Xie’er dies on a Wednesday. She had woken up that morning, thrown off the stained blanket and left the motel to go for a run. For about a week, she’d known that it was time, soon. That morning, the trees had whispered to her and, the crows had stayed closer than normal to the trail she followed. She had almost expected her headaches to return like vicious knives. Now, she watches the landscape pass by. The same perspective as always from her shotgun vantage point. It’s all the same; the world keeps turning as if Ren Xie’er did not just bite a chainsaw in an abandoned outlaw cabin. The wheat still sways in the wind, the cables span languid and steady across the fields, the birds chirp and their black Chevrolet hums, and hums and hums ever on. Xie’er can’t figure out whether she’s bound to her rotting flesh, her battered bones strewn among the empty cans in the trunks, or if she’s bound to this battered, beaten, more-than-second-hand car. The leather of the seats, the rattling of the vents, the carvings in the walls. Or maybe it’s Tian. It’s probably Tian - little brother Tian, in death as well as in life. The motor of the Chevy howls and growls and devours gravel like a hound its prey, but it is still quiet. Tian has not turned on any music since he packed up all of the bits and pieces that were once his sister, packed them up the same way he packed up all their belongings, duffel slung across his shoulder to depart to another motel, seventy-five miles from Nowhere. Xie’er had seen ghosts before, but being one was different. She can feel the void tugging on her non-existent blood, if it’s Heaven, or Hell or Nothingness calling her, she doesn’t know. After fifteen years on the American highways, hunting for dreams and peace and mangled souls and everything that came in between, Xie’er knew she was more tethered to this place in death than in life. If she’d known that all it took to stop the feeling of bugs crawling through her veins was to be torn limb from limb, she thinks she’d have tried it herself. Except of course she wouldn’t have, because Tian. Tian, who sits beside her the same as always, who is her focus point, the only thing keeping her tied to reality––only literally now. He stares straight ahead, jaws clenched, eyes dry. Xie’er wonders if he can feel his sister next to him. Oh, she would be so mad, that righteous anger that always made Xie’er want to break his nose, punch the rearview mirror shredded. The world may have forgotten, but Xie’er would always remember–– Tian was a righteous man. Holy, sacred, blessed. Weathered by the wind and the lies of an illuminated future in a foreign havenland, but unflinching and unwavering. With one foot on the other side, Xie’er can see it more than ever, the light clinging to her brother’s every cell. It doesn’t make her feel sick now. There’s nothing coursing through her veins anymore. Not her blood, not her anger. She’s just Xie’er. Tian’s fighting, still. He’s never been one to give up without a fight but , and he’s has always fought been one to fight with heart and fists, busted lips and scraped raw knees, crawling towards his goal with anything in hand. Tian’s fights always got messy. Xie’er knows - has known for too long that she’s the same. But this time, Xie’er doesn’t yell. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t sob into Tian’s face that there is no home here, doesn’t wish they had never crossed land and ocean and doesn’t feel the afterburn of guilt for thinking it. None of it matters now. Tian will join her soon, and they both know it. Tian goes through the motions. He had gotten a motel room next to a neon painted diner the first night of sleep he got, after Xie’er. He’d asked for a double and Xie’er chuckled to herself as Tian went inside. She hadn’t followed, and Tian hadn’t slept in a motel since. Now he simply pulls up in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere, and lays down in the back seat, closer to Xie’er. Tian talks as if she’s still there, and also as if he’s talking to himself. “We should stop for gas later, Xie,” and “Alright, let’s crash,.” Xie’er answers him every time and he answers back. She knows Tian can’t hear her, is just rehashing conversations they’ve had countless times before. It’s nice though. Feels normal. Wires persist across the cloudless sky, the open road unravels, the days go on. Tian becomes desperate. He’s taken to driving drunk. Xie’er knows that Tian will be with her soon enough, but she’d rather not have it be because Tian wrapped himself around a tree. The car deserves better. He deserves better. The light is still shining out of him, as it always will, but now there’s dark under it and Xie’er feels sick again. She doesn’t want to see this, but she feels she has to. So she starts to leave the car. Stands next to Tian as he searches through scattered town after scattered town, sits in the corner hugging her knees as he smashes his fists into the mirror of a gas station bathroom again, and again, and again. It doesn’t make Xie’er angry this time. Feeling anything has become so hard, and it’s because she knows she’s not supposed to be here anymore - never supposed to be here at all. She knows, and yet. And yet. The next time they stop, it’s on the shoulder of a highway, a little trail leading off into the fields and towards an old church barely visible in the darkness of night. Xie’er knows that this is it. Crows sit in the wheats, staring at her staring off into the distance, towards a church off in the woods. None of them move and neither do Tian or Xie’er. She starts to feel it. Xie’er looks up at the starry sky and lets her life play before her eyes. She was made of memories. Their mother’s face, their father’s arms. Xie’er wondered whether they’d be waiting for her and her brother, or if they’d be in a different heaven now - the heaven people went to, back home. Maybe, she wondered, she and Tian would spend the rest of time waiting in line outside the American heaven instead. Xie’er closed her eyes. I’m sorry, mama. Tian takes one last look at the passenger seat, and steps outside the car door. Xie’er opens her eyes and feels her reality flicker. A second later, she appears next to him. Her brother props up the trunk. He stares inside a couple of seconds, and so does Xie’er. She feels no attachment to her body. Just a collection of guts and bones and viscera, no different to what it had been when she was still whole and running around. The next few steps are mechanical. Tian pulls out a canister of gasoline and empties it over the Chevy. He fishes around a while and slides to the ground, back against the car, matchbox in hand, closes his eyes when Xie’er sits down next to him. Tian makes no sign of noticing her presence, but she’s sure he knows she is still here. Unable to see her, but he knows. Her brother, the anchor of her soul, the centre of her world, opens his eyes, looks up to the sky, then fumbles with the box. He drops it in his lap a couple of times. Xie’er Sam can see the gaping wound in his heart now, the glistening blood beneath shreds of skin and bone and years of holding back. Finally, he gets a hold of a match, tosses the box aside and holds it up in front of his face. When Xie’er lights it up, Tian laughs. The sound of it is pained and gentle, how Xie’er had heard it a thousand times before. Seconds before the fire reaches the tank, Tian finally looks at her - really looks at her. Then, flames. - Xie’er is running through the woods. Not away from anything, just running. The Liangshan sun is beating down on her, the Ya’an trees whisper and the sound of water rustles in the wind. The sounds, the smells, just her and her beating pulse. In Moments like this, she feels grounded, at peace. She feels Present and connected in a way she never is otherwise. She stumbles out onto the familiar stretch of woodland path. A raindrop lands gently in her hair - to her right, Xie’er hears the familiar sound of footsteps on fresh leaves. She blinks and sees Tian, whole and beautiful. No lines across his features, skin not bubbling with heat. “Let’s go home, Xie.” Cover Photo Source: Drawing Art

