My first job interview

When I was 17, my parents (especially my dad, who always felt I was not independent or outgoing enough) decided it was time for me to get a job.  They wanted me to have more interactions with the general public. What better way to accomplish this than to find a job?

Upon hearing my parents' "suggestion," before even stepping foot outside the door, my freight train filled with cargoes of anxiety and self-doubt were already rushing through my mind.  I knew I had to do it though.  There was no way I could hide under my parents' wings forever.  No way.  They wouldn't allow it, I wouldn't want to. 

I didn't even know where to begin to look for a job.  Getting a job was such a generalized term, bubbles of possibilities quickly filled my thoughts.  How would I make it through the interview?  In fact, I didn't know how I would apply for a job.  Then there was the question of, what if I was hired?  Would I learn fast enough to fit in?

I found an ad in our local newspaper.  It was a chiropractor's office looking for a front desk receptionist.  I was hesitant to pick up the phone to call, I was scared.  I did not like speaking to strangers on the phone.  After 4 years of constant training from my parents, however, my logical side overrode my fear.  It was not a choice.  I would have to be on my own one day.  This was barely the beginning.

I ran through the potential phone conversation in my mind many times with its many possible outcomes. It turned out much easier than I thought.  The office asked me when I would be able to start, if I had any experience, and if I knew how to type.  The lady then promptly asked me to come in for an interview. 

We agreed to meet that same day.  I was very excited of the opportunity, the ease of how smoothly our phone conversation went gave me a lot of hope.  Of course I was anxious as well, worried that I might mess up during the interview.  My mom helped me pick out an appropriate outfit.  She told me that look was not everything, but a good first impression could be my first step towards success. 

As she drove me to my interview, she simply told me that no matter the outcome, everything would be okay.  It wasn't like this job was going to make or break our family.  She said the experience would help me grow.  As I was getting out of the car, she reminded me to smile, look people in the eyes when I spoke, and to try my best to appear confident.  She said no one would want an employee at the front desk who was shy and unsure. 

My interview with the chiropractor went just as smoothly.  All questions asked were ones I had already prepared for.  At the end of our interview, I was asked to demonstrate my typing skill.  I was one of the fastest typist in my typing class in high school.  It was something I knew I could do well.  I did not boast about it, but I was not worried. 

Well, life is full of surprises.  The keyboard I was tested on was a lot softer than the one I used in school.  I tried to remain calm and give myself a chance to adjust.  Unfortunately,  spur of the moment adaptation was never my strength.  I ended up typing much much slower than I liked.  I was not happy with the result.  The chiropractor did not make any comment.  She told me she would get back to me in a few days. 

My mom knew from my silence that things did not go as I had hoped for.  She helped me by not making a big deal out of it.  She did not comfort me, nor did she feel bad for me.  She did not let it ruin our day.  Her attitude was, so what's your next plan?  

Thinking in Pictures 2

Being a visual thinker, I associate words with images.  Some images, however, are not blue skies and pretty flowers.  Unlike a computer, whatever my brain chooses to retain, I cannot delete.  I also have no control over which image to use as the default.

When I was 12 yo, my grandmother made me eat a rotten banana by accident.  I did not like fruits as a child.  My grandmother, for health reasons, would force me to consume them on a regular basis.

I could still remember myself sitting in the brown sofa in our flat.  My grandmother handed me a banana.  I told my grandmother I didn't want it.  My grandmother insisted for me to eat it.  Knowing I wasn't going to be able to get away with it, I took it from her.

I unpeeled the banana and bite into it.  Ew....there was something wrong with it.  The texture was awful and the color in the center had a funny orange hue.  I told my grandmother it was rotten.  My grandmother thought I was trying to make excuses and refused to listen to me.  She sternly told me to finish it and walked into the kitchen.  Being an obedient child, I painstakingly ate the banana, using my front teeth to take off a thin layer at a time. 

Twenty minutes later, when grandma came out of the kitchen, I only ate a third of the banana.  She rolled her eyes at me, shook her head, took my banana and said she was going to eat it for me.  The second she bite into it, she frowned and spat it out.  "Why didn't you tell me it was rotten?  Why were you eating it?"

It was too late.  Image of that rotten banana was burnt into my memory.  From then on, I never enjoyed bananas again.  Every time I think of bananas, memory of that awful texture and funny color would take over.  I have no choice but to re-live the experience.  I have tried to replace the default picture associated with bananas to no avail.  My brain has decided that bananas will always be rotten.  

