-John Howard Payne, 1791-1852 (first stanza from “Home, Sweet Home”)

Last year, I did a friend a favor by renewing my lease for my apartment in Midwood, Brooklyn, so she could sublet it from me at a decent price. I had lived in that 1-bedroom apartment for four years at that point, but I was ready to move to Washington, DC, to search for work. After finishing my graduate program, my student employment at school was over. I had no job, the rent was too high, and I had a mountain of student loan repayments looming in the near future. The best chance I had of finding work with an international NGO or a policy think tank was Washington, DC (or Geneva, depending on who you ask). The market value for my apartment was around $1,200, but since I lived in a rent-controlled building, my rent had only gone up from $900 to $1,070 over four years. Sure, why not help a friend out?

Caitlin* promised to stay until the end of my one-year lease, April 2012, so I drafted a sloppy sublease agreement. Lo and behold, three months after moving into my apartment, when I was happily settled in DC, Caitlin texted me to say she had to move out in December 2011. I scrambled to find new subtenants and even new tenants so I could get out of my current lease. I posted ads on Craig’s List, eBay Classified, AirBnB, various rental sites, gave the listing to two different brokers, flooded my friends with mass emails, and dominated my Facebook wall, Twitter feed, and Skype updates asking if anyone knew anyone who needed an apartment in Brooklyn.

For those who have experience moving around big cities, it’s common knowledge that the real estate market is slow between October and April–it’s cold, moving is more of a hassle in snow, and college students are settled in. Between May and September, that’s when people are moving again, students are coming into town for school and internships, and vacationers are looking for short-term housing. Long story short: It did not look good for me. My apartment remained empty.

Two weeks ago, I was contacted by a woman who found my ad on AirBnB. Nicki was a single mom with a 16-year old and two cats. She had been laid off over a year ago, lost her apartment in the city after her savings ran out, and was living in a run-down private home in Queens with a hostile landlord. She told me she would work with the NYC Coalition for the Homeless to pay me the security deposit and first month’s rent. Her hope was to sublet the apartment until my lease ended and then sign a new lease under her name. I drafted the sublease agreement, emailed it to Nicki, and told my property management company (PMC) that I had found a new subtenant. “No,” I was told, “We have to run a credit check on her first.” I told them upfront that Nicki was unemployed. I explained that she was desparate to find a private apartment just for her and her daughter so that she can focus on her job search. I sent them Nicki’s full name and social security number.

A week goes by and the PMC sends me a form for Nicki to fill out. They couldn’t move forward with the credit check until she fills out the form. Another week goes by… Throughout all of this, Nicki and her daughter had moved out of the house in Queens to a hotel room to a week-long sublet in Brooklyn. All the while, anxiously waiting to move into my apartment–my empty apartment that I was still paying for. She kept me updated almost every day on her living situation and job search, thanking me profusely every single time.

Today, I received an email from the PMC saying that they would not approve of the sublet due to Nicki’s unemployment. I had no idea how to break this news to Nicki. I was upset: 1)  about losing more money as each day goes by and my apartment remains empty, 2) it took them over two weeks to reach this decision, and 3) that I couldn’t help Nicki out. I knew she was going feel a hundred times worse than I did.

I’ve never met this woman in person before, but I feel overwhelmingly compelled to help her.  She’s one of many victims of the Great Recession. Even though I’m not in a great financial situation either and I was burned before by helping someone out, my heart goes out to her. Every time I speak to Nicki, I hear the desperation in her voice. She’s trying so hard to stay positive and hold it together. She’s fighting to NOT become another person who bounces from shelter to shelter, or living on the streets. More importantly, she’s trying to make sure her daughter doesn’t become homeless. She just wants a stable living situation so she can begin to rebuild a normal life for her family.

If you’re reading this, imagine not knowing where you will be sleeping tonight. You want to find a job and a steady source of income, but all your time and energy is spent on finding a safe place for your daughter to sleep. You have to rely on the kindness of strangers. If you have ever been stigmatized for something that was out of your control, you can already understand  the emotional burden. If you have a room in your home within the five boroughs or know of someone who has a short-term sublet and can take Nicki in, please contact me. Nicki receives an unemployment check of approximately $400 each month and is willing to relinquish some of it in exchange for a roof over her head.  If you can help, please email me: amychin227 (at) msn (dot) com.

*Name has been changed to maintain privacy.

