Dragon Fruit Project Zine #3: Daily Acts of Resistance

“Daily Acts of Resistance explores different forms of resistance, and also what resistance can do to empower, heal, and unite people. It serves to remind us that resistance can be praticed daily, as part of a broader picture of activism. The personal is political and for as long as there have been queer and trans Asians and Pacific Islanders, there has also been resistance.”

Here is healing. Here is love. Here is

This zine is inspired by the Dragon Fruit Project. The Dragon Fruit Project is an intergenerational oral history project that explores queer Asian and Pacific Islanders and their experiences with love and activism in the 1960s, 70s, 80s, and 90s.

\ˈbāseksh(ə-) wəl\

Sexual identity politics can be so frustrating. I don’t really feel comfortable with “bisexual” or “pansexual,” and “queer” sometimes feels so broad that it loses its political roots. Currently, I like “Baysexual” (or, if I wanna be cute, “Bae-sexual”).

How I live my identity (racial, gender, or otherwise) is always so dependent on context. “Baysexual” is a playful way to resist being put in yet another box. e Bay, with all its beauty and ugliness, feels wide enough to hold the many variations of me and my complex and contradictory communities.—Claudia Leung

“Daily Acts of Resistance explores different forms of resistance, and also what resistance can do to empower, heal, and unite people. It serves to remind us that resistance can be praticed daily, as part of a broader picture of activism. The personal is political and for as long as there have been queer and trans Asians and Pacific Islanders, there has also been resistance.”

Here is healing. Here is love. Here is

This zine is inspired by the Dragon Fruit Project. The Dragon Fruit Project is an intergenerational oral history project that explores queer Asian and Pacific Islanders and their experiences with love and activism in the 1960s, 70s, 80s, and 90s.

\ˈbāseksh(ə-) wəl\

Sexual identity politics can be so frustrating. I don’t really feel comfortable with “bisexual” or “pansexual,” and “queer” sometimes feels so broad that it loses its political roots. Currently, I like “Baysexual” (or, if I wanna be cute, “Bae-sexual”).

How I live my identity (racial, gender, or otherwise) is always so dependent on context. “Baysexual” is a playful way to resist being put in yet another box. e Bay, with all its beauty and ugliness, feels wide enough to hold the many variations of me and my complex and contradictory communities.—Claudia Leung

In the age of Kendall Jenner Pepsi commercials, Resistance has been a hot commodity lately-- it's become a feel-good event that people can show up to, and pat themselves on the back for being there. I think it's a very good starting point, since so many people in different communities have been lying domant.

But it's also frustrating to see white folks who pride themselves on their "resistance politics" when there is little to no thought on how different policies affect women, POC, queer people, people with disabilities, or working class people.

My way of holding these new spaces accountable was to draw attention to race, and how we need white people to show up for us when it comes to representation and black people getting systemically and violently oppressed.

I'm tired of the Resistance becoming another platform for white liberals to perform how cool and "with it" they are. The Resistance has always belonged to us-- queer, POC, working class folks, and this is my way of making sure that there is at least a sign in the crowd that won't allow anyone to whitewash that.

In the age of Kendall Jenner Pepsi commercials, Resistance has been a hot commodity lately-- it's become a feel-good event that people can show up to, and pat themselves on the back for being there. I think it's a very good starting point, since so many people in different communities have been lying domant.

But it's also frustrating to see white folks who pride themselves on their "resistance politics" when there is little to no thought on how different policies affect women, POC, queer people, people with disabilities, or working class people.

My way of holding these new spaces accountable was to draw attention to race, and how we need white people to show up for us when it comes to representation and black people getting systemically and violently oppressed.

I'm tired of the Resistance becoming another platform for white liberals to perform how cool and "with it" they are. The Resistance has always belonged to us-- queer, POC, working class folks, and this is my way of making sure that there is at least a sign in the crowd that won't allow anyone to whitewash that.

feichang bang.

HXSTORIES IDENTITY EXPERIENCES PLANS INFO.

