My mother never taught me to measure. It was always cut first, taste later and even the dishes with ingredients so blatantly overwhelming one another too much salt, or garlic powder too much sugar there was always a remedy My mother never taught me to measure, because the best guidance is the heart you eat to keep yourself going day by day keep yourself in good health, punctuating phone calls with the phrase who knows better what you crave but you? she taught me that she taught me that cooking is a kind of magic a frenzy of sweat and love and work no rhyme or reason but no better result no need to measure she just knew, she just toiled i am worlds away from her kitchen table craving something not quite there, for i don’t have the gift quite yet i’m learning to make it my own and i marinate and season and toil and dream and wonder if i will ever make something as good as her something that someone else will breathe in and call home something i can hand over with my heart and say, here. keep in good health. i am so desperate to care for another not just myself i am hungry for a home i have not yet made food is better shared i never learned how to measure but women are masterminds we pick up things quickly from the matrons before us we venerate them in hopes we become them numbers are limiting nourishment is infinite as long as the body buzzes with life, we are infinite Editor(s): Danielle C., Cathay L., Claudia S. Photo Credits: Unsplash

Source: Unsplash we are a matchbox of little hazards ; sprinkles of sodium catapulting their way off the diving board of our McDonald’s fry boxes onto the banged-up windshield, how ; you press your body firmly across mine to thumb ; the dashboard CD player ; Jesus, will this darn thing turn on already! ; how i sink teeth into my heat-vacuum cheek instead of your whorled thumbprints ; a notched love letter waiting for the summer, resting ; her endless miles of bare limbs, flushed elbows & sleepy eyes, against 99 degree Fahrenheit glass, waiting for ; that summer of apocalypse, of Chinese take-out boxes molding in the back, that summer of roaring road-trip ; Put some Ethel Cain on, will you? ; that summer of my mother's perfume ; sweet-sweet girl ; that summer of shrilling sting of guitar string ; summer where i reach into the Schiele-shock of tousled black gel-slick hair & baby blonde feather down burnin’ down the highway ; convert ; alter us into angels with screwed-up wings ; it’s from that fire-season accident six years back, do you remember? that ; in your car, we’re always closer to God ; hollowed shell of an old church, altar-girl, altar-girl ; than the Pacific coast less than 2 hours & a right-side lane ride away from us ; I forget where we are on a map sometimes. ; it’s not even California, where we sweat it out, we’re in the no man’s land ghost town backroad hometown nomad home ; hold me on the knife-edge of fleeing in your grimy backseat while the ; cranky old engine rattles underneath my scarred thighs ; summer of ; radio static reverberating through my wisdom teeth. an ache that’ll only cease with ; afternoon tarmac & late July shimmer ; peeling chilled baby fat out of our cheeks; Boom, it was just like that! ; my big-girl curls & dollar-store mascara punched out into an ash-sweltered Interstate 80 ; It’s like you call it summer of love & i call it summer of The End ; neither of us are right i’ll take a thousand three-credit air-conditioned auditorium lectures & still ; keep returning to you ; this moment ; to us. the music’s still yellin’ ; something about It was a highway to nowhere and we rode it / Cold car with no gas and we chose it. i’ll keep it playing ; for you. **lyrics from God’s Country, Ethel Cain Editor(s): Phoebe He, Blenda Yan, Alisha Burney

Impossible? It's possible. 25 years ago, on November 2nd, 1997, Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Cinderella premiered on TV. In the past, there were many adaptations of the beloved tale, but it was Whitney Houston’s TV production that truly made the magic come to life. The film was revolutionary, not only in its overall production value, but in its racially diverse cast. Cast as the humble princess herself, was the R&B singer Brandy, making history as the first black princess on screen. Likewise, Brandy’s prince charming was the first Asian prince (preceding Mulan’s Li Shang of 1998), played by Filipino-American actor, Paolo Montalban. Prince Christopher was a prince who not only was looking for a beautiful princess, but also for someone who will complete him as a person. Montalban's portrayal of Prince Christopher was monumental: he was an Asian love interest and a complex lead character. Prior to the film's release, Asian men in the media were presented as either mysterious martial