The Ouchii Guy

Me and the lovely Normita Floro during her 70th birthday last year, July 2025. My sister threw the nicest party for her. I almost cried, as I do when I talk about mom or family.

When I graduated college, it was kind of uneventful. I wasn’t close to anyone in my graduating class. Because I was always running back to San Jose on the weekends and working all week, I didn’t really explore the city and make the kind of friends I thought I would. In fact, that is one of my regrets about my time in college — I was in one of the coolest cities in the world, and I didn’t bother to really live it up and immerse myself in it.

The ceremony itself was just as uneventful. I didn’t even really want to go. By then, I was already back in school going for my teaching credential, and the lack of connection I felt to the program and my peers certainly did not help. But of course, it’s one of those lifetime achievements that possibly only happens once, and I knew it would be important to my parents, so I did it.

At my graduation lunch, it was my parents, one of my dad’s aunts, and my mom’s sister in law. None of my uncles or aunts came, no cousins, no friends… nothing. We went to a Filipino restaurant I no longer remember. I remember thinking the lunch was oddly appropriate considering how I felt about the graduation in general.

When my brother AJ graduated middle school — phat party. When he graduated college — phat party. His birthdays… always the same case. My sister… same thing.

In elementary school I didn’t notice it much. As I got to middle school, I noticed. My middle school graduation was hardly attended. Same for my high school graduation and the dinner I got. Yes, I got a small dinner “only.” I also remember not even being able to order what I wanted. I shook it off.

Growing up, my parents also supported my siblings financially in various ways when they needed help. I never really got that growing up. Again, not something that went unnoticed by me.

At some point during late high school and into college, I started bringing it up, and my parents were always defensive about it… saying it wasn’t true and that it was all in my head.

“Sure, Jan” – from the brilliant Brady Bunch 90s parody film. Went this went viral a few years ago to send people whose stories you doubted, I died.

When my sister was having her phat cotillion, I was tasked with a lot of the graphic design work, including the programs and notably, the slideshow. I was doing everything nicely and with taste, of course. By then, I was already working, and one day I came home from work while my mom was stressed out with all the planning. She asked me about the slideshow and I said I wasn’t done yet, and she blew a gasket. I raised my voice and said I was working on it, and she replied with, “You’re just jealous you don’t have a cotillion.”

That one definitely stung.

Again, I shook it off.

At some point in my early 20s, I just stopped bringing it up. I’ll say it was a result of growing up and moving on. I was an adult now anyway, and had my own things to worry about — namely hustling for cash to fight the predatory student loans.

My mom and I were (are actually) really close. While I was working at Overfelt High School, I’d stop by the house for lunch with her from time to time. Sitting around the table one day eating good Filipino food, my mom suddenly started crying.

She said after thinking about it for the longest time, she realized my perception of things was actually correct.

She explained, however, that the lack of attention or financial assistance was never intentional. She shared that in many cases, it simply appeared my siblings needed more immediate help or attention while I always seemed okay. She also explained that whenever it was my turn for some major milestone or event, they’d suddenly be in a financial bind — maybe someone lost a job, or something in the house needed fixing.

She also brought up that she had no idea why less people attended my birthdays, but admitted it was very noticeable.

To that point, I’ve come to realize May is honestly just a busy month. Aside from sharing it with a ton of other birthdays, it’s also graduation season and a big travel month.

Similarly to my dad in my last blog, that acknowledgement from my mom was all I needed. I never brought it up again. I believed her.

In a lot of ways, I believe I am secretly my mom’s favorite. Not favorite in the sense that she loves me more than my siblings — I think we are all equal in that regard. I mean favorite in the sense that I genuinely think she enjoys talking to me the most.

I am with Jan Brady on this one — middle child syndrome absolutely exists.

And I also think that, in many cases, similarly to my own, parents are not always aware of it. In all the excitement of celebrating the firstborn, by the time the second child rolls around, it can become a bit of a “been there, done that” situation. Maybe a slightly less flashy first birthday party this time around. Maybe a hand-me-down.

