Echoes (Vol. 3 Issue 1) - Fall 2023

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RS O T U IB Aiya Rayan Afif Gail Andersen Jennifer Chan Phoebe Chan Ning Chen Carys Hirawady Hengyu “Olivia” Hu Lauren Ishikawa

Ayaana Nayak Katelyn Reddy Audrey Silalahi Sarah Yang

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Editorial Meggy Grosfeld

Co-Directors

Anna Brenner Lily Farr Arushi Jacob

Lauren Ishikawa Audrey Silalahi

Ryan Yau Vince Kunawizc Anjela De Guzman Aris Liang

Design Isabella Chiu Aris Liang

Marketing

Grace Xin Yu Morris

Lily Farr

Ryan Yau

Ayaana Nayak

Ning Chen

Amanda Li

Ayaana Nayak

Anjela De Guzman Chloe Chee

Communications Prerna Sharma Ayesheh Jasdanwalla Abby Lee

Visual Media

Arushi Jacob

Naomi Ash Carys Hirawady Hailey Bochette Vince Kunawizc Kiyomi Casey Atreyi Roy

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Jennifer Chan

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TABLE O F

S T N E T N O C

Long Live the Intifada Rayan Afif 12

linguistic explorations of AI as the term for love Phoebe Chan hanafuda 14 Lauren Ishikawa 16 No Evil Ayaana Nayak Stop Thinking, Speak Up 18 Hengyu “Olivia” Hu 19 My Parents Got Isekai’ed to America Ning Chen 28

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THE Question Gail Andersen 36

Fingers Crossed Ayaana Nayak 41

how to make dumplings with your mom Lauren Ishikawa 43 Who Am I To Be? Jennifer Chan 46 I want to love you in my mother tongue Audrey Silalahi 48 Technicolor Carys Hirawady 50 Growing Pain(t)s Sarah Yang 53 Wondering, Wandering, and Wading Through Katelyn Reddy 56 Off Menu

Aiya 60

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s e t Le t R fRoM I

t has been such a pleasure to codirect Lunchbox Volume 3 Issue 1 and I am honored and thrilled to share Echoes with you all.

Throughout these past few years at Lunchbox, I’ve been inspired by the conversations artists have with one another through their art as they build off others’ work. The pieces in this issue beautifully communicate the diverse and unique ways each one of us experience our cultures and traditions. As each piece builds off of and echoes art, cultures, and identities from the past, I am so excited to see how the pieces in this issue will inspire the future work of members in our community. Echoes celebrates the preservation and transformation of culture through art and I believe the work we’ve published in this issue is a testament

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I am so grateful to have worked with such a talented team this semester.

Thank you to our managers (Isabella, Aris, Meggy, Lily, Ayaana, Prerna, Carys, Naomi, and Anna) for all of the hard work and dedication put into this issue. I also want to thank the incredible writers and artists who contributed to this issue—I am always so inspired by the pieces we receive each semester and I feel so grateful to be able to work with so many talented creatives here at Emerson. I am especially grateful to my co-director, Audrey. It has been an honor to co-direct this issue with you and I’m so excited to see all the projects we’ve been planning come to fruition as we continue to develop them. I’ve had so much fun working on Lunchbox with you this semester and I couldn’t ask for a better partner to run this magazine with.

Since I joined Lunchbox two years ago, I’ve seen it develop and grow so much and I can’t wait to continue developing this project more with all of you. Thank you for picking up this issue of Lunchbox. I am so impressed with the pieces in this issue and I hope that you enjoy them as much as I do.

t H e c o - Di R cet o R s

to the power art has on perpetuating and developing one’s culture.

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s e t Le t R fRoM L

auren and I decided on this theme over the summer, a season that, for me, represents the liminal space between what has been and what is yet to come. Echoes emerged as the chosen motif, an exploration into the intricate connections threading the past, present, and future.

As my first issue being back at Lunchbox, I invite you to witness how traditions and cultures resonate through the ages, creating a cyclical dance that defines who we are and offers a glimpse of who we are destined to become. The concept of time and culture as a circle has always fascinated me; I find that traditions and cultures echo the essence of who we once were, presenting a roadmap to our collective future.

My personal passion for cultural

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t H e c o - Di R cet o R s

preservation within the Asian diaspora was partly a driving force behind this theme. Culture preservation is necessary as a reflection of cultural threads and the importance of weaving them into a shared narrative. Echoes seeks to unveil the ways in which ideas, identities, and aspirations have shaped the rich tapestry of individual and collective past experiences, cultures, and traditions.

Through the carefully curated content in this issue, we hope to take you on a journey across time and space, exploring the echoes that reverberate through the stories we tell, the art we create, and the traditions we honor. Each written piece, photograph, and illustration has been selected with the intention of weaving together a narrative that transcends the boundaries of time and connects us to the echoes of our shared human experience.

I want to thank our entire team and team managers for consistently showing up for Lunchbox. I also want to thank our contributors for this issue—I am always so grateful that everyone has trusted us enough to submit all your amazing work for our publication. Lastly, I want to thank my co-director, Lauren. It has been a blast working with you, and I can’t imagine doing this with anybody else. I’m excited to see what the future has in store for us, and all the really cool projects we have coming up for the magazine.

Finally, as you flip through the pages of this Fall ‘23 issue, I hope you find inspiration in the echoes of the past, a deeper understanding of the present, and a sense of anticipation for the echoes that are yet to come. Thank you for being a part of the Lunchbox community, and we hope you enjoy this exploration of Echoes.

