i am falling and i am lying broken on the shore like a ship dashed on the rocks, like a fairy who lost their wings mid-flight i am smiling and i am lying beside you on your couch like a person and their best friend, like a human and someone they trust i am screaming and i am lying on the dirt beneath a mountain like a bird that tried to leave the nest too soon, like a doe that was forgotten by her mother i am leaping and i am lying on the hard, wooden floor like a ice skater that did not make the jump, like a dancer that could not learn how to stand i am cold and i burn myself just for the warmth i am on fire and i drown myself just to stop the pain i am reduced to ash and finally, i mourn i am writing and i am lying on the blanket my mother crocheted for me surrounded by stuffed animals and the steady hum of the crickets outside my home (like a crane standing in the water, like the sun slowly rising over the hills at dawn) The inspiration behind this was primarily drawn from my struggle to let myself move on from my memories and live. The first few stanzas each introduce a past emotion or feeling – physical pain, love, abandonment, failure – while the last stanzas introduce the concept of coming to terms with those & finding peace. I think that, as humans, we have a natural compulsion to try to lock the more negative parts of our lives deep within ourselves, a tendency that often does more harm than good. I’ve recently been working on identifying when I’m putting my own emotions on lockdown and trying to understand what those emotions are. In a lot of ways, this poem was a study of that. Editors: Joyce S., Anoushka K., Nadine R. Cover Source: https://pixels.com/art/crane

Dear Asian Youth, Do you remember sitting at the dining room table and repeating multiplication? Sitting in the classroom and taking tests to determine whether or not I would enter the “gifted” math program fills my memories. From a young age, I was keenly aware of the expectation that Asians should be good at math and science. There was a stereotype that permeated my elementary school experience and made me embarrassed when I couldn’t live up to that standard. I was more interested in reading and history, often spending my time writing little poems inspired by classroom items. Third grade was the first time I heard someone ask, “Are you really good at math?” Truthfully, I’m not. I wasn’t the shining math student that my parents expected. When other kids asked me to tutor them in a math concept we were learning, I could barely keep up myself. No matter how hard I tried, I could never be that “perfect” Asian stem student, and that continued to haunt me. Throughout middle and high school, I would see my Asian peers in advanced or extremely advanced math courses when I was in a “normal” math class. I was “gifted” in English and history class but never math and science class. I felt embarrassed that I didn’t fit into the standard mold of an Asian student and berated myself for my lack of success. I wondered why every other Asian could solve analytical math and science problems with ease, and I was left behind putting together geometrical shapes. My parents never thought my English and history talents were worthy because they had both been shining STEM students. I don’t think they could comprehend that their daughter was different. I deviated from the typical Asian kid, and they struggled with that fact. When I entered high school, I became aware that people had already set their expectations for me. They hadn’t anticipated that I could succeed as a writer and historian. They had thought I would be another brilliant mathematician and scientist. By this time, I had realized that I would be different. It’s not that I didn’t give effort to studying and improving myself in stem subjects, it’s that I could never become more than average in those subjects. I guess that it’s cliche, but I am someone who believes in natural aptitude. I don’t think you can foster a gift for a field you were never good in. The pressure from my peers and family made me feel like a loser. In the back of my mind, I wished they would accept me for my distinctness and celebrate them. Why did I feel self-conscious when I would say I wasn’t that good at math? I felt as though I was disappointing others by admitting my shortcomings. I felt like an outsider in my own community. My parents were always supportive and proud of my older brother’s accomplishment since he was extremely skilled in all of his math and science subjects at school. He was the perfect child they always wished for: smart, athletic, and innovative. Everything I wasn’t. It’s easy to hide your disappointment when, most of your life, you were never praised anyways. I learned to rely on myself and see myself as a support system. I could pat myself on the back when I earned an A in a creative writing piece I worked hard on. I always wondered why only achievements in STEM courses showed your level of intellect. Just because we learn English in school doesn’t make it an easy subject. Creating a piece that is both technically and emotionally palatable to a teacher is extremely difficult. I’ve spent the majority of my life being ashamed of being average at traditionally Asian dominated classes, but I realized that I will be forever miserable if I continue with this negative mindset. The scariest thing about being dissimilar from your race is the fear of the unknown. My mom once asked me, “Why would you pursue humanities when there are other white people better than you?” I think what hurt me most about her statement was her disbelief in my abilities. She doubted my potential to compete in a white-dominated space. I think my parents view stem fields as a safe place for Asians, a place we are known to be accepted. They don’t want me to be ostracized and alienated in a workplace where Asian people aren’t as commonly seen. They’re afraid that by making myself visible that I won’t flourish. But, I want to dismantle the perceived “positive” stereotypes about Asians. The more that we allow people to continue reinforcing the idea of Asians as only good at STEM, the more we are hurting our community. Just because Asians interested in humanities aren’t frequently observable, doesn’t mean that we don’t exist. Anyone who feels pushed out by expectations set for you, this is for you. I guess what if I were to give advice, I would say pursue what you want. Even if you try with all your effort to fulfill a certain role assumed for you, I don’t think you can ever fully satisfy your self-needs. There will always be a voice in the back of your head calling to you that something feels wrong. Or maybe a pit in your stomach that senses some kind of dread. That disappeared for me when I was able to admit I couldn’t achieve the path peers and my parents laid out for me. I’m not taking Calculus this year. I am taking Precalculus. I took AP Environmental Science this year, not AP Physics or AP Chemistry. Yes, I am still taking high-level sciences but that’s not what I want to pursue with my time. I love creative writing and I want to major in it when I go to college. Instead of participating in math or science clubs, I run book clubs and am an editor for literary magazines. What’s the point of studying something I don’t have passion for? Money and prestige matter little when it’s years down the line and you are miserable. I realized that appeasing others wasn’t worth it to self-sacrifice my own happiness. I think it’s uncomfortable to admit that you’re different from how others would usually perceive you, and it feels like something is wrong with you for not following a pre-laid out path of your life. Even though I don’t enjoy science and math, I know that they are both integral to becoming a more well-rounded student. You can’t pick and choose what you are good at, and sometimes I’m envious of students who can do it at all. I don’t exactly know how to end this, and the cliché ending I had in my mind was: just do what you want. This sounds very entitled and like a blanket statement that many kids can’t relate to because of outside circumstances. So I’m not saying completely disregard what your friends and family think but consider what you want as well. I’ve met some Asian peers that fit really well into their parent’s dreams like becoming a doctor, but I’ve also known close Asian friends who want to study art. All of this is stereotypical and theoretical, but there are limitations to everything. Even if I wanted to pursue science or math, I will never be as passionate and as brilliant as the future stars of those fields. Why not let people who truly care about these disciplines educate themselves on it? If I don’t find joy in something, I don’t want to waste my life on it. I get a bit wrapped up in materialism and practical things like: where will I live, how can I pay for this and that, how can I establish a life for myself. Yes, maybe I won’t be making a seven-figure salary but I will have pride in myself. For me, literature and writing always allowed me to express my thoughts as a shy teenager. When prose became my comfort, I knew that’s when I found my niche. If you were like me and were struggling to find their “calling,” I hope this cleared some things up for you. - Ella

TW // Discussion of homophobia, colonisation, genocide, and pederasty. Dear Asian Youth, Like many young Asian people, ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’ has a special place in my heart. The show is loved for its complex characters, intricate plotlines, and worldbuilding, inspired primarily by Asian, Inuit and Yup’ik cultures. So when I heard about ‘Avatar’ comics, novels and even a sequel, I was excited to dive deeper into the ‘Avatar’ universe. As a queer fan, I was particularly intrigued by ‘The Legend of Korra’ and ‘The Rise of Kyoshi’, as I had heard from other fans that both Avatar Korra and Avatar Kyoshi are bisexual and have relationships with other women. Oh, how naive I was… but before I get ahead of myself, let’s look at ‘The Legend of Korra’. After spending her whole life training to be the Avatar in the Southern Water Tribe, Korra arrives in Republic City to learn about Airbending. (Something feels off already. Republic City, an ex-Fire Nation colony that is now independent from the other nations, is clearly inspired by 1920s America, straying from ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’’s Asian, Inuit and Yup’ik cultural influences. Sure, this series takes place seventy years after ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’, but why does it look like an American city, devoid of Earth Kingdom or Fire Nation influence?) Korra meets pro-benders and brothers Mako and Bolin, joins their pro-bending team, and soon develops a crush on Mako. Maybe it’s his broody nature or his confusing eyebrows, I can’t be certain. However, Mako begins to date Asami, a mechanic and the heiress to the Sato-mobile industrial empire. There’s a painful love triangle, but despite everything, Korra and Asami are great friends. By season four, something shifts. While recovering from an almost fatal battle, Korra finds that the only friend she wants to write to is Asami. When they finally reunite with a close hug, Asami compliments Korra’s new shoulder-length hair (gasp, The Bisexual Haircut) and Korra blushes. The two have an easy and fun kind of chemistry. The season ends with a wedding, during which Korra and Asami decide to go on a trip together to the spirit world. As the two pass through the spirit portal, they hold hands and look deeply into each others’ eyes before the credits roll. Their pose seems to parallel that of the wedding a few moments before or even Avatar Aang and Waterbending master Katara’s ending in ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’. But was this enough evidence to say that Korra and Asami had romantic feelings for each other? Yes, according to the creators. In 2014, Bryan Konietzko confirmed that ‘Korrasami’ was indeed canon, stating that “while [Nickelodeon] were supportive there was a limit to how far [the creators] could go with [their relationship]”.