A Letter from the Edge

people near cliff under cloudy sky

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Dear Past,

I know you’re fond of cliff-diving. Since you were young, the wide, gaping abyss of the unknown has seem like such welcome relief compared to the hectic reality of everyday life. You know better than thinking of that staggering height as a mere hop into a pool. As much as the waves tempt and torment, turn away from the siren calls and look at the green earth in front of you. Feel the depths of the soil, solid beneath your feet. Breathe deep the air which graces your lungs. Let the gentle breeze brush past your lips. Know that living is so much about the little moments and less about your grand plans. Let them fall by the wayside and live simply. Enjoy the hazy sunrises over morning traffic like God laughing at the trivialities of human life. Paint another world when no one in yours seems to want to chat with you. Know that it will be okay.

Healing does not come by easy. It’s difficult to steer clear of cliffs to climb new heights, I  know. But you have, you are, and you will continue to do so, no matter how challenging the new steps may be. Some days, it feels like you’re moving backwards because perhaps you’re not making enough money or you feel like you have no support system here. Each reality is merely an invitation to think differently. Is it a sign to live minimally? To discover new hobbies which rely less on a paycheck? Is it time to find how to not just tolerate loneliness but to learn how to be alone cheerfully?

Life can be cruel; it can be full of twists and turns. I am learning to live with my hands open to receive and to give, no matter what is promised in return. I am giving up on pleasing others by surrendering my life to mere whims and opinions. This journey right now is full of jagged rocks and stuttering steps but the difference this time is that I am determined to keep going no matter how rough the road may be. Even if it seems like some days I go at it alone, I am no longer fighting myself. Instead of desperately seeking company, I am learning to be good company.

I am learning how not to dive and how to swim. Some might say I’ve taken a fall. I’d like to think I’ve merely found a different perspective on life. Lying supine, after all, is about gazing up. In my lowest moments, I’ve learned to look up.

So, if these days, you’re thinking of cliff-diving: keep looking up. “Be humble, for you are made of earth. Be noble, for you are made of stars.” Shake off the dust.



When I was young

the world was filled with wonder. And yet, it never occurred to me to question how the world looked at me, only that I could explore each wild place through my own eyes. I was a wild thing. I loved cicada shells, sputtering locusts, and monarch migrations. The kindergarten transplanted wild things from all over, a burst of wildflowers. When I was young, I was happy.

beautiful bloom blooming blossom

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Not in the ways you would assume. My family didn’t have much money, and some of my fondest memories were of my family and I driving in a beat-up blue station wagon with moldy seats to the nearest flea markets. It was treasure hunting at its finest. I remember laying out a set of gently used finger paints with my mother and painting on the concrete outside their graduate student housing. With parental eyes mainly on dissertations and Windows ’98 Times New Roman font, we made a world for ourselves in miniature. I got into my first fight, jeered on by a girl gang. Positive role models they were not. I remember Suzi spitting a glob of phlegm onto the new resident, Mary’s, face as a lukewarm welcome, sending her red-faced and stomping back to her apartment still seeking a home. I remember secretly becoming friends with Mary anyway because she was sweet and funny and didn’t pitch me against other girls my age in bare-knuckled brutality.

When I was young, my imagination transported me from a small, middle-of-nowhere college town into intergalactic adventures. Fields of magenta honeysuckles under the mottled moonlight transformed into the luxurious expanse of a distant planet. I belted out tunes of my own making, singing not to be heard but just for the love of making melodies. I boldly wrote stories in a second language, I drew until my hands cramped, and I butchered dance recitals out of sheer boredom.

When you are young, you don’t forget the realities of the world but they pale in comparison to the expanse of your wondering. I’m reminded of this as our upstairs neighbor incessantly hammers on a seemingly never-ending project, as the steel-grey expanse of sky shields the sun for another decidedly grim day. The enemy of youth is not responsibility but indifference. I forget how precious it is to craft something from nothing, embers and sparks from ashes. I never wanted to be a tame thing.

To return to the wild is a promise to the children we once were. The ones who dared to hope and dream and fail and get up again. The ones who laughed in the face of progress and chose mischief instead. Where a day was never wasted but explored atop stacked shoe boxes to reach the hidden places of closets. Where you didn’t feel poor because gently used finger paints made you feel like a resident Bob Ross. Where summers were spent watching your academic parents tend to communal gardens in the lot behind those barren apartments, a splash of fertility.

For so long, I am taught to tame the wild. To bury dreaming in color for black and white responsibilities. I’ve fallen prey to grey standards of bills, loans, filial piety, and the expectations of others. It’s not that I didn’t listen — I listened to others and forfeited whatever I once wanted. Part of me wants to panic, and I wonder if it’s too late. Is it too late to dream again? To reach up and create meaning where others see only concrete? I’m tired of measuring life by paychecks and prospects. I life my hands up and offer seedlings of dreams once denied. So many people see the world through jaded eyes, hardened to stone by years of disappointment, reaching for things they don’t even want. For me, it is far better to have attempted, failed, and tried something new time and time again.

So here I am again, a wild thing dreaming up a new world, sloughing off the grey mundane molt of a past life…ready to be filled with wonder anew.

yellow and black butterflies cocoon

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This is Why

art asian butterfly color

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I was in a space recently where people go to heal, willingly or unwillingly. I’ll leave out the details for the sake of privacy and human decency, but most of us there were bristling with fear. It was as close to being a lab rat as I ever care to be.

Anyway, despite the 8th level of Dante’s inferno we were all trapped in, I have never felt more empathy for fellow human beings inside that moment. When you find yourself in dire circumstances, it’s a bit strange how easily human bonds intensify, stretch taut, and connect to a larger vision. Suddenly, your world isn’t just you and your problems. You help bear witness to and listen when others disclose their pain, hoping there’s a bit of healing in the process.

I’m sure for many of you, this scenario sounds vague or unhelpful. Perhaps in the future I’ll feel brave enough to post the details to an amphitheater of global strangers on the internet, but not today. Today I merely want to discuss some common themes in people who wanted to get better under the worst and most inhumane treatments known in the modern world.

This is why.

If no one else advocates for you, you learn to become your own advocate – to rise up and refuse to fold yourself smaller for the convenience of others. At a certain point, you learn that listening to someone’s pain, no matter how dreadful or lingering, is helping to suck out some of the poison in their wounds. You learn that time can be its own sort of prison as minutes tick into hours and days. This is why you care. You know that no matter how other people look at you, no matter how disdainfully they look at you, if you can show compassion towards another human being, they cannot take away the beauty of that act. They cannot strip you of your heart’s ability to pulse alongside someone else’s, they cannot strip you of this humanity.

This is why.

