Art & Hatsuye 2024, Worm's Eye View

Art & Hatsuye

Table of Contents

Letter from the Director

Senior Spotlights

Representation through Publications

Navigating Society as a Nepalese American Individual

The Path Toward Unity

Eat Dirt walk straight & you’ll make it

as we look to the future, we see the fear we have suppressed

An Ode to the APIA Library

APM Research Project & the KAASE Initiative

American Restaurants

Photo by Hazel Vineet Cover Design by Lulu Griffin

Various illustrations created by the design staff throughout

Asian & Pacific Islander American Studies

Deenesh Sohoni, PhD, Director Sasikumar Balasundaram, PhD

R. Benedito Ferrão, PhD

Tomoko Hamada, PhD

Jenny Kahn, PhD

Joanna Schug, PhD

Stephen Sheehi, PhD

Chinua Thelwell, PhD

Andrea Wright, PhD

Design Staff

Yannie Chang, ‘25

Lulu Griffin*, ‘25

Sruti Kurapati, ‘27

Andy Shufer, ‘25

Saniya Tiwari, ‘26

Hazel Vineet, ‘25

Editing Staff

Dylan Abrokwa-Jassor, ‘24

Collin Absher*, ‘24

Katarina Faben, ‘24

Jessica Liu, ‘24

Scarlett Ruan, ‘27

Aishwarya Suresh, ‘26

Letter from the Director of APIA Studies

It has been a tremendous honor to assume the role of Director of APIA once again. I would like to give a big shout-out to Professor Stephen Sheehi for his amazing stewardship of the APIA program during my research sabbatical. Thanks also to our dedicated APIA faculty, and of course the organizing of Monika Van Tassel, who ensure that the APIA program continues to thrive and grow. I also wish to acknowledge the departures of Professors Francis Tanglao-Aguas and Monika Gosin, who contributed so much to our program — they are missed, but we know they are doing great things for their new schools.

From its founding in 2016, the APIA program continues to serve as a scholarly and an activist community that seeks to critically analyze U.S. social institutions, social attitudes, and public policy, and to work towards building a more inclusive and equitable society. This mix of scholarship and activism is found in the work of the Asian Pacific Islander Middle Eastern American (APM) Project which researches Asian American history at W&M, and the K-12 Asian American Student Education (KAASE) Initiative, which creates thematically based educational material for K-12 educators seeking more inclusive educational curriculum. Under the guidance of Professors Esther Kim and myself, students such as Diana Kim ‘25, Alex Park ‘24, Kara Park ‘26, Collin Absher ‘24, Shravya Harish ‘25, and Crystal Wang ‘25 have researched the histories of Asian-ancestry students and faculty at W&M and helped develop lesson plans contextualizing these local stories within broader national and state level trends related to immigration, naturalization, and race. In addition, these students have helped support Virginia K-12 educators by helping develop a repository of educational resources and assisting educators in their use.

Our sense of community is also evinced in the student run Art and Hatsuye Ball which celebrates Asian Pacific Islander American community though student group performances, food, music, and art. It is also seen in the collaborative efforts that make possible the continuing success of the Art and Hatsuye (A&H) magazine. Since its inception in 2019, and under the able advisership of respectively, Prof. Francis Aguas, Prof. Stephen Sheehi, and now Prof. R. Benedito Ferrão, A&H has served as a workshop helping students learn how to create and use media to mobilize in support of diversity, inclusion, and equity for Asian American and Pacific Islander communities. I would also like to thank Global Studies, The Charles Center, and the Office of Arts and Sciences Associate Dean of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion for their generous financial support of A&H. This year’s issue also celebrates our graduating seniors, Collin Absher, Pippa Chong, Saniya Han, Alex Park, and Kristi Viray. Congratulations & Best Wishes! Even as you move on to exciting futures, you remain a part of the APIA story at W&M.

I am so proud to be part of our wonderful W&M APIA community and I look forward to seeing what great things we can continue to accomplish together in the future.

— Deenesh Sohoni, Program Director of Asian & Pacific Islander American Studies, Professor of Sociology

c o n g r a t u l a t i o n s c l a s s o f 2 0 2 4 ! s e n i o r s p o t l i g h t s

Collin Absher

When I really think back to it all, it’s nonsense how I got here.

A whim of luck brought on by the pre-med classes being filled up before I could register for one course.

A Mandarin language teacher who brought out the best in me.

A friend, now family, who loved me in times where I didn’t even know myself in that way, in such a raw imperfect way of love.

A club that had nothing to do with my identity as a (content warning) white man, but everything to do with the people that cared for me in the beginning of my time at William & Mary.

Countless breakdowns in APIA classes that formed the individual writing this piece with empathy, positionality, and self-awareness in building an intentional path forward for this community.

No, it really doesn’t make sense at all. I think I really understood this when I took a class with Professor Aguas and even he pointed it out in his own special way.

“Collin Absher is the first white man to major in APIA studies.”

A pause and then even more nonsense. “Now, please clap.” Peers on all sides, clapping, applauding, and the touch of Grace Liscomb’s hand patting me on the back.

I messaged Aguas on facebook later that day, noting my feelings of embarrassment and anger in this nonsensical honor only to receive a message that read “and this is why you’re the perfect first (insert Aguas coded emojis here).”

Okay, alright, maybe there is some sense to this nonsense. And trust, I’ve been through the wringer of nonsense throughout this journey. Truthfully, it was a wringer of love.

My adoptive family in the Philippines saw me through and through, with a brown bag of tofu sisig made by my “inay” awaiting me before I got on the plane.

A slice of birthday cake, with my Chinese name “ ” signed in sweet, sweet chocolate from Anita and her husband, the shop owners of a cafe I frequented daily in Taipei who came to know me in all this nonsense.

“Home” has become an abstraction for me, where I feel the warmest. Nonsense, right? The truth of it all is, I love the nonsensical.

APIA studies took me everywhere I never could have imagined, and gave me people I never knew could possibly exist.

I love you for teaching me to love me and conversely give back that love and dedication in advocacy and solidarity.

It just makes sense.

Pippa Chong

Before coming to William and Mary, I did not know the real difference between being Asian and being Asian American. People always labeled me as “Asian” even though my identity was much more complex than that. I did not identify internally the same way that those on the outside identified me as. I want to make a shoutout to Diana Kim for explaining the difference to me between being Asian and being Asian American and for validating my Asian American experience. The first time we talked about this subject matter, I did not know the APIA concentration existed, and I did not know how I would fit into this community. This talk with Diana was so validating and moving for me that I cried.

I found a safe space in APIA studies where there was a place for my identity and experiences. Being from a multicultural background and having never met anyone else with the same background as me, I usually saw my background as a struggle. It is a struggle sometimes. However, through the APIA major, I have learned to celebrate my identity. I feel grateful to have experienced different cultures growing up, and it is okay to be unique! APIA has also given me a space to share my culture with others. For example, in my Intro to APIA Studies class, I did a project on Malaysia and Malaysians in America. I am grateful that the major has allowed me to express my feelings and interests in many creative ways.

