playground - ISSUE 06

ISSUE 06 | spring 2021 PLAYGROUND

cover

by Am Chunnananda featuring Am’s mother

1

Hello, and welcome to the sixth issue of Portrait! I’d like to start by extending my most heartfelt gratitude to you, who has picked up or clicked on this copy of our magazine. Thank you for supporting the work of so many incredible Asian artists and for taking the time to share in their experiences and stories. Our theme for this issue is PLAYGROUND, chosen after many hours of deliberation and careful thought. Through this theme, we hoped to inspire our contributors and to inspire you to exercise your inner child. Playgrounds are spaces for growth and exploration, for making mistakes and learning them. They are spaces for joy, something we wanted to bring into this space after this trying year.

It has been a difficult semester. We have continued to adjust and adapt to the ongoing pandemic, but this time has been marked as well by the acts of violence against Asian people that took place in Atlanta and around the country. We want to honor the members of our community who have been killed and call not just for legal justice, but for meaningful change in America and around the world. To me, this magazine is an affirmation of the strength and power that each individual member of our community holds. It is a testament to what we can create working in cooperation with each other. I have never been so proud to see it brought to life in dazzling color as I am now.

This issue marks my final issue as a member of Portrait, and I am so incredibly grateful to all of the amazingly talented and creative people who make this magazine possible year after year. It has been a privilege to serve as both a contributor and as the Editor-in-Chief, and I am so excited to see where this magazine will go next in the hands of our incoming executive board. I have the utmost confidence in all of you that you will continue this legacy, and that this magazine will become even more spectacular under your guidance.

Lastly, as always, I cannot say thank you enough to the contributors who have made this issue possible. This issue contains so many amazing pieces, including poetry collections, alumni art features, a contributor playlist, and our first interactive activities. A truly astounding amount of work has gone into this issue. Thank you always for your time, your dedication, and your passion.

4

Much love, Emma, Editor-in-Chief On behalf of the Portrait Executive Board

8

In His Own World

She Who Searches

Gabor Fu Ptacek

44

9

Sweet Water: A Mother’s Embrace

48

Lucy

50

Hello, My Name Is...

56

Recess

58

February 10th, Sunday: Noise, Peace.

Heejae Jung

14

AP US History

15

Yet A Trace Of The Past Self Exists In The Present Self

Shreya Suresh

Lauren Yung

22 24 27 31 38 41

Thoughts On Turning 20 Kanako Kawabe

Alum Art Feature (LeeYong) Grace Statwick ’11

Sakura, We Were There Elena Furuhashi

Huh? Aidan Fry

The Interview Joy Yi Lu Freund

My Homes, My Playgrounds, and Where Love Lies Ziyi Che

Annie Xiyang Xu

Vivian Xu

Janus Wong & Taylor Gee

Phoebe Jacoby

Zoe Mueller

60

Purple

68

The Vassar Playground

71

Seeing Blue

74

Playground Gifts

85

Portrait

93

00:06 (six minutes after midnight)

Johnson Lin & Ceci Villaseñor

Alex (Ji Won) Kim

Jane Ahn

Tamika Whitenack

Gabor Fu Ptacek & Jane Ahn

Arlene Chen

5

Editor-in-Chief Emma Chun Content Editor Jane Ahn Creative Director Am Chunnananda Publicity Ji Won (Alex) Kim Launch Grace Han Heejae Jung Treasurer Frances Tian Writers / Project Leads Aidan Fry Ji Won (Alex) Kim Annie Xiyang Xu Arlene Chen Ceci Villaseñor Elena Furuhashi Gabor Fu Ptacek Heejae Jung Jane Ahn Janus Wong Johnson Lin Joy Yi Lu Freund Kanako Kawabe Lauren Yung Phoebe Jacoby Shreya Suresh Tamika Whitenack Vivian Xu Ziyi Che Zoe Mueller Editors Aidan Fry Emma Chun Heejae Jung Janus Wong Joy Yi Lu Freund Katherine Lim Mason Dao Taylor Gee

Arlene Chen Gabor Fu Ptacek Janet Song Johnson Lin Julia (Jiaqi) Peng Kaylee Chow Phoebe Jacoby

Designers Alexander Pham Ceci Villaseñor Josephine Man Lauren Yung Phoebe Jacoby Seowon Back Wyejee (Sara) Jung

Am Chunnananda Hannah Hu Joy Yi Lu Freund Maggie Dawkins Sandro Luis Lorenzo Sharon Nahm Ziyi Che

Media Assel Omarova Katherine Lim Mason Dao Seowon Back

Josephine Man Klaire Pham Sandro Luis Lorenzo Sharon Nahm

illustration Am Chunnananda

in his own world Written by Gabor Fu Ptacek Edited by Kaylee Chow Designed by Ceci Villaseñor at recess, i always sat on the sides and stared at the sky. an only child, not allowed to read books or play games in the car or while dinner was being prepared, i’d just stare at the sky and retreat into my own little world. i could be a demigod, a ninja, a ranger. i could play tag with my friends, swing on the monkey bars, run through forests, all from my bench. no need to get yelled at for being dirty, all the fun was to be had right here! in my mind! at dinner parties, with my parents and all the adults, my dad loves to tell the story of how gabor was always off in his own little world, even at recess or on a bike. his favorite is about how i’d be on the tandem bike with him in front, and he’d say “hope you’re pedaling back there!” and i’d respond “just cuz i’m in my own little world doesn’t mean i’m not pedaling.” lately, i envy that kid. he could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. he could always escape. now? i just think about my work, about whether i’m loved, about when i’ll be able to hug my friends again. there’s something to be said about a person who spends all his time in his own room not being able to find time for himself. well, i can’t. or at least i don’t. people have always told me to journal. or to draw. but the ideas and images in my head would always go by too fast for me to have time to sit and write or

draw. i’ve tried to journal, and it just feels like there’s nothing worth writing. can it be called writer’s block if it’s just a journal entry? when did that childlike imagination disappear? did it disappear completely? the past year has made me think about a lot of things, from police brutality to anti-Asian racism to q-anon conspiracy theorists. but i haven’t imagined many things. to escape, it was always with media or other people or both. why can’t i just sit and do nothing and think anymore? why do i always have to be doing something? listening to something? am i allowed to ask this many questions? the dreams in my sleep could never get any weirder, any more interesting than those during the daytime. i was so enamored with my own world, even if it wouldn’t be particularly interesting to anyone else. maybe my brain just shut those night dreams away. does the fact that i can remember dreams mean that that part of myself is truly gone? in the midst of covid-19, even with it hopefully drawing to a close, i’m reminded of that kid sitting on a bench at recess. if he knew i was able to be alone in my room without any chores to do or any nagging from my parents, he’d cheer at the stories he’d get to live through. i’m reminded of my fear of getting dirty, and how sanitation is preached more than ever. he’d definitely sing the songs under his breath to count to 20. i always say i wouldn’t go back and change anything in my life, because all the bad things made me who i am, but if i could go back and stop the being who took my imagination away, i’d do it. why am i, even now, worried that i’m not writing enough? that i’m not doing enough? that i’m not enough? who took away my imagination and placed this stress in my hands instead? take me back to the playground, where i can sit on a bench and enter that little world of mine.

Inspired by the film “Kim Ji-young: Born 1982” (82년생 김지영)

Heejae Jung

Edited by Katherine Lim Designed by Hannah Hu

9

향수 [nostalgia]

I swore to never let the world get ahead of me– like my mother did: a ghost in the flesh, jaded, faded, blurring into the immaculate white sofa cushions of an empty house. The sound of birds—their piercing melody momentarily lifting the heaviness of my 7 a.m. monotony—soon grew muffled by my heavy hand and the accompanying sharp tap of a closing window. I once bore the pastel hues of cyan green and pale lilac in my youth– before I became a person of dark grays, someone who halts the joys of morning serenity in their tracks.

A stranger. These sorts of negative thoughts pervaded my new daily life; they made me almost want to go back to the hectic work life that I almost drowned in. Spending all this time alone in big soulless rooms, waiting for a husband who still lived and breathed a nine-to-five lifestyle, I began to run into the arms of old memories– some of them sweet, like violets in soft spring grass, and others bitter, like the smart blow of January wind.

As a child, I loved the rain. It made me feel like all the earth’s woes and blemishes were being poured onto my flesh and transforming into a shiny, slippery balloon. Sometimes I opened my mouth to taste its salty wet odor. I fell apart in laughter, because I wholeheartedly believed that I had the entire sea on the tip of my tongue.

In the puddle’s reflection, I no longer saw my seven-year-old self: I had transformed into the duck from my favorite picture book, In the Rain with Baby Duck. In fact, I loved the rain so much, I woke up the next day with a 101 degree fever. Barely able to lift my heavy head, I remained glued to my bed as if it had a magnetic hold over me.

Under the timeless haze of fever-induced dreams, the abrupt sound of an opening door brought a smilefrown grimace to my face. Finally, I thought. Mom is here. The whiff of her diluted rosewater perfume and her soft cotton-enveloped arms made me instantly feel loved. A screen of solace fell over me, more encompassing than the wetness of yesterday’s showers. My mother had been working the entire day at the store, which meant she did not have a single moment to herself– to experience the warmth and rest she was so generously pouring onto me now. Suddenly, in the brief absence of her hug, I felt my eyes form big teardrops. Luckily, she soon returned, and made up for the sour departure with a saccharine spoon of cough syrup sprinkled with sugar. I remained nestled in her arms for what felt like an eternity, taking pleasure in her endless giving.

10

애증 [bittersweet]

My father had left us two days after my middle school graduation. I remember coming home after a celebratory day at the beach to an empty living room with Mom’s shoes still at the doorway.

“Mom! Mom– where are you? Look at this shell I painted with Se– Mom…?”

She sat in the shadowy end of the master bedroom, so that the curtain enshrouded half her face in darkness and the other half in light. After a heartbeat, she slowly turned her face towards me to reveal a blank expression. Again, silence. Eventually, I managed to coax the following words from her stiff mouth:

“Your father is gone.”

No sugarcoating, no tears, no gentle caress or heaving sobs. All the breath and life seemed to leave her body as if they had never been there in the first place. My mother robbed me of my grief, my confusion. Her husband left, but my father never escaped me– he remained in the sad glimmer of her eyes.

My lips twisted into an ugly sneer, almost as if bracing themselves for the words that came next: “Why do you care anyway? You should just focus on your own life and stop criticizing me all the time. Oh, but I forgot: ever since Dad left, the only thing you can do is focus on everyone but yourself. I wish he had taken me with him.” The fatal words, staccato cuts to my mom’s earnest concern and a distorted misrepresentation of my own emotions, delivered a devastating blow. Her face finally rid itself of that complacent, unreadable expression. In its place, a series of flickering, fleeting emotions played out like a flipbook of moving images: vivid rage, angry sadness, blunt hurt, and eventually a forced indifference that bore the ghost of brimming tears in the form of a downturned mouth.

The fight had started with something small– bickering, really, that would have died in its tracks if it weren’t for my sudden desire to hold onto that string of disagreement and unravel its core.

“Daughter,” she had called out from my room doorway while I bustled to get ready for a meeting with friends. “Don’t you think that skirt is too short? What did you do with that pair of white pants I bought you?”

A spurt of irritation sprawled across my face. I felt too annoyed to explain to her that my friends and I had already decided on a specific dress code, that the pants she bought me cuffed awkwardly near the ankles and clashed with everything else in my wardrobe. But just as I decided on silence as my next course of action, I spotted the dark circles under her eyes, her disheveled hair, the fraying dress shirt that she wore on Friday evenings as she brewed tea and sat silently. My heart unexplainably clenched like an angry fist. Look at yourself first, Mom, before judging me, I wanted to say. The sight of her wasting away made me scared, almost as if I were looking at a reflection of my future self. Was this all one could look forward to in adulthood? Wasted potential and depressing weekends.

11

My mother had round, big eyes– once bright, now glazed over with dullness, but ever-still pretty. I had almond-shaped eyes, small regardless of any amount of mascara or eyeshadow I applied.

She had a petite frame and dimples deep enough to be the crescent moon’s twin sister. I was an inch taller than the guys in my grade and remained dimple-free no matter how often or hard I smiled. She spoke Korean like spreading butter on bread: smooth and eloquent, a flow that grew rugged and awkward when trying to switch over to English. I spoke English like an American with an Asian face; the heavy lisp of my Korean made me turn red in the company of family friends and native speakers. In my teenage gaze of scrutiny, I played Ugly Duck and she played Beautiful Swan. Yet why did we switch parts inside, assume mismatched roles? I feigned brightness while she hid hers with resignation. Weren’t daughters supposed to look up to their mothers, not pity them?

When I returned that day after forcefully partaking in the loud laughter and chatter of my friends, I found the pair of pants she had bought me in the trash. We never spoke about what I had said.

And a few years later, after a dejected day at my first job, my mom began to erupt into tears upon seeing my stained white shirt and swollen legs: a surprise visit turned sour where I felt assaulted with love. A mother who cries for her child’s slight suffering but not her own trauma was a reality that filled me with resentment and guilt.

Perhaps that bitter seed of thought seeped through my veins and surfaced in my brushing away her concerned strokes. Who knew I would become a catalyst for harsh noises, like the slapping of my irritated hand gestures that still overwhelm my ears when I try to recall that day?

12

그리움 [yearning]

Reminiscing used to scare me. It embodied my mother’s descent into bleakness, her passive rebuke of recovery. And I yearned to be the foil to her inaction. I preferred to dream big and dive into present moments rather than withdraw into fuzzy pasts. But as my eyes glazed over, superficially fixated on the clock handle, recalling all these memories, I began to melt into the floor. Only then did I realize that I had been living underneath a cold mold this entire time. I suddenly hated and loved the fact that memories of my mother were the ones to break this suffocating cast.

Seized by a visceral desire to hear her voice once more, to see her face (now a mirror of my own regret and lost connection), I went outside for the first time in months. With the sunshine beating on my pale face, I started running down the streets and laughing at how quickly my lungs filled and burned with the dry air. The laughter first got caught in my throat, rusty and strange-sounding after being dormant this entire fall and winter.

Then, it erupted into a long-winded drawl, like breaths of fresh air. Yanking open the glass door to a haphazardly dangling payphone, I started dialing the number to the one person who brought out the worst and best in me.

The first thing I wanted to tell her was “I am sorry. I love you.” Unconditionally, without expecting her to say it back. Because I already knew. And I just hope she did too.

“어떤 날

한 마디를 듣기 위해 종일 누군가의 이야기를 들었다” 이훤, <너는 내가 버리지 못한 유일한 문장이다>

“One Day To hear one word, I listened to someone’s story for the entire day” Hweon Lee, You Are the Only Sentence That I Could Not Throw Away 13

AP US HISTORY white hearts don’t love the way my brown heart does don’t care the way my brown heart does white hearts don’t bleed the way my brown heart does don’t beat the way my brown heart does when their lips utter my name after a hard day of work i extend my weak arms the way my ancestors taught me to whenever we see someone ache but they spin me / to - fro / to - fro / to - fro / until i’m dizzy because for them i am just a game white hearts don’t love the way my brown heart does don’t care the way my brown heart does white hearts don’t bleed the way my brown heart does don’t beat the way my brown heart does i sometimes envy the shiny swing sets they have at home the playground reserved for white bodies that play the game of hopscotch i never learned

they tell me their playgrounds don’t have the same colors mine does the same strength mine does but i still hear them play happily at that space that will never be for me white hearts don’t love the way my brown heart does don’t care the way my brown heart does white hearts don’t bleed the way my brown heart does don’t beat the way my brown heart does my withered self now knows its place i am not the white fingers that caress smooth sand but the gravel to be trampled on for my body and my history are just a playground and once recess is done they leave the place tattered and in pieces

written by shreya suresh edited by arlene chen designed by phoebe jacoby

Yet A Trace Of The Past Self The digital paintings on the left were each assigned randomly to a writer. The three writers responded to their respective painting. The authors did not see the other paintings or each other’s work, and their responses alongside the artwork are compiled in the following pages.

A collaborative project designed and illustrated

by Lauren Yung Edited by Emma Chun Responses by Aidan Fry, Tamika Whitenack, and Vivian Xu

Exists In The Present Self 15

16

M

wth o r G y

By

Aida

n Fry

If by care you mean how you cared for that banana at the bottom of your backpack until it browned and rotted enough to smell when reaching for the biology textbook—then yes, I admit it, I cared for that plant for those first few months where I could water it until soil dribbled over the windowsill, and gave it sunlight only from three to six in the afternoon.

And I cared for it when I left for the winter and came back to its wilted stems, scouring the leaves for any trace of green left to no avail, before putting it to sleep in the garbage bin—well, what would you have done?

