An Important Reminder!

Here’s a short article by the Ubyssey Editorial Board that’s worth a read, meant for everyone but especially those of you who were stressed this final exam period: “Last Words: Your Wellbeing is Worth More than Your Grades“. Wishing you all the best this holiday season. <3


Some thoughts on the digital and the critical in English language learning

I remember in 1996 my brother and I would turn on a computer and run Microsoft Outlook program all night just to get one email from my mother who was in Rhode Island at that time, but if I try explaining that to my 4-year-old nieces, they would think it is one of the fairy … Continue reading Some thoughts on the digital and the critical in English language learning

Want help applying to UBC? See the online mentorship program!

Hey all!  So over the last few years, I’ve been grateful for the chance to mentor a number of high school students – mostly referred by word-of-mouth. So, thank you to anyone who passed on this site or my contact information. It’s high time that we made this into an official online mentoring service! The … Continue reading "Want help applying to UBC? See the online mentorship program!"

How to prepare an Integrated Sciences proposal

As we transition over to tell me which posts over the last 3 years have been your favourite! So that I’ll be sure to move those over. Other recent posts on the new site  


A lot is conveyed through language. You don’t need me to tell you that. Because many of us rely on speech in our interactions with others, we often exploit it to form assumptions about them. Our perceived answers to “How well does this person articulate their ideas?” informs us (although erroneously at times) about this person’s, say, sociocultural background, and it’s thinking about some answers that people probably conjure for me that’s got me feeling down lately. Maybe more than usual.

This is what happens when I speak (especially in class when there are dozens of eyes on me or even one-on-one with a professor when I’m obviously the ignorant one in the situation): I open my mouth; one or two words escape; my brain divides into two parts, one that thinks about what I am going to say next, and the other that thinks, “Does this person think I’m stupid? Is what I’m saying stupid? Does this person think I’m stupid? And if I am stupid, will I always be stupid? Does this person think I’m stupid? Will I forever be saying stupid stuff to brilliant people who can see how stupid I am?”; I stumble on my words; the latter part of my brain seizes the controls over the former; my brain shuts down; and everything goes blank. The desire to communicate my opinions becomes eclipsed by a suddenly urgent need to salvage my sentence on some half-decent note.

Nearing the end of September, Almighty Chem Wizard*, Alex, and I attended this special Writers Fest event at the Chan Centre, which featured author Salman Rushdie in conversation with Hal Wake. (I know, I can barely believe Rushdie was in Vancouver too, and I was freaking there!) After the event, when we were gushing about how intelligent and humorous and profound this guy was, Alex said, “He’s cool because he’s at this level where he talks as well as he writes. It’s like you’re listening to someone write right in front of you.”

I never wanted so much in that moment to be able to do just that, to take all of what I loved best about reading–the diction, the clauses, the syntax–how the careful organization of each of them, and sometimes the deliberate misuse of them, can elicit such intense emotion and debate in and among us–and be able to churn it out so spontaneously, offer it in a medium so tenuous–literally mere reverberations of air–that people would be forced to pay attention to it in a way that’s impossible with text. Much as I love the printed word, there’s something to be said for a form of art that can’t be skimmed, that requires real-time engagement, because it’s not like you can rewind speaking, at the minutest level, a word and have the person not yet hear it.

Long, long ago, I watched a documentary on sand mandalas. A posh voice speaking over scenes of crouching Tibetan monks kept stressing the importance of why the mandalas would be destroyed soon after their completion, almost as if to placate the viewer who would mourn their (tragic) loss, but even as a kid I could never disapprove of the monks’ motives. There’s a lot to be said for work that endures, but the ephemerality of all the rest makes them just as beautiful and just as meaningful, don’t you think? Because when they’re gone, that’s when we realize that we lived in that special, almost miraculous moment in which both our existences collided, and no one else will ever have that experience ever again. And although it’s sad when the things we loved aren’t here anymore, the simple fact that they evoked this pure, earnest feeling in us lends greater credence to their value.

Besides, everything eventually gets lost to the human consciousness anyways.

People are often fooled by high rhetoric. You know how in The Merchant of Venice, when Bassanio is all like, “So may the outward shows be least themselves./The world is still decided with ornament./In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt/But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,/Obscures the show of evil?” when he’s deciding on which casket to open to win Portia’s hand? I totally agree. Yet is it wrong to desperately want this power too, to be able to fool the world with my (currently non-existent) verbal prowess? I admire the people who can speak in class so effortlessly and elegantly, because to me it means that their minds also work that effortlessly and elegantly. Meanwhile, all I’m able to muster is a babble akin to some first grader describing her favourite t.v. show–all superficial: “Um, yeah, I liked the part when Franklin shared with his friend, Bear, because that was the kind thing to do.” Makes me feel like I am a first grader.

Part of what I like about writing is that I get to think it through. I can rise above, say, the limitations of my sociocultural upbringing. I don’t have to be that dumb and dumbstruck student when I can mull over questions as long as I want with no one the wiser, and I can give my response in a well-organized, well-articulated fashion with sources to boot. I don’t have to worry about all the variables that come with the spontaneity of speech. Or maybe it’s true, and my mental dexterity will never match up with everyone else’s, as evident by my sucky speaking and writing, but at least for that one moment, I feel that I get an honest chance to try and be a realer me, a me that deserves to have her opinion heard because it’s a damn good opinion.

Problem is, people don’t communicate through pen and paper 100 % of the time; I know this and I can accept this, but it’s hard to. It is so, so hard. And yet…I can’t seem to shatter this tiny kernel of hope within me that someday, I’ll be able to talk the way I want to. Tl;dr: I wish I could speak like a champ in class and in life.

*Obvs not her real name. 

言い出した // I Spoke Up








I have wanted to say such words for a very long time.

I have not been brave enough to say these words.

I have not been brave enough to claim that God has power over my challenges – that it has nothing to do with how capable I am or how eloquently I speak on any given day, but rather with the presence of the Spirit in my life thanks to what Christ Jesus did.

Just like coming here gave me a fuller picture of Japanese culture, as if turning off the lights and letting the UV writing that connected all the puzzle pieces shine through – I did not claim my inheritance to His power until I recognized that I could not, and could never, do anything on my own. It is God that gives me the power to forgive others and myself. It is God that gives me the words to speak and the strength to dance. And God’s victory is not the dish of the day – God’s victory is everlasting and unchanging, and I will not be afraid to say it even when every mouth – including my own – is whispering defeat into my ears.

I went to a worship event last week with my youth group here, since it had been too long since I had the chance to pour myself out so freely. Of course, as one might expect of a Japanese crowd, everyone at the beginning felt pretty reserved about raising their hands, falling to their knees, etc. The worship leader (who recently released a single in which my friends were the backup dancers – check it out here) took the liberty of leading us through these typical worship motions, saying something to the tune of, “We’re not worshipping in Japanese culture. We’re worshipping in Kingdom culture!”

When I don’t know where I belong, God tells me, “You belong here, with me. I will give you the words to speak, no matter what language they are in. Now speak for me.”