Issue 24 | 2015
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 forms 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 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. 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 AsianAmerican community. Going beyond its roots, Inkstone then evolved 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. Now in its 21st year, we are yet again making a transformation to a literary and art magazine focused on all culture and identify, not just Asian American. This will be a gradual change that will require a few years of outreach and branding to achieve, but we saw a gap for such a publication that we wanted to fill. Students from all over, whether it be Asia, Afria, Europe, Australia, or South America all experience a sort of cultural upheaval and transition that is unique and worth spotlighting in the UVA community.
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Art and Photography 0-1
Photos by Da Young Kim
18-23
Refined Trace by Jingxian Gao A Colorful Tree by Jingxian Gao
2-3
Photos by Da Young Kim
24-25
Phil With Cello by Oliver Atwood
4-5
26-28
6-7
Conscious by Logan Dandridge Avant-Garde by Logan Dandridge Henna Flowers by Maha Nayyar
29-31
Field of Grass by Yuni Song Genuine by Da Young Kim Kyoto Kinkakuji Golden Pavillion by Jennifer White
8-9
Alive and Well by Logan Dandridge
32-33
Festival Native by Oliver Atwood Charcoal Swirls by Hua Tong
Who is Georgia O’Keeffe by Oliver Atwood
Black and White Portrait by Whitney Wu
10-13
Colorful Self-Portrait by Hua Tong Jeong by Da Young Kim
34-35
A Swan Song by Sandy Williams IV
14-15
Autumn in Tokyo by Jennifer White Prize Fighters by Xiaoqi Li
36-37
Photos by Da Young Kim
16-17
All Hands In by Maha Nayyar Korean Beauty by Da Young Kim
Covers
Charming Fishing Village in Korea by Da Young Kim
Photography and Art by Ariel Kao
Poetry and Prose 4-5
The Chinese Painting of Genghis Khan by Anson Clark
18-23
6-7
A Hindu Funeral by Shubhi Sinha
Drown Me Or Be Damned by Valentin Pikul
24-25
What Falling Brings by Nathan Lung
8-9
Dear Child by Debbie Pan
26-28
10-13
The Namesake and the First Generation Dilemna by Vanessa M. Braganza
29-31
Consumerist Christianity by Josiah Cha Destruction Myth by Olivia Gathright
14-15
Here, Existence is Resistance by J oumana Altallal
32-33
Odds and Ends by Maha Nayyar
16-17
The Ghazal of a Kiss by Shubhi Sinha
34-35
A Swang Song by Sandy Williams IV
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The Chinese Painting of Genghis Khan
The Chinese Painting n a h K s i h g of Gen
A poem by Anson Clark
I view the Chinese painting of a foreign Man dressed in simple white. A master of the Universe, a Columbia graduate. But the painting Is staged, the violence trampled on By stunned silence. Did the painter’s Hand tremble when applying those Emollient colours? The subject, a scholar Of Taoism and the Mohist school. But The learning tended to be submerged By the raging ocean. The painting’s illusion leaps out at me; The sunken ocean eyes mere shutters Keeping out the inner conflict. You would, ironically, sketch pictures Of me as I sat staring at the walls of the sky, Byronic glamour my excuse. There was so much Heart in those drawings: impish fun mixed with Wry wisdom. But I’m always dragging that horse around. The white clothes are a politician’s white, And I projected both naïve whiteness and black otherness Onto you. But ha! That’s really my portrait. I made a lot of my education but your education was The same. A hunter has to show he has mastery over Others. This now seems stupid. Like watching the puddles Of Swan Lake in the rain. I wanted to recreate What Tchaikovsky wrote with us. I wanted The highs, like ice skating in New York City, To escalate to even greater highs, like kissing In Central Park. But now I’m hurting low After all the highness: both real and imagined.
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I stare at this empty painting and fall back onto The slab. Some women have lived their Lives on slabs like this. Words, action, Images – there has been violence Committed since the original fire. An Instagram of memory sees you wearing An Open-Knit Ballet-Neck sweater. You had Just beaten me at Scrabble and wanted to kiss. I didn’t listen to you like I should have done. At the end of the day everyone wants to be Listened to. But my individual drive made me Always think of the big picture, and not The minute details. A portrait cannot create Another portrait. You knew that you were, like Everyone else, not perfect. But I wanted that Final picture to be perfect, like my first piece Of Christmas cakes, aged nine.
