Dear Asian Youth, The year is 2006. The setting? A quiet neighborhood in central Florida. In one particular house, two young parents are narrating one of Dr. Seuss’s many children’s novels. The audience: their three-year-old daughter, enraptured by the letters and symbols printed upon page after page. The next day, the mother stumbles across her child, grasping a well-worn copy of Green Eggs and Ham within her stubby fingers, narrating the words to thin air. Believing it was a fluke, she brings home a brand-new copy of Dick and Jane. Her daughter reads it with ease. At three years of age, I learned how to read by osmosis: my parents’ routine storytelling enabled me to unlock the entirety of the English language. Entranced by the inked letters lining bright, colorful sheets of paper, I was able to recognize and identify words before being formally educated. Since then, my days were spent tirelessly scouring page after page of the newest novel in my literary arsenal, revelling in the beloved “new-book” smell under the incandescent light of a flashlight, book light, or even a street lamp. I remember paper cuts from sharp corners and heavy, lidded eyes. I remember being incapable of going to sleep until I had finished whichever story I had begun just mere hours before. I remember dreaming about the characters embedded within hardbound worlds. Throughout my formative years, I solved mysteries alongside Nancy Drew, explored Prince Edward Island hand-in-hand with Anne Shirley, and—unfortunately—cut off my hair with Jo March. These renowned heroines from classic literature have indisputably helped shape me into the person I am today, but they are more than characters, settings, and plots. Writing is a capsule to histories, to ideologies, to new realities. It is a bridge to how another person thought, felt, and lived. It is eternal. I was content with the idyllic literary paradise I had created. However, even back then, I was pressured to look towards my future. What do you want to be when you’re older? When I was younger, I believed that I could do anything I set my mind to, that I could be whoever I wanted. The possibilities were endless. I remember ten-year-old me, who harbored a dream of being an author. I wanted to create something permanent, to craft stories that stick with young readers who are just like me. Conversely, I also felt an undeniable pull towards STEM. The medical field, in particular, drew me in—I admired the thought of devoting my life towards protecting the most important gift: life itself. Back then, the thought of my future career was still far away, and I had all the time in the world to decide. However, as I entered my freshman year of high school, reality set in. I had to make a choice. Growing up, my family always told me that they will support whichever career I choose, but there is an underlying expectation that I will follow in their footsteps and go into the field of medicine. Due to the stigma in the Asian community against pursuing a creative career, I gradually started closing doors that once seemed wide-open. I threw myself into my STEM courses, slowly but surely pulling away from the stories I had once loved. Yes, my interest in STEM is as certain as Newton’s third law or the mechanism of natural selection, but a part of my heart stubbornly belongs to creative expression. When forced to choose between the two, I prioritized STEM. But who says we have to choose in the first place? In the past, I fell into the common misconception that STEM and the humanities couldn’t mix, much like oil and water. At first glance, the two fields are so starkly different—polar opposites, like fire and ice. However, why is the divide between the two so pronounced? What caused me to feel like I had to choose between two things I love, shutting down one avenue to pursue another? It would be all-too-easy to place the blame on my family and friends who have urged me to enter the field of medicine ever since I could walk, but it simply isn’t true; the pressure to go into STEM is not limited to the Asian American realm. The Western world perpetuates the phenomenon that all Asians are good at STEM. I have always felt the pressure to adhere to this stereotype. A part of me still sees being classified as the typical intelligent Asian as a goal to strive towards, rather than a standard that hinders my individuality. I measured my intelligence by my scores on my biology and chemistry exams and by the number of questions I could correctly answer on my math homework. Sure, I’m better at STEM than the average person. Yet, it felt like everyone around me was the next Einstein, the newest mathematical or scientific whiz, while I was just me. The fact that I could easily cruise through my humanities courses with high A’s meant nothing to me if I had to put significantly more effort into my STEM classes for the same results. The message was subliminal, but clear all the same: I was only intelligent if I was good at STEM. I often forget that there’s more than one way to measure intelligence. It’s true—the world tends to attribute a penchant for STEM as an indicator of intellect. Pursuits such as art, music, and writing are perceived as hobbies rather than viable career options. With the idea of “STEM elitism” so deeply-rooted within the very fabric of our society, it seemed like the only way to survive was to follow the crowd, to completely sever my tie to the humanities. Yes, STEM, with its regimented laws and identities and rules, has brought us to the Moon, put portable computers in our pocket, and given us architectural structures that seem to defy the laws of Nature. However, could science have given the world Emmeline Pankhurt’s “Freedom or Death” speech? Could math have instilled in me the power to communicate ideas, to change minds, and to shape worldviews? There is beauty in the humanities, unparalleled fluidity and room for individuality. Just as society needs STEM for collective development, we need the humanities for personal growth. When people think of the field