Updates From the Bean

A lot has happened since my last post in May of last year. Here’s the short of it in chronological order:

1. Finished taking pre-requisite classes for graduate school.
2. Applied to grad school.
3. Got into places I applied.
4. Biked to Milwaukee.
5. Had a summer of beer drinking in Chicago.
6. Bought a car. ^1.
7. Moved 900 miles away. ^2.
8. Started grad school.
9. Got myself a boyfriend?? ^3.

I guess I might not be able to be called The Bean anymore since I’ve moved, but The Tar Heel just doesn’t sound very pleasant.

1. Am I an adult yet?

2. More on this later.

3. Also more on this later. You, lucky reader, will have lots to expect from me!

“I don’t want to offend you, but…”

“… I like you. Is that ok?”

A friend revealed last week that he has not yet told a girl that he “really really likes her” after several years of casual friendship and no less than ten recent dates. His reasoning? He knows that she attends church every week. His assumptions, based on this one fact? That a) she is uber-conservative, b) does not believe in sex before marriage, and c) will be offended at his suggestion that they date.

“If you remember,” I yelled at him him loudly, waving my beer in his face, “this sounds exactly like that time that [boyfriend] waited to tell me he was breaking up with me until after I took the GRE because he thought I couldn’t handle all the stress!”¹

What is an appropriate way to make affections known to the object of said affections? More generally, what is the best way to inform someone else of a decision you have made that may affect his or her life, without being presumptuous and revealing your own prejudices?² How does one say “I’m attracted to you” with absolute guarantee that the other party will not take it as objectification? Can we ever believe that “it’s not you, it’s me” will ever indicate complete, honest, self-awareness?³

I got mad at my friend. I was perhaps a little too critical, perhaps projecting my own frustration after hearing so many unclear messages for so long. I told him that he was patronising, and offensive. I told him that he was being ruled by his (definitely sexist) assumptions about her preferences. There is a distinct possibility that she is not interested, I acknowledged, but let’s give her some credit.

No one, I said, should ever be offended by a simple “I like you”.⁴ If she is, I continued, you owe her the opportunity to explain her own assumptions, prejudices, and circumstances. I walked away from the conversation in a huff, but I was only halfway across the room before I realised that my response was probably just as informed by my opinion of my friend, who I’ve known since the age of nineteen. My own dismissal at his ability to responsibly, and maturely, begin relations with the fairer sex was a result of many years of witnessing his mistakes.

Our wimpy selves often take over before we get the chance to say something that we really mean. Sometimes we end up saying nothing at all, but on occasion, we lash out, blurt, and ramble. Our old uncertainties, morals learned from past experiences, and values transmitted to us from our respective cultures — in other words, all the things that make us the way we are — make us project our assumptions onto others. We can move to new countries, date different demographics, and shop around for new religions or political allegiances, but these factors will still nag.

I’ll give both of us some advice here. Make your own life, with your relationship history, physical insecurities, and yes, your prejudices, your normal. Acknowledge it, deal with it, present it as such, and own it. I’ll go first. I am a thoughtful but somewhat insecure internet blogger who calls herself The Bun.⁵ I have a fake tooth and weirdly fat fingers. I have a finnicky uterus and the weirdest health problems. I have some trust issues, care too much about what people think, and have serious imposter syndrome. I probably drink too often.

It is a pleasure to meet you. This is my normal, as of May 2016. What is yours?

 

1. I’d actually heard about his decision from another friend as I walked happily towards the campus bar to celebrate my 99th percentile score on the GRE. Funny how things work out. Also, beer.

2. I use the term “prejudice” here rather loosely. I don’t mean it as something that is intended to be negative — rather, an assumption about another person often arises out of one’s desire to protect. But, I’m sure we are all aware, protection can quickly turn into offence when expressed in a patronising way.

3. Long-term readers of this blog will remember that I question every verbal utterance that comes my way. As someone who has been on the receiving end of this speech one too many times, I often wonder about sincerity. More on this later, I hope.

