Long, drawn out post about random life, tied into em(brace) to follow. 

Two years ago I got braces.

I started this blog to catalog the entire experience, because getting braces in my mid-twenties was pretty much the only interesting thing happening to me at the time. I was two months from graduating and I craved for my next adventure. I half jokingly labeled the next chapter of my life as “Social Suicide” (thank you, Tina Fey). I wanted to use comedy as a way to hide the fact that I was actually quite nervous about the entire situation. My smile had always held me back. I was shy because of my teeth, and I never liked being in photos, and whenever I did get photographed I always smiled with a closed mouth. It was a huge insecurity of mine and I wanted to get rid of it.

But the thing about changing yourself is that everyone will eventually find out that you’re trying to change yourself. People begin to look at you more closely, trying to figure out exactly what’s going on and what about you started it all. When I told my friends, some of them were pretty excited for me, and then there were those that never noticed my teeth at all. But I did. I noticed them, and other people noticed them, just like they noticed my skin and my eyes and my body shape. 

And when it comes to changing our bodies, in this world of “self-love” and acceptance, it almost feels like you’re betraying your kin by conforming to the corporate culture of a singular definition of “beauty.” Straight teeth, slim body, perfect hair… I found myself trapped in this pit of narcissism, and it sucked. I needed a way out, I need some sort of direction to calm the frustration that lived under my skin.  

So in hopes of finding a positive, metal-mouthed role model for my life, turned to the one and only, Ugly Betty. Every time Betty Suarez learned a lesson, I learned a lesson. I watched her life unfold before my eyes, hour after hour, and cringed at her optimism; the type that gets you into the most horrible positions, but when it pays off, it pays off. And I loved that about her! I loved how hard she worked and how challenged she was by the world around her! And most importantly I loved how she always failed before she could succeed. 

In one week I will be getting my braces off. 

Looking back to when I started this blog, I remember telling myself, “Kai, you better start doing interesting things.” I needed to find excuses to write because I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to live a life worthy of a blog. I also secretly wanted my biggest insecurity to churn out the best time of my life, to eventually be turned into a mini-series of maybe even a wonderful gay-cult-comedy for Gaysians. I wanted Betty Suarez hilarity with Buffy/Angel angst with a handful of Gossip Girl glam! 

And did that happen? Not so much. 

Because I am not a gritty/glam kindda guy. I do not wake up in random beds every Sunday morning, I do not find myself caught in out-of-context-drag, and I most certainly do not immolate myself with alcohol for shits and giggles and #nothingelsetodo. And so instead, I focused in on the sex and the drama that occurred in my life because I thought it would make me more interesting. I swept away the vulnerability and the vicious cycle of self-pity because I didn’t want to bother with them. I didn’t want to be sad anymore, so I continually sold myself short because I wanted to be sexy and wild. 

But what was most strange was the anxiety I carried around with me whenever I posted an entry. I was scared of having the people in my day-to-day life (the old friends, the new friends, the work friends, the forgotten friends) read about the stories I casually shared with the Interweb. I fretted over whether or not the Kai on paper properly reflect the Kai in real-life. I wondered if friendships changed when consumed through a different medium, and if so, was there a version of Kai that felt more real and honest than the other? At the end of the day, between Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr, it all just seems like one big experiment in narcissism.

Despite all this, I still want to find ways to stop hating myself for being all the things I am and I also want to finally  be able to smile with my teeth. I’m part-way there on the former and I’m almost there on the latter. I’ve learned to give myself some credit by walking away and letting go when I needed to, and I’ve recognized that the only way to be good is to do good, no matter how uncomfortable the choice, act, and fallout may be. Narcissism is a dangerous game. Too many photos of yourself and you begin to loose yourself. 

And now that I’m reflecting on these past two years, I realize now that my story really is changing. It hasn’t been dramatic or epic or climactic, but it has been quiet, thoughtful and full of surprises. Choosing what to let happen and what to force forward, learning when to step back and when to stand down, thinking critically about all the different lines to cross in face of greater and more challenging adversity, all of these tiny little stories make up the narrative of a life I am now beginning to really feel like I can call my own, and that’s a story worth holding onto. 

