Speaking Chinese

I still think of Pulp Fiction when I think of speaking Chinese in public

When I first came to America, my parents immediately enrolled me in an English language course. My mother read Grimm’s Fairy Tales to me every night and made me practice my English daily. Eventually, I lost any traces of the Chinese accent, and spoke English in the house. I realized with the first day of school that “I was destined to live in two worlds—the world my parents were brought up in and which they brought to the United States with them, and the rest of society, where I gained a sense of “Americanness.” (X849) When I went out with my parents, I was ashamed to speak Chinese with them, because I had heard so often how many people were annoyed with immigrants not speaking English. I strove to command the conversation so that my parents would be forced to speak English, and gave strangers apologetic looks whenever I was obligated to respond in Chinese.

This continued on for several years until one day, when my friends were over, my mom called me “Jenny” in front of them, thinking that I would be angry if she called me by my Chinese name. I was completely disconcerted and disturbed—the word sounded so crude and unfamiliar coming from her mouth. I had been so used to hearing the tender pronunciation of “Hongxing” that this “Jenny” sound emanating from her mouth made me cringe.

The Chinese symbol for “love”

Now, speaking Chinese with my parents reminds me of home. It gives me comfort. When I think of my parents, I consider them the last true connection to my identity as Chinese, and I no longer wish for them to speak English to me, because it sounds wrong and out of place. It still unnerves me when my parents accidentally call me “Jenny” instead of “Hongxing”. Hearing them call me by my Chinese name and all its loving variants just fits; everything feels right. I’ve found that the older I get, the more I love to speak Chinese with them. “It was as if his college experience allowed the cultural and ethnic traits that had been absent during his early life to be born.” (X845) I learned to appreciate and celebrate where I came from.

The Chinese symbol for “home”

My grandparents have hammered this notion into my head several times: “I know you have to learn how to speak English, but don’t forget your own language.” (X854) With each time that I speak to them on the phone, I can hear their disappointment at my inability to say some Chinese words. They are afraid that I will lose my heritage and become wholly American. It frustrates me that they think that I would want to shed something so dear to me. When I am walking to class and some Chinese students pass me, I catch wisps of their rapid Chinese, and there is a small part of me that smiles, because it almost feels like home.

Racism & Bluest Eye 2

Emigrants at Ellis Island had to deal with all kinds of racism

When I came to America from China, I was enrolled into the elementary school at Oxford, Mississippi. On my first day of class, I followed the other children out to recess and watched as they all gathered with their friends and ran off to play on the jungle gyms or swing sets. I, however, wandered alone, friendless, and full of melancholy and longing for my home country. Within a few minutes, a group of boys accosted me. They were older, in 2nd grade, and they formed a circle around me. I looked over to the teachers, but they were all engaged in conversation, too busy to notice the threat that I felt.

A playground much like the one I remember

The boys started taunting me, making fun of the way I looked. They laughed at my eyes and my foreign clothes. Then, the bravest of them stepped forward and shoved his fist into my stomach. I hunched instinctively, trying to protect myself, but the others took his example and started hitting and kicking me. Some grabbed sand from the ground and threw it into my face. As recess ended, I was left hunched over and sobbing, feeling shame. “Many emotions, including shame, are generated by this “Thing,” by comparing someone with an ideal, making them seem less than, inferior, a mistake.” (X334) I had tasted my first bitter drop racism.

Things like the ‘slanty eyes’ still infuriate me today

I thought that as I got older, there would be fewer occurrences of intolerant people judging me by my race. But even when I moved to Austin, I still felt the harsh stings of discrimination. When I was 15, I was walking my dog in our neighborhood when a car full of teenagers drove past. “Go back to where you came from!” they shouted, and their hyena laughter followed me all the way home. It hurt to know that there could be such hatred in the world, and their taunting made me ashamed. “Guilt can be purged: a person can correct, make up for a mistake. But shame is a more core emotion: if a person believes he or she is a mistake, they believe that they should not have been born, and there is nothing that can be done about it. This basic shame is clearly a key to racism and many other behaviors.” (X334)

There were many times when I did not even want to go out in public with my parents, because I was embarrassed by us. The fear I felt of society denying me,” Fear of being rejected because of our appearance, abandoned by the group, and left homeless…”(X335) consumed me, and made me wish that I was white, not Chinese, and that I could assimilate properly into America. When I stood amongst a group of girls at school, I was sure that they thought, “We were so beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness.” (Morrison, 205)

Yet I cared little for beauty, but more for acceptance. All I wanted was to be able to go into a restaurant with my family without feeling shame. I wanted to be able to do things without feeling fear that people were judging us. Sometimes I found myself shielding myself against the possibility of racism, even when there was none to be found.

