Connections: Legends, Spring 2022

CONNECTIONS Legends

Spring 2022 Edition

An Asian American Literary & Arts Magazine

1

Dedicated to The beauty and strength of all those who came before us

2

Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, Last year, upon being given the chance to be a part of the team that relaunched the Brandeis Asian American Student Association (BAASA) literary and arts magazine, there was no question about it. The process of reviving the discontinued 80’s Brandeis magazine Eastern Tide into Connections was one that sparked a lot of passion within us, and we’re beyond grateful to continue to do so this year.

In our first year back in person, and second year overall for the magazine, we’ve encountered new challenges. For Connections, returning to campus meant a complete change and adjustment from the purely online experience of creating 2021’s debut edition, Roots. We knew that the second year of Connections would be critical in determining its longevity and place at Brandeis.

Many team members from the previous year had graduated or moved on and the magazine was left in our hands. Our primary goals were to create in person structure and build a team of passionate Brandeis students to continue the work in uplifting BIPOC voices. Now, we have a team of eight who have put their heart and soul into creating Legends.

Connections began as a passion project of BAASA. To us, it became a light in our life in the midst of an uncertain school year. Now, with Legends we hope to cement our legacy and importance at Brandeis.

With Much Love,

Amanda Lui and Allie Smith

3

Legends Introduction Cover While designing the cover, I became really interested in cultural masks. I wanted artwork that would allow everyone who identifies with the Asian and Asian-American community to see themselves in it. Everyone has their own version of putting on a mask outside of their home and I wanted to deconstruct it through a school photo—hence the uniforms, background, and variety of masks each student wore in the piece.

I hope that our readers feel empowered by their experiences, community strength, and their own definition of “legends.”

Theme

written by Hannah Park

To me, legends means redefining ourselves while reflecting on our own vulnerable points, our joys, and everything in between. I believe that everyone, regardless of their experiences and background, through art and stories empowers their identity and creates beauty from it. From the artists who submitted to the team at Connections, everyone can give their own voice to historical and modern legends, ultimately breathing life into what “legends” means to them.

CONTENT WARNING: this magazine deals with sensitive topics such as racism, violence, war, and death. Please proceed thoughtfully.

4

Co-Editors-in-Chief Amanda Lui ‘23 & Allie Smith ‘24

Creative Director Hannah Park ‘23

Copy & Graphics Team Claire Hou ‘23 Vi-Yen Blackwood ‘24 Gianna Everette ‘25 Iris Li ‘25 Alicia Wu ‘25

Mission Statement We aim to connect the history of our past with the struggles we face in the present for a better future. Connections is committed to fostering a community here at Brandeis where students are empowered and motivated to claim their identities proudly.

Our hope is to create a space where writers and artists of varying backgrounds can come together to share their experiences and stories.

Together, we can stand stronger. Our connections will allow us to heal and move forward.

5

Table of Contents Part One Zal and Simurgh | Masi Najafizehtab

10

Qilin (i think) | Alicia Wu

11

Untitled | Richard Tian

12

By the Seaside of Busan | Hannah Park

13

American Angel | Hannah Park

14

The Little Girl in a Rice Paddy | Aki Yamaguchi

15

“New Normals” Series | Sophia Wang

20

Gyopo | Hannah Park

22

Conclusion | Anonymous

23

Dear Diary, | Gianna Everette

24

Part Two

26

All American Dream Girl | Hannah Park

28

American Limbo | Hannah Park

29

A Love Letter to Those of the Light of Eternity | Alicia Wu

30

여름밤 (Summer Sky) | Hannah Park

34

Colors of Korean Summer | Hannah Park

35

It’s Really Not So Complex

36

(home is everywhere and nowhere at once) | Alicia Wu 6

8

Chinatown Signs (Parts 1-4) | Layla Hay

40

Two Years Ago | Catie Lee Chin Ballone

44

Green is my Religion | Hannah Park

45

Year of the Dog / In the New Year | Allie Smith

46

“New Normals” Series | Sophia Wang

48

The Survival of Legends | Catie Lee Chin Ballone

52

세대 (Generation) | Hannah Park

55

Four Palm Trees | Amanda Lui

56

Starry-Eyed | Alicia Wu

58

BAASA Playlist | Richard Tian

62

Thank you from the Connections Team!

