The Exigency for Empathy

My family is pure Korean: my 아빠 (Dad) is Korean, as is my 엄마 (Mom). Being from a conservative Korean household, mental health was taken just about as seriously as double-eyelid surgery. Not as popular, but not taken seriously at all.

Sometimes, I have wished that instead of panic attacks, perhaps it would have been better to break a bone or tear a ligament; at least with excruciating physical pain, there would be people who would sympathize with and understand my affliction. There were no words to describe what I had felt on the inside, and a doctor's diagnosis would find no signs of a physical ailment. Every complaint and concern that I raised would simply enter into my 아빠’s one ear and slide out the other with the default consternation of "go to [my] happy place". My "happy place" was usually closing my eyes and imagining myself on the sandy shores of Jeju Island, where our family frequently vacationed, surrounded by crystal-clear waters and enjoying a cool, frozen Korean pear-flavored Tank Boy while floating on the waters. This meditation has never worked for me.

The feeling of falling from a high altitude and the immediate washing over of a shroud of doom, adrenaline and cortisol coursing through my veins, leading to an inescapable box of horror, exacerbated my already-anxious thoughts. My mind would race with worries about when the next panic attack would strike, and there was no preparing me for its excruciating terror and unpredictable haunting. My 아빠 would tell me, "It’s all in your head. Snap out of it"—in Korean, of course. In a strict, stern, disciplinarian tone, that would make me feel as though what I was going through was my fault—that it was because I wasn’t controlling myself that these terrors were befalling me.

"You’re not actually going to class today", 아빠 assured me. "It will only be a visitation. After our visit, you can go play your ‘Nintendo console device’". It was actually a Wii U, and his promise placed me at ease—after all, pinky promises were unbreakable and irrevocable. He even sealed this pinky promise with his thumb. It was my first time visiting an American classroom after having only seen Koreans throughout my life.

As I began to stroll down, my hands clasped and interlocked with my 아빠’s at the sight of the first Caucasian. A strange feeling began to wash over me. For some reason, I was afraid. Why did he have golden hair? Why were his eyes green? Why was his face so pale? Was he a 도깨비 (goblins in Korean culture)? In Korean folklore, these monsters ate children. I was terrified for my life—of course, I was only a foolish and ignorant child. Many of my close friends are Caucasian today

Suddenly, 아빠 left. Hands unlocked, like his iPhone, I was left in this prison cell, and the door slammed behind him. There, behind the locked doors, my first wave of panic washed over me. Looking around the room, I did not see any Koreans around me. I saw more 도깨비s. I frantically wanted to leave, but I was trapped in a room full of 도깨비s.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. I anxiously watched the clock, but each second felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours. I anxiously watched the door—where was 아빠? He had to save me from these 도깨비s I closed my eyes for a while and covered my ears, but when I opened them, the 도깨비s were still there. I watched the clock again. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Only 2 minutes have passed since 아빠 left. A tidal wave of hopelessness began to wash over me, and suddenly, at that moment, the feeling of betrayal from 아빠, who had pinky-promised and sealed with his thumb that I would not start class today, began to envelop me, and I began to weep. I began to bawl. Urine began to trickle down my ankles as laughter began to trickle into the classroom.

I began to resent 아빠 who threw me into this prison. I began to resent 아빠, who told me that my panic attacks were all in my head. There was no way for me to leave. All the students in the classroom stared with detached and unsympathetic eyes. As a matter of fact, some of them laughed at me with jeers and sneers that only compounded my sorrows; they stretched out the ends of their eyes with their fingers and mocked the physical shape of my eyes. I just wanted all of this to end.

