Hello dear friends! I want to first extend a hearty congratulations to all my friends who graduated this weekend. For those whose journey and growth I had the pleasure of witnessing the past four years, please know I’m so beyond proud and excited for you all. Now, for this week’s postscript (p.s.):
ruminations
“The ship rises with the water”
When I opened up to my dad recently about feeling anxious going back to school in the fall, diving straight into an academically rigorous program (a Masters by Research, oral defense, and prep for a language translation requirement, and with a semesterly course load heavier than some of the PhD students, all within one year) after a year of basically bedrotting, I wasn’t at all surprised when he responded with an old Chinese proverb. Immigrant fathers are like that, I guess. The ship rises with the water — a frustratingly beautiful way to describe one’s ability to rise to a challenge and come out the other side stronger, more capable, and elevated. At the time, it not only quelled my anxiety and imposter syndrome, but also fed my ambition. I felt empowered: of course I could do it. I’d earned my place at this institution, had completed award-winning research already as an undergraduate, and most importantly, had an urgent research interest fueled by a burning, yearning desire from deep within that could only be described as passion, in a current climate that only makes my research questions more critical.
Throughout my teenage years, my parents broke out of the stereotypical “tiger parents” mold by encouraging me to actually explore my hobbies and try to discover a “passion” rather than fill my schedule with private college counselors and standardized test prep tutors. They had a vague understanding that as people who gave up their personal dreams or hobbies in search of stability, the best gift they could give me was the privilege and freedom to actually do what I wanted, rather than what I felt like I had to. I was told that finding a true passion — something that lights your soul, that keeps you up at night, that makes you want to get up every morning to keep interrogating and discovering and engaging — was one of life’s most rare and precious resources, and was the secret ingredient many people lacked for success (outside of natural born talent and work ethic).
I’m not sure if this perspective evolved into a core belief in my teenage brain, or if I’m naturally the kind of person who closely intertwines her identity with her purpose. But once I discovered what it was that kept me up at night, I felt like I would be a fool to let it go. Passion was necessary for success. Success was the only way to live up to this prescription my parents had laid out. Perhaps I’d never survive state-sanctioned political violence or poverty, but discovering and making something out of my passion would carry their sacrifices forward. Thus was ushered in almost a decade of relentless reading, writing, and interrogating tangible, abstract, and philosophical questions of narrative, power, survival, voice, gender, diaspora, race…. I literally nearly worked myself into an early grave. But I came out of it weighed down with accolades, praise, and the undeniable admission from my classmates and professors that I was incredible. And that was addicting.
Now I look around and sometimes let myself wonder if I’ve hustled myself into an ivory tower. The older I get, the more I understand how fragile and precarious a passion can be. Perhaps at fourteen, the idea of loving something so much you could not imagine spending your life doing anything else felt grandiose and romantic; but at almost twenty-three, I look at my classmates who are married, pregnant, mothers and fathers, medical students, lawyers, engineers, marketing assistants, financial consultants … and realize there are bills to be paid. Credit scores to check. Down payments to save for. Health insurance customer service lines to fight. My ship may have risen with quite considerable tides, but at what point is it time to wonder if I’m sailing in an imaginary ocean? (The answer, I’m beginning to believe, is that I must do it for myself, and no one else)
Of course, it doesn’t help that my passion is in a field our society doesn’t necessarily value through capital. I’m painfully aware of the elitism and gatekeeping that exists in academia, and more and more I understand why it’s a vicious cycle and a kind of environment that is inherently unsustainable and unrealistic for those who do not have access to a certain tax bracket or level of financial stability (or don’t have a fallback such as parental support). I’m also staring down the end of my checking and savings account every month, trying to calculate just how screwed I’d be in the next eight years when I pursue my Master’s and then PhD if I hadn’t worked two jobs during undergrad or had the full emotional and material support of my family (which places me in a very privileged position). I try not to think about the years to come when my peers will be buying cars, houses, and opening a savings account for their child’s college tuition, while I will be living paycheck to paycheck on a measly doctoral stipend, drinking coffee at 3am while I submit another chapter for my dissertation. Or the doomscape that is humanities academics who successfully stay in academia post-graduation, or the abysmal work-life balance and compensation before you make tenure, if at all.
