cliche love story

In some ways, I think I’m still recovering from all those years of walking into a classroom and seeing dozens of blue green eyes swivel towards me, their blonde hair flashing as they turned, a sudden movement dazing me in the doorway. Years of smellier and soggier food than the perfectly prepackaged Lunchables everyone else had. Speaking perfect English all day, I remember being shocked in the bathroom mirror by my own black hair, round yellow face, and small brown eyes. And eventually, one of you took me home and I thought after all these years, almost a decade, of forgetting, denying, and conditioning myself, I had made it, had finally become white or something close enough to it. You took me to your perfectly prepackaged split-level Lunchables home, with your perfect and accepting parents who wanted to take us all out to an authentic Chinese restaurant and we got to the restaurant and you all wanted me to order for you so I did, and then you had all these conditions. You wanted the dish I ordered, but with less oil, and no spice, and I thought, you are always going to do this, you are always going to want me on your terms, change me to your preference, diluting my culture, and myself, something I’ve done since I was old enough to see that I was other. Well, the sheen of your collective lustrous yellow hair has worn off, rubbed off in patches as on an elk’s antlers and I see that you’re just another white boy using me to make your life more interesting, to make you seem more interesting and I’m just another girl who gave up her power because she didn’t think she had any.

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