Overachiever Magazine: Special Feature On Asian Hate (II)

NDER & EIC U O F

Rehana Paul OUT & D E SI G N LAY

Chloe Sun & Francine Cayanan CONTRIBUTORS Zoe Kim / Sabaitide / Maddi Chun / Shreya Rajappa / Abigail Aguisanda / Marielle Valmores / Malvika Shrimali / Michelle Lee / Chloe Sun / Jessie Min / A. Mana Nava / Melani Carrié / Divya Chhotani / Jasmine Francoeur / Riana Torrejon / Julia Chang Wang / Jillian Montilla / Winnie Hung / Tiffany Zhu / Glory Gage / Nell Valle / Tessa Hilford / Anjeli R. Macaranas / Jasmine Z Chin / Nikiya Crisostomo

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04 “thoughts.” by Zoe Kim 06 A Different Kind of Sad by

28 When the news about attacks

08 An Hour After the News by

30 The Same Night Sky by Riana

Sabaitide

Maddi Chun Why I Don’t Care If It Was a “Bad Day” by Shreya Rajappa

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13 Yelling Rose” by Abigail

Aguisanda “Elaine of Shalott” by Marielle Valmores “IF THIS IS WHAT THEY CALL LIVING THEN I DON’T WANT IT” by Malvika Shrimali What Did You Do Today? by Michelle Lee

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18 “Eater” by Chloe Sun 20 Collective Grief and Self-

Forgiveness as a Movement by Jessie Min The Asian Sex Worker Stereotype and the MilitaryIndustrial Complex by A. Mana Nava

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24 The Strength of Caring by

Melani Carrié “i’m tired” by Divya Chhotani

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on Asian women is more than a journalism project by Jasmine Francoeur

Torrejon Becoming Asian American: A Reflection by Julia Chang Wang “I’m Not Your Miss Saigon” by Jillian Montilla

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36 “Poem for My Ancestors” by

Winnie Hung How relearning Mandarin helped me challenge my internalized white supremacy. by Tiffany Zhu “The Oppressed” by Glory Gage Poetry by Nell Valle “Take Out Asian Hate” by Tessa Hilford The Meaning of Asian American by Anjeli R. Macaranas

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46 谈 • 恋爱 Speaking of Love by Jasmine Z Chin “Papa & Mama” by Nikiya Crisostom

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“thoughts.”

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” by Zoe Kim

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A Different Kind of Sad

By Sabaitide

Sabaitide is an emerging Asian American artist from Santa Barbara, CA. She is working on her portfolio, finding her voice, and she has a vegan food blog called @partyinmyrice. Follow her on Instagram for glimpses into her extraordinarily ordinary daily life.

Social profiles: Instagram: @sabaitide @partyinmyrice Website: https://www.sabaitide.com There’s a lot I could mention on the topic of Asian Hate, but to begin, I would like to extend my sincere condolences to the victims and families of the shooting spree that happened recently in Atlanta, Georgia. The sad thing is that was not the only mass shooting that happened within the month, but what stood out about Georgia was that the victims were immediately identified by being Asian.

Why did this happen? There’s more to this and race is not the only issue, but race is the first thing we usually see.

The headlines of this tragedy in large part identified the victims by their race, but when looking further, the excuses and explanations given were on the basis of sex and addiction. The suspect, Robert Aaron Long, had a deeply troubling and disturbing sex addiction, but that is not a rational excuse for going on a shooting rampage that claimed the lives of eight victims. What was also infuriating was that this was downplayed by having “a really bad day.”

“Please let the victims rest in peace and let this aftermath teach us all something new to be aware of. ”

When browsing the headlines for this recent tragedy, the first glances I saw were along the lines of “6 Asian Women Dead,” “Shooting at Asian Massage Parlors,” and “Asian Hate Crimes Rising.” My first impression from media headlines would be maybe this has to do with race, but my initial feeling to this was sorrow because those victims had names and families and unique immigration stories and the rest of their lives ahead of them.

My second natural feeling was shock.

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It appears that excuse is invalid. It also appears messed up to me that the suspect’s reasoning for carrying out his shooting spree was to eliminate his temptation because he has a sex addiction and can assure that this was not racially motivated. So he’s definitely not racist and he just has a sex addiction? When he downplayed race to highlight sex, he also forgot to

mention the third issue here which is violence. Long specifically targeted Asian massage parlors because of his sex addiction and murdered eight victims who were mostly Asian women, and this is a tragic example of racial and gendered violence that did not have to happen.

If Long was having a bad day then, well now he has to live with the consequences and guilt of what he did.

This shooting amplified the demand to Stop Asian Hate. Elderly people should not have to fear being mugged in broad daylight and women should not be the victims of sexual frustration and murder. Stop Asian Hate is not just a hashtag or an awareness day on social media. This really is a plea to stop racially motivated violence and misconceptions that could lead to further harm.

Although sexual predators like Long would argue that they love Asian women and definitely aren’t racist, that messed up fetish feeds into Asian Hate because that sexual misconception is dangerous to any Asian woman who can step into a room where she is not aware that’s what the men are really thinking of her.

So because the suspect is definitely not racist, this also brought up sex and violence against women. Social media highlights more of the activism side of this issue while the news media describes more detail of how troubled the suspect really was. He was too stuck in this mindset of having a sex addiction and feeling bad all the time that he failed to see himself as a sexual predator who was weak to his own urges.

Another underlying problem here is that there are predators like him who perpetuate that harmful assumption

“ Stop Asian Hate is not just a hashtag or an awareness day on social media. This really is a plea to stop racially motivated violence and misconceptions that could lead to further harm.” of sexualizing Asian women because of their stereotyped misconceptions about race and unreal ideas about sex or women. I’d like to say that we don’t know for sure if they were sex workers and cannot assume that just because the victims were Asian women who worked at massage parlors—but Long was a regular and this entire situation is so messed up!

Do not even try to shame the victims.

Those women were just murdered and you must have serious issues if you’re still thinking about sex. He had a sex addiction? That was definitely not racially motivated or racist at all? Seriously? This makes me feel a different kind of sad. The online mediasphere is broadcasting Stop Asian Hate because it’s usually about your race when you’re a minority, but becoming the targets of violence is not the kind of representation any community wants. Please let the victims rest in peace and let this aftermath teach us all something new to be aware of.

OM.

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An Hour After the News

By Maddi Chun Maddi Chun (she/her) is a mixed Korean-American college student from Medford, Oregon. She is currently studying journalism at Emerson College. When not busy, Maddi enjoys wearing Birkenstocks in inappropriate weather, consuming boba, and asking her friends to get her a ginger ale. She is very excited to get to work with and uplift fellow Asian women.

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ur hearts go out to those affected by the violence against the Asian American and Pacific Islander Community. By demonstrating anti-racism, we can protect each other from hateful attitudes and actions that go against our values, and make Tinder a safe space for all. We take intolerance seriously. If you experience racism, we want to know about it.”

and games, as we have no plans of stopping our work anytime soon.

The reality of our fight became too clear when I got a Boston Globe notification

“When police and other officials refuse to report to journalists the race, gender, and business names in a crime, they put people at risk. “

This is what I saw today when I opened up my Tinder account for the first time in weeks. With a title of “Stop Asian Hate.” I sent it to my friends at Overachiever Magazine. We shared a laugh about how Tinder had just single-handedly solved racism and hate crimes towards Asians. Our job in the fight was done!

Obviously this was all fun

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on my phone while watching The Bachelor: After the Final Rose ceremony with my dear friend. The notification read, “Seven killed in Atlanta-area shooting.” I

clicked on it because seven is a large number (the number that has now been reported as 8). I didn’t know this one click would spin my night into shambles.

Eight people were shot and murdered at three seperate massage parlors. Gold Spa and ST Jame Asian Spa are across the street from each other in Atlanta, while Young’s Asian Massage is in Acworth, a northern suburb of Atlanta. What do all of these massage parlors have in common?

They are Asian spas.

The second comment that popped up with a google search of Gold Spa read, “Good atmosphere with Korean girls giving proper massage,” by a white man named Michael Allen. Now I cannot help but imagine that every girl working there is not Korean. How-

ever, it is easy to see that many Asian women work at Gold Spa. ST Jame Asian Spa and Young’s Asian Massage are obviously Asian massage parlors. So for police and the media to be ignoring the obvious links in the businesses is a crime. A crime especially against Asian people as it is further putting us at harm.

When police and other officials refuse to report to journalists the race, gender, and business names in a crime, they put people at risk. A current suspect in custody (a white man named Robert Aaron Long) was on the loose for hours after the shootings, and he had hours to commit further murders and crimes.

In the press, mentions of this being a hate crime or domestic terrorism are not being discussed. While they are speculating connection between the shootings, it is once again “too soon to make that call.” Why is it always “too soon to make that call”? The reality is that most people never click to read an article, they read the title and that is it. Even myself, I only clicked on the article because seven people is a big number.

The Boston Globe article didn’t mention Asian women until the end of the first

sentence. Not the title. The first sentence.

An NBC NEWS article did not mention anything about the women being Asian until the last three sentences of the whole article. Not the first three, the last.

