MNT_Digital Exhibition 2024_Updated

Student Scholarship & Art Exhibition

Thank You to the Students

As we celebrate Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) Heritage Month, we want to extend a heartfelt thank you to all the students who submitted their artwork for the Make Noise Today Student Scholarship & Art Exhibition.

Your creative expressions have not only enriched our hearts but have also served as a powerful testament to the diverse and vibrant cultures within the AAPI community. Your dedication to sharing your stories and perspectives through art is truly commendable.

Your participation has made this contest a beautiful reflection of Amplifying Heritage and Empowering Futures, and for that, we are immensely grateful. Thank you for your contributions, and may your artistic endeavors continue to inspire us all.

As Asian Americans, we are considered ‘the quiet ones.’

When negative media and hate crimes against Asians escalated during the pandemic, we felt it was time to be heard. This initiative was launched in May 2020 in honor of Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, and our powerful voices continue to be loud and strong to take control of our own narrative and combat racism by telling personal stories of our heritage and accomplishments, challenges, grit, inspiration, and culture.

We believe that change begins with youth and that the way in is through storytelling. Stories move hearts and change minds. By achieving a larger volume of stories, we can attain narrative plenitude to educate and increase empathy, uniting Asian Americans and other minority groups in moving towards sustained action and change.

Supported by

Creative Class Collective Intertrend Communications

Intertrend is a multicultural agency that understands the intersection of cultures, emerging trends, and the interaction between brands and consumers. Based in both Long Beach, CA and Plano, TX, the agency has worked with leading brands and also houses a family of entrepreneurial brand units that build to its core expertise across digital, content and experiential. Interpreters and interrupters, interdisciplinary and international, Intertrend is where culture and content meet.

The purpose of Creative Class Collective is to facilitate, support and encourage new and innovative ideas in the realm of arts, music, education, and other creative outlets with the goal to aid in elevating community planning and economic viability. Our goal is to establish a creative movement with a positive civic impact and strengthen cultural equity by focusing on communities in need.

AAPI Student Scholarship & Art Exhibition

In a world that is constantly evolving, the intricate tapestry of Asian American culture thrives through the threads of tradition, memory, and aspiration.

This scholarship contest invites Asian American high school students to explore, express, and celebrate what ties them to their cultural roots. By highlighting their connection to Asian American heritage, students are also reminded of their role as the next generation’s stewards in keeping this rich culture vibrant and alive.

Judges

We wanted to highlight the invaluable efforts of the Intertrend Communications that sorted through 465 submissions, and our esteemed judging panel time to review our semi finalists. Thank you!

CHELSEA SIK Actor / Executive Producer / Digital Creator

Born and raised in Malaysia, Chelsea Sik left her home country at age 15 in pursuit of an acting career. Her journey began by learning the craft at Idyllwild Arts Academy as a sophomore Musical Theatre major, then furthering her education at USC as a BFA Acting major. Since graduating, Chelsea Sik is a working actor, executive producer and digital creator, known for her award winning short film Foreign Planetary and growing social media presence. Under her brand as a “Clown”, Chelsea has amassed over hundred thousands of followers and multi-millions of views across platforms. You can follow her journey on Instagram @chelseasik!

BRIAN LIN Education Consultant

Based in Los Angeles and raised in small-town Oklahoma as a child of Taiwanese immigrants, Brian is a lifelong advocate for the arts and education, particularly in their power to help youth find and express their voice. Since childhood, music has been a critical path for expression and community for Brian, and he holds a deep appreciation for teachers like Ms. Askins and Ms. Anduss, who showed him how powerful it was for a student to feel seen and heard, particularly when most of his classmates didn’t look like him. Brian believes in the importance of APIA representation in leadership and media, and along with Tommy Chang and Albert Kim, he hosts the miseducAsian podcast to help amplify the voices of APIA communities across the country. He is currently a consultant who supports education institutions across the country to make more equitable and inclusive decisions for all students.

Communications team panel who took the

JASON KEAM Painter / Animator

Jason Keam is a Long Beach, California based free form hard-edge figurative and abstract painter with a background in animation and visual effects. His work celebrates and liberates all living beings, cultural tools, and their relationship with each other. Everything starts with a drawing on paper then digitized then redrawn and repeat until refined, reduced, or simplified. His world is filled with vibrant animated figures with curious and playful abstracted lines. His paintings have the quality of a screen print on a freshly printed skate t-shirt.

KATERINA JENG Author / Marketing Agency Co-Founder

Katerina (they/she) is a dedicated advocate for inclusivity and healing through creativity, known for founding an acclaimed Asian American creative collective in 2016 and co-founding Spectacle, an inclusive marketing agency, in 2018. Their work spans from editing a literary journal that amplifies Asian American stories to advising companies like Vans and Denver Health on culturally sensitive messaging. With a background in English and music from Cornell University and a fellowship at Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop, Katerina’s efforts in community organizing and marketing are rooted in a deep commitment to social justice and equity. A New York native, they find joy in simple pleasures like sunshine, good food, and quality time with loved ones.

A Gold Star For You Abigale H.

“A Gold Star For You” represents my experience as an Asian American. A certain type of guilt accompanies being biracial, and I often find myself doing anything possible to make up for the Asian I don’t possess in my blood. Though I’m extremely proud of my culture, I worry about living up to my family’s legacy, striving to achieve what they weren’t given the opportunity to. I contemplate the right I have to hurt from Asian hate, to speak up on injustice, teach others about Chinese heritage, and if my passion for my culture is appropriate.

The stars in this piece take inspiration from both the Chinese and American flag, coinciding with the artwork’s color placement to represent the identity conflicts associated with being biracial. Additionally, the stars relate to the idea of Asians being the “Model Minority” and the desire to leave behind no gaps in my successes. I hope to be noticed as a person of color, but note how I have white-passing features. Recognized only by fellow Asian-Americans, I feel selfish that they aren’t enough for me.

How do you measure fulfillment?

How do you know when you’ve accomplished true success?

How do you choose who gets a gold star?

A Tuesday in July Short Story by

Thuysan P.

The thick, sticky air sends sweat down my back as I’m sitting on the too-high cushioned seat at the front desk. The summer breeze could’ve been like any other gust in November or January, but it’s July, and the wind is serene, my morning Chrysanthemum tea tastes sweeter and the hours to my long work day are even longer. I remember thinking to myself, sitting behind my mother’s nail salon’s front desk, how my summer should have gone. Jumping into pools, joyriding around parking lots, gazing at sunsets, the beach with an acai bowl and friends. But there I was, my two weeks left of summer in that chair again just like I had the first week of June, answering the phone for my English faltering mother for the business she had spent half her life building.

Lu nch is early for the slow day and I sit in the back in a teal painted room with harsh fluorescents and the spatial depth of the average Manhattan shoebox apartment. I sit across from my mother, sharing a meal of slow-cooked meats and marinated eggs alongside garlic bok choy from the night before. I give her the traditional “thank you for this meal” in Vietnamese and we eat in silence of each other but in the loud thoughts of our brains. There’s a tensity in the air. As I bite into the cold bok choy, I hear her mutter then stop, a hesitance in her stare when I look back at her.

Then, almost as if to play it off, she fixates on the marinated pork belly and says fondly to me, “thank you for sharing this meal with me”.

I pause.

“You know I always love eating with you.”

At the moment, I have nothing to say except an “of course” and continue eating. However, from that point on, the point in which I dreaded the entirety of my summer of what I thought was wasted youth or internship chances had become something irrevocably different. I was reminded of the hands that belonged to another life before my own: in the Saigon tropics and under man-made tin roofs, then to the trials of a less than manageable wage from textile

companies of a foreign land, the keys to a business and Sundays spent painting endless nails, and finally, to a rare summer season where joy is sparked from something as simple as the shared spoons of rice and pork with her daughter. I had little knowledge on what it truly meant to be Asian American before, and what my purpose had been in life. But those words of gratitude on a random July Tuesday afternoon vocalized more than a thankful remark. It stressed the decades of work that led to a moment of simple peace, a uselessness in the non-material aspects of the eccentric unmatching decor, and the significance of a shared Asian meal. The display of love and affection is hard to come by in an Asian household, a belief held by many, but I think that it’s all around us. In the silent build up of courage before saying an apprehensive ‘thank you’, the cool condensation of freshly cut fruit, the stillness of a suppressed struggle or a reminder to wear a jacket, love may have not been in the form of words or touch, but in the subtle impacts of actions. To be Asian American for me wasn’t just eating French fries with chopsticks, the duality of American freedom and Chinese Confucius beliefs, or my Californian accent with broken Vietnamese, it was also the exploration of two worlds of myself. One world where physical touch was my first love language according to Buzzfeed quizzes, while another coexisted in giving my father the last Banh Tet or packing my sister’s lunches. One world where I smile fiercely on crashing waves, and another where I sit, tranquil yet grateful, on the front desk of that nail salon in the thick, sticky summer air with a back full of sweat just like how my mother’s did in Ho Chi Minh all those years ago, finding a purpose in accepting the two raging sides of myself.

Tongue Without Words

Olivia L.

Têt = Lunar New Year

Ông Bà Ngoại = grandparents

Bánh Xèo = Vietnamese sandwich

Ngon = flavorful

No = full

Nước Mắm = fish sauce

Bún Bò Huế = spicy Vietnamese soup

Ché = Vietnamese dessert

Savoring Heritage

Amber Y.

The imagery found in my work consists of themes relating to childhood, whimsical imagination, and my Chinese heritage. In this instance, I collected wrappers and packaging of my favorite childhood Asian snacks.

The idea for this piece originated from how the cravings I used to feel for these delicious snacks reflect my current craving to connect with my culture on a deeper level. The process of layering and gluing the wrappers onto the paper contributed

to more vibrant, saturated colors and wispy textures that enhanced the narrative of my piece. Through my own artistic expression and learning to advance my culinary skills in Chinese cuisine, I continue to remain steadfast in enriching myself in the history and culture of my heritage.

Healing Sarah T.

Only diamond can break diamond Only human can break human The destiny of history Is bound to repeat.

My great grandma had a dove It seemed fleeting yet so loved But how quickly could it slip From the loving of her kiss

As the first generation Beginning where salvation Was precious then but distant For who would really listen?

Even when they bluntly fell Experienced human Hell The worst of humankind Had seemed to make them blind

The dove had seemed to flee To where they couldn’t see The end-of-tunnel light They needed now to fight

It burned, oh, it burned ‘Cause somehow it had turned Toward the hands of Lucifer That scared her dove away from her

But why then must it go In face of fearful foes?

Only diamond can break diamond Only human can break human The destiny of history Is bound to repeat.

My grandmother was born To a family that was torn But the embers still burned hot And suddenly they fought.

There did Vietnam split But even more did it Punish those poor families Who only had one need-

To laugh, to love, to live so free To touch, to care, just to be seen

So how could they have done This all? It left her stunned

She saw the North had come Her body frightened numb Her burns will tell her story As she fled her territory

She saw them, even children, At gunpoint at their own chin, Must some go such dark ways To gain power over prey?

Brutality then continued Reflections on the issue Evolved from reigning terror Existentialist endeavors

And what was “free” Was nothing to see But refugee camp Squalid, unkempt.

But they needed the shelter, ‘Cause born was my mother The third generation Stuck in this situation,

Then a call from her cousin! A call straight from heaven! The American states Had offered a place.

The doves were flying! Their spirits were rising! Their one lucky chance To make this advance,

But we still had a mountain They didn’t account in The states didn’t mean That we were really Free.

My mother neglected Her mom disrespected ‘Cause no matter what They’re just nothing but Outsiders.

My mom With not Not a single Except for Her world Her parents The tension Always seemed She cared Helped through Despite her From her Wealth slipped As soon as Mom pled Begging, But what Confronting

Her brother, Their voices

Yet with all They couldn’t That around How alone

“You’re lucky That’s all But why was When all Freedom And indeed ‘Twas then It’s her life She worked Strengthening Left her past She focused

Replanting With hope Raised me, The fourth

lived through school a single jewel single sport for those chores world fell apart parents would part tension in rooms seemed to loom cared for her siblings through broken billings her remorse mom’s divorce, slipped from their fingers as it lingered pled on her knees just please, good was it there Confronting thin air? brother, her sister voices within her all their demands couldn’t understand around all of them alone she felt then lucky to even be here” she heard from her peers was this called luck she felt was stuck is expensive indeed came with expenses then when she realized life to devise

worked her way to college Strengthening her knowledge past behind focused all her mind

Replanting her own roots hope to bear new fruit me, my brother and sister fourth after great-grandmother.

It took four generations To mend the situation, Diamonds can’t heal diamonds But humans can heal humans

The fire of dark Embedded in hearts Continues today With Russia, Ukraine,

The obstacles we faced, Just a frequent case Of what families see When violence springs

We can only wait The dove may come straight And then can we see Just how good Peace would be.

Only diamond can break diamond Only human can break human Unless we change our history It’s bound to still repeat.

Yellow Peril Dance

Hannah H.

“In this piece, I deconstruct and unmask racial stereotypes that have constrained my genderqueer expression as a Chinese American.

Drawing inspiration from the flashiness of Beijing opera and Chinese mythology, I juxtapose them with slogans and imagery from the Chinese Exclusion Act–taking something popularly used to dehumanize Chinese Americans and repurposing it into an act of celebrating my intersectionality. In the center, I position myself in place of the ‘yellow’ Chinaman from Frank Leslie’s 1882 caricature, ‘The Only One Barred Out,’ transforming this dehumanizing figure into a symbol of empowerment amidst the chaos. Dressed in male and female garments, I embody self-affirmation, celebrating my gender-identity without being confined by racist interpretations.”

Ardachandran Alapadm

Aariya M.

Piece Description: Ardachandran Alapadma refers to the hand gestures depicted. These hand gestures are found in the art of bharatnatyam, an Indian dance style. Ardachandran Alapadma translates into “A fully bloomed woman (or person).” The purpose of this artwork was to depict my personal view of artwork as I grew up, and how it made me into the person I am today. In Indian households, regardless of dialect or region, you will often find a framed “Madhubani” art piece.

Growing up, I was infatuated by these pieces and would collect them in my mind as my family

traveled to relatives and friends’ houses. As I got older, I began recreating these works and started to convey my emotions and feelings through my Madhubani art. Now, as I am older, I have made this piece to represent my life so far. I’ve included customs from both sides of my family and have represented my heritage through patterns. The monotone palette represents how I shamelessly and boldly represent my culture, even if it means standing out. By combining cultural patterns, a Madhubani style, and the art of Bharatnatyam. I can confidently say that this piece empowers me, and puts my heritage on a pedestal.

All the Words We Cannot Say

Catherine M.

生日快乐. That’s “Happy Birthday” in Mandarin, 4 curling-and-swirling loops that my stubby hands just cannot seem to replicate. At 7-years-old, I scribble onto the cardstock adorned with glitter glue and photos of my mother.

The Google Translate search “how to write happy birthday in Chinese” glares mockingly at me. I glare right back. I skip over to my mother, eager to present my work.

She accepts the card, giving me a warm hug. She beams, “Thank you, honey.” Not ‘谢谢 宝贝’ thank you, honey in her native tongue, in her language. (In our language.) The English is especially jarring with her Chinese accent and soft smile—just more salt in the wound.

I guess what the other children whisper about me at Chinese school is true: My Chinese is so poor I am lucky I am good at reading English. They taunt that my parents are too soft. They mock that I will become one of them, a full-blooded American.

They say that I am good at being Asian, but not good enough.

As an Asian-American, It feels like a sin to declare that Lunar New Year is my least favorite holiday. Red is so unflattering on me that I curse my ancestors for making red the traditional color. I practice smiling in the mirror, cheeks stretching unnaturally to the point of a grimace, as I prepare to greet family friends. I have no idea who they are. They assure me that I look adorable in red. They don’t know who I am either.

Years ago, I was rosy-cheeked and rosy-eyed, willing to attempt to satisfy an impossible standard. Now, I grumble under my breath at all the rituals I am forced to follow: wear red, don’t wash your hair, clean your room. Everytime I attempt to ask why, why we do things the way we do, I get the same response: that’s just the way things are.

“Don’t make a scene,” my mother warns.

I snort. I was the one who taught her that phrase.

“我知道,” I respond out of habit. I know.

To my parents, it has always been endearing that I can speak their Asian dialects, albeit brokenly. A mishmash of Mandarin, Cantonese, and Shanghainese that I’ve come to associate with home and take pride in. Don’t make a scene. And so, I let myself be the butt of the joke and an easy conversation starter. “She uses chopsticks so well, for an American.” I stab my chopsticks into my stir-fried noodles. “She speaks so well, for an American.”

“我可以听见你,” I grumble. I can hear you. The adults all laugh. Even without looking I know that my mother is glaring at me, mouthing the words. Don’t make a scene.

For the sake of tradition, I am supposed to let everything pass. That’s just the way things are: the ‘Asian’ way. My mother doesn’t stop the Aunties from making their jokes. We never mention what happens at New Year dinner. Don’t make a scene. All I can do is sit there like a good girl, quiet and quieted. Funnily enough, I always feel most Asian when I am being ridiculed for being too American.

“再过 几年，她就不会再理解我们了,” a drunk woman who insists she is my Auntie intones. Give it a few years and she will no longer understand us.

When I told my mother that I couldn’t sleep, she bought me a new bed. I thought that maybe my broken Cantonese—the Cantonese everyone was so eager to laugh at—wasn’t getting through to her, so I spent that night scrolling through Google Translate, just like I did with writing that birthday card all those years ago. ‘Insomnia in Mandarin.’

