Asian Outlook | Fall 2019 Issue #1 by Asian Outlook

ASIAN OUTLOOK

October 2019 Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1

Why We Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Reach Out

Uighurs in China: The Forgotten Internment Camps in XinJiang How I Went From Being an Apolitical to a Little More Political Asian

Volume XXXVII, Issue 1

contents ASIAN OUTLOOK 2 ASIAN OUTLOOK

letter from the editor... Dear Readers, As always, our issues are filled not only with the issues in our immediate surroundings, but with the problems plaguing our society. Whether it is the slowing coverage on the internment camps of Xinjiang or struggling with self-identity in a nation that constantly seeks to define us, it is only certain that real peace has not been found among our people, whether they be in ancestral homes or in global diaspora. It is in collaboration with the greater Asian Student Union that we explore our own meanings while they seek to define the “bubble” - that mythical land where the minority is protected wholly from racism and inequality, and where one’s dream becomes reality through the merits of hard work and determination, following an American Dream few now believe in. It is in collaboration with our readers, you, that we seek to continue to put forward introspective writings of all kinds, such that discussion may be spurred and change begin. In far lighter news, we welcome the new year, and all prospective writers, thinkers, artists and other collaborators to join us in our endeavors - plans are being put into motion for general body meetings to return, where we’ll help critique or converse with you about anything that’s taken hold of your mind, whether it be the written word or concepts to begin a new piece. As is tradition, we extend our thanks to ASU, along with the other subgroups under it: BUJA, TASC, PAL, CASU, KASA, and VSA. I’d like to personally thank everyone both on the editing team and in other roles in Asian Outlook for their hard work so far, and look forward to their continued efforts as we push out more striking articles and artwork. Finally, of course, I thank those that submit and those that read, for what message can a publication hope to send with no words, pictures, or viewers? Look forward to our next issue later in the semester! Brandon Ng Editor-in-Chief

ASIAN OUTLOOK EXECUTIVE BOARD FALL 2019 President Vice President Editor-in-Chief Conscience Editor Secretary Treasurer Copy Editor Layout Editor

Videographer Audiographer Publicity Chair Event Coordinator Intern

Michelle Pao Rina Weng Brandon Ng Emily Lin Lily Tang Isabella Weiner Michelle Tan Ashley Zhang Alvin Liao Anita Liu Samantha Wing Tao Yang Claire Choi Mike Natrella Sherry Dang Justin Roman Emma Shen Allie Wu Thomas Hur Kylie Wen Courtney Fu Celeste Pietrzak Sabrina Qiu

EDITORIAL POLICY Asian Outlook is the art, literary and news magazine of the Asian Student Union of SUNY’s Binghamton University. Originally conceived and created to challenge, redefine, re-imagine and revolutionize images and perceptions associated with Asians and Asian Americans, Asian Outlook also serves to protect the voice of those in the minority, whether by ethnicity, gender, and/or political orientation. All matter contained within these beautiful pages do not necessarily reflect the views of the editorial board. Asian Outlook reserves the right to edit submissions and publish work as deemed appropriate. Prospective contributors are encouraged to discuss their work with the editors prior to submissions. All submissions may be submitted as e-mail attachments to ao.editor@gmail.com.

CONTACT POLICY Uninvited contact with writers and contributors is strictly prohibited. Please direct all questions, comments and complaints to: ao.editor@GMAIL.com

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Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 3

How I Went from Being

an Apolitical To a Little More

Political Asian By Lisa Lim Originally published on June 2nd, 2017 in MUTHA magazine.

HEN I WAS A CHILD, I remember writing Nancy Reagan about the pretty gowns she wore. I got back a generic letter with a lovely black and white photo of her and Ronny fishing in the Finger Lakes. I taped this photo to my wardrobe to remind me of how they brought Hollywood style to the White House.

I didn’t understand their politics, but I also wasn’t raised to question politics. You often hear the term “Apolitical Asian.” My education began with stories told by my grandmother of the horrible things the Communists did in China. One story that remains ingrained in my mind was about my grandmother’s dear friend, Strong Paw. We spent many a sunny day with her roaming the streets of Queens when I was a child. I’ll never forget her. Strong Paw had a large perm that looked a gray tumbleweed had landed on her head one windy day and never left. She collected cans with us. She was the muscle. I was the hands. My grandmother was the hustle. Strong Paw held a large stick across her back and carried two bags, which I would fill with empty cans I handpicked from the neighborhood trash. The neighbors hated us for disrupting their garbage. Then my grandmother would hustle her way through the homeless crowd

