Dear Asian Youth, For as long as I can remember, I have been accumulating a tremendous list of the things separating me from my own culture. With each subtle accent change, another lightyear is wedged between me and the Philippines. The distance between Wellington and Manila is 8,304km. Somehow, that amount has stretched into what feels like an infinity. New Zealand is arguably one of the most multiculturally diverse countries in the world. I had plenty of opportunities to grow closer with my homeland—to learn more about why I didn’t turn red under the sun like the rest of my friends, why my nose was the flattest in my class, and why I said my R’s so harshly when everyone else spoke with ah’s. As time went by, the population of Filipinos in my suburb increased by tenfold. And although these new people looked like me, I still felt like the odd one out. With other Filipinos, I was shameful and inferior—I couldn’t speak a lick of Tagalog, I preferred fish and chips over adobo, and in my entire 17 years of life I had spent only two weeks of it in the Philippines. Two weeks that I couldn’t even remember—I was a one year old. Sometime in high school, I found a passion for languages. I took French all throughout and am still continuing to study it in university. I taught myself Dutch and learned the essentials of Italian and Spanish. And yet, when it comes to Tagalog, I freeze. My tongue locks, eyes burn. I know what the words are supposed to sound like in my head, but I can’t help myself from butchering the ‘ay’s to ‘aye’s and unnecessarily elongating every syllable. My parents have been speaking the language to each other throughout my whole life, and yet neither my brother nor I can conjure up a sentence or fully understand what they are saying. I don’t blame them for never teaching us—they figured we would never need it, living in New Zealand. I don’t blame them, but I can still mourn the fact that I have found a home in France and all over Europe—and found myself a stranger to the place my roots were planted. One would think that with my tongue’s ineptitude at Tagalog, it would be somewhat better with Filipino food. Not at all. I’m the very definition of a picky eater. This is a curse when your culture is full of wonderful and exciting dishes, that are so far from traditional Kiwi pies and roasts. Theoretically, I know that Filipino food is a lot better. But for some reason, I just can’t get behind most of it. Saying that I don’t really like adobo is definitely removing what little amount of gold stars I had on my How Filipino Are You card. I’m sorry. And while I could go on about which dishes I just cannot eat, this is less of a problem with my awful taste buds and more of a problem with my brain coming up with excuses to isolate myself from my culture. It’s an automatic reaction for me to cringe every time I’m pushed into something celebrating the Philippines. Not because of the culture, but because I never fail to stick out like a sore thumb. When I was younger, my family friends made all of the children in our group perform Filipino Christmas carols. Star Ng Pasko, the works. It was the first time I had ever dressed up in traditional Filipino clothing. I hated it. I didn’t understand any of the lyrics we were singing, I sang so quietly that no one would notice I was saying half of the words wrong. Other children would have asked for help, but I was 1) shy and 2) incredibly ashamed that I was the only one who didn’t have a clue what was going on. You get the picture. And it seemed that my other Asian friends did, too. At 14, I was first introduced to the term ‘whitewashed’. No harm was meant by it; it was a fair observation. I never introduced myself as a Filipino to other people, and I had built up all this distance between me and my culture. My friends could slip between languages like it was nothing, there was always one or two of them that would go back to the Philippines during the summer holidays. Somehow I had become friends with them, because we had the same interests and when you’re in your early-teens it’s a lot less scary to make new friends if they look more like you. But next to them, I embodied the “Twinkie” narrative; yellow on the outside, white on the inside. At first, I didn’t mind the distinction too much. It made explaining why I had no idea what JolliBee tasted like a whole lot easier. It started to go wrong once I began to mold myself to being whitewashed. I excelled in any subject other than “The Asian Five”, I refused to listen to K-pop (after a brief stint of feigning interest), I joined extracurriculars that other Asians in my area didn’t typically do. I was lucky that I ended up liking everything that I branched out towards, but I never really got rid of what was burdening me. To my non-Asian friends, I wasn’t like them. To my Asian friends, I wasn’t like them. I still hadn’t found a place to belong. This problem still follows me to this day. I still notice the slight falter in every Tita’s face once I introduce myself and have to explain that I didn’t understand a word of what they just said. I’m still asked, “No, where are you really from?” when I introduce myself as a Kiwi. But over time, I’ve learned how to make it hurt less. Pre-Covid, I was able to go on a school exchange to a small, old-fashioned town in France. At our school of over 1,000 people, I only ever saw less than five other Asians. And yet, in a random thrift shop, I overheard the rough, familiar sounds of someone speaking Tagalog. It was a woman speaking to her child. I was overwhelmed; here I was, on the other side of the planet, and somehow that’s what it took for me to actually miss, to actually appreciate, my parents’ language. I had severely underestimated the comfort that comes with finding people that come from the same place you do—no matter how far away you isolate yourself from it. Now at university, I finally took a leap and joined my first ever Asian-related club. And it was so worth it. I found people that I could talk to about our interests and what we were studying. Not once did I feel left out for not being Asian enough. I was the happiest I had ever been—it had taken so long for me to finally find a place that accepted me no matter how Asian I was, or wasn’t. I spent so much of my life running away from my own culture, then blaming it when I felt out of place. I’m changing that fear and resentment to gratitude and pride. And I hope that whoever reads this finds the courage to do the same. - Laurelei Bautista This is written for those that have felt torn between two cultures. Although I'm from New Zealand, the term "whitewashed" and its damage has been translated all over the world for other Asians. I hope this piece can serve as comfort and encouragement. Biography: Laurelei is a 17-year-old Law and Arts student, studying in her hometown of Wellington, New Zealand. She aims to become a foreign correspondent, and give Asians more representation in NZ's mainstream media. Cover photo source: https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/741143692106137640/753970067703726091/image0.jpg

“Ricardo Acosta” “Present.” “Stephany Alvarez” “Present.” “Amanda Arguelles” “Here.” “Toussaint Bastille” “Yeah.” “Kevin Brown” “Present.” She raised her eyebrows and paused as she stared down at the piece of paper in front of her. As she hesitated, a look of confusion, panic, even, slowly spread across her face. “Well I’m gonna butcher this one. I am so sorry if I mispronounce it.” The young boy at the back of the class with oil-slicked hair, glistening, polished shoes, and an expertly ironed buttoned shirt and pleated trousers, shifted in his seat, already prepared for what would come next. “Sham. Shams. Shums. Shums-udd-din? Shams-sud-din?” The boy raised his hand. “Shams-sud-din? Is that right? Shams-sud-din Butt?” A collective chuckle was heard in the classroom. Even the teacher held back a smile as she looked up from the page after re-reading his name. Shamsuddin shifted in his chair once more, slumping down a little to avoid eye contact with the students around him, who of course, stared at him now. “Shums-uth-deen, miss” “Oh, I’m so sorry about that, Shums-ud-deen. It’ll take me a while before I get used to everyone’s name.” She repeated “Shams-ud-deen” several times under her breath, nodding her head and trying to memorize the name she would undoubtedly forget in a few moments. She moved onto the next name as she continued taking attendance. He found the trouble his name gave his teachers quite perplexing. He had heard all day how perfectly some teachers would pronounce “Nguyen” and “Usnavi” and “Xavier”, and was surprised to hear how effortlessly they managed to get “Meghan”, “Megan”, and “Megyn” all correct. Some of the older teachers would flow through the list of names like skilled poets, rhythmically moving down the list, adding flavor and texture and character to each name. But for some reason, all of their showmanship ended when they reached his. Shamsuddin Butt, son of Muhammad Irfan Ali Butt, grandson of Haji Muhammad Ali Butt. His parents gave him a “modern” name by their own standards, much to the dismay of his grandmother, who preferred “Muhammad Moiz” instead. But that modernity was of no use here; his name could have been anything. His name, like a foreign object, would always get stuck in his teachers’ throats. He was proud of his name. Even as a child, he would correct his classmates, who liked to shorten it. “My name is Shamsuddin, not Shams”. The “sun of faith”, one who sheds light on truth and justice and all that is right and fair in the world. He always felt that his name came with a responsibility to be virtuous, and he tried his best to live up to it. Even when the schoolboys would tease him, “Shammo, Shammo, girls’ branch is on the other side!”, he ignored the fact that they called him by a girl’s name. Even from his early school days, he was patient and mature, and never gave them the satisfaction of seeing him upset. “To grasp something new, you have to first let go of what you are already holding.” Chacha had told Shamsuddin this in the morning at the breakfast table. Shamsuddin thought about whathe had said as he finished his breakfast and left his house. He had thought of Salloo and AB and Beeba as he stood waiting for the school-bus. They were friends since primary school. Everyday they would be dragged to school by their mothers, who chatted and laughed as they gripped their little sons’ even smaller hands, making sure they didn’t try and turn around and run back home in their dread of school. Over time, they were allowed to walk alone, but had to hold each others’ hands, immediately pushing each other away and racing each other down the street once they turned the corner and were out of their watchful mothers’ sights. Eventually, their hands were large enough to grab the steering wheel of Shamsuddin’s car. He used to pick them up one by one in the morning, and the four of them would all ride to high-school together. These memories all swirled through his head as the early morning breeze ruffled his clothes and danced through his hair. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously as he wondered how his friends all got to school that morning. He looked down at the bus card he was holding to make sure he was at the right stop. The bus was supposed to arrive at six-thirty. He glanced at his wristwatch: six thirty-five. The other children talked amongst themselves as he watched on. Shamsuddin caught himself wandering off in his own thoughts and he shook his head to try and focus on the teacher in front of him. But she was explaining how to find the slope of a line, which he had already learned two years ago. This happened to him throughout the day, whenever he was not being spoken to, or he felt whatever was being taught was unimportant, he let his memories run away with his attention. The other students would whisper to each other, and he wanted to speak to them too, but wasn’t sure what he would even say. Where would he start? They couldn’t even say his name. As of now, he had sat through 6 class periods so far, and had heard six different pronunciations of his name, some that even he found a little amusing. But after hearing the laughter of his peers with his glowing, embarrassed red ears, he began to think that maybe “Shamsuddin” was overwhelming. He sat up in his seat, listening to the teacher explain “rise over run”, but stared down at his notebook. He looked harder and harder at the name written across the top of its cover. He thought of a quote he had once heard: “If man cannot look up at the sun, how can he think about seeing God?”. Maybe the “sun” was all that they could handle for now, and the faith would come later. He crossed off the “-uddin” at the top of his notebook. Maybe a better introduction would help, he thought to himself. His lips moved silently as he began rehearsing his new name. If someone ever asked him what his name was, he’d smile, look at them in the eye, and say: “Shams”. - Qaas Shoukat Safar, meaning "journey" in Urdu, is an anthology of short stories about the lives of 5 members of a Pakistani-American family. For the new arrivals, life in the United States means sacrifice and change; for the hosts, life as a Pakistani-American means acceptance of what cannot be changed and learning to fit in. The Second Chapter of Safar revolves around the newly arrived young boy, and his first day of school. He hears his new teachers and peers struggle to pronounce his name, which never seemed odd to him till he heard them say it. He thinks back on what he left behind, and what lies ahead of him. Biography: I'm a Pakistani-American actor and writer currently living in South Florida. I have been living in the United States for about 10 years, and was born in Lahore, Pakistan. For a long time I was looking around me for stories I could relate to and people that I could identify with. But figuring out my identity as an Asian immigrant and finding my place in the world of art and literature has inspired me to use my unique voice to tell the stories of the people I belong to. Why not be the voice I want to hear? My work focuses primarily on the immigrant experience and the sacrifices we make as we adjust to life abroad, not to mention the inter-generational differences we see between the lives of immigrant parents and their children. Follow me @qaas.shoukat on instagram to see my stories: stories in which I hope you can find a piece of yourself. Instagram: @qaas.shoukat

On July 16th, 2020, Netflix released an original series that aimed to touch upon the cultural process of matchmaking. Like countless other Indian families that were built on the promise of arranged marriages, my family and I indulged in the eight-episode arc to draw parallels and discrepancies between my parents’ experience and theirs. Yet, behind the messy breakups, awkward dates, and overbearing mothers, Netflix unintentionally reinforced some of India’s most deep-rooted systemic conflicts upon its viewers such as misogyny, colorism, and ultimately a false portrayal of a culture through subliminal conditioning. The show reigns in with the introduction of Sima Tapari (referred to as “Sima Auntie”) who has an immense amount of optimism in finding the ideal match for her clients from both India and the United States. The millennial clients, at first reluctant to engage in an arranged marriage. eventually, come around to partake in the cultural process now considered “ancient” or “obsolete”. Although that’s far from true in that over 80% of marriages today in India are arranged. Due to the commonality of arranged marriages in the Indian culture, countless matchmakers like Sima Tapari abuse their power as “life-fixers” in dictating the preferences and lifestyles of their clients, especially those that are women. Misogyny - “Life is never equal” There is no shortage of bad-ass, independent women that arise and capture the attention of young individuals watching (like myself), yet their confidence is shot down as they are nurtured on the act of compromisation. An act that is not relevant to their male counterparts. Taparia repeatedly advises women to adjust their personal preferences after rejecting one or two matches but condones the privileged Indian men that run rampant and have rejected dozens of matches. From the start, Aparna captured the attention of viewers over the complexity of her character. She coins herself as a fierce attorney that is passionate about her professional life with her personal life coming second to none. Like countless other professional women in the workplace, society has already enforced the responsibilities of home life upon women, and balancing a professional life on top of it makes it almost impossible, yet it is made possible by women like Aparna. Fierce, resilient, and stubborn- all seen as ideal attributes - are considered a weapon to women like Sima Tapari and men that fail to recognize their privilege. On Episode 6, we meet Ankita, a self-proclaimed entrepreneur that built a fashion company from the bottom up. She is described as “ahead of her time” by her parents but known as “stubborn” to Sima (as you can guess). Fortunately, she isn’t afraid to speak out about these microaggressions that she’s faced on and off the show. Under the management of the show and advice of Tapari, Ankita was sent to a life coach (something that wasn’t made available to the rest of the clients). Similarly, Aparna was told to visit an astrologist to work out her inner “issues” that she supposedly fails to deal with. Evidently, viewers detect that women (like Aparna and Ankita) that don’t conform to the standards of those in authority (Tapari) are sent to have more authority figures enter their lives to encourage a change in their mindsets and perspectives. Furthermore, when Ankita was being pitched to other matchmakers and clients, she was undermined through her appearances. Tapari describes Ankita as “looks like she’s not photogenic, but she’s smart and she carries well.” Obviously, watching the behind the scenes footage in which an individual points out insecurities about oneself, takes a toll on one’s mental health. And this is exactly what Ankita was faced with post-release of the series. Though she already struggled with body issues prior to going on the show, which she lightly touched upon on the series, being vulnerable in front of such a large audience and dealing with backhanded compliments is an adversity that one can’t begin to grapple with. Both women have spoken out about their experiences on the show after its air and the ways in which their attitude was affected by the microaggressions that were perpetually evident. In an interview with Mashable, Aparna discussed her interactions with Sima by stating “ I was surprised to hear how she felt about my preferences and my family. I found it quite telling that she was so much more lenient on the men she was matchmaking than on Ankita or I - both independent and successful career women.” Likewise, Ankita continued to bring her open mind in an interview with The News Minute where she says “As fun as it was for many, it was triggering for a lot of people (including me) to watch, as we’ve been through it. I recognize that I have the privilege to express how I feel but many others do not.” She continued by stating “Hopefully that change will come soon with all the conservations and critique that this show has raised.” Ultimately, women on the receiving end of these regressive comments are faced with the reinforcement and exacerbation of misogyny and its repercussions in our daily lives. Colorism- “Not too dark, you know, fair-skinned” In India, colorism is prevalent nearly everywhere. Darker-skinned Indians, especially women, face discrimination at work, school — even in relationships as it becomes a crucial part of their identity. As seen through the skin lightening industry and its rapid increase in sales over the past decade, households are grooming young girls to see flaws with their natural melanin. They partake in a harmful process that deteriorates their image to conform to society’s standards at young ages. And those that choose to deviate, face the consequences in their professional and personal life by those that execute authority through inappropriate measures. Evidently, Sima Tapari and certain clients reinforce the notion of colorism. Conclusions and closings of tv shows or movies tend to be memorable and that’s exactly what we got from Indian Matchmaking. Towards the end of the show, Tapari is seen traveling and promoting her matchmaking business to potential clients. When constructing a biodata for an Indian-American client, the participant made it especially clear that she was looking for someone with a lighter skin tone and therefore confirmed her biases against those with darker skin by asserting that she’s looking for someone who’s “not too dark, you know, fair-skinned.” It’s important to acknowledge that there’s nothing wrong with having preferences in a potential relationship, though when those preferences dictate how you see the world and interact with society, an appalling conflict arises. It goes to show that we live in a world in which appearance is meant to show our wealth, our relationship with society, how we embrace our culture, and even one’s story, though