Whatever the case, open lines of communication about needs are important. I also wish I had been a little more proactive in expressing mine because, for all I know, maybe they would have paid more attention.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. My mom rode in my car as we drove to Westfield Valley Fair after lunch with the family so we could pick out a nice dress for her to wear to my birthday. We had a really nice conversation, just like we used to in my early 20s.

Being able to talk to her freely and openly about all things now is one of the best feelings in the world.

This version of Jan Brady lives rent free in my head. She was the most hilarious character in those 90s films. Shout out to all the Jan Brady’s.

Me and Roberto “Bob” Floro. I think I am 3 years old here. I don’t remember much about my life before we lived in Hidden Glen. Our house over by Montgomery Elementary/Silver Creek I only vaguely recall. What I do remember is loving to hug my dad because I liked the way his cologne smelled.

Growing up, I always enjoyed drawing as a hobby but fully acknowledged that there were kids that were far more technically talented than I was. Because of that awareness, it never really occurred to me to even consider a career as an artist. I had this fantasy that perhaps I could be a writer of some kind like Carrie Bradshaw or even a lawyer, since I loved debate and watching true crime documentaries and news magazine programs like 20/20.

All that fell by the wayside once I took Art-1 with Ms. Miller my sophomore year of high school. She recognized I had some decent skills and got me into Prismacolor pencils. Those pencils, in so many ways, really made me believe I had the talent to perhaps do something in the art world.

And so, by the time I was a senior, I decided art school and majoring in Animation & Visual Effects was the way to go. I had always been into Disney and anime growing up and it really shaped a big part of who I am. I told my parents about it, and they were more or less supportive. They didn’t ask many questions. I think in their minds, I had everything together and didn’t need much guidance.

I do wish, however, I had more direction from them — in particular my dad — and that I had done more research into what a career like that would actually look like. Or even what specific area within that field I should specialize in. How much would it pay? How would I finance it? How does interest work? Those things matter, obviously.

I may be a decent writer and artist who loves history… but I was always terrible at math. Ask my elementary teachers.

But it happened the way it did, and it was full steam ahead. I was going to the Academy of Art University in San Francisco come fall 2004.

The first two years of college I thoroughly enjoyed the classes. Most of them were geared toward sharpening skills — figure drawing (nude and clothed), anatomy, color and design (I loved classes like this), still life painting… those were amazing. I felt confident in my work, but I really had to try hard.

Going straight into art school as an 18-year-old with no real art experience or training aside from Art-1 was quite the choice. I was humbled quickly. A lot of my classmates were adults with lived experience — many already working in art-related fields, well into their 20s and 30s, or had been taking private lessons for years.

I averaged As and Bs. I did well in those classes. Grown adults would cry or get into arguments with professors during critiques. It was brutal. I’d receive some decent feedback here and there, but I was never on the receiving end of scathing critiques or glowing praise. To be fair, I also didn’t try as hard as I could have.

By the time a lot of the animation classes kicked in, I knew immediately that animation wasn’t for me. The idea of sitting in a cubicle in dim lighting with a glowing screen in front of me in silence did not sit well with me.

Problem was, I had already made the commitment — two years of general art classes completed. So I decided to pivot.

I was always good at working with people. In high school, I learned I was more sociable than I thought. I also had years of experience working with kids already. That’s when the light bulb turned on — what if I became an art teacher?

I explained the situation to my counselor and we agreed to structure my remaining classes to be more well-rounded so I could become a more prepared art teacher. I finished school, got my teaching credential, and went on my way.

The aftermath of that decision in terms of career has been great. The financial part of it, however, placed a tremendous amount of stress on me during my 20s. I had over 200k in student loans, 120k of which had a 16% variable interest rate like a damn credit card. I struggled with that for the longest time.

There was a moment years later during the pandemic in 2020 when my dad came to my apartment to help me fix our garage door. By then, I had been living in Campbell with Jey for almost 10 years and not once had my family been over. I ordered food and we sat down to have lunch.

