A Standing Ticket

One.

The man with the weathered face and the large canvas bag launches himself into the ticket office window. On the other side, the intern hears the dull thud, and yawns. She repositions the microphone and tries to explain to him again that without his confirmation code, he cannot collect his train ticket.

But I lost my code and my train is leaving in half an hour! He wails. He slaps down some creased bills and demands to buy a new ticket and even those in the long lines behind him shake their heads at his wishful thinking. During Chinese New Year season, the largest human migration in the world, who can magic up a ticket, especially to the undeveloped regions to which 350 million migrant workers must somehow make their way home?

She checks her phone. No new message, no legitimate distraction. Exhaling dramatically, she turns back to him and tells him that he should have brought his code. Now will he please stand aside so she can help these good people buy tickets?

He pounds on the window with his sun-baked hands, not in anger anymore, but in a futile attempt for her to really see him. I haven't been home in years. I have finally saved enough days off and money to buy them all presents. Find me a standing ticket, anything will do, please - my son, he doesn't even remember what I look like. 

She pauses and calls her boss. Her boss puffs his chest, confiscates the man's ID, and yells for the guards to kick him out of the train station.

Two.

The HR team passed out company postcards, with our smiling faces plastered all over, and encouraged us to write our loved ones during this festive season.

I wrote to him, thanking him for being the first one to encourage me to deviate from the secure path of a prestigious company and take the plunge into a roller coaster startup life. His was the voice that tipped the balance.

Three weeks later, the soppy words and the shaky handwriting are still on my desk - the cherry on top of the pile of presents I never sent.

He had made it clear that I was no longer welcome at the address on the postcard. I wasn't ready to find out if he was also referring to my mail.

Three. 

The team is trickling back from their Chinese New Year holidays. It's technically a work day, but everybody is still on their holiday high.

This is the part I dread every year. The proud procession of returnees bringing back their local specialty and insisting that you personally try it in front of them. You know, because I'm from Hong Kong and must have never tried homemade sesame biscuits gone stale from the days of train travel/ nameless nuts that break my nutcracker/ rubbery duck neck in spicy sauce/ pickled donkey meat/ suspicious brown goo in a plastic tube (liver paste?).

Later in heaven when God asks me how I've developed my talents, I definitely will show him how I can store semi-chewed pieces of chicken feet in my left cheek for eventual secret disposal while still cracking Chinese New Year jokes.

Christmas Palooza Chinese Style

In some ways, celebrating Christmas in a largely atheist country means that you have to get creative and be prepared for the heart melting moments when somebody receives an unexpected gift and the awkward times when the first-timers take it way overboard.

One of our American interns, Kenton, suggested that we should all go caroling at a nursing home. The staff were excited and started organizing practice choirs during lunch time. And then somehow, the day before our nursing home trip, we realized that they had switched "We wish you a Merry Christmas" to a Communist song instead. "From the East rose a red sun, and his name was Mao Ze Dong. He will save our people . . . " At least they got the Christmas theme of color red right on that count.

The old people were not too impressed with our multi-part rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," but they really enjoyed it when we started handing out biscuits, bananas, and soap. They were so excited about the soap that some started eating it. The nursing home managers freaked out and confiscated the soaps. Luckily, we were not responsible for anybody's early demise. Some old people enthusiastically shared with us the stories from their glory or sad days, depending on whether they were the persecuted landlords or the uprising peasants. Others just wanted their picture taken with us and asked us to send it to their grandkids.

We also had our own Christmas party back at the office. The format was show-off-your-cooking potluck. In the ambitious spirit of Christmas, I made three apple pies the morning of, zipped up my mobile toaster oven in Lesley's gigantic suitcase and enlisted two friends to help me wheel it all the way to the office. Worst/ best idea ever.

People kept running over to turn off my oven because the pie was "getting brown." I explained that that is the point of baking but they would still sneak over to turn the dial. At the end, I just had to park myself as a guardian of the oven and conduct all my meetings there. Went home that night smelling like a pie. When it came time to eating it, people were confused. Then they figured it out. They each conjured up a pair of chopsticks (Asians, I know) and started fishing for the apple pieces through the lattice work. At the end, I had all pie, no apples.

We also did a White Elephant gift exchange at our office. A few days before the Christmas party, when I first explained to them the concept of a gag gift, the table fell silent. But this will be my first Christmas present . . . I don't want somebody's 2012 calendar. Other heads nodded in agreement. So HR came out with an official email decreeing that each present must be sparkly new, professionally wrapped, and worth at least 100 RMB. And they added more rules. Each person must be blindfolded and spun around before they reached the tree to pick their gifts. And they must pick their gifts within 5 seconds otherwise they miss out. Oh and if you wanted to steal somebody's gift, you had to complete a special mission.

It wasn't long before I figured out that all the missions had a similar theme: do something sexy. Yeah. Workplace sexual harassment is a non-existant concept here. I won't even mention my mission. Just something to do with a pole. But that nerf gun was worth it. Later in the day, an IT guy told me that he had never seen me so "womanly" before. Ha. Awkward.

Of course, the best part of Christmas was the constant reminders of what it was really about. It's not only about the wonderful nativity scenes you dressed up for or the retelling of one of the most important stories in our history. It's about being with your family and sharing what you were most grateful for this year - all made possible because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Gospel.

Nativity set for a youth activity.

The Sounds of Hell

If hell had a sound effect, this would be it.

The moment I stepped out of the dust blaster, a tight compartment riddled with super blow dryers that pummeled your whole body with shots of stale air, I was bombarded by the high pitched wails.

It was an ungodly combination of the cries from a tortured elephant and the screechiness of yellowing nails scratching an old chalkboard. The heavy industrial machines shrieked out their frustrated sounds every five seconds, acting even more animated than the streams of workers loading plastic cups onto the conveyor belts woodenly below.

