Dear Asian Youth, Sometimes, my Asian friends joke about me. They think it’s hilarious that I’d always get top marks in English, awards for essays about my pain and experiences, and earn praise for my fast memorization of Western history, but then I’d fail all my math tests. “How is your lowest grade Calculus? You’re Asian, Cindy.” It is pretty funny that I love English now, considering the fact that I couldn’t speak the language until I was five. I grew up in a Vietnamese-American household, in a city where all my neighbors were either Latinx or Vietnamese. My parents only knew a little bit of English and I was raised by my grandparents, who didn’t know anything about the language. I learned how to count, point to objects, and listen to music all in Vietnamese. I was so sheltered that I had no idea that this was uncommon for a kid in America. I, like any child, assumed that I was just like everyone else. The first day of preschool was a day I will never forget. Of course, 14 years later, I don’t remember the exact details, but I do remember that my grandparents dressed me in a matching outfit they had bought for me from Little Saigon. I remember the shame and embarrassment I felt from every other kid laughing at me for not speaking English. I cried the entire day, and when my grandparents picked me up my teacher told them that I would have to spend extra time learning English, both with her and on my own at home. I dreaded going back the next day, deciding that I hated preschool and I hated English even more. It was nothing but a language that caused me pain, and it was symbolized by every insult and laugh the other kids hurled at me. Of course, as stubborn as the four-year-old me was, I had to learn English. The struggle I underwent is still documented in some of the progress report cards that my mom kept for me. Reading them now, I think the funniest one was when I wanted to tell my teacher that I went to Disneyland over the weekend. I said, “I go Disney.” She had to sit there and correct me over and over again until I could say “I went to Disneyland.” She put a gold star next to my name, and I’ll never forget how proud my grandparents were of me that day. I decided that English wasn’t actually so bad. My gold star moment was followed by learning how to read. I actually was the first one in my class to memorize the entire alphabet and sound out words. Of course, I had an weird accent that was a combination of toddler babble and Vietnamese tones, but it was a big leap from where I was on my first day. This made me start to love reading. I went from not being able to express that I went to Disneyland to reading Eric Carle books out loud to my grandfather. Kids stopped making fun of me because I was the first one who could read The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar. I still preferred Vietnamese, but I had decided that reading and writing in English (in green crayon chicken scratch, of course) was worth my precious preschool time after all. Eventually, I spoke English fluently. I went to kindergarten and aced all of my spelling quizzes. I put all of my time into reading books way above my grade level and slowly deciphering words that I couldn’t possibly know at my tender age. It was like I had to compensate for that little Vietnamese girl who hadn’t known a single word in English. I loved learning about American history so much that I rejected math and science. I foolishly decided that being good at those subjects would make me a nerd, an Asian stereotype that had already been ingrained in my brain when I was in elementary school. I would aim for only average in those subjects, barely able to grasp long division. I would be good at English and history just to show those other kids that I was better than them at subjects that I believed were meant for people like them and not people like me. I look back on this and I let out a painful laugh, streaked with tears. I didn’t know that I was basically craving the validation of non-Asian students and teachers by trying to be better than them at subjects society didn’t think I would be the best at. By this time, speaking Vietnamese became embarrassing for me. I refused to learn how to read or write it and insisted on speaking in English in public, even if my parents couldn’t catch up. Middle school flew by, and before I knew it, I was in high school. This was when I learned how to write more than book reports. I wrote and wrote about my pain, my suffering. I weaponized my tears, writing about all those times I felt defeated by my personal demons because I thought to myself that this is what colleges and scholarships wanted to see. And yet again, English became painful. It pained me to write about clawing down my throat and losing so many people and crying myself to sleep and waking up with scars and becoming a woman and being Asian-American. But I could no longer find comfort in the once familiar Vietnamese. All those books and essays, all of that shame I had to overcome from not knowing English, and now… I didn’t know Vietnamese anymore. I stumbled over my words, I couldn’t sound out a single word in Vietnamese and I couldn’t read the billboards in Little Saigon. English was painful, but Vietnamese seemed lost forever. I have to slowly rediscover my lost language every day. I watch shows in Vietnamese with my parents. I try to understand every word, but I have to ask once in a while what a phrase means. I feel too shy to order in Vietnamese at a restaurant, but I’ve stopped feeling ashamed about speaking it to my parents in public. I’ve been trying my best to practice, even if I feel hopeless sometimes. My culture was never lost, never taken from me. I just chose to abandon it. Now I have to find it again, step by step, day by day. - Cindy

Dear Asian Youth, The world is not made for women—from the gender wage gap to sexual assault statistics, women have a significantly harder time than males of the same demographic, education level, and social status. Not only do women face these inequalities, but they are also subject to harassment for the same roles they have been forced into playing. Women are often stereotyped as shallow and exclusively caring about appearances. In the media, they are often depicted shopping or spending large amounts of money on things like makeup. At the same time, young girls are taught to be “feminine” and wear things like dresses and makeup. We teach them to be primarily pretty—traits like intelligence and athleticism come second. It’s no wonder we care so much about appearances. While consistently telling girls “you’re beautiful” seems like it would solve this problem, it can actually be counterproductive as it reinforces the argument that they are valued for their looks. It is not every woman’s job to be beautiful, and more focus should be given to things like character or accomplishments. If we want women to stop caring about things we deem shallow, we need to first stop determining their value based on these same old-fashioned factors. Along with appearance, a woman’s body is often the subject of scrutiny. Various, often conflicting, body standards are placed on them, and we are constantly bombarded with the idea that thin is good, thin is healthy. As a result, women can feel guilty for eating. Yet, how many times have you heard a guy claim “I like a girl who can eat?” Many people complain of women “stealing” bites of someone else’s food at the restaurant table after claiming they aren’t hungry. Initially, this may just seem like an irritating habit, but there is more to this small action that meets the eye. Women are taught that they need to be thin to be beautiful and are subject to the beauty standards of the day. We default to something like a salad despite how hungry we are when ordering food. Once we realize what we really wanted were some fries, we will reach for those fries. In the same way, we are mocked both for adhering to the principles determined by the people who simultaneously mock us for not adhering to them. Finally, women are often made fun of for requiring a friend’s company to do something as basic as going to the bathroom. However, with the high incidence of sexual assault, women are also taught that they shouldn’t be alone, that they should go places with a friend or family member to avoid getting assaulted; they are pushed towards co-dependency. Women shouldn’t have to alter their behavior to be granted basic human respect. When we teach this to girls, we are enforcing rape culture—we are teaching them that someone less cautious will get assaulted in their place, rather than teaching people shouldn’t get assaulted in the first place. But at the same time, it is undeniable that it is significantly more dangerous for a woman to be alone. Apparently, requiring a friend to accompany you is illogical, yet also absolutely necessary, and women get hate for doing either of those things. There’s no way to win. It is unlikely that these stereotypes that are deeply rooted in our society will go away any time soon. Ultimately, if something makes you happy, just do it. You won’t please everyone, but there really is no need to appease people who don’t matter in your life. If anybody needs to be discontent as a result of your actions, it shouldn’t be you. - Erika Cover Photo Source: The AOI

