Have you ever wondered about the cultural differences and similarities we have with people from across the globe?
Do you ever feel like you could be doing something more with your life but you just never seem to have a way to make it true?
Why do we even exist?
Tiger In Plain Sight is designed to tell us the answer to these questions. Here is a snippet to peek your interest:
Chapter 1
“You don’t even speak Chinese!” she shouted at me.
“Mom, I told you before I learned Chinese when I studied
over in Shanghai. I loved it there.” I responded, sensing I was getting
nowhere. I let out an exhausted sigh.
“But it’s so dirty over there and where are you going to
live? What are you going to eat? Did you know the news has been talking all
this week about the companies that are moving back to the US? Their people are
all in poverty!” she shouted.
“Mom…” I started, but she was already interrupting me.
“No, I can’t let you go. I can’t let you risk your life like
that. You’ve heard all those news stories about the unsafe food! Just get a
nice job here close to home and find a nice girl.”
“I can’t do that Mom, I told you I can’t stand being here
anymore…not after what happened.”
“What happened?”
“Look, I
don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get out of here.” I stated as I
reclined and took a sip of coffee.
“You could move back home then! Joyce Gordon’s kid just
moved back home from California. There are a lot of new jobs popping up all
over the city!”
As she continued to talk, I looked out the window wondering if
I would ever see the cityscape again after tonight. If I pretended like I never
saw it before, it
looked so nice. But I became jaded after the years, and now I just saw the
scars left on the city’s face, kind of like how in a relationship you know all
of your partner’s imperfections.
“I just don’t want to see you throwing your life away…I
won’t let you move.”
“My minds made up Mom, I’m going. I’ll keep you posted.” I asserted,
this time raising my voice.
There was a pause on the phone. I could hear her staggered
breathing, sounding like she holding back the tears. “You were always such a
good kid; I just don’t want to see you move away like this. When will I be able
to see you again? I’ll be worried every night about what happens to you. Oh God
I won’t even be able to sleep!”
“Don’t worry Mom, I’ll be fine. I’m 29 years old; I know how
to take care of myself. So all I ask is for your support, but if you can’t give
it to me then at least try to take care of yourself.”
That
was pretty much how the conversation went when I told my mom I was moving to
Shanghai to start my own company. She viewed it as a personal attack on
her, but after what I had seen and been through I knew it was the only option
that I could be happy from.
I love my mom, don’t get me wrong and I know she loves me.
Ever since I was little I would see her bushy brown hair and blue eyes behind
those thick glasses and feel a sense of comfort. Even today I still go back to
those days whenever I see her smile.
She had a right to be worried about me, but what she didn’t
know was that she raised me even better than she thought. I took note of every
lesson she and my dad taught me in a constant struggle to better myself and
avoid the pain they had warned me of. I was always a good kid- I spent most of
my life listening to whatever she wanted me to do and trying to be a good son.
But I also know there’s a difference between being a good son, and stupidly
being a good son.
This decision had been one that was planned out for every
step of the way. Every detail was carefully orchestrated like a beautiful
symphony and I was the composer and the conductor, and fate was my ensemble.
All it was waiting for was for me to raise my baton, and
woosh
The movement begins. But like any wonderful piece of art, it
took time and patience to develop. Every intricate detail considered, every
rest noted, every accent accounted for. It took Mozart over 10 years before
anyone even knew his name. For my plan, there were thousands of frustrations,
hundreds of restarts, and countless hurdles that almost stopped me from being
able to get to where I am today.
In order for someone to get inspired to complete a
masterpiece, they need an inspiration, or an ignition. An inspiration I believe
is somewhat like a glass of wine. Say you take that wine and pour it out slowly
onto the floor. Sure it comes out, but the puddle won’t spread very far. No, if
you want to truly reach your full potential, you need that glass to shatter on
the ground and let the wine cover the floors all the way to the wall. Women
were Picasso’s inspiration, and nature inspired Leonardo Da Vinci. So what was
my inspiration, the force that caused my glass to shatter?
