Sometimes I feel something growing inside of me. A parasite, I think. It sits firmly within my throat and grows whenever I'm angry, which seems to be all the time lately. Whenever my friends make me laugh, it disappears for a while. In a way, I'm forced to be happy all the time. Now I can say that I'm cured, albeit in the most morbid sense of the word. People really like to joke about sadness. I think it's because they don't know what to do with it. I guess it's better than not talking about it. I guess that's why I have a stupid parasite in my throat. I named her Shea, and I've learned that it's best to befriend her. Everyone has a Shea. I'm not completely sure that's true, but I like to convince myself that it is. Maybe I'm just scared to admit that I'm the only one. I've never asked anyone about her, but I sense she's more of an unspoken agreement than an elephant in the room. How embarrassing would it be to talk about Shea. Sometimes I hate myself. I have a lisp and that makes me stumble over my words when I talk fast, and my body freezes when someone compliments me. I think I would fit in and have a lot of friends if Shea stopped locking my throat up. I’ve learned to live with her. I don’t know when this continency will end, but when it does, I'll be left in ruin. But until then, I guess I just need a good laugh to stay alive. Editors: Alisha B., Uzayer M., Luna Y.

rén yǒu bēi huān lí hé 人有悲欢离合， People have sorrow and joy; they part or meet again how many people has she been? how many footsteps has she left from salty seas to frosty breeze to summer warmth to airplane seats. on this long winding path, she left a younger soul in every place she called home, the Shanghai sky that heard her laugh and Montreal clouds that held her first snow. when you learn to fly, you learn to leave behind. one day, you’ll hold those smaller selves you’ve shed like skin and in your fingers they are the glossy paper of a return ticket, fragile and unfamiliar but worth it nonetheless. yuè yǒu yīn qíng yuán quē 月有阴晴圆缺， The moon is bright or dim and she may wax or wane in dreams, she can shine with the stars, glow with all the colors of this kaleidoscope soul. yet here she finds herself always half-cast in shadow, never bright enough for her homeland. never fully anything in the foreign sky she cut pieces from herself to fit into. there’s beauty here in the spilled galaxies and diamond ice, but her crescent smile still wanes when she thinks of home, how those constellations glitter unreadable in the night she once knew. cǐ shì gǔ nán quán 此事古难全。 There has been nothing perfect since the olden days. those days when the words fit in her mouth like baby biscuits in Beijing, small and sweet, soft to swallow when mother tongue didn’t taste like dust like the residues of her hesitation left on an abandoned language when her poems could have been carried in cascading characters instead of these letters and lines the regret is less bitter, more empty like this heart once filled with the bedtime stories an older self forgot to speak, the faint words still ringing with a promise. dàn yuàn rén cháng jiǔ 但愿人长久， So let us wish that humanity may live as long as we can! because her fingers found the gloss of paper again, pressed hands to printed pages and folded her own return tickets. there is a world out there and it is so full of people, full of long winding paths and half-lit moons there are still more destinations, more Shenzhen summers to see and Toronto winters to dream, may it thrive like the stories that blossomed across borders, may it whistle across the sunrise to follow jets flying home qiān lǐ gòng chán juān 千里共婵娟。 Though miles apart, we'll share the beauty she displays. holding her hand out, the wind carries the breath of her past selves and she holds them close despite the distance in time. she wove her own story, wrote her own language in the poems she calls home, found a new beauty in her kaleidoscope ways, in the shine of eastern silk under western sun, in the melody of Mandarin beside crisp English & through the airplane window, her eyes blink in the skyline of Vancouver night, a moon that fades some days but returns to shine, her song ebbing with the gentle tide. Author's Note: This poem is an exploration of my own feelings about how immigration has affected my cultural identity and sense of self. This piece is inspired by the ancient Chinese poem “Prelude to Water Melody” which the poet Su Shi wrote about missing his brother one night while he’s gazing at the moon. I think there’s something about the concept of missing a family member you haven’t seen in years but accepting that you’re still connected to them that is so similar to the immigrant child experience of missing some parts of your culture(s) but eventually accepting that you’re still connected to that place and identity. Editor(s): Alisha B. Photo Credits: Unsplash

