I should mention this is a piece of fiction unless otherwise noted. I used to be a so-called “hopeless romantic.” My favorite type of movie? Rom-coms. My favorite type of novel? Anything with some romance. How did I envision my life? I was the main character in all the stories: the hero, the one who goes on a journey, falls in love at the end, and lives happily ever after, complete with their partner, soulmate, forever love. How did my real life turn out? Pretty uneventful. I bought into the narratives Hollywood sold and packaged, believing I would be that one in a million. I would find that person and it would be us against the world. The first day of school, walking into the room, catching the attention of the unassuming attractive person in the corner, making eye contact, falling in love. My friends didn’t help much either. We were all drunk on the same liquor, intoxicated past the legal limits. We all watched the same films, read the same novels, and dreamed the same dreams. Now, there is nothing wrong with a dream, and nothing wrong with romance and love, but how much love did I miss growing up because I believed in the one, the only, romantic love? How many moments did I miss sitting, laughing, smiling, crying with my friends because I was obsessed with finding my one and only “true” love? How I missed those days… ~ The ground starts to darken outside, the brick pavement turning from chalky red to a deep crimson as droplets of rain fall from the clouds graying over the mid-afternoon sky. I see people on the street opening up their umbrellas, rushing under the overhangs of businesses to escape the wet. I sip my already lukewarm cup of tea and nibble at a stale scone as I stare out of the fingerprint-smudged glass in front of me. My open Word doc on my computer sits empty. I am deep in my mind, reminiscing. Moving to a new city is exciting, but no one tells you how lonely it feels. How hard it is to make friendships as an adult. I sit here remembering all that I left behind. How eager I was to get away from it all, to chase something “bigger,” something “better” than before. At this moment, I find myself clinging to my hopeless romantic, hoping I might strike up a lively conversation with the person sitting a few seats away from me. Maybe we will share an interest in freshly baked scones and artisanal tea. Maybe we will share about our past selves, our lives in another time, another place, maybe we find we are meant to be together, that some higher power put us together in this cafe on this Tuesday afternoon to stare through fingerprint smudged glass as the passersby try to escape the falling rain. I find myself projecting an entire future into my fake romantic cafe partner. A few hours, several cups of tea, and some stale scones later, my fake romantic cafe partner packs up her stuff and walks out. She brushes against my arm as she passes, walking through the narrow passageway to the door. We don’t even exchange glances. Maybe she’ll come back. Maybe one of these days we’ll notice each other, always sitting here on this Tuesday afternoon with a cup of tea and a scone, intensely staring out the window with an open Word doc. Maybe she’ll glance at a few words and ask me what I am working on. I’ll share about my work as a writer, and she’ll share about her job as a consultant. We’ll carry the conversation into the night… ~ Long story short, I never see her again. I come back to the cafe, the same time every week and see different faces every time. I mean, I wasn’t trying to see her again; I simply was just showing up when I normally show up. I am not trying to see her. I mean, I don’t know anything about her. I quietly give up in my mind. ~ Weeks go by, but routines remain the same. Every Tuesday sitting in the same seat with the same cup of tea and scone staring out the fingerprint smudged window with an empty Word doc sitting in front of me. The blinking vertical line stares at me, eagerly waiting for me to uncover the next paragraph, but I sit without a word in my mind. A growing pit in my stomach echoes a sense of sadness, longing. Something is different about today, the sun shines against a blue sky announcing fake spring. A short break from the gray clouds and rain that usually blankets the city. The streets are alive as people take advantage of the suddenly warm weather. Couples carry picnic baskets filled to the brim with cold cuts and charcuterie boards. In this seemingly endless moment of joy on earth I find my own feelings of longing and loneliness amplified. Perhaps I was happier when I could share the same feelings with the sky. Knowing that mother nature herself had her bad days, but today we are out of sync. Today the cafe sits empty, today the chairs remain neatly tucked beneath the counter, today the fingerprint smudges on the window are even more apparent. Unable to camouflage behind a gray sky, the bright sun exposes how long it's been since the window was last cleaned. Perhaps that's why no one is inside today. The outside is once more beautiful than the inside. The outside, in all its shining glory amplifies the ugliness of the indoors and draws its willing victims to picnics under the sun to bask for a moment in its warmth before returning to its normal moody self. Maybe the sun is meant to burn the whole… ~ I get up before my thoughts get too ahead of me. I close the lid of my computer. The blinking vertical line will have to keep waiting. I finish my tea and scone, tip the barista and walk out into the bright sun. The sun has sipped every bit of moisture from the earth. I see the remnants of somebody's spilled coffee from this morning, long dried into an amorphous patch of brown. I head to the park a couple blocks away. As expected, it's crowded, the field filled to the brim with couples on blankets, with picnic blankets, and charcuterie boards. I keep walking. Past the park, past the mid afternoon traffic on the main road, and into the city's financial district. The city suddenly transitions from a dusty red to a tepid gray. The newest part of the city, the sidewalk, is made of concrete rather than brick, the buildings, shiny glass and metal spires that grow into the air. It is both stunningly beautiful and horrific at the same time. There is no life here, and under the bright sun, amplified through the glass, it is as sterile as a surgical suite. I wander through this part of the city with little expectations. It's a desert devoid of anything except office buildings and high rises. ~ As I pass an alleyway between buildings, something catches my eye. A single yellow flower peeking out from around a shiny metal pipe. Probably one of the pipes that ventilates the massive office buildings, keeping it a cool zero degrees on this hot day. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I begin to walk down the alleyway. As I get closer, I see a single yellow chrysanthemum peeking through a crack of the otherwise sterile pavement. In this part of the city, where no life can possibly grow, I wonder how this flower managed to seep its way through the tiniest crack, and blossom. I keep walking down the alleyway. ~ When I come back to the cafe the following week, everything seems back to normal, but somehow different. The gray skies have returned, the stale scones and tea are exactly the same, but the fingerprints on the window have disappeared like an apparition frightened away by cleaning solution and a microfiber cloth. Along the window counter there are small vases, each holding a single chrysanthemum. The yellow reflects on the now clear glass as I stare out into the street again. The brick is a dark red from the rain that poured earlier that morning. Everything feels back to normal. I open my computer and let the words flow... ~ As the sun begins to creep down, I leave the cafe. On the way out, I tip the barista and ask where the flowers came from. She directs me to a place just outside the financial district, I step outside and begin to head downtown. The rain begins to pour as I pass the park a couple blocks down. The field is empty this time, the rain and darkening sky deterring anyone from being outdoors. It's strangely peaceful as my shoes make a soft squishing sound walking over the wet grass and earth. The smell of rain fills the air, the soft scent of humidity and grass. I look up and continue to walk towards the financial district illuminated by fluorescent bulbs as office workers clocking out. As I approach, I note that the gray weather makes the district feel even grayer. The clouds and darkening sky camouflage the office buildings and skyscrapers like a chameleon would a tree; Its skin perfectly matching the color of the backdrop. It is in the sea of gray that a hint of yellow peeks from around the corner of a building where the brick turns into concrete. The edge of the financial district. I slowly approach as the rain thickens. No longer able to stand the water as it begins to seep into my clothes, I search my bag for an umbrella. I shuffle my belongings around as rain begins to drip into my bag. Nothing. I must have left it in the cafe as I was walking out. Swinging my bag back around my shoulder, I keep walking. The water runs down my spine pulling me into the present. I have no choice but to accept this current situation. I keep walking closer and closer to the yellow flower in the distance, its color contrasting the darkening gray surroundings continue to draw me in. Like a miner who just discovered gold, I am strangely mesmerized. As I near the flower, a sudden gust of wind blows it back around the corner. I pick up my pace. I am nearing where the brick pavement ends and where the concrete begins. Even though my destination is out of sight, I think I know what to expect as I round the corner. I look into the distance as the city begins to settle into the night, the rain, still pouring, has started to lessen. A crack in the clouds is beginning to form. I look up and see the stars, their light peeking through. I turn the corner, and am overwhelmed by what I saw. In a little yard tucked between buildings are rows and rows of planter boxes filled with yellow chrysanthemums. The boxes form a little path which I begin to trace with my eyes. I am fully present, the cold rain dripping through my clothes to my skin, the stars above, peeking through the clouds, and the sight and smell of flowers, so many flowers. A drop of water lands on my tongue and I taste the acidity of the city downpour. I raise my head slowly trying to take in the moment. No thoughts in my mind, no worries of the past, no projections of the future. I am here, and I am now. As my line of sight moves slowly deeper and deeper into the garden, passing rows and rows of flowers, I take in a breath, and at the other end, I see… Editors: Amelia P., Marie H., Nicole O. Image Source: Unsplash

Have you ever imagined the life of your mother before she was your mother? Say, why has the existence of our mother always felt so close yet so unfamiliar at the same time? Why did it never really occur to me that I never asked my mother about her, as an individual, before? And to think about it, it was not because I was not curious, but because the thought of positioning my mother not as my mother just felt distant for no specific reasons. I have never really thought about the life of our mothers before they were mothers. As if the status of “mother” status is a life term; once you get it, it settles with you for eternity. The process of getting to know my mother felt so strange until I finally decided to ask questions about her past life. She knows so much about me and I barely know the tiniest details about her. She knows that I like my sunny side up slightly burnt, but I don't even know what her favorite childhood dish is. The realization hit me that before motherhood came to her, she was someone too. To express love, not through giving a bowl of cut melon, but through words, sentences, and hugs, is a concept that I still could not fully grasp until now. Being the only daughter in the family, I was, of course, the closest to my mother. She is, undoubtedly, the most important person in my life and I will soar across the ocean just to make her happy. But growing up barely expressing my affections, I’m unsure if it was the pride or the unfamiliarity of doing so. My mother was once a young woman, who was full of dreams and passions. She told me that when she was younger, she wanted to learn English, but it was hard because there was only one institution available in town at that time. She’s not the best cook, she admitted it herself, but she knows a little bit of everything. She liked the Bee Gees, the Beatles, and Queen. I asked what her childhood favorite dish was, she just laughed and said “I didn’t have one, I like everything.” Today, when I was writing this, was my Mother’s birthday. And today was also the day when I found out that she fancies fruit salad. She told me, she is not a picky eater (and I notice that she always lets me eat her portion of my favorite food even though I know she likes it too) but she likes the freshness of fruit salad, it brings comfort to her. It’s just a fruit salad, I thought to myself, why am I getting sentimental over it? As I grow older, the journey to understand my mother will always be a path I look forward to. So, have you ever imagined the life of your mother before she was a mother? Have you ever asked whether she liked the color purple or pink better? Whether she had a crush on a celebrity before? And have you ever positioned your mother as merely a person, not tied with the expectations of what a mother should act like? Editors: Blenda Y., Alisha B., Luna Y.

