nuAZN | #33. EPHEMERA

nu AZN ephemera

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nuAZN

Editor in Chief Joyce Li

Publisher Selina Jiang Print Managing Editors Kaavya Butaney William Tong

Creative Director Xiaotian Shangguan Assistant Creative Director Jackie Li Photo Director Lianna Amoruso Assistant Photo Director Joyce Huang

Leisure District Editors Esther Lian Rachel Yoon

Worldwide Editors Shravya Pant Beatrice Villaflor Jerry Wu

Gathering Editors Rohan Krishnamurthi Cassie Sun

Assistant Editors Edward Simon Cruz Ellie Carney

Multimedia Editors Indra Dalaisaikhan Anita Li Anavi Prakash

Multimedia Producers Meryl Li Misha Oberoi

Photographers Casey He Yujin Tatar

Web Developer Beatrice Villaflor

Designers Corporate Members Jessica Chen, Jaimie Chun, Jenny Juliana Hung, Christine Shin, Guo, Juliana Hung, Abigail Jacob, Pearl Zhang Summer Jeong, Gracie Kwon, Models Mariana Ma, Michelle Sheen, Julian Sunny Batra, Jay Dugar, Maria Tang, Joyce Wang, Maya Wong, Feng, Scott Hwang, Jenna Skylark Zhang Kazim, Jacqueline Le, Janelle Mella, Victoria Yi Contributors

Marissa Fernandez, Sydney Gaw, Yong-Yu Huang, Emily Jiang, Kelley Lu, Jessica Ma, Abhi Nimmagadda, Chloe Park, Navya Singh, Rahib Taher, Lucy Yao

Editor’s Note

The setting sun on the last warm day of October, spilling golden on bare branches. A family recipe, relayed over a rushed intercontinental call, the specific measurements lost at sea. A fortune cookie, cracked open amid pre-midterm migraines, offering an overdue reminder to “make time for your passions.” nuAZN’s 33rd issue centers ephemera: the short-lived objects and fleeting moments that, in spite — or because — of their brevity, leave lasting imprints on our lives. Our team has gathered and pressed these scraps of impermanence to the page, paying homage to the things we cannot keep but refuse to forget.

On page 10, meet the Smiskis and Sonny Angels bringing life to students’ rooms. On page 27, learn how student activists struggle against time to make a movement last. Experience splitsecond connections on the crowded streets of page 20’s main 28 nuAZN | FALL 2024

photoshoot, and take a people-watching break on page 34.

Beyond this magazine, listen to students’ comfort phrases in their family tongues, watch them search for home on campus, and explore more audio and video stories on our website, nuazn.com.

It’s been a privilege to lead nuAZN this quarter, to be a part of the laughter and bickering, the creative chaos and random strokes of genius that make this publication what it is. Perhaps this magazine, too, will fade in time, its pages growing dusty and discolored in a drawer somewhere. But, for now, flip through and allow yourself to dwell on things that aren’t meant to last. Though you may only have a few moments to spend on each page, I hope our stories linger with you.

Joyce Li, Editor in Chief

LEISURE DISTRICT

Roses and red flags Boldfaced falsehoods Digital echoes Blind box boom The real Asians of Southern California

WORLDWIDE

Coding Kamala Harris Music in mourning Queering the motherland Fight against time

GATHERING

It takes a village between sea and sky Out of nowhere Wearing my heritage Don’t be a stranger

5 6 8 10 12

14 16 24 27

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Roses and STORY BY MISHA OBEROI DESIGN BY SUMMER JEONG

red flags

l fai BC an .

A i te s g n A i st ret h atcts fir helo W i ac B

M

y Bachelorette watch parties began as a way to preserve friendships over a 10.5-hour time difference. While I sat in India at 2 a.m., four of my girlfriends were lounging in 3:30 p.m. sunshine. We shed dramatic tears over Sam M.’s racist comments and argued over charismatic Devin and charming Jonathan.

Three out of four of my watch party friends are white — yet somehow, they recognized the show’s harmful portrayal of Jenn Tran, the first Asian American lead in the history of The Bachelorette, more quickly than I did.

Jenn’s experiences brought up a myriad of emotions for me. I was happy reality TV was finally creating a space for the Asian community. I empathized with the burden Jenn felt, the inescapable weight of being the “first.” I was relieved that she didn’t attempt to erase her identity and instead incorporated it into every intimate conversation she had about her family, upbringing and values.

And then I saw how she was treated by other contestants, and my happiness came crashing down. My buried fears were unearthed when Devin bolted from her the second the show ended.

Although Jenn was the main character of the show, watching the finale, I realized how unseen she must have felt. Even on a dating show meant to be all about her, the men longed for Daisy and Maria. I blamed the institution behind it all. ABC placed Tran on the podium but never allowed her to be heard. They failed to properly vet the contestants, with severe abuse allegations against both Marcus and Devin coming out shortly after the show began to air. Their lack of effort and support proved to viewers that Jenn was their tokenized Bachelorette — and nothing more.

I wanted to see Jenn achieve what I’ve always wanted: to be seen and desired. To be the girl chosen by leading men in romance films.

The love-at-first-sight girl, the lastlove-of-his-life girl, the forever girl.

But I am not their dream girl. I am not white. Me, with my foreign accent my nonwhite features — my general lack of that girl-ness. Me, with my unashamed love for American reality TV, a genre that either ignores my community or fetishizes it entirely.

Me, with my darkest, perhaps most tragic thought: I’ll never compare.

When Sam M. said he thought the Bachelorette would be someone like Daisy or Maria, his words epitomized Asian women in the media. We’re rarely cast as leads, seldom shown as desirable or loved. In the media, we’re the side characters of our own stories. From the “Cool Asians” clique in Mean Girls to Hana Mae Lee’s silent character in Pitch Perfect, Asian women are constantly boxed into stereotypes and depicted as characters who simply cannot be seen romantically. Together, they confirm men may never imagine Asian women in their happily-ever-afters.

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Boldfaced falsehoods

Stereotypes etched in ‘Oriental’ font.

W

STORY BY LUCY YAO DESIGN BY JAIMIE CHUN

herever you go, there is always a Chinese restaurant — or so I’ve heard. Maybe it’s true, but it’s probably because they’re so recognizable. There are often striking, neon red decorations and distinct names, but the biggest tell is arguably the font on their menus and storefronts, named the “chop suey” or “wonton” font style.

This “Oriental” font style has grown into a cultural phenomenon that superficially defines Chinese American restaurants from their initial rise in the 1800s. Streaks that resemble Chinese calligraphy’s curvy, brush-like strokes and the choppy edges of bamboo stalks morph to imitate Chinese characters.

It has proliferated into other East Asian businesses, films and content, ingraining itself as a staple of all Asian culture as a whole.

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In recent years, the racist nature of this font has sparked debate, with many citing its harmful historical use. For example, in World War II, this font was often seen in antiJapanese propaganda as dialogue — almost as if the font were a direct representation of how Asian people spoke — accompanied by caricatures of Japanese people.

Asian American studies professor Tara Fickle runs a class on Asian American comics, in which she mentions the use of this font in old political cartoons and modernday comics to represent old Asian American restaurants. In one of the books, Shadow Hero by Gene Luen Yang and Sonny Liew, the main character’s Vietnamese father owns a restaurant named “Bamboo Forest” that is written in the chop suey font.

The use of ethnic fonts is not unique to Chinese culture. Mexican, Greek and other cultural cuisinebased restaurants showcase a range of coded fonts to represent their given culture, especially in foreign places.

The chop suey font is different, though, in that outside of restaurants, it is almost exclusively used for harmful intentions. While it is true that the font was originally used by Chinese restaurant owners as a business tactic, they were not the ones who created it — it dates back

to the mid-1870s, when it was first created by the American company Cleveland Type Foundry under the name “Chinese,” and then “Mandarin.”

The company itself was the one that created this font, which was more so a representation of what Americans believe Chinese characters look like. So, when the font appears on the storefronts and menus of Chinese businesses, it represents an assimilation attempt by Chinese businesses to target Americans and help them recognize that their restaurant is Chinese, different, exotic.

Fickle says early Chinese restaurants from the mid- to late 19th century may not have been trying to sell authentic Chinese food to white Americans.

“They were selling white Americans their idea of Chinese food,” Fickle says.