Something that is very important to me is advocating for mental health in Asian American communities. The very serious and life-threatening mental health problems of Asian Americans are often overlooked and undertreated. In my capstone class, I have been able to research Asian American mental health and propose solutions to these issues I have witnessed, which has been very meaningful to me. The APIA major is for people who are extremely passionate about making a positive difference in the world, and being surrounded by equally passionate people is an inspiration everyday. I am very grateful to be part of this community.

Saniya Han

Art & Hatsuye | 7

Five years ago, I met Professor Aguas for the first time in the APIA/AMES Library at the APIA Open House. Maggie Chu, an APIA senior, had encouraged me to check out APIA after hearing my non-stop ranting about my IR classes, how I felt like none of the old-white-man-IR-theories answered any of the pressing questions I had about why the world was hurting – and why I was hurting. Toward the end of the open house, Professor Aguas asked those of us who were considering an APIA major to stay and chat. When it was my turn, he asked me to introduce myself, and then he asked: “What do you really care about?”

I remember hesitating at that moment. At that point in my life, no one had expressed genuine interest in what I personally cared about, and I’d given up on trying to find an answer for why everything I learned in school felt so detached from the realities of a hurting world. I was used to being told that the world was immutable and that striving for a liberated future without oppression was a pipe dream reserved for idealists. My questions always received disappointing responses like “This is just the way the world is” or “Just focus on becoming successful yourself,” which eventually left me feeling misunderstood, dismissed, and hopeless.

Professor Aguas’s question pierced through the thick layers of disillusionment that accumulated over the years and gave me space to articulate my true concerns. It led to my realization that my convictions held power and that I had the agency and capacity to create change with the support of an entire community.

For the next few years, I leaned on my APIA community through what I can only describe as a rollercoaster of a college experience. Classes like Professor Sheehi’s “What is Decolonization” and “Palestine & Indigeneity,” Professor Ferrão’s “Transnational APIA Lit,” and Professor Wright’s “Sex, Gender, & Sexuality” continued to answer my biggest questions about the world, helping me understand the interconnectedness of various forms of oppression under capitalism and recognize the importance of solidarity for collective liberation. Inspired by my faculty mentors and upperclassmen in the department, I also became involved in grassroots organizing efforts and advocacy initiatives on campus and beyond, which, despite its challenges, has been incredibly healing.

Although the next chapter of my life is filled with uncertainties, I take comfort in knowing that I’m part of someone much bigger than myself – a movement fueled by the collective belief that a liberated world is not only possible but inevitable.

Alex Park

Going into writing this essay, I had no idea what I was going to write. I’ll be real – I loved biracial things, but there are only so many times I can write about my identity crisis (and something tells me a thesis is enough). Community, for as much as I am thankful for it, feels like an overdone topic. Don’t get me wrong, I love the people, the professors, and all the friends I have made, but I want this essay to say something else.

As I enter the fourth year of my time as an APIA major, I reflect on my time in the community. Every person I’ve met has been driven, exceptional, and groundbreaking. When I look at myself in that context, I feel unworthy. Imposter syndrome, forever present in my life, has found its way into another facet of my life. Much like my identity (oops, there it is sorry everyone), I struggle to feel like I am allowed to take up space when all those around me shine. You might even say I am pretty apologetically Asian (I love you Grace Liscomb).

Like everyone, I had my own college journey where I sift through the pieces of my past and present to figure out who I am and what I am allowed to define myself as. Truthfully, my APIA major is just a large, graded extension of this story. I look at the people around me, who all seem like they have it all figured out, and I try to reason how they got to where they are. While the truth is everyone is a little chaotic at this school, just knowing the facts doesn’t mean the feelings will automatically change.

Should we all strive to be unapologetically Asian? Yes. We deserve to take up space. But in all the discussions of asserting ourselves, I think we often forget to say that it’s okay to be apologetically Asian. You do belong – I will affirm that a million times, as will every other person I have met through this major. But it’s okay to feel small, to feel like you don’t belong. In trying to become bigger, it’s okay to feel small sometimes. We all do. It’s not a setback, it’s not a bad thing. It just is. And that’s okay.

Sab Gerald, every time they said goodbye, always made sure to tell me, “You are seen, you are loved, you are cherished.” As I end my time as an APIA student, I want to pass on those words. You are seen, even when you feel lost in the chaos of our frantic, overworked lives. You are loved, even when you feel most unlovable. You are cherished, and I hope you all see the good you bring into the world by just existing. You do not need to be exceptional, you just have to be you. Hit AASI PR Chair Will Florentino often says this quote – “You do not have to walk on your knees for a thousand miles through a desert repenting.” It is great to be unapologetically you, but you are also never any less beloved for being apologetically yourself.

I am thankful for this community for allowing me the space to grow. I am proud to call myself an APIA major, and I will carry the lessons I learned here forward. Here’s to the next adventure!

A couple of months into my freshman year, I was in a Zoom meeting for the Filipino American Student Association (FASA), talking with a junior whom I had met earlier that semester through a different student organization. I apologized to him for often not attending the previously mentioned organization’s events, and he assured me, “That’s okay; I’m glad to see that you’ve found your people.” At the time, I didn’t understand what he meant, and I certainly didn’t believe what he said. I felt like it was too soon to have found “my people.”

Looking back, I am now in awe of how right he was. Somehow, without my noticing, I’ve grown into one of the seniors that I looked up to as a freshman: a leader who has helped to cultivate a safe and comfortable environment for students to learn about Filipino culture. I also admired the upperclassmen, many of whom were APIA majors, with a passion for learning Asian American studies. The upperclassmen encouraged me to take APIA classes with them, assuring me that the subject was beyond interesting and that I would be surrounded by friendly faces. They were right on both accounts. I had never been enthusiastic about taking a class before enrolling in Intro to APIA, especially since I took it when there was a rise in hate crimes against Asians, and I was desperate to find answers as to why. Intro to APIA led me to get to know the APIA department as a whole, and I found a safe space for students to learn Asian American history, an education that we were deprived of during K-12. I am proud to be an APIA major and I hope to usher in the new generation of APIA majors and minors as my upperclassmen did.

I am so grateful for the friends, peers, and professors that I’ve met, as well as the opportunities that I’ve received, through the APIA department and FASA. These spaces are my home away from home — and where I grew my passion for Asian American history and empowerment — as it was for many students before me, and I hope that it continues to be a home for others long after I graduate.

Representation through Publications: The Evolution of Asian American Magazines

by Katarina Faben

What platforms contributed to the creation of Asian American identity and how have they shaped the representation of the Asian American experience? Asian American voices have often been suppressed throughout history, with the experiences and perspectives of this community lumped into stereotypes. These generalizations prescribe false meanings of Asian identity, rather than what it means to be a part of a marginalized group. Thus, this issue must be unpacked from a worm’s eye view, analyzing personal anecdotes from within the community itself to uncover what it truly means to be Asian American. These stories so important to our history weren’t widely circulated in publications until 1960 when the first issue of Gidra magazine was released in Los Angeles, California. Gidra provided not only one of the earliest contributions but also one of the first efforts to voice the candid Asian American experience. It was this push towards portraying the raw Asian American experience that formed the foundation for the many publications that followed.

