I decided I wanted to blog about this topic years ago. I’ve written and re-written drafts upon drafts, none of which have quite been able to fully encompass how important and intensely personal this topic is to me – and how badly I want to do it the respect it deserves.

I wanted to publish when, in law school, an Asian-American judge came to lecture and I got to truly imagine myself in the career path I had chosen. I wanted to publish when I once returned from a trip to Toronto, where I was in deep, life-changing awe of not only the sheer number of biracial couples around me, but the complete normalcy with which they were able to go about their lives. I wanted to publish when Crazy Rich Asians came out and I cried through the whole showing, finally getting to see myself and my family represented in the fully Asian cast of a major movie production. I wanted to publish when Jeremy Lin became the first Asian-American to win a NBA Championship and when Bong Joon Ho won award after award at the 2020 Oscars, both of whom opened up another yet another round of conversations about Asians and how far we’ve come.

And I wanted to publish at the start of the COVID-19 era, and the realization of how far we still have yet to go.

***

It’s hard to explain my complex and uneven relationship with my ethnicity. I have recognized, especially as I age, that being Asian is so intrinsically part of my being that even the times when I worked so hard to deny, ignore, and distance myself from it are part of my identity, and should be acknowledged and included in my history.

Growing up in mainly White, middle America was, and remains to this day, a good childhood. Both my parents worked good jobs and worked hard, and provided for my brother and I in ways that I recognize now were far beyond those of our peers. They spoke English well even before I was born, and the hardships that other Asian-Americans face – translating English to Vietnamese or cultural boundaries – were practically non-existent for me. They gave me an American name, preventing prejudice at first glance. They let me speak English at home and exclusively, which let my speech flourish without any hint at an accent. They studied and observed and worked tirelessly to make sure that even though my high school was different from theirs, they would understand it and help us succeed in it.

If the biggest troubles you faced as a first-generation teenager were that your parents did not allow you to take part in the senior class water-gun fight (because, they were correct, you could have been arrested) and made you wait a few years to attend dances, your problems were indeed few and far between. I was incredibly lucky.

Of course, when you are a teenager, discipline and dictatorship look somewhat the same, so I fought back, desperately wishing to be as “free” as my Caucasian peers, with less pressure to succeed and more grace, in my mind, to fail and still be loved. (I was, of course, unbelievably incorrect and wildly off-base – an Asian parents’ love is not reflected in whether or not you succeed; an Asian parents’ love is reflected in their overwhelmingly strong belief that with hard work and effort, you will always be able to succeed.) As I went from high school and into college, I often made subtle and sometimes obvious attempts to separate myself from my minority status. I went to great lengths to participate in American activities, and to shun Asian ones. I wore what everyone else wore, followed trends and brands that everyone else followed. I joined a sorority. I maintained almost exclusively Caucasian friendships and relationships. I joked so frequently about being bad at math that I actually talked myself into being bad at math – and to tell you the truth, I can do math just fine.

I found myself addressing my Asian-ness head-on in social settings, often cracking jokes about myself at my own expense, attempting to ease what I felt was the obvious elephant in the room: that I was, more often than not, the only minority among people with very little minority experience, and if not that, at the very least the only Asian. I allowed people around me to make racially insensitive jokes, and I shied away from, rather than confronted, obviously problematic Asian commentary. I worked so hard – insanely hard – to make people feel comfortable around me, instead of feeling comfortable with myself.

For a long time, I was fighting a losing battle. You see, no matter how much Vineyard Vines you wear, or how many “Hi, I’m Asian but not the type of Asian who can do your math homework for you” jokes you make, you never quite fit in. No one ever confuses you for your blonde friend or your brunette friend. There’s always still a few lingering degrees of separation. Your eyes betray you. Your hair betrays you. The first thing anyone sees about you will always be that you are Asian. You are always different, no matter how the same you try to be.

But if you’re really lucky, one day you will wake up and you will realize that being the same isn’t what matters. Being different is a privilege. It is a blessing.

It is an honor, just to be Asian.

***

I can remember almost every instance that an Asian-American made an impact on me as I was growing up. I remember that the Yellow Power Ranger was Asian. I remember watching a special on Kristy Yamaguchi, and reading so many biographies of her that one year I got a special figure skater snow globe as a gift from my parents. I remember Brenda Song playing the sweet but daft London Tipton on the Suite Life of Zack and Cody, and again in a brief role in The Social Network. I remember dreaming about being Lisa Ling or Lucy Liu when I grew up. I remember when Jamie Chung went on the Real World and then broke into acting. I remember when Ken Jeong jumped out of the back of that car in the middle of the desert, fully nude, in The Hangover.

I remember thinking that if a guy like Harry Potter could like a girl like Cho Chang, then maybe guys could like me too.

The fact that each instance is so memorable to me is both a praise and indictment of Asian representation. It tells us exactly how few and far between those moments were. It reminds us that each interaction is important, and makes a far greater impact on who we are and who we will grow up to be than we could have ever imagined. And it humbles us in its simplicity.

We. Deserve. To. Be. Seen.

Would I have tried to be more myself, and less like everyone else, if instead of just one Asian on each of those television shows, there were more? Would I have been prouder to admit who I am if I thought life would be easier for me to declare so? Instead of the immense amount of gratitude for my heritage that I now have at 28, would I have had it all along at age 8? Or 18?

We’ll never know. The best we can do now is recognize who we are, what our struggles have been, and where we go from here.