I tried my best not to cover up my ears (even though we already had ear plugs in), as some of my colleagues have done, because the plant boss was personally showing us around. I rearranged my expression, covering up my wide-eyed surprise with a seemingly relaxed professional smile.

I've been to many many factories and worker dorms and yet this was the first time I was so anxious to get out as soon as politely possible.

The plant boss pointed at the monster machines and explained how the giant rolls of plastic were molded and then shot up the tubes to be plastered with our favorite coffee and fast food brand labels. I watched as my little sister's favorite sundae cup twirled around the machine in a frenzied little dance. The plant was eerily devoid of human noises apart from our heels hitting the concrete floor. None of the workers were talking - everybody had hair nets on and ear plugs in. I wondered how much these workers knew about each other even after standing together, loading, unloading, loading, unloading plastic cups for years on end.

My eyes watered. The air inside the plant was hazy from the machine exhaust because windows had to be sealed to maintain the dust-free environment. My nose also twitched from smelling the burning plastic around the corner.

A line supervisor walked over to us slowly and nodded acknowledgement at the boss. I motioned to his ears and asked him why he was not wearing his ear plugs - I was barely staying sane with the noise. He gestured to the ink mixer behind us. These were his machines, he explained proudly, and he wanted to hear them. Every screech represented production and every wail meant smooth operation. He could decipher a breakdown issue just by hearing the sputtering of the machines. He patted the back of a nearby young man bent over the packaging boxes on our way out and told him to do a recount. He could tell with one glance that there were fewer than the required 300 plastic cups in there. It turned out that he was right.

Sporting the sexy hair net.

This is how we roll in factory towns. Because many plants are

in special export zones where taxis are not allowed to enter, so

we hitch rides on little motorbikes.

There are days like this when I wonder if we can even move the dial a little bit and make some sort of impact on the lives of the factory workers. When I run out of certain factories, gasping for fresh air, I can't imagine how our little apps can possibly make any dent in this overall situation. The plant managers I've met aren't evil, contrary to the easy monster archetypes Western media likes to draw of factory management, in fact, most of them are scratching their heads trying to figure out how to make meaningful improvements while meeting production quotas.

We're all scratching our heads. But sometimes I do see a glimmer of a solution. Sometimes, when we demo our CompanyIQ app to the workers and watch them compete with each other for the right answers in the fire safety manual quiz with intense concentration and loud, easy laughs, I see that we're heading in the right direction. We gamify corporate training so workers who have been eliminated from China's hyper competitive education system because they do not excel in the traditional classroom can continue to learn on their own terms and in a fun and interactive environment.

The promise of accessible education means that they also dare voice their dreams. Two girls shyly came up to me, nervously tugging at their hair nets, and asked if our app could teach them how to use computer programs like Word or Excel so that some day they could also work in an air-conditioned office. Another young man told us that he was convinced he could make it as a line supervisor one day if only he could learn the techniques to speak convincingly in front of a crowd. A middle-aged woman with a round, honest face wanted to know how to be a better mother via the crackling phone lines so she could actually emotionally connect with her little son back home.

I don't think we have it absolutely right right now. Heck, I'm only too painfully aware of all the ways we need to improve our app. But I do know the young man from the cup packaging department who stood up to be applauded by his fellow workers and receive a bottle of shampoo as a prize for getting the best scores on his app training quizzes. He had studied the training materials on the app back in his dorm the night before, he confided to us. He also added, shyly, that nobody had ever clapped for him before. Whenever I think of him and how he tried not to smile too broadly as he was being applauded, I know we must be doing something right.

Chinese Masketeers

Mike and I hunched our shoulders and sped into the tunnel that led to the underground mall to seek refuge from the bitter Beijing cold. I reached out to lift the heavy double-layered insulating curtains that typically hung from most entrances in this city when I suddenly screamed. Something on the other side was panting unnaturally loud. The curtain lifted. Out of the dim tunnel emerged two determined eyes, a pink forehand, and a metallic contraption that shielded almost his entire face.

I was staring at a beanie-wearing Bane.

He really did look like this 

(without the overhead strap).

I think I freaked him out too. He was just another Beijing biker trying to find a warmer shortcut and wheezing heavily through his air filtration mask. He looked at us strangely, as if thinking we were crazy for not strapping on our own respiratory protection. But then again, I don't know if we would have been able to afford the several hundred USD worth of WWII-esque gas mask gear he sported. 

---

Air pollution is so bad in Beijing that BJ is experiencing somewhat of a brain drain because the smarties want to move somewhere where they can actually breathe. We Shanghai/ Suzhou-ers down south have  participated in the pollution frenzy by downloading the ubiquitous air pollution monitoring apps and comparing the daily stats officially released by the American consulate vs Chinese government. Some Chinese nationalists even made a big deal about the Americans purposefully stirring up local discontent by revealing the daily air pollution index. 

Normally it's more like "Woah - look how bad Beijing is today!" and we feel lucky. But today we Southerners are starting to feel the pain. 

We are officially in the HAZARDOUS category. Actually, correction - apparently, we overshot the upward bound and went beyond hazardous. Most apps freaked out and went blank today because they did not know how to classify 500 and above. Friends in my US college town, Provo, flipped when earlier inversion caused the air quality index to register 164 ("unhealthy") - 164 is more like a hallelujah here in Shanghai. We often reminisce about the good ol' days of 164 like that golden period of the magical beanie babies craze that nobody understood. 

The number of air quality index screen shots 

 trounced even that of self-conscious selfies today.

We typically look up at the crotch of the infamous

 "Pants Building" (aka the tallest building in our province

 upon completion) from our office. Above is taken on a

 beautiful summer day. Below is taken today.
Creds to Danica.

