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In the psychiatric ward, I talked to another patient covered in scars, all over his arms, neck, and face In my paranoid state, where everyone in the as an actor, I didn’t believe the cuts were real, that he had caused theaudy Halloween costu him discomfort

Another patient kept asking

irlfriend? On the outside? Why not? But will you be irlfriend? On the outside? You’re so pretty” She didn’t stop followingthe saiven ry queers were after me She was released many days before I was

I often ponder what one can hide—for some of us, one’s sexuality, for exae, you can hide Still, I have a theory that those who’ve been abused can nearly always recognize others who’ve been abused, because somehow it does manifest itself in visible ways It’s similar to queerness—if you so desire, you can try to hide your own queerness; straight people will likely fail to detect it Other queers on the lookout will probably guess, regardless

The scars, you can’t hide The scars raise questions Worse when you can’t even see them yourself, because of where they’re placed on your body, but others can

When I sit laughing with her, joking about silly and insignificant things, I can’t is of a relationship feel so innocent and fresh—one hopes to protect that innocence from harsh realities, like confrontations with death, withouta person Those memories feel a world away

Yet intellectually, I wonder what is acco I wonder if, and why, these particular details matter We all have our own trau We joke about suicide, but we don’t discuss its realities

The uarantee that I can be a stable partner, or a stable person? Can any of us guarantee this? That ill remain healthy, in body and mind? Can we tell others that it’s safe for theuarantee that on’t harm them? Or is the universal truth that ill, in fact, hurt those we care about, and be hurt by theardless of the specific circumstances?

At what point do you disclose and say, It’s out of my hands, think of me what you will, scars and all? At what point do you say, See me nakedly, and decide what you will?

2 THE BODY, THE MIND

At seventy-two years old, my father still plays tennis with thirty-year-olds, still rehydrates with beer afterward When I think of hireen of the tennis court, hi his blue cotton shirt, al in, and hi effortlessly across the court, his movement uninhibited

His face and body can be characterized by juts and hollows—sharp cheekbones, knobby knees, acco He once clocked in at 3 percent body fat on a scale Beneath his shirt lies a washboard six-pack His forearms, his calves, are ropey; each muscle individuated

All those hours in the sun have given him a farmer’s tan My mother used to tease him about his dark skin As elsewhere, in Korea, skin tone connotes class Unlike e, my father’s exterior reflects a life lived outdoors

The twin peaks of athletics and academia are constants in my father’s life His career, as a professor at a small private university on the outskirts of Seoul, centered on engineering and coing from philosophy to theoretical math manuals to the latest Mary Karr, written in Korean or Gere Eliot and Leibniz soin to understand I envy hievity—his health and vibrancy