2021-2022 AACC 295 Magazine Issue V

2 9 5 i s s ue v

FLOW

the asian american cultural center at yale presents

295 i s su e v

sp ring 2 0 2 2

dear reader,

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295 Magazine was born with the mission of elevating the voices of Asian and Asian American students at Yale. The innumerable challenges that our community has endured in recent years have only accentuated the significance of this mission.

Yet these challenges have also inspired talented members of our community to create. The following pages feature a selection of their paintings, photography, poetry, prose, and more to form a story that flows from our collective experiences—a story of resilience, solidarity, and hope.

We’re thrilled to present “Flow,” Issue V of 295.

Love, Yuka Saji ‘22 Eunice Kiang ‘24 Sein Lee ‘24

Published by

Editorial & Production

Special Thanks

The Asian American Cultural Center at Yale

Yuka Saji Eunice Kiang Sein Lee

Dean Joliana Yee Sheraz Iqbal

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table of contents exposition 10 12

Reception

Ivory Fu Luc Ta

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Trio in G to even anthropology: it’s not quite psychogeography, or philosophy

Al Lim

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to Younghill Kang

Jonathan Chan

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The Path

Ethan Chiang

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Desire for Freedom

Eunice Kiang

crescendo

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kaun កូន

Annelise Ratner

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What Can Hide in A Mirror? & Watch Out

Eunice Kiang

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away from the crowds

Cynthia Lin

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Sepulcher of Snow

Thien Khuu

climax 36

do it for your nation

Jonathan Chan

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blood ties

Aranyo Ray

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Keeping Me, Influencing Me

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wrenched from indigeneity, an impossible dream

Karis Ryu

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Photography

Tenzin Jorden

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You Are Not As Pretty With & ZZZ

Eunice Kiang

Catherine Kwon

resolution 54

blue

Victoria Lu

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providence 命运之地

Kenny Li

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cafe on the riverbank

Ernestina Hsieh

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palette & remedy

Jonathan Chan

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mr. cow

Dana Joy Loo

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Two for Dinner

Daniel Kim

contributors 68

Contributor biographies

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exposition

Reception Ivory Fu

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Prelude and Fugue in G Major Luc Ta

Scan QR to listen

Trio in G Major Scan QR to listen

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As a composer, I’ve become fascinated with how compositional techniques and structures can map between sonic/ artistic and social/cultural expectations, and to what extent subverting any of these calls attention to subversions of the others, an approach inspired by composers like William Grant Still, William Dawson, and Alex Temple. The works I present here—a prelude and fugue for piano and a (soonto-be-)four movement trio for clarinet, cello, and piano— purposely adhere to and present themselves in conventional Baroque and Classical forms. For example, the third movement of the latter piece takes the form of a minuet and trio, an aristocratic French court dance. In my injection of the musical idioms of jazz, Vietnamese music, and video game music into the structural contours of such a dance, I invite listeners to examine the dialectics and perspectives about colonialism, heteronormativity, and other dominant sociopolitical forces that interact with this music and with cultural production at large.

The musical language of the pieces I present here draws from jazz, Vietnamese music, and video game music. These, alongside Western classical music, were the genres of music in which I found solace as I tried to navigate my intersectional identities and experiences growing up. In these past and present attempts to find my place(s) in the world and in my communities as a queer person, a Vietnamese person, and a child of refugees, I have often found myself ensnared in what initially seems to be a confluence of contradictions and conflicts (am I too American or too queer to be Vietnamese? Am I too Vietnamese to be queer? et cetera). My work, then, examines whether these and other questions are really about contradictions or about unexplored truths lying in the reconciliation of those which appear to be irreconcilable.

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to even anthropology: it’s not quite psychogeography, or philosophy reposting a Canvas discussion post on social theory

Al Lim ABSTRACT: I once was told that my paper abstract should be less abstract. Well, (1) no, though (2) this is a set of reflections on studying anthropology in 2021.

to even anthropology involves labor

and a culture that is not entirely Afro nor Eurocentric

but is embodied

(or not really either)

it’s not about starting that year

nor Atlantic shoals by an otherwise modern

or this

period

it’s about time not about whether it’s my nation/state/country/space or yours but to share the commonly grounded ground of diasporic proportionality

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or is that map too hard to print?

it’s not quite psychogeography “… and thereby transmit the structures of racial feeling to wider, as yet unchartered, worlds.” Paul Gilroy’s (1993) The Black Atlantic, p.110 too walking the streets of New Haven, I am not thinking of my own musical genealogies, but tuned into lo-fi, an anti-lyrical inclination

from a gap between Music and cultural soundscape

to focus away between today and years ago

does one lose a bodily hexis or gain a new one?

who will teach the lyrics’ inner secrets and rule(s) for the next 20 years? one can learn to sing, silent

and all this, while I believe Josephine’s song still hasn’t ended

or philosophy there’s a ship by Gilroy I like

while I wonder if Theseus’s has departed yet

with its ark-like qualities

I’m interested in what it does

its legacy of Castellian flows can nuance (complexify) the cleanest, blankest nation-state and their (reductionist) lines of nationalism the ship does something it foregrounds oceanic brutality

of those that are not of a state

being of multiplicity yet whose sense of belonging is not accepted in the execution of the presently Enlightened State

more needs to be done

undone to which I ask

to what extent can we avoid lotus eaters or eating?

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To Younghill Kang Jonathan Chan you recall the rustling of a grass roof, gathered and held in the smear of calligraphy ink, the old poems you learned to recite, carried across as you fled the intrusion of red sunlight, tongues and ways wrenched apart, the furled flags and steady marches snuffed in gunfire, you learned to swallow this English, the murmur of Confucian hymns in Chinatown diners, the flush of Korean classics hidden behind clan doors. anew, the promise of futurity, the science of facing rural desolation, dragged through the malaise of sterile labs, you returned, heart ablaze, to song, those stirrings of lyric, beyond the drudgery of laid plates and carved soil, the birth of new belongings, lodged between old mysticisms and the brush of rugged desire, the flinch of unacknowledged castes, how this ink will learn to scratch these memories, this hand to grasp a new home, this life to breathe in print again.