We met in Venice, the “Floating City,” in warm April. Of course, that wasn’t when we actually met. We were always classmates, but that was the first time I truly saw you, thrust into the brightly lit stage. I had fun with you, walking through the beautifully decorated cathedrals, struggling to pick restaurants that had vegetarian and shellfish-free options, and of course, warding off any jokes insinuating you had feelings for me. This last month has flown by, and before I knew it, summer blew her gentle breeze through my bedroom window. We are officially dating, two months before freshman year of college and we will perhaps become the 99% of high school relationships that fail to jump over the long-distance chasm. So, here is everything I want to do with you this summer before freshman year. I want to finish annotating a love poetry book as a present for you. You really don’t like literature that much, so I hope this book, full of all my thoughts and feelings, might sway you a little bit. I want to go on a picnic with you, bringing our favorite snacks and baked goods. You love being outside, and I love talking with you. We can even bake things together! You’ve never baked before, but I can teach you (oh, how I love nerding out on you). Your little brother will probably be in the kitchen the entire time, annoying the both of us, and we’ll get your mom to judge our final product. I want you to show me around your home city, telling me which restaurants are good and pointing at the menu to introduce new dishes. We’re always going to Chinese restaurants, so I want you to share some of your culture with me as well. I want to go to an aquarium with you and be entranced with your face, bathed in golden-blue light. We’ll walk through tunnels, dodging little kids and complaining about them the entire time. I want to go to a science museum, feeling a little out of place and humoring your STEMness as you explain everything to me. Truth is, I am enamored by your passion and intelligence and love hearing you share your interests (even if I make fun of you all the time for being a nerd). I want to share small moments of my life with you even if it’s through the phone. I want to go on walks with you while complaining about mosquitos. I want to throw a frisbee with you even though you have no idea how to throw one. Most of all, I want to be with you, if this is truly the last summer we will have together. They say that if we are truly in love, fate will pair us together, but I don’t believe that. Even so, if we are to become the 99%, I want every moment to be filled with new experiences and fun conversations to be looked back upon. I will hug you whenever I can, and not be afraid to tell you how much I care for you. I won’t shy away from risks, and I will refuse to have any regrets. Hello and goodbye, my cute, nerdy boyfriend. Let’s make the most of this summer. Editors: Amelia P. Chris F. Marie H. Nadine R. Image source: Unsplash

Dear Achichi, I am writing you a letter because I know you will never read it. I know you will never read anything I have written. Because poetry is nonsense. Poetry is for the romantic, the dreamer. Poetry is for those who, as you say, have no goddamn common sense. You hate poetry because you are stronger than poetry. You are sensible. Poetry doesn’t wrap around your soul, suffocate you, or give you breath. Poetry knows nothing. I am writing to you because I need to. Every time I see you, you talk incessantly. You talk desperately. You talk as if you are scared that if you stop, everyone will forget you. Yet you leave many things unsaid. I have asked you questions. I have interrogated my father. I have swallowed all of your photo albums and scrutinized every expression on your face. And I know that young girl is very different from my Achichi. She is a separate person, one that life has not yet tortured. One that was maybe like me. I can only dream, because you will never tell me. You hate empathy. Empathy is for the weak. You must be strong. You must survive. But everyone must empathize with you. They must know you. They must remember you. You cannot disappear. You cling to everyone. You cling to them by pushing them away. You are vicious because you are vulnerable. You attack my mother because she stole your son. You attack because everything is running away from you. It’s falling apart, collapsing on you. When your husband died, you didn’t break. You were fifty, my father sixteen. Your sons had to go to college, and you found a way. You left your homeland and worked. How you loved America, the dream that she promised. You would read to me that book, God Bless America. I would sit on your lap and you would sing it with me, line by line, enunciating every word with pride. You cherished America. When your American reality didn’t measure up to your American dream, you didn’t break. What were your dreams? Were you passionate about something, anything? I know you were funny. My father tells me you could make everyone laugh. You were a teacher. You taught in the Maldives and sent the money to your family. You were alone. I wonder if you were lonely. I wonder if you loved. Do you blame yourself for his death? I hate your brother, and when he gets drunk and angry he tells you it’s your fault. And you scream. My father has told me every detail. He was sleeping, and he woke up to your screams. Your husband had a heart attack. My father carried him downstairs, put his body in the backseat, and drove to the hospital. But he knew his father was dead. He told me. I wonder what you were thinking, in that car. Achichi, I have never seen you cry. My father tells me you cried at the funeral. You haven't really cried since. Because crying is for the poets. You are not a poet. You are not a pawn. You are a warrior. I’m sorry. It was never your fault. Achichi, don’t you know that you are loved? Don’t you know that everyone cares? Don’t you know that while everything is crumbling, you are still the center? That will never change. Dear Achichi, I love you. I don’t know if you know that. Editor(s): Chris F., Amelia P. Photo Credits: Unsplash

