18. i am The Debauchatron.

i love Rush Limbaugh.

The Rush.

whenever he talks about my people(s) i get the feeling that i'm secretly in possession of awesome superpowers and unwavering perseverance.

as a triple minority - that's a queer, multi-racial woman - i'm also a triple threat.

quadruple, if you count the liberal thing.

apparently, the world is my baby seal and my penchants for women, racial ambiguity, and welfare make up a club of evil that's three times the size and weight of the usual brand.

who knows what kind of hijinks The Debauchatron can get the world into? says The Rush - the only man/superman with the ability to send my cohorts and me straight to Lim-baugh.

what with my superspeed and invisibility, not only can i infiltrate schools and brainwash children into queerness, but i can also run brown people across the border and into the workplace!

...or, at least, into obscure, menial jobs that go unseen to the untrained eye.

i should get a cape.

or at least lose the love-handles so i can fit into some spandex.

17. i come from a long line of terrifying women. and i take after my dad.

long time, no talk.

but excuses are like butts, and right now mine's hidden because of its recent descent into flabby unawesomeness, so i'll spare you.

anywho.

lately, i've been learning all sorts of fun facts about my family's history.

my Dominican side has ties to the assassination of Trujillo, and my Korean grandma broke all of the rules.

ALL of the rules.

apart from successfully escaping the clutches of her North Korean captors during the Korean War, she also managed to do much of the same from her adulterous husband.

apparently, my Korean grandpa was anything but faithful to her during their marriage.

he had affairs - Jeebus knows how many - and eventually, he managed to get a woman pregnant.

pissed, my grandmother had him and his mistress arrested - because adultery was against the law in those days - which was unheard of, as it was usually men who turned their adulterous wives in, while enjoying the company of as many women as they chose.

but my grandmother had him put into prison, divorced him, and bent his entire family to her will as she was the one with the money and the power.

"When he's released," she told him and his family, "I will help support him, but only because he can't support himself."

the family had no choice but to do whatever she asked.

so she was a war survivor and a divorcee.

and, on top of everything else, a successful Black Market saleswoman.

we still don't know the details.

all we know is that she also managed to raise my mother: a woman whose nickname in high school was Barracuda.

according to our aunt, my mother was the type who actively disliked just about every boy in school, which in turn only increased her appeal and made said boys want her love all the more.

nothing changed when she graduated and took a job at the US military base near her hometown.

indeed, she had been proposed to several times, and even found herself occasionally serenaded in the Officers Club and bars and the like.

she was the shit.

and, according to her, she knew it.

the only person who didn't seem to know it was, of course, my clueless dad.

"Uh, dat's where YOU get it from," she told me, mid-story.

anywho.

apparently, my mother was confused as to why this one man just didn't seem to like her as much as all the other men she met.

What's wrong with him? she wondered, and, What's wrong with me?

she had to get to the bottom of it and make him notice her.

she tried flirting.

"But he was stupid and didn't notice."

"...I really didn't..."

"So I had to try eben hahdah."

"Yep. She did."

and so she resorted to spreading rumors about how she had a crush on Andy Toro - a rumor she hoped would reach him.

and it did.

"But I didn't really believe it," my dad interjected, "The guys would say things like, 'Hey, man, I heard Ms. Kim wants to have a tour of your tank.' And I'd be like, '...So?'"

and my mom shook her head.

"Useless."

finally, my mom took a more direct approach.

"Andy?" she asked one day, when they ran into each other, "Would you mind teaching me Englishy? My Englishy is uh berry bad."

"Huh?" was all my dad could say, clearly confused, "Um...I guess..."

and after just a couple of sessions, my dad finally came to his senses.

finally, he asked her out.

"Okay," she told him, "But I just hab to uh tell my boypriend I can't see him anymoh."

"...Boyfriend?!" my dad exclaimed.

"...Boyfriend?!!!" i exclaimed, years later.

"Uh huh," my mom went on, "Foh a while I was dating dis man wis biiig glasses, berry tall, berry white, but berry nice. He wanted to get married, but he couldn't marry me while in his kind obah job, so he quit and said we could stay in uh Korea for a few moh years so I could learn better English befoh we go to dah States."

i stared.

"Yeah. I felt so bad when I broke up wis him. I couldn't eben look him in the face when I did it. But aptahword, when we left dah restaurant, I finally looked up at him, and his glasses were so foggy, and I felt so bad, so I just reached out my hand and gabe him a handshake and said, 'Okay! Bye!' And dat was it. Huh. I wondah where he is now?'"

my dad shook his head.

