Exams Galore! Another List
Zut alors! It’s amazing how fast this semester flew by. I’m in the middle of exams and papers until Dec 17, currently buried in supply/demand curves and decision trees. Only 2 more weeks until sweet, sweet freedom. To celebrate my tendency to make lists when stressed, here’s another a list of things I’m looking forward to once exams are over:
- Christmas tree decorating with Ada (maybe convincing Mom to get a real tree instead of the plastic original one that blisters our fingers this year)
- Seeing the whole family together during the holidays
- Grandma’s meatballs and famous sticky soup
- Eggnog and home-baked cookies
- Making a gingerbread house (am I eight? maybe)
- Walking aimlessly around Prudential/Copley and Cambridgeside Malls, not buying anything, just listening to holiday music, people-watching and even eating at Panda Express
- SEEING FRIENDS whom I’ve been neglecting all semester long
- Having the time to actually use my Kindle (birthday gift)
- Spending all day in Barnes and Noble’s, reading until my head hurts
- Visiting the Allston library and catching up with the librarians
- Buying a warm hat
- Working with Sandy, my former student, on her college applications
- Writing postcards to all my friends abroad, especially those in the Peace Corps
- Framing the paintings of the 4 seasons that I bought from an art school near the Great Wall (5 years ago) to put up in our apartment
- Browsing stationery and hardware stores (been eyeing this cute hot glue gun…)
- Buying semi-professional looking clothing (the Kennedy School’s unofficial dress code is somewhere between business casual and professional)
- Getting all my zippers fixed
- Sledding
- Waking up to a world of pristine, white snow
- Watching movies until my head hurts
- Living at my parents’, sleeping in my room at home, for a whole week
- Cooking and baking all sorts of delicious things like lasagna
- Spending New Years in Milan with A and his family
- Traveling-adventuring in Rome, Florence and Geneva in January
- did I mention eggnog? I just REALLY crave eggnog….arrrgggh!!!
To the people who still check this blog, I love you and miss you. It has been a hard semester, but it would’ve been so much harder without the love, support and new friendships of so many people. When I’m done, we will jump up and down and revel in the holiday spirit together. Cheers!
Q Returns
Some updates:
- Grad school makes me feel like I’m in high school again. I have a locker, a name tag to facilitate cold-calling (which I will bedazzle with gold stars) and I’m always rushing around the circular setup of the Forum at the Kennedy School like a mouse in a maze. Sometimes I shoot out and down the right hallway. But more often than not, I inexplicably end up at the Office of Career Services. And no matter how hard I work, I can never, ever finish all my work on time. On the flip side, my classmates and professors are great 
- Andrea and I went to the Rally to Restore Sanity And/Or Fear in DC this past weekend! The rally had some logistical challenges because they weren’t expecting so many people, but the atmosphere (created by a preponderance of sane people) was just amazing. “Yes Pecan!” made it onto the neon sign Robin and I carried around and some people actually got the joke. Despite the 10+ hour bus trip home, I found myself grinning widely and absent-mindedly in econ class on Monday.
- I poll monitored for Asian American Legal Defense and Education Fund at the Metropolitan Community Room in Chinatown today. Who knew I could talk about voting rights in Chinese? The expat newspaper “World Journal” took a picture of us and some cuckoo guy talked to me at length about how medicare-covered circumcision was costing Massachusetts tax payers millions of dollars. I got banh-mi at my favorite hole-in-the-wall place on Washington Street, which is the whole reason I volunteered to be an election monitor in Chinatown (just kidding…kind of).
- Why are ballot initiatives so confusing? How do they expect the typical voter to understand all that jargon?
- My apartment is bringing out my inner Martha Stewart. I decorated our door with red leaves and orange mini-pumpkins. The apartment (which we haven’t named yet) is also a place where all babies are welcome, provided that I am not responsible for them.
Ada Grows Up
This afternoon, I got to send my little sister off on her pre-college orientation Freshman Outdoor Program (FOP) trip. On the way over to Harvard Square, I couldn’t stop having “I’m a proud parent” over and over again until she felt like clubbing me over the head with her sleeping bag. It’s been an amazing journey for me and Ada. At first glance, we’re like mirror images of each other, except if you looked again, you’d notice that the mirror is warped and distorted in a few important places, reflecting two different people.
