“We need to meet tonight,” Min stated, sliding into the empty seat across from Jung-hee. Jung-hee blinked. He stared at Min like a deer in headlights. “What?”, he said after a few moments had passed. “For our project,” Min reminded him. Jung-hee only shrugged. Min tossed her hands in the air. “It’s due in two weeks.” One of Jung-hee’s friends, Ishaan, waved a hand in dismissal. “That’s a problem for two weeks from now.” “Hey Min,” Elijah nodded, “is Jade still mad at me?” Min ignored Elijah and looked back at Jung-hee. “We’re meeting tonight.” Jung-hee shifted around uncomfortably. “Tonight doesn’t work for me.” “Tonight is the only night that works for me,” Min said. Her hands were crossed on the circular, white lunch table. She could hear her friends– several tables away— giggling at the situation. The fluorescent, high school lights shone on them as Min tapped her feet on the red and white floors. The conversations around them ranged from today’s homework to heated debates on the best brand of chocolate milk. But Min was focused on Jung-hee. And Jung-hee was trying to hide inside his hoodie. Min raised a brow. “Why doesn’t tonight work for you?” “I need to get a haircut.” “It’s gonna take the entire night?” Jung-hee paused. “I have a lot of hair.” Ishaan pointed at Jung-hee’s fluffy, black hair. It covered his forehead, eyebrows, and most of his ears. “You have a gorgeous head of hair. Never cut it.” “Agreed!” Min exclaimed. “Never cut it.” Jung-hee gulped. “My mom really wants me to.” “I’m sure your mom also wants you to get an A on your project.” Jung-hee stared at Min. Min stared at Jung-hee. “Fine,” Jung-hee said, sighing. “What time?” “Seven-thirty at the library.” Min smiled. “Bring your textbook, laptop, and highlighters.” “I don’t have highlighters.” “That’s fine. You can use mine.” Min stood up and wiped her hands. “See you later.” “Looking forward to it,” Jung-hee muttered, and Min rolled her eyes and spun around. She walked back to her table, sat down, and huffed. “Ten years are taken away from my life everytime I talk to those guys.” “I still think Mrs. Nishimura paired you with Jung-hee as a practical joke,” Jade laughed. She glanced at their table, and her smile faded. “Like mine and Elijah’s relationship,” she said, stabbing her bowtie pasta. “Jade, just go talk to him,” Min urged. “No!” “Aiguo punched him first, Jade,” Phoebe said. “You can’t blame him for fighting back.” “Yeah, but he got mad at me for getting mad at him! What am I supposed to do when my boyfriend fights someone? Rejoice? Cheer him on?” Jade stuffed her lunch inside her backpack, threw it over her shoulder, and stood. “I need to reapply my lip gloss.” Samira pointed at Jade. “I’m gonna go check on her.” Phoebe and Min nodded in agreement. After Samira walked away, Phoebe turned to Min. Her hands were crossed under her chin and she scooted closed. “Is it just me, or have things been more weird than usual?” Min sighed. “It’s not just you.” Mr. Li’s death in May marked the start of everything. Mr. Li came from one of West District’s Founding Families. He was a pillar in the community, often called the town’s father. But, after he passed away and that pillar crumbled, West District had begun to collapse on itself. The town council held fewer meetings, men in suits began appearing and examining the buildings, and Mr. Li’s youngest son, Aiguo, picked fights nearly everyday. And in July, a guy with superhuman powers appeared. He could lift cars, run at superspeed, and even had retractable claws. He dressed in white, orange, and black and called himself “The Siberian Tiger” – a crime-fighting hero that helped keep West District safe. He stopped numerous robbery attempts and home invasions, but mainly helped the elders cross the streets. West District had a superhero. Because, apparently, superheroes were real. Min would get a headache if she kept thinking about this. “Are you going to the elder’s center after school today?” Min asked Phoebe. “They’re playing mahjong.” Phoebe side-eyed Min. “As if I would ever miss mahjong. My grandma always ends up trying to fight Elijah’s.” Min shrugged. “Well, Elijah’s grandma does always cheat.” “And she does a terrible job at hiding it,” Phoebe replied. Min laughed. “The elder’s center deserves its own reality show.” Phoebe opened her mouth to say something, but the lunch bell rang. Students rose to throw out their trash and zip up their backpacks. Friends shook friends awake from naps and other students pondered if they could sneak out the back exit without getting caught. The students doing the latter were Jung-hee and his friend group. “I don’t get them,” Min said as she left the cafeteria. “They hate school but they’re always at the children’s center.” “School doesn’t matter to them,” Phoebe said. “But West District does. Isn’t that why you go to the elder’s center? And help out around town? They care – just not about school.” “Yeah. Priorities, I guess,” Min said. Phoebe patted Min’s back. “Just be glad that Jung-hee agreed to work on the project.” Min rolled her eyes. “He tried convincing me that he had to get a haircut.” “Yeah, well, I never said that he was smart,” Phoebe remarked. Min chuckled and hooked her arm around Phoebe’s. As they rounded the hallway corner, a body knocked into theirs. Min and Phoebe stumbled back, nearly tumbling into the people behind them. They regained their balance in time to see the figure in front of them. He sported a black eye and busted lip. “Watch where you’re going,” Aiguo hissed, then pushed past them. “Hey-” Min shouted, but Phoebe pulled her back. “Leave him alone,” Phoebe muttered. “There’s no use in picking a fight.” Min shook her head and kept walking. If West District was crumbling after Mr. Li’s death, Aiguo was disintegrating. “I’m serious, she almost hit her!” Min’s grandmother said, complaining about Phoebe and Elijah’s grandmothers. “They cause so much trouble.” “Auntie