Joan Is Okay

by Weike Wang

I had to feel totally spent after work, else I wouldn’t have felt like I worked.

Compared with other kids, I was too quiet and shy. Why didn’t I ever speak up? Or participate in group discussion? Or have anything else to add? Because I had only a limited amount to say. Better to distill our words down to a single point, I thought,

Four lobes of the cerebrum, and I have sometimes imagined one of mine labeled rage.)

To have a home is a luxury, but I now understand why people attach great value to it and are loyal to defend it. Home is where you fit in and take up space.

But that my parents could leave me alone, and separate themselves from me, did not necessarily mean that I was uncared for. We know what you’re made out of, daughter, because we know ourselves.

Was it harder to be a woman? Or an immigrant? Or a Chinese person outside of China? And why did being a good any of the above require you to edit yourself down so you could become someone else?

The price of success is steep and I’ve never been able to distinguish it from the feeling of sacrifice.

Home could be many things. It could be both a comfort and a pain. It could exile you for a little while but then demand that you return.