I believe there is poetic justice in the world. A great human tragedy is not just hatred but practiced indifference towards a fellow human being. To this, I’ve bore witness to so many times in the last month, it’s nearly unbearable. To not even acknowledge someone’s existence, to pretend as if they are a mere speck of dust in your universe, that action comes with a callousness of the soul. Silence and negligence can be a form of abuse as well.

This is why you continue. You remember that there is pleasure in finding and sustaining your own voice despite everyone shouting at you to shut down. You remember in the midst of disappointment and radical shifts that you yourself can house a calm space within the storm. You can be alone without being lonely. You can be quiet without being invisible. You can be okay not being okay.

This is why weakness can be strength.

So much of our lives are spent to seem bulletproof. Our worlds depend upon how others perceive us, and most of us choose a staunch chin-up, pull-up by your bootstraps firmness. Feeling anything but productive or eager is seen as somehow lesser than or disrespected in our oh-so progressive economy. But feelings don’t have to be judged – just because you feel distressed doesn’t mean you need to label it as taboo. You are allowed to feel, to process, and to essentially remain human. Refusing to be vulnerable, to confront guilt or shame, to admit anxiety…these dimensions, though known for being negative, still make up the human experience. They make you real.

This is why it’s okay to be you. You don’t have to conform, to comply, or to reconsider. You don’t have to apologize to others about what you look like, what you choose to do, or what you want from life. You don’t have to feel guilt for wanting to take time to heal. You don’t need to live defined by other people’s opinions of you. You don’t need to miss relationships in which someone else maintained a power dynamic over you. You can just be you – broken, mending, or whole. You can process because being human means not letting others confine all you can be. It means taking ownership of all your baggage, your worn out attitude, and the hoarseness of your voice.

This is why life matters – you can be limitless if you choose to be. You can think freely, feel freely, cry freely, laugh freely, eat freely, dance freely….you can be free.

This is why.

To the Reluctant Traveler


Atop Girdwood, Alaska, off season.

Get out there. Forget what it means to be self-conscious or self-righteous and own the idea of humility. That’s the wild heart of traveling — we are but human beings wondering about and wandering on this hallowed ground, this precious gift of Earth.

I think sometimes people feel uncomfortable with the idea of travel because you must, first of all, have the means and the plans to travel. I’m of the mind that if you have even a bit extra of funds, spend it on trekking around the world. You will never be the same again, and you’re investing in thousands of new perspectives. It’s one thing to read about a different point of view on the news or hear it from your friend heralding from another culture. It’s another to actually experience another side of the zeitgeist we partake in.

I remember ordering dinner one evening in French, a fourth language for me if that, and feeling intensely uncomfortable. Many of the encounters locals have with people of Asian descent were the mass buses of tourists from various East Asian countries. Locals openly stared at my family since we looked a certain way but spoke English fluently. They talked about us behind menus and smirked. However, this moment flitted away once my brother and I conversed with the manager in French. She smiled broadly, patted us on the shoulders, and put up with our butchered, scuffled attempts at a very beautiful language. “Oui, c’est bonne,” She grinned. Nelson Mandela once said, “If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.” By all means, I am only really fluent in Mandarin other than English. I took four years in Spanish, and the practice lay dormant for many years before being unearthed in Nashville and now San Antonio with students (not to mention I was supported by phenomenal bilingual staff and, yes, tech like Duolingo and Google).  Never has language learning been for naught. Your eyes are opened, you learn to listen, you gain another soul.


Goodbye, New York.

Should you find yourself stuck in the confines of only a single country, my answer is still to keep traveling. Many of us know the severe conflicts and changes between one region of the United States and another. North, south, east, west. The best way to really learn to empathize with someone is to open your ears, your mind, and your heart. Evelyn from the Internets recently released spoke on our current obsession with call-out culture. We want to drag people for sharing ignorant opinions or perpetrating actions we find heinous. And I get it. I’m definitely a person engaged in that conversation. I’ve spent countless days, months, and years expending resources to “educate” others on the nuances of current trends surrounding race and culture in the U.S. Traveling hasn’t dulled that part of me in the least, but it has opened my eyes to other privileges sometimes neglected. Like…China is currently an economic superpower and identifying as Chinese possesses a certain amount of privilege in Asia or abroad. Being Chinese-American is to, in some ways, identify as two colonizing agents who hate each other. You are two warring entities inside one soul. However, both are still privileged identities. Proud identities. Identities often unwilling to listen or allow for other voices.


The High Line, near Chelsea.

Traveling is a privilege but a redeemable one. Support local businesses. Love on local parks and donate to restoration of worthy local causes. Be curious and acknowledge if you feel a little foolish. Maybe put the smart devices down and take some mental images. Give others a chance.

When I was walking out of Penn Station after taking the 1 line downtown, I couldn’t help but count the number of languages I heart while passing through. Vietnamese, Cantonese, Spanish, French, Italian, German, Arabic…I lost count in about 4 blocks. To be a global citizen these days is not just to pass through, but to really and truly hear.

Yesterday, a gentleman on the tram explained to us about his vehement support for Catalonia being independent. He spoke candidly with a smile, but he was still firm. He drew connections to Taiwan and China, which, could have been a sticky conversation, but all parties involved in the conversation were eager to listen instead of to judge. A few weeks ago, I spoke with another friend from Madrid about the same issue who felt a bit differently. None of these turned into arguments but sustained a heartbeat of healthy discussion. Maybe, in many ways, we’ve lost the heart of dialogue and debate.


L’Oasis D’Aboukir, in Paris.

Another friend and I, while roaming Paris, talked extensively about what it means to diversify views about each other and culture at large. She said, oftentimes, that we oversimplify views held in other countries, and many others do the same for us. In the current global landscape, for example, many people erroneously believe there is agreement over the current administration’s policies. Another point she brought up was the idea that we can insulate ourselves with news that we agree with on all fronts of social media. We are engaging in this self-centric news culture where the only opinions we value are the ones we hold to be true.

The solution I see to this maze of our own making is to let others in. Listen to diverse opinions – you don’t have to be friends with people, but do listen. Make sure they have a chance to listen to you too. Traveling is a way to converse without having to say a word – you can merely observe and come away with more than you ever can in a conversation.

I leave you with an image in a metaphor. I think it’s a bit like L’Oasis D’Aboukir – the living wall erected in Paris with a whole slew of vibrant greenery. The wall, though it stands much like other buildings, is all at once alive and moving. It changes with the seasons but retains its base form. Perhaps we need to learn to be a bit like that. Plant the seeds of knowledge, of wondering, of questioning. Let yourself blossom, be seen if you like, and stand firm if you like. Know who you are but be open to the winds, the rains, the snow, the elements at large.