The ongoing air situation has bred some fascinating social phenomena. Soccer moms no longer brag all day about their children - now they engage in passive aggressive "whose air filtration mask is better?" comparisons, analyzing in excruciating detail the science behind pollution and mechanics of face masks. And instead of rare medicines or gold-plated busts, Chinese sycophants switched gears and gifted government officials with high end air filters, attached with poems about the importance of health. 

The radio is also full of jokes about the pollution. Here's one: Workers at the post office have been so desperate for clean air that they resorted to popping the bubble wraps on foreign packages and sucking in the fresh "imported" air . . .  until the postmaster sadly pointed out that the bubble wraps were made in China too.

Office portrait a while back. I think this time we were

 donning masks for the bird flu.

When They Call Me Well Endowed

The best thing about expanding the team is that we're getting a whole new crew of awesome people with even better names. I've mentioned the previous crop of eyebrow-raising names when I first arrived in China. But our new team is giving the Cinderella, Elvis, and Hawk of yesteryears a run for their holy-crap-how-did-you-pick-that-name money.

Introducing the new lineup:

First, there's our bubbly over-the-top foodie who doubled as our course developer by day. In our first standup team meeting when we're all doing self-introductions, she looked at me dead pan in the eye and said "Smile." I did, awkwardly. Then I realized that she wasn't commanding me to smile - that's her name. Smile. Her last name was Li. So she's Smile Li (read it) and then she later switched to Smiley Li because she wanted a singalong three syllable.

One of the new QA engineers shyly introduced herself to me as Nemo. I welcomed her and mentioned that we'd had another Nemo before and asked if she really liked the movie. She looked startled for a minute and shook her head slowly as if surprised that my English was so bad - "No, no. My name is nee-mon. You know, the fruit." Ah. Lemon. Too bad that Apple had left us already, otherwise we could have a fruit salad party.

Out of the blue, we also hired two app developers who were called Seven and Cywen, but both pronounced them like the number. They were going to do a stone paper scissors for the rights, when Seven told us that his name reminded him of his first love because he used to hang out in his ex-girlfriend's college dorm of six girls all day long and got tagged as the seventh. Cywen just deflated after that and settled for a life of being called Max. We were all disappointed he didn't pick Eleven, but certainly glad that he passed on Six because he always said sex instead.

I won't even mention Coco (guy), Afra (girl), and Hello Kitty (asexual?). Ok, well Hello Kitty was really an American intern called Katie but the staff just thought it's hilarious and so Japanese hip to call her a cartoon instead.

Then in walked a girl who sweetly whispered on her first day that her name was Sissi.

I spent my entire childhood glaring at people who pronounced my name "Sis - see". I even ran a high school student body president campaign on the slogan "Sisi not a Sissy." But, even though HR had called to persuade new girl to give up her name because there's already another Sisi around, she still showed up, utterly unrepentant. So now it's Big S and Small S. I'm technically Big S and she's Small S even though we're the same size and I'm younger. But I'm going to put a stop to that too because sometimes the local Chinese staff slip and say "Big Ass" instead.

Good thing that was never my nick name in high school. I wouldn't have known how to work that one into a pep rally slogan.

Nothing to do with names but this is a shirt

 I regularly see at the office. 

Caption: "THE MAN: The employees walked

around in jeans and sweaters."

Now that's how you show attitude around here. 

Building a Rocket

Tonight, I feel 24.

Curled up in a hotel room in Shen Zhen, soaking up the alone time when my colleagues are out scavenging for dinner, I feel too young. Too young to be powering through on a Saturday night, trying to figure out what is the bottleneck in our implementation process (and realize that maybe I'm the biggest bottleneck of all). Too inexperienced to be leading a metastasizing team with people all older than me and be somebody's boss's boss. Too weak to really do all the things I scribble down in my journal.

I'm not burned out. Because that was this summer. This time is different - I still keep moving. Meeting after meeting. Email after email. Weekend after weekend. I am slowing down though and it's painful and shameful to hear the screechiness of my own engine.

Maybe I'm just tired. But I can't sleep at night because I keep hearing our app background music play on a loop, taunting me, accusing me of sleeping so early.

We used to joke around and say that when we sign up company X, then we know we've got it made. Well, on our trip to America last month, we did just that. This is the deal that starts the snowball rolling, the momentum that will push us to the tipping point and to profitability. This is the beginning of the future of our startup.

But nobody ever tells you that the tipping point is scary as hell.

I feel like we're building a rocket after it's already left the launchpad, hoping we will not run out of fuel, find out our astronaut is crappy, or realize that the market actually wants a submarine. And somehow, somewhere, somebody thinks that I can be trusted to figure out how to build several rockets at the same time. 

To do list tomorrow: Change that background music.

72 Hours of a Startup

Day One

We sat around in bean bag circles, sort of like a benign underground brotherhood of nerds, and volleyed questions back and forth on the next steps of gamifying our apps. We argued passionately for elements that should be in there, weighed it carefully against our actual IT development capacity, and sketched out/ erased/ redrew UI designs on our glass walls. Man, assumptions. We had too many assumptions about the blue collar workers and the HR. So we jotted down the ones that we needed to test and braced ourselves for the humbling and fascinating discovery of their actual behaviors. 

We're trying to go more lean in our product development. Fail fast. Succeed faster. We're very good at the failing, so so on the fast, and blah on the succeed. But we're good at learning and applying. A gamification professor from Columbia University hung out with us while we went through this process so we could pummel him with questions as he chowed down on cold pizza.