There are so many of these banana type stories.  Like the time when my aunt ran out of our kitchen in Hong Kong screaming.  I ran over to see a bag of skinless headless frogs, one of them hopping around on the kitchen counter like it was looking for its head.  Fortunately, that image was more amusing than traumatizing, so I could still eat frog legs with gusto.

Then there was my encounter with a sick fish in the common courtyard of our flat in Hong Kong.  I was maybe 11 or 12, taking a stroll around the courtyard.  I was on top of a little bridge, looking into the fish pond.  There I saw it, a sick fish, with all of its scales sticking straight out from its body.  It gave me the chills.  Goose bumps formed all over me, darn, it was too late.  I could never see a fish the same way again. 

As I got older, I gained a better understanding of how my brain worked.  I realize that if I want to fill my mind with positivity, I have to be diligent in preventing my brain from burning unwanted images into my hard drive.  I may not be able to control the images my brain wants to retain, but if I catch it in time, I can blur out the association so the bond is not formed.

With time, I've found that under proper guidance, not only can I prevent my mind from being burdened with bad images, I can even turn what can be a curse into a blessing.

My second high school

My family moved from a condominium to a house in the middle of my junior year. My parents considered it a major milestone in their lives.  My father felt proud, he was finally able to give his family a “real” house.  

I did not share in that joy.  It was the third time I moved.  My feelings toward the upgrade were neutral.  I was not sad about it, but I was not excited either. 
 
Having to say goodbye to my friends was not an issue.  After all, people grow up and move away.  It is just part of life.  What bothered me was the difference in curriculums.  

My new counselor changed my classes around so I could integrate into their program.  It was already the second week of class.  Some classes were full, I did not have many options.  Mathematics posed the biggest problem.  I was in an accelerated math class in my first high school.  I took Algebra 2 in the first semester.  I was supposed to go on to Trignometry and Pre-Calculas in the second semester.  My new high school had no such program.  My counselor decided, for the ease of making my classes fit together, to put me in Pre-Calculas, skipping Trignometry.   I was, however, given a Trignometry textbook to home-study. 

When I complained to my parents about it, all they said was, "What was done was done.  There is nothing you can do about it.  Change is part of life, you have to learn to adapt.  How can you make it in life if you cannot learn to adjust to changes?  A person must be flexible to survive in the real world."  Essentially, deal with it.

Oh well, such is life.  I dealt with it the best I could.  Mathematics was not my strong subject to begin with, as much as I tried, I still landed my first "C" in high school (okay, not counting P.E.).

I met a few Chinese girls in my new school.  They immigrated to the States during their teenage years, just like me.  Peer pressure was not something I had to deal with, not in my first high school, nor this school. Our conversations circled around school, classes, college, and the occasional flashback to our lives in Asia.  I started to wonder about my future.  

My mom always told me if I did not want to pursue higher education, I was free to go into whatever field I wanted to.  I would then, however, be responsible for my own livelihood.  It was my life, my decision, my consequences.  Deep down inside though, my Chinese upbringing told me that being responsible for oneself was not good enough.  Filial piety meant I had to have means of taking care of my parents in their golden years.  

I knew I did not have any special skills or talent.  I was not particularly good in art, sports, or crafts.  Education was the only way for me to live up to my obligations.  So I started looking into my options for college. 

No one in my family had graduated college, much less high school.   My parents said there was nothing they could do for me other than supporting me financially.  They told me to ask my classmates/friends/teachers if I had any questions on "college stuff."  Bottom line was, my future, my responsibility. 

Pearls of wisdom

My parents attitude towards life had a large impact on my adult life.  They taught me to be independent.  They taught me the value of diligence.  Their teaching was very matter-of-fact.  They didn't sugar-coat.

To them, being good parents meant providing me with a shelter, giving me an opportunity for education, and a chance to have a better life than theirs.  Along the way, they pointed out all my mistakes, hoping that I would not repeat them in the "real world."  After all, they said, it was better for them to get annoyed at me, than for a co-worker or a boss to do so. 

Did I enjoy the process?  Definitely not.  I felt like I was constantly nitpicked on. But the experience helped smooth out some of my rough edges so I could fit in the NT world better.  I would never be a NT.  I don't want to be one anyway.  I can, however, pretend to be one, at least long enough to do my job in the NT world, without major stress on my part.  

