Dear Asian Youth, My hands grasped the home phone a little too tightly as I looked to my mom; she was silently mouthing what I should say on her behalf. “Hi, yes, this is, uh, Mai,” my voice wavered out, “I’m trying to arrange a doctor’s appointment.” The woman on the other end asks curtly, “How old are you?” Moments such as this have repeated over the last eighteen years: “Um, my mom doesn’t speak English well... so I’ll be translating for her.” In my family, I’m not just a daughter. Rather, I live up to a myriad of other roles too: I’m the one who fills out voter registration forms, translates health insurance correspondences, and composes emails under my parents’ names. Being the one your parents depend on should be a noble duty, a way to give back to the ones who’ve crossed expanses of ocean for the prospect of our success. But the pervading narrative of hardworking immigrant children fails to acknowledge the struggles of an immigrant family, one, in some circumstances, separated by culture and language. A barrier is something that seeks to divide and at ten, I believed the only barrier to exist between my parents and I were our cultures. They didn’t understand talk show humor, and I didn’t have the slightest affinity for Vietnamese musicals. But as I got older, the notion of familial barriers expanded: a barrier didn’t have to only be one’s culture, and culture and language weren’t exactly mutually exclusive. For some, language barriers are synonymous with dutifully filling in the gaps of our parents’ native tongue. It’s a mother reluctantly pronouncing a string of American phrases over the phone, her eyebrows furrowing, teetering between frustration and reluctance before beckoning her child over for help. For others, it’s hearing incoherent jumbles from their grandparents, wondering what in the world they spoke of— a world they ought to know of, but one that would definitively remain in their blindspot. As for me, a familial language barrier came in the form of volatile banters, a hurricane of angry phrases sewn together and subsequently torn apart, upending any peace in my household. Over 9,036 miles of land and ocean, my family fled from the war-torn remnants of Vietnam, leaving behind a communist government and all they’d ever known. Pursuits of new dreams in America were accompanied by a foreign culture and language— one they’d struggle to wrap their head around, girding them in both awe and confusion. As such, growing up, I sensed this growing mountain between us. What I wanted to convey to my parents rarely aligned with what they’d hear: a sarcastic, wry joke rang shrill as disrespect to their ears and any attempts to correct me came out as borderline patronizing. One night, I mentioned to my mom how crazy she was, a joking remark as she told me her childhood tales from Vietnam of excursions to the city. Thus ensued an argument over my unwarranted use of the word “crazy” and its negative connotation I had only heard of as we prepared dinner. My mom’s face scrunched up in confusion and anger— had I disrespected her? Had I crossed a line I shouldn’t have? She sat right across from me as dad stood in my peripheral, silent as our jabs began. Monolingual families had it easier, I thought, to converse in one language and never misinterpret words because there I was, in our dining room trying to dissect every aspect of my tone and syllable to understand “crazy” and my unintentional provocation within the Vietnamese language. Evidently, context and culture drew a fine line between praise and offense, and from experience, words hold meanings that can become lost in translation. That evening, sick and weary from all our incessant arguing, I proclaimed to end any meaningful communication with my parents —  why continue when all of our conversations would invariably end in anger? It was silent, as I looked back to my parents, my own words reverberating through the room. Dad stared at me before laughing hysterically at my outburst. I was dumbfounded— did he really find our circumstances funny? “You can’t understand our Vietnamese,” he stated matter-of-factly, “But I hope you understand our love.” Albeit cheesy, it’s true. The moment I read an interesting book or saw my favorite show televised, all I could do was jabber endlessly to my parents in flawed Vietnamese. It didn’t matter that my parents perceived me as a ten-year-old based on syntax and semantics alone. It didn’t matter that my mom would laugh whenever I mispronounced a word and giggle until she eventually forgot to correct me. Every time our conversations erupted in arguments, words sharpened into weapons, the anger seemed to dissipate by the next day— we never held grudges. Those challenges didn’t stop me then, so why would I allow them to stop me now? Trying to express simple sentiments or even unsolicited rants of trivial school drama to my parents allowed me to express my love. By listening and painstakingly sifting through broken, misplaced words, my parents demonstrated theirs. They had always gone to great lengths to decode the words of my foreign tongue— even when I didn’t notice—in the same way I decoded theirs. This eventual understanding underscored how the language barrier between my parents and I was at the very core of our unique family dynamic. It was the fervent act of trying and trying despite constant misunderstandings that strengthened our affection. Instead of mulling over who was wrong or right, we now try to learn at least something new from our banters. After our argument that day, my parents calmly expressed to me how they felt when I used the word “crazy”: it came off disrespectful, as if I were calling them irrational or insane. I then explained to them my feelings, giving them a little more context into how Americans use the word: “you’re crazy,” we say to our friends in jest or disbelief. This interaction set the precedent for how we would fight, reconcile, and understand each other from that day on. While strangers may hear unforgiving words, I see two parents trying to communicate with their daughter. While others may interpret seething phrases, my parents find a daughter longing to be understood. Now, as I look back on all of those fraught moments, I still stand by my statement that, yes, monolingual families may have it easier in certain aspects. But in my family, misunderstandings have proven essential in our plight to understanding one another. Although initially divisive, language has shown me how full and transcendent love can truly be. - Angela H.

A spoken word poem. Watch the full performance here. In Korean, the word “이웃” holds a deeper meaning than just “neighbor.” 옛날 한국 사람들은 이웃들과 가족같이 친했습니다 Years ago our ancestors and their neighbors were one, becoming family, related not through blood but being human. We cared for one another rejoicing and crying together. But recently, we’ve been far too busy to focus on our neighbors. Occupied with school, work, social media, our own desires— whatever it is that distracts us from the burdens our neighbors carry. The same burden Amadou Diallo carried. An immigrant, he came from Guinea, seeking to start a new business, a new life, but instead he found bullets 41 bullets hailed down from police in his own home. Trayvon Martin carried a can of iced tea and a bag of skittles. He was only seventeen when he was followed back home shot and killed by a man who claimed he was just “protecting his neighbors”. The same burden Sean Bell carried just hours before his wedding, officers fired 50 bullets, struck his neck, cutting off all circulation. He had to fight just to breathe, to live, to breathe and George Floyd couldn’t breathe. For eight minutes and forty six seconds, he was pinned down to the ground, pleading for his mother Ten times too many he said, “I. CAN’T. BREATHE.” It is so easy to turn away, to ignore the violence, oppression, abuse, racism, and injustice that’s happening right next door. This is the time to rise up. This is the time when our society, our neighbors, 우리 이웃들, our family need us most. So stop ignoring. Stop turning a blind eye to Breonna Taylor, to Sandra Bland, Aiyana Jones, Oscar Grant, Eric Garner, Oluwatoyin Salau, John Crawford— the list of names goes on and on. And start listening to the Black community. Care, take action, fight for justice— we will fight for justice. And we will not stop until we are done.

