space - ISSUE 13

PORTRAIT space

PORTRAIT issue #13: fall 2024 space

cover design: Jill Wong | collage: Fallon Dern

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Table of Contents 05 Letter from the Editor in Chief

20 The Space Between Us Ashley Kim

06 Family Portrait

22 The Eye Apollo Marks

08 Syzygy

23 Remains

Ulysses Bergel

Lena Lee

10 Solitary Star

24 sun & moon

Arman Rasool

12 across the Pacific Wanders Isabel Rhee

13 After Thought Caris Lee

14 Ruinous Ahona Dam

15 Monica & Alyssa Alyssa Gu

16 I, GLU

Jadon-Sean Sobejana

27 right now Sohyoung Jeong

28 between words, between us Nicole Gao

32 A Little Cosmonaut Zoe North

34 To Take Space Celeste Agulay

35 The Things We Hold

Andrew Chu

Cody Hoang

18 Two Moons

36 Folds of Space

Fallon Dern

04

Joy Zhang

Dear reader, Before you get lost in our wonderful thirteenth issue, I want to start off with a planet-sized thank you to each and every contributor, and to you who is about to flip through these wonderful pages right now. This magazine has always been a home for some of the most creative, compassionate, and amazing artists and fellow students I have ever met during my time at Vassar. And this issue is testament to exactly that, to the home that it has created for me time and time again. What an honor it is to say that!

Table of Contents

Portrait is an ever-evolving place and community for AAPIDA students and their stories. So, I’m beyond ecstatic to share that our theme for this issue is an exploration of just that– space. For the past few months, we’ve asked our contributors to engage with this concept deeply, to reflect on every usage of the word and what it means to them. What exists in your space? In our space? What can you access and grow in that space?

Having the privilege to see them engage in this, I’ve watched the Portrait community take their perspectives, experiences, and art to bravely mesh them into something raw and evocative. In this magazine, you’ll witness the galaxy of beautiful, rich, and honest pieces that showcase everything Portrait represents. A medium for identity, for expression.

It’s with great honor that I present to you space. As you explore the worlds embedded throughout these pages, I hope you’ll join me in getting lost in each and every piece.

As always, thank you to everyone who contributed and made this issue possible, as it would be nothing without your time, passion, and dedication to this absolutely special publication that is Portrait.

With love, Sohyoung Jeong, Editor-In-Chief

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Family Portrait michelle

nicole

alyssa

amrintha

zoe

ashley

arman

kt tina ai

anni

nicolette

sj

christian

kaelen

cody

executive board

writers/project leads

editor-in-chief: Sohyoung Jeong content editor: Ulysses Bergel creative director: Jill Wong design lead: Fallon Dern lead producer: Christian Wolke launch liaison: Katherine Wu social media: Nicole Gao treasurer: Anni Yu

Celeste Agulay Ulysses Bergel Andrew Chu Ahona Dam Fallon Dern Nicole Gao Alyssa Gu Cody Hoang Ashley Kim

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editors Sohyoung Jeong Caris Lee Lena Lee Apollo Marks Zoe North Arman Rasool Isabel Rhee Jadon-Sean Sobejana Joy Zhang

Tina Ai Ulysses Bergel Kai Chang Sohyoung Jeong Quinn Kou Brian Li Michelle Mei Riddhit Mitra Tina Ni

caris

david

jill

aijia

fallon

celeste

apollo

andrew

riddhit

ulysses

lena

designers Nicolette Wu Katherine Wu Aijia Zou

tori

sofia

tina ni

Joy Bai Andrew Chu Fallon Dern Cody Hoang Tori Kim Miranda Liu Zoe North Arman Rasool Sofia Satuito

Jill Wong Victoria Xia Anni Yu Joy Zhang

producers

social media

Christian Wolke

Celeste Agulay Ahnaf Ahmed Teada Chhem Nicole Gao Riddhit Mitra Kaelen Morales David Raet 07

SYZYGY JAWS SUN AROUND THE

치숙, 할머니 (Grandmother), were you once a part of another alignment? A young sun that stared up at the moon with all the same tender intensity as your counterpart now. Whether or not you were, you know all the clamor that comes with this event. The articles and arrangements that come with the solar eclipse. But, did they really look into the sky? Did everyone who doubted you really witness you?

When did the first contact begin and the satellite began to pass across the star? Was it when you and six siblings passed through the wartorn dark? Was it when you were turned from left to right handed, a natural inclination turned to an auxiliary? Was it when you watched as your aspirations were swept away, all to make sure you would be wed? The shadows cast by these doubts and regrets hang over you, and so many look right into them without the right lenses. All that does is blind them to the truth.

Darkened and diminished, your light has still won out. A corona of light and determination has seen you exalted in ways that few can understand without witnessing it. You’re still expected to yield in all the little, petty ways that they expect you to. But, tired as you are, your light is harder to block out than they think. Despite the countless struggles, you remind the world of what could have been with a smile that feels younger than it is. You shaped and sculpted the future into something in the image of the ones you love, even if it pulled you closer to totality.

The solar eclipse is an omen for a reason, and you prove it in more ways than one. In a twisted way, how can we not see all the tangled threads of possibility? You are a walking portent of what could have been - a headmistress, a hierophant, a star. For once, though, the hubris of trying to snuff out one light has only seen another grow more radiant. You have a granddaughter, a moon that knows your light is seen in her, and she would sooner break the world than be blotted out. It’s her that stares up at you with all the loving intensity of inevitability itself.

