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Sunset for Humanity? Thoughts on Liu Cixin’s “Cosmic Sociology”

“The Universe is a dark forest. Every civilization is an armed hunter stalking through the trees like a ghost, gently pushing aside branches that block the path and trying to tread without sound. Even breathing is done with care. The hunter has to be careful, because everywhere in the forest are stealthy hunters like him. If he finds other life — another hunter, an angel or a demon, a delicate infant or a tottering old man, a fairy or a demigod — there’s only one thing he can do: open fire and eliminate them. In this forest, hell is other people. An eternal threat that any life that exposes its own existence will be swiftly wiped out.”

Bleak, isn’t it?

Thus begins Liu Cixin’s Dark Forest, the second book in his Remembrance of Earth’s Past trilogy. Humanity is facing its greatest existential threat from a hostile alien civilization.

The thrust of Liu Cixin’s novel follows his proposed theory of “cosmic sociology”. Cosmic sociology consists of two basic axioms:

Survival is the primary need of civilization
Civilization continuously grows and expands, but the total matter in the universe remains constant

Like mathematics, cosmic sociology builds upon its two axioms to induce truths about the world (or universe). The most essential conclusion: in the vast expanse of the universe, communication breaks down and civilizations have no choice but to destroy each other. While it would be nice for civilizations to cooperate and merge into one bigger, better civilization, the vast distance of the universe hinders communication so much that each civilization is left guessing at other civilizations’ intentions, creating a “chain of suspicion”.

Faced with this reality, Liu Cixin reflects that humanity should stop their search for extraterrestrial life altogether. Instead, humanity should focus their attention inwards, onto Earthly issues, and count ourselves lucky that no-one has responded to the messages and missions already sent into space.

While I agree that for now, it is in humanity’s best interest to avoid alien contact, Liu Cixin’s conclusion strikes me as overly pessimistic. Is there really no way for alien civilizations to co-exist?

In his story, Liu Cixin makes a couple of critical assumptions:

The chain of suspicion is virtually indestructible.
There is a limit to how fast information can travel.

Based on our current understanding of physics, the second assumption is, for all purposes, true. Einsteins’ theory of special relativity says that light moves at constant speed, and light-speed represents the absolute upper threshold of how fast something can travel through space. There are no experimental results or observations to suggest otherwise.

But Liu Cixin’s first assumption, while well-reasoned, is not entirely convincing.

Yes, there is a long delay for interplanetary, inter-galactic, or even inter-star-cluster communication. Productive communication between two civilizations would certainly be difficult, but that does not mean it is impossible. Just take a look at human history — a long history of violence and conquest, but behind that narrative, efforts to communicate across large cultural, linguistic, and geographic boundaries always persist. There have been many instances where humanity has faced a “chain of suspicion”, most recently during the Cold War, yet the species has still found a way to survive.

While interspecies communication poses a novel challenge, I see no reason why principles of diplomacy and peace-making cannot be employed. Liu Cixin’s bleak analysis is based on the irreconcilable geographic and cultural distance between two alien civilizations. There are strategies to bridge those differences.

Here is a possible solution: embassies. If two civilizations are initially friendly to each other, they move quickly to establish embassies. They can each send inter-galactic ambassadors, who will cross the physical distance to bridge communication, reducing the chain-of-suspicion.

Of course, once they arrive, ambassadors themselves will themselves experience time lags communicating with their original civilization. And this whole thought experiment is premised on initial benevolence. Still, there are ways to break the “chain-of-suspicion”, a fact that provides hope for the future.

What future does Liu Cixin provide for Earthlings and their Tri-Soloran invaders? I invite you to read Remembrance of Earth’s Past to find out!

Princeton RISE Reflection

In July and August, I participated in Princeton’s Recognizing Inequities and Standing for

Equality (RISE) program. Organized by the Pace Center for Civic Engagement, the RISE pairs participants with a community organization that works to address societal inequities. I was paired with the TJ Alumni Action Group (TJAAG).

TJAAG is a grass-roots alumni group of Thomas Jefferson High School for Science & Technology (TJHSST), a STEM magnet which frequently ranks at or near the top of national high school rankings. TJHSST works on a merit-based admissions system, with a first-round test and second-round holistic review that takes STEM interests (measured thought student essays), middle school grades, two teacher recommendations, and test scores into account. The number of Black, Hispanic, and low-income students admitted every year is persistently low; almost always in the single digits within a class of ~480.

