Step one: find different papers of all different sizes. Step two: cut them, rip them however you like. Step three: get glue, and start working. (Optional) Step four: decorate with stickers and other felt items. Hands move by themselves To cover the paper inch by inch And it becomes drowned in new colors And ideas. The gems probably don’t fit But I keep them anyway. I step back to observe The masterpiece made of newspaper And cardboard paper. She’s a girl With flower eyes Fabric hair And uneven cheekbones. I think she’s me. Author's Note: This past summer, I hosted an art class for my next door neighbors’ young daughters, and one day, we did a collage activity. I hadn’t made a collage since elementary school, so I was immersed in nostalgia and excitement. Because of this, I became fascinated with the idea of making a collage portrait of yourself and seeing yourself in new ways. With social media, insecurities we have, and living in a judgemental society, we can become obsessed trying to fit into the norm or diminish the features we do have. Collaging allows us to experiment with new things and concepts that may or may not work; thus, I hope the reader can also “step back” to observe their features and traits in a newer, possibly freer light. Editors: Nikki J, Zoe L

Dear Asian Youth, The sheet of paper falls from my teacher’s hand, then flutters face down onto my desk. It’s my biology test I took two weeks ago, the one I’ve been anxiously waiting to see. I turn the paper over, eyes hungrily searching for my score. But it’s not my test, not my name, not my handwriting that I see. The assessment belongs to a classmate of mine, a close friend and fellow Asian-American student. We lift our eyes at the same time and smile, albeit a little sadly. I think, “She doesn’t even wear glasses like me, how did we get confused?” Sighing deeply, I rise from my seat, walk to my friend from across the room, and exchange out tests quietly. This incident was not the first nor the last of its kind to occur. By then, we’d simply learned to deal with it. Throughout my years at school, I have been subjected to countless microaggressions from both teachers and peers. I’ve heard the phrases: “Are you sure you don’t eat dogs?” or, “You would look prettier if your eyes were bigger,” or, “How come you don’t speak Chinese fluently?” an infinite number of times. And I’m hardly the only student, worker, or BIPOC in general who has gone through this experience. According to a study done by NPR, 92% of African Americans believe they’ve been discriminated against and “of counselors who had clients reporting race-based trauma, 89% identified "covert acts of racism" as a contributing factor.” For BIPOC, microaggressions exist in every aspect of our lives, and they can no longer be ignored. A massive civil rights movement is sweeping across America, and that means increased accountability in every aspect of our lives. BIPOC are realizing that they shouldn’t have to tolerate microaggressions, but that they must actively call out microaggressions. On Instagram, I see my BIPOC friends pointing out microaggressions and reflecting on the ones they’ve experienced. I see posts explaining various types of microaggressions on stories every single day. In my private conversations, my friends tell me about their experiences with microaggressions, and I gradually become angrier and angrier at these injustices. This is an era of change, which means that I can no longer allow myself to stay silent and tolerant. As a result, I’ve formed a new conviction, that the next time I’m mistaken for another Asian-American student, I’ll be ready to speak up for myself. Microaggressions are subtle acts of invalidation, discrimination, and racism. They’re referred to as “micro” because of their commonality and usually nebulous delivery. More specifically, microagressions come as verbal, behavioral, and environmental acts of discrimination. They can also be split into three subgroups: microassaults, microinsults, and microinvalidations. These take place when a person purposefully behaves in a discriminatory manner while not intending to be offensive, unintentionally makes a discriminatory comment or action, or invalidates the experiences of a specific group of people. These acts of invalidation are directed towards peoples of various races, sexualities, genders, and weight. Furthermore, microaggressions do not simply die in our education system. They manage to worm themselves into the workplace and other vital public spaces. Asian-Americans and Latinxs who hear the phrases “You speak such good English,” and, “But you speak without an accent,” often feel invalidated by their coworkers, friends, or total strangers. Personally, I’ve been asked “Where are you really from?” countless times, often by people I’ve just met, and each encounter was a stinging, yet subtle blow. According to the same NPR study, 56% of African Americans have reported discrimination when they’re applying to jobs, 60% say they’ve been discriminated by the police, 51% have personally experienced racial slurs, and 22% of African Americans have avoided seeking out medical care out of fear of discrimination, which directly connects to another crucial point: microaggressions cause real harm to minorities. Microaggressions have never been little comments or actions that cause minorities to “overreact.” When BIPOC are constantly told that they are “overreacting,” it’s easy for BIPOC to believe that microaggressions aren’t a big deal after all. When BIPOC constantly endure microaggressions, it is easy for perpetrators to forget that their words can cause real damage, emotionally and physically, thus creating a vicious never-ending cycle. Robert Montenegro, chief fellow in child and adolescent psychiatry at Seattle Children’s Hospital, believes that microaggressions cause stress responses, which add up over time and prematurely age BIPOC at the cellular level, a phenomenon confirmed in a 2014 study. In addition, racial microaggressions may be linked to lower levels of self-esteem and higher levels of depression. They serve as daily reminders to BIPOC that we are different-that our differences are not welcomed or understood. While unlike overt or obvious acts of discrimination, microaggressions are still a form of oppression. Microaggressions perpetuate both the endless alienation of minorities and the refusal to respect minorities for their differences. In my experience, microaggressions have cornered me into taking one of two paths, neither one bringing me any justice or relief. Either I speak up against the microaggression and become a mere “complainer,” or I stay silent and ignore it, feeling my unique identity slip away. All my life, I’ve struggled to embrace my Asian-American identity, to try to love my Chinese heritage but resist being stereotyped as your typical straight A, STEM-focused, one-dimensional Asian youth. I remember once in middle school, on a visit to Arlington National Cemetery, my friends wouldn’t stop referencing the “stereotype” of Asian mothers using chunky iPads to take vacation photos. I became so bothered by this stereotype, especially in a place of solemnity such as Arlington, that I quickly fell silent for the rest of our time at the cemetery. What I remember, above everything else, was the nagging acid-like feeling eating up my chest. I hated that distinct sensation of being swallowed up by a dull, baseless stereotype. I hated being boxed into one of the many clichés surrounding Asians, the very clichés that ironically both reduce our individuality but keep us as perpetual foreigners. At the same time, I hated being too scared to speak up against it, especially against my close friends. But I also know that I planted the seed of my new resolve that day, my resolve to never feel that kind of anger and fear again. I had a new mission; I vowed to speak up for myself and all of the BIPOC who are relentlessly stereotyped. Our generation needs to eliminate these poisonous forms of discrimination. This is no simple, effortless, short-term task. It requires the will to change and the determination to reflect on everyday events. It requires the awareness and the courage to call out microaggressions as they’re taking place. It requires practice to “disarm the microaggression” and set a good example for our peers, and it takes work to educate both ourselves and perpetrators. And to my Asian-American and NBPOC community: yes, we experience microaggressions, but our communities are also perpetrators of these harmful actions. We have to be ready to do the work. As our nation moves through a long overdue civil rights movement, we also have to fix our personal prejudices and harmful, day-to-day actions. When we normalize changing our behavior, we’ll be able to create change for good. As I’m writing this, I can’t help but think of that biology test, nearly four years ago now. I think about my inaction at the time and my deep desire for action. I think about my own biases, the microaggressions I’ve committed over my life. I think about the future, and the work I have to do in order to eradicate microaggressions from my life and the lives of all BIPOC. There is no doubt in my mind that this work will be difficult and uncomfortable. But I know that with this work, I can create a future where nobody is invalidated because of who they are. - Kaitlyn

