Go Out and Travel the World

Everyone should travel to another country at least once in their lives. More, if they’re lucky.

I know that many cannot realistically do this. Financial reasons, family obligations, schedule restrictions, health considerations. For some, these limitations are insurmountable.

For those where such limitations don’t exist: travel. Go visit another country. Learn enough of their language to say, “hello,” “good bye,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” “check please,” and “where is the bathroom?” Read about their customs, traditions, and beliefs. Strive to understand them, even for a little.

To be fair, simply flying to another country and visiting their main tourist attractions isn’t enough. But for many, it is perhaps better than nothing. For a while, you are enveloped in another world. Even that taste can help.

For a true learning experience, you have to talk to the locals. Walk off the beaten path. Eat something different. Observe the general populace. Behave as they do, within bounds. And above all, be respectful of their culture.

The benefit of traveling is the opening of your mind. You learn how another whole society lives, day in and day out. It helps you to understand, if even just for a little while, how a fellow human being lives. The world shrinks, if even just for a little bit. Prejudices shrivel. Preconceptions wither. Generalizations splinter.

The more you travel, the more your mind opens, and the more the world shrinks.

I remember a time when taking the train out of my home town was scary. My little suburban town was all I knew. Taking the train into the city was a huge event. It meant going someplace far, foreign, even frightening.

But once I did it, the city became part of my world. What I knew expanded while the world shrunk. No longer was it someplace far and foreign. It was just another place to go.

I remember a time when taking the plane from the East Coast to the West Coast was disconcerting. My coast was all I knew. The other coast was practically a foreign country with a different temperament, disposition, and even attitude.

Then I moved there. Both coasts became my world. Temperaments, dispositions, and attitudes were more similar than I thought. The world shrunk a little more.

I remember a time when another country was totally alien. My country was all I knew. Other countries weren’t just foreign; they were so different that it was easy to generalize their populations as charactertures of their cultures.

Then I visited one country. And another. And another. The diversity of the people in each was just as diverse as a New Yorker is from a Texan and an Alaskan and a Californian and a Hawaiian. There are more similarities than there are differences. The world shrunk even more.

Every country has its poor and homeless, its rich and aristocracy, its kind-hearted and selfless, its fools and racists, its leaders and managers, its good parents and bad parents, and its bad drivers.

Cultures and traditions may differ. Foods and languages may differ. Religions and skin color may differ. But everyone feels happy, feels sad, and gets pissed off like everyone else. While there may be cultural differences that underlie a group of people, exceptions abound.

Prejudice may have an evolutionary benefit, but it can also be harmful to you and other people. It can close your mind to opportunities. Traveling the world shatters many of those misconceptions. Or at least, it makes you think twice before categorizing someone or some idea.

So go out and travel the world. Watch it shrink. Experience and understand another culture. Eat different foods, speak foreign languages, and talk to someone new. Do that, and the world is yours.

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Asian Initiative

Ah, the good ole’ college days. Back then, I was deeply involved in a student-run community service organization called Asian Initiative. I was so involved that I was an officer during my junior and senior years.

Based in New York University, it was started as an effort to encourage volunteers to sign up as bone marrow donors. There was a shortage of donors of Asian descent. A few NYU students saw this shortage and took the initiative to start this organization.

A few years later, I joined as a member. By then, they had expanded their reach to include a nursing home program and an after-school mentor program.

The nursing home program allowed volunteers to go to a nearby nursing home that had a sizable Chinese American population. Some of the elderly residents rarely had family visits. They delighted in seeing children perhaps their grandchildrens’ age coming to see them.

We’d talk to them (those of us that spoke Chinese, at least), play chess with them, and host wonton-making dinners during Chinese festivals. Many were wheelchair bound and couldn’t partake in the wonton making, but they loved eating them for sure.

The after-school mentor program was down in Chinatown. We partnered with a grade school teacher who hosted a classroom of latchkey children. Latchkey children are children whose parents work late into the evening, leaving the children home alone. So instead of having them return home unsupervised, this program allowed them to stay at school and play games or get help with their homework.

Over time, this program became so popular with the students that some who weren’t latchkey children attended as well. We usually tried to mentor these children and help with their homework, though the majority, not surprisingly, preferred to play.

