This is a story about a girl, well, a woman, who has been a major part of my life. We have been friends for 2 decades now. Half of a lifetime. The funny thing is, we don’t spend a lot of time together in the same place, but I always think of her with admiration and with love.

So here to you, my bestie.

20 years ago, I was sitting across a giant dining hall table in our residence, bitching to my fellow freshman friend about their poor communication has led to us being in Singapore a whole week earlier, and the aspects of culture shock I was experiencing. There she was, listening in and joining in our conversation. She was a sporty gal back then, with pigtails and athleticism that wowed all the seniors (she proceeded to become team captain of multiple sports teams years following). We became fast friends. We became really good friends. I tutored her in Maths. She spent a lot of time in my room watching TV shows. I survive multiple generations of her boyfriends 😆

I went to Philadelphia. I came back to Vietnam. I went to Canada. We didn’t spend as much time as we were in a physical space anymore. But whenever I was back, we were back. We went to South Korea together. She came to Vietnam to visit. I met up with her every time in Singapore. We made a pact to try to see each other once a year in a different place.

10 years ago, we met in Hawaii. It was significant because we had not been together for a while. It was our 10-year anniversary (as we told the tour people). I came out to her, one of the very first people in my Singapore/Vietnam circle that I have done so. And she came to our wedding pre-pandemic. Well, she was my maid of honor and the witness signature on the marriage certificate. 

So this is a story, about a girl, 20 years on, that we still stick with each other. We bicker like an old married couple. I know I annoy her so. I love her and I can’t wait to see her in about 20 hours or so. 

Isn’t it magnificent, in a life as short as ours, to have someone who knows you, who loves you, and who trusts you, as you are?

Here to many more years of love. 

I know time is just a construct and calendars are just a convenient way for us humans to mark the milestones in our life. But the past 4 years have been … well … real. I mean life has not been perfect, but it has been kind. A pandemic, two job changes (for each of us), and a gazillion arguments over what to make for dinner later, we are still here. It’s been a tough journey, but it’s been lovely. It’s not been perfect, but it’s been very real. 

I saw an old couple holding hands, walking the path the other days, and I told you “Ewww, old people being in love, gross. I want to grow old and be gross with you”

Our promises still stand. You are my anchor, my rock, my mountains. I am still a ship, a restless wave, an ocean of hopes and dreams and ideals. 

Our difference is what brings us together. 

As I said during my wedding vow. “I’m not one to believe in Forever or Permanent things, but this I can promise you. I will not fuck this up”

Here’s to many four more years, and then Four-ever more years ahead of us

(and who cares if anyone ever reads or know those stories at all)

In Vietnamese proverbs, there is a saying “No mud, no lotus”, which means the challenges in life (the mud) give us the condition to rise above, shine, and be pure-hearted and beautiful, like a lotus. These days, with the literal forest fire and all, I don’t feel very “rise above” at all. It’s mostly just “barely surviving”. It’s more like flowers in a forest fire. They may be resilient. They may be surviving. But they don’t fucking like it.

I won’t talk about the election, and the general anxiety that the country that I have chosen to move to and become a citizen of, has started on a path of slow decline into extreme-right-wing-Christo-fascist. I won’t talk about my work, which generally feels “safe”, and “comfortable”, but it’s slowly getting back to this “Alberta large corporations that move conservatively and as slow as possible with my processes as possible”, and yeah, with all the work and accomplishments I put in last year, my year-end assessment was “meh” from senior leadership. I won’t talk about my personal life, which is generally safe and comfortable, but I don’t have friends, and any efforts of making new friends naturally ended up in rescheduling, people have better plans, and/or people have more fun friends. I won’t talk about all the (white) fabulous people on social media celebrating Pride month and touting how much they care about the community who will ignore racial minorities and continue voting for anti-trans and racist politicians, because, you know, tax cuts. I won’t talk about the state of the world, which is literally on fire at the moment, and it seems like anything meaningful is reserved for the rich and the powerful.

