people call me a pushover more than they say my name, judging me for my lack of confrontation or my need to get what they call closure. what they don’t know, though, are all the times my dad pushed me over. what they can’t answer is how a child is supposed to get up all on their own. i spent only 16 years hearing my dad’s voice, yet somehow my heart still flinches each time, even when his voice is as soft as the wind. somehow, the sound creeps into the cracks in my heart he made, and breaks it a little further. somehow, his “i love you”s still sound like an argument. my dad likes to be mad, so much so that he would always find a reason to do so. he would yell about every insecurity that that i could never even verbalize  until i realized it wasn’t that he knew my every insecurity,  he made my every insecurity. just like he tells me every day, he made me. so why did he make me like this? he hates to see me cry, and in my head, it’s because of his ‘dad instincts’ that caused him to only scream as tears ran down my cheeks, choking me in the river that followed. his ‘dad instincts’ caused him to scream louder as i continued to drown before i finally realized it wasn’t the tears i was drowning in but his screams. i am a pushover. i cling onto something, holding it as tightly as i possibly can, scared to let it go like a child is scared to let go of their dad’s hand, until, eventually, i realize it pushed me away. i was holding onto something that didn’t exist. just as my father pushed me over, this poem stopped being about my dad. it became a poem about ba. Editors : Blenda Y., Luna Y. Image source : Unsplash, Anubhav Arora

FOR THE LOVERS (regardless of who you love, but especially for those who love all) NOTE TO THE READER: The italicized sections are meant to be a story that can be read on its own, the non-italicized sections are the true stories that inspire the story. Please enjoy “City of Lost Love, Manitoba”! October 13th was the Homecoming Parade and American football game on campus. Cheer squads were showcasing weeks of work on their halftime routine to the upperclassmen, clubs and classes with their packed delegations walked the parade route, and royalty showed off their best looks before the King and Queen were to be crowned that night. And in the stands? A boy was recording a video to send halfway across the continent. A boy in love. A boy in his first boy love. It was a sweet moment, especially watching the reactions of the boy’s friends as they gushed over the boy’s first relationship since his last girlfriend. The recipient viewed the messages and videos of the performances and floats. Just nights before, he had done something similar by sending videos of his own dance team performances. But that’s all it was. Looking. Seeing. Seen. Seen 3 hours ago. Seen one day ago. Seen 2 weeks ago. • • • • • I’ve been told that it’s hard to match me with someone. Everyone who tries just can’t find someone that they think would fit. They insist that I deserve to love and to be loved, but it almost never amounts to anything. And they all mean well, but I just don’t know anyone around my age in our collective bubbles that I can see myself with.. Almost everyone who knew me during my freshman and sophomore year of high school knows the story of how I found out the girl I trusted with my trust, my guard, my heart, my everything… threw it all away through a couple of dumb mistakes. I swore off dating, save a few fleeting crushes on some girls and even fewer boys. (I hadn’t even quietly begun to accept that side of me until the summer into sophomore year.) I’ve also been told that I fall a little hard, but my quick-to-adapt nature makes that more of an asset than a liability. It’s after all of these things that I began to look further than the bounds of my county. Then the state. Then the time zone. Then the country. That’s when I found him. He’d found my Instagram through an online community for a video game we both enjoyed. He thought I was attractive, I thought he was cute. Turns out, we had a lot more in common than we initially thought. Junior year. September. I can’t even remember what we first talked about, but I know the conversation went on for hours. I remember finding out he’s Filipino, like me. Then I found out that he’s Kapampangan, like me. I found out that he’s a dancer, like I am. He’s a lover and a lover of music and a lover of energy and fun, like I am. He loved the way that fit me, and I loved in a way that fit him. We spent nights on the phone, days texting each other, showing our friends each other’s Instagrams, hopping on online FPS games with my best friend together… and then on that Homecoming night, he poofed. It took four full days for me to reach out. I didn’t receive any response. Not for another month. • • • A month prior. Two boys are walking alongside one another. One with his dog in an autumn California breeze. The other with his cat with intermittent showers in Manitoba. Both laughing, both with neighbors staring at them, both madly enjoying themselves and each other‘s company. The Californian looked into the eyes of the Canadian through the screen and realized at that moment that it was finally another good relationship. He’d been through the thick of it enough, it was time to finally have someone that reciprocated and listened and adapted and understood. Even if it’s a boy… So after discussing professional hockey and soccer, the Californian made it official. They were dating. They started their cross-border Spotify playlist that night. • • • • • This guy had a couple of issues at home and in school. They led him to make some decisions that weren’t optimal, but I accepted them about him because he was just worth it. He was kind, funny, definitely easy on the eyes, caring, and sweet. But diabetes runs in my family. A month after he disappeared, he messaged me. I was watching a Stephanie Soo video and I had, given the weeks, mostly moved on. He wasn’t on my mind anymore. But he just decided to come back. He apologized, not knowing why he did what he did. Did what he swore he’d never do. He swore he’d never destroy my trust and that he understood how hard it was for me to be so honest and raw with someone. He said he missed the times we spent together. He confessed that he missed me. One last thing for you all to understand, I’m a very forgiving person. I took him in as a friend, with a very clear and enforced boundary. He was gone again by the time my birthday came around. • • • And so I write this letter. This letter to a city thousands of miles from my own. I heard the story of these boys. It was one of laughter and joy and, of the utmost importance, love. But it was also one of broken trust, a disappearing act, and sequels nobody asked for. I write this letter to the City of Lost Love. The city where one boy proclaimed to the other that he was his first love. The city where that boy heard from the Californian that he wanted to spend their days together. The city where they danced together in each other’s kitchens, stopping to watch and admire the other for a few fleeting moments. The city that we now know to have hearts as cold as the weather. Because how could he play with a warm soul like that? How could he not think? And so the Californian, on this anniversary of the Canadian’s disappearance, writes this letter to the City of Lost Love. Because curse the City of Lost Love. You may ask if there is anything the Californian would like to tell the Canadian directly? He loved you. And if you came back, maybe he still would find a way to. • • • • • I loved you. And if you came back, maybe I still would find a way to. Before I send the letter, I need you all to understand to never give up on love. My story may sound sweet and tragic, but I have enough of those to fill a Reddit page or an hour-long video essay. We learn from our mistakes, don’t we? So LOVE. And don’t be afraid to LOVE. I’ve met closer, more local, boys and girls since this story that I met on my own — not because someone else (or they) told me to love them. I met and continue to talk to them out of LOVE. So, I ask you all, to LOVE. At worst? You’ll get a good story out of it. To whoever is meant to be mine, mahal kita. To the recipient of this letter, I want my hours of sleep back, I have a pitch tomorrow. To: Gian A. City of Lost Love Manitoba, Canada From: Vien S. NO RETURN ADDRESS - INTERNATIONAL POST Editors : Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image source : Unsplash, Warren & Claudio Schwartz

