APIA Affairs Anthology VOLUME 2 2014 UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
You may be curious about the cover of this anthology. Why are those hands clasped together in this manner? What do the bracelets on those wrists represent? In Buddhism, there is a Buddhist mudra, or hand symbol, called Vajra mudrā, the gesture of knowledge. To form the Vajra mudra, clench your right hand into a fist with your index finger extending upward then take your left hand and enclose it around the extended finger. Many say that knowledge can set you free, but what does that even mean, especially for the Asian American/Pacific Islander community? We strive to educate ourselves on our history, as well as to practice self-awareness based off the knowledge we attain from our past so we can learn more about our identity as Asian Americans and combat injustices imposed upon us. In essence, knowledge equals empowerment. The Vajra mudrā illustrated on this cover is not only a symbol of the knowledge we strive for individually and as a community, but it also juxtaposes the struggle to marry the two words that compose our identity: Asian American. We’re often boxed into what we can and cannot be as “Asian,” and what we can and cannot be as “American.” Why can’t these two worlds coexist? Our identities are often influenced by the traditions of our parents and our very existence here in America. This anthology celebrates the fact that identities are not fixed. They are our own unique experiences tied into one. It is further constructed by the knowledge we gain about ourselves and our roots as we mature in this world. So think of Vajra mudrā as more than just a gesture. Remember it as a symbol of the journey you take to unraveling your identity. With gratitude, Alicia Soller
A PIECE OF APIA HISTORY
Asian American students rally to form Asian American Institute at the University of Florida. Years later, we now have an established institute: Asian Pacific Islander American Affairs.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Christopher Johns River Fishing Lessons
8
Leonie Barkakati Bole Bom
8
Neal Singh Becoming One
9
Nadia Sheikh Jigsaw
10
Leonie Barkakati The Colorful Ones
12
Michael Ngo How Lucky He Was
13
Shimul Chowdhury Sage
14
Shimul Chowdhury Pure
15
Nadia Sheikh Genes That Fit Just Right
16
Maria Pitt Blue
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Leonie Barkakati Black Honey
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Maria Pitt Covergirl
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Leonie Barkakati The Blue Hills
23
Nadia Sheikh So sweet, you might melt
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Rubaiyat Zinat Mother Tongue
25
Marcus Degnan The Wasp
26
Maria Pitt Blue
28
Steven Che Three Courses
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Christina Paik What does it meant to be Asian American?
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Samrenee Green Japanese Club Giving Back
32
Morton Zhou Pi Delta Psi
FICTION / POETRY / VISUAL ART / MISC.
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Christopher Johns River Fishing Lessons from the Filipino Indigenous
Leonie Barkakati Bole Bom
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Becoming One By Neal Singh I’ve started to feel something in my core, A strong presence that I’ve never felt before. It’s like a vibrant light deep inside me, That shines brighter every time I think of Thee. It’s been giving me strength and perseverance every single day, And giving me guidance in life every step of the way. I feed that love by meditating on thy name, Which purifies my mind and keeps it tame. This incredible feeling is only growing stronger, So much that nothing else matters, not even fame and honor. Knowing that this guiding light within myself is true, Reaching a state of Oneness is the main goal I’m committed to pursue.
Neal Singh graduated from the University of Florida in Spring 2013 with a Bachelors degree in Psychology, and is currently attending dental school at the University of Florida College of Dentistry. He is very passionate about access to care issues as well as being active in pursuing projects that promote dialogue and awareness about the Sikh community. The piece (Becoming One) is about his commitment to his Sikh faith, which is a religion based in India that believes in the oneness of God.
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Jigsaw Nadia Sheikh Part Mom and part Dad. Not white, not brown, but more tan. All mixed-up humans.
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Leonie Barkakati The Colorful Ones
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How Lucky He Was By Michael Ngo He awoke to a new world Notions, expectations, and laws All provided to him without choice. How lucky he was To encounter Society Where strangers expected him to become something great Something remarkable, immense, influential Just because of his appearance. How lucky he was To hear his family Command him what he has to do and become Because of their lost opportunities Their everlasting sacrifices. How lucky he was To lose sight of his own dreams and goals Because of his conflicting feelings Between societal and family expectations And his own.
