I remember seeing those grainy photographs with a sense of bewilderment. I was a young child entering my preteen years, flipping through chapters and quizzes of my American history textbook. In one photo, I saw people adorned in white garbs with pointed hats and cutouts for eyes, waving flags as they marched. In the other […]
I stood there waiting, night breeze cooling my skin. I looked at this little world around me: Parents soothing tired children, eager for summer vacation; others running to loving embrace as they reunite with family: others impatient for their Uber, weary from their travels and desperate for their own bed. The incessant stream of headlights
It’s different here at night, with walkways relieved of their daily burden; their stained tiles catching fresh breath. I wonder where they’re all going, wandering closed stalls in the after-hours. The warm breeze brings muted wafts of seafood and produce. They saunter the hollowed market; a befitting Seattle summer evening.
What a journey it has been to fit into my own body, learning to navigate the world not as a man, but as a gay man; not as a Chinese man, but as a gay Chinese man. I feared to associate with those words, as if they admitted defeat; How I detested that wounding intersection.
If home is where the heart is, how does the heart know where home is? This past week, I interviewed some neighbors for a project about finding home—how they they define home, where they find home (and the more colloquial “home home”), and ways that they make a place, a neighborhood, or a city feel
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