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at the A&P to deposit her cans, fiercely elbowing and pushing anyone in her way. Needless to say, the homeless hated us, too. My grandmother told me about a Communist leader named Mao Zedong, who promised to bring food and wealth to the Chinese peasants who’d been starving and living in extreme poverty for too long. But with this promise came torture and murder for anyone resisting his authority. My grandmother told me Strong Paw was passionately against Mao, and yes, she spoke out. The consequences of speaking out were terrifying. The Communist militia ransacked her home and made her and her husband kneel on broken glass. They tortured them for days on end under the hot scorching sun. Strong Paw’s skin was peeling and burning, but they showed no mercy. Those days, there were many ways of standing out that induced the wrath of the government. Scholars were called out for being too smart. They were dressed in dunce caps as their faces hung low. And they were forced to bark like dogs. Being too smart, being too wealthy, being too vocal, being too much of anything got you in trouble with Mao.

with dollar bills instead of saving them in banks. They didn’t trust banks and they didn’t trust the government. This way there was no official count of their money. No one would ever know how much they had. The goal was to be undocumented wealthy. To be invisible. These stories frightened me, to every bone in my body, as a child, and continue to frighten me as an adult, when I decide to speak up or stand out, whenever I am “too much.” But then something changed in me. It was the day of Trump’s inauguration. It woke me from my apolitical coma. The camera panned across the sea of people and what I saw was a sea of white. It felt like the only “dots” of diversity seen were of Barack and Michelle Obama. It saddened me to think how far we’ve come and now it looked like we were going backwards. It reminded me of when my parents were thinking about moving to Westchester, when I was five years old. The principal gave us a tour of the school and she opened the classroom door and it was a room full of blue and hazel eyes and alabaster skin. I remember screaming so hard, like I was auditioning for a Hitchcock film. I was scared by the lack of color and diversity.

Now that I look back, I often wondered if Strong Paw collected cans so people would think she was poor, so no one would ever ransack her home, like they had in China. Maybe it’s why my grandma and so many of her friends sewed money inside their clothes. They also stuffed pillows and mattresses

It was all I had known growing up. I was so glad when my parents decided to stay in Queens. At my high school in Queens, every culture was represented. And it felt like home. There was Anita, a Guyanese girl whose long ponytail would whip across

multiple faces as she walked briskly down the hallway. Gemal, an African American boy who sat next to me in class talking about life in general, making each other giggle. There were Mohamed and Mikel, South Asians with slight mustaches and glasses, which made them look older, like distinguished accountants. They were inseparable and always telling what seemed like charming Dad jokes. There was Eddie, a Mexican kid who was the class nerd–we all cheated off of his page during important state tests. I remember his Dad owned a tourism van, and he was kind enough to drive us to the prom in style. There was LoAnne, the Vietnamese beauty. She stole all the boys’ hearts while the rest of us struggled with pimples, bad perms, and raging hormones. There was Dawn, an Irish girl who used to come over and yak with me about the Mets, even though I didn’t know anything about baseball. We would trade lunches. I’d give her my beef ramen, which my grandma packed in my Popeye thermos, and she’d give me her Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich and Dipsy Doodles. In Trump’s vision of a Great America, I wondered, Where did I fit in? Where did my friends from Queens fit in? Would we have a voice? This is not what my America looks like. That’s when I decided to march in DC. It would be my first march ever. It was both exhilarating and a little frightening, all at the same time. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew it was important for me to be a part of. So, I booked a bus ticket from Penn Station to DC and lined up to march with a gang of women with pussy hats and signs, all ready to make history.

“I wanted Miles to grow up in a better world. I wanted Miles to learn to embrace and demand diversity.”

As I marched through DC I thought of my Grandma and Strong Paw. I thought of how I had internalized this fear of standing out too much for too long. And how it kept me from a voice, and making waves of any kind. Head down. No conflict. That was Asian. As I marched through DC, I thought of my 2-year-old son Miles who delighted in making perfect squares and triangles with Playdo, singing the alphabet and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to his crew of stuffed animals. But the mother in me knew he sensed some iota of adult pain and anguish over the election. It’s probably why he insisted we watch Elmo over CNN. I thought about the divided America he would come to know over the next few years. I wanted Miles to grow up in a better world. I wanted Miles to learn to embrace and demand diversity. I wanted him to know there was no place for bullies, that includes the presidency. I wanted him to respect all people regardless of gender and culture. I wanted him to know that

if it was your body, it was your right. I wanted him to be brave in his voice. I wanted him to be ruled by hope not fear. I knew it was time to keep marching. So, I called my local Congress people and left messages at the sound of the beep. Against the nomination of DeVos. Against the travel ban. Against the school voucher program. I spoke out against what I thought was unjust. I shared. I liked. I even commented on posts. And I donated to those organizations in jeopardy over the new administration, and to those organizations that amplified the collective voice of justice. I wouldn’t say that I became the biggest activist, but I became transformed in my own right. I cared about what was going on in my world and tried to change it in my small ways. One favorite memory reminds me that I can’t stop fighting for what’s right. Every Sunday, my Dad would drive me and my family to the East River. We’d eat wonton noodles while sitting in his red Dodge Dart 75’. We’d pop in a cassette tape, crank the volume, and we sang at the top of our lungs to Neil Diamond’s “America.” I remember our bodies filling and bursting with a sense of freedom. I would imagine my father as an 8-year-old boy with my grandmother coming to America on a boat from China. They had “a dream to get them there.” Today Miles and I play Neil Diamond’s “America” at full volume at home, and we sing and dance without pants. We feel so free. Like America. We sing “They’re coming to America. . . My country ’tis of thee. Sweet land of liberty.”

