Xinlan Emily Hu – The Stanford Daily https://stanforddaily.com Breaking news from the Farm since 1892 Wed, 07 Jun 2017 07:23:21 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.4.3 https://stanforddaily.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/cropped-DailyIcon-CardinalRed.png?w=32 Xinlan Emily Hu – The Stanford Daily https://stanforddaily.com 32 32 204779320 What I learned from interviewing everyone in the 24-hour study room at 4 a.m. https://stanforddaily.com/2017/06/07/what-i-learned-from-interviewing-everyone-in-the-24-hour-study-room-at-4-a-m/ https://stanforddaily.com/2017/06/07/what-i-learned-from-interviewing-everyone-in-the-24-hour-study-room-at-4-a-m/#respond Wed, 07 Jun 2017 11:00:55 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1128924 The later weeks of the quarter often feel inexplicably isolating. Deadlines loom; the pressure of the last few midterms fuses with the incoming typhoons of finals. You spend hour after hour in the library, surrounded by strangers, engulfed by silence and the palpable tension. And so, I decided, why not head to the 24-hour room […]

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The later weeks of the quarter often feel inexplicably isolating. Deadlines loom; the pressure of the last few midterms fuses with the incoming typhoons of finals. You spend hour after hour in the library, surrounded by strangers, engulfed by silence and the palpable tension.

And so, I decided, why not head to the 24-hour room in the wee hours of the morning and learn about the lives of those that surrounded me? In other words — what keeps a Stanford student up at night, and in the 24-hour room in particular?

Part 1: The room where it happens

I arrived in the Lathrop 24-hour room at around 1:20 a.m. The room was mostly silent, save for the sound of zippers, ruffling papers, and the occasional door slam as students slowly tricked out. All but two people were occupied with some form of schoolwork — one was pacing erratically, and the other had fallen asleep with his head resting on his keyboard.

The thought of approaching (and thus necessarily interrupting) each of these people terrified me.

Upon closer examination, however, the 24-hour room was not as sterile and lifeless at it seemed. Each occupant had created a sort of nook for themselves; much as the uniformity of office cubicles is broken by personal tokens and framed photos, the workstations reflected personality. Some had clearly settled in for the long haul and removed their shoes; others had created barricades of snacks and water bottles. One person I interviewed (a first-year master’s student in electrical engineering) reported that he regularly spends nine hours per day in the 24-hour study room; another student, an undeclared junior, had spent six hours in the room that day.

Each student I interviewed was surprisingly kind about my interrupting them. There was almost a quiet understanding between fellow night-dwellers of the 24-hour study room; a silent recognition of someone caught in the same late-quarter struggle. And it felt almost reassuring to know that, though we too often study alone, we have, in fact, more company than we realize.

Part 2: The 24-hour room by the numbers

The less subjective portion of my visit comes in the form of numbers — I hesitate, however, to draw any stringent conclusions, since a single visit (and a sample size of 10) is obviously not sufficient for any sort of analysis. But I think the numbers paint a snapshot: of the kinds of student who end up in the 24-hour study room late at night, and the kind of work they might be doing.

What I learned from interviewing everyone in the 24-hour study room at 4 a.m.
(XINLAN EMILY HU/The Stanford Daily)

The night I visited the 24-hour study room, half of the students belonged to the School of Engineering — only a slight (and insignificant) overrepresentation, considering that engineering students comprise 31.3% of the total student population.

I was at first surprised that there were not more computer scientists, given the stories that I’d heard of late-night coding sessions (and the many nights that I had spent coding myself). However, given that there are more notable — or rather, more infamous — programming locations, such as Huang Basement, it wasn’t entirely surprising that CS was underrepresented in Lathrop. In future experiments (which I hope for the sake of my own sleep schedule that others will conduct), it will be interesting to note the differences in academic representation in various late-night study areas.

On the other hand, since Lathrop is closer to the graduate schools, just under half of the students were graduate students:

What I learned from interviewing everyone in the 24-hour study room at 4 a.m.
(XINLAN EMILY HU/The Stanford Daily)

Finally, a survey of the types of work that kept students late at night found a wide array of results. There is, indeed, no single source of massive work, although problem sets are of course well represented. Even the small snapshot of a single 4 a.m. night (morning?) reveals much variety — from the aeronautics and astronautics freshman who was working on his SLE final paper to the Symbolic Systems major working on literature, the work that keeps Stanford awake at night makes it clear that Stanford students are impossible to categorize and brilliantly diverse.

What I learned from interviewing everyone in the 24-hour study room at 4 a.m.
(XINLAN EMILY HU/The Stanford Daily)

But even more crucial to remember is that, like you, they’re awake. Like you, they’re cramming and crunching problem sets in the 24-hour room. And as Dead Week arrives, no matter how lonely you may feel, remember that you are not alone.

You can find Xinlan Emily Hu at the Lathrop 24-hour study room or at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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Clickbait and conscientiousness https://stanforddaily.com/2017/03/20/clickbait-and-conscientiousness/ https://stanforddaily.com/2017/03/20/clickbait-and-conscientiousness/#respond Mon, 20 Mar 2017 10:48:05 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1124833 Clickbait articles, however innocuous, however annoying, may have impacts far beyond a few wasted minutes. Indeed, clickbait articles bait more than our attention—they bait our subconscious.

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Clickbait is a plague – inciting distraction, fueling procrastination and provoking frustration (particularly when the article turns out much sparser than what its grand title suggested).

According to a survey of 53 Stanford students, 96.2 percent of Stanford students encounter clickbait articles on the Internet at least once per day. Over the course of a year, then, the typical student scrolls through hundreds, if not thousands, of articles that offer everything from supposedly science-backed relationship advice to leaked celebrity secrets “you never knew.”

Clickbait is indeed an interesting phenomenon. Paradoxically, it is widely hated but still frequently read. The survey results indicate that students tend to overestimate the frequency with which they read clickbait, which may mean that clickbait has an unusual potential for disseminating false news in the form of memorable sound bites. Clickbait is quite literally a phenomenon that cannot be ignored – a phenomenon whose implications are silent yet powerful.

