In the Mood for Love | Dear Asian Youth UCLA 2023 Zine

花 樣 年 華

in

the mood for

a dear asian youth ucla zine spring 2023

meet the board

"beloved" by jojo rivas

"love is stored in the " by grace bui-luu

"sliced fruit" by maisha kalam

"what fruit says to me" by sana minhas

community Q&A pt. 1: identity & love "

"lipstick stains" by katie chung

"love languages" by meghna nair

"remnants from an old dream" poem series by anon

"satellite-gazing" by anonymous

"i don't mind the smell of fish" by ki "sparks" by chris fong chew 招偉明

community Q&A pt. 2: types of love

"the cowboys" screenprint series by julie lee

"to muse is to love" photo series by kailani

"daisies" by caroline hsu

"cross my heart" by alice

"the courage of pimple patches" by sophia wang

creator credits

花樣的華爾姿" by emma sieh

meet the team

an exclamation mark! denotes a senior member, congraduations <3

the board

2023-2024 projects & finance team

diana tran web & research lead

jenna ortiguerra! projects & finance lead

maisha kalam co-chapter lead

kailani tokiyeda co-chapter lead

graphics team

alice lin grace bui-luu

havy tran

sana minhas shannon phexingmay

social media & outreach team

danielle lomee

emma sieh

grace bui-luu

havy tran

joan pak

candace wong

emma chi

jianhao cui

joan pak

kaelyn fung

keila kimura!

madison starr

sophie ong

web & research team

caroline hsu writing team

alice lin caroline hsu

emma sieh

katie chung

laura amber wang

a quick message from the chapter leads!

At some point in life, we all seem to think we know what love is. For years I remember thinking it had to be something out of a Disney movie, and if it wasn't that, it wasn't real. Unlearning that was a headache, but it's okay. Learning to love and be loved is never easy. Regardless, love is patient. It will be there, cozied up in the darkest corner waiting for your embrace :)

I'm touched we received so many pieces for our first print project, it goes to show just how much love & support has been put into this mission of ours. We love you, and thank you for letting us share your story. <3

taylor shoda

lauren cheng

madison starr

meghna nair

sophia wang

taylor shoda

Love exists all around us. Love is laughing with friends and hugging a partner. Love is in the rotis my mom shapes and the takeout my brother buys. Love is in the songs we sing and the flowers outside. It exists in the sweetest of smiles and the softest of cries. If we look close, I think we can find love in the smallest of gestures. With this zine, we hope to honor the experiences of love that have shaped our lives. From the good to the bad, it is all part of the human experience. Thank you to everyone who participated in the creation of this project. We hope we did your stories justice and that you continue to support our chapter. <3

Beloved by jojo

rivas

Legend says at Loveland Hill at the very peak

You will find your beloved All you have to do is

Repeat "My beloved" three times fast

And she shall appear, with a sunken, Focused stare, dressed in black, with A chaotic, adoring smile, ear to ear

With ice cold fingers, that will set you on fire

Personally, I think this might be true

As my beloved, she lies next to me.

love is stored in the by grace bui-luu ________

sliced fruit "কাটা

ফল"

by maisha kalam

my mom cuts me fruit. tells a story of her 10 siblings sharing one piece of golden mango in turns, biting the flesh. sweetness in their smiles and sorrow in their eyes, scarcity speaks.

having nothing to give but efforts and service, it is not said in words, but the chipped melamine bowl and pomegranate jewels speak a steady beat of love.

so when she brings me perfectly cubed dragon fruit that she's never seen before and awaits my response, i can’t help but smile. we don’t say “i love you” but sincerity speaks.

whatfruitsaystome "

by sana minhas

DAY Community,

How has your identity shaped how you love?

I feel like love, in all sense, whether friendship, familial, pets, passions, survival, is really hard to notice and come by. Most of the time, I really try to hide the love I have for people, but I’m learning to let it go. I’m an emotional person, and love is one of the most intense. You need to learn and let yourself love in order to be loved.

