The worst thing you can do as an Asian student is not be in honors math. 

I’m not in honors math, which is why I haven’t gotten dinner in the last 6 months. 

Not being there, though, has its perks. Correction: a perk––the one being that I don’t want to murder myself every day.

But the cons might be worse. Whenever I try to playfully joke around with my Asian classmates, it’s always “You’re literally in lower math buddy.” The callousness of these words, while seemingly in a lighthearted tone, cut through the corridors of my self-worth, scratching at the studs in the walls that hold my resilience together. 

Is there any comeback to that? Is there any when your entire culture holds mathematical proficiency in such high regard?

At my school, on a day titled 'Non-Sibi Day,' we would all enter our English classrooms to find thought-provoking prompts displayed on the board. As a collective, we would engage in dynamic discussions around each prompt, similar to a Socratic seminar. 

It was during the annual event last year that I found myself subjected to the most fierce hounding I've ever experienced. It just so happens that this was one of the displayed prompts:

You are seated in the cafeteria with a group of friends talking about the courses you are taking. A friend says he is in the “math for slow kids class.” Another friend is surprised and exclaims, “Wait…you’re Asian…why aren’t you in honors?” How do you respond?

Upon reading, I simply sighed, awaiting the torrent of banter that would drench me the moment I set foot outside the Athletic Entrance, the jests coming primarily from tight-hazel-eyed boys. 

The pressure continues even at home with my parents comparing me to all the other Asian kids at school. It's as if there's a scoreboard, invisible yet ceaselessly tallying up my failures, rotting the very marrow of my spirit with each passing day.

Every night, dinner is a tense affair served with a side of disappointed looks. The report card becomes the menu, and somehow my 444 LOW HONORS math level becomes the entrée we always choose to order. 

Man, the inclusion of the word “low” truly tarnishes the perception of the class (it’s the second-highest level for juniors with the highest being “high honors”––that’s not bad at all). In my school’s handbook, it's officially labeled as 444 Pre-Calculus (or PC for short). Every time I reference my PC class, my peers always find it helpful to offer their super-necessary corrections.

“Just say ‘low honors’. We get it, bro.” Do you really?

I wish I could make my family see that my worth isn't tied to my math class placement. I wish they could understand that I have expectations that don't fit into their narrow definition of success. But their strict aspirations are deeply rooted in my culture, and sometimes I wish I wasn’t a part of it.

***

In the heart of the East, a longing stirs for American shores, where foreign dreamers yearn for the allure of opportunity.

I don’t speak for all Asian Americans, but at least for me, there’s one critical flaw in living here: It’s the fact that, when looking at American culture, I genuinely ask myself if I’m satisfied with my own. Isn’t that just such a horrible question to ask yourself? 

If I were simply born and raised in Taiwan, in a country where everyone doesn’t just look like me, but where everyone also lives like me, there would be no question as to whether or not I would want to live a different life because there’s nothing else to compare it to. 

When I examine the more relaxed American lifestyle (in terms of academia), I often wonder if I’m too focused on grades, if I’m too focused on making my parents proud, if I’m too Asian. 

The thing is, there’s no amount of plastic surgery that can un-Asianize my eyes. There’s no amount of paint that can stain the yellow I was born with. So, I’m left here to compete with the brutes of my race––the Usain Bolts of my “race”. People like my cousin Joey, who took the SAT in middle school. People like my friend Bruce, who knew what vector-valued functions were in 5th grade.

I feel like the knock-off Tom Ripley from the film “The Talented Mr. Ripley”, who’s the doppelganger of the rich, lavish Dickie Greenleaf as he becomes infatuated with Greenleaf's lifestyle.

Me, I try to mimic Joey. I try to mimic Bruce. I think that maybe I've come close enough, but I always find myself in that perpetual pit of inadequacy whether it's an A- that falls short of an A or a missed homework assignment due to my lack of sleep. 

I wish my life wasn't an endless reinforcement of Joey and Bruce's excellence. I wish I was as talented as the talented Mr. Ripley, but I guess I’m just average. Or (in the words of Greenleaf) boring. Quite boring.

***

There's this gnawing sense of guilt that I can't shake off. Guilt for questioning my culture, for yearning to be someone else, for wanting to escape from the never-ending pressure to fulfill my family's desires. Guilt for thinking that, even for a moment, I could insult the people who nurtured me, that I could use my sharp tongue toward those who taught me how to speak.

I love myself, but maybe if I didn’t, it would help me more––my conscience, that is. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t bother caring about whether or not my schoolmates made fun of me, or whether my family didn’t think I was enough. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t feel the need to be so academically strict on myself. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t feel guilty because no one has time to feel guilty for others when they already don’t have time for themselves. 

Is it wrong to want to be more than just another Asian stereotype, another shy kid, another math whiz? 

It shouldn’t be, but it sure is.

Here are some of the rules that most Asian kids have to follow:

1. You must be good at math.
2. You must enroll in law or med school.
3. You must play an instrument for all your childhood. Has to be classical. Trumpets are too noisy. 
4. Despite playing said classical instrument for 10+ years, you CANNOT pursue music. Music shall only be learned to impress relatives during Thanksgiving who you’ve never seen before but have apparently changed your diapers in the past.

I don’t follow most of these rules and am trying to, but it’s become unbearable. I often wonder if the pain of trying to conform is more agonizing than the disapproval that comes with choosing a different way.

I’m trying to reinvent myself to become someone who I “should” be––someone like Joey, like James Gatz into Jay Gatsby. But how many of us can actually do that? How do you just decide that you want to be something else? And once you do become that something else, how do you convince yourself that you’re happy with it? 

Perhaps re-invention isn’t possible because we simply cannot coexist harmoniously with our own souls unless we remain, unequivocally, our authentic selves.

I wish I could escape this cognitive civil war to find solace in knowing that I'm more than just a list of checkboxes, more than a trophy to present at Thanksgiving. But, the reality is that I'm still searching for the courage to flee from this straitjacket of entrenched expectations.

The thing is, if I do find the confidence, like Marge (Greenleaf’s fiancé) asks Ripley, what am I gonna do now? Who have I got left to guide me? To tell me which exit to take? To tell me when to invest or pull out?

Maybe it’ll all work out. I’ll find a way. I’ll beat on, boats against the current, never looking back.