I spent the afternoon interviewing candidates, so we could fill our empty chairs and dramatically increase our capacity. We're projected to double by the end of the year, expand to 95 next year, and grow to 200 ish by 2015. That meant a lot of interviews. And a lot of tears (from the interviewees). We're super picky about our candidates because we wanted to not only hire talent, but also potential and cultural fit. So we did interview panels, where regardless of whether you were a receptionist, a finance manager, a product developer, or a salesperson, you had a chance to get to know the applicants and pitch in about whether you would want to sit next to this person on a plane for 14 hours.

Then there was the email that sucked out the positive energy of the whole day.

We had hit an unexpected snag in our fundraising, especially when we were so close to tasting the term sheet. Just a delay, with the sincerest regrets. But still. I swallowed acid in my mouth just thinking about doing more client tours with potential investors for due diligence. I stayed slumped on the bean bags until somebody turned the lights off, thinking he was the last one in the office.

Day Two

I woke up uncharacteristically earlier than my alarm, but remained hiding underneath my sheets, holding onto the momentary safety of procrastination. I felt the full vulnerability of building a startup today more than ever and wasn't ready to face it square on.

I tried to give some of my accounts a call in the morning, but couldn't bear to dial back when the line was busy. It was one of those courage zero days.

I dragged my frustrations around the office like rattling cans on a frayed string. The HRD and I finally spilled our concerns to our boss, once again on the bean bags. It felt like we were back to a year ago, when fundraising was at square one and cash flow was a constant, desperate topic. He chuckled and pointed out that we're at a very different place now. We had a working model. Enough cash. Clients who loved us and gave us referrals. Actual products and services to sell. A very supportive board. A team that loved each other.

Oh. And a ping pong table.

I went home and watched a dumb movie, recharging before another conference call at 11 pm. Through a connection of a close friend, I had a call arranged with the CEO of an English learning company to discuss potential collaboration. Ended up with a notepad full of ideas for pushing affordable English programs to blue collar workers. Remembered why I was doing this. All of this. 

Day Three

Still groggy from the late night skype call but woke up at 8 am to talk to a brand name HQ. 

Hallelujah.

A major brand name wanted to work with us and asked us to fly to America to talk to them (honestly, at this point in my brain, I wasn't even thinking about the business opportunity, I was thinking friends + siblings + nieces + burgers). The brand name kept asking what our bandwidth was, how fast we could launch, and how many factories we could handle at the same time.

To those in sales like me, those were the most beautiful questions a client could ask.

This collaboration pushed us closer to our tipping point - the defining moment that could launch us.

The rest of the day was set on fast forward with sales reports, investor briefings, and a panel interview of a designer who teared up when he couldn't give an example of his innovation track record but somehow all the women, but me, voted for him.

Marketing called all hands on deck to help unpack/repack product kits for an upcoming client launch because of an error in printing. Man. We really needed to standardize our processes so we could catch avoidable mistakes like this. Some time while unpacking the 3000 kits, a team member told me it was obvious that I was burning out and that I was stressing out at every one. He told me that people loved me and appreciated my hard work but I had not been acting myself. While my eyes turned watery and my nose red, he said that he wouldn't say this to anybody else, but only to me because he knew that I could do better, since I was Sisi.

I was so tired of being Sisi.

But he was right. I had not been managing my perfectionism and laser focusing it to help the team optimize its performance, instead, I had been letting it manage me and my emotions all summer long.

That night, we grabbed Korean BBQ as a team and as we did our signature group cinnamon twist and yells of "Vegas!" (that's a different story), I realized that I really did belong here. Here where I constantly stretched and shrunk and then stretched some more. Here with people who loved me, forgave my excesses and laughed at my whims. Here dreaming, creating, building something that we're all proud of because we're still young and idealistic enough to brave the roller coaster of a startup 72 hours at a time.

Those Nightmare Interview Stories are True (and Not)

She kept tearing the piece of wrinkled scrap paper into smaller squares. Another tear. Another shape. Incredible.

I made a conscious note to ease up on her with my interview questions.

So what type of work environment do you prefer?

There you go. That's a freebie. I smiled and tethered my inner monster interviewer persona on a tight leash.

Umm. Another tear.  An open work environment? She left it with a vague, slightly hopeful upward accent, as if she was throwing it out there to see if I would like that answer.

I nodded, in my best professional nod, holding back my natural tendency to put people at ease by filling in the silences and empathizing about their childhood/ relationship/ work.

And what kind of supervisor do you work best with? I sipped my panda cup slowly to buy her some time to think.

Somebody who gives me freedom to design? She looked towards the corner of our conference room for an escape plan and found none. All of a sudden, something somehow snapped somewhere.

She buried her honest round face with both her hands and wailed I'm just not emotionally well enough to handle this! 

I looked up, startled by the unexpected change in conversation temperature.

My previous boss used to stand behind me and watch what I was designing and it would just send me into a panic and I would blank out. He told me to suck it up and keep working. I thought I had gotten over this, but today I realize that I haven't! I'm so sorry! I should have just stayed home with my baby. I'm just not emotionally equipped to do this!

Her shoulders heaved up and down with alarming frequency. I scrambled to put my cup down and reached out to pat her awkwardly. I told her that it's normal to feel nervous during an interview and that I didn't think any of those things about her. I gave up my interviewer facade and just spoke calm and confidence to her. Handing over her previous designs, I pointed out the highlights she should later emphasize to the HR director.

After she regained the courage to put her hands down and let me see her face again, I sipped at my panda cup and finished my water. It was only 11:14 am and I had already reached my 8 cups of water quota that day. I patted her once again and summoned HR.

She was 35.

-----

I did five interviews yesterday. All were incredibly memorable for different reasons.

I'm young enough in my career that I remember very well the panic I felt when gearing up for yet another skype interview and limiting the fiddling to under the table and resisting the urge to fix the runaway strand of hair when the suits were asking you, weighing you, and finding you wanting with each seemingly innocuous question.

