Volume 12 by Inkstone

1 1

Watermark

He pulled the plug. It all started sinking, Swirling downward, groaning. The water was lukewarm, Sitting still, bitter bland, Unappetizing and lifeless. It tasted too mild. I test it again in vain; It stays the same. Slowly the tide came Steadily forward, the waves Haunting, inching nearer. Winter has come The water is frigid, But the sand still warm. It evaporated too fast, Leaving dry stains Where he last remained. And I am flooded To ponder without end. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Paul Lim

my s t i f y i n g meeting o f c h i n e s e wo r d s c h i n e s e wo r d s c u l t u re s : C h r i s t m a s d i n n e r H a h a h a h a h a . . . . . ! re s p o n d my t h i s ye a r i s t h e c l a s s i c ro a s t h a m w i t h p i n e a p p l e , c re a m e d a u n t s a n d u n c l e s. p o t a to e s , d ev i l e d e g g s , a n d p a s N ow t h a t s t h e wo r s t , w h e n yo u t a . A n d e a t e n w i t h . . . c h o p s t i c k s? h e a r l a u g h t e r o m i n o u s l y fo l l ow i n g a c o nve r s a t i o n a b o u t yo u i n a n o t h e r Hahahaha.... l a n g u a g e. ( re a d : J o ke ) At t h i s p o i n t , Eve r yo n e a ro u n d m e i s l a u g h i n g I m a b s o l u t e l y c o nv i n c e d t h a t my u p ro a r i o u s l y. A p p a re n t l y s o m e - f l y i s u n z i p p e d , I h a ve fo o d i n my t h i n g wa s f u n ny i n C h i n e s e , b u t t e e t h , I h a ve a t e n t a c l e g row i n g o u t I d o n t g e t t h e j o ke. I wa s b o r n o f my f o re h e a d , e t c . I s m i l e , c h u c k h e re i n t h e St a t e s a n d s p e a k l e n e r vo u s l y a n d t h e n q u i c k l y c ra m solely American speak. H a l f my a n a b s u r d l y l a r g e s l a b o f h a m i n to f a m i l y, h oweve r, wa s b o r n i n S h a n g - my n e r vo u s a n d c h u c k l i n g m o u t h . h a i . T h ey c l i n g d e s p e ra t e l y to t h e D o I f e e l g u i l t y a b o u t my i g n o Chinese language l i ke d row n i n g m e n a ro u n d a f l o a t i n g p l a n k . ra n c e c o n c e r n i n g h a l f o f my h e r i t a g e ? N o, n o t re a l l y. A s eve r yo n e F a m i l y g a t h e r i n g s a re a w k wa r d , e l s e , I a m p re t t y m u c h t h e p ro d u c t to s a y t h e l e a s t . W h i l e I l ove o f my e x p e r i e n c e s , my s c h o o l i n g , e a c h a n d eve r y i n d i v i d u a l c u r- a n d my u p b r i n g i n g . I m n o t a b o u t re n t l y c row d e d a ro u n d my d i n i n g to b l a m e my 1 s t g ra d e s e l f fo r n o t ro o m t a b l e , I c a n t s a y t h a t I k n ow s t u d y i n g t h e C h i n e s e l a n g u a g e. A t h e m . I c a n t s a y t h a t t h ey k n ow l i t t l e k i d c a n t b e e x p e c t e d to g u i d e m e. S o I m h a l f C h i n e s e ; s o my h i s ow n c u l t u ra l d eve l o p m e n t ; t h a t s g ra n d m o t h e r re a d C h i n e s e f a b l e s w h a t w h y we h a ve S e s a m e St re e t . to m e w h e n I wa s l i t t l e ; s o my C o l l e g e k i d s , h oweve r, a re re s p o n m o m re - t a u g h t m e t h e C h i n e s e wo r d fo r t h a n k yo u b e f o re eve r y s i b l e f o r t h e i r p e r s o n a l d eve l o p m e n t . C h r i s t m a s d i n n e r i n m e m o r y ; s o my I c o u l d e a s i l y l i ve t h e re s t o f my l i fe m i d d l e n a m e i s M i n g ; s o I t y p i c a l l y a s a w h i t e A m e r i c a n . I c o u l d g o to re c e i ve my C h r i s t m a s c a s h i n l i t t l e U V A , j o i n a f ra t , l i s t e n to 3 1 1 , wa t c h re d e nve l o p e s . I m s t i l l a l a t t e S u r v i vo r, a n d fo r g e t a b o u t a l l t h i s g u z z l i n g , G a p we a r i n g s u b u r b a n i t e A s i a n n o n s e n s e. I c o u l d g row u p to i n t ra i n i n g f o r y u p p i e - h o o d . H ow b e a p i n s t r i p e - g rey - s u i t - we a r i n g But c a n I re l a t e to my re l a t i ve s , w h o h i g h p owe re d l a w ye r/p o l i t i c o. we re b o r n ove r s e a s , s p e a k a d i f f e r- t h a t wo u l d b e w ro n g fo r m e. I m ent language, and experienced not a white American and I don t As an int h e h a r d s h i p s o f i m m i g ra - p l a n to b e c o m e o n e. t i o n? T h ey d i d n t g row u p d e p e n d e n t c o l l e g e s t u d e n t , I h a ve re a d i n g C u r i o u s G e o r g e a n d a re s p o n s i b i l i t y to t a ke c o n t ro l o f C l i f f o r d t h e B i g Re d D o g ; my p e r s o n a l d eve l o p m e n t . I t s my t h ey re a d M a o T s e T u n g . d u t y to l e a r n a b o u t my h e r i t a g e. c h i n e s e wo r d s c h i n e s e wo r d s my c h i n e s e wo r d s a u n t s a y s , o f fe r i n g m e m o re h a m . I c h i n e s e wo r d s To d d c h i n e s e t a ke t h e p l a t e f ro m h e r h a n d s. wo r d s chinese wo r d s s a y s my T h a n k yo u. I re s p o n d , i n C h i n e s e. g r a n d m o t h e r.

INTERVIEW WITH RAY CARO Transcripted by Janice Gumera

Ray Caro serves as Program Coordinator of the Office of the Dean of Students, Student Life. Caro supervises many projects traditionally taken on by the Assistant Dean of Students, but the loss of Dean Ajay Nair brings Ray as the Asian Pacific American (APA) liaison within the Office of the Dean of Students. As a graduate of 2002 of UVA’s CLAS, he has worked closely within the APA community throughout his time at the University since his first year. Inkstone’s Janice Gumera recently sat down and asked him to share his thoughts and experiences. Inkstone: What are your reflections on this past year? Caro: I was told not to focus on creating, but to focus on maintaining the current programs within the APA community. Coming in with institutional experience, I’ve seen that it takes a tumultuous time to reshape and assess programs. Inkstone: How do you feel that the role of Dean of Assistant Students impacts the APA community? Caro: It’s not seen as very necessary, but I’ve noticed that not many students come through the office (Office of the Dean of Students) this year versus last year when there was still a Dean (for APA students). [Not having a dean] has taken away relationship building, problem solving and this has always been a prime concern of mine. There’s always been a tendency for this person to be overworked. But the importance of a Dean is in working with Peer Advising Family Network (PAFN) and Asian Pacific American Leadership Training Institute, (APALTI), both of which are the two main programs I work with.

