jungle azn vol. 1 by Brenda Tran

jungle azn is a publication that aims to empower, celebrate, and validate the experiences of the Southeast Asian diaspora community.

Contents

29 14

A Tidbits

Stories

10 #staycultured

14 Entering the Belly of the Beast by Brenda Tran

13 Brenda’s Guide to Oldskool Sài Gòn Bangers 43 Who’s Your Jungle Asian Celebrity Soulmate? 91 Special Thanks

24 Anxious, Confused, and Conflicted: Inner Dialogue of a Queer Southeast Asian American by Anonymous 29 Sisterhood: Reflections & Transitions by Kia Lee

E 38 Wisdom From a Refugenius Interview With Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay 46 Reclaiming the Vietnamese Áo Dài by Hamy Huynh

54 Following the Threads by Sunny Thao

D 38

Showcase 58 Celebrating Hmong American Experiences Through Illustration Interview With Duachaka Her

64 Inclusive: A Classroom Kit to Celebrate Diversity by Lissa Vo

70 Bridging the Gaps of Lao American Identity Through Design An Interview With Michael Sasorith

74 My Grandmother, the Shaman by Pa Na Lor

76 Works by Thet-Htar Thet and leyen 80 Saplings in ‘the Killing Fields’: A Fable of “Return” by June Kuoch 86 Old Bones by Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay

CREATOR / EDITOR-IN-CHIEF / ART DIRECTOR Brenda Tran EDITORS Ally Kann, Madelyn Osmon, and June Kuoch HELPING HANDS Karl Engebretson, Ruby Figueroa, Anna Schultz, and Tri Vo CONTRIBUTING CREATIVES Anonymous, Qingkang Charlie Cao, Duachaka Her, Hamy Huynh, June Kuoch, Kia Lee, leyen, Pa Na Lor, Michael Sasorith, Sunny Thao, Thet-Htar Thet, Lissa Vo, Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay, and Mailee Yang SPECIAL GUESTS Duachaka Her, Jouapag Lee, Mayzong Lee, Michael Sasorith, Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay, Tây Phương Lions: Brandon Cao, Catlynn Dang, Christina Dang, Vy Dang, Hayden Garrard, Phillip Huynh, Allen Tran, Darrian Tran, Kevin Trinh, and Eric Vuong COLOPHON This publication was printed by Blurb. The text is set in typefaces FF More, Proxima Nova, Celebration, Matrix II OT, Lost Type (Lạc Tự), and FontAwesome. Printed on Mohawk Everyday Digital Smooth Text 70# white. Cover is printed on French Pop-Tone Cover 100# whip cream. © Copyright 2018 Brenda Tran and the individual contributors

Photo by Brody Howard

Letter from the Editor I’M WRITING THIS IN SEMI-DISBELIEF, but holy cow, we made it! From nervously posting elevator pitches on Facecook, to intensely analyzing and poring over magazines at bookstores, to juggling a seemingly endless amount of tasks, to spending hours and hours of hangrily hunched over a laptop, to enduring vicious cycles of revisions and self doubt—we made it.

of anger, lingering tension, and frustration of struggling to communicate with our parents and elders at home, as well as the sense of isolation that constantly nags at us. We see it in our continual exclusion and misrepresentation in film and media. And at one point or another, we have felt the shame and embarrassment of being the “wrong” kind of Asian—a jungle Asian.

Welcome to the inaugural* volume of jungle azn, a publication created with the goal of empowering, celebrating, and validating the experiences of the Southeast Asian diaspora community. Made by the Southeast Asian community for the Southeast Asian community, the magazine features a talented cast of storytellers who work across a wide range of mediums including dance, illustration, creative writing, and theater.

And yet, being a jungle Asian is something to be incredibly proud of. To me, being a jungle Asian means to be part of an incredibly resilient, brave, and vibrant community. It means to unapologetically embrace the unique history and cultural traditions that set us apart from the rest of the world. It means fighting against our erasure and carving out a space for ourselves, for our own collective healing.

This project began with my research on the Southeast Asian diaspora following the Vietnam War and its proxy war, the Secret War, as well as the disparities that continue to affect our community today. For example, the prevalence of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder in Southeast Asian refugees is comparable with rates found in combat veterans. While Asian Americans overall are more economically advantaged than the average American, the average Southeast Asian American is more economically disadvantaged than the average American. And despite the model minority stereotype often associated with Asian Americans, there are drastic educational disparities within the Southeast Asian community, as well as a clear school-to-prison-to-deportation pipeline for those who came to the United States as children. But I don’t need to go any further because if you’re a product of the Southeast Asian diaspora, you know. It’s evidenced by the food stamps, free and reduced school lunches, and long hours of work that prevented us from spending time with our parents. We feel it in the flashes

*Will there be a volume 2? Your guess is as good as mine.

As I wrap up this publication, I am overwhelmed by feelings of immense joy and gratitude. I am indebted not only to the incredible people who shared their stories with me, but to the Southeast Asian creatives, storytellers, and activists who came before me, the many helping hands who helped make this publication as great as it could be, and the generous donors who funded this small print run as well. I was lucky to have received the support of so many people both within and outside the Twin Cities Southeast Asian community. The stories within these pages are a testament to our collective power as a community. I hope you find them as affirming and uplifting as I did. After finishing this issue, I hope you’ll feel a little less lonely, a little more inspired to leave your own mark on our community, and a little more flamboyant with your jungle Asian pride. Sincerely,

#staycultured

Read WHEN EVERYTHING WAS EVERYTHING Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay Vongsay makes her children’s book debut with this beautiful and tender depiction of the Lao diaspora. Based on the award-winning poem of the same name, When Everything Was Everything takes readers through Vongsay’s childhood experiences, from getting bowl haircuts and picking cucumbers to moving from one public housing address to the next. While the underrepresentation of Lao Americans in popular and historical narratives remains a persistent problem, books like When Everything Was Everything not only help pave the way for Lao American storytellers, but expand the refugee storytelling genre overall.

up with James Beard Award-winning food writer John Birdsall for his cookbook debut. Published by Anthony Bourdain’s book imprint, Hawker Fare goes above and beyond our expectations of a traditional cookbook. Before diving into the recipes, Syhabout discusses his experiences growing up in a refugee family, his journey to chef stardom, cultural identity, and our outdated notions of authenticity. He also delves into the close relationship between Lao food and culture. Learn how to cook a wide range of dishes from fried red peanuts and Lao sausages to rice vermicelli and pork blood in chicken coconut curry broth. In a food world dominated by white men, Syhabout is a refreshing change of pace. THE BEST WE COULD DO Thi Bui Get ready for an emotional rollercoaster. As Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Viet Thanh Nguyen put it, this graphic memoir is “a book to break your heart and heal it.” Bui recounts her family’s journey from war-torn Vietnam to the United States and the profound effects that

HAWKER FARE: STORIES & RECIPES FROM A REFUGEE CHEF’S ISAN THAI & LAO ROOTS James Syhabout with John Birdsall Syhabout, the first Lao chef to be awarded a Michelin star, teams

displacement had on her family. Writing as both a parent and child, she explores themes of sacrifice, intergenerational trauma and unspoken gestures of love. The illustration and writing is poignant, haunting, and tender all at the same time. Readers connected to the Southeast Asian diaspora will likely recognize their own family’s painfully similar story within these pages, but ultimately leave with a sense of validation and appreciation for their own family’s journey. PLANTING SEADS: SOUTHEAST ASIAN DIASPORA STORIES Chanida Phaengdara Potter, mk nguyen, Narate Keys and Pheng Thao Planting SEADS is an empowering celebration of the Southeast Asian diaspora community’s roots and a testament to its resilience. A collaboration between The SEAD Project, ManForward, mk nguyen, and Narate Keys, the publication is Minnesota’s first Southeast Asian-authored anthology of stories, poetry and artwork. The goal of the project is to reclaim, honor and amplify the lived experiences of Hmong, Khmer, Lao

TO ALL THE BOYS I’VE LOVED BEFORE

and Vietnamese veterans, activists, scholars, and community members. As Southeast Asian readers follow along the storytellers as they look back on their memories and experiences, they will undoubtedly make parallels to their own family’s journey. It is a great read for Southeast Asians of all ages, as well as for those outside of the Southeast Asian community who would like to gain insight beyond what they learned in a Eurocentric classroom setting.

Watch DON’T THINK I’VE FORGOTTEN: CAMBODIA’S LOST ROCK AND ROLL Directed by John Pirozzi, this documentary follows the fascinating development of Cambodian rock and roll music following the country’s independence in 1953 and its near extinction during the war and genocide. The narrative is stitched together by the anecdotes of surviving Cambodian musicians, a rich archive of video footage, and music recordings. Although it’s impossible to talk about the development of Cambodian rock and roll without mention of genocide, the documentary’s main focus is on the music itself, as well as the culture, spirit, and resilience of the Cambodian people during this time.

Based on the young adult novel by Jenny Han, the teen romance follows high school junior Lara Jean Covey (played by Lana Condor), who writes letters to boys she feels an intense passion for before stashing them away. In a mortifying turn of events, her secret letters are mailed to their intended recipients by her little sister, Kitty. Lara goes to great lengths to avoid embarrassment and rejection from Josh, the recipient of her most recent letter and her older sister’s ex-boyfriend. In true high school romance fashion, we get a fake relationship, multiple love triangles, and a vengeful Instagram video. Despite the rather convoluted circumstances, the movie is enter taining and relatable in its portrayal of awkward adoles cent romance in the age of social media. Just don’t take it too seriously.

#staycultured SAIGON SUPERSOUND, VOL. 2 For those whose only experience with Vietnamese music is through cheesy Paris by Night recordings and worn out cải lương VHS tapes, it may come as a surprise that there’s more to it than awful techno beats, tacky, over-the-top outfits, and poorly choreographed dance routines. No disrespect—they are absolutely essential to the culture, but when it’s all one knows about homeland music, it leaves a rather flat perspective.

Listen #HOOCHIM Four Hmong women tackling established systems of oppression in their own lives and via podcast—what’s not to like? In this Hmong culture commentary podcast, Linda Hawj, Mim Xyooj, Sandy Oh, and Paj Huab Hawj gather around to discuss whatever comes to mind, including current events, pop culture, politics, their lives and experiences, and things pertaining to the Hmong community. Whether you’re looking for comrades to tear into the patriarchy, gush about pop culture, or make jabs at Hmong culture with, these ladies got you covered.

perspective of Asian American changemakers. So far, Nguyen has touched on disparities within the Southeast Asian American community and the implications of the Trump administration’s recent attempts to deport Southeast Asian Americans. The podcast works to inform as much as it does to inspire and call people to action. Through conversations with Asian American activists, organizers, and movement builders, listeners are encouraged to support and engage with their own communities.

CALLING JUSTICE

Saigon Supersound Vol. 2 uncovers a wealth of Vietnamese music history that not many young Vietnamese Americans are aware of, from the development of Red Music and Yellow Music following the country’s division in 1954 to the introduction of rock and roll, funk and soul brought over by American troops in 1965. Music nerds will rejoice as they dissect the multi-genre influences of the tracks, from traditional Vietnamese folk music and Spanish bolero to French pop and American funk and soul. The collection is a true testament to the creativity and resourcefulness of Vietnamese musicians, even in the face of war. It is also particularly meaningful because it helps fill a vital gap in our understanding of Vietnamese culture and reveals a history we can be proud of. Give it a listen—you just might enjoy it as much as the OGs.

The recently launched podcast by award-winning filmmaker, director, writer, and entrepreneur Sahra V. Nguyen explores a wide range of social justice issues through the

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Entering the Belly of the Beast The deceptively young Tây Phương Lions are a Vietnamese lion dance crew based in Minneapolis. They’re on a mission to reinvent and redefine the possibilities of Vietnamese American identity. WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY BRENDA TRAN

One Friday evening, I GPS’ed my way from my work office to a small brick building located in the Willard-Hay neighborhood of Minneapolis. The front of the building wore an unassuming beige while its sides featured murals (or graffiti, I’m not sure). Two girls, one of them my liaison CATLYNN DANG, 18, greeted me out front and we walked through the building together.

torsos covered by a costume, the two dancers must move in tandem and coordinate to pull off impressive tricks like stacks, high kicks, and rolls. The dancers are accompanied by drummers, cymbal, and gong players. If you’ve never witnessed lion dancing in real life, you’re missing out. Usually the highlight of any celebration, lion dance performances are full of action, drama, and humor. And if you grew up in an area with a Vietnamese community of any sort, it probably carries an element of nostalgia as well.

The environment resembled that of a typical after school program. The building was a bit cramped and narrow, but comforting in its wornness. A couple of outdated desktop computers sat along a wall. Nearby, there was a fully stocked kitchen with food and drinks. Kids of all ages moved in and out to replenish and socialize. An adult was located somewhere in the periphery, sitting on her computer and allowing the kids to direct the space. Once we made it to the back, Catlynn opened a door, revealing a dance rehearsal space. My ears were immediately met with a barrage of laughter, shouts, and blasting music.

I hesitate to use the word “traditional” to describe the Tây Phương Lions because while they are well versed in Vietnamese traditions, they aren’t shy about incorporating aspects of American culture into their routines (see video of Tây Phương Lions dancing to Drake’s “In My Feelings”). They keep up with pop culture trends so that both younger and older generations can enjoy themselves. As Catlynn put it, the Lions truly are a Vietnamese American production.

Meet the Tây Phương Lions, a Vietnamese American lion dance group.

