Volume 18 by Inkstone

inkstone magazine volume 18 | 2009

inkstone 2009 EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

April 28, 2009

Van-Anh Nguyen José Zamora

Dear Inkstone readers,

SECRETARY Niti Patel

ART EDITOR Muxin Li

Jennifer Shen

PRODUCTION MANAGER Joanne Mosuela

FINANCE MANAGER Tian Zeng

FUNDRAISING MANAGER Maylon Zhao

PUBLICITY CHAIR Florence Su

STAFF Andy Chaisiri Alex Chiou Lamu Gongsalamu Yonji Kim Ziqiao Zhang

YICHEN ZHOU / La Guang Paper

LITERATURE EDITOR

In several Asian cultures, the inkstone symbolizes the beginnings of creativity. The artist prepares the ink by grinding a tablet on stone. While grinding, the artist mediates on what to create. Once the ink is made, it is used with paper and brush to bring forth works of literature and art. All cultures have used some form of this method to express their views of the world. Along this line of thought, Inkstone is in its beginning and thinking stage as we continually try to grind out the meaning of Asian American identity and culture. The idea for an Asian American literary and art publication originated in the fall of 1991 with the founding of Paradigm by Vivian Hwang and Minna Minalo. The concept was to showcase Asian American creativity and to help dispel social stereotypes. The publication has since then evolved from simply being a showcase, which proved restricting, into a forum for the exploration of Asian American identity. In 1994, Michelle Bugay transformed Paradigm into Inkstone, incorporating the perspectives found in Slant, an issue-based newsletter published by the Asian Student Union for the Asian American community. Going beyond its roots, Inkstone is evolving into a medium through which people of all ethnic backgrounds can express their views concerning Asian American culture and identity and share them with the University community.

For over a decade, Inkstone has remained strongly committed in its service as a critical outlet for talented artists and writers at the University to forge their own meaning of Asian American identity. This year, Inkstone reaches a special milestone: the release of Volume 18 marks our 15th anniversary. To celebrate, we put together a magazine that not only showcases diverse perspectives from UVa students on various social issues, but also diverse mediums through which these perspectives are expressed. The Dean of the College, Meredith Woo, recently remarked that the greatest enemy of diversity is willful ignorance and incuriosity. To this end, from beautiful verses of poetry to genius strokes of paint on canvas, Inkstone has the privilege of showcasing and sharing the marvelous skills and talents of the University community to evoke curiosity and to help strengthen the ties that transcend social differences. Acceptance, however, is not the ultimate goal; it is only the first step. There is a clear distinction between simply accepting social differences and embracing these differences. The latter channels that shared goodwill into more productive ends. For fifteen years, we strived to further this common purpose, and in the years to come, Inkstone hopes to continue as an important vehicle for its achievement. It was a pleasure for the Inkstone staff to go through and organize the many wonderful submissions sent in this past year from the student body here on Grounds. We want to thank all our submitters, whose literary and art contributions are the cornerstone of our magazine. Without them, the magazine may have the message, but it lacks the substance. Similarly, just as a building needs its bricks and mortar, it also needs its builders to put them in their proper places. For this, Inkstone cannot thank its staff members enough for their dedication and passion. From the laughter on potluck night to the sweat of production in the COUP—the staff of Inkstone left an undeniable mark on this year’s publication. To both our submitters and our staff: we thank you with our sincerest appreciation. And to Inkstone, it indeed took both laughter and tears to have reached this 15th year milestone. We wish you a happy 15th birthday and hope for many more to come! With best wishes, Van-Anh Nguyen and José Zamora 2008-2009 Inkstone Editors-in-Chief

POETRY PROSE

ART

04 Domestication

COURTNEY KAMPA

Hope for Beginners JENNIFER SHEN

05 Matnog ANONYMOUS

06 Vanitas Bug Inspector

Alzheimer’s is Hereditar y; Old Men are Kings

ANONYMOUS

18 Untitled

The Walls Tell My Family Stor y

SUNDRAS INDREES

Family Medicine REBECCA OH

I F C Paper Cutting-Peking Opera Figure 32

Two Sides to Every Coin: A Cultural Analysis of Slumdog Millionaire

NITI PATEL

KRISTINE CARANDANG

SUNDRAS INDREES

BACK COVER Venetian Steps

16 First Hitchhiker JACOB YOST IV

COVER Roughened

MUXIN LI

JACOB YOST IV

“China China!”

EUNICE JANG

30 Baihu REBECCA STEWART

31 This Juncture VINU ILAKKUVAN

This Is Not Another Slam on Identity Politics

JOSÉ ZAMORA

YICHEN ZHOU

04 Field of Flowers KATHERINE RATTERREE

06 Mon côté punk CODI TRIGGER

09 Untitled SHREYA SONI

11 Untitled SHREYA SONI

15 Jersey CODI TRIGGER

15 Overgrown RACHEL SINGEL

16 Chief Goodtimes JACOB YOST IV

20 So What

SUNDRAS INDREES / ink & water

LAURA BELL

22 Untitled MARINA MICHAEL

28 Moody Bears TIFFANY CHU

30 Fin del Camino MICHELLE FERNG

31 Flaunt KRISTEN EASTERBROOK

36 Still Watching SHREYA SONI

38 Artist’s Perspective SHREYA SONI

40 Looking Down the World JONGBOK YI

omesticati n

When it comes to all things kitchen, I am what my mother’s caramelized optimism coats a late bloomer. My young sister, as fearsome with sharp knives as she is with blunt truth, calls me a gastronomic train wreck. It seems I simply haven’t the mind for it: I watch them separate vegetables with draconian precision, but at my hand eggplant and tomato lie lifeless across the cutting board; my chicken cutlets like twisted victims of a medieval inquisition. And still my conscience stings at the recollection of those charred gingerbread men— the prostrate batch of soldiers mistakenly sent to a blistering death when I ambled from the watch-post. Yet while I cower from whisks and measuring cups, I apron myself in the hope that someday my long-lost culinary gene will fly home— roll up the gravel in a checkered taxicab, knock sheepishly at the door, and apologize abundantly for its dreadfully delayed arrival.

Matnog

—Courtney Kampa KATHERINE RATTERREE / acrylic on canvas

The sand here is full of sharp, broken shells like shards of China and it carries itself onto the floors of the house that your mother built with her American money from the Brooklyn hospital. My father, she says. Was building a dream house all his life, even beneath the sheets of his deathbed. All plans, all dreams for such a silly house. Your father tells you how he used to scrub floors with banana leaves as big as himself, his eyes are boyish through the soft wrinkles of his face. I did this, I did this, he said. His dark knees full of bone are against the floor of the house built in concrete and dark, cracking wood, iron. The tiles are shining like a big, red grin, his hands spreading across the surface his fingers spread wide like two copper suns. Auntie Purita slices the sunset papaya, the seeds like hundreds of eyes falling like monsoon rain into a small silver spoon, the juice drizzling down your chin as you watch the lizards scaling walls like impressions of the dead— Auntie Manay is full of love and emptiness, your mother says of the woman whose skin gently folds onto itself like ribbons, whose eyes are round and unlost— She has no ovaries, your mother says as she cups the place beneath her stomach. Your father calls his mother Mai—and all you hear is My. My! he calls. My! Purita is proud; she has a cleft in her mouth, a steady hand that fries the fish happily, points to the sky to show a storm. Waves her hands in laughter.

—Anonymous

Vanitas Bug Inspector My job is a whited sepulchre of addiction. After hours. Yonni Yonson at 37 Clockwork Drive, Eugene, Oregon. Huge stone Georgian house, isolate. Door Man: Bald, black shirt, tucked into black suspender pants tucked into black boots. Blindfolded. Escorted to the infested room for a shin-navigated spray. Felt like a bedroom. Funeral of Queen Mary seeped through the floorboards. Canister emptied. I stood still, passionately inhaling deep fills of ethoprop. Familiar numbing tingle. Beneath my blind spot a cockroach quivered out like a wind-up toy fish in an empty tub. Dying insecticated, like having sex with the reaper. Planned on living forever but I’ve been scared half to death once and my setting is increasingly unpredictable. The man in black entered. Guided to a raspberry oriental rug with another’s presence. Offering: a Lorena Bobbittinspired cut of sausage. Erratic sounds of clipping as I chewed. “Kindly remove your blind.” Yonni, mouthless Greek theatre mask, black blouse, in a paisley upholstered Victorian armchair, toe clippings at his bare feet. “Pretty blue eyes, where did you get them from?” I choked on a piece of sausage. Handed a white envelope $254.53 inside and a note, be gone.