Were you once in another alignment? When did it start? For all the questions, the answers are found in your bearing. You are more than a story to grieve over and opportunities denied, and it’s only the blind who stare into those shadows. You are the shaper of worlds and futures, wearing a corona built of all the determination and subtle touches of a past shaping the future.

No matter the shadow being cast - your light creeps around the edges, you only grow warmer, you only show the world more of how great you are and could have been.

08

YG Y ZY S JAWS MOON

Written by: Ulysses Bergel Edited by: SJ Jeong Designed by: Joy Zhang

AROUND THE

치숙, 여동생 (Younger sister), they say it skips a generation, and they were right. It would take two cycles, but the world would see another “once in a lifetime” event - they’d see the lunar eclipse. They can see the alignment of the star and satellite, but how many of them are ready for it - ready for you?

That light of yours is so close to the sun’s that it frightens people, and you know it. You know it because you’ve heard it over and over again. No matter the source, though, you know that you’re so much more than just a reflection of the sun’s light. That just happens to be what people see when they lay eyes on you.

You are all the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’ of the solar eclipse, the hopes and dreams made manifest, not reflected. Decades of regret and doubt and shame are quieted with a judgemental look that feels older than it is. All the old shackles - the time, the place, the people - are banished into the dark, outside your radiance, to somewhere that they can’t trouble you. Let them hide there, burdened by the same ties that they would use to bind you and make you what you aren’t: a reflection.

There is a reason why they call the lunar eclipse a blood moon, and you’re a constant reminder of how that name was earned. They expect gentleness from the moon, but your light works in sharp angles. You cut lines and demarcate boundaries, carving the here and now into a shape that suits your future. Your every act is a challenge, demanding an answer.

Failure to provide one only draws your fury.

It skips a generation, they say. You look so alike, they say. They don’t know half of the truth, now do they? There is more than a reflection of the sun’s light, more than a ghost of the past, that frightens people who know you both. You are all the unfettered hopes and dreams of a sun that has been blotted out, all the rage and cutting edges of a present ready for a future that was long-since denied. You have a grandmother, a sun that prays that you will do more than reflect her light, and she feels all of your intensity. After all, she had it once, too.

No matter the shadow being cast - you only grow brighter, you only grow colder, you only give them more reason to set you loose.

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ARMAN RASOOL

Solitary Star Edited by TINA NI

Designed by VICTORIA XIA

As I lie down in my bed, blinds closed and lights off, I am shut away from the eyes of the world. The air in me expels. Not a release of stress, but the draining of vigor from my body. I am in an airlock. The pressures of the world gone, but nothing to breathe in; no breast of air to hold and savor. Floating in this room, the doors snap open: I am cast into space.

Thrown into its vastness, I am alone. The stars scattered around me twinkle, named and observed. The planets glow with life, inhabited by those familiar to me. Yet, I cannot say I am one of them. If I truly was, my feet would be planted on earth, experiencing life around me. Instead, I am here. Floating between planets, only able to look on.

I was born half-Pakistani, half-Iranian. My parents always spoke of their homes with joy in their eyes: the foods they ate, the friends they had, the natural beauty they saw. They loved who they were, and where their heart belonged. I envied that love. They were too busy with their work to teach me either of their languages. A younger me could only nod and smile when my grandfathers spoke to me. I saw their joy fade, knowing we could never understand each other apart from exchanging simple “hellos” and “goodbyes.” They wanted to tell me their stories too, and now our visits are exchanges of flowers and prayers.

I turned to the other members of my family, hoping that a connection with them, no language barriers existing between us, will pull me closer to their orbit. Yet the distance still exists. One side distant by oceans and continents, the other by hatred. A hatred of who I am, as if I am something perverse for being alive; an “ugly freak.” By existing in two worlds, I am not allowed in one.

They grow closer, drawn into their planet’s orbit by their identity, yet here I am. Floating between the two worlds. I can admire them, envy them, but they will not see me. A planet compared to a small star in their night sky; a singular night sky only they experience.

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Alienation in the space between my worlds does not end at who I was born from. It injects itself into who I was born as.

In the company of my friends, I am proud of my queerness. My bisexuality makes me feel more fulfilled. I seem happy with who I am. Stepping outside of that tin can, that comforting space, is where the pressure makes itself known again. Bisexuality has never been a perfect split of attraction. Yet there always exists a pressure from not making a choice between the two. One side pulls on me, telling me this is just a part of my college phase, that I’ll eventually “straighten” myself out. The other tells me that who I am is just a “transitional phase”. That I’ll inevitably be “fully” gay. Yet again, both these worlds cast me away, to drift alone and envy what could have been.

I am seen by many worlds, but not loved. They see me, an unnamed star in the sky, trying to name me how they please. To deny this naming is to be forgotten entirely: to be floating between these planets, invisible to both, but visible to me. I exist to exist for them, bending to the will of whomever will throw me a line. Whoever will claim to “save me” from my loneliness.

Yet I am not alone, I do not float alone. There are other stars like me: shining, unnamed, isolated. And together we find a small comet of our own.

A home of shining stars, brighter than any planet.

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across the Pacific wanders a girl wearing a warm sultry blanket. softer than the orange sky after a rainstorm, thicker than her worries from yesterday.

