In the fifth grade, I decided I would study Tagalog. Although my mother’s family comes from the Visayan-speaking region of Cebu, I thought learning Tagalog would be a fun hobby as well as a pleasant surprise for my grandmother. So, after a few months of Rosetta Stone and online grammar notes, my mother eagerly pushed me onto the phone to have a conversation with my grandmother. “Anong ginawa mo ngayong araw - what did you do today?” I paused for a moment, repeating her question in my head until I understood. “Kinain ko ang almusal - I ate breakfast.” In an attempt to flex my rudimentary language skills, I started to list what I had eaten. “Kanin, mga itlog, at – uh, how do you say bacon po?” My grandmother chuckled. “You can just use English if you don’t know. Everyone will understand you.” After that conversation, I started to consider Tagalog “useless.” If practically every Filipino speaks English, why should I learn their language? Following this realization, I promptly switched to studying Mandarin and let my knowledge of Filipino fade. But seven years later, whether it was due to the gay pinoy television-romcoms or missing my grandmother in quarantine, I began to pick it up again. Only then did I truly internalize that no language is useless. The way we think, and consequently the ideas we develop, are inherent to our native vocabulary, grammar, and orthography. In the same way biodiversity strengthens ecosystems, linguistic diversity can help humanity advance — because innovative ideas can come from anyone, anywhere, and especially, any language. For instance, what new ideas do Tagalog’s five verbs for romantic attraction offer? The general verb for “ to love” (magmahal), is extremely different from kilig, the verb used for the feeling of butterflies when you see a crush. There’s even siping, a verb used to describe the contentment felt when lying down for a nap with a romantic partner. Or what about Inupiaq’s ten words for wind? Uŋalak is a southerly wind, nigikpak is a general north wind, but ikagnak is a north wind that runs parallel to the coastline. And what does it say about Russian culture that there is no noun for “privacy?” Linguistic diversity provides different avenues to analyze reality, allowing us to form a more complete picture of the “truths” and occurrences of our world. All of my experiences studying languages, whether the immediately applicable Spanish, drastically foreign Tagalog, or even linguistically peculiar Greenlandic, have taught me to think in new, interesting ways.

I am the best third wheel you will ever meet. Candlelit dinners, beach excursions, study dates, double dates, triple dates, I do it all. While the image of a third wheel usually evokes the feeling of dead weight and unwanted company, I’ve proven to be the exact opposite. Couples invite me to crack jokes, stoke conversation, and occasionally set the mood, all of which I’m more than happy to do. With a cheeky grin and a light touch of self-mockery, I wear my badge of third wheel with pride. You might be wondering, what does it take to be a master third wheel? Extroversion? A sense of shamelessness? A tasteful blend of femininity and masculinity? As a self proclaimed expert, I attribute my success to one trait only: learning to be alone. No, I don’t mean staying locked in a bedroom with Netflix and Haagen-Dazs for days on end. Nor am I speaking about being single, or about relationships in any sense. No, I mean a much deeper and more constant state of being alone. I first realized I was gay in the eighth grade. At a crowded, sweaty, middle school social, I watched as my friends awkwardly danced with heterosexual partners, or at the very least, shamefully came to me with news of a rejection. Lending my support with just a hint of good-natured ribbing, I still felt the internal sting of being left out. Lunch tables, sleepovers, and group chats became dominated by frenzied conversations about girls and unsuccessful attempts at dating, none of which I could relate to. Even after coming out to my friends and transitioning to high school, this isolation persisted. As my peers discovered a trademark sense of adolescent invincibility, I was discovering a distinct powerlessness. The loneliness of my life in a straight high school, and straight world, seemed to be permanent. But instead of sinking into despair, I decided to focus on what I could control. A few unanswered geometry questions turned into a vigorous petition to test out of precalculus, and I soon discovered a love of math. Fighting against discouragement from both competitive classmates and a skeptical math department, I drove forward with zeal. In long commutes and English class lulls, I found excitement in trigonometry proofs and geometric sums. Not only did the hard work and victories give me the feeling of control I had been missing, but I developed true, genuine passions. Whether exploring multivariable calculus through a local college course, reading news articles in Russian, or learning Ravel’s Miroirs on the piano, these interests brought joy and color back into my life. While still “alone” in my sexuality, I was no longer bothered by the pain of disconnection: my attitude changed, because loneliness in almost any form can either derail you or help you learn self reliance and confidence. Personally, I’m just as comfortable spending a night reading Murakami in my room as I am uninhibitedly dancing at a party with my friends. And yes, this also means I flourish in the normally awkward, tedious, outsider position of third wheel. When I inevitably become part of an even larger community, I will still retain the sincere work ethic and self-derived contentment that’s developed from my experience being gay. As I continue to grow and learn from the wider world, I’ll still remember the lonely yet valuable origins of my character. So while my PhD in third wheeling might be a bit of an unusual (and satirical) area of expertise, it reminds me of the progress I’ve made in learning to find joy in my own work and company.

I am the best third wheel you will ever meet. Candlelit dinners, study dates, double dates, triple dates, I do it all. While the term "third wheel" usually evokes the feeling of dead weight and unwanted company, I’ve proven to be the opposite. Couples invite me to crack jokes and stoke conversation, all of which I’m more than happy to do. With a cheeky grin and a light touch of self-mockery, I wear my badge of third wheel with pride. You might be wondering, what makes a master third wheel? Extroversion? Shamelessness? A tasteful blend of femininity and masculinity? As a hardened expert, I attribute my success to one trait: learning to be alone. No, I don’t mean staying locked in a bedroom with Netflix and Haagen-Dazs. Nor am I referring to relationships. No, I mean a much deeper state of being alone. I first realized I was gay in the eighth grade. At a crowded, sweaty, school dance, I watched as my friends awkwardly danced with heterosexual partners, or at the very least, came to me with news of a rejection. Lending my support with just a hint of good-natured ribbing, I still felt the sting of being left out. Social life became dominated by frenzied conversations about girls and (attempted) dating, none of which I related to. Even after coming out to my friends and transitioning to high school, this isolation persisted. Instead of the adolescent invincibility of my peers, I was discovering a distinct powerlessness. The loneliness of my life in a straight high school, and straight world, seemed to be permanent. But instead of sinking into despair, I decided to focus on what I could control. A few unanswered geometry questions turned into a vigorous petition to test out of precalculus, and I soon discovered a love of math. Fighting discouragement from both competitive classmates and a skeptical math department, I drove forward with zeal. In long commutes and English class lulls, I found excitement in trigonometry proofs and geometric sums. Not only did the hard work and victories give me the feeling of control I had been missing, but I developed genuine passions. Whether exploring multivariable calculus through a local college course, reading news articles in Russian, or playing Ravel on the piano, these interests brought joy and color back into my life. While still “alone” in my sexuality, I was no longer bothered by the pain of disconnection: my attitude changed, because loneliness in almost any form can either derail you or help you learn self reliance and love. Personally, I’m just as comfortable spending a night reading Murakami in my room as I am uninhibitedly dancing at a party with my friends. And yes, this also means I flourish in the normally awkward position of third wheel. So while my PhD in third wheeling might be a bit of an unusual (and satirical) area of expertise, it reminds me of the progress I’ve made in finding joy in my own work and company.