You’re Doing Just Fine.

I’ve got a new therapist. She’s got white hair (no, not because she’s old). She’s just one of those white, hipster 30-somethings trying—and succeeding—to pull off a silverish-gray dyed head of hair. Her style is ethereal: long, opaque dresses with bohemian jewelry. She wears, like, cool turquoise necklaces she probably bought off Etsy. Stacked silver rings decorate her thin, unpolished fingers.

If my therapist weren’t my therapist, we’d probably be great friends. She’s quirky and cute, and reserved, but firm. Just like me. I told my ex that my therapist reminds me of what I imagine I’d be like if I weren’t fucked up, to which he replied, “Even therapists have therapists, Sheens.” This may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that I still think I’m way more fucked up than she is. (And if she is fucked up, she hides it pretty damn well.)

I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. For one thing, I went through a breakup a few months ago. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Sheena, stop talking to your ex, you idiot. That’d be a start.

Y’all are right. I’ll stop talking to him, and for the most part, I have. Besides, he lives halfway across the country now, which is more than half the reason we broke up. (And, as it turns out, it’s much easier to get over someone if he can’t come to your place when you beckon him on a particularly lonely weeknight.)

Anyway, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Not just because of the breakup, but because I’ve been re-assessing a bunch of shit in my life, like my friendships, my anxiety, my future, yada, yada. Lately, life has seemed overwhelming. People are getting married left and right, doing really, really cool shit with their lives (other than getting married), and leaving behind Instagram feeds of which I’m so jealous I had to delete the fucking app off my phone to stay sane.

(Stop scrolling, stay sane.)

Austin, Texas is my home now. All my neighbors have dogs and smoke weed. I wouldn’t have it any other way. (Like, yo. This is my fucking city (and it only took me 27 years to move to!))

A lot of people ask me why I left Manhattan. I left because I had to. I wanted to find a guy and fall in love. I wanted to live in at least three other states before I turned 30. I wanted to be able to walk out of my apartment without the stench of garbage infiltrating my nostrils before I’ve even had the chance to shit or brew a fucking cup of coffee.

And so, I made my way down south: Dallas first, then Austin. Dallas, so I could live with my family for a bit because I love my family, but I’m absolutely awful at showing them just how much I care about them. I’d liken my relationship with them to the way I am with most things I truly care about, like this blog I love dearly but have neglected on-and-off, or my ex-boyfriend, who was often a better boyfriend than I was a girlfriend.

But since it’s always just been me, my sister and my mom, I figured it only made sense to spend some time getting closer to them (like, literally and figuratively). A girl in her 20’s needs her family, especially when it’s all women. I wanted us to be as tight as the Villanueva family in Jane the Virgin, and I’m proud to say we’ve nearly reached that level. Check.

Now, I’m on my own again. No family, no boyfriend, no foster doggie. Yep, I’m single, free and a-n-x-i-o-u-s. I’m anxious about my future because I have no idea what it looks like. I’m sure I’ll be an editor at some hip magazine, like I am now, only with a dog or two and maybe a baby. If I’m really lucky, I’ll find a good guy, and we’ll do better than just “make it work” (ah, the dream).

Still, even though I know all those things will eventually happen on their own time, it all keeps me up at night. I need to know what the whole dang picture looks like. Now.

Which city will I live in in a year? Two years? Will I always be a writer, or will I finally follow my second dream of becoming a singer? What kind of dog will I get? What if my dog gets sick and I can’t afford its healthcare because I’m all alone? Will I always be anxious? And what the fuck will the love of my life look like?

But I can’t know the answers to these questions. I cannot know any of this. No one can. Kory, my therapist, reminds me of this all the time, and she even gave me a nifty trick called “five senses grounding,” where you close your eyes and immerse yourself in all your senses. Doing it is supposed to ground you, keep you in the present and ward off your anxiety attack.

You guys, something happens after your 26th birthday. You’re thrown into a vault where everything you know is flipped upside down on its head, and all the people you know—or thought you knew—either become that boring, engaged person or, like, join the military, or move to some random European country, or become that person that rants about politics or veganism (or some other cultish hobby they’ve just taken up because they don’t know what the fuck to do with themselves since everyone else is getting married) on Facebook. Basically, everyone chooses a side, and you suddenly feel frozen because now you have to choose a side, and if you don’t choose a side, your life is just meaningless and, uh, wrong.

