Seeing More When Seen Less Unnoticed amid the mundane, Mia Cheng redefines visibility
If every conversation is an encounter and mingling of perspectives, then every speech is a visualization and echo of thought. In an age where attention itself is a luxury, a six-hour speech marathon might seem like an overly idealistic attempt. However, when we set aside the surrounding noise and truly focus on others’ words, “experience” takes center stage, “prejudice” recedes, and we genuinely connect with others’ realities.
“I hope that each of us suspended in this fragmented information age can find a fulcrum to connect warmly with the world.”
When independent publisher Kai Kai concluded her speech with these words, it went beyond encouragement, becoming a collective call from all the speakers.
“Return to sensibility”, “find a fulcrum”, “immerse in ‘fervor’”, “escape the predicament of groupthink”, “beware of standardization”... On March 30, at the first YiXi Youth event co-presented by Keystone and YiXi, seven adult speakers—Kai Kai, Liang Yongan, Li Zhizhong, Yang Xiaofeng, Su Dechao, Ding Yang, and Feng Junhe—showcased seven possibilities of life. These possibilities weren’t driven by achievement or concerned with rewards and costs. Everything stemmed from love and dedication, returning to the individual and immediate surroundings, allowing listening to guide reflection and tangible action.
While adults seek breakthroughs and detours within established rules, young people offer fresh perspectives untouched by collective narratives. This time, on the stage of the Keystone Performing Arts Center, we also heard a youthful voice:
“As we approach the society, the myriad appearances and hidden complexities may remain unseen. However, it is imperative that we patiently perceive and further understand these aspects, as each generation ultimately matures into social beings.”
This marked the first time a secondary school student spoke at a YiXi event. We wondered: What do today’s youth care about? Have they found new paths to explore familiar topics? We were equally curious: Is the story of a teenager, not yet shaped by society, worth listening to?
In an era where meritocracy has nearly created a “tyranny”, young people remain the rebels. They may no longer be sharp-edged, but they’re certainly not blindly compliant. They witness, explore, adapt, and silently resist. Mia Cheng’s story is a response to an overly embellished society and to the hollow slogans of social networks.
How does one become an outstanding student leader? How does one efficiently manage study time? You might not find answers to these questions in Mia’s speech. Her story originates from a courageous exploration of real life—without sympathy, interpretation, or judgment—breaking preconceptions, discarding the victor’s posture, and truly entering, participating, and experiencing. A local restaurant, a staff dormitory, countless cycles of cleaning and setting tables—this 17-year-old girl decided to spend a month of her summer vacation working as a full-time restaurant server.
“As a server, I experienced a transition from being ‘seen’ to being ‘unseen’, which represented an internal crisis of self-awareness.”
This is an attempt most adults wouldn’t consider, and it’s even more remarkable coming from a young person on the cusp of college applications. In an age where “student” is as fixed an identity as any other, and teenagers seem perpetually tethered to “curriculum” and “academics”, her “departure” is all the more valuable.
For Mia, experiencing firsthand a society advancing with AI and virtual reality technologies is of significant value. This internship allowed her to see aspects of life that were close yet untouched. Away from internet filters and the protection of school and family, she learned to face the never-ending dust in private dining rooms and the near-absence of “thank you” as an independent member of society. The tedious, repetitive work processes drained her endlessly, and physical challenges made her want to escape at times, but the inner changes led her through repeated “awakenings”.
“If the feeling of being seen grants me a voice, then I feel able of seeing more when I am seen less.”
The challenges came both from being “seen” and “unseen”. Others cast questioning glances, unaware that 30 days of full-time work far exceeds a single day’s “life experience”. The disparity in living standards with her colleagues caused her to struggle with doubt. Amidst the misalignment of identity and upbringing, she attempted to re-examine life, trying to find her place again while rethinking: What kind of person do I want to become? What should I do for this society?
In this article, we want to share the full speech given by Mia Cheng, a Grade 11 student at Keystone Academy, at the Keystone x YiXi Youth event. This voice from a 17-year-old isn’t meant to convey theoretical knowledge, but simply to embark on a journey of “seeing” the bottom line of survival together.
