Babu listens to her ma—“I shall give you a few lessons in the histories of your grandmother. The secrets of her home, hidden in mango stones and the crocodile’s river.” She heard this myth last week. It's alive somehow—“They are kept safe in that gold elephant figurine. In gayana and wedding presents, all the memories she could fit in a suitcase.” Babu wonders, would Dida shake her head? Talk over Ma, correct her বাংলা, quick click of the tongue. Tell it, retell it, over and over— it is over. Etch it on your granddaughter’s skin. Ma washes the verses clean. Can her daughter understand? Has she lost—“My mother’s stories, her laugh, honest prayers, wishes fulfilled. Set aside all those old men. You are not their kin.” Babu stares up at the sun, makes her eyes sting, relaxes in the summer glow—“Pay attention now. Do not swallow your tongue. English is an infectious thing. I smell it on your clothes.” Babu grows up too quickly, loses all her mother’s words. Tells stories in the wrong language. “I heard that the secrets of my home are lost in mangroves or the crocodile’s river.” - Uma Biswas-Whittaker Cover Photo Source: https://www.amandasaintclaire.com/blog/139464/how-can-art-transcend-written-language

The bathroom door enclosing me is broken, Whimpering. Memories of its collapse Leave paint-chipped sores to growl; Hissing hinges and lacklustre locks Keep me inside. The shower screens containing me are broken, Smacking. Magnetic closures squint, Perverting the filmy plastic to warp; Wincing wheels and simmering steam Keep room dry. The shower cleansing me is broken, Gossiping. Drops trace down my hair, Curling around my calves to disperse; Echoing secrets that wash away Keep me hidden. The drain is broken, Choking. Crumbling fragments crawl and lodge my pipes, Gargling every water fall to swallow; Soaking skin and drowning debris Keep me quiet. The rain hasn't spoken today. They sing like a choir, Conducted by a thrumming crowd Of solitary heartbeats. Rumbling permeates and billows Within my walls; Keep ringing — I’m disconnecting... Rain used to speak to me. They sang lullabies, Lulling my worn mind Out of its throbbing fog. Gently knocking my walls they whispered “I know you’re alone.” Keep ringing — I’m disconnecting... The light above me is broken, The light inside is weeping. The loudest silence In a voiceless room. February 2020 was the last time Hannah Govan saw her family before the increasing spread of Covid-19. ‘The Loudest Silence’ is a poem about the sounds and silence of self-isolation during a global health crisis. A structured stream of consciousness identifying broken noises, voicelessness, and the way physical and mental spaces resonate together. In a physically, emotionally and mentally turbulent time of our lives, the contradictions of being on your own can speak louder than you realise. When you're simultaneously deprived yet frightened of company. When your numb silence is drowned out by daily activity in hollow spaces. When the dull stillness of a home is the only thing that can hear every pained sound of trying to remain whole. If you are in need of someone to talk to, here are some resources and helplines: AUSTRALIA Lifeline 13 11 14 Beyond Blue 1300 22 4636 Suicide callback service 1300 659 467 The MindSpot Clinic 1800 61 44 34 Kids Helpline 1800 55 1800 Headspace INDIA Fortis Exam Helpline +918376804102 The Fortis National Helpline [for students or parents] iCALL 022-25521111 / icall@tiss.edu PARIVARTHAN Counselling, Training and Research Centre +91 7676602602 Sumaitri 011-23389090 eelingsuicidal@sumaitri.net AASRA 91-9820466726 aasrahelpline@yahoo.com Sneha 044-24640050 (24 hours) 044-24640060 (8am-10pm) help@snehaindia.org Lifeline +913340447437 / +91 908803030 contact@lifelinefoundation.in COOJ Mental Health Foundation 0832-2252525 youmatterbycooj@gmail.com Vandrevala Foundation 1860-266-2345 help@vandrevalafoundation.com Roshni +9140 - 6620 2000 / 6620 2001 / +914066202000 roshnihelp@gmail.com Connecting...NGO 9922004305 / 9922001122 distressmailsconnecting@gmail.com Samaritans Mumbai +91 84229 84528 / +91 84229 84529 / +84229 84530 talk2samaritans@gmail.com INDONESIA Alliance of psychologists hotline service SEJIWA 119 text 8 IRELAND Connect counselling 1800 477 477 https://connectcounselling.ie/ Samaritans 116123 JAPAN Tell Lifeline 03-5774-0992 https://telljp.com/lifeline/ MALAYSIA Befrienders https://www.befrienders.org.my/ AIA https://www.aia.com.my/en/what-matters/seetheotherside/mental-health-helpline-resources.html NEW ZEALAND 17.37.org 1737 (call or text) Lifeline 0800 543 354 (0800 LIFELINE) free text 4357 (HELP) Suicide Crisis Helpline 0508 828 865 (0508 TAUTOKO) Healthline 0800 611 116 Samaritans 0800 726 666 Depression Helpline 0800 111 757free text 4202 www.depression.org.nz SPARX.org.nz OUTLine NZ 0800 688 5463 (OUTLINE) Youthline 0800 376 633 free text 234 talk@youthline.co.nz Thelowdown.co.nz team@thelowdown.co.nz free text 5626 0800 111 757 What's Up 0800 942 8787 (for 5–18 year olds) Kidsline 0800 54 37 54 (0800 kidsline) Skylight 0800 299 100 Are You OK 0800 456 450 Seniorline 0800 725 463 0508MUSICHELP 0508 MUSICHELP Shine 0508 744 633 Women's Refuge Crisisline 0800 733 843 (0800 REFUGE) Shakti Crisis Line 0800 742 584 Rape Crisis 0800 883 300 NIGERIA Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative (MANI) 0809111MANI(6264) PHILIPPINES #ThereisHelp at National Centre for Mental Health Crisis hotline 1553 (+63) 917-899-8727 / (02) 7-989-8727 SINGAPORE https://www.mhlw.go.jp/stf/seisakunitsuite/bunya/hukushi_kaigo/seikatsuhogo/jisatsu/soudan_tel.html https://www.healthhub.sg/a-z/support-groups-and-others/20/call-on-these-when-you-need-help https://www.ncss.gov.sg/NCSS/media/NCSS-Documents-and-Forms/NCSS%20Internal%20Documents/Directory-on-Mental-Health-Services.pdf SOUTH AFRICA South Africa Depression and Anxiety Group (SADAG) Suicide Crisis Helpline 0800 567 567 24hr Substance Abuse Helpline 0800 12 13 14 Mental Health Helplines 0800 456 789 / 0800 21 22 23 UNITED KINGDOM Mind 0300 123 3393 (Monday to Friday, 9am to 6pm) Samaritans 116 123 USA National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) hotline 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or info@nami.org Crisis Text Line Text NAMI to 741-741 National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Call 800-273-TALK (8255) Source: Unitedgmh.org. 2021. Mental Health Support. [online] Available at: https://unitedgmh.org/mental-health-support [Accessed 15 March 2021]. Cnusd.k12.ca.us. n.d. Mental Health Resources. [online] Available at: https://www.cnusd.k12.ca.us/our_departments/instructional_support/student_services/mental_health_resources [Accessed 24 March 2021]. Cover Photo Source: ITIJ

TW // Violence, racial slurs, and domestic abuse. Dear Asian Youth, The world has been in disarray over basic human rights and race issues, specifically the treatment of Asian Americans in modern day America. Recently, there has been an upsurge of Asian hate crimes committed on the basis of race, with a majority of white people targeting East Asians due to the mislead beliefs that East Asian people were responsible for the origin and spread of the COVID-19 Virus", which was made evident in the vicious and unnecessary comments of former president Donald Trump. These apathetic comments spewed into derogatory slurs, with him referring to COVID-19 as the “China/Chinese virus.” Many people, not just his supporters, followed in his footsteps and deemed this behavior acceptable, and they continue to spread hate and incite violent acts upon East Asians. Many people have taken to social media, filming themselves blatantly cursing and assaulting East Asians in both public and private spaces. With more and more people being influenced by others, this circle of hatred has kept growing in nature, and is giving East Asians around the world many reasons to fear for their safety. However, with all of this hate being spewed, many East Asians have found solace in the form of cinematic media, both in front of the camera as well as behind the scenes to bring their voices and power to the attention of the general public, and help them understand the the basics of why they should support their Asian friends and be allies to them during these times. The importance of this every culture, not just in East Asian culture, will help everyday people understand the past trauma and deep rooted struggles Asians have faced for many decades. Many of these films, with Asian culture not being the direct focus of the film, has ushered awareness of East Asian culture and people within mainstream media, such as award shows and movies. A large majority of people in the United States have a fascination with specific aspects of Asian culture, such as Asian food, boba/bubble tea, anime, k-pop, k-dramas, and more. However, that hasn’t incentivized them to support East Asians in the most basic sense: through the cinematic arts. Some of the mainstream films released in the past few years are either represented or directed by East Asians, such as “Parasite” (2019), a South Korean film directed by Bong-Joon Ho; “Minari” (2020), a drama written and directed by Lee Isaac Chung, and “Nomadland” (2020), a drama/indie film written and directed by Chloe Zhao. However, one film that has recently been under the radar in more accurate representation of growing up in East Asian culture, aside from “Minari” (2020) is “Boogie” (2021). Written and directed by Eddie Huang, “Boogie” (2021) tells the story of high school student Alfred “Boogie” Chin (portrayed by Taylor Takahashi) who dreams of playing basketball for the NBA, but is constantly told by his mother (portrayed by Pamelyn Chee) that his dreams are of no worth unless he obtains a scholarship to an upper-class college institution. Boogie’s father (portrayed by Perry Yung), while encouraging Boogie’s dreams, is an ill-tempered