this is far from true in that we often fail to recognize everything that exists beyond the scope of the eye. In India and many parts of the world, lighter skin is associated with a better past, better life, and a better future. Regardless of one’s relationship to skin color, we all hold subliminal biases that we are unconscious of particularly because of society’s ability to accustom individuals to microaggressions such as colorism. Classism- “This is all real silver. Real emeralds and pearls” Indian Matchmaking gave us a glimpse of the lavish lifestyles that some have the privilege to engage in. To start off, it takes a certain amount of wealth to hire a matchmaker like Sima Tapari who prides herself on her ability to match people transnationally. Therefore, eliminating a large portion of the population of those in India and America that don’t have the necessities or privilege to hire someone like Tapari so they settle for someone that is available in their community. Now that our pool is smaller, it’s easier to recognize a pattern between participants, and that's exactly what viewers saw with Pradhyuman and Akshay. Earlier in this piece, when I mentioned the “privileged Indian men that run rampant and have rejected dozens of matches," I was utterly referring to Pradhyuman and Akshay. They made me question how many more men in India were like them and I hated the possibility that there could be more. Both men were so far from reality in which it was easier to play along with their narrative rather than attempt to ground them and show them what the real world was really like. They had extravagant and excessive lifestyles filled with designer brands, jewels, fancy cars, houses not meant for two, and an ego complex that made them unbearable to watch. Rather than diversifying their participant selection, Netflix chose two individuals that had such similar morals and upbringings that it was like watching the same person twice. As a kid, I would rummage through my parent’s wedding pictures and see the coming together of two families in one ceremony, which in my opinion is the most beautiful aspect of the tradition. A part of me hoped to see that conveyed in the show, yet the series removed the cultural process and gave viewers the problematic encounters that they coined as reality. While I applaud Netflix for their attempt to span borders and break a cultural divide in their content, they ultimately managed to divide and confirm biases among those a part of the Indian culture. I am guilty of often giving the media, celebrities, and society the benefit of the doubt. In believing that they don’t intentionally want to enforce microaggressions upon individuals and that it often happens as an accident or out of habit, which just sheds light on the systemic problems being implemented into our communities that we fail to notice. In a way, Netflix held a mirror up to us and showed us the regressive society that we call ours. One in which colorism dictates which job we can call ours. One in which women are held on a pedestal to transform their lives to be convenient to their significant others. One in which traditions are taken and reconstructed until they aren’t a tradition anymore. -Pooja Rayapanani Recently, Netflix released their newest series that details the cultural process of matchmaking. However, the show has fallen under scrutiny by Indians across the globe as they found issues of colorism, classism, and misogyny that accompany the practice. This article dives into the narrative portrayed by the series and the harmful impacts that it has on its audience. Biography: Pooja is a 15 year old from New Jersey that is passionate about socio-political issues. She hopes to raise awareness about these issues through writing, art, and social media. Instagram: @poojarayapaneni Cover photo source: Sonia Saraiya, vanityfair.com

Dear Asian Youth, When I entered sixth grade, I found myself surrounded by other dark-headed kids with brown eyes. This was Hong Kong––the land of culture, food, compact streets. And here I was, another Asian, with my other fellow Asians. This was my first move abroad. Because my parents wanted to continue the American education that I had been pursuing back in New York City, I found myself putting on a white polo shirt and knee-long shorts in the mornings, just before attending my international school. Everyone spoke English at school, and we were our own little bubble. My school was located in the depths of the mountains in Tai Tam, where the roads were long and curvy. We were hidden from the outside world; conflicts were never known, like the tensions between mainland China and Hong Kong. Besides the people at my school who were locals, I hardly made efforts to become friends with the Hong Kong around me. To acknowledge Hong Kong as my home was just another way to acknowledge that I was letting this culture become a part of me, and I didn’t want that to happen. Although by the time I had learned the meaning of the word “expat”, I had already lived in Asia for three years, I hadn’t noticed or realized, what the word “expat” really meant. Of course, I had heard the word many, many times before: “oh, all the expat families come here”, “most of the expat kids come here to get their braces done”, and “many expat families have helpers.” I had assumed that it meant international kid, maybe even a white immigrant, but it never crossed my mind to look it up and understand the meaning. What is an “expat”? Short for “expatriate,” an expat is a person living in a country other than their native one (note: I have taken this from the online dictionary). I struggle to understand how and why privileged, educated people have been labeled as “expats” when we don't seem to be any different to immigrants. Meanwhile, we have the phrase “migrant worker.” The “official” definition of a migrant worker is a worker who migrates within their own country or to a foreign country to work there temporarily. What’s the difference between a “migrant worker” and an “expat?” Both move to foreign countries beyond their native country to pursue a job and usually for temporary reasons. I live in Singapore now and since the pandemic descended upon our lives, I have seen the widening chasm between the migrant workers and the Singaporeans. On the way to school, I look outside the window: trucks drive by with migrant workers, often from Malaysia, Bangladesh, India, or Thailand; they sit in the back, side by side, unable to social distance. Because of the bad living conditions and not high quality sanitation, the dormitories where they live are still rapidly increasing with COVID-19 cases. In my mind, it seems as if the word “migrant workers” has become a way of describing the working lower class subconsciously. Most people in Singapore automatically associate migrant workers with immigrants from countries entrenched in poverty. However, the same occurs for expats: most people are reminded of upper class white, Korean, Chinese, and other races/ethnicities. Then I look back at myself, here, in this Grab (the Uber of Singapore), wearing my international school white polo and dark navy skirt, listening to music. I don’t think this privilege, the ability to be here, is necessarily a bad thing. Don’t feel guilty about your privilege. Privilege is not a fault or a flaw. But you should feel guilty if you use your privilege to be ignorant of all the prejudice around you that harms the lower and working class. Expats live in their own bubble, especially internationally. Many go to the American club, sample tasteful cuisines, and head to popular areas to hang out. I appreciate having this community to bond over the experience of being an international student and a teenager when many others don’t have the luxury or ability to have this. But we also tend to forget how privileged we are to be labeled with such a name that automatically grants us greater power in society. Expat is an elite term for immigrants. The one million of us residing in Singapore are all immigrants. So why call ourselves “expats?” -Hannah Chen Cover photo source: Elsa Court, propertylistings.ft.com

Dear Asian Youth, Last year on Chinese New Year, my heart broke witnessing an overlooked problem of gender inequality for us women in a traditional Chinese family. It was the first day of celebrating Chinese New Year at my Grandma’s house. As usual, we gathered together in seas of red shirts and dresses to welcome this new era of prosperity and union. My role was to stand under the heat to welcome and shake my cousins’ hands before we proceed to the second floor to catch up, while the older women in the family prepared the feast. Half an hour later, we were called down to eat. All sorts of delicious dishes were laid out on the table, the whole thing impressively looked like it took more than three women to prepare. I devoured the last bits of the delicious Chángshòu Miàn before standing up for the sink; leaving behind the dinner table filled with laughing cousins and gossiping aunts. As the first one who finished, I didn’t want to be the one who ended up washing everyone’s plates, so I tried to wash it as fast as I could. Though sadly, it wasn’t fast enough as plates started to pile up on the counter. A heavy sigh escaped my lips, and at the end, I succumbed to washing plate after plate. After the last plate was hung on the rack to dry, my hands frowned back heavily in wrinkles, and sweat swam heavily along my spine. The dining room was already void of people, except my grandma and mother, both women diligently cleaning up after the mess. It looked like the elders have retired early to smoke and gossip in the living room, while the younger cousins were upstairs playing card games. Naturally, I was inclined to join the game. But as I headed for the stairs to play, guilt stopped me in my tracks. The feeling of irresponsibility in leaving them to clean up weighed heavily on my conscience, so I decided to turn around and lent them a hand instead. I could always join the cousins later. They gratefully welcomed my presence, and the three of us started to clean after the leftovers while my Grandmother told us tales of her childhood story during her time in the fishing village. Her humor and wit somehow lifted the mood of the place, making it more bearable for us not to collapse to the floor. It was a job almost done, until one of my uncles entered the room and placed his empty beer glass on the table, before turning away and stalking back to the living room without a word. I looked at my Grandma for a reaction of disapproval, but she never told him to come back and wash it himself. Instead, my Grandmother picked up the