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This speech has been edited for brevity.
Hello, everyone! My name is Mia Cheng, and I am a Grade 11 student at Keystone Academy in Beijing.
Last summer, I worked in a high-end restaurant in Chengdu for a month. I wasn’t there as what Chengdu locals might say a “laid-back boss” but as a full-time server. From July to August, I experienced a cycle of restaurant work.
During that month, I lived and ate alongside my fellow servers. We shared meals in the restaurant’s staff canteen and lived in a staff dormitory rented by the restaurant. Each day, we commuted between the apartment and the restaurant under the scorching summer sun. As a newcomer, I shared a room with several female interns from vocational high schools.
This unusual experience has roots that stretch far back in my life.
My father had often told stories about his childhood, when he was shorter than the family cooking pot yet would stand on a stool to prepare meals for everyone. My mother has shared memories of her first summer job as a salesperson giving potato chip samples to customers, where she earned several hundred yuan, enough to buy herself treats and a new pair of gloves for my grandmother. For years, I suspected their earnest advice was simply a ploy to recruit me as free holiday labor, especially since my grandparents ran a small teahouse where I had previously served customers.
It wasn’t until I discovered sociology a few years ago that I developed a genuine interest in firsthand experiences rather than purely academic research. For a month during my middle school holidays, I studied at the Chengdu New East Cuisine School. Though my time there ended abruptly when I cut my hand and needed a tetanus shot, I gained valuable knowledge from friendships with the culinary students. Over the past year and a half, I’ve visited over thirty teahouses representing Chengdu’s leisure culture, immersing myself in these public spaces, conducting social observations, and writing essays for potential publication. My intuition suggests that direct, personal experience may be very valuable in a society increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence and virtual reality technologies.
In early July, I registered my personal information on 58.com and inquired about waitstaff positions. I interviewed at a hot pot restaurant, a barbecue restaurant, and finally this restaurant I later worked at. One afternoon, I stepped into this restaurant for the first time. It was designed as a Chinese-style garden, featuring independent wooden chalets. The innermost lobby was adorned with crystal chandeliers, while private rooms with shut doors lined the corridors on both sides. A manager dressed professionally and in high heels emerged to interview me. It was likely because I stood tall among girls from the Sichuan and Chongqing regions, and spoke fluent Mandarin without a noticeable accent that the manager asked only a few simple questions before instructing me to bring my ID card and report the following day. I did, fully presentable with makeup, with my luggage in tow.
My work began at ten o’clock each morning, cleaning the various private rooms. When guests arrived for their meals, I would set the tableware, serve tea and water, and take and deliver their orders. After they finished dining, I would clear the tables, restore the private rooms to their original state, and then leave for my lunch break. The exact process repeated from four in the afternoon until dinner service ended. As I began my formal duties, I quickly felt the swift pace of this seemingly ordinary work.
At 10 a.m., the day began with a roll call and room assignments, ensuring not a moment of respite. A race against time ensued at the hot water room, where securing boiled water and hot towels required speed, as losing out meant waiting for the next batch. Fortunately, our department head occasionally assisted, allowing me to be the first to return to my assigned room with four large kettles of freshly boiled water.
Opening the wooden door, the opulent room presented itself to the guests: a floor covered by carpets adorned with beautiful patterns, a twelve-person round table set with ornamented tableware, a spacious and comfortable tea lounge, and a private courtyard with lush greenery visible through the glass doors. However, my perspective differed. I saw a floor that demanded multiple sweeps to eliminate every tiny crumb hidden within the patterns, a tabletop where chopsticks and plates had to be precisely aligned, tall wooden chairs requiring careful cushion cleaning that needed to be wiped with a lift, a lounge where soot seemed to materialize from nowhere, and a terrace where fallen leaves persistently lingered despite our best efforts.
After meticulous preparation, the intercom announced, “Guest No. 33!” I hastily dabbed my sweat-dampened makeup with a tissue, positioned myself at the room’s entrance, and offered a service-oriented smile. I served fruit platters, presented the menu, recommended teas, and opened wine and decanted it. This process demanded perfection. A single slip or a shaky hand causing a spilled drink could cost thousands of yuan and potentially be charged to me—a month’s salary.