All drawings by Lisa Lim.

Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 5

Why We Don’t Reach Out By Ghost

EAR READERS,

I want to preface this piece by noting that this is from the perspective of a survivor. I’m not a professional by any means, but I’m hoping that many individuals, professionals included, will be able to learn from this point of view. I’m choosing to write this out of frustration. Frustration out of how poorly equipped many people are to help one another, or even worse, how much they don’t want to help. This may turn into a rant, but whatever, here goes.

Photo by Maan on InspirationDE.

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“Friends” Note the quotation marks. When we’re going through a tough time mentally, we’re often encouraged to reach out to friends. But more often than not, we just receive blanket statements that come in the form of either “you should talk to a therapist” / “I know how you feel” / “call this number”. Yes, empathy helps, therapy and hotlines SOMETIMES help (I’ll get into the problematic side of therapy and hotlines in a bit), but it doesn’t feel like any real solution is offered when you’re hearing the most general and common statements/advice over and over again, with nothing connecting to your personal situations. That’s not too bad though, because an intention to help is still good, and not everyone knows how to respond in the heat of the situation. The worst kinds of responses you could possibly give, which I have personally experienced, are either apathetic or include victim blaming. I have experienced “friends” say nothing back, shortly followed by them trying to spend less time around me due to discomfort with my vulnerability. But nothing is worse than when you’re blamed for your own mental illness. I’ve been asked why I would contemplate suicide, followed by criticism of how I build up emotions or don’t go about life correctly in some sort of way. The truth is as soon as you hold a cigarette, drink from a bottle of alcohol, do drugs, or stop believing in God, some people lose their sympathy for you. It’s after experiencing these things that I have become increasingly appreciative of the individuals who are close in my life, or are willing to lend a helping hand when it’s needed. I wouldn’t be where I am without friends who are accepting, empathetic, and able to support/reach out to/check up on me when I need it, and I try to do the same for them. Not everyone has that same access to a support system though, and if their pain is lasting longer than the sympathy they’re getting, I don’t blame them when they stop trusting others.

Family Many of the same principles from before apply here, but I want to get more specific. I’ve talked about this topic before, but it is EXTREMELY difficult to heal and grow as a person if your family stigmatizes mental illness. Years ago, when I brought up my mental illness to a family member, I was told that I don’t have one. Then with anger and threat, I was told to never bring it up again. This is when I stopped talking to people about it. This is when I stopped trusting others. It isn’t uncommon for Asian American families to dismiss or stigmatize mental health, and I know for many people, it breeds a lot of pain. When there’s pressure without support, people crack. It’s as simple as that. Yes, families do it because they care, but care is multifaceted, and the wrong kind of care can be smothering. Sometimes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Therapy/Hotlines I’ve always found it questionable how we’re encouraged to refer mental health survivors to resources that are insanely expensive because it’s America. Imagine hundreds of dollars consisting of counseling fees, being added to your already volatile life circumstances. Even worse, imagine calling a number because of your crisis situation and next thing you know, you are responsible for thousands of dollars in ambulance and hospital fees, plus you will likely be separated from your nearest support systems while all of this is happening. Financial burden does not help anyone, and is often the CAUSE of many people’s mental health related issues. It’s extremely concerning to me that there is such a large financial risk to reaching out and seeking help, at least in American society. I also suspect the effectiveness of hotlines and therapy services that are legally mandated to ask certain questions, which leads to individuals who repeatedly seek treatment finding patterns in the way hotlines and therapy services offer them help. This leads to the aforementioned problem of “blanket” statements, where individuals who experience this are not receiving PERSONAL care and support in these situations. Yes, therapy and hotlines can be incredibly helpful, but it frustrates me to no end that individuals who seek this type of help need to take such large chances. If the service doesn’t end up being helpful for them, that leaves them in the same spot but financially worse off. I have participated in counseling services myself and I’ve seen that even on the cheaper end, it still takes a lot from you. I am hoping in the near future, these services can be more accessible. It would be a huge help, because right now, it feels reserved for those who have the money and time to afford it. Reaching out shouldn’t be a risk, but it is. That’s the reality. When we reach out, we’re taking a risk. We risk time, money, and energy. We risk relationships with family and friends. We risk not getting what we need in life or death situations. For those of you who are not alienated by those who need support, and are able to empathize/personally connect/be patient with others in times of need, you are genuinely the best and most important people. Know how capable you are of helping others, and doing good things. For those of us who are healing, I hope we have those people, or we’re at least able to find them. I hope we can support each other too. Thanks for reading. Ghost

Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash.

Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 7

white pigeon By Willa Scolari

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Artwork by Andrew Daniel.

“You’re not really Chinese.”

VERY CORNER OF URBAN NEW YORK CITY IS FILLED WITH COMMON GRAY PIGEONS, AND FOR A LONG TIME I WANTED TO BE ONE OF THAT DRAB, NONDESCRIPT FLOCK. Instead, I was the rare white one whose delicate bright feathers set it apart from the other pigeons. I am a Chinese daughter, adopted into a white family, and I stick out in a Caucasian crowd. “Why do you look different from your mom?” “Why is she white and you aren’t?” “Is she your grandma? She’s not really your mom.” “You’re adopted because your real mom didn’t want you.” “You’re not really Chinese.” Those ignorant words shredded my heart and confidence. They crushed my pale feathers, and my paralyzed young wings lost their ability to fly. Feelings that no child should have surfaced during my early childhood. Rejection. Shame. Sorrow. I hated that I looked different from the white world I lived in. I despised being adopted. I dreaded the questions about my adoption. It hurt that people stared and snickered when I walked down the street with my mom. I felt rejected by society and I hated who I was. I wanted to deny my adoption, my ethnicity, my race. But in the summer of 2009, when I was nine years old, I found my flock. It was an experience that unlocked emotions I had never felt before. Acceptance. Belonging. Confidence. Pride. Suddenly my rigid, unused wings unfurled and learned that they could soar. Adoption Camp, one week that was home to hundreds of internationally adopted kids and staff – white pigeons – just like me. Kids that looked like me, with parents that looked like mine, kids who felt what it was like to be different in the way that I was. The last night of camp was cold and crisp, as the

trees witnessed the sun’s slow surrender to the night’s dark seduction, the entire camp gathered outside in a circle. The camp director looped the circle with red yarn and the only sounds were the wind rustling the fallen leaves and the songs of the crickets. Everyone held the section of yarn that was closest to them. The director spoke: “When we hold the yarn, we put all of the energies and camp memories into it – the good, bad, happy, sad – and it spreads to everyone holding it. Those connect us and we will forever be a family, even when we’re not at camp. This camp is your home.” It sent chills down my back because that was when it hit me. I pictured the memories from that week. Some were those of a typical sleep-away experience. Standing in the broiling sun playing Capture the Flag. Eating kosher meals and wishing I could have bacon and sausages. Singing camp songs at the top of my lungs. But some were different and special because we had also shared our adoption stories, and our feelings about identity and adoption. Different and special because, for the first time, I felt like I was the majority. I was surrounded by people who knew what I’d felt. Who had been asked the same ridiculous, ignorant questions. Who had questioned their identity and place in the world. Different and special because I felt safe, I felt valued, I felt strength. Adoption camp unlocked my pride and confidence in who I am. I found a home and friends I could connect with and keep wherever I go. I found a community where I belong and that’s the most wonderful feeling. I return to camp every summer for one week. I carry strength and positivity in who I am. I know that I am not alone. Adoption Camp allowed me to spread my gleaming white wings and fly.

Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 9

Uighurs in China: The Forgotten Internment Camps in XinJiang By Sandra Deng

ITH THE AMAZON RAINFOREST FIRE, the Hong Kong protests, and the inverted yield curve in the United States, it is important not to forget about the issues that do not make the headlines. The news cycle has long since moved on from the humanitarian crisis in XinJiang, but its victims continue to be in dire need of global attention and help. And so, I would like to use this article to remind readers that China is still imprisoning their Muslim citizens in internment camps under the guise of national security. Here is some background information for those who are new to this issue, or for those who need to refresh their memories: • XinJiang is a province of China and has a population of over 20 million people. • They experienced a brief period of independence in the 1940s before Communist China regained control in 1949. • The region is naturally rich in natural resources, and so the Chinese government decided to

spur economic development in the region, prompting a wave of Han Chinese immigration. • XinJiang has a large Uighur population, many of whom are Muslim, but with the influx of Han Chinese into the region, Uighurs began to experience discrimination. The Chinese government states that XinJiang has education centers that house religious extremists. These centers are, reportedly, used to reeducate terrorists for the safety of the country. However, Muslims in XinJiang can be accused of “radical” and “extremist” behavior by simply adhering to religious rules, such as fasting during Ramadan. Most humanrights groups call these centers internment camps, and sources that have been inside speak of an ongoing humanitarian crisis. According to those who have seen and/or experienced these internment camps, the Chinese government forces the inmates to swear loyalty to the Communist party and Chinese government by learning Mandarin, Chinese cultural terms and phrases, and by renouncing their

(Photo from UNESCO - Intangible Cultural Heritage) Uyghur Muqam of Xinjiang.