“What we think of as those early dishes were already not exactly trying to fit an authentic Chinese level, but to fit what they thought white Americans would think an authentic version of Chinese food is.”

What makes the font especially problematic is that it does not actually represent China or any other Asian countries. It is meant to appeal to outsiders who are looking for “Chinese” food, not Chinese people.

This raises the question: if people were aware of the implications of this font, then why still use it? Simply, it’s a good business tactic. The font simultaneously indicates “Chinese

Hav

eaG

ood

Day!

restaurant” to non-Asian people but also tells Chinese people to not expect the most authentic food.

However, when looking at modernday restaurants in cities like New York, Washington and even Chicago, it’s very rare to see the chop suey font, with many places opting for simpler typefaces. It’s almost like the font itself has become taboo because of its association with Chinese American stereotypes. Today, the font remains prevalent on takeout boxes, which evokes images of greasy, fast meals — more comfort food than sophisticated dinners. Instead, second-generation Asian American restaurant owners have begun moving away from this font.

One such local Chinese restaurant is Lao Peng You — “old friend” in Mandarin. Instead of translating the Chinese name to English, the restaurant opted to keep it in Chinese Pinyin, with the characters written underneath. Additionally, instead of the classic red and gold colors, the storefront is forest green, its name written in a simple sans serif.

Especially in Chicago, where there’s a large Asian population, these restaurants target Asian Americans who miss food from their homeland.

By keeping the name entirely in Chinese and turning towards a blank restaurant face, they blend into their surroundings, opting for dishes to be heard more through word of mouth. Even

CHOP SUEY!

in cities with less Asians, restaurants maintain this simplistic style.

In recent years, with the rise of TikTok and home cooking from the pandemic, more people are inclined to have food from different cultures. The chop suey font and striking red decorations have become symbolic of Asian American food. These restaurants display Chinese names instead of the usual imprecisely translated ones, making them seem more authentic.

Foreigners are thus drawn to the restaurant to try something new and get a taste of the real thing.

As someone who is a second-generation Chinese American myself, I similarly feel that pull to authentication and home roots, in hopes of not breaking our family line. However, I also believe that this cycle will and has continued. These aesthetics will be the next representation of Asian food, and they’ll gain popularity as it attracts more and more customers.

Places like Tao, a restaurant and nightclub with locations in cities including

Chicago, New York and Los Angeles, have already optimized this tactic and garnered interest from both my Asian friends and other friends alike, even though, at its core, it’s not the same as real Asian food.

And that’s OK. This is just the push and pull of branding in the business world. However, unlike the chop suey font, we must ensure that this font, along with any other ethnic font, is only used for good intentions. Whether it’s outside the restaurant world or not, I believe that we all have the awareness now to recognize when a font is used as a business tactic and when it is rooted in hate.

u o y nk

Tha

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Digital echoes

Understanding planned obsolescence through my dad’s cassettes.

STORY BY YONG-YU HUANG

DESIGN BY JOYCE WANG

T

he two-spool cassette was released in 1963, the brain-child of Philips engineer Lou Ottens. That same year, Douglas Engelbart invented the computer mouse, the BBC released the first episode of Doctor Who and John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Before the cassette, there were electromagnetic tapes and transcription discs. After the cassette came compact discs (CDs) and the MP3.

Now, sound is transmitted through bytes, packets of data hurtling through cables.

––– My father is the great archivist of our family. There are thousands of pictures from my childhood of my brother and me. First days of school, every angle of our pudgy faces, the slick sheen on my brother’s forehead immortalized on the screen. There are fewer photos from my dad’s childhood, but he has taken it upon himself to begin digitizing the family photo albums, which stretch back decades. Every now and then, a film photograph will circulate in the large family group chat — my dad with my greatgrandparents on leave from his military service; my grandmother looking up from a stairwell; my dad and his sisters with bowl cuts, impossibly young.

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––– First used in the 1920s, transcription discs were designed to be played on a phonograph, made with lacquered aluminum. Communication Prof. Neil Verma notes that archivists don’t know what is on the tapes until they are played, and ones originally made in the 1930s were often only made to be played a few times.

“There are more than you can digitize in a lifetime,” Verma says. “So this is one of the challenges of preservation — how do you decide what to digitize? Where can it live?

And once it is digitized, is it really safe?”

––– As a child, I loved the word “obsolescence” because it sounded like air. Eventually, I moved past its sonic qualities, learning what it really meant. In eighth grade, I found out about planned obsolescence — even more depressing than the original term. If manufacturers design goods with a finite lifespan, they incentivize customers to purchase again. Things are not built to last. Anyone who says differently is trying to sell something.

–––

The first time I had friends over after the pandemic, someone said, “You never told us your dad was so cool.” This had never occurred to me before — the vinyls lining the bookshelves, the dearly beloved sound system that he had shipped over when we moved from Taiwan to Malaysia, his cherry red bass guitar tucked into the corner of our living room.

recorded it from behind a sliding door. When my brother walked past, he looked at me like I was crazy, hiding in a corner, recording on my phone.

–––

It’s easy to be bleak. It’s easier to believe in an irredeemable world. But my dad’s cassettes and digital audio tapes have lasted well into the 21st century, despite decades of use. Although they aren’t manufactured anymore, they were not designed to fall apart. Yes, cassettes will break eventually. But that is more because of love, the comfort of listening again and again.

Years ago, he set up an iPad to record my grandfather telling the oral history of our family — people who died decades before I was born, the first generation to arrive in Taiwan, the cousins nobody has met. I tried watching it once with my dad, years ago, and very quickly grew bored. I don’t remember what I left to do.

My dad can’t find the videos anymore. The idea of something that was meant to last forever vanishing into the digital void bothers me. It bothers him, too, more than he lets on.

––– The last recording of my maternal grandfather’s voice is saved in my voice memos. He’s singing with his friends in Japanese, the language they first learned in school. Age warbles their voices. I

Sound comes from vibrations. A voice echoes, and then is gone.

–––

Some things will break eventually, but that does not mean they were designed to break. Some things wear down because humans cling to what they love most. We want to hear the voices of our loved ones. We want to revisit the joy of being 20 and buying our favorite jazz artist’s newest CD. We want to remember what life was like the first time we heard a certain song.

Film fades. Vinyls and cassettes wear down.

Memory remains a fickle thing.

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BLIND BOX

BOOM

Smiskis and Sonny Angels — the newest collectible craze.

M

STORY BY CHLOE PARK

cCormick second-year Toby Zheng’s favorite Smiski sits atop his desk, nose buried into its miniature laptop. Another green glow-in-the-dark figurine squats on the edge of his standing mirror, shouting through a silicone megaphone to hype up Zheng’s reflection. In total, seven of these collectible toys have infested his dorm — and Zheng is not the only victim of the Smiski craze.

Blind boxes are packages of collectible figurines that keep their contents a mystery until they are opened. With the rising popularity of Smiskis and

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DESIGN BY JACKIE LI

PHOTOS BY JOYCE HUANG

other blind box brands like Sonny Angel and POP MART, the blind box market is booming now more than ever.

The phenomenon has reached Lake Michigan’s shores, with the first POP MART store in the Midwest opening on Chicago’s Michigan Avenue this year.

Though the blind box boom is recent, the concept has been around since the 1980s. The concept of randomized blind boxes originated in Japan with the emergence of “fukubukuro,” which were bags put together in supermarkets containing products that were not selling well.

Another iteration of the idea became popular in the toy market with the introduction of “gashapon” in the 2000s, randomized toys in plastic capsules dispensed through vending machines. Over time, the “fukubukuro” and “gashapon” combined to become the blind boxes people know and love today.

The appeal of blind boxes began due to its mystery, but it doesn’t end there. The designs are often irresistibly cute, attracting consumers who love collecting adorable decor.

“The items are very miniature and it just gives the cutesy aesthetic,” says Weinberg third-year Therese Mañego, who has collected 15 Sonny Angels so far. “I don’t see people getting blind boxes for things that are ugly.”

Blind box companies also strategically tempt consumers with a preview of the different poses and designs available in a particular box.

Mañego says her favorite Sonny Angel design is one from the company’s “Message of Love” collection: a baby angel with a strawberry cow-printed hat.

“Every time a new set releases, there’s always one that I feel like I like more than others,” Zheng says. “It’s part of the risk [and] reward that makes it appealing.”

