Often, in novels and movies, we see stories of young protagonists raised to be elites and rulers from a young age. They undergo training, and so we are told tales of boys becoming noble knights, and girls becoming charming princesses. Obviously, the world of kings and queens is not the world that most of us live in today, but the concept of raising children to be elite has not faded. One community this is particularly noticeable in is the Asian community. I, myself, am a Chinese girl, and throughout my childhood, I have attended plenty of classes outside of school to learn all things people see typical of Chinese people: piano, martial arts, and so on. And as I have grown, my friends, Korean, Chinese, Japanese, have attended language school, violin classes, debate clubs, amd piano competitions. And of course, all of us strive to, under the encouragement of our parents, be in more advanced classes in school, join prestigious organizations, and participate in extracurricular activities to enhance our learning. And all of this is just in America. It is much more intense in China. Students are drilled with math problems and useless facts from an extremely young age and spend the better part of their early years studying, and doing everything their parents tell them to so that they might go to a good school. And herein the goal in all of the efforts of Asian parents: to send their kids to an Ivy League school and ensure that they become successful as a doctor, lawyer, or scientist. And so, this is the path that most all well-off Asian kids take: to work hard to ensure a good future as an elite member of society, to live as the best of the best. In theory, all of this sounds fine. Aren't the parents just trying to provide for their children's future? But it's a bit more complicated than that. Children don't need to and shouldn't dedicate their childhood years to just memorizing textbooks. And school isn't only for learning facts. Young children are still developing their brains, and it is a time to learn social skills just as much as math problems. They spend time studying material that only matters in school rather than making memories and undergoing unique learning experiences that will last a lifetime. And that's not it. The environment created for these young students is intense and competitive, and they are led by their parents and teachers and tutors, usually unable to decide for themselves. This is a perfect formula for a good student, but they will easily be lost in life later on. Just like the young knights and princesses of the time of nobility, Asian students undergo challenging childhoods, and they are shaped by their parents to be elites, much like a king and queen would shape their heir to be a ruler. Along the way, however, these young elites are denied personal choices, and their doors of potential may be locked forever by demanding parents. They are not given the opportunity to live their own lives, and no matter how successful they may be in their parents' plans, there is no way of knowing if they have wasted a life of potential. Raising elite children is one of the more toxic parts of Asian culture today, and this idea of helping young students only achieves the opposite, extinguishing their uniqueness and freedom of choice. Biography: Melodie Lin is Chinese. She spends most of her time drawing (@little.bastard.artist), reading, and writing rants.

my last name is yuen. it's quite simple. just yuen. not yen, not juen, or wen or wan or however the hell you'd say it because at the end of the day you think we all eat dogs and have yellow skin. a bunch of pan-faced, buck-toothed, squinty eyed rice pickers. nay ho ma? welcome to chinatown! a tourist attraction for you was a safe haven for us. you steal our culture our food, our materials, our pride... we put trust into your rounded eyes and pointed noses your spacious lands and endless opportunities only for you to catch us by the neck lynched with the red white and blue noose your founding fathers braided with their liberated hands hands that have never touched the soft dough of my grandmother’s bao hands that have never worked the way my grandfather's did hands that never washed and bathed seven children in shared, murky bath water, because america offers no sympathy for chinks. i put my mask around my ears and pull it over my mouth i pull it over my mouth only for some unnameable face to yell "china virus!" through pointed teeth we weep for those we have lost we weep for our parents, our children, our elders my grandmother struggled, trying to wash rice in a river much too frail for the calloused hands of a working woman my grandmother always washed her rice. she taught her children to wash rice so her grandchildren didn't have to even when my grandfather died, she still washed her rice. my mother goes to work with sore feet and cracked hands, but she still washes rice we wash rice because rice is all we have. my last name is yuen. it's quite simple. just yuen. not yen, not juen, or wen or wan and i wash my f*cking rice. I wrote this piece after I'd realized how easy it was for people to blame the AAPI community for something beyond our control. How easy it was for America to turn its back on us. I was sure I'd never felt so heartbroken in my entire life, so I wrote this to cope. @gabsyuen Cover art source: https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/19/well/family/Talking-to-children-anti-Asian-bias.html

Dear Asian Youth, For many of us, we were born in this country, born American citizens, while our parents worked day and night, memorizing obscure historical facts about the racist founding fathers, to obtain a green card or American citizenship, a supposed physical record that they are loyal to this country. We as Asian Americans were introduced to American pop culture, American television, American food. We watched American shows, read American books, and listened to American music. In some ways, it was all we knew. In some ways, it is still all we know. The culture of our home country fades away with every year that we live in this new country, the country that we call our home; because for us, America has always been home. And despite the fact that we live here, that we speak the language that should be foreign on our tongues, that we adapt and assimilate to American ways, and that our parents worked their fingers to the bone to obtain a certificate that is supposed to mark their loyalty to this country, we are still told that we are not American enough. Because in their eyes, we are the cause of the ongoing global pandemic that is forcing people to stay apart from their loved ones in addition to killing millions of people around the world. In their eyes, we are terrorists. In their eyes, we steal jobs from those who are “truly” American. In their eyes, we don’t belong. In fact, we are constantly asked where we came from, as if that is the only part of our identity that exists. “No, not where you were born. No, not where you grew up. No, not what school you went to,” they retort after we respond with what we believe is correct. “I mean, where did you come from? Where did your parents come from? What language do you speak?” they inquire innocently, not aware of the impact of these questions. “China. Korea. Japan. Vietnam. India. The Philippines. Indonesia. Thailand. Malaysia. Pakistan. Saudi Arabia. Singapore. Iran. Israel. Taiwan. Iraq,” we reply reluctantly, not because we are ashamed of our home countries, but because we know that them asking this question in itself means that they have already completely stripped us of our identity and painted us as who they think we are: a stereotype. “We speak English,” we add, and as if this is not enough for their inquiries about our “true” nature. We add, “Chinese. Korean. Vietnamese. Japanese. Hindi. Arabic,” knowing that this will satisfy the determination in their eyes to label us as different. Foreign. Visitors. Traitors. “Does it matter? I am as American as you!” we want to shout, frustrated that we are not accepted in a country that we accepted without hesitation. “But you see my yellow skin, my black hair, and my small eyes, so you will not believe it. In your heart, you will never believe it, for that is all you see.” And even though we feel this way, we keep our mouths shut. We do not shout because we are not angry. We are not outspoken. We are not loud. We remain silent. For a majority of us, exposure to American culture takes over our entire life. When we were young children, we spoke the language that danced on our mothers’ and fathers’ tongues. We ate the food that our grandmothers cooked for us, we practiced the Asian traditions that our ancestors passed down to us, and we wore traditional Asian clothing that were sported for generations during our traditional holidays. We knew that this was who we were. That was, until that one kid with his big eyes and even bigger mouth pointed to us and laughed at the way our faces looked. Until the ignorant white kid ran up to us with his friends and came up close to our faces, pulling their eyes back while screaming, “Ching chong, ching