Did That Just Really Fucking Happen?!?! Moment #1: Stop Photography

In my fourth year at Island School I quickly grew a quick affinity to photography. We wound our own film, took our own photos, and developed our own pictures. I loved getting inspired by black and white photos by Herb Ritts, Ansel Adams, Steven Meisel.

I started spending a lot of time in the dark room at school. My new hobby started invading time with my squash lessons, swim training, and everything else I loved. Photography became my new love. I was at every school event with my Canon 50mm. I caught photos of couples making out; slam dunks on the basketball court; special guests at our school assemblies.

It was no wonder that when it came time for our school Athletics Day I was asked to help take photos for the school yearbook. I was eager to step up to the plate to provide the year’s best photos.

Athletics day was a time when all six Houses at Island School competed in track and field events. Each year, Island School would rent an entire sports arena for Atheltics Day to host each House to compete with each other. The entire school had the day off so each year could cheer for their respective House.

There was a lot of House pride at Island School. Each house wanted bragging rights to be the best house at the end of each school year. If you watched Harry Potter, you’d get an idea of the Inter-House competitiveness. Every student wanted an opportunity to throw the discus the furthest; arch their back the highest in the high-jump; or speed through another record on a track event.

That year, Athletics Day couldn’t be brighter, nor sunnier. The stadium was filled with orange, purple, red, blue, green, and yellow jerseys that represented the Houses: Da Vinci, Einstein, Fleming, Nansen, Rutherford, and Wilberforce, respectively.

Our team of photographers had our own game plan. We separated into small groups to make sure we hit all our own targets: the cheering crowds and teetering teenage girls rooting for the jocks; all field events, judges and medal handlers; the commentators and announcers up in the press box; and of course, the most coveted track events that were always the most exciting events to watch. Miss Higgins, my House Mistress for Fleming, as well as school PE teacher gave me a wink and I was responsible for the track event photos.

The day was going well. I started at one side of the track where I got some great shots of racers in their crouched start positions for the shorter track races, and then switched sides to get some amazing shots of tight finishes. Eventually it was time to prepare for the longer track events where the racers had to loop several laps of the 400m track.

I met with the other two photographers so we could figure out who was taking what. We decided that because runners would lap the track several times we could make it a free for all and go wherever we pleased.

The announcers in the press box started gathering the runners for the 1600m to the starting line.

“It’s been an exciting Athletics Day today, but there are still a few races left for each House to win more points to be number one. Mr Adams here, asking all runners for the 1600m to get ready…” No one could see Mr Adams on the track, but his distinctively squeaky voice filled the air from the stadium speakers.

“Harry, I’ll make sure I get the shot of you coming in first place,” I yelled to my classmate who was running for our House, Fleming.

Harry looked back at me, gave me the thumbs up and then posed for the camera like the race was in the bag. Harry was easily one of the top contenders for this race as he’d been running cross-country breaking records each year.

“On your marks,” Mr Adams continued, “get set…”

Bang! A judge by the starting line pulled the pistol trigger and the runners were off on their way. The electronic timer began counting the seconds and the crowd went wild as they cheered for the runner representing their respective House.

Being on the field during the race is quite surreal as you see people cheering at you even though they weren’t cheering for you. I felt obligated to snap away. I took photos of everything: the crowd, the runners, the other photographers taking photographs; I felt like I was running my own race!

Harry was far in the lead. The runners had already completed several races and I knew I had to get to the finish line so I could get that winning photo of Harry. The timer on the leader board continued counting.

“It looks like Harry from Fleming could be setting a new record this year,” Mr Adams announced from the press box.

I finally got to the finish line and turned around so I could catch Harry face-on as he crossed the finish line.

“And, yes! Harry has done it again and has a new record!” squeeked Mr Adams.

I was looking through my camera and madly snapping pictures and waited for Harry to enter my photos frames. A few seconds passed and he never came. I turned to look back at the huge leader board timer and the clock had in fact stopped. So where was Harry? I turned again and saw Harry running breathless toward me and the finish line.

DTJRFH?!?!?!

I quickly realised I had run through the finish line sensor and stopped the clock on the leader board! My heart plopped into my liver. I looked beyond Harry and saw Miss Higgins screaming at me.

“Ch’ien! What have you done you ignorant boy?!” Miss Higgins was turning blue in the face.

I quickly rushed off the track and entirely missed Harry running through the finish line. Thankfully Third Year students were asked to be manual timers in the event there was a timer malfunction, which came in handy for when an idiot might run through the finish line even though he wasn’t in the race…

Miss Higgins let me off with a slap on the wrist while my classmates just thought my error was utterly hilarious. There wasn’t really any lesson I learned from this situation, except that I almost made it down in the books for the best 1600m time with my 50mm in hand…

Flying High, Over Seas

I'm not really sure what it means to be overseas anymore. I spent most of my adolescent years in Hong Kong, so coming to the US and then later traveling to Europe were my experiences, at the time, for traveling overseas.

Traveling without my parents really forced me to grow up and see the world with a new pair of eyes. I had to be smart and watch my own back. In my first year at BU, I got to fly to Montreal, Detroit, New York, London, and Amsterdam; all of which were pretty large and intense cities. My five senses were really challenged as I saw, touched, heard, smelled, and tasted brand new things. However, in all of my overseas travels, there was often one consistent thing I experienced: getting high.

I love being high. Wait. Don't be too quick to judge. I'm currently an employee at a top healthclub teaching indoor cycling and group fitness and get high on adrenalin and working out! All right. If you really know me, you'd know this wasn't always the case...

When I left Hong Kong in 1994 to fly to Boston, I was very well protected from the world of hard drugs. Aside from cigarettes and alcohol I really hadn't tried anything else. I had been very well educated about the consequences of drug use and I knew I would never meddle with such terrible substances. When I got to America, I quickly realised I was terribly wrong.

During my freshman year at BU, I remember working on group projects and pulling all nighters. One girl from Switzerland, Emily, pulled out some yellow pills one night and offered them to our group.

"What are they?" I asked.
"Oh nothing crazy. It's just Vivarin. Who wants some? It's two in the morning and we have seven more hours until our presentation," Emily replied.

I passed on the pills and secretly judged the others while they took a pill in their mouth and washed it down their throats with a shot of vodka. Not to be out-cooled by my group, I joined them with the shot of vodka and swallowed the hot liquid down my throat while wondering what had happened to good old fashioned coffee?

By 7AM we were almost done with our project and I was starting to get tired. That, or the effects of sipping vodka cranberries were finally taking its toll...

"Oh my God... Two more hours..." Emily moaned.

She got up from the floor where the rest of the group were huddled, scribbling away at our notes, and proceeded to work on another project at her desk. When I started to hear scratching noises, I peeked up and saw that Emily was crushing something. I looked closer and found emily cutting lines of Vivarin!

"Who wants a line?" Emily turned to the rest of the group and revealed a mirror with streaks of yellow powder. I thought she had lost her mind and gone completely mad.

"How do you do it?" asked a groupie.

Emily skillfully rolled a dollar bill and snorted a line. Two others followed.

"You guys are nuts!" I chuckled. But the peer pressure was too over whelming and I ended up opting to orally ingest 2 Vivarin pills.

By the time we got to our 9am class, I felt alive! We sat at the front of the auditorium and eagerly waited for our group name to be called out to give our presentation. I crossed my legs and pulled out my notebook, opened it to a fresh page, and laid it on my lap. As I started to take notes on the other group presentations, I noticed that I found it very difficult to write notes with a steady hand. I looked down at my chicken scratch and wondered why my handwriting looked like doodles? My hands felt fine and I started to feel a small sense of panic. I lifted my notepad and found my foot that was crossed over my grounded leg was shaking, on its own! I uncrossed that leg and grounded both feet. I took a deep breath and suddenly heard my heart thumping like it wanted to explode from my chest like an ingested alien.