They fed me notions that tie the intricacies of our vessels with shame. Plump curves are ones to hide, scars are emblems of weakness, and explorations of corporal pleasure a crime. The body is consistently under scrutiny—the judgment of nosy relatives babbling about weight loss, the repulsive gazes of lust and hostility. Under scrutiny the body is tense, each skein of muscle tightened, ready to flee. Or freeze. Then I found you, and I let go. Relaxation allows each tissue, each pore to absorb collective pain, and collective memories, then allow them to dissipate. The body is not shame but passion. Yet passion has never been well bred. Those moments before I depart, again and again, the touch of your fingers bites my skin. The imminent heartbreak creeps through every cell in me. I would have bound me to you with ropes and had us lie face to face unable to move but move on each other, unable to feel but feel each other. In that world, we could conclude our passion infinitely. To end would be to begin again. Only you, only me. I am rash but so are you. I am jealous but so are you. I am brute with love but so are you. Neither of us has the upper hand, we wear matching wounds. You are my twin, my best friend, my lover, my home. You are my paradox. With you I am patient enough to number each of your lashes, too impatient to get undressed. Skin is waterproof but my skin is not waterproof against you. You flooded me, blinded me, drowned my rationality. I let you wade through me, with no boat at the gate and the tide still rising. I am afraid. Afraid of the day when I can no longer behold your clavicle, the collar bone, extending in an elegant slope, outlining the sharp angles of your shoulders, when I can no longer bury myself in your grooves and edges, breathing in the slight scent of fresh wood sage and cinnamon. Afraid of the day when I can no longer feel your scapula, the shoulder blades protruding as your spine curls in a reach to decrease the negative space between us, when I can no longer run my palm down the burning skin on your back, startled by the bursting strength contained in the flesh and bone. Afraid of the day when I can no longer count the thirteen bones that form the skeleton of your face. I am no longer allowed to kiss you from your brow bone, down the bump on the bridge of your nose, to the dimple that adorns the carved borders of your chin. In this helpless instant, I linger on the ample volume of your lips, your taste gushing like a sugar high to my brain. I find myself in your skin, myself lodged in your bones. My body knows you, welcomes you, and thirsts for you. So what’ll happen when it's torn from you? I am afraid. I am afraid this torn feeling is no longer an unfamiliar one. Perhaps the essence of being a global citizen, a multicultural young person, a traveling nomad with connections across the world is the fact that I am never with each person I love for long enough. Every time I begin to feel joy, it is already time to say goodbye. Goodbye, to you across the ever-expanding universe, to you who rapidly changes and grows to someone I no longer recognize, to you whom I do not know when the next time we meet will be. As loneliness and confusion dawn, only the spiral brings solace. The spiral imprinted in the swirls of your hair—on the back of your head and on the corners of your body—reminds me that everything diverges and then converges again. And again. Soon I will be pulled back by the spiral, to those moments when I hear my best friend’s laughter, hold my Grandma’s wrinkled hand, or feel your lips on mine once more. As the idiom goes: “分久必合，合久必分。” Editor(s): Chris F., Charlotte C. Photo Credits: Unsplash

I’m exhausted. Tired of all the lies, All the words you spin into this web that’s somehow supposed to protect me from the world out there. I know, I know you wanted the best for me. For your daughter to be safe. safe from both sides: from the hatred in your own country because our ethnic minority group was there first from the hatred in this new land because we weren’t there first with the colonizers but you still could have told me. you could have... ... you could have been so many things: proud of your culture the one who i’d go to for questions about my history and people but instead, i cannot i don’t open my mouth and utter the burning questions of mine, because i know somehow, somewhere inside, it makes you uncomfortable so i turn to whoever else i can, screaming a desperate plea [ tiktok, instagram, DearAsianYouth, discord, my literal AMERICAN history teacher that knows nothing about west asian history ] i grasp at every bit of knowledge, every bit of culture, of community, because i have