growing up, me and mẹ only ever spoke on one day: sundays. on the drive home from church, we would go to the sam's club 5 minutes away from our abode. we would feast. leading up to the day, mẹ always had a clouded look in her eyes. maybe it’s just my memory, but she never quite looked like my mom. she only ever looked exhausted. the drive to church was always quiet. mẹ and ba refused to even look at each other, as our family of 5 was cramped into a small white car. i still remember counting the amount of clouds in the sky, hoping, one day, the number would be enough to break the silence. ba would drop us off at sam's club, rarely ever coming inside. our adventure began by admiring the outside of the store for just a bit, appreciating the exterior. the blue and white building glared back at us, looking for any red; there never was any. pushing through the doors, we always had to help mẹ. she would ask chị to push the cart as me and she marched through the store. suddenly, it became our territory; it became home. we would jump from station to station, gawking at the assortment of food they had. “gia hon! ở đây! ở đây!” come here, come here stuffing our mouths with the greasy spreads of samples, our tummies filling. mẹ was always careful to make sure we bought something, even if our money didn’t come in a red color. some days, it was a random item she saw on sale. other days, it was an essential that our small apartment had gone a month without. the items, though, were always small compared to the cart. even as we went through the long checkouts of me and chị acting as translators, i could never find it in myself to complain. i would look into my eyes and the fog was gone. she still didn’t look like my mom, though, more like me; like a child. sam’s club sundays were me and my mother’s playground. once we left, the childish wonder did too. i held her hand tighter as my father’s white car pulled up. Editors : Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image source : Nikita Chetyrin, Unsplash

*Prose in poetic tone about being afraid of love in all forms (romantic, family, etc) Love is fragile, Delicate, gentle, beautiful, tender… Desire… Dream… Diminish. I cannot fathom love. No bounds nor judgment; limitless. Love of any kind feels like a leap of faith. A risk that may lead to the greatest outcome, but failure guarantees everlasting scars. My own blood and soul broke my heart countless times; Can I truly promise to love unconditionally? I wish I could hold you close, I dream that I can purely let go, I beg to let my heart soften. But my darling, don’t you see? What I long for differs drastically from what I know. Kindness; It’s why I stay, Yet it’s all of what I fear. Whispers of comfort against my hair, Warmth of dreams in the midnight chills, Gazes of our future held within our eyes. We go through hell and back, Sink or swim, you or me; both. You love me; It’s overwhelmingly powerful. And I love you too… …I love you… And I’m scared… I’m frightened. But, my love, you will not understand. A sense of harmony— actually— A melody— Melodies I now understand. The closest to heaven I can get to in this world. But, I know me. Lingering taunts from memories, Nightmares of disruption, All lie within me; I may be the one that you shouldn’t need. Tip-toe; Cautious and quiet. Myself and my self. Two words; one degree of separation. Tip-toe around the danger, Hoping my balance will last a little while longer. I try to soothe myself, saying I can learn to rely on you for balance, Maybe even learn to walk on my feet. But I know that if it fails, I’ve inevitably lost you. So, please carry on your deep slumber. Immerse yourself in your own wonderland. I’ll tip-toe away; It will be my last gesture of love to you. Editors : Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image Source : Mohamed Nohassi, Unsplash

Many, if not all of us, are children of immigrants and yet many of us are quick to forget to care for our elders in our pursuit of the American dream. Our aging community of elders resign themselves to the dangers of living life on our side-walk, and as I traverse the streets of San Francisco in my day to day, I cannot help but notice the elders who have made the public their home. With no other solution, they resign themselves to the sidewalk, the park bench, and the alleyway. The rising rate of homelessness among California’s older adults is clear to see and the case worsens for many of our elders who face additional challenges such as limitations of language fluency–which so often is the case for our immigrant parents. Limited English fluency, healthcare, fixed incomes, limited social services, all this and more complicates our elders’ access to resources and support at a very vulnerable period. Moreover, I am sure that I do not happen to be the first to take notice of the elders who sleep in our streets, the elders who look like our grandparents, our aunties, our uncles–our family.  In a nation such as the United States, arguably one of the world powers, we have an incomprehensible indifference to our own people. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, nearly 327,000 unhoused individuals lived in shelters. The figure, an extraordinarily large number for such a prosperous country fails to consider those beyond our shelter walls. The demographic characteristics of this group heavily impact adults, specifically those between the ages of 18-64, which applies to nearly 85% of unhoused individuals in the United States. At 18-64, we should be establishing ourselves in the world. At this time, we should be making a change in the world as new adults, as adults, as elders, and yet we aren’t. The individuals which should actively be changing the world are instead relegated to a life unfulfilled. We are failing our people, and more specifically, we are failing our adults–those with lifetimes of knowledge to share are abandoned by our State.  The issue of a rising elderly homeless population applies beyond the United States, noticeably in Asia, as South Korea’s elders face a mirror epidemic. In South Korea’s capital of Seoul, a generation which rebuilt South Korea following the Korean war is threatened by the growing rate of elderly poverty as about half of the country’s elderly live in relative poverty according to the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development(OECD). The OECD further elaborates that South Korea is ranked as the country with by far, the highest rate of impoverished elderly among the 34 developed nations of the group. Even as our countries advance, our elders are left behind. It is adamantly clear that within the vast technological and economical advancements made everyday in some of the most developed countries in the world, such changes led by the youthful visionaries of our nations have abandoned the thought of their parents in the process. Too frequently, their American children have resigned themselves to the indifference which is so often encouraged in American society, the idea that hyper-independence and indifference to community is what gets you ahead is deadly. I see this in my peers, an indifference and tightly woven tension between themselves and their parents. This is the seed which shall grow into a deep indifference for our elders, a dismissal of our filial duties in favor of personal gain, a disregard towards the dreamers who sought a better life for their children. Though not all immigrant parents are perfect, and I am sure we are very familiar with the difficulties we as a younger generation face in the dialogues between ourselves and our parents, we however cannot allow such differences to obstruct our shared humanities. We needed our parents growing up just as much as they need us as they grow older. We cannot let American individualism obstruct that which is embedded within us and our souls. Editors: Susan L., Joyce P. Image: Unsplash Footnotes: 1: Glassman, Brian. “Nearly 327,000 in U.S. Lived in Emergency and Transitional Shelters.” U.S. Census Bureau , 27 February 2024, https://www.census.gov/library/stories/2024/02/living-in-shelters.html . Accessed 6 October 2024. 2:  Novak, Kathy. “‘Forgotten’: South Korea’s elderly struggle to get by.” CNN , 23 October 2015, https://www.cnn.com/2015/10/23/asia/s-korea-elderly-poverty/index.html . Accessed 6 October 2024. 3: Hu, Elise. “A Forgotten Generation: Half Of South Korea's Elderly Live In Poverty.” NPR , 10 April 2015, https://www.npr.org/sections/parallels/2015/04/10/398498496/a-forgotten-generation-half-of-s-koreas-elderly-live-in-poverty . Accessed 6 October 2024.

