Mar 10, 2020
The ‘Survivor’ Notebook
I remember the day Mom said “stage IV metastatic,” so now I need a show with forty seasons.
I remember the day Mom said “stage IV metastatic,” so now I need a show with forty seasons.
When palm trees swing in the soft breeze, I remind myself that my body is not an orchestra, and the trees are not dancing for me.
I didn’t know—or think I knew—any visibly queer women, and watching these fictional women half-existing seemed both comforting and lonely.
At the time, I didn’t know I could be anything but a girl, a quiet Chinese American girl, cute and easy to ignore, but Kurama hinted at other possibilities.
The truth was, for me and as for Fleabag, I wasn’t just looking for a good story to tell my friends. I was looking for something so much harder to grasp: a narrative.
The Roadshow is so kind, so simple, and so pure that you begin to wonder, “Could this even be faked?” When I visited the set in San Diego, I discovered—no, it can’t be faked.
I knew on a level the humor was cringeworthy, especially as a recently out gay boy facing heterosexist gender roles, but I didn’t care. I needed “Friends” to make our house feel less lonely and empty.