And so I just ended up not talking. Well, maybe to my therapist. But a brown gay man pays a black woman to complain to her about his burdens. 

Well, let’s not talk about that.

So I don’t know what else meaningful we can talk about. Because there’s no meaning in anything anymore it seems.

Just a bunch of flowers, resilient, stoic, quietly burning in the fire of life.

(Trigger warning: Political views)

(Originally written May 2019 – Repost since the feelings are the same in May 2023)

I heard recently from an Albertan

 that they voted for the UCP

 (a government I believe to be racist, homophobic, 

 anti-choice and uncompassionate)

 because they have suffered, 

 because of their economic anxieties

 justify their choices to do it

I hope you get your wishes

I pray your pipelines get built

 out to sea waters,

 stretched as far out as the open Alberta sky.

 I pray your oil barrels get out to sea

 to foreign lands and to open markets

 spread limitless

 as the mountains and the prairie and the meadows 

At least you get your wish

 At least, hopefully, your economic anxieties, will be addressed

I hope all the corporate tax cuts trickled down to you 

 overflow your tables once again, heating up your home 

 (while the homeless trans youth trembles on the street) 

 I hope all the investment in the war room 

 makes you warm and happy and defended 

 (while offending the rest of the world)

 I hope the oil-sand get bought, and the pipeline get built

 (on the land of the First Nations they now deny to acknowledge)

 I hope your children can go to a good school

 and your health is taken care of

 (by the people that we think don’t deserve a living wage)

 I hope whenever you and the people you know are ready for children

 (you will never have to be afraid of not being ready

 and having to ever make the choice

 and be judged for it)

I hope you still feel like home

 I hope you still always feel safe

 I hope your economic anxiety is soothed

 (At least, for a few in all of us

 you can still feel like home, you can still feel safe)

This is not my home.

 And that’s ok. 

But if it’s yours

 At least I pray you have your wish

 So at least all our sufferings would have been worth it.

(I used to believe if I can be Canadian, at least I can vote

 Yet, I’ve never felt more helpless

 Because, here, the vote of people like me never mattered)

Because your economic anxiety trumps all of us.

I don’t know if there are any more lonely questions than “What is the point of this anymore?” 

The past feel weeks have been…weird. We hit some major roadblocks with immigration for my brother (I called racist officers). Three of my friends/acquaintances (from completely different groups) are going through a divorce. Work has been a rollercoaster. The provincial election is hopeless. The country is facing a choice between incompetence and fascism. The forest is on fire and the heat waves start in May.

I guess the pandemic is really over over. People have traded in their kindness for routine discrimination. People insist everyone gets back to the office. People trade in their walks and their quiet with the noise.

Even joyful things like gardening feel like a chore. Even relaxing computer games are not relaxing me anymore. I wanted to talk to someone, but quite frankly there is no one to talk to.

I’m tired. It feels like a pandemic hangover. It feels like this sense of hopelessness. No, worse, this sense of aimlessness. I’m not even restless anymore. 

I am at the point of quitting trying. And quite frankly I don’t know what is worse. 

The thought of a quiet beach town, a place at the end of the earth, where no one is there, and this aimless loneliness actually makes some form of sense, suddenly becomes so appealing. And I don’t know if it’s Buddhism or escapism. 

And that also doesn’t feel like it matters to me anymore, the distinction of anything.

We got news on Thursday that our Professor for my master’s program has passed away. Cancer. As messages were pouring in on Linked In, and then Facebook, and then the journals that I used to read/contribute to, I couldn’t help but think “It’s not what you say about yourself (in front of you or behind your back) when you are around. It’s what they say about you when you are dead.”