chong!” and the tears poured out of our small, thin eyes. Until that really nice classmate who wasn’t so nice anymore after she scrunched her nose while making an offensive remark regarding the way our “weird” food smelled. Until our fellow peers eyed us in the corner when we wore our traditional Asian outfits on Culture Day. Until the boys and girls we wanted to be friends with mocked the way we pronounced English words because English was not our first language. Until the white kids refused to talk to us because we weren’t cool enough to sit with them at lunch. Until we gave up correcting our teachers when they mispronounced our names during attendance. Until we let the people who were so ignorant and lazy as to not even try to consider our feelings bully us into silence. Until we ourselves felt so isolated that we started to hate our faces, our country, and even our people. We hated ourselves for being different. But most of all, we hated that we could do nothing about the pain, fear and helplessness that we felt. For a majority of us, our first racist experience occurred when we were young. We may not have even really known that it was racist, but as we grow older and begin to understand life a little bit more, the racist comments become more apparent as they press deeper and deeper into our skin, puncturing the same wound over and over again, leaving us to clean up and completely vulnerable in a pool of our own blood. Some of us may have told our parents about the words that these people so carelessly uttered. Others of us may not have due to our fear. Too scared that even our parents would not or could not do anything about it. Because just like us, our parents were bullied into silence, too. So instead of speaking up and trying to change the actions of the people around us, we started to change ourselves. We stopped bringing our “weird”-smelling food to school, and bought the greasy hot dogs and hamburgers from the school cafeteria instead. We stopped wearing our traditional Asian outfits on Culture Day, and wore trendy outfits that we bought from stores like Hollister and American Eagle instead. We shortened our names to three letter words or even took on “white” nicknames so that other people could pronounce our names. We continued to mold ourselves like clay until we were hardened and rigid to make the people around us feel comfortable, the very same people who pointed and laughed in our faces because we did not look like them. We kept telling ourselves that it was okay, that this was all okay, that we were okay. And we repeated those three words until even we believed it. And for our younger generation, telling ourselves that this was okay and assimilating may have been one of the most harmful things to do. Because instead of embracing our culture, learning about our history, and loving both our Asian and American sides, we chose to push one side of us so far away that it fell into oblivion. But we have to know that it was not our fault that we did this. It was not our fault that we wanted to dye our hair blonde to look more like Maddie from fifth grade. It was not our fault that we watched all the Disney channel shows so that we simply had something to talk about with the other American kids. It was not our fault that we wanted to be loved and accepted. And most importantly, it was not our fault that we felt ashamed of everything that made us different. Many of us started to feel ashamed or embarrassed of not only our own personal differences, but our own peoples’ differences. Like when our parents spoke English but mispronounced the words, and we felt scared that people around us would judge our families for not being fluent enough. Or when our parents would speak their native languages in public and other people would stare, and we felt embarrassed that they were not speaking the language of the people around us. Or when our parents held their phones up when we travelled somewhere new, and yet again we felt embarrassed because we did not want to be seen as those Asian tourists. As many of us entered middle and high school, we were overtly aware of the way we looked and where we did and did not fit in. At this point, we knew how we were treated, and we knew that we fit into specific stereotypes and shriveled into the corner, hoping not to bother or be bothered. The middle and high school years encompassed the period of time in which we transitioned from childhood to adolescence— in other words, the period of time in which we explored our identities. The prevalence of social media had made it too easy to compare ourselves with other people and to discover even more differences that we had with other people. Collectively as young women, we are constantly on display for the judgmental eyes that follow us—specifically those of men. And as young Asian American girls, we grew up watching movies starring beautiful white female lead actresses, seeing magazines with white models on the front cover, and eventually scrolling past hundreds of social media posts of more beautiful white girls. We compared our bigger, flat noses to the small, perky noses of Instagram models. We compared our flatter chests and behinds to the fuller chests and behinds of the women we saw in movies. We bought mascara and fake lashes in an attempt to make our naturally thin and flat lashes look as thick as those on other girls. We sucked in our stomachs in front of other people to convince them of our skinny frame. We got contacts and threw away our glasses so that people would stop calling us nerds. We bought lighter foundation and avoided the sun to keep our skin tones pale. We heard other teenage boys tell us that Asian girls “weren’t their type”, or that we were “not bad for an Asian”. As young girls, we tried to change everything about our appearance, but no matter how hard we tried to be different, we were still unsatisfied with what we saw in the mirror. We were crushed by the weight of the Eurocentric beauty standards that flooded our surroundings and drowned our self-confidence. And although we cannot personally speak for the experiences and feelings of our fellow Asian brothers, friends, and cousins, we are not blind to the treatment that Asian American boys receive. We see them comparing their smaller and supposed skinnier frames to the large, muscular bodies of white movie stars’. We see Asian American boys become insecure of their more “Asian” physical features. We see how Asian males are portrayed in the media as the nerds, the geeks, the ones that speak broken English in famous movies like Mr. Miyagi and Mr. Han in Karate Kid, Ravi in Jessie, and Haka Arakau in The Cheat; and we know the damage that all of this causes. As young Asian American students, we compared our grades to everyone else’s. We felt constant pressure to not only receive straight A’s, but to go above and beyond for everything that we did. We felt like we had to pursue a career in STEM or medicine. We felt like we had to take the hardest math classes and receive perfect scores on every test we took. We felt like we had to be the best because of the suffocating pressure to be smart and successful. Overall, we as young Asian American people have struggled and still struggle with our identity, unsure of which parts of ourselves to reveal. It has been a constant battle with a country that shames us for being Asian but at the same time will never accept us no matter how American we act, talk, or dress. We still suffer in silence, despite all of the prejudice that we face and the pain that we feel. We hide in the corner, refusing to speak up in fear that we will be silenced once again, the way we have been throughout our entire history in America. But seeing our fellow Asian elders being pushed, shoved, punched, shot, and abused in the streets of the country we have learned to adapt to and love like our own shook us up. Suddenly, the microaggressions, the racist stereotypes, and the ignorant statements and questions that we have dealt with our entire life came rushing forth all at once. The voices that have been screaming in the back of our heads for our entire lives finally broke free from years of being imprisoned by the very jail cells formed by white supremacy and years of oppression; the voice that has been screaming that those actions are not okay and that they have never been okay. We have realized that we have allowed ourselves to be fooled that being treated as less than is not acceptable. We have realized that we deserve better than the racist comments that tore us down. We have realized that none of this was okay and will never be okay until we stand up and fight for what we deserve: equality. We have been told our entire lives that we cannot shout our thoughts and feelings, but instead should suffer in silence to remain safe. To remain seen by the public as the constant smart and hardworking race, to allow ourselves and our accomplishments to be used as weapons against other races. But “safe” is not enough. “Safe” is surviving, not living. We have been shushed our entire lives, causing us to bite our lips until they bleed, to ball our fists until our