man who has done time in prison because he assaulted two people.. His violent tendencies, are picked up unconsciously by Boogie, who uses his anger as a way to make others feel sorry for him for growing up in the family that he has lived with all his life. His victim mentality gets in the way of his ability to play basketball and compromises his evolving relationship with his girlfriend, Eleanor (portrayed by Taylour Paige). While watching the film, I found myself relating to almost each of the characters represented. Boogie struggles to connect with and understand both of his parents, as they have very different personalities in contrast to one another, and often ridicule each other instead of taking responsibility for their mistakes, which is another negative trait that was taken on by Boogie. The dialogue between Boogie and his parents is very similar to conversations I’ve personally had with my parents. When I was growing up, I had a lot of trouble being able to speak to my parents, particularly my dad. My mom always gave me the environment to express myself, whether through talking, painting, drawing, singing, or screaming at the top of my lungs on our patio steps. My dad, however, did not have the same thinking embedded into his parenting style. He would tell my younger sister and I after we both got out of high school that he “wanted us to grow up after I had turned two years old. He did not want to be there through the terrible twos for either of us, and as we got older, he wanted us to revert back to being children again after he saw my mother nurture us creatively. As my sister and I were “maturing,” we started hearing my dad and mom argue more, most times about absolutely nothing. Sometimes it would get so bad that my mom would retreat to our crawl space and sit in private so she could be alone with her thoughts. Whenever she wanted to stand up for herself and speak her mind, my dad would say something even more harsh, verbally debasing her, sometimes in front of guests or at parties they would go to. They would have conversations about my future, with my mom explaining to my dad the potential I have, while my dad would only see the surface level information of the career I took an interest in and immediately turned his nose at it without even giving it a second thought until another few years later. Whenever I would try to interject my own opinion, my dad would dismiss me and mansplain to me why he was correct, since he had “been on Earth longer than you [I] have.” This reminded me of the conversations Boogie’ parents would have with one another, where you are the bystander onlooking two people in a conversation. In scenes where the whole family is eating at the dinner table, Boogie can barely speak more than a few sentences about how he really feels inside before his parents start arguing over who was responsible for raising him the way he was, and why he acts the way he does. This is a direct result of the varying parenting styles that were confusing and hypocritical to Boogie as he was growing up, which decreased his ability to feel confident speaking about his true feelings calmly to his parents, and he lashes out in quick bursts at them instead as a result. His parents, not affectionate towards each other unless a victory is made within the family context, are always at each other’s throats, arguing and shouting at each other about mistakes they both have made within their own relationship. Boogie’s mom, Mrs. Chin, gentle and strong willed at first, gets temperamental and curses at Boogie’s dad, Mr. Chin, when her behaviors and decisions are questioned angrily by him. Mr. Chin becomes violent with Mrs. Chin, slapping her across the face and throwing his dinner plates on the floor and across the room in a fit of momentary rage. Seeing this type of relationship depicted on screen reminded me of a lot of past conversations that have occurred between myself and my family, as well as observations made with other Asian families. While domestic violence is often unfortunately prevalent in many Asian marriages, the conversations exchanged between the husband and wife of these relationships carry negative effects on their children, which they often unconsciously carry on in their behavior towards others as they grow older. This also increases the lack of communication within the family, and brings forth mental health issues as result of not being cared for as a child and growing up into an adult without the parent to child connection that many of us need in order to find love ourselves. While I was happy to see East Asian portrayal and made connections towards the characters depicted on screen, I also found some technical issues that bothered me while watching the film. Everytime I watch a film, making sure I separate the subject matter from the filmmaking itself is a necessity. So, naturally, there were things I was going to notice if they awkwardly stood out to me technically and visually in the film. In “Boogie” (20201), there were scenes where visuals were not of the best quality. Sometimes, the camera would focus on a specific character or object that appeared out of focus or blurry, which was often distracting and took away from the tone of the film, which is also not the most consistent. In terms of film consistency, the tone was not following a consistent tone throughout the film. Film 101: If you are making a coming-of-age story, like “Boogie” (2021), it is important to get the proper visuals and perspectives you need to creatively express the character you are focusing on. In this case, that would be highlighting Boogie, utilizing the camera to show his perspective on events in his life and how he moves through the world. In some films, the camera is used as a way of portraying perspective when there isn’t a dialogue heavy scene. Personally, I would have loved to see the camera at the same height as Boogie’s eyes, helping the viewer see the world at his height and through his “eyes.” However, the film is inconsistent with who it wants to focus the story on, sometimes going from the perspective of Boogie’s parents making the decision to keep Boogie and raise him, to present-day, where Boogie is in the same emotional state his parents were in when they made that decision. Granted, it could be argued that the purpose of that was to show how Boogie got to where he is today, however, the film could have been a bit more sharper with its perspective shots and utilized actor Taylor Takahashi’s emotions when portraying Boogie, all while using the camera to show the world through Boogie’s perspective, both physically and mentally in creative ways. There are points in the film where music starts to overlay the dialogue going on between two or more characters, sometimes added in abruptly without any buildup. At times, it would get so loud that I could barely hear what some of the characters were saying. While it wasn’t that distracting the first few times, it got rather annoying after the fourth or fifth time it happened. The film also ended rather quickly, with not that much to chew on after the final act of the film. This was writer-director Eddie Huang’s directorial debut, his other talents including being a professional chef, author, and memoirist. His biggest project that he was a part of was “Fresh Off the Boat,” a show about a humorous look at the lives of immigrants in America that went on for six seasons on Hulu. Personally, I would have loved to see more of Eleanor’s perspective on Boogie’s negative behavior and why he shouldn’t continue feeling sorry for himself. Both Boogie and Eleanor suffer from emotional neglect at home and find hidden comfort in one another when times get tough. Eleanor, while outspoken and always calling Boogie out when he uses his victim mentality against her, does not use other tactics to prove to Boogie that he is better than who he is and can find acceptance being a son of an Asian family with “weird” traditions and flaws within his relationship. She tries to explain this verbally to him but does not often succeed, which results in Boogie verbally ridiculing her when she tries to help. Seeing how Eleanor gets treated at home and where she learned to stand up for herself and not take flack from anyone whilst finding other ways to get the same message through to Boogie would have been nice to see, and would even make me willing to cancel out all the technical imperfections within the film. History repeats itself, but it is important for every person in the world to know the origin of different cultures, customs, and familial behavior practices in every racial group. In “Boogie” (2021), there is a flashback shown throughout the film where Boogie’s parents visit a psychic after Mr. Chin accidentally gets Mrs. Chin pregnant. During their consultation with the psychic, Mr. Chin is visibly annoyed, not looking at either Mrs. Chin nor the psychic, believing that the two of them resorting to see a psychic is a low blow and a waste of time. In order to ease the tension, the psychic starts pouring tea for the three of them to enjoy whilst Mr. and Mrs. Chin contemplate their decision on what to do about Boogie. Before the psychic can start pouring the tea, Mrs. Chin snaps back to reality and stops her, saying that she should pour the tea instead because she “is the youngest” (Boogie 2021). According to Chinese tradition, members of the younger generation should show their respect to members of the older generation by offering to pour a cup of tea and serve it to their guests. This process symbolizes the joining together of the two families, which is what happens later on in the film when Mrs. Chin enlists the help of Melvin, a family friend, who presents different college institute options for Boogie to attend school on a basketball scholarship. What might seem “weird” to someone might be a traditional custom in another person’s culture. Educating everyone on the true history of East Asian culture and familial practices can spark conversations within households, and will lead to a greater understanding of Asian culture within American families. Acknowledging past issues and flaws within our own culture can help heal wounds we didn’t know existed, but it can also bring forth new perspectives on societal similarities within other cultures as well. “Boogie” (2021) is a film that exemplifies the specifics in East Asian culture while highlighting the best and worst parts about tradition, rituals, practices, and hereditary relationships, and it provides insight to those unaware of these customs with a better and more educated understanding of East Asian oppression and the constant pressure sons and daughters are put under in order to succeed “better” than their parents. - Meghan Dhawan This piece is not affiliated with Dear Asian Youth Nonprofit. Cover Photo Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boogie_(2021_film)