Apart from retaining existing customers, companies also lure new blind box fans by releasing collections as part of collaborations with well-known shows or games in pop culture.

Kira Kabuki, a popular blind box content creator with over 1.3 million followers on TikTok, says her love for Sanrio is what got her into blind boxes.

Her content creation journey began last year, when she went to her local mall to make an Easter care package for her best friend and discovered Sanrio-themed blind boxes at the Hot Topic in the mall.

“I wasn’t really familiar with the blind box market at the time, but I thought the concept was really cool,” Kabuki says.

“So I got one for myself also and made a

video about it. I shared it to socials and then the rest is history.”

Kabuki often teams up with blind box companies to market the sensation to mainstream audiences. She has collaborated in advertising campaigns with brands such as POP MART, Suteki Gifts and Bandai Namco for upcoming products.

Much of running her social media involves making content and marketing blind box productions, but Kabuki’s favorite part of her channel is being able to foster a community of collectors who unite under the joy of unboxing pleasant surprises.

Perhaps that is the biggest appeal of blind boxes, even beyond their eyecatching marketing tactics — they bring together a community bonded by shared moments of joy, surprise and love for cute, collectible trinkets.

“It’s those comments I see at the channel that say, ‘Hey, I was feeling really down or I’m struggling through something, but this is the first thing I saw on my feed and it really made me

feel better,’” Kabuki says. “If I can help motivate people and just bring that little ounce of joy to everyone’s day, it’s really something special to me.”

Smiski A series of Japanese blind boxes dating back to 1996.

Sonny Angel Inspired by the Kewpie Mayo baby, these cute angels were created in 2004.

POP MART Founded in 2005, POP MART is a brand of blind boxes with a diverse array of designs.

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The real Asians of Southern The locals have spoken.

California STORY BY SYDNEY GAW DESIGN BY MAYA WONG

B

oba. Raving. Seaside.

The essence of being a SoCal Asian can be captured in a short list, according to a milieu of TikTok users. Shortly after arriving at Northwestern as a transfer from the University of California, Los Angeles, I quickly learned to expect the inevitable question regarding my hometown: Are you one of those SoCal Asians?

From listening to the musician Keshi to playing Valorant, the SoCal Asian label attempts to define an entire subregion of Asian American youth.

While the meme has produced a new niche of lighthearted humor, it fits neatly into the long history of racial stereotyping in the United States.

The reputation of SoCal Asians extends beyond California. Weinberg third-year Noelle Terrell moved to Los Angeles in 2016 and, later, to New York City for their first year of college.

They say they observed a new trend of negative stereotypes associated with the demographic on social media. They and

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their friends have noticed a recent spike in Instagram reels that featured skits about “going out with a SoCal Asian.”

In these videos, the SoCal Asian is asked a common first-date question (“What do you like to do?”) and responds with a predictable string of words (“Raving, gymming, Valorant …”).

“It may offer a connection between SoCal Asians with the same hobbies, but also categorize some into being shallow and predictable for having them,” Terrell says.

The distinction of SoCal Asians from other Asian Americans — even those who simply live in Southern California — is not only inaccurate at times, but also provokes nuanced discussions about community-bonding and counterculture within the AAPI community. On the subreddit “r/ asianamerican,” online users call attention to a perceived SoCal Asian superiority complex, arguing that “Asian Americans outside Southern California believe their peers from the region often doubt their ‘Asianness.’”

In the discussion thread, Reddit users suggest that Southern California’s high concentration of Asians are in a bubble that emphasizes social media content about the SoCal Asian stereotype. This cultivates a sense of exclusivity to activities like raving and drinking boba.

An article by NBC earlier this year also

addresses the complicated view that the Asian American diaspora living outside of California harbors toward SoCal Asians. Some Asians living outside of SoCal suggest that SoCal Asians seem to gatekeep the idea of being Asian based on access to cultural practices.

A main point of contention surrounding the SoCal Asian archetype is who has the power to reinforce these stereotypes. While at times it seems like the “SoCal Asian” is a fabricated identity being used by SoCal Asians to reinforce their “Asian-ness,” the stereotype is perceived negatively by other Asians and TikTok users. In fact, many of my peers and I reject the SoCal Asian label, seeing it more as a caricature of what it means to grow up post-first generation in a concentrated Asian community. In many ways, it seems to me like one of the lies you might tell someone to make them think you’re cool.

“I don’t like when people hear I’m an Asian from SoCal,” says Medill first-year Jonathan Rho. “They automatically assume a lot of things about me. I try to disassociate myself from that.”

Rho, born and raised in Irvine, California, says he faced similar stereotypes. Having lived in Southern California his whole life, he says the idea of the SoCal Asian seems largely fabricated.

Seaside, a donut bakery that Rho used to visit often, has now become the backdrop of several viral videos

about SoCal Asian “culture.” While some videos are true to his experience, he says that many local pastimes have been blown out of proportion.

“Jason [@jason.nms] on TikTok has definitely been like a catalyst for this Asian SoCal stereotype,” Rho says.

“I’m not sure if he’s even from SoCal, but him going to Seaside and filming all these people outside has really propelled the regional aspect. I used to go to Seaside with my friends, and maybe a year ago, there’d be nobody.”

Rather than the actual associations with the stereotypical SoCal Asian, the perceived abundance of Asian Americans living in Southern California who seem to fit the mold and the accessibility of Asian culture in the area give the archetype its regional specificity.

Although many of the descriptions associated with SoCal Asians seem relatively new, not all of them are.

The idea of the ABG and ABB (Asian Baby Boy) are racialized and gendered social labels that indicate promiscuity, a hybridization of Eastern and Western femininity or masculinity and general resistance to the widespread narrative of Asians as “submissive and complacent,” according to an article published in UC Berkeley’s Asian American Research Journal. Author Sammy Wu writes that the term ABG was coined around the 1980s when it stood for “Asian Baby Gangster” and was tied to subculture regarding East and Southeast Asian women who dated gang members. The ABG label has

since been widely regarded as the antithesis to popular stereotypes about the hypersexuality and fetishization of Asian women, though its implications still have a negative connotation.

However, the idea of the Asian Baby Girl/Gangster has since evolved to fit a more modern context — one in which some Asian American youth may even self-identify with the labels to reclaim qualities once used to demean them. For post first-generation Asian American social communities, Wu explained the ABG has “evolved into an aesthetic associated with dyed hair, false eyelashes, boba, Greek life, and raves.” Social media seems to validate this aesthetic concept, with many influencers leaning into the stereotype.

However, with this shift in meaning, the ABG has also garnered a reputation of shallowness and superficiality.

According to a study of how the ABG is perceived through a Filipina American perspective, the archetype continues to flatten ideas about Southeast Asians and reduce their sense of agency. While encapsulating perceptions of the ABG, the SoCal Asian stereotype has the same effect on its community.

Social media has fueled the rise of a racial archetype that presents Asian American youth with the opportunity to define ourselves beyond the model minority and perpetual foreigner tropes perpetuated by white people.

Simultaneously, however, these archetypes still produce more generalizations about Asian Americans. The truth is that many of us don’t want to be essentialized, especially by fellow Asian Americans.

Looking at the broader implications of the SoCal Asian

social media craze, it is hard to say whether or not the prevalence of this stereotype will prevail and for how long it will continue to shape perceptions of Asians living in Southern California. The SoCal Asian draws from minor truths about living in SoCal but ultimately fails to accurately capture the vibrance and complexity of the subculture.

When I reminisce about my experience growing up in Southern California, I’m grateful for the tightknit community in which I grew up.

Rather than ABGs and rave culture, the inside jokes I share with my friends about living in SoCal are defined by our experiences attending a competitive public school, speaking a variety of fragmented dialects at home, walking to Zion Market for bottled tea after school and more. Visiting countries outside of North America and now having spent my first few months in the Midwest, I’ve grown to appreciate how my regional identity has informed my relationships with other members of the diaspora, as well as with my own connection to my heritage.

Nevertheless, I take pride in being a SoCal Asian, regardless of how we are perceived at large.

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Coding Kamala Harris How race has shaped her career.

STORY BY EDWARD SIMON CRUZ, JESSICA MA & SHRYAVA PANT

K

amala Harris’s journey to the top of the presidential ticket was historic and inspirational for Weinberg second-year Aiden Lam, who identifies as Chinese and Bangladeshi American.