Ada on the Widener steps a few months ago
Ada crossed the Pacific twice before her 4th birthday. She was born in Boston to my parents, who sent her back to China with my mom’s uncle and his trade delegation when she was 6 months old. There’s a really darling picture of her – a big eyed confused looking baby wrapped in a fluffy bright pink shaw, flanked by somber, middle aged Chinese business men.
My parents have had steady jobs since they came to the US – but back then, they were living a hand to mouth existence. Mom worked like a slave for her boss at Harvard Medical School labs, who had the power to apply for a green card on her behalf. My parents went through a series of bad babysitters – including one who did not notice that a 5 month old Ada had fallen from her high chair and was wailing her head off – before giving up. They had sent one child to my grandparents already , but nonetheless, it must have been heartbreaking to do it again. There’s a photo album of my parents cuddling a bald baby Ada as an infant – my mom probably was sad that she had to give away such a happy, fluffy baby with expressive eyes. But I digress!
Ada at Toys R' Us in Times Square
Although I have scattered memories of Ada as a baby (like – she had a laugh that sounded like the Chinese characters for “Cola”, as in Coco Cola, which was hilarious to 5 year old me ), we didn’t experience the pressures of cohabitation until I was 8 and she was 4. We were both used to being the only child, split up among two sets of grandparents while our parents worked and studied in Shanghai, then America. Talk about difficult transitions! It was almost as bad as meeting my mom for the first time (which I had done earlier that year).
I had an image of what little sisters should be like (ie – cute, sweet, obedient) based on a little friend named Hanna at Chinese School and Ada DEFINITELY didn’t conform on the obedient aspect. Within minutes of meeting each other, Ada and I had started to fight something fairly serious. We were feeding my grandparents’ blue parakeets (RIP) when Ada said “The parakeets like my piece of lettuce better.” Me: * SHOCKED RAGE * “THEY LIKE MY PIECE OF LETTUCE BETTER!!! WAAAAAH MOMMIEEEEEE!!!” She made me cry and I had to go stand in a corner to calm down. Well, maybe it was karma for that time I “accidentally” dropped her on her head before we got divied up by grandparents who lived on different sides of town. If I had to pick a winner for the Spoiled Brat Contest, Ada just might win and not because I’m biased. Ada had a ferocious little bark which said “If you don’t do this (ie – what she wants), I’m going to cry!” and then she throw all her toys on the floor. I was secretly impressed…and scared, but she was no match for my mom (who had practice dealing with me). Mom would just reply, “Why don’t you just cry? We don’t care.”
Over time, I discovered that I had the advantage of knowing how to speak English (sort of by that point) over Ada, so I would torture her by pretending to say mean things about her over the phone to my friends. She started to imitate my English, garbling the words but still annoying the hell out of me. Touche. But once my paternal grandparents, who had accompanied Ada on her 2nd trip went back to China, a drastic, surprising change took place. At the age of 9, Ada was no longer just my arch-nemesis – I also had the important duty of protecting her. I picked her up from the bus stop from the time she was in kindergarten until fourth grade, having near panic attacks when her bus didn’t appear on time. Once I got home I made us snacks from whatever junk food that was lying around the house (milk and ice cream, salsa chips with cheese sauce and pepperoni, doritos, cookies, brownies, cheddar cheese and flavored seeweed…etc) and watched television until we had * just * enough time to finish our homework before the parents came home.
With baby Joshua, who doesn't belong to either of us
This protective instinct became even bigger when we moved to sketchy Fordham Road in Boston so I could attend Boston Latin. When a man followed us and creepily touched my leg while I was walking Ada home, I told him loudly “SORRY SIR BUT I DON’T HAVE DIRECTIONS TO THE SUPER MARKET” and grinned widely while walking away as fast as possible in order not to scare her. One time, when I learned that a clueless summer program counselor had scratched Ada’s arms with folded paper (only because Ada had said “scratch me!” to prove she was brave/cool), I threatened to kill him if he ever did it again. It was dramatic – I was twelve and he was sixteen/twice my size. I also encouraged Ada to hit back at the kids who bullied her in the bathrooms and cafeteria of her public elementary school: “Listen, you can’t get in trouble for hitting people when you’re little, cuz it doesn’t go on your high school record, so just do it!” I was furious yet helpless about the bullying – so I was trying to channel my anger. To Ada’s credit, she only did it once, out of desperation, and felt extremely terrible about it after.
