When it comes to identifying the facets through which we experience life, race and gender are not isolated entities; they concurrently impact and amplify one another. In this sense, the discrimination we experience is also multifaceted— gender, race, sexuality, disability, religion, and more. Equality therefore, should be intersectional, and account for varying levels of privilege one might experience in one sector, to translate into our activism work in another, to amplify the voices of the marginalized and help break down all forms of oppression. When approaching feminism, a crucial practice should be to examine the ways our individual selves sustain and uphold a hierarchy of white supremacy and actively work to dismantle it, to diminish the magnitude of oppression that women of color go through. However, more often than not, the narrative that is pushed through in Western countries is one where the issues of gender inequality are centered through the lens of white women only, and as a consequence, the experiences and voices of women of color are rarely given the spotlight. A term to represent this practice is “white feminism,” the mainstream feminism we all know and recognize, that focuses on white women breaking through the glass ceiling when it comes to the issue of career advancement in the system of patriarchy. Without taking anything from the importance of this issue, white feminism simply doesn’t acknowledge—or even ignores—the fact that in order for women of color to break through the glass ceiling, racism as well as sexism need to be dismantled. It is the act of showing up only when it is convenient, comfortable, and self-rewarding to middle-to-upper-class white women and their ideals of women empowerment, enmeshed in denying the privileges they have, tone policing, and defensiveness when called out for their exclusion of women of color. The manifestation of white feminism can be seen in our history books. In the U.S., the achievement of women’s vote in 1920 has been normalized to be seen as a landmark for all women, when in fact it was only white women who obtained the means to vote. Black women experienced significant voter suppression via methods such as literacy tests until the Voting Rights Act of 1965. White feminists in the suffragette movement, such as Anna Howard Shaw, argued that the political rights of women were vastly more important than those of Black people, by expressing contempt at how ‘never before in the history of the world have men made former slaves the political masters of their former mistresses!’, excluding Black women out of the picture entirely. Given the exclusion of Black women in the context of women’s history, it is no wonder that it also seeps into the current issues that mainstream white feminism cares about. Black women in the U.S. die at four times the rate of their white counterparts during childbirth, and the rate of mortality for certain illnesses such as breast cancer is 40% higher, highlighting the pervasive systemic racism against Black women in healthcare. Of the 80% of women in jail that are single mothers, two-thirds of them are women of color, and the rate of incarceration for Black women is four times more than it is for white women. The feminists who claim they fight for the liberation of all women should be extremely concerned about these statistics, but these are not the pressing issues that make it onto the agenda of mainstream feminism at all. White feminism maintains the idea that it speaks for all women, but when another group of women’s priorities don’t align with their set agendas, those voices are not welcomed. An example of this would be the relationship between white feminism and Muslim women. Simultaneous to the assertion that feminism includes fighting for the freedom of expression with one’s body, the rhetoric also somehow only applies to those in line with westernized ideals of self- and religious expression, with Belgium banning the headscarf in universities, and France banning the Niqab face covering in all types of social contexts. The way that the definition of empowerment is whitewashed and imposed on other women through white feminism ironically is a form of oppression in itself, by disregarding their perspectives and overlooking how empowerment is heterogenous, and is shaped by intersectional identities. Furthermore, it perpetuates blatant Islamophobia by giving Muslim women’s voices a platform only when it reinforces the stereotype that they are victims of their religion and need Western feminists’ assistance to destroy their plight. This implicitly conforms to a white supremacist, colonial rhetoric that the West is the epitome of social progression, when in fact many regressive norms were imported to the Global South via colonialism that replaced cultural acceptance of forward-thinking identities akin to queerness, such as in India. A one size fits all approach like white feminism assumes we all have the same shackles and goals and disregards overlapping forms of oppression. It ignores authentic perspectives of those that are the most vilified and in turn, is complicit to the continuation of their oppression by refusing to address the issues that are specific to them. For feminism to become more impactful and inclusive, we must account for how other forms of oppression interact with gender-oppression, to look at how women’s rights can be utilized and heightened to the greatest extent for everyone. All women lose out from not approaching feminism in an intersectional way; discrimination is interconnected through different facets, and making strides in the rights of one area translates into less oppression for groups that are the most marginalized. Feminism should not be a stand-alone endeavour; racial justice must be included in the fight for gender equality. Cover photo source: https://thewellesleynews.com/2016/11/16/white-feminism-fails-minorities-why-clinton-lost-and-we-didnt-expect-it/