Dear Asian Youth, Delaina Ashley Yaun. Xiaojie Tan. Daoyou Feng. Paul Andre Michels. Soon C. Park. Hyun J. Grant. Suncha Kim. Yong A. Yue. These are the names of the Atlanta spa shooting victims, the majority of whom were Asian. In the past year, countless other Asians have been called slurs, struck down, beaten senselessly while they were just walking on the street, waiting at a stoplight, passing by a store in Chinatown. Make no mistake, these attacks were fueled by hate and bigotry. There are simply no words to express the rage and grief that the Asian American community is feeling right now. Even so, these hate crimes are not surprising. While many point to former President Donald Trump’s incendiary remarks about the “kung flu” and the “China virus” as the impetus for these attacks, those remarks are only symptoms of a problem that has long festered in our society. In America, Asians have historically been viewed as “other”; many are either immigrants themselves or are second- or third-generation immigrants. The microaggressions that Asian Americans are so often the target of— “Where are you really from?” “You speak really good English!”— contribute to the sense that we can’t truly be Americans because of the color of our skin. That “other”ing, which had merely simmered under the surface before, was exacerbated by the Covid-19 pandemic. As a Chinese American whose extended family lives in Shanghai, I remember being terrified in January by the possibility of the virus infecting my relatives. My family, who had heard from abroad about the dangers of the virus, started wearing masks long before CDC guidelines mandated them. It was during this time that people at the supermarket would stare at us, singling us out as the carriers of a foreign sickness that no one wanted to be near. Chinatowns across the country were deserted, in a way that Italian and Spanish restaurants never were when the virus surged particularly badly there. Asians, especially those of Chinese descent, were viewed not as Americans but as foreigners whose diseases did not belong in this country. I have been lucky enough not to have experienced the countless harassments and aggressions related to the pandemic that my fellow Asians have: “We don’t want your coronavirus in this country.” “Go back to Asia.” “You don’t belong here.” These are all examples of the perpetual foreigner stereotype of Asian Americans, created by decades of division and discrimination that date back to the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and the Japanese internment camps during World War II. The former was the first time that America had barred immigration from a country on the basis of race, and the latter treated Japanese Americans, many of whom were American citizens and had repeatedly proved their patriotism, as enemy spies while leaving German and Italian Americans alone. Despite all of these examples of institutional racism that questioned how American Asian immigrants could be, there hasn’t been a unified push to bring attention to them, resulting in very little talk about how Asians fit into America’s complex history with race. Last summer’s reckoning with Black Lives Matter protests sparked conversations across the country about how to address the effects of white supremacy and systemic racism on the Black community, but Asians were excluded and ignored even as they suffer from the very same institutions. For too long, we have been silent, brushing off microaggressions and racist jokes. The recent wave of anti-Asian hate crimes has created a force just as powerful to counteract it: Asian Americans of all ethnicities, all generations, are finally rallying together to be seen, to be heard, to fight back. Asians need to be included in the anti-racist work that the Black Lives Matter movement has championed. We are, by definition, a minority group and people of color; we stand with our Black, Brown, and Indigenous brothers and sisters against white supremacy and systemic racism. The microaggressions that we face are anything but micro; they imply that we don’t belong in the melting pot of America. My parents, like so many other Asian immigrants, came here for its promises of freedom, equality, and opportunity. We are just as American as anyone else. This is our home too. - Annabelle Hearing about the drastic increase in the number of anti-Asian hate crimes that have been perpetrated in the past year has made me feel incredibly scared and helpless. For the first time, my parents were genuinely concerned for their safety when they went to Chinatown, and they warned me to be careful when walking alone. However, even in the midst of all this tragedy, I see a glimmer of hope: the racism that Asians have long endured is finally being thrust into the national spotlight, and Asians, across all generations and ethnicities, are beginning to speak out about their experiences. It is time for us to organize and fight with other minorities against the twin evils of white supremacy and systemic racism. Biography: Annabelle Jin is a high school senior from Moorestown, NJ, and a rising freshman at the University of Pennsylvania. She is a second-generation Chinese American who is a Projects Manager at Dear Asian Youth, and she is passionate about fighting for social justice issues like gender equality and menstrual equity. Instagram: @annabellejin767 Cover Photo Source: PBS

I don’t know when I stopped believing in fairy tales and started believing in you. Maybe around the time when nobody else knew me, perching underneath their gazes, and then you walked in, took one look at my soul and figured me out in ten seconds flat. Watch me. Listen to me. I’m here and I – matter. Or the time you called me beautiful. Nobody else says that and means it quite like you. Sometimes I forget I’m only beautiful to you. But I can’t help but hunker down in church pews. Despite the fifty-dollar dress and midnight eyeliner, as pretty boys walk past without a second glance. My skin, the color of the creaking, wooden bench, looks pretty on girls who don’t wear cultural shame like a weighted scarf. I’m not pretty, but tell me I am. I once lost three hours of sleep because I’m the girl on the right, fresh with heartbreak, while the girl on the left gets guys’ numbers just in case; I want to be her, and I want to be them, and I want to be more than a fifth choice. I was your first. Tell me that again. My fingers slip on rosary beads; my tongue fumbles, and I find myself praying Ave Maria Clara because if I must be tragic, at least let me be loved first instead of last. My body is a temple, and I am defiled by my own disbelief in myself. My God made boys who wanted me for everything but my body, and my mind is a treasure vault and my heart is a flower bush, but my body is a temple. You worship me. You worship me, this time, and this is why I believe in You. Maria Clara is the heroine in the Filipino classic Noli Me Tangere, and her name has since been associated with the ideal image of traditional femininity. "Maria Clara Had Imposter Syndrome" is an ode to the times I realized that my Filipino beauty is not synonymous with America's beauty ideals, especially to boys in suburban Mississippi. It's also a thank you letter to my boyfriend who, despite being a boy in suburban Mississippi, has never failed to remind me to remember that I am beautiful. Biography: Abigail E. Calimaran is a full-time high school senior and part-time pre-K gymnastics teacher who, when she is not being those things, crochets while listening to Jane Austen audiobooks, consumes nearly-lethal amounts of caffeine, and dances alone to ABBA in her room. Her work has appeared in The WEIGHT Journal and Overachiever Magazine. Instagram: @abigailindigo Cover Photo Source: The New York Times

Growing up I encountered a few moments of verbal harassment by peers due to my sexuality. Though they were only moments, they affected my perception of myself for years on end. Starting at the 6th line is when I finally let myself indulge in my identity and allow myself to love, regardless of the comments people may throw in my direction. Instagram: @xuemullane Cover Photo Source: Healthline

