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A couple years after  leaving corporate high-tech marketing,  I began a business teaching Mandarin to young children though music, dance, stories, and play. In many ways it was the perfect job.  It involved everything I loved– children, the arts, literacy,  second-language acquisition, and Chinese language and culture. I travelled to Taiwan to painstakingly pick out just the right Chinese instruments, folk dance accessories, music, books, and posters for my students.  I designed fun-filled lessons using stuffed animals, balloons, scarves, ribbon sticks, drums, triangles, all manner of percussion instruments, fans, balls, books, puzzles, puppets, and gym mats.  My clients were adorable toddlers and pre-schoolers.  If there were any discipline problems,  parents stepped right in. I was the director and set my own hours. My ideas and the possibilities were endless. I was being paid for being creative!

The concept for this business came from my Stanford friend Sabrina’s sister Julie.  Julie had designed a program called Music Around the World,  a bilingual Mommy and Me music curriculum for children ages 1-4.  When she asked me if I wanted to teach one of  her Mandarin music classes, I  had been taking a break from work and following my dream of taking painting, ballet, modern dance, and Chinese dance classes.  My husband Steve was happy to support my exploring the arts since I had always seemed unsatisfied in my jobs.   I felt that I should at least make a little money part-time,  so I agreed. To my surprise,  I was very good at teaching music to young children. The classes involved singing songs, teaching rhythm and intonation, and creative movement. I began supplementing the curriculum with my own books, songs, and other materials and choreographing dances; and imagined branching off on my own and designing a music and dance-based Chinese as a Second Language program that was uniquely mine. Around  2004,  I founded Little Bamboo Chinese Language, Music, and Dance.

Whereas Julie’s Music Around the World classes were located in the South Bay, (Cupertino, Palo Alto, Mountain View  etc.)  I started my classes across the Bay in Fremont and in Milpitas, further from the center of Silicon Valley where housing was cheaper and where lived. I didn’t want to compete with Julie and I also wanted to teach closer to home.

Sign ups for my  first classes were impressive. Classes were packed.   But there was a big difference between the students who signed up for my Little Bamboo classes and those in my previous classes: My students were almost all Chinese.  When I taught for Julie, my students were predominantly  non-Asian, mostly Caucasian, adopted from China, or mixed Chinese and Caucasian.  Now almost all of my students had Chinese parents who spoke Chinese at home. (I had recently moved to Milpitas from San Jose and was aware that there  were more Asians in our neighborhood, but I did not think native Chinese speakers would sign up for my class. ) I was an excellent Chinese teacher for students and parents learning Chinese as a second language, but my curriculum was not geared toward heritage Chinese speakers!  I became overly self-conscious that I was  not a native speaker. I  began preparing a script for my lessons so as to manage grammatical mistakes and was embarrassed by my American accent. My lessons that used to be free-flowing, creative and full of imagination became rigid, repetitive, and controlled Although my Chinese was probably fine for the young children, I did not have the fluency to explain and instruct a group of native Chinese parents.  And since my clients were Chinese, I felt that I should provide a 100% immersion environment and rarely spoke English.  Uncomfortable, robotic, and overly self-aware, I lost my hallmark joy and charisma, the qualities that  made me a good teacher.

After each class as I packed up bin and after bin of carefully selected instruments, toys, flashcards and puppets, I felt phonier and phonier. I had all the best materials and a research-based curriculum, but I was not qualified  to teach my own class.  My perfect business was not working out.

Reflections:  When I realized Little Bamboo was not working out,  I was pretty disappointed. I had poured my heart into my program and had no idea what to do next.  It was strike three. I was 0-3 in my finding a job that I was right not me.  Luckily, I  found a Chinese friend to teach my  classes for me and my business was sustained for about a year before I closed shop.  I did teach the class  a few times at Karis Academy  near my home in Irvine (my clients were about half Chinese). But being older and already a mom myself, I was no longer self-conscious and just focussed on creating fun experiences for the kids.  (I stopped teaching the that  time  because teaching toddlers is so exhausting! )A few  years ago I self- published my curriculum under the name Sing With Me in Mandarin so all is not lost. You can find it on Amazon (my daughter and son sang the songs for the CD and did the artwork.)  I hope parents and teachers  can find it helpful.   Here is the link : Sing With Me in Mandarin.

Teaching music and Mandarin to young children  had suddenly immersed me in a strange world of toddlers, cute babies, tired moms, strollers and diaper bags. Ironically, it became a world that I personally could not access.  Perhaps it was best that things did not pan out because I was soon to begin a season of infertility.

Questions For Discussion:  Have you ever started a business, big or small? How did it work out? When in your life has failure become a gift in disguise?

