Feeling as heavy as if I could sink right into the earth, I numbly started shelving books at what was once my dream job. Somewhere along the way one bad apple had fallen in my path, and now it seemed only the latest entry on a resume written in blood.
I felt myself tumbling back through the years to my fifth grade classroom. Trying to keep the outrage out of my voice, I told Mr. Smith that the boys had been ruthlessly bullying my best friend, who was too nervous to say anything. He listened seriously enough, but in the end, I can still hear his last words, his incredulous scoff.
“What are you, her lawyer?”
When one of these days I’ve left behind the library and the coworkers I love, once again I’ll be telling on the bully on behalf of true friends who are afraid to speak up themselves. The only real difference between now and that afternoon fifteen years ago? This time, even less justice will be served…
Scanning the shelves for the next book’s home in a library that never felt so cold, suddenly a familiar title stared me in the face.
Mostly Harmless– however sacrilegiously, my library’s only trace of Douglas Adams. I am one of many hardcore fans who will rave about the genius of his first three books in the Hitchhiker’s Guide series, yet utterly slam the last two in the same breath. Mostly Harmless isn’t even my 3rd favorite of his books- if anything it’s my second least favorite. In that moment it didn’t matter- without thinking I snatched up this relic of an author who is one of the reasons I’m still writing- still here- and held it tight to my chest. I’d relied on the Guide to survive hostile alien worlds from my backwoods hometown to the Golden Gate to the land of the rising sun. My library on rainbow island was about the last place I ever thought I’d cling to it, but here I was holding on in the most literal sense.
What do I do, Adams? What can I do? I found myself asking him as if he hasn’t been dead twenty years to a cruel and ridiculous twist of fate; as if he himself didn’t firmly believe that when we’re gone, we’re gone- fade to black, the end. I feel so helpless… What can I even hope to do for anyone in this mean world?
Staring through the familiar green flying saucer on the cover and into the void, I thought about the copy of the Hitchhiker’s Guide I’d clutched in relief when I found it in a West Portal bookstore, unable to believe I hadn’t brought my own worn volumes. About the chapters of Last Chance to See I’d read again and again until I felt myself begin to thaw in those foggy nights by the bay. About the copy of Tablo’s Pieces of You that I’d clutch to my chest in my darkest Nara nights with no care for the snowy white mold that made it look like the book itself was graying from worry. About the days when listening to Epik High’s albums on repeat somehow kept me on the train every day instead of under it.
And an answer came to me. About all I can do for anyone is what Douglas Adams and Tablo and so many others have done for me both on and off the page. I can support those suffering around me just as I’ve been doing. I can be one of their reasons to keep going- by writing, by listening, just by being there.
I don’t like this answer, much like the beings in the Hitchhiker’s Guide who asked for the answer to life, the universe and everything and got ’42,’ but it’s all I’ve got.
Staggering into the arms of my homeland that 36 hour night, I’m not sure why I chose “Suicide Squad” to drown out my fears at 20,000 feet. All I know is the moment a certain villainess was on screen, I was transfixed. The movie wasn’t anything amazing; I never watched it again. Yet, fast forwarding through tedious action sequences, unable to look away as this fierce, fabulous, unapologetic misfit broke out of her shackles, something clicked.
Many moons later, I finally know what.
I was never a fan of heroes or villains; I couldn’t keep straight who was Marvel and who was DC. Yet, as I dug through the ruins of the sham Alice I’d built for too many Hawaii nights, the clown queen’s sparkling apparition was burned into my vision. Wandering between jobs and “homes,” I found solace in every adaptation and AU of Joker-free Harley I could get my hands on.
When the time came for my first con, the long coveted fluffy dresses and frilly costumes in the back of my closet faded to grayscale before my eyes. I couldn’t explain why, didn’t know her or myself well enough, but I knew there was only one character I wanted to play. Staying far away from the Harley I’d first met- the villain still marked by her toxic partner in the most literal sense- I pieced together a Harley esque look from a cheap wig and a thrift store hunt. In those short hours strutting down the streets as my own kind of Harley, everything seemed to fit.
When the wig came off, I crumbled.