Everyone has a story itching to be told. In light of the recent rise of anti-Asian hate crimes, this article aims to be a collection of authentically told Asian stories. By sharing our experiences, we hope to showcase the diversity in the Asian community and enable accurate and holistic representation. Enjoy a few stories from members of the Dear Asian Youth and TV Wasteland community. American Lie Riya Watches Her Sisters Fight for Honour (The Last Barfi) 5th October 2019. Durga Puja is Riya’s favourite time of year— this year is no different. Music swells in the belly of her mother’s kitchen as she recites another prayer before the day’s end. Riya would like to pray herself, but struggles without Ma’s direction, aware of her inevitably incorrect diction. She prays anyway. Thank you for my family, thank you for these blessings. She scoops pomegranate into her mouth, pops its skin with her teeth, relaxes into the sweet, in the midst of her didis’ debate over who gets the last barfi, the final milk diamond on a silver plate. Gita unpins layers of orange cloth from her blouse as Mahua, adorned in pink, devises a fair game. Riya can be referee. (She can’t eat pistachio barfi... a stupid allergy. Apparently, God has a sense of humour.) Rock-paper-scissors would be too easy, halving it too diplomatic. A sword fight, Mahua suggests. Whoever wins their honour takes the treat. Gita, ever the eldest, sighs but stretches in preparation. The clash of the century! Where had they left the wrapping paper rolls? Riya meets her mother’s gaze, the golden warmth of her affection, as Mahua shimmies out her gown, takes a battle stance. She has the advantage: three years younger, trained by Ma in dance. Ma approaches, kisses Gita on the forehead, pinches Mahua on the cheek. Bestowing armour. “May the best woman win!” Blink of an eye, Ma sticks out her tongue, swipes the barfi, chews heartily. Her daughters are too busy sparring. She winks at Riya, giggling to herself. Riya laughs in return. The October sun rests easy. - Uma Biswas-Whittaker clay When I was younger, my mind was young and impressionable—fresh, like a mound of malleable clay waiting to be molded into something of value. Countless hands have formed my mind, their lives impacting my own in some shape or form. Dearest family, closest friends, and strangers I haven’t even met yet—endless fingers have molded me as an individual, leaving imprints without an outward mark. Yet clay is also fragile. It can crack under external pressure. It can break if it’s not handled with care. Could the same go for me? Over the years, countless people have tried to shape me to fit their standards. Usually, their hands barely leave a mark: the subtle digs at my eyes, the attribution of my accomplishments to my heritage, and the offhand remarks about my food were simply normal. However, amidst the pandemic, the hands have been especially rough and unwieldy. On the outside, I may be physically unaffected, but not everyone has been so lucky. Is it just that there has been a more than 800 percent increase in racist incidents against Asians in the last few years, making me terrified to walk down the street? Is it righteous that my success in school is attributed solely to my race? Is it fair that people poke fun at my outward appearance, mocking the features I cannot control? This year, I realized that I’ve never truly been safe, and I won’t ever be unless I advocate for myself. May is Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month. It’s a month of making my voice heard and paying homage to the lives of those who came before me. It’s a month of being loud and proud and celebrating my culture, despite all of the hands that try to deface, demean, and diminish it. It’s a month of growing into myself and finally living up to my name. While racism fosters division, pain, and hate, speaking out against it facilitates unity, healing, and love. I am not soft. Unlike clay, no amount of molding and sculpting can change who I am. Unlike clay, I will not break. - Justine Torres Senses I see my brown skin that identifies my race. I see my dark hair that I run my fingers through when I’m daydreaming. I see my upturned eyes with irises that can be as sweet as chocolate or jagged as the rocks upon which ships crash. I hear my parents listening to the soft yet upbeat melodies of Khmer music that floats from the speakers. I hear my cousins and aunts and uncles at a party, their voices raised to the point where everyone yells over each other. I hear the blend of Cambodian and English woven in conversations, spoken as quick as lightning but as gentle as rain tapping against the window. I smell the freshly cooked rice that greets me when I visit my parents. I smell garlic and lemons and soy sauce, scents that fill me with the comfort of home and family. I smell the smoke of the incense sticks after we’ve prayed to our ancestors. I taste the salmon that’s been cooked to perfection and melts in my mouth. I taste the sticky rice topped with mangos and covered in coconut sauce. I taste the salt in my tears from laughing with cousins over childhood stories, arguing whose parents were stricter. I feel the strength of our community when people see us as less than human. I feel the resilience of my ancestors coursing through my veins. I feel the pride in being Asian American. - Eric Nhem What They Saw - Chris Fong Chew Storytelling in Four Tongues My multicultural tongue can only handle so many flavors. In the beginning, it was seasoned with the spices of Vietnamese stories until American milk washed it away. Now, I can say “pho” and “cam on Ong Ba Ngoai”. My mother’s tongue smells like four kitchens. English, Spanish, Vietnamese, and French tickle her taste buds. She tells stories of adversity in perfect English, letting Hard “R”’s in “hamburger” and “fries” roll from her throat. She has passed on one phrase to me in all four languages: “My name is / me llamo / ten toi la / je m’appelle”. (“I wish you could speak Vietnamese,” she would mumble, glaring at an angry customer in front of us. Me too, Mom.) I want to taste the tales of others and Season my tongue with the cultures of the world. I want to tell stories like my mother. There are things that she tells me that cannot be translated into any verbal language. Her favorite phrase is “I love you”, which is declared when she cuts fruit for me. “I’m proud of you” is hidden in between her teeth when she smiles at me. “You are enough” is within the slight head nod she gives me. I want to learn Vietnamese again, but My throat trips over all the accents and my tongue gets stuck behind my teeth. Oh well, at least I know what my name is. - Alena Nguyen True Colors - Kristie Lee (Originally published in Inkblot Literary Magazine) Snippets of Time I’m a little over one. My Dad is taking me shopping at our local grocery store in Southern California. I’m wearing my pink striped pajamas and early 2000s pop music plays throughout the shop. When we go to check out, a nearby woman makes idle conversation with us, “Oh! She’s so cute!” She gestures at me. My Dad smiles, “Thank you!” “Where’d you get her?” The woman continues, “I’ve always wanted one.” His smile drops. ~ I’m eight and being introduced to my new 3rd grade classmates. I’ve just been transferred to a new school in a wealthier part of town. The classrooms here are brightly decorated with paper and everybody has a desk. No one has to share textbooks. When recess rolls around, I wander about the playground for a few minutes before I finally work up the courage to ask a group of girls to join their game of handball. “But you have funny eyes!” One of the girls laughs and the rest join in. Everyone at my new school was equal parts perplexed and grossed out by my appearance. I go home and burst into tears, begging my Mom to fix my squinty, hideous eyes. It takes everything within her to not cry with me. ~ I’m ten and my parents are struggling to explain the concept of race to me. “Not very long ago, your Dad and I couldn’t have gotten married. It was illegal,” My Mom gently explains to me, “We have different skin colors.” I look between her and my Dad, “Why would it be a crime?” They both sigh. ~ I’m fifteen and mindlessly tapping my way through Instagram stories when I come across some by one of the girls that had bullied me in elementary school. “ALL LIVES MATTER,” she says, in bright red text, “STOP BEING SNOWFLAKES.” ~ I’m sixteen and I’ve just been labelled a traitor to the United States alongside some other young activists in my area by some parents on a school Facebook group. They flood our social medias with hatred and threats. They