Can you imagine carrying the thing through buses, taxis, airplanes?

Even now, I can see the customs officer looking at the pot cradled in my arms, my neighbor in the window seat too guilty to ask me to stand up for the bathroom. Would they be in awe of my selflessness, feeding wildlife on recycled air and tap water, all so I could watch it die in front of me instead of coming home to the bloody aftermath?

17

18

Tr a v e l i n g B a c k

By Tamika Whitenack it’s a superpower the strength of generations stitched together and i can hear the whispers of the trees calling the names that grandma left behind did you know that when i walk the stars shift and dance guiding me over oceans and under islands and i breathe long lost wishes it’s a gentle hug and my toes resound in harmony pulsing through earth and time landing on soil that knows my name do you know where these shoes have been each time i slip into the soft soles the stories that unfold and envelop me i taste the laughter of the past on my tongue and the lullabies of lineage rise up in song

19

20

21

thoughts on t u r n i n g In

Japan,

the

age

that

signifies

adulthood

is

twenty.

Every year on the second Monday of January, a formal ceremony (成人式/seijinshiki) is thrown for the individuals who turned twenty in the past year. I don’t really believe that I can create such an arbitrary and clear cut distinction between my childhood and adulthood, but I do believe that rites of passage can be powerful moments for self-reflection and growth. So, as I officially leave the playground of childhood behind, I wanted to offer up a few thoughts on growing up thus far. Through my writing, I hope that I am able to communicate the deep gratitude that I hold for both my childhood as well as the privilege of getting to experience growing older.

1. On joy:

4. On innocence:

7. On friendship:

I cover my mouth when I laugh, And only sometimes Pause To wonder Where the impulse to hide joy Comes from

If childhood innocence Ever existed, It vanished The day I saw whiteness And named it More beautiful than my own.

I am an amalgamation Of all the beautiful things That you are.

2. On family:

5. On imagination:

That we are connected Is a beautiful Myth That we have constructed Into a reality.

You cannot call it delusion To imagine utopia When it is instinctual For children To dream.

3. On language:

6. On growth:

I loved the first friend I made in America Because her hair Smelled like the sun And we smiled at each other From across the playground.

What is lost in the process Of translating the world Into language?

22

If my journey Has not been linear, Maybe growth Is a homecoming To be celebrated.

8. On queerness: I love you In all the wrong ways.

9. On fear: For the most part My nightmares have lost Their fantastical touch.

10. On heartbreak: I refuse to desire Wholeness.

This fragment Is just as meaningful As what I’ve left behind.

11. On grief: How many firsts Do I have left?

How many lasts Have already passed by Without my knowing?

12. On anger: Who am I Beyond My pain?

I don’t want to be contingent On you.

13. On growing pains: Before I had the means To articulate these feelings, My body knew The price Of taking up space.

14. On love: Thank you for making me A cup of tea (Using the nice leaves Instead of a tea bag) And pretending not to notice The redness Around my eyes.

15. On healing: Time unravels In gentle spirals And closure Is a matter of Perspective.

16. On intersections: If I had to choose One, I would choose To burst At the seams With my fullness.

17. On adulthood: One foot In American adulthood, Left behind In Asian childhood, Unable to let go Of nineteen.

18. On nostalgia: What a blessing And a curse That I would not give up My present To return to the past I yearn for.

19. On staying the same: In Japan, they say That the soul you have At three years old Is the soul you’ll have At one hundred.

Maybe this is why Old habits Die hard.

20. On joy, again: In twenty more years I wonder what will call me To laugh so deeply That my joy Cannot be contained Or hidden.

written by Kanako Kawabe edited by Joy Yi Lu Freund designed by Josephine Man

Raised in Springfield, Missouri, I grew up drawing and painting and dreamed of being a ‘professional artist’ someday, but decided not to go to art school in favor of a liberal arts education.

I graduated from Vassar College with two years’ experience of cooperative living at Ferry Haus, a film degree, and set construction experience from working for the school’s incredible drama department. I proceeded to work in prop and set construction for film, and then as a sculptor for Bass Pro Shops, building waterfalls and trees

and traveling across the country. I soon grew disillusioned with corporate art and the excessive waste inherent to traditional filmmaking. I moved to Busan in my mother’s home country of South Korea to teach English for two years, where I began to exhibit art in earnest with a group called The Exotic Beasts. After a few more years of artist residencies and building projects in the States, I have now returned to Missouri, of all places, and am putting down roots at Dancing Rabbit ecovillage.

Here in my strawbale, earthen-plaster studio, I paint my client’s dreams and dreamscapes.

I provide portals, for your wall, into places where wondrous things happen. I like to think of my paintings as both cinematic and theatrical, with an eye for both composition and storytelling. They are a bit magical.

My collectors often tell me they have deep emotional connections to the paintings they buy. In return, they support my dream of making a living by selling original art. Living

at Dancing Rabbit means a lifestyle that consumes 90% fewer resources than that of the average American. Mostly because of what I learned at Ferry Haus and in my environmental studies courses at Vassar, I am committed to living a radically conscientious, environmentally-aware life, and my collectors make that possible.

Life at Vassar was indeed a playground, but life after Vassar is as well! It is possible to chase your dreams in this lifetime.

For more art, visit my website at www.gracestatwickstudios.com

25

26

, a r u k e a r S e h t e r e w e w

It was about the time that the cherry trees began to blossom that I became friends with Sakura.

They both appeared suddenly, and were carried away by the wind.

The school year had just begun and I was going to be a 4th grader, though the fact itself didn’t really matter to me. Adults make symbolic change seem so important, marking it with fancy words and lessons but we all know that it means nothing unless we want it to. What meant more was that we were going to have a classroom shuffle this year, which could either go well or poorly. After seeing the same faces— some of which I no longer wanted to see—for three years, it seemed to be promising.

Big changes scared me, but I at least knew that my swing would be there.

During spring break I missed my swing. Since second grade, I had run out to the playground every day, claimed the best swing for myself and clutched onto it like a koala till I heard the music telling us to return to the dim classroom.

When it was colder, the wind would whoosh against my skin, staining my cheeks like plum

28

jam. I would then feel the millions of tiny veins burst beneath my skin as I entered our toasty classroom. But today was a mid-spring day, just right for my swinging plans. The cherry trees surrounding the school ground had just started to bloom.

It’s a perfect day, I gasped in anticipation, already feeling the sun tickling the surface of my skin.

I don’t know how to explain how I felt when I found out Sakura was in the same class as me. I had seen her around since I started elementary school and was fond of her without ever having interacted. It could have been her unusually high-toned voice or her short black hair that hid her ears completely. It could have been a sharp comment she made to a teacher that caught me off guard. Or maybe it was her calligraphy. I knew that she had won several awards for her work, and whenever our pieces were displayed in the hallways, I would stand in front of hers, forgetting to breathe, imprinting each stroke in my memory. She could manipulate her brush so magically, shaping powerful creatures of thick and thin lines.

When we were released early from our first day of school in our new classes, I walked straight up to Sakura and waved my hand, though her face was right in front of me. She was slightly shorter than me with a rather strong build and a river of freckles across her face. She looked lost for a second, but then she said hi and that her name was Sakura. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just asked if she wanted to be my friend. She said she thought so.

with, but I didn’t ask.

I really had a lot to say to Sakura but felt rather shy about it, so I wrote her a letter. I told her all the things I liked and asked her to tell me all the things she liked. I asked if I could call her Saku-chan. She didn’t write back to me. I kept trying to ask her to play on the swings with me at recess, but she always seemed busy, usually disappearing with the recess bell.

Later that afternoon, as we walked out to the playground for recess, I could smell the cherry trees and the lightly toasted sand. I led Sa-chan to the swings in a dash, managing to steal the remaining one. “We ride together. Like this,” I said, demonstrating how she would sit down and I would stand facing her, with my feet on the two edges. We swang for the full thirty minutes, Sa-chan, a wide smile across her face, and me, carefully weighing the unfamiliar extra gravity.

I was secretly hurt, but that only lasted till our next PE class. I was jogging around the track on the school ground in misery, when she came out of nowhere and thanked me for my letter.

She said she would answer my questions in person because she didn’t have the time to write a proper letter. I wondered what she was busy

“You can call me Sa-chan.” She said. I was mesmerized and just replied okay. Then she asked me what I wanted to be called but I hadn’t really thought about that before.

“I guess Momoka?”

“I will call you Momo-chan, then,” she replied.

Sa-chan and I began riding the swings together almost every day. She learned to swing standing up and we would take turns each time. We went high, high, and higher, and I would think about her calligraphy strokes that started off with

29

weighted dignity and finished with a featherly float. On rainy days, we would run to the small damp library in our school.

She pointed to all of the books she had read, explaining to me the details of the plots on time travel, crime solving, and magic schools, as I ran my hand over the spine of the book covers on each shelf. In no time I was completely captivated by the stories, one after another, and we would whisper to each other dodging the librarian’s glare, about Michael Ende’s story, the girl Momo, and the Men in Grey who tried to steal time from her. * I had forgotten that March could be so cold. But we were on the swings again, Sa-chan and I. Almost three years since we had met—I had grown a few centimeters, and she had grown more. Throughout the years, we went through multiple phases, being into this and that for a while. But we always returned from time to time to the swings. It would be another month till the cherry trees started to bloom again. We were here for the last time before leaving. On separate paths.

“Do you want to graduate?” she asked me. Everyone had gone home for the day, leaving the whole dusty playground to us two.

“Maybe?” I tilted my head back as she bent her knees strongly, shooting us up into the air. We grew up here, I thought. She showed me how to land my pen on the paper, and I showed her what we could see from these swings. We imagined that we were like the girl who rides the dragon in the stories we read. The wind blew against my bare cheeks and ears. “Do you?”

“Yeah, so bad.” Sakura was looking up higher than we had ever swung, and I couldn’t see her face anymore. I closed my eyes, as we went back and forth, thinking of her calligraphy wand dancing around, creating new worlds, until it came to a sudden stop.

“Me too.” I felt my body slow down, losing its balance.

I opened my eyes only to see a grey sky and peachy petals fluttering down onto my face.

30

Writer: Elena Furuhashi Editor: Johnson Lin Designer: Ziyi Che

Written by Aidan Fry

Edited by Janet Song

t 6:30 AM, Grace and David finished their cereal and wriggled their tennis shoes on.

Mom trudged into the dining room in a nightgown and slippers.

“Backpacks ready,” she mumbled.

“Already did,” Grace replied. Her cereal had gone soggy, so she went into the kitchen with her laces undone and gave the bowl’s contents an unceremonious dump in the sink. Mom would clean it up for her, she thought.

“Brush your teeth,” Mom said as Grace rushed back to her room. Grace didn’t want to, but she figured it would be best to avoid getting four cavities in a row. Besides, it wasn’t like she and her brother had to worry about being late for school. Today was a special day for them.

David, already done with brushing his teeth, went outside to call the apartment elevator even while Grace was still in the bathroom. “Hurry up, Grace!”

David yelled after rushing back inside.

“Coming,” Grace replied. She gave a quick goodbye to Mom and snagged her backpack from off the floor, not bothering to close the door behind her as she left. Outside in the foyer, she saw David staring up at the left elevator’s floor indicator as it slowly crept up. It was still at 22.

“Got everything?” Grace asked.

“Yep,” David replied. “Where are we going first?”

“Shh. Mom can still hear us.” Grace gestured to the

Designed by Alexander Pham

open apartment door.

“Oh. Right,” David whispered. “So where are we going first?”

“The malls aren’t open yet,” Grace whispered as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “So we’ll go to 7-11 first to kill some time–” She shut up immediately upon noticing that the elevator wasn’t empty. Inside on the far right corner was a mother cradling an infant in her arms. The two siblings entered without a word. Grace checked to see that the ground floor button had already been pushed before squeezing up against the left wall. The doors slid shut.

As all four walls of the elevator were mirrors, it was hard to find somewhere to look that didn’t meet the mother’s eyes. Grace cycled between looking up at the ceiling, staring at the floor indicator, and glancing at David. One of the disadvantages of living on the 33rd floor was that each elevator trip felt like when Grace had her first x-ray: trapped inside a box making strange clicks and hums, her silhouette transformed into unnerving patterns of light on the mirrored walls. Even worse if there was a stranger inside with her. Grace couldn’t help but fidget. When she looked down at David for the hundredth time, she noticed him looking at his fingernails, so she grabbed his hand before he could start biting them. “他是你弟弟吗?” the mother asked.

Grace didn’t look up. She assumed that the mother

31

was just talking to someone on the phone. Besides, she couldn’t understand her. “你看起来很会照顾他呢。” the mother spoke again.

Grace heard the voice getting nearer, so she looked up. The mother had indeed inched ever-so-closer to the siblings, no longer leaning against the corner of the elevator. She stared straight at them, as if she was expecting a response.

“Sorry, I don’t speak– uh, I don’t speak…” Grace tried to say, but faltered when she realized she didn’t know what language the mother was speaking. And yet, the mother didn’t seem to get the hint. Her endless reflection in the mirror pulsated and multiplied as she moved even closer to them. Grace tried to step away, but there was nowhere to run with her back against the elevator wall. Now that the mother was closer, Grace could see that she wasn’t quite looking at them; instead, it was as if she was looking through them, transfixed by something far off in the distance. “我之前不知道还有别的中国人住在这里诶。” “We’re not Chinese, OK?” Grace blurted out.

That stopped her. The mother looked at Grace’s face for the first time, shocked. Just then, the elevator slowed to a stop, and a ding sounded as the elevator doors opened. Grace flashed an awkward smile at the mother before leading David out by the hand through the empty apartment lobby. She took deep breaths as her body transitioned out of fight-or-flight mode.

“Who was she?” David asked once they were out of her earshot.

“No idea,” Grace said. “I’m pretty sure that was the first time anyone’s tried to make conversation with me in the elevator.”

“How did you know she was Chinese?”

“She told me in English, y’know, something like ‘I didn’t know there were other Chinese families living here.’ Didn’t you hear her?”

“Yeah, I did. But…” David thought for a moment.

“How come she started speaking English to us if she thought we were Chinese?”

“Well, she was being pretty weird. Did you see how she was looking at us? People like that, they do all sorts of crazy things, and you can’t really say why they do it, y’know? That’s how the world is sometimes.”

David furrowed his brow, unsatisfied with her answer, but he didn’t press any further. “So, are we still going to 7-11?”

“Obviously.”

32

In truth, Grace wasn’t interested in buying anything at the convenience store. She was only there to stare at the strange variety of microwave meals and lose her appetite. David, on the other hand, was intent on buying a pack of Jolly Bears, bringing it to her while she stood in the frozen food section. When David tugged at Grace’s arm, she looked at the pack of candy in his hands, then at David’s eager expression.

“You eat too much of that, David,” Grace said. “Put it back.”

“I thought you said I could get anything I want,” David whined. “And I want candy.”

“What do you need me for? I thought you had your own money.”

“I ran out. It only costs 15 baht. Please, Grace.”

“I’m not going to be responsible for your bad eating habits. So no, David. I’m not giving you any money. Now put it back.”

“Grace,” David whined, louder.

“What? I said I’m not giving you money.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Grace replied, “I’m not going to be responsible for you eating unhealthy food.”

“But you said I could get anything I want and I want candy now,” David yelled. “You said I could get anything I want!”

“Well, I changed my mind. Put it back.”

David stormed off with tears in his eyes. Grace went back to staring at the frozen food section, though she had lost interest by now. She checked the time on her phone: 7:12am. 18 more minutes until the malls opened. She wondered if she would be able to appease David for that long. But as soon as she stepped away from the line of refrigerators to go look for him, he had already returned, popping gummy bears into his mouth from an open bag of Jolly Bears.

The two of them stared at each other.

“Hi Grace,” David said.

“David,” Grace said. “Did you pay for that?”

“Nope,” David replied. “The 7-11 guy at the counter let me have it for free.”

“That doesn’t happen.”

“It does so happen. I told him about how you weren’t giving me money, so he said I could have it without paying.”

“No, you idiot. 7-11 workers can’t just give stuff to people for free. They can get fired for that.”

David frowned. “Well, he didn’t say that to me.”

“How could he have said anything to you anyway?

Or understood you? You can’t speak Thai.”

“He did understand me!” David shouted. “Go up and ask him! I’m telling the truth!”

“You know what? I will ask him.” Grace grabbed David’s hand and pulled him to the front of the store, where the sole employee stood at the counter, looking down at his phone with red eyes.

“Uh, hi,” Grace said.

The employee looked up at her. Grace snatched the bag of gummy bears from David’s hands before he could protest.