– Jojo Rivas

I didn't find my identity until recently. In that time, I was a mirror for the way other people love; eventually, I absorbed them. I think the lack of identity helped me find happiness in others. I love learning about what makes people tick, and it helped me love certain things about myself, too. I needed that experience to develop on my own.

– Ki

I am not so sure how much my identity has shaped how I love compared to my experiences. I think that my experiences as an Asian American, have deeply impacted the ways I express and interpret love. Seeing it in the subtle acts of service and care for one another. I think about how my childhood growing up in an immigrant community has shaped the ways in which my peers expressed our love for one another, and how the adults around us did as well.

– Chris Fong Chew 招偉明

My identity has shaped how I love because I've learned not to change parts of myself to receive love from others. Growing up, I constantly found myself desperately trying to fit into a mold, omitting or overemphasizing parts of my identity, and changing myself so that others would look at me favorably. I would do anything for those I loved; including changing what they did not like about me, even if it was authentic to my character. As I'm getting older, I've learned that the right person will love all parts of me, regardless of what I show them.

– Caroline Hsu

howhasyouridentityshapedhowyoulove?

Growing up with Chinese parents, they never had a lot of PDA or even said that they loved each other in front of me. Of course I knew that they did, given how they stayed together in a longdistance marriage during an economic recession, but their displays of affection never aligned with what I saw on mainstream media. Through my personal romantic relationships, I’ve definitely had to confront that and find my healthy ways of supporting a partner.

– Sophia Wang

I am a Korean-American artist from Alabama, working primarily from my family's albums to look into the matrilineal heritage that comes with me and the women around my everyday life. Using the family albums, I create compositions where my loved ones’ beings and memories are shown and centered. To create these compositions is to capture the vibrancy of the materials and memories held by individuals who are culminations of past experiences, joys, trauma, and lives. I see my artwork and research practices as a DIY conspiracy board that is unraveling, revealing, and affirming traces of my family's existences. This is how I can express my affection towards my heritage.

In the presented artwork of this occasion, "The Cowboys," it is composed of forty screenprints that tile and tessellate into an approximately 8 feet tall wallpaper installation. The images of my parents are pulled from an album of their dating photographs. They are screen-printed in gold against the crimson red background and with this act of multiplying this moment of affection and their presence over and over again, I re-imagine my parents as Asian cowboys living life with no regrets.

– Julie Lee

There is something about growing up without a proper example of love, that threatens your image of love later on. In the time it has taken me to heal from the empty words shared between my parents, I have encountered a variety of emotional encounters that have slashed and reopened wounds I never knew existed. I wish I could look back at my younger self and tell them that they were loved. Give them a hug, wipe away their tears. Instead, I remember how I looked around for superficial sources of love to ease the pain, and in turn made it harder to recover.

I spend my days trying to remember that love is not ideal thing. It is not a picture perfect rendition of the sparks shared between the protagonist and the unexpected love interest. It is not the mother knocking on her child's door, and apologizing for the years of miscommunication and hurt. It is the joy of seeing the sun rise in the morning, and knowing that I will stop to watch it set at the end of the day. It is the brief glance I make to the passerby across the street, acknowledging one another's existence, and trusting that our smiles will be remembered.

– Anonymous

花樣的華爾姿

by emma sieh

Lipstick Stains by

katie chung

Growing up happens when I leave lipstick stains on coffee mugs When I exhale with contentment after the first sip without noticing

It happens when I fold towels instead of origami sheets When I make stacks instead of cranes and hearts

It happens when I replace dreams of glass slippers with dreams of future jobs When I choose practicality over imagination

It happens when no one is there to tell me to go to bed at 9pm When sleep feels precious and time is fleeting

It happens when I laugh and I sound like my mom When I speak and I hear her voice in mine

It happens when I wonder when life started moving so fast When nothing in the past seems impossible But everything ahead feels unpredictable

But mostly growing up is just like lipstick stains on coffee mugs Visible Unintended And inevitable.

