it’s just, the monsoon doesn’t come on time anymore. the precipitation should be steady, bringing relief to the country full of rice farmers, except now it’s not sure what it owes its dependents. i suppose we haven’t really been kind to it lately. so instead, the climate has reverted to its intincts: reckless and afraid, its face a perpetual grey, the palette ranging only from a luminescent ash-white to opaque shadow. the violent self-preservation of adolescence. every morning, the sky clouds over, and darkens. rain follows on its heels. it comes in handfuls and buckets, in drizzles and thunderstorms. and when the floods come? they don’t hold back. look, in this monsoon the climate is self-destructive. it slams doors, then crawls timidly back; refuses to speak, then screams through its tears. it is confused, lashing out. it is angry, and we are near. in the radius of destruction. we can feel it in the flash floods and droughts, in our waterlogged soils, in the sudden, violent rainfall that ravages crops. it erodes riverbanks, washing away homes, lives and livelihoods. in this monsoon, the climate is scared in the way of something that’s changing too quickly. where our hands tear its hair out and it spins out of control. it is breaking down. and we are tearing it apart. Description: My work is prose that personifies the monsoon season. It's inspired by the unpredictable rainfall, the climbing numbers of floods, the way the weather feels almost vengeful these days. A slice of a larger writing project on how climate change has intensified each season, this piece is my attempt to outline climate change's impacts in a way that is specific to Bangladesh. I think a problem faced in motivating people towards sustainability is that it's so easy to view environmental problems as removed from us, and that makes them easy to ignore. I tried to create an imagery-heavy, emotional appeal to bridge that distance between us and the world around us. Editors: Cathay L., Erika Y. Photo Credits: Unsplash

Like many of the kids I grew up around, my parents had always geared me toward a math-based education; and like them, I’d always ask myself, “What’s the point of this?” I guess it’s a way to push us toward a lucrative career: such as finance, medicine, or engineering, but sometimes, there’s simply no need for us to implement the quadratic equation in real life. Nonetheless, I was good at math. I liked the patterns of math, which made it easy to navigate. My parents pushed me to be good at math after noticing I started finding interest in conspiracy theories, or anything unrelated to math. And like many other parents, mine wanted me to grow into a math career. More importantly, they wanted me to understand the finer details of the world, and math best reflected that. My mom taught me the concept of negative integers and fractions on the way to school when I was only six, and my dad only expected me to do math homework and nothing else. Then, they enrolled me in Kumon, and while the institution does have a bad reputation for their emotional turmoil on children, it helped me get ahead for a while. My math teachers knew that I wasn’t supposed to be in their class, based on how I’d finish the problem for the class because my teachers couldn’t do mental math at my speed. I learned polynomial equations at the age of 11, and by the time I was a freshman, Kumon had me learning the basics of calculus. I quit the program in my sophomore year because I hated the trigonometry-focused Level M. My high school was a magnet college preparatory school, meaning that everyone was presumed to be academically well-rounded and hardworking people. With a vast set of extracurriculars and after-school programs, everyone was bound to be a part of at least two significant activities. Because of the amount of math I did as a child, I wanted to follow the STEM route. I went through the engineering program for two years and tried to put myself in coding programs outside of school. But I physically could not sit there for hours and get a website assignment or a house calculation completed. I noticed other kids at my school in the same programs, including the CREATE mentoring program, Mathletes, or MESA, and I would admire them, mostly for the way they could apply the math they learned, in addition to their creative and innovative talent that I didn’t have. My peers knew what they wanted to do in their life, and had high hopes for a lucrative career. That was the difference between those kids and me — while all of us were good at math, they were able to make something pioneering, whereas