Shift Four- L'espoir est un plat bien trop vite consommé, À sauter les repas, je suis habitué (Hope is a dish too soon finished, I am accustomed to skipping meals) “What? But like, what do you mean by that?” Sam tosses me a quizzical expression- cocked brow, unrefined grimace, and eyes searching for answers. I chuckle under my breath, reaching for my fifth slice of pizza. The AC thunders in the background, a slight reminder of the waning days of summer, although the air is still thick and muggy. I train my sight back on the TV screen, watching a cartoon rat shove a strawberry into its mouth. “Well, it’s like, stories only exist if something upsets the status quo.” “Yeah.” Sam leans back, stretching his arms above his head. I almost have to physically restrain myself from poking his sides. “In Ratatouille, Remy’s, uhm, status quo is his normal rat lifestyle and that’s the paradigm for, like, everyone. Just rats being rats.” “Righhhht.” I meet his perplexed squint. “So, when the food critic dude tastes...food, cooked by a rat, his belief set is fundamentally changed. It’s like, wow, maybe anyone can cook! How truly bemusing! How novel!” “Why are you using a British accent?” “It’s a paradigm shift!” I grab his shoulders, shaking him vigorously. “One belief set substituted by another! Because of a rat!” Blank eyes peer back at me. “What are you getting at…” I sink back into the couch, collapsing with a huff. “I mean, isn't that kind of cool!? Someone’s set of beliefs can be altered by the tiniest thing, like a rat! It’s almost like a butterfly effect, but better because it’s a rat.” “How’s that better?” “It just is!” “I think you’re reading too much into it.” “It’s art! I can interpret it however I want to.” Sam rises, sighing with feigned annoyance. “Besides, couldn’t you apply that to any movie? Or, like, any story? Ever? Why Ratatouille?” “Because it’s my favorite. And I can’t believe this is the first time you're watching it,” I glance over my shoulder, finding him preoccupied with searching for a snack. “And you’re missing it!” He groans. “I had enough of you watching it back home. I heard that stupid little French song enough for it to make my ears bleed. Why do you like it so much, anyway?” I clutch a cushion to my chest. “It just means a lot. I just like food.” “So that paradigm thing isn’t the reason?” He plops back down, Coca-Cola in hand. “No!” I snort with fake haughtiness. “That’s a revelation I just had because of this cinematic masterpiece’s insane rewatchability. In fact, many of my personal philosophies fully rest upon Ratatouille.” Sam rolls his eyes. I laugh. “Like what.” My answer is immediate. “Food’s always better when it’s shared. You see? Remy’s a chef, chef’s make other people food and therefore share their food with other people. He cooks because he loves to, and he wants to share that with other people- but when his rat people don’t accept him he’s, uh, he runs to share it with people who will accept him. You know?” Sam cracks open his drink. “Whatever you say, philosophy major.” I throw the cushion at him. He just barely dodges it. “No jabs at me doing culinary school while you’re here.” It’s his turn to laugh. “What kind of culinary student stoops to pizza?” “I’m a culinary student, not a pretentious jerk,” I shoot back. “Unlike some people.” “Was Ratatouille what inspired you to do it?” “No!” “At least I’m not the family disappointment anymore.” “Oh my god!” I slap my brother- enough force for it to phase him, but not actually hurt. He returns the favor by pushing me off of the couch. “Jesus! I’m just kidding,” he grumbles, cracking his neck. “It’s cool that you’re doing what you want or whatever.” “Wow...are you actually being sincere for once?” He sneers. “Shut up!” I chuckle through pizza bites, leaving a stringy mess of cheese behind. It’s oily, so disgustingly rich, but nevertheless delicious. Well, delicious in the fact that I could stay in and rest just for a second and revel in my own laziness. When people cook, they stamp their identity inside their dishes. It’s what I love about food. But this pizza is nobody. it has the identity of a thousand other carbon copies. It’s impersonal… but, oddly enough, that’s what makes it comforting. I gag slightly in my absentminded stupor and reach for my water. I pound on my chest, forcing myself to cough up the chunk of pizza that got caught in my throat. Sam starts cackling, snorting out his coke, and I start laughing, so much so that I need to gasp for air and my sides hurt afterwards. And all at once it’s as if time stops. There’s a lingering thought that I’ll miss this moment once it’s gone. Really, that sentiment is kind of cheesy; far too cliched for my tastes. But I guess there’s a reason why certain things are said so often, I muse to myself. People like romanticizing things. Even other people. Sometimes I think that it’s our ability to do that that keeps us alive. “You know what, I’ll cook you something.” Sam tilts his head. “M’kay?” I rise, pausing the movie. “Just feeling like it. This movie always makes me want to cook.” “...Are you gonna poison me?” “No!” I flick on the stove, reminiscing. Food is always better when it’s shared. I decide on a soup. It’s simple enough, and more importantly, delicious enough. I’ve been meaning to try out this new recipe anyways. I settle into a comfortable rhythm, everything done by rote. The rice cooker beeps. I plate the soup and usher Sam over to my rickety table. He sniffs. “Sinigang?” I nod. Sam sips at the broth, his eyes widening ever so slightly. I give him a smug grin. “Mom didn’t make this that much,” he says between slurps, a nasty habit he’s had ever since we were kids. “Close your mouth dude. Yeah, it’s my own recipe.” I make my way over to the couch, resuming Ratatouille. “Mom’s wasn’t that good.” Sam laughs and I hear more ungodly slurps. “Yours is good though.” “Thanks. Can you maybe not...eat so loudly?” He just laughs again. I focus all my attention on Ratatouille, drowning out everything else. The soft hum of Le Festin lulls me to sleep, and by the time I wake, my TV screen has gone dark and the glow of summer has faded. Shift Two- Affaibli par la faim, je suis malheureux (Weakened by hunger, I am unhappy) “Nanay, what are you making? It smells good.” I let my backpack fall to the floor, removing my shoes. “Oh, you’re home.” My mother is quiet at all moments of the day. She rises with silence and sleeps with it. Her footsteps are softer than snow and her voice is always level and calm. She has lived a life of hardship- pain and poverty, a refugee of suffering. And yet, she is always loud when she cooks. When she cooks, the kitchen sings with her. I have never been able to connect with her, to penetrate that wall she puts up when lost in the haze of memory, beyond our meals together. They are all I have left of that homeland she loves so dearly. I imagine it is bittersweet. How can it not be? The familiar smell of peanuts, shrimp paste, and garlic flood my senses. I know what dinner is immediately, and my mouth waters on cue. She pauses. “Call your brother,” she muses, just as our rice cooker beeps. She gives me a sip of her tea. It burns on the way down, it always does, and yet there’s a familiarity to it. “Jasmine?” “A blend.” “Mmm.” “You don’t want your own?” I never do. “No, thanks.” I begin setting the table, the taste of her tea still burning a hole in my mouth. Sometimes I wish she could leave behind those memories. Start anew with the world I was born into. But we are from two separate lifetimes and neither of us can meet the other halfway. I pick at my food. Kare-kare, a usual favorite. I love how it sits in my stomach so it feels as though the warmth is with me all day long. I glance up at the woman sitting across from me. I suppose there is one instance in which she is able to look at me with clear eyes, but it is always gone in the moment I finish the last grain of rice, slipping through the cracks of my fingers like water. I blink and the divide appears again. For the first time, I am conscious of a pattern. Our family rhythms consist of gaping holes. “How was school?You’re doing well in your classes” “Good. I learned something interesting, actually.” “Mhm?” Steam rises from her cup. I watch the swirling patterns, taking a sharp breath. There’s a slight tremble in my voice. “Yeah, AP Psychology...it’s cool.” “Well are you gonna tell us?” Sam gripes, chewing while he speaks. I grimace, glaring daggers into his skull. “Ugh. Well now I don’t want to.” My mother chuckles. “Oh, come on.” I sigh, crossing my arms. “Well, we started talking about the basic things, and I remember we talked about these things called paradigms. They’re like a set of basic assumptions that anyone has, but it’s not just that. It’s in science and stuff, too. Basically, it’s what’s the norm, or the status