[1] Even if the show’s ending was ambiguous, the comics explore Korra and Asami’s romantic relationship in depth. I was ecstatic to see their first kiss in ‘Turf Wars Part One’! But the creators apparently had to burst the happy gay bubble. Later, Korra and Asami tell Korra’s parents about their relationship, despite Asami’s hesitance. Korra’s parents embrace and congratulate them, but also advise them to keep her personal life private because “not everyone will be so accepting.” My heart sank as I read the word “ACCEPTING”. I could tell where this was going. Korra, too, is upset with her parents, and leaves immediately with Asami. Back in Republic City, Korra and Asami speak with Kya, Aang and Katara’s daughter, who reveals that she has also had relationships with women. Then, it’s time for some heartbreaking worldbuilding, as Kya gives us a quick history of homosexuality and homophobia in the ‘Avatar’ universe. Kya explains that in the Water Tribe, “No one’s going to disown you for coming out, but [their] culture would prefer you to keep it to yourself.” The Earth Kingdom, despite Avatar Kyoshi’s love for both women and men, is still the “slowest to accept change”, establishing heterosexuality as the default there. The Fire Nation was once “tolerant”, but during Lord Sozin’s imperial rule, homosexuality was deemed criminal. The Air Nomads were the only people that “embraced everyone, no matter their orientation”. The Air Nomads, though, were victims of a genocide at the hands of the Fire Nation. Closing the comic, I felt dejected. Because even in a fantasy where people can bend the elements and fall in love among spirits, you can’t escape homophobia. At first, I was genuinely baffled by the creators’ choice to establish institutionalised homophobia in the ‘Avatar’ universe. Did they not understand how hurtful this would be to queer readers – to all the fans who already have had to hide their orientation or have faced discrimination because of it? Did they really think that the mere existence of bisexual protagonists would make this okay? However, I now think that the creators made this decision because they simply couldn’t imagine a world without homophobia. And if we take a closer look at ‘The Legend of Korra’ and the ‘Avatar’ comics, we’ll find that this is because the creators can’t fathom a world free from western imperialism. *** In August 2020, I wrote about my opinion of the homophobia in the ‘Avatar’ universe for the first time on my Tumblr, arguing that its existence was totally incongruous with a show based on Asian, Inuit and Yup’ik cultures. Stigma and shame around homosexuality was never a universal norm, but a policy of European colonisers and Christian missionaries. In Asia and Africa, for example, many of the legal codes that criminalise homosexuality today were in fact established by the British Empire from 1860 onwards.[2] The documentary ‘Two Soft Things, Two Hard Things’ explains that in Inuit communities, same-sex relationships were heavily stigmatised by the Christian church, and that there are accounts of Inuit same-sex couples prior to Christianisation.[3] Even though the ‘Avatar’ universe exists outside of European imperialism and Christianisation, it still draws from it. The criminalisation of homosexuality in the Fire Nation, during the age of their empire, seems to mirror the policies of European empires. However, the creators otherwise incorporate aspects of Japanese culture, architecture, dress, and imperial and industrial history into their portrayal of the Fire Nation. In Japan, though, as early as the 1540s, there are accounts of same-sex relationships among monks and nobility that were accepted in their communities.[4] (It is important to note that many of the relationships in these accounts were pederastic, meaning that they were between men and pubescent or adolescent boys. These relationships should not be glorified or romanticised, and we cannot assume that these relationships were normalised in all of Japanese society simply because they are documented among the upper class. It is important, though, to acknowledge this history as it is so often ignored.) It was during the Meiji period that attitudes towards homosexuality in Japan began to shift: the Meiji state “owed much to the desire to shield Japan from Westerners’ contempt”, emphasising a new concern for “civilised behaviour”, and by the early twentieth century, Japan’s construct of homosexuality had come to mirror that of the West’s.[5] If we are to acknowledge its cultural influences, then why, in a fantasy universe without the West, should the Fire Nation come to criminalise homosexuality? Well, the establishment of a western outlook on homosexuality is not an isolated incident. As I mentioned earlier, ‘The Legend of Korra’ is distinctively western in a way ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’ didn’t appear to be. In recent years, many fans have written discourses about the ‘Avatar’ universe. Jeannette Ng’s brilliant article ‘The Inescapable Whiteness of AVATAR: THE LEGEND OF KORRA, and its Uncomfortable Implications’ explores the manifestations of western imperialism in ‘The Legend of Korra’, from its American-influenced architecture to its characters and storylines. The comment section of Ng’s article is composed of two very different kinds of ‘Avatar’ enthusiasts. There were those who also disliked the creators’ choices and agreed with and expanded upon Ng’s detailed critique, and those who insulted Ng, incensed that she was “making it about race.” How ironic, when ‘Avatar’ is literally an American franchise known for its Asian and Indigenous characters and its discussion of imperialism! Crucially, Ng points out that ‘The Legend of Korra’ had the “opportunity to imagine a future without European and American colonisation and imperialism and [gave] us nothing but that. And that leaves a very foul aftertaste. To suggest that […] westernisation is inevitable even in fantasy worlds without a “West.”” So it seems that if the creators were going to rebuild the imperial West, they were going to pull out all the stops: institutionalised homophobia, a corrupt police force, rampant industrialisation, you name it. I want to clarify that the problem here is not the presence of corruption or industrialisation in Republic City itself; the problem is its western frame. Republic City, now free from the Fire Nation’s colonial regime, would definitely be grappling with the legacy of the Fire Nation’s industrialist and socially oppressive policies and we would expect a power vacuum. However, the creators didn’t have to make Republic City continue on the path of industrialisation or establish an American-style police institution. Furthermore, in ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’, when the protagonists saw violence, corruption, and inequality, they fought against it. In season one of ‘The Legend of Korra’, on the other hand, when the protagonists see that non-benders are joining a violent revolutionary group, the Equalists, they do not stop and contemplate the fear and anger that has pushed non-benders to this point. They just imprison the Equalists, with no chance for rehabilitation, and there is little acknowledgement of the privilege that benders have over non-benders. In season two, we see how punishing the Republic City “justice” system can be when Mako is swiftly imprisoned after he is framed for stealing from Future Industries. This isn’t the world Aang (and many fans) imagined when he defeated the Fire Lord. ‘Avatar’ has always straddled the line of cultural appropriation, especially with a predominantly white voice cast and writing team, and some aspects of the shows are racist. In this post, fans highlight how the creators appropriated the third eye of the Hindu god Shiva, a symbol of balance rather than destruction, in their design of the combustion-benders, both of whom are violent villains. Even if the ‘Avatar’ creators did not have any malicious intent, they misunderstood and disrespected the significance of Shiva’s third eye. Fans of ‘Avatar’ have also heavily criticised the creators for their portrayal of the Water Tribes, which are based on Inuit and Yup’ik cultures. In this thread, one fan points out that in both shows and the comics, the creators sexualise and villainise Water Tribe characters, and also disrespect Inuit and Yup’ik cultural practices. Here, another fan criticises the comics for the writers’ use of anti-Indigenous language and for industrialising Southern Water Tribe land in ‘North and South’. While the creators of ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’ gave us Katara and Sokka, two amazing and complex Indigenous-coded characters, and may not intend harm, the creators also disregarded and disrespected the cultural influences of the Water Tribes and their characters. We should acknowledge both the good and the bad aspects of representation in the ‘Avatar’ universe. Conversations about ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’ are often dominated by Asian and white fans, so we must make sure that we are amplifying the voices of Indigenous fans and understanding the implications of the creators’ depictions of Indigenous peoples. What the ‘Avatar’ universe shows us is how representation in the media can impact us. I’m glad to say that now there are more and more animated fantasy shows about people of colour, including LGBTQ+ people of colour. (My favourites are ‘Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts’ and ‘The Dragon Prince’!) We all need a little escapism sometimes, and we deserve to see ourselves in the fantasy worlds we visit. For young LGBTQ+ viewers especially, I think it’s important that there are shows where conversations about orientation and gender are not stigmatised, and love and support for LGBTQ+ characters is not conditional. Editors: Joyce P, Lydia L, Megan L, Dilara S, Leah C, Maddy M-B Sources: 1: Bryan Konietzko. (2014.) “Korrasami is canon.” 2: E. Han & J. O’Mahoney. (2014). “British Colonialism and the Criminalization of Homosexuality: Queens, crime and empire.” p. 4. 3: Miles Kenyon. (2016). “Documentary shines spotlight on experience of LGBT Inuit.” https://www.thestar.com/news/insight/2016/05/28/documentary-shines-spotlight-on-experience-of-lgbt-inuit.html 4: Louis Crompton. (2009). “Homosexuality and Civilization.” pp. 411-414. 5: Anne Walthall. (2000). “Review of Gregory M. Pflugfelder’s “Cartographies of Desire: Male-Male Sexuality in Japanese Discourse 1600-1950.”” https://www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=4126 6: Jeannette Ng. (2020). “The Inescapable Whiteness of AVATAR: THE LEGEND OF KORRA, and its Uncomfortable Implications.” https://medium.com/@nettlefish/the-inescapable-whiteness-of-avatar-the-legend-of-korra-and-its-uncomfortable-implications-debc76bbf7f 7: https://incorrectzukka.tumblr.com/post/632878301523984384/panini-the-bird-killer 8: https://lilndndemon.tumblr.com/post/634617664212451328/an-important-thread-an-critique-of-avatar-isnt-a 9: https://comradekatara.tumblr.com/post/634704359588036608/as-heavily-inuityupik-coded-characters-sokka Cover photo source: www.netflix.com