TW: Gender-based Violence I am a Woman. which means: I keep my keys clenched between my fingers; I walk on bolts of lightning, when white vans drive by, and every lingering look from strange men on the street is the equivalent of a previously bloodied dagger, twisting into my mangled stomach and into the stomach of every Woman who has come before me, will live after me, and now exists with me. and as a Woman, I wake up each day, knowing that there are those who would rather chain me down, gag my voice, bind my hands, than give me the right to choose. and though I try to explain this ceaseless nightmare to those who cannot understand, I find rose-scented thorns wrapped tight around my neck and I find myself stuck in an hourglass-waist cage. and what they’ll never teach you about Womanhood is that: it is not defined by biology, that Women are babbling brooks and fine morning mist, that Women are crashing waterfalls and roaring torrents, that magic flows from our fingertips, that we breathe life or destruction, if we choose to, that Women get to define our own Womanhood. Cover photo source: https://www.etsy.com/listing/826902687/diverse-women-portrait-different-skin

Dear Asian Youth, I’m Vietnamese-Canadian. Bicultural, if you wish. Co-existence has not always been the case for my identities as a Vietnamese family member, but as a Canadian student. The battles of my plurality during my early years—questions of religion, food, appearances, and language, of general “differentness”—brought more shame than a child should have to bear. I’m seventeen years old now, a senior in high school, and I don’t feel this way anymore. I bear it proudly. But this is what it was like trying to come to terms with all parts of me at much too young of an age: ashamed. Ashamed. In kindergarten, a girl asked me what “religion [my family was]”. I was five years old and all the religion I saw on TV was Christianity, if at all. I knew we weren’t Christian. I didn’t know what our religion was called! All I knew was that my parents and my grandmother went to an Asian temple every Sunday; they prayed, offered, and came home with vegetarian spring rolls. At our house, we lit incense and I would clasp my hands together, staring at the statue of Buddha and chanting, but not understanding a single word from the prayers that came out of my mouth. In Vietnamese, we call this “đạo Phật”—what I now know as Buddhism: a religion that aims to eliminate suffering, bringing peace to oneself and the world. But at the time, I didn’t know...and that made me ashamed. How was I supposed to explain Sunday spring rolls and bowing compared to Christianity? It was so different. So I shrugged and told her we weren’t religious. “No!” she laughed. “Everyone has a religion.” Everyone has a religion? So why didn’t I believe in mine? Hell, at the time, I didn’t even understand mine. When I fell silent, she stared me up and down and said finally, “There’s only two religions. You’re either Christian or Muslim.” I remember being beyond confused. I had never even heard the word Muslim at that point, so I smiled and lied: “I guess I’m Christian” and that’s what I let her believe until high school. I went to a predominantly white elementary school; I was one out of maybe five Asian people in my graduating class. No white kid knew what Buddhism is. Ashamed. Ashamed. Second grade was the first time I noticed my food was different. It looked different, it was packed different, it tasted different, and most importantly, it smelled different. Vietnamese people like their soups. Their noodles. And, we like our sauces. My parents had packed me phở one day (something I would kill to have as lunch now); the broth and meat sat in my bright red thermos, the noodles in a blue plastic container, and the soy sauce on the side. When I opened it for lunch, a boy sitting next to me glanced scornfully at my thermos then back to his friends. “What’s that smell?” he asked, nose upturned, obviously knowing what the smell was. Then, he took a large bite out of his pearly white, unscented sandwich. That, my friend, is the proud scent of cinnamon sticks, coriander, cloves and a bunch of other spices that start with ‘c’ that go into the broth. And you, if only you knew, would grow up to love my country’s food. He probably doesn’t even remember this, but I do. I quickly shut the thermos, embarrassed, and shoved it deep into my backpack. Good thing I hadn’t opened the soy sauce yet, I thought. I didn’t have lunch. I stole a few bites from my friend’s milky white tortellini and that was it. When I got home that day, I told my family I did not want any more Vietnamese food in my lunches. “Nothing smelly, no soups, no noodles, no sauces, no fish,” I specified. “And no weird fruits either. I want sandwiches.” Let me clear something up: I hated sandwiches and I hated ham even more. But still, I ate sandwiches and grapes for lunch every day that year. In fourth grade, my school held an annual potluck. “Let’s make fried rice,” my aunt suggested. “No!” I immediately cried. “Let’s just bring rice krispies.” Everybody brought a desert. It was supposed to be a lunch, but I was so obsessed with keeping my culture apart from my school that I had said no. And my family’s fried rice is God damn delicious. Ashamed. Ashamed. The second Mr. B taught me how to read in English, I was off. I loved books. I read obsessively, finishing almost several books each week. When Halloween of 2013 rolled around, I wanted to be someone from Divergent. No one looked like me. I wanted to be someone from The Hunger Games. No one looked like me. I wanted to be someone from The Selection. No one looked like me. Finally...Harry Potter. While my friends got to decide between being Ginny, Hermione and Luna, I got to be the token Asian character, Cho Chang. “She’s the perfect character for you,” my friend commented. Her finger lifted and she awkwardly pointed to her eyes. What did she mean by that? The Asian girl in her white little school? The one with a difficult last name? A studious nerd who fit perfectly into the description of ‘Ravenclaw’, whose only personality trait was studying? All of it? At the time, I was proud to even find a character who looked and was like me. But after that, I felt reduced only to my race. I know the word for this now: tokenism. Stereotypes. Ashamed. Ashamed. My aunt used to volunteer as one of those parent supervisors on field trips. She’d speak to me in Vietnamese because, frankly, that was just easier for both of us. When she did that, other parents would look our way. Perhaps it was out of curiosity, but I always took it as disgust. What didn’t help was the fact that a