I looked over to Emily and she looked like it was just another day except for the fact she had the glazed look of a Stepford Wife. I found the rest of my group and gasped when I realised they too, had turned.

When my group was finally called up to share our presentation with the rest of the class, we somehow managed to do so without a hitch. The class ended and all I wanted to do was head straight back to my dorm room where I could ditch the Stepford Wives and be alone.

I chain-smoked all the way back to the Myles Standish dorm room. Thankfully neither my room mate nor my suite mates were home so I could strip myself of my sweat drenched clothes and get under the covers of my bed. I tried to sleep but my heart was still thumping and I was wide awake. I cursed Emily for giving me Vivarin. Then I cursed myself for allowing myself to be peer pressured into taking those damned pills. And then I just wondered if I was going to survive this crazy heart palpitation. I did. And I later found out that we got an A for our group presentation.

*****

Looking back, I think it is sad to say that Vivarin, of all things, was probably my gateway drug. A couple weeks later I reconnected with Emily from our winter break and she invited me to her dorm room for a treat. She opened her desk drawer and revealed a slew of baggies that were each filled with weed or hash.

"What do you want? I have stuff from France, Armenia, Afghanistan, Nigeria, Holland, and some stuff that's homegrown," she explained.

From pot and hash, my explorations with drugs quickly escalated to acid the next week.

The acid dealer was the usual 'friend of a friend of a friend.' He sold his tabs that were all very carefully wrapped in foil. My American friend, Brenda, and I decided we'd try it out one night at a house party. Brenda also lived in Myles Standish Hall and when we met in the smoking lounge we quickly got along. She's originally from Connecticut but went to an American high school in Tokyo. We pretty much hit it off from the get go and we were both also extremely studious and never settled for anything but 'As.' I think her parents would die if they ever knew she meddled with drugs...

The night of 'the party,' we started drinking in her dorm room. What didn't we have? We started doing shots of Sambuca, vodka, Bailey's, and the list went on. We were finally ready for the final shot: acid. We carefully unwrapped the foil and on three, took a tab of acid each. We gathered our stuff and called our friends to meet us in the smoking lounge downstairs for a quick smoke before we went to the party.

At the smoking lounge, I swear I saw the tables and chairs start to breathe. They were literally pulsating. I vaguely recall seeing a two foot purple elephant run across the smoking lounge, too. Brenda and I were in hysterics! She was the only other person that saw the same things I did.

The party was a blast. Friends, cigarettes, alcohol, and pot. It's what every college student would want to find at a party. Except Brenda and I were also experiencing bursts of wild colours, dragons flying in rooms, and magical gnomes hiding from us.

"Brenda, this is insane! Wanna do another hit?" I offered?
"Sure!" Brenda replied.
"Okay, get them ready in the other room," I continued, "I'm just going to go to the toilet real quick."

When I finished my business I quickly rushed into the other room to meet Brenda. I found her sitting in the Lotus position with a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

"What took you so long, Ch'ien?" she mumbled.

I noticed she already had the tabs of acid out of the foil, and had a tab between her thumb and index finger in each hand!

"Brenda! What are you doing?" I squeeled, "You're absorbing the acid through the pores of your fingers right now!"

I charged at her and threw the cigarette that was in her mouth into the closest ashtray. I instructed her to immediately take one tab, and as she did, I headed mouth first into her other hand and swallowed the other tab. Sadly, I didn't stop there. I continued by sucking on all four fingers that had been holding each tab...

Around 4 or 5AM, we decided to head home back to our dorms at Myles Standish. I don't know what happened, but I started crying uncontrollably. It wasn't just a sniffle or a sob; I was full-out bawling!

My friends carried me to my room. Once in my suite, they were thankful to see my suite mate's lights on and they continued into his room.

"What the fuck happened, Ch'ien?" Deniz asked.

Deniz was from Turkey. He turned out to be one of my best friends while at BU. We moved into a condo in Kenmore square together for our Junior and Senior years. Friends described us as Euro-Asian Trash brothers. We went through so much together during our four years at BU, and tonight was one of his first tests to see if he would want to keep me as a friend.

My friends explained to Deniz that we had been at a party, drinking, smoking, and of course, that I did acid. Deniz exploded. I was pathetically choking and sobbing out his window.

"Do you have any of the acid left?" Deniz demanded.

Brenda confessed I still had a couple tabs left in my back jean pocket. Deniz wrestled me and stole the remaining tabs of acid and threw them out the open window.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" I screeched like a mother might have done if a stranger had slapped her child.

I ran out the suite and just remember waking up in Brenda's bed. I went into her bathroom to clean up. I looked into the mirror and saw a stranger staring back at me. I had cracked tears on my face and huge, sunken bags under my eyes. I later learned that what I had experienced was a "bad trip" coming down. I apologised to Deniz later that day and confessed that I had learned my lesson. For now...


*****

After my bad trip with LSD, I reverted back to pot and hash. But before graduating BU, I had also experimented with out-of-body experiences with opium and a fresh experience with the magical world of mushrooms. Oh, the mushrooms...

Mushrooms were like acid, but all natural. My favourite form of ingestion was brewing them in a pot of tea. I remember my friends and I would sip some Earl Grey Mushroom tea and then take a walk to look at the fairy lights, that were actually the headlights of passing cars.

Everything was always so beautiful except for the night we decided to head back to my friend's house to watch Taxi Driver. Robert DeNiro's hair turned into horns while he transformed into the devil. My friend's Godfather poster of Brando's side profile also turned into the devil; as did Brandon Lee in his "Crow" poster. I distinctly recall seeing him fly out of the poster toward me... Perhaps that was another sign telling me to stop with the drugs.

I didn't stop there either.

*****

My memories of taking drugs aren't all so bleak like those times when I came down on a bad LSD trip, or when everything turned into the devil when I was high on 'shrooms. When I graduated BU, I delved into the world of Coke and Ecstacy. It was a love-hate relationship with both drugs. The reason being that it would be a blast being high on the drug, but a total downer in the bedroom because I'd have "coke" or "E" dick (ie. I could never get it up).

When I lived with one of my best friends, Joe, we had a blast doing E together. We'd take a tab and start at Buzz (what used to be one of the hottest clubs in Boston) and then head to Rise where we'd dance till the sun rose. One time we were so bored at a house party in the South End we decided to head back to our apartment to do a booty bump so we could come back to the party with a "fresh" perspective.

We caught a taxi home and went into our drug stash and placed the tab up our butts. We had read that the flesh tissue in the rectum would absorb the drug into our blood stream a lot quicker and it worked. The two of us stopped off at a 7-11 to buy their entire stock of canned whipped cream to bring back to the party as party favours. The cabbie had to honk at us because we were finding it hard to tear ourselves from touching all the cold products in the fridge section. By the time we got back to the party we were both bouncing off walls and encouraging people do do cartwheels in the living room. Joe pulled out the cans of whipped cream and had party guests doing "whippits" where they just inhaled the nitrogen from each can.

Another great E experience came when Joe and I, along with six other friends, headed down to St John in the Caribbean. We flew there because four friends were working there for six months, and we heard there was going to be an amazing meteor shower and we wanted to see it while high on E. After a whole day of drinking on Jost Van Dyck Island on their pay-at-the-end "honorary system," we set out to a secluded beach on St John to prepare for the Shower. We all took a tab of E and started rolling around in the sand. While I was on my back, Joe lifted me up by my shins and swung me around like I was a set of helicopter blades. It felt incredible swinging in the air while I looked up at the dizzy array of stars.