4. Let’s put it another way — how many of us have waited, hoped, and pined to hear these words come out of another’s mouth? How nice it is to know that another individual is willing to put him or herself out there to reveal some (albeit tentative) feelings?

5. Therapists would probably look at this symptom and diagnose several different personality abnormalities from this one fact, including, but not limited to, inflated sense of self-worth, love of being talked about, and obsession with food.

Recreating Lives

When I first moved to Hong Kong, I didn’t have any expectations on how it would go. I didn’t know anything about the city, and quite frankly, I only took the job because nothing else remotely as interesting had panned out¹.

When I landed and was picked up by a driver sent by my then boss, I was in (a very sleep deprived ²) awe of just scale of humanity in the city. Up until this point, I don’t think I’d ever stepped foot in a city as vertical as this one ³. I knew no one in this city of 7 million, a sobering idea when I nearly got hit by a bus on my first day because traffic goes the opposite way ⁴.

Because I had no notions of what to expect, I was able to build a completely new life there with new people, new hobbies, and new interests. The only thing I really wanted to find in Hong Kong were good American craft beers ⁵.  That was it. This is not to say I wasn’t homesick. I was, for about the first 6 months, but that went away surprisingly quickly.

Moving back to Chicago has been an entirely different beast. From having spent 4 years for school here, I had an expectation of how the city would be like, and it was romanticized in my head as being the place where I first felt at home, where I belonged. I forgot that what made places feel good to me were the people there ⁶.

I find that I’ve fallen into a trap where I’m trying to recreate the bits I loved about Hong Kong (reliable public transportation, people who were ambitious in some form or another ⁷ or just did really cool things, gym community, British beers, boyfriend), but nothing is coming together. The CTA is notoriously, conspicuously, and frustratingly slow ⁸. I’ve made some new friends, but I don’t feel like I’m learning much about anything from them. My current gym is seriously subpar⁹. Not pining too much for British beers as I’ve found a couple of others that are pretty nice.

And yes, now addressing the boyfriend. Notice how I’ve been silent for quite a way on anything romance related? It’s not that I’m keeping things from you, reader. It’s just that there’s absolutely nothing worthwhile to write about. The dates I’ve been on have been so unremarkable that I have even been unable to spin any sort of remotely interesting story about any of them.

A friend of mine (she shall henceforth be referred to as Burrito Friend because our friendship started by pursuing a top 10 list of best burritos in Chicago ¹⁰) remarked a bit offhandedly to me that not everyone can be lucky enough to still be in love with their ex. And that struck me. Maybe it’s true, though it’s been a while since we split up, so it shouldn’t be the case, right? Am I enough of a sap to still be hanging on to this slightly more romantic image of him? Though I suppose it also says a lot that if we ever find ourselves in a similar locale and are both still single, I’d go after him in a heartbeat. Yes, I understand that we wouldn’t be the same people as we were when we were in Hong Kong, but why not try?

The Bun also weighed in on this for me since it threw me for such a loop. She thinks it’s ultimately a good thing that I haven’t demonized him in my own recollection. Though, it’s pretty hard to demonize a cute guy with a British accent who brought me all sorts of food, even when I was in the hospital. He even visited everyday.

Ok, maybe Burrito friend is right. But I should be able to find someone similar in Chicago right? Doesn’t necessarily have to be British or look like he did. I just want someone nice who will bring me food.

1. 4th year for me was weird because when everyone else was going crazy with recruiting, I was putting together an application for the Army’s officer candidate school. That didn’t pan out as I didn’t manage to heal from a nearly torn through tendon in my foot, leaving me scrambling around March and April for a job. The other places I had on site interviews at were completely horrifyingly soul sucking enough that I took a job at a small company I couldn’t find much information on in a city I knew nothing about. That should say something about how I felt about those positions.