It is estimated that 19.1% of Americans, or over 40 million people, suffer from the diverse spectrum of anxiety disorders every year Those studies under-represent the prevalence of anxiety disorders within Asian demographics because the stigma against mental health leads many Asians to not go to their doctors for a diagnosis. Many people who are undiagnosed feel the emotions that I experienced as a child without ever realizing that there is help and support for their condition. I take a small pill (Lexapro 10mg) that completely removes all of the feelings of dread that wash over me during a panic episode. When I first saw my therapist, I was astounded to learn that what I was going through was not unique to me: this gave me reassurance, as I began to learn that there were communities of people who suffered from my same ailments and were able to provide love and guidance toward recovery- many of the people who helped me in my recovery were Caucasian. Unfortunately, mental health is stigmatized within the Korean community, and as such, more education and outreach as to the prevalence of mental health issues can allow for greater probabilities of acceptance among Koreans and the AAPI community at large. I believe that strong leadership in providing quality education can break down the barricades of ignorance that have plagued Korean society. Today, South Korea leads the world in suicide statistics. Addressing the core mental health issues prevalent within our culture will not only allow us to honestly assess ourselves but also move forward as a society, liberated from the torments of mental disorders.

“All You Can Eat” is a mixed media painting made of watercolor, then outlined with red and black india ink. It’s hard to explain this piece into so few words, because of how many meanings it can take on. I like to invite viewers to search for symbolism in my art and discover their own interpretation.

Personally, my main statement was pertaining to generations like mine assimilating into American culture and losing our original asian heritage, only to later “consume” all information at once after being starved, taking a toll on our mental health. A specific example of this over-consumption happened during the COVID pandemic, when the phrase “ Stop Asian Hate” was increasing in popularity. Our heads were collectively being filled with atrocities committed around the country. In America, Asians are minorities and thus we become a melting pot. We can’t care about just one nationality, Asians in America are hurt as a race. We’re all connected at one big circular table.

Another meaning can be found about the beauty standards in Asian cultures. Many prefer thin bodies and double-eyelids, and so we gain eating disorders and body dysmorphia. A common phrase for Asians living in the gluttonous America, land of the large food portions, is “You’re getting fat”. How ironic is it that Asian food is so delicious and culture to be celebrated, yet we cannot eat too much for fear of shame?

Asian Armor by Edward C.

Sweat ran down my body in streams, scurrying to escape the heat of my skin. It found refuge on the wooden tiles of the dance floor. The teacher was teaching us a dance step, and my mind tracked the sound her shoes made it was a box step. I grinned as I copied the shape of the footwork, feeling the weight of my feet hit the wooden floor to create a box. Time became inconsequential. All I could hear was the allure of the music, comforting in its embrace of my steps.

“Thank you so much for coming!”

I snapped from my trancelike awe. I glanced at the clock -- one hour had passed. Staring at the mirror, an entirely different figure stared back. Sweat fuzzled his unkempt hair and drenched his white shirt. I beamed. My figure beamed back, only wider and happier. I stared back in wonder, realizing that that figure was me. The past hour felt like an out-of-body experience. It was surreal! How could I experience that again?

10 years ago, that out-of-body experience marked the beginning of my dance journey. From that moment, I would pester my mom about continuing to take Hip Hop classes. I would find happiness. Had it not been for the founding of that new dance studio, I might not have discovered this gemstone of an art. But this was beyond me. This was beyond my fervor. This was passion. Along the rollercoaster of life, this passion was the seatbelt that secured me to my seat, fastening me as I rushed through winds of change and gusts of joy, and I relished its significance in my life.

Passion begets passion. As I progress through my journey, I hope to ignite that spark I felt so many years ago in the communities around me. After all, without the spark of art, our souls’ tinder would be reduced to mere sticks and twigs, incapable of lighting the fire of life.

Growing up, the main priority my parents set was to find me my spark. I was given outlets, each one an electric current of expression and release, and I chose to plug into the vivacity that was Hip Hop. It was my lighthouse of hope and excitement, slicing through any fog of uncertainty and hopelessness. I was a dancer and proud of it.