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By Rayan Afif 12

LUNCHBOX MAGAZINE BELIEVES IN A FREE PALESTINE. Palestinians continue to suffer from persistent violence and an encroaching system of settler colonialism. It is crucial to halt the increasing aggression directed toward the 2.3 million Palestinians in occupied Palestine, along with the Western support that sustains it.

We demand a ceasfire.

Never again means again—for anyone.

never

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linguistic explorations of Ai as the term for Love Phoebe Chan Wo ai ni Still comes unsteady off my tongue, clunky with disuse, alien The words for “I love you” a stranger So much more unwieldy than the smell of my grandmother’s sunscreen Or the gentle reassurance of sliced fruit on my desk Even after my mother should have gone to bed There are two things Chinese family members never say “Thank you” and “I love you” To say, perhaps, negates the knowledge of fact After all, we never remind each other That the sky is blue And language fails at every turn A cascade of rain upon a shape But never object itself Only the periphery surrounding

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The Chinese word for love is pronounced “Ai” And as the split-tongue sufferer of the bilingual I have always wondered at the coincidence A pronoun for myself, the same syllable as that of love Were I the follower of linguistic worship I might wonder at the miracle Every time I spoke But I am not that follower So here I stand at the altar of my own failure The nature of my profession falling short Se bu de, she says to me Se meaning to relinquish, and bu de meaning unable I cannot let you go she means And I, the child made of love, a library of two languages at my feet Fall speechless And when I leave, she holds me close And I remember the wrinkles of her smile Histories of shifting homes, of chasing futures Written into the fine lines In a script only we know how to read We do not say I love you

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hanafuda

By Lauren Ishikawa

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No Evil

By Ayaana Nayak

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Stop Thinking, Speak Up

By Hengyu “Olivia” Hu

Winter of 2017

My “new” school, an N-9th grade school, bought my old school to be their high school in the winter of 2017. All the students from my old school automatically transferred their records to the new school (if they wished), while physically staying at the same location for a new school. The teachers had to reapply for the jobs they already had. On the day the purchase announcement was made, I decided to stay and deal with the “new” school and all the changes. Some of the Old school kids chose to transfer because they didn’t trust and didn’t wish to deal with the instability of a new school. At the time, I didn’t have a lot of choices as an international student, since all the schools that I wished to attend did not have the legal documents for international students.

The schools that did have the documents did not attract me. I did not know or care too much about the purchase process, and all I knew was that old school had been in debt since 2011 and lost almost $5 million in revenue from 2011 to 2015. Other than the fact that we might now have better physical/hardware facilities, I didn’t think that there would be any significant changes in my daily life both socially and academically. All I knew was that now I had to go to this school, famous for its athletics and the number of White people—specifically tall White males.

August 2019

That was the first day of orientation at my “new” school, and the sun was shining into my room through the shades again. I woke up early enough to 19

make it to the bus station but if I didn’t run I wouldn’t have made it, that didn’t change from last year. The bus driver, who drove me for the past three years, was once again in a good mood. Just like all the other first days of school, he was singing all the way on the road, hard not to admit that he’s a very good singer. I was wearing my green jeans and old white polo shirt from old school, that was the dress code I knew. When I got off the bus, the driver told me to have a wonderful first day at school. I smiled at him, and he drove away. I stood in front of the school, the old gray and blue bricks becoming the white and orange walls. The giant concrete steps that killed my knees every day were now wood steps. Everything changed but me: the same nerd about to go to school again. I went up those wooden steps and opened the door.

I saw Ms. Hubertus waving at me, and I waved back to her. She was wearing the sweater she always wore in our chemistry class, and I could tell she must have gone to the beach many times since she was a lot tanner than when I last saw her. She was one of the few teachers the new school rehired, teaching biology. She gave me a sticker with my name and grade, asking me to wait around the hallway for further instruction. The hallway was renovated, the left side has three long benches painted in orange that were connected to the walls. Many girls, raised in the new school’s middle school, were wearing pink skirts and white collared shirts, sitting there talking about their summer trip to Europe. The right side has multiple huge glasses that look into the big dining hall. The glass reflected the sun to the tall boys from the new school who were standing around the hallway. The old empty blue and white hallway was now full of new people and new faces (to me). All these people were students who were already enrolled at the new school, and they were all extremely comfortable in this new part of their school. Supposedly, I should be part of the upperclassmen making them respect me, but for some reason, they scared me a bit. I found my way across the hallways; people looked at me when I passed by. Some smiled at me, and I did the same, while most just kept screaming about how their Black nanny cooked food with way too much spice.

I found a corner in the hallway created by two orange walls that I could lean on when I sat down. I took out my phone, fake scrolling while looking around, trying to find people I knew. All of a sudden, the sound of a person cracking open the backdoor cut off my observation. It was David, one of my best friends from the old school, who came into the building. I was so happy 20

to see him since we got along super well ever since we were young. We lived in the area where many people of color lived, where many of the White people in town chose to not recognize as part of the “elegant” Greenwich. David was wearing a bright red polo shirt, and our eyes met amongst all the White people.

“Olivia,” he excitedly called me, and I ran towards him, giving him a big hug. I finally felt a sense of comfort. Everybody’s attention was immediately turned to us. I didn’t know if it was because of the dramatic greeting we had or something else about us. “Everyone, go—find your homeroom teacher; they’re labeled on the door.” A random male teacher made an announcement, and the crowd separated. On the other side of the hallways, we saw a few people of color gathering together.

