We physicians sign a mind-boggling number of forms. One of my favorites is an attestation that a person’s gender marker has changed, which allows them to change their gender marker on official documents. (Although I question why this is delegated to medical providers.) It is an honor to play a role in someone’s gender affirmation. When signing I pause to acknowledge the joy, significance and sanctity of this moment.

I was 25 years old when I started my internship. My heart palpitated on my first day, as I made rounds on a long patient list. I was dressed in a long skirt and blouse under my white coat. My raven hair, brown eyes, and Indian accent made me stand out.

All my patients were cooperative and my day was going well—until I got to my last patient.

Mrs. S was a frail lady with tightly permed silver hair. Peeking out from under her covers, she took one look at me and asked in a Southern accent, “Who said you

For one year in the mid-1980s, I was the concert manager in a music department at a major university. A friend of mine who taught there had called me in a panic when their concert manager quit in the middle of the school year. The university had 10 performing ensembles and about 15 different concert venues spread all over the metropolitan area of the city.

The job was impossible, and it came with zero support staff. Out of desperation, I talked the department chair into assigning me a couple of graduate assistants. Chi Shing and Li Ching showed up right

In college, my friend used to joke that my roommates and I were like the United Nations. One was Russian and born in Canada, another was Indian, and another was half Vietnamese and half Caucasian. I’m Chinese. We were sitting in our living room one evening, and I was desperately trying to teach them, “你好, 我的名字是” or “Hello my name is.” I couldn’t help but laugh at their distorted intonations and jumbled order. Until it was my turn to stumble through Russian: “привет меня зовут Emily.” Attempt Hindi: “मेरा नाम Emily है.” And then Vietnamese: “Xin chào, tên tôi là

Inked onto my left shoulder is a pomegranate, its seeds cracked open and spilling out. Another one sits, just as defiantly, on the wall adjacent to my desk. It’s a gift from my girlfriend, who painted it herself.

It’s the national fruit of Iran. Oh, and also a super fruit, an antioxidant, if we’re adding a healthcare twist. For me, it’s a way of carrying a piece of home, and a reminder of how I’ve built a new home over the years.