little four year old (and it should be noted that four year olds don’t have filters) had looked up at us and asked her mom, “Why does she speak like that?” Horrified, I turned to my own guardian. “Speak in English,” I hissed. “And stop pointing at people.” Vietnamese adults have a habit of pointing at people. It’s not a rude thing in their minds, but when I went to daycare with my Western teachers, it became a rude thing in mine. It was disrespectful. Dirty. Impolite to point at people. She spoke to me in English. It was weird and unfamiliar, and even though we were both uncomfortable, a twisted part of me felt better. More accepted. Even though this happened many years ago, she still speaks in English when my friends are around and she rarely lifts a finger in public. Ashamed. I wasted too many years worrying that the things that make me special were the things that made me weird. It’s rare that I feel shame about race nowadays, but the thoughts ingrained in my head since childhood will sometimes grow into blooming trees and consume my mind—just for a moment, and then I’ll look to my friends who look like me, TV shows where I identify, and remember that progress is being made. It’s a slow and conscious and continuous process, but to be a part of it is what keeps me going and decimates the feeling. Don’t be ashamed. It’s silly, like telling someone sad to “just be happy”, but truly the only advice I can give because I am still working on it myself. All I can say is it starts inside: unlearning what we were taught about ourselves, whatever shame we forced ourselves to feel, so that we can teach others—our younger siblings, our students, our patients, our kids—whatever youth may be in our future, to never feel the same. I wish you success. If you’re here, you’ve already got a great start. - Linda Duong "Ashamed" is an anecdotal piece of moments in my childhood that really struck a dissonant chord in my relationship with my identity: moments that made me feel more shame about my race than a kid should ever have to feel. I think a lot of POC (not necessarily Asian) felt the same shame and I wanted to make sure they know that they were never alone. 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: dribbble.com

Religion, and beliefs, Should not be the chain, That binds our hands, To a needle pricked chair. It should not claw our eyes, To see life through your mind–– It should not choke our hearts, From choosing a deck of cards. It broke my heart, When you looked at me with disgust, As I recite a Holy Book you won’t touch; It tied my legs with rope of distrust, Cracking a reef of barrier between us. - Religion should unite, not destroy. 'Taser Mouth' tells how different beliefs can sometimes divide and crack families in two. Especially in this generation, an age when we are exposed to diverse cultures and various religions that may alter our old beliefs–– Which most of the time, resulted in a rival with generations of old family values. Biography: I'm a nineteen year old poet and writer from Indonesia, who aims to use literature as a way to help others as well. My poetry account @Rielism started out with the initial goal to be the voice of others, and with all my heart, I do hope it does. Cover photo source: Hayley Nagelberg, dailyillini.com

Dear Asian Youth, It's scary, I know. But yes, you can get reinfected with the coronavirus. This is a very broad statement. Recently, a 33-year-old man from Hong Kong was reinfected with the coronavirus. He was first confirmed to have COVID-19 on March 26 after having symptoms including fever, cough, sore throat and headache. Three days later, he was admitted into a Hong Kong hospital but by then his symptoms had already disappeared. After testing negative twice, he was then discharged on April 14. However, four months later, on August 15, he tested positive again. This time though, he was asymptomatic. This phenomenon of him recontracting, but not showing symptoms can be explained by his body's learned immunity. The explanation is that a person builds immunity- in the form of antibodies- to a virus after initial exposure so that the next time it comes around, the body can properly respond and fight back. In his case, the body was able to prevent symptoms but not enough to prevent reinfection. People can be susceptible to COVID-19 again after a year or even less, however, the virus would cause the common cold whereas protection against SARS-1 and MERS lasts longer, for about a few years. Kwok-Yung Yuen, a microbiologist at the University of Hong Kong, In looking at the SARS-1 and MERS, discovered that the two viruses are differed by 24 nucleotides (nucleotides are sugar molecules attached to a phosphate group and a nitrogenous base, for example ATGCU). ScienceNews reported that, “those differences indicate that the man was infected two different times by two versions of SARS-CoV-2: one that is closely related to variants circulating in the United States and England in March and April, and another related to viruses from Switzerland and England in July and August.” In short, because they were different strains of the SARS-CoV-2 he was able to recontract it. Paul Bieniasz, a virologist at Rockefeller University in New York City and the Howard Hughes Medical Institute says it's “not a huge shock” that he was reinfected. Since they can be common, people often get reinfected with the coronaviruses that cause the common cold. This presents an issue regarding herd immunity and the time and sheer magnitude it would need to occur. Ultimately, a vaccine would be the most probable and effective solution. Despite this, much is still unknown. Is he able to spread the virus to others now that he is reinfected? Even those with a strong immune response and no symptoms still have the chance of spreading the virus onto others. It's also unclear how reinfections happen globally because most people aren't being swabbed even when they are healthy. Regardless, everyone should be abiding by social distancing guidelines and continuing to wear masks in consideration of ourselves and others. - Allison Li Cover photo source: https://www.youthclimateleaders.org/post/coronavirus-and-climate-different-crises-complementary-solutions