“Thank god, we are not the only ones.”

“Thank GOD,” David responded to me with a deep exhale.

That morning was the first time I understood what people meant by how a school can be famous for the number of White people that go to that school (I guess, my school now).

When I was at the old school, I never had to deal with not finding someone who looked like me and shared the same background, since almost half of my grade were people of color, and there were at least one or two Asian students in each grade. We also had a good and healthy relationship with all our White friends. There were rarely any problems related to race at the old school, which did not help with the transition to the new school.

October 2019

I gradually got used to life at my new school, although I struggled a bit mentally. I began to leave some time in the morning, before catching the bus to do a little meditation to prepare myself for school. The most exciting time of the day was always my English class with Ms. Foster, who let us read books from non-Western countries. She was one of the few African American teachers at school. She loved to wear green, from beautiful green dresses with yellow butterflies to green shoes that had purple flowers decorating the back.

I remember in one unit we read The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. That was such a good unit, I can never forget it. I was able to personally feel the struggle of the American Chinese protagonist, and relate to her. We wrote an essay exploring the relationship between sacrifice and love while analyzing 21

the book. I wrote about my grandma sacrificing her academic journey for her family to ensure her siblings would have enough food during the mid-1900s plague epidemic. Ms. Foster really liked my essay and left me a note with a green pen: “All actions of love require some sacrifice, but women have the power to sacrifice themselves for the good of loved ones.”

November 2019

“What are you doing after lunch?”

“Nothing…” I replied to my best friend from school, Sara.

“Come with us to SOCA.” She invited me passionately.

“Students of Color Association?” I asked. Sara nodded her head.

Sara was biting her shish kabob sandwich, looking at me with her big eyes. It’s too cruel to say no. I could never say no to her when she stared at me like that ever since we became friends. We became such good friends largely because we share being one of three people of color at the school, since I’m one of only three Asians at the school right now, and she was one of the three Black students when she was in 6th grade. She loved to be involved in equityrelated activities and made school-wide presentations to promote anti-racism and educate people about injustices in the society we live in. Sometimes I really wished I had her confidence to share my story and experience with the school and force them to change. Most of the time, I just wanted to stay in my comfort zone and not involve myself in these situations.

“Just come to the meeting. Ms. Foster would be there” Sara said.

“She would?”

“Yeah, she’s our advisor.” If I knew Ms. Foster was part of SOCA, I would have gone a long time ago.

“Alright, I’m going.” Sara finished her sandwich, and I chewed my last bit of broccoli and rice.

I stepped into Room 203, The two windows that looked out to the football field were right in front of me. The backboard was decorated with students’ projects on Slavery Trade. About 30 wooden tables with black chairs formed a semi-circle facing the smart board. Everyone was chatting with one another.

Nobody was staring at me other than to say “hi” and welcome me. This was the first time I felt super comfortable around peers that I never met before.

Collet and Mia were sitting in the back, finishing their Japanese homework.

I walked towards them and sat right next to them. Gradually the room got 22

quiet; Sara went up to the front and shared her plan for Black History Month.

There were activities related to educating people on topics like Jim Crow and Harlem Renaissance, activities that stood against racist activities at school, and meetings that would force the school to be more inclusive, equitable, and diverse. She ended her speech by saying that these ideas came from the Black Student Union. I looked at Coco and Mao while they looked at me. This was not the first time we had heard about Black Student Union. While sitting next to the two other Asian students at school, who probably would want to know and understand some of the things I experienced at school, the idea of creating a club for Asian students popped into my head.

After a few weeks passed by, Sara, Coco, and Mao encouraged me to talk to Ms. Foster about the idea. For some reason, I felt like it was my duty to create the club, and weirdly enough, I didn’t feel pressure at all. I knew I would be happy (at least for a little bit) if I could create this safe place for my Asian friends and me. For all of our happiness and the encouragement from my friends, I talked to Ms. Foster. On that rainy afternoon, after my 30-minute presentation on my proposal, Ms. Foster looked at me with a firm expression and said to me, “This would be a hard process. Are you ready to make some… sacrifices?”

I thought of some of the stories Sara had shared with me about dealing with the school, finding a place, and speaking up. So many thoughts flew into my brain I hesitated.

“Would you be able to sacrifice like your grandma, but for an even larger population?”

I think the “larger” population was not just me, or Coco and Mao, but many other Asian kids that were rejected from the school, because of their race, and the potential future Asian students entering the school. I wasn’t sure about my answer to that question, but I saw the excitement, hope, and support from Coco and Mao. I knew I wasn’t alone in this fight. “Yes,” I answered confidently with a shaking voice. Ms. Foster took a deep breath, released her body, fixed her green scarf, and gave me a big hug. Soon after, the Asian Culture Club was formed to share Asian culture.

Every Thursday was our club day. Coco and Mao would spend 30 minutes focusing on introducing Asian culture through origami or other handson activities. I would take the last 30 minutes to play some “academic” game, 23

like Kahoot, that introduced some facts on Asian and Asian American history.

Once in a while, we would have a cooking and movie day, where people cooked food and ate while they watched Asian movies. All these activities and our club were doing exceptionally well, although sometimes the three of us would be super tired due to the heavy amount of work.

“I wish more of us could be at school.”

“I wish that too,” Mao replied to Coco.

