(i really need a .edu email in this economy) “Learned how to work within a professional environment within the structure of the non-profit organization, Dear Asian Youth. Developed skills in graphic design by working alongside graphic designers as a writer/researcher, specifically in communicating exactly how my brain pictures the information given the context of the subject. For example, a visual for a slide I wrote about the overtourism of Hawai’i should be more serious than one I wrote for the Golden Globes…” It’s that time of year. ELECTION SEASON! (But I guess it's also college applications season?) Let’s get the elephant out of the room: I feel old as s– okay well, the editors told me I probably shouldn’t say that on this publicly accessible internet site, but I feel old. The University of California system’s applications for Fall 2025 opened up in August. Two nights later was Karaoke Night in my house, probably because my mom and I had been pretty busy and under pressure throughout the week, given that both of our vacations were about to end. Over the last couple of days, I had to learn how to sound like myself in an application without sounding too much like myself. I had to learn to not be humble while not being an as- annoying pain to be around. I had to learn how to tell my story without storytelling. Most of all, I had to put all of my cards down on the table for my dream schools to judge… and then not hear back until February. (At the time of writing in September, I’m not done yet.) And this was before I had access to my school counselors or my counseling fellow at a program that matches low-/mid-income high school seniors with current university students. So I didn’t know that I had to do half of what I had just said yet. At the same time, I was dealing with growing up and losing people, and working hard to make a passion project work. But as I was all caught up in all of that mess, sitting on the couch curled up with my mom’s Macbook on the armrest, I heard the lyrics to a song that guided me through one of the toughest times of my life: Selena’s “Dreaming of You” from her 1995 posthumous crossover album. When I was younger, some of my best memories were with both of my parents in the Philippines. My dad didn’t have a green card or a tourist visa, but my mom was actively becoming an American citizen. I was born in Illinois, so I’ve been a U.S. citizen my whole life (and could be a dual Filipino-American citizen, but that’s a conversation for when I’m older). By the last time I saw the Philippines in my quite developed pre-public school memory, Christmas and New Year 2009/2010, things were feeling different. I’m not going to tell my parents’ full story because it’s definitely a film I want to write in the future, but something had come up in this visit that meant I was only going back to America with one parent and my older brother. I was confused. And the next thing I remember was on the plane home, on a Delta flight across the Pacific (or across the States, I’m not sure anymore) with a broken tray table in front of me marked by caution tape. I remember my older brother being on the other side of my mom, with the three of us being in the middle of the plane. Getting back to the States, my life was a little boring. At least compared to my life and homecoming in the Philippines. My single mom worked days in a Miami hospital, my brother went to school, so I’d be with a fellow Filipino neighbor just a short car ride away from our rented place. We eventually got sick of Miami for many different reasons, moving to California by the end of the year. But once we found a place, the routine returned as my mom started working nights and sleeping days, my brother going to school down the street from our townhome. Amidst the loneliness, I still grew up. Despite the loneliness, I still grew up. I still learned to self-operate, although clumsily at first. And when I wondered just why I was lonely, I just knew that I didn’t have a dad around. But it was alright. To me, and  my brother, he believed too, Mommy was our Dad and Mom. But still the thoughts lingered on the other half of me. The thoughts lingered when I was learning to write my name. The thoughts lingered when I wrote my last name and my mom’s and wondered why they were different. We moved one last time to the house I live in now. My brother started middle school and I’d try to help him with his math homework, not understanding a thing but still trying. Mom was still working nights and sleeping days, securing us our freedom to have a future. So I was still alone at home, or at least mentally alone since Mom would be asleep and I’d stay out of her way so she could rest. That’s when bored little me found our CD player and antenna radio combo thingy. We called it a boombox, but it was rounded and not like the ones you really see in 70s and 80s films. I’m sure I could find it now if I looked hard enough. I went digging for something to play and discovered, aside from my The Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh Storybook CD, a mixtape burned onto a CD. Oh yeah, I found the last traces of my dad that I’d have and hold for the longest times. And what was the song that would catch my four-year-old ear? “I just wanna hold you close, but so far, all I have are dreams of you.” the strongest woman I know, Karaoke Night, August 2024 In this moment when I was looking at all of my accomplishments and vulnerabilities and telling my personal story through my activities in and out of school, one thing comforted me. The voice of my mom singing the song that I dedicate to all of the people I’ve lost in my life. “Dreaming of You” was my dad’s song for me for the longest time. Then it became the song for all of those I’ve lost in the past. When my relationship with my girlfriend of a year ended this was our song. But even now, as my relationship with my dad has matured, this will always be the song that reminds me of my parents. Of a time when I found comfort and companionship in a song from a singer that was tragically taken from the world too soon — just as my relationship with my dad was put on hold too soon for any kid to grasp. So I put the laptop away. I started singing along with my mom. She turned around and smiled. So I got up. I took the mic in my hands when the song ended, queuing up my own. “I’ve never known someone like you. Tangled in love, stuck by you… from the glue.” (“Glue Song” by beabadoobee, for those not in the know) I never knew so much love and comfort. I never knew myself better than in that moment. Wanna know who I am?   Try reading this story. Editors: Luna Y., Alisha B. Image: Unsplash

“I’ve got sun in my m—king pocket, best believe yeah, you know me, I forgive and I forget, I know my age and I act like it, got what you can’t resist, I’m a perfect All-American.” Olivia Rodrigo, “all-american b—ch”, 2023 Two years ago, my friends at the time were reading I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter  by Erika L. Sánchez for sophomore year honors English. The book resonated with a lot of them and explored a lot of topics that had otherwise never really been welcomed into an English class curriculum. Filipino American History Month was first federally observed in 2009, when I was just three years old, from October 1st through October 31st. Hispanic Heritage Week was expanded to Hispanic Heritage Month, from September 15th to October 15th, in 1988. In many ways, Filipinos and Hispanic Latin Americans (those from countries in the Americas formerly colonized by Spain) share a number of parallels in their cultural, linguistic, and historical connections. Both groups come from rich, diverse indigenous nations, were colonized by the Spanish, and have since found themselves within the U.S.'s sphere of influence. While the experiences of these communities are uniquely distinct, it feels meaningful that our month-long American celebrations of culture and history overlap to further reflect our intertwined histories and shared struggles. So when I cracked open the text of I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter  to find, not only traces of my friends’ own experiences with struggling to live up to the expectations of both their traditional families and those of American society, but traces of my own experiences as the first American-born Filipino son on both sides of my immediate family… I wasn’t too surprised. I could keep going about how Filipinos are often (incorrectly) minimized into being the “Latin Asians” or the “Chinese Mexicans”, both statements that have often been said to me when I talk about being Filipino, but I wanted to talk about me and my own experiences, inspired by how Sánchez told the story of Julia. And in that same way, I hope I can inspire other first-gen Filipino American young people to share their experiences. I don’t want to be a nurse — but that doesn’t mean I don’t value stability or don’t think of my family. We’ve all heard the stereotype that all Filipinos are or want to be nurses. While based on the fact that many Filipino diaspora are  nurses, it’s simply not true. Filipinos can be whatever they want to be, just as much as anyone else can. And I choose to follow my passion for storytelling. But it was very hard for me to admit that to my extended family. “How will you support a family?”, “Kaya mo bang pasukin ang industriya na yan?” (Can you/Do you have what it takes to get into that industry?), “Why don’t you just become an