Growing Up Gay Before It Was Cool

Happy Pride month

From as far back as I can remember, I liked boys. That's it.

I remember my sister telling and retelling the story of me declaring that I wanted to marry a man like my dad when I was three years old. From that moment it was set, and nobody in my family ever gave me grief about it.

In fact, I think they knew all along.

People often mistook me for a girl because I was very elegant and pretty as a child. I didn't know it was called "gay" at first. I just knew that liking boys felt natural to me, the same way breathing feels natural.

At first, I thought boys like me were called fags because that's what other people called me (not my family, they just called me Won-sik). I genuinely thought that was the correct word. That's what everyone used. Nobody sat me down and explained anything. Nobody said "gay." So for years I thought that was simply what people like me were called.

I never felt confused. I clearly knew what I wanted.

It wasn't until I was around ten years old that I learned the word "gay" after meeting a friend and coworker of my father's who was actively involved in the gay community in Cologne.

Being a millennial, I grew up before information was everywhere. There was no social media, no easily accessible communities, no endless content explaining who you were. Sure, there were some forums if you knew where to look, but this wasn't mainstream.

You couldn't easily search for topics like gay life, sex, health, or protection. Underground magazines, downloaded porn from shady websites that could destroy your computer, and the occasional movie rental were often the only sources of information available to gay teenagers.

I wasn't confused.

I was angry.

Angry that I felt like a rarity in the world.

Angry that the world wasn't built for me.

Angry because I couldn't find my people.

Angry that so much of the world felt unrelatable.

Not angry at myself and not angry at who I was.

Looking back, I think a lot of that came from my father. He raised me with the belief that I should never apologize for existing. In many ways I was spoiled and incredibly stubborn because of it, something my mother never hesitated to point out. But in this particular case, it helped me. It taught me there was nothing wrong with being different.

Every story I read seemed to be about people I couldn't relate to. Every movie. Every fairytale.

I wasn't confused about who I was.

I was frustrated that I couldn't find more people like me.

Depending on the country, the rules seemed completely different.

I was bullied everywhere, but Germany and South Korea felt safest.

Sure, there was still bullying and mockery.

In South Korea I think I had two aces up my sleeve. One was that I was a straight-A student and a teacher's pet. The second was that nobody wanted to mess with my father, who had quite a bit of status. Because of that, people usually kept their distance.

In the United States, people called me names for being both gay and Asian.

I never tried to hide who I was.

That thought never really existed for me because, like I said, it would have felt like trying not to breathe.

And I admit my parents played a huge role in that.

My parents had a million problems, but somehow they both agreed on one thing: I should never be ashamed.

They never lived together and mostly saw each other in court. My father was the wealthy one and usually got his way. Strangely enough, I wasn't particularly bothered by any of it because they both loved me.

During the week I lived with my mother and sister. On weekends I stayed with my father and brother.

I loved dressing up as a child. My sister helped me paint my nails, put on makeup, and sing karaoke.

But my favorite place was my father's home.

My dad loved the arts, classical music, and traditional Korean music. He read to me about dramatic historical figures and would organize little performances for me in his living room while playing classical pieces or Korean songs in the background.

His house felt like a stage and I loved every second of it.

One memory stands out.

I was explaining to everyone that Seunghoon wasn't my friend—he was my future husband.

My brother informed me that boys weren't allowed to marry each other in Korea.

Naturally, I ran to my father.

"He says I can't marry my boyfriend because it's not allowed in our country."

I still remember my father's reaction.

"Who says?" he shouted. "And why should you listen? If you want to marry him, you will marry him. I'll marry you two myself."

Then he turned to my protesting brother and added:

"When there's a will, there's a way. I'm not letting anything ruin Won-Sik's happiness."

To me, my father was a hero.

Only years later, after speaking to other gay people, did I realize how unusual my experience was. Some of my friends had been rejected, thrown out of their homes, or abandoned by their families.

I was lucky.

At the time, I simply thought everyone had parents like mine.

I was around ten years old when I met the first openly gay person in my life.

His name was Fritz.

Fritz (my mentor) and young me

He was a friend of my father's who came to visit one day. My father had promised everyone a performance, so naturally I appeared dressed as an angel.

Fritz was handsome, confident, and completely comfortable in his own skin, which was something I had never seen before.