Inkstone: How do you feel this past year has been influenced by the lack of having an Assistant Dean of Students to the APA community? Caro: It was pessimistic starting off—the Dean is integral to community building, development of community. Anything negative in scope has been magnified because of the absence of the Dean. People who are current leaders in the APA community don’t get enough credit. There’s not a perfect leader; they did the best they could under the given circumstances… I’d like to see how people view me in my job.

Inkstone: What do you feel are institution. I hope that the the top three challenges faced by ECASU (East Coast Asian Student Union) Conference UVa’s APA community? will light a fire in our community. Institutional Caro: Student leaders are funding needs to expand short-term in their planning and long-term planning is long with respect to the Assistant overlooked. The top three chal Dean of Students position, specifically in supplying lenges are structural, financial, and programmatically oriented funding to develop in nature. There’s a tendency to programs. not being politically involved Inkstone: Can you share among APA students. your perspective on the APA community spanning Inkstone: What do you foresee for the state of the APA from your first year as a University student to your community next year? role as a part time faculty member? Caro: I see a revised and revamped Diapason/Apalti/ Inkstone: Can you describe Pafn. I think we should focus on Caro: The face of the the current state of the APA country is changing, the Asian Leadership Council as a community? sustainable effective organization. face of the state, and this trickles down to the college There’s a lot of hope for next Caro: Disconnects exist community. We have to year, the tendency for everyone between individual reassess the progress we’ve to feel this way every year. But organizations; specifically that made in the past. I see honestly, until we get someone cultural organizations feel the need for long-term that stays, there’s not going by themselves…the Asiansolutions to short term to be any long-term progress. American community is very problems. We need to diverse internally. Throughout We’re always in a transitional take baby steps. A giant my time here, I’ve seen growth state. What we need to do is leap could occur, but it in international organizations, create a good atmosphere for (the Assistant Dean of Students) shouldn’t be hoped for. and the advent of such APA organizations has added a new to stay. Success comes with time, and UVa is a conservative dynamic.

“Oh . . . our parents

e told her while

knew each other, so . . . Well, I got a letter

drivin home from a friend’s

from them, and her picture. And we got mar-

house.

ried.”

“Your mom and I had an

He said this in Korean, and met silence again.

arranged marriage. Did you

How much did she understand? he wondered;

know?”

and the thread of the narrative, half-formed as it

The city lights caught only

was in his mind, frayed and broke as he tried to

brief snatches of her distant

find the words in English, words that would never

face, so that darkness lay

come. It was something that could not be com-

mostly between them; and in the silence he thought that perhaps he had let the words loose only in the familiarity of

municated with either language. Just as his childhood -- sunlight drenching endless rice fields, stiff school uniform shirts and navy pants, the feel of

his mind. But the words had been English -- broken syllables that fought against his tongue

his father’s chapped hands resting briefly on his face in the morning -- lay only in the silent space of memory, these words too lay only in a secret

-- and he would never use English

deep place, untranslatable, untransmutable.

in a dream, would never undergo such humiliation willingly. And so he waited, his hands light on the

And so instead he asked her about school, nodding when she answered “It was OK,” and then lay silent for the rest of the

steering wheel and the seatbelt tight

ride, the flaring city lights sliding

across his chest; silent, still.

across both passive faces.

“Really?” He felt the slight movement of her head, as she turned from the window to stare at his shadowed face. “How -- I mean, why?”

That night, he told her.

He crept into her room and listened to her breathe in sleep-slow deepness; and then, in the stillness, he told her the story that he should have told her long ago.

laughed. He told her about the rough dirt floor entrance, the warm slated stone of his home. He told her about pineapple

He told her of coming home from the

shaved ice and long bicycle

army, restless and aching for change,

rides and the beautiful

for something permanent. He told her of how he had first met Bongsun in her parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; house, of how

teeming confusion of the city. He told her about America.

he had bowed and cracked his head on the table, and how there were tears in Bongsunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes as she

d e k n I

by Rupa Dasgupta

So now that Iʼm 18, I think Iʼll get a tattoo. But what? Butterfly? Nah, too girly. Tribal arm band? Overdone. Wait, Iʼve got it…Iʼll get the Japanese symbol for [insert whatever the hell you want] on my shoulder. But one day I woke up and everyone was tattooed. And all of a sudden I felt stupid, because I seemed to be the only one who couldnʼt read Japanese, and boy was I missing out. What happened? The art of tattooing has evolved greatly in recent history. Not long ago associated mostly with sailors, bikers, and inmates, it has become surprisingly mainstream. Though itʼs still considered rather extreme, it seems that much of the stigma and stereotypes about tattoos, namely about the kind of people who get them, has been lifted. The institution has come to be established as a legitimate artform, with many distinct styles recognizable - the traditional ʻsailor jerryʼ style, celtic, black & grey, biomechanical (inspired partly by the artist H.R. Giger), tribal, and of course, kanji (the Japanese system of writing adapted from Chinese characters). Much of the recent influx in tattooing can be attributed to the latter two styles . How did the craze over kanji begin? Unaffected by the rest of the worldʼs ostracism, traditional tattooing has held a place in Japanese society for hundreds of years but holds few similarities with the Westʼs tattooing industry. References to tattooing in Japan date back as far as the second century. It eventually evolved into a scarlet letter of sorts, becoming a punishment for criminals or a mark to distinguish outcasts and undesirables. By the 18th century however, the art form grew as tattooing was embraced by the working class (most visibly among firefighters, who often were inked with designs specific to their particular brigades). Japanese woodblock prints were the basis for

the intricate and colorful designs, which were sometimes employed for tattoos covering the wearerʼs body almost completely – men and women alike. This style has been carried down

unadulterated through Japanʼs tattoo artists passing their trade down to apprentices. In most cases, the inking is done by hand, tapping the ink into the skin using dozens of needles, rather than with the electric guns found in western tattoo parlors. Indeed, even the notion of a walk-in “tattoo parlor,” with hundreds of small, pre-drawn designs to choose from, is alien in Japan. Rather, artists are often sought out to create entire full-body pieces that may take years to complete. There is also no concept of being a tourist, going from one artist to another – the work is a commitment for both the tattoo artist and the client. Rather than seeing many different clients every day, a traditional Japanese tattoo artist may work on just a few dozen full-body pieces throughout their career. Despite the longstanding insularity of this tradition, itʼs evident that in recent years the practice has opened itself for give and take of ideas with its western counterparts. As some Japanese artists began to outline their colorful works with the help of electric needles, western tattooists began to decorate patrons with classic Japanese images, such as the protective symbols of the carp and water dragon. Somewhere in the exchange, Japanese writing itself became the focus of the Westʼs interest. Itʼs difficult to chart the trendʼs origins, but many cite basketball players such as Allan Iverson and Marcus Camby as some of the first highly visible people to have highly visible kanji tattoos. Slightly strange though it is, this shouldnʼt be surprising, since itʼs been noted

that about 35% of all NBA players have at least one tattoo! Robin Quivers of the Howard Stern Show fame has also been inked with a kanji character for many years. Nowadays, one can find examples of such tattoos