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Sources 1. “Xinjiang Territory Profile.” BBC News, BBC, 12 Oct. 2018, www. bbc.com/news/world-asiapacific-16860974. 2. “Xinjiang Territory Profile.” BBC News, BBC, 12 Oct. 2018, www. bbc.com/news/world-asiapacific-16860974. 3. “Xinjiang Territory Profile.” BBC News, BBC, 12 Oct. 2018, www. bbc.com/news/world-asiapacific-16860974. 4. Halliday, Ellen. “Uighurs Can’t Escape Chinese Repression, Even in Europe.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 20 Aug. 2019, www.theatlantic.com/ international/archive/2019/08/ china-threatens-uighurseurope/596347/. 5. Rivers, Matt. “Former Xinjiang Teacher Claims Brainwashing and Abuse inside Mass Detention Centers.” CNN, Cable News Network, 10 May 2019, www.cnn.com/2019/05/09/asia/ xinjiang-china-kazakhstandetention-intl/index.html.

religion. They are given little to eat and live in highly unsanitary conditions. Torture and abuse, according to a former instructor at an internment camp, are not uncommon. The most recent news from China is that they have begun shutting down these “education centers” and are releasing its inmates. However, journalists report seeing continued suspicious activities, and satellite images have shown activity in these centers, as well as the construction of more camps. Unfortunately,

the Chinese government will probably get away with more human rights abuse if foreign countries continue to do nothing. It does not matter how many times world leaders condemn China’s actions, words will not stop this crisis. And so, until extreme measures are taken to protect Uighurs, they will continue to live in persecution. I only hope that this issue regains international attention before it’s too late.

(Photo by Ben Blanchard/Reuters) Islamic

studies students attend a class at the Xinjiang Islamic Institute during a government organised trip in Urumqi, Xinjiang, China.

(Photo from The Ughyur American Association) In front of a Chinese flag, Uighurs are reading

Chinese. The government believes Uighurs should be Chinese first and Muslim second.

6. Rivers, Matt. “Former Xinjiang Teacher Claims Brainwashing and Abuse inside Mass Detention Centers.” CNN, Cable News Network, 10 May 2019, www.cnn. com/2019/05/09/asia/xinjiang-chinakazakhstan-detention-intl/index.html. 7. Buckley, Chris, and Steven Lee Myers. “China Said It Closed Muslim Detention Camps. There’s Reason to Doubt That.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 9 Aug. 2019, www. nytimes.com/2019/08/09/world/asia/chinaxinjiang-muslim-detention.html. 8. Buckley, Chris, and Steven Lee Myers. “China Said It Closed Muslim Detention Camps. There’s Reason to Doubt That.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 9 Aug. 2019, www. nytimes.com/2019/08/09/world/asia/chinaxinjiang-muslim-detention.html.

Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 11

protruding sternums are Our dominant gene By Hanako Montgomery 1. Buy your time ticket at the machine I got a tattoo under my left breast in June. It reads 怖いもの知らず, kowai mono shirazu, not knowing fear. When I read it aloud, I read it with a clicking tongue, a small disapproving shake of my head, just enough to let the words tumble out. Maybe accompanying it with a sighing laugh, a small clinking reminder of love. That’s how my grandmother used to say it to me. Back in March. When we still breathed the same unfiltered air occupied the same space before her hands grew bulbous swollen with fluid and I could no longer hear her pulse unless I towered over the tubes tied to her straining to hear her life over the noise of machinal beating. Back when she could still call me to make the rice. 2. Show your ticket to the bathhouse owner

3. Go into the gendered bathing area

It was my sternum I’d notice first. Notice the hiccupping bulges woven in my ribs, a snake’s spine suffocated beneath my sheet of skin and take your finger to trace the edges of where it begins and ends. Under a fluorescent light I looked like the Operations game, left out for prodding. But An-es-the-sia: insensitivity to pain I especially don’t buzz as artificially induced by when the administration of gases or the injection of drugs you hover before over my surgical open operations wounds.

Lay out my bones along their perfectness, stain their vibrancy with my silence. Haruna wears her black bangs, Nozomi her porcelain skin, Rola her big eyes, and Akiko her fragility. All selling the ideals of womanhood. But who’s definition of it? I came here not to learn the lifestyle of anorexia, but to understand the ONNA. I wanted sisterhood, love that would envelop me like the mist from the sento we stand in. All soaking in this kettle of overboiling insecurities, to be later enjoyed and consumed by our male compatriots. But compassion cannot exist when money is to be made and skin is to be bleached. Instead, we derive our femininity from our patterns of consumerism, only take up in arms when the white girl brands her underwear like our foremothers’ arment.