To: Char Kway Teow My Love, Every day apart from you has been unbearable, the heat that simmers within me has never been satisfied the way your warmth has. It has been too long, far too long since I last embraced such indulgent desires as I used to every morning with you for those six weeks. My chest was clamped in a tight vice the moment I had to board the plane and wave goodbye to you. A hot burn crawled down my throat as I held back my tears; I didn’t want my father to catch me in such a vulnerable state. I shoved the pain down into the pit of my empty stomach and waited to leave you — something I never experienced to be so bittersweet when I arrived in Ipoh. I am consumed by you in such an artery-clogging way, I want to go back for more… and perhaps more after that. Letting go of you was a permanent end to our temporary affair but I will never forget you. I miss you. I want you. I want to relive my first time — our first time. The way every tile in the market was stained with an off-white colour. The way every colour, movement and smell mingled in the thick humidity, every culinary layer became indistinguishable. The way my senses were seasoned with a sprinkle of salt and sliced ginger. It was only until my eyes fell on you — everything stopped. Everything felt like I was on a movie set for a romance. A rosy spotlight focused only on us. Frolicking prawn fairies scattered the floor with flower petals. The string quartet swelled. My pupils enlarged. I had my first taste of you. Hugged by a lavish coating of soy sauce, the flat white strips of rice noodle curled with the fresh pieces of chilli that prickled my tongue. The bean sprouts burst with crisp juiciness. The prawns stole my heart and my arteries with their gentle texture and tenderness. My second bite and a mariachi band appeared. My third bite and a Bollywood performance overtook my mind with a chorus of sitars and high-pitched hums. My Facebook status changed from ‘single’ to ‘it’s complicated’. If anyone told you that finding your favourite meal wasn’t like falling in love in a film, they would be lying. They haven’t yet found someone like you. I found my love with plastic cutlery, and a fish in a nearby tank glaring at me whilst we had our moment. I think they were jealous of our intimacy. My first time with you, my darling char kway teow, played out like a romance novel with poor relationship morals. I tried to fulfil the gaping need I had when we parted ways. I do not wish to lie to you, I attempted my best to forget you. To cheat on our time with any alternative I could encounter in Plymouth. They were casual and loveless; they all provided some sort of needed release, but it was never the same. Indeed, I am a noodle slut. But, none of them can compare to you, my love. I’m sorry for my unfaithfulness. I know what we had together can never be replaced. I can only hope that in time, our paths shall cross again. We’ll always have Ipoh. Forever Yours, Hannah xoxo Pronounced char k-way tee-ow, this dish is essentially stir-fried noodles with a mix of soy sauces, shrimp paste, chilli, prawns, bean sprouts, amongst other ingredients depending on availability and your choice of the wet (in a soup) or dry version. The kway teow soup version is the wholesome angel to the hearty devil that is dry char kway teow. But I don’t mind going to the dark (soy) side and diving into indulgence. Despite its popularity as accessible street food in Malaysia, it was my equivalent of a tall dark European taking a sudden interest in my plump dumpling figure. This noodle seduction all began when my Dad and I went to Ipoh for six weeks in 2016. After hours of travelling by bus, plane, and taxi, we arrived in Ipoh absolutely drained. Tired, sweltering and feeble, Dad and I craved food — any food. One of my Dad’s younger brothers, Veramani, kindly picked us up from the YoYo bus station and drove us to an indoor food market. This was my second time experiencing where Dad was born and raised, and my first time with char kway teow. Ipoh’s status as a food capital derives from the range of ethnicities and cultures that permeate Malaysia’s food history. According to livepopulation.com, Malaysia’s 31.2 million population (approx.) consists of Malay (50.1%), Chinese (22.6%), Indigenous (11.8%), Indian (6.7%), non-citizen and other (0.7%). These ethnicities and cultures create a prismatic abundance of family recipes and a marriage of interracial flavours. Food writer Susan Smillie claims this derives from the fact that Malaysia’s spice run attracted Chinese traders, labourers and Indians. The Portuguese rule in Malaysia during the 1500s inspired a lifetime of cooking techniques and ingredients, such as sweet tamarind and spicy chilli (Smillie). Without the chilli, the sambal may not have existed. Sambal is the hotter cousin of ketchup, a sauce/paste that gently warms the throat or punches you in the pipes depending on your chilli tolerance. If Malaysia were a dish, it would be crammed with an indescribable blend of ingredients. And without this, I would have never found love as rich and handsome as char kway teow. To: Chow Mein Sweetheart, I know it has been a while since I last wrote to you. A lot has been going on in my life and I couldn’t afford the time or money to go out and see you. But don’t take that silence as an emotional absence on my part. You still matter to me dearly. I know that I spoke so highly of my summer affair, but you have to understand that it was a once-in-a-lifetime story, and its chapter has closed. Not even the instant gratifications satisfied me the way I thirsted for your sweet and luscious broth. As long as I am here, I am all yours — and always have been since we were young. My gosh, we have changed so much! You occasionally have oyster mushrooms and honeyed meat mingling with the rest of your flavours — and I grew out my side fringe… Do you remember where we first met? I forget whether it was the place with the fish tank and beaded curtain, or the one with the laminated town map and white tiling that covered every speck of floor, seating and wall. I’d say you have a better memory than I do, but whenever I call for you to come over to my place, you have a different look. Sometimes your sauce was light, loose and juicy. Other times it was dark, syrupy, and intense. Depending on when and where, we shuffled between blushed and flirty glances, or alluring and hypnotic glares. This may be embarrassing for me to say, but since I have somewhat taken the unnecessary way of communicating to you via a hand-written letter (postage and packaging included), I might as well speak my truth. I set up a dating profile on ‘Just Eat’ to check out- I mean, check-UP on you. I know you often get called to spend the night with someone…or, many someones. Listen, I’m not one to judge where you go or who you speak with, I just wanted to see (not stalk!) how your business has been doing. It simply reminds me that after all these years, you still look divine. I know both of us often have our dinner times occupied by other people, but it doesn’t hurt to see each other more frequently, does it? I understand that ever since I moved, you’re currently going through a garlic phase. I know that ever since we reunited a few months ago, the feeling in my mouth is grittier. The sauce slips past my tongue, but the occasional tumble of garlic pieces invite a texture I am welcome to familiar myself with. My favourite thing about our time together is how I gather you in swirling clusters; it is as delicious to watch as it is to taste — to consume. And every morsel of you is a swift way to drift into a trance. Mindlessly slurping on you, sedating my hunger in the messiest, most rewarding way. I still have to be wary of you making a sticky mess on my bed sheets if I was sloppy with my handling (crossing our fingers that my parents wouldn’t have noticed..). Regardless, every experience with you was music. The spritely crisp of bean sprouts sliding between my teeth. The succulent water chestnuts with a crunch as sharp as freshly picked green apples. The bouncy bite of plump prawns that would burst when I’d sink my teeth into silky skin. Even the chunks of chicken and honey-roasted pork carried a meaty tenderness to our naughty nights in, the way they softly sweetened the evening and bloomed the pockets of my cheeks every time I impatiently shoved another piece into my fat food hole. It was engulfing myself in the song you orchestrated. I was privy to your artful seasoning of flavour notes, and your life-long mastering of every instrument in the dish. Each waft of your cologne would sing flirtatiously into my senses, pressing into my chest like malleable dough or honeyed ribs. Expanding my bulging face like a hankered hamster, I’d smile — so happy. So, so happy whenever we had dinner together with my family. Of course, you’re family too. No matter how old we are, I am entranced with the need to remember you again. Every time I suck in my breath to inhale the intoxicating scent of oyster — you are home to me. It has been far too long since I have physically felt the love of my family, yet every time I invite you over I am reminded once again that you are home. Your memory lingers the same way the seething sparks of a steamy wok fizzle down into a content hum of warmth. You cloud over my homesickness like a humid roof above my head, a safe shelter with the same postcode. A regenerating map with a constant landmark. I hope to see you soon. Even if it is to sneak you into the dark for a few hours without my housemates waking, I want to see you. I want to reacquaint myself, to stir old memories with new ones. I’ll be sure to go online and check availability. Don’t be a stranger, visit soon! Much love, Hannah xx According to an article from The New Yorker in 1972, “chow mein is a bastardized form of an authentic dish called, in Mandarin, “ch’ao mien”, or “stir-fried noodles”. The authentic dish is prepared by frying boiled noodles with a few bits of meat and vegetables” (Chen). Based on this definition alone, one of the major takeaways is that chow mein does not necessarily follow a strict definition rooted in tradition and authenticity, but can be used in primarily western food establishments to describe how egg noodles are cooked with a variety of meat and vegetable options in a thickened oyster and soy sauce. Although many people may argue that chop suey is the poster child of Chinese takeaway cuisine in Britain, I have a personal attachment to chow mein and how this dish is representative of the many ways in which the history of British takeaway cuisine has been largely shaped by Asian influence and adaptation. Probably like many British families, my parents and I saw Chinese Takeaway as not only a cheeky treat for dinner but as a financial luxury. It is no secret that Britain can be considerably more expensive to experience depending on your income and currency; therefore, it is not difficult to imagine that Chinese Takeaway businesses need to charge prices that are higher than the probable cost of scratch cooking, to be competitive with other businesses as well as the overhead costs of running a business, paying the staff, and ensuring the business owners have enough to live on too. For my family, budgeting for a Chinese takeaway was an indulgent investment to somewhat experience a sampled taste of China — even if the ‘taste of China’ has been heavily adapted due to resources, historical circumstances, and Britain’s (*cough cough blander*) palette. The British Library accounts that Britain’s demographic during the 1950s and 1960s had an increasing Hong Kong Chinese Population, and many individuals or families decided to start a restaurant — likely as a way to profit from a cuisine that was ‘familiar’ to produce, but was also an opportunity for curious