bombard our parents with complaints about our behavior. I’m sixteen when I realize that racism doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s taught, like a language, dark and elusive. Hidden with euphemisms of euphemisms, often only visible when viewed through the eye of those who experience it the most. It’s woven into our society, into the way we raise our children and the way they will raise their children. Racism is a disease that benefits the powerful and hurts those most vulnerable. It corrupts goodness and it’s everywhere. It must be killed as infections are – with identification and action. - Zoe Leonard It Isn't Always Obvious - Billy Agustin Living in a Nightmare It’s five in the morning. On a Saturday. Maybe it’s because I passed out from studying for my APs deep into last night that I forgot to turn off my alarm, but now I am awake and can’t fall back asleep at five in the morning. On a Saturday. I lie in the little dent in my mattress I have created from sleeping in the same position for too long. Might as well read the news, hopefully I’ll find an article dull enough to put my body back into sleep. If only I could return to this thought. On the headlines of Apple News lies a CNN article that is titled, “FedEx facility shooting kills 8 in Indianapolis.” The gunman was clad in black Two assault rifles were found at the scene of the shooting The FedEx employees were not allowed to keep their phones on their persons. They could not call for help. I finish reading the article. Why FedEx? The gunman was a previous employee at FedEx, but why would he target Matthew R Alexander, Samaria Blackwell, Amarjeet Johal, Jaswinder Kaur, Jaswinder Singh, Amarjit Sekhon, Karlie Smith, and John Weisert ? I try to rid the assumptions I have in my mind, try to stop forming them, because I cannot afford to believe. I cannot afford to speak without my throat closing up. So I silence myself. But three days pass and now my passiveness has become deafening. I open up the news app, hoping not to see any confirmations of my quietened assumptions, but I cannot escape the truth On the headlines of Apple News lies a CBS article that is titled, “FedEx gunman visited white supremacist websites a year before carrying out his attack.” I cannot escape the truth that The gunman was a white supremacist, and that four of the employees he killed on April 16th, at 11 pm local time were people whose skin shared the same color as mine. - Prerna Kulkarni AAPI Spotify Playlist! Stories from Billy Augustin, Uma Biswas-Whittaker, Justine Torres, Eric Nhem, Chris Fong Chew, Alena Nguyen, Zoe Leonard, and Prerna Kulkarni Artwork by Kristie Lee Video editing by Ellie Weber Playlist compilation by Joan Park Social media graphics by Maiqi Qin, Sophie On, Lillian Han, Alena Nguyen, and Katie Rice Organized by Lillian Han, Alena Nguyen, and Ellie Weber Brought to you by Dear Asian Youth and TV Wasteland

Don’t have time Running out of time I can help Can’t stand you You think like a 5 year old I can’t keep doing this The stress Its building up Take a deep breath and calm down Don’t have time To calm down Got to keep moving There’s no time to stop What I’m going to do Need help? No , I can do this I got this I will finish Just need to focus Can’t hand in rushed work Tick tock You stupid clock Just say a little prayer Amen Soon this would be over Don’t worry Here’s a tissue Go away Why would I need a tissue I don’t crack under pressure like a Libra I’m a virgo Can’t I get some respect I’m not asking for love I don’t need it I would love to help you What is wrong with these stars I’m an independent woman I don’t need your pity love I need to focus Okay, I’m... About... to... be ... She fainted! That’s what she gets I offered to help I saw her scream at the clock I offered her tissue, she was sweating She’s probably a virgo If she is she would be the 5th one this week Oh how the Virgo’s have fallen. -Deborah Ugo-Omenukwa A Virgo's Fall is how being an independent perfectionist can cause someone to fall alone and hard. Biography: Deborah Ugo-Omenukwa (she/hers) is a sophomore based in NY. She is the founder + director of Just Ask A Teen an Advice page (IG: just.ask.a.teen)! She wants to be a Lawyer and Judge. She also has an interest in forensic and criminal psychology. She writes poetry and songs to let her emotions and thoughts roam somewhere outside of her head. Cover Photo Source: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/western-zodiac-golden-virgo-the-maiden-on-black-canvas-serge-averbukh.html

Dear Asian Youth, Asian people are smart but not athletic. Unfortunately, no matter how well I perform in basketball, most of my teammates and my coach believe in the aforementioned stereotype. They view me as an Asian person who can only play mediocre basketball, while my Asian peers stereotype me as a “simple” athlete. I’m sure a lot of Asian athletes can relate. When we do play, we usually aren’t the main players. My teammates and coach question my abilities; when I play well, they think it’s a fluke rather than a reflection of my skills. Similarly, when one teammate makes mistakes, he stays on the court. When I make similar mistakes, I get sent straight to the bench. First of all, why are Asian athletes stereotyped in this manner? There are many reasons and explanations but a large one is that Asian athletes don’t play a lot of sports. Because there is such a small population of Asians in the American sports world, humans tend to group them and implicitly rate them as inferior athletes and may perceive Asians as not good enough to make a team. In fact, Asians make up 5.6% of the American population, and being one of the smallest ethnic groups means that there are fewer Asian athletes who compete. Not only are there few Asian athletes, the ones that do play often don’t play a team sport. For those Asian athletes that do play, people don’t associate them with being skilled. In addition, many Asians have pressure from parents to prepare for the SAT at an early age, get good grades, and ultimately get into a prestigious college. This cultural set of norms can cause stress and many of these parents want their son/daughter to pursue a job with a high salary, rather than an athletic job, which discourages Asian youth to pursue sports. On the other hand, American culture can be described in the opposite manner: sports are fundamental to Americans and, at times, even encouraged. Some boarding schools in America make sports an obligatory component of students' lives and 75% of American families with children have at least one child who participates in organized sports. The effects of this stereotype can be negative. To put this unconscious bias into perspective, consider this example. When most people see a white or black student, they may assume that person isn’t as smart as an Asian person, only because of their skin color. This is analogous to how non-Asians see Asian athletes; when they see an Asian athlete, they assume they aren’t naturally talented physically just because of our ethnicity. This can be very saddening and have a depressing effect on our mood. Confidence can plummet and in turn, affect performance both on an individual level or team level. It’s also easy for coaches to feel the same way about Asian athletes. Because of these experiences, Asians may start to develop learned helplessness, a psychological term that describes that no matter what you do, the outcome is not what you want it to be. In essence, this racial stereotype is a roadblock that never collapses and it feels like there is a limited way to push through. You start to feel hopeless, and therefore you don’t have the power to bounce back and try again after a rejection rather than being resilient and maintaining confidence. Asians may feel pushed out of these certain sport groups because they feel they are labeled and grouped as the “bad Asian athlete.” They are discouraged from playing certain sports that are dominated by a different race which may explain why certain sports like cricket, swimming, tennis are made up of Asians while basketball and many other team spots is made up predominantly of black and white players. With this in mind, it forces Asian athletes to outperform and outshine their counterparts in order to prove a statement that they are competitive