ARCMAG Fall 2022

Fall 2022

ARCMAG ASIAN RESILIENCE COLLECTIVE MAGAZINE

www.asianresiliencecollectivecanada.org

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The Water Tiger - Rebecca Duckett-Wilkinson This inaugural edition of ARCMag's cover art has been generously donated by Rebecca Duckett-Wilkinson. Rebecca is a Malaysian artist and painter working mainly with paint and paper. A weaver and textile print designer by training, Rebecca paints dreamscapes and visual memories that give a sense of place, all influenced by a love for flora, fauna, and cultural heritage. These images fill her thoughts after journeys and travel. Colour, pattern and textures feature in all her nature inspired paintings. More recently Rebecca has used her art to highlight issues that impact on women & children, & the impact of man on the environment & biodiversity. Rebecca works between Penang, Malaysia, and Piemonte, Italy.

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EDITOR'S & FOUNDERS' NOTES

This project was one of the biggest dreams I held for the Asian Resilience Collective Canada when the organization was still in its infancy last year. What started out as an idea to publish articles to our website turned into a collection of powerful personal essays consolidated into this special magazine. Many of these pieces come from dear friends and peers of mine, and it has been deeply humbling to work as the editor for all contributors to this inaugural edition of ARCMag. I want to thank all the writers and artists who have been a part of this project for their support, enthusiasm, and vulnerability. And to our readers, I hope you'll find the theme of this collection of essays as resounding as I have - resilience, after all, is built into this magazine's very name.

Caleigh Wong ARCMag Editor-in-Chief

Hi Friends, We are excited to present to you ARCMAG 2022! This is ARCC’s first edition of the magazine, and we are honoured to have you join us on this literary and artistic journey!

We share the work of our talented contributors to stay true to what we set out to do back in 2020 when we founded ARCC. We strive to unite, uplift and empower Asian cultures and stories through various mediums. First, interviews featuring amazing Asian Canadians and various Asian cuisines in the ARCC Series. The second was social media features. And now, art + literature.

We hope that these narratives resonate with you as they have with us.

Lots of love, ARCC Founders April, Aaliah, Caleigh, Christina and Christine

ARCMAG FALL 2022

Contents: Asians on Vacation (On Being Asian in the Arts) Amreen Kullar

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Dear Diary, it's been a while...

Amanda Chiu

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年糕: Year Cake

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Charlotte Nip

From the Vaults Audrey Chan

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Identity and our Parents: Two Perspectives on the Impacts of Divorce on Mixed-Race Kids Caleigh Wong & Rachel Banks

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Finding Solace in Music and Podcasting Andrew Son

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Culture V.V: A Love Letter to Those who Grew Alongside Us Jackie Phạm Hoài Thu

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Literary Lessons Chiara Ferrero-Wong

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Asian Resilience Collective Canada @asianresiliencecc / asianresiliencecc@gmail.com

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ASIANS ON VACATION (ON BEING ASIAN IN THE ARTS) AMREEN KULLAR I know I’m supposed to be encouraging. I often am.

Like people like me don’t actually exist.

But there’s so much complexity in diaspora, in Asian

Like my parents didn’t support me pursuing the arts.

identity. I am a tired optimist. Someone who tries to

Didn’t let me date. Didn’t let me live.

be resilient, to feel resilient, but I often can’t. Though

Like when a white girl told me to make the brown

maybe my ability to vocalize my perfectionism and

parents in my script more strict.

mental illness is resilience. Especially if many of

It is as if everyone wants to erase me. Like my reality

those that came before us could not. Maybe being an

has no semblance to their thoughts, ideas, images of

Asian in therapy with an Asian therapist is resilience.

what I am supposed to be - what they imagine when they imagine someone that looks like me.

Although, I can never separate my experiences as a

Like sometimes I forget I’m real and I no longer

South Asian, a woman, a neurodivergent person, or

create. Like I once again lose my agency.

someone who has a mental illness. I think about it

Like if I don’t help up other Asians, I’m a gatekeeper.

sometimes, about the hand I was dealt, like is this

Even when I don’t yet have a gate of my own to

really who I am out of everything I could be? Will I

keep.

look into the mirror and see what I’ve always seen?

Like I give and I give and I try to create within these

Part of me is always lying when I say I wouldn’t

little gaps of time I’m granted. Until I blink and they

wanna be anybody else.

vanish.

But it's not just about who I am. The nature of being

As if my perfectionism isn’t the reason I feel trapped.

someone like me means I represent more than

As if my over-achievement is not self-inflicted. The

myself. That I am perceived as not just an individual,

need to be liked and praised. Maybe because I always

but part of a collective of people who look like me.

felt a lack of it.