February 2020

It was an extra tough February for all three of us, between helping the Black Student Union to celebrate Black History Month and preparing for our own activities. Yet, ever since late January, many people had started to avoid the three of us at school, and the number of people joining the club had reduced drastically. The first Thursday there were 15 people; the second only 8; and the number was reduced to 3 last week, and they were our friends in SOCA who still supported us. More and more news and scientific reports related to COVID-19 were appearing in all forms of media. Many students were talking about it in school on a daily basis, and the three of us did not yet have the time to focus on the news or the direct impact of COVID-19 on our lives. One day during a restful lunch, Mao and Coco were eating Spam sandwiches, and I ate cha-jiang noodles. An almost 6‘5 white male from the varsity football team, wearing a red hoodie and blue pants kept staring at us from the table across. We tried to mind our own business and began talking about activities that could bring more people from the school.

“What about The Joy Luck Club? It’s a fun film that can attract people.”

The Joy Luck Club is the book that could temporarily bring me out of this stupid world. It became one of my favorite books from school over time, but I had never watched the movie.

“It’s a great idea! We can cook tofu to go with it,” I reply excitedly to Coco’s idea.

We began to laugh and cheer, but the space around us was gradually filling with some dark shadow. I turned around and saw a 6‘5 White man wearing glasses and full of acne on his forehead, along with many other tall male football players wearing blue masks standing behind us. The acne boy 24

approached us closer, looked around, and began to shout.

“You fucking diseases!”

Another man immediately followed him and shouted: “Bring your stinky food out of the USA!” While pointing at his own pants and hoodie indicating the colors Blue and Red. I was frightened; Coco’s and Mao’s eyes clearly began to fill with tears.

I looked around, realizing there weren’t any teachers or adults. The whole dining hall was full of students waiting for some big “show,” and every single one of them was just looking at us surrounded by this cluster of men.

I saw some of our old members on the other side of the glass window who hadn’t shown up in meetings since the first Thursday. They seemed to have forgotten the old joy and fun they received from the club and also the three of us; I could only see fear and avoidance in their eyes. I remember that day Ms. Foster in her green scarf, looking at me with both excitement and worry. There was a combination of helplessness, fright, and anger that was trying to come out of my throat. The cluster of men began to laugh, so much harsh noise running into my ears. Nobody around was about to help us. I knew they did this to us, simply because we were Asian. I thought to myself I was the oldest out of the three; the one who decided to speak to Ms. Foster; and the one who promised to sacrifice. All actions of love require some sacrifice, but women have the power to sacrifice themselves for the good of loved ones.

“Get…the…fuck out of our way!” I stood upon the chair and screamed at the man’s face.

“Move, before I push you away.”

The cluster of men stayed silent for a few seconds, but the laughter just burst out afterward. The emotion was now full of anger; all I could think of was protecting Coco and Mao and making our voices heard. My hand reached out to the mask he was wearing and dragged it down.

“This was made in my COUNTRY!” The cluster stops laughing.

There was a quick pause of silence before Mr. Winters opened the dining hall doors and yelled at us. “All of you, come to my office, now!”

Part of me was so scared that I would be in serious trouble, but I did not regret a bit of what I did and said. I looked at Coco and Mao; their eyes were no longer teary but held a firm expression to keep fighting. I stepped down from the chair and walked towards Mr. Winters nervously, but he told 25

me to take it and that he would handle it from there. That was the first time I raised my voice to help myself and my friends, and that was the beginning of my journey to be actively involved and directly face problems related to my background. I made presentations to educate people on Asian culture, stopped avoiding bias attacks, and ate all of my delicious food in the middle of the dining hall. I was no longer the quiet girl sitting in the corner, but the woman who sacrificed her comfort to take risks against people who were taller and/ or more powerful.

August 2021 So many new faces standing scattered around the long hallway, and they were all wearing stickers indicating they were incoming students. I walked past them and sat at a table next to the window, trying to see if I knew anybody.

People are coming in and out like waves. “...3… 4… 5— 9” I counted the number of Asian students that would be at my school next year; it would reflect on our activist work. I was excited to find out our amount had tripled.

“Everybody go find your room; names labeled on the door,” Mr. Lehn shouted.

People scattered to their rooms. I saw Coco and Mao from the other side of the hallway smiling at me. I knew the meaning behind the smile, and I smiled back. I walked around between classrooms as an Alumna, looking around the buildings and people. On the second floor, Room 203, all the tall boys who were wearing masks at the cafeteria, now had their masks under their noses, as their way to represent their “need for ‘medical’ freedom.” I stared at them harshly when they were playing with the project on the backboard about the Vietnam War and our eyes made contact through the glass window. These boys were scared and immediately pulled up their masks reluctantly. I knew that what we had fought for the past few years was a small milestone, but I also knew our fight had just begun. We, as a community, are ready to keep fighting, making our school a safe place for our people, and this world an equitable place for all of our communities, friends, and allies.

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My Parents Got Isekai’ed to America Ning Chen Isekai: a fantasy subgenre where the protagonist is transported into a new and unfamiliar world

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THE Question Gail Andersen

Some of this content and information might be sensitive to some readers.

Before I go deeper into my experience as an Asian adoptee, I first want to say that everyone’s lives are different. My life and my feelings on my adoption are entirely my own opinion and based on my particular background. I acknowledge that all adoptees have different points of view.

