Looking up at the celling, Na He Jeon pours porridge into her mouth. She carefully dips the bowl forward, dropping the porridge directly down her throat, careful not to touch the 15 ulcers (溃疡) in her mouth. But it was the week before midterms, so she still had to study. Jeon was 1st out of 330 students on her exams that year. “Thank god I did,” she says. “If I hadn’t done well I would have been regarded as a failure.” At the end of the week, 14-year-old Jeon weighed only 83.6 pounds.

Like Jeon, there are countless numbers of first generation Asian-Americans who make great efforts to go beyond at everything. Yet the children themselves cannot all be put to blame for their efforts. Typically, it is the parents who are designing a life which they see as perfect for their children. One such occurrence is when I was at my hotel in Beijing. It was roughly around 8:00 p.m. when I decided to take a dip in the pool after dinner. I jumped into the pool that was already spotted with a few Chinese children and I hadn’t realized what was going on until I took notice of the parents calling out orders and instructing their children. I saw various children all under the age of 10 taking laps across the poor trying various styles. If a child’s foot was too bent, her parent would demand that he straighten it. If a child was kicking too slowly, his parent would order that he go faster. I couldn’t help but pity the children whose parents were taking the opportunity to give a swimming lesson, rather than just let them enjoy their time during the holiday.

Either because of their parents or their own desire, first-generation Asian-Americans put forth their 110% in order to be accepted into one of the best American colleges. Asian-American students want to see A’s, 100%’s, and perfect scores. According to Jeon. Asians complain that students with a 4.0 GPA and 2400 SAT simply cannot be rejected from top schools. To their disappointment, however, they often are.

The ethic of this aggressive work also exhibits itself via sports and other after-class activities. What sets Asian-Americans apart, however, is that they fight to be excellent in whatever it is that they do. Be it playing the piano or performing in math competitions. Asian-Americans look to be in first place. Often blamed for lacking in creativity. Asian-Americans can actually make up for the absence of imagination with their determination. The average American can dream creative dreams, but that only matters if he or she can make it happen in reality. Asian-Americans, instead, can gather creative ideas to produce something concrete.

Yet with such a drive to succeed, Asian-Americans have somehow twisted their definition of success. Rather than looking at personal achievement, they refer to numbers, statistics and scroes to rate their success. It seems as if desire and the sense of free will are nonexistent in certain Asian-American students as they mercilessly drive themselves to an inevitable burnout. Their desire to be the most-talented is an impossible dream. In a fruitless attempt, they try to be the best in a world already full of winners.

It all started with a simple question: “Can I paint your portrait?”

One day in the summer of 2015, Peterson was relaxing in his living room, reading the book Love Does, about the power of love in action, when his quiet was disturbed by a homeless man outside his apartment. Inspired by the book’s compassionate message, Peterson made a decision; He was going to go outside and introduce himself.

In that first conversation, Peterson learned that the man’s name was Matt Faris. He’d moved to Southern California from Kentucky to pursue a career in music, but he soon fell on hard times and ended up living on the street for more than a decade. “I saw beauty on the face of a man who hadn’t shaved in probably a year, because his story, the life inside of him, inspired me,” Peterson recalled. Therefore, Peterson asked if he could paint Faris’s portrait. Faris agreed.

Peterson’s connection with Faris led him to form Faces of Santa Ana, a nonprofit organization focused on befriending and painting portraits of members of the community who are unhoused. Peterson sells the paintings for money, splitting the proceeds and putting half into a “love account” for his model. He then helps people use the money to get back on their feet.

Many of Peterson’s new friends use the donations to secure immediate necessities — medical care, hotel rooms, food. Faris used the funds from his portrait to record an album, fulfilling his musical dreams. Another subject, Kimberly Sondoval, had never been able to financially support her daughter. She asked, “Can I use the money to pay my daughter’s rent?” When the check was delivered, “They both wept in my arms,” Peterson recalls.

Peterson has painted 41 of these portraits himself. But there’s more to the finished products than the money they bring to someone who’s down and out. He’s discovered that the buyers tend to connect to the story of the person in the painting, finding similarities and often friendship with someone they might have otherwise overlooked or stereotyped.

“People often tell me, ‘I was the one that would cross the street, but I see homeless people differently now,’” Peterson says. “I didn’t know that would happen.”