The Uncertainties of Life

Jaqueline A. Picache

Uncertainty. The human condition wants to know: stories, facts, hopes. Uncertainty makes us… hesitate. Over and under analyze. Think. Pause. Breathe. Think. What do I know? What do I need to know? Pause. Think. Do I need this to survive? Or am I playing with privilege? When did one became the other?

Deal or No Deal’ hummed in the background as I dozed off. Fighting a cold, I was home alone when the coughing fit started. A stabbing pain shot through my left torso and I couldn’t breathe. “Oh no,” I dreaded. I knew this pain. Crawling to the phone, I called my mom. A few hours later, we sat in the ER to hear the physician confirm my suspicions: a pneumothorax. This was my second collapsed lung in two years. The doctor deemed this collapse “spontaneous.” As a curious 15 year-old, I had immense trouble accepting this. I felt like my doctor left me in the dark filled with uncertainty and the fear that I’d have another episode. Why hadn’t she tried to figure out what went wrong? I knew from personal experiences and previous coursework that the human body didn’t just fail, that it was amazingly resilient. This experience was the first of many where I’d questioned the future of my health.

Jaqueline A. Picache

‘Uncertainty’ has been my constant companion throughout life. I was born in Manila, Philippines but grew up in Fort Lee, New Jersey among the shadows of New York City. As a child of immigrants, there was much to be uncertain of – whether it was the strains of a family of five subsisting on a single income or my various health problems. Furthermore, I had the immense uncertainty that came with applying to top 20 colleges (Do people just know how to do this?) and paying for such an education (How many people can actually afford a $250,000 education?). When all else seemed fickle, I anchored myself in school work especially my science classes. It was a space where things were more consistent, more certain.

In the summer after my second pneumothorax, I had my first laboratory experience. I immediately became enraptured with the pursuit of causes and knowledge in research. I loved how it challenged me. It pushed me into the unknown and enabled me to come out with something meaningful. I remember one particular morning when I sat incredulously, unable to answer my PI’s question. We were having our daily meeting when he asked me why my project was important. I’d spent the last few weeks reading countless journal articles about neurophysiology, neurotransmitter pathways, Drosophila genetics, and so much more to come up with a project. He was asking me why I did all of that now? I thought hard and the answered clicked: neuropathy. My project could help uncover how to get damaged nerves to reconnect with their targets. It felt like each article was a puzzle piece that formed a picture.

This conversation made me realize how important it was to take a step back and remember why my work mattered. Research inherently involves a search for truth and knowledge, but I think it is more meaningful when done to help others. At the end of two summers working in the lab, my PI helped me apply for a nationwide math, science, and technology competition for high school students. With great trepidation, I submitted my research manuscript entirely expecting to hear nothing back and proving I wasn’t really cut out for a life in science. Surprisingly, I was a national semi-finalist. I never would’ve had the courage to apply for this competition without the support of my PI and teachers.

As I graduated and left for college, I exchanged old uncertainties for new ones. I was 12 hours from home as a scholarship kid on a campus full of multigenerational legacies and students who grew up in affluent non-minority homes. In some ways, I experienced reverse culture shock. I’d never been exposed to such affluence and didn’t know how to fit in. The academic rigors were tough but the social situations were even harder to navigate. There wasn’t a day during my freshman year that I didn’t want to run to the safety of my family and transfer to a local college. Despite how uncomfortable that first year was, I knew I couldn’t transfer – not when I wrote 32 essays for my scholarship and especially not when I knew the career path I wanted meant further forays into uncomfortable territory.

My wake-up call came during my second semester of graduate school.

As I acclimated to this new culture at school, I was recognized for who I am: a good scientist, a thoughtful worker, an advocate. I took this recognition and ran with it… but I could never outrun my heritage and first-generation status. There were times in class when I’d be asked to provide “a different opinion” which I understood as a minority (whether Asian or female) perspective.  Outside the classroom, my friends called me the “token Asian” of our group.  Peers who weren’t my friends called me the charity case. I was once told that I was accepted into the university to boost diversity numbers; and that I won my scholarship because students from higher socioeconomic statuses couldn’t apply. It didn’t help that the aforementioned recognition and my minority status made me a poster child for pamphlets and student interviews throughout campus. I slowly became resentful of my successes and recognition. I didn’t want to be the target of slander.  As much as I’d like to, I couldn’t say these hurtful words just rolled off my shoulders. I didn’t report the remarks; and that girl has no idea how her words really affected me.

One of my few regrets is not standing up for myself back then. Instead, I found other people to stand up for – specifically, the rare disease community through my research.  I advocated for the underdog because I felt like one. However, I was an underdog by circumstance which can be changed with hard work. These patients were underdogs by genetics, not something so easily altered. Even though these incredible people have more uncertainty than I could have imagined, they fight every day for normal lives despite their progressively debilitating diseases. Knowing their lives were dependent on the success of other researchers and myself, I worked and forgot about myself. I forgot about the slurs and fitting in.

In graduate school, it was evident that I took my pre-occupation with research too far. My wake-up call came during my second semester of graduate school: “But you’re not really Asian. You grew up in New Jersey.” There was a pregnant pause as I looked across the table. At that moment, I was hyperaware of being the only minority in this group of chemistry graduate students. What was my classmate trying to say? Yes, I grew up in New Jersey and no, I don’t have an accent; but I was still born in the Philippines. I still grew up in a culturally Asian household. While this exchange could’ve been brushed off as yet another of countless ignorant remarks I’ve experienced, it became a point of self-reflection. Do I hide my “Asian-ness”? Did I have to forego that part of my identity to assimilate into academia? The terrifying reality was that the answer to these questions was not a complete no. Most of my uncertainties in life thus far were situational, things out of my control. For the first time, I was unsure of who I was and how I identified myself.

As I go into my fourth year of graduate school, I’ve been very intentional about living up to all the labels I identify as. That includes the new labels I’ve added in the last four years. My research has involved learning new skills that I’m uncertain of every day. Specifically, I’ve had to learn to code my own informatic algorithms to look at high-dimensional mass spectrometry data. We use multiple techniques to analyze the metabolites in various sample types whether they be disease vs. normal blood, cells, tissue, etc. At conferences and similar events, I often get asked who wrote the code of my informatics tools. I always reply that I wrote it myself but I’m still weary of calling myself a programmer. It’s challenging and others’ reactions to me can be unexpected but I’ve decided that I never want people to be uncertain about my authenticity.

There’s been a long association between the “American Dream” and being a new immigrant. While it’s based on the hopes of a better life, there’s no illusion about the hard work it takes to make it in the United States or anywhere for that matter. However, no one tells you the shape your trials will take. In some ways, my story is a new turn of an old wheel: I’m a person with ambitions that push me into unchartered territory for someone “like me.” That being said, each turn – however similar to the last or the next – is its own revolution and is needed to move everyone forward. I’m still upset for being called the “token Asian” but I’m also offended if I’m deemed “whitewashed.”  Superficially, it seems there’s no pleasing me but I detest both labels because neither encompass what it means to be a new Filipino American. The truth is I’m continuously trying to figure out what that means to me. While I’ll always have uncertainties in my life, I’ve become less afraid of them because I know my wheel’s still turning.