is supposed to be – unique, meaningful, bold, and if nothing else, unconventional & against the norm. A recent poll at BMEzine.com, the webʼs largest body-modification site, asked, “Whatʼs most important for kanji tattoos?” A third of the participants answered, “That y ou never get one”! Many tattooed folk also have an aversion towards flash – the pre-drawn artwork that covers the walls of tattoo parlors for customers to choose from – predominantly the source for kanji designs. The person whose tattoo was custom designed to signify an event or element of unique personal significance has little in common with someone who arbitrarily everywhere, on picked his or her design off a wall, getting a people from all walks tattoo just for the sake of having a tattoo. of life. Regardless of all the As one can expect, the criticism directed towards kanji kanji tattoo trend has been met with tattoos, the trend is sure to continue. much derision, among Asians as Why? Even the harshest critics have well as non-Asians. The thought to admit – despite everything, kanji tattoos of American teens getting kanji are beautiful. And though they may not be symbols tattooed just because ʻ t h e y as hardcore as the full-sleeve biomechanical look coolʼ must be an abomination to those who tattoos that are also common these days, they speak the language and have actually learned serve the needs of a clientele who may be the 2,000 characters generally used in everyday overwhelmed with other styles; they allow the interaction. The enthusiasm of many to pleasure of having a tattoo while still being become emblazoned with words of a language discreet. They let one make a statement without alien to them has resulted in many a botched the whole world knowing – a kanji tattoo can be tattoo, much to the annoyance a silent reminder of something or in some cases amusement of is proud to bear, but doesnʼt Regardless of all the one native speakers. Everyone has necessarily want to share heard about people discovering with all who see it. As for the criticism directed previously tattooed people who that the Japanese characters they were marked with actually meant are upset to see part of their towards kanji “bitch,” or even better, “easy!” culture going mainstream – they Charlottesvilleʼs Acme have to come to terms with tattoos, the trend the fact that in todayʼs world, Tattooʼs Tim Forbus has many stories about his experiences with nothing stays underground for requests for kanji tattoos. One is sure to continue. long. And though it may be of the most common scenarios bizarre for Asians to see their he spoke of is a client walking in language becoming a trend, the Why? Even the asking for a tattoo of a name like old saying stands that imitation “John” written in kanji – many harshest critics have is the best form of flattery. donʼt realize that the language Imitation without understanding doesnʼt work on a phonetic, letter to admit – despite the relevance of what one is for letter basis. Of the kanji tattoos copying however, can be foolish he has worked on, Tim says that well as insulting – if people everything, kanji as about one out of every four was seeking kanji tattoos made the the character for “strength.” effort to further research their This abundance of similar, tattoos are beautiful. intended designs, they would or even identical tattoos is another be rewarded with better chances reason why so many dislike the kanji tattoo trend of a meaningful tattoo, as well as a richer – what has made them so popular has also made understanding of the cultures from which they them an object of disdain. Kanji tattoos are originate. often quite simple, small, and due to their noteasily-deciphered meaning, theyʼre usually not Special thanks to Tim Forbus of Acme directly controversial either. It seems that some Tattoo for his help with this article J believe that this goes against everything a tattoo

Virginia’s Bauble of the Crystal Community By Greg Saari

If you were to walk amidst the

corridors of the University of Virginia and espied the figure of the one called Chen Chien-Chʼuan, the moment would be one not easily forgotten. Of moderate height, with a brilliant smile and dark eyes that peer with a mixture of humour and intellect from behind his modest glasses and beneath the hoods of his Asian eyes; Chris, as he is known in English, exudes unto all a persona steeped in the experiences of life as an international scholar here at UVA. Yet aside from the academic accomplishments of his University experience, one of the most poignant of his affects is that of his representation within an arena rarely touched in the strata of modern society. For Chris, fourth-year Chinese American Political and Social Thought major, is also the reigning Vice President of one of the most historically controversial CIOs currently on Grounds: the QSU, or Queer Student Union. The story of this unique character, who openly identifies himself among the 1 other tongzhi here on Grounds, has been graciously incongruous to that typically feared by others of his orientation. Born and raised in the city of Taipei, Chris resided in Taiwan uninterrupted until deciding to come to the United States in 1997 for educational purposes. His immediate family, with whom he has always maintained a “very close” relationship, consists of one sibling – a four-year younger sister presently attending Northeastern University in Boston – in addition to his parents, currently in Taiwan. It is at present, however, only with his sister that he has discussed openly his homosexuality. For Chris, being Chinese and gay is a dichotomy that has hardly developed with any particular ease, as he knows well the turmoil unique to such a cultural situation. In his case, he attests, the lack of an openness regarding such issues within the structure of his traditional Taiwanese upbringing was a significant hindrance to his sexual self-

awareness. His first experience with even the notions of homosexuality wasnʼt until a Gender and Sexuality summer class taken in Boston in 2000, between his first and second years here at UVA. “I was really sheltered as a kid,” he stated. “I hardly even knew the words ʻhomosexualʼ or ʻgayʼ even in Chinese, and it had never occurred to me to apply them or what they mean to myself. I saw a movie once (Farewell My Concubine, starring Leslie Cheung), and it wasnʼt until years later and someone told me that I realized the main character was gay,” he said, laughing. (Note: To those who are not familiar with this film, the attraction felt by the main character for his (male) friend is the foci of the entire movie). “Even after taking [the class] I still had only an intellectual curiosity about them and their lifestyle.” The realization of his own standing as “gay” came not until he attended a party in New York with a friend. After a “few drinks” (he related with an impish grin), he suddenly found himself in the company of another student with whom he felt “a strange attraction.” “I donʼt think it even occurred to me as odd that the guy was a guy,” recalled Chris. “I just knew that as the evening wore on something inside of me ʻclicked,ʼ and when I woke up the next morning I realized that a new side of me had been opened.” Aside from the internal relief of having a definitive construct for this aspect of his existence, the transition from “presumably straight” to “gay” was made for Chris without any significant social or emotional transformation, at least on this side of the world. “My parents, I still worry about how theyʼll take it. Taiwan, even though itʼs pretty liberal and progressive for Asia, is really conservative when it comes to things like this. A son is supposed to carry on the family with one of his own, and being the only son itʼs going to hit them pretty hard, or at least my dad.

Bo Li Quan

“I think they suspect something, though. My dad sometimes makes jokes about gays, and then looks at me like Iʼm supposed to react. Iʼve always been close to my mother, so I donʼt think it will be too big of a problem for her, but I think sheʼll still be upset. But I donʼt know for sure. They might surprise me. After all, my sister did.” Despite Chrisʼ relative lack of antagonism experienced in coming out thus far, the attitude of his upbringing in which homosexuality was “unspeakable” and/or, in Chrisʼ case “unthinkable,” is indicative of that faced by countless members of the Asian and Asian American communities. Demographically more socially conservative and with a cultural history rich in strong traditions of family, those of the Pacific ethnicity often face a strong backlash from their parents, relatives, and like-blooded friends upon coming out. Though not necessarily as prevalent in families with Americanborn Asian children, many gay Asians have faced disownment, s h a m e , persecution, and, until recently in the Peopleʼs Republic of China, imprisonment for a charge likeable to “criminal insanity.” (It was not until the late 1990ʼs that homosexuality was taken off the roster of the PRCʼs State Board of Psychology as a mental illness). Such conditions have forced gays

