Underneath my yellow skin

Not fit for polite society

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I’m back to talk about being a weirdo. Here was my last post on it. I was listening to MPR on the way to and home from Cubs (I’ve gotten into Lactaid cottage cheese and lentil chips lately), and the topic was on having kids in the current US climate. The hypothesis was that people in their twenties and thirties were much more hesitant to have kids for reasons outside of themselves than in the past. I was interested in this because as someone who does not have children and never wanted them, I feel like society is still very child-heavy in general.

There were a few comments from people on the reasons why they chose not to have kids (or were waffling on them). The two who were played on the show said they were concerned about bringing children into this world. The first, a man, said that he wondered about bringing a daughter into a society that was increasingly limiting choice and the second, a woman, said she could not bring a child into a world that sanctioned genocide.

The section on the way howe was talking with a woman about the shift in society about having children in general. She was in her early thirties (I think) and was seven months pregnant. She said that it felt like society had shifted much more to ‘don’t have children unless you’re absolutely sure you want them/can raise them right’. She said in the past, if you were on the fence, it was more, ‘have them and deal with whatever comes up. It’ll be fine.’

My immediate thought was that the former was the correct way to think and why the hell would you want the latter to be the norm? I have always believed that it’s better to really think about why you want to have children than just to have them because you think you should.

The woman went on to say that in her circle, no one was having children so it was isolating. I’m not discounting any of that because I don’t have any reason to think that’s not true in her circle. However, her broader assertions about society in general made me skeptical. To my eye, it looked like the pressure to have children, especially on young women, was the same as before. Then again, she wasn’t exactly contradicting that–just that people were also expecting that you be in the ideal position to have children.

That I can believe. People are irrational at their core. I could see the mentality being, “Yes, you have to have children, but not until you ________________” (fill in the blank with ‘have been is a loving relationship for five years; enough money to use a day care center/nanny/au pair; have your career in a stable place, etc.”


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Being weird should be the norm

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Here’s the thing about being weird. Yes, I’m doing a cold open. Here was the last post about me being weird if you want to catch up. I think this is four? Something like that.

I don’t want to be normal, whatever that means.

Side note: (Yes, this early!) I was complaining to K several decades ago about how I was such a weirdo and didn’t want the normal life. I was complaining in the context of how I wished I could be normal and not such a freak. She said, and I’m paraphrasing, “But Minna, you don’t want to be married and have kids. You don’t want to do any of those things. You would be miserable.”

She is right. I don’t want any of that. None of it sounds appealing to me, and I realized that what I wanted was a sense of belonging–not the actual markers of being ‘normal’. I want to be able to be me, more or less, and not have to explain my thought process all the goddamn time.

Side note II: I love the word heuristics. I love the idea of a heuristic. We can’t function without heuristics because it’s impossible to analyze everything every moment of the day. For example, when you reach a stoplight, it would be difficult if you didn’t know that red means stop, yellow means caution, and green means go. If you had to figure that out every time you reached a stoplight, you would not be able to drive.

That’s a silly example, but it’s an easy one for people to understand. Heuristics extend to societal norms. We greet each other warmly when we meet, and we are civil unless we’re given a reason not to be. Societal norms dictate our interactions. Again, I’m not saying we should get rid of them all. What I am saying is that they shouldn’t be so rigid that people who aren’t a part of them can’t fit in at all.

Unfortunately, it’s very common for a group to close ranks. I am a lifelong Democrat, but that doesn’t mean that I approve of everything they say and do. This is my issue with groups in general–it’s too easy for the rules to become calcified. And for them to quickly close ranks. This is my issue with the weird epithet being hurled at Trump and Vance by Harris and Walz. It’s drawing a line I’m not comfortable with. I get that it’s signalling who’s in and who’s out–but it doesn’t do anything to make me feel like I’m in.

The probem with talking about ‘normal average Americans’ is that I’m not one and have never been. I’m on the fringe of the fringe, and it’s not even close. I’m weird, and I feel alienated by people in my party who are denigrating the weirdos.


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I can’t NOT be weird

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I’m weird. This is my third post about it. I have plenty to say, so I’m going to keep going until I am done. I ended the last post by asking whether I would be normal if I could. My short answer was, “I don’t know.”