enough to be on the floor. One may argue that it is good that Asian athletes are pushed to their fullest capabilities. However, it can work to their disadvantage when the stakes are too high and they don’t make the team because of their race. Daryl Morey, the general manager of the Houston Rockets confirmed in an interview that Jeremy Lin, an Asian NBA player, went undrafted back in 2010. This was because the people in the NBA didn’t believe Lin’s stats matched his race. Specifically, he was explosive and was able to change direction far more quickly than most NBA players. This example is harsh but the true reality. On the brighter side, Jeremey proved that he could be athletically capable, but race was one factor that stood in his way. I acknowledge that there may be other factors that stand in an athlete’s way of getting drafted or signed on a team but I’m sure race played a large one. Not only is there bias at an individual level but some alleged that it is also happening at an institutional level. Recently, Dartmouth University sports has cut lightweight rowing, swimming, and diving. Many Asians said that these were examples of “anti-Asian prejudices'' because this decision led to the removal of 30+ Asian student-athletes from the college’s roster. Even with this recent event, it shows that people are starting to speak up about it and the Asian community of athletes is objecting to this. People tend to become what others expect them to be. But by challenging the stereotypes that each community has, Asian athletes empower the community and act as a bridge. One notable example would be Jeremy Lin. These stereotypes diminish Asian athletes’ skills in most people’s eyes, and also make them underestimate our passion. People might think: "He's Asian so he's not built for our sport." It’s easy for people to be shaped by popular opinions. However, the frustration of being judged based on ethnicity rather than on performance makes Asian athletes, like Jeremy Lin, strive to counter the belief that being Asian and good at sports are mutually exclusive. Rather than second-guessing themselves in light of such opinions, these athletic Asians are motivated to stay true to themselves. They want people to know that they are confident and capable. I hope other Asians out there adopt the same mindset. Top Asian athletes have been showing their potential and speaking up through their great performances. Again, Jeremy Lin showed the whole world of sports that he could perform in the highest basketball league in the world, in spite of being Asian. Moreover, Yao Ming, a former Houston Rockets NBA player, and now Hall-of-Famer, defied the stereotypes and showed that he could perform optimally. In essence, Jeremy, Yao, and I (as well as many Asian athletes out there) show that we don’t have to be pigeon-holed into societal beliefs. In fact, there has been some hope, and society in general has been getting better. With more Asian athletes defying the odds and rising above expectations, it shows that Asians can belong in American sports. Currently, in the NFL, there are two Asian players, Younghoe Koo and Taylor Rapp. In the NBA, two new Asian rookies include Rui Hachimura and Yuta Watanabe. More Asian representation in sports allows the stereotypes and biases to be broken and encourages Asians to pursue sports without feeling disrespected and discouraged. Even with this progress, there is still much to be done. There are ways to combat this so that Asian athletes can be treated as equals to other races. Arguably, the best way to go about this long-going situation is to be yourself and to be confident in whatever sport you enjoy playing. Block out the stereotype of being the certain Asian stereotype that only plays x sport because it’s “normal”. Prove to yourself that you can handle any sport or competition and that will make a big statement to Asian athletes. Once many Asian athletes understand this and participate and succeed more in sports, the race bias will hopefully start to level out. A quote that can guide you can be explained by Samuel Adams as he once said: “It does not take a majority to prevail... but rather an irate, tireless minority, keen on setting brushfires of freedom in the minds of men.” I understand how important the mental game is in sports. Race and ethnicity is just one component though. There are many psychological factors involved in playing well in sports. As someone who personally understands the importance of having confidence and training the mind to perform at its best, my organization aims to promote psychology and mental health in the context of sports for teens and kids. I started Mind-Design Sports (https://www.mind-designsports.org/) to help athletes perform optimally through the use of blogs, podcasts with guest speakers, and social media infographics addressing many topics in sports and psychology.For those fellow athletes, Asian or not, I encourage you to check out Mind-Design Sports. Sport psychology delves into topics such as breathing techniques, focus, and visualization as well as how race can play a large role in athletes’ mental functioning. In summary, even though race and your visual appearance are exterior factors that should not affect performance, it definitely can affect an athlete's psyche and internal state. We plan to write about and address further issues on how to deal with race as a minority, for instance, so stay tuned and sign up for our mailing list for monthly updates on new content :) - Brandon Shintani This article discussed the mental component and effects of being an Asian athlete. Race plays a large role in how athletes process and perceive themselves in the sports world and it's important to acknowledge that. Read Brandon's article if you are interested and see if you can relate! Biography: Brandon Shintani is a student at Ridgewood High School. He loves psychology and sports and in fact, runs his own sport psychology organization, Mind-Design Sports. Mind-Design Sports provides content on how to improve sports performance through mental techniques through blogs, podcasts, and social media posts. Check it the website at https://www.mind-designsports.org/ Cover Photo Source: https://www.mercurynews.com/2021/02/02/jeremy-lin-looks-to-show-that-he-still-has-nba-game-with-g-league-return/

Dear Asian Youth, This is an unaddressed apology For my mom, with everything I can give. I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry my tongue hitches when you tell me you love me. That I cannot choke up the guts to reciprocate the words. I’m sorry your immutable appearances Showcase your distinct features. I’m sorry we will always be treated like second-class citizens, That for one second I regretted the way I look I know conceiving was almost unfeasible I’m sorry we need to walk around nervous, That stealing quick glances behind our shoulders Isn’t for unrequited love but to ensure no one’s trailing behind For my sister, with every bit of humor I can muster. I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for denying your calls Faltering between the answer and decline button every time You call I’m sorry for the New York City apartments The ones that reap our wealth Smothering the bits and pieces Paps earns Tucking it all away and in turn giving you a cardboard box-sized Living space I’m sorry the subway is now off limits That you need to think not once, Not twice But innumerable times Before you step anywhere near the train tracks For myself, with every little fleeting moment I spend alone, I’m most sorry to you. That you spend most nights Concocting what can only be called Worst case scenarios That rejection brings you to your knees And tears stream ceaselessly down your cheeks I’m sorry you have wondered for a miniscule second Whether if you were anything but Asian It would be a cause for celebration Don’t dye your onyx hair Until your roots whittle away Into defunct strands Don’t widen your pupils When your eyes jolt to mimic Your smile Don’t deny your identity The one your mother cried out to the Lord for To give her a child When she was almost deemed barren The one your sister proudly pronounces Grinning from ear to ear Only to let her eyes pursue the same expression The one you cannot change Yet wouldn’t Even if given the chance With nothing but hopes of forgiveness and love, Keeren This poetry piece is a way of conveying my emotions to my sister and mother, although they most likely won't get the chance to receive it. Enclosed are paragraphs of apologies for things I've thought about over the past few months - that I regret - and also things that I'm sorry about, even if they're out of my control. Biography: Keeren Maria Setokusumo is a rising senior and current junior attending Jakarta Intercultural School, Indonesia. Her passion for equalizing women's rights and debunking racial stereotypes can almost be comparable to her love for reading. Cover Photo Source: https://society6.com/product/an-apology-u0a_print