none because you, my idol, my role model, have said nothing because we play the game of assimilation and somehow I, the one who rejects it, has the privilege to be victorious, to assimilate but you will never because of the twisted rules and orders this country is made of i’m sorry baba i’m sorry for everything you went through your native tongue illegal as your grew up, forcing you to strip yourself and clothe yourself with the garb of your colonizers i’m sorry for everything you still go through the racial and ethnic hate here in “the land of the free” the way you had to give up all your identity even more so, just to be accepted by mama’s european family the same family that calls us slurs because we aren’t pasty white the way that everything of your culture is taboo everywhere, throughout the world, even in our home i’m sorry i know you never told me but i found out and all of this makes sense -- your behavior, your secrecy but i’ll never stop being proud of who I am. because they will never win never erase who we truly are --- they deserve nothing but to see our culture thrive and continue passed down generation to generation for you baba, and for all those who came before. Author's Note: This piece was written through the lens of a biracial individual who is half European and half West Asian, and the daughter of two immigrants. Though my identity most definitely is more complex than that, this basically sums it up pretty well so one can understand the writing piece. However, it was intentionally written in a way that anyone dealing with similar issues can relate. Writing is, in my opinion, a form of art. And art can be understood in many different ways. but my intentions with this piece were to illustrate the struggle of having a parent who is not proud of their culture due to societal pressures, primarily due to colonization and Eurocentric ideals. I really wanted to bring up how there's two instances of assimilation -- 1. assimilation into another POC culture (specifically another west asian culture in this situation), and 2. being needed to assimilate from that culture into a more "western" culture such as that in the U.S. I also briefly touched on how privilege can help us in assimilation in western cultures. Due to me being born in the U.S as well as being half white, I am granted a lot of privilege that my relatives do not have. And hence, it is easier for me to assimilate in the U.S. It truly is a complex concept, but to those who had to experience instances where your native language and culture were made illegal (like my father) or to those who have to deal with the outcomes of that situation (such as myself), I just want you to know that you are not alone. It is a difficult journey, but you have us all with you. And, helpful tip, TikTok is a great place to start interacting with people of your community :) Cover Photo Source: https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20201109-what-other-cultures-can-teach-us-about-forgiveness

Because they were surprised I spoke a different language and wanted to know what part of China my family lived in... If I said I was from Wu Yi Dong Lu in Changji, Xinjiang, a block away from the Fei Ma Zhuan Pan (or the flying horse intersection), where the men smoking cigarettes squat on sidewalks and trees align on either side of the streets decorated with color-changing lights. Where there is little pollution that taints the endless blur of blue above me and every sign is in both Mandarin and Uyghur. Where the most tourist-attractive structure is a massive onion-shaped theatre that is supposed to look like a lotus flower, would you know where I’m from? In the place I love, the beaming, summer sun greets me in the mornings with a cool but dry breeze. In the place I love, the sounds of students skipping to school, intertwined with the chorus of chirping birds, flow in through my window. In the place I love, I get ready for the day at 10 a.m., leaving my room with the teddy bear curtains adorned with broken English. In the place I love, when I eat breakfast, I often glance at the framed picture of Mao Zedong displayed on the ledge and observe the faded, black-and-white photos of my young grandpa in the army preserved on the peeling white-painted walls. In the place I love, people question if I can speak Mandarin, smile at my obvious accent, and ask me about America: “Do you prefer China or the U.S.?” In the place I love, we stroll around; my grandma points out the trees she’s planted and watched grow in her small community of pastel buildings and beautiful flowers. In the place I love, we stop below an apricot tree or a plum tree and discuss whether it’s ripe enough to shake. In the place I love, my aunts reluctantly agree to let me drive them on my grandpa’s