Is reading for pleasure destroying our brains? This topic is sweeping political and educational news stories across the country. With the rise of book banning in states like Florida and discourse about reading analysis in corners of social media like “BookTok”, the definition of what reading is, and how it ought to be conducted, becomes controversial. Prohibitions on free thought and reading are common traits in dystopian political novels which, coincidentally (or perhaps not), are often some of the first to be pulled from public bookshelves. Think of the Handmaid's Tale or Fahrenheit 451 – stories that criticize restrictions on people’s abilities to express themselves and self-educate. The cultural phenomenon of enforcing restrictions upon free critical thought is called “anti-intellectualism”. Think about being told you’re “too deep” for delving into the metaphor in a novel or your ideas are too “far-fetched” for how a movie might comment on a current event. All of this is in the hopes that people see what others have constructed for them to look at – not what lies beneath. In recent years, there has been a concerning trend of anti-intellectualism spreading across the country. This movement, which seeks to limit access to information and restrict free thought, is a threat to the principles of democracy and the freedom that we hold dear. Politically, statewide and local book banning has become a tool for those in power to control the narrative and silence dissenting voices. Books that tackle expository or contentious topics, such as race, sexuality, and politics, are the most targeted. This censorship not only undermines the right to free speech but also hinders the advancement of knowledge and cross-cultural understanding. Legal orders by the government to restrict information and ideas from being publicized and passed on to third parties such as students are called “gag orders” or “gag bills.” Free expression advocacy group Pen America cites 193 gag order bills introduced in state legislation since Jan. 2021. The non-profit firmly believes that the adoption of these bills “demonstrates a disregard for academic freedom, liberal education, and the values of free speech and open inquiry that are enshrined in the First Amendment and that anchor a democratic society.” Recent uprisings in educational gag bills have been heavily scrutinized (and supported) in the state of Texas, where 713 book bans were documented in the 2021-2022 school year, the most of any US state. Celebrated works such as The Bluest Eye written by Nobel Prize-winning author Toni Morrison and (you guessed it) The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood have been stripped from the shelves of Florida classrooms and libraries. Nationwide, last year’s book bans prohibited 1,145 books, impacting an estimated two million students in almost 3000 schools. Anti-intellectualism can extend beyond just books and into practices within educational institutions. There have been attempts to erase the history of racial, gender, and sexual minority groups in classroom lessons. Gov. Ron DeSantis of Florida threatened to ban Advanced Placement (AP) courses entirely from his state’s education system. This came in response to the College Board’s state lawsuit fighting for the ability to provide AP African American studies in Florida. By censoring topics of identity, social justice, and oppression from syllabi, the youth are losing out on opportunities to practice examining perspectives different from their own and thinking critically about the past, and future of their country. If students aren’t learning how to have complex conversations in school, how can they be expected to navigate the increasingly polarized American socio-political landscape? The trend of politicizing knowledge and publicly degrading the importance of critical thinking and evidence-based decision-making puts democracy in danger. If future citizens are not consistently practicing critical thinking in reading, our society is doomed to make misinformed decisions that do not truly involve our best interests. The cultural lack of interest in critical thinking is just a surface-level issue. According to the US Department of Education, 54% of U.S. adults (16-74 years old) – about 130 million people – lack proficiency in literacy, reading below the equivalent of a sixth-grade level. Anti-intellectual sentiments carry into the general public with parents who worry about the exposure of certain information to their children. Political rhetoric and online discourse lead parents to distrust and seek interference with the education system. Though holding little legislative power, grassroots movements have been successfully campaigning for the banning of certain school books and topics, fueling current political crusades. According to Pew Research Center, in 2021, roughly a quarter of American adults (23%) said they hadn’t read a book in whole or in part in the past year, whether in print, electronic or audio form. This data is particularly concerning for school libraries, that rely on public use to receive funding for literacy programs and other shared services. Today, to think critically is an exercise in rebellion. To read a book is innately political. It is up to all of us to resist the current crusade against knowledge and expression. We