Today, I no longer have to worry as much about it. I know that while racism still exists, I must not live my life thinking someone is judging me every step of the way. "The insults were part of the nuisances of life, like lice." (Morrison, 153) It is a waste of my time to cater to the wishes of other people, and I know that I am much stronger now.

Morrison 1

lyrics here

Don’t let this pristine image fool you; I did all I could to wreck havoc on the neat lawns of the courthouses

I grew up in an apartment complex in Oxford, Mississippi, where other young Chinese emigrants settled with their children. Despite the fact that I was immensely homesick for China, I settled in comfortably. I reveled in the magnolia trees of Oxford, delighted in the other neighborhood children, and was running rogue and rampant through the town by the time I reached my sixth birthday. How odd that when I think of home, and the child I was, that I should think of Oxford, and not China. We find solace in times of strife in our community, for they help shape us into the humans we are today. It is imperative to create some sense of place, just as the “Renting blacks cast furtive glances at these owned yards and porches, and made firmer commitments to buy themselves ‘some nice little old place.’” (Morrison, 18)

I will always associate my childhood with magnolia trees

Morrison’s narrator also explains the terror that came with certain places, such as the outdoors. “Outdoors, we knew, was the real terror of life. The threat of being outdoors surfaced frequently in those days…Outdoors was the end of something, an irrevocable, physical fact, defining and complementing our metaphysical condition.” (Morrison, 17) Our surroundings have a tremendous impact on us, and just as Alice Walker remembers how “it was quite wonderful to pick a few apples, or collect those that had fallen to the ground overnight” (X321), many will think of their own backyards, the adventures they went on with pets, and the feeling they got the first time they looked at the sky. The environment in which we grow up serves as a community, a place where we belong.

Another important sector of community is family, and the narrator indicates the importance of cohesiveness, especially in such a busy and confused household. She refers to “The three of us, Pecola, Frieda, and I…” (Morrison, 23) often, and one can tell that she used this as a shell against the hardships she was facing in the outside world.

The bond between a mother and her child is unexplainable

“And in the night, when my coughing was dry and tough, feet padded into the room, hands repined the flannel, readjusted the quilt, and rested a moment on my forehead. So when I think of autumn, I think of somebody with hands who does not want me to die.” (Morrison, 12) Just as the narrator’s mother makes a deep impression on her, so did my own mother (and I’m sure many mothers of this world) with her nurturing. I often think of those nights in my youth when I was overcome with the urge to vomit. I would call out to my mother in the night and she would always come, and before I could even get out the words, “I think I’m going to throw up”, she would hold out her hands to catch the projectiles. And as I was hurling my insides out, eyes stinging, I recall being astounded at the love my mother had for me, enough for her to plunge without doubt to catch my own disgusting vomit. The depth of my mother’s love, from these actions, seemed to draw from a never-ending well.

Dass Extra Credit 2

“We also see how uncomfortable we may be about many of the desires situations call forth—our need to appear responsible, useful, powerful, moral, worthy, needed, and so on.” (Dass 188) I think many people have this problem—they wish to help, but once the time comes for them to actually step up and take the role as a leader (because in some ways, I think leadership is a part of helping), they are immediately regretful of this new responsibility. “Helping out gets heavy”, and I can present the example of being an extremely busy and involved college student. I find myself constantly running from obligation to obligation every day, and barely even have time for my friends during the week. This is how much of America operates; businessmen rushing to their meetings, mothers running to get their kids from school, drivers who are in a hurry to get home—all of these people who make up our society have very little time to spare. Stopping to help someone, or even taking time out of a busy schedule to make the effort to help is just too much for some people.

