Ōtautahi, Autumn 2023

I was in a lab meeting with my supervisors, other researchers and PhD students working on natural language processing. I had been working on my PhD for over a year now. At my PhD confirmation, I proposed that I would model the social and linguistic characteristics of local populations using georeferenced digital language data. In short, I was attempting to find evidence that non-​geographic dialects are emerging on social media.

I was content with this topic because I was interested in this area of computational linguistics. I also did not want to do my PhD research on anything identity related, as I was not willing to have my identity scrutinised through academic frameworks. However, as I progressed through my PhD, I realised that my area of research and my passion in supporting our Queer communities were diverging into two very separate paths. I was beginning to regret my initial decision to not incorporate any aspect of my Queer identity. I felt like a coward.

In the lab meeting, I put forward the idea that we should work on a shared task for an upcoming workshop on equality, diversity, and inclusion in computational linguistics. The objective of the shared task was to implement a classification model to detect homophobia and transphobia in social media comments in English, Spanish, Hindi, Tamil, and Malayalam. Even though I did not intend to contribute to Queer research through my PhD, at least I could use my skills to advance a small area in this space. I proposed that we train a classification model on the labelled homophobic and transphobic social media comments with pre-​trained language models (PLMs).

“What are your thoughts? Do you think this is a good idea?” I asked my supervisor.

“I know how involved you are in the Queer community,” my supervisor told me. “There’s no harm in combining your research interests and what you’re enthusiastic about.”

“You know how easily I get distracted,” I confessed to my supervisor.

“We can always find a way to include this into your main thesis,” my supervisor suggested. This was a gamble as training language models are notoriously time-​consuming and computationally expensive. At best, I would have learnt a new skill, but going on a research tangent like this would inevitably eat into my PhD. I thought long and hard, before it dawned on me how I could synthesise my research and my passion.

“If I do find evidence that digital dialects are emerging, then PLMs would be considerably biased based on the initial training data,” I told my supervisor excitedly. “Then the accuracy of our classification model would also be biased if we don’t fine-​tune the PLMs for dialect variety.”

“This means even if we trained a classification model in English to detect homophobia and transphobia for social media comments in the US, then the same model wouldn’t work as well in New Zealand, India, or any other country where digital dialects are emerging. Homophobia and transphobia are going to be expressed differently depending on country, language, or register. Maybe we should fine-​tune these PLMs by dialect!”

“Good thinking,” my supervisor replied. “This will come together more as you work on it.” We are still a long way away from knowing whether this method will work. But the purpose of this story is not about my PhD research, computational linguistics, or PLMs, it was the fact that I could bring in my Queer perspective into my work as an out Queer Asian, which is a luxury I wish that I had had early on in my research journey when I was still in the closet.

When I finally left my role at the insurance company, I returned to university to finish my degree. I once again found myself with limited choices. My first option was to go home. My parents saw this as the only option. Alternatively, option two –​ I had to find a reason to stay in Ōtautahi. I had close friends like Ashish, Akhil, and Amit and I started to form a community. I decided to stay in Ōtautahi. I figured I needed the time to continue with my journey to find a sense of balance with my identities. I automatically enrolled in the honours programme.

“Just one more year,” I thought to myself.

The head of department convinced me to apply for the departmental scholarship and convert my honours to a master’s in Linguistics. This gave me the opportunity to carry out original research. When they offered me a scholarship, I went to my supervisor to explore research topics within the field of Lavender Linguistics. This is the study of language used by Queer communities. They were the only openly Queer academic in the department.

I wanted to place myself within their research interests to position myself within Queer spaces. I wanted to be adjacent to Queerness, but I still was not ready to come out. I would learn about Queer identities while I kept my identity hidden. Maybe I could do this to navigate Queerness without coming out. I often wonder how being in the closet influenced my research trajectory. “Maybe I could analyse the speech features of gay men?” I asked my supervisor naively. “But what benefit will this bring to their community?” my supervisor posed these fundamental questions to me. “How can this piece of research be weaponised against their community?”