As Ada got older and understood more things, I shared more. I made her read passages from my books and handouts from my favorite classes – especially the ones that lead to my small bouts of intellectual awakening. When I read “Farewell to Manzanar” about the Japanese internment camps during WWII, she learned about them too. Same with the Holocaust and other serious matters…I spared her nothing that I thought was important. Before I knew it, Ada was reading James Joyce (and not just “Portrait of the Artist”, which was as far as I got). I think she skipped all those tweeny classics like “The Mouse and the Motorcycle”, rushing from “Spot” to “Dubliners”.
Ada at high school graduation
Most importantly, we were on the same team at home. It was like the Red Sox against the Yankees. If I felt that my parents were being unfair to her, I would contribute my two cents, which Ada tried to stop me from doing because it often made things so much worse. When I got out of hand, Mom used to fume: “She’s MY daughter, not yours!” I believe this is how we morphed into echoes of each other – it’s rare to have someone who understands the context so absolutely.
When I went away to college, it was especially hard on Ada, who was slowly morphing into a graceful, thoughtful teenager. We both felt the loss of our empathetic half, although my sense of loss was drowned out by all the noise from the soul searching of freshman year, while hers was amplified. Sometimes, when Mom disapproved of an activity that Ada was doing (ie – leading Amnesty International), she would say “stop imitating your sister” which was the best way to get to her.
Because of me, Ada has to fight to express her individuality. It hurts when she vents her frustration by telling me that we’re different, when there are really more similarities than differences, even down to our physical appearances and mannerisms. Our faces are similar mishmashes of our parents’ features (we concluded that our parents were lying about having found us in the garbage because they couldn’t have found two such similar looking kids by sheer coincidence). Of course, there are sharp differences, but I didn’t really influence her – we morphed into kindred spirits through countless conversations and shared experiences. The only real difference is that I happened to be born first.
Which brings us to today. Due to a disagreement with Mom involving what to bring to FOP last night, Ada arrived on campus woefully unprepared for the camping trip. We walked around together for half an hour renting various pieces of gear from bright-eyed FOP leaders hopped up on too much FOP spirit. It felt strangely important for me to follow Ada around carrying all this stuff, Sherpa-like, introducing myself as her sister.
I held back from talking too much and tried to let her greet her new friends, classmates and trip leaders. That is…until I caught myself saying as Robin (FOP staffer!) checked items off Ada’s rental list, “Yes, we have that…yes we have this.” Hah – I never got to go on FOP like almost everyone else because they didn’t have financial aid back then. I worked at my summer job until two days before school started and then regretted it as soon as most of my new friends started talking about their amazing experience in the woods of New Hampshire. Can’t a girl live vicariously through her sister? Minus the bugs.
I’m so glad that for the 3rd time in 10 years, Ada and I will again attend the same school. This time, it will be different because we’re both adults. From experience, I know that freshman year at Harvard is both exciting and scary. But my little sister is both more intellectual and more detail-oriented than I am. I have to learn to be her cushion but to also step back because she is more than capable of handling things by herself. We will continue as we have always done – to love and reflect each other in the ever-warping mirror.
Ada and I with the lion outside of the New York Public Library
My Tru-Life
The instructor of the uber popular cardio jam class I attended today is called…TRUDOG. Yes, T-R-U-dog! I couldn’t resist announcing this fact on my blog. I don’t know whether his mom named him, but I seriously doubt it. I don’t think many mothers go around naming their future rapper/dancer/exercise instructor babies “(insert adjective)-dog” (like Snoop Dog, and Little Bow Wow, which is also dog related). A thought this name was the coolest thing ever and kept asking me questions such as “can I be…A-dog?…how about Drea-Dog?” (Me: “NO!”) throughout brunch.
