“What is that?” 

I casually unrolled my sleeves, smoothing over the wrinkles. “What is what?” I asked, feigning oblivion. 

“Those things on your arm.” He was staring now, as if he could see through the  white fabric to the pink dots scattered on my forearm. 

I didn’t know what to say; the buzz of conversation in the classroom dimmed in my ears, as if someone had turned down a radio. I felt the color rush into my cheeks, partly from embarrassment, partly from anger – he didn’t even know me, so who was he to ask? “It’s none of your business,” I managed.

He stared a little longer, and then shrugged. “Whatever.”

I turned to face the front of the room again, my other hand protectively clenched over my sleeve, as if somebody might tear it off. This moment is one of many of the strongest memories I’ll have from high school. The dots were the symptoms of an autoimmune disease called psoriasis, which I had likely inherited from my mother. They first appeared in May 2018, just before my freshman year. My pediatrician had misdiagnosed them as a yeast infection, but the condition worsened over the course of a three-week trip out of town that summer despite applying what I thought was the right treatment. Eventually, nearly my entire body was covered with angry red spots of varying size. Finally, in July, my mother brought me to her dermatologist, who prescribed me with fluocinonide (a medication for psoriasis), to be applied daily to affected areas. 

A quick breakdown of the condition: psoriasis is a common condition – 2-3% of the global population has it – though it is slightly more prevalent among women. It is a chronic autoimmune condition where the immune system mistakenly attacks healthy skin cells, causing it to go into overdrive to fight the “infection.” Mine, like most others, tends to go through cycles of flaring and remission. It is not contagious; however, there is no cure. My mother, my aunt, and my grandmother all had the condition at some stage in their lives (though it first appeared anywhere from childhood to after giving birth). We all have the most common type of psoriasis, which is plaque psoriasis; symptoms are dry, raised, red, itchy skin patches covered with dead skin. This is generally the most bearable version of the condition in terms of appearance and discomfort. Factors that cause the disease to flare are different for everyone, but for my mother and I and others, the number one thing that precedes a flare seems to be high stress levels and sleep deprivation.

As a freshman, I did not deal with psoriasis very well. Even in eighty degree weather, I started to wear long pants and sweatshirts, constantly aware of where every lesion on my skin was and whether it was at risk of slipping out into the open. The psoriasis spread to my scalp not long after, and I would sit still, my scalp burning, resisting the urge to scratch, hoping that no one would think that I had dandruff or lice.

Each night, I spent an hour rubbing coconut oil into my scalp, carefully massaging off the dead skin so I could soften the hard shell. I’d wake up early to wash the oil out, but still it clung to my hair, making my hair look oily and unhygienic; I worried endlessly that other people would notice. Eventually, I would cut off my long hair to my ears to make the process less painful, and I couldn’t help thinking thoughts that I know to be ridiculous now, such as: no one likes girls with short hair.  

One day, I was talking to my friend from out-of-state when she mentioned off-handedly that she had psoriasis. I was sure I hadn’t heard correctly, and she repeated herself. I suddenly realized that I could see signs of her condition on her forearms, the same red splotches that I took so much time to cover up. At the same time, I realized that I had always seen them, but in years being her friend, I had never given them a second thought, because they had never registered as remotely important. 

As we kept talking, she shared her story – diagnosed as a child, also got it from her mother, flared every 2-3 years. She showed me tips for treating it: don’t leave the coconut oil in overnight, it might irritate the skin; you also don’t have to do it every day; try spreading it on the rest of your body and combining it with other prescription treatments. But she also gave me mental tips; “It’s clinically linked to depression,” she said, “so I struggled a bit with that. But in the end, I think it’s a question of self-worth. You are more than your condition.” 

I began to follow her advice, particularly those last words: “You are more than your condition.” While I combined coconut oil with prescription medicine, I started to wear shorts outside, the splotches on my skin absorbing the sunlight like my doctor had advised long ago. You are more than your condition. I explained to anyone who asked that I had an autoimmune disease, and that it was not contagious, and politely moved on with the conversation. You are more than your condition. I read empowering stories of people who had psoriasis, realizing that I was part of a much larger community of people, bonded by a shared experience. You are more than your condition. 