I could only follow instructions on how to integrate. I know I’m not the only one who feels like this, as AP Calculus AB tested everyone’s math performance. Kumon set me up for the class quite nicely — I breezed through the course, getting a 4 on the exam. For a lot of my peers who took the class, however, it was a nightmare. By the time the exam came around, no one expected a free-response question this difficult, nor did anyone expect to apply the calculus we learned to such a complex scenario. I earned my 4 on the exam, but it wasn’t a 5. That was the moment I decided I would rather take AP Statistics next year for a change. From my friends who took Calculus BC, it was rather brutal, even for those who did pretty well in AB. I was frightened of it, too. I peeped into the Calculus BC classroom, and it was the MESA, Mathletes, and engineering program kids, along with those who were forced to take the class. This was when the divide between those who were good at math and those who had creative talent with math was evident. At first, I felt ashamed, mainly for the way that certain BC students were pretentious enough to paint AP Stats as the “coward’s way out” of real math. After many failed tests and calluses on my fingers from AP Stats, I soon realized that it was not the “coward’s way out.” The main difference was that statistics is analytical, which was much different from the logical calculus I was acclimated to. It wasn’t fair for anyone to claim it as the “easier” math when it truly is its own subject. Weeks flew by of being ashamed of how I felt I couldn’t prove myself, and sulking about how I should’ve taken BC; I eventually grew into appreciating statistics — that analyzing data, conducting research, and communicating problems was something of its own. I stopped desiring to be the one who yearned to fulfill the “Woman in STEM” role, rather, taking the classes that I found interest in, which were more applicable to me. The pathway I had been set up for took a turn once I decided to take AP Statistics, and I don’t regret making this decision one bit. Instead of forcing myself to push for a lucrative career, and feeling ashamed for not fitting in with the “future engineers” of our school, regardless of whether or not I took Calculus BC, I took a turn. I found myself learning another subject and applying analytic principles of statistics, which could still put me in a successful job, other than engineering. Editors: Chris F. Leandra S., Joyce S. Photo Credits: Dan Cristian - Unsplash

I. anti-wrinkle eye gels i think my grandmother is afraid of death; running from the reality that is chasing her, she spends her days behind a mask, sculpted to hide her age. so she sits and she stares at the cracked window of her soul, slathering her canvas that has been etched with her stories, with creams and suffocations to erase the pain, regret, and sorrow from her time. II. youth-activating serum for the ground has broken beneath her, chasing her to the end of her story. as she breathes in the sweet scent of her youth, she looks to her past with regret. surrounded by a collection of torn photographs and letters, the rosy hue slips through her fingers. III. root cover-up hair dye “cover up the grey hairs, cover up the scars, cover up the wrinkles, for they have multiplied like the stars.” but where she sees her end, i see her journey: the webs of life she so desperately yearns to pluck away, the collection of cuts and bruises from her years of labor, the etchings of stories in her skin i’d trace as a child. IV. anti-aging cream i wish i could give her an antidote against the hands of Time, free her from her prison. i see her as she approaches Death’s door, joining the women before her in their plight to slip from Death’s fingers. i long to tie their red strings onto mine and lengthen their stories. though perhaps, the gift of life is its fleetingness; perhaps it is our mortality that is most beautiful— beyond our sculpted faces and painted hair, could it be, what we resent most is the very epitome of our lives? V. epilogue but then, her mask cracks, and i see the grandmother i knew crumble. and i realize, she is a prisoner in her own body; her grey roots have become her cage, her scars, the records of her crimes, and her wrinkles, forever the missing key. i know my grandmother is afraid of death, but who isn’t? we may very well forever be the victims to Death in this perpetual circle of life. and her legacy, and their legacy, is infinite, set to be rewritten once more. Editors: Cathay L., Claudia S., Joyce P., Erika Y., Danielle C.

