“She is a girl, not a boy,” my grandfather said, expressing his disappointment. Like most families in China, he believed that his bloodline passes down through the male side. Because of China’s one-child policy, my mother wouldn’t have a second chance to have a boy.

In keeping with the traditional family hierarchy(等级制度), my grandfather had the honor of naming me. He chose Xiǎoxiá which means “early morning light”—the time of my birth. “Xiá also shares the same character as Dānxiá Mountain, referring to the place where I was born.”

But my parents didn’t like the name. They thought it sounded dull and it didn’t resonate with their expectations for me. As the eldest son, my dad performed his right to name me next, naming me Chénshī. The two characters together mean “an early morning poem.” It reflects a saying in China: There is bread and butter in life, but also poems and dreams. But in the Hakka dialect spoken by my family, the name sounded like the phrase for “a floating dead body.”

On the third day after my birth, my mom decided on Shūrán. It stuck. My name means nature, comfort, and harmony. It means to go with the flow. She knew that I, as the only child, would carry the expectations of both sides of our families on my tiny shoulders and it would be difficult not to feel crushed by the weight of those expectations. Like my dad, she hoped that I would be able to freely pursue my dreams. She wanted me to become an independent and strong woman just like her.

A month after I was born, she wrote an acrostic poem about my name and her wishes for me:

A DIARY FOR MY DAUGHTER’S NAME

As an ancestor of the Yellow Emperor

Shuran follows the flow with a clear mind and bright eyes

She will become beautiful and look just like Xī Shí

When she grows up, she will be a great success and do great things

One day I got in a taxi, and we left for the airport. We were driving in the right lane when, suddenly, a black car jumped out of a parking space right in front of us. My taxi driver stopped his car at once. The tire made a very loud noise, and at the very last moment our car stopped just one inch from the back of the other car.

I was frightened. But then I couldn’t believe what happened next. The driver of the other car, the guy who almost caused a big accident, turned his head and started yelling at us. I couldn’t believe it! But my taxi driver just smiled at the guy. So I asked, “Why did you just do that? This guy almost sent us to hospital.”

This is when my taxi driver taught me what I now call, “The Law of the Rubbish Truck.” He explained that many people are like garbage trucks. They run around full of rubbish, full of anger. As their rubbish piles up, they look for a place to throw it away and sometimes they’ll throw it at you. Don’t take it personally. Just smile, wish them well, and move on. Don’t take their rubbish and spread it to other people at work, at home or on the streets.

Successful people never let rubbish trucks change their moods. Life is too short to wake up in the morning with regrets, so love those who love you and pray for those who don’t.

A year after graduation, I was offered a position teaching a writing class. Teaching was a profession I had never seriously considered, though several of my stories had been published. I accepted the job without hesitation, as it would allow me to wear a tie and go by the name of Mr. Davis. My father went by the same name, and I liked to imagine people getting the two of us confused. “Wait a minute” someone might say, “are you talking about Mr. Davis the retired man, or Mr. Davis the respectable scholar?”

The position was offered at the last minute, and I was given two weeks to prepare, a period I spent searching for briefcase (公文包) and standing before my full-length mirror, repeating the words, “Hello, class. I’m Mr. Davis.” Sometimes I would give myself an aggressive voice. Sometimes I would sound experienced. But when the day eventually came, my nerves kicked in and the true Mr. Davis was there. I sounded not like a thoughtful professor, but rather a 12-year-old boy.

I arrived in the classroom with paper cards designed in the shape of maple leaves. I had cut them myself out of orange construction paper. I saw nine students along a long table. I handed out the cards, and the students wrote down their names and fastened them to their breast pockets as I required.

“All right then,” I said. “Okey, here we go.” Then I opened my briefcase and realized that I had never thought beyond this moment. I had been thinking that the students would be the first to talk, offering their thoughts and opinions on the events of the day. I had imagined that I would sit at the edge of the desk, overlooking a forest of hands. Every student would yell. “Calm down, you’ll all get your turn. One at a time, one at a time!”

A terrible silence ruled the room, and seeing no other opinions, I inspected the students to pull out their notebooks and write a brief essay related to the theme of deep disappointment.