must take action to protect the principles of democracy by promoting intellectual freedom. By doing so, we can ensure that our society remains a place where ideas can flourish. Sources “Educational Gag Orders: Legislative Restrictions on the Freedom to Read, Learn, and Teach.” PEN America, 8 Nov. 2021, pen.org/report/educational-gag-orders/. Gelles-Watnick, Risa, and Andrew Perrin. “Who Doesn’t Read Books in America?” Pew Research Center, www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2021/09/21/who-doesnt-read-books-in-america/. Accessed 2 Apr. 2023. Harris, Elizabeth A., and Alexandra Alter. “Book Ban Efforts Spread Across the U.S.” The New York Times, 30 Jan. 2022. NYTimes.com, www.nytimes.com/2022/01/30/books/book-ban-us-schools.html Nietzel, Michael T. “Low Literacy Levels Among U.S. Adults Could Be Costing The Economy $2.2 Trillion A Year.” Forbes, www.forbes.com/sites/michaeltnietzel/2020/09/09/low-literacy-levels-among-us-adults-could-be-costing-the-economy-22-trillion-a-year/. Accessed 2 Apr. 2023. O’Connell-Domenech, Alejandra. “The Five States with the Most Book Bans.” The Hill, 7 Apr. 2022, thehill.com/changing-america/respect/equality/3261964-the-five-states-with-the-most-book-bans/. Tolin, Lisa. “Florida Book Bans Are No Hoax: Here Are The Facts.” PEN America, 10 Mar. 2023, pen.org/florida-book-bans-not-a-hoax/. Editors: Cydney V., Chris F., Joyce S., Marie H. Image source: Unsplash

Source: Unsplash My maternal grandfather was – is – famous in our country for his writing. His novels, his plays, his essays. His scandals. The cheating and the affairs, the messy divorce and how his family disintegrated. My mother all but cut off contact with him, so I never knew him. Not outside the secondhand childhood stories and the anger and the sadness and the way everyone who found out we were related looked at us just a little differently. Dear Nana, I’ve never called you that. In my head, you are my mother’s father and nothing more. Maybe it’d be different if I’d met you more than once, when they found the cancer and ammu put the hurt aside to go see you for the first time since everything. Maybe if I’d known you… but a lot would have to be different for that to happen, I guess. Look, my mother uses you to teach us not to want things. She says people who only do what makes them happy are selfish. The only thing I want is to understand where I come from. The roots of my culture, of this grief, they tangle up above ground like a mangrove tree’s. As in - I cannot trace them. And I cannot wield your language – it trips on the tongue. Look, I wrote an essay about you and it was in English. I think that is the tragedy that brought me here. The only thing I might have asked you is where the stories come from. I want to know if it’s in the blood. I write sometimes too, but only ever about sad things. I think you could’ve taught me some of those words that don’t exist in English. I wonder sometimes about the handful of fairytales you might’ve left me if you hadn’t chosen to run away. Look, I’ve taught myself not to ask for things but the want, it stays. I want to be happy. My mother’s biggest fear is that we’ll become you. And I’m afraid I wouldn’t know the difference. But tell me where the stories come from. Where do dreams really lead if you’d let the world burn to chase them? Tell me that I wouldn’t want to know. Please.

TikTok’s latest “Lucky Girl Syndrome” trend has caught the world in another moral bubble of treating ourselves and others kindly in order to get “lucky.” By channeling your inner positivity and really looking at yourself in the mirror and saying “I’m lucky,” and “I deserve this”, you will, soon enough, get everything you ever wished for. “Ở hiền gặp lành” is a phrase I grew up with. It translates to "good things will meet good people”. My mom was an example of this: she gave food to the homeless people on the curb, helped her family back in Vietnam by giving them the money they needed, and understood and empathized with others’ struggles. From the goodness she gave into the world, she was able to receive a good position in life — exactly what she needed. This is the model I grew up with, and it reflected on my purpose in society. For it to be popularized in the media, sometimes known as “good karma” and “manifesting,” everything makes sense. While I take what my mom taught me growing up to heart, I am also a firm believer that everything you do comes back to you. “Lucky Girl Syndrome,” like the idiom, is an expression to say good things will happen if you just put in the effort to reach your goal, which isn’t necessarily luck. Luck is success or failure that occurred purely by chance, but the “chance” is what our interactions with others produce. My mom giving food to the homeless and empathizing with others’ struggles are only examples of her sincerity, which is expressed in many other contexts — her earning the wages that keep my sister and me living in the world. By putting a goal forth, and reaching for qualities that make you earn good things in the world, telling yourself you are lucky is only the minimum of the “Lucky Girl Syndrome.” In other words, the goodness you put in the world brings back what you deserve the most. Editor(s): Chris F., Cydney V., Amelia P. Photo Credits: Unsplash

Editors: Claudia S., Erika Y., Leila W.

