Sweet Potatoes or Solar Panels: Create and Hustle for the Good of Others

One of my fonder childhood memories is the Japanese sweet potato cart with the wood-burning stove and a granny, in a small frame, pushing a wagon and trekking the city streets, selling steaming, stone-baked “han-zu” wrapped in old newspapers. She had a unique way of announcing her presence, and my ear was trained to tell the difference between her call and that of a glass repairer. Whenever I heard her, I would fly down flights of stairs only to be outrun by the neighborhood kids, already swarming the beaming old lady.

The solar panel guys, on the other hand, would not enjoy the same fanfare. We shun them when they knock on our doors. Their sales manual might say one out of ten prospects will eventually commit and that sales are a game of probability. They go through the motion of ringing every doorbell, hoping to make that one sale that will meet their boss’s quota. It might have worked in a society where people lounge idly on their porch, waiting for someone to chat with. Time has changed that most people don’t even talk to their neighbors, let alone answer the door for a stranger, especially one that sells solar panels.

My Father

Many friends know my father as an oil painter in Taiwan. In a culture that bestows vanity through pretentious titles, people would call him “Master” (畫家 huàjiā).

Nine years ago, this Master visited me in New York. While shopping for a rare cut of filet, he addressed the butcher as “Boss” (老闆 lǎobǎn). There I was, standing next to a Master and a Boss in a dingy Queens meat market, shaking my head about my heritage with its grandiose delusions.

The Master’s estranged wife one day spilled the beans and told her children, “Your father used to raise chickens for a living. A plague came, and the chicken died. That’s why your father became a salesman.” I did not know exactly what my father sold. I just knew he made frequent trips to Japan to meet with his boss. One day, he came home and showed me a twistable hair tie.

“Check out our newest product! We’re going to make lots of money!” I was eight or nine years old at the time. Even though I was happy to play with the free sample, I could never use them. My hair was short and curly.

A taxicab driver once asked me through the rearview mirror, “You boy or girl?” As soon as I got home, I ran fast to a mirror and pondered the same question.

“I curled your hair to keep it short, so I don’t have to bother with it.” My mother would often tell me this as if she was doing me a favor. She put me on a salon chair when I was as young as two. Routinely, she told me to look down to find rats (so that the hairdresser could work on me). I listened and wondered why she would go to a beauty salon infested with rodents.

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As for me, I couldn’t even keep one hairpin on my daughter’s head when she was two.

I digressed.

When my father could no longer make enough sales to pay bills, he became a full-time artist before turning fifty. Painting was the only thing he knows and loves, and a master, a huàjiā, was born.

My Grandfathers

My late maternal grandfather was once a textile dealer living on the historically preserved Dihua Street (迪化街) in Taipei, Taiwan. It was a half-mile strip of shops where Taiwan’s economy boomed after the Japanese occupation in 1945.

My grandfather then invested his money in real estate. The cotton and silk he sold seventy years ago now pay for his 82-year-old daughter’s long-term care, as well as the damage to a neighbor’s brand-new Honda Civic. (At age 70, my mom rammed right into it while backing up from the driveway.)

No one told me what my paternal grandfather did for a living. I never asked, either. His black and white portrait hanging above a family altar in his house was all the memory I have had of him. He died young.  My uncles and aunts, who grew up in this house, worked with their hands. They either turned their living space into a factory or built an annex to work close to their home. Their whole livelihood is dependent on this spongy material called foam (泡棉). One manufactures a replica of Tempur-Pedic pillows and mattresses, one cuts it into squares and glues them to ink cartridges, and one gathers the scraps and shreds them into pieces as stuffing.

A cousin who grew up helping in her father’s scrap foam business developed a line of exquisite, hand-sewn, stuffed dolls. Using the leftovers’ leftovers, she turned stuffing into delightful crafts through masterful doll-making.

My Mother

As a straight-A student raised in a comfortable home, my mother was probably a classic case of “fragile perfect,” someone who has never experienced failures. For that reason, they are as fragile as glass. The oldest daughter of a prominent textile dealer could do very little to remake her privileged childhood. Her father’s success did not become her own as her lot was tied to the man she married. Her ticket to a good life would be through her children.

