By Tuan Chau Nguyen

“So would you ever go for a Vietnamese guy?” I asked her as we lay there blissfully spent, after a passionate night that happened quite unexpectedly. She looked back at me with her blue eyes and shot me a sultry smile. “Yeah, if they were as sweet as you, I would,” she replied, gazing up at me with genuine curiosity. “I just love the shape of your face,” she said as her fingertips journeyed their way from my prickly shaved head down to the smooth borders of my jaw. “And it feels so soft,” she observed, grabbing a handful of my right cheek. Call me an ethnic ex-patriate, cultural sell-out, anything you wish, but at that moment, I was forever changed. I had been blonde-bombed and loved every lusty second of it. 

Prior to our chance meeting, the only blondes I recall being in my room were Pam and Heather, with their flickering golden radiance permeating the air the moment I flipped to an episode of “Baywatch” or “Spin City.” Oddly enough, we met at Dublin’s, a pub typically dominated by Coors-hazed frat boys who go by Bradster or Steve-O. Somewhere between the pulsating beats of “Thriller,” I felt her moist palms cupping the back of my neck. She whispered in my ear, “Why don’t guys like you ever approach girls like us?” I don’t remember my reaction, only the exhilarating thump of the passenger side door as it swung shut moments later.  

At the time, I was a 22-year-old, well-behaved and bespectacled UCLA student, who had never encountered anyone like her during my upbringing in East San Jose, a place where countless Vietnamese sandwich shops anchored every corner strip plaza. The only thing recognizably American about me was perhaps my Levi’s. For her part, she was not the “affirmative action” pamphlet wielding student activist I had envisioned when I pondered which type of white girl I was most likely to spend the night with. Instead, she was a Midwestern, hardly educated, chain-smoking, five-times-a-week party girl who came to Los Angeles for postcard beaches, surfer boys and endless sunshine that reddened her pale complexion.  

Amber was 21, uninhibited and too honest for her own good. She didn’t have an odd Asian fetish or social cause. She simply found me desirable as a man, not just as an exotic side dish—although I wouldn’t have held it against her. The desires I masterfully repressed, she exuded with unabashed naiveté. I felt more dashing and free in her mysterious blue eyes than I had with other girls who had shared my familiar brown ones.

For her, it was a deflowering of sorts, too. I was the first to boldly go where no Asian man had gone before. I guess you can say I de-Asianized her. “So do you speak Asian?” she asked me. “Huh?” I replied, furrowing a bewildered eyebrow. “Don’t pretend. I heard you speaking Asian to your friend on the phone.” Asian people, I quickly learned, were a rarity in her small hometown of Aspen, Colorado. “There were some who made Chinese food,” she told me. But I guessed they’d never cooked up much else. “Asian people seem so… mysterious,” she said. So this was the night in which I demystified thousands of years of Far East urban legend. “Are you guys all smart?” she inquired. “I don’t think so,” I remarked. “If they were all so smart, they would find themselves a pretty girl like you.” She blushed, lotus-blossom pink splashing across her cheeks. “Have you ever eaten a dog?” she asked. “No, but I have friends that have.” I couldn’t deny it, it tasted like chicken, or so I’d heard. “How about martial arts?” she wondered. “No,” I deflected with a Bruce Lee style swiftness. 

A bustling night of revelation eventually surrendered to weariness and sleep. I reached over to the counter for a glass of water and noticed a photo of her bearded, flannelled and pot-bellied rancher dad, who had ironically fought in the Vietnam War. Was she essentially sleeping with the enemy? Had I unzipped a dangerous weapon of cultural destruction? I’d like to think not. 

Growing up in a self-segregated community, where status quo couples adorned one another like matching accessories—Barbies with their Kens, ying with their yangs—I couldn’t imagine having a conversation beyond mere service-counter courtesy with girls who weren’t of the same ethnic persuasion. It wasn’t because there was no spark; I just had never thought it was possible to light one. And as I lay there, I noticed for the first time how her hands folded snugly into mine and the way her head found a perfect resting place right underneath my chin. Amber fell asleep next to me, and for a solitary moment crossed over, bridging both our worlds.

Although one night wasn’t enough to overcome the chasm of differences between us, our futures were no longer shackled by our bordered past. I revealed to her a different shade of kindness, and in return, she helped me realize that I didn’t have to be any particular shade at all to tickle a girl’s fancy. Six years since that fateful encounter, I’ve dated Latin women, redheads, and yes, even a Canadian. And now that I’m living in the melting pot dating mecca that is New York City, I’m now emboldened to venture beyond a cordial handshake and an inviting smile.