“Knock knock,” my father whispers while he creeps open my bedroom door. He delivers a plate of sliced apples and mangoes to me as I try to focus on what my history teacher is lecturing on. I had no idea what she was saying, but I ate as much as I could; I had already been spending the rest of my day studying. He always knew when I was famished, and catered just what I needed most. He was available each time I needed to be picked up from school because I wasn’t feeling well, and was patient to wait when I was stuck in school, planning prom. Even though he had a stern look on his face because I had interrupted him from his work. My mother scolded me when needed because she wanted to make sure I was my favorite character in my drama — not just the main protagonist. She’d make my favorite foods, even when I mumble “I’m craving bánh xèo” under my breath, and she’d help me navigate the weaves of homework, friend group drama, and boys. The Disney and Nickelodeon shows I grew up watching had to have the protagonist showing their love interest a grand parade of love, even if it just was to ask them out to Homecoming. I wanted that kind of love — gifts, words of affirmation, and full-blown, extravagant expressions — because this is what I thought love was, either from their love interest or their supporting parents. Love had to be shown in a specific manner in these shows, but this manner wasn’t the way I was taught love was. “I love you” had to be said for the relationship to work, and for that, I questioned my parents’ love for me. All of the criticizing, the scolding, and the patience was the gray space between tolerating me and being tired of all of my nonsense. The absence of the verbal “I love you” hurt me, because I was used to what was on TV and what my taken friends were saying to each other. My mom and dad were hard on me — they needed me to keep my As, be kind to others, and stay humble. Unfortunately, this made me scared of them, and it closed off to their means of affection. “I love you,” said the first person who has ever shown me what unconditional romantic love feels like. Sixteen-year-old me hid my face in the place between his neck and his shoulders. My nose tingles, and I tear up on his shirt. He tells me he hates saying it, because not at all does he agree that “I love you” is indicative of the way he feels about me. He grew up understanding the ways his Korean mother loves him — food, good advice, and quality time, exactly like how I was raised. Ordering me boba, keeping me company, and letting me understand his mind are the ways he shows me he loves me, all without telling me so. But why am I so emotional over him telling me that he’ll stick with me through thick and thin and kisses on the forehead when I’m stressed? Why do I cry each time he says “I love you,” after a minuscule argument? Every apology, every ounce of reassurance, every recognizable glance of admiration has not only my heart warming but also tears of joy. When did I ever cry at someone being nice to me? Why am I so over-sentimental of what I had expected from the most romantic episodes of Suite Life on Deck growing up? After relating to stories about the different ways in which people love each other, I strengthened my relationship with love itself and accepted how I receive my love — from my parents, from my partner, and from my friends. My parents were harsh on me to shape me into a strategic, independent, and confident person, enough for me to love myself. I had been so emotional because of the way I finally came to terms that love comes in all forms. “Jenny is the definition of ‘acts of service,’” my best friend told me. I, too, am not the most expressive of how I love others, but in the ways I pull the weight off those who cannot -offering help on homework, friend group drama, and boys, and lending my extra help- this is how I love. I love the way I love — it only took me so long to appreciate this gift. Editor(s): Nicole O., Nadine R. Photo Credits: Unsplash

You always hear the New Year before you see it. The loud clamoring of jubilant people coming together to celebrate the holiday and the clashing gongs weaved into the driving beat of drums. There’s the warm smell of fried and steamed food that gently washes over. And of course, no Chinese New Year parade is complete without the iconic golden-scarlet lion dances that frolic in the streets. Five thousand years ago, people were also watching energized lion dance performances in awe. Lion dances are especially important to Chinese people because they symbolize power, wisdom, and superiority. These dances are said to bring good luck and fortune to audience members. The loud beating of drums that accompany these performances is called the “heartbeat of the lion.” The heartbeat leads the other members of its performance: the cymbal and gong. Lion dances are performed by two dancers in a costume: one in the front to control the head and front limbs, and one in the back to control the hind and back limbs. Together, the two dancers imitate a lion’s movement and sometimes include aspects of martial arts, depending on the style. For example, southern lion dances often mimic a lion’s behavior, such as shaking, scratching, and licking their fur, while northern lion dances are more “gymnastic” and include rolling, jumping, and leaping. Happy new year, and may this time be like the dancing lions: courageous and exciting. Lions Dancing in the New Year A haiku by Angel Liang Shaking golden fur And crashing sounds of cymbals Make “New Year” xin nian. Editors: Nicole O. Nadine R.