of medicine, they think of STEM, and for good reason. After all, the very definition of medicine, according to Oxford Languages, is “the science or practice of the diagnosis, treatment, and prevention of disease.” However, some hold a different perspective. Some believe that medicine is an art based on science. Educated medical professionals have strong scientific foundations, but the very best of physicians are artists who can take scientific knowledge and apply it to medicine. Skilled doctors know how to diagnose and treat their patients, but the finest ones know to interact with them. Yes, medicine is an applied science, but to practice it well, one requires the art of empathy and compassion. What do you want to be when you’re older? Once, I presented a version of myself concealed by half-truths and incomplete pictures—the person I felt I should be. I have put forth an image of a STEM-loving individual with one ultimate goal: pursuing a career in the medical field. Yes, it’s true, but it’s not the entire story. I cut out major parts of my narrative while highlighting the ones I believed mattered more. It’s time for me to pay homage to the version of myself who grew up with literature, because that is a fundamental part of who I am. I’ve made my choice, but not between one field or the other. Yes, I am dedicating my life to medicine, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate the humanities any less, that they are less important. Just like the medical field is a combination of both art and science, the person I am today is made better by both STEM and the humanities. When I one day become a physician, I will honor this applied science, without taking the humanities out of the equation. When I one day practice medicine, I will have both a large breadth of knowledge and a full heart. Maybe one day, I’ll even be able to use medicine as inspiration for telling stories of my own. - Justine Links used: http://bens-abc.com/learning-timeline.htm http://www.asian-nation.org/doctors.shtml#sthash.li84pyvx.DPmYXF89.dpbs https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3190445/#CIT7 Cover Photo Source: Ebsco This article is Justine’s submission to the Young Writers Awards Contest.

i grew up between aisles of jackfruit and rambutan, yan-yan and pocky, soft dried fruits and fruity hard candies i couldn’t name, toddler-sized bags of rice and boxes of udon; drinking in the smells and sights of the bakery’s impossibly smooth and colorful cakes and puddings; and on the other side of the store, watching the fish and shellfish pile on top of one another in their tanks; hearing tongues and seeing faces in the background that reminded me of family and became synonymous with “home.” i’ve moved between four different states in the past year alone, and every time I’m somewhere new, i look for the same thing: the asian supermarket. if i am a boat, that is my lighthouse. every familiar food and familiar accent signaling to me that the dock is open to me here; that something here might feel like home; that if i pull into shore, i won’t be alone. i know my father would never understand this feeling. i know he will never understand how it felt to find my favorite snack my grandmother always made on lunar new year that you cannot find anywhere else except in an asian supermarket; i know he will never understand how much i miss my grandmother’s cooking and family dim sum outings and asian bakeries back home, and how asian supermarkets give me a glimpse back to those; i know he will never understand the relief and warmth and bittersweetness i feel when i hear someone speak vietnamese and remember how long it’s been since i’ve last seen my family; i know he will never understand what it’s like to look around a grocery store and see nobody like you, nothing reminding you of family or home, and what it’s like to then enter another grocery store and have it feel like a refuge; i know my father would never understand this feeling, but that my mother always does. i know when she and i go to the asian supermarket in our new hometown, that this is the place that always promises we’ll feel right at home; that we share the same giddiness as two white kids in a toy store, except we’re two asian kids in a grocery store, and what are toys compared to the ingredients of life, the beauty of my culture, the food of my childhood, the language of my people, the comfort of belonging, all squeezed into one store. i grew up in the asian supermarket and i’ll spend the rest of my life seeking it out; because i am a boat, and it is my lifehouse. - Kyla-Yen Cover photo source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/638103840942416492/

Dear Asian Youth, I’ve moved around all my life. From England to California; to Philadelphia; to Connecticut; to Texas. With that being said, I’ve attended a lot of schools. Sophomore year, my parents wanted me to move to Texas for one year to “try out the schools.” I knew immediately once I stepped into the school that, as an Asian, I would feel like an outcast. Everywhere I looked, the hallways were filled with stereotypical, rich, white students often skipping school for concerts or not taking school seriously. Before coming here, I’d attended a private school in the North, and I’d felt more supported as a person of color. My previous school praised hard work and was known for breeding Ivy League students, and it became abundantly clear that my work ethic was foreign to these new kids. I think a lot of them viewed me as a stuck up, private school girl from the North. I can understand why they thought my attitude was off, especially since there is a certain anxiety that comes with switching schools in the middle of your high school career, having to start all over again. There wasn’t much diversity in the student body, so I didn’t feel comfortable as myself; I had the feeling that people viewed me as being intelligent and hard working, but they didn’t care to see me outside of class. I felt ostracized because I didn’t fit into the mold of a typical, fun