Dear Asian Youth, “Long ago, God sought out to create the first people. In doing so, He baked the first batch for too long, causing their skin to turn very dark. The next batch He decided to bake for half the amount of time. When taking this batch out of the oven, He thought they were underbaked and too pale. While preparing his third batch, God decided to increase the temperature. This batch turned out a beautiful, even golden brown.” The aforementioned narrative is a myth well-known in the Philippines and many other parts of Southeast Asia. It is a story charged with history, one that originated long ago, one that my mother and my mother’s mother had grown up hearing. It is a tale that alludes to centuries of colorism, of an indefinite struggle to feel beautiful in one’s own skin. A born and raised Floridian, I often spent my summer months at two locations: the pool and the beach. My childhood was filled with the constant scent of chlorine, inopportune tan lines, and the soft sand between my toes. I remember countless sand castles, spirited rounds of Marco Polo, and gazing upon a calm, tranquil sea. Anyone who has ever visited the “Sunshine State” knows there is a reason behind its name. Before each cannon-ball into the deep end or every venture into the crashing waves, I was forced to slather myself in copious handfuls of sticky, greasy sunscreen. “Why?” I had always protested, itching to once more be in the water, where the smell of chemicals would wash away with the pool water and sea foam. Each time, my mother –a registered nurse– gave her usual spiel, bemoaning UV rays and skin cancer. However, almost as an afterthought, she once added, “You don’t want to become darker, anak,” as she covered me with yet another layer of the sickly-smelling goop. At seven years old, I didn’t understand. While I knew that my skin darkened upon exposure to the Sun’s harsh rays, I truly didn’t see how this was a problem. How come my own mother –whose words were seemingly always true, who was always right– didn’t believe my skin was beautiful as it was? Then, I visited the Philippines. I had braved the 24+ hour flight from Orlando twice before: once when I was one, then again when I was four. At the age of ten, I would be able to remember more than simple flashes deeply buried within the recesses of my mind. The first time I entered a Filipino convenience store is firmly implanted into my memory, even years later. As I viewed the endless array of beauty products –ranging from hair dye kits to skin whitening creams– gorgeous women with luscious black locks, stately, bridged noses, and ivory-toned skin stared back at me. In the twenty-first century, people commonly attribute the mainstream Philippine fixation with a lighter complexion to Spanish colonialism, and it is generally accepted that skin tone only became a deciding factor to societal beauty standards through Spanish occupation. One such example of beauty customs before las Islas Filipinas got its name is the cultural practices of the Pintados (“painted”), who sharpened and plastered their teeth with black and bright red; to them, beauty was rooted in their canines, not the shade of their skin. However, “colorism” in the most fundamental sense was already part of the diverse set of cultures throughout the archipelago, long before Spanish colonial imposition, as shown through the binukots of Central Panay. According to Joi Barrios LeBlanc, a lecturer for the South and Southeast Asian studies department at the University of California, Berkeley, the binukot was typically a wealthy girl selected at a young age for her exceptional looks. Purposefully hidden from the Sun’s harsh rays, she was as “pale as the moon and incomparably beautiful.” The binukot demonstrates that the “light is right” mentality existed even before colonial times. During these times, in many locations other than this set of islands, one’s skin tone was often thought to correlate to their affluence, and thus, their social attractiveness. Paleness equated to not having to toil in the endless miles of rice fields, with the hot Sun beating down on your sweaty neck. It meant one was rich enough to pay another to labor in his stead. Tan skin, instead of being a proud symbol of hard work and dedication to one’s task, was seen as undesirable, even before the first Spanish explorer stepped foot on Filipino soil. The association of skin color with beauty in the Philippine islands was solidified by Spanish occupation. With conquerors such as Miguel Lopez de Legazpi, the Spanish people established both a colonial government and a class system, with peninsulares and insulares at the very top of the social and political pyramid. Only these pure-bred individuals had the ability to occupy the highest seats in the Catholic Church, the most paramount roles in government. Furthermore, the mestizos, those with both Spanish and Filipino blood, were often educated and were given luxuries such as land and servants. Conversely, the native Filipino people (the indios) had access to none of that indulgence. While the pure-bred Spanish and mestizos enjoyed reclining in the shade, the indio was put to work in the rice and sugar fields. During a time when a person’s worth was so deeply intertwined with their social standing, the system enforced by the Spanish perpetuated the belief that one’s value directly correlates to both their wealth and the prototypicality of their features to Spanish individuals. The distinctive Filipino nose –flat and wide– was seen as ugly when compared to the stately, bridged noses of the Spanish. The native Filipino eye –brown and often almond-shaped– was detested, with people yearning for wide baby blues instead. Most prevalently, the tell-tale Filipino tan was no longer seen as a beautiful trait, but rather, a dirty biological curse. And even after the Philippines was freed from 333 years of Spanish rule, it was once more put under another’s control when the United States extended their imperialist roots. Once again, Western standards of beauty prevailed, reinforced by the media in actors, actresses, and models – all of Hispanic blood. I am only white-washed in the metaphorical sense. I do not pretend to completely understand the pain that is brought by skin color in many parts of the world. In the United States, a tan signifies the luxury to afford a tropical vacation. Growing up in America and having been enrolled in private school all of my life, I saw many of my friends constantly bemoaning their lighter skin. Pale. Pasty. As one of the darkest kids in the classroom, my naturally-brown skin was perceived as bronzy, tan, or coppery by my peers. The brown skin that I was born with is something that takes countless tanning oils or hours sunbathing to attain. It is something that is seen as beautiful. With colorism such a deeply ingrained aspect of Filipino culture, I have heard accounts of my darker-toned brothers and sisters, who grew up believing that their skin was a source of shame rather than a symbol of honor, and history, and pride. I have heard stories of people who have spent countless pesos on skin-lightening products, after being bullied by their peers for the shade of their skin. Narratives such as the creation story have long persisted in Filipino culture, as the people of the past sought to reclaim their skin tone in the struggle against colorism. I hope that one day, my fellow people will learn that the skin they were born with is wonderful just as it is, that they do not have to buy skin lightening soaps or creams to be validated and loved. I hope that one day, they will be able to freely race across white and golden sands and into beautiful blue waters, wearing sunscreen for protection, rather than fear of honey-colored skin. I hope that one day, they will realize that while the standard of beauty is ever-changing according to time and place, one thing remains constant. Just as there is beauty in skin as pale as the moon or as dark as the night sky, there is beauty in skin that has been kissed by the Sun. - Justine Sources: Half Baked in Taiwan by Beth Fowler https://fusion.tv/story/339757/filipino-women-asian-beauty-hierarchy/amp/ “16th-19th Century Concept of Beauty in the Philippines: A Historical and Cultural Approach” by Zara Mazelene A. Amerila

Dear Asian Youth, Over the past few months, the United States has been forced to look closely at the reality of our justice system and how it continually fails to protect the communities that need it most. Time and time again, our justice system disproportionately restricts members of the BIPOC community, unfairly punishes and jails people from historically marginalized backgrounds. Meanwhile, the enforcers (police) continue to intimidate, brutalize, and even murder BIPOC. Looking at the statistics from the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union), we find that while the United States only makes up 5% of the world’s total population, but 25% of the world's incarcerated population. Since 1970, our prison population has increased by 700% to a total of 2.3 million people. To put this in perspective, if the entire incarcerated population was a city, it would be the 4th most populous city in the country — only slightly smaller than the city of Chicago. Broken down statically by race, 1 in 3 Black men are expected to be incarcerated at some point in their lives, followed by 1 in 6 Latinos. White men, on the other hand, have a significantly smaller statistic at 1 in 17. Women also make up the fastest — growing prison population in the U.S. at approximately 219,000 inmates. This makes up 33% of the female prison population worldwide. The female prison population has grown significantly from 12,300 inmates in 1980 to 182, 270 in 2002. From 1995 to 2005 the female prison population grew by about 4.6% each year. On top of this, about 60% (twice the number of people in the entire federal prison system) of people sitting in state and local jails have not been convicted of a crime and are awaiting trial; most of whom come from low-income backgrounds that cannot afford bail. To make matters even more complicated, every year, approximately 650,000 men and women re-enter society from prison. But as they get their first taste of freedom, they face nearly 50,000 federal, state, and local laws that restrict their ability to comfortably reintegrate into society. Many states have laws that require those that have committed certain crimes to declare their criminal history on job and housing applications before being interviewed, often reducing their chances of being accepted. Statistics from the Bureau Of Justice revealed in a study that of released prisoners in 2005, 83% was once again arrested in the following 9 years. 60% of the rearrests occurred four or more years after being released. Ticket and Prison quotas further exacerbate many of these issues. The quotas often incentivize prisons to find even the smallest reason to extend sentences to maintain funding. While ticketing and arrest quotas incentivize cops to “search” for trouble to meet certain “productivity requirements” leading to many arbitrary arrests. Still, the high rate of recidivism is largely connected to the ridiculous amount of laws that limit a person's ability to reintegrate into society. When a person is released from prison, it is expected that they should have paid for their crimes while incarcerated. We expect them to be able to live a normal life after, yet certain laws make it harder to find jobs, housing, and acquire basic necessities, and pushing those without a support system back into a cycle of poverty and crime. In an interview with Darris Young, for Pacific Standard, a former inmate released in 2015 following an Obama era prison reform bill. Young served 17 of a 20-year sentence for a non-violent drug charge and was asked about reintegration programs to which he responded, “. ..We're letting 6,000 people out of prison, which is great and I advocate for that, but letting them out of prison without any resources guaranteed to them is akin to, after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed when we kicked all the slaves out of the plantations and said, "You're free," and yet they had nowhere to go and no way to make a living... there needs to be something attached to that, to make sure these 6,000 people will return to housing; to make sure these 6,000 people will be able to get employment; to make sure these 6,000 people will be able to get their basic needs met, so that whoever it is will have a chance to integrate into society.” It's clear from these statistics and testimonies that our