I Will Not Marry a Cat

“If you don’t finish every grain of rice you’re going to marry a cat.”

I slowly turned to face my mother who was eyeing my unfinished dinner in a vaguely threatening manner. She was dead serious. So, by virtue of being a curious kid, my brain was instantly filled with dozens of questions.

What if I told the cat no when it proposed? What if I ran away from the cat at the altar? Can you marry cats in the state of Minnesota? My mother never earnestly replied to any of these questions, but there was one inquiry that she never failed to answer in complete honesty.

“Why can’t I just throw it away?” I would ask, picking at the scraps of food on my plate.

She would get less playful, her lips pressed into a thin line as she debated how to explain this lesson to me, a lesson I would carry and apply to all aspects of my life.

“Because it’s your plate — don’t waste it.”

After that day I never objected to my mom gathering up the last remaining crumbs of dinner onto a spoon and giving it to me to lick clean. I knew when I took food, I couldn’t throw it out. This thinking soon became a habit, not just because I was scared of letting a cat put a diamond ring on my left hand. I lived my life acutely conscious of physical waste, determined to limit my trash in creative ways. Each year on my birthday I would carefully unwrap my presents, delicately peeling the tape to preserve the decorative paper. Once, my friend asked why I didn’t just rip it. It would definitely be easier. I would always reply in a sure tone: “Because I don’t want to waste it.” It seemed tedious to the outsider, but to me it was common sense.

However, entering eighth grade I was stagnant. As one of the only mixed kids in my predominantly white school, being 50% Asian also meant being 100% different. In hopes of not fitting into the overbearing academic stereotype, I buried my voice in discussions, letting others speak over me. Suddenly physical waste was not the only type I had to be aware of, metaphoric waste was thrown into the mix. I let core parts of me sit collecting dust in my brain; my creative ideas, my curiosity, the girl who licked her bowl clean. The cat was definitely eyeing up Tiffany & Co.

Yet, high school in a new school district was a totally different environment, bursting with diverse people. Sitting in my ninth-grade English class, listening to the captain of our speech team try and recruit us, I imagined myself sharing an important message with an audience. My heart raced with the thought of my voice ringing clearly in an empty room, my audience hooked on every word. It certainly wasn’t a sudden epiphany, but I knew if I would not be satisfied wasting grains of rice, I also couldn’t waste promising opportunities. So, I cracked my knuckles, sat down, and wrote a speech for my audition. Two weeks later, with my acceptance to the team and a metaphorical cat hovering over my shoulder, the thrifty ball was once again rolling. Similar to the feeling of wrapping Christmas gifts using materials I gathered from birthdays past, I reveled in the fact that I was avoiding metaphoric and physical waste.

Of course, “wasting potential” by saying no to activities that don’t spark interest is as inevitable as throwing food away—sometimes you just don’t like the taste or texture. But in the future, I am prepared to give my full effort to every challenge I come across and take advantage of opportunities. I won’t be throwing away “rice” from my life’s plate, and I certainly won’t be saying “I do” to a cat.