The post My Failed Attempt At Songwriting appeared first on tiffyun.

For the past thirty minutes, the middle-aged woman sitting across and close to me had been nothing but gentle and patient on what I was arguing to her. Sitting next to me and facing this patient woman was also my mother. She might as well though not be there because she had remained mute during this entire “appointment.” It wasn’t that my immigrant mother couldn’t understand the dialogue or that she didn’t want to help me. She was quiet by choice. 

I was the one who arranged this meeting – this appointment, or the official phrase – an appeal, to convince this woman sitting so close to me that our knees almost touched each other, that the Specialized High Schools Admissions Test had flawed questions that year, the year 1999. And these flawed questions were precisely two. Two was the magic number for me – I just had to convince her, an employee of the New York City Department of Education that any two of the wrong answers I had selected were not my mistakes. They couldn’t have been. Because these mistakes had placed me in a cutoff where I could only enroll in the second best high school in New York – Bronx High School of Science, and not Stuyvesant, the top ranked one, my first choice, and my only choice.

I cannot remember the details of the room that the three of us had sat in. It had to be an office space though, in a building, owned by the Department of Education. I want to say the walls were painted with a beige type of white, nothing decorous, fun, or fancy. 

That afternoon, I wore the only white shirt I owned, a khaki skirt that hit above my knee caps along with a pair of white pumps. In hindsight, the outfit was probably better suited for a sweet sixteen party instead of this appeals meeting. I did though intentionally select the outfit, based on what my 14-year-old-self believed to be a professional and confident appearance, so powerful that I could persuade this employee into siding with me – that just two questions, any two that I had made mistakes on were at the fault of the exam board. 

I was there to convince her that I deserved to go to Stuyvesant. That I must go to Stuyvesant. That I must have a seat in the school the following year – 2000. Because if not, then my future would be doomed. The chances of me getting into an Ivy League would shrink. And I just needed to get into any Ivy League. Ideally, one that was as close to tier as the one that my mother had done her postgraduate studies in so I could be as accomplished as she was, if not more. 

How did my immigrant mother feel about my test results? Was she disappointed? I had always assumed that she was. Perhaps it was my own perception. Perhaps she was not. She never used those words – “Tiffany, I am disappointed in you.” I never asked her. But I felt that she was. She never congratulated me when she learnt of my acceptance to the school, located in a borough called the Bronx, that only 12% of test takers that year were qualified to enroll in. It was a 30-minute drive from Queens, the borough where we lived in and to get there, we had to cross a bridge, the Whitestone Bridge, with a roundtrip toll cost that was enough to buy school lunches for four days. 

When my mother learnt of my exam results, she acknowledged it as if I was telling her that Monday had passed and now it was Tuesday. Perhaps getting into a specialized high school was an unspoken requirement because of the effort already spent on it. I had committed an entire summer, from Monday to Friday, from 9 in the morning to 3 in the afternoon, studying for it at a private after school program and every Saturday in the fall once school resumed. Not to mention how much money was spent on this service which could cover one year’s worth of school lunches for seven students.

As I was giving my appeal to this woman, who kept her eyes on me the entire time, I already knew that I was not at all convincing. I couldn’t even convince myself. I was only trying to come up with every logical reasoning I could think of to make a case. And as I continued making my arguments, I only saw how it was my fault that I chose the wrong answers. Why couldn’t the test scoring machine just deduct 12 from my answer of 124, producing the correct angle value to the parallelogram? And why didn’t I comprehend that the main idea in one passage about graffiti art really was about the pie chart analyzing the number of them in the state of Denver and not the one I chose – artificial heart transplant. 

The exam was not flawed.

It was I, who just did not score high enough to qualify a seat in Stuyvesant. I was just not a part of that top 5% of test takers. 

Looking away from this woman who was old enough to have teenage daughters of her own, I ended my debate. My face dropped to a deep state of hopelessness. The debate, actually, wasn’t even a debate. This woman’s responses to my appeals were affirming and gentle, without any “No’s,” “You were wrong,” or “It looks like you just failed to do the proper math.” Midway through my arguments, I already knew the outcome.

At the age of fourteen, I did not yet learn the business etiquette on how to end a meeting, which by now, I had mastered from fourteen years of working. So, I didn’t leave by saying scripted corporate phrases of “I really appreciate your time,” followed by a sweaty handshake or a “That was really helpful, we should do this again sometime.” I did what any 14-year-old girl did – gave the woman a weak “Thank you,” and stood up to leave. 

While I did so, I felt the wrinkle that my sitting posture had made against the khaki skirt I bought from a mail order catalogue. This patient woman, who looked to be the same age as my mother, held onto a few beats of hesitation before she opened her mouth and comforted me, words traveling slow and natural, like the the bubbles I blew out from a bubble wand. “You know.” She gave another pause. “My daughter went to Bronx Science. She had a great time there.” 