justice system isn’t necessarily delivering justice nor keeping our communities safe. When we look at the disproportionate number of people in prison that are not convicted of a crime, most identify as BIPOC or are from low-income neighborhoods. With this evidence, it’s obvious that the justice system targets and jails certain groups more than others. Our justice system is not a system of justice. The American justice system has become a system of oppression, a system of locking up people from majority disadvantaged communities and stripping them of their rights. But how did it get this way? The US justice system exemplifies what is called punitive justice: the philosophy that a person who causes harm or suffering (by breaking or violating a law), should be punished and equally suffer in return for their wrongdoings. However, there are many problems with this philosophy. One is the assumption that breaking laws causes harm. However, not all laws are moral and are written with the intent of protecting the general public. Instead, some laws solely protect the interest of the few while oppressing a certain group (e.g. Jim Crow laws). Another issue with punitive justice is that it focuses on making a person suffer for their wrongdoings rather than addressing the actual, underlying issue. We somehow expect that by locking people up, putting them through the brutal prison environment, and dehumanizing them, that they will somehow realize their wrongs and fix them. Unfortunately, this is hardly the case as we look at high rates of recidivism. When a person perpetrates harm, punitive justice sees that person removed and ousted from the community where that harm was caused. However, it doesn’t take the necessary steps to integrate them back into the community after their sentence is over. In countries such as Sweden according to The Guardian which passed sweeping prison reform years ago, found from 2004 to 2014 prison populations fall from 5,700 to 4,500 people in a country with a population of 9.5 million. The country now has a 40% rate of recidivism which is significantly lower than countries. They managed to achieve this by focusing on rehabilitating prisoners and forming long term solutions rather than short term punitive punishments. However, in many countries, we are conditioned from a young age to believe that punitive justice is the answer. In school, when we break a rule, we are punished. We are given detention, suspended, or even expelled. We are removed from the community in which we “caused harm” and often “canceled” and ridiculed. This doesn’t necessarily mean we understand what we did wrong or why something is wrong. The culture that surrounds punitive justice is perpetrated through all aspects of our society and hugely reflects our attitude towards policing and the justice system. In recent months, as calls have been increasingly made for greater reform of the police, and the overall justice system, many advocates have called for the implementation of Restorative Justice. Restorative justice is based on the principle of restoring everything back to what it was before any harm was done. However, when we look more carefully at the issues within the US, it becomes apparent that it isn’t enough to simply restore things to the original state. Instead, we can and must implement transformative justice — a survivor-centered approach to justice. Restorative justice has been practiced in some communities in the U.S. working alongside the current justice system to find a less punitive approach for non-violent crimes. Organizations such as Restorative Response Baltimore or Restorative Justice For Oakland Youth (RJOY) seek to implement a better system of justice. However, many argue that the system of justice is already broken beyond repair. We can’t just restore, we have to transform. Transformative justice calls for systemic change within our communities and our justice system into safer and more equitable spaces. Transformative justice addresses how the current justice system not only harms perpetrators but also survivors. From the unjust enforcement of laws, surveillance, and even physical assault from police and others, the current justice system of justice does more harm than good. When a survivor comes forward about the harm that has been committed, they play a pivotal role in how everything is handled. They have complete control of any supportive measures they receive from medical help, mental or physical rehabilitation, to assistance to heal from the harm. They also have complete control of how they want to have the perpetrator of that harm held accountable within the resources available. Trained facilitators would support the survivor and obtain consent from the survivor to move forward with any action to help the survivor or hold the perpetrator accountable. This could look like securing necessities from food to housing, or counseling, medical aid, and includes the development of a safety plan to ensure the survivor is protected. When the survivor is ready, a plan would be made to correct the damage that occurred. This can be done in the form of sharing their story, receiving financial support from the perpetrator, receiving an apology, or inducing consequences for the person who committed the harm. Transformative justice also acknowledges the community’s role in causing harm, which comes from the well-known phrase ”it takes a village to raise a child”. Community attitude and culture often play a role in causing harm or perpetuating harmful actions. When a survivor comes forward, the community must listen to the survivor, and in turn, address the community's role in leaving someone susceptible to perpetrate or be a victim of harm. This can result in redistributing power, examining communal values, and educating the community on preventative measures in order to prevent the harm from reoccurring. Focusing on accountability and rehabilitation of the perpetrator rather than brute, senseless punishment, transformative justice focuses on understanding both the perpetrator and the victim. This is why the term survivor is used. Understanding that survivors can be both perpetrators and victims of harm. While the survivor that has come forward has complete control over how the perpetrator is held accountable, violent methods of accountability will not be supported. While we may understand a person's want for retaliation in a violent manner and through the support we can validate those feelings; transformative justice understands that violence is not the answer. We cannot fix harm by causing more harm in return. Violence is an inherently oppressive tactic — it’s the exertion of force on another person, which includes arrest, prosecution, incarceration, fines, surveillance, invasions of privacy, or any type of state-sanctioned violence that we have currently. Transformative justice addresses that this is not the way to right wrongdoings. It understands that people often perpetrated harm not out of evil but through a lack of education, unaddressed trauma, or them being survivors of unaddressed harm themselves. That being said, perpetrators will be provided with rehabilitative services, educational services, and help to understand 1. the harm they have caused 2. the reason why they cause that harm and 3. a plan in which they will be held accountable for that harm and “make things right again”. Notice how in the practice of transformative justice, there is no mention of arrest, no mention of police, no mention of a judge, a jury, nor a complex legal system of prosecutors or defenders. Once again, that’s because transformative justice comes from the community. It strives to use non-violent tactics to address and educate others about the harm that has been caused. It strives to identify the root causes of that harm and remedy that through education, understanding, and support. While police and the justice system may still exist (for the purposes of mitigating some of the most extreme cases of violent harm), the need for them would be hugely reduced. This would mean less policing, less incarceration. The millions of dollars allocated into the militarization of police forces and the maintenance of giant prisons can be reinvested in schools for higher quality educational programs, better social services, and improved community spaces and organization. Communities would be better educated, safer, and more tightly knit as they are forced to solve problems and address their own issues. Acknowledging a community’s attitude and roles in causing harm, as well as working on improving their community’s culture. As we reimagine our justice system and transform our nation and communities, we need to address the root causes of harm and the role our current justice system plays in perpetuating violence in the communities they claim to protect. Most governments and organizations are trying to reform the police system in light of recent events, but we don’t want to just do that. We want to transform our justice system. - Chris Fong Chew Sources: https://www.aclu.org/issues/smart-justice/mass-incarceration https://www.bjs.gov/content/pub/pdf/18upr9yfup0514_sum.pdf https://www.aclu.org/issues/smart-justice/mass-incarceration/mass-incarceration-animated-series https://www.aclu.org/other/facts-about-over-incarceration-women-united-states https://psmag.com/news/interview-with-darris-young https://prospect.org/justice/race-tragedy-quota-based-policing/ https://www.mic.com/articles/109138/sweden-has-done-for-its-prisoners-what-the-u-s-won-t https://www.workplacefairness.org/privacy-criminal-ban-the-box https://www.aclu.org/other/10-reasons-oppose-3-strikes-youre-out https://nicic.gov/criminal-how-lockup-quotas-and-low-crime-taxes-guarantee-profits-private-prison-corporations @conflicttransformation (on Instagram) @kindnessmusic (on Instagram)

Dear Asian Youth, I have a really loud voice. And by loud, I mean the kind that you can hear from two football fields away (not to be dramatic or anything). My mother is often embarrassed by my volume, especially in public settings. She often pulls me aside and says, “你真让我没面子!” A rough translation to English would be, “You are making me lose face!” My mother says this because the disruption of my loud voice makes her “look bad”. If you are not Chinese or are unfamiliar with the idea of “face” in Chinese culture, this phrase might seem confusing. “Face”, in this context, does not mean the front of the skull. “Face” or “面子 (miànzi)” is a sociological construct in Chinese culture that is very nuanced and complex. “Face” is your positive image as an individual, both physically and mentally- kind of like your reputation. One very interesting note about “face” is that it can either be given, earned, or lost. For example, if you wore a really nice outfit one day, and your peers openly praised your clothing, they gave you “face”. If you lead your team to victory in a tournament, you have earned yourself some “face”. On the contrary, if you were caught sliding an unpaid candy bar into your pocket by a convenience store employee, you essentially lost your “face”. If I had to translate it into an English term, it would probably be your pride, ego, or dignity. Though similar, these terms still cannot be equated with “face”. The main difference between the Western dignity and the Chinese “face” is that one is more about self-perception, while the other is about public-perception. When you think about your ego, you think about how you perceive or value yourself. But for “face”, you are predominantly concerned with your image in the eyes of those around you. The ethics and morals that translate into your behaviors and actions can all affect your “face”. In China, there is a very popular saying that goes: “头可断，血可流，面子不能丢 (my head can break, my blood can bleed, but my “face” cannot be lost)!” It sounds comical enough, but many people live by this statement, though not in such an extreme way. A majority of Chinese people, myself