architect or go into marketing, I know you like that!”, and even subliminal messages like “Oh your brother is so good for going into nursing with your mom!” — those are all statements I’ve had to deal with for the last three years. I was thankfully raised by a very supportive mother that always reminded me that the reason she came to America was so that my older brother and I didn’t have to become nurses to have good lives. But not all of society, as I’ve come to discover, thinks like my Ma. But that won’t stop me from telling stories through writing. You’re either with me for the ride or you’re not. And that’s okay. “You’re too pale, are you sure you’re Filipino?” — Okay, but if I get darker then I won’t fit the beauty standards back home? Colorism. Both Filipino and Hispanic Latin American communities carry the weight of a colonialism legacy that instilled a preference for lighter skin—a challenge I’ve grappled with firsthand. This point is a little self-explanatory, but my whole life, I’ve dealt with not being dark enough for some people’s expectations of what a Filipino should look like. I’ve been taken for Viet, Korean, or (surprisingly) White American more than I’ve been assumed to be Filipino. But if I get darker from being out during the spring, summer, and autumn, I get panicked comments from relatives saying things like, “Ay ‘nako! (Oh child/Oh goodness), you’re getting too dark.” So am I supposed to be lighter or darker? Also how do you deal with tan lines? But for real, colorism and preference for one shade over another is insane. We’re all beautiful, regardless of color.  And you know what, screw the Spanish standards for making little nine year-old Vien think about how he should cover up and stay out of the sun. Beauty standards and expectations are all things we just have to live with, but I hope that you don’t let it define you. Now the older Vien embraces being kissed by the sun whenever he can. Just the way it should be. I don’t particularly like EDM or rave music — that doesn’t make me any less Filipino American (nor does it mean I don’t like to party hard). I grew up in rural and suburban Stanislaus County, California. It’s a far cry to our neighbors of Santa Clara or Alameda when it comes to partying and even further when it comes to raving. Our county is at most 10% Asian American (including Asian Americans of mixed heritage). Because of those factors, we aren’t as closely connected to the lifestyles of the ABBs, ABGs, Kevin Nguyens, or all the other stereotypes popularized in SoCal and the Bay Area. I, like many other Filipino kids of my age, grew up with songs from the 70s to the 2000s. I love my Sarah Geronimo ballads, my Eraserheads rock anthems, my Carpenters karaoke songs, and all the MJ, Beatles, and ABBA you can find. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t vibe with NIKI, SZA, H.E.R., or thủy. Nor does it mean I can’t sing along to a Selena or Kali Uchis Song. And that doesn’t mean I only listen to K-Pop and can’t appreciate the classical and jazz influences that I grew up with that influence some of our biggest artists (like Laufey). If there’s anything I want you to take away from this part, it’s that you shouldn’t have to live up to these or any expectations to be someone you are. I love to party and party hard, but that doesn’t mean I’m listening to Keshi or Illenium on my commute to school. I love to dance but that doesn’t make me any less masculine than I am. I love being Filipino but that doesn’t mean I’m any less freedom-loving all-American than the next person. “That’s too gay.” or “Parang babae. (Like a girl.)” — but I’m still a guy, who are you to define me? And the biggest point of exigence behind this piece. (Write that down if you’re analyzing this in your English classes!) Touching back on music, I started this piece out with “all-american b—ch” by Olivia Rodrigo. While writing this, I was listening to the sweet tunes of Lyn Lapid, grentperez, and Rocco. But one artist really got me thinking about this: Mad Tsai, someone who’s championed the way for those right in the middle. My whole life, I’ve never been perceived as an ideal of effeminacy or masculinity. I’ve always presented myself and identified as a boy but always got along easily with girls. I don’t wear dresses or heels. But monster trucks never got me going either. And people don’t know it, because they don’t know me, but I love working out and being active. But I’m also very emotionally aware and open to others. People say I’m the type of guy they’d bring home… but is it to meet their parents? And that brings me back to the subheading. “That’s too gay.” So what? You’re being entertained by people like Vice Ganda or Bretman Rock but you won’t support that they just happen to like men? On romantics… Why do we feel like we have to label everything? And why must we judge? If I told you that in the past three years, I’ve come to accept who I am as a person who can and has loved people of both different and similar sexes, does that invalidate that I am a Filipino, Catholic, high-achieving, creative, passionate, party-loving, son of God? Does my ability to love threaten you and your expectations? Does that mean I act the “American” way that you tell us not to act like? If acting “American” means that I get to love and care for the world as my Lord taught me to, it’s time to glue the blue passport to my back. I am not your perfect Filipino son. But I am still Filipino. I am still your son. And I am still Vien. I hope you, too, can break expectations and find love within yourself and from others. Editors: Luna Y., Blenda Y. Image: Unsplash

“He was just this kid in my head for such a long time — I think I just missed him.” Nora, Past Lives  (2023) They always tell us to not grow up too fast. They could be anyone: parents, teachers, siblings, cousins, friends, the list goes on. Even one of the great Asian musical artists of our times known as Grentperez has a whole song telling us all: “Don’t grow up too fast.” I guess I didn’t listen. Or maybe I did? Maybe I never had a chance to listen … or maybe, like almost everything in life, the velocity at which we choose or are chosen to grow up at is a multidimensional spectrum. Regardless, I suggest you all heed that advice as much as you can. (I say this as I’m unknowingly rushing forward and past my family typing away at my phone in Clark International Airport in the Philippines. Slow down, bud!) Exactly a year ago, to the week, I was writing a piece for Dear Asian Youth’s core Instagram account alongside a colleague (shoutout to Catherine Mao, hope college apps go well for you this semester, wherever you are!) about Celine Song’s Past Lives . The movie was fresh in theaters and hadn’t yet been nominated for a handful of prestigious awards throughout the industry. But you don’t get nominated for the Academy’s “Best Picture” for nothing, and my colleague and I knew that. So we wrote. And we wrote a lot. And we had to cut out a lot. And the post never actually came out for you all to see, but I tell you, it is probably one of my favorite posts I’ve written for DAY to date. I wrote this in a message to Catherine while putting our post together (which ended up on the design of the post): “The thought of leaving past lives behind in other places for people there to remember  with me, both in the lives I’ve left behind locally (like elementary school me, middle school me) where I grew up in California and those lives I left behind as a child in the Philippines.” Oh boy, did Vien have not a single clue about what would be in store for him a year later. Join me as I rediscover my own past lives (and rediscover the movie I wish was on my plane’s film catalog). ••• “We had these beautiful city wides that moved in one direction over the image of these cities: Seoul during the day — in the morning — and New York City at night, which just sort of spells doom for them because it really is about showing that the time zones are completely opposite. They’re on the opposite sides of the world. But over that image, you know, they’re really talking about each other.” Celine Song, director of Past Lives , breaking down the Skype scene Let’s establish some big things right now. First, I am a first-generation American. I spent a considerable amount of time between the U.S. and the Philippines from the ages of three to nine and, prior to this year’s trip, the last time I “went home” to the Philippines was when I was twelve years old and that was pre-pandywandy. I am seventeen-going-on-eighteen so, Sound of Music  aside, it’s been five years since I’ve been home and five years was more than two sub-lifetimes for me. Second, I already touched on it in the last point but I’ve changed a lot over the years, and I’ve left a lot of lives behind in the minds of so many that I’ve met. I discovered that so many people who hadn’t been able to keep up with my life over the years still had ideas about me that I’d long outgrown. It was touching and it was also heartbreaking in a way. Seeing and introducing the present me to these people (friends, relatives) was like pressing the “Overwrite Save” button. Third, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the mainland United States and the Philippines are geographically distant from one another. They inhabit opposite ends of the Pacific Ocean and are thousands of miles apart. However, history and the internet have brought the two very distant nations closer together due to the endless