loving, highschool student. I wasn’t going out every weekend or attending music festivals like everyone else; rather, I stayed inside completing the latest assignments on time. I was also one of two Asian students in my classes, which meant that there was no support system or coalition for Asian students. Perhaps that’s what led to my passion for solving AAPI issues. My current school is still a predominately white prep school, but most of my friend group is Asian. For me, moving back to Connecticut saved my mental health. That’s why I wanted to co-head AASA (Asian-American Student Association) and create a safe space for Asian students. For any Asian student who feels like an outsider to their student body, I get it. I’m lucky that I got to leave a place that made me feel uncomfortable since there are other kids that don’t get this luxury. Just having the experience of exiting my privileged prep school was eye opening in the sense that I could grasp how difficult it was to be a person of color in white dominated spaces. Just because we are living in a modern time doesn’t mean that there is a lack of discrimination. I am sure no student tried to overtly make me feel unwelcome to the school, but the atmosphere wasn’t conducive to anyone different. I am really proud of my Chinese heritage and I would never wish to change my race for anything because the beautiful culture surrounding me makes me feel at home. Sometimes, people wonder why Asian Americans tend to stick together. The answer is simple: we feel connected by the single thread of heritage. I’m sure that many other Asians can understand what it felt like to grow up among a majority of white kids, having snide comments thrown at them because of their identity. I want people to understand that feeling of having someone look at you differently because of your skin color. For us, simply acknowledging that discomfort is the best support. I can’t change my experiences in the past but I can try to change my future. So to everyone perceiving Asians as a model minority and having no struggles in high school, here’s my story. - Ella Cover Photo Source: NPR

Dear Asian Youth, gifted and talented bright-eyed babe, you twirl your pencil in your hands you seek sun and scraped knees you talk too loud in class, in the best sense your words make a dry mouth a thirst to know more To be more they teach you to aspire, among the stacks of books you drink and the letters you weave together, among your countless calculations and world-weary abacus. How funny it looks, contrasted against your young hands ah, your hands, they shall hold them, tiny palms encircled, and tell you you are destined for greater things and suddenly it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how loud you talk, how bright your eyes shine, Good children are quiet They are well-behaved They know They see They think, minds whirring unlike any other take the world in and apart with your mental processes there’s no need to talk, there is only knowing. No need to question or feel or yearn or decry that is simply how it is and suddenly, you are the perfect child you are neat grades and clean shoes you are a pleasure to have in class you are gifted and talented You are the child your parents dreamed of when they came here, miles away the child of opportunity the one seizing the better, fabled life the truest American lie, for you work twice as hard as any other and it still isn’t enough. Will it ever be? Even as your hands tremble with fear, unable to bring pencil to paper even as you pin your worth on a single test They can still hold you close and tell you, over and over You are enough You did your best But you tell yourself, yes I did my best I did the best I could I tried and if this is my best, it still isn’t enough...is it? I’m still not enough, am I? funnily enough, I have no special talents I am not gifted I hold calluses in my hand, heavy and red these are marks of work For I can at least admit to diligence Things that put up what I wanted to be I want to make you proud, I cry, heavy heart buried in the soil from my homeland Am I really doing the best I can? foundations can crumble so easily when built on unstable terrain I never had the constitution to love myself so fully It seems like the truest feat of strength at this point It seems like the truest mark of genius full confidence to question to yearn To speak to learn, all until that familiar thirst outweighs everything else Until all that is left is the endless dialogue between you and the universe, who echoes your calls the deeper you dig and the louder you shout Gifted and talented, they say, but you are like any other. You are as aimless as the skies, For who needs an explanation to exist? Certainly not the universe, Certainly not you, Fret not, child You are made of stardust and moon rock and soil You are your origin and your future in one You are like everyone else and it should not be any other way, For what is more splendid than being part of this vast expanse of space These conversations over and over again These queries These acts of love told through the tongues of formulas and numbers You will inhale, calm collected Miles away from classrooms and textbooks These are the greater things they spoke of The humble everything, for pursuit of knowledge is its own act of love And you are truly gifted with a heart that yearns for more, Something even greater than a brilliant mind. - Billy Cover Photo Source: Dribbble.com