I was brought up by the ocean. It grew and Mutated like me. I hear it when others don’t. It thinks it cradles the womb of the earth and doesn’t Recognize the moon’s reflection and the turning Of the crust. I thought I had won you. Earned you like a trophy. I dabbled in philosophy, but like Mongol invaders Could not cover up the desire to collect things Considered exotic and alluring. You simply wanted A cool guy to hang out with, I in return gave you The Chinese painting of Genghis Khan. THE END.
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A HINDU FUNERAL by Shubhi Sinha
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The priest’s voice booms As he raises his axe and Chops a large, ripe jackfruit in half. “Life is thorny from the outside And in death we find Sweetness”. The mourning of his family is loud: a hailstorm Falling and destroying every rooftop in the village. The wife of the deceased beats her breasts. Then, raindrops touch her lips; a hush falls over the crowd. Each drop is a prism, arching a rainbow Over the ashes that the Ganges is still carrying away. The son places a hushed hand on his mother’s shoulder And for a heartbeat, Wonder replaces her grief.
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“Dear by Debbie Pan
Child”
Do not hate me when you cannot feel your tongue; when you open your lips, yet taste only bitterness.
You could form words with the motion of your hands, but they wouldn’t understand. You’d come running to me, a mute, and these people, my people, will stop to look at you— the Easter lily in their garden of sunflowers, and wonder which gardener planted this. Let me assure you, my daughter, that the Gardener is God and I am the fertile soil. Let not those weeds trample that which He has declared good. But forgive me for thinking I have lived your life, for thinking that the cries from your bedroom at night are the same lullabies that my mother once sang to me, for surely they are not. Now then, when you find yourself lost in those Taipei streets, 8
visiting your aged mother, bring your face close to hers
so that her wrinkles can become yours,
so that she can look into your big, beautiful eyes,
so that she can feel the silk of your brown hair.
Feel your mother’s hand around yours, palm to knuckle,
veins pulsating with the same blood.
Please learn to forgive me,
dear child of mine,
for this is the burden I must give you.
“Alive and Well” by Logan Dandridge 9
The Namesake and the First Generation Dilemma By Vanessa M. Braganza
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s a first generation American of Indian heritage, I have grown oddly accustomed to seeming slightly foreign wherever I
go. Americans never fail to remark on my British accent, acquired through my Anglo-Indian roots. I am often asked if I speak “Indian,” and find myself the recipient of confused stares when I reveal that I have never been to India – that I was actually born in the United States. At the same time, my pixie cut and skinny jeans have branded me as a Yankee in the eyes of Indian family and friends, who insist that I “talk just like an American.”
The greatest literature often strikes a note, which finds its kin-
dred echo in a reader’s experiences. However, literature does not often represent this somewhat comic state of suspension between cultures. I never open books expecting to find versions of my hybrid existence reflected in their pages. Somehow, unconsciously, I have come to understand that my culture – a marriage of American and Indian with no real name of its own – is an uncommon one. The tides turned when I began reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel, The Namesake. Against all odds, I found a small miracle bound between two ordinary paper covers.
When Ashima and Ashoke Ganguli, Bengali immigrants to the
United States, named their son after the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol, they little suspected that this would become the hinge on which his cultural identity oscillates for the rest of his life. Caught between his Indian heritage and American surroundings, Gogol Ganguli involuntarily inhabits two spheres. His peculiar name, which represents his
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parents’ Bengali culture, is alternately a source of embarrassment and nostalgia – an obstacle to his inauguration into the heart of American life and a treasured reminder of his roots as he matures. In following his search for identity, the classic dilemma of the first generation Indian American came clearly to me as it never could by my own, often clumsy fumbling between cultures: How is it possible to feel American while another culture whispers in your ear, insistently staking its claim on your identity?
In this way, reading the story of the Gangulis as a first generation
Indian American was like recognizing in the tapestry of someone else’s life the very same threads that comprise my own. The book became a haven of familiar circumstances – there existed someone else who had walked the tightrope between saris and evening dresses; between Bollywood romance and Twilight; between vegetarian party dinners served in army portion tureens and Big Bang Theory reruns over pizza and Coke.
