I am the rare San Franciscan who declares the current weather (a fine 55°F) to be perfect.

“It was perfect for cycling,” I said yesterday when my roommate lamented how it chilly it was.

That’s not to say that when I am at my desk in my apartment that my fingers feel awfully numb. But the comfort that I don’t have to fling off layers of blankets and can wrap myself in a burrito in my down blanket…is so satisfying.

I love my long-sleeved clothes anyway. The way it drapes and wraps around my body, cuddling and holding me, sort of like how I prefer sleeping on my stomach.

This is the weather I prefer.

The weather should be at this temperature in San Francisco, but global warming (or some other natural weather phenomenon) has prevented the weather from being like this. I like it when the air is crisp. My apartment keeps a different temperature than the outside. It will always be warmer than the outside. It will be cooler than the outside. Naturally due to its lack of air circulation. As a result though, sometimes in my room, I want to curse the designer of the apartment. Because in warm weather, the air halts and does not move. It suffocates, and I turn on a fan, but it does nothing.

It’s a crisp weather now. The feeling that an apple has been cut, and the juice spills out. It’s almost like a feeling of wetness, but not quite. I love to sleep in this weather, and when I spring to my step on the cool hardwood floors, I am reminded that it’s not summer anymore. Then when I walk into the bathroom tile, I tiptoe, because my sole is cold. When I crawl back into bed, my soles are icicles as I cross my legs underneath the blanket. But I run hot nowadays, and my body temperature warms my soles. And I slip underneath the covers, ready to wake up for a cool morning.

A long time ago, I had envisioned my memoir to be titled “The girl in the corner”.

At the time, I was enamored with the fact that I was an outsider. That nobody really could understand me. But interestingly, in truth, that wasn’t who I wanted to be. The title was meant to represent my uneasy silence, as a result of being afraid of what other people said to me. My belief then was that being silent was better than not speaking up at all. It also too was representing how I wanted to have my back protected, perhaps with walls. And also at a location that allowed me to observe everyone freely.

I want to honor my thoughts of my younger self. But I could not do that title. Because is the girl in the corner really who I am?

Today, someone mentioned (like many have mentioned in passing), “You don’t seem afraid of public speaking.”

My dear, you’re so wrong.

It’s not that my fingers would tremble. It’s not that my voice would shake. It’s that my voice was never loud enough (cue people yelling me to speak up, but anxiety would keep my volume too low; thank you for the invention of microphones). It’s that my words tumbled out as incoherent sentences, and I was worried that people would ask me to clarify, but I couldn’t clarify to their satisfaction.

Until one day, I realized that people don’t care. Most importantly, I started hating it when people spoke for me. I wanted to separate myself—to put my anxious self to sleep while operating my conscious, intentional self on stage. I didn’t like when someone didn’t express clearly what I wanted or how I believed the words should be stated. And that was when I made the leap.

Because nobody could express my thoughts and ideas better than I could.

People often say that I am super talkative and friendly in person. But I don’t know how I cultivated that. They don’t know how much I had struggled in school in building and maintaining friendships. How futile my attempts were in saying “I like your pen!” because I had read in a self-help book that would be a key to starting a conversation. The self-help book didn’t provide any instruction to what happened to the opening statement. But the interesting thing was that it didn’t matter.

I tell myself that I want to do what I love. That I hope by doing what I love would be impactful to someone out there. I am Jenn. I am not defined by the past. But rather the future. That’s the story I tell myself now.

“Let me add you on Facebook!” I said.

It was the easiest resort. She was a friend of a friend or a friend of a friend of a friend. So finding her was easier on Facebook. Rather than being regulated to email only or phone number only. Isn’t this what cool kids do nowadays? I thought to myself. Because quite naturally, I wanted to be cool.

There was this tinge of anxiety that pricked me: what if it turns out to be this awkward one-time add. And then we would drift in each other’s social media spheres without ever touching again? It would be so much like the times that I added someone “because we could go on bike rides together!” or “let’s hang out when we’re back in San Francisco!” But the inertia was lost.

I wanted to make sure the inertia was not lost. And after all, we weren’t dating. It’s NOT a romantic relationship. It’s two people collaborating. And I knew for a fact that we each both had our own significant others. So it felt good.

But then I sent the message to initiate. And then nothing. I saw the “Seen” notification show. I waited one day. Two days. Three days. And then…

Like many in this digital age, many things ran through my mind:

Which obviously became…

It was annoying how I could feel myself transform quickly. As I wistfully saw Instagram and Facebook updates. All I wanted was collaboration. All I wanted was that. I would look at those posts, and it bugged me. Admiration turned into fear. Fear turned into hate. And I absolutely hated every post.