“I was extremely motivated just knowing the barriers she broke,” Lam says.

If elected, Harris could have been the nation’s first Black and Asian American female president. But during her campaign, her multiracial identity became both a point of representation and criticism.

Across campus, Asian American and biracial students expressed pride in her momentous candidacy, but her campaign also allowed reflection on identity in American politics. While Harris didn’t emphasize her identity, students did ask themselves what she means to them — and their families.

Harris’ mother emigrated from India, and her father emigrated from Jamaica. She also attended the historically Black Howard University and joined a Black sorority.

More than 33 million Americans identify with two or more races, according to the 2020 Census. That number grew by about 25 million over the past decade.

“Showing people that those positions are open and possible for people of all races,” Lam says. “Especially those who are mixed and struggle with finding one specific identity, [her nomination] can help them find a lot of clarity.”

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Race and gender in the Harris campaign But Harris’ multiracial identity came under attack. At the National Association of Black Journalists’ convention, Presidentelect Donald Trump doubted Harris’ racial identity, asking, “Is she Indian? Or is she Black?”

“I didn’t know she was Black until a number of years ago when she happened to turn Black and now she wants to be known as Black,” Trump said.

Prof. Nitasha Tamar Sharma, who teaches Asian American studies and Black studies, identifies as Indian American and Russian Jewish. She says Trump’s comments draw on stereotypes questioning multiracial people’s authenticity.

“Donald Trump was attempting to make it seem like she’s not authentically or sincerely Black,” Sharma says.

Contrary to Trump’s claims, Harris has long made her heritage clear. Her White House biography says she is “the first woman, the first Black American and the first South Asian American” elected vice president.

Sharma says Harris has been consistent in her story — possibly to “help locate for people who she is” as a nonwhite candidate. “[Harris] calls upon her mother’s story as a solo young woman, immigrant from South India who came to the Bay

DESIGN BY ABIGAIL JACOB Area,” Sharma says. “She does discuss the fact that her father is a Black man from Jamaica who also came to the Bay Area. [Harris] very much says she is a Black woman with Indian ancestry.”

Even though Harris has been vocal about her Indian heritage, Americans hear more about her Black identity because of the persistent Black-white paradigm in the country, political science Prof. Julie Lee Merseth says.

“Even as we make progress, it still constrains the way that we talk about race,” Merseth says. “Asian American voices have only recently become a much more prominent presence in the mainstream media environment.”

Weinberg fourth-year AnnaRose Jones, who identifies as Korean American and Black, didn’t know Harris’ Asian background until her campaign launched. That’s when Jones started tuning in to the news more.

“When I found out, I don’t think I thought much differently,” Jones says.

“I thought it was cool, but I don’t really think she utilizes her racial identity much campaigning.”

But Harris had not been focusing on her racial identity or gender in her campaign, Sharma notes — a contrast to previous Democratic nominees Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton.

Jones pointed out that conservatives have called Harris a “DEI hire.” Identity politics is polarizing, Jones says, so Harris’ team likely wanted to minimize her identity.

In an interview with CNN, Harris was asked about Trump’s comments at the NABJ convention. She gave a pointed response: “Same old tired playbook.

Next question, please.”

“She has these short and pat answers about her mother and about being a Black woman of Indian ancestry,” Sharma says. “But she’s really not focusing her campaign on her story on her racial or gender background. It’s smart.”

Harris previously said she believes that she is the “best person to do this job at this moment, for all Americans, regardless of race and gender.”

“At the same time, there has been plenty of evidence and reporting underscoring how enthusiastic, how energetic South [Asian], and in particular Indian voters, are to have a candidate,” Merseth says. “They do feel a sense of representation.”

Right after Harris announced her candidacy, the group South Asian Women for Harris organized a call with more than 4,000 women, raising $250,000 in about two hours.

While most Asian Americans lean Democrat, Sharma says some wealthy and conservative South Asians believe in Republican approaches to small government and tax breaks.

“In a lot of ways, she really resonates as a Black woman candidate more than she resonates as a South Asian candidate,” Sharma says. “In some ways, she resonates as a Black and South Asian candidate to South Asians, and as a Black candidate to Black folks.”

That’s because South Asians and Black people are differently conceived in the United States — racially, economically

and in their relationships to incarceration, Sharma says.

Sharma has researched anti-Black racism in South Asian communities.

For racially conservative South Asians, Harris’ gender and Blackness “dilutes the celebratory nature of voting” for the potential first South Asian American president, she says.

Ultimately, Sharma says Harris’ and Obama’s candidacies help Americans engage with race.

“Multiraciality in that pause — in that ‘What are you?’ — reminds us that race is a total construct,” Sharma says.

Lam says being biracial is simultaneously a “curse and blessing.”

It’s not about representing both aspects of himself equally, he says, but carving out his own path.

“That’s what she’s trying to do at the end of the day — not that she has to be the perfect Indian candidate or the perfect Black candidate,” Lam says. “[If people recognize that], people resonate with her a lot more.”

Harris and the South Asian American vote Weinberg second-year Richard, who asked to go by a pseudonym because of potential family backlash, says some relatives who lean moderate to centerright Republican don’t view the Harris campaign as a milestone. They see her as unqualified, he says.

Richard’s grandparents, who are Indian immigrants, struggle to comprehend her multiracial identity.

“From their perspective, it’s like you have to choose — are you Black or are you Indian?” Richard says.

A 2016 study shows that racial linked fate, the sense of connectedness among a racial group that propels voting patterns, is stronger among Black people than Asian Americans.

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STORY BY RAHIB TAHER DESIGN BY MICHELLE SHEEN PHOTOS COURTESY OF RAHIB TAHER

‘S

uddenly / March the 13th / Papa said goodbye’

Suryakant Sawhney, lead singer of the Delhi-based alternative rock band Peter Cat Recording Co., sings these words on the third track of the band’s latest album, BETA. The song, named “Suddenly,” is Sawhney’s attempt to come to terms with life after his father’s passing.

I first listened to the band in the spring quarter of my freshman year. My introduction was a song called “Memory Box” from their album Bismillah, meaning “in the name of God” in Arabic.

Muslims have developed the practice of saying Bismillah before virtually every action. Bismillah can be an expression of gratitude or a way to anoint yourself with God’s blessing before facing difficulty. It is most commonly said before reciting a chapter of the Qur’an.

My father, a Bengali Muslim, introduced me to the phrase as a part of my religious upbringing. After his death, Bismillah became a way for me to understand this new phase of my life. In the name of God, my father was lifted into the heavens. This was meant to happen — it is the one guarantee of life.

Still, I was so very conflicted. A constant in my life had disappeared.

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How one rock album mirrors my journey through grief.

“Suddenly” came to me after a year of wrestling with an inconceivable hole in my soul. Those lyrics chart the course of the life I have lived since he’s been gone and the life I have yet to live.

‘He left this world and the world he loved was in Dubai’ The world my father loved was Bangladesh, where he was born. For the last 20 years, he had been developing an apartment complex to return to and retire in. It was a dream that would not come to fruition. I could not bring him back there in time. Everything happened too quickly.

Truth be told, when I started writing this, I could not remember the specific date of my father’s passing. It was late June 2023, right after the end of my freshman

year. I searched for our last messages, the texts I sent while the surgical tubes were the only thing keeping him alive.

His body was internally bleeding and his organs were failing, limiting the time I had to communicate something, anything. These were long blue streaks recounting old memories and regrets, promising to do better if only I could have a miracle.

I think it was the night of June 27 leading into the morning of the 28th, at around 3 a.m. I vaguely remember the call from the hospital, a moment of wailing as I looked down into the front yard from the balcony, a 15-minute drive and an encounter with reality: my father’s lifeless body.

My father was a smoker. I remember him saying he started when he was 15 years old in Bangladesh. The habit followed him throughout his life, with brief respites of quitting and then relapsing. I grew to

love this smell, purposely inhaling it if I caught a whiff. Even when he tried to hide it, disappearing for 30 minutes and coming back into the house, the scent told the truth.

Before he died, he was admitted to Jamaica Hospital Medical Center in Queens. He suffered a heart attack the last time he went off to smoke. Initially, his condition seemed stable, and I wasn’t worried about the consequences. I had seen this scene before.