“We didn’t pay for this.” “ไม่ต้องห่วง เชิญคุณกับน้องชาย ตามสบายเลย ไม่มี ใครจะซื้อทอฟฟี่นั่นอยู่แล้ว” Grace jolted. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. “คุณสองคนดูไม่เหมือนคนไทยเลย คุณมาจากที่ไหนเหรอ?”

“See?” David said. “I told you he could understand me.”

The employee’s eyes bored holes in Grace’s forehead. She suddenly felt the urge to run away. She looked down at David, who had a smug grin on his face for being proven right. “Uh, thanks for the candy,” Grace said to the employee. She then pulled David with her towards the automatic doors. “We’re going now, David.”

“You don’t have to keep holding my hand so tight,” David complained.

Grace ignored him. Looking over her shoulder, Grace could see the employee still staring at the two of them, so she walked faster. David waved at him as the two siblings left through the automatic doors, a blast of hot air hitting them once they were outside.

Grace stopped outside, taking a moment to breathe the fresh exhaust-fume air and think.

“So can I have my candy back?” David asked.

Grace ignored the question. “David, you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The people passing by. What they’re talking about. Can you hear it?”

David looked all around, scrunching his eyebrows together in concentration. “Nope. All I hear is car noises.”

Grace huffed and handed the candy back to him.

“Yeah, me neither.”

he BTS skytrain was never crowded on weekday mornings, but even still, Grace made sure to walk the two of them all the way down to the end of the train where there were no other passengers. The plastic ceiling handles rattled against each other as the train picked up speed. While David had taken his backpack off and placed it in between his legs, Grace kept hers on even as she leaned back in her seat. “สถานีต่อไป เอกมัย,” the train announcer said.

“Next station, Ekkamai.”

“You understood that too, right?” Grace whispered.

“Yep,” David replied. “So we know Thai now.

Cool.”

“It’s not cool,” Grace said. “It’s not cool at all, David. Something is going very wrong. You don’t just suddenly understand Thai after never learning it. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, everyone around us speaks Thai. Maybe we just magically picked it up.” “失礼、” a man standing in front of them said.

He wore a suit, and his hair had small streaks of grey amidst the black despite his youthful appearance.

Grace hadn’t heard him walk into their car. “モール への行き方知ってますか。” 33

“Don’t respond, David,” Grace whispered.

“Why not? He’s just asking us for directions.” “すみません、この辺では誰も日本語をしゃ べらないもので…” the businessman said.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t help you,” Grace replied, keeping her head down. “Keep quiet, David.” “そうですか、この街について詳しそうな気 がしたので…”

“Please,” Grace said. “Go away.”

For a moment, it looked like that had worked. The businessman looked startled. But soon after she said that, another man stepped in front of the two siblings: a fat man with a colorful button-down shirt, complete with a large floral pattern. “这个男人挺烦人的吧。” the fat man asked. “我 没想到还会有其他中国人住在这里。” “Oh, god,” Grace mumbled.

“Grace?” David said. “Can I talk to them yet?”

In their attempts to get closer to the siblings, the two men bumped into each other, as if neither noticed the other was there. They stared at each other, then back at the siblings. Their faces darkened. “你们两个不是中国人。” the fat man said. “你们 到底是从哪里来的?” “เอกมัย” the train announcer said. “Ekkamai.” The train slowed, screeching as the brakes kicked in. The view of decrepit buildings outside the window was replaced by the pristine concrete of the skytrain station platform.

“David,” Grace whispered. “We’re going to run.”

“What?” David scowled. “Why? It’s not even our stop yet.” “โปรดระวังช่องว่างระหว่างรถไฟและชานชาลา” the train announcer said. The doors hissed and began to slide open. “Please mind the gap between–” Grace burst out of her seat and ran for the train exit, yanking David by the arm as he yelped in pain.

They jumped onto the platform, skipping down flights of stairs to the lower level. Grace looked behind her and saw more people coming down the stairs and was prepared to run even faster before David howled for her to stop.

“My backpack!” David shouted. “I left my backpack!”

Grace looked around, breathing heavy. People at the station were beginning to stare, and adrenaline spiked in her veins. She tried in vain to shush him.

“It’s OK, David, we’ll get it back from the Lost and Found.”

34

“My candy was in it!” David yelled, kicking at her.

“You lost it!”

“Let’s just go home, OK?” Grace suggested.

“We can’t go home,” David scoffed. “Mom’s going to kill us.”

“We’ll just tell her it was an early dismissal day.

Now come on. Let’s go home.” Grace reached down to grab David once again.

David jerked his hand away. “Don’t pull me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Alright, fine. But you have to promise to follow me.”

David huffed, but he still followed Grace obediently, staring down at the ground while occasionally looking up to check where she was. Even though David had stopped yelling, people were still staring at the siblings as they walked through the station.

David frowned when he noticed they were heading down the stairs to the street. “Aren’t we taking the BTS back?”

Grace sighed. “We can’t take the BTS anymore, David. It’s too dangerous. Too many people.”

“So?” David said. “Where aren’t there people?”

“At least if we’re out on the streets we aren’t trapped with anybody. It’s better this way.”

“I’m not walking back.”

“Look, David, I hate this as much as you do, but there’s something going on, and we have to be safe.”

Grace again instinctively reached for David’s hand, but he crossed his arms and stepped back.

“So tell me what’s going on!” David yelled. “You haven’t told me anything! Why should I believe you, anyway? You’ve just been annoying me ever since this morning!”

Grace didn’t reply, looking back at David. He stared back at her, tears welling up in his eyes.

Just then, the van stuck in traffic near the sidewalk

where David stood opened its door, and out popped the heads of several young boys wearing blue soccer uniforms. They were waving at David. “타!” they yelled.

David gave a quick glare at Grace before jumping in without any further hesitation, and as the light turned green and the mass of cars in front began to move one by one, Grace bolted to the van and screamed at them before they could shut the door.

“That’s my brother! He’s not leaving without me!” She expected to be forced out of the van but was instead grabbed and pulled in too, and before she knew it she was sitting in the third row down squeezed in between two boys. Grace could see David sitting in the front, but he was staring straight ahead, refusing to look at her. Suddenly, the traffic jam broke and the van took off down the road with a jolt. “야 방금 좀 멋있었다!” the boy in the number two jersey said to David. “너 우리팀 들어올래? 축구 잘할거 같은데.” the boy in the number fourteen jersey said. “너 학교 어디 다니는데?” “야 너 괜찮아?”

“I just want to go home,” David muttered.

“David!” Grace kneeled on the seat cushion, leaning over the seat in front of her so that he could see her.

David looked behind for a moment before looking away again. “What?”

“We have to get out of here, David. Please. You have to trust me.”

“Don’t care.”

“OK, David,” Grace said, “OK. Listen to me, David.

Come on. Turn around and look at me.”

David didn’t move.

“I’m going to think about something really, really hard. And I want you to concentrate as hard as you can and think of what I’m thinking about. Can you do that for me, David?”

David still wasn’t looking back.

“Alright David, I’m thinking of it now.” Grace closed her eyes and waited for five seconds. After that, she opened her eyes again. “OK, David. Tell me what I was thinking about.”

After a moment, David spoke up. “A panda bear.”

Grace smiled. “That’s exactly it. That’s what I was thinking of. You got it.”

David turned around and looked at her in wonder.

“Woah.”

“So, David, do you trust me?”

David nodded.

“I can’t explain what we’re going to do because they can understand us and they’ll try to stop us, so you just have to trust me. But you know what we have to do. Look at them,” Grace motioned to the soccer boys. “Sooner or later they’re going to ask the same question that every single person we’ve met today has asked us. And you know exactly what question I’m talking about.” “무슨 질문? 너희들한테 질문 안 할 거야.” “지금 우릴 놀리는 거야?”

“So you just have to trust me,” Grace continued. “I trust that you know exactly what I’m talking about, and I want you to trust that I know what I’m doing.

That’s all you need to do.”

The van began to slow down again as it approached a red light. Grace slowly removed her legs from the back seat, placing them on the ground while still holding onto the back of the chair in front of her. She met eyes with David and nodded. The van came to a stop. “누나 어디에서 왔 어?”

Grace bolted for the door on the left of the van, sliding through the gap in between rows of chairs as she fumbled with the door lock, but the soccer boys weren’t trying to stop her at all. They simply laughed.

“Uh, do you need help?” David asked.

Grace got the door open and rushed out into the street, gulping down unfresh air and weaving through cars to get to the sidewalk, and she saw that David was right behind her. But it was no use. In an instant, people walking along the crowded sidewalks stopped in their tracks and stared at the siblings gasping for breath, forming a ring around them. People started to get out of their cars stuck in the traffic jam, and the circle around them got smaller and smaller.

Grace hugged David closer to her, but he twisted away from her and yelled “Behind! Behind!” She looked behind and saw a hand peeking out from underneath the barely-opened rolling shutters of a curb35

side basement apartment, beckoning to them. Grace rushed for the shutters but tripped to the ground, her backpack jutting into her shoulder blades as she fell onto it, and she could do nothing but flail and struggle on her back as the crowd closed in. But suddenly, she felt a hand tug on her backpack strap and she was yanked inside just as the shutters closed behind her with a bang, and then everything was quiet. She took deep breaths, lying still as her eyes adjusted to the dim, fluorescent light. After catching her breath, she rolled onto her chest and propped herself back up from the tiled floor.

“Are you OK, David?” she asked. “Uh, David?”

When he didn’t reply, Grace looked at his face and found him staring forward, transfixed, so she followed his gaze and saw– The man standing in front of them had perfectly reflective skin. His legs were made of green floor tiles and framed black and white photos, and his arms were made of the red-and-gold altar and the pink plastic chair, and his face was like when Grace looked into the mirrors in the apartment elevator too hard.

An endless series of faces reflected into each other, stretching out into a vast distance where the light

from the ceiling became too dark to illuminate the outline of the faces at the end but it still kept multiplying even further beyond that, and– Hands grabbed Grace’s shoulders and twisted her to look back at the rolling shutters, and her vision filled with grey and she could think again. “对不起。” the reflective man behind her spoke. “这是我的错。我应该告诉你我们不应直视对 方。” “It’s fine,” Grace said, though she wasn’t fine at all. She looked down at David, who was also facing the wall and breathing heavily. The man must have turned him around before her.

“You OK, David?” Grace asked. David nodded. “是不是你们有这个超能力？” the reflective man said.

“If by power you mean people chasing us everywhere, then yeah, I guess we do,” Grace said. “哦。” the reflective man said. “私の言っている こと理解してる?”

“Yeah.” “무슨 말인지 알아듣겠어?”

“Yeah.” “二加二等如幾多呀?”

“Four.”

He laughed. “唉，我剩喺識咁多咋。我細個嗰 陣都學過少少方言，所以個老嘢會以為我可以講 多幾句啦，但係睇嚟佢都應該對我幾失望。” “Uh, who?” Grace asked. “呀，係喎。我唔應該要佢等咁耐。佢喺左邊 個客廳等緊你哋㗎喇。” “So how are we supposed to go talk to him without looking at you?” David asked.

The reflective man paused for a moment. “拿，我 哋咁做啦。我落咗樓梯先，咁我落到底就嗌一嗌 你哋。跟住你哋兩個等五秒之後就轉身，之後你 哋就可以唔洗見倒我咁就過倒去客廳㗎喇。 咁樣 O唔OK呀?”

“Uh, sure,” Grace replied.

Grace heard him run off behind her to go down the stairs to the lower floor before calling back up to them. She counted to five and turned around, and there was nothing in front of her but an empty basement apartment. Besides a single set of plastic furniture and the incense-burning altar inside the crevice of a wall, everything else was green tiles and green wallpaper. Grace looked down at David and squeezed his shoulder before they walked towards the only other room on the floor. She heard the faint sounds of a television and saw lights flickering from underneath the metal door. Grace put her hand on the doorknob and turned.

Inside the room was an old man, shirtless and in his boxers. Bony and wrinkled, he sat in an armchair staring at an old television set, the only source of light in the room. This armchair was surrounded by stacks of boxes and ceiling-high shelves. Grace and David shuffled into the only free spot on the floor, a small rug by the entrance. The old man turned his head to acknowledge the siblings’ presence but didn’t say a word.

Grace decided that she would have to be the first one to speak. “Uh, hi.”

the two siblings had suddenly stopped existing.

“Can we go now?” David asked.

They crept out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind them. In the foyer, the rolling shutters had already been lifted, allowing the sounds of the city to filter in and the full glare of the sun to coat the floor tiles near the entrance. The reflective man was nowhere to be found. Grace gave a cautious few steps outside, ready to spring the instant she saw a passerby turn and look at them. But nobody did. Pedestrians walked past them without a glance. Cars honked and continued driving without anyone getting out. The sun was directly overhead, the only time of day where it wasn’t hiding behind buildings. Grace stared up at it until she got spots in her eyes.

“So, Grace,” David said. “Are we lost?”

“Mostly,” she replied.

“Excuse me,” David jumped in front of a man who was passing by, waving his arms around. “We’re lost.

Can you give us directions, please?” But the man just ignored him, stepping to the side and continuing on his way like he wasn’t even there.

Special thanks to our translators: Alex Kim Annie Xu Elena Furuhashi Jane Ahn Janet Song Janus Wong Jiaqi (Julia) Peng Nong Xumsai Na Ayudhaya Tamika Whitenack

the old man said.

“Huh?” The old man smiled. Satisfied, he stopped talking and went back to staring at the television screen, as if 37

unnameable are the feelings that childhood sweeps into view whisk me away no school on Sunday to teach me what I have lost Where are you from? learning to count with tally marks bundle popsicle sticks like kindling because to be able to quantify and speak existence to numerical law and order is to set fire to all the days hours seconds ephemeral infinities Where are your parents?

Rolling words like dice on my Tongue I am tired of calculating considering

38

any way to say that I don’t take kindly to interrogation but I am the only one here able to stand trial Where’s your father?

When we play pretend Count tally marks with Yan Yan and Pocky smear my hollowness with Tiger Balm and call it culture seasoned in Kikkoman finery Can I be the dad?

Hope it’s mine If you mistake me for Asian-raised is that my cue to bow?

Which is your real mother?

Angry Asian Girls Angry Asian Girls Angry Asian Girls Angry Asian Girls Angry Asian Girls Maybe I am angry because I do not feel Asian.

But maybe it feels easier to say I am angry as opposed to saying I am devastated To saying I am steeped in grief my anger is my sorrow is my Asianness is my shame is equally prelingual, inchoate prone to commit poised to strike and strip me when I expect nothing less from a hurricane

39

To offer a concluding postface in different language, this poem was birthed out of processing my initial reactions and associations with themes of childhood and nostalgia as they relate to “playground.” Childhood was integral to forming my sense of self as an adoptee. On playgrounds, I was molded through questions asked in these spaces of distinct interpersonal relation and conversation between children. Playgrounds are where worldbuilding happens, forming and cementing realms of possibility, certainty, and also notions of illegibility or impossibility. My sense of self was shaped by learning to expect and prepare to respond to casually asked and intimately invasive questions. Seemingly innocent inquiries became statements, convictions. I cannot see or recognize you as the legible child of your guardians; it is impossible that you do not have a father; in your excess of mothers, it follows that one must be the person who carried and birthed you, but you very clearly are not white like they are; so what is your story.

Childhood was constituted by far more than these less enchanting experiences, but these are the ones that positioned me to seek a solution to some perceived lack, an absence of belonging and security in the communities I am a part of. Having resolved and resigned to my irreconcilable non-whiteness, I have moved through my growing into adulthood searching for a feeling of belonging to Asianness. In a culture that is steeped in colonial tradition, tempered by capitalism, white supremacy, and US imperialism, we emerge into a world where belonging is predicated on ownership. Citizenship and democracy, liberty, are all concepts that are affirmed through consumption and possession. The aesthetics of nostalgia are condensed into marketable icons, childhood becomes reduced to the afterschool snack that saw you through formative years. The glory and fondness with which you regard those days can be forever remembered in the commercial enterprise that you participated in.

It is popular to perform belonging and identification with these memories that supposedly constitute a collective identity. Stick a logo on it and call it remembrance, call it yours. Having gone through waves of gravitating towards this advertised feeling of belonging, I’ve also crashed onto shore with the recognition that no amount of consumption will grant me an Asian American childhood I did not have. As much as I have longed to be included in this flashback, in this communal identification, culture is not reducible to the commercial symbols that capitalism has wrung out of nations’ peoples, and belonging cannot be built through possession of such icons. I cannot change the truth that I do not relate to these recollections in the way that other Asians and Asian Americans do. For both my own healing and efforts to embody an anti-capitalist, decolonial praxis, I am working in community with others to reorient to and affirm a sense of belonging based in something freer than ownership.