Gogol’s only resolution lies in realizing that he cannot – should
not – reinvent himself. Some first generation Indian Americans reach this conclusion by trial and error, some by learning from the experiences of others. Some, like Gogol, submit to it after many years spent kicking and screaming in protest. Nonetheless, months, years – sometimes even a legal name change or two later, we who find ourselves suspended between two worlds are eventually unable to deny either one of them. Like Gogol, I found that my Indian heritage shapes my perspective and values equally as my American nationality. If approached with an open mind, the two work in tandem to form a hybrid culture, which is rich and beautiful in its diversity. 12
This is a constant process, and by no means the road to any sort of Nir-
vana. It is daunting to inhabit two different cultures at once. It can be so frightening, in fact, that leads otherwise rational people to try unsuccessfully to stuff themselves into the safety of a single cultural box. The Namesake, wonderful in the simplicity of its message, made me realize that doing so would be an injustice to every facet of myself. On the other hand, if I – a first generation Indian American – could find the courage to step outside this box and embrace my cultural uniqueness, my identity would be a thing of beauty and my horizons would be infinitely wide.
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“Here, Existence is Resistance” By Joumana Altallal
something that tastes too much like death
Sell me your hard times.
like ripping teeth and cracking jaws
I am open:
and I am all fists and firsts for you.
pearl in palm
There is something so manual in muscle and marrow
every light switch flickering muted revolts behind walls that listen: more cell blocks, bigger cages. We don’t need to throw you in jail-your dreams are deterrence enough. Let me be the ambassador to your pain the body count in Gaza staggered over 66 years the 6.5 million displaced Syrian refugees let me kill words like “appropriately enraged” and “suitably informed” I want you to taste loss in red crescendos, in white phosphorus, in blinding blue--
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that we forget every breath we take is not a conscious effort yet here, the stagnant stillness is toxic. So let me be the movement that wakes you, the rhythmic complexity, the writhing of hips in wedding celebrations mid-explosion Sell me your prayers coaxed and kneaded despite damaged knuckles and paralyzed skin I see god in you, seeping in bones bruised and bloodied; Let me be a messenger of your words; a prophet of pain.
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The Ghazal of A Kiss
What did the Gunman gain? by Shubhi Sinha Lower yourself to her ground, you are the Gunman. You fired a kiss. The leaves turned incarnadine as they fell, fell Today I will seek refuge from the patriarchy, but slowly as if they desired a kiss. my tears have dried upon my lip. The trees incarnated a Stranger in black, the Today I will let my arms speak the words that Stranger who always desired a kiss. have only once conspired a kiss. My lover has eyes black as vats of fermented They think their nickels and dimes can buy me Burgundy, lips aflame with words wholesale and make me their own. And sighs like sipped Merlot on a couch: the I have in me a fallen angel with horns; their heady drink that inspired a kiss. money has merely hired a kiss. They snuck out to meet after the temple bells Do you suppose that once we are burned our chimed and sung, “It’s midnight!” hearts feel the heat? Does Hunger Under the velveteen sky they danced with Consume us as we lick the flames? Our waxy, tongues and stealth, having acquired a kiss. melting eyes had once required a kiss. In a marriage of families, there is no room for Atop the white snowflakes there is a stream of love amongst strategy, gold, tears. That night when he entered her again and again, interlocked red doves, the first one Has eaten a cobra; it seems to Shubhangi that the they finally sired a kiss. snake had simply desired a kiss. Her gashes are gruesome, gaping, grinning.
