What to Reveal...

My biggest fear is coming out "cliché" -- where stories in my life that involve pain or loss or uncertainty become marginalized. This is why I try to avoid serious topics.

~

1. Family: My dad is a devout Christian, denomination: relentless. My mother became chronically sick my junior year of high school -- the reason I went to ASU and stayed in Arizona. My older brother is a textbook example of the prodigal son, like gluttony incarnate. My little brother is autistic. And the most dreadful of the lot, my little sister, the teenager (joke! somewhat). I am definitely the black sheep. It's a dysfunctional family that screams cliché.

One thing I absolutely loathe are these kind of one-to-five line descriptions for people. Each person and the relationship existing has its own dynamics and complexities. Writing about them to me is so difficult because I don't know where to begin.

For example, the relationship with my Dad in general is strained. He's my opposite – extremely pragmatic, a man of few words. He demands perfection to an extent and has never practiced the act of affirmation, only critique and discussing what can be improved. He has so many good qualities though – highly intelligent, good character, devoted to his family, hard-working and honest. There's such a keen sense of honor, duty but especially pride. A little of it's subconscious but I'm also quite aware just how much of my actions and life is geared toward gaining his approval. Problem is our personalities are mortal enemies and we hardly speak. Ironically, my Mom says I remind her most of him.

2. Growing Up Asian (American): This is a topic I'm living and discovering. I don't think anyone I'm close with knows this but it's also something I'm very sensitive about. I feel like I could ramble for hours, and I probably have at a lunch table or two. The topic can be tackled on so many levels: stories, existentially, current issues, etc. There are so many experiences I've had from subtle situational moments to blatant and hurtful racism. Academically, there are many psychological/sociological topics both historically and contemporary that I'm finding out about.

For example, the idea that Asians are this 'model minority' i.e. able to assimilate well into the culture, and statistically do well academically or in the work field. What people don't recognize is that through these, of course you're good at math, you're Asian, remarks, you cheapen the achievement by associating their intelligence with their race rather than the individual. It also devalues those who struggle with academics and who may not receive the attention they need because of preconceptions of their intelligence.

The issue I struggle with most is the "perpetual foreigner". It doesn't matter if an Asian is born here, speaks perfect English, has a sound education, and wears the same clothes -- they will almost always be perceived as foreign, either by first impression or subconsciously. Guess how many times I've been complimented on my "English skills". Not in the oratory/writing sense either, I'm positive they are referring to the incredulous, you can comprehend this conversation? I'm impressed kind of skill. How is that not insulting?

Yes, I am an immigrant, but I am also as American as any other citizen -- successful because of my own hard work, not god-given because of my race. So many questions arise... how much of our culture do we have to surrender to succeed in America, or what makes someone 'American'.

…which leads to another problem! All Asians are different. As France is different from Italy is different from Russia, likewise with China and Japan and Cambodia and the rest. India is part of Asia as well, not all Asians are Chinese.

As you can see, I am already getting carried away...

In one sense, I'm extremely passionate about this and am so eager to speak and learn more. At the same time, I don't want it to define me because I have perfectly functional mode that I use for the majority of my life and I'm not really as serious and intense as I sound when I discuss these topics.

To be honest, I really don't like confrontation.

3. Relationships: and that's enough of that -- I'm already feeling uneasy. It's something I never talk about, not even with friends.

~

Essentially, I'm afraid of being misunderstood... because how can others possibly understand my life if even I'm not sure what's really happening.

Rosehill Elementary

While walking to school, the sun is out and shining. I hop erratically on the crunchiest of leaves as my mother trails behind. A gust of wind comes and moves a hefty new set back onto the pavement, leaving me giddy with delight. The boxy, blue dress I wear moves restlessly along.

We pass by a classmate's house and I see the two brothers step outside. They are wearing the same gray-blue hue our uniforms require but with slacks. I run up to their fence, smiling and waving vigorously.

My mother is already meters ahead, with a face equivalent to a tapping foot. I run towards her laughing and tell her about all the silly boys in class. It is safe to say I was a child that talked often and plenty out loud. This to my mother was exacerbating enough.

"What do I do, what do I do…"

"What's the matta, Mum?"

"Tania," she sighs, "I can hardly make out a word you're saying."

"But you speak English, don't you Mum?"

"Yes, but not whatever you're speaking!" It's only been a few weeks since school started, and I had already adopted an accent too thick for her to understand.