arts masters or de-sexualized side characters. Prince Christopher’s casting erased all of those stereotypes. His character was presented with an automatic romantic appeal. In addition to Cinderella’s storyline circulating a ball that intends to find the royal prince a wife, Prince Christopher is not only desirable because of his princely status, but also because of his humane yearning for a friend. This quality helped paint Asian men in a different light, as well as widened the possibilities for Asian actors. Montalban’s prince is considered a trailblazer and has paved the way for many other Asian love interests, including Henry Golding’s Nick Young, the prince in Kevin Kwan’s Asian version of the Cinderella story, Crazy Rich Asians. In the film, we meet the two protagonists in the town market with the opening ballad, The Sweetest Sounds, which connects Cinderella and Prince Christopher’s yearning to find true love. The song was an original addition to the film added to include a meeting between the two characters before the ball to show their bond wasn’t merely superficial. The strong connection built between the two characters helped to normalize interracial love. Furthermore, Victor Garber and Whoopi Goldberg played the king and queen to Montalban’s prince, representing interracial families. The Wonderful World of Disney’s Cinderella 1997 left behind a legacy that continues to impact audiences today. The celebrated multicultural casting opened the hearts of people of color, allowing them to see themselves in a whimsical fairytale, introducing the reality that anyone can be anything. “I see those people (other Asian actors), I see them doing these roles and they give me hope–they’ve given me back hope, saying ‘I can also do that’ because I’m seeing someone who looks like me in these shows and it’s very encouraging” says Paolo Montalban in response to the admiration received for his Prince Christopher. The continuation of multiracial casting preserves the cycle of hope that is promoted through on screen representation, planting dreams as well as the courage to pursue them. Broad on screen representation doesn’t only reassure the possibilities for aspiring API actors and actresses, but it also provides a different perspective of the API community that surpasses the racist stereotypes that past pop culture has built. In a way, on screen characters provide a preview to their audiences of who other people are and can be. When a young child sees an inaccurate portrayal of an ethnic minority, whom they’ve never met before, the character they see on screen represents the minority as a whole. This can later influence how they will see and treat others, asserting assumptions that could lead to offense. The way characters are portrayed affects more than the story, but also its audiences. We hope for more princesses and prince charmings of every ethnicity to continue to provide hope and save the day. Editors: Sydney O., Joyce P., Rachel C. Image credit: https://michaelpcoleman.wordpress.com/2021/03/01/an-exclusive-chat-with-cinderellas-prince-paolo-montalban/comment-page-1/

TW: violence in february, speaking Bangla tastes like blood. before Bangladesh won its independence with 3,000,000 lives, taking away our language was just one way the West Pakistani government tried to press Bengalis out of existence. imposing Urdu, the native tongue of only 3%, as the only national language (besides english) in a country of 56% Bengali speakers, 28% Punjabi speakers and so on, was not only meant to keep power within the hands of the educated, Urdu-speaking upper class of the new country, but to keep it out of reach for Bengalis. the Language Movement developed in response, to demand that Bangla be made one of the state languages as the mother tongue of the population’s majority. from 1948 to 1952, movement continued through proposals, talks, processions and demonstrations, culminating finally on the 21st of February, 1952, when police opened fire on protestors. now, Martyrs’ Day is recognized every year in Bangladesh so we can mourn the unnamed siblings we lost that died for our mother tongue. we dress in white (the color of mourning) and black (the color of death), hints of red in between like splatters of blood. what an essay couldn’t tell you is that it is one thing to love a language, and another thing to die for it. when i was younger, we used to construct bengali alphabets the size of my body out of styrofoam and cut-out illustrations and my shaky handwriting. i could barely speak the language then, but i knew the songs. ‘amar bhaiyer rokte rangano ekushey february.’ 21st February is covered in my brother’s blood. ‘ami ki bhulite pari.’ how could i ever forget. Editors: Lang D., Joyce P., Claudia S., Leila W.

