Daily Life

The irony of not wanting to be seen as a ‘typical Asian’

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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