Watching the best friend I’d grown to rely on grow further and further away while we lived in the same house, as he devoted all his attention to a love interest he didn’t even seem to like and sunk deeper into his avoidant attachment style by the day… myself clinging to an unhealthy filler friendship with an iron grip no matter how many red flags were waved in my face… I felt empty. Shaken off my comfortable little ledge, into the darkness I fell. Familiar figures of flesh or paper who had always brought me a dose of comfort suddenly left me cold. As I stared at the ceiling night after night, wondering where I’d gone wrong, if I’d ever find a true forever friend, a person- an Alice- who felt right, only visions of a black and red clad villainess could resuscitate me.
Still caught in the last few bricks of a sturdy partition, I convinced myself I had those fluttery floaty feelings of yore, that legendary romantic attraction for my male filler friend. For a while it seemed he was all I had. I ignored every meeting that left me drained, every neon glowing warning sign… while imagining myself away in Gotham every night.
At first I thought it was just that I wanted to be her, to be half as fierce and fabulous and unapologetic as I flaunted the queer misfit I’d always tried to bury.
Then the fantasies flooded in. I didn’t want to be her half as much as I wanted to date her. And when I say date, I mean date- for as long as I can remember, I’d been allergic to the terms ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend-‘ what a superficial term for someone who’s supposed to be your closest confidant, I’d think as I spent my childhood inventing melodramatic declarations like ‘light of my life’ and my adulthood just saying ‘partner in crime.’ Yet, when I thought of one Harley Quinn being my ‘girlfriend’ it only felt right.
With the support of a new true blue friend and a job that I actually liked for the first time in my life, finally the fog began to clear.
Long before my last grasp at straightness could leave for a study abroad, it dawned on me that I was sick of him- turns out he was sick of me, too. It was a relief when he left; the only thing I mourned was the time I’d spent clinging to someone who was so much like the old Alice I’d been trying to escape… clinging to a scrap of straightness as if it was an easy solution to everything.
The last clouds dissipated and suddenly it was clear as day- my active physical aversion to my male high school squishes, the disgust I felt at the thought of dating a man, spending my adolescence only drawn to the prettiest boy K-Pop idols and bishounen, my college years drooling over drag queens; my repulsion for beards, thick body hair, big muscles, everything lauded as the ideal masculine specimen; the months I’d spent swooning over pretty girl customers at my retail job while overlooking the men; the countless nights imagining myself with Gotham’s clown queen in every way short of exchanging fluids… all along it was for a simple reason.
I’m super gay.
Sure, still asexual without a doubt, probably on the aromantic spectrum at that. Oriented aroace, homoromantic ace, grayhomoromantic ace- I still can’t resonate with these or any romantic labels, but it doesn’t matter. I know I never experience sexual attraction. I know that I am intensely attracted to women in emotional and physical ways I have not felt towards men- and I always have been, even when the fog of my own creation was too thick to even imagine what lay on the other side. That’s enough. The queer, the gay, the not straight identity, that’s what’s most important to me, yet I still wear the ace label on my sleeve. As difficult as it made my first attempts to seriously date, I couldn’t have it any different- it’s taken a quarter century to own who I am, attraction to women and nonexistent sexual attraction and all. I can’t and won’t hide or apologize anymore, no matter what the world thinks. Neither would Harley Quinn.
Now that I’m on the other side, I finally know why I was drawn to her that endless night. For 25 years I’d been waiting for my own origin story. While mine is far from comic book worthy, just flipping on the lights in the corners I always so feared to tread, finding confidence, self worth, looking beyond empty escapes to find who I actually am, it is everything I could never imagine I was capable of even a year ago. Who would’ve known that Harley Quinn would be the catalyst.
It wasn’t until a very different Alice dazedly stepped off the plane that it hit me. It had been years and a lifetime since I set foot in my “home state” let alone the city I’d always wanted to call home. I’d left them both hoping never to return.
Yet, here I found myself greeting San Francisco as an old friend.
Wandering the echoing gray halls in search of a trace of the city somewhere beyond the airport walls, I was immediately drawn to the rainbow. In this gaudy display of pride wear was everything that colors my life now… and everything that hid away in California’s gray gay capital.
The city always beaconed like a ragtag refuge- full of culture and life and contradictions, finally there had to be a place for me waiting… right?