intertwining of the two countries through their peoples and their cultures. So this quote by Celine Song really struck me. Especially when something major happened during my vacation. Prior to and during my vacation, I used Instagram to communicate with the majority of the people in my life — especially those who were geographically far away from me. A week and a half into the trip, Instagram’s bot-identification system flagged my main account, connecting me to over a thousand people, and banned it. It all just felt like — woah. I couldn’t communicate with so many people I had met on the trip and it felt like my life froze. It felt like the scene froze. It reminded me of how Nora and Hae Sung’s Skype call froze and they lost contact with one another. It reminded me of Skype calls I had with my own family on opposite ends of the Pacific that froze and kept us from communicating. ••• “와~ (Woah~/Wow~)” Nora and Hae Sung (over and over), Past Lives Whenever I come back to see my cousins, there’s always the “ten minutes of awkwardness” that occupy anywhere between five minutes to two hours of our first meeting.. It’s like we always revel at how the other has grown and changed since we last saw them. It doesn’t matter if we’ve seen each other on video calls or on Instagram or Facebook, we’re always going to be new in some way and familiar in some others upon every initial meeting. When Hae Sung and Nora first meet in person after twenty-plus years, I now see myself meeting my family. Looking at one another and registering who it really is before us. We’re in awe, but we’re also slightly in fear. ••• “The guy flew thirteen hours to be here. I’m not going to tell you not to see him or something.” Arthur, Past Lives The last thing I want to touch on in this piece is a bit of my family life and Nora’s present life in the film. Nora is married to Arthur, an American man who describes himself as the villain in her and Hae Sung’s love story. He’s extremely self-aware and humble. He knows that Nora’s life rests in her hands and hers only. My life has always had this large division in it separating my life into one around my mother’s side of the family and one around my father’s side. This trip, as I’ve gotten older than ever, was the first time that my third party, my parallel to Arthur, emerged and allowed me to finally bring these two separate lives together into one. For the first time in my life, I was able to live an authentic version of myself and be honest about it to everyone who asked. And it was that freedom — that understanding third party — that allowed me to think about my life and experiences in this way. I guess all that I can say is… I really want to watch Past Lives  again. I want to discover more of myself in films like these. I’ll see you soon. Editors : Blenda Y., Quill L., Alisha B. Image: Unsplash

~ Authors' Note: This piece was co-authored between Uzayer Masud, a DAY team member based in Bangladesh, and Parveen Kaur Mundi, DAY’s Vice President. The date of writing was prior to the recent development of Sheikh Hasina’s resignation and the dissolution of the parliament. The authors stress this is not meant to be an infographic or journalistic report: you can find recaps of the Bloody July events on other platforms. In fact, this is not meant to be more than it is— which is some of the personal commentary and observations shared between two students with different proximities to the violence ensuing over the past few weeks, and as the students of Bangladesh continue to build a new order. Our organization has seen such crises materialize in the lives of our members over the years, whether it be the Myanmar coup or natural disasters, and seeks to provide a forum where our affected membership can process their experiences. ~ The people of Bangladesh now stand behind one demand—the resignation of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina and her cabinet to bring an end to her 15-year-old authoritarian regime with the ruling party, the Awami League. In a country where ⅕ of the population is unemployed, students began a peaceful movement demanding reforms to the discriminatory quotas for government jobs. In which 30% of the jobs are reserved for the descendants of freedom fighters of 1971. The events of 2024 come from a history of dissent around these quotas: being contested in 2013, and again in 2018, at one point scrapped entirely. Other quotas were still necessary for certain marginalized people, who filed a case to the high court. They deemed the 2018 circular as illegal, reviving the 30% quota. So the Anti-Discrimination Student Movement started protests again. What is now a shoot-at-sight curfew and national state of emergency came from civil unrest over years of rising inflation and autocratic rule. Growing mistrust and the general decaying state of affairs laid the foundation for rightful escalation by students, which was in turn met with immediate and entirely senseless violence. The violence we see now ensued within hours of one remark by the Prime Minister “If the grandchildren of freedom fighters don't get quota benefits, will those then go to the grandchildren of the Razakars? That's my question to the countrymen.” Bangladesh has a very emotional protest culture rooted in the inception of the country, having been born out of resistance, most slogans and media now embody the same passionate spirit. The regime laundered billions, drove up inflation, and made a farce of democracy, all of which was largely tolerated. What was not, could not be accepted was the Prime Minister’s remark. In order to understand the violence, one must understand the slur that set the country ablaze. Razakar is a term entirely native to Bangladesh. In literal translation it means “traitor” but there are nuances: a razakar is a murderer, a razakar is a coward, a razakar is a traitor. Bring forth the culmination of every slur there is and what you get is a razakar. With that, the student protestors revolted, and the first videotaped murder was that of a student, Abu Sayeed, who defiantly spread out his arms waiting for the police to shoot him. And they did, in a moment that has become the most publicized murder of 2024 in Bangladesh. Now we bear witness to scenes of children playing on rooftops and verandas being shot at from the ground. Of helicopters circling Dhaka, firing grenades and tear gas. Of a father holding his dead daughter in his arms. Of police barging through university gates and shooting students inside. Of hospitals, barred from treating the wounded unless the already brutalized protestors also agree to be arrested. Protestors now demand justice for those killed and the resignation of each person responsible. Bangladesh has a rich history of dissent: the pot stirred in 1952 when students protested against the Pakistani government’s imposition of Urdu as the one and only official language and were killed by the police. Again in 1971, when Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, having formed the Awami League, led another independence war against Pakistan in which nothing short of three million proto-Bangladeshis paid with their lives. We commemorate their sacrifices with monuments built in their honor, the Shaheed Minar for the language movement, and the Martyr’s Monument for the independence war. In 2013, 2014, 2018, and 2024, the students protested, and every change they brought was paid for with their lives. From the People’s University for Gaza encampments to anti-fascist protests all around the world, why must a government reply with bloodshed to the students who only seek to enact a better order? “Sheikh Mujibur Rahman is Bangladesh's folkloric George Washington by vision and verve, Gandhi and Abraham Lincoln by assassination, and Stalin by his advocating of a one-party state” As written in The Bengalis: A Portrait of a Community by Sudeep Chakravarti The inception of Bangladesh was that of a guerilla state, a character of militancy still embedded in the fabric of this country. Every major infrastructure project is named with the Bangabandhu (Mujib) prefix, meaning Friend of Bengal. Buildings are named Freedom Tower. But since achieving sovereignty, Bangladesh has only changed hands from one imperial fascist to another. The students taking to the streets right now have known nothing but an authoritarian regime and, still, possess the willingness to imagine a better order and struggle for it. The Awami League has dismantled its opposition piece by piece over the last 15 years until none remain, making a farce democracy and creating a one-party state. A 2021 Al Jazeera Investigation reminds us that local gangs and murderers effectively negotiated Sheikh Hasina’s initial rise to power. Fascism takes many faces: from forced disappearances to rewriting the national curriculum with propaganda, the Awami League is playing every card from the authoritarian handbook. The government’s propaganda machine is both uncoordinated and would be amusing if the price paid for it were not the lives of student protestors. There is no consistency in the lies perpetuated by different people in the Awami League. There is no consistency across what political figures say either. The police raid houses and check civilians’ phones for footage of brutality and VPN apps while a minister deems it illegal on live TV. If found with either, the person will be taken into remand, which is a Bangladeshi euphemism for state-sanctioned torture. Internet