Let me talk about my life, if anyone is interested in reading this. I was born in the mid 80’s, and after I was born, or perhaps when my brother was born 3 years earlier, she received a bad blood infusion because I or my brother was born through Caesarian section, since my father is 6’2″, about 250 pounds, and my mother, if I remember was no more than 5’3″ or 5’4″, so as a result she was cut open and due to the poor hospital conditions in New York at the time was infected with Hepatitis C, which ultimately was terminal but could be fought had she really wanted to (or at least this is what my uncle tells me). Growing up I had never really considered my race as being anything particular, but my friends were largely either Asian or white, and I was the only one who was mixed, other than a half-black boy in our class who I was good friends with.
My brother looked decidedly more Asian than me and with his pitch black hair was quite attractive and could have passed for Asian in some places but definitely could not have passed as white. Whether or not my mother preferred him or not is anyones guess, but she did spend much more time shaping him as we got older, and eventually she grew to disregard me even completely. She forced us into playing instruments as is common with most Asian parents and I absolutely hated playing violin as it was really atrocious to listen to it since we were poor and could not afford a quality violin. I showed an early aptitude for art and was described as being a genius by a rather well known artist in New York, who took me under her wing and showed me preference in a class of mostly adults.
She refused to buy me anything that I wanted and I wound up borrowing or stealing my brother’s clothing and toys, which I regret deeply. By the time I had entered middle school I was already a very notorious trouble maker and had been suspended or disciplined dozens of times, and the schools upper administration was very familiar with me. There were racially charged incidents in which another white boy coaxed me into calling another mixed-race half-black boy nigger or other slurs, and at the time I had no understanding of their meaning. By the time I finished middle school I had been in dozens of fights, suspended multiple times for graffiti, fighting, vandalism and trouble making, so much that the dean knew me by name and would scream at me like a father every time I entered his office. Then at age 14, my mother died, and I recall coming home that day after school with my aunt sitting in our apartment, and she told me with cold eyes that my mother had passed away; within minutes, without saying a word I went to go play basketball in the park, alone. I didn’t cry then, and I didn’t cry at her funeral. I actually never cried about this until I graduated college, and that was the last time I cried, until when I was in college and was obsessed with architectural preservation and found out two very beautiful buildings in Manhattan were going to be torn down, which was the first time I actually really wanted to kill myself; and then two years ago when my then girlfriend asked me “why do you think you are handsome,” so I pushed her hard, and she started crying, so I started crying too. I haven’t cried since and feel virtually no emotions anymore.
Anyways, I will post more. It feels good to write here. I feel much better.