38 degrees celsius and too hot for a blanket but not cool enough to return home so it sticks to her and drags behind her feet. with heavy steps, she walks through Sheung Wan past Central and across Victora Harbor to look back at the vibrant skyline before noticing her worn-out feet. she does not know that one day she will leave and the experience that seemed like a dream will never present itself again, unless the clock turns counter and the memories that once surrounded her overcome her fears of failure

how much longer until she arrives?

It’s already tomorrow in Hong Kong…

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Written by: Isabel Rhee Edited by: SJ Jeong Designed by: Joy Zhang

After

Thought

Parataxis: the placing of clauses or phrases one after another, without words to indicate coordination or subordination, as in Tell me,

how are you?

At the point of affection, it’s disappearance BIG math lecture tomorrow The Joy of Abstraction

I want to get a clock, too

Think of it like a cycle,

remember each step

dissonance

distance

my hands are crummy

(psychic) dissonant distance Hackneyed: being worn out by overuse so as to become dull and meaningless;

Back Pocket Phrases: This is a difficult time Everything is happening so fast I hear you Mmhmm Right, Of Course, Absolutely

all of the metaphors and images in this poem are hackneyed

AVOID:

I understand

I know

I know what you mean

I know how you feel

Why did you do that / go there

Fine “All books are about time, space,

time of space, space of time”

What’s this one about? never impersonal, just personal in a specific light

Written by: Caris Lee

the intuition that a statement can be meaningful or significant even if it is false

however, one vanishes into the other

A plurality of copies in exchange for its unique existence

Her life was just about fulfilling what she wanted in that moment

I know what you mean.

Edited by: SJ Jeong

Design by: Tori Kim

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Ahona Dam

Ruinous Edited by Michelle Mei Designed by Arman Rasool

How can I not feel anything for (you)?

There’s so much to hate about (you), so that’s an emotion I guess.

(You) stain my present with the pain of the past.

I am weak and obey the command.

It’s so hard when I’m blinded by the glimmers of hope.

(You) lure me in with vulnerable stories and I talk until I should go.

The night ripens and fleshes out its darkness; I always come and lose my way.

It’s my fault, honestly. I’m a bad person, not (you).

I’m sorry, I shared too much. (You) forget everything.

It’s becoming bitter with every interaction.

How could I be so blind?

(You) make me feel so small, yet heard at the same time.

Cunningly skillful, I must say.

Next time, I will not answer (your) prying questions.

I wonder what happened to (you).

I fell for the innocence that’s stuck in the past, that laugh, that calm demeanor.

(You’re) hurting, and I see that.

Thank you for showing me what I should never have.

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15

I, GLU

written & designed by Andrew Chu edited by Ulysses Bergel

This collage. Loved by the world!

Filled to the brim with tokens. Loved by the world!

A lovely, papery background. Loved by the world!

I, GLU.

I’m what keeps it together!

Every part is lovingly and thoughtfully placed!

Each placement, the world sees.

They love it! They want more!

I, GLU.

Beloved! Respected! Successful!

A creator’s dreams come true!

This admiration must continue. The world wants more!

Create again! Again! Again! AGAIN! I, GLU.

Collages are what the world wants!

Collages made by me!

That is me!

I make collages! I make collages! I make…collages?

Just…collages.

I, GLU?

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My heart craves something different, but I am squeezed back behind my scrapbook empire.

These scraps stick to me, but I am stuck to them.

I, scrap sticker

Yet, I still have the urge to create new things?

The world ignores, but my creative drive still glimmers brightly.

My passion wants, no, needs to thrive!

I, GLU.

YES! YES! I love this creation!

The world may not see!

The world may not care!

SO BE IT! Let the world miss out!

This creat ion speaks to me!

Just I.

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Between September 29 and November 25, Earth will gain a second moon in its orbit, in the form of a tiny asteroid.

By the time you read this, she will be gone. That’s not a metaphor nor a threat; I know when Portrait’s launch is and I know when the asteroid returns home. She just won’t be in our sky. She’s not there tonight, either. Not yet.

I’d like to imagine she’s a younger moon. Nomadic, free-spirited, well-traveled and wise. She’d post those van life videos I download to fall asleep on planes, raise a cat, wear long, flowy skirts and make her own yerba mate. She comes to our moon with innumerable questions the old starlet has never been asked before. Most importantly, why her newfound older sister chooses to remain in our orbit.

There’s something so thankless about the old moon’s own path, and, though there is no research on the free will of planets, I assume it can’t be by choice. We award her fullness, but she barely crosses our minds the other eight-ninths of the time. (Before your guilt jumps down my throat, remember a time in which someone said to you, or you said to someone, “Look at the moon tonight!” If the moon wasn’t full, blue, or orange, you’re lying.) As she illuminates other skies, I wonder if she resents the conditionality of her admiration or if it’s the only part of herself she can recognize. She’s had a few billion years to figure it out. It’d be nice to know if she even cares at all.

What I know, for sure, as I sit beneath my new and old friends, is that I’ll never revolve around anything but myself. It’s selfish and that’s the point. I won’t make that mistake again.

Written By

Edited By

Designed By

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I woke myself up in a fever last April, recognizing the blood and time I’d already lost running circles around that which does not serve me. I would pretend to be helpless to these patterns of unproductive thought; it was far too shameful to admit I chose unrequited obsessions again and again. There’d be no friction of judgment or real rationale, and the cold sweat of solitude slid smoother down the back of my neck. The freedom of relinquished responsibility smelled like cigarette holders and the hipsters who buy them, and TikTok witches’ incense claiming you’d want me around, so long as I hum “He Needs Me” by Shelly Duvall into my dorm’s standing fan and leave rose quartz by a window at night.

