first-year admissions

For a very brief moment, it was almost worth it to see the look on my mother’s face. I could sense her mentally struggling to decide between ripping me a new one and bestowing mercy in light of my apparent distress. Her brow contorted and her mouth hung slightly open, nostrils flaring heavily. This is the expression of an overachieving Asian mother who has just found out that her similarly overachieving golden spawn has failed out of her graduate program, sliced with one dramatic F.

She settled on a passive-aggressive response. “Well, I guess it’s not a big deal. Some people just aren’t smart enough.”

We hear rumors about the small percentage (unless you’re in physics) of classmates who fail their quals one too many times, or who are forced from the Ph.D. track into a terminal Masters, or who just plain couldn’t cut it in their core classes. It’s such a negligible number of students. Upon embarking on the journey that is five years in doctorate hell, you never believe you might be in the statistical minority. But sometimes you roll snake eyes.

My mother’s words didn’t sting. Instead, I felt a kind of affirmation in that statement, relief that someone said aloud what I had been thinking all semester. The burden of my festering secret—that I did not belong or deserve to be at MIT, despite having spent four years here already—was lifted off my shoulders.

“So I guess I should ask…what happened?”

I studied. My dog didn’t die. My professor gave me a fair grade. I wasn’t having trouble finding study buddies or “adjusting”.

“Well, sh*t. Grad school is hard.”

I received a letter soon after informing me that I was on academic probation, and that because of my unsatisfactory performance, I would not be allowed to take the qualifying exams. I wryly laughed to myself as I filed it away next to the letters from MIT congratulating my straight-A semesters.

After Christmas break, I told my friends, mostly other first-years in my department, about the big F and my dire situation via mass announcement on the GSC ski trip. They took the news in stride (my mother could learn a few things from my friends), and within days, failing thermodynamics grew to be an inside joke.

I became comfortable again in my own skin, a skin two standard deviations below average. I no longer stressed about keeping up with my classmates, or proving I belonged at the #1 school for materials science. I asked stupid questions, and I was honest about being stupid.

But this is not a story about how once I stopped pressuring myself, my GPA improved—my grades are still at best, mediocre. This is a story about confessions.

“I’m afraid my advisor thinks that I’m the dumber one of the two new students he took on this year.”

“I want to go into consulting, but everyone will think I’m a sellout.”

“I’m not doing what I thought I’d be doing when I joined this lab.”

“I wish I had gone to law school.”

“I don’t think I’m built for science, but now I’ve wasted 7 years on it, and I can’t start over.”

“I finally have this Ph.D. which is supposed to be my ticket to a great job, but I haven’t heard from any of the companies I interviewed for.”

“I just feel like I need to go to a less demanding grad school.”

“I failed thermo too.”

My candor encouraged others to voice their fears. I discovered that even the aloof international student who scores 101% on all his tests is hiding skeletons of doubt in his closet.

And yet, no one talks about it freely, least of all the Institute.

MIT does not discuss failure or exit strategies. While the graduate student handbook may intimate that a C is “unacceptable” by “institute standards”, consequences are never fully publicized. They sidestep the issue on paper and in person; more than a few faculty are ignorant when it comes to the process of dishonorable discharge or reapplication to graduate school. The names of final authorities are wishy-washy or otherwise conveniently on sabbatical. We get it, MIT. You’re not going to coddle us; we screwed up so you aren’t doing us any favors.

Whilst the powers-that-be exclusively foster an environment of winners, students gossip in hushed tones with raised eyebrows at hearsay of so-and-so who is job-hunting in his second year. And those who might voluntarily bow out of a doctoral degree remain quiet among the grim whispers, silenced by the mere thought:

What if people will think less of me?

So we repress it deep down inside of us. We question if this is the right path, but it’s difficult to make decisions with no one to guide us. We chalk it up to how this is a “natural phase” for all grad students–that everyone considers leaving at some point, that it’s normal, near admirable, to be unhappy and cynical. We shut up to fit in. And besides, if we were to somehow muster up the courage to speak, whom could we confide in, who would not judge us and be disappointed in us—for quitting?

Go ahead, plaster on that smile, that scientific curiosity, and chug away. Accept that you’ve painted yourself into a corner and keep chanting “only a couple more years”. Maybe that’s the life you choose, but at least see the choice.