A CNN article originally did not mention the victims being Asian until the very last sentence. THE LAST SENTENCE! These are all articles from some of the most prominent news organizations in the nation. Media organizations must include race and gender in article titles. But, this cannot be done unless police officers and officials release that information. While the articles are continuing to be updated, race should be at the forefront of murders from the beginning.

I am outraged. You should be outraged. Everyone should be outraged. -----------------------------------This was my initial response to the news. It is 10 days later, I still don’t know how to feel. And I feel different everyday, about what happened.

OM.

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Why I Don’t Care If It Was a “Bad Day”

By Shreya Rajappa @shreyarajappa A high school student living in sunny California, Shreya Rajappa enjoys writing creative non-fiction and impassioned Op-Ed articles. She credits her intersectional identity as a bisexual, feminist young woman with Indian and Sri Lankan parents for her desire to become involved in journalism to represent others who share aspects of her identity and to bring awareness to social issues involving marginalized communities. In her free time, she watches movies, takes pictures, tie-dyes clothes, and plays basketball.

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t’s been 14 days. 14 days since shots rang out in those spas in Atlanta and Acworth, Georgia, ricocheting off walls and bodies. 14 days since the upward trend in anti-Asian hate crime occurrences reached a new, horror-inducing peak. 14 days since 8 people, 6 of them Asian women employed at the spas, lost their lives and the lives of their loved ones were forever changed, left behind with a gaping void, a loss. It’s a loss for the world at large as well, but this loss wrenches at the heartstrings in a slightly different way for the Asian community, for Asian women in particular. This makes us feel like the target that’s been on the backs of East Asians, at least ever since our former president made racist remarks about China and COVID-19, has now ex-

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panded, becoming easier

The facts tell us that for people to aim at them. the shooter blamed his “sex Many Asians are now re- addiction” for his irreprealizing that the victims of hensible actions and then these shootings and previ- proceeded to murder six ous hate crimes could have Asian women, playing into easily been their grandpar- the racist fetishization of ents, parents, siblings, and Asian women. Asian womfriends. It could’ve easily en have been fetishized in been themselves.

America for as long as his Now, if you aren’t tory can remember, this Asian yourself, imagine how fetishization being coined it feels to be Asian and hear “yellow fever.” There’s the that the shooter claimed Page Law of 1875 that tarhis murders weren’t racial- geted Asian women, blockly motivated, that he killed ing them from entering the these people because of USA because of the racist his “sex addiction,” want- belief that all Asian women ing to eliminate sources were prostitutes. There’s of “temptation” for himself. the Lotus Blossom (also Imagine how it feels to hear known as China Doll or that an officer on the case Geisha Girl) stereotype, insaid that the shooter had tending to paint Asian womsimply been “having a bad en as submissive, obedient, day.” Imagine how it feels hypersexualized objects to be dismissed in this that exist solely for white way, especially when these men’s pleasure. In 2019, shootings were racially mo- “Japanese” was one of the tivated hate crimes. two most searched terms

on PornHub. None of this is a compliment because fetishization is not attraction or even “having preferences.” Rather, fetishization is the sexualization of what’s not inherently sexual, a way to degrade something or someone and make it so that something or someone is viewed as only having a sexual purpose. Thus, the fetishization of Asian women rips their humanity from these women’s bodies, degrading them into sex objects and nothing more. By claiming that his murders were the result of needing to get rid of his “sexual temptations,” the shooter didn’t hold back on presenting his racism and hatred for the world to see. Rather, he fetishized and degraded those Asian women to the point where he could no longer allow them to live.

The facts also tell us that the shooter targeted Asian-owned spas, further pointing to anti-Asian racism as a critical factor in these shootings. One of the spas was called “Young’s Asian Massage Parlor,” eliminating any doubt about whether the shooter was aware that his targeted locations were Asian-owned businesses.

Additionally, he likely knew that the other two spas he attacked (Gold Spa and Aromatherapy Spa) were

also Asian-owned or at least had many Asian employees since he was a past customer. A racial motivation should ring even more warning bells considering he only shot and killed Asian women at Gold Spa and Aromatherapy Spa.

I’m angry.

I’m angry that law enforcement still didn’t believe this was a hate crime even after 6 Asian women were killed, the shooter associated sexual “temptation” with Asian women (by fetishizing them), and the shooter targeted Asianowned spas. I’m angry that Captain Jay Baker, the officer on the case, dared to call this a “bad day” for the shooter like it wasn’t a worse day for the victims and their loved ones. It’s almost as if he was saying that having a “bad day” was a defense or an acceptable explanation for murder. It makes me feel like Asian women are dehumanized, becoming the targets at a gun range, a way for white men to let off some steam on their “bad days.” I’m angry that there’s enough corruption in law enforcement that this hate crime was protected, that no one set the record straight about the evidence of Asian fetishization and anti-Asian racism present in this shooting.

I’m angry that I

was surprised when I saw people on Instagram post about anti-Asian racism and about these shootings.

It felt a little odd seeing awareness spread about this rise in anti-Asian sentiments and violence. I felt angry that this meant that the Asian community (or at least I myself) got used to not being heard when it comes to racism against us. We got used to being pushed to the shadows.

Of course, I’m glad that the “Stop Asian Hate” movement is gaining support on social media. It’s about time.

However, it makes me sad to know that it took 8 people dying for people to start paying attention, especially when we consider that it’s been right in front of our eyes all along. There were 3,800 reported anti-Asian racist encounters in 2020. Anti-Asian racism didn’t start with the Georgia spa shootings. It didn’t even start with Trump or the pandemic. It started when Chinese people first immigrated to the USA back in the 1850s after the Opium Wars, waged by European colonial powers, displaced and disrupted China. For example, in response to this influx of immigrants from China, 20 Chinese Americans in Los Angeles were murdered in 1871.

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Unfortunately, it’s not surprising that it took this long for anti-Asian racism to finally be acknowledged, let alone condemned. This is what concepts like the model minority myth can do: make people believe that Asian Americans can’t possibly experience racism. However, we are not your model minority. We are forced to push against a bamboo ceiling since in 2005, 30-31% of Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders, the most of any ethnic or racial group, reported employment discrimination. In 2006, 40% of Hmong, 38% of Laotian, and 35% of Cambodian people in America dropped out of high school before graduating and earning a diploma. As of 2008, 12.6% of Asian Americans lived below poverty lines. Then, in 2014, 26.6% of Asian Americans lived in poverty in New York City, which increased from the year before and was an increase from 2008. More recently, in 2017, Asian Americans had the highest poverty rate in New York City with Asian American elders, refugees, and recent immigrants being the most financially vulnerable. By highlighting only success stories, the model minority myth steals focus from where it should be: figuring out ways to support disad-

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vantaged members of the Asian American community, those who are included in these statistics.

These statistics aren’t just numbers. They’re people, real, flesh-and-bone, breathing people. They deserve to be seen.

To all non-Asian allies: keep listening, keep caring. Don’t dismiss our experiences. Hold others accountable for racist remarks and actions. Hold yourself accountable for speaking out against anti-Asian racism and for uplifting Asian voices. To all Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders: stay angry, stay strong, and stay awake. Don’t let people stop talking about anti-Asian racism. Speak up so loudly that the March 16th shootings never happen again. Don’t let any of us be pushed into the shadows again.

OM.

“Yelling Rose” by Abigail Aguisanda Instagram: @abigailuna_ Medium: Mixed media

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Poetry Roundup

“Elaine of Shalott” by Marielle Valmores Beyond sunset-yellow daffodils surrounding a blanket of barley and rye Atop a tower strangled by moss where a robin redbreast swings by Eyes of mine drift over the glistening streamlet nearly veiled by trees Its babbling song carries my name along Camelot By the velveteen bedstead, I could hear the chatters of merchants and serfs Traces of mauve banner and satin ribbons reflect on my ornate mirror Voice of mine hums a wistful lullaby against a maze of threads For a far-off place where there’s boundless anticipation and a sea of freedom Knight donning an armor silver as a spider web visits my chamber He carries strings of escapades that I quilted into a grand mosaic Heart of mine overflows, wondering about the mighty beasts and eerie hills While ignoring his sculptured face and rehearsed remark of my image As the sun slumbers and crystals began to dot the skies Crescent moon’s gleam guides me down the braided staircase Passing by a patchwork of maidens’ portraits waving away as I step out Feet of mine brush against the mead, slipping into an oak boat toward the unknown.

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1 this cannot be living waiting for the stop sign to turn green i forgot who got here first picking my lips so much i see red for the first time in years.

it’s on my hands. my blood is on my hands. if i get pulled over, how to be docile. how to be complacent. if he grabs at me how to not slap him across his face. seatbelt. indicator. 45 miles per hour. music turned down. i’m no barbarian. “sir, can i put my mask on please?” “my family and i are all citizens”

“i’m so sorry i don’t know what i did please don’t hurt me” now i drive with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white because i’m scared of accidentally spiraling and then my blood will be on my hands. george floyd, breonna taylor, elijah mcclain, me, god, now i cover my tattoos and look for corners to hide it’s the hunger games with AR-15s i cower for my life while they fight for my blood on their hands. oh, head down. oh, heavy days. my lips are a wreck and i am a wreck and soon my car will be wrecked.