I have no set theory of what this model of belonging is, but to close, I would like to offer words from Ocean Vuong that have lit the way in these imaginings of alternative forms of belonging. In elaborating upon his process of writing the novel, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (2019), Vuong expressed in an author’s talk that he sought to employ narrative styles that do not rely upon linear plot. He explained, “we’re not here because of a linear plot, we are here because of proximity, because we choose to put our bodies in proximity to one another.” As in chemistry, he said, meaning and significance can be derived from all that happens in the spaces between us. From this we are offered a sense of belonging figured through proximities; we are rooted by all the connections and distances that position us in relation to one another. Instead of subscribing to purchased assimilation, belonging as a claim to ownership, entry, or authenticity, it is the distances and solidarities, the choices we make that locate us in these vast interdependent networks. The culmination of our circumstantial connections, partnered with intentional choices, more than possession as liberty, are what make us free to build community, to love.

40 This creation has been inspired by a multitude of moments and conversations with wise people in my life, particularly Alex van Biema, Kanako Kawabe, Tamika Whitenack, Dr. Jasmine Syedullah, Professor Hiram Perez, and my mothers; not to mention the ancestors who have lived and danced these praxises and carried them to us. Much love to all the adoptees and folks who find themselves in the waves, too.

My Homes, My Playgrounds, and Where Love Lies Writer: Ziyi Che

Editor: Janus Wong

Designer: Wyejee (Sara) Jung

4 You know, for a 4-year-old, being a boss was not easy. It took me 3 minutes every day to travel across the living room on a wiggling scooter. My bag dangling on the left handle was heavy, and the scooter almost turned over each time I tried to make a turn around the coffee table.

My clerks always arrived at the office early, but they looked dull every day. The purple rabbit lay on his belly, the big brown bear stared at the ceiling daydreaming, and the furry white cat licked her paws.

They did not work until I yelled at them. Among my clerks, I liked the orange chubby squirrel the best. My parents hired her for me on my birthday. She always carried a notebook and pen to record her duties and finished her work well on time. So I played with her all the time, till one day I decided not to like her.

5 Uncle Teng’s house was a nice place for meals. I could enjoy tasty food while riding a rocking horse there. After feeding himself, my uncle sat on the dark wooden sofa next to the dining table and placed me on his left lap and my cousin Jun, his daughter, on his right lap. He scooped a big chunk of rice and vegetables or meat out of my bowl and stuffed them into my mouth. He did the same thing to Jun. As we fought against the food in our mouths, Uncle Teng bounced us on his laps gently till we swallowed the food. He then stuffed another chunk into our mouths.

The feeding service on the rocking horse satisfied me. The mini eating competition that Jun and I had made me even more excited. I swallowed mouthful after mouthful and cleaned my bowl in a few minutes. I wiped my mouth with my hands proudly and enjoyed my family’s praise.

41

9 When I was staying at my father’s parents’ home, my favorite season was summer. After school, I ran back to my grandparents’ home, slung my bag and shoes off, washed my hands under my grandma’s order, and finally took out an Ormosia flavor popsicle from the freezing precious deposit. Who could resist a delicious popsicle in the hot summer? With the popsicle in my mouth, I hunted comic books hidden by my cousin Bobby in the study. While I climbed up to the windowsill in the living room, I tried every time to stop the melting popsicle from dripping and protected the comic books from the syrup. I always made my clothes and the floor dirty and myself sweating.

Making my way up the windowsill, I sat still and tried to dry my stained yellow uniform with the faintest breeze. The setting sun radiated golden beams, the cicadas sang passionate yet hoarse songs.

Sitting on the windowsill was like sitting on a Ferris Wheel because as I looked out of the window, I could see miniature people, dense trees, and so far away to the skyline... I watched the world as if I was reading a comic book. I enjoyed being alone without homework and observing the world quietly.

Although the Ferris Wheel was only two stories high, it was the best one I have ever ridden. After swallowing the last drop of the popsicle, I dove into the fictional comic-book world till it got too dark to read.

15 When I returned home from school at nine on a weekday evening, my parents were not there. My maid Xue told me that my parents were at my mother’s parents’ home, and she called a taxi.

In the taxi, neither of us spoke. Something must have happened. Climbing six floors up a dark staircase, I heard crying and weird music before reaching the door. My grandfather, my parents, and Teng’s family were in the living room, kneeling around my grandmother’s body and crying. On the coffee table stood fruit dishes, a radio playing sutras singing, and my grandmother’s black-and-white portrait.

My grandmother suffered from Alzheimer’s disease for more than a decade. Since I could remember, she had lost the ability to recognize us. Over the years, she had become a humanoid to me. My love toward her was so vague that I did not know if I loved her. I did not understand why my family was willing to take care of her day after day during these years.

Tears filled up my eyes, and I looked at my grandmother. She appeared asleep, but her skin was so yellow, so lifeless, and so scary. I was afraid that she would open her eyes and bite us and turn us into zombies. Fright almost tearing my heart, my lungs, and my body apart, I suppressed my roaring desire to rush out of the room. My mother asked me to touch my grandmother. I shook my head so hard that I almost fainted. I wished that I could escape this haunted house.

42

18 A few days ago, I woke up crying from a dream in the middle of the night. I dreamed about a disaster that killed my mother. I suddenly realized why my family did not give up upon my grandmother—love. Love is my parents giving me the orange chubby squirrel as my birthday present to make me happy. Love is my uncle feeding me on his rocking horse. Love is my grandparents filling the refrigerator with my favorite popsicles and cleaning up the mess that I made. Love is never losing patience and hope on the ones that you care about.

Love hides in things so ordinary or those that you cannot grasp for now. Close your eyes, and you will smell it in the air, feel it on your skin, and find it in your heart. If you cannot sense it now, do not worry.

Love will come. It will never give up on anyone.

43

Annie Xiyang Xu Edited by Jiaqi (Julia) Peng Designed by Hannah Hu

[00:00:00] “Let me tell you a story,” The afternoon sun falls through the crack of the old dirty curtain, as though to split her face in half.

“Once upon a time in the Ming Dynasty, two men met each other on their way to take the national exam that could change their life. The young one fell sick and had to stop. The other took care of him. They made a promise that in one year, they will meet each other at the sick man’s house. On the day of reunion, the younger guy waited expectantly. But the other man still had not arrived. ‘It’s been such a long time. He must have forgotten.’ said the sick man’s wife. ‘No, he won’t.’ In the middle of the night, the older one arrived, shirt torn and hair messy, with a single yellow chrysanthemum on his placket. The two friends talked and talked. When the morning sun hit the door, the older friend disappeared. He told his younger companion that last night before arriving, he was sick and weak and far away, so he took his own life thinking that a ghost could travel thousands of miles a night without constraint. The younger man watched the ghost of his friend fade away, and cried for seven days and seven nights straight.”

[3:00:00-3:30:59]

44

It is 3 am and I just woke up from a dream reminding me of her. I don’t dream about her often. But whenever I did, she always told the same story. Two men, one promise. One waited, the other arrived as a ghost. Is that a threat?

I stand up to pour myself a glass of water, a promise fizzing on my tongue. I did make a promise with her a long time ago. We were in high school and had just become close friends. I switched next to her after the girl who previously sat next to me went on sick leave and she just came back from her last year abroad in Japan. I suppose we hit it off immediately, or else why would I promise to meet her in ten years on the school playground? Ten years, I remember that, but not the year to add on from, like an equation with no left side, like an equation with nothing left.

I take a sip of water and try hard to recall her face. She was about my height, short hair, tanned and sporty. When she was amused, the air around her vibrated like they were also moved. When I told her a joke, she used to laugh so hard that everyone in class turned around to look at us. 52 pairs of inquiring eyes.

I glance into the glass to find my reflection. I attempt to laugh the same way she did, joyous and carefree with wrinkles webbing from the corner of my eyes. I scrunch my nose to perfect the mimesis. In the absence of a good joke, I think of her instead. To me, she was always both loving and provoking.

I grab the glass and sit by the computer. On the desktop sits an old folder. I kept everything from high school there for the fear of needing future references. Tonight is the night. I remembered typing the date and time of our reunion into my phone and the information must be uploaded somewhere onto the cloud. I lost that phone on a rainy day. Trying to balance my umbrella, I dropped it in a muddy puddle. I superstitiously put it in a bag of rice but it never worked again.

Funny, on rainy days, she used to step into puddles on the school playground just to splash water on me. What an omen.

[3:31:00-4:00:59] It is 3:31 and I am sinking into the couch, attempting to come up with keywords that might help me locate the memo with the date. I knew it wouldn’t be simple because I was never a fan of simplicity. It was maybe the fondness of theatrics that drew us together. Two men, one promise. It sounds like a story she would have told me.

I type her name in the search bar. A couple documents show up. One of them is a story we wrote together. It was published in the school magazine. Two friends parted with each other, promising to meet again. One went north, the other south. Years went by, when they finally met each other, they were shocked to see how they have turned into what each other hated the most. They laughed and went their own merry way. The timeliness is uncanny, like she planned it, sending a shiver down my spine. It is so odd seeing her name next to mine. I take a deep breath in and say the three characters of her name out loud. Once, twice, three times. The syllables roll back and forth on my tongue like hard-to-swallow hot soup. Nothing happens. No sudden phone calls or incoming emails. I look over my shoulders. Sometimes, the third time brings no charm.

I tried the word “playground”, hoping that I had at least noted down the meeting place when I made the bold promise. Still nothing but a few photos. She was in one of them, looking unusually coy with a very pink ribbon in her hair. Holding my right hand, she pressed her cheek against mine. Pink was not for her, nor was that particular shyness in her eyes. Looking through old photos brings back nostalgic feelings. I put on a song from my high school days and a pot of coffee. The night is still young.

45

[4:01:00-4:30:59] It is officially four o’clock and I have spent almost half an hour looking for a promise I once made with a girl who wasn’t even my best friend. We were close but we drifted apart. For what I cannot remember. It just happened one day—no more late night text messages, or recess emotional moments. We moved on our own merry way like we had exhausted all that we could ever talk about. To be fair, we did talk a lot. Like, a lot.

The milk forms a funny swirl in the coffee like an unsettled face. My finger slides around the edge of the mug, feeling the steam wetting the tip. Where is she now? Does she even remember the promise? I feel the impulse to click open all the subfolders, documents, photos. It has to be somewhere. A note, a single note proving that she was once very important to me, to the point that I made a promise to see her again in ten years. So I did. I click on everything I see. The more I click, the more I realize her presence has been ghostly.

She was in a total of 14 photos and her name was mentioned mostly in class pictures and the digital yearbook. She didn’t even leave a note for me upon graduation. “We are beyond explanations and expectations.” She used to say heavy words so lightly like it was only normal. But I expect my explanation now.

The coffee grew cold due to my negligence. I pick up my phone and text L. L is a good friend. In fact, L was my best friend.

“Have you heard from her?”

“Nope, not lately. Are you crazy? Go to bed! It’s like three am!”

Am I crazy? I do wonder. For a second I thought she was more like an idea to me—I wrote it down a long time ago on a piece of paper, hoping to develop it further, only to misplace it, miss it and forget it. The sick man who waited one year was waiting for an old ghost, met in the middle of nowhere, growing pale and weak, hoping for the first ray of morning sun to let it go. To look life in the face but then to put it away. That’s what the actress playing Virginia Woolf said in the movie The Hours. She used to love that movie so much that she called me her Mrs. Dalloway.

[4:31:00-5:00:00] It is now 4:30, almost one and a half hours since I dreamt about her. The sky shows no sign of lighting up. My eyes hurt from all the extra screen time. The high school songs slowly wind down like a flat soda. Still no trace of the memo. There is one last file left and it looks like nothing but another school photo.

A funny feeling fills my chest. Failed to recall her face, I can almost hear her laughter. Unable to trace her right hand, I am absorbed in her writing. People say forget me not. But how could I not forget? I was pulled back in time by a recurring dream. I am trapped in the present with my inevitable forgetfulness. The friend had to watch the ghost fade. Was that her message for me?

It’s almost five o’clock and the first ray of sun struggles to break through the window shields. It’s almost time to put this promise away.

46

[00:00:00] Finishing up the last bit of coffee, I am about to turn my computer off. My fingers feel numb after retaining the clicking position for two hours. Accidentally, I double clicked the trace pad.

The mouse was on the one remaining file. A picture shows up on the screen. It is a Polaroid that shows a patch of grass on a playground. On the white edge of the photo sheet quietly sits her handwriting:

“4/25/2025 15:00 School PG”

Suddenly, I really want to cry.

47

Lucy Writer: Vivian Xu Editer: Jiaqi (Julia) Peng Designer: Wyejee (Sara) Jung

A curl of heat slipped out the crack in the concrete and climbed up Lucy’s leg, which continued running unbothered across the playground. The less pleasant signs of early July—hot sun, scent of mulch, hungry mosquitoes—hardly dampened the energy that poured freely from the little people of this town, a flat lot populated by slides and swing sets and secrets which never lasted long.

When Lucy told Patrick she liked him, he only scratched the back of his head and mumbled, “Okay?”

But it was enough to send her squealing to her friends, fueling the whispers and giggles of the girls sitting under the oak trees. Everything was something to laugh about, talk about, dream about, to twist and pinch into a perfect story behind closed, smiling, flickering eyelids. Lucy didn’t know what exactly she liked about Patrick, but he gave her a new feeling, and she liked that.

48

The sun had cooled by now, and the oak leaves, bright red and orange and yellow, fluttered down in groups whenever the trees sighed. The air was touched lightly by the scent of earth and old wood. Lucy picked at the shell of an acorn with reddening fingertips, her hair (now to her shoulders) hanging over her face as she squatted over the grass, trying to pry open the kernel of honey-yellow flesh.

Her best friend had moved away last month, and now there was no one to listen to her secrets. They just sat in her chest until the excitement in them died out.

When the purple polish on her thumbnail chipped, Lucy abandoned her labor and wandered over to the swingset. Dodging kicking legs, she sat down on an empty seat, and pushed. The wind brushed her hair and kissed her cheeks, speaking to her in soft tones.

She felt a little less alone.

Sometime after the trees had been cut down and the slide replaced, Lucy sat down again on the swing. The seat pressed her overgrown legs into each other like a clutch purse trying to snap shut. Her feet dragged against the wood chips, thwarting her momentum, and she resolved to a small sway. The ground was littered with sticks and unopened acorns, and in the distance an abandoned bicycle sat upturned, its wheel spinning slowly in the wind. It just kept spinning and spinning and spinning…

49

“Hello, My Name Is...” originated from my late night musings about what name(s) mean to the people who hold them. What started out as a curiosity to learn about people’s stories through their names became a gratifying and grounding journey that attempts to capture the complexities of the Asian American/Asian international identity. Names speak volumes—not just because your name is how you introduce yourself, but also because your name is what most things about you are constructed upon. It speaks to what others think of you, who you see yourself as, and it is an active noun of doing and being, in the past, in the present, and in the future. And so “Hello, my name is...” hopes to acknowledge the somewhat predestined nature of our names, to amplify our understanding of who we are today, and to recenter ourselves in our personal narratives of self-exploration.

— Janus

Janus Wong & Taylor Gee

Heejae | 희재

Edited by Gabor Fu Ptacek | Designed by Joy Yi Lu Freund

Seowon | 서원

Hi, I’m Heejae. I go by she/her. I’m a sophomore psych major.

e she/ Hi I’m Seowon, I us a first her pronouns. I am year.

Gabor | 家寶

Johnson | 庄森 I’m Johnson, I use he/ him/his. I’m a senior math major.

Tamika | 民力

I’m Tamika Chin Whitenack, I use she/her. I’m a senior , Environmental Studies major Education correlate. I’m half Chinese American, quarter Japanese American, quarter white.

I’m Gabor Fu Ptacek, I use he/him pronouns, third year, majoring in Computer Science and Chinese.

Khanh | Khanh I’m Khanh Le, I use she/ her and I’m Vietnamese; CompSci major, class of 2024. My name in Vietnamese is Lê Lan Khanh. In my country it’s last name then first name.

1. What was the origin of your name(s)?

Gabor | 家寶

In Taiwanese, the way you say 家寶, my Chinese name, is Ga-bo (anglicized). My mom didn’t want me to face discrimination from a hyphenated name like she did. Gabor is also a Hungarian name, so I get asked about whether I’m Hungarian a lot. Fu is my mom’s last name and Ptacek is my dad’s last name. As for my full name, my initials are G.F.P., which stands for “green fluorescent protein” in biology, and my parents use that in their lab. They have posters covered with my initials, but they didn’t realize until I was in 4th grade.