glass and washed it for him, as if she was expected to do it. I observed with my mouth zipped shut, locking the last container and putting it inside the fridge–– silently trying hard to keep the gnawing questions to what just happened in the dark. If she didn’t have a problem with it, I should not too. Right? Not long after, my younger cousin ran down the stairs with an empty bowl, almost slipping on her dress for she ran too fast. She was in the middle of a card game, and the rest of the cousins was calling her name to come back up as quickly as possible. “Wait! Let me put this first! Ants are crawling all over me like crazy.” She shouted back and was met by my grandmother’s stern stare. “You have to be responsible and wash it. Don’t go up if you haven’t done it,” Grandma said, crossing her arms as she watched my cousin pouted. “But granny, just this once? I’m needed upstairs, or my team’s losing!” She said, putting the bowl on the table and turning back around for the stairs. “No. Clean it first,” Grandma said in a lower tone, which usually meant danger. My cousin hesitated on the bottom step of the stairs as the others called louder in urgency, some even threatened to restart the game. I watched the commotion from the fridge, while my mother didn’t pay any attention as she engrossed herself in scrubbing the stove off oil. “I can do it,” I offered, but Grandma raised her hand to stop. “No, young girls like her needed to be trained to be responsible. They can’t afford to slack off, what will their future husband say?” Grandma stated, turning her eyes back on my cousin, “Wash it, now.” With a deep scowl, my cousin ended up returning to the sink, risking her gameplay as she scrubbed her bowl clean. I turned around, not wanting to be snapped at for looking. Meanwhile, Grandma watched her like a hawk, pointing out the small bits of smudges she missed, prolonging the washing time. The same uncle returned, this time with a bowl of half-empty cashew. He grinned at us, before putting his bowl on the counter beside the sink. “Can you please wash mine too? Thanks, kiddo.” He disappeared quickly before my cousin could file a protest. “Oh, just do it. It doesn’t take long,” Grandma scolded, watching as my cousin’s face reddened with anger and desperation. “But it’s his bowl, Nai-nai! Why should I be responsible for it, while men in our family never do anything!” She shouted, surprising all of us at the overlooked realization, before stalking away angrily. Grandma shouted after her to come back, but I slid in quickly to stop her. “I’ll wash this, it’s okay. I’m done with packing anyway.” She stepped aside so I can wash the bowl. My Grandma looked away and shake her head, disappointment visibly etched as creases on her face as she muttered: Children these days don’t know moral respect and duties. Out of sheer curiosity, I decided to ask her why she wasn’t upset when her sons never once lift a finger to help around while scolding her daughters to do most of the house works. “Because we’re women, my dear. Because we are women.” Was her only reply. The startling protest from my little cousin truly amazed me, it opened my eyes wider to the concerning gender issue that the women in our family –– myself included –– had overlooked. Women were always the ones expected to do everything, from cooking to cleaning. We all are aware of this, as this is our common role in society. But then again, just because it’s common, doesn’t mean it’s right or fair. There are some women who protested back like the little cousin, but the vast majority I witnessed only stayed silent and took the role willingly like the Grandma and mother, who were mostly afraid to question their beliefs and values in a confined society. I, however, decided that it was time for this unfairness to come to its end. These roles shouldn’t exist anymore, for times has obviously changed. Women works too, so Men should clean, too. So, thank you, little cousin. I am looking forward to educate my male cousins to take responsibility as well, and to call back my uncle to wash his damn dishes. Because I’m sure as hell won’t do it for him. - Rachel Lay I wrote this piece to spread the awareness of gender inequality between men and women in a traditional Asian household, that I believe need to be addressed. Biography: I'm Rachel Lay, a nineteen year-old poet and author from Indonesia. Recently, I've graduated from college, and as of now, I'm focusing more in honing my writing skills. Aside from writing, I take interest in reading, studying philosophy and classical music. I do hope that someday, my works will contribute something good to the world. Instagram: @Rielism Cover photo source: Jim Berlucchi, faithmag.com

Learn to speak your language. My grandmother has visions of Vietnam, Of calm mountains, And explosive bombs. She has stories of birth and health, Of sickness and death. She knows names Of family members I consider unknown, Peeking out from torn photos. Because I don’t understand her, And she me. Learn to speak your language. My father has good humour. He laughs often, But at something I say, Uncommon. He’s a jack of all trades, But I won’t be. I can see it, But to perceive it is a different story. Because I don’t understand him, And he me. Learn to speak your language. My mother is uneducated. She makes comments With no concept. I try to teach But I speak About another world. She forgets what I tell her Right away Like champagne in a system. Because I don’t understand her, And she me. Learn to speak your language. My grandfather has traces of cancer, Of growing lumps and bumps Without an answer. He has one year, They say, But I can’t say anything. Not to him, anyway. He knew histories Forever unbeknownst to me. Because I didn’t understand him, And he me. How many more don'ts will turn into didn'ts Before I learn? I wrote 'Learn to Speak your Language' (a poem) after having some conversations with my dad. Losing your language is something a lot of Asian American youth go through. I cannot read or write Vietnamese, despite it being my first language. When I speak it, at least 30% of it unconsciously becomes English. My dad and I are very similar people, but we have a lot of trouble communicating with one another and being close seeing as my Vietnamese vocabulary is not nearly as developed as his and his English vocabulary is not nearly as developed as mine. The piece is about my regrets about not studying Vietnamese harder when I was younger—when it was easier to pick up on. Biography: Hello! My name is Linda Duong and I'm a high school senior from Ottawa, Ontario (Canada). I love STEAM, but more specifically, the 'S' and the 'A'! I'm passionate about the study of human biology and chemistry (although physics is starting to grow on me) and music performance/analysis. In the future, I hope to combine both medicine and business in a way that benefits disadvantaged youth. In my spare time, you can catch me running my non-profit (www.racetoacure.org) or some of my clubs, watching kpop comeback stages (oops), reading and writing, or snacking on something crunchy:) Instagram: @__lindaduong LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/linda-duong-2845081a7/. Cover photo source: udemy.com

Dear Asian Youth, In recent months, there has been a lot of discussion about the “right” way to protest, especially when it comes to whether violence in protests is ever justified. From the police protest for George Floyd, in Minneapolis, to the police protest for Breonna Taylor, Elijah McClain, and countless other members of the Black community brutally murdered at the hands of the police. Activists, protestors, politicians, and political commentators have been discussing what is and isn’t acceptable when it comes to protesting. Early on the protests against police brutality ignited by the death of George Floyd, many people railed against protestors as they saw businesses looted and buildings burned down. People said this wasn’t protesting, this was destruction and violence. Many started quoting and distorting the words of Martin Luther King Jr. by saying that he never would have approved of the protest happening now. Yet, those that were most vocal against the looting and destruction of property, and cited Martin Luther King Jr. in their defense of why it was wrong, do not truly understand the meaning of nonviolence. When we think of the word nonviolent, what images do we conjure up? Probably a vision of scantily clothed Gandhi sitting peacefully while being imprisoned by the oppressive British colonizers. We think of MLK walking across a bridge hand in hand with others and singing in unison until they’re tear-gassed and brutally beaten by police. Sound familiar? While these are no doubt examples of non-violent protest, the term non-violent is a lot broader than what we define it to be. In the book, Non-violence: The History of a Dangerous Idea by Mark Kurlansky, Kurlansky explores the history of nonviolence within our past. Kurlansky describes how acts of non-violence and leaders of non-violent movements have often been left out of the history books, and their tactics are forgotten in favor of writing about more violent and aggressive dictators and rulers. Yet, non-violence has played a major role in changing history just as much as wars and revolutions have. Kurlansky starts with the history of some of the first non-violent movements, which were religious. He also distinguishes the difference between pacifism and non-violence, which is often confused. Kurlansky states, “Pacifism is harmless and therefore easier to accept than non-violence, which is dangerous. When Jesus Christ said a victim should turn the other cheek, he was preaching pacifism. But when he said that an enemy should be won over through the power of love, he was preaching non-violence. Non-violence, exactly like violence, is a means of persuasion, a technique for political activism, a recipe for prevailing.” It is often a misconceived notion that non-violence is peaceful, but inherently it cannot be. Non-violence is disruptive and terrifying, yet differs from violence in the way nonviolent tactics don't physically harm any person, although, historically non-violent movements have often been met with violence. We can look at the English language in regards to our perception of nonviolence. English, which has been adopted by most Western nations, does not have a singular word that describes the concept of non-violence. We simply have violence and non-violence. The addition of the “non” means an absence of violence. Therefore, in the English language, we can only really speak to the concept of non-violence, in relation to violence. Non-violence is defined