“Looking more closely still, we might notice how we tend to manipulate people towards the fulfillment of our own motives and needs—and perhaps go on to justify this in the name of good intentions or “what’s right for others.” (Dass 189) I can think of several instances in which I had to fulfill my 100+ hours of community service in order to graduate high school. When I went to actually volunteer, I did not really have any emotional ties to the organization. I rarely even knew the causes in which I was participating, and when I think back on all the volunteering I did, it seems that I was not doing it out of the compassion of my own heart, but for the hours I needed. I was using the mask of “good intentions” for my own gains.

Dass addresses this problem in his book. He states, “Rather, we’re loosening our attachment to our motives by stepping behind them.” (Dass 193) The next time I volunteer, I should try to focus on the fact that my actions are aiding other people, rather than on the hours I am getting. This attitude will not only make me perform better, but engage me more emotionally.

There is also the concern that someone is taking advantage of your generous nature. When I was in middle school, one of my best friends had trouble in math class, so every morning; she and I would compare homework answers. Soon, it got to be that I was helping her do her homework in the morning, and finally, she was simply copying the answers from me. I thought I was being helpful, but looking back on it, I realize that I could have been a bit of a pushover. That is why I am sometimes reluctant to help, because I am suspicious of a person’s intent. Again, this is something that I think that a lot of people can relate to—you’re putting your services out there, and hoping that people aren’t just using you.

How Can I Help?

(lyrics here)

Lend a helping hand: we say this more than we do

“It’s not something we really think about, merely the instinctive response of an open heart.” (Dass 5) Rarely do we have to stop and think, “should I help this person?” When a friend asks us for a pencil, we oblige; when a stranger asks us for the time, we give it to them willingly, and when asked for directions, we will always respond. However, I think our society is runs on the thought process of “someone else will help.” I am guilty of this—when students in my classes send out the mass email asking for notes or confirmation of a test date, I do not respond, thinking, “oh, someone else will help them.” Needless to say, if everyone thought this way, the poor person would not receive any help at all, and my justification would be fruitless.

“How much are we willing to give, and what are we holding on to?” (Dass 9) There are limits to my helpfulness, as there are with all people. I often ignore the people giving out fliers in the West Mall, and I have never given homeless people money. Yet if my friends or family asked for help, I would be willing to do anything. I find myself asking where I “draw the line…how much I’m prepared to give, and what I need to hold on to.” (Dass 13)

Helping others can easily contribute to helping ourselves

If we don’t ask for help, how can we help others? “We may have a difficult time facing the suffering of others because we don’t know how to deal with our own pain and fear” (Dass 14) I never thought much about it before, but it takes a lot for me to ask for help. There is too much pride in me, too much of a desire to seem knowledgeable and able, to allow myself to present a weakness or a flaw.

Yet when I am most lost within myself, when I am confused and questioning who I am, I am sometimes overcome with a desire to help, a “desire to feel useful” (Dass 10). In some skewed way, I believe that my aid to others will help me feel justified and perhaps more in tune with who I am. In reality, I don’t even know if half the time I’m helping for the sake of aiding other people, or just to help myself.

The case of Kitty Genovese led to an entire psychological phenomenon

An interesting note on the subject of not helping: I am reminded of the story of Kitty Genovese, whose murder demonstrated one of the most prevalent thought processes in our society. Kitty Genovese was a 28-year-old woman who was stabbed to death outside her apartment in Brooklyn. It was later discovered that many of her neighbors and passersby saw her being stabbed and simply did nothing to help. This led to the coining of the term “bystander effect”, in which individuals are less likely to help others in an emergency situation when other people are present. The probability of help is inversely proportional to the number of bystanders.

P4: My Sense of Wonder

Lost Coastlines - Okkervil River

(lyrics here: this song equates life to sailing on a ship and basically states that no matter where you're headed, you must never lose hope.)