In July of 2001 I joined a fiber-optics startup company as a sales and marketing assistant.  I reported  to the Vice President of Sales and Marketing which meant his job was to direct the company’s sales and marketing efforts, and, since we were a department of two, my job was to do all the work on the ground.  I found vendors to design our website, logo, flyers, and banners. I wrote website content, press releases, advertising copy, and data sheets.  I managed our first trade show and cold-called anyone who could remotely be a  potential customer.   It was satisfying to see our marketing programs come into fruition, and was convinced we had great technology, but unfortunately,  we weren’t getting any customers.

Shortly after our first product launch,  employees were told that all salaries were to be cut by 70%. ” Excuse me, did you say our salaries will be cut by 17%?” I asked  unbelieving.  “It’s 70%,” our president repeated.  Later that afternoon we were informed that since a 70% decrease would mean many of us, including myself, would be making less than minimum wage, we would be given the minimum wage salary instead.

Things went downhill from there. Meetings were hushed behind closed doors and politics was rampant.  I learned very quickly I was on the losing team.  “This ship is sinking,” my manager told me. ” He was right. Within a few months,  everyone in our office (except a few top executives) had been laid off.

Author’s Reflections
Leaving the teaching profession was strike one for me. After this job, I was sure I didn’t want a career in sales and marketing, so that was strike two. Although I enjoyed creating glossy materials and overseeing marketing projects from beginning to end,  I needed something meaningful, an ideal,  to motivate me. I was in the “real world” of business and discovered I did not fit in.  This meant I would have to start all over again in my search for career.
I did not want a strike three.

Questions  for Reflection or Discussion
Have you ever found yourself  in the wrong job? Have you ever quit a job to start something new, only to find that your new career path was not a good fit either? Do you have a  story about starting over?

By spring of 1994 my time in Taiwan was drawing to a close. I had almost finished my second year of Chinese studies and began asking myself what I was going to do when I returned to the States.  I thought I might pursue graduate studies in comparative literature but knew my Chinese was not good enough.  I was afraid to pursue journalism in Taiwan even though I had some contacts and it was something I really wanted.  Aside from keeping a journal,  I stopped writing because I doubted my ability.  I considered law school. Three years of professional school with a clear career objective and good income was attractive. But I couldn’t see myself  a lawyer. The uncertainty of the future and my inability to chose a profession ripped me  up inside.

I remember angrily screaming at the bathroom mirror one night. My roommates weren’t  home so I let myself cry.  The window was open but I wasn’t worried about alarming my neighbors. Domestic abuse was common in our apartment building. I loathed my inability to make a decision. I was so frustrated.  I hated my life.

One day not too long after this incident I had stayed home from classes because I was not feeling well.  It was particularly hot that day and my apartment did not have air conditioning. Having woken up from my nap sweaty and weak with flu symptoms,  I walked over to the pharmacy to get some medicine. The woman there gave me several packets of pills wrapped in paper and I took them when I got home.

The next thing I knew I was on the bathroom floor. I must’ve overdosed on the pills. As I was getting up, I knocked the back of my head hard on the bathroom sink and slammed back onto the ground. Lying supine, I discovered I could not breathe nor  move my limbs. I was paralyzed.  Since I could not breathe, I was probably going to die.

I looked around, praying there were no cockroaches on the floor near me.  Thankfully, there were none.  I did not want to die with cockroaches around me. (Surprisingly I feared cockroaches but  was not afraid of death. ) My life flashed before my eyes.  I remember praying that my parents would know God, feeling sorry I was upset at one of my friends for not offering to pay for her meals,  and regretting all the time I wasted worrying about my future.  In a moment of clarity I heard the words:    “Give, you must give. This is the meaning of your life.”  My mind was clear and I felt peace. Albeit a little late, finally I had direction.

Author’s Reflections:
After receiving the revelation (which I believe was from God),  I was able to breathe. I crawled back to my bedroom and passed out on my bed. One of my roommates found me and called over a doctor friend who diagnosed me with a concussion. The words “Give, you must give” have never left me.  I have not always liked those words, but I know they are to guide my life. In giving I will find meaning.  I’m still not sure exactly how.

My mom flew with me to Taiwan. It was sweltering hot. She settled me in with some relatives and made sure I was in good hands. Her brother worked not far from my teaching assignment in Taipei. I stayed with my my grandfather’s brother and his wife in a nearby suburb. Before returning home my mom took me to Taiwan University Hospital to meet up with a nursing school classmate who worked there and ask if she could arrange for me to volunteer (candy stripe). The hospital was old, walls were cement, and stainless steel carts of instruments and food containers squeaked through the halls. I was repulsed by the smell of the hospital chemicals and had an overwhelming desire to bolt. I can’t remember the conversation, just that I never followed up on that suggestion.  This hospital encounter was followed by a magical summer. I found it deeply meaningful to connect with relatives I had grown up hearing stories about and to carve out a place for myself in my family history where strangely, I belonged. I developed rapport with the university students I taught. We were the same age, so different culturally, yet so alike. I enrolled myself in a Chinese class for foreigners. I loved studying Chinese and once completely missed my bus stop having found myself at the end of the route at a remote part of town entirely engrossed in a book about the meaning of individual Chinese radicals and characters. I was fascinated.