in Merriam-Webster as “abstaining or free from violence.” Merriam-Webster then defines violence as “the use of physical force so as to injure, abuse, damage, or destroy.” Within this definition, we can define non-violence as the absence of physical force to injure, abuse, damage or destroy. This is where the conversation shifts. Many people deify the idea of non-violence and the people who have historically resembled it: MLK, Gandhi, Fredrick Douglass; but many rarely understand what true nonviolence is and how it was used to bring about great social and political change. In an NPR interview, published recently titled One Author's Argument ‘In Defense of Looting’ by Natalie Escobar, Author Vicky Osterweil talks about nonviolence in depth. She discusses how people are often misled on the concept of nonviolence and how nonviolence works to bring about change. In the beginning, Osterweil defines looting as, “the mass expropriation of property, mass shoplifting during a moment of upheaval or riot..." She further clarifies her thoughts by stating, “I'm not defending any situation in which property is stolen by force...It's about a certain kind of action that's taken during protests and riots.” With that, she then goes to define how looting is a powerful tool. “Looting strikes at the heart of property, of whiteness, and of the police. It gets to the very root of the way those three things are interconnected.” While personally I do not condone looting and I question its moral standing, I cannot deny its effectiveness. Often those in power are slow to move until they are directly affected by the issue. When mayors, governors, senators, and more see the destruction of property, it hits right at the center of what people in power care about - money and material goods. This is where I come back to the idea of nonviolence. Osterweil brings her argument back to the concept of nonviolence and the civil rights movement where she says, “The popular understanding of the civil rights movement is that it was successful when it was nonviolent, and less successful when it was focused on Black power. It's a myth that we get taught over and over again...that it was a nonviolent movement, and that that's what matters about it. And it's just not true.” While lots of nonviolent tactics we employed in the fight for civil rights in the 60s, these were often met with violence. Sit-ins resulted in protestors being beaten by police and white people. Marches led to protestors being hosed, beaten, and attacked by dogs. We forget that often the threat of violence bolstered non-violent activists’ reputation. Our history books often focus on the narrative of MLK and his work as a non-violent activist, yet forget the other movements at the time. Malcolm X, another major civil rights leader, believed that the violent actions from white people and the government justified violent actions from the Black community to bring about change. The Black Panthers and Huey Lewis, who saw how the systems of power, or in this context police, designed to protect citizens failed the Black community, created a commune for Black people in which they educated, fed, housed, armed, and policed their own community. Leaders such as Malcolm X and Huey Lewis with the Black Panthers terrified the majority of Americans. The thought of a violent uprising boosted MLKs popularity, a man who wanted change without guns or violence. This brings me to the biggest point on non-violence that many forget. Even though things are non-violent, it doesn't mean that they aren't disruptive. It doesn't mean it isn't controversial. While our history books glorify MLK as a savior to the people, who pushed for a better America, we forget he was deeply hated by many Americans for disrupting the status quo. He was so hated that he was assassinated as he was about to go march with sanitation workers for better working conditions. I vividly remember years ago when a Black Lives Matter protest lined up on the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time, handcuffing themselves together to block traffic. Many people were angry at the major delays caused, and questioned what's the point? They’re just making people mad. They are disrupting people's lives, but that was the point. Non-violence means that there isn't any bodily harm caused by the actions of protestors. It doesn't mean that people's lives are not inconvenienced or uprooted. The point of non-violence is to say wake up, pay attention, there are horrible injustices happening. Our current systems are broken. Things aren’t the way they should be. Non-violence is the act of disruption without bringing about physical harm to a singular person. The destruction of commercial goods, over physically attacking a person. Boycotting, striking, marching, protesting, are all nonviolent methods that cause a person to pay attention by hugely inconveniencing those in power, and those complicit to it. Which brings me back to the early months of protest against police brutality this year. When protests were being organized in many cities across America, as well as in my own hometown, I saw many members of my community taking to Facebook, asking “why can’t we all just get along?” “would MLK approve of this?” and angrily repeating the quotes about “peace” and “non-violence” from MLK. What we need to understand is the difference between pacifism and non-violence. Non-violence seeks to disrupt the status quo, and it strives to make those in power uncomfortable. It aims to make those complicit with systems of oppression uncomfortable and aware of what's happening. Non-violence takes the truth, the reality of our society, and puts it in our face so that we cannot ignore it anymore. We need to understand this, and we need to find our place in bringing about change, for all. - Chris Fong Chew Cover Photo Source: Julian Wasser https://www.whitehouse.gov/articles/martin-luther-king-jr-model-american-patriot/

There’s a store here, hidden on the side of a busy two-way boulevard. It’s lonely, ugly, out of place – like a prop on a movie set. Like someone hastily glued cardboard pieces of faded Walmarts together to fill an American emptiness. A second thought, a memory drawn from memory. The front sign says “Asian Food Market Jung Ha” in big letters. It’s painted an awful shade of yellow and green, but it feels familiar. Welcoming and nostalgic and strange. You step inside to musty air-conditioning, to stopped time and a stagnant space, to writing you recognize and a language you know. To look for traces of home. Soul searching, Seoul searching. The cashier looks up at the sound of the door opening and smiles. “Welcome to Jung Ha!” he greets, bowing as your parents duck their heads in hello. You bow deeply and kick your sister to make her do the same. "Annyeonghaseyo!” you chorus, loud and clear. It means hello but it feels like “I’m home!” There is home hidden here. You’ve gotten good at scrounging for it. Inside, the lights are dim. Christmas decorations hang from the ceiling during all times of the year. The fan whirrs but nothing moves. An old Korean show plays on the TV. It’s a different show every time. Sometimes, you can recognize the features of an actor you don’t know the name of – but mostly, you just stare at the screen and wonder what they’re arguing about this time. Twelve years ago, 6,500 miles away, you sat in front of the TV and wondered the same thing. Your parents tell you to pick out whatever you like and disappear to grab vegetables and jokbal (pig’s feet). You wander over to the junk food and crouch down to search for traces of home in aisle 2. They sell those chips here. You know the ones – they look like cones and they come in a purple bag. They’re sweet (or maybe not, you don’t really remember). Your friend used to stick those chips on her fingers, one on each, calling them her claws. She used to run after you, claws out and head thrown back in a perpetual laugh. You chased her back once, but you can’t remember if you managed to catch her. You put honey twist snacks, onion rings, and shrimp chips into the cart. You hesitate, then add one more of each. The bags are only half-filled, anyway. Half-chip, half-air. Half-chip, half-memory. In the back of the store, your mom’s picking out green onions and yams (the special kind, the Korean kind, the better kind). Your dad grabs a pack of Yakult yogurt drinks. You remember begging him to pick them up on his way home from work. He used to come up the steel stairs at seven pm sharp – you could hear him from the heavy stomp-stomp-stomp. Then, as he opened the door, you’d crush him in the biggest hug your little arms could muster, yogurt forgotten. You used to buy those drinks on crosswalks with your grandma, hand in hand. She would’ve given you everything if she could: the tiny city of Seoul, the entire Korean peninsula, the world. But now, you’re 6,500 miles away and sometimes it’s too far for even her love to reach. The laminate creaks as you make your way across the store – the cheap, sticky, Korean kind that used to line your apartment. You remember sneaking across the living room and jumping onto the frayed couch, feet sticking and unsticking to the plastic. Now, the floor leads to a sterile supermarket section. You’re elbow-deep in the freezer, searching for Seolleim ice cream. The same one you always get, the same one you’ve always gotten. The ice cream from kindergarten field trips, late Saturday evenings, freezing cold in your hands and sugar sweet in your mouth. It’s packaged in blue and it’s frosted over and you hold up two triumphantly in the air. You call your sister over. “Remember these?” She shakes her head no. She doesn’t remember much at all, really. Just shapes that used to be family, sounds that used to be words, and a home she doesn’t know. So, in a small, faded Asian Food Market on the side of the road, you teach your sister what you learned on cracked sidewalks in Seoul, South Korea. Stick the ice cream in your armpit, or it’ll take forever to soften. Squeeze the wrapping every once in a while to break up the ice. Twist the cap quick, otherwise you’ll only end up hurting your fingers. Eat it slowly, because it’s too good not to savor. You leave the same way you came in: with a bow, a clear “Annyeonghi gyeseyo!”, and a final look up at the TV. Only now, you’re carrying home in plastic bags. America flashes by outside the window as you drive. Korea melts on your tongue. - Yunseo Chung Cover photo source: Philippe Teuwen https://www.flickr.com/photos/doegox/478469027/