Yang is just getting tired of Auntie Dù’s cheating,” Min replied. “You can’t blame her.” Min’s grandmother made a -tsk sound. “They are both a piece of work. Are you sure you have to go? You should stay. You can’t leave me alone with them.” “I have to go to the library for a project. And you should go home. Mom and Dad don’t like it when you’re out late.” “Your mother and father are too worried for their own good.” “That’s because they care.” “But I have the Siberian Tiger now,” she winked. “He walks me home.” “He walked you home once,” Min said. Min’s grandma shrugged. “More than some people in this town. He’s a superhero, Min. Maybe he’ll save us from those suited men who keep coming here.” “They came back today?” Min shouted and flung her arms in the air. “That’s the fourth time this month! Why do they want our buildings?” “I don’t know, but Mr. Li was so good at getting rid of them,” Min’s grandma said. “It’s okay. The town will figure something out. Now, if you aren’t going to work on your project then come back inside.” Min chuckled. Her shoulders relaxed and she shook her head. “I have to go.” Min’s grandmother eyed her. “You sound like your parents. That’s why you’re going to the library instead of staying for karaoke.” “I have homework!” Min defended. “It’s due soon.” “Okay, if you insist.” Min’s grandmother pulled her in for a hug. “I’ll see at home. I love you.” “I love you too,” Min said. “Be safe.” “You too, Minnie.” Min crossed the street as her grandmother yelled something about the Siberian Tiger. Min laughed it off, but shook her head. The Siberian Tiger. She was semi-convinced that he was a social experiment. That the cars were lighter than they actually were, the videos were edited, the criminals’ ran slower, and the claws were fake. But part of her… well, part of her was also glad there was someone watching over West District. That someone was there to stop an attempted robbery at the supermarket over the weekend, or catch the window cleaner that fell off his ladder last month. After everything that’s happened— and that Min worried could happen— the suburb needed this. But how did a superhero get here in the first place? West District wasn’t a big city. It was a small, immigrant community. Everyone knew everyone. Most families had lived here for at least two decades. Everything was family-run and operated. Why was West District appealing to a superhero? Min stopped at the intersection. The sun had set and the yellow street lights illuminated the sidewalks and pot-holed roads. The air was getting cooler, crispier. Leaves graced the ground, and the nights were slowly getting longer. It was Min’s favorite time of year. In her opinion, the best things always happened in the fall– the best food, the best movies, the best shows. West District always had the best festivals too. But Min didn’t know if those traditions would remain now that Mr. Li had died. The street lights turned green. Min shook away the thoughts and crossed the street to the red and white brick library. 8:15. Jung-hee was forty-five minutes late. And he wasn’t replying to Min’s texts. Min said seven-thirty. What part of seven-thirty did he not understand? Maybe all his hair blocked his hearing. He could’ve at least texted her. Jung-hee was going to regret standing Min up at the library. Tomorrow she would march up to Mrs. Nishimura and make it clear that she would not be working with Jung-hee. She’d demand to be graded separately. His lack of self-discipline and care wasn’t going to affect Min. She wouldn’t allow it. Min stomped out of the library and down the sidewalk. She zipped up her sweatshirt and readjusted her plaid skirt. Being late showed a lack of care. That’s what Min was taught growing up. She knew every household was different, but didn’t timeliness regard respect for others? The more you liked and valued someone, the more you wanted to show up? To be on time? Jung-hee didn’t respect Min. He didn’t respect anyone. Him and his friends didn’t take anything seriously. Sure, they volunteered at the children’s center. But that’s all they did. West District was in shambles. West District needed people who care. And people like Jung-hee and his friends were just bringing it down. Min tripped. She nearly face-planted on the ground. She pulled out her bag quick enough to brace her fall, but her knees slammed against the pavement. Her upper body and face landed on top of a thick canvas material filled with textbooks. “Alright, I get it,” Min shouted at her ancestors. “No thinking negatively of people,” she grumbled. She peeled herself off the ground, wiping the pebbles and weeds from her bloodied knees. She slung her backpack across her shoulder, stretching her arms as she crossed the street and entered the town’s main square. Just in time to see what was in a dimly lit alleyway. The Siberian Tiger was kneeling between two brick buildings, going through a backpack. “Holy shit,” Min whispered, and ran towards him. She stopped in front of the alleyway and watched him rustle through his backpack, talking to himself about food. For a superhero, he had an awful sense of surroundings. Then he pulled the mask off. Min’s jaw dropped. She’d recognize that floppy hair anywhere. “Jung Hee?” She yelled. His posture straightened. He turned around, eyes wide and mouth open. Park Jung-hee was in the superhero costume. “I-” he began. “This is why you skipped our meeting?” Editor(s): Marie Hong, Amelia Pinto Photo Creds: Etsy