The presentation of each exquisite dish involved a relay, commencing in the kitchen, progressing through the food service department, and culminating in my operational area. Upon calling the kitchen via the intercom to initiate the food service, a private room’s hot dishes were entirely served within ten to fifteen minutes. During this timeframe, I had to inquire about the guests’ preferences for various wines and beverages, announce the dish names upon serving, and occasionally provide a complementary introduction. For dishes served individually, I had to light the candles and serve each guest one by one. Between courses, I cleared the tables using a tray and tongs. On one occasion, during an inspection, I was reprimanded for not pouring the wine in a clockwise direction, starting from the seat of honor. I felt aggrieved, as I was preoccupied with the rapid pace and could not focus on the order.
Once I had completed serving my assigned private room and several nearby rooms requiring assistance, the busiest period subsided, and I only needed to tidy the rest area and the operational space for waitstaff. However, the most exhausting phase followed this brief respite. The serving staff was responsible for cleaning and polishing the dozens of wine glasses, beverage glasses, and various chopsticks, spoons, and forks in the room after the meal. The remaining fine wines in the glasses were discarded down the drain in the operational area. After washing and wiping, I had to arrange the new tableware on the table according to the number of guests scheduled for the next meal. After finishing the service in my private room, I was immediately assigned to the next one, and I could only leave after completing all the services.
The air conditioning in private rooms operated only when guests were present. By over 1 p.m., after working in the heat, I was drenched in sweat, desperately waiting to finish and return to my lodgings for rest. Yet, at 4 p.m., the entire process restarted. After the second round, my feet in leather shoes ached from standing and walking throughout the day. As evening approached and our shift neared its end, all servers grew restless. One complained, “Why are they still drinking in private room 99? They’ve already ordered 20 bottles of beer!” Another lamented, “Why aren’t they leaving room 33? They’re just sitting there chatting. How are we supposed to clear the table?” When a large party of 20 lingered, five or six servers gathered at the door, peering through the crack, silently willing them to leave.
The most blissful moments of my day were spent chatting with a few girls in the dormitory, only a few years older than me. Our conversations were about recent breakups or scoldings from supervisors, similar to the daily dialogues in our school’s female dormitories. The comfort we offered each other through words provided the finest relaxation.
This was my typical day as a server, leaving me utterly exhausted by its end. Never had I experienced a situation requiring such composure and a presentable appearance for an entire day. Although my school days were full, working felt like being a spinning top, bringing primarily a physical challenge. Honestly, after just one week, fatigue made me want to quit. I heard identical sentiments from vocational school students interning with me in the dormitory. This seemed a universal feeling among students transitioning to the workforce. Yet the physical challenge represented only one aspect. My thoughts stirred a sense of wonder that continuously resonated within me, which was the most significant discovery my work had revealed.
In this experience, I transitioned from being “seen” to being “unseen.”
This shift represented an internal crisis of self-awareness. Previously, I often accompanied my parents to various banquets, where, as a diner, I was visible. This visibility did not necessarily mean being the center of attention. For instance, during Chinese New Year gatherings of our family and relatives, while the adults discussed stock prices and real estate, topics I couldn’t contribute to, I was still acknowledged with a brief greeting from relatives when I was munching on Snickers. They might also offer a casual “eat more of this dish” amidst their conversations. Despite the limited external attention, I possessed a strong sense of self-identity.
However, when I became a server, this self-awareness was forcibly diminished. Upon accidentally bumping into me while toasting, guests would simply move around me as if nothing had happened. When I replaced a guest’s thirty-centimeter-wide plate with a clean bowl, they would continue to focus on their conversation without a glance. Two guests, holding cigarettes, chatted near the table, and as I offered an ashtray, they would naturally stub out their cigarettes without looking at me.
Initially, I felt extremely strange and uncomfortable, as the long-held belief in “I” as “me,” as an independent individual, and the very foundation of my existence, crumbled. But as days passed, I gradually adapted. The black uniform became a magical cloak of invisibility in reality. I skillfully passed ceramic plates and teacups with unseen hands, fully accepting the previously unfamiliar role of “being unseen”, and adjusting to the internal impact.
