I Hate Being Asian

I hate being Asian. I hate being forcefully, guiltily bound by culture. I hate the fact that I can't venture out or be independent without feeling like I'm turning my back on my family. At the same time, I resent them for making me feel like this. I could never do any extracurricular activities in high school or even in college because my mind would automatically go the question - Who will take care of my little sister? What would my parents think?

I hate her for it. I hate her for being born. I hate the fact that my parents depend on me... they depend on me to drop whatever the hell it is I am doing in order to follow their every whim. To mop up a flooded basement, to plow snow, to just be a presence in a house that I stopped considering a home long time ago... I am expected to drop whatever it is I'm doing and travel across the city for such trivial matters.

Yes, they fed me, clothed me, and gave me a home. But what was it for? Was it so they could ask me to repay such a debt someday? Or was it to share an unconditional love with another human being and to nurture such life until it can be its own autonomous being? I don't know. Whenever I defy their will the idea of being an ungrateful child is laid upon me. They gave me this, they gave me that, they gave me those... and how do I repay them? That's the thing, it seems to be a conditional love based on repayment. It's ensured that I don't forget it.

I am expected to succeed in this world. In this western world with western standards while bound to the expectations of those with an eastern perception of the world. It's emotionally conflicting. The eastern, collectivist expectations they have of me keep me from succeeding.

I resent them for it. I resent myself for caring for them. I hate them for making me feel guilty about wanting to grow into my own... without them.

Frankly, it's moments like this that I get a certain feeling and thought... I wouldn't mind if they died. It would finally give me freedom. I would finally be unbound from rules and responsibilities irrelevant to me. I would be free.

Yes. I am saying that I would actually be a bit relieved if my parents or even little sister were to just drop dead. 

I'm a bad person. I know. 

Return.

I've returned from Rome almost a week ago. Frankly, it all seems so surreal. Looking at the world around me, it doesn't seem like I ever left. Rome feels like a distant dream...

The dome of St. Peter's Basilica looming over the city. The cobblestone streets. The silent and humble Bernini sculptures around the city. The mountains and hills that surrounded me. They all seem like images from someone's life other than my own.

People seemed so shock when they ran into me. They often did a double take or look confused. They say that I seem tanner (thanks to the Italian sun) and my hair is longer. Many of them claim that they didn't even know I had curly hair. They say I look more European. I wonder if it's true or if the fact that I was in Europe that paints such an illusion in their minds.

I am glad to be home. Being in Rome made me appreciate what I have here in Chicago. Perhaps I wasn't able to fully appreciate Italy as much due to my sight being so fixated on returning home. It wasn't until I was nearing the end of my journey that I was able to embrace Rome for what it had offered me. Perhaps it wasn't Italy that I fell in love with in the first place, but the image of Italy that foreigners have of the country and its people. I'm fine with that. Perhaps on my return to the Eternal City, it will be a much more fulfilling experience.

Friends have been asking me if I loved the experience. If it was worth it. I tell them that I did love it and spout all these positive things about my travels. However, internally, I am still questioning as to whether it was worth it. Sure, I was able to get away from the American way of life and see things that most people cannot even fathom of seeing in their lifetime. But was it worth it? Was it worth doing at this point in my life? Maybe later down the road I will realize the answer to that question. At the moment, I can only think of the things I must take care of now due to my travels:

• Find a job
• Find an apartment
• Find an internship (to finish my psychology degree)

If I did learn anything from my travels, it's this... Never be afraid of taking chances. Fear regret more than fear itself.

I Don't Want to be a Masochist Anymore

Today, I finished a novel called Call Me by Your Name by Andre Aciman. It made me realize something... I no longer wish to be a masochist.

When did I become a masochist? I don't know. Perhaps when I first fell in love and got hurt. After that, I probably started to believe that by being hurt I would be loved. I assumed that the person the people men who would hurt me would consequently nurse my wounds as well. Ultimately, I want to be loved. However, I thought being hurt was a primary requirement.

