Growing up gay, Asian, and gender-expansive, I often felt like I did not belong. The real world seemed hostile, dangerous, and unloving, and thus, I turned to the worlds of fantasy, magic, and music for security and comfort. I found shelter in the lyricism of the Barbie Cinematic Universe and the narratives of young protagonists searching for their place in the world. I sought to embody the confidence I saw in those heroes and heard in the songs they sang, yet I never believed I could carry forth their ideals into the world.
My decision to pursue a music career crystallized following a series of performances I did honoring Matthew Shepard, a young man from Wyoming who, in 1998, was brutally murdered by two men for being gay. In 2018, the LGBTQ+ youth choir I was singing with, GenOUT, performed at the interment ceremony where Matthew’s ashes were officially laid to rest. A year later, I performed Craig Hella Johnson’s Considering Matthew Shepard alongside the Interlochen World Youth Honors Choir. Then, on December 2, 2019, I returned to the National Cathedral to honor Matthew’s life and legacy as a soloist at the official plaque dedication ceremony.
After my cathedral performance, Matthew’s father, Dennis, addressed the audience. He said to me, “With people like you, we’ll always have hope.” His words reminded me of what my choir director had told me right before I performed: “Someone in the audience needs to hear you.” In a moment of reckoning, I realized that I, too, needed to hear me.
I know how it feels to live in a world that discourages you from expressing yourself. I know how lonely and isolating it can be to grow up surrounded by people who are afraid to see the world the same way you do. I know what it’s like to be the weird guy at the high school party who finds themselves on the sidelines watching other people dance and wondering: when will it be my turn? I’ve experienced hate, ridicule, anxiety, and rejection for simply being me.
But. I am dedicated to creating music that inspires people to claim their narratives and envision a brighter future for themselves.
When I write music, I draw on my experiences as a hopeless romantic who continues to believe in the magic of love, the goodness of humanity, and the beauty of perpetual irresolution. My goal is to create something that offers listeners emotional catharsis and a space to feel seen, however that looks for them.
I've been reflecting a lot on how much I have changed these past few years and wanted to share this story with you all. I hope it can remind you the incredible things you are capable of and that others do not define you.
In the summer of 2019, I had an acting teacher at a very prestigious music camp who religiously demonized my differences, often calling me autistic (despite being fully aware that I’m not). She would have my peers form a circle around me and make me (just me, no one else) recite ‘pledges’ and phrases like “I admit that I am a wimp, I admit that I am a loser, and I will do better.” She told me she knew my darkest secrets, that I should hide the fact that I’m gay and gender-expansive because it won’t get me anywhere in the industry, and terrified me to the point that I stopped going to classes (she would then actively look for me, which was even more messed up). Her abuse seemed to fly over the heads of my fellow singers, who appeared uncomfortable but never opposed to what she was doing.
No one ever officially reported her and for all I know she's still an employee at the camp. But that following December, I was a featured soloist and speaker at The Washington National Cathedral for the installment of a brand plaque honoring LGBTQ+ icon Matthew Shepard. Among those in attendance were Matthew's parents, singer/songwriter Mary Lambert, and a friend of Josh Groban who sent my performance directly to the artist himself.
Folx, please don't ever forget how beautiful and badass you are. Your differences are a superpower not a weakness <3