Even if I could explain to her what I mean in perfect Cantonese, she would still not understand. The ‘Asian Way’ does not tolerate or comprehend nuanced conversations about mental health. Don’t make a scene. I cannot be a liability, a burden. “What do you mean you can’t sleep?” she asked. “Just close your eyes.”

I watch American TV shows, where the characters always find a way to have emotional heart-to-hearts. I scoff at the corniness, wondering are there actually families who do this?

I know she cares. But my mother, no matter how hard she tries, cannot fix the mess in my head the way she can fix the mess in my room. She cannot fix me. If only Google Translate could tell her that. If only I could tell her that.

At 17, My Mandarin has become so rusty that I can barely hold a conversation, while my mother’s English is nearly flawless now. But I don’t need words to feel, say, my mother’s anguished homesickness when she facetimes her family all the way from Malaysia. Pain is a universal language. She’ll immediately leave the house to ‘take out the garbage,’ which we both know is a thinly veiled excuse. We never talk about the garbage still in the bin, her tear-stained face, and the scent of cigarettes that follow her. Empathy is a universal language.

We are not a family that talks about hard topics. We are not a family that knows the words to do so—words I don’t know how to say due to a language barrier and words that I can’t say due to a communication barrier. What transcends language, of messy labels like “Asian” and “American,” is pure humanity. For me, that’s more than enough.

Poems For My Asian Girls Charlene C.

Not your Asian Girl

I am not your stereotypical Asian girl I am terrible at math,

And not the top of the class I’m average

Just in the middle.

Numbers to me are just another riddle.

I am not your stereotypical Asian girl I hate eating rice every day; I enjoy varieties in every way.

I enjoy a savory burger with crispy fries. Weird right?

There really isn’t a delay when I relay my choice which food I eat.

Yet people expect me to be the little quiet girl in the back who just eats rice seaweed.

I am not your stereotypical Asian girl I can see perfectly fine and all the signs I can see all the hate that is thrown at my people.

It’s like we are being treated as if we were never of American History.

A very important part of OUR story, we were ones who built the railroads, connecting the East coast to the West coast.

East connecting with the West, who can forget?

Therefore I detest.

So please don’t make a funny face at me when see me at a red light.

Because I can see your face and I’ll remember night.

I am not your stereotypical Asian girl I am not docile nor delicate, However, I am intelligent and intricate I have bursts of energy that come out in joy. My feelings are not something to be toyed. I am loud and could talk 100 miles per hour. But how my people are being treated has gotten sour.

I will not sit back and let you ruin mine and my own. Life is precious--too short to be pretentious. This matter to me is serious, and I’ll stand for what I believe in

Because I’m courageous.

I am not your stereotypical Asian girl

To the those in my class, stop blaming me for the virus.

I am not a virus, nor do I want to be “viral.”

Stop mocking my native language, due to your ignorance,

Your poor choice of words are a mere hindrance, at most a nuisance.

My culture has 5000+ years of history. That’s 5000+ of years of amazing heartfelt stories, One with many dynasties. It used to be an honor being bilingual, respected like a mogul.

Now I rather not talk or I encounter a Smeagol

I am not your stereotypical Asian girl I’m not “exotic,” “chic,” or “oriental.”

choice of rice with people. never part the forget? when you remember it all gotten me

I live in the metro, call me continental. Don’t say my eyes are unique.

Social media made it a trend to have fox eyes, Beautifying its shapes and sizes.

Yet they laugh at those whose genes contain them And stripped them of their prizes. They shame them. And blame them.

Even have the nerve to point their fingers at them

I am my own being.

Not what I’m known to be but known for what I will become.

I am powerful, intelligent, important, a girl, a woman, a mother someday, a writer, an astronaut, a president even?

I am not your stereotypical Asian girl. Instead I am someone who represents me And this is my being.

This is my writing,

This is me fighting. See me.

Words

Words, They come out of my mouth,

I use them to speak. To make conversations. Sometimes they come out unexpectedly. Words, They’re the most powerful weapon. They could be as sweet as honey or as sharp as a sword.

They could be bullets piercing through, Or medicine to help the old.

Words move around the world like the ocean, Drifting from one to another, Making conversations seem to last forever. Yet we always find ways to down one another. Pulling each other deeper into the ocean.

All alone,

Maybe it’s better to be alone, ‘Cause you won’t get hurt. And when you don’t get hurt, you aren’t sad, And when you’re not sad, you are happy. But why does hurt to be alone

Like I’m suffocating even more. I’m not heard.

My words turn into bubbles that never float ashore

Say why does society, Always pull the trigger, Shooting means words at each, Like a war.

Arguing back and forth.

Why can’t we say nice words? Meaningful words?

Why can’t we just say, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.” Why do we have the war continue?

And why must we always believe the bullets pierce through our skins, Whereas we could be bulletproof and happy with our kin.

I learned that society would never back down from a fight.

Where they shoot each other till one or both die. But I refuse to listen to whom pulls the trigger, I refuse to listen to their taunting and teasing, Their bickering back and forth.

Because I know one day, And I hope that maybe it will cease. And there’s peace.

Where we could go back to the innocent past. Like a child’s laughter by the stream, Where sunlight is gleaming. Where your smile is beaming, Finally at peace.

Blending In Angie W.

The title “Blending In” has two meanings in this oil painting.

1, the fact that my younger self is literally merging with elements in the background, and 2, how growing up in a place with people who didn’t look exactly like myself required some “blending in.”

I always start my paintings with a physical collage to reference, this time incorporating items such as the stars from the Chinese flag on my brother’s hand, the text of the Los Angeles Times on the top right, and the blatant word of “TEXAS” upside down at the bottom. The elements in the piece represent not only the many places I’ve grown up in but also the diverse cultures I’ve been privileged to experience.

Blind Spot

Vicky Y.

because Olivia L. because

theseletterswerecarvedbyahighschoolboyinBakersfieldandbecauseheexcavatedtheir entrailstosparemyclothesfromstainingIinherited26emptyframesskeletonsascaffoldto reconstructthebodyofhismemorybodyofsunkenversesIhauledauniverseoutofauniverse wherehedoesn’tstayuptillmidnightonmysubmissiontothe3rdgradeyearbookcoverbecause thisisn’tthefirsttimehe’sdrawninmonthsauniversewhereaviolinforceshischinup andweadmirethe permanentdentinhisclavicleauniversewherehetakesthecarvingclass in highschoolwherehetakesthecarvingclass universewhereIlearnrhythmsfrommymotherratherthan learningmymotherthroughrhymebecauseshesingsinthecarbecauseshepaidformylessons andIcouldn’tholdapitchifitwastheonlythingonmyback becausetheirbacksbroke witheverywavebreakingagainstthem

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At the outset, I showcased my dance proficiency with energetic movements and precise steps,

Brushstrokes of Identity

Sophia Z.

红包

- red packet 龙 - dragon

on your name

Cloris S.

i.

there goes a saying: a name must flow like ivory, crisp like jade, full like a mouth of steam before it cascades, a tumbling ball of fire, but baba and i gave you an american name and the syllables bounce on my miso-coated tongue shape-shifts in rhythm, stone-skipping across tea-infused teeth and i drag out your last letter like silk threads of lotus roots, your name ends too soon.

they’ll pronounce your last name wrong lips puckered, too much air between their teeth they’ll say nameless face she, blind complying she you’ll never tell them to say “shí” tongue curled around back palate, you’ll never tell them to call you rock of security and stability, womb of monkey king, tell them: go travel forests of limestone shí lín catch the wave of your antelope sandstone, sightseeing — they’ll see you eyes closed — they’ll hear you listen dragon — breathe fire through sequoia body, burn wildflower poppies exhale jasmine breeze

in your roar, i’ll listen for ashes of paper money we lay on your grandpa’s grave every qīng míng and remember: keep pacific salt and atlantic wind between your cheeks (you’ll need to blow out the fire too)

ii.

i saw our city’s name on the newspaper a man spat at an asian woman on her way to the market last morning before a group of mothers screamed for their kids to get away from her, before she told her daughter to set her goals as low as her mother’s paycheck.

by preschool, chalk fingers will learn to draw out the corners of eyelids quicker by first grade, they’ll stick “made in china” labels on your shoulders by middle school, you’ll forget the symphony you hold between your two ears by high school, you’ll kowtow your golden head to your homeland’s landmines.

Beyond Belonging: Alien Culture

Sophia B.

I hate the sound “nga.” The most basic of principles within Tagalog, and I have never understood how to perfectly execute the sound. Out of all of the twenty-six letters, the language rearranged them to this, creating my veritable hatred for it. The frustration of never connecting with your culture over a single sound. One of the first words you learn to pronounce as a child growing up in the Philippines. I did not get that. I never got it. Am I separated from my culture if I cannot even begin to say my real middle name? This spiraling of unknowing leaves me miles away.

The constant reminders from family and friends: “Do you speak Tagalog? Can you understand it?” If someone were to ask me if I was bilingual, again, my answer would be unfinished. Sometimes I answer with “one and a half” as understanding and being able to read by carefully sounding out the syllables is not equivalent to speaking and writing. Never complete. Daily reminders of me falling short of the expectation. I question if the people to blame are my parents for never fully teaching me, or myself. Why should I apologize for not understanding my cultural language? Nobody apologized for never teaching me.

As I drowned in these foreign words, Simbang Gabi (Night Mass) approached, a nine-day series of reverence positioned right before Christmas. This daunting event in which aunties and uncles would be disappointed at my lack of awareness perpetuated my alienation. Even so, my family and I had to prepare for the event. We visited Seafood City, an Asian supermarket known for its tacky plastic cups of translucent jelly and porcelain mahjong tiles, to offer home-cooked Filipino meals for this special occasion at Church, and from 3:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m., we rejoiced among the pews, collecting in the churchyard after the service to share food with the congregation. Everyone in the Filipino-Catholic community contributed to the potluck, offering clusters of fresh lychee carved into the shape of blooming flowers, steamed delicate rice pastries of bibingka, and large trays of crispy pata, each plow of the blade revealing the glazed umber

skin and its delectable meat. Our sumptuous repast combined with the heartwarming moments of dining together as a spiritual family nourished the bonds within my cultural community.

The humility of my Filipino-Catholic bond forged through communal meals helped me fill the language barrier with a new purpose. I learned to stop chasing away “nga” and embrace the shared identity of Asian-American culture. I no longer immortalized the blame game, rather, I practiced archaic Filipino recipes in the kitchen, unearthing their origins as I circumnavigated my own life. I saw the wondrous adventure of the Bicol Express with its creamy coconut milk and spiced red peppers purchased by hungry train travelers in Manila. I witnessed the universality of lumpia and how its delicate pastry skin enveloping minced spring seasonings topped with a glossy sunset-colored sauce transcended multiple cultures in Asia. While difficult translations eluded me, food spoke for itself. In all its creation and symmetry, meals are a clear-cut example of our purpose within the vast universe. The symmetry of the luscious glossy fruit of lychee and its impossibly packaged milky half-moons exemplifies how food is the perfect opportunity to share with friends and family. These newfound realizations transformed me into an emotionally empowered individual capable of circumnavigating life’s challenges through food.

The sublime nature of meals and the gift of sharing them with those around me is a testament to my Filipino culture and a reminder that I can inevitably count on food as a universal language to evoke love and care for my community. With this in mind, I will continue the legacy of Asian cuisine with my newly found deep-rooted knowledge and understanding of the recipes I create and share. I am not an alien to my culture, I am a Filipina human being who tries to get to know it every day.

自豪（Pride）

Katie H.

Glows of valiant red and gold illuminate the dark like beacons of good fortune and joy. Like the qipao that envelops me, its silk the crisp spring air, cool against my skin. Like the loud radiance of my heart, beating blood profound and pure and lavishing lustrous pride.

Streams of traditional instruments swirl through the lantern glow like rays of ancestry and nature embracing my soul. Like the classical poem that flows through my lips, rising and falling in inflection like the Yangtze river’s currents.

Like the light teal beads of my jade bracelet, twirling along my wrist as I sway it in the air, glinting in the light like tiny moons.

Applause floods the vibrant room and accompanies its gliding music like the sun that washes warmth over the Huangshan mountains. Like the literature, the history, the beauty of it all, that enliven and ignite me, a firework of exploding pride and love.

Like the unity between us and each other, so red and golden and fluent, like my bond to my culture, Like me.

红色和金色的光芒，在黑暗中闪耀 就像是幸运和欢乐的灯塔 就像是包裹着我的旗袍 - 丝绸般地滑过我的皮肤，带来春天的清凉 就像我有力的心脏，跳动的血液，放射出纯粹而骄傲的声响 传统乐器的溪流，在灯笼的光芒中旋转 就像祖先和历史拥抱着我的灵魂 就像我心中流淌的古典诗篇，似长江流水绵延千里，蜿蜒不息

就像我玉镯上淡青色的珠子，随我在空中摇摆，沿着我的手腕转动，如小小月亮一样闪闪发 光

掌声伴随着优美的音乐，在充满活力的房间飞扬

就像太阳给黄山沐浴着温暖

就像文学，历史，这一切的美，使我激动并点燃我心中骄傲和爱的火光 就像我们彼此之间的团结和友谊，红色的，金色的光影，正是我的文化和我的纽带，将我紧 紧拥抱 这就像我

Impressions of an Immigrant Childhood

Labiba C.

The sun painted the sky with hues of pink and gold as my mother and I strolled along the meandering path of the garden near my school. Under the bridge, the lake moved lazily with its floating shapla flowers, the lonely and the paired leaf petals and the gradient of bright pink to pure white petals moved in harmony with the water. The air carried the fragrant symphony of jasmines, pink roses, rosemary, and marigolds that adorned the trees and danced along the breeze.

As we walked, the shapla flowers whispered secrets to the water and the water gossiped with the rocks. The jasmines released a sweet fragrance that mingled with the earthy scent of rosemary, while the pink roses blushed with tales of love and longing. The scattered petals created a vibrant canvas on the sidewalk; a tapestry of lost memories.

Roses are a concept of love so familiar yet distant. The soft pink is my mom’s fingers braiding my hair. The petals are the beds my mom tucks me into when I’m sick. My fingers reached out and plucked one, admiring its velvety petals, and reached for another for my mom. As I attempted to detangle another rose from the bunch, a gentle slap on my hand stopped me.

“Flowers have feelings too,” my mom’s voice carried a tone of soft reprimand. “Imagine how you would feel if you were plucked from your family. Imagine a random person coming and hurting you for no reason.”

I looked down at the half-plucked rose, guilt settling in like dew on petals. Innocent tears of water trickled down its stem, making my fingers sticky. Apologetically, I cradled the rose against my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. Though I did not understand its pain, I clutched the lonely flower the whole way home.

A Rose

My best friend’s favourite colour was red. Red was the matching dress for school fairs. Red was the flush on our cheeks from racing through fields and laughing till our stomachs hurt. Red was the lipstick, “borrowed” from her mother, smudged all over our faces. So, red was my favourite colour.

Roses were my best friend’s favourite flower. Roses were the petals we tossed at grooms during weddings. Roses were the childish fantasies of love. Roses were the petals we tucked ourselves under to dream and giggle about nothing and everything. So, roses were my favourite flower.

Yet, red became the colour of my embarrassed cheeks of not being the one that was called out to. Red became picking at my skin as I questioned why I didn’t belong. Red became my bloodshot eyes wondering when I wasn’t needed anymore.

Red was the blood of my blood after I pricked it on a rose thorn. My mother said the innocent beauty of a rose was protected by its own thorns. “You need some thorns,” she said, “because waiting for someone to stop your plucking isn’t an option.” So, I became a rose.

Roses are not my favorite flower.

My Hair

My hair in the US spoke a language of its own. It navigated phases, not styles but rather the question of whether to wear a hijab or to not wear a hijab. The hijab became a link across oceans. Though I did not wear it in Bangladesh, it held a different weight under the American sky.

The dilemma evened out in sixth and seventh grade, when COVID didn’t give me an option to contemplate on those thoughts. At the arrival of eighth grade, I chose not to wear a hijab. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was a mesh of stares, judgements, the impossible standards on how I present my head. My hijab is wrong or my hair is inappropriate. I’m too young to wear a hijab or how could I not wear one? Are you not muslim?

So, on the fresh first day of eighth grade, I did not wear a hijab. Walking in, the first thing I heard was, “who is that? Is that Labiba?” My friends were baffled. I lowered my head, seeking refuge in a seat away from my friends as the murmurs trailed me, winding through the corridors and lingering in the cafeteria. It persisted through the school walls, infiltrating the silence of my home and screaming in the loud of my thoughts.

I was wearing a hijab two weeks later. Initially my hair was wrapped to block the whispers, but soon, it became a statement of my identity and my beliefs. I carefully pinned my hijab around my head every morning.

My Hijab

I was in the thrill of an eighth-grade trip to Six Flags; my first ever trip to Six Flags, in fact. My hijab was wrapped and pinned tightly to my head just in case it tried to fall off. While walking through the park, I brushed past a man and his wife. The man’s hateful accusations and curses sliced through the air. A terrorist is what he said. His words, sharp as daggers, halted me. I promise I had not touched his wife. Vines of accusations entwined my feet, a gray cloud enveloped my head. I swear there was a thorn lodged in my throat. They walked away, going about their day, back into the sounds and colors of the park that I couldn’t see. For a moment, I was rooted in place, held captive by the weight of his hate. Eventually, my friends’ voices dispersed the fog in my head. I leaned into their chatter; I smiled and nodded as they insulted the man and jokingly plotted against him. Though I did not cough up a bloodied rose, I couldn’t help but notice the sky had taken a greyer tone.