Even when I knew that being hurt was wrong I still chased after those that hurt me. I thought that if they could hurt me, they might also be strong enough to protect me. To love me. I wanted them to take responsibility for me.

I stayed passive. I kept myself weak and compliant. It was what they expected of me. No one else wanted me. They at least agreed to pay attention if I became what they wanted me to be. I was alone. I lost myself. I didn't want to be alone anymore. I was willing to be anything just so I wouldn't be alone.

I convinced myself that I was weak. I told myself countless times that I am worthless, unwanted, and hopeless. I rhetorically asked myself, "For all those that die unjustly, get raped, and beaten, what makes you think God would cater to your desires? Why would God give you someone to love and love you in return?" I would respond to myself and say that I deserve to be loved. But didn't the others deserve to be loved as well? I had no more answers. My mind grows tired every time I ask myself such questions.

I merely saw myself as an instrument for other people's desires. Yes, use me. Yes, abuse me. Just, please, give me time to be desired. I came to see abuse towards myself as sexually arousing. To be dominated over, isn't it exciting? To be pinned to a bed and ravaged by a man stronger than me? For a man to do what he pleases with me, cast me away when he's done, and return only when he wants more? At one point, I thought so... But I know it is wrong. I know that such thoughts were doing nothing more than hurt me. No pleasure. No ultimate benefit. Just hurt.

I made myself worthless.

Perhaps it was inevitable for me to realize that I was irrationally hurting myself. Maybe it was unavoidable for me to accept that I don't want to be hurt by my own self or by anyone else. I learned how to say no to those that only wanted to take advantage of me. I came to acknowledge that I do have worth. I've yet to fully grasp the true breadth of my worth as a person. A person who deserves to be loved. I'm working on it.

Maybe I won't find that one person for me to love and to love me in return. Perhaps we'll find each other too late. It's possible that he may not exist for me. It's a horrible possibility, but it's true. Nonetheless, I still deserve to be loved without hurt. I want to be loved without hurt.

I want a man to be gentle with me. To be passionate with me. To have no intention of hurting me. I want us to be honest with one another in body, heart, and mind. To trust each other with our naked, vulnerable selves and trust that we wouldn't hurt each other. I want to be able to look into his eyes and not see eyes of contempt or cold, heartless, animalistic desire. I want to see the eyes of someone who sees me, acknowledges me, desires me to be a part of him and him a part me, and to experience the highest point of pleasure we could reach together.

I want a man to think of me as his equal. I want him to love me. I want him to allow me to love him. I want someone who sees me as worth protecting as I do him. I want him to help me heal old wounds. I want him to desire me as an intellectual counterpart, an emotional lover, and as a sexual being--as a whole being. I want him to respect me. I want him to be able to say no to me when he knows I'm wrong. I want him to help me learn what is right. I want us to help each other.

I want us to think of each other as equals. I want us to love one another. I want us to desire one another as an intellectual counterpart, an emotional lover, and as a sexual being--as a whole being. I want us to respect each other. I want us to be individuals and not be afraid to say no to one another when we know the other is wrong. I want us to help each other learn what is right. I want us to live, love, and grow alongside one another.

It may be too much of me to ask, but I deserve to at least give myself a chance. 

End of the Year Banquet

Tonight was my study abroad program's end of the year banquet. The food was decent. The venue was awesome. I took some great photo with friends and had a few good laughs. Of course, like any other end-of-the-year, sentimental school function they had superlatives.

A few people I knew said that they voted me for Best Dressed Male. I was really hoping for it too... Instead, I won Drama King. When they called my name for it, I didn't really know what to think. Half of my peers were clapping whilst the other half groaned in unison as they realized the insult it was meant to be. To be labeled as your school's drama king... How can I really interpret that? Was it all just out of jest? It doesn't seem so. Knowing my history with people, bullies, and people's bullshit I know there was malicious intent behind it.

