Ask a Question.

by Viet P.

The word “how” is a word I use often. It’s a powerful word, a word of wanting to know more. It’s the word of questioning, the word to use when intrigued. When asked how, so much can be said, yet little is also true. When I ask someone, “How are you?” the answer comes back, “Good.” How can we change this? How can we make people comfortable in saying more? How do we ask a question so that one comes back at us?

As humans, we love to talk about ourselves. But when someone struggles with their mental health, it may be hard for an answer other than “Good.” to come out. What can we do? The answer is more. To understand and make others comfortable, we must talk more and be present more. Be involved! There’s more to a person than a simple “How are you?” can answer, but asking more questions isn’t the only answer to this. We must ask differently. I say, “¿Como estás?” to my Latine friends who don’t speak English. To my Vietnamese friends that seem to struggle in Sunday school, I ask, “Khỏe không?”. And to my Deaf friend, who can only sign, I roll my fists forward and point at her. When you make an effort to speak to others where they feel most comfortable, they give a response.

There have been so many times I wished someone had asked me how I was. The time I felt most vulnerable was during the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. Before the lockdown started, classmates were chatting about the deadly virus spreading around in China because of some “stupid dude who ate a bat.” Unbothered by the threat of the virus and not being Chinese myself, I laughed along with them about the silliness of the situation. But in weeks after, the blame somehow fell on me. When the first case of COVID-19 in the US happened at school, I felt the spotlight was on me. Other kids asked me if I ate bats; “No way!” I’d said. “I’m not one of those Chinese.” Puzzled now, they asked where I came from. This part of the story I was familiar with. First, I said America because it was true; I’d been born in an American hospital to my parents, who were citizens of the US by then. But that was never a satisfactory answer, so I’d say Vietnam eventually. I was proud of my heritage; my parents told me to be proud of where I came from. But it was isolating to say that I was from Vietnam, even though I’d never been there. To my classmates, I wasn’t allowed to be American. Yes, English was my first language; I grew up in the US, ate mediocre school lunches, and even played baseball. But I was never American, not even Asian-American to them, because I wasn’t white.

I wish someone had asked me how I was doing or any questions. I’d felt so hurt by all the casual xenophobia and racism at the expense of Asians. I had no right to bemoan the awfulness of the pandemic; my people were the ones that started it anyway. But I saw the hashtag #StopAsianHate on my Instagram. I was surprised to realize that so many people were going through the same thing I was! I was convinced it wasn’t my fault and I could stick up for myself and others. I even joined in on a rally, being driven 100 miles away, to stand up for myself and my people. Knowing that other Asians like me might be struggling with widespread racism, I went to Asian peers myself. I asked them, “How are you?” because the first thing you say to someone shouldn’t be, “Where do you come from?” I asked questions that made others feel good to answer, not feel embarrassed for saying. Asking questions is the key to building meaningful relationships and supporting one another. It’s important to ask questions to make people feel comfortable and valued and to be present and engaged in the conversation. Doing so can create positive change in the world around us, one conversation at a time. So, let me ask you - how are you doing today?

Asian American Love

By Yvette S.

American love is faux laughter and chiming doorbells. American love is the cardboard scents of brand-new board games and bookshelves and cheap plastic figurines. The celebratory “gettogethers” for achievements, dangling prizes over children’s heads as parents laugh.

American love is doting, motherly, soft curves and words to cushion a fall. White walls and countertops, paintings and photos pasted over the empty modern home.

American love is ruffled newspaper, steaming coffee, small grunts and groans echoing in the morning. The clean car seats and windows, polished glasses frames, grocery receipts crumpled and tossed without a second glance.

American love is sudden, strangers accidentally brushing hands, neighbors sharing bits of gossip. It’s long hours in front of mirrors, faking smiles until it becomes instinct.

American love holds secrets. It’s “the talk”, the birds and the bees, pressed condoms and birth control pills into shaky fingers. Long, dark alleyways with no one else in sight. Fingers curling in hair, sweaty bodies pressed against each other, wandering hands and interlocked lips.

American love is free, empty, relaxed. It sits in the shadows, always there but never truly felt.

Asian love is harsh words and the smack of leather on skin. Asian love is the aroma of soy sauce and sriracha, the sharp scents of curry and kimchi. The accented, broken English, vowels fumbling into each other and crashing backwards like waves at sea.

