For Something Good
In elementary school, whenever I had a test or if my dad had an important job interview, my mom would ask me to get on my knees and pray for something good before I went to sleep. Back then, I didn’t really know what I believed in, but I thought there had to be someone listening.
Or else, what was the point?
As I got older, what I believed in never really became much clearer, but I kept praying for something good. My dad’s safe return from business trip flights. A good grade on a math test. A day without overthinking on the bus ride home. I trusted my mom that this made a difference.
But during high school, when we all seem to be lost in some way, I had fully convinced myself that I was a bad person. I thought I would feel this way forever. I started praying for something bad.
I asked something you might say in a game of “Would You Rather”, huddled with friends on a bed of wood chips beneath the playground slide during recess.
“I know this sounds crazy, but could you take away all the pain of my family and friends and put it on me so I can hurt for them?” I whispered, hands clasped and lips moving in a fluttered dance. “I can take it.”
I saw pain as a gateway for understanding. And as true as it is that one can never fully understand something until they have lived it, I was praying for pain as retribution. I wanted to be good and punishment seemed like my equalizer.
In my European History class in junior high, we learned about 14th century flagellantism. They seemed insane, but I wondered if they felt the same as I did. Wanting to bring a little more heaven on earth, whatever that meant.
When I think about this version of myself and catch glimpses of her when reading through old scrawled journal entries at 3 a.m. on my phone, I can’t wait for her to see that she finds something new and hopeful as a gateway for understanding. Storytelling.
Growing up, what stuck with me about stories was the way they made me feel. Black Beauty taught me the simple reach of humanity. Nancy Drew injected my nights with suspense and wonder. Calvin and Hobbes made me nostalgic over my morning bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal.
Even more so with people, I care about how I make people feel. Some of my favorite compliments I have ever received had been, “You make me want to be a better person” and “You make me feel special.” How people make us feel stays with us forever. It can give us a little heaven on earth. It can make us believe in something good.
This is what I try to bring to every story I tell. In the four minutes it takes to read my article, I hope people leave with a glimmer of what it feels like to breathe and be and live this person’s life.
As a Chinese American in journalism and daughter of two parents in the STEM field, I am constantly trying to prove myself and make them proud. In some ways, I am always living for them.
But when I write, I write for the people whose story I am telling. This is where the heart of journalism beats strongest. When we write for something good.
We write because we know someone is listening.
