Underneath my yellow skin

Category Archives: Personal Life

In My Ideal World, I can just breathe

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Still talking about being a weirdo is a very straitlaced world. Here is the post from yesterday. Sometimes, I get jaded when I hear other people talk about things they consider ‘weird’ because it often falls into what I consider to be mildly diffreent. Or even if it’s more out there, it’s not super out there.

It’s hard to explain, really, but as someone who is on the fringe of everything, I don’t assume that anything about my life is normal. Not my hobbies; not my beliefs; not my traits/identities. One fairly tame example is when I worked at the county as an administrative assistant. I was on the floor with all the executives of the different departments. That meant that there were people from very disparate departments on one floor. There was a researcher who was roughly my age and also a woman (as I identified as at the time). We would casually chat about this and that, and it was fine. I only saw her once a week or so, so it was certainly not a steady thing.

Somehow, we found out that we were both bisexual. She was with a male partner in what she thought might be an abusive relationship. That was an interesting discussion to have, but it’s not the reason I brought her up. Once, we were talking about sex. Yes, wildly inappropriate for the workplace, but not surprising with that particular workplace. Somehow, the question of attraction came up. I said that I would walk down the street, see someone hot, and think about how they would be in bed.

My colleague looked at me as if  Itold her I was streaking on the streets on the regular. Or as if I had said that I was punching people in the face randomly and for no good reason. I asked her what was wrong and she said that women don’t think like that. My brain screeched to a halt because she was telling me, self-identified as a woman at the time, that something I had just said was something that ‘women’ didn’t do/think. She was completely serious and did not see how fucked up what she was saying was.

Side note: This is human nature, by the way. We think/believe things beyond all ratinal belief. If something threatens our sense of self and what we believe, we will go to ridiculous lengths to explain it away. That’s why it’s so hard to get someone out of acult, for example. Or why conspiracy theorists are impossible to reason with. They will simply dismiss anything that doesn’t fit into their preconceived notions/ideas/beliefs. Again, we all do this–it’s just to what extent any given person will do it.

I looked at her and told her I, a woman, was telling her to her face that this was something I did. She said that she had talked about this with all her female friends (ten! Ten women! All the women!) about this very thing, and all of them said they could not imagine doing that. Therefore! No! Women! Would! Ever! Do! That!


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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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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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Take me at my word

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I realized a few decades ago that many people are not comfortable with plain speaking. I don’t mean brutal honesty because I am not into that, but I do mean speaking without euphemisms. I started saying I was fat because I am. I don’t like ‘plump’ or ‘zaftig’ or ‘fluffy’. I don’t hate them, either, but they’re too vague for me. ‘Fat’ is a good, solid word. There’s nothing hidden about it. To me, it’s a neutral term, though I understand that other people don’t like it. I only use it to describe myself, not other people (unless they are like-minded).

Another term is old. I use it for myself in the RKG Discord because I’m definitely on the old side. I don’t think 53 is that old, but it’s ancient in gaming. I mean, the kids are complaining when they hit thirty of being old, so, yeah.

A concept that I get push back for is something I mentioned in yesterday’s post: My parents don’t love me. I used to say that they loved the concept of their daaughter, but I’m not even sure that is true any longer. Heer’s the thing. They should not have been parents. I don’t think they actually wanted to be parents, but it was drummed in their heads (back in the last millennium in Taiwan) that they had to do it.

My father did it for saving face purposes. That was what real men did. Got married and have kids. Fuck around on the side. Provide money for the family, which was all he needed to do. In his mind, anyway. And if my mother pushed back on aynthing he did (like spank my brother), then he petulantly said that he wouldn’t do anything at all.

I knew fairly early on that he did not want to be a father. My mother, on the other hand, had stated quite plainly that she always wanted to be a mother, that it was the most important thing in the world to her. It was all she wanted (so she said out loud), but it isn’t reflected in her actions. Or rather, she did the shit that she thought a mother was supposed to do (cooking, cleaning, sewing). She also pushed my brother and me to do all the things she thought a kid was supposed to do. In my case, it was dance (tap, ballet, jazz), an instrument (first, piano for a few years and then cello for seven or eight, the latter which included orchestra), ping-pong, T-ball/softball, volleyball), and I did try to get into acting, but that was for me. It’s so stereotypically Tiger Mom that my mother didn’t think my brother or I should have a second to breathe.


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New year, new me, who dis?, part two

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And we’re back. Let’s talk current family situation and what I want to do about it. In the last post, I talked about the history of my family dysfunction. That was not the point of my post, but it’s what was apparently on my mind.

My father has dementia. He’s had it for roughly twenty years. He’s nearly 85 now, so it was early-onset back then, but it’s just dementia now. Since I only see him once a year or so, it’s easy to see the decline from year to year. In addition, they could not come the summer of 2020 or 2021 for obvious reasons, so when they came in the autumn/winter of 2021, the decline was stark.

To be clear,he still had most of his faculties most of the time. By the way, I always mix up faculties and facilities. Every time. But, even when he was in his right mind, he was still…just a bit…off. It’s like a Vaseline smear on a lens. Not all his synapses were firing, and you could not assume he knew what you were saying/doing.