The 1960s: Power to the People

Established by a group of students on the UCLA campus, Gidra began as a means to address Asian American identity within the bounds of Los Angeles but later broadened to include political content designed to combat accounts of racism that arose during the Vietnam War. In the same vein, San Francisco’s Aion magazine honed in on the stereotypes that arose in response to the Vietnam War, working to deconstruct the false narratives that were creating internal tensions between ethnic groups in the community. As the first Asian American literary magazine, Aion’s two issues consisted of poems and political essays intended to create a shared sense of cultural identity and curb racism following the Vietnam War.

The 1970s: Autonomy Beyond Stereotypes

Later in the 1970s, a new era of production emerged, focused on cultivating a unique sense of Asian American identity and deconstructing the narratives that had traditionally been placed on the community. Asian Women, which grew out of a UC Berkeley Asian Studies class, compiled the true experiences of Asian women across the country into a series of issues that sought to represent the autonomy that was often largely overlooked due to the racialized and gendered stereotypes placed on them. Although three decades have passed since the active publication of these issues, the fight towards debunking racialized stereotypes still exists in marginalized communities today.

The 1990s: Identity at the End of the 20th Century

More recent publications established in the 1990s focused on celebrating Asian American identity while considering the contributions of notable figures who created progressive platforms for Asian American voices. Prominent among these was Yolk, which sought to deconstruct negative connotations surrounding skin color by reintroducing the color yellow as a powerful symbol of self-esteem and empowerment among Asian American groups. The yellow color of egg yolk represents not only the autonomy behind yellow skin, but a uniting factor that ties Asian Americans from different backgrounds together, creating strength as a community. It was the work of the simple three-word phrase, “Yellow is Beautiful,” that gave a new connotation to an often racialized aspect of the Asian American experience. Yolk built its platform on creating a new meaning for egg yolk as an entity no longer encased by whiteness. By focusing on the bright yellow of the yolk itself, the magazine highlighted the often unaddressed accomplishments of Asian Americans in the entertainment industry, intending to create a shared sense of pride within the community.

The question that remains is what the future will hold for Asian American publications. Will new publications continue on the path of community empowerment or shift their focus to consider different aspects of the Asian American experience? Regardless, considering the large strides these magazines have made and the impact they have had on community representation since the production of the earliest editions of Gidra, the path forward is surely a positive one.

1970 Aion (San Francisco, CA)

1971

Asian Women (Berkeley, CA)

1974 Jade (Los Angeles, CA)

1991

A. Magazine (Manhattan, NY)

2002 Hyphen (San Francisco, CA)

1960

Gidra (Los Angeles, CA)

1971

Bridge (New York City, NY)

1972

Yellow Seeds (Philadelphia, PA)

1990 KoreAm (Gardena, CA)

1994

Yolk (Alhambra, CA)

This timeline provides only a sampling of Asian American publications and does not represent a complete history.

No, I’m not Indian: Navigating

Society as a Nepalese American Individual

by Srija Upadhyay

Around twelve years ago, my second-grade teacher called out various countries and asked us to sit when our family’s country of origin was called. By the time she was done with Europe and East Asia, two-thirds of the class was sitting. Almost everyone else went down at “India,” and I nearly sat too we all looked alike, so why was I the only brown person still standing? One of my friends mouthed, “You’re not Indian?” from across the room, and I shifted uncomfortably. When our teacher seemed surprised too, I felt like I had made a mistake.

“So where’s your family from?”

“Umm… Nepal…” I shuffled my feet. Forty percent of my hometown’s population is Asian, so I had plenty of brown friends with lives similar to mine: our parents immigrated to the US, we spoke different languages at home, we brought traditional lunches to school. At seven years old, I didn’t believe there was anything fundamentally different between me and the other brown people in my community, but that elementary school exercise initiated a change in how I think.

As a kid, I wasn’t too bothered by being different. I actually made my “secret Nepali-ness” into an Easter egg I would spring on people often after they’ve known me for many years just to laugh at their reactions:

“Guess what? I’m not Indian.”

(Moment of shock.) “Then what are you?”

Hilarious… but the novelty faded as I grew older.

A friend and I pose in lehengas, an outfit of Indian origin that’s also immensely popular among Nepalese people.

My sense of self became unstable when I hit adolescence I struggled to express my opinions, worshiped the principle of “everything is easier if you just agree,” and let those around me mold my identity. I thought my surname sounded stupid, so I followed the extremely “anglicized” (aka butchered) pronunciation that my very kind but very white Kindergarten teacher bestowed on me. By the end of high school, I had grown weary of strangers calling me “sree-ya,” “sir-eye-ah,” or “syria” (I wish I could say I was kidding), so I changed my name to “Sasha” when ordering out. Worst of all, I crudely translated aspects of my culture in an attempt to explain them to others: my family’s nut-based burfi became “my grandmother’s granola,” erasing the hours of patience and heat the ingredients need for their flavors to soften into each other. Mula ko achaar turned into “pickled radish,” with a feeble connection drawn to kimchi’s fermentation process so others could glimpse the sheer amount of time that achaar needs to sour in glass or clay jars. Tihar is what I attempt to describe when it’s mid-November and strangers politely ask what I’m doing for Diwali. Pulaau is “like biryani,” kahja is “like chai time,” the spirit of bok mitho ki bhojana mitho roughly translated to “hunger is the best sauce”... an English approximation I only learned in college, and the phrase that taught me how much is lost in a rough translation.

I translated because I thought it helped others understand, but as the translations degraded further from their original concepts (e.g., a few weeks ago, someone asked about “that pickled thing” in reference to some achaar), I realized these English substitutions bent my culture into an anglophone caricature. Of course, I’m more than happy to educate others about a culture they may never have interacted with before, but the way I had been going about it simply gave my peers vague comparisons instead of authentic explanations. In short, I learned through experience that “explaining” via comparison alone is not the way to go.

“Minority within a minority” is a phrase that I’m sure many individuals from lesser-known Asian countries can relate to. Throughout high school, I felt more comfortable in mixed-Asian friend groups compared to homogeneous Indian groups because I disliked the feeling of almost but not quite fitting in. Whenever my Indian friends would, say, reminisce about Tamil or Telugu school, or lapse into a good-natured North Indian versus South Indian debate, I would nod and smile, polite but distant. I couldn’t relate. Sometimes, someone would try and loop me back into the conversation with a wellintentioned, “So is it similar in Nepal…?” and I would panic when the group’s attention turned to me. While I genuinely appreciated the inclusive invitations, it felt like others had to go out of their way to accommodate my heritage. However irrational it may sound, I felt guilty for being different. Still, it wasn’t so bad. The second-generation Asian American experience contained enough universalities that I mostly felt like I belonged.