IDENTITY/ ANGERY/AESTHETICS/ RESISTANCE ART

Hand Embroidered ‘Bao Bae’ Denim Jacket $

nuh.uh

69 REVIEWS COLOR: blujei birb blu denim

SIZE: smol QTY: 1

ADD TO BAG Description: Initially an art piece resisting the appropriation of Chinese characters and language (-cough cough- UO & Co.), the Bao Bae has become an expression of radical love and a way the artist found comfort with her Chinese American identity.

“Growing up, learning Mandarin was the only way I could communicate with my family.

But even so, a barrier still exists between what I can and can’t tell them. The only times feelings were expressed were through anger and arguments. It was traumatizing. So I never quite learned how to express love or sadness, and I moved away from wanting to learn to express myself and my feelings in my native tongue. It was that association, I think, that became the reason I pushed away my Chinese American identity.

My usage of 寶貝 was actually a mistake I made while translating during an outreach for a campaign I was doing. My best friend laughed pretty hard at it, which is why I still remember. 寶貝 (Bao Bei) means precious, baby, etc. It’s a term of endearment. The pinyin is actually “bao bei”, but I purposefully misspelled “bei” as “bae” because I’ve finally found a group of friends I can call my chosen family, and we always call each other bae.

So I’ve learned to express the radical love I have for them, in Mandarin, while also resisting the appropriation—by making my own design. I also follow many QTAPI artists who design their own clothing as a form of resistance. And so I was like, “Why I don’t I do that?” So I did it and –boop-. It’s pretty rad, m8. 12/10 would suggest.” –l0rl

feichang bang.

HXSTORIES IDENTITY EXPERIENCES PLANS INFO.

IDENTITY/ ANGERY/AESTHETICS/ RESISTANCE ART

Hand Embroidered ‘Bao Bae’ Denim Jacket $

nuh.uh

69 REVIEWS COLOR: blujei birb blu denim

SIZE: smol QTY: 1

ADD TO BAG Description: Initially an art piece resisting the appropriation of Chinese characters and language (-cough cough- UO & Co.), the Bao Bae has become an expression of radical love and a way the artist found comfort with her Chinese American identity.

“Growing up, learning Mandarin was the only way I could communicate with my family.

But even so, a barrier still exists between what I can and can’t tell them. The only times feelings were expressed were through anger and arguments. It was traumatizing. So I never quite learned how to express love or sadness, and I moved away from wanting to learn to express myself and my feelings in my native tongue. It was that association, I think, that became the reason I pushed away my Chinese American identity.

My usage of 寶貝 was actually a mistake I made while translating during an outreach for a campaign I was doing. My best friend laughed pretty hard at it, which is why I still remember. 寶貝 (Bao Bei) means precious, baby, etc. It’s a term of endearment. The pinyin is actually “bao bei”, but I purposefully misspelled “bei” as “bae” because I’ve finally found a group of friends I can call my chosen family, and we always call each other bae.

So I’ve learned to express the radical love I have for them, in Mandarin, while also resisting the appropriation—by making my own design. I also follow many QTAPI artists who design their own clothing as a form of resistance. And so I was like, “Why I don’t I do that?” So I did it and –boop-. It’s pretty rad, m8. 12/10 would suggest.” –l0rl

gospel of failure

most days it is hard for me to leave my bed. five feet from a view of the city: marvelous. whispers of subrosa quivering: oh, what possibility! to be found under the blankets, a solipsism so quiet it can almost be ignored. to stay is to demonstrate loyalty of the highest order--to thyself, temple of flesh, to sit through the collapse and touch the jagged remnants. failed apocalypse: did you know the strength of your own walls? no, you say. i wake up, lurch. swimming organs can’t drown; nevertheless, you teach me how to breathe.