"Love Languages"

by meghna nair

love languages

the press of your palm against mine, it speaks to me.

the weight of your head on my thigh, it speaks to me.

the slow, certain slide of your fingertips through my hair and across the ridges of my spine, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me.

the scent of dish soap on your hands, it speaks to me.

the rich aroma of coffee on the nightstand, it speaks to me.

the whiff of sandalwood shampoo i catch when you bend down to double-knot my shoe laces, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me.

the subtle sweetness of green grapes from the farmer’s market, it speaks to me.

the crunch of that cheap CVS candy bar you know i like, it speaks to me

the bitter tang of salt on my tongue as you sneakily slip a mottled brown shell into my pocket, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. the sight of you sleeping in the sunlight, it speaks to me. the look on your face when i burn the cupcakes, it speaks to me. the glimmer in your eyes when we’re slow-dancing in the living room without any music on, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. the warm sincerity in your tone when you call me pretty, it speaks to me. the low rumble in your chest when you call me yours, it speaks to me. the way your voice gets the slightest bit softer as your lips curl around the syllables of my name, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. (it says ‘i love you’)

a first (a second)

A split second

Of torment and confusion

Of hatred and worry

Of anxiety and regret

A sudden second

Of wonder and fear

Of reasoning and doubt

Of sadness and odds

It only takes a second

To wonder why I put you first

báñame a besos, porfa

A drunk sprawled across her bed

Drinking the tears of her mentality

I reek

A high from the fumes of a messy head

Rolled up in the clothes I wore last week

I reek

A breath of toxic air draped along the roof

Reflects its urban city of trash and paraphernalia

I reek

A week-old, what-once-was delicious meal

Forgotten in the huge pile of distraction

remnants from an old dream by anon

Satellite-Gazing by anonymous

You taught me how to stargaze. Well, more like how to look beyond the stars themselves, those sparking, shiny constellations everyone craves, to see the forever-orbiting satellites that will never break their cycle of continuous falling.

They seem to dance in a cosmic waltz, an endless romance until their time comes to an end, And they succumb to fate, like a shooting star's chance to burn up or to be sent further into space.

You deemed these machines as the most beautiful visitors of the sky. But like satellites, our time was finite, not enough. ‘What is more human than their inevitable demise?’

We sat there in silence, our orbits wandering apart. With a lullaby of movement, I was ablaze, and he drifted away.

Since then, even on the clearest nights, I cannot seem to find a satellite.

i don't mind the smell of fish

there is a wisp, a wallow awry from the sounds that carry over the salty blue i am grounded grown and still growing but the sands are still much older than i smile because i know that i could bask in their wisdoms, know that the winds could never weaken its pull to me, my pull to them

Sparks by

chris fong chew 招

There was a spark and a dream was born

A bright light against the dim cosmos

In life, it floated freely

From mind to mind, resting for a short while

Before moving on—

How long it stayed, depended on its host

How much did they tend to the dream

Stoke its kindling flame

Some lifetimes it grew to a raging unstoppable fire

Other times it was only a few dying embers

But nonetheless it lived on

Jumping from one person to the next

In one such person,

It was a dying ember

A childhood hope, a naive dream

He said, as life grew up

The dream itself

Piled under taxes and bills to pay

Smothered by anxieties and fear.

偉明

The dream lived on The man did not But while he aged he came back to it one day

In aftermath, In loss, When all the little things in life, Ceased to matter

He still had a dream

Underneath dust of taxes and bills Of life and fluff

He tended the dying embers

Cupped the flame in his hand

And on a dark night in the street

You could see fireflies dance around him

In his life he found hope He found a means to go on And on his deathbed

He smiled for a life well lived

And the dream, into the cosmos of possibility

Looking for the next mind to rest…

DAY Community,

What types of love exist, or should exist?