The first paradox of clickbait is the contrast between its overwhelmingly negative connotation and the apparent irresistibility of clicking. When asked to describe clickbait in a single word, most students responded with simply “annoying.” In longer elaborations, the vast majority of students wrote that “there’s too much of it” – a theme echoed by an overall 2.1/5 enjoyment rating by survey respondents.

Interestingly, however, 52.8 percent of students also responded that they clicked on clickbait articles more than 15 times per day. In other words, despite the clear distaste for clickbait, students feel compelled to read the articles anyway.

One other detail is worth noting: While over half of the respondents state that they opened clickbait articles more than 15 times daily, only 22.6 percent of respondents stated that they saw more than 15 articles each day. Indeed, 20.8 percent reported seeing only one to three clickbait articles per day. In other words, some students see only three articles but click on 15 – an indication that students are likely overestimating the amount of clickbait that they consume.

The numbers, of course, cannot establish a causal relationship – any number of independent variables can compel someone to click on an article despite a strong dislike for the content. However, given that students tend to overestimate the number of articles they read but underestimate the number of articles they see, the data may indicate that students are clicking mindlessly, without registering how many articles they’ve read. They then assume, at the end of each day, that they’ve read “many.”

The tendency to click without thinking gives clickbait articles a dangerous amount of power. Students may click on an article with a radical political claim, register its exaggerations as fact, but later forget that the information was sourced from a clickbait article. As a result, clickbait articles may be uniquely powerful in disseminating fake news without consequence.

Indeed, as one survey respondent wrote, “It’s really not that much of a problem … until I realize how much of it actually turns into fake news. Things like ‘See which character you are on … ’ are not as much as a problem to me as ‘You won’t believe what Bernie Sanders just said.’”

Combine clickbait articles with wildly different content for liberals and conservatives, and the result is a recipe for political polarization.

Thus, clickbait articles, however innocuous and however annoying, may have impacts far beyond a few wasted minutes. Indeed, clickbait articles bait more than our attention – they bait our subconscious.

When reading clickbait, therefore, we ought to account for its effects by being more conscientious, such as by verifying the information through another source.

As one respondent wrote, “On the rare occasion that there’s something in clickbait that I’m genuinely curious about, I Google it to read about it elsewhere.”

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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The Apple watch, new tech and the trap of extrinsic motivation https://stanforddaily.com/2017/02/22/the-apple-watch-new-tech-and-the-trap-of-extrinsic-motivation/ https://stanforddaily.com/2017/02/22/the-apple-watch-new-tech-and-the-trap-of-extrinsic-motivation/#respond Wed, 22 Feb 2017 14:45:09 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1123427 We purchase new textbooks at the beginning of the school year, only to leave them unread after the first few classes; riding on a wave of determination, we purchase a new desk organizer, only to leave it, along with the desk, in two separate states of disarray. It’s time we learned our lesson: Extrinsic motivation does nothing to change old habits.

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When I was fourteen, I convinced my parents to buy me my first MacBook.

“It’s going to make doing homework so much easier,” I had argued, pointing to the impressive specs on Apple’s website. “I won’t have to charge it constantly; Apple has hundreds of built-in applications.”

On the day my computer arrived, then, I opened it and of course proceeded to take about 50 selfies in Photo Booth. I then Skyped a friend for about two hours, after which I procrastinated by launching myself into a Wiki-hole.

Homework will be so easy, I said. I can be be so efficient, I said.

But such is the trap of seeking extrinsic motivation in shiny new technology. At best, perhaps you’ll feel motivated enough to change your habits for a few days — maybe even a week. At worst, you’ll be so distracted from day one that the supposed new habits simply never form.

These days, I often see the “Close Your Rings” advertisement for the Apple Watch, which is being marketed as a sort of glorified fitness tracker. I wonder if those who purchase the Apple Watch as motivation to exercise will face the same fate as those who buy a gym subscription but work out only once: For a brief, exciting moment, they’ll close all their rings. But then reality will catch up, and they’ll find their Apple Watch lying somewhere upon a cluttered desk, its brilliantly colored rings conspicuously unclosed.

In this, both the Apple Watch and the MacBook are merely examples of a variety of such occurrences: We purchase new textbooks at the beginning of the school year, only to leave them unread after the first few classes; riding on a wave of determination, we purchase a new desk organizer, only to leave it, along with the desk, in two separate states of disarray.

It’s time we learned our lesson: Extrinsic motivation does nothing to change old habits. Rather — and as tautological as this sounds, bear with me — changing habits begins with actively forming new habits. New purchases do only harm if they simply alleviate the sense of personal responsibility required to alter one’s lifestyle.

In other words, if purchasing that gym subscription makes you think, “Hey! I tried something! I did my part to change my lifestyle,” the purchase has only made you worse off.

Instead, remain unsatisfied. Remain in the state that makes you work toward something — fuel the intrinsic motivation that drives concrete changes.

This is not to say that you should fail to purchase actual necessities (I’m not suggesting, as the “You can’t if you don’t” meme goes, that “you can’t procrastinate on a computer if you don’t have a computer at all!”). Rather, I’m saying that when you’re on the brink of purchasing something, do not lose sight of the actual goal. Don’t confuse your ends with your means — or, in less philosophical terms, if you hope to work out more, don’t let the Apple Watch be your end goal.

And then, perhaps, your rings will close themselves.

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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Alternative facts about Stanford University https://stanforddaily.com/2017/02/01/alternative-facts-about-stanford-university/ https://stanforddaily.com/2017/02/01/alternative-facts-about-stanford-university/#respond Wed, 01 Feb 2017 16:12:21 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1122208 1. Stanford students never have to apply for summer jobs or internships. They simply show up at Google and are hired on the spot. In fact, Google arrives on prospective freshmen’s doorsteps as soon as they receive their admissions letters, offering lifetime employment and a guaranteed path to CEO-hood. Most Stanford students actually refuse this offer […]

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1. Stanford students never have to apply for summer jobs or internships. They simply show up at Google and are hired on the spot. In fact, Google arrives on prospective freshmen’s doorsteps as soon as they receive their admissions letters, offering lifetime employment and a guaranteed path to CEO-hood.