knuckles turn from golden to white, to hide our constant pain until wrinkles appear on our tired faces without a single person noticing or caring. And it is time for that pain and silence to end. As the second generation, we have dealt with the biggest identity struggle. We look Asian, but we are also American. We speak English, but we also speak Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and so many more languages that derive from our home countries. To many people, we will always only be Asian. We do not know who to identify as when we look in the mirror. We have been created at the origin of our nature, but we have also developed in the country we were born in. Because of this mix of cultural beliefs, values, and traditions from multiple different cultures, we have struggled to find who we are, who we should identify as, and where we belong. It is crucial to remember that America was founded by a group of rich, racist, sexist, white men who knew nothing but privilege. But this country was also founded on the basis of freedom, liberty, equality, diversity, and unity. To be American is to share these same core values and principles with the people around us. That is what brings us together as individuals. We should not let our differences drive us apart, but instead let our similarities bring us together. It is particularly difficult to do that when people refuse to accept our differences and ignore our similarities. But first, we must identify ourselves before we make sure that others identify us correctly. We are aware that it is somehow difficult for people to acknowledge that this country was built by the hands of minorities; that this country was formed at the expense of millions of black, Latino, Hispanic, and Asian lives. We must remember that millions of our ancestors have made it possible for our generation to live in the world that we live in today. These ancestors brought the core values of discipline, hard work, and frugality, yet were punished for their hard work with the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and now with Anti-Asian Hate crimes. We must appreciate our parents who have also brought these core values of their home countries to America in hopes of giving us a new life. And with the combinations of both our origins and our current home, we are Asian, but we are also American. And we must be loud and proud. In our hearts, even though we have been taunted and told our entire lives that we are or are not this and that, we know our core values and traditions. That will never change. “What are you?” they will continue to ask. To that, we will answer, “We are Asian. But we are also American. We are Asian Americans, and we are American enough.” “We are American enough,” we will repeat, our voices growing louder. “We are American enough,” we will shout, our voices piercing the years of silence. Because no matter what they say, no matter how they treat us, no matter how they look at us, we are American enough. - Tiffany The purpose of this piece is to let our fellow young generation of Asian individuals understand that they are not alone with their identity struggles or struggles to stand up for themselves. I wanted to use my own experience but to use it in the "we" tense to create a form of unity and community when people are reading this. My goal is to reach people and hopefully have people feel like they can relate to this and feel like they are not alone in their journey of Asian-American identity. Biography: Tiffany Fang is a Junior in high school. She was born in Northern Virginia and has lived there her entire life. She loves writing, reading, listening to music, photography, and more. She has struggled with her own Asian-American identity and wanted to express her own feelings through this literature/opinion piece in an effort to let others know that they are not alone. She is also passionate about fashion and humanities, and would love to eventually go into a career that involved business management or communications some day. You can follow her @tiffanym.f on Instagram! Cover art source: http://asiapacificarts.usc.edu/article@apa-best_of_2015_asian_american_films_20036.aspx.html

Dear Asian Youth, I knew what would happen, that this wouldn’t end well But I couldn’t resist those sweet green eyes that crinkled when your mouth curved into a smile I knew that it would just cause pain, that my heart would rip apart every night, but I continued to fan the flames. She told me that she would have failed in life if I didn’t love someone who fit her description. She doesn’t care to know you, how you’re passionate about Neural Networks She doesn’t care to see you, proudly wearing your Bernie 2020 sweater and advocating for all the issues so near to my heart She doesn’t care to hear you, comforting her daughter every day. “Every night I pray that you only marry someone who is South Asian”, she tells me- “Nothing else matters.” Not knowing how her words cause immeasurable and irreversible amounts of damage Not knowing how much I desperately long for her to feel for my happiness So I’m sorry my mother won’t ever accept you I’m sorry that our love is a secret I’m sorry I can’t give you what you deserve I’m sorry that I played with fire and then set both of us up in flames. -S. Ahmed In South Asian culture, arranged marriages are very common and it is expected that one marries the same race, ethnicity, and sometimes even clan that they are. The pressure from families to have a partner for their child that fits specific characteristics out of one's control damages young children and their idea of what love should be. Biography: S. Ahmed is a South Asian 11th grader who goes by the pronouns she/her. She is passionate about politics, science, and literature. Her favorite books are The Fall by Albert Camus and Women, Race, and Class by Angela Davis. She hopes to one day become a doctor and completely reform America's corrupt healthcare industry. Instagram: @sarahh.ahmadd Cover Photo Source: The Tempest

The ringing alarm sliced through Luke’s dreams. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand and turned off the noise. Slants of morning light peeked out from the blinds. Luke sat in his bed, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 7:30 am on another Monday. He was tempted to retreat under his covers and go back to sleep until it was noon. That wouldn’t have been the most productive use of his time, but he now had a lot of it. This is it, he thought. It was finally here. My first day of unemployment. No more emails. No more Zoom meetings. No more drama with the other people in the office. He clearly remembered the moment he told his boss he was going to quit two months ago. Since then, he had been preparing for his departure. It had been a balancing act of executing the normal parts of his job while setting it up for his successor. Luke knew his responsibilities—analyzing data, communicating with clients, facilitating meetings—inside and out, to the point where doing them was almost automatic. He had to force himself to pay attention to what he did, so he could record the process for the person after him. The tasks he used to do “one more time” turned into “one last time.” The job wasn’t bad by any means. Decent pay, reasonable benefits, and nice enough co-workers save for a select few. But Luke had been at it for five years and the work had started to lose its luster, especially because of the pandemic. Working remotely had its perks, like not having to commute and doing meetings in your pajamas, but Luke missed seeing everyone in the office—the meetings, the lunches, even the occasional Karen who walked in. He was only 23 years old. He had plenty of time to move on and explore other parts of life while he still could. As some of his co-workers pointed out when he announced his leaving, now was the time to be adventurous while he was single and not weighed down with mortgages and other adult responsibilities he wasn’t familiar with. Luke wanted to follow his dreams of being an author. He wanted to dedicate time to his writing instead of doing it on the side because his 9-5 job took priority. He wanted to invest in himself for once. At the very least, he needed a break from doing what he should and instead do what he wanted. The last three years had taken a toll on his well being, and so some much-needed recuperation was on his priority list. He was more than ready to pursue his passions. The only problem? Luke didn’t tell his parents he had quit his job. His closest friends knew, a few of his cousins, too, but not his mom and dad. They wouldn’t understand why he was leaving his stable, salaried job. And for what? To focus on “mental health” and to write some words at the risk of never getting published and paid? Luke could already imagine the disappointment on their faces and the arguments on their lips. They didn’t survive the Khmer Rouge genocide and cross an ocean to a foreign land so that their child could write. For his parents, their sacrifices mandated he live a life of wealth and security. That meant being a doctor or lawyer or engineer. An author wasn’t