For the most part, I like who I am. Well, let me phrase that a bit differently. I like the components of myself that are usually problematic to other people or ‘not normal’. Asian, bisexual, agender, nonmonogamous, aromantic, etc. I love my hobbies of writing, From games (well, that’s love-hate, but more love than hate. Just), and Taiji/Bagua.

My immediate thought was that I would change things about myself if I could in order to be normal. After a second thought, though, I changed my mind. When I thought about each individual aspect of my being, I couldn’t think of any that I would change. I’m not talking about my flaws, by the way. I have plennty of those that I would give up in a heartbeat. The different aspects of my personality, though? Let’s go through them one by one.

Taiwanese American? I like being Taiwanese American. It’s a unique perspective that not many people share–especially since my parents are pro-independent Taiwan. It does get irritating when Chinese people want to say we’re the same–we are not. And, no one knows anything about Taiwan, but I ain’t mad about that. It’s such a tiny island, and I don’t know much myself. I will say I appreciate that my Taiwanese genes are keeping me looking young. I look at least ten years younger than my age–if not more. no one thinks I’m in my fifties, which is funny because everyone thought I was older when I was a kid.

Bisexual? I’m not keen on the term, but I love being one. I also don’t like pansexual or omnisexual. They both are just a bit too precious to me. I would prefer just to say sexual, but that’s precious in and of itself. Plus, it gives out the wrong message. I prefer queer, but most people think that just means gay. So until I can find something that feels better, I’ll stick with bisexual. Some bis have taken it to mean, “I’m attracted to people like me and people not like me”, which will do for now. I like having the choices, though. I like that I can be attracted to anyone. What can I say? I like having my choices.

Agender? This one is iffy. I would be fine with being a woman if it didn’t feel so restrictive. Gender roles are still so rigid in this society. You would think in 2024, we would have moved forward in this aspect–and we have! But just, sadly, not that far. Or rather, not far enough for me. If I were twenty years old, I probably would have chosen nonbinary, but it doesn’t feel right to me.


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I’m weird–and damn proud of it, part two

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In yesterday’s post, I was talking about how the Democrats are harping on the Republicans being weird. At first, I thought it was a good move (and I still do), but then it started annoying me. As I mentioned, I have been a weirdo all my life. I have never fit into any group, really, and I got comfortable being on the fringes of society. I embraced ‘weird’ as a descriptor and wore it like a badge of pride.

There was a time when I was defiant about it. Being weird was my cloak and my shield against the brutality of the world. Once I embraced it, I didn’t feel as defensive about it. I was rather proud of being different and staying true to myself.

Side note: On the inside. On the outside, I was constantly adapting and molding myself to societal norms. I am really good at social interactions beacuse I’ve spent so much time making myself that way. It was not an option,o and I have learned it to a fault. I am not displeased about it, to be honest, because it has made my interactions with the gen pub easier in general. I can talk about weather until the cows come home without even breaking a sweat.

In addition, I can read other people’s facial cues and body language to a ridiculous degree. Sometimes, too much so. I jump the gun and freak people out when I react to how they are going to act, even before they do or say anything.

This has been somethnig I’ve been doing all my life–constantly adapting to how others react to me. That’s not unusual in and of itself. Everybody does it to some extent. In my case, though, I felt like I started on square -100. I liked to joke that I was raised by wolves, but it was not far from the truth. My parents had no interest in American culture. Well, more to the point, my father didn’t so my mother was forced not to because of course she had to do whatever my father wanted.

Back to being weird. If I were to shuck off all my masks and just be myself, I would be labeled a huge weirdo. Again, I’m fine with that–on a theoretical level. Meaning, I’m fine with being a weirdo, but I’m not so sure I’m fine with being viewed as a weirdo. Or rather, I don’t want to stick out all the time. I was talking with A about color. She likes to wear bright pastels; I like to wear black. All black, all the time. Right before the pandemic hit, I decided I wanted to branch out a bit. I bought a deep red tunic top with flowers on it, and I planned on buying more colorful clothes. Then the pandemic hit, and I lost all interest in buying clothes. Plus, black goes with everything. There is no matching needed, really.