TJAAG’s mission is to increase equity at TJ. This is done from multiple angles — from re-evaluating the admissions process, working on applicant engagement, to increasing the school’s culture of inclusivity to better support under-represented minorities when they arrive. Each angle has its own work group behind it, led by a TJ alumnus volunteer. I worked primarily with the “Culture of Inclusivity” and “Applicant Engagement” groups. I also worked to coordinate between the efforts of all work groups.

Throughout the experience, the PACE center offered a series of discussions and resources to support us in our community work. I found these to be very helpful because they connected me to other RISE fellows and provided an organized space to discuss, celebrate, and learn from each other. The discussions in our hour-long groups sessions were difficult; they demanded respect, vulnerability, and humility. I often felt uncomfortable. However, through these sessions I heard from perspectives different, which led me to question facets of my own perspective on racial justice and service that I take for granted. Additionally, the conversations in our PACE sessions influenced the ideas I brought to working sessions of TJAAG.

In all, my summer work with RISE was productive and meaningful. Working with TJAAG allowed me to reconnect with my high school and meet many inspiring alumni who served as mentors. TJAAG is entirely grass-roots, starting from an alumni Facebook group, and it was instructive to see how energy and buzz on social media can be leveraged to take action and elicit change. I can be very cynical of online activism and Facebook discussion threads, but I now see first-hand the work that intentional involvement can produce. What stood out to me most about the process was how much sheer effort it takes to organize and mobilize. Even after everything that is done, there is always more that can be done. Managing that potential is both inspiring and exhausting. It gives me huge respect for all the TJAAG volunteers who shoulder the responsibility of justice work on top of their family and career commitments, my fellow RISE participants who dedicated a summer engaged in this work, and to the people have made work for community groups a constant part of their lives.

There’s Noodles in my Rice!

I could write pages on orientation, which has crescendoed in the past week. There was the week-long Academic Expo, which turned out to be a lot less formal than the name suggests. There was also Outdoor Action, which contained more fun and bonding than the format would suggest. The fall semester begins next Monday, August 31^st. I am frankly burnt out of Zoom! meetings and thinking about being a Princeton student. It’s become treacherously close to consuming all my writing, which makes it seem like it’s consuming my life (it’s not, only a portion of it).

Instead, I want to tell you the story of how I found noodles in my rice. It was a pretty normal day until this shocking event.

—

I’m responsible for making the rice every day. At 4:30PM, I will unhook the rice bowl from its perch on the drying rack and fill it with two scoops of rice. Then I will maneuver the rice bowl under the faucet, wash it thrice, and fill it with the appropriate amount of water before setting it into the rice cooker. I will also turn on the rice cooker, although sometimes I forget and my grandma or mom will berate me for it.

For lunch, I’ve taken to making noodles. Costco sells a bundle of Kraft noodles in different shapes and sizes. They’re quick to make and taste fresh when paired with a good sauce (I like this peanut one from the Woks of Life).

One day, in the process of opening the pantry, I knocked down an opened box of rotini pasta. The pasta spilled out. Darn, I thought, I’ll have to sweep that up. It was quite lucky though. Instead of spilling onto the floor, the pasta spilled into an opened bag of rice. When I went to prepare that night’s rice, I didn’t remove the pasta bits. I scooped the pasta-rice mixture and rinsed as usual.

When I told my sister about the surprise waiting in the rice cooker, she crumpled over in laughter. I was laughing pretty hard too. It’s not that I didn’t notice the pasta. In a calculated move, I chose not to act on the information. Part of it was laziness — I didn’t feel like picking out the pasta. Part of it was for entertainment — it might make for an amusing dinner. I was also thinking that it might pick up a few laughs from my little sister, which it did.

“There’s noodles in my rice!” my grandma exclaimed at the dinner table. Cue more laughter from my little sister and I. I told her the story about my pasta accident. We all laughed. The next day, I pick out the pasta from the rice and make it into a yummy peanut noodle dish.

And we all lived happily ever after (except the rice and noodles, which were violently and vigorously digested in my stomach). The End!

—

I kind of miss writing simple “happily ever after” stories. They remind me of the easy days of elementary school.