even on the fringes of their realm of expectations. But the unexpected and the impossible are what called to him the loudest. Yes, Luke’s parents sacrificed so much to come to the United States and even more to ensure that their children were educated and taken care of. Being a first-generation college student was an honor that afforded him with a plethora of privileges that his parents would never have. Luke didn’t deny what they had done for him and he could never repay them for it. But despite what they believed, their sacrifices didn’t create a straight path for him to walk on. Luke saw an infinite number of roads that twisted through mountains and valleys, pathways that braved the frigid cold of the arctic and the blistering heat of the desert. His mom and dad provided him with the opportunity to discover what life has to offer beyond the parameters of a well-paying career. His parents gave him the chance to make mistakes and learn from them. Any mistakes they made when they were his age would have buried them. They had to learn English in order to visit the doctor’s office or the bank. They had to take whatever jobs were offered because work meant money, even if it also meant dropping out of college. Luke didn’t have to worry about any of those things, and he wanted to take advantage of the luxuries his privilege afforded him. Luke had the rest of his life to settle for mediocrity and monotony if it came to that. Now was the time to mess up and get lost. Now was the time to choose himself. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared. On the contrary, he was terrified. This was the biggest lie he would tell his parents. The thought of them finding out the truth made his soul shudder. They would want him to move back in with them to save money, and he refused to let that happen. Doing so would mean they were right that Luke couldn’t handle being in the real world—and there’s nothing worse than your parents being right. On top of that, he would lose the independent life he had meticulously nurtured far away from his parents. Luke was lucky enough to have money saved up to help with rent, groceries, and other necessities for a few months, if not more. He definitely would not have quit his job otherwise—Luke was ready for change, but he wasn’t reckless. Having financial security alleviated some of his terror, yet he knew there would always be inklings of it lurking in the corners of his mind, ready to pounce. In the worst case scenario that his parents unearthed the truth, he would tell them his job was cut because of COVID and that he didn’t want them to worry. Luke recognized it would be a lie on top of another lie, but he was committed to maintaining the facade. The ideal situation would be to land another job and tell his parents he would be putting in his two weeks at his current place of employment, even though it would have been well after 14 days. He wished he didn’t have to stress over all of this. It didn’t matter that he was in his 20s and moved out of his parents’ house. Luke was still a child of immigrants, and that meant adhering to the rules and expectations of a collectivist culture. He visited his parents every weekend to check in on them. He knew they enjoyed seeing him in person because it gave them all a chance to catch up without relying on technology. A small part of his brain kept whispering that it would have been easier to rip the band-aid off and tell his parents he quit his job. Ultimately, Luke decided that asking for forgiveness was easier than asking for permission. He knew he was playing a dangerous game. He would have to lie to his parents about how work is going, how his co-workers are, and any upcoming projects. But as Luke and many of his fellow brown friends can attest to, lying to your parents is a small price to pay for an ounce of freedom. The only difference in this case was preserving the lie in order to have an ocean of possibility. He loved his parents. He understood their beliefs and values, but that wasn’t the same as agreeing with them. Luke fantasized about a life where his mom and dad accepted his dreams, but that reality only worked if he became a famous author and earned enough money to impress them. The income wasn’t Luke’s motivation, but he’d be lying if he said any profits wouldn’t be a pleasant bonus. He just had to put in the work, and he now had all the time and liberty to do so. The work included waking up at 7:30 am like he used to for his job and keeping track of the lies to his parents. His phone dinged with an email notification. It was from his mom and had an attachment. “Can you print this at your work for me?” Luke hadn’t accounted for finding a printer to be on the list of items he had to remember for his lie. This was simply another part of the choice he willingly made. Just like the rest of his life, he would find a way to figure out this new printer situation. He sighed. No rest for the wicked, he reminded himself. You’re doing this for you; you owe yourself that much. They’ll understand eventually. The last remnants of sleep faded with the rising sun. Luke pulled off the covers and stretched his arms, shaking off the creeping dread of lying to his parents. It was time to start the first day of his new life. “Let the games begin.” Cover Photo Source: The New Yorker

At 2 in the morning on Saturday, March 27, I sat at the dining table with my mom, craft supplies scattered all around us. An anti-hate rally was scheduled for later in the morning and we still had dozens of signs left to make. Besides the scratch of permanent markers on cardboard, we worked in silence. I watched her tired but determined face as she finished one poster and pulled out another, printing clearly a message in dark blue sharpie. “We Are Not Your Model Minority,” the message read. The past few weeks have been a painful time for the Asian American Pacific Islander (AAPI) community. For hundreds of years, we have seen our stories cast aside, with the discrimination against us disregarded and our voices as a political constituency ignored. However, the recent rise in visible hate incidents against us and attention brought to them by the media, while saddening, has served as a rallying point for our diverse and often infighting community. And when we are united, real and lasting change is possible: in shifting the perception of our community in the media, in changing public policy and in supporting and understanding our own community. I never expected there would be a day like this. Just a few months ago, during the rallies and protests for Black Lives Matter, it wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for me to hear Asian American adults and some peers assert that racism doesn’t have any effect in modern American society. Or, they would say to ignore it, considering our Asian American community too different from the Black community to relate to their demands for change. It’s a proud and individualistic sentiment — if law-abiding Asian Americans could toil and climb to success in American society, then other races should be able to as well, an uncle would say, watching news channels broadcast the lootings and riots of June 2020. “Protest is for those who don’t want to earn respect the hard way,” he would say. This transient feeling of superiority, the belief that Asian Americans have somehow risen above racial discrimination through being model citizens, shatters under the realization that we are only accepted as long as it is convenient — something that has been made clear in recent weeks with the massive influx of reported hate incidents against Asian Americans. A shooting in Atlanta on March 16 killed eight people and six Asian women. Attacks and hate incidents against Asian men and women, particularly the elderly, are being reported at unprecedented levels. It has been mere months since the end of the term of a president who constantly ridiculed and blamed China for the coronavirus, then referred to the virus itself repeatedly with pejoratives like “Kung-flu” and “China Virus,” enabling reproach toward Chinese Americans and other Asian Americans. The Asian American way has always been quiet acceptance of the reality of discrimination against us and an attempt to raise ourselves above it without stirring trouble. It is a survival strategy that has been fine-tuned after years of discrimination, from outright exclusion to microaggressions. An attitude of “I made it, so why can’t you” is rampant in Asian American communities like ours, where our skilled immigrant parents have essentially achieved the American Dream in material terms. The issue is that we in communities like Saratoga represent a small and exceptionally privileged sector of the Asian American community. While our parents have undoubtedly worked hard to achieve a high quality of life, the reality is that many Asian Americans live in difficult circumstances. These AAPI, often living in close-knit ethnic communities in cities and working low-wage jobs and positions just like the Asian women massacred at the massage parlors in Atlanta, often face little to no social mobility and similar