Here’s the thing, though. He was still himself, even when he was deep in his dementia. That made it difficult to tell when he was being a jerk because of his dementia and when he was being a jerk because, well, he’s a jerk.

I know you’re not supposed to say that about someone with dementia, but it’s true. My father has always been a self-absorbed, bitter, calculating man who cared not a whit about anyone else around him. Or rather, he only cared about other people as it pertained to himself.

Related: it’s really difficult to be honest with people about my parents. The Great American Myth is that families are everything and that parents will do anything for their children. Well, that’s what people give lip service to, but don’t actually support. Still, the belief that parents LOVE THEIR CHILDREN AND WILL DO ANYTHING FOR THEM runs deeeeeeeep.

It’s not true, by the way. I mean, most parents love their children, I presume, as best theey can. Most parents will do what they can for their children. But to say that every parent loves their kid more than anything in the world? Nah, I don’t believe that. In fact, in the United States,  roughly 600,000 cases of child abuse were reported in 2021 (I’m sure that’s vastly underreported), and that was the lowest number of reported cases in five years (prior). This was according to the  Children’s Bureau at the Department of Health and Human Services’ (HHS) Administration for Children and Families (ACF), which is a governmental agency.


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New year, new me, who dis?

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We are back with another post about my goals for the new year. In my last post, I was talking about Taiji and how much it’s helped me in my life. It’s not hyperbole to say that it’s saved my life, both during the medical crisis (literally) and before it (emotionally).

My family dysfunction runs deep. Of course, as a kid, I did not realize how dysfunctional it was. That’s the thing about being a kid–you think your life is normal because you have no touchstones to anchor yourself to. In addition, my father was a Taiwanese nationalist and did not want to be in America. I did not realize this until maybe two years ago.

He went back to Taiwan when I was twenty-two or twenty-three. I have a feeling that he resented not being able to go back earlier. This is what I figured out. My parents both came to America for grad school (individually)–in Tennessee. My moather for her MA in psychology and my father for his MA in economics. They went to different schools, but met…not exactly sure. Probably at a Taiwanese event? (More likely, called Chinese something or other. I am not going to get into tho complicated politics of Taiwan.) My father did the hard press on my mother, and she fell for his charms.

After a year, my mother was done with her program. That meant she had to go back to Taiwan because her visa ran out. My father wasn’t done with his degree yet. Much gnashing of teeth was had. My father’s housemother told them that in America, people just got married in their situation.

I really wish she hadn’t told them that. My parents should never have gotten married, and they most certainly should not have had children. Sometimes, I wonder how different their lives would have been (individually) if they hadn’t married. My mother was engaged to someone in Taiwan when she met my father (long, misogynistic, archaic story), and she might have gone back to him if she hadn’t become besotted with my father.

My father got his degree after another year. They moved to Minnesota so he could go to the U of M to get his PhD, and my brother was born soon after. I was born 2 1/2 years later.

I think this was the point when my father got really bitter. I’m working with the assumption that he wanted to return to Taiwan. With that knowledge, everything afterwards makes sense. Well, not all of it, but it at least puts things into perspective.


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It’s officially my re-birthday!

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It’s my third re-birthday, which means it’s been three years since my medical crisis. That is wild for me because for the first year or two, I was just living day by day. I didn’t really have a plan for the future. I did last year, but I didn’t really get onto it as a slow trickle of bad things happened to me, ranging from irritating to tragic/traumatic. The traumatic thing happened in late February of this year, and it wiped me out. I was barely functional for months, and it’s only been in the last month or so that I’ve started to come back.

I want to explore what I will do in this year. I feel like it’s my year to shine. I wrote a bit about my goals in my last post, but of course wandered all over the place. I also included the same video in the last post, but it’s my meditation for the year, so I’m including it again. It’s MILCK’s musitation, Metamorphosis. Here are the lyrics that really hit home for me:

Give it a little more time, a little more timeMeant for greater heightsA little more time, a little more timeWet wings, they will dryOoh, I was born for this

I’ve been in a cocoon, and it’s time for me to emerge. I also like that she mentions death in the song. And it’s just a gorgeous song in general. So it’s my meditation and my muse for the upcoming year.

I mentioned yesterday that I want to get back to writing. I still write a post a day, but I also want to write my memoir and/or a murder mystery. Or a novel that is loosely based on my time in the hospital. Why? Because I was high as a kite the whole time, but did not realize it. I had so many delusions that I just took for granted were real. I’ve asked my brother about a few things, and he’s confirmed the ones he remembered.

I told him stories about things that I thought happened. One example is that I thought there was a young woman (around 22 years old) on my floor who had died from Covid. I overheard the nurses talking about her. It was clear they knew her as more than a recent patient. Her family had a ranch and a popular website about that ranch. They ware also conservatives who did not believe in vaccinations. (And by extension, taking appropriate measures to not get Covid.) It turned out that the mother had Covid as well, and died, too.


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