Dear Asian Youth, whether through repetitive nagging or simply checking grades regularly, students often vent about how their parents constantly urge them to do better when it comes to grades. as an asian american high school girl with immigrant parents from the philippines, it’s nothing new to me. from a young age, my parents greatly prioritized my education, enrolling me in kumon when i was 5 years old and having me recite multiplication tables every night in kindergarten. at the time, i was still young. still an immature, budding plant, absorbing what i needed to grow so i didn’t mind how much i was fed all the knowledge that i was expected to retain in my tiny brain and though i was young, i always thought to myself this can’t be real life, i’m supposed to be playing with my friends at the park but no, i blankly stare at my Kumon worksheets problem after problem page after page packet after packet. but when my mother, my nanay, would tuck me into bed she would tell me fantasy stories and filipino parables about young children transported to different dimensions or a misbehaving little girl transformed into a pineapple (yes, that is an actual filipino story) my eyes fluttering shut as her soft words played like lullabies in my ears no longer the girl who studied tirelessly to remember what 9 times 7 was when she was awake but rather, the girl who slept and dreamt from 9 to 7 and eventually my petals started to grow. i entered new parts of my life, unlocked new chapters my height was increasing, but so was the pressure more and more conversations about my future equates to more and more pages and pages of reading more and more days and nights of research i often doubted my potential, and though i know this is a feeling that many share, it's hard to believe in the moment that you aren’t alone. you’re overwhelmed lost underprepared scared now i come home from school backpack filled to the brim with papers and books i sit at my desk, tirelessly writing, reading, typing until i hear the distinct click! of my door opening nanay’s home! i put my pencil down, halt the movement of my fingers and rush downstairs to say hi, my lively eyes meeting her tired ones yet she always manages to crack a smile. i bring down my homework, as she asks me what i’m doing. i tell her, and she says “You better have an A+ in that class!” she says sternly. i let out an exasperated laugh, but sigh inside, because it is those words that continuously push me to do my best. because sometimes she will be the only motivation i’ll have because i can’t imagine the look on her face when i come home with a grade that isn’t an “A” because i bite my tongue when i try to ask her for help, terrified of how she might react because i’m expected to know everything even though i know nothing. the syllables play like a crystal clear recording in my mind sometimes it can be a little much, as much as i am aware she means well. all the sleepless nights i would spend cramming and cramming just to pass one test bedtime was no longer what i remembered it to be where i could forget about 9s and 7s as i fell asleep my priorities changed, my schedule rearranged until the idea of bedtime was buried deep inside my brain forgotten and lost in the abyss of unfinished assignments but i am put at ease once my mom begins to ramble on about her day at work and the same feeling of nostalgia comes over me as her consistent tone reminds me of the pale pink floral blankets i cuddled as a child reminding me to come back to reality people my age probably think they’re too old for bedtime stories i don’t blame them. time moves too fast for such trivial things, right? but i find it important to note that the best of these tales don’t always come from storybooks, novels or picture books so i breathe and rest my head as my daily blooms cease to occur no need to absorb, no need to work dozing off into a dream - Julianne Tenorio Cover photo source: Kelley McMorris http://kmcmorris.blogspot.com/2013/08/bedtime-stories-for-my-little-brother.html

Dear Asian Youth, Throughout the past months, we all have witnessed the ways in which COVID-19 has meddled with our lives. This pandemic has revealed that America is drastically unprepared when it comes to protecting its people in times of crisis. The virus has claimed thousands of lives, with over six million recorded cases in the U.S. alone. Some of us have lost loved ones, and families continue to be ripped apart without even getting a chance to spend their final days together. People across the nation are struggling to make ends meet—overworking and endangering their lives simply to afford healthcare, food, rent, and other necessities. Meanwhile, corporations are hoarding billions and Jeff Bezos is on the precipice of becoming the world’s first trillionaire. Sadly, this is not a surprise, but rather embodies capitalist America at its very core: a system that has sustained itself on exploitation and white supremacy. A system that has always put profit before human life. The racial and class disparities have never been clearer. Asian and Black communities are being hit the hardest by this pandemic. Studies across the U.S. show that Black people are contracting and dying from the virus at disproportionately higher rates than any other racial group, not to mention the severe outbreaks in prisons and detention centers. Xenophobia has also been rampant against the Asian-American community, with our own president referring to COVID-19 as “the Chinese Virus”. At the same time, we continue to bear witness to the senseless killings of the Black community by police officers, alongside the brutality waged against protestors across the nation. It is becoming apparent that our government will not keep us safe, so how shall we protect ourselves? How do we come together as a community and stand in solidarity at a time where we need it the most? I believe that we are learning more and more about building solidarity from the the histories and legacies of BIPOC feminist liberation movements, especially from the works of Black and Asian American feminists who have consistently organized cross-racially and fought alongside one another. There are countless examples of Afro-Asian solidarity being displayed in uprisings throughout American history, many of which were led by women. During the Civil Rights Movement, Asian American leaders were inspired by and