***

As the world recovers from the chaos and troubles that COVID-19 has presented, I worry about the next generation of young Asian-Americans who, like me, are just trying to fit into a world that already knows at first glance that we are different. I worry that they will make the same mistakes I did – that they will run away from, rather than to, their Asian heritage and culture. I worry that they, like I once did and sometimes still do, will take for granted not just the immeasurable things our parents do for us now but the incredible things they did for us even before we were born – coming to a new and different country just for a better life. I worry that they will face backlash. I worry that the progress we have made is not enough.

Once, in a sociology course in college, I was blindly asked by a professor to defend why Asian-Americans are so often referred to as “the model minority.” Mortified at being put on the spot when I so desperately and constantly strove to blend in, I mumbled an answer about being held to a higher standards by our parents, and the sheer fear of failure preventing most of us from seriously putting a toe out of line. But now, the answer I wish I had said was this:

There are no “model minorities.” The idea of model minorities inherently places minorities at odds with one another, alleging that some “do it better” than others. The truth is, there is no way to “be better” at being a minority in America. We are all different, and everyone knows we are different. We all face challenges. We are all treated differently, and we are all blamed for various issues. Yesterday, it was taking up too many seats at Harvard. Today, it is COVID-19.

Spending your entire life trying to be the same, as I have largely done, is a fruitless exercise that will take you further and further away from the truth – that we all, despite our differences, deserve to be here regardless of who we are and where we come from. That we all give value to a society that would die in homogeneity if not for the ability of diverse minds and people to push us past boundaries we could not reach before. That it is in our differences where we thrive, not our desire to be the same.

I hope that as we emerge into the next stage of normalcy that we have been forced into, Asians do not suffer. I hope that we do not feel unwelcome in a place so many of us truly and rightfully call home. And I hope most of all that we ourselves feel comfortable in who we are and the value we bring. Because it is an honor just to be Asian.

For a long time, I struggled with whether or not I wanted to write this post. I struggled with whether or not my opinions are valid, whether this was a topic I was allowed to comment on, whether it was okay, or “PC,” or acceptable that I put in my two cents into such a controversial topic. I struggled with balancing the objective view of what’s happening at my alma mater with my extremely emotional, personal views on a school that I both loved and immensely enjoyed my time at.

But I realized those questions are part of the problem. And so, I decided to write.

* * *

When I was a sophomore at Mizzou, I attended a fraternity party that was also being attended by several basketball players. We had a pretty good team that year (notwithstanding the NCAA tournament, okay) and it was kind of a big deal they were there, until a member of the fraternity threw out the n-word. Immediately, he was taken out of his own fraternity house, and the basketball players left, pledging never to return. That wasn’t my first experience with racism at Mizzou, nor was it my last.

As an Asian-American, I too was a minority at Mizzou. For the most part, I did not experience racism, and for that I am thankful. For me, racism was not someone crossing the street because they saw me coming, or having a hateful word slung at me as I walked through campus at night. For me, racism was a guy thinking an acceptable pick up line is, “Hey, I’ve never done it with an Asian before” or “I could eat you like a plate of sashimi.” For me, racism was strangers saying, “Wow your name is Claudia? That’s a lot more normal than I thought it was going to be. Your English is good too.” For me, racism was friends ending sentences with “You’re – insert seemingly positive compliment here – for an Asian.”

But for me, racism was a collection of separate, individual experiences done by humans who either didn’t have the education to know better or the sophistication to do better. And for me, that is how I suspect most racist encounters have occurred at the University of Missouri. I refuse to make this into racism by Mizzou when it is actually racism within Mizzou, to rush to make this narrative about us vs them like some of the national media coverage has done. (Not all.) I refuse to take anything away from Mizzou, because my experiences there, the good and even those not so good, shaped who I am today. I refuse to paint Missouri as the bad guy.

But, I cannot and will not say that what I’ve gone through is comparable to what those who are protesting now are going through. I cannot and will not say that racism does not exist on Mizzou’s campus. I cannot and will not say that there is not a problem. Because if we have learned anything from these tumultuous days at Mizzou, it is that there is most certainly a problem. The time to address it was yesterday. But if not yesterday, then the time to address it is now.

The question becomes then, how do we address this? How do we channel our anger, our sadness, our desire for change into productive energy that makes the campus we step on tomorrow better than the one we stepped on today?

* * *

I don’t believe there is a right answer to this question. I don’t believe there is a silver bullet that solves the problems that this question brings to light. I don’t believe that taking the jobs of two men will solve the problem. I don’t believe allowing denial to run our leadership solves the problem, either. But I especially don’t believe that taking sides will bring us any closer to equality than we were to begin with.

The events that have transpired at Missouri over the last few days have led people into two camps: 1) With the protestors or 2) Against the protestors. Tim Wolfe or no Tim Wolfe.  The “right” side of history or the “wrong” side. Media or no media. Anti-racism or racist. My opinion or your opinion.

Unfortunately for us, this situation is not as binary as we want it to be. This situation is not about picking a side and digging in your heels. This situation is not about YOUR side or THEIR side. Whatever you think the narrative is at Mizzou, whether you think this is a story of running racism, or administration ineptitude, or First Amendment rights – and I think it’s a little bit of all of the above – the floodgates have been opened. The discussions are here. The arguments are here. The opportunity for change is here.

Yesterday was the day for blame. Yesterday was the day for anger. Yesterday was the day to realize that the problems at Mizzou go so much deeper than where we’ve convinced ourselves they have been.