It's not so much that the title was insulting. What bothers me is how it can be perceived as such and how it wouldn't surprise me that people voted me for the title out of malicious intent. It was unexpected. I was hoping to have a fun night. Instead, I have this voice in my mind wondering who would have voted me for the title. For me to win, it would have had to have been at least half of the 250 kids that voted. Who knows?

I'm just ready to go home.

I'm Tired of Going to Straight Bars

I'm tired of going to straight bars. Fine, they're not called straight bars, they're just called bars. Nonetheless, they cater to more of the general public where heterosexual men and women are more likely to find someone to hook up with than I am. Hooking meaning make out with, possibly set up a future date with, fuck with, etc. I'm just tired of going out with all my friends, them becoming interested in some random stranger, focusing on said stranger, and me having to either dance by myself or awkwardly leave. It's annoying, frustrating, discouraging, and makes me feel even lonelier.

Fuck no, I'm not going to the gay bar by myself, especially in a foreign country whose main language I can barely speak. Who knows what can happen to me?

I'm sick of being the wing man for my friends, yet the majority of them are unwilling to do the same for me. For example, I went dancing with a friend of mine. She thought this guy dancing near us was really cute, but she refused to initiate a conversation with him. What did I do? I slightly nudged her to him, which started off their conversation. Literally, a minute or so after, they started making out. What did I do in the meantime? Awkwardly dance on my own (cue a song by Robyn of the same name). However, she has yet to do me the same favor... nor has anyone else.

Do they ever realize it? Do they ever realize that it makes me uncomfortable that they basically have a chance with every guy at any generic bar? Do they ever realize that there are times when I feel like an outsider? The feeling intensified by their unwillingness to support me in my own specific fun? Why do I have to be the outsider? It's unfair. It's fucking unfair.

I miss my friends back home. I miss the people back in Chicago who would and have gone with me to gay bars. The people back home are those that actually attempt to find enjoyment in what I find pleasure in. It is never just me trying to fit into their world.

Actually, it's not the straight bars I'm tired of. I'm tired of the people here. I'm tired of the bullshit. I'm tired of the fickleness. Fuck, I'm tired of depending on the bitch ass people here for any sort of companionship. It's very likely that I won't be talking to these people once I return to Chicago... nor would I want to.

A Lone Traveler in Morocco

I think I look pretty bad ass in the picture.

Approximately three weeks ago, I embarked on a lone adventure to Morocco. Why Morocco? Why alone? Well, when I first started my study abroad trip in Italy, I felt so homesick. I was frustrated with the fact that I had been yelled at by an Italian salesclerk earlier that morning. I was frustrated by the fact that the people I thought I had befriended were starting to distance themselves from me and form cliques. I felt alone. I wanted to rebel.

What did I do in response? I stayed up til 3am and booked a flight to the most exotic place RyanAir could take me: Morocco. I decided to do it alone and to do it for the whole ten days of my Spring Break trip. It made me feel adventurous, gutsy, and like a cool lone wolf. Whenever I told people about my ten day trip to Morocco alone, they were amazed and I fed off of their reactions. Meanwhile, a friend of mine who travels for a living told me that it does get lonely after a while and to be careful. I brushed off his warnings and proceeded with my plans.

Mint tea, my only consistent companion.

I started off with four days in Marrakesh followed by a three-day, two-night trip to the Sahara Desert. Afterwards, I took a night train to Tangier, stayed there for a few hours, then proceeded to take a bus to the mountains in Chef Chaouen. I stayed in Chef Chaouen for one night then took a bus the next morning to Fez. I stayed in Fez for two nights then took a train back to Marrakesh early in the morning to catch my flight back to Rome.

My trip to the desert was one of those moments that will always seem surreal to me: when I was experiencing it and when looking back. Riding into the desert during sunset with nothing but the sound of one of my companions' iPods blasting Mumford & Sons into the desert background; it was beautiful. It was a night of a full moon and we enjoyed the company of Berbers. Late at night, with only the full moon as our source of light, the desert seemed so serene, quiet, and content. What I enjoyed most was using a snowboard on the desert dunes.

Marrakesh during high noon.