TW: mention of death, violence, and murder On July 24th, 1983 Sri Lanka fell They call it Black July Streets were wrecked Stores were raided Tamils were murdered My father was ten. He witnessed the hatred He tells me his stories The stories of the crowded trains Desperate to escape He tells me of the fear Of the people Trapped in a massacre I remember these stories But Forty years later And across the world My history class began to cover South Asia And on one slide There was one bullet For my people and their blood. I remember feeling struck Looking around the classroom I realized that I was the only one that knew About the mobs and the massacre The bombs and the blood The genocide. I felt small I felt weak Against the shadow that had swallowed The history of my country It was dark and ignorant It refused to remember the ravished Simplified versions of history can erase An entire people Real history demands details It demands truth It demands. It demands blood. It forces us into reality The reality of those people My people It forces us to remember Because we can’t afford to forget Editor(s): Chris F., Leandra S. Photo Credits: Unsplash

The concept of time has always been so peculiar to me. When I was younger, an hour's car ride felt like a century. Now, five hours on a train passes in a flash. I had a theory that perhaps, as we grow older, each second that passes counts for a smaller fraction of the cumulated time we’ve experienced as a whole. Hence each second feels shorter, like a short breath that escapes and is forgotten. Naturally, a year flies by. Before long, I am an adult, a decision maker, an explorer stumbling in the dark trying to carve a path for myself. I fell. I got up. I was joyous. I was in love. I was confused. I was disheartened. I was motivated. I pushed through. Looking back, the lessons I learned, the once concealed truths now seem stark and blatant. I know nothing, and nothing is more important to me than connecting with those I love, holding their hand, and knowing that they will bloom. Time is truly a love potion. We drop the quarrels, the pranks, the “I hate yous”, and only forgiveness that remains. Forgiveness for you who safekeeps a piece of my heart, as I hold a fragment of yours. I know the labels I made for myself, the definitions, the expectations, are all sand castles that crumble. Perfection is a myth, like Athena’s omniscient wisdom or a dragon’s breath: “It’s all of nothing.” “Go big or go home.” “100% is the only acceptable outcome.” These voices, repeated by the raspy throat of our parents, still ring in our ears after all this time. But perfection is the enemy. When I am not 100% sure I can complete something perfectly, I am petrified or I run. I don't try things that I can't definitely succeed in, so I don't try at all. The flaw purifies, it cleanses, and it fills the gaping void. I know the temporality of pain. Acknowledgment is the great enemy of pain. Don’t react, but just notice the pain. The feeling that crawls around your heart and pecks at it is just a feeling. You are healthy and your heart is still pumping. The cloud of anxiety that fogs your head is just in your head. You are not a cloud. You are a boulder. With time, it dissipates. God’s hands on the clock hold onto the past like an elegy and reach into the future like a battle cry. The hands cover the wounds but make more cuts. As each second passes the denominator increases though the numerator remains the same. We sit and wait until one day each second seems as trivial as a sesame and as gargantuan as a galaxy. Editor: Chris F. Image source: Unsplash

The idle mind is the devil’s playground. An all too popular maxim. Hard work, toil, and activity are conducive to good character: it is a belief held by many. And like many things, when taken to extremity, this belief can be a harmful perversion of its initial self. Within Filipino culture, there is a dominant narrative that underscores much of our history. We are devastated by natural disasters, poverty, censorship, colonialism, and corruption. Yet we, a small but spirited people, stand strong in the face of hardship. We remain friendly—ever the hospitable, wish-granting local. The simple but strong islanders and that is our way. We Filipino individuals are resilient. I am guilty of buying into this myself—being born in the States to a middle-income family, I am gifted with much more comfort and privilege than many in the Philippines. A tour guide once relayed his story to me, how he earned about twenty dollars a day and worked his way up from poverty to live just shy of a comfortable life. Though he worked tirelessly day after day, diligently and humbly serving those who requested his help, he was still a poor man. My first thought was to admire his resilience, not to question the system that had forced him to spend his life like this. As immigrants, we take pride in our toil. We have worked and earned our way to a better life. We have fought for our seats at a table that was not built to accommodate us. In the homeland, the hardships we face are dealt with daily. Should a typhoon ravage our home, we will find a way to rebuild on our own. No matter how long it takes. Suffering, after all, builds character. It is not difficult to understand why this narrative has endured. Resilience is an easy way to normalize struggle. Promoting a cultural idea that there is pride in hardship is very exploitable, as we can commend suffering instead of getting to the root of why those people should suffer at all. It is not exclusive to Filipino persons. The popular expressions of commendable resilience used by Filipino politicians echo the mindless and empty phrases of American politicians, specifically their notorious utilization of the phrase, “thoughts and prayers.” It is an acknowledgment of hardship that tries to alleviate all burdens from those in power by distracting from the fact that active change is possible. Think of the value of labor, of people applauding nurses who work 48-hour shifts, teachers who are underpaid and devalued, and parents who work while caring for their children. We don’t immediately question what puts people in these circumstances –why do hospitals refuse to properly staff their floors, why doesn’t the government allot more funding to public schools, why don’t better welfare programs and support systems exist for struggling parents? In almost every society, on almost every minuscule level, there is a glorification of resilience that not only encourages people to endure suffering–but actively pits people against one another. People are lesser, selfish, or callous, for shamelessly honoring their mental and physical health. This is a practical ideology for those in power, weaponized against the helpless. I have spent my one life coming to terms with the idea that I am not stronger, deeper, or more important simply because I suffer. In academic institutions, amongst young people, especially those well-off and privileged, there is