Healthy love should exist. Healthy love doesn't have to be boring and simply celebrating the little things, but it shouldn't have to rely on sleepless nights, dramatic first dates, and romance that seems like it's came directly from the movies. I think that healthy love is also self love; after all, you cannot love others until you love yourself.

– Caroline Hsu

Love exists all around us. I see love in my friends' laughter. I feel love in a warm embrace. Love is in the food we eat, handmade with heart. It is in the songs we sing until our voices are hoarse. There's love in smiling at a stranger and there's love in peeling an orange for a friend. If we look close, I think we can find love in the smallest of gestures.

– Maisha Kalam

I think we should never discount the power of platonic love. The deep love and admiration for our friends can sometimes fill us more than any other type of love out there.

– Chris Fong Chew 招偉明

All types; friendships, romance, pets, familial, toxic, in every little interaction we either grow or deter from loving something or someone. I think people romanticize love, ironically, too much. They only refer to couples as true, achievable love. Constant expectations and views of where we should show it. Love is something we yearn for and yet still fear. It’s much more meaningful, common, something we need to realize. Love doesn’t just exist within romance, and even in romance, how you love and care for your partner should go beyond a relationship sense. I love my partner, I love being with her, but if I wasn’t, my love wouldn’t change. If we were merely friends I would still love her, respect her boundaries, and continue carrying that love, and just not pursue romance. A deep care for a person, I think that’s really the most simplest love people should know.

– Jojo Rivas

what types of love exist, or should exist?

I adore the carnal types of love, the kind where nothing will stop someone from feeling so overwhelmed by how much they love something. This exists almost anywhere; the love for a partner, friend, thing, place. It's a good balance to keeping track of the practical parts of life too.

– Ki

When I look at the photographs from my family's photo albums, I view the photographs, both familiar and unfamiliar to myself and in my position, as a way of coping, offering understanding and imagining the histories before me that are not easily spoken. Behind every frame lies different realities that can be speculated if one squints hard enough and allows themselves to imagine them. I feel like a time traveler where I am seeing glimpses of realities that may seem so far but are still present nonetheless.

In this situation, re-imagination of the family albums can perhaps be seen as an expression of love that should exist more often. For every new interpretation made about an image, a new world is discovered and crafted from that interpretation. Questions pile up each time an interpretation is made and we can eventually find ourselves in a territory of boundless imaginations of our own histories that are in the making. We allow ourselves to exist in multitudes, as we deserve to. The photo album can be our conspiracy board where we can express our affection for one another by remaining in the present and contributing to these archives. By looking back, we learn ways to move forward and invest in the endless futures that lie at our fingertips, within the pages of the album.

– Julie Lee

Toxic vs healthy: The kind that drains and the kind that fulfills.

Familial vs platonic vs romantic: One that you can never lose, one that you can rely on, and one that makes you feel alive.

Triangular theory of love: intimacy (warm), passion (hot), and commitment (cool).

Intimacy + passion = romantic love.

Intimacy + commitment = companionate.

Passion + commitment = fatuous love.

You need all three for consummate love, or true love.

Self love, the foundation of them all.

– Sophia Wang

The Cowboys by

julie lee

to muse is to love

by kailani

There is no right way for me to describe my favorite pastime, except to muse. To contemplate, deliberate –for me, it is to be in love with my thoughts, with the present, and the potential for what could be. To analyze my role in this dynamic, cataclysmic world, and seek out the things that turn each battle into a ballad.

It's only fitting that 'muse' serves a double-meaning, it's too perfect of a word, a person. A particularly creative, god-like being that provides inspiration to laypeople. Muses, musings – they are unparalleled, and undeniably the best things in existence.

The lovely individuals captured in these photos are just a handful of the muses I've encountered as of late. Musing in the mundane, they find solace in the dissonant parts of their identities, and they bring an air of depth to living that I'm honored to immortalize.

Thank you all for this amazing experience <3

maisha kalam

For most of my life, it was hard to reconcile my Bangladeshi heritage with my American experiences.

