Conditional Love

My grandmother grew up as the 2nd daughter of a 3rd wife, within a large wealthy family where she was neglected. From the way she blindly favored her one son over the other, one could easily guess that she probably suffered similar treatment herself and subconsciously came to treat her own as differently as her family treated her.

While my grandmother completed high school at a time when most women in China could not read or write, she never matched up in the eyes of her family to her prettier and smarter older sister, who had the opportunity to complete college, marry an educated man, and live the modern life.

Instead, my grandmother married a Communist foot soldier and settled in a small town in Western China. To the outside world, my grandmother is the definition of grace and modesty, but as many quintessential Chinese woman of the traditional world, she grew up without a sense of empowerment, was never taught to have self worth, and worst of all, without an understanding that respecting others starts with respecting the self.

She is great at putting on a show, but it took me 24 years to realize that deep down, there is nothing there. I learned recently that she was not on speaking terms with my grandfather around the time of his death, some 25 years ago. She was not loved by her parents, and now I have come to learn that she was not loved by her husband either. “The perfect relationship between husband and wife should be one based on mutual respect and harmony at all cost.”

“Harmony at all cost” – it is her way of covering up anything that might be wrong. It is also a phrase my father has repeatedly said to me during the most frustrating and depressing years of my life.

For a person who was not loved by anyone, how can she then in turn love anyone else, including her own children?

It took me 24 years to figure her out, and figuring her out has in some ways set me free. She has haunted my father into the man who despite all his good heart, has emotionally abused me for 8 years we lived with my grandmother close by. Figuring her out made me realize why she has torn apart marriages of her own daughter, why her lack of independent thinking ironically matches with her calculating outbursts of anger. She knows when to use the vulnerable, when to hurt the vulnerable, when to be ruthless, and when to suck up, as others have done to her and around her back in the days.

I see in my grandmother, a tragedy. And in her son, my father, regret of not being able to overcome a tragic upbringing and all the flaws and fears associated with it. And I sincerely hope that I can be courageous enough to obtain the will to overcome the hereditary tendencies of repeating their mistakes.

Love withdrawal – it’s a psychiatric term I learned in college, utilized by those that practice conditional love as a way to get what they want. My grandmother is a pro, my father has inadvertently practiced it all his life without any understanding of what he is actually committing, and while I try not to repeat their mistakes, I look back in my short life and have already seen it happening in many situations of pressure and distress. We are all trying to not repeat the flaws of our parents, I am doing my best to avoid mine.

Once I get over the hate, I feel sorry for my grandmother, a woman who has never experienced unconditional love and thus does not know how to love others. And I am thankful that I was brought up instead by a different grandmother, one who has taught me how to pour all the love you have onto someone else, and realize that when you have poured all the love you could possibly pour, it all comes back, and that is what family is all about.

Therapy from Life

I haven’t written in awhile because I met a boy. And then a few more (it was summer), but the first is the one that mattered. And life was much more fun when I am texting a particular individual of interest, versus sending this post out into the World Wide Web.

This is therapy. And that is life.
Now that the boy is gone, I’m back to therapy.

There was a point during my summer fling when I really wanted the fling to work out, so much so that when I got an interview opportunity from one of the most prestigious hedge funds in the world, I secretly decided to myself that if I had to choose, I would choose to be in a relationship over a much more exciting career.

That was then.

Last night I saw “the Devil Wears Prada” and thought to myself how stupid the main character is to give up a career she grew to genuinely love. She quit the job in order to get back her old boyfriend, and I questioned why she had to give up one to receive another. But then, I remembered that I had thought the same thing just weeks earlier.

But at this particular moment, when I am totally logical – I don’t think I should ever give up the chance on becoming my own Anna Wintour, for anyone.

To predict your future, live with someone slightly older

I found myself living with people in their late twenties; as the only roommate in her early twenties, I secretly feel sort of ahead in life. I tell myself: when I’m at their age, I will not be living here.

It’s interesting living with people who had already made their choices, to take a lucrative career (and thus lots of debts), to go into academia (and thus lots of schooling), or to pursue their passion in the arts (and thus no money). It’s daunting to watch people barely older than me but with their lives clearly mapped out.

We are defined by the choices we make, and my roommates’ choices are very definitive. It’s difficult to quit or start again in our 30’s, though not impossible. I am envious of the limitation. I want to be defined.