Chen

Chien

and gay organizations largely underground, centring, in Asia and Chinatowns across the country, in illegal nightclubs and communities of male prostitution, both of which have contributed to the increasing danger of HIV and other sexually transmitted diseases. It was just such an atmosphere that spurred the Taiwanese author Bai Xianyong to write his powerful social classic Nie Zi (The Bastard), which details the lives of several gay youths cut off and outcasted by their families after their orientation was discovered. Yet standing within a position of visibility as a member of the gay Asian American subculture, Chris serves as a model for other Asian homosexuals – to know that they are not alone, either in the University or the world, that they can have a voice among the chorus of the student body, and that the existence in which they find themselves in no way must hinder their paths to success and

Ch’uan

Chris

notability in life. “I think the question is knowing yourself,” Chris says. “So many Asian Americans today grow up being told from the start what they are supposed to be. Their parents and their culture tell them what profession they should go into, what college they should go to, and sometimes even more than that. I think when it comes to something like being gay you just have to understand that itʼs part of who you are. You have to understand that no matter what anyone else tells you, you have to be true to yourself or youʼll be miserable, because then, even if you end up successful, you wonʼt ever feel like it.” *Title character: Tu (rabbit), Traditional Chinese slang for those of the bo li quan, or gay (lit: crystal) community. 1. Lit. “comrade,” modern accepted term for homosexual in Hong Kong and Taiwan.

Always

by Paul Lim

My grandfather used to live in the same house together with my family. He and my grandmother occupied the downstairs bedroom. It was dark with wood walls and a queen-size bed. I would remember seeing him praying or reading his big Korean text Bible. As a child I would lay on his bed as he steadily patted me to sleep singing old hymns. He helped us with the yard work as much as he could. In the beginning he did so much, but we lived in that house for over a decade. Through that decade we saw his hearing and seeing decline too much. By the end he couldn’t see well enough to even rake the leaves in the autumn, but he’d still try; then in the winter he’d shovel the driveway. My grandfather was wisely stern, stubborn, always working, challenging, giving. I never knew any other grandparents. My father’s parents passed away when he was very young, and his grandparents raised him, an only child. For the longest time I had believed that people were only supposed to have two grandparents, and when I found otherwise I was puzzled. But it didn’t bother me. I had all the grandparents I would ever want or need.

When I call my grandparents they always talk to me with such genuine joy. I used to get annoyed when they wanted to talk to me about school or when they wanted me to fix something. Now I hope they break a chair so I can go help them fix it. And my grandmother always offers me something to eat or drink. If I refuse she forces me to eat. I’ll forever be their own little handsome boy. When I go home they never fail to compliment the way I look, tell me how proud they are of me, have a talk with me, or give me money. They barely have any cash but they always seem to force some on me. He cries a lot nowadays: when he prays before meals thanking God for blessings, when he hears about the hardships of my family. My grandmother always tells him to stop and be strong, be a man. But you can see that inside she feels it too, she feels like crying, but she can’t show weakness in front of him. I miss them. I miss the days they fed me, the days I did chores with them, the days I spent just sitting down, conversing with them about my dreams. I think it’s because I knew love through them--because of them I know what love is. I know what love is. He would always take walks around the block. One time I remember it starting pouring rain while he was out. After awhile we realized he couldn’t see his way home. He couldn’t memorize his way back that day. We went out to look for him and when we found him he looked so lost. I think that’s how I’ll feel when he’s gone, how I felt that day when we were looking for him. So lost.

THE REAL CULTUREFEST What is Culturefest?

Is it just a multicultural song and dance show? If you get a chance to understand the behind-the-scenes activities like I was able to do this year, the program becomes really much more than that. Cultural songs and dances can be judged on the more superficial level of the performer’s individual talent and the group’s choreography, but also on the more important level of the performance’s cultural significance. I see the songs and dances as physical expressions of intense feelings—of happiness, loss, relief—and as symbolic representations of culturally important events such as marriage, work, death, and victory. So I view all the performances at CultureFest—the fashion shows, the dances, and the songs—as integral activities for the cultural education of both the audience and, most especially, the performers themselves. This year really taught me how enriching a CultureFest performance can be—how it brings people together, how it teaches everyone about an aspect of a culture, and how it serves as a personal expression of the intense appreciation one has for an education in diversity. I am a Culture Chair of the Organization of Young Filipino Americans (OYFA) and from day one to performance day, through troubles and joys, our CultureFest performance became not only an expression of Filipino culture but also a representation of our hard work and friendships. As Culture Chair, my job is to choreograph the cultural and modern dances and organize all other parts of the show. Before this year, however, I had no experience whatsoever. I think the hardest thing was to try to live up to the high standards OYFA has for its CultureFest performances—to try to create a meaningful cultural dance and a modern interpretation based on elements from the cultural performance, which we call a cultural-modern. Also OYFA traditionally has restricted the performance to first year dancers as an initiation and introduction into the organization. OYFA really tries to utilize CultureFest to illustrate our passion for the Filipino culture and to expose everyone—the audience, the dancers, and the choreographer—to specific aspects

by Enrico Castillo

of the culture. OYFA’s focus on cultural awareness and education can truly be reflected in our commitment to our CultureFest performance—we perform a new dance with new choreography, new props, new dancers, new everything each year. This year, apparently with a blind nod toward adventure, I chose for the group to perform “Sayaw ed tapew na Bangko” (“Dance on top of

a Bench”), a difficult dance performed on top of bench six-inches wide. Like I said before, I have never choreographed anything until this dance. So I spent hours and hours listening to music for inspiration. If only you could have seen me—sitting in a chair choreographing the bench sequences in front of my hallway mirror until 3am in the morning. My suitemates still eye me suspiciously. I spent so much time on the actual choreography of the dances, but I still would have probably never finished if it wasn’t for the help of some key OYFA members. Even though it was not their job, their friendship and their devotion to the culture really brought the dance together. But even after all the time already spent, I was still uneasy about my ability. So when I walked

into the room for the first day of practice I was glad to see I had talented first year dancers—but wait, they were more talented than me! I was sure the first years would think I was a complete loser, but I tried to play it cool, pretend that I knew what I was doing and that I was OYFA’s own brand of Michael Jackson. No problem right? I think I did a pretty good job of winning them over on the first day (They hated me until about the fifth practice. After that it was completely fine and I stopped filling my pillow with tears, honest). The first practice centered around teaching the dancers what the dance was primarily about; it is a festival dance, upbeat in tone, representing the hardships in courtship. It was really important that the dancers knew at least this much about the dance’s origin so that when the girls were

impressively whisked from floor to bench in the arms of their partner they would know it was representing a show of masculine ability and not just something we made up for showmanship. Each CultureFest performance, not only OYFA’s, has its own special symbolism, and OYFA is evolving to focus as much on a dance’s meaning and origin as on the choreography. We practiced from about mid-September until the day of the performance, about a month and a half, working each practice with the dancers and always shifting the dance moves and transitions around to make everything perfect. I’m sure though the most important thing in those practices, and I’m sure the first years would agree—is that we all got to make new friends, make a lot of new connections, and

