Why is there traffic?
Where is everyone going?
At this hour?
Did that BMW SUV take a shortcut?
Should I follow to save time too?
Why is this Honda Accord following me so closely?
Should I be annoying and press my brakes?
Maybe I’ll change lanes?
Does she always follow everyone so closely?
If she has some parking sticker, does that mean that she’s going to San Francisco?
Why is she in a rush?
Who would drop trash in the middle of the freeway?
Was that an accident?
Why is the big company shuttle taking 280?
Do shuttle drivers get to choose the most efficient route?
Are the shuttle drivers contracted to take the same route even if it’s slow?
Is that the Honda Accord ahead?
Will I make it on time today?
Will the onigiri that I bought be enough food?
Where is the Honda Accord?
Did I just pass the Honda Accord and showed off how the deliberate tortoise wins?
Why is everyone driving?
Really?
Why are there four police motorcycles passing through
Where are they going?
Will they pull anyone for being an obnoxious driver?
How many people noticed the police motorcycle?
Where is the Honda Accord?

In my dreams, I am flying. From foot to foot. Hands swinging. I am moving across the floor. Flowing with the music. I glide, I step, I kneel. It’s all synchronized, it’s all perfect.

But then you see, I wake up. My childhood dream of being a dancer (and singer) completely left me the moment that I started classes. Ballet was horrifying as I couldn’t understand what it meant to move with the rhythm and bend my knees. Turn left didn’t make sense. Separate the feet while moving my arms was an impossible mountain to climb. Likewise, in chorus, my voice came out as a whisper. As I soon learned in my piano lessons, I don’t have sense of rhythm. In my head, I heard the music but my body didn’t feel the beat. It just wanted to move whatever way it wanted.

Some may say that it was the lack of training or the fear of embarrassment that I never improved.

But then when I fall into my dreamworld, I can dance. When I watch youtube videos, I am mesmerized by the elaborate choreography. I see myself in them, gliding across the floor. I am the smiling chick, the douchey guy, the big party rapper.

I am on the dance floor at weddings. I regularly attended 80s night (until I started being annoyed by obnoxious people).

More than ten years ago, a friend and I passed by a student group blaring pop music across a field. “How disruptive,” she said.

Her words didn’t register with me. Instead, I lightly swayed my hips and said, “It makes me want to dance.”

On Friday night, I visited my parents for dinner. After dinner, I helped my mom fill out a screening questionnaire for a potential research study (she loves those things because the incentive can be quite generous). Then we came upon this question:

Describe what happiness means to you.

She struggled for several moments and asked me to type her dictation. Something along the lines of “to be satisfied, to not want”. The question requested for 5-7 lines. She had two and I pressed her to come up with a few more. Eventually, she asked me to fill it for her.

I said no, do you want me to leave to give you privacy?

No, she said. And after I ad-libbed a few more words, she was able to come up with three lines.

But what is happiness? And do most people have trouble to describe the word in words? Even succinctly? Like my mom?

After writing every day for so long, I have gotten in the habit of letting words pour out. Pour endlessly and trust that I will be able to edit it later. (Or not as I usually do.) But with that question, I could imagine many answers. From cliched — to have shelter, health, and food. From spiritual — a bright light beating shining around me. From emotional imagery — the way that I feel when I stand underneath bright sunlight, the warmth brushing across my skin reminding me that I am still here. From memories — just like how as a kid my father handed me a bowl of ice cream, the right amount, the right temperature, all delivered with a loving smile.

What makes it difficult to describe something so simple? When I can easily create those words?

Or that some people naturally think more than others? That words become easily our form of expression? What if you’re a person where expression was so limited and you were never invited to express? And so you never developed that skill to get other people to understand you? That the words that you spoke were all that existed? How trapped that would be for me to be constrained in a box of no words, no language, no flexibility, no windows.