She put my name in a lottery for a prestigious, expensive private school in Taipei. (It’s the same school Elaine Chao, the former Secretary of Transportation, attended before her family moved to the U.S.) As luck would have it, I won my first lotto. My mother called everyone she knew when she found out (much later) that I did get in after the initial snafu. The school misprinted my name on the admission roster because one of the characters only exists in the last edition of a Qing Dynasty dictionary.

I spent most of my childhood eavesdropping on my mother’s phone conversations. More often than not, I wish I did not understand every word and the nuance behind words. I shuddered whenever my mother had to make a phone call days before my tuition was due. She would call a friend and make small talks, then, apologetically, she’d ask for a loan. Promising to repay as soon as possible, she talked about how it was all for my education and how I would need it. I wanted to disappear. I felt like an imposter and that I did not belong to the school. I was ashamed and embarrassed for my mom. Was it any surprise that I was at the top of my class? Did I work hard because I knew of my mother’s sacrifices? I don’t really know. I just thought I had these nerdy genes. But I, too, have become a fragile perfect. Even though I did not grow up with maids or chauffeurs, I was by no means prepared to fail.

My mother did not have the ambition to groom her children to follow in her father’s footsteps as a businessman. She had her eyes set on America, the land of opportunities. But she didn’t dare to hope for much. She had a small dream of her children getting a desk job that pays regular salaries. Having lived through her husband’s business failures, she trusted only one thing – education. I was raised with the mindset that only poorly educated go into sales or start their own businesses.

My mother’s small dream did come true. I landed my first full-time desk job that required that I wear a suit and black heels.

Corporate America – Here I Come

Along the way, I met an intern who was hired right out of NYU into a competitive training program. Sharp and attractive, she was eager to work and somewhat intimidating. But since she was assigned to my group, I got to boss her around for a week. I found out the boy she was seeing also went to NYU, and his father has a sunglasses business. As a first-generation immigrant, he sold sunglasses door-to-door in Time Square. Through the years, he grew to be a wholesaler with private labels and designer clients. His son had a decision to make: Should he go and get a job like everyone else, or should he stay and help his father run the sunglasses business?

To me, it was a no brainer – of course, he should go and get a job. That business degree from NYU was a ticket for upward mobility in the 90s economy. To my surprise though, he chose to work for his father. He drove a Mercedes to a warehouse in Brooklyn while everyone else rode the crammed subway to Wall Street. Last I heard, his father built a custom mansion with an elevator overlooking Long Island Sound.

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I am a Gen X. Born between 1965 and 1980, we are often characterized as the latchkey or the MTV generation. Some dismissed us as slackers, cynical, and without direction. On the other hand, we are a lucky bunch since we were spoon-fed a booming economy. Most of us who went to college graduated when the Big Six (now Big Four) and investment banks actively recruited on campuses. There was no one I knew that did not have a job offer by graduation, except for me. I was not ready to face the job market, and I was terrified of the interviews. I shot too high for graduate schools and missed badly. However, even with my subpar GPA, I managed to get an entry-level position in a mid-size consulting firm in New Jersey. Some of my classmates boasted signing bonuses worth thousands of dollars. Many of them in banking, finance, and technology made six-figure salaries within a few years. Most bought their first home in the suburbs even after blowing their savings on weddings and a diamond ring.

Then I noticed a trend. Some of my professional friends and acquaintances started a side job selling the most obscure items ranging from aloe vera gel, essential oils, anti-wrinkle cream, herbal medicines, and insurance policies. CPA’s and engineers who found themselves in the fluctuating and competitive job market (invaded and now saturated with the Millennials) would forage out-of-business stores and turn their home into a warehouse. In a way, many Gen Xers started a second career in e-commerce.

Then I wonder if they are more passionate about the thrill of making money or about the products and services they sell? Do people get into sales because they genuinely believe they have something good to offer to the world? Are they selling hot and sweet potatoes or pushing solar panels?

Entrepreneurship – Is It My Turn?

Jorden Reynor, in his book “Called to Create,” defines an entrepreneur as anyone “who takes a risk to create something new for the good of others.” This simple yet perceptive definition freed me to dream.

We all know someone who makes the kind of cupcakes that turn a run-of-the-mill birthday party into a feasting event or have a knack for creating the most salivating recipes. We all have met moms that plan the most fanciful parties and make the most delightful favors.