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The Path Ethan Chiang

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This project for a mental health center was inspired by a notebook sketch from American landscape architect Lawrence Halprin. In his sketch, he described the path as an idea: 1. As a connector between points (home to work) 2. As a release (for pleasure) 3. As exercise (walking) 4. As an experience for the senses (kinesthetics) 5. The path as a series of events (interactions) Situated on 392 Crown Street, New Haven, Connecticut - the site lies on a boundary condition that separates Yale from predominantly low income, African American and Latinx communities. Taking on this idea of the path and drawing from the material imperfections of its site, the center aspires to bridge the Town-Gown relationship that exists between New Haven and Yale.

Conceptually, the design also draws from the choreographic ideas of Anna Halprin; it hopes to use movement as a means for healing, to provide a connection to nature, and become a place where one can feel at ease.

As a hybrid model for both mental health and community-based activities, the center aspires to be accessible for all – to become a part of one’s everyday journey so that one can return whenever they please.

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Desire for Freedom Eunice Kiang

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crescendo

kaun កូន

Annelise Ratner Scan QR code to watch

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Watch Out! Eunice Kiang

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What Can Hide In A Mirror?

Eunice Kiang

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away from the crowds Cynthia Lin

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Sepulcher of Snow Thien Khuu To human eyes, like those belonging to the residents of the West Oak neighborhood, the puddle of blood in the middle of the intersection had been thoroughly cleaned. But with their dendritic fingers reaching deep under the imperfections of the earth, the Snow knew that even if the police officers had seen the Congealed Specks of blood in the dark winter night without help from the Waned Moon, no combination of soap and water, a man made solution, could ease their spiteful wrath.

It wasn’t until the fifth shot echoed that the West Oak residents accepted the unimaginable reality.

Anyone could have distinguished the sound of gunshots from other loud noises. It didn’t have that sneer of masculine mischief the popping dirt bikes made to deliberately terrorize the neighborhood. It lacked the staccato groan of frustration that often accompanies a car engine backfiring. No. The first shot was unsuspecting – could have been a misfire or a warning.

The second smelled murderous. By the fifth, Hate was gleaming with its bloodstained teeth.

Was it a drive-by? — some residents worried, having eavesdropped on one of the witnesses’ interviews with a police officer, safely on balconies that were low enough to the ground. The Sky, busily preparing for the snowstorm ahead, could not part the Clouds and stir the Sleeping Moon fast enough to track the culprit, who stole its veil to make their escape. To compensate, it made more Clouds to pay condolences.

The yellow caution tape surrounding the crime scene like a talisman was removed in the middle of the night when the West Oak neighborhood finally went to bed, just in time for the Procession of Snow.

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But the image of the crumpled body of the victim, lying off-center from the boxing ring drawn by the caution tape, visited many residents’ dreams in graphic flashes. The police cars’ bright headlights, illuminating the bloodstained pearl-colored puffy coat from all directions. The unhurried officers, breathing opaque white vapor as they interviewed witnesses. K-9s on leashes, bathing in the whirring red and blue light, barking at the phantom watching the EMTs carrying its own body, covered by a thin, white sheet.

The funereal Procession of Snow continued through the night and into the next day. Sunday church was canceled, hymns left unsung. In the midst of the snowstorm, a Good Samaritan stood shoveling snow around the trunk of the heavily stapled wooden electric pole at the corner where the murder happened. Her blue puffy coat and fuzzy pink pom-poms popped against the white canvas of the street. Meanwhile, those who stayed hidden from the weather learned more details of the shocking case from the Mayor. The victim was an Asian man who had served in the military and was pursuing a master’s degree at a local university. Loved by his colleagues, he was described as an “outstanding” and “extraordinary young man” by many of his teachers and mentors. They all proclaimed, “with a heavy heart,” that it was a “tragic and senseless death.” The Mayor assured everyone that justice would be served, and the Police Chief would give an update on the investigation to ensure the safety of the good residents of the city.

Was it a hate crime? — some residents pondered, given the current political climate. Many decided, knowing this new information, that they would call their legislators that minute to demand swift action on gun control laws. Many denounced hate crimes on social media, sharing trending #hashtags.

The Hardened Specks darkened their color by the hour. The white Snowflakes, now covering the streets, leveraged strength from their sheer volume, reached their dendrites into the deepest Cracks of the 29

imperfect earth where the Spiteful Specks were hiding, and said: It’s time to go.

The Specks refused. Not until we see more. Debts must be paid. — they all spoke at once. But the Specks couldn’t agree on how the Debts were going to be paid, so they agreed instead to seek their own Compensation.

The University President sent out an email to the whole student body, followed almost immediately by an email from the Dean of Graduate Studies to all graduate students. Both emails mourned the death of an “extraordinary young man” with “high ambition,” who was a “valuable member of society.”

A group of Specks scorned this remark.

Look, the Snowflakes said, the Good Samaritan has finished her work.

They all looked. A neat circular path had been made around the trunk of the heavily stapled electric pole, the shovel leaned against it. She turned around and made heavy steps toward the backpack on the ground, now buried under the Snow, lifting her knees as high as her stomach to navigate the snow-covered sidewalk. With gloved hands, she wiped the Snow from her waterproof backpack and pulled from it a long strand of teardrop-shaped lights. After she wrapped the necklace of battery-powered lights around the electric pole, she turned them on. Through opaque glass, the filaments glowed even during the snowstorm, reflecting off the surrounding Snow. Then, she placed two electric candles on either side of the pole, their lights flickering like real flames. Breathing deeply but steadily, the Good Samaritan clasped her hands together and lowered her forehead to her fingertips. She stood there silently for several minutes, her eyes closed. The Snow continued to fall, but it kept a respectful distance from the circular path that she had worked so diligently to create.