Introduction: We all aspire to achieve our dreams; however, when our dreams are presented to us as unattainable, we are forced to let go of them and choose goals that “fit us better.” For me, I knew that some dreams were impossible to achieve, so I did not even consider adopting them. These dreams included contributing to the media, as a writer or as another type of creator. Growing up, a great majority of the influences I received came from the media, specifically, the TV shows that I watched and the celebrities that I saw on the covers of popular magazines. When I was younger, the American film industry casted mostly White actors and actresses as the main characters of its movies and TV series; on Disney and Nickelodeon shows, I rarely saw any protagonists who were people of color. Any South Asian character on the screen would usually fit into the “model minority” mold—in other words, stereotypically awkward and academic-oriented. Some examples include Ravi from Jessie and Baljeet from Phineas and Ferb. When I watched these shows as a kid, I never really acknowledged their racial stereotypes; in fact, I never even considered race at all when watching TV. I always admired actresses and actors for their roles and looked up to them, but I knew that I could never become them, mainly because I did not look like them. I accepted this from a young age and looked towards professions that I saw more people of my race working as, like an engineer or a doctor. Over time, I began to realize that STEM-based industries were not the only place I could belong. While I have a passion in healthcare, I also have a passion in literature and writing that I used to mask by not pursuing any of my interests in the subject. Only when I read When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi did I understand the true importance of pursuing both of my passions equally, as Dr. Kalanithi had degrees in both healthcare and English and professionally practiced both. Dr. Kalanithi also serves as South Asian representation in the intersection of literature and medicine, which as a young teenager reading his book, reassured me more that I could pursue the same topics. Interviewing Nathalie Varli on Diversity and Inclusion in the Media Industry: Reflecting on how comforted I felt hearing about Dr. Kalanithi’s story, I wanted to share how important diversity is, especially in the media. With the start of a new decade, shows like Never Have I Ever and Young Royals have become increasingly popular amongst younger audiences, for their plots and inclusion of a myriad of demographics. To emphasize the importance of diversity in the workplace, and especially in the media, I interviewed Nathalie Varli, a Swedish actress who plays Madison on the Swedish Netflix series Young Royals, about the viral show and her own experiences with the media. Living in Sweden, Nathalie Varli has a Middle Eastern cultural background and has had several rich experiences in cultivating her acting career, all of which make her perspective as an actress inspirational for today’s youth. In our conversation, we discussed her inspirations for pursuing acting and the people who supported her in starting off her career. We also talked about common dilemmas that many youth have today about following their true passions versus what society lays out for them to follow. Nathalie also highlights that the most imperative things for our generation to remember is “To not add any unnecessary pressure to yourself,” and that “Everything happens for a reason.” To listen to the full interview, visit DAY’s IGTV or YouTube! Editors: Emily X., Joyce S., Nadine R., Anoushka K.. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FF2r-SnoL-sx2zCpCLJTQ4qKSLZH_wnP/view

Dear Asian Youth, Remember back in early May when armed protesters stormed the Michigan statehouse and yelled into officers’ faces because they so desperately wanted a haircut? Remember how they thought the stay-at-home order was encroaching on their constitutional right to leave their homes and get their nails done without a mask? Because I remember, and I also will never forget President Trump calling them “very good people”. Later that month, an innocent Black man by the name of George Floyd was murdered, causing the streets to break out into riots and protests. Black people fought for their right to a peaceful existence and demanded justice for not only Floyd, but all victims of police brutality. Trump called these protestors “thugs,” a racially-charged word that cruelly perpetuates the stereotype of Black people being inherently violent. The use of this word against Black people dates back to the Civil Rights Movement, when the media repeatedly branded the activists as “thugs” to undermine the legitimacy of their actions and frame their civil disobedience as a threat to society. These implications are present today, as too many people exclusively use the word “thugs” to describe Black people. In the words of Columbia University professor John McWhorter, “the truth is that thug today is a nominally polite way of using the N-word...It is a sly way of saying there go those black people ruining things again.” Why is it that our president was so understanding of the people who were protesting for haircuts, yet he couldn't fathom why George Floyd’s death would spark such a strong outcry for justice? Trump’s offensive tweets are only the tip of the iceberg. His actions in response to the George Floyd protests are appalling, as he proves that he is more concerned with appealing to his voters than addressing the systematic racism and police brutality that have been plaguing the nation for centuries. In the same tweet where he calls protestors “thugs,” he threatens the protesters by stating “when the looting starts, the shooting starts”. And unfortunately, he wasn’t bluffing. With Trump’s approval, the police have only escalated the situation by exerting unnecessary violence against peaceful protesters through the use of tear gas, rubber bullets, and flash grenades. In other words, Trump is doing everything in his power to end the protests by sweeping the greater underlying issues under the rug, even if it means using excessive police brutality, the very issue we are trying to fight. Once again, the reason he is working so hard to end these protests is to gain more support from the ignorant people who will be voting for him in the upcoming election. His immoral intentions are due to the fact that most of his voters have never–and will never be–affected by police brutality nor systemic racism. They don’t care for change; they only want the protests to stop so that they don’t have to be affected by these issues. Only then can they return to their lives of privilege and ignorance and pretend like innocent men and women weren’t brutally murdered for the color of their skin. By encouraging the police to use violence to end these protests, Trump is acting like he is solving the problem. In reality, he is only reinforcing racist mindsets while ignoring that the protests are solely products of the real problems: police brutality and systematic racism. These are the real issues at hand, and by refusing to address them, Trump is only causing more racial tension and division among the people. Trump’s determination to appeal to his supporters is even better exemplified in the tear gassing of Lafayette Park on June 1st, in which many gathered for a peaceful protest. Despite the clearly peaceful protest taking place before the assigned curfew, the U.S. Park Police and National Guard were suddenly directed by administration to clear the area. As a result, officers started attacking protesters with smoke canisters, irritants, explosives, batons, and horses. The reason for such sudden action came to light when Trump walked through the cleared area before stopping at St. John’s Church and posing with a Bible for multiple photos. The Bible is a prop he brought along to appeal to religious people and in turn, advance his political ambitions and agenda. This is made clear by the