I am at least 5 years younger, and I am completely undefinable. People ask me what I do now, and I can’t describe it. People ask me what I like to do, and I don’t have a reply. And people ask me what I woud like to do in the future, and I answer I don’t know. I have come to realize that while I make more money than most of my roommates, I am not at all successful, mostly because I don’t feel successful.

Success is defined by the degree to which you understand yourself, and that is directly related to the choices you must make at some point in your life, the degree to which you know what you want, if not where you are heading toward.

Choices also make one grounded, more at ease, and certainly more human: it takes one from wild dreams and pink imaginations down to reality. I highly doubt my roommates will agree that their lives are as clearly mapped as I see them to be, mostly because I can tell that while they have directions, they are not necessarily happy.

The best choices are still imperfect, every path has its bumps. Choices are the gateway to success, but not happiness.

So if I am not ready to make choices in my own life, at least I can choose good friends and boyfriend to make myself happy, because God knows the best of both categories are disappearing by the second.

I think I have an Existential Crisis

So, what to do next?

Bob Dylan puts it nicely…

You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man ?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home.

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones ?

You raise up your head
And you ask, “Is this where it is ?”
And somebody points to you and says
“It’s his”
And you says, “What’s mine ?”
And somebody else says, “Where what is ?”
And you say, “Oh my God
Am I here all alone ?”

But something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones ?

You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, “How does it feel
To be such a freak ?”
And you say, “Impossible”
As he hands you a bone.

And something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones ?

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To all give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations.
You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known.

But something is happening here
And you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones ?

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, “Here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan”.

And you know something is happening
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones ?

Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “NOW”
And you say, “For what reason ?”
And he says, “How ?”
And you say, “What does this mean ?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home”.

Because something is happening
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones ?

Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you comin’ around
You should be made
To wear earphones.

Does something is happening
And you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Just Shoot for the Impossible

The one time I really tried positive psychology to achieve a goal, it actually worked.

This was the fall of 2007, the world was rosier and the future seemed brighter.  I had started at an elite practice group within a mediocre consulting firm.  A selected few were invited to join this practice;  I ended up as the only girl.

I thought I was on top of the world, albeit nervously looking around.  I was making good money, wearing good cloth, and strutting my way down Midtown Manhattan everyday in carefully selected business casual.  The smell of the subway, the greeting of the receptionist, the sound of the elevator bell and the smell of lunch delis are the memories of a period so filled with misery and yet promise. 

I imagined challenging dilemmas to be handed to me on a plate, begging for me to solve.  But alas, the real world hit me quick and hit me hard.  3 months into the job and I was still sitting on the bench.  As a student who rarely slept before 2am for the past four years, including summer, stuffing herself with classes and activities, this new found sense of nothing was practically suicidal.

At one point, I was the only person not staffed on a project.  And what would you think when one of your bosses makes politically incorrect comments, another one has a tendency to avoid eye contact with you (and only you) while the rest of your co-workers bonded over sports and rock music (neither subject you could care less about)? 

There is always that fine line between blaming yourself for not reaching out enough, and blaming the world for sexism – I was trying to pick which side of the line should I stand on so I could feel a bit less miserable, and I couldn’t decide.  

And so I decided to try positive psychology.  Positive psychology doesn’t come to me naturally because business people are not startup dreamers - we under promise and over deliver, we expect the worse despite shotting for the best.

To reenact positive psychology, I decided to repeat in my head countless times every day that I am going to become the star player of my team, that I am going to get on amazing projects and peform better than anyone else.  And I also became unbelievably optimistic in manner and practice – despite blatant realities starring at me on the contrary.  People noticed my unfailing personality and once things got rolling, I was on a roll with it.  

Long story short – I did end up ”utilized.”  Soon, one boy from our group of starters left, and eventually, I moved on to a better firm while another got sacked.  The third boy went on to graduate school and the fourth one is still stuck in limbo. Long story short – I ended up well. I ended up well might sound easy now, but it was practically a dream back then, that what I really believed would have never happened had I not “pretended,” which later really led me to believe that I am indeed better. I deserve better and thus received better. 

I want all of you to shoot for the impossible. Because as Adidas would say, “Impossible is Nothing.”

Eatery – Italian – Frankies 17

Frankies 17 is my favorite Italian restaurant situated in my favorite neighborhood, the Lower East Side.