“One braised pork pho and one Vietnamese coffee, please.” It’s Tuesday and I had a counseling appointment. I chose the seat nearest the exit to feel the haunting closeness of a corner; I wanted to sense my back not quite reaching the boundary two walls would meet. The minute crevices and gaps that both provide and claw at your sense of space. I needed that feeling of a corner, as well as the breadth of empty tables to remind me that my lungs could carry the breath of an entire room. My back felt secure and my view felt expansive, even if I was in one of three restaurants on the market’s upper floor. It wasn’t unusual to sit with myself and the quiet I hungered to linger around me, but after ordering my meal I felt a docile heartbeat in my chest. My counseling appointment was little to no different in camaraderie, but skimming through the layers of scum that built up in my core was a more challenging task after such a difficult week; from holding back tears in a taxi to letting the gentle steam from warm pho bowls stroke the goosebumps away, it was a notable before and after. The Vietnamese coffee was a strong drip coffee that sits on top of a bed of condensed milk once completely filtered. The contrast between the two ingredients reminds me of a well-poured pint of Guinness, simply reversed. Caressing the edges of the conical coffee glasses was meditative, like I was continuously circling back to how unsafe I felt walking to work on Monday morning – a day when everyone was expecting riots to happen in the city centre. I worked my morning shift, walked home, and remained horizontal in my bed for most of the day, waiting for the world to exhale at once before the clock changed from 23:59 to 00:00. I didn’t bother checking the news about the riots until the following day. Soaking in the warm spiced soup, the braised pork had a pleasant chew, like softened elastic. The unctuous broth mass replaced the air pockets between every piece of meat, vegetable and carbohydrate. It added to the all-consuming feeling I felt when a serving of noodles slithered in parallel to my spine, or the way I wrapped the bowl with my hands to elude the hug I desperately needed, but would rather initiate with a piece of steaming crockery than a stranger. I work Sundays. On the Sunday before my appointment, I heard the lowered voices between my co-workers, attempting to avoid customers from hearing about the rioters planning to group up on Monday in the same area of our building’s location – the same Monday I was scheduled to work. It was eerie to catch half-spoken sentences from co-workers' voices that charmed their way into making me more social, the way they discussed the news like gossip. Like the weather forecast with hints of concern for what coat to choose, rather than if anyone working the following day felt safe to show up. If I felt safe to show up. I didn’t. After our shift, my only other BIPOC co-worker and I were light-heartedly discussing the way terrorists are and are not labeled depending on their skin tone; this was the banter between us as two young women digesting racism discourse after a long day of work. Meanwhile, if any of our white co-workers were concerned for our well-being in any capacity, I was not made aware of it. I waited for the bus with my co-worker and allowed my imagination to stew in the worst possible outcomes and scenarios for the following day on the walk home – letting them linger and entangle like noodles in half-consumed pho. The Vietnamese coffee tasted like a low-octave piano or jazz cello. Any bitter tones of rich steeped caffeine hummed in the back of my tongue, and sweeter notes sprang off the rim of the glass like the way cigarette smoke curled against dim lighting. Stirring the dairy into the coffee left like plucking strings or scooping the weight of a panna cotta onto a spoon, like it was sinful to disturb something seemingly immobile. It lacked grace or finesse from my hesitation but once the brown and cream colors were slowly homogenizing, it was as mesmerizing as a cello being spun at an axis by their skilled companion. Although I do miss the beauty and stature of the layer of milk, it was a fragile boundary between dairy and coffee that was both enticing and risky to disrupt. It enriched the coffee with a depth similar to adding salt to caramel or cherries to dark chocolate. It was an almost-solid form on the surface that was grounded by glass, similar to how I needed grounding from the weight of the blanket above me when I poured the tension in my body onto my bed after the Monday shift at work. The drip coffee that haunted above the milk was the same darkness I needed to fill my space when I turned the lights off in the middle of the day. I wanted my room to carry the entire breath of my lungs for me. Lying in my bed in the dark at noon was not the first time I thought desperately about the counseling appointments I anticipated. It was also not the first time I looked forward to having a soul-fulfilling meal after plucking vulnerability out of my head like someone learning to use chopsticks for noodles in broth. In my bed, I thought about the meal I would buy after my appointment, something I could pretend to hug – like a bowl of pho and a mug of coffee. I think about the oxygen I carried in the room whilst I had my meal, the distance between myself and the row of windows. I imagine it could have been a breath-taking view. The group of men sitting at the window had their own plates and glasses of drip coffee, and I sincerely wish they enjoyed it as much as I have. Heavy in my pocket are the delayed texts laced with the tender ‘take your time, no rush’ sentimentalities that at one point would have made me feel more guilty than reassured. I think about the fraction of fear I simmered in for over 24 hours in the greater topic of threatening South Asians and Muslims in their own home. So much weight – and as I imagine the view through the window and the next time I’d have the same meal, I imagine the rooms that carry my breath becoming briefly lighter, safer. I wish we all had full bellies and safe homes for more than 24 hours... Always. I wish our safety never had closing hours. Editors : Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image source : Unsplash, Jennifer Latuperisa-Andresen

a collection of conversations I’ve picked up on during my hectic days “You don’t have to make it perfect, you know?” “Yeah, I know.” “Then why are you doing just that?” “Because that’s just what I do.” “Do you wanna sit down for a second?” “Sure, I could use a break.” “Did you hear about Helen?” “Oh gosh, I hope that she and James can manage.” “Hey, I think your shoes are neat.” “Oh, thanks, I got them online.” “Well, have a good one, New Balance girl.” “Haha, thanks- uh- what are those? Hahaha…” “It’s a great day to have a great day.” “Good aftermorning, everyone!” “I can’t believe he could just up and do that to me… to us?” “Hey, it’s okay to just be you… be human…” ★ ★ ★ Sometimes we feel like we’re just passing by. Just drifting along down the lazy river or grand rapid of life. The quotes above are just little snippets of peoples’ lives that I’ll never really hear about again. But I feel more anchored than ever. Yeah, I might be drifting through these peoples’ lives as I go about my busiest days. But that doesn’t mean that their life is less important than mine. Or vice versa. We’re all just trying to find a way to be. No matter where we are. I’ll leave you to think now and pass by after one last snippet: “Vien, I am so sorry that this happened. They should’ve done a better job of letting everyone know, especially you.” “It’s okay! Really. I mean, I wanted to audition for my last go-around on that stage, but it’s really okay… I have–“ “No, it’s not okay. It’s not fine. You know you deserve to have at least had a shot and they didn’t want to provide you that. You did your part in asking them when auditions were, they withheld the opportunity. Trust me, you were in the right place on that stage and in that department… Don’t ever say that you didn’t belong there because you know you did.” “…You know, nobody’s ever apologized for them… not even our teacher.” “Well I’m glad I could’ve been the one to provide you that, despite how heart wrenching that is. Are you gonna be alright?” “I’m just gonna keep on keeping on. After all, I’m just being. Being me. Being the leader of my path. Being human. Just being.” Editors : Alisha B., Luna Y. Image Source : Unsplash, James Zwadlo