Returning home, within the comforting walls, I let my thorns recede. It was ironic, wasn’t it?

Despite my defenses, tears cascaded down like the blood-like water from the broken rose. I wonder if he knew flowers had feelings too.

An Ocean

Every week, I call my grandmother across the ocean. Her voice carries the essence of a world I straddle between the US and Bangladesh. Every month or so, I get news across the ocean—of sickness, loss, death. Amidst the familial connections of these calls, there lies a weighty burden of being the eldest grandchild. I am expected to be a model of success, a repository of cultural values, and a paragon of virtue. The weight of these invisible waters is a constant reminder that my actions ripple through the family. I find myself perched on a tall, thorny stool—a beacon or an example.

In the US, I feel it is my responsibility to represent Bangladesh. Bangladesh was catching fish by the water and being terrified it would try to eat your hand.

Bangladesh was eating my favourite foods in the cool air of the mall to take refuge from the blistering heat. Bangladesh was making and eating warm pitas in the cold winter. Bangladesh was pressing my nose up against the bus window to look at the rice farms and the hills of tea leaves and through the forests hoping to see a wild animal. Bangladesh was the rain soaking me as I huddled on the seat of the rickshaw so I didn’t get soaked in the flood water. Bangladesh was the laughter of an aunt. Bangladesh was the warmth of a grandmother’s embrace. Bangladesh was everything. How do you encapsulate your everything to someone who has never seen it past its geographical name and its poverty?

And yet, Bangladesh is held at an arm’s length. Bangladesh is not being able to communicate properly with my closest family. Bangladesh is a culture that I’ve never had the chance to memorize until it was in the curves and bumps of my hands. How do I embody something I have not had the chance to understand yet? Do I feign understanding, fabricate experiences, or embrace a sense of belonging that feels fragmented?

** All inconsistencies in tense and British/American English are intentional! (British English refers to the experiences that stayed in Bangladesh and American English for the ones that are in America.)

Untitled Xinchen L.

Blossoming Hannah W.

To create this piece, I envisioned myself in a peaceful setting, extending a hand to welcome others into my future. My serene expression reflects my introspective nature and deep desire to be content with who I may become and where I may go.

I also chose to depict a dragon, qipao, and specific flowers to symbolize my Chinese heritage. The flowers — a lotus, a plum blossom, and a magnolia — signify perseverance, prosperity, and resilience, representing my dedication to personal growth and a broader Asian American narrative of flourishing even in the face of adversity. The dragon and qipao reflect my desire to understand my heritage, from its rich folklore to its cultural influence today. To complete the work, I incorporated elements of art and music, both sources of creativity and self-expression, to embody the possibilities that await me and the freedom I seek in shaping my life.

Together, every aspect of this piece echoes my vision for a future of exploration and growth.

Golden Girl

Alexie I.

This song is about my experience of being bullied growing up as an Asian immigrant. I was always bullied for my the way I looked and spoke. I am claiming back my “yellow” skin - the color that was used as a derogatory term, as “golden”. I was also often bullied for my eyes. I often wished they were bigger, lighter, and whiter. Eurocentric beauty was a constant standard, both in the Philippines and America. Growing up, I was insecure about my appearance and would try to change it as much as I could. However, as I matured, I realized that these insecurities would become the aspects I learned to love the most. Once I started loving myself and my heritage, the stars aligned and I started becoming the best version of myself. When I’m in touch with where I come from, I know where I want to go and my ancestors are the roots of that path. That is where the idea of a “Golden girl with a golden future” comes from.

I chose the art form of a song because Filipinos love singing and karaoke. It is one of my favorite forms of art as a multifaceted artist. It is also a very literal way to...Make Noise!

I play the guitar in the first half for to achieve a soulful and deeper sound that matches the mellow lyrics. The wave sounds are for the viewers imagery when listening, reminiscent of the Philippines. Waves are symbolic for growth and transformation. In the second half, I play the ukulele and even though it’s the same chords, it’s a more tropical and brighter sound which matches the empowering lyrics. Naturally, I wanted to include bits of Tagalog/Filipino followed up with translations for intersectionality in my identity as a Filipino-American. “Gintong Babae” means “Golden Girl” and “mahalin mo ang sarili mo” translates to “love yourself.” Those are two powerful messages to leave my fellow Asian women with. For the ending, I wanted a full circle moment in the end with the idea of looking in the mirror and pride in how far I have come.

Bindi Anjali L.

Bindi. The tiny red dot between my eyebrows was an attempt to clear up the audience’s confusion as to why I was dancing on that stage. Exactly half of my identity could be expressed through that minuscule mark of pigment on my forehead. Sometimes it felt like my bindi was like the little dot in the corner of videos, flickering on and off. Ghungroos. The heavy bells on my ankles pinched as I attempted to shuffle across the stage. Their weight bore down on me. Sari. Its metallic fabric glistened in the intense lighting aimed at us. I felt trapped in the fabric. Bharatanatyam. The rich ancient cultural art I practiced was supposed to make me feel deeply connected to my culture, but somehow what I felt was far from it. I watched in envy as my peers danced with their perfectly formed mudras in sync to the beat of the mridangam. I felt like a fraud. How could I form my mudras well if I had no idea what they were symbolizing? I didn’t even know how to pronounce mridangam, let alone dance to the beat of one. As we took our final bows, I felt no pride in my meaningless movements to lyrics I couldn’t understand, even though I could clearly make out my dad’s high-pitched whistle he reserved for one-of-a-kind performances. Everything comes with time. I’ll learn to love it.

I quit two months later.

For about eight years of my life, Fridays meant dance class. Alongside two other girls, I piled into a minivan, screamed the lyrics to that week’s pop hit, and raced down a hill to the sliding glass door where our teacher awaited us. And for a while, it was just that. But as singing turned to gossip and our shadows grew longer on the hill, I began to dread these classes more and more. In an attempt to quicken the pace of our learning, our teacher now pit us against each other in “friendly” competitions and tried to incentivize us by awarding a “best dancer” each week. She only granted this elite status to two types of people: the truly talented or the so-called “most improved players.” I was the pinnacle of mediocrity. I didn’t know where I fell in this hierarchy. With every Friday that passed, this feeling grew more intense until I had no desire to keep dancing. Despite the intense disapproval from what felt like my entire Indian ancestral line, after months of begging I finally got what I wanted. My dance career was officially over.

What followed was an immediate resentment toward not just bharatanatyam, but my entire Indian identity. I let my earring holes close up—I didn’t need to wear those heavy jhumkas anymore. I even began to abandon my femininity altogether, I vowed to never wear makeup again and avoided wearing dresses at all costs. The friends I once begged my parents for sleepovers with became strangers I passed occasionally in hallways. My onceblinking red dot had now vanished entirely. To account for its absence, I began to reinvent myself by exploring my East Asian side, something I had never taken an interest in before. Suddenly I could name all 7 members of BTS and started hanging out with people who used “chink” as a term of endearment. While I was happier now that I had quit dance, something still felt wrong. It felt like I had successfully removed a tumor growing inside my brain by chopping off my entire head. I finally realized that associating one negative experience with all of Indian culture would not help me resolve the turmoil I still felt.

I soon discovered a new means of cultural expression: cooking. In the kitchen, there are no pressures to outperform your peers or reach a certain standard. Using cooking as an outlet for my cultural struggles, my confidence grew along with pride for my heritage. I found that despite my toxic relationship with dance, Indian culture could still be an important part of my identity.

The beat of the mridangam echoes through the auditorium. The familiar jingling of ghungroos surrounds me. I whistle as my peers take their final bows. Part of me feels jealous as I watch all my former classmates achieve their long-awaited arangetram, but another part of me understands my place is in the audience. Directly on my ajna chakra, lies a singular red dot. Bindi.

Big Fish and Begonia

Alice Y.

“Mallakhamb” Aerial Arts

Mrunal P.

My Filipino Dad Smiling

Abigail S.

My Filipino dad smiling

As my younger sister backs out of the driveway

His calloused hands fall loose at his sides

As he’s illuminated by the sun

My mom sits in the passenger’s seat

Prayers prancing in her mind

The rosary hanging from the rear view mirror

Enchants her revered whispers

My younger sister in the driver’s seat

Painted nails adorning her hands clutching the wheel

She stares at the backup camera

Looking behind has become obsolete

I sit in the backseat

Spectating these pillars ahead

And notice my dad standing in the driveway

Beaming, bright and bold

My Filipino dad’s smile

Is to be framed in museums

A phenomenon it has become to us

A phenomenon I wish it wasn’t

I take a photo

Maybe he seldom smiled

Maybe he seldom laughed

So ours might make the stars shake and dance

Maybe if they were more acquainted with our luminescence

We’d be able to open all the doors he had to walk past

The stars would be the keyholders

No need for extra courses to account for our intelligence

But the stars are too acquainted with us

I only wish they would hear him more

To raise future generations in a household lacking in laughs

Would be to disrespect the calloused hands

That held us

That scolded us

That fed us

That loved us

But I’d want my dad to be raised

In a household nurtured with laughs and calloused hands

And cut fruit and elephant statues

So for future generations, I’ll raise them how I wanted my dad to be raised

My Filipino dad smiling at us

Has become one of my most favorite photos

Because that stars heard him

And knew him by name on that bright, blue day

Cultural Choreography

Stephanie C.

“As a Korean American raised by immigrant parents, I wanted to be connected with my heritage. I wanted to do something traditional, where I could learn new things about my heritage and the history of Korea. This goal led me to the captivating realm of traditional Korean dance, a realm where the rich tapestry of Korean history and tradition unfolded.

Through the canvas of “Cultural Choreography,” I encapsulate the essence of my journey, portraying the fusion of travel, culture, and identity. The overstuffed suitcase serves as a poignant symbol of their adventures, brimming with fans, small drums, shoes, clothing, and hair accessories, each item a cherished relic of their heritage. With each brushstroke, the artist communicates not only their joy in the exploration of their cultural roots but also their reverence for the ancestors who paved the way. “Cultural Choreography” is more than just a painting; it is a testament to the enduring power of culture to illuminate our paths and connect us with our past, present, and future.”

Contorting to Gender Bias in Hanja Lavendar

A.

As I explored the intricacies of Korea’s language and culture, I stumbled upon a realization: even within language, biases against women persist, hidden in plain sight. This piece explores the disparity in Hanja characters between ‘son’ and ‘daughter’ in Korean culture, emphasizing gender bias. As I researched the history behind these symbols, the symbol denoting ‘son’ carries a weighty significance, straightforwardly translating to ‘son’ with directness and prominence. It embodies a sense of importance and authority, reflecting the elevated status traditionally afforded to sons within Korean society.

However, juxtaposed against this, the Hanja character for ‘daughter’ struck me with its simplicity and seeming insignificance, merely signifying ‘girl’ without the same as its counterpart. Beyond language, it reflects a cultural perspective positioning daughters to a lower status. The artwork, inspired by personal experiences, portrays me contorting into the ‘son’ symbol, representing the discomfort of conforming to societal expectations favoring sons.

Surrounding the ‘son’ symbol with cleaning products and pots signifies the weight of traditional gender roles, serving as a visual commentary on struggles faced by my sisters and me conforming to expectations that favored my brother as the preferred ‘son.’ As I continue to create my body of work, one of my goals is to continue exploring the dynamics of familial connections, drawing inspiration from my Asian American background.

My goal is to explore how these connections resonate within the broader cultural and societal context that shapes my identity. I hope to continue not only delving into the diverse ways in which we communicate and connect as a family but also to convey these experiences and stories, inviting viewers to find resonance in their familial bonds.

Bollywood’s Heroine: A Gemini Simar S.

In my dreams, I am on a 1960s film screen: a chiffon dupatta flowing against the sweeping Swiss alpine, a panorama of weeping mustard leaves-- drowning in gold, weighted by a wedding veil, and running far too fast. Bollywood formed me into a hopeless romantic, painting scenic landscapes carved with poetry you can never find in the Western world and laced with the two women I wished to be: The perfect daughter and the runaway bride.

The first: a woman so brave that she is silent. She sacrifices her own happiness for the honor of her family. And so quietly, as the story reaches an end you could never see coming, she becomes a muted martyr, promising to pass her modern values to her children.

The second: a woman so brave that she chooses love. Chooses to declare her passion to a crowded room and picks the plot that provides her contentment. Oh so very loud, as the story reaches a close, she runs away from the altar to marry her own happiness.

I have spent my life balancing between the two women, wishing to be one, only to jump across a fictitious, lying line, hoping to be another.

I am eight years old. My mother hands me a platter of red meat. I cry, I cry, and I cry. The thought of eating a living being taints the meal, no matter how seasoned it is. Today, I am still a vegetarian.

As a Punjaban, I was surrounded by women as strong as stone. Women who could never imagine crying over meat. I slowly became embarrassed of my tired tears and sensitive soul, insecure that that made me a disgrace towards the women warriors behind me.

Growing out of girlhood; my budding identity creeped up on me like a shot and that crisis transformed into a civil war. The faceted failures of these fickle feelings. I craved the freedom to run away, yet simultaneously, I desired conventional perfection. I returned, once again, to the two heroines of Bollywood.

And so, I spent sleepless nights challenging myself academically. I searched the internet tirelessly for internships. I went to every function, dressed in jewels and silk. From Sunday school, to honor societies, and student government, I strived for perfection, hoping that it would

compensate for my sexuality, peaceful persona, and refusal to eat meat at 8 years old-- all things I considered to be weaknesses.

Eventually, I realized that my aim for excellence was cowardly. The intent made it so. Truthfully, I dreamed to be brave like the women of bollywood instead of perfect like their image. I concluded that my delicate disposition was my way of defying the same strangling societal standards the women of my family faced.

The crisis in my heart came to a close when a local Sikh activist taught me the concept of Jujana, to fall in love with the struggle. I began to value the battle instead of the outcome. Stubbornness became a source of courage, proof that I had a reverence for hard work, giving me peace with the intersections of my identity.

Jujana taught me that my identity will never fit with perfection. This once painful fact is now an ode-- an opportunity to grow. Since then, I have taken as many risks as possible, not aiming to win nor constraining the emotions failure brings. I lost my first pageant. Created (and abandoned) an initiative. Struggled with my business. However, none of these, no matter how disappointing, deterred me from trying.

I have fallen in love with myself just as I have fallen in love with the struggle. This love is a quiet hum in the background of my journey. It is not the melody, but the baseline of all my future endeavors.

On this never-ending road, I have created my own kind of bravery. Not the one of the faultless daughter or fearless bride. Rather, the one of a girl who has redefined the “hopeless romantic” into fortitude.

The Halmeoni Within Me

Isabel C.

TheHalmeoniWithinMe

TheHalmeoniWithinMe

InKorea, Iwastaughttosleeponthefloor. Myhalmeoni,orgrandmother, wouldtellmethatthiswasthewaytosleep, thewaytosleeplikeaKorean, thewaytosleeplikemyancestors. Ididnotlisten. Iwasstubborn, stubbornlikemyhalmeoni. WithmyAmericanphoneandpajamas, IchosetosleeponthebedbecauseIthought, “MyfriendsinAmericawouldneverdothis.” IfeltdestinedtobeatrueAmerican, sopretendingtofeelguiltless, Isleptinthebed.

Isilentlygiggle, bothoutofmyabilitytonurturetheKoreaninme andoutofmyembarrassmenttoadmitmyjoy.

InKorea, Iwastaughttosleeponthefloor. Myhalmeoni,orgrandmother, wouldtellmethatthiswasthewaytosleep, thewaytosleeplikeaKorean, thewaytosleeplikemyancestors.

Ididnotlisten. Iwasstubborn, stubbornlikemyhalmeoni. WithmyAmericanphoneandpajamas, IchosetosleeponthebedbecauseIthought, “MyfriendsinAmericawouldneverdothis.”

IfeltdestinedtobeatrueAmerican, sopretendingtofeelguiltless, Isleptinthebed.

Onenight,however, Ichoosetobedifferentlike myparentswhoimmigratedtoAmerica. Islowlylowermybody, lyingdownnexttomyhalmeoni. Iamsuddenlybelowthesky, yetIcanseemore.

Onenight,however, I choosetobedifferentlikemyparentswhoimmigratedtoAmerica. Islowlylowermybody, lyingdownnexttomyhalmeoni. Iamsuddenlybelowthesky, yetIcanseemore.

IcanseethewarmgazeoftheMoonhugging Daegu. Icanfeelthesoftsummerbreezeunderneath swallowmewhole.

IcanseethewarmgazeoftheMoonhugging Daegu.

Icanfeelthesoftsummerbreezeunderneath swallowmewhole.

MygrandmothertellsmethatIamKorean withKoreanblood,aKoreanmind,andKorean ways.

MygrandmothertellsmethatIamKorean withKoreanblood,aKoreanmind,andKorean ways.

IthinkthatIamKoreanforsleepingonthefloor. Iamnotwrong, butIrealizethatshecallsmeKoreanbecauseI acceptit.

Isilentlygiggle, bothoutofmyabilitytonurturetheKoreaninme andoutofmyembarrassmenttoadmitmyjoy.

Myhalemoni,however,sensesmyhappiness, andshesmilesinthedark, thinkingIcannotseeher, butIcan, andIsmilewithher.

Myhalemoni,however,sensesmyhappiness, andshesmilesinthedark, thinkingIcannotseeher, butIcan, andIsmilewithher.

I amKoreanbecauseIacceptmyKoreannesswith openarms.

IthinkthatIamKoreanforsleepingonthefloor. Iamnotwrong, butIrealizethatshecallsme KoreanbecauseI accept it.