All Hands In
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KOREAN BEAUTY Sinheung Temple in Sokcho, South Korea
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The American Ambassador to France Mr. Porter studied cemeteries trampled by time for all six years of his tenure in Paris. In 1905, his investigations finally yielded success. In the graveyard of Grange aux Belles, he found the grave of a person about whom there were already several books written, one by Fennimore Cooper and another by Alexander Dumas. “Are you sure that you have found Paul Jones?” inquired the Ambassador. It was unsealed, and after а strong vine spirit splashed out from the coffin, everyone was impressed by the striking similarity of the deceased’s face to the plaster mask of Paul Jones preserved in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Two well-known anthropologists Pageleon and Kapitan examined the remains of the Admiral very carefully and came to a conclusion: “Yes, before us is the notorious ‘Master of the Sea’ Paul Jones, and there are even traces of pneumonia in his lungs, from which he suffered at the end of his life.” The body was placed into a metal coffin, on the cover of which was installed a small round porthole like that of a ship. A squadron of U.S. battleships set off for the shores of France across the Atlantic. In Annapolis, the Yankees were erecting a ceremonial crypt, so that Admiral Paul Jones would find his final resting place in America. Paris had not seen such an impressive procession for such a long time! The coffin was escorted by French regiments and a cortège of American midshipmen. At the head of the funeral procession, marched the Prime Minister of France, carrying a top hat in his hand. Orchestras played triumphant marches. Behind the gun carriage walked ambassadors and ministers from different countries in ceremonial style. The Russian naval attaché mentioned with a smile to the ambassador A. I. Nelidov: “The Americans firmly remembered that Paul Jones was the founder of the U.S. Navy, but they have forgotten that the Admiral earned his rank not from America, but from Russia… After all, from us!” ***
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The son of Scottish gardener, Paul Jones began his life like many other poor boys in England, as a sea cadet. He grew to know the taste of the sea on a slave ship traveling from Africa to the American colonies. He learned how to predict danger in the darkness and the fog, but his soul was outraged by the cruelty of his countrymen. The young sailor left the slave traders’ ship, swearing to himself never again to serve the British crown. “British ships deserve only to be sunk like rabid dogs!” shouted Jones in a seaport tavern… The new world hosted the fugitive. In 1775, the American War for Independence had begun, and Lieutenant Paul Jones offered his service to a country that was not yet printed on the world map. George Washington declared, “I recognize the spirit of this man…Let him fight!” Jones gathered a crew of ruthless daredevils, who knew neither their fathers, nor their mothers, and who grew up without roofs overhead. With these men, he crushed the English on the sea in such a manner that sparks were flying from the haughty bravery of this ‘Master of the Sea’. Paul Jones returned to George Washington, and stammered, “And now I want to burn the skin of the English king in his English sheepfold. I swear to the devil, it will be so!” *** In the spring of 1778, a seemingly peaceful commercial vessel appeared on English shores. In reality, however, the ship had 18 canons hidden beneath its hull. It was the corvette, “Ranger”, masked as a merchant ship. “What’s new in the world, friend?” The sailors inquired of the harbor pilot. “They say,” the harbor pilot remarked to the captain, “that close to our shores roams the traitor Paul Jones, and he is such son of a bitch, such a swine, that sooner or later he will be hanged!” “How can it be so? You Englishmen have such a good opinion of me. Allow me to introduce myself: it is I, Paul Jones! But I am not going to hang you…” In a thunder of grapeshot and hand grenades, while encouraging sailors with whistle and song, Paul Jones drowned British ships at their own shores. The London Exchange was experiencing a fever. The prices for all goods grew steadily, and bank officers declared bankruptcy as cargo ships sat idly in the harbors. ***
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The King, who was dispirited, lamented, “I am ashamed. Is the glory of my fleet merely myth?” “What is to be done?” replied the admirals to the King. “Jones is uncatchable, like an old hull rat. There is no rope in your majesty’s navy, which wouldn’t generate bloody tears from the desire to strangle this impudent pirate on a mast!” *** Soon after having rested with his crew in France, Jones again appeared in English waters aboard The Bonhomme Richard, this time accompanied by French ships under the banner of someone named Landais, who had been discharged for insanity. Jones recruited him into his own service. “I myself, when I fight,” Jones affirmed, “lose all sense of self. So this crazy man fits in perfectly with the matters that we are going to undertake…” On the traverse of the Flamborough Peninsula, Jones saw through the fog, the high riggings of the fiftycanon ship of the line, The Serapis, which by its right was considered the best ship of the Royal Navy, and behind it, the wind propelled the frigate, The Duchess of Scorborough. At first, the Englishmen called to them on a bullhorn, “Identify your vessel or we will drown you!” Paul Jones in a clean white shirt, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and answered with unusual rage: “Drown me, or be damned!” In this risky moment, ‘crazy’ Landais dashed behind the commercial vessels. Thanks to Landais’ obvious foolishness, the small Bonhomme Richard, squared off one-on-one with the thunderous royal opponent. The first artillery shot of the British rang out, and the American ship started leaking and burning. The ships pounded with such fury for one hour, then another, then three, and the battle came to a close under the moonlight. While tacking sharply, and as showering sparks streamed down from burning sails, the enemies came so close to each other that the mizzen-mast of The Serapis suddenly crashed down before Jones’ feet, and he seized it with his own embrace. “I swear,” shouted Paul Jones enraged, “I will not let go of the mast until one of us sinks to the bottom of the sea!”