I would like to try again, I think. There are other colors I like. Deep red; burnt orange; earth brown; racing car green. Deep earth tones, in other words. When I was talking to A about it, I said that I was hiding in the background and wearing color would make me noticed. She said, “Is it always bad to be noticed?” I thought about it, and she was right. It’s not, but I have spent so much of my life trying to hide and not be noticed. I was so used to being not seen even when I was seen tha I didn’t want to be seen–if that makes sense.


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I’m weird–and damn proud of it

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We have to talk about this weird thing. Or rather, I have to talk about it because it’s still bugging me. I get why the Dems have used it as a pejorative for Trump and Vance, but they are more creepy (and infuriating) than weird. At least the weird that was tossed at me consistently throughout my life.

Being Taiwanese in a white-ass suburb of Minnesota in the 80s? Weird.

Being a woman at all in the early 90s? Weird.

Being a woman who did not like ‘womanly’ things in the 90s? VERY weird.

Being bisexual in the early 90s? Weird.

Getting a tattoo in the early 90s? Weird.

Those were all when I was in my early twenties. Add to that not wanting to have children (BIG WEIRD) and not wanting to get married (also weird), then also not wanting to be in a monogamous long-term relationship.

Even the one area in which I’m in a ‘positive’ minority (money), I would be considered weird if anyone knew. I just don’t talk about it, and no one knows that my family has money.

When Harris and Walz started calling Trump and Vance weird, I was into it because it made the latter so unhappy and angry. It really bugged them because they, like most Republicans, like to trumpet loudly about how normal (and manly manly) they are, unlike the effete limosuine liberals from San Francisco who sip their lattes with their pinkies up and drink their milkshakes through a straw.

Granted, it’s hard to do that to Walz because he’s about as Midwestern dad as they come. I saw a clip about how his brother, whom he hasn’t spoken to in decades, ominously said, “Oh the stories I could tell about this guy. He’s not what he seems.” The deep dark secret turned out to be that no one wanted to sit next to him when they were kids in the car on a long ride because he got carsick and would throw up. When he was prodded on it, he said that was it. He added, “I don’t know why pyeople think there’s anything deeper.” Because you were pushing it hard that there were some deep dark secrets, dude!


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More about gaslighting in my family

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In my last post, I was talking about my mother and how she lies/deep-sixes uncomfortable/bad memories. The biggest example I have is from the last time she was here, and it has stuck in my mind as to how it brightly highlighted how my mother’s mind worked.

I was in the living room on my laptop when my mather came racing in the room, crying. My father was hot on her heels and screaming at her. He was accusing her of stealing his money, which was one of his recurring themes in his dementia. He lived in poverty when he was a kid, and my parents didn’t have much money when they f irst married. Like, really scrimping and saving, in addition to them sending money back home to my father’s family (but not my mother’s for sexist reasons).

Side note: my father has been weird about his money all his life. For the most part, he was stingy as he pinched a penny hard. It’s understandable, but he took it to extremes. And in very disaparate, disconnected ways. I have mused about it before, but he was very penny wise, pound foolish. He would gripe about two kiwis costing a dollar when he came to visit (apparently, it’s cheaper in Taiwan), but then he will spend a hundred dollars on a water pick for his teeth (this was decades ago).

Which, I get. We all have the things we will splurge on. For me, it was my last desktop (the computer I’m writing on right now). But at least I’m aware of my weak points. My father isn’t and never has.

Now that he’s in his dementia, I have to pretty much let it go. Let what go? The resentment, the expectations (as minimal as they were to begin with), and  any hope for an authentic relationship. I mean, to be honest, I did not have the last at all with my father–ever. At least since I was in my twenties. Instead, I have to practice taking my father as he is, which is where Taiji really helps out. It teaches me to be in the moment and just be.

Anyway. The fight. My father was shouting at my mother, and I unwisely put myself between them. Literally and metamophorically. Sometime in my thirties or forties, I looked at my father and realized that he could not hurt me physically. Emotionally, yes, but not physically. That helped psychologically in a way I can’t completely explain.

