I absolutely love this music video.  It reminds me of song and dance loving people of Rio de Janeiro (although this is most definitely not Samba or Bossa Nova, styles of music that the city is known for).

Much of the trail was frozen.  I could see my breath diffusing through the light of my headlamp.  I make out the blue UnderArmour jacket of my Spanish friend Ricardo, who was about ten meters ahead of me leading the way.  I pause for a second to take in the stars — stars that were going to disappear with the coming with sunrise.  Immediately I notice the unfamiliar location of the constellations.

“Ricardo!  Orion is so low in the sky! Isn’t that amazing?”

“Haha yes.  That is interesting.”

He waits until I catch up.

“Hey, do you think we can make it man?”

“We didn’t get up so early for nothing!  We gotta try!  Let’s keep going!”

It was the last day of our four day excursion in Torres Del Paine, one of the best national parks in South America.  We had been trekking for the past three days, following the ‘W,’ the route that many visitors follow if they want to see the major attractions in the park.  It had been a pretty intense experience.  Although the trek itself was just of moderate difficulty, what made it especially brutal was the weather, which was some of the worst I have experienced in my life.  Freezing rain, unrelenting hail, and winds so strong that you were at their mercy.  Thankfully, every fifteen kilometers or so there were methodically placed refugios for basic food and shelter.  There were days in which I had never been more grateful for a bed and a hot shower.

But all of this was to be expected.  I later learned that there were only about 20 days of blue skies in Patagonia every year.  It is possible to experience four seasons of weather in the same day — I can certainly attest to that.  Because the weather had been so terrible, we were barely able to see any of the major sights in the park.  We were barely able to make out Los Cuernos, or the Horns (but what we did see was pretty damn amazing).  And the French Valley is supposed to this beautiful, lush, green valley surrounded by granite peaks and blueish glaciers, but much of that was covered up by thick layers of fresh snow and fog.

We had gotten up at four in the morning to be able to see the Torres del Paine, the three gigantic slabs of granite that carry the namesake of the park,  in their morning brilliance, although we really didn’t know what to expect in terms of the weather.  Miraculously, it had completely cleared up on the final day of our trek.  The constellations were proof that the clouds had rolled away during the middle of the night.

We were able to make it to the viewpoint minutes before the sunrise.  We were the only people there.   Ricardo seemed complacent with the view provided at the mirador, but being the anal photographer that I am, I decide to boulder up a few hundred feet of rock and gravel to get a better shot.  And when the sun decided that morning had arrived, I was ready and armed with my DSLR and compact tripod.  The next few minutes of shooting were the most satisfying of my life, knowing that at that very moment, I was the only person in the world who was doing what I was doing, experiencing what I was experiencing.  And as the Torres shifted from a light purple to an intense reddish orange, I wondered just how many people were able to see them at their color-changing best.  It was quite extraordinary.  I felt like I was on the top of the world.

My overall experience in Torres Del Paine national park was probably the best of my entire life.  I was able to run the gamut of human experiences.  To go from trekking in some of the worst weather imaginable to seeing nature at its finest was… Awesome.  Amazing.  Unparalleled.  I’m running out of hyperbolic phrases to describe my time there.

But if there was one thing that would trump all of that it would be the friendship I had made with Ricardo.  I had met him at a restaurant the night before I was going to take the morning bus into the park.  We were both eating alone, and he had approached me because we had seen each other on the bus.  We found out that we were both planning to do the ‘W,’ so decided to go it together, knowing that it was going to be much safer with a companion.  Ricardo was fun to trek around with.  He was a very fast walker, so he maintained a pace that allowed us to complete the ‘W’ faster than I would have expected.  I got to learn a lot about his life, his travels, and his Spanish heritage.   And there were times during the trek when I knew that if I were by myself, I probably would have turned back and called it quits.  Later he admitted the same.

It’s only been a week, but I really miss traveling with the guy.

And so now I as adjust to the reality of my life, I wonder when I will next be able to experience the spontaneity, excitement, and camaraderie of life on the open road.  Soon, I hope.