I live in constant fear, like our words will be erased

And so the feelings of inadequacy build and build

like our history in this country has.

and you lose track of where it’s all coming from. But

Like our novelty will expire when being a white

it’s that elementary school teacher trying to push

liberal is no longer cool. Or when “too many” of us

you by handing you all B’s, insisting that A’s stand

enter the spotlight.

for above and beyond, for extra work, a medal for no

Like I only get jobs to help hit diversity quotas. Like I

sleep. It’s your parents acting like anything good

haven’t actually worked all that hard.

you’ve ever done has been expected. Like the bare

Like I didn't earn my grades in school but my race

minimum was never minimal.

made them a given.

Like everyone feels like they know every detail of

Does being Asian mean not knowing what it feels like

who I am without asking.

to be able to relax on a day off?

Like I’m vegan for religion. That I’m religious at all.

That I couldn’t have been raised in an atheist’s house.

Like any bit of reframing can't help me escape this

Like it goes against anything they've ever read or

chase, because in the meantime I've already

heard or watched.

constructed another catalyst for it.

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And so I dream of a moment free from guilt. I dream

That, because of it, nothing feels like it’s enough.

of Asians on vacation.

And I’m afraid it never will. Like my pride is conditional and fleeting. So easily carried away. And

And I keep on trudging through the labour, the no

I wonder, do others like me feel joy when we win

days off, the American dream, the - what I’m

Oscars? Or do we forget them the next day and

supposed to be grateful for. But existential dread and

remember our ancestry, our parents, who taught us

emptiness succumbs me even on my better days.

to never be satisfied? Maybe we’re like this because

And I wish to remember what my dreams were and

they had to be to make it here. For I had to be, to

what my younger self would think of who I am now.

make it here. And to still feel like not enough.

So I wait for the fog to clear. I am constantly awaiting the sun.

But they won’t tell you that perfectionism leads to will for tragedy. It’s the only break grantor, the only

I can’t break this fear of only living in glimpses of my

valid reason to slow down. And so I dream of

potential - showing an ounce of it to colleagues or on

tragedy. For a semblance of peace.

Instagram, never finishing scripts or pieces or edits.

So I break every inch of me instead, handing it to

I wish we didn’t have to be resilient. Sometimes I

them and I’m left as shattered nothings on the floor,

wish we could just be.

so tiny they cannot be swept. Basking in defeat, fighting in my head.

But how could you have remembered to go easy when you weren’t taught how? How could you know

Do you know what it’s like to feel baffled when

how to take a day off? How to call in sick? How to

someone asks for your thoughts? Because you’ve

celebrate yourself, order out, spend time at the mall?

only been heard the times you forcefully push

When your parents hardly did? And so you teach

yourself into conversation, yelling between sobs, like

them as you teach yourself, that perfectionism kills

you’re only cared for if you’re giving all of yourself

true resilience, it’s taught self sabotage, it’s wins gone

to someone else. Like you can never get it right, like

uncelebrated, it’s no days off, it’s unspent funds. And

you talk over people at every break in conversation.

so I’ll continue to dream of Asians on vacation. I

Like my hands always shake when I raise them. Like

hope one day, we’ll feel like we deserve it.

my profs hardly ever cared to learn my name. But they knew Katherine’s and Ashley’s. Like the one prof that actually said “Amreen'' had mistaken the other South Asian girl for me.

But I don’t know, when people call me Asian, I remember what it’s like to feel included. Like I got picked to be on the soccer team. Like “you actually want me?”

Like on a night out in Germany, I missed a beer bottle to the head by an inch and got called an Asian bitch, and I should have been angry but I couldn’t help but smile.

Like a naive girl taking a catcall as a compliment.

Out of every assumption about me, the one that’s true is that I was raised in a perfectionist’s household.

Amreen Kullar (she/her) is a versatile freelance filmmaker and spoken word poet. She’s driven by social causes and strives to create content that leaves audiences questioning preconceived notions. Her films have played at numerous festivals, most notably winning Regent Park Film Festival’s audience choice award in 2020. She has since worked on numerous commercial campaigns, indie shorts, and TV shows in documentary, reality, and narrative spaces. Her next vacation dreams include soloing Italy, meeting up with friends in Germany, and attending Sundance.

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DEAR DIARY, IT'S BEEN A WHILE...