When she finally broke out of her silent pose, she gathered her belongings and made long strides away from the pole. The sidewalk was now layered white to her knees, but that didn’t seem to bother her. Glancing 30

back once, she dissolved into the storm.

The Specks would have eased their contorted faces if they had them.

The periodic snowplows piled the Snow on the sidewalk with their powerful engines, forming a mound the height of a toddler. The Specks, softened by the prayer, went with the Snow on their dendrites and piled on top of each other. They had a full view of the modest shrine, and the sheer volume of the Snow would keep them from leaving the surface of the earth for at least several weeks, even when it got warmer.

Sinking to the bottom of the mound, the Specks waited and observed.

When you have seen enough, the Snowflakes told them, rise to the surface and leave with us before it’s too late.

The following week, many visited the shrine.

A news reporter with her camera crew. Friends of the “extraordinary young man.” Residents of the West Oak neighborhood. A local church group dressed in all black standing in a circle around the pole with a balding minister chanting some excerpts from the Bible. They bent their heads forward as far as their necks allowed.

The visitors left behind memorabilia every time – several bouquets of flowers, an American flag, several Teardrops – and some of the Specks traveled upstream through the matrix of intricate dendrites to the top each time a group of visitors left. Merging colors with the Snow, cochineal to carnation, they dissolved into the air together.

Others waited longer for their Compensation.

Two weeks after the snowstorm, when the mound had decreased to half its original size, a woman in a black dress appeared in front of the modest shrine.

Accompanied by a man in a black suit and tie, she stopped motionless when she reached the site of her son’s murder. Their sagging faces, hers in light makeup, were in the middle of a transition.

Standing quietly in the windy winter day, they delivered their message through tears. The Teardrops 31

fell on the snow mound and were quickly directed to the bottom, where the still Unsatisfied Specks were watching. When they arrived, they announced: Blood of my blood, put away your grudge.

Blood of my blood, there is no more need to sharpen your sword.

Blood of my blood, rest.

The hot Teardrops, now cooled, absorbed most of the remaining Specks. Together, they traveled back up the dendritic network to the surface of the snow mound and sublimated into mist.

Still, some Stubborn Specks remained, their Compensation yet to be seen or done. They weren’t looking for remembrance or goodbyes.

A few days later, the Chief informed the West Oak neighborhood that they had identified a person of interest. This person, who was also of Asian descent, was not from the city and had fled to a different state.

It appeared that the murder was targeted and not a random drive-by. The Police Chief concluded the murder was unlikely to have been racially charged. The residents could rest assured that their neighborhood was safe.

Still, many of the residents of the West Oak neighborhood were up in arms. Gun control laws were overdue, they #hashtagged.

But the gun was not purchased in this state. — the Legislators argued.

All the more reason for #federal #regulation. — the Activists said.

And on and on until their voices, too, dissolved with the Snow. They all moved on, except for those still waiting under the Snow. The flowers on the shrine wilted, their once supple and colorful petals now crisp and brown. Weighed down from absorbing the melting Snow, the American flag drooped, a layer of mud smeared on its bottom half. The electric candles and teardrop-shaped lights expired, leaving behind the burnt carcasses of the metal filament coffined by the opaque glass.

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A week later, cold, heartless Rain poured from the Taciturn Sky. Being an impartial force of Nature, it washed away the pure and the impure in and on the imperfect earth. The remaining Vengeful Specks, together with the melting Snow, were swallowed whole by the big Raindrops, traveling with them down the deep, dark openings on the side of the uneven pavement. They carried with them their unfinished and unfulfilled vengeance into the dark Void, which gulped their velvety color like a glass of vintage wine, aged to perfection. Such were the fates of those buried by a sepulcher of snow.

For Kevin Jiang, who I’ll never know.

02/27/2021

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cli-

climax

do it for your nation Jonathan Chan in the months i learned i couldn’t march to the Singapore beat, the inky flurry became an opiate: indulgent smog emanating from the fingertips. i took hit after hit – poetry is in the meditative strolls in ammo-shell ranges, the painful hallucinations of midnight crusades, the foregone sleeps in dust-ridden sheds, the fingerpaint writing on half-conscious faces. i scrutinise the exasperation in their eyes, roll monotony over the tongue between the teeth, perched on the lips and light up with gunfire.

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295 Magazine, Spring 2020

blood ties Aranyo Ray My mother is religious. She wakes up every morning at 6, kisses my forehead, then turns toward the picture of a naked deity whose skin is covered in the ashes of dead bodies. She murmurs a silent prayer from an ancient text, tongue against the ceiling of her mouth, as if waiting for a miracle to happen. Then she cleans her face hurriedly, sets the water to boil, and moves toward the unfinished bathroom with the grace of a retired ballerina.

Today, we have guests over. “Oh,” she says, as if about to divulge an idea that she shouldn’t. “My son, he is studying in an English medium school.” There is an obvious sense of pride in her, free from the scrutiny of a thousand-and-one housewives whose husbands allow them to work outside; a certain cheap contentment, and her saccharine voice drenched with half a cup of poison.

My aunt hollers, unladylike, as my uncle would describe her. She slaps her thighs a couple of times as if the idea of me attending an English medium school is the second funniest thing she heard, the first being her marriage (in her own words). The guests make a lot of comments I barely understand. “He can speak in English?” she finally asks.

The rain outside hasn’t stopped, and the sky keeps growing into a black cavity, faced with a hard choice of either swallowing the discordant cries of the flurrying city or amplifying the sudden silence. But its choice is no less fascinating than the situation in which my mother finds herself. Jhumur pishi* looks solemn, taking up as much space as she can on the single couch, 295 Magazine, Spring 2020

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pushing the other occupants to the extreme sides. In her hands, she nurses an empty glass with a tightness that makes the rest of her heavy body slump. The others are long gone, but she has barely moved since I came in.

My mother calls me over, her hands trying to smother the unruly curls over my haircut and running them over my formal clothing. It is modern, it is safe.