Today I received an orientation email from WRI108, my writing course for fall semester. The syllabus confirms that I will “practice critical reading skills that enable [me] to ask questions which are worthy of scholarly analysis; cultivate authority as a writer that allows [me] to stake out imaginative answers to those questions; leverage various kinds of evidence in support of [my] written claims; and organize all of these components in a logical, sophisticated, and engaging progression.”

While I’m certainly excited to improve my critical reading and writing skills, I want to remember why I enjoy writing in the first place. It’s good fun and it helps me record my thoughts: structured (in the case of academic writing) and unstructured (in the case of blog writing, or academic in the context of elementary school writing).

Thoughts on the Newly Online Fall Semester

On August 7^th, President Eisgruber informed the student body that first-years and juniors would no longer be allowed to live on campus in the fall. Instead, fall semester will be entirely virtual. This news set off a whirlwind of reactions: disbelief, loss, disappointment, eventually, acceptance.

I was anticipating leaving home. I imagine most students feel the same way. I had signed up for a move-in time, had drafted a packing list, and was haphazardly and excitedly imagining life in my new single space. The news flash freezed my planning. Since August 7^th, these nascent thoughts and ideas have ceased.

The most difficult fact to swallow is not seeing my peers for an indefinite period of time. I’ve been looking forward to reuniting with my Bridge Year cohort, meeting the people in my orientation groups, and finding ways to create and deepen relationships despite the constrained social conditions. I’ve been home for five months and will (likely) be home for twelve months longer. Sometimes I wonder what effect this self-isolation has had on my social skills and motivation for social situations.

Once I’ve listed out my disappointments as best I can, I tried to turn to the positives. In some instances this mental exercise feels forced, but surprisingly I’ve found quite a few silver linings. I owe it to my home situation. I have parents who are absolutely supportive of my education. Although I might explore renting an apartment for the spring semester, for the coming fall semester, my home environment will do just fine. It’s not perfect — I’m afraid that my dad’s habit of hovering over my work and always checking about grades will carry over from high school — but considering the crisis we are in, it is bearable.

More than bearable, once I consider the personal enrichment and growth that can come from staying home. Since Bridge Year, I’ve noticed that I take initiative in helping out around the house, which has conferred a stronger sense of stewardship and belonging. This translated into effort on my part to resolve conflicts through dialogue. Through high school, I almost always came home tired. When I arrived home, I was focused on optimizing my time towards schoolwork and activities to “get ahead”. I almost never had the energy or patience to express my concerns with my parents, or when I did, I was snappy and combative. I’ve been more relaxed, enjoying more family time, and have an unexpected opportunity to continue this growth. I’m still far from perfect, or even good, at bringing up and resolving personal issues peacefully and respectfully, but now I have more chances to improve in the relatively nurturing space at home.

In terms of personal fulfillment, many activities I was looking forward to on campus are available to me at home. I have to modify my expectations and do more leg-work organizing for myself, but they are still available to me. I’m looking forward to more virtual dance classes (through Princeton’s co-curricular offerings and also with Xuejuan Dance Ensemble). I’m looking forward to biking around local trails with my little sister. Home life could actually offer more options for leisure than a socially-distant campus. I can continue to cook and bake, start raising chickens in the winter, and start gardening with my mom come spring.

And of course, I’m staying safe. That might be the biggest advantage conferred by staying home. I am young and physically active, and so often take good health for granted. Even now, I don’t think about the possibility of contracting COVID-19. I think even less about the possibility of having serious health consequences. I’m so used to being healthy. Yet the science shows that young people do get infected, and that there might be long-term lung damage regardless of age. There have been anecdotes of lingering taste and smell loss. I don’t want to freak out about it, but I do think I can take it as another one of many silver linings of staying home.

That said, I look forward to the day that we can have the “normal” college experience, go on-campus, go out with friends, have small-group discussions and large-group lectures in-person. Until the situation allows it, I suppose I can look forward to more time at home too.

小欢喜: A Review

Source: https://www.jingdianlaoge.com/news/14_9421.htm

小欢喜 is a family driven story about preparing for the 高考, the infamous college entrance exam and a rite of passage for any Chinese student.

Over the course of forty-nine episodes, we follow three families as they support their children through the last year of exam preparation. 英子, a star student, is buffeted by two prevailing winds: her tiger mother and spoiling father, divorced. 王一凡 was a good student until the past year, when his scores have spiraled in free fall. 王一凡 lives with cousin, 磊儿, a prodigy who just moved in after his mother’s death. Finally, there’s 季杨杨, whose interests lie entirely beyond the college entrance exam. His parents moved in with him at the start of the school year. They were chronically absent in his childhood, pursuing careers that distanced themselves from their son. Instead, 季杨杨 was raised by his grandparents and uncle, who owns a race-track that 季杨杨 frequents instead of studying.