included, are very obsessed with how they are perceived by others. We would rather be physically damaged than to have their public image tarnished. I think this phenomenon is due to the self-consciousness enforced upon us from a young age. China has a very large “shaming-culture”, where having a fear of being shamed is seen as an important part of a “good” individual. According to the teachings of Chinese philosopher Confucius, a sense of shame forces an individual to behave with excellency at all times. This shame may not always be personal “guilt” like the conscience-based dignity in Western culture. This shame most likely comes from the society as a whole that frowns upon certain actions. In simpler words, if a person does something they do not believe is wrong by their principles, but is seen as sinful by societal standards, they still lose “face”. You see, Eastern culture is very family and group-based. But in Western ideologies, as long as your actions do not contradict your personal morals, your sense of dignity is not necessarily affected by external factors. That is why it is still important to differentiate “face” from the aforementioned English words. The idea of “saving face” can also be analyzed as a reflection of the lack of vulnerability in Chinese culture. I am thankful to be born into a very open-minded and accepting Asian family that has vulnerable and honest conversations. Nonetheless, I am a lucky minority. For many Chinese people, public status or image is all that matters; everyone strives to present their best selves at all times. As a result, being vulnerable about one’s weaknesses is a rare occurrence. I’ve seen many Western celebrities discuss their battles with drug addiction or mental health issues very openly. They take pride in how they overcame barriers to become better individuals, and are happy to share their stories with the public at large. They honor their identities and stay true to who they are. However, you will rarely find Chinese celebrities bringing up their faults or misfortunes, due to their fear of public criticism and judgement that can lead to a disastrous loss of “face”. Even if something negative about a celebrity’s past is proven to be a fact, they will oftentimes try to conceal or deny it best they can. They are unable to embrace their truths like many Westerners can, and will go through crazy lengths to save their “face” (e.g. paying the media large sums of money to not report on certain issues). Again, China’s culture of “shaming” prohibits people from acknowledging their weaknesses and shortcomings, whether it’s public figures or normal citizens. Additionally, “face” can be communally owned in Chinese culture - contrasting Western beliefs once again. Generally, Western cultures value individuality and self-dependence. People want to develop a powerful sense of self-integrity and respect. However, in Chinese culture, the concept of individualism isn’t as important. In fact, there was and still is a strong emphasis on people being “collective”. This could be your family, friends, or school. Self-image is not as important as the image of the whole group. This explains why my loud voice makes my mother feel like she lost “face” as well. Yes, I constantly joke with my Chinese relatives and friends about losing “face”, but I’ve recently realized certain downsides of the concept of “face”. The obsession to present a perfect image in the eyes of other people is a huge part of Chinese societal norms; living a life that other people approve of seems to be a common goal. That's how we lose ourselves. We stop acting the way we like and doing the things we love, simply to adhere to other’s standards. We are exhausted from the constant shame and disappointment thrown at us by those who don’t accept who we are. And all of this for what? “Face”? Maintaining a positive image in front of others is obviously not a bad thing; it’s what holds us accountable as kind and respectful human beings. However, that shouldn’t apply to your self-expressions, dreams, or goals. It should not result in the placement of restrictions and constraints on yourselves to conform to those around you. If you are doing something you are truly passionate about, or expressing yourself in your own unique way, I say keep doing what you’re doing! To hell with “face”! - Eva

Dear Asian Youth, As COVID-19 continues to impact humans on a global scale, some of us are slowly recovering, while others continue to struggle under the distressing circumstances brought about by the virus. News outlets and social media platforms are busy broadcasting the world’s progress in combatting the virus. Though I appreciate the power of journalism to keep us aware and informed, I can’t help but notice a reoccurring bias against Asian countries present in Western media broadcasts of the pandemic. I understand that it is inevitable for media outlets to carry a certain degree of bias, however, it becomes problematic when the bias serves to distort realities and construct a negative image under a greater agenda of Western supremacy. I’m sure some of you have heard about BBC’s infamous “underworld filter” on Wuhan. In summary, BBC News published a video highlighting how the pandemic has impacted life in Wuhan, China. Two versions of the video were posted with the exact same footage, with one version in Chinese and the other in English. Internet users were quick to notice that the English version of the short documentary had an added filter that decreased the saturation of the video (pictured below). Compared to the Chinese version, the English version’s loss of color created a much gloomier and depressing atmosphere. The video, as expected, caused significant uproar as angry viewers raised doubts regarding the news outlet’s integrity and calculated efforts to misdirect the audience about China’s recovery from the pandemic. Footage of the Chinese version (pictured left) versus the English version (pictured right). In addition to this, BBC has previously been accused for its biased news production method that selectively includes visuals that purposefully paint China in a bad light. There are numerous filmmaking and video editing techniques that can be used as weapons to undermine truth. For example, camera angles could be deliberately placed in lower or more hidden areas to imply that filming is not allowed. Video editors could pick apart footage to only include videos that contain distressing scenes. Using these “techniques”, Western media outlets are adamant in constructing a narrative that China is recovering under a repressive authoritative regime. I personally have had friends from the United States ask me whether or not life is really that “depressing” in China, and I’ve had to reassure them multiple times that our lives are not as Western media has depicted them to be. My mom recently went on a business trip to Wuhan, and she came back telling stories of how life is progressing back to normal. Shops are opening back up again, streets are filling with people, and most are hopeful that the city will make a full recovery in the near future. Sadly, this may not be the recovery state reflected in media reports. Another case worth bringing up is the Western media’s insensitivity when it came to broadcasting India’s experience with the second wave of the COVID-19 pandemic. During times where Indian hospitals were at full capacity treating ill patients, many reporters and their crew members were seen barging into hospital premises for footage. Additionally, Indian citizens who’ve lost their loved ones to the pandemic were blocked by reporters for interviews. Therefore, the Western media is filled with graphic images of Asian tragedies. The Western media is often what shapes international perceptions of various countries; biased coverage serves only to create false realities for Asian nations. Objectivity is one of the integral pillars of journalism, and it pains me to see how the influence of media is being abused by those in power with an agenda. Western media often chooses to turn a blind eye to many positive aspects of Asian countries when it comes to fighting the pandemic. Why? This may be due to the fact that many political leaders try to divert attention from COVID-19-related issues occurring in their own nations by placing blame on China for “creating” the virus. Media, in this case, is unfairly used as a polarizing political tool. As a result, prejudice against Asians in the West continues to grow and manifest itself in the media, both subtly and overtly. Hence, it is imperative for us to be aware and informed of possible bias before making false judgements that could hurt large groups of people. At times like these, we need to stand united as one human race, and we should not let biased media divide collaborative efforts. – Eva Zhong Editors: J. P., L. L., B.S., L.C., S.G.

Dear Asian Youth, The Philippines is a strange country. It has been subject to years of colonization, international occupation, and suppression of culture. It has seen fascism thrive in the modern age with Duterte in a position much more akin to a dictator than a president. It is a place of fiercely passionate people, unshakeable in spirit. My parents are immigrants. They both came here young, with their families. A question I recall immediately popping up at every first encounter they had was “are you a nurse?” It happened everywhere. From restaurants to salons, all small talk reverted to nursing. I remember it most vividly when we first moved to Texas. It was a question I got asked from all types of people, whether they be family or complete strangers. My parents are both nurses. It is a noble career, and extremely common among Filipino-Americans due to American colonization efforts that have trickled down for generations. There are over 150,000 Filipino nurses who have immigrated to the U.S. since the 1960’s. It seems that the career is almost traditional. I myself have received the question, unprompted, from friends and family on whether or not I would pursue working in the medical field. Subsequently, I would also feel a disproportionate amount of guilt when I would say, “No, I don’t have any plans to be a nurse.” So early on, there was this feeling that I was worth less than someone actively working towards being in the medical field. It felt selfish and foolish whenever I’d say no to nursing. There was always a voice in the back of my head asking, “Are you really Filipino?” I have struggled with understanding my cultural identity for as long as I can remember. What exactly does it mean to be Filipino-American? What do I consider my culture? Does it make me any less Filipino if I don’t adhere to the same traditions as my peers that are also Filipino-American? Does it make me a bad Filipino if Jollibee makes me kind of sick? What is a Filipino, anyway? Up until I was 5, I thought I was Latina. It never crossed my mind that I was anything else. People who looked like me in the cartoons I watched weren’t ever Filipino (thank you, Dora the Explorer). I didn’t even know what the word Filipino was, and I didn’t exactly fit the bill for what I thought “Asian” was. I found out eventually, though I can’t quite pinpoint when. Perhaps it was a culmination of different interactions with my parents and with my family. Mostly concerning the food we ate or the language I so often heard them spoke. I think I first put a name to my culture when my parents mentioned it in passing to strangers who would ask about our ethnicity. I was never hyper-aware of my skin color or the ways in which my family was different from your average white family. But hearing that I was a Filipino brought those differences to a greater light. Filipino. So, Asian, right? Well, yeah, but there exists an overlap in culture. Pre-Colonial Philippines consisted mostly of chiefdoms that competed against each other as exporters to countries like the Malay kingdoms and China. There was a focus on craft