learn a lot about each other and the Filipino culture all at the same time. We laughed, exchanged numbers, talked about how we miss home—told the personal details that form our personal cultures, our own identities. After the first practice we knew each other’s names and by the second we had inside jokes. After all the practices, after days and days of making the moves natural to our bodies, I still cannot express to you all the stage jitters and anxieties that start arising as the days counted down to the actual performance. And especially on the day of Culturefest, there were so many questions and things think about—I was worried about the dancers and the fashion show that we practiced only once. Would the dancers slip, would they fall off the benches, or worse yet, would they injure themselves? Would the modern dance not be received well, would people forget moves, would our music mess up? Would I be known as the person who picked THAT dance? Everyone, however, really helped me out so that things ran smoothly and on schedule. While watching them on stage, even with all the frustrations and difficulties we experienced in practices, the first year dancers looked like they were having the greatest time. Finally they were able to show the community and, most importantly, their parents what they had spent the last month doing instead of homework. OYFA’s whole performance—the fashion show and the dance—went great! In the dance no one fell (well, someone did fall, but obviously it doesn’t count), the dancers were flawless. Everyone had so much energy. Afterward group pictures group pictures group pictures—engraved memories of the new relationships we made and cherish. While the performance was the climax of it all, the semiweekly practices to me were most important and we all gained a lot by them—they became a real part of our lives and we were all a little sad to let them go. Far more than just an attraction on Parents’ Weekend, CultureFest took on a more significant meaning in the way we used the occasion to bring people together. CultureFest was much more than the momentary five and a half minute performance on stage—it was our months of commitment to the culture we wanted to share to the community; it was our friendships and memories that we made during those practices; and it was truly what we learned about the Filipino culture and each other in the process. The performance was perfect, but the real CultureFest happened behind-the-scenes.

THROUGH THE EYES OF A FIRST-YEAR

by Gian Cruz

was actually very excited

to be doing CultureFest this year. Ever since I saw Barrio Fiesta last year, OYFA’s annual culture show, I was highly anticipating doing a dance with the group. Since the CultureFest show is traditionally a first-year event for OYFA, it was a good opportunity for me to get into the swing of things. However, I’ve never had any real dancing experience. I mean, I’ll dance at the occasional party or two, but the idea of cultural dances and choreography was completely new to me. I didn’t even realize Filipinos had so many cultural dances until seeing Barrio Fiesta. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I was sure the OYFA guys and girls would teach the dance well, and I was going to have a fun experience. The first practice we had was held pretty early, about a month and a half before the actual show. I had been hearing that OYFA has a reputation for having really good performances in their cultural dance shows, so this early start seemed understandable but daunting at the same time. Would we be able to step up this year and give a great show for CultureFest? I nervously decided to keep my hopes up. The choreographer for the dance, Eric Castillo, introduced himself to the group and showed us the dance we were going to do, which involved dancing on top of three benches. He told us we would be jumping and tossing each other up and around the benches throughout the dance. These benches were about 6 or 7 inches across at the top, similar to the style of the balance beams used in gymnastics. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in the room who was thinking, “What in the world is he thinking? We can’t do that!” My hopes were dwindling to nothing at this point. He assured us that we’ll be able to get everything down by the day of the dance, although I don’t think he was sure about that himself. We began learning the dances on the floor before going on top of the benches. There were

two dances, a cultural and a modern version, with six dancers for each one. I performed in the cultural dance, although I did want to do modern (I think I’ll save the modern dance for Barrio). Learning the dances seemed easy enough on the floor, but once we got on top of those benches, everything fell apart. It seemed near impossible to switch sides with your partner while on top of the bench, let alone tossing your partner up in the air. But sure enough, we got the hang of it little by little as each practice passed by. It even got to the point where we were able to stay on the benches better than the choreographer! Our last practice was practically flawless, and we were ready to give everyone the show they were expecting. The day of the show was pretty exciting, although we weren’t able to see much of the show as we had to stay in the back lounge most of the time. When it came to OYFA’s turn to perform, I headed onstage with my fellow first-years, taking some butterflies along in my stomach. We were all a little bit nervous, but we had been doing the dances so many times that it was almost second nature by now. You could tell however that Eric’s heart was beating a mile a minute. We did our dances, and it went great. The crowd was vibrant, accompanied by the supporting shouts and screams from the OYFA family. We all had a collective sigh of relief after getting off the stage. The entire CultureFest experience was excellent. Practicing was always a good time, and I got to know the other first-years better. Doing the OYFA fashion show at CultureFest was enjoyable as well, as each group of people got to do funny little skits while showing off our culture’s clothing. It was actually a bit sad to realize that we weren’t going to have practices anymore. But it was definitely fun while it lasted. Next stop: Barrio Fiesta.

“I mean, I’ll dance at the occasional party or two, but the idea of cultural dances and choreography was completely new to me.”

Self-Imposed Stereotyping is at the root of the problems that Asians face today in American society. By pigeonholing all Asians into a group with set characteristics, stereotyping serves to make Asian- Americans feel alien in a predominantly Caucasian culture, and when an average American visualizes what an American ought to look like, he most likely does not think of a minority. “American” should never be equivalent with “Caucasian,” and all generalizations, whether they are positive or negative, must be eliminated in order for this idea to take prominence. Stereotypes exaggerate irrelevant differences between human beings, and more likely than not, they are hurtfully false. Getting rid of stereotypes is a difficult task, and the first way that Asian-Americans can help the situation is by starting with themselves. Currently, stereotypes are deeply engrained within the media, and Asians themselves have begun to believe and support the generalizations made about their cultures. However, this stereotyping did not start out being popularized by Asian-Americans. Instead, these images were spread by the American mass media, and stereotyping has been constant and relentless as long as America has had the tools with which to display its ignorance. Much of early Hollywood had white actors portraying Asian men, and it is through their portrayals that the generalizations about Asian men have been continued. A prime example of this is Mickey Rooney’s portrayal of a Japanese man in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” in which he wears buckteeth, speaks with a horribly imitated accent, and is portrayed as a pervert who likes to take pictures of Audrey Hepburn’s character. Although recent portrayals of Asian men have been more subtle than this “yellowface” caricature, they are no less damaging, and due to the fact that Asians actors and actresses are involved in current productions, stereotypes are given a legitimacy that they do not deserve. This Asian involvement is extremely damaging, because not only does it reaffirm the widespread beliefs about Asian culture, but it can also undermine the culture itself. I recently had a conversation with a Chinese girl who was told by her parents to only date Caucasian men, because

Chinese men would be controlling and abusive. Shocked at the ignorance of the statement, I asked other Asian girls, and I discovered that many of them had formed the same generalized opinions about entire groups of Asian men. As a Chinese male, I obviously found this distressing, but it’s even more disheartening to think about the repercussions of her beliefs. If she tells people who don’t know any better, will they believe her because she is Chinese? Am I being racially stigmatized by my own race? This betrayal of roots is quickly becoming widespread, and no one has popularized this deplorable sentiment more than Amy Tan. Due to the fact that Tan is an author of Chinese decent, readers will tend to see her views as being accurate and representative of Chinese culture. In fact, Tan encourages such an interpretation, and in The Joy Luck Club, she uses a metaphor to parallel her characters with the directional winds in order to give it an all-encompassing tone. However, Tan manages to be anything but all- encompassing, and she paints a one-sided portrayal by endowing all of the Asian men in her novel with intolerable qualities. Amongst the rogue’s gallery of horrible Asian men are a spoiled son, a rapist, and a domestic abuser. Nearly all of the Asian relationships in the novel end in disaster, and nearly all of the relationships with Caucasian men succeed. It is this type of reinforcement that fosters the Asian male’s sexually inadequacy and violent reputation, and it portrays Asian girls as having to be saved from their own race in order to become “American”and independent form their Asian mothers. Even worse was when The Joy Luck Club was turned into a movie, and someone made the decision of turning one of the emotionally abusive Caucasian men in the novel into an Asian man for the movie. This type of cast change reinforces the anti-Asian male thread that runs throughout the film, and it is given legitimacy by the many Asian performers that starred in it- particularly the Asian males, who didn’t seem to mind recreating their stereotypes on the big screen.