three-wheeled motorcycle so we can all have lunch together. In the place I love, the maid sends me to the small community store to buy a few things. I struggle with understanding the currency — the owner asks for yi yuan, but I hand her yi mao qian. She laughs kindly. In the place I love, it is time for lunch. Delicious smells waft out through windows as the maid calls us in. We make our way up the three flights of stairs. I have to make two trips — once to help my grandpa and twice to carry his wheelchair. In the place I love, my other uncle visits us, bringing a variety of melons: honeymelon, watermelon, and cantaloupe. In the place I love, my grandparents take their second nap of the day as I watch the International Women’s Volleyball Games. China’s team is very good. I sit on the edge of my seat and cheer for them. In the place I love, my mom and I go shopping for groceries. I drive us in my grandpa’s three-wheeled motorcycle, passing by foreign branded cars as we park near the crowded, noisy street markets with vendors who loudly bargain with customers. In the place I love, we stop by Grandpa Tea to grab a 24 yuan cup of iced tea. I order the one with passion fruit, strawberries, and oranges. The owner tells us his husky is at the other store. In the place I love, I pass by a police station every 50 meters. In the place I love, my grandparents and I go downstairs to sit on our favorite bench in the evening. In the place I love, we talk with the gossiping old ladies who possess all knowledge concerning the community: “Did you hear Li Xian Sheng went to visit his son in Urumqi?” In the place I love, my mom joins the community residents as they play pre-recorded CD music and follow their dance instructor, waving their hands and spinning as the sun sets. In the place I love, the sun sets at 10 p.m., but it’s too hot so I cannot sleep. Sometimes, I snap on my rollerblades and explore the city at 11 p.m. The color-changing lights and store windows illuminate the sidewalk as I weave through groups of people. In the place I love, my grandma occasionally talks with my mom until midnight as we lounge on the couch. I listen. In the place I love, the lonely sound of outdoor cats, the whirring fan, my grandma’s steady snoring, and my grandpa’s humming oxygen tank are the last things I hear before I fall asleep. - Alice L Summer 2019 nostalgia. I haven't been able to visit my mom's side of the family because of the pandemic. I was born in America, but both my parents are immigrants and most of my relatives are in China. Although I've lived here for my entire life, I often feel homesick for my second home. This is my love letter to Changji, Xinjiang. Instagram: @alei.23

Biography: I'm a South Indian girl who enjoys drinking exceptional coffee and making mediocre art. My hobbies include but are not limited to finding really aesthetic Pinterest posts and listening to all the Lo-Fi music available on Spotify. Instagram: @illustratress

The options available to Jackie were limited. She couldn't stuff it in her bra—she didn't wear one yet—so she had to decide between the pocket or sleeve of her hoodie. She was used to using the sleeve of her hoodie to hide things, like the pads she took with her to the bathroom in school. Jackie had purposefully selected the foundation that cost the least since she knew, if at all, it was better to be caught with something less expensive. The word for that is petty theft, but Jackie didn't know that word yet. Standing in the employees-only bathroom, staring at the empty soap dispenser no one had plans to tend to, she wondered if covering her mole was worth the trouble. "Nốt ruồi đẹp và tự nhiên mà con," Jackie often heard her family say. They always told her that whenever she mentioned she didn't like it. It wasn't that she disagreed with them and thought moles couldn't be pretty, but she wished hers was in a different place. Under her eye, in the middle of her cheek, anywhere would be better than above her lip. She half admired and half envied her mom, who always had perfect skin. Her mom used all sorts of skin-care products, although Jackie didn't think she needed them. Jackie thought her mom was pretty, and not just when compared to the auntie who hemmed and altered clothes, or the auntie whose husband was deadweight, or the auntie that worked with her mom at the salon, or the auntie, who Jackie actually was related to, that owned that salon. Her mom was pretty when compared to anyone. Her mom did her makeup the same way every morning, and Jackie had long memorized her routine. She liked light blue eyeshadow, liked to be conservative with eyeliner and mascara, and always finished with a setting spray which she diluted with water—it'd work just as well but last twice as long, her mom argued. Jackie