The answer, I’m beginning to believe, is that I must do it for myself, and no one else
But all this will be worth it, I tell myself, because I have found something so few apparently do: a passion. Something that gets me so excited, so alive, that I can’t see myself doing anything else. Something that I know will make me feel fulfilled and content, like I have a soul-aligned purpose, even when the work is hard. Something that will be my legacy. Something that will last. It’s so tragic having a passion, isn’t it?
in rotation
“Sue Me” Audrey Hobert (Spotify): I don’t care that the internet is dogpiling Audrey Hobert for being friends with Gracie Abrams, this song sounds like making mojitos with your friends at 11pm in your living room, dancing with your headphones in while you fold your laundry, getting drunk off your ass at a party you didn’t want to go to but ended up having a blast at, laughing at your friends trash talking your ex, driving late at night in LA when the 10 is miraculously empty for once, and making spontaneous plans to not go home yet after a night out with your girl friends to instead hit up a taco stand.
“a moth defies helios” by wenyi xue: The first line hits you right in the solar plexus, and every sentence after that paints a dreamscape so vivid you forget you’re sitting in a material world, or that you’re reading the piece at all
When Anne Elliot says: "You're young; you don't know what the future has in store; you will rally; and you will be happy again" (Persuasion, 2022 [yes, the movie. with Dakota Johnson. her line delivery is crucial to understanding the vibes of this particular moment in this particular adaptation. but also please read the novel, preferably beforehand)
tiny joys
Strawberry banana smoothies, keychains that bring a little bit of personality to my cane, Heytea’s Coconut Mango Boom drink, dark green velvet, chamomile tea before bed
loose threads: postscripts, unsent
(letters i wrote in my head)
You were the first person I ever admired and the first person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I don’t think you meant to do either.
I learned from your strength and your silence. I’m trying to unlearn at least one of them.
There are still things I can’t name that you took from me — not in one blow, but slowly, like erosion. You dressed it up as love, but beneath it was something else: the quiet belief that you were above it all. I saw it in the way you measured people’s worth by their polish, their pedigree, their pain. I think, deep down, you needed me to feel small so you could feel large. And I hate that it worked. I’m still unlearning the versions of myself I shrank into to keep you comfortable, still learning to quiet your voice in my head that tries to unravel every hard-earned moment I worked for.
You thought you were one of the girls, like that gave you a pass. Like your closeness came with access. But you weren’t. And it didn’t. You crossed lines that no friend should’ve come close to. You convinced yourself you were harmless, but the worst part is how long you made me second-guess my own discomfort. Like it was mine to repeatedly justify, instead of yours to take seriously. As if proximity equals permission.
Being close to you isn’t always easy, and I mean that in the best way. There are moments when something you say, or simply the way you see me, presses against the edges of old wounds I thought I’d already sealed. It’s uncomfortable, sometimes even disorienting, but I know that’s where the healing is. Your presence challenges the parts of me that learned to survive by retreating, and I think that’s a blessing I’m still learning how to receive — but don’t think for a second I don’t feel blessed for it. I am truly lucky.
You’ve always been honest with me in a way that felt rare — like you trusted me with parts of yourself you weren’t sure were lovable yet. And I want you to know: you never had to earn your place in my life. I stayed close because you are good, not because you needed someone to prove it.
As young girls, I couldn’t imagine a version of adulthood where you weren’t beside me. But time has a way of stretching even the strongest ties. I know we drifted. I know there were choices we made that quietly closed the door between us. And even if we never find our way back, I hope you know — I still think of you with fondness. I want good things for you. I always will.
see you next week <3
cherie