Over three years later on November 30, 2011, Hillary Clinton visited Burma as the Secretary of State in the Obama Administration. She met with the country’s president,  U Thein Sein, and offered $1.2 million in aid. Devex reported that “$1 million will be allotted for microcredit lending and $200,000 for land mine victims.”

In just the past 14 months, Burma held elections (highly flawed, but a first step nonetheless), released Aung San Suu Kyi, and released a small number of political prisoners. This is rapid progress toward democratization, especially when compared to the Arab Spring and democratic movement in Egypt which has been slow and riddled with violence. However, the elections and open dialogue with foreign leaders are only improvements on the surface. There are still major issues to be dealt with in Burma such as oppression of minority groups, using rape as a weapon to intimidate citizens, and thousands more political prisoners who were detained and indicted for bogus crimes.

Yes, it may seem like the tides are a-changing in Burma, but they’re only ripples on the surface. More time will tell if the transition will lead to a democratic system of governance where the lay Burman has a voice.

This article sums up Secretary Clinton’s visit very well, illustrated with my new favorite photograph of the Secretary and Daw Aung: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/02/world/asia/us-will-relax-curbs-on-aid-to-myanmar.html?_r=1&hp

Doug’s story shows that the Occupy Movement has no boundaries for age, race, or gender but that it really is all about socioeconomic divisions. Since the movement started precisely a month ago, many critics and members of the opposition (a.k.a. “the top 1%”) have said that the movement has no coherent message. Someone I spoke to personally put it this way: “It’s a bunch of pissed off unemployed hipsters shouting about being unemployed, and tax breaks for corporations, and climate change… Why don’t they just go look for work instead of holding demonstrations?” Aside from the obvious short-shortsightedness and narrow-mindedness of this comment, there are many people who think this way–unfortunately. Lucky for us, those people are absolutely wrong.

Yes, the Occupy Movement has several messages, but the main agenda of the movement is crystal clear: We’re not gonna take it. Thanks, Twisted Sister, for coining our unofficial theme song. After a decade of high unemployment rates, failed wars, dwindling opportunities, rising education costs, and politics that are benefiting the wealthy, Americans are finally saying, “Enough is enough. We’re not gonna take it anymore.” After eight years of the Bush Administration and its warmongering, neo-conservative policies, we’re finally getting off our couches and desk chairs to do something other than preaching to the choir.

So where’s the confusion?

Another 10 or 15 minutes passed and the messenger from the guidance counselor came and asked for Asha again. Once again, Asha got up and left the classroom. This time, she didn’t return until a few minutes before the class ended. Her eyes were teary and there was very obviously something wrong. Even Ms. Arcuri (in a rare show of softness) asked her if she wanted to leave class early, but Asha assured her she felt well enough to stay. When the bell rang signaling the end of class, her neighbors immediately leaned in to ask her what was wrong. As the door opened and other classes let out, I heard snippets and shouts about how one of the Twin Towers was on fire. Some students rushed into the classroom to greet their friends and pass on the latest rumor about a plane flying into the World Trade Center. The rumor about the fire quickly snowballed into a story about planes flying into both towers.

“They’re probably shooting a movie,” I said to someone. “It can’t be real.”

As I walked out into the hall and headed towards my next class, AP in US Government, the halls were more chaotic than usual as students flocked to the north side of the school building which faced downtown Manhattan. Students who emerged from classes in that side of the building confirmed that not just one but both of the towers were on fire after planes flew into them. I was in utter disbelief as I sat down in my next class; a part of me hung on to the thought that this must be a bad rumor. Everyone was asking questions. Asha was also in the same AP class with me and I quickly found out that her mom worked in one of the towers; she was unable to get a hold of her.

Within minutes into 3rd period, an announcement was made over the intercom. I cannot remember if it was the principal or vice principal who made the announcement. I only remember someone saying that there was some sort of attack in downtown Manhattan. Students who had parents working in the downtown should immediately report to the guidance counselor’s office to use the phone to try and contact their parents. For those of us who had cell phones, there was no reception.

Neither of my parents worked in and even rarely visited downtown Manhattan, but a panicky fear seized me. What was going on? What kind of attack was this? Were we at war? Would I make it home that day? The next few hours were hazy, like I was walking through fog. I started worrying about the most trivial nonsense. What about the shopping concourse underneath the towers? Will the stores remain open? And my cousin, Quincy’s wedding–she had planned to hold the reception in a restaurant in one of the towers.