The well-loved Star Wars series culminated in the film Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker almost a year ago. Earning over a billion dollars in the box office, it answered many of the burning questions surrounding the Star Wars universe. However, one question still remains: in a world where even alien characters have prominent, well-developed roles in the plotline, what is the role of BIPOC? Perhaps the most outspoken objector to Star Wars’ treatment of BIPOC characters is John Boyega, who portrays Finn in the sequel trilogy. In Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Boyega’s character was marketed to be much more significant than he turned out to be. From the trailers – and even the movie itself – it was entirely plausible for Finn’s story arc to lead to him becoming a Jedi. Throughout the trilogy, however, Finn was shoved to the side to make room for Rey and Kylo Ren, portrayed by Daisy Ridley and Adam Driver respectively. This is especially apparent in the very last movie, in which Finn (along with other POC characters) were simply decorations to the leading white character arc. “Like, you guys knew what to do with Daisy Ridley, you knew what to do with Adam Driver,” Boyega told GQ in an interview. “You knew what to do with these other people, but when it came to Kelly Marie Tran (a Vietnamese American actress who portrayed Rose), when it came to John Boyega, you know fuck all.” (Famurewa, Jimi. “John Boyega: 'I’m the only cast member whose experience of Star Wars was based on their race'.” GQ Magazine, 2 Sept. 2020.) This holds true for almost every character of color in the Star Wars sequel trilogy. Naomi Ackie, a Black actress who played Jannah, and even Guatemalan Oscar Isaac who held a relatively large role as Poe were completely disregarded in the last two movies. BIPOC character arcs were flattened and their presence squashed out in order to make room for the movies’ white “main” characters. In the last film especially, Rey and Kylo Ren’s Romeo and Juliet-like storyline was disproportionately big. Rey was somewhat forced into the Jedi persona – especially when it would have made much more sense for Finn to have been Force-sensitive instead. Kylo Ren is given a tragic redemption arc that feels too much like the series is trying to wrap things up “nicely.” Many avid fans agree that Finn should have been the protagonist of the sequel trilogy. (Although, on the other hand, there were many fans who were vehemently against the mere existence of BIPOC characters in Star Wars.) There are moments throughout the movies where Finn is hinting that he is Force-sensitive. He, as an untrained former Storm Trooper, holds his own in a lightsaber fight with Kylo Ren, an experienced Jedi/Sith. Finn even senses Rey’s death near the end of The Rise of Skywalker. It’s also been confirmed by JJ Abrams, the director of two of the movies, that Finn believed he was Force-sensitive - with plenty of evidence to back up his claim. His story could’ve easily become one of a Jedi’s. Arguably, it would’ve been more interesting, too. “From the beginning of The Force Awakens, it’s clear there’s something different about Finn,” writes Star Wars fan Sayre Bedinger. “His origin story was just as mysterious as Rey, and Finn’s arc would have been better served as the primary tale in the sequel series by comparison.” (Bedinger, Sayre. “Star Wars: Why Finn should have been the main protagonist of the sequels.” Fansided, June, 2020.” So the question is: why? Why introduce Finn as a potential protagonist, only to give up on his story a third of the way? Why incorporate Rose as a seemingly significant character in The Last Jedi only to give her barely three minutes of screen time in The Rise of Skywalker? Why disregard Poe’s storyline, a well-loved charismatic character? Why hint at Jannah’s bigger connection to the overall storyline to give her exactly five minutes of screen time in the entire trilogy? Why are non-white characters treated as if they’re dispensible? To Disney: BIPOC characters are real. BIPOC children, teens, and even adults watching these characters are even more valid. We deserve a place in the Star Wars world as much as any other, and we will not be shoved aside to make room for another white narrative. We are not limited to being the supporting characters – we are the heroes, the best friends, the awkward neighbors, the haughty girls, the villains, the kings, and the warriors all at once. There is no fantasy world where we don’t have a place. Cover Photo Source: Digital Spy

Spindly fingers curl around soft cotton, a red tablecloth, a cascade of silk. Fingers brush over a tiger painted onto paper with eyes fierce and slitted. Thin and thick lines make up Baba’s zodiac, a stark red against faded white. She breathes in, A waterfall of smells and the pork blood melts, like snow against her tongue. The oolong in her hands is warm like sun soaked grass. Bitter with tea leaves stuck to glass. Noises slither in her ears, the harsh sharpness of Mandarin tumbles off her mouth, “Jiejie, water please.” The waitress nods, raven hair swaying. The word sister trailing at her heels. An unfamiliar hand, calloused and rough with age, pours liquid gold into her cup. Ebony eyes flit to ebony eyes. Ah, it’s Baba’s friend, Xie xie shu shu, She says, thanking this uncle she’s never met. An unfamiliar hand ruffles midnight locks. Ebony eyes flit to ebony eyes, Baba’s friend. Hao ke ai, the lady murmurs, Ah Xie xie a-yi. She says, thanking this aunty she’s never met. This room of strangers glows the color of sun soaked leaves and bittersweet teas. Tacky red and gold lanterns dangle from the sky as spindly fingers curl around soft cotton. Jie Jie, Shu Shu, A yi Sister, Uncle, Aunty. Words to connect, to create a bond. Bloodless and shapeless, binded by the tongue of a land thousands of miles away. Cover Photo Source: 123rf.com

i. dear waipo. i am searching your hands buried, incense, jasmine rice mouse steals the oil. still small, my fingers cannot 　　　　　　　　　　　　 hold the universe like yours. jasmine rice tumbles onto hollow 　　　　　　　　 　　　　　 concrete kitchen floor. ii. badenweiler-marsch. waipo, the stairwell in your house is unwinding. gray. there are paper diamonds 　　 　　tatters of ‘upside-down fortune’ on gray walls and neverending floors. waipo, why is it 　　　　　　　　　　　　　 that the lower i walk, the whispers of our dead childhood ricochet? iii. after concrete, i remember carnation. love is pink and yellow is massacre. peaches grow on northern soil and birds fly south. you always　　　 　　　 flew south. plaster crumbling, i come home in the evening and walk stairs unweathered by your past 　　　　　　　　　 this time. instead of footloose guilt there is mapo tofu sitting at your table. it is december. waipo. your warmth is waning now. iv. waipo, bu yao zhao liang. i am fifteen 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 still incense stands in red beans. and morning leaves cast the afternoon into our courtyard. v. —hong dou sheng nan guo. red bean is remembrance. this autumn, it is searching. Cover Photo Source: East West Bookshop