64

7

“

People judge things by their

own experience, not knowing of the wide world outside.

Japanese Proverb

”

part “

So tell us about your ancestors

Your grandfather in his bamboo cage, Your grandmother drowned in a well.

”

Let’s hear about the unmoving clouds, the stunted trees.

Timothy Yu, “Chinese Silence No. 14”

8

“

Don’t deny the past. Remember everything. If you’re

”

bitter, be bitter. Cry it out! Scream! Denial is gangrene.

Joy Kogawa

one “

The power of visibility can

”

never be underestimated.

Margaret Cho

“

When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.

Malala Yousafzai

”

9

Zal and Simurgh

10

Qilin (i think) Alicia Wu ‘25 qilin i’m sorry i don’t know you better.

qilin—sometimes kirin—it’s a pity you are so hidden.

a smattering of images, ideas and ideals, you are so majestic, yet my mind provides a fog.

i could reach out to touch you, but you’d be gone by morning, a minute, broken, shattered.

i named a character for u; i know i need to know u. i’m sorry. i will do better

11

Untitled Richard Tian ‘23

the rain the lighting trembles with a cold compassion the dragon brings the typhoon upon the sour and evil winds that reek of bloody steel of such a stale quality it’s suffocating, really it violently carves out what doesn’t belong what isn’t as strong as titanium but the drops of water fall to where they must go clearing the dust the opacity over the greenery it shines like jade

12

By the Seaside of Busan

Hannah Park ‘23 Photograph 13

American Angel

Hannah Park ‘23 Painting 14

The Little Girl in a Rice Paddy Aki Yamaguchi ‘25

Don’t cross the barrier. The little girl’s mother had many rules but this was the one of utmost importance. The little girl could play outside, perhaps chase the squealing pigs or run her hands through the water of the fountain, but she could never leave the perimeter. No one could know they were there, hidden away with all sound and sight muted. The ancestral home appeared to be crisp ruins, burned away by the last conquerors. Yet, if you looked closely from the outside, you could see a shimmer as the little girl ran by, the barrier sensing the approach of one of its masters. Don’t cross the barrier. The number one rule.

The little girl runs through the paddies of rice, splashing her legs as she hurries to the big house. Sugarcane grows along the paddies and little dalags swim beneath her toes. The sun is reaching its heat peak, the sweat starts to collect on her forehead. The big house is made out of stone and wood, it’s green and the ancestral home of her family. A long time ago, her ancestors had built it out of the ruins of the last conquerors, defeated by the guerillas that her ancestor led. It had been blessed with the barrier, a thanks for protecting the land: the land protects back. It sits across from the graveyard full of generations who came before her, a little church built next to it. Next to the 15

house, the water trickles in an altar to St. Mary: a little pond lush with lily pads and vegetation. The pigs run across the courtyard, grunting and squealing as they head for their mini stable.

The sounds of boots marching get louder and louder.

The little girl runs through the gates surrounding the green house, a whoosh of noise as she crosses the invisible barrier. She takes the steps two at a time as she slowly tiptoes to the second floor, pushing the door open. Sitting on the chair made out of soft willows and bamboo, her mother sits, waiting and staring out of the window. Her siblings play on the floor, her sisters with their dolls and her brothers with their tin soldiers. The girl runs quickly across the room, hoping her mother doesn’t notice. Rushing into the library to pick out a book, she sits in the hidden alcove, pretending she had never left. She reads The Little House on the Prairie, learning about the adventures of Laura Ingalls as she travels across America. America is a magical place. She sometimes hears about it, the place of innovation. It’s full of big moving crafts that could travel through the air or medicine that stops you from getting sick.