— Jacob Yost IV

CODI TRIGGER / photography

“Huge stone Georgian house, isolate. Door Man: Bald, black shirt, tucked into black suspender pants tucked into black boots. Blindfolded.”. 06

>>>>>>>>

o e p h FOR by Jennifer Shen If you stand for hours in endlessly frigid weather, sooner or later your feet will go numb. They might last minutes longer than your neighbors’, shielded by woolly socks or a fortress of thermal underwear, but the cold comes to everyone, and it creeps in without asking. On Inauguration Day, the million people on the ground knew it. And didn’t care, and kept coming. The crowd was thousands strong by the time the sun came up. Their chatter and temperament was indicative of the mood of the day, which oscillated between rigor mortis from limbs gone rigid and so much euphoria from what was happening that the only thing they could do was hold on their knees and try to stay upright until it was over. Once Obama appeared, it was mostly the latter. • For most locals, the trip began at the turnstiles opening out to the Metro. Once down the stairs, they came upon a platform packed to a pitch they’d never seen before. Sometime in the 40 years it took for a car with room to arrive, the people waiting couldn’t take it anymore—and broke out into singalongs and high-fives. Before long they’re witnessing the platform’s transformation from a traffic jam in Antarctica into the set of a Disney movie, complete with coordinated dance moves and the invisible lyrics to “Shout” lettered karaoke-style in the air. Not that everyone knows the words—they don’t—but in that station, with onlookers of every origin and culture

mouthing along, it’s a short distance between reality and the imagined world where everyone does. Here was a panoramic view into contemporary America, and by all accounts the real event hadn’t even started yet. • Above street level, more travels took shape; another wave of visitors came by car, by plane, by bus. But the structure of the morning remained the same: one continuous stretch of time that was, by and large, spent manic and cooped up and dozing in the crook of someone’s arm, followed by a recovery period scrabbling for warmth and caffeine. By eleven o’clock they had converged into a great pillowy mass, shoulders raised, melding together into a territory that spread into the far corners of the Mall. Some withdrew from the mayhem where they stood: eyes closed, never moving, but with one hand resting lightly over their throats like they were bearing witness. Even as the noise kicked up, they remained still, opening their eyes at absent intervals, brought back to reality from an entirely different place. Around them, the rest of the crowd carried on cheering and stomping and whistling until they could have been heard in Canada. Whether you were there or watching the festivities on TV, the enormity of such a public catharsis could have knocked you over. After that much time in the cold, they couldn’t have had a voice left, but a collective voice barreled out of them

SHREYA SONI / acrylic on canvas

BEGINNERS anyway: in small ways, in ways that hollered, in ways that saw right through to where their neighbors hid. So help me God, if Barack Obama can win the election, all is forgiven. I will get to church on time. I will tip the delivery guy extra, with feeling. I will fill my shopping cart with something other than Cheez-Its. I will raise my children right. I will not let any of this defeat me. Hallelujah! And as the spirit moved, so did everyone’s money; for all the moment’s historic significance, the only way you could be sure this was America celebrating was the equally historic volume of commemorative merchandise showcased in the crowd, like the most suitable outlet for everyone to express their joy was a glittery fridge magnet or

a winter hat with Obama’s name across the front. In a way it was ridiculous, but the visual impact was a form of communication even sharper than a shout. When the proceedings began, the giant video screens on the Mall and reporters’ cameras trained on the dignitaries taking their seats, relegating the crowd to the background. If they had taken one final sweep, they could have lingered on the clusters of strangers who would have had nothing in common if it weren’t for the only thing keeping them together: his name on their hats. • Maybe the most heartening aspect of the inauguration was how well it mirrored the forces I first

>>>>>>>>>

saw on Election Day. That the number of supporters present at the inauguration would be much larger was obvious, but until that day it was impossible to know whether everyone believed in Obama in the same ragged, emotionally wracking way Charlottesville did. You couldn’t miss the canvassers stationed on every corner, closely followed by the band of volunteers who rolled up to the curb of Gilmer to drive the willing to the polls—lots of generosity and enthusiasm delivered with a barely contained grin, like they just couldn’t help themselves. That afternoon I signed up for a ride after lunch. Half an hour later, I was heading downtown with two other students in an SUV that would be hard to describe in a sanesounding way, so I’ll just have to approximate and say it looked like it had been struck by Obamathemed lightning. Inside the car was just as electrified— my driver introduced herself as the synthesis of various selves: a 2003 UVa grad, giddy with the thrill of election season; a black woman, feeling the boundaries of her family history coming loose; and an expert hostess whose job it was to ensure we would never be hungry again. “Hey, I’ve got granola bars, chips, candy—” She held up a fun-sized bag of Chips Ahoy. “Want bottled water? Here, you deserve some water! Have some trail mix too! Today’s a great day!” She looked over her shoulder at us and beamed, and with the force of a blow I suddenly believed it too, that it was a great day; it was an honor and a privilege to be born and live so freely, if only so that it could lead to eating cookies in someone’s backseat on my way to cast my first vote for the man who would be president. • It would be easy to file the 2008 election away as a period of sentimentality. Now that we’ve had our moment to feel inspired, the generation best known for its bad habits could easily resume its radio silence. It’s only a matter of time before disillusionment sets in, our fragile nerves call it quits, and every Obama supporter under the age of

30 blows out like a supernova. After all, who could possibly live up to the hopes and expectations the public brought to the polls this year? But what I saw and felt during this campaign went beyond policy. What we craved was inspiration. When we rose to the challenge, it gave us power. It was raw and full-blown and a champion of its own will, and got downright painful to experience sometimes: every discouraging poll a wrecking ball, every hope almost too big to live inside a single person. With highs and lows like these, we needed an Obama intervention. Politicians had caught our interest before, but not like this. For once we were part of the campaign, because he had invited us in—calling our mothers and fathers and siblings to serve, combining quadrants of a shared national history in a language we recognized. Not talking about us, but to us. We, he always said, with conviction. Yes We Can. • Regardless of what happens in the coming years, a fundamental shift occurred in this country on November 4. It’s important to remember when six days out of seven the network news is telling to us swallow a bottle of Prozac because today’s economy is only the dress rehearsal for something worse; when the airwaves seem paralyzed by reflexive doubt about America’s capacity to change; when the sense of community that the election produced seems to be sinking under the weight of our day-today realities. In the end what gives me the most hope is that we made it past a bottleneck that would have been unimaginable only decades ago. The mixing of shared identities and the broadening of ideas about leadership that has taken place since Obama hit the national stage can do more than stand as symbolic victories; those ideas can provide the kinetic jolt that, in the absence of everything else, gives us the strength to stand undiminished. What we felt in the last election our generation could feed on forever, as long as we recognize the strength in each other to try.

With highs and lows like these, we needed an Obama intervention. Politicians had caught our interest before, but not like this. For once we were part of the campaign, because he had invited us in.

SHREYA SONI / acrylic on canvas

China!”

by MUXIN LI When I studied abroad in South Africa last year, I was part of a group of 21 students: 15 Caucasians, four AfricanAmericans, and two Asian-Americans – myself included. I was the only Chinese person in my group, and in South Africa an East Asian is very rare. Most of the population is black Africans, and the rest are comprised of white Afrikaaners, Asians (predominantly Indian), Coloureds. I didn’t think much about being a Chinese-American wandering around South Africa when I applied to the program, but I quickly learned that my ethnicity invited a lot of special attention. We met our first Zulu homestay families in a Durban neighborhood called Bonela, and immediately after helping me carry my bags, my homestay brother and sister asked, “Do you know kung fu?” I was surprised, but very amused. One look at me and no one would think that I could do anything that physically strenuous. It was my first introduction to the stereotypes of East Asians in South Africa, which I later learned was largely due to popular kung fu movies that featured Chinese actors like Jackie Chan and Jet Li. The next day, my siblings and I visited another student at her family’s home. The moment I stepped into the door, three young children swarmed me excitedly. “China China!” they yelled. “Teach us martial arts!” “Can you speak China?” “Write China for us!” “Sing China!” When they found out my last name was Li, they grew even more excited and asked, “Is Jet Li your uncle?” In Zulu culture, anyone who shares a last name with you is your kin, and it’s customary to host your kin even if you’ve never met before. We had learned this before meeting our Zulu homestays, so it made sense to me that the children would think Jet Li and I were related. After I managed to tone down their enthusiasm, I answered their questions and wrote their names in what I hoped looked like Chinese characters. I recited the only Chinese poem I knew, and I even tried doing a kung fu move that ended up looking so silly that everyone laughed and imitated me. The next day, the student whose home we had visited came up to me and asked, “How did you do that?” She thought I took everything so calmly even when people were constantly stereotyping me. (Along with the kids, random people on the street had been calling me “Jackie” and addressing me with “Ni hao!”) I just shrugged and said it didn’t bother me, and I happened to find most of the stereotyping funny. I knew that people held stereotypes based on their