When my parents were living together for their very first year after immigrating to the United States in 2001, they witnessed 9/11 from a city just 4 hours of a drive away from them. Although I wasn’t alive yet, I’d always absentmindedly wondered if seeing an event like 9/11 had, at least somewhat, jaded their perspectives on the country of their dreams. A place they’d given up their entire life in China for the idea of a future in, so soon terribly afflicted– trouble in paradise, as I might call it now. Their entire time in the United States has been in a post-9/11, Bush-affected era– as non-White immigrants. When my parents moved me into my dorm at Barnard College last year, they were thrilled that I’d transferred to such an amazing school at such an amazing university. I remember my mother, age creasing in the corners of her eyes, smoothing my hair back as she smiled and told me in Chinese: “You can be whatever you want to be here. No one will stop you. Every opportunity is at this school.”  My parents were students in high school when they witnessed the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre , not much younger than I was when I watched the NYPD descend upon my classmates on the Columbia University campus last spring , as they protested against the genocide in Palestine. As their first child, I know– without having to ask– that a large part of what they wanted for the future of their family was a better, freer education. One in which, I know they hoped, would allow their children to speak their mind without the fear of being silenced via arrest. As the Barnard school year began, a part of me remained hopeful that I’d made my parents proud– that I’d finally given them a glimpse of what they’d done it all for. It almost felt surreal to watch the actions of the Columbia University administration and the NYPD last spring. I felt as though it wasn’t just my dream of being an Ivy League scholar, someone to brag about in WeChat circles, had been warped and shattered– it was also my parents’ dream, destroyed by the hands of the police force and Western administration. Would it always be within us, to know when something was wrong, and yet be faced with pushback when we tried to voice it? I reckoned a lot, in the following days of the arrests, on not only what I had done it all for, but what they had, too. It broke my heart, in a deeply intimate manner, when I received text after text from my parents, begging me to stay away from campus and to lay low. The fears that they had about my potential arrests seemed to slice through layers leading back to what they’d seen so many years ago, in Tiananmen Square. It was disturbingly unfair, I’d thought; they’d given up so much for my education and my freedom. And, like how their American Dream began, in the States post-9/11, I saw it lay dying with the efforts to silence student voices across the nation.  My parents moved away from China because they wanted somewhere that they, and their eventual children, could speak their minds freely, even if it was a dissenting opinion against bureaucratic measures to silence them. And the actions of the police and Columbia University administration, in brutally arresting the students in the encampments and Hind’s Hall  last spring, failed to break the cycle of oppression in student activism. Editors: Joyce P., Jayden T. Image: Unsplash

in vietnamese, mỹ trắng  means white american. growing up, i thought it meant american because we weren’t american.  americans don’t eat what we ate.  the dining table was filled with an array of foods and rich smells.  different meats and soups left no space for the imagination and at the center, there was always a huge bowl of rice, still steaming and freshly cooked. the only thing that was missing were people to eat the meal. i sat at the table alone as a child, waiting for someone to come. mẹ  and ba didn’t work a 9 to 5 like other parents and spent most nights away, somewhere. as i watched the steam begin to disappear into nothing from the huge bowl of rice, i wondered if the steam was similar to my family’s relationships.  slowly disappearing into nothing because americans aren’t alone.  americans didn’t work the jobs we worked.  ba and mẹ  spent their days polishing nails and painting them pretty colors.  they spent their time giving other luxuries that they couldn’t buy themselves.  with their knees sore and hands blistered, i felt shame rise in my stomach.  i tried to release the nausea by saying something- anything.  so i said that they did something “important”.  in my childish head, important meant the lady in a white jacket that i saw once a year or the man in bulky suits with large cases to match them.  in contrast, my mom could always be seen with fancy dresses that came from fake materials while my dad wore whatever money could buy in that moment.  i lied about my parent’s occupation because americans are important and americans don’t wear cheap clothes.  americans didn’t look like us.  as a child, i viewed america like a blank piece of paper, ready to be written on and filled with ideas and possibilities. america is like a blank piece of paper because it is white.  only on a white background could someone be american,  and we weren’t white.  my paper, my canvas, was an ugly de-morphed color that had no potential.  i wasn’t meant to become anything but the blank canvas with splotches of beige brown and any color but white.  i spent my childhoods stuck reading and looking at the white papers that surrounded me.  reading about what americans would become, but not being possible of the dream myself.  at some point, i finally understood the words between the splotches of color on the canvas that was me even if americans aren’t asian.  sometimes i wonder whether there is a true distinction between mỹ and trắng .  there was always a correlation between the two in my head, unable to be erased. as my lips pushed against each other to make the first syllable, i found my teeth vibrating in unison.  america and white felt as correlated as the rice and meats i ate, they were polished and perfect like the designs my parents hunched over tables to create, and these facts ring in my head as i flip through the pages of my history books.  in vietnamese, trắng means white.  in english, white is only a shade that lives amongst the bursts of color in the world.  the white clouds were only scenery compared to the blue sky and yellow sun that illuminated the clouds.  my eyes were always a black shade that only turned a chocolate brown in a reflection, not the white shade that surrounded my pupils.  americans may be white, but i somehow felt like the shade under their color. maybe the issue wasn’t the lack of mỹ in myself but the lack of myself in trắng .  maybe, i’ll get to be american. Editors: Luna Y., Alisha B. Image: Unsplash

The following piece may contain spoilers for any books mentioned. “We can go to Waterstones, your favorite bookstore!”  There were two key pillars that my parents and I almost always visited during our outings around the southwest of England like an unspoken checklist and an increasing tally no one was keeping track of: the first was TK Maxx, the second was Waterstones. I once lost Sammy, my precious labrador plushie and the only childhood pet I had, by accidentally leaving him in a Waterstones in Bath. I still cringe at the visual of my Dad calling the bookstore with you know how ridiculous this is, right?  reverberating in his side glare.  Waterstones was a precious safe haven of books we treated ourselves to by purchasing at the full retail price, like the time Dad bought me a copy of Under The Dome by Stephen King which I still haven’t read to this day because the page count vastly overwhelms me.  This time, I grimaced at Dad’s implication that Waterstones was my favorite bookstore, it hasn’t been for a long time. The moment I relaxed back into a ‘resting sad face’, I suddenly questioned ‘when was the last time I went inside   a Waterstones and bought something?’  Three years.  I graduated months before a global pandemic and lacked the urge to pay for books at full price that I couldn’t guarantee ever opening, let alone reading and finishing the book. Student debt and a full bookcase drained any electrifying thrill I had involving the risk of purchasing a book full price with the cloying hope that I would like it enough to keep it. After months of dragging my feet through the ink to finally complete a story, I would have long surpassed the window that would have offered me my money back with a proof of purchase.  Libraries are the glowing guardian that solves this risk for me. Don’t like the book? Just give it back to the library, hopefully the next person that waited 3 months after I ran out of chances to renew a book will appreciate the copy more than I ever did.  So what makes me want to buy a book? What is the key factor that makes me take the risk, spend my money and happily keep a new book (that I shouldn’t have bought and didn’t have space for) in the first place?  The cover.   Publishers such as Penguin Random House  decide a significant amount of time working with multiple professionals involved in different stages of the manuscript-to-shelf process of publishing a book. It is the,  “window into its story, and might be the reason a reader first picks it up. The art of conveying an entire manuscript into a single image, and making sure it's targeting the right audience, is a task taken on not just by designers, but by editors and the marketing, sales and production teams.” (Penguin) Judging a book by its cover in the non-metaphorical sense is valid, and arguably necessary , because teams of people aim to a) communicate the story before you consider opening its pages, and b) entice the audience.  I grew up in a household that loved visual culture, from operatic performances to photography to children’s books – the way a story was told visually was a primary part of my enjoyment. I grew with a hunger to like what I see  in terms of the content I consumed, including books.  This year, I recognized the extent to which I was selectively purchasing books. I intend to keep the books I enjoy for as long as possible, and for books to be rewarded with the opportunity to be on my shelf, their cover needs to be the first step in impressing me. So which books have succeeded in this challenge and why?  The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya, Volume I , Reimena Yee (2020)  Image source: Waterstones “Reimena Yee is a strange and fancy illustrator, writer, and graphic novelist from the dusty city of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.” – Seance Tea Party, 2020 It was the year of the long March, lockdowns were fully enforced and I was finally experiencing what it was like to exist without academic stress and deadlines pressing a cavern into my sternum. Like many probably had, I coped with online shopping.  