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. 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. I was eight and already doing the thing that I would catch myself doing, again and again, in my teens and then my twenties: idealizing the objects of my affection, creating characters with whom I proceeded to fall head over heels in love.
I have always been cautious to a fault. I am precious with my body, the reason why I avoid sports that involve fast balls or speed in general which is to say most sports.
But when it comes to matters of the heart, I throw myself headfirst, not so much falling as diving into love. I am addicted to love: its hot flushes, its cold sweats, the way I am unmade and remade by it. Since Ben, I have yearned after many others. There was the drummer in the middle school jazz band, the high school class clown, the teaching assistant in political theory, the melancholic college debater, the aloof mathematician. And then there was A.
I am an Asian woman, and a certain narrative about relationships like the ones I have had with white men has infiltrated recent Asian American literature. A fight ensues. How much easier would it be?
What kinds of conversations and pains could we bypass? What kinds of cultural aspects and perspectives of the world could we share? The novel, which lampoons academia and facets of Asian American politics, features a Taiwanese American woman, Ingrid, who is engaged to a mediocre white man, Stephen.