You don’t remember me. Why would you? For you, it was just another day at school. For me, it was the day you took my voice. 2017, my junior year of college: the Honors advanced writing class. The assignment was for everyone to give a presentation on whatever they wanted. I chose to do mine on the lack of Asian representation in the media. I had never been given a chance to talk about the subject in a formal setting, so this seemed like as good an opportunity as any. I spent hours doing my research and making my PowerPoint pop with colors and images. It was a project I was excited to work on—it was a glimpse into the struggles within my community. During the presentation, I felt the energy of the topic coursing through me. It started as a spark. As I spoke, the spark grew into a fire that warmed me from the inside out. I was angry at the lack of positive representation and disappointed I had to even talk about it in the first place. But I was glad I had a platform to spread awareness. Public speaking made me nervous, and I was worried I would stutter or stumble over my words. But even I could hear the articulation and clarity in my voice, reinforced by my passion for the topic. After I finished, the other students asked me questions and shared their comments. I don’t recall any of them. But then you raised your hand. Do you remember what you said? I doubt it. Allow me to refresh your memory. You said, “That’s cool, but don’t we have more important things to worry about?” The energy rushed out of me, the fire extinguished by an arctic gale. I froze in place. I heard your words, but my mind was still trying to register their meaning. Emotions churned in my stomach. I suppressed the bitter bile rising in my throat. I was acutely aware of the rest of my surroundings. Someone near me wore too much perfume, the cloying scent making me nauseous. The sunlight streaming through the window cast a harsh glare in my eyes. The wooden podium where I gave my presentation bit into my fingers where I gripped it. I didn’t have the strength and the voice I do now. So I agreed with you. I nodded my head, more out of instinct than choice. “Yeah, I guess we do,” I said. The words barely came out, but the betrayal they held thundered in my ears. I sat back down, and the next student started their presentation. I wish another student had spoken up. I wasn’t the only Asian student or student of color. I couldn’t have been the only one who felt strongly about the topic. Maybe they were just as shocked as I was to say anything. Maybe they hadn’t found their voices yet, either. I wish our professor had said something. Out of all my college professors, he was one of my favorites because he seemed to genuinely care about his students and their education. But in that moment, he didn’t support me. His silence made him complicit, and it stung. I wish, I wish, I wish. Wishes only get you so far. The ones left unfulfilled leave a bitter taste in your mouth. I haven’t forgotten about that day, even after all these years. For the longest time, I regretted not saying anything. I was mad at myself for being so weak. There were so many times when I almost approached you after class or tried to send you a strongly worded email. But I could never follow through. Fast forward to today, and things have changed. I’ve grown since then. I’ve found my place in my community as an Asian American. I’ve found the strength to speak up. While I can’t change the past, I can act in the present. This is what I wanted to say. This is my letter to you. What’s important to you is subjective. While others, including myself, may share your feelings, they don’t discount what we experience individually. Climate change, poverty, hunger—those are all noble and important causes. I care about them, but I care about other issues, too. As a white male, you’ve been lucky enough to see yourself in the media. You have seen yourself as the hero and the intellectual and the physically attractive. Growing up, I only saw myself as the nerd, sidekick, and kung fu master with an inauthentic Asian accent. I saw stereotypes and caricatures that were far beyond any accurate recognition. You have the privilege and luxury of not having to care about representation. You’ve always been represented. You’ve always been the protagonist, and I’ve been the tokenized side character. Sometimes, I’ve even been the villain. Would your response still be the same now, while Asians face a rise in racism worldwide because of the Coronavirus? I want to believe that it wouldn’t. I want to believe that, like me, you’ve grown since that time. Our community needs allies, and you could be one of them. What you said hurt. It was ignorant and condescending. It made you part of the problem I was referring to in my presentation. But looking back, it was part of the journey that led me to where I am now—writing for an organization that uplifts the Asian and Asian American community. Representation has gotten better, but we’re still a long way away from where we need to be. The cause is still important to me, and I will keep fighting for it. Even though you’ll likely never see this, I’ve said my peace. Writing this letter was just as much for me as it was for you, maybe even more. I can move on with my life, and you can’t take my voice away again. Yours truly, An Asian American with important things to worry about, Eric Nhem Author’s note: I’m the type of person who thinks of ironclad arguments I should have said long after a conversation has happened—in the car, in the shower, while I’m trying to sleep, etc. And then I fixate on those unspoken words and let them fester in my mind. Very healthy. I’ve held onto the words of this letter for over four years. To be able to put them on paper has been a cathartic experience for me. While I do try to live a life of no regrets, I’d be lying if I said a small part of me didn’t hope I run into that student in a grocery store and shove the letter into his face, but that’s just me. To those of you reading this, I offer a simple piece of advice: if you’re given the chance to speak out to defend yourself and your community, take it without hesitation. Don’t wait as long as I did. Remember that your feelings are valid. Remember that you are allowed—and encouraged—to take up space. Editor(s): Emily X., Nikki J., Nadine R., Zoe L., Sam L. , Anoushka K., Joyce S.