“Talk to your aunt,” she says to me. “Talk to her in English.” In my mind, I recall her sitting on a chair to address her god, eyes closed and voice a mere whisper.

I realize that she is still religious. I once heard that, owing to his short stature, Napoleon used to order his men sitting on his horse. Maybe, my mother commands her god?

“Hello…” I say, hovering over my words and clanking my teeth against each other to pronounce them correctly. “My name is…my name is nursery.”

With adoration in her beaming eyes, pishi says, “Brilliant!”. My mother smiles, and then reasons, “Of course, he will be speaking like an English-man soon.” * = paternal aunt in Bengali

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295 Magazine, Spring 2020

Keeping Me, Influencing Me Catherine Kwon

295 Magazine, Spring 2020

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wrenched from indigeneity, an impossible dream Karis Ryu I am thinking of my mother standing amidst New Hampshire hills in the height of autumn.

She is telling me now, as we sit in the car, about the overwhelming beauty of the red-orange foliage and the green hills, how we had traveled out there together, my mother, father, my sister and me, infant and toddler, and it might have been any normal day, but then I am struck with the realization that if this happened while my family lived in Massachusetts, then this day occurred less than three years after my mother’s immigration.

I am thinking of my mother in the New Hampshire hills, in her body, a body that spoke a tongue that sounded normal elsewhere but clunky here, a body that had once, years before, been denied a visa by the man at the consulate who conducted her interview. You get those feelings, she recalls. Those inklings, those suspicions. They are the veils through which the alienized body touches reality, through which it senses what may be happening with such palpable realness, but can never confirm because of the damned sheen of “other” cast over it, the head-to-toe veil, that thin, itchy, slippery obstacle that prevents the hand from fully grasping onto what is there. Perhaps he assumed that my mother’s documents had been fabricated. Perhaps, at the time, he doubted my mother’s intentions, filtered through his eyes her Asian womanhood and thought her duplicitous and untrustworthy. It may never be confirmed, but knowing 40

history, that would not be unsurprising. Perhaps both, and perhaps more, because within the walls of the U.S. consulate, my mother could be reduced to a body like many other bodies, yellow and female and asking to move from one place to another. In any case, the officer knew one thing. He was the benefactor of goodwill and the free world, and my mother, if she wanted what he had the power to provide, was the grateful beneficiary.

I am thinking, for the first time, of how scared and uncertain my mother must have been during those years, twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight. I am twenty one years old now. I am not too far behind where she was. The words I use to describe myself, to make sense of my world, default to a different primary language, but our bodies are not so different, hers and mine. They are viewed the same way. Perhaps that is why my skin begins to imagine and remember, in my own adjacent recollection, with an unexpected chill: gazes felt in grocery stores, the discomfort of a different tongue perpetually sitting on top of one’s own, and the mortifying shame of waking up and existing with a face that feels, in this colonial place, like a garish mask and costume, one that seems perhaps more fitting for someone to wear at a Halloween party in the dark than while walking past New England houses in broad daylight. Fear and shame. The face of someone who, at best, could aspire to be a tenant to this place’s looming landowners. The face of someone whose residence is always transient, always temporary. The face of someone who ought to feel grateful for even temporary shelters at all! Because look at you! Listen to yourself speak! Look at the oddities that make your face funny, hear the inflections that make your voice not-right. Feel the air blowing on you in hostility or, at best, overbearing curiosity. What are you doing here? This place is not for you. And you do not deserve to be here.

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“I had imposter syndrome, too.”

I am incensed. My anger is a hot fireball prowling in my stomach.

And then I am thinking of my mother falling in love with Italian food at Bertucci’s, the place near Alewife that she and my father made their special haunt. I am thinking of her love for Louisa May Alcott’s 작은 아씨들, for that is the book she knew as a child, and fashioning her as a Meg or Jo or Beth or Amy, basking in foliage that should not be her own, and yet it is. But wait, no, she is Marmee, or rather, a young woman becoming Marmee, a young woman with ambition, and kindness, and love. A love that, over the twenty plus years to come, the God she prays to despite the broken channels of broken nations spanning the Pacific, despite dogmatic interpretations and belligerent pastors and authoritarian politics, poured into her, and one she pours into the many spaces she will proclaim as her home.

Her love tempers the fireball in my abdomen.

I am thinking of my mother gazing in wonder at the sky, finding home in the shelter of red and orange trees, finding romance in a place where she is reminded every day that no ancestry connects her here. And I marvel at how the winds of history and migration, the entangled tragedies, every large and little twist and turn, brought my family to these trees and my mother to those hills, and if others who injected their bodies into this land through more insidious means have laid claim to it, then are we (my family) allowed to call this place home? Is it alright to find a reprieve from the violence, a pocket of tranquility, and stay there?

To desire rest, even for one moment, when there are people still, people indigenous to these grounds who are permanently displaced, who can never rest as long as any of us are here?

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Can this be home?

Yes, my mother would say firmly. Yes. We can make it so, I think. For everyone.

Our little root nestled in the crack of a shattered soil is a sobering shard of beauty that hurts my heart as much as it lifts it.

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Photography Tenzin Jorden

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295 Magazine, Spring 2020

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295 Magazine, Spring 2020

295 Magazine, Spring 2020

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Glasses Font Eunice Kiang

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You Are Not As Pretty With...

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ZZZ Eunice Kiang Scan QR code to watch

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resolution

blue Victoria Lu

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providence Kenny Li

命运之地 - Providence Providence, Ma called it. From bleak skies across battered seas, she told us that it would be beautiful.

Huddled together within damp walls, she promised us that it would be warm. When the distant smell of home had washed away from salt and wear, she sang of riches. She sang.

Providence, it remained, when Ba returned home, smiling and hopeful. He said that he couldn’t find work. His grin grew wider as ours faded. He told us to be cheerful. “孩子，美国遍地都是机会。” —- “Child, there is opportunity everywhere.” He picked me up and twirled me in the air. I wonder, did he hear my stomach churn over my giggles?