IamKoreanbecauseIacceptmyKoreannesswith openarms.

Interplay

Vikramaadhithyaa J.

Culinary Kinship

June P.

This piece describes the connection between mother and daughter, intertwining culinary elements and familial heritage.

As the daughter of an immigrant mother born in Korea and adopted into the U.S. at a very young age, I’ve always felt a certain detachment from our cultural roots, which I and my mother have sought to rekindle through our shared exploration of Korean cuisine and cooking.

The background, depicting the inside of my fridge, is representative of my mixed identity; housing both Korean staple ingredients as well as more Westernized items. I allowed some items to come into the foreground of the painting and blend into the clothes and skin of my younger self, symbolizing my Asian-American identity and how integral of a piece food has served in embracing my ethnicity and reconnecting with more foreign parts of my culture.

Redolence

Grace P.

“This piece depicts my dad cooking Korean BBQ (KBBQ) for my sister. The title “redolence” has 2 definitions: pleasant odor or the state of being strongly reminiscent. Since my childhood, my dad would cook KBBQ and remember how his mother did the same for him. The scent of the meat brings my dad nostalgia for his own childhood. This piece shares my core values in how preserving and sharing familial tradition throughout generations is a crucial means of communicating love and developing important memories that serve as a foundation to continue maintaining the root of culture.

Through traditional Korean patterns and saturated colors, I explored the versatility of composition through both arrangement of color and patterns. For a contemporary look with a conventional medium, oil paint, I utilized different brush shapes to create solid or graduated shapes and created continuity throughout my art by hiding similar patterns or objects. Throughout the piece, the general color scheme consists of magenta (universal harmony), green (growth), and blue (wisdom). The warm-tones are in the primary subjects, who are in the present; however, the cooltones symbolize the lingering memories that remind the father of the bittersweet redolence when he was a child. The viewers can witness a chain of movement from the bottom right corner to the left side as the recollections encompass both the daughter and father. Also, it harmonizes the past and presents it into one cohesive whole.”

Directed By Me Anna F.

I’ve always wanted to direct a movie.

The set would be my own living room. A used dark gray couch and wooden tiled floor. Dust growing on the cobalt blue curtains that were never drawn, they hid your true identity from everyone else. To them, you were the best mother a daughter could have.

Let’s make me the victimized protagonist, the innocent and unlucky character who’s put through every single obstacle.

You are cast as the antagonist that ruins my life, molding your grievances into cookies of complaints you forced down my throat each night.

How your neglecting demeanor forced me into picking up countless hobbies as a means of escapism. How you tried to cage me in your dull Chinese world each time I tried to add any color. Your hands aching to break the canvas of the world I began painting for myself, labeling it quixotic and reminding me of the myriad of bills you were paying because we were now in America. I still remember every time your eyes shot daggers at my face, carefully etching my features into your version of perfect asian girl. Sadly for you, I had already applied my final layer of varnish. But each time I hung my canvas over the fist-sized hole in the wall, it still reminds me of the reason I should be afraid to paint.

Do not forget the scene where you used the words “PAST DUE” from your bills to catch and hold me hostage. Some days, I was let out and allowed to act my age, ask for a hug and sweets other than cookies. Other days, I inherited the phrase “PAST DUE” from you as you sprinkled them into my hand. I still tried to make something of it, etching each letter into the words, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY.” But I had overdosed on false hope because your only reaction to my gift was, “How much did it cost?”

Remember the scene in which your chokehold almost cost us our lives? Light was pouring through the car windows, the warmth offering me the hug I was craving. You asked me if I had thought about my future yet. Feeling your gaze on me, my mouth twitched to say what I had prepared for this exact question. But perhaps because I wanted to prove myself a worthy hero, to finally defeat the villain, I met your stare and said…

“I’m going to be a painter.”

The moment the words left my mouth, you froze, stealing the warmth embrace of the sun. Your knuckles turned white as you gripped the steering wheel, breathing hard. At that moment, I felt

like the antagonist. You slammed your fists on the dashboard, forcing the car to a sudden halt. The screeching of wheels and honks pierced my ears along with my own scream. Suddenly, I was propelled forward by another car crashing into us from behind. The last thing I saw were your eyes finding mine through the reflection of the car window.

Let’s cut out the scene where it took the sound of a casket being shut for me to hear your cry of help. To recognize that the muffled pleas from behind the set’s thick walls weren’t mine, but yours. To recover memories of every night you had stayed up, trying to change previous scenes and attempting to make better ones for tomorrow. To remember every time your eyes would look through me, but looking nonetheless. How they became marred with tears as they bored into mine through the reflection of the car window. I called you weak, what kind of villain breaks down in front of the hero?

Let’s remove the scene where I became frightened by the words I saw on your epitaph.

“PAST

DUE.”

Let’s forget the plot twist where I realize I should have valued your efforts more, which would have stopped the cycle of forcing our antithetical ideals onto each other. Where I realize not every scene was your fault, rather twisted to fit my perception of you as a villain. Where I realize that my life is not a movie.

Spicy Silence

Abigail C.

Another day at school has slowly gone by The weekend a long way away

I enter the house with a great big sigh It had not been a very good day

I see mom stirring the pot of tteokbokki on the stove

Lulu sits on the couch on her phone

I see Hami hunched over her sewing I look to my room and start going

“Ah Romi-ah you’re back home already? How was your day? Come here and sit by me!”

Hami wraps me in her arms, and she can see

She pats my cheek and holds my hand I tell her my day wasn’t grand

“It’s not fair, Hami! I feel my classmates judge and stare!

I don’t understand! Why? Why do they care?

I’m just quiet and I like to listen

Do they think I’m depressed? They say I don’t speak

I hear them murmur I’m weird, silent, and meek!

But today, was something new, something different that I didn’t wish

My teacher whispered, ‘“Abby, is your first language not English?’”

“Why would she ask that? Is it because I’m Asian?

Would she have asked that if I were Caucasian?

She thinks I don’t know the language!

Like I don’t comprehend!

She speaks to me slowly, and tries not to offend

Hami what should I do? Why can’t they see?

How do I show them I’m just being me?

She holds me in her arms and rocks me as I whine

Then she looks at me with a smile that shines, “I know my sweetie, this is all so tough!

People can be ignorant, rude and rough!

But trust me, it’s not just you

So do not cry, there are things you can do

Silence is something that’s misconstrued

It’s seen as lacking any attitude

People get called depressed, They’re called weird

Especially by Americans who do not want to hear.

There is strength in silence and wisdom in knowing

When to speak and when not to be crowing

Take rice cakes for instance

Sometimes you like them soft, chewy and plain

But in tteokbokki, you add some gochujang, soy sauce, and sugar

And suddenly, the rice cakes are just not so tame

You are my little rice cake, Romi-ah

Your heart is soft and kind

When you’re ready to share your voice with others

Bear this in mind,

Be like tteokbokki that is seasoned, spicy and sweet

For when you speak, it’ll be a joy for everyone you meet

Now let’s go have some tteokbokki to eat!”

Gayageum Sanjo (가야금산조)

Sou Lynn B.

Sad Self Trinity B.

The Dragon Boy

Celina W.

To be honest, when I started working on The Dragon Boy, I didn’t really have an intent or idea for it. I hadn’t worked with acrylic in the past and my painting experience was limited. However, it wasn’t so easy. My lack of experience using acrylic caused me to struggle, particularly with small details and there were times that I contemplated giving up. I struggled with setback after setback, one of which was when I smudged a large portion of the dragon’s eye. But as I kept working on it, I realized that it was an illustration of Chinese culture and I wanted to do it justice. I couldn’t give up.

The dragon, a symbol of power and wisdom in Chinese folklore, gave me strength as I painstakingly painted its fur. I grew quite attached to the painting. I spent a long time on the face of the boy, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t change his frown without possibly ruining the entirety of his face. After working on it for several hours, I realized that he didn’t have to have a smile–he was fine the way he was.

When I finally completed the full painting, my hands were tired. My clothes were covered in acrylic from when I’d put my entire forearm in my palette when reaching for my water bottle. However, I was happy with it, and I felt accomplished.

Now, when I’m looking back at my experiences creating The Dragon Boy, I realize that I did have an intent. The Dragon Boy is an exploration of identity–my identity. It illustrates my growth and my struggles. It’s not perfect, and it’s not meant to be. Maybe, I’d realize, I’m not meant to be perfect either.

Enchanting Essence: Embracing the Beauty of India Juhi B.

Bollywood’s Heroine: a Gemini Simar S.

Enchanting Essence: Embracing the Beauty of India

Juhi B.

Kannukku Niram

Janani M.

With dramatic lighting and a surprising color combination, I created the piece Kannukku Niram (Tamil) or Color to the Eyes as a way to highlight the importance of color and expression in Indian culture.

Whenever I step foot into a clothing store in India, I see only color: bright greens, dull reds, and beautiful blues—all with the most unexpected pairings. One combination that I always dreamed of, whether on my Bharatanatyam dance costume or on my chudidhar, was pink, blue, and yellow. For that reason, I wanted to incorporate these colors in my self portrait artwork using colored pencils on black paper.

The dramatic lighting in the piece (from the diya lamp) allows the colors to stand out, emphasizing the overwhelming yet comforting feeling I felt when walking into those shops.

This feeling is innate to the experience of being South Asian, hours together watching our mothers and grandmothers pick their favorite sarees, walking around the marble wondering when it would be our turn to do the same. Ultimately, through this piece, I wanted to revisit my experiences during hot sunny Indian summers, and highlight the function of color in my heritage.

Lost in Translation

Julia L.

The chaotic collision of growing up with two languages, but losing your mother tongue. This piece relates to anyone who lost their connection to their culture and language, that even simple conversation is a struggle. Focusing on how it feels with words being hurled at me that I can’t respond to without being confused, by using facial expressions pretending to understand but failing.

I’m submitting this, even though it doesn’t technically go in the category of tradition. But consider it, as many asian americans lose touch with their first language, it can go for generations (in the present and future). An unfortunate tradition.

Translations of the Korean: sorry; what?; yes?; hello (with incorrect spelling); I can’t do Korean well; I don’t know; sorry (with incorrect spelling); what does that mean?

Nirvana Kim P.

March 2, 2023: Incheon Airport

In the heart of South Korea’s bustling city of Incheon lies a gateway to countless journeys, both physical and emotional. Incheon International Airport, a bridge of connectivity. For me, Incheon Airport holds a special significance. It was here, in 2015, that my family started a life-changing journey from Vietnam to America. I was just 7-years-old then but yet in a foreign land, with a language barrier as vast as the ocean we crossed, my parents navigated the immigration journey with grace and resilience. Their sacrifice laid the foundation for my academic growth and future opportunities.

Fast forward to 2023 the familiar halls of Incheon Airport welcomed us once again. But this time, instead of heading westward, we were bound for the east, returning to Vietnam. As the only child, the responsibility of guiding my family fell on my shoulders. The weight of this newfound role was nerve wracking, to the trust my parents placed in me, a 16-year-old girl navigating the process of immigration. Sitting in the waiting terminal, I couldn’t help but reflect at the contrast between then and now. In 2015, we were strangers in a strange land, carried with us only determination and hope. But now, as we navigate on our journey back to Vietnam, my parents emit a sense of calm assurance, their trust in their immigrant daughter unwavering.

Incheon Airport, once again, with its busy crowds and activity, mirrored the convergence of our two worlds, my parent’s world of sacrifice and resilience, and my world of opportunity and growth. Like the airport itself, I stood at the intersection of past and present, a bridge between two cultures, two worlds. Incheon Airport, with its never ending energy and promise of new beginnings, will forever hold a special place in my heart: A symbol of the powerful spirit of migration and the enduring power of family.

March 4, 2023: Ca Mau, Vietnam

The excitement I felt as I stepped foot into Ca Mau, a small providence in Vietnam, is truly nostalgic. I feel at ease as I watch the gentle breeze and peaceful wind dance across the atmosphere. My parents’ first choice for places to visit in Vietnam is the temple. I had a bit of extra time on my trip to the temple to reflect back on the previous 48-hour travel and the past nine years in America. Even though I am happy to have my family here in America, I feel as though a piece of my soul was left in the temple that my mother and I visited before we came. The thought about revisiting the temple made my heart jump with excitement and nervousness cursing through my veins as I did not know what to expect.

As I stepped into the temple courtyard, a sense of calm washed over me like an ocean wave. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the soft murmur of prayers filled the atmosphere. It had been years since I last set foot in Vietnam, my ancestral homeland, and being here again felt like coming home in the truest sense. As an Asian American, I had always felt a deep yearning to

reconnect with my roots, to understand the culture and traditions that shaped my identity. Growing up in Alabama, I never truly felt at peace knowing that my heart yearns for the feeling of youthful happiness, eating street food with all my childhood friends, and plainly devoting my youth to enjoying the beauty of life, not having to worry about filling out government documents for my parents. Nonetheless, I am still grateful for the friends and family that I made, and the memories that I hold. Despite being one of the only 96 asian students at my highschool, I never felt isolated. I lived my high school years knowing that my purpose is to emit a sense of confidence in my culture and to encourage others to do the same. However, the constant chaos in my mind makes it difficult to do so, as I know that the racial caste system still exists within our own eyes. This was the biggest challenge that I had to overcome in school and internally within myself. While the challenge was arduous, I also knew that the benefits will be deserved, as I seek to reach nirvana knowing that I was able to bring a part of my culture to America and become the “bridge” for fellow Asian American students to find their connection. The only remaining task was to once again seek the Vietnamese ancestral connection that I once held dear to my heart.

And here, in this ancient temple nestled in the silent streets of Ca Mau, I felt that cultural connection more profoundly than ever before. The intricate architecture of the temple mesmerized me, each detail telling a story of centuries past. I traced my fingers along the stone walls, feeling the weight of history beneath my touch. And then, I entered the inner sanctum, where the scent of burning candles swirled with the sweet fragrance of lotus flowers.

In the center of the room stood a statue of Buddha. His eyes seemed to gaze into the depths of my soul, as if offering solace and wisdom in equal measure. I sank to my knees before him, feeling a surge of emotion welling up inside me. In that moment, surrounded by the timeless beauty of the temple, I felt a profound sense of peace wash over me. It was as if all the noise and chaos of the world outside faded away, leaving only the stillness of my own heart. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, allowing myself to be fully present in this sacred space. And then, it happened. In the quiet depths of my mind, I felt a shift, a subtle yet profound awakening. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a glimpse of something beyond words, a state of pure bliss and understanding.

I realized then that I had found nirvana, not in some distant realm, but right here within myself. For the teachings of Buddha were not confined to temples or scriptures, they were alive within me, waiting to be awakened. As I rose to leave the temple, I carried with me a sense of peace that would stay with me always, a reminder of the eternal truth that resides within all of us believers.

April 3, 2023: Mobile, Alabama

As I sat down and discussed with a friend about the creation of a multicultural club, I can’t help but reflect on the trip to Vietnam. I now understand the value of embracing one’s culture and fully understanding the depth of its history. Despite being in a foreign land, the thoughts about being Asian American does not make me feel a bit nervous. Knowing that deep down in every Asian American’s heart is the wish of one day experiencing their culture in their motherland to the fullest. And within the same building, the same mindset, and the same sense of nirvana, I vow to always carry the spirit of my ancestors within my heart and vow to do the same for others.

Lucky Red Bean Buns

Grace S.

“Lucky Red Bean Buns” depicts what participating in traditions looks like for me and many other Asian American families. My family’s favorite Chinese New Year tradition is guessing which of my grandma’s hand made red bean buns contains a coin on the inside. We believe that whoever gets the bun with the coin will have good luck throughout the year. Because my parents and I live in the US while the rest of my family lives in China, we participate in this tradition through FaceTime.

The left side of the drawing represents my grandma’s screen when she hosts the tradition while the right side represents what my screen looks like if I hosted. On my side, the red bean bun has a quarter inside rather than a Chinese coin, reflecting how Asian Americans preserve their heritage for future generations by adapting/ modifying traditions and cultural practices. The two screens are connected by the path of a paper airplane to reflect how participating in this tradition will always connect me with my family and culture, no matter the distance between us.

Pretty Doesn’t Have to Wait

Arabelle P.

I’ve always known my eyes seem different from those of actresses on TV, my friends, and even my immediate family. Flipping through magazines and overhearing conversations between aunties about eyelid surgery in their past, a procedure apparently in my future, told me all I needed to know. It was impossible not to notice that the people of color who were accepted and portrayed as beautiful on the screen always fit into Western beauty standards. They had the right face, the right shape, and the right color. And with my smooth upper lids and downward-pointing eyelashes absent from the “beautiful Asian women” on screen, I understood monolids like mine did not fall into those standards. So, I deep-dived into research on double-lid eye surgery. I was ready for the day I too could make myself pretty.

Over time, though, I began to read and think more about my history and the world around me. And as I did so, I began to question these notions of beauty I had internalized; to wonder about the why of all of this. Why did those around me, in media and society, feel the way they did about how I should look? And who gets to set that standard?

I found that Korean double eyelid surgery was popularized by a white man serving in Korea during the Korean War. To make Asians seem more trustworthy to white Americans and help Korean war brides better integrate into their new lives, he attempted to “de-orientalize” and erase some of the “Asian-ness” from their faces. The information struck me hard as I began to see some of my struggles in a new light.

With a sense of anger, I realized that perhaps the problem was not in myself, but in society. The cosmetic surgery erased my ancestors and identity. Who decides such fundamentally racist standards? And why should I conform? For the first time, I understood that our notions of beauty are not given, but often a result of centuries of prejudice and colonialism. Women of color especially have been commodified and valued for their proximity to whiteness instead of their humanity. What was I supposed to preserve with eyelid surgery?