Somehow, the bright world of the outcasts, the wanderers, the dreamers, the artists all around me was ever out of reach as I walked the streets with only my little gray cloud for company. Slowly, slowly, I caught it- where the glass ended. Moments when I would admit my Japanese major or penchant for K-Pop apologetically; when I would bite back a natural response in favor of awkward silence; when I would insist anywhere you want was fine with me until friends were practically begging me to just choose a café.
Beyond my carefully crafted mask and a saccharine sugar coating, who was I?
Finally I tried shining a flashlight into the murky depths, but I couldn’t begin to see where the layers upon layers of masks ended and the truth began.
Too afraid what I’d find if I searched any further, I spent my cold nights blaming the city that was supposed to be my savior; surrounding myself with idol posters and Japanese books and fluffy dresses- empty artifacts of the Alice I showed the world. Surely this was my chance to fit into the crowd if I could just keep things simple- I was normal, just not in my hometown with more horses than people.
So I’d tell myself, trying and trying even as each new shiny box just didn’t fit.
Again I ran in the hopes of salvation- this time, overseas… dragging every last mask with me and acquiring dozens more on my journey. As they lost a few layers in sparkling Honolulu nights, only to grow heavier than ever under the lonely Nara moon, finally they all came crashing down.
Seeking refuge in the homeland I’d so wanted to escape, I spent months digging through the ruins. To this day I’m still searching. But it was more than enough.
~~
Choosing a rainbow lanyard emblazoned with “San Francisco” to accompany me to my new island home, I felt a sense of loss. I’ll never know what the city could have held for an unmasked Alice… yet in the end, what really matters is I found her. And whether I find my way back to fog city or somewhere else entirely, she’s always coming with me.
Don’t sit so far away from everyone How can you just waste your time with crayons? Look at all the other screaming kids Don’t you actually want to have fun like them?
Speak louder, louder LOUDER! No one can hear Don’t just stand there Talk even if you have nothing to say Don’t try and tell us you’re fine Of course you’re deathly lonely, you poor dear You’re just shy, shy SHY Why else would you ever keep to yourself? Floundering for a partner Now that’s just sad! Go on, swoop in there and make 12 best friends Who cares if you’ve got one a classroom away- Supposedly- There’s something wrong If you don’t want company 24/7
Don’t just sit there silently listening to the lecture Talk, talk TALK! Make us tell you to shut up! Smile, smile SMILE! Don’t ever let us see you with a straight face People will think you’re depressed Which you are, by the way Whoever heard of a happy high schooler With ‘shy’ and ‘quiet’ painted across her face? Only a few friends, doesn’t talk to boys Hiding behind a book Always immersed in some strange foreign tongue How about for once you try speaking your own?
This is no time to study so hard That’s what college is for But don’t try and tell us dance is your subject What about quadratic formulas And literary analysis? Whoever built a career from chaînés and pirouettes?
Just keep cranking out straight ‘A’s Act like an actual human being What a life of luxury you lead After all It doesn’t get any better than this!
As a young child, I was positively obsessed with the Disney Channel Original Movie “Pixel Perfect.“ It always stayed in my mind as I grew up, yet I could never actually remember much of the characters or plot aside from the hologram of the hour herself, Loretta. I couldn’t care less about her jerky creator or the trite love triangle or rampant plot holes. That wasn’t why I watched it over and over again as a little girl who didn’t know she was neurodivergent or queer but did know she felt like an alien.
Loretta is a hologram. She’s not human and she never will be, even as with a splash of Disney magic she begins to start experiencing real emotion. She lives more in cyberspace than reality, she has zero social skills; all she knows is singing and dancing just as she was programmed to… and wanting more, wanting to join humanity, just as she wasn’t. Yet, the human world not only accepts her in her strangeness, they embrace it. It’s what makes her special.
She danced across the floor, spouted odd commentary, wore far out ensembles. So did I. I was met with teasing and strange looks. Loretta, on the other hand, owned her strangeness and was revered for it.