something appealing about having some sort of chip on your shoulder. There is the constant comparison of workloads and conversations that go like so: “I’m so tired..” “You think you’re tired? I only got three hours of sleep!” There’s pride taken in juggling extracurriculars, AP courses, advanced college curriculum, a job, full course loads, doing everything a human being is capable of, and pushing your limits mentally and physically. This is not a sustainable or healthy idea. But it is remarkably enduring. The pessimist in me is not hopeful that this narrative, which is worked so finely into the threads of our society, will be extracted any time soon. I catch myself buying into it sometimes. What is needed is work from those who actively profit from the belief. And unfortunately, those individuals and organizations won’t be attempting to unravel their own power structure any time soon. In the meantime, perhaps all we can do is focus on ourselves individually. We must decry the veneration of suffering. We must honor ourselves, our health, and our prosperity. We must aim towards the acknowledgment that suffering is not necessarily conducive to a good character, and especially not to a good society. Editors: Lang D., Claudia S., Erika Y. Image source: Unsplash

Dear Boston, To the strange and funny places I end up calling home. Your brick and mortar homes, your towering glass and metal skyscrapers. You were the city I didn’t know I wanted, the city I didn't know I needed. Pulling me away from the sunny California coast— replacing it with snowstorms, nor’easters and more wind than I could imagine. You are the opposite of where I grew up, crowded, loud, busy, bustling. The train that rolls past my apartment window until past 1 am, the sports games, tourists, and cars. To me, it’s life, to deal with the messy and the gritty. To have to chase a train in the early morning hours and a bus late at night. Keeping me on my toes, never knowing what the next day will bring. For all your rough edges, you have sanded me down, polished me, until I no longer resembled the scrappy nineteen-year-old that first moved into your ancient apartments. You grew me, fed me, and gave me what I needed– a bit of no-nonsense love, kindness, and care. What my eighteen-year-old heart craved. A second home, a fresh start, and another chance to bloom. Love, Chris Author's Note: This piece for me explores the idea of how we find home in unexpected places. I moved to Boston in 2019, having never visited the city before. I had no idea what to expect. I ended up falling in love with a place I never expected to call home. Editor: Amelia P.

I was 10 years old when I first visited Japan. As I rode a local train passing by the meager, quiet off-roads of suburban Japan, I felt a sense of contentment like never before. How quiet and quaint the neighborhood was as the train slowly rumbled through. The sky was shrouded in thick clouds creating a perfect postcard image framed by the window. It was a stark contrast from the Shinkansen — the world’s fastest train — as my little brother and I admired the countryside, encircled by flashing waters. Only an elderly couple in the same carriage as us. The old lady fumbled with her hands, seemingly occupied with a piece of square paper. I only took notice of her when she reached towards us, hands outstretched with two little paper cranes. I took one crane into my hands, admiring the perfect crisp edges of talent. To my little brother, she held out another crane and, pulling on the tail, moved its wings. Despite the language barrier, a display of gentleness expertly wrapped in origami paper, and given away through a simple but profound gesture was demonstrated through this gift. As it so often is, there are many great journeys in life, but the greatest is that of contentment; being able to embrace the way things are in moments that seem like a gift. Gifts like the one created from the old lady’s hands may show how life is brief, transitory, and worth clinging on to because of it, but it is also an extraordinary reminder of solace in a discordant world. Editors: Chris F., Marie H. Image Source: Unsplash

I had a conversation with my older sister about moving out for college, and I worried about the amount of guilt I’ll feel leaving home. She resonated with me, feeling the exact same way for leaving our parents. "Our parents came to America with a black box over their heads," she told me. For the twenty years my parents have lived here, they’ve only known what their friends and newspaper rankings had told them. Other than that, they’ve continued to stick with their traditional norms — staying close by to take care of our family the way they’ve taken care of you. My parents ultimately refused to adapt to the western expectation, something that I had always dreamed of changing one day for them. While I still haven’t been successful, my sister and I work our hardest. Moving to SoCal, and being stubborn about accepting my offer at a university a ten-hour drive away from home was my attempt at doing so, just so they know I’m going to grow up to be successful. I needed a new network of people, and being restricted to a thirty mile radius from home is not going to let me have that. My sister is renowned in our family as the “strong-willed” sibling, and I, the “yielding” one. However, now is the time for me to be bold and put myself first, without feeling so ashamed of who I want to be. It was time they understood that there are so many other opportunities for me to grow outside of Sacramento, and that when in doubt, there will always be a choice — a new hobby, career, a new partner, a new different perspective. The famous line, “The Universe Is So Much Bigger Than You Realize” from Alpha Waymond embodies what I wanted my parents to have, that is just a simple understanding of how big the world can be for just their reluctance to grow, and that’s what I want to be for my parents. I want them to trust me: to know that I will one day repay their debts for having me and make some use of a degree they looked online to make $40,000 in California. I want them to see that I am brave and capable of navigating my way to a goal. I want them to be understanding, and I want them to support me. My life is only going to get bigger, and letting my parents grow with me is the only way they’ll know how big the opportunities in the world are. They are bigger than what their fears and comfort zone reduce them to, and I can only make the world a bigger place if I am given the space to. Editor: Chris F.

