More from Miu: What I remember about him is the smell of his breath, like candy gone sour, when he said, putting his lips close to my ear: “I found another girlfriend where I moved. She is Japanese. But I don’t like her the way I like you.” I was still in elementary school, and so I didn’t quite analyze what it was about Asian women or about that boy that could be behind this penchant for the yellow race. He was too young to have seen old G.I. World War II movies, or looked up books on geisha or Suzy Wong. But I was the symbol of beauty for this person. He followed me home from school, offering me a bouquet of buttercups he’d picked from the lawn. He caught my arm and we tumble together on the grass in simulated intercourse, male body on top of female body, his breath over my breath. Secretly I hated him. This tall lanky male of sweet-and-sour breath, Dennis the Menace, straw hair, pale freckles, blue of his eyes that seem to connect to the sky above the buttercups _ the markings of the race that’s so Dick and Spot, Hollywood, Marvel Comics, the evening news, rock ‘n’ roll. I told him to stay away. But he wouldn’t stop as though he couldn’t believe an Asian he had picked could possibly not like him. I was a target, a thing, not allowed to have thoughts on my own.