Beyond Nostalgia

The joys of using adverbs, liberally

“Right person, wrong time” is a romantic notion that you have met someone who you aren’t ready for. You fumble and let that person get away, but in an alternate universe, under different circumstances, you two could have been perfect together.

For me, the one who got away isn’t a person but a place. My first real love was San Francisco. I grew up in the suburbs, an hour drive away from the city. I thought of San Francisco as a metropolis, the center of the world. After graduating from college, I got a job at an office in Potrero Hill and coincidentally found an apartment in the neighborhood, on Rhode Island St. Living in Potrero Hill was a dream. My west-facing bedroom window framed a view of Sutro Tower. From the kitchen window, you could glimpse the infamous skate park. Sometimes the GX1000 crew would skate outside our door, using the entry stoop as an obstacle.

I have been living on the east coast now for almost 5 years. My heart still aches for San Francisco. I miss watching sunsets from my apartment balcony while listening to Tame Impala. My roommate would get annoyed at me for smoking weed in the house. But I only smoked at sunset, and anyone with my window view would have done the same.

I was born in the year of the ox, and according to the Chinese zodiac, I am supposed to be patient and persistent but slow to take action. I wasn’t slow to decide to attend grad school though. For some reason, I had already assumed at college graduation that I would immediately apply for schools that autumn and only work for one year. I didn’t think about it too much. If I had been deliberate about the decision, I probably would have tortured myself with overthinking. Impulsiveness was my defense mechanism. I would force myself to grow.

At the last minute, I didn’t want to leave. I wrote to the dean about deferring my admission and attending the following year, but Princeton didn’t offer deferrals. I had received a full ride scholarship; I would be an idiot not to accept the opportunity. My last few days in California, I kept burping, stomach acid bubbling up my throat. I was nauseated with anxiety. I wasn’t ready.

I lost 30 pounds during my first semester in Princeton. The weight loss was an inadvertent consequence of stress. My loneliness and lack of control in my new environment made me lose my appetite. It was the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. There was nothing to do but to study. I imagined myself as a nun, forgoing pleasure. The university was a sacred convent, a place of ritual penance.

My last semester at Princeton, Michael and I started hanging out. I was going through a hard time and my dear friend Helen invited me to stay at her Brooklyn apartment and get away from school. Her housemate was gone for a few days, so I could have a bedroom to myself. When Michael found out I was in New York, he asked me to hangout, and we have been “hanging out” ever since. Neither Michael nor I expected to fall in love. In fact, I was not wanting to become romantically entangled. I didn’t want to lose control of my feelings. I refused to drink at all for the first two months because I wanted to be absolutely lucid. I wanted to know, to be certain, that I wanted to be with him. Despite my stone cold sobriety, I felt a warm ecstasy when we were together. The feeling was what I had imagined love to be like when I first conceptualized romance from the YA fiction masterpiece Twilight as a middle school girl. The specific quote is:

“About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was a part of him—and I didn’t know how potent that part might be—that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.”

When Cynthia Davidson expressed her disdain for adverbs in a writing seminar, I immediately thought of this quote from Twilight. As an 11 year old, I had thought that this was poetic prose. But now that I have acquired someone else’s taste, a more educated, refined palette, I should know better. Rather than modify another word, one should be diligent in choosing the most appropriate word in the first place. Adverbs are messy and superfluous, an indicator of bad writing.

My relationship to luxury is a bit convoluted. Coco Chanel (?) once said that the best things in life are free…and the second best are very, very expensive. Capitalist society has us focused on chasing the second best things — botox, prada, instagram likes — because there’s no money in valuing the free things. I’m not immune to materialist desires, in fact I love shopping, but I love laughter, sleep, and sunsets even more. I love the honesty of beautiful, free things. There’s no need for cosmetic enhancements; it just is good.

My immigrant parents were always very conscious of recognizing socioeconomic status expressed in the built environment. “Bad neighborhood” indicators included shoes dangling from overhead electrical wires, graffiti, men loitering about, car dealerships…even a decent looking neighborhood with modest homes but luxury cars parked outside was a sign of insecurity and overcompensation. For my parents, the only thing you should ever spend lots of money on is a home. All other material items are relatively unimportant and depreciate in value immediately after purchase.

What is a home? It is where you sleep and eat. I am a homebody. It is where you fantasize about returning to in the afternoon at work. I want to go home. It is the destination you input into Uber after a late night out. I can’t wait to get home. My parents understood that a home is not just a house. It’s no use having a fancy house in the middle of nowhere. A home is part of a neighborhood and community. The local library, cafes, restaurants, and parks all contribute to a sense of belonging.

So where do I belong? Where do I place myself?

My spider orchid re-bloomed in March. It is an exquisite, high maintenance specimen. The plant had laid dormant for over a year, and I always believed that when it flowered, if it ever did again, something magical would happen. On Wednesday March 12, Michael called me while I was at work. He was at an apartment viewing in Chinatown. He wanted to know if I could come see it. He sent me a video walkthrough of the unit. It was so spacious; if it weren’t for the view of Brooklyn Bridge from the balcony, I would have assumed it was a suburban home in New Jersey. There were stickers — a dragonfly, a Jordan jumpman logo, a glow-in-the-dark star — remnants of a childhood lived.

If I were an apartment unit, I would be this one — a bit beat but nailing all the important things. Every morning, I struggle to clean out the bits of egg white under my gel manicure from peeling hard boiled eggs for breakfast. I am disciplined. I Facetime my parents every weekend. I exclusively eat whole grains. I go to work. I am honest. The only person I enjoy deceiving is myself. The neighborhood has some grime, but also has countless Chinese elders. If it’s safe for a 94 year old grandma who barely walks or speaks English, it’s also safe for me. The home is imperfect and charming, like the filthy 11 year old girl who enjoys using adverbs liberally.

In two weeks, we will be moving to that apartment. And in another two weeks, we will be married. Life catapults forward, wildly, terrifyingly, ecstatically!