specialists, like textile workers and metalsmiths, and wealth was equated with foreign luxuries. It seems that the Philippines had a rather complex political structure that leaned into socioeconomic disparities, and many of these chiefdoms developed into kingdoms. There are small remnants here and there of early Filipinos that exist with indigenous tribes, with 10% of the total Filipino population belonging to over 40 of these distinct ethnolinguistic groups. Nowadays, indigenous peoples (called IPs) who are small remnants of a pre-colonial time are often discriminated against and marginalized. Historical oppression against IPs has resulted in displacement, socioeconomic disadvantages, and exclusion from political decisions/processes. A major concern is the loss of ancestral lands, and some programs have been put in place to combat the issue. The Certificates of Ancestral Domain Claims (CADC), for example, allow IPs to reclaim not just their ancestral land, but also completely hold domain over it. However, it is not enough, as many IPs are unable to provide sufficient evidence of their entitlement to their land. Furthermore, it does not erase the blatant disadvantages IPs have in nearly every facet of living. This issue, while serious, is a microcosm. Most of modern Filipino culture is undoubtedly influenced by colonization. Perhaps the answer to my early ethnicity confusion is the heavy Spanish influence within the Filipino world. Catholicism, art, architecture, language, my own name- Agustin- are all directly lifted from Spanish culture. People assume my ethnicity all the time, the most common guess has always been some kind of Latino. Mexican, Cuban, Guatemalan- I’ve gotten it all. To be completely fair, there’s not much distinction in my face to indicate my race right away. Filipinos can have rather diverse features. I have even met people who didn’t even know what a Filipino was before they met me, usually vying to say I’m basically just Spanish after I explain what I am to them- but that’s not true. Some say Asian and leave it at that, but I find that many Asian experiences are things I don’t really relate to. I don’t have many of the same cultural commonalities or traditions. I bear the brunt of microaggressions, but they’re not the same kind that my East Asian counterparts do. I’ve been talked down to, especially by customers at my former workplace. While I usually brushed it off as someone having a bad day, it was pretty easy to notice how different treatment was between me and a white coworker. There was a stark contrast in tone and language that occurred consistently with the few POC at my job. I’ve been exoticized for the color of my skin, too. I remember: It was in a Staples. The woman likely meant well, and I even laugh now looking back at it. She had asked me the cliché”Where are you from?” and added that my skin “was such a lovely brown color”. The part of me that’s Filipina wonders what that even means. Is it Asian? Pacific-Islander? Latina? In a way, I feel that I’m all three, since there isn’t really one umbrella I can fully identify with. There’s a distinct fusion of culture within the Philippines. We have seen influence from China, Malay Kingdoms, Spain, America, and more. And we furthermore exist in pockets, with varied differences. There are over one hundred dialects within the country, likely due to us being fragmented in islands, as well as a notable Muslim population. Its uniqueness is charming, yet a little sad, mostly due to the vast impact of colonization. Colonization has undoubtedly suppressed much early Pinoy development, and the culture of the Philippines that we know today has somewhat stemmed from the oppression of IPs. Centuries of foreign occupation has resulted in a concern for the preservation of tribal culture. Pinoys in America- Personal Experience and a Mini History My parents aren’t very traditional Filipinos. They’re rather laid back: not super Catholic, don’t speak Tagalog too much, don’t own a karaoke machine (yet). So there’s a divide between me and the culture of my parents, seeing as our household isn’t a very traditional one. They never emphasized learning the language or knowing my roots to a greater degree than just eating Filipino food. My parents have experienced cultural immersion that’s completely foreign to me. I’m not just a Filipina after all, I am an American. Finding Filipino friends has always been a struggle for me, as most of my life has been spent in the midst of white suburbia. It’s been difficult relating with other people, and there’s a limited amount of Filipino-American media, none I can name off the top of my head. I’ve never had something to find comfort in that helps me understand that I’m not alone. I mean, we’re by no means an insignificant minority, accounting for 4% of America’s 44 million immigrants. However, I’ve never felt fully at ease discussing my cultural identity and the struggles that come with it, usually kneecapping my beliefs and experiences with jokes or lighthearted anecdotes. I never realized how much that catered to white comfort until recently. But let’s discuss a more general scope. In understanding the history of Filipinos in America, I would be remiss to not mention American colonization. The Philippines is heavily westernized. The government and structure was modeled after American democracy. Looking back over a century ago, in the 1890s when the Philippines was annexed to the states, the American goal was to reform “uncivilized” countries. Manifesting that destiny, if you will. Or perhaps the better term is “white man’s burden”. This helps us understand the density of Filipino nurses, as many educational institutions were prepared with such an intent. There was an advantage for Pinoys in America, as in 1948 they could come to the states as nurses under the Exchange Visitor Program. Being able to train in American nursing had worked to their advantage. But most came over to the states under the Immigration Nationality Act of 1965, ready to join the medical workforce. The act greatly benefited Asian communities, with the majority of visas going to Asians who migrated through the reunification clause. All in all, it drastically changed the social landscape of America through encouraging diversity. As you can see, that tie between nursing and the Philippines came about alongside American colonization and the curriculums put in place some time around the early 1900s. As a major advantage for many immigrants, it’s still a very common job today among Filipinos. My feelings on the topic are mixed. It is a path of exploitation, as COVID-19 takes a hard-hitting toll on the Filipino community; but I cannot deny the ingrained sense of pride that seems to sprout from it. Being positioned as a nursing exporter has indeed aided the Philippines in growth and helped people pursue a better life. Guilt and Shame So, I have a decently sized family. The vast majority of them are nurses. My parents are nurses! You know, nurses are pretty great. They put up with long and odd hours, are super motivated, and are working to help people who are in need. That’s great! It’s kickass and I’m thankful every day for healthcare workers. But it’s not for me. I’m a total fine arts/linguistics person. I don’t even think I’ve ever gotten a full 100 on a math test. The fact that I want to pursue something fine arts as a career is a subject I’m ashamed of and I sincerely dread discussing it with my family. For me, it feels as though I’m doing less than those around me. It just seems like my parents came here for a better life for their children, and I’m not aspiring to do enough. The guilt stems from looking at the other Filipinos around me in a comparative light. Especially comparatively. Look at my cousins! Doing tennis, or hockey...why haven’t I picked up a sport? Oh! My friend’s ranking in class is way higher than mine...how shameful. I should study more. In all honesty, I have felt the pressure to do as much as I can from them and my culture- all the extracurriculars, straight As, an instrument, competitions and tournaments, etc., etc. I doubt that this pressure to be brilliant is exclusive to Filipinos- heck, it’s something all my Asian friends seem to deal with. It was a major stressor for me, even when my parents told me not to worry about achievements. I didn’t want them to have the one kid in the family who wasn’t a prodigy. There’s a bit of the Model Minority idea in there, though much more internalized and self-imposed. I couldn’t fulfill that perfect, multi-talented, Filipino child image I had in my head, so didn’t that mean I was a failure to my own people? Again, there’s that voice in my head doubting my own heritage. Tsk tsk, I’ve brought dishonor upon the family name. What a fake Pinoy! Beyond that, the shame extended to my lack of education about my own culture. There has always been a rift for me, especially not knowing Tagalog or Bisaya. My family also never really had the luxury of being able to visit the Philippines, and I have yet to go there. It’s the concern that I’m a fake-asian, or a “twinkie.” I fear that I may never get to influence my children with Filipino tradition. I would be a barrier between my parents and them, a heavy responsibility. So now, I scramble to learn as much as I can about my parents, hoping to ensure that their culture does not end with me. However, I’ve come to understand that in my own existence, there is no possible way for me to fully emulate what it means to be Filipino. Because my identity is not just Filipino. As a Fil-American, a first generation child of immigrants, I have to acknowledge that my life and my experience will be fully different from my parents. And that is okay. I don’t believe you have to sacrifice one culture for another. That’s the beauty of being a child of immigrants. To be honest, American culture is strange. Perhaps because I don’t exactly know what it is. There are so many different kinds of Americans with so many different cultural experiences. I live a different life from an African-American, for example. I love Filipino culture because it is a part of me, even if I may never be truly immersed in it. I’m not worth less as a Filipino or as an American just because I have both of these parts to me. Overlap exists. And to be honest, it’s a wonderful thing. I’m still trying to understand my cultural identity. Because I have no ambitions to be a nurse and pursue what my parents and grandparents have, I’m scared that it establishes another wall between me and my Filipino heritage. A long and winding century-old past. Does not pursuing medical work mean that I’m less Filipino? But the part of me that is American acknowledges that being so comes with certain privileges, like being able to pursue what I want. My mother was forced into being a nurse, because it proved to be a failsafe area of study that almost every member of her family had fallen into. I haven’t received a pressure that extreme from my own parents, and more resources exist for me to look into alternative jobs. I am learning to embrace both parts of myself. I am learning to relinquish shame and understand that I am not a lesser person if I’m not as in touch with the parts of me that are Filipino as I think I should be. All I can do is educate myself- but know that since I was never fully immersed in the culture, I will never just be Filipino. My life differs from the Caucasian Americans I grew up with and differs from many other Asian communities. I want other Fil-Americans to celebrate this vivid culture of ours. I want them to appreciate it and understand that we forge our own path that mixes with tradition- an experience I believe many children of immigrants go through. Cultural identity is unique to every person, and I want to create things that remind people that they are not alone in trying to navigate their heritage. I may never be a nurse, but I strive to help others, in my own way. -Billy P.S. Junk the Terror Bill.