But today is the day for productivity. Today is the day to talk about it. Today is the day for recognizing the problems we found yesterday and taking a step forward in fixing them. Today is the day to stop shouting.

Not everyone has the right opinion, but everyone has the right to their opinion.

Regardless on what side you choose to take on this issue, I encourage you to take today to listen to the other side. To realize that there is a real problem at Mizzou that is being exposed through these protests and there are real people experiencing real prejudice at the hands of some of our classmates. To realize that it is just some of our classmates, not all, and making demands, taking jobs, and pushing journalists only discredits your cause and your struggles, not enhances them. To listen to not just the problems that have been expressed out loud, but the ones that have revealed themselves in our reactions to these events.

To realize that at the end of the day, we are all One Mizzou.

* * *

And now, I speak directly to the protestors. I urge you to reconsider your ban on the media, to realize that’s becoming the new national narrative, instead of the necessary and important change you are advocating. I implore you to recognize that unless we hear from you, unless we hear your stories and your struggles, we will never understand. I challenge you to remember that Tim Wolfe lost his job because he failed to respond and his silence was taken for indifference. I encourage you to work with us, not against us, because we too are working for the same goal.

In the end, I decided to write this column because I, like everyone who has read about these events and participated in these events, love Mizzou. I decided to write this column because I, like everyone, want to see Mizzou become a better place. I decided to write this column because I, like everyone, believe my opinions are worth expressing. So are yours. So are theirs. Will we listen?

Recently, Greek Life came under scrutiny. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

The University of Alabama Alpha Phi was recently forced to pull all of their social media sites after harsh public backlash and outcry over their 2015 recruitment video. Criticized for being a homogenous, unrealistic representation of sorority life, the worst comments came in the form of degrading words such as “bimbos,” “dumb blondes,” and most verbally from writer A.L. Bailey. Ms. Bailey wrote that this video is, “worse for women than Donald Trump.”

In the interest of transparency, I was an Alpha Phi at the University of Missouri, and will continue to be an Alpha Phi for the rest of my life. Some of my best friends are Alpha Phis, and some of my best memories are with Alpha Phis. But I am also a woman. I was also, recently, a college woman. And I have some words for Ms. Bailey.

Ms. Bailey,

You don’t know me, but I think you think you do.

You recently wrote a guest column titled “‘Bama sorority video worse for women than Donald Trump.” In it, you criticized the women of Alpha Phi at the University of Alabama for producing a recruitment video that you implied was akin to a Playboy Playmate or Girls Gone Wild video. You wrote that the women were poster children for detrimental stereotypes and cliches. You wrote that the women were not the type of women you wanted your children or your children’s role models to be. You made many, many assumptions about the women in the video, based on each of their 10-15 second appearances.

I am also an Alpha Phi, at the University of Missouri. I am neither blonde, nor tall, nor do I believe that I give off the impression of being particularly “flouncy.” But I have, on occasion, blown glitter off my hand in my sorority house. I’ve worn daisy dukes and crop tops, and I’ve received more than one piggyback ride from a sister. And I have most definitely laughed, ran, cried, and enjoyed life with my sisters.

But I did more than just that: during my time as an active member of Alpha Phi, I was also a member of four other on-campus organizations. I was a two-year member of the Mizzou Greek Life community’s GAMMA, which stands for Greeks Advocating the Mature Management of Alcohol. Together, myself and other dedicated, inspiring sorority and fraternity members educated ourselves and our sisters and brothers on the dangers of binge drinking and the habits of healthy social drinkers. I was a member of the Griffiths Women’s Leadership Society, which included women from every one of Mizzou’s 15 sororities. And as a member of Alpha Phi, my sisters and I held a “flouncy,” “hyper-feminine”, “hair-flipping,” philanthropy poker tournament every year to raise money for cardiac care research. Did you know women’s cardiac disease is the number one killer of women? The year I planned our tournament, we raised $18,000. The year my little planned our tournament, we raised $20,000.

And now, Ms. Bailey, I attend the University of Notre Dame Law School as a second year law student. Long behind me are my days of running through the quad hand in hand, giggling with my sisters, and long behind me are late nights sitting with my sisters in our sorority house talking about everything from boys and Greek Week to what our hopes and dreams are. But I wouldn’t be where I am without the support of my sisters. When I took the LSAT, member after member of my sorority took the time to send me a text, tweet or Facebook post for good luck. When I eventually got into law school, we celebrated like I had already become a lawyer. When I finally started at Notre Dame, they called and talked to me when I was alone, scared, sad, and overwhelmed.

Ms. Bailey, how could you ever find this out about me in the span of a 3 minute video? How could you ever know what I’ve been through and what my sisters have done for me? How could you know that within my house there includes some of the most driven individuals I’ve ever been lucky enough to meet? How could you know about my sister who worked hard to bring her depression and the depression of others to light through the beauty of her writing, which is consistently shared and supported by my sorority. How could you know about my sister who, after a terrible sledding accident, received nationwide attention for her brave recovery because of the work of Alpha Phis across the nation who shared her story and her hashtag?

Not everything you said was wrong. As a minority member of my sorority, yes, sometimes I felt judged, under appreciated, and shafted because I didn’t fit the sorority stereotype. Yes, recruitment was the hardest time of the year because yes, sorority recruitment – not just at Mizzou, not just at Alabama, but across the U.S. – is largely predicated on how you look. I advocated against certain recruitment policies while I was in school, and my senior year myself and other friends boycotted recruitment. But I do not renounce the system because of its flaws, because the system made me who I am and brought me home. Instead, I continue to talk about and work against the stereotypes perpetuated by recruitment season because I don’t believe the tradition of Greek Life and all the benefits that come with it deserve to be taken away because of a side-effect of the system we are always working on improving. Even within my sorority, I’ve seen changes in how minorities are treated and embraced in the classes that came after mine and I can’t help but be proud.

