When the Curtain Comes Down

Mold the dough into a ball–don’t roll it.

Pull and pinch.

Bring the corners into the center.

Clumsy and awkward, my hands shakily attempted to imitate the Filipina lady on the screen. So foreign was each mimicked movement, yet my fingers itched for familiarity. Eighteen years old and having lived in the United States my whole life, I knew nothing about how to make pandesal, but I was determined to figure out how. Making this simple bread roll was my first step in creating an attachment to my cultural heritage, though merely an illusion as I’m fully aware baking can’t replace years of westernization. After laboring for far too long, I excitedly took my two batches of pandesal out of the oven. Brimming with accomplishment, I called my mother down to see this finished product.

“Good job, Baba. Next time, make them uniform shapes.”

I was almost there, but not quite.

My entire life’s purpose has been dedicated to becoming something great. Instilled in me everyday was the fact that my parents sacrificed so much so I could reap the rewards of America’s opportunities. Naturally, to be a good Filipino child, I needed to make certain that their sacrifices redeemed value through achievement in my own life. Both academically and in the workplace, the Asian hyper-achievement paradox expects every Asian individual to be smart, high achieving, and highly successful, earning us the title of “model minority.” As the name suggests, we’ve done so well despite the odds we’ve faced as racial minorities. 

Included in this paradox is the “stereotype promise.” Because people of authority and our peers already expect us to succeed, we do whatever it takes to fulfill this stereotype, thus keeping our commitments. We don’t want to fall short of a perception that has already claimed us. To fall short of this perception is to break a contract that was signed for us at birth, and to break this contract is to fail. In order not to fail, we choose to become high-achieving, hardworking, and deserving of good opportunities—this becomes the cookie-cutter Asian American standard. Achievement is the currency necessary to purchase our belonging in America’s supposed meritocracy. To make something of ourselves is absolutely essential. This level of success is uniform. Deviation is not an option. If we do not become this, we are nothing; if we are not succeeding, we are failing.

Complete immersion in perpetual performance is the price we pay for achievement-motivated belonging. The resulting compensation is a thrill in convincing everyone else you’re someone you’re not, playing a role that people love. Though this constructed persona is inauthentic, there is reward in this calculated deception. I myself was fully aware of the extent of my parents’ sacrifices and expectations. Lacking ignorance, I was inevitably ordained to a role that was opportunely handed to me. On the other hand, it is an arduous feat to choose to unbecome everything you realized you were pretending to be when you feel that another’s sacrifice is on the line. After all, what purpose do actors serve if they don’t become their given identity?

I know this feeling all too well. Learning I’d been masking my ADHD for the past almost twenty-one years of my life was like putting glasses on for the first time. I found out that ADHD is commonly found in women much later in life because of our ability to mask our inability to focus by mimicking what we know to be “normal” around us. Subconsciously, we observe behaviors in others around us, discern what is acceptable to do, then camouflage ourselves to find belonging. As actors, our audience demonstrates to us how we should perform, causing us to reinvent ourselves into something better. No matter what’s happening inside, it is crucial that we portray the correctly crafted mask—our most prized creation. 

However, my ADHD only came out of hiding because the burden of maintaining this performance became impossible. Just as an actor grows weary of a strenuous role, my secret became far too much to bear. Confirmed to me in a doctor’s office with wary eyes and a pitiful voice, different medications were presented to me. Certainly, that which is broken must be fixed. 

“How are you feeling about your new diagnosis?” 

My brain has never had stability in its dopamine production the entire time I’ve been alive, and simply knowing and understanding this doesn’t provide any alteration to the chemical imbalances in my brain. Finding out that the different parts of my brain communicate erratically due to this dopamine deficiency provided clarity, but didn’t change the fact that no one knew for so long—not even myself. No one knew that my brain couldn’t function, yet everyone expected me to outperform everyone else around me even when I didn’t even have the same level of neurodevelopment to begin with.

“But don’t worry, ADHD isn’t a disability, it’s a superpower!” 

When my doctor tried to shove fabricated cheer down my throat, she didn't cure or change my reality. Feigning optimism won’t change the fact that my brain has never been able to operate normally—believe me, I’ve tried. No amount of camouflage will fix this developmental disorder I’ve lived with for the past twenty-one years of my life. Nothing changes the fact that my brain will always have this chemical deficiency—incapable of operating conventionally. No matter how hard I try, I will always fall into the trap of deviation. I cannot succeed at performing normalcy. Therefore, I am failing.

