I watch the world unfold.
I look for the moments nobody is performing for—the unexpected connection, the detail that reveals the bigger story, the thing everyone else walked past.
My work spans digital communications, multimedia storytelling, photography, video, editorial content, campaigns, and community engagement that has resulted in:
I found a hoodie from my last job. I remember the day I received it. I went in on a day nobody expected me to be in the office. The manager wanted to speak with me about something. She handed me a brand new hoodie with the new logo, “one of only six,” as a thank you for the work I did on the new campaign.
It was only my second real encounter with her, but she was unexpectedly handing me the very thing I never asked for. I wore it immediately.
Now I find it hidden in the neglected closet, the one we store all the underused items in, completely forgotten between the winter coat with the matted fur and the blazer in that taupe color I’d never wear. The color has faded a bit, due to the frequent washes.
I need room for the new items I’ve acquired lately, mostly a crisp black uniform worn by so many vendors. In the last month, I’ve been mistaken for the photographer, the venue coordinator, and even the maintenance worker.
“Can you take a picture of us?”
“Where is the bathroom?”
“Is there a mop? Someone dropped a glass on the dance floor.”
Unlike the hoodie, which happened to be black, too, there is nothing special about the black uniform. No one handed it to me as a thank you, and there are probably at least six of us dressed the same way. It is meant to make me blend in, to look like I belong wherever I happen to be standing.
I toss all the clothes to the floor and replace them with a row of black tops, bottoms, and the single black dress I wear to everything – parties, funerals, work.
The hoodie rested on top of the discarded pile.
One of six or six of one?
I have a terrible habit.
I can’t just say something happened. I have to write with multiple layers, full circle structures, and metaphors. So many metaphors. A mundane sequence introduced at the beginning has to repeat at a later time, with a completely different meaning.
On my first solo photoshoot assignment, I was so prepared. I practiced assembling a new set of lights, staked out the Potrero Hill neighborhood on Google Maps, stuffed a fabric softener in my pocket to fight static cling (it works, trust), and arrived at the venue a whole 40 minutes early to secure a parking spot. When I finally made my way down the hill for the shoot, I was greeted by an empty and locked building. I rang the bell, circled the building twice, even checked across the street. Nothing.
A maintenance worker finally answered the door.
“There’s nobody here,” she said. “They all went home. No party.”
I was at the wrong location.
I called the client.
No response.
I searched through their website trying to find a clue. Again, fail.
In my mind, I could already hear myself narrating the story: how I had been so prepared and yet somehow still failed. There’d be a whole paragraph dedicated to quietly accepting the end of my barely launched photography career. I’d probably reach into my pocket, find the fabric softener, and linger on the irony of meticulously preparing for the wrong disaster, a quiet lesson I'd never quite explain, trusting the reader to infer it.
What a deeply disappointing story.
And way too predictable. I should throw in an alliteration about a dislocated location.
I loaded everything back into the car and waited for a plot twist.
As I sat listening to my increasingly dramatic retelling, it struck me.
The location wasn't the Potrero Hill neighborhood — it was The Potrero Hill Neighborhood House.
It was 5 minutes away. Five whole minutes.
I had spent more time searching for where I was supposed to be than it took me to get there.
I know. It’s a terrible habit.
It sounds like a metaphor.
I hadn't sat down once. There was no chair for me. I genuinely hadn't noticed until 9 hours later.
I was asked to help coordinate a wedding. Here is how my day went:
2:20 p.m. I arrive at a locked venue. A group of strangers in fancy clothes starts unloading giant wooden planks from their car. I assume they're with the wedding. They offered to help me unload, which was fantastic because the Subaru was packed.
2:30 p.m. I'm greeted by Paul, the venue manager, who opens the door and says, "The door was locked? I thought it was unlocked." I have been standing outside for a solid ten minutes.
The chuppah group marched straight to the sweetheart table as a unit, built the whole thing, packed up, left as a unit. I am beyond impressed.
The first things I unbox are a bunch of empty boxes and vases. There is also a shoe rack. I have no idea what any of this is for. I decide this is a later-me problem and move on to setting out the wedding favors.
