VOLUME 2 / ARTICLE 01 ︎
My Closet, Our Safe Haven:
A Love Letter to Us
A Love Letter to Us
Written by Serene Mitchell & Kevin Ah-Sen
Illustrations by Thaila Khampo
January 2021
Illustrations by Thaila Khampo
January 2021
Dear reader,
What does it mean to come out when I’ve been coming out my entire life? Where are you from? Where are you really from? No matter how many generations, degrees, and jobs later, or friends that I make, that question makes me feel like I will always be from somewhere that isn’t here. Being Asian Canadian, to many, means explaining genealogies you’ve never had a chance to learn.
Growing up consuming queer pop culture dominated by the white-male normativity, “coming out” seemed like a milestone to becoming “truly” queer. The world would know the real me, and there was no going back. This was not in the realm of possibilities for me.
Instead, I stayed inside this closet, fearing its repercussions, yet comforted by its familiarity. I wasn’t willing to jeopardize my relationship with my family. Despite having a chosen family, my family was irreplaceable. My family was my connection to my language, my traditions, my sacred bond to a land I barely know. I learn everything I can to pass it on to the next generation, like the jade ring I received from a matriarch I never spoke more than a few words to.
When I heard someone say for the first time that my family didn’t truly love me because I wouldn’t come out to them, it hurt… then it immediately proved to me their incapability to understand the complexity of our lives and our confusing but undeniable ways to love. I realized early on that not everyone would understand how my family loved. A love that is not said but done.
“Even if I wanted to, I don’t know the words to “come out” in our language and my family wouldn’t know them in English.”
As offspring of immigrant beginnings, we are made well-aware of our bittersweet life, abundant in ways that generations before us could have only dreamt of. But we wrestle with the cognitive dissonance of learning from our parents that survival means the desire to hide what is different and the privilege we have had to learn to self-express. I’m here to express that I am still at a loss for words. Even if I wanted to, I don’t know the words to “come out” in our language and my family wouldn’t know them in English. Why would they? English, for them, is the language of getting by. I’ve come to accept that certain kinds of love are lost in translation, and that’s inevitable.
I found a bit of my coming out story through the works of bell hooks. In her essay on marginality, she wrote, “[They] only want to hear about your pain, [they] want to know your story and then [they] will tell you in a new way. Tell it in a way that it has become [theirs], rewriting you.” I felt that as an Asian Canadian in a white-dominated queer community I was denied access to be the speaking subject. So, I decided coming out would be something selective. I chose whom I would speak to. I share it with those who know that a broken language can still be whole and that emotions beyond those needed to survive can be lost by those with the warmest hearts. I felt less like I was cornered into explaining pain to those who could never understand. Shame slowly slipped into a memory box, and I began to let go of this feeling that I’ve known for far too long.
I found a bit of my coming out story through the works of bell hooks. In her essay on marginality, she wrote, “[They] only want to hear about your pain, [they] want to know your story and then [they] will tell you in a new way. Tell it in a way that it has become [theirs], rewriting you.” I felt that as an Asian Canadian in a white-dominated queer community I was denied access to be the speaking subject. So, I decided coming out would be something selective. I chose whom I would speak to. I share it with those who know that a broken language can still be whole and that emotions beyond those needed to survive can be lost by those with the warmest hearts. I felt less like I was cornered into explaining pain to those who could never understand. Shame slowly slipped into a memory box, and I began to let go of this feeling that I’ve known for far too long.
“My queerness is not only about whom I love but also about how I love myself. I’m still tending to myself, letting myself sit with feelings of inadequacy.”
My queerness is not only about whom I love but also about how I love myself. I’m still tending to myself, letting myself sit with feelings of inadequacy. Feelings that come with the rigid dichotomy of being Asian and Canadian, where being one seems to mean that you will always be less of the other. In the same stroke, we live in fear of double erasure; left out of and misrepresented within white-dominated queer community, while drowning in the heteronormativity within immigrant communities. I wondered, “who will claim me? How can I claim myself? Who stands with me on this margin of something that was already a margin?”
In my culture, there is a belief that a red thread of fate is wrapped around the fingers of those that are destined to meet one another. I have found a strong red thread linking me to other queer Asians, to you. With these people I find a space where the many expressions of myself can co-exist beautifully and without contradiction.
“An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break” (Chinese proverb).
Sincerely,
Serene Mitchell
In my culture, there is a belief that a red thread of fate is wrapped around the fingers of those that are destined to meet one another. I have found a strong red thread linking me to other queer Asians, to you. With these people I find a space where the many expressions of myself can co-exist beautifully and without contradiction.
“An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break” (Chinese proverb).
Sincerely,
Serene Mitchell
Epilogue
Written by Kevin Ah-Sen
Serene has penned such an honest and thoughtful love letter dedicated to the unheard and the unseen. Although a voice that is not ours, per se, vulnerable and generous, and yet a narrative that is all too familiar, it dives deep in the harsh and uncomfortable truths of (our) being and becoming in the West. One that recognizes the anguish and pain of (not) coming out. One that ponders what that means to us, to our families, and to our possible futures.
“To us, “not” coming out is a choice–a refusal–one that is active and deliberate. It does not represent an inability or incapability of embracing queerness. It is not weak. Instead, it is one that is tended with deep care, love, humility, and kindness.
My conversation with Serene prior to endeavouring this collaborative piece was enriching and humbling. Contemplating about what we wanted to tell and know when writing, we recognized our desire to challenge the oppressive be-all and end-all (mis)understandings of coming out of the closet.