Now beyond the torment of my 20s, I ponder about my roots. Why did my parents come to the United States? What was it like for my grandfather when he passed through when he was young on his way to Peru? What did my family think about all the non-Chinese people here? How was it like to be in a land where Cantonese was not spoken? What was strange to them? Why did my uncle’s brother open a Chinese restaurant in the middle of nowhere in Michigan? Did it feel like betrayal?

I know some of the answers. The most common answer: opportunity. But what was it like to be somewhere they had never been before, knowing that they never would return…or even want to return to their childhood home?

But perhaps there’s no answer. Their home in China was not the same anymore after the Cultural Revolution. But the question remains. I am at that age where I find it difficult to uproot myself and start over somewhere else. And maybe that’s luck and luxury here. I am content with what I have and if I do uproot myself, it would only because the momentum was caused by something exterior to me—fellow peers, the rejection of this American society, my comfort disconnected, or just fleeing something so inconsequential.

And so quite naturally, I was intrigued by The Fortune Cookie Chronicles—an exploration about the history of simple post-meal treat in American Chinese restaurants. Here’s the spoiler: it does not originate from China.

Then today, I saw Searching for General Tso, a documentary film exploring the history of General Tso’s Chicken. Much like the fortune cookie, it didn’t quite originate in China. Rather, it wasn’t even a dish eaten by General Tso, but a dish originally named for the chef’s role model of integrity and strength.

For me, I have felt uncomfortable with the mix of American culture and Chinese culture. I am born here in the United States. Yet, I am not quite white-washed, but I am not the enamored of the Chinese culture. When I was younger, I rejected the entire culture—it was the other. The proof that I couldn’t blend in with my Caucasian-dominant school and the curly brunette girls (who oddly were Jewish) who teased me mercilessly. But in school, we read books like the Under the Mango Tree and Woman Warrior, books of Asian culture, but that didn’t appease me. I was awkward and couldn’t relate to the characters. My parents, being Westernized and raised Catholic in Hong Kong (a British colony during their childhood) lacked much Chinese superstition. 4 wasn’t a bad number and nor was 8 a good number. Ghosts didn’t haunt us at night. I didn’t even know all of this until I read The Joy Luck Club. And eating Chinese food was my least favorite thing—instead I preferred spaghetti with meatballs and tacos.

Who was I? I always keep reminding myself that I am just me. Of all the experiences, it’s difficult for anyone to categorize me as an ethnicity or a nationality. I am made out of my experiences. And so when I hear the question “where are you from?” I hesitate and say only my current home: “San Francisco”.

It was approximately 10:10 when the plane touched the tarmac at LAX and my flight to SFO was in 45 minutes. The plane slowly taxied to its assigned gate. I looked outside studying the numbers of gates on the outside. 72. 71. 70. My SFO gate 76 should be there somewhere. Somewhere.

The plane was already 30 minutes late.

I could feel my head tense, plotting my escape from the window seat of the 21st row. Do I push my way forward, demanding to let through, past the haughty passengers of first class and economy plus? Do I yell shamelessly about my plight in catching my connecting flight.

10:15 PM.

The plane connected with the gate and I heard the swish of the door. And the rustling of passengers. The click of the seatbelt and I stared in front, silently begging that passengers be noble in their pursuit of deboarding. No blocking the aisle. They want to get out of the metal tube as much as I did. This ain’t vacation. So hurry it up.

I check the United app again. 10:27 it said when the boarding would end. Did my credit card cover this? Did I use my Chase card to cover this flight? How will I make it to the 11:00 AM meeting? Would I even be able to sleep if I had to stay in LA? I mean…

I tapped messages to Chris who was relaxing at the SFO lounge. “I might be stuck in LA,” I wrote.

10:19 PM.

Time always moves slowly in moments of anxiety. My fellow neighbors noticed my fidgeting and said kindly, “Please. Go ahead.”

I thanked them profusely as I pushed forward. My backpack swinging and a paper bag teetering in my left hand. With a swift motion, I grabbed my rollaway. In the rush, I pulled the handle up and dropped it. I picked it up. Buckled my backpack so that it was firmly against my body. In preparation. I tailgated people in front of me, trying to be respectful, but now inhaling deeply for the next moments.

