One Word. Encapsulate the year in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2016 for you?

The one word that captures this year (from 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011 and 2010):

Goal

Last year, I described the year of progress, but with so many trials and tribulations. But this year, I personally have achieved goals that I had set for myself. They weren’t dangerously high, but they were achievable. Like finding a steady gig. Submitting a proposal for a talk (and getting accepted!. Network in order to get those gigs easily. Give talks. Organize my closets. Finish the book (well I am actually now really close!) Revise the nanowrimo story. Get one good product out from a gig that I can discuss on my portfolio.

I actually did it.

Even though it wasn’t evident on the surface, I did it all. And I did more.

There was a fortune in a fortune cookie that said that I would meet someone who would change my path (for better?). I excitedly met everyone for the next month, hoping that someone miraculous would land in my lap. Until I forgot about it a month later. But every single person I meet has been insightful and interesting. Maybe just because of the heightened interest and hope.

A friend once told me that I had potential if I only focused. Although today, I question whether that friend was truly a friend, I wonder if that’s completely true? So then was the year 2015 a year where I actually applied myself? Or rather that I believed in myself?

I would love 2016 to be the year of confidence.

For years, my sister has been invited to grand weddings. Her close friends ask her to be the bridesmaids. These events are huge galas. Extravagant. All encompassing. There is drama, of course. Then there is the parading. The beauty and the memory.

And then there are my friends. Of course, there’s the usual traditional wedding. But my close friends? By coincidence, many want to have a private wedding. The kind that is at city hall. A small dinner with only immediate family. The only change is the facebook status. A wedding? A financial nonsense.

How do our friends describe who we are as people?

“What are your pet peeves?” I asked a potential roommate.

“Oh well, like leaving tea bags on the counter. Once, my previous roommate would leave tea bags on the counter. It was disgusting! I think that he started doing it to annoy me.”

I chuckled at the time.

In three days, I told her that I chose someone else.

Rules were the killer of my younger self. That is, my life was driven by rules. That I couldn’t cross the line. That I couldn’t go to the bathroom when I wanted to go. That I couldn’t just eat dessert for dinner.

When given freedom in college, I was shocked by all the freedom. That I didn’t have to go to class. That I didn’t have to eat greenery. That I could actually go to the bathroom during class (and not get scolded)! That I could sleep in, eat whatever I wanted, and let my room degrade into messiness.

And yet. Perhaps that’s the bane of being an adult. The rules that I learned as a child were made for an ideal, organized life. And if I wanted to live a healthy life, I know how to do so. And yet what about those people who don’t even have that kind of knowledge—that their entire life has been filled with filth, unhealthy food, and general bad habits.

Are they adult? But perhaps in better terms, they never knew better. That it’s okay to flake on someone. That it’s okay to cross the light when it’s not green. That it’s okay to live among dirty takeout containers. That it’s okay to eat unhealthy food all the time.

I always relish being an adult. To have the power to make choices. At least in the world where I live (with privilege). If there’s something I paid for, I can just demand my money back and walk away. If there’s something that i don’t like, I can say so.

But what about those who don’t have that privilege?

“And so I realized that I wanted to write,” I said, bracing myself for the usual response and regretting that I was telling the truth about my freelancing.

“So you’re writing the next Great American novel?” he responded.

It was a breath of fresh air.

The caltrain was late. Delayed is the better definition. Above the crowd on the train platform, a sign scrolled messages “60 to 90 minutes delayed”. Fatality, it said, fatality. And all around me, fellow passengers scrolled through their phone, talking to headless voices, or stroking messages to a very important person.

The chill was strong tonight. I curled my fingers underneath my cream-colored prana jacket, feeling the fleece and the wool. Other people moaned about the delays. I texted all the people I was supposed to have texted in the last week—arranged a dinner this week, got in touch with a friend who was traveling, informed a colleague that the train was late, and message Chris about my plight. I wanted to let my fingers to dance across the keyboard of my laptop, to let ideas pour out into my nanowrimo project. But instead, I stood there, shivering.