The subject of those loans came up.

My intention was not to invite my dad over and ambush him. The topic came up, it was a sensitive topic for me, and for the first time I finally expressed frustrations I had been carrying for years.

He told me he didn’t force me to go to art school and that ultimately it had been my choice. It got silent for a second and then I followed up with, “it was my choice, but it was your job to help me figure out how to make that happen — you’re my dad. Why didn’t you sit me down and explain how the private loans work? Why didn’t you explain how a 16% interest loan would be hard to pay off?”

Now he was silent.

I then followed up with some harder questions. I was confused how we were living so comfortably with two parents working, and I had to pay for college entirely on my own with no financial assistance, when I know others with far less whose parents were able to finance most, if not all, of their tuition.

After swallowing his food, he said something I will never forget to this day, and in many ways it was all I needed to hear from him:

“Your mom and I made a lot of mistakes.”

My intention was never to hurt my dad or make him feel bad. I appreciated him being vulnerable and owning up to falling short in that regard. That was all I needed from him — and the topic has never come up again.

I think parents always want to do right by their kids. As a middle child, my parents often thought I had things together because I appeared on top of things. But in my view, guidance is ongoing — and I hope for youth growing up, they have parents who continue to do so well into their kids’ adult lives. And as a parent, it is okay to continue checking in.

As a teacher today, you’d be surprised how often the topic of money, school, loans, and debt comes up in my classroom — especially with seniors. And I will always take the time to sit, pick up a paint brush with them, and talk about it.

If I can save even one student from decades of stress because of financial choices they do not yet fully understand, it will bring me great joy in knowing that.

Quick Notes:

• I do not regret art school — quite the contrary, it was amazing.
• I sometimes fantasize about going back as a fully realized adult and taking those classes even more seriously. Maybe in chapter 2 of my life.
• A lot was happening socially during this time, and I will revisit that in my next blog.
• My dad is one of the nicest men you will ever meet. He is calm, highly intelligent at math (go figure), and full of dad jokes.

Once I got to 4th and 5th grade, I started to feel the beginnings of being an outcast—not really sure where I belonged. By then, a lot of the boys were in their sports lane. The girls were playing Red Rover, gossiping about boys, doing their thing. While I was still friendly with Kristabel, even she was finding her own way and wasn’t always around.

Kids started making fun of me for being girly or being into “girly” things as we got older. My natural defense was to say something horrible back. I got in trouble a lot. At 9, it felt unfair. As an adult, I still think it was unfair—but I can also admit I did my share of it too. I didn’t start it, but I definitely escalated it.

I remember one time a classmate kept calling me gay—yes, at 9—and I wasn’t even sure of anything yet. I just remember being so upset that I called her a pig. Guess who got in trouble? I’d get phone calls home all the time. The more people picked on me (and honestly, that was usually the angle), the more I felt like I had to hit back twice as hard. At that age, I learned that if people were going to clown on you, you had to clown back. For me, it came from insecurity. And I paid for it every time.

It was during this time that I really started feeling alone. Like I didn’t belong anywhere. Every day, it got harder to try to fit in.

Academically, things weren’t much better. Math, in particular, was a struggle. My parents were both working full-time, and my dad worked graveyard shifts, so he’d be sleeping when I needed help after school. I remember crying in frustration trying to do my homework, crumpling it up and throwing it across the room. I think my dad felt guilty—because the next day, after the teacher probably said something and showed him the work I had destroyed, he sat down and helped me figure things out.

I still remember getting my first “F” in Ms. Olson’s class. I cried instantly. She was nice, but there was no consoling… no nothing. I’m not mad at her for it. If anything, maybe I’m thankful. My skin needed to thicken up.

School was where I felt the most alone. But outside of it, I had something else.

What really kept me going were my cousins.