2. Contrary to popular belief, I am not completely unflappable. I just prefer not to have many people around when I have my meltdowns. Someone I know once told her girlfriend that she was modeling her lack of expressed negative emotions after me. Anyway, I digress. That flight was super sleep deprived because I was an absolute ball of anxiety during the 12+ plane ride over. I was nervous enough to have gotten sick the second I landed in San Francisco from Dallas to catch the connecting flight over to Hong Kong.

3. Sure Beijing had been more populated, the city was also much more spread out.

4. When I drive back stateside now, I still have to remind myself that I need to drive on the right side of the road. Funny how just 2 and a half years abroad can have such an impact on my life.

5. But then American beers got crazy happy with beers that supposedly are flavored by jasmine tea,  blackcurrant, vanilla or something else equally as heinous for a beer. I now find myself pining for a glass of clear British pale ale.

6. I find that I’m saying I don’t feel particularly strongly about people very often now. But really, if you’re a friend of mine in person and are reading this, you know that isn’t true.

7. I have only met ONE new person in Chicago so far where I had the initial reaction of, “OMG you’re so cool. How can I be more like you?”

8. I have outpaced 3 buses on a certain route while on my bike recently.

9. Everyone there is perfectly nice, which is why I stick around (that and it’s close), but I’m not entirely convinced the coaches know exactly what they’re doing. It’s also a nice place for me to get a much needed ego-trip and feel superior to others.

10. Carbon Live Fire Mexican was the winner. Get the Motherclucker, Stelotes, or Fish named William burrito. Their elotes are also great, as are their flour tortilla chips that come with the guacamole.

What I Write, How I Write, and Why I Write

During several periods of intense sadness caused by various health-, friendship-, family- and boy- (gross!) related SNAFUs over the last several months, I have, fortunately, had a support network that was jumping at the chance to offer me suggestions for how I could improve my mood¹. Most suggested that I write about my feelings, in a private journal, raw and unedited for the purposes of self-therapy.

I’ll admit, it’s something that I have thought of, but not anything I thought I would ever do. This seems counterintuitive. After all, I’m always writing anyway! I consider myself a whizz with words²!

So let’s get meta. Let’s self-diagnose and try to get to the bottom of my ick factor³. What is it about confessing to a spiral-bound notebook that seems so offensive to me?

I write constantly. Mostly with my fingers, tapping away at a keyboard. I write my thesis, the hopefully current, but probably permanent, love of my life. I write text messages to friends, I use instant messaging apps, and I update my Facebook status at times. I write posts for two blogs, neither of which will ever go viral.

I don’t know if I like writing; I certainly like having written things that I can feel proud of, pieces of work that I can slap my name on in perpetuity. I have always been an untrained, potentially arrogant, amateur writer who soaks up the praise and dwells unhappily on the criticism before dismissing it completely.

But my writing has always been performative – owned by me, read by others. Whether I am completing a chapter of my thesis or texting about a particularly interesting anecdote to a close friend⁴, my writing is meant to be seen, read, judged, and hopefully, loved. As a child, I often considered how I could write my private journals in a way that would elevate me to a position of fame, or at the very least, gain me some kind of recognition. I am the first to admit that I am (unfortunately?) unhealthily dependent on validation for my own happiness.

And therein lies my issue with writing. An activity that for some is therapeutic becomes a stressful race for me, a challenge to commendably entertain, instruct, and inspire my reader. If I ever re-read a previously written work of my own, I decided, Future Me would be appropriately impressed. I haven’t yet gone back through my 1oth grade musings in a starry notebook, nor have I been able to muster up the courage to open up a word document from one very emo summer during college.

However, this blog (right here!) and the piles of annotated thesis chapter drafts littered on my desk and around⁵ compel me to face my own work on a day-to-day basis. I am forced to review, to edit, and, because of the nature of the internet and my own self-important ways, consider how my writing can be an everlasting contribution. Writing makes me bite my nails and frown at my computer screen. It makes me pour myself just one glass of wine so that I can sit in a controlled, timed environment⁶ to reach a goal. It’s not relaxing, for sure. It’s only very occasionally cathartic, but certainly not therapeutic. But why I write doesn’t have to be.

