I sit on the soft grass, the Oak tree behind me providing shelter from the raging sun. My fingers trace the bark behind me, my toes burying into the dirt. I can't help but wonder, Oak trees live for hundreds of years. This one has probably seen just as many humans sit under its boughs. This is when I wrote my first letter. Dear Ms.Forgotton, It's the 1840's. You've got curls pinned to the back of your head that keep getting caught in the bark. Chesnut hair, tired eyes, and a threadbare dress. You look like something out of a Christmas Carol. But more than that, you look human. I want to know what your favourite perfumes are. I want to see the hairstyles you dream of wearing, but were too lazy to pin up. Did your hands get sore from setting hair rollers, like mine do? Even though we're years apart, how different can we be? I'd give anything to speak to you, girl to girl. In another life, maybe we could have been friends. I feel a certain twang in my chest as I watch tears come to your eyes. They're fiery, defiant. The look of someone who has something to prove, but nobody gives you the chance, right? For what it's worth, I'm sorry. It's hard to be a woman, no matter what time you're in. I hope you were happy in the end though. I burn it that night. I don't know why, but I feel like it might find it's way back to her. In some way. The next letter I write on a secluded beach. Dear Sir Forgotton, It's the middle of the night, 1775. I'm watching you pace the sands, running your hands through your haggard hair. Little do you know, I'd be here one day, sitting against the very rocks that you now plop onto. You're stressed right now about your store and taxes. There is a book in your satchel, Thomas Paine. I bet you'd be surprised to know it's in a museum now. Our historians obsessed over your signature on the inside cover. I think you and I would have gotten along well. I own a small business too, just like yours. And let me tell you Sir, it doesn't get any easier in the future. You seem like a friendly man. I want to offer you some tea and chocolate, sit on the sand and lament about life with you. We may be decades apart, but how different can we be? We're both human, after all. After writing to him, I burnt his letter too. I couldn't stop thinking about whether he'd went home and heated coffee, or milk. Whether he'd stayed awake all night, or slept fitfully. I wondered what he did for his birthday, since mine was later that week. Then, I wrote my most recent letter. Dear Mrs.Forgotton, I'm your great-great-granddaughter. I don't know much about who you are. Only that you came from India. And you never went home. I think of you as I pull on my deep blue sari. It's my favourite one. As I wait for my mother to finish getting ready for your other great-great-grandaughter's wedding, I pick up a book to read. Then I remember you couldn't do that. I remember you couldn't read or write. That you spoke a different language entirely. My name is still Indian, Grandma. But our family only speaks English now. I wonder what you'd make of it. The world was wicked to you. I can't dream up your happy ending. I don't know where you died, or what your name was. I don't even know where you're buried. I wonder if you had pin straight hair like my father. Or wavy locks like my sister. Did you pin it up in braids like me? Was your favourite fruit mango? What songs did you hum under your breath while you worked? Did you like stories? It's strange to think that the same moon you looked up at, I did too. I don't think we're that different, though the centuries divide us so. I can't explain what it is to be human. That's something I'll leave to the scientists. But in my opinion, to be human is to want to be remembered. From the beginning of time, humans have dug their fingernails into everything since stone scribbles. Dresses in museums were tried on by girls who wanted to look pretty in it. Books were read and marked to say ‘This was mine. When you read it, remember the hands that held it before you.' We have walls with scratches, engraved jewelry boxes, embroidered jackets. All from humans who made their mark on something. Even if it was small, it was something. We idolise these things, put them in glass cases. Because we know that we want that, too. The sand and the grass may not remember us, but we remember eachother. Immortalization in the form of history. And even those, like my grandmother, who didn't leave anything tangible, gave us something anyway.

My childhood weekends are filled with memories of napping on long car rides and having my mom shake me awake as we reached the Golden Gate Bridge. Crossing the intersection of quiet Petaluma and the bustling streets of San Francisco marked a segue to a different world. For as long as I can remember, my family and I took the hour long trip to San Francisco almost every weekend to get traditional Chinese groceries. We would spend the day browsing the aisles of D&T Shop, Sheng Kee bakery, and countless other nameless stores. The best ones didn't have names, just patched up signs and unorganized aisles that bore elusive specialties. I would run through the aisles mesmerized by the assortments of ramen, the spiked vegetables, and the barrels of bitter spices; Costco and Safeway just couldn't compare. Mom would buy the jiu cai he zi that she used to eat for breakfast in her youth, and Dad would pick up the lotus root and tofu knots that his mother used to cook with. When we returned home, my mom would prepare traditional Chinese dishes for dinner with the fresh groceries. San Francisco brought my parents the comforts of their home, and immersed me in my Chinese culture. As the years passed, my childlike fascination in the endless aisles of noodles and live catfish butchery gradually waned. My parents began dropping me off as they shopped, and I began a cycle of visiting each art museum in San Francisco. Perusing the rooms at the De Young, MoMA, and Asian Art Museum sparked that childlike curiosity in me once again. I began painting and drawing and sketching at home, desperate to embody Dalí's mystique and Picasso's emotion. It was when I turned 16, I was finally allowed to volunteer at the Asian Art Museum. I remember the first day; it was a chilly Sunday and the opening day of the new kimono exhibit. I expected my partner to ignore me because she seemed so professional, whilst I barely knew what I was doing. However, Evelyn and I immediately hit it off and talked for the entire shift. She told me her story immigrating from the Philippines and about her career as a patent attorney. Evelyn gave me advice for my future and even offered me an intern position. In just a few hours, a stranger had become a friend and a mentor. In the next few months, I found myself meeting someone new during each volunteer shift and learning all about different life stories, careers, and experiences. One of the most memorable interactions was with Alex, who had studied art history at Duke University, and just gotten a curator position. She told me all about the intricacies of popular Asian art pieces, bringing us back into the social conditions that explained and inspired different aspects of many works. Those three hours inspired me to enroll in an art history course at the junior college, where I'm learning about worldwide cultures and history that have produced artistic expressions. It's so satisfying to see art as a vehicle that connects everything – culture, psychology, politics, aesthetics, etc. To understand why and how the Sistine Ceiling, Rembrandt's portraits, Van Gogh's landscapes, and Munch's Scream still touch people today, is to truly realize the extent of the visual language. I see the Asian Art Museum through a new lens now, wondering how the distinctive life experiences of each visitor allows them to interpret different pieces. San Francisco has given me a broader view of the whole world. Each month, I've met someone new, learned a unique story, and discovered interests. In San Francisco, I've traveled to my homeland, and visited places around the globe, experiencing thrills in the unique experiences of others.