experiences, and most South Africans only know about Chinese people through what gets presented in the media. I tried to remember that incidents like this don’t have to offend me. Instead of reacting to what I experienced, I made an effort to understand what people meant by what they said or did and tried to figure out what causes them to think that way. I believe this sort of communication is necessary for both sides to learn about one another and to eliminate the perceptions that result from ignorance. For instance, after the children got used to the idea that not every Chinese person was like Bruce Lee, no one in Bonela asked again if I knew kung fu. • I wasn’t the only person in my group who encountered situations where their race affected their experiences in South Africa. In our discussions, we’d talk about those experiences and about the racism we saw happening around us every day. It was difficult at first to talk about the subject. We had left our politically correct environment and were learning to abandon our hush-hush American attitude towards discussing the “r word.” We were now in a country where it was only decades ago that racism instigated a horrific period of brutality and injustice, and where the “n word” is considered polite speech compared to other things that have been said and done. Unfortunately, our discussions usually devolved into confrontational and frustrating debates on the immorality of racism and how angry people felt about the state of the world. It was during a trip to an Afrikaans middle school that we entered into one of these discussions. In one class, a student made a racist joke and the entire class–including the teacher–laughed. Afterwards, when our South African lecturer asked us how our visit went, several people in the group remarked how outraged they were at the racist joke incident. They thought it showed blatant disregard for other ethnic groups, and that the student should have been reprimanded by the teacher. Other students believed that the teacher at the class was obviously racist, and that in the United States the teacher would have been fired for encouraging racist behavior. Our lecturer asked, “Why do you always punish people for doing these kinds of things?” Some of my group members answered that racist behaviors are hurtful and need to be changed; otherwise, everyone would think it was okay to make jokes at others’ expense. He responded, “But don’t you think that punishment is too harsh as a remedy?” The group members added that racism is a damaging system of beliefs that needs to be punished in some form in order for offenders to understand the severity of their comments and actions. It eventually became one of our typical discussions about how racism is among the evils of society. Instead of listening to our lecturer, the few students who were the most outspoken and passionate on the subject dominated the conversation and espoused their own opinions the entire time. Looking back on my experiences in South Africa, my overall impression is that those discussions went nowhere;

ALL PHOTOS BY MUXIN LI

“China

by the end of the program, everyone seemed more divided and contentious than ever. I also noticed some themes that replayed each time we debated. The first is that most people were inexperienced in talking about racism; it is, by nature, a highly charged topic that can easily lead to conflict. The second is that everyone tried very hard to be politically correct about everything they said. No one wanted to do anything that even insinuated racism, as if being called a racist were the most offensive slur imaginable. I also noticed that our conversations always ended with anger on both sides, and patient attempts to understand were steamrolled by strenuous efforts to preach one’s own ideals.

Most of these themes can be traced back to our American culture. We try to institute behaviors that are nonracist and have people follow suit. The battle against racism in America involves reforming the behaviors that we believe are racist into something more acceptable. Our society deals with racism by enforcing politically correct phrases and affirmative action programs; we even police each other by monitoring potentially offensive remarks and then punishing the offender. By punishment, I don’t mean legal punishment that might be prescribed for hate crimes—I’m referring to those small, subtle acts of social punishment: people excluding someone from sitting at their table; giving someone the cold shoulder; even showing just a bit too much sympathy, which can set a person apart from everyone else. By stigmatizing the problem, our prescribed method of dealing with racism becomes the threat of social punishment. Yet like the group discussions I had, I believe this approach is getting us nowhere. We focus so much on racism as a set of inappropriate behaviors that we forget it’s a socially constructed mental paradigm. Racism is rooted in the way we think, and relies on the fact that everything we perceive is filtered through the spider web of beliefs that we’ve absorbed through our interactions within certain cultural boundaries. Racism is like a tree: the leaves and branches are the racist behaviors, but the roots are the thoughts and stereotypes that gave rise to the behaviors in the first place. There is little use in trying to change the way people act if their mindset doesn’t change as well. We need to attempt to understand racists and the origins behind their beliefs instead of having them conform to an accepted code of behavior. Understanding is not the same as convincing. Convincing is having someone accept your argument, while understanding allows communication and respect for everyone’s rights to their own opinions. I’m not supporting racism, and I’m not condoning the harmful effects it has on our society. After a semester in South Africa observing the ineffective methods our American group used to challenge racism, I just don’t think we’re fighting the right kind of battle by condemning people’s behaviors and beliefs outright and ending the conversation there. We rarely, if ever, try to understand how and why people are the way they are, and we need to get at the heart of the problem before effecting lasting change. I don’t claim to have the cure for eliminating social ills like racism, or that an end-all solution even exists, but I believe that understanding the paradigms which cause social problems is the right first step that can move us towards something better.

*I’ve tried to explain these themes based on my own experiences. For those interested in taking courses at UVa which allow for more in-depth discussions on racism, the Inkstone staff recommends: Nationalism, Racism, Multiculturalism (Professor Richard Handler); Asian-American Cultural History (Sylvia Chong); and Race, Ethnicity, and Immigration (Vesla Weaver).

Alzheimer’s is Hereditary;

Old Men are

Kings

It is one hundred degrees, and my grandfather is reaching for me in the only room without an electric fan. He calls me the names of his ten sons, his hands cupped and open, His voice is made of such a humidity and sticky rice; and when he runs out of sons to call all he asks for in a world that has taken even his name from him is Tubig. Tubig. Tubig. Water. (I have started grabbing people’s hands when they talk to me because I’ve started to tell myself that if I ever go blind, or if I ever start to forget that I am constructing a road map back, my hands memorizing the interstate of palm lines, finding street names, dips in roads, the illuminated back of highway signs, the names of dusty cities and they all spell out names I have known and places I have been. I knew a war once, I knew the shape of a trigger and the shout of the coast guard shot dead point-blank by terrorists who came into the village where my parents lived. Their bus left the roads so dusty, my mother says.

CODI TRIGGER / photography

Before then, I knew the Japanese who came to torture, those who reached out from shadows and took children who were not quiet; took them away over a sea with no name.) My father tells me that women are so forgetful, and when I was younger I would Grab his face and cry happily: You forgot, You forget, Old Old Man And my brother Is all fists, swung freely as if the whole world is in his way He throws his fists in the air in victory, A war in a boy’s body. My brother is running, threatening blood, Shows bruises on his flesh in a bitter defeat. He touches his fists to the side of his head to show frustration Curls a fist gently over his heart when he loves. My father knows a man named Larry who works at Wal-Mart— I saw him falling asleep over a row of carts, the gentle wrinkling of his skin like the folds of fresh laundry folded in July; his once handsome features in a beautiful landscape of face, implied bone Used to be a soldier, my father says to me. Doesn’t go to the church anymore; I guess work makes him so tired. My father reaches for words, Walang . . . walang . . . walang. . . Without... Without…Without….

—Anonymous

RACHEL SINGEL / photography

First Hitchhiker

“It seemed the world was divided into good and bad people. The good ones slept better, while the bad ones seemed to enjoy the waking hours much more.” —Woody Allen 1am, woke up driving, 95 north. Bridgeport, another 230 miles. Stereo whispered Hotel California. Lonely, empty tank. Filled up at Shell around Petersburg. Pulling out, a modern-day Cossack. flipped me the thumb. Picked him up. Long black coat with gold trim, white band collared shirt, maroon parachute pants, fur hat, high boots, and a Russian translation of Catcher in the Rye sticking out of his satchel. His mustache and long braided beard distanced as he said he was “heading to the horizon.” I commenced intelligent conversation: Why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets? A synonym for thesaurus? Captain Hook’s name, before he lost his hand? Captain Hand? Can you get sick drinking piss? Even if it’s your own? He didn’t say much. Tired, asked Cossack dude to drive. Lucky guy’s got stick. He’s automatically ignorant. I drifted off as my wheels got dizzy. Back seat of a monster truck

JACOB YOST IV

sex with Christie Brinkley when a slight jar woke me. I noticed another passenger, sleep overcame curiosity. Now doing the monster mash with David Brinkley. Damn. Brinkley was chasing me around an amusement park when I awoke with the taste of my chloroformed socks in my mouth. Naked, duct-taped to the only tree in the middle of a dirt field. Fidelio muddied across my chest.

—Jacob Yost IV

all i could do was smile and nod.

