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always trying to make nice. Because you are scared of facing confrontation. If you want to really be who you are, you need to stop this charade of trying to make people feel good all the time. You’re just fitting into the mold of what an Asian woman is supposed to do. Break the mold!”
    I had yet another awakening. I vowed, “I am not doing that anymore.”
    I wasn’t the only student going through changes. There was a group of us who went through the training: some radical black people, some really radical Latino and gay students, and then a few radical lesbians—and me.
    There were a few painful moments. I used to do things like say the word chicks , and the lesbians in the group would just rip into me. “We are not weak, little, helpless, cute animals. We’re women !” they’d yell. And I’d say, “I got it, I got it. Sorry!”
    But Inza Rhee’s good little Asian girl still had her place. During the day I was the radical student, but at night I would work at a Japanese restaurant. I’d put on this kimono and be the nice, cute, subservient Asian woman so that I could get a lot of tips. The owner came up to me one night and said, “I’ve got to tell you, in eighteen years of running this restaurant, you are the best waitress I ever had!” I played the part well.
    As I completed my senior year at Cornell and prepared to graduate, I imagine my classmates saw me as an enigma—with good reason.
    I had cultivated my radical side. And by the time I had taken more courses in the history of oppression, I had the substance to support my innate rebelliousness. At a rally for gay pride, I was in the crowd when one of the speakers asked if anyone had something to say. I surprised myself by taking the microphone and telling Asian gays to come out of their shells and free themselves from the bonds of their upbringing. It was time, I said, to speak out, for ourselves and other oppressed people.
    But I was also a sorority girl, albeit not a very good one. I was a member of Kappa Alpha Theta, the nice girls’ sorority.
    And I was the perfect, subservient, demure Asian waitress at night—because I needed cash.
    An enigma to some, perhaps, but I didn’t feel a tension within. The radical and the practical never seemed an odd combination to me. They were different parts of my personality. Somehow they would come together—in the classroom.

2
    The Heart of Teaching
    I t was a blessing in disguise. I had been called down to an administrative meeting for one of my special-needs students. Usually teachers abhorred these bureaucratic meetings, and I certainly didn’t relish them, but I needed a break. Day in and day out, I struggled with my students. It seemed like it didn’t matter what I said or did. . . . Nothing worked with my kids. They simply wouldn’t listen. I would routinely spend the day alternating between screaming at the children, bribing them, and giving them the silent treatment for their misdeeds. None of it worked.
    So when the office called me down for the meeting over the intercom and sent the librarian in to cover my class, in all honesty I almost did a little jig. “A break!” I thought, and I grabbed my folders. As I was getting organized, the librarian walked in. The kids were going nuts as usual, and she raised her eyebrow as she cased the joint. Her mere presence caused the children to calm a bit.
    â€œUnfortunately, I have to go to this special education meeting,” I explained. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Thank you so much for doing this.”
    â€œNo problem,” she answered back, cracking her gum. “Take your time. We’ll be just fine.”
    â€œI’m not sure if you’ve heard or not,” I half whispered, “but my kids are kind of difficult. They can get unruly.”
    â€œOh, don’t worry about that. These children know who I am. And they know I