Trudog had been missing in action as the charismatic leader of New York Sports Club cardio jam classes for quite a while but he made his triumphant return this week. As a result, over 40 women (who were mostly Caucasian Upper East Siders) crowded into an exercise room meant for 20, and bounced up and down in unison to hyper versions of songs along the theme of “I Am a Woman”. The class started with high pitched screaming from a petite woman with a dancer’s body and golden dreadlocks. I thought for a second she had been mortally wounded, but no, it’s just her excitement about the fact that Tru Dog is back. She’s one of many people in the cardio jam class who know Trudog’s routines so well that she could teach the class herself. More on this self described “fitness socialite” of Cardio Jam: Trudog also publishes his own magazine on gossip, relationships and fitness, which he passed out before class. His magazine includes “informal surveys” of more than 300 women (all from his various fitness classes) on topics such as “What Are The Top 5 Signs He’s Cheating?” I totally understand how this cult of personality has developed though – in addition to an amazing workout, Trudog’s smile throughout the intense 45 minute ordeal is constant, seemingly genuine and ultimately contagious. I’ve been a convert since his 6:30am class this Tuesday was the perfect antidote to a hangover caused by too much Russian wine at the amazingly over-the-top Primorski restaurant in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn
As soon as I came to NY, I joined New York Sports Club under their student membership (activation fee + 20 dollars/month FOR LIFE if you’re under 23). Having not exercised at all since graduation a year ago (the gym, like everything else, was way too expensive in Geneve), I was determined to build exercise into my daily routine before things speed up in Sept. It has been an amazing experience – on the days that I manage to get up at 6:15 am for early morning classes (A goes to work at the same time I go to the gym), I’m guaranteed to be more productive and energized. Next to the obvious health benefits, going to the gym definitely contributes to my goal of being healthy, focused and free this summer – freedom from the intense social pressures of the past year, constant family expectations and plaguing self-doubt. Also, freedom to be selfish, to choose how to spend my time with my sister, best friends and A, who brought me 24 red roses in the reading room of the e.96th St New York Public Library for our 1.6 year monthaversary yesterday. Despite being woken up at 4:30am by what could have been gunshots (or firecrakers), I love being in New York where it’s so easy to belong by becoming anonymous.
Proximity to a REAL Chinatown
Today, I spilled bubble milk tea on an unsuspecting young man between the E.59th and 86th stop on the express 5 (yes, now I get to sound all badass New York, citing streets that have #s instead of names!). He was wearing a nicely starched white shirt…so lucky him, the milk tea only went on his jeans. He was even nice enough to attempt at a joke. Him: “coffee makes me melt – haha” me: “it’s actually bubble tea”, him: “oh – that stuff is so good!” I really appreciate these small moments of grace on the New York subway, where the usual response is eye-rolling, grunting, pushing and moving away. I could write a book about the New York subway system. I’m disheartened by the number of desperate, possibly homeless people who wander into the subway cars telling stories of lost jobs, homes and hungry children. People usually avert their eyes. On a brighter note, New York’s range of subway musicians is amazing – some of them even accompanied by explanatory signs because they’re commissioned by the city! Today, I saw that I was being entertained on my brisk walk from the Time Square Shuttle (I like to call it a little worm because it’s so cute and short) to the 1/2/3 train (I call it “the Red Line”) by “The Ebony Hillbillies” – three happy-looking African American men playing banjos.
I really shouldn’t have been balancing 2 banh-mi (Vietnamese) sandwiches, 2 bottles of sweetened soy milk, duffle bag (which says “graduate school, Northwestern University – always makes for good conversation killer, considering I never went there), ipod, smaller tote and bubble tea near the Canal Street stop during rush hour. This is also the 2nd time I spilled something on a total stranger in a month. I never learn. But where did I get these delectable banh-mi sandwiches, which I’ve been dreaming about ever since I left Boston? From a jewelry store on Mott Street (off Canal) that doubles as a bakery, which has been recommended and rated on Zagat. The man behind the counter hollered into the phone in fluent Cantonese, Mandarin and Vietnamese. The secret behind the rave? All the meats in the sandwiches are marinated in a secret barbecue sauce, which, in addition to the crispy French rolls and spicy sauce (available upon request), make all the difference. Still, I have to say that while these sandwiches do not disappoint, the best banh-mi I’ve ever tasted can be found at the hole-in-the-wall place near the McDonalds on the intersection of Washington and Kneeland in Boston’s Chinatown.