Providence, it remained, when Ba returned home, beaten and bruised. He said that work was cruel. He smiled weakly as we cried. He told us not to worry. “孩子，你爸命很大。” —- “Child, your dad can’t die that easily.”

He didn’t twirl me in the air that day. He must have known that I did not believe him.

Providence, it remained, when Brother returned 56

home, beaming and proud. He repeated his teacher’s praise. He paraded as Ma and Ba cheered. He liked being here. “孩子，万般皆下品，唯有读书高。” —- “Child, learning is the most important of all.” He punched me in the arm and told me to catch up. I teased that he was still a child.

Providence, it remained, when Sister returned home, tearful and wailing. She repeated words filled with vile. She anguished as Ma and Ba troubled. She wanted to leave here. “孩子，不用太介意别人的话。” —- “Child, worry not for others’ words.” She stifled her tears then, but I knew. We were still children.

Did it become Providence, when I returned home, worn and tired? When I labored, but became not one ounce richer? When I faced ridicule and still endured? When I could not choose but to stay?

“Providence.” From golden fields to blackened bruises, pain blotted its beauty. Embraced only by kin, I could not feel its warmth. When 家 became replaced with home, I shared little in its wealth. Yet, I survived. And in that providence, I remained.

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Pacific Cafe Ernestina Hsieh

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“The Pacific was created during my study abroad in Denmark. It is a proposed 250 square meter cafe on the banks of Sortedams Lake in Copenhagen. The design is inspired by the strong shapes and clean lines of Japanese minimalist architecture. Sortedams Lake is one of three rectangular lakes that curve like a river around Copenhagen city center. Metaphorically, the cafe is a continuation of the river shape; its flowing and delicate form extends the landscape and forms a sound oasis for runners and trail-walkers. The simple shape and use of natural materials contribute to the calmness of space, bringing the concept of Zen to Copenhagen.

Watercolors express the flowing and adaptable nature of the architecture. During the day, it is pleasant to sit outside by the water. The overhang and glass facade provide a gentle transition space between the interior and the exterior by letting the light come inside the cafe, a concept often used in Japanese architecture. At night, the cafe comes to life as an attractive destination visible from kilometres away. A warm glow in the dark is a sight for sore eyes especially in the winter, when night in Copenhagen lasts almost 17 hours.”

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palette

Seoul, South Korea

Jonathan Chan the first glimpse is of a fibrous hue, colouring the bushes that line the crags, hugging both sides of the airport highway. it is the texture of shrubs poking through tarmac, nestled between standard-issue housing blocks, marking the way to garosugil. it gathers in piles of leaves, beside streams gushing over water mills, and skirts the walls sealing the thickness of smoke. it outlines the path to that green mound, by the grey marble on which our names are etched, and leads us down, enveloping every pace with a crunch, perilla leaves in autumnal residue.

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remedy Jonathan Chan

late afternoon, steam wafting from lazy pots, philtrum smarting from the memory of a curious hunger, throat curdling in a scratchy cough, militant staccato against raw folds. before me, Mom sets the remedy: tang of crushed lemon, translucent slice floating in a clear sea of honey, stirred with frenetic metal spoon, nudged toward me. mug held in two hands, desperation oozes as relief, cloying as an amber afternoon, mercy, the sweet sap, dissipating down a gullet.

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mr. cow Dana Loo

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Two For Dinner Daniel Kim 6:25 P.M. Crunch time. I pop open the oven door—a wave of dense, moist heat rushes towards my face as I pry open the lid of the dutch oven housing my bubbling beef roast. I run a fork through the fibers of the meat and to my delight, there’s no resistance; the metal tines glide through the strands of beef smoother than a knife through butter. I sprinkle on a dash of dried thyme, one of the few western herbs my mom admits into the shopping cart on our monthly ShopRite trips: outings I incessantly badger her for.

Beside me, my mother, her legs askew to avoid the jutting oven door, pulls some blanched spinach out of a pot of water at a roaring boil. The bright green chlorophyll is on full display as she drizzles a splash of soy sauce over the wilted leaves. We maneuver around each other almost comically in the kitchen, which was clearly not designed for multiple bustling bodies, scrambling to get everything at the right seasoning, the right temperature, the right presentation at the last minute. As the headlights of my dad’s Honda CR-V flash through the windows, the shrill whistle of the rice cooker goes off, bursting out a rocket of steam signaling our charge to the dinner table with our dishes.

On our perfectly round dining table with two sets of mismatching tablemats, lies a delectable but confused feast: on one side, creamy mashed potatoes, a decadent pot roast, creamed greens and on the other, a neatly curated grid of Korean banchan—kimchi, dubu, sigeumchi namul.

For as long as I can remember, most of the dinners in the Kim household have resembled something like this crazed culinary joust. The race to dinner has been maddening routine where I would usually undergo some task such as folding some 64

elbow noodles in a valley of mayonnaise and splashing in some apple cider vinegar to hone in the western flavors of my macaroni salad while my mother would massage a nest of clear sweet potato starch noodles in with thinly julienned matchsticks of carrots and peppers, raining down some sesame seeds to put the final touches on her Korean japchae. My mother and I would operate separate corners in our nightly culinary showdowns. Mountains of dirty bowls in the sink, it was a scene more closely resembling a dramatic interpretation of MasterChef rather than a Wednesday night in a suburban New Jersey kitchen. My brother and my father served as the nightly impromptu judges, navigating through our mishmash of a tasting menu pairing American classics with Korean staples: mushroom risotto and spicy braised monkfish head; sausage-stuffed chicken breast and crispy, lacy, fried mung bean pancakes; and a million other dinner table combo unheard-ofs.