fact that he did not pray nor did he even acknowledge the church in any way. He simply took the photos and left. On top of using religion as a political weapon, he disregarded the peaceful protester’s First Amendment right to assemble and forcibly expelled them through unnecessary violence to make this glorified propaganda. This shows how little he cares about actually ending white supremacy and police brutality. He silenced these people fighting for justice because he doesn’t care about them, but then ensured that he looked like a good candidate for the Christian population, which, according to the Pew Research Center, just happens to make up 70% of polled Americans. Funnily, Trump is hypocritical enough to try to earn votes by claiming to be an ally. He does so by comparing his actions for the Black community to those of Biden, his political opponent in the upcoming presidential election. But let’s take a step back and carefully consider his words. First of all, since when has Trump even been an ally to the Black community? He certainly wasn’t when he continuously condemned NFL players such as Colin Kaepernick for kneeling during the national anthem while protesting racial injustice. Nor was he an ally in 1989 when he bought a newspaper ad asking for the Central Park Five to be charged with the death penalty (for reference, the Central Park Five were five innocent young Black men who were wrongly convicted of assault). And certainly not now, when he is silencing the voices of those demanding justice. He is, once again, taking advantage of a social movement to further his political agenda. However, his actions have made it clear that the only people he actually cares about are those who will support him. According to an examination of the 2016 election by Pew Research Center, white people unsurprisingly constitute 88% of these supporters. While Trump may not directly benefit from helping the Black community, they are currently a marginalized group who deserve justice. All in all, by only appealing to his supporters, Trump is only causing more division in the United States. Instead of uniting everyone as a country that cares about solving systematic racism, he is splitting the country into those who benefit from his actions and those who suffer. He should be addressing the true issues that led to George Floyd’s death and showing that he genuinely cares for this country’s well-being, as opposed to getting caught up in his political ambitions. The persistent institutionalized racism in our country has been going on for far too long and we need a strong leader to end these issues, not make them worse. And of course, this means exercising our fundamental right as American citizens this upcoming November: voting in the polls of Election Day. Vote because I do not want to see this president continue to use Twitter as a means of perpetuating violence. Vote because it is within our right to no longer stand for a president who turns a blind eye to all forms of racial supremacy. Vote because we must fight for the ultimate utopia: the land of the free. - Lora

Dear Asian Youth, It has been clear for a few years now that Trump is intent on undoing Obama’s policies, from his foreign policies to his domestic legacy. The Affordable Care Act is Obama’s healthcare reform law, and it ensures that employers must include all forms of birth control in their insurance plans at no additional cost. However, recently—under Trump—the Supreme Court in the case of Little Sisters of the Poor v. Pennsylvania, the Supreme Court ruled that the Affordable Care Act did not require employers to provide birth control coverage. So, in light of that, here is what could happen as a result of this ruling and why this would be detrimental to women everywhere who rely on birth control as a basic healthcare need. First off, this ruling could cause hundreds of thousands of people to lose their coverage for contraceptive care that is important for their health, equality, and economic security in the midst of a financial crisis caused by a global pandemic. According to the Guttmacher Institute, 86% of women will have used at least three methods of birth control by their 40s. Making something that people have relied on for years suddenly too expensive for them to afford has detrimental health as well as graver social consequences—not being able to control if and when you get pregnant is dangerous. Everyone should have the ability to decide if and when they want to become a parent because that decision affects their economic, educational, and family life. From the aforementioned Guttmacher Institute, 63% of women say birth control allowed them to take better care of themselves or their families, 56% say it allowed them to support themselves financially, 51% say it allowed them to complete their education, and 50% say it helped them keep their job. Birth control has expanded opportunities for women by empowering them economically, and employers ignorant of this should not have the power to decide whether it should be provided. Additionally, over one-third of female voters have struggled to afford prescription birth control at some point, causing them to use it inconsistently and thus making the contraceptive less effective. If this is the case while birth control was still covered under insurance, how much harder is it to afford birth control now that employers no longer have to? Unnecessary health regulations introduce further obstacles that deny women access to birth control. In Little Sisters of the Poor v. Pennsylvania, The Supreme Court decided that employers can use “religious beliefs” or “moral objections” as reasons to deny employees birth control coverage. But birth control is used for so much more than just preventing pregnancies: it can help with things like heavy and irregular periods, PMS symptoms, migraines, endometriosis, and hormonal acne. Do these go against anyone’s “religious beliefs?” Without birth control, some women experience chronic pain or constant bleeding—in fact, 1.5 million American women use birth control for non-contraceptive reasons. To prevent women from accessing the one thing that could ease their suffering is, frankly, inhumane. Women currently outnumber men in government, but female representation is at about 23% today: in the Supreme Court, 5 out of 8 justices are men, 80 out of 100 senators are men, and in the House of Representatives, 351 out of 435 representatives are men. However, this is something men would never be able to understand or relate to, so why should they have a say in its regulation? Unfortunately, access to birth control is not the only thing being challenged. 45 states allow individual health care providers to refuse to participate in an abortion, and 42 states allow institutions to refuse to perform abortions. These are just a few of the restrictions placed on a woman’s ability to get an abortion. It is possible to make all the right choices and still get pregnant. This is why abortion is essential health care. Not only is it a safe medical procedure, but the risk of death associated with it is lower than that of childbirth. The choice to terminate a pregnancy should be a right, one that allows women to pursue higher education, focus on starting their career, and have children when they can financially support that choice. Forcing women to carry an unwanted pregnancy can endanger their health and provide a lower quality of life for the child. There are only benefits to allowing women to have children when they are able to support that child physically, mentally, and financially. Healthcare workers are allowed to refuse to treat patients because of religion, and while religious liberty is a fundamental value and everyone is entitled to their religious beliefs, using these beliefs to discriminate against patients and deny them health care is contradictory because it goes against some fundamental values of the same religion. Religious refusal laws can allow hospitals to cancel a woman’s life-saving treatment if it could harm her pregnancy. When we prioritize the potential of an unborn child over the life of its mother, we reinforce the belief that the value and purpose of a woman’s life are to bear children and that it should be something they are willing to die for. Using excuses like religious beliefs or moral grounds to block birth control coverage is undeniably discrimination, and it furthers classism as it traps certain people in a cycle of poverty. Providers can refuse to treat transgender patients and deny them medical care or hormone therapy. Members of the LGBTQ+ community can be denied potentially life-saving health care due to homophobia and transphobia. Refusal rules make it