Outside of my immediate family, I was lucky enough to grow up with a huge group of cousins. My dad’s side has nearly 30 first cousins, and my mom’s side has 6. When I try to explain the kind of relationship we all have, people are always in awe. I’ve come to realize that what we share isn’t necessarily the norm.

My older cousin PX had a big influence on me in my early years. She got me into CK One—I still wear it to this day. She’d talk to me about cool, older-kid stuff. One of my favorite memories is sitting around a tiny red radio, the size of my forearm, listening to 97.7. She’d tell me to call the station and request Janet Jackson’s “That’s the Way Love Goes” at my grandma’s house, while all the adults played mahjong in the background. Eventually, as she became a teenager, we drifted apart. I was still a kid, and she naturally moved into her own world.

Around this time, I became a bit of a ringleader for the younger generation of cousins. We’d have sleepovers with eight of us at a time. We’d play Monopoly or make up dumb games where we’d basically just humiliate each other and laugh until we couldn’t breathe. We’d rewatch The Mummy, Titanic, and Selena over and over again, knowing every line by heart. Holidays were everything. I always looked forward to being with them.

What they may not know—even now—is how much I needed them. While I was miserable at school, I looked forward to seeing them every single weekend. With them, I could be fully myself. I felt needed. I felt appreciated.

At school, I had to hide. With them, I never did.

And I think that’s what got me through those years—having at least one place where I didn’t have to question who I was.

My cousin PX and I. Looks like I am 3 if I have to guess. I wish I remembered more about this photo.

Today is May 1st. In 20 days, I will turn 40. In celebration of that milestone, I thought it would be nice to take a walk down memory lane and reflect on some key moments—dare I say, eras—in my life.

I don’t have perfect records of my life—just fragments, photos, and whatever I can still remember. But the funny thing is, the older I get, the clearer some of my earliest memories feel. So I’m starting there.

—

My parents, Bob and Normita, had me 40 years ago (lol)—May 20th, 1986. Growing up, my mom says now, in retrospect, that she knew I was going to be gay. She often shares stories of me as a child wearing her high heels and running around the house. I don’t recall that, but why would she lie?

What I can say is that even at a young age, I knew I was different than a lot of the boys around me. My sexuality wasn’t even a thought at age 4 or 5 (at least not for me), but I did notice that I didn’t gravitate toward the same things a lot of my peers did—sports, crushes on our female classmates, typical “boys’ toys” like cars and dinosaurs.

I wouldn’t say I fully leaned into “girl toys,” but I definitely loved things that were cute. Things like Sanrio—and to a lesser extent, Care Bears—really drew me in.

While other kids gravitated toward toys, I appreciated things like stationery, stickers, and erasers. I loved collecting that stuff. I was also really particular—most of these items were never meant to be used, only collected and displayed.

My parents were supportive of that. I have two favorite memories.

The first is taking trips to Eastridge Mall with them. I remember going with each of them at different times. The Sanrio store felt so special to me. It was huge. At the time, it was the first one in the United States. I can still remember the smell of the store. I can still remember how that gum tasted. They’d let me pick out little knickknacks, and I’d leave the happiest kid.

My second memory is more specific. My dad noticed how much I liked things organized and neat, so he bought me a tackle box—the kind meant for fishing hooks—so I could store and organize all my erasers.

He also had a serious sweet tooth. To this day, he still loves ice cream and chocolate. Some of my favorite memories with him were our trips to Baskin-Robbins. I would always order a kid’s scoop of chocolate chip ice cream with rainbow sprinkles. Even now, whenever I walk into a Baskin-Robbins, I think of those moments—and more often than not, I leave with that same order. Just… a regular size now. I’m grown, after all.

Looking back, I didn’t have the language for it then, but I knew I was different. Not wrong—just not like a lot of the boys around me. And what stands out to me now isn’t just what I liked, but that my parents let me like it. They didn’t correct me or try to change me. They just let me be.

In those early years, I felt supported and safe to be the kid I wanted to be—and I don’t think I realized until much later how rare and important that was.