quo. And it can be interrupted, and when that happens it’s called a-” Sam lets out a loud, mocking snore and glares at me over his bowl. “Boooooring.” My mother hushes him, taking her own bowl to the sink. As she washes away the residue, I feel her moving further away, retreating into her thoughts. “Hm. There’s more in the pot if you want. I’m going to bed early tonight.” She left her tea at the table. It had gone cold, and that evening, I ignored the comfort her meals usually provide me with. That night, all I could think about is the bitterness of the peanut sauce and how it didn’t fade even after I brushed my teeth. All I could feel was the same burning in my throat, tasted countless times, from her tea, how it trickled down forever and ever; a torch passed from one generation to the next. Shift One- Les rêves des amoureux sont comme le bon vin; Ils donnent de la joie ou bien du chagrin (The dreams of lovers are like good wine; They give joy or even sorrow) “Nanay.” “Anak, it’s late.” “I’m hungry.” She turns towards me, shutting off the sink. I fiddle with the hem of my nightgown. “You didn’t eat?” I shake my head as she sighs, flitting about the kitchen. “Okay. Give me a moment.” I find myself running to sit at the table, my feet barely brushing the ground as they swing back and forth with excitement. “Can you make ratatouille?” She stifles a laugh. “I don’t know how to.” I pout, folding my arms over my chest. “I want ratatouille.” She dumps vegetable oil into her pan with a flourish; the kitchen suddenly alive with a vibrant crackling. “You will eat what I have.” She lays three pieces of spam across the pan, leaving it to sizzle on the stove. Her gentle hands search for a plate from the cupboard. Once found, she heaps a pile of reheated rice onto it, then scours the fridge for eggs. I close my eyes for a second, trying to pick apart the swirling scents that fill my nose. It’s a simple dish, but it’s the smell of home. It is everything to me. I remember My stomach growls. My mother suppresses a chuckle. “Here.” She sets the fruits of her labor before me and I know I am loved. Spam, leftover rice, and a sunny-side up egg that’s brown around the edges. Just the way I like it. She kisses my forehead, then leaves to retreat into her room. “Clean up after yourself when you’re done.” And though she didn’t say it out loud, I felt loved. I peer down at my dish, internally amused and satisfied at the situation. Usually at this house, my mother has hidden beneath the covers of her bed, not quite asleep, not quite awake, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. To find her in a state of relative normalcy elicits the strangest joy in my heart. Scenes from Ratatouille float in the back of my mind. It certainly felt as though this fleeting, midnight moment between me and a plate of spam had stepped from a movie. Mostly because it felt so special, like something worthy of cinematography and orchestral scoring. Perhaps it didn’t look that way, but movies never look exactly like life. The portrayals of the bustle of a kitchen, wonder at a first taste, and joys of cooking in a silly little Pixar movie about a rat weren’t realistic- they looked the way life felt. I dive into my food, savoring each bite. I can never quite get my cooking to taste the way my mother’s does. I wonder if it’s just from a lack of experience. I can’t even reach the stove without a stool. A part of me finds comfort in the hope that one day, I will be able to make people feel this deeply. In the dim light of our kitchen, in the dead of night, I vow that I will follow in my mother’s footsteps. Every dish she makes will be echoed to perfection. I cannot promise myself anything less. Shift Three- Un voleur solitaire est triste à nourrir, À un jeu si amer, je n'peux réussir, Car rien n'est gratuit dans la vie (A thief alone and hungry is sad enough to die, as for us, I am bitter, I want to succeed, because nothing in life is free) “I know you’ve probably heard this a million times this year,” my college counselor murmurs, adjusting her glasses, refusing to tear her eyes from her computer screen. “But you have to start thinking about your future, yada yada yada.” She clears her throat, hands poised and ready to type the entirety of my future plans into less than three concise sentences. “So, what are your career plans?” “Um. What if I don’t really know?” She snaps her head towards me, eyes softening. “It’s fine if you don’t know yet. That’s what I’m here for.” I hesitate for a second, searching for the right words to say. “I’ve never really known what I’ve wanted to do. Everyone else seems to have everything figured out but I’ve never really been sure.” “Well, you have good grades and some strong extracurriculars. The thing is,” she muses, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. “I don’t really see many personal interests.” “...Meaning?” “What are your hobbies? What are the things you most enjoy doing?” I lean back in my chair, searching my mind for a solid idea. “I...like cooking?” She raises her eyebrows. “Cooking?” “Yes. It’s...a hobby I guess.” My counselor purses her lips together. “Okay.” “Well, no. I guess it’s not a hobby,” I quickly add, averting my eyes. “It’s a pretty big part of my life, actually.” “Okay! Well, it’s something. Have you considered culinary school?” I give her a skeptical glance. “I don’t really know...it’s not like I have professional experience or anything, and I’m not that good.” “Nonsense. Schools exist for you to learn,” She smiles. “Besides, wouldn’t you like to make money doing something you love?” That catches me off guard. “I guess. Yeah.” “Okay, I’ll send you a list of potential schools.” “Thanks.” My mind is a jumbled mess as I walk home, a million things racing through it at once. Culinary school. Being a chef. Or a cook. Wait what’s the difference? Do I even like that idea?! How expensive would it be? How would mom react? My footsteps falter at that last thought, and I race through the various situations where I end up telling her about it. That is, if I’m even able to sit down and have a normal chat with her. All of the potential conversations I imagine come down to one outcome: sheer and utter disappointment on her front. What would the last four years be four if I didn’t get into some academic college in a metropolitan city far, far away from here? I decided against my better judgement not to tell her, though it wasn’t as if keeping a secret from her would be difficult. I wouldn’t even mention that I was simply considering it. Well, to be fair it did sound pretty appealing. I groan, clutching my head. “Why is this so hard?!” I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. In an attempt to ease myself, I bring the thought of dinner to the forefront of my mind. My mother’s cooking was getting rarer and rarer with each passing day, so I had been cooking the majority of our meals. It started as an obligation- Mom would slip into her bouts of sadness, retire to her bedroom early, and embrace silence fully and absolutely. But eventually, the space she once filled became my own, like an old pair of shoes, broken in but a size too big. I took comfort in every instance I spent in that kitchen, among our spice rack and busted-up appliances. For a moment, I could escape everything and retreat into solitude. I could drown out the world with the clatter of pots and pans and the scent of basil or garlic. Still, there was always this nagging feeling in the back of my mind as I’d taste-test an evening’s meal: the thought I could never replicate the flavors of my bygone childhood. After all, my mother had left behind some pretty big shoes to fill. I run over a list of recipes in my head. Arroz caldo, bistek, palabok, pancit...all things my mother taught me indirectly. I can almost hear Sam’s complaints- “We literally had this last week. Can’t you make something else?” There’s a tinge of melancholy deep in the pit of my stomach. I am clinging so tightly to these flavors of yesterday, when dinner was comforting and life was simple. I can’t bear imagining life if I did not cook Filipino food. It would feel as though I had lost part of myself. “Sorry, Sam,” I mutter, quickening my pace as the sky darkens. Shift Five- Jamais on ne me dira que la course aux étoiles, ça n'est pas pour moi; Laissez-moi vous émerveiller et prendre mon envol (Never will they tell me that I cannot shoot for the stars; Let me fill you with wonder, let me take flight.) “How does it feel?” I shrug. “Cathartic. Weird. Super underwhelming.” “Huh.” Sam slows down as a traffic light fades from yellow to red. The colors reflect dully off of the wet concrete. Even though it’s late, the streets of my hometown are filled with cars, each a picture into someone else’s life. Oddly enough, the deluge of rain seems wistful, but I’m not fully convinced it isn’t the romantic in me creating unnecessary heartache and sentimentality. “Well, congrats I guess,” Sam declares nonchalantly. “Why are you saying it like it’s an obligation?” “It kind of is?” I huff. “You could stand to be a little more excited about it.” Sam rolls his eyes. The light turns green. “Hey, I’m super proud of you for graduating culinary school, what a feat,” his voice takes on a mocking tone. “It’s not like anyone in the world has ever done that! Wow. You’re so amazing. Go you!” I smirk. “Thank you.” “Whatever floats your boat.” We settle into a comfortable silence. I gaze out the window, watching the world go by. Sam clears his throat. “Mom’ll be happy to see you.” I can’t stop myself from snorting. “Really?” “Sure. I mean, you’re employed. That’s all she’s ever really wanted.” I lean against the car window. “I guess so.” Sam pauses. “You know, you’re a really good cook.” “Sous-chef,” I correct. “And thanks. As good as mom?” “No.” His answer is immediate. “Not like mom.” I glance at him. He keeps his