Dear Asian Youth, Since the American Civil War, the nation has been forever divided into Democrats and Republicans. The two-party hold on American politics has been a staple in American democracy for hundreds of years. However, as each election cycle goes by, it is becoming glaringly evident that this system is a threat to a healthy democracy. This two-party system ensures we are voting against the candidates that we dislike- not for the candidates that we do like. This lack of genuine representation encourages voter apathy and limits political innovation. According to the Voter Study Group, 68% of Americans claim that the two major political parties do not adequately represent their beliefs. While third-party candidates are options, it is incredibly rare for any to be voted into office. In fact, as of 1920, only four third-party candidates (Robert La Follette, Strom Thurmond, George Wallace, and John Hospers) have been able to win a single electoral vote. Furthermore, even though Theodore Roosevelt ran one of the most successful third-party campaigns during the Election of 1912, he was still beaten by the Democratic nominee, Woodrow Wilson. Moreover, third-party candidates are not only expected to lose, but their presence in an election is often considered a “spoiler.” Essentially, the third-party candidate often takes away votes from the major candidates of the two main political parties. In turn, this allows for the candidate of the main opposing party to win, which is exactly what led Wilson to win his election. Before Roosevelt ran as a third-party candidate, he identified with the Republican Party, so many of his ideologies identified accordingly. As a result, Roosevelt and Taft (the major Republican candidate) split the Republican vote, allowing for an easy win for Wilson, who did not have to compete for any Democratic votes. This “spoiler effect” is also incredibly clear in the upcoming election, particularly from the Democrats. Despite clear disapproval from both parties for Biden, many are still rallying behind him with the understanding that a vote for anyone else is automatically a vote for Trump. Furthermore, situations such as this often lead to voter apathy as voters dislike both major candidates, but do not want to “waste” their vote by supporting a third-party candidate. This lack of interest not only leads to neutral politics but contributes to low voter turnout, which is a significant issue in the United States. In fact, in 2018, only 53% of eligible voters cast a ballot. The people are the backbone of true democracy, but the two-party system and the resulting spoiler effect prevents the people from feeling represented and in turn, discourages an interest in the government. From these criticisms of the two-party system, many would presume that the best solution would be to implement a simple winner-takes-all arrangement where there are no parties. Simply put, each citizen gets one vote and the candidate who receives the most votes wins. While this straightforward system seems idyllic, it is just as problematic as the two-party system. First of all, when there are no political parties to organize the candidates, a candidate who a majority of citizens do not support could win. In two-party systems, the spoiler effect ensures that voters choose between two of the main candidates, ensuring that the person in office has been voted in by a majority of voters. However, a winner-takes-all strategy means that a candidate with only 25% of the popular vote could end up in office. This is because the remaining 75% of voters divided their votes so that none would be able to win a majority. More importantly, a “winner-takes-all system” inevitably evolves into a two-party system as it is smarter to vote for the person who has a higher chance of winning than to “waste one's vote” supporting a smaller candidate. For example, if I voted in a winner-takes-all election and the candidate that I voted for lost to someone who I despise, the following year, I would be willing to vote for another, more powerful candidate just to keep the individual I despise out of office. Eventually, the winner-takes-all system only promotes two major candidates, and the spoiler effect that results from this organization means that a winner-takes-all system results in a two-party-system. Instead of focusing on taking away parties or adding new parties, a better solution is to change how we vote. Perhaps the United States should take inspiration from countries such as Australia and Ireland that implement the alternative vote system where voters rank the candidates. These votes are counted in rounds. If a candidate does not win the majority of first-place votes in the first round, the candidate with the least number of votes is eliminated and the votes are recounted. If a voter’s first choice is eliminated then their vote goes to their second choice. The cycle repeats until a candidate wins a majority vote, which allows voters to support third-party candidates without worrying about the spoiler effect. This support for third-party candidates is incredibly important because otherwise, candidates restrict themselves to the two parties, which stifles political innovation. Prime examples of this issue are Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders, who do not fit in with their respective party’s values. In fact, in 2000, Trump wanted the Reform party’s presidential nomination but was unsuccessful. However, despite not agreeing with all Republican values, he ran with the Republican nomination in 2016 and won the election. Furthermore, many Democrats criticize Sanders for his socialist values, but he is unable to run a third-party campaign because the chances of his success are so slim. The alternative vote system would eliminate these issues and, in turn, allow for better representation and further, more political innovation. The people of the United States do not talk about the many issues surrounding the nature of the two-party system. It feels as though we have accepted the two-party hold on American politics because it is all we know of, but it is not the only nor the best arrangement. Various places are adapting to these changes; For example, Maine has already implemented an alternative vote system, and more states are expected to follow suit. Changing the two-party system is an undeniably difficult task, but it is a necessary step in creating a democracy that accurately represents the wishes and desires of its people. - Lora Kwon Cover photo source: Sarah Pruitt, history.com

Dear Asian Youth, One of the perks of being Chinese (for me, anyway), has always been the food. Whether it was a long day of school or a day of gaming with friends, my parents would always see to one thing: that I was fed... or that I was about to be. I still remember the homely smell of congee in the morning (otherwise known in Cantonese as juk). My mother would always ask me if I wanted yau ja gwai (fried dough) with it, and I wouldn’t miss a beat when I replied with an enthusiastic “of course!” Come to think of it, food has always been something that binds me to my family and close friends. It is a way to connect with the people I care about the most in my life. It is the basis for planned food tours that take me and my parents all the way to Paris and the jung (glutinous rice wrapped in bamboo leaves) that I fail to parcel nicely that demolishes the boredom we feel during a trapped house blizzard situation. Whenever my closest friends took a break from their weekend alcohol binges, we would always end up in an Italian restaurant that quickly became our favourite lunch spot. We would laugh and cry in the same corner of the place for multiple years, and they would later make up some of my fondest memories that I took with me to university. Guansheng Ma (Professor of Nutrition and the Chief of the Department of Nutrition and Food Hygiene at Peking University) once wrote that food “not only expresses but also establishes the relationship between people and their environment as well as between people and what they believe.” It perfectly expresses the idea behind the power of food and its role in Chinese culture. Although I now recognise the value of food and what it symbolises, there was a point in my life where I didn’t. Over the years, I considered myself lucky due to my relationship with my family; in comparison to a lot of other Chinese (and east Asian) families, we regularly expressed our love and appreciation for each other through words. I never had to read between the lines when it came to affection growing up; however, I was well aware of the issues that my own cousins were dealing with when it came to feeling loved and worthy enough for their own parents. It was with time that my cousins and other Chinese friends realised that the way their parents showed love was through food. It was the packed lunches that were normally filled with rice and sung (side dishes to accompany rice), the daily “have you eaten yet?” after school, the adamant dismissal of my cousins whenever they offered to help wrap dumplings, and of course the classic medicinal soups (tong) boiling over the stove for hours on end whenever they felt sick. The saying “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” seems to be something that extends beyond gender in Chinese culture. It applies to all human beings as far as our parents were concerned. Putting aside the fact that I have always had parents who explicitly state their pride and affection towards me, I feel the most comfort when a piping hot bowl of Ho fan (rice noodles) is in front of me. Going to university made me long for that comfort, and I missed my mother's cooking. In retrospect, when I would tell her that I was missing her food, I think what I really meant was that I was missing her love. Along with communicating love between families and close friends, food is also symbolic. It has superstitious and mythic ties in Chinese culture. Although these beliefs may not be fully believed now, the tradition and history behind certain foods live on. An example of this is during mid-autumn festival, the only time of the year where we eat mooncakes (round pastries which are filled with thick paste and different flavours). According to China Highlights, “mooncakes mean family unity as they're round, like the harvest moon." Through this reasoning, even the foods that are presented and traditionally eaten in Chinese culture are to do with unity and the family. The essence of these family holidays are to spend time together through eating. As for the history of the mid autumn festival, like many stories in folklore, it has many variations. According to Vetter, the story is about an archer named Hou Yi who saves Earth from a drought by shooting down nine suns. For this, he is gifted by