By the time I walked into 4th period, Yoga with Ms. Russell, I was completely numb. The sight of my cousin, Sandy, was very comforting somehow. We had decided to sign up for the same class that semester. I asked her if she had heard from her parents. My uncle worked in a restaurant close to lower Manhattan. I don’t remember what her reply was. Ms. Russell told the class we didn’t have to change into our workout clothes that day. Instead, she piled us into her office where there was a tube television. The image was fuzzy because of bad reception, but the local news channels reported that both towers had fallen.

More announcements came over the intercom. School was closing early, but all of the trains were shut down. We would either have to walk home or call our parents to come pick us up. I can’t remember if I ever got in touch with my parents, but the next thing I remember is seeing my parents waving at me in the crowd on Dekalb Avenue. We also dropped Sandy off at home. Her father was fine.

When I got home, I turned on the TV and discovered that we were only receiving two or three channels through our rabbit-ear antennas. I later learned that one of the towers had an antenna on top that broadcasted  several  local channels. For the following months, they kept showing footage of the planes flying into the towers, people jumping out the top floors, people on the ground fleeing from the smoke and flying debris… Even though we lived in southern Brooklyn, cars were coated with dust that wafted down from Ground Zero. The terms “terrorist,” “extremist,” “al Qeada,” and “national security” entered my vocabulary for the first time.

Our senior trip to Disney World was canceled. Our senior yearbook was printed with the American flag on the inside covers. I decided not to apply to my dream schools, University of Florida and Vassar College, so I could stay in New York. I regretted it within my first year at Baruch College. I felt guilty for studying marketing and accounting. Everything suddenly seemed so trivial and superficial. What about people who lived conflict regions? People suffering in wars? People who were in constantly feared for their lives?

In the summer of 2005, I studied abroad with Semester At Sea. The theme of study was “Europe and the World.” We learned about social democracies and experienced them firsthand in Norway and Belgium. We revisited the World Wars through Powerpoint slides and assigned readings, then learned about them in person visiting Auschwitz. Two days before we arrived in London, we received news that a bomb went off in the Underground. The shock and numbness I had felt four years ago rushed back. SAS had received many nervous phone calls from parents concerned about the safety of their children, so the MV Explorer was diverted to northern France.

Living aboard the Explorer was the first time I encountered reactions on 9/11 from peers outside of New York. I felt that that my friends from Denver and Portland was only able to sympathize with us (people in New York), but they would never understand the fear that gripped us. In 2006, sailed again with SAS and this time I took a class called the Psychology of Dying and Death. Because it was the 5th anniversary of 9/11, a section of the class was on Terror Management Theory and trying to understand why someone would volunteer to walk onto a bus with a bomb strapped onto himself. After one of the classes, I ran into my professor on the 6th deck. I told him about my experience with 9/11 and how ever since the Manhattan skyline changed, I suffered from panic attacks while crossing the Manhattan Bridge. He told me I had low mortality saliance. Whatever the explanation was, every time I heard a classmate from the Midwest saying how scared they were on 9/11, my worldview defenses went up.

Last week, I attended a speaker event called “September 11th and the Millennials: Perspectives on the Future of Foreign Policy 10 Years On.” The event was organized by Young Professionals in Foreign Policy and held at the Navy Memorial. At the start of the session, the founder and president of YPFP, Joshua Marcuse, gave a brief history of the organization. He was from New York and founded the organization in 2005. He told us that 9/11 had a profound effect on his life, as it did with many New Yorkers who experienced it. One thing he said that resonated with me was that at the moment when the towers collapsed, “it wasn’t a national or international event. It was a local event.” Soon after, several people in the audience admitted that 9/11 had no formative impact on their lives and it was probably because they weren’t in New York at the time or had lost anyone they knew. For them, the profound moment was when we invaded Iraq. That was when the questions of “Why” came up for them.

Since 9/11, the US missed its chance to seize the unity and support the global community was ready to offer. Instead, the Bush Administration took advantage of the situation, violated the rules of sovereignty, and made a lot of money. Since 9/11, the once strong political and economic standings of the US has fallen to an all-time low.

As for me, I escaped corporate America and indulged myself in studying conflict, security, war, and genocide. Now whenever people ask me, “Where were you on 9/11?” I tell them I was in my high school in downtown Brooklyn, just a bridge across from the World Trade Center. I was scared, but since then I’ve found strength and resilience in meeting people who have lived through wars yet refuse to identify themselves as victims.