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Shimul Chowdhury Sage
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Shimul Chowdhury Pure
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Genes that fit just right By Nadia Sheikh
The pool was full of dirt and flowers. Pink and white roses, but never any swimming. Umma said, “the water is for fish and dead bodies.” My dad had told me the story of my grandma at 16, tossing her baby brother’s corpse before she fled across the Indus, but she never spoke of it. She tended her garden in torn leather sandals, her belly roll poking out through her sari. She shaved her arms and kept her jet-black hair in a long braid and made sure everyone was fed. But, when I slouched in her green velvet chair and my belly peeked out of my shirt, she called me a “fat little beti,” and I never knew why. “Woman drowns self at 3414 Newberry Street,” my mom says. “This was before your dad and I started dating.” She sips from her red mug. “That’s Grandpa’s old address,” I say. “That was your grandpa’s mistress.” I imagine my grandpa, in his red pullover with holes in the elbows, fucking a blonde thirty-something with her dress lifted. “What?” I say. “They met in Seattle after he moved from Pakistan,” she says. “No wonder your grandma hated me: the White Woman.” I can see the white frills on the dress, floating in the pool. “She followed him all the way to Florida?” I ask. My mom nods, clinking her rings against the mug. “It went on for twelve years. Your grandma tried to leave plenty of times.” I imagine Umma’s bangles jingling while she packed, fleeing again. “You know, at 85, while she was in bed waiting to die, she refused to eat because your grandpa doesn’t like fat women.” I remember when my grandma had made roti, after all afternoon smoothing and stretching the dough. When she served dinner, my grandpa threw the flatbread onto the table. “This is cold,” he had said. “Cold roti? You treat me like dirt.” He got up from the table and went into his office. Umma didn’t eat that night. The next morning, when our parents came to pick us up, she and Grandpa were in love again. She made aloo paratha at breakfast and the pool was still blooming. “Your dad knew,” my mom says. “Your grandma used him as her confidant.” “And dad forgave him?” I ask.
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My mom shrugs. “Blood is thick.” My dad says his biggest mistake was refusing to speak to Umma for a month, seventeen and angry, and he can’t remember why. I remember him speaking in tongues to her gravestone. He still hides the wine bottles before his dad comes to visit, still traps Grandpa in his arms before the old man scurries out of our door. I think of my grandpa and wonder if his hairy knuckles tickled his lover’s arms, or if the broken edges of his teeth nicked her when they kissed, or if he had found her, belly-up in his backyard. My mom sips her tea and I can see that my wide eyes come from her even if the dark skin is my dad’s. I’ve accepted Gluttony and I can deal with Lust, but I don’t know that I can afford to add Murder to this mixed-up blood.
Maria Pitt Blue APIA ANTHOLOGY |
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Black Honey By Leonie Barkakati
I was at the mall with my cousin, Verisha, who is two years younger than me. It was one of the few times we were in the same city again. We were at the Clinique counter at Macy’s. She was sampling chubby sticks: short, fat pencils of rich lip color. A short distance away, amid white linen wedges and gladiator flats with exorbitant price tags, I felt a sort of solace. Frequently in my youth, my mom brought me for company as she spent hours rummaging through clearance racks in the mall. I was at home in the landscape of impeccable mannequins, racks of clothes, perfumes, jewelry, beige carpets and fluorescent lights. Outside, there was a sporadic rainfall that typifies May in Florida. I wandered back to Verisha, who had already tried on three different lip colors. The makeup assistant, Danielle, had lined up five more that she wanted to try on. “This one looks like the one I was wearing when I came in,” she said. “I was looking for something less sheer.” The color she was wearing was Pudgy Peony. Danielle handed her a tissue to wipe off the current color, sprayed some alcohol on the tip of the next stick, Chubby Cherry, and handed it to her. Versha applied a liberal layer to her lips and turned to the mirror. “I really like this one,” I said. “It’s better,” said Verisha. “I was just hoping it would be darker. Can I try Mega Melon again?” “How about this,” Danielle said. “Leave the Cherry on the top lip and put the Melon on the bottom so you can compare the two.” “Good idea.” I watched as she removed the color from her lower lip and applied the Melon. “I definitely like the Cherry better. Still…is there anything darker? Sorry I’m making you run around so much.” “Oh, it’s no problem,” Danielle said. “Just come up this way. Do you want me to save the Cherry for you?”