Consisting of members with a wide range of age, experience and backgrounds, the troupe regularly travels across the state, and sometimes outside of it, to spread the joys of lion dancing. Some were introduced to lion dancing from a young age while others were roped in by friends, family, or acquaintances.

Lion dance is a form of traditional dance popular in a handful of Asian countries including Vietnam, China, Japan, Korea, and Tibet. In Vietnam, it’s referred to as múa lân. Lion dance is usually performed during holidays, such as the Mid-Autumn Festival and Lunar New Year, and special occasions like business openings.

BRANDON CAO, 15, is a drummer and dancer in the group. For him, lion dancing has always been a part of the picture. Brandon’s mother was a lion dancer herself, and when he got his start with lion dancing, his sisters joined as well.

A lion is composed of two dancers: one acts as the head while the other acts as the tail. With their heads and 15

Pictured from left to right: Hayden Garrard, Brandon Cao, Kevin Trinh, Catlynn Dang, Phillip Huynh, Eric Vuong, Allen Tran, Vy Dang, Christina Dang, Darrian Tran

“My whole childhood is based on lion dancing,” said Brandon.

their own money and do their own networking to find performance opportunities. Through their contract with Asian Media Access—a Minneapolis-based non-profit focused on Asian-American youth advocacy—they get a rehearsal space and a few guaranteed gigs.

Out of the handful of members I spoke to, the youngest was 11 and the oldest was 20. The organization itself is also relatively young (it was founded a year and a half ago) but the dancers already have an impressive amount of gigs under their belt. Past gigs include high schools and college campuses, the famous Guthrie Theater, Mall of America, and Mystic Lake Casino, as well as venues outside of Minnesota.

Public relations officer CHRISTINA DANG, 15, and co-recruitment director/public relations leader Catlynn admit that it can be a handful, but they find ways to manage. While lion dancing at events and celebrations may seem like a lucrative gig, the members don’t actually pocket the profits. All proceeds from their performances go to Tu Viện Tây Phương, a Vietnamese Buddhist temple located in Savage, MN. Still, there are plenty of perks beyond monetary gain. When asked about their motivations to join the organization, the members gave responses that all boiled down to a few things: culture, camaraderie, and a genuine love for the art.

With every performance comes nervous energy. ERIC VUONG, 20, is the group’s scheduling master. He breaks down the typical timeline: a morning group text, followed by a steadily buzzing atmosphere, some kind of struggle with time management, last-minute panic, then a huddle and motivational speech. The group operates with surprisingly little adult supervision—and they do it well. Older members take on administrative responsibilities such as public relations, booking management, and recruitment. They even handle

Many members see lion dancing as an opportunity to promote and participate in Vietnamese culture. As 16

suburbanites living in predominantly white communities, they frequently occupy spaces where they feel isolated from their roots. Like many young Vietnamese Americans, they struggle to negotiate their Vietnamese and American identities and quickly learned that they can’t please everyone all of the time.

a “white girl.” She acknowledges that she struggles to perform her Vietnamese identity in the traditional sense, which is why she was drawn to lion dancing. “Being in lion dance really brings out my culture, especially since I don’t really speak Vietnamese that much. Just having something little like lion dance really keeps the culture intact for me,” said Christina.

Nonetheless, they stick to their own truths and unapologetically celebrate their heritage.

Eric shares similar sentiments with Christina, although they come from a different place. As a person half-white and half-Vietnamese, he frequently encounters questions around his identity from both white Americans and Vietnamese people.

“My family is very traditional… I think I’m too Asian when it comes to hanging out with friends, but still, when I come home my mom says I’m too white because I don’t act like a traditional Vietnamese girl… I never have the balance but eventually, I stopped caring about it,” said Catlynn.

“When I was younger, I was fluent in Vietnamese. But then I got into the American education system and they put me in English as a Second Language (ESL) classes. I lost a lot of my ability to speak Vietnamese… It was rough when people saw me and told me I was not Asian or that I was too white,” said Eric.

Having ended up in a predominantly white suburb, Christina’s family was quick and skillful in adapting to American customs. The pressures of assimilation consequently impacted her relationship with Vietnamese culture. Although she knows her own truth, people have frequently pointed out to her that she is no different from 17

Left and above: Darrian and Allen practice stacks in the alleyway behind their dance studio

The Tây Phương Lions feel a strong obligation to carry on Vietnamese traditions to younger generations of Vietnamese Americans. Although they are physically removed from their ancestral homeland, they use lion dance to connect themselves to their families and Vietnamese culture as a whole.

interest in Vietnamese culture. He believes that it’s important to learn about histories and cultures outside of his own. Socialization is another key motivating factor for members of the Tây Phương Lions. Part of the appeal of joining the group is the ability to make new friends, reconnect with old ones, and expand one’s social network. While many members find themselves surrounded by white classmates at school, they have the opportunity to gather with other Vietnamese kids at dance practice. Through their travels and participation in other cultural showcases, they also get to meet other people who are not Vietnamese but are equally dedicated to celebrating their own cultures.

“My mom told me that people don’t live forever, but culture can. It’s the thing that ties us all together,” said Catlynn. Simultaneously, they wish to spread an awareness and appreciation for Vietnamese lion dancing outside of the Vietnamese community. One shining example of their success in this area is 18-year-old HAYDEN GARRARD, who performs as a lion tail and helps schedule performances. He’s also the one white person on the team. He was invited to practice one day a little less than a year ago, and has stuck around since. Hayden does not pretend to be Vietnamese and cannot relate to many of the other team members’ experiences, but has a genuine

The Lions don’t see themselves as friends, but rather, as a family. After countless practices, birthday parties, barbeques, and performances together, it’s hard not to consider each other family. This sense of community is vital to building trust—perhaps the most important ingredient

Top: Hayden and Brandon perform a stack as their teammates spectate / Bottom: Darrian and Allen take a break / Right: Darrian and Allen strike a pose in lion costume

for success in lion dancing. A lot can go wrong very quickly in a dance tradition where dangerous stunts are the norm. Pulling off a stack requires complete faith in one’s teammates, who must be ready to catch them if they fall. So far, the strategy of building trust and harmony is working. The Lions have yet to encounter disaster, although there have been a few close calls. PHILLIP HUYNH, 17, is a dancer on the team. He goes to high school in Blaine, a suburb just north of Minneapolis. Joining the Tây Phương Lions reconnected him with friends he didn’t see often and expanded his social circle. He also credits the group with providing him a sense of belonging that he struggled to find at school. “When I was at school I didn’t feel like I was with the right people or that I was in a place that I was meant to be in. When I came here, it felt like home to me,” said Phillip. DARRIAN TRAN, 11, is one of the youngest members on the team. Similar to Phillip, his favorite part about being a Tây Phương Lion is the community it comes with. After joining the group, Darrian was able to reconnect with a friend he had known for more than five years. As a younger member of the group, he looks up to the older kids and sees them as big brothers and sisters. The Tây Phương Lions are always up to shenanigans with their inside jokes, meme reenactments and “surprise stacks.” But these Generation Z-ers mean business. As future generations of Vietnamese Americans become further removed from Vietnamese culture and the diaspora that started it all, they may look to groups like the Tây Phương Lions for guidance. It’s a great responsibility, but they understand the importance of their work. They are redefining the possibilities of Vietnamese American identity for future generations as we speak, taking the best parts of Vietnamese and American culture and refusing to live by rigid cultural binaries. I’ll never understand their feverish consumption of meme culture, but I am confident when I say this: we’re in good hands. 

Learn more about the Tây Phương Lions at: 

TayPhuongLionsMN

 tayphuonglions

Anxious, Confused, and Conflicted: Inner Dialogue of a Queer Southeast Asian American WORDS BY ANONYMOUS

Early on in my life, I decided that once I was on my own I was going to do what made me happy, even at the risk of being shunned by family, friends, and strangers.

You’re probably wondering what my pronouns are and/or what I identify as, and to tell you the truth, I honestly don’t know/don’t care. I have been/am still going through a gender identity exploration.

and delicate. I could start using they/them/theirs pronouns, however, I have become less focused on what my pronouns are and more focused on looking and living the way I please and being respected as a human being.

I am a queer Southeast Asian American who grew up in an immigrant family. My identity is so vastly different from most of my peers, whose identities align more closely with the dominant culture. There is so much I want to talk about, though I don’t want this to turn into a mini-memoir. Here are the anxiety-inducing dilemmas that come from my intersecting identities as a gender-nonconforming Southeast Asian American.

Early on in my life, I decided that once I was on my own I was going to do what made me happy, even at the risk of being shunned by family, friends, and strangers. At home, I felt held back from exploring anything in life. In the seventh grade, I decided I would just stick it out until college when I’ll be more financially independent and living under a different roof. Up until college, the only clothes I would wear were jeans and a t-shirt, because they were gender-ambiguous clothes that I could sort of feel comfortable in. Looking back at my senior pictures for high school makes me uncomfortable because what I wore is far from my style and aesthetic today. I didn’t do any sports or activities that were associated with being male or female growing up; I was a homebody. If I wasn’t doing homework, I would be playing games on my Gameboy, Nintendo DS, and Playstation 2, watching anime, or surfing the internet viewing runway shows. My life leading up to young adulthood was just to waste time until I could have more independence with in my life.

My physical appearance is very ambiguous in the sense that my gender identity isn’t always apparent at first. I have a petite body frame with slight muscular definition and a round face with no predominant features, besides maybe my nose and protruding brow bone. I prefer a more feminine appearance, so I’m not a fan of body or facial hair on myself and I go through great lengths to keep my skin smooth. My hair is long and always straightened or curled and my theory is that the bigger or fuller one’s hair is, the smaller everything else looks in comparison. On days I’m wearing makeup and a dress, I usually pass as female (that is, until I begin to speak). On other days, my masculine features are more prominent and I (more or less) pass as male.

When I began college, I was surrounded by new faces and could really explore how I wanted to express myself without the fear of reprisal from my family, teachers, and peers from high school. I started off by incorporating feminine garments and accessories into my masculine wardrobe. It eventually led into a wardrobe full of dresses and stilettos by senior year. As time went on, I learned to disconnect gender from material objects, occupations, hobbies, everything and anything typically used to identify a person’s gender.

I used to tell people my preferred pronouns were he/ him/his. I use the term “preferred” loosely, because even back then I wasn’t too sure about how comfortable I was with it. During my senior year of college, I had a variety of pronouns assumed for me: feminine, masculine, and they/them/theirs pronouns. The people who knew me used masculine pronouns, but strangers who didn’t know me would use feminine pronouns. I cannot deny that I felt complimented when people assumed feminine pronouns because it meant that the feminine qualities I was trying to achieve for myself were being communicated: soft, petite,

Although I have a wonderful support system composed of people who push me to be myself and accept me for who I am, there are still inevitable, stressful situations I have 25

I can’t have a discussion with [my parents] about gender identity, the person I am, or the person I want to become.

to deal with on the daily. Instances of being misgendered make me feel incredibly self-conscious. My first encounter with it was when I was stopped from using the men’s bathroom. Although the stranger did a double take and eventually let me be, the interaction created a great deal of stress and anxiety. From that point on, I became very cautious about which bathroom to use.

Gender identity is a concept that my parents have never thought about because their whole life has been about surviving and making a better life for their family. They came to America post-Vietnam War in 1979 and 1980 as refugees from Laos, with not much else but themselves. They didn’t know much or any English when they first settled, but they learned how to get by and build a new life for their family. I deeply respect what they’ve gone through and am grateful for everything they’ve done for me, but they lean more towards a traditional Lao lifestyle while I lean more towards a more progressive one.

Most people have never had to think about which bathroom to use because they know their identity and appearance matches the gender of the bathroom they are using. I use gender-neutral bathrooms whenever they are available, but when there are none, I start to internally panic. I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable or get assaulted for using the “wrong” bathroom. My body starts to sweat heavily and I have to make a decision on how badly I need to go or if I can wait until I get home. I get really hot and my heartbeat rapidly increases. What usually ends up happening is I use my hair to conceal parts of my face and use the women’s restroom.

It’s difficult to speak to my parents when we have a linguistic barrier, as well as different views and beliefs. They’re very stubborn people who don’t like to listen to what anyone else has to say, myself included. I don’t know how they feel when I’m out in public with them. I don’t know if they want to be seen with me in public or around their friends. I don’t know their overall feelings or thoughts about me, which gives me great anxiety when I’m around them. No one wants to disappoint their parents, but my happiness and my future is up to me to decide. I have prepared myself in case they don’t want to be in my future.

I believe that whatever someone’s biological sex may be and whatever someone’s gender identity may be, it doesn’t concern anybody else but them. The same should apply when they use the bathroom. Gender-neutral bathrooms are an all-around safe and inclusive space. I don’t understand why there aren’t more single bathrooms because they save you so much stress, anxiety, and embarrassment no matter what gender you identify with.

One thing I know for sure is that I love myself and am proud to be who I am. Having received so much positivity and support from friends and people I don’t even know gives me the strength to continue being myself. I’m going to continue working on my relationship with my family, but there is always the possibility I may end up losing the people I love the most. My hope is that I can inspire others in a similar position to find the strength in themselves to be who they are without fear of judgment. It might take some time, but life does get better. 

Another major source of my anxiety comes from my family. I can only speak English, while my parents speak a combination of Lao and broken English. I have never had a deep, meaningful conversation with them because I can never find the words necessary to communicate what I’m thinking or feeling. I can’t have a discussion with them about gender identity, the person I am, or the person I want to become.

Photo by rawpixel

Excerpt from “Sisterhood: Reflections & Transitions,” page thirty-three.