The cake arrives. Shouldn't these be decorated first, I ask? There are flowers somewhere. Someone finds them. I move down the checklist.
DJ Joe arrives and starts setting up. I open the control panel and realize I don't have the laptop. I ask if he has everything he needs. He does, but isn't sure how to set up. We agreed to wait for his assistant, "the Smart One." I bank all my faith on this description.
The florist arrives and offers to help with the favors. I gladly hand it off and start on the table numbers. I find boxes of LED tea lights and decide I will use Every Last One of Them — tables, floors, stairs, bathrooms, everywhere.
3:15 p.m. The screens won't connect. Smart Guy finally asks: "Are they turned on?" I remember that the AV guy told me specifically, the week prior, to press the selection for the wall panel. I press the button. Step #1 of tech support: Turn Power On.
I go back to the mysterious empty boxes and shoe rack. I remember some photos someone had texted me that morning. These are the skeleton of the Welcome Table display. I drape a tablecloth over the boxes and start arranging. Martha Stewart would be proud.
4:50 p.m. I change clothes in the bathroom and put rubber ducks next to the soap. A man walks by, points out that I am in the men's room. “I know," I say.
I hide trumpets under the sweetheart table for a surprise performance later and carefully place the champagne flutes, all the while hearing the bride’s voice cautioning me Do. Not. Break.Them.
The photo booth guy arrives, takes one look at my props arrangement, and asks if everything needed to be there. He has his own props. I tell him they're probably significant to the couple but feel free to redecorate. He spends a long time perfectly aligning his backdrop, commenting that his wife would've been impressed. I think it could use more pizazz but say nothing. I test the machine. It failed. This was exactly why we test the equipment.
5:16 p.m. Guests start entering 14 minutes early. I block the doorway. "WAIT," I announce to a crowd of adults in formal wear. "My ONE JOB is to keep you out until 5:30. Go back outside." They go back outside. Dubious but outside. Leadership.
5:20 p.m. Paul asks which wine the head tables are getting. I confirm: red, white, and cider for the non-drinkers. The cider is missing.
5:47 p.m. I spend 20 minutes coordinating the grand entrance via text — line up, hide, wait for my signal. Does anyone know where the cider is? I am calm. I am professional. I am, I will later discover, texting the marching band instead of the wedding party. The band never mentions this. They simply comply. I respect them enormously.
6:11 p.m. I head out and call out names to a sea of green gowns and suits. Time to get this party started.
6:23 p.m. The Domino's driver calls. He can't find the building. "Keep driving," I tell him. "It's a circle. You'll eventually see it. I have to take a video right now." I hang up and wish him the best.
6:25 p.m. The wedding party enters, followed by the entire Cal Marching Band. Domino’s is calling again. “I’m standing outside,” he says. “Can I just leave them at the table?” Sure, I tell him, and hang up. I am so sorry Domino’s Guy. You did great. Thank you for understanding.
7 p.m. Dinner is served. The photographer asks if we're on schedule. We're a little behind, I tell him. "I would be surprised if it was on schedule," he says. I appreciate his honesty.
7:30 p.m. I spend dinner interrupting the couple every time they settle into a new conversation, constantly reappearing with a loaded Instax like some annoying algorithm. I have no idea if they want me there. I hoped the photos would be my forgiveness.
7:50 p.m. Speeches begin. I tell the vendors to get back to work.
8:30 p.m. The bride and groom begin their first dance, complete with a trumpet performance. The trumpets I hid under the table earlier. Those trumpets.
9:25 p.m. The photographer needs the cake cut NOW because his partner leaves in 15. I hunt down the newlyweds and tell them to cut the cake. They do. They smear frosting on each other. I wipe it off the bride's eyebrow before the final photo.
9:40 p.m. Paul needs ¾ of the Welcome Table cleared for cake and coffee. I hide everything under the table.
11 p.m. I’m asked for the keys to the Subaru. They are not around my neck where they’re supposed to be. Slight panic. My mind goes through all the possible places they could be. I look through every pocket of my backpack. I find them under a table where my shoes are. My heart restarts. Note to Self: Always leave your things under ONE SPOT.
11:19 p.m. I grab 2 beers and finally get my first photo with the newlyweds. It was the most joyful wedding I’ve ever attended.