i opened the container its vibrant, colorful lid distinguishing it from the rest of the set, a brand new tub of dough waiting for someone to play with it. i took a whiff and allowed its scent to fill the air. it smelled familiar, nostalgic, distinct almost as if i had smelled this before. i pulled out the dough a feeling of euphoria washed over me i played with it for a while, rolling it in my hand, molding it, shaping it then i smashed my hand onto the dough, flattening it out, leaving an imprint of a fist. and just like that, i left it out on the table with chalky residue on my hands that i went to wash off. so i moved on to the next toy amused, occupied, just another way to keep me busy, with not a thought about how the poor play dough was left to dry. then i found it the next day dry, cracked, unpliable, unplayable. i cried and i whined “mommy i ruined the play dough!” my small fingers yearned for something to entertain me something to grasp to distract me. so the next day i went to the toy store to buy another container of play dough. i came home i opened the container. inhaled its scent. rolled it, molded it, shaped it. again, i slammed my balled up hand against the dough, leaving behind yet another mark of my fist. and though it was only yesterday, i still forgot to put it back into the container. so finally i began to ask myself, what am i doing wrong? am i not doing enough? after a little while, i, little julianne, realized that all this time, i neglected my precious play dough. and so i began to put my play dough back into the container. every day, i was able to make my mark on the play dough, my signature smashed fist imprinting the dough right before i would put it back into the container. it would no longer dry up. it would no longer crack. it would no longer become unplayable. now, what if i simply replaced the words? added a thing or two here and there? so, here it is, a more modern, more relevant, short sequel to my story: i came home and i opened my phone to look through social media like i did yesterday, and basically everyday. i scrolled and i scrolled absorbed what i saw on my screen. vibrant squares of information, horrific, heart-wrenching, videos of discrimination, Breonna Taylor, Elijah McClain, Mona Wang, and many more pasted onto my feed i double-tapped, commented, swiped through, until i pressed my thumb onto the word “post”, leaving fake marks on my story. but like always, after i shared, i simply put my phone down, and walked away. in this story, in this sequel, the play dough is beyond cracked beyond dried beyond unpliable beyond unplayable. discontinued. discarded. destroyed. disregarded in the fight for our lives, for our justice left to rot in the depths of our boxes filled to the brim with toys. and in this story, we simply wait. rather than realizing what we have been doing wrong this whole time, we wait. we wait until our mothers bring us to the store to find another container of play dough, only for us to waste it again. so how can we rewrite the outcome? change the storyline? we remember to put the play dough back into the container. and we continue to leave behind the mark of our fists continue to leave behind the imprints of our impact because unlike little julianne, we do not have time to neglect what we must preserve.

I. In my culture, red is a powerful color. It is the color of joy, luck, and happiness. It wards off evil, drapes over the shoulders of brides. On Chinese New Year, red envelops my body as I kneel to the ground and ketou to my grandparents—a deep show of respect and gratitude to elders, as we send them off on another year of health and fortune. My braids tickle the hardwood floor, and there is dust on my red pants when I stand up, but I would brush it away and happily run off with my red envelopes. I love the color red. II. The air feels cold as I walk into the white room that smells like plastic and permanent marker. I grasp my mother’s big, warm hands as a tall woman approaches and says something. I can’t understand the words she’s saying. And my mother leaves. I look around. Everything is white—the walls, the adults speaking in a language I can’t understand, the other children playing on the floor. There’s a large rug with squares of different colors—yellow, blue, green, purple. Red. I quietly walk over to a red square and sit down. No one asks me to play with them. IV. Everyone’s favorite color is pink or blue. They go to each other’s houses and paint each other’s nails and talk about boys. I am not invited. My favorite color is red. III. My teacher isn’t saying my name. Every year I have memorized what to say when teaching my teachers how to pronounce my name, because they always pause before they get to me on the attendance sheet. “Yi-Ann,” I say. “Like Lee Ann, but with a Y.” But this teacher does not even try. I am reduced to “her.” “She.” At worst, a finger vaguely pointed at me. After a while, I stop talking in class. And I wish more than anything that my name is Emily or Sara or Hannah or Ashley—a name that teachers would be willing to say. I tell my mother to stop packing me dumplings for lunch, because it feels just like my name. Too red. I feel like an exam grade when people look at me—calculating what percent I am cool, what percent I am Asian. Most of the time, I don’t think I pass. When people ask my favorite color, I lie and say blue. IV. It is Chinese New Year, and it is time to ketou to my grandparents. As I kneel, I feel an incredible sense of shame wash over me. I feel stupid for kneeling—why do we have to kneel anyway? I feel guilty for feeling stupid. I feel angry for feeling guilty. That night, I stare at the red envelope on my desk. My eyes burn with tears. I love red. I hate red. They stole my red from me.

