Taking Flight and Finding Identity
By Michelle Yang / Excerpted from the memoir Phoenix Girl: How a Fat Asian with Bipolar Found Love. © Copyright 2025 by Michelle Yang and published by Fifth Avenue Press. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 27: Flight
AGES 18 TO 20 – TUCSON, ARIZONA
My first night at Yuma Hall honors dormitory at the University of Arizona, excitement courses through my veins. I cannot lie still in my new bed with its crisp, extra-long sheets. Classes haven’t yet started. My roommate hasn’t arrived. Cool-to-the touch, stark, white walls box me in my own space, hours away from my family, my past. It feels so luxurious. I am drunk with freedom.
Ever since we emigrated, Baba’s singular focus has been to have a doctor in the family. Didi’s bad grades dims my father’s hopes for him over the years, but the pressure on me doubles.
“You have the brains, you have the ability, so why not become a doctor? You must. It doesn’t make sense not to. It would make us so proud. There is nothing better.”
My protests are ignored, even as I declare an international studies major and an art minor I keep secret from my parents.
The ritual of Baba and Mama sitting me down to convince me to change my career track repeats with mind-numbing regularity, but Baba is never able to change my mind. Left without another choice, Baba resolves to get a doctor in the family by becoming one himself. He applies for a Chinese medicine and acupuncture doctorate program based in Los Angeles taught in Mandarin and Korean. For years, Baba commutes from Phoenix to LA for his classes—adding further strain on the family and restaurant work dynamic.
But, here at college in Tucson, I don’t have to worry about Baba. I am giddy. With nothing to do with my nervous energy in the wee hours, I step out into the glaring fluorescent-lit hallway and begin feverishly decorating the door with origami, paper flowers, and photos. I imagine my brilliant handiwork will dazzle passersby in the morning, initiating conversations that will lead to lifelong friendships.
“Whoa. Looks like a kindergarten classroom,” an RA observes and keeps walking. That’s the only reaction I get from anyone, including my pretty, new roommate.
I can’t wait to meet Val, who moves to Tucson from across the country. She has long, beautiful, curly hair and a self-assurance I lack. Though she keeps her distance at first, we eventually grow to become close friends. I make other new friendships that last a lifetime—Leslie, a fifth-generation Chinese American who also lives in the same dorm and Teresa, a sassy, brilliant pre-law student in my English class. Though the three of us are very different, we bond over our shared identity of being Chinese American women.
“I overextend myself as a way of life. I can’t seem to help myself.”
But before freshman year gets going too far, after two days in a wired state, I call the campus health center and schedule an appointment. I am nervous to go in and almost cancel at the last minute. The building is made of red bricks, and the interior is clean with many collegiate posters on the walls. It is a maze as I try to find the right waiting room in the right department. I check in and grab an empty seat. Many students are waiting. We all look nervous and avoid eye contact, afraid to be recognized in the behavioral health center.
The counselor who sees me has long, straight brown hair that is brushed back. She has smooth, tanned skin and wise, piercing eyes. She does not smile, not once. She is all business.
“I can’t sleep,” I tell her. “I’ve had trouble sleeping for a long time.”
I’m telling her a fraction of my struggles. I’m holding so much back. I don’t tell her about losing my mind, about thinking people are filming me, about believing there was a vote at my high school about me. I am terrified of sharing any of it.
What if Baba is right? What if they will take away my scholarship and kick me out of school if they learn how crazy I am? I am trying to gauge her reaction.
“I’m excited about college but also so nervous. There are so many expectations to live up to, even more than before because of the Flinn scholarship.”
She furrows her broad brow. “You’re a Flinn scholar?”
I nod with trepidation, eyes on the floor. Not sure if this is safe to say.
“Oh, well, we get all the Flinn scholars in here,” she sighs as if she’s just figured me out. “There’s so much pressure.”
I am prescribed Valium, as needed, for sleep. There are no more questions or attempts to diagnose a condition. I am dismissed as a stressed-out overachiever.
I overextend myself as a way of life. I can’t seem to help myself. I take twenty-one credits at a time because there are too many courses I’m interested in. There are too many causes I’m passionate about too. I establish a mentoring program for children adopted from China that organizes cultural events and matches them with student mentors from Asian American clubs on campus. I become an officer in too many student organizations. Force of habit? I don’t know. I don’t know why I do it. I’m a speeding locomotive that can’t stop.