Because, as it turns out, stepping on wet paint isn’t the worst thing in the world—even though it feels like it, you aren’t standing alone.

wrapping christmas

Every daughter marvels at her mother’s skill and grace at a young age. We examine each movement with an unblinking awe and desire that we, too, might someday possess such effortless dexterity. Some watch as she applies her makeup, some stare as she presses the dough beneath the rolling pin, perhaps some sit with their faces too close to the parchment as she pens a long letter.

My mother does not wear makeup. She burnt the peanut butter and chocolate cookies I brought to class in the third grade, and her longest letter is limited to the dimensions of a holiday card. Her daily apparel consists of overalls, flannel, a turtleneck, or a goosedown vest, sometimes all at once–not exactly the epitome of elegance. But every Christmas, I would sprawl out on the master bedroom floor, my elbows propping up my chin, calves swinging about behind me, my eyes riveted on my mother wrapping gifts. Rolls of wrapping paper stretched across the carpet, scraps thrown here and there, crumpled and re-crumpled tissue paper scattered throughout. It was a tornado, but in the eye of it knelt my mother with a nearly-finished, perfectly wrapped present, calm and untouched by the storm. She folded and creased the wrapping paper with her thumb, hard. Extra paper was shaved off with a small knife; she never used scissors. The excess would not go to waste. Somehow every inch of the tube was used, if not this year, then the next year. “Ribbon or bow?” she would ask.

“Ribbon!” I’d insist. Ribbon was more fun to watch, and she let me curl the ends with the knife as long as I was careful. Bows were pre-packaged (and thus boring), with little stickers on the bottoms made of ineffective adhesive. I could never tell whether the problem lay with the weak adhesive, or the big staple in the middle holding the bow together. Maybe the staple somehow obstructed the adhesive from maintaining good contact with the wrapping? My mother always secured these bows with Scotch tape.

“What color ribbon?” Well, it had to be something that matched the paper of course. My mother never bought the thick, high-quality wrapping paper that came in solid colors. The Scrooge inside her picked out thin, printed paper with tacky Santas and multi-colored squiggles, though preferably, the print would be religiously unaffiliated so she could use the same paper for her Jewish acquaintances. (Same went for the Christmas cards–always Happy Holidays!, never Merry Christmas!) So the ribbon had to go along with the motif. And it had to be the ridged kind, not the shiny satin kind because that didn’t curl as nicely.

Now came the best part: how to adorn the present with the ribbon. Criss-cross around it? Just one piece wound diagonally? Perhaps big, Shirley Temple curlicues. A simple breast-cancer-sign twist? Here I let my mother work her creative magic without offering input, content to watch a master perform.

My fascination with this art led me to work at the free gift-wrapping counter at Chesterfield Mall during the holiday seasons. This is by far the most satisfying job I have ever held. It was completely voluntary; I never saw a dime, but my heart was filled with the thickest wrapping paper one could find, and enough spools of ribbon to hang all the prostitutes in Tokyo. I worked next to 60-year-old women with names like Martha and Mabel, prompting each customer to eye me with skepticism. Would this scrawny little 15-year-old do a good job on my precious token of generosity? Surely the grandmas had more experience. And they did, but I was fast, and liked to chat while wrapping. Men looking to get in and out of the mall swarmed towards my line, each eternally grateful as I return their newly-wrapped gifts. One fellow was so overwhelmed with relief and appreciation that he bought me a large box of assorted chocolates as a thank you while I finished wrapping his 15th box.

As my brother and I grow older, my folks put less and less effort into the affair of Christmas, as evidenced by the Stepford tree and the increasingly poor quality of presents. I don’t think we even have stockings this year. My mother’s gifts are all half-assed, with brown cardboard showing through the wrapping paper where she couldn’t be bothered to measure accurately. No “to” and “from” labels, no ribbons or bows. BAGS, instead of boxes. There is nothing lazier than a bag with crappy tissue paper peeping out of the top; it says you don’t even care about preserving the element of surprise.