This old moon once charged my crystals as I hopelessly manifested reciprocity, and while I have grounded myself into a new reality, she has no choice but to circle all that takes her for granted. I pity my friend and all she represents.

She’s a freshman convinced her first friends will godparent her children, a rebellious daughter with no choice but to return home, a middle schooler who’s memorized your schedule to bump into you, by accident of course. You’ll see her, eventually. You must.

The new moon sighs. I feel her breeze as I mediate this intervention. She’d never lived in the shadow of any greater planet, and, immune to gravity, will attempt to understand the monotonous revolution our old friend has committed herself to. In these 57 nights she’ll change her perspective, even if her path is fated.

She’ll teach poems of empowerment and hobbies and habits and tell our old friend to write songs of her own. She’ll trail stardust and knowledge whispered by galaxies and preached by galactic gurus. She’ll do what she can, and what all of us do; to be a dear friend is to give what you have and forgive those who will never admit they’re in need.

She’ll be here in three nights with a knapsack of granola and tattered journals. I wonder what orbits she’ll shift. We may stand in the exact same place when she leaves us, or when she’s rumored to return in 2055.

I just wonder if we’ll feel differently about that place. I guess you must know.

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by: Ashley Kim I always revolved around you.

Within your reach only enough to lay my fingers outside your circle.

How does it feel to be the center of your world?

It must be nice, right?

I mean you are warm, bright, and everyone seems to like you – at least they all surround you and never leave.

I can’t seem to get away from you. Your gravitational pull.

Is it unconsciousness that you pull me in marginally, just for me to be in the palm of your hand?

Do you know I exist?

Am I the alpha and the plus one Or maybe the plus none

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I always seem to be around, yet not around And you seem to care yet not care All at once.

And so the days, months, and years go… …and like that you were gone.

I ask around, and others say, “She’s different from the rest of us.”

You are out of my reach, only sufficient for my fingers to grasp the dust around you Oh, how special you are!

Your tiny pixie clouds of dust you have yet to absorb, take in, and make yours!

And soon, they will remember your presence And just like that You are here.

i Edited by: Tina A

tuit a S a i : Sof y b d e & Design

o

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TheEye Apollo Marks

The Eye Have you ever taken one mere moment, to stop your ceaseless running here and there, just shut your open mouth to stay silent, to use your time instead to stop and stare?

Have you ever found a grassy county, lay down upon that soft and gentle bed, to set aside your great and daily worry, and put an end to existential dread?

Have you ever turned your gaze up high, way up above your head where God does sup, so far away into the deep blue sky, all for the sole purpose of looking up?

Up where the clouds drift past by where you stand, and the moon waxes and wanes, days go by.

The road birds use to migrate to new land; the canvas where the constellations paint across the sky.

How far away do you think that they are?

Some are distant; others are more close, but from here they all look oh so far. impossible to reach yet hanging there.

There are no helpful points of reference, yet it is here, without any perspective, within a place so full of dissonance, that everything shifts into true perspective.

I feel a sense of calm—a single moment’s peace— just before it all covers me like fleece.

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Edited by Brian Li Designed by Joy Bai

Writer: Lena Lee | Editor: Quinn Kou | Designer: Miranda Liu among the rocky ledge we toe the ocean crept up my skirt i let it and laugh. there’s no escape

(when)

Fall leaves. last october i sang how strange that lyrics stay fixed while meanings shift and fal-

ap

a

rt

-l i called it beauty beyond meaning inexplicable, vast, intangible.

Un

attainable

everything reminds. like forgetting to eat or losing sleep or oversleeping Varied causes converging to that dull sense of doneness From allowing everything to affect Until the constant impact finally bruises my head aches Trying To Think Turns Tiring

from to create reason, continuously with the of seasons all explanations

justification is an excuse. already knew when i let myself slip off that i’d drown in you.

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24

25

26

but now is not enough to pay it back, pay it forward when the life you owe

where is the problem pine needle mumbling since oh-seven pointing is calling, like a late realization kicking saying hey, hey is a good way of back at sister eating what you could have fed her if you did it correct, approaching the anger forgivingly, forgiving forward because I am a child if you didn’t give up as they said not to when you wasted it away on of God learning that it is sometimes beyond girlhood but you didn’t spend it at the chapel and instead you should have should have cried it out then, not now— a couple of days ago i wrote that i am high on my own red, my own anger that seeps up my nose and settles under my eyes, so unforgiving that it takes up space digging deep like a scalpel but i always say this.

right now

me, one of me and my buddies looking at the “hey,” reading it backwards until time says it’s alright to move forward. what makes me worthy of lines across itches and reads like a split end, saving? saving, because it draws

i have girlhood dribbling down my ears through my hair and

wrapped ten times around a family.

tell me what it means because i don’t have the money to understand it.