blackouts to control the people, while the IT minister says data centers caught fire, and two days later didn’t catch fire. Apparently, the internet shut itself down, and then the rain-damaged satellites in orbit are to blame. At the same time, the initial grassroots nature of the 2024 quota movement was weaponized by the political opposition, whose factions joined in rallies en masse and incited violence. Burning down BTV (the state media), highway toll plazas, or the new Metro Rail are not actions of sensible students protesting for their right to a meritocracy. Despite claiming that they did not commit arson, students are now held liable by the ruling party. Much of the world suffers from the corrupt rule of gerontocracy. Still, it is also not lost on us that younger generations are also losing their principles: it was the Chhatra League, the youth wing of the ruling Awami League, that was entrusted to brutalize protesting students. The PM called the protesting students traitors to the state, “tarnishing the image of the great liberators.” And Obaidul Quader, the AL General Secretary, said that the Chhatra League would give a fitting reply to the chhatra (students). So with every move, protesting students were met with a new type of violence: that too from goons who act like little dictators of a banana republic. The Chhatra League wears helmets and attacks with makeshift weapons under the guise and protection of the fascist Awami League. The Chhatra League storms hospital emergency wards and bludgeons people to death. These indoctrinated youth rule with fear and rape in broad daylight as the entire country descends into chaos. What results is the unsettling normalcy of students being the subject of enforced disappearances, torture, and mass arrests. Students are the lifeblood of a country, and so the construction and upholding of the Chhatra League as a legitimate actor in civil society by the fascist party is only one example of the tactics used to dissolve our revolutionary power. The position of the Chhatra League as an extrajudicial arm of the state is a tactic we know from other places, including the Bharatiya Janata Yuva Morcha, the youth wing of the ruling BJP in India, another side of the same fascist coin. Youth who are fed alternate histories, whether it be in the apartheid state of Israel or Dhaka, become cemented in party-student alliances that only enable further bloodshed. But in a much larger sense, from our debate clubs to student governments to Model UNs, we as youth around the world commonly spend the formative years of our lives inundated with the political establishment. This in many ways acclimates us to stabilizing the dominant order of things and moderating the liberatory efforts of our peers. Think of how easily some people pledged their votes to Kamala Harris with no demand that the Democratic Party even change its platform on genocide. From Dhaka to D.C., this party loyalty does not serve us, and in fact, is compelling youth to police the tactics of and turn against other youth who stand proud to dissent. A new cascade of student identity politics ensues. The same ruling party that memorializes the sacrifices of students for the right to a national language every year murders principled students with blatant hypocrisy. When the state violence was circulated broadly, the internet shut down, and even after it returned all social media was blocked. Every night there are gunshots and police raids into people’s homes. There are countless parallels between the fight for independence in 1971 and the current tactics of 2024. Unclaimed corpses and police violence mark some of them. 1971: Are there any freedom fighters here? 2024: Are there any students here? Now every night is spent worrying if our house will be the next site of a raid. Or if someone we know will be dead come morning. Shutting down the internet also shuts down misinformation, which is a global problem now. In every prior conflict, what the government does is shut everything down. The measures taken are almost entirely reactive, never proactive. You cannot have a headache if you don’t have a head. Coordinators of the student movement were forcefully discharged from the hospital and kidnapped in the middle of the night. Two days later the detective branch of the police published photos of the student leaders eating chowmein. Forced to release a sham surrender statement under gunpoint, the ordeal was so staged even the high court released a statement saying not to make a mockery out of the people by posting it. Imperialists from the left, fascists from the right. Authoritarian all the way. With a shoot-on-sight curfew and police raids every night, we do not know what will happen but we have held strong, and we will continue to resist until the Awami League is out of power, and a democracy led by the people is restored. Sources All the prime minister’s men | al jazeera investigations (2021) YouTube. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6v_levbUN4 (Accessed: 06 August 2024). ‘KATATARE PRAJAPATI BANGLADESH LINKTREE’ (2024). Google Docs. Authors : Masud, U. & Kaur Mundi, P. Editors : Masud, U., Kaur Mundi, P. & Yin, L. Image source : Rajib Dhar/AP

twelve years in school / and straight As for the most of it / i still haven’t worked out what i’m supposed to do when i lose you / and sure / we’ve thought about it / we’ve thought about it as much as we do the time we got into a fight / and you hadn’t spoken to me for a week / until you’d shown up at my door past midnight on a rainy Tuesday / promise me you’ll never hurt me like that again / we’ve thought about it / as much as the bones that we’ve buried / the graves we’ve dug with our hands / the ripped up skeletons of sleepovers at your house / pretending it doesn’t mean anything when i brush your hair out of your face / (there are never any loose strands) / and let my fingertips rest on your cheek / EVEN IF IT’S BETRAYAL / an act of violence against the promises we’ve made / i promise i’ll never hurt you again / even if love always has a way of ruining things / when you look at me / with a supernova in your eyes / and something falls in the kitchen / and we have to pull away / and no amount of laughter / is enough to pretend / that i want anything more than / to kiss you / and etch the years of calling you my / friend / onto a gravestone i’m sorry / i know i should move on / but dirt is still wedged in fingernails / and my clothes are still stained from the digging / i don’t know how to let go of seventeen years / even if half of it is underground / a body has no use without its skin / and i’m muscle slipping off bone / with missing sinews / I STILL THINK ABOUT THE TIME YOU HELD MY HAND WHEN I WAS ASLEEP / and i couldn’t forget the heat of your fingertips for months after that / the longing ached like a surgical scar / that long should’ve healed / i still have the Post-its you snuck between the pages of my textbook / while walking past my desk / i still have the hairtie you lent me / six years ago / when i forgot to bring mine / in a box that has been doubling as a coffin / i would’ve kept the Kinder Bueno wrappers / if i didn’t keep forgetting to take them out of my pocket / and those bags of one-dollar potato chips from Cheers / if i didn’t keep forgetting to take them out of my bag / even if they’re rotting / in the trash / in the back compartment of some truck / i still remember / you clinging to my left arm / sweaty bodies folding into each other / stumbling down a quiet pavement / feeding each other cheap snacks / laughing over crude jokes / pretending things will always be this way / always, always, always today / i will learn to let you go / and i promise you will never hear about how much i like your hair / and i will stop looking at you / like i want to drink your laughter like a cold glass of milk in the morning / and want your hair between my fingers / until they become the lines of my palm / and want your scent in every inch of my lungs / because it makes no difference if i choke / after all / when i breathe / i only breathe your name / AND I WILL CONTINUE TO PRETEND THAT ALL IS GOOD / that i’m cool with you laughing at someone else’s jokes / when mine were the first you ever laughed at / and it doesn’t matter if someone else’s number / takes my place in your phone / i won’t mention how much i want you to kiss me / and stop bursting into laughter right after / as if it was a joke / as if i was being funny / as if i didn’t mean every word i said / as if you wouldn’t have said yes / if you knew / i meant it and i know it couldn’t have worked out / but i still smile when i see tulips / because they’re your favourite / and if i met you when we were older / you would never have had to settle for plastic flowers / we wouldn’t have been stuck listening to the same Taylor Swift song / at the back of a dark classroom / in another universe / maybe you would’ve chosen the seat beside me in a half-empty lecture hall / or we would’ve bumped into each other at a picnic with our friends / and i would’ve had the courage to tell you / that i think too much about the times you call me / love / and kiss my hand to catch me off-guard / i’m sorry / i still want you to be happy / without the phantom of everything we lost clinging to the faces of every person you meet / even if it should be me who kisses your lower back when you finally get the tattoo you’ve always talked about / EVEN IF I CAN’T LET YOU GO Editor: Leila W.