In what became not just the movie’s but my own anthem, Loretta sings at first, “You may find me just a little strange,” in the end proclaiming it proudly- “Nothing’s wrong with me!” I wanted nothing more than to be able to sing “Nothing’s wrong with me!” and believe it whenever a teacher decided I was lonely and friendless simply for choosing to draw by myself or a classmate stared at me uncomprehendingly at just the mention of a special interest. I wanted to wear the most vibrant, out there clothes in my wardrobe and show the world what I could do instead of hiding in drab threads that just weren’t me. I wanted to transform like the human behind the hologram who actually wrote those lyrics. You see, the happy ending was for her all along. Under the influence of a few hundred megapixels, the insecure teen tries and fails to be something she’s not, instead gaining the courage to confidently take her band back as her honest, “strange” self.
In hindsight, the movie is just as cheesy and problematic as you’d expect. Yet, that doesn’t change the fact that in those 90 minutes, young Alice felt that someday she too could sing it proudly:
I still couldn’t tell you how it exists; it shouldn’t exist. Yet, somehow, through almost three years and 5000 miles, its life support continues to beep away.
I started an ace meetup. Even with an ocean between me and the desperate passion project, it somehow lived on- if only on the screen like Ladonia- growing from 5 to 20 to 80 (almost) faceless members, all because I could never quite bring myself to pull the plug. Even as $60 was taken out of my account at times almost faster than the yen could roll in, even as the pandemic was in the end the only thing keeping it active at all as I hosted digital meetups from a different time zone…
To think I nearly gave up a thousand times.
When I crept into my first queer space in my very last year of college, I already knew I had to be the one. Somehow, as everywhere from Seattle to New York to any forgotten city in between nursed healthy meetups with thousands of members and dozens of organizers, in 19 years of community building there still was no official ace space in the state of Hawaii. Hawaii, the place I got to know as “rainbow island” in every sense of the word. Though Oahu only had one true queer club, though it could only beat rinky-dink Tokyo pride by a few onlookers (some of those protestors), the state steeped in LGBTQ+ history is exactly as queer as my ex San Francisco wishes it was.
Why, then, had the purple and green in the rainbow just never come together- was everyone just too far apart? Unlike in the bay area, we couldn’t simply hop in our car or on the BART a few hours; if you’re on another island, it just isn’t that easy. Is it that the ace community is just too “shy?” I’m not the first to observe what seems a distinctly ace spec tendency to hide in the deck and keep to oneself, and it’s no wonder- it was all I could do to drag my social anxiety to my first ace meetup. With the tales I’d read of rainbow spaces guarded by fire breathing dragons, it was only a world of heteronormative nightmares like I’d never known with not so much as a rainbow in sight that sent me running for that cave in the hopes of refuge. Yet, this doesn’t quite explain why even among other aces we’ve seemed to cling to the internet since long before the pandemic; it doesn’t explain how a classmate spotted the ace aro pride badges on my bag every day for an entire semester, never getting the nerve to say something until months later when introduced by her new ace roommate who happened to be my own ace friend.
Whatever the reasons for this isolation, my desperate posting in AVEN forums, acebook, anywhere I thought we might gather told me quickly that we EXISTED… it was simply that no one was quite willing to take that first step. And why should they? Devoting the time and energy to try and cobble together a community from zero, possibly for nothing?
Yet, I had to do it. Knowing even one ace existed not only on the same island but in the same college, just as afraid to be without a community… I waltzed into my first queer alliance meeting, hands shaking, poised for attack… Only to see four familiar colors hanging proudly next to the rainbow, trans and pan flags. I could have cried with relief- and that was merely my beginning with a community that would open its arms to me.
Two uncertain classmates turned into seven strangers on Discord brought together by forum pleas and campus posters. I wasted no time in trying to piece together a real ace meetup. Two were supposed to come to that very first little gathering. One showed. And again, that was enough- I was frankly amazed that it wasn’t just me sitting there alone in the Japanese food court.
The second time, it was. Having rushed out when I should have been getting ready for the college’s long awaited “Masqueerade” ball, it was more than disheartening as I questioned for only about the thousandth time what the hell I thought I was doing. Where did I, introverted, bad at life, socially anxious and inept as I was, think I could get away with hosting not only a meetup group but essentially holding the weight of the entirety of the nonexistent Hawaiian ace community on my shoulders? Presiding over an uncooperative public library “Otaku Club” for a senior project and habitually fading into the background of San Francisco’s ace meetups, hardly able to get a word in edgewise, did not exactly qualify me for this kind of leadership.
