating to hear her say that to use that word to describe what happened even though though I’m sure she doesn’t know the whole story.

I was so relieved and despondent and full of fury All at once. I could've been like her: Tenured, Hitting my stride, Putting all the joyful initiatives I’d privately dreamed of into into action Instead I can’t even look at a fucking lesson plan without my heart rate tripling. What a shambling, directionless, dead-end mess I am . . .

She left with kind words and good advice and it’s been a hours since then. But all I can do  is write this and pick away at this melted bar of chocolate that I drove to the supermarket to get because I need to feel something that isn’t grief, or hurt, or loss because I need to feel like I have some control 

I get the full eight hours so often I’m remembering most of my dreams.

And I wish I didn’t.

Because I understand now why my heart pounds with the fury of a locomotive engine when I’ve been waking up for years.

The two of us were outside the Debate room, on one of our popular practice spots: a grassy knoll shaded by tall trees. Speech kids were practicing at a distance all around – on benches, under trees, in open walkways – any place where they could speak undisturbed.

The small, shy Asian girl before me doesn’t make eye contact. She mutters softly as she speaks, but I know who she is before she tells me.

She didn’t join competitive speech to win – to clash against other high-schoolers or bare her feelings out onstage. She had only just enough bravery to sign up at a silent frustration at her own timidness – and is even now doubting if she has what it takes.  She is not looking to compete, and definitely is not thinking about winning.

But we don’t hold tryouts for a reason – we’re not that kind of team; I’m not that kind of coach. We’re not here to win, we’re here to serve a community: the children of low-income immigrants. The community I grew up in.

I choose a familiar exercise from the bag of tricks I’ve cultivated over the years. I’ve done this one a million times, and I’ve never grown tired of it.

“Can you sing?” I ask.

She freezes in hesitation.

“Here, sing with me. ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’”

We get into the rhythm of things, and I begin to take a few steps backwards.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”

“I can’t hear you,” I say from three meters back.

“How do I-,” she asks. “Just keep going, and do your best. Don’t stop singing!”

She raises her voice and continues as I listen.

“How I wonder what you are” “No, not like *this*,” I say, in something between a yell and a scream. “Project to me, like *this!*” She adjusts accordingly. “Good!” I tell her, now four meters away.

Her face strains as she continues to sing.

“That feeling you have right now,” I call out, “remember it! This is what it’s like when you’re pushing yourself, forcing yourself to project!”

As if on cue, her voice falters, and she eases up.

“Don’t get comfortable – if you’re comfortable, that means you’re not pushing!”

I join in again with the singing, inviting her to match my level of projection from five meters away “Up above the world so high,”

We stay this distance, looping through the stanza. We begin to draw a crowd of other debaters – curious freshmen intrigued by the spectacle and seniors smirking at the all-too familiar routine. Some of her friends sit in a semicircle in front of her, forming an audience of wide-eye peers who’ve never heard her voice with such clarity.

“Like a diamond in the sky.”

I stop singing, and let her finish the final iteration of the song herself.

They clap, and she looks away – a little overwhelmed, a little embarrassed, but smiling, mostly surprised with herself.

My heart leaps with joy. I have a good feeling about this one.

“This is what it feels like to command an audience,” I want to tell her. “To have your thoughts and feelings heard, because they matter. Because you matter. We spend so much of our lives as passively spectating, but here - this is your space to be heard." But all in good time. She just experienced what she was capable of, and I let her have a moment to enjoy the strength and beauty of her own power.

Hopefully she stays all four years. Maybe even attend a few overnight tournaments in what will be her first night away from her parents. And hopefully in time, she will pass down the strength she found to another like her. The school year’s only just started, and I look forward to the wondrous journey of welcoming them into my life – and hopefully me into theirs.

I turn to her father, who is clapping besides me. What?

We’re all in the supermarket now, clapping.

What?

I wake up.

It’d been a dream. A cruel revisiting of feelings I’d been trying to bury for the past three years.

The girl wasn’t real, but the experience was a distillation of a million real moments I’d had before. My twenties had been dedicated to my career – coaching on campus until sundown, staying until the wee hours lesson planning; giving furiously to those who had grown up like me.

And for that I had been humiliated. Berated and told I was bad so often I began to believe it. Subjected to a battery of reprimands and workplace violations – but what was I going to do in a district where the union leaked grievances to the superintendent? I wasn’t the only teacher on campus who was mistreated – not by a long shot – but tenure protected the others. Tenure didn’t protect me.

The decision to not have me back was not well met. There were protests, which led to marches, which led to press coverage. Other issues rose to the surface – misuse of power, misuse of funds; first amendment violations that garnered the attention of the ACLU. My story became a catalyst, and all I could do was grieve silently from the sidelines, trying to process what I’d lost.

And for that, I was ruined.

I was tipped off that the district, tired of negative press, was looking for a story – any story – they could tell about me instead. Rumors begun to circulate – one admin brazenly told my department that I’d been caught in a relationship with a female student (not knowing that I’d always been out on campus). I ignored the phone calls and emails demanding to meet, until the district resorted to sending campus security to knock on my door.

I felt trapped, terrified of whatever story they’d managed to put together, and retained a lawyer to help me navigate the process. I exhausted what meager savings I’d made teaching on months of deliberation, only to learn that in the end, all they had were empty threats and wild conjectures. When the dust settled, I was left with nothing.

Love, I learned, is not strong enough to sustain you through so many things. It does not defend you from those who intend you harm, it is not powerful enough to secure your happiness; it is not strong enough to ensure your future. All I’d wanted to do was make life better in my corner of the world – and for that, my sense of purpose was replaced with self-loathing, and my exhilaration was turned to with shame.

I’ve done my best to move on to “better things” since then. To grow accustomed to a quieter lifestyle. To accept the loss, and find joy in new things. To not blame myself.

But to this day, I still hear voices, be they my own or someone else’s, telling me, “You should go back to teaching!” “You really loved it!” “Nevermind your struggle to move on!” “Throw away whatever progress you’ve made accepting what you lost!”