*Name has been changed for anonymity

While US news and weather reports diligently communicated that Hurricane Irene was going to be the worst tropical storm to hit the northeast in decades, I was enjoying a couple of fair-weather days in Montreal with Susan. The plan was to return to DC via a 15-hour Amtrak ride with a layover at New York Penn Station (the one-way ticket only costs $78). I was looking forward to the long train ride, but  it looked like Irene was going to get in my way. As CNN showed continuous coverage of New York preparing for the worst, including evacuating hospital buildings in downtown Manhattan and shutting down the MTA, I checked the Amtrak website for updates once we got back to our hotel room. When all the train line cancellations were posted and there was no info about mine (the Adirondack line), I tried calling them several times through Skype. I was put on hold for over 30 minutes and then my call was dropped because the wi-fi signal was weak. I finally decided my only option was to wait it out and head to the  train station the next morning as planned.

Susan was supposed to fly out to New York at noon that same day, but she discovered just time that Delta had re-booked her to the earliest flight out which was at 6am. If I was to be stuck in Montreal, I couldn’t afford to spend more nights at the hotel by myself ($150/night). My only options were going to a hostel or contacting my relatives who I haven’t spoken to in almost 20 years.

As I walked over the train station, I prayed that Amtrak didn’t shut down all the lines yet. Even if we got as far as upstate New York, at least I would be that much closer to home. Even though I arrived at the station an hour and a half before the scheduled departure time, there was already a massive line leading up to the Amtrak counter. Everyone else had the same idea. As I got into line, I asked the two people in front of me if they were also on the 8:30 train to New York. They were! So I asked if they had heard any news about the train running on time or getting canceled. They haven’t. As the line slowly moved along, I learned that the couple was from Philadelphia and they needed to get home because they had two cats who were already left on their own for four days. I told them about my two cats. We went over contingency plans in case the train was canceled: last minute flight (too expensive), Greyhound (buses were already canceled the day before), and renting a car. Soon after they reached the counter, the couple turned around to inform me our train was definitely canceled. No trains until Tuesday. I counted in my head, I would be stuck in Montreal for 3 more days. My heart sank and I thought about having to reach out to my long lost cousins. How would I even introduce myself over the phone?

After the couple got their refund at the counter, they told me they’ll look into car rentals. They were going to wait for me in the middle of the station. I never got my refund because just as I was about to take my turn at the counter, an Amtrak employee stepped out and announced to the crowd that trains were canceled until Tuesday. We could either re-book our tickets or call Amtrak to get our refunds. I got out of line and met back up with the couple from Philly. It was decided: we were renting a car and driving to Philly. Once there, I could check if the Chinatown buses are running or crash with relatives or friends. At least Philly was just 3 hours by car from DC as opposed to 11 hours (or 16 hours by train). Introductions were quickly made; the couple was Matt and Leah. Matt scoured his computer and I my iPhone for numbers to car rental places. The wi-fi was too poor for me to get on Skype so Leah called Hertz on the pay phone. She got a deal for $150, but we had to pick up the car at the airport.

We all hopped into a cab with a driver who didn’t speak any English. In French, I told him we needed to get to the airport. In Quebecois, he asked me if I enjoyed my stay in Montreal. In French, I told him, “Yes, as always. This was my third time here.” In Quebecois, he asked me, “Are you from Thailand? Can you speak Thai?” In French, I told him, “No, I’m not Thai. I’m Chinese and I can speak Chinese.” In Quebecois, he told me, “My first wife was from Thailand.” Okay.

At Hertz, the guy behind the counter told Matt and Leah we were the third group of Americans to come in that morning to rent a car at the last minute. We had to wait about a few minutes for the car because they had to find one with a US license plate. He threw in the GPS for free and said that the late fee will be waived in case Leah returns the car late because of the storm. As we waited for the car, Leah said she was going to write a complimentary letter to Hertz about the guy for being so helpful and understanding. This was foreign language to my ears because I had never known anyone who wrote a nice letter to corporate offices, although I know it happens. I knew I met the right people to drive me home. Well, to Philly.

As soon as we hit the road, I called my mom to ask for her to get me my cousin John’s number. When we finally crossed the border and the roaming symbol was gone from my phone, I called two of my friends in Philly to see if I could crash with them. Neither answered or returned my calls before I was able to reach John. So that was settled. I was to stay with John and his wife in Philly.