it smells so good, i say this

winding down is a joke with many parts, but don’t forget the one that makes you think about what you might say next time! jerk reactions are so sexy but wear them gently teary-eyed. i eat static for breakfast or they will scratch at you and tell you something they don’t mean. remember your family and their hands crossing and breathe. can you understand what i say when i eyes in the phrase it like this, all personal and up in your space? i can’t change it is what i like to say when i reuse my favorite phrases. i’ll tell you what it means because i don’t have same direction to chest to defeat it. unless you do, and we can borrow each others’ sacrifices and braid them together and sit on them. do you have any other ideas? mine are filled with i always do plastic wrappers and windshield bugs, like the one my parents drove in when my sister was born. it’s a hungry idea that sits in my stomach and cries at me like i cry at what was done for me to be here. does anyone love you so much?

nighttime scares me like the song my mother sang to me every night that brought life to the fear of life without her. i want to sing it to a daughter of my own someday, but my mother has to do it first. time slaps me in the face when i say this and it has a pissing cold hand. why is it only two past noon but twenty years too fast? give it to me straight and i’ll bend it, mold it into something i meant to do fifteen minutes ago, thank you for your flexibility and patience with me. be patient with me please and regret will never cross your mind like it does in mine. i don’t like to breathe when it does— can you just hold on for a minute i swear i will do right by it and its beautiful ugliness that i can’t change because i don’t have the chest to defeat it. hey is not a good way of approaching anger forgivingly; whoever said that has no backbone and is scared. she sounds a lot like someone i know somewhere

i like to sit cold, expectant

for the paper punch of it to

finally call me and tell me it’s my turn. the window

flares its chest and tells me it

was supposed to be opened in 2003

but where is your trust and where has it gone? it used to love you and hug you and be carried around in the belly of a four-corner blanket. bad habits of depending on the four-cornered blanket. store a lot in your forehead and flare your nostrils and grab fistfuls of black hair. learn the musician’s beat with your feet and stare ahead while you garden wooden ground. i do think that there is a price, a hefty one.

i call my betrayal equidistant, the one where the mother feels a daughter leave and the grandmother sighs and draws lines between their names

one of your worst habits is when you eat words. and they churn. i didn’t know we didn’t have time for that, and frankly, no one told me anything. whoever imagined a world where the letters worked together and formed something is diabolical. fix it and change it, or there will be static in your shoes and there is no time for that. don’t ask me if anyone has time to walk slowly; if anyone has the time to walk slowly, they must be in love.

i don’t like to let it go, let is slip through my hands to the ones that have always been ready with palms open wide to catch it. i don’t like to lean sideways, but no one really does. get off, get on playing old with me and i promise it will push you into familiar scents and all the dizzy. i wrote churn here somewhere and it vibrated through my body. tell me you want to do it, too. are you guilty of it? i am waiting to catch it and make

it something. staples on my feet

love me, so they bite the ground

i like to feel it through. this is my problem and it chalks my face back and forth forward and backward walking on tempered glass whispering to myself your mistakes do not reflect on your people. written by sj jeong - edited by ulysses bergel - designed by cody hoang and fallon dern

someone told me to look up today and my shoulders kissed each other, telling me that there is no way to understand it until you touch it. this feels untrue as my nose bleeds onto the pens and paper tucked beneath my shirt imagining a world is easier than it’s made out to be so i set up camp in its monochromatic shimmer, but just for a day—

i run to two-dimensional buildings and then lose focus until my sister grabs me from the side and hugs me. and i don’t like to let it go.

27

between words, between us 姐姐 女儿 高家怡 I watched Moana when I was in sixth grade. In one scene, Moana sang “How can I be the perfect daughter?” My 11-year-old self greatly related to her.

Often, I ask myself a variety of questions.

How can I juggle my independence with my parents’ demands? How can I ask my parents to treat me more like my brother? How can I stay close to my family? Yet, why do I feel like flying away? How can I be more free?

As I type on my MacBook, I commonly press the space key. The space key separates two words, and the more I press it, the farther apart the words become.

My family and I are so disconnected from each other. Like two words on a computer, space separates us.

My brother stayed silent whenever mom yelled at me.

My brother complained to mom when he messed up and she scolded me instead.

Mom forced me to stand in a spot for hours while she called me a “slut who shows her body for men.”

Mom broke my light and trashed my room because I accidentally burned a hamburger bun.

Dad forced me to stand by his bed and stay awake all night.

Dad yelled at me so loud that the neighbors peeked out their windows to see what was happening.

Parents who refuse to believe that I also like women.

Parents who never told me “I love you. I’m proud of you.”

28

I couldn’t open up and trust them about my mental health.

I didn’t feel the urge to spend much time with them.

I never saw my parents proud of me. I tried my hardest in school, was on the board for multiple extracurricular activities, and won as many awards as possible. Yet, after every accomplishment, I never saw my parents smile or acknowledge me.

Subconsciously, I pressed space too many times.

We just were not close. I kept separating them from me. I didn’t want it to be “me and my family.” I just wanted it to be “me.”

January 28th, 2022: “Towards the beginning of January, I got into a lot of arguments with my parents. I felt so trapped. It’s just like the feeling of being restrained. The 11th was the breaking point for me. That was the day my mental health reached a low in January. Enduring weeks and weeks of verbal discipline really hurts.

Parents say hurtful things and don’t even realize the effect of it on the child. I’ve been ridiculed for everything I wanted to do since I was a kid to now. I never felt praise, and this honestly just led me to seek praise and attention in any way I could. Posting on Instagram really fulfills my physical need for praise. Sometimes I don’t feel okay unless I have people telling me that I’m pretty, or I’m smart, or I’m nice. I’ve been wishing for years that I can break the cycle of self-criticism and thinking that I am not good enough. I wish I could change.