4. Find an empty woven basket When I used to bathe with my mother, she’d always complain of her boniness. “It’s your fault you know. If you weren’t such a greedy baby, I’d have my curves.” Teasing, I’d ask if she ever had curves to begin with, pointing out that I’d been cursed with the same sunken chest. She’d laugh, acknowledging our common misfortune. My mother developed a talent in the bath. Retracting her body into her skin, she’d further press out her sternum. Two pockets on either side of her collarbone would appear, symmetrical up her bellybutton. She’d cup warm bathwater and pour it into each pool, the gag hosted in her hollowness. “I bet you don’t know many moms who can do this.” This I know is true. There weren’t many mothers who were forced to eat either.

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5. Undress I stopped bathing with my mother after my first tattoo. My body was now illegal under (circle one) our / their / Japan’s laws of the onsen, of the sento, of the amusement parks and the pools. We / They all leave the way we / they came, with nothing but the skin on our / their backs. Don’t disrupt this passage with permanence, a mark against our / their purity. Preserve your / our blessed ivory skin and remain temporary. Let the world absorb you / us as he needs. Belong to _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (Fill in the blank).

6. Open the sliding doors

7. Kakeyu // Wash your body “They have yuzu rinds in the water today,” she whispers. She grins and beckons me in, milky silhouette disappearing in the spilling mist. She promised me I’d be okay. I hold her words to see in the dark. (But then, I met her. Her, who loved Japanese bathing culture and the ease with which women could cleanse themselves surrounded by so many naked bodies. She wanted me to remember what hot steam felt like against the skin, reassuring no one would care enough to look. I resisted her invitations, hotly reminding her she wasn’t raised with Japanese values, that she’d never understand the subtleness of Asian body complexes. But here I was, standing in front of those bamboo doors.)

So I hid my body from her. I flinched when she approached me for a hug. I declined invitations to bathe with her and my grandmother, blaming my shyness on my whiteness. I hid under small hotel towels when we went to onsens, but only after I exhausted the period excuse for that month. As my embellishments grew, the harder it became to hide. I considered revealing myself to my mother a number of times but was always unable to find the right words to be honest about my nakedness. It was easier to forget the custom of sharing nudity with our females than baring my blemished bones and ink. I selfishly kept my skin to myself. I was hyperaware of the line I had crossed in my culture. Japan, not unlike other Asian countries, disapproves of bodily embellishments. This disdain is often attributed to yakuza (gangster) culture, which historically required a stamping the body to show permanent alliance. It’s gone beyond this though; many onsens (hot springs) and sentos (bathhouses) ban tattooed people from entering. To be banned for your skin. 8. Enter the bath “You have such big” “It’s just because I’m” “At least it’s going somewhere useful mine is just” “Look, my” “jiggle when you shake it” “they have dimples because I don’t” “but you don’t want too much because you’ll look like a” “he doesn’t care anyway he loves” “so long as I can still do” “I hope my daughter has more.” Doryoku wa jishin ni tsunagari, jishin wa seikou ni tsunagaru.

Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 13

By Emma Shen

Discovering Home Away from Home!

HIS YEAR, I AM SO LUCKY TO LIVE OFF-CAMPUS. If I had known and had the courage to live off-campus sophomore year, I would have. Frankly, I was so anxious freshman year and with housing sign-ups that used to be early for on-campus housing in November (giving students only 2 and a half months to bond and find people to live with) I hastily chose a convenient at the moment option. You have to be very careful about choosing where and who you live with because it affects your lifestyle. It’s a luxury to have my own room, an actual kitchen, and to live like a local in Binghamton. Maybe I don’t live in the most expensive and luxurious place, but having simple spaces of privacy and freedom to cook means the world to me. Last year, I discovered two Asian markets “Hang Phat” and “Asia Food Store,” on Main Street. Living locally means I am exposed to the local culture and get to learn about the community. In my neighborhood, I learned there are also two small Asian markets, specifically Thai and Laos, one called “Uncle’s Asian Market” and “Lao Vanthavy Oriental Food and Gift.” In my freshman year, I did find some Asian groceries at Wegmans. I remember going there to shop and cook with my Hong Kong Exchange Square Big and her other little! Food was easily one way to experience my culture to an unfamiliar Binghamton. Downtown Binghamton seems like a ghost town in broad daylight, but at night, it transforms into wild parties and lively bars. I remember seeking a community in Asian culture through student organizations, friends, and even the Confucius Institute section of Bartle library. It’s so rewarding to find out that there’s more. Where is the local AAPI community in the Southern Tier of New York? As I explored more “authentic” areas of home, which for me is Asian cuisine similar to New York City-esque diversity, here in the Binghamton area, being not generic to fusion I look to various food. It’s commonly claimed that Asians show love through food, especially when it comes to not always being emotionally available or understanding between generations. My first encounter with this was at Buffet Star, upon the hill near the university. The mixture of all types of generic Asian inspired American and some authentic dishes including unique twists of homemade dim sum, Singapore Mei Fun, chilled eggplant, and their take on wagyu beef. This place became the departing destination and wholesome meal for me and my family. SUNY Binghamton is also home to the Korean restaurant, Man Nam, and a Chinese restaurant, Bao Bao. In addition, there’s Kim’s Oriental Grocery and Gifts, whose name is uncannily similar to the Canadian sitcom Kim’s Convenience, the nearest small but plentiful oasis for Asian food essentials. Other restaurants well known to the local area are Phuong Nam and Moon Star. When I first returned to Binghamton