The weather was great until we hit New Jersey. The 6-hour car ride turned out to be 7 hours because of the torrential downpour towards the end. In those 7 hours, I learned that Matt and Leah are from Utah. Leah just finished law school in Philly and Matt is a journalist who writes for The Salt Lake City Tribune. Unlike many couples I know who fall into the habit of only talking amongst themselves, Matt and Leah constantly made sure I didn’t feel left out of their conversation. If I drifted out, which I often did as I watched the scenery go by, one of them would pull me back in by asking another question about me.

All the while, I was getting text messages from Susan asking if I was okay, if I was still alive. It didn’t help that I had first told her I was getting a ride in an SUV packed with frat boys. She didn’t put it pass me to actually pull a stunt like that. After all, I have crashed at strangers’ homes in foreign cities and hitched rides in rickety cars through developing countries.

I once believed that all people can be nice. Now I know better–the world is full of evil people who wouldn’t think twice about hurting another human being. Armed with that knowledge, I still follow my intuition. If I don’t, I’ll never find my way home.

August 30th update: I received an email from Matt last night to make sure I had made it home safely from Philly. I told him there were no buses running on Sunday so I had to spend a second night there. I finally made it home on Monday via Chinatown bus. There were still no Greyhound buses, I was unable to get ahold of anyone at Megabus, and all the Amtrak trains were sold out. He told me service on the Adirondack line still wasn’t restored on Tuesday like we were originally told, so who knows how long we would have been stuck in Montreal if we had decided to wait on Amtrak.

Last year, as I was making my way over to the AMC Loews at Lincoln Sqaure for a movie (it might have been the first installment of the “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows”), I was saddened to see the Barnes & Noble on West 66th and Broadway was closed. Fond memories of hours spent at that particular Barnes & Nobles came flooding back. All of a sudden, I remembered the times I dodged in to escape the chilly New York winters and harsh winds emboldened by the high rises in Lincoln Square. It was also an optimal meeting spot which I took advantage of when making plans with friends and dates. The bookstore, like many of those in New York City, had multiple floors with a café situated conveniently right off the escalator on the 2nd floor landing. Because of the narrow space, many turns and corners, and high bookshelves, it was easy to get lost in the labyrinth of books–my favorite activity since I was very young.

As I mourned the loss of a beloved Barnes & Nobles location, Borders sent out a mass email announcing that it had started restructuring to avoid bankruptcy, and in doing so it would be closing several store locations. Shortly after, as promised, I started getting a flood of emails from Borders announcing clearance and liquidation sales in multiple locations across the country. One of these locations was on Park Avenue and 57th Street. Since starting graduate school in 2009, I had purchased several of my required texts at this location. Thanks to their customer loyalty program, I was getting 30% discount on books that I wasn’t able to find on half.com or Amazon. This was also my go-to spot for last-minute gifts; they had a large assortment of travel games, candy, bobbleheads, trinkets, and chotchkies. When Borders was having its closing sale, my schoolwork had–ironically–taken over my life so I didn’t have time to stop in and say farewell.

Today, I received an email entitled “A Fond Farewell… Thank You for Shopping at Borders.” As I proceeded to open it, I discovered it was another email from Mike Edwards, the CEO of Borders. This time, he announced that Borders Group Inc. (BGI) would be closing all of its stores, which included Borders Express and Waldenbooks, as BGI failed to attract investors and mergers to keep the retail chains afloat. (The media had already reported the news days before: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/43797505/ns/business-consumer_news/t/final-chapter-borders-close-remaining-stores/)

I had started witnessing the death of print firsthand when I was laid off from my first job out of college at Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing. The entire division underwent restructuring and casualties persist to this day–almost four years later. Although I’m no longer a part of the book publishing world, I continue to feel saddened by the slow and painful death of print.

As much as I support saving the rainforests and promoting environmental sustainability, I get a strange high from the musty smell of books. I likened the sensation of rifling through pages as the same as running my fingers through the hair of a lover. There is an intimacy and physical connection to books–actual, physical, binded books–that I just can’t find with e-books.

With the very few bookstores we have remaining, we are reduced to seeking out public places to meet up with friends and dodging into crowded cafés to find refuge from cold wintery weather.