AMANDA CHIU

In grade 3 I had a diary. It was a little blue butterfly

People say that Toronto (Tkaronto) is a mixing pot,

notebook that fit perfectly in my grade-3-sized hand.

implying that its diversity signifies a lack of racism

During recess I would walk around the schoolyard

or discrimination. Toronto is painted as a utopia of

and pretend I was a detective; writing down

inclusion and a city that celebrates differences. But I

everything that came to mind, from trivial

grew up in a different Toronto, one that ingrained in

observations to my deepest secrets.

my mind at a young age that being Chinese was something to be embarrassed of.

I stumbled upon this notepad recently when I visited my childhood home and went through a box of the

In middle school I was told that I was pretty for an

prized possessions of my youth. I remembered the

Asian girl. I began to dye my hair and wear it wavy,

way that diary felt in my hands, the joy it brought

thinking that maybe if I looked less Asian, I would be

me to have all my thoughts immortalized in my cute

treated less like one too.

little tangible object of affection. Seeing the notebook for the first time in almost 14 years, I began

In high school I was called a Chink. Ling Ling. “Go

to flip through the pages and peer into my 8-year-

back to the ricefields”, they would say. I had people

old brain.

speak to me in Chinese accents, boys tell me that

My favourite food is Mac and Cheese.

they would never sleep with Asian girls, my friends

My best subjects in school are Music and English.

joking about me eating their dogs. I remember being

I have a crush on TWO boys in my class.

spat on, being told to kill myself, being physically

I wish I was white.

assaulted. All I could do was laugh along. It doesn’t hurt if you pretend it’s just a joke, right? The only

I stared at the words on the page, written in scratchy

thing worse than being the Asian girl was being the

children’s handwriting: I wish I was white. I ripped

overly sensitive Asian girl.

the page out, crumpling it up and throwing it in the recycling. I hoped and prayed that my parents had

To survive, I became what I loathed. I would make

not read through the notebook and been confronted

the racist jokes before others had a chance to. I

with those words. I remembered the resentment I

would make them about myself, about other Asian

harboured for them throughout my childhood for

kids at school. I did everything in my power to create

cursing me with my identity as a Chinese Canadian.

a separation between myself and my identity. I lied

In grade 3, racism was a term not yet a part of my

about my family origins. I kept any and all aspects of

vocabulary and a concept not yet comprehensible to

my culture, from food to traditions, a well-kept

my psyche. But I still knew what it was – I just didn’t

secret. And in doing so, I severed the relationship I

have the words to articulate it.

had with my identity in a way that I am still trying to reconcile with.

I was Mulan every year for Halloween because all the popular girls, the white girls, were Disney princesses

As we grow older, we mourn what we intentionally

– and I wanted to be one too. This was, of course,

lost as children. We try to take back what was

until a boy in my class stretched his eyes out at me.

surrendered in the process of assimilating - in

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surviving.

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been different if I had grown up learning to be proud, rather than ashamed, of my culture.

We carry the guilt of our actions and our thoughts. In

I wished I was white for a long time. It wasn’t until I

resenting ourselves, we resented our families, our

grew older and learned why I felt this way that I

communities, our own people. In trying so hard to

began to heal. I now wake up grateful to be a

survive, we naively and selfishly deflected our pain

Chinese-Canadian, being adorned with artwork done

and relegated it on others. Without knowing it, we

by Asian-Canadian tattoo artists, wearing my PoPo’s

perpetuated the very structures of hate that plagued

jade, celebrating Lunar New Year, and indulging in

us.

Chinese food whenever given the opportunity.

These seemingly minuscule and insignificant

As a now 21-year-old Chinese Canadian woman,

routines are just as invaluable to our community as

writer, and activist, my work lays in this journey of

broad-stroke actions towards Asian-Canadian

forgiveness and reclamation.

resilience.

We try to find what was lost in our lifetimes, and those of our PoPos and GungGungs and YeYes and

In living, we embody resilience.

NaiNais and MaMas and BaBas.

Chinese food is inarguably delicious, but it tastes even better when you can appreciate it shamelessly.

Resilience can sound intimidating – the task of overcoming a history of adversity is no small one. In

趙友慧 (she/her) is a third-generation

the context of the individual, it seems like an

Amanda Chiu/

impossible feat. But it is on the individualistic level

Chinese-Canadian activist and writer from Tkaronto. She

that resilience comes to fruition for Asian Canadians.

currently lives in Tio’tia:ke, where she is finishing her

For us, self preservation comes early, and healing

degree in Gender, Sexuality, Feminist, and Social Justice

much later.

studies at McGill University. Amanda is specifically interested in Asian-Canadian resilience and its

We cannot be resilient without healing. And we must

relationship to Indigenous reconciliation. Her work is

firstly heal ourselves if we are to heal our

centered around community organizing, mutual aid,

community. In being resilient, the relationship

decolonizing education, and grassroots resistance. In her

between the self and the community is one of

free time she enjoys spending time with her cats, camping

reciprocity. It is in taking up space in our everyday

with friends, and eating Chinese food.

lives that we can both heal and be healed. It is in the works of diasporic Asian writers, artists, poets, teachers, tattooers, and chefs that we can collectively tackle the monster of resilience. It is in our friends and families and communities that we can reverse the fragmentation of our identities.