I stood between my father and my mother, and outshouted my father. I’m not proud of it, but it is, as the kids say, what it is. Sometimes you have to outbully a bully, and in that moment, he was bullying my mom. Again, it was about money and how she was stealing from him. Or maybe it was about his driver’s license and how we refused to give it to him. That latter was true, by the way. There was no way he should be driving, but he was very stubborn about it. My mother allowed him to beat her down (metaphorically) until she let him drive to Cubs for instance. She argued that it was so close, but it really doesn’t matter. That’s a spurious argument, but she could not say no to him.


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More family dysfunction and the truth

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I am back to talk more about my family. Here is yesterday’s post about my father’s problems with his memory. I have saved my mother for last because as usual, it’s the most complicated and entangled relationship. My brother and I get along great, and I don’t worry about annoying/hurting/bothering him because he’ll never remember it if I am. My father is my father, and it was pretty clear from when I was a kid that he was self-absorbed narcissist who would never care about anyone but himself. It wasn’t until much later that I realized he didn’t even love himself. That’s why he kept grasping for anything to fill the empty hole in his soul. Deep gaping maw.

Because he was so badly broken, it was easy to say, “This is a him problem, not a me problem.” It was different with my mother. Why? Because she can act like an actual human being. A deeply flawed one, yes, but one with ties to this actual world. Yes, that’s a dig on my father, and not even a subtle one.

This is where societal norms come in. I am from two cultures that venerate parents to an unhealthy degree, albeit in very different ways. In America, we give such lip service to family and how pro-family we are. We are not, which is probably not a shocker to anyone, but it’s a great sound bite. Mothers are special! Mothers love their children without restraint and will do anything for them!

On the other hand, Taiwanese culture is (or was, at least) about venerating your elders to a ridiculous degree (yes, I’m saying that with an American bias). You call your relatives different names based on their status in the family. What I mean is big brother has a different title than younger brother, for example. There is a very complicated heiarchy as to who is venerated the ost. Grandparents, then father, then mother, then sons…wait. Sons may go before mother. Girls are really treated like shit. Or at least they were. My knowledge is decades old because my parents have not evolved at all since the sixties.

Both of these fucked with my head because the underlying message was that there was no bad parents. Again, for different reasons. In America, it aligned with the toxic positivity that is so prevalent in this country. Parents are the best! Parents are all good and only want good for their children! (But, again, we will not do anything to support parents. Shhhhhh!)


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The keeper of my family’s truth

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I’m still musing about my dysfunctional family, and today I want to focus on the fact that everyone in my family has a bad memory, but for different reasons. In yesterday’s post, I talked about my truth and how important it is to me. Today, I’m going to talk about how difficult it is to hold onto my truth when my family doesn’t support that. At all.

Side note: One thing I learned about having autism is that people with autism can be easier to manipulate because they just assume that other people are right and they’re wrong (because they’re told so often, implicitly and explicitly that they are wrong). And because it doesn’t really occur to them that someone would deliberately lie to them. I have difficulty with sarcasm for that reason. The deadpan kind, I mean–when it’s out of the blue. I’m very used to reading people intently for clues as to how to react to them, but deadpan gets to me. My brother is really good at deadpan, which means I miss his jokes more often than I would with other people.

It took me a long time to realize that everyone in my family (including me now, to a certain extent) are really bad at remembering things–but for completely different reasons.

With my brother, he just has a bad memory. Could it be related to ihs neuroatypicalness? Maybe. Could it be related to his face blindness? Maybe. Could it just be a very bad memory? Maybe. But it’s something I’ve come to accept about him.

Here’s a recent example. About a year ago, I had an issue with Xfinity and my internet.

Side note (yes, again. Deal with it!): I fucking hate monopolies. It’s so fucking hard to get customer service at Xfinity unless you have a billing issues (which I just had–this week. Got a person then, right away. Funny, that), that it makes me actively angry.

Anywaay. It had to do with my data usage. One of the issues turned out to be my modem. I bought a new one and had my brother come over to hook it up for me. He spoke to the representative for forty-five minutes before we drove to the nearest store and talked to them there (that did it).

A month or so later, I mentioned to him that it had worked as a hack (not completely, but good enough), and my brother said, “Oh, you bought the new modem?” I was gobsmacked into silence. Several seconds later, I said, “You installed it for me. You talked to the rep for forty-five minutes.”

He remembered when I mentioned it, but he had completely forgotten it before that. And it had been at most a month earlier. As hard as it is for me to grasp, he truly forgets things soon after they happen. Not all things, but many things.