依然 (still.) —a love letter from your heritage bai he. do you still believe in mingyun? dynasties rise, dynasties fall legends die and their tales are told. thin red thread for what you know, what you own. for a dead knot around your wrist, to ward off evil in your twelfth year. you retrace my steps. red and gold, set anew, cannon rust and changcheng dust i am your legacy. do not mourn me i am not the dead star of the east, i am your emperor of sunrise my essence is in the trail you blaze and the liuxing rain that rips the night open as you watch. do not cry for me i am not your tears, i am your blood the red kite in the rye ocean that was once your home. do not wait for me i will not return, i have never left your side. look for me in the shine of your dragon scale eyes and the dew that caress your cheeks. do not miss me i am not a dead leaf echo, i am brighter than the five thousand eight hundred and forty aluminum dawns you were there to see and more. do not forget me i am not your past, i am your present, i am your future and i will stay forever. our souls have never belonged anywhere but with each other. love me you loved me once and i love you still. —— ming yun - the chinese belief in destiny. changcheng - the great wall of china. red thread - refers to the tradition that one must wear a red ornament during the year of their chinese zodiac, which rotates every twelve years. liuxing - comet rain. - Lily Shen Cover Photo Source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/300404237617152760/

While waiting for my summer photo to be taken on the school field and fiddling with the rainbow sequin headband crowned on my head, I’d faintly sing ‘Part Of Your World’ from “The Little Mermaid” to alleviate the boredom. Even though camera-shyness swirled in my stomach, I hoped that I could be one with the mermaid spirit and feel beautiful — embellished with sparkles and voluminous, swishy hair. That spirit has not aged well. Like a thin blanket of freshly shed snakeskin, my wet t-shirt clung with uncomfortable proximity to my steaming skin. Crinkles and creases of the shirt coldly folded into the crevices of my body. Patches of water form dark and foggy stains on the cheaply like neglected bread mould. I look down at the watery carnage I created with puddles rippling everywhere below me; the idea of walking onto the dusty carpet with wet feet to grab the freshly washed towel causes an inexplicable amount of dread. My mermaid spirit was tangled, pruny, and washed out. All this mess… just to rinse out coconut oil. To end an already horrid week, I had the dazzling idea of oiling my hair before a video meeting. With three housemates and one bathroom, the attempt to connect with my Indian heritage through self-care spiralled into a self-crisis. This is a tale of roots and regret. For those unfamiliar, oiling is the process of massaging an oil (often sunflower, argan, or coconut) into the scalp as a preconditioner. According to a study published in 2003, Aarti S. Rele and R. B. Mohile concluded that in comparison to mineral oils and vegetable oils (such as sunflower oil), coconut oil was ‘superior’ for protecting and minimising hair damage during grooming rituals when used as a preconditioner for undamaged hair, UV-treated or chemically treated hair (:191). Rele and Mochile argued that, “[t]he ability of coconut oil to penetrate into hair cuticle and cortex seems to be responsible for this effect. Coated on the fiber surface, it can prevent or reduce the amount of water penetrating into the fiber and reduce the swelling. This, in turn, reduces the lifting of the surface cuticle and prevents it from being chipped away during wet combing” (2003: 191). Not only is oiling a significant part of family upbringing and lifestyles associated with Asian cultures, it has a level of scientific benefit to hair when integrated effectively into contemporary routine. However, this did not grow organically from my family upbringing; I was a rather late bloomer to coating my keratin with copious amounts of coconut oil. Born and raised in South West England by a Devonshire woman with blushing strawberry hair and an Indian man whose hair care routine never went beyond beard shearing like a prize sheep, any resources I had to learn about managing long and unruly Indian hair were limited. As I sat in front of the TV, completing my school work, I witnessed numerous advertisements promising viewers that the magic of sleek and shiny hair could be bought. Imagine a lustrous flourish of silky and deep chocolate follicles. Imagine witnessing your reflection in the glossy sheen that bounced from root to tip. Imagine a sun-kissed woman emerging from the ocean, flinging her hair back into an archway of dazzling water droplets, welcomed by crawling vines of hypnotic hibiscus. Spritely dolphins springing about in a synchronised dance. The bountiful embrace of sparkling soap bubbles. Ribbons upon ribbons of glistening tendrils caressing the woman’s aura with a beaming, angelic glow — this is the enchanting magic of oiling. Or, you watched Nicole Scherzinger getting sudsy and enthused for Herbal Essences hair products like I did, being told about the bottled joy of sodium lauryl sulfate for £6 as if it was a folktale handed down by oral tradition. As a young TV-head with square eyes and more hair on the floor than tile or carpet, I was sold on this mermaid fantasy. The closest I could ever get to feeling like a discount Scherzinger was oiling. Alas! One unfortunate Sunday was not a Scherzinger day. Lying perfectly horizontal on my bed with the latest Webtoon update, I bathed in the hazy warmth of the weekend. Swishing my head back and forth against the crater I molded into the pillow, slithers of balmy daylight peeked behind my curtain. Due to the begrudging realisation that I have ‘responsibilities,’ I decided to try and be productive before attending a digital meeting to watch a movie at seven in the evening with people from an Instagram group chat; this included taking the time to indulge by oiling my hair. I haphazardly fought the gold lid on my massive jar of coconut oil to unscrew open. Carving a mushy chunk of oil out of the jar, solid bits tucked into the nooks between my fingertips and nails. I sculpted my newly painted talons around my skull and massaged with the pads of my fingers. Oil gently slid down my hands like silk on sunken stone artefacts, the domestic smell wafted and mingled with the condensation floating in the bathroom. If I drenched my head with any more coconut oil, I’d have drifted between the line of a radiant Herbal Essences mermaid...and a gangly rice noodle swimming about in a sesame-slathered wok. I twisted my hair into a bun and clambered down the stairs to get some work completed. I looked like a hairless cat wearing a heavily gelled toupee. Three hours later, I set myself the goal to continue working for fifteen minutes, which meant I would go to the main bathroom at quarter-past six to rinse out the oil in my hair. That way, I’d have enough time to be refreshed and decent-looking for the movie meeting. Bzzzzbzzzzz. My phone vibrates with the screen lighting up — doom strikes. SUN AT 18:17 Housemate Just a heads up I’m gonna have a bath so if anyone needs any essentials out of the bathroom then now is your chance XD Like a film director dramatically zooming my reaction into the camera frame, my bedroom walls rapidly warped around me and I felt instantly idiotic for not using the main bathroom to rinse the oil out sooner. I patiently waited for my housemate to finish having a bath so I could have the quickest rinse-out possible to avoid running