At first, when I first started cooking as a curious and ravenous sixth grader, I stood no chance; my mom’s years of practice feeding two hungry boys informed each of her calculated hand movements. Her sturdy fingers wrung the water out of quickly-blanched bean sprouts and painted layers of seaweed with a thin, glossy coatings of fragrant sesame oil that perfumed her food with not just an aromatic scent, but also an authority my culinary creations seemed to lack. Unlike my mother, I did not cook Korean food. In elementary school, my mom’s hand-rolled kimbab or stir-fried myeolchi in my lunchbox attracted the judgmental glares of my classmates, forever etching into my memory the sight and scent of fermentation, spice, shame, and chagrin brought upon this food concocted an ocean’s length away, tucked into my Tupperwares. I turned to my school’s lunches instead. Hamburgers, chicken wraps, mozzarella sticks, and baked ziti—tickets into a world where my food didn’t raise any eyebrows or draw pointed fingers.

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Thus, when I did start cooking, it was largely in an effort to further entrench my place in this newfound world. I pored over hours of culinary tutorials on Youtube—Jamie Oliver, Wolfgang Puck, Nancy Silverton, you name it—following their every knife stroke like a hawk, memorizing the steps that transformed their ingredients into mouthwatering masterpieces. At my biannual trips to the dentist’s office, I flipped through the only copy of Bon Appétit magazine I could get my hands on, snapping pictures of every stunning page on my mom’s iPhone to peruse at home. Dishes that previously never saw the light of day on our dinner table became integrated into my culinary vocabulary; Shepherd’s Pies and Beef Wellingtons were now recipes that whet my appetite and anchored me to a world that was now my reality, not a world that could have been.

Despite my best efforts, however, I never succeeded at pushing Korean food off the table, my mother’s undeniably delicious delicacies finding a place in everyone’s chopsticks but mine. *** At our amalgamation of a dining table, as I eat my pot roast or grits or pasta or potatoes, my mom often hands me a bowl of gomtang or a mound of kimchi or whatever gastronomic relic from her former home she conjures up. “Mah-ni muh-guh, eat a lot.” my mom says, circling her slender bamboo chopsticks towards her mouth. I shake my head. In my fragmented Konglish, I explain to her that like the soybean stew and buffalo chicken wings or knife-cut noodles and pepperoni pizza we had encountered in previous meals, they weren’t bo-uh, complements: words in our mutant language emphasizing that these combinations from worlds apart don’t mesh, piercing words I don’t realize until much much later do not show on her face but on her heart. I am scared to break the rules: rules that I knew my classmates who ate from one culture instead of two instinctively played by, rules I so desperately wanted to claim as my own as well.

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*** To an unacquainted observer, my mother may appear to be the type who has cooked since she could walk, a fact seemingly revealed by her experienced palate that could tell you exactly how much more soy sauce a dish needs and the knife skills of a seasoned line cook. This couldn’t be further from the truth. My mother grew up in a family of non-cooks; my grandmother, raising her children in post-war Korea, rarely had the means to cook, instead deferring to cheap food stalls and the traditional Gwangjang street market to feed boiling-hot fish cakes and mini kimbap to her daughters. When my mother moved to America with my father, her only cookbook was a postcard-sized journal scribbled with some rushed recipes of some of her favorite dishes including jeyuk bokkeum and doenjang-jjigae: the messy hangul characters, highlighted by stripes of stray rice wine and chili flakes and worn out after years of finger tracing, likely would have carried over onto a few more pages had she known that her American sojourn would turn into a 25 year stay.

My mother—her demeanor quiet and reserved—rarely ever spoke about herself, making these things unapparanent to me growing up. When I turned 18, on a trip to South Korea with my mother after my high school graduation, I first heard of my mother’s stories: my aunts giving an oratory account of her history that revealed a side of her I never knew. “We don’t know how she began cooking so much, but she always loved giving food, ‘’ says my eldest aunt, her silky Seoul accent intelligible from my time spent absorbing K-Dramas as background noise in Korean hair salons. “Who would’ve thought that your mom would have to go all the way to America to cook this well!” my grandma chimes in.

Despite the hot and humid Seoul weather, I spent most of my time following my mom around the markets she grew up eating and shopping, most of which are a few subway stops away from my grandmother’s apartment.

My mother’s Korean, still just as immaculate as that 67

of any of the locals, helped her bargain for varieties of seaweed and fish she couldn’t have dreamed of encountering in the States. She pointed out miyeok-guk she ate every birthday, tteok she packed home every Lunar New Year: celebration treats that she also brought to my brother and me growing up. The whole trip, she almost never stopped cooking, stuffing my relatives with the same dishes I grew up with—kimchi, du-bu and sigeumchi namul—until they couldn’t fit another grain of rice in their stomachs. Only then, did I see my mother and her food in a new light.

Through this new lens, I realize that in America, my mother learns that without a kimchi refrigerator, she would have to tightly mummify the jar of heavily-fermented kimchi with leftover plastic shopping bags to wall in its pungent, sour, spicy smell. In America, she struggles to pronounce the “r” when asking for “red pepper flakes,” only to be disappointed that the American kind is coarser and more bitter compared to gochugaru. In America, my mother drives two hours north to Fort Lee, to find Korean pears, crisper and sweeter than their American counterparts, and scallions from the mainland, stockier and more vibrant than the ones sold elsewhere. In America, she labors to recreate the flavors of celebration, of comfort, of a home long gone yet close by, for my brother and me. In America, our Korean food is not bo-uh to our surroundings, we are not bo-uh to this land filled with faces that do not resemble our own. Yet my mother’s Korean cooking somehow always makes its way to the table. Her food persists. *** It’s winter break. I’m home from New Haven for the first time; the month-long hiatus from college affording me some time to cook. 6:25 P.M. Tonight’s meal?

A hearty red-lentil ragu from NYT Cooking to combat the cold. My mother brings out some kimchi-jjigae and a sizzling pan of galbi, or marinated short rib (using the flanken cut since nobody has the traditional L.A. cut in Korean BBQ), generating the same crackle, the same 68

“oohs” and “aahs’’ from my father that fajitas at a TexMex joint do. As expected, my mother lays out a bowl of the kimchi stew in front of me. “Mah-ni muh-guh, eat a lot” chopsticks motioning towards her face. My brother and dad are too preoccupied to eat, but to my mother’s shock, I nestle a jiggly piece of tofu coated in red pepper flakes and with a single pasta noodle. My mouth is confused. I stomach it.