The deck became slippery with blood. The Bonhomme Richard continued to fight in the crackling fires, losing cannons, masts, and spars. In the flames, one could hear whistling, obscenity, and song. The wounded Paul Jones continued to inspire his crew. “Get ready to board the ship! Board the ship!” somebody screamed from aboard the Serapis. English soldiers flew overboard, slashing with sabers, however, the power of the royal artillery also did its bidding: The Bonhomme Richard was sinking into the abyss with an audible hiss. “Ahoy, it looks like you are finished. If you are surrendering, then stop fighting, and behave like gentlemen!” Paul Jones suddenly threw a hand grenade at the English, with the quick reply, “Why do you think so? We haven’t even begun to fight!” The Bonhomme Richard was lost in the abyss with grappling ropes ripping as it sank, releasing huge gurgling air bubbles from the hold. A tattered, starstudded American flag was raised over the mast of The Serapis. Parisian beauties started fashioning their hair in the image of sails and riggings in honor of the victory of The Bonhomme Richard. France, hostile to England from olden times, showered Jones with unprecedented favors. In the Parisian opera, the sailor was publicly crowned with a wreath of laurels. The most distinguished ladies sought his attention, He received torrents of love letters. Jones justifiably expected that the Congress of the country, for which he did so much, would appoint him to the rank of Admiral. He was outraged, when across the ocean, only a bronze medal was forged in honor of his exploits. Around the name of Paul Jones, which thundered across all the seas and all the oceans, had already begun the intrigues of politicians. Congress was jealous of his glory, and Paul Jones felt betrayed. “I agree to shed blood for the freedom of mankind, but I do not wish to sink the burning ship for the gratification of shopkeeper-congressmen. Let Americans forget what I was, what I am, and what I will be!”
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In distant snow covered St. Petersburg, the public had long followed Jones’ exploits. Catherine II, an experienced and cunning politician, immediately understood that beyond the ocean, a great country with an energetic people was now being born. She declared “armed neutrality” in support of America to win its freedom. Meanwhile, on the steppes of the Black Sea, brewed a new war with Turkey, and Russia always needed brave young captains for its fleet. “Ivan Andreich,” Catherine II bid to the Vice Chancellor Osterman, “It would behoove us to entice the boisterous John Paul Jones into our service, so I ask you to submit a request through our ambassadors.” Jones granted his consent to enter the Russian service. In April of 1788, Paul Jones enlisted and was promoted to the rank of Rear Admiral as indicated on his Russian documents. The Russian capital opened the doors of its estates and palaces. Jones was showered with invitations to dinners and luncheons for intimate receptions in the Winter Palace. The British merchants, as a sign of protest, closed their stores in Petersburg. Hired British sailors, who served under the Russian flag, openly resigned. British intelligence sharpened its teeth and claws, waiting for the chance to ruin the career of Jones in Russia. As a sailor next to the Russian throne, Jones conducted himself in Republican fashion. He boldly presented the texts of the U.S. Constitution and the Declaration of Independence as gifts to Catherine. The Empress, like a discerning woman answered him: “I have a premonition that the American Revolution cannot fail to ignite other revolutions. The fire will spread!” “Your Majesty, I venture to think that the principles of American freedom will open your many prisons, the keys of which we will drown in the ocean.”
Biographies of Author and Translators
Valentin Savvich Pikul (1928-1990) was a popular Russian author of historical fiction and adventure tales. Although Pikul is not well known by Western audiences, his works sold over a million copies in Russian markets between 1967 and 1979. In addition to producing more than two-dozen novels, Pikul published hundreds of historical miniatures. This story, “Drown Me, or Be Damned”, describing the trials of John Paul Jones in the American Revolution and the Russian Imperial Navy, appeared in the 1988 anthology, Blood, Tears, and Laurels. Michael Marsh-Soloway is a Ph.D. Candidate in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at the University of Virginia. Yuri V. Urbanovich, Ph.D. is Lecturer in the School of Continuing & Professional Studies, The Woodrow Wilson Department of Politics and the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at the University of Virginia. Initially he was International Scholar and subsequently a faculty member at the University’s Center for the Study of Mind and Human Interaction (1992-2003). Formerly, he was a professor at the Diplomatic Academy of the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. **The translators would like to express special thanks to Sergei Nikolaevich Dmitriev, Editor-In-Chief of Veche Publishers in Moscow for granting us special permission to publish the first rendering of this work in English. It is our sincere hope that the text will inspire interest among Western readers to investigate further the diverse writings and life experiences of Valentin Pikul. Text appears in full on Contemporary Russian Literature at UVa, at <https://pages.shanti.virginia.edu/russian/>.