Wish:  one word. one’s dreams. one’s longings. My own wishes; my precious   wishes. Don’t tell your wishes or else they won’t come true… …maybe that’s why I stay silent about my wishes. In my younger years, I would wish for the simplest of things-  Asking for shooting stars and birthday candles for what I believed would make me the happiest. Silly wishes… Silly girl. My younger self’s rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes.  My perspective confined to a mind that was small, happy, and beautiful. Happiness was measured in simplicity and emotions.  I wish I could go back sometimes. I became older; time passed too quickly. My eyes widened to see the real world. Unrelenting,  but, at times,  magnificent. Happiness was still important, but getting harder to maintain. I still loved simplicity, but everything else was more complicated. I wish someone could have provided the comfort I sought. I can’t believe another year of my life is coming to an end. And I’m amazed that another year is about to start. All of those wishes; I remember every single one… …some I am still wishing for. I wish that I will continue to hold them close to my heart. I gaze at my younger self, I wish I could tell her what I know now.  I wish I loved every part of me unconditionally in the moment. So, to all the versions of me; Happy birthday to us. I hope all your wishes come true. Editors : Luna Y., Alisha B. Image Source : Unsplash, Nikhita Singhal

growing up, me and mẹ only ever spoke on one day: sundays. on the drive home from church, we would go to the sam's club 5 minutes away from our abode. we would feast. leading up to the day, mẹ always had a clouded look in her eyes. maybe it’s just my memory, but she never quite looked like my mom. she only ever looked exhausted. the drive to church was always quiet. mẹ and ba refused to even look at each other, as our family of 5 was cramped into a small white car. i still remember counting the amount of clouds in the sky, hoping, one day, the number would be enough to break the silence. ba would drop us off at sam's club, rarely ever coming inside. our adventure began by admiring the outside of the store for just a bit, appreciating the exterior. the blue and white building glared back at us, looking for any red; there never was any. pushing through the doors, we always had to help mẹ. she would ask chị to push the cart as me and she marched through the store. suddenly, it became our territory; it became home. we would jump from station to station, gawking at the assortment of food they had. “gia hon! ở đây! ở đây!” come here, come here stuffing our mouths with the greasy spreads of samples, our tummies filling. mẹ was always careful to make sure we bought something, even if our money didn’t come in a red color. some days, it was a random item she saw on sale. other days, it was an essential that our small apartment had gone a month without. the items, though, were always small compared to the cart. even as we went through the long checkouts of me and chị acting as translators, i could never find it in myself to complain. i would look into my eyes and the fog was gone. she still didn’t look like my mom, though, more like me; like a child. sam’s club sundays were me and my mother’s playground. once we left, the childish wonder did too. i held her hand tighter as my father’s white car pulled up. Editors : Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image source : Nikita Chetyrin, Unsplash

*Prose in poetic tone about being afraid of love in all forms (romantic, family, etc) Love is fragile, Delicate, gentle, beautiful, tender… Desire… Dream… Diminish. I cannot fathom love. No bounds nor judgment; limitless. Love of any kind feels like a leap of faith. A risk that may lead to the greatest outcome, but failure guarantees everlasting scars. My own blood and soul broke my heart countless times; Can I truly promise to love unconditionally? I wish I could hold you close, I dream that I can purely let go, I beg to let my heart soften. But my darling, don’t you see? What I long for differs drastically from what I know. Kindness; It’s why I stay, Yet it’s all of what I fear. Whispers of comfort against my hair, Warmth of dreams in the midnight chills, Gazes of our future held within our eyes. We go through hell and back, Sink or swim, you or me; both. You love me; It’s overwhelmingly powerful. And I love you too… …I love you… And I’m scared… I’m frightened. But, my love, you will not understand. A sense of harmony— actually— A melody— Melodies I now understand. The closest to heaven I can get to in this world. But, I know me. Lingering taunts from memories, Nightmares of disruption, All lie within me; I may be the one that you shouldn’t need. Tip-toe; Cautious and quiet. Myself and my self. Two words; one degree of separation. Tip-toe around the danger, Hoping my balance will last a little while longer. I try to soothe myself, saying I can learn to rely on you for balance, Maybe even learn to walk on my feet. But I know that if it fails, I’ve inevitably lost you. So, please carry on your deep slumber. Immerse yourself in your own wonderland. I’ll tip-toe away; It will be my last gesture of love to you. Editors : Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image Source : Mohamed Nohassi, Unsplash

Many, if not all of us, are children of immigrants and yet many of us are quick to forget to care for our elders in our pursuit of the American dream. Our aging community of elders resign themselves to the dangers of living life on our side-walk, and as I traverse the streets of San Francisco in my day to day, I cannot help but notice the elders who have made the public their home. With no other solution, they resign themselves to the sidewalk, the park bench, and the alleyway. The rising rate of homelessness among California’s older adults is clear to see and the case worsens for many of our elders who face additional challenges such as limitations of language fluency–which so often is the case for our immigrant parents. Limited English fluency, healthcare, fixed incomes, limited social services, all this and more complicates our elders’ access to resources and support at a very vulnerable period. Moreover, I am sure that I do not happen to be the first to take notice of the elders who sleep in our streets, the elders who look like our grandparents, our aunties, our uncles–our family.  In a nation such as the United States, arguably one of the world powers, we have an incomprehensible indifference to our own people. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, nearly 327,000 unhoused individuals lived in shelters. The figure, an extraordinarily large number for such a prosperous country fails to consider those beyond our shelter walls. The demographic characteristics of this group heavily impact adults, specifically those between the ages of 18-64, which applies to nearly 85% of unhoused individuals in the United States. At 18-64, we should be establishing ourselves in the world. At this time, we should be making a change in the world as new adults, as adults, as elders, and yet we aren’t. The individuals which should actively be changing the world are instead relegated to a life unfulfilled. We are failing our people, and more specifically, we are failing our adults–those with lifetimes of knowledge to share are abandoned by our State.  