The way I hid itbetween two more innocent-looking books I’ve long since forgotten. This habit I beganin high school—sneaking into my backpack, then my room, all the queerlit, every bit of this aliveness I could find. The fact—the fact I’d love to dispute, deny,but can’t—that it took until college to find books & writers both queer & Asian.How I’m still shedding the unaliveness, the lie that queer & Asian must mean un- & never-innocent, that to live like you is to choose pain & sorrow& pain.