I walked into a bookstore recently and glanced over at the children’s section. For Asian Heritage Month, the bookstore displayed a collection of children’s books written by Asian American and Canadian authors. A little Chinese girl was looking at the books with her Mom, wearing her hair in the same way that I used to; bangs and pigtails. I wondered, admittedly with a bit of envy, if my grade 3 wish would have

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年糕

YEAR CAKE CHARLOTTE NIP

年糕 (Nian gao) is a sweet rice cake typically

tangerine sunstreams and

eaten during Chinese New Year for good luck.

year cakes cement the valleys

This auspicious tradition comes from the cake's

between the monsters’ teeth

name itself - a homonym for "a higher year" in

chewy textures

mandarin.

like magic epoxy, softens the growls —while firecrackers dance

Grandma traded cotton

in the night.

peeling hours, for glutinous rice flour once a year she is greedy

I was born a skeptic

for love.

of Chinese folklore the witchcraft year cake brings

By dawn, she returns brown sugar water overstimulates

but now, crispy burnt edges scratch

a blank canvas

my tongue and sugary innocence

unfamiliar, golden

mellows like a hymn

molecules three little red jujubes placed in the centre wrinkly on our tongues exfoliate our hollow stomachs.

年糕 年糕 年年高 year cake: brings

Grandma remembers.

the start of a new season the start of a promise

Cold winter preys

higher each year

with its sharp teeth

superstitions daring our lead

here comes the mountain monsters

our dreams

shaped like dogs growl like leopards

grounded by dirty dishes

to satiate the hungry Gods fatty fumes draw them in like a burst artery.

By the ninth lunar morning ruby red paper embossed with squid ink calligraphy plasters every door keeps the monsters from chewing through our kind

in the sink.

Charlotte Nip (she/her) is a SFU Master of Publishing graduate and lifestyle marketing assistant at Penguin Random House Canada. She is a diligent social media enthusiast, writer, and poet, who has frequently published on ThoughtCatalog, Spoon University, and Ricepaper Magazine. When she is not working, she likes taking the perfect Instagram shot and going through Vancouver to find it. Follow her daily adventures @charlottenip

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FROM THE VAULTS AUDREY CHAN

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No Entry Kjipuktuk. Army Museum Halifax Citadel, 2017, taken during my initial tour of the city. Anyone who has read No Exit can tell you that “hell is other people.” Just as this picture inverts expectations of an entrance into a much deeper space, I often find myself inverting Sartre in response to sites of “no entry” in this foreign country as an Asian settler-immigrant (e.g., access to services, social and class mobility, coded cultural language): “hell is myself,” or “heaven is other people.” I am responsible for my own hell for not being white enough, not assimilated enough, not "Canadian" enough; to be anything other than myself might just free me from the hell that is racialization. The hollow center of the image draws me in further and I imagine what it would be like on the other side of this gated space –– in a position of greater privilege, authority, and agency.

From what I can tell, it looks like a jail from the other side, too.

Busker Tkaronto. Outside the AGO in 2016, my second year living abroad. I remember the moment that I took this photograph distinctly because of the same question that confronts me when I look at it all these years later: “Just what is so Canadian about an erhu?” Many tensions arise within this frame: I think about the lack of a visible audience responding to this public display of Chinese culture –– if I listen hard enough, I can still hear the spinning wheels of cars rushing past, but not the melody that was being played. I think about how the musician chose to position themselves, directly facing the doors of this prestigious institution of art as they sat outside of it, making their own. Defiance and worship are always difficult to tease apart.

Documentary photographer

陳亭僡 Audrey Chan (they/them) hails from Hong Kong and has been living and

learning in so-called Canada since 2014. Audrey is interested in the formation of migration narratives/questions through images both moving and still, with particular respect to the intersections between race, queerness, translation, and fiction. Based in Mi’kma’ki, they are currently pursuing a journalism degree to build on their studies in philosophy and cinema. Audrey also loves a good round of table tennis (or five!). You can find more streams of consciousness on their blog, more visual experiments in their portfolio, and more of both on their Instagram at audrey1.0.