Sisterhood: Reflections & Transitions WORDS BY KIA LEE PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE LEE FAMILY ARCHIVE / PHOTOSHOOT BY MAILEE YANG

Three Hmong American womxn look back on their journeys together from childhood to adulthood. 29

Previous page: Mom dressed us up in traditional Hmong outfits one day to snap some photos. From left to right, me, Jouapag. and Mayzong. Right: Taking photos in our backyard was a thing… From left to right, Jouapag, Mayzong, my dad holding my youngest brother Jing, Xang, and me.

Growing up as the youngest out of three sisters was a real pain but also a blessing. My two sisters have always been outspoken, unapologetic, and stubborn. When we were younger, I loathed these traits during petty arguments. However, I’ve learned that these are the exact traits I need to stand my ground and fight for what I want as a womxn of color. Although we have a relationship where I can confide in them and seek advice, it’s rarely the other way around. Maybe it’s because I’m their little sister, or because of the distance that physically separated us for a couple of crucial years. Maybe it’s because they have experienced similar stages of their lives together and I relate to them less than they can relate to each other. For the first time, I sat down with Jouapag and Mayzong to talk about their experiences growing up as first-generation Southeast Asian American womxn. To hear them speak about their journey of identity acceptance, spirituality, and mental health reminded me just how strong and resilient they’ve grown up to be. They may say that they’re the ones who’ve watched me grow up, but I too have observed their self-growth. In a

world where womxn are constantly dismissed and silenced, they continuously redefine what it means to be Hmong-American womxn on their own terms. Give a brief introduction about yourselves. Jouapag: My name is Jouapag. I’m 27 years old and I identify with she/hers pronouns. I’m a wife, soon to be mother and eldest daughter of my family. I’ve lived in Minnesota my whole life. Mayzong: I hate this question (laughs). I am a young professional and a lifelong learner, and I really believe that through and through. I’m also still trying to figure out what I want to do when I grow up, even though I’m 25 years old. How do you view your role as the oldest and second-oldest siblings? Jouapag: When I finally understood that I was the guinea pig child, I didn’t have a lot of negativity about it. As

the oldest sister, I see my role as the person who brings the family together. I get to be the bridge between our parents and you siblings. I think being an older sister has been a good exercise for me to realize that I can’t control anyone. I see you siblings going through journeys similar to mine, but all I can really do is offer advice and talk with you all about it. I love being an oldest sister. It’s what makes me bossy and I don’t care (laughs). Mayzong: Honestly, I feel blessed. I feel like Jouapag did a lot more of the emotional labor, arguing and fighting, while I was more like a cheerleader and follower. I think it was difficult as the second-oldest too, because growing up, Jouapag was like the model minority kid (laughs). I remember when we were really young, Mom and Dad would be like, “Why don’t you have good grades like Jouapag?” I’ve always felt like I’m never capable enough in academic work and fields.

“Being an older sister has been a good exercise for me to realize that I can’t control anyone.”

As sisters, all of us have different dynamics, but I feel like I’m a medium between you and Jouapag. Not that I’m a mediator but I fluctuate between who I am. I can be really silly with you but I can’t be like that with Jouapag. At the same time, I can have really deep and personal conversations with Jouapag. How do you view me as the youngest sister? Jouapag: I see you as your own person, not just as the youngest girl in the family. It’s been amazing to watch you grow and develop a mind and voice of your own. I feel like we agree more when it comes to handling conflicts, but

Above: Celebrating my second birthday! From left to right, Jouapag, my mom holding me, and Mayzong. Left: Cooling off to a hot summer day in June 1998. From left to right, Jouapag, Mayzong, and me.

Above: From left to right, Jouapag, me, and Mayzong

Mayzong is the opposite. She takes a tough love approach, whereas you and I are like, “Let’s sit down and talk.” Mayzong: Super bratty (laughs). I actually feel a little bit sad because I didn’t grow up with you for as long. We only went to school for two years together. You’re someone that I feel the need to protect and fight

for since you’re younger than me. Because Jouapag and I have always had to test the waters for you siblings, I feel like we have to protect you all. I think many Southeast Asians born in the United States experience communication barriers with their parents, and it can be difficult to have honest conversations with them.

“Jouapag and I had to help [our parents] understand what it meant to be a Hmong American kid.”

got married as well, and they saw me as an adult member of the community. I think being married is a social passport in Southeast Asian culture. You become recognized as your own family unit.

with us two. Jouapag and I had to help them understand what it meant to be a Hmong American kid, so we had to communicate so much more with them when we were younger.

When it comes to communicating with our parents, thankfully, they taught me how to speak Hmong when I was a kid. I’m still relatively fluent. Because I’m able to meet them halfway, we can have these deeper conversations.

What was your experience growing up as a Southeast Asian American womxn, more specifically as Hmong American womxn?

As much as our parents help shape us, we have equal responsibility to shape them too. We’re off trying to save the world and instead of asking them to be with us, we often brush them aside. I know everyone comes from a different family situation, but I hope that before we demand for our parents to understand us, we take some time to understand them too. Growing up, what was your relationship like with Mom and Dad? What has changed since then or has it stayed the same? Jouapag: Being the oldest makes a really big difference. When I moved to college, our parents began to see me as an adult rather than a kid. My relationship with them changed when I

Mayzong: Sometimes it’s hard to express my emotions because the language is difficult at times. Our parents lack in English and I lack in Hmong. To me that’s really sad, because we literally cannot speak in one language where we understand each other thoroughly. I agree that Mom and Dad do have a more comfortable relationship-

Jouapag: We lived out in the suburbs, so I went to school with a lot of white kids. Because of that, I always just tried to fit in more with the white kids. Growing up, if we had to go to a string tying ceremony and people at school asked me what I did that weekend, I would just lie because it wasn’t “normal”. Finally, I went to college and realized that I don’t fit in. Being with other Southeast Asian, Hmong and international students in college, I finally started becoming more okay and prideful about my differences. That’s where I discovered my passion for inclusion, diversity, and social justice. Coming to understand that all the reasons why I’m different allows me to better understand people who are different from me. A quote that I aspire to live by is, “I want to build a world where many worlds can exist.”

“We are really resilient because of our history of trauma, war, and violence, but sometimes we mistake ignoring our pain for resilience.”

Mayzong: Being Hmong to me means I belong to a unique culture with a unique history. I belong to a very long line of ancestors who have been displaced multiple times but have persevered for centuries. Perseverance runs in my blood. I have no reason to give up because my people have given me every reason to always have hope. As a Hmong womxn, I also have to work a lot harder for what I want. It’s not necessarily that I cannot fail, but failure is not an option. It’s partly because of how I was raised by our parents and how they conditioned me to believe that failure is not an option. Another part is that because our parents have already given me basic survival needs as a foundation, I have to do better. What does mental health mean to you as a Southeast Asian womxn, and how have you coped with your own mental health problems? Jouapag: In Hmong culture, we’re taught to practice overdrive versus just sitting with the dark parts in our life. We are really resilient because of our history of trauma, war, and violence, but sometimes we mistake ignoring our pain for resilience. Blogging made me realize that I’m actually not okay, and that’s how I

started my blog Indigo Pinecones. I realized that maybe if I’m feeling this way, other people might be too. It’s one thing to know that you’re unhappy and it’s another thing to do something about it. Healing does not happen alone. Mayzong: Specifically within the Hmong culture, there aren’t a lot of mental health-related terms that exist. Also, I’m still dealing with childhood trauma that has never been spoken about. Besides that, people have mainly perceived me as Asian, not Southeast Asian. There’s a different identity being Southeast Asian, and I guess I kind of have the imposter syndrome. I have a very serious sense of being inadequate. I also have a lot of negative self talk, which is something I’m learning how to unbuild. My lightbulb moments with addressing my mental health came in different phases. When I got to college, I realized that I must be doing something right and that I should stop second-guessing myself. When I began my first professional job, I felt stuck and like I wasn’t doing anything more in my life. I’ve moved into a different job position, and since then, I now realize how dark that period in my life was. When 34

I finally got a new job, I saw how much more light was coming through me. Sometimes you can literally feel how much light is coming onto you because you just feel a lot less stressed. My willingness to believe my own lies about my happiness was surprising to me. I kept telling myself, “this is okay, you’re not dead so you’re fine.” Now that I know that feeling, I know to never allow myself to feel like that ever again. How did you come to focus on your spiritual journey? Jouapag: First, I had to acknowledge my own unhappiness. For a long time, I lived with an overwhelming amount of anxiety and sense of powerlessness. I started seeing a life coach—a Hmong gentleman named Bruce Thao—who has a very holistic approach that involved exploring what my spirituality meant to me. I started doing more research on meditation and how to deal with my anxiety. I realized that I needed to practice mindfulness, meditate, and ground myself in the day-to-day rather than worry about the future. When I started understanding my anxiety and the stress I was putting my body through, I was able to set boundaries with people and cut out drama. That’s how I

“Don’t listen to adults about advice because it’s usually just a list of their own regrets.”

started to explore my own spirituality. We never grew up in a religious household, Mom and Dad were never really super strict. It’s kind of funny that now as an adult, I’m trying to figure out what religion and spirituality mean to me. I feel calmer and happier. Mayzong: I would definitely say that I’m on my own spiritual journey. I’m more spiritual than I am religious. I’ve eventually come to understand that if me and my soul can never feel full, then I will never feel satisfied in my life. Even when it comes to letting go of past trauma and pain, I have to let go spiritually and emotionally too. I feel like I’m at a point where I feel content but I’m still seeking for more because there’s no endpoint in life. I think it’s a continuous search of adding things and collecting—emotionally, intellectually, everything. The purpose of this magazine is to envision a reality for Southeast Asian representation. Any advice or words of wisdom for young Southeast Asians who may read the magazine? Jouapag: I personally hate giving young people advice. I sometimes think advice from adults is more about their own life regrets rather than truly authentically good advice.

Don’t listen to adults about advice because it’s usually just a list of their own regrets. You have your own life to live. Make the mistakes you want to make and learn the lessons you want to learn.

Learn more about the Lee sisters and the photographer:

Mayzong: You’re not alone. You have a community. Many Southeast Asians come from similar stories of being refugees, so just know that you’re not alone in your feelings. Ask for help when needed. Don’t expect yourself to just go through it alone. 

 __mzl

Kia Lee  kiaclee.com Mayzong Lee Jouapag Lee  indigopinecones.com Mailee Yang  hergoldenhour.com  hergoldenhour

Words of Wisdom from a Refugenius An interview with Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay INTERVIEW AND ILLUSTRATION BY BRENDA TRAN

SAYMOUKDA DUANGPHOUXAY VONGSAY is a Lao American writer on a mission to create tools and spaces for the amplification of refugee voices. A former refugee herself, Saymoukda’s work spans multiple genres including poetry, theater, and experimental cultural production. In addition to an extensive body of poetry, her notable works include her critically acclaimed play Kung Fu Zombies vs. Cannibals and most recently, her children’s book When Everything Was Everything. In our conversation, Saymoukda discusses her career, goals as a Lao American artist, challenges that she has faced, and what keeps her going. When did you decide you were going to be a poet/playwright/activist? Was there a sudden lightbulb moment or was it more of a process? I’ve been writing since I was maybe eight or nine years old. There was no lightbulb then. I was raised around artists and writing and storytelling came naturally. It was normal in my family to be creative. I wrote short stories and 90% of those plots meandered and went nowhere. When I was in middle school I started exploring poetry and studying poems written by my favorite poets. I was heavily influenced by Maya Angelou, Lucille Clifton, and Langston Hughes. In high school I kept composition notebooks. I wrote in them constantly. Each book has a name and is a time capsule, really, for those four to five months when I was writing in them. I got into playwriting because my BFF told me to do it. I joined a collective of playwrights of color—something that some current fellows at The

“Signal boost Lao refugee narratives using inspiration from comic books, Dolly Parton songs, martial arts films, hip-hop culture, and B-rated horror and sci-fi films—[they] may seem like miscombinations but that shit is like, my intrinsic self. ”

Playwrights’ Center initiated as a way to signal boost each other’s work and voices. I was just one year into learning about the theater world when I was given an opportunity to further explore my voice as a playwright through a playwriting fellowship with Theater Mu. The prize after the two year long fellowship was a full production. That’s how Kung Fu Zombies vs. Cannibals got produced. Then, in 2017, a publisher approached me, fanned my interest in writing a picture book. It was a beautiful way of having “When Everything Was Everything” live alongside illustrations because it has been a poem for so long. I’m thankful that I got to choose my illustrator. I’ve been a fan of Cori Nakamura Lin’s work for years now and finally had the opportunity. If there ever was a lightbulb that went off, I’d say that it was about five, six years ago when I was able to define my voice and aesthetic—signal boost Lao refugee narratives using inspiration from comic books, Dolly Parton songs, martial arts films, hiphop culture, and B-rated horror and sci fi films—which may seem like miscombinations but that shit is like, my intrinsic self. This is my comfort area, my home, and it’s served me well.