I sat there in their office, and I thought hard about the ethical implications of my research proposition. How could my research be weaponised to prosecute people like me? After much back and forth, we settled on a research topic. My supervisor tasked me to explore the vocal satisfaction of transmasculine individuals. This was an extension of their research on the communicative needs of transgender and non-​conforming peoples.

Before I began this project, I had an extremely poor understanding of the needs of transgender and gender non-​conforming peoples. I was deeply grateful that my supervisor trusted me to conduct this piece of research. This gave me an opportunity to develop my understanding of the needs within our Queer communities. I worked with my supervisor and other Queer academics to create an online survey. As part of the survey, I also collected speech samples of transmasculine individuals.

I felt a sense of comfort with my role as a researcher. I observed Queer spaces from my closet. My interactions were research interactions. Meanwhile, I used this as an opportunity to conduct my own environmental scan of what services and resources were available. I spent hours browsing through websites, blogs, and Facebook pages. I felt a sense of security knowing that I could justify my behaviour as an academic and not as an individual. I reached out to Queer organisations in Ōtautahi and across Aotearoa. Organisations like Qtopia, Christchurch Pride, Rainbow Youth, InsideOut, and more. I advertised my research online, but I felt an immense level discomfort with my behaviour.

“Is it okay for an outsider like me to message these groups?” I asked my supervisor repeatedly. “Are you sure you’re not part of the community?” my supervisor asked me in return. “Not even a little non-​binary?”

“No,” I replied with complete certainty. These days I am not so sure.

Why would the Queer community trust a stranger like me? I could not even be honest with myself about my sexuality –​ why would anyone trust me to understand their needs?

“I’m consciously trying to change my voice.”

“I feel self-​conscious about how strangers perceive my voice.”

“My voice frustrates me.”

“I have a speaking voice that feels authentic to me.”

“Your voice reflects the true you.”

Many of the questions I posed in the survey could have been questions I should have been asking myself. My research became an introspective exercise. All I had to do was replace voice with identity.

“I’m consciously trying to change my identity.”

“I feel self-​conscious about how strangers perceive my identity.”

“My identity frustrates me.”

“I have an identity that feels authentic to me.”

“Your identity reflects the true you.”

I submitted my master’s thesis on Tuesday, 20 November 2017. Coincidentally this was also the Transgender Remembrance Day. Was this another fateful coincidence? While I became more confident with my Queer identity in an academic setting, I could feel the metaphorical closet door closing. After spending a year being adjacent to Queerness, I was still not ready to come out.

When I finally submitted my thesis, I experienced both joy and immense sadness. My excuse to stay in Ōtautahi had run its course. My parents wanted me home. They expected me to fulfil my duties as their child. As I prepared myself to leave Ōtautahi, a government agency offered me an analyst role in Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara.

“Are you in a relationship?” the recruitment officer asked me.

“No, I’m not.” I had no choice but to lie as I was seeing someone at the time.

However, the government agency had a stringent background screening process, and I was not willing to lie. How could I admit my sexuality to the government before I could admit my sexuality to my family, my friends, or myself? I felt like I had no choice but to turn it down. I declined the job offer, and I looked elsewhere. I could not go home just yet; I needed more time.

Just one more year.

Shortly afterwards, I began my role as a customer service officer at the Inland Revenue based in Ōtautahi. I needed time to continue exploring my identity. It was easy to hide who I was at the Inland Revenue. I processed GST returns in my role –​ a mundane job. I could easily mask my identity. I thought I would be safe if no one asked me about my personal life. I was not satisfied with my job. I did not study for almost five years in Linguistics to process GST returns. How many more excuses did I need to make before I could be my authentic self? I felt trapped.