how loyalty can squeeze itself to ten and thirteen feet but still never touch the ground. clench, goes the bedframe, but it’s your diaphragm that swells with the effort of breath. nowhere do i feel the weight of metal, having resisted the urge to return “home”; crawl into bed, stare at the ceiling and windows unaffordable. i remain loyal to the cause: some sort of catharsis; sated convalescence. that is the commitment i have made on paper, a solipsism so quiet it almost feels safe. to be: elsewhere, far enough to betray the sob, its grip. this is why we fling sobriety; out, out, out dirtied panes chased by dust and stifled moths. i think about how it feels under the covers, always better than here. relax: not (t)here. too relaxed and the temple empties itself; desecration, and you have been banned. alien, save the curve of the thoracic spine, but what a waste; away; dismay. green bodies swallowed by the pills of the cotton; think back to travel across the sea; sink in sea; drown in sweat; swallow the stinging salt. today i awoke loyal only to the bed. turn against the spring, muffle under the must. the bed as place: of cathexis; the barge, a green-glass prison. children will be born of the night, draped across the posts of neuropathy around which sea-drenched teeth cannot curve. cauchemar kids, who swear allegiance not even to their creator. cauchemar kids, who bah on command and do not sink. fourlegged kids and a stomach so smooth, lined with only the finest wool. how the walls sway as they climb up the hill. we speak the same language, you say, but i only heard saltwater gargle. i have finally floated, but my head is beneath the water, and you teach me to breathe but my blood, too thick too heavy to lift, floods the spine and drowns the cave of the esophagus. my gasp the syncopated rattle above symphonic bah’s. how strong are your walls: do they bend? what writing stains?

i have come to the conclusion, lying on this swing, that treachery is the only answer. treachery as that which is holier than denial, more potent than sacrilege. treachery: the only movement of agentic assertion and transitional objecthood made luminescent. treachery as that which lays the temple’s final step. above which the stiletto wall sings.

gospel of failure

most days it is hard for me to leave my bed. five feet from a view of the city: marvelous. whispers of subrosa quivering: oh, what possibility! to be found under the blankets, a solipsism so quiet it can almost be ignored. to stay is to demonstrate loyalty of the highest order--to thyself, temple of flesh, to sit through the collapse and touch the jagged remnants. failed apocalypse: did you know the strength of your own walls? no, you say. i wake up, lurch. swimming organs can’t drown; nevertheless, you teach me how to breathe.

how loyalty can squeeze itself to ten and thirteen feet but still never touch the ground. clench, goes the bedframe, but it’s your diaphragm that swells with the effort of breath. nowhere do i feel the weight of metal, having resisted the urge to return “home”; crawl into bed, stare at the ceiling and windows unaffordable. i remain loyal to the cause: some sort of catharsis; sated convalescence. that is the commitment i have made on paper, a solipsism so quiet it almost feels safe. to be: elsewhere, far enough to betray the sob, its grip. this is why we fling sobriety; out, out, out dirtied panes chased by dust and stifled moths. i think about how it feels under the covers, always better than here. relax: not (t)here. too relaxed and the temple empties itself; desecration, and you have been banned. alien, save the curve of the thoracic spine, but what a waste; away; dismay. green bodies swallowed by the pills of the cotton; think back to travel across the sea; sink in sea; drown in sweat; swallow the stinging salt. today i awoke loyal only to the bed. turn against the spring, muffle under the must. the bed as place: of cathexis; the barge, a green-glass prison. children will be born of the night, draped across the posts of neuropathy around which sea-drenched teeth cannot curve. cauchemar kids, who swear allegiance not even to their creator. cauchemar kids, who bah on command and do not sink. fourlegged kids and a stomach so smooth, lined with only the finest wool. how the walls sway as they climb up the hill. we speak the same language, you say, but i only heard saltwater gargle. i have finally floated, but my head is beneath the water, and you teach me to breathe but my blood, too thick too heavy to lift, floods the spine and drowns the cave of the esophagus. my gasp the syncopated rattle above symphonic bah’s. how strong are your walls: do they bend? what writing stains?

i have come to the conclusion, lying on this swing, that treachery is the only answer. treachery as that which is holier than denial, more potent than sacrilege. treachery: the only movement of agentic assertion and transitional objecthood made luminescent. treachery as that which lays the temple’s final step. above which the stiletto wall sings.

bathe, breathe, be – Momo H.

bathe, breathe, be – Momo H.

An ode to Audre Lorde, by Poonam Kapoor Audre, I really don’t know you well and despite that I still revere you. I only know those images and stories that make you shine. Like the one in which you are wearing a robe dressed with your arms raised high as if you were exhalted, uplifted. I don’t know the dark moments you suffered through the fear you felt, the rejection and scorn. How vulnerable you had to be in order to share yourself so completely. It’s likely those moments are what led you to be exalted, earning that robe.

