From a “Low-Achiever” to a Psychology Professor

I’m from Taiwan, a small island next to mainland China. With an area of a little more than half of West Virginia, we squeeze a population bigger than Florida. When I was a kid, to get into senior high schools or colleges, one should pass the annual entrance exams. Many had spent years taking them. I guess in our Asians’ minds, education is too precious a resource not to be shared by everyone.

When I entered junior high (7th grade in America), the whole grade was divided into 3 sections based on students’ “aptitude:” A, B, and C. Only students in the A section received the “real” intensive education. Those in B were seen as low-achievers, and no one cared about those in C — people simply gave up on them.

I was in A. We went to school at around 7:30, studied till about 4:30 or 5, then stayed for another 2–3 hours for more classes or quizzes. We were supposed to bring 2 “lunch” boxes. After that, many had to go to cram schools for another 2–3 hours, got home at about 10 or 11, did homework till past midnight, went to bed, repeated the cycle the next day. There were no Saturdays, Sundays, Winter break, or Summer vacation. Only study days.

Every day there were quizzes, and if we didn’t reach a standard, the teachers used a big bamboo rod to beat us on our palms, butts, or the back of our thighs. Every day we were black and blue. To make things worse, I sucked big time on the 2 most important subjects: Math and English.

I was trapped in hell.

I didn’t (still don’t) understand why my classmates still could breathe, laugh, and eat. Every morning I stood at the door with eyes full of tears begging “don’t make me go to school.” But my mom had her own problems. What could she do anyway? I found all excuses and lies to be late for school or simply skip it, got more beatings and hard slaps to the face. The administrative had meetings about me and other delinquents. I guess I became famous.

Finally, my teacher had had it. He kicked me out to section B. That basically meant no hope for passing the exam; not the first time at least. If I wanted to, I could go to a cram school, spent a shit ton of money, and cram the shit out of it for a year before trying it again. Later I learned from my old classmates that my section A teacher announced to the whole class about me behind my back: “I’m making sure he won’t get into any school.”

I still studied; hard. I didn’t get English, no problem; I memorized sentences, a bunch of them. I wouldn’t give up without a fight.

But after the exam, I shook my head and sighed: well, I tried. Guess I’m stupid and I deserve it.

That was why when a relative called and told my mom that I got into a high school, even I fell from a chair. I was the only section B “low-achievers” in the whole school who passed the exam.

But in high school, my Math and English still sucked. English was especially interesting: for every class, I simply sat there without absorbing anything, like a rock couldn’t absorb a few tiny drops of water dripping on it. In my senior year, I said to myself: “I’ve got to get into college, and therefore I have to rescue at least one subject.”

For some reason, I thought Math requires talents like Einstein, and I surely was hopeless. I decided to work on English — in my own way. For the whole year, after school, I bought dinner home, opened an English book, turned on the radio to English education channels, and struggled. No one was home (long story) so I could concentrate in a quiet environment.

Unfortunately, “the race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong.” Hard work doesn’t guarantee success. Though my English did improve, I didn’t get into any college. I was heartbroken, convinced that people who doubted me were right all along.

I went to mandatory military service for 2 years. Whenever I had private time, I wrote down vocabulary on cards and memorized them. My superior scolded me for that (“Throw away those damn cards and concentrate on your duty!”) and I didn’t remember a lot, but I had the spirit.

After the service, because I was a devoted Christian at that time, I volunteered to be a missionary for 2 years. I had chances to learn English with my American companions. But my inadequate language ability led to many miscommunications and hard feelings. One day I was cooking dinner for me and my companion, who barely spoke Mandarin. He looked at me: “I hope you’re not putting that egg into the soup.” Too bad I thought he wanted me to do that. He screamed. We rescued that poor egg and didn’t utter another word for the whole night.

After my mission, I fought hard to find a job, but no one cared about a high school graduate except some sales or labor positions. I either quit the next day or was fired, living under my family’s disappointed eyes. But I never stopped dreaming about college; I applied to our church’s school in Hawaii. A long shot, but I had to try.

Then I found a job as a driver shuttling preschoolers and kindergarteners between the school and their homes. It was the BEST job I’ve ever had in my whole life. I loved the children and they loved me; every morning they hugged me or climbed up on my shoulders. My co-workers were a bunch of the nicest, fun people. Meanwhile, the church urged members to get married ASAP and have 15 kids. In the church there were so many women and so few men, some women had no choice but to hold their noses and close their eyes to consider me. I was so flattered like hell yeah, whatever attention is cool with me.

I started thinking: maybe I should just settle down?

And this is the first life lesson I’ve learned: you might not know what exactly you’re gonna be in your life yet, but you should have a basic understanding of what kind of person you are. After careful soul-searching, I came to realize that I was NOT a person who would be happy with a high school diploma, married a woman of faith, had 15 children, opened a small shop, and lived happily ever after — that was NOT me. I didn’t need money or status, but I needed knowledge, I needed to see the world.

A few weeks later, I received the admission letter from the college.

**

My English continued to stink, but strangely, when it came to things I was enthusiastic about, I just couldn’t shut up. I loved science, I loved astronomy, I loved psychology, so in these classes people could see me talk — sometimes stuttering and sweating, but kept talking. For the classes I cared about (sorry English literature teachers), I preview the books, maybe recorded the lectures, listened to the whole thing in my room and took more notes, then reviewed again before exams.