more difficult to access safe and legal abortion. Medical providers should not be able to decide who they want to help and who they choose to disregard—everyone deserves the same right to life despite their sexual orientation or gender identity, and laws need to be made those lives. Another vulnerable community refusal laws target is women of color. They have historically been discriminated against and denied access to quality health care, and this is exacerbated as hospitals in their neighborhoods are more likely to be religiously affiliated. The belief that a certain group does not deserve basic healthcare rights should not be backed by law. A big problem that has not yet been addressed is the lack of sex education in the United States. This disproportionately impacts areas with lower qualities of education—public schools are the best place for young people to access formal information, but only thirteen states require sex education to be medically accurate. Less than half of high schools and only about 20% of middle schools teach all the essential sex education topics recommended by the CDC. Of course, there is also a stark inequality here as schools in low-income communities have fewer resources, and as a result, the students in those communities are less informed on how to stay safe and have less access to birth control. (Once again, the cycle of poverty is evident.) Do we really want a generation of people who are not well-informed regarding sex education and don’t have access to contraceptives? For a majority of women, birth control is a fundamental healthcare need. Women should be able to control their own bodies; however, the recent Court decision strips many people of this right. Preventative care for women includes birth control, and ultimately, the Supreme Court’s recent decision betrays millions of women they were supposed to protect. - Erika

This is the manual we all received When we were born Asian: Step 1: Look the part. You know what I mean. Pale skin. Thin almond eyes. Slick black hair. Skinny and short. Tiny feet. You’re a white man’s wet dream. Until you don’t want him. Then you’re ugly— Then it’s Dirty yellow skin. Slanty, beady eyes. Dull hair. Big ugly teeth. The face of a rat. And the kids on the playground Will stretch out their eyes Everytime you pass by. And you will hate the face Your mother gave you. Step 2: Talk the part. You say, “Ching chong.” That’s how white people talk to you, too. You tell the white man, “Me love you long time.” You talk funny Because you can’t speak English well, So for that you are deliciously exotic. But you’re also stupid. So you need him. He’s your only voice. Step 3: Act the part. You have a tiger mom Who won’t get off your back. And boy, isn’t she awful? Your mother Who gave everything for you? Who learned to live in a new, cruel world And would do anything for you To survive it? You have to hate her. But you also have to do what you’re told. Because you’re submissive. And weak. And that’s how the white man likes you. And the food you like to eat is gross, So you’ll have to learn to eat something else Besides bats and dogs, Or else the kids in the cafeteria Will laugh at you And plug their noses When you unpack the lunch That your mom woke up early to make you, And you’ll have to shamefully pack it back up And make up an excuse for later When you have to tell your mom Why you didn’t eat today As you avoid her gaze Because you know her eyes look worried, So you lock your eyes On her pained hands instead. And your clothes, Like those rice hats And chopsticks in your hair, Or strange robes and dresses— They’re too weird. Wear something normal. But when white people wear those things, It’s okay. Don’t roll your eyes at them. You should be honored That they would even deign To want to look like you. Step 4: Never. Ever. Step over white people. You’re better than other people of color Because you’re smarter And you work hard To be as white as possible. But you’re still like a pet To the white man. You’re only smart So you can do tricks for him, So you can protect him From your own people. But he will never be there for you. That’s not his job. One wrong bite, And it’s back to where you came from. If you followed these instructions, You should have accomplished your goal. So congratulations! You aren’t Asian anymore— But remember, You’ll never be white. Still, You must be so happy. This is what you wanted all along. *** This is the manual we all received When we were born Asian. And we tried to follow it to a T, But it didn’t work, Did it? Because we’re still Asian. And how could we Have not wanted to be, When it’s such a beautiful thing? So what if that manual looked different? What if we had been taught To love our Asianess? What if we still can be? And what if we can teach others? Then I propose We write a new manual. Right here and now. Ready? *** This is the manual we should have received When we were born Asian. Step 1: Your Asianess is your beauty. We are a rainbow Of color and flavor and light And Asia is the crystal prism That we unfold from. We are the yellow lotuses in the pond And the star anise in the sky. We are the soft brightness Of the turmeric and ginger. We are the depth of darkness Of the eggplant and cloves. We are the strong bamboo and bonsai, The sweet cherry blossom and lemongrass. We are color. We are flavor. We are light. We are beautiful. We are Asian. Step 2: Your tongue is a wonder of the world. Our languages are recipe books, Making words and dishes, Sounds and meanings, Tastes and scents, Others never dreamed of making. Our accents are spices Of only the freshest and most fragrant kind, Sending shocks through their systems, Hitting hidden tastebuds. And if they make fun of your spice, Just remember that White people Don’t know how to season their food. And even if you cannot speak Or read and write In your mother tongue, The voice that your tongue tastes As it leaves your lips Is still the voice Of your ancestors. Step 3: Your rituals are your power. Our parents Are the souls of birds, fairies, and warriors, And we Are the reincarnations Of dragons, So everything we do Is magic. The way we move Is elemental. The food we eat Is the nectar of gods. We dress in silk Made from the sky and the fields, And jewelry crafted from sea foam. We are strength. We are delicacy. We are the channels of spirits, The weavers of magic. And our rituals, They keep us empowered. They keep us alive. Step 4: You rise above. Do not listen when they tell you You are less than. You are a force to be reckoned with And a deity to worship. Being Asian is your superpower, Not your weakness, And no one Can ever take it from you. These are not instructions. These are truths. You do not need to learn How to be Asian. You already are. - Kyla-Yen

Disclaimer: This article is not meant to shame people for having a type or being more attracted to a specific race. I simply want to address the unhealthy fixation towards a group of people under a racial lens. Dear Asian Youth, Have you heard of the Yellow Fever? No, I am not talking about the viral haemorrhagic disease passed around by mosquitoes. Instead, I am referring to the social phenomenon in which white males develop an obsessive sexual preference for Asian females - also known as a fetish. Though this fetish is exhibited by all races, it is proven to be more prevalent amongst predominantly white communities. “Yellow Fever is not a preference. It’s a racial prejudice,” said Jessie Tu from The Sydney Morning Herald. Those with Asian fetishes are not attracted to Asian people as individuals, but rather attracted to a projection of “Asian-ness” they’ve placed on their targets. East-Asian females have stereotypically been labelled with adjectives such as submissive, delicate, obedient, exotic due to their traditional values and cultural representations in Western media. Fetishizers enforce this narrative of the “ideal East-Asian female” and construct fantasies of the perfect Asian lover. This is a reason why white individuals who are exposed to Western media have a higher probability of sexualizingAsians. The social disease of the Yellow Fever is not something new. In fact, it has quite a substantial historical background. Tracing back to the late 1800s, Victorian men who first visited cities in Japan were completely entranced by doll-like and subservient images of Geishas (female Japanese entertainers). Later on, in the early ages of Hollywood movies, Asian females were consistently casted for roles with heavy emphasis on their eccentric sexuality, for example, different roles played by Anna May Wong in 1930 Hollywood films. She portrayed a woman who lured people in with her servile and unthreatening