I’m better empowered because I’m just being me. How did you manage to take that first big, serious dive into your creative career? I’ve been serious about my artmaking for almost two decades now but I will say that it was just three years ago that I decided that I was going to shift 60% of my energy and time into my work—this meant resigning from three organizational board of directors and two advisory boards—to refocus on me. I was able to concentrate on my artistic and professional next steps, you know, like the topics I want to excavate in my next creative works and the resources I need access to in order to make it happen. So, in the last three years I was able to do this and received a little over ten grants and fellowships to support my work. The challenges that I’m facing now and the questions that I’m asking myself are, how am I going to balance being a new mom, teaching adjunct, working part time at the University, and producing/finishing up creative projects? I think that if you’re in it for the long run you’ll have several of these “big” “dives” BACK into your career and those dives could be a change in how you’re approaching

Access is necessary. Being responsive to community is necessary. Otherwise, what good is this work if the ones I’ve created it for aren’t able to experience it?

your work or experimenting with a different voice or taking an artistic risk. Besides written and spoken word poetry, you’ve worked in a wide range of other mediums including theater, podcast, film, and even children’s books. How does a multimedia approach help you accomplish your goals as an artist and activist? It feels natural for me to be multi/ inter-disciplinary. There’s definitely that danger of “jack of all trades; master of none,” but so far so good. My energies have been on theater, poetry, and picture books. Fortunately for me, I’ve gotten fellowships for those three mediums/ genres. Fellowships are essential to gaining greater access to information and time to focus on your own creative and professional growth. Being multi/inter-disciplinary also allows me to make my work more accessible to more people. For example, “When Everything Was Everything” started as a poem and was great for people who attended poetry readings in coffee shops.

For people who weren’t into poetry readings in coffee shops, “When Everything Was Everything” also lived on broadsides inside buses, trains, and train platforms as public art for every day people. And now, it’s been reborn into a picture book for children and their grown ups to experience together. Access is necessary. Being responsive to community is necessary. Otherwise, what good is this work if the ones I’ve created it for aren’t able to experience it? Like, that shit is on me. That’s my responsibility. Your work reveals an incredible amount of vulnerability. How do you tap into that valve without doing too much damage to yourself and others? I’m a crier. I just want to normalize feelings and express a fuller humanity through my work, especially the experiences of former refugees navigating America and all of its accoutrements. I haven’t always been honest or vulnerable with my writing because maybe I wasn’t sure of my 40

artistic voice. Maybe it’s also because I didn’t have the maturity or experience-language? So my work is heavily informed and inspired by the experiences of survivors from the Secret War (a proxy war of the Vietnam War). There’s a high level of responsibility because these stories are sacred. The community has been incredibly giving and no one has come after me. I’m being as gentle as I can but I feel like even the slightest bit of carelessness can tarnish the trust that’s been building. Throughout your career, I’m sure you’ve had moments of self-doubt. What kind of thoughts did you struggle with and how do you co-exist with or move past them? About three years ago a friend and mentor said that he didn’t consider me an artist and that all I had going for me was because of my social capital. That was pretty hurtful and disappointing. I identified as an artist. I approached my work rigorously. I didn’t understand why having a supportive community could be a bad thing.

Left: Cultural Beauty Pageant scene from the play Hmong Lao Friendship Play (written and performed by Vongsay and May Lee-Yang). Photo by Sean Smuda. Below: Giving a blessing as the Shaman Warrior at the Saint Paul Art Crawl 2017. Photo by Laichee Yang.

Do you ever feel burdened by people seeing you as a spokesperson for Lao Americans or Southeast Asian refugees? Not at all. The stories of ethnic Lao are not often heard or known in popular culture, in media, in history books. Millions (in Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia) died and they can’t tell their story. I have the capacity to do it, so I’m doing it.

I wondered, “Do I need awards and other recognition to get your respect?” And that’s what I did. I started collecting awards, grants, and fellowships and even more social capital. After a while, the desire for approval faded. I was growing creatively, learning new shit, re-learning tough shit that I gave up on previously, making new friends, deepening relationships, traveling, eating good, getting bills paid, paying artists. I was doing LIFE.

As younger generations of Laotian Americans are born, they become further removed from the diaspora, even though the history is very much a part of their identity. How do you envision them interacting your work? My first play, produced by Theater Mu in 2013 was Kung Fu Zombies vs. Cannibals. It’s about the secret carpet bombing missions committed by the CIA during the Vietnam War. I wanted to bring up a difficult and complicated history that needed to be discussed and examined. I wondered how I was going to do this without boring my audience. I decided to be true to myself. ZOMBIES. The zombies stood in for

the undetonated bombies buried in Laos. The soundscape was inspired by traditional Lao music, Buddhist chants, and hip-hop; some imagery paid homage to old school martial arts films and anime. Kung Fu Zombies vs. Cannibals was Theater Mu’s highest grossing world premiere, sold out more than ten shows, and over fifty of the tickets sold were to students and young people. Going forward, I hope that my connections to the aftermath of war and affinity for pop culture will continue to help me find ways to connect with younger generations of Laotians (Lao, Mien, Tai Dam, Hmong, Khmu, etc.). What’s your strategy for making shit happen? My strength comes from Grace Lee Boggs. My motivation comes from haters. My ability to get shit done comes from my husband Akiem (who takes care of our baby so I can do it). But the heart of the work is knowing what is at stake: erasure. When do you think your work will be done, if ever? LMFAO. 

Outside forces aside, imposter syndrome is real. Sometimes I don’t feel like I belong in certain spaces because I’ve never been invited to imagine myself there, let alone to be there physically. So, Grace Lee Boggs is my personal patron saint of badassery. Revisiting some of her quotes helps with the imposter syndrome: “You don’t choose the times you live in, but you do choose who you want to be, and you do choose how you want to think.”

 saymoukdatherefugenius.com  saymoukda.vongsay  refugenius  refugenius 41

A FLAVOR THAT STANDS THE TEST OF TIME.

Thè

Uống đi. It’s good for your bao tử. Good for tan mỡ. Bác sĩ nói phải drink tea every day.

Au Jasmin

Who’s Your Jungle Asian Celebrity Soulmate? Take our quiz to find out—it just might change your life.

01. How would your best friends describe you? A. Dorky, down-to-earth, and pleasant B. Full of attitude (and wisdom) C. Cute and ditsy D. Mean and opinionated as hell E. The classic femme fatale

07. Favorite movie genre? A. Popular sci-fi and fantasy movie franchises B. Documentaries about rich and famous people with dark secrets C. Feel-good romantic comedies D. Idyllic and hipster Wes Anderson flicks E. Thrillers with jaw-dropping plot twists

02. What’s for lunch? A. A big bowl of phở đặc biệt B. The spiciest bowl of khao poon I can find C. Korean BBQ (did someone say unlimited banchan refills?) D. I don’t care as long as it’s deep fried E. Fish curry served in a clay pot

08. What is your ideal vacation destination? A. Bright and sunny California! B. I’m more of an East Coast person C. A resort hidden somewhere in the misty mountains of East Asia D. One of those secluded resorts in Vietnam where rich white people go to lol E. Hustling and bustling Phnom Penh!

03. How do you turn around a bad day? A. Stay away from social media and take a bubble bath B. Tweet about the things I appreciate in life C. Karaoke party! D. Gather my BFFs together to sip tea E. Go for a punching bag session at the gym

09. If you were to die an unnatural death, how would it happen? A. Aliens, 100% B. An on-stage brawl at a drag show C. Being crushed by my adoring fans D. By falling off a cliff while hiking during a silent retreat E. Death by combat ritual

04. What is your weapon of choice? A. My wonderful conflict mediation skills B. A six-inch stiletto covered in rhinestones C. My K-Pop dance moves D. Nunchucks, all the way E. Sai daggers, like the one in Ninja Turtles

10. You think you’ve found your soulmate IRL. What do you do? A. Get to know them, become best friends, then get them to fall in love with me. It’s probably the most practical thing on this list. B. Strut my stuff on the dance floor—if they can keep up, then they are worthy C. Ask them for their Snapchat? D. TRAP DAT ASS E. Start a bar fight so they can marvel at my combat skills

05. What turns you off the most on a first date? A. Talking too much about oneself B. Poor presentation C. Dissing my favorite idols D. Taking me to a tacky Asian “fusion” restaurant E. Cracking immature jokes 06. What is a characteristic your soulmate must possess? A. Kindness. Bonus points if they’re into nerdy stuff like Star Wars and transnational feminist theory. B. The ability to complement my fierce personality C. Whatever the characters in K-Dramas are made of D. A good sense of humor E. Intelligence and maturity 43

Results If you answered...

Mostly A’s: Kelly Marie Tran You’re not asking for too much! You just want someone who’s adorkable and down to earth, with a sunny outlook on life. Your soulmate has a big heart but knows how to call out BS when they see it. They go with the flow and have a knack for maintaining trust. The two of you will take it one step at a time with no illusions of grandeur. You found a best friend for life who is content to stick with you through mundane and exciting things alike!

Mostly B’s: Jujubee You need someone who can get on your level and work it as well as you do. Neither of you can be confident 100% of the time, but you and your soulmate are fierce as hell. People may be quick to make assumptions based on your sassy behavior and never-ending pursuit of the perfect selfie, but in reality the two of you are grounded in your beliefs and never take things for granted. Life is a runway and the two of you will slay it.

Mostly C’s: Cao Lu Just admit it, you’re a HIGH KEY Koreaboo. And that’s okay, because there is someone out there that can fulfill every K-Drama fueled fantasy and couples goal you’ve ever imagined. Confessions in the pouring rain, surprise hugs from behind, endearing insults, you name it! Like many K-Drama protagonists, you’re a hopeless romantic. You’re clumsy, shy, and kinda awkward when it comes to meeting new people. But hey, at least you know a thing or two about good food.

Mostly D’s: Ali Wong You know exactly what you want and you know how to get it. You need a tigress that is just as vicious and simultaneously nurturing as you are. The two of you might be snobs, but at least you don’t take yourselves too seriously. You want to feel needed by your partner, and vice versa. That’s why the two of you are content to trap each other’s asses and live a comfortable life together.

Mostly E’s: Elodie Yung You need some mystery, passion, and intrigue in your life. You’re drawn to people who are rough around the edges, just like yourself. You’re a total softie, but you’re also as tough as nails. It’s inevitable that you and your soulmate butt heads from time to time, but what you lack you make up for in the ability to persevere and make compromises. You don’t have time for childish shenanigans and neither does your soulmate! 44

Reclaiming the Vietnamese Áo Dài WORDS BY HAMY HUYNH PHOTOGRAPHS BY CHARLIE QINGKANG CAO

In June 2017, I came across advertisements for an Australian clothing brand called Miishka. The advertisement featured a white model wearing what looked like a Vietnamese áo dài—except it was shorter, and she wasn’t wearing any pants. The Miishka website listed the áo dài as a “90’s Vintage Oriental Dress” and was selling it for $95. Aside from this áo dài, they were also selling cultural clothing of multiple other countries and trying to pass them off as “vintage” and “high-fashion.”

as a symbol of innocence and youth. Thus, female students in Vietnam commonly wear a white áo dài to school. Red, on the other hand, is a symbol of love and maturity. It’s perfect for a woman to wear on her wedding day to celebrate the couple’s passion and romance. While some colors have deeper significance than others, Vietnamese society has become less traditional, allowing people to pick colors and fabrics that they think will suit them best. Vietnamese clothing evolved alongside political and social change in Vietnam. While nobody truly knows when the áo dài was first introduced, the garment didn’t become popularized in Vietnam until 1744. At the time, Vietnam was divided into two regions: the north and south. The northern lords of Hanoi required subjects to wear a garment called áo giao lĩnh, which was a traditional cross-collared robe reminiscent of the robes worn by the Chinese of the Han Dynasty. In the south, civilians were required to wear trousers and a long silk gown. During the 19th century, southerners simplified their wardrobe by shortening the gown, which transformed it into the áo bà ba. Meanwhile, northerners began wearing what resembled more of what we know today as the modern áo dài.

When I saw this, I felt completely devastated and many thoughts rampaged inside my mind. This is cultural appropriation! How could someone wear my culture’s clothing in such a distasteful way? How could a clothing brand try to take my culture and turn it into some sort of club attire?! What occurred to me was that mainstream fashion has become another way to oppress multicultural people, so I’m taking matters into my own hands to show people the beauty of áo dài, how it came about, and why it’s so important to me.

HISTORY OF THE ÁO DÀI Áo dài directly translates into English as “long shirt”. Today, the áo dài is form-fitting and has a front and back flap. The right side of the dress has many hooks or buttons that are used to give the dress shape and it’s worn with long, loose pants that hug snugly around your waist. The áo dài is made out of light-weight and expensive materials such as velvet, silk, or satin. They come in many different colors and designs. Traditionally, Vietnamese women wear white

While the áo dài is Vietnamese in its own right, its design is influenced by Chinese and French attire. Each time Vietnam was colonized, the áo dài went through changes in design. For thousands of years, China ruled over Vietnam (from 111 BC to 980 AD). The áo dài’s design incorporates Chinese fabrics and the traditional diagonal

Our áo dài is considered to be the child of both Eastern and Western cultures.

button closure of the garment, which may explain why the Vietnamese áo dài slightly resembles the traditional Chinese attire, qipao. Under French colonization from 1887-1954, the áo dài changed into a floor-length gown that had a tighter fit to show off a woman’s curvature. The new design required women to wear corsets. Many fashion designers at the time also incorporated lace, puffy sleeves, and an overall more Westernized feel to the traditional Vietnamese attire. Between the end of French rule and today, more modifications had been made to the áo dài. Modern áo dài designs continue to take inspiration from Western fashion. Today, the garment is designed to delicately shift with the body to give the wearer an appearance of both modesty and sensuality. Our áo dài is considered to be the child of both Eastern and Western cultures. The struggle to gain freedom from colonization is what led to the current design of the áo dài. Today’s áo dài represents Vietnamese pride, our people’s identity, individuality, beauty, and grace.