Change is oftentimes slower than we would like it to be. Perhaps, and forgive me for making assumption about you, Ms. Bailey, you have a flaw you would like to fix. Maybe it’s a little one. For me, I bite my nails when I’m stressed out. It’s a habit that has taken me years and years to remedy, and sometimes, usually around law school finals season, I slip back into the struggle. Perhaps you understand my difficulty in changing a bad habit, and perhaps you’ve gone through this yourself as well. Change takes time, but to be dragged back for every one step forward makes a broken process even worse.

To criticize the video is one thing, Ms. Bailey. At its worst, it is indeed a short yet superficial and occasionally unrealistic representation of a system that has so many more positives than it has negatives. But at its best, it is simply a recruiting tool – like when you sell a sports car not by its gas mileage but by the fact that it’s red, sexy, and fast. You could have just criticized the video, you could have called it ineffective, ostentatious, or false advertising.

Except you took it one step further. You compared this video to Donald Trump, who once called Megyn Kelly a “bimbo” and insinuated that biology was the reason she was doing her job as a journalist by asking hard questions. First, that discredits a man who has worked much harder than a 3.5 minute video to degrade women. Second, and worst of all, you made assumptions about women who are someone’s daughter, someone’s friend, and someone’s sister. You made the same assumptions you accused the women in the video of promoting.

Please think before you speak next time. I ask you to realize that while you may disagree with the video, and who the women are represented to be in the video, your words are hurtful. Your assumptions are hurtful. I ask you to realize that who the women are in the 10-15 seconds each of them are featured in a 3 minute video doesn’t say anything about who they are as individuals. You may indeed want one of them as a role model for your daughters. I certainly want my sisters as mine.

Claudia Tran

Omicron – Missouri, 2010

I believe in the power of finding true love on national television so much that over ten years ago I began watching a reality show franchise called The Bachelor and its spin off, The Bachelorette. I believe in it so much that I wrote a blog about it on this site 4 years ago. I believe in it so much that I am still watching The Bachelorette today and I have to tell you, it’s been 12 years of loyal viewership and I still do believe in the power of finding true love on national television. I believe in the power of The Bachelor and The Bachelorette.

I don’t, however, believe in what they’ve done to Kaitlyn Bristowe on national television this year.

I don’t believe in the circus show of crazy characters and dramatic moments that is attempting to pass itself off for the show I fell in love with so many years ago. This is no longer a show about love, or the serendipity of two people being exactly where they need to be at exactly the right time. This isn’t about making true connections between real people that just happens to be captured by cameras. Instead, ABC has singlehandedly morphed this show into its worst version. This show is now about drama. It’s about turning people into caricatures of their true selves. It’s about selling the next date destination, the next rose ceremony, the next “most dramatic” episode ever.

And last night, this show officially became about sex.

If you follow my Twitter, I am not quiet about my feelings on some of the decisions reigning Bachelorette Kaitlyn has made. I disagree with her decision to bring Nick Viall on the show 4 weeks into the process. I disagree with her decision to put Ben Z on a date that pushed his emotional boundaries in an extremely personal way. I disagree, strongly, with the butchered haircut she gave Joshua the Welder.

I do not disagree with her decision to take it where she wanted to take it with one of her suitors.

Last night Kaitlyn took one of her most controversial contestants and current villain of the week, Nick, on a date in Dublin, where they strolled the streets and did a little making out. They bought some rings and did a little making out. They had a chat in a pub and did a little making out. They had a romantic dinner in a beautiful cathedral and did a little making out. Then they went back to her suite and did a little bit more than making out.

This is not a matter of disagreeing with Kaitlyn’s choice in man. By all means, disagree with Kaitlyn’s decision to make her Bachelorette first be the impish creature named Nick Viall. But that’s a different matter than disagreeing with who Kaitlyn is as a person, and then dragging her name through the mud because of it. All week and all season, ABC has been pushing the promos of Kaitlyn dealing with angry men, rude men, men who have questioned her intentions and her decisions on every single episode of a show that is supposed to be entirely about her decisions. And I, for one, am tired of Kaitlyn having to defend her own damn decisions.

It is one thing for us at home to complain about perspectives we have access to and she does not, “omg why can’t she see that Clint is totally two-faced and is actually trying to take home JJ” and “doesn’t she know the guys totally threw Joshua under the bus?” This television show has made its entire career off making edits like that. It happens. But it is an entirely different thing for ABC to be setting up one of their own for slut-shaming on national television.

I am not in any place to judge Kaitlyn for what she chooses to do and not do on her own individual path to find love. Nor is it my place to judge. I watch The Bachelorette because I am Team Kaitlyn, Team Andi, Team whoever is putting her heart and her reputation on national television for the off chance that the guy she is meant to be with for the rest of her life might be on there. I am Team Serendipity. I am Team True Love in no matter what form it takes. Who am I to say it doesn’t take form in a suite bedroom in Dublin, Ireland?