Now that I'm sitting on the other side of the table though, I realize that while interviewers are evaluating for potential crippling weaknesses, most of them (myself included) do want to find the good in the interviewee. They are not trying to fail you despite the professional distance they maintain. Most often, apart from just experience and capability, interviewers look for the flash of personality, the surprising honesty, the refreshing confidence, the reason why they would want to sit next to you on a 14 hour flight. So as I've been telling some of my job-seeking friends who are so naturally brilliant to begin with - don't let what you think interviewers want to see obscure the "you" who would get the job. Give the interviewers a little credit and believe that they are nice human beings and see them as somebody you just met at a party who just genuinely want to know you better. Then treat them as your best friend's mom who tends to ask way too many questions when you're eating cookies in her kitchen. It might even end up being a "fun" experience.

Oh, and stop tearing at pieces of scrap paper. You never know if the interviewer has recently launched a "reuse our paper" campaign at the office or not.

I interviewed her and we laughed through the whole thing.

Now we're each other's biggest cheerleader during the 

company ping pong tournaments. 

Preggo Diaries (From a Non-Pregnant Girl)

I knew this day would come eventually. I just didn't expect that it would happen so soon.

Virtually within one day of finding out she was pregnant, girl 1 all of a sudden started waddling in a maddeningly slow pace, nursing her thermos of herbal tea in her hands, and painstakingly steadying every chair before lowering her imaginary weight down on it.

The day before, she was rock climbing and bouncing around with the best of us.

Then girl 2 also announced that she was pregnant by first sending a lawyer's letter invoking China's overly progressive maternity law, kindly informing us that we had to keep her on regardless of lack of performance and attendance for the next two years until her child was weaned. She also accompanied it with an immediate request for three months off work to relax during her first trimester.

I had never felt so much angst over somebody else's pregnancy.

Perhaps it's because I have never been pregnant. Or wasn't raised in a traditionally Chinese household. But either way, it is stretching my Asian imagination to fully comprehend some of the 'musts' surrounding pregnancy.

After the dual baby announcements were made, the two ladies started fussing about seat arrangement. Apparently they could no longer sit next to (aka three feet away from) the printer because the printer is a source of radiation.

Yeah. Radiation.

Girl 2 can't even work on reports from home because the laptop has too much radiation. But she can use her iPad and watch TV with reckless abandon.

Girl 1 says that she can't do conference calls because five minutes on the phone is her max. Once again, radiation.

They even wear special flimsy aprons all day around the office, which supposedly can shield their baby from radiation.

I finally put my foot down when they begin wearing pajamas to work.

I have always thought of myself as a sympathetic leader who encourages people to tend to their family/ personal needs first. When they're looking drowsy in the afternoon, I tell them to go home. When they're alone at home, I call to see if I could bring dinner over.

But I still have to insist on some work. So, I finally explained that no pregnant woman in America has ever heard of the concept of guarding against radiation in every day electronics. They looked shocked.

Really?! 

Yeah, people tend to go about their normal lives up till the last few weeks of pregnancy. 

They thought about it.

Well, Americans are naturally more built to have children. Look how big and fat they can get.

See. Can't win with logic.

A foreign colleague suggested that I talked to the HR lady to ask her how to best communicate with them about maintaining productivity during this special time. Then I realized that they got their magical radiation-proof aprons from her.

Resigned, I signed off on their requests for time off. Three months for one. One month for the other. And they both just got pregnant. After they give birth, they will each need another four months off for the recovery period. Chinese women are even more fanatical about post-birth rituals. No stepping outside of the house for both mother and child. No makeup. No cold drinks. No showers.

I suppose, in that state, I wouldn't want them to come to work any ways.

Magical Aprons.

It's quite a big industry here.

We've Got the Shakes

Back when harlem shake was all the craze, my boss thought it would be funny to make our own as an inside joke and send it to our board. 

We watched a ton of existing harlem shake videos for inspiration. 

There was the Norwegian Army one where the staff really liked the idea of zipping up a guy in a sleeping bag and making him squirm. 

Then there was the UGA Men's Swim and Dive team one, but that got vetoed as a good example because only a few people from the office could swim.

So we finally settled on doing what we do best for the video- being Chinese. 

True to my heritage, I dressed up as the Commie girl who somehow danced around with a broom. 

We crammed in as many Chinese stereotypes as we could and made this:

Despite our multi-youtube education sessions, within 5 minutes of the camera rolling it was clear that many of the team didn't fully understand the critical part about over-the-top pointless moves. They were very concerned with switching angles, panning, zooming, and creating plot development.

So, as something that cracked me up even more, I now present the bloopers. Notice at 2:41, we all got bored/ exhausted with shaking and distracted ourselves with other things. But since my boss was wearing the panda head, he kept up the wiggles since he couldn't tell that we were done.

Some say that I have too much fun at my job to really be working. I agree. It's never been work to me.

Party in the PRC

Before Chinese New Year, all the restaurants are booked up, busily serving ten course meals, wine and tired smiles to employees who get to party on company dime.

It's becoming a booming industry across China too. Employees of big corporations are starting to hire professionals for scripts and acting coaching to perfect their company plays. The local radio plays success testimonials from individuals who transform themselves from what's-your-name-again to you-did-that-cool-magic-trick-come-with-me-to-a-sales-call by creating a career-launching impression on their bosses at the annual party.

At our little startup, we don't face that kind of pressure, but we still bring our A game to the celebration.

Girls clock out on average two hours earlier than the guys. 

And yes, top left corner is our resident part-time model slash receptionist. 

You need a gorgeous MC when there's a five hour program.

Magic shows. 

Never quite understood the significance of a piece of unbroken string.