appearance, using her sexuality as a weapon against men while concealing her domineering intents. Through observation, the greatest modern-day culprit of this societal problem is still the media. From musical performances to televised programs, a majority of Asian females have been exoticized and eroticized in a way that adheres to Western standards. To illustrate, Katy Perry's 'Offensive' Geisha Performance At American Music Awards serves as a prime example of western sexualization of asian cultures. In the performance, Perry is seen wearing a “sexier” version of a kimono (a traditional Japanese garment) before a Japanese-inspired backdrop with lanterns and cherry blossoms as she sings about unconditional love. Many have criticized Perry for appropriating Japanese culture while also promoting the idea of Asian females groveling for love. Aside from the heavy sexualization of Asian females, the enforcement of stereotypical characteristics also contribute to the growing Yellow Fever. In a New York Times editorial by Audrea Lim, she explains why many white males are more inclined to fetishize Asian women. “Asian women are seen as naturally inclined to serve men sexually and are also thought of as slim, light-skinned and small, in adherence to Western norms of femininity,” Lim writes. The idea of Asian women being less-opinionated, less-harsh, and less-resistant is something that feeds the ego of some white males. Shuruti Mukkamala and Karen L. Suyemoto from The American Psychological Association conducted a research project in which they compiled main stereotypes Asian American females feel discriminated against. A few prominent ones on the list include: exotic, a follower, submissive, cute, and small. However, unsurprisingly, many Asian females do not possess the aforementioned traits. This is not to denote anyone who does exhibit these characteristics, but rather to remind everyone that these labels are not definite for each individual Asian female. It places these women in a constrictive box of what they should and should not be like. Many individuals venture to find their partner with expectations of certain personality traits that come with the East-Asian ethnicity. If a person does not fit their cultural stereotypes, their partners are not entitled to feel disappointed or angry. These restrictive expectations can make people feel segregated or objectified. This raises a question: what is the difference between having a type and having a problematic fetish? When you are sexually attracted to an entire ethnicity because you believe all members have the same personality and behavior characteristics, you probably have a racial fetish. In a way, you are denying their identities as nuanced individuals. If you want your partner to have specific personality traits and lifestyle values, that’s completely fine. But it is harmful to have the mindset that your standards will be met because your partner is of a specific race. In its essence, to fetishize a human being is to objectify them to the point that they are divorced from their individuality. This is why it is important for us to acknowledge how dangerous and problematic this social disease of the Yellow Fever truly is. There are thankfully “antidotes” to combat this prevalent “disease.” As a society, we need to start by discontinuing confining racial stereotypes. This can be done through diversified representations in the media and or professional education about racial identity. We have to actively take the step to shift our mindsets and acknowledge the implicit racial biases that we don’t even realize we have. It is crucial to call out and oppose the enforcement of stereotypes on people and look beyond the generalizations and allow individuals to define their own identity. - Eva Zhong

Dear Asian Youth, Yemen is suffering. Through the Instagram stories you peruse throughout the day, you might have witnessed reposts of pictures portraying children barely alive—crying children with bloated bellies and spindly limbs. According to the OCHA (Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs), Yemen is facing the world’s worst humanitarian crisis: in a country with 29 million people, more than 24 million people are in the need of humanitarian assistance, 16 million people wake up hungry every day, and 3.65 million people were driven from their home. UNICEF revealed that 18 million people are in urgent need of water, sanitation, and hygiene assistance, and five years of war have shattered the country’s healthcare system, leaving it difficult to cope with a pandemic. The Yemen Crisis has been going on since 2015—so why is it being brought up now? The answer is, we are in the midst of a global pandemic. Yemen’s situation has only gotten worse because of the broken healthcare system, the absence of clear authority, and the already severe outbreak of cholera. The Health Minister of Yemen says he won’t publish the numbers of deaths because it will have a “heavy and terrifying toll on people’s psychological health.” The fact that they are driving such high death rates into obscurity is nonsense. The World Health Organization believes that there is a significant undercount of the total number of people affected by the coronavirus outbreak, leaving the public confused. Some Health Ministry employees have been pleading with senior officials to make the true numbers public so that emergency medical workers and residents understand the gravity of the situation. The Yemen Crisis may feel like a foreign issue to you—the world is already overwhelmed by the pandemic, social movements, and a constant bombardment of information on social media. But Yemen has it the worst. The crisis has been overlooked for the past several years, and with the rapid spread of the coronavirus, the country’s population is about to go extinct. Before the wave of the coronavirus hit, people in Yemen were already dying from disease and hunger, specifically because of cholera. The majority of the outbreaks were in Houthi-governed areas, where they failed to manage garbage and sewage. As the coronavirus pandemic takes over the globe, Yemen is now facing an emergency within an emergency. How did this all happen? First, let’s talk about the huge war that Yemen is facing right now. After the dictator of Yemen was forced to hand power to another president, Hadi in 2011, Hadi failed to address problems such as massive unemployment, corruption, and food insecurity. As a result, the Houthis, Northern Yemen's Shia Muslim minority, took advantage of the new president's weakness by taking control of their northern heartland of Saada province and neighboring areas and eventually taking over Yemen’s capital, Sanaa. Iran, which is close to Yemen, has openly supported Houthi’s efforts because Iran is a Shia minority. Overwhelmed by the political disillusionment, President Hadi fled to Saudi Arabia. Saudi Arabia expressed three war aims: it wanted to restore the government of President Hadi, protect its Southern border, and contain the growing influence of Iran. Two major rivals: Saudi Arabia and Iran, fight on the grounds of Yemen. So many people in positions of power are allowing weapons to be sent to Yemen for the conflict to continue. The United States has been supporting Saudi Arabia militarily since World War II. Since then, the United States has been selling weapons such as cluster bombs and f-15 fighter planes to Saudi Arabia, making up the vast bulk of what the Saudi air force is currently using as it bombs Yemen. Under the Obama Administration, the U.S. issued a no-strike list to have Saudis avoid bombing civilian infrastructure, and yet the Saudis ignored it, continuing to bomb schools and hospitals. In 2020, the Trump Administration announced that they are considered much of its humanitarian assistance in response to restrictions imposed on aid by Iranian-linked Houthi rebels, according to the Washington Post. Poverty in Yemen holds one of the highest rates in the Arab world. The dire economic conditions have worsened the already catastrophic humanitarian crisis in the country, but poverty has more consequences than just an unstable economy—in fact, it is often linked to violence, terrorism, epidemic diseases, mass migrations, and environmental disasters. An impoverished country will lack in basic healthcare infrastructure, exacerbating and allowing diseases to spread at a rapid pace, and are most vulnerable when it comes to climate change, because the increased frequency and intensity of extreme weather events like hurricanes, wildfires, and droughts force mass migrations from their homes, separate families and threaten livelihoods. As the war goes on, Saudi Arabia is indiscriminately bombing