My parents didn't know about Asperger's syndrome or autism spectrum disorder.  Knowing them, even if they had knowledge of my condition at a young age, they probably would not have changed much of the ways they raised me.  To them, it was about survival.  It wasn't about who should accommodate who, or why one should accommodate another.  It wasn't about rights or pride.  It was about what was the most efficient way to fit in.


Pearls of wisdom #1
"You have to pay for life one way or the other. You either pay for it early on in life, or later on in life"

My parents said that since they did not have a mountain of gold to back me up, I had to learn a skill that would allow me to make a living.  My parents told me there was no shortcut in life.  I could either work really hard in school and get an education while I was under their wings, or I could play now and pay for it later.  The decision was up to me.

Pearls of wisdom #2
"You are kind of dumb, but you can make it up with diligence."

Throughout my teenage years, my parents thought I was dumb.  I didn't understand social cues, couldn't understand jokes, didn't know how to read between the lines.  They said I was like a bead on an abacus.  I had to be told what to do in many situations, without direct instructions, I had no initiative.

As harsh as it sounded, I was not hurt by this remark.   I interpreted it literally.  It was just a factual statement.   No more hurtful than someone describing the color of my hair.  Besides, they did not leave me stranded.   They gave me a solution.  I just had to work harder, if twice as hard was not enough, then I would try three times as hard.  I ended up spending many nights studying when I was in high school.  I was pulling all-nighters when my classmates were busy dating and socializing.  I whole-heartedly believed that if I worked hard enough, I could make up for any abilities I lacked.  Oddly, it actually became an encouragement and gave me hope. 

Thinking in pictures

I think in pictures.  By this I mean everything that goes through my head, whether it is an imagination, the past, the present, or the future, they all go through my mind as pictures or vivid movie clips.  I can fast forward, rewind, pause at any point, or hop from one scene to another.  I can do it quickly, efficiently, and naturally. 

I thought thinking in pictures was the norm.  No one ever told me otherwise until I met my husband, T.

As a visual thinker, I often have difficulty with verbal expression.  To verbalize what I see is a daunting task.  The overwhelming amount of details that I have to describe....just the thought of it tires me.  So most of the time, I would either give a very generic answer, or simply keep quiet, thus end up looking either uninterested or confused.  

A question as common as "How was work today?" can trigger clips of events at work to literally shoot through my mind like freight trains.  The amount of energy and emotion from the day, getting dumped on me at light speed is often enough to mute me.  Once the pandemonium takes over, I am no longer able to determine which frame to catch as a starting point to describe my day. 

Proper social etiquette tells me if someone asks me a question, an answer is expected.  The conflict of my inner desire to stay silent versus the social pressure to respond, along with the massive amount of visuals rushing through my head, stuttering in frustration is often the best I can do.

Emotions, to me, are felt as colors and temperatures.  Anger feels like a hot red pressure cooker with fume leaking out, happiness is a field of colorful flowers swaying in a cool spring breeze on a bright sunny day, and sadness is like being trapped in a cool bare dark cave.

I can see in layers as well.  When I am put in a spot to make important decisions.  The array of options radiates out of me like spokes of a tire.  Each leads to a destination with consequences.  I can see the paths and feel the consequences all within a matter of seconds.  Sometimes it happens so fast that I have to do a rewind just to make sure, kind of like when my email account asks me, "Are you sure you want to delete this message?" 

I did not realize that most people, including T, who is a very creative person, don't do what I do until he pointed it out to me.  From T's past experience as a kitchen designer, he assured me that most people could barely see in 2-D, much less think in pictures.  He told me the way I visualized information, and the speed I could do it at, was very rare and unique.

Well, rare or not, I don't really care, the practical question is....so is it a blessing or a curse? 

Post-it notes and I

I used a lot of post-it notes in high school.  They were found in every one of my textbooks.  Some textbooks had them on EVERY single page.  At end of school years, when I had to return my textbooks, my classmates had to help me peel all the post-it notes off.  They were amazed at the amount of details that went into them!

