FJMove

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Moving the blog

Dear all,

Thank you for viewing my blog. I've moved all the content to my personal website:

http://jinleephd.com/category/fuzhounese/

Please check there for the most updated post from now on.

Thanks again for your support!

Sunday, May 26, 2013

Suffering promotes learning. Jenny immigrated to the US when she was eight years old from China. Now a senior in college, Jenny reflects on her senior year in high school after testing positive for the tuberculin skin test, also known as the Mantoux or PPD (Purified Protein Derivative) test. However, false positive tests are common if, for example, Jenny had BCG vaccine against tuberculosis, or was exposed to nontuberculour myobacteria or the TB bacteria in the environment. To be certain, she would need to undergo chest x-ray and blood tests. Sitting in her pajamas in her room, Jenny recalls the story that changed her perception on suffering:

“When my skin swelled to the size of a quarter, my doctor told me that I got tuberculosis (TB). I got freaked out! Even though later I had a negative chest x-ray, I still had to take medication every day for nine straight months!” Luckily for Jenny, most people with the latent TB infection never develop into active TB disease. Nonetheless, because TB can spread through air, it is the leading cause of death worldwide.[1] Under US law, any suspected TB patient is required to take free prescribed medication for nine months. “Taking the medicine was very stressful because I had to take it to school with me and remember to take the pills secretly during lunch. I often forgot because I didn’t show any symptoms.”

Suffering often takes a patient on an emotional roller coaster ride. Frustration is the first hill that Jenny climbs. “I felt slightly out of control and angry because being a high school senior is supposed to be fun and stress free! There was a lack of support from my doctor. I never understood what’s TB because I only got ten minutes with him.” After the first hill of frustration, the next drop is solitude. “I couldn’t relate with my friends because none of them have to undergo this. And I was the only person that I know who has showed a positive skin test.” After solitude, Jenny then climbs the hill of worry. “I was concerned because I don’t know anything about TB! I kept wondering where I could have picked it up. I was worried for my family member. My siblings are small. I could easily infect them. So I made all of them to get tested. I also skipped a few days of medication: will I get TB someday?” After all the small hills, the most exciting drop is the desire for more knowledge. “I did research on Yahoo Health to learn about the disease and its symptoms. It was all down to me since my doctor and family couldn’t help.”

Accompanying the frightening ride is the thrill of self-awakening. “The experience was good because I was eighteen with college and my whole life in front of me. TB was an upset in my life, but it taught me that life is precious.” Suffering also inspires learning. “It made me want to become a doctor, to have more control over my health.”

Life is a ride: full of ups and downs, excitements and disappointments. The journey involves struggle, which usually transforms into personal growth. Through illness, we gain knowledge, self-awareness, and understanding of life. Suffering tests our inner strength and values. When disappointment stops us, we have to change our own perspectives. Yet it is also this fear, excitement, and learning that will prepare us for the next phase in life’s rollercoaster ride.

[1] Tuberculosis. www.med.howard.edu/pharmacology/handouts/Tuberculosis.ppt. 3/21/07.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Personal Statement for College: FOUR

In my best attire, I stepped into an office with its plaque having the logo of Kmart and the letters of Donna, the assistant manager. The white, middle-aged woman explained that since I am a certified national food manager, they would like me to work in the K-Café instead of being a cashier. Desperate for money, I nodded without giving it a second thought. Despite my eight years of Chinese restaurant experience, I washed dishes for the next four hours with white, aged hands. Rushing back to my boarding school at 9pm, I devoured my first meal of the day, an apple. Pictures flashed through my head competing with the pine trees on the side of the highway for my attention.

Four – the number of years I have attended high school. The year began with an ill omen. Since the beginning of my senior year, I not only had to focus on my GPA by taking AP U.S. history, AP Chemistry, BC Calculus, and three other senior courses, but I also needed to hurry home every weekend to work in our second restaurant, which I had helped my father transform from a nail salon the previous summer. While my parents were arguing about a possible divorce because of the loss of business and debates on selling the restaurant that we had just opened few months ago, a Honda ran through the red light and crashed into us. The car accident left my father with a head concussion, my sister and me with compression fractures, my brother with a possible knee surgery, and one of our employees with a spinal disc bulge. The burden of these medical treatments became heavier, as our only family car was totaled, and most of us did not have health insurance. Even though my daily phone calls to our lawyer became a ritual, our hearts were filled with glee when the restaurant was finally sold for below half of its market price.