Sometimes, the little girl wonders what her life would be like if she lived in another country. Would the medicine be able to help her father?

Her father is dying. The tooth in his mouth had slowly started to tear him apart. The pain explodes across his head, fireworks dancing across his vision. It was a decay of death, his body was slowly coming closer to ascension, her father on his way to God. The little girl’s mother refuses to cross 16

the barrier outside, she won’t risk leaving safety, not even for him. She will not get help, it isn’t worth the other lives at stake. The radio had been dead for a long time and there were no cars in their little town. Putting a cold towel to her husband’s forehead as she swats the flies buzzing around him, she calls for her eldest to go outside and pick a coconut. The little girl’s brother runs to the coconut tree, the wide flat leaves and the hard ridges of bark. Slowly putting the ladder against the tree, he starts to climb until he gets to the top, picking a nice-looking coconut. Her mother cracks it open, the juice spilling out. Quickly, she puts it against her husband’s lips, already cracked and dry.

He starts to lean forward, opening his eyes, but he falls back down with a shudder. His body shakes with pain as he closes his eyes once again.

The sounds of boots marching get louder and louder.

The little girl hears snores and soft sighs. Her family has all sat down for their nap, a way to cool down from the heat. She slowly tiptoes across the floor, making sure not to hit that one piece that creaks or groans as she runs down the stairs. She slowly sticks her head through the barrier, making sure no one is in sight. With the road silent and empty, she runs to her paddies of rice and the little calamansi trees. The sun is slowly setting, the light breeze kisses the toes of her feet as she moves through the water. The orchids surrounding her little stone seat dance in the wind as she lies next to it, staring off into the sky. She’s certain no one can see her as she forms characters and objects out of the soft, white clouds. The light rain hits her face, 17

misting her and leaving glistening drops on the leaves of her plants. The little girl feels safe, as though she hasn’t been hiding for the past year in her little green house. She can forget her father is dying, the heat of the atmosphere cools. She closes her eyes and dreams of the little girl who lives on the prairie and the magic of a different world.

The road wasn’t empty, the little girl had run by unseen eyes. The soldier had his own barrier, crouched within a bush. He had been a scout, looking for the next resting site for the army behind him and any survivors left. The army had sailed in from the land of the rising sun across the ocean, continuing their conquest. As he had squatted to pee, the little girl had popped out of nowhere, her bright eyes shining as she ran for a paddy of rice. He smiled, his eyes black like the pits of hell, and his smile crooked. He had found someone; terror was coming.

The sounds of boots marching are louder and louder. They’re here.

The green house burns, the wood crackling and the beams falling. The little girl’s father lies in his bedroom, slowly welcoming the faster path to death. The mother pulls her children tighter as the soldiers push them along, her dress is torn and scratches on her legs. The barrier’s magic is broken, tainted by the horror these soldiers have brought to a haven of safety. It now shimmers in pain as it melts away, watching its masters being taken. The little girl is woken up from her nap full of dreams to a reality built from a nightmare. The soldier leers at her, his body filthy and grimy, and grabs her by 18

the arm. It leaves an imprint, one she can never wash away. The little girl on the prairie never mentioned the conflict growing around her, she remained innocent of any violence. The little girl in the rice paddy, her reality is different: innocence is gone. The water is no longer trickling, the courtyard silent.

19

“New Normals” Series

Sophia Wang ‘23 Photograph 20

21

Gyopo

Hannah Park ‘23 Ink Drawing 22

Conclusion Anonymous

On her last day on this _____ , Tai Nai Nai wakes up and executes what she has done for the past _____ of her life.

Rises at noon to the sound of ______, with the smell of white rice _____ from the _____. Then, counts the stacks of red ____ kept underneath her pillow.

She feels for the ___ wrapped around her wrists, some going all the way up to her ____.

There has never been a day where she hasn’t done this.