Dear Asian Youth, The fragrant smell of roasting pork belly (lechon) permeates the air, seeping into every nook and cranny. An aromatic blend of soy sauce (toyo) and vinegar (suka) simmers on the stovetop along with a myriad of spices, forming a savory stew. A faint spattering of all-purpose flour and a tottering pile of golden peels remains on the kitchen counter, leftover scraps from baking a layered mango cake. I sit at the kitchen table and scoop spoonfuls of meat filling into individual wrappers, helping my mother roll her lauded egg rolls (lumpiang shanghai). This is the most hectic our kitchen has ever been, but all Filipinos know that any good party requires an endless array of delicious, authentic cuisine. In the 90s, my parents travelled halfway across the world to the “land of opportunity,” searching for a new life. They voluntarily left the place they called home for a strange land, choosing to forego the security of belonging, of being part of the majority rather than the minority. Their darker skin and accented tongue–previously universal amongst the residents of the Philippines–now distinguished them as immigrants. Although the process of assimilation was made easier by a strong support system (i.e. several friends who had decided to move to the States a few years prior), my parents were oftentimes homesick for a place they chose to leave. While they were no longer in the Philippines, they could bring the faintest bit of their old home to their new home through food. Born in America, I had vastly different experiences. At first glance, people in the United States look at me and categorize me as yet another Asian. Outwardly, my features are glaringly, decidedly not that of my Caucasian peers–my brown skin, black hair, petite stature, and wide face are much different from the norm. However, I dress, talk, and act like an “American.” When I visited the Philippines at ten years old, I was shocked. For the first time, I was surrounded by people with the same brown skin, black hair, petite stature, and wide face. However, I quickly realized that although I may appear Filipino through my features, I am absolutely, completely, thoroughly white-washed. I don’t know Tagalog, save for the most rudimentary words and phrases. The struggles I face on a day-to-day basis are radically different than those of my cousins from the so-called “Motherland.” The slang I use, the clothes I wear, the shows I watch, and the books I read are all different from my Filipino counterparts. I felt like an imposter–in both the land I was raised and the land where my parents were raised. I often found myself wondering: Where do I belong? Who am I? Food grounds me. Just as it is an avenue that connects my parents to the home they left, it is a medium through which I can connect to the home where I never lived. To me, comfort food doesn’t lie in mac and cheese, beef chili, or chicken pot pie, but rather, in kaldereta, ukoy, and kare kare. Even the way I eat my food–either with my fingers or with a fork in my left and a spoon in my right–signifies that I am more than just “American.” Additionally, food-centered traditions like pancit for long life on birthday celebrations and twelve (or more) round fruits on New Year’s take root in my Filipino heritage (although the latter has Chinese origins). On that fateful trip to the Philippines, I found that I could still share in the communal experience of eating with friends and family. For me, food is so much more than a necessary component to human survival–so much more than a means to achieve a satiated stomach. My mother is an amazing cook, with generations of family recipes at her culinary arsenal. As a child, I woke up to breakfasts such as champorado and longganisa, I went to school swinging my lunch box stuffed with adobo and white rice, and I came home to dinners like sinigang and chicken tinola. These meals I grew up eating took time, labor, and love. I had no hankering, no desire to give up my mother’s home-cooked meals in favor of sodium-filled, cholesterol-laden fast food; why ingest a Wendy’s Frosty if I could mix together halo-halo? Why consume a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder if I had pancit palabok at home? Why chow down on a Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme if I could do the same with lechon kawali? The practice of eating a shared, collective meal opened the door to understanding more about my culture. As the years have progressed, my mother has taught me her culinary ways. I graduated from simply eating the meals set at the table to learning how to operate the trusty family rice cooker, harvesting calamansi and mango and papaya from my Lolo’s (Grandfather’s) garden, making simple sweets such as flan, yema, and polvoron, and forming dozens and dozens of siomai and lumpia. With each additional hour spent in the kitchen, I’ve been exposed to more than just various spices and family recipes; I’ve learned history–the unique flavor of each dish, the fruits and vegetables native to the Southeast Asian archipelago, and the technique used to create each recipe is something unique to only the Philippines. I’ve experienced (not just learned about) the food my mother and her own mother grew up eating–three generations of women, savoring and sharing in one collective meal. One of my favorite Filipino desserts is halo-halo–a delightful blend of shaved ice and evaporated milk, sweetened beans and saccharine fruit, ube ice cream and creamy leche flan, and other assorted toppings. Halo-halo’s literal translation is “mix-mix”: only once each individual ingredient combines in a sweet synchronization of flavor can it be fully enjoyed. I like to think of myself in terms of this refreshing dessert; just as this heavenly amalgamation is served in layers, my varying and unique life experiences have shaped the person I am today. Much like this complex treat, I am a person composed of contradictions and dualities: even though I was born in the United States, I am just as Filipino as I am American. Just like halo-halo as a whole tastes better than the sum of its parts, I am a person made better by my connection to both the Land of Opportunity and the Pearl of the Orient Seas. - Justine Torres

Dear Asian Youth, I remember my time in Vietnam very clearly. The mopeds were incessantly honking outside. Kids with their parents were eating pho on stools in the streets, and men were drinking Vietnamese coffee with their morning newspaper. By my seventh day, I still had not found any new clothes that fit me for my time there. When I packed for my trip, I was told to pack lightly. Shorts, breathable t-shirts, and shoes that I could walk around in. Why would I bring my own clothes that were totally not fit for a humid climate when I could go there and just buy more? My goal was to find a beautiful ao dai to take back to California, since my mom told me that nothing could beat the ones in Vietnam. That’s when I found out that not a lot of the clothes that were in stores fit me. I was called “big” by a male family friend when he picked us up from the airport. Nobody even batted an eye at it. It’s pretty standard behavior there. In America, I’m a standard Large. I weigh around 160 pounds. I can find shirts for myself almost anywhere I go, except maybe Brandy Melville or Pacsun. But in Vietnam, I quickly found myself feeling like an outsider. I went from seeing the “L” on my shirts to seeing “XXL” or even “XXXL.” Storekeepers would have to dig around in their boxes to find shirts that could fit me. It was impossible to find a bra in my size at the department store—the clerk asked me and my aunt why I didn’t just go to a lingerie store or somewhere they could cater to bigger girls like me. She said that in “normal” stores, they wouldn’t just carry around clothes that were that big because it wasn’t a common size that many women looked for. Of course, I could not find any ao dai in my size premade or being sold in any kiosks. I came to a shocking realization: Vietnam’s typical clothing sizes were way different than our sizes, and there was a lack of plus-size clothes. But why? Unfortunately, fat-shaming is not uncommon in Vietnamese culture. We are a group of brutally honest people who speak our minds and comment on our family members’ images without much hesitation. I cannot count how many times I have been called too fat or have been told I’m showing too much cleavage because my shirt was too tight, even while wearing a sweater. Additionally, there is an image most girls there try to reach: cute, petite, with long hair and a beautiful smile. My mother has told me many times she wishes I could dress more like a Vietnamese girl, in the Korean-style fashion that has become popular there and with lots of pastels, or wear less makeup so I look “more like a young girl and less like a witch.” Obviously, not every girl thinks this way. There are rebels everywhere, and, as we become more and more progressive, the culture of fat-shaming starts to peel away bit by bit. The Vietnamese are slowly accepting all body types, but the only way I can see this change happening fast is by having more conversations about how different body types are all beautiful and adding more inclusive size ranges. However, nothing can change if we keep letting our family members chastise us for our weight and accept having no representation on Vietnamese television of any women who aren’t petite. Nothing can happen when Vietnamese media continues to promote petite celebrities as leading characters and show hosts while casting aside plus-size actresses, like Nguyen Minh Thao, as comic relief and supporting roles. Vietnamese game shows are all the hype there right now, more so than soap operas or scripted shows, but there is still a stigma of having women of all body types represented on them in a positive light. On a comedic dating show, Bạn muốn hẹn hò, the men on the show typically express a desire for small, pure women, casting aside any desires for women not fitting into this image. Men, on the other hand, don’t seem to struggle with this issue. This is because while men of course also face these issues, it is not just expected of men to be thin to look good for women. Not a lot of the women on that dating show ask for thin men compared to all the men who ask for tiny, petite women. All of this adds to a toxic culture so hyper-fixated on women’s weights that it has become a literal joke. So what can we do? Until the culture of fat-shaming can end, we need to realize how disgustingly judgmental and toxic it is. We have to stand up to family members who comment on our weight. We have to advocate for more diversity in Asian media. It’s time for our generation to be able to openly discuss weight in a positive manner and realize that we are able to change how body image is perceived in our communities. - Cindy

