You can’t open the fridge in my house without first studying its outside. On its cool white surface, there is a whole world to explore. Imagine my nine-year-old self resisting the protests of my stomach and staring at this magnificent map of fridge magnets: Is the lucky fox squatting before the Fushimi Inari Shrine really going to spit a coin if I wave? Then, as I traced my finger down the puffy Statue of Liberty, I couldn’t help wondering that the torch she held was actually burning cream!
The magnets—dozens of them, densely populating the fridge—were souvenirs from my parents who, for the better part of my first twelve years, were always on their next business trips. I couldn’t count the times I needed to sit through my own piano recitals and let Grandma sit in my parents’ meetings, and the times at night when I cried to Mom or Dad (different time zones) over the phone about my football practice, then telling myself Shawn the Sheep stories to sleep. The magnets, though beautiful, were hallmarks of my lonely childhood.
Watching them, I tried to concatenate my world with my parents’. Was the “Tower of Pizza” in Italy really made of cheese, and could Mom get a free slice? Would Dad see dragons when his plane crossed over Mount Everest? Lost in wild musings, I gained temporary joy. Then, as time passed, I made a big decision: I’m going to travel by myself.
Using my negotiation skills, I secured enough budget from my parents for twenty books about foreign countries. Then, sitting before my desk, I embarked on my quest. In Russian Facts, I awaited Father Frost to knock on my chimney in a small inn on Kamchatka Peninsulas. In A Polar Bear’s Confession, I sat with Paul the Bear, listening to him complain that he was a better swimmer than ice-treader. While I forayed deep into the Amazon, threading dreams through the kapok trees, I also sailed across the Mediterranean Sea in the Encyclopedia.
When I reached Italy, I learned that the Tower of Pisa was actually made of marble and lime. But no worries, since I soon learned that Italy boasted its fair share of salami pizza, so Mom could still feed herself, just like I could now feed myself with my self-made burgers after a busy day of schoolwork, footfall, and orchestra rehearsal.
As I found the passions in my life—reading, coding, theater, and football—the years of parental absence steeled me into a being who could confront problems on his own and brave difficulties with smiles and creativity. The places I traveled to in books not only opened me to a bigger world but cultivated in me a bigger heart. From there, I learned empathy and forgiveness. I let go of my bitter feelings for my parents when I understood that their hard decisions were partly based on offering me a better future—Odyssey and Pachinko taught me that. Even far away, they were thinking of me when they purchased my favorite Real Madrid or Shakespeare in Rome magnets.
Gradually, the magnets transformed into hallmarks for my independence and agency. Shining on the fridge, they now speak of my confidence and readiness to explore the real world. These days, my parents don’t travel that much. Instead, it’s I who am on the road.
I traveled to South Korea and led my team to win the VEX robotics competition; I traveled to Suzhou and did a TEDx talk to advocate for the rights of communities with disabilities; I also traveled around US—and guess what, I finally found my next destination! Travel became a constant in my life—it drills my resilience and kindles my incessant curiosity to explore.
Soon, I’ll leave for college, and it’s my time to bring home stories and magnets. So this time, Mom and Dad, please behold my collection!