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What Did You Do Today?

By Michelle Lee

Michelle Lee moved to Canada when she was two with her family. She has traveled around the world with my family the summer before grade nine. She is currently in grade 11, and is passionate about writing, reading, and the sciences!

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didn’t go on a run on the weekend.

I saw Sangchun’s gofundme for his mother’s death. It filled me with sorrow and grief. I read about Xiaojie Tan—about how she was killed on the day before her birthday. She was about to call her parents and her grandmother was asking where she was.

The people around her didn’t have the heart to tell her that her granddaughter was killed. I watched the news with my family—first the Canadian, then the Korean. Western media outlets are pushing this idea that the scum who committed this act of violence and hate had a sex addiction and he was having a “bad day.” Korean media says the man said “he wanted to kill all Asians”. I am not saying they are wrong. They are holding different parts of the same puzzle. Fetishization is violence. I woke up on the weekend and I had been planning on going on a run around Queen’s Park, but I stopped and checked

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my phone and scrolled past my news feed, overrun by an outpouring of coverage of the Georgia hate crimes, looking for recent news of Asian hate crimes in Toronto. The fact that I was doing this made me angry and I put down my phone and went back to bed.

I didn’t go on a run that day.

I saw pictures of the victims from the Georgia shooting on social media and I shut down. It’s even more disheartening when my friends don’t post anything about it— they like our culture and our music and whatever we produce, as long as it pleases them for a moment —doesn’t say a word or lift a hand to help. It filled me with bitter, cold anger at first, then frustration.

People need to know that these events are not anecdotal. They are not onetime events and occurrences once in a blue moon.

These are direct manifesta-

tions of hate because we live in an imperialist and capitalist system that is colonialist. It seeks to harm us and pit us against one another. Please do not pity us. We are tired of begging for scraps. Please stand up for us and stand with us.

I’m taking a world history course at university. We just finished our lectures on the cold war, and people really like to resharpen old knives, huh? They don’t buy new ones. They keep them sharp and ready for when it’s convenient—a tool to use when things aren’t going their way.. I’m saying this because I want to know if you read the news at all? If you lap up those 280 character, bite-size tweets from news outlet accounts with thousands of followers? If you say yes then you’d be blind not to see the blatant sinophobia in the media.

In the course I am in, we just now finished our lectures on the cold war.It’s the same narratives, over

and over. The conception of the “other,” and the threat of “orientalism.” Painting East Asians, especially of Chinese descent, as this mysterious monolith that always plots against the Western powers. Have you ever paused for a moment to think critically about the information being spoonfed to you? Who holds the spoon? Who’s financing these narratives?

When the people I thought were my friends made their “little jokes,” in the moment I was mostly too stunned to react. They’re really not funny. When I said something, the people around me said, “oh, it’s just a joke.”

“Oh, he didn’t mean it like that.” “Oh, don’t be so sensitive.”

we have a lot of privilege and we are not affected by racism or we’re being killed for being Asian. What is the truth?

So yeah. Now I have new friends.

I ran out of coffee creamer this weekend. My mom called and she asked me what I was doing. I told her I was going out to grab something from the store, and she told me to be careful. She told me to go with a friend, preferably someone who was white. She told me to keep my keys between my fingers. She told me not to go out. My dad got on the phone and he said the same thing. I stayed home.

OM.

I’m not being ‘sensitive.’ I’m defending myself and people who look like me. It’s not just a joke. You’re making space for more acts of hate and supporting a narrative wrought out of stereotypes aboutAsian people. You’re enabling. You’re emboldening. I am so sick and tired of being treated like a dog. People who look like me and speak like me are being beaten in broad daylight. Asians are killed by people who are so overrun with hatred, vitriol, and ignorance. How is it that we’re “white-adjacent” so

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“Eater” by Chloe Sun Instagram: @gallery.of.sun

Medium: oil painting on canvas

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Artist’s note: As I sit now, swept up amidst a pandemic often called the “Chinese virus” or “kung flu,” once small, dismissable comments had evolved into an endless tirade of hate and disgust, calling me and my brothers and sisters dirty, uncivilized eaters.

Eaters of bats, eaters of dogs, eaters of things the prim and proper and pristine Western inhabitants of the world would never dream of touching.

It was because of the eaters that this pandemic--a miserable, devastating, thing--was here. Not the poor downplayed governmental responses, not the indignant refusal of thousands to wear a simple mask, no--it was because of the eaters.

Seeing something so incredibly wrong and damaging drove me to create this piece--something just to address that I, the apparent eater of dogs and bats and who knows what else, am not the one to blame. Asia is not dirty, it is not savage, it is not backward. The eaters are tired of being your scapegoat.

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Collective Grief and Self-Forgiveness as a Movement

By Jessie Min

Jessie Min is a graphic designer and a mother of 2 residing in SC. As much as visual art, she loves the art of written words and storytelling. As a first-generation Korean-American, Jessie hopes to preserve her cultural identity and instill pride in the next generation. She dreams of traveling the world with her family and writing travel journals.

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his past St. Patrick’s Day, my daughter came home from school, and even before removing her mask, she pinched my arm. “What’s that for?” I asked. Her grinning face answered, “You’re not wearing green!” I laughed with her and hugged her extra tight, but didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was wearing black in mourning for the 8 victims killed in Georgia the night before.

The horrific shooting in Georgia has created an intensely collective grief in the Asian American community. The fears and anxiety from the events leading up to this massacre suddenly turned into an explosion of sorrow and anger.

And shame and guilt, too, because of who 6 of the victims were—Asian wom-

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en in a low-wage, stigmatized industry. When the headline “Asian women killed in a mass shooting in massage parlors” surfaced, many of us did associate them with sex workers. In fact, a few days before this shooting, I’d joked with my husband about finding an Asian massage therapist that is “legitimate.”

The police captain took the murderer’s word that the motive was not racially motivated but instead to “eliminate temptations” to his “sex addiction.” My own bias was immensely amplified in a white man’s voice and proved to be deeply ingrained in our society. I couldn’t help but put my phone down and cry from guilt as photos and stories of these women were uncovered. These women remind us of ourselves, our mothers, and aunts.

Many Asian American women had to reflect on their own stories of fetishization and hypersexualization. We question ourselves if we’ve allowed this to continue by not speaking out, hiding in our “model minority” cloak, and staying polite. Am I a part of the problem that led to the tragic deaths of these poor women?

I was 15 when I got my first part-time job at a salad and sandwich place at the mall. I was only paid $4 per hour, but as a teenager from a poor immigrant family, I had to make my own money to buy Cover Girl makeup, Sanrio stationery, and Wet Seal clothes.

In the mall food court, all the restaurants lined up in a circle. To my right, Asian women in their 30s and 40s waved tiny pieces of teriyaki chicken all day, yelling

“sample” “try sample.”

I lived in a very diverse town, so I was one of many Asian faces there. But somehow being behind the counter, making and serving food made me vulnerable to some unwanted remarks from middle-aged men. I’d often hear: “You look so exotic! Where are you from?”

At the time, I really didn’t think much of this question and answered, “Thank you. I’m from Korea.” Maybe I even thought these remarks were compliments or merely curiosity. Comments like “Your skin color is so nice” or “I want to put you in my pocket and take you home” seemed a bit creepy but I brushed them off with a polite “thank you.”

One time, my older Latina coworker stepped in and told me to “look for something” in the back, when a male customer kept insisting I leave work early to “come home with him.”

He lingered for a while, too. Trust me, those pretty blond girls in their ridiculous Hot Dog on a Stick uniforms didn’t have it easy, either. Unlike the girls in short skirts and sleeveless tops making freshsqueezed lemonade, I stood plain-clothed behind the counter but displayed like a zoo animal at times.

these memories, I feel so much disgust. These men had the audacity to be openly pedophiliac to a 15-year-old. We have this culture where middle-aged men are allowed to sexualize young girls because they are in service jobs or because of their ethnicity.

When some say they don’t understand why this Georgia tragedy is affecting our community so much, I want to tell them that these women were all of us...all of us women, especially Asian women, queer women, and low-wage workers who have ever been objectified.

It is our time to name our experiences for what they were, grieve and process, forgive ourselves for our inaction and rise together to bring change. Our mothers taught us perseverance, our American education taught us the power of driving change, and our daughters are looking to us to help them understand what it means to be Asian American women.

We stand firmly in this position to embrace the intergenerational pain and define our story.

OM.

Today, when I think about

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The Asian Sex Worker Stereotype and the Military-Industrial Complex

By A. Mana Nava @TWITTER: @dis_Mana_ting INSTAGRAM: @books.with.mana A. Mana Nava is a freelance writer and a dog-walking-while-reading hazard. Their fiction has been nominated for the Best American Short Story anthology. The nominated piece can be found in The Hopkins Review (issue 13.4). Currently, Nava is a cohort in the Kundiman’s 2021 Asian American Feminist Workshop, a mentee with Representation Matters Organization, an editorial intern at Overachiever, and a contributor for the Drizzle Review.

