Sophia of Silicon Valley

by Anna Yen

  We all knew that the biggest reason I was forced to stay home wasn’t anything we’d discussed. My parents wanted me home so they could watch over their “baby”—the one they always worried about. Lucky me. I couldn’t fault them, though. They still blamed themselves for not noticing my drastic weight loss, frequent visits to the bathroom, and constant thirst when I was about to turn eight. It wasn’t until a month or so after my birthday, when Mom saw me in the bathtub—my ribs sticking through my skin—that she recognized the telltale signs of diabetes. My situation was made worse by the fact that I was diagnosed as a “brittle diabetic”—someone whose blood glucose level swings drastically without warning, despite insulin shots and carefully planned meals. My episodes often landed me in the hospital, and each time it happened, my parents felt they had failed me. Their lifelong goal was to take care of me, and to never let anything happen to me again. But even moms and dads can’t control everything, can they?

  My parents’ ten-thousand-square-foot, two-story, oval-shaped white stucco home sat nestled among huge oak trees and four acres of natural landscaping. Architectural Digest had dubbed it “a modern masterpiece”—a place my engineer father built as a gift to Mom after his medical-device company went public (thanks to Jack Wynn). To them, the house embodied the American dream, but to me, it was my childhood home. I couldn’t wait to find out what life had in store for me next, outside of the house where I grew up.

  Mom’s voice snapped me out of my daze. She was seated on one of the kitchen island stools behind me. “Sophia, not so much butter. No one is going to want to marry you if you keep rounding out. Besides, it’s not good for your diabetes, you know.” She may have missed my weight loss when I was a child, but she certainly noticed every pound I had added to my four-foot, ten-inch frame as an adult. She didn’t hesitate to share her opinion about it, either. Sure, my face had rounded out a bit, but my ballet-dancer legs and tight rear end still looked great in a short skirt, so the extra pounds didn’t bother me.

  “Okay,” I answered while wrapping my butter-loaded toast in a paper towel and turning to leave.

  “You going to work?” Mom asked, looking at me with a frown. As I leaned in to give her a kiss, she placed her right index finger and thumb on the bridge of my nose and pinched rapidly.

  “Mom! Stop it!” I exclaimed, pulling my head back and swatting her away with both hands.

  “Mei-Mei, you’ve got to pinch the bridge of your nose so it becomes taller.”

  Nice parting words of wisdom, Mom.

  I brought my toast to my mouth and had almost escaped the kitchen when Dad called over from the adjoining great room. “We’re proud of you, you know, our little Silicon Valley girl.” The toast stilled at my lips and I looked over my shoulder to get a view of my beaming father.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I said warmly before using my free hand to blow him a kiss.

  Mom followed me out of the kitchen all the way to the front door so she could fuss with my hair. “You need to be taller to wear those wide-legged pants! They make you look like a squatty little creature,” she jabbed one last time before I practically ran outside. Her “constructive criticisms” rolled easily off my back. Duck feathers, duck feathers, I repeated to myself.

  I climbed into my black BMW convertible—the one I’d overindulgently bought using my first Global Partners paycheck and a “little” help from my parents—then cruised down their steep driveway. Before speeding onto the freeway, though, I stopped for a treat that was usually reserved for Sundays: a soy café au lait. Calorie counting be damned. At five minutes before six in the morning, the coffee shop was filled with young entrepreneurs who already had adrenaline (and caffeine) seeping from their pores. They passionately pointed to their laptops, each appearing to have a world-changing idea. If that failed, it wasn’t a problem because they had three or four others waiting. I didn’t understand how these “dreamers” could lose millions in venture capital money without blinking an eye, and why the men in button-down shirts lining Silicon Valley’s VC row—Sand Hill Road—continued to fund them. What did seem clear, though, was that the dreamers all wanted the same things: fame, power, and fortune. This exact scene was unfolding everywhere in Silicon Valley: people inspired by the “unicorns” of their era—the companies founded by daring twenty-year-olds who became billionaires overnight. They were all fighting for their share of the modern-day gold rush, and their hushed voices using trendy phrases like game-changing, pioneering, viral, or best of breed made my eyes roll.