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this year I wanted to take my mom to gems in the area (with the assumption that food in Binghamton does not compare to New York City). The way my mom and I have always bonded is by going on adventures and eating - whether it be road trips to some other state or being a tourist in our own city. I first thought of Phuong Nam, being a Vietnamese restaurant I’ve been wishing to go to since their pho is hyped by many at Bing, but sadly it was closed on Tuesdays. The next restaurant I thought of was Moon Star (authentic Chinese cuisine), yet again, it also closed on Tuesdays. We finally settled on the usual Buffet Star, which still contented our hearts, despite failed efforts. More special mentions include China Lake restaurant (I discovered on food social media platforms), an array of Thai restaurants like Thai On Main in Endicott, and Thai Thai Cuisine. Vestal Pkwy also is lined with Japanese Hibachi restaurants. Some hip places include Novel Tea Cafe, and the Good Bao. Relatively new and on the rise restaurants so far include Beijing Dumpling. (Many of these mentions are based on word of mouth or online food review platforms like Yelp!) How does food have the magical touch of transfixing wonderful comfort and memories of good times in my life? The nostalgia of a childhood snack or favorite food that makes me salivate and forget all the new responsibilities of a college student living so far from home. What is this power that cooking a delicious meal or eating familiar food brought me? As I walked through Hang Phat, which is owned by, I believe, a Vietnamese woman who speaks Cantonese (my mother’s tongue), the familiarity of the medium-sized market made me feel comfortable. The usual aisles of Asian snacks, teas, and preserved condiments make me feel at home. When I noticed they had cheung fun, a type of rice noodle roll, in the fridge I immediately wanted to purchase it. I also felt my eyes widened at the sight of fresh vegetables, and fishballs that could be commonly bought at Asian markets. My life was renewed again. The biggest part of my homesickness during my freshman and sophomore year was due to the lack of good food I usually ate at home. The lack of culture that I felt while being stuck in the college bubble on campus and being unexposed to the local communities. I dreaded to live in a dorm where I was surrounded by only students who, yes, were my friends with who I’ve shared wonderful, fun memories with. I didn’t get to have the freedom to walk around and feel the busyness of New York City Chinatown. Nothing could beat home.

I believe the most difficult thing about accessing a piece of home in Binghamton is that it is relatively more expensive. Food deserts are real, especially in North Side Binghamton that will finally have a grocery store after 23 years, and become a reality when mobility in an area is low without a car or public transportation is limited. Rather it be ingredients for your special cooking or take out for a quick meal, it’s going to be pricey. But if you are used to the area, Asian food is typically going to range around $10 and up. Be prepared, don’t be surprised and spend wisely.

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Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 17

fine china By Patricia Loi

Hold me like fine China Trace over porcelain skin Marked by inkings of black and blue I am molded by centuries of delicacy and honor Hold me like forest green jade Crafted and contoured to Confucian perfection Do not stoop me down to a mere pebble Skipped along ponds you find so beautiful

Love me like a human Love the fire in my touch And the electricity in my eyes Do not love me because I am exotic But love me because I am valuable

Artwork By Ă&#x20AC;strid Babayan.

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Rich Brian By yam

Vol. XXXVII, Issue 1 19

By J.M.

January 13 After a long day at work You called me. My heart jumped; Frantic and breathless. My mind silent; Calm and cautious. Your story didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make sense, But your well being was in distress. I confess, That night was for you and for me. Two needs clashing one of comfort one of loneliness. In the end I came out lonelier.

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Photo by SkitterPhoto on Pexels.

Thank you for Operating my heart

El Cardiocirujano. By Kate S.

You opened it In a careful precision Left me vulnerable On the cold metallic table Your sweet name calls Cotton candy kisses Applebottom whispers Playful banter of kids

Broken promises You brought the heart Ever so cold and buried From the deep abyss Under scope of light Examined Fixed But forgotten To stitch it back And now the blood flows Onto the cold metal

Drip drip drip

Photo by DarkWorkX from Pixabay.

