Tableof
Letter from the Editors
Dear Reader,
295 Magazine was first created at the AACC and continues to celebrate Asian and Asian American identity through the arts.
At Yale, we feel so lucky to be surrounded by such thoughtful, courageous, and compassionate individuals This issue is dedicated to the people and places that make up the mosaics of our lives, and how we construct art from experience It is filled with poetry, short stories, and paintings that speak to memory, connection, and shared histories.
Thank you to Sheraz, Dean Yee, the AACC staff, and our wonderful contributors. And thank you, for reading with care.
Enjoy, Arden, Nghi, and Sam
pockets of time
by Yixuan Chen
we sat outside of that bagel shop talked and chuckled with fresh coffee on your side and your arm against mine and my wrist feeling the fabric of your coat your brick-red coat the day was so crisp
the unique crispness of winter mornings like the liquid in a quiet snow globe where seconds stretched beyond seconds
with your smile and your eyes looking straight at mine and we would stay there, just us with nothing and no-one pulling you away and things would no longer be temporary like these moments that we could never go back to those pockets of spaces and pockets of time and pockets of warmth and pockets of what i called love.
how to drink meiyu
by Aaron Combs
gently. in the 3rd month, the plum blossoms ripened like an eyelid on the brink. bruise a violet so morbid its human.
a bough a face with the demand of taut warped flowers.
it’s breathtaking, isn’t it?
furiously. thatched pine. weeping bamboo qinglu shanshui-esque landscapes quiver.
somewhere a petal tears itself somewhere a tear runs away from its sepal toward an open wound
neither knowing of the gravity that controls them. fresh and naked, like the yangtze strangling its way to the sea.
it’s breathtaking, isn’t it?
hungrily after all, it’s the meiyu season. south of the yangtze, south of wei a plum blossom dies a fate, born. in the depth of summer still like chengdu gripped by heat the sky stirs. it’s restless it’s young. childish, even. the tear hurtles toward the cut. the petal whispers it’s breathtaking, isn’t it? as it gives itself to the starving sky it cries out drink.
Stranger Story
by Yixuan Chen
San Diego is cold when the sunlight fades.
She wears round glasses, golden thin rim. Her eyes harbor the bright hearts of the flame. We stand by the beach, before an outdoor fireplace –the triangular-shaped glass traps the danger but spares the warmth.
Her friend and her, she tells me, embarked on a journey in Thailand to find the best Tom Yum Soup. They found it – a small shop, family-owned –hidden somewhere, but found by them, yet lost to me.
They sat on the roof of their hostel, eating the take-out Tom Yum, with the sun setting before them, just like it is now. It sounds silly, she says, but it was one of the best moments of my life.
On the horizon, the sun draws its last breath before diving deep into the sea. Streaks of gold clouds burn on the sky. Purple waves reaching and retracting from the shore. The low hum of the fire.
The sadness floating in me like a mist shrinks to a droplet of tear. I dry it and listen to the stories of strangers. I think about how our lives reach beyond the container of our lives, flowing over our rims to the rims of others like waves, reaching, retracting, and reaching.
These moments. I hold them in me and tell them to you.
Untitled (Oil on Canvas)
by Helen Huynh
I speak
by Yixuan Chen
a language – “foreign language” is how i used to called it –slipping into video chats with my parents in my mother tongue that slips away like sand between my clasped clasped palms fill it fill it just to feel the weight of a place i used to call home home home slips away so just fill it again again so much sand
I see
by Yixuan Chen
ghost in every scent, every posture, the way that put your jacket on, straighten it, grey sports shoes –ghost in footsteps, sounds of car pulling into the driveway, but speeding away –the way put hands up the way nod to what I say ghost in every living thing until time makes shape melt into the air I breath the sight I see
Postprandial Fruit
by Penelope Pyo
Little Elephants
by Kamini Purushothaman
“You have your father’s nose,” my mother tells me as I peer at the sandalwoodwhittled elephant, turning it over in my palms.
Through its carved openings, I can make out another elephant, tinier yet. I examine the piece from different angles, hoping to see it in its entirety but failing to overcome my obscured view.