the emperor of heaven an elixir of immortality which he plans to give to himself and his wife, Chang’e. However, Hou Yi’s apprentice, Feng Meng, comes to his home to steal the elixir which Chang’e hastily drinks by herself when she realizes this. It is said that she ascended to heaven and has settled on the moon, which is now her home. Over time Hou Yi, who is still mortal, misses his wife and starts leaving fruits and desserts for her outside every night. This is where the tradition comes from to eat moon cakes, as it is believed that Chang’e loved them and Hou Yi would leave them out for her. The moon in its orbit is at its closest during the mid autumn festival, so people are encouraged to gaze at it in hopes to see Chang’e in her beauty, longing for her husband. The idea of longing is a theme in the story of Hou Yi and Chang’e, which is arguably again, reinforcing the idea of the significance of unity. Hou Yi shows his love for Chang’e when they can no longer see each other through food as well, which displays the connotations around food and how deeply ingrained they are in Chinese culture. Food is also centered around philosophy. Confucianism is deeply rooted in Chinese culture, and believed by many to be the absolute core of how the culture surrounding lifestyle and family works. I believe that naturally, this broadens itself to food. The concept of togetherness is one in which Confucius placed emphasis on, the philosopher himself had created rules that refined Chinese cuisine due to its simple, however straightforward recommendations. According to Confucius Was A Foodie, “Confucian philosophy strongly believes that food and friends are inseparable parts of life. A life without food and friends is considered as incomplete and improper”. Furthermore, Taoist philosophy also believes in the notion of balance through yin and yang. This connects to Chinese cuisine due to how so much of the lifestyle revolves around balance in all aspects of day to day living. In terms of food, yin and yang is explained by Matson: “Yang food is spicy, sweet and pungent with a warm appearance while the yin food is salty and bitter with a high level of moisture… Frying and roasting are yang while boiling and steaming are yin”. Given the importance of balance being so focal in Chinese culture, it makes sense that cuisine culture is also an important factor of the society and daily lives of Chinese people. Despite Chinese cuisine culture being so influenced by these factors, the most significant one to me is my personal experiences with food surrounding my family and friends. Regardless of the history and philosophy behind the cuisine, it is a large part of my culture that I grew up with and will continue to enjoy for the rest of my life. Although being a “minority” has its positives and negatives, food has always been something that I have been proud of when it comes to my own culture. It gave me comfort and a way to make friends growing up, especially with the people around me who weren’t a minority themselves. Growing up, although I wasn’t a ‘majority’ and felt different from others in this sense, I had been able to connect with them all due to the medium which is food. This brought me some solace in the most transformative years in my life and for that, I am grateful and proud. - Cathay Lau Sources: https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2352618115000657 https://www.chinahighlights.com/travelguide/chinese-food/chinese-food-symbolism.htm https://www.google.co.uk/amp/s/amp.scmp.com/news/hong-kong/society/article/2165247/what-mid-autumn-festival-all-about-chinese-legends-lanterns https://confuciuswasafoodie.com/confucius/ https://www.yumofchina.com/chinese-food-culture/ Cover Image Source: Wes Radez, chineseamericanfamily.com

Dear Asian Youth, The good thing about social media is how quickly everything spreads: information is spread across the world in the blink of an eye, resources find their way to people, and educational material is at your fingertips. The bad thing about social media is how quickly everything spreads: are in and out of circulation continuously to the point where it can be exhausting to open your feed. This degree of connectivity is a powerful tool, but it is also something that facilitates misinformation and disposable trends. Everything moves quickly in the digital world, and by that, I’m referring to how much internet culture shifts and adapts. The Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement has gained a lot of public attention after the murder of George Floyd, and sadly, such acts of police brutality are not new. The tragedy was a catalyst to a greater public discussion about systemic racism and an unfortunate reminder that tragedy seems to expedite a desire for reform. Through social media, we are able to find resources that can implement change, such as petitions and donation links, and educational content concerning how to go about supporting the Black Lives Matter movement. There is no doubt that social media has an endless amount of resources for people to use in order to be good and socially-conscious activists. But as BLM permeates the digital consciousness of U.S. citizens, there comes a connotation with the vehicle by which the movement is primarily spread. That vehicle, of course, is social media, and social media is a conglomerate of normal citizens. If it is any kind of vehicle, one can look at it like a bandwagon: it’s a medium that facilitates peer pressure and trendiness. In the case of the BLM movement, many folks are diverging from the main road of actually uplifting Black voices and dismantling racist infrastructures. Performative activism is exactly what it sounds like: A disingenuous facade that reduces activism to some kind of aesthetic. I recall the circulation of the #blackouttuesday tag on Instagram. Essentially, a social media response to exhibit solidarity towards the Black community in which participants would simply post a black photo captioned with the tag itself. The issue with this is simple: It is not a call to reform, it is not a way of spreading resources, and it isn’t a display of taking action. It is a trend. This is one instance of many, and it is not something exclusively restricted to the BLM movement. Performative allyship can be seen in many other facets of society and social media: Resharing tag chains, posts like “Repost if you are against sexual assault!” or even solely posting videos of traumatic content are all instances of disingenuous activism. Corporations prey off of the trendiness of social justice, like the cases of Reformation and the NFL. Both released statements that expressed their support of BLM only after the recent rise of the movement. Reformation received backlash as a former employee, Leslieann Elle Santiago, spoke out about her mistreatment as a POC working under them. The NFL was under fire after many pointed out that they had still not signed on Colin Kapernick, who was terminated after his peaceful protest in 2016, despite their claims that they “condemn racism and the systematic oppression of black people.” Beyond these instances, performative activism from companies take shape in ways that are ultimately unproductive. And that fact isn’t restricted to corporations- the individual, as displayed by the #blackouttuesday tag, is very capable of performative actions, no matter how earnest they may be. So today, I’d like to share with you how exactly to recognize performative activism, how to move past it, and how to be a good ally. 1. Evaluate your content. What exactly is accomplished through the content you are sharing? Is it educational material, spreading ways to help, etc.? Tag chains ultimately don’t accomplish anything- sure, you display your support but the same thing could be known if you shared content that made an impact on the movement itself. Things like phone numbers and emails to government offices, petitions, donation campaigns. Solidarity can be expressed by means other than flat out saying, “Hey, I am in support of this!” and by genuinely taking action. Furthermore, it’s way more impactful. The case of showing videos that display traumatic content is a tricky one. I want to mention that you should proceed with trigger warnings when reposting things like that, as there is an undeniable privilege in sharing a video without thinking about how it can hurt someone. Not only an air of privilege, but also ignorance. It doesn’t cost anything to be aware of other people. In an instance where you are prompted to share such a video, evaluate your intentions. Many use posting videos that feature hard-to-swallow content as a way to bolster awareness, oftentimes due to the fact that it seems to hammer in how bad things actually are. But, if posting these videos are the only things that you do to aid the movement, perhaps you should consider what other actions you’re taking to further it. You can’t rely on anger alone to make a change, change must be carried out with the effort. It’s called ACTivism for a reason. The idea to evaluate your intentions goes beyond that. Look at why you care about a movement. Are you doing this because it’s the right thing to do, or are you doing this because everyone else is? Think: If social justice wasn’t super in and actually looked down upon by the majority of the population, would you still express your beliefs so fervently? 2. Integrate activism not just online, but offline. Work to educate the people around you. Participate in reform that will impact your own community. Learn to recognize and speak out against injustice in your everyday life. I find, as an Asian-American, that discussing certain movements can often be taboo in Asian households. There’s an underlying sentiment of being a model minority that affects certain perspectives, like it isn’t in our place to care about things like BLM. We have to work to reteach those family members that indulge in being perceived as a model minority, and furthermore, dismantle the very idea of a model minority. Having these discussions might be uncomfortable, but they are completely necessary. In the case of BLM, the more we acknowledge underlying racist sentiments, the more taboo such things become. You can seek to encourage reform by participating in protests, signing petitions, and educating yourself through books or documentaries. In the hellscape that is the USA’s 2020 COVID-19 pandemic, being present and active in your community can be extremely difficult. Make sure to take the necessary precautions if you intend to be at a rally. But change can be found through many different facets if you look hard enough. Many people put out “watch-to-donate” videos so that people can give monetary contributions to a cause, even if they don’t necessarily have the funds to provide money. Just make sure to do your research when looking at such things and try to find solid evidence that can definitively point to them being legit (A closing date for the fundraiser, a defined charity/organization that funds will go to, a donation amount goal/cap). Outside of that, petitions are always free. So is making the effort to educate yourself and keep your privilege in check. Those things will do more good than posting a black screen or joining a tag chain- and some of them even take less time. Stay attentive to the world around you and utilize your voice. Be a person who can facilitate constructive discussions in your community and raise awareness about important issues. Acknowledging activism and social justice as more than a trend means making the effort to integrate it into your lifestyle. 