Meeting her eyes, I nodded. My face remained down, almost touching the neutral colored floor. My eyes were no longer with any desires – the desire that she would agree that a team of exam experts made mistakes. My energy was hollow like a crumbling tunnel, not ready for any visitors. And off, my mother and I walked out of the bland colored room, leaving this farsighted woman back to being by herself.  

I did end up having a good time at Bronx Science. I also had a good time at the university I later attended, one that was not an Ivy League. 

The post Attached To An Outcome appeared first on tiffyun.

What better topic to talk about in another country, at the U.S. Consulate other than the great American Dream? To talk about the country known for its land of opportunities not just in the past but even today. While traveling for the past one year, the people I’ve met in Europe and Asia praised it for its transparency, integrity and a place that can offer them what their mother country could not – a better life.

But like any creative work, my initial intent on speaking about the “great” American Dream morphed. Instead of talking about the good, I presented both sides of the coin, the good and the bad. I gave four examples: Danny Chen, a marine who committed suicide because he was racially harassed in the military, former President William Clinton, current Secretary of Transportation Elaine Chao, who immigrated from Taiwan to America at the age of 8 and the black lives matter movement.

Pressed for time as the conference room where I gave the presentation must be vacated sooner than usual and foreign to my slides,  I read them, seldom making eye contact with the audience, a room of thirty people. I tried to be mindful of my speed because they were all native Chinese speakers and their English proficiency varied from grade one to high school; some did not speak an ounce of English.

After my lecture, I began the discussion with questions such as “What is your American Dream?” “Are all men created equal? (a reference to the Declaration of Independence)” I was full of excitement, waiting for a wave of heated discussion.

Contrary to my last lecture, perhaps more straightforward, more people and less controversial which ended in many questions and comments, this time the audience was pitch quiet.

Instead of answering my questions, someone asked me, “What is your American Dream?”

“Freedom,” I said.

A person made a quiet but audible comment, “That’s hard.”

No one shared what their American dream was or any dream. No one answered whether they believed that all men were created equal.

I was unsatisfied so I asked again, “Anyone want to share their dream?”

Complete silence. This could not be how the event will end. “Then, are all men created equal?” Still complete silence. Was this really how it was going to end?

The examples I shared were successful American dreams and tragic ones – the suicide, the racial discrimination. What happened? Did they understand my slides? Did I speak too fast? Did I not explain thoroughly? Was I unclear? Were the examples not controversial enough to stir a discussion that I had hoped for? What did they think? Does the American Dream exist or was it a hopeful fantasy? Why wasn’t anyone making any comments? No questions at all?

I looked at the officer and she asked again, if anyone has any comments or questions. Again, silence. She thanked everyone for coming and the audience stood up, shuffling through the double doors.

“It’s finished already?” one of the blue uniformed guards came into the room.

“Is it because the teacher did it in Chinese?” She was referring to me, who looked Han Chinese and assumed that because I looked so the presentation must have been done in Chinese.

“No. Not that. I think people felt rushed because they were told we had to end early.” She started to pack up the laptop attached to the monitor screen and turned off the speakers for the microphone.

A young lady, wearing black framed eyeglasses, walked towards me with a notepad and a pen in her hands.

“Ke yi shuo zhong wen ma?” she asked, meaning can I speak in Chinese?

“Ke yi (sure),” I said.

She asked if it was better to pursue a career that your parents wanted you to pursue or do something that you wanted to do. I told her that it’s a decision she has to make – that if you get a job your parents wanted, they would be happy but you would not; if you get a job that you enjoyed, happy you, angry parents.

“Xie xie (thank you)” she said, holding the notebook close to her chest with both her hands. I took a sip of the water on the lecture stand and saw from the corner of my eyes that she walked through the double doors and out of my sight.

The officer and I said our goodbyes. At the consulate’s entrance, I picked up my passport and cellphone and waited for the security guard, stationed in a possibly bullet-proof glass booth to buzz me out of the locked door.

“Why didn’t anyone respond?” I blurted out to my friend who came to watch my presentation. “I thought there was so much room for discussion – I wanted to know if their perspective of America has changed, if it is still the land of opportunity.”

“I suppose this is the difference between the East and the West,” he pointed out.

“How so.”

“You’re expecting the students to give you feedback but they’re used to listening to the teacher.”

For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in the coffee shop, chatting over other matters. I couldn’t help but wonder if that young lady understood what I meant to tell her – do what you want to do, to hell with others.

The post Choose a Career You Like – Not What Your Parents Like appeared first on tiffyun.