The first time I encountered Hurricane Kimchi (he/she/they) in person, I didn’t even really meet them. It was a humid June, the hustle of the city both gutting and tangible at once. Lorde blasting on the speakers: when summer slipped us, underneath her tongue. Two friends and I made plans to get ready together and go to Yagangaejang (야간개장, lit. night-time viewing/tour, colloquially referred to here as YGGJ), a queer block party-esque event taking place in the alleyways of Seoul’s Jong-ro district. June 2022 was the first time in three years it was being hosted, due to pandemic restrictions and other organizing complications. The Ikseon-dong alleys—normally home to trendy pop-up stores and cafes populated by young 20-somethings—transformed into something else entirely under the pride flags and bold pink-black decorations. Yagangaejang promised a night full of performances, workshops, a flea market, free HIV testing booths, and more; artist-activist Hurricane Kimchi, as part of Seoul Drag Parade, happened to be participating in the drag concert at Saladaeng Bangkok. The crowd at the venue was bigger than we’d expected, so we watched the show from outside with a smaller crowd of stragglers instead. Even though the sound was muffled by the floor-to-ceiling glass we were looking through, we cheered when the audience did and let our breaths fog up the window. Some small record of our presence here, however brief. I’d done my fair share of slinking into drag shows and gay bars as a teenager but this block party marked the first time I’d been back in Seoul after turning 19, the official age of majority. I felt far from an adult, but I finally had legitimate access to the sacred, transgressive space of nightlife—one deemed doubly deviant for not only refusing the confines of a 9-5 workday, but also for its frank presentation of desire, sexuality, and liberation. My friends and I have always talked about how to grow up queer in Korea is a form of grief. Our experiences were fraught with the loss of communities around us, the loss of being able to rely on our parents, the loss of a future in the country we were nonetheless entangled with. It was queer cultural workers and nightlife artists of all mediums who let me believe in a future. For many personal reasons, I am honored to be able to interview South Korean queer artist-activist Hurricane Kimchi; in addition to that, he continues to do amazing work in different areas that align with DAY values. Below are some snippets from our written exchanges, where we discuss creative processes, LGBTQ+ issues in Korea, and the personal and political stakes of activism. This project is a collaboration with DAY Prism, who have created the lovely graphics soon to be featured on our Instagram! Hurricane Kimchi (he/she/they), also known as Heezy Yang, is a self-described “South Korean drag queen, singer-songwriter, event organizer, illustrator, and LGBTQ+ rights activist.” Their most recent single, “The Journey” (가는 길이 있어요, lit. there is a way) came out in May and is available wherever music can be streamed. Eunice Kim [EK]: What was the process of writing and producing your latest song, “The Journey”? Who or what did you take inspiration from? Hurricane Kimchi [HK]: I’ve tried many different genres since I started producing my own music in 2020 – ballad, folk, EDM, pop-rock, holiday music, etc. People have said that I have a good voice and skills for singing Trot and I’ve actually performed covers of some Trot songs at shows before. So I’ve always wanted to try the genre with my own music too. So I wrote the song back in 2021 but it took 2 years for me to record everything and mix and master as it required a lot of work and input from a lot of talented people. I wanted to mix the older Trot vibe from decades ago and more recent vibe. I would say the sound may be more older/traditional but the wittiness of the song and the (upcoming) music video reflect the modern Korean music vibe. The lyrics really reflect what I’ve been thinking about life a lot in the past few years. I felt like people (including myself) were missing out a lot of important things and a lot of fun that are around us, because we are so focused on chasing shallow goals and going forward too fast. And like the song says, we lose some friends along the way, and we realize that we didn’t even get to say goodbye to them because we were so damn busy. So musically, I was very much inspired by the Trot genre, and lyrically I was inspired by my own life and what I was going through and experiencing in it. EK: My favorite song of yours is actually one that came out last year, “I Know Where You’ve Been” with Samuel Tolley; I looped it obsessively last summer! What were your intentions behind that song? Did you have an audience in mind? HK: It was actually a song that Samuel and I wrote, for a drag show we did together back in 2016. It was for just that one time. But as he was deciding to leave Korea after his time here, to go back home to the states, we wanted to have a little souvenir that contains our friendship and memories so we decided to record and release the song. As a person with chronic mental issues – depression and anxiety – I know how hard it can be to just hang in there when you are going through a tough time, and you feel alone, but actually I think the world is full of people who are all going through tough times and feeling lonely. I always feel comforted and better when someone says they have had a similar experience so they know how I feel and I will eventually get through this. So I wanted to say that to others through this song, hoping it would make them feel less alone and comforted. So the people who’d need to hear that they’re not alone would be the audience. My music or other art, I always consider LGBTQ+ people as one of the main audiences because I’m deeply in the LGBTQ+ scene and community myself, and I know what it’s like to live as LGBTQ+ people in this world. EK: In addition to being an amazing musician, you’re also a drag and visual artist who works with comics, prints, etc. Do you think working in multiple mediums