Dear Asian Youth, “As you focus on clearing your generational trauma, do not forget to claim your generational strengths. Your ancestors gave you more than just wounds.” This is a message to children of immigrants: Never forget your roots. Never forget where you came from, for forgetting exposes your greatest weaknesses and hides your greatest strengths. You are the child of immigrants; you are the child whose ancestors crossed great oceans and lands in search of hope. They walked into a land that did not welcome them. Leaving their home of generations past to begin again in a new land. They left never knowing if they would return. You are the child of risk-takers that placed everything they had on the horizon of a new day. They gave everything they had to be in a new land. They risked their lives and livelihoods. You are the child of diplomats. Arriving in a land that would not welcome them, learning a new language, and understanding a new culture, your ancestors worked to be accepted. You are the child of scholars who, by the nature of their environment, had to learn every day. You are the child of so many things. But you are also the child of deep pain. You are the child of war, poverty, and loss. You are the child of heartbreak and fear. You are the child born with scars made decades before your birth. But... From this, your ancestors rose, and so will you. You are the child of risk-takers, the child of diplomats, the child of scholars, and the child of so much more. You, yes, you, are the product of every triumph and every fear of generations past. But like your ancestors, you will rise. Rise above it all and more. Each generation takes on the torch of the past, but attached is the baggage as well. One day, you too must open that baggage and unpack everything that is in it. Take what you need, and leave what weighs you down. This is why you must never forget. From the moment you were born, you held this torch and this baggage. And it is within your hands to do as you wish with it. But know that every generation has placed something in there, for you. - Chris Fong Chew Cover Photo Source: https://upliftconnect.com/heal-your-brain-by-reversing-generational-trauma/

I took World History in my freshman year of high school, hoping to expand my mind to cultures beyond the strict borders of my very small, eurocentric town. For once, my expectations were above the bare minimum I had designated toward America’s public school education. I embarked on a new journey with every lecture, traveling from the sermons of Rufi, the great Sufi poet, in the Golden Age of Islam to the French Revolution, where I could feel the very spirit of Robespierre inching toward my neck with a guillotine. My professor seemed to teach freely and without bias, sporting a glint in his smile when he described the fall of the Berlin Wall as if he were telling an ancient story. I should’ve known that in my town, where the flag of ignorance waved proudly, classes like World History were never spotless for long. As an Indian-American raised in the United States, I had experienced my fair share of racism by the blossoming age of fourteen. Sometimes, it came in the form of a microaggression when my classmates asked if I spoke Hindu or why I didn’t smell like garlic naan. My personal favorite, the one I’d grown the most tired of overtime, was a racist remark masquerading as a sickeningly-sweet question—what kind of Indian are you? My classmates never acknowledged the difference between the Native American Indigenous and Indian populations, not when Christopher Columbus had deemed the two terms as interchangeable long ago. From their ignorant perspective, I couldn’t be a real Indian if I didn’t know the symbols of the Cherokee language or the history of the Trail of Tears. I would never be considered an American either, not while my dark brown skin reigned supreme. Calling myself a combination of the two, a proud Indian-American, was a catalyst for the “but what are you, really?” comments. After months of trying to find the perfect label to represent me, I decided to start with my own name. I adjusted the pronunciation—ahNAANyuh instead of aNUNyuh—to better fit the tongues of my white peers. Though the result didn’t quite sound like me, I had grown tired of fighting for an identity that no one wanted to learn. I wished that my classmates had taken World History to eliminate their internal biases, and along the way, they would recognize that India had so much more to offer than Apu from the Simpsons and chicken tikka masala. I expected them to open their minds to another culture beyond their own and maybe they would understand why I was initially so eager to identify as part of two countries instead of one. I should’ve known better. My professor, who I had once believed to be unbiased, began our India unit with a video of “my people” bowing down to a cow in the middle of the road. The next slide in his presentation was a saint, crossing his legs in the middle of the forest, meant to illustrate the popular religion of Hinduism practiced in India. The remainder of the PowerPoint was riddled with various microaggressions, stereotypes, and misrepresentations. My classmates turned to me, one of the few women of color most of them had ever seen in their lifetime, after each slide. At that moment, I realized that I had become my town’s token curry-guzzling, cow-worshipping, spiritually-awakened Indian yogi. My professor continued with a lecture on India’s rigid caste system, used to discriminate against innocent citizens. He compared the hierarchy to the South African Apartheid of the late 20th Century. The girl sitting beside me flashed a heated look, and at that moment, I knew exactly what she was thinking—how could I identify with a nation that would commit such atrocities? My professor referenced various statistics that detailed how India was the rape capital of the world and that most of its citizens live in poverty, crowded under clouds of Delhi air pollution. He even claimed with confidence that many Indian men did not believe in contraception, which was why India had one of the highest populations in the world. I left World History in a hurry that day, my eyes focused on the floor. I tried to stomach the angry tears threatening to spill down my cheeks as I stormed down the halls to the cafeteria. The minute I arrived at my lunch table, a safe haven I’d spent all period looking forward to, my friends asked me if it was true. They asked me if the caste system in India ever made me feel oppressed. They asked me if my family lived in little huts made of straw under a bridge across the Ganges River, surrounded by trash and covered in dirt. I didn’t know how to stand up for my entire country, so I didn’t. I stuffed my face with a dried-up paratha, hoping the flaky comfort food would soothe my anxiety and give me an excuse not to respond. My friends waited for an extra minute as if they expected me to change my mind and educate them anyway, before moving on with their lives. World History was the first class where my identity was thrust upon me. It didn’t matter what I wanted to call myself anymore. I now represented the ugliest stereotypes of my country, from the systemic poverty to the dirty streets. As much as I wanted to identify with India’s colorful festivals and savory foods, instead, I ended up believing my professors—that my ethnicity, my religion, and my skin tone were inherently shameful. I wonder if my parents had sensed the disillusionment in their once-proud daughter because they’d booked a roundtrip to India the following summer without a single warning. I was reluctant at first, not wanting to be associated with a vacation that wasn't somewhere “normal” like Lake Tahoe, but my parents told me that I needed a cultural reset. My family descended from the state of Kerala, which I learned boasts a one-hundred percent literacy rate. Of course, there were homeless people scattered about, but my father reminded me that poverty existed worldwide, whether it be in New York City or Mumbai. Once we’d landed in a modern, glistening airport, I was greeted by my extended family for the first time in years. I noticed that my grandparents engaged with our cab driver—who used to be of a lower caste—as if they were childhood friends. Later, I was taught that India had not legally implemented the caste system since 1948. Contrary to my public school education, my country isn’t a third-world hell. It is woefully misunderstood, and always will be, by a school administration that chooses not to see beyond the imperial haze of white history. Throughout the course of our vacation, I learned that my history curriculum was never quite made for people like me. As long as it continues to be written by the descendants of masked colonialists, I will never see myself represented properly. There comes a sense of freedom with knowing that my education doesn’t define who I am. Although it broke my heart to know that I was failed by a system that should have supported me from the very beginning, this pain brought me to an important realization. I am Indian and I am also American and I love both of my identities. - Ananya