And by all means, do not be afraid.

Learn to grow.

Bullying for Breakfast

blue and yellow plastic toy revolver pistol

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I grew up with some truly abominable “learning moments,” most of which left an acrid taste of aversion to traditional education in mind. Take, for example, the underclassmen honors biology teacher I had the misfortune of trusting as a sophomore. Let’s call her Ms. Blundt. Ms. Blundt possessed various accolades in the news, of which some were displayed proudly in her classroom by means of clippings framed and decorated. She also had a penchant for marvelous experiments – truly rigorous and followed by detailed lab reports we would create. However, the one terrorizing memory I am still belabored with is her attempt at scientific debate. She made us pro and con for eugenics. I clearly remember being on the pro side — cringe-worthy, mind you. So, she forced a bunch of high school freshman and sophomores to argue a morally bankrupt debate. Further, my peers threw me under the bus – peer review was factored into the assignment, and, “fortunately” for me, I partnered with two jocks who could care less about any research I contributed to this foregone conclusion. My friends on the opposing side then accused me of merely choosing a side based on, again, appearances. It was utterly and completely demoralizing, and I left that year of honors biology with the adamant decision that I would never pursue a career in the science field.

Horrifying, isn’t it? To know that you, as a teacher, wield so much power in determining the future of any given student over the course of years. Yes, mistakes are made and lesson plans foiled…yet this memory plagues me still. My parents are food scientists. My mom has a Ph.D. in organic chemistry, and my dad graduated from college in mechanical engineering. He later entered food research and development as well. By all accounts and upbringing, I was wired into STEM from the get-go. However, my experiences in STEM education as a minority woman were often shot down. What would you do if a teacher asked you to support the pro side of an argument you, morally, have no interest in arguing? What would you do if your so-called fellow debaters, of which you are supposedly on the same side, make you take the fall in your final grade? I honestly was driven – too “good” of a student, I argued for something I had no belief in and left forever haunted.

Or, take the damaging Model Minority Myth, particularly in math education. If you didn’t know, the U.S. government virtually banned most Chinese people from emigrating unless they were an academic. So, historically, there is minute basis for “Asian success” or what have you. However, I didn’t want to be pegged as a math genius. I legitimately struggled in mathematics since I was in elementary school. My mother only caught me up and kept me afloat in the various grade levels through summer courses of her own making. I ate lunch in high school nearly every day with trigonometry instructors or the designated math tutor. Math was never intuitive or a forte. The only reprieve I ever saw was my AP Stats course, and I relied heavily on genius peers at that. I rejoiced when I realized I tested out of all math courses in college.

people notes meeting team

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I want to make it clear – I’m not disparaging teachers. As one now, it is absolutely a behind-the-scenes battle embroiled with state and school policies. However, as an educator you have an ethical duty to make sure each and every student overcomes adversity in your classroom. You make sure voices are heard, not just your curriculum or agenda. The center will and always be the students. While my high school academically ranked one of the highest in the region, I have less than fond memories. Let me walk you through a few.

What people never seem to realize, no matter how many times you tell them, is that you will suffer if you’re APIA in the middle of the U.S. My parents did’t understand microaggressions. In fact, they give me the “I came with two suitcases” speech unfailingly every time I attempted to defuse a wound from school. So many afflictions… Young women at school mocked the way I hopped down the steps if I was feeling joyful that day, others talked just behind my back that my hair looked like a wig (too pretty to be my own), and students even commiserated with security guards about how ugly they thought I was.

I was thin-skinned. I was vulnerable, and I don’t think that’s a fault, but people certainly took advantage of it all. One of my close friends gave me a life-saving tip — to simply play music as I went down the hallways. I think I still have some ear-damage from blasting music through those white Apple earbuds, but it became a saving grace of sorts.

person running in the hallway

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Confession: I never ran a race for the track team despite training with them. Something inside me broke. Too many voices talking behind my back, and the shin splints were simply an excuse. I became a shell. When trying out for cross country, these fellow teammates were cheering me on, so I waved at them. They thought I was telling them to stop, so one of them screamed, “Why is she holding her hand up at us? You think you’re fast? Who do you think you are?! YOU’RE NOT! HURRY UP!” To this day, I still make sure to mouth the words “thank you” or “good morning” or “hello” when I cross paths with other runners. Some days, I just look at the ground. While I ran the Chicago Marathon in 2016, I did not want to see any former track mates or coaches.

Fellow women took pictures of me in the dressing room and shared them. They terrorized me. I once opened a door for another athlete and they answered with “F**k you very much.” A rock was thrown through our kitchen window. Kids in my architecture class junior year spent 45 minutes each day talking to each other, behind my back, how I looked like a toad, my eye-shape, my countenance, how I dressed terribly, how I spoke, how I interacted, my college decision. They would stand up and exit the room like nothing ever happened, but they never had the audacity of making eye contact. Ever. True cowards. It was a police state, and a prison sentence to go into those hallways every morning. I sported an institutionalized paranoia of people talking behind me…even people who seemed trustworthy. A well loved teacher took a moment at the beginning of the year to tell everyone how my chosen name was a far-cry from my given one. She smirked.

I was a horrible student because school was hell for me. I lied, I was snarky, and I used sarcasm as armor against the everyday berating of bullies. I glared, I snapped, I stood up in small ways because God forbid I stand up to those who pennied me, taped their eyes in a gross parody of Asian features, or mumbled “ching chong” in the hallways. It took every fiber of my being just to keep going. My parents never considered the power and privilege dynamics at play at a diverse high school where APIA students were labeled merely “trace” percentages. To most parties, except a few close friends, I was a joke.

architecture room indoors auditorium

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This story is not meant to make my school, my classmates, or my administration feel guilty. In fact, if not for a few determined, passionate, and hilarious teachers and classmates, I do not know if I would have continued in education or simply as a person. I found solace in theater and art, particularly stage crew and costume makeup. Theater…those were my people. Even having left stage crew after a short stint, I still remember sitting and watching orchesis or a musical rehearse. It was a gift. As it were: fellow students chatting in the hallways before and after school, teachers forcing me to take a compliment no matter how hard I tried to deny them, and friends sending me flowers when I thought no one cared. The invites to graduation parties, inside jokes in ELA classes, the frantic push towards AP Lit studying, squirreling away into study carrels in the library, eating with my favorite authors in a rooftop classroom, conversing with the ghosts on the pages or “reading” as we like to call it…those memories, though few, I remember fondly.