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hen I was ten years old, I watched Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan enter a massage parlor in Hong Kong. The hostess opens a door painted with Asian iconography to reveal dozens of scantily clad Asian women. They squeeze their chests, waiting for the men to buy them for an hour or so. Even as a child, I picked up on the overtly sexual undertones.

titute scene that gave us the infamous quote: “Ah, me so horny. Me love you long time.” Look at Mean Girls (2004), where Tina Fey (a white woman) writes her Asian characters as promiscuous underage girls seeking sex with grown men. Look at Madame Butterfly (1904) where a Japanese woman falls in love with a soldier and kills herself when he marries a white woman.

Asian women are fetishized by the West. We are depicted as demure, perfect to control, and hypersexual.

These depictions perpetuate the same overall message: Asian women are the perfect subservient counterpart for men.

The objectification Asian women experience in the colonized West is dangerous. It’s humiliating and dehumanizing to see people that look like you reduced to a caricature for someone else’s entertainment.

This is a never-ending trend in Hollywood. American movies love to depict Asian women as hypersexual and obedient when they need to blend into the background. Look at Full Metal Jacket (1987) and the pros-

Celine Parreñas Shimizu (Director of the School of Cinema at San Francisco State University) believes this depiction is linked to the military-industrial complex. Shimizu speaks about how European co-

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lonial powers perpetuate the obedient hypersexual Asian woman narrative through plays and film.

How did this dangerous portrayal even start?

Even Shimizu admits that’s hard to pinpoint. There are primary sources from military personnel during the Opium Wars (1839-1842, 1856-1860), writing about the prostitutes they slept with. Prior to the war, there was documentation from traders describing the same experiences.

Regardless of the reason for their visit, when tourists become the authority of another culture, so much is lost in translation. Their limited understanding, interaction, and exposure to the culture should no longer be regarded as the only truth.

Let’s talk about class and wartime dynamics. People

survive in these environments in three ways: joining the violence, providing a service, or hiding. When history is written by the violent, of course, there will only be records of provided services (like sex work) or killing native populations on their homeland. The military’s perspective is often the only documented experience in the West.

The West has been at war with Asia for hundreds of years. Ferdinand Magellan’s failed conquest of the Philippines (1521), Anglo-Indian Wars (1686-1920), Opium Wars (1839-1842), Sino-French War (1884– 1885), Philippine-America War (1899-1913), Korean War (1950-1953), Pacific War (1941-1945), Vietnam War (1955-1975), Persian Gulf Crisis (2019-Present), and so many more.

Only recent discourse acknowledges sexual violence as a weapon of war.

Sexual violence encouraged by militaristic forces is a tool of ethnic cleansing.

It becomes a point of tension on an interpersonal level and disrupts cultural customs and can have severe governmental repercussions.

Militaristic colonizers often go onto document their wartime experiences.

Take a look at the film The World of Suzie Wong (1960), where the lead is a Chinese prostitute pretending to be a woman from high society. This is based on a novel (1957) by a British soldier who interrogated Asian captives during World War II. Then there is the play Good Woman of Szechuan (1880) contains plots about Asian women who are sex workers who develop a relationship with a soldier. This play is written by a German man who briefly worked at a military venereal disease clinic. In these fictional depictions, the Asian characters often kill themselves after giving birth and being abandoned.

Then, when the virtuous soldier returns to Asia as a tourist, he adopts his bastard child because he abides by the knight’s code.

In real life, this rarely happens. Women often struggled to raise their children, sometimes faced government persecution because of the living reminder of the war. In real life, these women married the soldier and encouraged their children to be more like their father’s family. In real life, women were encouraged to marry the colonizer because it made life easier.

I wish there were more academic journals and doc-

uments to prove my claims, but the truth is our side of the narrative is only just being legitimized in academia.

My life consists of accumulating scraps of anecdotal family histories from my diasporic communities. I’m infamous for interrogating my Filipino family about the part we played during America’s occupation during World War II at the dinner table. With my friends, we exchange stories about the war because there was always a war. That’s why we live in a country with the largest military budget in the world. The topics of sex, rape, marriage, illegitimate children, and why we never learned this history in school always come up.

We can no longer be in survival mode. As hate crimes against all marginalized communities skyrockets, we need to speak out. We should call out damaging stereotypes that reduce murders into a punchline.

White supremacy has a history of dehumanizing men as uncivilized, women as sex objects, and everyone else invisible. We need to speak our truth. No one should be reduced to objectifying stereotypes rooted in colonial violence, regardless of their culture, race, class, or profession.

OM.

23

The Strength of Caring

By Melani Carrié @captainmelani Melani Carrié is a 20-something currently living in Hawaii. She has a degree in Politics and Social Anthropology from the University of Edinburgh and is working towards her goal of one day becoming a foreign service officer. She is a proud Democrat whose passions include culture, travel, music, boxing, and fantasy/science fiction.

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t is not easy to care.

To care requires attention. To care requires concern. To care requires a great deal of personal investment. And depending on what events transpire after the fact, it is very probable that to care is often ‘to care in vain’.

I have never considered myself to be a woman with a particularly high EQ. I often equated ‘emotion’ with ‘weakness’ and prided myself on my ability to understand things through logic and reasoning, remaining unreadable and stoic in the face of adversity. It is only now, after a lifetime of ignoring, normalising, and disregarding the many things that have happened to me, that I can say I am (at long last) beginning to understand what strength it takes to care.

I am a yonsei (四世), 4th generation Japanese-American from my mother’s side, and my father is a non-Hispanic white immigrant. I have lived in multiple countries on three different continents, endeavoured to learn and speak several languages, and identify as a Third Culture Kid. To have spent the majority of my life as an Asian in white-dominated communities, I understand very well how jarring it is to be the only different person in the room. To be asked where I came from. To be told that my heritage is ‘sexy’. To be faced with surprise when others realise I can speak English fluently.

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It is very hard to describe what a conflicting feeling it is to be both invisible and incredibly seen, but only through the ‘exotic other’ lens. As Asian women, we are ignored, yet fetishised, and desired, yet despised.

For years, I let this type of treatment endure without confrontation. I would remind myself that my worth is not predicated upon others’ approval and that these types of people were simply bigoted, so why care about what they think.

While I acknowledge that this was not technically a ‘bad’ way to walk through life, my behaviour pattern served to do absolutely nothing and proved, more than anything, that silence is complicity. This method of rationalisation was a result of certain aspects of Asian culture.

Many Asian countries operate within a collectivistic society; that is to say, they focus on the whole rather than the individual. To quote Spock, “the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one.”

While this can be a positive thing for many reasons, it has the danger of enabling conformity to become not only a social norm but an expectation. I have referenced this Japanese saying many times in my numerous discussions on race that “the nail that sticks out gets hammered down.” In its most positive light, this saying can (I suppose) be a rallying cry for teamwork and a reminder that society flows the smoothest

when everything and every person has its place. At its worst (and most honest), it conditions us to believe that drawing attention to ourselves and rejecting the status quo are social faux pas. It scares people from seeking individuality; it pressures people to do what’s easiest “for the greater good,” and encourages people not to take risks.

I was very much a follower of this concept until I realised that to continue to perpetuate this behaviour when people are desperately trying to break free from the shackles of white supremacy is essentially enabling it to continue because doing nothing is still a choice.

What has been most confusing about this self-discovery and realisation is that it came to me, very recently, whilst living in Hawaii.

Contrary to the United States’ racial makeup of 76.3% White, 13.4% Black, 5.9% Asian, and 4.4% “Other,” Hawaii’s demographics break down to 25.5% White, 2.6% Black, 37.6% Asian, 10.1% Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander, and 24.2% Mixed Race, according to the 2019 census. It is the state with the largest proportion of Asians (full or mixed) in the United States, and, as a result, the impacts of white supremacy and racially charged acts of violence are not as prevalent here as they are on the mainland.

My confusion came when I realised that despite having, arguably, the biggest U.S. hub for Asian American representation, many people in Hawaii do not believe the discussion on Asian rights should be a priority because we are the majority. ‘Asian Hate’ is not really seen; thus, it is widely considered a ‘non-issue’.

It is worth noting that, within Hawaii’s turbulent history, there are many more layers of injustice that need to be addressed, particularly concerning Native Hawaiians and Pacific Islanders. However, specifically in ref-

erence to the Asian American experience, I have been shocked by the indifference I have witnessed.

From observations in the media to conversations with my peers, colleagues, and members of various cultural organisations, the overarching theme I heard from them has been “we don’t need to deal with that here.” That is not to say that everyone here feels this way. Still, I find it baffling that many of the people who remain ignorant and claim it ‘unnecessary’ to speak out against such atrocities because they “can’t relate” are the same ones who criticise and shame white Americans for not defending minorities against injustice too.

To hold one demographic of the population to a standard that you are not willing to meet is the epitome of hypocrisy, and, regardless of where you live or whether you have experienced it, I say again: silence is complicity. What is important is not that you understand 100% on a personal level—it is that you have the ability to empathise and support those who must live in such a disturbing reality.

I have emerged from this metamorphosis with white hairs and a brutal awareness of how much it can exhaust you to care, particularly when you feel that you are fighting an endless war. That said, to care requires so much more strength than to ignore. I would rather be tired but stronger if it means that I, too, can be like the individuals who have already been leading by example as champions for a truly greater good.