I purchased my first digital camera during the summer right before the Senior year of college — a Canon Powershot SD1000.  I immediately fell in love with it.  A small, sturdy, yet surprisingly powerful workhorse of a camera, it enabled me to document that summer admirably, from an weekend trip to the beaches of Los Angeles to an overnight adventure on the dilapidated stretches of the Great Wall of China.  For the next year and a half my powershot would be my faithful companion to far reaching destinations such as Ko Phanghan Island in the Gulf of Thailand, the dizzyingly dense city of Hong Kong, and even up the cables leading to the 16 acre expanse of disturbingly surreal rockscape known as Half Dome.  It would brave fierce winds on the summit of Mount Washington, dramatic downpours in Shanghai, and even multiple falls from lapses in judgment and care.

But I knew that in spite of its undying loyalty,  I had to move onto something that could provide me with more power.  Dialing up the ISO past 400 would produce very noisy images, so indoor photography was very limited and flash was needed in most cases.  The point and shoot was also quite slow:  it needed a good second or two to actually get off a shot, which meant that it wouldn’t be able to take candids very effectively.  I started to look into DSLRs.  After a few weeks of research, I finally decide to go with the Canon Rebel XS, the most entry level Canon SLR on the market.  I purchased the camera along with  the 18-55mm IS f/3.5 – 5.6 lens on Amazon.com for under half a grand last December.  And with that, my adventures into the world of photography finally lifted off.

One of the best parts about taking pictures with a DLSR is that it is so much more fun than taking pictures with a point and shoot camera.  There is something very satisfying about capturing an image almost right after you press the button.  Having a large optical view finder allows the user to bring the camera up to his face, almost making it seem like the camera could be an extension of his body.  And of course, provided that the photographer is skilled enough, every image that is taken with a DLSR is better.  Sharper.  More vibrant colors.  Images are much closer to the images that are relayed to the brain by the human eye.

I think I have taken enough pictures to start developing what many call “the photographer’s eye.”  Sometimes I am startled at what I can actually see now.  The world looks entirely different than it did just a few years ago.  The skies look more colorful, the clouds more dramatic.  Flowers look more appealing, animals far more animated.  While walking through Harvard Square this morning I found myself taking mental snapshots of people’s portraits as I walked passed them, noticing how wonderful they looked beneath the red brick buildings and trees.  When I was outside admiring the the architecture of the Broad Institute, I imagined what it might look like under the warm hue of the late afternoon sunlight.  As I was exploring the Boston harbor last Saturday I started deconstructing what I was seeing in a way that I had not imagined possible.  Instead of viewing the world as a singular image, individual pieces such as the sky, the house overlooking the water, and the sailboats could all be repositioned in my mind as if my eyes were searching for a better way to frame the shot.  It is as if I am naturally inclined to make the ordinary as beautiful as I can possibly make it.

And so with a 92-76 dismantling of the Trailblazers yesterday night, the Houston Rockets finally advance to the second round of the playoffs, something they haven’t done since the 1996-1997 season.  It was a news item that got lost within the fervor of what was perhaps the greatest first round playoff game of all time.

Celtics versus Bulls game six was one for the ages — it took the Bulls three overtime periods to finally finish off the defending World Champions and there were more twists and turns than a New York Pretzel.  The game featured brilliant play from both sides.  Ray Allen, the finest pure shooter in the league, went off for 51 points on 9 of 18 shooting from deep, tying an NBA playoff record for threes in a playoff game.  John Salmons played as if he were Michael Jordan reincarnate, putting the Bulls on his back as the clock wound down in regulation and countered the Celtics comeback attempt.  Rajon Rondo somehow managed to dole out 19 assists without a single turnover.  Brad Miller, one of the most washed up veterens in the league, somehow navigated his 7 foot, 261 pound body through the forest of Celtic defenders to make a critical layup.  Glen “Big Baby” Davis, who averaged a mere 7 points in a reserve role in the regular season, was hitting jumpers from all over the place, both by pulling up and fading away.  Derrick Rose was once again brilliant — the rookie of the year tallied nearly a triple double with 28 points, 8 rebounds, and 7 assists.  Joakim Noah’s steal and breakaway dunk was the most important play of the game.  There was even a Kirk Hinrich sighting!

By the time that game was over, it was already the third quarter in Houston.  My Rockets were leading 3-2 in the series so they would clinch the best of seven playoff with a win.  They were up big against the Blazers but my eyes were still glued to the set, knowing full well the significance of the game.  Both of these clubs play significantly better at home than on the road.  If the Blazers had forced a game 7 at the Rose Garden, then the Rockets would have had no chance.  The youthful Blazers were also league leaders in rallying to win in spite of double digit deficits, so I knew that the game wasn’t over yet.