Within six months, I applied for a data analyst job in the national statistics office. They tasked me to work alongside hapū, iwi, and Māori organisations to provide official statistics. It was an incredibly satisfying and meaningful role to support our Indigenous communities, but I felt I would not be able to be an effective ally if I continued to hide my identity. How could I build trust with Indigenous communities, who inherently distrust the government, if I did not even trust myself to be genuine or authentic? It was time for me to come out of the closet.

Just one more year.

Te Awakairangi, Summer 2018

With a tentative deadline now in mind, it was time for me to unpack my closet. I began this process with Akhil who was my closest friend while he was in Te Awakairangi. Akhil wanted to see Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara, so I invited him to stay with me at home.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” I announced from my bed. Akhil was on the mattress below. Akhil and I were staying in the spare bedroom. Mum was not too happy with this arrangement as I broke the cardinal rule of no sleepovers.

We were watching a pirated version of Ae Dil Hai Mushkil (2016) on my laptop. It was arguably a terrible movie, but we did not have much planned that night. We were halfway through the movie when I found the courage to come out to Akhil.

“What do you want to tell me?” Akhil responded to my surprise announcement. He got up from the mattress to pause the movie.

“I’m gay. I’ve been dating a guy. I was too worried to tell you because I didn’t want it to come between our friendship,” I confessed to Akhil. We were halfway through a bottle of honey whisky I had found in the pantry.

“Why would we stop being friends?” Akhil asked me. “If I did care that you were gay, I would’ve run out the door as soon as you told me. But did I? No, we’re friends and that’s all that matters. Now, do you have anything else you want to tell me or are we going to finish this shitty movie you wanted to watch?”

Most of the people I came out to over this period were my closest friends, while I came out to some people based on necessity. One example would be my manager.

I was in a long-​distance relation with someone in Ōamaru, which is roughly four hours south of Ōtautahi. I had no transport options besides the intercity bus as I was still on my learner’s licence. I needed my manager’s permission to modify my roster to accommodate the bus schedule. It was difficult for me to gauge whether it was safe for me to come out because there were few visibly Queer people in the office. The few Queer people were all based in Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara. My greatest concern was whether the news of my coming out would travel back to my family. Aotearoa is a small country after all, and we often joke about our “two degrees of separation”.

“Can I talk to you in private?” I approached my manager while he was tapping away on his Surface Pro at his desk. I finally mustered the courage within me to tell him.

“Of course,” my manager replied. He was surprised by my sudden request. “Should we find a meeting room?”

Oh no. My manager must have thought I was going to hand in my resignation. He led me to a meeting room. I quickly scanned the office as I shut the door. The walls of our meeting rooms were notoriously thin.

“I need to tell you something,” and I told my manager what I had rehearsed in my head all morning.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” my manager replied. He let out a massive sigh of relief. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

We continued talking in the meeting room. We talked about personal development. We were also talking about how we could continue promoting our services to hapū, iwi, and Māori. In the back of my mind, I was now out of the closet in a professional environment. Unpredictably, it was through my work and my connection with takatāpui that helped me advance on my coming out journey.

I was in Tāmaki Makaurau for work, and I was staying with Amit. I had met with Ashish for dinner the night before. I had an uneasy night’s sleep as I struggled to digest the Thai food from the Albert Street Asian Food Hall.

Peter picked me up from Amit’s apartment in the central city. He is a well-​known and well-​spoken takatāpui advocate and lawyer. He was a few years my senior and he was working as an advisor. It was just us on the road. We were on the way to Kirikiriroa (Hamilton) to facilitate a series of hui (meetings) with local iwi.

“Mind if I play some music?” Peter asked me as he connected his phone to the car. Girls Like You began playing through the car stereo.

“What’s your background?” Peter asked me as we drove past Raahui Pookeka (Huntly). “How did you manage to get this fancy role anyway?”

Peter was suspicious about my intentions. And rightfully so. Why would someone with no Māori whakapapa (genealogy) be in a role providing a service to hapu, iwi, and Māori?