I would speak Bangla at home and English outside of it, fearful of wrong pronunciations. I hated my ethnic name and the constant embarrassment that came with hearing it mispronounced. I didn't want to make mistakes while speaking, and thought the safestwaytodothatwouldbetojustnottalk atall.

I found solace in reading and writing. It was an outlet for my overflowing emotions. Stories were an important part of my culture growing up. Hearing my mom talk about her large family or my dad talk about the war, I felt my roots pull at me. The abundance of novels in America gave me access to new stories that signaled a shared humanity despite aboundingdifferences.

My parents didn’t have the opportunity to receiveaformaleducation,andtheyverywell did not have the privilege to read for pleasure. When I look at an overflowing bookshelf and words on a page, I am reminded of them. I am reminded of the roots that ground me and the stories that have shapedme.

katie chung

Over the past few years, I’ve gotten used to painting my nails regularly. It’s provided me with a senseofnormalcythroughoutbigtransitionperiods(likecollege!)andI’veappreciatedtheroutine thatitgivesme,simpleasitmayseem.

Recently, while painting my nails, I was struck with a childhood memory from Korea that I hadn’t remembered in a while. In Korea, there is a long history of dyeing nails with crushed up balsam flower, where you create a paste and wrap your fingers tightly with the paste in plastic gloves overnight. The result: a subtle and beautiful sheer orange tint on your fingertips the morning after. This technique is typically used amongst younger children who are not quite allowed to paint their nails yet, and I remember my grandma and mom helping me with this process–a generational tradition that I hold very near to my heart. Although 6-year-old me may have been impatient and fussywiththenailsallnight,itwasallworthitwhenIsawthetangerinehuehoursafter.

Even though I live far from most of my extended family now, memories like this are interwoven throughout my daily life as I cycle through my routines here in the United States. I think about it often when I paint my nails and it reminds me of the time-old tradition, which I feel lucky to inherit and hope to carry on in the future. It’s always the small connections like this that make me feel closetomycultureandproudofmyheritage.

봉숭아 물들이기 봉숭아 물들이기

meghna nair

Language is the foundation of culture. My mother is fluent in Hindi and English, and well-versed in Malayalam and Tamil. My father is fluent in Malayalam and English, and well-versed in Hindi and Tamil. They were both born and raised in India. They know their languages, and therefore their culture,insideandout.I,myself,amfluentinagrandtotalofonelanguage:English.

Despite being born and having lived in India, the only language I’ve ever known is English. All my thoughts are in English, every dream I’ve ever had is in English. That means that no matter how immersed I become in my culture–no matter how many unniyappams I eat, no matter how many ghagra cholis I own, no matter how many times I paint henna on my hands – I will never be able to experience the same love and appreciation for Indian culture that my parents do. I will never be able to understand Karnatik or Hindustani music. I will never be able to watch Bollywood movies without subtitles. I will never be able to freely express myself the way I want to to my relatives in India. When I speak to them over the phone, language is the insurmountable barrier that prevents me from truly conveying the extent of my love and affection for them, more than the thousands uponthousandsofmilesoflandandoceanbetweenus.

That is why, whenever I engage with my culture, I always feel the slightest bit off, the slightest bit out of place. Like I’m wearing ratty, old Converse underneath the smooth, silky fabric of my salwar kameez.Mylovealwaysfallsshort.BecausehowcanIlovesomethingIdon’tfullyunderstand?

grace nam phuong

bùi-luu

For those I hold dear.

How do I love something that has been indelibly contorted by war? How do I find solace in a culture that has only ever let me gaze from afar? And when it’s not seen through the familiar tenderness of Bà Ngoại’s home-cooked meals or Ba’s childhood stories of rural Vietnam, it’s always tethered back to bloodiedsoilandre-educationcamps.