Dear Asian Youth, when i was ten i learned how to swallow myself “Asians eat dogs.” I blink, confused. The statement doesn’t necessarily bother me. It seemed to make people laugh, in fact. I heard the lilting, teasing cadence of their voices, the giggles that graced their undertones. Surely, they meant no harm, right? Who was I to be someone that ruined that kind of laughter? Nobody likes a person who takes things too seriously, so I laugh through my too-thin glasses and choppy hair. I wring my hands and laugh, belly full of dread. “Yeah, they do.” I tuck away my tupperware, the scent of last night’s chorizo still hanging in the air. i learned that i cared too much tried too hard i wonder what that means, i tried to scrub my skin clean of dirt make people forget what i am i will be your cool asian friend your straight a-student your rebel, knife wielding, multi-colored hair manic pixie dream girl your quirky bestie your quiet, eccentric, classmate hiding behind books that is what i am supposed to be palatable easy to swallow unnoticed I don’t remember a time where I didn’t want to be white. I idolized the tales of princesses who were blonde and flushed with beauty--girls who had oceans in their eyes and forests within their souls. I stare into the mirror, legs tucked beneath my bottom as I kneel atop the bathroom counter, searching for flecks of gold within my brown eyes. The things that were spoken of in my novels and poems. All I saw reflected back was darkness. Dullness. They will speak of honey-brown, warm tones, and the way that sunlight glances off of them, and I may even see that in my lifetime. Still, life is never as romantic as we make it out to be. I wasn’t even the pretty Asian idols they worshipped. No Fa Mulan or slick, black hair. No smooth, pale skin or softly slanting eyes. I could never be that. When people heard “Asian,” that’s the only thing they thought. Quiet, exotic beauty, not the untameable hair or dark skin I had. So, who was I really? I couldn’t answer that to my own satisfaction. The leaky sink of our bathroom faucet fades to background noise, all too rhythmic. The thought crosses my mind that maybe I am too accustomed to it. i have evolved from quiet, bookish elitist to crass, unabashed jester i will dance for the white court asian girls if not quiet and submissive can only be subversive and i do not look like the asian girls they talk about so i joke we eat dogs and cats pull back my face in a harlequin grin dance and sing make a mockery of melodious accents languages that are not even my own funny- “evolution” is not so synonymous with progress I distanced myself from my culture. I remember laughing at the same tired comments again and again. Perhaps it was easier for me because of the disconnect- in all honesty, it wasn’t me who was the butt of the joke. I looked nothing like the nail-salon technicians that I’d imitate. When people murmur “ching chong ching,” they’re not mocking Tagalog. Even my own family is guilty of racist behaviour, pulling their temples back in terrible and caricaturistic fashions to imitate our Eastern brethren. It brings me no solace, and yet I still found myself doing it. Filipinos, for all of their jovial and resilient characteristics, can still be unabashedly cruel. It’s difficult to break from your family, of all people. but if i speak too loud in tongues and tones unfamiliar, i am thrown aside unfulfilled plaything so i think i fester, i suppress if i cannot speak all that is left is thinking all that is left is the mind I hated speaking out against racist behaviours. Even if it was my friends or family, I had no constitution for confrontation, and I hated myself even more for being complicit. I hid away behind poems and essays, writings I would never dare say to their faces. I stopped cracking my attempts at humor that were thinly-veiled acts of over-compensation. I stopped laughing at the people who told them. But I never spoke. I didn’t want to fall into an angry activist archetype, and oftentimes my family lived by trying not to mind the tiny cracks. “Be a duck, let things roll off of your back,” my mother would utter, wiping away my tears as a child. Life is easier that way if you ignore all the little things. A little thing could be a microaggression, a stranger calling you a slur, the white girl in your history class muttering gibberish Mandarin when you’re learning about Confucious. It could also be the white kids who speak for you, who look cool and kitschy and socially conscious if they talk about race and intersectionality. But if it’s you, then it’s an “uncomfortable discussion”. I don’t mind allyship, in fact, I commend it. I have no internal resentment towards the white community in the slightest. But I cannot ignore their privilege- if anything, I am deeply jealous. They never seem afraid to speak. There is nothing more wonderful, I think, than full assurance in yourself. and so, this jester has become a pierrot! a quiet, balking mass unassuming but now saddened soft balloon head so full it’ll pop and one day, a needle comes along to prick the belly of bloated anger so swallowed, so withheld and the mime speaks. burning at the throat and eyes, makeup melting off it is rage incarnate it is sheer poetry and so, i vomit bring back up the alphabet soup drudgery of words unspoken it is ugly, inarticulate, i fumble and fall but i push through. I feel helpless. It seemed like another score was added to the list of lives lost to a vindictive system. Ahmaud Arbery . George Floyd. Breonna Taylor. More, whose