Sunday dawns in a haze and you stare at the red blotch on my nose, the blood dripping down your hand Can you hear me? My screams to get your attention to let go of this childish imagination of home Home is wrinkles on her hand the beads polished and cold, teasing my fingertips like embers gasping to burn Home is mirrored in his glasses that leave a mark on the bridge of his nose, the elegant crook that I kiss before I go Towards the stars that will never align Where am I going? Why am I floating Like a headless fly, the blood dripping down your hand the last touch of your fingertips that Sunday Send me into dreams where the sun covered the clouds I fly into the tempest pressing down wondering, if I’d drown Editor: Chris F., Joyce S., Leandra S., Charlotte C. Photo Credits: Joana Abreu

Indonesia’s West Java Province was struck by a 5.6 magnitude earthquake during the afternoon of Nov. 21, 2022, with at least 268 fatalities, 151 missing, and hundreds more injured. 37% of those who were killed were children, as reported by ReliefWeb. According to Plan Indonesia, children–along with women and elderly populations–were more likely to be impacted by disasters like this earthquake as they spend more time in indoor settings. Due to the nature of such earthquakes, tens of thousands of houses were damaged in addition to 142 school buildings as reported by The Guardian. The destruction of schools was concerning since as many as 60 million students attend schools in earthquake-prone zones in Indonesia, according to the Guardian. Due to this, many want to rebuild education facilities in order to better protect students in case of future natural disasters. “So if we know the characteristics of the earthquake, we can respond to that by building robust and flexible structures that can absorb the ground vibration,” civil engineering professor Manlian Ronald Simanjuntak told the Guardian. The earthquake left dozens of aftershocks, causing poorly constructed homes to collapse as residents ran for their lives on Indonesia’s main island of Java. Shallow earthquakes, similar to the one in Indonesia, cause greater amounts of damage at the surface of the Earth in comparison to intermediate earthquakes. BNPB Major General Suharyanto announced reports of more than 22,000 homes being destroyed and over 58,000 people being displaced in the aftermath of the earthquake. Indonesia sits on the “ring of fire,” an area of tectonic activity around the Pacific where earthquakes have been commonly created in the past years due to several tectonic plates colliding. The recent earthquake’s widespread impact was due to it being in the most densely populated province of West Java, having the epicenter within proximity of fault lines, resulting in greater impact and leaving the people vulnerable to the inadequate infrastructural damage. As of Nov. 23, Indonesia’s government has not sought international assistance, but other non-profit and non-government organizations have begun providing assistance to those affected by the earthquake. Such organizations are distributing food and water, shelter for those displaced, medical supplies, and sanitation supplies. For those interested in directly supporting reconstruction efforts, cash donations are recommended, as reported by Disaster Philanthropy. Editors: Phoebe Chu He, Luna Y. Photo Credit: BNPB Indonesia via Twitter

AP Chinese Language and Culture: Free Response Spoken You will have a conversation with your mother, sitting in between hot-white slats of ladled sunlight, about coming-of-age. Interpersonal Speaking, Prompt 1: [... You’re leaving for college soon. Will you stay in California? How do you like California? How do you like the life, half-throbbing & half-over that I dug out of my girl-woman-abdomen to give you? … ] I like, the heat like another layer, like to my skin: like not in the like, air around me but like an intimate organ stuck, sizzling and like, half-molted. chain-link fences like, spearing open the ripe like, underbelly of a sky that apologizes like, my mother– I said like, Sacramento summer like a form of love-bombing, like, shimmering asphalt & scorching affections. like, mosquito bites mottled plum-purple like bruises. like, tiger’s balm searing red-hot like week-old blisters. like, our hands swelling with like, brine-sour sweat or late August tears. like, how painful is it anyways, in the lens-flare, like, blaze of your love? Interpersonal Speaking, Prompt 2: [... When did you decide to flee? How have you decided to vacate the empty static corners of this town, gravel-worn roads & fields of calloused fingers? How did I leave you, clutching and toneless, in the year of your departure? …] That winter, the headlights across the crosswalk pulsed like a midwife’s