To re-learn what has been so deeply ingrained into our culture is not going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but please, I implore you: do not be silent.

Your voice matters, and it takes strength to care.

OM.

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“i’m tired” by Divya Chhotani it’s like people are after me from a young age when they used to call me “curry muncher” and poked fun at my mom’s homemade delicacies as the warm butter melted on the parantha as the smell spread across the cafeteria I remember one friend telling me to “go back to my country” since I didn’t like living here in a place stuck and based on racism and hate crimes I remember pep talks from my mother and father about how I should succeed quietly so that nobody will be able to “put me down” and try to backstab me to prevent me from being told that “ you only got the job because you’re brown” I know how much my parents sacrificed by coming to this country built by immigrants and people trapped in a system that spits them out once they are chewed up by a broken home this nation is built on hatred with paper and after paper day by day filled with bloodshed and humanity failing constantly I’m getting tired and I know you are too tired of waking up every morning and having a guard up tired of waking up and having to protect yourself even more tired of waking up and seeing innocent people dying day after day tired of having things going by unsaid and swept under a rug until a new incident occurs and politicians say “it’s an atrocity”

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feeding us with false hope about gun control while our country is breaking apart like a woman separated from her child at birth like a refugee trying to find a home in this vast and dark world we are built on turning away our brothers and sisters from finding solace and safety within our borders yet lock children up and keep them from seeing daylight again I’m tired of promises that never unfold into action broken by seeing the tragic news of my other fellow Asians passing I’m tired and I think enough is enough how do we pride ourselves and teach our kids about how “welcoming” our nation is and pride ourselves on being built on diversity and a “melting pot” when our own POC representation is being taken away in just a moment, by just a bullet I’m tired of feeling broken and lost every single day trying to find meaning in these untimely killings but there is no meaning, it shouldn’t even be happening it can not be justified I’m tired of explaining why it’s important to stand up for our Asian peers and own kind to people because it should be a given standing up for a life standing up for a community that is in need of some healing and prayers holding hands at vigils and starting go fund me’s that have taken over the internet enough is enough I’m tired of things going unnoticed and being swept under the rug until another incident enough is enough I’m tired

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When the news about attacks on Asian women is more than a journalism project

By Jasmine Francoeur @jasmine.francoeur Jasmine Francoeur (she/her) is a twenty-year-old sophomore studying Public Relations with a minor in Journalism at Suffolk University. She is of Korean, Irish, English, and French descent and is passionate about exploring more of her cultural roots. When she isn’t writing, she likes to paint, explore new museums and galleries, and go to the beach.

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or my Journalism class in the Fall of 2020, my honors project was to write a feature story examining the racial violence targeted at Asian Americans. My research included the number of reports filed to the Stop AAPI Hate, the nonprofit organization tracking anti-Asian incidents and at the time, the number was 2,500.

I thought that would be the last time writing about this subject and maybe these incidents would lessen.

Then came the news from Atlanta. The number of reports filed to the group has jumped to over a thousand, and now include the six Asian women who died last week.

Processing the news, I was staggered by a darker, devastating feeling of dread that went beyond objective reporting for a journalism project.

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Despite the recent wave of violence, especially against the elderly with the recent death of an 84-year-old Thai immigrant, this particular attack cuts deeper than ever. What seemed like a boiling point has turned into an explosion, particularly for Asian women.

Being a half-Korean woman, this issue feels personal and I can’t help but think of my own mother who has tried to be more vigilant and mindful of her surroundings in case she could be possibly harassed or attacked. I think of my friends’ mothers who work at massage and spa parlors and how this burgeoning sense of fear is deepening within all of us.

The violence in Atlanta is a harsh symbol of the dangerous realities that Asian women, in particular, are subjected to. It’s tied into a bundle of historical harm-

ful fetishization, stereotyping, and discrimination that is slowly killing them. It is during this time more than ever we face the uncomfortable truth of the forced victimization of Asian women-before we forget their names and another headline rocks us back into painful remembrance.

According to recent reporting by NBC, 68% of the 3,800 attacks were directed towards women. And women, the report found, were 2.3 times more likely to experience racial harassment than Asian American men. Some factors to this point to existing stereotypes of Asian women being viewed as small, docile, and submissive. Aaron Long, the accused murderer in these spa shootings, is proof of perpetuating harmful stereotyping, by saying his motive was driven by his sex addiction rather than racism and it cannot be denied these

victims felt chosen.

While many in the Asian American community experience painful grief, there are also emotions of intense anxiety as these attacks feel like an endless roll of faces and names increasing at a quickening, panicking pace. There is also frustration due to the lack of accountability for these attacks. This was evident when Capt. Jay Baker, the Cherokee County Sheriff’s office spokesman, downplayed Long’s actions, which he attributed to having “a really bad day.”

was ever a clearer sign for our society to advocate for the Asian American community by dismantling a cycle of racism and violence, this is it. This is a time to shine a light on its terrible darkness and step into acts of solidarity and use your voices to keep the story alive.

OM.

Essentially, to examine the scope of Asian American suffering amid this new era of violence and terror is like a Pandora’s Box of perpetuated, historical stereotypes, scapegoating, and exhaustion of feeling ignored and shouldering on.

Despite these types of incidents being so familiar these days, I became frustrated wondering why I was so haunted for days from these murders. I then realized it’s because our society has come to a point where to feel shocked from racial violence is more unlikely than feeling numb to it.

Personally, it’s hard to think about this level of racial violence, but if there

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The Same Night Sky

By Riana Torrejon @rrriana_t Riana Torrejon is a business student at the University of Alberta who is a passionate advocate for human rights. In her spare time, she loves to write, sing, and play with Microsoft Excel. She is also the founder of Hikaw Earrings, a small polymer clay earring business that promotes the Filipino culture in its work. Previously, she has given a TED Talk in hopes of tackling prejudiced and xenophobic attitudes toward immigrants by offering a new perspective to those who may be ambivalent about embracing individuals from other unfamiliar countries and territories. Martin Luther King, Jr. is one of her greatest inspirations.

I yearn to be openly Filipino, but it seems to provoke so much hate and anger.

Earlier this summer, I was standing on the transit station platform waiting for the train when my phone rang. I answered it and began to speak in Tagalog with my mom. A woman nearby overheard me and darted her head towards my direction. Her face quickly turned into a scowl. She began to scream derogatory remarks. It was nothing I had not heard before. The same selection of phrases like: “Go back to your country,” “You don’t belong here,” and “You’ve ruined my day.” This woman then attempted to punch me, but a tall white man interfered and held her back as I ran away.

I walked away from the train and decided to take an Uber home. I vowed that I would never again take public transportation at 8:00 PM. I also made a note that I would save up for a car. I even blamed myself for forgetting to refrain from speaking Tagalog in public.

“All of us share so much more than just the night sky.

We are not that far from one another if we choose not to be.

I was 19 years old when this happened.

I was 19 and standing at 4’11, facing off against a woman who towered over me.

I was filled with confusion and terror as

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For weeks, a recurring thought played through my head, “No matter how long I’ve lived in Canada, I will always be the ‘other.’”

Before I came to Canada, things like the colour of my skin or being Filipino hardly even crossed my realm of consciousness. However, moving to Canada put me on the receiving end of many racial attacks, like the train incident mentioned above. These experiences abruptly grabbed me out of my bubble as I quickly learned that my Filipino face marks me apart from others. I do not look like the conventional “Canadian.”

As a result of my experiences as a female Filipino immigrant in Canada, I

keep my mind alert in anticipation of an attack. Sometimes, I lay awake at night, imagining the worst-case scenarios and creating their respective emergency action plans.

“I will practice speaking English until no trace of my Filipino accent is left. They will never know that I was raised in the Philippines for 10 years.”

“I will wear heels so that I do not appear as small. If I look more intimidating, it could discourage attacks.”

“I will avoid any use of the Filipino flag on my belongings to remain racially ambiguous.”

I want to believe that I will have prepared myself enough so that nothing will shock me or be a problem, should it choose to come. My “preparation” is my second line of defense.

My first and foremost line of defense is that I never publicly express when something has upset me. My poker face, a smile, is what I often greet people with, no matter my current state. On the days where a smile is hard to muster, I hide in the crevices available in my immediate surroundings, facing myself away from the crowd and attempting to look absorbed in my work.

You have an inherent value that does not change because of your skin’s pigmentation. I was convinced that by remaining unfazed, I could exhibit my value to Canada by remaining an “agreeable” immigrant to live with.

I am proud to identify as a Canadian and a Filipino immigrant. Even now that I am a Canadian citizen, I still feel discomfort in rooms populated by mostly Caucasian men and women. My Filipino label-though very important to me—is but a part of my identity, a facet to the innumerous sides. Why must there be baggage when I add “Filipino” to Canadian?

Why must I strain all of my muscles to uphold that I am Filipino-Canadian?

We each have the responsibility to make this place a home for one another.

When my mom started working abroad in Canada, I was five years old, living with my dad in the Philippines. I used to look up at the Philippines’ night sky, and I became obsessed. I realized that my mother could see the same night sky.

We spent five years apart, but we could observe the same constellations.