Yemen, destroying houses, hospitals, schools, and farms, causing mass civilian casualties. The Yemenis have been forcibly displaced from their destroyed homes. Human rights violations, including what could count as war crimes, are committed throughout the country. By the end of 2019, it is estimated that over 233,000 Yemenis were killed as a result of the war and the humanitarian crisis. Similar to the Black Lives Matter movement, Yemen’s humanitarian crisis shall not be a moment, but a movement. United Nations officials warned that without more donations, nearly 400 hospitals and health care centers will have to reduce services when the coronavirus pandemic surges in Yemen. Poverty is confronted over and over again only when another Instagram post depicting another atrocity comes to light. What can you do beyond reposting an Instagram post? There are multiple paths of action: educating yourself and others by watching informative youtube videos, reading articles, following non-profit organizations, listening to podcasts, and so much more. What kind of person do you want to be? We could be the generation that eradicates extreme poverty, but it all starts with our actions. Staying educated and knowledgeable about these issues is so important when having conversations with your family and friends. It can feel overwhelming, as it was for me, especially during a global pandemic. But by volunteering your time to absorb knowledge and information, you can contribute to a positive change. Eventually, doctors will find a cure for the coronavirus. But for millions of people in Yemen, they will have to continue to wait until they escape from extreme poverty. We can retain a sense of normalcy during this pandemic, but for the people in Yemen, their “normal” is daily bombings, hungry children, and the constant fear of death. How can you help? Below are resources you can use to sign petitions, donate to organizations, and educate yourself about Yemen’s humanitarian crisis. - Rena I want to know more: https://www.unicef.org/emergencies/yemen-crisis https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvP9M_2fl-eN5-GOOFSqKcCAmbD4sF0Ep https://news.un.org/en/story/2019/02/1032811 I want to donate: https://www.rescue.org/country/yemen https://www.projecthope.org/crisis-in-yemen/09/2019/ https://baitulmaal.org/yemen-crisis/ I want to sign petitions: https://sign.moveon.org/petitions/house-back-un-call-for https://www.amnesty.org/en/get-involved/take-action/yemen-stop-weapons-transfers/ https://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/endhungerinYemen/ Sources: https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-29319423 https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2015/09/yemen-the-forgotten-war/ https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/30/world/middleeast/virus-yemen.html https://www.unicef.org/yemen/water-sanitation-and-hygiene https://www.washingtonpost.com/national-security/trump-administration-considers-suspending-humanitarian-assistance-to-yemen-amid-new-rebel-restrictions/2020/02/09/4cb5cf6e-4a70-11ea-9475-535736e48788_story.html

“Dad, I’m going to wear nail polish tonight.” My dad looks up from his laptop. “Bu yao chou mei,” he replies simply. Don’t be so vain. I have envied the long, colorful nails of the other girls in my class for months now. All the beautiful girls with golden-colored hair have them. I don’t have vibrant, golden hair, but I’m convinced maybe pretty nails will make my muddy, brown locks not so noticeable. I look down at my own nails--wince in distaste. My hands are small, and my nails are short—trimmed down to nimbly fly across the black and white keys of the piano. I decide that one day when I’m no longer playing the piano, I will grow my nails long and rounded, like the other girls, and I will paint them the most beautiful color. Maybe a dark pink, like a mysterious rose. Or a pale blue, like the sky after a fresh downpour of rain. Just no drab, dark colors—dull like my hair. Drab like my eyes. Later that night, I am sitting on my best friend’s bed. We’re both burrowed under her fluffy blankets, our faces illuminated by the warm light of her lamp. I watch her carefully dip the small brush of the polish bottle into the swirl of baby pink and trace a line down her fingernail. The smell of the polish immediately hits, and I crinkle my nose, but the brushstrokes are mesmerizing. Stroke by stroke, I watch her fill in the rest of her nail—like a painting. A pale blue of the sky like I had always dreamed, dotted with little pieces of white. I admire the beautiful, light colors on her fingers; her hair is black like mine, but it might as well be more gold than all those girls I see at school. She notices my intense gaze and grins. “Want me to do you?” “I—” “Don’t worry, I have a clear one with small gold stars. It’s very subtle, and it’ll look great on you.” My mouth becomes dry. My father’s words echo in my head. Bu yao chou mei. Don’t be vain. Don’t indulge in such a trivial act to change your own image—don’t be selfish. But there is a mighty beast clawing from inside, yearning for those mesmerizing light colors to be painted on my fingernails, covering my short nails. Diminishing my not-gold hair. After a beat of silence, I breathe, “Okay.” She grabs the new bottle, and pulls my hand into her lap. When she opens the bottle again, I am overwhelmed by the smell that seems to burn a path up my nose. But I don’t crinkle my nose this time, and instead shift my focus to my friend’s steady hands as she fills my small nails with gold stars. When she finally finishes both of my hands, I look down and lose a sigh. She had painted a little piece of the universe onto my hand. Like a glimpse of the night sky. “You like?” I grin back. “I love it.” But our moment is interrupted by a knocking on her door. It’s my dad. “Time to go home,” he says with a smile. “You girls had enough fun for the night?” My stomach shrinks in dread and guilt. She squeezes me in a crushing embrace as we bid our goodbyes. And as soon as the chill of the night air hits me, I am lifted from my haze. I look down at my nails, at the gold stars, and then cross my arms for the rest of the way home. My father glances at me on the car ride home. I am not selfish. I will not mess so trivially with the body my parents gave to me. Bu yao chou mei. I am not vain. As soon as the doors close behind me, I run into the bathroom. I turn the faucets on as hot as I can bear, and run my hand under the burning stream, rubbing my fingernails furiously. But the stars don’t come off. As panic rises within me, my heart starts to pound and I tear out tissues and soak them in soap. But no matter how much I scrub, I can’t seem to wipe the universe off of my hands. With tears burning in my eyes, I let out a sob and scratch at my nails. My father cannot see. My family cannot see how I was so selfish to use my time splashing colors on my hands and trying to change what was given to me. I am not vain. The scratching seems to work—little pieces of the tiny gold stars begin to break off. I keep scratching and scratching and peeling, until my fingers are raw and a few of my fingernails have started to bleed. I feel no pain. Only a fist closing around my chest, as I picture what my mother and father would say if they had seen those stars that didn’t belong to my hands. With most of the polish off, I turn off the faucet and stare at the sink, watching the little gold stars wash down the drain. The little pieces of the universe. That night, I keep my window curtains open. As I lay in bed, under my covers, I stare out the window, at the dark expanse of the universe, and the sparkling stars sprinkled peacefully across the night sky. - Yi-Ann I decided to write this story to delve a little bit into the earlier crossroads I arrived at in disparities between two different cultures. In this piece I explore the views on materialism in Chinese and American culture, and the emotional turmoil many other young Asian American girls out there have also felt at some point. Western cultures are more built on individualistic goals—such as wearing what you like, protesting what you want, chasing your own passions—while Eastern cultures revolve around a collective vision—how your actions affect the community, how your life is not just your own but also part of your family and culture’s. This is where values of familial respect and dignity come from. This difference in worldviews affected me a lot in how and when I could feel good about myself; and in sharing this piece, I hope other girls out there whose views on their self worth, indulgence, or beauty have been challenged by two different worlds may hopefully feel less alone.