10.29.22 , 우리를 기억해주세요.1 When I find out, I pick up my keys to go walking into the bleached-out sky. I wash the dishes & let the taps run until my mirror-self fogs. I cut up fruit, although not for the restless dead. Mostly I just sleep: I dream that it is Halloween & that we can all be whatever we want, even alive. The streets I love aren’t coffins, only costumed in wreaths. The missing rise back up from the pavement, still drinking down the dregs of liquid summer, amniotic & alive with it. Emily Jungmin Yoon says, and our cities today glow with crosses like graveyards. God was imported to these shores like any coveted object. Today, the difference between a church & a hospital is not what we pray to or who we pray for but how cold their bodies are. I wish I could say I knew something was wrong. I remember last summer, T barricading herself in the Hamilton Hotel bathrooms, saying I’m so drunk just leave me here, my laugh trampling over the wide echoing mirror, listen we have to leave before we get kicked out & on the main street when we emerged the moon glowed crimson over our shoulders, backlit by the neon cross of the methodist church. My coworker who visited Seoul told me once, I was surprised at first because your crosses were so red. Emergency beacons, hospital lights. Red like something gone wrong. 110.29.22, please remember us. This phrase, and the poem itself, is in memory of the 158 people killed in the crowd crush that occurred over Halloween weekend in Itaewon, Seoul. Editor(s): Luna Y., Blenda Y. Photo Credits: Unsplash

“In China, you take care of your family. In America, you take care of your dream.” In the 1930s, the idea of achieving the American dream was a popular fantasy of many foreigners. Many left their home country in hopes of a chance of attaining a better life, often having to leave behind their language, culture, and even family. On April 20th, 1947, at the age of 20, my grandfather left his impoverished village in Taishan, Guangdong to pursue his dreams of obtaining American freedom. Leaving behind the only world he ever knew, he boarded the USS Admiral W.S. Benson with a one-way ticket to America and a picture of his mother he promised to remember. At 92 years old, my grandfather still had the small photograph of his mother, which he kept on his bedside table. Staring into his mother’s stoic eyes, he’d often feel guilty for never returning to his home county to see her again. As an American, my grandfather had worked his way up, starting at a laundromat in Boston, to eventually opening his own Chinese restaurant in Florida. At his restaurant, he happened to hire a young, flirtatious Italian woman he would build a family of seven girls and four boys with, completing his American dream. Devoting his life to running a Chinese restaurant so that his eleven children could enjoy the American dream he began, my grandfather never had the chance to go back to China to see his mother before she died. My mom recalls seeing him burn fake money, lamenting her passing— it was the only thing he could do to honor what she had done for him. Being one of the many female products of the One Child Policy, I understood the importance a Chinese son held, but it wasn't until now that I put two and two together... My grandfather was burdened by guilt not only because of his failure to visit his mother, but because his position as an American father removed him from his role as a Chinese son. In the traditional Chinese religions and philosophies, Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism, hsiao (filial piety) is the responsibility to respect, obey, and take care of one’s parents as they grow older. Additionally, Chinese sons are born with the destiny to one day take responsibility for their family. Reaping the benefits of his American Chinese restaurant, my grandfather always used what he had to give to those in need. Never denying a knock at the restaurant’s back door, he'd serve beggars a hot meal, suppressing the hunger he had once felt. Remembering his home, he’d send money to the remaining family in Taishan. For a while, he attempted to bring one of his nieces to America, but ultimately failed. From a distance, he continued his role as a Chinese son, but there was only so much he could do. The line that divides cultures is not an easy one to cross. Sacrifices are made on both sides, distinguishing an individual’s dream from that of tradition. My grandfather was burdened by the guilt that the weight of tradition had invoked. While he relished being surrounded by the immense American family he had created, he remorsefully looked to the east. The harsh reality of my grandfather’s story is one of millions of immigrants and refugees who had also chosen to leave their home in pursuit of a better life. Coming to America, you cannot dig a hole to China. A dream that lies thousands of miles away requires a trade to complete. A sacrificial exchange that could result in happiness and freedom, but also guilt and abdication. However, the dream you pursue echoes for generations, providing opportunities and foundations for future dreamers to come. Immigrants make sacrifices so that their children don’t have to… In America, you take care of your dream so your family can prosper from it. Editor(s): Rachel C., Erika Y., Joyce P.