My aching could never easily be translated into words, and neither could my English into Vietnamese. Is there a better way to love than through fumbling one-word responses and a silence that is only partially alleviated with acts of affection? Mẹ. Bà Ngoại. Có cách nào Mẹ hay Ngoại có thể tha lỗi con không? All of these questions continue to seepthroughmymind.

To fill these gaps with Western media feels like a battered attempt to define the hazier parts of my heritage. Themes of love and grief in literature and cinema remain universal, and it is that very language that I attach to with raw, steadfast intent. But I want to learn your language of love. I can’t help but wonder how much more I could understand your joy, your grief, and everything in between if it weren’t for this enduring onslaught of hurdles.

You told me that my first language was Vietnamese. That I came into my kindergarten class tearyeyed, not knowing a single word of English as I clasped stubbornly onto your legs. Now, my Vietnamese feels brittle and ill-fitting in my throat. It sits there idling until Bà Ngoại calls me over the phone, where the only things that resurface are my stammerings and pauses. The beats of silence that plant themselves neatly between my words seem to be expanding with each passing day.

Embracing something that isn’t there, let alone with open arms, is a vulnerability I know little about. But you’re still here. Your calloused, age-worn hands begin to tremble, your hair is strewn with white flecks, and the crevices between your wrinkles deepen, but you’re still here. And I’ll hold you close to my chest for all that time allows.

I have always been a lover of Western popular culture, especially music—as a kid, I would sing along at the top of my lungs to Top 40 hits in the car and try to figure out pop songs on the piano instead of focusing on sonatas or music theory practice questions. I still talk my family’s ears off about new songs and watch every major awards show each year. Western pop and classical music have been a lifeline for me my entire life and were always something I could turn to when things got tough.

When I decided to major in music and pursue a career in the music industry, I did so with trepidation. I admired and still admire many Asian artists that have carved themselves a place in the Western music industry, but I also see the racism that has been thrown their way, as well as the misogyny Asian women artists also have to face. I felt and still feel immense pressure to grab onto any opportunity to get my foot in the door because I fear making a waste of the sacrifices my immigrant parents have made for me to be able to pursue what I love. I have dreams of being a part of a generation that breaks down barriers for artists of color to have the ability to create art without discrimination, but I still sometimes doubt the possibility of those dreams ever coming to fruition.

Being in creative spaces where I am the only Asian person or woman is an experience that I have started running into more and more frequently in college, and speaking up twice as loudly to get my ideas on the table is something I have had to slowly get used to. Beyond being role models for future generations of musicians, I believe the lack of Asian representation in the Western music industry means there are less diverse stories and perspectives being told, and I really want to do my best to work hard so that future Asian creatives do not have to twice as hard to get a foot in the door.

emma sieh

sana kaur minhas

Punjab (ਪੰਜਾਬ), India — The Land of Five Rivers and the place my family calls home. A place filled with happy folks, big personalities, and even bigger hearts. Having never experienced Punjab myself, I grew up on stories of home, and how “everything was better in India.” I just wished I’d felt the same way.

My own experience being Punjabi in America wasn't the best. I went to schools where no one looked like me. The oiled curls my mother would carefully braid and the warm aloo praunthe she packed for lunch felt shameful. I remember being asked if I “spoke Indian,” followed by the mockery of what my classmates assumed was the language I spoke at home. My peers didn’t know me as Sana. I was just “that one Indian girl.”

The thing is that I don’t remember hating my culture. Just that one day, my hair stopped smelling like amla. I was eating lunches with plastic forks instead of my hands. The same Punjabi sentences I uttered with ease as a little girl started to sound broken and awkward, and I realized a piece of me was gone.

Despite it all, I found solace in music. Something about the intricate rhythms of India bridged the distance between myself and my identity. When I was ten I began to play tabla, a classical Hindustani hand drum typically played by men. It’s shaped me, and words cannot express how much love I hold for my Ustaad and family for giving that timid 10-year-old girl a chance. A chance to learn another language of home.