Here’s a photo I took of him in the fall of 2013. He was one of my first Canadian people. He accepted me to his lab under his supervision. He gave me my first part-time job. He was a teacher, a mentor, an employer, and at times, a friend. He was data-obsessed and meticulous, and he would correct my funky writing to the last character (for all 6 of my publications and my thesis). Maybe it was a German thing, but he was obsessed with measurements and trade-offs in product management. Whenever I said I worked in decision-making, another professor/student would lovingly laugh “Oh, Guenther”

And of course, as with careers and life, we lost touch after I graduated. I tried to keep in touch. In fact, I was the fifth author of one of the publications that his Ph.D. student wrote. That was just who he was, always thinking and helping his students. And that was just how life was, we lost touch with the people we know, chasing after a pre-defined path “society” has for us.

“Every day, we are living as source materials of the eulogy for people who love us”

It’s probably a morbid thought. But that’s what I thought to myself during a funeral. It’s someone we know from church. She was 80 and had an amazing, well-lived, and courageous life. She was surrounded by children, grandchildren, friends, and the community she built and was a part of. 

As a Buddhist, I have a comfortable relationship with death. Death doesn’t scare me. Obviously, I don’t want to die and I’m not ready to die, but death as an abstract concept is very comforting and very mundane to me. It’s quiet in the chaos. It’s the leaving instead of struggling. It’s “abandon all hope”

Yet, I could not help but wonder, what will be in my eulogy? I often romanticize my life, my romance, and yes, oftentimes, my death. Alas, I hang out with STEM people and very unromantic individuals. Also, the fact that I live in Canada, away from my family in Vietnam, away from most of my friends in Singapore, and the US, and we have no children, doesn’t really help. 

“When you’re falling in a forest and there’s nobody around, do you ever really crash, or even make a sound?” – Dear Evan Hansen

I hope my life at least made a ripple in someone else’s. I hope my work and my effort and my struggles inspire someone. I hope, at least, me being gay and brown and successful (and may I dare say, happy) provide some hope and bright spots for someone whom I do not know. I hope, even without a eulogy, people know and remember me as “one of the good ones”. Afterall, you don’t know how you are remembered when you are dead. Funerals and eulogies are for the living.

What will be in your eulogy?

P.S. This is my go-to funeral poem. I’d appreciate it if anyone remember and read it at my funeral 🙂 

My father moved through dooms of love – E. E. Cummings

…

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer

…

In my feverish dream state of half awake and half hallucination (for the past 5 days), I reflected on the last time I had a severe sickness like this. Funny enough, it was exactly 8 years ago, 3 weeks before my birthday. I can confidently say that, in the past 8 years, the consistent improvement has been being in love with and getting married to Dan. Don’t get me wrong, there were a lot of ups and downs, and the downs almost felt like we wouldn’t make it, but we persevered. I suppressed every of my whim to self-sabotage and run and escape and never come back. He listens and adjusts and he changes a little bit at a time. 8 years ago, I took the train and checked myself into Urgent Care. I talked to the nurse. I took the IV and the tests (for 6-8 hours) and then took the train home and went to bed. I was too embarrassed (well, scared, really) to burden a person I just started dating. This Monday, as he drove me to the Urgent Care at the hospital I was only half-awake, barely forming coherent words, as he explained my condition to the nurses and the doctors, and as he took me home, made me food, and got me my prescriptions; I could not help but feel grateful. Maybe I’m aging. Maybe this is a more severe case than before. But I could not have done all this by myself this time.

As cliche as it sounds, you have to be ready to be loved for a love like this. I was recently out of a long-term relationship back then and initially was dating a series of (lovely) people that wasn’t a good fit for me. So I started self-discovery. I did a bunch of things. And I met this guy through the most random of chances. About 5 months in, I lost my phone and me being the idiot that I was, did not store his contacts on the clouds. So I went back to the random place we met, again and again, and waited for him to come on. And he replied. He found me funny. He found my aspirations for a sch-orphanage in Vietnam inspiring. We enjoyed having food and hanging out. And the rest is history

I don’t think this has to be just for romantic relationships either. It’s always precious in life to have a parent, a sibling, a friend, or a neighbor. Someone you can call at night if you needed and you know they will show up. It’s so so so rare in this vast human-digital world we’re living in. The key though, and this will sound harsh, is that you need to be ready to do that for them too. People can only give so much, and you need to allow them to share their challenges, their struggles, and allow them to call you when they need. If not you’re just an emotional energy vampire. 