Most Stanford students actually refuse this offer because they prefer the more exciting journey of entrepreneurship. However, they keep the free Google shirts and water bottles anyway as a reminder of the job waiting for them as soon as they strike it rich with a startup.

2. Stanford offers an equal number of job fairs and opportunities for its STEM and humanities majors. In fact, Stanford’s Humanities Job Fair is among the largest in the world, and those with no interest in writing thousands of lines of code will never feel pressure to do so.

3. Stanford has the lowest number of Title IX cases of any peer institution. In fact, make that the entire United States. Stanford is so incomparably safe that it scarcely needs to deal with any sort of incident reports. The last time that Stanford sent out a Community Alert was in 1884, which was a telegram to inform the Stanford family of Leland Jr.’s death.

4. No individual named “Brock Turner” ever attended Stanford University.

5. Because of (3) and (4), the hard alcohol ban instituted over the summer could not have been related to Title IX. However, it was also not related to hospital transports, because everyone at Stanford is impeccably responsible, and no one has ever been transported for alcohol-related reasons. Former President John Hennessy simply enacted the ban as a means of facilitating the transition of power by eliminating undue references to the incorrect president.

6. The Band was no longer performing because all of its members spontaneously chose three straight quarters of nonstop Full Moon on the Quad, even when there was no full moon. The choice of Band members to forgo music cannot be attributed to administrative actions; thus, the administration is not responsible for the disbanding of Band. The recent decision to reinstate Band, however, is to the administration’s credit, for it has a deep appreciation of True Music and Free Stanford Culture. Die Luft Der… freedom!

7. Stanford has a famously vibrant social life, and the long-term dating scene is excellent. Most students seem to fall in love from the first day of NSO. A recent survey found that 99 percent of Stanford students are in a relationship.

8. The weather at Stanford is perpetually sunny. It has not rained in nearly 20 years, but Stanford has also been a drought-free oasis. The palm trees simply grow of their own accord, and due to the lack of rain, students can bike blissfully without fear of large puddles of mud and rusted locks. Never invest in so much as a raincoat; it will be a waste of money.

9. Lake Lagunita is always filled with water. At its center, it is almost a mile deep, and the Stanford Scuba Diving club has been hunting for such treasures as Satisfactory/No Credit units, lost sleep and the beepers left by Karel the Robot.

10. There is always food available in every dining hall. Especially in FloMo, which offers “continuous dining,” the food is particularly delicious on Fridays and Saturdays, and the staff does not even need to be present to cook it. Food also abounds during holidays; West Campus students are never left to trek to Arrillaga, since there is so much food that they could stuff themselves with the ramen noodles that grow alongside the orange trees.

11. There are exactly the right number of meal plan dollars and dining swipes on every student’s card. Not a single dollar or meal swipe ever goes wasted, especially because the dining halls are always consistently open and accessible.

12. Stanford has no minimum SAT or ACT score requirements for prospective applicants, because it welcomes everyone! The bar to entry is set incredibly low, set at the fair price of only $90. Everyone has an equal chance of getting in! However, Stanford is also a prestigious, selective institution. These two facts are not at all contradictory. Everyone should apply!

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu with more alternative facts at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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Ten startup ideas for the rain-hating Stanford student https://stanforddaily.com/2017/01/27/ten-startup-ideas-for-the-rain-hating-stanford-student/ https://stanforddaily.com/2017/01/27/ten-startup-ideas-for-the-rain-hating-stanford-student/#respond Fri, 27 Jan 2017 14:40:06 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1122003 You wake up to the steady drumming of rain on your window. Not again, you think, envisioning mud puddles, bike wipe-outs and wet seats. It is, after all, the third or fourth straight week of rainy weather. But then you remember: At Stanford, entrepreneurship solves everything. As a true entrepreneur, however, you scope out the market first. […]

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You wake up to the steady drumming of rain on your window.

Not again, you think, envisioning mud puddles, bike wipe-outs and wet seats. It is, after all, the third or fourth straight week of rainy weather. But then you remember: At Stanford, entrepreneurship solves everything.

As a true entrepreneur, however, you scope out the market first. Here are some potential products that will appeal to your market of Stanford students. Make it rain … cash, that is.

1. PARCHment (for wet paper)

Ten startup ideas for the rain-hating Stanford student
Stanford students can turn anything into an opportunity for innovation; why not a rainy day? (GEORGINA GRANT/The Stanford Daily)

No, I’m not referring to that transcript-sending service from high school. Stanford students need a solution for the soggy combination that is rainy weather and printed homework. Hours of slaving away at p-sets deserve far more than blurred letters and water-damaged edges, and a startup that breathes life back into wet pages would be quite a life saver.

Note, too, that this product would be effective even when the recent bout of rain ceases. Imagine the days when your water bottle becomes mysteriously unscrewed during your bike ride, turning your folders and textbooks into expensive, heartbreaking sponges. If you invent a paper-drying device, all of our lives could be immediately put at ease.

2. Non-rusting bike locks

Most of us have found that it now takes increasingly longer to unlock our bikes for the morning dorm-to-class commute. Some locks have refused to operate altogether. All this leads to time wasted, unnecessary walks in the rain and extraordinarily long lines of students at the Stanford Bike Shop, all with rusted locks in hand (I know, because I’ve been there twice myself).

The obvious solution is to create non-rusting bike locks. It’s unclear whether these already exist, but it is abundantly evident that they have not yet entered the Stanford market. Which means that you should invent them and sell them here.

3. Helmets for big hair, long hair, ponytails and buns

Remember the free helmets that Stanford gave out at the beginning of the school year? The helmets, though emblazoned with “I love my brain,” were unfortunately not particularly friendly to the brains of individuals with thick hair, long hairstyles or the like. After failing several times to fit my ponytail into a helmet, I eventually ceased to wear my helmet regularly.

If Stanford is so keen to encourage helmet wearing, it should recognize that a video advertising “style and safety” is not sufficient to change the physical barriers that bar students from wearing helmets. When your helmet slips off your head, it’s not particularly effective at protecting your brain. It’s time for the d.School to find a helmet solution for all hair types and styles, not just the sort that can squeeze into a plastic case.

