I crammed my freshman year of college full of firsts. Freshly liberated from the constraints of well-meaning parents (lovingly overbearing in the way that Asian immigrants are renowned for), I was eager to delve into the inky unknown previously hidden from me.
I collected these experiences greedily, grabbing for them like a toddler grabs at flowers on the side of the road. Mentally, methodically, I cataloged every action that constituted a check off the list. In sweaty basements vibrating with laughter and bass, I went down my checklist of firsts. First time wearing this top without hiding it from my mom. First time hesitantly sniffing a graciously offered vial of poppers and delighting in the warm, heady rush. First time making eye contact with a perfect, intriguing stranger, first time smiling in embarrassment, turning into the first time openly flirting, the first time kissing someone I met 10 minutes ago, turning into my first time going home from a party with a boy.
The next morning, I jubilantly recounted the events of the last night to my best friend. She squealed and laughed along with me, begged for details that I was happy to supply. Necks craned and mouths scowled as our laughs ricocheted through the dining hall, half-empty on a Saturday morning.
That evening, in the waning September warmth, I hummed impatiently outside his dorm room. As the door creaked open and a grinning face peeked out, I allowed myself a tiny, secret smile. First time successfully retrieving a carefully forgotten accessory from a recently acquainted bedroom, first time playing it off as a careless mistake.
As the weeks progressed, I found myself in a new kind of first, the kind that unfurled and grew rather than being dashed at and grabbed. Carefully, cautiously, I realized that I had landed myself in my first ever casual relationship.
While I enjoyed the time that I spent with him, I knew from the beginning that this boy wasn’t the one. I liked his charm (and how he smiled with all his teeth) but felt we might be on different life paths (he was failing all his classes). I didn’t know quite what to do with the affection I had for him, or if I could even call it that. I didn’t know what to do with his fingers wandering over my dimples, or my favorite songs in his Spotify search history. I didn’t even know what to call him — no longer a stranger, not quite a friend, and most definitely not my boyfriend.
Unsurprisingly, when two people are in an undefined relationship and neither of them has any desire to define it, it doesn’t tend to last very long. Days bled into weeks until it had been a month since we’d seen each other. Cautiously, I prodded the idea that things were over. Carefully, I turned the idea over in my head like a stone in my hand. In some capacity, we had been together. Now, we weren’t. Did the concept hurt?
The answer elated me. While I liked this boy and appreciated the time that we had together, I really, truly, didn’t mind that it had come to a close. Victorious, I checked another first off my list: first time leaving a relationship without serious emotional scarring. The next day, I flaunted my newfound invincibility to my friends, peacocking my lack of hurt.
“He’s a great guy and I don’t hold anything against him. We just drifted apart and I wish him well!”
Amidst approving nods, one puzzled face stood out.
“Wait, seriously? I’ve honestly heard super weird stuff about that guy.”
I blinked.
“Like what?”
“Like, he has an Asian fetish.”
In a single moment, hurried kisses and stolen glances and caring words crammed back into our mouths glitched in my memory. How was it possible that the experience I thought we shared now took on such a twisted, sickly coloring when I looked at it through his eyes?
There has been countless research done on Asian fetishization. The phenomenon has persisted for generations: from Edward Said’s seminal theory of orientalism to Old Hollywood’s Dragon Lady trope to today’s Yellow Fever, cultural theorists have known for centuries that some white men just have an unabashed preference for Asian women. This is research I’ve read for myself: empirically, I can explain the influence of Chinese migration in the 1860s and the subsequent turn to sex work. I could walk you through the cultural reverberations that were caused by Full Metal Jacket’s infamous “me love you long time.” Logically, I can point you to the factors that have led to this condition; recent cultural exports and Vietnam War-era propaganda. And yet, for all my research and reading, I never thought it would happen to me.
Maybe it was naive to think, but I really thought that this vested attraction to Asian women would be easy to spot. To be frank, I thought it would show up in nerdy white guys who love anime, guys slurping their miso soup obnoxiously loudly to show their appreciation for the chef, or the guy who puts an achingly earnest emphasis on the “namaste” at the end of your yoga class.
I had found the affliction so disturbing that I studied up on it, until I could trace every origin, social development, and unfortunate extracurricular interest that causes it. And yet, for all my intellectual doomsday prepping, I had become the unsuspecting victim in the research journals I pored over. A new, perverse first was being unwillingly crossed off my list: first time dating a guy with an Asian fetish.
The ordeal was a rude shock to the system; a reminder that life is more than JSTOR articles and fanciful mental lists. And yet, it was emblematic of something I couldn’t ideate or catalog. That experiences can’t be gamified, that life doesn’t fit neatly into checklists. That sometimes, your niche academic interests turn into half-haunting, half-hilarious realities. And that the cost of living freely is enduring the tough surprises; surprises that hide in frat basements and behind charming, toothy smiles.
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