stories were not caught on camera. Shutting off my laptop, I crawl into bed, clutching my stomach. Tears are a weekly occurrence. Some of the only fragments of stability I have left. The world feels like it’s shattered into pieces, and I could do nothing. Such a movement didn’t concern Asians, right? Guilt weighs on my shoulders. Midnight revelations can range from painful to cathartic. This was both: I hated myself for my silence. I hated myself for my complacency- I was no better than those in power who saw deceit and refused to act out against it. I weep into my blankets, heavy with frustration. I bite down on my knuckles. I tire of crying very quickly, so my mind wanders as I train my eyes on the tepid moonlight leaking through the cracks of the curtain. What can I do? I rise, drawing back the drapes. Gentle light floods the room. The night has never seemed more melancholic. My body feels as though it is buzzing. With a furrowed brow, I make an internal promise. I can try. I can listen. A grace that I was never granted. The moon has never seemed brighter. we are more than chinese restaurant cashiers and tiny, submissive immigrant wives and mastermind math students and dragon lady archetypes we are more than the performers in your jovial court ballet, more than the entertainers for high society more than the diversity quota and background characters we are beyond your milk-skinned perceptions, boundless in color and belief when i was sixteen, i learned that we are humans composed of multitudes, and i have complexities worthy of hearing. songs that echo ballads and epics never again shall i eat my own words - Billy Cover photo source: http://aacc.rutgers.edu/artexpo/

Dear Asian Youth, A boxed tea tray with a lid allowing for water to trickle down into the storage. The Gongfu pots and cups; cold and dry, awaiting the just-boiled water. Pots and cups that were hand-made lovingly and precisely many years ago regressed to youth by the moisture and warmth. The tea pet sitting at the corner of the tray, its carved and dull eyes brought to life by the pitcher releasing the tea wash. It fed on the scraps and was perfectly content without ever getting the pleasure of a first infusion. Today was Jasmine Phoenix Pearls, a hibernating phoenix with its wings unfurled by the bubbling water. The Phoenix dutifully flowed into the essence of the water, intertwining themselves, having been washed and awakened. The first infusion was the most vibrant. An eternity of masterful brewing being poured into the aroma cup. From the aroma cup into the tasting cup. The aroma cup, a tall and slim vessel that held no tea and yet absorbed the Phoenix, it’s fragrance perfectly captured. An experience that traveled the world, curated by a farmer’s hands to be appreciated atop the tea tray. The first infusion danced on the tongue with a lively jolt to the senses. The remaining tea had the simple task of keeping the wares moist and warm. An instrument that was loved played better than an instrument neglected. For the second infusion, the aroma was more profound, and the Phoenix had matured. The tea tray collected disregarded water and let it flow throughout every curve and duct it had. A faint sound of running water could be heard, a reminder of the lively tea dancing under the tray. Its matured counterpart sat staidly and prodded for a deeper feeling. The cups were rinsed with the previously bubbling water, its trail leading into the tray’s crevices. The walls were purified, allowing the matured Phoenix to completely envelop the cups in its aroma and flavor. A Gongfu tea ceremony was a much-needed escape from the constant berating of the outside world. The intricacies of water temperature and steeping time were the only worries that existed on a tea tray, not bills and fading friendships. The Phoenix’s flavor and aroma was a much more satisfying pay-off than most tasks in the outside world. Reality was always going to push a chaotic and hopeless narrative. Within the ceremonial wares that rested happily on the tea tray, life was about appreciating every small detail and caring for the process more than the result. - Lexy Kobashigawa Tea is supposed to be an escape into tranquility and an awakening of the senses. Many careful parts are included in a tea ceremony and it's very intimate. I wanted to embody the process of a tea ceremony in a personified way and showcase how making tea is much more about the end product. Biography: I am Lexy Kobashigawa, a junior in high school and a president of the Asian-Americans United Club (AAUC) at my school. I am passionate about writing and tea, so why not combine the two! Cover photo source: http://www.chineseyixingteapots.com/Special-Sale-Chinese-Gong-Fu-Tea-Ceremony-Tea-Ware-Group-Experience-China-Tradition-Tea-Culture--432.html

Blood in the hallways Let’s talk about it A nation’s divided It’s the school shootings, you see That has the health of this nation In jeopardy Forks don’t make you fat Guns don’t kill People do They’ll find another way To get you another day Till then JUST STAY, DON’T MOVE Or with your life You’ll pay Pro life Does this mean We fight Only for the lives Of the unborn Pro life Shouldn’t this also mean We don’t knowingly sacrifice The lives of Our teens and tweens While we place The lives of those Still in their mother’s womb first Do we care That with guns These young shooters Have been equally nursed Meanwhile In a school somewhere The children are huddled Under their desks In prayer While they cower The corridors outside Ring with gunfire It could be A troubled stranger or friend With the means To justify THE END Loading an AR15 With enough magazines So that With each aim Every single bullet Finds a name Be charitable Says the government Of the day Accept the inevitable There’s little we can do Or say To hold sway With the NRA No resolution In sight Besides, our Second Amendment Makes it right No choice Other than to be contrite And own our plight If there’s no solution No way forward And every day Brings news of More kids martyred