color blind

The Tango is many things. Some are infuriating. Some are blissful. For me, it has always been a refuge, but probably not in the way that you might think.

A child of mixed heritage, born into an unforgiving culture, I did not know, in the beginning, that I was different. Sometimes I felt exotic, perhaps, in the words and actions of people around me. Things took a strange turn, when my family came to this country. Suddenly, not only was I different, I was punished for it.

Eventually, I constructed an acceptable identity. I still remember a strange moment in high school. My best friend (White) and I (Asian) liked two girls, who belonged to a Mexican gang. During recess, my friend and I wanted to talk to the girls, who were surrounded by their male friends, all of whom, of course, were in the gang. When the men saw us walking toward their girls, they did the (to me) unthinkable: they gave us space, privacy, to talk.

The thing is, I have always just thought of myself as simply me. That my face conveys a cultural identity is very confusing. Often, when I see myself in a mirror, I would be surprised. "Holy cow! I am Asian."

A long, round-about way to arrive at this: for me, the Tango has been color blind, every time, and everywhere. Whatever else that happens, the heartache, the rejections, the bliss, the connections: pure and unadulterated by color.