has impacted how you create and view art? For instance, does your drag make its way into your music videos, or does having a visual arts background help you create looks for performing? HK: Having a background in visual art definitely helps with my drag, and vice versa. I think the more mediums you can use, the better you can express yourself. For me it’s easier to say certain things to certain audiences with music, live performance, and sometimes it’s better to explain who I am and what I think with different mediums – comics, posters, photos, etc. All the artistic mediums can be all just similar yet very different at the same time, so it’s fun to play with them all, and who says you can’t? So why not – that’s my mindset when it comes to being experimental with art and mediums. All my art is all connected – for example, my drag appears in my music videos, comics, and illustrations. It’s natural because the source is always the same – it’s me and my life. — Our conversation then shifted to the intersections of Korean and LGBTQ+ identity. Even the stage name of Hurricane Kimchi speaks to that juncture: when asked about it, he referenced BoA’s “Hurricane Venus,” a k-pop song he liked when just starting drag. Riffing off that phrase, he ended up “replacing Venus with Kimchi” to create a recognizably Korean name. “These days, everyone around the world knows about K-pop and K-culture, but nine years ago, it was a different story. The only thing people outside of Korea knew about Korea back then was kimchi, more or less.” This was a recurring theme in our conversation, and also resonated with my lived reality as a Korean American person. EK: In what ways do art and activism intersect for you? In what ways are they separate? HK: I initially started becoming interested in activism due to art – performances with messages, political illustrations and posters, etc. I thought that was cool, and thought I could try and do something like that, and so that’s what I’ve been doing. Like many people have already said to me, some people became aware of South Korea’s LGBTQ+-related issues thanks to my cute and simple comics. Some people became invested in some issues due to my drag performances. Just like that, art opens up easy entryways to activism I think. People may not read or understand long articles and news programs but they would happily read my comics and come and see my drag shows, and they understand what I’m trying to say with my art. In what ways are they separate? For me, some activism art comes out of me naturally, but for certain pieces or projects, I’d have to do a lot of research and studying – laws and political stuff. I wouldn’t say the two are separate but for me personally I just need to make an effort to connect the two in order to practice good activism with my art. EK: Recently, there has been a boom of Korean culture on a global scale. While this has been exciting, many outsiders tend to romanticize South Korea without thinking critically of its institutional flaws, which are especially evident to LGBTQ+ people here. What do you think about this attitude? How has it affected you as a queer South Korean artist? HK: First and foremost, we don’t even have an anti-discrimination law in Korea. That means you can discriminate against us for being gay, trans, and you can get away with it. You can be put in unfair situations for being a sexual minority and the authorities won’t do anything about it. You can lose your job, you can be kicked out of a bar, and sure there’s some things you may be able to do about it – call them out, try to fight them – but these things shouldn’t happen in the first place, and when these things happen, there should be a legal system that can handle them. We don’t have that. Same goes with xenophobia, racism, ableism, religious discrimination, etc. Korea has a long way to go, and it needs to be called out by the international society when it is wrong. Here’s what I said in a TikTok video I made a while ago: “All the cool, beautiful, amazing things you see in Korean dramas… well, they’re mostly made up. But all the terrible things you see in Korean dramas? They’re all true!” EK: I feel like international audiences are often not familiar with the challenges you mentioned, or the ongoing activism done by queer and trans people here. What are some current LGBTQ+ issues (victories, losses, landmarks) in Korea that you want to highlight? HK: In 2017, the Korean military used a gay dating app to find gay soldiers (Korea has a compulsory military service for “men”) and the soldiers were sentenced to two years in jail with probation. The legal battle went on for a long time, but the supreme court ruled in favor of the soldiers and they were found not guilty in 2022. Article 92-6 of the Military Criminal Act which was used to criminalize the soldier still remains. This year, after a long legal battle, the South Korean high court ruled that National Health Insurance Corporation should recognise a gay activist couple’s same sex common-law marriage. It was truly amazing news. But the National Health Insurance Corporation appealed so we will have to see what the supreme court says in the end, and in general same-sex marriages are not recognized in Korea. — Many Asian American individuals are familiar with the experience of (predominantly East) Asian culture used for aesthetics and “diversity” points, while our most vulnerable communities become further invisibilized as the dominant gaze fails to perceive them. The recognition of South Korean media and popular culture worldwide has created important visibility in some ways—it still amazes the older generations of my family, who came of age facing the direct aftermath of Japanese colonization, American war, and military dictatorship, that Korea is now a so-called global power in its own right. That I can go to college in America and be met with nods of recognition when talking about Seoul. Sometimes even excitement, both respectful and not. It’s clear that Korea now has a place in the Western imaginary. This imagination can be traced back to a long history of