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IDENTITY AND OUR PARENTS: TWO PERSPECTIVES ON THE IMPACTS OF DIVORCE ON MIXEDRACE KIDS CALEIGH WONG

RACHEL BANKS

Whenever I talk to other mixed kids about identity, it

The mixed-race/biracial/halfie experience is

almost always comes back to the same starting point:

especially challenging when one half is white. Being

our parents. Every conversation about culture,

too white in non-white spaces but not quite white

childhood, nationality, and all other facets of an

enough in white spaces—the incomplete

existence balancing two worlds, is underpinned by

membership, made worse by the overstated and

this idea that our experience, our life, is a unique

overshadowing presence of whiteness—has left

product of the anomaly of our parents’ union.

many of us feeling awkward at best and, at worst, unwelcome in our respective communities. This dual

Especially for those of us born before the digital age,

identity of layered marginality, of fringe whiteness

before the mechanisms of globalization were kicked

and ‘watered-down’ ethnicity, is the complicated

into high-gear, there seems to be this shared

product of an interracial romance in our white-

sentiment that our parents' chance meeting was

friendly world.

something special. Something that formed in spite of a world structured for more homogenous forms of

My parents met in 1994 on the very last day of

love.

paramedic school in Toronto. My dad, born and raised in the city, was adopted at birth by an older

My mom was born into a large catholic family in a

Jewish couple after his Polish biological mother

town of a few thousand on the rocky coast of Cape

arrived in Canada and almost immediately went into

Breton Island in Nova Scotia. My dad, the son of

labour. My mom was born in Malawi’s capital to

Taoists, was raised in an industrial city along the

strict Catholic parents, grew up on a small island in

river, beneath the thunder of Malaysia’s monsoon

Seychelles, and immigrated to Ontario in her early

country. They met as two young university students

teens.

on a French immersion course in 1984. Around the dinner table, my dad use to share a folklore that said

It is almost bizarre that my parents met and bonded

the distance one held their chopsticks from the tip

when and how they did. My paternal grandparents

predicted how far from home their spouse would

are racist, privileged white Jews, my maternal

end up being from. My mom would quip that they

grandparents were (one has died, the other has

both must have had extremely long chopsticks

learned) anti-Semitic Black immigrants. Conflict and

growing up.

tension are old family traditions. Yet I did not feel them growing up, not within my household at least,

I often think of how unlikely it was for them to ever

and my parents always made room for celebration

meet. How less likely, still, for them to choose each

and appreciation of both cultural backgrounds. I was

other, with the expansive gaps in attitudes and beliefs

not always proud of my unique ancestries though,

that simply don’t apply to love stories with the girl

thanks to internalized beliefs which I am deeply

next door.

ashamed of now but could not shake off as a kid.

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Perhaps the greatest gift my mom and dad ever gave

But I was always proud of my parents, and their love

me was an upbringing perfectly split in years

and resilience and devotion to one another and us

between the East and the West. How rare and

gave me a certainty in myself that has never failed

precious it is - this gift of a foundation that managed

me.

to merge the two very different contexts of who my parents are.

I felt that solid foundation fragment for the first time, quite recently, when my parents’ marriage

My mom often talks about bringing my father home

ended (with a bang!) in a way that was as devastating

for the first time. I imagine the comments that went

as it was predictable. For a brief but significant time I

around, the cruelty of my mom’s former boyfriends

no longer wanted to be Jewish. I feel irreparable

who simply could not believe they ‘lost’ to a

heartbreak, directly and indirectly, from the

confident Chinese man from Malaysia, who rarely

uniquely racist and misogynist harm that my mother

drank and never smoked, who gave himself the

has suffered. I resent that, as Black women, our

name of Wallace when he moved here. She also talks

choices for security and well-being are often made

about visiting my dad’s hometown, as one of the few

for us. Underlying all of it is a profound grief that the

white women who ever had - the nods and smiles

union which gave me such beautiful gifts, including

between her and her future in-laws that filled the

not one but two distinct sets of community,

linguistic gap dividing people from two distinct

collective cultural pride, values, and ancestors, could

worlds.

be broken so carelessly.

I was 21 when they separated. The week my mom

I used to feel that I could attribute the interesting

told me, I collapsed onto my bed with two friends

parts of myself only to my parents and their

after a night out and shared the news. I thank the

combined force. I’m not quite sure where to ground

powers that be that these two women also do not

my sense of self anymore. Lately, however, I have

walk around the world white, for what ensued was a

been feeling more at home in my Blackness and in

cathartic conversation on race, culture, and our

my Jewishness than I ever have before. I owe much

parents. I wonder - do white kids talk about identity

of this to a few dear friends (and a dear therapist)

when their parents split up? Is it something they

who all understand what it means to exist just

mourn?

outside the margins of whiteness. We grieve together, taking breaks to embrace it all again.

