Hand yourself the mic

You can’t hide the truth when the cameras are rolling. You can see it plainly. While we all have our own truths, the truth prevails.

The television adds 15 pounds. I didn’t think I belonged on television. At least that’s what I thought. I didn’t know any better. My parents were immigrants who didn’t butter me up. They would remind me I have a big head. And I look 13 even though I’m 30-ish. In other words, I definitely am no Walter Cronkite lookalike.

There was a time a few years ago where I still kind of looked like this — but had a little more makeup on and dressed a lot more conservatively. I was trying to play the role of “tv reporter,” except this wasn’t acting. This was my career. I aimed to become someone who could try and find out the truth, and tell you the serious news of the day, Cronkite-style, or share something amazing that happened in your neighborhood: headline this, world leader that, insert cute animal video at the end of the broadcast.

I kicked off my on-camera television career in Salisbury, Maryland, in the middle of a peninsula that carves a sliver into the mid-Atlantic Ocean. Delmarva, as it is called, whose residents seem to carry a Southern drawl. I sometimes pretended to blend into be one of them, asking “how do y’ll feel about this?” It was my job to follow the leaders of the community, like the police chief or the city council. I questioned people in power regularly. Maybe that helped me back in the newsroom, where I still felt like small fish in a small pond.

It was only in college a few years before, an also Asian American mentor who was reporting in Philadelphia encouraged me to look into becoming a news personality, too. I was very shy but I hadn’t decided on a major so why not? I accepted the challenge and suddenly my Dad thought I’d appear on CNN. During my first “live” shot in Salisbury, which was inside the studio with a teleprompter, my heart felt like it would jump out of my shoulder-padded, zipped up, jacket. But I practiced over and over again, and over time, my ambitions gravitated towards the person who would "toss" to my report. I wanted to sit in the coveted anchor chair. My news director said I was too smart for that and I should stick to my beat.

I used his discouragement to keep trying to audition in-house and make myself available over the holidays. Once I was under the lights for a prolonged period of time, I felt like I was in power, especially when I was alone doing everything including "stacking" and producing the show during the weekends. I was in command of the newshour. Truth be told, I could’ve said anything on live tv (and gotten fired, probably). But it was nice to know people trusted 25 year old me, who decided what the top story would be for tens of thousands of people, if they all thought that I was the best thing since sliced bread to have in the morning with their coffee.

I got pretty good and then I got bored. Actually, I was bored since I had moved there from New York City to the world of Walmart and fishermen in small town America. I jumped over a hundred markets to start freelancing in the nation’s capital, about two and half hours away for a then boyfriend turned fiance. By the time that fiance turned into my ex, I channeled my depression to working harder during my oddly houred shifts. Once I was back on more level ground, I shifted my perspective for the network level, partly because I wanted to get back to New York. Even if I filled in at the White House, it wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed, but it appeared I was making progress, somehow. I could have never imagined when I was little girl I could be inside the briefing room. My immigrant parents never dreamed this to me — even though deep down, I knew I deserved it.

And then I reached a roadblock. In trying to climb the ladder, I asked for a meeting in NYC, because no one was going to hand me anything. I sat across someone who reminded me of my first news director — a taller, older white man with graying hair — with glasses, probably.

So there I was, still looking and feeling 13, seated uncomfortably in this man’s bland office. He towers over me even though we’re both sitting down. He looks at me skeptically.

You don’t want to move here, he says. How will you pay for your rent with freelance money?

My facial expression turned into a tight smile, hoping that he still saw my desire for a full contract. He probably could read straight through me: I was thinking, why are you worrying about my apartment worries? I left the room like a dog with a tail between its legs. But I worked around him. I went to a more welcoming head in another department who was overseeing the morning show. He gave me a chance to fill in for another woman of color.  

A lot of people aren’t going to help you if they don’t know or are like you or look like you. So sometimes you have to help yourself to the chair or to free coffee and donuts. Maybe all I wanted to do prove him wrong. Maybe I had just done it to see how far I could go with this acting role and this guy actually helped me get there with reverse psychology. So thanks.

While my traditional tv career has fizzled as my hair has become frizzy and blonde, what I learned was you have to build your own confidence. You might have an instigator that sparks another fire under your butt. But I am the match and I am the light. I have to give myself the benefit of the doubt instead of doubting myself and letting that match get soppy with wet waves of doubt or letting my light dim in the shadow of other people’s empty promises or lack of encouragement. To this day, I have to remind myself to be accountable to myself — and light on. Here’s the truth: even Angelina Jolie has a big head. My dreams are bigger than both our heads.