Overall, I think Marrakesh was the city I fell in love with the most. There was so much sensory stimulation, yet it was not an overload like Fez. The people were much friendlier and courteous in Marrakesh as well. In Fez, people, called faux guides, were constantly approaching me and aggressively offering me their services for an unofficial tour guide. They didn't take no for an answer. I had to literally ignore them and walked for a whole block until they finally gave up. It was frustrating because it really did feel like the whole city was working together to screw over any visitors. The faux guides would sometimes follow me into stores and tell the shopkeepers in Arabic to raise the prices for me, which they took commission off of. I think I paid more than twice the amount I had to for anything during my stay in Fez, the people were there to make money any way they can. I tried to rationalize the whole situation in my mind: telling myself that these people have to live in such circumstances and probably won't leave them, whilst I was merely there for vacation and will be making more money on an hourly wage than they would in a week or so. Even with such reasoning, it was the principle of being taken advantage of that was discouraging. At one point, on my last night in Fez, one faux guides got so mad at me for ignoring him that he proceeded to call me gay. He menacingly said that I shouldn't worry, they didn't kill women, but that I was lower than the status of women. I didn't explicitly do/say anything to show my sexuality and I even tried my best to hide it. His harassment alarmed me so much that I just stayed in my hostel the rest of my last night in the city and waited for my taxi to the train station.

On my final afternoon in Marrakesh before my flight back to Rome, I tried to relive the first four days I had spent there. That afternoon, the orange blossoms were starting to bloom, so their scent seemed to welcome me back. I reminisced about the fellow travelers I had met and come to befriend. The locals who would almost impulsively offer me their seat. I could see how Yves Saint Laurent could fall in love with such a city. It was a place with beauty, character, and a sense of honest charm. Of all the cities I had visited: Marrakesh, Tangier, Fez, Ouarzazate, Chef Chaouen, Merzouga... Marrakesh was the best out of them. The whole place seemed to become your friend and embrace you instead of coldly disregarding you like Tangier or attempt to take advantage of you like Fez.

I will look back at Morocco and think of how much I had grown, how much I've come to realize a greater appreciation for my friends, family, and where I have come from. Perhaps I will return someday, we shall see.

Waiting for Life to Begin

This whole time I've been waiting for life to begin. I've been in Europe for the past two months, yet it all still seems unreal to me. It's not the fact that I cannot believe that I'm here, but the fact that I feel no connection to this place. I feel no desire to be here. This whole time I've wondered when it would finally hit me that I'm in Italy. I asked myself, "When will it happen?" When will I fully realize my presence in Rome, in Italy, in Europe? I only have about six weeks left and I still feel detached from this city.

My attention is always to a different place, to Chicago. In Paris and Marrakesh, I felt my heart and mind were in the right place. However, here, I feel displaced. I feel nothing. I've stood in the center of St. Peter's Square and of St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican. I've looked up at the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel and seen the Coliseum. However, none of them have affected me. I look at them with a blank stare and a heart that does not feel a deeper beat. I wonder if there is something wrong with me. Or perhaps I'm looking for something that is not there?

I've become frustrated with my disconnect. My constant frustration has made me bitter. I've come to detest this city. My attention has focused more and more on the things about this city that irks me. The slow internet speed is unbearable. I can't access porn due to program blockers put up by my school. All fast-food places close by midnight if not earlier. There is no definite place for gay people to come together and hang out. The lack of variety in food. The high cost of everything. The night life is pretty bland here. Fashion and culture are homogenous in comparison to that back home.

Most of all, I miss my friends back home. I see all their pictures online. All of them hanging out together and looking so happy. I sometimes wonder to myself, "Do they remember me?" Yes, it may be selfish of me considering that I have this opportunity to see a totally different part of the world whilst they are still at home. Nonetheless, I wonder if they think of me. I also fear that I will be filled with regret in the end. To only realize the opportunity I have once I am departed from this place. To have my mind set on this place only when I can no longer be here.