I have had my own dark moments. I tried to fit in forever - from changing my name, speaking and acting in a way that made others comfortable pleasing others to the extent I didn’t’ know what I truly wanted because what they wanted = my happiness. I had been trained to be a chameleon - out of the human need to feel loved and accepted. I was dutiful, hardworking, responsible - your model minority - except no matter how “good” I was, I would, could never fit in. Because I love women, because I’m not married to a man or a woman and still want children. Being from three different cultures: south asian, american and the at times heteronormative queer culture, I learned to wear a different mask in each environment.

One for the Indian culture.

One for the American culture.

One for the heteronormative queer culture.

With my many masks, I considered myself a “skilled bollywood/hollywood/ queerwood actress”. It was too hard to maintain and the pain I was inflicting on myself was just too crippling. Like you Audre, now I don’t let fear stop me in the service of my vision.

I realize that me being me helps you be you. Going through the tunnel of darkness is what has led me to the light. Now I’m wearing my robe, exalted, uplifted.

My questions to you the reader: 1. What masks have you taken off ?

2. What’s your life’s vision?

3. When did you re-create your life?

You have reached the end of the DFP Zine. We hope that you have reflected on your own form of resistance as we have reflected on ours.

Here is healing. Here is love. Here is resistance.

And here…. here is you….

Thank you to all our zine contributors for bringing these pages to life by channeling your whole true selves in your art.

Cynthia Fong Ralph Leano Atanacio Claudia Leung Jennifer Li Suiyi Tang Laurel Kuo Yuki Togawa Sammie Ablaza Wills MLin Connie Liu Justine Xu Lina Khoeur Isabella Ruston Kristin Chang Hiuyi Felix Wang

Ling- Yi Kung Linda Nguyen Fei Mandy Chay Hai Miyuki Alizarin Joan Irene Momo H. Ange Yokoyama-Teh Sohum Pal Poonam Kapoor

An ode to Audre Lorde, by Poonam Kapoor Audre, I really don’t know you well and despite that I still revere you. I only know those images and stories that make you shine. Like the one in which you are wearing a robe dressed with your arms raised high as if you were exhalted, uplifted. I don’t know the dark moments you suffered through the fear you felt, the rejection and scorn. How vulnerable you had to be in order to share yourself so completely. It’s likely those moments are what led you to be exalted, earning that robe.

I have had my own dark moments. I tried to fit in forever - from changing my name, speaking and acting in a way that made others comfortable pleasing others to the extent I didn’t’ know what I truly wanted because what they wanted = my happiness. I had been trained to be a chameleon - out of the human need to feel loved and accepted. I was dutiful, hardworking, responsible - your model minority - except no matter how “good” I was, I would, could never fit in. Because I love women, because I’m not married to a man or a woman and still want children. Being from three different cultures: south asian, american and the at times heteronormative queer culture, I learned to wear a different mask in each environment.

One for the Indian culture.

One for the American culture.

One for the heteronormative queer culture.

With my many masks, I considered myself a “skilled bollywood/hollywood/ queerwood actress”. It was too hard to maintain and the pain I was inflicting on myself was just too crippling. Like you Audre, now I don’t let fear stop me in the service of my vision.

I realize that me being me helps you be you. Going through the tunnel of darkness is what has led me to the light. Now I’m wearing my robe, exalted, uplifted.

My questions to you the reader: 1. What masks have you taken off ?

2. What’s your life’s vision?

3. When did you re-create your life?

You have reached the end of the DFP Zine. We hope that you have reflected on your own form of resistance as we have reflected on ours.

Here is healing. Here is love. Here is resistance.

And here…. here is you….

Thank you to all our zine contributors for bringing these pages to life by channeling your whole true selves in your art.

Cynthia Fong Ralph Leano Atanacio Claudia Leung Jennifer Li Suiyi Tang Laurel Kuo Yuki Togawa Sammie Ablaza Wills MLin Connie Liu Justine Xu Lina Khoeur Isabella Ruston Kristin Chang Hiuyi Felix Wang

Ling- Yi Kung Linda Nguyen Fei Mandy Chay Hai Miyuki Alizarin Joan Irene Momo H. Ange Yokoyama-Teh Sohum Pal Poonam Kapoor