supported the revolutionary work of Black freedom fighters. Asian activism and struggle against the Japanese internment camps imposed during WWII were amplified by the voices of Black leaders. These communities fought together against systemic racism, colonization, and imperialism throughout history, believing that true liberation could only be achieved through collective struggle. These ideologies and the power in advocacy across identities lie at the praxis of BIPOC feminist movements. From the Third World Women’s Alliance and the Combahee River Collective, feminists of color have long emphasized the importance of intersectionality within their respective movements. They’ve understood the ways in which they faced a unique intersection of oppression, a result of both their race and their gender. Black feminist movements especially understood this intersection as they often felt neglected by Black liberation movements which were very male-dominated, neglecting women, queer, and transgender people. On the other hand, white feminist movements did not address the racial oppression that women of color face. This understanding galvanized them into building solidarity and cross-racial liberation movements which is evident from the ways that Asian and Black women have historically stood up for one another. Black and Asian female activists such as Audre Lorde, Grace Lee Boggs, Fran Beal, Gwen Patton, Yuri Kochiyama, Loretta Ross, Pat Sumi, Miriam Ching, Yoon Louie, and countless others were radical organizers in their communities. They not only advocated for themselves, but also understood the ways the communities around them were impacted by white supremacy. They united themselves against a common oppressor while continuing to recognize that their lived experiences differed because of identity. Thanks to the work of so many revolutionary Black and Asian American women before us, we are now seeing contemporary approaches to social justice struggles. Particularly, the BLM movement through a feminist framework, highlighting the importance of building intersectional solidarities with one another. Many feminist collectives are collaborating with one another, demonstrating how Black liberation is intrinsically tied to the activism work they are doing within their own organizations. For example, the Black Women Radicals and Asian American Feminist collectives have recently been working closely with one another, launching a series of collaborative events and resources emphasizing cross-racial coalition building. I highly recommend checking out their Black and Asian-American Feminist Solidarities reading list. I encourage all of you to read up on histories of social struggles all across the world to learn why building solidarity across different groups is so vital to achieving liberation and will end with my personal theory for social change: “Social change occurs when we commit ourselves to fight together for each other while examining the different ways in which we are impacted by intersectional systems of oppression. It means standing in solidarity with one other, building shared connections and intimacy. It means understanding that our liberation lies in the collective, our joy lies in the collective, and our power lies in the collective.” - Siona Wadhawan More Resources on Asian American and Black feminist solidarities: Black and Asian-American Feminist Solidarities: A Reading List South Asians For Black Lives: A Call For Action, Accountability, and Introspection Black and Asian Feminist Solidarity Letter – Asian American Writers' Workshop South Asians for Black Lives Cross-Cultural Solidarity: Black/Asian History Cover photo source: Asian American Feminist Collective

Dear Asian Youth, “Hey, say something in Chinese,” my friend asks, an inquisitive expression on her face. I open my mouth, Mandarin already dancing on the tip of my tongue, and I let it hang for a moment, uncertain and a little afraid, a little insecure. Flicking a glance at my friend again, I take in gold and dark blonde streaks and eyes the color of a summer sky and breathe in, my insecurity growing like weeds. Snapping my mouth shut, I shake my head and cover up my pained grimace with a stiff smile, but it’s a futile effort. My friend dons a sad expression, disappointment lining her features and twisting her lips into a frown. “Come on, please,” she begs, a soft incessant whine fitting for the 12 years that we both are. It’s always been difficult for me to resist her pleas, and within minutes, I give in, albeit reluctantly. “Okay. Okay fine,” I huff, quirking a lip as cerulean blue orbs grow bright with hope and anticipation. I take a moment to think of something to say, something nice and sweet and simple. Once I figure it out, I scoot closer to her, close enough that inky strands tangle themselves with dusty blonde. “你很可爱,” I murmur, whisper-soft and quiet as if I’m imparting some sort of secret. I’m 12 years old, at an age where I haven’t even hit my growth spurt, haven’t figured out my style, haven't figured out exactly who I am, (I’m caught between Asian and American and a mix of it both and that’s confusing). So maybe, maybe I am– Imparting some sort of secret that is. My friend looks at me, an unreadable expression on her face, still slightly supple with baby fat and skin a soft beige. (so different then mine, then my yellow undertones and light tawny skin) She furrows her brows. “Eww, it sounds so weird,” she says, nose scrunched and pink lips pursed in distaste. Something in my gut drops at that. “Ha ha, I know right? That’s why I said I didn’t want to,” I reply, tone light and silvery, a poor reflection of what I’m truly feeling. I clench my hands, nails digging into warm flesh, but the pain from my nails is nothing compared to the one growing in my chest and gathering in my throat. “So, what’d it mean?” she questions, a curious tilt to her head and utterly oblivious to the embarrassment and shame swirling through me like the water of a mid-summer monsoon. I swallow the lump in my throat and stretch my lips into a false grin, “It means you’re really cute,” I say, trying my best to pretend I’m fine – no, not pretend, not pretend, because I am. Fine, that is. “Aw, thanks, you are too!” she says, lightly bumping an elbow into my side and showing off all her pearly