Untitled #1

In the eye of the storm, I realized things unknown to me. I saw things that I did not notice in motion. I was a part of it. Not until I was silent and still did I discover the movement of all things around me.

In the present moment, Natalia Ginzburg is my muse and her writing currently fuels my writing.

Perhaps Men Aren't Necessary

Since I came to Italy, I've increasingly realized that perhaps I don't need a man to be happy... ever. Sure, it would be great to have someone to come home to, to be intimate with, to help validate our worth, to support us, and to have sex with. However, are those things necessary to be happy? Do I necessarily need to attain these things from a man or various men? Maybe not.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday out of the whole year. I like it more than Halloween, New Year's, my birthday, and Christmas. I know people, who are single or perhaps even in relationships, that dislike this holiday. I love it not only because it shows me how happy people are in reaffirming their love for each other, but it also allows me to contemplate the self-respect and self love I should have for myself.

This past Valentine's Day, I realized that I'm happy. I'm happy to be surrounded by the friends and acquaintances I have come to possess. I don't really know if I will ever have that one person who would exceptionally love me. I'm fine with that uncertainty because the friends I have right now give me the certainty I need to know that someone will be there, around me, to love and support me.

Last night, my friend and I stayed in instead of going out to the bars. I've always been single and she recently broke up with her boyfriend a few weeks ago (he broke up with her via Skype, which is a shitty move considering that he's back in the U.S. and we're in Italy), so we thought it'd be nice to stay in and watch a movie. We chose to watch Halloween (yes, very fitting, right?) while eating whatever we could find out of the fridge. Yes, imagining it, the latter act seems like something someone would do to compensate for their emotional distress. However, for us, I think we just didn't give a fuck and wanted to indulge ourselves and enjoy each others company. I loved it. Certainly, the fact that it was Valentine's Day was mentioned once or twice between us, but we didn't make a big deal of it. What mattered to us was the company of the other and having a good time no matter the situation.

Sexually, I haven't had sex or been physically intimate with another guy for the past two months. I haven't even jacked off in the past three days (which is notable considering that I usually jack off five times a day, everyday). I'm still a sexual person and I do have a sexual attraction towards men, but I feel more in control of it. Maybe it's the fact that the men here are beautiful by any standards and they can keep entertained amongst themselves, but at the moment I feel that I have greater control of my sexual drive. When the time comes that a man actually shows interest in me, I believe that I'll have the will and power to decide as to whether it would be a worthwhile encounter that would benefit me overall (and not pounce on him because he's the first guy to show interest).

In two weeks and two days, I will be leaving for Morocco and traveling around the country for ten days, on my own. People I've mentioned this to are surprised, perhaps even concerned, that I've decided to travel on my own in a foreign country, especially one like Morocco. I think that it's a trip and journey I need and want to take for myself. I want to actually be alone with my thoughts and emotions in a place that holds no memory of me and perhaps come to a realization of self. Three nights in Marrakesh, two nights in the Sahara Desert, two nights in Fez, one night in Tangier three nights of wherever the wind (and trains) may take me, and back to Marrakech on my last day for my flight back to Rome. Wouldn't it be lovely to say that I traveled to such an exotic place by myself for such a length of time? This is one of those rare moments in which I can say that I'm proud of myself and happy.

You've All Abandoned Me

No one reads "me" anymore. People stopped commenting, viewing, or even glancing at my blogs. I first started this as a tool for self-contemplation. However, I came to feed off of people's thoughts on my experiences. I left in order to start anew and see if a part of my "self" existed there in my second blog. Even there, I sought attention, which was left unnoticed. Perhaps I wanted you all to see that I can be happy and believe in such happiness, hoping that you all could convince me as well... in my successes of traveling abroad. However, you all left.

The hallways of opinions have gone silent. Not even an echo of my words or the trailing footsteps of my thoughts linger. Do you all remember me? Do you all know me? Feel curious about me?

