For the first 13 years of my life, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be. A closeted gay Chinese kid in a conservative Hong Kong family who played volleyball, I discovered Rent at an art camp in Toronto and didn’t belong anywhere. I sat in a tree and dreamed of sailing around the world after high school, following the stars and the breeze.
For the second 13 years of my life, I tried to figure out who I was supposed to be. A turbulent last few years of high school, going to prom with boys I didn’t like because I was in love with my best friend, shaving my head in college, and owning my first car, a little silver Honda Civic, just like the one my camp counselor had. Traveling the world with my then-girlfriend and now wife, coaching volleyball, teaching art, and driving an ambulance until I finally ended up in medical school.
For the last 13 years of my life, I thought I was who I was supposed to be. Test after standardized test in medical school, the mental, physical and emotional toll of surgery residency, a year of driving between my wife in Manhattan and my fellowship training in Long Island, putting 20,000 miles on our Prius. Then, just over two years of being an attending physician, finally the one ‘in charge’, so to speak, except you’re not, you never are. The administration owns you. The insurance companies own you. The government owns you. Add to that, the first
two years landed right at the start of COVID, trying to build a practice while being deployed to the COVID units. I can’t deny that I’ve done some good in the world, helped some people, and made their lives a bit better. But some days it felt like fighting blindfolded and with one hand tied behind my back, lacking the resources to do the best job I could do.
So I can’t imagine, or maybe I can, what the next 13 years may hold. I finally get to be who I am, maybe. I wanted to write, I wanted to draw, I wanted to sail around the world and help build schools in developing nations and I wanted to name animals, plants, and stars. I want my wife, a family, and safety and security and going to bed with the knowledge that I made a difference in the world that day. I wanted to write musicals and farm oysters and invent devices to sell on infomercials and cook out of a food truck. I want to leave behind something so stunningly beautiful that it makes people choke back tears because it hit a chord so deep in their souls that they didn’t even know it was there. So. We’ll see.
Gateway to Soho, May 31, 2022. Courtesy of the author.
Until next time, always go black tie!