And readers, will you please join me in my conceited journey of performance? Will you read my musings, engage with any provocative statements, and chuckle politely at jokes that I have crafted, deleted, and re-written many times? I promise I will do my best to make it worth your while.

 

1. I’m better now! Hooray! More to come in the next few weeks on big moves, life decisions, and other pesky things that keep me up at night but not my jetlag at bay.

2. Sometimes, however, I am prone to using a silly alliteration to get my point across.

3. Things I also don’t really have a desire to try: bungee jumping, skinny dipping, and smoking crack. We can discuss them in detail too, if time permits.

4. Or a not-so-close-friend, a romantic interest, or a forgettable acquaintance. Hell, let’s just also throw in that sometimes the anecdotes are not even that interesting! The point is, I bring all the interesting.

5. On some occasions, one will find me on the floor, under my desk, with my collection of binders. I have a secret hope that one of my colleagues will take a photo of me looking adorably, geekily frazzled, and it will the iconic book-jacket photo of my memoir as an academic. If anyone is reading this… hint?

6. I am notoriously clumsy with wine glasses, so no sudden movements and/or gestures are allowed when that amazing liquid is being consumed. My environment is also timed by the length of time it takes to drink a glass of wine. I am my own behavioural scientist.

More Arbitrary Numbers

I was talking to a friend how Brother Bean is getting married in less than a month at the tender age of 28 and how our Facebook feeds are starting to blow up with sickeningly saccharine engagement and wedding photos^1.. This led to a discussions about what age we want to be married by, and the number that came up was 37.

Neither of us really thinks that we will get married any time in the near future, or even near 28^2. I (jokingly?) made a pact with a friend from college saying that if both of us are still single by 35 and have no prospects on the horizon, we’d just marry each other for the tax benefits that come from filing jointly, and the shared benefits in case one of us ends up with kickass insurances and the other one is getting shafted ^3. I suppose that says a lot about my views on marriage: more practicality than anything else, though is this really my mindset talking or just my current seemingly perpetual singledom talking? Though, The Atlantic agrees with me in regards to the high cost of staying single, especially as a woman.

I suppose I’ve always been too practical for my own good, when it comes to my love life. I didn’t date around in college^4. because I knew that I was still looking for my own mental footing to be able to accommodate all the drama that seemed to surround friends who dated. Dating in high school also didn’t happen probably because I was still a bit painfully shy and because I’m sure my parents would have murdered me in my sleep (Asian parents) then gone on to murder whomever I was dating at the time. I also don’t think I could’ve survived any sort of sex talk that could’ve provoked^5. And I’m probably being too practical now! Currently on a dating and anything romantic dry spell because I’m more focused on finishing up pre-requisite classes, applying (and getting into) graduate programs, and working to really have time to think about the needs of another human being.

I suppose this means I’m in the perfect place to use Tinder now, right? I can use it to scratch an itch without any entanglements? Though the ROI on sex is probably better in some sort of relationship because it’s easier to have sex with 1 person multiple times than it is to have sex once with many different people. I just need to break my dry spell and get laid. That’s really the moral of this story, not my weird feelings about Brother Bean getting married and people from high school getting married. I should be sowing my wild oats in my mid-20s, right? Right? Right??

1. Especially from people we knew in high school, and the scary fact that some of said people from high school already have children who are out of diapers.
2. For the reader’s note, this is in 3 years for me
3. Ok, I might have to check his financial situation first so I don’t accidentally shoot myself in the foot. Also, does posting this online constitute as conspiracy to commit fraud? If green card marriages aren’t technically legal, are these sort of ones also no-nos in the eyes of the IRS?
4. Though considering my alma mater, I might have dodged a bullet there
5. though this would’ve been more of mortal embarrassment. Also, another contention for the readers to ponder: if you’re Asian, did your parents ever give you the sex talk? Or was it just swept under a rug as they hoped you’d learn from school or some other source that was not personal experience? Though I suppose China didn’t get to its own population levels now if parents really did have the sex talk with their children. Maybe it’s a cultural thing.