I am not Quiet, trembling at your anger. One flame of many to waver in darkness, edges of orange to flicker precariously— a hopeless cause, an idle being, a fire meant to warm. I am weaponized, wax-melting, wind-defying wildfire. I am trees smoking up, leaves crisping amid a flurry of red, mangled bark burnt black, napalm orange mingled with gray, this destruction I can cause for I am not the flame atop your frosted cake, not simply a fire to wane with your wish. Oh, I wish you knew: Of this scorching willingness to prove you wrong for I am so much more than you think. Asians are often portrayed as a submissive population. Stereotypes, especially those of Asian women, abide by notions that we cannot stand up for themselves or be courageous. But the truth is that the Asian experience is not monolithic: we are not all the same—in personality, appearance, and experiences. This poem is dedicated to everyone who has ever felt utterly reduced to the caricature of Asians being docile. For a long time, I saw myself as the same timid girl others had perceived of me, but I broke this mold by realizing that I didn’t want to perpetuate the inaccurate portrayal that all Asians are quiet or even weak. Asian women are strong-minded, willful beings—a culmination of numerous, dynamic traits too nuanced to be condensed to one.

Dear Asian Youth, When I was growing up, I had always known I was Asian. It sounds silly, but being Asian seemed like an integral part of my life; I ate the foods, followed our traditions and customs, was involved with Filipino organizations, and had many Filipino friends. Being Asian was, and is, a very important part of my life. Throughout the fourteen years I have lived, I’ve been involved in many career-based clubs, for my parents are always suggesting that I join organizations like FBLA, HOSA, and many others. Many Asians encourage getting involved in STEM and other “academic” clubs and activities, but I’ve never found a complete interest in that area. I’ve always known that being Asian was a significant aspect of my life, but because of this, I’ve never been sure if I’m worthy of calling it mine. In elementary school, I thought of myself as an amazing student; I got astounding grades (even though they didn’t really matter), rarely got in trouble, and had a lot of friends. At the time, I was extremely proud because doing well felt like a part of my identity as a Filipino. Every now and then, I would get a comment like, “You’re only smart because you're Asian,” and I would think to myself, “Wow, I’m living up to my Filipino heritage!” At the time, being Filipino, and being Asian in general, meant absolutely nothing but good grades. In elementary school, many things about yourself go unnoticed. I was entirely aware of the fact that I was Asian, yet I didn’t understand the weight behind it; I couldn’t have told you what it’s like to be an immigrant or what it’s like to come from poverty. I wasn’t able to comprehend what being Asian meant to my parents, or why we’re always so proud of our heritage. Along came middle school. In middle school, my self-esteem skyrocketed. I had moved to a new county, and it was an entirely new experience. I played the trumpet in band and genuinely believed that I was the most talented person in the room because I was able to get high grades and be amazing at playing an instrument at the same time. I believed I had the organizational skills and capabilities to manage both, and thought of myself as the most responsible person ever, the model student. My parents always told me how proud of me they were: “Study hard,” they would always say, “get a job that makes a lot of money.” I had always told people that I wanted to be a doctor even though I had no idea what they did. I just wanted money and to make my parents happy. But things changed when I discovered my love for theatre. The summer before eighth grade, I auditioned for a musical at a nearby community theater. It wasn’t my first, but I enjoyed it so much that I wanted to get involved with other theatrical opportunities in my area. Throughout the rehearsal process, I had thought to myself, “This is something that I know that I love and need.” Theatre is a tight-knit industry, and you’re constantly working with others to create a complex work of art, handcrafted to touch the hearts of those who experience it. Performing brought out the best in me: I was able to express myself as a writer and musician, and my social hunger was more-than-satisfied on the stage. I remember hearing all the different voice parts come together in each and every song, dripping sweat for the entire hour-and-a-half that the show ran. I remember scurrying around the stage, dancing with my new friends that understood me even though I had only known them for a couple weeks. A couple days before opening night, one of my family members had said, “You know that this is a one-time thing, right? From now on, you’ll focus on school, okay?” This was not a new thought. At the time, I had always believed that I would never do it as a career, but