All of us share so much more than just the night sky. We are not that far from one another if we choose not to be. Don’t let borders keep you from connecting to those on the other side of them. I urge us all to share the spaces we’ve been given.

A history of pain and trauma can lead us to hurt one another, but a wise man named Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

Please make your next step for something that spreads light in the midst of our darker times.

OM.

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Becoming Asian American: A Reflection

By Julia Chang Wang Julia Wang is the co-founder of the Immigrant History Initiative (@immigranthistoryinitiative), a nonprofit that works through narrative storytelling and education to address anti-Asian violence and xenophobia broadly. She is a lawyer and a writer and has published in The Atlantic and Huffington Post. Julia is a graduate of Yale Law School and Harvard College, where she studied history.

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hen I came to the U.S. at 9 years old, I had little sense of what America would look like, save for the occasional dubbed classics my mother took me to see, like Titanic (which was about Irish immigrants on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic) or The Bridges of Madison County (though I would learn later that was not quite the quintessential American flick that I had imagined).

We arrived in the U.S. on February 11, 2001, a date that we used to mark time for most of my American childhood. By the time of my high school graduation, I had spent half of my life in America, give or take a few months.

The development of my identity was tethered to assimilation. For their first few years in America, my parents fretted over

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whether my English would ever be fluent. This worry was not unfounded, as I refused to speak for an entire semester in the elementary school in Rogers Park where I first experienced the public school system in the U.S. The school didn’t have an ELL, or ESL as it was called back then, program, so I sat in a classroom full of kids who peered at me with curiosity.

My mother taught me English through the public library. She borrowed stacks of children’s books and dozens of audio tapes and agonized over them with me (because she too was new to the language).

She insisted that I pronounce every word exactly as the narrator of Paul Danziger’s Amber Brown book series on tape had, and I practiced until my voice morphed into that of a native Chicagoan. My parents

forbade me from reading Chinese books and watching my beloved Chinese dramas until I became fluent in English three years later.

Through the deliberate process of forgetting, I slipped into an American childhood that seemed, by all intents and purposes, to mirror that of my white classmates.

I beamed when adults told me that my English was good, even when they didn’t know that I was an immigrant. Some things were harder to ignore: the racial epithets, shouts of “ching chong” on the playground, the “go back to China,” the microand macro-aggressions that served as a frequent reminder that to some, I did not belong. In high school, a group of my friends, most of whom were Asian American, were walking to the movies when three guys

on skateboarders rolled past and pelted rocks at us. The one white member of our group was outraged, chased after our attackers for a few minutes before giving up, panting. The rest of us stared at each other in silence, and I recognized even back then that it was the tacit acknowledgement of a shared experience.

I struggled to conceive of what being Chinese in America meant or should be for me, save for the narrow world that my parents created by telling their own life stories as history and as heritage, because they too were learning what it meant to be Chinese in a new country. These were not questions to be answered in school. I remember my high school English teacher gifting me The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston. This was the first book that ever articulated into words my feelings about being Chinese in America. I cried—a small catharsis that someone had finally put to words how I felt about just being me. Finally, in college, I stumbled into others who were grappling with the same questions.

It wasn’t until college that being Asian American meant something to me, beyond an unspoken feeling of kinship. In college and later in law school, my

Asian American friends, whose families arrived at different times to the U.S., formulated our identity based on what we had in common, what our parents instilled in us as our only and imperfect teachers on being Other in America.

We learned. We celebrated what we didn’t have before, through Youtube, TV, meals shared in newfound kinship. What I didn’t learn, until I was 25 years old, was that there was a rich history that we could have tapped into, that we should have known. This journey to reconciling our struggles in the Asian American experience didn’t feel so brand new and so difficult.

Being Asian in this country means that I am confronted with the insidious assumptions that boiled down from centuries of history, a story in which communities and individuals who look like me were exploited, abused, and driven, and that story is only one entry in an entire book of America’s racist history.

The first wave of Chinese immigration to the U.S. was in the 1840s, facilitated by big railroad companies seeking labor to build the Transcontinental Railroad that would industrialize the U.S. and secure its position as the front-runner of modern capitalism. Like their equivalents in the 20th

century, those workers were told of the American dream, of finding wealth, at a time of mass instability in China (as a result of an imperial venture of Great Britain, the Opium Wars).

As soon as they arrived, discriminatory laws were enacted: they were taxed, fined, restricted in movement, restricted in marriage, until they were finally altogether excluded. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 banned all immigration of Chinese laborers, which made up most Chinese immigrants to the U.S. for ten years. This Act was broadened and extended every ten years until it was made permanent in 1904.

In step with these laws, or perhaps emboldened by them, were the series of anti-Chinese riots and massacres, driving Chinese Americans out of their homes by fire, lynching, and forced marches out of town. The Chinese were portrayed as rats, filth, swine, all of which were words used on the Congress floor when debating the passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Chinatowns, areas where the Chinese were confined to live for fear of their spread, were denigrated as dens of immorality and lasciviousness.

The story is similar for other Asian immigrants.

By the 1900s, immigrants

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from Asia were categorically banned. Asian immigrants would not be eligible for citizenship, deemed too foreign to truly assimilate to “American” culture.

Growing up in the U.S., I was obsessed with the immigrant story. We learned about Ellis Island in the fourth grade, the first year I felt comfortable enough to speak in class. I wrote stories and stories about a girl named Mary immigrating from Ireland in 1902, pouring my heart into long passages about Mary’s struggle of being new, being different.

I often reflect on why I didn’t write about a Chinese girl arriving on the shores in 1902. We never learned about early Chinese immigrants in school.

There was no lesson on the contemporary Angel Island Immigration Station, established off the coast of San Francisco for the processing of Asian immigrants. Asian Americans are excluded from the feelgood story of immigration I was taught in school because this history reveals an uncomfortable truth about the racist beginnings of American immigration law. This is why white Americans can embrace their family’s Ellis Island stories as American belonging while denying that same claim to non-white

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Americans.

Asian Americans—usually I will never forget the time adults—asking “how does when a white teammate at this relate to me/my fammy swimming club shouted ily? ” As American Amerito me, in a fit of rage, about cans, our lived experience something a few Asian stu- is inexorably tied to our coldents in her class did. “Why lective history in this coundon’t they all go back to Chi- try, and that history is rich, na?” She looked at me, and complex, and very long. maybe seeing the alarm Learning this history delein my eyes, patted me on gitimizes those who questhe arm and said, “but not tion and deny our bel you, you’re one of the good onging. ones.” After she left, I reIt is impossible to idenmember whispering to my- tify as “Asian American” self, “they belong here just without learning this hisas much as you do.” I nev- tory, because the term of er said it to her, but I think “Asian American” comes about this moment a lot from decades of activism because what troubled me for the acknowledgement most is that she—and I, by of our shared history and my silence—assumed that the struggles that we face somehow she had the right as a community of nonto make claims to the U.S. white individuals. as her home, and her Asian Being “Asian American” classmates didn’t. And that has to mean something she also had the power to more than how white Amerdetermine who was “good” ica has seen us—as an inand who could belong. vasion, as corruption, as a With the COVID pan- wedge to deny the strugdemic, we’re seeing hate gles of Black and Brown crimes against Asian Amer- people. In fact, being icans spread rapidly like an “Asian American” means epidemic of its own. The an- actively working against imosity toward those who these perceptions, even look Asian lays to bear the when it purports to elevate perpetual foreignness that us in comparison to othAmerican law and histo- er oppressed folks. “Asian ry has crystallized against American” was born from those who are not white. decades of activism for raCenturies-old xenophobia cial justice, for inclusion, carries as much purchase and for the dismantling of today as it did in 1882. white supremacy, and our When I teach Asian survival depends on conAmerican history, I some- tinuing that legacy. times get questions from OM.

“I’m Not Your Miss Saigon” by Jillian Montilla ‘“I’m Not Your Miss Saigon’ encapsulates my experience reconciling my identity as a first-generation Filipinx-American with those definitions foisted on me by guests I used to serve at my hometown’s Thai restaurant.

Combining Alix Olson’s unapologetic social critique and Sarah Kay’s vulnerable story-telling, I share both my indulgence as well as my eventual rebellion against the objectifying, fetishizing male gaze which characterized my entry into womanhood.”

Scan here to watch the full performance!

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“Poem for My Ancestors” by Winnie Hung I don’t know when my body became round and full like those fertility figures I saw in the Metropolitan Museum of Art when I was young.

As a small, light-skinned Asian American woman, I’ve always been called “cute,” never considered full bodied and luscious.

But now, after having my 2 babies, my body is free of the smoothness of youth and marked by stretch marks and 40 years of days in the sun.

I’m proud of my markings, both seen and unseen because they remind me of who I am and how I got here.

I got here by learning how to shape shift over time and space. Contorting, shrinking, bending, and reaching to try to fit myself into the mold that wasn’t made by me or my ancestors in the Americas. I learned to shift my face into always holding a small smile because I’ve been told to. I reshaped my tongue to speak in standard English so that I would be taken seriously in academia. I blinded myself to all the times a teacher, bully, friend would “joke” about my “almond shaped” eyes. My ears are deaf to the jeers of “ching chong wing chong Chinaman” and catcallers who called me “Miss Saigon.” My mind is numb from reading too many ephemeral thoughts and prayers and resolutions.