This is a call towards socio-emotional learning and investment. Scholars have grit. They sometimes have lived through wisdom, pain, and heartache well beyond their years. I need to remember that as an educator. Growing up is sometimes beautiful but also truly awful. It is an absolute paradox. As one of my students from last year said, “Miss. School is a prison. Our uniforms are jumpsuits, ISS is the hole, the bars on the windows make us feel trapped, the school store is the commissary.” Tongue in cheek humor? Yes. Some truth? Every student voice holds some.

Don’t talk down to students. Don’t condescend to them. They have lived through scathing comments, harsh realities, and the worst of those older than them. On my best days, students have let me earn respect. On my worst, I rightfully earn their ire. However, if I could give my past self one piece of advice, I would say: don’t be afraid to grow alongside the people in your room. Yes, I know I’m a young educator. For many of my predecessors and mentors, this veers towards “green” and negative. However, I truly believe this: it is okay not to be okay. Our society values masks and facades so much that when someone asks, “How are you?” we are conditioned to respond, “I’m well / good / fine. Thank you.” That’s the script.  I want more – as a person, as a teacher, as a friend… I want behind the veil.

So…I eat bullying for breakfast. I digest the bitterness and release it into the ether. I’m better for those years of torment if only learning how to fight back, to spit fire instead of extinguishing my own. To resist and fly, as Maya Lin might say. But I’m not taking any more of that Lord-of-the-Flies bullcrap. Oh, no. I will forever defend the underdog, the misunderstood, the neglected. What I’ve learned this year though – sometimes bullies are the most insecure people you’ll meet. This is not to excuse any of their behavior – just another layer to the all-consuming puzzle of American education. Most of which, students consume each day like breakfast. Maybe…today’s the day you stop with them and invite them to coffee. To sit, to ponder, to wait alongside. To pause. To ask, “And you?” Maybe that’s all it takes to change an all-American die-t.

flat lay food photography of plate of croissant

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[Get Out] & APIA Exclusion

get out

Universal Pictures via The Atlantic

Get Out won so many accolades for multiple reasons: the subtlety of writing, the fantastic casting, and not to mention the many references to brutal realities in divided America today. Director Jordan Peele has been a paragon of success and voice of POC through his several accomplishments. These truths I acknowledge.

However, can we talk about the “yellow” elephant in the room? I have very few complaints with Get Out. I love so many aspects of the symbolism, imagery, and figurative wordplay interlaced into Peele’s dry wit. If you missed his rather brief and disturbing cameo, here he is: Yasuhiko Oyama played by Hiroki Tanaka. He’s played with an incredibly thick, stereotypically Asian accent. Of all the finesse afforded black and white bodies, Oyama gives little in the form of Asian-descent diversity in the film. As a  Chinese-American, I must admit to rolling my eyes upon witnessing his character on screen. According to Bustle and YOYOMF, I wasn’t the only one. Let’s delve into this, shall we? I am an English lit teacher, after all. Media is… fascinating. Warning: spoilers for the movie Get Out ahead. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.


Copyright Universal Pictures. (But not universal, by any means.)

Oyama as a character follows the stereotype that Asians are both the perpetual foreigner and the model minority: not only will we never be American, but we will always be seen as the Asian sidekick to white privilege. As someone who has delved into privilege and lived through a hell-hole of systematic racism towards my Asian body for over a quarter of a century, I find this incredibly offensive. He simply goes along with everything his elderly white cohort assumes. In fact, he bids on the black bodies as much as the white antagonists. He is an…enemy of the state of affairs. It’s disturbing. I’m not saying some APIAs and native East Asians don’t fit this stereotype, but Mr. Peele only affords this one, specific character — just like the masses of other movies suited to center tastes of a certain “Americanism.” American culture is fluid and salient, but apparently not enough for a yellow body.


Yasuhiko Oyama character pictured far right.

On this matter, Get Out confuses me. Now, make no mistake: the production and execution of this movie indicates expansive progress on crucial conversations in race. And yet…it is still a predominantly black and white exchange. Given the history and the present political climate, I understand. Yet, as an Asian-American woman who grew up in the South, I do feel excluded from this narrative. I wonder if, in this scenario, Peele failed a bit to give APIA’s a voice. Did he meant to say we are all just foreign, wanna-be white people out to equally outcast black bodies? To “fit the mold?” Because, if so, that’s not just offensive…that’s discrimination.


Credits to Youtube

The history of minority “in-fighting,” especially between APIAs, Latinx, and African-Americans, is a very real one. Think about the scene in Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing with the Korean storefront owner. There’s tension that hasn’t really dissipated. In all honesty, older generations (and even younger ones) assume nasty, terrible ideologies about fellow groups undergoing effects of profound oppression in the same country. Is it the same? No. Absolutely not. We all have distinct stories, voices, and counter-narratives. Is it similar? I believe so. However, the divide and the chasm is gaping. I can not tell you the number of crucial yet painful conversations I’ve had with my PoC students. I can not tell you the number of times I’ve been asked highly inappropriate and offensive things, like “Do you eat cats?” “Do you eat dogs?” “But where are you really from? Like, your parents?” “Do you like eating at Panda Express?” *Cue racist, nonsensical Asian “wannabe” language sounds.* *Cue pulling at eyelids in 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th grade over multiple years.* As a third culture teacher, especially one working with students of color not your own, you learn to draw connections. I’ve used humor, especially sarcasm, to defuse situations. I’ve asked students if anyone has asked them similar questions. “How would you feel if…?” is always a helpful question stem.

But…to a certain extent, students are innocent. Ignorant, but innocent. There are no bad kids. They are oftentimes echoing trends and themes within American media, culture, billboards, and ugly comments from neighbors, friends,…and even family. Ugly stereotypes in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Yellowface in that movie, and did I mention recently, in How I Met Your Mother? That was only a few years ago. Erasure in every year since we first made an appearance in this “new world” with old world sentiments. It is the sad truth that one of my former student’s grandmother jokingly asked me in Spanish if I was just going to teach all the students Chinese in English class. Ha ha. (These are the types of conversations I have had at parent teacher conferences.) Or how about the time, I’m sorry, the many times I’ve been mistaken for the math teacher? The ESL teacher? No sir, no ma’am, I’m the English literature teacher in the flesh. Public and private school educated, and no, my family is not from Taiwan but I have taught there. Yes, English. Not Chinese. Did I mention that I had to field these questions not only in America, but in Taiwan? I had to defend my place as a TOEFL teacher because of my color…to people of my own color. Racism is terrifying because you, as a person of color, can become a token. Not just a token, but a token who assumes the same racial remarks and tendencies of oppressors. Of colonizers.

