Sparks Magazine Issue No. 28 | University of South Florida
Sparks Magazine is a collaborative project between students at the University of Central Florida, University of Florida, and the University of South Florida. Sparks Magazine at USFTM thanks the following student teams for their contributions to this issue.
UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Justin Fernandez
MANAGING EDITOR Sabrina LaVopa
FINANCIAL DIRECTOR Aize Hassan
LEAD COPY EDITOR Zainab Nawaz
COPY EDITORS Aize Hassan • Leila Wickliffe • Yeleeya Li
DESIGN EDITORS Elyza Navarro • Zarin Ismail • Madison Edwards • Divya Somayaji • Jennifer Jia
PHOTO EDITORS Kat Tran • Andrea Sison • Eddy Chen
PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTORS Maika Huynh • Colin Strom
DESIGNERS Ceyan Ang • Tina Mei • Julia Su • Enchang Fan • Katheri Almeda • María Elisa Navas • Azille Latras • Celine Hui • Lauren Shee • Mahzabeen Choudhury • Bhavana Kavarthapu
PHOTOGRAPHERS Julia Lin • Gracie Lucas • Rayvin Velasco • Shirin Waheed • Aadithi Arjun • Jiro Ordonio • Andria Subhit • Anushka Kapoor • Morgan Hurd • Cindy Doan
PUBLIC RELATIONS Brian Paz • Emma Salcedo • Jennifer Lam • Ho-Jung Lee • Lisa Wong • Cindy Zhou • Stella Lee • Shreya Shanmugam • Nadnini “Nan” Kumar • Eva Lu
Language, Love, and Lessons from a family translator
The Mekong Delta is a region on the southwestern tip of Vietnam where the land meets the sea. Filled with rich soil, lush rice paddies, this delta is famed for lively floating markets with a plethora of fresh fruits. The rivers are lined with houses built on top of wooden pillars, appearing as if they’re floating. The beautiful countryside of the Mekong Delta is where my family is from and where our dialect was born. Although I have never been there before, I often imagine myself rowing through the waterways, buying longans from the vendors and crossing the river canals on a narrow plank. My accent is a bridge that connects my life here in the States to my family’s hometown in Trà Vinh and Sài Gòn, making the vast ocean separating America and Vietnam seem like a stream of water. Every word I speak takes me one step closer to my motherland.
Although I was born and raised in Florida, my Vietnamese accent has always intrigued
someone who visits Vietnam often. Even though I’m American, I have realized that my native accent is a blessing that gave me a sense of belonging in my community—to sound and be accepted as Vietnamese. It has allowed me to have deeper conversations with my parents, friends, and extended family in Vietnam without a language barrier—to hear stories without a filter. I was able to learn about my family’s history, the intricacies of the language and play many rounds of Tiến Lên, Vietnam’s national card game. However, this realization didn’t come easily—it took years to accept my language and the journey I’ve had as a daughter of immigrants.
Despite the invaluable experiences I’ve had because of my language abilities, it came with a heavy responsibility—being the family translator. From government documents, insurance paperwork, doctor visits to emergency hospitalizations, I have carried the weight of representing my family. I was their voice when they couldn’t speak for themselves. And with that pressure, I struggled with the anxiety of not knowing how to translate complicated words, the stress of caring for the wants and needs of others and meeting high expectations to be the perfect translator my family can rely on. And so, there was an unrealistic expectation for me to be fluent in my cultural language, with the ability to translate every word in the dictionary. At times, I even loathed the fact I could speak Vietnamese—the language I loved to speak became a burden.
As I balanced my familial responsibilities with my own personal commitments, I tried to understand how my family viewed devotion. Vietnamese culture is a family-oriented society that values acts of service, which often clashed with my mixed Vietnamese-American ideals. My family would say, if only we knew English as well as you, we would be able to help ourselves. But since we don’t, you have to help your family, or, If you help us now, then in the future, we’ll help you in return. That’s why we’re a family.
by
Ly Vu design/ Cathiana Treasure
Thus, the guilt and shame of prioritizing my desires over my family loomed over my head. For most of my life, I lived for my family and always put their well-being over my own career and future. To them, fulfilling familial responsibilities was a symbol of selflessness and love, and I conformed to their definition of filial piety.
On one particularly frustrating day, it dawned on me—“What will my life look like five, ten years from now if I lived solely for my family?” I thought. It was an eye-opening question. From then on, I made the decision to rebuild my relationship with the language and culture. I studied Vietnamese, watched videos and talked with online friends. I joined group therapy with other daughters who came from immigrant families, and heard similar stories of how we managed our own dreams with our families’ needs. The language I associated with feelings of unease and exhaustion became lighthearted and full of joy. I learned to see my accent and language as more than a means of survival or done out of obligation. I have learned to view family values in a more nuanced way. My parents can view love as sacrificial, but that does not have to be my personal definition of love. Selflessness doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing scenario—I can find a healthy balance. Finding a happy medium between prioritizing my mental health and fulfilling my familial duties is not a reflection of selfishness. By considering my well-being, I can help my family out of deep care without building up resentment.
The rapid streams, rivers, and waterways of the Mekong Delta might surge from all directions, but I root my feet into the soil and take everything step-by-step and day-by-day. I remain firmly planted to the ground like a pillar in the Delta. Being a family translator is a harsh and thankless job that goes unnoticed. There will be miscommunication in both languages, frustration, dysfunction and unavoidable microaggressions when navigating uncertain situations. And, there are times when the tides of familial responsibilities will push and pull me, but everything has its ebbs and flows. I’ll push thoughts of discomfort, embarrassment and shame to the shoreline. So, I allow myself to make mistakes without judgement, to not know everything, and to embrace my flaws.
Because that is the grace that us second-generation kids need.
IEmbers of My Past
was born with a lineage of expectations.
The trace of a new life with countless opportunities. The stepping stone of generations of our Chinese ancestors toward a better future.
Or so I’ve been told.
But when I glance at my white Converse sneakers from under my desk, all I see is a failure who couldn’t even learn the language he grew up with.
The Chinese boy with the funny name. That’s what I’m known for in my high school. In a school with barely any diversity, my skin color and facial features become the first noticeable characteristic. My culture is most evident in my name. Zhuque.
The phonetic spelling is even weirder: Zhwuh-Chweh.
My mom says that she named me after the Vermilion Bird of the South, a mythological bird in Chinese folklore that represented the flames of passion in Southern China. She told me she wanted to ignite the fire in my belly to take me anywhere I needed to be. To wear my name with pride. Even if all I want to do during every attendance is to bite my nails and hide.
The boy with the Chinese name who cannot speak a lick of Chinese. It’s poetic, really.
As I zone out through the lecture, my teacher’s voice catches my attention.
“Class, we have a new student today, a transfer student all the way from China.”
A bright-eyed teenage girl steps forward. I can almost feel her awkwardness as she scans the room for people who looked like her.
“Hi, everyone. My name is Li. Nice to meet you all.”
When her eyes meet mine, I see a glimmer in her eyes that makes me want to sink into my chair. As she sits next to me, her smile is warm in comparison to my own superficially-polite one.
Without a hitch, she starts exchanging pleasantries in an all too familiar foreign dialogue with a look of anticipation.
I don’t think my face has ever felt this hot in my entire life.
A house full of laughter and jokes I don’t fully understand. The inexplicable dread of my grandparents asking me the age old question— When will you learn Mandarin? The shame that is embedded in my birth name. Sometimes I feel like all I breathe out is fire. Distancing me from the culture of my ancestors with every word of English I speak. Is it even my own if I’m unable to have a simple conversation?
Every time I’m forced to converse, how is it that I feel like I’m choking back a version of myself I could have been?
If I look Chinese, why don’t I feel Chinese?