The summer between high school and college, I worried about attending a PWI. Would I struggle to connect with my peers? Would I find Asian friends that I click with? Once I met people on campus, though, I stopped worrying as much; although the vast majority of my new friends were white, I didn’t feel like the odd one out for being Nepali. But, once I went home for the first time, I realized how much I missed being around other Asian people… and when I returned to W&M, I began feeling out of place. Although it’s hard to overlook how white our student body is, I had finally noticed just how much of a minority I am on campus in classes of up to thirty people, I’ll be one of maybe three Asian students, and sometimes even the only South Asian person. I know that joining SASA would be socially overwhelming for me, so my only South Asian friends are from high school, and I don’t see them enough to feel in touch with the culture. All those factors have resulted in several layers of isolation: fewer Asians, fewer South Asians, fewer Nepali individuals.

It’s certainly been lonely on campus, especially after growing up in a diverse community. However, the handful of interactions I’ve had with other Nepali people at W&M have been all the more valuable because of their rarity. Last semester, I enjoyed the opportunity to attend Rinzin Phunjok Lama’s lecture, “Biodiversity Conservation in Nepal’s Trans-Himalaya,” and was ecstatic when I ran into a Nepali professor after the talk. When waiting in line to vote last November, the person in front of me turned out to be a Nepali girl I had met during W&M’s Day for Admitted Students.

These moments, though few and far between, remind me that I’m not completely isolated from my heritage on campus, and that I shouldn’t cover up the Nepali parts of my identity. There’s no need to introduce myself with a whitewashed last name nor feel odd when I’m the only one who can explain what Tihar is. In this community, being Nepalese American means being different and these differences are ones to carry with pride as I navigate life throughout and after my time at W&M.

I’ve only visited Nepal once, in 2012. In this photo, I’m dressed for my gunyo cholo, a coming-of-age ceremony for young girls.

A painting in my house of one of Nepal’s many iconic pagodas.

The Path Toward Unity

by Dylan Abrokwa-Jassor

J. Scott Applewhite / AP

On June 29, 2023, the landmark case Students for Fair Admission v. University of North Carolina effectively ended the use of race-conscious admissions policies, better known as affirmative action. During oral arguments, counsel for Students for Fair Admissions (SFFA) stood firmly against affirmative action, claiming it “operates to the disadvantage of Asian American applicants,” and labeling the policy as an antiAsian issue. Not only is this label blatantly false, SFFA’s case in its entirety, serves only the interests of white supremacy while pitting minority groups against each other.

SFFA is a nonprofit headed by Edward Blum and is funded by large conservative organizations who have contributed millions of dollars to help end affirmative action, according to the organization’s public filings since 2014. Blum, according to a 2019 article in the Hetchinger Report, is a white “conservative activist” who “opposes the use of race in public policy.” In a 2023 New York Times interview with Lulu Garcia-Navarro, Blum rejected the idea of systemic racism and explained that he does not believe that America was “founded upon racism” or has racism in its “DNA.” According to the ACLU’s Deputy Director, Sarah Hinger, Blum has been dedicated to ending “race-based admissions in higher education since the 1990s’’ and has also been an instrumental figure against voting rights for African American and Latinx voters in a few Supreme Court cases. Based on his pervasive involvement in cases that have historically disenfranchised people of color, Blum’s efforts seem to have little to do with justice and equality for Asian Americans and more to do with stripping away opportunities for Black and brown individuals.

According to Cornell Law School’s Legal Information Institute, Affirmative action is a set of “procedures designed to…eliminate unlawful discrimination among applicants.” This tool has typically been used to remedy racial and ethnic discrimination in the college admissions process by allowing admissions officers to assign weight to an applicant’s race as one of many factors in their application. Affirmative action in recent years has led to tremendous benefits for minority applicants, including Asian Americans, particularly in being admitted to prestigious institutions that have traditionally been predominantly white.

Affirmative action equitably helps minority applicants. This does not mean that there isn’t still some anti-Asian racism in the admissions process; undoubtedly, there is, due to a variety of complex factors on the individual, institutional, and systemic level. But, it’s not because of affirmative action. Experts, like Colorado State Professor OiYan Poon who study “race-based admissions,” back this claim and rule out affirmative action as the “source of…racism” in college admissions. Professor Poon, in an NPR interview last year with Sandhya Dirks, explained she’d been “[poring] over [admissions] data for years” and claimed “there is no evidence that there’s a practice of anti-Asian discrimination” when it comes to affirmative action policies. Rather, Professor Poon suggests that “feelings of racial marginalization paired with personal experiences of… students not getting into [the] very few spots” available at elite colleges, is what really leads to misconceptions about affirmative action negatively impacting Asian Americans.

Still, Blum and many others label affirmative action as an anti-Asian policy while incorrectly pointing fingers at Black and brown college applicants, falsely labeling them as the primary and underserved beneficiaries. In reality, white women have derived greater benefits from affirmative action than any other racial minority group, a statistic consistently disregarded by opponents of the policy. Clearly, Blum and SFFA’s true goal is to promote divisiveness among minorities, which ultimately serves the interests of white supremacy in reinforcing the privileged social position of white Americans over other racial groups.

This view that affirmative action is anti-Asian has historically been held by American conservatives. Individuals like Blum exploit this view to promise a future where college admission policies do not penalize Asian Americans because of their race. This promise, Blum suggests, can only be fulfilled by banning affirmative action when really, the promise works to pit Asian Americans against other minority communities. Unsurprisingly, One year after the end of affirmative action, this “Asian penalty” is still present, according to a 2023 Vox article by Fabiola Cineas, analyzing a significant and extensive college admissions study. The 2023 study, The Disparate Impacts of College Admissions Policies on Asian American Applicants, “analyz[ed] almost 700,000 college applications [and] found that selective colleges [still] rewarded applicants…who are disproportionately white” because of “legacy” and “geographic preferences.” Legacy applicants, for example, “are two to three times as likely to be admitted to a selective college.” These new statistics show that college admissions still overwhelmingly favor white students. Blum’s promise to the APIA community of a more just admissions system post affirmative action, has obviously been broken. A deeper look into the position of white legacy applicants, however, shows that a promise of this nature could never have been made in the first place. Legacy students have already benefited from preferential treatment for over 100 years, underscoring the inherent bias woven into college admissions systems long before any discussions of affirmative action’s negative effects on Asian Americans.

So, where does this leave us?

Like many conservatives before him, Blum spoke for and effectively used the nuanced social position of certain segments of the APIA community to discredit the accomplishments and abilities of Black and brown applicants. Blum’s anti-affirmative action campaign helped sow seeds of divisiveness between minorities and played on the model minority myth which falsely portrays Asian Americans as more qualified, educated, and successful than other minority groups. These falsely crafted narratives reflect a top-down view of a complex situation, a view from a position of white supremacy and systemic power. Instead, the APIA community and all other minority communities must resist such divisiveness and rather lean on cross-cultural strength from a bottom-up view – the worm’s eye view. This view values and uplifts the perspective of Asian Americans without tearing down the successes of other groups. Embracing collective experiences across minority groups offers a more effective approach to addressing systemic inequalities and allows us to fix Blum’s broken promise together — because together, we are stronger.