He had been in and out of hospitals before for complications with his heart.

It felt normal to me. We both thought that he could continue to smoke without fatal repercussions.

This time was different. When the doctors removed the machine stabilizing his heart, he was internally bleeding.

The doctor did not say he was dying; rather, she kept saying he was “very sick.”

But these words were wedged between contradicting statements — medical observations that made it clear his death was more likely than not. Still, when I heard that phrase, I clung to the hope that he could recover from this “sickness.”

I spent the next three days waiting and praying, but his time had come.

The machines plugged into his body that had been keeping him barely alive were all gone. I felt ejected out of my body, almost unconscious. All the Bengali words I knew spilled into his lifeless ears, recounting the experiences we shared and the regrets that lingered.

I poured it all out so hard that I vomited into my hands. I can’t remember much of it except for that final release.

“Those lyrics chart the course of the life I have lived since he’s been gone and the life I have yet to live.” funeral tradition that the deceased’s body is cremated. In the Islamic funeral tradition, it is buried in the ground. There is a moment prior, in both traditions, where the body is cleansed and often wrapped in a white cloth.

My father was like that in his casket.

When I was younger, his beard was jetblack and trimmed. As the years passed, it grew more, and white hairs sprouted on his chin, blending into a patch. Now, this beard and his face were all that remained uncovered by the sheet.

The sensation of his prickly beard hairs on my fingers and palms was a constant in my life. I took as long as I could before allowing my fingers to kiss the skin and hair on his face, no longer alive with the warmth of blood.

A hearse carried him to a local mosque. Faces of strangers, of family, of anyone who could come followed the casket to the front of the prayer area. I was not ready to be so vulnerable, but I had to say some words, to paint a picture

of what he meant to me. It was the story of the afternoons I spent with my father at the Friday prayer.

In the afternoon, we would walk to the masjid for prayer in the congregation.

On our way out, he would take money from his wallet, push it into my hand and ask that I put it in the donation box. The meaning of this gesture was double: a way to instill donation, a pillar of Islam, as a habit but also a selfless act.

In his stead, I would receive the goodness of his actions.

In my youth, I did as I was told without thinking much of it. My parents did not often directly speak their feelings.

It was rare to hear the word “love” on their tongues. This eulogy was the way to let this feeling free, for the message of love to reach me in a different way.

‘Can we kiss you? / Before the fire burns you to the bones’ “Suddenly” references Sawhney’s Hindu upbringing. It follows in Hindu

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“The prayer I conduct is the only way to make him listen.

It is the only assurance that our souls will encounter one another again in the life after this one.”

‘Papa I know / You were fighting to live your life your way / Wherever you are / I hope you’re playing’ In the following days, I felt emotions I had never felt before. I began to develop a resentment towards my father. I asked how my mom and I were to continue. I asked how he could leave so easily and carelessly. I asked why he continued to overwork himself and cope with cigarettes. He knew he was eating himself alive but did not do anything about it.

It was not selfish of me to ask. The doctors in his life advised him against everything that led to his death. It was unthinkable to everyone around me that someone who barely turned 50 was so suddenly gone.

I think I have inherited a lot from my father. I have been a procrastinator for as long as I can remember. As I grew older, procrastination turned into avoidance.

Avoidance became a lifestyle. It was easier to do nothing and waste my time than face something that would cause me any discomfort.

My father was trying to avoid something within himself that made him

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deeply miserable. I do not know if I will ever know what that is. All I can know is the cigarette smoke and the excessive time working was an escape worth more to him than his life.

For me, this deeply miserable thing was his death. I spent many weekdays of my childhood home alone while my parents worked into the evening. I did not have much of an opportunity to speak from the heart. All of that makes me want to run like he did.

‘I’m losing you from my mind as I grow older too / Your memories are the only peace, the place I own / These songs I sing are the only way to make you listen’

I became more pious following his death. There are five daily prayers in Islam, from sunrise to sunset. These were opportunities to maintain a connection that was physically unavailable to me. I wanted nothing more than my prayers to reach God and for that to mean

something for my father’s place in the afterlife, just as my father put donation money in my palm during the Friday prayer.

As I try to remember him, I always think of a phrase he would repeat: “This life is temporary.” It described his outlook on life, which was just a test for the afterlife. For Muslims, there was joy in death, in a promise of eternal life in heaven.

These words constantly ring in my head and prompt other memories to flow. I recall those days following freshman year when I was in New York City again. Whenever I went out into Manhattan, he would text me so I could

let him know if he could pick me up. I miss it so badly.

During one of my freshman year quarters, I was on the Dean’s List. I sent him a screenshot of the email. I think this new distance between us made him yearn for me more than he had ever before.

He said words that had been rare to me and so enthusiastically, too. The text message read, “Congratulations my son. I’m really proud of you. You made my life cherish ... joyful ... lot more.”

I miss the random ellipses in place of commas, a signature of South Asian fathers.

On one of the last days I saw him before his passing, I got upset with him.

I needed the key to our basement to go through our storage, and he took it with him. While I was upset, he was calm. I think that all that mattered to him was that he was talking to his son.

More than anything, his death enshrined life’s transience. I wasn’t always so religious, but now I feel that neglecting my faith will make my worst fears come true. That one day I will forget his voice, his image, his scent — everything that made him, him.

Islam was so important to him. It is one of the only paths toward him that I have left. The prayer I conduct is the only way to make him listen. It is the only assurance that our souls will encounter one another again in the life after this one.

There is a persistent voice in my head that asks why I continue to get up in the morning. I miss my father. I miss the family we were before. I wish we could enjoy one more time together.

I know I have to continue. It is hard, but it is the only thing I can do, to make a future that my parents can be proud of.

I have lost so much, but there is still so much time to gain, to heal and to break out of this avoidant pattern. I don’t know what anything looks like ahead, but I will only know if I take a step forward.

I have no idea where he is now and if he’s watching over me. But wherever you might be, Dad, I hope you’re playing.

‘Through everything we lost / Your ship has sailed’

‘Can we hear you? / Or maybe see a sign that says hello?’

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moments we miss

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here is nothing more ephemeral than the moment you make eye contact with a stranger on a busy city street; the sounds of the world fade out for a split second that That experience is the inspiration for this quarter’s and seems to stretch on forever, my final nuAZN main shoot. I sought to explore ways until finally, they release you to capture not only the visuals of this unique form of from a fleeting prison. human connection, but also the magical feelings that ensue: shock, hope, perception, the nakedness that comes with being unabashedly known, if only for a moment.

It has been incredibly special to connect with you over the last four quarters through entertaining my wildest imaginings in photographs. In truth, nothing lasts in perpetuity, though, these Take the time to immerse yourself in each of these shots. small moments just might.

Don’t look away from the subjects: stare back. Feel seen.

Feel connected. And then when you return to the world beyond the page, witness your life with a renewed purpose.

Just because these moments are ephemeral doesn’t mean they can’t have a lasting impact on who we become. দেখা হবে Daka habe

Photo Director

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THE MOTHERLAND

For LGBTQ+ people, third spaces hide in plain sight.

STORY BY KELLEY LU & NAVYA SINGH DESIGN BY XIAOTIAN SHANGGUAN

T

ucked in the heart of Singapore, a former police headquarters has been renovated into Medill second-year Ashley Wong’s “classic queer space.”

Used by law enforcement in the 1930’s, Pearl’s Hill Terrace has since become a haven for creatives to gather and host a variety of film and art studios, design firms and music events.

Wong says she finds freedom to express her queer identity in third spaces — places outside of the work or home that allow LGBTQ+ people to express themselves.

“I always go there because it makes me feel welcomed, and it makes me feel free,” Wong says.

“It makes me feel like I could not just only be myself in terms of being queer, but also be myself in terms of being a creative person.”

In Singapore, a country comparable in size to Chicago, Wong often finds third spaces like Pearl’s through word of mouth. Wong discovered the space when she heard of people using it to play mahjong, watch movies and hang out. She now frequents Pearl’s secluded central “party yard.”

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abandoned and decommissioned places, such as Pearl’s. Since queer people began to gather there, Wong says businesses may avoid moving there despite its trendiness, low rent

“It’s very much an uphill battle to be out in Asia because much of society is so codified to oppress us,” —Ashley Wong

Medill second-year

and downtown location. The “classic queer space cycle” continues, she says.

