2 Questions Every Girl is Asking Herself

Chapter 30

When I was 17, choosing majors for university, I had two options: English and Business. I wanted to major in English, minor in French. Given they are my favourite subjects and I didn't mind spending an obscene amount of time on, say, revising essays. My Chinese parents advised otherwise.

My parents are, quite simply, my favourite people in the world. A number of my close friends have expressed great envy in my family, and wished my parents would adopt them (metaphorically). I was raised like a free-ranging chicken, with no curfews and no restrictive budget on spending money. Mom and Dad trust my judgment. And they knew about most of the boys. We didn't always agree, but they would never force me to adopt their opinions. Which is also why, they're extremely influential. They advised that I choose Business, become an investment banker, retire at 30, and write novels by the beach.

I thought it was a fantastic idea. Pragmatic too.

Without any struggle, I chose Business school. And I loved it immediately. Our first day of university, called Imagine UBC, 8000 newbies from various faculties gathered in the Thunderbird Arena, and in a great pep rally of thundering drums and roiling excitement, we engaged in mutual "scream-off".  We faced off the future artists and scientists, engineers and nurses, in a sea of bright red and blue and green t-shirts and face paint (color-coded by faculty). Business was one of the smallest faculties, but what we lacked in numbers we made up in spirit. Whatever they screamed at us, we screamed back louder. And no matter what provocations, derogations, aggravations, they tossed at us, our response trumped them all, "That's alright. That's okay. You will work for us one day."

We said it with swagger too. I'd never felt so a part of something. I felt really proud. To be among these brilliant, confident people, full of energy and drive and ambition and intimidating GPA's, who are just so unapologetically awesome.

I loved the community and I loved most of the classes. But as soon as I took Introduction to Finance and Accounting – as I was appalled to find out – I did not want any of this. I failed at becoming an Investment Banker. I didn't even specialize in Finance. I specialized in Marketing – the most artistic of all the business options.

I chose my major young and quick, with as much clue about investment banking as a penguin would have about brushing teeth. "Oh those I-Bankers, I know what they do, they wear silk suits and carry a laptop." It never occurred to me to find out the hidden stresses that loiter behind the silk suits and laptop. (If you must know, there's a lot of number crunching, financial modeling, spreadsheet-making, and strip joint visiting at 2AM after they wrap up work at 1:59.) As ER might inspire Wanna-Be-Doctors, or CSI might produce future detectives, I was an Investment Banking TV virgin. Even those highly dramatized TV shows would've provided a much more concrete representation of the job than my very, very abstract imagination.

But I thought I was being very pragmatic about my choices. To my mind, pragmatism is a sign of maturity. I was 17, but I wanted to be all grown up about it. I wanted to be all serious about it. I wanted to see things eye-to-eye as my wise parents did. Not realizing at the time, that pragmatism can be fear in disguise. That I was afraid I'd become the literary type who bemoans how misunderstood she is, whose breath soured by disappointment, whose spirits dampened by rejection, and who helplessly watches her life's work drown in mildew and neglect. Nor did I realize that my parents, despite their best intentions, instinctively, just want to protect me from discomfort and pain. It's inherent in parenting DNA. The choices they suggest are good and safe, but not necessarily the best for me. The other thing to recognize about parents is, as wise as they are, they also have their limitations. They had as little clue about what investment bankers did as me. My dad is an engineer. My mom is a nurse. They've never touched finance. A lot of Chinese parents who demand that their children become lawyers or doctors, have no clue what it feels like to be a doctor or a lawyer. Yet they endorse their opinions with full confidence.

Jim Carrey said during commencement speech that his father had always wanted to be a comedian, but he didn't believe it would be possible, so instead, he got a safe job as an accountant. When Jim was 12 years old, his father was let go from that safe job. He said, "You can fail at what you don't want, so you might as well take a chance on doing what you love."

Since I'd been in Bali, I've been avoiding Skype calls with Mom and Dad. I emailed to let them know that I'm alive but didn't really want to have full on conversations. I wanted to brace myself before I make any announcements. When a good friend of mine told his parents that he was giving up his Harvard acceptance letter to meditate in an Indian ashram, his family just about went berserk. No, not "just about", they went berserk. There was a lot of yelling and screaming, things being smashed against the walls. His father threatened to disown him. It was total mayhem. Fortunately, my parents aren't explosive like that. Well, my Mom could be. My Dad is the strong silent type. If he disagrees, it's in the undercurrent. Even if they are disappointed, they'd hide it from me.

I took a deep breath, and called them. We first exchanged pleasant updates, and then I dropped the bomb.

"Mom, I'm going to be a writer."

Silence.

"Ketut predicted it," I added cheerfully, as if that guaranteed success.

"Oh...," Mom laughed weakly, "For how long? Is it like a summer fling?"

"No Mom, it's not a summer fling." And then I wondered, is it a summer fling? Am I going to lose interest in a few months' time? Will everything go back to normal like this episode never happened? And I'm going to regret making such a big fuss out of this, feeling no doubt, like an idiot?

"Why can't you work and write?" Dad asked, his voice stern.

"I just can't!" I snapped out of reflex.

"She doesn't even get enough sleep with that job, how can she write on top of that?" Mom snapped at Dad, flying to my defense.

But Dad was right, right? Why can't I work and write?

It turns out, I had plenty of answers ready to go, firing off in my mind like a machine gun: it's because you don't manage your time well, it's because you don't read enough, it's because you don't discipline yourself enough, it's because you don't love writing enough, it's because you're not smart enough, it's because you're too slow, etc. , etc....

Plenty of writers have achieved plenty of success while holding down plenty of responsibilities at home and at work. Toni Morrison didn't let the raising of her son stop her from winning the Nobel Prize. I feel humbled and ashamed that I'm not doing it all like so many great writers before me. And I admire and applaud them for being so productive while honouring their commitments and obligations. I can only say that I'm doing what I think I can manage. At this point in my life, my obligation is myself. I don't want to fill my days with things I don't care for. I'm tired of tip-toeing, of hedging my bets with work that feels like a waste of time. I want to protect my time. I want to give my dream my best shot.