During a doom scroll on Instagram in June 2020, Hazel Hayes’s anticipated release of Out of Love introduced me to Unbound , a crowdfunding publisher and my newest lockdown obsession.  After purchasing Out of Love , the first book campaign I pledged to was Gender Euphoria: Stories of joy from trans, non-binary and intersex writers . My second pledge was The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya: Volume II ; this was my second pledge after discovering volume I was an Unbound project that was already successfully published.  What was increasingly obvious in this piece is that I love illustrated books, and Yee’s book covers exhibit how illustrated books can communicate their medium with their cover. The organic shapes and detailed linework signify to potential readers that The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya is illustrated fiction produced by the author and the illustrator. The decision to design the title of the book with a handwritten typeface continues to demonstrate that the illustrator of this story extends beyond the cover and the hand-drawn qualities of this cover will be found in the content as it is a graphic novel.  I particularly love the contrasting jewel tones of the vampiric vermillion red and the rich pansy purple that are tied together with the gold details and the clothing worn by our main characters on the cover. There is a level of opulence that resonates with the intricacy of carpet making. Our carpet-merchant-turned-vampire takes front stage on the cover, encased on the night sky and deep color palette similar to how he is now cursed with the vampire traits and lifestyle.  Although we are primarily carried through the story by him, the fact that the cover illustrates him holding his wife’s hand from behind. In terms of visual hierarchy, she is the first visual element our eyes are likely drawn to. She stands taller than her husband, positioned in the middle of the cover and framed by an arch with a glowing cream background that emphasizes her presence like a halo.  Arguably, it signifies that the carpet merchant may be at the forefront of the story, but his wife is just as important, she has got his back (in all senses) to support and ground him even though he can transform into a flying creature in the night. He is the protagonist, but she is his center.  For a graphic novel about a man’s struggle with his Muslim faith after he is turned into a vampire, the book cover doesn’t contain overt iconography of vampire stories. Instead, it conveys a grounded love blanketed by a night sky. And once you read the book, you realize that was the core to the story after all.  The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain , Kazo Ishiguro, Illustrated by Bianca Bagnarelli (2024) Image Source: WHSmith “Kazuo Ishiuro’s works of fiction have earned him many honours around the world, including the Nobel Prize in Literature and the Booker Prize. His books have been translated into over fifty languages and The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go – both adapted into acclaimed films – have sold well over two million copies in the English language alone.”  – The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain , 2024 Okay, fine, I admit it! I admit that I got influenced by the powers of Faber & Faber and bought three books and an enamel pin from their TikTok shop! My one and only purchase on the TikTok shop included this book of ‘Lyrics for Stacey Kent’ by Ishiguro with illustrations from Bagnarelli. It is also my first and only purchase of a book by the Japanese-born British writer but I am familiar with his simply by the covers.  One of the ‘tells’ in the book cover design that connected me to the author, despite this being an illustrated book, is the typeface used. Although placed at the top third of the book cover with the name extending to one line, instead of being placed at the bottom third in two lines as shown in this book bundle advertised by Faber & Faber , the typeface is the same.  This demonstrates the importance of cover design for authors in terms of visual associations. I have never remembered his name, but by recognizing the typeface I knew it was the same author. An important piece of design that assists with building an audience for the author in the book market.  Another significant departure from existing cover designs for Ishiguro’s works is the illustration. Rather than a palette with as little as four colors and a borderless square illustration situated in the middle third of the cover, The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain has a detailed image of a couple on a train platform with black linework and a more extensive color palette. Furthermore, the illustration occupies more than half the space on the cover, which therefore consumes the majority of our attention. The story in the image is told to us before we recognize the author’s name.  The pillar on the platform is placed in the left third of the space and creates a vanishing point for readers to then notice other details, such as the train at the edge of the front cover and the clock. Likely, we then lift our attention to the only people on the platform, a couple dancing. Additionally, it is in stark contrast to pastel blue sky, which is almost bleached in color the same way our eyes register light and shade or a camera overexposing bright areas to compensate for lightening details in darker elements.  Surrounded by this bright sky is a couple shadowed under the platform. Referring back to the way a camera attempts to balance light and shade, the couple is largely a silhouette in comparison to the details of the environment. Even their light summer clothing and linework is covered in shade and their backs are turned away from most of the natural lighting, which creates an illusion that the couple are one shade, they are so intimately close in this public space, that they appear as one unified form in the sun-bleached space.  This starts to illustrate the many ways Ishiguro writes about intimacy. Furthermore, it emphasizes to readers that this is a work of Ishiguro, but is a departure from the familial book covers and text-only fiction. It is a collection of lyrics with accompanying illustrations, which I would have not known Ishiguro for as a passive viewer in a shopping setting; this was what made it all the more intriguing for me when I bought it. How does Ishiguro write for a tune, rhyme or melody? And how does Bagnarelli draw music that has yet to be heard by potential readers?  Polaris , Meyoco (2020) Image Source: Amazon UK “Meyoco is an illustrator based in Southeast Asia who has gained popularity mainly on social media. Natural elements such as flowers, waves, leaves, stars, and bubbles are suddenly infused with a cute and lovely quality when Meyoco colors them in pastels.” – Amazon UK If Ishiguro’s The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain drew me in as a reader with its typeface, Meyoco’s Polaris brilliantly markets to their primary audience with what they are known for – their art.  I followed Meyoco’s Instagram  and Twitter X  account for many years due to their enamel pins, a new wearable trinket I started collecting during my sentence time at University. This meant that when I spotted their tweet announcing pre-orders for their own artbook, I immediately wanted to try and get myself a copy.  What’s remarkable about Meyoco’s book cover is that it encapsulates almost everything you could possibly know about how and what Meyoco draws. A feminine presenting person with bubblegum pink hair adorned with gems and celestial shades, they're wearing a spacesuit with plumes of clouds occupying the leftover spaces in their helmet. Surrounding them beyond the helmet is a watery sky and terrarium-style jellyfish floating in the peripherals.  In my opinion, the primary elements of Meyoco’s work can be found in this one image alone, and elements can cross over into almost any of the sections Meyoco categorized this book into: fashion, floral and botanical, crystals, ocean life, the day and night sky, clouds, celestial items and a dreamy combination or pastel pink, coral, teal, and navy.  All of these elements aren’t necessarily drawn in every piece of Meyoco’s art, but this cover manages to demonstrate each subject in a succinct, detailed, and mesmerizing illustration.  How The Stars Came To Be , Poonam Mistry (2019) Image Source: Tate “Poonam Mistry is a freelance illustrator living in the UK. [...] Poonam’s upbringing and childhood have heavily influenced her work, in particular being surrounded by Indian fabrics, Kalamkari textiles, Madhubani paintings and hand painted ornaments. [...] She loves folklore tales and stories of Hindu Gods and Goddesses and these have been a rich source of inspiration in a number of her illustrations.” – Tate Shop   During a visit to see my best friend, we went on a museum date at the Tate Modern. Part of tradition, we hunted for treasures in the gift shop. Instantly, I was enamored by a gorgeous halo of celestial illustrations supported by a contrasting navy background catching the corners of my attention.  Although I did not have the budget to purchase it on the day, I later bought a signed copy on the Tate website. It fits snugly on my shelf and fully encapsulates one of my favorite styles of drawing and subject matter: gilded sun, moon and stars on a navy background.  My earliest memories of this vintage imagery would smell like,  “sparkling fruits embraced by sensual oriental accords. At heart is the warmth of sun-loving heliotrope, and the voluptuous character of night-blooming jasmine, orange blossom and narcisse”.  At least, that’s what Wikiparfum  would describe the scent of my mother – more notably, the discontinued Sun Moon Stars Eau de toilette by Karl Lagerfeld. Throned in a square cardboard box would be a nautical navy bottle embossed with celestial imagery in the glass, crowned with a topical kiss of brush textured gold on the lid. Aside from the (also discontinued) Sunflowers by Elizabeth Arden, this was the scent of elegance, grace, and the most gilded soul to raise me.  Historically, the earliest astrological depiction found so far in the West is the Nebra Sky Disk . According to the State Museum of Prehistory in Germany, the bronze disk has been on show in their permanent exhibition since May 2008 and,  “shows the world’s oldest concrete depiction of astronomical phenomena that we know. Elements of the day and night sky mingle in front of an abstract network of stars. [...] It is here for the first time recorded as a central mythical symbol in Europe. The Sky Disc gives us an insight into the knowledge of our ancestors about the course of the world and its religious interpretation 3,600 years ago.” Both a highly treasured thousands-year-old bronze disk and my Mom’s eau de toilette demonstrate our fascination with the night sky, and the urge to immortalize it for all times of day. Which leads me to Mistry’s cover.  