I reserved Ralph a ticket for Dancing Deviant the following Saturday, a bit apprehensive about what he would think of me after he saw it, especially the part about feeling like I was between genders. But because that was our last night, the show was severely overbooked and my box office manager had let go of the ticket I reserved for Ralph by the time he got there five minutes late. He never did get to see my gender manifesto in person.

The week after was graduation, so I didn’t get to see Ralph because both Mama and Papa decided to come to town; I chose to be normal for once and not stop them. Though I still couldn’t help but be embarrassed about having immigrant parents, who sat wide-eyed in our dining hall while I didn’t bother to introduce them to anyone, and they were too shy about their English to introduce themselves, which was just as well. Though late that afternoon, after the marching and the receiving of diplomas, as my parents sat on my futon while I finished packing, I decided to stop avoiding what I had kept from my family. While I led this radical queer life in college, I also hadn’t managed to come out to them.

“We’re going to the lesbian and gay dinner,” I said.

Mama met my eyes with a look of incomprehension. She knew what I meant, but it was more convenient for her to hide behind our cultural divide than express her thoughts.

“I’m proud of you,” Papa said as he patted me on the shoulder on our way out. I didn’t know that I wanted his approval until I felt my throat catch before I thanked him. Both my parents were impassive as they sat through dinner at the Lowell House Dining Hall, even at the mention of my performance piece, which the Harvard Gay and Lesbian Caucus helped fund. I could tell that people were confused I showed up with two Asian guests because they thought I was white, but they were too polite to ask questions, and I refused to clear up any misunderstandings. It was a relief when my parents left after the dinner and I could call Ralph.

“My flight is tomorrow,” I said.

“Do you want to sleep over?”

Instead of spending my last night as a Harvard student on campus, I decided to go to Ralph’s apartment and sleep with him one last time. He made me eggs the following morning, and I couldn’t help but sigh at the sight of him in his sleeveless undershirt, my gentleman unclothed, the part of those Victorian novels I never got to experience vicariously. When it was time for me to go, he helped me with my suitcase as we walked to the Charles Street station together.