Brits to explore something ‘unfamiliar’. Furthermore, the British Library states, “[s]everal Chinese takeaways cleverly adapted to their British customers’ tastes in food by offering buttered bread, pies and chips alongside Chinese dishes”. The adaptation to British palettes with C A R B S was — frankly, smart. I am a simple woman: I see carbohydrates, I swoon. I dip my head backwards with a single heeled foot in the air, as I hope a plastic takeaway container catches me mid-fall, and we lock eyes for a prolonged moment whilst cherry blossom petals scatter our surroundings with a beige-tinted hue of starchy delight. Appealing to the average Brit with 70% of their average calorie intake is not the only method restaurant owners have catered to the general public. Winner of the Fortnum & Mason Cookery Book Award, Fuchsia Dunlop corroborates the adaptation of Chinese cuisine in Britain by explaining: Most takeaways were Chinese outposts in largely white communities […] many appeared when Chinese families took over former fish-and-chip shops, which may be why chips — often with curry sauce — became a fixture on their menus. […] The food on offer was far removed from what Chinese people ate themselves: there were no broths, bones or shells, few vegetables and far too much deep-frying. With no access to fresh Chinese produce, takeaways relied on tinned bamboo shoots and water chestnuts, as well as bean sprouts grown from dried mung beans. Fresh peppers and onions offered the requisite crunch; flavours were childishly appealing. (Dunlop) In my opinion, Dunlop’s assessment of ingredients that replaced produce inaccessible in the UK highlights my appreciation and fascination for chow mein. In terms of culinary complexity, the dish plays into the ‘childishly appealing’ nature of anglicised Chinese food; the classic bamboo shoots, water chestnuts and bean sprouts give a nostalgic bite to my upbringing. However, these elements are representative of a rich history of Chinese cuisine and how an Asian community had significantly helped shape modern eating habits in Britain — as rich as eggs noodles drowning in oyster sauce. My stomach may be grumbling out of a desperate need to booty-call a Chinese takeaway, but I leave no room for tolerating any despicable hate Asian communities receive from the British population. A paramount part of British living, of my childhood, would be significantly staler without Asian communities in the restaurant industry. To: Instant Ramen Hello Friend, I hope you are well. If you haven’t gathered already by this message rather than meeting in person, I think we need to talk. I think it is time that we — that I — accept the fact that this seesaw game we have with each other is just not good for me. I can’t keep coming back to you expecting a different end to our story. Yet I do, and that’s a problem. I can not deny that I have had some very fond memories with you; watching television on the sofa with my Dad and diving into the soothing presence and remedy you always brought me. Although the nicknames we shared seem silly now, they are precious. My mum always disapproved of how many days we would spend time together, but it was fortunate that Dad took a respectable fancy to your charm. Reacquainting myself with you after school was like tumbling onto a sofa with a stacked nest of soft pillows. It was the feeling of oil-laced broth flooding my throat and swallowing down the comforting coils of familiarity. It was sitting cross-legged on plush bedding and leaning on a sturdy shoulder for assurance. It was channel hopping between any film programming to aimlessly experience the sudden euphoria of missing the ad breaks. It was nostalgia. Every time I pass by anything with your faint resemblance, I am swept away by the numbing buzz of a disconnecting TV and licks of steam that roll across my cheeks in hazy curls. I think of your perm-like tendrils and the intoxicating taste of sodium and swollen noodle strands from overcooking. However, no matter how much I am enchanted by our simple times, of how I continue to leap back into your presence, I can’t let go of the fact that you’re not good for me. I know the stories. I know peeling away the secrets you package will reveal your risks. Our bond is bound to be torn; its jagged edges are reflective of the way I keep going back for a dangerous taste. Too much of your rebellious nature is a risk to my health. It will only be a matter of time before my heart balloons at an alarming rate from high blood pressure. And yet — As I remember folding back your layers, I deeply inhale the salty realisation that I am unbelievably fond of our history. After all these years, I still can’t seem to quit you. We need to be better than this — better than fleeting outbursts and impulsive choices for under a fiver. I can’t promise that this goodbye is permanent, but I’m doing my best to keep myself from you, to not binge myself in the memory. Maybe one day, I’ll see you with a mutual friend or acquaintance and I won’t be tangled deeply in the scalding heat of remorse. You will always be my noo noos. Take care, Hannah x. Ah yes, the instant classic. A staple of student survival and the guilty pleasure with low-calorie intake and even lower nutritional value. It is simply, the campus lad. Starch-licked locks of gold cascade in sumptuous patterns. A charming manner that leaves you blushing and taunted. A romantic bell-end but an absolute riot at pre-drinks. An uncomplicated one-night stand that you promise to never reach out for again. And again…and again…and agai- Look, we’ve all had our moments of weakness. Sometimes, all it takes is a lanky blonde with a tin-foiled tan to sway you away from ‘healthy standards’ the moment you exit the store and forget about the kale. With your unasked permission, I am going to take a moment to be vulnerable. Even though I am fully aware that most instant ramen noodles are made from wheat flour fortified with synthetic nutrients, Iron and B vitamins (Kubala), I will continue to inhale the slurpy strings like a movie protagonist latching onto the closest bulk of testosterone during a club scene — wild with a type of desperation that is messy, sloppy, uncoordinated, unruly, and borderline-carnivorous. The cinematic sparks I experience whenever I eat instant ramen is not only part of my nature as a noodle slut, but part of my upbringing. As an only child in a low-income household, microwavable noodles became a regular option for dinner whenever my parents would be working overtime and may not have had time to do scratch cooking. I used to call the instant noodle packets ‘noo noos with green bits’ because of the ‘vegetables’ from the seasoning packet. I have no idea what brand they were but the distinctly small squares of green in a yellow-beige broth will always signify the classic ‘noo noos with green bits’ that I had during childhood. My Dad would try to bulk up the ‘meal’ with protein by having us tear up slices of chicken or ham in the plastic bowls to microwave with the ‘noos noos’. Of course, this is not at all a healthy and sustainable way of eating — but for some days it was enough. Almost everyone has causally brushed shoulders with instant ramen, and almost everyone has had their share of sloppy seconds. But I’m sure none of us will truly admit how many times we’ve bumped into them at the supermarket and revisited the bloated thrill of a quick and cheap night-in. Getting to know the daddy of the dinner date can simmer both admiration and nervousness. In this case, the father of instant noodles is Momofuku Ando. According to Nissin Foods, their founder Ando bred the idea of Cup Noodles after observing Americans eating noodles out of cups rather than using bowls and chopsticks in 1966. This was a pivotal, pot-stirring moment for global cuisine, especially since areas like Japan were experiencing a food shortage following WWII and its resource-draining activities. When it comes to Britain’s cultural and historical relationship with Asian-inspired cuisine in instant-form, a particularly stubborn stain that refuses to exit our shelves is the infamous Pot Noodle. Driven by the convenience and dexterity of holding a cup, the Pot Noodle emerged in 1979 in Crumlin, South Wales. According to the official Pot Noodle website, the noodtorious seasoning sachets were added to pots in 1992 and expanded into rice, Pasta and ‘Asian Street Style’ options between 2017 and 2019 (“Our Story”). Britain certainly has a talent for deriving inspiration from Asian cuisine, broiling out the authentic ingredients for commercial viability, then remarketing ‘Asian flavours’ as a synthetic seasoning — rather than a complex, layered and rich infusion of multiple techniques that had to evolve depending on resources and circumstances. Momofuku Ando exemplifies the ability to adapt a type of Asian cuisine due to circumstantial events. However, in my opinion, the Pot Noodle is a straightforward way to bloat yourself with instant fulfilment and MSG. It is like the middle-aged guy sat at the pub bar with a remarkable resemblance to pak choi — beautifully bald and bulbous! Everyone knows they’re always there, but it is an unspoken rule to never initiate conversations unless provoked. A beer-laced hook-up in cup form. And not the double D kind. We all have those dishes that just cling to our memories and captivate us like lovers in a culinary romance; the sultry seducer, the saucy sweetheart, the simple stud. If you haven’t fallen in love yet, I can’t wait for you to experience your first time. You might even hear music. Sincerely, A noodle slut. Bibliography Barrie, Josh. “The Importance Of Packet Noodles — A Nostalgic Look At Vesta Chow Mein — Pellicle.” Pellicle. N.p., 2021. Web. 15 July 2021. Chen, Victor. “The Truth About Chow Mein.” The New Yorker. N.p., 1972. Web. 9 July 2021. “Chinese Restaurants.” Bl.uk. Web. 15 July 2021. Dunlop, Fuchsia. “How The British-Chinese Takeaway Took Off.” Ft.com. N.p., 2021. Web. 15 July 2021. Dunlop, Fuschia. “The UK’S Chinese Food Revolution | Fuchsia Dunlop.” The Guardian. N.p., 2019. Web. 15 July 2021. Kubala, Jillian. “Are Instant Ramen Noodles Bad For You, Or Good?.” Healthline. N.p., 2018. Web. 8 July 2021. “Live Malaysia Population Clock 2021 – Population Of Malaysia Today.” Livepopulation.com. N.p., 2021. Web. 8 July 2021. Muston, Samuel. “The Chopstick Effect: Celebrate Chinese Food’s Rich History In The Year Of The Dragon.” The Independent. N.p., 2012. Web. 15 July 2021. Nightingale, Laura. “My First Pot Noodle Experience And It Was During Lockdown.” SurreyLive. N.p., 2020. Web. 9 July 2021. “Nissin | About Us – Momofuku Ando’s Dream.” Nissin. Web. 9 July 2021. “Our Story.” Potnoodle.com. Web. 9 July 2021. Sanchez, Rudy. “The History Of Instant Ramen.” Thedieline.com. N.p., 2020. Web. 9 July 2021. Smillie, Susan. “Malaysia On A Plate.” The Guardian. N.p., 2010. Web. 8 July 2021. “The Reason Ramen Noodles Are So Bad For You.” Mashed.com. Web. 8 July 2021. Wee, Karen. “Hunting Down The Best Penang Char Kway Teow In Penang — Superfinefeline™.” SuperFineFeline™. N.p., 2014. Web. 15 July 2021. Editors: S.P., M.L., D.S. Cover image: https://www.postalmuseum.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Instagram-1200×887.png