The love of nature and Indian culture is written like a devoted lover’s endless letter on a scroll with the way that Mistry covers the front of the book with so much care, attention, detail, and adoration for the subject matter.  Arguably, the composition of the middle third is constructed of three spheres; the first is the glorious dazzling and elaborate sun, the second is the title which is the only area of the cover largely untouched by stars to allow readers to focus onto the title, the third is the feminine presenting character grounded by Mistry’s name at the bottom of the cover. This trio column of spheres demonstrates a hierarchy of elements most important for the audience to pay attention to, and coincidentally reflects a similar composition to that of the box  that my Mum’s Sun Moon Stars perfume would sit in.  As rich as the gorgeous illustrations on the cover, this is a folktale about a Fisherman’s daughter that loves to dance who brings light to the nighttime for her Father to travel home safely with assistance of the celestial. Similarly to my favorite childhood book, Mary Hoffman’s Sun, Moon and Stars  (it’s a wonder I love this imagery so much!), How the Stars Came to Be  is a way to introduce alternative stories about how the earth and universe was created, informed by culture and oral tradition that was eventually written down. Especially with Mistry’s background, this book can offer children a new perspective of their world through the lens of Indian storytelling and artistry, as well as providing older audiences an invigorated feeling of nostalgia and familiarity with the influences Mistry draws from.  And I think that’s a central pillar as to why this book was so captivating to me on cover alone; I was able to unite the nostalgia of gold and navy celestial imagery from small everyday items in my upbringing with a contemporary children’s book that, to an extent, is likely inspired to do the same for multiple audiences with Indian culture and illustration. I didn’t just see a feminine presenting character on this dazzling cover, I saw myself amongst my favorite things. Something that many children and adult South Asians could experience too. That’s why diversity is valuable in our books, writers and illustrators – the implicit desire to see ourselves  in stories. Which brings me to my concluding remarks. Conclusion: Stories on a Shelf Based on all these books that have been written and illustrated by incredibly insightful and creative Asians, what story do they tell about me? When someone sees these displayed on my bookshelf, what does my story look like? What do I cohesively like about these books that make me want to buy them simply for their covers?  I admit it! I love book covers and they are important to me almost as much, if not more, than the content of the book. Demonstrated by my case studies of four books, I prioritize illustration. Based on my personal interests, what invigorates me to spend my money are books dedicated to visual storytelling as much as textual.  What’s even more valuable to me is that my chosen case studies are created by incredibly skilled Asian writers and Illustrators, who without I wouldn’t have books from the perspective of a Muslim vampire, or illustrated lyrics from a well-loved author, or an anthology of works created over the years by an illustration star of social media, or a book that reflects back what I, amongst many others, are so historically fascinated by – the sun, moon and stars.  It can be argued that the selection I have analyzed (and highly recommend) are compartmentalized illustrations that signify the varied love I have specifically for illustrated books – whether it be bright pastels with soft edges, geometric shapes with strong gold/navy contrast, or the feeling of intimacy personified between two people.  That being said, I would also add that it reflects what I want to see on the shelf, and I believe analyzing my love for How the Stars Came to Be managed to formulate this conclusion into words.  Even if it’s not wholly myself nor how I look, I love knowing that the people behind these stories are achieving a goal to produce work that is for Asians by Asians. It can vary from illustration style, color palette, composition, and genre, which provides more reason to celebrate the increasing variety in illustrated works by BIPOC writers and artists. Judge a book by its cover – it may help you learn more about your story as well as the story you’ve yet to read.  Editors: Blenda Y., Luna Y. Image: Unsplash Bibliography (No date) Meyoco . Available at: https://www.instagram.com/meyoco/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Gillett, F. (2021) Nebra Sky Disc: British museum to display world’s ‘oldest map of stars’ , BBC News . Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-58946633  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). How book covers are designed  (2021) Penguin Books UK . Available at: https://www.penguin.co.uk/articles/company-article/how-book-covers-are-designed  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). How the stars came to be  (no date) Tate . Available at: https://shop.tate.org.uk/how-the-stars-came-to-be/22509.html  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). How the Stars Came to Be by Poonam Mistry  (no date) Waterstones . Available at: https://www.waterstones.com/book/how-the-stars-came-to-be/poonam-mistry/9781849767811  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).  Karl Lagerfeld Sun Moon Stars  (no date) Notino . Available at: https://www.notino.co.uk/karl-lagerfeld/sun-moon-stars-eau-de-toilette-for-women/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).  Kosann, M.R. (2022) History of Sun, Moon & Stars Jewelry , Monica Rich Kosann . Available at: https://www.monicarichkosann.com/blogs/journal/moon-stars-jewelry-history?srsltid=AfmBOorS93VO6ckYUtGHsdBDMeugDDUq5T-UbS6JIc7TW7Bri3aaKwQZ  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Lundin, K. (2021) Indie community: Reading books by their covers , PublishersWeekly.com . Available at: https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/authors/pw-select/article/86632-indie-community-reading-books-by-their-covers.html  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). meyo 🌸 CF19 AB-19  (no date) X (formerly Twitter) . Available at: https://x.com/meyoco_?t=P7n3q8imtQUcZA2PKqUETQ&s=09  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Nebra Sky Disc  (no date) Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte . Available at: https://www.landesmuseum-vorgeschichte.de/en/nebra-sky-disc  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). Sun Moon stars perfume by Karl Lagerfeld  (no date) Wikiparfum . Available at: https://www.wikiparfum.com/en/fragrances/sun-moon-stars-1  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).  The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya, Vol. I by Reimena Yee | Waterstones  (no date) Waterstones . Available at: https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-carpet-merchant-of-konstantiniyya-vol-i/reimena-yee/9781783525775  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The carpet merchant of Konstantiniyya: Vol. I  (no date) Unbound . Available at: https://unbound.com/books/the-carpet-merchant-voli  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The importance of a stand out book cover  (no date) Limelight Publishing . Available at: https://www.limelightpublishing.com/blogs/news/cover-design#:~:text=It%20is%20a%20direct%20reflection,a%20part%20of%20your%20story . (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The summer we crossed Europe in the rain  (no date) Waterstones . Available at: https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain/kazuo-ishiguro/9780571378876  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The Summer We Crossed Europe in the Rain  (no date) WHSmith . Available at: https://www.whsmith.co.uk/products/the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain-lyrics-for-stacey-kent-main/kazuo-ishiguro/hardback/9780571378876.html?gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAjw7s20BhBFEiwABVIMrRXXea-Fz1u25BlZQ5GytAmi8TunSN6LkoQ9V-XFBicW6zL3Eh5-cRoCYvoQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The summer we crossed Europe in the rain: Lyrics for Stacey Kent by Kazuo Ishiguro  (2024a) Faber . Available at: https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571378876-the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024). The summer we crossed Europe in the rain: Lyrics for Stacey Kent by Kazuo Ishiguro  (2024b) Faber . Available at: https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571378876-the-summer-we-crossed-europe-in-the-rain/  (Accessed: 17 October 2024).

~ Our dining room table is falling apart. That may come as a surprise, as no one would expect anything wrong with it. A perfect exterior, no visible signs of wear and tear or damage; nothing that reveals the true age and life of the small wooden table confined to our dining room. Oh how looks can be so deceiving… It’s always the seemingly ordinary that have more to their story. ~ Our dining room table is falling apart.  I have my grandparents to thank for the dining table in the first place. Their first big purchase with money earned through menial labor; both claim to have bought it in the hopes that they would one day have a family to gather around it.  A physical manifestation of a wish; prayers and shooting stars were rarely effective. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t afford any chairs to go with them at the time, the pure act of owning the table brought them satisfactory pleasure. Temporary pleasure, one could argue, but pleasure nonetheless.  Pleasure, purpose, and drive.  And pride. The most satisfying pleasure of all; pride.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. Our family didn’t have chairs for the longest time; maybe that should have been my first sign that something was wrong. At some point, a difficult decision was made to journey across the Pacific Ocean. A journey that began in a land of strict customs and traditions, slowly transitioning to a western-opinioned society, with the table trailing on the heels of my family.  A fresh start, building everything from the bottom up again. Not easy by any means, but my grandparents tell me that they kept reminding themselves of the chairs to keep going.  They made a vow that once they created a new life for themselves, chairs would be their next big “splurge.”  A thing usually taken for granted was unattainable for us; that thought alone can knock humility through the system in an instant.  