1. They said there was a suicide on Gajwa Road, and now it’s haunted. Hwangeum Street is empty. If you want silence, you can go to Gwanak District, but that’s too far. 2. Jieun Kim from apartment 113 hitchhiked on a dream, the fleeting midnight KORAIL. She left with skinny arms, in a gingham skirt but came home with a broken wrist to match her heart. Maybe in another life, the train would slow for her and she would stay. 3. Seohyun moved back in 2001. She brought us plastic dolls and made-up stories. She said it felt weird here, after seeing bigger and better. Said it felt lonely. I thought she was right. 4. “Please keep off of the train tracks.” The speakers scream, monotone. A pudgy, wide-eyed little girl steps behind the yellow caution tape. “Officials are on their way.” It’s rush hour. The girl begins to cry and the deaf man hears her, takes her home. 5. My grandmother asks if I am going to stay. I tell her I don’t know. You will? she smiles. Yes, I will. 6. Sangmin, 16, sits on an apartment veranda. He thinks maybe gravity will work the same here as it did for Galileo in another life, a prettier city, a leaning tower. He drops his books and they fall, un remark ably. Inside, the pudgy kids are playing on with plastic dolls, The kids are happy and alone, wide-eyed and alone. 7. My mom grew up on Namsan, a mountain in the west. I climbed it last night and yelled from its peak. 8. Eunji got into Yonsei University. Her parents threw her a party but she didn’t go. She spent the night watching trains at the station. All she’d ever wanted was excellence, but she loved the trains to death. 9. My parents picked a random apartment high-rise out of thousands in the city. It had nice gray walls and a sturdy veranda. They sat me down and turned the TV up high to drown out the trains below me. I grow up with my eyes glued straight ahead. On the screen, a news anchor reports on a suicide. 8. My mom grew up on Namsan, a mountain in the west. In the spring, it blooms with pretty flowers and it’s almost worth the winter. 7. On Sunday, I sat in Yeouido Park. I thought if I squinted past the smog, I could see the sun. It looked nice. Three months later, I moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, and it felt like another life, a prettier city, a crooked building. It wasn’t Seoul, so I pretended it was. 6. Seohyun never came home. She’d seen too much, now her lungs gasping for air in the crowded streets, eyes searching for blue in a blur of gray. She started community college last week. 5. The best view of Seoul is from above. “First responders are coming. Please clear the area.” But Seoul is pretty from inside the speeding trains, too. All blurry and static. 4. Eunji was in love with the subway. She went to school for medicine, studied train schedules at night. She spent her afternoons sitting on the tracks watching trains depart, never the same one twice. I am going to live if it kills me, I am going to live if it kills me. The vibrations wracked her heart and when she reached out, sprained her wrist. She goes to class with her arm in a sling. 3. Seohyun disappeared. Her parents cried. Her bones turned to steel, her eyes stretched into one-way windows. She spent every night running. Away, away, away, never the same place twice. Her parents kneeled on sidewalk vents, praying for help. What had gone wrong? They’d given her everything. 2. Sangmin saw himself on the news: a girl splayed on the train tracks. They said it wasn’t a suicide. They said she’d jumped from an unyielding building, through the vents, face first onto the train tracks. Death by gravity. Now, she’s bleeding into the cement, and the blood seeps down, down, away. Death by Seoul. Sangmin wonders if she was one of the kids inside, happy and wide-eyed and alone. Maybe, if he turned, he would’ve seen her run her hands along the plastic train tracks like she knew. Death by Sangmin. 1. They said there was a suicide on Gajwa Road, and now it’s haunted. Cover Photo Source: https://english.hani.co.kr/arti/english_edition/e_national/973945.html

Dear Asian Youth, Climate experts from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change have made it abundantly clear that our global average temperature must stay below 1.5° C. If not, we will be forced to deal with an onslaught of issues ranging from devastating wildfires and droughts to deadly heat stress, all of which will cost millions of taxpayer dollars and even more human lives. I always presumed that I would be long gone before climate change got that bad, but not only are we predicted to reach 1.5°C by 2036, we are actually on track to completely surpass this benchmark. 2036 is only sixteen years away. In sixteen years our generation will still be fully alive and forced to watch the disastrous, irreversible consequences of climate change sweep the world. In other words, we’re completely screwed. However, while the effects of climate change are widespread, it is important to remember that the effects of climate change influence the poor and working-class disproportionately. The rich are able to use their money as a shield to avoid most of the disastrous consequences. For example, when droughts impact our access to water and changes in climate conditions cause food shortages, only the wealthiest will be able to afford these resources. Furthermore, when climate change causes an increase in waterborne diseases along with illnesses transmitted by insects and rodents, those that can't even afford basic health care will be unable to seek treatment for these conditions. Not to mention that as floods, hurricanes, and wildfires sweep the nation, people who can’t keep food on the table, let alone pay for insurance will not be able to rebuild their lives. This pattern has already emerged throughout our country’s history. Just look at the victims of natural disasters such as Hurricane Katrina. It has been 15 years since this incident, and the rebuilding of New Orleans is still a work in progress. While the richer areas have been restored, historically low-income neighborhoods such as Lower Ninth Ward, where the average resident was living on an annual salary of $16,000, have still not recovered. To make matters worse, 2020 is on track to be one of the warmest years in history, and we are going to be forced to see an influx of natural disasters among a range of other horrors. Previous devastations such as Hurricane Katrina have proven that people who are not wealthy have trouble recovering from these disasters. This socioeconomic inequality means that climate change is much more than an environmental issue — it’s a social justice issue. Unfortunately, the people in government who are expected to fight for the working class, are the same people who have the money to avoid most of the issues associated with climate change. Not only do government officials get to avoid these issues, but they can profit from the cause of these issues. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but perhaps the lack of politicians advocating for the elimination of fossil fuels has something to do with the fact that politicians are spending money privately funded by fossil fuels companies. A prime example is Trump’s 2017 inauguration. According to the Center for Public Integrity, “oil, gas, and coal companies and executives contributed more than $1 out of every $10 raised for Trump’s inauguration, for which he raised nearly $107 million overall.” It doesn't end there. An investigative journal called Sludge revealed that as of December 13th, 2019, 134 members of Congress and their spouses own up to $92.7 million in fossil fuel stocks. Not to mention that House members own somewhere between roughly $29.5 million and $78.2 million in fossil fuel stocks, while senators have invested somewhere between $3.8 million and $14.5 million in this sector. Politicians are not impartial. In our corrupt government, those in positions of power continue to make money off the success of the fossil fuel industry. They have a motive for ignoring the need to address climate change. In fact, nothing is stopping them from trying to deregulate the fossil fuel industry and watching their stocks soar, so no wonder we have not seen nearly enough change to match the urgency of this global crisis. Compare the United State’s inaction to the lengths that other countries have gone to combat climate change, and you will see that the United State’s government is allowing our country to fall behind. Sweden, for example, adopted a new climate policy framework in 2017. This framework includes the Climate Act, which states that the government will present a climate report each year, create a climate policy action plan every fourth year, and ensure that climate policy goals match budget targets. Long term, the Swedish government has repeatedly claimed that they are going to eliminate all fossil fuels by 2045. All in all, these actions have made Sweden the most sustainable country in the world. Other countries are following suit with similar goals. In 2017, Kenya banned all plastic bags. If seen with a plastic bag, one could be arrested, charged, or fined up to $40,000. Furthermore, France has recently gotten rid of single-use plastic and made statements that they would like to achieve a circular economy by 2025 and no carbon emissions by 2050. In comparison, the United States has not taken nearly enough action. It doesn’t have to be this way. The United States could potentially be a leader in climate sustainability and in combating climate change if given a leader who does not have ulterior motives. After all, the US is in a position of wealth that allows our government to actually make a difference. The issue is that not enough funding is being funneled towards the environment. In 2017 for example, the EPA’s budget was $8.14 billion. $8.14 billion only accounts for 0.2 percent of the projected $4 trillion 2017 federal budget. Despite this startlingly low percentage, Trump has proposed cuts to the EPA’s budget, which would bring down the agency’s yearly costs from $25 per American to $18.81 per American. For comparison, in 2019, our country spent 50.6% of our federal discretionary funds on national defense. Imagine what could be accomplished if even a small percentage of that money was used to prevent climate change instead. Luckily, there