Each family responds to the stresses of the college entrance exam in different ways. There’s a wide range of ambition represented, which invites more nuanced consideration of the college entrance exam’s social implications. As diverse as the kids’ abilities and ambitions are, their family backgrounds are very similar. They all live in Beijing. From their modern two and three-bedroom apartments, it’s evident that the families are at least upper-middle class. The storyline depends on the families’ ability to throw themselves completely into preparations, something that follows only from financial comfort.

The greatest dramas, struggles, and pressures of the college entrance exam falls on children from outer provinces, poor villages or families, whose only way out of poverty hinges on them entering a first-rate college. In 小欢喜 we are privy to the lives of upper society. Their struggles are real and valid, but are far from the only variety, or the most representative one.

The narrative form, toggling between three families, works well to illustrate the inter and intra-family dramas. Each character’s distinct personality serves as a point of contrast for another character. Conflicts ensue from personality clashes. For every drama, though, there are moments of comedy.

My main gripe with Chinese dramas is their tendency towards the over-dramatic. 小欢喜 is not immune. It relies almost completely on coincidences to produce conflict. For a drama forty-nine episodes long, you might expect filler episodes to serve as breathing points and to offer a different context for the families to conduct themselves. Instead, the show is one long phrasing of drama, which can sometimes feel artificial or overbearing.

Overall, 小欢喜 is a poignant yet humorous look into Chinese society, providing a personal perspective to the college entrance exams. It packs a lot of emotional density. It can sometimes feels contrived, although there are certainly many moving bits. My opinion is that it’s show worth checking out. Even if you don’t make it through the entire school year, even a few episodes will impart a deeper understanding of family structures, pressures, and life for a Chinese high-schooler.

Birthday in Quarantine

Yesterday marked my 19^th birthday. It was the first birthday in a while that I spent with my entire family. Mom, Dad, Karen, Grandma. Since my birthday falls well into summer vacation, we’re usually split between China and the US. I have to thank quarantine for keeping us together this year.

I don’t usually attach much significance to my birthday. I do try to treat myself, and it’s a useful landmark to get friends together. Otherwise, I’m one day older than the past day, and I see no special reason for me to be happier or more celebratory than normal.

I wouldn’t say that birthdays aren’t special. They can be. Rather, I like to think that all days can be special, holiday or not. I had a habit of looking forward to “special” days — birthdays, Christmas, New Years. The day would come and I’d be disappointed if I didn’t feel strongly, like I’ve reached an important milestone or was in the midst of a fond memory. Nowadays, I realize that I don’t need to feel a certain way. Emotions are a finicky thing, and having expectations of them opens up more possibility for disappointment. There’s nothing inherently different between holidays and non-holidays. Once I’ve accepted that, I let go of expectation and can better accept the way each day unfolds.

My birthday this year was a pretty good day. The night before, I made myself a cake, which happened to be one of the best I’ve ever made. I followed Stella’s red velvet cake recipe from Bravetart, finished with cream cheese frosting. It was delightful. The cake turned out rich and firm, although it did not turn out red like expected. Usually I find frosting to be cloyingly sweet. The cream cheese frosting was a welcome departure, with just enough sweetness to balance out the tang.

I also roasted a chicken. My dad busted out an air-fryer as a special tool, after my last attempt at roasting a chicken turned out undercooked. The verdict was that my second attempt is much tastier than the first. Much safer to eat as well.

I had signed up for a Chinese dance masterclass that so happened to fall on my birthday. A teacher taught a Dunhuang dance combination from her Beijing living room. For the uninitiated, Dunhuang dance is inspired by cave paintings found in the Mogao caves. The caves hold a wealth of Buddhist art, spanning a thousand years. Many body and hand positions can be traced to Buddhist influences. This was my first time trying Dunhuang dance and it’s unlike anything I’ve tried before. The style demands a great deal of strength and balance to steady one-legged positions.