Kaitlyn Bristowe made the decision to be on national television. Kaitlyn Bristowe made the decision to take her relationship to the next level with a guy she is considering marrying. Kaitlyn Bristowe made many decisions that we can all feel free to disagree with on our own personal levels. But Kaitlyn Bristowe did not make the decision to portray herself as the Bachelorette whose season is defined by her own mistakes. ABC made this decision for her. And that is not the show I believe in.

ABC has no right to make Kaitlyn constantly apologizing for her behavior and her actions. To make every episode about Kaitlyn defending herself takes all the power away from her on a show that should be all about her power. This episode should not be defined as a “mistake” that Kaitlyn made. Kaitlyn made a decision that many women make today. Maybe I am just associating with the wrong people, but I believe you are more likely to find someone who has made the decision Kaitlyn has made than someone who hasn’t. Sleeping with someone you’re seeing? This is 2015 for crying out loud. Do not punish Kaitlyn for bringing a cultural dating norm onto a television show that claims it is can keep up with cultural dating norms. Punish ABC for making it seem like Kaitlyn has something to apologize for. Punish the people who are trying to turn this into a Kaitlyn issue instead of a women’s issue, instead of a cultural issue. This is not a Kaitlyn Bristowe issue. This is an issue with the way we approach sex, dating, and more specifically, the way we approach women, sex and dating.

This dumpster-fire of a season has finally given us a legitimate reason to talk about an issue that this franchise has skirted around for the entirety of its time on-air. We’ll call a spade a spade. The persecution Kaitlyn is going through in the tabloids and on social media would never happen to any Bachelor and it has a name: this is slut-shaming. Kaitlyn does not deserve this. Women do not deserve this. No one would dare say that the Bachelor trailing a line of kisses through all his beautiful women is being a slut on his version of the show, and it has most certainly happened before. Why do we get to say Kaitlyn is anything but doing her job? People constantly complain the Bachelor and Bachelorette loses its validity because of its outrageous situations and unrealistic expectations of dating in the modern world. Well, haters, see how realistic it is now?

I don’t have the answers on how to fix any of these pervasive problems, and the way it is presented in the Bachelor and Bachelorette franchise is just one stark example that betrays those who claim we’ve moved forward in the fight for equality. The best I can do is hope that we can take this situation as a lesson and move forward. Not as a lesson for Kaitlyn, but as a lesson for us. I encourage society to do better. And I encourage ABC to do better.

EDIT: 11/2/2015:

It’s been one year since I wrote this post, and not much has changed. I continue to attend one of the finest institutions in the country, and I continue to be surrounded by individuals who not only tolerate my love of the Royals, but encourage it.

But, one thing did change: the Royals became World Series champions today.

And this post couldn’t stay any truer.

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

11 weeks ago, I left all my family, friends, and favorite places. I moved 9 hours away to a school I was only mildly excited to be at, into an apartment with no roommates. And I hung up a Royals blanket.

* * *

On the very first night I went out with law school students, we did a trivia competition at a local bar. It was a standard trivia competition, where you collaborated – quietly, this is the key to the story here – on your answers, and sent a messenger up with your written sheet of responses. This was the first time I met any members of my team, who also happened to be current schoolmates and future colleagues.

In the sports section, because every trivia competition ever has a sports section, the question was, “What team does All-Star catcher Salvador Perez play for?” And acting how every mild-mannered, regular human being would do, I immediately stood up, screamed, “THE ROYALS,” and promptly sat down in shame. Remember, I said this was a quiet trivia contest.

And then, everyone figured out that I am a Royals fan.

* * *

This isn’t a column about what a crazy ride this has been, and how much joy the Royals have brought this city, and how proud I am to be a part of this post season. We know all that is already true. No, this column is about how a team of strangers I have never met, (save one glorious, short-lived Twitter conversation this summer), changed my life for the better at a time when I needed it the most.

This post season, the Royals have given me more than something to look forward to after long days of studying, and they have given me more than just a reason to put off my reading until tomorrow. The Royals have given me more than pride, more than joy, even more than pure happiness. The Royals have given me a home in a city I never thought would be home.

* * *

Here in South Bend, we like to talk about sports. Usually, we like to talk about Notre Dame sports. Mostly, we like to talk about Notre Dame football.

But then sometimes, a crazy enough fan comes along, and her team makes the Wild Card game, and then the ALDS, and then the ALCS, and then the freaking World Series, and all of the sudden, football isn’t what she wants to talk about anymore. She wants to talk about baseball. With anyone who wants to talk baseball with her.

For every game the Royals played this season, and especially in the post-season, I made a new friend. In a place where I came in with precisely zero friends, with low hopes of increasing that number, I suddenly met a group of people who not only recognized my crazy-ness, but accepted it. People I didn’t know when the Royals were barely floating along the .500 line this summer were high-fiving me in hallways, nodding at my hat, and stopping me to talk in the library. Instead of watching games huddled alone in my apartment with my blanket on the wall, I got to watch with two amazingly dedicated, lifelong Royals fans. And often, friends came to watch with us and to celebrate with us.

The tired but true party line on sports is that it cultivates relationships in a way no other activities can. The father-son bond. The bond between you and the stranger sitting next to you when your team scores a touchdown, slams a dunk, or hits a home run. The bond between a random undergraduate walking along campus and a law student on her way home from class.

Sports are amazing because for a girl terrified to be in a brand new city and equally terrified to be part of such a brilliant, motivated law school, I finally feel at home. I felt at home every time someone told me “go Royals!” in passing, or asked about the game, or griped about Pablo Sandoval with me (because man, that guy.) I felt at home when my contracts professor used a hypothetical about the Royals, and half the room turned to give me a smile. I finally, finally felt at home when, despite the loss, I got to watch Game 7 with a group of guys who made me laugh even when Panda reached base for the 47,000th time in the night.

