In the mid 1980s, I navigated my life by autopilot. I bided my time through the labyrinth we called high school. Socially, I excelled only in awkwardness. Academically, I excelled at every subject I studied. How did I pick my eventual field of study? Computer programming came easily; I could learn in minutes what took others hours to understand. Other subjects might’ve come easily, but not that easily. I spent a couple of summers in engineering programs before graduating.
After high school, I attended the University of Miami to pursue a degree in engineering. I only have two criticisms about my time at “The U”. First, as a private school, it had considerably higher tuition than state schools. Second, which is really a side effect of the first, I consistently took 16-17 credits per semester to maximize my tuition money. That course load, along with needing a part-time job waiting on tables to pay my expenses, made for an exhausting grind.
I graduated from the University of Miami after five years with a dual major and subsequently started a job at Microsoft. Accepting this job meant crossing a particular threshold in my life. I left my family and really everything else I knew to pursue this opportunity. And really, it transformed my life; it really did.
Why pick engineering?
By the time I graduated high school, I had been programming for about five years. It came easily, partially because I had seen much of it before. Not to toot my own horn, but I excelled at most subjects. I could’ve picked just about any field of study in college. I minored in psychology; I found it incredibly interesting, but didn’t major in it.
This is what I found deeply interesting. Even as I entered high school, I understood that there was an expectation from my Chinese community to choose more technical fields of study. This meant that psychology was out; so would anything that might’ve led me to a career as a writer (which would still fascinate me today). What struck me as deeply interesting was that no one, neither my mom nor anyone in the community, gave any mandate or instruction about what to study.
I knew that we (Chinese-Americans) had that nudge, but if I was never instructed, from where did this impression originate? It took me literally years of reflecting upon conversations to figure it out. My Cantonese community was blue-collar; most folks were expected to work after graduating high school. Some graduated from community college. Few got bachelor’s degrees from universities. The further you progressed in education, the higher your standing in the community. Certain fields of study, like engineering, medicine, or law, received even more distinction.
My kid sister and I graduated with engineering degrees on the same day (mechanical for her, computer for me). We were practically deified in our community.
Crisis about my future
This is a story I’ll rarely tell. It doesn’t elicit guilt or shame, but I wasn’t sure it was that useful or interesting. Many people take time to decide on their major and often change it. When I entered college, engineering was the only choice. There was no fork on the road; there was simply the road. Then, after about two years of the persistent grind with the packed semesters and part-time work, I finally asked myself, “Is this really what you want to do for the rest of your life?”
When I turned 20, for about two semesters, I struggled with that question, much like a betrothed may have second thoughts as their wedding nears. Is engineering, or specifically computer programming, what I genuinely wanted to do for the rest of my life? I continued to conduct my studies in earnest until I made a decision.
Ultimately, I conclude that I’m extraordinarily fortunate; I truly enjoy doing something that I’m exceptionally good at. Although it didn’t alter the coursework, it influenced how I approached my studies. Much like a novel may be an interesting read, designating it as required reading can minimize its appeal. I ripped off that stupid label.
If anything might’ve helped with my struggle as I turned 20, it would’ve been a voice that advised me, “It’s your life; you are allowed to choose what brings you joy.”
What about happiness?
One afternoon, decades ago, I chatted with my mom on the phone. At this point, I am well-established at my job at Microsoft. I had recently purchased a condo, so I owned my own property. I’m not sure if all Chinese moms do this, but she felt the need to elevate me. She starts by enumerating all the things for which she’s proud. The list is predictable: education, job, house, etc.
On this particular day, I interjected a question. “What about happiness?” My mom was caught like a deer in the headlights. She asked me what I meant, and I responded. Isn’t happiness ultimately the bottom line to all the above metrics? You can have a great education, a good job, and a beautiful home, and still be miserable. Instead of worrying about all the other metrics, why not simply aim for happiness?
I’ll be completely honest with you, I fully expected to see smoke emanating from my mom’s head as she grappled with a question that never crossed her mind. Was she happy? Was I happy? We could easily enumerate educated, successful, etc. Happiness was a squishy question. To her credit, from that day to her death, she consistently asked me, “Are you happy, son?” That was her way of expressing love to me. My way of expressing love to her was to answer “yes”, even during times of sadness.
The story of an ice skater
A few weeks ago, I watched a “60 Minutes” segment on a promising Olympic skater, Alysa Liu. At 13, she became the youngest-ever U.S. women’s national champion. In 2022, she competed in the Beijing Olympics, where she placed seventh. Months later, she announced on Instagram that she’d be retiring from skating. At the age of 16, she had the wherewithal to conclude that she had fulfilled her agreement with her father, who pushed her to skate, and to the skating community. She had qualified for the 2022 Olympics; for many skaters, that’s the highlight of their career. She was done.
She understood the struggle between collectivism and individualism among Chinese-Americans. She trained for years to fulfill that promise; she paid her dues. At 16, her life was now hers, not theirs. She claimed it.
Years later, as she lived her life and skied with friends, an unconventional idea popped into her head. Alysa wanted to skate again. Only this time it would be different. She chose when she skated. She picked her music. No one told her when and what she could eat. This time, her father would not control the conditions in which she skated. Within two years, she went from starting a comeback to winning gold in the Olympics.
She skated to share her art. This time she skated with joy. The medals didn’t matter.
She is hope.
She burst into the scene with striped hair and unconventional piercings, almost inviting people to minimize her. It may seem strange, or even a little creepy, that I’d call a young woman who is a third of my age my hero. However, Alysa Liu is simply another member of our human race who has taught me valuable lessons; her gender and age are inconsequential.
At the age of 16, on a colossally larger scale, she struggled with the same dilemma I did when I was 20. Except that she dared to walk away from her craft, and years later, she had the wisdom to return.
Alysa tells us not to get striped hair like hers. She’s apprehensive about using the label ‘role model’. We should not follow her; we should do our own thing. She’s completely right; we shouldn’t mechanically do what she does. Instead, we should conduct our lives with as much joy as she does when she skates. We should all exult (at least occasionally), “That’s what I’m fucking talking about!”
Her voice was the one I needed to hear when I was the figurative ship in a dark harbor that navigated its way back home. While I’m saddened that I didn’t benefit from her wisdom when I struggled, I’m thrilled that she’s there for so many others today. Find your joy; conduct your life with joy. Decades ago, I found my way back to safe harbor by sheer happenstance. Today, all those ships have a lighthouse named Alysa Liu.
To people like me, she is a new hope, and dare I say more so than Luke Skywalker. She leads, not by instructing people where to go, but by inspiring people to find their way. Choose joy.