What are you?

I’ve been approached by men in gay bars my entire homo life and asked the question:
What are you?

You would think I would be flattered by the attention.  Many times the question would come after being bought a drink. Sometimes it would come even before finding out my name.  Like, if I didn’t have the right answer my name wasn’t important.  I guess even to some, if I had the right answer my name wasn’t important.  The worse time I’ve been asked was during that snuggling phase with a trick or a date.

During my drinking days there was a direct correlation between how many beers, rum and cokes, 151 and cokes, black Russians, white Russians, Screw Drivers, Madras (Vodka, Cran, Orange), or whatever “we” were drinking and the degree of wickedness to my comeback.

“What do you want me to be, Sir?” I would retort if I wanted to be cute and of course if “he” was cute.

“I’m a tree or I’m a rock,” would be my obnoxious response.

Of course I’m probably oversensitive.
I only had a few encounters of racism growing up.

But come on: WHAT ARE YOU?
How about:
What’s your nationality?
What’s your background?
What’s your ethnicity?
I find your looks very exotic, where were you born? (I know, I’ve gotten a little carried away)

My fellow homosexuals find type oh-so-important: Latino, Asian, Black
My Latino friends are sometimes asked to narrow it down: Mexican, Spanish, Costa Rican, Puerto Rican, or the coveted Cuban!  Can we say UNCUT?!  Oh I digressed.

O.K. if you must know: I’m Filipino American.  
My father was born in the Philippines and my mother’s father was born in the Philippines.
Does that make me ¾ Filipino? I’m still trying to figure that one out.

And by the way, don’t call me CUTE.
That’s the next blog!