“You can start a business doing this! You are amazing!” We, the fans, would sing their praises. But these innovative and hidden creatives would half-heartedly deprecate themselves with a chuckle. “Forget it. Who would pay for this nonsense?” Then wistfully, they thought to themselves, “Stop dreaming. They are just being nice.”

Meanwhile, the aloe-vera-miracle-curing online peddlers and multi-level marketers ramp up their games. Without missing a beat, they continue to push their products in your face.

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At the height of the dotcom boom, my American-born cousins took a drastic turn from conventional career paths. Shrugging off their elite graduate degrees, they crossed over to the risky world of entrepreneurship. My aunts and uncles did not seem to mind. Their children have garnered much recognition in their respective fields that they did not need to kick themselves for having paid hundreds of thousands in tuition.

In the U.S., if you live in a single-parent household with an annual gross income of $13,000, you most likely can get a free ride to a private college. So, I did not feel too bad for taking the same drastic turn from a conventional career path to…full-time motherhood. I have very little to lose except a husband and his, um, I mean, our bank account. 

It can be distressing for a woman to stay home and relinquish her earning power. As I have the antiquated worldview of the 19^th century, it was not a bad deal. First of all, I need to find a way to get along with my husband. Secondly, I need to keep him so busy that he never has the time to check the credit card statements. On the other hand, the cardboard boxes that keep on showing up at our doorsteps need explanations.

“Do It Afraid”

In my 20s and 30s, I oscillated between the conflicting mindsets of fatalism and infallibility. The fatalist in me said, “If it’s not meant to be, it is not meant to be.” Yet, I also learned that I could never fail if I draw a circle around the dot and call it the bullseye. I was too self-conscious to try anything new. Even when I did try, I had a hard time accepting failures.

Thankfully, my optimism freed me from a life of inaction. I am a glass-half-full kind of person. People may see me as naïve and borderline delusional as I trust too easily and question too infrequently. No wonder I feel vindicated when a study shows that optimists do better in school, at work, and generally have a longer and healthier life. (A. Duckworth) This finding led psychologists to almost always prescribe CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) to treat mental illnesses. CBT is a fancy term that simply means “think positive thoughts.”

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More than two years ago, an opportunity presented itself for me to start a Chinese school. People might dismiss it as a typical kind of work for a Chinese church; however, it was not all that different than starting a business from the ground up, esp. when you take it as seriously as I did.

I was completely new to the world of marketing and promotion. My little church has no presence on social media. Our first student was the son of a good friend and neighbor. The second student was the son of my husband’s basketball buddy. And the third student – he was new. A mom received our flyer after I blew $600 on 500 postcards in the neighborhood. The tuition alone would not cover our advertising dollars. In the summer of 2018, I was on pins and needles waiting for enough students to enroll. I offered so many discounts that I needed a calculator to figure out the final tuition amount. I knew I was getting desperate when I began to pressure my closest friends to sign up their kids. (In hindsight, I am glad they didn’t.)

I experienced first-hand what it is like to put myself “out there.” It’s like standing alone in the middle of a football field holding a bullhorn and screaming out a new offer. Yet, there is no one sitting in the stand. The only person present is the security guard. The only signs of life are the zeros flashing across the scoreboard. Then came the eerie laughter, “No one cares.” 

But we’ve got it all wrong. This is not about me making a name for myself. The real story is that I was made to create, and I have a gift to offer, and I should do all I can for your benefits. You and I are both created in the image of God, and we are not all that different. In his book “The Element,” Sir Ken Robinson made a powerful point: For every one thousand people, there is ONE thing only you can do and no one else can.              

Listen, you have a gift to give to the world, and you should do whatever it takes to offer it to me. If you persevere in honing your craft, my life will be better off because of it. You don’t need to feel like an imposter or apologize for your excessively scheduled, twice-a-day, spam messages. You are only doing your part to make sure you can serve me with your gift! 

This is how I encourage myself whenever I feel alone standing on the fifty-yard line for the audience of three – me, myself, and I.

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If no one buys what you sell – whether it is a product or service, there are only two reasons. One – it’s bad. Two – no one knows about it. As I believe in the genius in you when you risk it all for my benefit, I shall venture a guess – it is the latter. Like many, you are screaming from the fifty-yard line with no one in the stand. You’ve got to push like giving birth to a baby!