are people within the government who are trying to direct more attention and funds to addressing climate change. A primary example is Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a congresswoman who not only fights for the working class but has taken a pledge to refuse any corporate funding, including money from fossil fuel companies. She has proposed a congressional resolution called the Green New Deal, that urges our government to decarbonize the economy. The Green New Deal is not a piece of legislation, but it is simply a 14-page document outlining the congress’s goals for our future, and it is the first step to addressing climate change. At its core, it reflects what climate scientists have been advising us to do since the 1970s: eliminating all fossil fuels. This means finding clean, renewable, and zero-emission energy sources to meet 100 percent of the country’s power demand. Complying with this proposal will require everything from constructing new transportation systems, reevaluating building standards, changing the production strategy of materials, and reworking industrial agriculture. While initially, this will be a huge undertaking, once we instate this new system and renewable energy sources are considered the norm, our everyday lives will continue as usual. However, for this “new normal” to be achieved, we need to be willing to take this step forward; the Green New Deal is the only piece of congressional resolution that addresses the fact that our world is going into ruins. A rise in the fossil fuel industry is making climate change exponentially worse and we are too far gone to find the middle ground or attempt to make incremental progress. At this point, it’s all or nothing, and the Green New Deal reflects this urgency. The other major part of the Green New Deal is that it ensures a socially just shift for the working-class. The 2019 US Energy and Employment Report details the number of Americans employed by the Traditional Energy Sector (fossil fuel sector). The Fuels sector employed 1,127,600, the Electric Power Generation sector employed 875,600, and the Transmission, Distribution, and Storage sector employed more than 2.3 million Americans. Millions of individuals depend on the fossil fuel industry to keep them employed and decarbonizing the industry would leave them unemployed. Furthermore, as the country takes on the task of decarbonization, wealthy corporations will jump in to build these projects and the good jobs will go to those who can afford the training, causing even more socioeconomic injustice. This is where the second part of the Green New Deal comes into play. The resolution states that “...the Green New Deal mobilization creates high-quality union jobs that pay prevailing wages, hires local workers, offers training and advancement opportunities, and guarantees wage and benefit parity for workers affected by the transition.” Offering these individuals the training necessary along with quality job opportunities with high wages not only addresses the issue of mass unemployment, but prevents an unfair economic cycle where the rich get richer while the poor get poorer. Furthermore, the Green New Deal goes on to state that these workers will also be given free health care, a right that ought to be promised to every American in a first-world nation. Despite what right-winged media (cough cough Fox News) says, giving these working-class Americans proper resources is not socialism. It is a socially just promise that nobody will be left behind during this transition. The Green New Deal may seem drastic, but it is a piece of necessary action. Our country has been putting off addressing the issue at hand and this is the cost. The Green New Deal is expensive and difficult to implement, but in the words of congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, “we’re going to pay for this whether we pass a Green New Deal or not. Because as towns and cities go underwater, as wildfires ravage our communities, we are going to pay. And we’re either going to decide if we’re going to pay to react, or pay to be proactive.” If we choose inaction, then the poor and working-class will be the ones to suffer first. We have to fight for not only our own futures, but for the people who have the least power in our society. We need more people to attend climate change marches, use our platforms to preach the urgency of rising temperatures, and donate to organizations such as the Sunrise Movement which advocates for the Green New Deal. Furthermore, it is our responsibility to use websites such as policy link to urge the congressperson for our districts to move the resolution forward to hearings. However, over everything else, , we must show support for politicians who have our best interest at heart. Ensure that whoever you vote for refuses corporate funding from fossil fuels companies and promises to advocate for the Green New Deal. Our government has neglected the issue of climate change for far too long, so it is now up to us to force their hand. -Lora

Dear Asian Youth, I’m a big fan of animated films. Call me immature, but my attention span is literally nonexistent. It can only be captured through bright, flashy cartoons. Some of my fondest memories were made inches in front of the TV screen, enjoying Disney classics like The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and Cinderella III: A Twist in Time. Disney films were a major part of my childhood; even today, I enjoy browsing their streaming service to scour some lost Disney gems. I have a soft spot for their princess lineup. They’ve captured my attention through fantastical and charming storytelling, and hold a special place in my heart. However, I can’t ignore the intrusive thought that’s been gnawing at the back of my head for a long, long time: None of them look like me. It’s something I’ve noticed since I was a child., I’ve brushed it off, simply being in favor of celebrating the fact that they’ve added quite a few BIPOC princesses to their roster. Some depictions are more respectful than others...I mean, Moana’s depiction of Polynesian peoples is definitely better than Pocahontas’ portrayal of Native Americans. But representation is representation... right? Not quite. You see, as an avid movie-goer, I’ve noticed how problematic the Disney princess lineup is when it comes to portraying leading ladies of color. They become more apparent as I remove the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia and examine these movies in a more objective light. Raya and the Last Dragon A film I’ve been quietly anticipating is Raya and The Last Dragon. Its anticipated release is scheduled for March 2021. Raya and the Last Dragon stars a warrior on the hunt for the last dragon (as the title suggests) and is supposed to be set in a Southeast Asian fantasy world. My excitement is palpable as it seems my childhood dream for a Filipino princess is coming to fruition. Still, I’m slightly wary. I’ve come to notice that the settings within POC princess movies aren’t exactly treated with grace. A film that springs to mind for me is Mulan. One of my favorites growing up. Mulan, a story based upon a Chinese tale, is heavily westernized, with its cultural core being distilled through recognizable and digestible elements. The original story of Mulan, Ode of Mulan, is a Confucian tale that embodies the idea of filial piety throughout its narrative. Filial piety is a moral ideal which emphasizes respect in subordinate-senior relationships. Under filial piety, respect towards elders and rigid patriarchal structure are present. Filial piety is still heavily present within Chinese culture today- through strong familial values and honor towards one’s ancestry. Ode of Mulan demonstrates how important the concept was in ancient China. To summarize, Mulan’s dedication towards her father overrode the importance of the traditionally feminine gender roles enforced upon women at the time. Mulan filled the role of a traditional Chinese woman — in general, a homemaker. But when the time came to help her father, Mulan’s true filial role was to take his place in a war, since he could not physically fight. Still, the womanly tasks introduced in the text arel tied to filial dedication, and the story ends with Mulan realizing that her true duty is to be a Confucian bride. While texts vary a little, what should be understood is that filial piety is at the forefront of morality within Mulan’s narratives. I understand that comparing an older piece of text to a modern adaptation is relatively difficult. After all, the point of Mulan isn’t to teach audiences about Confucian ideals. The point is to encourage young people to be proud of who they are, have courage, and demonstrate strength through different facets. It handles its message with relative grace. And by no means do I think it is a bad movie. However, what Mulan does demonstrate is how Asian culture is made more palatable for American film audiences. The original Ode of Mulan’s theme did not align to American ideals, so the story’s main idea was changed to fit an American frame of mind. Disney’s Mulan is by no means a traditional Confucian woman. She’s tomboyish, somewhat clumsy, and outspoken. These elements serve the new meaning of modern Mulan. Her qualities are supposed to be embraced, and the society that she lives in is painted as regressive by contrast. There is little mention of filial piety. One could argue that Disney Mulan’s quest for honor represents the ideal, as ancestral respect is touched on within the movie, but the point is not prominent to the same extent of Mulan’s struggles against sexism and tradition. This results in a lot of BIPOC American children feeling as if they have to compromise parts of their culture. In my own personal experience, it seems that so much of Disney media screams “Break tradition and outdated standards!” which has contradicted what I have been