My psoriasis didn’t significantly improve until the lockdown in March 2020. I started getting nine hours of sleep each night, my stress levels went down, and my psoriasis entered a recession that no medication or coconut oil had ever been able to induce before. In a way, the condition has forced me to manage my time better; I started college applications in July, not out of an abundance of enthusiasm for the process or out of diligence, but out of fear that a particularly stressful senior year would cause the condition to flare again. It seems to have worked; today, my psoriasis seems to have gone into near-total remission, with only light, non-textured patches on my kneecaps and elbows. The psoriasis on my scalp has disappeared. The condition has also brought me closer to my mom; through sharing our experiences and preferred methods of treating it, we get to spend time together over something we have in common.

At the end of the day, I think psoriasis has made me more grateful for what I have. For me, the true emotional burden of the condition lay in how it altered my physical appearance, but there are a world of conditions with much more difficult, long-lasting effects. It is hard to measure people’s pain, but on the critical metric of how much physical pain and discomfort diseases can cause people, plaque psoriasis is on the low end of the list. However, mental health is too often hidden and stigmatized, despite being essential to happiness and life satisfaction. Thus, here is a list of organizations and support groups for psoriasis; my personal favorite is Kopa. It has informational articles about psoriasis, posts from other people with psoriasis about their appointments, experiences, and questions, advice for doing daily activities with psoriasis, and a daily stress tracker to keep track of your mental health.

It’s important to know that you’re not alone, and that’s what my friend did for me; her frankness, her confidence, and her conviction that I should have that same confidence, helped me understand that we cannot possibly be defined by one aspect of our person, especially one that is out of our control. I began to see psoriasis as something unique, something that I had the opportunity to treat and experience; a part of me, yes; but I decided to what extent. I am more than my condition, and people are more than their struggles, their failures, and their flaws. 

As we near the end of 2021 and the paradise that second semester promises to be on this side of New Year’s Day, I wanted to reflect on some of the books that I read this year. These tidbits are by no means critical viewpoints, summaries, or book reviews; mostly, they are just a conglomerate of the feelings and thoughts that come to mind when I think of each book. (Inspired by reading all of our wonderful blogs this semester, I’m going to try to start another one about the books, movies, TV shows, and podcasts in my life during winter break; hopefully, these next few blogs can serve as a jumping off place for the former!) Here are the first ten books on my list, in no particular order of preference: 

Charles Yu: Interior Chinatown
This recent novel, written in the format of a movie script, offers stinging satire about Asian American stereotypes found in media, such as “Background Oriental Male” and “Delivery Guy.” It called up memories of well-meant comments from childhood that nonetheless felt like a slap in the face – “Well I know you got an A, you’re Asian”, “Wait, you don’t do kung fu?”, “Oh, you’re good at math, right?”… – scattered throughout my childhood. It is the sort of book which offers no consolation or way out (indeed, part of what makes the book so compelling for me is the cyclical, pointless nature of the main character’s role), but rather presents the grim, irrational situation simply as it is. 

Niccolo Machiavelli: The Prince
With my fascination with everyday politics, different political systems, and the people who live under them, this book was a must-read for me the moment I heard that Machiavelli was the “father of modern political philosophy.” A deceptively short treatise on politics from the 16th century, The Prince, and the diplomat who wrote it, attracted worship and censure from rulers scattered throughout Western Europe and throughout the centuries. Knowing this, I couldn’t help but read this book – with provocative sentences such as, “If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.” – imagining that I was King Henry VIII, Catherine de Medici, or even Daenerys Targaryen, wrangling with political crises that had infinitely many moving parts.

Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Scarlet Letter
A depiction of 17th century puritan society from a 19th century perspective, this book was bursting with details and subtleties, and as with almost all texts written more than fifty years ago, it seemed shrouded in mystery. I picked apart words, stories, and anecdotes, wondering why Hawthorne had made certain literary choices. What did this description say about Hawthorne’s society, and Puritan society? Why did Hawthorne choose this adjective, and what might that say about what Hawthorne’s society thought about Puritan society, or about Hawthorne’s own upbringing? This book turned its reputation of a dusty, archaic bore among high school English classes on its head; in fact, I felt that its overarching themes of sin, man versus society, and guilt could not be more relevant even today, one and a half centuries later, as universal parts of the human condition.