Dear Mr. Elephant, I have been informed by my father that he has been in regular contact with you even after he left the UK, and his e-mail correspondence would often include my upbringing as a case study for his arguments about accessibility and migration. I am writing to you to alert you that my explicit consent was not given in his letters and was only notified about them after they were sent. Please note that any mention of my experiences and upbringing in his letters does not represent my full perspective. Since my father lives overseas and has resigned himself from parental responsibilities, my Mother and I do not actively engage in any correspondence with him, or his writing. Therefore, his letters to you are written from an individual perspective and are not mutually agreed upon by the people he mentions, including my mother and me. Best wishes, Hannah My Dad wielded the letter as a weapon against the world. Unfortunately, the consequence of my adolescence in a Karen-adjacent household was being his proofreader on a zero-hours contract, especially on night shifts. “Hannah?” Oh no… “Hannah..” Not again! “Hannah, are you awake?” I wish I wasn’t. I would debate with myself whether or not to say yes, or to rhythmically raise my breathing in an attempt to make it sound like I was asleep, the latter of which was mostly unsuccessful. Oozing out of my bed sheets like a morose puddle of insomnia, I would pull my limbs past my need for warmth and amble out of the bedroom to the living room, an enclosed space draped in dim sepia lighting. To the left of the entrance to the living room was Dad’s castle or office cluster: a printer, desk, and computer. The pull-out keyboard shelf accommodated a slew of tea-stained rings and small ecosystems of dust. Hunched over the screen during these late hours would be my Dad and his black-rimmed reading glasses. The cold emission of light from the screen would bleach the high planes of his scornful gaze. “I’ve written something and I need you to check if it makes sense”. In other words, Dad wanted me to read through his five-page letters to check that the content of his writing was clear, even though it was a school night. Under no circumstance was I to check the grammar if I were to be like mum and get an earful about how proofreading English for clarity had nothing to do with grammar—even though it usually did. I was only chosen as the unwilling reading participant because I liked reading books, but my grammar was a small improvement to his since I was still a developing child. Mum was technically more qualified, but Dad didn’t care for her correcting him. On my Mum’s behalf, I just waited to do it when his attention shifted to the news he recorded rather than me sitting at his desk. Although I was doing well in school and loved English lessons, I was not enthralled with proofreading letters about political topics I did not understand to politicians I did not care about—especially when I was drudging past my hazy focus and half-open eyelids pulling me towards darkness. Carefully brushing the mouse’s scroll wheel, the Calibri Sans would fade in and out of clarity from clean and precise lettering to a mild fog of sterile office grays. Whilst Dad stood in the middle of the living room to listen to music or watch more news, I would silence the brutish force I would press into each key with the similar soft clack of a wooden chime to avoid any audible suggestion that I was changing any grammar errors he may have made, or misplacements of a colon instead of a full-stop, or any minor thing I could notice Dad would scold me about for being ‘picky’ or ‘just like my mother’. That latter phrase is a swift knife into anyone’s esteem and worth, so the most tactical strategy when interacting with the house lion was to avoid alarm. The late-night proofreading sessions weren’t constant but occurred enough to be a distinct and haunting memory. Seven years later when I visited my Dad in Malaysia, I was reminded of those late nights when he asked me to sit down at his marble table, blanketed with a thin sheet of dust, to proofread a letter he wanted to send to the local MP (Member of Parliament) of my original hometown. It was five pages long. Five…Pages. Frankly, this was a vastly concise documentation of my Dad’s ramblings, when I would often watch the steam fall from his initially hot drink during the 30-60 minute bursts of him monologuing. Dad calls it a ‘conversation’ but it was no different from a villain detailing his big plot and motivations without prompt. The harsh emission of bright pixels washed out my complexion again and I scrunched my nose side-to-side to dance away any particles that may set off my dust allergies. With rusty muscle memory, I prayed to any God on duty in the middle of the night to help me stay motivated and complete the task. So much had changed in the six to seven years of Dad’s absence from my life, but he still had the same typing habits I discreetly corrected as he plodded back and forth in the living room with a stained cup of tea and a handful of Bombay mix shuffling in his palm like a sifter to his mouth. A quietly domestic parallel to his life before moving to England at 19 years old when he worked at a tin mine, laboriously sifting to find the metal. Although my memories of those late-night shifts at the computer are shrouded with a lingering languish, they were valuable as a reminder of the persisting hours my Dad had spent communicating with politicians in their language, dusty and detached formal written correspondence. The wait to receive notifications and receipts of correspondence, alerting you to a response within ‘7 to 10 working days’ without active solutions. Hours of time for migrants to communicate their concerns to be rewarded with week-long delays and passive sympathy. Being raised in a mixed-race, low-income, and disabled family in a Conservative region of England subconsciously equated to a one-sided confrontation to be acknowledged, listened to, supported, and helped. We just wanted help, and letter writing was our tool to incite action, our only hope to be heard. Pleas only mattered to Englishmen with blue or yellow ties if they were formal, measured, grammatically correct, and documented. I can imagine there being a broader barrier for non-native English speakers or migrants to write to decision-makers that expect eloquence as an everyday standard. My Dad’s experiences as a migrant father were not taken seriously unless his criticisms were proofread by his pre-adult daughter, the first native English speaker of his immediate and extended family. Marginalization was not taken seriously unless presented in proximity to the conservative middle class’s silver tongue, the way a mouse may be saved by snakes if they hid and hissed. We just wanted help. Writing letters for political and social action is valuable and necessary. I value the effort Dad made to try and improve our circumstances, which makes it more bittersweet that Mum and I have outgrown Dad’s role as the unprompted letter-writer to MPs in districts none of us live in anymore. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from continuing to write letters with increasingly trivial topics, forwarding them to Mum and me which only amplified our stress and grief instead of soothing it. His insistence to insert his voice can be as grating as the Karen lexicon; the more he ‘spoke to the manager’, the less I wished to co-sign it. It became less about demanding improvements and more about fabricating points. As time stretched between conversations with Dad, my sanctuary strengthened. Peace was protecting myself, talking to him meant replacing my commas with full stops. It meant replacing ‘I love you too’ with ‘speak to you soon’, then ‘take care’, and maybe ‘my regards’. It meant embracing the language of cold email receipts like a cloying warm hug. No record, video, diary, or height, has represented my family experience better than the letter—sincerely bothersome. Dear Hannah, Thank you for getting in touch. This is an automated response to confirm that your email has been received. We aim to respond to your email within 7-10 working days. Best wishes, Mr. Elephant Editors: Danielle C., Lang D., Joyce P., Erika Y.