But the resilient Rockets did not give an inch.  Despite a middling offensive game in the second half, the Rockets stayed in control of the game due to their stifling defense.  Portland could not put up enough points to pressure the Rockets.  Although Yao’s game was somewhat pedestrian (17 points, 10 rebounds, 2 blocks), he did it within the flow of the game and never forced anything.  Artest was the best player on the court, putting up 19 points in the first half and finishing with 27, giving the Rockets the offensive spark they needed to finally close out the Blazers.

Even before the final buzzer sounded, I felt my eyes grow moist with the expected emotional outpouring of a diehard Rockets fan.  There was a sense of relief.  Relief for Yao Ming, who was finally able to take his team past the first round of the playoffs.  Relief for Ron Artest, who was somehow able to resurrect his career in the deep South; memories of his irresponsibility at Detroit long gone, replaced by the heroism that he displayed in the clinching game.  There was also sense of genuine satisfaction and appreciation for a blue collar team that is far less talented and athletic than many of the teams that had made it to the playoffs this year.  Looking at the roster, you quickly notice that virtually the entire team, with the exception of Yao Ming, are not skill-based players.  Instead, they earn their time on the floor by working hard, hustling, and making the right plays for each other.  Shane Battier is the epitome of this characterization.  He’s not athletic and he can’t handle the ball.  He can’t jump.  He has exactly one move — a turnaround baby hook that he is rarely in a position to use.  But he is one of the most valuable players on the Rockets because of his ability to play the game in a cerebral way that far exceeds most player’s understanding of basketball.  He studies film for hours before a game, analyzing opponent strengths, weaknesses, and proclivities.  Then he is actually able to take all of that information and channel it into smart, defensive effort that greatly diminishes his opponent’s impact on any particular game.  And the man can hustle.  On any given loose ball, you will almost always find that Shane Battier is the first person diving on the floor.  In terms of contribution to his team, a recent New York Times article argues that he is just as valuable as say, future hall-of-famer Kevin Garnett.  And that is pretty big praise for someone who averages 10 points and 5 rebounds for his career.

The Rockets will most likely lose to the Lakers.  The Lakers are too talented, too athletic, and too deep.  The upcoming series will be a battle of a scrappy, resilient team that relies entirely on its chemistry and team defense to win ballgames versus a team with virtually no weaknesses, a team that can pile on points quickly and put you away in a matter of minutes, a team that has an absolute assassin in Kobe Bryant, still the most dangerous player in the league.

But I am hoping that the Rockets make it a dogfight.  I would love to see my underdog team push the Lakers to their absolute limits.  I would love to see the frustration on Kobe’s face after a Shane Battier corner three or a Von Wafer pull up jumper negates his herculean efforts.  I would love to see my hometown hero Yao Ming dominate the paint, scoring at will over Gasol and Bynum, clogging the lane and preventing inside scoring.  And hopefully, if the Rockets play perfect ball for four games, they can say that they have taken down the Goliath of the Western Conference.  And that, my friends, will be a beautiful thing to witness.

Wednesday, April 22nd, 2009

9:00 AM:  The alarm sounds.  It is full of static and jarring noises.  Just the way that I like it.  It takes quite a bit of effort to get out of bed.  I am still suffering the aftermath of a pretty crazy Saturday night.  Definitely getting old.

9:50 AM:  I arrive at work.  The first thing I do is proceed to the 4th floor lounge, where I have some fruit for breakfast.  I talk to one of the grad student who works in the Meyerson lab about whether he has decided to take an undergrad for the fall.  The undergrad in question is a rising Senior at UC Berkeley, my alma mater, so I feel obligated to help her out.  Jin, my supervisor, waves at me as she walks by the glass windows on the way to the tissue culture room, where she will spend the rest of the day.

10:15 AM:  I sit down at my desk.  I check my email.  My teammate Bina has sent me some fun messages from Taiwan.  She has been on vacation for more than a week now.  I begin reviewing my notes and think about what I should be doing for the rest of the day.  Bead inventory.  Check for any antibody shipments.  Antibody-coupling plan of action.  Liason with collaborators.  Review paper for the team meeting tomorrow… Judy, a senior research technician in my lab, walks by and offers me chocolate she had picked up from a recent trip to Europe.  Somehow most of the Golub lab technicians end up in my cubical and we chat it up for a little bit, catching up on life and gossip.