I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

--We Are Many by Pablo Neruda

A windmill that leads to the sky: this is the actual windmill that is mentioned at the beginning of this story

There was a windmill that creaked and swayed in the breeze. It was not particularly extraordinary, nor functional, but it was wonderful because it led to the sky. The little girl longed to climb it because she wished to touch the sky. She wanted to scurry up the windmill’s shaky limbs and press her fingers against the cotton ice of the clouds. The little girl wanted the sky to belong to her. One day, she stood at the base of the windmill in her crimson dress, and she began to climb. When she reached the top, she stretched out a chubby arm to grasp hold of the sky, but her fingers closed around only air. The little girl stood with her arms open, and tears began to form in her eyes. Then she looked across the horizon, and she saw the tops of trees that rolled on as far as she could see. She saw the tiny specks that were her parents, saw the fiery gradient of the sunset as it laid itself to rest, and she felt her heart bursting. It was beautiful. And in the presence of this beauty, she felt wonder, and she never wanted to let that feeling go.

As age six, I was constantly deferring skirts and instead favored trees to the frill of dolls

Upon hearing the prompt for this final essay, I was bewildered and terrified. I had only been searching for the answer to “who are you?” my entire life, and I did not believe I was any closer to solving the problem as a freshman in college than I was as a terrified freshman in high school. At age six, I thought I had it figured out: I was a tomboy who loved dogs. At ten, I decided that I was going to emulate Sailor Moon for the rest of my life. Then at sixteen, I knew for a fact that I was going to be a chemist. I am now at the stage of the young adult, the one who believes that she can do anything, that she is invincible from the pitfalls of life. Despite the many phases I have been through, however, I believe that we all have one defining trait that identifies who we are and how we see the world. The trait that I find to personify my person the best is my sense of wonder.

The previous topics of my papers have been that of nature and tolerance of people, two seemingly unrelated things. However, to me, they both incorporate the person who I am and the person who I wish to be: one who maintains her sense of amazement and intrigue in the world. My sense of wonder connects both my P1 and my P3 together: nature constantly inspires an amazement in the physical and spiritual world, while a tolerance of people encourages me to be constantly surprised by the effects people can have on me and the things they can accomplish.

I will never be able to look out across the horizon without being taken aback by the beauty that surrounds me

Nature is one of the biggest sources of inspiration for me. I find that it is something that cannot be explained; it reaches deep down inside and nourishes a part of me that I can only classify as my soul. I connect the natural world with the spiritual world, and I will always rely on the beauty of nature to keep me amazed, to continue to move me. The world around me motivates me to write and to think, to examine and reexamine my life and the lives of others. To me, nature represents stability and wholesomeness in this turbulent world, and I will always find solace in its breathtaking embrace.

The relationship between myself and other people proved to be one of the telling signs of my person

While my love of nature focused on the physical and spiritual side of my being, I discovered that my relationship with people also offered great amounts of revelations about who I am as a person and the emotional aspect of my self. There is a certain amount of open-mindedness that comes with interacting with people, and I believe that the goal of my P3, to incorporate tolerance into my life, has really been a change for the better. Now, instead of judging people based on what I believe they should be, I allow myself to see them as individuals with their own hopes, accomplishments, and personal goals. The more I continue to interact with different types of people, the more I find that the ability of the human race to impress me never fails: I am constantly surprised by the goodness in people, by their creativity, their passion, and their unwavering faith in those they love. The emotional faculty of a human being will always astound me.

I have kept a diary since I was in the fifth grade; I now have nine tomes of my writing

Both of these previous paper topics require that I continue to express an unbiased and almost childlike fascination of the world, and the conduit through which I can express these revelations is by writing. When I write, the being that is bursting from within myself, who longs to be infinite and to have meaning, can truly express everything that I feel. Much of my writing is fanciful and abstract, and the only explanation I can offer is that it is because I am a dreamer, but not one without agenda. While I am extremely optimistic and hopeful, I never allow myself to fall into the trap of wishing but not doing. I am constantly thinking about my future and how to make the most of it. I want to move people the way they move me, and I want to be inspired along the way. I never want to lose that wonderful curiosity and passion that so many along the way have lost.