disagreed with this, since her makeup still smudged in the Houston heat. However fun it was to watch her mom's ritual every morning, and to Jackie it really was, she had her own business in the bathroom. Jackie liked using the mirror of the medicine cabinet to track the growth of her mole. She measured it periodically and preferred the 6-inch rulers over the 12-inch rulers, since they were easier to hold when measuring small things. She wrote measurements on a piece of paper she kept in her pillowcase, the only truly private place in their tiny apartment, and always anticipated the next check in. This was her own kind of ritual. She couldn't understand people, like her classmates, who didn't seem to have the same regard for detail; this was why they did worse on all the reading tests at school and had a lower Lexile Score than her, she thought. Reasoning with herself, Jackie decided it didn't matter whether or not covering her mole was worth the trouble, since Shade 110 - Classic Ivory didn't seem like the right color anyway. She had mistakenly swabbed this bottle in a hurry. Jackie knew that the clerk who worked on weekdays, a tall scrawny boy whose name was Brendan or Brendon or Brenden (she couldn't remember the spelling even though she's seen his badge multiple times), kept a watchful eye. Despite this, she had no other choice because she went to the salon with her mom on weekends, and the Walgreens in that town was unfamiliar. There was no guarantee the code to the employees-only bathroom there was going to be 0000 too. Jackie removed the plastic covering the bottle. It was perforated, so when she removed the lining in the center the rest followed. Copying what she's seen her mom do, Jackie used her ring ringer to swab the cream over her upper lip. She watched with disappoint as her suspicions were confirmed: it was far too light and only veiled her mole. She didn't want to be like her mom or the aunties, who purposefully bought makeup that was too light and didn't fit their complexion. They were in denial. Not the one with the deadweight husband though, that one had self awareness. An ache crept up Jackie's back as she pressed for something more dense and pigmented she could use. The word for that is concealer, but Jackie didn't know that word yet either. Disappointed, Jackie decided she'd put the foundation back. She felt she could still be pretty, so long as she augmented other features on her face and took attention away from her upper lip. To do that, she'd begin wearing dramatic eye makeup. Specifically, she'd try to perfect wearing wing eyeliner. Most girls in her class, except for the white girls, wore wing eyeliner too. This alternative was fine. She was mostly just happy that soon, she'd be home. Jackie put the cap of the bottle back on, re-centered herself, and opened the door to Brendan with an "a" waiting outside. I wrote this story as an apology letter to the Walgreens I stole makeup from when I was 13. Also so that everyone knows how pretty my mom is. Biography: Như loves eating mango, reading stories, and making people laugh. She writes things she wish she got to read as a kid. Cover Photo Source: Shopify

A Collection of Butterflies 1: butterfly i think i’d like to be a butterfly to float freely to fly to be such a beauty without restraints without stress and the pressure of the real world to live in a fantasy 2: fantasy my dream world is a fantasy that exists only in my mind but i love it there with its colours and feelings its butterfly-like delicateness 3: delicate delicate are feelings you never know what one feels delicate is love because one wrong can shatter it but one right isn’t enough to fix it 4: shatter sometimes i feel like glass but like broken glass like i have no use no purpose and am just going to be swept away 5: purpose what is mine? everyone seems to walk like they know what they’re doing everyone but me i’m still so unsure so tentative because what the hell am i doing 6: (i don’t) know i seriously don’t not anymore i thought i found a purpose, a life a way to live guess that was all a lie 7: lie life is practically a lie isn’t it it weaves beautiful tales and beautiful twisted truths that fall apart and fly away once its torn you apart 8: (i’d like to) fly to have wings wings made of light because then i could escape reality this hellscape disguised as heaven and be finally free like a butterfly - Mira A Collection of Butterflies is a poem I wrote about wanting to escape from reality. There are 8 total "butterflies" which are all linked through one emotion: wistfulness. Cover Photo Source: https://www.posterlounge.com/p/621389.html