Holds her ____ with a firm, steady grip, and makes her way to the _____.

She heartily consumes ____ soup and ____. That and anything else soft.

The ____ always ____ her, and she retreats back to her room for her daily nap.

On the way, her eldest son asks “ Did you ____, ____?” “Yes,” she confirms.

Tai Nai Nai eases herself into the bed with no _____. Even at her grand age of ___. She has always been ___ like that.

Quietly, ____, she ___ into the realm of ____ and does not wake up again.

There was no ____ of anything ___.

23

Dear Diary, Gianna Everette ‘25

A mountain as tall as a tree, it was very very tall, stood above my village bringing us in for a big hug.

It touched the clouds filled with grains of rice falling like the rains so it could feed the koi and lilies and frogs and rivers and cats.

Then we had supper not hot jusssstttt right.

Warm air puffed through our window and blew leaves on

24

my eyes as they turned up to the stars sprinkled like salt over seaweed: mommy’s soup spread like ink over paper: daddy’s records sprouted like tulips over grass: chang’e’s moon I like history.

I got a 100 on my quiz today!

25

“

A lot of times, people think of Asian culture as some

mythical world instead of modern people with modern occupations with modern problems, modern tools.

Constance Wu

”

part “

I am like a falling star who has finally found her place next to another

in a lovely constellation, where we will sparkle in the heavens forever.

Amy Tan

26

”

“

There’s one thing I pride myself on, that I’m Asian.

All I really know is my Asian heritage.

Jo Koy

”

two “

Asian literature is evolving with the people. It’s always a

reflection on what’s happening to the culture at large.

Kevin Kwan

“

”

When we say ‘Asian American’ we are talking about so much more than can be fit in a single stereotype.

Ijeoma Oluo, So You Want to Talk About Race

” 27

All American Dream Girl

Hannah Park ‘23 Painting Creating this series was especially emotional for me. This was for a final project for a class called “Performing Asian American on Scene and Screen,” a class where I felt seen for the first time in an academic setting. What makes this series even more special is that I found myself identifying with each of the subjects. In being a part of the background, in being thrown into the spotlight, 28

American Limbo

Hannah Park ‘23 Painting or in finding myself to mold myself into different versions of myself, these pieces together represent how I felt when it came to media representations.

I felt a lot of catharsis in confronting these paintings and I’m really grateful that I had the opportunity to learn more be a part of a space where I saw myself in the Asian storytellers.

29

A Love Letter to Those of the Light of Eternity Alicia Wu ‘25

light of the eternity, may you shine everlasting. or only as everlasting as you wish, as known as you yearn for if it were up to me, you’d shine forever but not all want so.

i’m drawing up my plans so you can see; building my dreams as an architect of legacies.

yet do i see? do i?

i will never know the way u do, never experience life through your lens. i have issues with representation i can only imagine how much worse it is for u.

my privilege lies in the most well-known of this category (your category is!) and it lies in the seeing most of me, 30

even if any of me.

i don’t pretend to know your fears, i don’t pretend to understand underneath.

you know i love u so, love u so (thank you beach bunny for being stuck in my head with ‘ghost’). but truly i’d ascribe so many other songs to us before that one—i hope it never comes to that—not that i’d be perfect anyway, or it.

ten years was not enough, maybe forever is too long. or too short and fleeting and sprinting away at the top speed it can muster, watch it go.

like skirts kicked up in desperation and skinned knees on newly black concrete—cement? cement it into your memory, seep into your soul, no blood in this equation, thank you, please.

itchy burgundy cardigans make up for it—it’s more than enough—that’s enough, that’s enough.