To us, “not” coming out is a choice–a refusal–one that is active and deliberate. It does not represent an inability or incapability of embracing queerness. It is not weak. Instead, it is one that is tended with deep care, love, humility, and kindness. Although it may weigh heavy on the heart, it is a selfless act. It is not just about being safe, but rather about protection. It is a way to tend to our bodies and spirits, a way to hold ourselves in this world (see Ode to Masturbation, Ocean Vuong). The worlds created in what Summer Kim Lee calls staying in “are not spaces of isolation and loneliness that reject relation. Staying in dynamically affords one the time and space needed to evade compulsory forms of sociability that late liberalism and subsequent formations of political resistance demand in the present moment.” It is a choice that those who epitomize and glorify colonial understandings of queerness will not comprehend. One that contests the dominant white ga(y)ze who audaciously tells us when and where to (not) belong. However, I am deeply comforted to know and to exist otherwise, to no longer succumb to a silence/ing beyond deafening.
Thinking about and with the seven virtues of water iterated by Chinese thinker and author of the Tao Te Ching, Laozi, (our) queerness, likewise,
Like waves, we shall break the shores of the status quo, scarring the sand leaving traces of our painful memories and mapping the geographies of our elegance and sovereignty. Although I can go on and on critiquing the ill lust for and impositions of Euro-centric queerhood, I prefer to end here with a simple, yet heartfelt, thank you. Thank you, reader, for sharing this moment with us, our here and now. And to Serene, celestial like the moonlight glistening over the still waters, you are loved. Here together, in solidarity and in queer imagination.
To us, “not” coming out is a choice–a refusal–one that is active and deliberate. It does not represent an inability or incapability of embracing queerness. It is not weak. Instead, it is one that is tended with deep care, love, humility, and kindness. Although it may weigh heavy on the heart, it is a selfless act. It is not just about being safe, but rather about protection. It is a way to tend to our bodies and spirits, a way to hold ourselves in this world (see Ode to Masturbation, Ocean Vuong). The worlds created in what Summer Kim Lee calls staying in “are not spaces of isolation and loneliness that reject relation. Staying in dynamically affords one the time and space needed to evade compulsory forms of sociability that late liberalism and subsequent formations of political resistance demand in the present moment.” It is a choice that those who epitomize and glorify colonial understandings of queerness will not comprehend. One that contests the dominant white ga(y)ze who audaciously tells us when and where to (not) belong. However, I am deeply comforted to know and to exist otherwise, to no longer succumb to a silence/ing beyond deafening.
Thinking about and with the seven virtues of water iterated by Chinese thinker and author of the Tao Te Ching, Laozi, (our) queerness, likewise,
“benefits all things without contention.
in dwelling, it stays grounded.
in being, it flows to depths.
in expression, it is honest.
in confrontation, it stays gentle.
in governance, it does not control.
in action, it aligns to timing.
it is content with its nature,
and therefore cannot be faulted.”
in dwelling, it stays grounded.
in being, it flows to depths.
in expression, it is honest.
in confrontation, it stays gentle.
in governance, it does not control.
in action, it aligns to timing.
it is content with its nature,
and therefore cannot be faulted.”
Like waves, we shall break the shores of the status quo, scarring the sand leaving traces of our painful memories and mapping the geographies of our elegance and sovereignty. Although I can go on and on critiquing the ill lust for and impositions of Euro-centric queerhood, I prefer to end here with a simple, yet heartfelt, thank you. Thank you, reader, for sharing this moment with us, our here and now. And to Serene, celestial like the moonlight glistening over the still waters, you are loved. Here together, in solidarity and in queer imagination.
- Marginality as a Site of Resistance, by bell hooks
- Tao Te Ching, by Laozi
- Staying In: Mitski, Ocean Vuong, and Asian American Asociality, by Summer Kim Lee
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Serene Mitchell (米倚旋) is a Taiwanese-Canadian creative based in unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, Sḵwx̱wú7mesh, and Sel̓íl̓witulh Nations (Vancouver), and Tiohtiá:ke (Montreal), currently completing her undergraduate degree in Asian North American history. On weekends you can find her skating with friends, at the local archives, or wandering around in Chinatown.
Kevin Ah-Sen is a son, educator, youth advocate, and lifestyle writer and editor at Sticky Rice Magazine. Kevin lives in Tiohtià:ke, also known as Montreal, where he is currently pursuing his doctoral studies in human development.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Thaïla Khampo is a Montreal-based illustrator. He like patterns, mystery, beautiful stories, naive art, caustic humour, simplicity, and images that tell a narrative. http://thailakhampo.net/
Serene Mitchell (米倚旋) is a Taiwanese-Canadian creative based in unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, Sḵwx̱wú7mesh, and Sel̓íl̓witulh Nations (Vancouver), and Tiohtiá:ke (Montreal), currently completing her undergraduate degree in Asian North American history. On weekends you can find her skating with friends, at the local archives, or wandering around in Chinatown.
Kevin Ah-Sen is a son, educator, youth advocate, and lifestyle writer and editor at Sticky Rice Magazine. Kevin lives in Tiohtià:ke, also known as Montreal, where he is currently pursuing his doctoral studies in human development.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Thaïla Khampo is a Montreal-based illustrator. He like patterns, mystery, beautiful stories, naive art, caustic humour, simplicity, and images that tell a narrative. http://thailakhampo.net/
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