I owe so many of my new friendships to the Royals, and that’s a gift not even a World Series Game 7 loss can take from me.

* * *

Thank you, to all the new, wonderful people I’ve met so far who have talked with me, cheered with me, and grown to love this Royals team with me. They might not be Royals fans next year, and they probably won’t be Royals fans tomorrow, but for yesterday and the last month, I met a lot of new Royals fans, and I needed them more than I could ever say.

Thank you to my friends, new and old, who have stuck with me through a long season and an even longer post-season. The old friends who understand and parallel my Royals fandom. The new friends who, luckily, still became friends with me despite the trivia night embarrassment. Thank you for the plethora of “are you alive/crying/dead/okay” texts I got in the moments after Game 7 ended. I have nothing but thank yous for so many people who have tolerated me, listened to me, and most of all, cheered with me.

And finally, thank you to Royals. The Royals who have brought so much excitement into my changing life. The guys who have turned every place I watch their games into a little piece of home by playing their way onto national television, so I can catch the game even though I’m 571.9 miles away. The ones who are champions in my heart, no matter what the final score is.

* * *

It looks like my Royals blanket and I are here to stay. Welcome home.

Magic is real, ladies and gentlemen, and I am here to tell you that we know this because of a special group of magicians named the Kansas City Royals.

I have been a Kansas City sports fan for my entire life. I was born and raised in Kansas City. I believe Oklahoma Joe’s is a gift from God himself. I think our fountains are actually the 8th wonder of the world. I use Dick Vermeil as the standard by which all other coaches should be judged. And I am a Royals fan.

I was negative 7 years old when the Royals last went to the playoffs, played for the pennant, and won the World Series. Today, I’m 22 years old, and the Royals, my beloved boys in blue, are one win away from the World Series.

The elusive World Series that I have only witnessed, most unfortunately, through the eyes of our lucky counterpart across the state. The World Series we’ve all joked will never come. The World Series that is sweeter than all the other World Series, because Royals fans, and Royals fans alone, know what it feels like to finally break the impossible and turn it not just into the possible – but the probable.

We are one win away.

But really, in the scheme of things, this doesn’t matter anymore. How we finish, where we finish, who we finish, none of this matters any more, because what this team has brought to Kansas City and its people has been accomplished no matter how this movie – this has gotta be a movie, right? – will end.

It will end in magic.

Magic is the only logical explanation for what is happening right now. Magic is the only explanation for why the Royals managed to battle back from 3-7 in the bottom of the 8th and take the A’s to 12 innings, where Salvy, Instagram-trolling, no-hits-yet-on-the-night Salvy saved the day and Kansas City’s playoffs hopes. Magic is the only explanation for how the Royals, the team with the lowest number of HRs ever to make the playoffs, continue to hit bomb after bomb right when the situation demands it.

And if you won’t take my word on any of the above, then maybe Billy Butler stealing second base and scoring from first not once, BUT TWICE, in the series against the Angels will convince you: magic is real.

Magic is so real and it has finally descended upon the beautiful city of Kansas City.

Now, this magic is not regular magic. It’s not a series of hijinks and lucky breaks and bloopers that JUST MANAGE to fall between all the available outfielders. This magic comes from every single player on the Kansas City roster. This magic comes from – yes, even him – manager Ned Yost. This magic comes from a city and its people elated to finally be propelled not just into national sports stardom, but into national sports legends.

Every player on this team has brought some magic to this playoff run. Four players have hit home runs. Lorenzo Cain and Alex Gordon are super-humans designed to make the most improbable of catches. Jarrod Dyson and Terrance Gore are so doggone fast that they casually hang out on their stolen base before the ball even hits the glove of their baseman. Our bullpen is legendary. Salvador Perez is consistently bopped on the head while diligently continuing his campaign to be the best catcher in the game. I could go on. This is a team made of individual superstars, finally ready to shine on a national stage as one together.

And the fans. Man, these fans. The fans who clung to Mike Moustakas’ legs to save him from imminent concussion after his diving catch into the dugout stands. The fan who adopted a new puppy out of this deal. The fans at City Council who changed “Baltimore Ave.” to “Royals Ave.” The fans who designed “That’s What Speed Do” shirts, with the proceeds going to RBI, a Boys & Girls Club program that brings baseball to inner-city kids. The fans who have waited so long to see something magical and have gotten far more than we ever expected to receive.

This October, I have become a firm believer in magic. The kind of magic that only a sports team can revive in a city ready to celebrate. The kind of magic that brings tears to my eyes when I see a team I have both cried for and cheered for achieve something we never thought was possible. The kind of magic that makes me feel like I’m at home, even when I’m miles away.

This is the kind of magic we’ve been waiting for. This is the kind of magic that makes us champions.

To the Royals and to Kansas City, I love you, and I will never be able to thank you enough. No matter how this ends, I’ve seen the magic, and I believe.

Let me tell you about a few of my mistakes. Because no one is perfect and if college has taught me anything at all, it is that I am far, far away from perfect.

It was a mistake when, during my very first week of school as a student at Mizzou, I walked into the wrong lecture hall. It was a bigger mistake to stay for the entire lecture because I was too embarrassed to walk out. And my biggest mistake was actually taking notes for this class that I didn’t take then, nor ever, during my four years here.