To me, Washington is a culmination of American history. The first layer of European influence is very distinct and recognizable in the city planning, the statues, and fountains. The layer above that is the people. DC is a melting pot of white Anglo-Saxons, African-Americans, Ethiopians, Caribbeans, Chinese, Koreans, etc. The top layer is made of all the politics–the government and its agencies, the lobbyists, civil society… The people in suits running around Capitol Hill and working for different causes. The city has changed somewhat over the past decade, but gentrification cannot disguise the poverty and criminal activity just literally steps away from our capital building. In a way, the city is an epitome of our country–people are generally so involved in their own lives, they are blind to others who are living in the fringe of society. That was one of the major reasons why I wanted to work outside of the states; I was tired of the apathy.

I find myself falling progressively in love with the city every day as I explore the different neighborhoods–and my belief that people just don’t care is slowly crumbling. Before I arrived in DC, the only areas of DC I was familiar with was Capitol Hill, the memorial sites, and Dupont Circle. Other than that, DC was just made of four neat quadrants. Then someone asked me about “Foggy Bottom” and “Adams Morgan.” Before I got to DC, I was confused by those names and thought they were fictional and utter nonsense. Now I know they really are magical places.

The house that I share with four others is located  just a couple of blocks from the U Street Corridor where there is a plethora of Ethiopian restaurants, wine bars, and jazz clubs. I especially love the history and comeback stories that surround the neighborhood. So far, I have only had the chance to explore my neighborhood, Columbia Heights, Tenleytown (where I had serendipitously discovered a belly dance studio), Logan Circle, and Adams Morgan. Each neighborhood has its own flavor and every sight evokes a different memory from my travels. A row of houses on P Street might remind me of London. A line of government buildings might remind me of Brussels. All the traffic circles remind me of France and Spain. The nostalgia is endless.

Today, I set out to try an Eastern European/Balkan restaurant called Slaviya in Adams Morgan with my friend, Jakub. We traveled from the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum to Woodley Park by metro, then made the 20-minute trek to 2424 18th Street, NW, which required crossing a bridge, walking through a couple of residential blocks, and through an alleyway called Mintwood Place. When we emerged from the drab alleyway, the sight that greeted us sto

pped us in our tracks. We had it made it to 18th Street and we had to stop to take in all the shops, restaurants, and colors. I was quickly reminded of the East Village in New York and Camden in London. Jakub simply said, “This is like Europe.”

As I pass by countless cafés, crêperies, chocolatiers, and boutiques on my strolls through the city, I’m feeling less disappointed about not being in France, Spain, Belgium, and the Netherlands because I’m falling deeper in love with Washington, DC–I have bits and pieces of Europe here. More importantly, I catch innumerable signs of compassion, diversity, and multiculturalism in the rainbow flags that decorate the churches and local storefronts, the variety of food options, the political posters rallying for a free Tibet and support from the democratic west for the Arab Spring…   ‎

I wanted to sing, but my mom told me I could not carry a tune so I stopped singing. I wanted to be a writer, but my mom told me I would never be successful enough to make a living as a writer–unless Hollywood turned my novel into a movie. I wanted to be a dancer but my father told me it took up too much of his time having to drop me off at dance classes. He said I was too fat and short to be a beautiful dancer. Instead, he put me in piano lessons and my mom dictated my practice schedule (every day for 3 hours but not after 8pm so I don’t disturb the neighbors). After a year and a half and one recital later, I told my parents I didn’t want to continue the piano lessons because I wanted to choose a new instrument to learn. I tried out the clarinet and flute, but ultimately I was drawn to the violin. I picked up the instrument when I was in the 5th grade and kept up with it until after high school. I practiced when I wanted; I learned to block out my parents’ complaints that I didn’t practice enough to become more advanced.

After discussing this with some of my fellow Asian-Americans, it seems my mom’s negative attitude is a common trait among old-school Chinese parents. I have observed this in my aunts–and I have nine aunts on my mom’s side, which I feel is an adequate sample. Many of them are quick to to judge and criticize, even during celebratory occasions like weddings and birthday parties. On the other hand, compliments are far and few. In addition to my father’s fat comments, two or three of aunts used to routinely point out my thunder thighs and big butt. My favorite one was, “Amy has a butt like a black woman’s.” (My evil aunt is clearly racist.) As a child and then a teen, I used to feel hurt by those comments. But as an adult, I have grown to love my curves. I have also learned to talk back to my elders–a huge no-no in my culture. Speaking up for myself hasn’t changed my aunts’ personalities, but at least they know better than to make rude comments–not to my face at least.