When the meteor shower started it was truly magical. I was spinning without moving. The stars lapped my toes with each turn of a wave. The tiki torches we lit didn't reveal the crazed faces of the old men in the distance that had been doing this for years.

*****

All of my previous drug experiences never prepared me for the pot I smoked in Amsterdam. My ex-girlfriend from Island School, Marjon, was my link to Holland. She finished her uni years in the Netherlands since she was originally from Holland.

When we both went off to university, Marjon and I remained very close and always kept in touch. I went to Amsterdam almost every year and it was her friends that introduced me to the "coffee shops" in Amsterdam where you could by hash filled "Space Cakes" and buy weed and hash at these locations. After visiting these coffee shops I had to try my hardest not to get run down by cars and bikes on the winding streets of Amsterdam.

My ultimate experience of getting high in Amsterdam occurred when I flew there for Marjon's wedding. Screw any other drug I had before. Even all the hash and pot I tried at the Dutch coffee shops could not have prepared me for what Marjon had in store for me.

As a thank you for coming to her wedding, Marjon asked her close friends to "hook me up" with some "good shit." Claude and Yvette, who were a couple, rose to the challenge.

Two nights before Marjon's wedding, Claude and Yvette invited Marjon and I to their little "woonboot," or houseboat, on the river for a "smoke-up." It was a very cosy place, that I remember. Marjon rang the doorbell and I felt so excited I thought I was about to meet Madonna. Claude greeted us at the door and directed us into their sitting room where two other fellas sat smoking cigarettes with Yvette.

"Ch'ien!" Yvette welcomed me into the sitting room. She treated me like a bestie even though we had just met a few days earlier.

I kissed her three times on alternating cheeks like how the Dutch greet each other and sat down on the sofa beside her. Marjon sat on the other side of the coffee table with Claude. The two guys just raised their hands and waved a small hello to me. They sniggered when they heard I was visiting from Boston.

"So you want to try some real pot, huh?" Guy#1 asked me in his heavy Dutch accent. Guy#2 chuckled.

My five new friends began conversing in Dutch with a few giggles here and there. I felt myself shrinking into the couch. Wait a minute! Fuck you. I've done it all. I can handle whatever you give me. Bring it! If only I had the nerve to expressed my thoughts out loud.

"Ch'ien, are you ready to try some real Dutch pot?" offered Claude.
"Sure," I replied as I tried to keep my cool.
"Please be careful, honey," Yvette warned me.
"This pot is nothing like the shit you get in America," Guy#2 added.

I assured them I would be fine and that I had done plenty of strong substances already. I wasn't about to let these two Dutch bastards look down on me! One of them started rolling a thick joint. I took a big slurp of my wine to wet my throat in preparation of the hot smoke I knew I'd be inhaling. I started some small talk.

"It's a shame Farrah didn't want to join us tonight," I said to Marjon. Farrah was Marjon's best friend who flew in from London for the wedding.
"She really wasn't interested and she knows she's a light weight," Marjon replied.

A light weight? Now I'd seen Farrah get crunk with the best of them and never thought she'd consider herself a light weight. Was this Dutch pot really going to be that strong? The cigarette smoke in the sitting room was starting to burn my eyes and I excused myself.

"Yvette, sorry, where's your toilet?" I asked.
"Just go straight ahead and it's on your right," she said.

I found the rest room and locked the door latch behind me. They had such a quaint little bathroom. I noticed this was the only bathroom in their cosy houseboat. The standing sink, bathtub, and toilet fit snugly in the small space. I took a leak and reached to flush but noticed there was no flush handle. I looked around and found they really had an old fashioned toilet where the tank was above the toilet and they had one of those pull chains. So cute! I pulled the chain and was so childishly amused at the old fashioned contraption.

As I washed my hands I heard the crew laughing out loud in the sitting room.

"Ch'ien, get your shit together and put your game face on," I told myself as I dried my hands on the hand towel.

"Ch'ien, come quick, we've already gone one round without you," Yvette reached out the smoking joint in her hand.

The sitting room no longer smelled like stale cigarettes. Instead, it was filled with the sweet aroma of green. I took a seat back next to Yvette and took a long, slow drag of the Dutch pot.

"Good, right?!" Guy#1 slapped my back as I handed him the joint.
"Yeah, very smooth," I responded.
"Of course! We have the best!" added Guy#2.

In all honesty, I felt a minor anti-climax. I didn't think the pot was that special at all. But I didn't want to be ungrateful, and as I looked around the room, Claude and Yvette wore such proud smiles I couldn't find the heart to say anything negative.

The group proceeded to tell me some Dutch jokes as I sipped more of my wine. I laughed even though I didn't find the jokes terribly funny. Marjon passed the joint proudly as she was one who never got high. The joint continued to move from hand to hand and finally came back to me. I put my glass of wine down and took another long, slow drag. I held the smoke in my lungs and handed the joint over. Guy#1 sneered a comment in Dutch to Marjon.

"Ch'ien, are you okay?" questioned Marjon. "They're impressed you haven't conked out yet," she added as she pointed to the two hooligans.

I coughed the smoke out of my lungs. I gave the group a thumbs up and they cheered. I finally felt like I was being included with these guys. Finally! But my sense of triumph quickly faded as I watched the joint passed along to the next smoker. I felt my entire body grow numb. I started to hear a ringing in my ears. I saw Marjon looking back at me.

"Ch'ien, are you sure you're fine?" she asked.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," I assured even though I wasn't sure at all.

When the joint got back to me for my third hit I was worried what would happen with another drag.

"Is our American friend done for the night?" Guy#1 mocked.

Not to be outdone I took the joint and took another hit. I quickly passed it along. I lost almost all my senses. I was completely immobilised.

"Ch'ien, seriously, are you okay?" Marjon's concern could no longer be held back.

I'm okay. I wanted to say. But I couldn't even speak. I blinked at her and smiled. The two Dutch hooligans gave themselves a high five and started laughing and speaking in their native tongue. Between my paralyzed state of mind and the ringing in my ears, I was left defenseless to their mocking. After much internal struggling, I finally managed a thumbs up and a wider smile. I sat there like a sad Asian wax figure. I couldn't move, yet I had never felt so relaxed.

When the blunt came back to me I couldn't even reach for it. I pathetically shook my head and looked over to Guy#1 to take it. I looked over to Marjon for help. She knew exactly what had to be done.

"Well, guys, thanks so much for having us over. Ch'ien and I should head back home because Farrah and my family are waiting for us at home for dinner," Marjon offered. I knew I loved her for a reason. "Ch'ien, are you ready?"

Yvette kindly helped me up and I instantaneously felt a shift in my stomach. I shook the guys' hands good-bye and kissed Yvette three times on alternating cheeks.

"Ch'ien, I can't believe you got so fucked up," Marjon whispered in my ear.
"I know... Sorry... Just give me two minutes okay? I need to use the toilet real quick," I replied.

I found my way back into their rest room and quickly pulled my pants down and sat on the toilet. I was so high my body was so relaxed I released what I thought was the biggest turd I ever let out of my body. I could have been on that show "I Didn't Even Know I Was Pregnant."

My body was like jelly. It took every ounce of strength to lift myself off the toilet seat to wipe my butt and buckle up my pants. I reached around to pull the flush chain and was puzzled when I didn't hear a flush even though the chain was in my hand... I had pulled it so hard that I pulled the entire chain off the tank! I looked into the toilet bowl and saw what could have been three dark aborted babies. I was horrified.

