WHEN I WAS 4 years old, my very first memory of my father was how he used guilt to discipline me. “Don’t do that, Andrew, you don’t know how long I have to live.”

“COMMUNITAS AND COLLECTIVE effervescence describe aspects or moments of communal excitement; there is no word for the love — or force or need — that leads individuals to seek ecstatic merger with the group.” - Barbara Ehrenreich

THE LAST VISIT to my parents brought up some feedback they had for inheritance: “Why are all the stories so sad? Can’t you tell a story with a happy ending once in a while?”

MY PARENTS are a power couple in the Chinese Christian community in the United States and abroad. I liken them to the Clintons; they have an equal and equitable partnership and are both seen as leaders.

IS THERE STILL SPACE for joy in a disenchanted world? This is one of the questions that sent me back to seminary.

TO THIS DAY, I can't quite say what it is that brought me out of depression a few years ago.

I CAN STILL vividly recall the night I knelt by the side of my bed begging God that I didn't want to be gay anymore. Tears were pouring down my face as I struggled to get my words out past the choking sobs.

SOMETHING IN ME broke when I heard about Eric Garner. As I watched the cell phone footage of police officer Eric Pantaleo choking the life out of him, it was like I was watching a summary of America's relationship with Black people.

A FEW YEARS ago, a friend was working on a documentary on the immigrant story. He asked if he could tell parts of my childhood story of growing up in an inner-city neighborhood in Baltimore.

I WAS 15 years old when I began a relationship with a man 10 years my senior. He was the youth leader at my church.

I GRADUATED high school with over 30 unexcused absences from classes — each red mark an indictment on a day that I physically couldn't bring myself to get out of bed.

MY BROTHER DIDN'T REALIZE Mom had died until her funeral. The relatives still say that it was better for him not to experience that final moment when she died of Stage IV pancreatic cancer. Who knows if they were right.

I GREW UP in a Korean household where the news was always on in the background. It would play in Korean, so I distinctly remember not understanding what was happening.

HAVING JUST LOST all of his wealth, daughters, and sons, Job falls to the ground and cries out, "The Lord has given; the Lord has taken; bless the Lord's name."

IN MANILA, PHILIPPINES, race wasn't something I thought about much. I didn't grapple with issues of culture and racial identity because everyone around me was Brown.

I USED TO BEAT UP people for other people. I'm not exactly built like a fighter, but people knew I would fight for any reason.

BENT KNEES. Straight back. Flexed body. Ringing voice. My friend slapped his arms against his thighs and raised his arms above his head, performing a haka.

“FUCK THIS SHIT, oh Lord. This is my tired advent prayer. Fuck this shit indeed. Amen."

MY DAD WASN'T ALWAYS that abusive. Until I was 9, he was relatively nice to us.

I'M FLIPPING THROUGH my phone in Target, and glance over at my son. He doesn't want to leave and has been lying facedown and noncompliant on the floor for about five minutes.

OUTWARDLY, MY LIFE seems very put together. I was born into an upper middle class family; my parents are married; I have a loving husband and a beautiful son; I graduated from the University of California in Los Angeles; and I work as an oncology nurse.

I REMEMBER sitting in the back seat of the cab with my mom, staring up at the glowing white moon hovering over Korea — my ancestral homeland — and it kept following us.

TO MY NEPHEW: You're 2 years old as I write this letter. You're beginning to burst forth with the occasional phrase and idea, mixing your words with excited gibberish.

IT LOOKED NOTHING like the photos my parents showed me when I was a little girl. The building was no longer a salmon-y pink with large, red Chinese characters adorning the entrance