New Year Resolutions for a more mature, professional Bun

• Introduce myself with first and last name; learn to say such full name with intonation that just rolls off the tongue.
• Learn to like wearing lipstick and other confidence-raising cosmetics, such as concealer for dark under-eye circles. 
• Work up alcohol tolerance to college senior level so that I don’t get shit-faced in front of important people. The alcohol is unavoidable; I must change myself.
• Get those business cards printed… finally!
• Come up with updated, more professional sounding one-liners to describe my work and myself.
• Dig out a couple of nerdy jokes for the cocktail chatter. Grammar jokes are always appreciated, I attempt to convince myself.
• Have handy “did you know” fun facts on file, preferably in reference to Chinese history.
• Don’t bother checking for wedding rings on conversation partners — in my field, most of the men are married. Most of the women are single.
• Practice self introductions balanced with a healthy dose of confidence and imposter syndrome (the latter in good humour, of course).
• Change Tinder photo of me in a suit talking at a podium to a more updated photo of me in a suit talking at a podium. I’m definitely not a junior in college anymore.

Here’s to a fantastic semester of research, writing, and above all, schmoozing!

The Ubiquity of Headphones (and why it’s a terrible thing)

Dear Missed Meet Cute,

It’s quite rare for me to want to strike up a conversation with someone random¹. I normally don’t know what to say, or if I’m intruding, or if I’m being very awkward. I can’t seem to make mundane small talk² without either being bored out of my own mind or worrying that I’m boring the other person out of their mind.

Now, imagine my surprise when on my way home from work, I spied you, on the train in your scrubs like a baby doctor³, a nurse, an orderly, a phlebotomist, or a hospital lab technician. You even had a bit of a 5 o’clock shadow⁴, brown hair, and smelled really good⁵. We even made eye contact! All good right?

NO. A resounding NO. Why? Because you had your earbuds in. Earbuds and headphones are the number one killer of spontaneous conversations. Yes, I understand that you probably had them in to avoid having a conversation with someone rather unpleasant on the train, or to be able to ignore the man pushing a stroller around (which may or may not have had a kid in. I couldn’t tell because it was completely covered) asking for money for him and his child with Down Syndrome. But you missed me! Awesome, not so little me! I could’ve dazzled you with my wit, my stories of travel, and my terrible (but amazing) one liners and puns!

Instead, you sat there, hunched over on your phone with your earbuds in, trapped in your own little bubble of solitude. What do you headphone wearing people listen to all the time anyway? There can’t be that much music in the world to listen to over and over again, every day on your commute. A podcast maybe? Still! There is only a finite number of podcasts. Wouldn’t it be more exciting to pay attention to your surroundings? How do you even know if a car, much less another person, is coming up behind you⁶? What is so terrible about the world that you have to incessantly seclude yourself in your imaginary bubble? I promise that the world is not that scary or nasty all the time!

And the worst part of our very ephemeral encounter? You even held the door open for me as I came out of the same station as you.

-A very disappointed Bean.

1.I used to have the worst anxiety about talking to random people to the extent that I would rarely even ask for help or directions when lost. Doing quite a bit of traveling (some solo or mostly solo) has changed that a lot, mostly because I’d have gone a week or so without speaking otherwise.
2. This is also why I’m absolutely terrible at real networking events. I can’t seem to get the small talk out of the way to talk business with someone.
3. Not a pediatrician. I’d say pediatrician if I meant a doctor who cares for babies. Rather a doctor in training. I tend to refer to a lot of entry-level people as “babies.” As in, I have quite a few friends who are baby investment bankers.
4. Men who read this blog take note: I really like guys with a respectable 5 o’clock shadow. I’m also single.
5. Smelling good is a HUGE pre-requisite for me. I think I’ve mentioned this before.
6. This is a big one for me since I also tend to bike everywhere. I’ve had people ask me how I can bike all day without listening to music. I like living.