I watch my grandmother from the crack of my room door, busily working her way through the Lunar New Year food for the family. Although I usually help, I’m unable to shake the feeling of guilt as I aimlessly stare into my reflection staring back at me. My Tang suit* looks out of place on my body.
“Zuque? What are you doing? Help A Ma* with dumplings.”
I look up to see my mother in her traditional wear. At times like these, it pains me to know that my words in English can never reach her like Mandarin can.
“Zuque?” She looks confused as she sits on my bed with me. “Why you not helping? It is your favorite.”
by
Sophia Han design / Camila
Antonella
Pezzia
With a small sigh, I finally ask, “Mama, why was I never taught Mandarin?”
I see her furrow her brows, adjusting her sitting position, almost as if she was buying time to think of an answer. Only after a few minutes of silence have passed does she begin to speak.
“You know me and Papa work too much. There is no time. English is more important.”
I feel a stir of frustration awaken in me as I can’t find the words to describe my feelings.
The scorching heat of humility feels like it’s making burn marks on my chest.
I shake my head vigorously. “You don’t understand. I can’t speak normally to anybody here. I feel like I’m not Chinese.”
My mom only smiles, like what I had just said was the silliest thing on the planet.
“Er zi*, Chinese is not way you feel. Way that you are. Tradition is culture, not language. And you are still my Er zi. We continue because we are family.”
I slowly close the door to my room, muffling the chatter of my family as I sit at my desk. My shirt lingering with the smell of dumplings; the smell of home wafting through my room.
Upon taking a breather, I overlook my desk of red envelopes and heartfelt letters. I cannot help but smile.
I see my grandparents’ handwriting in both Mandarin and Google-translated English, doing their best to connect with their grandson.
I see my dad’s childhood watch from his father that he has now dotingly given to me.
Just to make me feel included. Just to make me feel seen in the language they knew most. And that was not Mandarin. It was love.
After a few moments, I hear the doorbell ring. “Zhuque, come. Our new neighbors are joining us tonight.” I hear my mother call. I stumble out of my desk chair, making my way to the living room.
To my surprise, I see Li and her parents outside the front door. And this time, I match her warm smile.
And I see my mom’s signature bowl of cut up fruit. Watermelon. Just because of the fact that it’s my favorite fruit and today was a special occasion.
I find myself softly laughing, already pictur ing their furrowed brows as they try so hard to get me something that I would like. And suddenly, I felt warm. Like I was supposed to be here all this time. Just like how my parents always save me the best parts of the dish. How my grandfather always remembers to make me a paper crane when he visits. And how my grandmother makes dumplings for me every year on Lunar New Year.
*A Ma: What some people call grandmother in Mandarin
* Tang suit: Traditional Lunar New Year clothing for boys
Mornings passed in a rhythm of their own, and afternoons lingered like the golden light that shone on my grandmother’s plants. The days I spent with my grandparents during the pandemic were slow and steady. They were not days of grand adventure, but nights filled with vivid memories.
“Do you want to watch an episode?” Thatha would ask, his voice carrying the warmth of an unspoken tradition, a ritual that had become our anchor in those uncertain times. The CDs, a treasured gift from his friend, contained the entire series of the great epic, The Mahabharata, dubbed in Tamil. Without fail, we’d settle into the blue glow of his home theater, the world outside fading away as the opening sequence began to play.
The Mahabharata is one of the longest and most profound epics in world literature. The epic chronicles the complex and interwoven lives of two rival families, the Pandavas and the Kauravas, whose conflict culminates into the Kurukshetra war. Throughout this piece, themes of duty, righteousness, and morality are discussed, presenting characters who grapple with personal desires and societal obligations. At its heart lies the Bhagavad Gita, a philosophical discourse where the god Krishna imparts timeless wisdom to the warrior prince Arjuna through their time on the battlefield.
At first, I watched out of curiosity, intrigued but hesitant. I’d join every other night just to spend some time with my grandfather. Thatha would fill me in on what I missed. I didn’t speak Tamil fluently, and my grasp of the language wasn’t strong enough to understand the complicated conflicts of the scenes, but Thatha bridged that gap effortlessly. He would pause, rewind, and explain every scene with a kind of reverence that made even the smallest moments feel monumental. His translations weren’t just literal–they were layered with his interpretations, his understanding of the epic born from years of living with its lessons.
The scale of The Mahabharata and its gods, wars, and sprawling family drama used to feel almost too vast and ancient to have any connection to my life. But as the episodes unfolded, and the story began to pull me in, I’d join him more often.
Thatha would pause frequently, his finger hovering over the remote as he leaned forward, his voice taking on a lyrical rhythm.
“What is he doing?” I would ask, pointing at the scene where Abhimanyu held the chariot wheel above his head, his eyes unwavering. Surrounded by warriors who had broken the rules of war to trap him, he stood alone, fighting with nothing but his courage.
Ragothaman design/
Merita
Thomas
“He walked into a trap to save his people,” Thatha would say, his voice filled with admiration, “He’s very brave.”
Soon, I stopped watching for the battles or the grandeur. The chariots and divine weapons became backdrops to something far more intimate—the moments in between. I found myself waiting for my grandfather’s translations. I wondered what he thought of Draupadi’s quiet resilience, Arjuna’s hesitations, and Yudhishthira’s struggles.
And through it all, Thatha’s voice was the thread that tied everything together. He didn’t preach or lecture; his words flowed natural and unforced. He’d often end his explanations with a soft chuckle. Those nights became more than just a shared activity. I started to understand him more through his reflections. In those moments, The Mahabharata was no longer a distant myth; it was alive, a part of a ritual we ceremoniously participated in every night.
I may forget the stories of The Mahabharata someday. I may not remember the endless names, the lineages, or the exact words spoken on the battlefield. The real story was in the pauses, in the explanations, in the gentle ease with which he spoke. And though I may one day forget The Mahabharata, I’ll never forget how it felt to sit beside him, listening to the way my grandfather’s voice brought the ancient epic to life.
TheMahabharata is an ancient Indian epic which tells the story of a dynastic struggle between two factions of the Kuru family; the Pandavas and the Kauravas. The conflict ultimately leads to the great war of Kurukshetra, where themes of duty, righteousness (dharma), and fate are explored.
Abhimanyu–A young and valiant warrior, the son of Arjuna, who heroically sacrifices himself in battle after being trapped in the enemy formation (Chakravyuha).
Arjuna–One of the five Pandava brothers, a gifted archer and warrior.
Draupadi–The wife of the five Pandava brothers. She is known for her intelligence, resilience, and unwavering strength, especially in the face of humiliation and injustice.
Yudhishthira–The eldest Pandava, known for his strict adherence to truth and dharma, often struggling with the burdens of leadership and morality.
Krishna–A central figure in Hindu mythology, revered as both a god and a guide. In The Mahabharata, he serves as Arjuna’s charioteer and imparts the Bhagavad Gita, a philosophical conversation about duty and dharma (righteousness).
by
Ramya Subramanian
design/
Nuha Naveen
TAsian Community: Near & Far
he scent of Asian snacks. The familiar tune of Mandarin’s tones. Product labels that I couldn’t read. The lingering taste of authentic Hebei dishes. The lychee’s spikes gently pressed into my hand.
I have finally experienced a glimpse of the joys a large Asian community offers. But for the much needed context to this statement, let’s rewind to the late 2000s.
Growing up in a predominantly white Florida suburb, it was safe to assume that I didn’t have much representation, cultural awareness, or an interest in my culture— or really, anything positive relating to minorities in my town. Instead, I often faced humiliation for my culture, shaped by years of continuous prejudice.
Due to my experiences with discrimination, my younger self often wished that he was not Asian, but instead was white, leading him to embark on a series of fear-driven transformative actions. I stopped bringing homemade dishes to school in my
avoided speaking in Mandarin with my mom in public, and tried to overly immerse myself in Western culture, be it movies, music, or living habits.