I grew up in homey Irvine, California, with its cookie cutter HMarts and ni haos. Asian was the fashion style. I was the geek, the know-it-all who knew it all. At night, a plethora of dance classes dotted my schedule. I was the dancer, popping in my seat whenever music played. Through such a childhood, I reveled in the A’s that dotted my report card and the trophies that filled my room. I was an Asian dancer, and as I grew older, that identity grew into a battle between my artistic endeavor and my academic intellect.

We, as a community, are shoved into a stereotype of excellence. Under this plate of academic armor, we charge into the hinterland, wading through terrain of education and erudition. It’s sturdy armor. Yet, such an armor only fits a certain few – a demographic of doctors, lawyers, and engineers. The rest remain unprotected against the swaths of AP classes and extracurriculars, unsupported by the elderly. As they should be, right? After all, practicality reigns supreme.

Yet, this plate of academic armor can compress us teenagers, forcing us to comply with the demands of the academic battlefield. It can choke us into concurrence as we march on towards the horizon that is colleges, careers, and cash. The iconoclasts fall out of line. The artists are impaled by the spear of utility. The rejected sulk back to their barracks.

As I near the end of my high school journey, such a dilemma plagues me. I enjoy both my academic pursuits and artistic passions; yet, with this growing pressure to prioritize academics, how can I find a balance? How can I make both my family and myself happy?

My family and I talk. We touch the tainted lens of our thoughts, peering through a spyglass of curiosity and peeking at the tattered remains of our conscience. What does it mean to be Asian-American? Is it the A’s that dot my report cards, staining the Aeries portal a deep navy blue? Or is it the 3 AM freestyles, rejuvenating my soul as I step into an aura of purpose and drive?

As I delve into these questions, I find myself leaning into my soul’s expression, my art. Self-expression is one of the most powerful tools in relieving ourselves of the burden of societal pressures and stress. I’ve continued to live by the belief that passion begets passion as I spread the love of Hip Hop at my school, my studio, and with my peers. I hope to empower the AAPI community to find light in their own avenues of expression. We are all human, but we are each huger than life, unique in our own imperfect, expressive ways.

Maybe this isn’t a battlefield.

When we strip away our armor, who are we? Are we militant warriors, marching towards the frontier of competition and comparison – or rich arsenals of care and compassion, maintained to defend a space for expression and service? Only we can tell.

I painted “Mask” for a gallery exhibition around Covid-19’s impact on teenage mental-health. It began as an outlet to express an omnipresent feeling of overwhelmedness: During the pandemic, I was terrified for myself and those close to me, angered at political apathy and inaction, and disheartened by how AAPI trauma was being weaponized to support policing and pit Black and AAPI communities against each other. Simultaneously, I was crumbling under academic stress, in a school environment that lacked AAPI representation or support. When I attended class and went through life, I felt pressure to mask what I went through, feigning composure despite being engulfed in a mess of emotion. The double-exposure effect I mimicked aimed to capture the complex experience of feeling everything all at once.

As I painted and processed, I realized “feeling everything” also encompasses feeling strength and renewal. While the piece began as a visualization of hardship, it also gave me an opportunity to reflect on how my pandemic experience motivated me to build AAPI community and anti-racist education at my school, brought me closer to my loved ones, and cemented the value of culture and intersectional justice in me. The “mask” I put on evolved into genuine leadership skills and confidence that coexists with my stressors. I hope this piece helps others feel seen in both their trauma and strength, and shows that AAPI mental-health is nuanced. A person cannot be reduced to a single experience or stereotype: truly seeing people requires a multifaceted lens.

Foolin’ my skirt by Michelle Q

I spin and I twirl in the pretty pink skirt my mother got for me. So feminine, so innocent.

A classmate’s eyes gazed and stared at the way it swished in the air. Another classmate’s pencil scratched his sketchbook pages. A group of boys in the back of class chatted amongst themselves, and their not-so-faint whispers traveled through the class.

“She’s like that girl in that video you watched.”

A woman wearing a sexified Japanese schoolgirl uniform radiated from the computer screen the boys were gawking at. We looked nothing alike, except for the fact she was also Asian. Was it because of my skirt?

