I sat next to some of the most academically competitive and scholastic students Miami Dade Honors College had to offer when the then GCA facilitator, David Goldman, asked us to freehand draw a world map from memory. We were told to compare our maps with our table and I was embarrassed because art was not my strong suit. When David pulled up a photo of a map, I realized that I shouldn’t have felt embarrassed because of my lack of art skills, but my lack of global mindfulness. Not only was the United States obviously centered on my map, but the surrounding geographies were distorted or completely left out—including countries my own lineage hails from. Then, when he introduced the “upside down” map, I just about lost my mind. The way we share maps is a reflection of what we have and have not been exposed to. This lesson put into perspective not just the ethnocentric educational system that the United States prides itself on, but the identity displacement it bestows on those of multicultural backgrounds, those who do not see themselves in a certain type of map or in a single place on a map. The reality is, the majority of people cannot pinpoint themselves to a single point on the map—and one of those is me.

Born and raised in Miami, my concept of a map was relative to the coastal nation peoples and islanders who journeyed from the nearby lands shaped by oceans and populated the surrounding enclaves that influenced the way I eat, speak and live today. Growing up a mere two percent Asian population in a primarily Hispanic metropolitan city, I constantly had to defend my different-looking features and identity, so much so that I gave up explaining and saw myself less and less in the classic textbook version of a map. As a multicultural child to a Chinese, Indonesian-born mother, and Caucasian, American-born father, David’s cartography lesson did not sit well with me. My very existence challenged the American education system in all its errors and it was shamefully mirrored in my very own freehand drawing of a map.

I turned 20 years old during my time at the Global Citizenship Alliance. While this trip notched many “firsts” for me like going to Europe or shell-shocking my tropical blood with the introduction of snow atop Untersberg mountain, it marked the beginning of a decade where my healing journey into reclaiming self and my interest in storytelling. At that point, Schloss Leopodskron was the most beautiful and historical place I had ever been. We sat by the fireplace when Jochen and Astrid shared the very complex relationships they had with their nation and their own families during WWII. The Nazi party, who once occupied the very castle I was sitting in, blasted propaganda and politics that influenced their families in ways they could not yet fully comprehend. These were their parents, aunts and uncles, and childhood neighbors who raised them. Yet, after the war, the only story told was of genocide. Inhumane as this war was, the soldiers were people too, they were survivors and protectors of their families who were fed lies and stories to believe their leader.

My history textbooks never shared that story, the story of the Astrids and Jochens, the stories of the inbetweens and families who were torn apart under false pretenses. As a writer, I questioned our storytellers and realized that there are more than two sides to every story—there could be hundreds—and if we’re not careful, the power of the pen could construe our own, or even an entire nation’s identity.

My interest in storytelling began when I was 11 years old—I inherited National Geographic magazines dating all the way back to 1923. I scanned through articles that documented the travels of Amelia Earhart, I stared at photos of Jane Goodall as her breakthroughs occurred, I scanned through years of advertisements of the U.S. annexing Hawaiʻi. As I flipped through these magazines, I thought about how unpolitical the livelihood of these journalists seemed—to be able to adventure and share the art of adventure, nature and people without governmental interference—and that’s what naively first motivated me to pursue storytelling.

“The very act of not being political, is in itself a political act,” said Maghan Keita, professor at Villanova University. I clammed up as an intern during a Global Citizenship Alliance seminar when Keita spoke; I sat and understood that it is a privilege to be unpolitical, uninvolved, take a seat back. It was a privilege for me to move to Hawai‘i in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, away from continental politics, so much so in a different time zone that when the news did hit, it really didn’t matter anymore. Keita’s words unveiled the evolutionary narrative of the Hawai‘i advertisements and the way they portrayed the not-yet annexed 50th state with its possibilities of coconut bras and the benefits of militant occupation with promises of warm weather and a good time on Indigenous lands.

While the reason I first decided to pursue journalism has since shattered, I realized that journalism is far from unpolitical, and National Geographic can be, and has overtime proven to be, wrong. This fear that my ethnocentric education curved my perspective empowered me to pursue storytelling to, despite these truths, hinder others from also falling victim and instead, continue the systemic change that first ignited my interest.

During our formal evening at the schloss’s dining hall, I sat at a table where our discussion ventured into what we thought reverse osmosis water is and the true speed that a fly is flying while in a moving car, is it flying as fast as the car or just relevant to its space within the car? I couldn’t contribute more than laughter when I heard the ridiculous philosophy theories, the premed student’s logic, the engineer’s mathematics. I understood that this is what global citizenship is, sharing the multitudes of our backgrounds, finding our common grounds, laughing, and challenging each other to further our own lenses.

After the GCA seminar in 2014 I left Miami and jetted off to Hawaiʻi, a heavily Asian populated community that paralleled that of my own household. For once it felt nice to not have to explain “what” I am, and that helped me define “who” I am. I trekked to over 20 countries in the last decade and backed my education as a global citizen in pursuit of self and sharpen my skills in storytelling to bridge the gap for marginalized voices to equally obtain access to resources, rights and representation. Nearly 10 years later I call Hawaiʻi home, but as a third culture kid whose land is nowhere and everywhere, I have learned to appreciate, reconnect and reclaim, and etch myself into my own version of a Miami I can see in a map.