The boy sitting a few seats from Derrick and I stared at us, with curiosity, probably because we were speaking in English in a Chinese speaking country.

“Do you think our lives were pre-destined when we were born?” I asked Derrick. We were sitting in a cafe in Beijing, called Costa, a coffee chain headquartered in Europe, similar to Starbucks. The chairs were leather cushioned and the air conditioning made our ice coffees even colder.

“It’s 50/50,” Derrick said. “No matter how much I practice I’m never going to be like Michael Phelps. I don’t have his physique.” Derrick was above the average height for Chinese men; he stood over six feet, lean, with thick, black hair and the shorts he wore revealed his toned calves. “So, 50% of my life was predetermined when I was born – the other fifty is free will,” he concluded.

I spun the plastic straw around the iced cubes in my coffee and said, “I see.”

“What do you think?” Derrick asked. Unlike the men I knew in New York City, he did not gel his hair so a few strands hit his eyelashes, which gave him a natural, laid-back look.

I dropped my shoulders and let out a sigh. “I’m back and forth on that,” I said. “But I think I do agree with you, it is fifty-fifty.”

“Well you know – people who achieve their career goals do a few things – one is that they have a vision. When you have a strong vision, you’ll lift barriers and get through obstacles because you believe in it.” The young boy sitting a few feet away still could not lift his eyes away from Derrick. Derrick noticed him noticing him and gave him a high five.

My fingers rested on the right side of my chin as I digested what he just shared.

“You should get this bike sharing app, it comes in handy – the traffic in Beijing can be horrible,” Derrick told me.

“I don’t know how to ride a bike.”

“Well, lift that barrier!”

“I’m just joking with you,” I said.

I knew how to ride a bike. I just did not yet have a vision.

Nine months later – Pristina, Kosovo

At the only communal space in the three-bedroom hostel – the kitchen – I continued journaling on the dining room table. The sounds from the turning of a door knob and footsteps from heavy boots – the only other guest in this hostel arrived. He was sent here from the United Nations just a week ago and was staying in this hostel until he could find a long-term rental.

The man had on a pair of eyeglasses and was in his mid-thirties. We said our Hello’s as he leaned on the kitchen counter, across from where I was sitting, and faced me. He took off his gloves and placed them into the pocket of his jacket. I saw that the snowflakes on his shoulders had not yet melted.

“So what country are you from?” he asked.

“United States.”

“I’m from craig-ga-stand,” he shared.

Was that a country or a city? He shared that it was a country, but it was protected by the Russian military and they had beautiful women – a blend of Russian and Asian blood.

“Are you backpacking right now?” he asked.

“Oh no,” I laughed as I was flattered that he thought I looked like I was fresh out of college instead of a woman in her early thirties, “Just simple travel.”

“What do you do for work?” he asked as turned on the water boiler, stationed close to the backsplash of the kitchen counter.

“I’m not working right now, probably write a book when I’m done traveling,” I said.

The non-fan styled space heater in the kitchen began to make these beating noises like a hammer, hitting steel. I looked over to make sure it wasn’t catching fire as I had not used such a heater since the early 1990’s. This guest though seemed unbothered by it as if these sounds were normal.

“I’ve been just here for one week and one thing I don’t get is why the parents here don’t send their kids to school,” he commented. “It’s all free.”

“Maybe they see things short-term, they just want what they can get today,” I said.

“I grew up in a village in craig-ga-stand so making money is my priority. It’s to survive.” He took out a tea bag from the paper carton by the microwave and waited for the water to boil.

I listened, thinking that making money was not my first priority. I just wanted to be happy and fulfilled.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re smart and hard-working,” he said. “There are just no opportunities in my country.”

I didn’t know what to say as I could not imagine growing up like that. When host and writer, Conan O’Brien signed off one of his last shows, he said, “Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you’re kind, amazing things will happen.” So whenever I failed to get what I wanted, I crawled back to Conan’s words, telling myself to treat others well and to work hard, and that amazing things would happen. I respected Conan and believed him. But was his advice only applicable to people living in the United States?

“You said you’re writing a book. It means you could easily find jobs. You have that. You were born into a place that offered you that,” this guest from craig-ga-stand said. His torso was still against the kitchen counter.

He was right. This was the fifty percent that I was born into, predestined.

The post Is Our Life Path Predestined? appeared first on tiffyun.

At my third job, I was working in the sales department of a media company. My plan was to leave after one year to then work in the producing department. The plan was working out great, I just had to swap out one year with ninety-nine years. A friend of mine lit a fire up my behind and suggested that I should be doing everything possible to leave if that is what I wanted.