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Annelise Ayuravann Ratner is a junior in Silliman College studying Film. She is a writer and director who aspires to continue to tell stories of Cambodia, its people, and its diaspora. Her work is often interested in race, memory, loss, and family. At Yale and during her gap year, she has worked on dozens of short film projects in all sorts of roles. She has met some of her closest friends and collaborators through filmmaking and is ever indebted to them. Foothills forever. :) Jonathan Chan is an MA student in East Asian Studies at Yale and will graduate in 2022. Born in New York to a Malaysian father and South Korean mother, he was raised in Singapore and educated in Cambridge, England. He is interested in questions of faith, identity, and creative expression. He serves as the Editorial Director at the Southeast Asian Movement at Yale and as an Editor and Writer at The Yale Logos. He is also a 2050 Fellow at the Yale Center for Business and the Environment. He has recently been moved by the writing of Li-Young Lee, A. R. Ammons, and Jo Shapcott. More of his writing can be found at jonbcy.wordpress.com.

Ethan Chiang is currently a 2nd year Master of Architecture student at the Yale School of Architecture. Prior to Yale, Ethan spent most of his life in Asia and grew up in the bustling streets of Hong Kong. His mother is from Nanjing, and father from Hong Kong. As a result he grew up hearing many different languages - English, Cantonese and Mandarin, and is able to converse in all. Ethan studied architecture at the Chinese University of Hong Kong and the National University of Singapore (2015-19). During that period, he developed an interest in climate-responsive design, and more specifically, architecture in the tropics. Nowadays, when Ethan isn’t doing architecture or something creative, you can almost certainly find him in the volleyball courts of Payne Whitney Gym swinging for that next big point.

Ivory Fu is a senior in Pauli Murray College majoring in Art (painting, sculpture) and Molecular, Cellular, and Developmental Biology.

Her family immigrated to America from Ningbo, China in the 1980s, settling in Williamsburg, Brooklyn at the intersection of Puerto Rican, Ultraorthodox Jewish, artist/gentrifier, and Asian immigrant communities. She grew up in New York’s public spaces with vibrant art, music, and urban nature. At Yale, Ivory has served as the Chinese American Students Association’s social chair and co-VP, arts editor for numerous campus publications, Gallery Guide for the Yale University Art Gallery, student researcher at a neuroscience lab, volunteer at community health organizations, and First-Year Counselor, among other roles. Social justice and diversity of intellectual pursuits are central to her work and who she is. She is inspired by artists and thinkers such as Kim Tallbear, Reverend Goddess Ma-

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gora Kennedy, Frida Kahlo, E.B. White, Audre Lorde, Molly Zuckerman-Hartung, and James Baldwin. She is currently focused on issues of sexual health, reproductive rights, gender identity, disability rights, suffering, and interpersonal relationships Eunice Kiang is a sophomore in Berkeley College majoring in Computing and the Arts. She loves to use design, animation, and storytelling to promote compassion, self-reflection, and solidarity. Her artwork is deeply inspired by her Korean and Hong Kong identity and culture as well as the diverse experiences of others around her.

Eunice also enjoys learning about new technologies, other subjects like astronomy and Chinese literature, and her peers to discover new, innovative ways to promote positivity. Feel free to take a look at the website that she coded: eunicornart.com Hailing from Skillman, located in New Jersey’s superior Central region, Daniel Kim is a senior in Ezra Stiles College majoring in Statistics & Data Science. Growing up with not much to do in a small town filled with a myriad of farms, Daniel learned to love cooking and everything food. Outside of school, Daniel plays the clarinet, sings in Russian, dabbles in art, and enjoys shooting like Steph Curry in pickup basketball. His favorite recent reads include David Chang’s Eat a Peach, Lori Gottlieb’s Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, and Trevor Noah’s Born a Crime.

After graduation, Daniel hopes to go into the culinary industry, perhaps foolishly disregarding what he has studied in college. In the past, he has worked for Junzi Kitchen in New York City and Sally’s Apizza (objectively New Haven’s best spot). The child of Korean immigrants, Daniel is interested in how food traditions morph according to migration patterns to tell generational and culinary stories, particularly through how Korean-American cuisine has blossomed distinctly from that of the Korean peninsula. At home, he likes to eat hoagies and indulge in chocolate chip cookies.

Enrnestina Hsieh is a junior in Davenport majoring in Architecture. Her interests in architecture are in cultural and community spaces and her designs are influenced by her travels and studies in Hong Kong, Japan, Korea, China, the UK, Finland, and Denmark. Her family comes from Hong Kong and southern China and she grew up in the Bay Area, exposed from a young age to a diversity of cultures and thought processes. For the past four years, she has studied Japanese language and culture along with architecture, and is inspired by Japanese architects Tadao Ando and Kazuyo Seijma, and Chinese-American architect I.M. Pei. As a designer, she believes in the importance of accessible community spaces, and thinks more cities could benefit from investing in functional and beautiful public works.

On campus, Ernestina has been involved with Chinese Ad-

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opted Siblings Program for Youth (CASPY) and the Yale Symphony Orchestra (YSO), and has just returned to Yale this Spring after a 1.5 year leave of absence. Outside of school, Ernestina enjoys painting, playing violin, and traveling. She’s always happy to hear new insights or collaborate on design projects, and can be reached at ernestina.hsieh@yale.edu.

Tenzin Jorden is a first-year Philosophy and Political Science major at Silliman College. He is involved in several organizations on campus including Migration Alliance at Yale, The Yale Daily News, and The Yale Undergraduate Photography Society. His identity as an artist is fundamentally rooted in his upbringing as a Tibetan Asian-American immigrant in New York City. He draws creative inspiration from deeply political and socially moving works by street photographers and photojournalists such as Jacob Riis, James Nachtwey, and Vivian Maier. Often using a black and white 35-mm film medium he enjoys walking around urban environments rich with cultural exchange to both capture and convey often-overlooked stories. He has been making photographs for the past four years and hopes to travel and capture greater stories on a global scale.