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If there is one thing that is constantly brought up whenever I bring up my adoption, is the idea that my parents “saved me.” With them both being white and also much older (Father - 84, Mother - 68), it was inevitable that they would believe so. They grew up during a time when what they have done would be considered “charity.” Though that is not their primary motive for adopting me, the phrase “Aren’t you glad your parents saved you” has never stopped echoing throughout my life. Direct and indirect family members, family friends, and even friends of mine, all have said that exact phrase at least once in my life.

And as much as I would love to write this entire piece on rejecting that statement, my personal experience aligns almost perfectly with the idea that they did. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful for the parents I have. They have done a lot to give me a life that I can’t say I would have had if they hadn’t gotten me. However, this phrase has weight not just on me, but on the entire adoptee community. Everyone’s experiences are different, but I have talked a lot with other Asian adoptees, and we seem to all share the same feelings on this.

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I am not saying that my parents didn’t do anything to provide for me.

They’ve done what they could as parents, especially with their ages and ongoing health conditions. I was adopted in April 2003, during the SARS epidemic in China. I was found in a park at dawn. The orphanage did not disclose how old I was when I was found since they could not provide accurate data after analyzing me since I was too malnourished to give accurate information. There was no note, no sign, no food, no water. Maybe a blanket?

I am not sure. However, I want to assume so, since there would be no reason for me to have lived through the night if I were bare. I was 14 months old at the time my parents adopted me and were on one of the last planes out of China. I was quarantined and vaccinated immediately. And was also treated for malnourishment which was a result of the orphanage that I was in having a notable lack of resources. So, to many people, this is them “saving me.”

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Again, I am in no way ungrateful for the work that they had to put into adopting a child from China during SARS. However, the weight that this phrase has is rooted in white elitism and supremacy. My adoption story is told during many family gatherings like it was some sort of “exodus,” or soap opera drama. As if it is some form of dramatic entertainment for the members of my extended white Republican family. Hell, even my parents love to share their “adventure,” their “journey,” to get me for their enjoyment. And though seemingly entertaining to some, it always ends with an “Aren’t you so glad your parents saved you” or a “You better do well in school so your adoption wasn’t a waste.” Or even a “Bring honor to your family,” fully referencing the movie Mulan because what else would an old white person say to a young Chinese person?

Because yes, my family did save me from what might have been a cold and untimely death. Or a life stuck inside a Chinese orphanage. Or being unhoused in China for an undetermined amount of time. I am grateful for that.

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However, some things bringing me here have not “saved me.” The racism I faced in school, with the non-Asian students pulling their eyes back. Or the Asian students telling me I will never be Asian enough. I was not saved from the ongoing anti-Asian hate in America, especially during COVID-19. I was not saved from the fear of violence when a Chinese hair salon was shot up due to someone else’s uncontrollable urges and fetishization of Asian people.

So if someone asks me today if I’m glad my parents “saved” me… My answer would be: I am glad that I am here today. I think that my purpose for being here is to advocate for Asian Americans. I want to advocate for queer and nonbinary people of color. I am here to help create safe spaces and communities for other Asian adoptees. And I am here to advocate for those who cannot live in America where they are hated, violated, unsafe, unheard, and killed. This is what echoes through my head now when someone asks me: “aren’t you glad your parents saved you?”

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Fingers Crossed

By Ayaana Nayak I’ve never been much of a religious person. I didn’t grow up believing in gods or spirits or destiny; in fact, for most of my life, I was adamantly against it. It occurs to me now that in spite of this, I still believe in prayer. Not in the sense that I really believe it will solve my problems, but it has somehow become my first reaction to just about anything. My prayers are made up of forced devotion to painted ceramic idols and whispers under covers that alleviate grief.

They are panicked knock-on-woods before interviews and crossed fingers as I sit on flights. There is no object to my invocations—they kind of just hover somewhere in the ether with the hopes of being acknowledged.

My earliest memories of praying go back to celebrations of Indian festivals in primary school when I followed my aunt as she knelt before various altars. These happened every year, most often at Ganesh Chaturthi, but still I managed to forget the right steps each time. We’d go from house to house doing the same thing, leaving me complaining with dust covered feet. It was a chore, more than anything else, and I looked forward to it primarily for the food. When it was time to do our part and pray, I would watch as she bent her forehead to the floor with her hands joined together. She would mumble prayers as my hair fell ungracefully around my face and my dupatta slipped off my shoulders. At these times I would pray for my family’s health, my grades, and throw in a wish for world peace. My deepest desires in middle school were fairly general with a primary goal of preserving what I already had.

From under my mop of curling hair, I’d crack an eye open to check whether my aunt was done yet. If not, I’d add thoughts for my friends and hopes for non-existent romances. When she got up we’d go paint tikkas on the idols with our ring fingers and leave a box of sweets on the altar as an offering. These visits would end in pleasant conversations with our hosts and unkept promises to stay in touch. The women would touch my cheek and tell my parents how lovely I was. I stifled the pride the compliments gave me and scurried out behind my family.

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I don’t know what the difference is between a wish and a prayer, but they’ve always seemed synonymous to me. Perhaps it is their occasion, or the way they are directed. I know that birthday wishes aren’t religious, but they usually consisted of the same matter as my prayers and were lacking a recipient just as much. These wishes have always been important to me, and my birthday feels incomplete without a candle to blow out. When older members of my family celebrated their birthdays, they allowed me to help blow their candles out. They let me share their wishes while I was always possessive of mine.