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Danielle left an unopened box of Cherry chubby stick by the register, and I followed them to a clinically white counter top where row upon row of lip color was arranged. “These colors should be darker,” said Danielle, choosing a cherry and strawberry color of another kind of lip color. Verisha tried the cherry first, and then looked in the mirror. “Well, I like that there’s more color. Do you think it’s too pink?” said Verisha. “No, it definitely looks red on you. It’s a nice matte,” I said. “You could wear this during the day. The color lasts several hours,” said Danielle. “It’s just my mom said the ones I wear are kind of intense. Like, that’s what she said as I left the house today, so I was hoping to find something less bright.” “This one is nice, though. It looks mature. You could wear it to class or an interview,” I said. “Well, let’s try the other one. But I’m very close to saying yes to this one.” Danielle uncapped the other color, spraying alcohol again. Verisha applied the color to her lips. “No. Definitely not. It’s too pink. Oh, by the way, can I try the Black Honey? I’ve just heard so much about it from my friends, and I wanted to see what the hype was about.” “Sure, of course. Let me get that for you,” said Danielle. As Verisha wiped her lips yet again, Danielle opened one of the many pristine drawers and pulled out a lithe silver case. She came back to our side of the counter and uncapped the Black Honey: a glowing aubergine cylinder tapered to a graceful tip. Verisha rubbed a layer on her lips in front of the mirror. “I don’t see any difference,” she said.
“I WAS AT HOME IN THE LANDSCAPE OF IMPECCABLE MANNEQUINS”
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Maria Pitt Covergirl
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“That’s because you’ve rubbed your lips so many times,” said an older makeup assistant who came toward us now. “Your lips are probably red from removing color so many times. Here, try this.” She squeezed a drop of cream onto a tissue and handed it to Verisha, who carefully wiped her lips clean and applied a layer of Black Honey again. “I don’t really see a difference,” said Verisha. She put on another layer. Dissatisfied as she was, she underestimated the gloss. It made the outline of her lips bright and full and brought out a grape tone that had always been there, but I had never noticed until now.
“It’s very light,” said Verisha.
“It looks different on different people. I could apply it to me and you and her,” she said,
indicating Danielle, “and it would look different on all of us.”
“It blends very nicely with your skin,” I said. Verisha looked in the mirror again and said, “It’s the kind of thing my mom would like,
but I feel like if you’re going to wear lipstick, it should actually do something to your face, you know?” “I actually really like it,” I said, “for me.” “You should try it,” said Verisha. I thought of pulling that silver case out of my own makeup drawer. I pictured walking around with grape-colored lips, how incongruent it was with the “me” I was familiar with. I knew I would want it the second I tried it on, but it occurred to me I would only use it perhaps twice a year. I decided not to. Before she purchased anything, Verisha tried both the Chunky Cherry and the new cherry color one more time. She decided to buy the darker, matte color. She paid in cash, Danielle wrapped the little box in a tiny plastic bag, and we left the store together.
