In popular culture, Asian Americans always seemed concerned with building bridges from old country to new country, first generation to second generation. The books I read and the movies I watched featured disconnect and miscommunication between two separate worlds. Watching “Flower Drum Song” with my third-generation mother, I often felt my narrative didn’t match the typical Asian American tale of struggle to be understood.

During my Thanksgiving visit home, I took my father for a long morning walk. We walked around the block five times before I came out to him. My father was confused but stoic. Few words were exchanged until we reached the driveway.

About seven years ago my son told me that he was gay. If I just met him on the street I would never know that he was gay, so when he was young and talked about having a farm with a big family, I always assumed that he meant with a wife and their biological children. Of course, this changed after he came out to me.

Ever since I left Southern California for college in Connecticut, my mother has always waited while I wind through the airport security line. She smiles and waves wildly until I make it past screening and turn around to wave goodbye one last time. Except once.

“God,” said Paul, saying it like gaaaawd.  “Korean guys are a bunch of homos!” I was about to tell him to pipe down, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.  Your average Korean probably wouldn’t know what he was talking about any more than we knew what they were talking about.