In 2024, Eli graduated from Stanford University with a B.A. in Human Biology and minors in Comparative Studies in Race and Ethnicity (Identity, Diversity, and Aesthetics) & Theater and Performance Studies. They are currently based in San Francisco and working as a professional dancer with Alex Ketley/The Foundry while pursuing further education and licensing in Chinese medicine and Physical Therapy.
Writing Sample
I’ve never considered myself a good writer. In middle and high school, I received mostly B’s and C’s on my English papers. In my sophomore year, I tried so hard to improve my essay scores yet still received an 83 on almost every paper I wrote. No matter how many strong verbs, interesting transitions, and metaphors I used, my grade never improved. Eventually, I stopped trying and decided there was no way for me to improve my writing.
The first time I started to discover my authentic voice was when I was studying Chinese medicine from my grandmother in China. That year, she turned 89 and I wanted to have a relationship with her as she neared the end of her life. The fact is that I hadn’t been able to communicate with her since I was five years old and lost all my Chinese speaking ability. Since then, I’d had an entire adolescent, teenage, and early adult life. But I knew that she was a proud doctor and had a history of medical knowledge she wanted to pass on to somebody. I decided to take a year off from college to learn Mandarin and her dialect, Sichuanese, so I could study Chinese medicine and spend meaningful time with her.
I remember the feeling of being immersed in the language when I was studying Mandarin in Taipei. It felt familiar and foreign at the same time. I couldn't speak or understand the words, but somehow had a sense of whether they were right or wrong. Sentences felt awkward, like my ears understood what was natural, but still everything that came out of my mouth felt like blocks of wood. After months of intensive study, I could communicate, awkwardly. But then my parents visited me for the Chinese new year and for two whole weeks, we spoke exclusively in Mandarin. By the end of each day, I felt exhausted from speaking so much in my first-but-now-second language. After my parents left, I returned to school and discovered the language now felt comfortable, like it had been ironed out in my mouth and I could finally digest it. As it turns out, the language I spoke with my parents was different from the one I was learning in school. It was homey, less academic; culturally Chinese, not Taiwanese. It stuck because it was connected to my family.
That summer, I was finally fluent. When China opened their borders, I went to Chengdu to see my grandmother, who was recovering from a combined COVID-19 plus flu. For three hours a day, she somehow found the energy to teach me. I sat at the tea house, listening to her lecture about herbal medicine in Sichuanese. She was passionate in her teaching, so passionate she said she started to feel young again, like she was back in her pre-retirement days. I listened to her talk about herbs and theory and physiology while trying to learn and understand her dialect and simultaneously avoid the slew of mosquitoes that came at me one at a time. As a buddhist, she gifted me a repellant spray she had concocted so I wouldn’t have to kill them. But the spray was old, so I just tried to kill them as discreetly as I could, which wasn’t so hard since she was so absorbed in the passions of her teaching. It was a meaningful time.
Sichuanese stuck even more readily than Mandarin. It was so easy to remember, so easy to reproduce. The curves of the sounds, the feelings in the phrases and colloquialisms just made sense. When I was four years old, I came home after spending a summer with my grandma exclusively speaking the language. Sichuanese was like an old friend returning to my side. Maybe it was some deep form of muscle memory, or maybe it was the spirit of an ancestor come to guide me home. Or maybe, I wasn’t even good at Sichuanese, but just thought I was because I felt comfortable making mistakes, free of judgement. This was the language of my family and connection and communication was the goal, not correctness. I could just be me.
In growing closer to Mandarin and Sichuanese, I began to connect to the source of my voice. I felt it in my belly; it holds tension and release; pain, discomfort, and pleasure. It has a barometer which tells me how true and good my words feel. How did it take me so long to realize it was there, hidden in the recesses of my bones? Since then, my voice has changed, even in English. As I have learned to connect my voice with my body, I have begun to shed the layers of rules I learned from English teachers, the strong verbs and metaphors. Now, I seek the voice that I’ve always had, a voice that has always been enough. Authentic voice does not follow a set of grammar rules. It is complicated, contradictory, and that is precisely why it is rich.
My voice does not exist solely in the medium of audible language. In the past year, I have also started to connect to this place while dancing. This source informs the language of my body, my voice when I am in motion, the choices I make in my dancing. No matter what language I speak, my body will always provide a well of inspiration and truth. As a mentor, I hope to help students connect to this place, so that however they choose to express their voice, it feels authentic and true to them.