My grades were doing okay, but I struggled with daily conversation. A girl asked me a question, I answered, and she smirked: “That’s not what I’m asking.” I wanted to hide in a cave. A cute red-haired girl invited me to a movie (First Knight starring Richard Gere), I was so shocked and thrilled I nearly passed out. But we walked back to campus under the starry night after the movie — and I could barely utter a coherent sentence. Besides the language barrier, I had NO clue about the dating script in America. I wanted to jump off a cliff.

At least I managed to graduate.

That should have been the end of the story, but I guess I was possessed or what, I dared to start dreaming about graduate schools. As I’ve said in this article, people who knew better tried to put down this idea like swatting a fly. Of course, I didn’t listen. My wife and I went to a small school in Kansas for a counseling degree.

After the first year, however, the professor asked me in our meeting: “What’s going on with you? Every time we talk about your practicum you ‘vibrate’ like that?” Vibrate in this case indicated me being nervous: eyes opening wide, stuttering, sweating, saying “I can’t do it” repeatedly. Wait, I need to talk to people in English? My English?

I don’t know what I was thinking: it was a counseling degree for heaven’s sake, did I think I’d learn telepathy?

Then in the Ph.D. program, I saw another mountain too high to climb: the knowledge of research and statistics. Yes, I published a study in a student journal in college, but many others had more impressive accomplishments equipped with a richer statistics background in the program. I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew I wouldn’t last more than a year.

I barely lived through the first semester. But very soon another big challenge hit: I had to deliver a 50-minute lecture to a class of 150. If I had a choice, I’d have said hell no. But it was a demand from a professor.

Oh yeah, I rehearsed the whole lecture from head to toe at least 5 times until I memorized every single word. But what if someone asks a question and I can’t understand what s/he says? Shit, the hell with it; I’d kill myself later.

Luckily, I survived. In fact, I saw some smiles. That day, I realized 2 things:

It doesn’t really matter what you say in the lecture; students don’t pay attention anyway, they just need someone up there talking.

Also: I can teach. And yes, in English.

It was a turning point. Very soon, I learned that by being an instructor I could earn extra cash. The fear of the language was immediately eradicated by the need for $$$. Sign me up!! I screamed. I found my direction. A year later the department head asked me: “What’s your plan after graduation?”

“Teach.” This was NOT in my wildest dream just a year or two before.

People still had their doubts. When I got my Master’s, one of my uncles who got his doctoral degree in America and was a professor in Taiwan took time and money to call me: “You should quit and find a job now.”

“But this is a Ph.D. program.”

“But consider your age; how are you going to raise the whole family? What are you going to do with your life?”

“I’m not gonna give up right now!” And you call me from Taiwan just to tell me that?

The conversation with my mom was amusing: “So what do you do to make money?” she asked.

“I teach college classes.”

Paused for a few seconds, she said: “I didn’t know there are Taiwanese there.”

**

It wasn’t without challenges. For these years in the program, I had to hide my panic in countless classes and meetings because I couldn’t comprehend the terms or slang flying around. After each presentation or defense I endured the humiliation of criticisms that exposed my inadequate knowledge in research and statistics, then went home and admitted to myself that I didn’t belong. I was like a flightless chicken among cranes, and it was time to take off. Who am I kidding?

But miraculously, I still got my Ph.D. I was 43. I knew I might be too old. I knew my research and statistics were a joke, I would never be an Ivy League professor constantly publishing amazing papers. But there was one thing I could hold on to: I could teach. I might not be the teacher of the year, but teaching could be my career. In America.

Then I landed a job in a small university in New Mexico.

I got the opportunity to teach statistics and research. Then I learned something interesting: when you have to teach something, suddenly your mind is more clear about it. I picked up a statistics book and carefully read through it, imagining how I would teach it to students. It worked. I was able to grasp some simple and basic concepts. Still insufficient, but good enough to teach lower and middle levels. As for research, this small school doesn’t have enough resources for me to conduct research/gather data on large scale, therefore no publication for me. But I LOVE working with students and mentoring on their research projects. My students and I have traveled (for free, that’s the best part) to places, e.g., Portland, San Antonio, Pasadena for conferences; we enjoy ourselves in these beautiful cities’ attractions and presenting the results we’re proud of. There’s no big published study under my name, but that’s good enough for me.

**

If you’re unsure of yourself, maybe my story can help a little.

Know who you are and what you can do: it greatly impacts your goals and thus your future. You might not know everything, you might not be perfect, you might have an intense fear of the unknown — but if it’s worth it, keep moving forward. I didn’t dare to even dream about what I’m doing right now, but I knew I was eager for knowledge, I always saw myself as an intellectual, or at least trying to be.

But keep in mind: focus on manifesting your potentials instead of big money or fame. Pursuing growth instead of materials. Remember: things you can touch will NEVER last. If my goal were fortune or power, I can guarantee I’d have failed and I’d have never been happy.

People may doubt you. In fact, if no one ever doubts you, your dream might not be big enough. If I die tomorrow, I’ll have a lot of regrets due to my many shortcomings and bad breaths, but at least I’ll have some comfort: for my whole life, I’ve more than once proved many doubters/haters wrong and shut their mouths. I fucking LOVE doing that.

I’m nobody, my story isn’t as inspirational as Diana Trujillo’s; far from it — I’m just a gnat compared to her. I still don’t know how to small talk or chit-chat, my kids always make fun of my accent, I constantly misspell words, and I have a hard time understanding how committees in school work. But I’ve proved myself just a little in my own way. As I look back to where I started, I think I can say to myself: yeah, sometimes, just sometimes, I’m fucking awesome.

And you can prove yourself in your own way too.