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Left: photograph by Michael MarshSoloway of the John Paul Jones memorial plaque at the intersection of Bolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;shaya Morskaya Street and Gorokhova Street in St. Petersburg. Middle and right: engravings scanned from the 1927 non-fiction text John Paul Jones in Russia, by F.A. Golder.
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What Falling Brings g n i l l Fa A Short Story by Nathan Taylor Lung
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Phil With Cello by Oliver Atwood
I was falling. Actually falling. Time was slowed to the speed of a crippled snail, but my heart was pounding out a beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings. I’d heard stories of people falling; I’d actually seen people fall; I’d even pushed a person over the edge; but I never thought I would be one of the unfortunate souls that it happened to. The worst part was that I knew I was falling, and I couldn’t do a single thing to stop it. After all, who can stop someone from falling to their end? A thought, or a half thought, slowly drifted into my head, and I felt the migraine begin to burrow its way back in. James Donn. First it was alone. Then, it was accompanied by a face. Then a crippled body. Crippled from a fall. I clamped my eyes shut; not to block out the ground that was coming up at me, but to shake the thought from my head. But it wouldn’t leave. I knew that if he were watching me at this moment, he would only laugh. It wasn’t just that he had fallen. It was that I had pushed him. But why? He was a person just like me. He probably wanted the same things as me. To be successful. To be prominent. To make a way in this cruel life. What good had pushing him done for me, now that I too had been pushed? Then I remembered; I’d been pushed! Arnold Shayle. The fool! What made him think he can do this to… I couldn’t go on. Fool was right. But that was no different than me. No different than James Donn. We’re all fools. I opened my eyes. The ground was closer now. It wouldn’t be long. Then there was a new face. My son. Off at college, hoping to follow in my footsteps. No! It couldn’t be. I wouldn’t let him! I didn’t want him to fall! But what would he think of me now? It was regret. All of it regret. Had I been so blind? No. I just wanted to survive. But at what cost? Everything? How I wished the time would come back; how I wished I could try it all again. But what would I change? What could I do? I noticed the ground. It was right in front of me now. Staring right back at me- ready to swallow me whole. My wife. My friends. My son. What had they done to deserve this? Nothing. Yet I had gifted it to them. All wrapped up nice and shiny with a bow on top. But empty on the inside. Nothing to show for it. Then I was there. I winced and I hit. I’d fallen. How could I ever get up? From sitting on the board to laying on the street. It was all gone. I had hit the bottom.
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a poem by Josiah Cha
Consumerist Christianity
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We live in an American consumerist Christianity, A self-centered, preacher-shopping, church-hopping insanity. We seek an environment where blessings to constantly receive At the cost of neglected souls and the Spirit we grieve With outstretched hands and smiling faces, this disease is evident and blatant Because the very desires churning in our hearts is not so latent We search for the most emotion-satisfying preacher And yet we forget that Jesus was the ultimate teacher. The soft coos of the hip pastor, whispering tongue, eloquent tongue This is what we deserve, in a preacher lie our merits strung John Piper, Tim Keller, Francis Chan, great speakers We elevate them to the pinnacle, and compare them to our local preachers Each congregation has a price tag, the leaders a bar code The aisles are endless, as we cruise down in church mode The worship must be emotional, we need to leave with a warm feeling Not acknowledging that our reeling souls are in need of Christ’s healing The somber moods, fancy guitar riffs, the dark lights Where are the exhausted stewards, hardened knees, knuckle whites? If the worship leader is sub-par, if we judge his passion for hymns of old, We NEED a better worship experience, scoffs our pride so bold. The sentimental and best worship team concert is our Black Friday. Sometimes our acts of service is the Me-Monster on display That’s not to say that our gifts and talents should be disregarded But if our boastings take center stage – the great director of it all is discarded. The impetuosity of our actions, not realizing we can stumble our brothers Our view concaves inward, selfishly thinking not of others. We shop Sundays from one megachurch to megachurch No fellowship or body of Christ is found perfect in our search. Serving is not in our vocabulary, ministry is devoid of our knowledge The needy orphan, widow, freshman, divorcee we’d love to not acknowledge. Brokenness only exists in our lives when we need attention, “Only I need healing, only I need to grow,” is our pretension. We forget the truth that while we sit in pews hearing God’s Word, We deceive ourselves if we don’t put it into action and love is then spurred. The sower tosses the seeds, they fall on different soils They cannot uproot themselves and move to sunnier fields – they must persevere through toils. Where the sower designates, the plants must blossom where planted Perhaps through rocks, thorns, weeds, and where little rain or sunlight is granted. Or the sensation spurred by our insatiation as we search for our man-made salvation Our narrow vision causes us to vehemently believe that to be filled up is our goal Not ever knowing that the truth in growing lies in dying and pouring out of the soul That the cost of discipleship entails being alone, hated, spent. So that love and life is brought to the luke-warm and hell-bent.