My birthdays were a way to track myself as I grew up, and looking back on it they revealed my insecurities. Most of my teens were filled with thoughts of being prettier—being thinner with silkier hair and longer eyelashes that complimented an even toothed smile. Surrounded by the people who loved me the most, in front of my favorite raspberry-chocolate-mousse-cake, I closed my eyes and wished to be someone I was not. I suppose an unavoidable part of growing up is feeling like you aren’t adequate, and that true growth takes place when you acknowledge that you are.

Then came the prayers that required no occasion at all. The ones I whispered to stars and gods I never believed in as tears streamed down my face.

It was then that I wished, more than anything, to be happy. Joy sometimes felt like a distant memory and I desired only to go back to the version of myself I had been months ago. These were helpless pleas—the ones that fueled my own sorrow more than they gave me clarity. When these prayers weren’t uttered as cries for help, I thought them at 11:11’s or as I drove under trains. These were the desires that consumed my everyday, simple as they seemed. It is strange to see yourself go from wishing for ballet slippers to baseline happiness, but that’s as much a part of the learning curve as anything else.

A lot of what I’ve prayed for throughout my life has had to do with growing up and growing out of things. Problems that used to feel all consuming seem so much simpler with a little perspective, but oh if I had known that then.

I must have made a million different prayers in my short twenty years, and I don’t know that any of them have been answered. I suspect I will be the one doing the answering myself, but it doesn’t mean I will stop making my wishes.

No, I intend on making many, many, more. For the simple occasion of writing this, I will make another silent prayer for myself and anyone reading: I wish, I wish, with all my heart, that we will figure it all out.

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how to make dumplings with your mom

By Lauren Ishikawa

INGREDIENTS

(for 80 dumplings) 1 lb ground pork 2 cups cabbage, finely chopped 1 cup chives, finely chopped ½ cup shiitake mushrooms, finely chopped 1 clove garlic, grated 1 tsp ginger, grated 1 tbsp soy sauce 1 tbsp sesame oil 1 tbsp sake 1 tsp salt 1 tsp black pepper 80 gyoza wrappers 1 tbsp sesame oil (for frying) 1 cup water 1 tbsp flour *not required, but may lead to mediocre results: a strained mother-daughter relationship

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INSTRUCTIONS 1. Begrudgingly follow Mom around the grocery store to buy ingredients. Try your best to pick out the best produce when she asks you to, even though she will probably put the ones you chose back and pick it out herself.

2. In a large bowl, combine ground pork, cabbage, chives, mushrooms, garlic, ginger, soy sauce, sesame oil, sake, salt, and black pepper.

3. Bring a bowl with dumpling filling, gyoza wrappers, and a bowl of water to the couch as Mom picks out some shitty Netflix show she thinks you might like.

4. Quietly watch the awful teen drama Mom picks out while assembling your dumplings and wonder to yourself why the two of you are watching this thing neither of you are even remotely interested in.

5. Place a teaspoon of filling in the center of a gyoza wrapper. Lightly wet half of the outer rim of the wrapper with your finger. Fold the wrapper in half, making pleats to seal the dumpling.

6. Apologize when Mom complains about how ugly your pleats look and how unevenly your dumplings are filled.

7. Continue folding more increasingly imperfect dumplings as Mom reminds you to schedule a dentist appointment and to look for more internships while asking what you want for dinner even though she’s probably going to end up making what your sisters want instead.

8. Deny having a boyfriend when she asks if you’re dating anyone because you know she’ll be disappointed when she asks if you’re dating an Asian boy and you have to admit you’re dating a white boy. Never admit you’re dating a white boy.

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9. Finish up the stack of gyoza wrappers while the two of you sit in silence watching that god-awful Netflix original. In the silence, focus on making each pleat perfect and filling each dumpling just full enough. Focus on folding faster until the stack is finally gone and you get up from your uncomfortable position on the couch and start cooking.

10. Heat sesame oil in a large nonstick frying pan over medium heat. Add 2022 dumplings in a circle. Fry for 1-3 minutes.

11. Combine flour and water in a small bowl. Pour into the pan and cover.

Steam the dumplings until the water has mostly evaporated for 7-8 minutes.

Remove the lid and continue cooking until the water has completely evaporated.

12. Congratulations! Your dumplings are complete. Bring some dumplings along with some soy sauce, vinegar, and chili oil over to Mom on the couch.

Hold your tongue when she thanks you for helping out by asking you if you’re washing your hair properly. Then, apologize for your hair looking so oily.

13. Enjoy your dumplings alone at the dinner table while you watch your own shitty Netflix show on your phone.

14. Store the rest of the dumplings in the freezer so that you’ll have something to eat in a month when you’re too lazy to cook and when Mom has gone out to dinner with her friends.

15. Refry the freezer dumplings in a small pan on medium heat. The dumplings will be far from satisfying, but they will always be there in the freezer to fill your hungry belly.

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Growing up in a small town that barely had people who looked like me ingrained the thought that who I was, was not a person to be heard.

I grew up with the feeling that I must be the echoes of someone else. Whether it was my Hong Kong-born parents or the straight blonde friend, I never seemed to be living for myself.

As part of my family’s first generation in the U.S., I felt the duty to preserve their identity and their culture in this country we call home.

There was always a constant battle of waves in my head. One side pushing me to put my family and culture first. The other side slamming me down to shame my ethnic identity. This storm has been brewing and raging for all twenty-one years of my life, letting the waves crash down before I can even fend for myself.

It wasn’t until two years ago when I started to catch my breath. I found myself in new waters. Some had also experienced some sort of hurricane of internal battles with who they were or who they wanted to be.