But there’s still a part of me that wonders if it’s enough. I look at my sister and cousins, notice how their flawless Punjabi gets met with smiles, and deep down I know my Punjabi will never have the same effect. So I turn to music. The steady tune of a tanpura brings me a type of peace I can never forget. The smooth surface of a tabla feels so familiar against my hands. The sound of dhol makes me stand taller, each resounding beat vibrating through my body, and I see how the drum brings Punjab to life. In no way is my Punjabi perfect, but I can understand our folk songs, our tales of love and grief, crystal clear. The way Indian classical and Punjabi music fills my heart with pride gives me hope that somewhere in me, the Punjabi still exists in spite of what I’ve lost. Hope that somewhere within me lies the same strength, love, and spirit that flows through the Land of Five Rivers. And so I hold onto my love for music in hopes of keeping that part of me alive for myself and my family — I just hope this love is enough.

shannon

A big aspect of Laotian and Thai culture is family – something I struggled to embrace growing up. My family and I often didn’t get along due to language barriers or generational differences. Talking about our feelings or mental health was not normalized in our family. It was just brushed off as being lazy or making excuses. Instead of being able to express what was hurting us, we hurt each other instead because we didn’t know how to be vulnerable to one another.

Not loving my family for the longest time resulted in me not loving my culture. Cultural festivals meant going with the family, eating cultural food meant eating as a family, learning Lao or Thai meant speaking with family. As I learned to distance myself from them, I involuntarily distanced myself from my heritage. It wasn’t until I grew older that I saw other friends with good family relations who were also more involved in their culture than I was. It hit me how much I missed out, but it felt as if it was too late to make amends.

It wasn’t until my senior year of high school when I attempted to reconnect with my family. That year was the last time I’d ever get to live with them everyday, as I’d head off to college and live life on my own. Growing up, I wanted nothing but to turn 18 and leave them as soon as possible, but suddenly it terrified me to be without them. Although we had our differences, we were still family. Despite their unspoken words, they loved me and were proud of who I grew up to be. I learned more about my culture through conversations with my elders, and made attempts to participate in traditional celebrations together. Although our relationship still isn’t perfect, I learned to love my family, and as a result love my culture.

Daisies

by caroline hsu

I used to keep a vase of roses on my windowsill. They were vibrant and red; lusciously grown and carefully cut. They glittered in a glass vase whenever the sun came through.

A confession of love:

I hope you know that I would not only fly across the country for you, but that I would do anything for you. They were what I liked to remember. As time went on, I started to forget what I wanted to remember.

Instead of the petals, I saw the thorns. Dust covered the petals, and the vibrant red turned gray. My hands were pricked from the thorns; I was trying to pull them out Because I didn’t want to face the truth at the time.

Then you came along.

You didn’t give me roses. You didn’t give me the big, profound confessions or the Dramatic saga and the climax.

You took my hands and bandaged them. You celebrated my highest moments while sticking by me at my lowest. You wiped my tears and promised you’d stop them. You loved all of me without hesitation, and You refused to leave even when I told you to.

You gave me daisies.

The frantic calls and the chicken soup when I was sick. The karaoke sessions in your car as the sun went down, The “Good luck!” and “I’m always rooting for you!” text messages. The “I thought of you,” and the “It’s the least I could do.” The disposable film pictures in your wallet, The understanding that I’ve been burned and I’ve bled before, but I still wanted to try.

A confession from the heart:

Loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done. I only need to hear things once; because I know that it’s the truth the first time. I don’t need to tell the world about you and I, Because I didn’t need the world to know about you and I.

I think I’m ready.

I think I’m ready to love again. I think I’m ready to love you. I want to love you.

