Leaving London never happened..

It’s been a year since my last post. What started out as a little abroad blog just to show my parents transformed into an international sensation, garnering me more awards than I could imagine, and a following of thousands. I wasn’t ready to handle it, though, and quickly withdrew from the limelight for the fear of losing myself….Hahah in reality, I loved blogging to be able to share my thoughts with my friends. That plus my long-awaited purchase of a DSLR, motivated to me start this up again. 

I realized that I never left London fully. Sure, I was back across the pond, shuttling back and forth between California, Philadelphia, and New York, but I feel like I left an old version of myself abroad and came back a completely changed person. I’m sure those of you who have gone abroad understand my sentiments exactly. When I first arrived at college, I was excited to “start again” - to break out of who I was in high school and become this new and fabulous version of myself. The only problem, though, is that at 18 I hardly knew who I was or who I even wanted to be. Fast forward to junior year, and I’m experiencing freshman year all over again (quite literally! I fully participated in KCL’s Fresher’s week and lived with first years!). The only difference this time, was that I was 20 with 2 more years to learn about myself outside of the confines of my household. I found an amazing group of friends of Brits, Americans, Australians, and Italians, and I felt “natural” in all the right ways. I didn’t try to impress every single person, but rather stuck close to the people who made me laugh constantly. I was truly amazed that in such a short period I had solidified such a strong group of friends, but also such a strong sense of my own personality. I came back to America KNOWING who I was, and that made all the difference. My self-confidence has been stronger, and my eyes have been open to how much more I can do in life. Spontaneously using every weekend possible to travel the world made me realize how much time I waste normally. This fall, I did what I could. I made a goal to leave Penn’s campus once a week to experience something new, and I have to say, it was a success! I brought my friends to Chinatown for the Mooncake Festival, finally experienced First Friday, visited the Poconos for a weekend Greek InterVarsity retreat, and more. 

The biggest take-a-way of all, though, was that amazing friend group. For two and a half weeks, I gave the Brits a taste of America. Stephen, Max, and Sarah flew to San Diego for a Southern California extraordinaire where we visited everything from glorious La Jollan beaches to Disneyland to Jake’s frat in USC.

Stephen and Max then flew with me to Philly only to go up to DC the next day to meet Beccy (via London), Matt, Jose, Lauren, Nick, Sebastien, and Arielle.
 

We then went to NYC where we casually bumped into Michelle Obama in front of the Rachel Rae studios (no photographic evidence, unfortunately)
 

And finally we came back to Philly to see the birthplace of America, watch a Phillies game, and show the Brits  a good ol’ American “freshers” week celebration. 

 

Needless to say, going abroad was the best decision of my life! I hope you guys look forward to the rest of my posts documenting life “abroad” back at home!

When does that bubble pop?

Back in the first few weeks, I went to the Penn/Brown/Cornell Centre for our introduction meeting. The program itself is fantastic, and they are the ones coordinating all these subsidized shows for us to see (I got to see The Marriage of Figaro! and I’m seeing Two Men, One Guvnor next week!). Something that one of the staffers said, really struck me though. She said that the first few weeks we were here, everything would seem like a vacation. It’d be unbelievable, and we’d be taking in everything. But then suddenly, the bubble would pop. And the realization would hit us that we weren’t on vacation. We were abroad. Not fully, but pretty much alone. In a flash, everything would seem different. We’d stop thinking “Oh, this isn’t too bad, England is so much like home!” and start panicking at the differences. Eventually, things would start getting better in a real way after the bubble pop.

So I wondered…has my bubble burst yet? It’s the beginning of November now, and I’m pretty sure I’ve had adequate bubble popping time. Then I realized, I know exactly when my bubble popped. It was October 10th, on the Waterloo Bridge, at around 5:30pm. I was walking back home from my Conduct of War class when I witnessed a woman on her bicycle get hit by a taxi. In reality, she got hit behind me, but she landed only a few feet in front of me without a helmet. It was horrifying, it was shocking, and it didn’t feel real. I had never seen blood come out that dark red before. As others with medical training rushed out to give her CPR, I couldn’t walk away. How do you walk away from something like that? So I stayed, and I prayed - I didn’t even know what I was praying, all I could think was “God, I’m praying for her, I’m praying for her.” So many thoughts raced through my head. She was quite old, perhaps a grandma. I wondered if her family knew. After what seemed like too long, but was probably only a few minutes, the ambulance showed up. As they were about to cut her shirt off, and they asked us to leave to give her some dignity. It felt so wrong to walk away. Like somehow I was abandoning her, even though I didn’t know her. I went back to my flat and rushed to Beccy’s room crying so hard. I was in shock but I didn’t understand why. As amazing as Beccy was (we only knew each other for about 3 weeks at this point and she was so wonderful), I needed to talk to someone from home. I needed to talk to someone who knew me better than myself to explain to me what I was feeling. I didn’t understand why I was in so much shock when I wasn’t even related to the situation. I wasn’t giving her CPR, I wasn’t even the one to call the ambulance. Yet, I felt so tied to that situation, and I didn’t know how to go on with my day. I had plans to go grocery shopping after class, and somehow it felt like such a violation of the world to carry on with my normal day. That somehow this woman’s life could be over, and I was grocery shopping. It seemed wrong. To this day, there’s still a lot of confusion over what happened to her. As I was watching, I think someone said she wasn’t breathing, but then I think she responded. A week later, they put up some traffic signs with the exact time and date with “Fatal Collision” at the top as a warning for other cars. I still don’t know if that means she’s passed away or that she was in critical condition.