We dress up quite a bit for company parties.

And somehow, I find all my costumes just by rummaging through my closet. 

That's why I don't have a fashion blog. 

That's my beau in the play.

And she's wearing two rolled up napkins and a paper crown while wooing me Gangnam style.

I'm telling you. It takes a lot to impress me.

Three of the performances involve transforming a man into a woman.

. . . and we're not even in Thailand.

This is the moment when my boss announces a 10% raise for everybody.

Best indication that our startup is doing fantastic.

I'm celebrating by planning a trip to SE Asia in April. 

 Somehow nobody else interprets "act crazy" as choking your team member. 

And this is the one sent to all the investors.

It's all about making an impression right?

Occupational Hazards

The thing about being an adult is that you get to take business trips. The thing about being a kid still is that you can gush about your first business trip where you actually fly somewhere (ok Mexico City was a different type of business trip, but still). And nothing is better than flying back to your childhood home.

There are so many more friends I need to see. 

These people know all about the obnoxious seventh grade me. 

And yet, they still like me.

Skyscrapers are so cold and yet so beautiful. 

Somehow eating oysters always make me feel like a King.

And when tapas are involved, just call me Juan Carlos the First.

One of the client factories is in Shen Zhen, a neighboring city linking HK with the Mainland. Despite being so close to HK and known for best fake copies of anything in China, I've only been there once before. I was sufficiently traumatized by my five hours in SZ back in high school. HK-ers have a collective distrust/fear/loathing for SZ. Growing up, whenever I refused to eat my food, the lady taking care of me would threaten to dump me in SZ. A friend was sitting in a cab, when a wild-eyed teenager forcibly opened the door, grabbed her designer purse, and ran off. My mom even heard that someone's secretary, pretty wisp of a girl, disappeared after going into a public bathroom. 

Regardless, I needed to make the sale so I woke up super early, hopped on a train across the border, and started eyeing everybody suspiciously, ready to jab my elbows into anybody's sensitive areas if needed. I locked all my taxi doors. I clutched my ipad tightly. And I texted my boss that it had been a pleasure working with him and that he shouldn't feel too bad in the event that I was never seen alive again. 

I don't have any nice photos of SZ to share. My HK prejudice is alive and well. But I must admit that SZ has changed a lot in the last ten years. I'm almost curious to go back and explore more, which is good because it sounds like I'll be spending a lot of time there in the future. I guess that's what happens when you made the sale. Maybe I should have thought it through before I tried so hard. 

Let's Talk Crap for a Day

As I walked into the office bathroom this morning, the cleaning ayi stormed out. I asked her if everything was ok. She shook her head, dangling those small light weight gold earrings with frustration. Gesticulating wildly with the plunger in her hand, she told me all about the no flushes, the bloody pads, the toilet paper messes and her determined witch hunt for the perpetrator. She had narrowed it down to the media company across from us and had three 'informed guesses.'

I was glad that I didn't know any bathroom jokes, because this would not have been a good time to share them.

She finally got permission from management to post a sign up on the bathroom doors that said "Please use the toilets appropriately." She told me that white collar seemed to respect signs so she would try to deal with this civilly. Glancing at her eager plunger, I didn't want to ask about the uncivilized alternatives.

And this time, it was a targeted campaign. Only our bathroom had the 'appropriate bathroom use' sign. I  checked. The hunt was on and the circle was tightening.

Perhaps it's because I always said hi to the ayis and asked them about their day, but in a most bewildering way, I had been adopted as many of the cleaning ladies' favorite confidante, which meant that they told me way too much about other people's bathroom habits. I now feel awkward talking to a non-hand washer at the cafeteria.

---

On a separate note, can I just mention that today is World Toilet Day?

2.5 billion people do not have clean toilets, which translates into preventable diseases and the lack of dignity for many. The UN has designated sanitation as a basic human right - and it is within our reach to help guarantee sanitation units for the working poor.

The video below lays out the problem quite well, and here are some suggestions on taking action.

Face Leader

I shocked my team today. They felt so uncomfortable that none of them could look at me. Because I apologized in public. And Chinese leaders simply did not do that.

-----

My headed pounded cruelly whenever people spoke yesterday. My legs were weak and the brain was slow and muggy. The herbal ginger soups scorched my throat. I overreacted because I got blindsided with a decision that my team made while I was running between cities giving presentations and burying my head in urgent projects. Sales girl didn't want to bother me with a client complaint so she went ahead and coordinated some remedial actions with the product development team.

I probably would have made different logistical decisions and my inner perfectionist radar rang indignantly. I questioned the context and wondered why I was not informed out loud. She hung her head and mumbled that she knew I was swamped and didn't want to add to my plate. I told them to go ahead with the original plan but we would need "discussions" the next day. The team filed out quietly.

Last night, tossing in bed with a heavy head, I faced two choices. One, preserving my own pride. Two, building a true team that would succeed.

Today, when sales girl first appeared on the conference call, she looked a little nervous and overly eager to please. The product team was alert to my every move. They knew that a smack down was totally in my rights as a Chinese leader and they were used to their previous department head who was known for his mood swings.

I cleared my throat with difficulty. I fiddled with the pearl necklace J gave me.

I smiled and apologized for any embarrassment I may have caused anybody. I owned up to the fact that I did not behave in a way that I was proud of and that I sent them conflicting messages. Because I wanted a team that was brave and was willing to make the hard decisions so that we could put customers first. I wanted to be a leader that created the right environment and incentives for them to excel, even when I was not there physically. And I wanted a team that was all about learning from our mistakes and successes and figuring out what we could do to repeat more wins that belonged to all of us.

So I started from admitting my own mistake.

Instead of laying down the law (like I planned yesterday), I gave them pencils, paper, and 3 minutes to brainstorm what principles we as a team wanted to rely on to guide our actions.