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22 ASIAN OUTLOOK

Graphic designed by Freepik.

HERE WAS A NEW STUDENT IN MY CLASS. The teacher wrote a name on the board, which everyone read out loud and forgot immediately after, almost in sync with the eraser wiping it off the board. The kid stood there, still as a statue, hair so long it grazed her knee. And she was extremely pale, from the tip of her hair to the nails on her fingers, not unlike those animals with albinism I see on TV. It was like the softest, flickering light was always shining on her. As if she was the light all along, and her body was just a paper vessel barely containing the source inside. She took the only empty seat in the room, at the very back, one row left and one row behind me. The whole school day, my back was burning as if someone was staring at it intensely. My head was screwed tightly in one direction; I dared not look back. The heat did not disappear until class ended and I heard her table creaking when she left. ---------I laid on the empty schoolyard, backpack as my pillow. I stared at the moon, and the moon stared back. The moon pulled and pulled and pulled until I couldn’t feel my own body anymore, I didn’t have a body anymore. I didn’t exist at that moment, I was the moon and the moon was me and and my mind was creaking and expanding and corrupting and I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, as distant as some waves crashing on a beach half the world away and I and I and I“You have white eyelashes.” I sat up abruptly, too disoriented from being plucked out of my reverie to get angry. The new kid was sitting on a swing, her whole body still as a statue save for the tiniest swaying of hair. I swallowed. “I was born with it. Or that’s what my parents told me, anyway.” “You don’t believe them?” “I don’t know. The doctors said they couldn’t find any reason for this, but it doesn’t really do anything bad to me, so…” I ended with a shrug. What I didn’t tell her was that my parents had adopted me at the age of sixty. On this exact spot where I lay, was where they found me, barely three months old, wrapped in a silk sheet. My eyes were red, my eyelashes were white, I was as pale as the fullest moon. As I grew, my appearance “evened out” except for the eyelashes. “Huhhh.” She hopped off the swing then stared intensely at my face. Oh heavens, I thought, the eyes are red. How did no one realize that her eyes were red? My right leg moved back on it own, the space I created between us gave me a false sense of a barrier. “Why are you still at school?” “The rabbits.” She turned back and started heading to the school building, I scrambled behind, relieved that she didn’t throw my own question back, not realizing until later that her reply was too fast. It was prepared, rehearsed. “What’s up with them?” “Too many of them in one cage. They’re suffering.” She

glanced back at me, opening a cage. “I’m taking them back with me.” She picked up a snow-white rabbit, who didn’t even stir from its sleep. The similarity between her and the rabbit was so jarring that my eyes couldn’t distinguish where the rabbit and where she was, the confusion made my head hurt. “Back to your house? That’s stealing!” I tried to lean on one of the cages, then gave up and sat on the ground. “Not if their owners aren’t treating them right. And you too, rabbit,” she stared straight into my eyes, the intense red clashed harshly with her white. “I’m taking you home, too.” “What are you talking about?” I was breathing so hard that blood was rushing through my ears again, but I was just looking at her and not the Moon, how is this, what is this“_ _ _ _ , do you remember now?” I had never been called that name by my parents, but I remembered. My adoptive parents, who didn’t have a clue what I was. What was I? Where did I come from? Where did I fall from? “You’ve been gone from the Lady Moon for so long, you’re losing your heavenly marks. Of course, we immediately searched for you, a mere baby rabbit of three months when you went missing.” She plucked one strand of her hair, and kneeled down to me, “But time works differently between worlds, and it has been ten Earthly years since I have arrived here. I’m so sorry, _ _ _ .” I felt her cool hand touching my burning forehead, and exhaled. “You do have lots of ties to this world though, I can feel it clinging to your being. Do you wish to stay?” “If I go, my parents would be devastated. They’re so old already…” “You are a heavenly creature at your core, a moon rabbit. Your legacy here will be of a rabbit, a nice, pleasant pet that delighted its owners. That’s how they will remember you, if you choose to go back.” “What if I stay?” “You will die in two Earthly years, when all otherworldly marks have left you. You’re not meant to be in this world; it’s sucking you dry. And you will die as their child. Death only shows the heaviest truth.” --------- I rolled the white strand of hair in my hand, trying not to cry. On my table I’ve placed a letter to my parents to cover for the brief time they would still remember me. In two days at most, one moon rotation after another, they’ll only remember me as an unlucky pet. My belongings, others memories of me, my very existence as a person would be erased. The white hair passed through my esophagus, my damp forehead touched the garden in my parents’ house, and my shoulder shivered as I died in this world. I saw them bury my body in the backyard the next day, the carcass of a snow-white rabbit.

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