EMBRACING MY VIETNAMESE AMERICAN IDENTITY THROUGH MY ÁO DÀI Yes, I am proud to be an American citizen and enjoy the democratic lifestyle here in the United States, but Vietnam is also my home. I moved away from Vietnam at the age of one, but it’s still a huge part of who I am. Truthfully, I used to be ashamed of being Vietnamese because it made me

The áo dài has such a deep and meaningful background, having come about through more than a thousand years of colonization and struggle.

different from everyone else. I didn’t understand why on every special occasion my mom put me in an áo dài and I never wanted to pick up my parents’ phone calls because I didn’t want to speak Vietnamese in front of my friends. But now as I’ve become older, I am incredibly appreciative of my Vietnamese roots. I speak Vietnamese because I want to retain my language and I proudly don my áo dài with pride and elegance. Vietnam is the country in which my parents fell in love, where my siblings and I were born, where most of my family members still reside, and its language will forever be my mother tongue. Hopefully, by now, you can understand why I’m deeply hurt by Miishka’s decision to appropriate my cultural clothing and exploit it as “oriental vintage” clothing. The áo dài has such a deep and meaningful background, having come about through more than a thousand years of colonization and struggle. I truly hope that all of you reading can feel my sincerity and understand my reasoning behind why I am taking a stand to reclaim the áo dài for Vietnamese people. 

Dear Miishka, I am reclaiming my culture’s attire that you appropriated from us. This is how you wear a Vietnamese áo dài. —Hamy Huynh

HAMY HUYNH is a third-year student majoring in Strategic Communications at the University of Minnesota — Twin Cities. Huynh is the current President of the Vietnamese Student Association of Minnesota (VSAM) and works as a content creator at CLAgency, a student-run communications agency on her college campus. In her spare time, she enjoys writing articles on her fashion and lifestyle blog, The Clothing Statement. Learn more about Hamy and her blog at:  theclothingstatement.com  theclothingstatement  theclothingstatement@gmail.com 52

theclothingstatement.com

Following the Threads What are the gaps in your history—the ones you fill with imagination— the ones that keep you up at night? My gap is my mom. WORDS BY SUNNY THAO

There will always be gaps in history and we will always find a way to fill these gaps with art, whether it’s through myths, folktales, music, or urban legends.

paj ntaub, or stitching patterns (there is another form of paj ntaub that was created in the Ban Vinai camps, but the stitching patterns of Hmong clothing hold significant meaning and can be dated back to when the Hmong were in Southern China). They have also documented their history through music and stories. The stories passed down from generation to generation are reflections of that community’s history.

This summer I had the opportunity to conduct research with the Ronald E. McNair Program at Augsburg University. The program is meant to help underrepresented undergraduate students gain research experience and help prepare them for graduate school. For ten weeks during the summer, students attend workshops that cover a wide range of topics including how to apply for graduate school, manage time during summer research, and navigate graduate school as an underrepresented student.

Though they may contain fiction or exaggerated truths, they reveal a great deal of history. What are the gaps in your history—the ones you fill with imagination—the ones that keep you up at night?

My research focused on tracing the Hmong’s roots in Southern China through stories told by Hmong people. While conducting my research, it was frustrating not being able to find many books about the Hmong’s history in China.

My gap is my mom. I have long known about the stories of the Secret War and its aftermath, but not in full detail. My own mother lived this history, yet I know so little about her experiences.

Through this struggle, I learned about the importance of storytelling in communities with no writing system or practices.

During the war, many families were split apart and being an orphan was common. Ever since I could remember, my mom always talked about being an orphan and the mistreatment that came with this label. Without parents, it was difficult to survive on her own. I remember a story about how she was so hungry that she stole a bit of salt from her uncle to help ease the hunger pains.

Though it wasn’t until the arrival of Baptist missionaries that the Hmong adopted a writing system, they have always documented their history through art forms like

She hid in the dark when everyone was asleep and licked the salt off her hand, convincing herself that she would be full afterwards.

I had to remind myself that in times of political turmoil, those who emerge victorious are often the ones in control of the narrative.

I wonder if the stories I try to uncover will break me.

Like many children, she was forced to learn how to navigate around land mines and through the dark jungle. Eventually, she made it to Xieng Kham refugee camp in Northern Thailand. This is where she met my dad and they started their journey together.

This was nothing compared to what my mom went through. A child at the age of 12, she laid on a forest floor covered in dead leaves and prayed to survive the night so she could cross a river, even though she couldn’t swim. And here I was in a similar environment, petrified even though I wasn’t in real danger. In the last moments of the simulation I noticed the stars and their beauty. I wonder if my mom noticed them as she laid in hiding.

In 1987, my mom left the refugee camp with my eldest brother in her belly, my dad, and all of his family members. Although she was with so many people, I wonder if she felt lonely. I wonder how long she ran in the forest and how she felt when she walked into a refugee camp for the first time. I wonder how she felt when she stepped onto the bus to leave the camp and I wonder about all the bits in between that are too hard for her to remember.

There are more questions for my mom, but as much as I want to ask them, I don’t. I’m afraid that my questions may seem too stupid and I know that they will conjure painful memories. Asking these types of questions means I will have to brace myself for answers I can’t even imagine. What if I can’t handle her reality?

I yearn for these answers. I know I have to ask the questions first, but they always get stuck inside.

I’ve been so privileged to be born and raised in America— to be sheltered from the gruesome violence and spared the arduous journey to a different land—that I wonder if the stories I try to uncover will break me.

Three years ago, I participated in a simulation of the Secret War through an Augsburg University Asian Student Organization leadership retreat. In the simulation, the goal was for the refugees (participants) to make their way to the safe zone, which was a campfire that represented a refugee camp located somewhere in the forest. Communist soldiers walked the refugees through the forest. The deeper we were, the more disoriented and confusing our mental map of the forest became. Firecrackers were used to simulate the sound of guns and bombs.

I want to believe that all my experiences, from the pursuit of Hmong narratives and the gradual uncovering of my family’s history, to the Secret War simulation, are the threads that connect me to my mom. I may not be ready to ask all the questions I seek to answer, but I can stitch together what I’ve learned to create a fuller picture. My experiences and what I know of my family and my people’s histories are the only concrete pieces I can use to fill my gaps.

I remember lying on the forest floor, covered in leaves, waiting for the simulation to end. My whole body was freezing and I was so mad at myself. I was too afraid of running to the campfire because I was afraid of getting caught by fake soldiers who couldn’t actually harm me. Out of frustration, I cried.

The rest I can fill with imagination. 

SUNNY THAO is a senior at Augsburg University and an emerging playwright. Most of her work explores her own identity and what it means to be Hmong American and Asian American. She focuses on the past and aims to bring their stories into the present. She is also passionate about discovering the unwritten history of various communities and finding where these histories are hidden, whether they lie in folktales, oral histories, or books.  letterstomai.weebly.com

 sunnythao16@gmail.com 56

Above: This photo was taken in Laos. The middle child is my mom. This was taken before my grandmother passed away. As you can see, she had cloth wrapped around her because she was sick.

Celebrating Hmong American Experiences Through Illustration An interview with Duachaka Her INTERVIEW BY BRENDA TRAN

DUACHAKA HER is a Hmong American cartoonist and illustrator. Her love for drawing and storytelling started at a young age from watching animated cartoon shows to reading comic books at the library and bookstore. As a child of Hmong immigrants, she struggled with the balance between being Hmong and American. These difficulties led her to become fond of her culture and create works about her experiences growing up. Duachaka graduated from the University of Wisconsin â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Stout with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Entertainment Design and concentration in Comics and Sequential Art. She is the creator of graphic novels The Collection and Then and Now. She also illustrates picture books and is a member of the Society of Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Book Writers and Illustrators. Today she resides in Wisconsin and enjoys reading and watching movies in her spare time.

Above: A scene from childhood. Every year my mother would dress me up in a pair of newly sewn Hmong clothes to attend the local Hmong New Year.

In our conversation, Duachaka talks about her journey as a cartoonist and illustrator, her mission to celebrate Hmong American narratives through her work, and the importance of representation, among other things.

Right: Sisters Duab and Muaj from The Collection dancing to their favorite songs.

What’s your story? Where do I begin with this? I feel like my journey really began with my parents’ journey of coming to America. Without them, I wouldn’t be where I am today. How they lived and raised my siblings and I played a role in my values, experiences, and the work that I do now. My parents lived in Thailand and moved to the United States in 1992. My family settled in Fresno, California, which was where I was born. Shortly after, we moved again to central Wisconsin, which is where we resided most of our lives. I feel like I grew up in a pretty traditional Hmong household. When I mean traditional I mean my parents and grandparents practiced traditional Hmong values and beliefs. The girls in my family were expected to learn how to cook, clean, and were not allowed to go out that much. Since I wasn’t allowed to go out, I spent most of my free time at home drawing, writing, watching anime and cartoon shows, and reading manga. This was pretty much how I entertained myself and drawing and writing served as a creative outlet for me to express myself.

In my senior year of college, all the art and design students were required to do a capstone project that reflected everything they’ve acquired throughout their years in school. Since I was a comics student, I decided to create the graphic novel The Collection, which reflected my experiences growing up as a Hmong-American. After creating the story, I launched a Kickstarter campaign to fund the first print run of the book, and it was successful.

Throughout high school I drew a lot and took some art classes, which helped me improve my craft. After high school, I enrolled at the University of Wisconsin-Stout where I majored in Entertainment Design and concentrated in Comics and Sequential Art.

When I graduated from college, I took a few months off to enjoy and reorganize my life again. Eventually, I got a day job doing screen printing and worked on my personal projects and portfolio after work. Not long after that, I received several freelance illustration jobs to illustrate children’s picture books.

During my time in college I was trying to look for artists like me and realized the lack of Hmong artists that were out there. I knew a few, but there weren’t a lot.

Currently, I am illustrating a children’s picture book for the Saint Paul Public Library and working on a new middle-grade graphic novel with Avenue A Books.

How did you get your start as a cartoonist and illustrator? It’s kind of hard to define a particular moment. I started making my own comics as a kid, but didn’t take them too seriously until I went to college, where I was making comics more intentionally. For me, I officially felt like a professional cartoonist after making my graphic novel The Collection, since it was something I was really proud of. In terms of illustrating, when I was in college, I took a course where I learned about children’s literature and realized how books can be used as tools to aide a child’s growth. That course got me into children’s book illustration and the children’s literature community. My final project for that class was to write and illustrate my own children’s book. I started doing illustrations for others after I completed college. One of my first freelance jobs was when I illustrated The Greedy Couple children’s

Being an artist can be a very lonely journey, especially when you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see a lot of other artists who look like you.

book for author and educator See Lor. I met the author through a Facebook group and offered my illustration services after seeing her post about her first childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s book. From there, I received referrals from professors and individuals to illustrate more projects. At what point did it go from a hobby to a serious career decision? I think I decided to take my illustrations and comics more seriously when I was in college. For me, I felt like since I was going to be spending a lot of money and time in college, I needed to choose a field that I would be serious about and one that I would not regret spending four years pursuing. I knew drawing and storytelling was something I always loved to do and I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t imagine myself doing anything else, so I went for it. What were some difficulties you encountered starting your career in a field where Southeast Asians are so underrepresented? How did you move forward in spite of these obstacles?

Above: A scene from The Collection showing Duab getting dressed in Hmong clothes alongside her sister Muaj. Right: Cover of The Collection. Book is available for purchase at gumroad.com/duachakaher.

When I was in college I remembered taking a drawing class where my professor showed us an example of how a Native American artist incorporated 60

aspects of his culture into his artwork. At that moment, a lightbulb lit inside of me and made me curious about the Hmong artists in my community. I remembered doing some online research and realizing that there weren’t a lot of Hmong artists out there, or if there were, they never really made a career out of it. At one point, I even questioned myself if people wanted to invest in art created by Hmong artists since I did not see a lot of it out there. Being an artist can be a very lonely journey, especially when you don’t see a lot of other artists who look like you. I remember spending hours on my art projects on the weekends while some of my other friends went out to have fun or partied. I envied them sometimes because I felt like I was missing out on so much. However, I knew if I spent too much time having fun, I wouldn’t be able to take my art seriously and make it the best it can be. Even today, I find myself staying inside on weekends rather than going out. I realized that I did not want to be the artist that would just start and quit. I wanted to contribute to the Hmong American narrative and share my experiences with others. Luckily in college, I was able to become friends with several Hmong art and design students, and I feel like having that community of artists who understand and share your struggles with you is really empowering and it kept me making art. How do your experiences growing up as a Hmong American impact the decisions you make as an artist and storyteller? I think growing up as a Hmong American I realized that life was going to be hard for me. I grew up in a low-

income household, nobody in my family ever went to college before, yet my parents wanted me to go because they knew it was the best for me. I believed art and education was the thing that opened the door of opportunities for me. When I was drawing or writing, I wasn’t afraid of failing. I remembered participating in various illustration competitions when I was 61

younger and even though I wasn’t the winner, I knew that there was going to be more opportunities in the future. I think having failed so much when I was younger made me not too upset about failing now. Failure isn’t always bad, it’s really a great learning experience. I think growing up I was always cautioned to not go out or pursue something unknown because of

Start writing and drawing your narratives today. Don’t wait for someone to do it for you because that day will never come.

the possibility of failing. But with art, I knew I had to put myself out there and do the extraordinary to make it. The odds were already against me, so why not just go for it? I knew I had to be bold, not just in my life, but also in my work. I knew I had to create things that weren’t ordinary. I went to my library to search for books about Hmong people or stories, but there weren’t many. Therefore, I ended up creating works that reflected my Hmong American experiences in hopes that someone would be able to connect to it.

