He once radiated joy. A mischievous little boy with a round belly, the color of hot chocolate, an impish smile, and thick black curls that wiggled with careless glee. That little boy went away one day and I don’t think he’ll ever return.

He now radiates hate. A furious young man with a flat belly of burnished dark leather, its landscape marred by the emblems of his self-hatred made by India ink and a needle. I weep at his unarticulated rage, his suppressed fury, his casual despair.

He represents an epidemic. An epidemic that is decimating our urban centers. He is identified but without any identity; he is signified but without any significance. In his case, he is Asian without any Asianness, White without any Whiteness, male without any masculinity maybe because Marky Mark and the mainstream don’t dig no Chow Yun Fat.

He represents a race without a finish line. And instead of running for his dear life, he let hate “accidentalize” him. He let the jeering spectators with their Go back from where you came from, Chink! or their How long have you been in this country? burn him, leaving untreatable wounds.

He rejects his parents’ protective mantle of Whiteness and chooses instead to tread the dark alleyways of a culture that has refused to accept him. He hates everyone with a single-minded passion, a hatred overshadowed only by the hatred of himself.

He rejects himself. He is annihilating himself. Is his annihilation his only chance for redemption?