 |
| photo: Joshua Franzos |
For the longest time, I couldn't tell you why the ice breaker question I dread the most is, "Tell me about yourself."
Under a stoic veneer is heart-racing panic. I shrink back into the liminal sidelines of anonymity. Who, me? I don't exist. I'm just a mutable enigma existing in the inbetween. Why would I think to define myself, when it's always been done for me?
My Grandmother is Japanese. My mother half. Me? As the apple is sliced, I should be 25%, but my DNA test insists that I'm 29%, and at least 1% Korean. 30% Asian in total, my genes were stacked in favor of my Asian ancestry and it shows on my face. White people have always stared. There was something about me they couldn't put their finger on, and their curiosity usually won out over their manners. "What are you?" As early as age six, I tried to explain, clumsily navigating the language of my identity with a first grade vocabulary. At first I was proud, then I grew to resent it when I wasn't Asian enough to call myself Asian with my Asian playmates, or when white people kept stumbling over the clues written on my face. Through their narrowed eyes, I knew. I didn't belong. From a distance I could pass as white, but under tough scrutiny, I didn't. "Oh, I thought you might be Mexican, or Italian, or Israeli, but you got some Jap in ya instead!" During my modeling years, I was often too ethnic for roles, or not ethnic enough. Too much or not enough, never "just right," like Goldilocks was rumored to say.
 |
| photo: Joshua Franzos |
The year 2000 marked the first year the United States Census had a bi-racial check box. Before that I had to claim Asian or claim white, but certainly deny one part of my heritage. Different forms sometimes had an "other" check box. I often checked that because it was my only option. I was twenty years old in 2000, and by then, after years of not fitting into neat boxes and being constantly othered, the damage was already done. My race, my chameleon sense of style, even the values that might define my character were so fluid, I was practically water. Recently, I became agitated—but not surprised when I learned mixed race individuals often experience developmental delays in self identity. No wonder I've been farting around so long with fashion and how I could use it to help define myself. Funny how I chose a wordless language to try and communicate.
 |
| photo: Joshua Franzos |
In 2019 a friend showed me an art book called, Part Asian, 100% Hapa.
It featured Kip Fulbeck's portraits of multiply ethnic people that
were at least a little bit Asian, and they called themselves Hapa—which
is a Hawaiian term meaning a person of mixed ethnic ancestry. These beautiful and oddly familiar faces were celebrating their unique mix and embracing Hapa-ness. Though the book was not meant for me (it was meant for the awesome Hapa children of another dear friend,) tears
lined my lower eyelids that day. Finally, there was a term, a two
syllable word for what I was instead of a rambling dynastic prologue. And, I had a tribe. Not to name drop, but I have a friend with an ardent
infatuation with Keanu Reeves. As I watch pictures of him float by in her stories, one day I smacked my
forehead and laughed. Keanu! Our most famous fellow Hapa tribesman! Why have I never noticed it before? Goddam.
 |
| photo: Joshua Franzos |
 |
| photo: Joshua Franzos |
I'm not implying that everything became hunky-dory overnight once I learned I was Hapa. In the wake of the Coronavirus pandemic, Asian hate crimes and racism are at an all time high, and I'm still doing a lot of soul searching on what defines me, if only accepting that I may be indefinable. But even as late as November 2020, I was filling out a form for a state permit when I was informed that I couldn't be bi-racial, or Asian. I could only check: black, white, or unknown. Every option available to me was a lie. Instead of letting the racist ass form define me, I decided once and for all that forms are stupid and while their intent might be to impose imaginary limits, I won't let them anymore. Cue Whitney Houston's Greatest Love of All. (I'm not crying, you're crying.)
“invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
don't swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself and
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can never categorize you.
reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented.
be self-taught.
and reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to
you.”
― The Pleasures of the Damned
 |
| photo: Joshua Franzos |
What I wore:
T-Shirt: The Avantehermetico Etsy Shop Bukowski Pleasures of the Damned
Paper clip necklace: Universal Thread, Target
Sword necklace:Marla Studio Gladius Sword in Bronze, 18" chain
Sunglasses: old Ray-Ban (this link is the cheapest new version, I could find $160 vs. $211)
Bag: Vintage Carlos Falchi butterfly bag in black python, bought from The Real Real
Lace mini: Forever 21 c/o Thred-UP
Gold boat shoes: Sperry. Now a collector's item. They haven't been re-issued in some time. There are still some sizes available on the internet if you dig for them.
 |
| photo: Joshua Franzos |
Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,
No comments:
Post a Comment