10:49 AM:  I notice that the weather is gorgeous. In an effort to lighten the mood I email the rest of the technicians about eating outside for lunch.

11:00 AM:  The lab manager approaches me and requests that I quickly make the move to another desk, which was formally occupied by a research technician who is headed for business school in the fall.  I make arrangements with the IT people upstairs, asking them to reimage my coworker’s desktop and retool it with software that I need.  People respond to my email about lunch and seem enthusiastic.  A tentative time of 1 PM is agreed upon.

11:30 AM:  I decide to tackle the issue of bead inventory first, given that without proper bead coordination, the coupling effort will be a mess.  I proceed to the cold room, where I check the communal bead stash for the beads that I will need.  Unfortunately, it seems like some of the analytes are missing.  Since the actual bead number does not matter when it comes to the development set, I decide to substitute the missing ones with higher number beads.

12:30 AM:  I look outside again.  I notice that the weather has taken a turn for the worse.  It looks as if it might rain, but I decide to go ahead and eat outside anyway, with or without the companion of my coworkers.  Judy announces that she is starving and wants to eat now.  Leila still seems busy and unavailable.  Willis is nowhere to be found.

1:00 PM:  I reheat leftovers.  My leftovers are awesome because they are usually the product of my roommate’s brilliant cooking.  Today it is vietnamese beef stew, chicken salad, french bread, and rice.  I am at once feeling blessed to have someone like her in my life.  I eat the meal in front of the Whitehead Institute, waiting for Judy as she gets her salad from Sebastian’s.  Patrick joins us and the conversation immediately shifts towards the subject of travel in Europe.  Meanwhile, I am reminded about a planned excursion to scale Mt. Whitney in June.  I call up my friend Anthony in an effort to remind him to get permits for that hike.

2:00 PM:  I check for any antibody shipments.  It turns out that several antibodies have arrived from Millipore.  Two of them are actually Bina’s and I inventory them appropriately.

2:40 PM:  I go back to my bead inventory work.  I realize that Bina had actually aliquoted quite a few beads recently.  I email her to ask whether I can use them.  I then finalize what I need from the cold room.

4:00 PM:  I head downstairs to the auditorium to listen to a lecture on the design of biological systems.  I immediately realize that the title is somewhat misleading and the lecture is different from what I had expected.  But it is still really cool.  They have managed to visualize cellular protein dynamics by tagging them.  I leave the lecture a little bit early.

4:50 PM:  I leave the Broad and take the redline to downtown crossing, where I start walking to the Boston Chinatown Neighborhood Center to drop off some forms.  I am currently training to become an adult education tutor for Chinese immigrants.  Should be a great experience.

5:30 PM:  I eat dinner at Peach Farm, my favorite Cantonese restaurant in Boston.  I have the roast pork wonton noodles.  It’s very light but the fattiness of the pork, the saltiness of the wontons, and the crispy bitterness of the vegetables synergize to give the whole dish great flavor.

6:15 PM:  I am back at my cube.  Bina has replied to my email and it seems like she is having a blast in Taiwan.  She is online at the moment so I decide to engage in a gchat conversation.  I update her on what’s been going on at work.  At that moment I realize how much I miss her.  She is a great person to have not only as a coworker, but also as a friend.

7:00 PM:  I begin reading a review on the tumorigenesis of colorectal cancers.  It is an older paper, from the early 1990s, and quite dense.  In the next two hours I manage to get through about 70% of it.

9:15 PM:  I start doing my economics homework, which will be due in 2 hours and 30 minutes.  Most of it is actually pretty easy, and I get it done with time to spare.  39/41.  Considering how I barely paid attention to the lecture webcast I had watched yesterday, it’s pretty good.

Thursday, April 22nd, 2009

12:30 AM:  I am finally home.  After eating a banana, I lie on top of my bed reading that paper.  I soon pass out.

6:00 AM:  The first alarm starts blaring.  I manage to get up by the time I hit snooze for the 4th time.

7:00 AM:  The announcer says that there are delays on the redline this morning.  So typical.

7:30 AM:  I finally get into work.  I finish reading the paper and do literature searches on the pathogenesis of breast cancer.  I am unsuccessful in my attempt to find any relevant articles but I do end up finding a paper with protocols for three-dimensional cell cultures of a breast cancer cell line.  Might be useful for our upcoming experiments.