If she tells people who don’t know any better, will they believe her because she is Chinese? Am I being racially stigmatized by my own race? In order for Asian stereotypes to disappear, many AsianAmericans need to reject their belief in those stereotypes. Instead of presenting a united front against the racism that faces Asians in America today, many Asians have taken on a self-hate, in which they despise their culture, believe in its negative reputation, and thus represent it as such. By doing this, Asian-Americans put themselves on a lower level than they deserve to be, and they play right into the hands of bigots who then can use these Asians as a support for their ignorant belief system. It is important that Asian- Americans rid themselves of their self-loathing, because if they cannot accept themselves, then they cannot expect others to do so either.

Children

by Kathleen Hom

The sweltering humidity storms into the brain, massacring all pleasant thoughts. It only leaves,

in its blistering wake, torturing nightmares of a never-ending heat wave. Sun-stroked victims sit in a daze, neither conscious nor comatose, but stuck in a limbo where the air conditioners hum in unison but circulate only the heavy atmosphere. Not even a slight breeze relinquishes the city from its pain, even as it trembles on its knees, bowing down in supreme humiliation and agony—there is no escape. But the children are oblivious to the torture. Although their arcadia is dusted with dirt and crowded with black garbage bags bursting of hand-me downs, they sit, in their white cotton

underwear and t-shirts, on the linoleum floor. Perspiration fails to trickle from their brows for the ancient flooring cools their rumps, though the atmosphere still stinks. Their tummies heave and their tiny faces cringe as they giggle. The heat demon does not have the heart to desecrate them. Their little minds are enveloped with what lies across the tiled hallway. Just five feet from their apartment door is another open door. And right in front of in a tiny living room, the children stare at specks of black and eavesdropping on sounds that reverberate into the stairwell. The yabba-dabba-dos of Fred Flintstone, his massive head and leopard print attire hypnotize the young. Surprisingly, they laugh when cued even though the kids don’t understand the dialogue and can’t fully grasp the story. They stare mesmerized by the new toy, as any American child would, despite their handicap. The language, a jumble of weird chatter skips into their ears, the rapid images

bombard

their

eyes—its

message grows to be their means and end. The tiny box continuously spews propaganda about success, education, and family, battering them hard. Like a snowball to the face, the media’s message is cold and solid. But it isn’t as if these kids will run home, tears burning their rosy faces.

Instead,

they playful gather snow and throw a

snowball back.

the

door, w h i te ,

Living by Pauline Wu

Sometime in late January, Grandma Yin announced that her husband was taking his last breaths. Her three daughters and two sons dropped everything and flew halfway around the world. When they got to where they were going, they found Grandpa Yin lying on a neatly made hospital bed, thin plastic tubes snaking around his arms. In a slow, labored motion, Grandpa Yin turned to his second daughter and spoke. It was an unintelligible mumble. Jane leaned in tenderly, taking her father’s frail hand, imagining his last words to be of utmost importance. He whispered into her ear. Jane let go of his hand, carefully setting it down, and her siblings eagerly crowded her. “What did he say?” they demanded. There was a pause. “He said he didn’t like my shirt,” said Jane. No one was much surprised. A week or two later, everyone went back home to pick up what they had dropped. No one had known if it would really be Grandpa Yin’s last day on earth, but no one knew that it wouldn’t be his last day either. No one knew that tomorrow wouldn’t be his last day, and no one knew for certain that the day after tomorrow wouldn’t be it either. The whole thing unnerved Dan. His wife and daughters watched him absentmindedly pick at his dinner. His wife suggested they all go on a family vacation. Dan refused. He needed to save his leave. What if he needed to go to China soon? After all, Grandpa Yin wasn’t doing very well. Who knew what would happen next? In fact, maybe he should just go to China now. Dan’s bags were hardly unpacked from his last jaunt to China. He and Jane hopped on the next flight over. Every time Grandpa Yin made any sort of movement, a circus ensued. “Wa-a-ater,” he croaked. Jane and Dan, the ones on duty at the moment, both leapt for the ewer next to the bed. They spilled water on Grandpa in the process. They argued at length over who was to pour the water. The hired nurse cowered in the corner. Grandpa Yin felt quite certain that if he were to ask any of his offspring to run outside and dance in traffic, all of them would have bolted outside immediately, brushing past each other to be the first one in the street.

He landed in the hospital one time after complaining of trouble breathing. At Grandpa Yin’s age, trouble breathing was grounds for hospitalization. “Send Grandpa a card,” Jane instructed her son. She was back in the States. “What kind of card?” George asked. “Anything. Just send a card. Your cousins have already sent two, you need to show some respect too!” “But…” “What do you mean ‘but’? Don’t you love your Grandfa?” That was how Jane pronounced it. Her son let it slide. A few days later, Jane thought to ask her son if he had sent anything yet. “What? I told you three days ago! Why haven’t you sent something yet?” she complained. Two days later, a card from the local drugstore found its way into the mail, a hastily scribbled message inside. Jane eased up on the nagging. A moot point, since the nagging returned two months later when Grandpa Yin suffered another malady, so enigmatic that his physician could not diagnose it. “He doesn’t have anything,” said the doctor, briefly and bluntly. Grandpa Yin shot him a malevolent look from where he was lying down in his usual bed at the hospital. His daughter Carol looked at the doctor, who didn’t seem to be lying, but one never knew when it came to doctors. Two nurses walked by outside, chattering away in Chinese. She looked at Grandpa Yin, who in turn tried his best to look sickly. “Are you sure?” she asked the doctor. “Positive.” “I need some pills,” demanded Grandpa Yin. “Stronger ones than last time,” he specified. After a pause, the doctor left the room and motioned for Carol to follow. He reached into the pocket of his white lab coat and brought out a little glass jar of round, white pills. “Give these to him twice a day,” he told her. Grandpa Yin had his pills, and he stopped complaining. As much. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Grandpa and Grandma had been closer, somewhere Dan could keep an eye on them. As it stood, they were on the other side of the world. They had been in America with their children for a decade or two, when finally they kicked up a fuss that overwhelmed their childrens’ humanly tolerance and they were allowed to go back to China. Grandpa and Grandma Yin wanted to die at home, on their own turf in China. Even Jane was cowed by their final assertion of parental authority. Her son George wondered if parental authority had an expiration date. It was September, and the children were starting school again. Jane’s son George went to college, and by Thanksgiving he had converted to

