Unlike those desperate stories of arriving in America with only $20 in their pocket, my parents did not arrive that way. My dad arrived at the age of 17 ready for college education (on his father’s wallet, no less) and then chose never to return to Hong Kong. More than a decade later, my mom arrived in style, ready for an adventure post-nursing school to spend time with her nursing school classmate and find her father. During her visit, she met her nursing school classmate’s brother, my father. Once married, they just settled in the Bay Area.

So there’s that. It’s not for the seeking of better life which was their parents—fleeing China’s cultural revolution or finding a way to make money to support the family. My parents’ generation rode on the coattails of their parents and in doing so, they diffused the cultural of struggle that would be passed to my sister and me.

What if I had lived under the burden of hatred of another race that had assassinated ours? What if I had lived under the challenges of survival—of finding shelter and food? Would that history engrained in my childhood frame my world differently? In contrast to the world where I have luxury to question my career path and friends?

“So between the 6 of us, it’s $17 each,” she said.

I hesitated, mentally calculating how much I enjoyed the last hour of company. Despite being ethnically Chinese, my ties to mainland China are nonexistent. Being polite, I remained silent and earnest through conversations of parents working hard during the Cultural Revolution and a broad sweeping statement of Chinese Americans who succeeded because of natural selection. I endured yuppie subjects about dancing until late at night and alcohol consumption. And worse off, dinners scheduling without me and people I didn’t know. But the most poignant conversation was about inviting people to events. “I only invite people who know at least 4 people invited,” one said.

I had pressed my lips together and continued a seemingly polite silence.

When the bill came, one decided to declare the split of $17. I felt the sear of inequality rip through my soul and spoke up. “Your fruit salad is $16,” I pointed out and stared at her half-eaten fruit salad, “Then your orange juice is $5. My dish was $11.95.”

“Well, I have overpaid in the past,” she defended herself.

“I am sorry that I am fussy about this,” I replied. “I have had instances where I overpaid $30.”

I wanted to add that I didn’t enjoy the company and will unlikely ever want to eat with this group. Silence descended in the group. I resisted the temptation to increase the awkwardness and digitally paid my friend the amount I owed.

“Jenn, you’re so easygoing!” a friend said after spending 10 days abroad with me and 9 others. “You’re always so calm.”

I don’t remember what I said in response, but I must have thanked her, thinking that it was a compliment. Inside, I was shocked. Me = calm? Quite certainly, I never thought of myself like that with the fury and anxiety that is at the surface for me.

But my face is deceiving. Many have said that they can’t read me. They can’t tell if I am enjoying something. They can’t tell if I absolutely hate the experience. They think that I am nice, calm, and peaceful.

Those who know me well or at least have spent a lot of time in my presence know better. If I am willing to be open. They know that I am very picky. They know that I really like things a certain way. Yet, they also know there are many things that I really don’t about at all. And they know when I am hungry, nearly anything that comes up will be perceived negatively unless I am fed. Usually a handful of fries does the trick.

And yet, how might one see me for me? Is there even a way? Is there a way to see past my silence? Or the silence that is circled with a mild smile? Or the silence that if you look closely my eyes are darting to the exit.

So for many years, my colleagues at work always seemed shocked to meet me in social non-work contexts. “She is a prankster?” they say. “And I always thought that she was so professional.”

“He looks lost,” a male engineer commented aloud as all of us were heads down.

“Yeah, what’s he looking for?” a second engineer piped up.

I looked up and saw a man walking frantically in small circles in front of the ground floor office windows. His head was shaved and he wore a light brown vest over a t-shirt. From afar, I could tell that he was Asian. He bobbed to and fro as if he was not sure which direction to go.

“A monk!” a third engineer observed a few seconds later.

I knitted my brow and quipped, “Just because he’s Asian.”

Beat.

“Well isn’t the guy with long drapey orange robes a monk?”

And there was. Right beyond the lost-looking man was a shorter man with a cleanly shaved head who calmly walked across the street when the light turned green. The man with the light brown vest followed behind with a nervous gait and I mean the man who is not a monk.

Tired of consumer devices, I decided to tackle a field that is different and impactful. Healthcare, obviously. After all, the wish that anyone should make when given by a genie is for good health.

Isn’t there anything more simple and succinct?

But as I embarked on the journey, like anyone in the health industry, I believe that I have every condition that exists. Am I pregnant? Are my achey knees suggesting early arthritis? Should I really eat that last glazed donut? Is this a heart attack? Or is it because I am allergic to something I ate 10 hours ago?

In my projects, I talk to patients. Or really people with [insert condition], because as the health community wants to emphasize: they are not defined by the condition; they are people. So I see their homes, their family, the choices they make, the everyday lives, their dialog, their devices. I aim to understand them. I think deeply about their emotions, fears, and motivations. I think about what keeps them up at night and what brings them joy.

It’s empathy. And in doing so, I find myself evaluating my fingers for tingles and my everyday headaches for symptoms. I feel the people that I speak with…so deep in my bones and in my blood. Are they now part of me too?

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing
may not ever quite work for me.

It’s the idea of “keeping things only if they bring you joy”.

I hold onto the past dearly in fear that I may forget it. That I may offend people if I let go. That the things may become useful in the future (and it has). But am I letting things hold me in prison?