The transition from being “seen” to being “unseen” represents a complete upheaval of my external behavioral patterns. Before assuming the role of a server, my identity was primarily defined by being a teenager. Within the school environment, I was the focus of teachers’ attention. At home, I was the focus of my parents’ attention. This external protection and care ensured that my feelings and emotions were valued. However, upon becoming a worker, I had to shift my focus outward, no longer receiving external care. Being seen and cared for is effortless. It requires only passive existence. Conversely, being unseen while caring for others, particularly ensuring customer satisfaction, is exceptionally challenging.
The server’s role entails numerous prescribed tasks, such as preparing tableware, serving wine, taking and delivering orders, and so on. Simultaneously, the server must also address unspoken needs. For instance, when multiple guests compete to pay the bill or attempt to settle the bill in advance while the host is proposing a toast to other guests, I must judiciously determine who should pay. Similarly, if guests bring outside pastries, even if not explicitly required by them or service protocols, I must promptly recognize this and proactively arrange for the kitchen to present the pastries attractively on beautiful plates for the guests’ convenience. Every aspect of the work must be executed flawlessly to prevent customers from perceiving any shortcomings in the service.
The shift from being “seen” to being “unseen” has challenged my sense of purpose and meaning. Previously, as a student, I, along with my peers, engaged in academic pursuits and athletic training within the structured environment of the school. Everything revolved around self-improvement. Whether the trigonometric proofs in mathematics or the physical demands of tennis training, I was certain these would contribute to my personal growth. However, upon becoming a server, the purpose of all learning shifted to serving others.
As a server, I was required to memorize a vast array of information: issuing different lunch and dinner vouchers, preparing huangjiu (yellow wine) as well as serving preserved plums and turning on heating, using Jiangtuan fish (leiocassis longirostris) exclusively for steamed fish with pickled peppers, and arranging lobster with ginger sauce and steamed egg white (while the dish’s Chinese name calls the egg white “confederate rose” as it looks white and pure). I also had to master efficient floor-sweeping skills and the daily routine of applying makeup in twenty minutes, ensuring it remained flawless throughout the day. Initially, I found this novel and intriguing, but gradually, the process became tedious, resulting in confusion and exhaustion. I realized that the most arduous challenge was to redirect the purpose of one’s efforts from self to others and persevere in this endeavor. Only the fundamental need for survival could compel one to overcome such a challenge.
Beyond the insights I gained from my own transition from being “seen” to being “unseen,” I wish to share another perspective: during my time as a server, the people and events behind the restaurant, which, for me, were once “unseen” became “seen”.
I have observed the consumption habits of numerous patrons, primarily centered around tobacco and alcohol. Baijiu is indispensable at the dinner table, and the subtle reactions between guests and the liquor vary greatly with each meal. On the first day, after the first round of toasts, the guests needed more liquor, and I filled a male guest’s baijiu decanter. He pulled me aside, his face flushed with anger, and scolded me for pouring too much. I then learned that adding liquor only required less than a quarter of the decanter’s capacity, enough for another one or two toasts. Often, the hosts would discreetly ask me to pour mineral water into their baijiu decanters to deceive others. This tactic was so common that we servers became accustomed to it.
Another time, a table of twelve guests consumed nearly two cases of medium-strength Fenjiu (a Chinese traditional mild-flavored spirit). The twelve men became utterly intoxicated and successively removed their shirts. Unable to see the rice in front of them, they summoned me to scold me for serving them individual dumplings. Besides alcohol, cigarettes were also essential. If a table of guests smoked, the entire private room would be filled with smoke. We had to hold our breath as we entered with the trays, and any server assigned to a room with heavy smokers would complain but could only accept their fate. I recall one instance where the room with the heaviest smokers I served turned out to be a group of hospital leaders. Interesting, isn’t it? Simultaneously, I observed a peculiar phenomenon: whenever a woman occupied the seat of honor at the dinner table, even if the rest of the guests were men, the table rarely proposed more than one round of toasts, and smoking was limited to one or two cigarettes at most.