School life in Sydney was worlds different than that in Manila. The first weeks I was placed in ESL. Mostly though, I remember recess.

The first days I spent exploring the grassy acres (or what seemed like acres) of our school grounds. Soon, I moved on to testing jump ropes and challenging the brass bars' tenacity with my own.

A few days later, I notice a group of girls from class giggling together by one of the trees. Up until then I'd been satisfied watching the boys playing rugby on the field -- so young but already jousting and grappling one another full bore. I leave the field and race up to this gathered group, eager and unafraid. I ask if I can join.

The faint uproar from the game echos through the grounds, contrasting starkly with the silence that has suddenly possessed the group. Eyes turn to examine me slowly head-to-toe, others stare directly at me. I leap from face to face. Their expressions ran cold, indifferent. They were waiting.

My thoughts turned inward. Shame swelled up inside me flooding my chest. I felt my legs faintly shaking, but I couldn't understand why. I began questioning my actions and myself. The classmates from my last school were all my friends -- what was so different here?

Tree branches continue swaying smoothly and the winds begin brushing our hair into our faces. Looking around, my surroundings then translate into a sea of wavving blond locks. Blue eyes. Freckles. Fair skin. I was different. So clearly different.

And the girl of impulse and fearlessness was no more.

Fate

It was my first conference in San Francisco. I was in this unreasonably fancy hotel with an ocean view and down feather beds that you would just melt inside. The first seminar, I missed (put the beds and a 7 AM wake up call together and you'll understand as well). The second seminar, I... attended (the definition of progress) but only to find that with my haste for this particular meeting I had come to neglect one of the more natural, familiar morning calls. I am referring to el baño.

The closing statements came like Christmas Eve. I skimmed the instructions on the overhead for our next assignment -- the pairing of small groups -- and bolted to the back exit. And oh did I run. Fast.

Yet somehow, not fast enough. There was an obscenely long line at the restroom lobby and I quickly made the decision to create and implement Plan B, that is run at a faster, somewhat more awkward pace to my hotel room and relieve myself there.

After accounting for elevators and hallways, people (many, many people), and the doors that forget they are doors and created to, you know, open... my little journey concluded in taking much longer than queuing with the others on the main floor.

And lo, it is no surprise on my luck to come down and recognize everyone already in groups. Leaders no longer had their makeshift signs waving in the air nor the shifting, attentive eyes that herded respective group members to their allotted space. I thought back hard on my skimming and remembered that I was in group #20, there were seven of us total, and that there was a John and a Jamie, or was it Jackie... Essentially, I knew a hopeless heap of nothing that would lead me closer to my group.

I try calling and texting roommates one by one--Kelsey, Shea, Jeane, Linda--but I can already tell from observing groups around me that they too must be in deep conversation wherever they be. I walk around the 500-some bodies as casually and composed as a wide-eyed orphan member could be when, God's grace, I receive a text from Linda giving directions to the far left corner of the main stage.

Spotting my friend, I'm anxious obviously but even more so having to interrupt this already perfectly functioning and cohesive group. All eyes are on me as I sit and give my awkward wave.

Cameron, one of the girls, finishes her story of not being accepted into her first choice university when Jerry, another student from the group, intercedes.

"I can completely relate. I wanted UCLA! Well," he points sternly at the side of his face, "straight A's and they rejected me. I was so mad. I wanted to urinate on their campus -- and I did."

Well despite the silence that followed, I laughed. Linda laughed too. That was definitely our humor. Mark the team leader tried to sweep the conversation another direction. His eyes were fixed on Jerry, reprimanding him without words. They pierced deeply, as if this routine had played itself out earlier on before.

Then I remembered the bet made between Linda and I somewhere midst our 15-hour drive from Phoenix to use my fail-proof pick-up line on an unsuspecting stranger. The main points: he would have to be a bona fide stranger and Linda must bear witness -- honor, glory and ice cream with mochi would follow.

Now I am a person of extreme self-analysis on my actions but I recognized this moment of fate if I'd ever seen one: Linda at arms length, a worthy stranger and words already halfway out from my mouth. The choice was no longer in my hands.

"Jerry, I have one question for you," I pause to glance at Linda knowingly. Her eyes dilate. "Are you a pokemon?"

"Pika?"

"Because I CHOOSE YOU."