Scars Overridden by the soft touch of Your skin on my skin Breathing For air in a vacuum We hold each other Not because we can— Our limbs broken wounds gushing Out the secrets we so desperately guard— But because there is a cosmic hand Placing your hand in mine While my eyes become bewildered like a doe in bright light. You Breathe Into my collarbone Down the pores of my skin and into my Heart, pounding For life on desolate soil. Love The most incredible feeling Of knowing we’re existing Even as all but Nothing burns. Editors: Nicole O., Nadine R. Image source: Unsplash

Dear Asian Youth, I’ve had enough of people telling me that I should “chill.” It’s always delivered in that all-too-familiar tone that comes with the shiny, packaged ignorance of a thousand suns. It has a knack for being said when myself or other women are talking about something with passion or without any at all; a harmless, passing thought. Like the “crazy woman” trope, utilised mercilessly in Hollywood movies and TV programmes, it seems to be a habit that media cultures all around the world adopt. I could sit here and write about how some men and even women (but mostly men) are socialised to think of women who speak their minds this way. I’d wonder when I was younger if it would please them if I simply sat there in feminine silence, legs crossed and hair long. The earliest experience of this was with my extended family, who I rarely spoke to, but nevertheless, tried to. I don’t quite remember what I said word-for-word but I do believe that it was about how autism in men and women is identified differently, with some women getting diagnosed way later than men on average. It was as if this fact had annoyed one of my older family members since he rubbed his nose and told me to “chill out and drink some tea”. My first thought was that technically I couldn’t chill out if I drank some piping hot tea, but then I realised half a second later that I loathed that sentence. From the tone of voice, to the meaning of the words, to the place he had decided to say it, and the idea that he was dancing around the words “shut up” really irked me. By doing this, he could insult me and my gender whilst taking no accountability for his underlying statement. It was a sly and passive aggressive way of speaking, the type of comment that you can’t really defend yourself against in the moment. Part of me would have even appreciated it more if he had just told me to zip it and to stay in my place as a woman. At least then I could argue back unabashedly without risking the role of the bad guy, the one that the rest of my family might genuinely believe needs to “chill out.” It would have evoked the people listening to take sides which I didn’t want since that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered to me was that I was being told to “chill out” like I was some mad woman when I wasn’t one. I was a normal girl who was talking about something that didn’t appeal to or please the male in front of me. Julie Zeilinger writes that in comparison to men who express their opinions and are “generally taken seriously” with their comments “considered for their merit”, women are “often dismissed and their comments are attributed to their emotionality.” This diminishing of women's opinions and thoughts dates back to the functionalist idea of how a woman's job is expressive, meaning that they should be submissive to their husbands and fill the role of emotional support for the whole family as well as cooking, caring for the children and cleaning. Be all and end all, telling a woman to “chill” or to “calm down” is contributing to this outdated belief and way of living. Although I as a woman consider myself capable of emotional support, cooking, cleaning and taking care of children, I am much more than that. To tell a woman to “chill” when she is talking (albeit something that she is or isn’t passionate about), ignores her contribution to the conservation being held and is disrespectful because it implies that her thoughts are not as valuable as a male’s. With the ever growing ideals of what women should represent to people during their everyday lives, women are now working full-time. They are the boss of their own finances, careers and lives in general. Although there is still a lot to improve upon, to pass a comment to a woman telling her to “chill” also disregards these improvements made in society towards equality, it supports the idea that women should work just as much as men but also that their work is nowhere near as significant and formidable. These types of disrespectful behaviours and practices are encompassed perfectly in how according to Business Insider, “a woman working full time earned 81.6 cents for every dollar a man working full time earned on average. Additionally, women's median annual earnings were $9,766 less than men's” in 2018. This statistic essentially implies the same concept as the previous, women's contributions and work not being as esteemed as men’s. The crazy woman trope has graced our screens and literature for centuries. If it isn’t dark and melancholy Esther Greenwood in ‘The Bell Jar’ (Sylvia Plath), to cold and psychotic Amy Dunne in ‘Gone Girl’ (Gillian Flynn), the trope is made use of repetitively by both male and female authors/directors. Arwa Mahdawi for The Guardian writes that (the trope) has “become a cultural norm” and is a “kneejerk way to put women in their place and remind them that, no matter what they achieve, they are inherently flawed”. The impact of media and entertainment around us has socialised our attitudes towards everything, especially gender as it appears that even female authors (like the prior examples) also use this trope to represent their flawed and interest-piquing characters. Perhaps this suggests that there is a certain fascination with crazy