I Learned Something Today
June 10th, 2025
I had a one on one with my manager, and one of the core pieces of feedback was that I don't really explain the technical nuances of my work. I stay, with, my head in the clouds on the objective and not really presenting what I did at all.
It's become a problem on this recent project, which I can't detail for privacy reasons, but had I communicated what I was doing better with the other team, I would've had the flaws and inefficiencies in my thinking pointed out and others could've contributed to make the project a success.
My lack of communication ability is a HUGE weakness, and one that holds me back extremely. I am great at seeing the big picture and big ideas, but on the ground I cannot remember every minutiae of detail that comes to me.
Why that's bad
Because I can't live in the day to day. My head is in abstraction, which apparently is common in neurodiversity.
I generalize my experience so far away, just like I'm doing now, instead of talking about how awful it was to get up this morning, I find criticism in my behaviours abstractly.
How my legs couldn't swing out of the bed, because I had just bought a new bed from Ikea, and it was really comfortable.
See, things like that people care about and can relate to and can really understand.
Remembering a story in great detail
When I was eight years old, I went to school on a school bus. It was a yellow bus. I had to walk about a block and cross a street to get there. The trees were swaying in the light Autumn wind, my favorite season by the way, and the grass was slowly losing it's summer saturated hue. The sky blues a little less as it nears Winter, it pales a little. But nonetheless, on really cold mornings to the bus, the sun would barely peak over the chimney brick houses so typical of a Texas suburb, and the morning bird would hoo its crow.
I still remember the tickling feeling of the chilly wind on my arms. I'd usually wear a long-sleeve graphic crew neck with a pair of oversized hand-me-down jeans. Some beat up hand-me-down sneakers that were too oversized and actually made me stub my toe a few too many times. My grandma loved to walk me to the school bus -- now that I think about it it was one of her pleasures in all her life, I think beyond her glassy almost teary eyes that she'd seen too much in her life. Her little baby grandson going to school was one of the most joyous moments of her life.
That morning I wore my favorite blue windbreaker, all bundled up. I'd outgrow it in a couple months, but my parents still wanted me to stay warm. We lived near the airport, so you can hear the howling jets fly over the houses very faintly, and the roaring cars of the nearby freeway break the silence. There was a ghastly element to it, but I liked to imagine it as spiritual. Something in the wind calling me over.
The bus would stop in front of the house, and there, there was a girl and my neighborly friend. I can barely recall their faces, let alone their names, but I do recall we played some games sometimes and exchanged a few words. I was a quiet kid, so even up until high school I wouldn't say much of anything at all. They'd talk amongst themselves, and they were both White at the very least.
I would hop on the bus and sit towards the middle back. Wherever I could find a seat. Not too far back with the upper classman kids who were fooling around, but neither too front so that nobody would sit next to me. I had a hard time trusting other people, and I would even get in a fight a couple years later on a bus.
I used to read books. I'd read the Harry Potter books on the bus around this time, sometimes I'd even miss my bus stop. The bus driver would have to come and grab me! He'd question where the little asian boy was. I usually got lost in the books and the daydreaming and the fantasy world when I was a kid, I didn't like the reality of the situation. Maybe out of boredom, fear, or a combination of both. There were a lot of scary and confusing things in my life at the time. But I would often miss my bus stop on the way home lost in the stupor.
The seats were a crooked, cracked leather. Some of the front seats were really worn out, but the middle seats were okay. I always picked the seats that looked nice. Out the window, sometimes the school bus windows wouldn't close all the way either. I'd try to close, but I was exceptionally weak growing up. It is a strange wonder why this is the case.
I didn't talk much. The bus rides were quiet in the mornings. In high school, I'd spend the time doing homework due the day of. Those were the days.
When the bus would park and exhaust its steam and heat, I'd wait for everyone to leave the bus before standing up and hobbling away. I liked being the last one off, it meant less people watching me, and it meant that I'd be relatively free of observation. The steps were really big for eight year old me, I was the smallest in my entire class, and I would continue to be until maybe sophomore or junior year of high school. I'd always have to jump or bend the knee and then slowly descend. I wasn't the most nimble either, sometimes I'd land wrong on my knee or foot and injure it slightly.