heartbeat, slow and steady. She’s crazy, my mother said, fuming in tandem with the smoke billowing from our 2004 Honda Accord fuel pipe. What a bitch, I said, What a bitch. My mother laughed; a trembling helpless sound, a shotgun wedding to a country that will never know her body as a newborn thing. Gasoline-slick maroon smear of lipstick across my mouth. The chapped trapped cracked visages of my mother’s lips. Smoking trails of bitter gunpowder down both our guts, but the bullet caught between her teeth. How the viewer could define our roles only by the driver & the driven, the chaser & the chased. The throes of a language a daughter forgets is a fumbled form of violence. That weekend before September scraped the goldenberry out of oak trees, the elasticity out of blacktops, devoured them with her crooked gaping maw, I rediscovered language as you languished on our peeling couch, exhausted from a Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-You Know The Drill By Now! of grading papers. Baby, you said. Baby I’m so tired. Try translating. For your dear old ailing Mother. Syllables shaved their way from behind my teeth– I couldn’t recall the Mandarin for waning. For taxidermy. For migration. For poetry. I chased my exuviated tongue across the humid twilight like the most jilted kind of lover. It was October before I caught up & when I wrung her back into my mouth, she still tasted like smoke & saltpeter. We sat here, in the same exact spot. Do you remember? Do you even understand what I am saying? Behind us, car horns spit up muffled replicas of English. What a bitch, my mother breathes, enunciating every syllable. What a bitch. Interpersonal Speaking, Prompt 4: [... You’ve grown so old. God, look at you. I remember when you could’ve fit into the curvature of my palm. The hollows of my gums. God, I could’ve just eaten you up. (shuffling, a choked-off laugh) Please, did I fail you as a mother? … ] The first sound I let out; a teethless shout of my mother’s mucus & amniotic sac. Not a mermaid birth but a mottled one. Ma, I wanted nothing more than your bones your hair your skin your love. For years afterward, I would rest my downy head on your blue-veined belly & reimagine a perfect labor. Like I could sustain my life with just your ragged breathing. Ma, I blinked newborn eyelids & knew I would define every next home I lived in by your womb. Interpersonal Speaking, Prompt 3: [...] The audio is experiencing a malfunction. The audio is experiencing a malfunction. The audio is experiencing a malfunction. [… ] At sixteen, I’ve written about California & boys with knives & November as a lover but my mother raised me limning the word of God onto her tongue knowing that she didn’t believe in Him. Mother, know that I’m writing about you. Mother, know that you who taught me the language of blasphemy taught me the syntax of metaphors. A prayer a promise. A sacrifice a sanity. A birth so pure the doctor couldn’t even hear the first wail. Thank you for your time. Editors: Uzayer M., Luna Y. Photo Credits: Dadu Shin

TW: Mentions of death, and homicide On the evening of October 30, 2022 following recent renovations, the Gujarat Bridge along the Machchhu River collapsed, plunging many citizens into the river. The 137-year-old pedestrian bridge’s cable appeared to have snapped. With 200 people on the bridge at that moment, the death toll has now reached 135, 54 of them being children. Families of victims and witnesses of this incident were left shocked. “I can't get a proper answer,” said Jayeshbhai in an interview with the BBC, whose friend is still missing from the accident. According to eyewitnesses, they saw 50–60 people hanging from the bridge when it collapsed. Luckily, most of them were rescued. Caretakers at crematoriums, graveyards and forensic officials claimed to have never seen such a substantial influx of deaths in such a short span since 1979. On November 2nd, 2022, the state of Gujarat observed a state-wide mourning in the wake of the tragedy. Flags were flown at half-mast and official and/or entertainment events were postponed as those in the state paid their respects and condolences to the victims and their families. Affected families have been financially compensated for this accident by the Prime Minister’s National Relief Fund. Nine people, all of who work with OREVA Contracting on Gujarat Bridge’s renovations, have been arrested for suspected culpable homicide and are currently being investigated for connections to this tragedy. Citizens, witnesses, and government officials have all claimed that it was in the hands of the administrators of the bridge’s negligence that resulted in this “massive corruption.” As of November 3rd, no additional deaths or missing persons have been found since the previous day, thus concluding the active search operation by first responders. However, first responders, including the Indian Army, the Navy, the Air Force, response forces, and the fire department, will remain at the site of the accident until further notice. Underwater cameras and sonar technology monitored by first responders will still be in use for searching remaining survivors and bodies. Editors: Chris F., Leandra S., Lang D. Photo Credits: Rafiq Maqbool/AP This article was originally written in November 2022