OK. Here’s my side. I’m single. I live in a cute little studio apartment. I’m lonely, but my anxiety and I are becoming good, good friends. (Sighs deeply. Side note: Accept your anxiety. The moment you stop fighting it and start accepting it, you start to feel human again).

My birthday’s coming up. This year, I’ll be 28. Instead of ruminating on the fact that this will be the 28th year of my life I spend a birthday single, I’m trying something different.
-I’m thinking about how I’ll probably get a dog because I know it’ll lick my face when I feel down.
-My friends will all be there, a group of wonderful, wacky people I went out and met all by myself in this city I’ve never lived in before, and they’ll get drunk with me and later tuck me in and make sure I’m sleeping on my side, not my back, with my new dogg-o.

This year will be different. No self-pity. This year, I’ll be sure to count my lucky stars for all the support I have in my life. My mama loves me (hey, not everyone can say that). My friends love me (I love you guys, especially my pen pal in London, and you’re all the reason I’m still alive). My therapist will never admit it, but she definitely wants to be my BFF (and thinks I’m way cooler than I actually am).

Finally, I’ll be celebrating my newfound love for myself, which only seems to grow the older I get. Coupled with this anxiety is an appreciation for how random, but full, my life has been. Because while an anxiety-ridden life isn’t as neat, pretty or put-together as the lives of the people I follow (but don’t really care about) on Insta, an anxiety-ridden life is also almost always filled with adventure. Nope, my life is never boring. Definitely not that. It’s, uh, got its way of keeping me on my toes. (Lol.)

This year, I don’t try to run from myself, or my life, or my anxiety; I take my life for exactly what it is. And when I really think about it…well…my life is pretty sweet.

Hey, Sheena? (And everyone else who doubts themselves). You’re doing just fine.

 

A Modern-Day Love Letter

Remember that night we went to Hooters?
It was the night before the Franz Ferdinand concert. I laughed at the idea, but I didn’t mind going in there with you for a quick bite.

I never told you this, but I almost worked at Hooters once. I was 23, in between jobs and desperate to keep up with my rent in NYC. Yes, I’d walked into a Hooters and applied to work as a server. Eventually, I decided being gawked at wasn’t the job for me.

I became a writer, instead.

That night, I ate mozzarella sticks and drank beer with you. I don’t drink beer; I’m too much of a princess. Usually, you made me feel like a princess – and I loved you for it – but that night, I wasn’t your princess. I was just your best friend, and that’s what I loved about being with you.

I loved you because you loved me even when I didn’t try; frizzy hair in my face, beer and mozzarella cheese spilling down the white tee you’d bought me the day before. I loved not having to try. I loved being your best friend.

[I love(d) the way you love(d) me.]

That night, we stepped outside to tipsily smoke a cigarette. A waiter was already out there. He told us he thought we had the kind of love that everyone hopes to find someday, the kind that most people don’t find. We asked him why he thought that. He said, looking at us, he “just knew.”

He was right.

You said we didn’t have an Instagram kind of love.
We didn’t.
We never travelled internationally. You hated posing for pictures; I always preferred candids. I knew what we had, and I knew we didn’t have to put on a show. I knew that you were mine and I was yours and that the whole world knew it because our love was louder than Instagram.

I know we started as fuck buddies and fell madly in love, but that we’re better as friends, and didn’t make it as a couple. But I couldn’t be friends with you because hearing your voice makes me sad, and so I made us block each other.

That hurts my heart every day. I know you’re all sorts of fucked up, but I’m fucked up, too. We were fucked up together, and we fucked it up together.

Unlike other guys, you weren’t intimidated by me. You called me out on my bullshit. I always told you you were full of it, but I’m just as full of it, and you knew it. That scared me.

I knew I loved you because you weren’t my type. In fact, you were the exact opposite. Not quiet, reserved, moody or mysterious, but loud, obnoxious, funny, spectacular, beautiful. My world has always been a dark sky, and you were just the firework it needed.

We didn’t make sense. But you made me realize you can’t help who you fall for.