Four -the number of weeks that my parents and brother had been visiting in China. In April, a three A.M. phone call had informed us that my sixty-year-old grandfather only had a few weeks to live. As a result, my parents flew back to China for the first time in ten years, bringing my brother (whom my grandfather never saw) and the remaining savings we had to pay for my grandfather’s medical bills and his pending funeral. Because of their absence, my family also had to borrow money to hire employees to work in our current restaurant, leaving me as the sole supervisor and food manager. With my parent’s promise of visiting China for only two weeks, I pleaded with my boarding school for permission to drive home and work for more than six hours a day.

Four - the number synonymous to death in Mandarin. On the first Thursday of May, afraid that my sister would not have enough time to work on her homework, I rushed back to the restaurant after two scholarship interviews. Immediately following the cold wind with the opening of the front door, my sister’s red eyes became evident, as droplets incessantly rolled down her swollen cheeks. “Mother called, and grandfather just died,” my sister explained, trying hard not to choke on the words. Boiling with rage and confusion, I dialed the fourteen-digit number only to receive the usual sorry tone of “I think we have to be here longer.” Frozen, I sunk to my daily chain of thought, “What am I suppose to do with APs? College application? Restaurant? Scholarship? Graduation? Tomorrow? ...” One of the employees with an allergy suddenly broke the silence, “I also have to tell you that I can’t work here anymore.” “Me, too,” added another employee. After two hours of sweet-talking and begging, I finally persuaded the latter employee to stay for another week with a promise of increasing wage. Competing with the clock, I called every employment agencies listed in the Sing Dao Daily to request a cook. The next day, I would have to take the AP US History Exam in the morning, take the practical AP Chemistry exam in the afternoon, and pick up a new employee at 12:15 A.M. As my tears soak the pillow, I finally closed my history book at four a.m. with a heavy heart.

The number four marked the turning point of my senior year. Every day, I found myself alone in a dark, endless sea without any support. Exhausted and beaten, I float over boulders with a sole belief that it is within my responsibility and fate to take on this test. "I can do this." I told myself. "I WILL overcome this" is now my motto.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Personal Statement for College: by Rona Lee*

I was born as the second child in my family in Fuzhou, China. Because of the “One-Child” law in place at the time, my parents took me up on a mountain and hid me away to die, so everyone could act as though I had never existed. A combination of accident (an elderly woman found me after eighteen hours) and love (my parents still wanted me in the face of severe punishment) saved me, but I was made aware very early in my life that, to the people in power, my existence meant nothing. This knowledge haunted me during my ten years in China, but I would eventually overcome it.

I moved to America in time to begin the fifth grade. I was the only international student in the entire body of five hundred kids in the public elementary school. On my first day, I saw a big sign with M-R-S. C-H-E-S-T-E-R stenciled on it. I knew this must be my classroom, because I held a paper showing the identical symbols. I was hampered by memories of school in China: of desks crowded together within the confines of dark walls, menacing with punishment; of being hit on my right palm with a bamboo stick; blows as loud as thunder and stinging like lightning. But here I was in a new country, with my purple knapsack, my brand new dress with Winnie the Pooh on its right shoulder, and my shiny black shoes. From behind me I heard, “Hi, Rona.” I felt a hug and was guided by the hand into the room, with many students eyeing me from head to toe. I, too, stared, and for the first time I was surrounded by this strange language. While I did not understand the words at first, I began to realize that somehow my existence mattered to Mrs. Chester and other Americans. I had a chance here.

I gained confidence in myself from Mrs. Chester and others, and it buoyed me up through the challenges that faced me. During my sophomore year in high school, my grandfather in China passed away, and my parents left for China for two months. They left the family restaurant in my care. In order to keep the business running, my sister and I had to hire a cook and plead with my high school to allow us to go home every day to help in the restaurant. After I promised that going home would not affect my grades in any of my classes, they relented. Every day, after all of my classes, sports, and school requirements were taken care of, I went to the restaurant to take care of customers. I would work from 5 PM to 11 PM. on weekdays, and on weekends from 11 AM to 11 PM. For two months, I was a student by day and a restaurant manager, dishwasher, cooker, waiter, cashier, and translator by night.

To ensure that I kept my promises, the school also put me on the “Weekly Sheets” program, an academic requirement for students who are failing their classes. Every Wednesday, after all of my classes, I had to find every one of my teachers and have them sign a sheet that said I was passing all of my tests and quizzes and doing all of my homework. Many of my friends came to believe that I actually was failing. There was nothing I could do, though, but keep working.