At sixteen, I’m sandwiched between two shelves in the east-most aisle of a convenience store that hasn’t seen my face on its own, the same way you don’t buy a singular bottle of Pepsi when it comes with one free, and it doesn’t make sense to eat a palm-sized bowl of Samyang without three sticks of string cheese. So, it’s strange when you find it on its own, as though something is missing, and something will always be missing as you chew on the undercooked noodles that would’ve been a tad softer if you had the patience to let it sit. I let my hands circle the concave dent in cereal boxes around me; Coco Crunch; Fruit Loops; Cinnamon Toast Crunch; if I asked you today, I think your answer would be the same, you’d still tell me you like Coco Crunch the best because it was the first cereal you’d ever tried and you’ve always had a way of holding onto things and never letting go. I’m embarrassed to admit I still remember what happened; because I was there and I never did forget; the milk stains around your mouth and crumbs on the collar of our white uniform, you should be more careful, you know? I know I shouldn’t think about you when things ended so badly, but I still wonder who’s blowing crumbs off your shoulder when you eat and fans you when the sun’s out and it’s 30°C; well, I don’t know how you’ll find someone who loves you the way I do; you were my best friend once; you were everything; so I’m glad you’re happy if you are; sorry, I unfollowed you on Spotify so I can’t see how many hours you’ve spent listening to our favourite song okay, that’s a lie. Two girls clad in netball jerseys chatter among themselves as they stumble into the store, pushing, pulling and stumbling into each other’s bodies in the hysteria of their laughter. They cast a stare in my direction, pausing at the head of the aisle, like they’ve chanced upon a dead body. She looks depressed, one of them whispers loudly, but it’s easy to neglect a ghost. She starts pulling cereal boxes off the shelves, and in every movement there’s a sticky reminder of the times we’ve clawed through ice-cream freezers, fishing out sticks of $4.30 Magnum ice-cream, it’s a rip-off, don’t you think? We buy them anyways. We always buy them. But now I’m here between cracks of unwashed tiles, the guts of soda bottles pouring in between them, because someone was careless enough to knock them over and not clean them; and no one wants to fix things they’ve broken; maybe broken things aren’t meant to be fixed; I roll around between heart-shaped gummies and crush Kit Kat wrappers beneath my weight, and a garbled song that was overplayed during the summer of 2016 chokes out of the dusty speakers; ‘Cause you know it’s been a long time coming / Don’t you let me fall, oh; I know there’s no point prying six years of friendship out of the drain, but teenage minds are built to clutch and to hold, to take things that seem so miniscule in the face of adulthood and make them so large; I should be running / You keep me coming for you; Teenagehood is nothing if not running and rebelling, if not crying and comforting and becoming more whole. And something something, I wish I could pretend I didn’t need you, but the teenage mind is a traitor too; it can’t decide if it should keep you or let you go. I saw you at the end of the hallway and you were laughing with someone else so I guess it isn’t just me and you and the 7/11 underneath my school anymore, and I guess it’s okay that you’ve moved on while I still have yellowed receipts in the back pocket of my skirt, and; Ah girl, you okay?  I should accept that I won’t see your face when I peer between the gaps of seaweed bags on Aisle 3 (Asian Snacks, Confectionaries, Baked Goods); Ah girl ah? What happened to you? And I need to delete the videos we’ve made of our impulsive decisions, buying $5.20 wafers with trading cards of our favourite anime, promising we won’t fall for the scam but coming back anyways; Ah girl? And I’ll never be able to drink Pepsi because you won’t be there to try the flavours I don’t like and; Ah girl, are you okay?  I DON’T KNOW. I don’t know. Editor: Leila W.

Boycott: A VERY Brief Guide Have you been trying to update yourself on current events? Are you active on the activism side of Instagram and X? Do you retweet and bookmark every thread about Palestine, petitions, GoFundMe goals, and links to resources to better inform yourself about the demands for justice? Whether you answer one or all of these questions with ‘yes’, this might be the guide to help you understand how to take part in activism under capitalism. One of the key methods of tackling capitalism, and remaining active and aware of financially driven immorality, is to avoid spending your money on those companies. Don’t be an active consumer of theirs, be inactive. To boycott is action with inaction. Defining a Boycott According to Cambridge Dictionary, a boycott can be defined as: “the action of refusing to buy a product, do business with a company, or take part in an activity as a way of expressing strong disapproval: […] Pressure groups urged a consumer boycott of clothing brands made using child labour.” What we can assess from this definition in particular are three things: Boycotts aim to communicate a ‘strong disapproval’. Boycotts are often used to target products, businesses, or companies, as the desire for profit can be used against them by making a dent in their earnings. A drop in sales equates to getting a brand’s attention on a group’s strong disapproval of their action/inaction. The reasons why people boycott often involve unjust events or activities, in which brands may be involved or complicit with. Similar to how the definition of a strike is a refusal “to continue working because of an argument with an employer about working conditions, pay levels, or job losses” or, broadly speaking, “to cause a person or place to suffer severely from the effects of something very unpleasant that happens suddenly” (Cambridge Dictionary), boycotts aim to use inactivity as an active way of communicating to higher-ups how groups of people can drive the smooth running of business and their profits, then take it away. The ones responsible for revenue are underappreciated until it becomes too inconvenient to ignore. However, it should be highlighted that for the case of Palestine support, the Palestinian-led Boycott, Divestment & Sanctions movement (BDS), argues that effective boycotts require targeted and collective strategy. BDS iterates that, “[t]he passion and commitment to justice behind the will to boycott every company that’s complicit with the genocidal Israeli regime are commendable [...] But, to be effective, our efforts, must be collective. The BDS movement strategically focuses on a small number of targets to mobilise mass pressure against them, ensuring that our efforts are impactful. By forcing a strategic target to end complicity, we teach many other complicit companies a lesson.” Understanding the intentions, motivations, and strategies of a boycott, particularly with the BDS movement, we can be better informed about how grand and significant change often requires as many individuals as possible targeting one unified goal. With this in mind, we now know that Boycotts use inaction, such as not spending money on a product or brand, as action against injustice. It is one of the simplest ways to participate in activism and can be one of the most effective with enough people behind it. How to Boycott The simple answer is: don’t buy anything. However, it could be argued that this is the first, or at least one of the steps involved in a boycott. An example of how to be involved in a boycott could also include redirecting your money, which would have gone to an unjust brand, to a charity, brand, organisation, or crowdfunding project that supports the cause you want to support. Other examples could be: Taking part in marches Signing petitions Getting in contact with your local representative about the cause Continuing to educate yourself about the current event(s) and/or cause(s) Teaching your peers/social circle/anyone uninformed about previous or active boycotts and why they are happening More knowledge can equate to more power in numbers to dismantle global injustices. To show that citizens aren’t alone in their suffering, they have people who are willing to back them and communicate their disapproval when they are not able to – such as buying e-sims for Palestinians because their access to worldwide communication is largely cut off to silence them from communicating about the genocide or to their loved ones. Case study: McDonald’s McDonald’s is one of the big brands, alongside Disney+, that people are boycotting due to their support and/or financial involvement with Israel.