4. Hydrophobic bike seats

The case for this product is simple. Wet butts are terrible for style. Terrible for productivity. Terrible for walking down the sidewalk with dignity. Hydrophobic bike seats solve the problem that seat covers (which continue to drip and often allow water in anyway) cannot.

5. Umbrella hats

To be fair, umbrella hats already exist, and there are likely social pressures (i.e. looking extremely ridiculous) that prevent this product from entering the market. All this aside, however, perhaps some will consider wearing an umbrella hat because the benefits of staying dry outweigh the minor social costs.

6. Heated bike seats (and heated handlebars)

Biking in the cold often feels as if one is sitting on an ice cube while a biting wind cuts at your exposed, numb fingers. Given that many cars offer heated seats for the wintertime, why not create heated seats for bikers? Quite frankly, we spend more time on our bikes than we would in our cars, so nice seats seem like an apt investment.

7. Bike bubbles

In what might be described as a raincoat on steroids, we ought to create a product that simply covers everything. Head to toe in a plastic bubble, away from the rain, the cold and the icy wind.

8. Bike umbrella holders

There are two possible iterations of this product – first, a holder that secures your umbrella while you bike, allowing you to shield yourself from the elements without the ridiculousness of an umbrella hat; second, a lock that secures your umbrella to the bike, so you don’t have to drag a poorly-folded wet mess into your class.

While you’re at it, throw in some bike cupholders!

9. Windshield wipers for glasses

I, like many, wear glasses. And I, like many, become effectively blind when biking through driving rain and more than slightly annoyed when a small drizzle leaves splatters of water across my lenses.

And if glasses are to humans as windshields are to cars (a rather tenuous analogy, I admit), then human glasses require windshield wipers.

10. Anti-fogging glasses

As anyone with glasses knows, the second most annoying glasses phenomenon (behind rain) is the tendency to fog at almost any change in temperature or environment. Given that the ability to see the road is a likely prerequisite to safe biking practices, I feel that some form of an anti-fogging product would improve bike safety significantly.

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu with more startup ideas at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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On solo travel https://stanforddaily.com/2017/01/19/on-solo-travel/ https://stanforddaily.com/2017/01/19/on-solo-travel/#respond Thu, 19 Jan 2017 16:50:32 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1121572 I have never traveled alone quite so much as I have in college; with each school break, I make the solo trek back home, which (including layovers, since no direct flight exists) requires at least ten hours. I realize that my own trip is far shorter than that of many international students; even so, I’ve […]

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On solo travel
Traveling alone can be great for self-reflection, but it can also have its pitfalls, The Grind’s Xinlan Emily Hu reports. (LAURA MEDIORREAL/The Stanford Daily)

I have never traveled alone quite so much as I have in college; with each school break, I make the solo trek back home, which (including layovers, since no direct flight exists) requires at least ten hours. I realize that my own trip is far shorter than that of many international students; even so, I’ve found that the travelling has taught me far more than I anticipated.

  1. No, you can’t make the world your travel buddy. 

I started out very, very naive. On one of my first travel-alone experiences ever, I decided to purchase a meal at a food court and also to forget utensils and napkins. I thought it was a good idea to temporarily leave my luggage and food at an empty table, so I asked a friendly-looking person whether he’d be willing to watch my things for the approximately one-minute journey to the utensil station.

“No,” he said.

Okay. Well, thanks! Great conversation!

I stared at my suitcase for a few seconds while the “… if you see any suspicious or unattended baggage, please dial 9-1-1” blared on the loudspeaker.

  1. Bathroom breaks are so much harder than when you’re traveling with a group.

Dragging a suitcase and a backpack into a tiny, claustrophobic stall is a pain. Maneuvering said suitcase and backpack around a winding line of annoyed travelers and crying children is even more of a pain.

  1. You have to be very, very comfortable with your own thoughts.

There is something lonely about solo travel—perhaps it is the knowledge that you have just left something behind, or perhaps it is the long hours without speaking to anyone, standing in lines and sitting alone, soaking in the world but drowning in your own thoughts. In any case, you end up doing a great deal of people-watching, aimless phone-scrolling and general time-killing. For someone who enjoys talking to people, it’s nearly agonizing to spend an entire day in silence.

The slight upside, though, is that you have plenty of time for reflection. Since you inevitably spend the day inside your own thoughts, you might as well make good use of the opportunity.

  1. Gate changes are the worst.

I once trekked my way from Terminal A to Terminal C, only to realize that my gate had changed back to Terminal A. My flight then proceeded to change gates from A4 (one of the first gates) to A37 (one of the last gates) to A11 (back to one of the first gates). It was like an airport relay game, except with only one participant and very little fun.

  1. Actually, never mind. Delays are even worse.

Delays make you wonder why you woke up at 5 a.m. to go to the airport if your flight wasn’t going to depart until nearly noon. You can’t really allow yourself to fall asleep since you’re alone and have no one to wake you when boarding begins or when they announce delay updates. So you sit, irritated and unrested, attempting to text friends (most of whom are asleep due to time differences). And you post again and again on the Stanford class pages, switching from one Uber group to another, perhaps giving up altogether and ordering a SuperShuttle.

  1. You figure out the weird nuances of airplane Wi-Fi.

As it turns out, some airlines have Wi-Fi that allows free iMessaging. Others do not. Some allow you to read messages but not reply, thus leaving you in the frustrating state of knowing that certain important messages exist but being unable to respond to them.

Yes, airline, I know you’re probably baiting me into purchasing inflight Wi-Fi. And you are so, so close.

  1. You learn to appreciate others in new ways.

At the very least, when your journey alone is over, you appreciate the excitement of home with a far greater intensity.

After a few solo trips, too, traveling with a group of people seems like something between a luxury and a fun adventure. Sure, travel can be annoying, but the nuisances become bonding activities when you’re surrounded with the right people.

And the memories of better traveling days warm you, perhaps until the next time that you’re in the airport alone.