3. Don’t lose focus. Let’s look at BLM again. Don’t forget that as an ally, you are not there to speak on behalf of Black Americans. You are there to uplift and support their voices- and most of all, to listen to them. As a movement meant for their sake, they have the jurisdiction to lead it. Those who are the subjects of tragedy, oppression, and injustice across the world are the ones who have never had a voice. A movement is their form of a soapbox that they have the freedom to speak from, and for good reform to be possible, it needs to be conducted by them. Furthermore, concern yourself with the big picture. A memorial to Breonna Taylor is appreciated ...but it does not hold her murderers accountable. It’s like applying a bandaid to a bullet wound. Make an effort for genuine reform that will contribute to dismantling a greater oppressive institution. 4. Don’t be discouraged, and don’t bring down others. Activism can be exhausting. With the influx of information provided by social media circulation, there are a lot of expectations in the current day to keep up with every single event that happens, which can leave many activists feeling burnt out. The overwhelming pressure to do good things should and be socially aware shouldn’t have to be a burden to bear. If you’ve done any form of performative activism, do not lose faith in yourself. Hold yourself accountable. Do better. But do not give up. It is good to recognize how you can improve in your allyship, and act accordingly. In a similar vein, be concise and respectful in pointing out performative activism. By decrying others for their own mistakes, you are applying a pressure that discourages rather than encourages. Educating others around you is extremely important, including the way you go about doing it. So, all in all, allyship is a super important tool for furthering a movement. Social media greatly facilitates it, and one must go about using it in the best way possible in order to use such a platform to its fullest. - Billy Cover photo source: https://www.msn.com/en-in/news/other/after-backlash-starbucks-allows-employees-to-wear-black-lives-matter-apparel/amp/ar-BB15q4ic

Dear Asian Youth, I sped into the elevator, almost late to running an errand. Let me tell you something, the elevator in my building is so aged that it takes an excruciating 40 seconds to go down only 17 floors. So you can probably visualize my exasperated sigh when the elevator came to a halt at the 11th floor. A delicate old granny entered through the doors, trembling a little as she walked in. I immediately felt ashamed about my previous reaction and hastily moved aside to give her some space. The granny looked up at my face, her gaze travelled down my torso, past my legs, and landed on my tattered white sneakers. When her eyes met mine once again, I politely smiled and nodded. She did not. Instead, she let out that stereotypical Asian granny mouth ‘tsk’ (you all know what I’m talking about don’t even). She shook her head and her eyebrows contracted. I felt a little uneasy and looked away awkwardly. I wish things would’ve ended there, but it didn’t. She opened her mouth to speak to me. “你看起来像个学生。” (You look like a student.) I thought she was probably just confused as to why I’m not in school right now (for the record, international school breaks differ from the ones in Chinese public schools). “嗯我是个学生，但是我的学校现在放暑假了。”(Oh, yeah I am. But my school is on summer break right now.) “但是你为什么不把*没听清楚*遮住啊？”(Yes but why aren’t your *inaudible* covered)? My first instinct was to reach for my face. My fingertips traced the rim of my surgical mask. “您能不能再说一遍？我没听清楚。” (Pardon me? I couldn’t quite hear you.) “我是说你为什么光着腿？”(I mean, why are you showing your bare legs?) “呃……我的腿……” (Oh… My legs…) “哎呦喂，现在的年轻人啊……”(Aiyo, teenagers these days…) I was completely taken aback. I looked down at my outfit. A black t-shirt with some jean shorts. Nothing out of the ordinary. Plus, it was the middle of summer, and 37 degrees celsius in Shenzhen is no joke. The granny shook her head slowly and pursed her lips, dissatisfaction written all over her face. I wanted to retaliate or say something in response. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say. We stood in silence. After a bit more awkward standing around, the doors finally opened on the first floor. I walked out briskly, feeling angry, bewildered, and annoyed all at the same time. My outfit looked fine. I don’t get it. In China, women are traditionally taught to be conservative about showing their bodies and to practice modesty. In some ancient dynasties, if a man so much as saw a part of a woman other than her face, neck, hands, or feet, he had to marry her (yes, very extreme I agree). Thankfully, society has progressed dramatically and these ancient traditions are no longer practiced, but these norms and ideologies still play a rather significant role in modern Chinese culture. For that granny in particular, I can guess that she lived most of her life under a completely different social setting. Back in the 1900s, women's clothing still emphasized modesty above all. It is rare that you will find any photo from that time period of a woman showing large parts of her bare skin. To this day, numerous Chinese individuals still hold the belief that women are only decent and respectable if their clothes are not too revealing. Nonetheless, as international fashion and culture began entering China, many began advocating for women’s freedom to dress without external judgement or bias. Back in August of 2019, an article titled 祝中国女孩早日拥有穿衣自由 (“A Wish For Chinese Girls To Have The Freedom to Dress As Soon As Possible”) was published on a public WeChat account (WeChat is a popular social media app in China). In the article, the author discusses her experiences of being humiliated for wearing clothes such as bikinis, tight tank tops, and off-the-shoulder shirts. She said that people often scrutinized her outfits, and speculated negative aspects of her personality based on her style - slutty, unclean, asking for it. Furthermore, she includes various examples of trending search terms of female Chinese celebrities being criticized for wearing too-revealing outfits at airports. The author’s anger and frustration is evident. She calls on society to allow women the freedom to wear any clothes they enjoy without being humiliated or condemned by the public. She emphasizes that a girl’s choice of clothing is not a valid way to assess who she is internally. The author’s opinions were powerful and inspiring, resonating with many young girls who were exploring their fashion identities. However this article, meant to raise awareness and empower women, faced more backlash and controversy than support. Many internet users were quick to bash her opinions, and some even took the time to write long paragraphs of rebuttals in the comment section. Most people who disagreed with this idea of “freedom to dress” held similar beliefs as follows: Chinese girls already have the freedom to dress because no one is physically restricting them from wearing what they want (there is no official law or regulation)! Wearing revealing clothes is synonymous with public indecency! Double standards! What about men’s freedom to dress? This is sexist and exclusive! Though these opposing voices do not seem entirely false at first glance, they do not address the core of the issue at all. Furthermore, it is unsurprising to me that most of the people writing these counter-arguments are individuals not directly affected by the problem. First of all, it is true that there are no regulations stopping women from wearing whatever they want. However, this freedom is stripped away from us by the public, who deems clothing to be a representation of a woman’s decency. Secondly, wearing revealing clothes does not equal public indecency. Of course no one is openly promoting for girls to run naked down public sidewalks. Showing one’s shoulders or simply a midriff does not come close to public indecency. Third, I will admit that some men are also restricted by masculine stereotypes that prohibit them from wearing certain clothing pieces. This is also a problem that warrants much attention. However, advocating for women should not and never will take away from the struggles of men. Diverting the attention and labelling any sort of advocacy as “exclusive” does not help the situation in the slightest. Furthermore, it is important to acknowledge that many Asian countries have patriarchal societal ideas, which places men’s value and status above that of women. As a result, women face higher probabilities of discrimination and scrutiny from when it comes to their freedom of expression. Many people seem to overlook the core of the issue: judging others simply based on how they dress. The main message here is that girls and women should be able to express themselves through their clothes and not have to be criticized by society for their choices. Furthermore, clothing should be detached from a person’s morality or honor. It is essential to remember that clothing can represent a person’s creative identity or aesthetic standards, but it definitely does not define a person’s worth or respectability. We need to leave behind these outdated mindsets and empower women to dress the way they want. In China, though the controversy of “the freedom to dress” is ongoing, I can see the country slowly progressing and transitioning. It is important that everyone feels empowered to dress the way they love. What you choose to wear should never be an excuse for shameful criticism. Remember that the type, length, or design of the fabric on your body has nothing to do with anybody but you. - Eva Zhong Cover photo source: Nancy Duong https://www.nancyduong.com/fashion/