On the way to this “bakery”, I passed a variety of vegetable and fish shops – the pungent smell coming from the river of water running from these shops almost keeled me over in the heat. I started to get the feeling that I was not Chinese enough to be shopping in the real Chinatown (which, barring some moderate gentrification, is as genuine as they go). 1) I could not speak Cantonese 2) I had no idea how to buy vegetable or fish 3) I only had 3 dollars in cash and credit was clearly not an option and 4) My outfit was too California hippie to pass off as Chinese. Perhaps I should wear more Hello Kitty, brandish my red Snoopy metal pencil box, fry my hair, dye it orange and don pastel pink shades watched with denim, like the teenage girls I see standing on corners sipping bubble tea. Okay, maybe all of these done together is a bit of an overkill.
We never lived in Chinatown and over time, my parents have gradually turned away from the Chinese community, preferring to expend all their energies on the kids (Ada and I may not look like it, but we’re a handful) and the grandparents. My mom wanted nothing to do with the gossip and the comparison of children that came with the company of these communities. Besides, the Chinese in America has always been self divided by issues of class, dialect and education (all related in intricate ways) – most of Chinatown’s residents fell on one side of one of these many divides and our family fell on the other side. Whenever I wander around in Chinatown, I can’t help wondering whether I may have passed one of my distant cousins on the street without knowing him or her (an example of the class/education level divide). So, as a consequence, I never learned how to haggle at a fish market in Chinatown. The overwhelming, jungle-like quality of New York Chinatown makes me acutely and uncomfortably aware of these small setbacks.
One of the reason I’m interning at Asian American Legal Defense and Education Fund (AALDEF) this summer is to understand the Chinese immigrant community better, albeit through a different lens. Of course, part of becoming American means inevitably letting go of the Chinese aspects of myself. It’s a very gradual process which has chipped away at my cultural foundation – I only notice the erosion of my Chinese-ness in spurts. Like the time when I was twelve and woke up to realize that I was dreaming in English instead of Chinese. When I told my 6th grade teacher, Ms. Kaye, about it, she asked, “Is that good or bad?” “BAD!” I wailed.
These days, I don’t live in Chinatown, but as part of my internship, I have conducted surveys there. Carrying an oversized clipboard, I’ve stopped old ladies hurrying about their grocery, young women standing on street corners, unemployed men sitting on benches in the park where old men come to play chess. “Have you noticed an increase in rent in the past few years?” I ask in hesitant Chinese, accompanied by my partner in crime, a happy-go-lucky law student named “M” from Queens. I like to pretend that I’m a community organizer, but really, I’m just collecting the last of the housing surveys in order to stare at the data on Excel, hoping I can find some compelling patterns for a report we’re publishing on the housing needs of 6 low-income Asian immigrant neighborhoods. More recently during the course of my surveying, I found myself struggling to recall words that were once at the tip of my tongue, much less being able to remember the translation for “rent controlled housing”. Survey FAIL.
Another project that I’m involved in is a pilot that will attempt to measure the rate of gentrification in New York’s Chinatown through block-by-block land use surveys. In the long run, both of these projects will become reports that will generate some concrete facts that will inform future community based advocacy. In the short run, we get to annoy a lot of people who don’t want to be bothered to talk about their housing issues, immigration status, income…etc. As for me, I will get to know one genuine Chinatown on a first name basis, before it becomes a touristic show horse of a street, like Little Italy.
Speaking of Little Italy. I got to watch at least 1 soccer match this World Cup. Showing his Italian pride via blue jersey, A brought me to a crowded restaurant in Little Italy to watch the Italy v. New Zealand game last Saturday. It was owned by a big bear of an Italian man from Rome with long graying hair who stomped around shouting and running his poor Latin American waiters to the ground. Inside, ways of blue jerseys and a few Italian flags draped across shoulders, accompanied by a lot of shouting, shaking of fists and cursing (in general, great atmosphere for a futbol match).
The game was surprisingly fun to watch, but the service grew increasingly annoying. The owner turned out to be a dictator who went around threatening to charge anyone who ordered drinks but no food a $20 minimum, even the ones who were standing. “You gonna sit in my restaurant and not eat my food?” he shouted at the couple across from us. After that, I secretly started to cheer for New Zealand, which drew with Italy after a lucky goal early on the game. After waiting half an hour for our check, I went up to get it myself and was informed that a tip was included in the price. A 20% tip, no less! This is at a moment when I was angry enough not to tip at all and give the owner a good, resounding kick (but I reconsidered…it’s perhaps safer not to kick people who behave exactly like the stereotypes of mafia bosses) Of course, I took all this frustration out on poor A by saying smugly “this would never happen at a Chinese restaurant!” with a flounce with a variety of other snippy comments that I will not repeat. Good thing he’s a much nicer person than me (and plus, A just turned 27 yesterday and received a bunch of cool presents that partly made up for aforesaid immature comments). In short, from a * totally unbiased * perspective, when in New York, go to Chinatown but avoid Little Italy!