Hearing stories that were like my own experience, made me question: Who Am I To Be? This story isn’t to say that I have fully embraced or feel comfortable in my identity as a Chinese-American woman. I still find myself sitting quietly and hesitating around others as they say something rude towards me.

However, I have recognized how these waves that echo around me are ways to teach me how to swim, how to navigate this journey we call life, and how to appreciate the waters around me.

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i want want to love you in my Mother Tongue

By Audrey Silalahi

My language is also another gaping hole inside of me that You cannot reach.

Resistance and retaliation cohabit here excess of an occupation that is gone but never really gone.

We continually sidestep around a colloquial landmine of a second language neither of us have ever dreamed with.

Maybe in our next lives we’d grow up with the same friends

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20 minutes away with the same history.

Instead, I am tongue tied with questions you cannot answer questions you will never be able to answer.

All I think about is thinking about loving you, but our mother tongues are the sacrifices we have to make.

Being with you has turned me into fiction We speak in a third language only we can decode.

When we met, you used your english name thinking I wouldn’t be able to pronounce it: our different mother tongues are the fences we’ve built. it is easy to tell you “I love you” in English but when I show you love I am speaking in Indonesian I want to argue with you in Indonesian and then I want you to laugh with me, not after

You can tell me if you don’t understand, I’ll explain it again, and again, and again, and— I just want to love you in my mother tongue only then you’d understand why.

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Technicolor

By Carys Hirawady

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Growing Pain(t)s

By Sarah Yang

Green was my favorite color for a long time. It had been yellow, but after finding out that my mom’s favorite color was green, my favorite color became green. When I turned ten we moved into a new apartment, and my parents asked me what color I wanted the walls in my room to be painted.

My immediate answer was yellow, but a part of me, the part that wanted to be more like my mom said green. I think my parents could tell that it felt perplexing for such a young child with a new said “favorite color,” so we agreed to paint three of the walls yellow and the last one green. It was the perfect idea. I grew up in that room, from ages ten through seventeen, and during those years I always had a sliver of green with me.

When I entered high school, the different colors that surrounded me became disorienting, and I regretted ever having asked my parents to paint my walls yellow or green, never mind both. It was embarrassing to have friends over, and I hated having to explain to them that if I had a choice I would strip my walls of color and have them be eggshell white. My mom only made things worse by refuting my statement and saying, “but your favorite colors are yellow and green.” It wasn’t yellow or green, it was purple now, a far more mature color.

Senior year of high school my parents told me and my brother that we would be moving somewhere else, something I had wanted to do for several years. It wasn’t just the confining walls that I had outgrown, it was the whole neighborhood. The old apartment’s exterior was getting crusty and deepening in shade by the year, and every twist and turn was unsurprising and dull.

Moving out was the best news I had received since, well, the multi-colored walls. We’d be moving to Gangbuk, north of the Han River. I would suddenly be farther away from school and thus be forced to wake up even earlier in the mornings, and the trip would be grueling just to hang out with friends who lived in Gangnam, south of the Han River. None of it mattered though, as I 53

would be leaving this stupid neighborhood and my childish room.

After packing up the last of my belongings and bringing the boxes downstairs, I stood in my room for a while and thought to myself—I loved this room. I really did love this room. I looked at the butterfly mobile that we decided to leave hanging on the ceiling, directly above where my bed once was. When I’d lay on this bed with the fan whirring next to me, the wind would allow the butterflies’ flight, and I’d get to see them every night as my eyes drifted to sleep. Where my head touched was the green wall and being against it felt like my mother’s embrace. It hurt to think I would never be in this room again. For a second I considered visiting here once in a while even after new people moved in. Life goes on I thought, and turned my back to the door towards a new stage in my life.

Going into my first year of college, saying goodbye to my parents after they helped move me in proved to be a rather unchallenging task.

“I already made friends,” I shooed my parents away after merely the first orientation activity. They smiled back and walked off to some place I didn’t care to ask about. I was going to be all on my own now, no longer sheltered by a cocoon, hindering me from flight. The unfaltering latch between me and my parents would finally be broken and I would be free to discover who I really am. Had I known back then that in three months’ time I would be calling my mom sobbing, begging her to let me go back home, would I have taken that leap without hesitation?

I found that being away from my parents, more specifically my mother, made me realize how much I am like her. I hear her voice in my own when I’m alone, talking to myself, demanding I get up and do something. I recall memories of when I would complain that she took too long to do things, just to find myself washing dishes meticulously till the point of tire. It was like a shot to the chest just thinking about how much I missed her. I wanted her to know that I still regret not spending more time with her and Dad before they went back home for good. I asked her after weeks of holding it in if I could please leave this place. My mom smiled into the Facetime camera and said, “I was wondering how long it was going to take you.” Her reassuring face only felt insulting and I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t take me seriously.

“I mean it,” I protested while swallowing tears.

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“Well, we just can’t allow that, so let’s hope things turn for the better.

And they will get better.” There it was again, that snarky smile.

After that call, the weeks along with the gentle snow under my feet started slipping away with every step I took. It was the cathartic release I needed after months of being ripped away from everything I had ever known. I carried on with my days assisted by the reassurance I had gotten from the person I trust most. I felt motivated to stop dwelling on the things I left behind and start focusing on the person I wanted to be.