I learned math before I could speak English. Somehow, this condemned me to years of judgement based on the angle of my eyes and the flatness of my nose, rather than the numbers and mathematics my family sought for me to learn. I was a preschooler, drowning under the unfamiliar words and letters being thrown at me, like drinking water from a fire hydrant. I found solace in the numbers I saw on the walls and in the books. I was at home, playing with the number magnets on the refrigerator while my grandfather taught me how to add and subtract. I found solace in him: his wisdom and his baritone voice speaking in the language I do understand. In a world where everything around me suddenly felt foreign, I found comfort in the numbers and order of operations. My family greatly respected a strong education to instill love for learning and good character. Somehow, you think that is not okay. I was in elementary school. I spoke English now, but something about me still felt wrong. I dreaded the books we read, I dreaded being called on by the teacher—I counted the people sitting ahead of me in class and rehearsed the paragraph in my head five times before it was my turn to speak. You claimed I was a “nerd” because I was better friends with numbers than letters and words. I think you called me a “nerd” not because of numbers and words, but the shape of my eyes and the color of my skin. I still sat at home on the phone with my grandfather, and I still found solace in the math problems he riddled me with. He promised me this was more than just math—but also how to think and question, and grow in this world. Somehow, you think that is not okay. I was in middle school. I still dreaded English. I felt at home in my pre-algebra and geometry classes—and you silently judged me. Don’t think I couldn’t see your condescending glances, couldn’t hear your silent thoughts. If I buried myself under books and novels, I was an overachiever—too Asian for you. If I didn’t bury myself under books and novels, I was a nerd because of my strong background in math—still too Asian for you. So I could only bury myself under those books and novels, hoping that becoming more familiar with the words would somehow deem me less of an outsider one day. Somehow, you think that is not okay. And I started to think you’ll always think I’m not okay, because I’d learned the numbers and the words and the only thing I hadn’t changed was my race and my blood. That’s the only explanation for why after all I’d done, you still thought that something about me is not okay. I am in high school. You still think I am an outsider, but now I don’t give a damn. The years spent riddling math with my grandfather and the secret hours buried under books have shaped me into a master of words and numbers. I realize my lifelong relationship with mathematics does not make me a nerd—it makes me an analytical problem solver, a logical thinker. A strong leader, a reliable mind in conflict resolution. Watch me as I take integrals faster than you can think. And after all my time spent with books and novels, I have fallen in love with words, too—and this newfound love for writing makes me a magician. Watch me as I hypnotize you with my words. And now I realize my grandfather sought to teach me more than math in those lessons, he taught me humility, perseverance, respect, and never-ending curiosity. You still think I am an outsider? You should be afraid. Because one day I will use those numbers and those words, and become a doctor, lawyer, scientist, teacher—a problem solver, a magician. Humble. Persevering. Respectful. Curious. I learned math before I could speak English. But your ignorance to the power of education blinds you. Watch me as I hold the world in my hands. And I think that is more than okay. - Yi-Ann

Seasonal marketing irks me. There are two occasions where my visceral disdain for festive spirits are at its peak. The first is the day after Halloween where shops where not a single pumpkin is left in sight. Days and weeks worth of post-Christmas sales occur every year, but apparently Halloween is not given the same courtesy. The second time is when stores start selling Christmas tat not just before Christmas, but at least two months in advance; skewering my eyes out and roasting them like chestnuts is more appealing than looking at Capitalism at the heights of its artificially flavoured ‘good cheer and kindness’. Both occasions invigorate this urge to launch into an unprovoked rant whilst checking spiced-apple detergent prices in aisle six. If it feels like I have animosity towards Christmas being prioritised over Halloween, it’s because I absolutely do — I feel as if I see right through the cheap displays of holiday spirits. I don’t want corporations to pretend they care about holiday cheer when they may just want to maximise their numbers at any timely event of the year. Similarly, you could argue that companies that market their work for, or with, marginalised communities are either disingenuous or just a way to bank on any possible aspect of social relevance. Or both. Cause marketing benefits the company, but does it really benefit us and what we want to consciously invest in? Defining Cause Marketing Cause marketing is a type of advertising or promotion to support or highlight social causes and issues that may not be specifically related to the brand, but imply to consumers that brands are financially investing in social and humanitarian campaigns. The Cancer Research Institute states that “cause marketing campaigns may range from a single annual donation by an organization, to a percentage of sale price of a company product line, to net proceeds from a limited edition product by an individual engaging their fan base for a good cause” ("Cause-Related Marketing"). According to Sara Flis, additional examples of cause marketing include: 100 percent of sales donated to a cause Buy one give one Donation with purchase Proud supporter (whereby a company associates itself with a socio-political movement or gives a grant/gift to a non-profit) Volunteerism partnership (employees donate time to an activity) Gift-matching Co-branded events (Flis). I don’t necessarily have issues with brands that, for example, invest in research awareness or fund causes that are marketed to inform audiences and how they are able to help — such as Cancer Research’s Race for Life. I do have an issue when companies utilise the tools of cause marketing to boost their numbers more than the cause itself; when a corporation’s allyship or philanthropy is short-term, transactional, and relies on consumer purchases. In my opinion, corporations need to make improvements by holding themselves responsible for long-term commitments in supporting marginalised communities. Anti-Hauls: My Epiphany about Marketing and Allyship A pivotal moment of my ongoing journey to be more conscious of the products I was purchasing was discovering Kimberly Clark’s anti-hauls in 2017. Built on the premise to be the antithesis of online beauty creators flaunting what they purchased at various ranges of budget, Drag Queen Kimberly Clark introduced me to the idea of a video series that critiqued the beauty industry for how they market their products to incentivise purchases — what you are NOT going to buy rather than what you have already bought. They also provided hard reality checks to viewers that companies don’t care if you like pretty packaging because it’s nostalgic for you, they care if pretty and nostalgic packaging incite people to complete their orders. One of Kimberly Clark’s anti-hauls titled ‘ANTIHAUL #19 — CORPORATE PRIDE (FT. JACLYN HILL!)’ managed to consolidate what I grew up hypothesising into one video. Corporations that advertise philanthropy and allyship towards a specific community or marginalised group are not as sincere as we want to believe. It’s an additional method for us to spend money on consumer items with less guilt attached to the total. This was my epiphany. My moment of enlightened realisation. There was a way of explaining why I felt instant ‘sus’ seeing products plastered in socio-historic flags for only a month of digital campaigns. The ones that conveniently advertised diversity, inclusion and allyship after a time of tragedy or global trauma. Their use of cause marketing may have initially derived from a place that wanted to show support, but at the end of the day, their allyship comes at a price. How Brands Benefit From Cause Marketing From a brand and marketing perspective, it can be understandable why cause marketing works. Cause marketing can manufacture an unspoken agreement between company and consumer that you’re on each other’s side, that you both have similar values and both want to support and invest in allyship or philanthropy but on your own terms. Additionally, cause marketing can boost a brands reputation in the market; it helps brands stand out from their competitors to attract potential customers. Not only that, but a brand marketing their name and respective products alongside a socially accepted cause can be utilised like a red-tinted flag, distracting the herd of bulls that frequently charge through multiple social media platforms if a brand does something that is the socio-political version of ‘yikes’. Furthermore, brands communicating their support for a certain marginalised group can help individuals that may experience racial, gender, religious or sexual discrimination feel potentially safer with the company of a corporation’s product on their shelf. When a brand is outspoken about supporting Black, Asian, Indigenous, or LGBTQIA+ communities, those communities can approach certain products under the impression that a brand values their human rights, stand for equality and justice. In their ‘corporate pride’ video, Kimberly Clark states that, “as a queer person when I see a rainbow flag in a space, I feel better. It tells me it’s a safe space; and when I see a rainbow flag on another person, I feel seen and supported and generally less alone” (Clark). If customers and staff that work under a brand, feel safe and ‘less alone’ in a corporate space, it may ensure that marginalised individuals and their wellbeing are less threatened (but not totally since microaggressions are an ongoing issue in any environment). However, Kimberly Clark follows this by stating, “if you’re going to spend some dough on a rainbow, you should at least think about who that dough is going to. Just because Target has a handful of LGBTQIA+ employees doesn’t mean that those employees profit from sales and merchandising (Clark). This emphasises the fact that although brands can market how they are diverse and inclusive allies, the money invested to advertise philanthropy and allyship is not necessarily re-invested to support consumers themselves, nor the marginalised staff that work under said corporations. Just because a company spent money on a flag-branded product to sell to you, does not necessarily mean that they are willing to support you if no boost in rank or profit is involved. So how can brands be ethically supportive whilst being a conscious consumer; in what ways do brands need to evidence sincere support, and what can we do to continue supporting marginalised groups or causes without having to give companies any ounce of your time or money? Charity Tie-ins Charity tie-ins market allyship or philanthropy to potential customers by stating on advertising or product packaging that a portion of the profits or proceeds will be donated to a cause or non-profit specific to a marginalised group or global cause depending on current events or a brand’s annual initiatives. Arguably, this type of marketing can work well to entice purchases because of two reasons. The first reason that charity tie-ins can be enticing is the fact that western society and its relationship with Capitalism often associate money with an exchange. If you want an item of a certain value attached to it, you are expected to pay that minimum value and are given the item in return. An exchange is made. Not only that but there is an expectation that when you pay for something, it is to trade that money for something you can tangibly experience. Whether it is a bottle of water, concert tickets or day-old Halloween decorations, you exchange money for something tangible to you. It is similar to why we hate shipping fees when online shopping; shipping