It is your quintessential casual Italian eatery, but don’t think street corner pizza or greasy meatball casual -think elegant cafe on a cobbled stoned street in Rome.

The restaurant is decadent with small chairs and tables (seats only 27 people), the atmosphere is simple and dim and the the room is always packed but never obnoxiously so. The bartender and waitress usually give intelligent recommendations.

Frankies 17 has got a creative menu of great and surprisingly healthy choices – from sweet potato stuffed raviolo in parmesan soup, a prosciutto and cheese sampler , grilled vegetable salad, hearty spicy sausage pasta, to the most interesting dessert made of plum.

The icing on the cake is that they’ve got a great selection of affordable wine – about 70 from the list. I enjoyed my $45/bottle red so much that I actually copied down the name and intend on buying it later for myself.

If you want to spend $50 (wine, appetizer/dessert, and entree) but feel like you ate a $100 dinner – come to Frankies.

Frankies 17:

17 Clinton Street
New York, NY 10002
(212) 253-2303

Hipster Waster

A lot of people get lost in life because mainstream society doesn’t appeal to their tastes. The only alternative, some find, is to become a hipster.  I thought I was a hipster until I realized I can’t afford to be one.

Definition of a Hipster: One who possesses tastes, social attitudes, and opinions deemed cool by the cool. Note: it is no longer recommended that one use the term “cool”; a Hipster would instead say “deck.”

In college I disliked sororities and hanged out with people who are into art history, literary criticism and Bob Marley. Naturally, I thought I knew hipster.  Then I moved to Brooklyn and the meaning hipster jumped to a whole new level.  Like everything else in life, I find myself half-mesmorized and half-grossed out by the hipster scene. 

Hipsters are like white boys fom New Jersey: they love to rap and pretend they are gangsters from the hood.  Hipsters buy $30 t-shirts from American Apparel when the same shirt can be bought from Target for less than $9.99.  But hipsters will never be caught dead wearing something from Target.  Hipsters also wear cloth usually worn by manual laborers. But hipsters do not have the strength to lift anything heavy, because their body fat is usually less than 2%.

Hipsters consider themselves very open-minded.  But in reality they mock everything.  They think anyone with the slightest talent or reputation sucks, and they have an opinion (usually negative) on every subject.  Hipsters like to ”appropriate the culture in an ironic way.” In reality, hipsters have few nonwhite friends aside from the token few who grew up in predominately white neighborhoods anyways. Hipsters sometimes talk like they are Black or from a foreign country, that becomes especially annoying to people who are actually Black or from a foreign country. Hipsters sometimes tell racist jokes because they think it’s obvious that they are not racists and thus have the right to tell these jokes. But really, that makes them racists.  

Hipsters love black music, but many will not date a black person, especially a black girl (though they will never admit this, they just ”happen” to fall in love with someone else who “happen” to be white).   

Hipsters live in the trendiest parts of Brooklyn, but they never work or are willing to work for free.  They hate to admit that their hedge fund dad (or inheritance from grandmother) pays for everything.

But still I love hipsters, though I think they are privileged and misguided at times, and sometimes a bit conceited and foolish. But aren’t we all, compared to some child without education living in a war-torn nation?

Time is Running Out

One of the most valuable lessons I have learned in New York is to stop envying what I don’t have or haven’t yet become.

It may seem counter-intuitive since the city is practically built on materialism (think banking), but keeping up with the Jones’s in a place like New York will surely drive anyone insane, depressed, or at the very least, jaded of life.

New York has the best of every kind: the most beautiful girl will inevitably find someone twice as beautiful, not to mention 2 years younger, and the smartest guy will find someone making more money and getting more recognition.

Some say they come to New York wanting to be the best, but wanting to be the best is an impossible task in here. Instead, people come to New York end up finding who they are. It is here that I have found the purpose of my voice and the utility of my skills (and if I don’t quite have them, where should I go to get it?) 

I had a quarter life crisis characterized by a panicky feeling because some of my peers are doing so much more than me, because  other peers are either hoping into graduate school or hoping into marriage, because at such a young age, I have this unexplainable feeling like time is running out.  One day I woke up and realized I am no longer looking for the future, the future is here, and the dreams I once had and the realities I am facing now just don’t quite match up. 

And instead of chasing after the things I can’t have or haven’t yet become, I decide to change. Because change is what brings down stalemate, because failures happen to everyone and the most important thing is to get up. More importantly, change is watching other people’s mistakes and don’t make them myself. And change, of course, is sometimes just showing up. 