In Asia, only three countries currently recognize same-sex marriage in some capacity: Taiwan, Thailand and Nepal. As a result, third spaces play a vital role in empowering queer

people to express their identities in a safe, inclusive setting. LGBTQ+ people in Asia also use social media to connect with one another in areas where discussion may still be seen as taboo.

In response to limited political recognition, community members congregate in “hot spots” where they feel safe, Wong says.

“It’s very much an uphill battle to be out in Asia because much of society is so codified to oppress us,” Wong says.

Content is highly regulated and restricted in Singapore, managed by the InfoComm Media Development Authority (IMDA).

Laws limit information that implies homosexual activity and direct what type of media is circulated regarding queer people.

Labeled as “alternative sexualities,” LGBTQ+ subplots — “if discreet in treatment and not gratuitous” per the IMDA’s code — are rated “M18,” or for viewers 18 and older. Non-explicit representations of sexual activity earn an “R21” rating, for viewers 21 and up.

LGBTQ+ rights in China, where Medill second-year Alex Chen is from, are similarly limited. China

also does not legally recognize samesex marriage, protect queer people from workplace discrimination or allow them to adopt children.

In China, there’s a general conservatism about public displays of affection, even between heterosexual couples, Chen says. Certain cities in China are more open to public displays of queer expression. Chen says her experience growing up and expressing her queer identity, such as affection toward a partner, may be vastly different from those growing up in other parts of the country.

She cites larger cities like Beijing and Shanghai as examples of cities with greater international presence, and thereby, more LGBTQ+ acceptance.

Likewise, queer people’s experiences in India can also differ by region.

A student from the University of Melbourne who requested to remain anonymous, highlights the differing experiences between residents of North and South India. Growing up in New Delhi and Mumbai, cities in North India, the student says she did not have in-person queer third spaces.

“I have a lot of friends from Chennai and Bangalore,” she says about the South Indian cities. “They seem to be a bit more open than I’ve seen people in the North be, especially compared to somewhere like Delhi.”

India’s Supreme Court declined to legalize same-sex marriage in 2023, but it established a panel to consider granting more rights to LGBTQ+ couples.

Bollywood movies have also shaped how people in India view queer identities, the student adds.

“It’s treated like a joke,” the University of Melbourne student says, citing the movie Student of the Year, which she describes as featuring a gay character portrayed in an overly flamboyant and caricature-like manner.

However, the student notes that recent movie releases such as Badhaai Do — a 2022 Hindi-language film about a marriage of convenience between a gay man and a lesbian woman — seem to be moving away from stereotypes.

Similarly, South Korea is experiencing an increase in queer representation in literature and media, with TV shows Semantic Error and Nevertheless depicting same-sex attraction.

Korean literature and culture Prof.

Jeong Eun Annabel We says while media like literature may not create physical third spaces, it can encourage

queer people to find community and places to gather.

“Literature and also cultural representations of queer kinship are important. I think it pushes people very gently,” We says. “When you see the representation, it allows people to feel that they can go find further spaces.”

While queer media is no longer censored in South Korea, the country has yet to legalize same-sex marriage.

For the past few years, the city of Seoul has also banned the annual June pride parade from organizing at its usual location, Seoul Plaza. The Plaza has a central location in front of the South Korean capital’s City Hall. Despite the parade failing to get a permit in 2024, thousands still showed up to express their identities.

Wong says safe spaces in Singapore tend to be trendier or younger venues because younger generations are exposed to a diversity of voices.

Before modern social media, she says the queer community has always found refuge in the internet through private messaging boards and interest forums.

For example, Communication third-year Jade Xia is in a WeChat circle that will post places to meet, such as apartments,

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bars and other social settings. Xia requested a pseudonym as she has not publicly come out to all her loved ones.

Queer-friendly locations in China are also recognized through symbols, such as rainbows or certain hairstyles, or homonyms of key characters.

Social media further advertises these establishments where audiences can note which businesses are queer-friendly.

Xia has frequented lesbian bars in Hong Kong and China, often finding them through local social media apps like XiaoHongShu, a platform similar to Instagram whose name translates to “little red book.”

In one post, Xia saw the Route Whisky & Cocktail Bar advertised as a standard bar, but she knew the owners were lesbian. Xia subsequently marked the place as a queer-friendly location on the app. “[Business owners] don’t put it on the front,” she says. “Anybody could go, but when we are aware that third spaces are started by lesbians and the owners support the community, [queer people] will go there.”

While Hong Kong does not recognize same-sex marriage, a 2023 court ruling affirmed that legal frameworks must be set within the next two years for same-sex couples, paving a potential future for civil unions.

Because the queer circle is largely driven by word-of-mouth, Wong says entrance can be an issue, especially for those who do not come from supportive environments. Apps like TikTok that host a younger demographic have been “ungatekeeping” these hot spots, which were previously kept more private for “protection,” she says.

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“I think social media is really huge in helping people find each other,” We says. “And also find out different ways of thinking about themselves and the communities that are actually out there that maybe you wouldn’t come across otherwise.”

Social media has made accepting queer identities and therefore accessing queer spaces less of a barrier for younger generations.

“Generationally speaking, young people are just way more openminded than the previous generation,” Wong says. “The internet has made it so easy for us to meet any type of person, good or bad, and any type of opinion, good or bad. The internet, and generally the anonymization of people online, is very helpful.”

Certain social media platforms like Instagram and TikTok are unavailable in China. Certain phrases like “queer” also remain censored. However, Chen says many download VPNs to bypass the restrictions and access foreign content. She adds that those who travel abroad, or foreigners on Chinese social media, also share international ideas.

“It’s the rise of the internet,” she says. “The more international China tries to present itself to be, the more international the social media contents will be, and the gayer it will be.”

Wong says community-building and maintaining third spaces remains important in the protection and solidarity of the queer population in Asia. She adds that the “protection system” contrasts with the U.S.’s stance on LGBTQ+ rights, where the queer community is bonded through pride to “celebrate how awesome we are.”

“When the community is so oppressed against, it’s the only thing that we can use to build solidarity,” Wong says. “It’s the only place you can find people, because people just can’t say that they’re out.”

Fight against time

Student activists struggle to tie up loose ends.

A

STORY BY JOYCE LI & ABHI NIMMAGADDA DESIGN BY GRACIE KWON

lmost a decade ago, Northwestern’s Associated Student Government narrowly passed a resolution recommending the University divest from six companies that, according to sponsors, aided Israel in human rights violations against Palestinians.

The decision came after a monthlong campaign by NUDivest, a grassroots student coalition dedicated to advocating for University divestment.

Naib Mian (Medill ’17), who was involved in NUDivest, says the school didn’t have a reputation as a “hotbed of activism” until then. But the movement brought together groups from all over NU, including Students for Justice in Palestine, NU’s Black student alliance For Members Only and students organizing for University divestment from fossil fuels.

“You had a sense that people from all across campus, from all across

these different struggles, had a shared understanding of the ways in which these struggles were connected,” Mian says.

After the resolution passed, a small group of NUDivest members began negotiations with NU administrators, demanding the establishment of an advisory committee to look into how much the University was investing in the companies named in the resolution.

Looking back, Mian says he isn’t sure what became of those efforts.

According to current and former student activists, organizing on campus is precarious by nature.

Every time a class graduates, student activists risk losing their relationships, communications and momentum.

From what Mian can recall, after the ASG passed the resolution, communications with University administration fizzled as negotiators left campus. The University benefits from this constant student turnover, he says.

“New people come in — ‘They don’t know shit, and we’re gonna trample over them in the same way’ — and they’ll learn by the time they’re seniors,” Mian says. “And then they’re going to graduate, and the same thing’s going to happen.”

Keeping record

For SESP third-year Anusha Kumar, a member of several campus activist organizations including Fossil Free NU, The Jasmine Collective and Students Organizing for Labor Rights, student turnover continues to be a challenge.

This loss of knowledge is particularly salient for Fossil Free, according to Kumar.

After the University’s Board of Trustees rejected the organization’s 2015 proposal for NU to divest from coal companies, Fossil Free members entered negotiations with the University for more transparency from the Board.

Those conversations resulted in the creation of the Advisory Committee on Investment Responsibility (ACIR), allowing students to provide investment recommendations to the Board.