Eat Dirt

by Scarlett Ruan

My mother once brought me to her childhood home in Beijing, a si he yuan, a traditional Chinese courtyard house. Toilets were two holes in the ground with no partition in between. When she lived there, the space had been tightly packed; multiple generations of multiple families under one roof. She told me stories of older neighborhood boys who would climb date trees and whack the fruits. She would watch from below and clamber to the dirt where the dates fell, which were crisp and plump. The pale-yellow fruit is only mildly sweet, though she would not have known any confection to compare to them.

During the harsh Beijing winters, my mother would take off her socks after school to find her toes purple and blue. In gym class, she would sometimes stop running and cry because she couldn’t feel her legs. I tried to imagine her kid self, cheeks round with baby fat. When she twisted her ankle biking home from school, I pictured her face crumple, her mouth agape, wailing so loud that all she could hear was her own despair.

My childhood consisted of staying up to watch cartoons or sneaking out with my brother to explore our sprawling New England backyard forestry. It was just us four: my parents, my brother, and I in our brick home. I would bike around the cul-de-sac and often get hurt, crying until one of the neighbors brought me home. Once, I crashed trying to swerve around overgrown branches, so the neighborhood adults spent a weekend trimming the trees. When I first took my training wheels off, I saw my mother from the opposite side of the street and waved with delight, suddenly so sure I could not only balance on two wheels but also with only one hand steering. I fell brutally, dirt staining my cheeks.

At the si he yuan, my mother introduced me to an old friend, one of the date-whacking neighborhood boys. I was surprised he still lived there, or that anyone did at all. He wore a worn-out white ribbed tank and bore a toothy grin. I could not fully converse in Chinese, so our interactions consisted of nods and hao and dui. Uh-huh, yes, that’s right. He handed me a bottle of Beibingyang, Beijing’s premier orange soda. There was a polar bear on the front. The soda was sweet and light, better than Fanta. It tasted like someone else’s childhood.

walk straight & you’ll make it

jasmine, unfurling between tendrils of smoke—mirrored in the moonlight where crickets lie with the softest hum.

i believed if i pressed my face against the cold shoulder of capiz and i breathed the humidity rising from the asphalt, exhaled a nescafe breath to the streets below, then closed my eyes to imagine a semblance of a toddled footstep my arms would rise from the citronella hanging in the air a puppeteer’s clumsily divine intervention a stumble to the four-way intersection on the graves of passersby who never claimed our kin. we never claimed them either, instead i, doing as the bloodline does, step forward to charge with a half-sung prayer hope that the flicker of a driver sees me as another brown face with a glance; an acknowledgement of our birth in the cull of daylight i pass forward wear the honor like a windowpane mask unscathed, pure down to the other side.

as we look to the future, we see the fear we have suppressed

I had a discussion with a friend the other day about how in the near future, we are rendered in the sameness we strove to fight—the sameness we grabbed by the reins to secure forty-eight countries and ethnicities in between, to present the unity we never showed to a white America in the name of liberty. And yet we lie on the borders. We chart the terminus of our liminality between citizen and foreigner with a blindfolded dart and a calculated throw, hoping the endpoint doesn’t result in death. We all know we have to exit one way or another. They say that the first arrives, the second stays, and the third revisits.

All I knew is that I would leave.

— Chabeli Yumang

An Ode to the APIA Library

by Kara Park

On the first floor of Boswell Hall, there is an unassuming door nestled between the bulletin boards and offices of the AMES and APIA departments. After entering a four-digit password and pressing pound, you will find yourself in a small room with soft old carpets and two shelves heavy with books the APIA library. Red and gold cushions with intricate designs line the corners of the room, overlooked by artwork and chalkboards full of ideas. The library is full of the history of the APIA department from stickers from the Asian Centennial to posters and papers from previous students.

This library is not only special for its size and location, but also for its unique principles. Shoes are to be left at the door, there is no food or drinks allowed to preserve the furniture, and all sit on the floor. Everyone at eye level means we are all equal in conversation such as in the Asian American Student Initiative (AASI) book talks held in the APIA library. It’s been amazing to see people take the time to trek out to Boswell to spend an hour and a half reading about Asian American history and discussing pressing issues like Palestine and Afro-Asian solidarity. In the quiet of the first hour, as we read articles and watch media related to the topic, I am continually encouraged to see my fellow students eagerly engage with the material. The quiet scratch of pens and pencils on the printed readings punctuate the air as we learn about histories and issues that have long been silenced and forgotten, now acknowledged and mobilized. In the thirty minutes that follow, we discuss the literature and find ways to apply what we’ve learned in the library to our own lives and the rest of the campus and community.

These book talks, and the APIA library itself, are the essence of what I love about activism. In the presence of people with a passion for talking about the things that can be so easy to ignore, the scale of the world seems to shrink down to a manageable size, and I leave Boswell with my annotated readings and renewed hope. The thing about book talks, AASI, and activism, is that at its core it’s about showing up. Many people think activism demands big, loud actions like protests or fighting in Congress. And yes, activism can look like those things, and we need big actions, but we also need small ones. At the East Coast Asian American Student Union (ECAASU) Conference, I attended a session about organizing for Palestine by Anakbayan Manhattan, a Filipino-based advocacy organization, where they emphasized that even in protests, we need people to provide food, give rides, or repost event information on Instagram. For us to be effective in our big actions, we also need to do the daily work of having conversations, hosting social events to strengthen our community, and simply showing up ready to listen and learn from each other. Part of the battle in the struggles we face today will be fought on big stages, but so much of the work needs to be done through the mundane behind-the-scenes meetings and small conversations.

When you look at the APIA library, you might be surprised to see how small it really is, but it’s a reminder of the power of day-to-day activism. So, what can you do? There is so much work to be done on so many issues, so start with what you care about and get involved in the communities of people who feel the same way. You might find that the more you learn, the more you’ll see opportunities to take one more step further. Anyone can become an activist, the only real requirement is that you show up and the rest will flow from there. Becoming an activist is not about taking on new burdens, it’s about putting a name to the feelings and problems you’ve probably already felt for a long time. And now, we can finally do something about it together.

APM Research Project & the KAASE Initiative: Sharing Stories that Matter by Diana Kim

The K-12 Asian American Studies Education (KAASE) Initiative, a significant part of the Asian Pacific Islander Middle Eastern American (APM) Research Project at William & Mary, is making a profound impact on inclusive histories. We are excavating local stories at William & Mary, weaving them into national narratives and contexts. These stories are now ready for public educators to teach in schools, bringing much-needed diversity to the social studies curriculum in Virginia.

Having dedicated over two years to this project, I have witnessed the transformative power of bringing marginalized voices to the forefront. This “worm’s eye view” has shown me the importance of diversity in our narratives. Let me illustrate this with a story we share with teachers through the KAASE Initiative and the APM Research Project: Veena Kapur’s story, the first South Asian woman to attend William & Mary in 1968.