The issue of a rising elderly homeless population applies beyond the United States, noticeably in Asia, as South Korea’s elders face a mirror epidemic. In South Korea’s capital of Seoul, a generation which rebuilt South Korea following the Korean war is threatened by the growing rate of elderly poverty as about half of the country’s elderly live in relative poverty according to the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development(OECD). The OECD further elaborates that South Korea is ranked as the country with by far, the highest rate of impoverished elderly among the 34 developed nations of the group. Even as our countries advance, our elders are left behind. It is adamantly clear that within the vast technological and economical advancements made everyday in some of the most developed countries in the world, such changes led by the youthful visionaries of our nations have abandoned the thought of their parents in the process. Too frequently, their American children have resigned themselves to the indifference which is so often encouraged in American society, the idea that hyper-independence and indifference to community is what gets you ahead is deadly. I see this in my peers, an indifference and tightly woven tension between themselves and their parents. This is the seed which shall grow into a deep indifference for our elders, a dismissal of our filial duties in favor of personal gain, a disregard towards the dreamers who sought a better life for their children. Though not all immigrant parents are perfect, and I am sure we are very familiar with the difficulties we as a younger generation face in the dialogues between ourselves and our parents, we however cannot allow such differences to obstruct our shared humanities. We needed our parents growing up just as much as they need us as they grow older. We cannot let American individualism obstruct that which is embedded within us and our souls. Editors: Susan L., Joyce P. Image: Unsplash Footnotes: 1: Glassman, Brian. “Nearly 327,000 in U.S. Lived in Emergency and Transitional Shelters.” U.S. Census Bureau , 27 February 2024, https://www.census.gov/library/stories/2024/02/living-in-shelters.html . Accessed 6 October 2024. 2:  Novak, Kathy. “‘Forgotten’: South Korea’s elderly struggle to get by.” CNN , 23 October 2015, https://www.cnn.com/2015/10/23/asia/s-korea-elderly-poverty/index.html . Accessed 6 October 2024. 3: Hu, Elise. “A Forgotten Generation: Half Of South Korea's Elderly Live In Poverty.” NPR , 10 April 2015, https://www.npr.org/sections/parallels/2015/04/10/398498496/a-forgotten-generation-half-of-s-koreas-elderly-live-in-poverty . Accessed 6 October 2024.

When my parents were living together for their very first year after immigrating to the United States in 2001, they witnessed 9/11 from a city just 4 hours of a drive away from them. Although I wasn’t alive yet, I’d always absentmindedly wondered if seeing an event like 9/11 had, at least somewhat, jaded their perspectives on the country of their dreams. A place they’d given up their entire life in China for the idea of a future in, so soon terribly afflicted– trouble in paradise, as I might call it now. Their entire time in the United States has been in a post-9/11, Bush-affected era– as non-White immigrants. When my parents moved me into my dorm at Barnard College last year, they were thrilled that I’d transferred to such an amazing school at such an amazing university. I remember my mother, age creasing in the corners of her eyes, smoothing my hair back as she smiled and told me in Chinese: “You can be whatever you want to be here. No one will stop you. Every opportunity is at this school.”  My parents were students in high school when they witnessed the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre , not much younger than I was when I watched the NYPD descend upon my classmates on the Columbia University campus last spring , as they protested against the genocide in Palestine. As their first child, I know– without having to ask– that a large part of what they wanted for the future of their family was a better, freer education. One in which, I know they hoped, would allow their children to speak their mind without the fear of being silenced via arrest. As the Barnard school year began, a part of me remained hopeful that I’d made my parents proud– that I’d finally given them a glimpse of what they’d done it all for. It almost felt surreal to watch the actions of the Columbia University administration and the NYPD last spring. I felt as though it wasn’t just my dream of being an Ivy League scholar, someone to brag about in WeChat circles, had been warped and shattered– it was also my parents’ dream, destroyed by the hands of the police force and Western administration. Would it always be within us, to know when something was wrong, and yet be faced with pushback when we tried to voice it? I reckoned a lot, in the following days of the arrests, on not only what I had done it all for, but what they had, too. It broke my heart, in a deeply intimate manner, when I received text after text from my parents, begging me to stay away from campus and to lay low. The fears that they had about my potential arrests seemed to slice through layers leading back to what they’d seen so many years ago, in Tiananmen Square. It was disturbingly unfair, I’d thought; they’d given up so much for my education and my freedom. And, like how their American Dream began, in the States post-9/11, I saw it lay dying with the efforts to silence student voices across the nation.  My parents moved away from China because they wanted somewhere that they, and their eventual children, could speak their minds freely, even if it was a dissenting opinion against bureaucratic measures to silence them. And the actions of the police and Columbia University administration, in brutally arresting the students in the encampments and Hind’s Hall  last spring, failed to break the cycle of oppression in student activism. Editors: Joyce P., Jayden T. Image: Unsplash

in vietnamese, mỹ trắng  means white american. growing up, i thought it meant american because we weren’t american.  americans don’t eat what we ate.  the dining table was filled with an array of foods and rich smells.  different meats and soups left no space for the imagination and at the center, there was always a huge bowl of rice, still steaming and freshly cooked. the only thing that was missing were people to eat the meal. i sat at the table alone as a child, waiting for someone to come. mẹ  and ba didn’t work a 9 to 5 like other parents and spent most nights away, somewhere. as i watched the steam begin to disappear into nothing from the huge bowl of rice, i wondered if the steam was similar to my family’s relationships.  slowly disappearing into nothing because americans aren’t alone.  americans didn’t work the jobs we worked.  ba and mẹ  spent their days polishing nails and painting them pretty colors.  they spent their time giving other luxuries that they couldn’t buy themselves.  with their knees sore and hands blistered, i felt shame rise in my stomach.  i tried to release the nausea by saying something- anything.  so i said that they did something “important”.  in my childish head, important meant the lady in a white jacket that i saw once a year or the man in bulky suits with large cases to match them.  in contrast, my mom could always be seen with fancy dresses that came from fake materials while my dad wore whatever money could buy in that moment.  i lied about my parent’s occupation because americans are important and americans don’t wear cheap clothes.  americans didn’t look like us.  as a child, i viewed america like a blank piece of paper, ready to be written on and filled with ideas and possibilities. america is like a blank piece of paper because it is white.  only on a white background could someone be american,  and we weren’t white.  my paper, my canvas, was an ugly de-morphed color that had no potential.  i wasn’t meant to become anything but the blank canvas with splotches of beige brown and any color but white.  i spent my childhoods stuck reading and looking at the white papers that surrounded me.  reading about what americans would become, but not being possible of the dream myself.  at some point, i finally understood the words between the splotches of color on the canvas that was me even if americans aren’t asian.  sometimes i wonder whether there is a true distinction between mỹ and trắng .  there was always a correlation between the two in my head, unable to be erased. as my lips pushed against each other to make the first syllable, i found my teeth vibrating in unison.  america and white felt as correlated as the rice and meats i ate, they were polished and perfect like the designs my parents hunched over tables to create, and these facts ring in my head as i flip through the pages of my history books.  in vietnamese, trắng means white.  in english, white is only a shade that lives amongst the bursts of color in the world.  the white clouds were only scenery compared to the blue sky and yellow sun that illuminated the clouds.  my eyes were always a black shade that only turned a chocolate brown in a reflection, not the white shade that surrounded my pupils.  americans may be white, but i somehow felt like the shade under their color. maybe the issue wasn’t the lack of mỹ in myself but the lack of myself in trắng .  maybe, i’ll get to be american. Editors: Luna Y., Alisha B. Image: Unsplash