Throughout the first week of October, the Nobel prizes in physics, chemistry, medicine, literature, peace, and economics were announced for academics and advocates who, according to the Nobel Organization, have “conferred the greatest benefit to humankind.” Every laureate receiving the Prize in 2022 is white, including only two women out of the eleven (non-organization) winners. Additionally, every laureate is based in Europe or the United States. The prize, tracing back to 1901, has been criticized over its history of eurocentrism. Each year, critics point out the lack of representation of people of color, women, non-Europeans, and non-Americans in the group of winners, particularly in the science categories. In total, only 3% of science laureates to date have been women. Of the twenty most-recognized countries by the Nobel Organization, only two of them are Asian countries. Japan holds a spot at 8th with 28 prizes and India at 17th with 12 prizes. Only the Peace Prize, and Chemistry Prize, has been awarded to women hailing from Asian countries. Throughout its over-century-long existence, there have been no black science laureates. With such disparity within academic acclimation persisting despite rising rates of women and POC entering high positions in academia alongside increasing pushes for diversity within professional spaces, why was Nobel so white this year? Like many European institutions, funded and overseen by the wealthy academics of Sweden and various surrounding countries, the Nobel Organization exemplifies bias. At its core, the Nobel Organization is a group of white men awarding white men. Without the media exposure major awards bring, the contributions of scholars who already experience marginalization in academia go unrecognized. Furthermore, when research ideas coming from the perspectives of people of color are not funded, reported on, or awarded due to bias, it creates a serious empty space in education which can cause a ripple effect of harm on marginalized communities. The Nobel awards more often than not overshadow the work of those who are asking the questions which force the world of research to take critical looks at the intersections of science, access, impact, and oppression. Winners of the Nobel Prize are not only awarded the famed prize but also incredible exposure and opportunities to advance their research. Prize recipients often are featured in global news outlets which highlight their life’s research, achievements, and future plans. Within minutes of the nomination announcements, media sources globally profile each new inductee. Nobel laureates also share strong and exclusive networking and funding opportunities among other colleague of winners in their induction class. A sum of money, around $900,000 USD, is granted to winners from the fund started by its founder, Alfred Nobel. The Swedish chemist left his entire fortune to the foundation of the prize in his will. After a career stained by accusations of being a war profiteer and “merchant of death” for his invention of dynamite during the Franco-German war, Nobel created the prize to repair his legacy. The Nobel Organization has seemingly come from questionable origins and perhaps has bled through to its modern-day blunders. Exclusivity in acclaim sends a message to funding agencies, editorial boards, and aspiring young academics about who can excel in their respective fields and who can’t. In an interview with PBS, Kimberly Griffin who is an associate professor at the University of Maryland and serves at the editor of the Journal of Diversity in Higher Education stated on visible lack of diversity in recent Nobel laureate classes, “Who wins… is a way to determine who is a ‘real scientist,’ and if you don’t see yourself reflected in those prizes, you might not think of yourself as a real scientist,” (PBS news). Moreover damage is create by awarding a minimal amount of non-white men to fill a social “quota” in order to avoid public cancelation. People of color deserve more spots in history than are being given to them. The Nobel Organization must do better if the institution wishes to fulfill its mission of celebrating and propelling human excellence. Editors: Leandra S, Chris F, Nadine R Photo Credit: Associated Press/The Atlantic