So when the perception of my life screams time is running out and other people are ahead of me, I’m thinking about the following: 

1. Give myself some more time; some people do it fast, but I do it better. 

2. Stop living lavishly and focus on the soul.  

3. Have a disciplined lifestyle with a routine.

4. Study, and read, a lot. 

5. Get new friends, reconnect with the lost ones.

6. Travel somewhere. 

7. Change my job, completely. 

8. Learn a new language.

9. Stay on high alert so that when chances arrive, I am 100% prepared.

10. Figure out, and go for it, one step at a time.

Successful old people should stop being selfish and retire

Old people with money and power should give others a chance at success: please, just retire!

In the past, transition of power in any industry has happened naturally: as one generation of youngsters enter the work force, another generation over 65 has gracefully exited into the sunset of Florida. 

The transition of power and opportunities has not only been important, but poignantly necessary for industries to shake things up, for equality to progress forward, for conventional methodologies to revolutionize, and perhaps most importantly, for young people to have opportunities to do something amazing. 

This natural transtion has all but died. People are not retiring at the age of 65, partially because they couldn’t afford to anymore. But even those who have obtained success and have savings stacked up despite this recession, they are not retiring either. 

65 is hardly old anymore. We have CEOs, editors, senators and professors who are 70 and 80 years old and still working. I have no problem with people keeping their lives busy because a retirement of not doing anything can be cruel. But please – quit those posts you have been occupying for decades and do something else, give that young person a chance to shine the way you had your chance back then.

We now have youngsters who can’t find jobs not only because this recession sucks, but also because old people are choosing not to retire. They are not retiring because this new generation of “old people” think they will never die due to modern advances in medicine. They are ambitious workaholics who are also too selfish and egocentric to step aside and believe that a younger person could do just a good of a job, if not a better one. They are the first generation who have received so much: peace, propsperity, and technology.

And now: they don’t want to give it all up after squandering away our environment and screwing up our market. So next time when you can’t find a job, don’t blame the minority for filling some quota (that is extremely rarely the reason why you don’t get hired), just go ahead and blame the people at the top.  

This is why I love Anna Quindlen.  She is retiring from Newsweek. I first fell in love with her column the Last Word when I was 15 years old. She showed me a world of ideas and perspectives I didn’t know existed. Her writings on immigration are some of the most eloquently observant and intimately relevant I have ever read. For 9 years she has been at the forefront of discussion on subjects from oppression to fairness. She is a role model, an inspiration for young people and a woman I still aspire to become. But the time is right for her to leave, and she too agrees, because there are too many amazing journalists out there with too many stories to tell, and after 9 years, she’s had her time. 

I urge others to follow her choice, because there are too many young people with too many dreams who are too hungry to take this world into a whole new era. And they cannot wait.

Changing the World in New York

My nonprofit friend working in the inner city of another city is visiting.  I don’t remember the last time having such great conversations with another person. I want her (and other great friends away from New York) to move here, because I tell her Brooklyn apartments are cheaper now and wouldn’t it be great if all of us could get together like this and have house parties sipping wine and eating cheese and continuing these conversations, forever? I also tell her New York is messed up, there’re plenty of problems for her to solve.

I am doing this because I am selfish: I miss people outside of corproate America. But I know you couldn’t survive on $30K/year in New York. You could, but your life would suck. You wouldn’t be happy, becuase this city has too many models pumping up the fashion curve and nobody feels great wearing only Old Navy.

Then we meet an alumni on the train (this is why New York is random) and she tells us she knows how we (more specifically my friend) feel. She was once a nonprofit worker, too. But now she’s married rich, and that, apparently, is the only way to combine the best of two worlds: to save the world while living it large.

Money may not be as important in other cities, but it is in New York. Those who tell you money is not important in New York are old new yorkers with real estate inheritance from parents or rent controlled apartments. Because you cannot possibly have a life living in a closet with roaches and rats. I see hipsters in Williamsburg who devote their lives to music liviging in beautiful lofts, then I find out their parents are hedge fund owners from Connecticut.

Saving the world is extremely tough because you don’t ever make money and most of the times you feel like you are not making any real changes. Even Obama became a community organizer because his grandmother paid for his Ivy League tuition from Columbia and other expenses along the way, and things are a lot cheaper back then anyways.