We'd line up on the side of the school. The buses would drop us off at cones labeled for each grade, and we'd hobble to the lines of where our schoolteachers were. There'd be signs and organization and all the sort directing each little boy or girl where to go. I recall a story of me shitting in one of these bus lines when heading home one day. But that's a story for another day.
I would sit there so quietly. Ready for my teacher to come by. Some days the bus would come early and I'd be at the front of the line. It made me feel special. Some days the bus would be really late, and I'd be at the end of the line. And I'd feel comfortable not being observed. I really like it when I'm not having to be the spotlight or be special.
When my teacher came, she'd tell us all to get up and a sort of lassaiz-faire gently rocking your horse manner. Not sure, but she'd kind of wave her hands upwards as if gesturing to slowly rise to an orchestra. Now that I think about it, she'd be the kind of bubbly person you'd imagine working at an elementary school, and someone wonderful of course. We'd all stand up and follow her flag in a straight line. Sometimes I'd be envious of other students' teachers because they'd have a decorated flag or whatnot, but now that I look back I couldn't give a shit about decorations. It's strange how we change. And I think the decorations are cute of course.
The hallways were so big when I was young, but I suppose visiting it now when I am older, the hallways are so small. It's strange.
When I walked down the hallway, I'd always drag my hand against the wall. The texture of the wall had a scaley sort of feeling, maybe like sandpaper? But not so gritty or fine, it's probably like a really bumpy pebbled rock if anything else. But anyway, I really enjoyed the texture and would secretly run my hand against the wall so that the teacher wouldn't notice and tell me to stop. Was it neurodivergence? I don't know.
Somedays we'd pass by a portrait of the school's biggest donor, who the school was named after. I just saw a really rich White man, and wasn't really sure all the meaning of it. Now I know that you can get pretty rich, so rich that you can donate to school and have it named after you. Or perhaps, you can be so involved in the community that you get rich. But that way you'd probably have to be White in a White community, or Asian in an Asian community, etc. Now I don't think that man was really all that special, but at the same time I recognize the education he provided for so many children was indeed wonderful. A lot of good people came from that elementary school after all.
When we get to the classroom, we'd sit in a circle or in our desks, depending on the activity the teacher had picked out that day. Looking back, she'd have to spend all that time to move the desks to where they needed to go, and all the teachers would do something like that. I think elementary school teachers are quite frankly, one of the brightest and best kinds of human beings on the planet. It actually almost makes me shed a tear as I think of all the school supplies she'd bought for us. Just that one year with us children, and she bought it with her own money. All that and we didn't know...
She'd usually start lecturing or teaching with the class while we sat on the rug. I recall she mentioned she liked the rug structure, because it felt more like a gathering of kids and less like a lecture. She'd sit down with her big sheet of paper and we'd take turns answering her questions as she asked them. I recall not saying anything, or if anything saying the answers quietly while all the other kids would shout at her the answer. They were engaged. I was engaged, but I didn't communicate that or show that. I was too shy. I didn't want to speak up. It was scary. What if I say the wrong thing? The other kids would laugh at me and call me dumb.
When class was over, we'd go to lunch. Most days I'd sit there pretty quiet, at the middle of the table with my classmates. The teacher would go and eat together, while all the students would eat together at their table and talk to one another. I didn't really have much to say. I remember going to recess and sitting alone. I am not sure exactly why I self-isolated. Perhaps I had feelings of... hatred? Feelings of alienation? Feelings that I felt different and that I was really different. Not sure.
The wood benches we sat on were sort of fake. You could peel the tops off. The styrofoam plates we'd eat our cardboard cafeteria lunches were awful. We'd eat cardboard pizza or a really hardtack-esque bread bun and a choice of chocolate or regular milk. They ocassionally had strawberry milk but they ran out frequently. I always loved the carton paper milk. The taste of paper is pretty good. But they switched to plastic containers a couple years later, and I hate the taste of plastic. I'd rather have paper (or wood in the case of chopsticks) in my mouth than plastic things. The texture and sensation just feels all the more right.