Christianity and was preaching the good news over turkey and cranberry sauce. Jane, Dan, and the rest of the Yin children had never heard of Thanksgiving while they were growing up, but when they got to America they thought it would be a good idea to try it out. Jane took a slice of turkey and put it on her plate, but didn’t even touch it. It was for show. She ate fatty pork marinated in soy sauce, baby bamboo shoots with ginger, and seaweed soup. Her brother Dan was equal opportunity. If it was food, Dan ate it. Halfway through Thanksgiving dinner, Dan had the brilliant idea of phoning Grandpa Yin so everyone could talk to him. They could hardly understand Grandpa, since at around age seventyfive or so, he had started to slur his speech. “HELLO,” bellowed Dan. “HOW ARE YOU DOING, FATHER? WE ARE HAVING THANKSGIVING DINNER.” All members of the younger generation started to chew faster. Dan turned around and called out the first kid he saw. “Emily!” he shouted at his daughter, “Come talk to Grandpa!” Emily reluctantly left her seat and shuffled over. The remaining nine grandchildren all looked at each other. They knew their turn was coming soon. The kids could hardly speak Chinese, but Dan figured that didn’t matter as long as they tried. One time Dan had taken his children out of school in the middle of the day to see their grandfather. It was supposed to be an unexpected treat for Grandpa Yin, who spent most of the day doing nothing. Dan half-hoped for a “This is your life” type reunion. Look, it’s your grandchildren! When they arrived, Grandpa Yin was sitting on the couch watching TV. “Go give Grandpa a hug!” Dan told his daughters. They looked at Grandpa, who was still watching the TV. His oldest daughter went first, gingerly putting her arms around his skinny frame. He was completely apathetic, except for grunting a little bit. “Dad, he totally doesn’t care. Why are you making us do this?” whispered Emily to her father in English. Dan became angry. “No, you still have to do it. You are his grandchildren,” he said sternly. They were the grandchildren. That was the same reason George had driven over to visit Grandma Yin one afternoon. He hadn’t wanted to visit, but his mother had threatened to take his car away from him. It was a sad state of affairs for someone who could already vote. He rang the doorbell and waited. And waited. Grandma Yin was hard of hearing. He rang it again, and heard shuffling noises behind the door. George saw her peek out from behind a white curtain, and then the door swung open as fast as she could open it.

“Gee-ahje!” exclaimed Grandma Yin delightedly. Her face lit up like sunshine. George felt guilty to the core. He smiled hesitantly. She grabbed his arm with a surprisingly strong grip and pulled him in before he knew what was going on. On sitcoms, grandmothers baked cookies and dispensed pearls of wisdom. George’s grandmother’s idea of a treat was chicken stewed in nameless Chinese herbs whose essence seeped through the kitchen, marking everything with their pungent flavor. “Hun-gree?” she asked excitedly. He knew what the correct answer was. Jane’s face popped into his head. He wanted to reply, No, not really, but was unwilling to face the consequences of that action. He was too young to die. “Okay,” he responded. He heard the TV blaring in the family room, where Grandma Yin had been idly watching TV programs she couldn’t understand, for lack of anything better to do. She joyfully brought over a pot of steaming chicken, treading carefully in her blue house slippers, balancing the boiling broth. She set the pot down with her wrinkled hands and eagerly dished a heaping portion over a mound of white rice on George’s plate. When her work was done, she sat down across from him, beaming. He lifted a forkful of chicken and rice to his mouth, and braced himself. He was surprised when it turned out to be not as bad as he remembered it. Actually, it was pretty decent. George ate some more. They sat in silence punctuated by the sound of George’s fork clinking against his plate. Looking up, he saw Grandma Yin gazing at him. She was still beaming happily. He smiled a little, but quickly looked back down at his food. He wondered what she would have said to him if he could have understood her Chinese. Maybe she was trying to tell him the meaning of life as she had discovered it over her many years, but when it got to his ears it was garbled into a mess of singsong noises. Or maybe she wasn’t very bright and all she had to say was not worth his time after all. He would never know. He wondered if she ever wondered what they were talking about when they all sat around a table, laughing at jokes told in English. Did she feel left out? Grandmothers had feelings too, probably. George’s best friend had written his college essay on the most meaningful thing his grandmother had ever told him. The most meaningful thing Grandma Yin had ever told George was something along the lines of “Here, eat this.” They spoke no other common language when it came down to it. There were no words exchanged. Grandma Yin’s greatest offering of love was on George’s fork. The taste of Chinese herbs clung to the roof of his mouth, and he scraped at the remaining sauce rolling around his plate.

Grandpa Yin didn’t cook. He hadn’t done much of anything, as far as the grandchildren were concerned. Emily hardly knew her grandfather. The memory that stood out in her mind was the time she had been sitting in the big, brown leather reclining chair in their family room and she had gotten kicked out of it. “Grandpa’s here!” Dan had announced merrily, as if he were announcing the arrival of Santa Claus or someone equally important. Emily was unexcited. Grandpa Yin padded in slowly with the help of a cane, hunching over as he made his way across the room. He made a beeline for the chair that his granddaughter was sitting in, and Dan told her to get out so that Grandpa could sit in it. Emily didn’t understand. There was an entire couch next to her that was unoccupied. She couldn’t see any good reason that Grandpa Yin should want to sit in her particular chair. “Why doesn’t he sit there?” asked Emily innocently, pointing at the sofa next to her. Dan was horrified. “Emily! How can you talk like that to your grandfather?” he exclaimed in Chinese. Dan grabbed her wrist and hauled her bodily out of the recliner. Emily wanted to point out that she wasn’t actually talking to him so much as about him, but

clearly Dan wasn’t interested in this little tidbit. Later she understood. It didn’t matter that she was sitting in the chair first, or that the couch next to her was not being sat in. What mattered was that Grandpa Yin wanted to sit in that particular chair. It was an important lesson. In December, most of the grandchildren flew to China over their winter breaks from school. “This might be the last time you see him, so… ” said all of the Yin children to their own children. The grandchildren listened, but were not all overly concerned. That sort of warning lost its effect when it was reiterated too much. Everyday while they were there, the grandchildren filed into Grandpa Yin’s room at the hospital. Sometimes Emily sang for Grandpa. He stared at her blankly while the nurse applauded enthusiastically. One time he began to speak, stuttering as he struggled to get the words out. “What is he saying?” Emily asked the nurse. The nurse translated for her. “He says he doesn’t like that song and wants you to sing another,” said the nurse apologetically, with a British accent. She was from Hong Kong. Emily took a deep breath and obediently sang something else. When she got home, Dan all but interrogated her. He would have gone to China too, but one only had so many sick days and vacation days before unemployment loomed. “How is Grandpa doing?” asked Dan anxiously. Emily thought for a moment. “I can’t tell. He looks the same as he ever did,” she replied. Dan didn’t know what to make of this response. The next day was New Year’s Eve. They congregated at Jane’s house as usual, whoever happened to be around. Dan passed out glasses of champagne, and glasses of sparkling cider for the little ones. George took champagne, in a bold assertion of adulthood. At midnight, the ball dropped in Times Square. The Yin family clinked glasses, and ushered in the new year.

Awakening to ECASU 2004

EastCoastAsianStudentUnion by Janice Gumera, Huong Huynh, and Todd Aman

You awaken to what sounds like a massive crowd of people. Curious, you walk out and see over eighthundred Asian Americans walking around central grounds on an early Saturday morning. What are all these Asian American students doing here at UVa? Some have flown down from Harvard or Syracuse, others made the 12 hour drive from Florida. All are walking around grounds, rushing to attend workshops on issues of Asian American identity, learning about ways to become more politically involved in the APA community, and listening to distinguished speakers such as the director of Sixth Sense, M. Knight Shayamalan. One Saturday morning next year, this is what you will see: the annual East Coast Asian Student Union Conference on grounds at our very own University.

