He saw me as no one else ever had
THEN HE GHOSTED ME, SO I DUG DEEP ON INSTAGRAM
WHY ARE WE more willing to share our secrets with strangers or those who do not know us well?
Not quite a stranger, but my 78-year-old grandma in Russia was an unlikely recipient of the news that I was dating someone new. After all, T and I had been seeing each other for only about a month, and I have always been reluctant to tell my family about my not-so-romantic misadventures in Los Angeles.
I typed up my response to her email asking whether there was anyone special in my life: “I am, actually, seeing someone.” He runs his own internet business, speaks several languages, and travels frequently among Africa, Europe and the United States — the latter being one of the many reasons I liked him.
“Belonging” is a strange concept and one I did not learn I was missing until I moved across the ocean to Los Angeles. My dad is from Russia, and my mom is from Mongolia, where I was born and raised. In Mongolia, my mixed race often caused confusion and curiosity. It was not uncommon for people to stare as I walked by.
Ironically, for the first time in my life, I “fit in” in a land thousands of miles from home within the diversity of Los Angeles. No one stared at me outright. It was often assumed I was “American” or “Hawaiian.” When the curious learn that is incorrect, they begin to inquire, “But where are you from? You look so exotic!” as if I am a zoo animal.
The answer leaves people scratching their heads, as they struggle to put me in a box. It happened again and again on dating apps. Until I met T on Tinder. Instead of the generic “Hey, gorgeous,” or the off-putting “What are you?” or the unimaginative “Wanna come over?” he asked: “What is the correct pronunciation of your name?”
That simple question was a breath of fresh air.
After agreeing on the time and place, I nervously played out a million scenarios in my head for how the night would end up, ranging from murder to happily ever after.
When he pulled up in front of my apartment building, he got out and gave me a radiant smile and warm hug before walking over to open the car door for me.
My heart skipped a beat because he was already more gentlemanly than 98% of Angelenos and transplants I have dated. Unlike the boys I was used to dating — posing in Machu Picchu and/or with their niece/nephew/roommate’s dog or cat in their Tinder photos — T was real and raw and refreshing.
It took less than five minutes for our conversation to venture into serious topics such as French colonialism, immigrant rights and race relations.
Instead of wasting time with “Where would you like to eat?” he took me straight to his favorite coffee shop. Coffee was followed by Thai food, followed by drinks in Hollywood. We conversed about seemingly everything until past 3 a.m. He drove me home, and we stayed up talking until past sunrise.
After he left, I could not fall asleep because he had moved into my brain.
Perhaps it was the fact he was also a foreigner who had to build his life from scratch in Los Angeles. The lightness that comes from being able to skip the stereotypes and awkward conversations — Is Mongolia in Africa? Do you speak Chinese?
— and delve into a shared knowledge of geopolitics was a turn-on.
I have never had such a deep, cerebral connection with someone who saw beyond labels and boxes and just saw me.
One night we drove down Pacific Coast Highway to the Heroes Garden at Pepperdine University. As we sat together observing the night sky, he hugged me tight and kissed me on my forehead.
He told me about his past relationships, explaining why things didn’t work out and how I fit so well into his life. He pitched trips we should go on together, TED talks we could watch, protests and grassroots movements we could support.
It was the promise of a future that would never be.
Soon the near daily hangouts dropped off, and the texts and phone calls plummeted without any obvious cause. T’s excuse was that he was traveling extensively for work.
Searching for more, I turned to Instagram for clues. I found the woman who I suspected was his most recent ex. She’d posted numerous photos with T over the past few years, though none during the time I dated him. A few weeks later, the photos with T started popping up again. Did they get back together? Or perhaps they never really broke up?
I never learned the truth because I never saw T again.
The last time I heard from him was months later, a casual text asking me how I was doing. I did not respond.
I will not be sharing any romantic adventures with my grandmother any time soon.
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