I’d rather become Unborn again For it’s the only time My life ever mattered I still remember my sixth grade self watching the horrifying news about the Parkland, Florida school shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. I saw the situation from the eyes of someone young and uneducated. Unlike others more mature and older, I saw a not a violation of our Second Amendment but a simple violation of humanity. The Constitution was written to be a living document open to the interpretation of our circumstances. A gun back then compares nothing to the ones we have now; a knife wouldn’t have taken the lives of seventeen students at MSDHS. Even after so many young lives lost, people are quick to argue that the white teenage shooter was a mentally ill victim, but this is so much more than a mental health issue. The United States is one of the only countries where we are still dealing with this problem everyday because our freedom to wield an AR-15 outweighs the lives of others. If you’ve made it this far, I encourage you take the time to watch the “We Call BS” speech (or read the the transcript) of survivor Emma Gonzalez. I think her vigorous words are what encouraged me to not only be passionate about this topic, but write this prose. There’s a strict line between controversy and compassion, and my heart aches for the continuous blind faith of millions in our nation. After all these years, so much for “all lives matter." Biography: Hello and Namaste! I am Viveka Mehrotra, a 14-year old Michigan born ABCD - American Born Confused “Desi” - still trying to figure out what makes me tick. I’m a hopeless romantic who adores to read, drink excessive amounts of coffee, and listen to alternative rock music on repeat. I live in Athens, Georgia and attend North Oconee High School. After living in India for 5 years, I look forward to sharing my experience as an Indian American and discussing stereotypes, media, family, traditions, and social injustice in our community. Instagram: @thevivekamehrotra Cover Photo Source: News Week

TW: suicide As the month of March approaches, the Asian community anticipates the results of the Oscars with Michelle Yeoh making history as the first Asian individual to be nominated for “Best Actress.” In addition to the Oscars, the month of March is the keeper of International Women's Day, March 8th, the same day another renowned Asian actress took her life. Long before Asians appeared in the Oscar nominations and before the Oscars even considered foreign language films for nomination, Shanghai actress Ruan Lingyu rose to stardom and is now regarded as one of the most iconic faces of the silent era. Ruan was born in the spring of 1910, a year before the Qing dynasty’s overthrow. Ruan’s father died when she was six years old and she grew up supported by her mother who worked as a maid and ensured that her daughter would have a better life than the one she led. Ruan was sent to school but was instructed to conceal her background and her mother’s occupation so that she would fit in and avoid bullying. At fifteen, Ruan was desperate to make a living and applied to become an actress, landing her first role in Bu Wancang’s A Married Couple in Name Only. Being the age of silent films, Ruan auditioned for roles and her powerfully moving expressions led her to success as a Shanghai starlet in China’s Golden Age of Cinema. Starring in Chinese classics such as Wu Yonggang’s The Goddess and Cai Chusheng’s New Women, her roles represented a new generation of Chinese women liberated from dynastic rule but still struggling to find their place in the republican era. Her most notable role as Wei Ming in New Women caused a bit of controversy and set the tabloids’ on Ruan’s trail, predicting the end of Ruan’s own tragic tale. The film depicts Wei Ming, a music teacher who aspires to become a writer, but struggles to get by as she is pursued by the lustful Dr. Wang. The film ends with Wei going into prostitution in order to make enough money to save her dying daughter only to find that Dr. Wang is her first client. Disgusted, she runs away and watches her daughter die and soon ends her own life by overdosing. The film questioned women’s role in society and was criticized since the director's political views seemed to shine right through the celluloid. Being the star of silent films where no dialogue was uttered, the press wrote their own words to describe Ruan's private life. Ruan’s love life consisted of two men: Zhang Damin, who was a son from one of the families her mother served as a housemaid for, and Tang Jishan, who was a wealthy, womanizing businessman. Ruan ended up choosing Tang due to Zhang’s gambling addiction. Both men were unsatisfied with Ruan’s decision and took advantage of her, making her life miserable. In spite, Zhang filed multiple lawsuits against her claiming she had stolen from him and committed adultery. Although Ruan had chosen him to be her lover, Tang pursued actress Liang Saizhen. On the night before she was supposed to appear in court, Ruan made a bowl of congee, mixed in three bottles of sleeping pills and wrote two suicide notes. The more famous note was aimed at the press, saying “gossip is a fearful thing” and the other was written to Zhang, saying “I’ve been driven to death by you.” Ruan’s life was no celebrity spectacular. Her life was ripped from her and put into the hands of ruthless men as her story was scribbled over by the staining ink of the press. Although her story ended 88 years ago, the archetype continues. In the 21st century, another self made woman’s story was taken out of her hands by the media and also the Royal family. Meghan Markle, now Duchess of Sussex, became another victim of the press when her relationship with Prince Harry became public. In December of this past year, Harry and Meghan released a Netflix series revealing what occurred behind the words that the tabloids chose to publish. Upon the series’ release, Vogue released an article that further explained the couple's estrangement from the Royal