  Best of breed? What is this, a dog show?

  I was better than they were. I was off to a real job. An investment banking job.

  When I arrived at the office on that hot early-fall morning, I marched straight to my desk, hardly noticing the orchids or the bay view anymore. I sat at one of eight particle-board desks lined up along a long, wide yellow-fluorescent-lit hallway, hidden from the clients and anything else glamorous. This is where the analysts sat staring at our computer screens until our legs became numb. When I’d started, the more senior analysts had warned me about falling prey to the dreaded investment banker “gut and ass spread”: a gradual widening of one’s body parts thanks to too much sitting. Well, there’s something to look forward to.

  Perhaps it was because my numb ass was distracting me, or because my back was turned, but I didn’t notice when Jack appeared behind me and called me into his office. This had been a regular occurrence for various reasons, some of which were disciplinary (and in my opinion, unjustified), some of which were purely business. Regardless of the reason, I hated going in there—it smelled of antiques, and the mounted deer head on the wall was always staring at me. Yikes.

  “Sophia. Please, sit down.” I planted myself in one of the nickel-studded leather chairs, then scooted forward slightly so my feet could touch the expensive Turkish rug. Jack paused, folded his hands on the desk, and leaned forward. Suddenly I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach that this wasn’t going to be good; Jack hadn’t called me here to talk about the slideshow, my white pants, or my software industry summary. I attempted to look serious.

  “This isn’t working, Sophia,” Jack began.

  “I know, I’m sorry.” I looked down at my hands. What was the professional version of detention? Whiteboards to erase? I will not argue with my boss typed ten thousand times into my company-issued BlackBerry? I told myself I’d do what he asked, if only to get him (and that poor deer) to stop staring at me.

  “We’re going to have to let you go,” he continued.

  My jaw dropped. No fucking way.

  “What?” I argued. “But . . . don’t you have to give me two weeks’ notice or something?”

  “No. You’re an at-will employee.” Jack clapped his hands together once, as though to say Done deal. “We’re going to have to ask you to clear out your desk right now. Security is already there to take your computer.”

  “Right now?” I protested. “This is a mistake.”

  I sat there stunned. I couldn’t lose my job. This was going to be the answer to my prayers, the sum total Girl Scout badge of Moving Forward with My Life. And whether I liked working at Global Partners or not, I knew I was lucky to have such a good job. Panic rushed through me as I imagined being stuck at home with Mom. She’d spend the next year grooming me into the perfect marriageable specimen, making me feel like I wasn’t good enough. This couldn’t be happening. No. I wouldn’t let it.

  I felt my cheeks redden as I slowly got to my feet, my reasonable heels digging into Jack’s stupid rug. I looked straight at him. “You can’t do this.” I wanted to threaten him with a call from my father, but I knew that was the wrong thing to do.

  Jack didn’t answer. He had already gone back to his emails. He wasn’t just waiting me out; he wasn’t even seeing me anymore. I was already gone. Invisible.

  Damn you, you arrogant bastard.

  Furious, I stormed out of the room with tears streaming down my face. Don’t cry, I scolded myself. Don’t cr
y.

  I parked my car in my parents’ driveway, wondering what the hell I would do with my finance degree and telling myself it was okay that I was fired because I didn’t belong with those Ivy League summa cum laudes anyway. The banking job was never what I really wanted to do. I’d wanted to turn my twelve years of ballet training into a Golden State Warriors cheerleading career. Dancing was always my greatest joy; I loved how it made me forget—how impossible it was to think about anything and how I’d lose myself in the music and the choreography that went along with it. But one night over dinner I tried discussing my post–high school plan with my parents. Mom had just stood up to retrieve a set of chopsticks from the kitchen drawer, which she would use to serve the chow-fun she’d prepared, and before the word cheerleader had even left my mouth, both chopsticks came flying across the kitchen and nailed me in the back of the head. I turned around to see Mom’s glare—her warning that I’d better stop this nonsense once and for all. So as always, I did what my parents expected of me, and now I was a diploma-holding, unemployed loser.

