I think books were my salvation, they saved me from being miserable.

Yet some of my friends tell me they understand 50 percent of what my mother says. Some say they understand 80 to 90 percent. Some say they understand none of it, as if she were speaking pure Chinese. But to me, my mother's English is perfectly clear, perfectly natural. It's my mother tongue. Her language, as I hear it, is vivid, direct, full of observation and imagery. That was the language that helped shape the way I saw things, expressed things, made sense of the world

Whenever my mother talks to me, she begins the conversation as if we were already in the middle of an argument.

I used to think that my mother got into arguments with people because they didn't understand her English, because she was Chinese.

I love and am loved, fully and freely, nothing expected, more than enough received.

I felt foolish and tired, as if I had been running to escape someone chasing me, only to look behind to discover there was no one there.

It's both rebellion and conformity that attack you with success.