is not a ‘product’ the same way an ugly wreath is a product. Therefore, the idea of free shipping is more appealing — regardless of whether or not more money was spent to have free shipping (from shipping cost included in product RRP or purchasing multiple products with free shipping as the reward). As cold as it may seem, some people may be less enticed to directly donate to charities or organisations because we are used to the idea that departing with our money requires an exchange of similar value — a charitable act is not a ‘product’. Products marketed with a charity tie-in ‘solve’ this whereby the consumer can purchase a product and receive a product in return for the ‘donation’ they made within the overall RRP. Products with a charity tie-in act as the vessel for donations that consumers can benefit from, they can receive something in return for a donation the brand makes on their behalf. However, large corporations make enough money where they don’t need you for them to make a donation. The only reason they want you for donations is so they can boost their sales. The second reason why charity tie-ins can be a successful method of cause marketing is that they can justify consumerism. The beauty industry greatly expanded as something more accessible and profitable in the early to late 2010s. Arguably, the increase in product accessibility (coupled with social media influencer culture) boosted the increase in product purchasing. Because of the boom in this industry, it can be more difficult for consumers to justify spending money on another makeup product. Therefore, charity tie-ins can market the impression that by purchasing makeup attached to philanthropic causes, less guilt can be attached to customer purchases. The ease of the ‘built-in’ donation as stated previously also alters the mentality attached to purchasing consumer items — ‘if I buy more product, more donations will be made’; ‘I may not have liked this item in the end and was a waste of product and my money, but at least it went to a good cause’. Kimberly Clark suggests that charity tie-ins also alter consumer mentality by associating brands with allyship or philanthropy so customers are more likely to return to the brand and continue purchasing from them. They argue that for brands, “Even if they aren’t making hard cash from the sale of specific items, but attaching themselves to the movement of the month [...] a company stands to gain some major image boosting. Not only does a relatively cheap stunt like this get some actual press [...] it cements in the consumer’s mind that this brand is synonymous with charity — and that boost affects the entire brand, not just the sale of products that actually go to a good cause” (Clark). This highlights that methods of cause marketing don’t just affect the sales of one product, but the long-term reputation of the brand itself. Furthermore, the consumer justification can extend to how customers make purchases online. Most online shopping sites have a shipping fee and will reward you with free shipping if you are willing to spend more money on more stuff. If charity tie-ins can ‘allow’ consumers to justify their purchases, it may incentivise online shoppers to add more items to their cumulative total. Get free shipping and donate to a good cause! As Kimberly Clark states, “a charity tie-in product is just a gateway drug to more spending. I couldn’t invent a more quintessential example of this than the rainbow shopping bag from Ikea. Yes, 100% of the proceeds of the sale go to the human rights campaign, which is great, but the Ikea shopping bag exists only to be filled with other products; and because the rainbow shopping bag is the only product that Ikea is selling that’s actually supporting a queer organisation, nothing you could possibly fill it with is giving any coin to queer people in need. [...] Look, even if said pride merchandise is not a plastic carrier [...] it still probably serves as a vehicle to get you to buy more product” (Clark). Kimberly Clark’s statements illustrate how cause marketing can focus exclusively on specific items to incentivise consumers to spend more money on other items in addition. Therefore, the justification of using a brand as a vessel for donation may escalate to the justification of purchasing more products since shipping fees aren’t included in the percentage donated. Even if a brand donated 15% of the proceeds to any marginalised community, 85% of those profits won’t go to a cause but instead to the brand to fund its own growth. That means 85% of what you have given does not go to marginalised communities. Even if a large corporation donated 100% proceeds to any marginalised community, the amount of money they may donate in total may not make a single dent in their gross profits. In fact, the long-term profits a corporation may gain just by associating itself with acts of allyship most likely will overshadow any amount of money they may have donated during a social awareness month. I am certain that the amount of stuff you possess may have increased. I am certain that the amount of reputation a brand has as an ally may have increased. However, the amount of financial stability and security for any member of the Black, Asian, Indigenous, or LGBTQIA+ community continues to be uncertain despite this. “I’m Gay All Year Round”: Hiring and Limiting Diverse Talent Although not a direct example of cause marketing from Flis’s examples, hiring individuals in Black, Asian, Indigenous, Muslim, or LGBTQIA+ communities can exemplify how companies market their support to diversify the ‘faces’ of the brand as well as supporting the income of marginalised groups. However, one of the main flaws with ‘diversity for hire’ arises during months of socio-historic relevance — such as Black History Month or Pride Month. Published on Youtube, an “Entertainment Weekly'' video interviews the five most recent winners of the ‘Ru Paul’s Drag Race’ reality TV franchise to discuss a variety of topics, including brand partnerships and deals. Priyanka, Canadian Drag Queen and winner of Drag Race Canada season one, addresses how brands focus on partnerships with members of the LGBTQIA+ community with the prediction that they’re most financially prosperous at conveniently profitable times of the year, such as Pride Month. Priyanka initiates the topic by stating, “it’s really great that everyone [in the drag or LGBTQIA+ community] is getting opportunity, but I’ve had to have some really hard conversations with some people to be like ‘so June, we’re gonna have you be the face’ and I said ‘well, why June?’, ‘oh because it’s Pride Month’ and I was like ‘well, I’m gay all year round’” (Entertainment Weekly). Priyanka’s anecdote highlights how brands are open to hiring diverse talent for campaigns to implicitly showcase their allyship as well as grabbing the attention of audiences that are familiar with the talent they hire — but only at times of the year they predict as the most marketable. Arguably, this could be to maximise the profit they may generate from funding these campaigns and signing contracts. Priyanka’s statement, ‘well, I’m gay all year round’ highlights the hypocrisy that brands can be allies but at the convenience of their marketing strategies. All-Stars 5 Winner Shea Coulee follows this conversation; they argue, “that’s honestly what’s been lingering in my head the whole time — like we do have these opportunities but a lot of times they really want to start coming around, like, specifically around this time of year to be like ‘Hey! What’s up! We got this budget for Pride’ [...] and you’re like ‘That’s great but I also have bills the other eleven months of the year and as much as I would love to stretch myself thin on ten different projects, how about, you know, you just come at me as an artist and understand that I am not something to be tokenised one month out of the year" (Entertainment Weekly). These examples of conversations with companies exemplify how a brand’s allyship and goals to hire diverse talent do not take into consideration that many individuals in a marginalised community with a well-established platform may often have to spread themselves thin with multiple projects in one month that is socially relevant to their community. This can lead to such individuals having a boost in their income for that month but it does not guarantee security for the following months. Priyanka continues that as drag artists, it is important to enter meetings as the leaders to suggest to brands that members of the LGBTQIA+ community can be hired for an autumn campaign or Christmas — to “put their money where their mouth is'' and support the income of marginalised groups even if the months’ profits aren’t as fruitful as socially relevant occasions like Pride Month (Entertainment Weekly). Brands need to recognise that although it is important to hire members of marginalised communities to amplify their voices and identity on a larger platform, creating contracts for months that are only intrinsically linked to the awareness of Blackness, Asianness, or Queerness does not showcase a financial dedication or commitment to allyship. Marginalised communities have to experience marginalisation every day of every month. If brands are only giving these communities one month’s worth of financial security and ‘exposure’ to new audiences (minimum), they might as well be more committed to trick-or-treating than to allyship. What Can You Do Instead? In a lot of ways, money is power. It can be enough for a marginalised individual to live in a safe and secure home. If you are not fond of supporting large corporations in their attempts to buy their stuff because they believe in ‘a good cause’, then there are alternatives as to how you can be an ally through financial investment. Backing small, independent businesses — especially those that actively support, donate to, or are owned by Black, Asian, Indigenous, LQBTQIA+, and religiously marginalised communities. Purchasing products made by small independent businesses that state 100% of the proceeds go towards a reputable cause or organisation Donating directly to organisations Researching the diversity of executives in a brand Not buying unnecessary consumer products for ‘charity’ At the end of the day, I can’t force anyone to donate to charity the same way I can’t force every shop in my local area to sell Halloween decorations in December. When it concerns an individual’s finances and how their money is managed, saved or spent, every person has the autonomy to use or not use their money however they want. Especially given the circumstances of the last year, it is increasingly difficult for many people to generate and save their finances, let alone financially invest in philanthropy. Depending on one's long or short-term socio-economic status, any amount of donation could be a significant dent in a person’s budget and funds for living. I completely understand that the choices a person makes with their money are their autonomy. This is not about shaming the way you spend your money. This is a criticism of the way corporations feed on consumer guilt and spending habits by cloaking them with allyship as the selling point. This is highlighting the fact that many corporations want you to be an ally of their allyship by shifting products off of their shelves. What matters to corporations, their cause marketing and allyship, is the short-term boost in their profile and their pockets — not the long-term dedication to social change and improvement to the wellbeing of Black, Asian, Indigenous, LGBTQIA+, or religiously marginalised communities. The fact that marginalised communities need to take charge in meetings, for brands to recognise and respect their worth, shows that corporations have yet to learn the difference between tokenizing social struggles and equal opportunity. Deep in the hollows of my pumpkin soul, I do not trust corporate allyship. Large companies with more social justice hashtags than non-white executives do not utilise cause marketing to authentically support marginalised groups. A brand’s willingness to be in proximity to marginalised groups for seasonal campaigns does not necessarily mean that the brand’s internal structure and annual diversity goals are managed with the same vigour as their seasonal product labels. Being an ally is not something to sell, being an ally is something to invest. Bibliography https://www.google.co.uk/books/edition/Hiding_Politics_in_Plain_Sight/tKCkDAAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=cause+marketing&printsec=frontcover "Cause-Related Marketing." Cancer Research Institute. Web. 20 May 2021. Clark, Kimberly. ANTIHAUL #19 — CORPORATE PRIDE (FT. JACLYN HILL!). 