New Year, new profile, new image?

Hello, my name is The Bun. I am a twenty-something Western-educated graduate student in the humanities, perpetually single, and politically moderate. I like eating bread, wearing skinny jeans, and reading works by Oscar Wilde. When I grow up, I want to write a book¹.

In 2016, I will endeavour to spend more constructive time (and enjoy spending this time) alone. I will try to become less invested in other people’s problems when they ask me to give them advice. I will also kick off the year in this post by walking readers through the excruciating art of profile writing. The Bean has discussed the effectiveness of Tinder profiles and greetings on the recipient of a message, at good length, with good detail, and in good humour². I am here to take on the process of writing a profile for myself.

I have always been the kind of person who spends a long time thinking about how to represent myself, in a variety of different situations, to achieve maximum impact with those around me³. But my recent experiences writing scholarship applications was entirely too draining. Did I want to sound smart? In need of financial support? A potential leader among equally smart and qualified individuals? Writing about my achievements in the professional world began to sound disingenuous, and I ran out of synonyms for “opportunity”. I am not shameless enough to exaggerate a story about the plights of being a woman or a not-quite third culture kid⁴. I could not go over the word limit, yet did not want to write too little.

Curating a Facebook page or Twitter account is just as troublesome. How can I sound socially aware, but quirky and follow-able? But when we move onto online dating profiles, the “follow-able” criterion becomes “date-able”, the space to express ourselves becomes smaller, and the stakes, at times, are higher. We may also never know how our profiles are perceived by a viewer; currently, my Tinder information is a Zoolander quote. No one bites⁵.

And let’s not kid ourselves — profiles are not always representative of the people they are supposed to represent. Scholarship applications can be ghostwritten and profile photos can be touched up. The ease of curation is, often, a myth, and it never stops with just creating the one profile. When we don’t get the attention we believe that we deserve (too few likes! The “we don’t have any more matches for you” message on Coffee Meets Bagel!) is to change the profiles themselves. Do I switch the order of my photos? Try to sound less smart? Hide my super fancy undergraduate degree?

As an experiment I will be writing into a magazine’s dating contest as a part of a Valentine’s Day promotion. To do this, I will need to submit a profile — a photo of myself, my age, my occupation, and some information about myself. As The Bean has already demonstrated, first impressions really do matter. Maybe I should write in that I would need a glass of wine, a bit of inspiration, and a spot of courage to get this one done.

 

1. I’ve got some half-baked drafts of teen romances somewhere in the depths or a USB memory stick. At the age of 15, I was wannabe-precocious and thought that I was pretty funny. I guess nothing has really changed, except that I now write postgraduate-level thesis chapters.
2. And with pictures, scathing remarks, and just a tad of sentimentality. Pretty good, I think!
3. On my first day of college as an international freshman, my chosen fun fact at my dormitory orientation event was “I had my first ever bagel this morning! It was delicious, just like they say on TV.” I became “the exotic one”. I had instant friends.
4. Really, I prefer the term “worldly”. Or, “not allowed to register to vote anywhere”. 
5. No one also cares about my super duper fancy university degree or the fact that one of my photos is adorably goofy. What’s up with that? We’re really going to have to get a male Bean in here one day to discuss the other side of Tinder profile perceptions!

Dating by Numbers

I want to talk about numbers in regards to dating. I’m not going to touch upon THE number, the one that tells the whole world how many people I’ve slept with because, quite frankly, that’s a very boring number that tends to provoke unnecessary judgement and/or congratulations^1.

Instead, the first number I want to address is the average number of dates that I (and the unwitting friends I polled) are willing to go on before deciding to sleep with someone.