white teeth with a cheerful smile on her face. I smile back, and this time, it’s a little easier, a little less fake, but still not entirely true. I dig an elbow back, “Yea, yea,” I say. _ Mama packed me lunch today, and I won’t lie, I’m excited-science class has never felt so long and drawn out as it did today. The lunch is leftovers from yesterday’s dinner, one of my favorites and something I always pester my mom to make whenever she has the chance. “Cahn cai chua,” Mama had gently answered when I asked her what the name of the dish was, and I had tried my best to say the name, but it had tumbled out of my mouth poorly, inflection and tone and accents in all the wrong places. I’ve always been better at the harsh sharpness of Chinese than the rounded curves of Vietnamese. Mama had simply raised a dark eyebrow at the failed attempt and sighed amusedly, “Pickled mustard cabbage soup, that’s the name in English,” she had told me, onyx eyes shining with mirth and something warm. Slipping into my seat on the tanned wooden bench, I smoothly set my lunch bag onto the table, a heavy thud and clatter echoing the movement. Students and staff slowly crowd into the cafeteria, and the discordant and chaotic chatter of teenagers set free brings me an odd sense of familiarity and comfort. Friends and acquaintances fill up the seats around me, and I offer short greetings to those I recognize—a tilt of the lips here and a flutter of fingers there—as I pull out a large silver thermos, the worn metal glinting under the harsh white light of the cafeteria. I unscrew the cap and the rich savory aroma of steamed ribs blended with the bitterness of pickled cabbages has my lips curving upwards with anticipation. I take a bite and the soft burn of perfectly salted broth against my tongue is a pleasant feeling, and I ready myself for another. “Wait guys, do you smell that? It’s so gross, whose food is that?” someone shouts from the opposite side of the table, and despite the commotion in the cafeteria, the voice easily makes its way down our table. I don't so much as see it as I feel it, the various gazes and glances at me and my food. Like heat against my skin, it burns. I can feel myself flushing with embarrassment, ears a soft rosey pink and cheeks glowing a deep red against lemon tinted skin, and it’s utterly, utterly mortifying. Throat closing up and heart a rapidly increasing pulse under my skin, I blink back the warm sensation of tears. A breath, slow and steady and measured, and I clear my throat, making sure that it’s completely unclenched before speaking, “Um, I think it’s mine,” I say stiffly, not meeting anyone’s eyes (all light blues and rich browns and none like the sleek obsidian I’m so used to at home). “Oh seriously? What is it, it looks…” the girl at my side trails off, something like disgust in the narrow of her eyes, and now, I think I might actually cry. Furiously forcing back the new onslaught of tears I respond, “I-I don’t actually know,” I breathe out a wobbly laugh. “Cahn Cai Chua,” she had told me, affection and pride lilting her words. “It’s just something my mom packed. I know, it looks so gross. I’m definitely not eating it,” I force out through gritted teeth and a distorted sneer on my face. (The curl of guilt and hurt rising at the bottom of my stomach is ignored.) I’m not entirely sure how nobody notices how uncomfortable and embarrassed and upset I am when it’s practically bleeding into every stilted and awkward bit of phrasing, but ultimately, this is something that I’m used to. I’m fine, I think. After all, I wasn’t even that hungry. _ Mama buys me makeup today for my birthday, and in return, I wrap thin arms around the curve of her waist, firm and tight and giddy with happiness. She places a wet kiss against my forehead and breathes out a quiet, “Happy 16th birthday,” in a voice that’s sweet like honey and tinted with a soft Vietnamese accent. Rushing upstairs, cotton socks against gray carpets and Mama’s amused laughter behind me, I whip out my computer and search up cute eye makeup styles to copy. Eventually, I settle onto a simple one, a winged eyeliner against a backdrop of rose pink and soft orange like a miniature sunset. Once I finish the look, I notice that it seems… off. The eyeshadow is a perfect ombre of pink to orange and the eyeliner too, yet it’s not; it takes me a minute, perhaps two, before I understand why. The eyeliner isn’t meant for people with monolids like me, and without the double eyelids it simply doesn’t work. The realization is— Painful. It’s painful, but it’s a bone deep sort of pain, something that’s always lingered in the back of my mind—buried and repressed—and before long, like a cancer knotted in my bones, I grew used to it. I snap my gaze back to the mirror, dark ebony eyes under hooded lids stare back at me, and I frown. It’s a hard thing, to think that I’m pretty when all my life people have used my eyes, stretched and slanted and small, as an insult and a joke. Shaking my head, I search up more pictures of makeup, but it’s all the same, all blonde and brown hair, slender and long noses and large blue eyes, and all undeniably beautiful. Something deep in the back of my head, tucked firmly behind my thoughts, thinks that maybe—maybe if I wasn’t born Asian, I could be pretty as well. Gently scrubbing the makeup off, I resign myself to figure out a way to make the eyeliner work. I’m on my third attempt when I stop. I stop and exhale out a long suffering sigh and set the slim length of eyeliner onto the thick glass table. Chewing on my lip, I harshly rub off the makeup, irritation rippling through me, and I make a sound of wordless frustration when the eyeliner simply smears instead of disappearing. The skin around my eyes is now tinged a splotchy red, and I realize it’s because I’m tearing up and not because of cotton against skin. Rubbing my hand wearily over my face, not caring in the slightest if I’m smudging the ink, I turn on my phone and decide to distract myself. It’s when I’m halfheartedly scrolling through the numerous posts on Instagram that I pause. The girl in the picture is gorgeous, her skin a sandy complexion and hair a rich earthy brown, curled into large rolling waves that cut off at her jaw. Freckles dust the smooth and tawny skin at the bridge of her nose and her features are narrow and delicate, but it’s the pose that made me pause. The lithe and slim fingers pulling at the ends of clear green eyes and slanting them upwards, so that they’re thin and stretched out and awfully similar to a mocking pose that I’ve been taunted with all my life. “Fox eyes,” it’s captioned, and it feels like a gibe, like a slap in the face. I scan the comments, all flattering and kind and fitting for someone so beautiful, and it hurts. It gnaws and stings and bites, like a sun-searing burn in my gut that has me breathless and frozen and—and well, I’m used to this, aren’t I? Hesitantly, I scroll down, something heavy and tight and painful in my chest and that, that too is something I’m used to. - Feileen Li