taught. In many Asian cultures, there’s a heavy emphasis on familial values, respect towards elders, and tradition. Princess movies directly challenge those ideals and portray being rebellious or modern as something everyone should strive for. Pocahontas marches to the beat of her own drum as a free-spirited girl who embraces the New World. Moana is the pioneer of her people and triumphs tradition. Mulan leads by breaking all the rules. And sure, that’s all well and good, but it indirectly calls important aspects of culture downright wrong. Plenty of BIPOC kids, myself included, struggle to accommodate the cultural ideals of our American nationality and our ethnicity. These narratives contribute to the idea that we have to choose between the two. They show American beliefs as objectively better, which is harmful to creating diverse perspectives. Being exposed to people who think differently, especially at a young age, is wildly beneficial. It helps everyone learn new things and fosters empathy early on. Culture in Disney films feels almost like a backdrop to me;their stories are essentially white narratives. Mulan was directed by two white men, after all, so it's safe to say the directors lacked a certain empathy for the importance of maintaining the cultural authenticity of the story. This brings to light why we need BIPOC spearheading these projects. For the sake of authentic presentation! Confucian ideals are loosely tied into Mulan, and exposure to such subjects should be more common. Disney’s primary audience is children. By making culture more palatable, no matter how respectful the representation is, will simply make the actual culture seem more foreign. While perhaps Confucian principles aren’t very aligned with modern-day thinking, filial piety in Chinese culture is still present. My issue with Disney is not the fact that they failed to adapt Ode of Mulan to perfection, it is the fact that there is no true acknowledgement of Chinese principles and tradition. Mulan is one instance of many that embodies my concern for digestible and Americanized stories. Aladdin, a film set in Southwest Asia, caters to a familiar, American depiction of the Middle East. It’s exotic, dangerous, and “barbaric”. There’s a history of orientalism behind such sentiments. Beyond that, the melding of Indian elements in an Arabian story serves as a harsh generalization of both cultures. The 1992 film features inspiration from Indian culture (such as the sultan’s palace being modeled off of the Taj Mahal), but the 2019 live action brings the Indian influence to greater light: Bollywood dance sequences, animals specific to the Indian region, and costumes that are traditionally Indian like salwar kameez/ghagras and kurta/sherwani. It seems that they made an effort to instill respectful representation through consultation of Middle Eastern, South Asian, and Muslim scholars, activists, and creatives. However, as Farah Harb from the Arab-American News says: “While this is a good sign that Hollywood is finally taking a step in the right direction to fix its problematic portrayals of Arabs in entertainment media, it would be nice to see some of the positive facets of the true Arabic culture, as opposed to borrowing elements from other cultures.” Regardless of what people mark as accurate or inaccurate within these portrayals, there is no doubt that these films are products of cultural appropriation. They are pieces of BIPOC narratives reskinned to fit a different moral ideal. Films built off of BIPOC histories/tales that are now being told by white people. The aspects that make them distinctly BIPOC are often reduced to aesthetics, very similarly to the cherry-picking present in the retail industry. American companies take a piece of foreign clothing and reduce it to a palatable, aesthetically-pleasing fashion statement. One can glean that Disneyfication of culture belongs to a larger issue of cultural appropriation. Telling the story of Mulan or the history of Pocahontas should come with significance and a greater understanding of culture. There is meaning behind these original narratives that goes beyond their modern portrayals, just as there is meaning behind an ao dai or a sari. I could go on and on about all of the BIPOC princess films (Moana, Pocahontas, Princess and the Frog) and explain how they have been Americanized for the sake of catering to white comfort. But at the end of the day, one thing that’s common across all these films is the fact that these movies are all directed by white men. Raya and the Last Dragon follows suit. I’m just saying, it’d be nice to watch a BIPOC princess film directed by someone who looks like the titular character. Contrast: The Farewell Sure, perhaps traditional ideals don’t really fit with the American frame of mind. But that’s not really an excuse to distill an actual culture. Last year, I got to see a film called The Farewell by Lulu Wang. It still stands out in my mind as a great movie, and I think it perfectly embodies the reason why we need BIPOC writing BIPOC stories. The premise of The Farewell is simple: the protagonist, Billi, returns to China with her family under the guise of a fake wedding to stealthily say goodbye to their beloved matriarch — the only person that doesn't know she only has a few weeks to live. I want to start with how The Farewell treats Chinese culture. As it is written and directed by a Chinese creator, I feel that it was handled with grace. Nothing is degraded for a western audience. For example, I have no immersion in Chinese culture, and even with foreign differences like the drinking game during the wedding scene, I understood the context and the mood. Many have praised the director for embodying the bicultural experience perfectly, but in an interview by The Verge, Wang stated: “I don’t necessarily think I came into it trying to represent biculturalism. From my perspective, where I stand, that’s just who I am. It’s part of my point of view. It’s just organic to me. In a way, biculturalism is my culture.” And the film resonates with both American and Chinese audiences not just because it handles a foreign culture exceedingly well, but because the central idea and theme is something that can only exist if written by someone who has that experience as a Chinese-American. The Farewell is a semi-autobiographical story, and with that comes a certain amount of intimacy between audience and director. Writers equate what they know with a narrative- that’s often what makes a great piece. The Farewell takes no sides in deciding whether or not keeping the illness a secret is a good decision. It simply displays the conflict as it is: wildly complicated. It opened my eyes to something I had never heard of, without treating me like an outsider. I’d recommend it to anyone. Now, I want to compare this movie to our BIPOC princess movies. Moana, Mulan, Jasmine, and Pocahontas all challenge the traditions of their respective cultures. The thing is, the only thing we learn about their cultures is that they are restrictive to our heroines whether they force her into a subservient, feminine role or force her into something that she doesn’t want. Culture is vague and usually not interwoven with the central narrative. Mostly because the people directing these films are not BIPOC. Again, I want to acknowledge the difference in mediums: The Farewell is a serious, live-action movie, and princess films are cartoons meant primarily for children. We can’t equate the two. But the idea that children are incapable of comprehending another culture if it’s not palatable enough is completely inexcusable. It’s important to clear any misconceptions and generalizations about other cultures from a young age, and BIPOC children need to see themselves in relatable media, too. Is There Room for BIPOC in Writing Rooms? At the end of the day, Disney is a corporation. They follow a formula that guarantees mass market appeal. Creating a BIPOC princess includes the BIPOC audience, but if the culture presented on screen isn’t palatable enough for Caucasians, then there’s a large profit being missed out on. Tony Bancroft, co-director of Mulan, admitted the limitations to creating the film. “We knew we had to respect the material”...”We also knew that we weren’t going to make a Chinese picture. We couldn’t. We’re not Chinese. We have a different sensibility, a different storytelling style.” This is not to say that Mulan or any of the other films I mentioned are badly written or malicious. They are simply not good instances of representation. I bring up The Farewell again to mention that the film was pitched to several companies, both Chinese and American. On both ends, Wang was told that she needed a white man in the film, to act as a window for western audiences. In reality, the film shouldn’t have to cater towards white movie-goers. It is a subject dedicated to the Asian-American experience- specifically, Wang’s Asian-American experience -and by creating such an unfiltered piece of cinema, there’s more knowledge surrounding Chinese culture, and it’s knowledge that’s actually coming from someone who is Chinese. Film, as with many art forms, is an intimate medium. By putting different kinds of people behind the scenes, we are given a more diverse array of stories that can foster empathy by displaying different points of view. But the profit motive comes before lovingly-crafted passion projects. That’s simply a fact of capitalistic life. Change starts with the people. The audience, as consumers, needs to demand diversity onscreen and behind the scenes. Just Watch the Movie Well, comparatively, hasn’t Disney made strides in media today? Things are better than they were fifty years ago. Again, while Moana and Pocahontas both had consultation teams, at least Moana’s story doesn’t blatantly romanticize a real-life and genuinely twisted narrative. Many have pointed out that the character of Pocahontas is sexualized and the character of John Smith falls prey to the white savior trope. Both are harmful to Native American representation and progression of ethnically diverse narratives. At least the more recent Moana doesn’t do the same. At least we can say that BIPOC princesses exist. While that’s true, it doesn’t stop the fact that representation today is imperfect. It caters to white comfort and ideas that exoticize foreign cultures, feeding into a cycle of microaggressions and generalizations that result in more misconstrued narratives. Stereotypical and inaccurate depictions of culture are harmful to BIPOC communities No matter how respectful a film is, if it is not spearheaded by BIPOC, then it is not a BIPOC story. We can still enjoy princess films, but we can’t ignore the fact that Disney mishandles its representation. I’m hoping that through this article, I can urge you to elevate BIPOC stories and narratives. I’m of the opinion that anyone is worthy of a good movie. Especially a good princess movie. - Billy