Opening a Pandora’s box of “isms’’ ever pervasive in the world forced me to interrogate notions of beauty itself, and shifted my interest to questions about larger societal structures that similarly perpetuate the ideas from which they were conceived. As I witnessed hairstyles banned

and discriminated against, noses, eyes, and lips mocked and shamed, and darker skin targeted, my world widened and I stood my ground.

I understand today that there is no “right face, shape, and color” without the perceived superiority of whiteness. I think twice about the products I buy, the makeup styles I try, and the biases I hold about beauty. I constantly ask myself how I can resist conformity, taking diversity with a grain of salt and decolonizing my routines. In doing so, I have learned to love all of myself, regardless of what others tell me or the faces I see on screen. I do so for my ancestors, myself, and future generations who will live with the standards we must change today.

Instead of letting society’s failures overwhelm and oppress me, I have found liberation in taking charge of how I see and act towards the world. Rather than allowing the colonization of my thoughts and body, I constantly seek the truth behind the laws, standards, and mindsets by which we are governed. And more than ever, I take pride in my monolids, knowing that their existence and my confidence to embrace them is empowering and revolutionary in and of itself. Pretty doesn’t have to wait.

My Eyes, Your Eyes Thanh M.

My experience in elementary where kids would pull their eyes and yell “ching chong” inspired this work.

Back then, I had just recently immigrated, and I did not understand why the other kids were making such gestures at me. Although I did not know what it meant, I realized that they meant it mockingly to make fun of me, and I remember crying so much because of it.

This piece shows a female figure in distress with a portion of her eyes missing. Surrounding her are images of other figures with their fingers pulling their eyes back. The background is a collage of a variety of historical political cartoons that portray Asians in stereotypical and racist ways. I wanted this piece to represent the disheartening feeling of being mocked for something you were born with. I chose to have heavy strokes to keep the messy image to represent the distress. The eyes torn from the figure and the other surrounding figures are meant to showcase the feeling of being ripped apart. The surrounding images are meant to be a comparison and a representation of how others see Asians.

What I experienced in elementary school is a common event that many other Asian Americans go through, and I wanted my work to illustrate this shared experience.

Reclaim the Noodle That Weaves Ally G.

I was raised in the Philippines yet couldn’t speak my own language. My parents decided I was only to learn English since they could afford the education. This was my prologue to language learning problems, and eventually, cultural separation. Manila’s streets echoed with sounds foreign to my ears, a symphony of languages and cultures converging in whirlwinds of confusion. I struggled to juggle another language vastly disparate from English; the sounds and grammar akin to two roaring oceans with clashing tides, my ship helplessly jostled in between. Thus, I grew up unable to speak to my neighbors, my family, a language barrier isolating me from them.

Upon moving to the US, English dominated my household, for other languages would impede my ability to assimilate. Summers smothered by American history books and preparatory English Kumon classes, I reminded myself “I fell behind in a previous country, I couldn’t fall behind now.” However, studying English vocabulary wasn’t a guaranteed gateway to fostering friendships. Moreover, I was only familiar with Filipino culture, and my struggle to connect in my home country reflected in this new environment. In fourth grade, I grew anxious about speaking–every time I opened my mouth I was paralyzed, suffocating from my own words. I denied every invitation to play tag or swing on the playground, afraid that every friendship attempt would end up fruitless.

Moving as often as we did combined with this language barrier caused extreme social anxiety. Early goodbyes were a pattern in my life, and I felt betrayed every time I was the new kid at a new school, just having adapted to the previous one. I was looking through a keyhole, peering with jealousy at all the things I didn’t have: permanence, stability, friendships. It tasted bitter; I never had enough time to call someplace home, somewhere to encapsulate memory lane.

I longed for the culture I lost and the friendships I could never keep.

An essential pivot to the language issue came through the advice of my Filipino neighbor. With Filipino parents sending their kids to Filipino classes to learn traditional food recipes, he emphasized “Ally, you can cook all you want, but the true connection is through language.”

Cooking fills the stomach; culture fills the heart.

A spark of yearning lit up inside of me, and I begged my parents to talk to me in Tagalog nonstop, sharing culture and childhood memories. They wholeheartedly indulged my incomplete sentences and heavy American accent. Every day was a chance to incorporate sprinkles of

Filipino culture. On dry days with the sun’s heat beating down on us, my dad taught me to whistle to summon a cool breeze. I named my dogs after Filipino foods and held them as I danced like performers in Sinulog street festivals–just like my mom.

Ironically, my deepest connection wasn’t through language, but through food. I cherish the moments my family spent in the kitchen cooking pancit–which I later learned symbolized long life–without a recipe. With every batch of noodles, my mom wove her own flavorful universe with miscellaneous vegetables and spices. It was through homeschool Filipino classes, that I not only learned how to cook, but realized the value of change. Each neighborhood I moved to was an unpredictable batch of pancit, every person a unique seasoning or ingredient I needed to learn how to savor. Between me and everyone else was a noodle to weave in order to connect and form friendships.

Reigniting my connection to others, I broadened my horizons and learned Spanish as a third language. I took AP Spanish in my junior year as the only non-Hispanic student in the class, eager to learn the diverse cultures of Spanish-speaking countries, my heart smitten by the mirroring resemblance between Filipino and Hispanic cultures. By the time I graduate, I plan to earn a Seal of Biliteracy in both Tagalog Spanish, already meeting the prerequisites by earning a 5 in both the English and Spanish AP test, and currently studying for the district-approved Tagalog exam.

Upon reflection, I realize that language isn’t merely a communication tool; it’s a bridge connecting us to our roots, to others, and to the vast tapestry of human experience. The struggles I faced weren’t roadblocks but stepping stones, unveiling the unique cultural charms that encompassed identity and the power of language. As I look forward to my college journey, I envision myself using my mastery of languages–Tagalog, Spanish, and soon Bisaya–to build bridges between communities, fostering connections transcending linguistic boundaries. I plan to major in biology to pursue my ultimate goal of becoming a gastroenterologist, and acquire a minor in anthropology to gain a richer understanding of humanity. An important value I hold for when I become a doctor is to empathize and connect with a patient, no matter the linguistic or cultural barriers. Feeling socially isolated and overwhelmed by culture disparities is an all too familiar feeling, and I would never wish my experience upon others.

As Nelson Mandela says, “If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.” I aspire to use my cultural and linguistic awareness to create heartfelt connections, ensuring no one feels unheard and supporting every individual in their journey towards overall well-being.

Asian America in Color Ava T.

AsianAmericainColor

PartI:Identity

Alittlecharmof FengShui coins

Branchesoutintotwostrands

Woventogetherwiththeredstringoffate. Red,whichononestrandisanger, Butcelebrationontheother, Bindsusintoaperpetualparadox.

Aparadoxforthepeople

Ofneitherherenorthere

Unitednotthroughourbackgrounds, Butthroughourinterwovenfate Tofightforsomethinggreater.

PartII:Loss

Whiteisthefunerealveil Thatseparatesusfromwhatisnow Andwhatwasleftbehind.

Theperfectbackdropforporcelain,paintings,orembroidery Whereeverydetailcanbeetched,brushed,ordesigned.

Ablankslate Wherewecanmakenewbeginnings, Inwhichwecanstartanew, Butalsoastark,hollowreminder Ofallthethingswewentthrough.

PartIII:Resolve

Shifting,morphing,everlasting Isthevast,fluctuatingsea. Theendless,timelessblue Promisingimmortaltranquility Forthosewhowillfollow.

Unitingouridentity,loss,andresolve, Ourpresent,past,andfuture–We cantakered,white,andblue Into ourownhands

Topaintthestoryofwhoweare Andwhatwewillbecome.

Butterfly Lovers

Violin Concerto

Alex Z.

The ABC’s of war

Ifraa K.

Mridangam

Advait K.

Silent Struggles

Jasmine Y.

“Ma, this is the thousandth time I’ve told you I am struggling!!”, Yelled her brother with tears in his eyes.

“Depression is not a thing. If you are so sad, you are nothing but a selfish son, because I have sacrificed everything to immigrate for you! I do not care if your peers think you are inferior for your culture, your success will not discriminate against you!”

Replied the mother who cried furiously. She heard glass break, then watched her mother stomp out the room.

This is the American dream. This is the melting pot that America beholds.

A stigmatized one.

Asians have been the scapegoats of America’s issues We are seen as vulnerable, inferior, and a threat to America!

Your teacher did not know how to pronounce your name and instead arranged a meeting with your parents to give you an “American” name Curry, rice– whatever it was, you would get nasty glares and fingers pointing directly at your face when you brought your food to school You were questioned if you could speak English when you spoke to someone despite your fluency

Sometimes you would get compliments, but at the end there was a “for an Asian”

You are so pretty for an Asian!

You are very athletic for an Asian! You are social for an Asian!

Or you were accused because you “are Asian” You are smart because you are Asian! You are weak because you are Asian!

We are not a virus. We are not your model minority. We are not perpetual foreigners. We are NOT any of the names you have labeled us as. We are much more than the small section about Asians in your history textbook.

I have not forgotten America’s Pledge of Allegiance. Written in 1892, the Pledge of Allegiance pledges “one nation, divisible, with liberty and justice for all”.

America’s history has not represented what they have pledged.

Do you know about the cries of the Yellow Peril?

Do you know about the cruelties of People v. Hall?

Do you know how much our ancestors have fought to gain their rights in America?

Behind all this, a traditional idea has been the root to the silence of many immigrants The idea that hard work will automatically lead one to a good life, Feeding onto the silence against discrimination. The denial of mental health.

You’re told to avoid conflict by leaving hate alone after being discriminated against. You’re invalidated upon your mental health problems after experiencing constant anxiety attacks, depression, and even suicidal thoughts.

You’re told that the most important thing is absorbing all your energy into being productive!

Behind the same immigrants, you see a kid who once faced the same issues as you. You see a pattern of generational silence.

A pattern of neglected people.

“One time,” her ma coldly said, “I yelled at my own ba, screaming, “you don’t understand me! You don’t understand me! I feel like a failure! Life is not worth living!”

“Ba quickly pushed me off and firmly said, “you have everything a child needs. A home and clothes. You should be thanking me by studying hard, yet you want to die because you are unthankful!”

Almost the same words her ma told her brother.

She grew up to be the first Asian in her school’s student government. She was the first student to ever host a cultural festival at her school.

She established the first mental wellness center for students in her school. She is one of the many Asian students standing up to break stigma barriers.

The present generation amplifies voices more than ever before.

The silence is being broken more than ever before. The dissemination of our culture is greater than ever before.

Through us all, There is love.

Let us use this love to understand one another. Let us use this love to listen to each other.

Let us gather our voices to shake the ground that once was and still is the battlefield of social stigma.

Let us come together to unify us, our ancestors, and the future into one welcoming community.

Puzzled Faces

Timy D.

Puzzled Faces” was intended to resonate with audience members who feel like outcasts and struggle to fit in—especially minorities who identify with other “minority” identities. Symbolically speaking, the ideas and beliefs from my different identities sometimes create internal puzzles— stirring up feelings of displacement and exclusivity.

Although each face had its own materials and technique, collaging the portraits resulted in three beautiful new faces. Paralleling with me, the artist, I’ve grown to embrace my various identities as they created one unified and unique person, that is me. Once I finished, my piece helped me appreciate my different identities.

Amy W.

Part I: The Asian Pear

It was stupid, honestly. My mom’s text just hadn’t sent, and my phone had been on silent when she called. Really, it was such a small issue.

“...I got here early ten minutes just to avoid the traffic, and you waste me fifteen. Next time I don’t putting in that effort…” Shouting. Crying. When my mom was mad, she always switched to English with Chinese grammar. Maybe she thought it’d get through to me if she spoke in my native language?

Sometimes she used a few Chinese insults, too. Chinese is stronger than English. More flavorful. More intense. We rode in silence.

When we got home, she washed an Asian pear and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Bite-sized like the short phrases she’d shouted in the car. Chinese and flavorful like the insults. Asian pears are crunchier, juicier, sweeter, more expensive and harder to find than their American counterparts.

I walked downstairs to put my plate away amongst a sea of fruit — none of them the familiar yellow-green.

My mom had given me the last Asian pear.

Part II: Love You Too

I cut my pear into four large slices, nibble at the bits of fruit left clinging to the core, and toss it. Gathering the pieces haphazardly in a paper towel, I head upstairs to listen to Hank Green explain significant figures in scientific measurements as another type of significant figure in my life types away at her laptop across from me. Wordlessly, I offer my mom a slice and she takes the smallest one.

She always leaves me the big pieces. We work side-by-side in silence until the clock hits 6 and my mom heads to the kitchen.

Part III: Family

My dad comes home late, and by then my mom, little sister and I have begun digging into a watermelon. It’s a big and juicy one — my mom has a special eye for good fruit. “We have a spoon for you,” she calls out. My dad drops his backpack, washes his hands, and grabs a bowl.

Digging into the watermelon at the dinner table is like asking how your day was. Without further prompting, I share the juiciest gossip of the week while my little sister puts down her book to give her two cents. Mom complains about a coworker. Dad tells us about the silly little skeleton someone put up outside his cubicle. I suspect he really only eats watermelon for the family gossip – he’s never been a fruit guy.

The four of us digging into two halves of a watermelon with nothing but our large spoons and small bowls is, technically, incredibly impractical. We could just take a knife to it and cut out those neat little squares — but then we’d have no excuse to take a break from our work to perfect the art of making your spoon cut out exactly the part you want. We could just pre-scoop all our bowls and scurry away, back to our desks and bedrooms and couches — but then we’d have no excuse to tease each other as we wait our turn to dig out a few chunks of juicy fruit.

The center of a watermelon is the sweetest part, so we usually split it evenly. Sometimes we’ll trade another scoop of the middle for three of the less prime estate. Sometimes we’ll just wordlessly gift the other a piece of the middle. Occasionally my little sister does it simply out of the “kindness of her heart”... and then extorts me the next morning for a piece of candy.

Part IV: Snake-Drawing

My parents never say sorry. My little sister and I do. Maybe it’s just a Chinese thing. I don’t know. Do I wish they did? Maybe not. After all, the two words “I’m sorry” are just that: words. They don’t really take effort. It’s cheap, easy, and it’s hard to express a longer, more genuine apology when your parents’ native language is Chinese and yours is English.

Washing, cutting, and sometimes peeling a fruit takes time and effort. It shows your dedication to the apology. Good, nutritious food is essential to a healthy mind and body and makes working much more enjoyable. Eating the fruit gives you time to think about the apology. When you return the empty plate, you accept it.

There’s a Chinese idiom I find hilarious: 画蛇添足(huà shé tiān zú). Literally translated, it’s to add feet to your drawing of a snake, and it references the story of a man who lost a snake-drawing competition in which the goal was to be as fast as possible. In an attempt to show off and embellish his drawing, he added feet — to which his opponent declared that he’d lost, as snakes don’t have feet, and thus he hadn’t drawn a snake at all.

Fruits as an apology aren’t perfect, but they’re great just the way they are. There’s no need to add feet — or in this case, a verbal “I’m sorry”.

Reflection Ashwika K.

Like many others, when I was four years old, I left my life in India behind to immigrate with my parents to the United States of America. It was a land of freedom and opportunity, but it was also a place far from my home and everything I knew. My parents sought to keep me connected to my culture even as I grew up in a foreign country, and these experiences have built me into the person I am today. My family immigrated to the United States for better education and more opportunities, so the figure in front with open hair and leaves represents the greater freedom that I am afforded living in the US.

My reflection, however, depicts me as a Bharatanatyam dancer getting ready for a performance. Bharatanatyam is an Indian classical dance that I have been learning since Kindergarten. Learning Indian classical dance is a shared experience between many Indian girls, particularly in the US where it allows us to learn more about our culture. This reflection describes me trying to connect with my Indian heritage and culture and keep it alive in my new life away from my home while getting ready to share it with a wider audience. The background is yellow, which is an auspicious color in Hinduism, with designs reminiscent of mehendi, or henna, designs. The yellow color in the background is a representation of my religious identity as a Hindu as well as the richness and vibrancy of Indian culture, and the mehendi designs are intended to further symbolize my attempts to maintain my cultural identity. Wearing mehendi is common for Indian dancers and during Hindu festivals, and it has been a bonding experience between me and other Indian women in my life as well as a common symbol of artistic expression. Mehendi has also become popular among non-South Asian populations, so it is a common way to spread knowledge about my culture and its customs.

Because I can connect with my Indian heritage through all of these different cultural traditions, I am also able to share them with others, keeping my Indian culture alive in the US. All in all, this piece is a celebration of my hyphenated identity as an Indian-American and all the ways it has shaped me throughout my life, which I will carry forward in all my future endeavors.

Where the Water Flows, Memories Grow

Ritisha H.

I’m afraid of the water. The setting sun reflects off the waves, creating the illusion of shimmering black water but at any other time, it just looks like a huge muddy puddle. The waves roll in like hands reaching out to me, while the winds sift through the palm leaves whispering that it’s time for us to go. She never wanted to go. I always wondered what went on in her mind. With her long, coarse, curly hair sitting in a bun, and the dark skin she never liked, she started singing. No! She started screaming, “See the line where the sky meets the sea, it calls me…” and then we were both singing.

On rainy nights, she helped place pots around the house to capture the droplets of water that crept down corners and through tiny holes in the rusty zinc, before returning to her home next door. When the village was asleep, I snuck out to the porch on the second floor that faced her house. Ketie ketieee, I yelled, and a head came peeping from the window. On these nights, we sang Hindu kirtans and bhajans. Our loud voices were muffled by the raindrops creating an ethereal melody.