I’ve been called everything for asserting my beliefs and emotions. “Grow up, girl.” “Bitch.” “Chink.” “Mean.” “Angry.” “Angry minority.” “Angry minority woman.” “Angry Asian girl.” “Overreacting.” “Not open-minded.” “Too open-minded.” I recently had this fantastic conversation with one class surrounding this one student’s specific question, “I mean, why aren’t we just equal like we were before?” “Pause. What do you mean by that?” I asked, “First off, what do you mean by ‘we?’ And what was equality defined by?” Then, I got on my soapbox.

“Did you know that people like me were banned from the U.S. several times in history? Chinese Exclusion Act. Did you know many Chinese miners were lynched by white miners who thought they were demons and ate rats? Did you know that the derogatory word ‘chink’ was from the sound of Chinese laborers worked to the bone to build the Transatlantic Railroad?” (Did you know my history teacher in 8th grade, Mr. Betts, played a clip which used derogatory language towards APIAs?) “We need to be careful when we think about the word equality.”

“I’m sorry, miss.”

“I’m glad you brought it up, but carefully think about what assumptions are and where they come from. Remember when we talked about stereotypes before?”

Granted, it’s exhausting. The student was feeling left out because I work in a predominantly Latinx school, and she was one of the only white students. We then talked about power and structures of power. What does it look like when a group has it, and what does it feel like without? These are 5th graders, mind you, doing a TON of heavylifting thinking. And meanwhile, the education world is still obsessed with standardized testing, but that’s a whole other Pandora’s box.

I deactivated Facebook and re-activated it only recently. The Facebook community team had deleted my review for a dance instructor who performed in black face. Yes, you read that correctly. She performed in blackface, many people of color called her out, she complained to Facebook, and that platform kicked us out. Talk about “safe white spaces only.” In that moment…I just could not fight anymore. As my partner likes to say, “You don’t just try to feed the trolls. You try to talk to them.” I didn’t want to talk to them anymore. But now…I’m back in the fight.

My good friend recently told me, quite eloquently, that social media is a tool — used for good or ill by human minds. So much deception and evilness is lurking, but yet the good is so very possible. Here is my modest attempt to help the world be a little less wrong today.

you make

Lyrics from Gungor, “You Make Beautiful Things” Image credits to Pinterest

“Why are you so angry?” An APIA Woman’s Narrative


A tag I made in remembrance of 二二八事件 in Taipei, Taiwan. “Never forget your past (his/her/x) story.”

Inspired by Michelle Zhu’s narrative  for Vice

People have a tendency to ask and tone police every time they hear me make a point, albeit often an emotional point, about being an APIA (Asian Pacific Islander American) in a world that too often values marginalization. Don’t get me wrong, we’re making tremendous progress. I remember watching The Walking Dead and celebrating Glenn’s momentous role as a protagonist lead with every bone in my body. (No spoilers, but my interest has since tapered off. Sorry not sorry.) Anyway, today I feel calm and whole enough to answer the question posed oh-so many times by oh-so-many ignorant voices. What exactly does the average APIA have to forgive living in “the middle” of the U.S.? Here are a few of mine, granted, take these all with a grain of salt: I was usually the new kid. So, I suppose it’s also merely a narrative of bullying. I’ll attempt to do these in chronological order for clarity’s sake.

  • 5 years old: I remember my parents always took us shopping on holidays because America is known for fantastic store discounts on such days. My first strange feeling about race, which occurred several times over the course of many a Veteran’s Day, was seeing a Vietnam War or WWII veteran for the first time (It’s been so long, and I’m unfamiliar with military medallions).  The elderly man, decked out in his pressed uniform and hands clasped over the arms of his wheelchair, nearly lifted himself out of his chair glaring at my family. His eyes tracked us for the insufferably long way down the corridor. I have never felt more scared or judged in my life. He didn’t have to say a word.
  • 6 years old: Aunties and Uncles made fun of me for what they called 黑。 In Chinese, this means you are dark for a person of East Asian descent. I was too young to care, and I liked my sun-tanned skin.
  • 7 years old: These three girls, D, M, and K, were interested in playing with a “Chinese doll.” Meaning…me. Y, a 2nd grader who came straight from mainland China, fit into their stereotype of what an exotic Chinese girl should look like. D, instead, made it her mission to tell me how I was “not at all like she expected. I imagined you would wear one of those Chinese dresses with butterfly clips down really long black hair.” I recently looked back at my pictures, and I was cute, just not in the way she wanted me to be. I remember feeling like I had disappointed her. I remember wanting to apologize.
  • 8 years old: My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Sager, kept confusing me with Y. She actually gave me a gift later on, in 5th grade, that was meant to be for Y. I was too ashamed for her to say anything, just thanked her and moved on. I felt like I would have burdened her had I said anything, so I said nothing at all.
  • 9 years old: I cut off all my hair, and I felt lighter. I devoured books from Lemony Snicket and J.K. Rowling. I remember feeling excited that Cho Chang was mentioned, someone that looked like me. So rare in a fantasy book. How funny that I, as Rachel Rostad mentions, ended up “just following the script” and falling into crushes with people who were very white. Thanks, J.K. Rowling.
  • 10 years old: I remember feeling depressed for the first time around this age. I had kept a journal for several years, and I remember asking myself, “What am I even doing?” It didn’t help that kids were becoming incredibly cruel about who they deemed “cool” in Arkansas. Again, they were just following Hollywood’s script, I guess. Erasure and marginalization.
  • 11 years old: I went back to China with my parents for the first time. I had not prepared for the culture shock, and I left mainly with questions rather than the answer I was looking for. I wasn’t American. I wasn’t Chinese. I couldn’t call anywhere my home, just a home in the hyphen. Chinese-American.
  • 12 years old: Officially resplendent in existential crisis. Spent the year looking inward and becoming a fail artist. I didn’t want to be good at anything anymore because that was the stereotype of the Model Minority. Smart, skinny, sharp. I was tired. I repressed my voice, grew chubby, grew dejected.
  • 13 years old: Slept for most of the day (everyday if I could) and officially done with the world. Middle school is a mine field. Correction, middle school is a mind field. People play games with your soul, gambling it against popularity and progress. I always believed that the way my family communicates is in circles rather than in the straight lines of Western “progress” plot diagrams. So, I circled in on my own ineptitude, hurt by a trusted adult who told me to simply “grin and bear it.”
  • 14 years old: An anonymous student drew a swastika in shaving cream in the front of the junior high…while we were reading Elie Wisel’s Night. This was where we went, to a place of hate and tragedy. Another POC student asked what time breakfast started, and I made the mistake of telling him when the doors opened. “7 am.” To which he responded, “Nobody f***ing asked you, chink.” I felt my heart pounding in my throat.
  • 14 years old, II: This kid who was obsessed with Naruto and being Asian (but who was absolutely not) followed me around and kept asking me to date him because he had a fetish. This was complicated by the fact that he had autism, so it was very difficult to deter him. While the current me is ashamed of this, I brushed him off repeatedly and rudely until he stopped bothering me. He was my first stalker. We rode the same bus, and I remember being scared that he was outside my window.
  • 15 years old: My parents moved me again for the 3rd or 4th time. It was hard to keep track, which made the question, “Where are you from?” even more complicated than it was due to my identity as an APIA. I was from a bevvy of places. Anyway, as you can imagine, starting high school as a sophomore leaves you with no friends at ground zero, and my school had a delightful self-imposed policy of pennying freshman. I was not amused, especially not by the people near my locker who would tape up their eyes and nose to look…like a caricature. My supposed APIA friend called me at the end of my first day to ask, “Can you make your own friends?”


