Border n.

A part that forms the outer edge of something.
A decorative strip around the edge of something, such as fabric.
A strip of ground, as at the edge of a garden or walk, in which ornamental plants or shrubs are planted.
The line or frontier area separating political divisions or geographic regions; a boundary.

c.1350, from O.Fr. bordure "seam, edge, border," from Frankish *bord (cf. O.E. bord "side"), from P.Gmc. *bordus "edge," from *borthaz. The geopolitical sense first attested 1535, in Scottish (replacing earlier march), from The Borders, district adjoining the boundary between England and Scotland.

Three months ago I was asked to write about border as an opening piece of a writer’s workshop. As an ultimate practitioner of procrastination, I didn’t start until a couple days before the deadline. Though it seems an easy task for me to write about border-crossing- why not my clichéd immigration story? - It takes me some time to put together my thoughts on paper. At the end I wrote about an unpleasant memory in my first Chemistry class and described how I crossed the border by intruding the harmonious Spanish-speaking classroom. I left the home that I’ve been living for one year, felt prepared, and headed towards Virginia.

As soon as I hurtled down from the plane after five horrible hours (figuratively, that is), I noticed the distinctness of myself among the other young writers. Almost all of them are white, over half of them go to private school, none of them speak Chinese and all of them were born in the United States. Basically, they are everything I am not. They are very nice and friendly people and they all live in the same culture. The problem is…I don’t.

Living in San Francisco, I feel safe and at ease being different. I go to school with different people, I speak different languages at school and at home, I wear different clothes, I eat different food and I listen to different music. I move from Hong Kong, which is a very homogeneous society, to San Francisco, an environment that advocates diversity and I took one year to get used to it. In San Francisco, border means nothing to me. San Franciscans together form a big piece of jigsaw that each of us is different, and together we made a beautiful picture. Border doesn’t exist among us because we tolerate friction and distinctiveness.

It’s not easy to be different. When my newly made friends talk excitedly about David Bowie and their faces flow with the happiness of recognition and bond, I try to smile and said “Oh…” Occasionally I speak English in fragments because I still need to translate my thoughts in my brain. When I am flustered it gets even worse and after a while I become really quiet. When I didn’t laugh at an old joke that everyone knows (or maybe I couldn’t even figure out what he said because he rumbled too fast) and people cast me suspicious glances, I nervously blink and look away. And then I learn. I learn to laugh without knowing the reason. I can’t tell which one is more pathetic: not knowing when to laugh or not knowing why to laugh? I am outside of the border by myself. I fear to cross because I am afraid of the thorns and barbs surrounding it.

One typical warm night in Virginia, I sat in front of my desk and struggled to finish my homework for the next day. The fan breezed steamy air on my face. I looked around and all of a sudden miss home so much. The urge of writing my feelings down overwhelmed me and I was more productive then ever. As I am writing on and on about my bitter feelings towards border, I realized I overlooked what I gained from this journey. Indeed I am standing alone on the borderland, frustrated in the mist of disappointment and my own reflection, I also hold a precious opportunity to poke into and explore a different world. As I bounce back when I try to approach the other side, as I got wounds and cuts when I reach out to make a difference, I was strengthened through self-therapy. My faith to carry on was vitalized because I am prepared to face more challenges on my way. At the end of the workshop, there was an open-mic night for every participant to share his or her writing. I read my border piece- the new one- and sincerely share my feelings. It seems to me that I can still hear the burst of applauses that night whenever I look at my piece again. This trip is an incredible journey of personal growth and re-establishment of identity. I dare to be different and not be ashamed of it.

When I talk to Carly, my suite counselor in Virginia, about how I felt about standing outside the border and stuck in the middle of nowhere, she told me the middle of nowhere is beautiful. And I agree.