A spoken word poem. - Yi-Ann

“Where are you going, sir?” Although the atmosphere had been pleasantly dulcet, with the officer now in close proximity, all smiles were lost. They should’ve known better than to drive around these kinds of states, neighborhoods, towns—but they hadn’t known what to expect until now. Glancing back at his wife and son, Roy gave a small, tight-lipped expression to the police officer. “I’m a chauffeur, officer. I’m taking my employer’s maid and her son,” he nodded back at Kahlil, who was attempting to look as normal and unfrightened as possible, “to their home.” The officer squinted his eyes, not confronting the lie. “Where’s your chauffeur hat?” “In the back of the car, officer.” While the white man was an officer, an owner of an honorable title, Roy was handed a simple “sir.” Officer, officer, officer. The word “sir” was more dulled down, mellowed, weak. Kahlil held the black hat higher, bringing it into the view of the sheriff, who then tipped his own hat and not so subtly observed the insides of the car. It was expensive—not quite what a white officer expected (or wanted, for that matter) a Black family to own—but Roy had a stable and well-paying job at a railroad company. Their car, with its clean 1950s red sheen and lively engine, was one of their proudest assets back at home. But here, it was a threat. The white man in the uniform finally let them go, waving them off as Roy hesitantly started up the car again, and the family drove in silence for the next several minutes before exhaling loudly with relief. “Thank goodness for that hat,” Janelle noted, chest heaving from relief. “Thank goodness for that hat.” They knew that taking Route 66 was a risk. Black motorists were constantly targeted by the residents, who were all white. The businesses that Roy’s family drove past were named with three K’s in them, like Kozy Kottage Kamp, and many refused to serve Blacks. The constant presence of three K’s meant that the Ku Klux Klan was near—always near—and ready to use violence as a way to eradicate any unwelcome Black people. Roy’s family was familiar with cover stories to deal with an encounter with a racist and suspicious white person. It was mostly due to The Negro Motorist Green Book by Victor H. Green, a unique traveling guide that listed all the places that were willing to serve Blacks. It was the best way to travel without harassment. If one didn’t have this information, an African American family could easily end up on the wrong side of town—with no way of receiving help. Kahlil stared out the window, admiring the greenery and nature that was gently provided by Route 66, a common road trip route. Despite the dangers of driving here, he had pleaded with his parents because of all the beautiful things he had heard about it: romance and unconventional attractions. The mountains ahead kissed the sky, flirting with the wind, while the Cadillac Ranch (they weren’t there yet, but it was what Kahlil was most excited for) exploded with vibrant colors and were stuck nose deep into the dirt. This “Mother Road” was the hope and pathway to easier times for people who had suffered from the Great Depression. It left traces of that hardship and beauty. Roy’s family was driving further West, which, if he was honest, frightened him. He knew that the further West they rode, the fewer services they would be provided. Roy kept his hand tight on the wheel, lips pressed together to prevent them from trembling, heading straight on the empty road ahead of him. His wife gazed at him and gave him a small smile. They were on vacation, for God’s sake. Couldn’t they just enjoy a vacation without fear? Roy and Janelle’s equally flustered look said it all. They couldn’t, and there was nothing they could do about that. Janelle turned around to her son, who was busying himself with the pretty views of the road she couldn’t distract herself with, and asked, “Should we play some music?” Kahlil nodded vivaciously. “Yeah!” Roy laughed his usual belly laugh that was only ever ignited by the joy of his family. He clicked on the radio and switched the channel to Kahlil’s favorite tunes, and they kept on driving. The family sang together, humming and giggling and harmonizing, even knowing the prejudice that they would face for the rest of their lives. Instead of letting the fear rage on, Roy relaxed his fingers on the wheel and held onto his wife’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Janelle squeezed back. “Look at those trees!” Kahlil pointed out, pressing his forehead against the car window. “Yeah, look at that,” his parents mused. The three of them grinned, wishing that they could stop there and then climb those trees and admire them in detail as white families could, but they drowned away those desires quickly. Because they had each other, and, in times like these, it had to be good enough. - Hannah

Dear Asian Youth, I was talking to my therapist the other day about a mantra—which is a phrase or incantation repeated as a motivator, reminder, or meditational aid—I had come up with for when I’m experiencing a dissociative episode and how it keeps me feeling connected to the world, when out of the blue she said, “I don’t usually tell people this kind of thing, but I feel like you’re the kind of person who would be interested in it: I had an experience where I saw the world as a tapestry through my third eye.” I was completely shocked. Not because she believed in the third eye, or saw through her own, or even because she trusted me to divulge her experience to—but because she recognized me as someone who would believe in that as well. My Vietnamese mother is a mix of her Buddhist roots and the Christian indoctrination she experienced as a young refugee. So as a child myself, while my mom lit incense, offered up fruit, and prayed to Quan Yin every night, she also taught me to believe in God, heaven, and the like. And around the age of ten, when I told my mom I didn’t really believe in God, she warned me not to even think that. While I doubted and tried to reject Christianity, I did believe in karma, reincarnation, and the enlightenment of Buddhism. But growing up in a white conservative town, it was clear that if I didn’t believe in God, and if I wasn’t Christian or Catholic like everybody else, I didn’t believe in anything—and to believe in nothing was to be nothing to them. So because I knew I wasn’t exactly an atheist, and wanted to have something acceptable to believe in, I continued to internalize the white Christianity I was surrounded with. I engaged in the spaces of faith that were comfortable to those around me, spoke about spirituality in rhetoric that was familiar to them, and allowed them to try to convert me. The first boy I dated my freshman year was Christian, as was my best friend during my junior and senior years. Several people I was very close to, as well as a large portion of my school, were Catholic, and they all attended the same church positioned right beside my high school. I often went to Christian services, Bible study, and Catholic Mass with my friends for “educational purposes,” as I would say. I’d sing along, pray along, listen to their sermons and conversations. And they loved my enthusiasm and curiosity, and the chance to bring me into their world. Meanwhile, I had decided to publicly call myself “agnostic.” But of course, that wasn’t necessarily true. I would openly talk about my Buddhist