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Leonie Barkakati The Blue Hills
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So sweet, you might melt Nadia Sheikh
In high school, my braces came off and my boobs grew in and being brown became negligible. No monkey howls. Nobody asking me if I knew where Osama Bin Laden was hiding. My friends called me ‘tan,’ maybe because it made them feel safe. “You’re so lucky you’re tan,” Anna had said to me, slathering on sunscreen at the beach. I hated the sticky smell. “I’m Pakistani,” I said. “But I mean, you always have color and you never burn,” she said. “I’d kill for that.” “Maybe not all of the time,” I said. She frowned. “You don’t like it?” I shrugged. “That’s stupid,” she said. “I just think of you as white.” I sat up on my towel. “But I’m not.” “I mean, I just don’t think of you any differently,” she said, turning onto her stomach. “Thanks.” I smelled burning coconut. Anna’s back sizzled. Four years trimming arm hairs and melting off sideburns and playing pretend stay happily past.
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Bangladeshi Students Association Mother Tongue
"This photo represents my footprint at UF. Three years ago, I started BSA in hopes to the educate the community about Bangladesh and its contributions to world history and current events. I wanted to bring awareness to International Mother Language Day and the beauty of the Bengali language. This photo represents how ideas turn into actions. This photo represents how far the organization has come, and how much it has grown. It represents the fact that finally, we belong on campus."
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Rubaiyat Zinat, Bangladeshi Students Association
The Wasp By Marcus Degnan
I attempted the first calculus problem in my textbook when a faint tap, like a tiny pebble, brushed against the window. Had I been more focused on my schoolwork I might not have noticed the subtle noise.
“Did you hear that?” I asked my cousin. Bao was only nine but already more disciplined than
I had ever been. I glanced at his face, which was sewn tight with concentration. He kept his head looking down, working on his own math problems assigned by his mother.
“No, I didn’t.” Bao had been dropped off by my aunt an hour ago so he could practice his Calculus as I
studied for my own. My mother and her sisters always forced my cousins and me to work with one another during the summers, finding it more productive than activities like camp. Family and education, they argued, was better than bleeding in the woods with strangers. None of us agreed, except for maybe Bao.
I continued to watch my younger cousin. He scribbled with a rhythm of certainty. His
arm swayed in gentle motions, as if he were painting with watercolors as opposed to solving for x. Though he paused a few times, perhaps when dealing with occasional word problems, Bao managed to maintain a calm and rigid posture. I was never that still at his age. I would always yell and fight my mom for freedom. Even now he had me beat. His mother already introduced him to Calculus while I was currently retaking it as a junior in college.
Straightening my back, I stared down at my own work and sought to mimic Bao’s behavior.
I tried for the second time to process the jumbled letters, numbers, and figures that littered the page. My hands squeezed the bottom pages of the textbook as I shifted in my seat.
“Could you stop moving around? I can’t focus with the noises you keep making,” Bao said.
A second tap against the window distracted me from yelling at him.
“See, there it is again. Did you hear it just now?”
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Maria Pitt Blue
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Bao didn’t reply, too immersed within his formulas.
Too annoyed with Bao to continue my work, I got up to inspect the windows. In the corner
of the leftmost windowpane, inside the house, was a bright wasp. It was a mixture of brown, red, and yellow, and looked about the size of a pen cap. Its waist was narrow as a pencil lead. Its chest and abdomen were strong and thick like almonds. At first the wasp’s body seemed elegant, but the more I stared at its autumn hue, the more its exterior looked like plated armor.
The wasp was filled with persistent energy. It lingered above the window with rapid
vibrations, every so often bumping into the glass hoping to escape. Even when the insect landed atop the surface to rest its wings, it crawled with quick, mincing steps, staying in constant motion. It moved in jagged segments, guided by impulse. “Bao, it’s a wasp.” I said. I didn’t take my eyes off the insect.
“What was it?” Bao asked from the table. His voice was distant and uninterested, as if his
favorite cartoon just came back from commercial break.
“Just a beetle,” I said instead. I turned around to make sure Bao was still in his academic
trance. It was much easier to deal with him studying than if he were jumping around, scared of being stung.
When I sat back down at the table, I devoted all my attention to the wasp. Despite normally
seeing the insects as pests, I found this particular wasp admirable. It was fast and determined. It ignored the futility of its situation as it tried to escape again and again.