Aside from these main staples were a handful of fundraising events, most commonly bake sales. Our members would take the time to bake cupcakes and cookies to be sold to NYU students. The funds raised would go to buying wonton supplies, treats for the grade school children, or food for social events.

There was also a yearly carnival called Hunger Clean-Up to benefit the homeless that, for some unfathomable reason, always fell to our club to organize. We never really minded, though the reach was meant to be wider than just our niche of the Asian American community. It was meant to benefit the homeless of New York City.

Despite the emphasis on the Chinese American community, out of all our programs, the mentor program was the most popular. There was always a lively crowd waiting outside our designated meeting point to walk down to Chinatown. The nursing home program, sadly, wasn’t as popular. Sometimes we had to work hard to encourage volunteers to go. And usually, it was just a handful of the officers who would attend.

After spending my sophomore year with this organization, I bonded with its officers and became one of the more active members. In my junior year, I decided to run for the public relations position. If I remember correctly, I had one opponent. I won only because I was taking graphic design classes and made prettier flyers, I think. Whoever else was running was otherwise just as qualified, if not more so.

Right away, I found myself falling in love with the organization. That’s always been a trend in my life. When I’m part of a group whose mission resonates with me, I care for them deeply and work hard to make them a success.

I rallied a bunch of my non-member friends to join. I networked like crazy and reached out to other clubs. I put in a lot of time creating what I felt were snazzy and attractive flyers to entice others to join. I think I might have attended almost every event too, despite a crazy academic schedule and an on-campus part-time job.

When senior year came, the other officers encouraged me to run for president. So I did it without competition. That’s not as big an accomplishment as it sounds. A student organization president is a role with a lot of responsibilities and a high time commitment. The nature of our club attracted a lot of pre-med students trying to fill their volunteer obligations. Time wasn’t something they had in abundance. Relative to them, I had more time and thus, appeared a feasible choice for the presidency.

This experience became one of my most transformative. It taught me to be a true leader. I made just about every mistake in the book too. I tried doing everything myself. I became irritated by others who didn’t show as much passion as I had. I micromanaged others into what must have been utter frustration.

Thankfully, I had an understanding group of officers, an open mind, and, if I may say so myself, a fair bit of self-awareness. I tried to see my follies and changed as quickly as I could. Basic leadership tenants like delegation, motivation, and team building were all important lessons I had to learn.

The grand mistakes I’ve made, as well as the successes of the organization, are perhaps one of my most important lessons from college. At the time, they seemed horrifying and chaotic. I look back now in pure fondness though.

Some look back at their college days and see kegs and bongs and parties. I see Asian Initiative, the organization that I loved and truly made my college experience. Now those were the good ole’ days.

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All Tucked In for the Night

Ready for another ghost story? I heard this one in high school.

It happened to a girl in my high school class. A friend of hers told me the story. I wasn’t friends with the girl herself — a short, timid brunette — but saw her around school all the time.

She has fond memories as a little girl of her parents tucking her in at night. Though she would usually look up at her parents with a smile, there were nights when she was so tuckered out that she closed her eyes and enjoyed the comfort of the tight sheets.

However, there were a few times where she would open her eyes as she felt them tucking her in, and see a dark, empty bedroom. Then she would look around and see the sheets halfway tucked in, as if someone was in the process of doing it — then stopped.

Those were just hazy memories though. She never thought much of them. Maybe she was just imagining being tucked in. Maybe she was having a dream. Maybe they had tucked her in earlier and she tossed & turned, pulling the sheets halfway out. Explanations abounded.

Her parents’ habit of tucking her in died out around her adolescent years. They figured she was old enough to tuck herself in by then. So she forgot all about the comfort of being tucked in.

Until one night.

She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Like every other night, she got into bed and began to drift into sleep. Then she felt her covers tightening around her. And there was a pat on her shoulder.

She opened her eyes. There was no one there. Just her dark, empty bedroom.

Downstairs, she could hear her parents talking. She shivered and pulled her sheets even tighter. Her mind wandered a bit, wondering if she had imagined all of that. Mercifully, she eventually drifted into sleep.

The tuck and pat happened again though. And again. And again. Maybe about once a week with no discernable pattern.