What’s your process for developing the characters in your stories? Would you say that they are biographical or share similar traits as you or people you know? Most of the characters in my stories are inspired by myself or the people in my life. I feel like when I am creating characters, I am putting a little bit of myself in them. I think about the characters’ backstory, their likes and dislikes, and their personality. Sometimes I do character sketches and learn more about a character through the expressions or poses they make. Your graphic novels The Collection and Then and Now are centered around Hmong American identity. As someone who consumed comics as a kid, why do you think representation is so important? Growing up I read a lot of manga. I was always fascinated by the characters and stories and most of them were based around Japanese culture. Reading manga and watching anime really got me interested in the culture, but at the same time, it made me realize why I didn’t appreciate my own culture as I did another. At that point, I realized that I had the ability to share my culture and experiences with people just like how these manga artists did. I had the ability to show the beauty of my culture. The Collection was based off my experiences growing up as a Hmong American while Then and Now was inspired by my parents and their view of having left their homeland and living in America. I feel like when you don’t see yourself portrayed in literature or the media, you feel like your voice and narrative don’t matter. On the other hand, when people of diverse backgrounds see

Opposite page: Cover art for Then and Now. Book is available for purchase at gumroad.com/duachakaher Left: One of my favorite dishes to make with my mom is eggrolls. I love its savory aroma and the taste of the glass noodles, meats, and veggies inside the crispy wrapper. I remember my first few times not being very good at wrapping them. They were either too loose or too full and lopsided. She would critique me and show me what to do and not do. The more eggrolls I wrapped, the better I got. I believe cooking with my mother improved my bond with her. She taught me something, I was learned, and we got to enjoy the food together.

themselves in narratives, it is very empowering. When we see characters that look like us and characters that are bold and ambitious, we start to feel the same way. It really empowers us to feel that we too can be bold and chase our dreams despite the obstacles in our lives. Because there are so few Hmong American comic artists out there, your work carries a lot of weight whether you like it or not. Do you feel pressured to present the Hmong American experience a certain way? I don’t really feel pressured, I just hope they like the stories I write! Most of the stories I create are based off my experiences growing up. I know everybody’s experience is different, but I wanted to be able to highlight experiences that some people can relate to as a minority.

Experiences like getting your name pronounced wrong, dealing with two lifestyles (American life at school and Hmong life at home), dealing with speaking two languages, and having immigrant parents who don’t really understand you all the time. I do get requests from people to do a story about a certain type of character or a story that involves something specific, but for me, I just make the kinds of stories that I want to see. Do you have any words of wisdom for all the aspiring Southeast Asian cartoonists and illustrators out there? My advice would be to just start writing and drawing your narratives today. Don’t wait for someone to do it for you because that day will never come. If you have an idea in your head that is really great, work like hell and make it happen! It also helps to

 duachakaher.com

surround yourself with like-minded individuals or other artists and people who are willing to support your work. Make work and put it out there; post it on social media and share it. Attend or table at comic conventions and art events. Submit to contests and call for artists. Then make work again. Also, don’t expect to be successful right away (however, if you are, that’s great!). I think the majority of us like to see immediate results, and when it doesn’t happen right away, we feel like giving up and moving on to the next thing. Maintaining a career as an artist is really difficult, but I think the most successful cartoonists and graphic novelists are successful because they are able to continue making work for so long despite their successes and failures. But most importantly, don’t forget to live your life, because most of our inspiration and stories come from life. Travel to the places you want, go watch that movie you really want, marry the love of your life, start a family, whatever it may be. Art will still be there. 

Inclusive: A Classroom Kit to Celebrate Diversity WORDS, PHOTOS, AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY LISSA VO

I remember back in elementary school, I would stare at the posters on the classroom wall and compare my classmates to the kids in the posters to see who looked the most alike. During these exercises, I noticed that there was never a person in the posters that looked like me. It didn’t bother me much, but what really got under my skin (literally) was that I could never find my skin tone, or anything even close to it, in crayons. My only options were white, black, and brown—peach, tan, and light brown as well, if we had a 24-pack. I’m not sure why I focused on those things as a child, but I always wondered why I wasn’t included. It created thoughts in my head that I wasn’t important enough to be in something as mundane as the visuals around the classroom. Years later, I still struggle to find representation in media, whether it’s in cheesy stock photos, commercials, books, movies or television shows. During my last semester in the graphic design BFA program at the University of Minnesota — Twin Cities, I created a classroom kit named Inclusive. This kit included stickers and posters featuring racially diverse children, as well as a wide range of skin tone

coloring materials. The goal of this project was to create a resource for elementary school teachers so that they can feel confident that their education materials reflect the diversity of their classrooms. Implemented in a classroom setting, the inclusive visuals and school supplies would help instill confidence in children at an early age. The exhibition turned out better than I expected. The reaction I got was very positive and supportive. Despite my success, the journey to get there wasn’t the easiest.

The biggest issue I encountered while working on the project was the lack of helpful feedback, as well as understanding, from my white classmates. Every week during critiques, they always talked about how amazing my message of diversity was and never gave me constructive criticism. I felt like they were afraid to say the wrong thing and always tiptoed around me. One day in class, we had to give feedback to everyone’s work anonymously. I received a note from a classmate that said they were confused on the idea of the project and that the lack of

TODAY A READER

TOMORROW A LEADER Left: Branding for Inclusive classroom kit Right: A classic elementary school staple, this poster from Inclusive encourages kids to read.

I always wondered why I was never included.

representation of Asian Americans was not an issue. I was frustrated, drained, and felt very isolated. After that, I knew I couldn’t rely on the help of my classmates, so I decided to go to my friends instead. Luckily, my exhibition class professor is an Asian woman herself. Without her, I would have gotten zero feedback and in-class support during my work on this project. I knew from the get-go that I wanted to address the lack of representation of Asian Americans, but I didn’t know how to go about it. My professor really pushed me to think of more creative and tangible solutions to the problem rather than calling it out and telling others to do something about it. “Lissa, this is a serious problem and we are not going to just tell people that it is a problem—I need you to make a solution. We know there is a lack of representation of Asian Americans, but we don’t need you to keep saying it. Make a space or create visuals yourself and find a solution. No more call to action. Solve the problem,” she said.

As people of color creatives, we need to do less “call to action” projects and focus on more tangible solutions.

Left: An American sign language alphabet chart featuring hands with a wide range of skin tones. These illustrations were adapted into stickers for the exhibition. Right: Photos of the Inclusive classroom kit at the graphic design spring 2018 exhibition.

Now that was a game changer. I started to change my mindset and focus on creating effective solutions. I started to do some research and asked myself: why are there are very few children’s books featuring people of color? Is it because there are no authors of color? Is it because children of color don’t like to read? No, that’s ridiculous. Then I asked, why are publishers not publishing children’s books with people of color? I concluded that a possible solution would be to create my own publishing company for authors of color. Although it was only a hypothetical publishing company, I fully believed in the idea of the project. My new direction ultimately led to the creation of the classroom kit. Problem: lack of representation in elementary school classrooms. Solution: create a kit for elementary school teachers so they can then make their space more inclusive. I know that being a creative of color can be a little tricky and lonely right now, but just know that you’ll be okay. My advice is to link up with people of color in your field, especially the ones who are considered experts like my professor. Use online resources

“We know there is a lack of representation of Asian Americans, but we don’t need you to keep saying it... No more call to action. Solve the problem.”

Left: A poster welcoming students, from the Inclusive classroom kit. Right: Display of paper people made by visitors of the exhibition. Below: School supplies and stickers in the Inclusive classroom kit.

and post your work online to get as much feedback as possible. With so many creatives of color experiencing the same problem, spread across the globe, you could also make friends. Good luck to you all. I can’t wait to see your solutions.  LISSA VO is a graphic designer based in the Twin Cities. She is passionate about creating thoughtful design. Her design process emphasizes interaction with the community, research and being open minded to all types of feedback.  lissavo.com  lissavo  lissavo

Bridging the Gaps of Lao American Identity Through Design An interview with Michael Sasorith INTERVIEW BY BRENDA TRAN

MICHAEL SASORITH is a classic jungle Asian designer. Like many Southeast Asian web designers who came of age in the digital era, he got his start by teaching himself to code AsianAvenue and Myspace user page layouts. Today, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a designer at ArcStone, a Minneapolis-based agency that focuses on marketing, web design, and web development. Although he initially considered his work and Lao American identity separate, he later found ways to merge them through creative projects. In our conversation, Michael talks about how he got his start in design, the influence of Lao culture on his own work and advice for future Southeast Asian designers.

Left: After my trip to Laos, I became fascinated with the statues and artwork featuring mythical creatures at temples. After doing more research, I began to do illustrations of them. This piece features a hongsa, a mythical bird. Right: Website designed for Hunger Solutions, a non-profit organization that works to combat hunger in the state of Minnesota.

What’s your story? I’m originally from Rochester, New York, but Minnesota has been my home since 2001. I’ve been drawn to web design since my days doing basic HTML/CSS projects on AsianAvenue and Myspace. I have a BFA in Graphic Design from the University of Minnesota — Twin Cities and currently work as a designer at ArcStone, where the majority of my work focuses on UI/UX design. What are your goals as a designer?

we lived in poverty and there were not many opportunities or paths for the youth of color aside from drugs and gangs. I only had one aunt who went to college and graduated before me, and accomplishing the same achievement as her was a big deal. But also like her, I was one of the first of my family to go to college, specifically the first to go into the design field, and there was very little guidance or any mentors to help me along the way.

Do you struggle with the underrepresentation of people of color, specifically Southeast Asians, in the design field?

I remember going into the graphic design foundation courses at the University of Minnesota, and a lot of the other students talked about having family who were designers or even went to schools that taught them how to screenprint and use Adobe programs. I felt “othered” instantly because of my background, lack of experience and network. On top of that, I was paying for college all out of my own pocket and had to work 30 hours a week while being a fulltime student. I was far behind in skill, knowledge, and experience compared to the other students in my program, who were mostly white.

Like many Southeast Asian people, my family came to the United States as refugees. Resettling in Rochester,

Going into the professional workforce was when I really started to feel the struggles of being a designer of

Like most design students, I wanted to do almost anything and everything—I was just eager to create. After thinking about it more carefully, I decided that I wanted to work with nonprofits and community organizations that did important social work. Fortunately at ArcStone, that’s a large part of our clientele. I get to help enhance the visibility of organizations like Hunger Solutions.

color. While others were getting jobs quickly, I was struggling to even get an interview. People would look at my portfolio and say I’m a good designer, yet I didn’t get any job application responses. I started developing a lot of questions in my head: is it because my last name is “ethnic”? Should I write down a fake one as an alias? Is it really because I’m Asian? After getting a job, the feeling of being “othered” was still present and I had to learn to code-switch—hiding parts of myself to assimilate to a white-dominated industry. Design, like many other industries, is very much about who you know and networking. But, it can be difficult for designers of color to get their foot in those network circles—especially in Minnesota, where the culture can be very insular. On a positive note, these struggles pushed me to be better and work harder. And in some ways, it’s exciting to carve out a path on my own. How did you begin exploring your Lao American identity through creative work? In the beginning of my design career, I believed I couldn’t combine my Lao identity with my work—or at least,

If you don’t know, learn. If you do know, teach.

Right: After learning Lao and gaining the ability to recognize the letters, I grew a love and passion for creating Lao fonts.

I didn’t know how. After taking a Lao language course through the Southeast Asian Diaspora (SEAD) Project, I made my first trip to Laos last summer. It felt like a puzzle piece that I didn’t realize was missing got put back into place. I was very inspired by the Buddhist temples and the amazing artistry involved in their creation. They all had amazing statues, buildings, and paintings. There was so much that I didn’t know about my culture and the religious traditions tied to it. After that, I started to use my design knowledge and skills to create work that celebrates and uplifts Lao American identity. Has your recent reconnection with Lao culture changed the way you view design, in terms of its function and potential outcomes? If so, how? I don’t think it has changed my view of design. I’ve always believed that design can accomplish amazing things if people invested it in it. Refocusing and connecting with my Lao culture, if anything, has expanded my appreciation of art and design from a larger global and cultural viewpoint. It has revealed the less visible paths of design that can be explored.

When we think about color, typography, and other design principles, it’s often from a Western/Eurocentric viewpoint. But, those design principles do not necessarily work for every culture in the world. For example, most of the typography “rules” are relative to the Roman alphabet. For languages like Lao, standard typography teachings don’t accommodate for tone marks or vowel symbols that are placed before, after, above, and below a consonant. In regards to Lao culture, there’s a lot of richness in Lao art and design that isn’t visible in the design community and I’m excited to help change that. What are some Southeast Asianfocused projects you’ve worked on? I designed the SEAD Project’s Lao and Hmong language coursebooks and have my own personal project, “Wow Speak Lao,” in which I design graphics to go alongside Lao words to help Lao language learners strengthen their vocabulary. Currently, my favorite project involves creating Lao script fonts. What advice would give incoming Southeast Asian designers? Let the unknown and unwalked paths of design fuel your creativity and 72

passion instead of bring upon fear. Also, there are a lot of great Southeast Asian people doing great things. One of the things that I love about Southeast Asian culture is that everyone’s seen as family. We call everyone aunt or uncle, sister or brother, even though we’re not related by blood. If

you’re in need of help, reach out to the community because we’re family!

 michaelsasorith.com  msasorith@gmail.com  mikesassafras, wowspeaklao  wowspeaklao

There’s a Lao proverb that basically says, “if you don’t know, learn. If you do know, teach.” If you have knowledge to give, uplift your community by teaching it. 