I turned around and turned on the faucet and tried cupping water into the toilet bowl to make everything go away. The chocolate babies weren't going anywhere. It needed the flushing suction from the tank. I tried looking into the tank but couldn't figure out such an old contraption.

"Ch'ien! Are you okay in there?" Marjon started knocking on the door.

I quickly unlocked the door and explained the situation to Marjon and she laughed so loud the others in the sitting room could hear.

"What's going on over there?" Yvette was curious.
"Oh my god. Don't tell them!" I pleaded to Marjon.

Marjon ignored my plea and responded to Yvette in Dutch. I wanted to die.

"Oh no worries, Ch'ien," Claude yelled from the sitting room.

I rushed into the sitting room and apologised like my life depended on it. The two hooligans had already started smoking a fresh joint. Were they too stoned to understand what had just happened?

Marjon and I laughed about the whole experience on our way back to her place. My shit was sitting two meters above the Amstel Canal that would eventually lead into the North Sea... That pot was seriously like no other shit I had ever had, literally. Would it be inappropriate for me to ask Claude and Yvette for more at the wedding two days later even though I clogged their only bathroom in their houseboat?


*****

I honestly look back fondly on my days of drug use, like I was living vicariously through a younger brother I never had. I'm glad I experienced them and feel lucky I was able to move on. When I see my old coke dealer, Cupcake, out at bars, I'm proud that I no longer slide over to him to ask for a "slice of pizza."

I graduated BU Magna Cum Laude. Drugs have also never interfered with my professional life either, for the most part...

When my good friend Joe accepted the fact he was an alcoholic, it was a time for me to reflect on my own addictions and I decided to cut out the hard drugs from my life. In my travels overseas, I played with the devil by trying out all sorts of drugs. But in my travels overseas, I have also been extremely fortunate to have met so many friends who have acted as angels and guided me to a healthier lifestyle.

Now when I travel overseas, it's to find amazing hiking trails, compete in triathlons, swim in oceans, and to get high purely on adrenalin.

I still try and fly back to Amsterdam as much as I can. Marjon eventually gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Tijn, and she asked me to be his Fairy God Mother. Lady, please, Fairy God Mother's can still play in the Red Light District's coffee shops for some good ol' Space Cake!

America: A Whole New World

I've been living in America now for over 15 years. I never thought I would end up in America; especially Boston because it is so quaint and white. The US has become the country I have lived for the longest period of time in my life and is quickly starting to become my home. I'm originally from Malaysia but my family moved to Hong Kong when I was two years old. I attended primary and secondary schools with international (UK) expats and when I left to come to Boston for university my parents decided to move to Singapore.

I completed my GCSEs and A-Levels (a British schooling standard similar to an American high school level) at Island School in Hong Kong. Island School was highly recognised by many public schools in the UK, and a lot of graduates from Island School were getting into the top unis in Britain. It made perfect sense for me to continue my uni years there. UK universities normally last three years and immediately immerses you into your selected concentration. That was my main problem: How could I have one concentration when I wanted to do and be everything?

My oldest brother, Tien, always liked business and attended Nottingham University in the UK to study Econometrics. My middle brother, Ch'ien-Hsiang, knew when he was ten he wanted to be an architect and got himself into Pratt Institute in NYC. As long as we were furthering our education, my parents really didn't mind where we went to school.

I always had a thirst for learning. When we were learning about castles in primary three I would go to the library and take out as many books as I could on castles. I loved drawing and was already learning about any artist who's name would come up in class. When we studied a new continent in Geography I wanted to learn words in their language, find out about their culture, and find out what they ate! It really wasn't me trying to be a goody-too-shoes but I was really sincerely interested! There really wasn't a subject I wasn't interested in. A lot of my pocket money went to art supplies or books. My brothers thought I was an idiot because I wasn't buying remote controlled cars or figurines.

By the time I was 15, it was pretty much crunch time. I completed my GCSEs with almost straight As and it was time to start focusing our selected A-Level subjects to prepare us for University. Most people went into arts, science, drama or economics. I ended up taking art, french, graphic design, physics, economics, pure mathematics, and statistics. I don't think many others had such a varied selection of subjects -- I wanted to keep all my doors open!

It was during my A-Levels that I knew I really enjoyed art. But I was not interested in going to Art School. I wanted money! I thought Art School = Starving Artist. I needed to get into a lucrative design field like Advertising with the understanding that I could change my mind at any moment and needed a backup plan. Thank God for American Universities where you pick a concentration that is to be completed in four years, but you start with your freshman and sophomore years studying Liberal Arts -- what a fascinating system -- and then you focus on your concentration during your Junior and Senior years. If I changed my mind of what I wanted to study I'd have a two year cushion; Yes!

After several offers and rejections, I decided to attend Boston University. They had a great Communications College and a huge international student community. I couldn't wait to meet these new American people that made amazing Hollywood movies! The English were getting tired to me, as were all the South East Asian countries and Australia where my parents took us during our summer holidays.

Coming to America was a trip. My mum accompanied me on my journey -- I was her baby finally leaving her nest. We stopped off in Phoenix, AZ to spend some time with my cousin before I continued on to Boston. People in Arizona were so nice it was creepy. I wasn't used to it. Why did a stranger ask me how I was doing? These Americans are weirdos... What did they want from me? I asked my cousin's husband about this (one of the nicest Americans I have ever met!) and he patiently started to clue me in on some American lifestyles and habits.

Arriving in Boston didn't get any better. I was introduced to a brand new set of ignorance. I remember being at the Eliot hotel and our waitress came to our table and asked my mum and I for something to drink.

"Can I get a glass of water, please," I said.
"Sorry, what?" our waitress replied.
"Some water," I repeated.
"Huh, is that a cocktail?" I thought my waitress was mocking me.
"Miss, some water. What they're drinking over there," I pointed to a table where the couple were sipping H2O.
"Oh! Water! Sure thing! Be right back," she chimed as she bounced off to get the water jug.

Now we might be a little lost in translation here since water looks like water on paper. But try and hear this out. When I asked for water, pretend you're watching Dame Judi Dench asking the Queen for "Wah-Terre." Then when the waitress replied to me like I was a three year old child who just got caught scratching his ass, she said "Oh! Wa-Derre." Maybe it was just the waitress? My mum and I rolled our eyes and chuckled.

After a few days with my mum in Boston, we bid our teary farewells when I started BU's International Orientation for all foreign students. It was a great program and many orientation students were international, too. It was during this orientation I quickly learned that I was referred to as Euro and Asian Trash. Solely because of my accent and how I dressed. All international students had to temporarily stay at the Towers on Baystate Road. Us foreigners quickly made a tight bond as we were clearly separated from the Americans. The Americans that were leaders were giddy to have me talk to them.

"Ch'ien say that word again... I love your British accent... Where do you put the trash? In a Bin? ha haaaa... What do you call an eraser? ha haaaaa... Say 'Wa-Dere' how you would say it again!"

What started out as something cute very quickly turned tired and annoying. Growing up we got a lot of American Sitcoms and watched all the American movie blockbusters. But didn't Americans watch BBC America or period flicks? Why are Americans so enamoured with the British accent? I was starting to feel that Americans were really protected from other cultures; it was something very hard for me to understand as I grew up with people from all over the world.

During a Freshman Orientation where all the international students were now folded with all the other US Freshmen, I couldn't believe some of the conversations I was engaging in.