To the radiant couple, thank you for saving me a spot as your Official Wedding Crasher.
And to the marching band still wondering why a stranger kept texting them about missing cider - cheers!
I skipped every graduation from 8th grade on.
I remember my first in the 5th grade. I was sitting in the cafeteria and the assistant principal gave us a pep talk. “You’re the top bananas of this school but soon you will be the lowest and starting over.” To be honest, I don’t remember the rest. She lost me at top bananas. We rehearsed for weeks so a very selective group of kids could take turns singing solos of We Are The World, while the rest of us tried to stand on cue and chime in for the chorus. I wore a thick velvety dress that David laughed at the second he saw me.
By middle school graduation, my commitment level was a bright blue gown tossed over my jeans and animal print crew neck. I was a straight A, Honor Roll student in full rebellion - once again, a Top Banana about to be demoted to Freshman.
This year, I made up for all my previous absences. I photographed five graduation celebrations, and four were exactly as one would expect. There were ecstatic friends and family holding giant head props and money bouquets, classic cap and gown poses, inspirational speeches and high achievements.
Then there was the 8th grade after party. These were a group of kids from a prestigious private school with a bond forged from Kindergarten. The girls were all dressed in identical fashion - short skater dresses paired with sneakers - the boys in polos and button-down shirts and slacks. The evening started off with pizza and a taco bar, photo booth, organized group competitions, and dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. All the parents stood on one side of the room, quietly chatting, drinks in hand, while the kids gathered on the other side, pure chaos for two hours straight.
Then the mood flipped.
First one, then another, tears started welling, voices cracked, and finally the hug bawl.
I skipped every graduation from 8th grade on. This year I stood inside five of them.
Four were about the beginning of a new chapter.
One was about the ending of one.
I don't know what these kids meant to each other. I just know that somewhere between the taco bar and the last song, they all broke down and cried.
I designed something in 1996. I went searching for it 30 years later.
On my first day interning at JAM Workshop, I got lost. I stood around the hall pretending to admire the wall decor until I spied a boy walking past me. I silently followed him down the stairs that led me to the door at the end of the basement.
It was a big open room littered with posters and pencils, with the largest light table in the world at its center. The studio specialized in silk screening and had a small dark closet in the back where the magic happened.
We scattered posters around to dry and put t-shirts through a conveyor belt of sorts in another room for curing.
One day, I fiddled around with a design for the upcoming Oshogatsu Festival. I had zero design background but my strength was in words, so I featured a playful scattering of the letters of Oshogatsu in monochromatic purple.
Surprisingly, the JAM director selected my design.
It blew my mind the day I discovered that the National Japanese American Historical Society (NJAHS) had put on an exhibit of the JAM Workshop Oshogatsu posters from 1977-1999.
Mine was 1996.
For the past 30 years, it had only existed as a line on my resume.
On a whim, I made a trip down to Japantown to see if maybe, just maybe, my poster was still on display.
It wasn’t.
The NJAHS turned out to be a large open space with stairs leading up to a loft. The walls showcased artwork from their current exhibit, with the familiar clutter of creativity tucked neatly behind a shoji screen.
A Zoom meeting had just started when I arrived, so I stood around the room pretending to admire the art display on the walls until I spied a boy walking past me, much like thirty years ago. But this time, I didn't follow. I stopped him. I knew what I was looking for and was determined to find it.
I asked him the whereabouts of the poster. He didn’t have a clue but I was soon introduced to the collections manager, Lilith.
“We have a copy of all the posters archived,” she told me.
I probably smiled like an idiot.
Lilith disappeared behind the screen and returned a few minutes later with a poster - from 1995. “I can’t find 1996, but there’s this one,” she said hopefully, holding out a colorful poster of a trio of boars beating a taiko drum. “I am looking for a very specific one,” I told her apologetically. Lilith, who is now my favorite human ever, went back for another search. Several minutes later, she emerged – empty-handed. “It’s probably misfiled,” she told me. It would take a day to search.
She promised to try again, and I left, with nothing but an email and hope for the magic of the universe to find my poster, so that it can exist as more than just a line on my resume.
It did.
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