I've spent literal years rejecting every potential pitch for a personal essay that my silly brain has come up with (DESPERATELY), and I am thrilled to announce that I think I've landed on my first one— except I am so scared and nobody can help me with this gnawing doom! It's mine! I said "gimme!" and my brain gave it to me!
I joke all the time about writing autofiction. This isn't really that; it's only fiction in the sense that I have made up a narrative in my head that allows me to avoid confronting the crux of the issue. The narrative is that I don't want to talk about my eating disorder in a way that is meaningful and helpful to me, and I think it's fine. Unfortunately, it's definitely autobiographical. Sorry.
I'm scared of rice. I was going to make a joke, but as I'm writing this I realize that I can't because it's like, yeah, I'm legitimately scared of steamed white rice in a way that would seem so bizarre for a person who is so fiercely attached to the idea of food being tied to (diasporic) identity. What can I say? I'm weird.
PS. I know you've seen me make kimchi fried rice! It's different! There's stuff in it!
Weird that I learned this fear from my Korean immigrant family? Weird that I never had this kind of persistent issue with bread, or even pasta? Weird, weird, weird. You see this hat?
I'm going to write it. Maybe I'll even pitch it. I will eat rice and not feel bad about it someday.