9:00 AM:  Lab meeting starts, half an hour later than its usual time.  Today’s talk is given by someone who is from the computational side of our lab and I immediately cringe.  But I make a genuine effort to try to understand classifiers and data clustering — after all, the concepts of which are big reasons why our PI is so famous.

10:00 AM:  The weekly team meeting between Jin and her technicians.  Because Bina hasn’t been here, it has been just Jin and me for the past two weeks.  We first go over what we have been doing in the past week and then go over both short term and long term plans.  Because I have demonstrated an ability to think indepedently, she has given me almost full control over what I do now, which is cool but sometimes daunting at the same time.  We then go over the paper on colorectal tumorigenesis and have a very indepth discussion about cancer biology.

Within the depths of my memory lies a recollection of my childhood in Shanghai. Breathing heavily, I run aimlessly down the cracked cement path that leads to the vegetable garden. I look up at the dark clouds rolling furiously in the sky. Lighting bolts flash their blurry white silhouettes on the gray apartment buildings looming ominously above me like giant black pillars. The trees sway violently in the strong wind as I am propelled backwards. I become increasingly anxious. My gangly three-year old legs suddenly become feeble as every step feels more arduous than the last. And then, right as I was about to cry out in desperation, I feel the firm hands of my grandfather as they raise me from the ground. I glance at him momentarily. He smiles confidently as he mouths something to which I can no longer put words. Finally feeling at ease, I bury myself in his chest and wait for him to take me back home.

I believe this used to be a reoccurring dream from my pre-adolescent years; after I had entered middle school the dream has ceased to return to me. Like everyone else, I have probably dreamt more than hundreds of dreams, but have failed to recall many of them the next morning, much less years later. Nevertheless, these dismal images of a stormy day at my grandparent’s residence near Fudan University have remained permanent fixtures in my conscious mind. After going back to visit Shanghai these past two summers I have finally begun to understand the significance of it all.

I was born on May 9th, 1986 at Shanghai First Women and Baby Hospital. Because my parents were aspiring to study in the United States, they had decided to leave me with my grandparents for a few years until they established themselves financially. Then at age three, my aunt accompanied me on the overseas flight to San Diego, where my father was finishing his doctorate and my mother was working shifts at a Japanese restaurant to cover the bills. As the years went by, the Chinese side of me became increasingly muted as I soaked up the breadth of American popular culture – the Saturday morning cartoons, the funky beats and lyricisms of hip-hop, the showboating nature of NBA players, and the like. At school, when asked if I was Chinese or American, I would quickly reply that I was of course an American, and a “proud” American at that. And at home, I had made it a habit to speak to my parents in my newly acquired tongue. Naturally, over years of continual disuse, my Chinese speaking abilities had disintegrated into a sort of broken “Chinenglish.” While many Chinese-American youths were forced to attend Chinese School on Saturday mornings to learn characters, to practice conversation, and to absorb elements of Chinese culture, I was a dropout after only one year. My parents probably thought that it was a waste of money if I had no interest in learning Chinese, so they relented to my rebellious demands fairly quickly.

But as I neared maturity, I discovered that it was rather embarrassing that I was unable to converse fluently with other Chinese adults. I found it upsetting when my Chinese family friends used their broken English when talking to me because they had thought that I could not understand their Chinese. When I was younger I believed this behavior was completely acceptable; I was, after all, an American. I came to the United States at such an early age that it would not be inaccurate to say that English is indeed my mother-tongue, as the Chinese say. All my mannerisms were of the typical American kid, and I was going to spend the rest of my life in the United States. What use did Chinese have in my life anyway? But something stirred within me, and all thoughts coalesced to a single question: Was it right for a person of Chinese descent to be completely ignorant of his ancestry?

After my father had returned from his trip to Shanghai five summers ago, he eagerly showed me the more than 300 pictures he had taken with his new digital camera. The photos contained an assortment of subjects – some were of relatives, friends, and acquaintances; others were scenic shots that displayed the grandeur of the newly built shopping centers and office buildings. As he methodically flipped through his slideshow, I was struck with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. I had not been back in my hometown for over ten years and I was amazed at how much the city had changed – once a fledging city with scattered skyscrapers, now an immense metropolis with high rises stretching towards the horizons; the largest construction site in the world! I saw the faces of unfamiliar cousins and uncles, and I was curious to know who they were and what did they did with their lives. And then it dawned on me that despite years of failing to acknowledge the culture of my ancestors, a part of me still sought to reach out to the place of my birth, like an adopted child seeking the identity of his biological parents. I decided that the best way of starting the process of picking up the scattered pieces of my heritage was to make it a mission to improve upon my knowledge of spoken and written Chinese.