After a month of these sensations, she decided to tell her parents about them. Just to let them know, not to alarm them or anything. It was a spooky sensation, but she didn’t dwell on them much.

When she told her parents, her father’s face froze. She and her mother stared at his expression in confusion. Then he sat them down at the kitchen table and decided to share the background story about their house.

He had purchased the house cheap. They weren’t in a strong financial position, so the low price was very appealing. Her mother thought the house looked lovely, but never asked why it was so cheap. Her father did ask. This is what he was told.

The previous family was murdered in the house. The father had gotten up early one morning and decided to kill his wife and children as they slept. Then he buried the bodies in the backyard.

The murderous father was convicted and sentenced. The bodies of the family were exhumed and given a proper burial. So this girl’s father didn’t think there would be much of a problem here. He wasn’t the type to believe in ghosts and saw no reason to alarm his family with such a story — not when this house was such a bargain.

But since they moved in, he encountered strange events as well. Errant shadows on the way. Footsteps in the hallway. A prickly feeling on the back of his neck. Children’s laughter.

Hearing his daughter relate a similar experience gave him all the motivation he needed. They began making preparations to move. I heard this story just as they were about to close on a new property.

I followed up on the story a year later. In the new house, the girl and her family has had no a further encounters or sensations. It seems they were escaped whatever lingering ghosts lived in that old house of murderous past, even if the ghosts were caring enough to tuck a little girl in.

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The Hotel Haunting

It’s time for a ghost story. And a real one, to boot. At least, as it was told to me by a friend from Brooklyn. Names are left out to protect the people involved.

In my friend’s mind, this story is 100% true, since it happened to her. You can read it and decide for yourself.

My friend was on a business trip with several coworkers. They were staying in a mid-level hotel. Nothing too fancy or shabby. It was old, a little creaky, but provided the basic amenities.

Two days into the trip, one of her coworkers knocked on her door late in the evening. The coworker looked upset. Her eyes were red and teary. She was shivering. My friend asked what happened, but the coworker just shook her had and asked if she could stay with my friend tonight.

Having an extra bed in her room, my friend nodded and invited her shaken coworker in. The coworker was a pretty private & quiet girl, so after a harangue of questions without results, my friend gave up and returned to the TV.

“Maybe she’s having boyfriend issues,” my friend reasoned. She had seen this girl with a boyfriend around the office and has had a boyfriend drive her to tears too.

For the rest of the trip, the coworker stayed with my friend. They talked a little more, though only about work and other superficial issues. Figuring it was none of her business, my friend never pushed her coworker for an explanation.

The rest of the trip ended without incident. They returned home and a few weeks later, were called out to that client’s office again. Time for another business trip. Their travel department booked them into the same old hotel.

My friend’s coworker was abnormally quiet this time around, even for her, though she didn’t register that fact until she related the story to me.

On the last day of the trip, my friend returned to her hotel room after an especially arduous day. Tired, she took a nice, long shower. When she finished, she got out and began toweling off. She stood in front of the mirror as she wiped her hair. The bathroom door was open so she could hear the TV in the bedroom.

Then she looked at the mirror and saw an old man standing behind her. Wrinkled face, wispy hairs, a blank expression. Just standing behind her. Staring right at her eyes.

Her heard stopped and she swiveled around. No one was there. She was alone in the bathroom.

She immediately stomped out of the bathroom and ran around the bedroom. She threw the closet door open. Looked under her bed. Peeked into the hallway. Checked the locks on her door. There was nobody was in the room and her door was locked tight.

Now you’ll need to realize something. My friend is a Brooklyn girl through and through. Some guy once tried to mug her and she fought back, scaring the assailant away.

So it shouldn’t surprise you when she grabbed a lamp and stomped around the room, shouting, “Who the fuck is there? Where the fuck are you? Get out of my fucking room you pervert!”

Her first thought wasn’t, “It’s a ghost!” No, she thought, “It’s a pervy old man!” How’s that for a Brooklyn girl?

After the team returned home the next day, she related the story to her coworkers. They all thought she was nuts and just laughed it off. The quiet girl pulled her aside later and asked in which room she was staying. My friend told her.

“That’s where I stayed last time,” the quiet coworker answered. Then she told my friend about the lights going on and off in the room. Right in front of her eyes. She didn’t see an old man, but the flickering lights, coupled with a grave sense of fear, sent her fleeing to my friend’s room.