The East Coast Asian Student Union, according to their official statement, was founded on “the need to facilitate dialogue among Asian and Asian American students.” Through “building, networking, and education,” ECASU hopes to establish a network of students most capable and passionate for change. The yearly conference strives to engage student activists and renowned

Asian American leaders in dialogue.

ECASU’s relationship with the University began with a concerned group of students who wanted those very same catalysts on grounds. They recognized that the Asian American landscape today is riddled with apathy, mired in disarray, and hampered in ignorance. In colleges across“Awakening the nation, losing battles areour confere being fought against insensitive t h e m administration, disaffected faculty, ambivalent non-Asians, and passivebecause A Asian Americans. Blatant hateA m e r i c a crimes, cultural misappropriation,currently l and institutionalized racism consciousn routinely threaten to undercut our everyday rights. Products of theof the probl system, there are too many of usthat plaque who still remain ignorant of or arecommunitie unwilling to fight the problems that face our communities. How many more Vincent Chen’s and Joseph Ileto’s will we endure before awakening from our apathy? How many more shirts does Abercrombie need to produce before the unawareness ceases? How much longer, simply, before we wake up? Awakening is our conference theme because we Asian Americans currently lack consciousness of the problems that plaque our communities. A recurring discourse in most Eastern philosophy,

Awakening is what ECASU will embody. To wake, literally and figuratively, is to “stir from sleep, to rouse from slumber, and to be brought into a state of alertness.” The weekend will address issues and concerns not discussed at previous conferences. It will be PanAsian not only in perspective but also in geography. We hope to stir people from the slumber of apathy, to rouse them from the lethargy of indifference, and to bring them into a state of alertness. With ECASU at the University of Virginia, we will no longer passively discuss Asian American affairs; we will g is think about concrete solutions. We ence will not only to promote awareness m ofeAsian American issues; we will set off influential action. The Asian conference will educate people ans about the wide array of social lack questions that Asian Americans ness face and then provoke them to pass on their new understanding lems to their communities.

e our es.” So

don’t be surprised to find yourself amidst a crowd of 800 people on grounds some time next year. A project of this magnitude is beyond any singular organization alone. The Asian student population must unite and demonstrate to more than thirty five visiting schools what true collaboration can yield. Take on an active part in planning the conference on behalf of the APA community on grounds and for the larger University community. Most of all, take an active part in the conference for your own edification.

Contributors & Staff Fayekah Assanah is a 2nd year, international student from Bangladesh, majoring in electrical engineering. She has been painting since early childhood and it is her favorite pastime. She says, “My colors and strokes follow what my heart says and probably that is why I feel painting to be so dear to me.” Enrico Castillo, 2nd year, English & Biochemistry major “Then the sadness in his eyes was gone. It was in the eyes of his companions now...And it was for them now to remember always, if they wanted to consolidate the ashes of the past into a flaming phoenix of faith, to set afire the darkness of their own lives with it.” -- Carlos Bulosan, The Cry & Dedication, Chapter IV Elizabeth Chan Victoria Chiou is a 1st year still trying to pen the meaning of life in seventeen syllables. Elizabeth Chiu is a 1st year student honored to be involved in the content and production of this yearʼs Inkstone. She has enjoyed the immersion of Asian culture brought by good company, fine works of art and literature, and neato image editing programs! (well perhaps that last one doesnʼt fit as well...) Cheers everyone ^_^

Sam Gong says, “Just stick to the plan and everythingʼs relative. Take it one day at a time because itʼs all going to be behind you soon enough.” Janice Gumera is a 3rd year Comm Schooler / psych double-major who hopes to one day own a talking Scottish terrier, with a Scottish accent of course. She canʼt wait to see you at ECASU 2003. And meanwhile, sheʼll be working diligently to enjoy a relaxing summer and fourth year painting the town pink. Sou-Yeon Han - “If you meet me and forget me, youʼve lost nothing, but if you meet Jesus Christ and forget Him, youʼve lost everything.” Kathleen Hom is a 3rd year Foreign Affairs and Media Studies major who enjoys an unhealthy obsession with clean, hotel bathrooms. Huong Huynh ALLIANCE invited for handsome, unspoiled, garam-jalebi of a Digambara Jain boy; 5ʼ9”/ 22; Biochemistry BS, MD-bound; cultured; athletic; enjoys poetry, foreign cinema; cooks (vegetarian); fluent in Hindi (learning Gujarati); Seeks to unite Atman with slim, tall, beautiful, family-oriented girl; Pls respond with biodata/ph oto: (engineers

Jonathan Cheung is a sushi slave. he cannot get enough of salmon nigiri. He plans to launch his own magazine called Wasabi - An expression and exploration of sushi addiction. Gian Cruz is a 1st year Filipino, proud to be Inkstoneʼs webmaster. He loves his websites like they were his babies. He also loves his guitar. If you are a girl and close friends with him, he will probably serenade you on your birthday. Xiaolu Cui says “I have been Inkstoneʼs business manager for two years. Inkstone has given me memories and experiences that I will cherish forever.” Rupa Dasgupta is a 2nd year art and psychology student. She is the worst Indian ever. Denis Ferhatovic need not apply).

(But seriously, Vivek dedicates this issue to Makarand Dave.)

to shoot is zoo animals, and then she eats them. With ketchup... and cheese, she likes cheese.

Purim Jung says, “Art is one of my passions. I want to encourage people to find their passions and go for it!”

Sarah Saadian

Jessica Kim says, “The only excuse for a good poem is temporary insanity. Someone will think you are brilliant - at least itʼs better than being straitjacketed and hauled off to Disney World. And what is the deal with Q-tips?” Karen Land is a 1st year Texan who has a strong passion for sun salutations in yoga and will someday live on the top of a mountain. Paul Lim loves Jesus and finds his identity primarily as a loved child of God. He loves music, sports, and writing. Paul was conceived in Korea, was carried in his motherʼs womb to America, and was born in a speeding gray station wagon on I-95. he will enter the McIntire School of Commerce in the fall of 2003. John MacDonald Lisa Man is a 4th year English and Econ major who enjoys long phone convos, Law & Order, college b-ball and an occasional bout of girliness. She wants to thank her friends and family for their support, with particular shoutouts to Stinkie, JenPatChou and Miss Iris. (Proverbs 3:5,6) Serena Nguyen dances weird. Carol Pendergast likes photography a lot. Her favorite subject

Greg Saari is a 1st year East Asian Studies Major and Comm School wannabe who actually enjoys Peking Opera and calligraphy scrolls and ergo has been described as (annoyingly) more Chinese than many of his (genuinely) Asian co-workers. Jen Shang Trueheart Taylor has been drug and alcohol free, since 1983. When all is wrong I write a song: my ink my blood, my paper my bandage. Pearl Wang praises God for giving her words to speak and poetry to write and a double major in Psychology and Studies in Women and Gender. She is going to work in an orphange in Africa so *send us good thoughts, love.” Tim Wiley is a 1st year college student and potential UVa graduate ... if heʼs lucky. He claims that he likes old men and old men like him. Kevin James Wong is a second year whoʼs majoring in English and aspires to be a journalist. Heʼs loved working for this magazine more than anyone would believe. Pauline Wu is a 2nd year almost Comm Schooler who gives all the glory to God for Inkstone 2003ʼs completion! Christina Yi is a 2nd year Japanese major who realizes that at best sheʼll become a bum on the streets with her major and jet clings to delusions of grandeur anyway.