It’s because of you motherf&ckers, we’re out of work.

Please don’t kill me.

Me love you long time.

Kung flu.

Where are you really from.

Go back to where you came from.

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Bodies that are marked by time. Bodies that are marked by hate, violence, imperialism, war, poverty, hypersexualization.

Bodies that provide care. Sex workers. Undocumented workers. Nail and hair salons. Massage parlors. Spas. But no one cares about us.

Like the grandma who was punched in the face while collecting cans in Queens, NY. Like the popo whose back was burned with acid while taking out her trash in Brooklyn. Like the Auntie who was attacked while holding her baby.

All of these elders now have to live with new scars, bruises, and marks on their hated bodies.

Bodies that are seen as the vessels of disease.

We are marked by dis-ease. Discomfort. Distance. 6 feet apart. Unless you are being attacked.

But the systems that perpetuate hate and sustain harm do more than just mark us. They shrink us until our elders are afraid to leave home, afraid to walk the streets for groceries, shrink away from their skins.

Like waves marking the sand, our bodies move in ebbs and flows--we gather, gain strength, and rise up to speak. We are shot. We are attacked, stabbed, punched, spat and coughed on, we are deported. Jetted away in the cold morning light.

We are shot. Bang. While we work. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

While we grieve.

And our numbers shrink. Our strength dwindles because we are apart. We cry salty tears that mark the shore.

But our voices and cries criss cross this country like the transcontinental railroad we helped to build. Networks and rallies of care, where we shout our love for our elders, for our BIPOC brothers and sisters, for our over-policed but under-invested communities.

We continue to care. To shout. Love our elders, heal our communities. No justice no peace. We build our collective power. Solidarity. Self determination. Liberation.

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How relearning Mandarin helped me challenge my internalized white supremacy.

By Tiffany Zhu Tiffany Zhu is a Chinese American designer based in Brooklyn. She currently builds things at the ACLU and is passionate about civic tech’s ability to change how citizens engage with their communities.

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My therapist asked me a few weeks ago, “What parts of my racial identity do you reject?” We had gotten on the topic of my loneliness.

I paused. It didn’t have anything to say off the top of my head. I have always been proud of my heritage, I thought. As if objecting to her question, I started listing things I was proud of: I’m proud to be Chinese American. I often refer to my thick, straight, jet black hair as “my baby.” I know how to make a mean tomato and egg. I am tenacious and able to hunker down in hard times. Then something came to the tip of my tongue: I love that I am ar-

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ticulate.

I said it without thinking. It slipped out as an afterthought, as if it was the obvious punctuation on things I loved about myself. My therapist tilted her head and looked at me, implying that it was a weird thing to say and I should dig into it. Words started coming out of my mouth like free association: I have always been articulate. I like that I know big words. I was always good at writing and public speaking (not that you’d know it from the way I was defending myself). I could form incisive opinions about Jane Austen and Shakespeare.

I had a way with language and of speaking that was unique to me and my voice.

My therapist raised an eyebrow, “What does this have to do with you being Chinese American?”

Indignant, I started saying “Well you know, no one ever thinks an Asian kid can be an eloquent speaker. I invested in learning how to have a voice and how to use impactful words that convey both meaning and feeling.” To myself, I was reminded but too ashamed to say out loud that the most important thing to me was that I didn’t have an accent.

One of those awful, embarrassing accents.

Like many Asian American kids, I grew up in a multilingual home. I am a first generation Chinese American so my parents and I speak a language lovingly dubbed “Chinglish”.

This can manifest itself in all sorts of ways. Sentences can start off in English and end in Mandarin. Mandarin with an English word dotted in between. It can be that the call is in English and the response is in Mandarin. It’s a mangled language, a product of two not-quite-halves attempting to make a whole.

In my youth and in my early 20’s, I didn’t give it much thought that I couldn’t speak my parents’ native language very well. My pronunciation was good, but I was a better listener than speaker, and I couldn’t read or write Chinese characters. If anything, there was a certain pride I associated with not being able to speak perfect Mandarin. Unconsciously, the message I told myself was: speaking perfect English makes me closer to being white.

I grew up in a city with a significant Chinese and Chinese American population; enough that the elementary school I attended offered a Mandarin immer-

sion option. Rather than be a part of a class that spoke majority English, you could be placed in the single class in every grade that was taught by a Mandarin speaking teacher. When I enrolled, my parents were offered this option for me. You would think this seemed like an innocuous offer, even a culturally conscious one. Wouldn’t they be thrilled to put their Chinese child in a Chinese class?

My parents definitely didn’t see it that way. In fact, they were adamantly against it. In an experience I learned later in life was a common one for Asian American kids, my parents believed that these language adaptation schooling options were the equivalent of ESL. It was an assimilation kiss of death; I would never fit in.

They wanted me to focus on speaking English and learning to get along with other kids (read: White). I can really only now grapple with the possible forces at play that would make an immigrant in this country think that. The kind of humiliation my parents experienced not speaking the language and the shame they felt from it. As a result, I was separated from many of my Chinese peers throughout most of

my childhood and teenage years. They all hung out together all the way through high school, listening to C-pop, sharing lunches with each other, talking about how their parents were all friends. I had been carefully and intentionally lanced out of my community and I never noticed. In a lot of ways I thought I was above them. Last week, feeling alone and scared, I looked around and wondered: what had happened to all my Chinese friends?

Had I ever had any?

Recently, I started picking up Mandarin tutoring.

My tutor’s chosen English name is Laura* and I found myself fascinated by her.

She lives in China so I already had one dimensional, racist prejudices about her.

Oh she must be sheltered or meek. She probably has a hard time making friends.

Probably has never had a boyfriend. I was projecting all the things I had ever been afraid of for myself onto her. It was clear from our first meeting none of this was actually the case.

I found myself eagerly asking Laura in broken Mandarin countries she had traveled to (she lived abroad in Scotland for a number of years), what kinds of food she likes (Japanese when she goes out, she’s not a good cook), what movies

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she likes (she thinks Marvel is overrated). She was honestly just… a twenty-something gal living in the world.

At first, the tutoring was just for fun, with the free time that the pandemic afforded. However, as the classes went on, and with the spike in Anti-asian violence, it started feeling like an act of resistance against the white supremacist thinking that had been inside my head for decades.

There is a constant, unrelenting push and pull of identities: • White: I’m embarrassed when I can’t name a Katherine Hepburn movie in my trivia league.

• Chinese: I’m annoyed when my friends won’t speak Chinese with me but will with others.

• White: I’m angry when someone assumes I immigrated here.

• Chinese: I’m sad when I’m trying to tell my parents something important and I know it’s getting lost in translation.

With Laura, it felt like I was connecting with someone in a way I had never been able to. Though the conversation content was shallow (favorite foods, movies, and travel), in a

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lot of ways this was the deepest way to get to know someone. To try to communicate with them with your whole heart in a language you didn’t speak well. To be vulnerable about a huge hole in your identity, a gap you constantly hid behind the hubris that you were above it.

There is a lot of distance to cover in my attempt to speak my way back towards my Chinese culture. I don’t think I’m ever going to learn enough Mandarin to build all the bridges I need to understand every aspect of my parents’ experience coming to this country.

Many things will likely remain unspoken and I think I’m at peace with that.

However, I do look forward to cracking a joke in Mandarin and seeing their their faces light up. *Name changed for privacy

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“The Oppressed” by Glory Gage Instagram: @gloryggage Medium: Pencil lead

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Poetry by Nell Valle Piecing Me Back Together My love sees me He knows there’s more behind my quiety exterior He listens to my story And makes me feel heard When I struggle I am no failure to him We understand its human All the tears I have held back I can release Feelings are clear and addressed Not suppressed like before It’s healthy and okay To Not Be Okay Too many have been silenced in the past and now What about the future?

I embrace him and he pieces me back together Eyes Shaped as almonds, though they look closed, They see as much I am not the devil, there are whites in my eyes If you giv eme the time You will see no I’m not squinting, I’m not making a face It’s just the shape It’s not a choice The shape of these eyes They are just a fature One of many, that I and others share So please take us as we are with out good intentions And look us in the eyes

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Where is Your Home?

In my father’s apartment From four years ago We were free Where is your home?

Not China. Haven’t been.

Where is your home?

If I went to China, I’d have no connections and I wouldn’t know the language Where is your home?

It took me three years to allow love Back into my life. Soon after I started to feel home again

Where is your home?

Inside a warm hug Of love A father, a sister, a lover I am home In their arms Where is your home?

It’s been three years since I’ve let love in I hope you never go like my family Where is your home?

The apartment that foreclosed There was a small drawing in the pantry closet Words read: Our home With silly drawings of My father, sister, and myself I wanna go back But I know nothing is there

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“Take Out Asian Hate” by Tessa Hilford Instagram: @lycheeleeart Medium: Digital Illustration

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The Meaning of Asian American

By Anjeli R. Macaranas

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e were immediately labeled as sub-human. Our countries dominated by colonialism, our rich culture subjugated to the demands of our foreign rulers. Our ancestors raped, brutalized, tortured, and humiliated as if they were worth no more than the dust under our feet.