Veena Kapur grew up in India after the 1947 Partition. In an oral history, she described the Hindu-Muslim tensions. Her grandmother, once fond of her Muslim neighbors, became bitter due to her displacement from her home. However, Kapur notes that despite the prejudices that existed at the time, her parents supported her friendships with Muslim friends and encouraged her to seek higher education regardless of Kapur’s or her siblings’ gender.

Kapur shared a poignant memory, reflecting on her mother’s determination to provide her daughters with an education. “I remember my aunt saying to my mother, ‘You’re spending so much on your daughter’s education. That doesn’t mean they’re going to marry kings.’ And my mother very quietly said, ‘They will be kings.’ And I didn’t understand the depth of that statement ‘til I was an adult.”

Kapur embodied her parents’ spirit in school, protesting her teachers, who were Irish-Catholic nuns, for teaching them colonial histories: “I would protest against only learning about colonial history because I thought that wasn’t fair, and they [the British] shouldn’t have been here [India] anyway.”

Upon arriving at William & Mary in the 1960s from India, Kapur maintained her strong spirit in attending school despite snarky remarks about her appearance. She regularly wore a sari to classes and around town and remained curious about the people around her. She finished her Psychology dissertation for her Master’s degree from William & Mary in 1968, later pursuing a Ph.D. at Catholic University and establishing her practice in Maryland, which she continues to run today.

Kapur’s story exposes the different layers of society and how she reacted to them. While we often know what specific groups think about others broadly, what do we know about the individuals who strived to think differently and act boldly?

Kapur maintained an accepting and secular philosophy about religious backgrounds, sharing, “We had a nanny from Indonesia [for my two kids]. So [she] was Muslim. And, one day, she looked very sad, and I said, ‘What’s going on?’ She was like a family member [to us]. OK. We loved her. She said, ‘Well, I have to go to the mosque for Eid, and everybody brings their kids.’ She said, ‘I don’t have any.’ I said, ‘You’ve got two here [Kapur’s children]. Take them.’”

Virginia’s social studies curriculum can often marginalize Asian American stories and narratives. We are usually the victims of violence, helpless to the white hegemony. However, Kapur’s story is one of many that shows strength, resilience, solidarity, and nuance. While everyone is not like Veena Kapur, we all have something to learn from her and the other dozens of individual stories that will rejuvenate our education and how we perceive what history education should be.

Kain Tayo! Home (Or Lack Thereof) In Filipino American Restaurants

by Chabeli Yumang

First step when entering a Filipino American eatery your friends suggest: scan the interior past the jeepney trinkets and the Philippine flag prints — who are the patrons? Are they mostly the neighborhood’s trend-hoppers, or are there also Filipino immigrants longing for food like home?

For a culture built on food and community, Filipino restaurants aren’t quite common in America. Though Filipinos are the fourth largest immigrant group according to a 2018 Pew Research Center study, Filipino food has grown popular in the US only recently. Despite the hype from food trend forecasters, Filipino cuisine remains niche — tucked away under the dingy lights of strip mall community carinderias, or reworked into something palatable in an up-andcoming city restaurant.

A Filipino American restaurant symbolizes Filipino America’s ultimate aspiration: the local community’s acceptance through wearing one’s heritage with pride. The menu reflects trends and foods with guaranteed crowd appeal. Ube lattes lie next to [fill-in-the-blank]-silog breakfast sets guaranteed to come with atchara, sinangag, and the titular egg. As customers increase, the restaurant tweaks dishes to suit audience demand — eroding the food’s uniquely Filipino flavors. While these changes keep business afloat, they ultimately alienate the Filipinos who inspired the need for the restaurant as a community foodspace.

Illustrations by Lulu Griffin

Filipino restaurants don’t often highlight their restaurateurs’ or chefs’ regional backgrounds — something that sways balikbayan who pride their hometown’s cooking. The Philippines’ 17 regions spanning over 7,000 islands contain so much culinary diversity. Even the same dish varies — my Ilokano relatives raised on Vigan longganisa joke about my preference for Pampanga’s sweeter longganisa. The pan-Filipino image of many Filipino American restaurants loses these subtle regional variations in advertisement, and leads to a disgruntled Filipino wondering why the adobo doesn’t match what lola always made in Quezon City.

(Hint: the chef’s from Batangas.)

The average Filipino American who’s content with their Filipino club’s yearly Jollibee pilgrimage doesn’t mind the lack of regional advertisement as much. Our first neighborhood Filipino foodspace was a local Filipino market, a pan-Filipino pantry for every dish we desired. Regional differences don’t matter for most US-raised Filipino Americans, but linger in the minds of my Philippine-raised peers. Us Filipino Americans settle for the average Filipino restaurant anyway because we’re surrounded by our kababayan and can eat food (almost) like home.

Nonetheless, there is value for Filipino American restaurants in highlighting their origins. Philippine tourism thrives on pasalubong for good reason — people love sharing snacks symbolizing the places they’ve traveled through. Acknowledging one’s regional origins even in small ways honors the paths one’s roots have taken to the dining table and highlights lesser-known Filipino foods.

As Filipino American restaurants ascend to the forefront of Asian American cuisine, striking a balance between appealing to the balikbayan yearning for home cooking, the local magazine’s picky food critic, and a gaggle of foodie non-Filipinos grows difficult. Filipino American restaurants can grapple with their liminality through asserting the origins of their own unique Filipino identities. Filipino America has never been a monolith, instead a coalescence of balikbayan and their descendants’ experiences. In other words, there’s room for everyone at the table.

My People

by Yannie Chang

My father is from Hong Kong and my mother is from El Salvador. As a Chinese-Latina American, multiracial identity when you’re not half white, is a part of the APIA conversation that I feel is often under-discussed and forgotten. Marked by the notion of being a minority within a minority, non-white multiracial identity shares and is not impervious to many of the same struggles and dynamics in APIA such as internalized racism, racism within minority groups, and feeling lost and out of place. However, the experience is still something different in its own right with stories to be explored. Racism between minority groups is not new. Yet, it is different for me, when it is with one side of my family versus the other. It becomes something I’m raised on and I learn to be ashamed of who I am. Visiting the home country of your parents is not new to exploring APIA identity and searching for belonging. Yet, it is different for me, when I have never found a space of Chinese and Latinx fusion. No country feels familiar to me. Not fitting into white spaces as a minority is not new to APIA identity. Yet, it is different for me, because even in Chinese and Latinx cultural spaces I feel ostracized. Throughout my life, the constant in exploring my multiracial identity has been loneliness. This is because there are few times I’ve felt understood in my struggles. By sharing part of my story, I hope to broaden what it means to be an APIA, and make the uncommon familiar, so that more people can feel seen and understood. This is how I feel we can combat this loneliness and see the beauty in who we are.

One of my many periods of loneliness is college. During my freshman year, I listened to precisely one hundred fifty-six hours of Cantonese podcasts. It reminded me of using Cantonese to gossip in the Chinese grocery store with BaBa, because everyone there speaks Mandarin. They are not Hong Kong people. At school and in life, I miss Hong Kong people. So I listened to my language on podcasts about random shit. This way I can breathe when I feel alone here. All the people at school speak Mandarin. None of them are Hong Kong people.