2019. Web. 20 May 2021. Dopson, Elise. "7 Cause Marketing Examples That Will Inspire Your Social Media Strategy." Sendible.com. N.p., 2019. Web. 20 May 2021. Eikenberry, Angela. M. "The Hidden Costs Of Cause Marketing (SSIR)." Ssir.org. N.p., 2009. Web. 20 May 2021. Entertainment Weekly. Winners Of 'Rupaul's Drag Race' Unite To Talk Drag Culture | Around The Table | Entertainment Weekly. 2021. Web. 20 May 2021. Flis, Sarah. "The Rise In Cause Marketing For Non-Profit And For-Profit Companies." Ascenta. N.p., 2020. Web. 20 May 2021. Smith, Kit. "A Guide To Cause Marketing (With Examples)." Brandwatch. N.p., 2016. Web. 20 May 2021. Strach, Patricia. Hiding Politics In Plain Sight Cause Marketing, Corporate Influence, And Breast Cancer Policymaking. Oxford University Press, 2016. Print. Editors: Bri. S, Lydia. L, Rachel. C, Zoe. L Cover photo/art source: Image link: https://d3ayyz93zozlya.cloudfront.net/uploaded-images/articlemainimage/cause-marketing-best-practices-for-us-nonprofits-59480f24a10bb.jpeg Article link: https://www.missionbox.com/article/481/2020-cause-marketing-best-practices-for-us-nonprofits Cover Photo Source: https://www.impactplus.com/blog/marketing-with-pride-vs-rainbow-washing-marketing-lessons-from-pride-month-2019

Dear Asian Youth, When I was growing up, I fantasized being a Disney princess. I loved how each princess had their own set of core values, a cute animal sidekick, and a handsome prince to accompany them wherever they went. The princesses were classy and kind but also feisty and outspoken. They overcame their challenges. They found a way to get what they wanted. I wanted to acquire their lives of grandeur and exuberance into mine. I’d beg my mom and dad to go to the Disney store and on the rare occasion, they would say yes! My mom would haul my younger brother and I to the local mall in the morning and wait outside until it was open to get my Disney princess and crown. I would run to the princess aisle and spend 10 minutes figuring out which dress to get. Mom said to only get one because it was quite expensive so I had to make it count. I’d make my way towards each one, enthralled by the bright colors, glittery fabric and poofy skirts. After 10 minutes of intensive decisions, I finally settled on Cinderella. I loved all the Disney Princesses but Cinderella was always my favorite. I fell in love with her fair skin, blue eyes, and slim figure. I tried replicating it as a kid. I would walk down my local Walgreens to the makeup aisle, pick up the lightest foundation and smear it all over my arms and face, erasing the melanin off my skin. “Look how pretty I am.” I would say, taking a glance at the mirror. “I look exactly like Cinderella.” Looking in that mirror, I was already internalizing inherent racism with the need to grow into a society that didn’t accept my beautiful tan skin. I declined my own ethnicity to feel validated in anothers. One that wasn’t even my own but I was forced to grow up in. And I caved in. I grew up hating my skin color. I wouldn’t let the sun touch me in fear of being too dark. I refused to take photos in the summer because I was too tan already. Neon colors that brought out how tan I was I avoided. The need to be society’s Disney princess was in the forefront of my mind. This is what privilege society views today as beautiful. White beauty is seen in the magazines, the billboards, the makeup aisles, in movies, and overall culture. We see it everyday in the whitening products in the makeup aisle: skin lightening masks, brightening BB cream, skin lightening pills. The “Cinderella effect” or so they call it is an intersectional, antagonizing weapon used against minorities to shield their own skin for the benefit of the whites. The “beauty” of the white color turned into a dominant power that imbalances the system to degrade and dehumanize people of color. People of color cannot be beautiful because it takes away the “beauty” of the white color; they do not hold the power. However this is the reality that many BIPOC girls face as they step in the world. While there is some representation—Jasmine, Mulan, Pocahontas, Moana and Tiana in Disney—none of them get the popular recognition, merch and branding as their fellow princesses. It is also, like 8 year old me, so internalized that white is the only acceptable form of beauty that it’s hard to look up to any other because we see it everywhere. BIPOC girls can’t help but feel caught up in the dichotomy of what is beautiful if they are forced to live in a body that society tells them is “exotic” or “obscure”. Cinderella is not only the model of Disney but also society. She is the representation of white privilege that has been embedded into the system. So while it's important that we’ve now acknowledged this privilege or what caused us to think this way, we need to change the narrative on what society deems as “beautiful”. With this, comes action. Buy from companies that have a diverse array of BIPOC. Start following BIPOC creators, listen to their stories, educate yourself on different cultures and find beauty in it. Realize that while it is different from yours, it doesn't make it less beautiful. In the end, every girl just wants to be called beautiful, strong, and independent. Have the future generation of kids see an array of all different shapes, sizes, and colors of what beauty really is. Having an Asian girl look into the mirror and see that her skin is beautiful and that she too can be a Disney princess, just the way she is. - Genesis

Dear Asian Youth, On December 17th, my grandpa passed away at 2:32 A.M at the East Jefferson General Hospital in Metairie, Louisiana. It wasn’t supposed to end that way. He entered the hospital, oblivious to the fact that he would never walk out again. He was content and mobile, with only a minor health issue due to his feeding tube. However, the poor care he received at this miniscule, run-down hospital ultimately resulted in his very last breath. The doctors gave up before his heart even stopped. “He’s in a better place now,” my mom said over FaceTime, her lips trembling as tears trickled down her face. “Gung Gung is in heaven now.” My grandpa was never religious. Even though he rarely spoke about God or the afterlife, my mom was always at the forefront, never surrendering her beliefs, despite the snobbish glares she received from our relatives and family members. Growing up, I lived in a Christian household and witnessed countless arguments between my mom and her family regarding religion. As my mom cultivated a deeper relationship with her faith, she reached out to the people she loved in order to share her story—to restore hope. As always, it resulted in my mom being shamed and labeled as insane or crazy. “When did she get so religious?” My grandma would ask me. Barriers separated them; a middle ground was yet to be found. Still, leading up to his final moments, my grandpa listened to my mom speak about her journey towards declaring her faith. She knew that he would soon depart to the afterlife. While he laid silently on his hospital bed, worship tunes poured in through her phone speakers. Since he was paralyzed, my mom communicated by observing the movement of his eyes. His eyes. They slowly squeezed shut as he took his final breath. His frail, delicate hand clutched onto the wooden cross my mom gifted him right before. When my dad, brother, and I received the news that he had passed, we immediately packed our suitcases and hopped on the next flight to New Orleans. Because this was my first funeral, I didn’t really know how I was supposed to feel. I was distraught and confused at the same time. I didn’t know what to expect, and I especially wasn’t aware that my faith would be challenged in the process. It wasn’t until I attended my first funeral that I recognized the dissonance between my Christian faith and my Chinese heritage. Despite witnessing my mom constantly fight with her family, it wasn’t until the funeral that I finally discerned the gap between my faith and heritage. Before, I wasn’t aware of how I should pay my respects and more importantly, that the very ritual clashed with my faith. As my family planned the logistics of the funeral, I was a spectator in a war of words between my grandma, her sisters, and my mom. They explained that in Chinese culture, it is a tradition to burn paper money and offer gifts to the deceased. This ritual originated from the Chinese folk belief that by setting these items on fire, the deceased will receive the offerings and possess the opportunity to live a prosperous afterlife. This belief is rooted in materialism which is prevalent in Chinese culture. My mom responded by saying that Christians firmly believe that material possessions and luxuries simply don’t exist in the afterlife because in heaven, they aren’t necessary. After hours of incessant arguing, my mom managed to convince them that excluding the burning of fake money in the program would be the most fitting option. They surrendered. As I observed these discussions, I was torn. Over the past few years, I have witnessed the glares that my mom received at weddings and the irritable comments at family gatherings. Does my Christianity really portray me as less Asian? If the two have clashing beliefs, can I even be both without losing strength in one or the other? I grappled with these questions for a long time. After all, Christianity is viewed as more of a Western aspect of culture. To my peers, I was seen as more “Americanized” because of my faith. It was already a punch in the stomach that I quit Chinese school in second grade, but being Christian somehow painted me as even more of a fake Asian. While other parents emphasized successful careers and wealth, my mom taught me that our religion only worships God, not money. While others strived to be “good enough” in the eyes of their parents and peers, my mom would say, “You are already good enough in the eyes of God. You don’t need to gain the approval of others.” Despite her comforting words, I still developed a distorted image of my religion in relation to my culture. I grew up in an area that is predominantly Asian. Because of this, I held this twisted misconception that Asian Americans had to find their security in idols, such as prestige and affluence. I was fearful of how my faith would characterize me in the eyes of my Asian peers. I started to believe that I wasn’t Asian enough due to my family’s unabating faith. Although my mom rarely placed emphasis on school, I set high expectations for myself. I started to view my faith as a burden rather than a blessing. I was losing my religion. “You’re Christian?” My Asian peers would often ask in a condescending tone upon learning about my faith. I used to view this statement as a compliment. I liked taking pride in my faith because my faith was the only tool that allowed me to persevere through obstacles without falling