At 7:10am this morning, I went to my poll location and cast my ballot. Then, I headed to the gym for my 4.2-mile run.

I think we all vote for different reasons, but this a slight extension of what I posted on my Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter feeds, and I figured I would use this blog to elaborate on why.

As the daughter of an immigrant Vietnamese mother who fled Vietnam during the war to the U.S. in hopes of a better life and an actual education (because she never had one in Vietnam) and an American-born Chinese father who served in the Vietnam War on the American side, I vote. My mother fled communism and had to witness two of her own brothers die right in front of her eyes — they were killed for having skills, one being a teacher and the other being an artist. She came here hoping she’d never have to go through something as awful, nor would her children. My father, as a Private in the Vietnam War, was made fun of for being an Asian soldier serving on the American side and was told not to get confused for Vietnamese. Yes, the U.S. Army was racist and not united at all. It’s funny how people don’t talk much about that.

 
As the sister of a brother who committed suicide in a society with a broken healthcare system that still refuses to acknowledge mental health as an integral part of overall health, I vote. My Ed never voted. He was a victim of the crappy American education system and didn’t think his vote really counted. In his memory, I vote for a better future for people like him who suffered and fell through the cracks of our abysmal education and health systems.

As the wife of a selfless, intelligent, and ambitious brown immigrant who could kick anyone’s ass, including mine (hey, I never claimed to be a history buff) in an American history test, and who is constantly getting extra screenings at airports around the world and in this country only because of the color of his skin and the fact he does not have a U.S. passport, I vote. He is not legally able to vote, so my vote counts not just for Ed and me, but also for him.

As a person of color who has faced racial discrimination and been told to “go back to China,” I vote. I don’t care what all these ignorant people who live in bubbles say; racism still is prevalent in society, and anyone who turns a blind eye to it will never have even an ounce of my respect.

As a woman who is painfully cognizant of the fact that women in this country have not even had the right to vote for 100 years yet and is angered by apathetic American females who take this for granted, I fucking vote. I barely want to be associated with women who actively choose to NOT exercise their right to vote. It is a privilege. I cannot say or write that enough. And it’s so sad to see so many people ignore that. I get very, very angry over women not voting.

As a human being who hopes for a brighter and more progressive tomorrow for my future children and yours, I vote.

Today, Chris and I went to have our annual facials together at my favorite and relatively affordable skincare spot in midtown. Every year, I wait for the esthetician to tell me that my skin is congested around my nose, cheeks and forehead, and to give me tips on how to get all the gunk out between facials. I don’t indulge in monthly or even once-a-season facials the way facial spas recommend because I am cheap and don’t want to indulge myself too much, so I usually will use scrubs and masks at home. The two clay masks I got in Paris and Seoul seem to be working very well for me, as for the very first time, the esthetician, after examining my face thoroughly, declares, “Your skin is actually quite clean. I don’t see any problems here, and no congestion.”

Maybe Korean and French skincare isn’t just all marketing after all. I love it when I buy something and it actually works the way it says it’s supposed to. 

Chris got told he had good skin, but that he needs to start moisturizing because of dryness that his esthetician detected. “My skin is perfect,” he replied in defiance. Sure, it is. No one is getting any younger here.

It’s hard to believe that over three years have passed since my Ed committed suicide. Sometimes, I still wake up and wonder if it was all a terrible dream, and then I look up at the photos of him on my wall next to my bed and am crushed, hit by the reality that he really is gone. Some days, life just feels so cruel.

I’ve been participating in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) Out of the Darkness Walk for the last three years, and somehow I’ve managed to raise just shy of $10,000. It’s a bit surreal to think that I was able to do this on my own, without a team, and just with the sad story of my brother. I’ve oftentimes felt discouraged, even annoyed when less people are donating, fewer people are responding or expressing interest in my fundraising or my cause. But like Tony Robbins says, a lot of our disappointments in life are really just because of us, our own expectations. Maybe we shouldn’t expect so much of others. Maybe if we replaced our “expectations” with “appreciation,” we’d be happier people. And when I heard him say this, I realized how true it was. I shouldn’t expect anyone to donate anything; in fact, why the hell should they care about my loss or my pain? What have I done for them (thinking in the quid pro quo train of thought)? But when they do, I should appreciate it. I do appreciate it. I’ve been surprised so many times in the last three years when colleagues I barely speak to have donated insane three-digit amounts, or when old friends I’m only connected to on Facebook but never speak with anymore contribute donations to my drive. There have been a handful of times when complete strangers, touched by the story I’ve written on my page, have felt compelled to donate something even though they’ve never even met me even once. That feeling of surprise and appreciation has been very overwhelming, sometimes catching me off guard and making me lose my train of thought to just bask in the glow of an unexpected person’s unfounded generosity for me and my little cause.