I can only really speak for myself, but I think there exists an enduring conflict in the ‘halfie’ experience

One comforting part of being a halfie, in literal

where we find ourselves continuously out of place in

terms, is that no matter what happens with parents

both spheres. An experience that has partial claims in

you can never truly lose those ties to two unique sets

both founding identities, but without complete

of community, culture, and ancestors. By virtue of

membership in either one individually. The tragedy

existing you are a living continuation of two

is that a more active embrace of one often means a

bloodlines that carry the twists and turns of a group

fleeting understanding of the other - that this duality

marked in a particular way throughout the centuries.

is sometimes more a tug of war than a melting pot.

I cannot shed either half of my identity even if I

Perhaps the greatest exception to this delicate,

wanted to, and I know deep down that somewhere

effortful balance is found in the intimate space of

within both communities there is room for me. This

family, with the very people who came together to

reality may not feel like much when we are

mold and fuse the seemingly opposing cultural

mourning the tremendous loss of our comfortable

components of themselves to produce us. So what

footing in our parents’ union, but it is a whole lot

does it mean when there is a fracture within this safe

more than we would have if our parents had

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space? Where do we find our footing now? For mixed

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never met.

kids, our parents’ union contextualizes who we are.

I get this all down on paper now, with the content

Rachel Banks (she/her) is a recently graduated, newly

knowledge that I theorize all this on the other end of

unemployed, and currently optimistic 20-something-year-

the story. For when my parents met, identity, culture

old from Ontario. She spent half of the last decade living in

and the ways in which these factors dance with

Halifax, NS, where she developed a lifelong penchant for

divorce were probably the last things on their minds.

the east coast and the deepest love for her friends. Rachel is

Instead, I imagine them in their youth in 1980s

Black, Jewish, and queer. She is also a tree planter, an

Canada, in awe at their luck of having found each

amateur surfer, and an aspiring polyglot. She is honoured

other at all.

to have contributed to this edition of ARCMag and thanks the editor-in-chief for the opportunity and for her exceptional friendship.

Caleigh Wong (she/her) is the editor and co-founder of the Asian Resilience Collective Canada. Born and raised in Malaysia, she is passionate about issues around the immigrant experience, migrant labour rights and racism in Canada. Currently, she works as a surf instructor in Tofino, BC (Tla-o-qui-aht terrority).

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FINDING SOLACE IN MUSIC AND PODCASTING ANDREW SON As a Korean Canadian born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, I

had never done this, but at that young age, this was

feel proud of both my Korean heritage and Canadian

the only solution I had.

identity, but coming to this point in my life took time. Although Halifax has become a diverse city

This all changed when I joined the Nova Scotia

throughout the years, it was predominantly white

Youth Orchestra (NSYO) during my teenage years. I

when I first started elementary school. I realized that

met people from diverse backgrounds who came

I stood out like a sore thumb, along with a few other

together for a single purpose: to create beautiful

kids who were of visible minority. I was often

music together. Music helped us bridge different

reminded that compared to my peers, my skin

cultures and perspectives. In this diverse group, I felt

colour was ‘different’, my eyes were ‘smaller’, and

accepted and proud of who I was. I learned the

packed lunches ‘smelled weird’. But the most

importance of active listening to build trust among

confusing thing I had to overcome was with my

one another, and I carried this lesson into my later

name.

role as a podcast host.

​In elementary school, my peers often asked me,

When COVID hit, I started a podcast with my fellow

“What really is your name?”. They were referring to

co-host, Shikha, to connect with young BIPOC and

my Korean name. When I told them, they often

immigrant Canadians. It was so empowering to

mocked how it sounded. This was confusing because

discuss their lives and dreams, issues of inclusivity,

my Korean name meant a lot to me. My Korean

and the unique challenge of bridging cultures while

name, ‘Hyunsuk’ (

growing up. Between my experiences with the NSYO

grandfather and means “growing with wisdom”. Such

and my podcast, I learned that continuous discussion

experiences of discrimination made me question my

and active listening between different groups can

identity. As a young person, I wanted to ‘fit in’. I

help foster understanding and trust. Ultimately, trust

desired the sense of belonging and acceptance

builds cultural competence and sensitivity between

among my peers. And so during my young years, my

diverse peoples. I hope to honour the name my

solution was to hide my Korean heritage to cope with

grandfather gave me by opening myself to the needs

my identity crisis. Often, this meant eating my

and diverse backgrounds of those I serve. Through

packed lunch alone in the school bathroom stalls. My

this process, I hope to continually grow with

mom was and is an amazing cook, and she would

wisdom.