Dear Asian Youth, I was scrolling through my Instagram feed when I came across a post that was… for lack of a better word, intriguing. It was from a popular fashion and culture Instagram account which essentially covered three white women and their colonisation of an ancient game that millions from my culture know and love. You guessed it, Mahjong. You see, mahjong was something close to my heart; it is a traditional Chinese tile game that my grandparents taught me how to play., a link between generations. Their figures sat around a felt green table; the sounds of porcelain-like tiles clacking together has always been an image that brought me great comfort due to its familiarity. I have a fond memory of finding out about electric Mahjong tables for the first time which would rearrange tiles for the next round without the players having to do it manually. To say that I was thrilled would be an understatement. Nevertheless, something about this Instagram post didn’t sit right with me. I would recommend you buy one of these Mahjong sets (in this case, specifically the ‘botanical set’) if you have a casual $425 lying round, and if you would describe yourself as a “Francophile” (a person who is fond of or greatly admires France or the French) who is quote “a master of teasing the senses”. As if this description of the consumer isn’t enough for us, the Mahjong sets are wiped of their original suits/symbols and replaced with symbols of leaves, berries, various shapes of nature, and random arrangements of the onomatopoeic word “BAM”. The justification behind this erasure of the original symbols is allegedly due to the founder wanting to buy a mahjong set and believing that “nothing came close to mirroring her style and personality”. It seems that the ancient game that has unified millions of Chinese people simply did not align with her aesthetic. This is further supported when she allegedly writes that she wished to “bring Mahjong to the stylish masses” in an explanation which bears eerie resemblance to what I would call a microaggression due to its implication that traditional Chinese mahjong is not up to her fashionable standard (as if it matters). The site also has a page titled “Mahjong Tales” where they encourage us to send in “a haiku or two”, a form of poetry which is widely known to originate from Japan. Furthermore, the tiles themselves in an ironic prediction are made in (you guessed it again), China. This fact, of course, seems to be dodged in an unsurprisingly coded paragraph on the production area of their website. Okay, I’ll cut the company some slack. They apologised… somewhat. In a small section of their page titled “Our Story” under the subtitle “Criticism”, they address this controversy in an indirect half apology. From the title of the page alone, it seems that rather than acknowledging their own poor actions, they wish to place the focus on the audience for daring to criticize them at all. Besides only addressing Asian Americans in disregard for every other East Asian and South-East Asian community in the world, they also only address two counts of poor wording choices, never write out the words ‘sorry’ or ‘apologise’, and insist that we as the concerned audience “are not aware of the existence of American Mahjong as an established game, one that has been celebrated in the U.S. for over 100 years”. Although I am not denying that ‘American Mahjong’ is a game that many have played, I do believe that the blatant avoidance of Chinese influence and origin is unacceptable. To take a culture's invention and render it into a shell of what it originally was in efforts to westernize it is, at its very core, what gentrification is. This half-hearted response provokes the idea that perhaps this ‘apology’ was only done in an effort to hide behind the performative activism that is exhibited unfortunately by many companies today. If gentrifying another culture's game is a way of illustrating white solidarity, then it disregards the concerns of Asian communities and perpetuating the falsehood of performative activism. Perhaps the company is taking small steps to improving though, as they now have a page named “History of the Game” which includes the history and context of the Chinese games’ origins with useful sources. Something in my core tells me that they’ve only included this in their penance for being criticised and definitely not for recognising their wrongdoing. I suppose the real question here is where the line between good natured profit making and greedy exploitation of another's culture comes into view. - Cathay Lau Source: https://www.instagram.com/p/CJrhKNnFEVB/ Cover Photo Source: https://hashtaglegend.com/culture/hot-topic-mahjong-line-cultural-appropriation/

Dear Asian Youth, We all have foods that tie us to our cultures through memory, communication, and belonging. Maybe it’s the congee you eat after a holiday, or the lychee jellies your grandma used to buy from the Asian supermarket. Whatever that special memory is for you, food allows us to communicate with our family and connect to our cultures in unique ways. For me, this is my Auntie Min’s Christmas potstickers. For as long as I can remember, my family has eaten these for every special occasion that we get to see Auntie Min, which usually happens to be Christmas. These dumplings serve not only as a yummy annual treat for my family, but also as a ritual of communication and bonding that bridges gaps between different family members, whether those gaps be created by time, distance, generation, or language barriers. For my family, potstickers are a Christmas food, but we eat them on other special occasions as well. My Auntie Min works in a garment factory in San Diego where there are very strict rules about days off. She usually does not have any days off except for major holidays, such as Christmas. No one in the family knows how to make potstickers without Auntie Min’s help and expertise, so we all must wait until she is available to visit us on Christmas. Sometimes we eat potstickers on other holidays as well. This past year, Auntie Min’s boss was mad that she had used too many sick days throughout the year and forced her to make up for it by working on Christmas Eve. This meant she would not have time to come to our home in Los Angeles for Christmas to make the dumplings, so she planned in advance to come for Thanksgiving instead. Some years it is Christmas, some it is Thanksgiving, and some it is Lunar New Year. To my family, the reason for celebration serves merely as an excuse to all spend time together and most importantly, to eat dumplings. We make these potstickers at my house in Los Angeles, but Auntie Min brings all the ingredients with her from San Diego. While the dumpling skins come from the Asian supermarket, no one besides Auntie Min is quite sure what specifically goes into the filling of these dumplings. Unfortunately, Auntie Min does not speak English and cannot tell us the ingredients. However, when we ask her bilingual husband, my Uncle Hoy, he says the filling is always made from the ground pork mixed with many different vegetables Auntie Min grows in her garden, including cabbage, chives, and water chestnuts. It is different each year, depending on what she was able to grow in her garden, and therefore each dumpling is uniquely delicious and never quite the same as the previous year. In preparing the potstickers, Auntie Min sets up a large bowl of filling with many teaspoons, plus an open stack of dumpling skins. She then sets both onto the table along with a small bowl of water. When she is ready to begin assembling the dumplings, she informs Uncle Hoy, who calls out for everyone to gather in the kitchen. From here, my parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, sister, and I all come and assemble the dumplings. We take a skin, dab the edge of it with water using our fingers, then scoop a heaping teaspoon of filling, which Auntie Min must approve with a gentle nod indicating if it is too much or too little. Then we fold the dumpling into a sort of crescent shape and carefully create folds to bring together the edges by tucking each fold under the last. We repeat this until we have hundreds of dumplings. Lastly, Uncle Hoy cooks all the dumplings by frying them in oil and then steaming them for a bit afterward to create the perfect balance of crispiness and softness. A perfect potsticker will have even folds all across the top, but no one in my family is skilled enough to achieve this except for Auntie Min. My sister and cousin’s dumplings are usually so poorly assembled that they fall apart once Uncle Hoy tries to cook them on the frying pan. Everyone starts grabbing the dumplings the minute Uncle Hoy scoops them off the frying pan and onto a platter. They’re so hot that we often burn our fingers and tongues, but no one is patient enough to resist the smell of fresh