While scrolling endlessly through all the new television shows and movies, some people find themselves going back to watch “The Office” for the fifth time. A study conducted by the National Institute of Health revealed the brain takes meaningful memories and ties them to contextual events which are eventually stored in our long-term memory. In essence, the brain associates certain memories with emotions or past events. That’s why we feel a certain nostalgia for childhood shows because they allow for us to look back on random memories that have been stored in our long-term memory. Leila’s favorite nostalgic movie: “Howl’s Moving Castle” The music and visuals alone are irresistible. I’ve also always admired Sophie for her perseverance and unwavering determination to follow her heart and do what’s right. The lessons of compassion and freedom I’ve learned from this movie have stuck with me to this day. Aubrey’s favorite nostalgic movie: “My Neighbor Totoro” My sister and I had first watched “My Neighbor Totoro'' a few months after my parents had separated– I was six and she was four. Still adjusting to the dramatic change in our own life, we connected with Satsuki and Mei as they faced theirs. Finding parts of ourselves in each sister, we learned to accept this new chapter, acknowledging that we had each other to rely on. Sydney’s favorite nostalgic movie: “While You Were Sleeping” “While You Were Sleeping” is the cause of my guilty pleasure being romantic comedies. I was deeply enamored by the chemistry between Sandra Bullock and Bill Pullman the first time I watched it, and feel the same upon rewatches. With quick-witted comedy and genuine wholesomeness, this movie is perfect to get into the holiday spirit. Billy’s favorite nostalgic movie: “Matilda” I was always a fan of Roald Dahl growing up. The movie Matilda was faithful to the novel of the same name, and was also, in fact, the origin of my childhood dog’s name. Matilda was a brilliant, misunderstood child and I perhaps found comfort in that - most kids like believing there is something undeniably special about them, something like psychic powers or high IQ. There’s fun to it, and there’s something undeniably special about being yourself. Editor(s): Leila W. Photo Credits: sarandy westfall on Unsplash

there are plenty of fish in the sea their lustrous scales shimmer brightly against the light of the scorching star seeping into the cracks and corners of this endless sapphire abyss i’m drowning, the saccharine waves dribbling from my tender lips are almost as sweet as you a shimmer here, a shine there my eyes are blinded the warmth rushes through my veins no longer am i a cold-blooded creature but my heart is still bitter and the water becomes a pool of blood tainted with glimpses and glances of you still, you are lackluster and my adolescent mind is a pristine canvas waiting to be stained with promises truths lies your limbs are twisted and tangled in an impenetrable knot of veracity but i ask that you deceive me only once before the balmy water turns searing and the myriad of fish fool me into their unforgiving jaws Editor(s): Luna Y.

We bend like parentheses, enclosing each other's asides. Every adjustment of your lips mean more words that I can extract before you swallow them. I measure your hand against mine. Our heart lines overlap. The fan, meanwhile, turns out one more rotation. You tap out morse code on my hips and I drink lukewarm tap water out of a wine glass, my upper lip lingering on the dry rim as though it were your mouth. Our eyes exchange ellipses. The wall is cold against my back. Perhaps the sun comes up, but Your blinds censor the light. We wouldn't know. The room is reduced to the color of a kiwi’s skin. Above the windows, bullets of firefly- coloured light, just committed little vessels glow obediently. The sheets are discarded like huge palm fronds on the rainforest floor. And when we go later into the world, our fingers are symmetrical. Our strides are parallel. The clouds are as white as hanboks, and we are shocked by the insanity of breathing. Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story. Author's Note: For the last two years of high school, I attended an international boarding school. This is where I met my favorite person in existence. We were both too oblivious and foolish to talk about our ever-growing feelings sooner, but we finally did right as COVID-19 hit and our school decided to close down for the year. This meant I was graduating – a month and a half before I was supposed to. This meant I had no idea when I would see her again – a month a half before we could attempt to make any plans. On the day of my graduation, we broke up as we were getting dressed for the ceremony. Editors: Rajeshwari T., Amshu V. Photo Credits: Unsplash

I wake up to July, water-bloated on the bed next to me and I know, going home has never been impossible until now. July lays me down to split my ribs like a tender thing. The rot from its hands metastasizes into my lungs and now the battleground is myself instead of a stranger; July makes of me a whetstone, a killing knife, a wishbone to snap open. Here I am stuck in this place again, this year’s heatwave slicing choice cuts from my insides and leaving the rest for carrion. Do you think this body will survive me? July calls to me, saying, my Orpheus, my Eurydice, my fever- sweet Persephone and I’m telling it, I don’t want your death but I bite into the pomegranate one last time—the implication of flesh, my bone-white teeth glistening red. I want to learn what it feels like to worship someone and have them walk away from you. I want a second life where I become more than the sum of everything I did to survive. July pushes me against a wall and slips a knife between my shoulder blades as if I’ll birth wings from the scar. This doesn’t feel exciting anymore; the slaughterhouse drain and bullet to the head and tolling death knell all at once. Editor(s): Phoebe He, Blenda Yan, Alisha Burney