My mom still criticizes and judges every living thing and every inanimate object on earth, but that doesn’t mean I have to be like that. This is another one of those things I have taken from my parents and promised myself to do the exact opposite in order to be a better parent. Chua has said repeatedly that her book is not a parenting guide, and I hope readers take that to heart. Or take it as a parenting guide of what NOT to do.

In hindsight, my attended every one of my orchestra concerts in high school (and those took place twice a year). She might not show support in the obvious, more normal, healthier ways via compliments, praise, and words of encouragement, but she shows them in other ways. I just have to stop and look… and tell myself I can do better.

My relatives make the best and most well-rounded cast of characters: I have the conniving, manipulative aunts. I have the deadbeat father. I have the over-dramatic mother who swears she will die alone because she’s a divorcée with two apathetic children. I have the lazy brother with dyslexia. I have the sarcastic cousin, the fun cousin, the smart cousin, the snotty cousin–well, I have a lot of cousins and that’s where this new embarrassingly shocking-yet-true tale came about. I have always planned on writing a book about my family and this is just another anecdote that’s too good to keep to myself.

My cousin Sue, who’s a year and a half older than me, is a great character in that she is just a plain awful person. Even when we were younger, she was a mean kid. She used to tease me about my weight and height. She would cause fights between me and Lena, who’s a couple of years younger than Sue and a year younger than me. Finally, when I was fifteen, Sue made me cover up and lie to her parents so she could sneak off to meet a boy she had only spoken to before on the internet. Consequently, I got in trouble for it. She never apologized or made it up to me so I gave up on my relationship with her. It wasn’t all that difficult to cut ties since she didn’t make much of an effort to stay in touch with me after she graduated from high school. In college, she started to spread rumors about how Lena was after her boyfriend. Lena was humiliated and her anguish strengthened our bond. The last time I heard from Sue was about three years ago when she found me on Facebook, requested to add me as a friend, and sent me a very condescending message about how grown up I looked now. I acquiesced and accepted her friend request, but I ignored her message. A year or two later–I cannot be sure exactly when this happened–she had deleted me as a friend on Facebook. Shortly after that, she also deleted Lena as a friend. I was not the least bit surprised by her childish behavior. If there was a list of people banned from our lives, Sue would be on top of that list.

In April, Lena married her long-time boyfriend and high school sweetheart. The pre-wedding events, I’m sure will be a chapter in itself, but this anecdote is about an event that took place after the wedding. Lena had only invited the cousins she was closest with and we had both assumed the others would not feel slighted since they were excused from having to buy/send a wedding gift. About a month after her wedding, Lena received a Facebook message from Sue:

Sue L. May 3 at 10:04pm 

Hi Lena,

I just wanted to say, congratulations on getting married. I heard you got married last month and wanted to congratulate you. I wanted to send you a wedding gift, but I must say, I was surprised to hear everyone got invited to your wedding, but not us? 

I am confused. The last time I checked, I thought we were still cousins? Is that not the case anymore? Anyway, I would have loved for you to have met my baby son. He will be 9 months tomorrow.

Well, I guess this is my cue that our family is no longer a part of the family functions that we have anymore. I don’t know what we did wrong but I feel as if people always feel threaten by us. I am really confused here. 

I hope you have a very happy marriage and best wishes.

Sue

Although this message was not sent to me or directed at me, I felt I was still a part of it since I am a part of the family she’s complaining about. I found the entire thing extremely humorous to the point where I’m sharing it on my blog. In our stories, I think we all need to establish a character that’s as mean, self-involved, and superficial as my cousin Sue. Lucky for me, I don’t have to go far to find inspiration.

I had spent the day in Manhattan with Susan eating a dim sum brunch in Chinatown, watching “The King’s Speech,” and then drinking chai while poring over our high school yearbook at her new apartment in the Upper East Side. At noon, the snow was falling steadily but it wasn’t sticking. By the time we exited the theater, there was a soft layer of light powder on the streets. By 8:30, I decided I better get on the train before the MTA stopped the subways “due to inclement weather.”

By the time I had walked the three avenues over to the 6 train, my face, numb from the snow and wind, was dripping wet and I thought for a second that perhaps my eyelashes were frozen. To my chagrin, the digital counter on the platform announced that the next downtown train would not be arriving for another 29 minutes.  I took that time to shake off the ice and snow on my boots, coat, hair, hat, and scarf… and to watch a total of five trains pass on the uptown side. When the downtown train, a 4 instead of a 6, finally arrived in exactly 29 minutes (why would a computer lie?), I was still optimistic about getting home in under two hours. I was still optimistic even after I had to wait another 20 minutes at Union Square for my Q train and discovered it was running local instead of its normal express route. My confidence was reaffirmed as we crossed the Manhattan Bridge. And then quickly shot down after we pulled into the first station in Brooklyn, Dekalb Avenue. The Q train was now going to run on the N line. The digital boards, maps, and labels all changed to information pertaining to the N train.