Cave Temples of Dunhuang: Buddhist Art on China's Silk Road | The ... — Scene from a Mogao cave painting, courtesy of https://www.getty.edu/research/exhibitions_events/exhibitions/cave_temples_dunhuang/gallery.html

I went to bed around midnight feeling like I had learned something, and also content with the way I spent my day. Nothing too exciting, just a more intentional version of what a normal day looks like. I’d like to spend more days like this birthday, which is to say I’d like to spend more generally pleasant but not life-changing days doing things I like to do.

Summer @Home

Abstract expressionism is an American art movement, developed in New York in the 1940s. Like the surrealism movement in Europe, abstract expressionism emphasizes spontaneity, an attempt at visceral expression of the subconscious.

Here we have a drip painting by Jackson Pollock, one of the leading figures of the movement.

What I like about this painting is that it is dominated by chaos. The colors clash, at times violent, at times neutral atop each other. The threads mix together, stand apart. Each individual element doesn’t try too hard to be part of a cohesive. What greater emotion or understanding of our world does the painting provoke? It provokes: disorientation, perhaps confusion. Depending on your tolerance for messiness: excitement, nausea.

Then you look at it as a whole. Far from beautiful, the painting is still meaningful. There is a difference that comes out of every before and after. I feel slightly shifted, a little bit altered, after viewing the painting. Because, despite its haphazardness, there *is* an underlying truth or meaning, tucked in there subconsciously. You keep looking and patterns emerge – the swirling eddies of black in the background, white wisps shaped like shrimp antennae, is that a red crab? It’s an exercise of imagination. I’ve freed my mind from my immediate surroundings. Within the liminal space of imagination, the chaos distills into meaning.

Or not. That’s my interpretation; there are many equally valid interpretations. Therein lies the beauty. Discussion, critique.

In response to Pollock’s art, critics were divided. Some loved the immediate quality of creation, others panned the nonsensical, seemingly random composition.

—

Life has fashioned itself into a Pollock painting ever since I returned to the US in March. It’s been streaked with random, unconnected events and plans. Some of it comes from the inherent uncertainty of coronavirus outside, some of it is of my own design.There are so many things I want to learn: cooking, driving, dancing, drums, math, French, patience, empathy. In each moment that I dedicate to them, I feel content, like I am progressing. When I pause to reflect on the larger painting of my life in this moment, I struggle to find a common theme.

There’s a point to be made about the importance of flexibility. For one, it leads to less-stressful living. It leads to a more accepting attitude towards any situation, including a chaotic one. While it’s not necessary (or even wise) to seek out chaos, being open to the possibility can make life fun and spontaneous. This year I’ve become more accustomed to “going with the flow” — doing things not out of obligation but because they bring joy or meaning to my life.

Still, as much as I love living life on whims, I don’t want to lose sight of time. College begins in three months, bringing with it structure, rigor, and new faces. I will be asked by classmates or teachers to summarize my summer, to verbalize what I’ve made out of time.

I want to stop thinking so much about college. That’s in the future. In the present, I’m enjoying what’s likely to be my last summer at home, spending time with family, working on hobbies. Yet, paradoxically, the only way for me to stop thinking about something is to think it through completely. Usually this happens through writing. I can begin to process my time home into words. I can also go a step further and verbally commit to some goals.

I have many, many goals. Too many, I know. It’s likely I won’t accomplish them all. I don’t expect to accomplish everything, and won’t be disappointed if that happens, because I’ll have something to show for attempting them. And, since I’ve been pursuing activities that bring joy or a sense of richness to my life, the act of attempting will itself be an enjoyable thing.

~a few~ GOALS

Health & Fitness:

Dance in some form everyday, stretch everyday
- Turn in video homework for Chinese dance class
- Branch out into new styles: hip hop, lyrical, jazz, modern
No electronics after 9PM
Record food intake every night before bed, reflect if nutritionally it was a good or bad day

Personal Growth:

Educate myself on American history, with an emphasis on minority history
Practice patience with my family.
Journal 3-times a week, or more

Skill-building:

Practice drums daily for 45 minutes. Emphasis on daily!
Cook dinner on weekends.
Try a new baking recipe every week.
Learn 50 new French phrases daily, one module in grammar workbook

Writing:

Write a short story for the July 15th Nimrod New Fiction Writer’s Contest
Post a blog every Sunday

I anticipate that these goals will shift as the days pass. I might let go of some if I find that I’m introducing too much structure. I might add things as I discover more endeavors that are worth pursuing. Either way, I’ll report back sometime before school starts. Half the fun of setting goals is the reflection that comes with meeting or not meeting them.