  • 16 years old: Supposed APIA friend says I stole all her friends. I felt guilty for making friends with them, so I just spent all my time in my favorite teacher’s classrooms (usually English with one exception in math) or the library reading. I hated people because they wouldn’t let me be more than what they saw in front of them. More than eyes, people, what they see.
  • 17 years old: I had one of the best English classes of my life from a teacher who was featured on NPR. He centered our narratives, and finally, for once, I felt at peace in high school. I remember after I shared these stories and then some, every single person in that class came up and hugged me. Told me they cared. Told me they were sorry. And then I went to Calc AB to put my walls back up.
  • 18 years old: I remember, despite loving reading, refusing to read Billy Shakes. Knowing that he was probably a plagiarist. Knowing that he was a symbol of white privilege. Not until college did I finally get a Shakespeare professor who knew how to subvert Shakespeare and help us question the text into something relatable to POC. Other than that, I was living life beneath Caliban, not even mentioned in those plays and not allowed on the stage. Interesting, considering I was in stage crew.
  • 19 years old: Freedom. Freedom in the sense that I could study, be, and be with anyone I wanted. I met these incredible campus fellowships, who focused on diversity and APIA inclusion respectively. However, as a psychology major, I quickly realized that my classes were full of white people wanting to treat others like experiments. I appreciated the social science but immediately tacked on an English Lit major. My people.


  • 20 years old: Hong Kong. Awakening but also brutally draining to the soul. Made fun of for being, basically, a Mainlander. I was faced with an entire other set of stereotypes for being from mainland China: “Mainlanders are rude.” “Mainlanders cannot use a proper toilet.” “They have no manners.” I had an amazing TA for a class called “Imagining Hong Kong” which re-thought these concepts. However, the teacher still treated me differently than a white peer. Looks like you can be elitist and classist no matter where you are.
  • 21 years old: I found myself beyond excited to go back State-side for swing dance lessons. However, it always felt a little bit strange that there was this global dance community with an African-American history, yet the people I danced with were an entirely different demographic. I also hated being called “exotic.” It wasn’t the healthiest relationship with dance to start.
  • 22 years old: Budapest. I love this broken yet beautiful city. Dorá led the Hungarian Refugee Center, and the people there are EVERYTHING. Those teachers were centering others before I knew what that even meant. They taught me more than I will ever be able to teach, and I’m thankful. People asked me where I was from, but English was then used as a tool for equity instead of one for oppression.
  • 23-24 years old: Graduation. Taiwan Fulbright. Love. Hate. I learned everything in that two year time span. This was a time where I felt beyond loved and cared for —-from my internship at the Asian American Cultural Center with all-APIA professional mentors and peers to the mostly-Asian church fellowship I went to…in a way, I was sheltering before a storm. Taiwan left me with scars about Mainland bias once more, but again…the kids became my kids and their stories stay with me.
  • 25-26 years old: Vanderbilt. Oh, Vanderbilt. You are a complicated mess of academia. Wonderful yet insane yet…I learned here. If anything else, I learned what it meant to define and declare my narrative as a Chinese-American woman who wants change and activism. I re-learned and un-learned what it meant for others to be scared of me. I re-learned and un-learned what it meant to stand in my power.

I teach as a third culture teacher still. I have tried my best, as a person of faith, to forgive the people in these narratives. I try my best to be a little less wrong everyday. I travel because I think it teaches you to be humble, to connect, and to find friendship in unfamiliarity. I try to be my best self, or at least to be better each day. But please…don’t ask me why I’m “angry.” It’s a long story. And besides, I’d rather call it passionate.

*I originally planned to put in photographs of others, but in the interest of their privacy, you will have to bear with the rather one-noted photos of myself. Apologies.*



Marathons & Minutes


Keep your eyes on the end, but we’re not out of the woods yet.

This is the last time I talk about this for a while, because honestly, this is exhausting. However, I don’t quite believe in tapping out vehemently on Facebook when longer forms exist for expression. For the POC in America, for our allies, this one is for you. I think we all need a little pep talk. We need to figure out a way to keep going in this world that is not yet ready for actual, nitty-gritty revolution.

For Anthony Stephan House, 39, of Houston—the first to fall. For the other innocent black and Latino lives torn apart by shrapnel. Draylen Mason. Esperanza Herrera. For the 17 in Florida, 13 in Columbine, 5 in Jonesboro. For the students who walked out, every single one. For Jordan Edwards. For Trayvon Martin. For Laquan McDonald. For Tamir Rice. For Roshad McIntosh. For McKinney. For Ferguson. For Chicago. For Salem. For Washington, D.C. For L.A. For St. Louis. For Nashville. Austin. Houston. San Antonio. For Fruitvale Station in the Bay area.

For indigenous tribes reduced to jerseys and epithets like “The Redskins.” For the indigenous descendants and the NAH at UIUC who endured “Chief Illiniwek,” a fictional, disturbing racial caricature. For my acquaintance Xochi and others like her who had to endure 4 years at U of I while seeing heads of Illiniwek displayed in shop windows which historically called for something far more terrifying. For indigenous tribes pushed out of their homes into “reservation camps.” For those suffering under the continued erasure and claim of colonized history. For the sufferers of the Dakota Access Pipeline.

For Enrique and others who attempted his journey. For my Latinx students: Jennifer, Cianna, Michael, who are dealing with more than 5th graders ever should, anywhere. For the parents at my school who are advocates and activists. For terrified parents, suffering from border patrol scammers. For 120 days. For fellow human beings labeled as “illegal.” For the Chicano Movement. For parents fighting for their children, and children fighting for their parents. For love that most know distance and time before hugs and held hands.