I don’t know “Fu” in Taiwanese as my mom didn’t teach me the language. I’ve always wanted to learn it since I was a kid, but she says it’s the language for her and her sisters. 家寶 means the treasure of the family, which I appreciate, and it’s very cute! But I’m sometimes shy or embarrassed about the name, and I wonder that it might be really weird when I’m an adult and I introduce myself to other people. I think my mom knew that I was going to be an only child, so she didn’t have to worry about one kid being named the treasure of the family and another kid being named something else.

Heejae | 희재

I’m Korean, and in Korean culture there's this tradition where you visit a name-maker of our grandparents’ generation. Since each character in a traditional Korean name has a certain weight, name-makers help discern if a name reaches equilibrium, so the individual can lead a “balanced” life. It’s a tradition deeply rooted in philosophy and the historical origin of names. My parents consulted a name-maker before I was born. 희재 (Heejae) has two parts: 희 (Hee) and 재 (Jae). 희 means joy or happiness, and 재 is a verb, which means “bringing onto others,” or a carrier of joy and happiness. So together, it means that I spread happiness or joy to others.

Another deciding factor for my name is the Korean practice in which you share half of your name with your sibling. My older brother’s name is 윤재 (Yunjae), and we share the “재” part of our names. Though, it’s not a practice that’s always observed, because some siblings have completely different names.

Certain Korean last names can have reputations or stereotypes. It doesn’t apply to the individual, but it’s a fun thing that gets tossed around. I think my last name 정 (Jung) might have a reputation of being stubborn, or sticking to one path.

Tamika | 民力

I’m Chinese, Japanese, and white. My parents really wanted both my sister and I to have our entire cultural heritage in our names. They wanted to give us Japanese first names because we were going to get our dad’s last name, Whitenack, which is German. Our middle name, which is our mom’s maiden name Chin, is Chinese.

I think my older sister’s name, Mariko, means clear truth. They were looking through a book of Japanese baby names, and they decided on Tamika for me, even though Tamiko is the more traditional version. Many Japanese names end in “ko” because “ko” means child. Because my sister is Mariko, they decided to name me Tamika to distinguish the ending sounds.

My parents chose particular characters for my name which mean “child of the people.” I really like this meaning because I interpret this in two ways. I feel that I’m a child of the people in that I have been raised and loved by a lot of people—kind of that sentiment that it takes a village to raise a child. I also see it as responsibility. As a child of the people, I’m here to serve the people and do something greater in the world, hopefully.

2. What are the things, events, people etc. you associate your name(s) with?

Seowon | 서원

My parents don’t really call me by my name; they say “ya”, which is “yo” in Korean, and my grandparents call me 강아지 (kangaji), which is “puppy” in Korean. So I never hear it in the correct pronunciation unless a Korean person outside of family is talking to me. I feel a bit annoyed with my name in the more Americanized pronunciation, because whenever I enter a new space, I feel that I have to pronounce my name in a really Americanized way for people to understand what I’m saying. If I said it in a Korean pronunciation, no one would say it correctly. My parents never expected for us to live in America, so they never gave me an American name or a Korean name that’s easier to pronounce. Whenever people say my name, a part of me feels like it’s not my name, just how people recognize me. It feels like I never had a name.

A part of me wonders why we put a strong emphasis on our names—it’s not a big deal to change them. They’re just labels. People used to make fun of my name, but not in a mean way, more so because they thought I was close with them. They would call me “swan” or “swannie.” I guess it’s good to be associated with a “swan,” which is a majestic bird.

Johnson | 庄森

My name is tied to my experience of learning Chinese. I actually did not enjoy learning Chinese, and I would do whatever was easier for me. Originally my name was 庄生 (Zhuang1 Sheng1 - 生 here means “life”), but when I was learning Chinese in first grade, I realized that my last name 林 was made up of 2 trees (木), and there was a word with 3 trees (森), which sounds like “sen.” So I told my mom “This is so much easier! I just have to remember that Lin is 2 trees, and Sen is 3 trees!” And that was how I changed my name.

When I was studying in Beijing, I didn’t bother telling people my Chinese name, I just asked them to call me Johnson. They would just laugh if I told them my Chinese name is 庄森, because it sounds a bit more awkward and not something you would normally hear in Chinese. It’s just not worth it to explain the story behind my name all the time, so I simply go by Johnson. It’s unfortunate, because I do like my name. I have an attachment to the 庄 part of my name because I grew up with my mom’s side in America, and my dad’s side stayed mostly in China.

Tamika | 民力

I definitely associate my name with family. I don’t connect with my white heritage at all because I have no living white relatives. It’s kind of weird how I have this white part of my name, but I don’t have a strong connection to it. That’s not to negate the fact that I have proximity to whiteness. I think it’s interesting that it’s there in a structural, legal way, whereas the two other parts of my name were more intentional. We get our last name largely because that’s how the legal system works. But our middle and first names are intentional gifts of Japanese and Chinese culture.

My sister says when certain people say her name like “Mariko,” it feels safe. Part of that is they pronounced it correctly, but I also think it’s this element of knowing that we're shared family. I definitely experienced that as well with my first name. Even though it’s often hidden, I like having my Chinese middle name. It’s a connection to my mom’s side of the family, since Chin is my grandpa’s last name.

3. What do your name(s) mean for your identity/identities?

Seowon | 서원

When I was younger, I didn’t have experiences or much of a personality, so my name was what identified me.

As I grew up and started to become more of an individual, my name started to lose its meaning. I became more of a person than something with a name. People started to create connotations of who I am based on our interactions and called me more by nicknames than my actual name. In high school, people would call me “bad bitch” instead of 서원. When reading my name on school posters, no one could actually pronounce it.

People associate me more with how they see my name pronounced in their heads, not really with the way that it’s supposed to be pronounced. They think they can’t connect with me on a more personal level because my name sounds so foreign and gender-neutral. I appreciate how my name lacks meaning, because you can only reveal my identity by getting to know me.

Heejae | 희재

It is a reflection of how I got more comfortable being in my own skin. Now, I’m proud of my name. Now, I’m kind of desensitized to the first days of classes where professors alway say “sorry if I mispronounce your name, but…” I don’t fault them—I’m pretty sure I’ve probably mispronounced another person’s name.

I’m Korean American and keeping my Korean name keeps a part of my Asian identity with me everywhere. Your name is something that you always say, and it’s the first thing that people know about you when you meet them. It’s a reminder to myself of these two cultures that are within me.

Something I realized when I was in elementary school was how there were multiple Clares or Janes or Emilys, but there was only one Heejae.

At first I thought my name was cool, but later I thought it was kind of annoying. I would always have to repeat my name and some people still didn’t get it, so that’s when I decided to let it slide. Sometimes it felt like a barrier to getting to know people—maybe they just see my name before they see me.

I’m fine with both pronunciations of my name, but they give me different vibes. The American way is very common and daily for me. On the flip side, if someone pronounces my name in the Korean way, I feel unexpectedly happy. It makes me feel like I’m closer to you just because I’m used to hearing that pronunciation from family and close friends. I really don’t have a preference; I’m okay with both.

Khanh | Khanh Emotionally, strong. Khanh is used for both boys and girls in Vietnam. Part of it means strength. That’s how I think of myself and how others see me, as someone with a very strong personality.

I think I’m strong because of what I’ve gone through. My father passed away last April; it’s something that I never expected to happen because he passed away so suddenly. I don’t cry a lot, but I cried for that whole month. I still managed to do what I had to do. When I’m in the US, I don’t suffer from homesickness. Nothing can defeat me. That’s why I think I’m strong.

53

4. The S21 Portrait theme envisions “playgrounds” as spaces for experimentation and growth. Playgrounds embody the joy of imagination and the nostalgia of childhood. How do your name(s) remind you of who you have become today (your past)? How do you see the interaction of your two name(s)/ identities as a “playground”—a space for potential and creativity (your future)?

Gabor | 家寶

In the future, there’s just a lot of thinking about change. I’m thinking about switching my last name to my mom’s last name because of a rocky relationship with my dad. I would no longer be “green fluorescent protein”, which is a tragedy, but some sacrifices have to be made. I’ve also thought about making my name hyphenated. It makes me uncomfortable as a person who advocates so much for Asian American movements to know that my name was purposefully anglicized and made suitable for a white community, so I thought about changing it to “Ga-bo” or “Gabo.” Who knows how much changing my name will impact my identity or the way I see myself?

For the “past” part of the question, my name has always underscored my multifaceted, multiracial identity, and my Asian American identity. I’ve always had a lot of silly stories about my name, for all the different backgrounds they come from. I feel like as I grew up, having these names helped me understand both sides of my identity, but, as I got older, I learned that I still needed to carve out that space for myself, which is something I’ve definitely experienced at Vassar, with ASA (Vassar Asian Students’ Alliance), VASAM (Vassar Asian American Studies Working Group), and Portrait.

Johnson | 庄森

My Chinese name is a reminder of who I was as a kid—just so American. As a kid I didn’t really embrace my Chinese culture—I didn’t want to learn the language. It’s reflected in my name—the fact that I changed my name because I thought it would be easier for me to remember, and the fact that it’s a very American name.

Now, I like my name because of the connection I have with my mom’s side. During my late high school and early college years especially, I wished I had a real Chinese name instead of a transliteration because it’s so annoying to tell people about it. Not just native speakers, but sometimes non-Chinese speakers find it funny when I tell them that my Chinese name is just my English name.

Although I feel more connected to my Chinese identity now, I still don’t use my Chinese name. If someone asks me, I won’t say “I don’t have a Chinese name,” but when I introduce myself, I don’t introduce myself in Chinese as 庄森; I just say I’m Johnson. I don’t think that will ever change; it’s just easier.

Khanh | Khanh My name isn’t just my name. It’s associated with my family, my relationship with my parents and my siblings. I love it when I hear my parents call my name. When I think of my name, all I can think of is my family.

I miss the way my father would pronounce my name. I haven’t heard his voice, calling my name, for one year already. We have a lot of family videos of my father, but I don’t have any of them in which my father pronounces my name. I miss it.

I feel my name is the whole value that parents have put into me over the past 18 years, and it’s a way to remind me to believe in my core values and to continue to grow without forgetting my roots and what they’ve been teaching me for these 18 years.

I’m touched, honored, humbled, and internally tearing up, all at once.

I wasn’t sure what to expect going into this “Hello, my name is...,” and ultimately, I was blown away by the stories that were shared with us. It was such an enriching experience to hear other people talk about their names.

It got me thinking about how I’m perceived and my own Asian American identity. I want to treat the gifts I’ve been given with care, and I hope we’ve done them justice with this piece.

— Taylor

55

Recess Written by: Phoebe Jacoby Edited by: Mason Dao Designed by: Sharon Nahm

T

he idea of playgrounds as a type of refuge is transformative to me. Playgrounds have offered me a chance to talk to friends and have shared experiences that can be hard to replicate in other settings. These moments take on a quality that balances between the more childlike awe inherent in any new activity with an ability to mature into conversations that have lasting impacts. Sometimes the lingering effects of the connections forged during those times are obvious, such as finding a solution to an immediate concern, but other times they simmer and gently alter our subconscious perception of ourselves or our relationships with others. Not every conversation is similar to the ones I am describing, nor should it be; nevertheless, those by the playground have the potential to change lives. Many teachers or adults in my life have attempted to encourage quality chats and bonding experiences by preaching about the importance of active listening. While this practice has its uses, and fruitful conversations certainly require good listeners, this method strikes me as something with too much purpose.

Active listening is a tool often used when attempting to facilitate problem-solving, either between people or in anticipation of an upcoming deadline.

Adults outline a list of how-tos and cues to follow, but I think following the deliberate steps of active listening results in a mindset more rigid than what I’ve had and what I seek while on the playground.

The playground can be a sanctuary for safe, productive discussion, but it is also meant to be a place of freedom, exploration, and joy.

56

When I was a kid, the playground was a place where I could become anything I wanted. My friends and I would tuck ourselves away behind the winding red slide where there no teachers could spy on us. For 35 wonderful minutes of recess, we submerged ourselves in a different world. Our imaginations had a transformative quality and we were able to craft entire universes by pooling our ideas together. Some days we were chemists who whisked together concoctions of wild berries and onion grass in discarded water bottles to age them to an impressive, mysterious lilac color. Other times we were archaeologists who ground mica-flecked stones together in hopes of excavating some hidden treasures we could then covertly tuck into our pockets. (When my pockets ran out of room, I stuck baubles in my socks.) I became anyone and anything that I wanted to be for a magical, suspended moment in time when I was on the playground. When recess was over we would brush rubber mulch off our clothes and safely fold our worlds away until the next day.

By high school, the playground was mostly just a fond memory and a favorite topic of discussion when reminiscing about my earlier school days. I loved to remember the fun of the playground and the secret worlds I would patch together with my friends while sitting just out of view of the teacher.

The playground always flitted at the edge of my time at school, however. The parking lot of my school overlooked the playground, and the rows of white-lined grey asphalt were a stark comparison to the brightly colored children’s equipment. By

senior year, many students drove themselves to and from school, parking with a view of the playground from our time in elementary school.

This driving arrangement helped us feel a sense of sponsibility and gave us a taste of adulthood for the first time. In reality, this was a double-edged sword because it allowed us to squander the afternoons away in the parking lot. Nevertheless, the time spent there was a wonderful way to exist in an in-between space where we weren’t under the authority of the school anymore and also didn’t have to face the strenuous hours of homework waiting for us. We could lose ourselves in our conversations and escape from our blossoming responsibilities that came with growing up.

One of my friends was particularly fond of this time by the playground. We would sit in the car and chat for ages, munching on whatever stray snacks we could rustle up. Any topic of conversation was fair game. What usually began as complaints about schoolwork or anecdotes from the day evolved into hours-long discussions. While we never managed to answer something as monumental as the meaning of life, I left every one of those car chats with a sense of satisfaction and having learned something new about myself and my friend. Sometimes we would sit together for so long that the sun began to set and we would be the only ones left the parking lot, night air slowly seeping in through the windows.

R

ather than an opportunity for active listening, I would consider these experiences by the playground as moments of true quality time. Quality time is considered one of the five love languages popularized in mainstream media over the past few decades and I think the term emanates the same sense of warmth and comfort that I originally discovered during my childhood playground conversations.

Exploring the role of those experiences in my life has allowed me to reconnect with a

more light, natural way of interacting with other people. I have realized that the cores of my quality conversations have been influenced not only in the structure of my adult life but also in the exploratory nature of my childhood. That is what allowed me to make discoveries without limitations or fear of judgment. Quality times and conversations do not need to be serious, productive, or take on any semblance of responsibility. They are meant to flow naturally, topics weaving together and connections made without conscious effort.

There is a physicality to them that may not be as obvious as a nook in the playground equipment but still offer a sense of privacy and closeness.

Perhaps most importantly, I have come to appreciate the temporality of these types of quality discussions. While no school bells are signaling the end of my conversations, they all have to conclude eventually—the finality of these moments just makes them all the more exceptional. They belong to a bubble in time where ideas and sentiments can be carried forward or revisited but the exchange itself cannot be tampered with. As I’ve grown up, my connection to the playground has faded away in its more literal form and taken on a more abstract significance. However, many of the formative lessons I have learned throughout my life have hinged on the conversations I had while playing behind the winding red slide.

57

[content warning: eating disorders, mental illness, self harm] 58

Written by Zoe Mueller | Edited by Aidan Fry Designed by Maggie Dawkins

Lone piano notes unfurl into the theater, ricocheting its asymmetric geometry into my bloodstream. Human presence is rendered intangible, as if the contours of existence blur in the absence of light. Tangled in religiosity, I feel metaphysically abstract like the splattered colors of Jackson Pollock. You commodify my body as a market aesthetic, a sacred curation exporting diluted visions. I am reduced to a soundless display, insecurities pocketed in the hollow recesses of my ribcage. You objectify pure physicalities - the soft curve of my breasts and purpling bruises that blossomed during late night rehearsals. It is a gritty ritual abandoned backstage: the wreckage of broken toenails, inflamed ligaments, and chronic aches. It is a dimension beyond the plane of reality, existing above the secular distractions of expired milk and unlaundered socks. If only I could transcend Saturday evenings, when I rinse my mouth in alcohol and binge on dark chocolate. It is a grotesque and regressive cyclic addiction. I consume and reject, my reflection a futile distortion in the studio’s funhouse mirror. You tell me to eat, and I would, and I want to, but I prefer bitter emptiness over suffusions of guilt. The calories would saturate my skin, nestled like pressed spring flowers or muffled prayers. I recite dysmorphic fictions like poetry, my psyche caved in under the weight of I will never be enough. The mental abuse is a raw and intimate struggle of self-inflicted violence. You reckon my existence as a museum exhibit, a discarded collection after the artificial constellations fade. Once I felt ethereal: a psychedelic mosaic of flesh and sinew. Now I’m lost in Pollock’s abstraction, the damage unseen and seething. All that remains is the fermented taste of honey that swells beneath your tongue.