My Grandmother, the Shaman

PA NA LOR is a storyteller who works with experimental animation created with hand drawings digitally collaged with woodblock prints and oil paintings, told through kwj thxiaj, traditional Hmong folksong. Her works are identity experimentations between the Hmong and American cultures, an embodiment of her experiences and perceptions. The ability to make them come to life through animation helped exorcise the anger and frustration she felt growing up as a first generation Hmong immigrant. Lor has a Master of Fine Arts in experimental animation from the California Institute of the Arts and a Bachelor of Fine Arts in twodimensional art from the University of Wisconsin â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Stevens Point. She currently resides in Minneapolis, MN. My Grandmother, the Shaman is a slice of life animation short portraying a day in the life of an old woman as she goes about her mundane but necessary routines of getting up, eating and resting. The accompanying kwj thxiaj and ballad tells her story about loneliness and longing for a lost one. ď&#x2013;ť Watch the video at vimeo.com/panalor

TOP LEFT: A cassette letter of my Grandmother plays. She talks about how hard life is. BOTTOM LEFT: A pot cooks over an open fire. TOP RIGHT: Grandmother eats, while a cassette player plays a sad kwj txhiaj, a folk song. MIDDLE RIGHT: Grandmother sleeps. BOTTOM RIGHT: A fly tries to find a way out as the essence burns out on the shaman alter.

 plorart.com

 pana_lor

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 Pa Na Lor 75

ABOUT THE WRITER  THET-HTAR THET is originally from Yangon, Myanmar and moved to Minnesota five years ago to attend Carleton College, where she earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science/International Relations and Education. New to the writing scene, Thet-Htar has used her experiences and identity to write in and explore the creative non-fiction genre. She currently sits as one of the community editors for the St Paul Almanac. She is on the board/leadership team of LOCUS and is currently a College Possible Access Coach. She has a vested interest in education, race, and politics. The following pieces of work are creative non-fiction that reflect the in between experiences of being a third culture child and the tug of war of Burmese American Identity.  Thet-Htar Thet  tiffany.thet

ABOUT THE ARTIST  leyen is interested in storytelling, the intersections of nature, people, and food. They are currently working in a nonprofit in Minneapolis. Titled Grief in 10, the following series was created in March 2018 using ink and watercolor. It was made as a way to heal from loss.  tranglyart

In the place that is both ein and casa

In the place that is both ein and casa I watch my Mom pile boxes of pasta on the shelves meant for nga pyi yay in the makeshift pantry of our white-tiled kitchen. She wears a casual thamein for the first time in years. I crinkle my nose. I watch Nana help her. The pantry is in the open and both of them squat to keep stacking. It’s next to the fridge that hides 50 generations of spiders who must’ve hated the idea of us moving back in. It smells like dried fish paste and rain and wet palm trees in here. Nana left the kitchen windows open last night to get the old house smell out. Mom dusts off the counter with her alabaster hands and places the tagliatelle next to the saglechi. She tells me she will cook me spaghetti soon, the way I like it, with tomato sauce and meatballs. I nod to her silently and jump off the pink plastic stool and walk off. She doesn’t hear me. She doesn’t hear me much. I don’t tell her that’s not how I like my pasta.

room floor with my arm extended and my cheek resting on its cold surface. My oversized t-shirt hangs loosely across the floor and I’m glad I wore my soccer shorts again. I clutch the worn out book Tea Sisters Misterio a Parigi and start on page 20. I’ve read this book so many times the words have become my own. I read this book as if it is the first time but it isn’t the first time and there’s comfort in knowing. Il cielo era rosa. I think of my different skies. Italian sky is very very light and soft and high, high above. Burmese sky is slowly boiling, like light materializing, like sunlight fabric, like silk, like living stitches in thamein. The ends of a cotton thamein tickle my face. Nana taps me with the back of her broom. I rub my eyes and give her a face. She rests her arms on her wide hips and raises her eyebrow. I think that thamein suits her. She taps me again and tells me that I’m too lazy to be 11 years old. I tell her she’s too goofy to be 30 years old. She laughs and the lines in her dark brown face crinkle with her. She gives me a smile and, leaves me alone, to keep sweeping. Nana knows. Nana is a friend.

In the place that is both home for summers and house from now on, I trace the outlines of the grey walls filled with cracks and whispers and imprints outside our kitchen room. I look at the ceiling that’s too tall for me to grab. I look at our empty grey ballroom. I look at the poor paint job on the doors of the kitchen and start to peel the white paint off. There are no real walls in this place, save for the ones that line my parents’ bedroom, which is locked. Mom says there are locked rooms inside all women and some men will have the keys. But I’ll be out in the open tonight. I’ll be sleeping in the living room, which is also our dining room, which is also my play room. I flick the light switch but it doesn’t work. The government must’ve turned it off again. That means, tonight, the air will be thick and hot like a hand over your mouth. This house was built before walls. I hope it rains again.

In the place that is both solitary and crowded, I stare straight at the ceiling and think of all the lonely things and all the full things. Of all the years of separation from this place. Of all the years I learned how to be alone. Of all the biscuits and wae tha and trees to fall out of. But Mom hurries over towards me and I can’t think of those things anymore. She sighs about how stressed she is. She sighs about how I shouldn’t be lying on the cold floor like that. She sighs. She tells me I need to change quickly. She frowns. She tells me that visitors will be coming soon. She smiles. She tells me that they’ll be excited to hear from me. But in this place. In the place that is both ein and casa, do you think they heard me?

In the place that is both learning to read sideways and learning to re-read stories, I lie on the grey tiled living

He called me I stuck my thumb in my mouth and gripped my father’s hand so tight, little crescent moons dug into his palm. I woke up with a blue green dress on and the sound of A Me crying filling the one bedroom apartment. I looked up at A Pe, his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw tight. I wonder if in that moment he wanted to scream into the void, or were the words locked in his throat instead? I had only known Asia back then. I thought it was a blob on the map that spanned the entire ocean. When A Pe told us we had to leave I didn’t understand what leaving Asia meant if it was the only thing real, the only thing that existed. I gripped his hand real tight as he led me through the cafeteria. “Mawchi, we have to get food for your mother. She’s real tired right now.” I nodded and asked why but it came out like a yes so my father gripped my hand and led me through the cafeteria. Figures, pale and blue eyes bulging stared at us as we crossed the thick air of pasta and meat. A hefty white man approached and got down to my level and my father backed up as if he had no choice. He called me piccolina, small in Italian, and I wonder why I’ve felt small ever since.

He called me piccolina, small in Italian, and I wonder why Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve felt small ever since. The names that people called me would vary. There was a girl who once grabbed my black hair and said my name would be Pocahontas and the anxiety in my belly spewed out into laughter. There was a bus driver who stopped in the middle of the road to kick me off the bus because the nay pi chaw in my lunchbox smelled too strong. He called me a Chinese Freak before zooming away. Then there was him, his fist pounding and cracking the wall. He called me a bitch before cracking my face and I sang an old Burmese love song to get through it. But my name is Thet-Htar Thet, Friday Born. It means we put your life before ours and I wonder if I ever stay true to that.

Saplings in ‘the Killing Fields’: A Fable of “Return” WORDS BY JUNE KUOCH ILLUSTRATIONS BY BRENDA TRAN

As a child of the ’90s I didn’t have much of a fascination with plants. I was oversensitized by the new emerging technological developments of our generation chokers, CD players, and Nintendo. My closest encounters with plants were my grass-type Pokémon—I always picked Bulbasaur —and the yellow chrysanthemum I over-watered in kindergarten that my mother salvaged from Death.

boat that brought my parents to America. It is muted by the sounds of bombs dropped by the United States. It is blurred by the blood-stained minefields. It is haunted by the souls of those who could not survive. Empire has conditioned me to be whitewashed and westernized—to have no memory of the homeland—to sustain imperial futurity. Yet, we as children of refugees, from the war in Indochina, attempt to grasp at rice grains of connection that slip through our fingers.

My mother, however, loved to garden. Everyday while we, my siblings and I, waited for the school bus, she would tend to her plants as if they were her own children. It was as if our small suburban yard was her jungle. Mint grew all around our house. Our herbs set us apart from our neighbors. The smell was so pungent when you walked into our yard you would feel the aroma of a candy store. Mint blessed our home; it was the runway for ancestors to locate within displacement.

I have had the honor and privilege to go back to Cambodia twice: the summer I turned ten years old and after I graduated college. I say that I “returned” to the “homeland” of Cambodia, but what does it mean to return to a place that you have never been to? What was I coming back to? One thing was clear: I was reuniting with branches of my family tree that were hidden in the leaves of diaspora. Return feels like autumn: when trees begin to brown, flowers begin to wilt, and the cycle of life starts anew.

My mother used to tell me this old Khmer fable that was our version of Cinderella. In the story, the heroine is murdered by her evil stepmother so she cannot marry her true love, the crown prince. But love crosses many planes. The heroine reincarnates into a tree, which the sad lowly prince visits everyday to sulk. She haunts her evil stepmother and summons crows to peck her step siblings to death. Her business is not unfinished; the magical heroine makes a soup from her step siblings’ remains and feeds it to their mother. Horrified by what she has become, the mother rips her own eyes out. She fears seeing the monster that is herself. In the end, the tree, our heroine, blossoms and she is reincarnated again as a human! The heroine and the prince fall in love and live happily ever after.

There is a wall of sorrow and anguish between Southeast Asian youth and their refugee parents because of the lack of “memory” [truth] surrounding the war. We as children of war carry more than we know. I feel as though I was transported back into my childhood. To remember is strange. To think back to a moment that was so mundane and insignificant, is now powerful and monumental. I cannot tell when writing this: what is “truth”? What are “dreams”? And, what did I “fabulate”? Black feminist scholar Sadiya Hartman writes about sitting in the tomb/archive [unknowable] as “critical fabulation.” Fabulation is a process of reimaging. It is to produce stories and narratives outside the realm of possibility.

They call us jungle Asians because we are savages, but these jungles have always been sacred to us. Being a first generation Asian American, specifically Southeast Asian, my understanding of my Khmer culture is lost on that 81

They call us jungle Asians because we are savages, but these jungles have always been sacred to us.

become more than language. Stories become spaces where child, parent, and ancestors encounter each other, yet not need to speak. It’s as if language doesn’t have the ability to encompass our interactions. Ancestral connection produces seconds of alterity. I write this meditative reflection as I begin to prepare myself to “enter” civil society. I’m writing as I begin to feel racial capitalism’s breath on my face; it’s as if I am Sigourney Weaver in Alien running from the xenomorph. I write this to anchor myself as I leave the refuge [Minnesota].

But, to fabulate is to negate “knowledge” insofar, there the archival trap produces an impossible task. To further our pursuit of knowledge is to reproduce the colonial systems that demand voice from the subaltern. Yet, unknowing is an unsettling hermetic. For Hartman, fabulation is a process that came out of her work with Ghana’s archives about the transatlantic slave trade. Within these archives there is a mass amount of voyeuristic violence towards the enslavement of black women. Thus, fabulation is a means to sit within the precarity of unknowing:

To understand my own relationship with spectral violence, ghosts, and ancestors, I recall a time where I played with spirits. Back then I couldn’t realize the debt that was weighing me down. In 2007, I got my passport stamped with my Cambodian visa. It was marketed with a “K” meaning “Khmer,” Khmer in the diaspora.

The intent of this practice is not to give voice to the slave, but rather to imagine what cannot be verified, a realm of experience which is situated between two zones of death—social and corporeal death—and to reckon with the precarious lives which are visible only in the moment of their disappearance.1

It was an adventure that my parents had planned for their kin at the birth of a relationship. Ever since before they had children, they began saving money to take their future family back. A predestined voyage. We saw ancient temples, family, and the horror of the Khmer Rouge. We visited “the Killing Fields,” we were transported to a time of Pol Pot, we saw bones of those who died.

To allow oneself to be open toward the ghosts of the present while in a state of oblivion, we must remember and critically reflect on the forgotten. For Hartman, it is an attempt to conjure the spirits of her ancestors, of those who were enslaved. For me, it is an attempt to grasp the memories that are locked away in the living, and to encounter ghosts who are anchored in the realm that is no longer home.

Return produced an over-sensitized fleeting feeling of a world that once, yet never, was mine. Walking around these haunted sites gave me a sense of dread. I tried to avert my eyes from all the trauma and horror. The ground was dry and airy. Dust stormed as if the Wicked Witch of the West was coming. Ash filled my lungs. I coughed to find a sense of clarity, to purify me. The bones of the undead joined my body to remind me of their unfinished presence. While my mind was wandering, the dust subsided, and a cold snap, like snow in July, came as soon as I recognized the presence of a strange tree—as if there was a mutual recognition of our presence. The tree captured my gaze as if it was Greco-Roman mausoleum. I was perplexed by my fascination with this piece of nature.

The fog of time alters the perspective of what we deem as reality. Memories are altered and change the ways our mind and body learn and unlearn trauma. A Khmer scholar, Khatharya Um states, “Cambodian Americans hover on the margins […] as compared to other immigrant groups, scholarship on Cambodian Americans is especially scant, and that by Cambodian Americans is even more so.”² The injection of these insurgent memories for me becomes a collective practice. Memories are embodied forms of knowledge. It is through personal experience that we begin to know. Yet, Cambodian Americans don’t get control over our stories. Denial acts as an amnesiac. It’s to be an oracle: to welcome both fleeting feelings of the past and spirits of the present.

