I hate nightclubs.
The problem was that I couldn’t come up with an excuse. I was sitting alone on the couch when my phone buzzed with an invitation to come out. The place was within walking distance from my apartment and I had nothing else to do. I had basically lived like a monk for months—off the meds and off the booze. My friend said that a bunch of his female friends would be there. I threw on a shirt.
Regret washed over me as soon as I saw the mass of people waiting outside and felt the thumping bass from within. Nevertheless, I entered. I drank water. I interacted with the pal who’d invited me to join. I stood there, looked around, and left within the hour.
My friend texted again in the morning. One of the women at the club, the one I’d asked him about but hadn’t brought myself to speak to, was hosting a barbecue with her friends.
Long story short: I arrived at the East Village rooftop and found Grace and her fellow hosts going down in flames. Too many people had come. The grill was too small. They were struggling to keep up. It was a custom-made opportunity for me to impress. I felt like I was on a crowded plane when the flight attendants call out, “Is there a doctor onboard?”
Dr. Chang reporting for duty.
I saved the day and helped with cleanup, too. The weary hosts were grateful but disappointed that they hadn’t had time to eat. They were starving.
“I have a restaurant down the block…”
After the barbecue, I headed to Wyoming for a few weeks to unwind. I resisted the urge to contact her, but upon my return Grace called to ask me out.
I had come to terms with the fact that I would never get married. All my relationships had fallen apart, usually because of me. I felt incapable of marriage and I said as much to Grace. I gave her my usual line: “I’m not looking for anything serious, blah blah blah.” Over time, I’d share every messed-up detail of my romantic life with her. She never flinched or judged me.
We began dating, and one night, David Choe came over to my apartment after grabbing dinner with our friend Asa Akira. Asa is one of the world’s most famous porn stars. Choe is a filthy rich artist with a love for pushing buttons. Grace didn’t bat an eye the entire night. She laughed and joked along with them, and my crazy friends took a liking to her immediately. We all sat around and watched Bojack Horseman together. It was a good time.
As we got to know each other better, I felt a calmness. My brain told me not to commit, that it would eventually end, but my gut said otherwise. She exuded confidence and composure. (That rooftop barbecue was the first and only time I’ve ever seen her in the weeds.) She hated clubs, too. She’d been convinced to go that night by her friends. And like me, she straddled two cultures.
I’ve dated women of other races and ethnicities, but all of my meaningful relationships have been with Asian women. Try as I might, I could never shed the cultural pressure to marry someone who was Korean. With any other relationship, there would always be the nagging thought in the back of my head that it would ultimately have to end because my family would never approve of a non-Korean woman.
Grace was Korean, but it didn’t feel like we were together because we were Korean. The attraction had everything to do with her heart, her generous spirit, how chill she was. These other factors actually allowed me to appreciate our cultural connection on a much deeper level. Grace and I don’t have to explain ourselves to one another because we share the same idiosyncratic Korean American upbringing. She grew up as the daughter of Korean immigrants finding their way in a predominantly white suburb of Seattle.
I don’t believe in soul mates or the idea that there’s one person on earth for each of us, but when I try to envision someone who might stick with me for the rest of her life, I can only imagine Grace. When I think of someone I can love for decades to come, it’s Grace. She’s strong-willed and self-possessed. She’s worked hard in the fashion world, but her true ambitions are even harder to attain. Grace wants to live generously, fruitfully, healthily, fully, and she wants to help others do the same. She surrounds herself with good people and treats them well.
I count myself lucky to be among the primary beneficiaries of her worldview. She was immensely supportive when I eventually told her I wanted to go back on medication. She guided and worked with me through manic episodes, restaurant openings, good days, bad reviews, and many highs and lows in between.
We share an instinct to nurture and protect one another. But the absolute truth is, the balance of our relationship remains shamefully lopsided. I’m striving to give as good as I get, and to stop treating loved ones like employees. I have yet to learn how to accept the love of someone else and to believe that it won’t fail me. This must be among the most frustrating and upsetting obstacles a person can encounter in a relationship. Imagine having to convince your wife or husband of your love on a daily basis. I don’t just mean saying “I love you,” but sometimes having to plead with them in order to drag them back from the brink. I have to be better. She knows I’m trying. I love her for giving me the chance.
We got married and Grace gave birth to a baby boy whom we named Hugo. For many years I thought I’d never be ready to be a father. Now I know I just hadn’t met Grace yet.