The following piece may contain spoilers for any books mentioned. “We can go to Waterstones, your favorite bookstore!”  There were two key pillars that my parents and I almost always visited during our outings around the southwest of England like an unspoken checklist and an increasing tally no one was keeping track of: the first was TK Maxx, the second was Waterstones. I once lost Sammy, my precious labrador plushie and the only childhood pet I had, by accidentally leaving him in a Waterstones in Bath. I still cringe at the visual of my Dad calling the bookstore with you know how ridiculous this is, right?  reverberating in his side glare.  Waterstones was a precious safe haven of books we treated ourselves to by purchasing at the full retail price, like the time Dad bought me a copy of Under The Dome by Stephen King which I still haven’t read to this day because the page count vastly overwhelms me.  This time, I grimaced at Dad’s implication that Waterstones was my favorite bookstore, it hasn’t been for a long time. The moment I relaxed back into a ‘resting sad face’, I suddenly questioned ‘when was the last time I went inside   a Waterstones and bought something?’  Three years.  I graduated months before a global pandemic and lacked the urge to pay for books at full price that I couldn’t guarantee ever opening, let alone reading and finishing the book. Student debt and a full bookcase drained any electrifying thrill I had involving the risk of purchasing a book full price with the cloying hope that I would like it enough to keep it. After months of dragging my feet through the ink to finally complete a story, I would have long surpassed the window that would have offered me my money back with a proof of purchase.  Libraries are the glowing guardian that solves this risk for me. Don’t like the book? Just give it back to the library, hopefully the next person that waited 3 months after I ran out of chances to renew a book will appreciate the copy more than I ever did.  So what makes me want to buy a book? What is the key factor that makes me take the risk, spend my money and happily keep a new book (that I shouldn’t have bought and didn’t have space for) in the first place?  The cover.   Publishers such as Penguin Random House  decide a significant amount of time working with multiple professionals involved in different stages of the manuscript-to-shelf process of publishing a book. It is the,  “window into its story, and might be the reason a reader first picks it up. The art of conveying an entire manuscript into a single image, and making sure it's targeting the right audience, is a task taken on not just by designers, but by editors and the marketing, sales and production teams.” (Penguin) Judging a book by its cover in the non-metaphorical sense is valid, and arguably necessary , because teams of people aim to a) communicate the story before you consider opening its pages, and b) entice the audience.  I grew up in a household that loved visual culture, from operatic performances to photography to children’s books – the way a story was told visually was a primary part of my enjoyment. I grew with a hunger to like what I see  in terms of the content I consumed, including books.  This year, I recognized the extent to which I was selectively purchasing books. I intend to keep the books I enjoy for as long as possible, and for books to be rewarded with the opportunity to be on my shelf, their cover needs to be the first step in impressing me. So which books have succeeded in this challenge and why?  The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya, Volume I , Reimena Yee (2020)  Image source: Waterstones “Reimena Yee is a strange and fancy illustrator, writer, and graphic novelist from the dusty city of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.” – Seance Tea Party, 2020 It was the year of the long March, lockdowns were fully enforced and I was finally experiencing what it was like to exist without academic stress and deadlines pressing a cavern into my sternum. Like many probably had, I coped with online shopping.  During a doom scroll on Instagram in June 2020, Hazel Hayes’s anticipated release of Out of Love introduced me to Unbound , a crowdfunding publisher and my newest lockdown obsession.  After purchasing Out of Love , the first book campaign I pledged to was Gender Euphoria: Stories of joy from trans, non-binary and intersex writers . My second pledge was The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya: Volume II ; this was my second pledge after discovering volume I was an Unbound project that was already successfully published.  What was increasingly obvious in this piece is that I love illustrated books, and Yee’s book covers exhibit how illustrated books can communicate their medium with their cover. The organic shapes and detailed linework signify to potential readers that The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya is illustrated fiction produced by the author and the illustrator. The decision to design the title of the book with a handwritten typeface continues to demonstrate that the illustrator of this story extends beyond the cover and the hand-drawn qualities of this cover will be found in the content as it is a graphic novel.  I particularly love the contrasting jewel tones of the vampiric vermillion red and the rich pansy purple that are tied together with the gold details and the clothing worn by our main characters on the cover. There is a level of opulence that resonates with the intricacy of carpet making. Our carpet-merchant-turned-vampire takes front stage on the cover, encased on the night sky and deep color palette similar to how he is now cursed with the vampire traits and lifestyle.  Although we are primarily carried through the story by him, the fact that the cover illustrates him holding his wife’s hand from behind. In terms of visual hierarchy, she is the first visual element our eyes are likely drawn to. She stands taller than her husband, positioned in the middle of the cover and framed by an arch with a glowing cream background that emphasizes her presence like a halo.  Arguably, it signifies that the carpet merchant may be at the forefront of the story, but his wife is just as important, she has got his back (in all senses) to support and ground him even though he can transform into a flying creature in the night. He is the protagonist, but she is his center.  For a graphic novel about a man’s struggle with his Muslim faith after he is turned into a vampire, the book cover doesn’t contain overt iconography of vampire stories. Instead, it conveys a grounded love blanketed by a night sky. And once you read the book, you realize that was the core to the story after all.  The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain , Kazo Ishiguro, Illustrated by Bianca Bagnarelli (2024) Image Source: WHSmith “Kazuo Ishiuro’s works of fiction have earned him many honours around the world, including the Nobel Prize in Literature and the Booker Prize. His books have been translated into over fifty languages and The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go – both adapted into acclaimed films – have sold well over two million copies in the English language alone.”  – The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain , 2024 Okay, fine, I admit it! I admit that I got influenced by the powers of Faber & Faber and bought three books and an enamel pin from their TikTok shop! My one and only purchase on the TikTok shop included this book of ‘Lyrics for Stacey Kent’ by Ishiguro with illustrations from Bagnarelli. It is also my first and only purchase of a book by the Japanese-born British writer but I am familiar with his simply by the covers.  One of the ‘tells’ in the book cover design that connected me to the author, despite this being an illustrated book, is the typeface used. Although placed at the top third of the book cover with the name extending to one line, instead of being placed at the bottom third in two lines as shown in this book bundle advertised by Faber & Faber , the typeface is the same.  This demonstrates the importance of cover design for authors in terms of visual associations. I have never remembered his name, but by recognizing the typeface I knew it was the same author. An important piece of design that assists with building an audience for the author in the book market.  Another significant departure from existing cover designs for Ishiguro’s works is the illustration. Rather than a palette with as little as four colors and a borderless square illustration situated in the middle third of the cover, The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain has a detailed image of a couple on a train platform with black linework and a more extensive color palette. Furthermore, the illustration occupies more than half the space on the cover, which therefore consumes the majority of our attention. The story in the image is told to us before we recognize the author’s name.  The pillar on the platform is placed in the left third of the space and creates a vanishing point for readers to then notice other details, such as the train at the edge of the front cover and the clock. Likely, we then lift our attention to the only people on the platform, a couple dancing. Additionally, it is in stark contrast to pastel blue sky, which is almost bleached in color the same way our eyes register light and shade or a camera overexposing bright areas to compensate for lightening details in darker elements.  Surrounded by this bright sky is a couple shadowed under the platform. Referring back to the way a camera attempts to balance light and shade, the couple is largely a silhouette in comparison to the details of the environment. Even their light summer clothing and linework is covered in shade and their backs are turned away from most of the natural lighting, which creates an illusion that the couple are one shade, they are so intimately close in this public space, that they appear as one unified form in the sun-bleached space.  This starts to illustrate the many ways Ishiguro writes about intimacy. Furthermore, it emphasizes to readers that this is a work of Ishiguro, but is a departure from the familial book covers and text-only fiction. It is a collection of lyrics with accompanying illustrations, which I would have not known Ishiguro for as a passive viewer in a shopping setting; this was what made it all the more intriguing for me when I bought it. How does Ishiguro write for a tune, rhyme or melody? And how does Bagnarelli draw music that has yet to be heard by potential readers?  Polaris , Meyoco (2020) Image Source: Amazon UK “Meyoco is an illustrator based in Southeast Asia who has gained popularity mainly on social media. Natural elements such as flowers, waves, leaves, stars, and bubbles are suddenly infused with a cute and lovely quality when Meyoco colors them in pastels.” – Amazon UK If Ishiguro’s The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain drew me in as a reader with its typeface, Meyoco’s Polaris brilliantly markets to their primary audience with what they are known for – their art.  I followed Meyoco’s Instagram  and Twitter X  account for many years due to their enamel pins, a new wearable trinket I started collecting during my sentence time at University. This meant that when I spotted their tweet announcing pre-orders for their own artbook, I immediately wanted to try and get myself a copy.  What’s remarkable about Meyoco’s book cover is that it encapsulates almost everything you could possibly know about how and what Meyoco draws. A feminine presenting person with bubblegum pink hair adorned with gems and celestial shades, they're wearing a spacesuit with plumes of clouds occupying the leftover spaces in their helmet. Surrounding them beyond the helmet is a watery sky and terrarium-style jellyfish floating in the peripherals.  In my opinion, the primary elements of Meyoco’s work can be found in this one image alone, and elements can cross over into almost any of the sections Meyoco categorized this book into: fashion, floral and botanical, crystals, ocean life, the day and night sky, clouds, celestial items and a dreamy combination or pastel pink, coral, teal, and navy.  All of these elements aren’t necessarily drawn in every piece of Meyoco’s art, but this cover manages to demonstrate each subject in a succinct, detailed, and mesmerizing illustration.  How The Stars Came To Be , Poonam Mistry (2019) Image Source: Tate “Poonam Mistry is a freelance illustrator living in the UK. [...] Poonam’s upbringing and childhood have heavily influenced her work, in particular being surrounded by Indian fabrics, Kalamkari textiles, Madhubani paintings and hand painted ornaments. [...] She loves folklore tales and stories of Hindu Gods and Goddesses and these have been a rich source of inspiration in a number of her illustrations.” – Tate Shop   During a visit to see my best friend, we went on a museum date at the Tate Modern. Part of tradition, we hunted for treasures in the gift shop. Instantly, I was enamored by a gorgeous halo of celestial illustrations supported by a contrasting navy background catching the corners of my attention.  Although I did not have the budget to purchase it on the day, I later bought a signed copy on the Tate website. It fits snugly on my shelf and fully encapsulates one of my favorite styles of drawing and subject matter: gilded sun, moon and stars on a navy background.  My earliest memories of this vintage imagery would smell like,  “sparkling fruits embraced by sensual oriental accords. At heart is the warmth of sun-loving heliotrope, and the voluptuous character of night-blooming jasmine, orange blossom and narcisse”.  At least, that’s what Wikiparfum  would describe the scent of my mother – more notably, the discontinued Sun Moon Stars Eau de toilette by Karl Lagerfeld. Throned in a square cardboard box would be a nautical navy bottle embossed with celestial imagery in the glass, crowned with a topical kiss of brush textured gold on the lid. Aside from the (also discontinued) Sunflowers by Elizabeth Arden, this was the scent of elegance, grace, and the most gilded soul to raise me.  Historically, the earliest astrological depiction found so far in the West is the Nebra Sky Disk . According to the State Museum of Prehistory in Germany, the bronze disk has been on show in their permanent exhibition since May 2008 and,  “shows the world’s oldest concrete depiction of astronomical phenomena that we know. Elements of the day and night sky mingle in front of an abstract network of stars. [...] It is here for the first time recorded as a central mythical symbol in Europe. The Sky Disc gives us an insight into the knowledge of our ancestors about the course of the world and its religious interpretation 3,600 years ago.” Both a highly treasured thousands-year-old bronze disk and my Mom’s eau de toilette demonstrate our fascination with the night sky, and the urge to immortalize it for all times of day. Which leads me to Mistry’s cover.  The love of nature and Indian culture is written like a devoted lover’s endless letter on a scroll with the way that Mistry covers the front of the book with so much care, attention, detail, and adoration for the subject matter.  