My friend laughs when she tells the story. “I don’t know if it was a fucking ghost or not, but whatever it was, if I caught it, I would have kicked its ass.” Coming from her, I believe those words. I’m not sure what I should be more afraid of, a ghost or a Brooklyn girl.

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Security Scare at the Airport

So here’s how it went down:

I’m on a Delta Song flight from JFK to SFO. The plane is mostly packed. I’m towards the rear. Although it’s around dinner time, the lights are dimmed, and most of the passengers are asleep.

Somewhere over the Mississippi River

I get up to go to the bathroom. There’s one person ahead of me, so I stand and wait. A man in the aisle seat of the last row starts shouting something.

“…can’t believe you’re doing this to me! …you guys are supposed to be helping me! …is a matter of national security!”

He seems to be shouting at the flight attendants, who watch him intently but do not answer. The man is pounding on the tiny TV screen from the seat next to him – the TV screen in front of him is off.

After I finish in the bathroom, the man is quiet but appears visibly shaken.

Somewhere over Colorado

The flight attendants are slowly bringing the drink cart down the aisle. They reach my seat.

“What is the matter with you people! Are you ignoring me?!”

It’s the man from the last row again.

“You’re taking your time with that damn drink cart! Hurry up and get to me! What is wrong with you people?!”

Several other passengers turn to look. I pass on my drink and put back on my earphones.

On the ground in San Francisco

Finally, we land. As we head towards the gate, a flight attendant gets on the loudspeaker.

“Attention, ladies and gentleman. As soon as we taxi into the gate, please remain seated. There is a security issue that we need to attend to, and we need you all to remain in your seats. Airport security personnel are going to board this plane as soon as we are at the gate. Please remain in your seats until you are told you can get up to deplane. This is a serious matter and I want you all to listen very carefully. I don’t want any of you to get up and claim you did not hear this message. You all must remain in your seats until you are told you can get up again. Thank you.”

As soon as the message is delivered, just about everyone’s heads whip backwards (including mine) to the man in the last row. The man looks at his row mates and shrugs.

The man appears to be of mixed Asian/European decent. He is dressed in business casual attire and wears thick-rimmed glasses. I can’t tell if he’s been drinking or not.

Several security officers board the plane. A few remain up front while two walk to the back of the plane. They get to the man in the last row, the one who’s been shouting earlier.

“Get up,” orders one of the officers. The man gets up without any hassles.

“Turn around.” As soon as he turns around, the officers cuff him.

“Do you have any bags in the overheard bins?” one of them asks.

“Yea, yea,” the man replies with a nod. The officers open up several bins and point to each piece of luggage. The man shakes his head with each. I guess he didn’t have any bags after all…

The officers walk him out, past the surprised & suspicious stares of the passengers. Several passengers eye the overheard bins.

In my hand the whole time was my Treo. I contemplated taking a photo, but decided against it in case the man really was a terrorist or mass murderer and started shooting us all or something.

A few moments later, the flight attendants called for us to deplane. We all rushed the hell out of there.

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Give Me Your Girl and I’ll Give You This Hat

Overheard on a NYC subway ride several years ago:

Setting:

Inside the 1-train, a preppy Caucasian guy is sitting slouched in a seat next to a tanned blond Caucasian girl. His arm is around her. She has on a really short skirt.

An African American guy comes in and takes a seat across from the couple. He’s wearing a cowboy hat.

Caucasian Guy:

(Speech is slurred) Hey man, nice hat. What do you want for it?

African American Guy:

Your girl.

CG:

What?

AAG:

Give me your girl and I’ll give you this hat.

CG:

(Stammering) Oh my God man…

AAG:

I’ll return her in a few hours. But you can keep my hat.

CG:

Oh my God man…

AAG:

You just tickling her. (Wiggles pinky finger) Me, I’d be pleasing her all the way through. (Holds up arm at elbow)

CG:

(Still stammering) Oh my God man…

AAG:

See, you tried to bluff me. You come up all in here, throwing your money around, trying to impress your girl. But I just called your bluff. I can see through you. You’re all about money.