The shop is lush with handicrafts: plastic bangles, bejeweled boxes for storing sindoor, statues larger than me, and my elephant(s). I stand there studying it, my mother watching me.
I think two thoughts:
Did the woodworker who made it get any splinters? 1 Why does my mother like elephants so much? 2.
When we step outside, dust glints in the humid air as the sun sets, refusing to settle into the dirt until the streets empty themselves for the night. Cars drown out the calls of vendors selling chai and “koppee” with their honks—a cheap imitation of an elephant’s trumpet, I think.
I ask my mother if we can take the auto-rickshaw back to ThataandAmuma’s house, still enamored by the bustling scene around me and not wanting to abandon it for an insulated, air-conditioned taxi. She obliges, and that little elephant and its littler counterpart accompany us through the winding roads home.
I think of the word elephant as we maneuver around traffic: e/l/e/p/h/a/n/t, el/eph/ant, eleph-ant. Why would such a large animal share part of its name with a diminutive ant, I wonder, but then my mother is reminding me that I actually enjoyed this outing and not to turn my nose up at her suggestions and I lose track of my thoughts. I fight the urge to inform her that, by virtue of its convex-sloping shape, I can’t turn my nose up at all.
Instead, I look out at the moon as it occasionally dips behind the clouds, which in the evening light appear the same deep blue as the sky behind them. In turn, the moon seems to shrink into a sliver of itself before totally disappearing behind the clouds and then reappearing again, growing in size. I like this lapsed waxing and waning. When it comes into total view, I see that it isn’t quite full yet— abbreviated on the right side—a thought cut short.
When we return to the U.S., that little elephant rests inside its larger belly next to a dozen other elephants on the bookshelf—varying in size and color.
Occasionally, I pick it up and squint through its innards for that tiny twin, wishing I could hold it between my thumb and index-finger.
I wonder if the woodworker who made it got any splinters and why my mother likes elephants so much.
Then one day a game of living-room-catch with my (trunk-sharing) father sends my elephant—and its baby elephant—tumbling from the shelf and onto the ground of our living room.
I hear the thud of the ball hitting the shelf, my elephant (and its elephant) hitting the ground, and the sound of carefully-crafted, delicate sandalwood fracturing.
The little(r) elephant finally reveals itself to me, from its arching trunk to its carved tusks. It mirrors the (now shattered) outer figure exactly—not a calf, I realize, but a shrunken-down replica of the elephant that held it. I wonder if it’s a grown-up child or a childish grown-up.
I worry that my mother will be upset but quickly realize that she won’t be, so I admire the minuscule elephant from all angles. I pick up the pieces of the outer elephant’s torso—broken but not splintered. Sandalwood is less prone to splintering than other kinds of wood, I suddenly recall my mother telling me.
I think I understand why she likes elephants so much. Finally holding it between my fingers, I wish I could return that tiny elephant safely back to its mother’s belly.
I want to scream, but I must speak
by Peter Tran
Stranger Story
by Yixuan Chen
Translation: “I want to scream, but I must speak"
In a world without justice, I cry hot tears.
Heavenly Father, where have You gone?
May there be a true Shabbos for everyone Oy, do my feet hurt
May our enemies toil in Hell!
Once in a blue moon, I get to smile
Well, how should I feel?
Reaching Space
by Katelyn Wang
White Butter Soap
by Michelle So
Tea dribbles from my thimble & catches stained cloth like brown fire.
Three women sitting in the kitchen
In the year 2024, gossiping about men and politics. My mother has taken the face of an old woman and my grandmother, Mahmah, has the face of an owl She chews persimmon loudly, like soup. Between slurping the innards from the skin
She announces that she wants me to marry a white man Gwai lo, she calls them. The ghost men.
Mother and I snort in syne but bottle our laughter. Mahmah’s face sincere but simmers gently.
A vision before her brings her quivers and she whispers She wants her grandbabies to be white.
Their hair blond like straw
Blue-eyed like the sky. She sees freedom in the bak skin Freedom she wants but doesn’t have.