However, as the larger society around me— the Western world—embraced Asian pop culture, it eased my reentry into my roots. This normalization of my own culture in the world surrounding me helped me become more comfortable in my own skin, which led to a stronger pride in my cultural background.
I entered university with this mindset, eager to immerse myself in Asian culture, and was delighted to discover that there were numerous thriving student-led Asian organizations here. This alone was already quite a positive departure from my home city—there were no Asian Night Markets or Lunar New Year Banquets events where I grew up. But here, those are just two of the many exciting events that Asian clubs organize each year.
This involvement began when I met my dear friend and mentor, Josh, an upperclassman who supported my newfound state of cultural immersion. At his recommendation, I became involved with the Asian Students in America (ASiA) club and gradually got involved in varying degrees with most Asian organizations. I quickly made friends through my active participation in Asian clubs.
Fast forward a year, and I embarked on a trip to Toronto, Canada. While I predicted there
by
Rysun Chu design/ Elena Kirova
would be a higher Asian population than Florida—because nearly anywhere could beat the representation in my hometown—I had no clue just how life changing my trip would be. The transformative experiences primarily came from my time in Markham, a beautiful suburb of the Greater Toronto area. With a population made up of 67% Asians (Markham Census, 2016), it is no surprise that Asian cultures thrive in Markham.
I fondly remember standing in the middle of a Chinese supermarket, surrounded by an area where my minority culture was the customary way of life. I recall the scent of Asian snacks and fruit all around me. I remember being unable to read products labeled with Chinese characters. My taste buds still celebrated over the recent joy of Hebei specialties, the mini spikes of the lychee fruit that I held gently indenting my skin. Above all, all I could hear being spoken around me was Mandarin—and in the rare case that it wasn’t Mandarin being spoken, it was another Asian language.
For a person who grew up without experiencing the joys of having their culture in full display, this experience was incredibly transformative. Be it the rich spices that danced on (and burned) my tongue at restaurants, the delicate balance of flavor in the boba tea that I frequently sipped, or all the non-English conversations I held with strangers—this trip was filled to the brim with moments that will accompany me for my whole life.
inevitability. But I decided to turn my longing for greater diversity and expression of culture into a tool for improvement back at home.
On a sadder note, my preview into the possibilities of life in Markham made me realize all the experiences I had missed out on. My brief encounter with such abundant culture and diversity made the return to my bleak hometown an unfortunate
Since my trip, I have worked harder than ever to strengthen the student-led Asian community here at USF, transforming feelings of inadequacy and envy toward regions with more Asian representation into drive to further cultural initiatives here. After all, an incoming freshman’s experience at the Chinese Culture and Language Club’s Mid Autumn Festival or Asian Student in America’s Night of Thanks could be the magical cultural immersion that they’ve always dreamed of. The club events that I have been entrusted to design and lead could be someone else’s Markham. I am glad to say that I turned my momentous cultural experience and subsequent longing for community into the fuel for my mission to better the Asian community back at home.
Tr ilbl zing with
line. A loop-de-loop. Another two lines. A final couple of loop-de-loops that terminate with a dot right above, the same way I would meticulously dot my i’s and j’s in kindergarten.
And so continued the following phrases I had been instructed to write five times in Tamil school, followed by another five phrases written out on paper— and the whiteboard—just for good measure.
Growing up with friends from different parts of India, I’d frequently hear Indian languages as foreign to me as Greek or Portuguese would be. With 22 official languages and Hindi being the national language, Tamil was far from the only Indian language I was around. Most often, my South Indian ears would listen to my friends and their parents converse in Hindi, a North
(Tamil)
here and there, I was unable to grasp the language in conversations, let alone the Bollywood songs and movies that were so integral to my friends’ lives but unfamiliar to my own. I felt out of touch with my Indian culture, as it seemed to me at the time that Hindi was so connected to Indian heritage while I seldom heard any mention of my own Tamil language.
However, it wasn’t until the age of eleven or so that I would begin attending Tamil school, learning not only about the language’s nuances, but about the rich history of the Tamil language. It wasn’t long before my mind drifted from the endless curlicues and dots signifying hard consonants in my workbook. I was intrigued by the stories I was told from old Tamil literature and through old sayings that my family still recites to me today.
• Predated by Tamil Brahmi script which dates back as far as 700 BC, but we can see Old Tamil cave inscriptions from 400 BC
• Tamil influence spread to Southeast Asia and Africa through trade
• Tamil loanwords found in the Hebrew language
• Sangam literature contains poems from this period—nearly 3000!
• Area ruled by Chola empire
by Deeksha Sridher design/ Dan Pham
MIDDLE TAMIL (700-1600)
• Fairly similar to modern Tamil
• Pallava Dynasty
• Thousand-year-old Tamil inscriptions can be found in temples all over Tamil Nadu, such as Thanjavur temple
• Ancestor to Malayalam, which has many similarities to this day
Tamil language printed as early as 1578 — first Indian language to do so
MODERN
TAMIL (1600-present day)
Tamil words were loaned to English
On that same note, English syntax lent influence to Tamil language
Official language of India, Sri Lanka, and Singapore
Spoken frequently in Fiji, South Africa, Mauritius, and Malaysia
Fairly large population of speakers in Canada, the UK, and France — Toronto has the largest Tamil population outside of
The Tamil diaspora, needless to say, is quite expansive, as is its unique history. On my travels to places like Malaysia and Singapore, I was surprised to see my native language spoken as much as it was. On my trips to Canada and Cambodia, I was shocked that such countries could retain strong influences from Tamil culture, whether it be ingrained in the ancient architecture of Angkor Wat or in the suburban shops of Toronto and Vancouver. I never could have imagined my parents eagerly buying all sorts of South Indian spices and snacks from a Walmart in the middle
of Vancouver. Nor would I have pictured Tamil letters engraved into the coins I collected from my visit to Singapore. To see the language most familiar to me in other countries allowed me to reflect on how expansive Tamil culture really was—not just in the spectrum of time, but in the variety of places I found it.
The stories in my mind and the memories from my travels that I had accrued further motivated me to pursue the language of my ancestors. My once broken Tamil has now become more fluent and pronounced as I use my speaking skills with my immediate and extended family. Every time my parents watch videos and movies in Tamil,
I practice sounding out words and making sense of them to retain my reading abilities. More than ever, I work hard to integrate my native language into everyday habits so that one day, I can inspire my own children to learn Tamil and preserve our culture.
I am proud to say that I speak the oldest surviving language in the world. I am proud to speak a language that is not only an official language of India, but also of Sri Lanka, Singapore, with a significant presence in many other countries, both near India and farther than I could ever imagine. Most of all, I am proud to continue learning the language that has been passed through my family for generations, and I will strive to expand my horizons and pass it on to the generations to come.
“I’m still looking for soy sauce, ginger oil, sesame oil, and minced pork.”
A few seconds later, my mom’s response travels through the phone held tight against my ear. “Jìxù zhǎo, dàn shì zhǎo bù dào, qù wèn yī xià.” My mother instructs me to keep looking but to ask someone if I really can’t find it. Unfortunately, this is far from the first time I have received such advice.
“Yes, yes don’t worry, doing that now. I’ll head home after this. Bye!” Following my rapid-fire conversation ender, I sit and wait until I receive my mom’s farewell before tapping my smartphone’s power button to end the call.
As I return to my reality—a prehistoric Chinese grocery store with questionable lighting, walls decorated by ancient advertisements and an immeasurable amount of Lunar New Year lanterns—I realize that during the course of my phone call, I had drifted into the middle of the main hallway. My heart drops when I notice that an elderly Chinese man is struggling to navigate his cart around my pacing, so I muster up an apology in broken Mandarin before diving back into a smaller aisle.