During my sophomore year, I initiated my study of Mandarin by enrolling in the most elementary course offered at UC Berkeley. Sheepishly, I revealed to the instructor that I was unable to write my own name and had absolutely no reading ability. But she told me that since I was able to understand basic conversation I should stay in the track for native speakers. The learning curve was extremely steep for me since I had forgotten nearly every hanzi with the exception of very basic characters such as 好 (good) or 家 (home). Many of my classmates could already read and write proficiently since they had attended Chinese school up until high school. My profound illiteracy left me with an immense task as I had to learn virtually all of the characters in the lessons along with the grammar patterns, which I quickly found did not come naturally to me.

Driven by the desire to become more intimate with the culture of my homeland, I made enough time to study my lessons daily despite a science-heavy course load. I would repeatedly whisper to myself troublesome phrases and grammar patterns as I walked around campus. When talking to my parents on the phone, I made a conscious effort to replace all of those “Chinenglish” phrases with grammar patterns and vocabulary learned from class. I realized that memorizing lyrics was a good way of expanding my vocabulary, and consequently, my Winamp playlists soon became increasingly filled with Chinese pop songs. My efforts notwithstanding, many times I would still struggle with material in class. How I wished I were a child again, when learning a new language was as simple as learning to tie shoes!

During my second semester of taking Chinese, I found that learning the language became easier despite the growing complexity of the material. New grammar patterns, once distant and foreign, could now be mastered after just a few read-throughs of the lessons. New characters, once a random assembly of strokes, were now made much easier by my newfound recognition of radicals, semantic components of each hanzi that allowed readers to deduce (sometimes quite easily) a character’s meaning. Moreover, what seemed to improve the most were my conversation skills. My confidence and enthusiasm soared, and I soon made the decision to further enrich my study of Mandarin by studying abroad during the summer of 2006 in my hometown of Shanghai.

The experience was simply unforgettable and tremendous: I not only improved my language skills dramatically through a combination of classroom study and local interaction, but I was also able to meet many of those people I saw in those pictures that my father showed me. The time when I met my relatives on my mother’s side of the family was both chaotic and incredibly touching. When I entered the private room of the restaurant, thirty-six curious pairs of eyes descended upon me, inspecting my every move. I felt almost naked. Soon, I was greeted with warm smiles all around and bombarded by questions. How old was I? 20. What was I doing in Shanghai? Studying Mandarin. How long has it been since I returned? Over 10 years. What was I studying in college? Biology. What were my plans for the future? Medicine. Did I have a girlfriend? No, not at the moment at least. And there were many who got up from their seats to toast to my return to Shanghai, downing glasses of Tsingtao beer in my honor. This jovial reception made me feel as though as I was the long-lost son who had finally returned to his home.

When my second year Chinese teacher nominated me for the Rendezvous in Shanghai program the following summer, I immediately jumped at the opportunity. What better way to deepen my interaction with and understanding of the culture of modern China than to participate in a cultural exchange program tailored especially for young Chinese of both my hometown and of the United States? I was not disappointed. I engaged in intelligent discourses with many fascinating people from both sides. We talked about China’s ever problematic environmental issues as well as its Communist regime; we offered to one another personal life stories; others described their inability to cross the language barrier despite their greatest efforts. I was surprised at how worldly and knowledgeable the students from Shanghai were – not only were they experts in their own fields of study, but they were also well-versed in domestic and international affairs. Most of them were quite thoughtful, and sometimes seemingly simple cultural questions became profound intellectual conundrums. But most importantly, after the program was over, all of us shared many fond memories of good times: singing popular songs, laughing at silly jokes, sharing drinks at bars, and eating amazing foods at restaurants. By the last few days, it almost felt as if we had formed one big Sino-American family; the cultural divide which separated us at the very beginning had been almost been completely dissolved.