They took our lands and our wealth, thinking we were too weak to fight back.

Now, they try to take our lives. They smash our elders’ heads into concrete, kick their bodies out of pure hatred, spit on their faces seethingly, and hiss, “Go back to your country.” The people whom we most respect and honor are being burned to the ground and murdered in cold blood, leaving our hearts to crumble at the thought that our own family members could’ve been among these stolen lives.

Our women are diminished to objects that contribute nothing to the world besides pleasure. Their faces and bodies are seen as erotic and passive rath-

er than what they truly are: strong and resilient. Our women are mothers, daughters, grandmothers, artists, healers, warriors, leaders — our women are people. All people are deserving of life.

As kids, we are stereotyped and teased for our looks and our culture. We learn to be ashamed of our Asian families — our mothers, fathers, grandparents, elders —who sacrificed their youth, comfort, wellbeing, and lives to bring us to a country where they hoped all our dreams could come true. We go along with these seemingly harmless jokes to fit in, not realizing that we are giving in to the same forces that try to strip us of our Asian heritage.

The same forces that tell our ancestors’ stories using a single line in a textbook chapter. The same forces reduce our home countries to merely their suffering at the hands of their white counterparts. The same forces that try to take away the lives of the people we love most.

Despite their words, their

pointless rage, and the terror they try to inflict upon us, we will not give in. They will never take away our pride.

Our innate drive to better the lives of ourselves and those around us. Our respect and gratitude to those who came before us. Our contagious laughter and joy.

Our love. Our strength. Our unity. None of these things will ever be stolen from us.

We fight their hate with our resilience and character. We refuse to project on others the same hatred that has been placed on us.

We use our voices not to denounce those around us but to uplift our community’s stories. Our talents and strengths across all sectors will be utilized to fulfill our ancestors’ greatest dreams of moving forward gracefully and powerfully within this country full of promise. Our momentum will not only continue but grows exponentially as we realize what it means to be Asian in America and what it means to honor this part of us that is engraved deeply within our identities.

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谈 • 恋爱 Speaking of Love

By Jasmine Z Chin @jasminezchin Jasmine Z Chin is a storyteller, musician and mother who engages with themes of maternal and mental health, creativity, cultural identity, and childhood. Born and raised in Singapore, this child of the Hakka Chinese diaspora has been fiercely loved and kept humble by communities across Beijing, Oxford, London, Boston, and Seoul. She currently settles in Honolulu, in the occupied Kingdom of Hawai’i.

“昭敏，在大学有谈恋爱吗?”

I am struck by the warmth in my Chinese language teacher’s question during one of my few visits to my high school. She calls me by my Mandarin name, Zhao Min. The vowel sounds beautifully round and the tone effortlessly crisp. She asks if I am seeing someone, if I am dating someone, if I am in love with someone while at university in England. I am free to interpret her question as I please. 谈 speak； 恋爱 love.

Who knew three characters could come to life in so many ways and yet all lead to the same dead end. “没有,” I shake my head. I have neither the language nor the heart to tell her that I feel undesirable. No one wants to speak of love with me.

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A tender smile spreads across her face, while she utters a sentence I will remember for life, “在大学 谈恋爱可以是个很美好的经 验。” Being in love at university can be such a beautiful experience.

The romantic in me clings on to this interpretation, wanting to believe I am worthy of this beauty, this phenomenon she speaks of.

Outside her window, snow begins to thaw in the light of the late morning sun. *** At university, my tongue betrays me too much.

I stand in line at a sandwich shop, practising the various ways one could pronounce “Cajun.” By the

time it is my turn, my courage evaporates. “Pesto chicken panini, please,” I order what I know.

I am asked by the girl next door if I need more time in my exams “because English is not your first language.” I wonder what she hears when I speak. I tell her it is my first language, and we walk to our rehearsal in smothering silence.

I am penalised because I have failed the rhyming round of a drinking game.

Again. My jaw suddenly feels tight and heavy. I refuse to speak and take burning sips instead.

I learn that my vowel sounds are thin and harsh on the ears, incompatible with the French, German, and Italian songs we are singing. My throat seizes with horror when my singing teacher demonstrates my sounds, her voice tense

and shrill. I become perpetually self-conscious.

In a Chinese eatery in New York City, I try to explain what the scrumptious 萝卜糕 carrot cake is to my a cappella group. As I struggle to translate the chewy texture of 糕, one girl scrunches up her nose in disgust. Someone else comments that she cannot eat Chinese food every day “because it’s too greasy.” I am voted as “most likely to make a racial excuse” the next day.

One year later, I am quizzed on sexual jargon in front of the entire group. My inexperience under scrutiny for all to dissect. “You’re so innocent!” they exclaim over and over again with each new vocabulary. I take the bait and let them feast on my helplessness.

No one wants to speak of love with me. *** It is two days after the shootings in Atlanta. The skin around my eyes is raw and wrinkled. I am tired of crying, so I choose to talk about something else in therapy. We dive into how I’m coping with my traumas and how the physical space I live in is imprinted with searing memories of an abusive relative. It starts to get heavy again. I feel the tears coming, so I purse my

trembling lips shut while my throat begins to tighten.

Deep breaths... breaths...

Deep

“One thing you could think about… is how you can reclaim this space.

What would that look like?”

I stare at the digital clock on our oven, trying to focus my gaze somewhere untouched by violence. I have no answers, only questions.

Can you reclaim memories of pain with love and beauty? Can you reconstruct a fractured sense of self with the tenderness of language? Can you speak of love on your own?

As a storyteller, how can I not try? *** I am 18, with a large tub of 美珍香 猪肉松 Bee Cheng Hiang pork floss cradled in my arms. I form my first university friendships at international orientation, of which I only remember learning the difference between “chips” and “crisps.”

There are three of us huddled together in a dormitory room, sharing five cities of origin between us. We joyfully shovel the pork floss in our mouths, eyes closed as we let the comforting blend of sweet and savoury wrap around our tongues while existing in a

strange new place.

I am 19 and crouched beneath my study table, trying to cook my first round of white rice in my newly-bought rice cooker from Argos. It is against the rules, but I never thought I could miss the fragrance of white rice this much. The light indicates that the rice is done, so I gingerly raise the rice cooker’s lid. Steam rises from a glistening bed of miniature oval pearls and condenses on the underside of my table while the smoke detector remains silent. An absolute triumph!

I am 20 and apologising to two childhood friends visiting from Paris and Edinburgh. I tell them I don’t have a kitchen. I can only cobble together a humble meal of 粥 congee in my rice cooker for them, using mushrooms, dried scallops, carrots, egg, and soy sauce.

Their eyes widen with glee, and they gush, “Is like mother!”. My heart is more full than they can ever know as we sit cross-legged and laughing in front of the radiator, mushrooms floating merrily in the bubbling water of my trusty rice cooker.

I am 21 and falling hopelessly in love with a boy from Leeds. I greet his mother and his grandmother in Mandarin while taking in the scent and sounds of sizzling oil wafting from their kitchen. “小

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姑娘，坐一坐。” His grandmother calls me little maiden and beckons me to sit with her on the sofa. His mother presses a plate of piping hot 韭菜饼 into my hands, telling me “吃，吃！ 别客气! ” Eat, eat! Don’t stand on ceremony! I bite into the chive pancake, and a familiar taste of home explodes in my mouth. The boy and I exchange knowing smiles as we tuck in. I am in trouble.

I am 23 and excitedly telling my friend’s mother how much I love 粥, and how I used to cook it in university. As I bid her farewell when leaving the party, she asks me to wait for her, and she brings me takeout boxes filled with 白粥 plain congee, 煎蛋 fried egg omelette, and 菜圃 pickled radish - all whipped up specially for me in the aftermath of our conversation. I almost cry as I step out of their London home, feeling the warmth of homemade Teochew cooking in both hands.

I am 25 and soaring steadily in love with a man from Honolulu while living in Beijing. We gorge on 兰 州拉面 Lanzhou noodles, sneak into my workplace next door to grab durian ice cream from the office freezer, and laugh over Singaporean expressions we both grew up on. I ask him what his favourite food in Beijing is. He replies with-

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out missing a beat: “串.”

The classic meat skewer.

I smile and tell him it’s a great answer. *** It is 3.30AM on a Sunday morning here in Honolulu, five days after I first learned of the Atlanta shootings. It has been eighteen hours since I last cried. The man who loves 串 is upstairs, asleep with one protective arm around our toddler. I am alone in our living room, filling the air with the music of my teenage idol 周杰伦 Jay Chou, reliving the sundrenched nostalgia and innocence of my adolescence. It was a time before I knew what anguish was.

Before I knew what resilience meant.

I wonder how my Chinese language teacher is doing, whether she’s asking another youth if they are in love. If they speak of love. I wish I could tell her that she was right and that she still is. 谈 · 恋爱。I never knew it could be so profoundly complex, wholesome, and magnificent.

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“Papa & Mama” by Nikiya Crisostomo Instagram: @paintandpalate.nkbc Medium: Watercolor, Ink, Acrylic on Mixed Media

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