It’s especially difficult because I want to act like a robot. I want to be the perfect child. But I can’t. I wish I could just follow their expectations, but my inner self always rebels. I wish my emotions did not lie on my face so easily. I wish I could conceal my true thoughts.”

Every day, I pressed space again. Every day, we grew further apart.

Growing up, that was my mentality with my family. It seemed like nothing I did made my parents proud and every concern I had exploded into a major argument between me and my mom. My family avoided talking to each other for days or weeks during a fight. As I grew older, I anxiously awaited the day I could attend college. It was a perfect escape – I could finally dorm and “fly away” from the house that confined me.

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It’s ironic how my Chinese name means “joyful home.” Our home did not feel joyful.

We didn’t grow up in the best economic environment. At one point, the four of us shared one bedroom. I remember my eleven-year-old self wheeling the laundry to the laundromat alone on cold winter days. When we walked around the neighborhood, the streets smelled like weed and piss. My parents masked their faces of stress around me and my brother when they found out that they were in a lot of debt. Growing up, we always used SNAP benefits at grocery stores. My brother and I were enrolled in free after-school and summer school programs because my parents were at work. The only time we went on a true vacation was to Canada when I was 10.

At first, my parents ran a restaurant. Then, when we moved back to New York, my dad worked in construction while my mom took on odd jobs, like at a supermarket or nail salon. I didn’t get to bond with my parents as much as I would’ve liked. My dad was out of the house daily, from 7 AM to 7 PM. My mom and I often clashed because I had to take care of my brother when my parents were out for work.

I’ve been doing chores since I was 8 and cooking for my family since I was 13.

I remember being so jealous of my friends. They went to tutoring, piano lessons, or dance classes.

They went to Europe or China during their summer breaks. They walked into school with the newest clothes or shoes. I always wanted what they had and didn’t appreciate what my parents had done for me. I always felt so untalented or so stupid compared to my friends. My constant clashes with my parents over superficial things didn’t help.

However, as I entered college, I began to view my family dynamic from a different perspective.

Specifically, I realized that my parents sacrificed so much for me and my brother to live a relatively stable life. My parents did try their hardest to provide for us. They worked their hardest and eventually, we moved from one bedroom to one apartment to our own house. They always ensured my brother and I had enough to eat and clothes on our backs. They bought me a bracelet for my fifth-grade graduation and a cake for each of my birthdays. We ate dinner together every night – either a homecooked meal or at a cute restaurant. They showed their love by always checking in on me and making sure that I was safe.

When I got into Vassar, I cried seeing how much they wanted to charge me for tuition. It was way too expensive – my parents wouldn’t be able to afford it. Still, my parents decided to let me go. They said they’d try to help me pay my tuition. My dad borrows money from one of his clients to support me. I think their allowing me to go to Vassar was the first time I felt that they were proud of me, as I am the first person in my family to ever go to college, and an objectively good one too.

I’ve started pressing the delete button. With every press, we get a little closer.

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As they help me pay my tuition, I work three separate jobs to try and alleviate that burden from them.

As I go home on breaks to spend time with them, I see my parents and brother’s smiles. They take me out to eat and assure me not to worry about the price of the meal. They take me shopping and buy me clothes that I want. My mom posts my awards and college pictures on her WeChat. My mom and I started exercising and running errands together. My brother calls me for advice. I willingly help my parents out in the kitchen.

Although the relationship I have with my family isn’t perfect, it’s healing. Growing up, I realized that a lot of the constraints I had during my childhood were for my benefit and my safety. My parents’ lack of praise didn’t mean that they weren’t proud of me; they just showed their appreciation differently.

Whether it was in a bowl of sliced fruit on hard days or an egg and noodles for my birthday, my parents showed they were happy that I was their daughter.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t excuse the harsh behavior that I experienced growing up. It doesn’t justify my mom calling me harmful names or trashing my lights. It doesn’t magically “fix” the mental health struggles and insecurity that I dealt with during my teenage years. Their words and actions have forever changed how I view relationships, myself, and how I treat people that I’m close to. I reflect on moments where I insulted previous significant others or when I shut off my emotions to friends. I lash out impulsively and hide my tears from others. I parallel my family’s actions.

As I learn to grow and work on myself and my relationships, I think back to my childhood. The way my parents treated me wasn’t right, but they’re making an effort to change. We are healing from past mistakes and traumas. The four of us are getting closer.

As I continue forward as an adult and start to live more and more separate from my family, I hope to continue deleting the space I had imposed on them during my childhood and teenage years.

Maybe now I want it to be “me and my family.” 我们是一家人。 我们是高家。

Writer: Nicole Gao Editor: Katy Wu Designer: Anni Yu

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Zoe North

Zoe North 33

To Take Space Written by Celeste Agulay Edited by Riddhit Mitra

Designed by Fallon Dern

For the longest time, I thought it was normal to feel extreme fatigue in my face. On the bus ride home, I felt my face go slack; I used to imagine it like oobleck turning back into liquid after being made solid. My face would finally go still, my lips in a straight line, my eyes droopy, and my eyebrows relaxed. I had no idea why I felt the fatigue so strongly, and why I felt it in my face the most. It wasn’t until I looked back and recounted my time in middle school with my childhood best friends that I realized. I was listening to them telling stories of how I was back then and the things people used to say about me, and I was finally like, oh.