If you have a lamp, would you put it under the bed? If you know you have something brilliant to offer and that you have been affirmed repeatedly by your tribe, what are you waiting for? Go and make yourself known! Go and release your gift to the world! Your courage matters, and we need you to be incredibly, shamelessly brave.

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Many years ago, I received a promotional e-mail from an old friend. Rumors swirled around that she became a cake designer. I usually delete spam right away, but I opened hers because I knew her. I browsed through the content, clicked on her website, and was immediately drawn to her intricate creations. The prices are not in the range I am used to paying, but I applauded. “You go, girl, don’t sell yourself cheap.” That was the last e-mail I ever received from her shop, however. I often wonder what happened to her bakery business. She could have been more persistent. Just because people didn’t respond the first time, it does not mean they have written you off.  I might just buy that expensive cake on a whim if she continues to show up and put herself in front of me.

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There is no denying that discouragement can set in from time to time. Before people discover your gift, you have to showcase it. You owe it to yourself to convince them to desire your goods and services. And this journey, for most, is never comfortable. Even if nine out of ten decide to buy, a pessimist will lose sleep over the one that would not budge. On the other hand, an optimist would be grateful for the nine that do buy.

A study shows that approximately 30% of entrepreneurs suffer from depression. This is twice as many as the general population. While we are enthusiastic about taking risks to create something new for the good of others, many are never taught to mourn for their failures. Timothy Keller recently tweeted, “When work is your idol, success goes to your head, and failure goes to your heart.” Entrepreneurs have their hearts broken many times over, and no wonder they experience a higher rate of depression. Worst of all, the tendency to compare takes the fun and joy out of creating. Eventually, an uneasy mix of pride and inferiority sets in. It pushes the creatives into the swamp of despondency. 

Can I tell you about Paul?

Christians call him Apostle Paul to distinguish him from the many Paul’s in our social circle. He’s totally understated as a spiritual powerhouse, a sort of faith entrepreneur. Jesus was the face behind the brand, but it was the unassuming Paul who spread his message all the way from Jerusalem to Spain, covering a 3,000-mile stretch in the days without automobiles, trains, and planes. 

I recently put on the audio Bible and listened to Apostle Paul’s letters. His words astounded me. This man had no vanity stats and any view count for boasting. He was often overshadowed by sophisticated Greek orators with their showy, public persona and captivating speeches. What did this Paul have to flaunt besides failures, pain, isolation, and imprisonment? However, he was not depressed. If he had been depressed, he most likely would have died from natural causes and not an honorary martyr’s death.

To be able to last as an entrepreneur, you need to humble yourself and take on a faith that boasts nothing but weaknesses. It is winsome to admit our fragility and failures. It makes us human and relatable. Failures bring relief that we, too, are made with flesh and blood after all.

“Rejoice, again, I say, rejoice.” In the depth of his pain, Apostle Paul wrote these words from a prison chamber. A first-century, self-taught therapist knew too well that being an eternal optimist is the antidote to defeats and discouragement.

Conclusion

Even though I might be insecure and prone to anxiety, I am resilient and hard to kill. There is a built-in fail-safe mechanism in me. Whenever I start to teeter under the weight of my own outsized expectations, and the little girl in me wants to scream, “I quit!” this mechanism would kick in. It not only keeps me standing, but it keeps me sane.

What is this fail-safe mechanism?

It is by placing the Scripture in front of me every morning whether I feel like it or not. Between quiet reflection and frantic keyboard clanking, a fire in me would light up, and I’d feel so brave. I feel safe in the intimate, spiritual connection to God through my knowledge of Jesus Christ. I can swing open wide the window to the world of indifference, criticism, and rejection. I know when I give my heart out, not everyone will respond the way I expected. I can either dwell on the inexplicable absence of responses, or I can keep on walking. And I choose the latter. Putting one foot in front of the other, believing God has given me a gift to offer to the world, I am confident of the fact that no one can do it the way I do. I am not saying I can do it better. No, I am saying I can do it differently. We will have competitors only if we clone and copy. Stay true to how God made you…and hustle.

Most importantly, never, ever make your work out to be an idol. Failures will crush you if you don’t place your faith in an infallible God. After all, this gift of ours is made for the good of others and never for ourselves.