I don’t know what the point of this note is. Perhaps after 5 days of 38-39 degrees fever, and mostly incoherent words coming out from my mouth, I just needed to show myself I can still think and write normally. Perhaps I’ve listened to way more Lizzo and seriously her song 2 be love played in my head the entire fever-dreams I had the second day. 

Or maybe I’m just really really really grateful to be loved.

“Wherever you go, there you are”

In recent meditations about life, career, and friendships, it is becoming increasingly clear that I’m the shared problem in all my problems. No, not the “It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem it me” kind of problem. If anything, it’s the opposite of that. In the effort to not be the Anti-Hero (i.e. a total asshole), I am often the hinderer of my own “progress” in life, career, and friendships.

In looking at all these gorgeous people on the internet (Instagram, mostly, which has been very bad for my mental health) and their relationships, their children, and their gorgeous friend groups who dress up for Halloween as a group or travel together as a group, I couldn’t help but wonder, what is wrong with me? In a cynical way, the problem is me. These people are gorgeous. They are outgoing. They love sports. They love spending time meeting others. I just want to stay at home and read. 25 minutes drive up north is too far for me. 

I remember a time in my life when I used to have friends and social circles. And that is mostly just universities. Easy access to community, public transit, and also the general lack of exhaustion from work. I had more time and flexibility in my life. And overall energy. Even then, I was often depressed and isolated. I really didn’t find belonging anywhere. 

I’ve read more and more articles about the life and career of (the now Oscar nominated) Ke Huy Quan. 40 years. He spent 40 years struggling, waiting for a role, for an opportunity, to even be working. “Only thing that separates women of colour from anyone else is opportunity” – Viola Davis. I’m at the point in my life where I feel I’m never going to be a part of any board rooms. I’m never going to be a part of any close knit friend groups. I’m never going to be a part of a sports club (can’t play sports), arts club (can’t sing/dance/performe), and fun clique (can’t do a high school mean girls thing). And I think the problem is more than skin deep. It’s not race/sexuality/background. People loves talking about diversity and inclusion, as long as the “diverse” people they want to “include” are extroverts who want to pound table and talk endlessly in meetings about themselves. 

And so here we are. There I am. Wherever I go.

But I’m learning to slowly be ok with it. In the few opportunities that ever came in my life, they have all turned into amazing life-long connection.

A girl that I met by chance, across a long dining hall table in Singapore, has become a 20-year-long friendship. I hope to see her this year, Ms Kelly Chan.

A mentor, a boss who had taken a chance on a young Vietnamese intern and gave him a chance to become a software engineer in a tech start up, and now a life long friend, Elise.

A man who took a chance encounter and drove 20 minutes each eay to see me, has become a friend, a companion, a love of my life for the past 8 years, my hubby Dan. 

A random encounter in a tech conference in San Francisco, a completely different personality and person, that has now become a friend, a confidant, and potentially a life long friendship (and a frequent updates on white women in pop culture) Marcus. 

Very few has invited me to the table. Very few has welcomed me as I am. Loud and obnoxious at times. Quiet and introverted at times. Sometimes caring, sometimes selfish, mostly stubborn.

So I guess I have a few less fun updates on Instagram, and I will never get a C in front of my job title, and my friends and family can be counted by fingers (and none of them have abs); but they are enough. They are more than enough.

I am enough. I am more than enough.

I am grateful for my life. I just need to be less ungrateful to myself and the life I have had. 

It’s very very far from picture perfect, but it’s pretty damn worth being grateful for.