Somehow, magic happened. My stereotypically rigid Chinese team members started talking about democracy and grass root innovation. Accountability and transparency. Open communication and over-delivering on our promises to clients. Mutual respect and support.

These were empty slogans that I had been waving around for months because there was no buy in. And now, these same ideas erupted from their own mouths, each competing for the most poetic Chinese phrasing so we could impress the other teams with our literary prowess.

My favorite description? Kung fu descriptors all the way: "Firm lower body posture; Quick punch"(steady foundation of processes, efficient delivery of services).

Origin Story

Around a month ago, I whined my way through an application for the Ashoka Changemakers global competition. The topic was Financial Inclusion and the purpose was to find "innovative solutions that make valuable, affordable, secure, and comprehensive financial services accessible to underserved and excluded communities."

Somebody with investor connections forwarded it to us as a hey-interesting-FYI. The CEO asked me to put together something and honestly, I was not pleased. There was end-of-the-month performance reviews I had to give my team, an implementation plan to hammer together, and some clients to close. I bleeded out a 12 page monster talking about our model, uploaded it last minute, and forgot all about it.

Then I got an email two weeks ago.

"Congrats Sisi Messick!

We are delighted to announce that you are one of the 12 semi-finalists of the G2012 Mexico Financial Inclusion: Innovative Solutions for Unlocking Access global competition . . .

In recognition of this honor, you have been invited to attend the G20 Summit in Mexico City on Nov. 2nd and 3rd, 2012."

I rubbed my eyes. What? The G20 Summit? There were around 260 entries around the world and we somehow made it? The President of Mexico and Ministers of Finance will attend? And they invited me?

That's when I realized that I didn't really read the section on the competition prizes.

I didn't even realize that this was a grant, aka there's money involved. Glad they didn't ding me for being so honest with our operational challenges.

Mexico City. 2012. Hasta pronto.

----

You can read what I wrote here. They hid a lot of the sensitive stuff.

In Awe

I purposely took out all the exclamation points here because I am at a risk of becoming one of those bloggers who is just so! excited! for! EVERYTHING!!

Disclaimer aside, I am super pumped. Because Mexico City is calling my name in a seductive Hola mi amiga kind of way. And I'm flying there in less than two weeks. More details slash origin story later. 

But in the meantime, I'm salivating over photos of Mexico and thanking God (and CEO) that I'm not paying for the flight. 

When I heard about the Pyramid of the Sun from a good friend back in college, I put it on my bucket list. It is a little worrisome that I'm burning through my bucket list relatively fast, having crossed off Angkor Wat two weeks ago. Either my list isn't lengthy enough (100+) or I'm not destined to live long. 

Sarcasm notwithstanding, I'm genuinely grateful for these opportunities that blow my world apart over and over again. Humbled. Awed. Repeatedly.

Pyramid of the Sun

Office Portraits

Marketing department decided that I would be part of the "Leadership Profile" portion of our company website (still under construction). Of course, I'm her boss, so maybe that's a factor. Definitely one of the funnest part of my job since the promotion four months ago. 

As it turned out, I had a terrible time working the professional look. It's supposedly some sort of serene Mona Lisa smile, mixed in with "I'm such a bomb manager" eyes. 

And, you know your eyes must be really small when other Chinese people told you to keep your eyes open while you were already doing your best to stretch those taunt eyelids beyond their God-given max. 

Caught mid-walk. 

Apparently too much attitude for clients.

I wanted to wear my boots at first. Vetoed by everybody.

Luckily, I keep a healthy shoe storage under my desk.

Flowy dresses are so distracting on a gorgeous windy day.

"Finally!" The photographer says. "One that works."

Raising My Eyebrows, I Will Draw My Sword

One of the guys on my team, Sam, is a Communist Party member in excellent standing. So excellent that we've already had to give him three days off this month to receive an award for being an outstanding Communist youth and to attend a rally. He had apparently joined the Party back in college because it aligned with his "search for the moral, respect for the scientific, and love for the people."He even saved two separate strangers from drowning in a nearby lake on the same night, within 30 feet of each other. Of course, it also helps that he often pays more Party dues than required.

So today is the rally. We haven't heard from him what the distinguished Party has instructed yet, but we have received an enlightening "hand out."

Here's a closer look. I'll try to make it poetic.

Car is made in Japan;

Heart is made in China.

Support the Party;

Recover the Diaoyu Islands;

Rather be a headless ghost,

Than be a spineless man;

If war comes for China and Japan,

I will give up my own life;

My drops of blood will honor the martyrs;

Raising my eyebrows, I will draw the sword.

In case you are not aware, the Diaoyu Islands (or Senkaku Islands in Japanese) are two square miles of land that China and Japan both claim and dispute over. Patriots from both countries periodically sail near the islands and try to challenge the other's presence. The Japanese government has recently agreed to buy three small islands in the Diaoyu Island group from their Japanese owners in an attempt to block the Tokyo governor from buying them to expand nationalistic claims. So while the Japanese gov probably has good intentions, the Chinese objects furiously, saying that Japan has no right to transfer property rights on Chinese soil. The Chinese normally like the Japanese fine, but they are very sensitive to what they imagine to be slights that the Japanese "purposely commit". 

Right after our company got the photo of the handout, the discount development guy muttered three little condemning numbers: jiu yao ba, or 918.

It turned into a low rumble across the office, 9 - 1- 8!  9 - 1 - 8 ! How dare they do this right before September 18th - the shameful day in 1931 when the Japanese military occupied one of their first cities in China with the excuse that the Chinese bombed their railway?

All of a sudden, we're reliving the Japanese occupation of China and gnashing our teeth for the pain our grandparents went through. 