31

u know i write too much when i should stop—i’ve known u for how long and i still repeat my words. i know u already know it, i should stop, i should stop.

birthdays fly with the same letter every year. there’s nothing new to say (i’m sorry). but i’m not because this is why u love me.

would you love me differently if i were—no, this is for you. not for me. eternal light, do u see? do u know? i know u love me more than u know. more than i know.

u won’t ever fade, at least not in my memory. in my mind i see a void broken and brought together and healed and held by u. forever stretches out into infinity; it’s a long time and whatever light u provide is brighter than her, or him, or anyone else in the universe—it is enough.

every day i seek to find u. to hold u (but i can’t and we both know why) not hold, but gaze and smile (u know i love u so. please don’t let me go—you wouldn’t get my silly song references). i can only try.

i adore u more than u understand, comprehend—it’s an ache 32

in my soul that i carry because i love u, and what is love except for thousands of moments held together by a single strand, a string of solitude—but it isn’t really solitude is it?

i’m doing it again, i know. i have to leave soon it’s a pity it’s so soon. each moment isn’t enough, each visit shorter than you can count or see. i swear i’ll be back someday—in two months.

until that moment let my love tide you over. from the depths of a void finds the light of the eternal. from one to another.

with all the love spiraling across the vast universe, may you feel the warmth of a hug forged through hardship found in kindness, small, quiet moments. may this letter find u in peace

33

여름밤 (Summer Sky)

Hannah Park ‘23 Photograph 34

Colors of Korean Summer

Hannah Park ‘23 Photograph

35

It’s Really Not So Complex

(home is everywhere and nowhere at once) Alicia Wu ‘25 One weekend Gogol makes the mistake of referring to New Haven as home.

“Sorry, I left it at home,” he says when his father asks if he remembered to buy the Yale decal his parents want to paste to the rear window of their car.

Ashima is outraged by the remark, dwelling on it all day. “Only three months, and listen to you,” she says, telling him that after twenty years in America, she still cannot bring herself to refer to Pemberton Road as home.

- Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake | pg 140

no one asks me where i’m from although the color of my skin suggests so, begs the question.

it was here someone asked me. i clarified, saying, “where did i come to brandeis from? california.” inevitably people ask where within? and so i dutifully respond, “bay area.” only if you are from there do you press further: “san jose.”

36

but this time we deviated from the script that dances around the real question. i know i don’t have the answer they’re looking for. “massachusetts, actually. worcester—not terribly far.”

born in massachusetts, raised in california. to immigrants that don’t come to mind when you hear the word. privileged in too many ways i don’t stand up for what i believe in.

i don’t have a right to. i’ve never reaped the tears of my skin, the sorrows of my people, the pain of others like me.

no, we push deeper. “no, i mean your parents.” i don’t have a lineage to hide behind. my ancestry is clear as day. “china.”

if i were bolder i’d repeat a response i once saw on the internet: “it ends in -ina.” “i knew it—” “my mom’s vagina.”

i don’t.

it echoes in my head though. if i wasn’t so caught off guard i might have. i told u i’m privileged.

37

not even two months (or whatever precise number in time it was) after i moved back to the east coast for uni i was calling california and massachusetts home.

i suppose ashima would be ashamed of me if she were my mom. but the fictional character who lived a life of exile—even self-imposed—is not my mother. she does not live a life like my mother.

i still find solace in Jhumpa Lahiri’s words and stories. there’s comfort in the arbitrary connection of being asian-american.

people say home is where the heart is. i don’t know where my heart is. i don’t miss people or things or places linearly. it’s a curse of my memory.

i’ll never feel like i’ve explained myself enough, only i’m not afraid of being misunderstood (i’m sorry, my friend, i know we were talking about it, and you mentioned falling into tropes—but not quite so—and here i am finding your words)—well, maybe i am, after all.

38

i just can’t tell if you hear me.

home feels as far as a folk tale on days which feel like sky-scraping mountains, the wind a scream in my ear, i duck—well, try—but there isn’t anything left for me to follow.

i see the winding roads up the hills, the misty peaks, a creature so human, so disturbing different no that isn’t fair; it didn’t ask to be born of this. woven in string, twine in two, cast away and lost in the depths.

home feels quite far now. it must be behind me, somewhere shrouded in dark. i swear i saw it but it’s gone now. i must have lost it on my way up.

it’s really not so complex (home is everywhere and nowhere at once) home is where the heart is home is who i am.