I am a person who reaches out hoping to be noticed. An existence wanting to be acknowledged. Or will I be forgotten? Will my words, which I hoped to touch even one person, be scoffed and weathered down to nothingness by time and progress? Will I diminish back to being a stranger?

I can offer no sexually provocative pictures, hilarious nor cynical quips. All that I can offer and have offered is myself.

You are all gone. Should I disappear as well?

Mother.

My mother just sent me an e-mail saying that she was recently released from the hospital after experiencing a mild stroke. I never realized how close Death and how real mortality is until an encounter is experienced by a loved one. It's a strange feeling when one realizes the inevitable transience of life... For a moment, my head felt high. My mind felt numb. My body tingled as if it had fallen asleep. Is it what they call disbelief? Doubt?

After the initial shock, my mind goes back to doubting death. It goes back to hoping, perhaps even silently pleading. It's not a sharp pain or even excruciating. It's a dull, mind grinding pain. It's like a sort of pain that one should get used to and be able to ignore after some time... but one never does. It feels as if you're on the cliffhanger waiting for impending doom to occur. Yet you still hope for the best. Even pessimists hope.

After the doubt, my mind cycles back to the reality of the matter. What will happen next? What if something much worse happens? Who will take care of my family? Who will take care of my little sister? I'm in a totally different country, a totally different continent. What can I do? Why am I so helpless? Who will hold the family together? My mother was the one that held us together even when she wasn't physically there. Yes, at times we dreaded the gravitational pull she had on us, but subconsciously I knew... I knew that it was home. Where my heart was, where she was, it was home. No matter how much I wanted to prove my independence, to show that I could survive without her, without any of my family, I still wish for them to be by my side nonetheless.

I'm not emotionally close to my mother. I love her and respect her, but I stopped telling her I loved her when I was around 11 years old. At that point, I thought that sort of love was implied. I believed that it didn't need to be said. In the past I've thought of how my parents' passing is inevitable. I thought of how I should, how I must, savor every moment I have left with them. My mother's face will be preserved in pictures, but her voice, her warmth, her presence will certainly fade. Once my parents are gone, the world will truly be uncertain as my generation, as I, will have to completely reign over life and guide it with the voice left by what will soon pass.

I Was Afraid

I stopped writing because I was afraid. I was afraid of how I was portraying myself. I stopped writing in this blog because I found myself to be so depressing. Even when I wrote things that were intended to be positive and lighthearted friends would ask, "Kenneth, why do you sound so sad?" It would catch me by surprise or confusion because I thought I was happy. I thought that I had masked over the tinge of sadness quite well. However, the more light I shined upon myself, the greater the shadows seemed. The more inevitable and prominent it became.

I tried to escape my own mind by stopping the narration of certain aspects of my life. I thought that the negativity was perpetuated by my writing and its ability to recapture and dwell on fleeting memories... memories of bliss but also of pain. I believed that this blog, this area, this "thing" that has become an outlet for certain parts of my mind and heart had become stained. I saw it as a canvas that had become mistakenly stained by a pitiful darkness within myself.  It became an apparition of my mind outside of my mind, therefore taking a life of its own. From this, it held a gentle grasp on me, to hold me where I was and to keep me writing of sorrows that allowed such an entity to exist.

I believed that if I walked away from this, my sadness wouldn't be such a threat, such a prominent figure in my life. I thought that if I started with a new canvas to write and perceive myself, I could steer it from gaining the same pattern as this blog had. Unfortunately, I was wrong. It didn't matter where I went or how I wrote, the sadness was still there. By walking away and shrouding over different fragments of my life, I neglected myself as a whole. Yes, I get sad. Sure, I get lonely. Certainly, I can be contemptuous. These things are me along with introspective, passionate, compassionate, intelligent, and progressive.

Life isn't as simple black or white, neither is one's soul. What I'm saying is that I've returned. I've come back with an improved perception of self. I admit to being imperfect, but I still see the life I live and my humanity as beautiful. What I must do is live with a heavy heart and mind... a heart heavy with emotions and a mind heavy with thoughts and curiosity that validate my status as a free-willed being.