Asian love is A pluses, black and white report cards stacked in a hidden box under the floorboards. It’s harsh punishments for misbehaviors, knowing that actions speak louder than words. Asian love is direct, a knife cutting straight to the point, birthday gifts of red envelopes and green paper, old wooden toys recycled over and over until the edges rot and peel off.

Asian love is ritual, unique names for every relative, every person, hundreds of characters and letters staining the family tree. It’s ceremonial clothing, bride to the groom, tradition steeped into every action like fragrant tea leaves in boiling water. Asian love is shattering that one precious heirloom, rage in father’s eyes and despair in mother’s, only for everything to be replaced and forgotten tomorrow.

Asian love is loud. It’s a melody, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling. It’s shouted on repeat, holding hands on a crowded street corner, bustling street vendors and musicians background noise to the ears. It haggles with merchants over cheap shoes.

Asian love is unyielding, awkward, bittersweet. It demands to be heard.

Mental Health Matters!

by Esha S.

Mental health conditions are common. The pandemic has highlighted the urgency of tackling mental health. Studies indicate that approximately 1 in 5 teens between ages 12 and 18 suffer from at least 1 diagnosable mental health disorder. Stigma, lack of awareness, and lack of mental health support are some of the potential causes for this rising number. Every child has the right to survive and thrive where mental health issues aren’t stigmatized. According to Mental Health

America, mental conditions and suicidal ideation continue to rise in the Asian American and Pacific Islander students community. Since art plays a prominent role in Asian cultures, my aspiration is to use art therapy as a pathway to bring awareness to mental issues and open a window of opportunity to seek help. Here is my small part in promoting and protecting mental health. We have the power in ourselves to shape the world and change lives. Make Mental Health Your #1 Priority!

Call Privilege by its Name

by Julia S.

“Don’t worry, you would never be able to tell!” My friends laugh whenever the topic of my Asian identity comes up, in an attempt to reassure me that I could almost pass as another Causasian girl in my predominantly white community in Virginia. Without my looks, of course. And it’s true. I do fit in. At least in the ways that count in the strange mathematics of high school popularity. I have friends, play varsity sports, and don’t have to endure the pain of eating lunch alone. Heck, I am the first junior captain of my dance team, and the president of two clubs. I fit in, but ‘fitting in’ is conditional. I make sure to never mention my Asian identity and to spur conversations about American traditions that only white folks would talk about. I know that racism is based on ignorance, that others have it much worse, and that I am lucky to avoid the daily violence and discrimination that racism brings with it. Nonetheless, it is still disheartening to confront.

Sunlight spills through green foliage onto gray cobblestones. The intense heat of the midafternoon smothers Shanghai in a sluggish haze, but below ground in the subway stations, the air grows cooler and life speeds up. Here in China, I am just another face in a sea of people, but this illusion is quickly shattered as soon as I open my mouth to speak. One woman compliments my parents for raising such talented English speakers, comparing us to Jackie Chan. “You should hear their Chinese,” my dad responds dryly. Within a minute, I have lost the comfort of conformity. I am an American. Ironically enough, I am also an outlier in my Northern-Virginian high school… even though my English is indiscernible from anyone else’s and I was born in the same local hospital as many of my peers. As an American-born Chinese, I’ll never truly fit into either of my two worlds. I live a life of dualities, a life of insecurity, a life of perpetual identity crises. Throughout middle school, I desperately coveted a ski-slope nose and freckles; I wanted wavy blonde hair and blue eyes and long lashes. In the perfect realities I liked to imagine before I fell asleep, I was always white. People say there are two sides to every story, and in this case, there are two sides to every life. I don’t completely fit into Chinese society in the same way I don’t completely fit into American society. I fight to break free from stereotypes yet simultaneously work to fulfill them. Each day brings another conscious battle against internalized racism and insecurity permeates deep from years of normalized microaggressions.

In lockdown at home, I witnessed the shooting of Asian American women in Atlanta, repeated hate crimes and assaults, and anti-Asian rhetoric normalized in the media. The pandemic unraveled the rampant Asian American racism, hidden beneath the folds of the illusion of the American Dream. Again, it has required tragedy and violence to bring about a conversation of the consequences of America’s treatment of nonwhite immigrants. It is crucial to understand the harmful privilege of certain groups which masks the injustice and hatred others continue to face. America is hailed as the nation of immigrants, the picture of a melting pot of nationalities and cultures, yet the reality remains: America has not welcomed all its immigrants with open arms. Since its founding, America’s fundamental values have been tied to the supremacy of the white race and its conclusion, the inferiority of nonwhite races, from the pursuit of Manifest Destiny to the American Indian Wars. The American Dream has once enticed the first Asian Americans immigrants, but now they face a racist campaign against them: taking on jobs no one else wanted or being forced into self-employment, battling racial segregation in schools, and falling victim to rampant violence and hatred. While they fight for the recognition of their American identity, the message is clear to Asian Americans despite what America might have initially stood for them: they are not truly Americans.