현석), was given to me by my

pack these delicious lunches for me when I was a child. But I was embarrassed to eat in front of my peers because of fear of judgment. I had already experienced various descriptions of my lunches: ‘stinky’, ‘nasty’, ‘weird’, ‘gross’. I also couldn’t tell my mom to stop packing those lunches because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings either; she packed those lunches out of love. And so I ate alone, in the privacy of those bathroom stall walls. Looking back, I wish I

Andrew Son (he/him) is an incoming medical student at the University of Toronto. Andrew has his undergraduate degree in Neuroscience and Music from Dalhousie University. He can be found volunteering and leading social advocacy projects that promote the improvement of social connection and wellbeing, such as Memory Cafe Nova Scotia and the Music and Healing Society of Dalhousie. In his spare time, he loves to stay active, and he co-hosts the “Banana and Coconut Experience” podcast.

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CULTURE V.V: A LOVE LETTER TO THOSE WHO GREW ALONGSIDE US JACKIE PHẠM HOÀI THU ​In Vietnamese, vân vân (abbreviated as, v.v) is synonymous with et cetera (abbreviated as, etc.) meaning “of like things”, or “and so forth”.

curiouser, we crawled down the rabbithole through what felt like an endless hallway of doors into Vietnamese identity, history and culture. This took the form of extensive research and many debates

Our early days at the University of Toronto St.

amongst our own team. Our work centered around

George Vietnamese Students’ Association (UTVSA)

creating activities for our members that would be as

could only be described as being in the right place at

entertaining as they were educational and, above all,

the right time with the right people. It was 2018 when

welcoming to any newcomers who wished to join

Khoa and I, along with a cohort of other

our inquiry into ‘Vietnamese-ness’.

undergraduates, joined as part of the new executive board. Though initially strangers, we grew to see that

Our unofficial catchphrase is, “we have no answers, only

our awkward team of ten had more in common than

questions” – through our work, we want to inspire wonder

what we’d initially thought. All of us brought

and appreciation for the known and unknown.

questions about our Vietnamese identities – doubts and contradictions that were then intensified by

This venture didn’t come without concern. There

these new leadership positions. Specifically, the sense

were times where we wondered if we were doing too

of duty to other (insecure) youth. The need to

much or going too far. The Vietnamese community,

untangle ‘Vietnamese-ness’ loomed heavier over us

especially our diasporic one , rings of a silence going

the more our personal journeys intersected with

back to the Vietnam-American War.

visions for UTVSA’s growth. On paper, we were a

Intergenerational trauma raised many children to

Vietnamese organisation with Vietnamese members,

believe that “I don’t want to talk about it”, and “you’ll

meant to support, celebrate, and embody

never understand” were impassable dead ends. Even

Vietnamese culture. But what makes something or

if they searched for these stories on their own, these

someone Vietnamese in the first place? How does

children quickly learned that entertaining the

‘Vietnamese-ness’ differ across people and place?

existence of histories and politics alternative to what

Where and why, despite these differences, do our

was fed to them was incorrect, betrayal and taboo.

histories align? Questions like these often found their

This is exactly why giving Vietnamese youth the

ways in our conversations, whether just hanging out

resources and safe spaces to begin asking questions is

or planning an event. It didn’t feel right to go on

so fundamental. There are too few opportunities

without addressing these abstractions somehow.

where Vietnamese youth of different and shared experiences are able to come together. These

In addition to individual motivations, we saw this

opportunities can and should be used to uplift each

endeavour as something much needed for our

other; to voice our anger and confusion, to

community. After all, one must understand those

interrogate what we once thought, to redefine our

they wish to serve - where they come from and what

histories.

ongoing conflicts or challenges they face. Insiders already to the Vietnamese community, we had some

As children of immigrants, or young immigrants

insight on where to at least start. Curiouser and

ourselves, we are constantly in opposition to the

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elders that came before us. And, as Vietnamese in

Jackie Phạm Hoài Thu (they/she) is the co-founder of

Canada, we often must negotiate our own identities

CULTURE V.V - an organization that seeks to build

alongside the very large and very documented

accessible spaces for community learning and growth for

populations of Vietnamese-Americans and Boat

young Vietnamese in Canada.

Peoples in the United States. Over time, it can be easy to internalise this sense of inferiority and feel like we don’t have much to offer because we “didn’t go through the same things they did”. There may not be a clear answer to what we are really searching for, or a remedy to our traumas, but believe me when I say that an environment of genuine respect and an openness to listen can build assurance that we are enough and that we matter. I had the privilege to find a family of friends that gave me confidence and purpose in my healing as a Canadian-born Vietnamese. CULTURE V.V is very much a love letter to those who grew alongside us, and a promise to continue what we started together – it would not be without the potential we were able to see in ourselves, others, and our Vietnamese community that Khoa and I would be doing what we are now.