UNTITLED asians should not be allowed to apply anymore the quote rings in my ears as my friends laugh hysterically at their professor’s racist comment. there are too many first our jobs now our educational opportunities just get the fuck out of my country! but you’re alright, Kristine. by the way – you hanging out with us or are you being asian tonight? the revenge of societal education withheld through brainwash scenes flash of the blatant racism and stereotype of the expectations of all, including my own – pinning my black hair and squinted eyes the huffy carpenter whittles my soul into a commercialized kokeshi doll and with one sweep of the hand, the leftovers are vanished off my American passport. all i could do was smile and nod. it all started with a Staedtler eraser. back and forth as i watched the mere quick math of my dad’s education disregard the numbers of my confidence, my pride, my self-esteem a once-filled jug of childhood naiveté, a free soul erased until nothing. “do it again.” it’s normal, i thought - for the strict but caring a life better than the cockroaches and rain or the sun beating down on legs scarred from cutting grass the PI is no America. “do it again.”

the hinges of doors to a potential future fail me as the eraser marks parts of my physical vessel crippled the swelling should come in old age, but i - i’m only 20. the potential debilitating next day haunts my dreams but the dreams were tainted anyway the breaths that can’t be breathed as the lamp crashed into darkness who do i turn to? a chronic disease lead to doctors who question my education and a man of the law dressed in brown who scopes the blue sign in my closely parked car immediately labeling youth as thievery a poor little asian girl standing next to the evil white wizard i sway without balance and dignity ripped after being thrown against the wall. all i could do was smile and nod. the page turned to find the answers i was searching for but all i could find was faulty wiring as neurotransmitters fire at 100 times their speed abandonment from friends in their petty self-centered lives. number one grad school? but what about med? my grandma expects nothing less. silence from the father of a failed dying daughter and as the enigma grew into the forever erased abyss i could take all that. i could take all that until a push from the one most dear all i could hear was a scream of terror coupled with rage i turned to look at my remains through a piece of the bloodstained mirror i laid on my reflection, battered and broken, stared at me through squinted eyes. all i could do was smile and nod.

all i could do was smile and nod. i run to the place i hold most dear with all the strength i have left push the thoughts of suicide and pray to God that my head stays clear. through the room i see it, a close Heaven of mine the woman behind the pearly white gates smiles and asks for details and spilling my identity i reach out my hand to acknowledge that Staedtler is at it again and frantically turning the childproof lock i take my pills.

that dreaded Staedtler eraser followed me through the chlorine waters that completed my life the same-sized jug but now half empty. a blue ribbon, a gold medal - can the others even swim? and so i drowned with them. the glory i embraced was snatched from my hands the prize of confidence yanked from my neck the moment i took my towel and looked at the ones i love the erasing tore a hole in my body straight through my hips.

the pills that help me smile and nod. and thus, my life as a model minority.

all i could do was smile and nod.

—Kristine Carandang

19 all i could do was smile and nod.

SO WHAT

LAURA BELL21

family medicine BY REBECCA OH It is one of those days. The air sticky like taffy between the teeth but not so pleasant, because taffy is sticky from corn syrup and nature. The double fs jammed together in the name declarative. Yora runs her tongue along her molars, blows out an impatient breath. Sweat slides between her back and the fauxleather seat of the cab and she squirms. Glares out at the city through the glare on the window. Damn the laws of physics. Damn this Philadelphia traffic! She should be able to move this damn car by willing it. Next to her, Han rotates his neck within his shirt collar and tries not to worry about pre-natal, inthe-womb influences. Babies do not tumble out foulmouthed because their mothers have short tempers on hot days. Amen. Yora squirms again, wipes the sweat off the back of her neck and leans around the bulge of her belly to adjust her stockings. “Hey.” Her fidgeting hand is clasped in steady, calloused fingers and Han smiles. Her own lips curve disapprovingly downward. “It’s okay. You can’t be the only one late for the Board.” A new target for her glare. “No one is late for the Board.” She turns to the high-rise office building

visible though her side of the cab. Two miles. She could make it. Damn the heels. Double Damn the summer heat. She glances at Han out of the corner of her eye. He is giving her that look. She sighs and rests one hand on her belly, one on the seat between them. Concedes the battle. • It is one of those nights. Yora avoids the main road and takes to the side streets, gritting her teeth. Wind cracks through them in whiplash bursts and her coat flaps a weak surrender despite its zipperlock. The wind changes direction. She might crack a molar. Just as she bows to turn into the gust, she sees pink lightning ribbon past her in the blowing white. She clutches a soggy bundle tighter to her chest. Eventually she scuttles down the most familiar of alleys and into the small courtyard of her family’s house. Stops by the door. Looks down. Wipes her boots on the already-muddy doormat and hopes they are mostly clean. Finally inside (frozen fingers + round doorknob = kinetic challenges), she beelines for the kitchen. “Umma,” she calls to announce herself. “Umma, I’m back.” “Yora, not so loud,” her mother chides, taking

the dripping bundle. A peck on the forehead is an afterthought. “And you’re late.” Another afterthought. Before she can defend herself her mother breaks out, “Aya! What is this?” holding aloft a few moldy bean sprouts. “Your father can’t eat this!” Yora nods. No use protesting: everything’s moldy and these were only half-moldy and her fingers and toes might have to be amputated and the most obstinate vendor this side of Seoul. Only: her father. On the way to wash her hands in the small bathroom at the back of the house, Yora passes Appa’s prone figure. She ducks her head, glances at him quickly from the corner of her eye. He is smoking his pipe on the couch. Watching sooty smoke rings. Not noticing her. She swallows a most undutiful mix of emotions and moves out of any possible sight. After dinner is a treat: fine quality green tea. Her mother preens as she pours the pale liquid into special black lacquered cups, hands them out with graceful nonchalance. As if they have this luxury every day. Yora bathes her face in the fragrant steam and tries not to wonder how much it cost. Oh! It is perfect—pungent and earthy and a little sweet. She slurps eagerly. Smack. She cringes, waits for another, harder blow. Breathes out as the sting fades. A tiny sigh and the cup is relegated to the floor beside her. Hands are folded neatly in her lap. “Yora,” her father says suddenly, in that sharp, gravely voice so rarely addressed to her. “Go get my pipe from the other room.” “Yes, Appa.” She moves quickly, glad of the opportunity to redeem her breach in decorum. Gladder still that he did not notice her jump. Rushing back with the pipe she skids on the floor paneling, slippery from use rather than polish. She and the pipe go flying. Normally a fall would only cause some surface bruising. Not even. But she has had the misfortune of invading the far corner of the house, where the wooden skin is rotted away and too costly to repair. It takes vengeance, apathetically. At this time Korean houses do not have electric heaters. The heat comes from boiling water pipes under the floor of the house. Very nice. But take away the paneling, the thin armor shiny from use rather than polish and it is hot. Too hot to touch—and it burns. • The taxi has made its way laboriously, through air that defies physics. Too dense. Too much mass in the volume of the city. But finally! the thricedamned office building is right in front of her. Yora streaks through the doorway as soon as the car has

stopped, forgetting about the taxi driver who shouts for his money. Han throws him a bill and hurries after his wife. He almost collides with her in the lobby. “What’s wrong? Yora?” She points to a sign on the wall, then turns and begins walking toward the stairwell. Chopin from ceiling speakers seems to announce, American Psychiatric Association Board Examination Rm. 703. Crescendo-Addendum: Elevator out of order. Han watches his wife’s swollen ankles disappear through the doorway. “Damn.” For the first time he wishes he knew how to fix elevators instead of defective heart valves. At the top of seven flights of stairs Yora pauses to collect herself. In. Out. In. Out. Find the Zen. Forget it. She opens the door at the back of the examination room, entering as quietly as she used to exit other doors when her family all slept in one room on the floor, and she slipped off to school in the dark mornings, alone. Hundreds of eyes turn to her, their incredulity hitting her skin like bullets. • Yora and her brother convey plates from the main room to the kitchen smoothly. Quietly. A circadian dance of two, much rehearsed and by now perfectly choreographed. Almost. Yora sucks in her breath when Sung jostles the topmost plate of the stack he is holding. Saves it. Noisily. The evening has been silent. At dinner Appa didn’t talk, so there was no talk. They held their breath and watched the peculiar tightness. The uneven twitch. Clenched teeth and busy fingers have come to mean Danger. Like the static prickle before lightening and a white world. Inside her head it is gray and quiet. Yora takes a rapid survey of the room. Her mother is still sewing in the corner, pretending to have heard nothing. Her father is sitting on the couch, his eyes fixed intently on some distant point beyond the wall. Not pretending at all. Yora follows Sung to the kitchen. “You almost dropped that one,” she whispers loudly, as if this was very important and not very obvious. Her brother’s lip curls beneath his scanty moustache. “Don’t worry, little sister. I’m not as clumsy as you are. I don’t constantly bring the house down around our ears.”