As a child, the sense of inferiority with my race arose when my mother asked me to check her emails for broken grammar, or the boys that I liked in my science classes said that they would only date white girls. Even now, I steer clear of Asian stereotypes: SAT prep classes, strict parents, foreign languages, foreign smells… I pretend to have never had Chinese food before, that I don’t care about my academics, and that I have never watched Mulan. However, for all the times I have been embarrassed, hurt, and excluded because of my “Asian-ness”, I can finally validate my longings to address these inequities and call privilege by its name. I am finally able to recognize my own identity in America: as an Asian woman.

Swan Song of the Sea by Jodie Y.

There is no doubt that the importance of mental health and mental health awareness is overlooked in the Asian community. It is a taboo topic that many of my older relatives refuse to believe in and talk about. From my personal observations, mental health topics have always been accompanied with shame and guilt. In my mixed media piece titled Swan Song of the Sea, I shed light on depression through the use of fluid watercolor and harsh colored pencil markings to convey the feelings of dissociation, numbness, and sadness. A lady’s face in the sea is woven into the waves that a boat that seats a woman and a man is on. The two figures are seemingly unaware of the lady in the sea, almost as if she does not exist. The lady is a representation of depression and how easily it can go unnoticed. Her needs and desires are washed away in tune with the waves, with little control over the movement of the ocean (her emotions). The phrase “swan song” refers to a final song before an artist retires or passes away; in this piece, swan song may refer to the lady surrendering to her unpredictable and uncontrollable emotions before she is washed away completely.

Gratitude for Pain by Phuc N

In middle school, to resolve my boredom, I burned papers in the principal’s office, threw my friend’s shoes to the adjacent building’s roof, flushed my friend’s glasses down the toilet, shut off the whole school’s electrical system, and committed other misbehaviors. Consequently, my mom was disappointedly sobbing as she witnessed me being on the verge of expulsion.

Forever in my memories are the days when rain splattered through the window flooding my desk, dusty moisture behind the washer attracted cockroaches, and my single mom drove me in a Honda bike under rain across cities so I could go to school. Since my dad left when I was eight years old and I grew up under my mom’s sacrifice, she is the only person who ceaselessly fuels my rocket to reach the stars. Yet she’s also the person I emotionally bullied the most. Guilty frustrations overflowed when I repeated the cycle of feeling ecstatic for wildly misbehaving followed by intense regret for stealing away the vitality mom used to raise me.

Later, my family immigrated to the US for my future although we didn’t know English. While struggling to adapt, I became “mom” on phone calls with the bank, tax, insurance, schools, and job officers since I was most English-fluent. This showed me firsthand the unfiltered adversities of a single, low-income immigrant. During COVID, the landlord's call informed me that my family was a week away from being evicted if we didn’t mount up enough rent money. Contemplating the worst consequences that would belay my family’s future and regretting my troubled past slowly drive me into depression.

When I hit rock bottom, I realized the only way to transform my family is to transform myself first. One is strongest when one courageously admits and directly confronts their biggest weaknesses. Vulnerability plus responsibility equal invincibility. For the first time ever, I wholeheartedly read self-help books and took notes, truly wanting to better myself. In a reunion call, my middle school friends said I had changed. Utilizing the learned knowledge, I earned awards and enlivened relationships with authorities, making mom smile proudly.

My intimate conversation with mom switched tone as I mature. There was a lot less confrontation on her part and a lot more “thank you” or “sorry” on my part. Every day, I treated my mom as if I were to lose her tomorrow. I realized traumas formalize my core value and solidify my conviction to give mom the life she deserves. However, life is a hike, where one forge meaning as one traverses its constant ups and downs. As one obstacle pass, another appears.

When my grandma got glioblastoma seven months after I immigrated, depression seeped in because I couldn't do anything but witness her slowly dying. But channeling grief into courage, I went deep into cancer research. As the answers to my questions led to more questions, I realized that even after centuries of technological advancements, we still can't defeat an enemy as old as cancer, so instead, we must learn to befriend it.