dumplings off the pan. No one is first or last to be served. It is a free for all, with lots of shoving and grabbing for the best of the dumplings. Auntie Min, however, never eats the dumplings that Uncle Hoy places on the platter until everyone else has eaten and is full. Auntie Min eats the dumplings that my sister and cousin made that have fallen apart in the pan before Uncle Hoy has a chance to add them to the platter. They are too imperfect to serve, but she does not want them to go to waste. Each potsticker is absolutely delicious, but for my family, these potstickers serve as much more than just a delicious mouthful—they also serve as a form of familial connection. Auntie Min does not speak any English, and my sister, cousin, and I do not speak any Cantonese. It is difficult to find ways to form close relationships with family members when both distance and a language barrier stand in the way. However, it has always been very important to Auntie Min to be close to the family, especially the children. So, she figured out a way to spend quality time with us that does not require verbal communication, but instead requires helpful hands, a willingness to learn, and a big appetite. Although I have never been able to verbally communicate with Auntie Min, I know her well because of our potsticker making sessions. I know that she has a sense of humor, as she does not hesitate to point and laugh at me or other family members when we make an especially ugly dumpling. I know that she has a saintly amount of patience, as she began teaching me and my sister how to make dumplings since we were very young and difficult children. I know that she is a perfectionist, by the way she never lets an imperfect dumpling onto the platter to be served to the whole family, but I also know how frugal and resourceful she is as she always eats our imperfect dumplings to never let them go to waste. Lastly, I know how loyal and dedicated she is to our family because as long as I can remember, she has never missed a year visiting us and making potstickers, even if she could not make it for Christmas. Every family has special foods that they get to eat only on certain occasions. Sometimes it is something decadent, delicious, and expensive, like a turkey or lobster. However, it may also be any ordinary food so long as it carries meaning to that family. For my family, potstickers symbolize the reunification of family after a year spent apart. They also symbolize the dedication we all have to making time for each other throughout our busy lives. They fill our hungry bellies, but they also nurture our bonds, strengthen our family ties, and introduce us to sides of our family members. While potstickers are a fairly ordinary Chinese food and my family has the option of ordering potstickers from any Chinese restaurant whenever we want, we never do. Restaurant potstickers never come with quite the same sentimental value as the ones we make ourselves with Auntie Min, not to mention they lack the fresh garden vegetables that make her potstickers truly extraordinary. To us, potstickers are reserved for very special occasions, and this is because while they are a delicious snack, they also hold much more meaning in our family. So whatever that special food is for your family, the next time you eat it, take a moment and pause to think about its significance. Asian foods are not only delicious, they are sacred rituals that bond families together. They are rituals that we can continue to pass down and take comfort in knowing that our cultures will never be erased. - Olivia Stark

In my recent years I have been living a bilingual life, more specifically, a bisected one. I love the city I was born in with all my heart, indeed, as it is one of the most beautiful places I know. Whenever a bowl of hot dry noodles with the aroma of green onions is served in front of me, I fall for the life-long taste of childhood; along with a sip of traditional soy milk, memories and tranquility soon fill up my mind. My perception of my hometown is composed of precious moments like eating a bowl of noodles, laughing with my long lost friends, and walking in the ocean of cherry blossoms showcased in Wuhan University… when I read the threads of ridiculous comments on this absolutely stunning city in English, the words seemed outrageously unfamiliar and stupid. Undoubtedly, they are spoken by foreigners that have no idea about a single truth of Wuhan. What in the world can one possibly anticipate that this city would become so “infamous” overnight, and its fame continued to grow exponentially in 2020. Now, let me tell you the truth, the Huanan seafood market can now be eliminated when considering the possible sources of the coronavirus; the Chinese government most likely used the market as a cover of the truth. Without knowing the truths, people started guessing, bursting out hate and misconceptions. They are blinded by their bluntness, while neglecting the brutally realistic issues that are gradually appearing on the surface of society. ____________________________ Despite the numerous incidents that happened as a result of xenophobia and racism of Asian Americans in America, it is no different in China. What do I mean by this? Chinese social media and other real life evidence have created an imagery of discrimination against Wuhan citizens. We see numerous examples of Wuhan workers unable to check into a hotel in another province or even find a job somewhere else due to the bias, and yet there is little change that could be made. The whole world has turned its back on the innocent inhabitants of this city, without rationality nor justice. We see this fear out of selfishness from people of both races, regardless of considering the efforts that have been put in by this unbelievably brave population, as they were the first to encounter the pain. Please keep in mind, with the months of lockdown, countless people in Wuhan have lost their lives, and they would have escaped to other rescue centers all over the nation and survived. The lockdown brutally turned the circumstance into a massacre of Wuhan citizens by simply blocking the outside world. It is safe to say that without their enormous sacrifice and the deadly confrontation, the virus would have spread even faster. Now, this isn’t to create sympathy to any degree--in fact, this is a reminder that we humans are flawed. Take a second and reflect, our inability of having an objective mindset and the basic emotional connection of the victims during this pandemic broke up almost all of our previous bonds between the cities, used up the relationships there are left between races and eventually, led to the deterioration of the feud between the countries. We, the educated ones, can do better. Things that deserve more of our attention and energy other than pointless complaints are the effects of coronavirus on the minorities and our overall lack of ability to confront this pandemic. Whether it be the disproportionate numbers of deaths of coronavirus in the US or the unavailability of living space for homeless workers in China, issues like these reflect some serious problems present in our society and draw surprising similarities between countries. Similar to other wars in history, minorities, again, are suffering. Videos document a mass number of homeless workers sleeping by Wuhan underground subways, who failed to catch the train back home before the lockdown. The volunteers helping around the city became their only source to get food and aid. When asked about their family, one old man started telling his heartbreaking story. The conversation soon shifted to an even more compelling revelation. The man is a stage three cancer patient, who refuses to go back home as he might infect his grandchild, and insists on living without medication as his illness has already cost a huge amount of money. We will never know what each one of them has experienced in life, and thus the coronavirus became a sword that forced them to walk in darkness and valleys of life. “We usually go out and help with the construction of the new hospitals… and we get about a hundred yuan a day,” another man says. “... How? I thought it was at least 500 yuan a day…” one volunteer mumbled. The coronavirus simply threw so many underprivileged people’s lives in jeopardy, in both China and the US, and countries around the world. Through these problems, we then see the tyranny and negligence of the Chinese government. Although some issues here are not as severe, American government’s weak spots started making their appearance as well. The fact that we were not fully equipped and prepared enough prior to the disease led to the much higher death toll than expected. Whether it be the president’s carelessness or the slow response of the general public, insecurities regarding our personal health and future are gradually coming to light. And at the end, hate and blame do not make any change. It is time for us to unite. So many issues are not mutually exclusive and appear in countries simultaneously. Finally, the chance for us to fight for the common goal is here--let’s catch it. Peace, justice and unity will be the greatest lesson that coronavirus can ever teach us, we can only step forward as a whole. ____________________________ The fact that so many people are blunt and insensitive about their language and actions, show how much we are disassociated with each other on this planet, and cultures severely disconnected. As a global citizen, who yearns for peace and cooperation, I truly think that if we start to stretch our arms farther, ponder at a larger scale, we can patch the gaps of disparities and truly fight the war TOGETHER. Biography: As a Wuhan girl that currently lives in the US, like other Asian girls, Ella is obsessed with bubble tea and absolutely love Chinese cuisine. On a regular basis, she enjoys playing piano and tennis, as well as calligraphy.