I just had the most traumatizing Orthodontic experience thus far. The pain, the terrifying-looking equipment, the sounds and oh god, the blood. 

Not to gross you all out, but i’m paying for this.

Oh, the price of vanity…

It’s coming toward the end of the year and I’m almost 25. Time for a mini retrospective!

So what’s happened since I turned 24? Well, as it turns out, a lot has happened. To start things off: I got braces. I thought it was going to affect my world dramatically, but as it turns out, it was all over blown in my tiny dramatic humanoid mind. I also graduated from University with a swanky lil’ degree from YorkU. 7 months later, I finally found myself a small lil’ job working for Apple. It’s not a career, but hey, it’s a start, right? I’ve learned to be patient with life. With this job, I aim to learn a lot and gain plenty of knowledge. I will meet some amazing people while working there, and who doesn’t like meeting amazing people? I’ve already met a whole lot of you tumblrites, and it’s been a blast. 

One thing that has also happened? My family, in every sense of the world, finally feels like a family. I lean towards the idea that it was most likely me who prevented myself from feeling this way; I kept myself detached because I was so attached to this idea of a chosen family. To my teenage, angst-ridden mind, my family didn’t look like the types of families that surrounded me in the shows I watched or the movies I worshipped—they were all chosen ones. My traditional was “untraditional”, if you know what I mean. But in September when my aunt and uncle, the two people who raised me as a child, came to settle in Toronto from Hong Kong—the world around me changed in an instant. They saw me as a little boy, and now they saw me as… a man. I can’t say it without giggling, because it sounds so silly. I never would have thought of myself as a man, because that word feels like as if it’s reserved for the butch, heterosexual, beer drinking men with hearts of repressed, emotional and high-moral gold (picture Hugh Jackman. I’m sort of joking but sort of not with all this “man” stuff). In any case, they saw me completely differently from when I last saw them, twenty years ago. I changed, but they didn’t. I don’t remember them as they were, but I remember the feelings I had back then. My aunt still wore the same perfume and my uncle still had the same laugh. I had to go into my room and cry at one point from the overwhelming happiness that flooded me. 

My house had also changed; it became a home. I spent a lot of my younger years isolated in this one corner of my house, either on the computer talking to online friends (like that’s changed) or reading. This house that I grew up in that I will soon be leaving, used to seem so cold, but now it just feels so warm. I don’t mind being at home on a Friday night, sitting at the kitchen table with my family, listening to them talk and laugh and eat. I used to cook for my friends all the time, but this past Thanksgiving, being able to cook for my entire family was such an experience, especially after my sister’s wedding. It was such an amazing week, and I am extremely lucky to be able to have this in my life. It has taken so much work for all of them, for every single member of this family to get to where they are now, having overcome drastic financial troubles and health issues, as well as their own bundle of family secrets. Knowing that they have survived so much, all for my sister and my cousins and myself to be so lucky, I feel like I owe them my life.

And I do. 

Maybe that’s why I feel slightly more leveled these days. I feel calmer and more reassured that things will work out. I feel a greater sense of purpose; not just for the community that I threw myself into when I came out, but for everyone I’ve met thus far and for everyone I will meet. I’m trying not to let the fear of being trapped in one place scare me away, back into the Kai of yester-year. I know more about what I need as opposed to what I want, and what is good for me and what isn’t. Perspective can change on a dime, and sometimes we don’t even recognize it when it’s happening. It just takes a hold of you and leads you into this completely unexpected journey, into a place you never thought you’d go. 

When you finally let yourself embrace the world around you, amazing things will always happen. 

It hit me today that I will soon turn 25. Come January 6th, I will be one year closer to death and one step closer to becoming a statistic for whatever male-specific disease(s) out there. I will have hit the quarter century mark, a heavy milestone for the “still in progress” post-Grad Gen Y lounge-about.

Generation Y.

Generation Why?

Also known as Generation “Why the fuck are we doing all of this bullshit?”

But I digress. Not many people make it to 25, and so I see it as a privilege and an honor.