eyes on the road. “ When we were little your food always tasted like... imitations of what she made. It got old real fast.” He yawns. “Sure it was good but it wasn’t mom good.” I shrink into myself. “Thanks,” I say flatly. “You remember when I first visited you? And you made sinigang?” Sam lets out a deep, long sigh. “I still think of that sinigang. Best damn thing I’ve ever eaten. It was like you found yourself or something.” He lets out a raucous bark of a laugh. “That’s pretty cheesy though.” I blink hard, trying to get rid of the tears crowding the periphery of my sight. “Yeah, that’s super cheesy.” Sam makes no comment on how my voice cracks. Which is almost worse than him making fun of it. “You know, mom doesn’t cook at all these days,” he mutters softly. “Which is why...I’m glad you do.” “You said it yourself though. It’s nothing like hers.” “It’s better that way. You’re not mom.” The car speeds up slightly. He’s right. I’m not mom. Suddenly, every hour I’ve spent laboring over a stove, every single paradigm shift I’ve ever experienced, every rewatch of Ratatouille floods into my head and fills my body with the strangest heartache. It feels as though my atoms have rearranged themselves a thousand times and I’m so tired of it; I’m so tired of this endlessly shifting landscape. I just want one thing to be the same, to stay the same forever. I used to swear to myself it would be my mother’s cooking. Her recipes would be unshakeable and enduring. But, in a tiny beat-up car driving down the highway in a relentless storm, I realize that that constant has been gone long before I ever realized it. I know that it’s okay. Change is what brings winter to spring. Change is what makes us better. But it hurts. The most bitter pill to swallow is the realization that you’ve wasted so much time on what could never be. I am more than my culture. I am more than my mother. Still, I can love them just the same. I need to find what loving them means for myself...a process twenty-one years in the making and still going strong. “Sam?” “Yeah?” “Can we watch Ratatouille when we get home?” “...Sure.” - Billy Agustin Cover Photo Source: https://www.techradar.com/news/ratatouille-is-still-the-best-pixar-movie-on-disney-plus-heres-why

Dear Asian Youth, My Name. My name has always evoked a sense of pride in me, yet it is a constant reminder of the internal identity crisis that I have dealt with my whole life. Like many Asian Americans, I have two names: my English name and my Chinese Name. These two names represent two worlds, two identities, two generations, and two different countries wrapped into one person. My English name, Christopher, is Greek in origin, though I don’t know why my parents chose it for me. I always insisted on being called Christopher in elementary school, especially since there were two other Christophers in the class. After a while, many just defaulted to calling me Chris. Even my parents and siblings picked it up. My last name is Fong Chew. Two words, not one. My parents decided, to the protest of some of my relatives, to combine their last names for my siblings and me. Their subtle but defiant act broke the patriarchal standard of taking the father’s last name only. My English name has followed me my entire life - from elementary school through college. It has taken different meanings, and morphed with age, but still is very much me. It is a reminder of how my parents' unique view of the world influenced me. And something that has always set me apart. My Chinese name was something of a mystery to me. I always knew I had one, I always kind of knew its meaning, but it has never held any weight until now. For most of my life, I didn't know how to pronounce it, let alone write it. My Chinese name, 招偉明 (Ziu Wai Ming in Cantonese) is a name given to me by my grandparents. Both my paternal and maternal grandparents came together and agreed on the characters to use. Steeped in tradition, my Chinese name comes from generations of Chinese customs. Chinese names, like many Asian names, go in the order: surname, then first name. Each character is a word that has its own unique meaning. The first character 招 (Ziu) is my dad’s last name. A character passed from his dad, and his dad’s dad; generations going back to the Village in China where my grandfather grew up. The next two characters 偉 (wai) and 明 (ming) are my given name. One character unique to the boys, and one unique to myself. If I had a brother, his name too would have had the character 偉 in it. This character is generational, meaning that it sets one generation apart from another. Being the firstborn son, any male siblings or cousins would have the same name. Both my sister share the name 愛 in their name. 明 is the character unique to me, what would have set me apart from my other family. Chinese is a very literal language. Each character by itself, has a certain meaning or definition. Characters are combined to make words and phrases to expand the meaning of the two characters. For example,the Chinese Word for ‘happy’ (開心) is made up of the character 開 (hoi1) meaning ‘open’ and 心 (sam1) meaning ‘heart’. Each character of my name is a word on its own, but together, they build greater meaning. The character 偉 meaning Great and 明 meaning Understanding. Yet not knowing how to speak or read Chinese, most of my life, it was something my grandparents would say to me. “Your Chinese name is Ziu Wai Ming.” These were characters that I had yet to understand and tones I had yet to learn to pronounce. My two names, my two identities. Two worlds, two generations, two cultures coming together. My English name gave me a sense of belonging in school. No awkward stumbles or questions on how to pronounce my name. Being at home was a different story. To my parents and peers who grew up in the US, it rolled off the tongue easily. Yet for my grandparents and older relatives, it was always funny. The S and F sounds were always a challenge for them. Chritoper, Christoper, never quite rolling off the tongue so easily. My Chinese name is something I am yet to be called by. It always felt like something buried deep inside. It wasn't until I was 21 that I learned how to write my own name, let alone how to pronounce it correctly. My Chinese name in many ways represents ties to my roots. The less I knew about my name, the less I felt connected to my culture. This part of me, my Chinese name, didn't hold much significance for the longest time, like a box of childhood toys collecting dust in the attic. Until one day, many years later, when you brush off its dust and rediscover that little trinket from years ago. But my name is not a trinket. It grows the more I learn and understand it. Like most of my identity, my name is split between two worlds. I am Chinese-American. I am Asian-American. Two parts of a whole. My Chinese name, a gift from generations before. My English name, a gift from my parents. Each has helped me understand the complexities of my family and my being; the two worlds that collided to make me. 我個名係招偉明 My Name is Chris Fong Chew Cover Photo Source: Monigle

Dear Asian Youth, I was cleaning out my room the other day, taking down old photos and putting away old memories that had faded with time, when a phrase that was said to me as a child came to mind: “Don’t clean out your house during the New Year, you’ll sweep out your good luck.” Sometimes I think this phrase has a deeper meaning that goes beyond just a New Year's saying. Something deeply rooted in American culture is the idea of out with the old, in with the new. Always wanting to do away with what was for what will be. The idea of the fresh start, a new beginning, a new horizon. But in doing so, what do we lose? Many families that came to the U.S. in the last 50 years were fleeing war, poverty, and instability in hopes of a better life. They arrived and wanted to embrace the newly found culture here. Chasing the so-called “American Dream.” Getting an education, finding a job, and being able to be more than they were in their home country—that was the goal. Many of my older relatives bought into this narrative. Being first generation, many of them embraced the idea of being all American. Some of them had fled war and poverty, and viewed America as a forward-thinking progressive nation. A place where you can work hard, get an education, and move up in society. Many of them wanted to forget the old country. Forget the pain, the trauma, for they had found a better place. Here. For them it was about a fresh start. A new beginning. Out with the old, in with the new. For many of my relatives, the old was the home country. The old was the village in which my grandparents came from. The old was the traditions, and the ways of thinking from there. The new was America, the new was being able to buy a home and get an education. The new was embracing American culture, and life. Like the broom that may accidentally sweep out your good luck if you clean on New Year's Day, this pursuit of new horizons swept away cultural connections and cultural roots. In hopes of finding something better in this country, we swept away what rooted us in the last. I think about this when I see my cousins struggle to use chopsticks, or refuse to eat certain Chinese foods. I think about this when I see the language barrier between many of my elders who grew up in China and the younger generations like myself who grew up here. In this pursuit of a better life, in this pursuit of new horizons and better opportunities, in this supposed chase for the American Dream what was lost? - Chris Fong Chew Cover Photo Source: Omnia, University of Pennsylvania

