Comedian. Icon. TV star. Role model. Trash talker. Fag hag. Gypsy. Tramp. Thief. Margaret Cho displays her numerous sides in this funny, fierce, and honest memoir. As one of the country’s most visible Asian Americans, she has a unique perspective on identity and acceptance. As one of the country’s funniest and most quoted personalities, she takes no prisoners. And as a warm and wise woman who has seen the highs and lows of life, she has words of encouragement for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider. With I’m the One That I Want , Margaret Cho has written a book every bit as hilarious, shocking, and insightful as she is. “[A] beautiful book . . . It is innately empowering, honest, and raw.” –ROSIE O’DONNELL “REAL AND REVEALING . . . What makes Cho’s book resonate is the razor-sharp honesty she deploys and the straight-ahead style she uses to chronicle her messed-up life. Her humor is in no short supply.” –Los Angeles Times Book Review “A COMPELLING, QUICK READ THAT WILL SATISFY CHO’S FANS AND INSTANTLY MAKE NEW ONES.” –The New Orleans Times-Picayune Comedian. Icon. TV star. Role model. Trash talker. Fag hag. Gypsy. Tramp. Thief. Margaret Cho displays her numerous sides in this funny, fierce, and honest memoir. As one of the country?s most visible Asian Americans, she has a unique perspective on identity and acceptance. As one of the country?s funniest and most quoted personalities, she takes no prisoners. And as a warm and wise woman who has seen the highs and lows of life, she has words of encouragement for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider. With I?m the One That I Want , Margaret Cho has written a book every bit as hilarious, shocking, and insightful as she is. Comedian. Icon. TV star. Role model. Trash talker. Fag hag. Gypsy. Tramp. Thief. Margaret Cho displays her numerous sides in this funny, fierce, and honest memoir. As one of the country's most visible Asian Americans, she has a unique perspective on identity and acceptance. As one of the country's funniest and most quoted personalities, she takes no prisoners. And as a warm and wise woman who has seen the highs and lows of life, she has words of encouragement for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider. With "I'm the One That I Want, Margaret Cho has written a book every bit as hilarious, shocking, and insightful as she is. Margaret Cho was born in 1968 and raised in San Francisco. She currently lives in Los Angeles with her dog, Ralph (pronounced Rafe, as in Fiennes). 1 ALONE, STEALING AND WAVING I was born on December 5, 1968, at Children’s Hospital in San Francisco. My mother says, “You were so small. Just like this!” and she makes a fist and shakes it. “You grow so much! Can you imagine?! Just tiny baby!” I can’ t imagine being that small. It must have been the one time I didn’t worry about my weight. At 5 pounds, 6 ounces, I was the Calista Flockhart of the newborn set. My earliest memories are mostly unpleasant. The first thing I can truly remember is standing in front of a sink in my footie pajamas being berated by a bunch of old people. They must have been my grandparents. I couldn’t wash my face, and they were making fun of me. “Dirty face! Dirty face!” They all laughed and then started coughing. My mother was about to leave me with them and, presumably, was hiding her guilt behind my inability to wash my face. I was so small I had to stand on a stool to reach the sink. I had a tremendous fear that if I immersed my face in the water I would not return, I would drown, or water would go up my nose, or I would somehow be hijacked. I also feared that if I took my eyes off my mother, she would leave. And she did. My parents had a talent for leaving me places when I was very young. This had to do with immigration difficulties, living in San Francisco in 1968 and not being hippies, LBJ, men on the moon, and having their first child while being totally unprepared for reality. My father didn’t know how to break it to my mother that he was to be deported three days after I was born, so he conveniently avoided the subject. He didn’t lie; he simply withheld the truth and at the last minute, he left her holding the bag. Or me, as it were. In my parents’ colorfully woven mythology, that was the one corner of the tapestry they carefully concealed. Knowing I probably wouldn’t remember, they kept it to themselves. But I did remember, perhaps not actual events but colors and shapes and feelings. The insides of planes, the smell of fuel, unfamiliar arms, crying and crying. Wanting my mom but not having the words, not even knowing what I wanted. When questioned about it now, my mother spills forth resentment and regret. “Can you imagine mommy?! Oh! It was so terrible. I have to take care of you by myself and Daddy go back to Korea and then I have to send you to Korea and all this you only three days! Can you imagine?! Oh! I hate Daddy!” My father says cryptically that he was testing the waters, scoping out the sit