She gives him a look. Neither of them do. He nods. But they must be careful, always. Yora begins scrubbing dishes, blinking rapidly into the sink. Wishing for once that she could just cry and be loud and undignified. The soap depresses her. It foams and dissolves, foams and dissolves, and leaves too-shiny dishes behind. Sung clears the last things from the table and puts them on the counter beside her. She hesitates before picking up a black lacquered cup. Sweat breaks out on her forehead. The memory of pain ghosts down her leg. Over the scar. Sung sees her pause and his arms twitch. He thinks about it. He gave her a hug on her birthday. Christmas is coming up. Then the New Year. She might slip and hurt herself. There’s a quota of Big Brother Hugs. They’re tricky; a good hug requires whole-body movement. And these days his body is too sore. So he is stingy. The first time was the worst. The Morning After. Didn’t know what to expect. Didn’t brace himself. The Morning After is a silent memory. Untouchable, pressed behind glass with the press of knuckles. Skin and bone and the press of knuckles. Now Sung is so used to it that it makes him nervous when there is not some dull throb somewhere, wakes a fear that stalks days of peace. They never last. “Goddammit, woman!” A muffled thud and Yora and Sung know their mother has been knocked off her feet. It is not an Everyday Sound. But almost. It has become domestic. Sung exhales and steps away to collect himself. In. Out. In. Out. Find the Zen before ducking into the other room. Yora stops scrubbing dishes. Her face is calm. Eyes flat and shiny. She takes inventory of supplies: lots of bandages and ice (She remembers with a shudder. Once. Not enough ice. And Sung’s face—) and even a small, precious quantity of Pain Killers. It has been a while. A few months, but she is not surprised. When she returned from school earlier that day her mother whispered, “Appa has not come out of his room all day,” before returning to the kitchen. Yora supposes they should be grateful for warning signs, at least. Silent days like these, when Appa has been alone with himself for too long. Male voices rise. Fall. She can’t make out the words. Good. She winces. Presses her fist to her mouth to keep from screaming. A crash against the wall and Sung’s voice suddenly loud: NopleaseAppajust— She

listens to the scuffle and wonders How much furniture will be left in the morning and Will Sung will be able to go to work. She becomes aware of the quiet in the next room. Readies herself. Fills one towel with ice cubes to take to Sung and her mother and leaves another one in the freezer. In case of Further Emergencies. Just before the door she pauses. Considers the ghostly, newly unblemished skin of her arms. If she ever has children, they will never sweat through their long sleeves in summer. They will be loud and find peace in silence. Amen. She slips through the door to the darkened room. Her mother is in a corner, nursing a bloody nose. Sung is sprawled half in front of her, his face already blooming violet. She gives the room a cursory sweep: a new dent in the wall. Was-a-table now a macabre design-in-splinters. Jade ruins of a lamp she purchased for her mother’s birthday. She leaves the ice pack where Sung can easily reach it and turns to face her father. He is looking at her and beyond her, ensnared somewhere in nightmarish memories he does not speak of. Yet she knows their outline intimately, once even stepped a little into that red-tinged darkness her father does not unlock but. Sometimes he is overrun. She cringes as he steps forward. Wide steps. Heel-toe. The careful tread of avoiding-a-land-mine. Because she is looking for it now, she catches the flash of ragepanicfear in her father’s face. Knows there are guns going off behind his eyes. • Yora is handed a chart and asked to diagnose and prescribe a treatment plan for Patient A based on the video presentation from room 703. The Bullet Room. “Well, I’m sorry but I missed some of it. I was late,” she says, smiling. The panel of judges does not smile back. They stare. They are trained to be as unnerving as silence will make them. Give nothing. No help. No words to hold herself up or spring from. She meets their eyes and wonders if they are disappointed, for she is serene as Buddha, if not as wise. Their silence is child’s play. Not even. Not worth a held breath. There is nothing to brace for. Just this patient. This A. Just make do. “But based on what I did see, this is what I’ve got.” • Yora skirts a puddle and fingers the few coins in her pocket. It is a gray day that threatens rain but the market is lively and treacherous as ever. Booths and wares are jammed together, narrowing the wide main street to a more familiar width. The air is saturated

with sharp voices that undulate with the flow of money. Everywhere she looks she is assaulted. Hands gesture for her to examine the goods for sale, black eyes dart covetously from merchandise to potential customers. She passes mounds of shirts and cloth pants, rough leather sandals. Phallic bunches of ornamental peppers that promise many sons and happiness in riotous colors. Earthenware pots are lined neatly like big-bellied soldiers, waiting for water or rice or spicy pickled kimchee in unimaginable quantities. She holds her breath for as long as she can down the row of stalls proffering sweet-bean pastries and crisp dumplings. She is searching for something to replace that lamp. She saved months and months to afford it. The memory of jade-glazed shards pricks her. Her mother was always dropping her needle and finding it by touch and a bead of blood. Yora had taken to threading it for her, since little light comes through their small, grimy windows and Umma was always sewing, sewing, making, mending. She pauses before a fan vendor, shooting the man a glare that keeps him from directing her to whichever fans her tidy school uniform makes it look like she can afford. She selects one put together from thin rice paper and oddly-grained wood. She sniffs it. Sneezes. A monotonous flower design (flung paint?) on one side. She wafts it lightly, decides that even its slight breeze will be a help in the sticking-drippingsweating-nauseating-shitsmelling summer-to-come. As she retrieves her small store of money, her eye is caught by one fan suspended in a glass case. The faint shimmer spread along the ridgefolds indicates that it is silk, not paper, and she has never seen a design so exquisite or carefully rendered as the gold and scarlet phoenix hovering in that creamy air. The vendor gives her a smile that matches his oily hair and leans toward her, eyeing her crisp collar before naming a price. “The little lady must have an artist’s eye. Best quality, this one. Normally, 35,000 won. For you, 32,000.” She almost laughs. With that kind of money she might buy gloves. A second pair of shoes for Sung. Another lamp. This is only pretty. It is not worth that much.

Her lips curve in a smile or a grimace, and she hands him 3,500 won, all her current savings. “I’ll just make do with this other one.” • Yora goes down the stairs unevenly, her thoughts not entirely on her footing. Major depression was the primary, and probably universally obvious diagnosis, but Patient A (whom she is tempted to refer to as Appa in her mind) also exhibited symptoms consistent with bipolar II disorder. Those gave her plenty to talk about, and consequently left the judges with little time for poking holes in her diagnosis. The taptap of her heels slows to tap tap and finally silence. For years she has boxed herself away from the precocious, capricious high wire of intuition. Submitted to the disciplining regimen of her childhood home and sought out the disciplined regimen of medical school. She and impulsivity are old strangers now, and she made the last identification on a bare moment of recognition near the end. Refusing to consider how far she would fall if she was wrong. Growing up, she did not have a name for it. She and Sung and their mother only tried not to shatter the taut, fragile silence behind which Appa barricaded himself. But once she saw into that invisible wall. • Yora’s back spasms as she sets the laundry down in her parents’ bedroom. Pain is becoming her constant companion, more faithful than a dog. Forging itself into her movements until she longs for days when she does not feel old. Coming around the low bed, she almost drops the blankets. She has never seen her father’s trunk open. It has been a silhouette, locked and ominous in the folding closet. Yet here it is. With a wide maw full of maybe? secrets. On nights of heavy rain all the noise that builds up in the house rises through layers of wood and clay and glaze. Bursts onto the roof. Deafening. She and Sung often stay awake. In the never-ending dark like that they might be dead, hovering in some space before or after earth. Their voices snake in the air between them, over the sleeping bodies of their parents. Blend seamlessly into

But once she saw into that invisible wall.

MARINA MICHAEL / watercolor

each other. Breath to breath. Considering those that lie between. Trying to assemble. Order from chaos. At this rate it seems their father will always be unknowable. They have a jumbled handful of thoughts, moments, memories, half-memories. Pieces that do not quite fit together. Most are familiar but still jagged like new. Hurtful to touch. Rare and blinding smiles, crinkly fans around old eyes. Surely even God does not look so kind. One where he sings old folk songs to them in a sweet gravelly voice might be a fiction. It is her favorite. But. This trunk. Yora bites her lip and glances down. Curiosity and Fear play tug-of-war in her stomach. Her first beating came from asking about this wooden box and over time her fear has seeped into it. It might be worse to know. Too strong and unbearably bitter. But the house is empty and the past is. Right here. Right now. What she thought at first to be a book turns out to be a photo album. The leather of the cover is worn and pliable from frequent handling, softer than any clothing. The yellowed pages are filled with people she has never seen. There is a pattern: three children. Two girls, a boy. Her father? Impossible? The other contents are less cohesive but tell just as little: a dried flower like the keepsakes exchanged between sweethearts—she does not know the name of it or if he is the Receiver or the Never-Giver. A birth certificate from a city she has never heard of. A Bible stabbed by a rusty pocket knife. She pauses over this last, and wonders as she has, lately, about the existence of God. Or, perhaps, Good. She drops it hastily back into the trunk. A closed bag at the very bottom of the trunk presents new possibilities. Something hidden within the hidden. The first thing she pulls out is an old-fashioned water canteen. Very ugly. It is squat and functional and she doesn’t know where she would find another of its like if she ever wanted to. Small, hollow cylinders follow. Her hand hits cloth. Her eyes grow wide and suddenly there is a lump. In her throat, hard to swallow. The shirt she is holding is mottled olive and khaki. Stained darkly down the side. A few weeks later, before her StudyingAbroad exam, Yora’s head is filled with history. Every paragraph she has read about World War II or the Crimean War or even the Glorious Revolution (which seemed less like glory and more like luck) seems to rise up, like ghostly miasma with the intent of haunting her. She feels that dead men should stay faceless, and not insist on telling her their stories. There are enough told, and not told, among the living.