They say that with time, it gets easier; it doesn’t. Because I didn’t know what my life was missing until I met you. And not enough friends, music, writing, TV shows, casual sex, crying sessions, puppy cuddles, mommy hugs, chocolate bars can fill it.

I’m still waiting to enjoy food again. The last time I slept was in your arms.

Are you reading this? I can feel you.

I’ll never love anyone else like I loved you.

Forever yours-

Your Sheens

To Increase Diversity in The Workplace, Asian-Americans Must First Have Conversations at Home

Diversity is being prioritized all around the country. Major companies like Google, for example, are making engagement and outreach efforts to make their staffs more diverse, while publications like The Huffington Post are carving out designated sections for stories by marginalized people. These efforts have been a long time coming; As Viola Davis pointed out at the 2016 Oscars, diversity and inclusivity should not be treated as a trend, but as an ongoing commitment by higher-ups all around the country.

While it’s important to clarify that diversity is certainly not a trend, it’s just as important to understand exactly why companies are lacking in diversity in the first place. It’s  pretty common knowledge that people of color in the workplace face struggles in attaining senior leadership positions. But aside from mobility issues, are minority groups like Asian Americans even making their way into majority-white occupational fields? And if not, why?

Bloomberg’s opinion columnist Justin Fox compiled some data taken from a 2017 study conducted by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. He labelled these bar graphs “Jobs White People Do” and “Jobs Asian People Do” to emphasize what I call “the creative gap:” the fact that white people make up most creative fields, while Asian Americans do not.

According to the graphs, creative professions like writing, advertising and producing/directing have some of the highest percentage of white workers. On the other hand, Asian workers make up professions like doctors, computer programmers and scientists.

Let’s unpack the hurdles on the way to more diversity.

To understand the “creative gap,” we must first understand the culture.

In his piece, Fox is at a loss for why Asian Americans aren’t editors, producers or lawyers. He writes:

“As for the racial and ethnic occupational differences in general, I have no sweeping explanations to offer. Obviously discrimination has played a big role, but beyond that it’s a hard-to-sort-out mix of history, culture, geography, education and surely a few other things.”

As an Asian American, I can offer the following perspective: We’re discouraged by our families to pursue the arts. As for why? University of California Riverside’s public policy professor Karthik Ramakrishnan points out that Asian Americans feel pressure to excel both academically and financially because our parents are immigrants. This pressure keeps us from pursuing lower paying, less stable creative jobs, which is the bittersweet reason we continue to perpetuate the “model minority” myth.

So, no, it isn’t that Asian Americans aren’t inherently creative. They are. (Ahem, how do you do?) Simply put, white people take more chances creatively because they aren’t as likely to be discouraged to.

Asians want to see more of themselves in those majority-white fields.

Russell Peters highlights this unfortunate-turned-hilarious truth in his 2016 special “Almost Famous,” where he makes fun of an Indian guy who dreamt of becoming a musician, but instead became a doctor due to cultural pressure. And if you peruse Reddit threads on conversations about Asian Americans, you’ll find they blatantly desire to see themselves doing the jobs of white people. Reddit user roadtonormalcy writes:

“I was thinking about this recently – I’m deeply upset that there are no Asian American pop artists to lose my wig to. I’m aware that KPOP is a huge thing, but I want more ~english~ bops by Asian artists :(”

The very fact that we don’t hear enough of this desire IRL, but see it hidden on underground Reddit threads – almost as if your typical Asian American is embarrassed to say it out loud in fear of disgracing his or her family and culture – is another reason companies aren’t achieving diversity at higher rates.

To increase diversity, Asian Americans must loudly and proudly pave the way for a new culture.

My generation is the first that’s beginning to see more Asian Americans become figureheads in creative fields. Hayley Kiyoko is revolutionizing music by simultaneously representing Asian Americans and the LGBTQ+ community, Aziz Ansari and Mindy Kaling have their own shows, and Hari Kondabolu and Hasan Minhaj are the self-important, brown, stand-up comedians we’ve been waiting for. 

Not to mention, it looks like there’s hope for Generation Z. My sister and brother-in-law, who are eighties babies, have a much more ~lax~ attitude toward raising their two kids. They anticipate my older nephew will go into the arts, while the younger one might try his hand at pro sports.