Mario Livio: The Golden Ratio
A number is worth a thousand words. Or, in Mario Livio’s case, about ninety thousand. This particular number, dubbed “nature’s code,” is a solution to the equation x2–x–1=0. In his book, Livio uses it to visit spiral galaxies, modern financial markets, Renaissance paintings, and musical instruments. In a subject like math that is sometimes seen as irrelevant and abstract, Livio’s exploration of this ratio was a simple but compelling example of how we can use numbers to see the world anew, reminding me of and affirming the beauty of the subject I love.

Mary Shelley: Frankenstein
Frankenstein gripped my imagination with its depiction of a genius who builds the creature that is to be his downfall. I read Shelley’s novel as a warning against going too far in any pursuit and pushing the boundaries of our capabilities to the point of ambitiously running headfirst into self-destruction. For these themes, it feels like a modern publication, instead of one from the 19th century, and I often had to remind myself that Frankenstein came more than a century before the first robot, and the better part of a century before even cars. And yet, the plots of the abundance of modern sci-fi movies and novels that feature AI-dominated dystopias seem to come straight from its pages. 

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: Americanah
After a few months of being friends with me, I’ve almost definitely recommended this book to you, along with the author’s Ted Talk. I believe that her message of equal humanity is essential to solving the problems of division and othering that societies have always faced and I try to advocate and live by those ideals that she stood for. In Americanah, Ngozi tells a story of staying true to oneself. As the main character, Ifemulu, leaves her home in Nigeria to study, one of the many barriers that confuses her is the fact that she is treated like a black American, despite being African; further, she finds that many of her African American relatives distance themselves from black Americans because black Americans are the lowest in the American racial hierarchy. Ifemulu realizes how the American fixation upon race combines groups that don’t necessarily understand each other; for example, though she is appalled by the violence and discrimination that black Americans face, she will never be able to identify with that struggle. Recommended to me by Mrs. Parato, whom I love discussing books with, Americanah was a compelling window into another corner of the world that was different from my own. 

Jhumpa Lahiri: The Namesake
There were so many memorable lines from this book, so many moments and sentiments that reflected my own experiences as a child of immigrants, that I found myself underlining a quote every other page. Gogol’s unique relationship with his parents felt like a mirror into my own childhood frustration with Chinese customs: the insistence that every dish be shared, the uptight greetings. Yet, like Gogol, as I ventured into the world and put jumbled Chinese characters and hongbaos behind me, I found myself coming back home time and time again, slowly understanding what these traditions meant to my family, and now, to me: love, compassion, and shared experiences. The Namesake was yet another reminder of the power of language to express and move, to transcend time and space and penetrate the soul. 

Jordan B. Peterson: 12 Rules for Life
About every ten pages throughout this book, I had the urge to throw it down and shout, “Goodness, really?!” A recommendation from a friend, this book espoused many viewpoints that for me, ranged from agreeable to questionable to nearly intolerable. It was a difficult read, but infinitely worth it. I softened my viewpoints on some issues, and while I maintained others, I believe I understood a little better the feelings and rationale of those who disagreed with me, and I think that’s a step in the right direction. 

John F. Kennedy: Profiles In Courage
Kennedy was the namesake for my middle school; I can still picture the plaques hung on the walls of my school, each inscribed with one of his quotes. Before he became president, he was a Senator from Massachusetts. During his tenure, he wrote Profiles in Courage about eight senators throughout US history who risked their political careers for their values, using their vote and their voice, sometimes standing against their entire party, to do what they thought was right. I got to see how different it looked on the other side of the barrier that separates a politician and their constituents. His tributes to each politician revealed the conflict between a politician’s personal idealistic values and the realities of Congress, and how the best senators balanced the two with a sense of pragmatism. The speeches and essays of Kennedy and his brother, Robert F. Kennedy, who served as his Attorney General during Kennedy’s presidency, was what first got me interested in politics and current events. 

Howard Zinn: A People’s History of the United States (currently listening to on Audible)
Philip Roth once said that “Everything unexpected in its own time is chronicled on the page as inevitable.” This idea – that each of us are living history, reading a book whose parallels and themes can only be understood backwards – embodies what made me first fall in love with history. However, as I delved deeper into the lessons in my US History class at school, I realized that every telling of history is inherently ideological, that history is not a straightforward story held between two covers at all, but rather a library, a swelling chorus of voices. Two seemingly opposing ideas, held by two different people on the shelves of history, can hold true at the same time. This realization drove me to listen to Zinn’s telling of American history, as a first small step towards listening to other tellings of our history that I had never encountered before.