beliefs to my friends, but I would only describe myself as a Buddhist “philosophically”—by which I meant I believed only in the secular values taught in Buddhism, such as the necessity of change and impermanence—and that, to them, was passable. Of course, throughout my friendships with my Christian and Catholic peers and my explorations of their faiths, I had the sense that they regarded me as being less than. Little things, almost imperceptible, like their patronizing words that showed me they thought of themselves as better people because of our religious differences, or their lack of interest in my own beliefs, showed me that. But I ignored it. I ignored it until I couldn’t anymore. One day I was on a walk with my closest Catholic friend when we got on the topic of spirituality. While I was talking about my own spirituality, I referred to myself in part as a Buddhist, and he told me that, well, Buddhists could still adopt other religions (which is simply not true if we are referring to any person who devotes themselves to following a religion). It was the first time one of my friends had overtly alluded to me converting, and not only that, had also implied Buddhism to be lacking in seriousness and devoutness enough to be a real and valid religion. It gave me an itch that I had to scratch. So later I asked him if he thought I was a faithful person. And he said no. While it wasn’t all his fault, given that I did my best to pass off my spirituality as mere philosophy, we were close enough and had had enough conversations for him to know the extent of my beliefs. Which is why I knew when he said these things that it was meant as a condescension to Buddhism, him clarifying that my faith would always be below his. It was something I hadn’t been prepared to face: not only would I never be Christian, but I was a Buddhist, which set me apart from and below my Christian and Catholic peers in their eyes. And this is only a subsection of the reality that we, as Asian-Americans, eventually come to learn: that we will never be white, and that to white people, we will always be inferior, perpetual foreigners. As I reflected on my friendships and engagement with Christianity, I saw how I had told myself I needed to learn about a culture that was already ingrained in me, in all of us. Christianity, and the ideas of white normalcy and white supremacy, are the norm for those of us in America. They infiltrate every textbook we read, poison every idea of right and wrong, plant themselves into the minds of children of color. So then, why did I still feel the need to teach myself about white Christianity if it was already something I was steeped in? Because I knew that, no matter what, I would never be accepted as an equal to my white Christian peers. But because I strove for that, I forced my beliefs to become more palatable to my peers, framing Buddhism as merely being a casual philosophy to me, rather than the enriching and ancestral source of light and peace that it has been in my life. This brings up how the culture of New Age ‘mindfulness’ that is a part of Western Buddhism in America and other Western countries is further effacing Buddhism as a valuable spirituality. The concept of spiritual mindfulness among white people is mostly based on meditation and yoga (both of which originated in ancient India) and may also include such rituals as lighting incense. However, that is usually the extent of their understanding of Buddhism. Western Buddhism focuses on the practice of mindfulness and Buddhist rituals without the belief or values linked to it, and without an understanding of these rituals’ cultural and religious significance. It is more about a rejection of commonplace Christianity and church as a ritual than it is about Buddhism as a faith—which is, of course, why most of those who teach and practice it are white. Buddhism is thus turned into nothing more than an aesthetic, a label for white people to flaunt as something that makes them seem more “cultured.” This is an undermining of Buddhism as a religion. In fact, the name “Western Buddhism” in itself is an oxymoron. Buddhism is not, and can never be, Western. It is and always will be an Eastern religion, inseparable from its culturally and geographically determined origins and influences. And to take a highly complex and culturally significant faith, separate it from its South Asian origins, and condense it down to nothing more than a few rituals with no backing that is then taught and practiced by white people, is an act of colonization and erasure. So how is it fair that, while a white person halfheartedly believing in and practicing Buddhism as a philosophy, as a Western mindfulness exercise, is acceptable and good, an Asian person such as myself believing in and/or practicing Buddhism with culturally competent earnestness, is not? This is why it took me a lifetime to embrace Buddhism and all it meant to me. It wasn’t until I was seventeen, in fact, that I visited my first Vietnamese Buddhist temple with my mother. It’s located in San Jose, CA, the predominantly Asian city my mother and her family used to live in, and which I had lived in when I was first born. It’s difficult to explain the beauty and comfort of such a place as this temple. There were beautiful trees and gardens with ponds surrounding the temple, as well as small shrines with incense burning or burnt out before them. We could hear a recording of a Vietnamese chant playing all around us. In front of the entrance to the temple were small prayer books to take and cubbies to place your shoes in before entering. Inside the temple, beautiful tapestries hung around the walls and pillars, and golden statues sat at the front of the room, facing the people who were praying. My mother and I met a monk while walking around the grounds who said to my mother (in Vietnamese) that she could tell I had a pious nature. Given that I was so used to being a religious outsider in white Christian spaces, to have this said about me by a Buddhist monk made me feel invited, not only into the temple, but into the religion. I wasn’t quite an insider here, of course, with so much more still to learn about Buddhism—but it was a space in which I felt safe enough to simply believe without judgment and fear. Now I know that therapy is also a safe space for me to believe. My experience with my therapist was one of deep validation, and is exactly why I sought out an Asian person to help navigate and manage my mental health and identities—and it’s nice to know that I made the right decision there. I’m not sure if my therapist could tell how much she made me smile when she said what she did, or if she could hear the excitement in my voice when I started telling her all about my spiritual beliefs, but I know I’ll be talking about Buddhism a lot more with her from now on. More than that, I’ll be continuing to educate myself on and exploring my faith with my newfound confidence to be fearless in my believing. And being fearless in your beliefs? It’s not an easy thing, especially when you’re a kid growing up in a world where your religion is barely seen as a religion at all. But it’s in that same world that being fearless in your beliefs is most needed. Because faith is a powerful thing. Faith is what keeps us going, keeps us loving, keeps us fighting against an unjust, unethical society for change. Faith is what can never be taken from us. - Kyla-Yến Giffin