issues to Black and Latino communities despite being burdened by the reputation of the model minority. It marks them as immigrant opportunity thieves and leaves them vulnerable scapegoats for a population angered by a year of pandemic restrictions, economic volatility and violence. These less-privileged communities must constantly face struggles that we have the privilege of distancing ourselves from: living in dilapidated areas prone to violence from people looking for someone to blame, working in cultural businesses like markets, stores and parlors that are an easy and vulnerable target, and in some cases, even failing to report hate incidents that have happened to them. A recent survey from AAPI Data found that while roughly 1 in 10 Asian Americans had experienced hate crimes or hate incidents so far this year, Asian Americans are the least likely racial demographic to report hate crimes, likely due to fear of retaliation, concern over whether justice will actually be served, or a cultural mindset of beating unfairness by just working harder. In the Asian American community, there is great disparity in opinion on the existence and perpetuation of racism both generationally and across different backgrounds and ethnicities. However, recent incidents have made it clear across generational and cultural boundaries that discrimination and hate against Asian Americans still very much exist, just less visibly for those who are protected by privilege. And as can be seen from the rise in solidarity and support across all AAPI communities, Asian Americans are beginning to realize that the issue persists regardless of socioeconomic status — achieving enough material success doesn’t make racist attitudes go away. Anti-Asian discrimination is not a new phenomenon in America, having been projected in gradually more subtle ways for centuries. While the pandemic has brought the tensions against Asian Americans to a head and resulted in saddening incidents and violence, we as a community now have the opportunity to take a clear and united stand — across generations and circumstances — against violence and racism. Once we are united in the pursuit of a common goal with the support of other POC communities, we will have a social and political voice to harness. We will no longer be silent. This is a chance, no matter how dire the circumstances, for us to unite as a community. Biography: Esther Luan is a junior at Saratoga High School and a second generation Taiwanese American. She first was introduced to the civic world when her mom ran for the local school board in 2016, and she fell in love with the way it allowed her to make a difference in her local community. She founded youth organization Young American Policy Advocates in 2019 to inspire more students to participate in local advocacy and civic engagement. Instagram: @es.therluan Cover Photo Source: NAPAWF

So this is who you are — bright young scholar, face like white peach. Soft and luminous. Ripe for the picking. Scholar, tell me which poison you prefer; this five foot body of yours could not have survived the head rush of a hell ride of a high school career without the aid of substances and abuse. Tell me, scholar, did you wrap your tongue around the firewood of Ambition? Or perhaps Pressure did it to you; it is commonly known as the violet liquid that chokes. So, scholar, ready your arrows. However many you brought is your number of chances. May your aim ring true, may you aim for something that sticks; remember that I am your target, my iris what you hope to penetrate. Force me to look at you. I will catch your arrows in my palms and I will decide if they break skin. Asian girl, how are you unlike the others? Asian girl, you better bite your nails into daggers and pray that I christen you tiger. Let me tell you about the girl who wrote poems. The girl who spoke in quivering birdsong and shy smile. Shy smile pulled back, to reveal pearls of ice caps, craters of moon; otherwise known as the dirty white pebbles we kick for fun in America. And gums that bleed like disease. No, I don’t want to see your thin, bleeding blade of lip pronounce “raw” and “visceral” and “my words will bring chaos into order” because no one will believe that, sweetie. No one will believe that you are a fanged, wild thing because, look at you, face like dumpling, cue the shy smile. Recognize the space we have set aside for you and wedge yourself into the corners. Suck in your breath to obliterate your ribs. Learn how to contort your limbs at eleven, cut off the meat that can’t be served at thirteen; take every poison, for it will cleanse you of your immigrance, and we will buy you Shanghai mules. And we will mispronounce your name with our glorious red tongues; and that’s on good days when we can match name to face, but you’re all Kims anyway, so who cares? Oh, don’t let this deter you. Even as you stare at your bruised, broken cowboy boots, you will feel terribly — awfully — desperately — eternally grateful to be here. - Audrey Kim This poem represents my anxieties about college application season approaching. As an Asian American who struggles with STEM subjects, I often compare myself to my peers and wonder if the elite colleges my generation holds in such high regard will see anything of value in a poet like me. Although the poem itself maintains a grim tone, I sincerely believe that I — and everyone else applying to college — will end up going to the place they are meant to be. Biography: Audrey Kim (she/her) is a writer from Torrance, California. She is a columnist for the Jupiter Review, a writer for Neutral Citizen Journalism, and a book reviewer for The Young Writers Initiative. When she's not watching anime, she's reading novels by Donna Tartt. She was born in 2004. Cover Photo Source: UpLabs

Dear Asian Youth, Before... As the subway trains rushed by, I wrapped my fingers around my backpack's straps. My nails dug into their black, rough fabric as the memory flashed through my vision, as if I were in a cinema. Although it had just been a few hours ago, it felt as if it had been an eternity ago. Holding on to the railing, I buried my nose into my thick, navy-colored jacket. The howling wind blew my hair, and it caressed my face with forced affection. I shivered, and after rubbing my frozen ears, I zipped my backpack open. After rummaging through my textbooks in what seemed like an eternity, I pulled out a sheet of paper. On it was marked a single letter in red: A. Below the letter, the teacher had scribbled down a note. Apparently, she had been in a hurry, because the words were barely legible: Congrats, Eunji! You have gotten the best grade out of the whole class. Grinning, I inhaled a lungful of spiky air. As I spun to put the sheet of paper back into her backpack, someone tapped my shoulder. At first, the thickness of my jacket prevented me from noticing, but around the fifth tap, I looked above my shoulder, meeting someone's gaze. It was David, a classmate of mine. “Wow, what a surprise!” David cackled, crossing his arms. “You got the best grade.” “What about it?” I shoved the test into my bag, and flung it onto my shoulders. “My grade is none of your business.” “I mean, of course it is. You’re my rival. And since you’re my rival, of course I’ll want to beat you on a test.” David pushed my head to a wall behind me. “What’s your secret?” “I just work hard.” I started walking towards the stairs, but the sound of my footfalls halted when David said, “It’s just because you’re Asian.” I closed my eyes, trying to swat the words away from my head. “I don’t care.” This wasn’t the first time I'd heard that phrase. Why get distracted by it now? “You Asians are such nerds,” David continued, chuckling. “Have you ever wondered why you have no friends? Why you’re bullied? Because you’re that stereotypical Asian. You’re privileged. You don’t need to work hard to be smart, so of course, people will hate you.” As his voice reached my ears, I bit my lip, gulping down a sob. “Shut up.” I sniffed, shoving the memory away. I didn’t want those comments to distract me from things that mattered. My correspondent train stopped in front of me, and screeches filled the air. The door slid open, and as I stepped inside the subway train, a tingle emerged, creeping up my spine. “Strange,” I muttered. When I took a seat next to a woman carrying a blue, leather purse, the tingle spread throughout my body in a second. I grumped, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. And when the tingle reached my forehead, everything around me burst into light. Blinded by the sudden brightness, I shut my eyes and wrinkled my nose. In the murkiness, wisps of mist supported me from the slicing cold. Wind blew at my skirt, whistling a frightful, spine-chilling tune. What small things can do… a soft whisper tickled my ear. What did all of this mean? Was this a dream? The cloudy ringlets of mist fixed themselves around me, and pulled me from the dark, oblivious world. As my eyelids snapped open, I gasped. I had definitely not expected to find myself in an enchanted marketplace. The place was everything but normal. I looked