Arguably, the composition of the middle third is constructed of three spheres; the first is the glorious dazzling and elaborate sun, the second is the title which is the only area of the cover largely untouched by stars to allow readers to focus onto the title, the third is the feminine presenting character grounded by Mistry’s name at the bottom of the cover. This trio column of spheres demonstrates a hierarchy of elements most important for the audience to pay attention to, and coincidentally reflects a similar composition to that of the box  that my Mum’s Sun Moon Stars perfume would sit in.  As rich as the gorgeous illustrations on the cover, this is a folktale about a Fisherman’s daughter that loves to dance who brings light to the nighttime for her Father to travel home safely with assistance of the celestial. Similarly to my favorite childhood book, Mary Hoffman’s Sun, Moon and Stars  (it’s a wonder I love this imagery so much!), How the Stars Came to Be  is a way to introduce alternative stories about how the earth and universe was created, informed by culture and oral tradition that was eventually written down. Especially with Mistry’s background, this book can offer children a new perspective of their world through the lens of Indian storytelling and artistry, as well as providing older audiences an invigorated feeling of nostalgia and familiarity with the influences Mistry draws from.  And I think that’s a central pillar as to why this book was so captivating to me on cover alone; I was able to unite the nostalgia of gold and navy celestial imagery from small everyday items in my upbringing with a contemporary children’s book that, to an extent, is likely inspired to do the same for multiple audiences with Indian culture and illustration. I didn’t just see a feminine presenting character on this dazzling cover, I saw myself amongst my favorite things. Something that many children and adult South Asians could experience too. That’s why diversity is valuable in our books, writers and illustrators – the implicit desire to see ourselves  in stories. Which brings me to my concluding remarks. Conclusion: Stories on a Shelf Based on all these books that have been written and illustrated by incredibly insightful and creative Asians, what story do they tell about me? When someone sees these displayed on my bookshelf, what does my story look like? What do I cohesively like about these books that make me want to buy them simply for their covers?  I admit it! I love book covers and they are important to me almost as much, if not more, than the content of the book. Demonstrated by my case studies of four books, I prioritize illustration. Based on my personal interests, what invigorates me to spend my money are books dedicated to visual storytelling as much as textual.  What’s even more valuable to me is that my chosen case studies are created by incredibly skilled Asian writers and Illustrators, who without I wouldn’t have books from the perspective of a Muslim vampire, or illustrated lyrics from a well-loved author, or an anthology of works created over the years by an illustration star of social media, or a book that reflects back what I, amongst many others, are so historically fascinated by – the sun, moon and stars.  It can be argued that the selection I have analyzed (and highly recommend) are compartmentalized illustrations that signify the varied love I have specifically for illustrated books – whether it be bright pastels with soft edges, geometric shapes with strong gold/navy contrast, or the feeling of intimacy personified between two people.  That being said, I would also add that it reflects what I want to see on the shelf, and I believe analyzing my love for How the Stars Came to Be managed to formulate this conclusion into words.  Even if it’s not wholly myself nor how I look, I love knowing that the people behind these stories are achieving a goal to produce work that is for Asians by Asians. It can vary from illustration style, color palette, composition, and genre, which provides more reason to celebrate the increasing variety in illustrated works by BIPOC writers and artists. Judge a book by its cover – it may help you learn more about your story as well as the story you’ve yet to read.  Editors: Blenda Y., Luna Y. Image: Unsplash Bibliography (No date) Meyoco . Available at: https://www.instagram.com/meyoco/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Gillett, F. (2021) Nebra Sky Disc: British museum to display world’s ‘oldest map of stars’ , BBC News . Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-58946633  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). How book covers are designed  (2021) Penguin Books UK . Available at: https://www.penguin.co.uk/articles/company-article/how-book-covers-are-designed  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). How the stars came to be  (no date) Tate . Available at: https://shop.tate.org.uk/how-the-stars-came-to-be/22509.html  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). How the Stars Came to Be by Poonam Mistry  (no date) Waterstones . Available at: https://www.waterstones.com/book/how-the-stars-came-to-be/poonam-mistry/9781849767811  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).  Karl Lagerfeld Sun Moon Stars  (no date) Notino . Available at: https://www.notino.co.uk/karl-lagerfeld/sun-moon-stars-eau-de-toilette-for-women/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).  Kosann, M.R. (2022) History of Sun, Moon & Stars Jewelry , Monica Rich Kosann . Available at: https://www.monicarichkosann.com/blogs/journal/moon-stars-jewelry-history?srsltid=AfmBOorS93VO6ckYUtGHsdBDMeugDDUq5T-UbS6JIc7TW7Bri3aaKwQZ  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Lundin, K. (2021) Indie community: Reading books by their covers , PublishersWeekly.com . Available at: https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/authors/pw-select/article/86632-indie-community-reading-books-by-their-covers.html  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). meyo 🌸 CF19 AB-19  (no date) X (formerly Twitter) . Available at: https://x.com/meyoco_?t=P7n3q8imtQUcZA2PKqUETQ&s=09  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Nebra Sky Disc  (no date) Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte . Available at: https://www.landesmuseum-vorgeschichte.de/en/nebra-sky-disc  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Sun Moon stars perfume by Karl Lagerfeld  (no date) Wikiparfum . Available at: https://www.wikiparfum.com/en/fragrances/sun-moon-stars-1  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).  The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya, Vol. I by Reimena Yee | Waterstones  (no date) Waterstones . Available at: https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-carpet-merchant-of-konstantiniyya-vol-i/reimena-yee/9781783525775  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The carpet merchant of Konstantiniyya: Vol. I  (no date) Unbound . Available at: https://unbound.com/books/the-carpet-merchant-voli  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The importance of a stand out book cover  (no date) Limelight Publishing . Available at: https://www.limelightpublishing.com/blogs/news/cover-design#:~:text=It%20is%20a%20direct%20reflection,a%20part%20of%20your%20story . (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The summer we crossed Europe in the rain  (no date) Waterstones . Available at: https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain/kazuo-ishiguro/9780571378876  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain  (no date) WHSmith . Available at: https://www.whsmith.co.uk/products/the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain-lyrics-for-stacey-kent-main/kazuo-ishiguro/hardback/9780571378876.html?gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAjw7s20BhBFEiwABVIMrRXXea-Fz1u25BlZQ5GytAmi8TunSN6LkoQ9V-XFBicW6zL3Eh5-cRoCYvoQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The summer we crossed Europe in the rain: Lyrics for Stacey Kent by Kazuo Ishiguro  (2024a) Faber . Available at: https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571378876-the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The summer we crossed Europe in the rain: Lyrics for Stacey Kent by Kazuo Ishiguro  (2024b) Faber . Available at: https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571378876-the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).