For me, it’s 3. The Bun actually shares this number with me. After a quick informal poll of friends, this number seems to be on the lower side. Now, I will say that I’ve never had a one night stand,^2.but I am most definitely not going to wait after 5-6 dates. Generally with working out schedules, the first couple of dates, for me at least, are spaced a week apart. 5-6 dates meaning investing 2 months of my time before figuring out if we’d work out sex wise, and that’s just too long of a time to sink in.

Some may think that 3 dates is a bit short, but one month gives me enough time to figure out if 1) I actually like you as a human being, 2) do you bore me, and 3) do I want to share a wet spot^3. with you? Oh, and a major thing for me is if the guy smells good. I know it sounds bizarre, but some people just smell funky to me and to no other person^4..

After a quick informal poll of friends, this seems to be on the lower side for my female friends. For the girls I polled, the answers ranged from, “If I’m feeling it on the first date” to “at least 5-6 dates.”

For the boys, it ranges from “Hell, yea I’ll try to make a move on the first date” to “after 5-6” to “if we’re both feeling it” to “sometimes I’m so clueless that I just wait for the other person to make the first move.” One more data-minded friend broke it down directly: 15^5., 1, 1, 20^6..

Most people I asked were pretty hesitant to put out an exact number, or even a ballpark number. Instead, I tended to get quite a bit of explanation about why things are the way things are. I also wouldn’t want to sleep with someone if I’m not feeling it with that person, but generally I figure that out before dates 4, 5, and 6. Maybe I’m just too quick to judge, but I think I tend to have a pretty good judge of character^7.

 

 

1. I’m a big fan of congratulating both my girl and guy friends on sex things.

2.Remember how I tend to obsess over axe-murderers? There’s a part of my brain that tells me that I might get axe-murdered by a one-night stand, even though I don’t own an axe. Also, meeting people is a really awkward affair for me most of the time, and I just don’t think I’m really that great at picking people up in bars or wherever people go to pick each other up.

3. This is one part of sex that movies and TV shows always forget about! It’s fun and games until the awkward moment of figuring out who gets the wet spot.

4. In college, I made out with a guy who seemed pretty great, but he also just smelled like a mix of cheese, old socks, and new paperback books. I like paperback book smell, but not when it’s combined with the other two. I asked another friend to smell him for me. Said friend went up to the guy, gave him a huge bear hug, took a very very audible inhalation, looked over at me, and declared, “Nope, smells normal!”

5. High school girlfriend.

6. Catholic enough to care, though apparently not anymore?

7. Not dating related, but I’ve met up with more than my fair share of people from the Internet in person, and I’m still around! My favorite first meet up involved getting picked up at a corner in Beijing (I’d only been there a few weeks tops) by someone from the Internet.

Dear Scholarship Committee

Dear Scholarship Committee,

There are many reasons why I deserve a scholarship to study at this prestigious institution. I have decent grades, a nice range of extra-curriculars, and I am really good during networking cocktail parties with your donors¹. To be fair, I do not know how well this will set me apart from other candidates, so I will stop trying to write a cover letter and instead go about this application in a need-based vein.

You should give me a scholarship because at this point in time, I need one. I have just been discharged from the hospital after a 4-day stay, slightly anaemic, dizzy in the head, and completely behind on all my work. I have been… not quite right for the past month — some undiagnosed female issue to do with hormones or endometriums that no doctor seems to take as seriously as I do. I’ve had intense pains and some other grossness I will not write about here², so my schoolwork, gym sessions, and cocktail party-schoomzing have all taken a hit. I haven’t forgotten about your scholarship however, because I really need the win right about now.

