Swing of the wand
you wish to change me.

Why can’t you?
Why can’t you stop
wishing to swing your
broken wand
on me?

The past weekend, inspired by a friend’s attempt to write poetry, I was inspired to look at my own poetry. Particularly the ones that I had written in 2005. The ones that captured my wistful emotion and desperation for…love.

Particularly this one. It’s more than 7 years later and I remember who I wrote this about. He was tall, gawky, Asian, a game designer. His aura was like a video game—sound effects rampant, common phrases, colors. His favorite store was Diesel—for months, he tried to convince me why $70 for a pair of jeans worked just fine.

He once told me, “I can entertain myself while you shop.”

I don’t shop. I typically don’t care enough about my appearance to care.

But in that year, I almost cared. Each criticism, each demand dug at my soul. It was in this poem, I was starting to realize that I didn’t deserve the treatment. It took me an additional 12 months to be stronger again by someone who believed.

The last time I saw him was at the Riott Music Festival in November 2006 in the lobby. He was standing with two shorter friends. Out of courtesy, I walked up to him and said hello, exchanging pleasantries. He had purchased a condo in SOMA. I had just moved to San Francisco. How are you? Fine, thank you.

The wand, now 7 years later, has lost its magic.

“You will be punished if you go to the bathroom during class,” the teacher cautioned us.

That’s what I could remember as one of the many traumatizing moments in my childhood. One of the many that may have led to my social anxiety as an adult. For why I am suddenly frozen in place when wanting to poke my head above the crowd or to order food at a bar without alcohol. I am seized by fear that I will be punished just like the overwhelming feeling I had as a 6 year old.

What was more traumatizing was how I needed to go one day. But I didn’t want to be punished. In the logic of a child, I could only see two choices: 1. Go to the bathroom and be punished. 2. Hold in until class ended.

Neither was ideal as I really had to go. And I didn’t want to be like little Bobby who wet his pants in class. My stomach really hurt. And I was caught in a web of anxiety…and high distress.

I was impressed with myself—I was able to be drift alone and not be overwhelmed with social anxiety. That day, I agreed (after a friend’s persistence) to accompany him to tubing down Russian River. With more than 50 of us, we launched from a beach in our inner tubes, most were packed with ample beer, weed and mineral water. Most people held onto each other—forming large floats almost like the trash in the Pacific.

Not particularly finding anyone interesting, I was content to float by myself. Sure, there was the ihatepeoplehelping me feeling, but in general, I just didn’t feel like conversing with anybody. I wanted to put my head back, close my eyes and float soundlessly down the slow moving river. Admittingly, I kept floating into the banks with branches and rocks. On my own, I needed to independently push myself away.

Interrupting my thoughts, a guy—in his early twenties and the kind that lived to wear a popped collar—paddled next to me. He had departed his “floatilla” of 10 and came toward me. I had just pushed myself away from a floating log and now was floating down the current.

Instead of an expected friendly greeting, the first words out of his mouth were, “I don’t like your individualistic tendencies.”

I shook my head at the disappointing conversation starter and explained my contentment of my independent floating. Somehow small talk turned into what we did for a living.

“I am going to be a writer,” I declared, not hesitating this time for a stranger.

“You can’t be just a writer,” he said. “You need to have a goal.”

“A goal?”

“You have to write for something. You can’t just be a writer.”

Inside silently, I scoffed at his comments. Artists can be artists without having a goal. The act of making art is perhaps a goal. The act of creating is what drives me—to share my ideas and my perspective with the world

Instead, I admitted, “Not copywriting or technical writing, but writing. A book.”

“Well, good luck.”

After that, I let the current carry us apart. He returned to his floatilla while I floated on my own again—banging into logs and rocks. I got stuck in a shallow area and needed to maneuver out of it on my own—standing on the stony pebbles with my bare feet.

I surround myself with people who work in user experience. Quite naturally, when I finished graduate school, I moved to a neighborhood in San Francisco where most of my friends lived (and where my first job was located). Of course, that also meant that I never left. I am in my bubble—always meeting people who are buying apartments, doing their own startup, and taking cabs regularly.

Occasionally, I meet people who are outside the bubble. At first, it’s a surprise—why haven’t I met them before? am I that ignorant? They spend differently. Their lifestyles differ so much from mine where the primary goal is can I pay the rent this month?

Today, for the first time in a long time, I biked from a dinner alone. Because everyone lived in a cheaper neighborhood. I live in the Mission—where one fellow dinner attendee said, “The Facebook IPO has made it expensive to live there.”