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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And I am an American https://stanforddaily.com/2017/01/12/and-i-am-an-american/ https://stanforddaily.com/2017/01/12/and-i-am-an-american/#respond Thu, 12 Jan 2017 17:20:55 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1121300 “Sixty-five of 66 are present despite the cold, Your Honor.” The judge smiled. “You know, while my son was hoping for a snow day, I hoped for your sake that they wouldn’t close the courts. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of having you wait a day longer.” Waiting. That was a word that I had heard often in […]

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“Sixty-five of 66 are present despite the cold, Your Honor.”

The judge smiled. “You know, while my son was hoping for a snow day, I hoped for your sake that they wouldn’t close the courts. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of having you wait a day longer.”

Waiting. That was a word that I had heard often in the last 15 years. Why couldn’t we get a green card yet? Waiting. Why wasn’t I a United States citizen? Waiting. We applied ages ago! Why haven’t we been called to interview? Waiting, waiting, waiting.

And in the sterility of the system, the brokenness of frustration, the weariness of years, there was something comforting about that validation. There was something so human in that compassion: He couldn’t stand for us to wait any longer.

The courtroom was surprisingly packed that day. I had expected a small affair – I had never been to a naturalization ceremony before, and figured that not many would wish to trek to a courthouse on a frigid Kentucky morning. Instead, even the line for security was so long that it trailed outside the door. I stood in the swirling snow for several minutes before I was even allowed to stand in line inside.

Once I arrived, the affair proceeded a bit like high school graduation, in the sense that we were pre-ordered into seats, then ushered about until at last we sat in the final courtroom. My heart skipped a beat when they stamped a hole in my green card; I had once considered that two-by-three-inch plastic a crowning achievement of a long wait. The image it displayed – of myself as a smiling 10-year-old – was the final attachment on each of my college applications.

And I watched as a hole tore across the neat print of my name, watched the plastic fall away into a dark bin.

During the long ceremony, I often paused simply to marvel at the beautiful diversity in the room. The 65 of us represented over 30 countries; many arrived in traditional clothing. At moments, I found myself mesmerized just watching everyone – losing count of the intricate stitches on one man’s vest, admiring the carefully-pinned curls in one woman’s hair that were held back by a gold hair ornament. I watched as, ahead of me in line, an Australian woman befriended a man from Myanmar; I watched as fellow immigrants aided an elderly man who struggled to make his way down the line.

And there was, too, something profound about the way each of us stood to introduce ourselves. Just before we completed the oath and received our certificates, we stated our former nationalities – because America is a nation composed of nations. The prejudice of the current national rhetoric and the coarseness of xenophobia cannot erase our identities. For we were proud of our nationalities – we were wearing it in our hair and in our clothing, we were speaking fondly about our countries to the new friends we had met: “Where are you from?” “Somalia, and you?”

Thus I stood before a sea of nations and said, “I’m Emily. I’m from China. I live in Louisville.” And I am an American.

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu’at’stanford.edu.

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On autumn leaves, nostalgia and reinventing myself https://stanforddaily.com/2016/11/18/on-autumn-leaves-nostalgia-and-reinventing-myself/ https://stanforddaily.com/2016/11/18/on-autumn-leaves-nostalgia-and-reinventing-myself/#respond Fri, 18 Nov 2016 17:13:28 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1120122 Leaves. Swirling, red-gold, crinkling under boots and collecting on the steps of stone buildings. I didn’t realize how much I had missed them. When I traveled to the East Coast last weekend, I had not expected the rush of nostalgia at the sight of autumn foliage. In temperate Stanford, with its bubbling fountains and sweeping […]

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Leaves. Swirling, red-gold, crinkling under boots and collecting on the steps of stone buildings.

I didn’t realize how much I had missed them.

When I traveled to the East Coast last weekend, I had not expected the rush of nostalgia at the sight of autumn foliage. In temperate Stanford, with its bubbling fountains and sweeping palm trees, one can only find the occasional yellow ginkgo. The paradise-like climate makes you forget what seasons are; by Week 3, I considered 50 degrees Fahrenheit to be “freezing-cold sweater weather.” Aside from the sagging pumpkins that appeared in my dorm, I hardly felt fall’s arrival.

And so, on the East Coast, I was pleasantly surprised at the bursts of color. They brought back fond childhood memories; they reminded me of home.

As I gazed out the window of a charter bus, cruising past forests, the occasional lake — their lakes aren’t dried up! There’s no drought! — and red brick buildings, I realized how much the East Coast cities resembled my own hometown. The neo-Gothic architecture was reminiscent of my high school, which was housed in a red-brown Gothic tower. And though I’ve always found the towering buildings to be rather isolating (I actually prefer Stanford’s sandstone), something about the environment tugged at my heartstrings.

It was homesickness.

Until that moment, I had never felt truly homesick. Transitioning to college brought none of the promised waves of emotion and urges to call home; if anything, I found myself breathless with excitement. Stanford was an empty canvas, and I was free to create memories in a world untouched by past emotions.

But precisely because it was untouched, I had no cause for nostalgia. Nothing at Stanford remotely resembles my hometown; even the chain stores at Town and Country — CVS and Trader Joe’s — are housed in buildings with facades radically different from typical East Coast/Midwestern architecture. On occasions when I left campus, I traveled with the backdrop of yellow-brown mountain ranges with a few tufts of green growth. Every detail of the environment was fresh, new and unexplored.

The East Coast, on the other hand, is like rediscovering the canvas that you had once drawn on as a child. Oh, you think, when you see the familiar handwriting, I wrote that. And then the memories come rushing back — you remember the places, the things you did. Places remind you of other places: That church looks exactly like the one outside my neighborhood! Thought after thought cascades upon your mind.

Homesickness, in my view, happens only when you have something to be homesick for. And for me, it also requires something to remind me of what I’m homesick for.

Thus, a weekend trip to the East Coast became a trip down memory lane — one I’m glad to have experienced but also glad to have disappear when I returned to Stanford.

Because for me, much of college requires a bit of blank canvas. The command that we were all given at Commencement — and that was reiterated by professors and upperclassmen alike — is to explore, to test our boundaries. When your canvas is empty, the boundaries fall away more easily; it’s easier to reinvent yourself or, at the very least, to see yourself in a new light.

Visiting the places that remind me of home, however, grounds me to past experiences. That too is crucial: My experiences have shaped who I am; they carry lessons that I must not forget.