But in 2019, when Fossil Free presented another proposal for NU to divest from the top 100 fossil fuel companies, the Board rejected it the following year. These defeats exhausted students, Kumar says, leading them to by the time they’re seniors, leave the organization sooner. She says these departures created a barrier and then they’re going to graduate, to obtaining documentation from this period of advocacy.

“They’ll learn

and the same thing’s

going to happen.”

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“They were probably here for like one or two years, got burnt out, got their divestment proposals rejected over and over again, maybe sat on ACIR and felt like this was a waste of their time, and then they leave,” Kumar says. “Then you’re losing that history without it being documented or shared with anybody.”

Today, Kumar says the organizations she’s a part of have made a habit of keeping a record of their communications with University administration.

In September, when the University announced alumni would lose access to their NU Google Drives, Kumar says Fossil Free moved away from using NU emails to store and share the organizations’ past records.

“We’re starting to realize that it’s really important to have archives,” Kumar says.

Selective memory Evanston-born Sumun Pendakur (Weinberg ’98) says she remembers always being one of fewer than 35 South Asians — out of over 2,800 students — at Evanston Township High School.

Her time at NU, where she says more than 20% of the student body was Asian, felt like “Mecca.”

“It was very exciting,” Pendakur says.

“I threw myself into everything.”

Pendakur took classes in Middle East, West Asian and South Asian history and joined South Asian affinity and advocacy groups. In the spring quarter of her first year, she joined the Asian American Advisory Board, an organization which advocated for the development of an Asian American Studies program at NU.

PHOTOS COURTESY OF NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY ARCHIVES

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The group had “a lot of fun,” Pendakur says, recounting how she’d bonded with members through film screenings and trips to Devon for Indian food. But she also witnessed the organization’s extensive planning process as members organized year-round educational and social programming.

The preparations led to AAAB’s 1995 hunger strike, a 23-day long demonstration Pendakur participated spring her first year.

“What an introduction to — even if I didn’t have the language at the time — student mobilizing, student power, taking a stand for something you really believe in,” Pendakur says.

But the struggle did not end there.

The University offered AAAB funding for four courses for the next two academic years. According to 14 East, the group initially rejected the proposal and continued to demonstrate, but when former University President Henry Bienen said he would commit to nothing beyond the four-class proposal, AAAB ended the strike and accepted the offer.

It was not until 1999 that the Asian American Studies Program was established as a Weinberg minor. In 2016, Weinberg accepted a proposal to create an Asian American Studies major. These results came after decades of student advocacy, which continues today as students push for program departmentalization.

Pendakur says people often encapsulate movements into “flashpoint” moments like the hunger strike that don’t capture the full breadth of organizing work.

Kumar, who participated in the proPalestinian encampment on Deering Meadow in April, says she worries that the five-day demonstration for University divestment from Israel will be remembered the same way.

If the encampment goes down in history as the whole of the movement, it would obscure the organizing that preceded it and ongoing efforts from activist groups, she says.

“Those demands still haven’t been met, and we’re still continuing to find ways to add pressure on the University,” Kumar says. “Students have been organizing for divestment from Israel for so long before the encampment.”

Maintaining hope Today, organizing at NU looks different from 10 years ago, former student activists say.

Dalia Fuleihan (Weinberg ’15), another NUDivest participant, says more students seem informed about the realities of Israel’s occupation of Palestine now than when she was a student.

“The dominant narrative that people knew was, ‘There’s two sides, they’re in conflict — they can’t get along,’” she says. “But the details about what actually was happening on the ground, or the history behind it, or the ways in which the United States was implicated in that were really not known.”

But student organizers are operating under a more punitive environment today, Fuleihan and Pendakur note.

Since the encampment, NU has adjusted its demonstration policy to heavily limit displays and ban overnight protest. Students who violate these regulations face disciplinary consequences from the University.

If these demonstration restrictions had existed in her time, Pendakur does not believe student Pendakur

does not believe student life at NU for Black and Asian American students would exist as it does today.

Still, Pendakur urges activists to exercise flexibility and steadfastness in the face of setbacks.

She says participants initially felt a sense of “deflation” after the hunger strike.

“We did not walk away with the promise of a program,” Pendakur says.

“Once you go to the level of a hunger strike, there’s not a lot more you can do in terms of grand demonstrations.”

But students persisted, she says, demonstrating demand for the program by overfilling all available Asian American studies classes.

Though it can be easy to lose faith when a demonstration or campaign doesn’t achieve its goals, the movement doesn’t have to end there, she adds.

“Do you have a backup plan to keep pushing, even if you get what they think is their best and final offer?” Pendakur asks.

“And how do you regroup afterwards to continue to build momentum?”

For Kumar, that long-term plan involves being intentional in equipping younger members with the skills, knowledge and relationships required to lead the organization in the future.

Though the activist groups she is a part of often face challenges, Kumar finds hope in the fact that they’re still active, garnering interest from students year after year.

“No matter what, there will still always be people who care about the issue that you’re looking towards solving, and there will always be at least somebody out there who’s like, ‘I want to be a part of something like this,’” she says.

And for many alumni, activism doesn’t stop after graduation. Those with a background in organizing bring those experiences with them as they join new institutions or companies, Fuleihan says.

Fuleihan, an immigration and refugee lawyer, provides representation to displaced people. Pendakur, now a diversity, equity and inclusion speaker and strategist, has worked with hundreds of institutions to build capacity for racial equity and social justice. Mian, a writer, editor and journalist, has been involved in labor organizing through the New Yorker Union and, currently, Writers Against the War on Gaza.

“Not everybody carries that forward with them, but the hope is that they do,” Fuleihan says. “And then you can kind of build spaces wherever you are.”

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2:48

It takes a village

Your parents need support, too.

STORY BY MARISSA FERNANDEZ DESIGN BY JESSICA CHEN

I

t took me almost a week of planning to decide which classes I wanted to take this quarter. Even after I thought I was done, I still changed my mind at the last minute. I’m just that wishy-washy.

My parents have had to deal with my indecisiveness for years now. After much trial and error, they’ve learned to sit patiently while I figure out what color pen to use or what sweatshirt to buy.

Throughout my childhood, my parents could have used a support system for parents of indecisive children.

This led me to wonder — what other support groups could Asian parents benefit from? Below are some that may pique your parents’ interest.

For Fitness-Obsessed Parents Want to avoid seeing red the next time you catch your child playing a video game? Curious about the joys of rest and relaxation? Join a support group for fitness-obsessed parents near you! It’s great for parents who think their children spend all their time lounging on the couch or in bed. Could also be beneficial if you wish your child would start each day by going on a walk, lifting at the gym or both!

For Overly Competitive Parents Does every conversation you have with other parents involve you bringing up your child’s SAT scores? Or, did you made an Excel sheet to compare your child’s college acceptances to their peers? If any of these describe you, it’s time to try a support group for overly competitive parents! You’ll learn new talking points so you can speak to fellow parents without mentioning your child got into Northwestern. And if that doesn’t help solve your competitive urge, try some new activities, like pickleball or chess, where you can show off your own talents instead of your child’s.

For Academic Warrior Parents Does your eye twitch when your child asks for a break from studying? Have you ever told your child to ghost their friends so that they can prioritize their education more? If you answered “yes” to either of these questions, a support group for academic warrior parents is for you! Here, you’ll practice reciting affirmations like “my child isn’t a failure” and “B’s and C’s get degrees” without wincing. In our second unit, you’ll work through accepting some hard truths: medical school isn’t the only option.

For Helicopter Parents Do you check your child’s location as frequently as the weather? Does your blood pressure rise whenever you see them anywhere but their dorm after 8 p.m.? Come to a support group meeting for overprotective parents! Learn about other apps you can obsessively check, like the Stocks app or X, formerly known as Twitter. Or, for the truly brave, discover the peace that comes with not knowing where your child is by setting screen time limits on Find My Friends and Life360.

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Updates

Communities

Calls

Settings

between sea and sky eulogizing life before racialization.