for the time being, I loved being onstage. For my whole life, school had always been my top priority. I had wanted to get good grades and set an example for others. I had wanted to show my parents that I’d pay back their struggle of immigrating to America to do even more. But when theatre came into my life, I couldn’t help but think there was more to being a student than spending your days reading and writing. I didn’t want to just crunch numbers and write essays; I wanted to live. Theatre made me live. It was at that moment at the table, I had realised a thought in the back of my mind that I had never faced. I was a disappointment to my family. My parents were immigrants who fought to get here; both of them were the most diligent people I’ve ever known, willing to sacrifice whatever to help others. They’re great at being Asian, I thought. My older sister was three years older than me. She would take classes about healthcare, engineering, science, and generally “academic” topics. She dreamt of having a job in the medical field and worked so hard to achieve that goal. She’s great at being Asian, I thought. And there I was. A theatre kid with no purpose other than schoolwork. I’m awful at being Asian. Flash forward to a couple months later. I had just gotten a 96% on a quiz in Science, and though I didn’t consider it my strongest subject, I enjoyed the class. I got home and over dinner, my mom asked, “Do you think that you’ll get the Sterling Scholar award?” The Sterling Scholar award went to the student with the highest grade-point-average at the end of the year. I had won it at the end of seventh grade, so winning it again would’ve been a great achievement (spoiler alert: I didn’t). Right after she asked the question, I crumbled. The fear of being a disappointment overcame me. She wasn’t even upset, just concerned, but I began to sob. She’s mad about a 96%? I pondered. I couldn’t stop; school had become too much to handle for me. A 96% isn’t good enough for an Asian. After the pandemic struck and we were all forced into quarantine, my mom, sister, and I watched the school’s end-of-year awards ceremony on YouTube. When we found that I didn’t win the Sterling Scholar award, my mom said to me, “Let’s focus on school next year, okay?” “Okay,” I responded. Maybe if I hadn’t done that show in the winter, I’d be at the top. Maybe if I hadn’t auditioned for that show, I would be getting recognized for having the highest GPA. I’ve always been an excellent student, but I didn’t want to return to devoting my days to school. I felt that an entire part of my life was being erased, but I also didn’t want to disobey my mother and be even more of a disappointment. I had done great that year with my average above a 99%. I thought I had done amazing in my studies. Yet I still didn’t feel like I was fulfilling my expectations.. From now on, I’m gonna be the “Asian” that I’m supposed to be. I had planned on dedicating the rest of my life to being a brainiac and being praised for my devotion to my excellence in academics. But over the course of the next few months as I spent my summer playing the guitar and missing my friends, I realized doing that was unfair to everybody. It was unfair to me. I am much more than a scholar, and trying to nullify the love I had for the arts was like erasing a part of myself. Sacrificing my passions to be a “true Asian” was stupid because in reality, there is no such thing. Being a ”true Asian” isn’t about good grades or being the president of a STEM-related club like people’s expectations have you think. Expectations and stereotypes do not define me, I thought. They do not define being Asian. To me, being Asian is about pride. I know that I’m Asian, and I want everybody to know that I’m Asian; it’s one of my greatest “accomplishments.” Even though I don’t know everything about my culture, it’s a part of who I am, and I share it whenever I can. To me, being Asian is about being true. From my personal experiences, Filipinos are, at heart, hard workers who root everything in loving others. As someone who’s overly-social, I have always strived to be better in both my academic life and my personal life. And that’s part of what makes me love musical theatre, something which I can’t deny. I’m still a devout student. I spend most of my time studying for quizzes and doing homework with my friends. I dream of going into healthcare or law, being a performer or just an advocate of the arts on the side whenever the opportunity arises. And that’s because being Asian is simply a matter of being you. As someone who has been extremely conflicted about my identity as an Asian, I’d like to tell you one thing: It will be okay. You can be extroverted and Asian. You can be artistic and Asian. You can be absolutely anything and Asian. You may not know everything about your heritage. You may not like everything about it. You may not fit into the stereotypes, and you might even be ridiculed for it. But all in all, it’s a part of you. Being Asian is less about the “Asian.” It’s all about the “being.”