Perhaps my escape from social embarrassment contains a hidden blessing, though, because I look up and read the words “Sauces” and “Oils” from the aisle marker, which means I’m one step closer to my escape
from the grocery store. I begin to scan the bottles of Asian flavorings, slowly making my way to the other end of the aisle. Unfortunately, I hit another roadblock: I can’t read Mandarin characters, so a solid majority of the bottles’ lettering is a mystery to me. But just as I begin to mourn the language barrier, I spot what may be one of my targets. A rectangular bottle with rounded edges and a short narrow neck, donning a red and gold gradient label— what a familiar sight!
In a slightly off tone, I “excuse me” and “sorry” my way through the growingly crowded aisle to reach my treasure, quickly snatching it up, but my linguistic inadequacies strike again. While I recognize the brand—I think—I still can’t read the big characters that must be the name of the item. I also can’t use visual translator apps because my phone doesn’t have enough space for anything but pictures at this point. Panic starts to creep its way into my head.
A hand taps my shoulder and points at the bottle I’m holding. As I turn to examine the new noise, I’m met with stunning words and an even more stunning sight.
“香油.” The words gracefully
escape the lips of the woman standing in front of me. I’m unsure whether she realizes the multi-faceted nature of the shock I just received, because all she does is offer a small smile and fidget with her right earring. Her sleek black hair falls effortlessly down her back, a curtain of royal beauty that only parts at her face in the form of neatly trimmed bangs. Wow. She’s stunning.
“Sesame oil?” She switches languages and tries again, and it hits me that she was trying to tell me what the bottle said.
“Yes, yes”— I trip over my own words, my accelerating heartbeat turning all normal functions into a struggle—“just what I’m looking for. Thanks for translating, I can’t read Mandarin.”
“Of course. Why would you come here if you can’t read though? 90% of the products are only labelled in Mandarin, and 100% of the employees converse in it,” she chuckles. She must think I’m either silly or just curious. I sure hope it’s the latter.
“Well, when it comes to Chinese dishes, this is the only grocery store my mom approves of, so I try to remember
by Rysun
Chu design/ Nuha Naveen
what the items look like and use that as my guide.”
“So you are Chinese….” She looks at me inquisitively. I wonder if zoo animals feel this way when an audience gathers around their enclosure. The silence and her thinking pose was beginning to grow a tad bit uncomfortable, so I decide to fill in the blanks.
“Yes, I’m half Chinese, half Filipino.” She’s about to speak, but I decide to cut her off and correct my white lie. After all, there’s no point in simplifying my ethnic makeup.
“I lied,” I laugh, because laughter makes most people follow suit with a chuckle instead of being upset that I fibbed. “I’m actually 37.5% Filipino and 62.5% Chinese. Big difference, huh?”
“Close enough,” she shrugs, before pausing and turning
any ideas. “I’m only barely conversational in Mandarin, though. And I can’t read or write.”
“That’s okay. Most Asian-Americans can’t even speak their native language,” she says, trying to make me feel better about myself assuming that she picked up on my wish to be fluent.
“It’s a little different for me though, since I had every opportunity to learn. Growing up”— I pause and sigh loudly, steeling myself to finish my sentence before overthinking gets in the way. “Growing up, my parents didn’t really treat me the best. It was nothing crazy, just a lot of the usual generational trauma that gets passed on. But I viewed running away from my culture as an escape from my family, hence my subpar linguistic skills.” As I continue my explanation, a small frown forms on my face. “So my reason for un-fluency feels particularly disrespectful.”
She sighs and looks at me in a comforting way. “I normally hate it when people claim to understand you, but I’m gonna be a bit of a hypocrite and say that I really do understand you. Since childhood, I was always compared to family members and family friends. I was expected to uphold family traditions, and any semblance of doubt or rebellion against our heritage earned me a brutal scolding.”
All I can do in response is nod. It’s unfortunate to think this, but it felt kind of nice to have someone who could relate. In this era of trendy influencers who have heartwarming stories about their Asian-ness, my painful experience growing up a minority felt invalidated
ate-ness of her upcoming words. “I don’t want to be a pseudo-therapist or act like I have all the answers, but have you tried communicating with them?”
I shake my head. “Because of how inflexible they are, it never seemed worth trying.”
“Is this you ‘not trying’?” She gestures to the shopping basket before snatching the sesame oil bottle out of my hand.
“I assume a college student like yourself isn’t cooking up a cultural feast for Lunar New Year all on your own. These ingredients are for your family
right?”
“It’s the least I can do, since I won’t be present anyway. I have plans tomorrow.” A sad little crinkle forms between my eyebrows. After retelling my plan, I feel a wave of guilt for my holiday absence, a raw emotion I hadn’t felt since informing my family a few days ago.
“I don’t want to intrude too much, but are those plans really more important than spending the holidays with your family?” She waits a second, before following up to her own question. “You don’t have to actually answer. Just take it from my experiences—since healing my relationship with family, my life has improved exponentially. A healthy family is a whole new level of support.”
Oddly, I don’t find it too strange that a stranger is giving me so much advice. Her words ring the bell of truth inside me, and I want to give her suggestions a try. “No promises, but I’ll try. Maybe things would be better if I had more initiative.” Decisions and potential scenarios float around my headspace as I prepare my next words. “You know what? I’ll begin with Lunar New Year dinner tomorrow.”
I extend the shopping basket towards her so she can put the bottle down before looking at her and nodding, confirming that I’m taking in her words.
“I hope it goes well.” She smiles warmly, before continuing. “Also—I’m sorry about that unsolicited advice. But anyway, my current concern about you is, how are you gonna find the rest of
your items?” She straight up laughs now. “I’ll come with you on your shopping trip then, ‘cause it looks like you need the help.”
Her confident air keeps me confused, as I’m unsure if she is flirting with me or just really likes to help strangers shop.
“Only if it’s okay with you though,” she adds, smiling as she tilts her head left, which I interpret as an indicator of a question.
“I could use the company.” I grin. “Next up is soy sauce.”
She nods and we make our way down the aisle. This is a novel experience for me, because usually most of my time at Chángshòu Chāoshì is spent on the phone with my mom asking vague questions about what products look like, aimlessly wandering and hoping for the occasional product labeled in English.
Meanwhile, the woman has already brought me to the exact area with different varieties of soy sauce, and is in the midst of translating each bottle and explaining the label. It’s incredible how she can switch between Mandarin and English so effortlessly, as smooth as if she’s just switching between informal and formal speech
feel sparks and listen to my heart’s intense drumming, but my desperation to check a box off my list keeps me going—along with the chance to make quick physical contact and gauge her reaction.
We both grab and pull the bottle out in unison, and stand there holding it between us midair. “Sorry about that—I didn’t notice, I was focused on the bottle,” I apologize for my slightly bold move.
“Don’t apologize, it was intentional on my part,” she smirks, batting her eyelids a little. “I’m flirting with you, dummy. If only you were as smart as you were cute.”
Before I react, she incorrectly assumes that I have a grasp on the bottle and lets go. In my state of shock from the sudden confession she had just blurted out, I also lose control of my hand and let go. Thankfully, my instincts kick in and I swiftly position the basket under the falling bottle. It lands neatly in place next to the sesame oil.
“So dramatic for what?” She rolls her eyes teasingly.
I feel locked out of my library of witty remarks, so I simply elect to chuckle as well, before I pull up
by Rysun Chu design/ Nuha Naveen
“Up next, ginger oil and minced pork.”
“Great, I know exactly where.” She grabs my wrist and pulls as she begins speeding to her destination, and I’m stunned yet again. I do admit, I appreciate how forward she is though. Her confidence is rather attractive.
The journey for the ginger oil and minced pork is largely the same, with a few minor developments. She takes me to the exact spot, translates, and we find more and more creative ways to briefly make contact with each other while we are shopping.