Ignorant American #1: So you're from Hong Kong? But I don't understand? You speak English?
Me: Well, I am actually from Malaysia, but I went to school in Hong Kong. Hong Kong is a British Colony so there are a lot of British expats there and my parents sent me to school with them.
Ignorant American #2: But you speak English, English...
Me: Uh...
Ignorant American #3: Oh, that's so cool! You lived in Hong Kong! So do you speak Japanese?
Me: No. People speak Japanese in Japan which is a whole nother Island far away from China.
Ignorant American #4: Isn't China just a bunch of rice paddy fields?
Ignorant American #5: So does that make you Hongkanese?
Me: No, I am from Malaysia.
Ignorant American #6: Oh, so what State are you from?

I wanted to stick my "Be You at BU!" badge into my eye. I couldn't believe how ignorant of the world these people could be! And they got into the same University that I did! What did that say about the admission process?

After that orientation session I slugged myself back to my dorm room at Myles Standish Hall on Beacon Street. Before I got to my room I passed my neighbour's door that was left wide open.

"Hey! Are you my new neighbour? I'm Jo," said the girl in the room with an American accent.
"I guess so," I replied.

She invited me in and she was so sincerely friendly. We chatted for a good half hour. She was a Sophomore from Detroit, Michigan (Wait! I know that place! Isn't that where Madonna was born?!?) and had a cousin living in Singapore. Jo even knew where that was!

I called my friend, Patricia in the UK and told her how defeated and I appalled I felt from leaving the student orientation session.

"Cheng, they're just stupid. Don't worry about it. Next time just tell them you went to school in the UK and they won't ask you anymore stupid questions!" Patricia advised.

I took her advice and for the most part, it worked.

In the following weeks Jo showed me the ropes at the dining hall as many of my international friends only ate out at restaurants. There was an art to creating your own meals instead of just getting what was being offered on the lines. She showed me cheesy recipes with pasta and microwaves; how to ask for grilled chicken and making a fantastic salad with that; how to ask for a strawberry daiquiri and spike it with a nip of vodka! A resourceful American!

Jo also introduced me to the Myles Standish Smoking lounge. This was where some of the friendliest Americans hung out to study, play cards, and smoke. This was also where Joanna introduced me to many people that would become my closest friends during my time at BU.

"This is Ch'ien. My sophisticated neighbour who's Chinese Malaysian but went to school in Hong Kong and speaks with a British accent. He came into my room the other day and asked to borrow my 'hoover,'" Jo would giggle. "However, the other night when he knocked on my door to ask me if I had a 'torch' 'cuz he saw a mouse in his room, I thought he was nuts and wanted to set the poor rodent on fire! I didn't realise he was actually asking for a flashlight," she continued.

I met all sorts of Americans. Ones from Ohio, LA, Seattle, New York, Florida, Iowa, the Midwest. I had no idea they were all each such different places. I always thought America was just that: America, 50 united states. I had heard of all these cities and states but if you asked me to find it on a map I would have had to search! I started to learn about their state pride and compared them almost like fifty countries in one continent rather than fifty states in one country.

In the proceeding months I realised how ignorant I was about American geography! It was no different to people confusing Thailand with Taiwan or any of the South East Asian cities and countries. I also realised how unprepared I was in choosing what University I would attend in what city and state of America. I really lucked out with Boston. It's close to New York, the Cape, P-Town, Maine, and Boston had a really solid cultural night life. I could have ended up in the middle of "bumble-fuck," as Jo would say, since I was also offered a spot at the Rochester Institute of Technology.

Thanks to Jo and my new American friends I found not everyone was so clueless and xenophobic. Jo later found out I wasn't as "sophisticated" as I had led on. She soon started to introduce me as the "crazy fucking Chinese Malaysian from Hong Kong who speaks with a British accent." The two additional preceeding adjectives "crazy fucking" was added when she'd constantly see me laughing so hard I might snarf the vodka strawberry daiquiris out of my nose in the smoking lounge; or later getting my eyebrow, tragus, nose and tongue pierced; or when I dyed my hair blue and gave myself a mohawk and mimicked a Southern twang. I personally thought that the best form of flattery would be to assimilate to what I didn't realise would eventually become my new home.

Fifteen years later, I'm still in Boston even though I have tried numerous times to move to the West Coast. A job or a boy has always kept me here. My friends from the UK call me a Yank as I've acquired all the American slang and more and more of my friends here in the US have invited me into their families. It's only when I get angry, or nervous, or drunk, or after speaking to a friend from the UK that I speak English, English. It's especially at these moments that my American friends would ask me: What's up with that fake British accent, Madonna?

Breakdown of a Goddess

Do you ever look at people and wonder how they got to be so beautiful? Like, it couldn’t be humanly natural to be that gorgeous?

When I was in secondary school, I got my first taste of beauty, or at least of what I thought was beauty. Enter Valeria C. She was a pretty and petite Filipino who looked a little more Spanish than Asian. She had lush, black hair and tight, tan skin. When she looked at you with her sweet eyes you were the only one that existed in the world. Her full lips were those you’d dream of kissing. She quickly learned she attracted the attentions of many boys and often played with their raging adolescent hormones to her advantage.

I was eleven and in First Form when I met Valeria. Unlike all the other boys that tried hard to woo her, I had a trump: I belonged in her inner circle. I was one of her best friends, along with Gerry D., a hardcore Cockney chick, and Ramona C., the sensible Aussie Eurasian. The four of us were our own Motley crew. We weaved in and out of every circle: the dorks, the Indians, the cool kids, the Jocks, the Goths. I’m sure many wanted to be in our circle but the four of us seemed to manage to smile off the requests and offers without offending any individual.

For the first three years of our friendship I was there for every guy crush she had, and also every guy’s heart she crushed. Including mine. She was a maneater in training.

One party night at Gerry’s, Valeria and I ended up in the same bed. We were getting off with each other and I could not believe the day had come. I was getting off with one of the hottest girls at Island School! I remember trembling when I undressed her; when I made her quiver when my tongue found her dark nipples and eventually found itself between her legs (all right faggots, stop gagging…). I remember thinking I wouldn’t stop until she came. That night I knew I became a man.

The next day we went out to join the others in Gerry’s living room.

“Did we have a good night, Valeria?” Ramona said in a way a bitch would mock her prey.
“Hey, leave my girl friend alone,” I defended. Valeria looked away.
“Valeria, did you just hear what Cheng called you?” Ramona hissed.

I knew I was done when Valeria grabbed Ramona’s hand instead of mine. I just became one of Valeria’s other boys. I had been in love with what I knew to be the most beautiful girl in the world for three years and in one night I became a lovesick mess. Literally: Oh em gee. I died. I cried over her for days. It’s pathetic when I look back at it now but I remember that my life was over at the time. Back then, in my mind, I forgave her every time she hooked up with numerous other guys in the weeks and months that came.

One Friday night at a school dance I couldn’t keep my eyes off Valeria. She loved music and loved dancing. Gerry and Ramona urged me to move on. How could I? She was my first love! Then all of a sudden, Valeria’s favourite song came on, George Michael’s “Freedom! ’90.” I wasn’t really that familiar with him at the time. I just knew he was one of the two queer guys from that 80’s group, Wham. And he was the one with that popular butt-waggling track, “Faith.”