  My sister, Audrey, was the smart, independent, and reasonable one—the one who would have fit into the investment bank scene just as well as she did the hedge fund world in which she worked. Older by three years, she was blessed with street smarts; perfect physical health; a five-foot-five frame; a strong, high-bridged nose; and large, almost Caucasian-like eyes that I envied. She excelled at every sport and academic subject she attempted; she was motivated and aggressive and her beauty was undeniable. She was the perfect Chinese daughter, and it would be too simple to say that I was jealous of her. I was, but I loved her and looked up to her, too. She had it all, the life I thought I wanted: a caring, loving husband; a beautiful home in Palo Alto; and a baby girl named Ava I adored. The first time I’d held my niece, I was certain that if love could be measured, I was the one who loved her the most. Gone was any disappointment that my sister had beaten me yet again. In its place were visions of how I’d be the best aunt in the world.

  I was the opposite of Audrey. To start, we looked nothing alike. I was the petite, “cute” one with a small heart-shaped mouth and apple-red cheeks that no amount of foundation could temper. I was also the sick one, the one cursed with diabetes and every side effect that came with it: a lousy immune system, compromised kidneys, high blood pressure, and probably more to come. My poor health history was why my parents coddled me, and why they raised me to be taken care of, to shop and look pretty. They didn’t care if I did poorly in school; they just hoped I would live a stress-free, happy life with a husband who loved me. I didn’t mind one bit going along with their plan, since their expectations seemed low. But my parents often sent conflicting messages, like telling their daughters to lose weight in the same breath that they insisted we eat more. That they raised us to be barefoot and pregnant while constantly reinforcing the importance of being employed and independent was confusing, but there was no doubt they’d find my termination at the investment bank disappointing. Worse, it would be considered “losing face”—besmirching our family’s good name. I was not looking forward to telling them what had happened.

  I entered my parents’ home and immediately heard the familiar, calming sound of trickling water coming from our koi pond in the center of the foyer. The cool marble floors felt nice compared to the Indian-summer air outside. I dropped my purse, threw off my shoes, and procrastinated by walking to the left side of the pond, where, behind a rock, we hid the fish food. I tossed a few pellets into the water and made a wish, the same way I’d done since I was a kid. I want to be married. The bright-colored fish waved themselves toward the surface with open mouths and fought for the food. I said good morning to them before crossing the foyer, walking up three steps, and passing the curved staircase that led to the second floor. I gently pushed on the swinging door and entered my parents’ contemporary kitchen.

  Bright sun streamed in through the windows, blinding the view of the large landscaped garden outside. It was nearly nine a.m. and the delicious aroma of just-steamed Chinese barbecue pork buns filled my nose. I considered whether I should sit down and enjoy one before saying anything to Mom and Dad about work.

  Like a paper clip to a magnet, the voice of Bugs Bunny and the sound of Dad’s laughter pulled me through the large opening separating the kitchen from the great room. Dad stood in front of the television, mesmerized by the battling cartoon characters that could entertain him for hours. When I walked up behind him to see which Looney Tunes episode he was watching, my pout gave way to a slight chuckle. We both stood there like zombies until we heard Mom yelling from the master bedroom upstairs, “Daddy! Stop watching TV! Breakfast is getting cold!”

  “Man! How do her superhuman eyes see you?” I cried.

  Dad smiled at the sight of me, then crinkled his brows and looked at his watch. “What are you doing home? I thought you left hours ago for work.”