New York!
Posts on the quirks + ups and downs of summer as a non-tourist in New York
On my first day in New York, I almost got ran over while crossing the street more than a few times. I guess my small town (ie Boston) sensibilities hadn’t prepared me enough for The Big Apple (I think only tourists say this). As good friends who have saved me from imminent death (E and A) know, I’m notorious for not looking both ways when dashing and tripping my way across the street (jaywalking is the game). This is my ostrich-like philosophy: if you don’t see the car, it doesn’t see you either. But New York is full of wanton yellow taxis that whip around at the speed of light, so I have to force myself to be more careful in the future.
The summer sublet is a walkup near the 86th St. express stop in the Upper East Side in Manhattan. When we first saw the apartment, it must have been close to 11pm on the first day of the two day whirlwind attempt to find an apartment last minute in New York. Compared to the first claustrophobically cramped apartment housing a young corporate dude (working at 10pm on a Saturday night) who was suffering from a recent breakup with his girlfriend, this apartment was charming. The effect of the space is a narrow hall which slightly expands into a tiny kitchen space, which expands into a sectioned off living room, finally narrowing into a small bedroom. I was impressed by the clever development of such a small space.
The apartment belongs to a couple in their early 30s – she, a writer and he, a chef – both of whom seemed to be jobless at the moment (unfortunately, recent loss of job was a pattern that emerged among the people who were trying to sublet their apartments). This couple was subletting it in order to save on rent and moving back with their parents in Brooklyn for a few months. Despite the smallness of the space, I fell in love with their collection of books – ranging from huge volumes of Henry James collected works (fine, I can’t make it through 10 pages of Henry James without falling asleep) to Nick Hornby (yes!) to Jhumpa Lahiri to huge art history tomes. Most excitingly – a whole shelf full of cookbooks galore, including specialized topics such as Japanese foie gras (which I didn’t know existed!). This little apartment, which we later found out lacks sunlight during the day (2 of 3 windows are facing a brick wall), nonetheless looks classy, lived-in and is located in a lively, diverse neighborhood across from Pier 1 Imports (yeah – the “domestic goddess” in me got way too excited about this one).
More on the apartment, neighborhood, internship with Asian American Legal Defense Education Fund (which thus far has involves chasing frightened immigrants around Chinatown and Queens, yelling a mixture of Chinese and English, trying to make them complete a housing needs assessment), new friends and adventures soon. I’m headed back to Boston on the early Bolt bus to watch my little sister graduate from Boston Latin in purple robes!
Also, hola friends!
Grad School Visiting Days
After a whirlwind week of attending the New Admit Days at the Kennedy School, Columbia and Tufts, I finally made a decision. I could have just accepted Kennedy School’s offer as soon as I received it, but since I love making things more difficult for myself, I decided to visit all the schools. I loved Tufts for its small town, close-knit community feel, as well as wide selection of IR classes. The students couldn’t have been more friendly and laid back, although the arboretum-like campus started to feel more like a bubble within the bubble (Fletcher students don’t interact with the rest of Tufts because Fletcher does not share its faculty). One highlight of my visit – former celebrity figure skater Michelle Kwan, who is a current Masters of Law and Diplomacy (MALD) student, gave me a huge smile during the Open House!