This entire year has been a tumultuous journey of me being confused about my exact future. I can still recall hastily adding an Economics class to my schedule the day before school began in an act of desperation: I believed that I would become a business major, just for the sake of financial security. Minutes before that class began, I dropped it in a crazed frenzy; how could I ever think that I was suited to work in the business world! I realized that I want to be creative for the rest of my life. My hopes, dreams and desire to inspire and be inspired meant that I could not be happy at a job that did not require me to be continuously motivated, creative, and impassioned. I wish to do something that arouses the senses in other people, something that feeds and connects their emotions. I wish to make people feel something.

At this point, I still do not know exactly what I want to do with my life, but I do know that I never want to be tired with life. I must immerse myself in something that will keep me guessing, something that will continue to awe me at the splendor of existence, the human race, and our world in general. I want to take as much of the earth in as possible and then give it back.

The sky is a reflection of my own unlimited possibilities

It was nighttime, and the once little girl had grown into a young woman. She lay beneath the darkened ceiling of the universe and marveled at the sky, just as she had done when she was younger. This ashen expanse of sky! It promised mystery, hope, and magnificence. She took it in her, inhaled its fervent breeze, and clutched the soil beneath with a burning ardor. Just as before, she felt the overwhelming sensation building up within, that beautiful emotion of stunned astonishment at the world that lay before her. This feeling—this sense of wonder—was familiar and soothing, for it was as much a part of her as was the beat of her own heart. She knew that she belonged: she was a part of the ever-expansive world that surrounded all beings. She knew, and she was content.



Word Count (without quote): 1400

All pictures are mine/taken by me

Detached Love

(lyrics here)

Friends forever?

My senior year of high school was not as carefree as I had once thought it would be. Not only was I juggling six AP classes, the stress of college applications, orchestra, and a job, but one of my best friends decided that her relationship with her boyfriend was more important than that of her friends. This friend was not a fleeting presence who just flitted in and out of my life, but one whom I had been friends with since elementary school.

Initially, I was upset to the point of tears. What had I done wrong? I had only ever been the best friend I could be: we had always had fun together, and rarely fought. I had been there for her during times of strife, had indulged in her random whims and had even humored her when she was clearly in the wrong. I decided that I could not lose the friendship, despite her clear attempts to sever, or at least weaken the bond. Just like Siddhartha with his son, I “sought to win [her] heart with love and kind patience, and I intend[ed] to capture it.” (Hesse 111)

Even in friendship, there must be a certain degree of detachment.

This struggle lasted all senior year, stretched through the summer, and continued even through the distance of college. I saw her intermittently, and although we were not hostile, I felt that she had changed. She was no longer the odd, spunky girl who unplugged every plug in the house for environmental purposes, but this new cookie-cutter person of whom we used to spite. While we were still “friends”, I knew that she was now a part of something to which I could no longer relate. Even after all that time and distance, “the wound still burned” (Hesse 122).

At that time, my mother acted as my Vasudeva, and told me much of the same thing he told Siddhartha: ““I see you suffering, but you’re suffering a pain which is somewhat laughable, and at which you’ll soon be laughing yourself.” (Hesse 116) At the time, I could not imagine just “dropping it” and moving on, but as time passed, I began to realize that, while I still loved my friend very much, I no longer had the same emotional attachment to her that I had previously.

Over spring break, I had coffee with her for the first time since Christmas, and I was surprised at how forgiving I was with the ways in which she had changed. True, she was now friends with a new group of people, but the person she was had not changed; she still had a good heart and still wanted the best for people. Like Siddhartha, “I understood…and shared [her] life, which was not guided by thoughts and insight, but only by urges and wishes.” (Hesse 120)

Detachment and love: can they go hand in hand?

This experience, more than anything, taught me about detached love. As much as I loved my friend, I had to learn to maintain a certain mindset, and most importantly, not place as much emotional stake in a relationship. While I wanted the best for her, my definition of “the best” was who I wanted her to be, not who she wanted. I believe that love with detachment for me relates very closely to tolerance, in that I need to see “people living for themselves, [see] them achieve an infinite amount for themselves, endure an infinite amount.” (Hesse 121), and not define my love for them based on my idea of achievements.