Currently entering his last year as a graduate student pursuing his PhD in Chemistry, Thien Khuu writes to keep himself sane. Thien’s writing is inspired from his background as a queer, Vietnamese immigrant from Dallas, Texas, who is then educated in the liberal Northeast. Ultimately, he wants to explore what makes a person human through his writing. He often finds the laws of the real world too limited and does not want to manifest those walls onto the page – the reader will always find elements of magic and mystery incorporated when appropriate. Writers who inspired Thien include Ocean Vuong, Viet Thanh Nguyen, Min Jin Lee, Yukio Mishima, Haruki Murakami, Zora Neale Hurston, Tomi Morrison, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Barbara Kingsolver, Flannery O’Connor, Maxine Hong Kingston, to name a few. His guilty pleasure is League of Legends (ARAM only). He currently lives with his fiancé in East Rock, New Haven.

Catherine Kwon is currently a first-year student in Timothy Dwight College pursuing a double major in art and applied mathematics.

She has taken coursework at the School of Visual Art New York and San Francisco Art Institute, and her works have been recognized in the U.S. Congressional Art Competition, the River of Words International Art & Poetry competition, and the Arkansas Governor’s Young Artist Competition.

Catherine works primarily in painting and illustration. Her works focus on the nuances of human-to-human interaction in today’s world, especially pertaining to ideas of identity, psychology, and one’s place in society.

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At Yale, she illustrates for the Yale Daily News and the Yale Scientific Magazine and is also a recipient of the Yale College Creative & Performing Arts grant for her April 2022 exhibition “Unfinished Sketches”. Outside art, she is involved in Yale Movement, Yale Taekwondo, Christian Union, and Korean clubs.

Al Lim is an anthropologist and poet, who is part-Singaporean and part-Thai. He is currently a PhD student in the combined Anthropology and Environmental Studies program at Yale University, and his research explores the emerging culture of cryptocurrency in Thailand. He is also a Graduate Fellow at the Asian American Cultural Center, Co-President of the Southeast Asian Movement (SEAM) at Yale, Regional Representative of the Association of Thai Students in America, and coordinates the Environmental Anthropology Collective. He holds an MSc in Urbanisation and Development from LSE and BA (Hons) in Urban Studies from Yale-NUS. His literary works have appeared in publications such as OF ZOOS, STAPLE Magazine, and Twin Cities.

Cynthia Lin is a first-year in Grace Hopper with interests in art, creative writing, and ethnic studies. Her artwork and writing is inspired by her family’s immigration story as well as by her experiences growing up in their Chinese restaurant in New York. She is the Artist in Residence at Make Us Visible, a nonprofit advocating for the inclusion of AAPI history in public schools. She also serves on the board of Yale Art and Design. In her spare time, she enjoys writing and performing poetry with her spoken word group Jook Songs and ballroom dancing.

Kenny Li (李国印) is a member of the class of 2025 in Pauli Murray from Cleveland, Ohio planning to major in something related to mathematics, computer science, or economics. As the only child of Chinese immigrant parents, he has a very close relationship with the isolation that so many in the diaspora experience. At Yale, he is the Co-Cultural Chair of the Chinese American Student Association, an Editing Head at Negative Space, and is also involved with the Yale Undergraduate Consulting Group and Club Tennis. In his free time, he enjoys creative writing, stargazing, and making song-mashups.

You’ll probably find him in Rosenkrantz at absurdly late hours or in his room refusing to sleep.

Dana Loo, is a 3rd year MSN student at the School of Nursing and soon-to-be Pediatric Nurse Practitioner! Illustrating and creating has been her way to process life events, relax, and express myself. She also loves going for walks and playing fetch with her dog, Bumi!

Victoria Lu is a sophomore in Silliman College double majoring in

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art and environmental studies. She draws inspiration from her ancestral province of Yunnan, China, and is interested in the creative intersection of nature and art. At Yale, she plays the carillon in Harkness Tower and is a member of Yale MVM’s Production Team. You can find her work at victorialu.portfoliobox.net.

Aranyo Ray is a prospective CS and Psychology major from Saybrook College. He is a part of the class of 2025 and is involved with the Undergraduate Consulting Group on campus. In his free time, he likes to read and talk to family back in Kolkata, India. He draws inspiration from the works of Baul singers and writers like Arundhati Roy and Haruki Murakami.

Karis Ryu grew up as a U.S. military child of Korean descent, frequently moving from state to state and country to country. She pieces together a globally and culturally dispersed youth through her writing. Before studying religion and history as a master’s student at Yale Divinity School, she earned her B.A. in History and East Asian Studies at Brown University. Outside of her studies, Karis enjoys reading and writing fiction, acting on stage and on camera, and singing in all genres from musical theatre to R&B. Currently, she is working on (1) research on the spiritualities of Asian diasporas in North American environments and (2) a romance novel. They intersect frequently. Find her in a coffee shop, or at https://karisryu. com and on Twitter @karisryu.

Luc Ta (he/him) is a first-year in Hopper studying Mathematics and Ethnicity, Race, and Migration. Raised by Vietnamese and Cham refugees in Tigard, Oregon, Luc is the first person in his family to pursue music. His work as a self-taught contemporary classical composer deconstructs and reconceives Baroque and Classical structures through the lenses of Vietnamese music, video game music, and jazz. In this way, Luc’s music leverages “absolute” Western classical forms like the fugue and the minuet to subversively imagine alternative futures, examine the intersectionality of Southeast Asian American and queer identities, and explore how musical structures and techniques map bijectively between race, sexuality, gender, class, power, and their dialetics. On campus, Luc also serves as the Music Lead for Amoriem Labs, Yale’s undergraduate game development team, and as one of two Editing Heads for Negative Space: An Asian American Oral History Project. He plays the clarinet and saxophone as a hobbyist.

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