hey, beautiful her skin was frail and fragile, and dull eyes stroked her every vein and every bone. she wondered if perhaps the man walking beside her was lonely, in lack of love, sex, satisfaction. he wasn’t her type ––though none of these men ever were–– but she refused to open her lips, remaining silent. the streets were concrete, filled with lamps, the familiar smell of flowers in the nearby market. not all was foreign, but the man walking beside her was. he left after five ugly minutes. their torturing tongues were sticky with dirtied honey, slowly dripping poison. “hey beautiful,” they would say. “damn.” “looking good today, mama!” “am I too ugly for you?” “want my number?” the woman shuddered, clutching her purse to her side. head leveled, she walked carefully through the streets, counting her breaths in her head. she felt as if people were watching her every move, every twist, every turn. her fists clenched to check if she was still alive, blood traveling through her body and keeping her sane to feel that she was okay. for now. she remembered how her heart warmed as she looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled and wished that she could feel this way in the outside world: brazen and rebellious. and then she would hear one of them say it again. “hey, beautiful.” the mirror cracked. Cover photo source: http://www.tlynnfaz.com/Stop-Telling-Women-to-Smile

Six hours ago, my mother kissed me goodnight, And now I am awake in a room full of light. The light is tinted scarlet- the reflection of my door, The light illuminates a figure sitting on my floor. Although my exclamation is loud, This figure does not move. I shakily ask, “Who are you?” When the figure does not respond, I hastily get out of bed, As I am about to approach it, the figure turns its head. I see a girl, Her skin as brown as mine. She calls to me, “Look at what I designed!” She points to a paper on the floor, One that I had failed to notice before. On the paper is a scribble of another little girl, Her skin as fair as a peach and her eyes twinkling like a pearl. Amidst my confusion I ask, “Dear little girl, who is this other girl on paper?” Her brows in a furrow—she exclaims, “Why, that is me, Would you not agree?” I say, “Little girl, your skin is brown and her’s is fair, May I ask, what happened there?” The little girl is now visibly upset, As she points to her crayon box, she says, “These are the only colors that I ever get.” In her box are the colors of the rainbow, As well as white, black, a blackish brown, and a— Peach? And suddenly it dawns on me that this little girl, This innocent child Has had her thoughts defiled. She tells me, “This is the color that everybody uses to paint their skin! It always will be because it always has been!” Now she sees that I am upset, And she asks me, why must you fret? I say, “Little girl, there is no one skin color That is universal for all. You are not the color of a peach, You are not the color of the sand on the beach. You are the color of the bark on the trees, You are the color of chamomile tea.” As I am about to say, “You are also the color of me!” I notice that this girl has the same dark eyes that I have. The same prominent nose and lips that I have. As I reach out my hand to touch her frizzy hair, I realize that there is nothing there! I blink once, And in the moment I close my eyes and reopen them, I see that the little girl has left my room, And that I am now lying down in my bed. As I rise from my mattress and walk towards the door, I spot a tiny object on the floor. I bend down and I am shocked to see, That it is a tan crayon, The same color as me. Cover photo source: http://www.jennyscrayoncollection.com/2020/06/multicultural-crayons.html

Dear Asian Youth, There are many Vietnamese dishes that I am ashamed to say I cannot eat. My mother has given up on pleading with me to eat anything with seafood in it, knowing I will refuse to touch it, and I cannot eat anything too adventurous like balut. I stick to the more personally palatable foods, like pho or banh mi. Now that I can cook for myself and my parents are gone most of the time, I actually eat more American foods or buy takeout. However, one Vietnamese dish will forever be my favorite. My grandmother’s egg rolls, or chả giò. When I was really young, my grandmother always sat me next to her in our dining room when she was making them, her many utensils littering our table. I wasn’t old enough to help just yet, so I just rambled on and on about what I did at preschool, and she nodded while she listened, grating carrots to mix into the pork filling. In return, she’d tell me what her life was like when she was younger. I loved hearing about how she had met so many celebrities because she was once a famous beautician in the city, and how she fell in love with a handsome American soldier during the Vietnam War, only to never see him again. I never realized how full of hardship and adventure her life was until I was much, much older; as a kid, I just wanted to talk to her. We would spend hours like this until I got tired, and she carried me off to nap. The day before my eighth birthday party, I finally got to help her make food. I had begged her all week to let me make them with her since it was my party, and I felt like I should help her make the food for my friends. My mother told me to stop pestering her, and I was probably too young anyways, but my grandmother just smiled and told me I could help if I really wanted to. She let me peel the wrappers while she made the filling, and we sat next to each other, watching