Dear Asian Youth, Appreciation versus appropriation. It almost seems comedic how similar these words are and yet, how different their definitions are. Perhaps this is a reason why so many people get them mixed up, a particularly interesting example being the residents of Dietfurt, a town located in Bavaria alongside the Altmühl river in Germany. Tourists flock in from China and around the globe to witness this town's unique and absurd festival which they prefer to call ‘Bavarian China’. The town is decorated with red lanterns, Japanese red sun bunting (yes, you read that right), and crowded with people who paint their faces yellow whilst shouting “ni hao” at each other (although nothing more is said due to their lack of Chinese linguistic skills). Many Chinese people who visit leave with mixed feelings towards the festival, although the people of Dietfurt have good intentions, the way they express these intentions is offensive and problematic because it seems to mock Chinese culture. The town's ‘Emperor Fu Gao Di’ of the yearly festival, Manfred Koller, claims that the carnival began when the Bishop sent his Treasurer to collect tax from the town of Eichstätt and was shut out by the gates. He then returned and claimed that “the Dietfurters hide behind their walls like the Chinese!”, making a reference towards the Great Wall of China. Although the town’s intentions are pure in appreciation, it seems that the lack of regard for the criticisms of their appropriation and mocking of the Chinese culture are improved upon due to their insistence that it is harmless. According to Marvin Xin Ku from Vice, Manfred Koller also claims that the people of Dietfurt “think Chinese culture is very interesting,” and that there has “never been a real Chinese person who had a problem with it”. This statement from Koller begs the question of what constitutes a “real” Chinese person? Is it their nationality? Ethnicity? Personality? If his version of a true Chinese person is one from the country of China itself, then he is disregarding the millions of people such as myself who were not born in China. It seems that the true message of appreciating Chinese culture has quickly become a contest of mockery between the people of Dietfurt, as various videos give me the impression that the festival is an excuse to get drunk and be overtly racist. There is some evidence though that this festival may be accepted by the people of China, or at least the people of Nanjing. The town of Dietfurt allegedly has a partnership with the Chinese city (although this hasn’t been verified or confirmed) due to the population differences being staggering. Since Nanjing has a population of 9 million, it may be implied that the majority of people in Nanjing are not aware and if they are, are not aware of the way the Dietfurt population ‘celebrates’ them. One of the most problematic actions that the people of Dietfurt take part in for the festival is yellowface, a practice which consists of wearing make-up to imitate the facial features of an East Asian person. Yellowface has a deep-rooted history in Hollywood, with eminent actors and actresses such as Marlon Brando and Katharine Hepburn participating in this through altering their appearances into comically exaggerated stereotypes of East Asian people. Yellowface is unfortunately normalised for the German town as it comes every Thursday before Ash Wednesday, with black eyeliner reportedly being applied to achieve eyes that “look like slits” and culturally inaccurate Chinese Hanfu’s and Qipao’s worn. Hell, even a sprinkle of Japanese Kimonos can be spotted in the crowd. Overall, I believe that although the line between appreciation and appropriation is thin, the town of Dietfurt is on the latter side. What might have once been started as a joyous way of celebrating Chinese culture has now become an absurd demonstration of ridicule and overt racism. You can enjoy and express your love for a culture without mocking their appearances and behaviour, especially if a lot of it is culturally incorrect. Perhaps the people of Dietfurt could educate themselves on the harmful consequences of racist behaviours and celebrate in a way that is respectful and genuinely appreciative. - Cathay Sources: https://www.vice.com/en/article/eveqjk/chinesenfasching-in-bayern-was-ich-in-dietfurt-ueber-rassismus-gelernt-habe Cover Photo Source: DW

Dear [Asian Youth and] The Mahjong Line, As a Chinese-Canadian who has faced lifelong racial struggles that delayed my appreciation for my culture, I stood in shock and frustration when I came across the Mahjong Line in January. I shared my honest viewpoint along with many members of the Chinese community and Asian allies under your posts. The Mahjong Line is a business that may have started off with good intentions which I recognized, but that did not change the detrimental impact it had on my community as we felt our culture and tradition were exploited for profits without recognition. There was a complete lack of respect and acknowledgement for the Chinese history and culture linked to Mahjong, no matter what subsequent versions were adapted when it left the country. I was very disappointed with Mahjong Line’s reaction to the hurt and frustration from my community as well as the ensuing apology and history posts. Your business has continuously shared the message that you are open to constructive criticism, honest opinions, sincere outreach to express viewpoints. Ironically, comments were shut off as soon as backlash emerged, which can be understandable if any comments extended beyond frustration and justified anger to threats or direct attacks. However, a story posted this past week criticizing the Mahjong Line for its cultural appropriation and gaslighting apology led to my account being immediately blocked and my post was taken down before anyone had seen it. When I kindly messaged on another account asking to discuss the post instead, I was blocked again. I was confused and disappointed that not only the business was harming my community, but it was silencing me from voicing my opinion when you claim to welcome my honest viewpoint. I was not the only one to go through this experience. Many others had reported that they were completely ignored when they sent DMs and weren’t able to share their opinions, especially after the accusatory post to the “social media mob”. Let me ask the Mahjong Line this: If one Chinese person had messaged you guys back in November, would you have restructured your business to credit and acknowledge the Chinese creation of the game and centuries-old history? Historically, as a racialized minority, this never happens– because one voice is never enough. Why would we have expected any different for a business that consistently ignored or blocked our criticism and even shut us out from sharing our opinions? The Mahjong Line also mentioned social media users adopted a mob mentality. Our collective criticism was not because we saw other people do the same and wanted to “join in”. I can assure you showing the November 2019 Mahjong Line to a Chinese individual would warrant the same reaction received on social media. It was extremely insensitive to suggest our frustration was not genuinely our own and rather the influence of others, as if our viewpoints were not authentic or real. Not to mention the social media mob was justifiably frustrated people that have lived their lives being oppressed by the same people who profit off of us as has happened too many times before. The fox-eye trend? White people using our eye shape as an aesthetic while we were bullied and discriminated against for naturally having the same eye shape growing up. The Mahjong line? White people using our culture to profit off a traditional game without any recognition while we suffered discrimination and oppression for simply being born into the same culture. The same post says there is an accusation towards the rhetoric in national news outlets. The headlines from a Google search show “cultural appropriation” “xenophobia” “racism” “culturally insensitive” “white-washing”, none of which are false. The line between cultural appreciation and cultural appropriation is the recognition of the origin and history, unlike how the Mahjong Line conveniently left out the roots of the original Chinese game, saying the American game was completely different and had a separate history. Whitewashing explores the concept of draining a culture of its culturally significant aspects and making it “white”. Without recognizing the game is Chinese and instead claiming it to be American with rich American roots, the Mahjong Line perfectly embodied an example of “white-washing”. These accusations were justified (although you seem to disagree in your recent post). Articles from CNN, Buzzfeed, Inside Edition, Jing Daily, Complex, and any other article I read expressed the reality of events. The writers explained the social media backlash and why the Mahjong Line was being accused of cultural appropriation while including the voices of Chinese critics and social media users. Your post said they “did not address the long history of change within the game” as if that detail justified the cultural appropriation? This line alone of your post made me think that the Mahjong Line doesn’t see the problem in using the Chinese culture without recognition as you seem to always believe it is “American” and the “American history” makes it so. You also said the articles don’t address “the current marketplace” which again is irrelevant to the cultural appropriation. Nonetheless, the article written by Complex does highlight white businesses who have successfully appreciated the Chinese game of Mahjong in their original sets such as Louis Vuitton and Maison Martin Margiela. You continue to gaslight the social media mob saying their mentality is dangerous and not conducive to dialogue or learning. How can the Mahjong Line blame the social media users for not being conducive to dialogue and learning? You are not entitled to our time and efforts to educate you. We already suffered the emotional toll of