I hadn’t planned on a whirlwind visit to New York City, but the amount of trash-talking directed at Columbia’s SIPA by Tufts’ current and prospect students piqued my curiosity. I was also excite about visiting S, a retired executive I met in Marshall’s class at HKS, who is using her corporate know-how to teach ethics through popular culture. I woke up at 6:45am to take the train into the city from New York City. Columbia’s Masters of International Affairs class was huge, numbering 600 and filling up an entire auditorium. We sat in tables by concentrations (I selected human rights), which didn’t reflect the incredible diversity of SIPA’s programs. I guess they didn’t want the human rights people to get scared off by the international business people! Throughout the day, everyone at Columbia emphasized the resources of the city and SIPA’s connections with the United Nations. I had the distinct feeling that the wealth of resources available in NYC might be a mixed blessing – Columbia students probably kill themselves trying to take the rigorous quantitative based curriculum, competing for research positions and doing UN internships on the side, not to mention extracurricular activities. But – I’m not going to go back to grad school with the same mindset as I did my undergrad. During my sophomore year, I took 6 classes per semester including 1 – 3 languages, worked at a 10 – 20 hour a week at a job, mentored for Big Sisters Association (I need to write another post on how I finally tracked down my Little Sister through her 4th grade teacher, who I ran into at Pearl China dimsum on Sunday) and did at least 3 extracurricular activities. In the end, I burned out, my GPA suffered and I never concentrated long enough to plan out a good senior thesis. As a chronic multitasker, I could certainly see myself being overwhelmed with the possibilities of Columbia. Nonetheless, I was impressed by SIPA’s can-do attitude towards solving the world’s problem (speaking of celebrities, Jeffrey Sachs talked about his work with one of Columbia’s many research centers – The Earth Institute – as the keynote). The atmosphere of practical idealism backed by the palpable rhythm of the city definitely appealed to me.
Near the end of the day, as I was standing on the 15th floor of the concrete-glass monstrosity that houses SIPA, I received a call that I had gotten a full tuition scholarship to the Kennedy School. Until that point, I was unable to wrap my head around the costs of graduate school. Every time I attempted to think about it, I started to feel lightheaded. So, with this scholarship, I felt extremely relieved that the decision had essentially made for me. In the end, as a friend pointed out, I probably would have chosen HKS anyways. This school has so much emotional value for my father. Honestly, it annoys me when well meaning friends tell me that I should go wherever makes me happy; any child of working class immigrant parents knows that this American concept of me me me is a bit distorted in light of all those sacrifices just to scrape up enough money for college tuition. Theoretically, no one can stop me from choosing any school I want, but the importance of the collective happiness of my family cannot be understated…especially when it comes to my family.
Boston, Grad School and the Celts
I’ve been back to Boston for less than two weeks and feeling oddly displaced. I keep having the strange urge to buy Swiss products, even though those don’t really exist here. I did manage to find Gruyere cheese at the Porter Square Stop n’ Shop and have been grating it nonstop over Italian pasta (and soy sauce-less stirfry), to Andrea’s confusion. I think it’s a way of dealing with the fact that I’ve now become a bit directionless. True, I’ve gotten what I worked so hard for – but now that I’ve taken the blinders off, there’s the unsettling feeling that I may not be ready for the whole back-to-school experience.
Today is the first of the visiting days at the grad programs I’ve been accepted to: while I didn’t leave with a negative impression of the K school, the experience was far from pleasant – it was a a blur of drenching, ice cold rain, professional looking men in suits, peppy “Dean’s Ambassadors” in Crimson tshirts and Kennedy School officials who used phases like “I get it – it’s an important decision. We’re a big deal” and “Once you’re in the Kennedy School family, you never leave”…over and over again. I did enjoy the ALANA reception for students of color (of which I didn’t see many) at the end of the day, where I met some friends from Prof Ganz’s class (that I took at the K school my senior year of college). Next stop: Tufts and Columbia…we’ll see.
One thing that has made me feel truly at home and Bostonian – after a grueling New Admits Day, I settled into a happy hot-dog-french-fries-pink-lemonade induced coma watching the Celtics play (and, unfortunately, lose to) the Washington Wizards at the TD Bank North Garden. Since the last game we attended, Boston has traded a few players – at least 3 are now unfamiliar to my untrained eye. Eddie House (who sank some pretty epic shots during the 2008 “World” Championship games against L.A) is gone and so is Mikki Moore, whose amazing hair made up for whatever skills he lacked on the court. Sadly, so is Leon Powe, who went to Robin’s old high school – Oakland Tech.