It doesn’t seem like I can rejoin the land of the living any time soon. I am jealous of anyone who can have a beer without having intense stomach pains, go for a run without feeling light-headed, or stay awake past 10pm. I no longer dominate after-work-drinks and Friday night party routine. I have spent most of the recent money I have earned on doctors, ultrasounds, and health supplements, but at least I am no longer paying for fancy cocktails and expensive meals³. And while the doctors have shrugged me away, all the other advice I have received seem to be versions of “take care of your body!” This is baffling — I haven’t had a drink in over a month, I sleep more than 10 hours every night and eat all balanced meals. I do not consume anything oily, spicy, or icy. I drink plenty of warm water and herbal teas and use a hot water bottle (instead of take painkillers) to keep the cramps at bay⁴. But I can study, I promise. I can sit at a desk (or if need be, propped up in a hospital bed) with my laptop, working on some intense piece of historical research.

I could give you an argument that addresses the intersectionality of my status as a minority — I could make something up about being a female ethnic minority who had to, at some point, learn English from scratch⁵. The truth is that I have never felt discriminated against because of my sex or my race. However, I know first-hand what it’s like to feel alone, helpless, and scoffed at in a city of 7 million. Friends who, inadvertently rubbing it in, send “are you out tonight?” texts at 2am. A man-friend who disappeared once the sex was put on hiatus. Doctors you can’t help but cry in front of, not because you are trying to use your feminine wiles for better treatment, but because you are frustrated that they do not seem to care.

And then, a half-finished thesis and a bunch of applications that stare at you, sending the subliminal reminder that if you fail this, you will have nothing, not even your once-dependable health.

When the media discusses whether women can have it all, it comes down to three main things — career, family, and active social life. Health never seems to come into the equation, and generally with good reason. We are living in 2015! There’s medicines and cures for pretty much everything! Eat organic and practice mindfulness and you’ll live to be 100! If I had been suffering from a broken bone, I would have been given time off work. If I had contracted an STI, a course of antibiotics would do the trick. Instead, my first two visits to the emergency room were met with sneers and nary a doctor certificate. My undiagnosed gynaecological dysfunction left doctors dismissive, my uterus in pain, and me uncomfortable and embarrassed to talk about it. Writing a short email to a supervisor asking to be excused from a meeting became a nail-biting affair, with no sick note nor visible symptoms to prove my distress. Explaining my inability to drink at an alumni social left me exhausted and finally pretending to sip from a glass of wine.

This scholarship would at least enable me to achieve some kind of self-pride, and empower me to redirect a conversation with coworkers from blood tests to, finally, a piece of good news. I want to earn this scholarship because I need to regain control over my life. I want this scholarship because I want to feel like I’m being accepted into something bigger and more important. Most importantly, I need validation that I’m not going crazy — that whatever is happening to my body will pass and leave no lasting damage, and that it’s ok to feel right now that my work, which I love, is the only thing that matters.

“Undiagnosed gynaecological dysfunction” needn’t define my life right now, and nor should I let it⁶. I would be honoured, instead, to call myself a scholarship recipient.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Kind regards,

The Bun

 

1. I can small talk about anything from the The Matrix to The Republic, from hashtags to the value of hashtag activism, from Isis the dog in Downton Abbey to ISIS in the Middle East. Just try me!

2. I understand appropriateness, how to change the tone of my words for different situations, and how to channel respect for my readers. I’m really mature, I promise.

3. This shows, dear scholarship committee, that I can be responsible with the money that you give me! I’m also too unwell to go stumbling around drinking in the middle of the week — pick me, and you’ll be guaranteed one candidate who does not embarrass.

4. I lead a very wholesome lifestyle, and I listen to my elders. While I trust western medicine (and science!) wholeheartedly, I embrace the colourful background of my eastern community, and take its beliefs and values to heart. Supported by your scholarship, I hope to continue my investigation into how east and west can grow together, harmoniously.

5. But because I learned English from scratch, I learned it the right way! Grammar doesn’t phase (or “phrase!”) me; neither do semi-colons. I have submitted a writing sample for your review — I hope it demonstrates my strength as a communicator.

6. I am an advocate for clear, specific writing that helps my readers understand exactly what I am talking about. This term does not meet my standards, and I would like you to know this.