“Luke, you should do your work,” Bao said. “You haven’t even finished the first problem. It’s
been an hour.”
“And you shouldn’t tell your older cousins what to do.”
“I should if I’m right.”
I turned to Bao and unleashed a glare only to find him still looking at his homework. As
before, his face was void of any expression besides his obvious concentration. Beneath this APIA ANTHOLOGY |
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Three Courses By Steven Che
Appetizer Picadillo, butternut squash ricotta blini, Napa cabbage apple slaw, lemon herb vinaigrette
Main
Crispy skin salmon, button mushrooms, cherry tomato, onion balsamic jam, brown butter
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exterior, I sensed a child filled with condescending pride. Children only command if they think they’re your equals.
“Maybe you should tell your mom to ask someone else to babysit you,” I said. “I already tried, but my parents said you’re my only cousin that has time since you aren’t
getting into medical school like everyone else.” I stared at Bao, feeling a hot embarrassment sear my anger into shame. I wondered when Uncle John and Aunt Thuy found out about my recent grades, and why they had decided to tell their kids. “Junior year was tough. College is harder than you think.” “Aren’t we doing the same math problems?” Again, Bao kept his head facing away from me. Bao’s lack of respect reinforced my suspicions of my extended family. There was a pressure amongst all the cousins to do better than the rest. I saw it in my brother, sister, and the rest of my cousins. We were constantly encouraged to surpass one other, regardless of our relations. I wondered how much Bao thought about this competition with me, and whether or not he believed to have leverage because of my recent failures at school. I turned to the wasp, which still struggled for its freedom. I wanted it to sting my cousin in the eye. I lost track of time as it continued to bump against the glass. When Bao got up from his seat I shifted my attention on my textbook again. Wanting to prove his perception of me wrong, I turned to the first problem I worked on. The sound of Bao’s footsteps drifted away as I tuned-out the room so I could concentrate. All I could hear in the silent air was the subtle tapping against the glass. As I began to work out the problem with little success, the noise of a large smack made me look up. Bao stood next to the window, holding a folded magazine. On the glass was splatter of brown and yellow. The insect stained the surface with its feeble body until my cousin peeled it off with his own hands. “You should be able to focus more now.”
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Dessert Blackberry banana sorbet, fresh coconut milk, toasted coconut
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What does it mean to be Asian American? By Christina Paik I’m not going to lie, it sounds like such a cliché theme, even to me. It might be something that most people don’t question and just accept, it might be just a “politically correct” title for others, but for me, this experience forever changed my identity, and for the better. As for my story, I’m just an average girl who is still trying to tie the ends of undergraduate shoelaces properly and desperately grasping for the blanket of courage to meet my future life as a professional at the same time, much like everyone else on campus. Although my time at the University of Florida has been fleeting and I still have so much more to learn, I did gain something irreplaceable that I want to share.
That is, most importantly, what it means to be an Asian American.
Growing up, I attended schools where you could count the total number of Asian Americans on one hand and still have fingers available. When I first entered kindergarten, I thought nothing of the differences between me and my neighbor, although this quickly changed. I was badgered for the seemingly ever-increasing number of differences between me and the rest of my classmates. The main topic of discussion were my slanty eyes, my jet black hair, and the smelly Korean lunchboxes my mom would pack me every day. While all these elements were once just natural and should’ve stayed that way, they slowly became the target of my disdain. I abhorred my fate to be born so different and obviously so ugly, and this resulted in my rejection of the Asian half of my identity. I would throw my lunch into the trash while no one was looking, I desperately begged to have my hair dyed blonde, brown, or any other color than black. I tried my best to excel in English and stray away from mathematics, in hope that I was scrubbing the Asian from my very DNA code. If you asked me what race I was, I would’ve gladly smiled and responded, “100% American” through the gap between my front teeth. This attitude flipped 180 degrees when I entered high school. As with all pubescent adolescents, this terrible time was when everyone was searching for their unique identities like it was Easter day every day. My closest friends and I shared a Korean heritage, and our overall attitudes became almost a race to consume as many Asian elements as we possibly could. Rejecting anything that identified itself as solely American, I struggled to block out anything that could be tied back to the identities of my bullies from younger years. This involved listening only to music in Asian languages, such as K-pop and J-Rock. I became heavily invested in academic success, trying to prove that I could succeed no matter what my race was. I pushed myself to learn Korean and Japanese and to watch shows dictated in these languages only. Not only would I have claimed that I was an Asian, I was both proud and bitter about it. I felt that other people who experienced the same bullying that I did had common backgrounds and could naturally bond together, but I was only partially correct.