I watched her scrub her toenails when I was young. With CVS pumice and plastic loofahs. They were disfigured. More yellow than I thought nails should be.
I remembered the smell of antifungal cream and herbal balm Warmed with her hands and rubbed into her heels. She worked in the factory, which was flooded daily Hours upon hours in sandals until her feet wrinkled. In her sixties, they infected and filled with pus.
I thought of her gnarled Taiwanese feet
Toiling painfully in “Made in China” slippers
The garden with the Bougainvillea and the stolen bricks
I was told, again, how lucky I was to have buttery hands and buttery feet.
Like fatty drippings, we are clarifying. Every generation cleansed and purified.
The golden brown seeping away through hemp cloth
Melting and melting away until rich creamy lard
Like the kind mixed with lye remains.
I wonder if Mahmah sees me as the soap
A sort of immigrant’s hope.
Foaming away her rice-farming stains
Ridding it of its weary traveler pains
Cleansing and cleansing her torn figure
Until yellow fades into white-ish and whiter.
Where Lilacs No Longer Grow
by Ethan Hsu
do you know that feeling when you stand at the edge, overlooking wonders— sakura, elderflower, eudaimonia— and you reach into the air, expecting nothing but press your palm to the absence anyway? for what purpose? for what feeling?
you were—no, are— something that finds me in the hush between heartbeats, in the spaces between things, silence stretched so thin it hums. i roll over, reaching— for what, i don’t know— the soft ridge of your knuckle, maybe, or the strands of lilies that once splayed over my pillows. but that is only an iota of you, unraveling in the dark.
the sheets no longer know your name, the whisper of your body sinking into them. and yet somewhere a train wails, and for a moment, it carries our name instead.
i do not remember your voice anymore, only the shape your laughter left behind. how your mouth curled like a tide beckoned by the moon only to slip away once more.
and so i wonder if i ever made you laugh like that or if i only imagine it now. i wonder if someone else has studied the way your lips move before the sound takes flight. if they hear music where i hear silence.
i used to live in the echo of your voice, but now it only slips away—eurydicic, forever behind me. in the dark, a moth drunk on the warmth of promise. but light is never soft when you press too close. burns, blinds, then one day the glow is gone but its shadow remains. you hover in the dim corners of rooms in reflections that are never there.
i know one day, i will die beside someone who is not you. someone who has spent years pressing into the empty places you left behind. someone who has done nothing— nothing but love me— and will still never be you. and with that last exhale, that soft collapsing of all things, i will think only of you. not your face, not your voice—only the shape of a hand that once fit oh so seamlessly into mine. i will think only of the scent of lilacs in a city where they do not grow; in a world that once brimmed with color, before it became something i had to survive, and in that last flutter of electricity i will inhale a season that never was.
by Victoria Liu
Energy and Climate
Fool’s Gold
by Peter Tran
-- For Hind Rajab and all of the little ones whose lives were snuffed out. May their memories revolutionize us.
From whose maw preaches in lofty tones yet bathes in the cesspool of hypocrisy? Their stench reeks of unadulterated, unabashed arrogance. Even Midas would blush.
Prevaricating pricks.
Beware their twisted jaws announcing glad tidings of freedom and democracy.
Such drivel fools no one.
How do we tear our tired eyes away from a seemingly never-ending avalanche of corpses?
We have wept enough, died enough inside to know this cannot continue.
With the heavens as our witnesses, we damn those conniving, sly foxes.
Let them be paraded in their ivy halls.
Let them give their flowery speeches. Let them feign innocence.
No matter.
Let us endure and remember.
Let us give ourselves room to mourn, yes. But do not let that consume you.
Let us love one another, pray for the dead, and fight like hell for the survivors.
A Nation Denied
by Peter Tran
What becomes of a nation denied?
Does it waste away like an olive tree hacked to pieces?
Or soar on eagles’ wings to reclaim what’s rightfully theirs?
Still I Write
by Peter Tran
Tucked away in a dark recess, oh my woebegone heart.