It was a mistake to think I didn’t belong in my sorority I had been in for just a month, and it was a mistake to let myself get as close to dropping as just one weekend away. It was a mistake to think I came in with the right major, my entire life plan set out with no room for revisions. It was also a mistake to assume that as a senior, I would know where all my classes were on the first day without researching them.

It was a mistake to pick El Rancho at the end of many nights. It was a mistake that time we decided to pregame for the holiday party with an entire fifth of Lemonade Burnett’s, and it was a mistake when I stole a pink dinosaur costume from a random room in APhi later that night. It was a mistake all those mornings I came home at the break of dawn, and they were our mistakes when I met several sisters on the way there.

I thought it was my mistake for dating the wrong boys and I thought it was my mistake for letting the right ones go. It was a mistake all the nights I picked studying over hanging out with friends, and it was a mistake all the nights I picked hanging out with friends over studying.  It was a mistake to not take the time to sit on the columns on a beautiful day until this very moment, as I’m writing this blog and stopping every so often to just take in the beauty that is this campus. And it was a mistake to come in as a freshman and think 4 years was a long time to go here.

But my biggest mistake of all was thinking I belonged anywhere else but Mizzou.

Mizzou was the last place I wanted to end up as a senior in high school. I was mad when I begrudgingly paid my first deposit, I was mad when I was assigned my first dorm, I was mad the day I left my home to move to this one. I came, kicking and screaming, to the prettiest campus in the US and all of the sudden, now I never want to leave.

As I finish up the last 2 weeks of some of the best 4 years of my life, I have no regrets. The mistakes I’ve listed above are only a small number of the many, many lapses in judgments and oversights I’ve had as a student here. Ahead of me, I have a whole lifetime of mistakes left to make and after all my experiences screwing up here, I’ve never felt more prepared for failure. Because the thing I’ve realized is that all those times I thought I failed, all the times I cried too hard over something that didn’t matter, all these problems were not problems at all. I’m eternally grateful for every mistake I’ve made here.

Because all these mistakes have made me who I am.

I would have never pushed myself so hard for law school if I hadn’t first ruled out journalism. I would have never met my  best friends if I hadn’t stayed in my sorority one last weekend. Then I would have never realized they are my future bridesmaids if they hadn’t rescued me from that pink dinosaur suit and put railings on the edge of my lofted bed. I would never have a great story and a 2 random pages of Greek/Roman Art History notes if I hadn’t walked into that wrong lecture hall on my first Friday as a student. And how would I know who the right guys are if I hadn’t dated the wrong ones? (Just kidding. I still don’t know who the right guys are. Wear a sign maybe?)

Most of all, if I hadn’t “mistakenly” picked Mizzou, I would be a totally different person than I am now. And to be quite honest, despite all my flaws and my constant string of mistakes, I kind of like the person I am now.

So here’s to what’s been an amazing four years. Here’s to the next 3, the next 25, the next 50. Here’s to the tears, here’s to the laughs, and here’s to a lifetime of perfect mistakes and all the good things that come out of them.

(Ok, maybe another post about lasts. But how was I going to get you to click on this if I said it was going to be like all the others? It’s not.)

From this side of spring break, graduation looks a lot closer. You can count the weekends left before we walk across the stage and receive our diplomas. The real world is so close to us now, we can see it vividly. More vividly for some than others, but it’s there, it’s real, and we’re hurtling full speed towards it.

It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be a senior in college until you’ve been there. So far, it hasn’t disappointed. It’s been everything I imagined it would be and more. There have been happy times, sad times, and more surprises than I counted on when I moved back to Columbia for my final year of college. For many of us, and including myself, it has been the strangest combination of excitement for the future and pain at losing the past. There are days you get up and you can’t wait to get the hell out. There are days you get up and you realize you can’t imagine leaving this place and these people. When you’re senior, there’s a lot of reflecting on what has happened and a lot of wondering at what will happen. But I have a new resolution, at least for these few weeks until I cross the threshold from student to alumni.

I promise to live in the present.

I promise to not let my apprehension over my future ruin the joy of what’s happening in my now. I promise not to let my sadness over what has passed interrupt the memories I am making now. I promise to enjoy discussions in my favorite class. I promise to laugh a little harder when surrounded by the people I love in a place I love. I promise to appreciate the friends and time I have left in the best ways we know how, whether it’s on the patio at Bengals or just sitting in our living room gossiping about anything and everything. I promise to stop counting my days by how many I have left.

I promise to live in the present.

Every important moment this year has been punctuated by its title of “last.” Our last home football game, our last visit to The Magic Tree, our last spring break – the list is so extensive and so detailed it’s enough to make anyone think we were counting down to doomsday. But we’ve been going about this all wrong. Last doesn’t mean it has to be bad. There have been too many great firsts I’ve experienced here and so many more to come that to live in a world of lasts is to ignore the bursts of firsts about to come our way.

I can’t wait to see my closest friends start the first job of their career. I can’t wait to see myself start the first day of law school. I can’t wait for the first time one of my sisters tells us she’s met the man she’s going to marry. I can’t wait for the first bachelorette party, the first wedding, the first little one to join our group. I can’t wait for the first time I move to a new city on my own or the first time I buy my own car or my own house. There are so many firsts to be excited for, I don’t think I have room for lasts.