59

The In-Betweens of the Gender Spectrum

By Johnson Lin and Ceci Villaseñor Edited by Janet Song Photography by Alex Kim Designed by Lauren Yung

When I was in first grade, I vividly remember watching my dad cry in court as he was sentenced to deportation. After that I grew up with just my mom and my sister in my household, so I was never raised with the full picture of masculinity.

Last semester, I fell into the BTS rabbit hole. It started out with listening to “Boy With Luv” as I worked on a few final projects—and before I knew it, it was 4 AM, I had finished my second BTS documentary of the night, and I had class at 9.

I used to say that growing up without a prominent father figure in my life didn’t really affect me at all. I was very young when he was deported so I can’t

recall what life was like when he was home and thus, haven’t felt any tangible absence.

But I remember listening to Saba’s “PROM / KING’’ while I was studying abroad in Beijing, where the lyrics were challenging me on my preconceived notions on my identity.

The lyrics, “My grandfather taught me how to tie up a tie ‘cause my dad lived in NY / That’s prolly why I was shy, so self-conscious,” had me thinking about my experience because my grandpa had also taught me how to tie a tie. I realized that there were a lot of characteristics that I could attribute to growing up without a dad: my struggle to be assertive, my thoughtfulness, self-esteem issues, the fact that I felt more

comfortable socializing with women, and my repulsion to the male body, including my own.

I probably sound a little delusional, yelling from somewhere deep in this bottomless pit while my past, not BTS-obsessed self peers at the edge of the hole in suspicion, but seriously, what’s not to love about them? BTS’s discography spans so many genres, offering something for everyone.

Their dances are stunning. Each member has his own charm and humor. And, of course, they are very good-looking.

BTS began to bleed into my life. I started and ended my day consuming BTS content.

Even when I exercised, I watched dance

62

practice videos to motivate myself. My favorite way to end a run was with a video of “Go Go” from one of their online concerts.

The music sounds upbeat, and although you can tell they’re tired, since it’s near the end of the show, the performance is high-energy. I liked watching them dance through their fatigue and the way their clothes swished as they moved.

I first got into fashion my senior year of high school. At the time, streetwear was blowing up and two of my closest friends were really getting into it. I picked things up from them and started to get into it, mainly because I thought it would help me get a girlfriend. Well, I got a girlfriend, but then I ended up falling in love with fashion anyways. I’m big on self expression, but as someone who hates being bad at things, I could never dedicate the time to get good at painting or drawing. Fashion requires no technical skill and instead lets me show everyone who I am. The first thing I ever got into was palewave, an aesthetic dedicated to just wearing pastel colors. Yet the first time my mom ever saw me wear a pastel pink hoodie, she said, “That’s a girl’s color.”

I think BTS dresses well, even outside of their performances. Sure, maybe it’s all their stylists’ work, but I’d like to think that somewhere between all of their press appearances and sponsorship advertisements, we can get a glimpse of each member’s actual sense of style. So I tried dressing like them. I’d miraculously find an outfit or two from a performance or rehearsal video that I could replicate, and soon, out of the blue, my friends were receiving pairs of pictures from me: one, a mirror selfie of some outfit of mine, and the other, the BTS costume

that inspired it. I even paid a friend of a fashion choices. While my mom has always friend (plus an exorbitant amount for shipbeen a little more progresive than most ping) to buy me a sweatshirt from Korea— Asian parents, she also can’t help but exall because V wore it. press some more conservative views, even As work piled up right before my exams, to this day. I’ve been wearing cross body I’d joke that I wanted to be BTS, imagining bags for the past three years and my mom that my life would be so much better. And still tells me to stop wearing purses. She honestly, part of me was serious. Wouldn’t is vehemently against me getting my ears my life be easier if I was a hot Korean idol? I pierced, which is exactly why I bought fake wanted to be worrying about when I would earrings while I was studying abroad in go on tour next instead of when my paper China. Despite agreeing on multiple ocwas due. I wanted to be performing in front casions to let me try to grow my hair out, of hundreds of thousands of people, not she takes it back as soon as she thinks my running red-faced on a treadmill. And I hair has gotten a little too long, telling me, wanted to be wearing the same things they “Go cut your hair, princess.” Often after I wore and have my clothes fall on my body go shopping, she’ll comment, “How did you the same way theirs did on their bodies. turn out like this?” She can’t seem to shake I continued to bewilder my mom with my the feeling that I might be gay.

Once, my cousin came home to visit me and meet my then girlfriend.

While I went upstairs with my girlfriend, my mom pulled my cousin aside to ask if she thought I was gay.

It was clear to her that I’m not masculine. It might be because of her conservative ideals. But I also think she fears that this is a product of not having my dad around when I grew up, and feels that it’s partially her fault for not being able to raise me “normally.”

I danced ballet somewhat seriously all through high school. Six to seven days a week, I’d be in the studio for either class or rehearsal, so six to seven days a week, I’d stare at my body in the mirror.

Mirrors are useful for dancers—if you notice your arm isn’t quite making the right angle, or maybe your leg is in the wrong position, you can fix it yourself. But of course, I also noticed the things about my body that couldn’t be fixed. My butt and my thighs: fine for real life, too fat for ballet. My flat chest: good for ballet, not for the outside world.

In fairness, while it’s certainly not my mom’s fault, the household I was raised in has certainly influenced me. I grew up playing dolls with my sister. I grew up shy and self conscious. I had a really hard time learning to assert myself and I honestly still do. I didn’t play any sports. I didn’t even learn to ride a bike until high school. Sometimes I go as far to wonder

if even my voice that I’ve come to hate for being higher-pitched is a result of growing up without a dad. But these are all thoughts

I’ve had in the past year. It used to manifest in a more general self-hatred. Now, I understand these characteristics as mine, bringing me one step closer to accepting them.

While I noticed things about my body

that made me feel less woman-like, I still thought of myself as a girl. After all, I was making this observation in a ballet class,

an activity typically associated with girls. I didn’t chafe that much with the expectations of being female. Instead, I simply accepted that even though I didn’t always think I looked like a woman, I was one. But some-

how, watching BTS this winter and trying to present myself more like its members made me question how attached I was to womanhood. Did my desire to be “like BTS” include a desire to have a male body? And what exactly did it mean to be attractive like them, a group of men which has evolved from its almost hypermasculine debut and embraced a softer, more feminine image?

Despite not conceptualizing this influence, I’ve always been drawn to more feminine styles, starting from my love for pastels and vibrant colors to K-pop trends to high fashion where brands like Saint Laurent and Ann Demeulemeester play with gender roles. My favorite designers now are Yohji Yamamoto and Rei Kawakubo, both of whom got their start in the fashion industry by dressing women in men’s clothing.

While I’ve never thought of myself as genderfluid, I prefer to toe the line more so than being thought of as masculine. Whether or not I truly believed it, my fashion choices for the past four years have been subconsciously telling me that I don’t identify with masculinity.

I guess I’ve changed a bit since high school. I’ve learned a little more about gender identity from readings in class and listening to my friends’ stories. I’ve learned about how being both Asian and female can color someone’s experiences in overlapping, inseparable ways. I’ve also gotten into fash-

ion, although it’s somewhat male-skewed as the friends who introduced me to fashion are men. All of this—my knowledge, my interest in fashion, my relationship with my body, BTS—has reshaped my conception of my gender. Before, I saw myself as squarely in a little “female” box with doors open for other people, but not for me. Not that I wanted to leave my box. But now I feel like I’m on a wide open stage, free to leave if I wanted to.

In this day and age it’s stressed constantly that gender is a spectrum and it’s okay to be anywhere on that spectrum. Yet, despite attending a school that stresses this and knowing that gender is not binary, it still feels like I have to cross a certain threshold before I can venture into the middle of the gender spectrum. I feel very loosely about my pronouns, but I don’t feel gender-fluid enough to start using “they/them.” I’ve never experienced strong body dysphoria. I’ve never felt misgendered. I’ve only felt a little frustrated. I’ve just assumed that I should’ve

tried harder to fit into these boxes. But fashion has helped me start to deconstruct these boundaries. I’ve been peeling them off, layer by layer, stripping myself down to my naked self, free of these prescribed rules. And now, I’m finally ready to start each day putting on the clothes of my own choosing, whatever that may be.

67

The Vassar Playground Stories from the Asian-identifying Alumni of Vassar College

Written by: Alex Kim Edited by: Kaylee Chow Designed by: Sharon Nahm

As a graduating senior, I have been trying to spend more time reflecting upon my four years at Vassar and appreciating different kinds of opportunities Vassar has offered me—an opportunity to try out new activities, step out of my comfort, and to walk away with ample lessons despite the results of the attempts. In many ways, Vassar was a playground where I was encouraged to experiment, explore and make mistakes. For this issue, I asked the members of the Asian Pacific Alumnae/i of Vassar College (APAVC) how Vassar served as their playground while they were students here. I welcome everyone to walk down the memory lane with Vassar alumni.

Question: How did Vassar serve as your playground? Tell us in what ways Vassar has helped you get to where you are today.

There were always new things and opportunities to try out. I remember when I came in a first-year and thought that I’d never join any of the extracurriculars or try classes outside of STEM, but I was wrong. Vassar always proves you wrong. I met people who were non-judgmental and they gave me the space to be who I am. I’m really grateful for that experience—if not for developing good friendships and trying out new classes. Things weren’t always great, but the experience at Vassar taught me to be resilient and how to understand academic failure and how to keep going. To me, classes were hard and I’m not a playful person—but to have a modern dance class while you were taking biology, just made things that much more interesting and playful.

In 1994, Vassar’s campus was literally my playground as I experimented with psilocybin during these formative learning years. The formidable buildings, especially Thompson Library, was like entering church where the books became toy soldiers, helping me fight through procrastination to study. The trees, the trees, the trees. Surely, the trees speak for themselves. Meandering along the back campus from Blodgett Hall, through the Shakespeare Gardens, along the lake, through the woods by the golf course, traipsing to the Maria Mitchell Observatory...this was my bucolic and beaming path to experience my childhood and budding adulthood as a Japanese American female student. Vassar allowed me to wake up, scrape my ego and knees, fall many times, and get back up with more grit. The confidence I feel as an adult emerged The ALANA Center was my playground; it was also a refuge. from these “recess” experiences between classes, and between It was a place where I could bring my whole self and see it moments of questioning and learning so much. This may sound reflected in my friends from all across the world. It was an controversial to even admit to, but now that I am nearing 50 empowering place for me as I became more comfortable with as a psychotherapist studying psychedelic-assisted therapy in my identity. As ASA president, I got to show a different side of Portland, Oregon, it feels important to openly discuss the lasting the AAPI community as a mixed Native Hawaiian, exploring my benefits of these transformative and beautiful experiences to the own vulnerabilities as well. And although I took not one drama public. Thank you Vassar for letting me climb your trees and or theater course, my playground was my stage and set me up swing from lofty branches of magnificent splendor. for life as an actor, a life where I could stand firmly in my truth - Mariko Ono and show my pain to the world. - Wayne Coito

Vassar taught me how to think. The environment said that you can do anything and twice as good as any man, just go out and do it. I graduated in the last class of all women with 40 transfer men. I would not have become a lawyer but for Vassar; I would not have gone to Japan and reconciled my identity. It was in Japan that I realized that no matter where I am in the world, I would numerically be in the minority and I can either choose to feel good about that or bad, and I chose to feel good.

It was at Vassar that I was sent to DC for the anti-war protest; where I became an East Asian Studies major; where I learned to take action. Since then, I went to law school, was the lead attorney for Minoru Yasui, reopening his World War II case and got his conviction vacated; led the effort to get a Presidential Medal of Freedom for Yasui (2015, President Obama), then in 2016 helped pass legislation in the Oregon legislature for a permanent Minoru Yasui Day. Realized then, that Yasui is the only Oregonian who has received a Presidential Medal of Freedom. I have spoken out and done a lot of community work, leadership development for AAPI women through the Center for Asian Pacific American Women; and other work with corporate/global clients. The foundation and messages I received at Vassar were instrumental in my growth, leadership and being an agent of change. - Peggy Nagae In so many ways.... from when I first started which was 10 days before 9/11 and then the unfolding activities to make us feel safe on campus as int’l students, to deciding to pursue a double major in CS & Art that led to the creation of a 300 level course in partnership with another student and my advisors... course is still being taught today! My entire career has basically followed this theme of oscillating between left & right brain, a very uncommon trait in the career world still—I help translate complex ideas to the creatives & business savvy folks, while helping take what business needs to produce so they can accordingly plan to build the right solution. I spent more time than I can think in play, and in a safe and comfy environment.

Then there was, of course, all the various on campus jobs that provided international students housing options for the shorter vacations while all the others left to go home and get their laundry done. Those breaks were absolute playgrounds—empty campus, empty art studios—so much space to wander, think, and explore. I am still in touch with so many folks and most recently (well 6yrs ago) was invited to iterate on the sophomore career connections with Willa and team to figure out how best to give Vassar students and alumni a place to meet, talk, and explore the future. In the end, nothing really matters and making the most of the time at Vassar in a safe & comfy space, to play, take risks, be guided but not told, have options & diverse choices not the same 1-2 paths, and coming into our own skin is what it’s all about!

- Vivek Mahapatra

Vassar enabled me to access a side of my personality that I had not prior. Coming from a small suburban town where there was a large Asian population, I felt invisible. Vassar helped me access the parts of my personality that were worthy of visibility and celebrating. I made deep friendships and connections that still hold true. The mindset that I accessed at Vassar through courses, relationships, and experiences still allows me to expand my mind on a regular basis. I understood the inner tools I have access to exercise creativity and introspection. Vassar has helped me get to where I am right now by instilling in an unshakeable inner trust. I learned how valuable my thoughts were, and that translates today into integrity. I feel that I am on the exact right path meant for me, which is an extraordinary path, because of Vassar. - Stephanie Z. Vassar was where I learned about social movement histories, which I was denied in my prior education. It is where I developed as a student organizer and learned to disrupt, speak truth to power, build coalitions and cross-racial solidarity, and build collective power. At the time, I was one of many students of color who built a campaign for “Ethnic Studies @ Vassar Now,” and since then I have connected with current Asian American students who would continue the fight for Asian American Studies. There were many mistakes and lessons I learned about political struggle on a smaller scale that I still draw on. In addition, my exposure to Critical Race Theory would lead me to UCLA School of Law, where I completed a specialization in Critical Race Studies, and to the work I do today as a civil legal services attorney fighting for racial and economic justice in New York City. - Jason Wu ’07 I was able to be curious at Vassar and pursue interests simply because I would learn something, not necessarily because they had a guaranteed outcome. I also relished the work hard / play hard atmosphere, where dancing on tables in the Mug late on a Tuesday night didn’t mean you weren’t also an intellectually rigorous thinker who could switch into that gear by the next morning. I’ve turned my curiosity-first, results-later attitude into a career as an investigative journalist. - Maya Lau

I’d prefer to think of Vassar as “Camp Vassar’’ rather than a playground. As a full-need student who came from San Francisco’s Chinatown, the College was a place that was both physically beautiful (the Coronado window cinched it for me), and where my only responsibility was to study and take advantage of all the opportunities available to me. I had a campus work study job to earn pocket money, but all my needs were met.

I deeply appreciate the friendship that I made and continue to have two decades later. However, like any stay away camp, the program ends at a prescribed time. After 4 years, I was ready to move onto the next phase of my life. I am grateful to Vassar and hold its communities in high esteem and affection. - Marie Hew Vassar was the most encouraging space I have ever occupied, both in terms of the resources available and the attitude of my (Lathrop!) community with which I dormed. I chose classes I genuinely wanted to take, and as a Psychology major, found it easy to fulfill the requirements and still go outside of my academic comfort zone. I even joined Women’s Rugby in my freshman year, something my NYC high school PE classes could not prepare me for. Although I did not “excel” in everything I chose to do at Vassar, the playful attitude I fostered helped me become a more open-minded person and have the confidence to keep going after what I want. I continue to look back and reflect on the growth I experienced as an undergrad. - Claire Ashley

I studied politics and Asian studies at Vassar and did a junior semester abroad in India. I learned kuchipudi, a form of Indian classical dance and also became conversant in Hindi then too.

After graduating in ‘91 I did a Master’s and then PhD which built on my Vassar experience of regional focus on South Asia (though I studied Mandarin at Vassar while also independent study in Hindi in my senior year too). While at Vassar I had the chance to experiment with ideas which helped to imagine a world not centred in the West or its vision of the world. The experiences and exposure that Vassar gave me to non-Eurocentric knowledge and thinking has stayed with me throughout my further studies and now in my career as a Professor at SOAS University of London.