“I was desperate for work after I finished my master’s. I was at the Inland Revenue before this, and it seemed like a better option than processing GST returns.” I told him honestly. There was no point for me in lying. “I applied for the role because I have a background working with data in linguistics and I studied some te reo Māori (Māori language) at university.”

“Linguistics.” Peter savoured the word. He kept his eyes on the road and continued his volley of questions. “What was your topic?”

“I was looking into the vocal satisfaction of transmasculine and non-​binary people,” I replied.

I was not sure how much to tell him.

“Oh.” Something I said had piqued Peter’ interest. “Are you trans or Queer?” “No,” I responded, wondering what Peter would ask next. “I’m an ally, I guess.”

“Sounds interesting.” Peter was deep in thought. “What’s the application of your research?”

I summarised the findings of my research. I talked about how we could apply my findings in a clinical setting to support transmasculine and non-​binary people. I went into extreme detail on how gender as a social construct influences the way we use language.

“How interesting.” Peter sounded impressed with my answer.

“Can you tell me about your culture? How do your beliefs influence the way you view gender?” As we drove through the King Country, I told Peter how my culture is a synthesis of different belief systems and how the social manifestation of 三教 (saam¹gaau³; the three teachings) influenced my perspectives of sexuality and gender. He was fascinated; and he attempted to draw parallels between our different world views.

“Why is this first time I’ve heard about this?” Peter asked me as we reached our destination. “Many Cantonese or Chinese in Aotearoa don’t follow this way of life anymore,” I answered Peter honestly. “We were told we had to assimilate if we wanted to succeed.” “You mean assimilate to Pākehā whiteness?” Peter interjected.

I nodded at Peter’s interpretation. I felt disheartened and defeated.

As we drove back to Tāmaki Makaurau following our meetings, I sat in the passenger seat feeling uneasy. I felt a sense of sadness acknowledging the eventual dissolution of my culture. If I could no longer be Cantonese or be Queer, what was left of my identity?

“I need to be honest with you,” I confessed to Peter. “I lied. I’m not an ally. I’m gay.” “Are you okay?” Peter asked me. “Are you out to your family?”

“I’m not out to my family yet,” I replied. “I don’t know how. I’m scared.”

“Sidney, don’t be scared.” Peter reassured me. “If you can safely come out to your family then you should. You must share your experience for those who don’t have the luxury to be their true authentic selves.”

At this point, the indigestion from the Thai food I had had the night before developed into a bought of food poisoning. I asked Peter to pull over as I began to vomit on the side of the road.

All I knew when I went back to Ōtautahi was that I needed to come out to my parents.

Te Awakairangi, Spring 2019

Not long after my conversation with Peter, I was once again back in Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara. I was there for work, and Peter wanted to see me before I went home that night.

“Promise me you’ll talk to your parents,” Peter told me when we met. “Only if you’re ready.” I was going to be there for two days. Initially, I was going to be selfish. I was going to come out to my parents at the airport, but I knew I needed to give my parents some time to process their feelings about my identity.

My commute home was fuelled with anxiety. I knew I had to come out to my parents that night, but I did not know how and when. As the train pulled up at my station, Dad was there to pick me up. Mum was not in the car as she was at home preparing dinner. As we pulled into the driveway, I saw Mum cooking in the garage. Like most Cantonese parents, Mum’s love language was food.

“Not now,” I thought to myself.

「我返屋企啦.」 (I’m home!) I yelled from the car. Our usual routine.

「返屋企啦，就食得飯. 快去洗手. 無唔記得裝香.」 (You’re home, dinner’s nearly ready. Go wash your hands. Don’t forget to offer.) She instructed me from the garage.

I did as I was told. I washed my hands and then I offered incense to the Ancestors. After that, I set the table. As we sat down around the table, I could see from Mum’s expression that she was happy that I was finally home. I noticed that she had cooked my favourite dishes.

“Not now,” I thought. Mum would not forgive me if I ruined dinner.

「食飯啦.」 (Let’s eat) We said in unison as we dug into our meal.