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Do not placate me when I say my truth

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I have more to say about the truth and honesty. I’m for it. The end.

No, seriously. I am very much about my internal truth because I had to deny it for so long. When I was kid, I was made to hold  in any negative emotion. My parents did not want to hear anything about anything. They wanted me to be quiet and smile and just exist. Honestly, I’m not even sure about the last bit.

You know the saying, “Children should be seen, but not heard”? My father believed children should not be seen nor heard. And my mother supported my father in almost everything.

In addition, my mother was constantly rewriting history so that it said what she wanted it to say. When I was in my mid-thirties, I realized that she was a gaslighter. Not on purpose, but she will always tell a story the way she wanted it to end. She said something mean or rude? Never happened. She did something that showed her in a bad light? No, she didn’t.

Here’s my last post, by the way, before I continue on.

I am passionate about my truth. At the same time, I’m also passionate about being protective of my soul and heart. What I mean is that if I know someone is going to be callous with either, I have no compunction about lying to them. Usually by omission, but sometimes, it’s a deliberate lie. Or, as I talked about it with A, I tell a lie/untruth/skirt around the truth out loud, but say the truth in my mind. That makes me feel better. Does it really make a difference? Probably not, but it makes it more palatable to me.

I am a slow learner. As with most people, I was taught that honesty was of utmost importance, and it was a sin to lie. Both church-wise and culturally. At the same time, my truths were so far from eveyrone else’s truth, I didn’t feel safe saying mine out loud–especially not to my parents.

My parents could not handle the truth. Again, I learn that fairly late in my life. My mother did not like to hear anything that countered how she thought life should be and my father simply did not hear anything that did not adhere to his beliefs.

With the latter, it was easy to tell when my father did not like where a conversation was going. He would get a look on his face as if he’d eaten a lemon, and his eyes would go blank. I have known for decades that when he gets like that, it’s best to not say a damn word. However, he has the knack for saying the exact thing that will set me off. I don’t know if he does it on purpose, but he certainly gets enjoyment from it. At least until I talk back to him.


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I mean what I say; no more, no less

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I’m thinking more about how my brain works and how it doesn’t. In my last post, I was talking about how this manifested when talking about my parents and how people were uncomfortable when I said they didn’t love me.

Side note: Yes, this early in the post! I am pretty sure I’m neuroatypical. Now. I never thought that about myself until talking about it with a friend six or seven months ago. Maybe more? Anyway, I knew I was a weirdo. I knew I didn’t think like other people did. I felt as if there was a manual on how to human that I had never gotten. It’s partly because of cultural issue, but it was also me feeling like I was broken. All the other kids would talk and laugh, seemingly knowing what each other was talking about. I had no clue, and no matter how much I studied the others, I did not gain a clue.

Side note two: My family was not at all immersed in American culture. I can’t remember a time we went to an American movie, for example. We did go to a fast food restaurant every Sunday after church, but that was probably a time thing. Best meal I had every week, too. Big Mac, fries, a diet pop, and a hot fudge sundae if it was McDonald’s. A chicken parm, fries, and a diet coke if it’s Burger King. Once in a while at Mickey D’s, I would have one of the ‘pies’ rather than the sundae, but not often. We went to Arby now and then, and it was meat and cheese. Very tasty, actually.

My mom was a health nut before it was a thing. We did not have sweets in the house, and she put me on my first diet when I was seven. Her goal was to get me married and having babies by the time I was wenty-five, and I wasn’t going to get it done if I was fat (in her eyes). My father is from farmer stock, and I have a mesomorph’s body. I am thick all the way around. Even when I was anorexic, I still had broad shoulders and thick thighs.

No matter how much I whittled away at my frame, I was never going to be a languid, slender, lissome person. And you know what? I don’t want to be. I like being strong. I like having muscles. I like feeling like I could beat the shit out of an attacker if I needed to. I have biceps that bulge as I practice my weapons forms. I have thighs and calves that could be used as tree trunks.

I love my body now. Plain and simple. I have my moments of insecurity (in fact, I’m in one now), but it’s more because of the intense societal pressuer to be thin. I do want to eat better, which includes cuoking, but let’s be real. I am not going to cook.

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