39

Chinatown Signs pt 1

Layla Hay ‘25 Photograph 40

Chinatown Signs pt 2

I took these pictures around New York City’s Chinatown. I think these displays/posters/signs around the neighborhood really speak to Chinatown as a symbol of American and Chinese cultural fusion, Asian diaspora, and the ‘American Dream.’ In particular, the pictures call out Chinatown’s history and intimate relationship with activism and food (seemingly separate things that can also intersect in many ways). In regards to legends and storytelling, the messages and significance behind these signs are rooted less in myth and more in the very real struggles of the community. Such struggles are deeply ingrained in the folklore of the Asian American diaspora.

Layla Hay ‘25 Photograph

41

Chinatown Signs pt 3

Layla Hay ‘25 Photograph 42

Chinatown Signs pt 4

Layla Hay ‘25 Photograph 43

Two Years Ago Catie Lee Chin Ballone ‘24 Written March 13th, 2022 Today marks two years since COVID-19 shutdowns across the U.S., and it’s transporting me back to before then. Before I had ever questioned what it meant to me to be Cantonese or Asian American. Growing up with a Sicilian name in a town of mainly white kids, I didn’t have to seriously examine how my Asianess intersected with those parts of me until the pandemic hit. For nearly all my life, I blended in with the people around me, and brushed off any differences lightheartedly. But what felt like overnight, I was then forced by perpetual tragedy to evaluate both my racial identity and heritage in ways I never sincerely considered, and it truly was consistent emotional drainage.

How I’m perceived as AAPI, and the ways in which I allow my culture to coincide with my overall identity is something I think about honestly every single day, but at a point during lockdown, it consumed an overwhelming amount of my thoughts.

So, considering we’re again, exactly two years in since COVID-19 lockdown and the string of countless AAPI hate crimes and tragedies that followed, I’m reflecting on where I am today. I will next year be a co-president for the Brandeis Asian American Students Association on a major U.S. campus that is over 25% Asian. I now get to be a tremendous voice for AAPI students when not even a year ago, I didn’t believe I was deserving of a place in this community. A year ago, I didn’t think I was recognizable as Asian, and now I get to be a face for it. A year ago, I never thought being Asian was something that would ever bring me joy. Now, I’m part of leading a culture club that makes my heart happier than I can summarize into words. A year ago, I questioned if I even had any Asian legends that I would be capable of passing off to generations beyond me. Now, I’m actively creating them. I’m proud to be AAPI.

44

Green is my Religion

Hannah Park ‘23 Photograph

45

Year of the Dog / In the New Year Allie Smith ‘24 you died the day before new year four years ago. they pulled me out of my math test and into your apartment and for a moment, i wondered if it would be the last time. i’ve never celebrated qingming until then, you know. but every april since i’ve tried to figure out whether or not silent trips to the cemetery and the burning of our fingertips can really be called “a celebration.” in late august i was reminded what a biopsy was and i thought of you, and i wondered if this was the way that all the men in my life were meant to leave: no warning, swift, and violent. even so, i still carve myself to be everything i wanted to be for you when you were alive.

46

online cantonese lessons and blind faith in jade jewelry, but my mouth was filled with blood before we were ever able to understand each other. when i visit you now, after i’ve bowed three times and said my prayers, i think about how they never carved your death date into your gravestone. they say legends never die but that doesn’t explain the casket. or the fact that i’ve never seen my mother cry harder in all my twenty years. or that time the week before the funeral, when i screamed at the beach and hoped that the stars were more than just hot formations of helium. prayed that constellations weren’t just pretty shapes but telephone wires that carried the sound of my voice to you. can you hear me now? 我愛你, 新年快樂. (i love you, happy new year.)

