Last you heard, our interracial lovers got married and flew off into the sunsets of Playa del Carmen.
It should be the end of this blog, right? I mean, West met East, fell in love, got engaged, and got married, and lived happily ever after. End of story.
In fact, the battles had only just begun. Continue reading Surname Siege (#80)
The reaction of my Chinese-American fiancé’s parents to our wedding plans was muted. Literally. Because Andy turned off his phone. Continue reading Losing No Religion (#27)
It was my engagement weekend at a very ritzy hotel in South Pasadena with my Chinese-American fiancé. My white family was several time zones ahead on the East Coast. Andy’s parents live in Hawaii. Andy’s parents were the first to find out we were getting married.
And that’s where I made my first tactical error. Continue reading Going Too Far (#25)
My Chinese-American boyfriend had just proposed. I threw my arms around Andy, kissed him, and marveled at the fact that I was no longer terrified.
I looked at the ring – and told Andy how beautiful it was. For a full minute. At which point he reminded me that I had not, in fact, actually answered the question “Will you marry me?” Continue reading Opening Salvo (#23)
A piece of golden stationery and a Honda Civic that smelled of cat pee led me to the door of a room in a fancy hotel. I pushed the door open. Andy, my Chinese-American boyfriend, stood in the center of the room, holding a rose. My nervous eyes jumped around the room. Huge bed, already turned down, decorated by a box of See’s truffles. The man knew me well. (One dinner mint on a pillow isn’t even an appetizer!) The room was bigger than my apartment. The furniture was mahogany. The floors were marble.
Thankfully, there was no sign of a square jewelry box. Continue reading Skydiving (#22)
I was a fan of football, not marriage (Post #6). After I returned home from dancing with my Chinese-American boyfriend Andy on a Thursday night, I found a fancy golden envelope inside my dance bag. (All dance nerds have a bag, complete with Cuban heels and a wire brush.) My heart rate shot up. My palms grew sweaty, my vision tunneled, and I couldn’t breathe. You know, basic panic attack. Continue reading A Big Gold Flag (#21)