If there’s one thing I hate most, it’s being compared to other well-behaved family members or old friends. I can’t change the way I am permanently. I’ve tried. It’s hard to do, it’s stupid, and it’s not needed. I can’t magically earn straight A’s. That shit’s harder than it seems. I’m not the most “Asian” person you’ll meet. I don’t even meet the basic standards for such label. I don’t care as much as I should. I am not the best.

My imperfects are what keep me sane. I trip on smooth surfaces, and that’s alright. I drop plastic containers while I dry them, and that’s alright. I forget to fold the laundry and that’s alright because I’ve got my whole life to do that one load of clothes.

You’re the only reason why I’m competitive around things you admire. Why else would I have said yes to piano lessons? To impress you so you’d stop exclaiming how my cousin was “so talented.” Why else do you think I attempted to open up to you? So once I move to San Fran, you wouldn’t feel so abandoned. Why else do you think I stay out of your way in the morning? So you wouldn’t start off with a bad day. I love you as much as a child should, but for the most of my life, I feel the need to stop breathing the same air you inhale.