I told him all about Seunghoon and how one day we were going to get married.

Instead of laughing, Fritz listened.

He was the first person who taught me about gay history, gay hardship, HIV, activism, politics, and community.

I was fascinated.

He explained that "fag" was a derogatory term and that men who loved men were called homosexual or gay.

Then he started recommending books.

Gay Voices from East Germany by Jürgen Lemke.

Homosexuality and Male Bonding in Pre-Nazi Germany by Hubert Kennedy.

Stonewall by Martin Duberman.

Greek Homosexuality by K. J. Dover.

And many more.

After that I became obsessed.

Gay history.

HIV.

Activism.

Literature.

Stonewall.

The people who refused to disappear.

I wanted to learn everything.

I stayed in touch with Fritz through email and he became my anchor throughout my teenage years. We wrote constantly and he always replied.

My world expanded rapidly.

I devoured everything he recommended.

Novels like Exquisite Corpse and Crystal Boys.

Books like One Hundred Years of Homosexuality.

Documentaries like Paragraph 175.

Anything Fritz suggested, I read.

My sense of belonging grew stronger.

There were others like me.

People who had been hunted down, forced into hiding, and yet somehow refused to disappear.

Needless to say, Fritz was also very good-looking.

I dreamt about him.

Fantasized about him.

Eventually I told him.

He said he was flattered but that I was far too young.

I replied that this sounded like a temporary problem and that I'd be old enough in a few years.

Fritz laughed.

We stayed friends and he became one of the best mentors I could have hoped for.

Finding other gay people wasn't easy.

I suppose it still isn't.

At least now you can find information with a few clicks.

Back then it was magazine snippets, terrible internet connections, and whatever information older gay people were willing to share.

Around the age of thirteen I started hanging around gyms and places where I thought I might find the underground gay scene.

I was far too young to get into bars, but that didn't stop me from trying.

If they wouldn't let me in, I'd wait outside.

I was scared at first, but the urge to find people like me was stronger.

The fantasies about my Taekwondo instructor, my wrestling coach, and the men in magazines weren't enough anymore.

And while Seunghoon and I were close, he was completely unresponsive to my advances and I was terrified of scaring him away.

So every Friday and Saturday—and during holidays almost every day—I would stand outside those places trying to meet people.

I lied about my age.

Nobody believed me.

I dressed up the best I could.

Tight jeans.

Sometimes eyeliner.

Sometimes lip gloss.

A few people were kind enough to buy me a cola and talk to me.

Most told me I was too young.

A couple of owners chased me away and told me to go play with my friends.

I didn't want to play with my friends.

I wanted to be there.

One time a large man pushed me away. I fell, scraped my knee, and immediately burst into tears. He felt so guilty that he let me inside, gave me water and a chocolate bar, and delivered a long lecture about waiting until I was older.

I don't remember much of the lecture.

I do remember staring at the room.

I think I was fourteen.

It was the first time I had ever been inside a place like that.

Eventually I became old enough to enter legally.

By then many of the regulars already knew me.

They joked about my persistence.

But they felt like family.

Today we have social media and countless ways to connect.

It wasn't like that back then.

In some ways it is easier now.

In other ways it isn't.

Small communities and underground spaces don't feel quite the same anymore.

Despite all that, I never felt there was anything wrong with me.

The things that hurt me most had nothing to do with being gay.

They had everything to do with loving Seunghoon and believing he didn't love me back.

The irony is that much of what I interpreted as rejection was actually autism.

Seunghoon didn't think about sexuality very much when he was younger. While I spent years obsessing over boys, he was busy obsessing over completely different things. We eventually arrived at the same place, but we took very different roads to get there.Looking back, I was bullied, mocked, lonely at times, and completely obsessed at others.

But none of that ever made me want to be someone else.

The only thing I ever wanted was to find my people.

And eventually I did.

If anything, growing up taught me that the world rarely gives you a place.

You have to claim it yourself.

Honestly, I don't know what advice I would give my younger self.

Maybe stress less.

Maybe trust that things eventually work out.

Then again, knowing myself, I probably wouldn't listen.

So I'd simply tell him to keep going.

Keep being loud.

Keep being proud.

And never let anyone convince him that he has to become smaller just to make other people comfortable.