**Devotional songs or chants that are sung to praise god

It was 6:00 am, the morning of Phagwah. Phagwah is a vibrant festival that celebrates the arrival of spring and commemorates the victory of good over evil. I hid behind the banana plants by the fence that divided our houses with a bucket of cold water. I imagined what her face would look like after I dumped the water on her, but this never happened. Ketie had her own bucket of water and after taking five seconds to lift my bucket, I was already drenched. She was always stronger than me. I never liked that I barely got water on her face, unless she purposely let me do it.

It was 6:00 pm, the evening of Deepavali. Deepavali is a festival of lights which represents the triumph of righteousness and inner light. It was time to light the diyas. Ketie had left to help her mom but I knew she would be back. She always comes back. We strolled around the diya-lined streets, admiring the decorated houses, and the rangolis. It was the darkest night of the year, with

no stars in sight. The diyas were our only guide. We followed them home, my home. Dad was setting up a projector and ketie brought out three plates of food and sweets. Under the empty sky, we danced, sang, and enjoyed a Bollywood movie, until I felt a drop of water on my forehead. We watched the water smother the tiny flames as the night slowly returned to its darkened stage.

**Lamps made of clay or mud that contain a cotton wick dipped in ghee

**Design/pattern on the floor, usually with colored rice or sand.

It was a scorching hot summer’s day in America. I sat on a bench by the beach alone, trying to enjoy my ice cream but the wind kept slapping my hair onto my face. The water was now blue and the waves seemed to have forgotten about me. I called Ketie on my new iPhone to show her my ice cream. For the first time, I got water on her face. Tears.

They staggered down, stopping at the creases and making slight turns like a drunk man walking away from the bar after remembering his wife and kids were at home. They never made it to her chin because she always caught them with her tongue. I always wondered what went on in her head, and how she felt. Her eyes were dark and they told a story I couldn’t understand. Her songs held meaning but I only heard words. She said she loved me but I didn’t think twice before leaving her.

My memories aren’t just memories. They are my identity. My culture was pure. It was love. In those magical moments, nothing else in the world mattered, mostly because I was oblivious to the world around me. I didn’t know of world history and the impacts it has on today’s society.

Inequity, discrimination, sexism, racism, and the magnitude of social injustices were just something you hear on television, almost unreal. But the question I ask myself is - Is it better to be oblivious and have peace or be aware and in pain?

Rhythmic Cassidy G.

Soul of Korea Joy P.

My piece displays my identity and appreciation for my Korean heritage. I hoped to express the beautiful, traditional patterns of gold flowers and birds, called Geumbag Munui, which are often adorned on the edges of the skirt and jacket of the hanbok. I also painted the national flower of South Korea, the Mugunghwa or hibiscus.

Although I now live miles away from South Korea, I painted these flowers blooming up from the heart, to convey a sense of pride and love for my country. Lastly, I added the Sam Taegeuk pattern. The symphony of the three colors, red, blue, and yellow, represent heaven, Earth, and humanity, a symbol of harmony. I painted this pattern on the head to represent a sense of remembrance and a desire to share about my beloved country.

Navratri Tanish G.

It felt like I had arrived on the surface of an alien planet. Crisp night air, the kind that crackles as you step through it, pierced with the smell of spices and the boom of the bass through crackly speakers. Plumes of smoke and steam permeated this alien atmosphere, sent from biryani and vada pav. My little sister seemed to be at ease with the gravity of this planet, pulled in by the thumping of feet and the twinkling of ghungroos, but I clinged on to what little I recognized: rusted high school bleachers and cafeteria tables.

A family friend led us through countless stalls emanating the scent of sweetest jalebi and gulab jamun. Those fragile, foldable plastic tables, only Indian by association with what they held, were trying to root themselves in American high school concrete. Our path forward was shaped by these winding stalls to reach our destination: the football field. At least, that’s what it was before. What I saw was something else.

I couldn’t process the scene before me, like some Lovecraftian leviathan, impossible to comprehend or understand - so I started with the little things. The flashes of a scarlet dupatta, weaving in and out of the sea of color. A rich blue kurta, a saffron sari, and their movements through the air - they flowed like the tide at Juhu beach in Mumbai. I, too, had draped this same cloth over me, but it felt like clothing, hung over me. The clothing was a part of them.

Their brown feet, just a few shades darker than mine, shook the American AstroTurf beneath them. Black bits of rubber orbited them, asteroids from their impact. Their hands clapped to the same pulsating beat of their feet, palms rough and sweaty, but powerful. Some swayed in the wind, others danced furiously, alit. They were beautiful. I didn’t know where to step.

They danced to the cheesy bollywood songs that I had spent my childhood listening to, songs that were part of me. Even though I knew the words by heart, I didn’t know what any of them meant. Each line that was supposed to be my own, but I could only understand as a venutian dialect, hurt me. It’s a spot right above your heart.

The brown and colorful riot raged on, a rhythmic mass of sweat and spice.

Under the stars, standing tall above the extraterrestrial human ocean, a wooden shrine. An idol of the goddess Durga sat peacefully, an earthen pot with diamond carvings, illuminated by the warm candlelight of diyas.

I collapsed by the bleachers.

I felt paralyzed by it all, overwhelmed by the colors and the sound. In the cacophony, a rupture in my heart appeared. My rational, Vulcanized self wanted to desperately grab on to the familiar, the American, the cold steel bleachers and track - but something was pushing me to join my people. They are my people, right?

Was I good enough?

Was I really an Indian?

Or do I just wear their skin and call myself an Indian?

They turned this California high school field into something of their own. Could I transform myself? Do I belong?

The crack inside of me grew deeper, stabbing at the thing inside holding these swirling thoughts; and they started to pour out of me, silent, cold tears. I was slumped on the cold bleachers, in the comfort of this lonely spacecraft stranded in orbit, holding the heavy weight of my head in my hands, when-

“I’m nervous, bhaiya. Dance with me?”

My sister reaches for my hand with hers, mocha and tiny. I pulled it together for her, smiled, and took it. I was thrust into the Indian sea, the current of garba and bangles taking me in. At first, I stepped slowly. Incohesive movements together, a careful moonwalk to the center of the other world. The beat of my heart seemed to meld with the thumping of the bass, fast and loud. But I kept moving forward, step by step, for her.

As I got closer to the core, I started to feel something inside of me. Slowly, tentatively at first, but then faster, confident, I moved my feet, imperfectly, to the Gujarati “dhol”. We spun in circles, the rest of the world a blur, towards the central shrine. The heat through cold air, the idiosyncrasies of us and our bodies through a world of defined categories, everything just made me come alive. My arms seemed to move by themselves. I was free, just for a moment. I could be everything, all the parts of me as one, an amorphous body in color and movement. Whole.

I realized that my whole life, I had felt like an impostor. They were not the aliens, I was. I had run from this core part of myself, renouncing it in front of others, but nursing it alone. I was scared of rejection. However, being there, dancing amongst those that were inexplicably me, I understood something - it was to play garba, to dance, to want to be an Indian that made you one.

All it took was one small step of courage.

We made our way, now truly dancing, to the shrine. Under Durga’s gaze, this strangeness, this fear of all the parts that made me, went away. It stopped feeling like some other world.

This Navratri, it felt like home.

Rebirth

Sungmin P.

Sadachale Swaram Tejasvi S.

Modern Fan Fusion Choreography

Chloe M.

Kalinga Nardana Dance

Srinidhi S.

Staring Back Through Time: Threads of Connection

Kaitlin H.

In “Staring Back Through Time - Threads of Connection,” I sought to pay homage to all of my grandmother’s sacrifices in immigrating to America from China during the Cultural Revolution through the medium of watercolor.

The choice of this medium was deliberate; the gentle washes and subtle hues reflect the emotional and cultural transitions my grandmother experienced. The young girl’s longing gaze in the painting is to depict my grandmother’s hopes and dreams she wanted to fulfill coming to America.

As I painted, I let each watercolor layer tell a part of her story: the sacrifices, the hopes, the quiet strength she possessed. The warm tones pay tribute to her resilience, the earthy colors a testament to the foundations she laid for our family. In her reflection, I see the mingling of time and memory, her history mirroring my present.

This artwork is my way of honoring not just her journey and the life she gave up for us but also the collective experience of many in the AAPI community. Her sacrifices paved the way for my family’s future, a narrative echoed in countless families who sought the American dream. This is more than a painting; it’s a story of love, sacrifice, and the threads of heritage that bind us.

Thank You for Assimilating Here

Madison L.

My work is inspired by conflicts between authenticity and oppressive conformity culture. My pieces are all visual representations of powerful problems that I have faced or stories that resonated with me, and I explore topics like forced Western assimilation, gender roles, and teenage struggles to adapt to the complexities of adulthood. Commenting on the systems and institutions that perpetuate the loss of culture and childhood in America, I often use bright colors, repeating concepts, and layered scenes, to symbolize the relationships, events, or phenomena that give my life, as an artist and as a young American, meaning. My art is the best representation of my own identity,

and through it, I am able to provide my viewers a glimpse into life as a POC Gen-Z’er adapting to the intricacies of American cultural duality.

This painting is a piece about Western erasure of minority cultures, based on my own experiences as a second generation immigrant growing up in the American Midwest. Throughout its creation, this piece was one that felt extremely personal to me, because the societal pressures to conform to the norms of a White, native-born, English speaking majority culture, is an experience I know all too well. I have witnessed countless of my secondgen peers lose their ability to speak their native tongue, to express their ethnic identities in public, and to keep their cultures alive. As I grew older, I saw more and more people become victims of

societal homogenization. In my piece, I convey this phenomenon by painting three figures moving across the fabric- three versions of the same person existing at different stages of their life, experiencing gradual assimilation.

I used a palette of black and white for the clothes of the figures, and utilized a wider range of colors for their shoes to create an interesting focal point in the foreground. I used more colorful shades of red and pink for the younger figure’s shoes on the left, then transitioned into grays and beige tones for the middle figure, and finally a range of whites and cream colors for the last figure, using color to illustrate the process of whitewashing.

In the background, I painted a wall of plastic bags that also portray the gradual assimilation of a minority into the majority culture. The bags on the left are painted in various colors, and have images and phrases unique to Asian-American cultures and ways of life. In contrast, I painted the bags on the right side using strictly red, white, and blue to convey the restrictive nature of American conformity culture. I used small lettering techniques and detailed symbolism throughout both sides, ‘easter egg’ type hidden messaging to further communicate the dangers of assimilation in a visually engaging way. Although seemingly outlandish and quite random, I chose to paint plastic bags because I knew they could be an easily recognizable object across all audiences. I wanted to bridge the gap between Eastern and Western societal norms with something that was subtle enough to not offend either audience, but also was interesting enough to intrigue them. I was inspired by the plastic bags I saw in my neighborhood growing up, from both the American chain supermarkets adorned with stripes and stars, and the small grocery stores in Asian American enclaves covered with Chinese characters and swirled mythological patterns.

For the figures, I was inspired by the shoes I had in elementary, middle, and high school, and I wanted to depict them as realistically as possible while keeping their clothes simple in order to draw attention to the theme hidden in the details of the painting (for example, I drew an American flag on the figure on the right’s shoes, symbolizing gradual loss of culture). The positions of the figures running and eventually falling represent emotional turmoil, based on my own experiences as a young Asian American learning to love my culture and heritage instead of running away from it, which only brings about harm to my self confidence and ability to accept myself as I am in the long run.

With this piece, I hope to use my voice as an artist to emphasize the value of preservation & celebration of Americans with dual identities, and advocate for the creation of a much more inclusive, equitable, and culturally diverse art world.

Shiva Tandava Kavithuvam:

My Strength Personified Sanjana K.

Dance Description:

Song Translation:

As an Indian-American living away from the homeland, I have always sought to stay connected with my culture despite the Western society by which I am surrounded. Practicing Bharatanatyam, an ancient Indian classical dance form, is just one way I can feel this tie while expressing my creativity. Not only is this a manner of cultural expression, but a way for me to unite with my ancestors, as my mother, grandmother, and many generations before have all danced to the beat of nritta rhythms.

Shiva Tandava Kavithuvam is an energetic dance in the praise of Lord Shiva and Nataraja, the God of destruction and eternal dancer. As devotees of the Hindu sect of Shaivism, my family and I have always looked to Shiva for strength, courage, and protection in the face of obstacles. More personally, dancing this kavithuvam helps me both ground myself and internalize my culture. This piece is a means for me to explore my own beliefs, identity, and power as an Indian American, giving me the opportunity to demonstrate what Nataraja means to me.

“Aadal naayakan aananda thaandavam aadi magizhndhaan Navarasam thagumbidum adhisaya bhaavam-udan”

“The Lord of dance dances away in happiness with wondrous expressions and the nine rasaas [emotions] overflowing.”

Three Generations, One Family (2024)

Celine P.

Family and culture have been an integral part of my life and they are constant no matter what stage of life I am at. They are aspects of my life that are permanently ingrained into my identity, and they are the ones that hold the most importance for me. Through my artwork, I wanted to express the gratitude I have for the culture I have experienced throughout my life.

I believe that family and culture are not something that can be reduced to statistics, but it is something intangible that only love can express. So much of my life is subdued into numbers- grades, number of awards, social media followers- all pointless measurements that try and fail to determine the value of one’s life. Instead, I believe that quality of life is dependent on the things unseen: The taste of my grandmother’s soup, my grandfather’s laugh, the feeling of my grandma running her hands through my hair. These moments are ones that I hold the closest to my heart, and I wanted to depict one of them in my art.

Me between my grandparents, my grandfather holding onto my hand making a peace sign, his hand around my waist, my grandmother clasping my arm, everyone smiling. These short instances in time, while they may seem small, are the parts of my life that I choose to define myself by, and not by the numbers and statistics. I believe in the importance of cultural identity, and I hope that people will look at me, not through the cold lens of GPA, number of followers, or number of likes, but by the characteristics that make me human. I aim for others to see my identity in tangent with my own unique culture and family.

The backdrop of mountains and the persimmon tree from the grandparents’ home in Korea serves as a poignant reminder of the roots from which my family has grown. These elements anchor the artwork in a sense of place and belonging, while also symbolizing the resilience and enduring strength of familial bonds. My grandparents are two of the most heroic people in my life, and the vivid culture that they enrich me with is something just as precious. My parents, my grandparents, and the generations above me have made countless sacrifices, too many for me to not live my life proudly. I am proud of my heritage, and I am forever grateful for my grandparents.

Throughout my life, I was raised in America with little exposure to Korean culture, leading me to turn away from my native language and hide my roots. Because of this, there is a strong language barrier between me and my grandparents, as my broken Korean can never truly express the love that I have for them. No matter how many “gamsahabnida”s (thank you in Korean) I say, I feel that my love does not translate across. I hope that through my art, I can convey the strong emotions and the gratitude that I struggle to express in words.

Tiger Balm Summer T.

This piece was a part of my schools graphic design honors assignment. It takes on a childhood memory of my parents aiding me with tiger balm with any injury or discomfort I had. From headaches, sores, back pain, and colds tiger balm was the only medicine needed. Even though my mother was born in Taiwan, she spent most of her life in the US. My dad who is also Taiwanese American.

I aimed to showcase a less commonly known practice in Asian culture to people who are only familiar with basic stereotypes. In my artwork, the tigers represent the healing aura of tiger balm, therefore the parts of the tiger touching the girl are well. Whereas the arm she holds up is all battered and bruised since it is not in contact with the allhealing ointment.

Unencumbered Love

Jessica L.

When I was younger, my parents would make me wear traditional clothing during Lunar New Year. I hated it, and I especially despised it if I had to wear it at school; I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, and I was ashamed of my ethnicity because the world had taught me to be. I thus rejected anything that linked me to my heritage, quitting Chinese lessons and refusing to eat Chinese food during lunch at school.

Since then, I’ve learned to love my culture, but it is still difficult for me to embrace it. The boys in this sketch are young and unmarred by the discrimination that is deeply rooted in society. All they know is the love that they have for their families.

Through my art, I wanted to illustrate the complicated relationship that I have had with my background, which is why the older brother is wearing a Western-style jacket. However, I also wanted to highlight how proud I am of my heritage through the more traditional clothing of the younger brother and the evident happiness radiating from both of them. Lunar New Year celebrations should be joyous occasions, not days of wearing long jackets to hide my clothes.

Finding A Lost Connection

Timothy N.

“Finding A Lost Connection” is about my self-exploration and rediscovery of my Vietnamese heritage while being a native-born American. I wanted to tell a story of mystery and enchantment that described how I felt about the “unknowns” that I had yet to understand about my culture and I did so by using my experience with choreographing traditional fan dances for my school’s Vietnamese Student Union. I performed in a traditional “áo dài” using “ribbon fans” or “veil fans” which are rather a modern take on traditional Vietnamese fans. Through my more modern style of choreography, prop usage, attire, and music that all ties back to Vietnamese culture of the past and present, I hope that the essence of Vietnam was shared successfully through my eyes as a Vietnamese-American.

Thoughts on my Taiwanese Heritage

Iris W.

This past summer in Michigan, my mother and I visited my aunt and grandpa who lived an hour away. Ever since the divorce of my parents, the concept of my Taiwanese heritage seemed foreign to me, as if the separation caused a chasm within what I had originally defined it as. My home felt empty and barren, instead of the warm familial presence I was used to.