~ Our dining room table is falling apart. That may come as a surprise, as no one would expect anything wrong with it. A perfect exterior, no visible signs of wear and tear or damage; nothing that reveals the true age and life of the small wooden table confined to our dining room. Oh how looks can be so deceiving… It’s always the seemingly ordinary that have more to their story. ~ Our dining room table is falling apart.  I have my grandparents to thank for the dining table in the first place. Their first big purchase with money earned through menial labor; both claim to have bought it in the hopes that they would one day have a family to gather around it.  A physical manifestation of a wish; prayers and shooting stars were rarely effective. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t afford any chairs to go with them at the time, the pure act of owning the table brought them satisfactory pleasure. Temporary pleasure, one could argue, but pleasure nonetheless.  Pleasure, purpose, and drive.  And pride. The most satisfying pleasure of all; pride.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. Our family didn’t have chairs for the longest time; maybe that should have been my first sign that something was wrong. At some point, a difficult decision was made to journey across the Pacific Ocean. A journey that began in a land of strict customs and traditions, slowly transitioning to a western-opinioned society, with the table trailing on the heels of my family.  A fresh start, building everything from the bottom up again. Not easy by any means, but my grandparents tell me that they kept reminding themselves of the chairs to keep going.  They made a vow that once they created a new life for themselves, chairs would be their next big “splurge.”  A thing usually taken for granted was unattainable for us; that thought alone can knock humility through the system in an instant.  And for far too long, my family utilized whatever was deemed “appropriate enough” as a seat; one of those plastic chairs you typically use in a backyard; a 1950’s diner counter seat that my grandfather got for free at a garage sale; a yoga ball when my mom wanted to improve her health. When we finally were at our wits end, we caved in and all collectively chipped in some money and bought chairs that we thought were perfect. I contributed five dollars from my piggy bank, so I argue that I have a small share in this collective ownership.  It was only afterwards we realized the wood on the chairs weren’t a match to the table.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. I’m barely three-years-old as I first sit on our new chair. It doesn’t matter that I can’t even get onto it without a boost, at least I can pretend that I am at least a foot taller by standing on it on my tippy-toes. On this chair, where I can finally reach our kitchen counters and feel more like a grown-up, I also have a front seat to a personal show. A show about family, the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, and the emotional rollercoaster of it all. And whether I like it or not, I’m on the cast list in a recurring role.   The new episode begins: (Scene opens- my mother leaning over the stove, skimming the foam of the curry she cooks. My grandmother hovers over her shoulder, monitoring every moment to ensure every single step of the recipe is exactly like how she does it. She shakes her head and lets out a little tsk) Grandmother: “Your cooking skills have gotten rusty” Mother: (with a little bite in her tone)  “I hate to cook; it’s messy, tiring, and I don’t get any satisfaction from it.” Grandmother: (equally passive aggressive) “I know, but you shouldn’t waste your skills on your feelings.” Director, when is it my cue to enter? ~ Our dining room table is falling apart.  I’m twelve-years-old; considered too young to be included in everything, but old enough to begin receiving the personally-tailored comments and attacks from family to grow a thicker skin. The women in my family are multi-taskers; their hands demonstrate their talents while their mouths are relaying the gossip and dirty laundry from those around us. This cannot be demonstrated better than cooking sessions. Almost skillfully, a piece of gossip gets passed through a personal grapevine: from one aunt to another, to a sister to a grandmother, to a mother to a niece, to whoever.  Meanwhile, our hands are the opposite. We delicately fold dumplings with beautiful creases that hold whatever is inside. We gently hold mochi in our hands, the only time where sticky and messy is deemed acceptable.  We create what we are not: wholesome, comforting, real.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. On the brink of adulthood, I find myself realizing how the table is an odd middle ground amongst us all. We seldom give words of encouragement, even when the accomplishments are beyond incredible. We cannot guarantee which family members will approve of our requests, as the decision-making process tends to be rooted in our own prejudices. We transform over major disagreements, as the rare words from our mouths have now become the most dangerous of weapons. But at the dinner table, all forms of dysfunction pause for a moment.  Over steaming bowls of rice, we take a moment to sit down and be present in the moment. We do our best to savor these laborious meals— the ones with absolutely no measurements or  instructions— letting the aromatics and visuals speak for themselves. From the soups that were simmering for hours or the stews whose ingredients required a special trip to the Asian grocery store, the food demonstrates more sacrifices made for the greater good. We are silent but together; we briefly become the same. ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. From losing my spot in an online queue to buy concert tickets, to the announcement of my parents divorce over a Friday dinner, to study sessions for all the dreaded SATs, to all the college rejection letters that piled up like a centerpiece, to breakdowns, to fights, to laughter, to tears, to…, to…, The table has seen the best of us, the worst of us, and everything in-between. Yet, it’s not the witnessing of our most difficult moments that worries me. Far from it, in fact. The table has seen the most intimate and intense moments of us; the version of me that sits up at 2 AM because anxiety riddles her mind. Or that one that cries only when they are alone, slumped with their head down on the table as the sobs ring out into an empty household as it's safer than falling apart with others around. Even the version that just goes to the table and sits in complete silence, letting their thoughts and questions ponder to nowhere. The table is the only one that has witnessed my emotional vulnerability.  That’s what scares me the most.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. One random night, my mother calls me. Her voice is somewhat shaky as she breathes out those forbidden words, “I miss you.” I’m an adult now; no obligations tying me down to family.  I’m thousands of miles away from her; physically and emotionally.  I’m only now working through the trauma I faced. I’m not sure if I reciprocate the feeling. I’m finally allowed to admit that. "I need you,”  she cries out.  I imagine tears delicately falling out of her eyes, leaving streaks of sorrow down her face.  A slight tingle begins behind my eyes; a watery dam that so desperately wants to break free and run rampant. It burns. I hold any sign of emotion back; I can’t break down now, not when I made it this far.  She sighs and begs one last time, “Please come back home.” I don’t think I’ll survive if I do… ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. And I think we’ve reached the point where the damage is irreversible. Editors: Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image: Unsplash