I was 14; he was 18. We’d met earlier on the day — he’d stopped and swiveled as he was running past me on the beach. Bold and somewhat charming, he’d asked if I wanted to grab dinner.

I said sure, why not.

Later that evening, we sat at the end of a commercial pier, talking about our lives. I was from Tokyo; he was from a small town in North Carolina. There was a lot to talk about.

A pretty blonde, hand-in-hand with her boyfriend, strode past us.

“I used to wish I was blonde,” I confessed. I had. Back when I was about eight years old, I mused to my mother that I might look better with blonde hair. She assured me that I would most definitely not. (A few days later, I realized she was correct.)

He laughed at the statement — fine. It was light-hearted. And then he opened his mouth, “You’d look terrible blonde.”

“I know, right?”

“You’re beautiful the way you are,” He continued. He was laying it on thick, but I was 14 so I didn’t mind. “I love Asian girls.”

My head snapped around, and I felt my stomach start to sink. This was the first time someone had said those words to me. My thoughts reeled as I tried to come to terms with what he was saying. I eventually came to the only conclusion I could: That he, in fact, did not think I was beautiful, he thought I was Asian. That, for all he cared, I was as beautiful as any (and every) other “Asian” girl on the planet.

“All of my past girlfriends were Asian,” He continued on, oblivious to my growing discomfort. “There’s just something about them, you know?”

I didn’t know. But I did know that all of my butterflies had died. “Oh,” I said flatly. I didn’t know what else to say.

My 14-year-old beach crush was the first time I encountered “Yellow Fever,” but it certainly wasn’t the last (though I managed to escape some of it by growing up in Japan). There probably aren’t enough words in the universe to truly convey how frustrated, insulted, and confused I am whenever anyone tells me that they “love Asian girls,” but I’m a writer, so I’ll try anyway.

Here’s why you should never say (to me, and probably not to anyone else) that you love Asian girls.

I’m not Asian.

Okay, so this point is somewhat unique to me (and a small subset of the adopted population), but the fact that it’s unique to me is perhaps one of the many reasons that lumping me in with over half the world’s population is not a fantastic idea.

I’m not Asian. I’m not. I embody none of the stereotypes you’re hoping for. As the adopted child of two white parents, I am first and foremost American, and second…white. White girl stereotypes? I probably conform to some of those. And I’m not a self-loathing Asian, either, I’m just…not…Asian. So yeah, sorry, game over.

And guess what — although this particular nuance is unique to me, it’s not the only nuance out there. Sure, that other Asian girl over there may not be adopted and therefore unable to identify with her ethnic culture, but maybe she was born and raised in Kenya (an ethnically Korean friend of mine was born and raised in Kenya). Or maybe this, or maybe that.

I’m not your Asian fantasy.

I don’t know what your Asian fantasy is, but I do know that I’m not it. I’m not small and cute; I’m 5'7" and I can squat 250 pounds. I’m not delicate and feminine; I’m competitive and argumentative to a fault. I’m not quiet and submissive; I’m quite possibly the loudest, most extroverted person you’ll ever meet. Honestly, I’m kind of annoying. But in a charming way.

I’m not part of the “model minority”; I’m a freelance writer, an impulsive decision-maker, a narcissist, and a gambler. I’m not impressed by your money; I prefer relationships that begin on relatively equal financial footing. I don’t speak the Asian language you hope I do; I speak English, Italian, and a little Greek. Basically, whatever you think I am…I’m not.

There are a lot of Asian girls.

You love Asian girls? You know what I love? Dudes. Guys. Men. All men. No discrimination here! If you’re a man, you’re fair game. What’s that? There are 3.5 billion men on the planet? Not only do I love all of them, I probably can’t even tell the difference between you and that guy over there. Or that one. Or that one. But hey, a guy’s a guy’s a guy, am I right?

My culture: It’s not what you think it is.

Here’s the thing about culture — if you’re still on the outside (that is, you “really like [insert culture here]”), you probably have no idea what you’re talking about. Also, I know you don’t really mean that you like my culture, you like the fake culture that you have constructed for me.

Because I’m culturally American, sort of, at least, not Japanese or Vietnamese. In fact, if you like Vietnamese culture at all, you definitely know more about it than I do. Heck, if you hate Vietnamese culture, you know more about it than I do. So maybe you like that culture, but I don’t even know what you’re talking about.

I do not prefer white men.

First of all, the fact that you “love Asian girls” because you suspect they find your whiteness attractive is weaksauce. If white is all you have to bring to the table, you should probably hole up in your mother’s basement and just wait it out, dude.

Second, I don’t prefer white men, or men of any particular race or ethnicity. My husband is even more racially ambiguous than I am, and that’s saying something. But I am a sucker for a six-pack and a low waist-to-chest ratio. (Hey, I never claimed to be a saint.)

Like I said — words. Cannot. And it gets even better if you ask me where I’m from, and then replace “Asian” with [ethnicity]. Because, you know, it instills lots of confidence in me if you have to ask, first, to determine whether I fit your race-based fantasy.