And for far too long, my family utilized whatever was deemed “appropriate enough” as a seat; one of those plastic chairs you typically use in a backyard; a 1950’s diner counter seat that my grandfather got for free at a garage sale; a yoga ball when my mom wanted to improve her health. When we finally were at our wits end, we caved in and all collectively chipped in some money and bought chairs that we thought were perfect. I contributed five dollars from my piggy bank, so I argue that I have a small share in this collective ownership.  It was only afterwards we realized the wood on the chairs weren’t a match to the table.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. I’m barely three-years-old as I first sit on our new chair. It doesn’t matter that I can’t even get onto it without a boost, at least I can pretend that I am at least a foot taller by standing on it on my tippy-toes. On this chair, where I can finally reach our kitchen counters and feel more like a grown-up, I also have a front seat to a personal show. A show about family, the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, and the emotional rollercoaster of it all. And whether I like it or not, I’m on the cast list in a recurring role.   The new episode begins: (Scene opens- my mother leaning over the stove, skimming the foam of the curry she cooks. My grandmother hovers over her shoulder, monitoring every moment to ensure every single step of the recipe is exactly like how she does it. She shakes her head and lets out a little tsk) Grandmother: “Your cooking skills have gotten rusty” Mother: (with a little bite in her tone)  “I hate to cook; it’s messy, tiring, and I don’t get any satisfaction from it.” Grandmother: (equally passive aggressive) “I know, but you shouldn’t waste your skills on your feelings.” Director, when is it my cue to enter? ~ Our dining room table is falling apart.  I’m twelve-years-old; considered too young to be included in everything, but old enough to begin receiving the personally-tailored comments and attacks from family to grow a thicker skin. The women in my family are multi-taskers; their hands demonstrate their talents while their mouths are relaying the gossip and dirty laundry from those around us. This cannot be demonstrated better than cooking sessions. Almost skillfully, a piece of gossip gets passed through a personal grapevine: from one aunt to another, to a sister to a grandmother, to a mother to a niece, to whoever.  Meanwhile, our hands are the opposite. We delicately fold dumplings with beautiful creases that hold whatever is inside. We gently hold mochi in our hands, the only time where sticky and messy is deemed acceptable.  We create what we are not: wholesome, comforting, real.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. On the brink of adulthood, I find myself realizing how the table is an odd middle ground amongst us all. We seldom give words of encouragement, even when the accomplishments are beyond incredible. We cannot guarantee which family members will approve of our requests, as the decision-making process tends to be rooted in our own prejudices. We transform over major disagreements, as the rare words from our mouths have now become the most dangerous of weapons. But at the dinner table, all forms of dysfunction pause for a moment.  Over steaming bowls of rice, we take a moment to sit down and be present in the moment. We do our best to savor these laborious meals— the ones with absolutely no measurements or  instructions— letting the aromatics and visuals speak for themselves. From the soups that were simmering for hours or the stews whose ingredients required a special trip to the Asian grocery store, the food demonstrates more sacrifices made for the greater good. We are silent but together; we briefly become the same. ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. From losing my spot in an online queue to buy concert tickets, to the announcement of my parents divorce over a Friday dinner, to study sessions for all the dreaded SATs, to all the college rejection letters that piled up like a centerpiece, to breakdowns, to fights, to laughter, to tears, to…, to…, The table has seen the best of us, the worst of us, and everything in-between. Yet, it’s not the witnessing of our most difficult moments that worries me. Far from it, in fact. The table has seen the most intimate and intense moments of us; the version of me that sits up at 2 AM because anxiety riddles her mind. Or that one that cries only when they are alone, slumped with their head down on the table as the sobs ring out into an empty household as it's safer than falling apart with others around. Even the version that just goes to the table and sits in complete silence, letting their thoughts and questions ponder to nowhere. The table is the only one that has witnessed my emotional vulnerability.  That’s what scares me the most.  ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. One random night, my mother calls me. Her voice is somewhat shaky as she breathes out those forbidden words, “I miss you.” I’m an adult now; no obligations tying me down to family.  I’m thousands of miles away from her; physically and emotionally.  I’m only now working through the trauma I faced. I’m not sure if I reciprocate the feeling. I’m finally allowed to admit that. "I need you,”  she cries out.  I imagine tears delicately falling out of her eyes, leaving streaks of sorrow down her face.  A slight tingle begins behind my eyes; a watery dam that so desperately wants to break free and run rampant. It burns. I hold any sign of emotion back; I can’t break down now, not when I made it this far.  She sighs and begs one last time, “Please come back home.” I don’t think I’ll survive if I do… ~ Our dining room table is falling apart. And I think we’ve reached the point where the damage is irreversible. Editors: Alisha B., Blenda Y. Image: Unsplash

(i really need a .edu email in this economy) “Learned how to work within a professional environment within the structure of the non-profit organization, Dear Asian Youth. Developed skills in graphic design by working alongside graphic designers as a writer/researcher, specifically in communicating exactly how my brain pictures the information given the context of the subject. For example, a visual for a slide I wrote about the overtourism of Hawai’i should be more serious than one I wrote for the Golden Globes…” It’s that time of year. ELECTION SEASON! (But I guess it's also college applications season?) Let’s get the elephant out of the room: I feel old as s– okay well, the editors told me I probably shouldn’t say that on this publicly accessible internet site, but I feel old. The University of California system’s applications for Fall 2025 opened up in August. Two nights later was Karaoke Night in my house, probably because my mom and I had been pretty busy and under pressure throughout the week, given that both of our vacations were about to end. Over the last couple of days, I had to learn how to sound like myself in an application without sounding too much like myself. I had to learn to not be humble while not being an as- annoying pain to be around. I had to learn how to tell my story without storytelling. Most of all, I had to put all of my cards down on the table for my dream schools to judge… and then not hear back until February. (At the time of writing in September, I’m not done yet.) And this was before I had access to my school counselors or my counseling fellow at a program that matches low-/mid-income high school seniors with current university students. So I didn’t know that I had to do half of what I had just said yet. At the same time, I was dealing with growing up and losing people, and working hard to make a passion project work. But as I was all caught up in all of that mess, sitting on the couch curled up with my mom’s Macbook on the armrest, I heard the lyrics to a song that guided me through one of the toughest times of my life: Selena’s “Dreaming of You” from her 1995 posthumous crossover album. When I was younger, some of my best memories were with both of my parents in the Philippines. My dad didn’t have a green card or a tourist visa, but my mom was actively becoming an American citizen. I was born in Illinois, so I’ve been a U.S. citizen my whole life (and could be a dual Filipino-American citizen, but that’s a conversation for when I’m older). By the last time I saw the Philippines in my quite developed pre-public school memory, Christmas and New Year 2009/2010, things were feeling different. I’m not going to tell my parents’ full story because it’s definitely a film I want to write in the future, but something had come up in this visit that meant I was only going back to America with one parent and my older brother. I was confused. And the next thing I remember was on the plane home, on a Delta flight across the Pacific (or across the States, I’m not sure anymore) with a broken tray table in front of me marked by caution tape. I remember my older brother being on the other side of my mom, with the three of us being in the middle of the plane. Getting back to the States, my life was a little boring. At least compared to my life and homecoming in the Philippines. My single mom worked days in a Miami hospital, my brother went to school, so I’d be with a fellow Filipino neighbor just a short car ride away from our rented place. We eventually got sick of Miami for many different reasons, moving to California by the end of the year. But once we found a place, the routine returned as my mom started working nights and sleeping days, my brother going to school down the street from our townhome. Amidst the loneliness, I still grew up. Despite the loneliness, I still grew up. I still learned to self-operate, although clumsily at first. And when I wondered just why I was lonely, I just knew that I didn’t have a dad around. But it was alright. To me, and  my brother, he believed too, Mommy was our Dad and Mom. But still the thoughts lingered on the other half of me. The thoughts lingered when I was learning to write my name. The thoughts lingered when I wrote my last name and my mom’s and wondered why they were different. We moved one last time to the house I live in now. My brother started middle school and I’d try to help him with his math homework, not understanding a thing but still trying. Mom was still working nights and sleeping days, securing us our freedom to have a future. So I was still alone at home, or at least mentally alone since Mom would be asleep and I’d stay out of her way so she could rest. That’s when bored little me found our CD player and antenna radio combo thingy. We called it a boombox, but it was rounded and not like the ones you really see in 70s and 80s films. I’m sure I could find it now if I looked hard enough. I went digging for something to play and discovered, aside from my The Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh Storybook CD, a mixtape burned onto a CD. Oh yeah, I found the last traces of my dad that I’d have and hold for the longest times. And what was the song that would catch my four-year-old ear? “I just wanna hold you close, but so far, all I have are dreams of you.” the strongest woman I know, Karaoke Night, August 2024 In this moment when I was looking at all of my accomplishments and vulnerabilities and telling my personal story through my activities in and out of school, one thing comforted me. The voice of my mom singing the song that I dedicate to all of the people I’ve lost in my life. “Dreaming of You” was my dad’s song for me for the longest time. Then it became the song for all of those I’ve lost in the past. When my relationship with my girlfriend of a year ended this was our song. But even now, as my relationship with my dad has matured, this will always be the song that reminds me of my parents. Of a time when I found comfort and companionship in a song from a singer that was tragically taken from the world too soon — just as my relationship with my dad was put on hold too soon for any kid to grasp. So I put the laptop away. I started singing along with my mom. She turned around and smiled. So I got up. I took the mic in my hands when the song ended, queuing up my own. “I’ve never known someone like you. Tangled in love, stuck by you… from the glue.” (“Glue Song” by beabadoobee, for those not in the know) I never knew so much love and comfort. I never knew myself better than in that moment. Wanna know who I am?   Try reading this story. Editors: Luna Y., Alisha B. Image: Unsplash