From the glances and subtle shoves, to the headphones kept on when I’m speaking to the tone of their voice, I knew I wasn’t welcome. It may have been my hair, my height, how I dress, or how I talk, but what I do know for sure is that parts of my grooves and edges do not fit into the aesthetic friendship jigsaw they so diligently craft for their Snapchat stories, their Instagram posts, for their two-minute increments of a daily BeReal. And so I distance myself. As a first-year who recently arrived at Wellesley College, the last time I attempted to make new friends felt like a distant memory, a hazy, ambiguous feeling I could not quite grasp. There is no formula for starting a friendship, of course; some march into one’s life with a good laugh, others through intense bonding experiences, and some are even borne from forgiveness after conflict and fluorescent rage. But as the world shifted ever so slightly four or five years ago, with COVID, political change, graduating high school, and becoming an adult, the opportunities for raw, genuine interactions blossoming into friendship dissipate. I’ve come to realize that I have departed from the innocence and spontaneity of childhood friendships, entering into a world where human connections are, more often than not, goal-oriented, unauthentic, distant, and unreadable. Gen Z has been socialized in the art of suppressing real emotions and identities to engage in strategic self-presentation from as far back as we can remember. Although, in recent years, researchers have noted an uptick in social media fatigue, attributed in part to the pandemic. But even the tech-weariest among us find it hard to disregard the mandate to put forward our best selves online. Indeed, growing up in the age of blossoming social media and technology, the concepts of selectivity, status, and popularity became increasingly ingrained in our minds and infused into the ways in which we approach socialization. The purpose behind friendships is no longer for mutual growth and support, but rather to create a perfectly curated group of companions. Some people are not loyal to you. They are devoted to their need of you, of you to be in their frame of the 0.5 camera, of your ability to provide content for those colorful Instagram stories, laughing at an inside joke or fond memory. These stories seem to say: people love me, I am not alone, I have something you do not. Forming these communities that are seemingly inclusive online but exclusive offline is, in my view, the goal of many modern friendships. We want to survive the social scene; we do not want to be excluded, so we exclude. We do not want to be lonely ourselves, so we create loneliness for others. We help people around us, but only when it’s convenient for us and benefits us, so really, we’re just helping ourselves. BeReal—the French photo-sharing app launched in 2020—has been heralded as the antidote to combat such a trend. While BeReal has been lauded for its novel spontaneity, informality, and provision of unvarnished glimpses into everyday life, it represents the latest iteration in the cycle of social media sites that spring from the push-and-pull tension of authenticity and performance. Increasingly, the idea of “authenticity” that media companies are flaunting becomes more and more of a social construct. We don't want authenticity, we want neutral makeup. We are curated enough that we don't hate the way we see ourselves, but not so curated that it looks staged or artificial to everyone else. It's a farce we're all playing with one another for a society that wants to be understood but not seen. This means that pinning down our most “authentic” self is always elusive. How do we combat this climate of social life that our generation must dwell in? Are genuine connections impossible to pursue? Can we go back to making dependable, faithful friends? In the 1950s, social psychologist Rebecca G. Adams discovered in her research findings that there are three components to a long-lasting friendship: physical proximity, repeated, unplanned interactions, and settings that allow people to let their guard down. Circumstances, where these conditions are met, are increasingly rare to encounter as we all refine our myriad social facades. Perhaps, if we all take a deep breath and devote our time to someone else’s well-being rather than the style of our social media profile, whole-heartedly listen, hold a safe space for those around us, put down judgment, and welcome vulnerability, we can replenish the desolate seeds of modern friendships. Editors: Chris F., Leandra S.

the impossible, beautiful white clouds in their perfect glory hovering over our buildings, trees, and cars down below. we are beneath them, looking up and admiring no wonder when we think of heaven we look up at the white clouds. and white roses so perfect, so pure a creamy vanilla color, the brightest of the batch no wonder we think of perfect, we think of white, clean and flawless. and the daffodils, the chrysanthemums, buttercups and everyone else beautiful, breathtaking, yet they slowly wither, leaves drying up, colors paling, backs hunched over in shame as they look at the ground they know to be their burial place because the sun has no opinion, but Gardener tricks it into making one when all the white roses are perfectly displayed on top of everyone else, soaking in the precious warmth smiling up at the sun, smiling back not aware of the dying flowers in the back. colors paling, backs hunched over in shame as they look at the ground they know to be their burial place. Featured Author: Kelley Kwok (Instagram: @klyelkwk) Author's Note: This piece is about the lack of Asian representation in the media. The white roses represent the beautiful white actors, models, etc, while the chrysanthemums, daffodils, and buttercups (who are just as beautiful and talented) represent Asian talent. The sun represents the audience, the ones who are watching and praising the flowers. Since the "Gardener" placed the white roses on top, the sun shines only on them while the other flowers' dreams are left to wither in the back. Cover Photo Source: All-Free-Downloads

Dear Asian Youth, Art drives the world. Without words, without beauty, who are we? We look to music and to literature in our everyday lives. It shapes our characters, it connects us to others around us, it gives us a channel to let out feelings that we can’t express on our own. It unites us. We see poetry. It is writing, and it is art -- and is incredibly diverse in its endeavors. From it’s rhythm, mood, and symbolism, poetry provides a unique outlet for expression, and has been a significant factor in the artistic developments of cultures all around the world. From Japanese haikus to the European romantic era, this love of poetry has been universal, just as it is timeless. We seek answers to modern questions in these lines and stanzas. Each word is carefully crafted and delicately threaded together to make a poignant statement distinct to its maker. Poetry can be as gentle and airy as it can be bold and hard-hitting. It makes for a diverse coalition of authors and messages, able to shape this mold into whatever they wish -- tackling personal experiences, addressing adversities, empowering others. As an Asian woman, it can be difficult navigating these adversities. We battle between ties with our culture and the need to reject all normalities for self-liberation. We struggle to express ourselves the way we wish -- and the second we do, we are shunned or sexualized. We fight tirelessly against stereotypes and cut-outs that society deems us meant-to-be, still our hope fails from time to time and we think, are these stereotypes really that bad? I could live with this... Microaggressions against Asian women are so widely observed yet so widely ignored -- by both the bystanders that look upon these acts of racism as well as