With nowhere else to turn, I immersed myself in the queer alliance. Maybe I didn’t have that ace meetup group, but I found acceptance- not only of my asexuality, but of me– everything that had always made me feel like an alien suddenly, inexplicably, not weird but charming. Honestly, I wanted to give up on the meetup almost every week; it just didn’t feel like I had it in me- not the strength, the charisma, certainly not the mental health. I couldn’t have done it all alone. Just the want of a friend for support in life in general made me weak at the knees.
Yet every time I stumbled, the queer alliance made me feel seen and accepted and supported enough to keep staggering on. They gave me a community I hadn’t even known existed, let alone known I needed like sunshine and air. And it was there, miraculously, that I found even more aces. Though it took a semester, I even found my one and only consistent member and someone I still call my friend. While it lasted, she even fought to be my successor. And it was there that I finally understood- no matter if there were inevitably occasional frequent meetups where it was just me alone in the food court, the group was important to people. Very important. Even if studying with two jobs and a hellish commute usually made it impossible for them to attend.
Throughout the year, I held a handful of meetups, some more formal affairs on our overpriced homepage when I finally bit the bullet, most simply a call into the void on Discord. Looking back, it’s nothing short of a miracle- and a testament that we really do need this community- that those ramshackle “meetups” once upon a time attracted anyone at all. It’s a testament that even now a handful of those 80 members have shown their faces on screen- and have sent message after message expressing gratitude even when they couldn’t attend.
And so I drag this group, weak but still kicking, through its third anniversary. Now that I find myself seeking refuge in rainbow island yet again, seeing an ace or two step off the screen once again, I am so infinitely glad I never let go.
The story of my first and only attempt to not just lurk in the corners of AVEN or the local meetup isn’t exactly a story of success or failure, it just is. But if anyone reading this is afraid of taking a leap to engage with the ace- or rainbow- community, just know that most of us are afraid, and that doesn’t mean you won’t make a difference. Know that if you’re not ready to try and herd even a few college aces let alone a state’s worth into the same room, that’s more than valid. In the end even the smallest gesture, so much as telling that classmate with the ace badge that you’re two of a kind before the semester is over, is making a difference in the community. In two years in Japan I’ve found that it is often the smallest gestures (or lack of) that really decide how much acceptance you’ll find. It is these gestures I so took for granted, from the smallest to the greatest, that have not only brought me back to the US, but made me think that maybe, just maybe, this rainbow colored garbage fire may actually be my “homeland.”
Happy Aromantic Awareness Week to all! In the spirit of proudly wearing aromanticism on our sleeves (or at least on our anonymous blogs in obscure corners of the internet), without further ado I give you the top five times I should have known instantly I was aro (if only I’d known it was an option).
“I like you, too! …ok, bye!”
Deciding with immense relief that my squish on an overly friendly theater kid was a crush, I fantasized that we’d become better friends, or most sordid of all – he’d confess romantic feelings. Daydream Alice’s response? “Yay, I feel the same way- now let’s go on being friends, high school dating’s much too idiotic~” It never even occurred to me to fantasize about actually dating him… or touching him… or doing anything that society deemed “romantic” with him. In fact, aside from the entertainment aspect, what had me most excited about the whole ordeal was that I could tell my friends about it and relate to them and their boyfriends and constant crushes like never before. The day the squish was squashed, I was almost eager to tell them all the gory details… yet something stopped me (probably an inherent sense that I was lying to myself- even in a poem detailing the affair a line crept in confessing that I was never “200% sure” of my “crush” like all the songs claimed I should be). In the end, it never even occurred to me that this wasn’t a crush, that I might not want the romance. Of course I wanted it, it just had to be the right kind of romance- the fluffy far away kind in K-Dramas and angsty anime- not holding hands in high school hallways or sitting in the local movie theater at- gasp!– 8 PM or whatever high school sweethearts actually did. Already more cynical of my fellow humans (and especially men) than I really had any right to be, I assumed I was just too realistic to even enjoy the fantasy… even though the fantasy epidemic had already started, which brings us to…
Sordid Tales of… Friendship?