Freedom was a hot fucking record. And the video! It was an orgy of the hottest Supermodels at the time. Talk about “beauty!” Linda Evangelista, Naomi Campbell, Cyndi Crawford, Christy Turlington. I became obsessed with the video and soon realised Valeria looked nothing like these beauties (but in her defense, not many people ever do!). Valeria was short and no where as graceful as these models. She also didn’t have much of a bust. Linda had such perfect and stunning features. Christy looked like a Greek Goddess wrapped in that huge sheet as she sauntered through that grand room. What an entrance! Divine. Christy also had incredible cheek bones and those eyes… And then the hottest scene ever when the two of them prick their fingers by the fire place. Hot! I wonder how many times I jerked off with that image in my head wondering when I would ever have the opportunity to meet a girl that looked as hot as Linda or Christy.

The day came 16 years later in the summer of 2005 when I was in Florence, Italy for a fashion show and I actually met the Ms. Christy Turlington. I was the Art Director for PUMA’s Black Station luxury line of footwear and apparel at the time. Christy had a partnering collaboration with PUMA of yoga inspired fashion called “nuala” (an acronym for Natural, Universal, Altruistic, Limitless, and Authentic; look, she’s a gorgeous model so let her name her line anything she wants!). You may have seen the nuala line at high end retail outlets like Bloomingdales. Other Black Station collaborators I got the privilege to work with included the teams of Neil Barrett, Alexander McQueen, Yasuhiro Mihara, Phillippe Starck, and Rudolph Dassler. This particular fashion show was a preview of the fall/winter collections of all these collaborations. But back to Christy!

She had not aged one bit! She was still stunning (even today she still is stunning!). Everyone in attendance of the Black Station fashion show eyed Ms. Christy. I’m not normally star struck but I was with her. I mean, she probably knew Madonna (my ultimate idol whom I love to hate)! I found out Christy’s agent is the same as Gwyneth Paltrow’s and Gwyneth and Madonna were besties once! Maybe all of us could go to a Coldplay concert? And swoon over Chris Martin?

Anyway, after the show, my PR girl buddies, Danielle and Lisa, quickly casually introduced Christy to me.

“Ch’ien, I look forward to working with you. I have a lot of ideas for this coming campaign,” she said. Did the Goddess just talk to me? My heart was thumping. I was screaming like a tween school girl on the inside! In my role as Art Director, I would work with the collaborators for their marketing and advertising campaigns. I looked around and noticed dozens of pairs of eyes spitting at me with jealousy at the fact that Christy spoke to me. Fuck team Edward and Team Jacob! I’m with Team Christy!

I was just a simple boy who grew up in Hong Kong. I must have gloated to my best friends as soon as I returned to my hotel room. I could never have imagined I’d meet and work with a Supermodel! It was a gay man’s dream come true (aside from being in the 14th row of a Madonna concert and almost touching her when she danced down the catwalk singing “Give It To Me!”)! Later that night when I was heading out in search of a gay bar in Florence I happened to pass by Christy and her posse off to some dinner. It looked like a photoshoot. Gorgeous people running down the cobble stone streets of Florence. Oh the glamour! I was too shy to call her name and just admired them in the shadows.

I’m not sure if I really heard anything during my first meeting with Christy at her office in the Meat Packing District in NYC. I was still in awe. She is gorgeous. And she’s still a Supermodel. Her assistant, Sascha D, and I hit it off immediately. Sascha also has a sick sense of humour and I was thrilled to know this would be a great working relationship in the year I would work with Christy and Sascha.

I watched Christy Turlington Burns grow during the following months as she was pregnant with her second child. She still worked hard during her pregnancy and boy did she glow. She was everything: wife, mother, entrepreneur. And she still looked amazing.

During one meeting, Christy, Sascha and I were huddled in Christy’s office. We were reviewing Christy’s upcoming campaign and apparel line for nuala. Sascha got up to use the ladies and dropped something. Without thinking I just reached down to help retrieve whatever she had dropped and found a tampon in my hand.

“Great! Now the gay guy knows I have my period,” Sabrina said.
We all laughed.
“Well I guess it means Ch’ien’s family now,” Christy replied, “So Sascha, you won’t mind sharing if it’s a heavy day?”
She was sharp and had a sense of humour, too! And I was now part of the “family.” When do I get to meet her sexy hubby-actor-director Ed Burns?

Months passed and I was always thrilled to take the Boston shuttle to New York every week to meet with the nuala team. We worked a lot and both Christy and Sascha introduced me to many of their favourite lunch and dinner spots. Thanks to PUMA’s expense account no expense was ever wasted!

After Christy gave birth to her boy, Finn, she still called in to our meetings while she stayed home with Finn and her girl, Grace. When the photoshoot finally arrived, Christy was determined to be there as she loved to be hands on with all her projects. When she arrived, my internal jaw dropped. She was still glowing and had already lost all the weight she gained during her pregnancy. I looked down at my own gut and noticed my booze belly was probably bigger than Christy’s and she had just given birth not too long ago!

The shoot went well. The apparel fit the ballet dancer like a dream. She slipped in and out of each look seamlessly. Her naked breasts were freely cupped by the stylist as she changed into another dress. Female nudity is very common during photoshoots and always wasted on gay men. Just my luck it wasn’t a shoot with hot male models today…

During a break, Christy’s nanny came to the set with Finn. Everyone oohed and ahhed at what a handsome baby he was. Christy, Sabrina and I moved into a private room to discuss the progress of the shoot. As suddenly as Finn had arrived, Christy’s tit was suddenly out of her dress for Finn’s baby lips to find Christy’s supermodel nipple. I felt my face turn hot. I’ve seen my fair share of breasts, but I had never seen supermodel titty! I started to fumble on my powerbook to pull up some of the digital shots we had so far.

“Ch’ien, the shoot is going great so far, isn’t it?” Christy said.
“Um, yeah. Great!” I kept my eyes on my powerbook.

We continued to chat from across the sofa until Finn was done with his feeding. I looked away so Christy could readjust herself and turned my way to Sascha.

“Christy, you have to check out some of these images!” Sascha said excitedly.
The nanny took Finn away and Christy was back to work mode and standing over my shoulder.

“So let’s see what you’ve got, Ch’ien,” Christy asked.
“Well take a look at these –” I was suddenly interrupted by something falling before I could finish.

I reached down to the floor to retrieve what Christy had dropped. I just handed a round piece of fabric back to Christy before really computing what I had in my hand.

“Oh my god,” Christy chirped, “I can’t believe you just handed me breast pad; how embarrassing!”

“It’s fine, Christy,” I said on some kind of reactive autopilot.

But was it really fine? I mean I just touched a supermodel’s breast milk drenched breast pad! As a gay man, I didn’t even know breast pads existed. I thought I was handing over some kind of damned drink coaster to Christy (goes to show all I ever think about are drinks...)!

When I told my straight buddies what had happened, the breast pad incident didn’t phase them at all. They were more concerned by the fact I didn’t photograph Christy’s bare breasts! I suppose I had Goddess Christy on such a high pedestal I never imagined humanly fluids to be secreted from any part of her body… She was afterall, Goddess Christy, Supermodel, Entrepreneur, Mother, Friend, and Human. Christy is vulnerably human, just like Valeria, and every other person I have found to be unhumanly stunning.

In August 2008, I happened to come across a shoot in W Magazine with Christy entitled Champion. It was photographed by Michael Thompson and she really "worked the warrior-goddess side of Greco-Roman influence" in this shoot. Hot! But even after viewing these beautiful images of Christy, I couldn't help but think she was a down to earth mother.
I’ve never really ever put anyone male nor female back on such a high pedestal since. I did, however, find myself to have some very special and hidden talents to add on my resume: will eat out and excellent female hygiene product retriever.

