finding identity in the things we build
notes on the american dream
When my grandparents came to the US from China, they immediately noted the excess that seemed to spill out of every corner of American life. Academics once forced into toil, starvation, and poverty by the Great Leap Forward, they were overwhelmed by overstuffed grocery stores the size of factories, by McMansions the size of palaces.
My grandparents indulged in the spoils of suburban America. They loved thrifting (before it was cool), the time and space to learn new things, a vibrant garden, and using public transportation for no apparent end. They hunted outlet malls, grocery stores, and farmers markets for senior deals, fresh cantaloupe, and sweet corn.
They are some of the people I admire most—always focused on beautiful things, growth, learning, and gratitude despite having endured extreme poverty, famine, and social ostracization. In their younger years, they had built lives that had, in an instant, been taken away. Now, in their decision to come to America to help raise their grandkids, they had once again given up their lives—only this time, it was voluntary.
The American dream is nebulous. What it means depends on who you ask and how they got here. Their dream, like my mother’s and like countless immigrant families, was their children. And like so many other kids of immigrants, this weight of collective obligation was never lost on me. If I become successful, it will only be attributable to a support system built from abundant love.
identity exists in what we create
My identity was never a given. Like a lot of mixed-culture kids, I was not quite one thing nor another, and instead of aligning myself with a particular social group, I became a chameleon. As I got older, I developed a gradual acceptance of each part of my cultural identity through lots of research, family history, and deep conversations.
I grew up with such an abundance of love that it might be considered cheating, no matter the socioeconomic circumstance. That love came in equal parts but different forms from both the Chinese and American parts of my family. Despite nontrivial cultural differences, both sides aligned on what was important: family, education, and actualization of self.
Both my parents are, in my view, entrepreneurs. My father abruptly ended a long career in academia to become a potter, opening a studio and eventually starting a business to design and manufacture pottery tools. My mother, besides being the co-founder of that business, is an entrepreneur of a different kind.
She fled China in 1989 to come to the US. When she crossed the bridge into Hong Kong, she knew that she might never see her family again. After decades of hard work in China and a year in Guam, she made it to the US, where she started from nothing. Building a life and building a business are both entrepreneurial pursuits.
It was always difficult to place my cultural identity. It’s made me good at code switching. I grew up in Wisconsin and have not lived outside of the US, but like many third culture kids, I always felt sort of foreign. My dad’s family, an American family, spent many of its formative years as expatriates in Belgium. My mom, of course, is Chinese. Neither knew very much about Wisconsin prior to moving there—they didn’t know about the Packers, nor the tradition of deer hunting, cabins on lakes, or renting a tuxedo for prom.
I resolved long ago that my identity is defined partially by what created me and mostly by what I create. It is informed partially by where I live, but mostly by the people I surround myself with and the ideas I consume.
If the sky falls, the ground will be there to catch you.
“What was it all for?”
“You.”
“What did you want me to become?”
“Yourself.”
Kids of immigrants tend to carry around a sense of obligation—we bear part of the sacrifice made by our parents who gave up their world. They had fulfilled themselves in their homelands and built their lives as academics, artists, and studied professionals. When they got here, they were not welcome or understood. Many came alone, and built from scratch.
My mom has only been fired from one job. She was a waitress at a Chinese restaurant in Fort Collins, Colorado, and the owner decided that she wasn’t carrying trays elegantly enough. Years later, she navigated the buddy-buddy boys club corporate culture of the late 90s. Always a meritocrat and never a politician, she was time and again passed up on promotions despite outperforming entire divisions.
Immigrant parents are known for tough love. Suffer now—work hard, study, focus—enjoy later. Many parents, regardless of immigrant status, are also known to project their desires onto their children. The combination of the two, plus the weight of obligation, can break you.
graduation day
Even if this projection is not direct, it’s often implicated. Sometimes, it’s cultural. A major tenant of Chinese culture is filial piety (孝) - a “virtue of respect for one's parents, elders, and ancestors.” What do we owe? How do we repay?
Many immigrant kids pay their debt of obligation by trading their childish ambitions for pragmatic ones. A career in the arts becomes a career in accounting. Stability and practicality become the predominant criteria for decision making.
My mom thinks this is a travesty. Did I make all of these sacrifices only for you to make them too? “The point of all this,” she says, “is for you to achieve yourself. Not my idea of you, but yours” (but inevitably, she is still strongly opiniated about my love life, my health, my grades, etc.). But of course, she is only half right. The chain of filial piety goes back generations, and it will not stop with mine.
Filial piety is a virtue of sacrifice, through and through. It is an acknowledgement that you are part of a collective whole, and that everything you achieve and everything you sacrifice is shared. It is about parents taking care of their children, and children taking care of their parents.
to achieve oneself
This acknowledgement of sacrifice has informed major decisions in my life in perhaps a different way than my peers. When I went to college, I felt obligated to make it worthwhile. The ROI metric implied by my parents was not post-college salary but self-actualization (which entails some kind of earning). So I met everyone, worked my way into a selective program, earned many scholarships, made top marks, started and ran several organizations, and founded a business.
When I graduated, I wasn’t sure what came next. My default plan was to try building a business. Just in case (and to see if I was actually employable), I applied to a couple jobs. When I received offers, I called my parents. They told me to stay the course, pointing to successful relatives and family friends and their own business as reasons why. So I continued building.
My grandparents have a saying: “if the sky falls, the ground will be there to catch you.” If making the run for self-sufficiency straight out of college seems naive or privileged, that’s because it is. Even if you are financially self-sufficient, these decisions carry a much greater collective weight. I can pay rent and eat out occasionally, but I am far from my earning potential. Personal sovereignty, ironically, is only possible with a safety net.
what you value
Currently, my life can be sufficiently summarized by two interrelated objectives:
To be happy
To become a successful founder
I’m primarily interested in working in two spaces:
Complex, multivariate, wicked problems. Big ideas! My current thesis is: exploring belonging and fluidity in complex systems.
Helping other people build valuable things, especially early-stage startups that solve for (1).
The reason I am drawn to solving the problem of belonging in the complex system that is remote work (1) with Helm is multifaceted. For one, I’m intrigued by its complexity—think of all the social systems that have been deconstructed and rebuilt by remote work. Think of all the things we haven’t thought of in this near future of human interaction, and all the missing pieces still to be found.
But also, I think of people who never belonged in the workplace, and the quiet but devastating toll it took on them and their families. Think of the daily isolation endured by so many who did not feel included or valued at work. My mom was successful for one reason: she was unwilling to compromise on herself. She did not tolerate disrespect, and actively (often loudly) fought it. The Midwest is not known for being confrontational. She was.
And then there’s the matter of building valuable things (2). Relay, the 0→1 product development team I co-operate, helps other early stage founders build their own visions of how the world ought to be. It is an incredible value multiplier—to achieve oneself and to help others do the same. It’s an immensely exciting and enriching way to see the world.
The things you create come from all around you and deep within you. Where there is reason there is almost always an exponent of emotion—the problems you choose to dedicate your time to solving; the way you solve them; the risks you take; the way you value opportunity.
This month has been great. We’re working with some brilliant teams at Relay, and continuing to grow Helm step by step. But also, life’s been great (and, for once, extremely consistent). My friends, who I admire, are all feeling a tailwind of momentum with their startups, projects, etc. Something exceptional is going to happen here.