the community that receives them. It’s an endless loop as we struggle to confront these aggressors as we are simultaneously shamed by our peers and relatives, assured that it’s better off if we just don’t. Asian women are put in an impossible dilemma, a middle ground with hardly any ways for us to claim our Asian identity with pride. We fit into one mold but not the other, we can find liberation -- but only with rejection comes with it, we can succumb to these stereotypes at the expense of our confidence. It can become suffocating, searching for an identity that seems so scattered. This is why creativity, literature, and art are so important in this fight for cultural and individual ownership. Here, we take these forms of expression and empty out our feelings of dejection as we empathize with one another, or to uplift our peers with tales of happiness and self-realization. This is where poetry finds its match in this struggle for identity as an Asian woman. Its lines and symbols are crafted towards this cause, creating a community of safety and acceptance as this journey winds on, one that each Asian woman embarks on for the entirety of her life. Theresa Hak Kyung (1951-1982) articulated her feelings of Asian identity through her contemporary novel Dictee, using a combination of her skills in photography, narrative, and poetry to create a highly unique collection of images, writings, and poems -- praised as the cornerstone of contemporary literature. Her childhood experiences fleeing from four invasions amount to her diverse outlook as she moved from place to place throughout Asia, amounting to her expression through poetry in Dictee as she tackles misogyny, colonialism, religion, and more. She writes of her struggle of acceptance in a home that was not her own. Rejection, hurt, failure. This excerpt from Dictee is originally written by Kyung in broken English and French. She battles language through her poetry, paralleled with this battle she fought in her own life, shining a light on an experience that is so familiar to thousands of Asian women, bringing these stories to the larger public audience. Little at a time. The commas. The periods. The pauses. Before and after. Throughout. All advent. All following. Sentences. Paragraphs. Silent. A little nearer. Nearer. Pages and pages in movement line after line void to the left void to the right, void the words the silences. She, too, combats this middle ground, this impossible dilemma. She speaks in broken tongue, unable to find and claim where she truly belongs and what she truly identifies with. We see timelessness and universality in her statements. Asian women are not exempt from these struggles any less than they were decades ago. Asians are shamed by non-Asians for speaking their native language in public. And still, when they do speak English, they are shamed for their odd accents, their odd words, their broken tongue. “White-washed” Asian women feel shame for the distance between them and their heritage, insecurity in their trials, disapproval and mocking from their peers. Her struggle is universal, her struggle is timeless. We feel it too -- ostracized, ridiculed, ignominized. The power of poetry reaches to every fiber of each and every Asian woman that has bit their lip in the face of laughing peers, felt their heart sank at incessant whispers, the rage in the pit of their stomach at the hurl of a name or a catcall. Asian women, reduced to sexual objects, things of desire. We see it in Hollywood, we see it so regularly we hardly bat an eye toward it any longer. When do we find it in ourselves to confront it? We look to art, we look to poetry… it articulates the ways we struggle as we lie awake at night wondering, how do I find myself? and gives us ways of overcoming it… like advice from a loved one, an empowering speech upon a podium. Cathy Hong, poet and author, writes in her essay series, “Minor Feelings”: Once a source of shame, but I now say it proudly: bad English is my heritage. I share a literary lineage with writers who make the unmastering of English their rallying cry—who queer it, twerk it, hack it, Calibanize it, other it by hijacking English and warping it to a fugitive tongue. To other English is to make audible the imperial power sewn into the language, to slit English open so its dark histories slide out.” The glorification of imperialism has overshadowed the racism harbored towards those that do not fit into the desired stereotype molds imposed by colonization for decades. Poetry creates the outlet to dismantle these views, to reassert what it means to be an Asian in the Western world and take back the microaggressions and claim an identity that doesn’t succumb to degrading and silencing stereotypes. Language can unite Asian women. It creates understanding, it creates meaning. Finding empathy and similarity in art makes it known that this combat against acceptance is not individual, it is a shared fight. Cathy Hong describes how this shared fight extends to the confusion that many Asian women encounter in the face of Western society, the overarching issue of the inarticulability of Asian identity. Her Korean heritage and experience in Los Angeles brings to light her insecurities and shame around being an Asian in American culture, as well as racism that came from her own community towards other minorities. Hong discusses the feelings of inadequacy with creating a cultural statement in the sea of so many other ethnic and racial groups, seen “not White/dark enough.” The Asian community is overshadowed, ignored, and ostracized only when to be utilized as a political or racial weapon. We are painted out to be impassive and calm, the “model minority,” the ones that “have it good” and paves the way for ourselves. Art uncovers the truth behind these statements to find a community of those struggling, hurting, barely scraping by. A community that isn’t all perfect grades and role models. She delves into an ocean of “minor,” hostile, belligerent feelings surrounding the place of Asian women in society. Undermined and invalidated almost constantly, Asian women have not been given the chances to create a community of pride and shared identity. Can I write about it without resorting to some facile vision of multicultural oneness or the sterilizing language of virtue signaling? Can I write honestly? Not only about how much I’ve been hurt but how I have hurt others? And can I do it without steeping myself in guilt, since guilt demands absolution and is therefore self-serving? In other words, can I apologize without demanding your forgiveness? Where do I begin? Literature joins us under this painful, shared reality -- one of an endless cycle of guilt, shame, and insecurity. Poets and authors strive to reach Asian women to empathize and alleviate, to stress that these issues surrounding our community need to be addressed. They address larger issues, ones much bigger than us, yet still