I found some uncharacteristically thick wrapping paper in my mother’s closet yesterday. I rummaged around for a good knife and a piece of purple ribbon, which I cut at a slant, as ribbon should be cut. Dimensions were guesstimated slowly, paper was stretched to become a second skin around the box. And I creased until my thumb hurt, until each corner came to a perfect point, until I felt the Christmas spirit spill from my fingers into the carpet my elbows once pressed against.

making dinner conversation

I’m on Day 3 in the Mao household in Missouri, which as you all know, means I am only two days away from death. Luckily, I leave Friday morning. For some odd reason, I’ve only gotten the tampon speech once since I’ve arrived, so either my mother is growing weary or I am about to receive an onslaught of them tomorrow. It is also possible that I have momentarily distracted her from the tampon issue by throwing the birth control pill issue in her face:

Mom: If you’re on birth control pills too long, you might have a defective baby!
Me: Please, all you do is wait a couple years after you go off the pill and your baby will be fine.
Mom: It’s high risk!
Me: Why are we even discussing something that is so far away? Am I married? Engaged? Do I have a boyfriend even? No, no, and no. I don’t think we have to worry about my impregnation for awhile.
Mom: Well, what if you get pregnant accidentally while you’re on the pill and then you have a defective baby?! That could happen.
Me: That would never happen because if I were to get knocked up while I was on the pill, I would HAVE AN ABORTION.

*silence*

She refused to speak until I changed the subject after that. My mom is Catholic and pro-life, so dropping the A-bomb in the middle of dinner is second only to punching the Pope on her “don’ts” list (teehee, punching the Pope would look funny). I’m pretty sure she wanted to tell me I’m going to hell (which I am, but for other reasons than being pro-choice), but knew that if she brought up hell I would then counter with “there is no God, Mom.” That’s right, I like to hit on all the controversial topics at dinnertime. Tomorrow’s discussion will touch on stem cell research and gay marriage.

keys for skis

“I’d like to go skiing with E. sometime next year,” I say. I’ve never gone skiing before, but E.’s third home (after Pittsburgh and B-town) is Killington.

“Skiing is very dangerous…what if you get hurt and you don’t graduate?” she asks.

“…I can practically graduate right now. I just need one more humanities class.”

“But if you break your leg and you are in the hospital for a month, you won’t be able to graduate.”

” You don’t think I could pass a humanities class if I’m absent for a month? I could be in a coma for 3 months and probably still pass a humanities class at MIT.” No offense to humanities classes here; they are still quite taxing.

“You won’t graduate!”

“Mom, what if you crash this car right now? What if I don’t graduate because you smash into the median?”

“Skiing is way more dangerous than driving!”

“Not driving with you.”

OR driving with me, for that matter. In the three months I spent in California this summer, I drilled a hole into a fellow Amgen employee’s new Mitsubishi and had a 4×4 take off my one remaining side mirror. I paid through the nose for the Mitsubishi incident to a woman named Chanel. That’s right, her inane Asian parents named her Chanel, which is almost as bad as Apple, but not quite so bad as Moses. Anyway, it was worth it just to get “Chanel” on my Nokia’s address book.

This just goes to show how poor my mother’s judgment really is. If she had her head screwed on straight she’d trade me my car keys for a new pair of skis. When/If I ever have a daughter, I’m definitely implementing this “keys for skis” plan. Unless my daughter turns out to be only half-Asian, in which case I will only take away half of her keys, because genetically, only half of her will be a dumbass on the road. And maybe I’ll name her Dior…or if I’m feeling less subtle that day, Eau de Toilette. Ah yes, music to my ears. There’s no way my girl won’t make it to graduation day.

things my parents have said in the past 24 hrs

1. “You remember that Phil boy? He graduate from Stanford, got special award…Stanford allow him to bring high school principal to graduation ceremony! Very big honor! Only two in his class get award! Two! You get any awards at school?”

Phil and I went on two dates during the summer of my senior year in high school, after which he never called me again. I learned later that he had chucked me for Samantha Jacobs, who I can only assume must be a fantastic shag, a very big honor, and only awarded to two people. As a consolation prize, I acquired Phil’s fabulous acoustic guitar, dropped off by Samantha and the Stanford golden boy himself. My mother adores Phil. He is likely to be the only white boy my mother has ever liked who isn’t hideous.

2. “Eat your veggies!”

I would like to point out that at this precise moment, I was shoveling Chinese broccoli into my mouth. Maybe she meant don’t throw them back up. There might’ve been a Dateline special on bulimia last night.

3.
Dad: Why did you get blue glasses?
Me: They’re dark green.
Dad: What! No they’re not, don’t be ridiculous! *grabs glasses, squints at them under kitchen fluorescent bulbs* They ARE green! Yes yes, a very light green!

Sigh.

4. “Andrew Chiu, you know Andrew? He live with THREE girls in San Francisco! Ha? Ha? How about that? Three!”