CG:

No way man, I’m from the streets…

AAG:

No you ain’t. You just tried to buy this crappy-assed hat off my head in a subway. You don’t do that unless you trying to impress your girl by showing her how you can buy anything, even the hat off a black man.

CG:

Oh my God man…

AAG:

See, you all think you better than the black man. But yet, you all lie out in the sun and try to be black. (Points at other tanned Caucasians on the subway) Even your women are trying to be black. (Points at tanned blond girl)

CG:

Oh my God man…

AAG:

But you can’t be me. I’m 100% black. So give me your girl man, and I’ll give you this hat.

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The Cult of Mike Lee

Hi, I’m Mike Lee. No, not that Mike Lee. He’s someone else. No, not that one either. Me, Mike Lee, from New York, now in California.

Oh, you know a Mike Lee too? Nice. I know a bunch too. There are four at my company. And there were at least twelve at a previous company. Us Mike Lee’s are everywhere.

What? No, I’m not a professional bull rider. I know, I know. There’s a professional bull rider named Mike Lee. He’s from Texas.

No, I’m not a country singer either. That’s another Mike Lee. From Nashville, I think. Those two guys are Caucasian. I’m not. I’m an Asian American.

Yea, I know there used to be a Mike Lee in Wikipedia. He was a judge or lawyer or something. The entry’s gone now. Maybe it’s back now though. You never know with Wikipedia.

Oh yea, there are a bunch of web designers and developers named Mike Lee. I’ve seen their sites. I probably fought with them to get this domain name too.

My first attempt was MichaelLee.com. But that was taken by a painter. From Illinois, I believe. There’s an odd message from a Lana on his site right now. I wonder what that’s about.

Then I tried MikeLee.com. But that one was taken too. I don’t think it is anymore though; looks like someone’s squatting on that domain name right now.

There’s a Mike Lee saxophonist too? Really? Huh. I didn’t know about that one. He’s from New York too, I see. Brooklyn, to be exact. Or Crooklyn, as my friends call it. Heh.

Ah yes, the Mike Lee from London. He’s an ABC News correspondent. I saw a news story by him once. Kind of weirded me out.

I’m not surprised there’s a real estate agent named Mike Lee too. I’ll bet there are lots of them. All over the country. Trying to help you buy a house.

You know, I’ve seen the Mike Lee on IMDB too. In fact, there are a ton of them. Just do a search. Lots, huh? There are Mike Lee actors, stunt men, camera men, editors, and more.

Funny thing is, most of them are all Caucasian too. Most of the Asian American Mike Lee’s I know are designers or developers. Oh, I’m sure they’re in other fields too; I just know a lot in design and development because I’ve seen their web sites.

Now if you look for Michael Lee, you’ll see a whole new cast. There’s a character named Michael Lee in the HBO show The Wire. He’s African American. Did you know that?

And there’s an anime character named Michael Lee too. From the show Witch Hunter Robin. This Michael Lee is a 16 year old Caucasian computer expert.

There also was once an African American basketball player for the Kansas Jayhawks named Michael Lee. He played guard. Not sure if he’s still playing now though.

If you look up Michael Lee in Wikipedia, you’ll see many more entries. Like the one for Michael Lee, the Australian Labor Party politician. Or Michael Lee, the field hockey player for the Canadian team Victoria Selects. Or Michael Lee, the former keyboardist & composer for Meredith Brooks, Melissa Etheridge, and David Foster. Or Michael Lee, the former drummer for Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant and Jimmy Page.

Now try Michael Lee on IMDB. Woo wee there’s a lot, huh? Producers, cinematographers, production designers. Hollywood is full of Michael Lees.

As you can see, we’re everywhere. Us Mike and Michael Lees. And one day, we’ll take over the world and rename it “The Earth of Mike & Michael Lees”. Or maybe just “ML” for short.

If you’d like to be excused from enslavement and serve as one of our personal servants, let me know. Otherwise, bow to the will of a million Mike Lees!

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The Dark Side of NYC

“The air was still cold and uncirculated. The streets were still filthy and hard. The people were still bitter and ugly. The entire city of New York was sick and in desperate need of a vacation.”
- A. Nersesian

“New Yorkers, I figured, just pretended to be unfriendly.”
- J. Walls

Some people don’t like New York City. I’m not one of those people. But even I can admit to some of its follies.

