Redrawing the Lines: How Anime Helped Shape My Nonbinary Identity

In middle school, I collected crushes on anime and manga characters. I spent hours sitting too close to the TV screen and fawning over the bubbly heroines’ brooding sidekicks, like the demon slayer in Inuyasha who loses her entire family or the cyborg girl in Sailor Moon who has the power to destroy the world so that it can be reborn again. At school, I doodled these characters in my notebook, and at night, I pored over fanfiction.net, eager to learn more about their lives. Back then, my friends were also into anime. We spent our sleepovers watching Adult Swim and brainstorming the plot of our own manga, something about a group of girls who save the world but also end up killing each other.

I wasn’t expecting puberty to change that. Suddenly, instead of reading manga, we were going to dances. The process of getting ready was always drawn-out and involved crowding into someone’s bathroom so that we could do each other’s makeup and flat iron each other’s already straight East Asian hair. My favorite part was eyeliner because I liked that my friends sometimes put a hand on my shoulder or cheek to steady me. Mostly, though, I felt gawky, like someone’s younger sibling who was tolerated because they had nowhere else to go. I copied the other girls as best I could, but my halter tops never fit as well as theirs and I couldn’t figure out how to put on my own eyeliner. I knew cool girls weren’t into anime, so I stopped bringing it up with my friends. I still watched it by myself, though, embarrassed by how obsessed I became with some of the characters.

My greatest love was Kurama from the show Yu Yu Hakusho—a fox demon who has inhabited the body of a slight teenage boy with long red hair and green eyes. Part of a group charged with protecting humanity from demons, Kurama plays the role of the soft-spoken strategist who makes sure that his more impulsive teammates don’t get themselves killed. Because of his fragile appearance, opponents often laugh when they see him—how could anyone so pretty know how to fight? Unfazed, Kurama pulls a single red rose out of his hair. With a flick of his wrist, he transforms the rose into his signature rosewhip, a long green vine studded with thorns, and slashes down his enemies.

My middle school self wanted to be pretty and dangerous like Kurama and wanted to kiss people who were pretty and dangerous like Kurama. I envied his androgyny and the way he could cut open anyone who underestimated him. At the time, I didn’t know I could be anything but a girl, a quiet Chinese American girl, cute and easy to ignore, but Kurama hinted at other possibilities, even if I didn’t know what they were yet.

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Manga bodies are notoriously unrealistic: women with giant breasts and tiny waists, stomachs without a ripple of fat. Sometimes, people have vulvas and penises. Other times, that part of the body is wiped blank like a Barbie doll.

Once, I was doodling manga characters in the margins of my notebook and my mom looked over my shoulder. “I just want you to know,” she said, “that women’s bodies don’t really look like that. You don’t have to look like that.”

My middle school self wanted to be pretty and dangerous like Kurama and wanted to kiss people who were pretty and dangerous like Kurama.

I shrugged her off, not knowing how lucky I was to have a parent who was so feminist or who loved me so unconditionally. I didn’t know how to explain that I didn’t want to look like a manga character. Instead, I was fascinated by how easy it was to alter their bodies. A brush of my eraser, and I could disappear someone’s boobs. In a few seconds, I could cut someone’s hair, spike it, shave them bald.

Back then, I didn’t know words like nonbinary or genderqueer and could not describe the way I always felt like I was floating somewhere near my body, never living inside of it. But I did know how to draw a girl with long flowing hair and give her a machine gun instead of an arm.

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In Yu Yu Hakusho, a powerful energy barrier divides the demon and human realms. There are many types of demons—ice maidens, wind masters, small children who use enchanted yo-yos to fight—but what they have in common is a reputation for cruelty and violence. Demons and humans, say those in power, are fundamentally incompatible, and the barrier is necessary for humanity’s protection.

The separation between the two worlds haunts Kurama. In his previous life, he was a famous bandit, known throughout the demon realm for his ruthlessness and cunning. But after being shot and killed by a hunter, his spirit is forced to inhabit the body of an unborn human child. Being human seems to soften Kurama, and he becomes known for his kindness and tact. To many of the human characters in Yu Yu Hakusho, Kurama is only his human self, the gentle friend who will always show up when they need him. But in private, Kurama seems to struggle, not knowing how to balance his loyalty towards humanity with the desire to return to his powerful demon self. Which body, which life, does he want?

In my mid-twenties, I rewatch all of Yu Yu Hakusho, embarrassed by how much I felt like a preteen again. I am also beginning to redraw the lines of my body, experimenting with a wardrobe that includes shirts I stole from my dad and neon-colored nail polish. Outwardly, I pretend to give no fucks about femininity and masculinity, those two worlds artificially separated by the cisheteropatriarchy. Inside, I give a lot of fucks. I worry that I’m being melodramatic, that people will think I’m doing this for attention. When I wear dangly earrings, I wonder how much I’m trying to make myself more acceptable, more like a girl. Other times, I feel ungrateful when I say I’m no longer a woman, particularly an Asian American woman, that first label that helped me articulate who I am, even if imperfectly.

One night, I go through my closet and stuff any piece of clothing that looks remotely feminine into a garbage bag. A few days later, I empty that bag onto my bed, searching for the pink dress that was my favorite in high school. When I try it on and look in the mirror, I am self-conscious about how much I like the way I look.

Outwardly, I pretend to give no fucks about femininity and masculinity. Inside, I give a lot of fucks.

*

In the last season of the Yu Yu Hakusho anime, Kurama returns to the demon realm to work with an old friend, now a powerful demon king. Back in his old home, Kurama remembers the strength he used to have as a demon and seems tempted to abandon his human life. Ultimately, though, he chooses to return to the human realm and his family, an ending that implies he has left his demon self behind.

The end of the manga is different. Kurama goes back to the human realm to be with his family; however, the barrier between the two worlds has been removed, with demons and humans mingling regularly. In this version, Kurama occasionally takes on jobs as a Spirit Detective, crossing easily between the demon and human realms.

I don’t like the end of the anime. It seems unfair that Kurama has to choose a self, that he is not allowed to be all of his selves at once. I like the manga more—I love that the barrier comes down and it becomes simple for him to be part of both worlds. Kurama was never wrong for being who he is. It was the world that needed to change.

I try to remember that this is true for me as well. When I walk into a room, I try not to shrink. When people stumble over my pronouns, I remind myself that it is not my fault. When I take half an hour to pick an outfit and then wince when I see my reflection in a store window, I try to be gentle and think of my middle school self, drawing manga faces in the corners of their notebooks and scribbling them out, always trying again.

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