- Navtej (Tej) Purewal

Vassar was literally a playground for a city girl like myself. I grew up in New York City, in the concrete jungle, between early childhood Chinatown in Manhattan, adolescence in Brooklyn and going to school on the upper East Side. So when I arrived at Vassar with the vast farmland, carefully landscaped lawns, gardens and surrounded by nature, it was an environmental and cultural shift. I looked up and could actually see stars in the sky (not smog) and relished developing strong bonds over a walk around Sunset Lake. While I stretched academically, the greatest stretches I made were exposure to and learning from students from other communities, and all across the globe. I’m grateful Before Vassar, I had a particularly tough time, both academically that I had a work study campus job, under the guidance of Ed Pittman (who I still consider a mentor 20+ years later), at what and socially, as one of only a handful of minority students on was then called the Intercultural Center, later the ALANA Center. a full-scholarship at a private school in NYC. Being a sociallyIt was a privilege to get paid to spend time in a safe space for inept, uncoordinated dweeb didn’t help at all. As far as I can students of color and to bring programming to the Center, which now recall, when I arrived at Vassar there was literally no one I probably would have done anyway. I also tested, failed plenty else from my high school there, or my entire universe for that matter. I was offered a blank slate and took that opportunity, after and learned just as much from some of the most demanding of leadership opportunities through my work with ASA, Asian a long period of anger, frustration, fear, and self-doubt, to try Quilt, and other campus organizations. In my last year at Vassar, and recreate myself into the person I wanted to be. I ended up I was also a student teaching full time, writing my senior thesis, diving into the Asian-American community at Vassar. Coming attending senior seminar, holding down a campus job, leading from a place where I was a tagalong in an already marginalized student organizations and sleeping just two hours a day—I group trying to discover its voice and rub two pennies together to one that, even as a numerical minority, was an organized, well- learned what I was capable of and how far I could push myself. funded, social and political powerhouse—hosting “must attend” When I think back to the relationships I built with the President TA/TH parties to holding VSA board positions was eye-opening of the College, professors, faculty and other students, it’s amazing and invigorating. I became more competent with each eventto me that I did all of that in four short years. - Anna Yu ’00 filled ASA Week and evolved with each reflective & thoughtprovoking ASA Conference. And each exhausting, but epic, ASA Party we pulled off just added to ever expanding notion of what could be possible. By the end of my four years at Vassar I would find out that there were people there that were connected to my life before college (of course), but by that point the only Ken Wong they knew was the socially-inept, uncoordinated dweeb who was now just comfortable being one. - Kenneth Wong ’00

seeing blue by jane ahn

I experience my first stomach-drop at the age of four, tiny hands clinging tightly to chains, trying desperately not to fall off the seat of the swing. My dad cheers and claps his hands as I shriek, the swooping feeling of the swing unfamiliar but thrilling. Scared, I cry until he stops the swing, but as soon as he does, I demand to be pushed again. Up - I see light blue skies - down - the blur of the apartments leads to sand and - up - I see blue again.

edited by taylor gee | designed by maggie dawkins

71

he playground at Drew University was, and is, a treasure trove of my dearest, earliest childhood memories. My father had decided to pick us all up and move us from Seoul, South Korea, all the way to Madison, New Jersey, to attend seminary.* I was too young to understand what moving meant and was (unsurprisingly) able to adjust faster than the rest of my family members.

The playground helped. Despite being on a campus filled with wide, paved streets and brick-red buildings, the playground brought a softness to the academic environment of Drew University. It attracted other children my age, and we would often round out wet, sandy “doughnuts” topped with sandy sprinkles for our parents to enjoy. I remember feeling genuine confusion when my parents never bit into my treats.

T

The next, I was in a room full of Korean Americans and Korean internationals all celebrating Chuseok, the kids arguing to see who could drink the most Sprite and our parents too busy playing yutnori and hwatu to notice. Though, the best part of these community gatherings was the indoor playground in the basement: brightly colored plastic slides were placed all around the room. The floor was covered in soft foam puzzle mats, and a ball pit lay in the corner, stray red, blue, and yellow balls dotting the surrounding area. There were enough car toys to go around and enough space to share all of the riches of the playroom. I can’t remember what we would play, but I remember always searching for my mother to ask permission to be allowed to leave the celebrations early and go to the playroom.

I thrived on the playground. My mother’s youngest brother came to visit us mere months after we immigrated. He told me this past winter about how I, despite not knowing a word of English, managed to befriend a small group of kids. According to him, I went as far as teaching them Korean words while stoutly refusing to speak English. I’m sure the students of Drew were surprised to see American kids shouting, “안녕!” or “안돼!” with a little Asian girl acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world.**

Playtime wasn’t limited to holidays, thankfully. The tradition of college students setting off fire alarms like there is no tomorrow is a venerable and revered one, and the residential apartments of Drew University ten years ago were not about to break such an established practice. I remember being dragged out of bed, wearing only my thin, summertime pajamas in the nighttime chill. Fortunately, my friends lived in adjacent buildings and were also all out. This was good. Very good. I whipped my head to turn to my mom and heard her say, “Go ahead,” before I could even open my mouth. We zipped through the night air, the idea of getting to be on the playground after dark a new and revolutionary concept for us.

It’s incredible how people of the same background manage to collect one another. One minute, I was teaching American kids how to say hello.

72

Though everyone else was disgruntled and sleepy, my friends and I started to look forward to the fire alarms that gave us extra playtime.

The college campus wasn’t my only playground. My father, being at seminary, was studying to be a pastor. If Drew occupied my weekdays, attending Arcola church defined my Sundays, summers, and Friday nights.

The church building was large. After the renovations, it got even larger - two elevators, three extra floors, and a new gym. I spent Friday night youth groups exploring the new wings and learning how to do cartwheels.

And no longer would I have to take the stairs, like a mortal! Now, I had the speed and power of a clean, sleek elevator. Plays, dinners, and movie nights in the new gymnasium; races in the smoothly paved parking lot; Sunday school, choir, and VBS activities in the sparkling classrooms - Arcola had it all.

I played at home, too. After coming home and bathing, I would write and draw. A stack of A4 paper and my set of art supplies waited for me at my small desk, where I would write, illustrate, and publish my own “books.” The finished products would go into my “library,” a thick white binder with plastic sleeves.

Fantasy, narratives, nonfiction, mysteries my library had it all. I still have my stories, tucked into a corner somewhere, waiting for me to find them again.

Whenever I think back on these memories, I am overwhelmed with wistfulness, mourning, and contentment. I miss my childhood so much, yet I am worried that I romanticize my own memories. Still, playtime was a natural part of my life that I looked forward to every single day and that created nostalgic memories. But I don’t want playing to stay a memory; I want playing to become integrated into my current reality. I want to develop calluses on my hands from monkey bars, burn holes in my jeans from tripping, and live for joy in the simplest ways. Is it unrealistic? Or attainable? Both?

Neither? Something else entirely? How do I bring back play from my childhood into my adult life? I don’t really care to figure out the philosophies and motivations behind my wanting. The questions can exist, but I’m in no rush to figure them out. For now, I just want to play. *Seminary is graduate school for those who want to pursue careers in theology. **안녕 means hi. 안돼 means no.

73

This prompt will take you through a series of fun and relaxing activities that will encourage you to reflect and appreciate yourself in this moment.

As you go through the following list, you will be prompted to write and collect your thoughts.

After you’ve completed each prompt, put all your written bits together in an envelope. This will be your affirmation kit for any time you are feeling overwhelmed!

For each emotion listed, write a sentence or two about a time when you felt that emotion. If you’re feeling brave, tap into vulnerability and go share your memory with someone who made you feel that way.

75

We can all use more wise words in our lives. Take a minute to contemplate these quotes from children’s books, then write one down on a slip of paper and go hide it somewhere ordinary (like a jacket pocket or in a textbook). The note will be a pleasant surprise when you come across it in the future!

Note: We acknowledge that Dr. Seuss held many racist and specifically Anti-Asian viewpoints, and by no means do we endorse these racist ideas in our inclusion of his quotes.

Despite his troubling political orientations, we believe that there is still value in these words, and invite readers to consider this tension as an acknowledgment that the playgrounds and memories of our childhood are often steeped in complicated contradictions between nostalgia and newfound awareness of I do n't hidden histories, harsh realities, and injustice. nee dv er y mu ch n ow," said the boy , "just a quiet pl ace to sit The Giving an Tree, Shel S ilverstein d rest.

Today you are You, that is truer

Seuss than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You. Happy Birthday to Yo u !, Dr. funny.

I know it is wet a nd the sun is not sunny, but we can have lots of good fun that is The Cat in the Hat, Dr. Seuss

thing is going to get lot, No n e like you cares a wh ole awful better. It's not Seuss .

The Lorax, Dr.

Unless someo

mber that life's A Great So be sure when you step, Step with ca re and great tact. And reme ) Kid, Balancing Act. A and ¾ perce nt guaranteed nd will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 you'll move m ountains.

Oh the Places You’ll Go, Dr. Seuss

Share a song! Music is a beautiful thing and a lovely way to spend time with important people in our lives. Choose one of these song suggestions and invite a family member or other loved one to listen to it with you.

tinyurl.

76

com /4zy7yrsb

tinyurl.com /4x sc

tiny v9w s

url.com/eh9 89 n rz

tinyurl.co m/5 54e8khe

Put on your thinkingtiara and get ready to tackle this word search! An extra bonus is that the list of words is a list of reading suggestions, so go enjoy the wonderful world of books and stories!

Price and Prejudice Monkey for Sale

Percy Jackson

Roses Sing On New Snow

The Book Thief

When You Reach Me

Olivia

Falling Up Angelina Ballerina The Summer I Learned to Fly

Untangle your laces, get ready to blaze a path, and build your confidence through these four mazes! At each end, write down a point of pride/ confidence or an affirmation.

UNLOCKING LANGUAGES Explore your language learning skills and make some flashcards! Fill in the blanks with this word in another language that you want to learn... feel free to go consult a translator or dictionary!

Colorful Card Corner inspired by Jane Ahn

Make a colorful kindness card for someone! Grab some colorful crayons, markers, or pens and use these cut-out templates to make a card to give to someone you appreciate. It can be someone close to you, someone you admire from afar, or someone who helps brighten your day in little ways. Indulge in colorful creativity and spread the kindness!

inspired by Johnson Lin

strawberry

spoon

flower

bracelet

glasses

toothbrush

scissors

book

Make a happy lantern! While it may not provide light or vitamin D, this lantern is an easy craft activity that will make a lantern full of good vibes and peaceful thoughts to remind you to feel content.

Supplies: paper or cardstock, scissors, stapler or tape, glue, ruler, pencil Things to decorate your lantern with: gift wrap paper, washi tape, ribbons, sequins, stickers, glitter glue, small buttons, etc.

Directions: 1. Start out with any rectangular sheet of paper or cardstock.

2. Give it happy vibes! Write down favorite memories, places, people, or things that make you feel happy.

3. Cut a 1-inch wide strip off on one short side. Set this aside for the handle.

4. Fold the paper in half, lengthwise.

5. Draw a horizontal line one inch from the long edge opposite the fold.

6. Starting from the folded edge, cut a straight line about an inch from one short edge, all the way up to the horizontal line.

7. Continue to cut more straight lines about 1 inch apart until you reach the opposite short edge of the paper. Remember that the horizontal line marks the point where you stop cutting each straight line.

8. Unfold the paper. The paper will have several vertical slits along the middle. Erase any pencil marks or re-fold the crease the opposite way to hide the pencil marks at the back.

9. You can keep your lantern plain or decorate the top and bottom edges with more symbols of peace and happiness. Make your happy lantern glow!

10. Transform the paper into a lantern by forming it into a tube shape. Overlap the long edges at least ½-inch. Staple or tape at the top and bottom of the overlap.

11. Take the paper handle you made in Step 3. Glue the ends on the inside of the lantern’s top edge. Decorate the handle if you like.

79

The following mindfulness activity offers a chance to ground yourself in the present and appreciate your whole being. We hope this activity warms your soul and uplifts your importance in the world, because you matter and there are people in this world who care deeply about you.

After you meditate on the mindfulness prompt, compose your answers into a poetic verse of selfaffirmation inspired by the lyrical children’s book Eyes that Kiss in the Corners by Joanna Ho.

Think about a physical trait that relates to your ethnic background/ancestry. Name 3 positive things about this trait. Give gratitude to this trait for making you part of who you are. Give gratitude to the lineages and ancestry that have bestowed this trait upon you.

Now take some time to build a stronger relationship with this trait.

• • •

What does the trait allow you to do?

What are some words you would use to describe to describe this trait? What are some things you would compare the trait to? How does it make you feel?

Who is someone who loves you and makes you feel good about this trait?

Now, fill out the following prompts. Consult the grammar toolkit if you are unsure how to word your answers.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

What physical trait were you thinking about?

What is a verb phrase that describes the physical trait?

What is a noun that you might compare this trait to?

What is an adjective that describes this trait?

Who is a person who makes you feel good about this trait?

What is a word/emotion that describes how this trait makes you feel?

Go to page ? and fill in the blanks with your answers to each numbered question!

80

Now you are going to spend some time thinking about the person who loves you and makes you feel good about the physical trait that you built a relationship with in the first part of this activity. Take a breath and imagine this person is sharing space with you. Think about some of the reasons that you have a relationship with this person. Give gratitude that this person is in your life.

Now take some time to think about the shared powers you hold with this person.

• • •

What is a trait (can be physical, or mental/emotional/personality trait) that you share with this person?

How does this trait empower you? What are some words you would use to describe to describe this trait? What are some things you would compare the trait to?

How does it make you feel?

Now, fill out the following prompts. Consult the grammar toolkit if you are unsure how to word your answers.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

Who is the person you were thinking about?

What is the shared trait were you thinking about?

What is a verb phrase that describes the physical trait?

What is a verb phrase that describes what this physical trait allows you to do?

What is an adjective that describes this trait?

What is a word/emotion that describes how this trait makes you feel?

Go to page ? and fill in the blanks with your answers to each numbered question

Grammar Toolkit • • •

Examples of a verb phrase: ‘shine like the sun, sparkle in the morning, run with the beating of a thousand butterfly wings’ A noun is a person, place, thing, or idea. Usually one or two words.

An adjective is a descriptive word, ie ‘blue, twinkling, smooth’

81

This recipe is an invitation to break the rules and make mistakes, embracing the process to create a product that is messy and unique. The flexibility in this recipe recognizes that we all have different resources at hand, and celebrates that we can make magic with whatever we have on hand. It’s a choose your own adventure and there are endless possibilities, so go forth and sparkle in culinary chaos!

Instructions • • • • • •

Choose a few ingredients from some of all of the categories . There is no magic formula, just experiment! I’ve put suggestions/measurements for the timid chef, but I strongly encourage you to follow what feels right to you.

Mix your chosen ingredients together in a bowl. Spread love into your mixture and combine well to let the ingredients play with each other, but don’t force homogeneity.

Depending on the consistency of your batter, bake accordingly: Liquid consistency: Make muffins or cake by pouring batter into a prepared pan (use oil or line with parchment paper/muffin wrappers) and baking at 350F for 20-30 min (muffins), 40-60 min (cake). Use a toothpick test to determine done-ness.

Solid consistency: If the batter can be formed into cookies, form balls and place on a prepared sheet or spread into a pan for bar cookies. Bake at 350F until browned and cooked through, 10-30 min (you’ll have to check often...good experiments need attention).

Mixed consistency: If your batter is sort of liquid, sort of solid, or if you are just in the mood for crackers/crispy snacks, spread your batter thinly on a parchment lined baking sheet and bake at 325F until browned —10-15 min. Continue baking at 250-300F (lower temp if it’s browning too much) until thoroughly dried out —you’ll have to check often, could take 10 min, could take 40 min! I love to do this with an oat-banana based batter and break up the baked cracker for a yummy granola bark!

83

Go outside and find a quiet spot to sit. Observe your surroundings and draw 5 things into the terrarium that you see, hear, feel, smell, or taste.

Mycelium networks are the underground systems of fungi that connect to trees and help them communicate and share resources. This activity invites you to think of your mycelium network as a way to reimagine/ reconceputalize your family tree. While family trees trace straight biological lineages, a family mycelium network is an opportunity to disrupt disparate generations and include non-biological family members. A family mycelium network recognizes that our ancestors are present with us even if we never met them, that family extends to friends and loved ones, and that relationships are built in multiplicities, not simple lines.