* Starbucks is another example of a boycotted brand, but specifically for suing its union [SBWU, The Starbucks Workers United] for posting on social media “Solidarity with Palestine”. For this specific case study, the focus will be McDonald's and the boycott’s impact on the brand. According to a Time article by Astha Rajvanshi and Yasmeen Serhan, “[t]he boycotts nod to the wider Palestinian-led Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement, which seeks to mobilize international pressure on Israel to end its occupation of the Palestinian territories.” (2024). In terms of McDonald’s specifically, Rajvanshi and Serhan report that the chain’s Israel-based locations, “advertised their decision to offer free and discounted meals to Israeli soldiers and rescue forces in the aftermath of Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack. According to an Oct. 22 X post, McDonald’s Israel has given 100,000 free meals to security and rescue forces worth 5 million shekels ($1.3 million).” (2024). As specified by the Chicago-headquartered McDonald’s Corporation, they consider this unrepresentative of the brand as a whole, “that the company “is not funding or supporting any governments involved in this conflict” and that “any actions from our local Developmental Licensee business partners were made independently without McDonald’s consent or approval.” Suggestions to the contrary, the company adds, amount to “disinformation.” (The impact of the boycott is being acutely felt by franchisees in Muslim-majority countries. In Malaysia, the franchise operator is seeking $1.3 million in damages from the BDS movement for alleged defamation that it claims has hurt business.)” (Rajvanshi and Serhan, 2024). Arguably, seeking $1.3 million in damages for alleged defamation reveals more about the character of McDonald’s as a corporation: they continue to centralize their own money even in times of global crisis. Given that McDonald’s largely makes its earnings from real estate rather than ‘real’ beef, it is difficult to sympathize with McDonald’s with this decision (2021). What will they gain from this? Not a trust, certainly not an improved reputation, and definitely not the hearts and souls of Palestinians. Money. They want to solve alleged misinformation by being given money they are not hugely suffering without. And even if they did get the money back, where is it going towards? Palestinian aid? Overworked and underpaid staff working at their 24-hour drive-throughs? Doubtful. Boycotts against Apartheid did not start October 7th "The British public have a lot to learn from the sorts of consumer boycotts that we've had in Africa [...] concessions have been made, victories have been won from the boycott campaigns." – Boycott South African Apples, a film produced for the Anti-Apartheid Movement’s ‘Boycott Apartheid 89’ campaign. This is not the first time that the general public has boycotted in effort to protest against Apartheid, examples include boycotts in the 1980s concerning the Apartheid in South Africa. According to the AAM [Anti-Apartheid Movement] Archives, “In the 1980s the Anti-Apartheid Movement grew from a small but determined pressure group into Britain’s biggest ever mass movement on an international issue. It mobili[z]ed hundreds of thousands of people all over Britain in demonstrations for sanctions against South Africa and the release of Nelson Mandela. It created a broad coalition of students, trade unionists, churches, political parties and community organi[z]ations to work for an end to all forms of British collaboration with apartheid.” For the isolation of South Africa, the AAM set up “the World Campaign against Military and Nuclear Collaboration, protested against rugby and other sports tours and called for an oil embargo.” This included relaunching the consumer boycott of South African goods in 1984. Something important to note about this is that the AAM called for “the people’s sanctions” as a response to Margaret Thatcher, Conservative leader and Prime Minister of the UK at the time, refusing to impose sanctions. This highlights a pattern of behavior of the British Government, particularly led by Conservative party members, not calling to action against Apartheid. Whilst the British Government has and continues to behave as an ongoing product of historic and systemic oppression, there were campaigns calling for British consumers to “act responsibly” by boycotting South African products, which helped result in one in four Britons participating in the boycott by the mid-1980s. History has demonstrated three specific truths: There is a noticeable pattern of Western leadership, such as the British Government, not actively utilizing its platform to support liberation in non-Western regions. Boycotts can be an effective way of using inaction as action, especially considering how contemporary society is largely driven by capital, consumption, and commerce. We are capable of collective change when we work together with united goals and forms of protest. Examining the BDS highlights these truths as they emphasize how “[t]argeted boycott campaigns were crucial in the international pressure movement that helped bring down the apartheid regime in South Africa”. Therefore, it is fully possible for Palestine to be liberated from apartheid “if done right” (2024). Conclusion: Why? It may feel like your boycott will make an insignificant dent in a brand(s)’s profit margin, but the impact of learning and teaching others about boycotts can make a difference. When you are doing your best to be involved in a boycott, remember that a brand is not a heart. A company is not a soul. A product is not a person. Starbucks is not upset you didn’t buy your regular anymore because they miss you, they miss your money. The Palestinian men, women, children, and journalists – the livelihoods Israel tries to suffocate with bombs and bullets – they are hearts, they are souls, they are people. Whether it may be a celebrity not making their stand on a current event clear or a boycott damaging a brand’s bottom line, inaction is just as loud as action. Bibliography https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/boycott, 16/02/24 https://time.com/6694986/israel-palestine-bds-boycotts-starbucks-mcdonalds/, 16/02/24 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-67885910, 16/02/24 https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/social-media/social-media-fuels-boycotts-mcdonalds-starbucks-israel-hamas-war-rcna125121, 16/02/24 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/business/mcdonalds-israel-palestine-boycott-b2473702.html, 16/02/24 https://www.rd.com/article/real-way-mcdonalds-makes-money/?__cf_chl_rt_tk=90.qr8h.q8DN9XGZi9WkopDrcxH5J9ppmldiW2CEVkQ-1708299949-0.0-4242, 18/02/24 https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/strike, 18/02/24 https://www.sahistory.org.za/article/south-africas-academic-and-cultural-boycott, 15/04/24 https://www.aamarchives.org/history/1980s.html, 15/04/24 https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/may/23/israel-apartheid-boycotts-sanctions-south-africa, 16/04/24 https://www.aamarchives.org/archive/video/fruits-of-fear/fruits-of-fear-boycott-south-african-apples.html, 16/04/24 https://digital.nls.uk/1980s/international-relations/anti-apartheid/, 16/04/24 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ke4kVFycpYY, 17/04/24 https://www.business-humanrights.org/en/latest-news/starbucks-sues-union-over-its-solidarity-with-palestine-union-retaliates/, 14/06/24 https://theintercept.com/2023/10/17/starbucks-suing-union-israel-palestine/, 14/06/24 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/ap-starbucks-israel-hamas-solidarity-b2432104.html, 14/06/24 https://www.instagram.com/p/C767pwNiXT7/?img_index=5, 14/06/24 https://www.instagram.com/p/C7RY0Y4C-xu/?img_index=2, 14/06/24 Editors: Patrick E., Joyce P., Rajeshwari T.