Coddling what’s left of my humanity, it lies bedridden and refuses care and comfort.
To feel is to be awash with complicated emotions best left alone.
The opposite? Let apathy metastasize.
What’s a heart to do?
Bright College Years
by Peter Tran
Translation: "Bright College Years"
When I was only a tiny leaf, I was still green and young.
I feared the big world.
Sing to me your fine little tune that Mother sang once If you do that, I can become strong and mature!
When you lie under our little tree in the fall, Forget me not, my Beloved!
Now I'm old.
When winter comes, farewell!
Contributors
Victoria Lu
Victoria is a senior in Silliman double majoring in Art and Environmental Studies. She spent the last 1.5 years studying abroad in Taiwan, Morocco, Nepal, Ecuador and Japan, learning about urban planning and climate policy. She loves creating ephemeral landscapes and environmental artwork.
Michelle So
Michelle is a first-year from Los Angeles studying Ecology and Evolutionary Biology. While her primary passions are science and the environment, she also writes/edits for several Yale publications and occasionally publishes thoughts on her *still-in-development* Substack, titled MISO SOUP.
Kamini Purushothaman
Kamini is a sophomore in Trumbull College double-majoring in History and Archaeology with a focus on South Asia. She writes for the Arts desk at the Yale Daily News and serves as Co-President of Yale Visual Artists. As a New Haven native, you can often find her at local arts events.
Katelyn Wang
Katelyn Wang is a second-year student from San Diego, California. She enjoys working with multi-media and acrylic paint mediums. Beyond academics, she loves outreaching into the New Haven community through her public art organization "Bright Spaces."
Penelope Pyo
Penelope is a Comparative Literature major from San Francisco and is passionate about Korean and Ancient Roman history, literature, and culture. In her free time, she loves creative writing, reading, drawing, fencing, and karaoke-ing with her friends and family. Her favorite fruits are white nectarines!
Peter Tran
Hailing from sunny Atlanta, Peter Tran is a senior in Davenport majoring in anthropology. In an all too chaotic world, his sure-fire method of making sense of it all is through the written word. When he's not briskly walking to-and-fro across campus, you can often find him in the AACC soaking in the good vibes and community.
Yixuan Chen
Yixuan was born and raised in Beijing, China, and has been in the U.S. since college. For her, poetry is a beautiful medium that blends meaning, sounds, and contours.
Helen Huynh
Helen is a junior studying psychology. She enjoys Russian literature, watercolor, and long walks. Her creative endeavors span literary, theatrical and visual, but she’s most interested in possessing truths regarding the psyche.
Aaron Combs
Aaron is a first-year from San Diego majoring in whatever interests him at 2 AM; currently, that’s Global Affairs. At any given moment you can find him daytripping to New York, watching Chinese films from the 1980s, or building another startup. He writes poetry on his Notion page.
Ethan Hsu
Ethan is a sophomore from New York studying Chemistry + Ethics, Politics, and Economics. While he enjoys researching AI and health policy, he also can be found skateboarding around New Haven or playing chamber music with friends.
Arden Yum
Arden Yum is a senior in Benjamin Franklin majoring in Cognitive Science. Outside of the AACC, she runs a micro-bakery called PLAY with her friend Phaedra, writes a weekly newsletter called Ad Hoc, and takes photos.
Nghi Nguyen
With roots in Vietnam and Oregon, Nghi is a sophomore majoring in Ethics, Politics, and Economics. She enjoys all things novel and is on a constant search for the new—some of her hobbies include biking, documenting her life through writing and videos, crocheting, creating Spotify playlists, having long talks with friends, and seeking out new hobbies.
Sam Fajardo
Sam is a sophomore from Manila, Philippines studying Cognitive Science with a focus on Cultural Cognition. Drawing on her Filipino heritage, she bridges perspectives through her work as Creative Director for 17o1 Records and editor at 295. In her free time, she enjoys thrifting, film photography, and scrapbooking— practices that connect her design sensibilities with storytelling.
Cover Artwork: SERIFA Studio by Nastassja Abel & Christian Otto.