10:22 PM

I spin to my left upon entering the terminal. And ran. I sprinted, my eyes following the signs for gates 70 – 79. Swaying left, then another left turn, down the gate, pass the eateries, past gate 70, past gate 71. I wondered what people thought as I had never ran as hard as I have in the last 20 years. Dying like Peter Gregory in HBO’s Silicon Valley crossed my mind, but a hippo isn’t chasing me. My bag flew with me and I felt

But then within a minute, I just couldn’t run any longer. I slowed down to a walk. I realized my gate 76 was all the way at the end. I took a deep breath and jogged now at a slower pace. In the distance, I saw the gate. A lone man stood there, waiting. Was that the final boarding call?

10:27 PM

“Is it still open?” I asked breathlessly.

“Yes!”

I struggled to get my digital boarding pass up. “Am I the last one to board?” I asked and placed my iPod touch on the scanner.

“I think so,” he said in calm tone.

I walked now and the attendants smiled at me. “Be careful with your bag,” one said as I swung around the corner, still breathing hard.

“I have the window seat,” I said, upon arriving at row 23.

“You made it,” my seat partner said. “You made it.”

10:35 PM

I started wondering if this story was even interesting, knowing that I was never the only one that experienced travel struggles.

But I sighed instead and started watching the free entertainment provided on the plane.

Every time, I know that it’s a bad idea. But I do it anyway. And besides, I rarely failed. I want to catch the 9:02 am train.

I look at the clock. It’s 8:49 am. “Quick!” I say. “We need to leave. Now.”

I stumble out of my building and hastily jaywalk to the parked car across the street.

The traffic builds on Cesar Chavez as expected. There are the slow cars. The trucks that seem to pause at yellow lights. The daring cyclist that speeds past us on our right.

It’s 8:56 am now, and we haven’t gone through the underpass yet. “I might miss it,” I say outloud.

The traffic clears after the underpass as most cars speed onto the freeway. This is the most flexible part. Can we make the lights? Can we dodge the cars who are lost in this warehouse district? I mentally calculate how fast I would have gotten if I was on bike, but push that thought aside. I ponder about the next train, which I have never planned for. This is the last fast train in the morning, and I remind myself that I don’t need to ever arrive on time.

It’s 8:59 am now, and the car in front of us pauses too long. It misses the safe left turn light. As we wait, I hope that no train passes in front of me so that the presence would mock me. As traffic flows and ebbs, the tracks are silent.

It’s 9:00 am and we roar in the rightmost lane as a truck in the left lane seems to thoughtfully contemplate driveways. That turn? That driveway? In the distance, I spot the cafe. People are moving slow. Does that mean the train hasn’t arrived yet? We swing into the bus lane. “The locks!” I say, as I struggle to open the door in a car we never drive.

I bid farewell and run. Run as fast I could in my flats down the stairs, fearful of toppling down like a rock. I wave my arms in the air, hoping the conductor will see me and take pity. Is that really my last passenger? Really? I smack my wallet at the machine and it beeps.

The conductor says aloud as I rush into the doors, “We have to go.”

I run up to the steps of the train car. I breathe deeply in the aisle as I find an open seat. I scold myself for being late again. But I feel a relief and pleasure wash over me as I text the words, “I made it.”

There’s something special about this photo. Something precious about it that made me pause when it was posted on Facebook. There’s a good friend who is expecting and eating pizza. There’s Chris wearing a quinessential dinosaur t-shirt (this one is about how great it is to be an onomnomnom-saurus). Then there’s me, being opinionated and making awkward jokes.

Behind us are baby photos of guests present at the party. In the shade of all, we are chatting, resting. I don’t know exactly when the photo was taken, but I was feeling itchy. I don’t always meld that well with people in San Francisco. While socializing, I have tired completely of small talk, of the introductory who-are-you-and-this-is-who-i-am. Instead, I floated from food table to food table, looking for the cupcake or piece of fruit. I would offer mild comments to people nearby, but I wouldn’t enter into deeper conversation.