Dear Asian Youth, Last week, prominent speakers from the Republican Party promoted their party’s platform at the Republican National Convention (RNC). Throughout his presidency, Trump has consistently lied and made misleading claims, and this convention was no exception. Regarding COVID-19, Trump claimed that Biden would shut down the entire country rather than follow science. This is untrue. Biden has repeatedly said that he would listen to scientists and would only shut down the economy if scientists recommended it to counter COVID-19—ie, Biden would listen to science. Rather, it was Trump who claimed Dr. Fauci, the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, has “made some mistakes” and that he was “a little bit of an alarmist.” Trump also stated that America has “among the lowest case fatality rates of any major country.” We don’t. In the 20 nations most impacted by this pandemic, the United States ranks 10th with a mortality rate of 3.1 deaths for every 100 COVID cases. Countries doing better than the U.S. include Saudi Arabia, Bangladesh, Philippines, and India (among many others). Furthermore, Donald Trump Jr. declared that Trump quickly shut down travel from China. In reality, Trump did not restrict travel from China until February. Despite these restrictions, officials from Asia were still able to enter the US for the next few months, along with thousands of Americans returning from China. Travel from Europe, another disease hot spot, wasn’t even restricted until March. Many countries took similar steps before Trump did. Countries like Afghanistan, Guatemala, the Philippines, Russia, and Singapore all imposed a travel ban in January. In Mike Pence’s speech, he insisted that when Trump came into office, the economy was “struggling to break out of the slowest recovery since the Great Depression.” But when Obama left office, the unemployment rate was 4.7%, and only 2 million people were collecting jobless aid. As opposed to now, where unemployment is at 8.4% and 14.8 million Americans are collecting jobless aid. To be fair, these statistics are partially due to COVID-19. But looking at numbers in January of 2020, $2.8 trillion was added to the national debt. During Obama’s presidency, the average monthly job gain was 217,000, compared to Trump’s current average monthly job gain of 191,000. South Dakota’s governor Kristi Noem stated that Trump had “shrunk government and put money back into the pockets of hardworking, ordinary Americans.” Currently, the government is not shrinking. In 2016, federal spending was 20.6% of the GDP (Gross domestic product) and that has increased to 20.8% in 2019. It is true that the economy benefited from tax cuts in 2017, but this only increased the budget deficit because these tax cuts favored large corporations and the wealthy. Biden was heavily criticized for wanting to “ban fracking and eliminate fossil fuels, which would kill millions of good-paying jobs and raise the cost of driving our cars and heating our homes.” This is not Biden’s position. He supports banning new oil and gas permits on federal land only, which, in 2018, only accounts for about a quarter of oil and gas production. Regarding policing, Biden was criticized for wanting to cut funding to law enforcement. This is misleading as Biden consistently stated that he wouldn’t defund the police and would continue to fund it as long as the policing system improves. He also calls for an additional $300 million to policing programs, the exact opposite of defunding the police. The RNC mentioned that Democrats want a complete “government takeover of health care.” However, this is not Biden’s position. Instead, he proposed building on Obamacare, which would keep the private insurance market and expand Medicaid. Admittedly, the Democratic National Convention was not completely honest, but more lies have been identified on the RNC’s first night than throughout the DNC’S whole week. Many Republicans believe America is doing better than it was four years ago, even though we are in the midst of one of the worst pandemics, one of our country’s worst economic crises, and one of the worst periods of social unrest in decades. While Trump cannot be blamed for the pandemic, he can certainly be blamed for America’s response. With that, it is clear from an economic, social, and political standpoint, that Trump has not made America “great again.” Cover photo source: https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/rnc-2020-day-president-trump-formally-nominated-delegates/story?id=72555272 This piece is not affiliated with Dear Asian Youth Nonprofit.