Soon, we find my last item, and for once in my life, I wish my grocery list was just one item longer. As we are standing side by side in the checkout lane, it dawns on me that I don’t even know her name right now. I turn to her and ask, “Nǐ jiào shénme?”
“Wǒ jiào Tiānshǐ. Nǐ ne?” Her sweet voice once again escapes her rose colored lips, as she shares her name—in English, Angel—and asks what mine is.
“I’m Yang Shan. Thanks for helping me shop by the way—this
my eyes again, “You’re pretty lucky to have the option to go home and celebrate Lunar New Year. Trust me.”
I assume that Angel is unable to go home and my heart sinks. But then an idea floats into my brain. What if I invited her for a Lunar New Year meal?
I clear my throat and work up my nerve. “I know we just met, but if my parents say yes, would you want to come over for our Lunar New Year dinner tomorrow night? I live right by the university, and in general, I would love to get to know you. You’re pretty cool.” I offer her a sincere smile.
“You know what? I would love to—about both things. You’re pretty cool too.” She grins, and a hint of laughter escapes.
We exchange phone numbers, and I call my mom to update her on not only my attendance and the groceries, but to also invite a guest for the holiday dinner.
A few dials, then explanations later, my mom asks her usual question. “Is she a friend?”
I notice the slight tonal raise in my mom’s words, suggest
ing that she suspects otherwise. “Sure.”
I leave it ambiguous, preventing an outright lie while still leaving room for future developments.
“Nǐ kěyǐ. Qù mǎi gèng duō de shícái.” She approves my wish and tells me to buy more ingredients in that case.
I turn to Angel and share the good news, and we put our groceries back in the basket while the previous customer finishes paying.
“Happy Early Lunar New Year,” I smile at her. I have never felt so thankful for this holiday before.
“Happy Early Lunar New Year to you too.”
She looks at me and smiles, then grazes her hand along mine. It’s not long before she gives in and fully grasps it. “Let’s finish shopping.”
STORIES BEFORE THESPARK:
INK Magazine was UF’s introduction to a journalistic focus on APIDA issues and is the first AsianInterest collegiate magazine in the state of Florida.
INK Magazine established the foundation that allowed UF’s current Asian interest magazine to thrive.
written by: Abby Renger
APIDA centered magazines are a source of community throughout universities across the country. Each magazine, however, would not have emerged without a catalyst: a small cohort of ambitious and hopeful students who felt a need for community fostered by this specific literary space. In the fall of 2008, a team of students’ aspirations and hard work laid the groundwork for what we now call Sparks Magazine. INK Magazine was UF’s introduction to a journalistic focus on APID issues and is the first Asian-Interest collegiate magazine in the state of Florida.
Introduction to the Editor
Amy Chow, UF alum, now lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, threeyear-old daughter, and eight-year-old Shiba Inu. Still, before she pursued a bachelor's in civil engineering at the University of Florida, a master's in transportation at the University of California, Berkeley and success in the tech industry, she was the passionate voice of a generation of APIDA UF students who decided that the APIDA voice needed to be represented and heard across campus.
In quintessential college fashion, the idea for INK magazine was sparked between roommates. As newly elected secretary of the Asian American Student Union (AASU), Chow was challenged by her roommate, Phillip Cheng, to address a deficiency in the UF APIDA community. In an interview, she recalls that she “felt that Asian Americans lacked representation in journalism at UF. [She saw] everyone
reading the Alligator on campus, but most of those stories [were] not representing people like [her]."
And with that idea planted, Chow got to work. She likens the process of starting a magazine from ground zero to that of running a startup. There was no shortage of obstacles, the greatest being fundraising. Her goal was to distribute physical copies of the magazine, an element that would make the magazine’s presence more tangible. She attributes the success of the process to the system of support she received from her friends, collaborators and even community leaders:
“Thankfully our advertising staff was phenomenal and together — through proceeds from ads to local businesses, donations from alumni/students, taxsavings from being affiliated with the university and negotiations with the printing company — we succeeded in publishing paper copies of our first edition.”
By the end of her senior year, the first edition of INK magazine was published.
design by/
Celine
Hui publicity/
Shreya Shanmugam
Through this medium, APIDA community members can find their voice in a population of students that may not be very representative of their beliefs.
Are Asian-Interest Magazines Too Common?
In an article written for the Asian American Arts Alliance (A4) Magazine, “The Amp,” author Mimi Wong discusses the continuous founding of Asian-interest magazines. A question arises about why this is such a popular form of chosen expression for APIDA youth and whether each new magazine is a tired repetition of what has been done before. Wong suggests that regardless of whether these newly founded magazines are tackling the same issues or not, the magazine space is valuable because APIDA students are able to have their own versions of what may be familiar discussions. A singular topic can inspire an infinite number of perspectives. Student media gives students a platform to engage with their community in addition to expressing their thoughts and opinions in a more developed manner. Through this medium, APIDA community members can find their voice in a population of students that may not be very representative of their beliefs.
Chow seems to agree. When asked about the impact of INK Magazine, she felt a palpable appreciation for the community that it brought together.
“Everyone showed so much heart and dedication to the magazine. It was as much my baby as it was theirs. I think back to that time with so much gratitude. It is a feeling I will chase for the rest of my life. It really felt like we were all working as a team for the greater good — even though it is just a magazine, it felt like we were making a difference in the world.”
On a grand scale, it may seem every Asian interest magazine serves the same purpose on each college campus, but it is undeniable that each student involved in the publication is able to derive their own unique experience and value from the journalistic practice and community.
Bringing the Experience With Her
Although Chow did not major in journalism nor pursue a career in journalism, her experience with INK Magazine has served her well post-graduation. Not only did the experience show “a nontechnical side” of her that her first employer valued, but she was able to use her skills to contribute to a publication at that same job. It is evident that the value of being a member of INK or Sparks Magazine will persist no matter what career path one chooses. As a message to current and future Sparks Magazine staff and AASU members, she leaves them with this: “Keep doing what you're doing! And most importantly, have fun! Everyone has a story to tell or something to say, and you never know who your words or content will positively impact.”
A Welcome Transition
“Keep doing what you're doing! And most importantly, have fun! Everyone has a story to tell or something to say, and you never know who your words or content will positively impact.”
- Amy Chow
In 2010, Sparks Magazine was founded by Kevina Lee, with its first issue being published in 2011. In the time since, Sparks has grown to be an organization with over 60 active members that regularly publishes an issue each fall and spring. Protecting this space for APIDA voices has been especially important since the recent attack on DEI initiatives and identity-specific spaces of support on campus. With the inspiration and support of the founders of INK Magazine, Sparks strives to continue its mission to be a pillar in the UF APIDA community as an amplifier of APIDA student voices.
YOU’VE JUST BEEN
INKED!
Filial Piety in a
Changing World:
Filial piety, a deep respect and care for family, elders, and ancestors, is a fundamental virtue in many Asian cultures.
From welcoming multigenerational households and providing financial support, to ensuring their overall well-being, filial pi-
The Evolution of Eldercare in the Asian
Diaspora
In the Asian diaspora, Western ideals of individualism and the pursuit to establish financial independence can clash with the expectation of caregiving. Many first-generation immigrants may find themselves torn between ety and supporting their aging parents who may still reside in their home country. As a result, families may turn to alternative solutions such as temporary home care assistance, long-term home care, or assisted living facilities. Meanwhile, second-generation immigrants who were raised in a different cultural environment from their parents, often have different perspectives on what it means to uphold filial piety and expectations on what caring for
As filial piety adapts to changing times and contexts, what does the future of eldercare look like for members of the Asian diaspora, and how is it evolving in the modern context?
by Samhita Challa design/ Tram Nguyen
Of Ripples and Reflections
Arya had been writing letters for as long as he could remember. To his future-self, to classmates that irritated him one too many times, to relatives that had long since passed away. Many he would keep in a shoebox that stayed shoved to the back of his closet. Others he would rip to shreds or bury somewhere he was sure they would never be found.