When people move there, I warn them about the possible feelings of loneliness. In such a crowded city, most don’t expect to feel that. NYC is a place where one can feel utterly alone among so many people.

Most New Yorkers are taught to be careful. Statistically, because the population density is so high, the chances of running into swindlers, con men, and shysters is proportionately higher than smaller cities and towns.

Don’t mistake me; there aren’t deceivers on every street corner. They exist in higher numbers than less dense cities, but there are proportionately just as many decent folk there too. However, there are enough crooks to have created a culture of carefulness. Just about every New Yorker has a friend or acquaintance that’s been mugged or assaulted or worse.

This carefulness is, then, extremely prudent. Open trust to strangers is naïve if not utterly foolish. Show a sign of weakness and you’ll likely become a “mark,” or target, of a crook. Such signs include actions that seem normal elsewhere: smiling, talking to lots of strangers, making lots of eye contact, etc.

Instead of showing signs of weakness, many swing the pendulum the other way and make showings of strength. This can be interpreted as arrogance or rudeness, but to the average New Yorker, it means, “Don’t mess with me.” If you tell a New Yorker you don’t like their city, they won’t try to convince you otherwise; they’ll respond with a hearty, “Fuck you; get the fuck out of my city then.”

That’s the New Yorker Shell, the mask that native New Yorkers learn to wear. Look behind the mask and you’ll find a warm, friendly, and caring individual. Getting behind the mask isn’t easy though.

Another way to see it: New York is full of cliques. Cliques can be hard to break into, but once you’re in, you’re in. These cliques are, in effect, networks of trust. Since it’s not safe to trust any random stranger on the street, New Yorkers form a network of friends with whom they can let down their guard.

Wearing a mask can be tiring, so it’s good to be able to take it off once in a while—but only with people you know you can trust.

This can be a big shock to those from smaller towns. Smiling, talking to strangers, and making lots of eye contact aren’t just part of being friendly; they’re a part of what makes a close-knit town close-knit. You meet new people by being friendly to them. Shunning your neighbors seems utterly antisocial.

Population density changes that equation, however. Your “neighbors” in New York City aren’t just the ten to twenty people on your block. They’re the hundred to two-hundred people in your building. If you want to include your entire block, that’s several hundred people.

No one has the energy or mental capacity to know every one of their neighbors in New York City. The mere thought is absurd. People change apartments so frequently that the neighbor down the hall will be someone different in a month. So why make the effort to get to know your neighbors?

For people who have a strong need to connect with lots of people, NYC is not for them. They find themselves unhappy, lonely, and unable to comprehend why. Well, this is part of the reason why. This is the culture within which the average New Yorker grew up.

Cliques are the key. Native New Yorkers have the benefit of forming their cliques while in school, where the New Yorker Shell hasn’t been fully hardened yet.

For transplants, there are other ways to form these networks of trust. Coworkers can be one source. Church can be another. Some like clubs and bars. Others prefer social gatherings such as community service, classes, or special interest groups. Transplants will have a harder time finding that right mix of friends, unfortunately; that’s just the reality of it. But it’s not impossible.

To be honest, the clique phenomenon isn’t just localized to New York City. Any major city has the same challenges too. I know this through personal experience. Understanding why it’s a challenge is the first step. Knowing how to solve it is the next step.

Or, if you just don’t like New York City: “Fuck you; get the fuck out of my city then.”

. . .

Do you like New York City?

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The DECA Program Guide Cover Contest

I don’t win many awards. Hardly any, in fact. So it was a big surprise when I won the Program Guide Cover Contest for DECA’s NY Conference in high school for a second year in a row.

The main speaker was pretty surprised too, apparently. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

DECA is, according to their website: “an international association of high school and college students studying marketing, management and entrepreneurship in business, finance, hospitality and marketing sales and service.”

My high school had a chapter and one of my teachers encouraged me to join. It was her who suggested I enter the Program Guide Cover Contest as well.

The first year, I drew the NY state flag. It was pretty awesome, if I say so myself.

At the conference, the speaker brought me onto the stage and presented me with a $100 check. For a high school student, that’s a lot of money. I brought a ton of comic books and candy with that money.