What are reparations? They can be defined as an act to make up for or amend for a past wrong or injustice inflicted on another individual, group, or even state. These injustices in the case of former colonies occurred over decades of time and have only ended in the not-so-distant past. However, the depths of their impact and the legacies they left behind have never been fully appreciated. The fight for reparations, in any form, has persisted for decades, much akin to the myth of Sisyphus. Countless individuals have strained and pushed the giant boulder of this responsibility up the mountain of white fragility so that those whose ancestors suffered under colonial rule can have their stories and suffering honored and fully recognised. There is an irony in the fact that Haiti was the first to pay reparations within the context of slavery. Following a bloody revolutionary war, Haiti secured its independence from France in 1804, however, it was not recognised as an independent state by any slave-owning European country. Haiti was forced to pay reparations for the ‘loss of property rights in Africans, livestock, plantations, and other forms of property’—refusal to pay would mean trade embargoes, isolation and being cut off from the international community. It is clear and obvious that this is a blatant injustice and insult to the idea and concept of reparations, depicting the emancipation and freedom from slavery and from the brutal French colonial regime, not as a right (despite ideals like justice equality and freedom being coveted by the French during this period), but as a debt you owed to your oppressor and enslaver. While this case is an example of financial reparations (albeit, twisted), what many people get wrong is the belief that the act of reparations can only be done through the transaction of money. This act can come about in many ways, in its truest sense, (as Shashi Tharoor describes) ‘it involves the elimination of structures created by the colonial atrocities, as well as the acceptance of the moral responsibility for the crimes committed.’ Some may then point to what is currently popularizing headlines in the UK— museums and universities repatriating objects back to their native homes as the only right or best form of reparations. There are millions of objects, many of spiritual and cultural significance, miles away from their native homes, filling western museums, galleries, storage facilities, and even homes, that were taken in wake of European colonial explorations. The Western world fell in love with the ‘primitive’ objects of their colonies, coveting them as decorative pieces through which they could show off their wealth, intelligence and class. While were lawfully brought and gifted, others were looted, stolen, or pillaged in the act or threat of violence. But it is hard to accept this as the only form of reparation. Through the gaze of those who have felt the legacy and trauma of colonialism, it feels like the barest minimum. Afterall, how, after decades of colonial violence and its bloody legacy, can a nation, community, or religious group feel like their trauma caused by imperial brutality and the effects of white supremacy has been fully appreciated and respected, simply because what was stolen has returned? Would you be satisfied? How then can former empires eliminate these structures and accept their moral responsibility? While the case for financial reparations is strong for many former colonies, the areas which should be looked at to truly make an act of reparations is through social and educational changes. It has been argued for decades by scholars, activists, and educators that reparations should be the re-evaluation of the education system to combat the current racist narrative around colonialism and legacy of the empire in order to make amends. It has been pointed out (and seems to be obvious to everyone but people like Boris Johnson and Liz Taylor) that the ‘sweeping of the imperial past under the rug’ and focusing on simply returning a few objects now and then (a whole other can of worms) is a legacy of colonial power. This is (relevant, impactful, problematic, concerning) because it continues to control the narrative on their former colonies past and suffering, allowing the continued spread and encouragement (as seen in Brexit propaganda) of naïve, idealistic beliefs around colonial powers The topic of reparations is hard, painful, and difficult, but we are not Sisyphus. One day, the burden of this fight will reach the top of the mountain, and the stories of our loved ones, of our ancient neighbors, and of our native homes will finally be honored and remembered properly. Editors: Evie F., Amshu V. Photo Credits: Jamiel Law for Quartz