However, recently, he had begun to send them.
Sometimes, the letters he sent would ramble on about nothing at all, words strung together carelessly. Other times, it would be stories and poems that came to him during long, sleepless nights. Lately, though, his letters had only been about what he could have had— anemoia, a quick search had told him. The feeling of nostalgia, held for something he had never actually experienced.
Don’t be silly. The response would come in perfect cursive and grammar, the type that could only be forged through learning English as a second language. To concern yourself with idealizing such silly, inconsequential things is pointless. Do you know what many would give to be you? What I would give to be where you are?
Arya frowned at the words inked onto the paper in front of him.
You brute, he began writing. He paused. Sighed and set his pen down before crumpling the paper up and throwing it at his wastebasket. He missed.
He knew why his parents had left everything they had known behind, coming
to a foreign land, stumbling through a language that sat awkwardly on their tongues and enduring the loss of all that was familiar to them. And he knew that he had gained many new experiences from the opportunities that his parent’s choice had brought him. So it wasn’t like Arya didn’t understand where Minh was coming from. She lived in a country not unlike the one his parents had immigrated from. And they had left their home because of the exact same predicament Minh was now in. But still, her letters spelled out a life he never lived. From the impromptu visits of friends and family alike to the days spent wandering around a small town and visiting all of the street stalls. A lifetime of habits, etched into the crow’s feet of the elders, the calluses of young adults and the giggles of the children. He may have never known it to be his, but Arya couldn’t help but picture it for himself. He thought back to the letters she had sent before, the ones talking about hoards of people, family and friends alike, that would visit every so often, welcomed into Minh’s home with a big smile and a lifetime of memories.
by Sanjana Nallapati design/ Khoi Vu
Arya looked around his room. It wasn’t colorless, but it might as well have been. The vividity of his life paled without the memory of others to share it with. He thought back to his parents home, not unlike the college dormitory he currently resided in now. Long hours at work kept his parents away so a permanent sense of loneliness stained every memory he had of it, from the basement to his bedroom.
Arya knew that he was probably projecting his own idea of Minh’s life onto his friend. That he was likely glamorizing the very things that burdened Minh. But he also knew that this was a two-way street, a game played by two people who were reflections of each other. If Arya and Minh had to be two sides of the same coin, then it was because they were the same type of person making different choices based on the cards their fates had dealt them.
This was something that Arya had come to understand, not long after they had decided to become pen pals for fun. It started as a way of sending each other little physical trinkets that reminded them of one another and quickly turned into one of Arya's favorite ways of spending his free time. Arya knew he was projecting, but he couldn’t stop himself from feeling as if the four walls surrounding him were closing in on him. It made him feel like the loneliest person in the world, slowly
isolating him even from his own thoughts, static beginning to set in their place.
Those four walls are the accomplishments of your entire life, built up to keep you safe. Arya could see Minh’s beautiful calligraphy writing those words out in some corner of his mind. Go out into the city and recognize all that’s now within your reach.
I can’t remember what my uncle sounds like. Arya wrote once, an admission that he was too scared to say out loud. And what better way to avoid speaking things into existence than by writing them out? I haven’t seen my elderly neighbor in years. What if she doesn’t recognize me anymore? What if she’s passed and I’m left without being able to say goodbye?
What good are goodbyes when there exists no time for it? I feel myself wasting away here. Arya, I do not know how much longer I will be able to stomach this sensation of helplessness that claws at me. Another admission. One that Minh had scratched out bits and pieces of, hesitant over sending. Arya grimaced. He looked up then, to look at the number of drawings that Minh had sent him over the past couple of years, detailed blueprints of machinery that would never see the light of day if this kept up.
It was nearing three years since Arya had first spoken to Minh. He had been searching for someone to help him with an electromagnetism problem and he had thrown the question out into a random art forum that he had joined on a whim. He would never entirely know what exactly had compelled him to do that, but Minh had responded within minutes and the rest was history.
It was unfair that someone as brilliant as Minh had to stay at home to take care of her ailing grandparents and baby siblings while her parents worked long hours. It was
unfair that she couldn’t attend a university to pursue her education. It was unfair that Arya felt pressured into studying his current degree for the sake of nothing more than prestige, as if he was a mere puppet. It was worse that he was jealous of Minh's life when too many people sacrificed their comfort and years of their lives to put him where he was now.
Minh belonged in a place like this, Arya knew. Somewhere where she could run into the nearest library and find any of the many books Arya knew she would understand within a fraction of the time it would take him to simply read it.
Arya also knew that Minh was above jealousy. She would never choose to condemn Arya by trading places with him. But Arya wished he could. To wake up with the birds and have a slow morning over a game of chess with his grandfather, to chase his baby cousins through fields of flowers, to help his mother in the kitchen while the rest of their family conversed in the living room. He stares at the tiny dining table and tries to imagine more than his solitary chair being filled—it was a failed endeavor.
Arya laid his head down on his desk, staring at the notes he had scrawled over the mass of papers over the flat surface without understanding any of them. His head throbbed at the mere sight of them. Flipping his head over, Arya let out a sigh that made him feel like his soul was trying to leave his body.
On the other side, a picture of his parents smiled back at him and Arya winced at the reminder of the expectations that he had to live up to. He shifted again, choosing to lay face down, the cool edge of the desk chilling his head a little. He would regret falling asleep like that, but that wasn’t a problem for his current self. His quota for regrets was quickly running out of space to be filled with something as silly as this.
So, with a pounding behind his eyes and a heart as heavy as rock, Arya fell asleep.
Arya knew he was dreaming, in the way he knew his stomach wasn't supposed to feel like jelly, in the way he knew he had never seen the lake in front of him before, only heard of it through Minh's letters, and in the way he knew he had never sat down next to the girl that was currently watching birds fly over the shimmering blue waves.
Arya smiled and flopped backward onto the soft grass, letting the warm afternoon sun soothe his tense muscles.
"...I'm jealous of you, you know." He spoke after several long moments of silence.
"And I, you." Minh turned to him then, grinning down at him.
"Liar." Arya pouted and Minh laughed.
"It's true!" She denied, fingers playing with the embroidery at the hem of her dress.
"No," Arya sighed in mock wisdom. "It's not the same level of jealousy at all. You're only stuck momentarily. You'll find a way out, no matter what you need to do. Even if it takes you years."
A pause before Minh peered down at him,
by Sanjana Nallapati design/ Khoi Vu
eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "Will you not?"
Arya hesitated. "I don't know, Minh. I barely speak my family's language. I haven't talked to anyone at home in years..."
Minh faced the lake again. "Why don't you reassess what you want to prioritize then?"
She continued, "I know you want to visit home and find a life that is more reminiscent of what your parents grew up with, but you understand that they gave it up for you, right?"
A part of Arya wanted to bristle at the underlying implication that he wasn't doing enough to pay back what his family gave him. But a bigger part of him knew that he had already worn through this same conversation with himself over and over again. He was exhausted from running through the same argument by this point.
He didn't respond. A few beats of silence passed between them.
"Why pick, though?" Minh asked finally.
Arya opened his eyes to look at her. "What do you mean? How can I have both? I'm no genius and I don't have an infinite amount of energy and time at my disposal."
"No, but you do have decades. You have years to spend making your family proud while you slowly work towards the life you want." Minh picked a stone up and threw it into the lake. Arya sat up to watch it skip several steps before slowly sinking. Arya thought that if he looked into the lake's reflection right around now, he would see a mirror-life, one that held everything that he wanted now. He wondered what Minh's reflecting universe would look like.
"But the—"
"Arya." Minh cut him off. "Do you want it?"
Arya fell silent. "What about you, then?"
Minh hummed noncommittally and Arya winced as the sun grew brighter, straining his eyes against the increasing glare.