affect each one of us incredibly intimately and directly. Creative outlets connect, support, and uplift. Both of these women are just a couple shining examples of a coalition of women partaking in an inspiring movement among the Asian community, delving into the problems that Asian women face, crafting their words to cater to the women that share these feelings of hatred or insecurity towards themselves and their cultures. But not only do they find comfort and solace in these experiences, they use it to bring attention to how widespread these issues are, the harms in its universality -- Asian women should be able to express themselves without shame. Making bold, poignant statements to bring light to these issues are the first step in battling the barriers within ourselves and in our environments that prevent us from fully embracing our individuality. With these first steps, we build upon the foundations that artists before us did, climbing pillars to view, with hope and conviction, a future without ambiguity, without dilemma -- but with confidence and reassurance. - Lana We look to art and literature to alleviate the battles and stresses of our everyday lives, but often times the two can be seen working hand-in-hand amongst the sociopolitical scene. Poetry, wholly an art form just as it is literature, is an often overlooked but an incredibly impactful staple in the movement of finding identity as an Asian woman. Constantly bombarded by Western influence and the love-hate relationship with Asian culture, Asian women are stuck in this middle ground, this impossible dilemma, pressures from either side and within themselves keeping them from expressing themselves fully. We bottle up our frustrations and our guilt, scared to speak. Poetry allows us, as a community, to empathize and connect, to address the issues surrounding our insecurities and bring light to a wider audience. It is a step towards a brighter future in which Asian women do not have to shy away in the face of microagressions and rejection, but to claim their identities with pride. Biography: My name is Lana Isabel Abad, I am 16 years old, a first-generation immigrant, and a proud full Filipina. I was born and lived in England for ten years, but I currently reside in California. Dancing has been my biggest passion, but writing comes in as a recently-discovered close second, and I hope to inspire, educate, listen, and learn as I continue this journey. You can find me on Instagram @lanaaisabel :) Cover photo source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/547046685962940514/ Instagram: @lanaaisabel

Dear Asian Youth, One of my favorite articles of clothing in my closet has to be my striped jumpsuit—not because it has stripes or that it can be worn with literally anything, but because it has big pockets. As someone who shops for women’s clothing—whether it be skirts, dresses, or jeans—I, as well as many of my peers, have noticed the lack of pockets. My guy friends can shove whole water bottles in their pants, but I can barely fit my phone in my pocket without half of it sticking out the end. Historically speaking, men and women both lugged pouches slung from a rope and clothes had little slits that allowed one to access their pouches without having to push around your pants or skirt. Then, in 17th century Europe, the idea of concealing your goods became popular, and pockets were directly sewn into the clothing. For women, this meant having pockets under 2 layers of undergarments and a petticoat, between the under-petticoat and main petticoat. The inconvenience and ruffling through layers of fabric was seen as socially inappropriate, restricting women in carrying personal and common items. Meanwhile, males continued with large pockets that allowed them to carry nearly anything they pleased. As time went on, this divide of pockets only, ironically, largened. Women then began carrying reticules, a type of bag similar to the one Lizzo brought to the 2019 AMAs. In time, as Medium suggests, “Women’s pockets essentially disappeared because their husbands would carry all their money and necessities. After all, women were meant to just sit at home, drink tea, prepare meals for their husbands, and knit little jumpers for their hordes of children.” Thus, whether intentional or not, the sexist beginnings took root. Simultaneously, the popularity of slimmer and tight-fitting dresses came into fashion, and the appearance of bulging pockets became a nuisance to the feminine figure. Realizing the injustice in the system, at the turn of the 20th century when wars raged over the world, women began taking back their pocket space. Campaigns by the Rational Dress Society put more than six pockets into clothing in symbolism of their freedom to carry and do as they please. Things have changed now... right? Well, women aren’t expected to wear yards of fabric on our waist anymore, but the same fundamental issue still applies. In a visual diagram by virtual essay weekly journal, Pudding, it's been averaged that “the pockets in women’s jeans are 48% shorter and 6.5% narrower than men’s pockets”, with men’s pockets being, on average, 4 inches longer. This smaller size in pocket length and area can represent a resurgence of the idea that curves and lines should accentuate a woman’s body, thus the smaller pockets to avoid “ruining” that ideal. More than from a fashion perspective, this emphasis on the figure compromises functionality. With the era of technology raging upon us, many smartphones are only getting larger in area with all-around glass displays and touch screens. While it may be easier on the eyes, this doesn’t make it any easier on the pockets. To fit a phone, one has to put their phone in horizontally and at obnoxious angles to stretch the material to its full capacity. To the same degree, only 10% of a woman's hand fits inside her pocket while 100% of it would be able to fit inside a men’s pocket. In argument for smaller pockets, The London Spectator mentioned that “[women] had four external bulges already — two breasts and two hips — and a money pocket inside their dress would make an ungainly fifth”. Luxury brand founder, Christian Dior further cemented the patriarchy of pockets in 1954 allegedly saying, “Men have pockets to keep things in, women for decoration.” Pockets are a symbol of personal freedom and privacy, allowing women to hold things close to themselves and allowing for unaccompanied travel. The wider issue here is the breakdown of harmful stereotypes and the inherent ideas we carry with them. By reclaiming those very things that were pitted against us, as the Radical Dress Society did, we can make a statement and bring light to a long-standing issue. So wear your pockets and bulk them with your keys, phone, and whatever else you can fit because you deserve just as much space. -Allison Li Cover photo source: https://www.sutori.com/story/fashion-timeline-1950-s--6mqjXttzyUH8mkcJ4KcweL3Q