I strike that balance when I sit under the palm trees and think of autumn leaves. I strike that balance when I learn something new and connect it to old memories; I strike that balance when I discover a new passion and find ways that it will help my community back home.

For a canvas that remains blanks is but a useless piece of parchment. Only when we draw on it — drawing from old and new experiences alike — does it come alive.

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

 

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When the music stops: Part 2 https://stanforddaily.com/2016/11/11/when-the-music-stops-part-2/ https://stanforddaily.com/2016/11/11/when-the-music-stops-part-2/#respond Fri, 11 Nov 2016 17:33:03 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1119484 I unravel my headphones from a wad of cords. A few bars of soft piano filter through the wires. For a moment, I still hear my piano teacher: “Rubato at the end of that measure. That’s it. Accentuate the top notes. Not too much, no, you’re making them sound staccato.” And then I remember that […]

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I unravel my headphones from a wad of cords. A few bars of soft piano filter through the wires. For a moment, I still hear my piano teacher: “Rubato at the end of that measure. That’s it. Accentuate the top notes. Not too much, no, you’re making them sound staccato.”

And then I remember that I stopped playing piano a year ago. I’m not a pianist anymore. My job is no longer to puzzle over key changes and work out the interpretation; my job now is to listen.

It’s a role I’m still growing used to. My thoughts falter when I think of myself as a musician in the past tense; I had never really, after all, intended to quit. I had taken a hiatus in order to focus on college applications, fully intending to return when I finalized my choice in the spring. But life took the better of my plans; I deferred my return date to after finals. Then, after graduation. Then, after my summer trip.

In between, I practiced sporadically, vainly attempting to maintain my waning skills with a round of Hanon exercises and a few sight reading drills. I set lofty sights on summer vacation: I could practice for hours a day and become a pianist in college again.

But I didn’t.

Last week, I told the stories of four Stanford freshman who gave up their musical instruments in the months preceding college. The narrative is something to which I have a personal stake; for this week, I add my own. I too am — was — a musician, and the decision to leave behind something I loved did not come easily. I still grow nostalgic when I see the grand piano that stands just yards from my door; I still feel emotional when I listen to the songs that I once played on my own.

I still remember my own voice as a little girl, telling my parents that I “can’t go too long without playing the piano because I need it in my life.” I wonder what happened to that little girl because it’s been an entire year since I last touched the ivories with any degree of seriousness.

It’s been an entire year since my music has gone silent.

The same creeping guilt, which I always felt when I forgot to practice before lessons, still crouches in the recesses of my mind. Part of me still clings desperately to the impossible: I’m just on hiatus, putting off my lessons until I have the free time to start them again. The other part of me presents the stark reality: I will never have the free time for piano. My time will only grow thinner with each quarter, with each class, with each extracurricular commitment. And I ought to stop feeling guilty for not doing something that is no longer my obligation.

It’s strange too to think that I miss an activity that I had spent 12 years complaining about. When I first stopped my lessons, my parents enthusiastically supported me — at last, they were free of their duty to pester me about practice! My parents and I had many a piano-related fight in the last decade, and we were all too glad for a reprieve from the source of conflict. In all honesty, I had never been particularly devoted to the piano; I went through sporadic periods in which I practiced the necessary discipline, but I was, on the whole, a somewhat lazy musician.

It may seem impossible, therefore, to reconcile the fact that I both loved and hated the piano. I had previously considered quitting on multiple occasions, yet each time I felt an impossible draw to the instrument. Through all of the years that I had spent at the piano bench, music had burrowed itself into a corner of my mind. I return to it at my most vulnerable — at times when I desperately seek mental peace.

And that love for music has never waned. It has found alternative channels, where it waits as an old friend would for me to revisit its calm embrace. I found, for instance, that I now listen to music more frequently. I developed substitutes for the emotional outlet that I once had in piano — creating playlists for each mood, bursting out in song when I think no one’s listening. (Actually, most people in my dorm have probably heard me sing at least once. The secret’s out. Sorry, guys.)

My 12 years of music are not, indeed, like the songs that I played — evaporating into thin air once the final notes concluded. Rather, they have left gentle marks upon me. There were the physical habits of a musician: sitting on the front third of a chair, keeping my nails trimmed low, refusing to wear a watch that imbalanced the weight on my wrists. More subtly, there was the subtle swinging along to any sort of beat, the ear for when something was out of tune, the ability to catch onto songs faster.

I may no longer be a pianist, but I am still, I realize, a musician. And who is to say that I won’t one day be a pianist again?

Years ago, my piano lessons occupied the time slot directly after that of a middle-aged student. And I will always remember his words, which he repeated each time he left: “Remember. Piano is something that you can keep doing until you’re 80. You might wear yourself out in other physical activities, but music lasts forever.”

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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Students discuss intersection of music, politics and sexual violence https://stanforddaily.com/2016/11/11/students-discuss-intersection-of-music-politics-and-sexual-violence/ https://stanforddaily.com/2016/11/11/students-discuss-intersection-of-music-politics-and-sexual-violence/#respond Fri, 11 Nov 2016 08:06:49 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1119668 On Wednesday evening, Stanford Philharmonia conducted a performance and discussion of musical pieces that were originally rooted in stories of sexual violence to turn the conversation from politics to art.

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In the wake of the 2016 presidential election and a slew of sexual harassment accusations against President-elect Donald Trump, the nation found itself in the middle of a conversation about sexual assault. On Wednesday evening, Stanford Philharmonia conducted a performance and discussion of musical pieces that were originally rooted in stories of sexual violence to turn the conversation from politics to art.

The gathering at Toyon Hall hoped to bring to light the fact that sexual assault is not merely a modern issue. The topic has deep roots in classical texts, works at the foundation of musical and literary canon.

According to professor of musicology Heather Hadlock, the discussion aimed to inspire a reckoning with the often ignored sexism in art.

“We’re describing artistic creativity,” Hadlock said. “The idea that pursuing some beautiful object, whether it’s imagination or expression, is this metaphor: seizing a woman, spotting her in the distance and running after her. She tries to get away, because artistic inspiration is fugitive.”