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That Jesus was not suggesting, but commanding, to keep our flames visible for all to see That the whole point of Christianity is not living for oneself, but dying so Christ can be To recline and demand worship was not Christ’s reason for descent, He alone was the greatest servant of all, a limp dying carpenter whose body was spent.
“Genuine” by Da Young Kim 28
“Black and White Portrait”
by Whitney Wu 29
Destruction Myth by Olivia Gathright The Universe is new and glimmers with potential energy. It swirls slowly with the momentum from the First Dance. The Sun and the Moon are thrown apart in the fury of the genesis, and they weep for each other. In the first days and nights that follow the great Creation, the stars whisper wisdoms to the Sun and the Moon. They tell them that Rio is the place where the earth touches the sky. That it is the bridge between the void and the realm of music and color. The Sun watches the Moon ascend in her soft, ethereal glow just as he begins to climb down earth’s horizon. She smiles at him just before he ducks his head to let her night begin, and he feels flares shoot across his atmosphere in response. It is almost always like this, he thinks in exasperation. He chases her horizon to horizon, always just out of reach. He prefers the times when he has the Moon to himself: when she pirouettes between him and the earth and for a few minutes, night and day blend. They do not speak then: instead they sing and they dance, closer but still apart, while the stars chant, drum, swirl, and cast their beat into the infinite nothingness. As he traverses the sky to bring the morning to Brazil, the Sun reminisces about the dance he and the Moon did at the beginning of eternity to make the planets. He remembers also the gifts he and she gave to the earth. The song of Creation is full of drumming, and on the first day, the Sun put it in the mountains of Rio so they could teach the people about creation’s pulse. On the first night, the Moon put the colors in Rio because she has dreams of shrouding herself in colorful flags tugged by currents of air, even though she has no color and no breeze. He knows this because she told him one night and one day while they gazed at each other across horizons. The Sun hums the tune of creation to himself as he peeks over Earth’s southern hemisphere, itching for the hours to pass quickly so he can see her again, wondering what she is seeing and if she too, is remembering their first dance.
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Even though he has grown tired of the day, he likes to watch Rio wake up because the colors that run down the streets and through the trees remind him of the Moon. He sighs, trying to ignore the feeling of her distance gnawing in his core. It is an ancient and vain effort on his part. He is frustrated because harsh, burning day is the only thing he knows. The night is foreign to him. Even so, he still dreams of it: the cool, the quiet, and her heavenly light, though he understands that her gentle light would not exist without the severity of his. For the countless time he wishes he could cool himself down to be like her: peacefully observant and sweet where he is fiery and intrusive. He is weary: too long he has felt the entirety of the responsibility of life and order resting on him. In the beginning, he marveled at it all: the pulses of creatures and things that grow quickening in the earth, creation begetting creation begetting creation all to his tune. But he is still so alone. The clouds respectfully make way for the Sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s light as he dreams of letting the planets drop from their orbits so he can hold the Moon. On the top of Corcovado, he sees a boy and a girl. They hold hands and smile to each other. His skin causes reactions in hers and she reciprocates because they are touching, they are connected and immediate to one another. Their shadows hold hands too. The Sun sees this and desires it greatly. He flares and erupts in fascination. He knows he can go on in his burning isolation no longer. He waits until he is level with the Moon to give his proposition to herâ&#x20AC;Ś
On the last day, and the last night, all units of time were abolished. The Sun and the Moon stepped down to earth from their pedestals to finally join in long-awaited unity. They decided to meet in Rio, as that was the place where the earth touched the sky and where music and colors were born. In the last eight minutes before the end began and darkness reached the earth, the Sun took the Moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand and as they descended Corcovado, they sang a new song together until the only light to reach them reverberated out from the stars.