But they call for the “well-rounded” in America, and medical school is her straight and narrow avenue of hope. Its boundaries are dear to her, so she will try to stay within them. She scavenges breakfast and goes back to the main room, plucking at the hope of sleep. She is startled. Feels her skin stretch. Clamps her teeth against a shriek. Someone else is there. Her father is a bare shadow in the pre-dawn dark. Hunched and kneeling in the corner where she had her accident over a decade ago. She takes a step back. Reflexively. But then she thinks: lately her quickmoving father seems to be softening, or becoming absent-minded. Currently he is oblivious to her, so she ventures closer. Quiet but deliberate steps. Not sneaking. Suddenly his head snaps up, eyes dark. But not— The sun floats up over the black mass of the earth and washes his face gold. He whispers hoarsely, “Forgive me,” and blinks onetwothree, like he is trying not to cry. She is paralyzed. This is fear. He gets to his feet stiffly, and Yora is shocked to find that he is old. She does not know when he came to look frail, when his hair turned white and fine as down. Not dark, not really. Can she is there time— He stops in front of her, awkward and shifting his weight. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Her fear is losing the war. “Appa?” she ventures. Suddenly his fingertips are brushing her face. She knows his hands balled into fists, tapping a bloody code on the couch. Her mind has seen them holding a gun. She has rarely known them to be gentle, and never as tentative as they are now. “You are a good daughter,” he says quietly. Every muscle tenses. He is studying her closely, as if he would draw out all her inner self. Words stretch under her skin. Teeth clenched, she tries to tell him. Tries to tell him: he has only to ask. “You are afraid of me,” he says instead. He blinks at himself, astonished. “What have I done to you to make you afraid? I have done something.” He takes his hands away, and looks down at them, mouth trembling. “What have I done?” His eyes crumble, and she sobs once, impossibly loud before clamping down again. • By the time she reaches the bottom floor, Yora can barely see. Everything is blurred, light shapes and dark roiling together. Her skin stretching, stretching to burst. And then it breaks. The floodgate. And it is deafening.

As I chop onions for dinner, my siblings Sit and wait eagerly for the Korean Meal I improvise from my mom’s recipe. The walls Of the kitchen are bright and newly painted, not old, Since we just moved into the house. My parents Watch me make dinner and tell me I am mature. I can never think of my siblings as mature. They are just my siblings, When I talk to them, I hear my parents’ Words coming from my mouth, telling them to speak Korean And to treat each other well. Shouldn’t they be old Enough to know this by now? I feel like I’m talking to the walls! Tim and Joyce like to adorn the walls With all of their schoolwork. They feel mature— Their artwork will be seen by the old Family members. Josh, Caleb, and I, as their siblings Are less adoring. But my Korean Umma1 and Appa2 encourage and praise them as proud parents. Three years has passed since the start of college, and my parents Are not as young as they once were. The walls Too are starting to look aged and worn with time. Umma cooks a Korean Dinner, but my brothers think they’re mature Enough to cook for themselves and eat spaghetti instead. My siblings Are turning away from the Korean recipes of the old. My family’s relationships are changing. The old Dynamic has changed so that my parents Act more like good friends. My siblings And I talk regularly as equals. The drawings on the walls Show that youngest brother and sister are growing as mature, Young adults accepting who they are as a Korean. All of us are learning to speak better Korean. So one day when my parents are in their old Age, we can speak to them properly in our mature Korean and not in our childish vocabulary. Then my parents Can tell our children about our pictures that hung on the walls During the time when we used to fight as young siblings. Our parents taught us to be proud of our drawings on the walls, That our knowledge of Korean should continue to mature, And our relationship as siblings should never grow old.

—Eunice Jang

TIFFANY CHU

l l e T s y l l r o t a S W y l i The My Fam

Umma is the Korean word for mother is the Korean word for father

2 Appa

stopping frequently a small bird crosses the snow. it does not sink through. fog descends on the valleys of great mountains dispersing itself among the thick, dark trees. in the temple, icy air ripples silk. Baihu,1 Byakko 2 a need for blood impelled you. with stealth and breathtaking beauty you do not disturb the sleeping world. not one icicle falls as paws pad by close covered in soft white fur. cold blue eyes locate a stream. strong jaws, delicate whiskers, sharp teeth, a pink tongue laps water to drink and deposit kisses.

Baihu

—Rebecca Stewart

Baihu is the Chinese name for the white tiger, revered as god of the West and autumn, one of the Four Symbols of the Chinese constellations. 2 Byakko is the Japanese name for the white tiger

KRISTEN EASTERBROOK / oil

This

Juncture

The jingling of anklets against a backdrop of orange, white, and green, The burst of fireworks above the red, white, and blue, The peace to be found in the morning prayer song, so familiar, The laughter to be found in singing along with Disney musicals, The ancient wisdom passed down in the myths of the Puranas, The excitement of academic questioning, pondering, investigating, The bright, bold colors that swirl in a sari, The comfort of blue jeans, worn from wear, The bond, everlasting, of family far and near, The things to be learned from friends of all walks of life, from countries spanning the globe, Neither my Indian heritage Nor my American spirit alone Could have brought me to this juncture.

MICHELLE FERNG / photography

—Vinu Ilakkuvan

Two Sides to Every Coin:

A Cultural Analysis of Slumdog Millionaire Late in 2008, moviegoers flooded American and British theaters to see the low-budget film that had generated a wave of unexpected hype, Slumdog Millionaire. The film hailed as the “Feel-Good Film of the Decade” became a must-see, especially among nonresident Indians. To these audiences, the movie succeeded in capturing the realities that exist in India while taking viewers on a heart-pounding journey alongside Jamal Malik, the lowly protagonist from the slums of Mumbai. What’s more, Slumdog Millionaire sent everyone home on a high note, epitomizing the classic rags-to-riches story with its improbable but satisfying ending. Fast forward a few months to January 2009: the film is released in India. In contrast to its reception in the western world, the movie was met with mixed feelings, especially among those living in the slums; many found the film’s treatment of their home country inaccurate and insulting. Others objected to the title, holding up signs in protest that read Don’t call us dogs and I am not a slumdog. Given Slumdog Millionaire’s popularity, both at the box office and among critics, the level of scrutiny surrounding its content isn’t surprising. But the dizzying amount of acclaim the movie has received - including Best Picture and Best Director at this year’s Oscars - not only elevates its status as a film, but inspires opponents to become even more adamant about getting their criticism heard. How can one reconcile the extremely polarized reactions this film has produced? One of the most contested issues concerns British director Danny Boyle’s portrayal of India. Does the fact that the film was made by a Briton distort and romanticize India as a poverty-ridden country? In a controversial comment made on his blog, Bollywood superstar Ambitabh Bachchan (who is featured in a memorable sequence early in the film) said that movie presented a one-sided representation of India as a “Third World, dirty, underbelly developing nation.” His comments reflect the sentiment of Indian viewers who have rallied against Slumdog Millionaire as a blow to their nationalist pride. Other grievances that stem from the movie’s Western ties require an understanding of cultural differences and sensitivities. Take a look at the Hindi translation of “dog” (kutte); the Hindi, where the term is commonly used as a swear word, is far more derogatory than the somewhat muted English version. The title’s negative connotation might have simply gotten lost in translation; the filmmakers who coined the term may not have had the cultural background to understand why its usage would infuriate so many Indians. If that is the case,

by Niti Patel

this contention is certainly a valid one, and the producers of the film should have paid more attention to the connotations surrounding the Hindi translation. Overall, however, the movie presents the opposite opinion. The characters do not support such a negative portrayal. As author Chitra Divakaruni points out, the film’s intentions are noble and when viewed, have quite the opposite effect: “[The] term ‘slumdog’ is not the director’s evaluation of Jamal—or anyone in the slums…Jamal triumphs over his many enemies and turns out to be top dog!” 1 Jamal’s persistence to find Latika is unmatched, and ultimately the film succeeds in showing that despite being born into poverty, these slum-dwellers are far from helpless. Another source of criticism may be related to India’s current political landscape. In the scene where young Jamal’s mother is killed in Hindu-Muslim “communal” violence, the viewer is reminded of these atrocities, provoked by the Hindu right-wing and its party affiliates. Such violence not only occurred in 1992 in Mumbai (most likely the riots depicted in the film), but have occurred as recently as 2002 in the state of Gujarat.