These goals apply Monday through Friday. I want weekends to do whatever. Read random magazines, books, watch TV, movies, play board games, to name a few things.

The Many Kinds of Dumplings

Quarantine means heaps and heaps of family time. Family time means card games, Jeopardy! watchings, and sit-down dinners. There is no dinner that symbolizes “family” in my family more than dumplings.

Made from scratch, dumplings are a whole-family affair. The filling (馅儿) needs to be mixed, the dough (皮) formed and shaped, the dumplings folded. Even the most proficient dumpling-maker needs to allot the proper time and attention to each dumpling. Copy and paste a hundred times to make enough dumplings for dinner.

One of my first dinners in Kunming was at a dumpling shop. Before we ordered, everyone gave an estimate of how many they’ll eat. I gave myself five dumplings, and my table mates followed suit. Five dumplings, eight dumplings, solidly in the single digits. My teacher raised an eyebrow but ordered according to the guesstimate tally. We can order more if people need it, definitely.

At the end of the night, the boys at our table had devoured forty dumplings each. I had eaten twenty. Lesson learned: people really like dumplings.

To supply enough dumplings at home, we have to divide up the tasks.

My dad kneads the dough. He carefully eyes and portions each dumpling skin. He takes up a rolling stick and glides it back and forth with practiced precision. Each skin turns out thicker in the middle, razor thin on the sides.

My grandma scoffs at this process, which she calls slow and stupid. For her skins, she rolls out a rectangle sheet of dough, takes a coffee mug, and excises rounds widget-style. The skins are thicker, with no gentle gradient from center to edge. There’s a wanton satisfaction in watching grandma go with the efficiency of a factory machine.

The end results of these two methods are pretty much the same. My mom, sister, and I gleefully snap up each skin as they come and shape them into their final forms. My dumplings are defined by their crescent-shape. They’re undefined around the edges and look a little squiggly. Karen’s are small and pursed. Mom’s are medium-sized, firmly made, with a decisive pinch to clasp everything together.

When the dumplings are done, the kitchen is a mess. The dumplings, for the most part, are also a mess. They taste great, the stuff of family camaraderie and time spent defending our own methods from the encroachment of other methods. They taste especially great dipped in vinegar.

Basically, I’m still learning how to be a fake chef. Which is an off putting feeling at first, until I look to my parents and realize that all home cooks are fake chefs. Nothing special to look at here, except the squiggly-looking food emerging from the kitchen.

Grandma’s Red-Braised Pork （红烧肉）

To become a self-sufficient adult, and also to sneak a few bites of food before it’s presented for the masses, I’ve become grandma’s kitchen shadow. While she’s not a gourmet chef, her food brings memories of big, warm family dinners. My favorite dish as a kid was grandma’s red-braised pork. In Chinese: 红烧肉. Tender and glossy, best served over rice, it is the most hard-hitting dose of nostalgia I can find. No surprise, it’s also the first dish I asked grandma to teach me.

The ingredients are pretty simple:

Pork Belly*
Green Onions
Garlic
Ginger
Light Soy Sauce
Dark Soy Sauce
Vinegar
Shaoxing Wine
Star Anise
Rock Sugar

*Other cuts of meat also work. We made this recipe with steak and it turned out nicely.

Notice that there are no measurements for any of the ingredients. Chinese cooking is way more art than science; I’ve never seen my grandma hold a measuring utensil in her hand, and probably never will. Although this makes things difficult for kitchen newbies like myself, I go with it. As much as I love my copy of The Food Lab, I commit to ~ feeling ~ instead of / measuring /. After all, grandma’s teaching me the same way she was taught.

Green Onions, Garlic, Star Anise, Rock Sugar, & Ginger

The Sauces: Dark Soy Sauce, Vinegar, Light Soy Sauce, Shaoxing Wine

My grandma usually makes red-braised pork with, you know, pork. This time we used steak. Why? you might ask. My grandma mistook the two steaks thawing in the sink for pork belly. How? you might ask. “In my mind, American meat is completely inferior to the meat I’m used to working with. I thought it was a quality issue that the pork didn’t look like pork.” Grandma’s recipe still holds, though. The red-braised steak turns out scrumptious.

Chop chop chop. Sliced into one-inch cubes.

With the meat diced, we transfer it to a hot skillet over high heat.