By the end of the working day, my colleagues are calling out for a boycott against Japanese goods. Some wonder out loud if China can single handedly collapse the Japanese economy by not buying any Honda or Sony. Another customer service rep whimpers that she will try not to get any more Hello Kitty in the next month.

I will try to demonstrate sympathetic solidarity and sneakily eat my favorite Hi Chew Japanese candy in the hallway.

Gosh, we should all get awards for being good Chinese at least.

Blue Collar Blues

Back at BYU, when I decided to pack up and move to China to work at an American startup that provided micro credit to low income Chinese factory workers, I had a certain image in my head. I was finally going to live the principles I learned in international development class. I was making a difference among the working poor, giving them increased opportunities to build rainy-day safety nets. I was saving the world, sans government job.

For the large part, I felt that way. I had wandered around migrant neighborhoods, winding down the mazes of poorly thatched doors, calendar-papered windows, and tired pipes spouting murky water. I had stumbled upon dimly lit alley kitchens, seeing only the hunched backs of the weathered women and the long, sad shadows they cast on the bundles of vegetables that they had to chop. I had talked to young factory workers who sat in the shade, waiting for an interview at yet another electronics factory while wondering if their lives were meant only for this constant repeat. I often sat at my desk long after work ended, doodling question marks and exclamation marks to see if there was something more we could do.

And yet there were other sides to the sweat shop stereotype.

China's factories stood in shiny industrial parks, with manicured greenery lining concrete roads. Factories were sprawling complexes, rare for a densely packed country, and workers filed through the gates wearing issued uniforms. Workers were keenly aware of their rights and industry standards, annoyingly so even, when they rushed up to the HR to complain about a one cent difference in their paycheck or turned their noses at cafeteria food. They switched their jobs more frequently than girl friends, averaging an average of 4-5 months at a job. They changed phone numbers even more often, dumping one digit for another if there's a 20 RMB discount for a different phone plan (3 USD). Workers made very conscious decisions whether to join an American company (better working conditions but lower pay because of "fair labor practice" that restrict overtime) or a Taiwanese company (crappy environment but you are free to work yourself to death if the money is good). And they were the most reliable and current almanacs on 'confidential' salary and benefits info of different factories. XXX didn't provide moon cakes for Mid-Autmn festival? Boycott! (even though nobody eats them anyways)

But yesterday challenged my perceptions of the blue collar workers even further.

I arrived at the plant of a Fortune 500 client that I had closed recently (yes, I somehow do sales now as well). We were rolling out the micro credit/ blue collar-oriented discounts program and wanted to do some pep talks with the assembly line managers. The early twenty-somethings were fidgeting in their seats, antsy from the previous hour long lecture about retirement savings, by the time we got on stage. They probably only stayed because at a factory with 70% men, those boys were probably starved of a little dressed up female attention. Either way, they were fascinated about our kits and wanted to learn more about our products and services.

My colleague started talking about a mobile app that we were about to launch (contrary to popular belief and according to our market research, around 60% of factory workers have smart phones). She asked how many in the audience had a smart phone.

General smirks.

We all have iPhones. 

Fake ones?

Who buys fake ones anymore, lady?

One factory worker happened to glance in my direction and saw the bubble gum pink second-hand mini-screen phone that I had in my hand. I slid it in my purse self-consciously.

Later, we found out that some of these factory workers also had cars. And apartments. Oh. And iPhones, of course.

The factory had average salary levels. The probable cause for the blue collar 'affluence' was that they were local, so apartments and cars came from their families.

But as I left those heavy gates that day, teetering on my lapis heels, I wondered why somebody else on the other side of the world didn't move over here to try to offer me life-enhancing financial products. I sure could use an iPhone. Good thing the iPhone 5 is being unveiled tomorrow.

Walking advertisements 

On Fire

The man clicked to the nth powerpoint slide. "They were trapped on their floor because the fire escape door was jammed. 23 casualties." We scribbled furiously, jotting down reminders to our management to check stairwells. 

Next slide. "Fire in the middle of the night. Young woman ran back for her valuable documents. Disfigured face. Ayah. Who would want to marry her now?"

Next. "Third degree burn on a child. He would be wearing long sleeves for the rest of his life. Such a shame he wasn't a girl - at least girls had excuses to wear sleeves to stay white, but him?" He shook his head in disapproving pity.

My colleagues and I sat, eyes transfixed to the clicker in his hand, watching his thumb press down with ruthless efficiency to summon yet another set of horrific photos of fire victims. He was part of our office building management and he was in our conference room, gesticulating smoke, fire, heat! wildly in the air, as part of our free Avoiding Fire Hazards workshop. After an hour of cautionary tales and dramatic disfiguration photos, we were glued, traumatized, and desperate to receive the balm of instructions to be {beautiful} survivors.

"You, being on the 9th floor of our office building, are special. You have good odds of surviving any fire that will engulf this building if you do what I say."

He described how most of the time, fire fighters could not get to all the floors to rescue trapped people. So the solution? Save yourself by climbing out of the window.

He bent over and struggled to pull out something heavy underneath the table. He heaved and threw it onto the table. "Do yourself a favor and buy this 40 feet rope. Today, I will give you the good friend price. 500 RMB (~80 USD) only. Better yet, the first two people to buy one will get a discount. Isn't your life worth at least that much?"

When we all looked at him, shocked into silence at his sudden sales pitch, he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "The 10th floor people will never hear this workshop. They are just a little too high for the rope to reach the ground. So will you take full advantage of your geographical location?"

A sudden whimper. Shuffling in purses. Our marketing lady pulled out her wallet. She looked around sheepishly, "I have a son to think of."

Our office did not have a lot of heavy furniture. I wonder what she would actually tie her rope to when/ if the time came.