Eros and Identification
How thrilling, to be granted a character that is explicitly an Asian American woman! But alas, as I discovered, the paranoid script is not a very good one.
The first white boy I loved was in the fourth grade, soon after I had moved from Taiwan to Australia. Ben was a pale, thin boy with sandy hair and hazel eyes. He often sat at the computer in the corner of the classroom, tapping away. I couldn’t talk to him, my ability to communicate in English at the time capped at raising my hand, mumbling “toilet,” and frowning. Nonetheless, I liked sitting next to him with a book open in my lap, admiring his air of quiet intelligence. I imagined us kindred spirits, keeping a dignified distance from the ruckus of our fellow comrades. Or at least that’s how I
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