The post-grad life: terrifying, yet oddly underwhelming at times. Lately, more frustrating than anything, in part because of the choices I've made.

After all, I chose to move back home to live with my dad and, lo and behold, five other strangers. There is rarely a time in the house when things are quiet, even when I barricade myself in my room and close the door against the noise. Someone's usually listening to loud Chinese music or watching a movie on their laptop with the speakers turned up higher than is necessary for the typical human eardrum (cue: my aunt and uncle) - sounds that seem to seep right through the walls. Or they're using the single bathroom in the hall - shared by 4 of the 7 residents living in this house - right at the moment when I decide I need to pee or take a shower. I can't walk out into the kitchen at any time during the day and not see my aunt huddled in front of her laptop, staring like a drone into the screen at yet another of the endless stream of Chinese dramas that she has downloaded (probably illegally), or hear her ear-splitting voice (and trust me, I'm not exaggerating when I use that adjective) screeching into the phone at 8 in the morning. Sometimes I hear it even earlier, when she's having a heated argument with my cousin, who shares the living room with my dad, or my uncle, who will sometimes add his own cry to the mix.

Any semblance of independence has slipped away in this splendid joke of a living arrangement. Even my old room doesn't feel like my own, when my dad acts like he can walk in any time without knocking (as it is his house, I suppose he can) and still keeps the only working phone in the house on the floor next to my bed. It's true, I don't have a curfew and I don't necessarily have to tell anyone where I'm going. But honestly, where can I go? Union City is as dead as it's always been - everything closes by 10, and even during the day there's not much to do besides the usual flaccid routine of eating, shopping, or catching a film. Even watching movies back home feels different. Call me spoiled by L.A.'s many eccentric theaters, but watching the same film in a commercialized theater filled with giggling high school kids just doesn't have quite the same dynamic. There are no more Q&As with the director, no more introductions by this or that scholar, and - as a testament to how much college life has truly warped me - no more anxiety at the thought that I still have a paper to write after the last question is answered. (And yes, I do miss cutting it close to academic deadlines.)

And then there's my dad. He's a stereotypical Asian man. He shoulders responsibility the same way a mule shoulders his master's bags - obediently and with very little emotion. In many ways he's always been the sturdiest aspect of my life. He drives me where I need to go, buys the foods I like to eat, and provides me with the essentials of life: warmth, safety, and shelter. He makes sure I have regular dentist appointments again and, more importantly, that I'm not lying in a ditch, alone and mutilated, in the middle of the night. Sometimes we even catch a movie or two, sitting side by side in the theater like two family members who might also be friends. I can depend on him. In that respect he's a good father and always has been.

But at this stage in my life, I no longer feel like I need to be taken care of. And what's worse, I feel a lot less obligation to the person who's providing it. Call me mean-spirited, but I need the warmth and safety - I don't really need my dad. To put it even more bluntly, I like the fact that he's my dad - I love him for being so and I truly appreciate all the efforts he's gone to in order to assume that role so seamlessly - but I'm not sure I like the man. I certainly don't like the man when he takes every opportunity to ensure that I am not content with who I am and what my life is currently like. I don't like the man when he constantly compares me to my brother and makes me feel like I failed somehow just because I didn't choose an equally concrete path, one that, by mere coincidence, happens to lead to stability and more direct monetary reward in this current society. When I graduated from college, I didn't get a "Congratulations" or a "Good Job" or even a slightly surprised, "Hey, you did it!" Instead, I got constant disparaging remarks that I chose the lesser school when I had the chance to go to a better one. Instead, despite my academic success and satisfaction with what I chose to do in college, extracurricular and otherwise, I got an attitude more closely resembling: "Is that all?" And honestly, why am I even surprised? Isn't this what I've gotten my whole life growing up? Insinuations that because of the nature of my studies/work and that because I am a girl, I am somehow not good enough?

A more revealing example: When I landed the Sierra internship, I was ecstatic. Sure, it doesn't pay anything other than the stipend that covers transportation, and I'm sure it's not what every grad - even a liberal arts grad - dreams of when they first step outside of the ivory tower of academia. Yet it was something I managed to get on my own, in the direction of the field I wish to pursue. In my eyes, it's a milestone, a door-opener and more importantly, it's representative of the very work that I find meaningful - in the utmost sense of the word. To me, it's something that matters. And it was something I had to work for. It wasn't because of who I knew or who I talked to. Maybe I'm kidding myself - maybe I was simply in the right place at the right time - but I'd like to believe that skill, experience, and enthusiasm were what ultimately pulled me through. In any case, I didn't bother to tell either of my parents about the internship. They know about my part-time job tutoring, but I have no desire to share this news with them. Why should I? I know they won't be proud. I know they won't even be close. If anything, they'll find the one thing to say that will trigger any doubts, anxieties, or fears I have about this opportunity. And that will be one more opportunity that I'd have let them suck the enthusiasm out of.

Why do I respect my teachers so much? It's not just that they were good educators, even though that was important. It was because they were the one source of authority in my life that always held belief in my aspirations and my accomplishments. In terms of my emotional growth, they were my surrogate parents. And sometimes, I'll admit, I wish they had been my real parents as well. They provided me with the encouragement and the understanding that my parents never did. Never once have my teachers told me, directly or indirectly, that I wasn't good enough. On the contrary, they told me I could do whatever I set my mind to do and gave me meaning during those dark days of puberty where nothing made sense (and in many respects, nothing still does). How much of my success and of my personality do I really owe to them? I guess I'll never know.