I recognized a friend and called him over. I learned about his plan for Belize and the regret that he had for waiting. After 30 minutes of waiting, he suggested Uber to Millbrae. But I shook my head, gesturing to my bike and thinking of the $50+ it would take me to get to the city. “I am okay, standing here,” I said.

“I am going to go,” he said.

And so I waited for 90 more minutes until I ran into another colleague. “You wasted an hour,” he said.

“But what would I have done if I got home?” I said. “Probably just screwed around.”

In this city, if a man isn’t wearing the right clothes, I suspect something off when he opens the door for people. The same way when I see someone standing behind my car as I struggle to parallel park. “Got any change?” a man asked the moment that I opened my car door when I was younger.

And then I understood. Small acts of kindness were not free. Not to these people who with an entrepreneurial spirit found a way for financial success.

As I wandered into the Metreon, a man was racing back and forth to open the doors as people approached. He opened the middle right door as I approached. But out of discomfort, I darted to the far right and grasped a handle at the last minute to open my door. Despite the fact that his door was closing upon me.

I couldn’t trust him.

Behind me, I scanned the unsuspecting pedestrians. A woman with a stroller nodded gratefully. But that was all as more young people poured into the Metreon to watch movies.

Were the lights green? Or was it red? I wasn’t sure.

What I was watching was the black bird standing nonchalantly in the sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare in Mountain View. Cars speed through here quickly, wanting to return to the office in Silicon Valley. But here was the black bird trying to grasp a small boject in its beak. Then it flapped its wings and flew upward to the traffic light, perching on the pole.

By some fat, the object dropped out of its beak. Without pause, the bird swooped down and found it again. Pecking at the ground until it had the object solidly in its beak. I was quite certain that the light was green and all the speeding cars would not see it. And this is how another animal ends up dead on the road.

The sun is setting behind the luxury apartments, and I watched the black bird from the office window, my seat now pushed to the edge since my desk was taken from me. But then the bird lifted upward. To another traffic light pole, where it jumped up to the peak of the traffic light as the top light, the red one, was lit. Its beak moved almost violently and quieted. The object was within the body know. It sat there for several minutes longer, gazing at the intersection. And then I looked downward to my computer and it was no longer there any more.

For San Francisco’s annual Journey to the End of the Night, I played a character at the Resurrection Checkpoint.

Now, I have never been an extrovert. Because quite naturally, I am not. But this role was to pretend to be someone else. So with my sister’s discarded black feather wings, I was Black Swan or on that night, I was DANCER. And I loved it so much, to play and improv. Never did I once tire (except of the players who didn’t get the roles). I am not a great actor by any means, but to create a story from scratch was a joy.

For over 600 people, as they approached me, I was Dancer. A sad dancer who wanted to change careers and was looking for someone who wasn’t first place. Someone who ate processed meats. Something that appeared in casing. It is within some squishy white thing. At a place that starts with a N. A contest. It’s Coney Something. It’s Nueva York. That did something special on that special holiday. The special holiday that had those big booms booms. Boom Boom, I shouted.

“Can you help me find him?” I said dramatically as I pirouetted and plied. “Can you help me figure out that holiday? Is it 2nd of June? It doesn’t sound right. Do you know the answer? Do you know what food this is? The food that supposedly causes cancer? Can you help me find him? I want to change careers. From a career that forces me to stay thin and eat little. To a career where I can indulge in gluttony. Where is he?”

Players squinted their eyes and scribbled on their papers. They were dressed in black, running shoes. Some were fairies. Some wore leather. One pair was dressed as pikmin. And so many more… “That’s such a sad story,” the empathetic ones said. “You’re imaginative,” one said. “Do you mean Second Place?” the smart ones exclaimed.

“Yes!” I said. “That’s him! Thank you! Can you please talk to him and tell him that I am looking for him. I can’t leave here. I am stuck in limbo, but I think that you can get out.”