Imposter Syndrome & Other Confessions of Alejandra Kim: Part II

Billy and Laurel met once—and only once—freshperson year, when we went to the Film Forum to see a French film called Desiring. After, Billy just sat there, drinking his red Gatorade, while Laurel and I hashed it out over lattes. The camera lingering on all the broken symbols of love: the chipped teacup, the crumpled-up napkin. The characters’ elliptical dialogue.

The auteur transforming the film from private, intimate moment to “public spectacle.”

The four of us had it out. All the gross stuff came pouring out—stuff from elementary school on. Honestly, it felt cathartic, like a pus wound had popped.

The girl—her name was Violet Treacle—had her friend “saving” a spot for her. Cronyism is real, and it trickles down even to the line for toilets.

“I’m not like”—Billy hesitates, and I can see his lip is wavering—“like you and your friends at Quaker Oats. How am I supposed to compete with that?”
“Why’s it even a competition?” I say.
“Come on, Ale. Don’t be naive.”

Billy blanches at first, but then I see him starting to come around.

Laurel opens her arms, then stops herself. I can tell she doesn’t want to be presumptuous.

But I’ve gotten good at assimilating. Quaker Oats Ally does not say a word in her defense.

I feel so stupid for the fleeting hope in my heart that, I don’t know, someone like him would so much as look my way?

Josh writes his name on the board with a flourish. For some reason, I’m surprised he writes in script and not print.

Dr. Chatterjee’s delivery is so dry, I have no idea if she’s deadpanning or not.

“Anyway, what our friend Joshua so generously demonstrated for us is the principle of social facilitation theory, which posits that individuals perform a task differently when they are alone versus when they’re with others,” Dr. C explains.

All the awful—and erroneous—stereotypes they play on the news.

But when this “empirical evidence” is staring at me in list form…it still stings.
I’m 100 percent Korean, 100 percent Latinx, and 100 percent American…but there’s no such thing as 300 percent.

The room is quieter than the time I accidentally farted during Mass in the fifth grade, right after homily.

Dr. C says, “Know thyself, young Padawan.”
Colin whistles at the gratuitous Star Wars reference.

It’s a snoozefest of repressed, milquetoast characters, all building up to the climax of—no joke—a toboggan ride.

But we all know what that means: Josh was rejected. Colin Okafor is deferred at Amherst.

Colin brushes off the awkwardness with his usual—and literal—presidential diplomacy. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Chelsea. But you win some, you lose some.”

“I hereby absolve you of your Guilty White Girl Tumble Act, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amen,” I say, making the sign of the cross.

“Addiction is a serious affliction, and not just for those on the extreme echelons of the socioeconomic ladder.”

With that hug, I let go of our fight, my residual anger.

On that last trip to the Rockaways, Mami berated Papi for letting me fry in the sun.

So I broach it with Ma over breakfast.
“Ma, Christmas is next week. Are we doing anything?”

She looks tired, annoyed, bedraggled.

I think of the blatant Hallmarkification of Christmas, with its sickly saccharine promise of cheery tidings.

Her once-alabaster skin is stretched thin over the bones of her face. Maybe it’s the bad lighting from the fluorescent bulbs, but I have never seen her so ashen.

I put myself out there, even if it means falling down and getting bruised all over ad nauseam.

When it’s my turn to talk, I briefly sketch our Christmas Day. Billy infers more from the silences than the actual words I’m saying.

Did we or did we not watch that special on channel 13 about the Vietnam vets? What, you want to sign up so you can become cannon fodder?

“That’s…a good thing?” I say tentatively.

She drives a white Mercedes—it’s parked right out front—but in some ways she’s as frugal as a Great Depression granny.

Their move reminds me of a study we talked about in Dr. C’s class, where a trauma victim refused to tell her story in any other language but English, even though it wasn’t her first language. She was a Chinese immigrant. She said it would be “impossible” to do it in Chinese because the language was too close to her emotions. English gave her a safe and sterile distance.

“Shut up, Jason,” I say, wishing for a pithier comeback.

We do three rounds of the rosary, everyone saying the Hail Mary in different languages: Tía Yoona and Gary Gomobu in Korean, Ma in Spanish, Jason and me in English.

The ahjumma blinks and blinks and blinks, like my words are unseemly drops of spittle I’ve just spewed in her face.

“He played jazz with—how do you say? Fervor. I don’t know how you say in English. He played with his whole body and energy. It was like the whole world went away, and the music was the only thing that mattered.”

Based on the few stories Ma’s shared about Mrs. O’Gall, the old lady seemed to take a special pleasure in tormenting my mother. In her encroaching senility, she called Ma “the Chinawoman” and would ask her if she was there to pick up the laundry.

Please note this is a direct quote and the author does not condone the usage of such ableist language.

First-Gen Testimony takes a qualitative research approach, which means Dr. C is conducting interviews and collecting and analyzing this “unfiltered data” to look for any patterns in the testimonies.