All of these Shanghai experiences were very fulfilling, but I was still trying to figure out why they were so significant for my personal development.  On the car ride to the Port Authority bus terminal a few months ago, my father, without even realizing it, managed to provide the clarity that I had been seeking for years. My parents were going through a rough patch in their marriage, and I was trying to explain to him my mother’s rather negative view of his parents. My father respects my grandfather immensely, so he came to his defense in a way that had completely caught me off guard.

“Frank. I feel like everytime you come back from China you are a changed person. And when you were younger, those summers with your grandfather seemed to impact you profoundly. You know as a kid you were abnormally shy and lacked confidence. But for a short while after you came back you seemed more vibrant, you talked a whole lot more.  You were more at ease with yourself.  I don’t know what caused this change — I think you had some issues adjusting when you arrived in America.  But whatever happened, your times spent in China seem to affect you quite a lot.”

I was surprised at the insight that he provided. In retrospect, I did have difficulty adjusting to life in America. Sure, I had found pleasures in watching Michael Jordan’s Bulls play on NBC Sunday afternoons and sure, I was entertained everytime Jon Arbuckle would do something completely inane on Garfield, but for much of my life I had difficulty connecting with people. I only had a handful of friends up until College, and my Senior prom experience was so bad that I am embarrassed whenever I recount the tale to my friends. It was true what he said about my relative vibrancy after those summers in Shanghai with my grandfather — I was definitely much more talkative when I came back to the States in the Autumn.  There was something about the comfort and security that he had provided so generously. I remember spending my days riding his bike around Fudan University, the institution where he had taught Mathematics. I spent my nights watching variety shows on television and playing card games with my cousin. If the weather was kind, we would often make a trip to Shanghai’s Shen Lin (forest) park, where he would let me navigate beat-up motorboats through the lake. Up until my study abroad experiences, I had only gone back to Shanghai twice — both times brief stints in the summers during grade school. But they were like these fantasies that afforded me the true freedom of childhood, the type of uninhibited life that I couldn’t have in the United States because I had felt so out of place. My grandfather had provided the environment in which, for the first time in my life, I could truly be myself.

My study abroad experiences during my college years seemed to have a similar but a far more profound effect.  Reconnecting with my homeland, acknowledging and accepting my hyphenated identiy was crucial for my ability to become comfortable in my own skin.  Once I was able to flesh out my dualistic self I become increasingly more comfortable dealing with new people and experiences.

Despite the intimate connection with which I now feel with my hometown, there is still this lingering disconnect which separates me culturally from those in the mainland. My spoken Chinese, although immensely improved, is still not strong enough to engage in dialogue that requires higher-level vocabulary. When I asked a question at the environmental forum, the official was not initially able to answer my question because he did not understand what I had asked. When describing more complicated and intellectual matters, it is as if many Chinese are only able to understand the gist of what I am trying to say and then pinpoint the exact meaning through their own interpretations. This disconnection often frustrates me and as a result, I oftentimes revert to my “Chinenglish” habits, feeling more comfortable with the presence of English words in my speech.

There is also the matter of appearing like a foreigner. Whenever I hail a taxi in China, drivers usually ask me, “Are you a tourist from Korea?” When I shake my head, they then ask if I’m from Japan; China seemingly the last East Asian country they would think of. Waitresses in restaurants tell me that I look Korean in front of my relatives, leading to veiled chuckles and silent disapproval. Conceivably this has to do more with the way I present myself superficially, but it is nonetheless evidence that I will never be able to cast away the title of waidiren (foreigner) when I visit China.

But perhaps these minor issues have no real meaning in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps these disconnections are just meant to be, inevitable consequences of growing up as a Chinese-American. And my cultural ambiguities pale in comparison to some people that I met on the cultural exchange program. One person mentioned he was unsure what it meant be a Chinese-American; another claimed she did not even acknowledge the Chinese-side of her heritage. I do not believe that all Chinese-Americans should feel obligated to learn Chinese language and to rediscover their native roots like I did. But I do believe that we all should at least learn to appreciate this amazing country that gave rise to our fathers and laid the groundwork for many important events in the pages of history. For me, it was more than just relearning my mother-tongue. I simply felt that there was a calling; a need to go back and learn more about the other culture that was inherent in me, the other side of the hyphen in “Chinese-American” that I had neglected for all of those years. Now I feel reborn, a more much complete person because I had managed to meld two previously incongruous components into a single identity.

Note: This is an update of a personal essay that I had written in the summer of 2007.