"Yep. And I bet you regretted it ever since."

"...Maybe. hahahaha."

knowing this doesn't make the fact that both of my parents are sure that i take after my dad at all comforting.

"But look at it dis way," my mother tried to console me, "It's actually lucky you're a lesbian."

"...Why?"

"Girls like nerdy, awkward, shy people moh. Look at me and yoh daddy."

16. fly that freak flag high.

there have only been a few things of which i've been proud in my life.

just a select few moments when i've felt on top of the world.

but i don't know if there's ever been a time when i haven't been more or less completely aware of just how "different" i am/ever was.

ever.

sure, in the beginning i was in denial of it all.

EVERYONE spends their summer following the specific divisions of a pie chart that was split into 24 hours, and among 5 different school subjects, i thought.

EVERYONE's sole goal in life was to be able to swim topless like a boy.

EVERYONE enjoyed the creamy yet cheesy taste of a Fluffanutter and Cheese sandwich.

but it wasn't so.

it's not clear the exact moment at which i realized i was different, but i do remember not caring all that much when i found out.

by the time i hit 5th grade, i was well aware of my weirdness.

and i forced myself to embrace it.

in fact, that year proved to be the one during which my "difference-ness" became my signature.

my schtick.

me.

it's widely known that the Toro girls were all raised to be nerds, and i challenge anyone to be raised by my parents and NOT enjoy things like arguing the difference between a 95 and a 98, or watching Ken Burns's Civil War documentary, or loving bad jokes and obvious and unnecessary puns too much.

and Harry Potter.

our dad brags about both participating in his high school's glee club and religiously watching "Star Trek."

our mom, who claims to hate her job, is ranked as a top 20 employee of Wachovia (in the country), while taking up such hobbies as quilting, watching Korean soap operas, and ranting about finances and investment all the day long.

Olivia's had straight-A's since the womb and is probably the Toro family's greatest bad joke enthusiast, even if she doesn't completely get jokes the first time around - a trait which usually culminates in a Laugh Mountain.

Annie's really, REALLY into Asian things. and Lord of the Rings.

and, in the 5th grade, i was obsessed with all things pertaining to the Revolutionary War.

indeed, in my class i was the "weird kid."

i had friends - all of whom i really loved - but there was no getting around the fact that we were all "different."

especially me, i suspect.

and especially when it came to the Revolutionary War.

one day, our teacher had us all sit on the floor and in a circle as we went over the answers to a Revolutionary War test we had taken just a couple of days earlier.

whenever we got to our first wrong answer, we were to put our hand down.

when we reached around the 20th-25th answer, just a third of us were left with our hands in the air.

i started to get antsy.

as we got closer to 50, more and more hands started to go down.

i was nearly shaking in my seat.

people were beginning to stare.

at question 45, my hand stood alone.

46, still up...

...47...

...48...

...49...

...50.

as soon as my teacher read the answer aloud, and i found that i had gotten 100% on the test, fully aware of the freak flag i was certain other people were already aware - sure of and completely okay with the fact that it was too late to try to hide said freak flag - i threw my other hand in the air in triumph and cried, "YES!"

several times.

the other kids stared.

i could feel their eyes on me.

...i didn't care.

my teacher laughed a little bit - tried to cover it up with a polite cough.

but still my hands were raised.

while the other kids got up and returned to their seats, i remained on the floor, soaking in my victory.

only George Washington or Ben Franklin could've known what i was feeling at that moment, standing alone and unafraid.

besides, Washington had wood teeth and Franklin wore glasses, too - surely they were the weird ones in their 5th grade classes, too.

if you work hard to blend in, how much harder will it be to just be yourself later on, when it counts?

fly that freak flag high.

15. Listen to Your Mother. Even If It Hurts.

sometimes i get the feeling that my mother is so supersaturated with advice that she can't help but occasionally explode with too much information.

and when you have to explode with too much information, very little attention is paid to how said information is shared.

or even what.

sometimes, it doesn't make sense at all.

other times, it's surprising just how much it actually does make sense.

and my mother tends to use any excuse to release some of her tension.

like awkward lulls in conversation.

or when you're already down.

in this case, it was after watching The Notebook.

as she and i were the only two at home for a weekend, we decided to have a movie night.

when the saptastic movie was done, i looked over and was surprised to see just how much my mother obviously secretly enjoyed it.

she sighed.

"So," she said, "what did you sink obah dah moobie?"

"...I dunno," i answered, "It was pretty cheesy and predictable."

"WHAAA?!"

i'd touched a nerve.