  Fearing the wrath of my mother, he quickly headed for the kitchen, expecting me to follow. For a moment, I remained in front of the TV, wondering how I would tell him that I’d been fired from my first job. Well, technically it was my second, my first having been taken from me before it even began. That wasn’t because I’d angered a client or made some egregious error. It was because I’d made the mistake of telling the human resources director that I was a diabetic after I’d received an offer letter, but before I actually began working. When he asked me, “What if you’re in the middle of a meeting when something happens? Like when you need to take a shot or eat something?” I explained to him that I would excuse myself if I was meeting with clients, but that I imagined coworkers would understand. After all, it wasn’t as though the crinkling of a granola bar wrapper was a huge disruption. At this point the director said he would call me back, but he never did. In fact, I never heard from him again. Asshole. Finally, I threw away the consulting firm’s offer letter. They no longer wanted me. I was damaged goods. Welcome to Silicon Valley. When I finally told my parents, they had an unsurprisingly unsympathetic response. They had been warning me since I was diagnosed that I should never speak of my health issues, especially to potential suitors. “People won’t understand them and will see them as a stigma,” they’d said. “They’ll use your illness against you, or feel sorry for you.” I had thought this was just another one of their traditional Chinese views, but maybe they were right.

  Dad called me from the table. “So why are you home? Are you feeling okay?” My parents always asked me that, fearing something had caused my blood sugar to rise or fall.

  I sighed deeply and said, “I got fired.” My eyes turned red as I held in the tears.

  “What? Again?” he asked in a disappointed tone, even after I reminded him I didn’t actually get fired from the first job.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” I declared, fully aware that my high-pitched, cracking voice was the perfect way to soften my father.

  Dad shook his head and said more calmly, “Welcome to the real world, Sophia. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. What did you do?”

  This wasn’t like when I disregarded my parents’ advice and lost the consulting job, so I was confused as to why Dad wasn’t standing up for me. “I didn’t do anything. I just tried to do something right the first time so I wouldn’t have to waste my time doing it again.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure,” Dad said with raised, accusing eyebrows. “Jack wouldn’t have fired you unless you’d really done something wrong.”

  “What’s wrong? Why are you home?” my mom asked, bounding through the swinging door. She walked past me and stopped at the counter, and although her back was to me, I could see her dusting off crumbs I’d let fall onto the granite earlier that morning. A criminal offense in her book. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I got fired,” I said, looking down at my feet to avoid Mom’s glare. She was slightly taller than me—a classic beauty with porcelain-white skin, perfectly applied red lipstick, and delicate Asian features—but her looks were deceiving. Underneath the ch
ina-doll appearance was an unpredictable temper, a demanding personality, and a propensity for soul-crushing comments that would be devastating had Audrey and I not developed our Teflon coatings.

  “What did you do? Did you mess up a spreadsheet or something?” Mom asked, not really caring about the answer but certain it was my fault. She really had no idea what I did at work. Dad and I had tried to explain to her what an investment banker did, but to this day, she tells her friends I was a bank teller.

  Mom turned to Dad and blamed him. “Daddy, you shouldn’t have pushed her into finance. She can’t even balance a checkbook!” Dad was silent. Then, facing me, she filled her lungs with air—fuel for the fire that was about to shoot out of her mouth.

  Here we go.

  “You’ve embarrassed our entire family! You’re such a disaster. That was the place you were supposed to find a husband. How are you ever going to feed yourself? You were so lucky to even have that job!” she yelled. “I’m sure you were arguing, as usual. I’ve told you so many times to watch your mouth. You need to listen to people more and talk less, and you really need to be more like your sister.”

  Mom stopped to take another breath, so I jumped into the split-second break.

  “MOTHER!” I screamed as loud as I could. “You’re always telling me I’ll never be happy if I compare myself to others, so why are you comparing me to Audrey? I’m not Audrey!”

  Mom closed her mouth, although she remained angry.

  Success. For now.

  Soon she began mumbling about my incompetence and walked into the other room, where she also threw in a few disapproving comments about my long, wavy, thick black hair. According to Mom, my abundant mane made me look part troll, part wild animal. “Ai-ya, pi-tou-san-fa!” She returned minutes later with a bundle of cash, which she stuffed into my hand. “You might as well use the day off to get your hair cut.”

  “Can I just explain what happened? It wasn’t my fault!” I exclaimed. I wanted my parents to feel sorry for me and to understand that a major injustice had just taken place.