Model Behaviour -- Just Barely

While I was at Island School (my secondary school), one of the main aspirations for any student that took school seriously was to become Head Boy, Head Girl, or to become a School or House Prefect. I only made it to House Prefect.

As a Prefect you were expected to set exceptional examples as a hard working student to students in lower years. My House Masters reminded all Prefects that the students in the lower years would be looking up to us like we were their older brothers and sisters.

As a Prefect, you also got to wear a badge with your House colour. The dorky Prefects wore their badges on their chests, while the cooler Prefects chose to wear their badges on their hip pockets or rucksacks.

Some of my friends were shocked I made Prefect, while others expected it like they knew someone would fart after eating a big can of beans. I made great grades, was on the volleyball and swim team, did a lot of volunteer service, and was involved with the drama crew. On the other hand, I had the nickname "King Skiver" (Oxford Dictionary: to "skive" is to avoid work or a duty). I was often skiving with friends sneaking off to First Pagoda on the school running path to smoke cigarettes and play D&D, or sneaking off to Central to play video games at the arcades. My friends that stayed at school always came up with excuses for me:

"Where's Ch'ien?" one teacher would ask the class.
"He had to go to the Malaysian Consulate to do something with his passport" a friend would say.
"Again? Didn't he do that last week?"

I had the good grades and I never really got questioned about my whereabouts. I was also teacher's pet for most of my subjects. When I utterly liked a teacher and thought they were going above and beyond with teaching me something, it was not unusual for me to sketch a portrait for them and frame it or purchase them an ostentatiously huge bouquet of flowers.

During this time when I was in the Sixth Form, my oldest brother, Tien, was a hot model in Hong Kong. He'd done a lot of print and TV commercials and when his casting agency asked if he had any brothers for new talent, he recommended both his younger brothers. So what if casting was during school hours? My parents thought it was fun so they didn't mind that my middle brother and I went the next day. My friends at school just rolled their eyes when I told them the news.

I got cast for the same local clothing company, Theme, as Tien. My middle brother got Jack. I shot my first TV commercial and Print campaign a few weeks later without Tien since he was at the University of Nottingham in the UK studying Econometrics.

It was a thrilling experience. Lights, cameras, your own make-up artist, all these different outfits. Some Director yelling, "Cut!" Theme was basically like the Gap brand so you can just imagine the silly, cheesy things we were doing in the early 90s. The backdrop was a theme park by the beach and I still cringe thinking back to the shoot. The Director took photos of us having fake conversations and laughing with the other Models like we were besties. *puke*

When the campaign rolled out my friends were glued to the TV to catch the commercial. Teachers and students took the MTR subway to catch my billboards. Friends brought the Theme catalogue to school to pass it around. It was really cool. All thanks to my cool oldest brother that hooked me up.

A few months later when Tien came back to Hong Kong for break, Theme wanted another shoot with the brothers both in the campaign. This shoot took place on Macau Island and would last several days -- they totally upped the budget! I was so excited for round two! Two of the previous female models were also rehired and this story was going to revolve around my brother dating one of the other girls.

The morning we were supposed to head to Macau I was ready to start immediately. I probably didn't sleep a wink the night before. We met with the casting agency and before I knew it, the whole team was on a boat to Macau. Already, something was different. I realised right away I was nothing more than an extra! All attention was on Tien. The hotter brother.

"Tien, how's uni going?"
"Tien, you look great! Have you been working out?"
"Tien, we've all missed you so much! We're so glad you're helping out with this campaign!"
"Ch'ien, your brother is such a cool guy!"

I was invisible, stuck on a boat, and stuck on an island for a few days having to listen to this grovelling. I was literally a dull star barely in the orbit of my gorgeous brother's radiant universe.

I got through the first day of shooting -- just. I often asked myself why Theme even hired me back? I must admit that during shooting, I saw my brother in a whole different light. He was a really great model. He took direction really well and the camera loved him; heck the entire crew loved him. Tyra, my brother was smizing like you wouldn't believe! I reminded myself that there was just one more day of shooting I'd have to endure.

The shoot the next day continued where the first ended. More of Tien. Somewhere in the middle of the shoot the Director wanted to try something new. He wanted more props.

"Give Tien the good stuff! He's the Jock in this story. Come to think, since he is the Jock, give Ch'ien the books. He looks like the studious type," the Director said.

Did they know who I was? I'm King Skiver on my turf! What the hell? Regardless, I did what I was told and when the Dirctor started shooting I even heard him say, "He looks so natural with this. We should have given him the books sooner."

I bit my lip and put a pen to page thinking I was Shakespeare about to write the hottest sonnet ever.

"That's right, Ch'ien! That looks great. Keep going," burped the Director.

I continued doodling what I knew to be my brother with a cock in his mouth.

When it was time to do the final group shoot, something happened. It was like art imitating life and Tien and the lead female model, Maria were in some row! Voices were raised and the Director immediately started to panic. The 2 heroes were supposed to be in love! These were models, not actors! What if they couldn't turn off this sudden hatred for one another when the cameras started rolling? I just wanted the shoot to be done so I knew I had do try and calm my dai lo (an endearing term given to your oldest brother) down.

"Dai lo, let's just all take a deep breath and forget about whatever Maria said and finish this shoot?" I tried to sound as sincere as possible. I really wanted this shoot to be over.

Tien turned around and glared at me. He didn't say a word. After what felt like 5 minutes of some staring contest (it was probably only about three seconds), he turned to the Director and told him to roll it. I couldn't believe it! I must have earned Tien's respect somehow and he agreed to listen to my suggestion! It was like a breakthrough. Like reading a Shakesepare piece to a girl to make her go gaga. I dissolved back into the background and let the shoot come to an end.

"It's a wrap!"

Everyone cheered and we loaded onto the coaches to dinner. My whole being was relieved. This crazy shoot was over and I connected with my dai lo! When we sat down at the restaurant I knew my meal even tasted better then usual. My glands and feelings were alive! All were in great spirits and they even fed us a couple beers to celebrate. We played some games and when we all started yawning from the day's labours we headed back to the hotel.

When my brother and I got back into our hotel room, I called the first shower and rushed into the bathroom. It was so refreshing to clean up. We had been modelling winter items in the heat of summer. I washed all the product out of my hair and wiped any make-up remains from my face.

"All yours," I told my brother.

He went into the shower and I changed into my pyjamas. I tucked myself into my bed and anxiously waited for my brother to come out so we could have a bro-to-bro chat and review the day. My dai lo eventually came out of the bathroom. He had his towel wrapped around his waist to show off his pecs and six-pack.

"Don't ever disrespect me like that in public ever again," he said to me.

I couldn't believe what I just heard? I asked him what he was talking about? How did I do something that would upset him so much and not be aware of it. Apparently when I asked him to keep the shoot rolling I was siding with Maria and the Director.

"This was one of the worst model shoots I've ever expereinced," he continued.

"But, I..." I tried.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. And don't talk back to your elders. You were wrong. Just go to bed. I don't ever want to do a shoot with you again."

My dai lo turned off the lights and crept into bed. I'm not entirely sure but I think tears welled up in my eyes. Of course Tien didn't see them as he was turned with his back facing me in his own bed.

*****

My relationship with Tien improved with time. At the end of the day, he's family and we got over our immature arguments. He's become one of my best friends and a real mentor for my life. I'm grateful I got to share that modeling experience with him and because of him.

Tien continued modelling for years to come and even got several acting gigs. That shoot with Theme was the last time I ever modelled. Except for being a role-model at Island School. I was a House Prefect there.

Love For Those You Respect

I think we've all received that email that asks you to name famous people that invented things throughout history or that accomplished grand feats in their lifetime. The final question was something like "Now try and name a teacher that nurtured you and inspired you." Now that's an easy one.