Our high school also won another award that year. So that, plus my Cover Contest award, meant we had one kick-ass high school. Our school was mighty proud.

The next year, I won again with a drawing of the Statue of Liberty. Another awesome drawing, I humbly admit.

The speaker rattled off the winners of the various contests. When he got to the Program Guide Cover Contest, my classmates howled before he even said my name. They continued to cheer as I walked onto the stage.

Then I noticed something wrong.

The speaker wasn’t looking at me. His arm wasn’t extended like it was last year. I didn’t see a check in his hand. But I know he announced my name; my whole table heard him.

I walked over to him anyways, thinking perhaps the check was in his pocket or something.

The room fell silent. The speaker stood there for a few moments, eyes glazed. He silently shook my hand. I said, “Thank you,” though I’m not sure why. Then I retreated off the stage.

Back at my table, my classmates were still howling. Only this time, they weren’t cheering, they were laughing.

I think it was Dave who was the first to say, “Mike, I don’t think you were supposed to go up there this year!”

They realized this when I was halfway to the stage. The speaker continued rattling off contest winners without pause. My classmates shouted at me to return, but by that time, I was on autopilot.

When I got on the stage, the speaker had no clue who I was. I’m surprised he even shook my hand. I wonder what he was thinking when this random Chinese kid walked onto the stage with him and shook his hand.

And after that, I never entered any more DECA Program Guide Cover Contests.

Have you ever won any awards?

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Welcome to Manhattan

It’s not that Kris is unintelligent. Far from it. Her Ivy League graduate degree is plenty proof of that. In fact, she’s one of the most intelligent people I know.

It’s just that… well… let me tell you the story and you can see for yourself. (She’s going to hate me for this.)

Her first day in Manhattan. Kris walked the streets in wide-eyed wonder. Everything was so grand, so bustling, so intense. It was almost overwhelming. But she took it all in.

She eagerly rode the subways and followed the crowds, trying not to use a map and look like a tourist. When she got to Penn Station, she followed the herd outside to look for a taxi.

The taxi lines were long as usual. She walked towards the back and looked down the street. Dozens of taxis were approaching. The wait shouldn’t be too long.

“Hey Miss! Miss?”

She turned around.

“Miss, you need a taxi?”

It was a man wearing jeans and a dark button-down shirt. His eyes looked weary and his mustache needed a trim.

“Miss, you don’t have to wait in line. I can get you a taxi.”

“Really?” Kris asked. “How?”

“I work for the taxi company. I help people get taxis. Here, follow me.” He walked to the corner of the block. Kris followed, intrigued. There were people all around, so she knew she was safe.

At the corner, the man hailed a taxi. It pulled over immediately. Kris was impressed.

“Where are you going?” asked the man.

“Union Square.”

“Okay, we have a flat rate for that area. Just twenty bucks. It’s discounted from the usual fares.”

“Okay…” Kris fished out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it over.

“Thanks.” The man opened the door to the taxi and shut it behind Kris. “Union Square please,” he shouted to the driver. “Have a nice day,” he nodded to Kris. She waved back.

The drive to Union Square was pleasant. She looked out the window the entire time, trying to absorb all she could see. The buildings, the people, the shops. The sights, the sounds, the smells. It was all so much. She knew she was going to love it here.

Finally, the taxi arrived.

“Thank you!” chirped Kris as she swung open the door excitedly. It was her first time in Union Square and she was eager to see it.

“Hey! Hold on lady!” shouted the driver. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

Kris froze.

“You gotta pay me first. This ain’t a free ride, lady!”

“Wha-what?” Kris muttered. “But I-I already paid.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about? You didn’t pay shit. You were just ’bout to run out that door without payin’ me!”

“B-but, I paid the man on the street. He got me this t-taxi…”

“What planet are you from, lady? What man on the street? Why you payin’ some man on the street for a taxi ride? You don’t pay no one else but me. So c’mon, I ain’t got all day.”

Kris wiped the sweat from her brow. Her hands were shaking as she reached into her wallet. To make matters worse, it was much less than twenty dollars. The driver swiped the cash with a grunt and sped away as soon as Kris was out the door. “Stupid tourist,” he growled.

Kris watched the taxi drive away and sighed. Welcome to Manhattan, Kris.

Do you remember your first experience with Manhattan?

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