Final Destination

A couple of years ago, I went on a date with a Filipino guy after I submitted my residency applications. We met at an Asian restaurant in northern Virginia sometime in December, late in the evening. We sat down, started eating, and talked about our work situations, music tastes, and dating histories. When I told him that I hadn’t dated a man long-term yet, he said “that’s surprising,” especially because I had been 26 at the time.

“What’s surprising about that?” I asked him. He said some vague jumbled string of words that didn’t intellectually satisfy me. A couple hours later, as we lied down together in the sheets of a nearby hotel room, he told me at length about how after having his heart broken in two previous romantic relationships, he wasn’t sure whether he believed he was a lovable person. I remember staring at the ceiling and thinking, wait a second, this guy thought it was odd that I’ve never been in a romantic relationship, yet I’m so much more secure in myself and my lovability compared to him despite of, or maybe even in part due to his past two romantic relationships. Excuse me??

Looking back, I think this cute guy’s comment to me at dinner reflected the assumption that wanting a romantic relationship is the norm and that everyone should aspire toward that. I notice this in a lot of areas of my life: in a call with some of my professional colleagues the other day, a pause in the conversation automatically shifted toward wedding planning even though one of the two people getting married is a mediocre white man who is incapable of contributing to the planning process while his partner of color has to do the majority of the work, in one of my favorite television shows Insecure all of the main characters end up in romantic relationships, and I’ve met many people whose default way to cope with loneliness is to get on dating apps and swipe. Over the years, I’ve talked with several romantically single folks who express satisfaction with their careers, hobbies, and families, though they still feel like something is missing without a romantic partner.

Then, on the flip side, I feel like people assume that if you’re romantically single (note: I say “romantically single” intentionally because I’m very connected and fulfilled by my relationships with myself and my friends) and you don’t want a romantic partner, then you’re emotionally unavailable or have some unresolved trust issue. While that may be the case for some – also, people *in* romantic relationships can be emotionally unavailable, have trust issues, or engage in romantic relationships because they don’t know how to be with themselves – I am happily romantically single and quite emotionally available. I’m emotionally available to my close friends, my clients and students, myself, and more. I think these stereotypes and assumptions help create an amatonormative dichotomy, where either you are in a romantic relationship which is the end goal in society’s eyes or you are not in a romantic relationship and are thus either dissatisfied or emotionally unavailable.

A few days ago I felt angsty about life so I woke up and decided to buy Joan is Okay by Weike Wang for my Nook. I read a library copy of the book last year and enjoyed it a lot: the novel follows Joan, a thirty-something-year-old doctor who’s committed to her career while trying to cope with her father’s death. I cried hard rereading the last 50 pages of the novel the other morning; Wang captures the deep and complicated love an Asian American child can have for their immigrant parent in a way that resonates with my evolving feelings toward my own father.

That morning, I reread a scene between Joan and her brother’s wife, Tami, that I had forgotten about. At the beginning of their conversation Tami asks Joan about when she will find a husband to have children with. Joan responds by saying that her choice to focus on her work instead of pursuing a husband and children is just as valid as Tami’s choice to forgo work and prioritize her kids. Tami then tells Joan that she finds her “intimidating,” because Joan is “completely unafraid to plow right on ahead when most of us would be.”

Reading this passage made me feel so validated because of how I’ve been described as intimidating. Not by students or clients, but by peers and colleagues who’ve bristled at my firm sense of self and my direct way of communicating what I want. When I think of Joan or myself, I envision us less as intimidating and more as three-dimensional Asian Americans who chose a different path than what many people expected of us.

I turn 28 this May. Maybe a week ago I felt sad, something along the lines of like, boo hoo I haven’t met a man who meets my standards, ugh the patriarchy and white supremacy suck, blah blah. Then, I spent a night in and thought to myself: Thomas, you’re doing pretty fucking great. Indeed, I’m thriving in my career after coming out on top of the academic job market, I have amazing securely attached friendships, and I love spending time with myself and enjoying my own company. I’m already operating at 100% without a man. In fact, perhaps I’m operating at 100% *because* I haven’t settled for a man. While I always have room to grow, just like Joan, where I’m at now isn’t a pit stop on the way to a romantic relationship that will complete my life. I’ve already arrived at a complete life, one I created for myself.

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Yes, I know, a fair amount of my blog posts as of late have focused on amatonormativity. I’m writing these posts to cope with a recent life event! However, I think I feel better about this event now and will shift gears to write about other topics. How do you meet or not meet other people’s expectations of you? How do you honor where you’re at even while you’re growing? General reactions to this post? Hope you are doing well and until next post.