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In the original painting, one line sticks out, like a tuft of hair from her head. It’s in keeping with her belief in imperfection—that it’s what doesn’t fit, what isn’t controlled, that makes a work interesting.
In real life, the imperfection was clear. I believed in solid foundations, in doing things the right way. It bothered me that we were doing things so wrongly—and yet I couldn’t walk away. With her, falling in love wasn’t a choice. It felt scarily the opposite—a force to which I was powerless. Undeniably there, in a way I hadn’t experienced before, in a way I couldn’t—and can’t—explain.
Oddly, it had something to do with trust. We could read each other on a level that wouldn’t allow for lies. It had something to do with want, too—with seeing her desire, matched by my own.
You never know what you might get, if you share what you want, she told me over the phone.
The experience was new to me: of being asked what I wanted, of it mattering.
* * *
When we finally saw each other, there was so much nervousness. She broke up her life with him on faith. When we finally touched each other, there was such confirmation. Our chemistry was undeniable.
The first time we kissed, I remember pulling back in surprise, turning away and mouthing quietly, Oh, fuck.
And her saying, nearly at the same time, Yeah, we’re fucked.
* * *
Dating her had something to do with allowing myself desire, desire inexplicable, for the sheer sake of it. It flooded us. Everything was new, exciting.
It’s like we’re teenagers again, she said.
We brought to bear all the fractures we’d experienced, all our complexities. This was both our strength and our weakness: our differences from each other, our complexities, and the difficulties we’d faced. We recognized in each other something we hadn’t shared with others—the degree to which neither of us had felt accepted as we were.
I don’t trust women as much as men, she said. Somewhat offended, defensive on behalf of womankind, I asked her what she meant. Women are way more aggressive than men.
This sentiment horrified me. I was fed up with the surely universal female experience of being objectified and propositioned inappropriately by men. So many, including friends, seemed to see only what they wanted to see—the physical body, the exterior. I’m so sick of men, I told her. I distrusted their intentions.
She, on the other hand, felt objectified by women. You can’t possibly be straight, she’d been told. She felt women had little interest in her as an individual, yet still wanted to sleep with her based on physical appearance alone. She’d been propositioned by more women than she could recall.
She’d gotten used to vocally declaring her straightness, due, in large part, to assumptions others made about her sexuality. I’ve had a conflicted relationship with my sexuality, she told me. I could understand why. I could see the damage those assumptions had done. She felt she’d made a conscious decision. T
hat she’d chosen to be straight. She compared it to choosing to go through one door and closing other doors.
This difference in lived experience fascinated me. Partially because our comparisons made clear that the question of who possesses the Gaze is irrelevant. It’s the Gaze itself, when wielded violently, that can be destructive.
She told me later that it wasn’t just children in public swimming pools who commented on her appearance. It was teachers at her small school, who yelled at her for being in the girls’ bathroom, who told her she didn’t belong. Those sorts of incidents occurred frequently.
By violent, I mean, perhaps, that when we vocally define others’ personhoods to them, when we essentialize, we are capable of causing great harm. Telling someone that s/he can’t possibly be straight, or gay, bisexual, or unlabeled, female or male or nonbinary, or any variation, feels no different than my mother telling me, You’re too stupid. Or my father making fun of what he saw as my chubby thighs, or telling me, You’re a girl: you’re too weak. These comments are corrosive.
* * *
Throughout our trips, she and I were always just two strangers passing through, too transient to invite real commentary. We often had the luxury of forgetting that the outside world existed. The only gaze that mattered was each other’s.
In rural gas stations and the like, of course, she attracted plenty of stares. I did, too. Individually, we are both used to it—to being seen as different. Growing up Asian-American in Colorado, I received more comments than I care to recall, issued from close friends and strangers alike. Just as her presence in public spaces had attracted commentary, so, too, had my own.
Peers asked why my face was so flat, or commented on what they saw as my squinty, slanted eyes. Substitute teachers asked me slowly if I spoke English. Strangers approached to ask if I missed China. Ching chong ching chong yells greeted me from moving cars.
As a frequent traveler, I am well aware that how I am seen changes, based on geography. When I was an adult crossing into Turkey, the border guard refused my U.S. passport repeatedly. He wanted my other passport.
When I am the only person of color in a given space, I am always conscious of that fact. I am aware, too, that the presence of my visage might draw unwelcome comments, wherever I go.
I remarked to her once, when we were driving through East LA, that I was pleasantly surprised by how little commentary we’d gotten on our relationship, at least from strangers. In bars, on trains, walking in city streets, we’d gotten stares when publicly affectionate—some friendly, some unfriendly—but little more. She turned to me and said seriously, Yeah, but you know it’s coming.
I knew what she meant. I hoped she was wrong. Then and now, a boundary-less view of sexuality and desire has brought me joy. It’s made me more human. My sexual fluidity isn’t as readily, visibly apparent as my ethnicity, and therefore it’s been less likely to cause unwelcome commentary. It has felt like a source of strength I’ve gotten to choose to share.
Racist comments wounded me when I was young and vulnerable, partially because they mirrored my reality of ethnic isolation. Nearly everyone around me was white, and so I therefore had to deal with suspicion simply for looking different, in ways I still encounter regularly and deal with today.