Using a spatula, grandma scoops and slides the cubes, which brown evenly. Meat juices coalesce at the bottom of the pan. We dump the juices in the sink. We return the skillet to the stovetop and it’s time for sauces and spices.

Two splashes of shaoxing wine, vinegar, dark soy sauce, and three splashes of light soy sauce. Light soy sauce doubly functions as salt, while dark soy sauce gives red-braised pork its namesake coloring. Toss in green onions, peeled garlic, chopped ginger slices, rock sugar, and star anise, then enough water to submerge the meat. When the water boils, we cover the skillet for an hour on low heat. It’s ready when the garlic, pressed with a spoon, is soft enough to dissolve into the sauce. The lid comes off, and we crank the stove up to high heat again. The water vapor fizzes upwards while I wait for the sauce to thicken to my liking.

It is done.

Well, not quite. In this picture, the sauce still looks watery. I waited a few more minutes, but forgot to capture the final form.

Red-braised pork belly is the peking duck of Hunan province. There are countless variations throughout China’s provinces, but in the eyes of Chinese history, the Hunan version holds the highest esteem. It has a special name: 毛氏红烧肉, which translates to “Mao’s Red-Braised Pork”. With Chairman Mao’s name, you know something has the official stamp of approval.

Red-braised pork is often served over white rice, with green vegetables. My family is a big fan of bok choy. Any leafy vegetable works nicely. The crisp, fresh texture balances out the strong, indulgent taste of well-braised pork and makes a well-balanced family dinner.

Goodbye, hello, goodbye, hello again: Home

In the past year, I’ve called Herndon, Kunming, and Yilan, Taiwan my home. I have lived in Herndon for six years, Kunming for four months, Yilan for three weeks. These places span countries and continents, and are distinct from one another in character and culture, but I’ve found a sense of belonging in each of them.

On March 18^th I returned home. My Herndon, Virginia one. My family welcomed me with dumplings. I ate at the kitchen counter. My mom, dad, grandma, and little sister ate at the kitchen table. I hauled my luggage to the guest room, where I would closet myself for 14 days in self-imposed corona exile. My days were spent reading, catching up with friends (so much easier when we are all in the same time zone), and, most of all, thinking about the past year.

I’m really bad at goodbyes. I always expect them to be more significant than they are. In the end, I taste a cloying disappointment when life goes on normally, without the people who were just recently a part of normal life. At the San Francisco airport, friends I spent the past six and a half months with boarded their return flights, one after another. To Newark, San Diego, Atlanta, Houston. Everyone left with a hug and a “we’ll see each other again in six months”. I rummaged my mind to find something of interest or importance to say, something that will last through those six months. Eventually, I gave up. There’s a 100% chance we see each other in college next year, and what needs to be said will come up naturally. Right now, it was “see you later”.

We left Yilan, Taiwan on a dime’s drop, which is to say abruptly and sharply. All of Princeton’s Bridge Year programs were cancelled, two and a half months early, because of coronavirus. We had less than a week to say goodbye to the city. I spent my last weekend cruising around Luodong with my homestay parents, eating every item on my bucket list, going home extremely full and content. I watched anime and Taiwanese opera videos with my homestay siblings, then woke up for one final group day, then one final work day. We had only been in Yilan for three weeks. A short time in the grand scheme of things, but the town was extremely welcoming and I wanted to say goodbye properly. Not as a harsh, final thing, but as an open-ended, let’s keep in touch, I’ll be back. Because I will be. I will be back in Taiwan, it’s just a matter of time and circumstance.

I can say the same about Kunming. We had an even shorter amount of time – one day – to assemble our belongings and say goodbye to our homestay families. There was more uncertainty. My last day, I ate lunch with my homestay parents and little sister MiaoMiao. Over sweet and sour spare ribs and julliard salad, products of the spare time that comes with self-quarantine, we said uncertain goodbyes. We didn’t know how the coronavirus would pan out, or if I could return home to Kunming before the program ended. Either way, my homestay family were cheerful and confident that we’d see each other again. I reassured them that I would be back.

The last night before we departed Kunming for Taiwan, I slept on the window ledge of our twelfth-story program house. That last night, I fell asleep gazing into the cityscape. I felt close and intimate with Kunming, like I was cuddling with a well-worn lover, feeling vertigo and dizziness and above all a sense of comfort.

That’s the comforting thing about home, you know you’ll always find a way back.