"Whaddyou mean, 'predeeeectaball?!' What to predeeect? Dey old!"

i shrank into my corner.

"DEY OLD!" she repeated, "What to predeect? Dey lib-uh, dey lub-uh, dey DIE!"

i was 15.

and, until that moment, full of hope.

14. Cognates Don't Embarazar, They Just Make You Look Like an Ass.

when i was little, i trusted my parents.

i looked both ways before crossing a street.

ate my broccoli.

watched Seinfeld.

my parents could do no wrong.

so when we moved to Peru, and i was terrified by the thought of having to learn a new language, i believed my dad when he told me, "Don't worry about it! Spanish is just like English!"

being just 7 or 8, and therefore so very aware of how awkward and painful it is to be "different," my dad's consoling words really sunk in deep.

"Really, Vickie," he told me, the morning of my very first day of school in Peru, "So many Spanish words sound exactly like English words. If you're ever in doubt, just think of the English word and you'll be fine."

Hmm, i thought to myself, If that's really the case, and I'm sure it is, this Spanish thing won't be so hard.

but dear Jeebus.

it was.

when my class got ready to go to the Spanish portion of the day (i went to the American school), our teacher divided us into two groups: the Native Speakers and Everyone Else/the Gringos.

i was the only brown kid who was grouped with the Gringos.

when we all nervously walked into the Spanish classroom, we found the walls lined with dozens of Spanish kitten posters, graffiti, and Latin American flags.

standing at the front of the room, beckoning us toward her, was a tall, dark woman wearing a shawl and smile.

the tension in my stomach loosened a little bit as i took my seat in front of her.

"Bienvenidoswelcome, littleoneschiquititos," she crooned, her bracelets jingling as she raised her arms and stretched them wide, pulling us all into some kind of hippie-dippy, spiritual hug.

she introduced herself and assured us that learning Spanish is actually fun.

everyone at my table looked doubtful.

she then told us she needed to get a better idea of our levels, so she put us into a line and instructed us to, when it was our turn, say any sentence we knew to say in Spanish.

But I don't know how to say anything in Spanish.

my stomach tightened again.

i tried to calm myself.

took a deep breath.

Okay, i thought, What can I say?

i wracked my brains.

I can say "I have!" Tengo! Easy! And I can say..."two!" Dos! But...what do I have two of?

desperate, i scanned the room for inspiration.

cats weren't an option, or windows, or tables.

the line was shortening.

my time was running out.

dejected, i looked down to the ground.

and saw my arms.

and, suddenly, i remembered my dad's advice.

Spanish words sound exactly like English words...

i got it.

i cracked the code.

Spanish is EASY.

and it was my turn.

proudly, i stepped right up in front of my teacher, a big grin on my face.

"Okay, chiquitita," she said, returning the smile, "Quepuedesdecir, what can you say?"

i took in a deep breath.

prepared myself.

"Tengo dos armas!"

her smile disappeared.

mine did, too.

i was confused.

"Que?" she finally managed to say.

"...Huh?" was my response.

"Quedijistechiquitita, what did you just say?"

"Tengo dos armas!" i said again, clearer and louder.

she stared.

"Tengo. Dos. Armas," i was starting to get frustrated, thinking she must not be on the same level as me.

Silly.

"TENGO DOS ARMAS," this time i flailed my arms around, pointed to them, made ridiculous gestures, trying to help her understand.

comprehension and relief dawned on her face.

"Ohhhh," she said, "Tienesdos BRAZOS, not ARMAS. Armas are GUNS."

my face fell.

my dad let me down.

i was in shock.

muy embarazada.

er.

just embarrassed.

i promised myself never to trust cognates ever again.

until, not too long after, i was proved wrong again.

some of my teammates and i were hanging out in the parking lot of the swimming pool, waiting for our practice to start.

i was telling them a story about a car accident i had seen, using mostly gestures as i still couldn't speak much Spanish.

everything was going well until i had to mime out the word, "car."

it was the one day the parking lot was completely empty.

i adjusted my imaginary rear-view mirror, put my car into Drive, and revved forward.

"Carro!" someone called out.

remembering the Arma Incident, i panicked.

"Nooo!" i replied, "No carro!"

they exchanged looks.

i tried again.

this time, i put the car in Reverse, made louder revving noises, and honked my horn.

"Carro!" another friend guessed again, sounding a little impatient.

"Nooo!" i repeated, sadly.

i made more car sounds, braked hard, made wide turns.