I decided to stay on till the next stop, Pacific Street, where I walked through the station to the Q train platform, Atlantic Avenue. Just as I was about go down the stairs onto the platform, a rush of people were on their way up. A guy stopped to tell me there were no Q trains running. Great. I thanked him and turned back in the direction I had just come. Back at Pacific Street, I waited for another N train. If I got off at Bay Parkway, I can get on the B6 bus or walk home from there. One of the few advantages about my neighborhood was the central location of it, right smack in the middle of Brooklyn. Although the closest train is the Q, I’m also within walking distance of the F. The D, N, 2, and 5 trains are all accessible via short bus rides.

The N train I got on only went as far as 59^th Street and then the announcement came that it was being discharged. At this point, it was midnight. The underground station was freezing and I could not stop shivering. I went upstairs to station booth where a crowd was gathered, waiting for a little Asian lady to get off the phone. When she finally did, she told us that N trains are no longer running.

My next option was the F train to Bay Parkway which would leave me even closer to my apartment. At this point, I doubt the buses were even running. So I waited for an uptown N or R train to get to 9^th Street-4^th Avenue, the station where I could transfer to the F. Then, one station away from 36^th Street, the conductor made an announcement that the R train would be discharged at 36^th Street. I heard someone start to cry and I looked ahead of me. There was a couple sitting in front of me and the woman had broken down in tears. Somehow, I found it annoying and amusing at the same time. A grown woman crying over difficulties in getting home.  The couple, both blond and fair-skinned, I guessed was either Polish or Russian. The woman had on a long, black, down winter coat with boots to match. Just as we were about to pull into 36^th Street, “This will be the last stop on this R train!”, the train stalled. The next announcement came to inform us that there is a sick passenger needing medical assistance on the train ahead of us. The woman across from me started wailing.

We finally got off at 36^th Street about 30 minutes later. The next train arrived a mere two minutes later. I can’t even recall if it was another R,  N, or D. I got off three stops later at 9^th Street-4^th Avenue. Even before I made it all the way to the top platform where the F train stops, I could hear angry shouts about how there were no trains running. A woman told the crowd she had been waiting for 30 minutes. I pulled out my Blackberry and went to mta.info which confirmed that the only trains running are the ones with indoor stations. That meant no D, F, N, Q… My last option was the 2 train which would leave me at Brooklyn College, walking distance from my apartment. Well, a nice stroll in warm spring weather, but a long trek in a snowy night with blustering winds. It was 1:30 now and I decided it was worth a shot. The final resort would be to go back into Manhattan and spend the night at the office.

I took the next train from 9^th Street-4^th Avenue back to Pacific Street. Again, I cannot recall if it was an R,  N, or D. Back at Atlantic Avenue, the digital counter said the next 2 train would be arriving in 21 minutes.

When I finally exited the Flatbush Avenue-Brooklyn College station, the snow was up to my ankles at its lowest levels and up to my knees at its highest drifts. I immediately saw that there were no buses running because they were stuck in the snow as well. Or rather, littered at different intersections along Flatbush, some with their lights still on and some were completely turned off, as though their drivers had completely given up on moving them and just abandoned them. After orienting myself (Google Maps to the rescue!), I started heading in the direction of home. Or so I thought. Along the way, people stopped to give me directions, asked if I was doing okay, give a friendly wave, and even offered to walk part of the way with me. I made a couple of wrong turns before a couple of different people pointed me in the right direction. I saw friends and neighbors helping each other dig and push cars out of tough patches. Having lived in New York since I was 13, I know this kind of open affability is rarely seen in the five boroughs, but it always appears at the most crucial moments, such as during this blizzard, when we seek comfort from our neighbors and strangers. We were all stuck or stranded in this storm and, as cheesy as this sounds, kind gestures such as these gave me warmth in the ice and wind.

A mile and a half later, at precisely 3:00 a.m. I was home. My hair was frozen into solid plates of ice and my boots were filled with snow. I felt triumphant, victorious. And happy I live in a place where there are paved roads, street lights, and kind strangers who can point me in the direction home.