Mum was busy chatting in the background. I was not hungry at all. The only thing going through my mind was when I was going to come out to her. I picked at the dishes with my chopsticks. Intrusive thoughts fuelled my growing anxiety.

“How was I going to tell Mum?”

“Was this meal the last time I would experience Mum’s cooking?”

After dinner, I went to my room, and I laid down on my bed. I was restless. I was flooded with memories from my childhood. Numerous questions raced through my mind.

“How many more lies did I want to tell?”

“How many more secrets did I need to keep from my family?”

I reflected on the conversation I had had with Peter.

“You need to harness your privilege. Share your stories so those who can’t tell their stories can also be heard.”

I knew my parents tolerated my uncle’s Queer identity. I was in no immediate danger. Furthermore, I had housing and financial security if things did go wrong. There were no reasons for me not to come out besides rejection. If acceptance was not attainable immediately, then tolerance would have to do for now.

“I’m going to do it,” I messaged Peter.

“Good luck. Take care,” Peter texted back.

I got up from my bed and I trudged to the kitchen. Each step was laden with guilt. Mum was washing the dishes.

「不如去練車啦.」 (How about we go for a drive?) I asked Mum.

「好呀.」 (Sounds good.) Mum responded and dried her hands.

It was late spring, and the days were starting to get longer. Mum put in a CD of classic Cantonese songs as we backed out of the driveway.

I knew Mum had a lot she wanted to say to me. My cousin was staying with us at the time and there was a lot she did not want to say in the house. I sat there listening to her, driving down the now empty high street. I was still debating in my head when and how I should tell Mum. I wanted to tell her first so she could then tell Dad. I really did not know how he would react.

I followed the path that was laid out before me. I parked up the car by the beach overlooking the harbour. The sun was setting beyond the western hills. The sky was lit orange and red. It was in that moment that I came out to Mum. My hands gripped the steering wheel. My shoulders tensed and I hoped for the worst.

「你唔會介意如果我鍾意男人呵.」 (You won’t mind if I like men, right?) I asked Mum. Mum’s expression told me she was deep in thought. She looked away into the distance, before she let out a massive sigh. She finally replied after what felt like a lifetime.

「雖然我覺得唔正常，但係我唔理你鍾意邊個最緊要佢對你係真心.」 (Even though I don’t think it’s normal, I don’t care who you like as long as their feelings for you are real.) Mum replied with teary eyes.

I could tell Mum was in shock, but at least my anxiety was gone as I had achieved what I had aimed to do. All I could do was reflect on Mum’s words as we drove away. We stopped by Countdown on the way home and I bought a tiramisu. I knew I would not get acceptance, but tolerance was more than I expected. We did not talk much after that.

“It’s done. Thank you,” I messaged Peter when I got home.

「我話咗俾你個阿爸聽啦.」 (I’ve spoken to your Dad.) Mum told me the next day.

I heard a hint of disappointment in Mum’s voice. We were on our way to the airport. I knew she had only told me now as she did not want to say anything within earshot of my cousin.

「咁我啲孫呢.」 (But what about our grandchildren?) Dad had asked me innocently.

I could tell that my parents were in grief. They were grieving for a vision they had for me that would not come to fruition. I knew that my parents felt like they had let down our Ancestors, as they knew I would not be the one to provide grandchildren or to extend our family line. They blamed themselves for raising a culturally deficient child. After all their efforts uprooting themselves from their home and migrating to Aotearoa, this was what they got to show for it. I knew they saw me as a failure. Single-​handedly I had shattered their dream. I knew it would take time for them to come to terms with their grief. We drove in silence to the airport.

When I finally landed in Ōtautahi, I broke the news to my flatmates about my coming out. In contrast to the sombre reaction of my parents, my flatmates got me a Rainbow cake to celebrate the occasion. The day I came out to my parents was Tuesday, 20 November 2018, which was exactly one year after I had submitted my thesis. When I came out to my parents, I expected it to be the end of my coming out journey, but it was only the beginning.