a series of reflections by Vien Santiago It's the one time of year that I get to take a break from being the perfect son if such a thing even exists. Driving 380 miles from home, it’s further north than Los Angeles is to the south, but it’s a welcoming place. It’s a place thousands flock to each year, escaping from their realities and appreciating the past, the present, and the future. It’s where I go to sit. It’s where I go to sit by the creek. It’s where the creek flows to allow people like me to sit by it. I’ve come to this city a few times now. Every time, I’ve been a different person. It’s weird, I know. This year, I sat on a bench next to the rushing water. Last year, I sat on the curb of a road crossing the flowing stream. Both years, I visited a footbridge and hung my arms over the wooden edge, droplets and mist flying up and hitting my face and forearms. I can’t say I was a happier camper this year than last. I was on the trip with a community of people, most of whom — I’d recently found out — didn’t like me. And for reasons that I’d never know. I’d spoken to counselors, a responsible adult, and maybe two or three friends about the situation, but the trip was the first time I’d have to face their unkind staring eyes and their previously-perceived-as-friendly jabs. I’d talked to all of these people, but I never really got a chance to speak to myself. So on that bench, I had a conversation. I had multiple conversations. I had a seminar. Socrates would be proud. (I think?) conversation one - “a reflection.” (day 1) “It’s me, Creek.” -> (water rushes on) -> “I missed you too. Look I’m in a bit of a bind.” -> (water rushes on) -> “Thanks. So… I feel really stupid. These people I only ever treated with kindness and respect, these people I considered to be as close as siblings, despite only knowing each other for such a short time, they don’t like me? They haven’t liked me for about a year? I know I’m not supposed to care about that, but I’ve been working with them for years now and I’ve stuck my neck out, defended them, tried my best to be a good friend to them, and then… Gone? All of that, just, gone?” -> (water rushes on) -> “I mean… When I see my reflection in your flowing, clear water, I look the same as I did a year ago. Maybe a little more mature, less baby fat for sure. But did I change as a person? I’ve been the same guy.” -> (water rushes on) -> “You’re right. Maybe I should just flow on. Maybe I should try to find the snow that is my source. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.” -> (a breeze blows some leaves into the creek, the water calms down) -> “Certainly, we can at least keep tensions down by not interacting.” conversation two - “i think everything’s gonna be okay.” (day 2) “Good morning, Creek!” -> (the morning’s raindrops slide down to the surface as the creek flows down) -> “I’ve got my coffee and my sandwich, are you ready for a good day?” -> (the raindrops fall) -> “How’d it go? Well… I feel less stupid. I found people who welcome my company and don’t make me feel inadequate. They valued me and I got to spend some alone time with myself and my thoughts too. Maybe I’m just being a little naive or my standards are too low, but I’ve had enough with maybe. I know that these friends are good, sound ones.” -> (the creek flows down) -> “I think everything’s gonna be alright, you know? I haven’t even thought about the whole situation since I got in touch with you and the others yesterday. I remembered that there’re other people who do value my friendship.” -> (the raindrops fall) -> “And it’s gonna be a good day.” -> (the water soaks the paper bag containing the sandwich in my hand) conversation three - “old.” (day 3) “Was I born too late?” -> (the creek wakes up and begins to stir) -> “I mean, was I meant to be older?” -> (the creek stirs) -> “The people I get along with most are so much closer to my age than the people that keep hurting me.” -> (the creek stirs) -> “I always feel like I can be more myself these days when I’m playing the more mature version of me. Was I meant to be a Gemini, not a Sagittarius?” -> (the stars gleam one last time and fade away into the morning sky in the creek’s reflection) -> “We leave in three hours… I didn’t want to not say goodbye.” -> (a rock slides from across the creek and splashes me) -> “Hey! Not nice.” -> (the creek laughs) -> “That made me laugh. Honestly. What were you thinking? Now I can’t remember what we were talking about.” -> (a rogue fish flings some water at me) -> “Hey-! Oh…” -> (the creek stirs more) -> “You’re right. I’m in my own head too much. I’m not too young. Oh no. I’m exactly who I’m meant to be. Oh no no no no no. I’m exactly — no matter what anyone says, no matter what anyone wants me to think about myself — who I’m meant to be.” -> (the morning mist creeps onto my back, covering my chest, and holding me) -> “I’m exactly where I’m meant to be in this moment. I can find where I have to be in every moment. I am capable and I am strong. If not because I’ve been through worse, then because I have myself and I have you, the water.” -> (the creek roars with activity) -> “I am Vien Santiago. And I am not going to bend. I am who I am, and you cannot stop me.” Editors: Alisha B., Quill L., Blenda Y., Luna Y.

I: it’s been such a long time / since i’ve tried to solve my problems / without arson / that i don’t know / how to cross / a bridge / without burning it first / i’ve gotten so used to engulfing / the ghosts of your memory / in flames / i don’t remember anything about you / that isn’t covered in ashes / i don’t know how long has passed / since i’ve been consumed by this fire / but i fear it has burned the humanity out of me / and i have let it / for a chance that i might burn / somewhere that you might see it / i wonder if you would’ve loved me if you had seen me like this / raw flesh / beneath blackened skin / the crude love that has ached within me / bleeding into gasoline that will only waltz with the flames / even as i smoulder / i bandage my wounds with the hope / that there’s another universe where / you sneak your fingertips beneath the surface of my skin / and peel me open / like the layers of an orange / dig your teeth into me / like i’m something to devour / and carve your name / into my chest / where my heartbeats / were only ever / morse code of your name II: my friends have been telling me to leave this place / for too long / but i still sit in the middle of this burning house / where i run my hands over the charred wallpaper / in search of every time you pressed your palm tightly against mine / when i tried to pull away / every time / you let your fingertips hover over the nape of my neck / when i prayed you would let me breathe instead / but no good could ever come out of / pleading for oxygen from flames / every footstep you have taken in my presence / still echoes through the hollows between the floorboards / and every laugh you have let out / has seeped into the cracks of the walls / everyone else is so boring / and you’re an ember that i want inside my veins / every thought of you brings with it a wildfire i cannot tame / even if i have buried you / in places i won’t revisit / buried doesn’t mean gone / when i walk over grass / on an especially sunny day / and nothing bad could possibly happen / the shape of your grave is a memorised feeling beneath my feet / i don’t know if it’s there / or if it’s in my head III: i carry hatred around like / a splinter wedged in my side / every attempt i have made / at picking it out / only shoves it deeper into a wound / that continues to throb / with a torturous reminder / of how much i yearn for you still / of how the only stitches that will ever hold / are your fingers intertwined with mine / even if they leave scars / in the form of a longing that will never heal / there is always a churning in my stomach / that can’t digest the idea of you gone / there is a gaping maw in my chest / that only you have been able to fill / people still wait to see if i’ll look your way when you come around / and i don’t know how to tell them that / you’re always in my peripheral vision / where fire still gnaws at my insides when i see you standing with someone else / and your name sits at the base of my throat / like a dying breath / that i can’t let out / without it contorting into / dearest / or most beloved / i know it’s been a while since we talked / and perhaps my memory is rotting / in the bedroom drawer of your old apartment / somewhere you may neglect it / but i still miss you / and i wish i knew / how to cross this bridge / without burning it / completely Editors: Joyce P. Image source: Quinten de Graaf, Unsplash

“Clamber” We didn’t mean to get lost, but it was cloudy that day. Thirty minutes into the run, we trotted over a rusted cattlegate, feet thumping over the cracks - I felt a little fear - and beyond it lay a sweep of downhill. Airily, you asked: “Do you think it’ll be hard coming back up?” and I replied yes, maybe, we’d see. Forty minutes later we were on an upslope kicking pebbles with no clue where we were. The world was hills and rocks, green and gray, and no cell service. Eventually we asked a hiker for his map, turned east toward the trees, and began our climb to concrete. heaving fog: hitchhikers at large tear up the mountains 2. Stay Comfort is a creature of habit. It nestles into the living room sofa cushions, wraps around the kitchen sink and toys with the faucet. This summer is idle and unusually cold, making home—warm and safe—a prime habitat for loafing around. The evening noise is crickets and owls outside; rubber slippers on hardwood floors inside. A box in my father’s closet houses stacks of yeye’s ink paintings, pictures of a boyhood baba crawfish hunting in urban creeks—way back before America, way back when home was cars blasting Danny Chen and fried fishballs with sugar soda and Hong Kong in its glory days. hallway light– baba hums tunes heard aboard an ‘86 boeing Editors: Uzayer M. Image Source: Rob Wingate, Unsplash