My first year in high school was my second year in the States.  I was too shy to speak, but I was able to understand majority of conversations.  My post-it notes went from just translations of words in textbooks to summarizing paragraphs, key events, and significant definitions.  I only used yellow post-in notes because my pen colors showed up better on them.  The 3"x3" ones were great for all purposes, while the larger pads were useful for my history books.  

There was a system to it.   I had a stash of keroppi pens from Sanrio, they wrote in blue, black, green, red, pink, and purple.  For every subject, each color represented one concept.  For example, in my history class, black ink represented name, red ink represented year, blue ink represented the name of an major event, and purple ink was what happened during the event.  In my math class, blue ink represented a formula, purple ink represented a definition, green ink represented an example that was worth re-studying.  In my English class, pink was for new vocabularies, blue was for grammar-related ideas, and black was for names. 

I summarized all the pertinent concepts from textbooks onto my sticky notes.  I got so efficient with my sticky notes that I studied off of them.  I rarely had to peel a sticky note off to read the text behind it.  If I needed to review a concept that was taught a few weeks ago,  I could remember what page the sticky note was on, the color of my information, and the location of my sticky note.  I could flip through pages of a thick textbook to locate what I need on a sticky note very easily. 

I took a lot of notes in class as well.  Unlike some of my classmates who could learn from listening, I had to write the information down, then learn from reading or looking at it.  The writing in my notebooks were color coded as well, I tried to keep the colors/concepts between my notebooks and sticky notes consistent.  So class time took a lot of concentration.  Not only was I busy listening/jotting down notes, I was also busy switching between my keroppi pens to make sure I didn't mess up. I wanted the consistency, it was important to me.  On occasions when my classmates missed class, I was usually the one they borrowed notes from. 

I started pulling all-nighters when I was in high school.  Procrastination was something I could not afford.    Organized information was how I learned.  I spent a lot of time organizing and writing my sticky notes, so much so that I sometimes ended up with only a day or two left to study them.  But my system overall worked very well for me.  Some of my classmates commented on the amount of effort I put into studying.  I just thought I was dumb, and I had to make it up with diligence. 

High school years

My first two high school years were spent in ESL (English as a Second Language) classes.  The first high school I attended was filled with Asian (mostly Vietnamese) students.  I became pretty good friends with a couple of Taiwanese girls.

Life was simple back then.  After every school day, I took a snack break when I got home. Then it was study time until my mom called us for dinner.  I helped clean up after dinner and it was study time again.  If I watched TV during school days, it was because I wanted to mimic their conversations.

My world was focused on studying.  Nothing else mattered, not fashion, not New Kids On The Block, not boy-crush.  I didn't have any idols, I wasn't into movie stars.  Just because I could read about people's lives didn't mean I knew them.  I never understood the reason for hanging up posters of strangers in one's room.  My bedroom had posters of unicorns. 

My weekends were spent either studying, watching Chinese movies with my mom at home, or hanging out with my girl friends.  The friends I had were in the same boat as I was, they were recent immigrants and studying was a big priority.  They were school-focused.  Dating was not on their mind, nor was it on their parents' agenda.  I felt comfortable with them. 

I wasn't particularly sociable, I was content spending my spare time at home.  But my mom wanted me to have a social life.  She said no one could live without friends.  She pushed me to go out to movies or shopping malls with friends whenever I was not studying.   I developed a hobby of collecting stickers during my high school years.  Trips to shopping malls gave me opportunities to build my sticker collection so I wasn't too resistant.  

My friends in high school thought I was bossy and opinionated.  I didn't see it that way, but I didn't care enough to explain nor explore.  I didn't care how others felt about me.  If they didn't like me, they could just hang around someone else instead. 

I used to tell my mom about all my interactions with friends.  Instead of just listening to the words that were exchanged, she often interjected with more questions.   She would ask me how a conversation came about, what facial expressions I saw, the tones of voice, and what body movements were involved.  She often said to me, "Daughter-ah, just remember, the same sentence, said in different tones, mean different things.  You have to be smart about it!" 

My sense of fashion was not developed in high school.  I wore whatever that was comfortable.  My grandmother sent my mom and I clothing from Hong Kong on a regular basis.  My closet was filled with stuff my mom and my grandmother bought.  I had no need to add to it.   On a few occasions, my mom told me to go clothes shopping with friends.  She was never pleased with my selections so I continued on wearing clothing my mom and my grandmother bought. 

Just as I was getting comfortable with the routines of my high school life.  We moved.