For my third culture fellows. For Japanese internment camp survivors who lived through FDR’s heinous Executive Order. For ancestors who lived through the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act and the Immigration Act of 1924. For the often invisible, insidious fight. For the five Indo-Chinese elementary students massacred in Stockton, 1989. For Vietnam War refugees. For the refugees. For the missing and murdered Chinese takeout delivery drivers. For #notyourasiansidekick. For Vincent Chin. For the Kaos who caught it all on camera. For Asians living in the South.

For students and teachers enduring systemic, rampant racism. For anyone enduring systemic, institutionalized racism. Insidious, nefarious, heinous racism that is far more salient than we know.

This one is for you.

Do not give up your name, even if your parents ask you to. Renaming is a way for assimilating, first generation parents to make it easier on the white majority. It is a way for them to take away your power. “Sherry” caused me far greater turmoil than “Yue.” Roll call was a punch to the face every time. Will my teacher linger too long, butchering those beautiful Chinese syllables and tone? Will they, time and again, apply English phonics to it, transforming it into an accusation, “YOU?” I would swoop in, ashamed for something I should not have been ashamed for, and say, “Just Sherry.” Once, the AP Lit teacher sarcastically snapped, “Well, that’s close” and caused the whole room to snicker loudly. Do not hold onto the anger, but let it make you stronger.

Do not let the stereotypes and misrepresentation define you. For too long, I squashed and repressed my voice, thinking I had to be demure, quiet, hiding behind those too prevalent giggling Geisha and Madame Butterfly images STILL TO THIS DAY popularized by eurocentric audiences (and transformed by Seattle).  No, absolutely not. No more. My awakening doesn’t have to make you comfortable. I thank God daily for my internship at the UIUC Asian American Cultural Center, that I learned alongside daily from empathetic, culturally aware mentors and peers. Thank you for teaching me that tears show a greater warrior than shouting can, but that there is still time for shouting and protesting. Thank you for bearing the burden alongside me. Thank you for telling me that my anger didn’t need to dissipate. Thank you for not tone-policing. I found my voice through a small group of determined, hilarious, complex individuals who let me fight against the oppression of singularity.

Fight for your cause, whatever that may mean. If you are a policy maker, speak up. If you are a student, stand up and speak up. Do not EVER let a teacher reduce you to “girl” or “boy.” If they do, like they did to me, steel your spine, do not back down, and persevere. Walk out if need be. If you are a teacher, advocate and let your students voices be heard. Fighting for your cause, some days, might be just taking care of you. Do not let mental health and self care be brushed under the rug. This fight is exhausting, and it is different for everyone. Do not let someone define the fight for you. Do not speak out until you feel ready. That may mean you are the only APIA student, one of two POC, in your program. That might mean you may not be respected for your time or in that place. However, I did it for the sake of looking my grandchildren in the eye someday and saying, “I stood up. I did not back down.”

Know that you are loved, deeply and profoundly. If not by people, then I truly believe by a giving and gracious God. Do not be defined by their God. I believe you are made in God’s image, who no man, woman, child, or anyone has ever seen fully while alive. In my deepest wells of sorrow, I have turned to prayer because I believe my God is an activist and sees real, racial, social pain. When my mother tone-policed my poem yesterday and told me my feelings were wrong, I sent up a few prayers. She only saw my hatred, but didn’t see the cause. I always remind myself, if Jesus was furious enough to brandish a whip in the temple, I don’t see why I can’t write a righteously angry poem. I will share with you, though, she made me feel guilty anyways.

“Know thyself.” Only you know how much you can bear in this age of heartache and destruction. But know that you can create. You can build. You can connect. Know that there is a whole web of intersectionality out there. Know that even when Facebook “friends” might erase you, you are not invisible. Know that your fight is not alone, even if you are physically alone wherever you are. Know that you are not obligated to speak on behalf of entire continents or entire people groups when a teacher (or student) asks you, “So what do you think? I mean you are [insert who they “think” you are]….aren’t you?” Know that Mr. Rainer in 8th grade was being incredibly racist when he said, “Asian history is so cool because it’s all these people who look like each other fighting.” In that instance, 8th grade awkward self, you were validated in your anger. Stop feeling ashamed for being alienated by your teacher.

Know thyself. Know your eyes are beautiful. They are beautiful, they are beautiful, they are beautiful. Yes, they are small. That doesn’t warrant the: “chink” comments. Ever. Get rid of the glue, the eyelid tape, the “ulzzang” lenses. Your eyes don’t warrant surgery, ever, no matter the in-group and out-group pressure. EVER. Love your skin. Yes, you’re yellow, something that colorism in Asia won’t let well enough alone. DGAF. Be you. Don’t feel the need to subsist on Korea’s laughable set of foundation choices— choose other brands. Laugh at the haters crying crocodile tears. Love yourself.

This is for you, but this is also for me and for my future children (students, or mine otherwise). I want them to have a guardian who doesn’t fault them for being any size, shape, color, creed, gender, sexual orientation— who doesn’t fault them for being them. Who puts the unconditional in unconditional love. That’s my dream. To look my child in the eye and say, “These are your great-grandmother’s eyes. She survived the Rape of Nanking. These are your great-grandfather’s ears, who participated in Manchurian Resistance by not learning a colonizer’s language as a student in Beijing. This is your grandfather’s skin, who marched for APIA rights in college. These are your grandmother’s hands, who was a remarkable and well-known organic chemist. These are your uncle’s legs, a man who listens and walks contemplatively before speaking. This is your father’s smile, who went through medical school to help the under-served. This is my raspy voice I give to you, so that you too may speak up even amongst the turmoil. But really, the voice is yours.”


This voice is ours. Let it not be silent. It is a marathon, and yes, we should keep checking the minutes…but take care of yourself. The race is not finished until it’s finished.


*Note to the internet: please be patient if I do not moderate your comments. As urgent as I know all these issues are, I will be taking some time offline in self care over the next few days.


“Here’s to the Ones that Dream”

PSA: I realize there are several issues with La La Land which I plan on addressing on my other site. However, I did want to address some points about dreaming and giving up which have resonated with me each time I’ve seen this film.Image may contain: 1 person, smiling, standing and indoor “I’ve been working at it for 6 years, and what if it’s all just a pipe dream?” This line from La La Land with the symphony really hit home last night. For many of the dreams I’m pursuing, I’m hitting around the 6th or 7th year. Particularly in lindy hop (if you don’t know, it’s a Harlem-born, African-American accredited improv social dance), I’m in my 6th year of pursuing and practicing the idea of simply embodying a rhythm. I feel frustrated because of this: Who actually is judging and how are they judging? Someone told me recently that judges in swing dancing don’t have a set criteria. They place you based on how they think the dance would feel to them, how you look, and…in all honestly, it feels really subjective. It makes me tired. I don’t think I want to compete anymore. Are you judging me for musicality or hearsay from other dancers? Are you judging based on what I wore that night, how the audience responded, or I don’t know, the smell of my breath? My terrible posture? Maybe I’m ill-suited to the climate right now of criticism, maybe I’m just “too sensitive” as people have tried to insist my entire life, or maybe people are just too damn satisfied with themselves. Who knows? I surely don’t…or at least, that’s what my scores would tell you. I can’t help thinking that people want me to quit. “Too awkward.” It’s this stinging criticism I can never seem to shake.