It’s true. I am part of that phenomenon. I am the person that people seek when they visit here—requesting a place to stay or a place to pre-party. My neighborhood is constantly featured in hipster movies, because this is the quintessential hipster area although most hipsters cannot live here. When a new friend visits, it’s the questions of wow you have so much space while I am puzzled because it always seemed a bit cramped.

I am only comparing myself to my immediate peers. I just don’t know how lucky I am.

On Saturday, I planned to film my kickstarter video. With my filmographer, we laid a tight schedule of visiting ice cream shops, eating ice cream, making ice cream and hosting an ice cream social at my place. For more than 5 hours, I was the center of attention—the focus of the video camera.

I dragged out my rare extroverted side—to talk to owners and ask for more information. I calmed down my friends who didn’t know how to get to places. I kept in touch with people who were coming to the ice cream social via text—all seeming to provide level-headed responses. At my own event back at my place, I individually asked each person what flavors they wanted and prepared a personal cone (or bowl). As host, I constantly checked on people—were they ok?. Then with people I only met recently—the filmographer and other crew…I was trying to be myself…just be.

At the end of the day, I was exhausted. Not because I was running about or standing for 3 hours. I wanted to quietly say nothing at all and have someone tell me their stories…and I could listen silently. I dragged myself out dinner with the remaining crew and friends—engaging in conversation initially but happy when a natural extrovert took over and made the table talk fun.

Later, I opted to watch a movie that I had watched previously. My favorite scenes from Batman—something that required eyes on the screen. And it was me, an introvert here in my own skin.

I floated along the river—thrilled to be near the water but moving without requiring effort.

Yet every so often, someone would come up to me—”what are you doing by yourself” or worse yet, “I don’t like your individualistic tendencies.”

Next time, I need a better comeback than “Because I want to be.”

On the day that I received an invite to a bacheleorette party, I instantaneously txted the friend, “I didn’t know that you are engaged! Congratulations!”

I was thrilled for her, because I knew how she anticipated this event for so long. Several months ago, she cut an evening together short to speak to her boyfriend because she was having trouble figuring out what they were. Committed or not committed, she wanted to know. I was so happy that she finally got what she wanted.

In a minute, she texted me back saying, “Yes, I thought that I told you earlier!”

It’s hard to say when you meet one.

Growing up, best friends were the ones you bonded with, the ones that you shared classes with, the one you shared your darkest secrets with…it was meant to be forever.

I had one in middle school. Although it never felt quite true even when she gave me a BFF necklace. She gave me both pieces and I wasn’t ever sure if I was supposed to give one half to her. I never did.

Approaching high school, our friendship became competitive as we tried to outdo each other in AP classes, hours we put into peer tutoring, and the gifts we gave each other. It was exhausting and we went our separate ways when we went to college—although it was the same university.

In the digital era, I have the option to put someone on my home screen on my phone. I can quickly dial the person, view their status update across twitter and facebook, and see their message instantaneously.

As a UX designer and researcher at a mobile company, I wanted a design solution to filter all the emails, phone calls, and text messages to the people that mattered. Beyond family members and significant others, the solution was simply…favorites.

During a brainstorm for this design, a coworker looked me and said, “Best friends.”

Family, significant others and best friends. Of course, we would always want to hear what was important from our best friends, right?

He had just moved to San Francisco and only knew a handful of people. Having started a new phase of my life, I suddenly was looking for interesting people. So I welcomed him into my social life—inviting him to symphonies, plays with my friends. We shared similar music tastes and a love for food. But most importantly, we shared conversations about ourselves and who we could be.

Best friends.

Darkness descends, but I have a night light just in case when I open my eyes.

And I am wrapped up in my blanket. Like a burrito. My pillows propped behind my head. My laptop—my communication tool, but primarily my blank canvas is warm and strong.

I have choices—to put out my writing, to lie down on my belly and close my eyes. I love choosing the latter to let a drowsiness take over and wash the concerns of the day…away.

Then everything is ok.

Under the influence, you make decisions that you think that you made on your own—but they were so affected by others.

You make them because suddenly in that moment, you lacked conviction. So you ask, what should you do? And you take their advice without thinking is this what I would really do?

So when you finally pull away, you realize that you would have never done those things—you never liked green, you always hated eggplant and you love cilantro, and you love listening to Lady Gaga.

You emerge perhaps a better person, because now you know yourself. But you’re sad for all the days you spent compromising.

Especially since you used to say that you never compromised yourself.