down, and found myself standing on a purple cloud. I gazed at the place in front of me. The purple clouds were everywhere. Beneath people. On top of people. Beneath the stands. To my right. Turquoise sparkles floated about, making me sneeze as I caught one of them with my nose. Stands were spread throughout the immense space, and people were shouting what someone would normally hear in a market. Things like “exclusive discount!” or “get your delicious mangos for just one thing about yourself!” One thing about myself? I approached the nearest stand, which stood with authority, its ceiling hovering over me. I gulped. “What is this place?” I asked, flailing my arms. “I’m supposed to be sitting on a subway train! Not this, uh, whatever this place is supposed to be.” The man in charge of the stand coughed, rolling his eyes. His gray beard swished with his head’s every movement. He leaned against a pole next to him, and said, “Welcome to the Psychodrama Marketplace. It’s simple, you sell something of yourself and in exchange, you receive whatever you want. A vegetable. A toy. Y’know, that stuff.” I shook my head and pinched my left arm to make sure this wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t. “How do I leave this place? I should get going.” I shifted uncomfortably, rubbing my hands. “Please?” “You can only leave if you do what you came here for.” The man yawned. “So, what do you wanna sell?” Wrinkles filled my forehead. I closed my eyes. “Oh my gosh, I don’t even know what’s happening.” “Sell something about yourself.” “I don’t know what to sell!” “Nothing to sell? Well, you’ll never leave. And by the way, if there’s a drastic change you face after selling the product, nobody will notice. They’ll remember your past self as your present-self.” “Ugh, alright! I’ll sell my smartness.” The words I spit in desperation took me by surprise. My eyes widened, and my lips quivered with fear. “No! Nevermind, I’ll take that back.” I forced out a nervous grin. But, what if selling her smartness would actually not be a bad thing? What if, if she wasn’t that stereotypical Asian, as David had called her, I’d be more loved? More, accepted? I sighed. It was true. Maybe, if I changed, things would be different. I’d have a ton of friends. Maybe I’d even be the popular girl in school. What if…? “I’ll sell my smartness in exchange for a cool personality. A personality my classmates will love.” “Alright. Your product’s letter is I. If you ever wanna return again, say psychodrama while entering a subway train.” *** Now... I am now addicted. I’m addicted to all of this. I’m addicted to being a seller in the Psychodrama Marketplace. I am addicted to becoming a fake person. I’m addicted to selling myself. I'm addicted to not being me. The worst thing of all others is, I don’t even know if I regret it. These are the letters of the products I have sold: I: My smartness in exchange for a lovable personality. D: The Korean food I bring to school in exchange for American food my classmates won’t make fun of. E: Speaking in Korean with my family in front of my friends in exchange for making my parents speak fluent English. N:My monolids in exchange for pretty and large western eyes. T: My black eyes in exchange for blue eyes. I: My brown hair in exchange for blonde hair. T #2: My Korean name in exchange for a Western name. Sometimes, I don’t feel like myself. Sometimes, I wish that whenever I stared at the mirror, Eunji looked back at me. Not Elena, my Western self. I wish my original eyes caught my gaze, not my brand new, fake, blue ones. But in this form, I am accepted. I receive a warm embrace from everyone, and I am treated like a fellow human. Like a fellow American. Not like someone from the other side of the world. Not like garbage. I gained a ton of friends because of my new personality. I am considered cool for getting bad grades and not caring at all. I am not made fun of because of how my language sounds, or because of my eyes. I am loved in this form. At the end of the day, it is all worth it. I step into my classroom and am greeted by some of my friends. Curling my blonde hair with my finger, I wave back with a wink. The old me might have cringed at this, but the new me knows this is the only way to catch the attention of others. My chair screeches as I drag it across the floor. I take a seat, leaning against it, and lay my feet on my desk, crossing my arms. I still feel uncomfortable whenever doing this, but again, it looks cool to the others. “Good morning, Miss Martin.” “Sir properly, Elena,” Miss Martin scowls, rolling her eyes. “You truly deserve only half of your current grade. I don’t know how you pass. Your conduct is terrible.” My cheeks turn red, and my eyes go wide. Had I really changed that much? David cackles from the back of the classroom. “Of course she does!” he yells. “You know why she deserves half of her current grade? Because she comes from half a country!” Confusion washes over me, and then embarrassment, and then horror. Half a country. Sometimes, I forget how Korea is divided in two. And I had never been so embarrassed of it until now. A wave of giggles hit me like a bullet. Memories of my past traumatic experiences poke my brain. The time I had been denied access to a soccer game because ‘Asians are bad at sports.’ The time a few teenagers had thrown stones at my parents, screaming racial slurs. When would all of this stop? I clench my fingers, turning my hands into fists. And then, I make the biggest decision of my life. I am standing in front of the old man again, shivering in front of the stand. The old man taps his fingers on the stand’s surface, mumbling words of annoyance. “What are you scared of now?” “I’m scared of everything,” I answer. This time, I let the tears escape their cages. I let them stream across my cheeks, leaving a trail of dryness. I let all the pain out.“This is the last product I’ll sell, just so you know.” He stares at my damp cheeks and then looks away. “Good. Now, hurry up.” I sniff, and spit out the words I dread the most. I’m not even sure if I am supposed to do this. But I know it is necessary. “I wanna sell my nationality. I wanna be fully American. I don’t wanna be Korean anymore. I want all of this to stop.” “Alright. Your product’s assigned letter is Y.” I smile. Now, all these traumatic memories would stop bothering me. I’d live without being stared at. I’d stop hearing racial slurs, being called Chinese and told my lunchbox had a rotten smell. It’d all stop. Everything. It is then that the puzzle’s pieces started fitting together. I: My smartness in exchange for a lovable personality. D: The Korean food I bring to school in exchange for American food my classmates won’t make fun of. E: Speaking in Korean with my family in front of my friends in exchange for making my parents speak fluent English. N:My monolids in exchange for pretty and large western eyes. T: My black eyes in exchange for blue eyes. I: My dull brown hair in exchange for cool blonde hair. T #2: My Korean name in exchange for a Western name. Y: My Korean nationality in exchange for being American. I. D.E. N. T. I. T. Y. Without even being aware of it, I had sold my identity to be accepted. No. Not to be accepted. Just to feel accepted. Trying to become someone I was not. After all, if I had been accepted only after having changed, was that even real acceptance? - Sowon Although huge events like hate crimes and mass shootings are widely talked about, microagressions are often swept under the rug. Racial slurs like "ching chong" or "banana" may seem jokes for others, but for the victim, they have a lasting impact, and could even end up taking away their identity. Through my short story, I wanted to explain how big of an impact these microaggressions can be, in a simple and understandable way. Biography: Sowon Kim is a 14-year-old Korean aspiring author and translator who lives in Lima, Peru. Apart from writing, Sowon enjoys swimming, reading, surfing and learning foreign languages. She is currently working on her debut novel, which is set to be released in the next few years. Sowon hopes to inspire people who suffer from racism and discrimination through her stories, as well as raise awareness about the diverse social issues happening around the world. You can follow her on Instagram (@esperanzakim__). Cover Photo Source: Mustang Monthly