On my 18th birthday, I decided I would get a tattoo to commemorate how far I’d come while also resembling that transitional point in my life. When it came time to decide what design I wanted, the choice was easy—I would get a lily to represent my mom. I would now have her with me wherever I was, till the end of time. On days that I miss her more, I look down at the lily on my arm and I feel like I’m back in that room again, in a field full of yellow lilies, butterflies fluttering all around us. I close my eyes and see my mom whispering to my dog, “In the next life, we should meet again as mother and son,” before she goes to bed. It’s a silly thing to feel jealous of, but I hope she would want to meet me again too, through the next lifetime and the next.

The tattoo I got:

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Wandering, Wondering and Wading Through

By Katelyn Grace Reddy

I am a child of multiple diasporas, a chasm between worlds. I have and always will question limitless ‘what-ifs’ within the chaotic cosmos that is my life.

Being a queer Filipino-Mexican adoptee is an identity that bears the weight of deep disconnect and loss, but also of constant curiosity and adventure; I am always searching for community, connectivity, a homeland… but how do I return to a place that has never housed me? Or places, to esteem my unknown origins and ancestral tree. Places and people through which I did not manifest my being through growth, movement, nor knowledge. Places and people through which I was not born and nurtured from any ties to such lands.

Fusing the spare puzzle pieces of my birth papers with friends’ memories, artists’ anecdotes, and scholars’ research, I curate a history for myself. My mind constructs imaginary planes of wishful thinking, scenes of a script I have written to play out unknown incidents of reality or abstract fictitious occurrences. I walk a multiverse of possibilities and wonder if there are any statistical inevitabilities planned in fate to satiate my liminal spaces.

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I usher these boundless sensations with me as I walk into the space that is One Day We’ll Go Home, curated by Dr. Leonie Bradbury with texts by Dr. Catherine H. Nguyen.

Instantly, serene sounds and intuitive imagery surround me as Tiffany Chung, Brandon Tho Harris, Tuan Andrew Nguyen, Patricia Nguyen, and Julian Saporiti bare their souls and explore a legacy of melancholic mobility, queries, and interconnectedness. Through a spectrum of creative media, we see how each artist processes the all-encompassing simultaneous stimuli, moving forward and backward, feeling denseness and weightlessness, navigating loneliness and togetherness. The pain is multigenerational—there are gaps that will never be filled and experiences that will never be lived—but there will always be memories to remember and people to embrace throughout the liminal junctions of nowhere and everywhere.

“Nước”—the word for water and the word for a nation, a country, and a homeland—is experienced by the collective and the individual. As the art examines and expands on shared histories, the artists hold a mournful yet inquisitive dialogue with each other; the space houses and invites the viewer

Tuấn Andrew Nguyễn. The Boat People. Single-channel video, 20 min. 4k, Super 16mm transferred to digital, color, 5.1 surround sound, 2020 © Tuan Andrew Nguyen 2023.

Courtesy the artist and James Cohan, New York.

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to behold what it means for many Vietnamese diasporic people to co-exist with this continued and cyclic influence in everyday life, despite any kind of conclusive affair. Can you achieve a homecoming or homegoing when echoes of an unreachable and untraceable home/land downpour on the intersections of memories and history? How are today’s storytellers guiding us to feel nước and participate in acts of remembrance?

Tiffany Chung. If Water Has Memories. Three-Channel Video installation, 6 min, HD video, 5.1 surround sound, 2022. Courtesy of Bangkok Art Biennale and the artist.

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One Day We’ll Go Home is the featured exhibition at the Media Art Gallery

that is open from November 1st through December 16th, 2023. From Emerson Contemporary, the multimedia exhibition “features artwork of five Vietnamese American artists who critique the established historical narratives of the wars in Vietnam, colonialism, dislocation, and its long-lasting aftermath.” The Distinguished Curator-In-Residence, Dr. Leonie Bradbury, requested for me to write this piece, a “Student Voice,’’ for the exhibit. My writings are the latest addition to a collection of reflections by Emerson students that are made to accompany the experience of the viewer and prompt further action or ideation.

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By Aiya

when I first sat at a table I didn’t understand the difference between a fork and a chopstick I only knew I was hungry and wanted to be at a place set for acceptance and understanding

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the first time they moved my seat I thought that someone had considered me until I saw the name on my label it was the first time someone would simply pass over me instead of finding the time to lay out a setting of two spoons besides a place card filled in fancy script and calligraphy mixed, mutt, unwelcome

finally

I wished

“freak”

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all I wanted was to eat at a table as welcoming as it was eager to teach it didn’t take long however for me to see that the medium of mutual acceptance was a five-course meal craving on my own, I could never complete instead they gave me a menu of ‘not’ options a diet that clashed against my own health needs when I was young the most I could do was to mop up the grease that choked the cogs and wheels in their common courtesy

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it took a fortune cookie to disillusion me and translate the riddle of cultural beliefs through our shared history but now I know that there’ll be a time when I can sit down at a table without the need to RSVP where I won’t need a menu written in a language I don’t want or can’t read because the chef laying out the placemats would be me so pass me the pepper I’ve tossed enough salt over this shoulder to flavor a generation of recipes

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“

But why language creativity language rege - ocean vuong

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can’t the for y be the of generation? eneration?

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“Life goes on I thought, and turned my back to the door towards a new stage in my life.”

- Sarah Yang, “Growing Pain(t)s.”

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“ I’ v

e to

s se d

enough salt over thi

avor l f o t

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a generation of reci

ss

ld hou

p es

.”

er