I try to be optimistic about the future. I hope that the world will be a better place for our future children, the future generations of the world. I want the world to be a more open-minded, progressive, caring, and empathetic place. I think about all the bullying and criticism my brother endured as a young child and then through adulthood, from his misguided classmates to his unprofessional teachers to even our own parents, and I physically feel pain in my body thinking of how insignificant he felt throughout the course of his life to finally decide to put a complete end to it all. I need to have hope, if not for myself, then hope in my brother’s memory to help others. And all the support, whether it’s verbal or monetary, through this drive, has really helped drive my optimism and my desire to continue fundraising and to continue sharing my story. As the delusional Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire once said, “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.” Yes, she was delusional living in her own world, but there is some truth in this statement. As human beings, we depend on others being honest and kind to us, even when we are not in the position to do anything to benefit them in return. So many distant people have surprised me in this fundraising journey, and I know I have a lot to be thankful for. I think Ed would agree.

Up until I was 24, I barely saw any of the world. I barely saw any of this country, and if it weren’t for getting accepted to and attending Wellesley, I probably wouldn’t have seen anywhere as much of the East Coast as I had. If I hadn’t gotten a scholarship to study in China for a month in 2006, I probably would have graduated from college without even owning a passport or having left this freaking country.

This isn’t me complaining; I’m just stating what I know to be facts. I was raised in a house that taught me to think (I never did believe this, though) that travel was only for the *super* rich; everyday people like my family and I weren’t suited for travel. But since I first left the country to see just a dot of China, I was certain that I needed to see more of the world. And then, I fell in love with my long-time friend and now husband who had already been privileged to see so much of the world, and now wanted to share his travels with me.

Fast forward six years later, and I’ve been spoiled enough to travel to Australia four times (and a fifth trip is coming this December), Europe five times, and Asia five times. I’ve visited Canada once a year since 2013, and have seen 38 out of 50 U.S. states. I even went to Brazil for the World Cup in 2014, and in Rio, Chris proposed. And now, here I am, in the Worldly-Wise Wellesley secret Facebook group, giving travel advice and recommendations to other Wellesley alums for cities and regions literally all over the world, and even giving my brother-in-law, an obsessed world traveler, travel advice for Asia and even his own home country. I feel like a role reversal has happened in the last few years, and I never really saw that coming. I never thought I’d be the person giving travel advice to other people who consider themselves well traveled or “worldly.” It’s funny how times and circumstances can change.

We had a meeting today where a Twitter rep from one of my accounts came into the office. Before she arrived, I quickly took a look at her LinkedIn profile and noticed that she had Wellesley listed as an undergraduate institution she attended, as well as Barnard/Columbia after it. Hmmm, I wondered. She must have started undergrad at Wellesley, hated it for whatever reason, and then transferred.

At the end of our meeting, I told her I had looked at her LinkedIn and noticed she went to Wellesley, and I also told her I was part of the Class of 2008. She would have been Class of 2011, but she transferred, just as her profile had hinted at. She said the academics at Wellesley were some of the best classes and professors of her life, but socially she just didn’t feel like she fit in. How funny, I responded. That’s how I felt. We’re pretty much the same in that regard. She also said that when she transferred to Barnard/Columbia, the academics were nothing compared to what she had at Wellesley, but she fit in significantly more there socially than at Wellesley — the trade-offs we make in life.

I always wondered what it would have been like if I did transfer after my first two years, but I’m not sure where I would have transferred to. Due to Wellesley’s grade inflation policy that restricted the number of As given in classes that had over a certain number of students, my GPA wasn’t show-stopping by any means, so that wouldn’t have helped my transfer admissions. I also would have looked at it as a failure, something I didn’t see through to the end. My parents never would have supported it and probably would have been outraged and terrorized me about it (what did they support anyway, other than getting a degree?).

It’s comforting to meet other people who feel the same way I do, though, about Wellesley. I always look back at my classes fondly and the discussions we had in class as some of the most challenging and rigorous I’d had in my life. People were never shy in my classes to disagree and argue things out, and not in a hostile, passive aggressive way, but in a smart, educated, “look at every perspective” way. At times, it was so emotionally and mentally draining to be in class. There I was, a naive, narrow-minded, small-world American who had barely left California state before arriving at Wellesley, coming to an institution where for the first time in my entire life, I was meeting women from over 50 different countries, every state in the U.S., who had traveled extensively, lived in multiple countries, and had a far more worldly perspective than what I was exposed to. Just within my first week, I met a woman who was born in the U.S. but raised in Cairo, Egypt, another woman who was Turkish but raised in Greece, and women from Malaysia and Singapore who attended private American high school in Taiwan and spoke with American-accented English (when I was 18, I thought, what language do they speak natively in Malaysia and Singapore? How would I know? I knew so little). In college, I learned about all the other cuisines of China other than Cantonese, met Vietnamese women from all around the U.S. where there were small Vietnamese populations as a result of the Vietnamese refugees from the Vietnam War (how was I supposed to know that there were large Vietnamese populations in Minnesota and Arkansas?!).

I look back on what I learned very fondly, not just academically but about my classmates and the rest of the world. I’m looking forward to learning more about my rep’s experiences and what she thought of another women’s college that’s right here in New York.