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Japanese Club Giving Back “This photo was taken last semester during Gainesville's World Peace Day walk. The flags represented the Unity of all nations. Japanese Culture may be our focal point but we are universally combined.� Samrenee Green, Japanese Club
Pi Delta Psi 32
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Coming to the University of Florida changed every notion of my identity from the core. One of the first courses I enlisted in was AML3673, entitled Asian-American Studies. I came into this course with no prior feelings, as I had only registered for it because of the convenience and because the word “Asian-American” slightly amused me. Thinking back now, I could not have fathomed the deep impact that this singular course had on identity. Professor Schueller, whom I have had the privilege of getting to know over my undergraduate career, taught this class with passion and deep knowledge of all the topics. Through the copious and yet not arduous reading materials and our vivid class discussions, I became deeply engrossed in a whole new universe of possibilities, all coming from different students who had come from all walks of life. We engaged in meaningful conversation, not only about the novel or essay at hand, but touching on the profound aspects of humanity, one of which included the issue of the title “Asian Amewrican.” The matchless experience from that course jumpstarted me in my formulation of a true identity, as I then proceeded to take several exceptional courses under this field and to actively participate in the sub-organizations of the Asian American Student Union. Each new course and club event produced an internal epiphany in me, a new aspect of what it truly means to be Asian American. Not only did I learn that my situation was like countless others, but that the ability to call yourself an Asian American did not have to be a persecution. It was an active choice to make of it what you will. The Asian American community throughout the United States has proven and continues to prove through their progressive actions that it is a privilege and blessing to have the community we have. Artwork, culture, and media made for and by Asian Americans is growing rapidly. After learning all of these things, I threw away any previous frustrations I had against myself and those around me. And just last week, I was given an unparalleled honor. During my years here, Professor Schueller was able to have a new minor added to UF under the title Asian American Studies. As I had already taken many of the required courses, I quickly finalized my degree by finishing up the requirements, and I am proud to say that I will be the first official student to receive a minor in Asian American studies when I graduate this Spring 2014. I feel that this accomplishment, coupled with the unforgettable memories I made in AASU with my peers, has truly been the culmination of my personal path to identity.
So the question arises once more: What does it mean to be Asian American?
We have all heard or thought of this question at some point in time, but each one’s answer is a personal journey, a collection of experiences and viewpoints, and can only be fully understood through the progression of one’s life. To put it simply, it’s not something that others can force feed you to believing.
It’s something you have to make for yourself.
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STAFF &ARITSTS
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Alicia Soller CO-EDITORS Jenny Poon Marcus Degnan DJ Fontenot COVER DESIGN Shimul Chowdhury CONTRIBUTING ARTISTS Leonie Barkakati Steven Che Shimul Chowdhury Marcus Degnan Samrenee Green Christopher Johns Michael Ngo
Christina Paik Maria Pitt Nadia Sheikh Neal Singh Rubaiyat Zinat Morton Zhou
A special thanks to Asian Pacific Islander American (APIA) Affairs through Multicultural and Diversity Affairs at the University of Florida, especially the volunteers outside of our office, and all the ambassadors that helped in any capacity, for making this project possible. My gratitude also extends to the APIA community at UF and all of the artists and writers who submitted work to this volume of the anthology. Your work, vision and creativity is what makes this project even possible.