"Carro!"

i sighed and gave up, plopping myself down on the steps next to my friends, all of whom looked just as confused and frustrated as i did.

finally, a car pulled up.

excited, i stood up and pointed to it.

"Eso!" i shouted, "Por alla!"

they exchanged looks again.

"Si," someone said, "Beekie, es un carro."

my face fell again.

cognates are the devil.

13. Be Yourself: Wooing Is Pain.

i'm clueless and have no right to tell people how to woo their crushes.

i do, however, consider myself something of an expert in all things awkward and wrong.

here are my findings:

1. don't try to impress your crush by promising to build her a tree house.

2. don't try to deliver on said promise by stealing lumber from a nearby construction site.

3. and don't do it barehanded.

...crying when your mommy has to pull out each and every one of the splinters definitely isn't sexy.

4. don't stare.

5. don't hold on to a hug too long.

6. don't go on to spend too much money on iTunes or songs by artists you know she likes.

7. or research said artists and try to insert random, unnecessary tidbits about them in everyday conversation.

...poverty and too much zeal aren't sexy.

8. don't try to ignore them.

9. when you accidentally run into them in some place, don't try to do the same thing the next day, at the same time, in the same place.

10. when, at a slumber party, it's decided that there isn't enough room for everyone to sleep on the floor, don't try to impress her by volunteering to sleep in the closet.

11. don't invent a playground game called "Monster Chase" which really only needs two players.

and you're the monster.

12. if you volunteer to be Daddy in a game of House, you'd better live up to the job.

13. don't just sit in a corner and demand treats.

14. don't laugh too loudly at one of her not-so-funny jokes.

15. don't be awkward.

16. don't spend hours on a birthday/random gift for her and then, when giving it to her, say, "It's nothing, really."

17. don't crush on straight people.

or gay people, for you heteros out there.

18. don't go out of your way to do something "altruistic."

19. like run after a piece of paper someone dropped.

20. because you'll just fall on your face.

21. in the middle of traffic.

----

good luck.

11-12. Put Down That Donut. And Don't Answer the Door.

moving to Mexico City midway through my high school career was hard.

so hard, in fact, that in what felt like no time at all, i started to get...soft.

not in an emotional way.

...or just in an emotional way.

but in an, "Oh, my Jeebus...what happened to my biceps/abs/single chin?!" kind of way.

my inability to speak and make friends in the beginning was probably furthered by the fact that my mouth was perpetually full of raw teenaged angst: angst which took the form of many a donut.

soon enough, i was carrying the flabby weight of my emotions everywhere i went.

most people were tactful enough to let me quietly wallow in my own misery.

no one seemed to think it was necessary to fan the flames of my Juggernaut-esque spiral into heftiness and anger.

except my mother.

of course.

when we moved to Mexico City, it was because of my dad's new job as a defense attache for the US Embassy.

as such, he and my mother had to regularly attend fancy dinners and events, where they'd have to dress up in fancy tuxes and gowns.

him the tuxes, her the gowns.

but my mother, being the cheap-o Korean that she is, was reluctant to go out and spend thousands of dollars on new dresses.

she found a solution.

one night, as i was laying in my bed, recounting all of the miserable facets of my life (which was bound to meet a premature end, either by my own doing, or by that of my cholesterol), a knock came at my door.

i sighed and stayed still.

another knock.

"Beekieeeeee."

the sweetness in her voice made me suspicious.

i didn't move.

"Beekieeeeeeeee."

a little more urgency this time.

i sighed again.

got up.

slowly opened the door.

and immediately regretted doing it.

standing in the doorway, a big smile on her face, was my mother...wearing my 10th grade homecoming dress - the likes of which would've, at this point, only fit around one of my thighs.

my jaw dropped.

eyes widened.

stomach growled.

"I need to borrow yoh mirroh," she said in her playful, "innocent" voice.

"...Huh?" was all i managed to say.

"You hab-uh dah biggest mirroh in dah house, and I need to see eep-uh dis dress look good."

silence.

"What do you sink?" she asked, as she slowly turned on the spot, lifting her arms above her head and striking a pose.

i tried to ignore the sudden hunger pangs.

"Do you sink dis make me look goooood?" she said, posing with every syllable, "Huh? How about dis?"

i closed the door.

"Hey!" my mother shouted from the hallway, this time in a more familiar tone, "I need to borrow yoh mirroh!"

i stood and continued to stare blankly at the door.

my stomach growled again.

she knocked.

and kept knocking.

finally, i sucked it up and reopened the door.

and walked out.

and downstairs.

into the pantry.

---

*note: my mother is actually South Korean...*