The Hindu right-wing party, the Bharatiya Janata Party, has the potential to lose a lot of support as opponents remind voters of what happened. Moreover, with the upcoming elections, even this minor detail could have major political ramifications, as New York University professor Amresh Sinha points out: “Many other political groups have now joined the feeding frenzy around the controversy to promote their own political agendas in the coming election in India by whipping up anti-Western sentiments among the slum dwellers, who constitute a major voting bloc.” 1 There have been court cases brought against the film in places like Goa, Gujarat, and Rajastan, and right-wing groups like the RSS, VHP, and Shiv Sena have led efforts to ban the film in several cities. Perhaps Slumdog Millionaire is not entirely objective in its examination of Mumbai, or India as a whole. However, as Boyle revealed in an interview with journalist Fareed Zakaria: “It’s an entertainment, in the end. It’s not a documentary.” At the heart of the film is the Hollywood factor, which aims to deliver a heartracing romantic drama. As an Indian American, I feel

like the producers succeeded in creating a solid crowdpleaser. Even so, I can see how some of the cultural critiques are well-warranted. Along the way, the film happens to reveal some of the not-so-pleasant aspects of India. Does this tend to romanticize poverty from the perspective of an outsider? To a certain extent, yes. Does it also raise questions as to why such tensions, conflicts, blatant negligence and corruption within government, and poverty continually persist as problems in India? Absolutely, and maybe the dialogue and debate surrounding the film will result in more than just two hours of entertainment that the audience can take away from the theater. Regardless of the varying opinions surrounding the film, criticism from both sides allows for fresh discussion within the country alongside moviegoers everywhere, and at best might cause some to revisit and reevaluate their preconceived notions about India. 1 “The Real Root of the ‘Slumdog’ Protests.” The New York Times.

20 Feb 2009.

This Is Not Another

Slam on Identity Politics

by JOSÉ ZAMORA

One can study a person’s face and tell many things about them: their gender, their age, their ethnicity, their sexuality, their place of origin, how important their appearance is to them, their preferences, their apathy for the things they don’t care about, how they will raise their children, how well they love. Right? From each of these attributes, given such a superficial list like the one I just created, we form a single definition for a person. They become: “the faithful lover,” “the good parent,” “the impassioned,” “the movie critic,” “the wannabe,” “the migrant,” “the lesbian,” “the Tutsi,” “the old man,” “the housewife.” Wait. Maybe you’d have to look at their entire body for just to make sure. “I knew it, it’s a butch lesbian. The ignorantly impassioned.” Maybe it’s not about what I think, what/who do they think they are? “I am a good housewife because I can load an entire dishwasher in less than two minutes.” Impressive! “I am a Tutsi because I am neither a Hutu nor a Twa.” I see, so it’s relational? “I am an immigrant and a good parent.” So, you can be two things at once? “I am an Indian American, born in the United States, but I don’t like Indian food.” (This last one I have experienced personally.) You’re allowed to like what you want, but doesn’t that seem a little off ? Originally known as Paradigm, Inkstone has come a long way from its first issue in 1991. Theneditors-in-chief Vivian Hwang and Minna Minalo envisioned the magazine as an outlet for Asian American writers and artists to express their identity and culture. In 1994, editor-in-chief Michelle Bugay widened the magazine’s reach by incorporating more politically-charged content from Asian Student Union’s issue-based newsletter, Slant. Since then, Inkstone has branched further away from its roots, publishing views on Asian American culture and identity from people of all ethnic backgrounds. Yet even as we’ve adjusted to keep submissions coming, the magazine’s original mission statement has become a moot point.

The identity-based framework that was once integral to Inkstone’s survival no longer has the same effect as it did in 1994. Let’s put it this way: identity politics is having an identity crisis. The fact that Inkstone is an identity-based magazine will determine the undercurrents of the message we want to give and the audience we want to read it. But regarding the past four years of my experience with Inkstone, it has been difficult to consolidate that message. We haven’t been able to attract all of Asia, mostly just East Asia. As a consequence, Inkstone continually negotiates with literature and artwork that stand thematically out-ofplace. Our anonymous ratings process has made it so and we will not deny good literature its place within publication. Inkstone promotes the creation of identities: that of writers and artists. We further qualify these identities with our advocacy for an Asian/Asian American art and literary magazine. So, why set ourselves apart from other literary magazines? For Hwang, Minnalo and Bugay, it was to combat stereotypes. We have submissions that come from Asian/Asian American students that do not relate or even allude to Asian or Asian American themes. Then we have submissions all about Asian/Asian American subjects, but come from people who don’t self-identify ethnically or culturally. Which should be weighed more heavily? I want to call into question the essentialization of an Asian/Asian American identity. Is this idea provocative enough? Well, then: why let this limiting essentialization keep us from accepting excellent work that doesn’t concern itself with Asian/Asian American themes? Why let this essentialization make Inkstone dismissible in the eyes of great hand-and-mindcraft just because we have an identity-based magazine? Shouldn’t the art and literature be considered on its own merit, rather than on where it came from? I am not suggesting a revolution. Identities

are helpful; they neatly categorize and can make easily reference to things which are abstract and dynamic. Yet they also compartmentalize and isolate. Be that as it may, identities are fluid: they transcend time and space, they change from place to place, person to person, minute to minute. They stand in opposition, they meld with each other, and they contradict each other. They valorize, they justify, they empower. They break apart. They build assumptions, they hurt, they demean. They affect the spirit, the mind and the body. They are immortalized, mythologized and they are forgotten, repressed. In turn, that which is affected by an identity affects the identity itself. These thoughts are not new; rather, I have been taught them. But I want to point out that sometimes they are not obvious. Plainly, our identities matter significantly, and thus they are necessary. So how can we use them to advocate inclusiveness rather than exclusiveness? The main goal of the creation of Paradigm was to “dispel stereotypes.” Yet people still refer to Inkstone as an “Asian” magazine; it is not recognized as an “Asian American magazine that tries to dispel stereotypes.” Although the “stereotype” rhetoric might seem dated, can we recall the incident of the elderly lady who called then-prospective president Obama an Arab at a McCain rally? A startled McCain retorted with, “No, he’s a decent...family man, citizen.” Can these two descriptions be easily juxtaposed? When Colin Powell announced his endorsement for Barack Obama, he asked, “Is there something wrong with some sevenyear-old Muslim American kid believing that he or she can be president?” After the election, is the United States ready to declare a unanimous “no” to answer this question? Pop culture makes it out to be the case. I am asking: Do we want to perpetuate the differences? Inkstone’s mission statement seems to imply that we must set ourselves apart in order to combat stereotypes. The use of identity can be dangerous in the arena of power and politics; it can also be dangerous in the

way we treat each other, in the way we treat our fellow classmates and our potential submitters. Our mission is to be a voice for a community that would otherwise not exist. However, Inkstone is not part of the mainstream voice. Inkstone stands right beside it, and in doing so, we perpetuate separation. With the nice weather around UVa in the spring, more people are out playing on the Lawn,