STORY BY EMILY JIANG DESIGN BY SKYLARK ZHANG PHOTOS BY CASEY HE before i was “asian,” before the kaleidoscope stopped spinning and each fragment fell to the bottom, i was just me, and before me — the warm caress of being nothing, of being a body, curiously inhabiting a place full of beauty firmly believing in a glorious reception by the world, the wind whispering alongside the backs of my wings flying into the wide-open world, no trees, no fences, just the blue of the sky, and the white of the clouds. before i was asian i was a chick staring out from the nest at the sky before me. unfettered by glass or bamboo ceilings, i could keep flying until the whole world split itself open before me. and i flew, i flew and i know i will never be not-asian again. though my wings are strong, my feathers silent — before my eyes opened, the darkness once filled the nascent world with wonder (though i’m warm under the daylight sun). i didn’t know the thing anchoring me to the earth, i didn’t know i was losing the clarity that made me the white of the clouds. being asian is staring down at my feet in a lake, able to catch reflections of birds flying past but knowing, with certainty, that i am looking at water, not sky.

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Out of nowhere Love always comes when you least expect it.

Love is not something we force but something we stumble upon.

Across the years and seasons, we may feel alone, but people continue to show up. They gift us the little things.

STORY BY JULIANA HUNG DESIGN BY JENNY GUO & JULIANA HUNG

Nap Time | Grandma’s Living Room | Fall 2021

Care Package | Goodrich Dorm | Spring 2023

As the academic air weathers my skin, I long for the warmth of my grandma. High school drags me down in college applications, but she pulls me back up. I shut the screen and shut my eyes because, in her eyes, I am just a grandkid. It’s okay to float back to that middle school haze of uniform afternoons.

Starfished across the couch, drool paints my face. I toss and turn as day turns into evening, waking up to her closet jackets covering me. But the living room is empty. From the kitchen, I hear her Chinese cleaver drumming on wood, a rhythm that rocks me to sleep.

COVID-19 locks me into my single room. As I cough out emails to professors, my shortness of breath makes it difficult to catch up on work. If only I still lived with my roommate in that first-year double. Back then, evening stretched on as we stared at the ceiling. Our half-formed thoughts could only be deciphered by us. But now, my single will do. My blue mask shields me from hearing my roommate knock at my door. She holds a care package of citrus sweets and chakli. Later, as I’m snacking, I still feel our air hug from six feet apart.

Envelope of Winter 2022

Tea | Sarge Dining Hall |

I miss home-cooked meals. Like me, dining halls are at their breaking point, as plastic dishes dwindle down to paper plates. While I slipper my way down to the drink station, I call my older brother, complaining about endless assignments and exams — unaware of how whatever I tell him will circle back to his girlfriend. His girlfriend checks on me through a text. I explain how the dining hall is out of tea, and without caffeine, sleep deprivation is getting the best of me. A week later, I open my mailbox to find her waiting for me. In the arms of her cursive letter, there are four bags of jasmine tea.

How sweet.

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Translation | Host Family’s Dining Room | Summer 2024 A mosquito net protects me from this language barrier.

My host siblings and I are spending the weekend in their hometown in Vietnam. One hundred years old, their greatgrandma waves at us from her plastic throne. Three hundred years old, her house still stands tall. Granduncles slice meat and grandaunts scoop soup, but I’m distracted by how the rain tap dances against the roof. Rice steams towards my face until I’m face to face with the great-grandma. Her wrinkled hand grips my arm firmly, tugging me back to my grandma, who holds my hand as I cross any San Francisco street.

Someone is translating for me, but I’m half-listening, still staring at where she held me.

WEARING MY HERITAGE

Culture embedded in fashion.

3

JA DE BR AC ELET

STORY BY JAIMIE CHUN DESIGN BY JULIAN TANG PHOTOS BY JOYCE HUANG & LIANNA AMORUSO 1

V I ET NAMESE J EW E L RY

A

sian American families have brought Asian traditional wear to the U.S. for decades and centuries. But Northwestern students have recently noticed some shifts in everyday attire in Evanston and beyond.

Weinberg first-year Jacqueline Le says she often wears jewelry representing her Vietnamese heritage and culture, such as her red corded necklace with jade and a Buddha pendant.

“I have a lot of my jewelry that’s bracelets or like ropes,” Le says. “It’s a specific color that ties back to hues of red and emerald and things that signify prosperity, a good thing — at least for me in Viet culture.”

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KURTAS & KAJAL

McCormick second-year Sunny Batra says she’s begun seeing Indian culture becoming more fashionable.

“I started wearing kurtas with bottoms to work as well throughout the summer, and that’s kind of where it started,” Batra says. “I just love wearing them because they’re just so beautiful and intricate. In general, I’ve seen more elements of Indian culture become more mainstream.”

Kajal, Batra says, has also been coming back after falling out of fashion with the more subtle makeup that’s been trending. Kajal is traditionally made from the residue of heated oil and is most often used on the waterline.

Wearing kajal under your eyelids is prevalent in Indian makeup,” she says.

“It’s really similar to wearing eyeliner on your inner eyelid, and I’ve seen a lot of girls who are Indian using kajal more and more recently.”

For McCormick third-year Diane Kao, her jade bracelet is a connection to her grandmother and Taiwan, where she and the rest of her extended family lives.

“I’ve always felt very isolated from the rest of my extended family because of the fact that we live half a world away and we don’t even speak the same language, really,” Kao says. “It’s nice to at least feel that I’m connected to that culture.”

Historically, jade bracelets were a symbol of luxury, Kao explains, since it meant noble individuals didn’t have to worry too much about breaking or damaging it. Last summer, Kao fractured her bracelet moving, and after she moved into her new apartment a couple of months ago, she ended up breaking it entirely.

Kao says that typically, when a jade bracelet breaks, it means it’s protecting you from something. While she says she doesn’t really believe that, she tries to because it turns something unfortunate into a good thing.

Through her second year, Kao didn’t wear the bracelet, but she finally put it back on at the end of last school year.

“It holds more value if you actually use the things in your life, rather than just hiding them away,” Kao says. “Because at least then you can attach new memories and new feelings to that sentimental object rather than just trying to preserve that fragment of the past.”

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STORY BY ELLIE CARNEY DESIGN BY MARIANA MA

Coming of age in an afternoon.

T

ealicious on a Sunday afternoon is a symphony of chimes, from the bell over the door and chattering from students and families coming in and out.

There’s a little girl — probably around 4 years old — dressed in a red coat and a pink dress. Zoe, I hear her brother call her. He’s probably around 7. Their mother brings over a bubble waffle bigger than Zoe’s whole face. Her eyes widen in anticipation. She has a sweet tooth, just like I did when I was a kid.

Fifteen minutes later, a second family joins Zoe’s. Two parents and a daughter who looks to be around seven or eight.

Zoe immediately hugs the older girl, clinging to her arm. She starts singing her name — “Av-er-y, av-er-y, Av-er-y.” But she can’t say her r’s, so it sounds like “Av-er-wee, Av-er-wee, Aver-wee.” I keep waiting for Avery to get annoyed or for one of the adults to tell her to quiet down. No one does, and Zoe keeps singing.

A mother and her teenage son walk into the store. He’s dressed in a black graphic tee with gray baggy jeans. He refuses to stand next to his mother, lingering behind her while she orders. He sits down at a table as she waits at the counter for their drinks. She tries to show him something on her phone.

He barely glances at it, putting his AirPods in for a FaceTime call — trapping his mother in silence as they leave the store.

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Meanwhile, Zoe targets her brother now. She grabs onto his arm and swings him around with all the strength she can muster in her tiny body. And he lets her. Stumbling around the store, he starts laughing and then chases her around while making dinosaur noises. She can’t stop giggling.

A few tables down from Zoe, there are three high-schoolage girls talking about college rankings. “UCLA is tied with Dartmouth, and Berkeley went down.” “Northwestern is good.

I didn’t know that.” “Harvard, Princeton, Yale …” “My family had a tradition of applying to Princeton just so they could get a rejection letter.” “You should apply, get in and then not go there.” They laugh, but the laughter dies quickly.

Zoe is sitting at the high table again, her feet swinging underneath her. She sings “I love you, I love you, I love you” over and over in her high-pitched voice. The adults smile down at her and the older kids talk about field trips to the zoo. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she sings, softening the worries and awkward silences circling the rest of the store.

I decide to get back to work, putting my AirPods in and tuning out Zoe’s song. I glance over at her one last time, taking a sip of my brown sugar milk tea. Full sugar. My sweet tooth might be one of the few things that hasn’t changed from my childhood. But maybe Zoe has given me another taste of my memories — at least for one Sunday afternoon.

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