So for now, I’m just going to live in the present. I’m going to smile at every warm day left between now and graduation, and probably, I’ll skip class and never look back. I’ll spend as much time with the people here as I can. We’ll start and finish the frat crawl we’ve been planning for four years. I’ll do homework outside the first apartment I’ve ever lived in. We’ll have Sunday Fundays, we’ll be stupid, and we’ll do it all again. I’m going to soak in every moment I have left in this city I’ve grown to call first and foremost, home.

If all good things come to an end, I’m going to make sure we make it as great as possible, because really that’s all we can do.

“Well, I hope you can look back one day and honestly say you did it to the fullest.” – J.Cosey

Cosmopolitan Magazine recently published an article by Tess Koman headlined, “Confession: Why getting hazed by my sorority was weirdly worth it.”

And all of the sudden, years of good Greek Life/sorority PR went haywire.

But, I have my own confession: I was never hazed and it was completely worth it.

I received a bid to the Omicron chapter of Alpha Phi at the University of Missouri on August 21, 2010. From that day until October 4, 2010, my initiation date, my pledge class and I were considered coveted, perfect new members of the sorority of our dreams.  We were showered in gifts, advice, and love from older members. Never once was I hazed, and never once was I treated as anything other than equal sister of Alpha Phi.

In her article, Koman says, “Pledging a sorority was at once one of the best and worst decisions I’ve ever made.” Ms. Koman, I beg to differ.

Pledging a sorority was one of the best decisions I have ever made and there is not a day I look back and wish I had done anything differently. Pledging a sorority doesn’t mean “bonding” with your sisters through embarrassment and shame by performing obscene, inappropriate acts in front of male fraternity members. It doesn’t mean calling your mother hysterical at times when pledgeship gets too hard. And it sure as hell does not mean disrespecting yourself by standing naked in a basement and letting your “sisters” call out your every imperfection.

Pledging a sorority means bonding in the house TV room with The Bachelor or the Oscars on the television, McDonalds bags and Taco Bell wrappers strewn about. It means calling your mother because you just can’t wait to tell her how amazing your big, your little, your entire best damn pledge fam is. It means knowing you’ve found your best friends for life, who love you and will always support you despite your imperfections.

Pledging a sorority means leaving a better woman than you once were.

I am a proud sorority girl, and I was never hazed.

Ms. Koman, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you were made to feel insignificant, inferior, and anything less than your true worth just to be accepted into a group that should have accepted you without question. I’m sorry that you found your joys in college by bossing around and terrorizing younger girls like you once were yourself. And I’m so, so sorry you never got to realize how truly life changing the bonds of sisterhood can be without hazing.

As for me, I’ve found sisters and friends who have stood by me even on the worst days of my life, not created them. I’ve found the girls who I know will stand by me on every important day of my life; the day I receive my JD, the day I marry the man of my dreams, the day I have my own future baby Alpha Phi. I’ve had memories to last a lifetime with a sisterhood that will last a lifetime. I’ve had nothing but a wonderful experience in Greek Life and Ms. Koman, I wish you could have experienced what I have. I wish you could have lived the joys of my sorority experience and realized that hazing is NEVER worth it because a sisterhood like this isn’t something you earn – it’s something you deserve.

“Being in a sorority is more than just fun parties and cool t-shirts. It’s about finding your soul mates, people who understand you even when you don’t always understand yourself. It’s about finding yourself and setting a positive example in hopes of one day breaking the stereotype. It’s tradition and wearing your letters proudly. Not for your own self dignity, but in honor of the morals and values set forth by the women who made this whole experience possible.”

Last night a beautiful, intelligent and talented woman won Miss America.  She went through preliminaries, swimsuit, evening gown and final question sections with grace and class. She’s a pristine-perfect representation of what we want Miss America to be. What more could you ask for?

Oh, but one thing: she is of Indian descent. And apparently to some, that’s not okay.

How do you define “American?” Does it mean she grew up in the United States and said the pledge of allegiance in school? Does it mean she celebrates the 4th of July with fireworks and beer and BBQ? Does it mean she considers the US to be her home and her country? What is “American?” And why doesn’t Miss Nina Davuluri meet that standard?

America prides itself on being the melting pot of the world. At one point, we all came to the US as immigrants. We all came with dreams of having a better life for ourselves, our families, and our future generations. We live in a society that, for the most part, preaches acceptance of all races, religions and people. We live under the standard of equality for all. Miss Davuluri, her success and her crown, they are nothing but a representation of all we strive for as Americans.

I’ve been fortunate enough in my lifetime to only encounter small instances of racism. A rude name by a stranger, an ignorant comment by a friend, the casual yet constant awareness that I stand out among my caucasian friends – but nothing like the waves of hurtful, hateful comments towards Miss Davuluri. However, I consider every backlash comment towards her one towards me as well – how different am I from her? If she’s no longer considered “American,” am I?

To answer simply: I am a proud American. I have jet black hair and small eyes and to a few, the same ones who only see Nina Davuluri as Indian, I am only Asian. But I assure you that I, as much as our new Miss America, is every bit American as could be expected. I say the pledge of allegiance with pride, I always place my hand over my heart during the national anthem, and I will never stop defending my country and her people. The true American is defined by those who define themselves.

If the backlash against Miss America tells a story of anything, it shows we are still several steps away from where we want to be. It betrays those who claim racism is all but extinct from our society. It reminds us that we are not as perfect a country as we pretend to be. But it doesn’t prove we’ve lost this battle – those who’ve come to Miss America’s defense, who call out the ignorant and push our country forward, they’re the reason we continue to be proud of this country and proud to call ourselves Americans.

And Miss Davuluri, well, she’s why we should be proudest of all.