What have I to give?

What kind of labor will make me be seen as good?

By: Jasmine Shi

Date Posted: December 05, 2024

The ol’ ball and chain. An idealized version of yourself. (Jasmine Shi)

Personal essays and other fun stuff are updated regularly on my Substack.

I would be lying if I said I was a confident person. Shame, a feeling I’m very familiar with, acts as a sort of fire extinguisher the moment my body detects envy. While I’m not sure why this happens, I am sure that it causes me to abandon my dreams. All hobbies and pursuits come to a stop.

I think I still hold onto the idea that my labor is what assigns me my worth. Whatever I have to give or act is a direct insight into my identity. I could be at peace and just say I’m a friend, lover, sister, or daughter. But I crave adjectives. I don’t understand what being “enough” is. Whatever ambition I have left goes to craving to be “better”.

Every day I question, “What kind of labor will make me be seen as good?”

Trying to define the word “good” usually leads to bad results. But it feels so addictive to be seen the way you want to be seen. And it feels like it’s good.

Perhaps it’s why I still go on, even if I end up hitting walls of high expectations. I still write, I still paint, I still play music, I still laugh. But part of the reason I hesitated to publish anything beyond "your mom” and toilet jokes is because someone has already seen my vision and did the work. They’ve done it so beautifully and with the right proportions of dedication, talent, and sheer passion. Whatever factors that have made them them is a beautiful mosaic, and I am not the same. What have I to give?

I know that comparison is the thief of joy — but my joy is still gone. I envy the people who have the passion to relentlessly pursue their talents. I am ashamed that I stop the moment I face obstacles. I want, more than anything, to say I am limitless.

When I was younger and these thoughts were still the size of a grape, I could tell myself that I was just being humble. Those were the days I could still take compliments. But some time ago I felt myself shift into something uglier. I was so afraid of being seen as unproductive and directionless that any praise or helping hand was ruled as patronizing, a deep insult. I told myself I didn’t deserve kindness. I hadn’t done anything to merit it.

Through this, I realized that I had spent lifetimes to build a face. Something I could wear that would make me comfortable. Flashy clothes, stolen makeup, prepared witty responses. Seemingly complex yet hollow, so no one asks questions. Glamorously, I would be Jasmine Shi, the bright and talented go-getter. This was my ultimate labor.

Whether or not the reasons why I’m like this are gendered (aren’t women always performing?) or racial (model minority myth), still leaves the fact that I’m becoming more and more like the fraud I’m afraid of being exposed as. And the guilt from all the pretending is doing something just short of killing me.

When I was young and my family was teaching me how to pray, they never used the actual word. They just told me to make a wish. One year I wished I could fly. Another year I wished a boy and I would stay happy forever. Last year I wished I could stop time so I could figure out what was happening to me.

It’s a shame that the closest I’ve ever gotten to Buddha was when I was 9 years old and my grandma made me wish that the next person who toured our home would buy it. Shortly after, the house was sold (rats and all). That Christmas I was given a jade pendant carved in the shape of him, my own portable shrine. I ran my thumb through the curves of his jade smile and made wishes as if he was a credit card. But I was still the same dull girl — no magical transformation or shiny new power. The only thing that came true were the battered lessons about hard work and sacrifice bemoaned from adults. I think it was then and there that I created my paradisiacal loophole of dreaming and envisioning — I’ve only been recently spat out due to all the envy and disappointment that had been subconsciously bubbling.

I started wearing the pendant again after a few years, but I couldn’t discern what exactly had changed the last time I wore it (wore him?). I suppose my sense of religion has slowly become less abrasive, partially because I realized the way I conduct my art nowadays is similar to how monks paint the floor with sand. It becomes complete, then it’s forever hidden away, only stored in memories. While my perception of time is irrevocably twisted, I know forces still push it forward. I take small comfort in knowing that it pushes me forward as well.

None of my grievances listed here deny me hope. At the very least, I have hope that I still can hope. And as I push forward, I know I’ll change again and again; another soothing constant. One way or another, through various stages of control, I will make myself proud.

Last month, I walked into the National Portrait Gallery with a pencil and a notebook. I left my headphones at home. I could only focus on how the weight of my steps seeped into the aging wooden floors. It was 2 p.m. on a Wednesday; the only people in the room were me and Harriet Whitney Frishmuth’s “The Vine”.  I traced her bronze arms and slender legs with little to no discipline, I just let my hand synchronize with my eye and let whatever happen happened. It’s the best figure I’ve done in years.

I made myself swear to not show anyone, at least for a few years. But it still exists —so long as the graphite and ink stain the paper, it’s there. Barbaric as it is to label everything as a win, this is a win I’ll keep private. No one will get to see what my labor produced until I’ve devoured it all myself. It’s very similar to this essay: the draft had been sitting in my journal for weeks before this was published.

okayyy legs!