A ball is, the very word, whatever you want to be, you be. In a ballroom, you can be anything you want. — Paris is Burning, 1990 1. the childhood bedroom won’t recognize me anymore. two truths and a lie: my body used to be a history of fear. i’ve forged the ownership papers to this life too many times to count. i’ve lied enough in my life. truth and truth again, the first time i went to the gay club was in itaewon during a summer that cracked open like a yolk—our shadows running golden on the pavement. the butch girls wearing their sleeves rolled halfway up, femme queens dripping glitter down the basement stairs. blurred chaos every friday night, the longing of it & the longing to become it, love through relentless homage. 2. burning was the first controlled chemical reaction discovered by humans; no wonder it’s the oxygen that animates our lungs which also feeds the flame. we have always been here, burning. we have always been queer. i pull a spark from the fluorescent body of the lighter and inhale. 3. my mother used to tell me i could be anything i wanted but mostly i chose to live. there are nights where i want to dream in a language she understands so much that i think do. but nothing’s loved me as much as the clippers that licked up my scalp, sixteen & godless shaving off my hair. or the needles biting through my cartilage or the blood-candied lip or the bound chest or the monolid eyeliner i had to teach myself like survival. i want & want to become the drag queen sliding across the grimy floor of the stage, lashes cut like the scythe-moon outside. we call her royalty for a reason. we learn by doing, in transgression. when the bar door bangs open onto the cold crush of dawn i return home: prodigal daughter, extravagant child, hanging herself on the family tree. 4. in my mother tongue, the word for oxygen sometimes means mountain-grave. to make this connection, i had to dislocate my tongue first. i breathe out and the pyre ignites. the ancestral bodies rust in their grief. i’ve built my own lineage enough times to know there’s no return to sender for this body. girlhood, like the ballroom floor, is a city that’s burning: shorter and younger and more flammable than i ever thought. Editor(s): Alisha B., Uzayer M., Blenda Y.

My America, Greetings from Australia. It’s only been a week, but I have already experienced so much in the great down under: I’ve taken a train over the harbor bridge, went for a bush walk, patted a koala, and swam in the Pacific. I have also taken the time to learn more about your younger sister’s origins and have found that her adoption story isn’t too different from your own. Your sister did depart from Mother Britain, though a bit less rebelliously and decided to keep close ties with her through the Commonwealth of Nations. Anyway, your sister has been a great host and we’ve had many interesting discussions concerning politics, racial equality, and the comparison of culture. While sifting through similarities and variances, I noticed how Australia is not as organized as you are– not in a bad way though. I mean, you chose to split your land up into fifty states while your sister only split her’s into six. Not only has she chosen to sort and label less of her land, but also her inhabitants. Yesterday I was telling her all about my position at DAY and what the organization works toward. She thought it was so cool how there are all these young people working towards diversity and proper representation. We discussed the pandemic and I informed her of the increase in Asian hate crimes due to it. She found it very strange how Asians were scapegoated for the worldwide pandemic– the same strangeness I felt when I first arrived at the airport: After getting through customs and collecting my baggage, I headed toward the trains. Seeing that all the signs were in both English and Mandarin, for a second I thought I was in Asia. Little did I know that Mandarin was the second most spoken language in Australia, just like Spanish is in the US. “So is there such a thing as a Chinese-Australian?” I asked. Australia looked at me as if I were making a joke. “No. Why? Do they do that in America?” She replied. I explained this foreign concept of identification– how America uses African-American, Latin-American, and Asian-American to identify people of color, but doesn’t apply a prefix for caucasians. “That’s a bit ridiculous. But no, here we are all Australian. No prefixes.” My America, I include this conversation in this postcard because it made me realize how you love labels and how these labels affect how we view each other. The creation of subsections is a subtle way of ghettoizing. My America, “we hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal” and therefore, are all simply and explicitly American. White people are assumed to be American without a prefix. In contrast, non-whites are assumed more than American, producing the familiar pry asking, "Where are you really from?" When in actuality almost all Americans had come from overseas– even our own Lady Liberty is an immigrant from France. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of my prefix— that is not the case at all. It just crossed my mind how a prefix can act as a further divider between racial groups. In the land of the free, we all have foreign origins, and we are all considered equal, yet, we aren’t called so. To my America, from your American. Editor(s): Rachel C., Cathay L., Joyce P., Erika Y. Photo Credits: Zazzle