late. Bzzzzbzzzzz. SUN AT 18:38 Housemate I should be out by 8 o clockle According to this message and its purposeful typo, I would eventually have the main bathroom free at ‘8 o clockle’, an hour after my plans would have started. Being somewhat inconvenienced slowly ignited into being somewhat irate — mainly at myself for the timing. Like a teasing fire licking my stomach, chest and throat, a burning itch to rinse the oil out of my head bubbled within me. Seven minutes passed and the longer I waited for my housemate to leave the main bathroom, the longer I let the flames taunt me with pain progressively searing my skin towards my scalp. From every muscle and every follicle, this greased up mermaid was sizzling with impatience. Storming from my bedroom to the kitchen and back like a one-woman whirlpool, I grab a plastic bowl, lemon shower gel, all-purpose liquid soap, and lock myself in a room occupied by a toilet, sink, and the washing machine. After sending a silent prayer to Her Majesty Beyonce Knowles, I took my shirt off to avoid it getting wet whilst I did...whatever I thought was the only option in my haste. One of the luxuries of our bathroom was a clean counter space with a color palette of mottled grey stones. What I had to work with was an elbow-deep sink, tarnished with speckles of limescale stains and embedded on a wooden counter that was the perfect desk height to take calls for taking appointments at a private dentist. One of the luxuries of our shower was a head that could acutely control the temperature and speed to coat your head with a comforting distribution of cleansing water. What I had to work with was a tap that would flip flop-between boiling jet-powered geysers and weak dribbles of Elsa’s icy tears. I twisted and manoeuvred the two temperatures and speeds as if I was trying to parallel park inside an aquarium. I dove my head forward into the sink and felt the battling concoction of opposing water settings spatter against the back of my head. To replace the shampoo that was held hostage in the main bathroom, I squeezed a liberal dollop of lemon shower gel in my palm and lathered the soap into a meekly soft foam throughout my hair strands and fingers. Citrus delicately tried to veil the steamy musk inside the room, only succeeding when the soap would be dangerously close to my eyes. To ensure I wasn’t crawling shirtless to my housemates to solve my soapy blindness, I flung my head upwards and back, swinging a twisted rope of hair to whip water against the walls and ceiling. The dread was settling in like seabed sediment as I continued to give myself numerous swirlies in second-long increments depending on the wishy-washy tap settings. The self-induced swirlies continued to weave a variety of Royal Navy knots into my hair; water trickled through my strands, and the oil steadily slithered down my palms and wrists into the sink. Not even a dinglehopper could help me. This was an untoward, unruly, and bumbling mess — nothing like the mermaid fantasy Scherzinger was paid to endorse. I certainly did not feel sexy or sun-kissed; unless you count my intimate moments dunked in the sink as a very wet and sloppy makeout session, accompanied by a dimly flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling to replace the golden hour gleam. There were no crawling vines of hypnotic hibiscus. No spritely dolphins springing about in a synchronised dance. No beaming angelic glow. Simply, there was a dazed 24-year-old woman standing in the middle of a cramped toilet washroom — mostly bewildered, shirtless, wet, and soapy. Ironically, this would be the male gaze’s wet dream in any other context. However, given neck gymnastics and skull-coordinated water sports to rinse coconut oil out of my hair, my washed-up affair was the antithesis of Scherzinger seduction. Prior to entering the washroom and the escapades that occurred, I messaged one of my best friends about the inconvenient incident I got myself into. After those seven minutes of humidified hell, I check my notifications. 💜Best Friend💜 SUN AT 19:08 How did it go SUN AT 19:13 I want to unalive Much water Very struggle SUN AT 19:53 Im sorry for your pain SUN AT 19:54 Setting myself on fire would be equivalent to how I felt After my best friend sympathetically responds to my drippy disaster with a cry-laughing emoji, I continue to dry myself and whirl up what little decorum I had left to resume the evening. I tried to sneak my limbs into my shirt to keep it warm and dry, but portions of the cotton soak into damp patches left on my skin; the fabric clumps together uncomfortably on my torso. Any body heat and warmth in my spirit was sodden. Clammy. Defeated. Tired. My childhood memories singing ‘Part Of Your World’ were reflective of my rosy aspirations to be seamlessly part of two conflicting cultures that contributed to my existence. Unfortunately, growing up into my twenties — a turbulent part of anyone’s cycle — has grayed parts of my optimism where even the silliest of events can be stirred into a disgruntled and draining cyclone of scorn. What was an indulgent afternoon had trickled downwards into a state where I was comparable to beached seaweed. Although my tale of watery disaster is an isolated circumstance that exhibited none of the effervescent glamour in a Herbal Essences advertisement, the feeling of helplessness that sunk in the bottom of my chest — of being an incompetent ‘grown up’ — is not unfamiliar. Increasingly, ideas of ‘traditional’ nuclear families or ‘linear’ trajectories in Asian living, career, and relationships, are becoming more malleable in a modernising landscape. It has become a norm for young adults to navigate social mobility, lifestyle, and identities independently with various media to inform and forage through (Mitra, D. 2019). According to Mayur Gupta, “[m]any of us looked at our parents, TV shows and movies to get ideas about where we should be in our 20s [...] [but] the traditional markers of adulthood are being pushed back. As a result many of us struggle to reconcile where we were planning to be at this age to where we actually are…” (2020). I struggle to reconcile with the fact that I don’t have many routines or activities in my life that directly link to my Asian heritage; I’ve had to lean on media models and mermaid fantasies that many TV ad-breaks sold to me, to figure out things a ‘typical’ Indian woman may do. Even then, I feel inadequate that all I have to show for my Asian-ness is a large jar of coconut oil. I am coasting between two identities and my ability to be either one is as lukewarm and pathetic a feeling as washing my hair with lemon shower gel in a toilet sink topless. The most straightforward answer to avoid another torrent swirlie is better planning and time management. Simple. But such solutions can’t be as simple to solve the torment streaming through my bi-racial blood, when I’m confronted with feeling too ‘washed up’ to live to a standard of Indian ‘womanliness.’ It almost seemed like every beautifully bronzed woman had fewer split ends than I had split paths. With the one key facet of my Asian appearance that boosted any mermaid spirit I believed in, that should have been fool-proof to accomplish... I was floundering. I am still floundering. But I wash up, my head, and breathe. Bubbling brightly with rainbow sparkles, the spirit of that small school girl still ebbs within me; that fiddles with her long hair and its accessories, that doesn’t know what oiling is yet, that still sings ‘Part Of Our World’ only for herself.. that I will always reach out to when I’m struggling to break the surface. Because I can’t let her drown. Bibliography: 2003. Effect of mineral oil, sunflower oil, and coconut oil on prevention of hair damage. [PDF] International Journal of Cosmetic Science, pp.175-192. Available at: http://beauty-review.nl/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/Effect-of-mineral-oil-sunflower-oil-and-coconut-oil-on-prevention-of-hair-damage.pdf [Accessed 28 March 2021]. Gupta, A., 2016. Traditional Hair Oils Are Making A Comeback | Verve Magazine. [online] Verve Magazine | India's premier luxury lifestyle women's magazine. Available at: https://www.vervemagazine.in/fashion-and-beauty/traditional-hair-oils-making-a-comeback [Accessed 29 March 2021]. Gupta, M., 2020. 3 Ways to Deal with a Quarter Life Crisis. [online] Linkedin.com. Available at: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/3-ways-deal-quarter-life-crisis-mayur-gupta/?trk=related_artice_3%20Ways%20to%20Deal%20with%20a%20Quarter%20Life%20Crisis%20_article-card_title [Accessed 9 April 2021]. Mitra, D., 2019. Millennials, in a society of contradictions. [online] BusinessLine. Available at: https://www.thehindubusinessline.com/opinion/millennials-in-a-society-of-contradictions/article26645712.ece [Accessed 9 April 2021]. Cover Photo Source: https://vintageindianclothing.com/2015/06/09/all-about-hair/