I crash into depression during midterms and finals. Each time the workload becomes too much, I berate myself for being so stupid as to believe I could do it all, just as I had in high school. I hate myself for never learning my lesson and never being able to escape this self-destructive cycle.
My anxiety chases away sleep. The Valium does not help. I am afraid to increase my dosage or take it too frequently. I read about the medication online and learn it can lead to addiction. I also don’t go back to the health center because I regret sharing I’m a Flinn scholar. I am an imposter, paranoid about giving myself away, afraid of losing everything.
Each time I walk out of an exam, I am convinced I have failed… but this is never the case. All the nervous hours studying pay off, even though, often, none of the material makes sense to me. I worry because I don’t retain anything, but no one notices. I am a Flinn scholar and, by definition, I should be extraordinarily fine.
Phoenix Girl, a memoir, cover art by Yvonne Chan, an Asian American designer based in Brooklyn.
The summer after my freshman year of college, the Flinn Foundation whisks all twenty of us off on a three-week seminar in Hungary and Romania to study economic development post-Communism. I am ecstatic for this sure-to-be life-changing adventure.
“I don’t want you to go,” Baba says, pouting. “Why did Flinn choose these poor European countries? Why not France or England?” No one in my family has ever been to Europe.
I know he’s worried, but I’m frustrated he’s not happy for me. Back home for the summer, preparing my trip, I roll my eyes as I pack my enormous backpack from REI. About half of us from the Flinn Class also plan to backpack through France, Italy, Germany, and the Netherlands together after the seminar ends.
“Don’t go,” Baba grunts again. My bags are packed, and I hold my boarding pass in my hands. He and Mama had driven me to the airport, grumbling the entire way. I look around the waiting area, and none of the other Flinn parents act this way. No one else is trying to stop their college kid from taking an all-expenses paid, prestigious, educational trip to Europe. No other parents look angry. Everyone else is happy for their child to take flight. My parents are afraid, but what are they afraid of? I have achieved everything Baba wanted and he is still unhappy.
“I’ll call” is the best I can offer. I turn my back, determined.
“Call us every day,” Baba shouts after me. “Every day.”
Budapest is a marvel to behold. I am swept away by the architecture and the history as we glide down the Danube on a river cruise and private parliament tour. This is nothing like the breathtaking temples in Asia, which are bright and ornate in Taiwan and striking in their clean, balanced design in Korea. I am awestruck seeing this other part of the Old World, completely new to me. There is so much to life, so much world for me to discover.
Back in Arizona, my family rarely eats out. When we do for special occasions, Baba treats us to feasts at Cantonese-style or Korean restaurants. On rarer occasions, we go to Denny’s 24-Hour Diner after our restaurant closes to have steak. With Denny’s as the height of luxury outside of Asian food, the meals from my European adventure are mind-blowing.
Our program guide introduces us to a bustling falafel spot in Budapest that serves up perfectly crunchy and steaming spheres of spiced salty flavor bombs with all the fresh toppings you can imagine. We discover on our own street-vendor gyros made of warm, pillowy pita bread bursting with slow-roasted, hand-carved meat, sweet, crunchy onions, and out-of-this-world creamy and tart tzatziki sauce. The best part is that they are stuffed with french fries so hot that they burn the roof of my mouth. Experiencing these textures and flavors while huddled in the streets on breezy summer nights with some of my best friends becomes part of my core food memories.
When the Flinn-sponsored portion of the trip ends, a group of us, including Ben, heads to France on the Eurail pass. Everything in Paris, especially after Hungary and Romania, seems impossibly expensive. My friends and I stuff our backpacks with the free, hostel-provided, day-old breakfast baguettes at breakfast so that we can eat them for lunch too.
At a small silver cart within view of the Eiffel Tower, I savor my first crepe. The eggy, silky thin pancake with sliced strawberries and Nutella melting in my mouth is also my inaugural introduction to the hazelnut chocolate spread. Where has this been all my life?
The world stops when I taste my first spoonful of gelato on the cobblestone streets of Verona, outside of our rundown hostel. The chocolate hazelnut gelato I devour in Italy ruins me for all future frozen desserts. With our travel budgets thinning by the day, we skip lunch, opting for a generous gelato cone instead.