In October of 2019, US rapper T.I. sparked public outrage by revealing that he takes his 18-year-old daughter to the gynecologist every year to ensure that her hymen is intact. Many rightfully criticized T.I.’s invasive obsession with his daughter’s virginity as a violation of privacy that strips his daughter of the right to her own body. Furthermore, others found these controlling actions even more outrageous considering T.I.’s possessive logic. He reasoned that men will stay away from his daughter if she is a virgin because, “They’re no fun, who wants a virgin? Like, really? All of that work?” This inappropriate reasoning is surprisingly normalized, particularly for women, who are often judged on when, how, and to whom they have lost their virginity. Not only are many virgins judged for being frigid, but misogynistics notions state that women who have had sex are impure and of lesser value after being “used.” However, these judgments are ludicrous considering that virginity is nothing more than a social construct weaponized to shame women for what they do with their bodies. Virginity is inconsequential considering that there is physically no way to tell if somebody is still a virgin. After all, the hymen is not an indicator of penetration because hymens don’t actually “break”. The hymen is a thin membrane that surrounds the opening of the vagina. Females are born with hymens that cover the entire opening of the vagina, but over time, the hymen becomes thinner and more flexible until it forms a natural opening that allows for menstrual blood to leave the vagina. The size of the hymen varies per person; some are born with so little hymenal tissue that it seems like they don’t even have a hymen at all. The hymen does not break during vaginal intercourse. Discomfort and bleeding during one’s first time are attributed to stretching or partially tearing the hymen due to a lack of lubrication. Bleeding is also not an accurate representation of losing one’s virginity. This was proven by Dr. Sara Paterson-Brown’s study in the British Medical Journal, which found that around 63% of women do not experience any bleeding during their first time of sexual intercourse. Various activities including riding a bike, playing a sport, using a tampon, and masturbating can stretch the hymen before a female has intercourse. Not only can one not tell someone else’s virginity during intercourse, but virginity testing is also inaccurate considering that there is no medical or scientific evidence that a hymen indicates anything regarding sexual activity. Besides, these examinations are so invasive that the UN Special Rapporteur has recognized forced virginity testing as a form of gender-specific torture. This is particularly because various countries have used virginity testing as a way to separate the “pure” and “impure” women. Due to the lack of accuracy, sexist implications, and traumatizing procedure, the UN has called for a nationwide ban on virginity testing. However, these practices are still found in at least 20 countries, including the United States. Even though there is no way to accurately discern “virginity”, society is obsessed with the implications surrounding this social construct. In the end, insisting on knowing whether one is a virgin is just an excuse to be sexist. The history of virginity supports this claim. While the word “virgin” is of Greek origin, the concept dates back to medieval times where young, virgin girls were used as commodities that guaranteed pure bloodlines. The allure of a virgin girl came from the guarantee that she would not bear another’s child. Later on, Christian principles encouraged girls to stay virgins through the story of the Virgin Mary, which perpetuates that only the purest womb could birth a God. Not only does the history of virginity act as a reminder that virginity is completely a human creation, but many of the historical implications also related to virginity are fully present in contemporary society. Many still celebrate virgin women for their purity, while shaming any woman with a sexual history. This slut-shaming behavior is made more evident by the fact that women are criticized for how many partners they take, not how many times they actually have sex. These destructive assumptions regarding one’s virginity is part of a greater issue where females are stripped of the right to do what they want with their bodies without constant judgment. As shown by T.I.’s disgusting behavior, this mindset often begins at home where parents mistake protecting their daughters for having a say in what they do with their bodies. These efforts are counterproductive. The Eastern Michigan University has conducted studies sampling emerging adults ages 18-28. They found that young adults who “grew up with more caring and less controlling parents and who talked about sex with their parents were most likely to have better quality relationships and to a limited extent, engage in safer sexual behaviors.” Furthermore, the Seattle Children’s Research Center has cited multiple studies regarding the health repercussions of controlling children’s sexual behavior. One analysis found that around 60% of girls aged 12 to 17 in the US reported that if their parents found out that they used sexual health services, they would stop using these services or even be willing to delay testing for STIs. Another reported that about a third of adolescents do not seek health care for sensitive health issues if their parents could find out. Parents should have open and honest communication regarding sex with their children because children are safer when their parents do not adopt such controlling behavior. It’s also an essential undertaking to improve our sexual education system. We need to teach our children that a female’s value is in no way dependent on the intactness of her hymen. It is incredibly important to dispel myths regarding hymen and virginity in general at a young age, to avoid confusion in the future. There should be no religious context nor misogynistic undertones when it comes to a children’s sexual education, as it interferes with their sexual safety. All in all, society needs to change the way we talk about virginity. When men boast the loss of their virginity, it’s a burden off their shoulders. Yet when women lose their virginity, it comes with a set of societal implications and judgments. We should remember that we don’t actually “lose” our “virginity” because there is nothing to be lost. There is no proof of lost virginity, and it does not change who we are or how much we are worth. No matter what anyone does, we have the right to our own bodies, and that right is something that nobody should be allowed to take.