People seem to think that “coming out” is a one-time story, a solitary experience that can be recounted in a simple anecdote. But it’s not that straightforward. In reality, we’re coming out almost every day. We come out to every new person we meet.
For the sake of this story, I’m going to be focusing on the process of coming out to my immediate family, since I’ve kind of been out to the public since discovering I wasn’t straight. I was fortunate to grow up in an environment that encouraged individualism and supported the queer community, so I’ve always had the privilege of comfort with my sexuality in a public light. I’m extremely lucky in that regard.
It’s a different story with my family, though.
I came out to my mother first. I did it in the middle of a fight. Yelled it, actually. For context, I had gone to San Francisco that day to meet up with a girl I was seeing at the time (I was living with my family in Silicon Valley that summer), but told my mother I would be at work. She found out that night and confronted me, and we got into a tiff about it. I told her I was just meeting up with a friend. She kept pressing me about this “friend”, asking how I knew her and why I needed to see her so bad. She said the word “friend” so many times in the conversation that I lost my patience with her and… well, I came out.
For the record, 10/10 would not recommend.
“Just stood there, staring at me like I’d shattered her heart”
My mother was stunned. She didn’t say anything for what felt like a solid minute – just stood there, staring at me like I’d shattered her heart. Then, very quietly and solemnly, she looked me dead in the eyes and said:
“Alice, I know you don’t believe in God, but there is a God.”
The rest of the night isn’t even worth recounting in detail; it was a lot of repetitious religious talk on my mom’s end and screaming and crying on mine. I called my best friend after my mother left the room and sobbed to her that I wanted to die. I felt dismissed and shamed and conditionally loved.
I never got the chance to come out to my father; my mother outed me to him. I don’t know when, exactly – maybe that same night, maybe a few days later. I wasn’t sure if he knew for several months, until he began asking me vague, cryptic questions about my close female friends and my feelings on American individualism.
I’ve never actually publicly talked about my family situation, but I think my story is one that will resonate with a lot of queer people, specifically Asians and children of immigrants. My identity as a first-generation Asian American is a massive part of who I am. Both of my parents immigrated to the U.S. after growing up in China. I’m also the oldest sibling; my sister is ten years younger than I am, so there’s added pressure to set an example for her.
“communicating about topics like politics and morality feels almost impossible”
My parents and I have four main barriers: cultural, generational, religious, and linguistic. That last one is something a lot of people don’t really think about. Both of my parents’ first languages is Mandarin; mine is English. There are a lot of identity terms that either don’t exist at all, or don’t exist in my personal vocabulary. Is there a Mandarin word for “intersectionality”? My dad speaks better English than my mom, so we’re able to communicate on a deeper intellectual level, but with my mother, communicating about topics like politics and morality feels almost impossible.
Despite the ongoing disagreements with my parents, I can’t blame them for their upbringing, and that may be hard for some people to understand. There are so many different opinions on this. Someone’s past doesn’t excuse their present behavior, but it certainly colors it. My parents were raised in traditional, conservative China: an upbringing that I can’t possibly understand. I was born into a family who took care of me through their own love language that didn’t quite match up with mine. Where I had physical and financial security (a luxury that I’m certainly not dismissing), I lacked emotional support and understanding.
My family is gradually witnessing my ability to make my own decisions, and consequently relinquishing control. Though I’m not sure if full acceptance is on the horizon, maybe ever, I can see that my parents are beginning to let go. They’re starting to give up on trying to change me. That’s sad in some ways and liberating in others.
“Our struggles are born out of cultural and perhaps moral differences”
I want people to understand that my parents are not bad humans. They are entirely selfless with their care, and loving and supportive in the ways they know how to be. Our struggles are born out of cultural and perhaps moral differences. Not because one party is right and the other is corrupt.
Navigating my relationship with my family present-day looks like finding better ways to listen. It looks like compassion for people who chose to create me and throw everything they have into my life. It looks like anxiety, some self-doubting and even some self-loathing at times. It looks like deep understanding. It looks like building a rock-solid foundation for myself, for those times when I have to be my own support. It looks like many difficult conversations, not all of which are productive. It looks like compromise.
More than all of that though, it looks like openness. Sharing. Connecting – with people beyond my immediate community. That’s why I’m telling this story now. It’s so easy to feel alone when in reality, none of us really are. Children of immigrants feel especially isolated when we’re enveloped by two contrasting cultures. It’s hard to know what to trust.
While I sometimes wish I had an easier relationship with my family, all of this has been a lesson in compassion. It’s taught me how to speak and listen in ways that help me connect with those I don’t otherwise mesh with. The ongoing struggle is an exploration of deeper connection with myself, my communities, and my loved ones. Realistically, all relationships aren’t able to seamlessly unfold, and it’s foolish to expect that. The next best thing is finding value in the struggle, and I think that’s pretty divine.
Alice Tsui
Edited by Aislinn O'Keeffe
LGBTQ+ Activist