"Ask me again when you're awake."
-o-
Arya woke up with a gasp.
He was right, falling asleep at his desk was something he regretted. The crick in his neck and the sore muscles of his back attested to that.
He stretched, arms over his head while he blinked away his exhaustion while shoving his haphazardly strewn papers to the side.
Five minutes later, he was back at his desk, a cold glass of water in hand as he took out a new sheet of paper and began writing.
UNFAIR &
From a young age, I was constantly reminded of my medium, yet rich caramel skin tone by family members, family friends, and peers. Every time I looked in the mirror, the one feature I would notice was how uneven my skin tone was, specifically the dark under-eye circles and hyperpigmentation around my face that I inherited from my father. Every time I fell asleep, I would hope that they would magically disappear in the morning. At school, many of my white and lighter skinned peers could not understand my uneven, dark skin tone and often thought I looked tired or was wearing dark eyeshadow on purpose. This fueled my insecurity, which followed me into my teenage years. I would make sure I didn’t go out into the sun for too long, constantly look into reflective surfaces to inspect my face to see if I had gotten any darker, or research makeup or skincare treatments so I could try to improve the appearance of my hyperpigmentation. Over time, I had become increasingly fixated on these insecurities. Words were just words to my peers, but they had dug deep under my skin, and I could not get them off my mind. I was made to feel as though it was my fault for having my skin tone, as if I was not taking good care of my face—I felt that my natural complexion was a burden placed upon me.
As I got older, I got better at determining what skincare and makeup products looked and worked best for me. Yet, I still felt insecure about my skin, worrying about if it was too dull or if someone would comment on my hyperpigmentation. It felt unfair that I had to try so hard to ensure my skin looked its best at all times, which drove me to implement different serums and other skincare products into my skincare routine, hoping at least some of them would help or get rid of the hyperpigmentation. Additionally, I also used a few different concealers and powders in my makeup routine to mask up the hyperpigmentation, as there is not one solid foundation and concealer that will provide me full coverage. As I struggled with my hyperpigmentation, I started to question the beauty standards in my culture, and its origins. Where had they come from? Why was darker skin viewed in such a negative light?
The history of colorism in South Asian countries is deeply rooted in casteism and colonialism. Prior to British colonization, the caste system was established, which divided Indians based on their overall status, such as economic class, occupation, and skin color, according to History.com. The upper caste, most notably Brahmins, were the top of the caste system, meaning they were wealthy, had fair skin, and had more privilege. The lower castes, such as the Sudras and the Dalits were at the bottom of the caste system, meaning they had much
darker skin and were impoverished. Since the members of the wealthy upper caste spent less time in the sun, they had fairer skin, unlike the impoverished lower caste who worked tirelessly under the sun doing laborious jobs. Thus, fair skin was seen as a symbol of wealth and became associated with beauty and desirability. During British colonization, the caste system and its colorism became more heavily reinforced.This further ingrained the idea that lighter skin was superior, which led to the desire to imitate British beauty standards within Indian society. The upper castes were highly favored among the British due to their close proximity in skin color, which gained them leadership positions. Even after decolonization and the caste system being outlawed, the preference for fair skin is still deeply ingrained within many South Asian countries. For a country like India, where the majority of the population comes in many shades of brown, it is ironic how lighter skin is so idealized—no thanks to the media. In Bollywood, the protagonists are always fair skinned, with the antagonists having much darker complexions. In Tollywood, at least, you might expect the protagonists to have darker skin since many South Indians have a deeper complexion. However, it’s the same unfortunate case as with Bollywood. Many Indian film producers seek out actors and actresses with pale skin for main roles, even if someone with darker skin is more talented, which diverts films from having true representation.
Beyond the film industry, the marketing industry also plays a role in promoting colorism through various multimedia platforms, such as advertisements, physical posters, and magazine features. I particularly remember one company’s commercial for a skin lightening cream called Fair & Lovely, which often played on Indian TV channels. In these commercials, there was usually a girl with dark and dull skin who discovered a skin lightening cream called Fair & Lovely. When she applied the cream, she was able to get more job opportunities, attention from men, and overall treated better by society. Fair and Lovely is just one of the many skin lightening/whitening products that dominate the multi-billion dollar industry in South Asia, meaning people see advertisements for such products everywhere, pushing ideas that dark and dull skin is something that must be “fixed” in order to be validated by society. Fair and Lovely later changed their name to Glow & Lovely, which is a step towards the right direction, even though its purpose of being a skin lightening product remains. Social media is another agent that perpetuates these colorist biases. When I used Tiktok, I noticed that when South Asian girls posted makeup transitions, their comment sections would be full of hateful comments on how much they looked like
“Beware of the sun, you don't want to get too dark.”
they were catfishing, or would make fun of their natural skin tone. I remember one particular case where a South Indian girl with significant hyperpigmentation and dark skin received all sorts of rude comments about her skin looking “weird” before the makeup. Another beauty content creator on TikTok, Monica Ravichandran, made a video on her trip to South India where she went to a couple of cosmetic stores. There, she found there was an extreme lack of dark shade ranges in foun- dations and concealers. She theorized that this was because most Indian women wear foundation that is much lighter than their actual skin tone, due to these standards of fairness in the country, as well as the fact that makeup is seen as a luxury in India because of the high rates of poverty. Going back to the history of colorism once again, a fair skin tone symbolizes status and wealth for Indian people, which was always bizarre to me since I could never imagine determining someone’s worth by the color of their skin. It is very harmful for young South Asians to see other people on the internet with similar skin tones get made fun of and have these thoughts of skin tone reflecting their worth, as it can plant a deeply-rooted insecurity within them. However, many South Asian creators are acknowledging this issue by painting dark skin and hyperpigmentation as something that is completely beautiful and natural, and not as something to be ashamed of. Most notably, there has been an upwards trend in more inclusive beauty brands such as Kulfi Beauty and Live Tinted, which are South Asian owned and are curated for deeper complexions, as well as being hyperpigmentation friendly. Our generation can work to ensure that South Asians of the future do not have such ideas in-
grained in their minds, affecting how they view themselves and others. This starts with educating ourselves on the history of colorism, understanding its implications, and critically examining how certain comments and actions can impact one’s self-esteem and confidence. Hopefully, we will also see Indian movies with dark skinned protagonists, and overall more dark-skin South Asian representation soon. It is my utmost hope that more South Asians will fully embrace their skin tone, the hyperpigmentation that comes with it, and not let society determine their worth simply based on the color of their skin.
My personal journey with facing this insecurity has been tough, but I have been embracing my skin more and more as I get older. After seeing many influencers on social media who looked like me embrace their skin tone and received support from peers, I realized that I did not need to try so hard to “fix” my skin for the approval of others, but rather do small things to help enhance my skin and hyperpigmentation, which would give me confidence. My message is to get that new blush if you feel that it compliments your skin tone, try a new face mask or serum that you think will help your skin health, try a new makeup look that enhances your features, or go bare-faced with no makeup on at all. Do whatever makes YOU feel confident and good, because at the end of the day it is your skin. You do not need to listen to an aunty telling you that something is wrong or making you feel like you will miss out on opportunities because of your skin. At the end of the day, it is wonderful to embrace being unfair and lovely!