47

“New Normals” Series

Sophia Wang ‘23 Photograph 48

49

When I came home for college break in the fall 2021 semester, I began working on a series for my photography course called new normals. I wanted to document my family and their everyday activities, where quarantines, social distancing, and talk about asian hate crimes had become the new normal— Everything was so usual, yet nothing was so usual.

A photograph is something that I find so simple yet precious - it’s a second of time so frozen, a piece so irreplaceable, and a memory so palpable to current loved ones and loved ones after me. To me, these photographs are the memories that will document and represent a time in existence, marking a small speck in the vast lineage of those I will and will not be able to meet.

50

“New Normals” Series

Sophia Wang ‘23 Photograph 51

The Survival of Legends

Catie Lee Chin Bellone ‘24

52

When I think of AAPI legends, I think of the stories brought to the United States through the people who originated from our native land. My Cantonese legacy is my grandpa, the one who made the impossible choice to leave his family behind in order to start ours. He is the living tie to my heritage, the vector for our stories, and unfortunately, the only one left. He is the last immediate member of my family born in China who is still alive.

However, he is 92 years old with dementia, and has lost most of his memories. As every day goes by, his ability to hold any conversation weakens, and awareness of his surroundings fade. Phone calls are shorter, his questions lessen, his need for nursing care greatens. The parts of our culture we used to share that seemed insignificant at the time, like going to the Asian market just the two of us every Sunday, receiving hongbao from him each holiday even when it wasn’t lunar new year, or simply looking at old photo albums together are impossible now. It depends if he is having a good day if I can hold a conversation with him that expands more than a few minutes, and it never involves his legends anymore.

I thank the universe every day that he is still here in good physical health because I know he won’t be forever. Being close enough on campus to visit him twice a month in Providence is the greatest gift I could ask for. But every time I witness his memory and cognition wither, I feel my culture go with it. And, I am left completely petrified that when he is gone, which I cannot even fathom, his legends that shape so much of who I am today will go too. I ask myself every time I see his mind decline, will my Americanization completely take over? Will I be left grappling onto the last scraps of my culture? Will I even have any Cantonese customs left to pass onto my children?

I am terrified that my cultural lineage won’t continue, that it will die in my 53

generation, and I have no idea what to do to stop it. So, for now, I am fighting to keep my heritage alive. Maybe it’s the little things, like hanging up a Chinese calendar at my desk, always wearing my grandma’s jade necklace who I sadly never met, keeping a faux white orchid (a traditional symbol for beauty, wealth, and love) on my windowsill, that grounds me in my culture. My grandpa may be the biggest connection to my Cantonese heritage, but I won’t let it be the only one. And for now, I will do everything I can to absorb all of the culture and love from him I possibly can.

I will remind myself that although my grandpa can’t share his legends anymore doesn’t mean they are gone; it’s just my turn to tell them.

54

세대 (Generation)

Hannah Park ‘23 Photograph Film photography is something that I’ve fallen in love with. While in Korea, my family—with my grandma who I hadn’t seen in a year—we were walking down a mountain when it started pouring while the sun was still burning onto us. I happened to walk behind them when all three were standing side by side, staring as they enjoyed the rain instead of running away. I felt so much love in that single moment—their hidden smiles, their little squeals as they got hit by raindrops, and their laughter echoing across the mountains. Seeing three generations of my family on a summer day made me feel nostalgic. Remembering my summers in Korea, my grandmother’s cooking, my mother cutting up fruit as a late-night desert, and my little sister’s giggles as she tried to fall asleep on my grandmother’s cool, wooden floor—it all made that particular instance bittersweet.

Bitter in that it’s now in the past, but sweet in that I got to capture the perfect moment.

55

Four Palm Trees Amanda Lui ‘23

I see it in my dreams sometimes. The one story brown house. A neatly mowed lawn that leads into a small garden filled with lovingly tended rose bushes.

Bright white, orange, red, flowers hiding prickly thorns. The house that was complete only by the four palm trees growing towering and tall in front.

