Confessions of a Cat-holic (29)

Couldn't you tell that it was a city girl yearning for escape from the traps and dangers of the endless rat race for a medical degree in the Central district? I was even desperate enough to try Marine Biology lab at Brown, an area almost no Asians would like to get in, which meant I could just be away from all the insensible competition to fight for a seat at the medical school. I made it clear enough in my essay that I was not keen to become a doctor. I would rather conduct scientific research, perhaps in a remote island, for the rest of my life. Out of all the options on the Brown application, I picked scientific research first, then agriculture the second. Maybe that notion of "flee America" finally did come through in the voice of my essays.

Here was another essay I submitted to all of the colleges I applied.

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I blush all the time. People sometimes call me a big red apple. My face, this extraordinary part of my body, is like a malfunctioning machine. I can never predict when it is going to be switched on. But it is so frequent that it has never been surprising to hear my friends or schoolmates ask, "Amy, did you get a suntan?" This is not as humiliating as the moment when my face burns like a furnace as I am debating, acting or playing basketball.

The audience seemed to be distracted by my face no matter what I said or did. The potential discredit of my performances had been my greatest worry and pain. For the last seventeen years, I have been struggling to peacefully coexist with this influx of blood beneath my skin.

However, while playing a Chinese traditional piece, "Laughing in Front of the Sea", on the guzheng (a Chinese harp) for a Chinese Cultural Evening, I experienced something, which made me realize the beauties of my blush and feel truly comfortable with it. It was not until that precise moment when I reviewed my reason to get rid of this "face".

Going up to the stage, I could feel the familiar flush of blood to my face. But once I started to pluck the first note, I only concentrated on playing the guzheng and forgot about myself. Losing track of the crowd, I was so absorbed in the world of music that I could only breathe and move and sway, not distracted by anything else. I pictured that I was in front of the sea as my fingers made waves of graceful guzheng notes. In an attempt to convey this image, I put my mark on this traditional piece.

Right after my finger delicately plucked the last note, I regained my "consciousness", worrying if my blush would have discredited my performance. But just as I turned to the crowd after the piece ended, the sea of people applauded loudly. The unexpected standing ovation made me feel completely comforted and assured my passions for music. Contented with my face and my performance, I laughed in front of the sea of faces. That instant still remains vivid in my mind.

Being a perfectionist who strives for the best in all possible areas, I now feel ashamed of having been bothered by my red face. I began to recognize that everyone is born imperfect and correcting my "flaw" would simply turn me into another person. Though I once feared to express my emotions and wanted to hide my cherry face, I now recognize my blush as a symbol of passion and a source of my courage. I no longer want the dead and pallid face of others. It is my desire to be the one face that always stands out.

Any musician can create pleasant noise, but not all guzheng players can play with emotion. Ever since my beginning days, my playing has always had intensity and passion. This "flush of blood" to my playing is my greatest asset, for even if my skill is wanting, my vigor makes up for it. By not resigning myself to a regular performance, I always seek to put my flair into everything I do. I have learned that my cherry face, even as a defining characteristic, is only a part of the whole. It does not confine me, but enriches my life and identity and shows that I brim with vitality, exuberance and enthusiasm.