In my college Mandarin class, I meet people who know what embarrassment about your lunch from home is. People who went to Chinese school and did traditional Chinese dance when they were younger and have moms who bring them tangerines for good luck and Pocky for fun. This is the Chinese American way! In Chinese school my teacher slapped me hard. I have a Cantonese accent when I speak Mandarin in class. Because I am from Hong Kong people. I don’t belong here. In college I want to speak Spanish when I can’t think of the word I want in Mandarin. So when I tutor ESL on Mondays, the girl from Taiwan has to tell me how to say punnett squares. And the Guatemalan girl tells me I have “chinito” eyes. So I go to Kowloon to find Cantonese with BaBa. Everyone there thinks I’m adopted. Hong Kong is different now. They do not know me, and BaBa does not know them.

I am wrong to be excited and think the Chinese will accept me. They only like the girls with straight hair and almond eyes and they think I am Mexican. They are beautiful and I cry because I stupidly think I must only worry about not being blonde and having blue eyes.

Before college, my aunt Nancy picked me up from school starting age three, because Dad was busy at the restaurant. On Saturdays, I would do my homework by the carry out while customers ask if I’m wasian. I am not allowed to tell anyone I am Latina because we are embarrassed. I keep this secret until I am eighteen. The Latinx waiters compliment my efforts on learning Spanish, but say I have an accent and it does not sound right because I am a Chinese girl. Spanish is my first language. The Chinese think our waiters are uneducated and are vigilant about stealing hands. In high school Spanish, a Latino boy slants his eyes and tells me “ching chong wing wong, I am speaking like your people.” He is a moron. I am his people. I am upset he is my people. Out of anger, I remember that the Chinese say this is typical of Latinxs because they are unruly. Then I’m ashamed to remember this racism. I feel guilty questioning whether I believe it.

Everyone at school thinks I have a perm and they do not see the influence of Mamá’s curly hair because I am a Chinese girl. Mamá wants to take me to El Salvador but BaBa is angry that an El Salvadorian molested me as a child.

I am angry too, because it took too long for people to believe me, and Mamá could not protect me from the danger and violence. Now I cannot find what I am looking for in her country anymore. Mamá brings me marañon from the trees in El Salvador and they are the best. I cannot tell if this is what her love looks like.

Mamá and I. Our relationship rips the flesh straight off my bones and cuts me. I see her once a week and I grow up from a distance. My heart bleeds because when she says she loves me, I can’t bring myself to say it back. When I was sixteen I realized that I look like her. I could not hide who I was anymore so I went out looking for my people. Until I was sixteen I did not know the parts of me that were El Salvador.

I want to cry and I spend whole lifetimes falling deep into depression. Because for eighteen years I am not allowed to say I am Latina. Neither the Chinese nor Latinxs understand. And for a lifetime it is hard to find belonging and I am alone, for my people do not recognize me as one of them. I am forever desperately searching for my people that I can’t find. This is how I live.

Illustrations by Yannie Chang

The Evolution of Asian and Pacific Islander Representation in Media: Progress & the Path Forward

by Aishwarya Suresh

In the sprawling landscape of media and entertainment, the portrayal of APIA individuals has long been fraught with stereotypes, caricatures, and underrepresentation. The turn of the millennium has marked a significant shift in this narrative, as strides have been taken to amplify and represent APIA voices, stories, and experiences. And while that progress is undeniable and should be celebrated, the journey toward authentic and equitable representation remains unfinished.

The dawn of the 21st century saw the emergence of groundbreaking works that challenged conventional tropes and provided platforms for APIA artists to shine. One notable milestone was the widespread fame of movies like The Joy Luck Club (1993), a considerable contrast from the racist caricatures of Asian characters that had gained popularity, such as Mr. Yunioshi from Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961), paving the way for greater recognition of APIA actors and narratives on the international stage and allowed Americans a gateway into the cultural perspectives of minorities across the nation through complex characters.

APIA representation in television also underwent a transformation, with shows such as Fresh Off the Boat (2015-2020) and Never Have I Ever (2020-2023) offering nuanced portrayals of APIA identities. These shows not only broke stereotypes but also provided platforms for APIA creatives to take control of media and showcase stories reflective of their own experiences and identities by having APIA characters take the main stage and go through character development as the leads they are. Previously, APIA characters would be present for comedic relief, or only be centralized to make them appear “exotic” rather than a person with many layers to them, such as O-Ren Ishii from Kill Bill (2003). This gradual push to reclaim Asian American identities reveals that what matters most about making Asian characters is more than just their mere presence on screen, but the complexity of their characters and how they can be seen as real people even through media.

Despite these strides, challenges persist in the quest for comprehensive representation. Hollywood continues to grapple with whitewashing controversies, where APIA characters are often portrayed by non-APIA actors, perpetuating erasure and marginalization. Scarlett Johansson’s role in Ghost in the Shell (2017) steamrolled over an opportunity for an Asian actor

Crazy Rich Asians (2018)

to play a role in the beloved Japanese franchise, as did Emma Stone’s role as a part Hawaiian and Chinese character in Aloha (2015). Moreover, the diversity within the APIA community remains largely untapped, with certain Asian ethnicities and experiences receiving disproportionate attention compared to others. For example, Moana (2016), being almost the only culturally appreciative and famed movie depicting Pacific Islander cultures, could not depict Pacific Islander characters with appropriate actors. Accurate and equitable APIA representation is a concern throughout modern-day media, alongside the struggle to highlight APIA cultures without sidelining other minorities and avoiding anti-LGBTQ+ narratives.

Furthermore, harmful stereotypes persist, relegating APIA individuals to limited roles such as the “model minority” or the “fresh-off-the-boat” characters. These portrayals not only fail to capture the richness and diversity of APIA experiences but also perpetuate harmful misconceptions that impact real-world perceptions and interactions, such as anti-Asian hatred and violence which reached a peak during the COVID-19 pandemic. Using media to spread education and awareness in a far-reaching and easily digestible manner is a key component of effecting change, which is why accurate portrayals of Asian characters and culture are becoming more necessary than ever before.

Looking ahead, there is a pressing need for continued advocacy and action to foster inclusive representation in media. This entails not only increasing APIA visibility on screen but also empowering APIA voices behind the camera, from writers and directors to producers and executives. It requires dismantling systemic barriers that hinder APIA artists from accessing opportunities and resources and fostering environments where their talents can flourish.

Additionally, embracing intersectionality is crucial in ensuring that the APIA narrative reflects the diversity of experiences within the community. This means amplifying the voices of APIA women, LGBTQ+ individuals, immigrants, and other marginalized groups whose stories remain underrepresented through artistic and thoughtful films such as The Half of It (2020), Crazy Rich Asians (2018), and Everything, Everywhere, All at Once (2022). The evolution of APIA representation in media reflects this progress as well as the persistence of systemic challenges. While strides have been made to amplify APIA voices and stories, there is still much work to be done to ensure that representation is authentic, diverse, and equitable. By championing APIA creatives, challenging stereotypes, and embracing intersectionality, we can pave the way for a media landscape that reflects the rich tapestry of human experience.