I had not seen my grandpa in several years - I could clearly see his age in his missing teeth and his frail stride. My aunt appeared more or less the same - perhaps I saw a glint of boredom in her eyes as she spent the majority of her days in this apartment taking care of her father. As we prepared sushi in the kitchen together, I was brought back to my childhood in Georgia, where the women in our household made dumplings from scratch. I had struggled to grasp the right proportion of fillings to stuff in the flour skins, so I was given the job of mixing the pork and vegetables for the filling. We told stories and laughed as we worked, and soon, pans of dumplings were ready to be thrown into the boiling pot.

We plated the sushi on a tiny table next to the couch, and the four of us mixed our own wasabi and soy sauce as we preferred different spice levels. Sushi had been a favorite of my skinny childhood self; raw fish was the only thing that satisfied me. My best friend’s mom would often take me to a Chinese buffet with copious amounts of sushi as she proclaimed that I had no meat on my bones. “You didn’t eat any meat,” my parents would scold, and I would pick apart the plate of fish on our dinner table, replying, “Fish meat is still meat.”

Soon, we finished our meal of sushi. It was not uncommon for us to stay at the table long after our food had been finished - it was time to converse and gossip. My memory brought me back to several years prior at the dinner table where my family played word games, such as the one where a phrase was said and the next person would have to think of another phrase beginning with the previous phrase’s latter word. I listened with a smile, but I rarely participated in such games as I did not believe my Mandarin was good enough to contribute.

Ironically, as years have passed and my Mandarin has worsened, I sometimes feel that I still cannot contribute to my Taiwanese heritage. My family has been split into two, seemingly stretching my cultural roots thin. Where are the family traditions that we are supposed to participate in? Where are all the weekends that my sisters are supposed to spend in Chinese school learning our language? Where within me does my heritage reside?

I find solace in my Chinese friends who speak Mandarin occasionally, just as I find comfort in my parents who still take me and my sisters to Asian supermarkets and boba tea shops. I enjoy eating at Taiwanese restaurants and ordering popcorn chicken. And I love that Taiwan will always be a place where I can find other people like me. Just yesterday, I laughed as my friends joked about the superstition of ‘four’ because then and there, I realized that my Taiwanese heritage is not defined by my broken family, but by my fond memories and social experiences that lead me into my future and the generations ahead of me.

Translation:

Big Thunder is coming Sky is covered with black clouds Darkness filled everywhere Its raining heavily Still why my mind is so thirsty

Fleet of Time

Anna F.

Badal Ghumad Srushto G.

Yang (杨) Family Portrait

Helena Y.

“Yang (杨) Family Portrait,” is about the expectations my parents hold for my brother and I. Growing up, my parents had always enforced the idea that I had to be a doctor or engineer to be successful. At a certain point however, I had come to realize that my passion consistently remained in the arts.

To me, the act of creating art is an act of rebellion and subverting their expectations. This piece’s primary motif is Peking opera, a Chinese performance artform to help communicate the complexities and intersectionalities of identities I experience as someone who is transgender and Chinese-American. I chose to depict myself in the female (Dan) role, as historically many men have taken on this role and I chose to have my brother in the comedic (Chou) role as my parents covet him as the youngest boy, but do not take him seriously.

My parents are standing behind us as ambiguous figures without their faces shown because they were not there for us emotionally. By depicting myself with a blank expression and extravagant headdress, I show how I put on a different identity to fit my parents expectations as their ‘daughter.’

Creating artwork with themes surrounding identity is an outlet for me to express my emotions, while also connecting with other individuals with similar experiences.

Years of the Tiger Leila M.

Years of the Tiger, through the memory of my grandmother’s wedding, highlights the person who most tethers me to my Chinese culture while also acknowledging the American culture we reside in.

My Grandma was born in the year of the Tiger, and as an immigrant who braved civil unrest and raised five children across four countries – greatly reflects her zodiac. The zodiacs were a piece of my cultural heritage that I remember most from childhood. The Tiger was a timid creature living in the human world but soon learned to fight, be brave, and persevere. My grandmother, a woman who was constantly leaving behind the countries and people she knew, was thrust again and again into new places with new languages and cultures. Yet she persevered and grew from a timid girl living in southern China into a brave woman living in the United States.

Power Within Us

Jaslyn K.

It’s not easy to speak up to share our thoughts and opinions, especially when they are different from mainstream. However, if we take a deep breath and search within ourselves, we should be able to reach our inner strength. We should be able to feel that we can be considerate but not weak, brave but not rash, determined but not unreasonable. Just like the traditional Chinese Tai Chi - it is gentle and strong, flexible and in-control, purposeful and balanced. If we believe in ourselves and find this power within us, we can make noise and make a difference for our community despite any challenges.

dreams

Kanzah M.

what does it mean to be asian american, anyway? well, you could say being neither here nor there playing a game without the rulebook, one pawn on two boards a drop of oil at the edge of two seas

what does it mean to be asian american, anyway? we’ve got this stereotype going that makes you think we’re all geniuses and emotionally exhausted and east asian? but i mean asia is a big place, with lots of different people. so is america and i bet you didn’t think that my skin would be brown, my family south asian

what does it mean to be asian american, anyway? what is race, but a social construct? what is beauty, but subjective? what is success, but choosing a glorious path to a good future that we could find elsewhere if we looked? but we don’t. instead, we follow expectations — forgotten dreams — from our family, our teachers, ourselves–

in my experience, being asian american means many different things respect, honor, racism, culture, patience but most importantly, it is a collection of dreams over the years, decades, centuries that are finally given the chance to come true

To Suffocate and Suppress

Samantha C.

As a creative, I intend to represent my experiences through imagery, color, and symbolism. The vast range of possibilities within art inspires me to shatter rules and to cultivate my own journey through visual and mental processes.

In a society where the truth is repressed, I hope to break down and analyze existing stigmas and taboos relating to culture, gender, and mental health. I intend to give others a taste of my perspective, and to speak to those with similar life experiences to me. Art can be expressed through many forms, and as an artist, I intend to push myself past technical skill. To recontextualize how I conceptualize an idea and my technical approach to creating a piece is important to me. To present an emotional realism over technical realism is the goal of my practice.

As I grow, and endlessly change, I want to look back at the works I have cultivated over my career, and to understand the perspectives and thoughts in my mind at the time. As I move forward I want to continue to pour new ideations and experiences into my craft. Overall, as an artist, I hope to be able to uniquely share my experiences through the abstract use of media.

No Shame

Yvan N.

Have you ever walked into a room, full of criticizing eyes looking straight into YOU? I have, and I remember very vividly the time I and many others like myself, had to face the nightmares of our lives. The embarrassment I felt on that day was inevitable, as Covid -19 started. Never did I ever imagine myself, a Vietnamese American, to be humiliated and treated like a ragged doll. The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) has documented a 77% increase from 2019 to 2020 in hate crimes against Asian people living in the US, and from March 2020 to June 2021, more than 9,000 antiAsian hate incidents were self-reported to the advocacy group Stop AAPI Hate.

An 8th grade student at the time of the incident, a kid I knew since elementary school, said, “oh look, Yvan’s here, you started this virus because you’re Chinese.” Followed by giggles from peers I thought were my friends. The only support I got was from my true friends, with one being my friend Precious, my only asian friend of the time. We went through hell together, experiencing suspicious eyes constantly looking our way, and obvious avoidance when we had a little sneeze or cough. I never realized how serious the matter was until our school counselors personally walked into every class and reminded students to not discriminate anyone because of their race, because coronavirus was a virus we were all taking precautions on together, “so stop targeting individuals based off their ethnicity or there will be serious consequences,” but that threat never worked.

From public discrimination, physical assaults directed towards Asian adults and elders’, verbal harassment to vandalizing properties of Asian owners, us Asian Americans felt horrendously hopeless but never gave up. Protesting and utilizing social media, we kept going but it was the Asian community fighting alone. Teenagers suffered their own nightmare in school. I nearly gave up from the humiliation and fear, fear that one day someone would physically attack me because of my roots. I fear everyday for my family, begging my parents and grandparents to stay home, or at least tell me anything that happens while away, I just want my family safe.

First year in person at high school, in a brand new state, was frightening. I noticed there weren’t many Asians, so being in an environment with few of my own made me feel unsafe and unwelcomed. Mid-school year. Texas. 6th grade. Biology class. Someone comes up to my table and asked me “ain’t your language something like ching chong wingyg wangaway” I wanted to go home, I felt humiliation for myself and my beautiful language. At that point, I learned that instead of caring so much about others’ opinions towards my people and culture, I should embrace and show it. There is nothing I should feel ashamed about.

Growing up in a very strict asian household, I was put into Vietnamese school at 7 years old, where I learned Vietnamese and was involved in singing/dancing for Buddhist events. I spent 8 years singing Vietnamese karaoke learning through songs, and here I am, fluent enough to help the younger generation learn Vietnamese. I volunteer almost every Sunday for Vietnamese school, group performances, service of appreciation for the Buddha, monks, and more. Being surrounded in a safe, familiar environment when going to temple not only helped me grow but helped me gradually become a MORE passionate person in embracing my culture. I can proudly walk around school and public wearing the beautiful Vietnamese traditional dress. My eventual goal is to guide the younger generations to closer connect to their culture/family tradition. I wish to help them understand what racism is, but never feel ashamed. As for myself I would love to learn and have the opportunity to experience other cultures and traditions, embracing my own as well as theirs.

Tickets to the Afterlife

Sofie W.

Out Grown

Olivia M.

Between Rachel T.

Last winter I would take an hour to get home walking. I remember the snowflakes landing and melting. They would float side to side before finally settling, A pattern of tumultuous conforming.

I went on those long walks despite the horrible gray weather. It was the equivalent of releasing all of my built up pressure. The sunset always met me at the door after noon

“What is life’s meaning? How do you live? What is enough? Who are you?”

I often found myself calling it a day with a temporary clue.

I wonder if “enough” will ever be for me.

Caucasian or Asian, but both I may be.

Two names and two cultures, too distant and too mean

To ever feel that I belonged in either as a teen.

My hair a light brown, my eyes a bright green

Over 30 cousins and none look like me

My grandma once told me that I should “食屎(sik si/eat poop)”

I only said I was hungry, I think she hated me

I never got to speak to her in a language she had known I knew phrases and commands, I called her 婆婆(po po).

I often saw her watching one of her favorite shows

I memorized the tune of the opening song, the last thing she had known.

Like my mom and my sister, she had a curved pinky.

From her I got my love of 粥(jook), in english: rice congee.

It was Tuesday, September 17, 2021

After she passed we missed her a ton.

She wasn’t the first, her husband was gone 公公(gung gung) as we called him, he always found fun

But he had a case of the Mondays, that’s when his life was done. His favorite fruit was oranges, no wonder I love them too.

October 15, 2015. He had to leave too soon.

They felt like strangers, yet I learned so much about them

By writing this poem I realized a part of my stem

I grew up with my cousins, we went to Chinatown and Argyle

We even traveled to Chinatowns across the country all the while I used to avoid going to Starbucks. I still don’t take a billion selfies. Anything that would make people think I’m only what I seem.

I still enjoy American foods, music, and warm fuzzy boots

But I also like things from my various Asian roots.

I’ve stepped into the water that separates people and places. The ocean is so deep but left without traces.

We reach for the stars and love clear skies.

We love what we can’t always have, but we still try.

Singularities

Olivia M.

Trilingual Ivana

M.

“

雪雪 ” my grandpa calls me by my Cantonese nickname. “Did your dad really pay the bill?”

This was a common occurrence when eating out with my extended family - fights over who would pay the bill were constant arguments. However, my grandparent’s limited understanding of newer technology failed them. Ever since COVID and the presence of QR codes all over restaurants, my dad had managed to pay the bill way before the meal was even over, and was before my grandparents were able to pull out the credit cards. Before leaving the restaurant, my grandma pulls out familiar bright red packets out of her purse. “Be safe on your trip!” she wishes my sister and I in Cantonese before she practically shoves the packets of money into our hands.

“Mom, no,” my dad tries to stop her, and starts lecturing her in Cantonese as we walk towards our cars. Eventually, we lose the battle, and my sister and I return home $200 dollars richer.

“It’s okay,” my dad tells us. “We’ll give it back to them before their vacation next month.”

My sister and I agree, and we set the red envelopes onto the dining room table to be returned at a later date. Our relationship with our grandparents was often like this - the constant exchange of money and favors that keep getting traded around. Besides having to accept money that I knew my grandparents needed more, I liked this exchange. It provided my sister and I, but especially me, a chance to communicate with my grandparents on a deeper level in our native language, Cantonese. I was born an ABC, an American Born Chinese. Both sets of my grandparents were from Hong Kong, and they immigrated to California with my parents when they were 12 and 13 respectively. My mom’s mom and dad passed away very young because of lung cancer, so I never got the chance to know them that well. So, despite the constant exchange of money, I enjoyed any interactions I had with the only set of grandparents I have left.

Another barrier preventing me from communicating with them was obvious - my fluency in English was nothing compared to their fluency in Cantonese. At most, I could understand and speak it, however, unlike many of my Chinese friends, I never went to Chinese school. This left

me with a nonexistent ability to write or read Chinese, which is something that still affects me to this day. Things were a bit better for my younger sister. In middle school, we could all choose a language to take. She chose to take Mandarin, and every night before a big test, she would sit with my mom in the living room and practice tones and characters with handwritten flashcards. However, I chose to take a different path. In middle school, I chose to take Italian, and now in my second year of high school, I’m currently in my fifth year of learning Italian, and will be participating in an exchange program later this year. Learning Italian has been one of the best experiences in my life, and despite being the only Asian face in my class, I’ve never regretted my decision.

However, sometimes I consider what could’ve been. My parents can speak both Cantonese and Mandarin almost fluently, and when my sister and I were younger, they would speak Mandarin in order to hide things from us and talk behind our backs. With my sister’s newfound capability to understand, speak, read and write at least basic Mandarin, she’s included in these conversations, in which my English, Italian, and Cantonese ears cannot follow. To continue, whenever I speak Cantonese, my mom looks at me a little confused, before laughing at my pronunciation. She expresses her fondness of my accent, and tells me how cute it is. And while I do enjoy being able to communicate in Cantonese, it often gets in the way of clear understanding and I find myself often having to resort to English.

Because of my pent up frustration and being unable to speak in my supposed native language, I’ve started speaking Cantonese more often in my household. My Italian teacher always tells me, “If you can’t say it, you don’t have to say what you want. Instead, say what you can.” I’ve taken her advice to heart. Despite taking twice the amount of time to speak Cantonese and get my point across, my parents seem to understand, and slowly but surely, I hope that my Cantonese will continue to improve to the point where I’m comfortable in speaking it. Even though it’s been a slow start, I have hope for the future and how I will keep my relative’s language alive as much as I can.

Water and Lights

Kayla P.

A Divided Life Shree P.

India and America; two completely different worlds divided by a vast ocean; Two worlds that I am forever a part of. I spent my entire life in America being a part of the Indian community and trying to be intertwined with the culture that surrounds it. Being Asian American means that I will pass on the traditions and cultures of Asian Americans to the next generation, including all of the wonderful traditions my culture has, but hopefully none of the harmful ones.

Every Asian American knows about the cultural divide between them and their white peers, but the struggle never discussed is the divide between them and other Asian Americans. In modern times, there is a lot of acceptance for different cultures, but the ones that will accept you the least are the ones from the same culture as you. Every day the Indian part of me affects my life and the way I live, but I never felt that connected to that part of me. I know several other Asian Americans who were born and raised in the U.S., but they don’t understand or feel the same divide. They are very familiar with their native language and country, while I struggle to utter a word in Gujarati. For those who know about my lack of Indian knowledge, they often gibe me for it, saying that I’m not a “real” Indian. They would belittle me and dismiss the fact that I was also an Asian American, just because I’m not as “cultural” as they are. Through this, I realized that being Asian American isn’t about being 100% knowledgeable about your native country. It’s about honoring your culture while also being true to yourself no matter who you are. In an American society that’s so open to new cultures, it seems like a constant battle for who is the most cultural and connected to their origins, instead of being a community that uplifts all Asian American experiences. It is a constant struggle to try and live an honest life, but also try and fit in with the people that are supposed to understand you the most.

Another aspect of my life that ties closely to my Asian American Identity is the constant expectations. I am the second child of first-generation immigrants from India. Both my parents have been working, to this day, for a better life ever since they were teenagers. They work every single day to make a living and overcome adversaries. So it would be impossible for me to live a life where there wasn’t any expectation for me to get the life they dreamed of. My brother is four years older than me and is the family’s golden child.

So I felt like every academic decision I made growing up always had to reflect everything he did. If he joined the Robotics team, when I got older, I would too. When he got a percent score on a State-administered test, I was heartbroken when I didn’t. This constant strive for perfection and to be like my very successful brother is rooted in the expectations constantly placed on Asian American children. Although it isn’t healthy, it is a defining characteristic for most young Asian Americans. There is a constant struggle to be good enough and to fulfill the American Dream that our parents are constantly working for. However, in the end, it all stems from love. Our parents came to America to find a better life for them and their children. As Asian American children, we feel the constant need to use what our parents gave us to truly complete their dream of a better life. They gave us the motivation and determination to strive for better, and we use their teachings to create a new life for us.

