I’ve never thought too deeply about what it would have been like, if I was born the son my mother thought I would be. Would I be taller? (This is important, because I’m a hair under five feet.)

But I thought it’d be interesting to do! To think about! And so:

On May 18^th, 1991, in another life, Christopher Jonathan Wong is born to Edward and Bernice. He’s his grandfather’s pride and joy, the first son birthed from a generation of four sisters; chubby and sweet, charmingly spoiled.

Chris grows up smart, curious, and hyper. In elementary school, instead of being called an overachiever by the vice principal, he gets called ambitious. He pulls good grades in high school (that’s the same), struggling the entire time to project an air of competent productivity (definitely the same), and makes friends with the other Asian boys who draw anime fanart and listen to hiphop (totally, totally different).

Rather than feeling insecure about being pretty enough, slim enough, girly enough, he broods over the sparse, scraggly facial hair that peppers his chin, and sprouts haphazardly in weird spots on his neck. His wardrobe consists of snapbacks, basketball shorts, and graphic tees two sizes too big - the early 2000s were hard on everyone. He doesn’t have his first romantic relationship at sixteen and fail out of Math Honours 10 (lucky), but he gets a few make-out sessions with girls his senior year out of pity (woof), and agonizes over being a virgin (yeah… same). Tumblr hits him like a tsunami here, too, simply because I make it to the Tumblr kid pipeline in every possible universe.

(It’s how I know I’ll always be queer.)

(Always.)

His relationship with his sister growing up takes on a few different forms. Internalized competition doesn’t fall back on beauty standards, because they can’t in this universe. She gets stung a little harder with being more “manly” than her brother, too sporty and good at it, to boot. (Societal norms can go get fucked, and I think he’d agree with me on that.) (She still forces him to love scary movies even though it always terrifies the holy bejeezus out of him, but he’s grateful for it, in the end. I always am.)

His relationship with his parents is unclear. Being Asian and AFAB coloured so much of my experience with them growing up, it’s difficult to look past it at what might’ve been for a son in this family. He definitely sticks with golf for longer than I did. (Sorry, dad.) (That one traumatic instructor was absolutely nicer to him than me, though, so that’s probably why.)

ADHD’s easier to detect this time around, with people less prone to call it “daydreaming”. It manifests in outbursts of sound at inappropriate times, the charming class clown incarnate; kind of annoying and kind of endearing in equal measure. His parents struggle with the realities of medicating someone you’re responsible for with no idea what you’re doing. (I also have no idea what happens here. Late diagnosis continues to be both a blessing and a semi-curse. Maybe he goes on medication right away. Maybe they try other stuff before going down that path, or vice versa. Regardless, there’s a power in knowing the source of the problem, and it informs him in ways it never could for me.)

He’s pretty good at art after being a not-so-secret fanartist all those years, but hyper insecurity and the practical, practiced wisdom of his parents still drives him to panic into choosing safely for post-secondary. Instead of Senior Management Certificate: New Media Design and Web Development, he adds Associate Certificate: Digital Marketing Foundations to his resume. Eventually he meets someone, who connects him to someone else at Hootsuite. He stays at home until he’s got enough saved to put a down payment on a teeny tiny apartment in Mount Pleasant. He has a cat - no, wait! Two cats (because one of us needs to not be allergic, and I want this for him very badly).

It’s hard to imagine where it goes from there. A multitude of decisions blurs past when I think about them, and the possibilities of what I could have done in his life or mine is, predictably, overwhelming. The older I try to picture him, the harder it gets, weirdly enough; perhaps because the faraway past feels malleable, almost dream-like, in a way that the closer present doesn’t. There’s probably parts that are bad, and parts that are good - whatever that means in the moment for him. Identity, and all the parts of you that are wrapped up in it, is a strange thing.

But strange isn’t bad, just… strange. Loud and sad and mysterious and joyful.

In writing this, I texted my mom to double-check the name she would have given me. Christopher Jonathan is correct; it would’ve been Jonathan for the uncle who didn’t live past a few days old. Even more possibilities there, a lifetime missed. Not knowing what I fully meant, then, I said to her,

u can call me kristi jonathan u kno?