A high school type of love: A personal essay

And it’s looking back at the memories, at how much we’ve changed this past year, when I truly realize the magnitude of the impact you have had on me.
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And it’s looking back at the memories, at how much we’ve changed this past year, when I truly realize the magnitude of the impact you have had on me.
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The road since the start of this year has been long, but as a Chinese American student here, I think I’ve finally come to love my honey and silk.
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I’m long past caring about censorship only when it comes to Snapchat, but I’ve found a new appreciation for the ability to use social media as I wish.
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I quickly came to learn that the “s-word” was something to tip-toe around at home, something we acted like didn’t exist, that was fully off-limits.
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Though I have been able to leave behind much of my need for white validation, my discomfort with the feeling of never fully fitting in remains.
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On the first day of class, my professor explained that he’s done drugs and has had multiple wives, and ergo, should be deemed “cool and hip” in our eyes.
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The label of being the “model minority” — one that I rarely find any Asian American actually taking pride in — is more discriminatory than it is flattering.
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English, to me, felt trendy, international. It slipped out of my mouth as smooth as caramel. Chinese was awkward, bulky, mundane, like chewing coffee beans.
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We were too young then to realize how abnormal this was — how unreasonable it is to expect a barely chubby child to stay below a certain weight for looks
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And while my mother comforted me, she would often whisper, “Don’t be sad. We are so lucky to have gotten to move to America.”
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