I have learned a lot so far. Granted, mental and emotional maturity only really took off perhaps three or four years ago, I’ve had the (dis)pleasure of doing things the long way around. Some lessons were learnt too soon, some too late, and some I’m still trying to figure out the significance of. But in retrospect, through a rational lens, I really have no reason to bitch or complain about anything. The reality is that the emotional trauma, the unfortunate circumstances of racism, homophobia and the general unpleasantness of life in Canada, is really not worth the fuss that I (or most of us) make it out to be. 

Being a teenager sucks. Experiencing first hand the horrors of hate, sucks. Breaking up with your first love can suck even more. But the truth is that growing up sucks, so the smart thing to do is to take the appropriate time to deal with the shit that is thrown your way and move the fuck on. I’ve learned that to dwell is to commit yourself to your own mini emotionally-unstable asylum, located front and center in your brain. 

I recognize the amount of time I wasted being depressed over pointless issues, purely because it felt like the entire world to me. Me, me, me. Y me? These days, our egos are over-nurtured to the point where we each become out own worst enemies. 

So I’ve decided that 25 will be all about getting over myself. It will be about working on doing the things I love. It will be about figuring out what I truly believe in and sticking with it. It will be about building on the relationships I have and making them stronger. It will also be about learning how to be alone without feeling lonely. It will be about unlearning and relearning and evolving. It will be about living with less and making it more. It will be about thinking globally and acting locally. It will be about spreading knowledge and not just material wealth. 

iPhones will not keep me warm at night.

But a belief in a better world, will. 

And I know I won’t be able to do this in one day. I will have to learn to get over myself, every single day, and it will be difficult. It will take courage to admit that I am wrong and to take tough love, and grow from it. But despite it all, despite the tragedies of our time and the inconsistencies of love, life itself is a fucking fabulous gift.

Why would I waste it on such futile devices? 

And so it is with great tragedy that I admit to myself that I am lost. And flawed. And not perfect, not even close to the ideal person that I wish myself to be. With every argument I partake in, I only serve to reinforce the idea that I am trying, desperately, to boost my own ego. My logic is far from logical and my perception of reality is no more true than that of Rick Perry’s. 

All of this has been brought to my attention in the last few weeks. I have been struggling to create some sense of structure within my life, and considering that I am jobless with nothing to really “do”, mounting pressures to find a job and start a career are starting to wear me thin. 

In addition, that British voice in my head who sounds like Olivia Williams via Adelle DeWitt has been on repeat for the past two days: “Nothing is what it appears to be.” My relationships with various people have been revealed to be more strained and troubled than I had previously thought, which of course begs several questions that I can’t even begin to write down because they are so complicated. 

One problem that I know I have is the fact that I take a while (and sometimes months later) to respond to certain things, and this includes everything from an article in a newspaper to a criticism from a friend. I think this partly has to do with the fact that I don’t know what I want and I don’t know exactly who I am. I have trouble speaking up for myself and finding my own voice. I have always sucked at asking questions, and ironically enough, I constantly question myself. Oh, and I’m also a pussy. 

Unfortunately, there isn’t a Yellow Brick Road for me to follow or a Great and Powerful Wizard for me to sneak some courage from.

Then again, there are two sides to a curtain and both sides are never what they appear to be. 

I love art, especially writing and photography. I also love working with youth, and helping youth gain the tools and skills required to truly excel, especially those in need. I’d like to focus on LGBTQ youth and youth of colour, and find a way to use the arts to empower and heal.

Now for the practical stuff—which means more education, more writing, more work, work, work.

I’ve written a short ten minute scene for a festival in Toronto, Protestival. It’s a small cabaret of scenes that revolve around the theme of “protest”, and mine is all about the gays, surprise surprise.

In other news, my braces got tightened and they hurt.

From now on I am going to write as honestly as I can, beyond the restraints of my ego. Straight from the heart. Not to say that I wasn’t honest before; and when I speak of honesty, I mean a complete purge of details. Nothing left out. Nothing censored (except for names; that wouldn’t be cool of me to give out names). Everything that I can remember I will divulge—because what’s the point of writing and of art itself if not to reveal the complete fuckery that is the human condition?