Fortunately, Rondo and Garnett are still on the team. As apathetic I as I am about sports in general, I had a genuine moment of panic when rumors came out months ago that Rondo might be traded. What can I say – watching those two on the court, especially Kevin Garnett, generally induces an emotional happy dance in my head. As a side note, the most entertaining moments of the game came during half-time, when some little pint sized basketball team was let loose on the court. They were at an age where the girls on the team were twice as tall as the boys, who hadn’t had their growth spurts yet. It was so funny to watch them dribble a few feet, lose control of the ball, dribble back, repeat – basically running back and forth within ten feet of half court. I used to be much better than that Another funny, unPC moment – a guy in our row wearing a shirt for #44 (extremely tall, redheaded Brian Scalabrine) with the label “the white guy.” Pretty sad…but yup, that about sums it up. Scalabrine occasionally does what he’s supposed to do by knocking small players over by accident and makes 3 pointers once in a blue moon.
Oh Boston, it’s good to be back.
Mom’s Sitcom and Q’s Get-Loose To-Do List
Karen, the founder/director of my NGO said something that made me double over with laughter today. She had a quick lunch with my mother when she went to the Kennedy School to accept the Gleitsman Award for International Activists way back in October of 09. Apparently that meeting left a strong impression on Karen because she said, “your mom is one of the funniest women I’ve ever met. She should star in her own sitcom, called ‘Quinnie’s Mom.’” I quite agree. At any rate, mom and dad are quite happy with me at the moment – maybe it’s time to capitalized on it and ask for a sports car. Or a pony. Or that trip to Disney World that was promised to me when I passed the entrance exam for Boston Latin, but which we never took (because the sketchy Chinatown bus that was supposed to drive all the way from Boston to Orlando broke down). Whatever. Carpe diem.
On another note, today was my last day of work at IBJ! We had a ‘gathering’ for me – very typical of the spirit of my organization – complete with gong ringing, singing bowl ringing, candle lighting and wise words. While I was sad to be cleaning my desk (which my friend D will take over with glee on Monday because she has been moving from desk to desk for a month), the end was anti-climatic. L and T were still watching college basketball (I filled out an office NCAA bracket for the first time in my life! Did that get me to care about any teams? Not really) when I walked out of the office.
Having run the course of 4 bars last night, I only wanted to quickly stop by a friend’s 27th birthday party at the Brasserie de L’Ile – a lovely, candle/disco ball lit place on a little manmade island – before heading home to a clothes-strewn bed. As usual, I had a hard time making conversation in an extremely loud bar and went outside to get some air after half an hour. A friend whom I ran into told me I was being too serious. When I told him I would probably be one of the youngest in my class at the Kennedy School, he frowned and said, “you’re still trying to grow up too fast.” There’s some truth in what he says. I’m only 22 – this is the time to live it up, or risk regretting not living it up later. Not every single conversation needs to be meaningful. This is a philosophy that very much goes against my Asian upbringing, but it’s worth trying. So…in celebration of my achieving the biggest goal of my very young life, here are some more goals to be conquered before I turn 29.
Q’s Get-Loose To-Do List:
- Revel in spontaneous encounters and friendships
- Be able to stay in a crowded bar and make conversation for more than an hour
- Be able to dance in a club for more than 2 hours without getting bored and cornering someone into having a real conversation with me outside
- Dance salsa and bachatta at least twice a month
- Learn how to swim without getting tired after 5 minutes, drive stick shift and ride a bike for at least 10 kilometers at a time
- Hiking and being in more sunny, green places.
- Live in Kenya, travel in South Africa and Zimbabwe
- Hike Machu Pichu at sunrise.
- Jump in a lake
- Laugh more often
This is how I shall live out my twenties – not with a whimper, but with a bang.
Future Now Certain
…at least for the next two years! I just found out that I was accepted to the Harvard Kennedy School’s Masters of Public Policy (MPP) program! It’s been my dream school since I was 8 years old, even before I knew there was a difference between college and graduate school. I feel calm, but very happy, a little breathless, as if I had been holding my breath for the last 14 years. The MPP program is just one way of delaying the future but hopefully I’ll be a little more prepared to work in the human rights/advocacy/development/social entrepeneurship world at the end of it. As happy as I am about Harvard, I’m still considering Tufts’ Fletcher School – I’ll have to have many conversations about it with alums and do a few campus visits as soon as I get back to Boston. But for now, I’ll revel in this giddy feeling. Dear Universe – thanks for conspiring to help me.
