Embers

I walked in late—well, no—the teacher started early. Either way, it felt like I had aimlessly wandered into a political rally for some trite issue I never bothered to understand, such as animal rights. But no, I was at the right place: Humanities Hall, Room 118, French100A Grammar and Composition.

I took a seat next to a wall to rest my head on while the teacher’s French vomit flew way past my head. Actually, I tried to understand, but nonetheless I could barely pick up any words. Every once in a while I heard a number, or maybe an English phrase pronounced with a French accent (but I guess those don’t count). No—I understood more than that; I am exaggerating a little bit, but am I at least getting the point across to you that I am hating this? The fact that I’m not taking one, but two French classes? That I’ve already spent close to $150 on a bunch of French books?

No—again—I need to stop myself and breathe. It’s only been one day. I’ve only had to sit through French for one hour and twenty minutes. I need to give this a chance. Even though I haven’t uttered more than one sentence of French for more than half a year (except for maybe, “My name is Brian”), I may still have a few embers within me struggling for air, and maybe this daily exposure to French will rekindle them. Yes, there’s still a chance that I won’t switch my major. There’s still a chance that I won’t stay in college for an extra year. There’s still a chance that I won’t give up my pride.

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“Qui Je Suis” [“Who I Am”]
Written September 15th, 2007 (Excerpted)

A few days before the start of my senior year, I was eating dinner with my family when my mom asked me, “So Brian, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I immediately answered, “I don’t know;” those three words shot from my mouth like a reflex. I continued to fire out curt no’s in response to all of my mom’s suggestions: “A dentist? An ophthalmologist? A pharmacist? How about an engineer? A computer scientist? Maybe a financial manager? Well, then what could you possibly become? Those are all the popular money makers. You can’t just be nothing.”

“I don’t know,” I repeated again. The truth was I actually knew what I wanted to be: a French teacher. My future career had been a definite and clear desire since the beginning of my junior year in high school. I had never been so passionate about a school subject except for French. Sciences made me sick, computers confused me, and math drove me mad. French was one of the only few subjects I still cared about. Unlike the money-hungry students and parents who only see the pots of gold at the end of education, I was more concerned with waking up every morning to a fulfilling job.

While I did know that this kind of career was one that I was passionate about, I was still nervous about pursuing it because I would be going against the norms of not just my immediately family, but also all of my relatives. My mom, dad, older cousins, uncles, and aunts all followed the same pattern to get to their current careers. The pattern began with all of their parents preaching and drilling in their heads with broken English, “America have many opportunity; find good job; make lotta money.” Being no different, my brother was currently on the same path as a managerial economics major in UC Davis. Their American dream was locked onto a high-paying job preceding retirement as soon as possible, but I was set on detouring from the $100-bill-lined road straight to “happiness.” (Ironically however, three of my cousins all majored in big money-making fields, but they wound up running their own separate Bagel shops after finishing college. More funnily enough, my brother had a part-time job working for one of them.)

I was planning to keep my career goals a complete secret to my entire family, even if that meant a lot of lying. I hadn’t started my college applications yet, but if there was a way I could hide the check marks under the section for choosing majors or a way that allowed me to keep my parents from seeing my college applications, I would take it. If I could, I would finally tell them about my hopes for the future when I turned twenty-three and had just returned home after my first day teaching class.

[...]

Hopefully though, the shock wouldn’t be as bad as I had thought. I was trying to soften the blow by giving my parents what I had hoped were some clear hints as to what I wanted to be. They knew that I dropped Physics AP, the more academically savvy class, because it conflicted with French 4. A pile of French study guides greeted them every time they entered my room. I was taking an optional semiweekly French class at San Jose City College purely for my enrichment, while my friend Kathleen was taking it because she did choose Physics AP over French 4. As for indicating that I wanted to be a teacher, I turned down a job at my cousin’s bagel job for a job at SCORE! Educational Centers. Working for my cousin would’ve paid more, and it would’ve required no effort getting hired, but I opted to teach children instead.

Whether or not my parents catch the hints or ever accept that I was out to pursue my own dreams, not theirs, nothing could ever change my goal to become a French teacher. I had tried to never think too far ahead into the future, but I couldn’t help but realize that there were two definite outcomes: I would teach French in high school, and I would raise my own child. (I don’t even picture having my own guy.) A gay French teacher—compared to the rest of my family and relatives, it looked like I would be the one cynically raising my middle finger in a professional family portrait.