We invite you to contemplate people who care and support you, in past or in present times, then fill in your mycelium network with photos, drawings, or just simple names that represent them.

was founded in the Fall 2018 semester by Alex (Ji Won Kim), as programming for the Asian Students’ Committee (ASC) through Asian Students’ Alliance (ASA). We’ve interviewed some of the original contributors, who have stuck with Portrait since its very first issue (appropriately themed The Beginning), to find out more about them and their relationship with the publication!

Written by

Gabor Fu Ptacek and Jane Ahn Edited by

Katherine Lim Designed by

Sandro Lorenzo

85

why did you start Portrait?

Alex: I started portrait for two reasons. First, I wanted a space where Asian-identifying students can freely express themselves and feel comfortable about having discussions that are not often brought up in other spaces. As an Asian international student whose first language is not English, I have always struggled to voice my opinions in front of others; oftentimes, I felt like my opinions and experiences were not valuable or relevant enough to be shared. My hope was to create an inclusive and welcoming environment where people with similar experiences come together and empower each other through the creative process. Second, I am a huge fan of the magazines and journalism, and I simply wanted a creative outlet where I can further develop my writing and design skills. I have also met incredibly talented Asian-identifying writers and designers at Vassar and to me, it seemed like they were all spread out across the campus. In retrospect, I think a part of me knew that a project like Portrait could not go wrong - I mean, how can you not get excited by the combination of free-style storytelling and cutting-edge design? It’s the best of both worlds!

You were on ASA EB when Alex decided to begin Portrait through ASC. Can you speak on the experience of being both an outside and inside influence to Portrait?

Johnson: I was on board with everything the board had in mind: printing the first issues, planning the launch party at the Loeb. And we were very lucky that ASA had a huge budget and we were so good about being so intentional with our money that we had the money to support these ideas. So there wasn’t any conflict or anything. It was all very seamless, I would submit receipts and go grocery shopping for the Loeb launch. I honestly didn’t really think about it as outside and inside influence until you pointed it out. I will say that I think it did automatically make me the equivalent of an EB member back then (since it was just an offshoot of ASA) as any treasurer things had to go through me. So I feel a little fake being called a founding member because I was really just doing my job as ASA treasurer and maybe being more involved than I had to, but I had no qualms about it because I did really enjoy it.

Tamika: It was really exciting to hear Alex propose the idea to ASA EB, and I think knowing the backstory and her thinking behind Portrait definitely increased my interest in joining the group. It definitely seemed ambitious for an ASC project, but I think the vibes of EB were super supportive and believed in it, and Alex was so admirably dedicated, that it seemed feasible and I’m so glad it worked out!

86

You’ve also built the design aspect pretty much from the ground up - can you walk us through that process?

Am: Alex and I designed many of the spreads in the first magazine. I honestly didn’t really know what I was doing, and relied on most of what I’d taught myself design-wise over the past few years, a lot of which wasn’t relevant for a magazine. Alex brought forward a lot of inspiration, and it’s to her vision, standard of delivery, and generous trust in me that I owe what I was able to build design-wise from that point on.

There was a lot more interest in Portrait by the time the second issue came around, and so the design team expanded accordingly. At this point, it made sense for me to focus on that division of Portrait, while Alex stepped into the role of EIC and oversaw the content of the magazine. Managing a team of designers, especially with my limited experience and sense of what to do, was overwhelming; my scope of work suddenly went from interpreting and displaying writers’ work through meaningful visual choices, to that plus guiding, supporting, and collaborating with people who had their own set of experiences, ideas, and talents to showcase.

Though a lot to take on initially, it ended up going really well—I remember those Rose Parlor meetings fondly, and it’s all thanks to how wonderful the people I got to work with were. That semester also solidified for me the fact that Portrait was not just a magazine, but a space where teaching and learning takes place—where one comes to listen, share, and contribute, regardless of experience—and where people come to gather, to be together, in a really intentional way (whether it was to create or to view the completed magazine). To have a space that placed more emphasis on exploration than instruction, that cared just as much (if not more) about the people behind the work and the work itself, and to have the trust to have a hand in creating that very space, is something that’s very special and that I continue to be very grateful for.

Over the next couple of issues, I got to iterate the experience of being a designer for Portrait and the process of making the magazine visually, tangibly come to life. It is also incredibly rare to get to do this: to go at something again, over and over, with the same and new people, and to have those people embrace you being in that position every time. Today, the design process is punctuated by brainstorming, teaching & learning, and critique sessions, and tries to strike a balance between providing structured support and independence (process-wise and design style-wise). As our EB members change, as the total page count for each issue continues to fluctuate, as contributors move in and out of and between roles, the design process will too. I can’t wait to see what it’ll look like next.

87

You’ve been heavily involved with Portrait, even before becoming an EB member. Is there an ‘invisible’ aspect of Portrait that you’d like to share?

Am: This is perhaps a bit of a cop-out answer, but just the sheer hard work and dedication that each EB member gives to Portrait. I use the word ‘give’ because each EB members’ time, energy, care, ideas, organization (and everything else they bring forward) is really such a gift— it is all so generative, and provides fertile ground not just for a meaningful, tangible thing to be created (the magazine), but also for so many people to share space in a really special way.

There are many individuals who have been very intentional about shaping Portrait and the experience of being a part of it to be what it is today. It can be easy to not notice this work sometimes, and I want to continue to shine a light on it.

You and Emma worked together on the Migration Stories the first two semesters of Portrait. Can you walk us through Portrait’s first collaborative project?

Tamika: So nostalgic! I was really excited that Emma and I were going to work on a collaborative project because I totally saw it as an opportunity to get to know her better and hopefully become friends. So the process of collaboration with Emma definitely speaks to the relationship building potential of Portrait! For the broader collaboration, this piece was an honor to be part of because we got so many wonderful submissions from students sharing their families’ stories. We put out a call for students to share how their family came to the United States, and the responses were incredible! People were very open and it felt really special to get to pull together all these different stories and weave them into a piece that paints a picture of how Asian/Asian American stories have evolved. It really just felt like an opportunity to get to know people a little better and to celebrate them just for being who they are, and that was really simple but I think powerful when put together into a collective piece? Honestly the joy I found in this project is probably a big part of the reason why I decided to keep writing with Portrait and have often done collaborative or crowd-sourced pieces. The phrase ‘the whole is more than the sum of its parts’ really resonates with all the collaborative pieces I’ve done and I find this incredibly rewarding!!

88

Tell us about how you have organized the Loeb Launches for Portrait! What did that process look like? What factors did you take into consideration?

Grace: I live for Portrait’s launches! What I find so special about then Launches is that they really are meant to be celebrations of the hard work and efforts that all of Portrait’s contributors put into making the amazing issues we’ve published thus far. When Portrait was just beginning, I had just assumed my new position as a member of the Student Advisory Committee at the Loeb, and I remember just looking around the very white walls of the art center and missing the stories that resembled my own if not those that were familiar to me.

So, I take my role in organizing the Launches as one of leveraging my position in the Loeb to carve out that space for the countless wonderful stories that the Asian-identifying students of Portrait publish.

In terms of planning it, I have to keep my ears to the ground, so to speak: I always consider the theme as well as how each piece is in response and/or in conversation with the theme of a given issue. For me, getting to hear and to witness everyone’s processes in getting to the final draft is such an enjoyable part of planning the launches.

Having been with Portrait since the beginning is what motivates me to work on making sure the Launches reflect Portrait’s growth over the years while, of course, keeping to the celebratory spirit of the Launches. With that said, I’m really looking forward to the day when we can all mingle and sip apple cider together again!

89

What is your favorite part of Portrait?

Jane: Oh geez, this is a hard question. I love everything about Portrait. Maybe the people?

The writing process? The way that an entire semester of hard work and editing and designing births the most beautiful magazine in the world? I definitely love having the magazine in my hands to flip through and cry over, but I also really love the beginning of each semester, right when we first determine the theme. I love the way that each theme Portrait has taken on is open-ended enough that any number of interpretations can occur but also facilitate the ideation for very specific kinds of pieces. The start of a new issue is just so incomparable in the levels of excitement and anticipation I feel to the start of anything else.

Johnson: How talented people are. Like seriously, people have such cool and varied topics.

Some people have such a compelling personal story and others have more poetic fiction. And the designers kill it every time. Like I am legitimately jealous of all this talent. The issues are just so good. I’m honestly honored that I even get to be a contributor and be a part of it.

Tamika: Ahh! I think reading the final issue is always really special because I’m continuously awed and inspired by everyone’s artful expression of ideas! And for me personally, the process of scheming up my own projects/pieces always feels exciting and is a lot of fun because I know that I’m going to learn and grow through my piece!

Why do you think Portrait as a space is important?

Alex: Portrait is a great learning environment. As a POC and an education major, I am a big proponent of culturally responsive teaching and liberatory practices in the educational context. Every student, regardless of race, deserves to learn about one’s history and positionality in the community one belongs to. Through the brainstorming and writer’s pitch sessions, Portrait encourages every contributor to reflect upon their experiences intertwined with their racial and cultural identities and to share them with one another, which I see as an empowering and liberatory learning experience.

Jane: I believe so much in the power of creative freedom, especially for AAPIidentifying people. There’s something moving and powerful about bringing abstract concepts to life through visual and written work. The way that contributors feel comfortable sharing darker or more vulnerable stories in the space makes me feel proud that Portrait can be a safe space and also be more careful that Portrait never takes that kind of comfort for granted. It’s hard enough in the physical world to open up.

And despite the many different publications on campus, I have the (biased) view that Portrait stands out the most. We have an incredible range of emotions and genres and artwork and people that amalgamates into the specific and hard-to-define vibe of Portrait magazine.

From your view, how has Portrait changed from its inception? How has it stayed the same?

Jane: I started off as a general body contributor and became Content Editor, so for me a lot has changed. Firstly, Portrait more than doubled in size - the first issue had 15 total contributors, but now has about forty contributors spread over four different roles. This sixth issue has about twenty written pieces. Further, the content just gets better and better with each issue, which surprised me because the first issue was SO good. There’s a lot more variety within the magazine, and now that we’ve expanded to digital platforms, that variety can continue to grow and evolve. Despite these changes, Portrait still feels the same to me.

Even with moving our meeting location to Zoom for two semesters, I feel that the spirit of the OG Portrait vibe still resides with the org. We’re all here to create and share, and that common goal has stayed with contributors since the beginning.

Johnson: I think Portrait hasn’t changed too much. It’s obviously fully bloomed from an offshoot of ASA. The club itself has been figuring out how to structure things better. I think the content is better. Not that it was ever bad, but I do feel like we outdo ourselves every issue and I’m constantly blown away by how talented people are. It’s still the amazing Asian magazine club that it was at the beginning; I think it’s just improved in every aspect.

You were in Portrait for its first issue, went abroad, and then returned - how has being away influenced the way you view/contribute to Portrait?

Grace: It’s interesting: while I did “return” to being a Vassar student after studying abroad, I haven’t completely “returned” in the sense that I’ve been studying remotely for the past year or so now. So, I think that in more ways than one Portrait has become a sort of safe space for me. My personal motto has always been that “the shortest distance between people is a story.” And, with all that’s happening and the changes upon changes that are taking place, Portrait has remained so consistent that I genuinely look forward to both the GB and EB meetings as a space where I feel even a smidgen closer to Vassar.

How was it being Portrait’s first EIC? After going abroad and leaving that position, and then returning to be Publicity Manager, how has your perspective towards Portrait changed?

Alex: As much as it was an exciting place to be in, it was very challenging. I never considered myself a leader, let alone the founder of an organization. It was daunting in the beginning and the pressure grew even more after the huge success of the first issue. The biggest challenge was that I was unable to separate Portrait from my personal life because I cared so much about it. Everything from drafting the inventory for the launch events to checking in with every member to make sure we were not behind the schedule, I was overwhelmed with the amount of Portrait work because there was always more work to be done. I essentially burned out after my first semester of junior year, and I was planning to go abroad the next semester. It was a perfect time to distance myself from Portrait and leave it in other people’s hands. We were lucky enough to find responsible, talented, and diligent EIC and Content Editor <3 I came back from my study abroad semester and realized that everything (including myself) would be remote. That was when I decided to build a stronger online presence for Portrait.

Right now, I am leading a media task force team as Portrait’s Publicity Manager.With the new challenges posed by COVID-19 as well as the increasing importance of digital media, I think Portrait needs to reconsider ways to better circulate our work digitally.

92

igh t

ft a s

e

r

m

id n

0

0:

0

6

e six minut

The Portrait S21 collaborative playlist was collectively compiled in hopes of embracing musical emotions, thoughts, and connections that arise from this issue’s theme: PLAYGROUND.

Written and Compiled by Arlene Chen Edited by Emma Chun Designed by Phoebe Jacoby

We l c o m e to My P l ay g r o u n d NCT 127 Br o c c o l i R o ck e t Sur g e o n s T h i s L i tt l e L i g h t of M i n e S h ak a Zu l a .

Yo u A r e My Su n s h i n e Kin a Granni s Edelweiss T h e S o un d of Mu si c P u f f t h e M a g i c D r a g on Pe t e r Pau l & Mar y Somewhere Over the Rainbow Is ra el Kam ak aw i w o’o l e Yo u’ v e G o t a Fr i e n d C aro l e King

94

For G o o d Wi ck e d 10,000 Miles Mar y C h apin C ar p e nte r O n e Ti n S o l d i e r T h e O r ig in al C a ste D a d d y D au g h te r D a n c e John Alb e r t T h om a s

Intro: Welcome to My Playground NCT 127 this city shines, wherever i go/it makes me into a child

From Tamika: Broccoli Rocket Surgeons bop for veggie-lovers, makes me think of childhood as a time to build a lasting relationship with loving vegetables!

This Little Light of Mine Shaka Zula . warm fuzzy vibes of kid empowerment through love You Are My Sunshine Kina Grannis lucky that so many in my life showered me with the love that this song evokes!

Somewhere Over the Rainbow Israel Kamakawiwo’ole peaceful and hope song, vibes for dreaming You’ve Got a Friend Carole King a childhood favorite, like life was moving but good things were enduring For Good Wicked the first Broadway musical I got really invested in. relates to a lot of my friendships from elementary school; they couldn’t last forever but I still know they shaped the person I am today 10,000 Miles Mary Chapin Carpenter my iconic childhood movie, Fly Away Home— soooooo many feels! growing up, losing loved ones but knowing they are still with you, travel and journeys....

Edelweiss The Sound of Music from my childhood favorite movie

One Tin Soldier The Original Caste my mom used to sing this song in the car on road trips

Puff the Magic Dragon Peter Paul & Mary growing up is inevitable and it’s ok to mourn childhood but the world will keep turning

Daddy Daughter Dance John Albert Thomas good daddy-daughter vibes, thinking of playing at the playground with my daddy

Castle on a Cloud L e s Mi s e rab l e OB C Fe at h e r Nuj ab e s

Wav e s E l e c t r i c Gu e st Gibberish Al ar y - Kan si o n Kidult S e v e nt e e n Ni g h t C h a n g e s O n e D ire c t i on e n d of s u m m e r sl ch l d & Nat h ani a 平凡的一天 毛 不易 S h a k e It O f f Tay l or Sw if t

Castle on a Cloud Les Miserable OBC I used to act out this scene in my living room

From Gabor: Feather Nujabes a song super influential on my formative years. super lighthearted, reminds me of quieter days back before college. not always better days but I had that sort of childhood innocence where I was just along for the ride

From Maggie: Waves Electric Guest super upbeat and playful song that reminds me of play structures and nostalgia for childhood

From Jane: Gibberish Alary-Kansion this song is so chill and lovely. the lyrics mention nighttime and constellations, which remind me of looking up at the sky and searching for patterns in the stars as a child. the cover art also is reminiscent of a child’s artistic abilities, with lots of color and imaginative aspects.

From Arlene: Kidult Seventeen the weird disconnect between childhood and adulthood, reminding me that it’s okay to feel unsure about the future Night Changes One Direction peak middle school nostalgia end of summer slchld & Nathania reminds me of childhood and my hopes for a new beginning 平凡的一天 毛不易 calm, peaceful song that talks about the nostalgia of a “perfect” day and how the best moments are often simple and unassuming

From Ziyi: Shake It Off Taylor Swift one should be one’s true self. the melody is so lively and the lyrics so simple that it makes me want to dance. i forget my worries when i listen, just as I throw all the bad things behind my head when I am in the playground

97

I have 1 __________ that 2 __________ and glow like 3 __________ My

1

__________ are

4

__________

__________ notices my 1 __________ and it makes me feel 6 __________ 5

7 9

__________ has 8 __________. Our 8 __________ __________.

When I spend time with 7 __________ we 10 __________ Our 8 __________ is 11 __________

98

We’re a miracle in those moments and I am full of 12 __________

ISSUE 06 | spring 2021 PLAYGROUND