So here is mine. It is messy, silly, broken, egotistical, self deprecating, convoluted, passive aggressive, annoying and banal.

Because I don’t think being a good person can come from textbook living. I believe that being a good person comes from the ugly and the repulsive. It comes from loving fearlessly and living so as well. It is a process that never stops, and that idea is the most sustaining of them all—that we never stop growing as long as we are breathing. And the day we believe that we know all there is to know, is the day we fail at being good.

And so for those of you who are reading this, thank you. I hope that there is something to be found in my many failures and even fewer successes.

Love,

Kai

I made it. After one of the most horrible flights of my life, I’ve made it to the west coast.

I am deathly afraid of flying. I never used to be until a few summers ago, when I boarded a red eye from Edmonton to Toronto. The plane was pretty much empty, and I had a full isle to myself. Mid flight they announced some “mild turbulence”. I nearly shit my pants. I was prepared to go down on this metal tube of death—I kept on telling myself how I was going to die, that this is it, 22 years old and single.

22 years old and Single. Really, Kai? Those are your final thoughts?

Pathetic.

As it turns out, I didn’t die.

Fast forward to yesterday, I am at the gate getting ready to board my 1 pm flight. I have my ticket in hand, Tina Fey’s “Bossypants” in the other and what do I overhear the dude across from me say into his cellphone?

“There’s something wrong with the plane, I don’t know, mechanical stuff, we’re delayed.”

To a rational human being, this means nothing except for a “mechanical problem”.

To me, this rings omens, signs, irony (thanks a lot, Alanis), and because I am an owner of an English degree, I start symbolizing the shit out of the everything.

When they start announcing seating changes due to the small size of the aircraft, I think “I would have made it safely on 15D but now I’m on 13C” OMEN.

My mother texts me before the flight with “I love you, son. Be safe.” I begin to freak—my mother never texts me unless I text her, so why does she feel the need to text me love NOW? I just saw her three hours ago! SIGN.

God, we are so stupid. Our original plane has mechanical problems so we get swapped a new one, a smaller one. And of course, THIS is the plane that’s going to go down, not the one with the mechanical problems…the bright, shiny, new one. This is what I’d do if I were writing a really morbid story/cautionary tale about travel. IRONY.

I open “Bossypants” and begin reading. I laugh out loud to myself. Oh Tina Fey, you really do love me. They announce boarding for the new plane.

So we board the second plane brought in especially for us to die in and I am seated next to a window so I can watch the wing break off mid-flight. I hate the window seat, but as much as I hate the window seat I hate being a little bitch so I don’t ask anyone if they want to switch seats.

The door closes. They tell us in French and English to watch the instructional video for “in-case of emergencies.” I can hear the engine. I can watch the wing jiggle. I pop two Ativan into my mouth and let them melt under my tongue. It does nothing, because I’m obviously crazy and Ativan does not know how to stop crazy.

I pass out and miss the complimentary drinks.

I find out I missed the complimentary drinks because the sudden jolt of turbulence sends me jerking awake, my one hand reaching out to grab the seat in front of me while the woman beside me stares at me with eyes that read “it’s alright, son, just calm down” or “great, I’m seated next to a crazy sonofabitch”.

For the next three hours I am gripping the seat rests, doing my best to finish watching “Toy Story 3” and continue to read “Bossypants”.

Now, for those of you who have seen and read both titles mentioned above, you might remember two specific events that occur, two events that are most likely best left out until maybe after I land safely on the ground.

But of course, I don’t know this and you’re not there to stop me from reading/watching and as you may have noticed, my imagination is extremely overactive. It’s on a prescription of speed and steroids.

SPOILER ALERT

Woody, Buzz and the rest of the toys are betrayed by the big gay purple bear.

Tina Fey’s cruise boat catches on fire.

My plane continues to experience constant turbulence.

I ask for alcohol.

We land.

I exit, run to the nearest restroom and heave into a toilet. Nothing comes out, it is dry and I want to die.

Love,

Kai

Emotional paralysis.

Here we are, some of the brightest of our generation, paralyzed with fear over what the future holds; not just for us, but for the entire world.