family. “The Sussexes were crumbling under incessant negative media coverage that included an intimate letter between Meghan and her estranged father published in The Daily Mail. (The duchess even began to have suicidal thoughts.) Harry claims his family did little to protect them despite it all: ‘They knew how bad it was. They thought, ‘Why couldn’t she just deal with it?” By leaving the Royal family and releasing their Netflix series, Meghan was able to take back her life and clean up the narrative that the Royal family had contaminated. Meghan is an example of progress, but her account also stands as proof that women’s stories are still being abused and mistold. Female stories are not only being distorted in real life, but also in entertainment. The misrepresentation in entertainment matters because entertainment doesn’t just perform as a show, but also as an example. How people are perceived on screen affects how viewers perceive people in real life. Over the course of time, women and racial groups have been working to reform the representation in media and encourage inclusivity and equity. For example, actress Sandra Oh advocates for both accurate female and Asian representation on screen. She has not only voiced her opinions about representation, but has pushed the boundaries with her career. When Oh went to audition for Grey’s Anatomy, she was signed up to audition for Dr. Bailey, but ended up asking for Cristina– who was originally not supposed to be of Asian descent. By speaking up for herself, she was able to secure a lead role in a major television series– a role that characterized a woman of color as spunky, outgoing, and self-driven. Her role in Grey’s Anatomy helped pave the way to help diversify the roles available to women of color and therefore further the perspectives and representation of who these women are and are capable of being. Historically, we document the past in order to learn from it and as we approach an award season of firsts, we should not only embrace our progress but remember what we are progressing from. In the past, the taking of one’s life might have been the only way to take it back, autonomously. This March 8th, think of the women who came before. Who paved the way for the freedoms and successes we are able to enjoy today. Think of the women whose lives were used to make this change. Of the women who took their own because they were deprived of their own voice. Ruan Lingyu was done playing the role that other people had written for her and took autonomy over the life she thought she was given. Editors: Lang D., Joyce P., Erika Y.

The 2022 G20 Summit in Bali, Indonesia, was successfully held on November 15–16, 2022 and marked the end of President Joko Wido of Indonesia’s presidency in G20. As the the most-awaited annual agenda of the G20 itself, this global scale summit was attended by the representatives of 17 out of 20 members of the G20 including the United States President Joe Biden, China’s President Xi Jinping, and the European Union’s President Corales Michel, as well as other leaders and representative delegates from each country and institution. One of the many outcomes of the summit was the G20 Bali Leaders’ Declaration, which highlights aspects of global economic stability, recovery from the COVID-19 pandemic, climate change issues, and many more topics. Apart from the fruitful political discussion and resolution presented by each member’s representative during the summit, one interesting aspect found at the event was during the Gala Dinner. As a multicultural country, the vivacious cultural performance that was conducted at the Gala Dinner showed the grandeur and diversity of Indonesia’s culture, gaining many positive responses from the G20 delegates. Notably, at the Gala Dinner, the majority of the attendees were dressed in Batik, Indonesia’s traditional attire. Wearing the cultural clothing of the host country has always been a part of the G20 Summit tradition, however, given the public nature of the Gala Dinner, this detail regarding the Batik dress code has garnered much public attention online, and even some controversy. One thing that has quite provocatively raised Indonesian netizens’ tension was some of the snide comments from people who were unaware of Indonesian culture and Batik itself: “What on earth are they wearing,” “Why are they all dressed the same,” “What’s with the ‘weird clothes’ they’re wearing?” Many Indonesian netizens snapped back after reading these comments, resulting in some apology statements and clarifications from the people who made the snide remarks about Batik. Getting to Know More About Batik As one of Indonesia's many traditional fashions, Batik is a pictorial cloth, both an art and a craft, that is made explicitly by applying wax and dye to the material and being processed in a certain way. This particular fabric art technique is quite similar to various cultures around the world; its history can be traced back more than 1,500 years ago from Ancient Egypt, Nigeria, India, Sri Lanka, China, and many other regions. That said, Batik is an art form from a rich and long acculturation process. In Indonesia, the Batik art has been traced to have evolved from Java, as the word Batik originates from the Javanese word “tik” which means to dot. Among all the traditional clothing that each country in Indonesia has, Batik is the most widely known attire and is the nation’s national costume. Interestingly, each region has its own take on Batik, especially the pattern, which may show different philosophical meaning and uniqueness than other areas. Despite the regional differences, Batik always has a special meaning for Indonesians. The Art of Being Kind and Respectful The Batik polemic at the 2022 G20 Bali Summit that occurred on the internet, highlights how important it is to always respect others’ cultures. It is vital to be understanding and especially mindful when facing new ideas and cultural values from other countries. Editors: Alisha B., Phoebe H. Cover image source: Reuters (Willy Kurniawan)