After freshman year living in the same dorm with many of my travel companions, we were already close, but the long flights, bus rides, and wandering together in foreign cities cement our friendships further. This is particularly true of the time we spend on our own, after the organized seminar ends. Ben is as goofy and playful as ever, picking me a wildflower in Romania, which I press in the pages of my thick travel guide. He and the guys dutifully pick out postcards to send to their girlfriends along our stops. I mail some to David, who is always good about sending them to me from his travels too. I call my parents whenever I can.
My classmates are more confident, and I follow where they lead us. They figure out which train to take and how to choose a hostel, all without the assistance of the internet. I still feel like a kid who needs to be told what to do. I am inspired by the young adults around me. By their example, I become empowered to find my own way too. Toward the end of our backpacking trip, I venture off on my own to visit friends in Cologne and Dusseldorf in Germany while the rest of the group stay in Berlin. I’m a nervous wreck, but I find my legs.
When I reunite with the group a few days later, I am so anxious about the solo train ride that I buy a can of Radler, a beer and Sprite mix, to “take the edge off.” Afterward, Ben, who knows I’m not a drinker, finds my choice of beverage hilarious and teases me. I don’t know what’s so funny.
The trip is everything I dreamed of and more. I’m sad for it to end, but also, I need it to be over. Too many sleepless nights in unfamiliar, noisy hostels, traveling from city to city. Too much excitement. I feel my spirit enter and leave my body. It is not safe.
“During my internship, my previous level of political activism is put to shame, but I am inspired by it.”
But soon, I touch the earth in Phoenix. Engulfed by the fiery summer heat, I am at home. I sleep. I eat Mama’s potato soup, kimchi, and moo goo gai pan from Oriental Express. I feel myself again. Soon, it is time to go back to Tucson to start my sophomore year.
Val and I decide to both live in Yuma Hall again. We enjoy painting our nails and eating entirely too much pizza in our tiny room. She loves the rice I cook in my little rice cooker, which we top with cold cuts, shredded cheese, and kimchi from our mini-fridge. In return, she shares the loaf of homemade banana bread and an assortment of cookies that her grandmother sends her back with after church each Sunday.
The summer after my sophomore year, I accept an internship in Washington, DC, at a nonprofit called OCA-Asian Pacific American Advocates. The organization works to advance the social, political, and economic well-being of Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders, and I am eager to join the mission and to explore our nation’s capital. Baba doesn’t want me to go and makes my housing situation far more complicated than it needs to be. But I get to go and that’s all that matters.
The summer is transformative. In Arizona, in part because I participated in Anytown and because I am an international studies major, I often find myself to be the most politically aware Asian American person in my networks. During my internship, my previous level of political activism is put to shame, but I am inspired by it. I learn so much from my new social-justice-minded friends, especially those from bigger cities with bigger AAPI populations.
Summer in DC is electrifying. Almost every day, I run into someone I know at the metro stops or cafes. The city pulses with power. When I look up into the skyline and see the Capitol Building presiding over the city like a glowing beacon, I get chills.
Having access to walk into government hearings and talk to leaders and organizers is like being folded into the political machine. The civil rights organizations are unified. I attend meetings with OCA at NAACP and the National Council of La Raza to advocate for change, leveraging our power with one another. I further embrace my identity as an Asian American, separate from my identity as an Asian immigrant, and join my voice with those of other people of color.
This whirlwind summer of 2001 includes an OCA convention in Seattle. From there, I take the Amtrak to Portland for another Chinese American conference to accept a scholarship before flying back to Phoenix to pack for my junior year semester study abroad. I select a scholarship-sponsored advanced Mandarin language study abroad program at Peking University, which some silly people call the “Harvard of China.” Baba is eager for me to go this time, unlike the Europe trip. He is already bragging to friends and family about his Beautiful Jade and the places she’ll go.
We have no idea what’s to come.
Michelle Yang is an advocate whose writings on the intersection of Asian American identity, body image, and mental health have been featured in NBC News, CNN, InStyle, and Reader’s Digest. Michelle has also been featured on NPR, Washington Post, and The Seattle Times for her advocacy. You can find her on michelleyangwriter.com or on Instagram @michelleyangwriter.
‘Phoenix Girl’ is available to purchase wherever books are sold, and we encourage supporting indie and local bookstores or requesting a copy from your public library to help make it accessible to more people. (ISBN 13: 9781956697339).