In 2016, my college counselor told me no one wanted to hear about another Asian American childhood story. Everyone went to Chinese school and learned perseverance from riding a bike.
“When Asian kids write about their childhood, it’s obvious that their teenage life is dull, so they had to resort to their younger days. Show colleges what you can contribute, not how much happier you were as a child, ” said the almightly god of college admission.
He’s right. Why would I want to sound depressing? But more importantly, I genuinely don’t remember anything about my first biking excursion. What I do remember, though, was falling into a ditch after speeding down a ramp on a scooter. That wasn’t a particularly scholarly day in my life. I get that my counselor was trying to set us apart from the competitive crowd, but that rule cost me a lot of self-reflection before I could value my childhood memories.
What a cruel thing to tell a human being: their childhood is less important than others’. Even if a similar story was told somewhere else, why should we be obliged to take up a meaningless battle against sameness? It’s your childhood, not the Oscars.
But it stuck to me. For instance, I was always hesitant to cite my childhood in my artwork because I didn’t want to be another “one of those.” In art school, I saw compelling work by my peers about nostalgia and innocence, but I believed that that kind of storytelling was unique to them. Let’s see. I’m a Taiwanese kid who moved to the Bay Area for a better education. I can already see my imaginary college admission officer rolling their eyes. While this aversion to taking my background seriously encouraged me to explore new topics, I envied people who were righteously adamant about their past. I couldn’t back myself up the same way they did.
Outside of the context of admissions, this concept of sameness is still prevalent. It’s unfortunate that we categorize people so effortlessly. If you go to the church, you’re that kind. If you had strict parents, you’re this kind. If you’re in the Olympics, you’re associated with these labels. At this point, which kind of Asian hasn’t been done before? We create so many micro labels to prevent ourselves from seeing our uniqueness, but we forget that there are countless possibilities to arrange these pockets of encounters.
As I learned that being a good artist doesn’t necessarily mean doing something groundbreaking every single time, but rather creating with authenticity, I finally pulled myself out of the battle of sameness. It’s a peaceful feeling to acknowledge that part of my identity and let it merge into my future experiences.
Go ahead, and talk about your journey across the Pacific Ocean and your first experience on the bike all you want.
Small print: this is not advice for college essays.