But I know myself now. I can see the path of my emotions. Some would call that maturity. I call that $3000+ worth of mental health and exercises. So I took deep breath and thought what’s the worst that can happen? If I do nothing, nothing happens. If I ask one time, there’s a likelihood that nothing happens. But there’s a chance that something will happen.

So I took the leap and asked. It happened. As for her posts, they’re cool again.

Although I only peeled myself out of my bed shortly after 10 am (after an hour of meandering through the Internet and getting lost through clickbait articles and sudden inspiration from Cheryl Strayed and oddly enough, the zola twitter story), I suddenly thought: what if.

I ate my breakfast—a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs, thyme pear & potato hash—that I made yesterday. I prepared a mug of tea, leaves from Boba guys, chocolate honey from a family farm in Marin, and Kirkland lactose-free milk. I read the first issue of Peeps—a story of Chinese “losers”, a population that the mainland Chinese government believe is dragging down the economy. Then I reorganized my scarfs, jackets, and two drawers. I put away my clean laundry and cleared my desk. I put on my power music mix, the kind that I hope will blend into the background. Then I think now that I sit down, I will get many things done.

At least, that’s how my days start where I think that I can do many things.

Background: I had been in Brazil, and my roommate notified me that the landlord left a rent increase notice. But there was no way I could handle it effectively from afar. And the moment I touched in the United States, I started research. When I was in LAX during a layover, I texted my downstairs neighbor to investigate. Did he get an increase too? Or was the landlord just targeting me?

Then the following conversation ensued…while I was delirious from lack of sleep on a red-eye 11-hour flight from Sao Paulo, Brazil.

Me: And it’s too bad that our landlord is increasing the rent
Him: He told me if I made out with him he wouldn’t raise my rent
Me: What??
Him: He said I’m the best kisser in the house though
Me: That sounds like sexual abuse. If you report it, you might get free rent for the rest of your life

I haven’t had a regular conversation with my downstairs neighbor yet. Beyond mild morning greetings when we pass each other through the front gate.

I have always been satisfied that if I stick my hand out, I know what it will be. I know the texture, the temperature, the weight. I am satisfied with the known. The unknown that remains is okay.

But what if it is all unknown? What if when I stick my hand out, I don’t know what will land there? That I won’t know if it’s heavy or light. Or rough or smooth? Or hot or cool?

To not know the touch and the needed adjustments to anticipate.

That is a strange process for me. I usually have known. Doubt never crossed my mind. But there are rare moments when I don’t know, but it’s the most exciting thing ever.

It’s not just uncomfortable. It’s also the awareness that the anxiety was irrational and unneeded.

But I felt the deep pit in my stomach anyway. I felt its dark grip—not ever overwhelming, always manageable—on my body, spreading and taking hold of all actions I wanted to take. Like a spider seeping its venom and paralyzing all the nerves that controlled muscles. I could see and hear, but inside, I felt trapped.

In my dream, like many real-life situations, I was in a public space. Surrounded by people I wanted to impress. And whatever the event was, an opportunity suddenly open for my input. Was it make a valid suggestion? Was it to ask a question? I don’t remember.

What I do remember is the dark spider paralyzing those muscles to stand up and speak. A bright light wanted to say something, to shout and release the ideas. But it was trapped. And in my body, to appease the dark spider, I soothed the dark spider by telling myself that it wasn’t important anyway. And the bright light grew softer and softer. Until it was dimmed into nothingness, leaving a small piece of regret behind.

In Brazil, unlike many places, people were satisfied with my answer to where are you from?

I say “Americana” if I want to establish that I speak English fluently and am unsure whether the speaker even understands English. I say “San Francisco” if the speaker speaks English fluently to differentiate myself from other English speakers and to suggest my interests (food), world perspective (progressive in the sense of San Francisco), and professional background (techy).

It was one of the few countries where I wasn’t questioned about my origin. Where limited by their fluency in our “common” language—be it sparse words in English or gestures, they wanted to ask “where are you really from?” Sometimes, I would play dumb and insist that I was American or San Franciscan. But from time to time, I do say, “my parents grew up in Hong Kong” to appease people’s interests. And no, I don’t speak Japanese.