Dear Asian Youth, As someone who likes to spend a lot of their time online shopping, I've noticed a trend among popular brands such as Fashion Nova, Pretty Little Thing, and Missguided: traditional Asian clothing being sold as “oriental” and “exotic” pieces. I’m not talking about the traditional, elegant, silk attire commonly worn during celebrations or holidays. I’m talking about the sexy, cheap, curve-hugging alternatives that rip off centuries of history and disrespect our Eastern culture. Cultural appropriation is defined as the “unacknowledged or inappropriate adoption of the customs, practices, ideas, etc. of one people by members of another and typically more dominant people or society,” and this is exactly what these clothing companies are doing: inappropriately using our culture for their own gain and aesthetic. Qipaos, ao dais, kimonos, hanboks, saris, and other traditional Asian garments were not designed to be worn as a sexy outfit for a girls night out. Rather, each garment carries its own rich story that dates back centuries. Being Vietnamese, I’ve only known to wear ao dais during celebrations such as weddings or Lunar New Year. To me, it is symbolic of my culture and connects me to my Vietnamese roots. The ao dai has gone through multiple evolutions since its first prominent appearance in the 18th century under the Nguyen Dynasty. Its most drastic and modern change came about during the era of French colonization when designers started to combine Western beauty influences with the traditional tunic style dress—creating the simple, form-fitting silhouette we see today. Symbolically, the ao dai represents femininity, elegance, and celebrates Vietnamese pride. So, when I see non-Vietnamese people like Kacey Musgraves, the famous country singer, strutting around a stage wearing my country’s national dress without pants and not understanding the history and significance behind it, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable and offended. She even wore a maang tikka, or chuti, which is a traditional Indian headpiece that represents the third eye in the Hindu religion. It carries its own religious and cultural significance that has no relevance to Vietnamese culture. Her mixing of cultural pieces obviously demonstrates her lack of cultural awareness and the fact that she is cherry-picking aspects of Asian culture purely for the aesthetic. If you are going to wear another nation’s national dress, the least you could do is wear it properly and not sexualize it to fit your own agenda. The Kardashians are perhaps the first people that come to my mind when talking about cultural appropriation. In 2019, Kim Kardashian announced her shapewear line which she named Kimono. These were branded as bodysuits, underwear, and bras meant to accentuate a woman’s curves and bore no resemblance to the Japanese kimonos. While Kardashian may not have intentionally named her brand Kimono to dishonor the garment, her poor choice of branding left people feeling disrespected and stripped of their cultural identity. In Japan, kimonos are typically reserved for special occasions such as wedding ceremonies, tea ceremonies, and visiting temples and shrines. With many layers and styles, even small details such as color, sleeve length, and style of pattern can indicate a person’s age, status, and what occasion they are attending. A traditional garment carrying over 1,000 years of history and is symbolic of Japanese culture was now also associated with an underwear brand. Though Kardashian ultimately decided to change her brand name to Skims after public backlash, her rap with cultural appropriation did not stop there. Aside from appropriating Asian culture, Kardashian has also managed to steal aspects from the Black community. On multiple occasions, Kardashian can be seen wearing Fulani braids in her hair on social media and red carpets. One Instagram post, however, stuck out the most to me. In the picture, she is wearing a head full of Fulani braids with beads, and in her caption, she called them “Bo Derek Braids.” Keep in mind that Bo Derek is a caucasian actress who wore this style of braids in 1979 for one of her movies. Kardashian totally disregards the cultural meaning and significance behind Fulani braids by crediting Derek for the hairstyle when it really originated in African culture. For years, Fulani braids and natural hairstyles have been deemed “ghetto” or “unprofessional,” and Black women are continually told by society that they have to straighten their hair in order to fit into the eurocentric beauty standards. I’ve seen the argument that “if non-Black people are not allowed to wear Fulani braids, Black people are not allowed to straighten their hair.” First of all, straight hair is a characteristic. Straight, curly, brown, blonde, thick, and thin hair are all characteristics that no culture can claim. Whereas Fulani braids are a hair style originating from the Fulani people in West Africa. For many African tribes, braids are an indicating factor of age, wealth, marital status, and power. In addition, hairstyles such as the Fulani braids have close ties to the slave trade. Before boarding African women onto slave ships, traffickers would shave their heads as a form of inhumane treatment and as a way to strip away their identity. Second of all, many Black women are pressured into straightening their hair in order to assimilate into Western beauty standards. Believe it or not, there are workplaces that discriminate against Black women who choose to wear their natural hair or any hairstyle that is deemed “unruly.” Because of this, some Black women are forced to comply with regulations placed on their hair or face the risk of losing their jobs. As a member of the BIPOC community, I believe that it is important to actively call-out individuals that are exploiting our culture as we are more than a trend. Bigger influencers, such as Kacey Musgraves and Kim Kardashian, are among many that catapult trends into pop culture for their millions of fans to follow. So when marginalized groups see aspects of their culture as the next “innovative” fashion craze, it invalidates the culture as a whole. Why is it that when ethnic people want to express themselves through their culture, they are mocked, shamed, and made to feel alienated? But when non-POC wear the same cultural pieces, it’s considered hip and trendy. In many cases, cultural appropriation can occur due to the lack of education and awareness of how offensive the action may be. It is crucial that we continue to confront those who may be unknowingly committing acts of cultural appropriation to prevent it from occurring in the future. From personal experience, I know that it is frustrating to see someone be praised for wearing something that would be deemed as “outlandish” or “eccentric” on you. Growing up, I’ve always felt the need to look the least “Asian” as I could. I never wore my ao dai out in public, and if I did have to wear it to an event, there was always a looming fear of judgement from strangers passing by. Although I am now proud of my Vietnamese heritage and have come to love wearing my ao dai, it still rubs me the wrong way when I see non-Vietnamese influencers donning ao dais on red carpets and social media. Cultural theft completely erases the significance of the victim’s identity and disregards the complex history behind each aspect of their culture. Pop culture seems to always favor the “exotic” look on people who lack the “exotic” culture themselves. With that being said, my culture is not a trend. It is not an aesthetic. Learn to appreciate other cultures rather than ripping them apart and cherry-picking desirable aspects to fit your eurocentric beauty standards. - Sunna Mai

TW: Depression, anxiety “Toxic positivity is the belief that no matter how dire or difficult a situation is, people should maintain a positive mindset.” Before University, I had never heard of the term ‘toxic positivity’. It was a feeling I had encountered many times but had never found the words for. The feeling that I would have to act like things were great when they weren’t, whether it was through my own thoughts or the environment around me. Many aspects of society perpetuate the notion that admitting you’re struggling is a sign of weakness, a sign that you’re incapable and lack independence, or that you’re being cynical instead of honest. Although positivity can be an amazing attitude to adopt when you’re in situations that are less than ideal, being truthful—no matter how negative—leads to more positive outcomes. An article from Vogue highlights a negative aspect of toxic positivity perfectly, stating that “negative emotions – like sadness, anxiety, worry and disappointment – are viewed as inherently “bad”, rather than just a normal part of human existence”. Having this mindset causes people to believe that normal and healthy humans can’t or shouldn’t have negative feelings. An example of this could be when peers constantly act like they are not struggling in order to keep up appearances. This could lead to an individual’s perception of their own struggles to become abnormal. Denormalizing natural feelings like sadness can be extremely damaging to an individual’s mental health. Negative emotions are necessary in understanding and recognising positive ones. As cliché as it sounds, without rain, there isn’t going to be a rainbow. Another aspect of toxic positivity and its effect on an individual’s mental well-being is the encouragement of suppressing emotions. An article from the BBC states that “by accepting and sitting with the distressing feelings… we can use them as fodder for personal development”. As human beings, we are always looking for ways to improve, whether it’s consciously or subconsciously. To deny yourself the right to be honest about your negative emotions or thoughts can hinder your progress in healing and truly understanding yourself. This can lead to a spiral of deeper issues such as depression or anxiety and cause more problems in life due to the fear of simply asking for help. There is no shame in expressing your struggles and asking for guidance. Creating an environment where individuals are encouraged to be honest about their emotions and connect authentically supports a healthy approach to life for others involved. According to the Independent, social media produces the “pressure to spotlight the good stuff in life” and “that kind of positive projection can quickly lead to comparison culture”. Toxic positivity is an unfortunate byproduct of social media sites, where many people feel inclined to project a happy, idealised version of themselves. Although being able to share achievements and happy moments can be a good thing, it seems that social media is a predominant factor in the rise of toxic positivity online. It is because of this focus on being perfect that viewers of perfected posts begin to feel inferior due to their lives seeming worse. Despite this though, I still believe there are many positive sides to social media sites. An example of this is the voices that are given to people on social media platforms when discussing topics such as ‘toxic positivity’. Posts like these are accessible for the average person and therefore reach more people who are willing to be educated and informed on causes and movements like ‘Stop Asian Hate’ or ‘Black Lives Matter’. These are movements that although are unfortunately founded on racism and discrimination, address the reality of injustices in BIPOC communities in order to overcome them through unity. Despite the frustrating and damaging effects of toxic positivity though, there are also many positive aspects to optimism. Similarly to the necessity of negative emotions, positive emotions are also vital in understanding and discerning all emotions. Being optimistic can save people during bleak times in their lives, or when they’re needing to meet a deadline and need a little push or a sign that they can do it. Keeping genuinely positive can also spread to others which in turn supports unity and healthy communication. Overall, toxic positivity benefits no one if it is not handled in a balanced and healthy manner. It is important to understand that social media is a place where individuals can control how they are perceived and that comparison is a detrimental attitude to adopt when navigating life. If you ever get the feeling that you should lie about how you feel, remind yourself that it’s okay to struggle. You don’t have to like that film just because all your peers do, and you don’t have to pretend to be happy when you simply are not. It’s healthy to express yourself authentically and it’s positive to surround yourself with people who accept/support that. What is happiness without sadness? Editors: L. L., M. L., B.S., D.S., L.C., S.G. Sources: https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-toxic-positivity-5093958#:~:text=Toxic%20positivity%20is%20the%20belief,vibes%20only%22%20approach%20to%20life. https://www.vogue.co.uk/arts-and-lifestyle/article/toxic-positivity https://www.bbc.com/worklife/article/20210302-tragic-optimism-the-antidote-to-toxic-positivity https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/instagram-studies-anger-ptsd-b1818316.html Cover photo source: https://theaggie.org/2020/12/07/when-we-are-feeling-down-toxic-positivity-is-not-the-answer/