apart. But later, I could only see it as an insult that only further incited the battle between my two identities. Instead of acknowledging and embracing Christianity, I shrugged as if faith mattered no longer to me. I pretended as if my faith wasn’t the only thing keeping me from plunging into a blackhole of self-doubt. I was embarrassed. Instead of using my free time to read the Bible, I spent hours doing whatever I could to live up to the standards I set for myself. My mind had been consumed with thoughts about school, extracurriculars, and college that I rarely spoke to my mom. When I was up studying late at night, she would stroll calmly into the room and remind me of what mattered the most. “Don’t forget to look up,” she whispered in my ear. She knew I was lost. Lost and admittedly confused, not about what I valued, but whom I valued. She was right. I was broken. Broken, but still loved. That’s what my mom would tell me. She did not believe in the concept of conditional love, because the love that God gives us is unconditional. One day, she sensed that I was more overwhelmed than usual. She walked into my room and said, “Why are you so worried?” Why was I worried? I honestly didn’t know the precise answer. I was worried because I was losing sight of myself. I was worried because I couldn’t come to terms with an aspect of my identity that allowed me to embrace my imperfections. Above all, I was worried because I couldn’t accept the overlap between my faith and my heritage. So I thought that in order to truly resonate with one, I had to lose the other. I chose to let go of my faith—the component of my identity that I could control. “You have God who loves you as you are. He tells you to come as you are and that you don’t need to worry about proving yourself to other people,” My mom said. “But you have to have faith in Him.” In that moment, a flood of memories poured in through my mind. Memories of who I once was: someone who couldn’t care less about how other people viewed me. That was the mindset that my faith supplied me with. I recall all of the moments where my mom would tell her story about her faith, how it saved her from dying in 2013 when she was diagnosed with a rare, uncured autoimmune disease. Despite the people who called her crazy or unrealistic, she was fearless and resilient. I always envied the way she expressed her story with such confidence and honesty. I remembered that I was resilient like my mom, faith and all. I remembered that I could take pride in my Christianity while also taking pride in my Chinese heritage, regardless of the religious shame I encountered when meeting relatives. I remembered that these two elements were important facets of my identity, and I did not have to surrender one or the other to take pride in both. I remembered why I held this faith in the first place—why I believed. Now, whenever I visit my grandpa’s tombstone to pay respects, I am reminded of my journey—a war between two opposing sides that raised their white flags in order to identify a middle ground. Regardless of whether or not they coincide with one another, I choose to celebrate both. - Claudia

Dear Asian Youth, I have lived in the same city since I was born, but I have always tried to pinpoint reasons to leave – counting the days until I can finally live abroad, alone and free. The unattractive parts of the city have always stuck out to me: the traffic jams, the air pollution, the sizzling climate and the narrow sidewalks. But until today, the day I am finally leaving, I have never felt proud enough to say that I grew up in… Bangkok, Thailand. For more than a decade, I was blindfolded by the parts of the city I wanted to leave the most. I thought they would haunt me forever: the riots, the protests, the stench of toxic fuel from cars, the puddles of ambiguous liquid on the street corners. The realization that I am leaving the city I grew up in has blended all its quirks, good and bad, into one large amorphous puddle of nostalgia. I will have to say goodbye to the busy streets, permeated by the smell of grilled food and boiling soup. Walking down the crowded sidewalk, water dripping from the shades of buildings after a good rain. The doorbell’s melody that rings every time a person walks past the Seven-Eleven that happens to appear on every single block. The dangerous buses in which it’s impossible to stand still without tumbling. The unorganized chaos of jaywalkers who prompt a cacophony of honks as they cross the street at the wrong (but only) time. I will miss the artsy pedestrian overpasses that are always empty because it’s too hot to walk under the sun and the lesbian couple taking photos on that artsy pedestrian overpass. The chilling breeze of air conditioners on a sweaty sky train. The tuk-tuks that overcharge tourists who can’t speak Thai. The Thai flair that all restaurants add to their international cuisine. The voices of girls praying in my old Catholic school next to my house. The street performers with impeccable voices who lug around their portable guitar amps. Most of all, I will miss my family. How they never hesitate to venture down a strange road near the exit of a congested highway. How we spend our weekends traveling to the crowded tourist attractions and act like we’re tourists just so we can learn everything there is to learn about Wat Phra Kaew or The Damnoen Saduak Floating Market. How they take us to Chinatown and buy an enormous bowl of the best (and cheapest) egg noodles. As a Bangkokian (nobody in Bangkok actually calls themselves that), I have never gratefully enjoyed the city’s beauties and quirks. I used to feel ashamed of Bangkok because others thought it was a chaotic city where everything will give you diarrhea and is dirty, illegal and arousing. But I’ve grown past those false assumptions. I’ve learned to love the city that has embraced and nurtured me my whole life. I would be nothing without this eccentric place. Anyone who disregards the beauty of Thailand has never spent a day in Bangkok. There is a strange uniqueness that makes Bangkok one-of-a-kind, and it’s impossible to not miss this charming city I call “home.” – Yanitta Iew Editors: Sandhya G, Nikki J, Zoe L , Sam L.

Dear Asian Youth, As a teenager, I get into a lot of arguments. All of the fights that I have gotten into have thankfully resolved themselves, whether it be altercations with close friends or quarrels with family members. Thinking about these fights, I realize that we all have unique perspectives on how we view situations. You might be the protagonist of your story and the antagonist of your enemy’s story. When we start to understand the history of the people around us, we begin to comprehend how each person formulates their opinions. Growing up, I saw that many people bore different beliefs than I. It used to upset me when their beliefs did not agree with mine. However, there is one thing that has enabled me to keep an open mind: while I do not have to agree with other people’s opinions, I should respect them. And with this, I cultivated the art of listening. As activist Bryant McGill once said, "One of the most sincere forms of respect is actually listening to what another has to say." From this, I gain footing for how I approach situations I come across every day. Although I am not a religious person, I do believe in the power of energy; I believe that if you put good energy into the things that you do, you will receive back the same amount. Because of this, I strive to live my life in goodness and by being true to myself. I feel as if a big part of growing up is comprehending who you are, above all other things. And while I cannot say that I am the most open of all books, I attempt to understand myself before I start to understand others. I gain a better knowledge of who I am through the ways that I express my true colours. As I have learned throughout my life, I am painted by the colours of my environment and by the people who surround me. My parents have encouraged me to never stop being curious and to always strive to do better. I best express my curiosity in my writing, and I derive inspiration from the books that I read. As Faber said in the book, Fahrenheit 451, “The things you’re looking for, are in the world, but the only way the average chap will ever see ninety-nine percent of them is in a book.” Humans live for an average of 71 years, and that is not nearly enough time to explore the entirety of the world. However, through reading books, we are enabled to delve into the unexplored, evaluate the unprecedented, and breathe the enlightened air of proficiency. My sentiment for literature is unmatched by any other passion of mine. Through my words, I am able to breathe. When people discriminate against who I am, the only things that save me from drowning are my words. When I am held underwater by my discriminators, fury burns inside of my body, and through adrenaline- I break the surface of the water with my pencil, and I shoot up into the air like a rocket ship traveling at the speed of light- and I keep going; for me, the sky has no limits. I imagine. I think. I write. I say. And what empowers me the most is that I know that I am unstoppable. It is so important to understand what you want to do in life and what you are working with. Then, you can draw your capabilities into achieving your goals and fulfilling your purpose- because you are unstoppable too. When I am writing, I write about the here and the now. Every word that I write down is a product of what my brain feels in the exact moment of writing it. Whenever I set out a plan on what to write, it usually ends in a whole different product than what was originally expected. For example, the topic of this week’s letter was supposed to be about plastic surgery in Asia; however, my mind drifted to writing the letter that you are reading now. There is a sort of spontaneity in my writing, which enables my pieces to have a signature, heartfelt style about them - and this reveals more about myself than just signing my name at the bottom of a document. Whenever I look into other people’s eyes, I see my reflection. And I understand that I am a character in the plots of all the lives that I have touched. I recognize my identity in the actions of those around me - in the bad jokes that my dad tells or the hugs of reassurance from my mom. Whenever I see my parents, I see a warm orange - a soft, sunset orange - that comforts me into believing that everything will be okay. And it also reassures me, because I know that I am capable of loving. I derive my beliefs from the philosophies of my parents, who are the most spiritually grounded people I know. They have taught me to make use of my ears more than of my mouth, and that, when I do decide to use my mouth, I should use it to advocate for myself and what I believe in. My parents had to do this when they arrived as immigrants from India to the United States of America in the 1990s. They immigrated here with the purpose of pursuing careers that they were passionate about. On top of starting a new life in a completely foreign country, they made sure that they were financially stable before having a child so that they could give their child the best life. As their daughter, I am now fifteen years old and I have learned to cherish the opportunities that I have been privileged with. In India, females were expected to be subordinate to their male counterparts. After moving to a more progressive country, they raised their daughter with an education - an uncommon sign for girls in their hometowns. They raised their child with the freedom to speak, express, and live out her beliefs. An easy life is unusual for minorities. My choice of weapon against discrimination will always be in the art that I create. In the words that I write, the words that