No one in my family really understands my ideas or listens. Culturally, their beliefs are permanently attached to the ideal of the family, that the family is all you need. You take care of your family, and as long as there is a house, food on the table and, well, family—you’re more than okay. You should be happy. There is nothing else you need.

But for me, there is the self and then there is the community.

My mother does not understand, as well as refuses to believe that the world “out there” has the ability to change you. Her understanding is that we control who we are and that the world has no impact on us whatsoever.

To do so is to be crazy or weak.

In her eyes, I believe that she sees me as weak. Not man enough because I feel too much.

I can’t help but feel like the perpetual outsider in this family. Not only because I’m gay, but because I am the only one who has been “enlightened” by social movements and politics. The very politics that have divided and united us into several different factions of believers and non-believers, made up of the several lost, idealistic twenty-somethings of Gen Y.

Would life have been easier if we didn’t know what we know? If we didn’t have all of this knowledge, knowledge that changed and transformed the 2-dimensional, 90’s picture perfect perception of life into a harsher, more realistic and violent 3D version of our own lives as we once knew it? Did we learn our own truths too fast and too eagerly in our youth?

Will we lose our convictions?

Is the alternative sacrifice worth it for a simpler life?

Oh god, that title sounds like something from a News Report Special on plastic surgery and models or something.

A while back somebody asked me about my vanity.

I sort of hate the word “vanity”. It has such stigma attached to it. It’s the name of a sin and it makes you sound shallow. The anon who asked me even felt the need to include “but in a good way” to justify the use of the word in a positive tone.

But is vanity a good thing or a bad thing? I think we can all agree that the noun itself has degrees of interpretation. We’d have to define it first, consider which center the word vanity rotates around—if we are to see it as a term rooted in the religious context of sin, we’re limiting the experience of vanity to a scale of sin, hell and damnation. And “Se7en” with Brad Pitt.

So let us explore my own vanity, and please, feel free to judge.

A good place to start would be this past Tuesday. Yesterday. Specifically 11:18 AM, when I was sitting in the orthodontists chair, waiting patiently and nervously for the procedure to begin: I was finally going to receive the bottom row of my braces.

So why did I get braces? Because I have overcrowded front teeth that forced me to smile with my mouth closed and embarrassed to laugh. I’m better now though, at the age of 24, I am finally somewhat happy with myself.

But lets go further back towards my teenage years as a slightly overweight gay boy.

I grew up in an extremely diverse, middle class neighborhood. To provide an example, there were Indian, Chinese, Korean, Black, French, Persian and Greek. It was a pretty eclectic mix, we all hung out together, partied together and ate each others food throughout elementary and middle school. When high school rolled around, the inevitable happened (inevitable because it seems that this sort of thing happens a lot), we all split up into our own separate racial social groups. I on the other hand bounced around from group to group. It was the first time in any of our lives that our race and culture became a thing, something to be noticed and taken into account when making certain decisions, like who you were going to date.

While my friends went through their own dramas, I went through mine. My first experience of my race happened when I reached out to find other gay guys in the area. I went online and stumbled across a Toronto based social networking site that also included “gay” as a profile criteria (yay!). Unfortunately, the results were not so yay. When I sent a message to another guy in my area to chat, his response was: “Sorry, not into Asians”. 

I understood what he meant, but I didn’t understand why. For extremely troubling reasons over the next few years, I would come to internalize the idea that this constant rejection was somehow my fault. That something about my pictures, name or character screamed “ASIAN”, and this was not attractive.

At the same time, I got my first long-term part time job at American Eagle Outfitters, the first one in our suburb. I didn’t know what the company was, nor did I understand the weight its cultural significance would have on my social career. To work for a company such as AEO, a company that represented a specific style of American branding meant that I was a part of it too. My style changed in tandem with the style of the store. I had new clothes that edged me up a notch on the social hierarchy at school. I wasn’t ever picked on for being gay (except for one incident in Grade 9), and I think being gay sort of helped me stand out. Despite all of these changes, I still wasn’t considered appealing to the gay men out there, and they still kept on telling me the same thing: “Not into Asians.”

TBC.