Eventually, after talking to some wonderful friends from home over the next few days, the people who know me well reassured me that I was ok in responding the way I did. I was in shock; it was the first time I had ever seen anything like that happen before. I realize now, though, that that moment was when my bubble popped. When I needed somebody from home so badly, and it seemed like nobody was in reach even though in a way, they were. It felt as if I were trying to grasp at smoke, checking Facebook, Gchat, Skype, and whatever way possible to talk to someone back home. I am grateful that I do have friends here and back home who support me no matter where I am, in the best capacity they can. But as hard as it is to admit, at a certain point, you have to realize that no matter how much you try to stay connected to things back home, you are quite far apart. Luckily, I’ve been blessed with a really amazing group of friends here. Like I said, Beccy has been an absolutely wonderful chum, and Sarah G and I pretty much have the same life story so we talk a lot too.

Until next time, friends.

Identity

So here it is. My first real rant of being abroad. I got asked the usual question again tonight - this time by a Sainsbury’s grocer - “Where are you from?” he asked. I said, “America”, and instantly I knew I answered the wrong question. He replied, “Oh, I would have thought Vietnam. Since *gestures to my face*…you know.”

I’ve dealt with this a million times before. Ever since I started uni and had to introduce myself to new people, the question has kept popping up. I’ve been reasked the “right question” a thousand times - sometimes they are direct (No, where are you really from?) and other times it’s subtler when I see in their eyes that they think I’ve answered the wrong question. Usually, I laugh it off. Usually, it’s something funny. But for some reason, tonight made me infuriated, and I didn’t understand what broke the camel’s back. I had dealt with this for so long. Why now?

Then it hit me- it’s because I’m abroad. Despite the fact that I still find the question ignorant and rude when I’m asked in America, it’s a little more understandable because maybe, giving the asker the benefit of the doubt, they assumed that everybody’s family came from somewhere. Either that or the “San Diego” response is sufficient, along with my Californian accent, that they don’t feel the need to tell me I’m actually from a different country.

Yet, while I’m abroad - whether I’m in London or Brussels or Paris or wherever, saying “I’m from America” is not a sufficient answer to them. I realized that it’s not the question that bugs me, it’s the fact that they refuse to accept my answer. I tell them I’m from America, and they correct me - because surely, someone who looks like me can’t be American, at least not a real American. And that’s what pisses me off. Yes, I’m Chinese, I completely recognize that and while I had difficulty with that fact when I was younger, I’ve come to be happy with my heritage. But I still can’t deny the fact that I’m more American than I am Chinese. I’ve been to China maybe 3 times in my life and only remember two visits - one 5 years ago, and the other 10 years ago. I grew up with American music, American food, American TV shows. I recognize American brands, know American celebrities, and went through the American schooling system. I only know 2 years worth of Chinese and even struggle with that. It infuriates me that despite all this, I’m not “American.” Who are they to tell me that I’m wrong? That when I identify with America as my home, I’m actually incorrect? That it doesn’t matter that I was born and raised the past 20 years in America, because I look different.

It makes me frustrated because there are so many better ways to ask the question. They could ask: What’s your heritage? What’s your ethnicity? Where did your family originate? All of those are acceptable questions. Because I am Chinese and my family did originated from China. But to correct me, and tell me that I’m not from America, is wrong. I am from America.

For a while, I was worried that I had no right to feel this way. That maybe this was remnants of my rejecting my culture at a younger age - I’m not going to lie, it’s hard to grow up looking “different.” But then I realized that it would be no different if I were of Jamaican heritage and grew up in Belize, or if 4 generations ago my family moved from Mexico to Ireland, or if I were German but moved to China when I was 2. I think I’m quite justified in my anger because it’s not unreasonable to become mad when someone corrects your answer as if you don’t know yourself.

I know myself, and I identify with what I consider my personal home.