"Weird." "Different." "Ugly." These were the words spoken to me at my picture day in 3rd grade. Little 6 year old me wore a qipao because my mom told me it would look beautiful. I believed her. My classmates didn't think the same. I remember feeling alienated in that clammy auditorium, shunning my own identity. I hated my mom for lying to me and I hated myself for believing her. It was that day I started hating myself. Looking back now I wish I never thought like that. I wish I had never let the roots of self-hatred grow so early and worm their way so deep into my heart. I wish I didn’t spend years of my life desperately trying to claw my way out. I wish I didn't hate my mom. I wish I didn't hate myself. Although I've become confident in my identity now, sometimes I put on a qipao and look in the mirror and wish I could relive that moment in 3rd grade in that clammy auditorium. Biography: Liz Zheng is an award winning artist and student at Upper Dublin High School. She spends her free time painting, visiting exhibits, and exploring different corners of the city with a camera in hand. Recently, her work focuses on capturing unconventional ideas and sometimes taboo visuals, specifically to tell stories from her and other unrepresented voices in her community. Ultimately, she believes in the power art to help reclaim forgotten narratives and increase awareness about marginalized individuals. Instagram: @ripliz.png

Dear Asian Youth, I've always had a rocky relationship with my hair. Sure, I love the way it is now, but have I always been this way? Definitely not. A few hours ago, I was tying my hair up in a braided crown, my fifth hairstyle of the week, and I asked myself why I could never stick to one style, why I have to change it several times a day. While I do love art and I consider hair styling as a form of art, maybe the reason I style my hair constantly is to make up for the number of hairstyles I could have done but never got the opportunity to do so. You see, I have really curly hair. Not 4c hair, but curly to the point of a four and a half hour washday once or twice a week. I always thought my hair was “frizzy,” not “curly,” but this was because I was not taking care of my hair properly. And how would I know how to take care of my hair? No one in my family ever taught me how to. I get my curly hair genes from my dad's side of the family where most of the males have curly hair even though my paternal grandmother has straight hair. All my non-bald paternal male relatives have pretty short hair so curl cream has never touched their hair, for they did not find the need to use it. So here I was, a 13-year-old, growing up with no hair guru in my life. What did I do with my hair then? I was tempted to chop it all off. So I did. Eighth grade was not the first time my hair was introduced to the pixie cut, and it wouldn’t be the last time. Throughout the years, my hair has always been cut short, so it would be easier to maintain. My frizz-filled and untamed hair was always prone to shrinkage. I love pixie cuts, don't get me wrong, but was I happy with my hair after it had been snipped off? Definitely not. I felt as if I was chopping away a part of me not because I didn’t care, but because I lacked the knowledge of how to care more. My family immigrated from India, where a wide variety of curly hair products were unavailable; the only things in stock regarding hair care are oils, and that’s pretty much it. The “ideal” hair in my culture is long, straight and dark. My hair lacked two of these three qualities. I was offered no suitable hair treatments as a “cultural tradition”; the only “treatment” I ever received was having my mother douse my hair in Amla Oil every Saturday to wash out on Sunday. The curls that started to form after washing my hair would be quickly frizzed out by a hairdryer (no diffuser attached) on high power and heat mode because the highest settings meant the quickest way to dry, “unproblematic” hair. My mother would brush out my hair with the biggest hair brushes on the market, and I would live with the frizz every day as my classmates wore their hair in fishtail braids, long and loose waves, and space buns. When I first asked my mother to put it in French braids, she was unable to do so, but as my hair grew, we were able to find ways to braid my hair, painful as the process was. When I entered eighth grade, I learned how to use a hair straightener, and you could imagine my surprise when I saw that my hair was chest length. I entered a cycle where I would straighten my hair every day, maybe even twice a day, and was I happy? Yes, I was. Only until my hair started falling out. I was too afraid to lose the progress I had been building up since my last haircut in 6th grade, so I stopped straightening my hair. My hair reverted itself back to its usual frizz, but I was used to it. I despised it, but what could I do? A few months later, I made the decision that the best way to make my hair healthy again was to cut it short and let it grow out with time. Turns out that was one of the best and hardest decisions I have ever made concerning my hair. On the one hand, I was told short hair suited me and that I should keep my hair in a pixie cut. On the other hand, many people made fun of me. I was referred to with he/him pronouns, I was too often glanced at in the women’s bathroom, and my sexuality was questioned several more times with my hair shorter than before. Oh, freshman year of high school, what a memorable time. Peers would call me “lesbian” as an insult and laugh about it too. And I was called “Amanduh” so many times that I forced myself to laugh whenever a boy with a big ego called me that. I hated myself for laughing, and I found myself constantly thinking, “Just wait till your hair grows out, and you will be alright.” When my hair did grow out, I was still insecure with myself. I saw other women in my life rocking short hairstyles, while I moped about my own. That was when I realized that women don’t cut their hair short to please other people: they do it for themselves, and as a personal statement. Reflecting upon this now with my shoulder-length hairstyle, I regret laughing at the derogatory jokes that people made about my hair, about my sexuality, and my identity. I wish I stood up for myself and prevented those comments from putting me down because now that I look back on it, I did look really, really good with short hair. Now that my hair is longer, I don’t have any intentions of cutting it again, but if I ever did cut it to a short length in the future, I know I wouldn’t mind. Furthermore, on the curliness of my hair subsequent to my cut, I decided that instead of pitying myself for not having any knowledge or help on how to take care of my hair, I’d find a way to care for it myself. I did my research, tested products both good and bad, and over the course of the past year, constructed a hair routine that I find perfectly suits my hair. As I write this, my hair is tied up in a half-up, half-down style, and I have never been happier with how it looks. If you have read any of my previous works, you probably know that one of the constant themes I apply is “acceptance”. But it’s not the type of acceptance where you feel loved amongst others, rather an acceptance of yourself, by yourself. Identity has always been important to me, and over the past few years, I have learned to accept the attributes of myself that some might think are trivial but mean all the world to me, like my name, my stature, my skin color, and my hair. - Prerna Kulkarni Cover Photo Source: https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-print/Indian-girl-with-flower-in-hair-by-sketchesnsongs/41648334.1G4ZT