Confession: I spent way too much of my high school and college years dreaming up far too detailed fantasies involving a recurring set of original characters- not from my “serious” works, mind you, created just for my own amusement, if that does anything to quell the image you’re probably getting of a 14 year old self insert fanfic writer as if that wasn’t also a thing. They were supposed to be “romantic” fantasies, hence why my internalized queerphobia stuck strictly to guys. However, in practice… 99% of them were all about the friendship. In fact, something about the “post-confession” relationship just felt so awkward I only ever crept into the enemy territory if I just had to have the cuddling or chaste kissing, seeing as society had convinced me that such non-romantic affection could only be a precursor to a one night stand or worse still an ongoing sexual relationship. It was still too easy to hide behind my partition and pretend this was normal. What really should have hit the message home? When I fantasized myself a love triangle where I just couldn’t choose one or the other, and instead of dreaming up romantic polyamory or simply god forbid imagining separate universes… I imagined myself a co-living co-sleeping cuddly QP trio without knowing that this was a thing outside my own mind… and liked it a hell of a lot better than any of my romantic delusions.
“Strong feelings… girl…?!! FRIEND CRUSH!!”
Deep in internalized queerphobia throughout my high school years, only once did I have such a strong squish on a girl that I actually took notice… and my carefully constructed partition began to shake. Not ready to lose even a single brick, I quickly decided on the spot, FRIEND CRUSH! I still have no idea where my best friend and I picked up the term or who used it first, but in our world that was always a thing albeit seldom talked about… probably because she was as much in denial about being ace homoro as I was about being ace aro. Of course, terrified as I was of being ‘not straight’ in any way, boy squishes were quickly upgraded to crushes, while girls were ignored… except for this one, who had me giddy with every interaction and constantly starved for more. If I hadn’t been so quick to seal the thing up in a heteronormative box it would have probably taken down the partition like dynamite- alas, considering it was carved into my subconscious that there was only one form of attraction, I was far more likely to have added further fuel to my internalized queerphobia by assuming I was bi than I was to recognize the validity of ‘friend crushes…’
“Strong feelings… he has a girlfri- FRIEND CRUSH!!”
Finding myself unable to deny how giddy I was about spending time with and getting to know a male friend my freshman year of college, I analyzed my feelings… and decided easily and comfortably that it was a ‘friend crush’ just like that girl of yore. Who knew I could get them for guys as well? I do believe I was able to come to the realization thanks to my fresh start- far from everyone’s preconceived notions, for once I was confident enough to live my best life without throwing the word ‘crush’ around. Considering I would sooner proudly proclaim that I was in love with an anime character (literally) than simply acknowledge that I never had any crushes, I don’t think simply wanting to save myself the heartache of ‘crushing’ on a guy with a girlfriend would’ve stopped me in high school…
“I’m bored- let’s have a crush oooooon… that guy!”
It was freshman year, and “bonehead English” was an understatement. I put only 70% effort into my writing assignments because I just couldn’t be bothered… and they were consistently handed back with a slick 110% simply because most of my classmates didn’t even do their assignments. When I wasn’t nagging a slacker friend or staring at the dancing Snoopys on the teacher’s tie as channeled a preschool teacher, whatever was there to save me from absolutely dying of boredom? Then it struck me- have a crush, those are entertaining! I scanned the room, and quickly settled on the one boy in class who I had seen hand in assignments but had not seen open his mouth. Bonus points- I could swear he was in my P.E. class, though it was hard to tell when nondescript white boy in jeans and a t-shirt matched the description of half the male population (nondescript white boy in camouflage and cowboy boots described the other). So, I consciously decided that this convenient target would be my crush, it never occurring to me somehow that this is not how crushes work even with my vast repertoire of genuine organic squishes… probably because I’d been doing this ever since a boy in my fifth grade class had been less than subtle about his own crush- nice kid, he likes me, of course I have to like him back, right…? At any rate, I eavesdropped on this classmate’s conversations for a day or two, trying to discover something to actually like about him or at the very least his name. I gave up when this quickly proved even more tedious than the teacher’s bad Mr. Rogers impersonation.
Life Through the Looking Glass 