The goal of the email wasn't really testing your strength in trivia but moreso to demonstrate we all remember those whom have made a positive impact in our lives.

I went to a secondary school in Hong Kong called Island School. It was part of the English Schools Foundation that was established for British Expats' children to attend while their parents were stationed in Hong Kong. Being a British Colony at the time, there were huge numbers of these British kids that needed their homeland education so they could still compete with their homeland peers when it was time for uni hunting. Island School was one of the best schools in Hong Kong when I was there; excelled in education, sports, and even drama. It also had House names a lot more interesting than other Secondary Schools in Hong Kong. Ours were separated by famous innovators: Nansen, Da Vinci, Einstein, Fleming, Rutherford, and Wilberforce.

One teacher that really stands out in my memory is Mr Galbraith. He was my form tutor years one and three, if I recall correctly. He was also my French teacher forms one through three. We crossed paths a lot in the seven years I was at Island School since we were in the same House, Fleming. When I got my class sheet on my first day in Form One I was so thrilled to learn French was mandatory. French! That's the language they speak in Paris! That fabulous city that everyone romanticises about!

I knew from first meeting Mr Galbraith he was a "nice" man. He was going to be a "nice" teacher. There was something about him. He had that really friendly aura. He literally had that 'je ne sais quois."One of those people that could never lose their temper. He was all smiles when he welcomed us First-Formers to our new school. Something deep inside me knew I could count on this guy for anything!

Entering secondary school was a big deal to any eleven year old. It's like entering middle school or becoming a freshman in high school. When I was in Peak School (my primary school), I somehow adopted the nickname, Chengy. I can't remember how it came about but now that I was in secondary school could I drop the "y" and make my name sound a little more grown-up? Kind of like Ludacris using his real name when he was trying to break into a serious acting career or P-Diddy doing the same thing when trying to establish a serious fragrance and fahion label?

Even though my name is Ch'ien (pronounced more or less like "Chen"), my friends that joined me from Peak School managed to appease me somewhat by calling me "Cheng." I suppose that sounded a little more mature. I could deal with it.

So fade to black and cut to new scene where I'm sitting in my first ever French class with Mr Galbraith...

He started off by calling off the roster adding a French twang to each name. Robert became Robert (with the silent "t"). Michael became Michel. Helen became Helene. Ch'ien became Cheen. Cheen??? That doesn't sound so fancy! What's up with that. Later in the class as we started to learn some animal names I realised Mr Galbraith didn't want to call me "dog!" That's right. Mon prenom, Ch'ien, c'est comme "le chien" mais il y a une apostrophe apres le "h." I hated my parents for giving me my name! They insisted the name was given by a Chinese God and that my first name meant "healthy" in Chinese. Screw me not wanting to be called Chengy because for most of my first year at Island School I was called the 'Healthy Dog...'

Mr Galbraith was so gracious. There were plenty of teachers that would have teased students at any chance but not Mr Galbraith. He snapped at anyone that called me chien. I felt like I owed him something so I made sure to try my best to excel in French. I did pretty good for the most part. Mr Galbraith was always very encouraging even when my homework came back with a lot of red and I had to redo a lot of it.

By the third year when most of the kids in my year were about thirteen, we drove Mr Galbraith nuts one day. Afterall, isn't thirteen, like the ultimate "Mean Teen" year? I can't remember what exactly happened in class, but Mr Galbraith was as angry as he could be. He couldn't really raise his voice, but he was trembling and red in the face. I wasn't one that was in trouble (why would I be when I was teacher's pet) and I just sat at the front of the class snickering at those who were getting a scolding. After a few minutes I suddenly became the target of his fury:

"Ch'ien-hung, please leave my classroom if you're going to continue being so rude snickering in the corner!" he said with his finger pointing to the door.

I got up and walked out the room. I couldn't believe it. But it was my own fault. I knew he was really upset as he called me by my real full name. Like how you would say it in English. He continued yelling at some of the kids inside and when he was done with them he came out to meet me. His face was still ruby red.

"Ch'ien, don't ever let me catch you smirking again in my classroom. Now get back inside." he said.

I felt humiliated. The hooligans were yelled at but I was sent outside. How could he do that to me? To think that I had once wasted my time sketching a portrait of him and framing it as a thank you gift the year before!

Later in some period where we had to watch some documentary in a lecture hall, I took out some Tipex and started drawing Mr Galbraith getting it doggy style from another male teacher on the table. There were rumours that Mr Galbraith was gay. I knew what I was doing was bad, but I finished this masterpiece nonetheless. My friends sitting next to me thought it was hysterical.

By the end of the third year it was time for us to pick what subjects we wanted to continue for our GCSEs. I still loved French and decided to continue the subject. I ended up with a new French teacher, Ms Church. Ms. Church and I hit it off from the get go, too. And for some reason, her teaching method really clicked with me and I was suddenly top of the class hardly ever getting any red in my homework. I was writing essays in French with no problem.

One day when I was walking down a corridor between periods I passed Mr Galbraith and he stopped to ask me how I was doing and enjoying French with Ms. Church.

"She's great. I'm actually learning something," I said with a smile and continued walking. As soon as I said it I realised how it came out and felt bad. I didn't mean to sound so bitchy or did I? To be completely honest, I'm really not sure.

Through the rest of my time at Island School, Mr Galbraith never stopped checking in on me. I continued French in my A-Levels with Ms Church, but at the end of Upper Sixth Form, I was invited to Mr Galbraith's end of year French Party at his house with his students. I went and he welcomed me like I was still one of his own.

When I got to University, I continued French for another 2 years until I had to focus my time on my major, Mass Communications and Advertising. I always reminisced of my time with Ms Church and Mr Galbraith. When I graduated Uni and was trying to figure out my career path, I somehow got a little retrospective of my life of twenty odd years. Somehow Mr Galbraith popped up. I decided that I would contact Island School and tell them I attended that Secondary School and I was hoping to get an email address for a former teacher. I was informed he had left the school but was still teaching at another school in Hong Kong.

I emailed him. It was a very short email with the usual "getting back in touch" script. Hey it's me... yadda yadda... Remember? How are you? Just thought I'd get in touch... yadda yadda.

I got a response from him the next morning. He was twelve hours ahead of me and pretty much responded immediately. It was a long email. So sincere. But that was him. We continued to write each other. Somewhere in the communications we had come out to each other.

A few years later he was travelling to Toronto and stopped through Boston so we could catch up in person. It was like old friends catching up. He insists on calling him James but to this day I still feel weird calling him James rather than Mr Galbraith. Three years ago I attended his wedding to his partner, Alvin, in Toronto. It was so surreal that two men were getting married at the time! Yay! Go gays! It was thrilling and exciting. Many of my old secondary school teachers were there. It was very awkward at first but pretty soon we were all just peers. Many spoke to me in French but I just replied in English. Je suis tres embarrasse parce que j'oublie beaucoup de mon francais. My sad attempt at a response.

Yesterday I received an email from James that was 1,729 words long. He's really good at keeping in touch. Me, not so much. He and Alvin are doing well and still deeply in love. A big smile always surfaces when I read his emails. Now when I think back on how this friendship evolved I get nostalgic and a little dreamy. I think James was like a Guardian Angel. He was always looking out for me. I like to think he always knew I was different as a kid. A closeted gay. When he kicked me out of his classroom, he was just teaching me how to be classy. Smirking is idiotic. Unless I'm now smirking at the fact I didn't let this mentor slip out of my life.