But the content of the metaphor — the fact that it depicts an act of sexual assault — presented student artists with a difficult dilemma.

“You begin to think, can I perform something beautiful out of a heinous act?” said flautist Tiffany Jiang ’19.

Wednesday’s discussion considered the issue of sexual assault in art within the context of “The Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun,” a symphonic poem by Claude Debussy. The event also featured performances of Théophile Gauthier’s “Lamento” and “Barcarolle” by mezzo-soprano Kindra Scharich and pianist Christine McLeavey. All three pieces surround themes of sexual possession, temptation and masculinity.

The event was an opportunity to hear a preview of the Stanford Philharmonia’s Nov. 12 performance at Bing Concert Hall.

For Anna Wittstruck, interim music director of the Stanford Symphony Orchestra and Stanford Philharmonia, the discussion served to contextualize the upcoming concert and explore connections between music and politics.

“My initial reaction was, ‘Well, this is a great piece of music, but I can’t program it without causing a lot of trouble,’” Wittstruck said. “And then I thought, ‘That’s not a good solution. Actually, we need to be talking about these things.’”

The discussion revealed information to contextualize featured pieces as well as broader themes of sexual violence in literature.

For example, attendees learned that Debussy’s “Prelude” was a musical response to a poem by French writer Stéphane Mallarmé. The poem describes a faun who, in a dreamlike state, encounters and attempts to rape two nymphs. For Hadlock, it was critical to reconcile the evil of the faun’s actions with the beauty of the artistic work. This discussion raised a number of questions. What should modern musicians be thinking as they perform the prelude? How does the knowledge of the musical context inform the interpretation?

“The piece is incredibly delicate, ephemeral, beautiful, transparent — it has all the qualities that we love in French music,” Hadlock said. “So the idea that it could be rooted in a situation that would be objectively horrifying or troubling is one of the contradictions that [we were] hoping to create a space for.”

Students who participated found this lesson highlighted throughout the night.

“I think the context of the piece is just as important as its technical aspects,” Jiang said. “I’ve seen recordings and interpretations, but when you really get down to it, you learn why. Why did he write this in the first place? And I think that it really impacts how you interpret it.”

For Wittstruck, Stanford Philharmonia’s upcoming performance is an opportunity to provide an emotion-inducing experience to the community as a whole, especially in the wake of the recent election.

“Giving a concert at this moment, after the election, is cathartic — a moment where people get to lose themselves in something bigger than them,” Wittstruck said. “And music has this sort of wonderful, transformative power. I think this music specifically is so varied, sensual, beautiful and evocative, and I think people will really connect to that. There’s a lot of optimism in it. There’s a lot of despair.”

In these moments of political conflict and confusion, Wittstruck said, music and politics often intertwine. She hopes to lead more such discussions in the future to explore similar topics from different angles.

“In the past few weeks, with sexual assault becoming front and center, a silver lining that came out was that a lot of women were empowered to tell their stories,” Wittstruck said. “Being able to connect that to music is so important.”

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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When the music stops https://stanforddaily.com/2016/10/27/when-the-music-stops/ https://stanforddaily.com/2016/10/27/when-the-music-stops/#respond Fri, 28 Oct 2016 05:43:43 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1118588 Huanvy Phan ’20 had grown to love violin rehearsals, however grueling and difficult. Rehearsals had been a constant in the past seven years of her life, and she loved the accomplishment that accompanied the exhaustion. As college approached, however, it grew increasingly clear that her orchestra days had come to a close. “I knew I […]

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Huanvy Phan ’20 had grown to love violin rehearsals, however grueling and difficult. Rehearsals had been a constant in the past seven years of her life, and she loved the accomplishment that accompanied the exhaustion. As college approached, however, it grew increasingly clear that her orchestra days had come to a close.

“I knew I wasn’t going to practice on my own, and I knew I was going be more occupied with different things,” she explains. “Ultimately, I decided to leave my violin as literal baggage at home.”

Musical instruments are indeed symbolic baggage. For many students, they represent years — often close to a decade — of physical and emotional effort. But as freshmen undertake the transition to college, they are forced to confront reality: The music world is incredibly competitive, and serious musicians require hours of daily practice — an obligation to which most are unwilling to commit.

“If I pursued violin, it would only get more and more competitive because there are so many great violinists out there,” says Samuel Kwong ’20. “The time commitment is crazy.”

Even for the casual musician, there is little time in the college lifestyle for regular rehearsal. On days with barely enough time for lunch, it is difficult to imagine even an extra half-hour for music.

And so, many students who have been musicians for nearly all of their lives choose to give up their instruments. For some, the hassle of carrying an instrument is not worth the risk of damage and likely disuse.

“I was considering bringing my guitar here, but because I’m from the East Coast, it was a lot to fly over here,” says Madison Hurr ’20. “It’s also precious to me, so I didn’t want to harm it. I figured if someone else here had a guitar, I could just jam on theirs.”

Others chose to leave their instruments behind in order to explore different extracurricular options. For Mitchell So ’20, allowing room to explore required giving up his instrument of nine years.

“It was a time commitment thing,” he explains. “I’m on the fencing team, and I wanted to expand into other clubs. So I just decided to leave my violin.”

But while it is easy to leave behind an instrument, it is not so easy to leave behind the music. For even when the music stops — when the last strands of Vivaldi fade, when the guitar picks are tucked away, when instruments are folded into cases and left thousands of miles away — the music continues.

“My interest never died in violin,” Kwong says. “To this day, it’s never died.”

Some students rediscovered music’s sense of unity and accomplishment through other pursuits. Phan joined the K-pop dance group XTRM.

“I get that thrill of performing arts through dancing now,” she says.

For others, music has had a subtler effect — a lasting appreciation for performing arts, improved memory and academic discipline. Music in general provides students a mental release from stressful events.

According to Hurr, “Whenever I listen to music, I just feel more relaxed — more happy. I think that music brings people together too. Whenever I have people in my dorm room, I turn on some music.”

Still, other outlets are often not the same. The joy of performance is not quite replicated by occasionally playing the dorm piano or practicing on a friend’s instrument.

