Was, Could Have Become, Would Have Become

Yesterday I came across a random teacher's post about a question she sometimes adds to the end of her tests: “How are you? Are you happy? Stressed? Home life okay? School life okay? Tell me how you’re doing! Can I do anything to make your life better?" I read the question, and cried. It's the kind of presence I want to be, the kind of question I want to be asked.

I get these flashes of wistfulness, of defiance (不服气), of regret (可惜). What a shame (好可惜), and I ache; it stings. In my student, I see parts of myself. And I see who I could have become. My student's brother tells me, "When she starts talking, no one can stop her," but in an endearing tone, not an annoyed one. He asks, "She talks a lot, doesn't she?" but not condescendingly. When I remark that she's a junior in a senior class, he's proud, "That's cuz she's smart."

I remember the Grace in her early days of social awareness, a first grader writing in her diary about Liuyun, who played with her on and off. But Liuyun's lukewarmness, her inconsistency, could never get in between her and her confidence. Liuyun's lukewarmness had nothing to do with her worth. Similarly, third-grade Grace refused to follow the leader, and the leader cast her out of the class circle. But being cast out of the third-grade circle could never get in between her and her confidence. She was still the second-grade Grace who invited her whole class and her 小区 friends to her birthday party, still the second-grade Grace who wrote love letters to her crushes, regardless of rejection or acceptance. Her third-grade leader's rejection didn't change the fact that she had her people, her arena.

I can't come to terms with the loss, the loss of who I was, who I could have been, who I would have been. I can't make assertions about “what ifs," but yes, yes I assert, I know who I would have been. I was a child, but I always had a strong sense of social dynamics, of the nuances to friendship, as evident in my first-grade diary. I don't think I was confident because I was clueless. I was confident because I was born that way: a strong-willed go-getter. I loved, love, and will love crowds. I loved, love, and will love liveliness.

I'm devastated, defiant, about the loss of who I was born to be. I clench my fist, while I'm trying to let go. I cry defiant tears in the face of acceptance. I cry injustice towards my middle-school white school, where to be accepted I groveled, I begged, I bowed down, I lost my dignity. I tell her I'm so proud, that she managed to integrate, where the condition for integrating was to adopt a white personality. And she became that person; she didn't fake anything. She was always terrible at faking; it made her puke, it still makes her puke.

I look at her, and I know, I know, she could have grown up to invite thirty people to her party, not to be popular, but because she loved, loves, and will love big. I love teaching at my crowded, 4,300-student high school. I love the crowded streets of New York City. I love the liveliness post-sundown in a Chinese city. My 2,000-people white, suburban college was too small. So was my 8-people high school graduating class. So was my old church where I always had to run into guy-who-didn't-like-me-back on my way to the bathroom; it was so small he was freaking everywhere.

But I'm stuck in my upbringing, stuck in my real personality that I wish I never became. I can't invite thirty people. There's not thirty people to invite. And the thought of rejection is crushing. I cannot extend an invitation. And I refuse to accept. I think of who I was and could have been. She's enthusiastic and exuberant. She was open and flamboyant. Now I envy openness. I saw one of my senior boys hug a girl-friend, not to flirt, but out of his warmth, out of who he is. His warmth, his openness, I went home and cried. Who I want to be but cannot be. I became so self-conscious, so self-doubting, so careful, so self-protecting.

I'm defiant, I grit my teeth. She was seen as bold, energetic, enthusiastic. I am seen as introverted, reserved, calm, neither of which I am. She could never do fake; I can never do fake. I don't project a false version of myself; I'm trapped in my own personality. I protested, I still protest. I do nothing except stand there, and I project introversion, reservation. I think my deep introspection, thorough reflections, and ever-turning mind shaped themselves into an introverted appearance. She loved big, but in college she could only be someone whose friends said, "I don't like groups; I prefer one-on-one interactions" and thought she was the same.

I smile watching the Chinese girls, the Uzbek boys, the friends-with-chemistry. My classroom must always be like this.

I don't want to spend my life fighting with the life I have, enacting Ahab and the whale.

In this unrelinquished pursuit, I keep giving myself to You and then removing myself from You. I commit to Your confidence, Your belonging, Your Love. But I clench my fist while I'm letting go. I feel robbed, I want what I was meant to have. Your confidence, belonging, Your Love—Your Love is greatest, the only real thing in this life. I clench my fist while I'm letting go.