My other dreams, particularly of writing a novel, have sat on the back-burner for no other reason than the continued criticism I’ve heard. When I was young and impressionable, a few “well-to-do” people in the church fellowship I joined took the liberty to shut down many of my creative outlets. When I think back to those times, I can’t help asking: Who gave them the authority? What credentials did they even have? They were dancers, writers, and musicians…but for them they had “made it” on a college stage playing to a group of APIA Christians every Friday night and Sunday morning. So, I guess having a regular “gig” makes you more critical of those just trying to “make it” at all. I’m not sure, but I’m still attempting to remove all the salt from those old wounds. My words don’t flow as easily or as eloquently anymore. They feel a bit stilted from years of fighting off attack. “Your words don’t have any heart.” That was one of the worst ones, from a panel of purported God-loving Christians. I remember trying to hide the tears on the bus ride home. I remember feeling ashamed of dreaming and wanting.

In many ways, I wonder if I’ve given up. I’ve tried to quiet my movements, dancing and writing, smaller brush strokes…just blending in really. It’s a vicious cycle of feeling unworthy so my posture is terrible, and so it continues. I anticipate those critical eyes upon sharing a poem again, and the words stop on the page. I see the hundreds of people I’ve encountered tugging at their eyelids or making nonsense syllables, because for them, I’m nothing but a stereotype they’ve seen on the screen or in a cartoon.

THIS advice? “This is for the ones who dream, foolish as it may seem.” Don’t stop. Even if it’s just dancing one night a week or practicing on your own to videos you love. If you’re still scared of prying eyes…get out there. Write in journals, on toilet paper, on napkins, in bathroom stalls, and in blogs that no one ever reads. Dance because you don’t know any other joy. Write because you can’t imagine doing anything else. Dance because it connects with you with more people in more ways than you ever imagined. Write because you can create, destroy, and there is a great and terrible beauty in it. Dance because maybe you won’t ever be the best dancer on the dance floor, but you can be the oldest, the one who still dances at 90. I don’t have to be the first, I just want to be the last. The last one standing, the one who has outlasted the worries of work, the pulls of marriage, and the hecticness of family. I want to be that person dancing even if no one is watching. I want to write like I breathe – if I don’t, I’ll die and nothing can stop the action of in, out, in, and out.

I hope you dream. I hope you haven’t let others stopped you. And…I think I owe an apology as well. My own self-criticisms have stopped me from realizing the greatness of others, because I’m partial to a culture of self-deprecation. So, here’s my encouragement: Be great. Don’t settle for good or better. I always tell my students, “Do your best.” Whatever it takes. Late nights after work, after 120 papers and 7 hours of agonizing. Do your best. When even your best friends see you as less-than. Do your best. When you have to cry to get through the day, maybe more than once. Do your very best to not let your dreams fall by the wayside.

I read a cheesy book, one of those habits books, a while ago as volun-told reading…and this one fact stuck with me. To be a master at anything, you need to invest about 10,000 hours. Jamin Jackson, one of my dance heroes, also told a class this: “You can be a master.” What do I ask for my students? Mastery. One part about mastery is that you don’t have to “get” everything, you just have to pass. The best part of mastery? You get to drive how much you pass. Good, better, best.

Scrape your dignity off from the sidewalk. Yes, I’m crying like a baby, but I’m going to get up everyday and do some work not for any person. Just for the dreams.



The Negative Film


Somewhere in the Pacific, 2015.

What is really so very jarring about people is not what they say directly to you, but what they’re actually thinking deep down. The Upside Down, for all those Stranger Things fans out there. That’s what I’ve always been somewhat morbidly obsessed with and plagued by. How do people get by with their uglier, wild side peeking out from just beneath the surface?

I remember a few years back, at this gospel retreat, I remembered this couple very fondly. I didn’t know them well but we were on amicable terms, enough to summon a greeting when coming face to face at least. Due to some fluke of humanity or a curse at birth, I’ve always had the displeasure of near supersonic hearing…and accidental eavesdropping. So, there I was, cleaning out my room, listening to this couple rant on and on about how ridiculous my comments were in the seminar.

“Well, you know. She’s an English major. She can only see the world through that lens.”

“I mean, I don’t think he said anything even that offensive.”

“Right? She just took it the wrong way.”

On and on they droned, running circles around my response to a Moody Bible speaker who I thought was masogynistic and ill-informed. What they don’t tell you about church but what most of us experience is that Christians are often our harshest critics. Anyway, there I am, separated from these pseudo-nice fake people by a cheap, semi-open door. I could hear my blood pumping through my earlobes, whether from fear or sadness or rage…I don’t know. It felt like a betrayal, as if they hid their cruelty some place that I couldn’t respond to it.

That whole retreat, which was meant to be family, proceeded just like that. People were kind enough, but it was always just a veneer. For instance, we have this habit of staying up late with the youth group playing silly games and messing around until 3 in the morning. Well, this time, when I tried to comb past the lines of distance and time, I was immediately blocked out of the group. One of my close friends talked around me. Meaning, I was physically present within a circle of conversation but I wasn’t invited to respond to any of the questions they posed. It left me feeling hopeless, like my voice would never be heard or valued.

I don’t know why I bring all this up now, it’s pointless really. Only that, the church, as much as I love it, is flawed. It’s filled with liars, backstabbers, cheats. I used to adore this one person there. Only, upon addressing this unrequited infatuation, I found myself the laughingstock of the entire church group. People were literally talking about this years after the initial occurrence, it never died down.

So I left. Bitter, angry, and more than a little bit irritated that a place which claims to be based on a strong foundation of unconditional love became more than a little bit conditional. I’m not saying I was the perfect candidate or member. I’m still a believer, albeit over 800 miles away in a different city with a different church family. I didn’t move entirely because of a broken church body, but I will say it was a factor.

What I will say is…there was a habit of being two-faced that I didn’t appreciate. If you’re going to be nasty, be nasty to my face. I’m wondering if this is particular to the Asian American church or if everyone can be just this mean. Worried about face and all that. I suppose that’s why I’ve had this long, de-toxing hiatus from social media. Fake love, fake friends…I didn’t need that in my life anymore.

The new chapter starts here.