One for my mom, One for my uncle, One for my aunt, One for my cousin.

My mom’s, I imagine, was because she was the one who left. She was the first one to chase college out of the city and past the watching gaze of the small brown house. Away and over the golden hills, past the growing green fields, following the blue sky.

My uncle’s because he was the caretaker. The one who stayed behind and never expected to leave until the day he died. He held that small brown house together with his callused work hardened hands. Then he was gone.

56

My aunt’s because she tore us apart. Shard of clear glass across the floor, memories, pictures, tread under clumsy heavy shoes. Violent, unforgiving, sharp, staccato words and the small brown house was never the same after she left.

My cousin’s because he came back. He abandoned big city life for a taste of the old days, in the hometown he thought he had left for good. Warm, wood brown cabinets replaced cold, stainless steel appliances. Raucous joyful laughter erased heavy silences.

I didn’t know when I visited last that I would never step foot in the small brown house again. Never enter with an embrace and leave watching its slow wave goodbye.

Maybe he knew. With reddened watery brown eyes hidden behind thick lenses and a trembling arm raised and waving, he watches as we turn the corner.

57

Starry-Eyed Alicia Wu ‘25

there’s a girl out there, and she’s drowning to see the stars. suffocating for the world she won’t live.

maybe you knew legends as childhood best friends, witnessing wonder, a sky shocked with stars.

she grew up without the stars. because there were none that looked like her, no legends to follow, no path to see.

do you want to be a legend?

she was sixteen before representation, before being seen in a novel, one written by and about an asian-american— even if not the same as her—

it was enough.

58

don’t ever question that importance. it isn’t yours to ask. it’s more nuanced than you believe. she’s more nuanced than you know. or maybe she’s everyone you see. or no one at all, a figment of imagination. a lonely wisp, a thought never to fruition.

she realizes some stars are fake, falling, feigning, bitter, broken.

you are the stuff stars are made of, you are the stuff of legends.

because she grew up not knowing the myths— naturally there are many, she just never saw them. no light to the lights.

she hopes. she mourns. she cries. she ignores.

she tries. she breaks. she heals. she falls. she slips.

59

she tries.

you don’t see her. and that’s okay.

she can’t seem to tell her story. she’s drowning in her thoughts, in the sky of brilliant blunder. broken butterfly wings, a flash of thunder, she’s seeing herself somewhere.

every one before her stronger than you could ever imagine— new, flying into the sky, fling them away. they go far, they light up the path, dim the space, tea lights against the lanterns.

she sees it in the mist, forms against a night so dark she stumbles. there’s a firework, up ahead, gone, gone, up. down, disappearing, catching—or is it falling? flying, stopping, fighting for each step. everything’s intertwined, it’s not casting all away and never to think of it again, but to live each day forward.

she catches a legend, becoming something more. she tries. find the road. pink, blush, tarp green—blue so deep you lose 60

yourself, it’s a gold you search for to find because no one notices.

there’s something that’s hers and yours and the world’s—she’s taken it, her own. she’s trying, making, there’s something new, something different, something that she hasn’t touched before, a flash of a flame. she cradles and creates and she hopes.

is it too much?

maybe it’s arrogant, a stretch, up, to the stars, to the sky, but she’ll be a legend someday.

she’s a starry-eyed chaser maybe she won’t make it but she’s trying, isn’t she?

61

62

63

Submission Writers & Artists Thank you to all of our wonderful writers and artists who submitted their work for publication in this issue of Connections!

Amanda Lui ‘23 Masi Najafizehtab ‘23 Hannah Park ‘23 Richard Tian ‘23 Sophia Wang ‘23 Catie Lee Chin Ballone ‘24 Allie Smith ‘24 Gianna Everette ‘25 Layla Hay ‘25 Alicia Wu ‘25 Aki Yamaguchi ‘25

64

Thank you for reading!

From the Connections Team 65

66