He wasn’t looking at my skirt but imagining what was underneath. He wasn’t shading my skirt’s ruffles but using me as reference for his drawing of a sexualized Asian fantasy. All they saw was a slut—no, an Asian slut, which is supposed to be even sluttier than a white girl—to be looked at, unheard and uncared for.

Sometimes other girls called me lucky. Not lucky in the way my mother had gifted me that skirt for good fortune; it was to remind me of how much of a wonderful daughter I was, she said. But lucky that I attracted attention from boys, just by being Asian. To them, it was a blessing from the gods of seduction.

When I finally got the courage to wear a skirt again, I decided on a black skirt perfect for a family reunion. It was more subtle with no erotic ruffles or promiscuous colors. It was nice and plain, just as I should be to not be an attention-seeking, pink-loving Asian slut. It was feminine but not too feminine.

“You’re built like a stick.” My aunties handed me another bowl of rice.

“Who ate the old Michelle?” My uncles instructed me to do laps around the house.

“Here. Take this to massage yourself. It’ll help your curves come in.” I looked back at the mysterious green concoction in a potion bottle that was somehow going to remedy my door-like body structure.

Never did they ask about my grades or academic achievements—that was reserved for phone gossip. Or the new dance I learned for Multicultual Fair. Or the chè ba màu I made for the party.

I was just someone whose arms and face resembled a skeleton and whose legs weren’t straight and skinny like the white girls at my school. My thighs and calves weren’t for walking but for family members to criticize when they jiggled. My looks headlined every conversation. Perhaps all their energy was exerted wandering their drunken eyes and blabbering their gluttonous mouths, leaving their ears no power to listen to whatever I had to say about the type of person I was.

I might as well had been a statue. Then, they could fully sculpt my body into something exceptionally tolerable.

Why wear a skirt when you have nothing nice to show? Aren’t sluts Asian sluts supposed to be pretty?

I got a direct message from a faceless Instagram page asking “You’re Asian, right? Are you single?”

Scrolling through his following list, I found they were all Asian girls from my school. His entire reasoning for wanting to date an Asian girl stemmed from his unfortunate dating history. While he was dating non-Asian girls, he always saw his other white male peers dating Asian girls and thought they looked overjoyed. To him, Asian girls are petite, cute, and never mistreat white men.

While he was on his hunt for delicate, docile Asian girls, the prey bit back. I found myself among tens of Asian women calling out the guy for fetishizing Asians, realizing his words aren’t compliments but were creepy comments. As much as he loved us Asian girls so much, he became livid over the fact that we weren’t the Asian schoolgirl sluts he believed we were that I believed I was.

I always thought I was just something to look at, so I never spoke up for myself as an Asian femme. But, these Asian women knew exactly how I felt, and we shared in our pain of feeling trapped in the deep-seated hatred that lies underneath all the sexualized “love and appreciation” white men offered to us.

We deserve to feel like real people in our femininity, our skin, our Asianness and make a fool out of those who try to make us feel like we’re anything but that.

Because it was never the skirt.

Familiar Flowers by Sarah C.

Growing up in a family of seven has made me realize that familial bonds are important to maintain and cherish throughout life. My family has been there to encourage me on my artistic journey; they are people I can rely on and confide in. The people depicted in this piece are my two sisters, one older and one younger. They are drawn in a field full of chrysanthemums, a flower that represents friendship and happiness. My sisters are family, but also close friends who I can lean on in tough times. Their body language and expressions imply trust in one another. My artwork strives to show how family and friends can be a place of refuge when situations may bedifficult and a place of relaxation to share laughter.

Not Just by Remy P.

I am bipolar I struggle with PTSD I am crippled with anxiety I have to fight every day to get out of bed I cannot focus in class for my life I will never be anything other than these things

I am Remy P. I do not let the past haunt me for I am past it. I fight for myself, not against. I am a high achieving student who has been accepted into college, participates at school as a member of the student council, and is part of two international organizations from my high school chapters. I play sports, lift, paint, sing, and do countless other activities. I am Chinese American; I refuse to discard this label by focusing on any others I have been assigned. I cannot be condensed into just a few words.