My mother drops cinnamon sticks, cardamom and curry leaves into the silver pot on the stove. I stand on my tiptoes to see what she’s brewing for dinner. “Why do you add those?” I ask her, pointing to the leaves and sticks and seeds. “You always pull them out after the meat’s cooked anyway.” “For fragrance,” she explains, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. “Here, try.” She motions for me to smell the spices with her free hand. I wrinkle my nose at the scent. “It’s so strong.” “That’s good,” my mother laughs. “That’s what draws out the taste.” For the rest of the afternoon, I question her in the way that only a curious five-year old can. I ask her about the different dried spices that fill glass jars in the cabinet. She holds each one out for me to smell and tells me to guess their names. I list each one off: paprika, cayenne, cloves, star anise. Sometimes I am wrong and she corrects me, the golden bangle on her wrist glinting as she returns the spices to their shelves. My mother teaches me new names, new spices and the fragrance that corresponds to each one. I store the memories away for later, as if tucking them into little jars that will gather dust with time. // Once the sun sinks and the sky darkens, it is time for iftar. We are now permitted to eat after a full day of fasting. All four of us — my mom, dad, sister and I — sit at the kitchen table and stack our plates with food. My mouth waters at the sight of all the dishes there are. Though some are from the South Asian grocery store, most are my mother’s recipes. On the table, there are samusas stuffed with spiced potatoes, pretzel-shaped jalebi soaked in sweet syrup, fried potato pakoras, chickpea chotpoti, fried eggplant, both chicken and beef curry, kebabs, basmati rice and chilled salad. After piling my plate with a bit of everything, I whisper bismillah to bless my food. While I tuck into my plate of rice and potatoes, I think about my day at school. The students in my class spoke about Ramadan like it was the Keto diet or some brand new juice cleanse — and not a holy time of fasting, prayer and reflection. “Why can’t you have gum?” someone asked me for the fiftieth time. “You’re not technically ‘eating’ it.” “I would never be able to fast,” another one of my classmates added. “I play soccer so I need my energy.” (Many Muslim athletes continue to play sports while fasting!) My culture was being held under a microscope — and I couldn’t even say anything about it. Who would side with me? I had high school teachers who only spoke of Islam in the context of terrorism and classmates who argued that we shouldn’t help Syrians because they were just a bunch of ISIS members. Even when I did try to interject, I wasn’t considered “Muslim enough” to have an opinion (according to non-Muslims). I wasn’t Arab and therefore, I didn’t count. It wasn’t like I could find solace in being Asian either. When I told a classmate of mine that I was, I was met with a derisive snort. “Don’t you have to be Chinese or Japanese to be Asian? You’re not Asian Asian, you’re Indian.” I wasn’t Indian — I was Bengali. But was I even that? I had gone to Bangla school when I was younger, but family friends still detected flaws each time I spoke Bengali. She’s a local now, they would laugh. You can hear the English in her accent. I tried telling kids I was American too — and why shouldn’t I be? I was born in Texas and my earliest memories were in the U.S. But having the highest English marks in my class and the ability to list all fifty states from the top of my head didn’t make me American. It just made others think I was a nerd. Who was I then? Had I pulled myself apart only to find that I was no greater than the sum of my parts? I was simultaneously too much and not enough. I realize I've barely touched my plate. “I’m not hungry,” I say to no one in particular. I shove my plate away, the fragrance that once felt like home now stifling. // I can smell spices wafting from the kitchen. My mother sings in Bengali as she stirs the pot, the warm notes floating through the air with the scent of curry leaves. I watch her cook, thinking about the hours we used to spend in the kitchen when I was younger. I would teach her to make fried chicken after she showed me how to use ghee for curry. But now, I no longer eat meat or ghee — methane emissions — and don’t know how to tell her how ashamed I feel each time I forget a prayer or fail to understand my grandmother’s rapid Bengali. And so I don’t. “What are you adding in the pot?” I ask instead, propping my arms on the counter. I used to have to stand on my tiptoes to see the contents of the stove pots. Now, I’m taller than my mother. “I'm making your vegan tofu,” she tells me, pronouncing vegan like veh-gan. “Vee-gan,” I correct automatically. “Vee-gan,” my mother parrots back to me. She plops a few diced onions into the pot. I tell her which spices I think she should add: cayenne, paprika, chili. She draws the glass jars from kitchen cabinets and I add a pinch of each into the pot. I want to tell her that I will miss her once I go away for college. I want to tell her everything. But I just close my eyes and let the smell of her cooking, warm and vibrant, wash over me like an embrace. I picture the spice jars on the shelves and hope that my fingerprints will stay pressed against the glass even after I am gone. // Anthropologists believe that food is critical in unlocking our cultural identity. I think of that each time I inhale the scents of the South Asian spices I’ve grown up with. Each fragrance unlatches a flood of memories: days spent stirring pots with wooden spoons alongside my mother, nights spent setting the table for iftar. But spices, to me, are more than mere memories. To me, they represent the parts of my culture and heritage that I thought I had lost forever. I used to unspool the different pieces of myself — Bengali, Asian, Muslim, American — into separate little jars, storing each one away until it was fit to use. But now I pour the contents of my identity into one big pot, letting them meld into something wonderful and full and free. - Nadia "Spice Jars" is a love letter to the vibrant Bengali and South Asian spices my mother introduced me to at a young age. Cooking with my mom has not only taught me about how spices are used to add fragrance in various dishes, but also instilled in me the importance of preserving my heritage. As a Bengali-American Muslim, food has helped me make sense of being a second-generation immigrant and a woman of color – for all the joys and troubles this entails. Biography: Hi! My name is Nadia and I am a high school senior living in Waterloo, Ontario. My writing has been internationally recognized by organizations such as The New York Times as part of their NYT Summer Reading Contest, and Write the World. In my spare time, I can be found analyzing screenplays, listening to Taylor Swift and watching 2000s teen dramas. Instagram: @nadia.akhan Cover Photo Source: https://smittenkitchen.com/2010/02/how-to-make-an-overly-obsessive-spice-rack/

My work is meant to highlight the importance of speaking up, lifting up the voices of underserved communities, and to take care of yourself so that you can come back stronger. Hi! I’m Svetha, founder and artist at Indian Curryspondence (@indiancurryspondence) where I create punny Indian food-related greeting cards and art celebrating women of color. I work as an urban planner by day, a profession I truly love because I get to lift up the voices of vulnerable and underserved communities and advocate for safer, healthier, and more complete neighborhoods. My work inspires me to lean into my culture as well. Being born in India but brought up in the U.S., I’ve always felt like an outsider - never truly belonging in either culture and not knowing how to identify. I felt shut out and ignored. More recently, I’ve grown to love my differences and to embrace my own unique culture of being an Indian-American. I started Indian Curryspondence in the middle of the pandemic to help connect people through stationary but I also like to use my art platform to advocate against colorism, casteism, racism, and other issues prevalent in Indian culture. All the proceeds from my art are donated to Black Lives Matter and other nonprofit organizations supporting BIPOC.

Biography: I'm a South Indian girl who enjoys drinking exceptional coffee and making mediocre art. My hobbies include but are not limited to finding really aesthetic Pinterest posts and listening to all the Lo-Fi music available on Spotify. Instagram: @illustratress

Biography: Jasmine uses her art to stand up and speak out about the injustices in society. She diverges from the conventional depiction of femininity, and instead, painted raw and genuine human experiences that so many women have faced–gender, class, and race. She hopes to spark uncomfortable yet pressing conversations that ignite change in her community. Because never has it been so clear that society needs long-term decisive action to defend civil liberties, champion civil rights, and stand in solidarity with those who are marginalized. Securing these basic human rights is more than giving opportunities to a single person–it’s about changing mindsets and hearts, rewriting laws and policies, and investing in youth. Without illustrating one’s truth and dissenting opinions, she believes that society loses its capacity and tenacity to determine if its laws and systems are just. Although sometimes she stands alone, her art stands up for those who cannot speak, those who are not seen, and for those who have been silenced. Because when society fails to speak up, even one illustration can change the world.