Tag:colorism

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat at dinner tables across Asia and heard someone say, with absolute sincerity, “It’s better to wait one more year.” One more year for luck. One more year for the right zodiac. One more year for a Dragon instead of a Goat, anything but a Tiger girl. And every time, I look at the woman at the table, smiling politely, nodding, swallowing her own timeline like it’s another mouthful of overcooked dumpling. Let’s be clear: women’s wombs are not factories. They are...

I’ve attended more weddings than I can count, in hotel ballrooms, beachfront resorts, and once memorably under a leaky tent in the tropics. But few ceremonies have stayed with me the way those LGBTQ commitment ceremonies in lovely Quezon City have. Maybe it’s because everyone present knows exactly what this moment is and what it is not. There is no illusion here, no pretending that the law is suddenly on our side. And yet, the joy in the air is thick, stubborn, and deeply earned. I went to support my...

I remember the first time I watched Japanese porn with a group of foreign friends. There was wine, there was giggling, and then there was that collective pause. Someone finally asked the obvious question: “Why is that blurred but that isn’t?” Welcome, darling, to Japan’s most committed relationship: the one between sex and denial. Japanese censorship isn’t about modesty. If it were, the country wouldn’t have an adult industry so vast it could probably prop up the economy in a bad quarter. It’s about choreography. A ritual. A shared agreement...

By the time you reach a certain age, Valentine’s Day starts to feel like a party you’re technically allowed to attend but no longer invited to. You can see the balloons through the window. You just don’t have a seat at the table. Spicy Auntie has lived long enough to remember when February 14 felt like a test. Were you loved enough? Desired enough? Worth the flowers, the dinner, the trouble? Then came marriage, and suddenly the test was declared “passed,” permanently. Exam over. No retakes. No bonus points for...

I’ve lived long enough in Asia to know that when a city insists it is “gentle,” “cultural,” and “pure,” someone is quietly paying the price for that image. Chiang Mai is a masterclass in this. Temples glow at sunrise, monks collect alms, digital nomads sip oat lattes—and somewhere just out of frame, young men sell intimacy while pretending not to exist. Male sex workers in Chiang Mai are not loud, not glamorous, and certainly not celebrated. They are discreet because discretion is survival. The city does not want them visible....