“I’ve got sun in my m—king pocket, best believe yeah, you know me, I forgive and I forget, I know my age and I act like it, got what you can’t resist, I’m a perfect All-American.” Olivia Rodrigo, “all-american b—ch”, 2023 Two years ago, my friends at the time were reading I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter  by Erika L. Sánchez for sophomore year honors English. The book resonated with a lot of them and explored a lot of topics that had otherwise never really been welcomed into an English class curriculum. Filipino American History Month was first federally observed in 2009, when I was just three years old, from October 1st through October 31st. Hispanic Heritage Week was expanded to Hispanic Heritage Month, from September 15th to October 15th, in 1988. In many ways, Filipinos and Hispanic Latin Americans (those from countries in the Americas formerly colonized by Spain) share a number of parallels in their cultural, linguistic, and historical connections. Both groups come from rich, diverse indigenous nations, were colonized by the Spanish, and have since found themselves within the U.S.'s sphere of influence. While the experiences of these communities are uniquely distinct, it feels meaningful that our month-long American celebrations of culture and history overlap to further reflect our intertwined histories and shared struggles. So when I cracked open the text of I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter  to find, not only traces of my friends’ own experiences with struggling to live up to the expectations of both their traditional families and those of American society, but traces of my own experiences as the first American-born Filipino son on both sides of my immediate family… I wasn’t too surprised. I could keep going about how Filipinos are often (incorrectly) minimized into being the “Latin Asians” or the “Chinese Mexicans”, both statements that have often been said to me when I talk about being Filipino, but I wanted to talk about me and my own experiences, inspired by how Sánchez told the story of Julia. And in that same way, I hope I can inspire other first-gen Filipino American young people to share their experiences. I don’t want to be a nurse — but that doesn’t mean I don’t value stability or don’t think of my family. We’ve all heard the stereotype that all Filipinos are or want to be nurses. While based on the fact that many Filipino diaspora are  nurses, it’s simply not true. Filipinos can be whatever they want to be, just as much as anyone else can. And I choose to follow my passion for storytelling. But it was very hard for me to admit that to my extended family. “How will you support a family?”, “Kaya mo bang pasukin ang industriya na yan?” (Can you/Do you have what it takes to get into that industry?), “Why don’t you just become an architect or go into marketing, I know you like that!”, and even subliminal messages like “Oh your brother is so good for going into nursing with your mom!” — those are all statements I’ve had to deal with for the last three years. I was thankfully raised by a very supportive mother that always reminded me that the reason she came to America was so that my older brother and I didn’t have to become nurses to have good lives. But not all of society, as I’ve come to discover, thinks like my Ma. But that won’t stop me from telling stories through writing. You’re either with me for the ride or you’re not. And that’s okay. “You’re too pale, are you sure you’re Filipino?” — Okay, but if I get darker then I won’t fit the beauty standards back home? Colorism. Both Filipino and Hispanic Latin American communities carry the weight of a colonialism legacy that instilled a preference for lighter skin—a challenge I’ve grappled with firsthand. This point is a little self-explanatory, but my whole life, I’ve dealt with not being dark enough for some people’s expectations of what a Filipino should look like. I’ve been taken for Viet, Korean, or (surprisingly) White American more than I’ve been assumed to be Filipino. But if I get darker from being out during the spring, summer, and autumn, I get panicked comments from relatives saying things like, “Ay ‘nako! (Oh child/Oh goodness), you’re getting too dark.” So am I supposed to be lighter or darker? Also how do you deal with tan lines? But for real, colorism and preference for one shade over another is insane. We’re all beautiful, regardless of color.  And you know what, screw the Spanish standards for making little nine year-old Vien think about how he should cover up and stay out of the sun. Beauty standards and expectations are all things we just have to live with, but I hope that you don’t let it define you. Now the older Vien embraces being kissed by the sun whenever he can. Just the way it should be. I don’t particularly like EDM or rave music — that doesn’t make me any less Filipino American (nor does it mean I don’t like to party hard). I grew up in rural and suburban Stanislaus County, California. It’s a far cry to our neighbors of Santa Clara or Alameda when it comes to partying and even further when it comes to raving. Our county is at most 10% Asian American (including Asian Americans of mixed heritage). Because of those factors, we aren’t as closely connected to the lifestyles of the ABBs, ABGs, Kevin Nguyens, or all the other stereotypes popularized in SoCal and the Bay Area. I, like many other Filipino kids of my age, grew up with songs from the 70s to the 2000s. I love my Sarah Geronimo ballads, my Eraserheads rock anthems, my Carpenters karaoke songs, and all the MJ, Beatles, and ABBA you can find. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t vibe with NIKI, SZA, H.E.R., or thủy. Nor does it mean I can’t sing along to a Selena or Kali Uchis Song. And that doesn’t mean I only listen to K-Pop and can’t appreciate the classical and jazz influences that I grew up with that influence some of our biggest artists (like Laufey). If there’s anything I want you to take away from this part, it’s that you shouldn’t have to live up to these or any expectations to be someone you are. I love to party and party hard, but that doesn’t mean I’m listening to Keshi or Illenium on my commute to school. I love to dance but that doesn’t make me any less masculine than I am. I love being Filipino but that doesn’t mean I’m any less freedom-loving all-American than the next person. “That’s too gay.” or “Parang babae. (Like a girl.)” — but I’m still a guy, who are you to define me? And the biggest point of exigence behind this piece. (Write that down if you’re analyzing this in your English classes!) Touching back on music, I started this piece out with “all-american b—ch” by Olivia Rodrigo. While writing this, I was listening to the sweet tunes of Lyn Lapid, grentperez, and Rocco. But one artist really got me thinking about this: Mad Tsai, someone who’s championed the way for those right in the middle. My whole life, I’ve never been perceived as an ideal of effeminacy or masculinity. I’ve always presented myself and identified as a boy but always got along easily with girls. I don’t wear dresses or heels. But monster trucks never got me going either. And people don’t know it, because they don’t know me, but I love working out and being active. But I’m also very emotionally aware and open to others. People say I’m the type of guy they’d bring home… but is it to meet their parents? And that brings me back to the subheading. “That’s too gay.” So what? You’re being entertained by people like Vice Ganda or Bretman Rock but you won’t support that they just happen to like men? On romantics… Why do we feel like we have to label everything? And why must we judge? If I told you that in the past three years, I’ve come to accept who I am as a person who can and has loved people of both different and similar sexes, does that invalidate that I am a Filipino, Catholic, high-achieving, creative, passionate, party-loving, son of God? Does my ability to love threaten you and your expectations? Does that mean I act the “American” way that you tell us not to act like? If acting “American” means that I get to love and care for the world as my Lord taught me to, it’s time to glue the blue passport to my back. I am not your perfect Filipino son. But I am still Filipino. I am still your son. And I am still Vien. I hope you, too, can break expectations and find love within yourself and from others. Editors: Luna Y., Blenda Y. Image: Unsplash