Asian Americans, as much as it’s the job of CEOs and COOs to promote us in the workplace, it’s also on us to start having conversations at home. Talk to your parents about your dreams—not their dreams, or the dreams of anyone else. With these combined efforts, I have a feeling the next generation of people of color will take the world by storm.

NBC’s New Show “I Feel Bad” Has A South Asian Female Lead – But It’s Still Problematic

This past Sunday, NBC released an official trailer for its new show, “I Feel Bad,” which is set to premiere this fall. Up-and-coming Indian-American actress Sarayu Rao plays the lead role of Emet, American actor Paul Adelstein plays Emet’s love interest.

NBC’s casting decision is a pretty big deal. Only two other Indian actresses, Mindy Kaling and Priyanka Chopra, either currently have or have had their own shows. But while “I Feel Bad” is receiving praise for casting a South Asian female lead – a pro-diversity cue in line with other long-standing big names in the media industry – the show is still problematic for one reason: Rao’s character is in an on-screen interracial relationship with a white man. Yet again.

The thing is, diversity means more than simply casting the token brown girl. Audiences crave to see interracial relationships that more accurately reflect real life, and those are the facts. In her Jezebel piece “I’m Tired of Watching Brown Men Fall in Love With White Women On Screen,” writer Aditi Natasha Kini argues that choosing white partners for on-screen interracial relationships is a discreet slap in the face to other races:

“…the pursuit of white love is a mode of acceptance into American culture, and a way of ‘transcending’ the confines of immigrant culture—the notion that white love is a gateway drug to the American dream.”

She’s right. What’s even a bigger disappointment is that when the people producing the shows or movies are people of color, they’re still letting audiences down by failing to use their privilege and platforms as a way to showcase more inclusivity. Mindy Kaling’s “The Mindy Project” and Kumail Nanjiani’s film “The Big Sick” are just two examples of that disappointment manifested.

Real inclusivity means showing the full spectrum of interracial relationships: Gay ones. Transgender ones. Brown people falling in love with black people, and brown people falling in love with other brown people.

The good news is that even though the silver screen has yet to catch on, the big screen has already started to. “Crazy Rich Asians,” which has been referred to as “the Asian version of Black Panther,” shows Asian-Americans in relationships with other Asian-Americans. People are freaking out about it, and rightfully so:

Let’s hope the coming years begin to show more… erhm, interesting interracial relationships on screen.

“Black Girl Sunscreen” Is A Summer Necessity For Women Of Color

As a woman of color, I loathe wearing sunscreen in the summer, even though I have more melanin in my skin than white people and tan easier. But my reasons for forgoing the sunscreen have nothing to do with laziness and everything to do with the fact that most sunscreens turn into clumpy, gooey, white globs on my skin – and stay like that, no matter how much I try to rub them in.

Well, women of color, rejoice! Black Girl Sunscreen is the new sunscreen for women of color. Unlike your average sunscreen, this one sells for an affordable $18.99, dries clear and is melanin-reinforcing. Reddit user khaleesidee boasts:

“Hey guys! I’ve spent a lot of time lurking around here and on r/asianbeauty, looking for the perfect sunscreen. And I think I finally found it! It’s called Black Girl Sunscreen and I believe it’s the best sunscreen for POC. It feels lightweight, moisturizing, has a natural finish and leaves absolutely no white cast or stickiness. It sinks in the skin in a minute or so and feels smooth but not silicony. It is basically like putting on a very lightweight moisturizer. It does not peel either. I’m absolutely in love, and I highly recommend it! It cost $18. I hope this will help anyone looking for a sunscreen right now!”

What makes Black Girl Sunscreen different than other sunscreens is that it’s a chemical product, which means it’s made without zinc oxide and titanium dioxide. Blame these two chemicals for leaving that white residue on your skin after application.

The revolutionary sunscreen has been a long time coming. Back in 2015, The Washington Post published an article that discredited the need for a sunscreen specifically for people of color. Dermatologist Ron Moy confirmed there is no medical reason that prohibits people of color from using non-chemical sunscreens, saying, “They can just use regular sunscreen.”

People of color, though, would disagree. Though regular sunscreens may be just as effective at preventing skin cancer for people of color, Black Girl Sunscreen is a cosmetic win for anyone with dark skin.