I have always been a pretty self-conscious kid. I was always pretty shy and cautious. I was sensitive and perfectionistic. But when I transferred from public to private school, it magnified and became all-consuming. Suddenly, I was in a world where babysitters and stay-at-home moms were the norm. SUVs were the most common car. There were very, very few people who looked like me. Shared a culture similar to mine. One culture dominated, and it was overwhelming. It was on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. The space between my culture and the culture at school felt impossibly large. It felt like I was in a space no one else seemed to occupy. So, I stood alone in my own little bubble, watching this foreign world unravel around me.

Everyone there was nice, though. They were friendly, open, and always willing to help and listen. I’m grateful for that. It shaped me into the person I am today. But, nothing could have prepared me for that cultural shock. I was pretty young, so I was able to acclimate to it more easily. I grew up around it as I had always tagged along with my mom when she used to babysit. But, suddenly, I was living everyday in this world. It was no longer a once-a-week thing. This became my main world. The one I had to traverse to everyday. This sounds dramatic, but taking the bus ride there felt like going to a new world. Hop on the bus, you are surrounded by small stores and small suburban neighborhoods. As you keep going, the stores become few and the land becomes more dominated by trees and mansions.

Back in public school, I was considered relatively well-off. I had a good-size home and backyard. I remember this one girl who had a pool, and we thought she was the richest person ever. Then, I came to private school, and pools became a norm. My house was the size of their pool houses. My backyard the size of their garden. It was all so…mind-boggling. Everything was distorted. It was like looking into one of those funhouse mirrors that enlarges everything.

Anyways, I remember feeling so out of place, but I was welcomed. The students there made sure to show me everything and include me in everything. I remember feeling stupid, though, when I first came. Everything and everyone was so advanced. I thought this would be a walk in the park since I was repeating second grade. But, the students there seemed so at ease approaching these new, challenging concepts, and I just stood there dumb-founded. I liked my first year, though. It was peak childhood as I made many new friends and spent my time exploring all the cool things my school had to offer. I look back at my first year with fondness and warmness. I think my perfectionism and people-pleasing picked up from there.

Soon enough, we were being tested, and some students were placed in more advanced classes. I strove to be in those advanced classes. I took it all very seriously at a young age. It’s not just the Asian in me kicking in, but it was this additional pressure – one I couldn’t put my finger on for the longest time – of feeling inferior. As a middle-class, Filipino girl at a wealthy, predominantly white-institute (PWI), I felt like I had to work twice as hard just to feel like I deserved to be there – deserved to share this space and these resources with my peers. I didn’t want anyone looking down on me. To think I was just some babysitter’s kid. I wanted to be somebody of value and respect. They never treated me like I wasn’t, but it was this unspoken pressure and fear that consumed me. I made sure I excelled in every academic setting. In every athletic setting, too. I got into as many advanced classes as I could. I made sure they thought highly of me. Looking back, I didn’t realize how much internalized racism affected me. I didn’t realize how quickly I started to change myself in order to fit into a space I thought I wasn’t made for.

I hated the way my clothes looked different. Too colorful. Too cheap-looking. So I started wearing the clothes they wore – Patagonia, Brandy Melville, J. Crew, etc. (luckily, I got hand-me-downs so I was able to blend in more). I hated the way I smelled. I sprayed myself with Febreze so I stopped smelling like the food cooked at home. I hated when my dad packed me lunch – rice and some type of stew. It didn’t look like the sandwiches and fruit the other kids got. I was so different from everyone else. And I was so hyper aware of every little difference. I didn’t want to be any more different, so I became this weird, robotic version of myself.

Sweet, polite, always smiling. Dead silent in class but hardworking. I became the perfect student, perfect friend, perfect classmate. At least, what I believed was perfect. I didn’t realize how artificial it was. I think deep down I knew. I cried when I was praised and given awards because I knew it was all fake. I was fake. Another space was created – a space between my true self and the one I presented. It grew too large that I lost sight of the real one.

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I became addicted to people-pleasing. I always said yes. I was always agreeable and smiling. I still am, but back then I was much worse because I was unaware of it and it felt like I was doing it for survival.

Say please. Thank you. Smile and nod. Yes, I’d love to help (ignore the fact that I was tired and had more work to do). Compliment her. Praise their work (even though you think it’s shit). Smile.

Say hi. Smile. How are you? It’s so nice to see you. Smile. Don’t say that. Just go along with what they said (they’re wrong, though!). Smile. Sounds good? Yes, sounds good. Smile.

I once watched a video of me from middle school, and listening to my voice made me cringe so hard I almost cried. My voice was so high, so sweet. It’s like that now but not to that extent. I never voiced my opinion. I never shared my life. Barely showed my true personality. I was severely guarded and kept everything surface level. My closest friends were kept at an arm’s length. Only one (one!) friend came to my house for a playdate. And when she did, we made sure to clean everything. I never felt truly at home or truly myself.

I couldn’t give them any more reason to think I was ill-mannered or uncultured. I didn’t want them to think Filipinos, in general, were ill-mannered and uncultured. But, to be honest, I don’t think many people even knew I was Filipino. Some people thought I was Latina for the longest time. Others knew I was Asian but didn’t know which country. When they asked, I’d say, “Oh, my family is from the Philippines.” I had either two reactions: they’d stare at me with a quizzical look on their face and ask, “Where’s that?” or they’d light up and proudly say, “My babysitter’s from the Philippines! I know how to say (either ‘I love you’ or ‘vagina/penis’).” Both reactions gave me this sinking feeling that made me want to bury that part of my identity. And for the longest time, I did. In order to fit into this space, this PWI space, I erased the Filipino part of my identity. I thought this would ensure that they never looked down on me.