“Every once in a while, my friends in orchestra let me play their violins,” So says. “It’s kind of nostalgic. I kind of miss it, but it doesn’t feel the same because it’s not my own instrument.”

All four students expressed an interest in returning to music in the future. In particular, So and Hurr linked music to their homes.

“When I go home,” So says, “I’ll play it again.”

Hurr adds that she hopes to eventually bring her instrument to school: “When I go home, I’m thinking of bringing my guitar back with me because this is my home now, and maybe I should have that part of me here.”

For Kwong, violin has continued to be part of his life through music therapy. Nearly a decade ago, his brother founded a group that performs in senior citizen homes. The group, In the Light, performs primarily during summer or winter breaks.

Kwong finds the experience extremely rewarding: “I’m happy that I can still utilize my skill for violin to bring music to older folks.”

Indeed, though all four students no longer pursue their original instruments, music has continued to play a role in each of their lives.

“Playing music just makes me happy,” Hurr says. “I can’t live without music.”

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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Technology, the generation gap, and the words lost in text message https://stanforddaily.com/2016/10/18/technology-the-generation-gap-and-the-words-lost-in-text-message/ https://stanforddaily.com/2016/10/18/technology-the-generation-gap-and-the-words-lost-in-text-message/#respond Tue, 18 Oct 2016 18:00:20 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1118118 My grandfather’s ringtone is the sound of a cuckoo bird, and it plays every time he receives a text message. His many friends generally text him at around 3PM in China (3AM in the United States’ Eastern Time Zone). All summer, while I was lying awake at night, I’d hear that sound. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. My […]

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My grandfather’s ringtone is the sound of a cuckoo bird, and it plays every time he receives a text message. His many friends generally text him at around 3PM in China (3AM in the United States’ Eastern Time Zone). All summer, while I was lying awake at night, I’d hear that sound. Cuckoo. Cuckoo.

My grandfather is, at age 80, a sort of hipster. He works out every morning. He has a surprisingly vibrant social media profile, on which he shares articles and even gifs. He’s a naturally brilliant cook, and he experiments with strange trendy foods in the way that any hipster would.

He is, in short, a perfect case study: a cross between modernism and traditionalism — and, perhaps, he provides a window into the future generations of elderly and youth who will both have grown up with technology.

My grandparents lived in our home this past summer, and they brought with them two smartphones. Each morning (or rather, afternoon, since I’m quite a night owl), I woke up to the strains of the music videos that my grandmother streamed while wrapping dumplings. I’d eat brunch while checking my inbox, which my grandfather had flooded with forwarded messages. And then I’d have to explain that, no, grandpa, contrary to this article you sent me, microwaves are not dangerous.

I couldn’t help but think that their days very closely resembled mine. Clicking, scrolling, sending links to friends. And I couldn’t help but feel a little sad as I sat at my own computer, watching my grandparents texting on their respective phones. I messaged my friends; they messaged theirs.

We developed the mutual idea that everyone in the house was busy. My grandfather had taken it upon himself to transcribe his late father’s autobiography (written in nearly-illegible Chinese calligraphy) into Simplified Chinese, and he worked industriously on his iPad for most of the summer. I felt guilty about bothering him, and apparently the feeling was mutual. Each time my grandfather approached me at my desk, he’d preface his words with, “Oh no, I must be keeping you from something important.” And though I was careful to emphasize that, in fact, I wasn’t doing anything of importance at all, I wondered how many conversations my computer had deterred. And I wondered how many conversations my grandfather’s iPad had prevented.

I wanted to ask my grandparents if they had noticed the same phenomenon, but I failed to find the words. In every conversation we shared about technology, my grandfather gave glowing reviews — “Back when your father was going to college, I had to either write letters or visit him personally; now that there’s text messaging, the college transition will be so easy.” I wanted to ask him how it felt to enter a digital world from an analog one; I wanted to hear his stories, his opinions; I wanted to know his thoughts beyond the links that he forwarded (which I rarely read beyond a few sentences).

Instead, our conversations always felt a bit rushed; a few minutes in, my grandfather would say, “You should get back to what you were working on,” and we turned again to our phones and our computers.

I felt guilty that they had traveled halfway across the world to visit me, and yet our relationship felt more distant than ever. I felt responsible when, after finally sharing an hour-long conversation, my grandfather told me that it was nice to have such a “rare opportunity.”

But we had lived in the same house for an entire summer. Why was a simple conversation such a “rare opportunity?”

Fourteen years ago, my grandparents had raised me in China. Years later, I believed that I could say anything to them. When did that feeling stop? When did I lose the words with which to communicate — when did we transition from mutual confidantes to people who conversed only when the wifi broke down?

Certainly the issue was mired not only by the complexity of technology, but by culture and our own human fallibility — the expectation that a student (even while on an onerously long summer break) must be constantly occupied; the tendency for anyone, while living in close quarters, to create tiny abrasions. Then there was the blunt fact of our generational gap, which was paradoxically heightened by my grandparents’ technology. Within their online niche, my grandparents sometimes enhanced certain traditional views. They often gave me strangely outdated pieces of advice, to which I typically remained silent in lieu of outright offending them.

Though technology itself is not at fault, the behavior of its users are paradoxical: They are closer, yet more distant; connected, yet disconnected; enlightened by modern ideas, yet enclosed within niche spaces of outdated thoughts.

And on a very real, personal level, there was the sense of guilt and betrayal, which washed over me on my second to last day at home. I realized, at that moment, that I had spent an entire summer failing as a human being. I had the opportunity of a lifetime to learn about my family’s meaningful stories, and yet I spent most of those days silent.

On the last day of my summer, I told my grandmother that I genuinely didn’t have anything left to do. I sat down at our breakfast table. We talked for four hours.

Those four hours cannot make up for the opportunities that I had missed in the previous four months. But they had reminded me to invest more in genuine conversations; to take moments to say, “I don’t have anything left to do; let’s talk.”

And though I am often still absorbed in my phone, hastily checking my calendar and sending group messages, the thought of those four hours — and the four months that could have been — remind me to look up.

 

Contact Xinlan Emily Hu at xehu ‘at’ stanford.edu.

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