That summer, like the last, ended bittersweet. I had a wonderful time in Taiwan. My heart felt full and happy. I felt alive, true to myself, able to thrive. At the same time I was saddened to realize that as much as I wished I could please my parents and continue down the pre-med track, it wasn’t going to work out. I was trying my best to be mature and obedient about my future. Figure out a practical career and major to pursue in place of medicine. At the same time I was passionate and full of dreams. This split mind was tearing me apart.

Upon my return to the States I told my dad I couldn’t study medicine and was ready to withdraw from Stanford and transfer to a less expensive school.

Questions for Discussion: Was I being rebellious? Was changing schools the right thing to do? What do you think?

Stanford was an overachiever’s paradise. I was sure to flourish in the environment of excellence, intellectualism, learning, activism, clubs, dorms, and new friends. The campus was tranquil and conducive to dreaming.

At the same time, starting day one, an undercurrent of anxiety about my major began gnawing at my mind. When someone would ask, “So what are you going to major in?” I’d tentatively say “Biological Sciences” or respond apologetically that I wasn’t sure. The second day of school I found myself in the Career Center searching for answers. I had developed a weekly ritual of stopping by the center, flipping through internship and job binders; scanning through books about careers (this was pre-internet) and collecting flyers. Some days I was hopeful, other days painfully aware of just going through the motions of a desperate routine.

Fall quarter my schedule was packed with general requirements. My first pre-med course was not offered until winter. I took Chinese as an elective, and began exploring my nascent Asian-American identity.

Winter quarter I took my first Chemistry course. The seriousness and anticipation in the lecture hall among the future doctors ready to prove themselves was palpable. Although I had done well in high school chemistry and taken a community college course that previous summer, the course was difficult. The professor’s response to my request to explain a concept I had read but could not understand was “it’s in the book”. I went to every office hour and review session for help and earned my first B.

Spring quarter I took Organic Chemistry. Went to every review and office hour, got a tutor. Another B. I guessed and memorized my way through the class. I couldn’t understand why the answers on problem sets and tests were incorrect or correct. I disliked the subject matter. How could I tell my parents? How could I waste their money? If I wasn’t pre-med what would I study?

Summer was approaching and I needed to make the most of it. Do something that would contribute to my future. Get a job to alleviate the stress of college tuition. Figure out a Plan B. When discussing this issue with my roommate Julie I confessed that what I really wanted to do was go to Taiwan. I could learn about my family history. I could support myself teaching English and learn Chinese. But this wasn’t impossible. How could I line up a position overseas in a few short weeks? The following Sunday Julie shared my desire with the pastor of her Taiwanese church and within a couple of weeks I received a written offer for a well-paying job teaching English that summer from the pastor’s brother, Director of the Taipei YMCA.

I finished my freshman year confused and discouraged about academics and career, yet excited about my new adventure.

Author’s Reflections:

I knew my pre-med classes were not working out and that I couldn’t sustain an interest in the sciences. . The only class I fully enjoyed was Chinese, which I could take cheaply at a state or community college. Each class at Stanford translated to thousands of dollars. My parents were toiling away at the motel they had bought and managed and I was flushing their money down a toilet at a fancy private school. I felt anguished, stressed, guilty, terrible. Should I have gone to college without knowing what I would major in? Should I have gone to Stanford? Should I have taken some time off to refocus, work, or take transferable units at a community college in light of how expensive tuition was?

Looking back I can see how incredibly alone I was when it came to deciding on my major. I was ashamed that I didn’t know what I wanted. It was difficult to explain to my peers who seemed focused and prepared. I couldn’t ask my parents for help because the least I could do was tell them what I did want to do if I didn’t want to go to medical school. I had good friends I could talk to from home but nobody, no counselor, could give me the magical answer I desired.

I did not understand then that sometimes in life we can’t find the answers we are looking for, that sometimes direction is found step by step, and that some things take a long time, a lifetime to make sense. Sometimes we can’t see the wisdom in a circuitous path and what we we think we have to have is not really what we need most. We must often settle for imperfect plans. We all make mistakes, but there are second chances. I did not know then that even if I chose a “wrong” major that I had a lifetime to discover what I wanted to do.

I had implored God to speak to me, tell me what to major in and what career would be best for me. I prayed my entire freshman year and heard nothing. Yet I asked briefly for God to provide a way for me to go to Taiwan and that prayer was answered immediately. So I had to start learning to live with the dichotomy of a God who is close and miraculous but at the same time often silent. I would later learn that God was working out a plan completely different from the type I was pleading for.