What possessed me to fixate on this tree? Why was I so drawn to something so mundane? I was entranced by it. I tried to break my trance with the trees by looking at my mother. Her tears were flowing like the Mekong River itself. Tears of mourning. Although I was so young, I saw the memories flooding back behind her eyes. Memories of the camps. Memories of death and destruction. My mother

To fabulate and to remember is also to mourn. We mourn those whom Empire refuses to allow us to bury. Stories 82

rather than console her I let her emotions flow. All of these feelings that she had been bottling up since she left her homeland were coming back to her in this moment. Time stopped here. She was pushed back to a time when she was seventeen. She was in high school, where she loved to read and write. A time in which she was proudest of her mathematical achievements. Before “The Empire Strikes Back.” Seventeen, the oldest child of five, who soon would have to take on the responsibilities of an adult. Tears streamed down her face. This was quite strange for my mother because she never cried. She brought herself back home, but this time she was not alone. We lacked the lexicon to speak of her memories, her traumas, and our history of the war because refugees are forgotten. But in that moment, when time stopped, she let go of her debts. She could stand alone as a survivor.

always presented herself as a strong persevering woman; the violence that she saw when she was young didn’t determine her path in life now.

I looked back at the tree that I had been staring at before. Its bark was a deep, auburn brown as if it was stained with something. I had the urge to touch its rough, rocky skin, but I couldn’t do it.

Was she mourning the loss of others? Or herself? Observing my mother made me think of her mother. She rarely talked about my grandmother, my Má. My mother looked identical to my grandmother who died young, circumstance unknown, or so I am told. I don’t even know her name.

Chankiri Tree against which executioners beat children, the sign read. “Chankiri” meaning killing. Killing Tree. I was horrified. Who murders children?

When I asked about my grandmother as a youth, all my mother would say was that she passed from a “heart attack.” However, I suspect that my grandmother was murdered in the killing fields. The precarity of the situation questions whether she, like many other Cambodians, received a proper burial. Buddhism is the prevailing religion in Cambodia—ritual practices with the dead are essential for spirits to move on. So, does she still walk the land of the living? Or does she dwell in the spirit world?

Then and there at that moment, it clicked. The burgundy bark was from the blood of children. This tree is a living tomb. Still, I lingered at the Chankiri. The summer wind whistled through the trees leaves like laughter. The encounter felt like I was being spirited away. My fascination with this tree felt like my attempt to approach kids at recess. Our spirits were intertwined; loss knit us together. None of us had an anchor to our realm.

It wasn’t until my grandfather’s funeral in 2016 that I found out that she was married at seventeen. This was all I knew of her. Death allowed her ghosts to resurface. What was her life like in Cambodia? What does she look like? Did she have dreams, and if so what were they? I have only begun to come to terms with never knowing the truth. It is these questions that push me to write and fabulate stories of possibilities.

As my parents lost their homes and sought refuge in the United States, so did I. America is not my home, but rather a new refugee camp in which diasporic loss is concealed by the gift of freedom and citizenship. Is it selfish of me to only see the truth while encountering these ghosts? Did I make another demand for the dead that can never be fulfilled? Or did we really meet in a space outside of colonization?

I became flushed with emotions seeing my mother cry, so 1

Hartman, S. (2008). Venus in Two Acts. Small Axe: A Caribbean Journal of Criticism, 26(26), 1–14. https://doi.org/10.2979/SAX.2008.-.26.1

Um, K. (2015). From the Land of Shadows. (R. Buff, M. Jacobson, & W. Sollors, Eds.). New York: NYU Press.

We are our ancestors’ hopes and dreams. Their spirits flow through us.

We are two sides of the same coin—the only separation is life itself. Death is not an end. For many of my ancestors their murders will never be resolved. Cases have run cold because we have closed ourselves off from justice. As long as the US Empire exists, we as Southeast Asians displaced by war will always be haunted from the perpetual war of conquest. Familial spirits stuck in the cacophony of militarism flow in their children. To be a refugee, especially a child of refugees, is to live a “half-life.” We are indebted to the many sacrifices that gave us our lives. Yet, our sense of indebtedness should not bind us to a state of obedience. Rather, we should honor our ancestors by channeling that energy into transforming the world. A world where trees are not chopped down before they are able to reach the canopy top. A world where the jungle thrives.

These children didn’t get to grow up. These children didn’t get to have a proper burial, and yet the arrival of my presence brought them joy. Joy from intimacy because in our fast-paced neoliberal society no one stops to look at the trees. These children are chained to the Chankiri and bound by the killing. Their suffering allowed for me to “flourish abroad.” In life under the Khmer Rouge one had to embrace death. Mass killings were put on as performances. Everyone would have to participate through taunting and attacked those being persecuted or they too would suffer that fate.

For me, “refugee redress” arises from the unknown. It is pieced together from the ashes of an archive lost in the blazing fire of war. Memories are split hairs. Truth is a utopian desire; for many Southeast Asians within the diaspora it is a treasure we will never be gifted. Redress is a supernatural act. To embark on a journey of restoration, one must grapple with loss. Loss is not linear nor is it fatalistic. Ghostly encounters allow us to hold moments of alterity to grasp the dead. We fabulate life for our family that is bound to death. Fabulation as in formulation, as in possession.

Babies like my unnamed cousins who died from imperial wars; we are collateral damage. What were their stories? What were their dreams? How could someone do such a thing to children and nature? Not only did these spirits suffer, but so did nature. Genocide is inhumanity par excellence. Can we recover those who have been made into monsters? Or is deformity not abnormal but a condition of humanity itself? The tree is forever bound to a spatial moment of trauma and suffering. A tree whose only desire is to grow, to boundless heights, to reach the sun. Now, it’s tainted with the blood of many. Militarized imperialist violence is now forever intertwined with these trees, the land, and its people. These children did not have the ability to go to school because they were not given the luxury of life. Their names and lives will never be remembered. These children will never receive a proper burial but are bound to a prison named the Chankiri. Even in their afterlife, I hope they can find solace. The Chankiri’s children laugh because it’s as if for the first time they are seen.

We are our ancestors’ hopes and dreams. Their spirits flow through us. We must be in tune with our past and our elders. Ancestral knowledge can only flow through you when you begin to understand that we are all oracles. We are all haunted. Before we can begin our process of self-transformation we must locate our positionality within the system of life. Only through reflection can we really allow ourselves to mourn. So my advice to you is to listen to the rustling of the leaves. Even in the killing fields, fruit is plentiful. Seed your future. Let yourself be spirited away. 

JUNE KUOCH (They/Them/Their) is an aspiring activist-scholar-writer-artist. June is a queer and trans-nonbinary child of Khmer refugees. They’re a local Minnesota community organizer. They were born and raised in the Twin Cities. They claim their midwest Asian American identity. Their activist works have been inspired by the Japanese American activist Yuri Kochiyama. Their other idol is Sailor Moon. They have worked with grassroots groups such as ReleaseMN8, TCJ4J (Twin Cities Justice 4 Jamar), RadAzns, and Shades of Yellow (SOY). Currently, they are pursuing their MA in Asian American Studies at UCLA.  gucci_kuochie 84

Old Bones BY SAYMOUKDA DUANGPHOUXAY VONGSAY

She stands over the sink rinsing oriental vegetables crying silently in a loud body. If I train my eyes on her I can see the rise and fall of her bosom the rise and fall of her neck muscles as she swallows shameless resentments. She doesn’t know it but I’m falling apart for her. Her bony hands clutching a bundle of Chinese broccoli shaking gently under running water. It’s difficult to tell apart the droplets from her hands and those from her eyes. So after awhile, I wanted to give up, and because of this, she’s falling apart in front of me. Disappointments exist in excess to her: the gathering of dirty dishes unsoaked dust took up residence in spills that weren’t wiped up quick enough pungent smells of spoiled foods in the refrigerator unsorted laundry dried piss on the bathroom floor her husband’s need to litter his complaints daily — she vacuums them up — her son insults her in front of his friends — she feigns a laugh to entertain them and her daughter — her daughter is the worst — her daughter is killing her the most because her daughter becomes a bystander, says nothing, does nothing, makes no interjections. She wonders where the matriarchal unity is and I want to tell her that it is in my hands and these hands make fists that aren’t strong enough to break anything. When she wonders where my compassion is I want to tell her that it is caught in my belly and I am not dilated enough for the birthing of any type of resistance. I don’t want to give up but I’m too ashamed to keep my eyes trained on her and because of this, she is dying silently in a loud body.

Illustration by Brenda Tran

Special Thanks Thank you to my family. This publication started with them and their journey: Thank you to my MOM, DAD, and brother AARON—they drive me nuts all the time but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My grandma, BÀ NGOẠI, the literal definition of the term bad bitch. My grandpa, ÔNG NỘI, who jammed along to pre-1975 Vietnamese music with me during tea time. My older cousins CELINA AU, ANDY NGUYEN, ALI HA, and to a lesser extent ANTHONY LE, who tormented me as kids but indoctrinated me into Azn culture nonetheless. My many AUNTS, UNCLES, and other COUSINS, whose constant commotion keeps the family alive. Exclusive shout out to UNCLE JON, who I inherited my sense of humor and sarcasm from. Thank you to the wonderful friends who helped alleviate and prevent many meltdowns: Thank you to ALVIN FAISAL, for always cheering me up and keeping my hanger levels in check. DALENA NGUYEN, for giving me unconditional jungle Asian love and sending me celebrity gossip articles, thus preventing me from fully living under a pop culture rock. ALLY KANN and MADDY OSMON, my roommates and BFFs who let me rope them into this project and who wash my dishes sometimes. BLONGSHA HANG, a true jungle Asian uncle. ANDREA MANOLOV, my most reliable party guest. BEBE NAMNAKHONE, a jungle Asian creative and comerade through and through. KIA LEE and REBECCA CLEMONS, my talented classmates who have watched this project grow over the year. AMY VANG, who was there for my Jungle Asian revelation. KAI SAITO, my favorite not-jungle Asian and hotpot buddy. SHARON CHEN and MAREYUNA LUKASAK, who support me despite our long distance friendship. RUBY FIGUEROA and ANNA SCHULTZ, whose shenanigans and moral support gave me life when I was a lowly intern. Thank you to CLAIRE BANERJEE, my beautiful, amazing, divine ex-therapist who moved to Canada but it’s okay. Thank you to the mentors who’ve helped me develop my craft, ambition, and commitment to justice: Thank you to JULIE BROCK, the high school teacher who introduced me to the joys of publication production and instilled in me a sense of ambition and confidence in my voice that my angsty 17-year-old self had never known. BARBARA FREY, the fierce advocate for human rights who taught me how to get shit done in my community. KARL ENGEBRETSON and BILL MORAN, two incredible

design professors who encouraged me to do my thang unapologetically. JOHN MATSUNAGA, the artist and educator who taught the first and only Asian American Studies class I ever took and whose wise words kept me from going bonkers in the early stages of my thesis development. RUBY FIGUEROA, who doubles as my patron saint of book arts and long lost cooler older sister. Thank you to all the amazingly talented people featured in this publication who trusted me with their story. Thank you to all the creatives whose work I continuously turn to for guidance: Thank you to the OG SOUTHEAST ASIAN DIASPORA COMMUNITY MEMBERS who’ve been on that creative storytelling grind, thus paving the way for me and my work. The creatives whose works are saved on my Instagram and Pinterest board and grace the pages of magazines I pored over for ideas. Thank goodness for the power of the LOCUS Facebook group, which helped me connect with so many wonderful Southeast Asian community members within the Twin Cities community. Thank you to the organizations that inspire and inform my work: SOUTHEAST ASIAN RESOURCE ACTION CENTER, SOUTHEAST ASIAN DIASPORA PROJECT, RELEASEMN8, POLLEN MIDWEST, THE ADVOCATES FOR HUMAN RIGHTS, and THE HUMAN RIGHTS PROGRAM at the University of Minnesota — Twin Cities. Thank you to anyone who has fed me during the last quarter of 2018. Thank you to the generous donors who helped support this project: MARGARET ANDERSON, KELLY AUXIER, MADDY BREMNER, JAIME BRIQUELET, CHARLIE QINGKANG CAO, SHARON CHEN, CHRISTINA CHUNG, RAISA ELHADI, BRENT ENGEBRETSON, ALVIN FAISAL, SARA FROEHLICH, BLONGSHA HANG, HENRY HEINS, SAMANTHA HOANGLONG, ALLY KANN, ROBERTO LE, SARAH LE, KIA LEE, ANDREA MANOLOV, CHARLIE MANGAS, ERIN MCHENRY, JANELLE NIVENS, LISA OSMON, MADELYN OSMON, REBECCA NORAN, MICHAEL SASORITH, ANNA SCHULTZ, JOHN SCHULTZ, MEREDITH SONG, RANDY TA, AARON TRAN, CHI TRAN, TRI VO, SAYMOUKDA VONGSAY, JUNE YANG-GUNSING, and more.

jungle azn vol. 1

Articles inside

Saplings in 'the Killing Fields': A Fable of "Return"

Bridging the Gaps of Lao American Identity Through Design

Inclusive: A Classroom Kit to Celebrate Diversity

Celebrating Hmong American Experiences Through Illustration

Following the Threads

Reclaiming the Vietnamese Ao Dai

Words of Wisdom from a Refugenius

Sisterhood: Reflections & Transitions

Anxious, Confused, and Conflicted: Inner Dialogue of a Queer Southeast Asian American

Entering the Belly of the Beast

#staycultured