I can’t be helped none of the medicines have been able to change me what if they never do what if I’m never enough I never should have told anyone all it has been is a waste of time money energy

My mom, my doctors, and my friends– they have been with me throughout this whole journey because they care. They cared before and still care now; everyone only wants the best for me. They haven’t given up on me– I can’t give up on me. I suffered for years on my own, wrestling with the idea that my own mother had abandoned me as a days-old baby, along with the hellish feelings that parasitized my internal war. I do not regret reaching out for help because even if the process has been long and exhausting, it is infinitely times better than being exhausted for so long alone. I am not just dragging those around me down, but being carried through their strength.

Why do I have to change this isn’t fair why am I not good enough to be allowed to be myself why was I not good enough to be kept I’m just a robot trudging through life and just as inhuman

I am not a robot– I still feel feelings like anyone else. I have crushes just like any other teenager. I can feel sadness without it being tied directly to my depression. I can be happy in my life and proud of what I have accomplished. I’m not changing to bend to what society expects of me but so that I can celebrate the time I have. I am not good enough– I am more than enough. I understand my mother was only acting in my best interests despite the hurt she may have felt. I am not just surviving– I am living a life I deserve to enjoy.

Why am I like this would I have been different if I hadn’t been adopted what if I had known about any of my genetic risks could I have been more careful knowing what might happen what I would become

I lead a life here in America that would never have been possible in China. Even if I knew my

Just As Inhuman

I am not a robot– I still feel feelings like anyone else. I have crushes just like any other teenager. I can feel sadness without it being tied directly to my depression. I can be happy in my life and proud of what I have accomplished. I’m not changing to bend to what society expects of me but so that I can celebrate the time I have. I am not good enough– I am more than enough. I understand my mother was only acting in my best interests despite the hurt she may have felt. I am not just surviving– I am living a life I deserve to enjoy.

Why am I like this would I have been different if I hadn’t been adopted what if I had known about any of my genetic risks could I have been more careful knowing what might happen what I would become

I lead a life here in America that would never have been possible in China. Even if I knew my immediate family’s medical history, I would only have been more stressed about it for longer. My birth mother meant the best for me when she gave me up; she left me outside the steps of a government building, knowing I would be found quickly, and going so far as to leave me with a note of my birthday. I can never be sure how I might have grown up in China but I am glad I can remain true to my heritage, even in a neighborhood with low numbers of Asian Americans. My mom would bring me to Chinese events and celebrations to find connections between myself and those of my background. I found that attending a cultural event in the United States felt as if I were attending an event in China, with all the pomp and circumstance. I am not just a Chinese girl growing up as a minority but a girl coming of age in America.

I am an outsider

I am adopted. I am chosen. I am accepted in my community with wide open arms.

I am unstable

I know who I can turn to when I feel overwhelmed. I know who will support me.

I am a burden

There are people who love me that would not and who have not given up on me.

There is no hope for me no place in the world for me

You are just a voice in my head. And you are wrong.

Oh Dang by Kieri K.

This piece is titled “Oh Dang”, a play on the phonetics of the Korean dish pictured, 오뎅국 (odeng guk). I wanted this piece to be a semiliteral take on “eat your problems”. 오뎅국, or fishcake soup, is my number one comfort meal. The broth is bland and the fishcakes are soft to chew; a meal that doesn’t put up a fight. Whenever I feel dejected, low in energy, or just tired of the world around me I like to enjoy meals that put my mind at ease. Food is one of the main ways I connect to my Korean heritage, as well as my best form of communication with my mother. Recently I’ve become more comfortable sharing my state of mind with my mom, which has never been easy for me. When she makes me 오뎅국 I know she sees my struggles and wants to help, and more often I’m finding myself in a place where I can let her. Healthy familial communication is one of the most important steps toward embracing better mental well-being in the AAPI community.