badly dubbed Chinese dramas and drinking tea. My chubby hands ripped a lot of wrappers, but she didn’t seem to care. She only laughed and wrapped with them anyway, telling me that even if I made mistakes, I was peeling faster than she ever could. Nothing made me prouder than knowing my grandmother thought I did a good job, so I just carried on, watching her expertly tuck and roll the egg rolls, brushing each of the tips with egg wash to seal it. The whole time, she told me stories of her first husband, my biological grandfather. He was a rich, older man, and she was the youngest daughter of a Vietnamese landowner in Hai Phong, someone who would never receive her family’s inheritance. She reluctantly married him but was deemed a bad bride because she was terrible at cooking. “One of the only dishes I could make that he didn’t spit out was egg rolls. I got better, but it is still my favorite to make and eat. I know it’s your favorite too.” During the next few years, we continued this routine of making egg rolls. She had so many stories to tell, funny ones about her ex-husbands and sad ones about how much she missed Vietnam. My grandmother, unfortunately, passed when I was in fifth grade before I got to hear all of her stories. I was unable to talk for a week, still unable to process her passing, and I refused to eat. The day before her funeral, I was at the dinner table with my parents, staring blankly at the wall while they ate their meals, and then my mother surprised me with a small dish of egg rolls. “Bà nội had a few left in the freezer. We should eat them now, right?” It was the first time I could swallow my food that week, and I’ll never forget the tears rolling down all of our faces as we just sat in silence, looking at the empty chair at the table. Now, I make egg rolls with my mother. They don’t taste the same as bà nội’s because we use chicken instead and started getting a different brand of wrappers, but it still feels the same sometimes. I don’t rip wrappers anymore, and I can actually do most of it myself now, but my mother and I watch the same badly dubbed dramas, drink the same iced tea that’s a little too watered down, and talk about our lives. She tells me about how she had no idea how to make egg rolls until she married my father, and I tell her about school. We laugh and laugh until it hurts, spilling our drinks and putting too much filling in the wrappers. As I roll tuck and roll and seal with egg wash, I look up at the painting of my grandmother displayed in our dining room. She is smiling, and I know a painting cannot see me, but I always smile back, muttering a small sorry for changing up her recipe, and carry on, knowing that she is looking down at us and laughing with us. - Cindy Du Dedicated to my bà nội. Happy 82nd birthday. Cover photo source: vickypham.com

Dear Asian Youth, Colorism is defined as discrimination based on skin color. It is the belief that a person with a lighter complexion is more "beautiful" than someone with darker skin. I remember experiencing colorism at a young age, around 12-14 years old. That was around the time I discovered K-Pop and became heavily invested in orienting myself towards the Asian beauty standards. Something that was always emphasized was the value of paler skin tones—many K-dramas had a flurry of background ads promoting skin whitening products. I grew up in America where tan skin is desirable, not really caring about the shade of skin. My complexion is neither dark nor fair—I think it’s in the middle. All of the portrayals of pale skin as beautiful influenced me to buy my first skin-whitening soap at the age of 14. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was being affected by colorism. At 16 years old, the issue resurfaced as I began a deep dive into colorism for an online event I am working on. I learned that even before the Westernization of Asia, skin color was seen as a sign of socio-economic status. Paleness was a sign of nobility because people were able to stay indoors while their servants labored outside, resulting in their subsequent lightness. A lighter skin tone would be equated with power, racial superiority, status, high income, marriage, and employment. After all of my Asian media consumption, I became hyper-aware of the emphasis on light skin. I want to talk about skin bleaching products a little bit. When I first purchased my skin-lightening soaps, I had only wished that my skin color would become lighter—I hadn't researched any health effects that could follow my use of the product. A number of countries have banned the use of skin bleaching products because of the dangers associated with them. In 2006, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) Trusted Source also issued a notice that over-the-counter (OTC) skin bleaching products are not recognized as safe and effective. It’s clear that whitening products are damaging to your skin and are unpredictable in the negative effects they might have on you. Now, the question is: why do people still continue to use them even knowing the risks? Asian media is filled with celebrities testing out whitening products, and billboards always showcase pale models. It’s hard not to be influenced by these constant messages of whiteness as beauty. I think that teenagers especially are unable to escape these harmful notions of beauty. Education on the health risks associated with skin-bleaching products and more representation of Asian women with darker skin tones is important. I think its importance lies in dismantling the belief that the equivalence of fair skin to beauty is integral to making Asian youth feel more comfortable with their natural selves. With social media becoming a growing part of our lives, the absence of seeing ourselves portrayed in popular platforms can be harmful to self-esteem. Especially with editing apps which purposefully make skin tones whiter, this toxic notion continues to permeate every part of Asia and beyond. Obviously, this is a heavy issue that can’t be handled overnight, but I hope we, as Asian youth, can commit to changing these exclusionary beauty standards. As cliché as it sounds, I want to leave everyone who reads this with the affirmation that your self-image shouldn’t be impacted by the color of your skin. - Ella Ip Cover photo source: CCove