That Land is Mine Too Oct. 14 My father sealed the envelope and scrutinized it, making sure he completed all of the necessary steps. I waited impatiently, wanting him to finish I shivered. This was it. He smiled, handed me the envelope, and led me out the door. The air was sweet, refreshingly cold, holding its breath. We turned the corner, and there it stood. The mailbox staring at us with intensity, its sublime figure outlined by the streetlight. I laughed in my head. It was like we were supposed to bow down to it. My father and I spoke just a few words. As we walked further, something silenced us. Something so much bigger than ourselves, something that stifled any talk about trivial matters. I held his ballot tightly. It was just us outside, but I gripped it so that no one could take it away. The ballot was thumping in my hand, the heartbeat of democracy. It echoed through both of us, beating a sacred drum. It was dark out. The night cloaked everything with its black robe, everything except for the sidewalk in front of us. The path to the mailbox was clear, illuminated by a different kind of light. A flame that no one could put out. A flame that had burned for centuries, that had given warmth to the masses who marched for freedom. I looked at the ballot. How much blood was spilled so that it could be there in my hand? The dichotomy of democracy Gave me a visceral sensation. It burned with pride It burned with embarrassment It swelled with sacrifice, It surrendered to souls of cowardice A deep, personal conflict between humanity and hypocrisy, Barbarity and benevolence, Exceptionalism and departed glory, The blood we share. Our burden and our relief. The blood we sacrifice The blood we are responsible for A reality and a dream. We neared the mailbox. My father nodded towards it. “Slip it in. I carefully pushed the ballot into the box, watching it disappear forever. There was a bridge behind us— Edmund Pettus. There was a hill in front of us— Acropolis. I looked at my feet. We were walking on a bloody, scarred, chained, beaten, divided, wicked land They call America And I have never been more proud Than to have walked to the mailbox, Slipped in his ballot, And said “That land is mine too”. Editors: Charlotte C, Chris F, Leandra S, Nadine R Photo Credit: Unsplash

i. you’re pushing out teeth by the hour, spit them pearl-white into the roadlines of your palms. cradle them like newborns or like tāngyuán so sesame-speckled with blood that for a second, you think that they’re dying; forget that rebirth is the truest form of death. ii. on the first knife-blade of midsummer, the moon drops from the heavy-browed clouds like a winking fish scale & the yellow river bends to catch it with shapeshifting arms. the sky and the long-winged heron scream at you to run, but you do not hear them. if you had, you would have known to flee— tripping over the calluses of your own feet to escape. if you had, you would have known to tear yourself apart— shedding the silken layers of your loveliest qípáo to find a way out. iii. afterwards, your mother told you that you’d deafened yourself to Girlhood & your sister said you’d deafened yourself to terror. you cannot help but wonder what has made Girlhood & terror synonymous. (i know Girlhood. she told me i could lose motherhood in her. that’s a lie– if i’m a compass, my mother’s a lodestone. there’s no escaping Her, even in Girlhood. Girlhood knows me like i know sundays, like i know snakeskin, like i know sūzhōu. i clasp Her words, holy, dissipating in the inseam of my bloody cheek and shivering teeth.) Editors: Blenda Y., Luna Y., Chelsea D. Photo Credits: Smithsonian

I wear my identity on my sleeve Because it is all too often forgotten I wear my identity on my sleeve Because I fear one day, I too shall forget I wear my identity on my sleeve To yell from the rooftops This is who I am But I forget how inseparable I am From my identity and culture Ocean Vuong once said, “Even if I were to write the word the that is still an Asian American the” My identity is inseparable from my culture, inseparable from my ancestry, inseparable from my heritage. Everything I touch, leaves a mark Every mark, touched by who I am. Though schools and institutions, Peers and mentors Nations and its leaders May ask me to lay aside my identity, An identity that threatens: Their version of the story, Their version of their nation, It’s history and culture The intersection of my culture My identity In this nation, with its history, it’s heritage and its culture Cannot be undone. A self weaving tapestry. Tear a thread and it mends itself Burn it down And like a phoenix it emerges from the ashes Erasure is impossible So long as I breathe. Editors: Joyce S., Chloe M., Leandra S. Photo Credits: Dadu Shin