In that contradictingly pristine office, fulfilling the stereotype of Asian hyper-achievement fell out of my grasp, and I was agonizingly reminded of my parents’ sacrifices that merited my opportunities. Later, as I was meeting with the University Accessibility Center to discuss my options for accommodations, I winced as my coordinator used the word “disability” while referring to me in the same sentence. I forced a smile and a bright voice as this same word stung my lips while speaking with my professors in their offices. The same hour, I overheard one of them complaining about the burden of my accommodations to other students.

How simple it is to lose everything you thought you were, and how complex it is to fight to preserve your own life. How funny it is that my mission to become and mean something, to satiate the demands of my purpose, seems to always exist just out of my grasp—slippery and elusive.

“Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.”

My mother sent this quote to me about a year ago, and I think about it often. There are several things I’ve yearned to become—superficially, a better student. Beyond the surface, a better daughter. Yet, I wonder if becoming simply means to be enough. Perhaps unbecoming is about redefining what “enough” is. To unbecome everything that isn’t me, I can’t simply retrace my steps to before I learned about my ADHD. Unbecoming is not unlearning; denial does not equate to a sure solution. Unbecoming is reinvention; we, at our current state, can find reconciliation with the person we’ve learned to be and the person we want, crave, desire, and long to be.

Pull.

Who have I learned to be? All I’ve ever wanted was to make my parents proud. Lost in this idea of becoming something great, my attempts to prove my value seem futile. My last therapist told me that it seems like I’m too deep within a maze—running in circles, drowning in too many diagnoses. She wishes I could take my handicap out of my identity. She fiercely argues that I am normal and I’m enough. I wish she knew that perhaps, perhaps I’m moving toward who I’m meant to be. My tongue was too stiff to argue that being disabled and being enough aren’t mutually exclusive.

Push.

I often contemplate how my life would be if I didn’t have this disability. What if my brain wasn’t broken? Could I have become something more? But if unbecoming who I am is redefining what “enough” means, maybe my definition of “enough” is completion. I want to believe that my diagnosis is a completion of my identity. I am tired of embodying deception to satiate others’ assumptions. Maybe this diagnosis reconciles all that I am—not simply that which I’ve been expected to be. 

Rise.

I wonder if I threw away everything my parents gave me. I wonder if I’ve eradicated meaning from their sacrifices, unbecoming the perfect child they needed me to be. It is difficult to ignore that these sacrifices are irrecoverable investments. But perhaps their sacrifices aren’t mine to carry. Perhaps their burdens are not my own. Perhaps autonomy in my personal identity is worth just as much as their unfinished dreams.

Fold.

Perhaps this is refinement. When considering the past and present elements of my identity, I can find equilibrium with the person I was and the person I want to be. After all, ADHD has been a part of my entire life—learning about this reality didn’t create the chemical imbalance in my brain. Knowing about this chemical imbalance simply provides access to reinvention.

Rise.

It is still difficult for me to accept that this chemical imbalance is a disability. Every time I acknowledge this, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Asking for accommodations suggests I am losing. Taking medication is succumbing to weakness. But slowly, I am beginning to understand that this is not accepting defeat. This is moving beyond mere impersonation. This is coming out of hiding to be who I was in the first place. This is what it means to win.

Rest.

I worry that unbecoming who I once was is the slippery slope to embodying complacency. I wonder if I am becoming content with failure. But living a lie doesn’t equate to success. Welcoming sincerity is not entertaining failure. Value is only meaningful if it’s real.

Cool.

Last year, I was still the main character in a dazzling performance. A competitor hiding her defects, I vied for the opportunity of recognition, excelling to please my audience. But back then, all I knew how to do was put on a show. Ignore the racing inside of my dopamine-deficient brain. Pretend that I knew exactly what was going on, that I was exactly like all the other good kids. Smile. Shake hands with the stereotype promise. Fit the role I’d been asked to play. Lie to myself, saying that this was what I’d always wanted. But just as every show comes to a close, it was time to put my character away. Instead of spiraling into failure, I try to find more reasons to live. Artistry’s exploitation can only last for so long.

Complete.

I am sitting in my college apartment waiting for the pandesal to finish its second batch of rising. As a teaching assistant at my university, I’ll be sharing this pandesal with my class in the morning. This time as I’m shaping the rolls, it feels a little less foreign. Being away from home, it’s comforting to immerse myself in the familiar pull and pinch of the roll formation, steadily bringing each corner into the center. My hands now well-acquainted with these movements, I am finally in control. Even though I am baking for my students rather than my family, the distance from this domestic task sweetens the nostalgia—the last time I made pandesal was over two years ago.

It is 2:09 am and I am fully aware that it’s far too late to be up baking, but I can’t seem to stop. I can already picture my roommates asking me the next day about what I was doing up so late. Eager to share these baked goods with my students in just a few hours, I text my mother what I’m doing, and she sends me a thumbs-up.

The pieces are still not uniform.