Why I’m fired up
I started this substack months ago because a small fire was lit inside me. That fire kept me going as I slogged thru documents and meetings, sacrificing sleep, work, and family time. But that recent meeting, that hate-filled, casually-tossed word, “segregationists,” hit a big patch of underwatered tinder. Why am I fired up?
I’m fired up because that word hit me, hit me personally, found that gap in all my years of psychic armor.
I am living the denied wishes of my parents. My paper son dad gave up his family name, carried a gun for the country that didn’t want him, and sacrificed so many dreams to raise 4 kids in 3 bedrooms in San Francisco. My mother grew up poor in Stockton, a product of public schools, then sacrificed her own career ambitions to focus on the family. She told me so many times, “Get the best education. But even then, you are Chinese-American. You will have to do more.”
I was born at Children’s Hospital on California Street. I learned how to read at Argonne Elementary School with Ms. Pope. I learned Algebra at Presidio Middle School in 7th grade with Ms. Rueda. I won Spelling Bees, National math contests, an International chemistry medal. I got in early to the college I wouldn’t dare to consider as a 9th grader. I’ve done OK, until I hit that bamboo ceiling hard, again and again. I went out on my own and reveled in it.
Then I tuned into that meeting.