“He was just this kid in my head for such a long time — I think I just missed him.” Nora, Past Lives  (2023) They always tell us to not grow up too fast. They could be anyone: parents, teachers, siblings, cousins, friends, the list goes on. Even one of the great Asian musical artists of our times known as Grentperez has a whole song telling us all: “Don’t grow up too fast.” I guess I didn’t listen. Or maybe I did? Maybe I never had a chance to listen … or maybe, like almost everything in life, the velocity at which we choose or are chosen to grow up at is a multidimensional spectrum. Regardless, I suggest you all heed that advice as much as you can. (I say this as I’m unknowingly rushing forward and past my family typing away at my phone in Clark International Airport in the Philippines. Slow down, bud!) Exactly a year ago, to the week, I was writing a piece for Dear Asian Youth’s core Instagram account alongside a colleague (shoutout to Catherine Mao, hope college apps go well for you this semester, wherever you are!) about Celine Song’s Past Lives . The movie was fresh in theaters and hadn’t yet been nominated for a handful of prestigious awards throughout the industry. But you don’t get nominated for the Academy’s “Best Picture” for nothing, and my colleague and I knew that. So we wrote. And we wrote a lot. And we had to cut out a lot. And the post never actually came out for you all to see, but I tell you, it is probably one of my favorite posts I’ve written for DAY to date. I wrote this in a message to Catherine while putting our post together (which ended up on the design of the post): “The thought of leaving past lives behind in other places for people there to remember  with me, both in the lives I’ve left behind locally (like elementary school me, middle school me) where I grew up in California and those lives I left behind as a child in the Philippines.” Oh boy, did Vien have not a single clue about what would be in store for him a year later. Join me as I rediscover my own past lives (and rediscover the movie I wish was on my plane’s film catalog). ••• “We had these beautiful city wides that moved in one direction over the image of these cities: Seoul during the day — in the morning — and New York City at night, which just sort of spells doom for them because it really is about showing that the time zones are completely opposite. They’re on the opposite sides of the world. But over that image, you know, they’re really talking about each other.” Celine Song, director of Past Lives , breaking down the Skype scene Let’s establish some big things right now. First, I am a first-generation American. I spent a considerable amount of time between the U.S. and the Philippines from the ages of three to nine and, prior to this year’s trip, the last time I “went home” to the Philippines was when I was twelve years old and that was pre-pandywandy. I am seventeen-going-on-eighteen so, Sound of Music  aside, it’s been five years since I’ve been home and five years was more than two sub-lifetimes for me. Second, I already touched on it in the last point but I’ve changed a lot over the years, and I’ve left a lot of lives behind in the minds of so many that I’ve met. I discovered that so many people who hadn’t been able to keep up with my life over the years still had ideas about me that I’d long outgrown. It was touching and it was also heartbreaking in a way. Seeing and introducing the present me to these people (friends, relatives) was like pressing the “Overwrite Save” button. Third, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the mainland United States and the Philippines are geographically distant from one another. They inhabit opposite ends of the Pacific Ocean and are thousands of miles apart. However, history and the internet have brought the two very distant nations closer together due to the endless intertwining of the two countries through their peoples and their cultures. So this quote by Celine Song really struck me. Especially when something major happened during my vacation. Prior to and during my vacation, I used Instagram to communicate with the majority of the people in my life — especially those who were geographically far away from me. A week and a half into the trip, Instagram’s bot-identification system flagged my main account, connecting me to over a thousand people, and banned it. It all just felt like — woah. I couldn’t communicate with so many people I had met on the trip and it felt like my life froze. It felt like the scene froze. It reminded me of how Nora and Hae Sung’s Skype call froze and they lost contact with one another. It reminded me of Skype calls I had with my own family on opposite ends of the Pacific that froze and kept us from communicating. ••• “와~ (Woah~/Wow~)” Nora and Hae Sung (over and over), Past Lives Whenever I come back to see my cousins, there’s always the “ten minutes of awkwardness” that occupy anywhere between five minutes to two hours of our first meeting.. It’s like we always revel at how the other has grown and changed since we last saw them. It doesn’t matter if we’ve seen each other on video calls or on Instagram or Facebook, we’re always going to be new in some way and familiar in some others upon every initial meeting. When Hae Sung and Nora first meet in person after twenty-plus years, I now see myself meeting my family. Looking at one another and registering who it really is before us. We’re in awe, but we’re also slightly in fear. ••• “The guy flew thirteen hours to be here. I’m not going to tell you not to see him or something.” Arthur, Past Lives The last thing I want to touch on in this piece is a bit of my family life and Nora’s present life in the film. Nora is married to Arthur, an American man who describes himself as the villain in her and Hae Sung’s love story. He’s extremely self-aware and humble. He knows that Nora’s life rests in her hands and hers only. My life has always had this large division in it separating my life into one around my mother’s side of the family and one around my father’s side. This trip, as I’ve gotten older than ever, was the first time that my third party, my parallel to Arthur, emerged and allowed me to finally bring these two separate lives together into one. For the first time in my life, I was able to live an authentic version of myself and be honest about it to everyone who asked. And it was that freedom — that understanding third party — that allowed me to think about my life and experiences in this way. I guess all that I can say is… I really want to watch Past Lives  again. I want to discover more of myself in films like these. I’ll see you soon. Editors : Blenda Y., Quill L., Alisha B. Image: Unsplash

~ Authors' Note: This piece was co-authored between Uzayer Masud, a DAY team member based in Bangladesh, and Parveen Kaur Mundi, DAY’s Vice President. The date of writing was prior to the recent development of Sheikh Hasina’s resignation and the dissolution of the parliament. The authors stress this is not meant to be an infographic or journalistic report: you can find recaps of the Bloody July events on other platforms. In fact, this is not meant to be more than it is— which is some of the personal commentary and observations shared between two students with different proximities to the violence ensuing over the past few weeks, and as the students of Bangladesh continue to build a new order. Our organization has seen such crises materialize in the lives of our members over the years, whether it be the Myanmar coup or natural disasters, and seeks to provide a forum where our affected membership can process their experiences. ~ The people of Bangladesh now stand behind one demand—the resignation of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina and her cabinet to bring an end to her 15-year-old authoritarian regime with the ruling party, the Awami League. In a country where ⅕ of the population is unemployed, students began a peaceful movement demanding reforms to the discriminatory quotas for government jobs. In which 30% of the jobs are reserved for the descendants of freedom fighters of 1971. The events of 2024 come from a history of dissent around these quotas: being contested in 2013, and again in 2018, at one point scrapped entirely. Other quotas were still necessary for certain marginalized people, who filed a case to the high court. They deemed the 2018 circular as illegal, reviving the 30% quota. So the Anti-Discrimination Student Movement started protests again. What is now a shoot-at-sight curfew and national state of emergency came from civil unrest over years of rising inflation and autocratic rule. Growing mistrust and the general decaying state of affairs laid the foundation for rightful escalation by students, which was in turn met with immediate and entirely senseless violence. The violence we see now ensued within hours of one remark by the Prime Minister “If the grandchildren of freedom fighters don't get quota benefits, will those then go to the grandchildren of the Razakars? That's my question to the countrymen.” Bangladesh has a very emotional protest culture rooted in the inception of the country, having been born out of resistance, most slogans and media now embody the same passionate spirit. The regime laundered billions, drove up inflation, and made a farce of democracy, all of which was largely tolerated. What was not, could not be accepted was the Prime Minister’s remark. In order to understand the violence, one must understand the slur that set the country ablaze. Razakar is a term entirely native to Bangladesh. In literal translation it means “traitor” but there are nuances: a razakar is a murderer, a razakar is a coward, a razakar is a traitor. Bring forth the culmination of every slur there is and what you get is a razakar. With that, the student protestors revolted, and the first videotaped murder was that of a student, Abu Sayeed, who defiantly spread out his arms waiting for the police to shoot him. And they did, in a moment that has become the most publicized murder of 2024 in Bangladesh. Now we bear witness to scenes of children playing on rooftops and verandas being shot at from the ground. Of helicopters circling Dhaka, firing grenades and tear gas. Of a father holding his dead daughter in his arms. Of police barging through university gates and shooting students inside. Of hospitals, barred from treating the wounded unless the already brutalized protestors also agree to be arrested. Protestors now demand justice for those killed and the resignation of each person responsible. Bangladesh has a rich history of dissent: the pot stirred in 1952 when students protested against the Pakistani government’s imposition of Urdu as the one and only official language and were killed by the police. Again in 1971, when Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, having formed the Awami League, led another independence war against Pakistan in which nothing short of three million proto-Bangladeshis paid with their lives. We commemorate their sacrifices with monuments built in their honor, the Shaheed Minar for the language movement, and the Martyr’s Monument for the independence war. In 2013, 2014, 2018, and 2024, the students protested, and every change they brought was paid for with their lives. From the People’s University for Gaza encampments to anti-fascist protests all around the world, why must a government reply with bloodshed to the students who only seek to enact a better order? “Sheikh Mujibur Rahman is Bangladesh's folkloric George Washington by vision and verve, Gandhi and Abraham Lincoln by assassination, and Stalin by his advocating of a one-party state” As written in The Bengalis: A Portrait of a Community by Sudeep Chakravarti The inception of Bangladesh was that of a guerilla state, a character of militancy still embedded in the fabric of this country. Every major infrastructure