Reflecting on my social capital

Ever since I can remember, my family has been consistently disappointed in me. As an only child, their hopes for a successful son were all placed on me. They constantly reminded me about the circumstances they went through when they came to America and what they did to get to where they are now. I am sure that my story is not very different from those of the countless other Asian-American kids who were born in the United States to parents who immigrated here.

 

I was placed in Saturday school to learn math and English and forced to play piano. I was also encouraged to pursue a sport that I had natural talent in, but one that I did not particularly enjoy for college admissions. However, that’s where I believe my story becomes a little different. Unlike my fellow writer Ryan, I did not graduate high school with a 4.67 GPA. Nor did I play four musical instruments. Nor did I end up getting into a prestigious undergraduate university. As a result, my relationship with my parents in my younger ages was, as I remember it, not the best. 

 

When I came to law school, however, I realized that I owed more to my family than I had previously thought. I grew up in downtown Manhattan, an area that has historically been known to be a very expensive place to live. Although arguably significantly more successful now, my parents made the conscious choice to raise me in this area while those who traditionally came from our “income level” lived in areas of Brooklyn and Queens, putting a much greater strain on the family finances.

 

My parents always told me that they made the conscious decision for me to live in this area so I could be exposed to more people from upper-class backgrounds.  I did not know what this really meant during my undergraduate education. I began skiing at the age of 8, attended international sleepaway camp starting at 12, and was able to attend my first study-abroad program before I entered college, among other things. These were activities that I considered normal, as all my friends had done the same when I was growing up.  But at SUNY Binghamton, I found my undergraduate peers mostly had not had the same experiences, since they mostly came from middle to lower class backgrounds, like me.

 

This led me to largely discount these experiences as simply passing moments of little significance in my life. Sure, I could ski better than my peers, but no one at SUNY Binghamton truly appreciated or even understood what it really meant to ski in Aspen, Colorado. My travel experiences fell on deaf ears because very few people had ever visited the places that I had. 

When I began law school, though, I found myself making friends mostly with people who were significantly wealthier than me. My experiences paled in comparison to them, but the activities that we did share were what arguably allowed us to bond initially. The activities that my parents forced me to do as a child, I realized, endowed me with considerable social capital, a concept previously unknown to me.

 

A recent study looked specifically at the benefits of social capital. The study was the first of its kind to show that living in a neighborhood that encourages connections between those of lower and higher income classes causes better economic outcomes. The study found that the increase was about 20 percent on average. Regardless of whether these stated increases in finances will pan out for me, I certainly credit my upbringing for many of the friendships that I have made.

 

The activities that I once felt my parents forcing me to do have now became my greatest strengths in conversations with new acquaintances, and I can’t help but feel silly at the initial attitude I had to many of them. As I look back on these experiences and how they are helping me now, I find myself a bit embarrassed at the immensely privileged situation I was placed in as a child. I also can’t help but feel guilty that I did not try harder in my younger years as a token of appreciation to my parents, who have given so much for me to have what I now do.

Quiet

I wasn’t always the silent kid. Growing up my parents struggled to keep me in check. I was the rambunctious toddler, the uncontrollable type who threw a fit whenever I couldn’t get what I wanted. I was intrigued by the world, yelling at my mom to ride the mall escalator over and over again. 

So, what changed?

From preschool to the 7th grade, I attended seven different schools. I grew tired of trying to make friends because I knew I was going to have to make new ones after a year. I started speaking less in school, and I stayed home on the weekends. My older sister, on the other hand, took this as an opportunity to make even more friends, and her social skills flourished.

My family had a close group of friends who also had children around our age. However, all their sons were my sister’s age, while their daughters were my age. It was hard for me to fit in with the other boys, so I usually ended up playing board/card games with the girls. I got bullied. I was being too feminine, I was told. My voice was too high pitched, I didn’t like being rowdy with the other boys. I came to hate our family hangouts.

I tried talking to my parents, but they saw it as a masculinity issue. I should be rough and rowdy back at them. They didn’t hear or consider the words I said. I started talking even less. My parents wondered why I was so quiet all the time. They thought something was wrong with me. My voice got so quiet that even when I was speaking, someone would start talking over me because I wasn’t heard. I began to bottle up my thoughts and my feelings.

People thought of me as this mysterious introvert. The shy guy who opened his mouth only when eating. Looking back, it definitely seems like some people only talked to me out of social pity. They wanted to put on their agenda "I became friends with the quiet guy." I grew into a good listener and acted as a sort of therapist/mediator for my friends. They would pour out their thoughts and emotions, which I simply took in, unable to share my own. 

To this day I carry around what seems like a clamp around my neck. I try to build up the courage to speak more in front of people, but then I falter and the courage dissipates. My parents still don’t know why I am so quiet. I’ve never had the courage to tell them because they see themselves as having brought my sister and me up right. I still love them dearly and don’t hold any resentment towards them. We simply live in different times and different cultures. They also would not want to acknowledge that their child has mental issues for if that were the case, it meant bad parenting. [https://firstgencourse.blogspot.com/2022/09/how-my-parents-gave-me-anxiety-disorder.html]

My parents always pointed out if someone's child they knew had problems or if my sister and I were outperformed by others. In other words, they were and are very critical people. Typically for me, I was compared to the rambunctiousness of other children. The burning question my parents constantly asked me, "Why can't you be more like them?" I shrugged off the question, avoiding the truth because it would only lead to arguments. 

There is no perfect family, and while I am not fond of my childhood experiences, they've created the person I am today. 

In spite of an upbringing that silenced me, there are certain values I hold dear. One of them is being able to say what you want to. Before I moved to California for law school, I got lunch with a friend who spoke so passionately about issues in U.S. politics until stopping mid-sentence to apologize for talking about such a boring topic. I’ve reflected on this moment many times, wishing I told her not to apologize and to continue speaking with the fervor she had been. No one should ever feel sorry for talking about their passions.

By taking baby steps I am trying to get better at talking. While terrifying, law school cold calls are definitely - ironically - helping me find my voice.