My mother used to tell me the story about the iron club that is sanded down to a needle – I imagined the minuscule grains of metal Shimmering, falling Erosion at the hands of diligence. I imagined myself as the hands that weathered at the iron under the sun. I wondered what I would become. Deft enough to move mountains, or the soft golden refraction of underwater ripples. I was 11 when I realized that I was not the hands smooth and steady, a work of art in its own right. I was the needle under foreign palms. Unknowing, but meek by nature. I recognized the silver powder that drifted down like snow to be pieces of me. I stayed still, and in some kind of disturbed fascination, allowed the erosion to take place. I must admit that I was thankful to begin with, Often shy but basked in the warmth of the words that kneaded me, unknowingly, into the sewing pin – the industrial child intended not to be one in a million, but one of a billion Of course you scored well, you’re Asian. No wonder you chose maths, you’re Asian after all. She’s creative… for a Chinese! These were words that I accepted. In all naivety, I assumed them to be indicators that I was – selfishly – special. I believed myself to be in good hands – unaware of the production line I was in reality placed upon. The hands I had pictured in my childhood washed away – my own that were fumbling, small – but pouring forth with love. Gold, and a desire to be. Some years later, I learnt to look down, kneel and collect the metallic grains around my ankles. To recognize the elements that built my body, even after the confines of uniformity weathered away at their shells. To relearn what it means to be – that my successes are not in spite of my Asia, nor excused by it. And to hold on to the parts that cannot be sanded away. So, I will tell you about the things I know now. You tried to teach me that I am molded right Because I am quiet. Because I did not speak for myself, because I was the good Asian girl who listened. That my success is to step down from the spotlight, to relish in the victory of paler faces and to deny myself my own identity. That my success could be equated to the satisfaction of a white audience. I don’t deny that my nature is soft, but you must understand that softness has been praised through our generations for centuries. He is our virtue of harmony, and qian is our virtue of humility. We learn that peace with others is our greatest strength. You see how in the process of translation, I am unfamiliar with a society where you are unselfish becomes you are far too docile – Because with you, peace has always come at the cost of our strength for your security. My ancestors knew this well. Understand: we learn that celebrating our peers before ourselves Is not an act of surrender, but one of strength. My softness, then, is not my subordination to you – and never will be. You convinced me that my race is defined by the industrial, the meticulous. That hard work was a genetic attribute, and the fruits of your labor were bloody fought with sweat and tears while mine were privileges of inheritance, undeserving. After all, sewing pins were made to sew. My grandfather is the one who taught me qin – our virtue of diligence. This is the same diligence that ground the club down to a needle, and the same diligence with which I am now picking up the dust and reassembling them into their rightful places. A year’s harvest counts on spring, but a girl’s success counts on her perseverance is what he said to me in the autumn years of his life. When I study late into the night, I remind myself that as the seasons come and go, I will inevitably fail – as a constant of living. But it is the picture of the spring he showed me that I keep closest to my heart. I hope you will remember that In a system designed to maximize our potential for your gluttonous gain while keeping us on ground zero, we continue to weather the times not because we are content with being your sewing pins; but because there is dignity in practicing these virtues as the end itself, and not as a means to winning your senseless game. You’d like me to believe that my oppressor is my own background. That you, the White-Skinned Savior, preach equality for all. You try to sand away my purpose with the the narrative that Asian prosperity is bred from academic grooming, from the tiger parent caricature and the robot-like dystopia you believe us to be. You paint me as the victim of a meaningless institution Because I brim with more vivacity than yours can sustain. In our books, there is no virtue of victory. What I have always known is that of loyalty. Loyalty does not mean yielding. It means If you make a promise to someone, you keep it. if you give someone a dream, you defend it till the end. And I’ve known this since the first time I saw my uncle do wu-long dragon dance, at New Year’s Eve in my Grandmother’s hometown. Watching the colors fly and mesmerized by the chants in a Chinese too ancient for me to understand. It’s the unspoken contract in the thread that holds our bamboo zongzi tight, the sesame oil that we use to seal dumpling dough. My loyalty does not lie with you. No matter how I play by your rules, I do so because my loyalty has always been with the dreams that I, too, will bring to life one day. – Lily Shen Editors: Sandhya G., Nikki J., Zoe L., Sam L. Cover Photo Source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/177399672810760918/

Dear Asian Youth, Have you ever felt like your cultural identity was being stolen or misused, but lacked the confidence and vernacular to call it out? Same. Around my sophomore year of high school, a new term started becoming very popular in all of my classmates’ academic vocabulary: cultural appropriation. Cultural appropriation is defined as “the taking over of creative or artistic forms, themes, or practices by one cultural group from another. It is in general used to describe Western appropriations of non‐Western or non‐white forms, and carries connotations of exploitation and dominance.” This new term popped up on my high school community’s radar after celebrities like Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry came under fire for their aesthetic utilization of other cultures in their music videos. Learning about this phenomenon was a bit of a sigh of relief, as it perfectly described many experiences I felt growing up as an Asian American in a predominantly white community. However, it quickly became clear that the parts of my own culture which I felt were being appropriated by my community would not be considered valid forms of “cultural appropriation” if they were not tied to a streamlined and easily-digestible argument. Of course, people understood that dressing up in a Native American headdress at Coachella was cultural appropriation, or that a non-Black person wearing cornrows was just wrong. But many of our discussions around cultural appropriation lacked nuance, and one thing was made exceptionally clear to me by my white community: cultural appropriation did NOT apply to food. So, what was I to make of my white peers forming their social identities around a restaurant that I had been eating at since I was a child, that held a dear place in my heart, and that I had seen become gentrified to the point that it seemed to belong as much to them as it did to me? Four years and one Asian American Studies degree later, it has become evidently clear to me that yes, cultural appropriation can and does apply to food; especially in Asian cultures, where food is such an integral part of our histories, identities, and racialization. However, when talking about the appropriation of our cultural foods, there is a lot of nuance to take into account. It is more difficult to make sweeping statements. For example, I recently had a friend ask me, “Is it cultural appropriation for a white person to eat Chinese food?” I mean, it would sound absolutely ridiculous to ban white people from eating Chinese food, wouldn’t it? If only Asian people could eat Asian foods, it would be astronomically detrimental to Asian eateries, which many Asian immigrants rely on for their livelihood. To say that non-Asians should not be able to consume and enjoy Asian foods sounds absurd, which is why I never said anything about my white peers’ extreme affinity for my favorite restaurant: Din Tai Fung. Din Tai Fung first began in Taipei, Taiwan, as a cooking oil retail business, but was reborn as a restaurant in 1972. Since then, Din Tai Fung has expanded into a massive, international chain with additional locations around the globe. Din Tai Fung opened its first U.S. location in 2000 in a strip mall located in Arcadia, California, a predominantly Asian area. This was where my family was first introduced to Din Tai Fung by my Auntie and Uncle. They first took us to the Arcadia location long before the chain became the new go-to for Asians and non-Asians alike, opening seven additional locations in California alone. Though I was a child, I still have vivid memories of my first experience with Din Tai Fung’s famous xiao long bao, or “juicy pork dumpling.” My Auntie and Uncle showed me how to pick up the dumplings with my chopsticks, ever so careful not to puncture the dumpling’s skin and let all the soup rush out. I remember laughing as my white dad attempted to use his chopsticks only for the soup to squirt out of the dumpling and splatter everywhere. Although my family did not live near Arcadia, this became a common spot for us. I have many fond memories of waiting for hours just to get a table—how my sister and cousin and I would wait outside with our complimentary jasmine tea, sitting among all the other Asian American families waiting to savor their dumplings. I remember my dad telling us he went alone once with his other white friend. He recalls being stared at by all the Asian families and feeling like the minority for one of the only times in his life. Ironically, this was one of the only places I remember going as a kid where the rest of my family didn’t feel like the minority. Flash forward to 2013 and Din Tai Fung opened a new location in Glendale, CA at a popular shopping center called The Americana at Brand. I was thrilled that a new location was FINALLY opening closer to where I lived. We would not need to drive as far to get our beloved xiao long bao and maybe, the wait times would not be as lengthy either. However, when I first visited the new location, something felt different. The people working there were white. The people eating there were white. Instead of waiting for our table in a little corridor with all the other Asian families, we now had the option to shop at high-end retailers until we received a text that our table was ready. And when we sat down at our table, they gave us ice water, without us even asking! This was a far cry from the usual Chinese dining experience. They traditionally serve hot tea, and you have to ask the servers at least five times before finally getting some ice water. Soon enough, my white high school classmates caught on to the delicious phenomenon that is xiao long bao. Din Tai Fung immediately became a popular staple of my white peers’ diets and social lives. It was on everyone’s Instagram story every weekend; people started having birthday parties there, and I found myself getting flooded with DMs saying, “OMG you like DTF too? It’s my fave!” To be honest, it was jarring to see a mecca of my childhood so quickly colonized by the white community that I had always felt somewhat alienated by. In just months, it felt as though Din Tai Fung no longer belonged to me as much as it belonged to my white peers. It was constantly evolving into a place I no longer recognized. My Chinese grandparents insisted the food at the new location tasted different and my entire family scoffed at the fact that they added truffle xiao long bao to the menu. Girls at my high school suddenly seemed to model their entire personas off of liking this “authentic Asian cuisine.” Not only this, but white classmates of mine heralded themselves for the “discovery” of Din Tai Fung. How can white people “discover” a food I have been eating my entire life? I must acknowledge, however, that this “discovery” did not come out of nowhere. Din Tai Fung USA, as a business, has transitioned to be less of a social space for the Asian American community and has instead become a larger, more service-oriented establishment, capitalizing off of the upper-class’s demand for an authentic taste of another culture. This is apparent not only by my own personal anecdotes, but also by broader changes to the brand over the past ten years. These changes included a significant increase in price, cosmetic changes to the restaurant interior, and locations in which the chain chooses to open new branches. My white classmates’ sudden dumpling obsession was a clear symptom of this type of capitalism and gentrification at work. And of course, it doesn’t hurt that the food is genuinely delicious. Attending a high school in which cultural appropriation was so demonized, I could never understand this supposed rule that my feelings were not valid because cultural appropriation “did not apply to food.” After some time and reflection, I’ve realized that the rule was never really, “cultural appropriation doesn’t apply to food,” it was actually, “cultural appropriation doesn’t apply to anything that we, as white people, would like to continue appropriating,” which very often targeted Asian culture. Looking back, Din Tai Fung was not an isolated incident. White girls wore traditional cheongsams to prom, dawned bindis and kimonos at music festivals, and there was even a period of time when Hello Kitty and “kawaii” aesthetics permeated my high school’s fashion scene. However, even this was all influenced by larger capitalist forces. Similarly to Din Tai Fung, retailers like Urban Outfitters capitalize off of this fetishization of Asian culture by creating Asian-inspired designs that make cultural appropriation not only accessible to white people, but also make it feel acceptable. By opening new locations in high-end shopping centers in predominantly white areas, Din Tai Fung has done the same by telling white people, “look, this restaurant and these foods are for you!” A few weeks ago, the original Din Tai Fung USA location in Arcadia closed down for good. Before that, it had converted into a take-out only model, as it did not fit with the brand’s new, high-end aesthetic. I hardly ever visited that location anymore, but hearing about its closing triggered joyful childhood memories of dumpling eating competitions with my sister and visits to JJ’s bakery across the parking lot to buy lotus paste mooncakes during mid-autumn festival. Despite the gentrification and location changes it has gone through, I still enjoy Din Tai Fung. In fact, I’ve consistently gotten takeout from the Century City location every couple of weeks over the past few months. I mean, who can survive quarantine without some xiao long bao? I still look forward to the explosion of hot soup when you bite into a fresh dumpling, the garlicky crispness of the string beans, and the fluffy Cantonese style fried rice that is impossible for me to pick up with chopsticks (seriously, if anyone has figured out a good method, let a girl know). I am glad to still enjoy all these things, and glad others can enjoy them as well. But at the same time, I mourn what Din Tai Fung used to be; the complimentary jasmine tea, the disposable chopsticks with “xlb eating instructions,” the significant role the original Arcadia location played in my identity growing up, and everything else that was lost along the way in order to make room for the affluent classes of mainstream America. - Olivia Stark