The other day, I started to empty things from my closet. Yet, as I look at my shoes, a fear was daunting me. I love my chocolate flats, but despite having them fixed three times, they are now incredibly scuffed and worn. The shoemaker told me that it’s not worth fixing them. The same with my suede boots. And my sneakers, they started bursting within a year of wearing them. I could really go without all the others, but then I wouldn’t have any shoes and with that, I know how long it takes to buy them. I can’t go barefeet. And would I be compelled to shop knowing that I only want things that bring me joy? Wouldn’t it paralyze me when I shop to always be thinking if I’ll waste my money if it will be tossed away moments later?

I already have trouble buying shoes and still am dissatisfied with what I have.

If I was to have only things that bring me joy, then I wouldn’t have anything that improves my health or beauty. I would toss those things away, because they only remind me that I am beholden to what society thinks of me. I truly do not care to feel beautiful, because beauty rarely inspires me. Or even healthy, because the only thing I desire is to have energy and strength. So then what is joy if the immediate decisions affect long-term detrimental failure?

That puzzles me.

How would a person with a chronic disease tidy their life if they tossed away all their medications and needles that they would need in order to live a normal, healthy life?

I look at the people who surround me and tell myself, this is normal.

If I don’t have what they have, I think that I am abnormal and naturally want what they have. That it’s normal to be married. That it’s normal to have children. That it’s normal to own a house and a car and a well-decorated house. That it’s normal to eat organic, local foods. That it’s normal to spend more than $50 to eat a meal and drink wine. That’s normal.

But then what happens if you are against the grain? How do you fight it if you make choices that are so vastly different? What if you already choose not to drink and you just never drink? Do you remind people that you don’t drink so that you don’t get weird looks of “are you pregnant”? Do you use your full words and not match the language around you?

What if you choose to be unmarried and childless? That it’s not that you don’t believe in marriage or parenthood, it’s that you don’t believe it for yourself.

But I know that I look out at the people who surround me and I think: that’s normal. I want to be normal.

All so that they will love and accept me.

I ignore it, already warm in my bed. Any text message that arrives at this time can be answered tomorrow. Or if it’s not accessible on my computer, it’s not important right now, because I don’t want to reach for my phone right now.

But then, the doorbell rings. It is only a few things. “Where are my pants?” I say aloud to my computer.

It is silent, because I am alone in my room. My blankets are strewn all over the place and for a moment, I want to stay covered underneath my down comforter, the only thing that was allowed to stay.

It is an obligation and I find shorts. I think that I am wearing them backwards and I quickly find my flip flops underneath my junk. I open my door and turn on the lights. The stairway is filled suddenly, hopefully to let the person outside know that I am coming. I am coming, I would say, but I know the person won’t hear it.

I get to the bottom of the staircase and fling up open the door.

Outside the gate, my roommate stands, “Sorry.”

“No problem,” I say as I put one foot onto the welcome mat opening the gate. “No problem, I was here anyway. I am sorry that I ignored your text message.”

“I didn’t move here so that I can be warm,” I say about living in San Francisco. “I want it to be in the 60s all the time.”

When I wake up in the morning, I love the chilled air that seems to nip at my face, causing me to wrap myself tightly into my down blanket. It’s not that I am hiding. It’s the delicious feeling of receding sleep and the cool air brushing across my cheeks. Then I wake up. Yes, there may be a bit of goosebumps. But that’s why I have a New Zealand wool rug in my room to spare my feet with the unpleasant feeling cold hardwood floors. Then I step into slippers and slide into the bathroom. The window in the bathroom must always stay open because the room lacks a fan to air out the humidity of a shower. So the cooler air hits me and I huddle as I pee, brush my teeth, and wash my face.

I stare at myself in the mirror and feel my body warming up.

It’s warming up outside. Here is where I may depart for a job for some early morning meeting or I may slunk back to my desk, lifting open my laptop and drift my fingers over my keyboard. I resist checking Facebook and instead gaze over my email. But perhaps it’s too late, social media has taken over. I am in a flow now, browsing mindlessly and clicking 10 things you didn’t know about your life. And yes, my window is drafty. One of the two windows—the other being the bathroom window—in the apartment that is single pane because it doesn’t face the back or the front. It’s the side windows and the landlord doesn’t care how it looks and the cool air comes in anyway.

But I don’t care. My fingers are happy in the temperature. They do remember the day when the temperature had fallen to the 40s and how it froze there, unable to move, and they begged to be in a cafe. But I hesitated, loving the coolness too much and the comfort of my chair and my room.

Without a nod or examination, I plunked myself behind the last person in line. An Asian no less. Then I prepared myself for the long wait. I don’t look up anymore to watch the personalities in line.

A boy follows behind me and knowledgably goes outside the escalator.

It has always been uncomfortable surrounded by the city’s freebie go-getters and legitimate movie critics. I hear aimless conversations from someone who has never been here before. “Wow, thanks for inviting me!” he exclaims.

“Yeah, I always get here two hours early,” a voice echoes experience.

We are prepared for the long haul.

30 minutes pass. 60 minutes.

A lanky man walks around the line. “Miss, please move forward,” he says to me. “We need to get to keep the pathways clear.”

I nod and scoot forward with my laptop in my lap. The lanky man stares at the people and announces, “In five to ten minutes, I will start numbering.”

The line nods, understanding and he leaves. A box of pizza arrives. Another girl arrives and squeezes herself into the group in front of me.

Children drag chairs across the worn carpet to their spot in line, hitting Chris’ shin. He stares at them as he yelps in pain. The children don’t notice and neither does their mother. The moment passes and he rubs his shin.

Then the people in the line stand. I sense the shifting and close my laptop, thrusting it quickly into my bag. I check my phone and set it to vibrate. I pat my pockets and check my bag. Then I stand and follow the snaking line, slowly as one by one we get access into the movie theater.