I’m experiencing a dating drought. It’s been over seven months any boy’s crossed my mind–the same amount of time I’ve been living at home. (Not a coincidence.) I’m ready to get back into it when I move out next month, but I’ll probably take it slow and meet them naturally so as to air out my rusty hinges.
I don’t necessarily have a type, but if you ask my friends, they’ll say that the dating biggest change I’ve made this year has been the way I perceive Asian guys. While I used to see them as brothers, I’ve started coming around to the idea–even developing infatuations once in a while.
The unfortunate side effect is that my interest in Caucasian guys has all but disappeared. They barely register on my radar. Imagine only being able to see the color blue, but then one day waking up and only seeing red. The novelty is awesome, but you’re still limited. Having a smaller pool of people to work with is never good.
I’ve spent about 13 years in California amongst hoards of “my kind,” which is just about the amount of time I spent in Ohio, where I was naturally attracted to who I saw: boys who looked like Nick Carter. I was raised amidst obnoxious tailgaters, Christian hospitality, Girl Scouts and fast food. I enjoyed most of it.
Like most kids who grew up as the only one of their kind, I felt the differences and slight inconveniences every day, but it didn’t traumatize me. Even if I was the only person of color in a whole class of 30, people rarely spoke of the elephant in the room. However, the one time my race would absolutely be noticed was when there were two elephants.
Daniel Kim came to our school in fourth grade, the second East Asian to join our grade level after myself. The first thing my desk mates asked was if I liked him. They spent a few days concerning themselves with our nonexistent relationship, and eventually found other interests, like Game Boy.
If that wasn’t enough of an invitation ignore him like the plague, his personality sealed the deal. He was rude and slow and always eating. In hindsight, looked a spitting image of Kim Jong-un. He might have thought similarly about me, which allowed us to maintain a huge distance for years.
A year later, the peanut gallery was simmering again. This time, saying I would make a cute couple with DJ, the only other black guy in our grade and one of my best friends. Though I didn’t want to date him, this was a quantum leap from Daniel. DJ was one of the most popular kids in school, but respected for his sense of humor and intelligence rather than sporting skills. We were thrown together a lot, and I relished it. Meanwhile, we both harbored various secret crushes on all the cute, sensitive white boys and girls in our class.
So it’s no big deal in California, but I feel a little victorious whenever I dig a fellow yellow. The only ones who will be even happier are my parents.