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Odds and Ends A poem by Maha Nayyar
If you ask anyone what they think of When they hear the word diversity, They’ll come up with simple words Such as “different”, “unlikeness”, and “variety”. But to me, diversity means much more than that— It’s a gift that makes us individual and unique; Without it, we’d just be faces blending into the shadows, No longer able to uphold the title of “Paul” or “Monique”. If we didn’t have our special quirks and habits, How would we be able to tell each other apart? If everyone looked and acted the same, We would all have an empty and vacant heart.
But with our diverse personalities, We are stars that shine in distinctive ways, Spread out through the vast and immense galaxy, Lighting the entire universe ablaze. If we lived in a uniform and utopian society, People would be predictable and dull, Forgetting the excitement of fireworks and surprises, And life would forever be quiet and lull.
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Being diverse gives us a chance to accept new people For whom they really are; It helps us work together as a team, Bringing in new ideas to invent and go far.
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A Swan Song A poem by Sandy Williams IV
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I’ve been upset lately: about art, about passion. About everything and nothing. About being. About becoming. I began to think about identity, but I couldn’t decide what it meant for me. A name? A number? A race? A nationality? Everything that I am; and yet, nothing that I would have called myself had someone not called me it first.
I read that a caged bird sings of freedom, and wondered whom else it might sing for. I’ve heard that a swan’s song foreshadows death.
I fell asleep dreaming about the future, and woke up thinking about this bird.
I’ve been trapped in a paradox! Identity is something that is unique to me, but it only functions as a way to be outwardly defined in comparison to. But if I fight my place within any these categories – say that I am not black, an American, a something definable what is left? A wing without feathers.
It is not; but if this were a narrative, it would begin with a bird trapped in a cage not only because it was bound to it but also because it could not exist outside of it. It sang of freedom, and tore from its identity.
Photo: Charming Fish VIllage in Korea by Da Young Kim
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Ariel Kao - Co-Editor-in-Chief Ariel is a 3rd year photographer, marketer, and technopreneur who is addicted to coffee shops, and maybe also caffeine. You can find her online shopping and reading articles in her free time. She is also a singer-songwriter who recently started doing spoken word. Joy Wang - Co-Editor-in-Chief Joy is a second year in the college of arts and sciences. When not reading manga or binging on netflix, she can be found drinking bubble tea..... or thinking about drinking bubble tea. Three things that bring her joy are trying out new places to eat, a good nap, and doge memes. Hninn Lwin-Literary Editor Hninn is a 2nd year Chemistry major who canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wake up early enough for aubades but enjoys long, romantic walks on the beach with her physics textbook. Jackie Lee - Co-Art Editor Jackie is a 2nd year artist, blogger, and major advocate for personal and professional development. With plans to someday attend medical school, she currently splits her time between the Career Services library, the research bench, and coffee shop couches. In her free time, you will find her sketching up a graphic for her blog or making yet another colorful to-do list in her planner. Tabeer Rana- Co-Art Editor Tabeer is a 3rd year film and arts enthusiast. She can often be found watching East Asian dramas or British crime series in odd hours of the day. She is also an avid tea brewer, a traditional henna tattoo artist, and an occasional purveyor of Harry Potter quotes. Da Young Kim Da Young is a 4th year international student from South Korea who loves traveling and taking photos. You can tell she is a foodie if you see her photographs. Many of them are photos of food and sweets. She also likes daydreaming while walking with her favorite iced vanilla latte in hand. You can find her outside on grounds, enjoying the weather when itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nice! Yujin Cho Yujin Cho is a level 21 warrior who enjoys reading novels by lamplight when not raiding dungeons. Although she may seem small and defenseless, beware her wild swing and frenzied attacks. On the battlefield her lack of distinction between friend and foe is legendary.
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About
Inkstone 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 of University of Virginia, Inkstone, or its staff members.
Design
Staff-designed, Inkstone took form on Adobe InDesign and Adobe Photoshop CS5. Body copy is set in Minion Pro.
Printing and Distribution
The issue was published by Branner Printing of Broadway, VA. The 7 x 10 magazine is printed on 80# Ao dull cover stock and 80#Ao dull text stock. 250 copies are distributed without charge on University grounds.
Contact Inkstone
UVa â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Newcomb Hall PO Box 400715 SAC Box 380 Charlottesville, Virginia 22904
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Inkstone Magazine accepts creative and critical works from all walks of life. Send us submissions and feedback to: magazine.inkstone@virginia.edu
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