Orientalism. Even when explicit mistrust gives way to admiration, its foundations rely on the same logic of othering and alienating, refusing to see a land as inhabited by real people. We cannot talk about Korea without addressing the (South) in front of it, a divide created by US intervention and escalation in the “Korean” War. Similarly, it is this continuing militarism that allowed for a central Seoul and created the need for nightlife and other forms of transgressive entertainment in the area: the neighborhood of Itaewon, where many queer artists like Hurricane Kimchi now successfully live and work. Queer and trans performers were historically involved in highly unequal exchanges with US soldiers, and at the same time, able to congregate and organize in the physical space of Itaewon, which contributes directly to the wellbeing of queer Korean performers today. When I speak about queer grief, it is this complicated legacy—one example of many—that I grapple with. Coupled with the lack of comprehensive legal protections and institutional support that LGBTQ+ Koreans face, our realities cannot be simplified down to whatever the latest k-aesthetic is. It is crucial to make visible Korea’s larger systems, both historical and current, holding them accountable in a way that also humanizes the real people at stake. — EK: Where do you see LGBTQ+ activism going in the future? You can talk about your personal plans as an activist, more broadly about your community, or on larger scales. HK: (I will speak about Korea’s situation, specifically.) Not only do I know that there are so many fierce, hardworking, smart LGBTQ+ activists here, but also I know that the younger generations of this country are already so much more open minded and better educated on human rights issues, so I think things will definitely look up, and we all know things change very quickly in Korea. However, right now the people with political power and money are conservative older people and religious (mostly Christian) people. Even the liberal politicians in this country are homophobic, and our previous president who used to be a human rights lawyer stated that he is against homosexuality at a presidential debate on TV. So in the meantime, we will have to do everything we can to minimize the damage and reach out to and save those who are in need of help. EK: Finally, activist burnout is something I’ve had a lot of conversations about recently. We often feel a sense of urgency and forget our bodyminds have limitations. What do you do to take care of yourself? How do you sustain your activism while protecting your own capacity, especially as the status quo seems to get worse and worse? HK: I’m working on this but it’s so not easy! Burnout is one thing and I have to manage my chronic depression and anxiety as well. I’ve gotten better little by little in the past few years I think. I take some medications but I make sure I know what I’m taking and how they affect me and I think about how I would like to change my medicine consumption status over time, depending on how I’m doing. And also I started meditating recently and it really helps. And knowing and accepting that I’m not 20 something any more, and giving my body less work and more breaks is key I think! As a highly sensitive person, I do find all the things happening not just around me but around the world extremely exhausting, and that part gets worse and worse as I get older and I am aware of all the problems in this world. I’ve yet to find solutions for that but I plan on actively working on it! — This pride month, I want to think about queer futures; worlds where we survive and take care of our own. I remember my own younger self, watching hungrily from the sidelines, waiting for something I couldn’t have had the language to name yet. Queer grief is a blueprint. It means believing in something so hard you create it. — Follow Hurricane Kimchi online: Instagram: @hurricanekimchi, @heezyyang Linktree: linktr.ee/hurricanekimchi Portfolio: heezyyang.wixsite.com/hurricanekimchi Make sure to stream their music here and watch their latest music video here! Editors: Alisha B., Uzayer M., Luna Y., Lang D. Image Credits: PinkNews

take a cardboard box with base of roughly 300 square kilometres. secure only one of the edges with tape. remove any lingering hint of a breeze or the dwindling freshness of late spring. burn the piles of fallen leaves to a crisp. leave the smoke. start building. any stack of cards will work as walls. matchsticks too. construct them halfway only. at any given point at least 1 in 4 structures should be skeletal, either in the process of being broken down or rebuilt. leave little to no space to breathe. work on the roads now. you don’t have to do much but do it repeatedly. every summer, hammer them open just in time for the monsoon floods so the tar will never set. footpaths/overbridges are optional; no one will use them. pour plastic waste around the edges for a pop of colour. start adding people. made from toothpicks, flammable. in bunches around the corners, along the borders, until the weight starts pushing at the box. optional: draw on faces, remembering the heat. everyone is exhausted and just slightly apocalyptic. (traffic can be simulated using breadcrumbs and superglue.) make it so that an earthquake would kill 300 000, apprx. for best results, ignite the matches. fill the box with water. the floods will come and go. if the city falls apart, that’s part of the process. add a lid to brew humidity, let the car fumes coagulate. the sun should not be within reach, but should feel like it is. get creative! add a new airport (under construction), mall (abandoned project), metro railway (just opened!). begin development in the area meant for drainage (sewers are futile—it’s too late now). great for a summer swim. or substitute with lakes that are barely lakes, rather molten landfills. the sun should bring the odor to a boil. (at this point, the box should be spilling haphazardly outwards and possibly ablaze.) decorate with a coat of dust and a simmering sense of restlessness. Editors: Leila W., Erika Y.