The baby photos was one of the activities. To vote for the best hair, looking like going to poop, best tool, etc. But there’s only so much you can do while staring at photos of babies. After awhile, I didn’t want to look like a creep, admiring the younger version of ourselves. So I sat down and begged Chris to sit next to me while we people watched. And the guest of honor sat next to us. One of those rare moments like at a wedding when we reminiscenced about when and where. I remember the day we met on the first day of graduate school orientation. Not spectacularly about the moment that we likely shook hands and exchanged names. But how we took a bus to Target to buy household supplies with two other classmates. We all momentarily sat outside on the sidewalk. She and I joked about something. And for a moment, I remember thinking, I have achieved a life that I wanted to have. Just to have normal, healthy friendships.

And it has been that ever since. It has been more than 10 years since that day in August 2004. We love food and we love to have fun.

I took a swift right on 23rd, speeding up and anticipating that a car would catch up. In front of me, the sun was setting and the sky was red. “Red at night, sailor’s delight,” I whispered to myself while breathing hard as I rolled across the street.

My lights—the one on my helmet and my bike—bounced up and down the street. Its white light brightened the creeping darkness. Then I missed it and my wheel ran directly into a broken piece of the road. One that was more vertical than horizontal. My eyes widened and I teetered on my bike, fearful of the incoming traffic that was already zooming at the green light.

To my surprise, I held my balance and continued down the road.

I wondered if I had a heart problem, would I be incapable of telling my body that it was going to be okay? Like a previous roommate who suffered in an adjacent room after the last big earthquake? But I was healthy even with my seasonal hay fever and myopia. I lived a rather uneventful healthy life. Forgetting to be thankful, because this is my normal.

And so I rode on with no care.

At the light, I stopped with my feet on the ground. When it turned, I pedaled slowly to get to a comfortable speed. A young man crossed the street from the opposite direction. He was dressed in black clothing. As I huffed across the intersection, he yelled, “Need a push?”

“Huh?” I said, not understanding.

“Need a push?” he repeated.

I rolled my eyes and pedaled quickly. “Only if you can catch up,” I yelled back, wondering how fast I could pedal.

And I sped for 2 more blocks until I hit the next light, wondering if he was coming up to push me.

Society prefers public shows of joy and emphasizes the private moments of despair.

On Youtube, there are videos of wedding celebrations and baby’s first steps. And even with sadness, it’s a focus on the happy things—the perfect, good memories. Yet, it’s unhealthy, of course, to dwell in unhappiness, to let its burden sink the soul. And I can find so little about specifics of what went wrong and how it went wrong.

A few days ago in a search for a tax accountant, I came across yet another SF-type startup that would connect me with professionals. I quickly put together a bid. After I submitted, I browsed through the website, looking at video testimonials and recent transactions. Then I saw a name and face that I hadn’t seen since my college days. A person who had represented the ideal life an adult. Happily married, having fun, satisfied jobs. In college, I admired the union, perfection and mutual support. That could be me, one day, I thought then.

In college, she took a photo of a mural in Chinatown. I had taken the same photo too a few months before she posted it. And I wanted to know how she did it so well.

So I naturally clicked on the video expecting a tirade of advertising for the service. To my shock, she said, “I am a single mom.”

After college, I had forgotten about her and her husband, finding other goals. But far back in my mind, I always wondered. How can one pursue art with support? How can one be happy in relationships? They did it, after all. So I searched the Internet curious about what happened. But nothing popped up. All I found was delicious content that if made today would naturally spread virally. The alternative way to marriage and all of that.

And yet, in the photo and video, she hid all of that. She was herself, without the partner. All happiness and the spunk.

And whatever despair, there was, it was hidden. Gone. Because everyone wants to celebrate joy. And not frown at broken moments where we need help the most.