Because of that, I felt at ease in Brazil. While in Sao Paulo, during a lunch break from the conference, I wandered on my own (probably to the fear of fellow attendees who have been educated that SP is a very dangerous place) to local malls. Within minutes, I found myself ushered up escalators to sprawling food courts. English potatoes, the Brazilian style of Japanese food, the grill bbq, the sandwiches, the hamburguesas, the American fast food, the everything. As I walked, there were Asians. They had the ABC look. The kind that wasn’t quite fobby—their manner of walking and speaking was very Western, or perhaps, here clearly South American. Expressive, emotion, nothing held back. But I knew that staring at them, they were at their core, very Brazilian as they chatted with coworkers in fluent Portuguese. Most likely gossiping about work, about their colleagues, about the usual things that I would on a lunch break. I really blended in. And even too, throughout my trip, Brazilians asked me for directions, for confirmation (is this the right line?) and the usual things you would ask strangers. I would always have to answer hesitantly with my poor command of Portuguese: falo ingles

But only twice. And although it seems quite racist, two dark-skinned Brazilians came up to me on two separate occasions and said something. Almost leering at me making me grasp my belongings closer to my chest. The first time I had to ask him repeatedly what he said until I picked up the word that seemed to mean Japanese. The second time the tour guide had to explain that I didn’t speak Japanese and was not Japanese. “Why would he ask that?” I said annoyed.

“Because there’s many Japanese in Brazil,” she said and shrugged.

I wish people would stop and wonder first.

Transportation
Taxis: 4
Taxi called by 99 taxis, the uber of Brazil: 1
Planes (including layovers): 11
Subway: ~8
Buses: 22
Tour buses: 3
Airport buses: 2
Failed attempts to take airport buses: 2
Failed attempts to take subway: 1
Cable Cars: 2
Train up a mountain: 1
Rental car: 4 days
Walking: Moderate in comparison to trips in Italy, Turkey, and New York
Boats: 5
Boats under crushing waterfalls: 2
Passenger ferries: 2
Kayak: 1
Bikes (that were so-so quality): 4

Living Quarters
Hotel: 2
Airbnb: 3
Airbnb that turned out to be a hostel: 1
Pousada: 1
Locations with loud music: 1
Location that lacked AC: 1
Locations with ceiling fan: 3
Locations without breakfast: 1

Activities
Beaches (touching the sand and dipping into the water): 5
Average hours of sleep per day: 5
Times Chris and I were separated for more than an hour: 4
Bitten by mosquitos and the insane black fly: 30+
Expensive meal of $100+ USD per person: 1
Meals less than $10 USD per person: Many
Time tricked into buying something unnecessary: 1

I never thought about my ethnicity that much until I visited Vancouver as an adult a few years ago.

My parents are from Hong Kong. That is, at least, my mom was born and raised there. My dad, like many Chinese at the time, arrived in Hong Kong as a child, fleeing the Cultural Revolution with his family. He has faint memories of mainland China, barely recognizable for concrete real memories. Whatever the case, the language came with them to the United States and growing up, that was the dialect I knew.

It is language of the local chinatown—in Oakland and in San Francisco. But the big difference was to all the people we encountered there was that after we finished the grocery shopping, the dim summing, and hob nobbing…we returned to suburbia. There was barely any Cantonese classmates at my school and granted, it was mostly Caucasian. But the few Chinese classmates, they were from Taiwan. Rich, elaborate and we spoke English of course.

The few that were Cantonese were the ones that made some deal to attend the schools in my area. Whether it was to use a local address to qualify for education even though their house was miles away in a lower income neighborhood. Or that their parents still worked in blue collar jobs unlike the professional jobs of engineer and nurse that my parents worked.

But the differences in my own subtle privilege never came to light until I was in Vancouver. I had always referred to the city as Hong Kong 2. Visiting at the age of 10 and 20 with my family, the city was so annoyingly Asian. It felt like Hong Kong and I didn’t want to be there, being dragged from Chinese restaurants to Chinese restaurants to Chinese relatives to Chinese relatives. But when I returned at the age of 30, it was different. I was around people who were yes Cantonese, and from Hong Kong, but they were highly educated and embedded well in society. They were not stuck in blue collar jobs, forever hoping that someone will break through the barrier. They already had broken that barrier.

Educated people beget educated people.

Perhaps.

I learned that I unconsciously seek people like myself. If I don’t find any, I feel awful and cannot explain why. And I don’t mean just people who look like me, but people of similar background. It explains why when in Berlin, I was stuck with a very uncomfortable otherness that I couldn’t even articulate until I set foot on US soil. That nearly all minorities, even Chinese, were behind service encounters asking me in German, Did I want one or two?