You find yourself standing on solid ground, on a giant ball of earth and soot that rests on the back of an elephant that stands on a giant turtle. And what is the turtle standing on? Another turtle. And under that turtle? There’s no use: it is turtles all the way down. walking on the Corner, enjoying their time outdoors. But I can’t help but notice the kind of people that are on the lawn, the kind of people who hang out on the Corner. This school strives for diversity, don’t get me wrong, but they forget the history. It’s the kind of diversity that should be within quotation marks, and perhaps with a capital D. UVa has a stigma, so visible

among its demographics, so audible in the hallways of my high school. Promote diversity not by putting checkable boxes on an application, but by reworking the system. I believe that Inkstone can be useful in that reworking. As the magazine stands, it is a multi-vocal medium of a “minority.” We stand out from other publications; we promote the virtue found in culture and the humility found in custom. We need to use the voices in Inkstone and let them be a part of the voices within other publications at UVa. We need to harness our issue-based writing and make it more visible within the magazine and cross them over into other publications. There needs to be an artistic and literary Asian/Asian American voice in all the outlets possible. I also do not advocate the start of a new “multicultural magazine,” for that would be the opposite of what I would like to see. I stand for the solidarity we (should) find in egalitarian human unity. Yes, I am an idealist. We learn to understand each other by interacting with one another. Inkstone could remain the mouthpiece for all Asian or Asian American topics, but it can also serve to be reactive rather than stay proactive; there should be a balance. There needs to be an active Asian/Asian American voice within the arts at UVa, not just within Inkstone. With this said, Inkstone should continue to serve as a cultural and political voice for those who accept/critique/deny/create an inter-racial hybridity of cultural expression. We could use our Asian/ Asian American identity as a kick-off point or point of reference, a north star. A stark example of when the magazine demonstrated this is the publication of a poem about last year’s Virginia Tech shooting. Written by UVa student Jessalyn Elliott, the piece was about how the event affected the writer on a personal level Identified as Korean, Elliott writes about suddenly becoming a subject of scrutiny, looked down upon because the shooting perpetrator was a Korean male. But she was not at Virginia Tech; she was at UVa. The poem illustrates the interrelational ethnic experience she had after a nationally felt, ethnically charged event. It was also a reflection on how the whole nation was affected by the incident. Taking this one step further— the analysis or the reaction to this reaction—why not treat the personal as political? Especially since Asians have been labeled the “model minority?” These questions should be addressed outside of Inkstone: For example, the Cavalier Daily—so dear to the hearts and minds of the status quo—needs to be shaken up with issues of class, race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality. Admittedly, these issues are lacking in Inkstone. In this year’s issue, not all the published art and literature stimulate these types of conversation in an extraordinary form.

Inkstone accomplishes a melding of identities when we accept art and literature that could be considered out-of-place. This allows for the creation of new ideas and new forms of expression by letting other strands to join a previously tight-woven, ethnic fabric. However, voices like queer-identified Asian/ Asian Americans, advocates for the Living Wage Campaign, the Diversity Chair in Student Council and even that exchange student you know from Mongolia, for example, do not appear within our pages. These are people and issues around us and affect us to a certain degree, and yet they are not running within our discourse at UVa or the discourse found in the magazine. You find yourself standing on solid ground, on a giant ball of earth and soot that rests on the back of an elephant that stands on a giant turtle. And what is the turtle standing on? Another turtle. And under that turtle? There’s no use: it is turtles all the way down. Please thank Clifford Geertz for teaching this student such an important theory of knowledge. He explains this story by saying that finding the essential truth to anything is neither attainable nor relevant. We have to deal with what we’ve got in front of our faces. We can apply this to identity politics: there is not just one Asian/Asian American identity. Being Asian/Asian American means different things to different people at different times, and what we do at those different places and times also has multiple social connotations. We can let those meanings contradict each other but we should not let them get in the way of sharing spaces, or making friendships. The use of the concept “identity” tries to find cultural truths from which to base your life around. They essentialize the abstract and the complicated, reducing it to limited ideas and expectations. These limitations have left Inkstone intellectually dry at points. Identities try to find out exactly what all the turtles are standing on: an impossible feat! Alhough our customs may be culturally and historically contingent, we can shape the social present, and we can make it bend to our rules. We give our world meaning, and we can shape that meaning. Inkstone, because it is an established magazine at the University, has the power to change what our identity means to a wider community. We cannot just share our capabilities and opinions with similarly identified people. Identity politics have shored up: we can no longer rely on the Asian American identity to dispel stereotypes. We need to show what the identity can do by putting the Asian/ Asian American minority voices in the ears of the majority.

SHREYA SONI / acrylic & fabric on cardboard

SHREYA SONI / acrylic on glass

d n a F F A T S

CONTRIS R O BUT

Alex Chiou is a rising third-year who enjoys eating Thai food.

Take note, smile and plan on being an Inkstoner next year! Haha! No, but really. Welcome to Inkstone.

Vinu Ilakkuvan is a fourth-year Biomedical Engineering and Economics double major who is headed to graduate school for public health next year. She loves having the best of both her Indian and American worlds.

Muxin Li is a fourth-year Anthropology major whose parents wishes she were a freshman in medical school. Other than that, they all get along very well. She wishes to thank UVa for the past four years and would especially like to thank the Inkstone staff for the opportunity of working with incredibly hard-working and talented people. She hopes to see many more great publications (hopefully of her own work) in the future.

Courtney Kampa is a third-year at the University and is a classically trained ballerina turned poetry student. “Domestication” was a poem she wrote as a first-year. As a first-year and someone new to the medium of literary art magazines, Yonji Kim was not sure what to expect at Inkstone. She went to the first meeting with a touch of pessimism and a secret promise to keep quiet and observe. Yet she couldn’t stay silent. She laughed, she explained, she talked, she gasped and amazingly, someone always listened. Not only were the staffers friendly and open to suggestions coming from a newcomer, everyone was expected to contribute. From the soulful writer of page 17 to the editor of page 3 to you the reader, the magazine is the community’s contribution! I hope that while perusing the glossy pages, the particular font of a title or the juxtaposition of a photograph with a short story catches your eye.

Tonight, nearing 17 straight hours on the COUP clock, Joanne Mosuela has no trouble determining the source of her delirium: the prospect of this time next year without Van-Anh, Jenn and José. (I ordered the cheese, remember?) At this very moment in time, there is a lost 4th Year Anthropology/Foreign Affairs Major on Grounds wondering what in the world will she be doing in the coming months without Mr. Jefferson and without her wonderful Inkstoners by her side. If you happen to see her, her name is Van-Anh Nguyen, and she needs a pat on the shoulder. Inkstone has been good to her, and she will sorely miss the sweaty late nights in the COUP (literally and figuratively) and the many

wonderful and talented people she met along the way. She wants to thank them all from the bottom of her heart for their hard work and dedication this year. To Joanne, specifically, she wishes to thank you for introducing her to baked brie with fruit and almonds drizzled with honey (“Delish!”, as Rachel Ray would say). She considers herself more “cultured” in the fine art of food thanks to you. To José: Café Europa. Need she say more? It has been an incredible year of great friends, delicious food, and lots and lots of foot-long hotdogs. Thank you, Inkstone, for all the memories!

is currently addicted to fmylife.com. She thinks Jose and Van-Anh should stay at UVa for another two years because they’re awesome and they like to eat as much as she does.

Niti Patel is a third-year Foreign Affairs major. She has enjoyed another fantastic year working with Inkstone’s fabulous staff. From the Board Room, to (Café) Europa and finally down to the COUP, it has truly been a pleasure. She would also like to take credit for fostering numerous sour patch addictions.

José Zamora’s time at Grape has finally come to a close. His last year has been the most challenging and the most influential. He has learned much, but he realizes that he has not quenched his thirst for knowledge. He has with him the prowess to gather the harvest, lock the trunks, tame the waves, tighten the knots, and hoist the sail. The only thing he needs is to harness the power to control his compass.

Jennifer Shen loves one thing before the rest. Rebecca Stewart is wishing she weren’t in the E-School because creative writing is never one of her assignments. She is glad Inkstone gave her this opportunity. Florence Su is a second-year biomedical engineer who

Jacob Yost IV’s hometown is Winchester, Virginia. He studies biology and hopes to enroll in medical school. He enjoys art, poetry, basketball and working out. His inspirations include Charles Bukowski and Matt Hansel, and he would like to thank Lisa Russ Spaar and Lilah Hegnauer for teaching him how to write.

Tian Zeng is a third-year studying Finance and Economics. He would like to congratulate Inkstone for its 15th year of cultural enrichment at UVa. He would also like to thank all the Inkstone staff as well as contributors for making Inkstone successful at promoting artistic expression, as well as spreading the diversity of our heritage around grounds.

JONGBOK YI / photography

submit

Inkstone Magazine accepts creative and critical work from all walks of life. Send us submissions and feedback to:

INKSTONE@VIRGINIA.EDU http://www.student.virginia.edu/~inkstone

Inkstone Magazine UVa - Newcomb Hall P.O Box 400715 SAC Box 175 Charlottesville, Virgini

About: Inkstone Magazine is a student-run magazine dedicated to providing a medium through which people of all ethnic backgrounds can express their views concerning Asian American culture and identity. Inkstone is produced by a non-profit organization at but not associated with the University. The views, ideas and/or opinions expressed herein are not necessarily those of the University of Virginia, Inkstone or its staff members. Design: Staff-designed, Inkstone took form on Adobe InDesign and Adobe Photoshop CS4. Body copy is set in Garamond. Headlines are set in BN Pinky, Walkway and DJB SLOPPYJO. Printing and Distribution: This issue was published by Branner Printing of Broadway, VA. The 7X10 magazine is printed on 80# matte cover stock and 80# matte text stock. 400 copies are distributed without charge on University grounds.