Andrew Chiu lives with three girls in San Francisco. One is his long-time girlfriend, and the other two are lesbians. Haha, kidding, I have no idea if they’re lesbians or not. But they are at the very least butch, related to his girlfriend, or sexually unavailable in some other way. Don’t know what my dad is so excited about.

5. “Bianca Chen is learning Mandarin, you know that? She go to China for job…learn Mandarin much better than you!”

Bianca’s “learning” has mostly consisted of reading a mini-phrase book her sister gave her. She knows a few choice phrases that involve alcohol, which IS much better than me.

6. “What you doing this summer? You should learn new language! Now they have programs you can learn entire language in three months…very easy! I am very impressed with Angela’s Cantonese, it is very good! No accent at all, much better than you!”

Angela is Korean. Translation: I am a shame to the family, to my heritage, and pretty much to all 1 billion of China.

7. “You know Justin Chen is going to be a lawyer? What do materials science graduates do after college? You know that the materials ‘scientists’ at Pfizer aren’t real scientists right? They only analyze stuff.”

My replies: Yes; analyze stuff; of course they’re not real scientists. MIT isn’t a real school either.

8. “You know Chris Choi is also going to be a lawyer?”

Yes.

9.
Dad: You know which actor stays around? That ‘Fever Night’ guy, John Travolta. He is very old now! So fat. All white people get fat when they get old, they can’t stop it. Need to go to gym all the time. Bone Collector, that was good too.
Me: That’s Denzel Washington.
Dad: Very good movie, eh?
Me: You only like it because Angelina Jolie is in it.
Dad: She is still hottest woman in Hollywood! Nicole Kidman is too old!

My dad is a perv. He rented Tomb Raider twice, under the pretense that he “forgot” he rented it already.

10.
Mom: Why are you sick?! You never get enough sleep, that’s why!
Me: I sleep an average of 10-12 hours a day. I’ve never slept more.
Mom: Well then your diet is bad!
Me: I cook most of the time.
Mom: Well then you’re just…dirty! Otherwise you would not get sick!

Someone find me a vat of Purell, ASAP.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and be thankful it only comes once a year.

what are you afraid of

It is widely feared among all Asian mothers that their children–at some point in their lives–will share a roof with a drug dealer. I don’t know why. I pray for a roommate who doesn’t cook large amounts of Indian food and infest my Pumas with curry stench, but my mom prays for someone who thinks Mary Jane is Spiderman’s girlfriend (though, she is). If it were up to the elder Asian community, all Asian children would only room with the children of other Asian parents who would undoubtedly be a friend of a friend of a friend of someone whose kid has a 4.0 GPA. Luckily, it’s not, and I enjoyed a very fulfilling freshman year with my Vicadin-popping, nitrous-inhaling, partner in crime whom I keep close to my heart.

In my experience, this fear is both highly improbable and unfounded. For one, I’ve never heard of anyone who roomed with a drug dealer. I’m sure it happens, but I think an actual badass drug dealer would live with his clueless minions, or at the very least, with his mother (according to Freakonomics). If I were a drug dealer, and for whatever reason could not live with my mother (slut), girlfriend (slut), or minions (always doing sluts), I would find myself a huge dude who stays home a lot for a roommate. You know, in case I get busted or the gang wars commence. A personal bouncer is definitely appreciated in these situations. Why would I share my sweet bachelor pad with some geeky Asian kid with nosy, overprotective parents? Despite what you may have see in Rush Hour, Asian people do not mix with black people.

Okay, I may have just made an incredibly racist and politically incorrect blanket generalization about drug dealers = black people, but you’ll see how this is relevant. Rooming with a black person is really the same as rooming with a drug dealer in the eyes of the Asian parent. They can’t tell the difference. I mean, ok, even if this particular Asian mother is unusually open-minded, she figures that a non-drug-dealing black kid has to at least KNOW other drug-dealing black kids, and that’s really only a step away from dealing drugs himself and it’s only a matter of time before the innocent Asian roommate is gunned down in a Chicago gang fight, even if they are living in Bumblefuck, USA.

I swear, this is really what goes on in the minds of paranoid Asian parents everywhere. And if you’re reading this, and you’re young and yellow, don’t laugh too long. Because this is you, in fifteen to twenty years. Scary, eh…my suggestion to you is to get out there, find a drug dealer, and make him your roommate. Save yourself.