I can finally replace the dried roses that sat on my windowsill With new flowers.

cross my heart

by alice

from the moment we are born we are tied with silk threads from the neck to the fingers down to the toes

our insides are tied, too from the brain to the heart, into our bones

we are tied into existence, in relation to, attached in relation with, built

our threads have colors, bright and sustained–red, blue, green, purple, white (some are dyed by, decided by, fate. some, we dye ourselves)

we cut, we connect, we come together there is no such thing as solid ground these threads, spun into an ever-expanding web, are home

Love and be Loved–a capital-T Truth like water, like bonds, we have nothing to hold onto but each other

The Courage of Pimple Patches

by sophia wang

Starface. Hero. Peace out. All brands known for their pimple patches. Their names allude to the solace we want to find with our skin - to be glowing, to be saved, and to be calm.

The powerful stickers are loaded with hydrocolloid, a gel that sucks out the fluid in the wound and suspends it on the bandage. They protect the skin from outside bacteria as well.

Marketing language boasts the invisibility of their patches – “whisper thin and lightweight” – but I prefer the courage of the Starface patches. Their star-shaped design actually sticks better to the skin due to the five points. Not only are they functional, but the colors are bright and funky. They leave no room to hide, so the world will know you have a pimple. But everyone will also know you won’t be scarred because of it.

The patches invoke the mindset of letting a spot on your face heal in its own time, rather than popping the head and watching the gunk seep out. I have been guilty of that one too many times, and have the dark spots to show for it. Sometimes, late at night, I would crouch in front of my mirror and scrape away at my face, yearning for the gratification of seeing a little white worm slither out of my skin. As though I was cleansing myself of impurities, not damaging my skin barrier.

But true healing, the kind that was stitched together from the inside out, takes time. It takes multiple pimple patches. Maybe even some self talk (“Sophia, focus on something else right now”), and of course, patience. The extra barrier reinforces a weak area. While the patches may be clear, they’re still protective. Our flaws become less alien when we let them out in the open. When we put on a pimple patch, we are wearing our hearts on our sleeves.

This year, I’m in the mood to face my imperfections head on. I think that’s how I can expand my capacity for self-love and open my heart up to others. I want to start taking care of myself from the ground up, like clearing out my pores before a pesky whitehead pops up. But if it does, that’s okay. I’ll just place a little star on it.

creator credits

shoutout to all of our contributors!

• Jojo Rivas (she/they)

• Julie Lee (they/them)

IG: @offday_goth

• Ki (she/her)

UCI, 4th Year '23

IG: @crowpaw

• Chris Fong Chew 招偉明 (he/him)

Berklee College of Music '23

IG: @itschewwwy

• Emma Sieh (she/her)

UCLA, 1st Year '26

• Sana Minhas (she/her)

UCLA, 1st Year '26

• Grace Bui-Luu (she/her)

UCLA, 1st Year '26, Psychology + Film Minor

• Shannon Phengmixay (he/they)

UCLA, 2nd Year '25, Asian Am Studies

• Kailani Tokiyeda

UCLA, 3rd Year '24

• Maisha Kalam

UCLA, 3rd Year '24

• Meghna Nair

DAY UCLA Staff Writer

• Katie Chung (she/her)

DAY UCLA Staff Writer UCLA, 1st Year '26, Cognitive Science

• Sophia Wang (she/her)

DAY UCLA Staff Writer UCLA 1st Year '26, Public Affairs

IG: @w_sophiaaa

• Caroline Hsu

DAY UCLA Staff Writer

UCLA, 3rd Year '24

IG: @carolinehsu

... and everyone else, thank you.

about us

Dear Asian Youth is an organization and literary magazine dedicated to empowering Asian-American youth and promoting Asian-American heritage. As one of their 100+ chapters, DAY at UCLA aims to educate our Bruin community using the same values of creativity and support.

mission statement contact us!

We aim to increase awareness of the issues that many Asians face as well as embolden Asians to feel proud of their heritage and culture. We believe that we can be a voice for APIDA individuals to promote Asian representation and push for more change in a world that does well to silence their narratives. We hope to inspire the APIDA community at UCLA and encourage cultural awareness throughout our campus.

:

dearasianyouthucla@gmail.com

: @dearasianyouthucla

Read past issues here:

https://issuu.com/dearasianyouthucla