Beyond the myriad consumer behaviors, I also witnessed the precious and sincere emotions among my colleagues, which moved me deeply. Since I was a newcomer, the restaurant assigned a mentor to me, who guided me hands-on during my first week. My mentor was the head of our department, gentle and composed. Unlike a teacher or leader, she was more like a big sister taking care of me, and indeed, that was the case. She was just a young woman in her early twenties. If our private rooms were adjacent, she would quietly give me the bamboo stool she brought to the room to sit on and rest my feet. When I didn’t bring water during the evening service, she would offer me her gardenia tea. Fearing it was dangerous for me to ride my bike back to the dormitory alone after the late shift, she let me ride on the back of her electric scooter. Several times, when I broke a wine glass while washing it due to my lack of skill, my mentor would put the amount I needed to pay on her own account.
Before me, my mentor had also trained another apprentice, my senior, whom I call Sister Maoping. She was a year older than me and gorgeous. After putting on makeup, her face was slightly flushed, making her look both cute and gentle, but she spoke frankly and decisively. Several male colleagues with more experience, who were about my age, lacked patience. When I first arrived, they would criticize me for forgetting or being unclear about my work, such as not emptying the trash in the private room’s toilet. Maoping would come over and say domineeringly in Sichuan dialect, “Why are you scolding the little sister!” and then take over the task.
I also observed the shared emotions among diverse individuals. As the restaurant servers moved to and fro, I often stood in the cramped kitchen, contemplating who the young man or woman might have been, standing in the same spot five years prior. What thoughts occupied their minds as they faced the crowded cabinets, the narrow wooden door, and the towering stacks of plates? The answers, I discovered, were etched upon the mottled walls of the operational space.
The walls, nearly covered in messages, became a series of dialogues between myself and those who had occupied this role in the past. These were young people in their teens and twenties, some writing sentimental online quotes like “Am I the one you love the most?” while others copied Khalil Fong’s lyrics, “We are each others’ special person.” They could idly lament, “I’m so hungry,” or “I want to go home,” or passionately write, “I’m betting my youth on tomorrow.” The awkwardness of first love, the indifference towards reality, and the surging ambition… aren’t these the youthful sentiments that all of us, regardless of our identities, experience?
One exchange I observed struck a chord within me. It comprised two distinct sets of handwriting, clearly penned by two individuals at different times. The faded upper portion asked, “How far must one travel in a lifetime?” The more recent, forceful response read, “Just a hundred and eighty thousand li.”
This marked a full month of employment at this restaurant, encompassing flexible leave, totaling thirty days, after which I received my full salary. This income represents a significant increase compared to the 600 yuan my mother earned in her time. While I am grateful for this financial gain, the other rewards have proven even more significant. Perhaps my friends perceive little difference in me before and after this past summer, yet my inner self has been entirely reshaped by these thirty days.
For instance, when dining out, I now unconsciously observe the waitstaff, noting whether they adhere to proper procedures in pouring wine and clearing plates, and assessing the cleanliness and presentation of their attire. I also observe how they handle demanding customers. Furthermore, when celebrating birthdays with friends at a restaurant, I no longer use confetti, as I now understand the difficulty in cleaning up such debris. Similarly, when encountering online expressions of disdain or disrespect towards service staff from those with a sense of self-importance, I experience discomfort and find such arrogance repulsive.
Society is vast, and as we approach it, the myriad appearances and hidden complexities may remain unseen by our generation. However, it is imperative that we patiently perceive and further understand these aspects, as each generation ultimately matures into social beings.
Today, as I stand before you, the spotlight once again renders me visible. To be or not to be? This is the question posed by Shakespeare. At this moment, might another question be raised? To be seen or not to be seen? At least, this is my answer: when seen, my self-awareness is heightened, but when unseen, my subjective consciousness is diminished, and my attention is instead directed towards everything around me, allowing me to gain insights I never had before. If the feeling of being seen grants me a voice, then I feel able of seeing more when I am seen less.
