Writing

There was the guy I dated briefly who told me, when we met, that it was so cool I was a feminist – that he’d never date a girl who wasn’t. After it ended, he bitterly spat, “I felt like I could never be myself around you because I had to watch what I said about race or gender.” Dudebro translation: “How dare you stop me from being racist and sexist!”

There was the boyfriend who charmed me on our first date with his extensive knowledge of riot grrl bands and told me some of his best friends were feminists. As our relationship continued, though, it became littered with gaslightingand contrarian arguments on feminism, gender and race. He would bait me, wind me up until I exploded, and then accuse me of misrepresenting his opinions and overreacting.

There was my friend’s ex, who proclaimed that he was no longer a feminist when accused of mansplaining.

The more feminist friends I asked, the more similar stories I heard.

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Recently, I received a message from someone I hadn’t spoken to in years.

He wrote: “Many years ago, I made a rape joke on Facebook. You commented on it letting me know how distasteful and terrible it was. I just wanted to thank you for that.

“At the time I thought not being a rapist was enough. It is not. The idea I would always try to stop rape if I saw it in person was enough. It is not. I thought a rape joke is just a joke. It is not. I’m ashamed of myself for once believing those things. It was a bitter pill at the time, but I really needed to take it. Thank you for always putting yourself out there and stopping/teaching ignorant people like me. I don’t know if you ever get discouraged, but I know personally you helped at least one boy to grow up a better person.”

It felt like a breath of fresh air.

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Last weekend, I was wearing my favourite novelty tee – a Taylor Swift shirt parodying the cover of Sonic Youth’s 1990 album, Goo, combining my love for both artists.

The shirt always sparks conversations, and I was discussing it with a passer-by wearing a similar shirt with a picture of Sonic the Hedgehog. “Mine’s Taylor Swift,” I said.

At this, a middle-aged man walking past stopped and said, “ACTUALLY, it’s Sonic Youth.”

I laughed before I realised he wasn’t kidding.

“I know,” I replied. “Oh, I’m sure you do,” he drawled condescendingly.

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We’d chat all day online while we both worked, then as soon as we got home we’d cook together, marathon TV shows, have mates over. We went on adventures every weekend, cycling to the pub and passing out drunk in each other’s beds at the end of the night. Living with one of my best friends was so much fun.

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A few weeks ago, my mother called me to tell me that my Bà Nội – paternal grandmother – had stopped eating and drinking. There wasn’t much doctors could do.

Several days later, I woke up to a text: “Bà passed away last night at 2:30am.”

Bà Nội was my last living grandparent. She was 94 when she died after battling severe dementia for years. I hadn’t seen her since 2012 – she lived in Canada, 16,000km away. I’d guess I met her less than 10 times in my life. Three years old, then four, then eight, 11, 13, 16, 21, 23. I was always changing, a different version of myself each time, but she stayed the same – gentle, soft, only ever half-smiling.

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Last week, British band Coldplay courted controversy with the video for their latest single, ‘Hymn for the Weekend’. Shot in India, the clip shows the band performing on the streets, backdropped by dancing Indians, the colourful paint splashes of Holi, religious iconography and a beautiful Bollywood actress, played by the very un-Indian Beyoncé.

Immediately they were slammed with accusations of cultural appropriation, and rightfully so – exoticising a nation in a gross Eat Pray Love-esque, white-people-finding-themselves-in-brown-people-places move, is a tasteless, lazy and one-dimensional representation of a diverse culture.

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For as long as I can remember, I have had issues with my body.

As a chubby child, I hid in the bathroom with snacks, eating them secretly so no one could reprimand me.

As a teenager, I grew beyond what I was raised to see as ideal. Though I recognise my privilege in never being what is generally considered “fat”, to my family I was – the Perfect Vietnamese Girl is slim and flat chested, wearing the traditional áo dài with grace. My breasts grew large and low as soon as puberty hit, and I was born with a butt that wouldn’t quit and certainly didn’t fit into restrictive traditional clothing. Physically, I was “flawed” – and I was reminded constantly.

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At nine years old, I had it bad for a boy in my class. He’d moved to Sydney from a northern surfer town, evident by his tanned, freckled skin, and his fringe swooped over his dreamy brown eyes. In a bid to win him over, I befriended his sister, who had a name I loved – Ebony. I decided it was my new middle name, and I wrote it all over my belongings.

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“It’s a match!” Tinder proclaimed. And the app was right – from the moment I walked into the bar for our first date and spotted him, I was smitten. Three weeks after we met, I lost my job and from there, the intensity of the relationship skyrocketed, culminating in “I love you” after two months of dating. I fell in love faster and harder than ever before – it may have seemed reckless to others, but it felt unstoppable to us. We spent all our time together and the chemistry was wild, but the passion also manifested itself in fiery arguments. It was tumultuous, with incredible highs and crashing lows – and before I knew it, I was alone again.

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