The thing is, they never thought this. It was all me. It was all in my head, but it kept getting worse as I grew older. I had a breakdown when I got a 70% on an exam. I cried when my teacher called me out. I was emotionally and mentally drained when I got home. The plastered smile would wear off and I’d be tired and cranky. I would lash out and my sister would get the brunt of it.

I went all throughout my middle school and early high school years without knowing I was struggling. It wasn’t until lockdown that I was able to recognize my toxic behavior and finally see clearly. I switched schools after ninth grade and went to one with more POC and DEI programs. From there, I started to slowly embrace my Filipino culture and eventually other parts of myself that I buried.

I remember being pleasantly surprised when I started talking about some of my interests – ones that I thought were too different from everyone else at school. It just slipped out, and I remember being scared at first but quickly learned that it was okay and I wasn’t being judged. I bonded with my new friends over kdrama and music – I got them hooked on P-Pop (Filipino pop music), and they exposed me to other types of music. I began to talk about Filipino culture and my experiences growing up. In fact, my friend and I ended up planning a picnic in which we all brought in food from our cultures. I planned on bringing adobo, a delicious chicken dish, while another friend planned to bring jollof rice (I became obsessed with this dish after she brought it in, by the way). They learned more about me in those last three years than any friend has ever had.

I began to bring aspects of my home life into the space at school, and they began to merge. I no longer felt isolated in my own bubble but like I was actually occupying space – real space – at school. I no longer felt the need to change myself to fit into the space and felt comfortable just taking up space by being myself.

Despite my struggles growing up, I am ultimately grateful for my time in private school; it gave me the resources and opportunities I never would have gotten otherwise, and they led me to where I am today. I just wish I could go back and let my younger self know that she was worth the space – that she was fine being who she was and that she deserved to be there. Looking at the students of color, especially those on financial aid, at my old middle school, I hope they feel loved and accepted for being who they are. I hope they feel comfortable enough to share their culture and their background. I hope they know that they belong – that that space is also theirs, and they more than deserve to be there.

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The Things We Hold Written by Cody Hoang

Edited by Aijia Zou, Designed by Fallon Dern

I walk into the closet. The dark, miniscule closet. It feels cold, yet comforting. The door rams into the boxes filled with stuff. Random stuff, good stuff, bad stuff. The boxes just sit there, the physicality of space taking up air by these boxes. It holds all things that bring the value of joy and the value of waste all at the same time.

I roam around, I look around, I stroll around in the limited space.

Cô’s photo albums. The photos are reminiscent of Cô’s youth. At least five albums of just her. The photos of them in the streets, posing and laughing with so much joy. Cô with her friends, outside the fountain of their school. Cô is walking down the streets of Sài Gòn, in the áo dài with those exotic designs of lilies and daisies. Cô smiles one more time before all turns around.

Bà ngoại’s slippers. I saw the “good luck” red slippers with the bejeweled flowers on the mesh vamp. The soles wore themselves out as she wore them around the house, chasing us with it while she held it up. I saw the beige ones bá ngoại leave the house. She wore them while she crossed towns with the mesh cart, filling it with rau muống at the farmer’s market, or the khổ qua that I refused to eat.

Mẹ’s áo dài. The same one she wore with Cô in high school. The elegant, white silk that felt expensive. I can see Mẹ’s wearing it with the straw hat, The scent that smells unfamiliar and cold, but it brings comfort to the nose.

Bố’s jacket. I remember when bố picked me up from school. He stood outside with a cold-stoned face while I jumped onto him with the widest smile. He wore the terracotta-colored jacket everywhere he went, at my conferences and the park after he was done with work. Eventually, he stopped and left it behind. Ông ngoại’s newspapers. Every day, he would walk to the local Asian store to grab another newspaper. Ông ngoại spent mornings reading the newspaper, sitting at the table near the plant-filled window. He’d recall every story, telling us as he awaits for the coffee to finish dripping. /// The past and present consumes itself in this closet. The things we hold for the story we share. The secrets we don’t dare speak of but we view. The space that encapsulates all of us.

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Folds of Space Joy Zhang

Designed by Zoe North

1] intro i follow universal principals and universal truth For a beauty i pursuit For some beauty i doubt Only when i plunge into a Déjà vu as I wander the back side of space Fade in. Fade out.

A universe rolls on within me Here is where all faults fold and unfold 2] fault #1 /name the stars: Alto and Lyra their paths crossed as the page of fallen leaves folded, corner to corner they cut down pieces of the night sky not to keep but to make lilies water lilies, delicate with the starry night stirs one side and daylight bleeding through the other lilies that bloom with the brightest gleam of the day dripping the eyes of the sun on the edge of farewell lilies with the darkest shades sinking into the abyss where the unknown becomes home 3] fault #2 there’s a star crumbling every now and then one sees with their blinded eyes the dissolving shapes of the stars pieces fall in the heaviest note of silence the call of the forgotten light from afar one searches without a glow a child of darkness, one of the many beholds the negativity of all

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thank you for reading.

PORTR AIT issue #13 | space fall 2024