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LITERARY LESSONS CHIARA FERRERO-WONG

When I started reading Asian diaspora literature in

It was around this time that my mixed identity began

high school, there came with it a long (and not yet

to grow from being just another fact about myself to

over) period of growth, self-discovery, and grappling

a key component of who I am.

with my identity. This period began when I read On the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford. I read

A few years later, I read another two books that

this novel for my grade 9 English culminating

continued shaping my identity, and these were

project - I don’t remember much from the book, but

The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng, and On Earth We’re

I do vividly remember sobbing in the hallway at

Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong. These were the

school as I read the ending. Though I didn’t

first books I can remember reading that centred half

necessarily resonate with the characters’ experiences

Asian protagonists, and the first time I felt like my

(the novel is about Japanese Americans living

own experiences were being talked about. I felt the

through World War II, compared to me, a half-

rush that comes from recognizing yourself in a story,

Chinese 20 something living in the 21st century), the

the validation that comes with it because it says “I see

themes of staying connected to culture and tradition

you.” Though both of the novels’ storylines were

in a changing world were familiar to me, and I was

very different from my life, witnessing these

intrigued. After reading Ford’s novel, I remember

characters live and grapple with some of the same

thinking for the first time, “huh, maybe I should read

questions of identity that I had was so validating. I

more books from Asian authors.”

was encouraged to continue to question and evaluate what my heritage means to me and how it impacts

A few years later I read two autobiographies by

the way I move through the world.

Chinese authors – they were My Year of Finding Memory by Judy Fong Bates, and Wild Swans by Jung

It wasn’t until last year when I read Crying in H Mart

Chang. I read both of these books within 6 months of

by Michelle Zauner that I felt my life and

each other, and left both feeling overwhelmed by

experiences truly reflected on the pages of a book.

this need to explore my family history in the ways

Zauner’s memoir documents her experience caring

that Fong Bates and Chang did. Both authors did a

for her sick mother who eventually passes away

deep dive into their family’s history, their

from cancer. Zauner also reflects on her experiences

connections to their homeland, and how the lives of

growing up in the US with her Korean mother and

their parents and grandparents shaped their own

American father. Throughout, Zauner reflects on

lives and identities. That summer I went back to

how her mother expressed love, how she connected

Singapore with my family, and for the first time I

with her overseas family across language barriers,

saw it as a return to a place rather than a destination.

and how food served as this cross-generational,

I remember being so much more aware of how my

cross-cultural bridge. Zauner perfectly described my

own history lived there, how it was in the streets, the

own relationship with food, how it has always been

sounds, the smells, the food. Eating itself took on a

my way of connecting with my family who I only see

different meaning for me - it became a way to re-

every few years at most. She mirrored my own need

visit my dad’s childhood, connect with the

to find a balance between life in western society

generations before me who perfected these dishes,

while still remembering and upholding tradition.

and see how these tastes now lived in my own home.

And most of all, she put into words the sense of

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displacement that comes from not knowing where

Chiara Ferrero-Wong (she/her) is 24, half Chinese and

you truly belong, and the frustration of knowing that

half Italian, and currently lives in Halifax, NS. She

no such place really exists. I cried tears of gratitude

graduated in May 2021 from Dalhousie University with

(in between tears of anguish at the hardship Zauner

a BSc in environmental science and English, and has

endured) throughout the book that someone had

been working in the renewable energy industry since. In

found the words to describe the complex

her spare time, she enjoys a good game of ultimate frisbee,

relationship with identity that I have talked about

hanging out with her friends, and of course, reading,

with my brothers for my whole life. Immediately

talking about reading, and updating her Storygraph and

after finishing, I even bought a copy for my brother

bookstagram (catch her @goose_friends on both

to read, because I knew that he would find the same

platforms).

comfort and validation in the pages that I did.

Reading has always been a crucial part of my life.

Little else says as much about who I was at any given point than what I was reading at the time, especially the books that I’ve mentioned. I am so grateful to have read these books, and to have had this space to reflect and ruminate on my life and my experiences.

I’m still grappling with my identity, and so I continue to read and listen to others who have lived different and similar lives to me. Stories are powerful - they have the capacity to inspire tremendous growth and breakthroughs in ways I’m still discovering. I know that my journey is far from over, and I am ecstatic at the thought of all the books I have yet to read.

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