I speak, the paint that dries on a new mural, or the graphite of a quick sketch. These are the ways that I express myself - and I believe that throughout the course of my life, leading up to the point of writing this letter, I have not unlocked any new part of my story. Rather, I have painted a new picture, deciding my own future as I continue. I disliked using my physical traits to define who I was. I tried not to associate my race, gender, or age on how I acted - and now I disagree with what I had done. Because when I write a new piece, I write with culture at my fingertips and femininity in my mind. I am proud of who I am not just mentally, but also physically, for I have accepted my difference — instead of rejecting it, I celebrate it. I celebrate the darkness of my skin, the broadness of my shoulders, and lean stature of my body. I like my hair, my style, and my brain. My motivation is fueled by what I feel needs attention. And through this, I know that I have a fire burning inside of my body, and flames that run through my veins. I am alight with the passions that I have cultivated over my life, the achievements that I have reached, and the goals that I have set my mind to accomplish. I gain comfort in the knowledge that I am aware of my own strength and capabilities. I pride myself in my ability to formulate thoughts and humble myself to the opinions of others. Notice, I said ‘humble’ instead of ‘submit’. As I have alluded to before, I do not find the need to agree with the opinions of others, rather I should acknowledge them. I understand that although higher mental capacity is required to have a growth mindset, it has the ability to excel farther than that of a fixed mindset. This does not mean that I will change my opinions to that of others, but I will have the ability to discern what I believe is ethical from unethical. I find peace in knowledge. When I start to comprehend, my ignorance dissipates. I know that I will not be able to gain all the knowledge that has been passed through history, and I have given myself years of dissatisfaction with this. However, I believe that I have found a solution to this predicament of mine. I maintain the belief that if you keep a growth mindset, the knowledge that you come across will enter and find a home in your mind. If you keep yourself open to advice, your levels of observation will increase; and therefore, you will become more intelligent and aware. My life is so similar and so different from your life. We might be learning the same subjects, but the way we learn is very different. While I use the letter ‘u’ in “colour”, you may spell colour without a ‘u’. The purpose of this letter is to bring to surface my philosophy on life- and to highlight my differences, which has shaped my identity, and who I am today. However, the goal of this letter is also to enable you to dive deeper into your identity and figure out what makes you YOU. - Prerna

She felt hungry but was too tired to cry out to the nannies. Almond-shaped eyes cracked open, the baby watched the three women tend to the many other babies messily, handing out milk bottles to each child, some eating lustily and others unable to finish on their own. It was feeding time. There were rows and columns of babies, maybe five by nine, located in the “toddlers’ room.” Children breathed in the scent of musty dirt and dirty water, with the unbearable humidity feeding oxygen into their lungs. They each wore similar unisex shorts and shirts, so visitors never knew whether a child was a boy or girl as they also had the same bowl haircut. The sound of crying echoed in the suffocating atmosphere each second, some of them handicapped, and some of them lonely – but those who were already depressed in the mind were silent. And to work here, one had to be used to the sound of silence, the melody of death. It was rumored that this girl was abandoned at a park, barely two months old, shivering not from the cold but from the lack of a mother’s warmth. The mother had already been in tears before leaving her poor newborn alone to face the fears of the real world; she had whispered prayers to the nonexistent stars above in hopes of providing any positive energy left to her daughter before her husband had to pull her away and reluctantly return home. The One-Child policy, which was implemented to save resources for all of China, forced the woman’s daughter further away from her forever. The mother’s yelps of pain were louder than her baby’s cries. The baby was left there for several hours before being brought to the orphanage. The journey was most tough for her as her skin would never come in contact with the familiar scent of a mother’s love again. When she was first found, the baby wailed painfully for her mom’s intimate smell, begging heavily for breast milk, reaching out with her tiny precious fingers, dripping waterfalls of salty tears down her supple cheeks. Her throat contracted with endless screams of distress, pushing whatever sound out that she could so that her parents could find her again. She wanted to somehow say “mama,” but she was still young and unable to speak. Because of her lack of affection, her mental health was impacted in ways no parent would wish to see their child. Her crib was located in the last row, which meant that the darkness was near and the hope for survival was lost. One of the ladies handed a bottle of milk to her, but she lacked enough strength to carry it within her feeble hands and instead laid still. Her breath was slowing, exhales slowly escaping her body. Sometimes, the baby would listen to the unfamiliar noise of a foreigner, looking to adopt a child and bring over to the western world. The giggles from some of the older children were louder during these times, hoping to be swept away into a dream far too good to be a reality. Several of these children would grow up in stable households, speaking perfect English, forgetting their real heritage – but if one was fortunate enough, the western parents would teach their adopted kids the history of their beautiful bloodline. And on special but dire occasions, these people would bring their families to this orphanage, which was the origin of where it all began. It was important to not forget where they came from. Her eyes were open, desperate to grasp a little bit more of the world with the little energy she had left. And, soon enough, the baby took in her last inhale, never knowing how many people were wishing her the longest of lives, the strongest of women. If only she knew. Why I decided to write this piece: I recently learned about the One-Child policy more in-depth in my Chinese class. I think many people, including myself, don’t really understand the tolls this policy took on many Chinese families. I didn’t write this piece to sugarcoat the negative feelings initiated by the one-child policy, but I did write it to raise empathy for these Chinese families back in the late 20th Century, whose perspectives weren’t heard enough. Although the One-Child policy has now been lifted and loosened, China’s traditional cultures about having large families transformed after this government control, and many people don’t often know about this. I am hoping to personalize the act of motherhood, parenthood, and adoption in China in order to grow the understanding of the impacts of the One-Child Policy – by learning more about China’s culture, we can understand the meanings and ways behind their decisions, which can help prevent easy condemnation and judgment. - Hannah

Growing up I was told to never speak up. I was told that voicing my opinions would only begin a war of words and violence hurts. I learned at a young age that I hated pain, tripping on undone shoelaces, scraping elbows and knees, needing bandages to make the sting go away. So I stayed silent. Passed the time reading books: fiction, mystery, history. History books, their pages filled with stories of white men stealing land without a second thought, enslaving families and earning riches. 373 pages later, a railroad is built by hand by hands of Chinese workers. 15,000 men, 15,000 buried stories and for 6 years, Silenced. 72 pages later, My great-grandmother and her sisters Have been enslaved Kidnapped and forced to become comfort women for Japanese soldiers Living as objects, and nothing more- I check the cover of the book again, Because I thought I was reading history, not horror 38 pages later, The Boston Sunday Globe publishes a “magazine of humor and stories,” But I don’t find calling Filipinos barbaric humorous, The White Man takes credit for turning Barbarians into civilized men When will this book tell me tales That do not sound exactly the same? How many pages do I keep reading Of my people Silenced, tossed around at others enjoyment, Brushed under the rug until our struggle becomes numbers, Becomes normalized, Becomes nothing? When the stranger across the street yelled at me to go back to where I came from, I stayed silent. When friends mocked my culture’s traditional food, I stayed silent. When the president of this country replaced “corona” with “Chinese” I stayed silent. When the news showed videos of innocent Asians violently beat and targeted, I stayed silent. Time and time again, I have stayed silent. We have stayed silent. Bandaids don’t heal broken spirits, my people’s spirits, this ache in my heart dripping, ringing our history. 121 years later, a 92-year old Asian man is attacked, shoved to the ground and tortured with racist slurs. A young Asian girl is surrounded by ignorance, punched in the back of the head- they called her, “the virus.” One page later, nothing. It’s a blank slate. My people, we have stayed silent for too long. So shout, yell, heal, cry, write, breathe, love, stand- and never stay silent.

a spoken word poem. watch the performance here When you think of your stereotypical Asian girl, do not envision me. You see, in my house, my mother cooks rice. 1. I. Hate. Rice. I once told my mother I preferred cheeseburgers over kimchi. 2. I did not survive. My friends say that I am their favorite Mulan. 3. I am Korean. Don’t ask me to answer your misconceptions of who I am. I don’t need to add or subtract my identity to please you -that’s your problem to solve. My mother did not sign me up to play tennis like you thought she did. I can’t even hold an instrument but I can beat you with an argument. I can see perfectly fine, my vision is 20/20 and when I get my license, don’t look at me funny. You see, I am not your Asian stereotype. God painted me with all the right shades, perfected my being with every imperfection it takes. You, you expect me to be quiet, exotic, docile? Be a walking stereotype? Judge me when you’re perfect because these hands are made for something more. Girls like me are treated like queens back home, respect given with no hesitation, wait for me to start eating before their meal devastation. But you tell me, I am just your average Asian girl. So average, I can move mountains with my words. So average, I speak every tongue known to man. So average, I make you dance to every song. You say I am too weak to lift your man roles but my hands can carry your sharp words out the door. -watch me drag it and set it in a place where you can find forgiveness. I refuse to be silenced by drowning in your words, drowning in your ignorance, drowning in your perception of me. The waves of your voice trying to swallow me, churning in my soul and I can’t breathe. But I see you. I recognize your flaws. Because I am proud of my heritage, my culture and you cannot strip that away from me. I am a writer Healer Producer Filmmaker Doctor Musician Engineer Lawyer Artist Activist And the goddamn president of the United States. I am what I want to be and so much more and that is not your stereotypical Asian girl. - Ashley Lee