During those two months, the only time I had available to do homework was after 11 PM, when my restaurant closed. Nevertheless, determination and hard work helped me to make High Honor Roll for the first time. My restaurant’s business also increased.

Those two months helped me find a new side of myself. I learned not only how to work under pressure but also how to organize my time wisely. Even though this experience may have been the hardest part of my life, I found that with persistence, hope, and hard work I achieved success. I am glad that I had the opportunity to challenge myself then, in order to become the person that I am today.

I am the sum of my experiences: living in hiding in a land that did not want me, finding my identity in a new country, and learning my own strength in the face of adversity. These experiences give me the value of my life. I do not have to search for myself. I know who I am.

*Rona Lee currently works in Healthcare and lives in the west coast.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

My restaurant

The sound of the telephone echoes through the restaurant; I reluctantly drop my book and run to answer the phone. “Ting-Jiang, may I help you?” I say in a happy, bright tone. With an answer of “yes” on the other end, I lean over the pile of menus in front of me and begin to take another order. No matter how I felt a moment earlier, once I pick up the phone, I become the happy waiter. This small take-out restaurant, in Connecticut, is the place of my home and my past in America. It was the second building my sister and I visited after we immigrated to this new country. Two month after moving to America, I began working in this Chinese restaurant with my parents. I was only in fifth grade and knew just enough English words to serve my customers. Because my parents own the restaurant, my family spends more time in this little restaurant than in any other place in the world. My father, the chef; my mom, co-chef; my sister, helps around the restaurant; and I, the waiter; are the only four workers in this only Chinese restaurant of the town. My little brother just runs around in this playground of his and adds noise to the clatter of cooking, washing, and chopping. Ting-Jiang has become the beginning of another chapter in our family history.

My parents bought the restaurant from a Cantonese owner. The Oriental Bistro, a sit-down Chinese restaurant, had opened. The restaurant before the Oriental Bistro was called the French Bistro, owned by a French family for a year. My parents renamed the place the Ting-Jiang and changed it into a take-out restaurant. They also changed the old Americanized Cantonese food to more modern Chinese food. The Oriental Bistro looked nothing like the restaurant I know today. The soft carpets, that covered the entire floor, are now replaced by the jade linoleum tiles. The long mirror on the right side of the restaurant, where many customers and I often check our appearance, was installed by my father. The original ten white cloth covered formal tables are now reduced to only five booths. The wall that separates the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant was expanded three times by my father himself. The mini-bar that had increased the restaurant business for the Cantonese owner is now replaced by a large L-shaped counter, which I often stand on to answer the phone and operate the cash register. My parents placed a 24-gallon fish tank on the right end of the counter as a symbol of prosperity. Fish became our family’s only pet. The following year, my dad replaced the three dim antique lights with white fluorescent lights to save electricity. This past year, because of declining numbers of customers eating in the restaurant, and because of the increasing homework of my sister and brother, my father built a wall dividing the large sitting room into two rooms to create a study area for us. This study area, which now became our living room, is crowded with three computers, two office desks, an old sewing machine, and a large table that we eat our meals at. Frequently, my parents would get so angry at us for spending too much time in that room instead of helping them in the restaurant, that they would warn us they will one day take down the wall. The original large sitting room, where I had the only two birthday parties of my life, is now reduced to a much smaller room with only three booths.

From a dark, formal Chinese restaurant, Ting-Jiang has become a small, bright, take-out restaurant. Living there is an experience that I shall never forget. Our apartment has no meaning to us but as a place to sleep in. We not only work in the restaurant, but also eat there, meet our friends there, and play there. Instead of anonymous customers coming to eat food, most of our visitors are now like friends that come for a visit. Yet for those unfamiliar customers, we often have to wear a happy mask and become another person. Thus, the ringing of the telephone and the bang from the front door has sometimes become an annoyance. Not only must I stop everything I am doing, I also have to hide my feelings and prepare to serve the customers. On the other hand, this little difficulty is nothing compared to my parents’ work, working in the restaurant for seven days a week, twelve hours a day. To my parents, Ting-Jiang has become both their home and their prison because of the long hours.

Nevertheless, Ting-Jiang is our second home after the one my family left behind in China. When people ask for our mailing address or where we live, we give them our restaurant address. When they ask us for our phone number, we give them the one in our restaurant. On important holidays such as Christmas or Chinese New Year, we will decorate our restaurant with either Santa Claus or red dragons. To my entire family, Ting-Jiang is not only the place we are fond of and at the same time dislike, but it is also the foundation of our livelihood in this new land, America.