a thousand entertainment dollars
There was a point in time where I really, really made an effort to brush up on my Mandarin for the express purpose of answering for myself at dinner parties.
Every time I came home for the holidays, I knew I’d be paraded around and talked about in some capacity. So I’d brace myself for the weekend where I’d be expected to perform.
My parents would show up and chatter excitedly with the aunties and uncles they hadn’t seen in a few weeks. We’d lay out platters of food while the sounds of loud karaoke echoed throughout the (usually large) house we’d chosen for the week.
Most of the kids would go upstairs to play video games and acknowledge each other with grunts. But I’d hang back and twiddle my thumbs, looking around for a target — or wait to be targeted.
“Aiya!!” some auntie would always greet me by draping an arm casually around my shoulders. “Creesto!” She would hand me a glass of wine, tease, “Wait, you can’t have this,” then remember I’m not 17 anymore and go, “OHHH YOU’RE AN ADULT NOWWW darling, tell me, how’s it been going!”
I’d paste on my sweet, cheerful poker face. I was always ready to try to take these sorts of confrontations, because I wanted to get it over with sooner than later.
“Hello auntie!” I’d chime. She’d comment something about my weight, or how I still look so young, and then, we’d crash land right into the big question —
“So what are you up to now? ”
Answering always felt like a miserable feat when I was in journalism. So of course I had to brush up on my Chinese to justify being a poor, but potentially someday famous! reporter. I’d have to explain the principle of what I’d set out to do. I’d have to preach boldly about my philosophy. I’d have to put on my “Beijing announcer accent” and gesture dramatically about fighting for justice and equality to feel worthy of being among these adults. I was always ready to answer for my way of being, and smash any potential misconceptions of me with my own mouth.
Chinese people love to gossip. If I didn’t act passionate and convincing, rile up all these older immigrants to be on my side with the words of my mother tongue, I’d be forever sorry to my parents for not ‘giving them face,’ so to speak. All their colleagues and friends had kids that were in STEM, killing it at Facebook, making bank on Wall Street, winning awards at the Big Four firms — and all I had were bald promises that if I made it to the New York Times, they’d finally understand. They as in, our community of high achievers who only knew how to understand life in terms of dollar signs, stability, and conventionality.
I made it for a while as everyone’s favorite, for my charming, open personality paired with the ease of my native language made for a convincing combination. I deserved to belong. I deserved to be loved. I deserved to be compared in a positive way.
Wait til they hear I’m a tarot reader now.
ThenI lost my first journalism job in 2019. The shame already felt palpable, but scrambling to find another low-paying, bare-bones-picking gig felt like torture. And if it meant leaving a city that had felt like the most stability (to me, subjectively) I’d felt in years, I wasn’t willing.
I’d moved to Los Angeles in 2018 to try to have a life outside of the Midwestern grind of making it at some paper while craving the company of Asian Americans I’d become accustomed to as a child. I missed there being food I liked to eat, friends to complain about cultural baggage to, all of that. But I also knew moving to LA would mean big changes for my career plans if things didn’t go the way I wanted. What was I willing to give up as a result of my choice?
Not another year of toughing it out and being even more confusing to my hometown.
When reality hit, I realized I wasn’t willing to make another sacrifice in the profession I was in. I made ends meet for a year as a virtual assistant and tutor trying to figure out my life. I was on the verge of interviewing for media jobs at Spotify and Snapchat when things shut down in 2020.
My side gig as a tarot reader suddenly became a profit possibility. I counted the number of clients I got in the first month of the pandemic — 50. And I made $1500 off donations and paid off a lot of debt. I also felt so much lighter, happier, doing something that cost me no effort but gaining so much in return. I’d always been good at understanding people — now was a chance to make that matter.
I was happier significantly — because my rambly speech patterns, my excitable tone of voice, and my inquisitive listening skills meant something to my clients. They didn’t just tolerate my way of being — they welcomed it! They were excited to ask me questions and hear more about my interpretation of what they had to say. I didn’t have to water myself at all.
I could let my freak flag fly in a way that wasn’t tiring and benefitted others. I felt my energy levels surge every time I did a reading. Soon enough, I was making enough to almost do this full time.
But as I went through the motions of hiring my first business coach, as I built out offers, as I started networking, I awaited the dreaded day I’d have to tell my parents what I’m doing.
A few months in, they called me to figure that out.
“Uh… hello?” I answered the call.
“How’s the job search going?” Mom inquired. I’d told them I had enough savings to make rent for two more months, and they agreed to support me if things fell through as long as I went and found a corporate job.
“Well…” I stuttered. I didn’t know how to explain to them what I did exactly, because they barely believed in tarot, much less astrology, MBTI, and god forbid life coaching. They’d never blatantly discouraged me, so much as just not been able to fathom what I did.
They weren’t angry when I tried to explain it to them. They cautioned me against scamming people, which somehow hurt more. They loved me too much to deter me, but didn’t believe in me when I could barely convince myself to.
I couldn’t help but wonder what the aunties at dinner parties would think when I had to show my face again in the future. Would I be making enough money to prove to them I’m worth it by then? Would I still have enough Mandarin skills to convince them to accept me?
I imposed their projected scrutiny onto myself. It became harder to make the content that would sell my products as I felt more and more shame. Why was I doing this? How would I even know if this would work?
I was complaining about my financial situation to a friend one day.
“How much are you making right now a month?” he inquired.
I muttered the number and trailed off, thinking aloud, “It really sucks that I might always be a few thousand dollars behind everyone else… I don’t know… I could probably use an extra thousand dollars right now…”
As I was about to muse, again, that maybe I should “just get a regular job” for those thousand dollars, he cut me off.
“You know,” he said, “how much a thousand dollars working something you love means?”
He’d gotten the concept from some stand up bit, some guy talking about working in entertainment for pennies. Nevertheless, I attribute his words to my friend, because he reminded me that:
“A thousand entertainment dollars doing something you love is worth more than a thousand dollars feeling chained to someone else.”
My jaw dropped. I’d only looked at what earning those dollars has cost me — not what it brought me.
And I remind myself of this when I start to take running my own business for granted. What I do is very intuitive, very abstract, and hard to understand. But when you’re lost and need someone to understand you, the payoff is great, for no one is too hard for me to understand. And that’s something I don’t owe minimizing to my aunties and uncles or my parents.
Next time someone gives me a glass of wine at a dinner party, I know I’m going to take it and chug it proudly. I’m going to use my semi-broken Mandarin to boldly declare what I do, and even pitch my services. I’m going to tell them this principle of what I’ve gained as a result of doing what I love. I’m going to tell them exactly how I earn my thousand entertainment dollars.
Because in terms of actual happiness and mental health wellness, I’m a goddamn fucking millionaire.