When I first arrived in the United States as an international student from Azerbaijan, a predominantly Euroasian country, the transition was a whirlwind of emotions. At first, I faced difficulties in adapting to the strong sense of individualism prevalent in American culture due to my collectivistic Azerbaijani background. Over time, I found ways to connect the patterns of my cultural identity with my newly found college student identity. Through the transition of college life, I was able to meet people from different backgrounds, cultures, and values. I still remember the first day I arrived on campus. The hot climate, blooming trees, beaming sun, and vibrant clothes of the people felt surprisingly festive. It was as if the students were celebrating the beginning of a college semester that would consist of endless studying, all-nighters, and huge caffeine intake, instead of dreading it. Nevertheless, despite how absurd the situation had seemed to me, I still felt that this strange place could one day become my second home. In the beginning, I found it difficult to adjust to the casual nature of relationships in the U.S. In Azerbaijan, social interactions tend to be formal, especially with
people who are not close friends or family. However, in the U.S., small talk is the most important factor in building friendships. Greeting strangers, and even striking small conversations in cafeterias, lecture halls, or student centered spaces like the MSC, is a normal part of social life as a student in the U.S. As an international student from a collectivist culture where I was always surrounded by a big family, relatives, and friends, learning how to navigate this new environment was essential in helping me find lifelong friendships during college. While I faced cultural and social differences in these relationships, I still found amazing people who brought out the best in me. These close relationships brightened up my college experience.
Food culture was an other major aspect of adaptation. I grew up with the savory, aromatic dishes of Azerbaijani cuisine, often served in large family gatherings. In the U.S., I found the food culture to be more focused on convenience, with fast food and packaged meals being prevalent options. Although American food was new and interesting, nothing could compare to the warmth and depth of my mother’s home-cooked plov, a dish where grain rice steamed with saffron on top and a layer of golden crust called Gazmag (in
Azeri: qazmaq) at the bottom. Traditionally, the crust is made with eggs, flour, butter, and yogurt. This dish is also popular globally like Central Asia, and some parts of the Middle East.
“Over time, I learned to bridge the gap between my Azerbaijani upbringing and my new life in the U.S. ”
- Nigar Sadigzade
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Nigar Sadigzade design/ Macon Knoblock
Another aspect of food that surprised me was coffee, an American favorite. The debate between coffee and tea is a popular one around the world. My country sides with tea, shown in our special tea-brewing technique, usually saved for hot summer days. On such occasions, we use a Samovar, a large pipe running through the center of a teapot, while extra heat from this pipe is vented upward to warm a teapot full of highly concentrated tea. Samovars are traditionally fueled with slow-burning coal or pine cones to keep the water hot as long as possible. When served, the tea-concentrate is mixed in a 1 to 10 ratio (depending on your preference) with hot water tapped from the faucet located near the bottom of the samovar. It is also capable of holding enough tea for the day and keeping its contents warm, perfect for serving a large number of guests. As you can see, the value of community is built into Azerbaijani culture, from our customs to the purpose of the equipment we use to make a simple tea. As such, I found myself facing the challenge of combating my homesickness while adapting to the new socio-cultural environment here. This inspired me to create cultural events with the Azerbaijani community at USF in order to stay connected to my heritage.
Together, we created a cultural club—the Azerbaijani Student Association—where we hosted different aspects of our culture. For example, we celebrated Nowruz, the traditional festival of celebrating new year of Azerbaijan and other Middle-Eastern and Central Asian countries, in
which we played traditional games such as coloring eggs and battling them. The one who cracks the opponent’s egg gets to win. We also shared sweets such as shekerbura, qogal, and pakhlava—Azerbaijani pastries filled with a sweet mixture of ground nuts, sugar, and spices, wrapped in a delicate dough and baked until golden. Our community also had a chance to show some traditional attire
such as Kalaghayi, a set of colorful dresses designed with a pattern of buta, a flame or teardrop shape with curves that give it an elegant, flowy look. It’s sometimes compared to a stylized paisley shape, symbolizing growth, circular flow of eternity, and renewal. These events helped me connect with both American and other international students who wanted to know more about Azer baijani culture and were happy to share their own. I learned about so many places, sweets, customs and traditions that I was only familiar with on a surface level before. Over time, I learned to bridge the gap bet ween my Azerbaijani upbringing and my new life in the U.S. Just like with how the buta symbolizes renewal and growth, my adaptation to American college life is continuous and everlasting, creating opportunities of personal growth through exploring different cultures, acquiring new languages and skills every day. The moment you think you have finished your journey, there will always be a new aspect of culture that you will find waiting for you to explore.
BO OOD: THE HEARTBEAT O INDIAN CINEMA
A Fever Dream of Color, Music and Cinematic Excess
Lights, camera, and all eyes on the world of Bollywood. A place where color isn’t seen—it’s felt. A riot of shimmery golds and reds meeting electric blues. A soundscape where tablas drum to the rhythm of your heartbeat and bansuris whisper the romantic secrets of a thousand love stories. Bollywood is more than just an industry. The genre is a sensory overload, a mix of great grandeur, and sentimentality. It’s a slow-motion twirl of a heroine’s chiffon saree, the dramatic zoom-in before a lover’s confession, the synchronized choreography of a hundred dancers moving as one.
As you immerse yourselves, you’ll hear the echoes of its influence everywhere. The intoxicating sway of a sitar in a Western pop song, the unapologetic melodrama of a music video that owes its DNA to Bollywood romance, the bold maximalism of a fashion moment that screams filmi. Bollywood is a language, mood, and a fever dream that refuses to fade.
How Bollywood Became a Behemoth
In 1913, Indian cinema released Raja Harishchandra, a silent film that marked the beginning of the industry’s search for their voice. It wasn’t long before they found it—one that sang, danced, and wept. Inspired by ancient epics, folk tales, and a dash of Hollywood musicals, the genre became something entirely its own—part spectacle, part sentiment, but all heart.
As the ‘50s rolled in, Bollywood had already solidified itself as an empire within Indian film. Thus, the golden age was born, releasing films such as Mughal-e-Azam, which dripped in opulence. Mother India, released in 1957, carried the weight of a nation. Finally, there’s Shree 420, which gave us the pyaar hua iqruar hua moment we all still swoon thinking about. At its height, Bollywood was a dream factory churning out emotion on an industrial scale.
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Aditi Patel design/ Santoshi Gondhi
The Global Love Affair
Fast forward to the 1990s, and Bollywood isn’t just India’s obsession, but a global affair. In fact, the West has been sneaking notes from its playbook for decades. This is evident when we look at how Bollywood beats crept into pop charts, whether through Jay-Z sampling Chaiyya Chaiyya or Britney Spears borrowing sitar riffs. Madonna once draped herself in desi glamour at the 1998 MTV Video Music Awards, and Beyonce danced in Bollywood-inspired sequences in the music video for Hymn for the Weekend by Coldplay in 2016. Even Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge! felt like a feverish love letter to Bollywood’s splendor.
We absolutely cannot forget Slumdog Millionaire, the legendary Western-made film that borrowed Bollywood’s energy, melodrama, and relentless optimism, earning itself an Oscar. Even TikTok trends have caught onto Bollywood’s iconic elements. One standout example is Poo’s legendary backless scene from Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, where she confidently asks, “Tell me how I’m looking?” and, when questioned about her outfit, shuts it down with the iconic “It’s backless.” This scene has inspired many lip-synced videos, with creators channeling her sass and unapologetic confidence. Another major trend is the Kala Chasma dance challenge from Baar Baar Dekho, where groups perform synchronized choreography to the energetic beat. The exaggerated facial expressions? Hip-thrusting dance moves? Definitely straight out of a Bollywood playbook.
Bollywood isn’t just influencing Western sounds, but it’s transforming it. Shape-shifting, reappearing where you least expect in the extravagant visuals of Doja Cat’s music video, the instrumentals starting LOONA’s title track Paint the Town, and the maximalist fashion revival sweeping runways.
The genre is loud, it’s proud, and it’s here.
Bollywood’s Eternal Spotlight
Unlike what you may say about trends, Bollywood doesn’t fade. It reinvents. It reemerges and takes center stage with a knowing wink. A swirl of fabric, a crescendo of violins, and suddenly the world is watching again. Whether it’s a neon-lit music video, a slow hair flip of a K-pop stage, or a fashion week runway dripping in sequins and embroidery, one thing is for sure—Bollywood’s magic is forever.