It might rain. A single jab at my cheek disappeared as quickly as it fell from the deepening sky; it followed the graying smell of what used to be there. The park is empty. Barren. Apparently, it’s the first week of school. I stopped hearing the immediate shrill of a lunch bell, and haven’t for a long time. The dewy wind coaxes the swing seats, they bristle against nothing. If I stared long enough the swings took flight, daring to reach the oak branches with the tips of black polished shoes decorated with mud like freckles on freshly hatched eggs. The sudden and longing breath between your highest point in the sky and your inevitable descent back is swift and precious, a jolt in your chest you barely process before your knees tuck into the seat. Before you try to catch the pause between flying, floating, and falling again. I don’t fit on the swings anymore. I can only feel the swollen beads of rain clinging to my palm after touching the heavy chains, and the whispered promise of weightlessness from the gentle push of the dewy wind. Somewhere, amongst all the drags and divots in the mud beneath the swing, somewhere there would have been the tracks of my heels. But not anymore. They’re veiled by the heels of children who listen to a bell I’ll never hear and don’t remember. Nothing but the phantom of feet that want to touch the trees. The park bench used to be steely and unpolished, then eventually repainted with a glossy green that was too vivid to blend amongst the bushes lining the park. Now, that steely and unpolished rust reappears and cracks the paint. Now, signs of weather and time join the old and what was once new. The middle of the bench has a soft give from the mothers, fathers, grandmothers, and grandfathers that would converse amongst themselves whilst the spirit of youth reminded them of who they used to be. Not unfamiliar to how I stand in an empty park in September. Beside the bench is a sullen pile of maple and saffron leaves. All of their joyful crisp and sharp sounds are now overripe from the weight of the dewy wind. At some point, a foot might have launched itself into this pile. Perhaps my own. But I’m wearing suede shoes, and chose to not get them wet. How sad. I mourned the loss of dry shoes more than the loss of suede joyfully greeting maple and saffron leaves. I saw ghosts today. They were shaped like raindrops, swing sets, divots in mud, almost green benches, and piles of leaves. They are spirits of the dewy wind and I look through their membrane of time, between the memories that pull me back and the memories that school children will eventually have – like I do. Ghosts are real, and I am saddened I believed damp suede shoes were more frightening. Editors : Nicole O. Image Source : Aaron Burden, Unsplash

Vien takes us on a journey through his rich familial background and has a message for us all. For the longest time, I thought my story started in a hospital south of Chicago in 2006. In a way, I was correct. My story had always started then and I thought I had it all figured out for years. I thought I was just me: a Filipino American kid from the San Joaquin Valley in California – then I turned sixteen. This was the year that I had to do an AP World project about significant moments in World War II and only one stuck out to me: the Bataan Death March. The project itself wasn’t anything special, but it got me thinking back to where my family is actually from. You see… ibat la keng Pampanga, Pilipinas deng pamilya ku. Mother’s side? Angeles City. Father’s side? San Fernando. Keta la dinalan deng tawu keng Death March kantang 1942. Keta ya meka takas ing great-grandfather ku, linaban ya kareng hapon keng service ng guerillas ni Luis Taruc. (My family is from Pampanga, Philippines. My mother’s side? Angeles City. My father’s side? San Fernando. That is where the people on the Death March passed through back in 1942. That is where my great-grandfather escaped, he fought against the Japanese in the guerillas commanded by Luis Taruc.) Pota makanyan yang kinabye ya ing spirit naning laban keng pamilya ku. Pota kaya mingan ikwa ing matas a resistensya kareng mamublema kekami. Pota ini ing bakit asnakung karakal a pride keng nukaring kmi ibat. Ibat na keng anak ku hanggang keng mate ku, proud na proud kung Kapampangan. (Maybe that’s why the fighting spirit came alive in my family. Maybe he’s where we all got an attitude of resistance against those that caused us trouble. Maybe this is why I have so much pride in where we’re from. All the way from when I was a child all the way until I die, I will be super proud of being Kapampangan.) (But…) Pero… that isn’t my complete story either. After that hospital in Chicago, my family moved to Miami and then moved to the Central Valley in California. Here, I grew up around so many different cultures: Filipinos, Assyrians, Mexicans, Black Americans; you name it and there’s a community here in my city. I continued unlocking my history at seventeen. Being surrounded by so many different cultures, you begin to trade and adopt some of one another’s customs and languages into everyday life. When I was fourteen, I decided to start learning Spanish to connect better with friends – little did I know that it would help me unlock parts of my familial history. As it is… hace mucho tiempo, las Filipinas estaba gobernada por el rey de España. Eran administrados por el virreinato de Nueva España (hoy se llama México) por 256 años. Después de la independencia de México, la corona tomó el relevo y las Filipinas pasaron un total de 333 años como una colonia española. Durante este período, la vida cotidiana en las Filipinas cambió de manera significativa debido a la llegada de las costumbres españolas y latinoamericano (como la religión católica) por el Galeón de Manila. (A long time ago, the Philippines were under the rule of the king or queen of Spain. They were administered by the viceroyalty of New Spain (today called México) for 256 years. After the independence of Mexico, the crown took over control and the Philippines spent a total of 333 years as a Spanish colony. During this period, everyday life in the Philippines changed somewhat significantly due to the arrival of Spanish and Latin American customs (like the Catholic faith) through the Manila Galleon Trade.) Fue el Galeón de Manila el que trajo más filipinos a México y viceversa. ¿Uno de sus destinos? Pampanga. Como una de las provincias más desarrolladas de España en las Filipinas, muchos colonizadores españoles establecieron encomiendas y trajeron a latinoamericanos a la zona. Ahí es donde entra mi familia, trazando parte de nuestro linaje al estado mexicano de Guerrero y Michoacán. Cuando decidí aprender español en serio, tuve curiosidad por mi apellido (Santiago) y le pregunté a mi maestra, quien me dijo que lo investigara más. Una vez que pregunté a mis dos padres, encontré una conexión perdida que solo alimentó mi viaje hacia mi herencia. (It was the Galleon Trade that brought more Filipinos to Mexico and vice versa. One of their destinations? Pampanga. As one of Spain's more developed provinces in the Philippines, many Spanish colonizers set up encomiendas and brought Latin Americans to the area. That is where my family comes in, tracing some of our lineage to the Mexican state of Guerrero and Michoacan. When I decided to seriously learn Spanish, I got curious about my last name (Santiago) and asked my teacher, who told me to look into it further. Once I asked both of my parents, I found a lost connection that only fueled my journey into my heritage further.) And of course, my story doesn't — our stories don't — end with the past. Being a chiniztizo (chinito + mestizo) Filipino American has brought me such a unique look at the world around me. Growing up around so many different cultures has brought me such a unique look at the world around me. Each of us has our own unique perspective of the world around us. And you know what… I’m privileged to be able to have these two worlds that I can live in. Small American city with cutthroat competition and built-up connections that first-generations like myself couldn’t have but a blossoming multicultural community? Sign me up. But when I get tired of it all, I’ll always know there’s a thousand others that are proud of every little win and even proud of the big losses that I encounter in a big Filipino city with hardships and suffering, but love powerful enough to part the Red Sea. We all have a unique story that blends all of the experiences of those who came before us with our very own present stories. Your journey of discovery can start in the most random places – just look at mine. Who thought a normal kid from the 209 could have such a storied personal history? This is my story. My name is Vien Shiloh Santiago, I come from those who came from away. Ini ing kakung kwento. Yaku i Vien Shiloh Santiago, anak naning Mount Pinatubu at Arayat. Este es mi cuento. Soy Vien Shiloh Santiago, solo un niño de Turlock, California. (…, child of Mount Pinatubo and Arayat. …, just a kid from Turlock, California.) And I invite you all to explore and celebrate your own histories and observe how they affect your present lives. Who knows what we’ll discover? Editors: Alisha B., Blenda Y., Quill L., Uzayer M.