women who need to “chill”. A lot of the time, they’re represented on the TV screen, casted because of their beauty to spin the trope on its head and make the viewers feel conflicted because it’s hard to hate or dislike a character when they’re good looking. Mental health does not look the same on everybody and isn’t a subject that should be used lightly as a mere trope in the media, so why do we still do this? By telling a woman to “chill”, people are oversimplifying mental health issues, as well as implying an uneducated diagnosis just because a woman is being a little too passionate or emotional for their liking. Overall, I believe the best way to battle these types of behaviours as a woman is to educate respectfully. Having said that, please don’t be afraid to just ignore them and carry on if they decide to choose ignorance, some people are hard to educate, especially when they don’t want to be. You don’t owe anyone anything if they’re being disrespectful and dismissive of you. If the male or even female in front of you is telling you to “chill”, don’t back down, ask why and if they don’t give you a good enough reason, carry on. Being a woman in this world is harsh at times, we all have experiences that are unique to us as individuals but also show eerie similarities to the woman next to us. This should bring us closer together, creating a safe space to talk and be whatever we want without being told to “chill” just because we dare to love or care about something. If you’re ever in a conversation where a woman is told to chill just because she is passionate about a subject, I encourage you to stand up for her. If anything, the person who is telling her to “chill’ probably needs to chill him/herself. If you are ever the woman who gets told to pipe down, demand your respect and never back down on your fervour. - Cathay Lau Sources: https://www.mic.com/articles/115904/7-everyday-things-that-are-only-said-to-women https://www.businessinsider.com/gender-wage-pay-gap-charts-2017-3?r=US&IR=T https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/commentisfree/2016/aug/07/term-crazy-shouldnt-be-thrown-around-lightly-ask-any-woman Cover photo source: Eleni Kalorkoti

Dear Asian Youth, What comes to mind when you think of the British Chinese community or the Chinese diaspora in the U.K.? Being a person that emigrated to the U.K. at a young age and grew up immersed mainly in British culture, my identity was a disorientated confusion--a constant fluctuation between pride and shame. Upon reflection, it was the typical mindset where negative Chinese stereotypes that were used as prejudice against the Chinese diaspora had been internalised. Indeed, I’m sure many of my British Chinese friends had similar experiences; never will I forget a conversation I had at age 12 when my friend of Chinese heritage wished she had been born white to ‘look more beautiful.' The exploration of this nuanced, complex identity was made more valuable when I began to look at the history of how Chinese people came to live in this country, how British Chinese people are slowly, but surely finding their place in British society, and the sacrifices that many past generations made to flourish in this country. The first Chinese person to ever visit Britain was Michel Chin-fo-tsoung, a Jesuit that was born in Nanking and met with King James II in 1687. However, the first Chinese communities were only created in the early 1800s in the ports of London and Liverpool, when the trade of Chinese goods, such as silk, tea and ceramics were flourishing. Migration waves were reinforced as a result of the Opium War and the takeover of Hong Kong by the British Empire, and by the late 19th century, there were now small Chinatowns developing in the two cities, as well as two distinct communities in East London. Rapidly growing prejudice against these communities saw Chinese immigrants posing a threat to British jobs; stereotypes such as gambling and heavy opium-use were reinforced, and marriage unions between the British and Chinese were disapproved of. These early Sinophobic sentiments led to Chinese communities being banned from all other employment but starting their own businesses, such as launderettes and the first ever Chinese restaurants in Britain. Hostility continued to grow as more Chinese people settled in the U.K., especially after the Second World War, when approximately 20,000 Chinese seamen, who had arrived in Liverpool during the war to work as merchants, were repatriated forcefully without reasonable explanations, leaving new British wives and children behind that were never seen again. The biggest waves of Chinese migration were in the 1950s and 60s, when labourers from Hong Kong arrived to work in the catering industry. Many of them opened Chinese takeaways that, in order to avoid competition, were dispersed all over the country-- and could perhaps explain the dynamic of sparse Chinese communities today. It is noteworthy that the word ‘Asian’ in Britain commonly refers to South Asians. When references to East Asians are made, the term ‘oriental’ is frequently used. This descriptive word was so normalised around me that I was surprised to learn of its racist and derogatory origins only recently, one that presents East-Asian culture as underdeveloped, that perpetuates a colonialist attitude of which looked down on East Asian people and culture with contempt and superiority. However, British Chinese people are most often referred to by their ethnicity since the word ‘Asian’ is conventionally misrepresentative. It is also the most common East Asian group of all, since all other East Asian communities do not have an individual category on the British census, unlike British Chinese. This signals the group out as a distinct community that, in theory, should have made our voices louder. But the British Chinese community continues to be grossly underrepresented in British media and politics. In the U.K. media, apart from a few household names such as Gemma Chan and Katie Leung, I rarely come across prominent entertainment, TV or music figures that are of Chinese descent. There are approximately 400,000 British Chinese people, which constitutes about 0.7% of the population, yet only one MP is of Chinese descent in the House of Commons, when the number that would be proportional to its population would be 4 or 5. 