In the workshop and the classroom, I often find myself standing at a curious crossroads—where culture, theatre, and neurodivergence meet. I’m Asian. I’m a working designer and technician. And I am undergoing an ADHD diagnosis. These parts of my identity don’t exist in isolation; they overlap and interact in ways that are both challenging and illuminating. Intersectionality, as Kimberlé Crenshaw describes it, helps make sense of why navigating these layers sometimes feels less like a straight path and more like a roundabout with no clear exit.
Growing up, there were strong cultural expectations around achievement and silence. Teachers were seen as unquestionable authorities, and mental health was something you kept to yourself. The “model minority” myth taught me to be grateful and high-achieving, without ever appearing to struggle. It’s a message that quietly persists. Even now, in staff meetings or production crunches, I catch myself thinking, “Just work harder. Don’t ask for help. Don’t let anyone see you’re overwhelmed.”
It wasn’t until much later that I encountered the social model of disability, which changed how I understood my own brain. ADHD, I’ve learned, isn’t about being lazy or careless. It’s about the mismatch between how my brain processes information and how traditional systems are set up. Long meetings with no breaks, unpredictable last-minute changes, or multi-tasking under pressure can all be disabling. But they don’t have to be. With small shifts—like visual agendas, shared to-do lists, or permission to fidget—we create spaces where more people can thrive. I try to model these openly with students. When I say, “If I don’t write this down now, my ADHD will forget it by lunch,” it normalizes accommodation as part of the creative process—not an exception to it.
My teaching style has tried to grow into something I call “structured creativity.” Everything is broken down into manageable, clearly timed steps. Concepts are taught through demos, diagrams, and hands-on practice. This approach isn’t just for neurodivergent students—it helps everyone. I also bring in cultural comparisons where I can. We’ll look at kabuki stage mechanics next to Broadway scene changes or talk about how indirect communication plays out backstage. These aren’t just add-ons; they’re part of a bigger lesson: there’s more than one way to make good theatre.
Tech weeks are where it all collides. Theatre culture can still glorify sleepless nights and pushing through at any cost. For me, that’s when ADHD hits hardest. So I make space for breaks, encourage headphones in noisy shops, and treat mental health check-ins like any other safety protocol—because they are. When I name these needs aloud, I find others feel more comfortable doing the same.
I’m writing this not to present a finished argument, but to open a door. Yes, an Asian educator can have ADHD. Yes, that shapes how I teach and design. But it also enriches what I bring to the table. Inclusion isn’t just policy—it’s culture. And theatre, after all, is a place where cultures are built.
Let’s keep building—together.
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