thegaysiandiaries:

Dear Diary,

My fabulous 20s is almost over. In a month, I will be turned to 30 fucking years old. My butthole will be no longer allowed to say, “Oh no, I don’t think I can take it… It’s too big,” but simply say, “Oh, it’s in already?” Certainly my inferior rectal nerves are getting looser, or maybe just have found their own state of Zen. Well, basically my butthole became a water-filled pot of lucky bamboo plant —too much? As I get older, a “you look younger” becomes a proof of what I am, Asian, and a “your skin looks amazing” feeds my Gaysian soul like a bread of life —of course I follow up with my gaysha smile and say, “Oh really? I don’t use anything for it, but I should thank to my parents” meanwhile my medicine cabinet is getting full of all kinds of Korean skincare cosmetics that I don’t even know what the fuck their labels say… Are they organic? A moisturizer became a new holy grail in my everyday routine more than a daily prayer. If someone asked me “Where do you want me to cum?” I would instantly tell him, “On my face, please.” Yang Guifei bathed herself in baby’s urine to keep her beauty youthful, so hey, I can appreciate someone’s semen on my face to spare a sheet of beauty mask. So all that to say, I won’t be able to act like an innocent-looking twink you see in Japanese porn whom repeatedly screams “yameteeee” like a dying sea lion. Why? Because I’m fucking 30 years old, wait, almost 30. Don’t get me wrong; the age of 30 is still young and nothing to bitch about. It’s a part of life that I lose and gain one another. My twink sash was revoked in the age of 25 and lost my glittery youthful gay identity, but gaining a mama-ness day by day. All joking aside, diary, I’m so grateful for this life I was given. Let the church say Amen.

I love where I am now and who I became in this age. It was hard to say, but now I can proudly say that I am an Asian, not a Wanna-Be-Asian-American but a fabulous Asian-Asian who was born and raised in Japan. At Woman Thou Art Loosed conference 2012 hosted by Bishop T.D. Jakes, Dr. Cindy Trimm once said, “Life is a series of decisions that you make.” What I am today is a series of decisions that I made by both proud ones and shameful ones. To be honest, until recent, I wasn’t able to embrace my Japanese-ness, my Asian-ness, and mostly my Asian-Asian-ness. Why? Because I made a series of decisions to walk away from my identity after I moved to the U.S. If I saw any yellow stains in my English accent, in my social circle, even on my social media, I used a full force to get rid of this tough yellow stain completely. To be surrounded by non-Asians was my way to tell the world I’m doing well in this country and also to tell myself that I’m not like other Fresh-out-of-the-boat Asians. To re-write my FOB Asian status to something I thought “American” was my first priority when I freshly started off my life here in the U.S.

In 2005, when I was 18, I decided to move to Jacksonville, Alabama for a college not knowing any of the history, politics, and culture in the U.S. and the Deep South. I couldn’t speak English at all and suddenly found myself in the middle of Alabama, in the middle of a college town painted in a monochromatic colour system of Black and White but Yellow. A school cafeteria was a big deal when I start taking classes. As I walked in this huge cafeteria for the first time, I noticed that Black students were on the left, and Whites were on the right side divided by a buffet station. Now I asked myself, “Gurl, where should I sit?” I decided to sit in the Black side quietly but more towards to the buffet station, and immediately felt deadly stares and giggles from everywhere. My color was a minority all of the sudden. There were only handful of Asian students in the college and even in the entire city (come on, in the middle of Alabama for God sake! Oh there was one Taiwanese family who used to run a small Chinese restaurant, of course, it called “Golden Dragon”), and we were treated like a rare Pokémon; however, we were more like a racial slur magnet. There were random derogatory shout-outs from drivers, “Look-There-Is-Asian” stares everywhere I went, and tease on my EngRish accent. I still remember the handout that I was given at a local governmental office. It was asking an applicant’s ethnicity and said, “Oriental.” Am I an antique Oriental vase? Soon after, I made a pivotal decision; I finna* fake it till I make it. I became “American.” At that time, my definition of American was just either Black or White. Anyway, I joined a gospel choir at the school and a local black church — I was the only non-Black member there. I started actively involving with local churches (I grew up in a Christian household, so it was natural.). Slowly but surely I’ve gotten into the local Black community. My identity is now relied on others. Hanging out with only non-Asians was visually satisfying; it made me feel like being American. Looking at my Facebook friend list full of non-Asian did satisfy me behind a door. — I am doing damn well — It started showing through how I talk, how I act, and how I dress. It worked really well in the beginning, but what I didn’t know was that this tic would stick with me for a long time. My conscious decision-making became counter racism towards Asian. I found myself talking shit about Asians, sadly, and forcefully avoiding any interaction with them. Because I was not one of them, FOB Asians, right?

My turning point came soon after I moved to Atlanta, GA. I start attending a Japanese church, and have met many older strong Japanese church ladies who had been through 70s and 80s of the Deep South as Asian immigrants. Their faith, their stories, and their strength collectively started breaking the walls I built. Brick by brick… God works in mysterious ways, eh? There’re many Asian immigrants in Atlanta, and I have gradually gained significant number of Asian friends who actively support the community. I realized that I don’t have to act something else or be with some other racial group to feed my ego and pride. Not a Wanna-be something but I-Am-Who-I-Am, the authentic identity should shine through myself. Let me have some Maya Angelou moment, let your light shine before others. Can I get an Amen?

After I start putting a value to my own individuality, many decisions that I made seemed petty. However, it was necessary to become who I am today. There are plenty of strong, genuine, and smart Gaysians in New York City. Asian-Asians and Asian-Americans, everyone has their own accents, shades of color, shapes of eyes and lips, and yes, hairstyles, but most importantly, own testimonies.

Let me remind myself again. I was literally scared the shit out when I went to see Dr. Collins, the professor and legendary director of Gospel Choir. Standing in front of a large wooden door at her office in a basement of the music hall, I heard loud voices, a powerful harmony of the voice. Voice doesn’t have color, but I could see the color — a harmony of powerful, big, and proud black voices. I hope someday, my voice can be strong, proud and colorful as that voice; yellow as melting butter, yellow as pure gold, and yellow as my hardworking mothers and fathers.

Anyway, that’s all for tonight. I’m trying to channel Carrie Bradshaw realness like I was living in a fancy Manhattan apartment, but here I am actually in Jackson Heights, Queens where the white folks are seen like a rare Pokémon. Good night.



Yohey Horishita



Portfolio: yoheyhorishita.com

Facebook: @yoheyhorishita

Instagram: @yoheyhorishita





P.S. I’m now 30 years old.