30% of British Chinese were not on the electoral register in 2006, compared to 17% of all minorities, and 6% of white people. Compared to other ethnic minorities such as South Asians where the number of MPs in parliament exceeds what would be proportional, the political energy that we give out is certainly one that lacks outspokenness, and one of objectivity and reservation. Indeed, writer Amber Hsu, who has lived in both Britain and the U.S., has stated that the sense of community and unity amongst Asian Americans is extremely more prominent, not least because of louder racial discourses that highlight and aim to combat Sinophobic discrimination. What then, defines us as a community if we lack so much representation? Is it our strong academic achievements, household income, and presence in high-skilled jobs--partly to do with a culture that values hard work and obedience and partly to do with the model minority myth that only reinforces the oppression of other minorities? Is it our Chinese takeaways and our popular Chinatowns--the bubble tea shops dotted around every major town and city? Is it the prevailing sense of apathy or silent acceptance of the issues in this country that affect not only us but other marginalised individuals? The U.K police force have stated that the number of hate crimes against people of Chinese descent in only the first three months of 2020 was almost three times that of the two years prior, no doubt fueled by COVID-19 that took place concurrently and by the current political climate that only harms Chinese diaspora like collateral. British Chinese people need to utilise the motivation we already have, to speak up and foster more visibility towards the normalised racism and microaggressions that impact us, and in turn also help break down systems of oppression that impact others. - Jiaying Cover Photo Source: South China Morning Post

My kitchen island is covered in newspapers – because I keep making a mess, my mom says. They spill over the granite, grim and gray. The Korean characters march across the pages like ants. One by one by one, they inch across the island to where I’ve overturned my dolsot. They carry the grains of rice off, one by one by one. Somewhere in this flood of gray, there’s an article titled “Be Aware of These Mushrooms!” in bold Korean words. It reads like a conspiracy theory, complete with a picture of an innocuous brown mushroom captioned, “seemingly safe, but deadly!” Halmeoni used to hang onto every word of these exaggerated stories. When I close my eyes, I see her bent over a supermarket aisle, bagging mushrooms by the handful. She waves me over. “Yunseo,” she says, “You have to be careful. You wouldn’t believe how many bad mushrooms there are.” I take the bag from her and smile. I promise to be careful – I don’t like mushrooms, anyway. She shakes her finger at me and moves on to bag green onions. When I open my eyes, she disappears and the kitchen lights are bright. I’ve spilled my yogurt again. The ants feast. I read the papers, these American stories in Korean, while I eat and my bowl overflows. Then the ants come alive to devour me whole, a Korean girl ravaged by American words. They’re harsh and biting. The ants blind my eyes and I overturn my plate. There’s a story buried within these pages. This time, it’s mine. The ants come in droves and it’s suffocating. I open my eyes to a church. This is suffocating. I’m late to the rehearsal dinner. I took too long asking for and translating directions, so here I am. Late. I push open the door to see everyone lined up: loud, excited, bright, and white. I look down to step over their heels and my flats feel plain. I look up to greet them and my skin feels shadowy. The bride brushes past me and I see a vague blur of hot pink. There’s a beat, then my vision sharpens. There are ants on the floor of this church. The bride is wearing a qipao – of some sorts – and there are ants on the floor of this church. Her name is Lindsey. She’s tall, blonde, and pretty. Her parents are kind. I’ve known them since seventh grade. Lindsey has a younger brother. He’s the teacher’s favorite, the star of the school. We used to eat lunch together. We were friends. He used to tell me I wasn’t very good at English, back in eighth grade. I’d watch the ants crawl across the table while he quizzed me on words he thought I wouldn’t know. I let him because we were friends. His sister, Lindsey, is the star of the day. She’s wearing a qipao and it’s hot pink. The qipao was worn by women of the Manchu upper-class during the Chinese Qing Dynasty. Later, it evolved to become a symbol of gender equality for Chinese housewives. Its hem reaches down to the ankles and the fabric is traditionally worn loose. The qipao is often recognized by its distinctive collar. It has nothing to do with Korea, though I doubt anyone at the dinner would have been able to tell the difference. This isn’t my culture and this shouldn’t feel as personal as it does. Still, Lindsey’s dress is skin-tight and reaches halfway past her thighs. This comes during the peak of the coronavirus pandemic, when the eyes of the world’s hatred is focused on China. There’s a twisted, cinematic irony here. The Korean girl in the corner of the room, watching Asia drip down the white girl’s legs. My hands are sweaty. I wipe