I See How You Look At Us by Andy Shufer

How do I embody Chinese-ness? Some days on campus, my identity pulls into the foreground. My stories become educational. The hallways of Washington are adorned with flyers promising opportunities to learn my culture as a subject. I pull from it more than I’d like to admit, trading a few of my mom’s words for more time on my open crossword tab in Chinese class. Certainly, I’ve grown up to recognize how Chinese-ness is commodifiable; on better days, it’s mine. I own it, right? I’m allowed to “perform” myself how I’d like.

Yet, on most days, it feels like I’ve never had much choice in how I’m perceived. The eyes that are watching are never fair. As an International Relations major, there’s an ordinary pain to networking, finding jobs, and meeting alumni. I work in technology justice, but, like most of my friends, every time I attend a career event, I meet alumni who hold this expectant look as they ask about “where my parents are from” or my “authentic” opinions. I was born and raised in a suburb in Texas, but, surely, I’m the diplomat we need for Xi. Maybe, if I play up to their questions, I won’t be seen as a threat. No matter how I perform, I play into an expectation. How, then, do I show myself with dignity?

In this regard, I’ve become very attached to the current fight for better APIA representation in Hollywood. It feels like a test run: as we find our roles and power on the screen, we’d learn by example to assert our own stories.

To perform race is to receive a racialized gaze that is active, even violent, in trying to mold us into a specific imagination. The earliest Asian American sitcom, All-American Girl (1994), was rife with this toxic gaze. Margaret Cho, the lead actor and main character of the show, recounted ABC executives hiring a coach to teach her how to “be more Asian” in her own story. During the show’s run, producers pushed her to change her appearance as she starved herself to the point of kidney failure. As they justified, “The network has a problem with the fullness of your face.”

Then came Fresh Off the Boat (2015), a show produced by Asian American Melvin Mar based on the life of Eddie Huang. Fresh Off the Boat aimed to have more direct conversations about the Chinese American identity and its common experiences. During its first season, however, Huang quit the show, stating that Mar had turned his story into “a cornstarch sitcom and me into a mascot for America.” Like All-American Girl, reviews from APIA communities criticized the show’s use of the “tiger mom” and other cheap stereotypes to generalize Chinese American experiences to what audiences knew.

In reality, Hollywood representation has never just been a fight for access; often, the problem was still APIA producers, writers, and executives all working towards an expected gaze. They act in paradox: how can we represent APIA stories to simultaneously be authentic (people LOVE authenticity) and have a wide (white) appeal?

Mar once told Huang about Fresh Off the Boat: “It’s going to get Americans excited about us. It’s Panda Express, and you know what? Orange chicken gets America really excited about Chinese people in airports.”

Every day, we code-switch and tango to fit under this gaze. In the workplace, we’re technical wizards & IP spies or cheap labor & job-stealers. Most of us are wary of dating, because it’s always the ones who have “anime” in their bio that seem to be extra interested. Media and magazines will exploit our cultures as authentic because they’re beautiful and raw, but is it ever possible for us to wear our clothes without our entire being rewritten as racial and exotic? As we change, and change, and change, we look to Hollywood and each other to ask, when will I learn how to show myself to the world?

Every year, most student cultural organizations at W&M go through this trial of representation by hosting “culture shows,” using skits and dance to showcase identity in an authentic, but entertaining way. The Chinese Student Organization (CSO) – which I’m a part of – is unique for its show’s heartfelt insanity. Our skits are usually reimagined queer fanfictions of pop culture or Chinese myths.

People playfully criticize that our performance of culture feels like a high school theater project tacked on to Chinese-ness. That sentiment makes me jealous. I feel envy watching my non-Chinese friends’ shows. They have a national anthem to sing. They can be political and not be a threat. I’m jealous that they have deep enough knowledge of their roots to grasp onto as they show themselves authentically and beautifully.

But this is the problem. Hollywood and I are addicted to this question of performance. There’s no perfect way to be Chinese to an alumnus because if that’s all the alumnus cares about, how good is the career they would’ve provided? There is no “authenticity” in media, because, who and what gets to define what is authentic? CSO shows can be inane, but they’re fun and we laugh. We know it’s stupid.

Every semester, CSO’s culture show is a performance I choose to do again and again. Because even as we’re shaking ass in our dragon head costume, for once, we become ourselves with dignity.

Art for the piece is inspired by the talented Chinese-born queer photographer, Mengwen Cao. Illustrations by Andy Shufer.

Bird’s Eye Death, Embracing a Worm’s Eye World by Collin Absher

Can you see it from down here? Or do you still hover above us, blind, floating in oblong circles, waiting to strike, to dive down and wreak havoc? You do not need to imagine the atrocities because it is you who creates them. But you should know…We come in droves.

I often think about the events in my life that led me to advocate for marginalized communities. When I observe various spaces campus, I often anticipate seeing more than just one white person showing support for those who have been harmed and marginalized by the dominating system, which has left many feeling disgruntled, disenfranchised, and displaced.

I suppose it is only through common suffering, a traumatic event – no – a chronic realization of the world we envelope. In this light, that can bring those of us outside into the sun, to embrace the worm’s eye world for the eagle’s atrocities and lead to a radical change in how we think, process, view, and feel the landscapes around us. Regardless of racial, social, economic, sexual, gender, political background, we are far too interconnected now to ignore them. I am reminded by the late activist Grace Lee Boggs who echoes this sentiment:

However, I cannot recall any previous period when the issues were so basic, so interconnected, and so demanding of everyone living in this country, regardless of race, ethnicity, class, gender, age, or national origin. At this point in the continuing evolution of our country and of the human race, we urgently need to stop thinking of ourselves as victims and to recognize that we must each become a part of the solution because we are each a part of the problem

-Grace Lee Boggs, The Next American Revolution, 2011

Recognizable in her revolutionary writing is the eagle eye problem of whiteness. A common problem with white allyship in an American context is that there is an imagined necessity of shared trauma or experience to advocate or even think of standing in solidarity with those directly affected by its aftermath.

Illustration by Andy Shufer

Growing up, my mother often mentioned a phrase I didn’t truly understand until tunneling further into ethnic studies, learning from other like-minded worms around me.

“Ignorance is bliss.”

What a vile sentence.

The innate privilege of being able to utter such words is beyond me. Ignorance is destructive, it is complicit, and it is in itself a tool to absolve ourselves. By maintaining a submissive, ignorant position, White bodies absolve themselves from any possible problem that mainstream Judeo-Christian European-American society has thrust into minority culture without consent, but are you even aware of this? When will you finally realize? Will it be too late? Your origin story in building a drop of empathy?

Won’t you come and see from our perspective and commit treason to your Bird’s Eye society? I implore you to come and see from the Worm’s Eye View.

The theme of A&H’s 2024 volume, “Worm’s Eye View,” was inspired by Gidra, a revolutionary monthly Asian American newspaper-magazine from the 1960s, whose symbol was a worm.