experiencing another instance of cultural appropriation and spent time sharing our viewpoints on your page and we were ignored, blocked, and now blamed for not being part of the dialogue. Chinese people are not your tools to learn about cultural appropriation– that is on you. If a person of colour comes forward to share their opinion and even educate you on your mistakes, that’s more than you should expect. Our criticisms were not “dangerous”, they were honest, sincere, and 100% authentic from each and every one of us. The original business model was harmful to the Chinese community and the response was less than apologetic and continued to perpetuate your false openness to criticism and victimize yourselves. However, there has been an effort to include Chinese history into the business and add philanthropic efforts (which I’m wondering only why they only came about after the cultural appropriation criticism and social media hiatus?). Despite these efforts, the Mahjong Line still managed to exclude Chinese voices from the history of the game and your business. Your first two guests to delve into the history of Mahjong are two white males: Tony Watson and John Davis. I’m sure they are knowledgeable in the game, but how is it appropriate to exclude Chinese Mahjong player voices that can authentically explain the Chinese history of their game? I would have loved to share this comment under that specific post, however, comments are as always, turned off. The Mahjong Line claims to have restructured their business in response to the backlash, but how are you really including Chinese voices and our history appropriately? Do you have cultural consultants that ensure the business is not harming the Chinese community and giving suggestions on how to avoid cultural appropriation? From what I’ve seen, I definitely don’t think so. The Mahjong Line’s mantra is “live and learn”, so I sincerely hope you’ll live by this mantra and take my viewpoint as a representative of many Chinese people’s criticism to heart and turn it into something productive for the business. As you have mentioned, it is a steep learning curve, which the Mahjong Line has yet to make much progress on. - Kerry An open letter to the Mahjong Line is a piece written in response to a white-owned business that have "refreshed" Mahjong sets for $400 by appropriating the traditional Chinese game. After facing a wave of criticism in January, the Mahjong Line have continued their cultural appropriation by profiting off Asian history while shutting out Chinese voices. I wrote this letter to hold the Mahjong Line accountable while the spotlight fades away and they silently continue their exploitation of the Chinese culture and history. Biography: Kerry Yang is a high school student in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada with a passion for social justice, education, and science. As a first generation Chinese-Canadian, she's faced the same identity challenges and struggles as countless other Asian youth. Despite efforts to erase her culture from a young age, Kerry has learned to embrace and pride herself on her Chinese roots and has dedicated herself to fighting for the same personal acceptance within other BIPOC youth. Her passion for education has led her to create a national school supply drive that send school supplies to students across the world every year in order to bridge education disparities and equip students with the tools for success. In Kerry's spare time, she immerses herself in science, often competing at the national level with her research on antibiotic resistance and colorectal cancer. Instagram: @kerryyyang Linkedin: @kerryyyang Cover Photo Source: Dieline

For the grandparents who miss their grandchildren, the grandchildren who miss their grandparents, but especially for my grandmother who immigrated to the united states after leaving her hometown in Taiwan many years ago. she tucked several belongings from home and escaped to america, dreaming for the american dream. she worked hours at night to care for her three sons, who were her every priority. and now, she’s over 70 and tired, but still living. i wonder if you’re sitting on the same white couch and cooking with the same old fashioned plates. do you still cook grandpa your famous shrimp dish? we miss it very much. but grandma, are you any happier now? but grandma, how are you now? how have you been, grandma? i know you’ve been waiting for my texts, but mom’s been paranoid about me contacting you… you know how the relationship is between my parents. but school’s been really busy. can you believe i’m graduating next year? time really flies. luckily, grandpa’s updated me on your wellbeing. i guess you’ve been watching many taiwanese dramas ever since you’ve retired. try to take a couple of walks outside to get the blood flowing, won’t you, grandma? i don’t say it enough, but i love miss you. you’re reading the news too, right? it’s... scary. i know you know, but i just want to be sure. with everything going on, we never know what might happen. stay safe. i watched this movie recently, grandma. have you heard of it? it’s called “minari”, which is this korean vegetable that can grow almost anywhere. a korean immigrant family moved to arkansas and dealt with struggles of maintaining family love, health, and things i probably won’t really understand till i’m older. i know dad cried a lot. so did i. he knows the challenge of growing up with immigrant parents. i want you to watch it, and let me know what you think afterward. this may be random, but thank you, grandma. you aren’t perfect, but none of us are perfect, and i’m glad you taught me so. talk again. i hope we can see each other soon. xx. - Hannah Chen Cover Photo Source: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/multicultural-robert-daniels.html

How do I tell him? He’s perched on the other end, waiting for me to answer. I see his curly hair twisting into shadows, his ears that are a little too big for his face. The square glasses framing the questions and innocence in his eyes. The brown of his skin that will cause him so much pain when he gets older. “Why are they mad at us?” my eight-year-old self asks again. How do I tell him? The hate, the violence, the death. The world turned upside down. We’re in our room at our parents’ house, sitting on our bed. I lean against the rich mahogany wood of the frame that resembles an ornate sleigh. My fingers glide on the blue-striped comforter that I insisted my mom get for me. Dinosaur skeletons hang from the ceiling, covered in dust and memories of assembling them with my dad. They turn their heads toward me, waiting to see how I’ll respond. Books line the top of the dresser, their spines wrinkled with use and love. They hop and shake where they stand, no doubt picking up on my nervous energy. I turn back to him. Thinking. Stalling. Pulling at a loose thread in the comforter, watching it unravel. I pluck some words out of the air, hoping they’ll provide a sufficient enough explanation. “A lot of people around the world are sick. Some other people blame Asians for it. They think it’s our fault.” He tilts his head. His nose scrunches up as his mind tries to work through the info, a habit I still do to this day. “But we didn’t do anything.” I laugh, a dry and brittle sound coated with resignation. “You’re right. But these people don’t believe us. They’re angry. They want someone to blame. They’re hurting other people like us.” “What are they doing?” I bite my lip. Do I tell him? Do I share every excruciating story of the Asians who have been beaten, burned, and slashed? His only concern should be which Pokémon to catch next. Which is worse: preparing him for what’s to come and shattering his youth in the process, or lying to him so he can enjoy his childhood until he learns the truth about the world for himself? Me being me—someone who tries to find compromise in conflict—I do a little of both. “They’re doing very bad things to old people like Grandma and Grandpa.” I struggle to simplify my vocabulary for him. Words like “crimes” and “victims” would go over his head. The T-rex skeleton nods in approval, and it gives me some validation. “But old people can’t protect themselves! We’re supposed to respect our elders!” His lips tremble. He clenches the comforter in his fists, the only thing grounding him to what I told him. Picturing my grandparents being hurt in any way constricts my chest. I can only imagine how gruesome it must be for him. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I hold them back. It’s not to show him that we should hide our emotions; if I start crying now, his questions won’t be answered, and answers—be they half-truths or white lies—are what he needs right now. “You’re right,” I reply. “It’s not fair. None of it is. But when people are afraid, sometimes they do terrible things.” “I thought you said they were angry,” he says. “They’re angry because they’re scared. They’re scared because they don’t have all of the information.” I pause. After some consideration, I take a breath and push on. “At school, do some of your classmates slant their eyes when they’re around you?” I perform the gesture, and for the two seconds I do, I feel the wrongness of it seeping into my pores. He nods and mimics the gesture, making me flinch. “Yeah, they said it’s a joke.” “Have you heard of the word ‘racism’ before?” He shakes his head. “Racism is when people treat other people differently because they don’t have white skin.” He looks at his hands and arms, turning them over. Confusion is written on his face as he tries to make sense of my words. “What those kids do with their eyes—that’s one example of racism.” It comes out more harshly than I intend. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again. “They said it’s a joke,” he repeats in a softer tone. My insides twist. He thinks I’m mad at him. He doesn’t want his classmates to get in trouble. “I know they did, but they’re wrong,” I say as gently as possible. “It’s not their fault. They haven’t learned how wrong it is yet. There are a bunch of other things people do that are racist.” I wasn’t going to make him suffer by giving him more examples. Just the one was a good place to start. He falls back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, arms splayed from his sides. I wait for him to respond. It can’t be easy for an eight-year-old to learn about the injustices that infect our world in one conversation. I rest my head against the frame of the bed and close my eyes. For a few quiet moments, I ignore the pain in my chest from everything that has happened to my community. I imagine holding my heart in my hands to witness the extent of the damage, rubbed raw to the point that even a slight breeze makes touching it sting. It’s heavy and rough and almost depleted of love. There are days when I want to drop it. To let go of the pain that has only gotten worse. “What can I do?” I don’t mean to speak my thoughts out loud. Then I realize I didn’t say anything at all. He did. I open my eyes. He’s back to a seated position and his gaze bears into me with a conviction beyond his years. It must be the resilience of his ancestors coursing through his blood. “You don’t have to do anything right now,” I answer. “You’re too young.” That was the wrong thing to say. I was talking to myself, after all. That meant wanting to do something even more after being told I couldn’t. “I’m not too young,” he counters. “I don’t want anything to happen to our family.” Now it’s my turn to tilt my head. I underestimated my younger self. I wasn’t expecting him to want to do anything. How do I tell him what to do when I’m still figuring that out myself? There’s no guidebook on what to do when your community is under attack. “Dad said we can pray to Buddha if we don’t know what to do,” he says. “Will that help?” I picture the monks of our local temple, robed in orange and immaterialism. For the older generation, the monks’ chants offer hope and comfort in the form of blessings, reinforced by time and tradition. For the rest of us, they’re a lullaby rocking us to sleep. I made the decision to pull away from my religious upbringing. However, he is still a long way from deciding that for himself. I don’t want to lie to him, but he won’t understand what I believe to be the truth, either. Again, I find the middle ground. “Praying is one thing you can do but not the only thing.” In the kitchen downstairs, I hear my mom humming a Khmer song as she prepares dinner. The smells of freshly cooked rice and seasoned meat waft through the house. I hear my little sister emptying a box of crayons to use for her coloring book. My dad is on the phone with one of his siblings, laughing at an inside joke shared between them. The sounds shift. My mom is using her sewing machine to create masks for her immediate and extended family. There’s a faint humming and grinding of gears as my dad runs on the elliptical machine. And my sister is on Zoom for one of her college classes. And then it hits me. I may not know what I’m doing right now, but I know who I’m doing it for. He wants to protect his family. The bonds he has with them drives him. Drive us. I think of all the families who are hurting right now. The victims who have been targeted for simply existing. The loose thread on the comforter is longer than it was before I started pulling it. If I keep at it, the whole thing will come apart. However, if I cut the string—the part that I’m fixated on and is no longer needed—I can still preserve the rest of the blanket. I see the spark in him, waiting to grow beyond a few embers. Maybe he can stoke the flames instead of suffocating them as I did. “What can I do?” he asks again. The dinosaurs rear their heads. The books bounce on the dresser. They urge me to give him an answer. For the first time during our conversation, I smile. It’s a ghost of a grin, but it’s there. And it’s real. A reminder of what life used to be—what it could be. I know exactly how to tell him. “Be yourself. Speak up when you see something you don’t like. Take up space. There are going to be people who don’t like you because of your skin, and it’s going to hurt. You’ll want to scream and cry, so do it. Scream and cry and be angry because you have every right to be. And when you’re done, keep taking up space because you deserve to be here just as much as everyone else. You aren’t perfect and you don’t have to be. What matters is that you are enough.” The words rush out of me with the force of a raging fire. Yet it feels more like a controlled burning—ridding myself of the rot and waste that have built up from within by telling myself what I wish someone had told me a long time ago. “Ignore the kids who say your lunch smells weird or ask you to say something in Cambodian like you’re a dog doing tricks,” I continue. “Show everyone else you’re more than a stereotype or a token. Embrace your culture and heritage. Tell them the right way to say your last name, not the way that’s easier for them. Show them where Cambodia is on the map, so they don’t have to keep guessing where you’re ‘really from.’ “Listen to Mom and Dad and learn how to speak Khmer because you will regret it later if you don’t. Spend time with them when you can. If you fail, it’s because you’re human, not because you’re a ‘bad Asian.’ Find what you love and do it with everything you have. “And you won’t be alone. You’ll have your parents, your sister, and all of your cousins. You’ll have so many friends who will stand with you. They’ll be part of your family, too. Hold them close and ask for help when you need it. Never forget how much they all love you.” I tell him all the things he can do, both now and when he gets older. He listens with rapt attention, absorbing every word. I don’t know how much he understands, but he has time to learn, to grow and have his voice develop into a formidable weapon. But I hope he also finds time to still be the child who collects dragon figurines and uses a flashlight to read his books under the covers when he should be sleeping. Those are the memories he will cherish when he feels lost and alone. My heart is still weighed down with grief and fury. It threatens to break into jagged shards that will only slice into me if I try to pick them up. When he looks at me, I wonder if he sees the pain. Does he see the gray in my hair or the exhaustion in my eyes? Or—whether it’s because of those things or in spite of them—does he see the blossoming hope that took root thanks to him? When I look at him, I see where I came from. I see the sacrifices made for us to be here in this moment. His heart is brimming with possibility. That alone makes it stronger than I believed it to be. I reach out my hand, and he grabs it. I don’t have to worry about how to tell him what I’m thinking now. We will hold our heart together. - Eric Nhem Cover Photo Source: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/02/13/learning/what-students-are-saying-about-experiencing-racism-becoming-an-adult-and-bonding-over-food.html

Beautiful Country, the tears have overflowed the melting pot of your people. They are crying blood - dark, suffocating blood spilled on your earth. Why do you bring them here only to choke them? Do you enjoy the death of their dreams? Beautiful Country, my grandmother misses me. I have not seen her in eleven long years. Please, let me go home. I have loved you for so long. Let me love her before she goes. Why are you so selfish? Beautiful Country, you are a wicked, wicked thing, Have you forgotten those who smiled upon you so kindly? They laid themselves at your feet and you kicked them into history. Beautiful Country, I wanted to find a home in you so, so badly. I stretched my eyes wide to take in your beauty but ended up blind. I’m laying on the sidewalk, bleeding around myself and you won’t come save me. I hoped you would. I hoped you would. Instead, every day, you show me my grandmother on the TV screen. She dies in a million different ways, in a million different cities, and I never get to say goodbye. When you need someone to blame for the deaths, you will turn to me. Who, then, will take responsibility for those you have killed? Beautiful Country, you were once everything, everything I wanted. But now, you are just the United States of an America that does not open its doors for me. - Yunseo Chung Cover Photo Source: https://thomaskinkade.com/shop/limited-edition-art/cityscapes/americas-pride-limited-edition-art/

summer mornings a cicada orchestra playing their repertoire of Ralph Vaughn Williams with a barbershop quartet of frogs bellowing out their croony love songs the scent of wilting flowers petals cracking, shattering under the slightest brush of the wind’s hand and a moon a persistent moon a silver pupil in a brilliantly blue-jay iris a piercing moon beautiful Selene and lovely Chang’e she wanders to places where she should not observes domains where she should not stay in the sun’s domain, violent sun piercing sun blinding sun, her radiance does not fade she stands on her own how i would like to stand with her and bask in her shimmering power all the more so when she persists in the day tiger moon i squint my eyes to see her stripes well-earned i open my eyes again and they disappear but i don’t forget what i’ve seen tiger moon claws hidden under your veil of snow-like purity a hunter’s instinct where prey abounded before tiger moon warrior in the sky Poet’s note: A few years ago, I realized that you could occasionally still see the moon in the morning, even when the sun was rising into the air. This poem is based on my appreciation of the moon for persisting, so clearly, even in a sky which it does not “belong” to. Cover Photo Source: Fine Art America