them on the sides of my Old Navy dress. It takes a couple tries, but soon the rehearsal begins. Lindsey’s parents and grandparents dance down the aisle, followed by the groom’s parents and grandparents, light and bright. I make a mental note to call my halmeoni later. There are a few mishaps with the timing and the Facebook live, but soon, everyone is gathered at the end of the aisle. It looks like a movie still. Lindsey’s guests circled around her in an arc, light and bright. The hot pink qipao is blinding. I’m not a guest – I’m only playing violin for the wedding. So, I sit in the pews, in the shadows, and keep the ants company. In front of me, Lindsey’s friends chatter away like I’ve never been able to. Lindsey’s mom is arguing with the wedding planner. I blink and for a second, I see my mom instead. She’s incredibly detail-oriented, too. She’d argue with everyone in her way if it meant I would get the perfect wedding. When my vision clears, all I hear is English. American flags hang heavy from the ceiling, regal and striking against the wedding party below. Above me, they feel weighty and dark. This is what it is to live in America, they whisper. Heavy and conflicting – but you don’t exactly belong in your own country, either, do you? Lindsey’s qipao must weigh a pound, max. The constant burden of being a Korean girl in an American society weighs at least ten metaphorical kilograms. And it never goes away. I’ve always known this. I was eight years old when I learned and I’ve known it ever since. Still, it culminates this day. It culminates in the realization that I will be trying to bridge two worlds on my own even on my wedding day. Lindsey wears her hot pink qipao and poses, giggling, for her friends. There’s an ant crawling on one of the pews. I watch as it falls off the edge. When I look up, everyone’s gone and I see my family there. Rigid and still and tense, out of place under the heavy foreign flags. My dad’s holding stiff English conversation and my mom waves me over. “This is your day,” she tells me. She pats my shoulders, “Don’t worry about me.” Her eyes are sad. I can read her thoughts: maybe we should’ve stayed. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Korea. Maybe I should’ve spent my days studying until dawn and visiting my halmeoni on the weekends. Maybe I should’ve gone to church on Sundays and turned right around to preach twisted morals in the name of faith with the confidence that I was doing the right thing. Maybe it would’ve been simpler that way. At least that way, I wouldn’t be here. Because when the ants swarm over our arms, Leslie can take off her dress. I’m stuck with the stickiness and I’ll end up spilling my kimchi all over the island. And it’ll stain the newspapers, red and pungent. Cover photo source: https://rb.gy/gizxlk

That’s really all I want to be Desired by someone, Knowing that I am worthy of attention and intimacy. Entering the sex-filled word of high school, thats all I wanted to be. I was already smart, I had good friends, I did sports but I was never sexy. I’d see all those white people on screen with girls and boys fanning over them. Their eyes Their muscles Their hair They served as a reflection They had the confidence to say I’m Sexy, I’m on that screen. I wish I could say the same Whenever I look onto the screen I don't see someone desirable I don't see someone sexy I don’t even see a full character In the mirror, I don't see sexy, I see the neighbor from Sixteen Candles the character for comedic relief I don't see sexy I see thick-framed glasses Buck teeth Pocket squares Lanky arms Acne I’ve struggled throughout my life to accept what I look like And I’m still not there I long after that slightly wavy chestnut hair those sharp jawlines those blue eyes I hate how I look I never take photos and the ones I did I deleted soon after I wanted to erase myself I couldn’t bear to look at something so hideous so ugly so unacceptable When I see myself on screen I don't see someone I want to be I don't see a role model I see a cautionary tale A tale to me, a warning to stay in my lane. I’m not sexy. I'm not pretty. I'm not desired. I'm here only for others. I serve my purpose and vanish There's no need for confidence nor self-esteem because that doesn't fit my role. I am not beautiful because that is not my role. All I ever wanted to be was sexy but for Asians in this world that's not a possibility. - Nathan Cho Growing up as an Asian man, I've been bombarded with how ugly I was. I suffered through years of comments about my genitals, my sexuality, and my beauty (or lack there of). I never found myself pretty. I never found myself desirable. This message is amplified throughout media where Asian men are constantly put as undesirable, and that we are only desired when we are being fetishized as feminine. With my piece, I wanted to voice my perception and relationship with beauty and show how we need to break the silence around it. We need Asian sex symbols. We need people for asian boys to look up to and say that they are beautiful because I do not want to leave behind a world where future little asian boys hate their face as much as I do. I'm first-generation Korean American that lives in Delaware. I'm really into activism, especially asian activism. In my free time, I love to read and watch Netflix. I just finished this great book called "Only Mostly Devastated" I really recommend it if you are into Romance and Racial/LGBTQ+ representation. I love talking about my identity and LGBTQ+ issues. I'm a middle child in a 5 person family, and I've always felt a little overlooked by both my family and community. If you want to get to know me, contact me on instagram at @nathancho42. Instagram: @nathancho42 Cover photo source: Andrew Kung https://www.cnn.com/style/article/andrew-kung-asian-american-men/index.html