I decided that eating parsnip should be enjoyable and getting them stuck in my front teeth and suffering from you know what should also be enjoyable. So, I signed myself up for a networking event that was hosted by my company’s employee resource group for women, HERE. The event was a speed networking one where managerial level female employees would speak one-on-one with other female employees who were of much senior positions. I didn’t quite qualify to attend because I wasn’t yet at a managerial level. So I slipped the organizers a five-hundred-dollar bill and they agreed to let me be a volunteer to help guests check in. They neither confirmed nor denied if I could hang around after check in was complete. I was fine with this ambiguity because my buddy Denzel Washington said, “If you hang around the barber shop long enough, sooner or later you will get a haircut.”

I was sitting at a table, with four other women who were networking with among themselves. The elevator pitches and self-introductions were complete so they started talking about random topics and I joined them.

“I was kind of surprised I got a reply, I didn’t think there was any live person reading emails.” I shared about how I became a volunteer for the event – by emailing the employee resource group, HERE. I omitted the slipping them money part. I aimed to show nothing but character integrity, however fabricated that may be.

“Well, of course, there are real humans reading them.” A lady who sat two inches to the right of me responded, in a slightly sarcastic but not insulting tone of voice. Later, I found out that she was the communications chair for the employee resource group, responsible for reading and answering e-mails. So, she was probably that “live person” I had mentioned.

I then enthusiastically brought up about how I was looking for a female mentor and e-mailed BET Nework’s CEO, Debra Lee to ask her if she could be mine. I concluded about how I was surprised that I never heard from her.

“Well, you never ask someone to be your mentor,” said same lady, who still sat two inches to the right of me.

She wasn’t done, “And for someone like her, she probably has assistants filtering through her e-mails.”

I guess this lady was questioning my common sense or lack of? Her direct and concise responses caught my laughing bugs. I found her to be quite entertaining. So I did what I usually did: I giggled and lightly hit her left shoulder with my beautiful hand.

Thirty seconds later (she talks fast), she said she could introduce me to a manager who has an opening on her team. Lady Direct (let’s refer to her as that) said I should go find her before I leave. I ignored her and drifted to the wine table. Next thing I know, Lady Direct brings over the manager. I quickly and charmingly gave her my verbal bio, while my armpits became sweaty.

The following week, I interviewed for that job opening. I happened to mention all of this to my cube mate. She happened to be former colleagues with the manager so I slip her a five hundred-dollar bill and she put in a good word for me. Two months later, I was hired and started working at Lady Direct’s department. I guess Denzel Washington was right, damn I really did get a haircut.

From there on, I have attended a few more networking events. I still compare them to eating parsnip, and getting them stuck in my teeth then suffering from diarrhea and constipation. Attending them have not landed me any other interviews or any other jobs. I got my next job by asking Lady Direct for leads and she connected me to the hirer. And no, Lady Direct isn’t a head hunter nor does she work in Human Resources. She is simply Lady Direct.

The post How My Introverted Self Got A Job At a Networking Event appeared first on tiffyun.

One year, I was taking one of the hardest courses at Carnegie Mellon University – Decision Analysis and Decision Support System (DADSS). It was taught by Paul Fischbeck, an intelligent, somewhat handsome, 6’3” (estimate), slim, professor who received his Ph.D from Stanford University and went to the military. The class taught me how to use mathematical equations and/or formulas to quantify factors, analyze outcomes of all possible decisions, and recommend the most optimal option. The goal was to analyze the consequences of decisions in an economic fashion, often in complex scenarios. Zzz.

After graduating with this major, people usually worked in consulting, legal, government or just about anything social science related. I never thought that it would one day help me do what I do now, drug dealing. Kidding!

What was I saying again? Oh yes, Decision Analysis and Decision Support System (DADSS) class and Tiffany and Co..

For Christmas, these people who may or may not have the same blood type as me, who may or may not also have the same DNA as me, offered to buy me one (1) necklace from Tiffany and Co.. Only one. How cheap of them!

My DADSS class happened to assign this homework which was to present a decision that I must make, sort out the options, list three factors to quantify the options, quantify them, and recommend one option that was most mathematically optimal. So, I chose to analyze which Tiffany and Co., necklace I should ask for.

The factors I finalized on were:

• Retail price, they ranged from 150 USD to 225 USD
• The presence or vacancy of the Tiffany & Co. logo on the necklace
• Aesthetics

After quantifying these factors, I applied blah blah blah (you probably don’t care), and concluded that I was to go with option B.

When I saw that the result was option B, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t want it. But, how was this possible when the math told me that the most optimal option was B? I added in the conclusion of my paper that although this option was the most rational one, I did not want it.

When I got my homework assignment back, my Teacher’s Assistant wrote a comment to my conclusion. I vaguely remember what it was and haven’t been able to locate that paper.

The post Go With Your Heart Not Your Brain appeared first on tiffyun.