project is named with the Bangabandhu (Mujib) prefix, meaning Friend of Bengal. Buildings are named Freedom Tower. But since achieving sovereignty, Bangladesh has only changed hands from one imperial fascist to another. The students taking to the streets right now have known nothing but an authoritarian regime and, still, possess the willingness to imagine a better order and struggle for it. The Awami League has dismantled its opposition piece by piece over the last 15 years until none remain, making a farce democracy and creating a one-party state. A 2021 Al Jazeera Investigation reminds us that local gangs and murderers effectively negotiated Sheikh Hasina’s initial rise to power. Fascism takes many faces: from forced disappearances to rewriting the national curriculum with propaganda, the Awami League is playing every card from the authoritarian handbook. The government’s propaganda machine is both uncoordinated and would be amusing if the price paid for it were not the lives of student protestors. There is no consistency in the lies perpetuated by different people in the Awami League. There is no consistency across what political figures say either. The police raid houses and check civilians’ phones for footage of brutality and VPN apps while a minister deems it illegal on live TV. If found with either, the person will be taken into remand, which is a Bangladeshi euphemism for state-sanctioned torture. Internet blackouts to control the people, while the IT minister says data centers caught fire, and two days later didn’t catch fire. Apparently, the internet shut itself down, and then the rain-damaged satellites in orbit are to blame. At the same time, the initial grassroots nature of the 2024 quota movement was weaponized by the political opposition, whose factions joined in rallies en masse and incited violence. Burning down BTV (the state media), highway toll plazas, or the new Metro Rail are not actions of sensible students protesting for their right to a meritocracy. Despite claiming that they did not commit arson, students are now held liable by the ruling party. Much of the world suffers from the corrupt rule of gerontocracy. Still, it is also not lost on us that younger generations are also losing their principles: it was the Chhatra League, the youth wing of the ruling Awami League, that was entrusted to brutalize protesting students. The PM called the protesting students traitors to the state, “tarnishing the image of the great liberators.” And Obaidul Quader, the AL General Secretary, said that the Chhatra League would give a fitting reply to the chhatra (students). So with every move, protesting students were met with a new type of violence: that too from goons who act like little dictators of a banana republic. The Chhatra League wears helmets and attacks with makeshift weapons under the guise and protection of the fascist Awami League. The Chhatra League storms hospital emergency wards and bludgeons people to death. These indoctrinated youth rule with fear and rape in broad daylight as the entire country descends into chaos. What results is the unsettling normalcy of students being the subject of enforced disappearances, torture, and mass arrests. Students are the lifeblood of a country, and so the construction and upholding of the Chhatra League as a legitimate actor in civil society by the fascist party is only one example of the tactics used to dissolve our revolutionary power. The position of the Chhatra League as an extrajudicial arm of the state is a tactic we know from other places, including the Bharatiya Janata Yuva Morcha, the youth wing of the ruling BJP in India, another side of the same fascist coin. Youth who are fed alternate histories, whether it be in the apartheid state of Israel or Dhaka, become cemented in party-student alliances that only enable further bloodshed. But in a much larger sense, from our debate clubs to student governments to Model UNs, we as youth around the world commonly spend the formative years of our lives inundated with the political establishment. This in many ways acclimates us to stabilizing the dominant order of things and moderating the liberatory efforts of our peers. Think of how easily some people pledged their votes to Kamala Harris with no demand that the Democratic Party even change its platform on genocide. From Dhaka to D.C., this party loyalty does not serve us, and in fact, is compelling youth to police the tactics of and turn against other youth who stand proud to dissent. A new cascade of student identity politics ensues. The same ruling party that memorializes the sacrifices of students for the right to a national language every year murders principled students with blatant hypocrisy. When the state violence was circulated broadly, the internet shut down, and even after it returned all social media was blocked. Every night there are gunshots and police raids into people’s homes. There are countless parallels between the fight for independence in 1971 and the current tactics of 2024. Unclaimed corpses and police violence mark some of them. 1971: Are there any freedom fighters here? 2024: Are there any students here? Now every night is spent worrying if our house will be the next site of a raid. Or if someone we know will be dead come morning. Shutting down the internet also shuts down misinformation, which is a global problem now. In every prior conflict, what the government does is shut everything down. The measures taken are almost entirely reactive, never proactive. You cannot have a headache if you don’t have a head. Coordinators of the student movement were forcefully discharged from the hospital and kidnapped in the middle of the night. Two days later the detective branch of the police published photos of the student leaders eating chowmein. Forced to release a sham surrender statement under gunpoint, the ordeal was so staged even the high court released a statement saying not to make a mockery out of the people by posting it. Imperialists from the left, fascists from the right. Authoritarian all the way. With a shoot-on-sight curfew and police raids every night, we do not know what will happen but we have held strong, and we will continue to resist until the Awami League is out of power, and a democracy led by the people is restored. Sources All the prime minister’s men | al jazeera investigations (2021) YouTube. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6v_levbUN4 (Accessed: 06 August 2024). ‘KATATARE PRAJAPATI BANGLADESH LINKTREE’ (2024). Google Docs. Authors : Masud, U. & Kaur Mundi, P. Editors : Masud, U., Kaur Mundi, P. & Yin, L. Image source : Rajib Dhar/AP

twelve years in school / and straight As for the most of it / i still haven’t worked out what i’m supposed to do when i lose you / and sure / we’ve thought about it / we’ve thought about it as much as we do the time we got into a fight / and you hadn’t spoken to me for a week / until you’d shown up at my door past midnight on a rainy Tuesday / promise me you’ll never hurt me like that again / we’ve thought about it / as much as the bones that we’ve buried / the graves we’ve dug with our hands / the ripped up skeletons of sleepovers at your house / pretending it doesn’t mean anything when i brush your hair out of your face / (there are never any loose strands) / and let my fingertips rest on your cheek / EVEN IF IT’S BETRAYAL / an act of violence against the promises we’ve made / i promise i’ll never hurt you again / even if love always has a way of ruining things / when you look at me / with a supernova in your eyes / and something falls in the kitchen / and we have to pull away / and no amount of laughter / is enough to pretend / that i want anything more than / to kiss you / and etch the years of calling you my / friend / onto a gravestone i’m sorry / i know i should move on / but dirt is still wedged in fingernails / and my clothes are still stained from the digging / i don’t know how to let go of seventeen years / even if half of it is underground / a body has no use without its skin / and i’m muscle slipping off bone / with missing sinews / I STILL THINK ABOUT THE TIME YOU HELD MY HAND WHEN I WAS ASLEEP / and i couldn’t forget the heat of your fingertips for months after that / the longing ached like a surgical scar / that long should’ve healed / i still have the Post-its you snuck between the pages of my textbook / while walking past my desk / i still have the hairtie you lent me / six years ago / when i forgot to bring mine / in a box that has been doubling as a coffin / i would’ve kept the Kinder Bueno wrappers / if i didn’t keep forgetting to take them out of my pocket / and those bags of one-dollar potato chips from Cheers / if i didn’t keep forgetting to take them out of my bag / even if they’re rotting / in the trash / in the back compartment of some truck / i still remember / you clinging to my left arm / sweaty bodies folding into each other / stumbling down a quiet pavement / feeding each other cheap snacks / laughing over crude jokes / pretending things will always be this way / always, always, always today / i will learn to let you go / and i promise you will never hear about how much i like your hair / and i will stop looking at you / like i want to drink your laughter like a cold glass of milk in the morning / and want your hair between my fingers / until they become the lines of my palm / and want your scent in every inch of my lungs / because it makes no difference if i choke / after all / when i breathe / i only breathe your name / AND I WILL CONTINUE TO PRETEND THAT ALL IS GOOD / that i’m cool with you laughing at someone else’s jokes / when mine were the first you ever laughed at / and it doesn’t matter if someone else’s number / takes my place in your phone / i won’t mention how much i want you to kiss me / and stop bursting into laughter right after / as if it was a joke / as if i was being funny / as if i didn’t mean every word i said / as if you wouldn’t have said yes / if you knew / i meant it and i know it couldn’t have worked out / but i still smile when i see tulips / because they’re your favourite / and if i met you when we were older / you would never have had to settle for plastic flowers / we wouldn’t have been stuck listening to the same Taylor Swift song / at the back of a dark classroom / in another universe / maybe you would’ve chosen the seat beside me in a half-empty lecture hall / or we would’ve bumped into each other at a picnic with our friends / and i would’ve had the courage to tell you / that i think too much about the times you call me / love / and kiss my hand to catch me off-guard / i’m sorry / i still want you to be happy / without the phantom of everything we lost clinging to the faces of every person you meet / even if it should be me who kisses your lower back when you finally get the tattoo you’ve always talked about / EVEN IF I CAN’T LET YOU GO Editor: Leila W.