Even though I never felt too connected to my roots, I always wanted to keep our beautiful traditions, that I hold onto, and pass them to the new generation. India has such extraordinary traditions from our cultural clothing to our festivals. Our holidays are filled to the brim with color and love. Our culture puts such a strong emphasis on family and always having each other’s back no matter what. The Indian community is like one big family that you can always rely on. As the next generation of Asian Americans, it’s our job to pass on the best parts of our culture and livelihood to the next generation and leave out the negative aspects. I have several younger cousins and I would like them to be a part of the beautiful and incredible part of being Indian, rather than the competitive and judgemental part of our culture. Being a second-generation Asian American means struggling to balance both parts of your identity. It means to always strive for excellence and achieve the American Dream. But most importantly, it means anything that you want it to mean. No one can ever take away your ancestry or tell you how you are supposed to represent your culture. We are born Asian American and we must carry on our history in the best way possible. Creating a new generation of Asian Americans that don’t have to face the same struggles we did, while also passing on the best parts of our culture, and reminding them that there is no correct way to be Asian American.

Never Silent Cindy Z.

Grandpa’s Humble Roots

Danielle W.

Facing My Greatest Fear

Olive K.

In the back of my mind, there exists a lingering fear. A fear that I have been too afraid to acknowledge for my entire life. A fear that is the result of years of stubbornness and complacency. A fear that I must bring to light. I fear that as I grow older, I will only continue to lose more and more precious pieces of my culture. I don’t like strange foods that are foreign to my palette, such as dried squid and soups filled with seaweed, sweet potatoes charred in the oven and red bean paste, so I do not make an effort to try them. The little piece of my culture that I had before—language—I have lost. I used to go to Korean School every week, yet I never tried hard enough to actually learn the language, and now that I no longer take classes, I am beginning to forget. I am forgetting how the syllables should sound on my tongue. I am forgetting how to read and write the characters. Communicating with my halmeoni becomes increasingly difficult with a language barrier that spans seas. I no longer feel Korean. My appearance is the only Korean trait that I carry. It feels as if I am an empty husk on the inside, lacking what is most important.

I’m struggling to find out where I belong in this world. Though ethnically I am fully Korean, I feel like I am less in touch with my culture than my half Asian friends. Even my friend who is merely a quarter Korean still eats Korean food and wants to learn the language. She knows about her grandfather in Korea and she knows all about her cousins. In some ways, I envy my friends. I envy the way they are able to hold onto their culture while I am swiftly losing mine. I am jealous of the way they are able to feel proud of their culture, while mine causes me to feel ashamed. I don’t know anything about my family in Korea. I don’t even know that much about my extended family that lives here in the States. Whenever we get together for family gatherings during New Years, all of my cousins know each other, yet I know none of them. They can speak to our grandparents. I cannot. I feel that as I drift further and further away from them, I lose more and more pieces of my culture.

The labels that others have placed on me are an unbearable weight on my shoulders. Every day, I can feel the eyes of my classmates on me, watching me, judging me, waiting for me to make a mistake so that they can beat me. It is because of these labels that I have become obsessed with perfection. I need to get the highest grade, I need to be the best at violin, I need to be the best friend, I need to be the best daughter, I need to, I need to, I need to. Some days, the burden feels like more than I can handle, but shouldn’t I be okay? My ancestors hid in carts piled high with dead bodies, using the warmth to survive as they escaped Japanese-occupied Korea. My parents experienced poverty, grief, and pain. So why am I crushed by a bad test score, an unreciprocated crush, problems with my friends? To my parents, this is the American in me. The part of me that gets crushed under pressure, the part in me that seeks love and comfort, even when my problems are silly and meaningless. When my parents look at me, all they see is a full American. In their eyes, “American” is an insult. “American” is spinelessness and privilege and a lack of respect. And they believe this because their parents were not there for them. To them, to be Asian is to be independent and mature, two things which I am not. Now, I am attempting to recover pieces of my culture. On the way to school, I listen to K-pop. When I watch TV, I watch K-dramas and try to absorb as much information as I can in order to relearn the language. I want to try the different Korean foods that I have never had the courage to try before. But I also want to be proud that I am American and to not forget the sacrifices my grandparents made in order to travel to this country. I hope that I can someday proudly say that I am fully American and fully Korean and that I am no longer afraid.

Lucky Me Claire B.

Fish Tank

Luke E.

I Matter

Jean D.

I MATTER BECAUSE

I matter because of the intrinsic value of life. I matter because I am a human. I matter because I’m an individual.

My existence is meaningful. Every existence is meaningful. Blue whales are famous for bringing their calves all the way from Alaska to California to feed on krill. When my parents take me whale watching on a boat and I see a family of whales splashing around, I feel the same joy of life as they do. Billions of birds fly over California on their way from boreal forests to tropical jungles of South America. I can see them high in the sky and the connection I feel to every living being in the world fills me with happiness. The concept of life was always a mystery to me and even a bit scary. I think to myself: You had a 1 in 400 trillion of being born and somehow you did! I matter because I beat the odds of being born and I am doing the most with my life! In that way, I relate to every living being around me. We are all interconnected and depend on each other as pieces of the biodiversity puzzle. We all matter because together we make up life on this planet.

I depend on Earthś resources to regenerate my energy every day, but billions of people around the world are deprived of clean water and organic food. There are 7.7 billion people on Earth, we put enormous pressure on this planet. In some parts of the world, we waste and throw away food due to overproduction. In other parts of the world, we do not produce enough. This disbalance makes little sense to me. I matter because I want to give back to Earth. I matter because I’m aware of the problems we’re facing. In the future I will strive to make sure the way we consume natural resources is as efficient as possible. The import of consumer goods and food products from around the world is detrimental to the environment and seems unnecessary. For example, the use of GMO, and pesticides hurts both the environment and people. This should stop. Earth needs to regenerate every day, and we should find ways to enable that process. This will not happen unless governments, corporations and farmers start acting responsibly. They should care less about money and profits and stop mass production. In my opinion, we should grow and consume locally. If we only consume what we produce, we would be much healthier. We would reduce waste, pollution and hunger. The Earth would thank us too. I, alongside my generation, am the future. We are future doctors, lawyers, world, leaders, and activists. If at such an early age I am conscious of such pressing needs then I’ll be able to make impactful change when I’m an adult. This is why I matter, why my entire generation matters and if we do not act

now, we might not matter anymore. If all life on Earth becomes extinct, nothing will matter.

As humans, we’re placed on top of the biological chain. In many ways that makes us responsible for this world and the environment. From that perspective, my existence can also matter in negative ways because of my privileged lifestyle. For instance, I’m used to the comfort of a car and to be driven everywhere. I live in Los Angeles, home of some of the busiest highways in the nation. I get stuck in traffic a lot. If we invested more resources into electric cars and the development of public transportation the environment would benefit greatly. I’d be able to get from home to my swim practice much quicker and by myself. My parents would not have to worry and could just go about their own life. There will be less pollution and less dependence on fossil fuel. Although a bus is not as comfortable as a car, this small inconvenience is something we have to live with if we want to save the Earth.

I understand that changing my lifestyle and daily routine even a little would require a huge amount of work. For example, straying away from the use of gas-powered cars means encouraging my generation to walk and bike instead of driving. But that is why I matter: if things do not make sense to me, I’ll do whatever I can to change it. Even if it requires extra effort and skills, I will not stop until I achieve my goal. I matter because as the most evolved species on Earth, I understand my responsibility for this planet, for my generation and myself. I want everybody to live a healthier and just an overall better life. You and I do not necessarily have to be MLK or Gandhi to matter. We can start by taming our bad instincts and habits. We matter if we are able to go out of our comfort zone for the greater good.

I am already more independent. I walk to local grocery shops and bike to my friends’ houses. It is a bit scary (especially at first) but I enjoy the fresh air and the sun. More and more of my friends join me. I matter because I set an example and try to be a positive influence on those around me. As Gandhi said “In a gentle way we can shake the world.” I’m a 13-year old boy who tries to stay truthful to himself and is shaking the world in a gentle way. Once you start changing yourself, you will notice that it has a sort of domino effect. When you’re around positive and like-minded individuals, it motivates you and those around you. Having that influence on people can really make a change.

Some people tend to think that no matter what they do, it will not make a difference. I respectfully disagree. It’s all about your mindset. Everyone matters and has the power to change things but very few see it through. What we do, matters. Actions matter.

not want to blend in. I want to stand out. However, I believe that one part of being a responsible person, is to learn to control these habits/instincts and channel them in positive ways. Ways of doing so could be advancing my sport and academic performances. First of all, it will make me a better person. Second, if I beat a swim record, I would advance the human performance in this field. If I develop my brain, I can come up with new ideas on how to make the world a better place. I matter not because of my hobbies or personal attributes. I matter because I want to be a better version of myself.

So, who am I? What is my personality? I was born in Beijing, China. My first language was Chinese which I learned with my ayi, my wonderful and kind nanny. I used to tell my parents: “Wǒ shì zhōngguó rén!” meaning “I’m Chinese!” While in fact, I was not. My Mom is Kazakh, and my Dad is French. I am a Third Culture Kid, because I was raised in a culture other than my parents’. We, the Third Culture Kids, are often referred to as cultural chameleons. At the age of 5, I moved to Costa Rica and learned Spanish and English in the Country Day School, in addition to Chinese and French in the Lycée français de Pékin. Learning new languages was easy but it made me forget the ones I already knew! In Costa Rica, my parents took my brother and me to an indigenous tribe on the border with Panama. My parents were filming a feature film about a child-bride there and I spent my time there chasing rabbits in the forest with local boys and splashing around in the rivers. Having so much fun with these kids made me understand that we are no different from each other. After we moved to Los Angeles, I went to Sherman Oaks Elementary where I eventually became a President of the Student Council. After all, people who come to America from all over the world is what makes this country a culturally rich and vibrant place. America embraces everybody and I want to make sure that everyone here gets fair chances/opportunities in life. A happy America would in turn have a positive influence on the rest of the world. Multicultural perspective and expanded worldview would matter even more in my professional career as a socially-conscious lawyer.

I am a kid, so money is not part of the equation for me yet. I want to stay true to myself as I am now. When I become an adult, I want my actions to be a direct result of what is in my heart. I will do things out of compassion and not for just materialistic motives like money. I believe, being true to yourself makes a big difference when you are an adult because it influences the way you go about things. A lot of the problems in today’s world can be solved if people and major corporations were not so fueled by greed. To matter, I have to remember not to be greedy, as I am now. I want these basic concepts learned at an early age to carry over into adulthood; no dream is too big and no age is too little to prevent it.

This does not mean that I am not concerned about my financial sustainability in the future. I want to matter; I want to be my own man and entrepreneurship is one way of doing so. This train of thought led me to start a small business 8 months ago. I’m selling t-shirts and hoodies online. I felt that I should contribute my creative ideas instead of always consuming. I learned how to use electronic platforms that connect me to creators around the world. I learned to pick designers based on their style, ratings and price quotes. My parents and I worked together on implementing my design ideas. I market my clothes among my friend group and on social media. It’s been a long and difficult process but it’s definitely been worthwhile. If I keep grinding and pushing forward then nothing can stop me. Starting a clothing line was scary at first but I realized that if I ever want to make a true change in life, I can’t worry too much about what people think, I need to go for it. Eventually it started gaining popularity and I felt a sense of pride in doing something that I wanted to do.

Although I can only matter in smaller ways now, I hope to make a genuine difference as a lawyer when I grow up. I feel very privileged in the sense that everything was put in place for me to succeed. I understand that that isn’t the case for many other kids. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights states: “All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.” When I am an adult, I will carry out promises I made to myself, to the Earth and my fellow human beings. And that is why I matter.

Growing Up Together

Qiuen Y.

To Make Ripples

Diego O.

Syrian Roots, American Soil

Jad N.

I grew up as a displaced Syrian in the United Arab Emirates due to my father’s political dissidence. My parents immersed me in the culture we had fled, but when I was four years old, we moved again, this time to a predominantly Latino suburb outside of Los Angeles. When I arrived in America, I quickly learned that I needed to acclimate to my new home and community, not only for my sake but also for my family’s.

For our first few years in America, I was my family’s advocate due to my parents’ “broken” English. I would translate for my family at doctor appointments and see my mother, an MD from Syria, struggle to understand medicine in English. While I advocated for my family outside of school, in school, I endured the brutality of racism and Islamophobia. One of my classmates at lunch screamed “Allahu Akbar” to mock Islam and my culture. Fearful of using Arabic with my brother at school and sticking out, I spoke only English and duplicated the mannerisms of those around me in hopes of blending in.

I eventually learned that I could use the same skills I developed advocating for my family to support myself and my community, especially for other students who also felt like outsiders. By honing my public speaking and advocacy skills throughout high school, I overcame my lack of confidence in my identity and voice. I learned to utilize my voice as a platform in response to the cultural shock, isolation, and hateful comments about my language and perceived religion.

During quarantine, I campaigned for Freshman Class Vice President to improve my public speaking skills. After hearing me speak virtually, the Associated Student Body president appointed me the freshman representative. In that role, I continued to address the student body, this time in person.

As a sophomore, I represented my school at a school district board meeting. The

meeting was my platform to empower students’ educational journeys. In Syria, one’s education level defines them, a degree symbolizing empowerment for yourself and your family, but with much less choice. Experiencing United States education’s focus on creativity and interdisciplinary studies compelled me to propose solutions for students’ motivational and academic challenges to board members. By pressing for improved mental health resources and guaranteed technological access for students who couldn’t attend school due to illness, I gained the confidence to address meaningful issues. I continued to give feedback to the superintendent and board about what my school and peers needed, honing my voice as I gained more experience in advocacy.

I began championing outside my school, including Syrian communities in the United States and abroad. During the aftermath of the Syrian earthquakes, my school community expressed concern for my family in Syria. I informed them to donate only through trusted organizations and nonprofits to ensure their money directly supported Syrians in need. I also spoke to United Nations Women for Peace board members on the need to prioritize children’s rights in armed conflict. I talked about the Syrian war’s impact on a critical aspect of children’s rights and social mobility: education.

Using the opportunity to speak up—something my father did not have in Syria—I am using my community’s support to work toward fighting for the rights of Syrian refugees, displaced Syrians, and my classmates. Speaking to the board, sharing the video of my speech with my friends, and working with family and teachers allowed me to tie my Syrian and American worlds.

Now, some of the students who mocked me years ago are my friends and allies in the cause of supporting Syrian communities from the effects of the war. Despite being raised in the United Arab Emirates and later Los Angeles, I have remained close to my Syrian roots. I have learned that my background and my voice are not weaknesses but rather tools to broaden my horizons and create change.

Piece of Mind

Nina Y.

Perceptions

Claudine S.

The Canvas, the Pen, and the Mic Lavendar A.

Three sweet potatoes each for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Two morning growth supplements and a gallon of water daily. I browse photo tips to keep my mind off the hunger, while I simultaneously perform rigorous vocal and dance exercises. Drowning in what began as a dream, I was training to become a K-pop singer.

I was humming the tune of “When I Look at You” when my eight a.m. alarm screeched, reminding me I had to join my Biology class on Zoom. Sitting on my bedroom floor, my mind was on two different things: the academic responsibilities I had as a student and the anticipation of a crucial meeting with some producers after class. I became increasingly anxious as the clock kept ticking, hardly focusing on my teacher’s lecture. The meeting was well worth the wait, as the producers showered me with a fresh round of compliments. I struggled to stand out among other girls at school, but these entertainment companies made me feel seen. In the end, they unexpectedly offered me a chance to leave America and join a girl group. In what seemed like a breakthrough moment, I seriously considered giving up the rest of my high school years.

My heart was conflicted. While it was a tremendous opportunity that many, and even a part of myself, expected me to accept in a heartbeat, there was an internal voice urging caution. The pressure to conform to Korean beauty standards had slowly taken a toll on my mental and physical health, leading to an eating disorder and a reliance on strangers’ opinions. As my sanity slowly slipped away, I just couldn’t bring myself to accept the offer.

Wanting to find that same validation I found virtually, I joined the Asian Student Alliance, a non-profit organization that revolved around supporting Asian American students. Having pursued a career in Korean entertainment for so long, I thought being around other Asian students might fulfill my need for attention. I quickly learned how conceited I was.

I heard stories of generational trauma as students struggled to pick an “acceptable” career; I listened to girls talking about their challenges fitting into American culture, and I saw countless examples of Asian hate and Sinophobia. For the first time, I wasn’t thinking about how I looked in the mirror every second of the day. My focus shifted to making a meaningful difference for Asian American students, empowering others, and addressing our collective struggles.

Though my K-pop dreams passed, I strove to use my talents differently. Collaborating with corporate partners, I lent my voice to the TOPIK exam- a Korean government-administered standardized test for non-native speakers. This broadened my international connections and deepened my advocacy passion, guiding me to the Korean American Public Action Committee’s peace conference in Washington. Attending the conference allowed me to engage in discussions with diverse stakeholders, diplomats, and experts in international relations. Immersed in these new opportunities, I found myself reconnected to art, pouring my creativity into projects that celebrated the richness of Korean heritage.

But as I look ahead to life beyond high school, I can’t help but feel an itch to go further. Although this wasn’t the stage I initially imagined, my goal is to merge my passions in advocacy, art, and diplomacy to support human connections in our multicultural world. Whether that be through the canvas, the pen, or the mic, I want to use my position to advocate for understanding and empathy both for people here and on the global stage. I’m eager to utilize the resources in college to seek out diverse perspectives, develop new understandings, and collaborate with students both alike and different. Just as I once aspired to make a mark as a K-pop artist, I want to continue weaving my passions in innovative ways.

Consuming Culture

Jasmine L.

Mano Po Erin M.

In the Moment

Claudine S.

The Sacrifices Made

Sonya L.

Washed Away Juliette M.

THANK YOU

The Make Noise Today Student Exhibition is made possible with the help of our partners and generous sponsors. Thank you for your support!