Gaokao *高考 (Gao Kao) is the Chinese National College Entrance Exam with over 9 million participants each year. This exam tests concepts from all three years of Chinese public highschool learning. As a top determining factor for university admissions, Gaokao is notorious for causing immense stress. The mutterings from early morning English readings fill my ears, a holy hymn I’ve been conditioned to repeat and recite. Books stacked on desks, papers crumpled on floors, disturbed chalk dust drifting through the air. 32 days until the final exam, 32 days for us to prove 3-years-worth of our lives. The sun peaks in through the cracks of the curtain, cicadas hum through the summer haze. But the warmth does not soothe me, it agitates and distresses in the form of tiny sweat beads. Words start lumping together on pages, pens start running out of ink. The air conditioner rumbles in the corner, its cold air a noisy protest against the unsettling peace and quiet. Minds filling with anxieties and hopes for the future, but blanking of the here and the now. Knowledge slipping through one ear and coming out the other, but dreams steadily claim their places in our hearts. The stress consumes us in our entireties, but we are too focused to notice. Carrying our parents’ expectations, we march towards the promise of a “better life”. A better life? A better life determined by circles filled in with number 2B pencils. We send silent prayers with the phrase hard work forever pays. Almost. Almost there. - Eva Zhong Cover Photo Source: https://www.barrons.com/articles/u-s-colleges-put-chinas-gaokao-to-the-test-1446188818

Dear Asian Youth, In 1975, Laura Mulvey published her essay, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” where she introduced the term “male gaze.” The male gaze is when women are portrayed from a (heterosexual) male’s point of view that presents them as a sexual object, there for the pleasure of the male viewer. While this commonly occurs in media, we can see its effects in real life as well. In filming, the male gaze can be identified from three points of view: that of the camera, the characters in the film, and the film’s audience. One common shot that reinforces the male gaze is the camera panning slowly up or down a woman’s body or a shot that lingers too long on a part of their body, like their legs or chest. Additionally, scenes that hypersexualise a woman’s body, like when they step out of a pool or when they are bending over the engine of a car (Transformers), also use the camera’s view to represent the male gaze. When women are presented as just one part of their body, they are effectively dehumanized to merely an object of beauty and sex appeal; how they look becomes their defining trait. The second perspective is that of the other male characters in the film. When other men in the scene begin to stare and gawk at the woman, it validates the viewers who may be feeling the same way—viewing her as an object, not a person—and fosters an environment for them to react the same way. It implies that they are right to ogle at her; in fact, they should, because everyone else is. One well-known example of such a scene is the changing scene from the 2016 film Suicide Squad. When Harley Quinn is taking off her shirt, the camera slowly pans up from her legs to her torso, chest, and then finally to her face—demonstrating the aforementioned camera shots. By this point in the scene, all the men around her are pausing what they’re doing to stare at her, encouraging many—specifically male—viewers to do the same thing. Because of her objectification, the character of Harley Quinn doesn’t really have a personality in this movie. It seems like her entire character, from the way she dresses to the way she moves, is designed for the approval of the Joker, and by extension, all heterosexual men. The final perspective is from the audience of this film. In this perspective, the film doesn’t present the girl as she is realistically, but rather the idealized, sexualized version of her, allowing men to view her simply as the object of their desire. To become a real person, she needs a personality that is not linked to pleasing the general male viewer. Oftentimes, movies demonstrating the male gaze are made by male filmmakers for male audiences and don’t truly unlock the potential of the female character as a person. They are content to portray her in a one-dimensional way to attract male viewers, as opposed to an individual with unique wants and desires. It’s not just sexualization of women’s bodies, but also their role in a plot that can be categorized as the male gaze. In Laura Mulvey’s essay, she explained how under the male gaze, men are viewed as active “do-ers,” actively participating in our society, whereas women are expected to be more passive and support men. In the James Bond movies, all the women have a minimal role in the movie, typically serving as love interests or supporters in Bond’s mission. Admittedly, men can also be objectified in a similar way in cinema. However, I don’t think this supposed “female gaze” really exists. By portraying women in a way that is pleasing to men, the male gaze enforces the patriarchy and creates a power imbalance between the genders, a parallel to the power imbalance in real life. The reverse does not exist, and so the female gaze cannot exist like the male gaze. There are quite a few problems with the male gaze. When women are dehumanized in this way, it aids violence against them as it doesn’t encourage men to seek consent. It not only reinforces the heterocentric and gender binary, but also the stereotype that a woman’s role is to please a man or be “sexy” to have worth. Returning to the example of Harley Quinn, in the subsequent 2020 Harley Quinn movie, Birds of Prey—directed by a female director, Cathy Yan—Harley has her own personality and reveals different dimensions of her character. She is still incredibly gorgeous, but not necessarily in a way that satisfies men and gives them pleasure from looking. Instead of placing her character there for male audiences, she exists as her own person with her own story arc, which is how her character differs between Birds of Prey and Suicide Squad. Predictably, many reviews—from men—complained that she was not “sexy” enough here, that she flopped as a character here because they didn’t care to watch it, and that they preferred the first movie. However, it’s not that she’s conventionally unattractive in this movie––she still wears crop tops and short shorts––the difference is that she isn’t portrayed as an object of sex appeal. In a medium like film, it is important to consider how characters are seen. If your biggest complaint is that a female character isn’t “sexy” enough, maybe you should ask yourself how you view women and why you believe they need to be. - Erika Cover Photo Source: https://studybreaks.com/thoughts/female-gaze-male-gaze/

Dear Asian Youth, I dedicate this poem to everyone staying strong through these trying times. I crave people by the dozens I thrive on conversation by the hours I consume excitement by the gallons you know these things were no luxury to me they were a necessity but I had my lifeline stolen away a return policy with no end date I was alone a struggling patient unplugged from life support a suffocating fish denied of water a wilting flower dug up from the soil I desperately searched for connection affection selection within this imperfection I was terrified who would've known we would be forced to find comfort across a dimly illuminated iPhone screen? but I found that comfort miles and miles away I found it in you gently restoring my faith we need to stay in touch I said and we will you agreed touch that used to be a physical verb touch now an emotional connection an agreement that distance could never come between us from video calls about landscape triptychs to matcha ice cream while singing chinese lyrics to tears of grievance over our dying peers to your hopeful attempts in calming my fears to paragraphs of font 9 birthday texts on screens to you and I exploring this crisis with dreams your presence revived me energized me you saved me when again we finally meet I will wrap my arms tight around you and whisper thank you for always bearing with me but we said distance could never come between us didn't we? - Eva Editors: Sandhya G, Siyean P, Evie F, Sam L Cover Photo Source: Science Friday

Hello, readers! Welcome to my first ever book review, where I, Eric Nhem, will share my thoughts on books written by Asian authors and/or with Asian characters. I personally believe reading is a dying art, so this is my attempt to breathe some life into it. At the very least, I’ll be able to highlight stories that are finally depicting Asians in ways that aren’t one-dimensional or stereotypical. Let’s get started! I recently read a young adult romantic comedy novel called Rent a Boyfriend by Gloria Chao. The story revolves around a girl named Chloe who hires a boy named Drew from a company specializing in renting out fake boyfriends. Why does Chloe need to hire a fake boyfriend, you ask? Her parents are trying to set her up with a scumbag bachelor whom she doesn’t care for at all. In their eyes, especially her mom's, Chloe marrying said scumbag bachelor will ensure she doesn’t die a spinster. Enter Drew, who works at the company “Rent for Your ‘Rents” to pay the bills. His job is to be the perfect boyfriend in order to convince Chloe’s parents to drop the engagement. Chaos ensues. Spoiler alert: during their charade, Chloe and Drew develop real feelings for each other, but they’re in so deep that telling the truth to her parents—and themselves—would make things worse. It had been a while since I read a rom-com, but after the year we’ve all had, the levity was much needed. I had fun following Chloe and Drew and seeing how they end up together (because we all know they end up together). It made me wonder if I would ever rent a girlfriend to impress my parents if such a service existed (answer: I would definitely research the website and see my options.) Mixed in the novel were many references to being Asian American and being the child of immigrants. One of my favorite moments was when Chloe and Drew were baking cookies together: “While I was beating the eggs with chopsticks, Andrew moseyed over to preheat the oven. I yelled, waving my hands for a second before shutting it off. ‘What—’ he started, but I opened the oven door and hastily pulled out pots and pans and extra dishrags. ‘How did you of all people not know this was a possibility? This one I know isn’t just us—I have other Asian friends who use their oven for storage.’ He hit his forehead with a palm. ‘Yeah, okay, I’m embarrassed I didn’t realize that.’” (Pages 131-132). I actually laughed out loud when I read that. Representation matters, even when it’s a reminder that in Asian families, the oven and the dishwasher serve as more storage and their intended purposes come second. Aside from the cheesiness that fills any rom-com, I was surprised to find some deeper themes within the book with regards to being Asian. The expectation of Chloe’s parents for her to prioritize her social status and desirability over her own happiness was a dead ringer for the differences between the two generations that are prevalent in the real world. The conflict of being born in a Western society but raised with Eastern values is something I have also struggled with to this day. Drew’s parents cut him off because he wanted to pursue art in lieu of going to college. Raise your hand if your parents wanted you to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. Seeing Drew wrestle with his decision to follow his dream at the cost of losing contact with his family hurt my heart, because I have friends who were in similar positions. Another theme was being honest with yourself about who you are and what you want. Chloe and Drew go through a journey of self-discovery as a result of pretending to be together. She’s attending a college she likes (University of Chicago instead of the big-names schools like Harvard and Stanford, as her parents wanted) and doing a major she’s passionate about (economics, despite her parents wishing she did business to take over their dental office). Drew is great at being a fake boyfriend and is paid handsomely for it. But are these enough for our two leads? Are they truly happy with where they’re at and where they think they’ll go? As I’ve briefly touched upon, gender roles play a part in the story, as well. Chloe’s personal accomplishments don’t matter to her parents if she’s not married to a rich man. It doesn’t matter that her almost betrothed is a notorious playboy who was raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. Chloe’s value as a woman—a virgin woman, to be exact—is only important when it’s attached to a man, according to her parents and how they were raised. This conflict between tradition and modernity is a struggle for many Asian Americans. That, combined with the other themes in the book, made me wonder a few things: In the eyes of our parents, how much are we worth with or without a significant other? Many people have said that being a parent is the most rewarding job they’ve ever done. But that perception shifts when someone has been single for a long time. Someone—usually a woman—will get asked when they’ll get a significant other at every family function. And if they are already with someone, the question evolves into when they’ll get married. The inquiries can be relentless, and the responses given are vague and noncommittal. It’s difficult for the older generation to not pass any judgment when someone says they’re happy with being single at the moment. How does that affect the value of sons versus daughters? Going by traditional beliefs, sons are expected to carry on their families’ legacies by passing down their name. However, it is daughters who bear the burden of making that possible. They’re the ones who have to be careful and follow all of the rules for nine months. But instead of being supported, they’re pressured to push out a baby that’s expected to be male. In some cases, this can be extremely dehumanizing to the woman who is only seen as a means to an end. Conversely, sons are given more leeway, assuming they’re already providing for the family. What about people in the LGBTQ+ community? For example, if a man is gay, he might be ousted from his family, like Drew was for pursuing art. Severing that connection between parent and child will have emotional ramifications. The son’s identity is in conflict with the parents’ traditional views of the world that men like women and vice versa. Instead of trying to put in the work to understand their son, they take the easy way out of removing him from their lives altogether. Chloe’s parents are not the villains in any way, but they do somewhat serve as antagonists to Chloe. They’re just Asian parents who want the best for their daughter. However, their noble intentions contradict the actions they take to implement them. They give Chloe a tuition check to cover her expenses, but a few chapters earlier, her mom states nobody will want her because of her “flat chest, plain face, and worrying personality” (Page 182). They try to set up Chloe’s marriage because they want her to be taken care of, but it translates to them ignoring and disregarding how miserable it makes her feel. Take a look at following scene illustrating this point: “Hongbo fucking pulled out a ring box. ‘No,’ I said, trying to fight back tears. ‘Please leave,’ I begged, simultaneously trying not to hurl something at him or hurl, period. ‘Shut up!’ my mother yelled at me as she grabbed the box. ‘We humbly accept, Hongbo.’ I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. ‘How dare you, [Chloe]!’ Hongbo shouted. ‘Can you get that stick out of your ass for one second and smarten up before it’s too late?’ ‘He’ll provide for you; your life will be so easy,’ my mother called after me. ‘And we’ve known his family for so long—what more could you ask for?’ ‘You’ve never had a serious boyfriend—how can you know what you want?’ my father added. I had never felt so utterly, completely alone.’ (Pages 158-159) Yikes. There’s a lot going on there. Remember, Chloe is in college. She’s at that age where, yes, she might not know what she wants, but she has the time to figure it out. More importantly, she definitely knows what she doesn’t want, and that’s Hongbo. Her parents hear her, but they’re not listening to her. In the real world, this often takes the shape of parents pressuring their children to achieve the success in life that they couldn’t get for themselves. Again, they mean well, but it can be extremely overwhelming for the children who are expected to get the best grades with no margin for error. There’s no time to go out with friends, no time to date, no time to have fun. The expression “all work and no play” is an apt description for the upbringings of many Asian American kids. What our parents want for us—a well-paying career, a smart spouse, you name it—is vastly different from what we actually want. When we try to communicate that with our parents, they think we’re lazy or ungrateful for the opportunities their sacrifices afforded us. Without giving away too much, Chloe’s parents have a secret they won’t tell her. She discovers it for herself and confronts them about it. Their justification for not telling her is that they didn’t want her to worry. Did I yell, “Why can’t you communicate properly with your family?!” out loud to no one in particular? Maybe. Of course, not knowing made Chloe—as it would for any child who cares about their parents—worry more and understandably so. I know book reviews are also supposed to include aspects that didn’t work, but I don’t have very many. I’m not a picky reader; it takes a lot for me to tear apart a book, so take from this review what you will. The only criticism I have is that some chapters would switch between Drew and Chloe in the middle of the chapter. It worked for the rom-com format, but it was still slightly jarring. I believe the purpose was to show the other character’s thoughts and emotions in the same scene. It was mostly well-executed, especially during chapters where the character in focus goes through pages of actions and emotions, and then it shifts to the other character with just one sentence of how they feel. Final thoughts: I expected to read a silly rom-com but ended up reading a love story filled with heart, humor, and experiences I could relate to as an Asian American. This book has characters you’ll love and at least one character you’ll love to hate. The writing style was simple without being boring, and the story moved at a reasonable pace. My purely subjective rating is five out of five stars. If you want to explore the surprising nuances I stumbled upon or if you just want a quick and light read, I recommend you check it out. Happy reading! Editors: Anoushka K, Zoe L, Nadine R, Sam L Cover Photo Source: Goodreads