Though manufacturing individualized CAR-T cells for injection can train our body to tolerate cancer, it’s too expensive and time-consuming. Since my family struggled to pay for grandma’s treatment, I wanted to help low-income families have equitable access to health treatment. Therefore, I attempted to design Universal CAR-T cells that can regulate the extent of cancer growth in almost any patient. Consequently, time, money, and neurotoxic side effects will be greatly reduced since all patients receive different combinations of the same CAR-T cells.

Amazed by the life-saving power of early detection, I imagined an early-detecting method that also allows for sampling of the patient's cancer's miRNA, which can then be analyzed to determine the best combo of CAR-T cells for this particular patient. Fitting puzzle pieces together, I developed a two-part cancer-combating strategy so that no one will have to experience what my grandma did and their relatives experienced what I did.

Taking advantage of circulating tumor cells (CTCs) head and neck cancers released into the saliva, I prototyped a nano-liquid-biopsy chip to accurately separate CTCs through hydrodynamic cell sorting, inertial focusing, and magnetophoresis. To make this a tangibly impact-making product, I implanted the chip inside the timeless toothbrush, an irreplaceable tool much like seatbelts or curtains, to allow for consistent, unnoticeable, long-term tracking of a patient's tumor.

Three years later, I headlined 15 media enterprises and won several international awards for this groundbreaking idea. Even though the fame was momentarily flattering, what emotionally moved me is the realization that personally pursuing this endeavor allows me to meaningfully do what I love. Actualizing my seemingly random “What Ifs” in honor of my grandma truly made me forget all my past regrets and worries for the future. Investing in my passion significantly relieves me from mental and emotional pain.

Success taught me that in life one should focus on giving, not gaining, because the only way to gain is to first give. Therefore, I envision a world where cancer no longer equates to tragedies but is easily treated as the common cold. And I won’t stop until it’s done! At university, I will leverage mentorships from professors, funding, and peer collaboration to start a biotechnology company to help cancer patients through the toothbrush's early detection and specialized CAR-T cell therapy.

After this experience, I realized the tremendous strength adversity can instill in young people, and founded “First Imagine, Then Actualize” for like-minded teens to share their stories and inspire each other. As my love for self-help intensified because I witnessed how it revolutionized my character, I founded an Instagram page, posting original inspirational quotes, which accumulated more than 25K followers. Amazed at the scale of my impact and underserved teens, I decided to write a compact self-help book that utilizes lots of teenage slang and funny jokes to illustrate many timeless self-help concepts. My work was recognized by the Royal Family through the 2022 Diana Award in memory of Princess Diana of Wales.

Resources, healing, and solutions are deeply interconnected. Healing takes place when you use the resources available to make solutions for others’ problems you experienced so others don’t have to go through the same pain you did. For example, I worked on early cancer diagnosis to help future cancer patients so they don’t have to experience my grandma’s pain. I helped “lost” teens find their purpose so they don’t feel worthless as I did in my immature years. This works because it gives you perspective as you realize, no matter how broken you are, you can still add value to society by lending a helping hand. This tremendously increases your self-esteem, which empowers you to believe in yourself again so you can keep walking through that dark tunnel. Simply put, the best way to heal is to help others heal.

I have often heard that just one moment, one person, or one experience could change my life forever. If someone had told me a year ago that a little black leathered journal could change my life, I probably would have laughed. Yet I did need a change.

So, I bought a black leather journal and decided to carry it everywhere. I was going to write about the good and not-so-good moments. How does the sky look at 6 a.m., where do I want to journey, or how am I feeling at this moment? I was going to write, draw or just scribble on blank pages. Once this journal is full (that’s funny as I’ve never finished a journal), I was buying a new one.

When I first opened the black leather journal, I remember looking at the pages and not wanting to ruin them with my tangled chaos as the pages were so pretty and clean. How could I put my fears, my insecurities, or my raw authentic self on these pretty and clean pages? In reality, I have always liked things planned, organized, and aesthetic yet these pages were begging me to be real and I thought of the Lao Tzu quote, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” And so the journey began.

Back and forth. That’s the motion I initially began making in my new black leathered journal with my favorite gel pen. I found myself applying more pressure with each and every stroke until I could feel some kind of emotion entering the nonjudgmental and welcoming blank pages. I began to learn the fine art of scratching and scribbling along with the freeness of flowing continuous lines. There were no words in the beginning just the movement of emotions. I can’t really remember when words started crawling onto the page. But as the words began to appear they seem to weave a very dark tapestry of my reality. It was a reality where I believed I wasn’t enough. As a Chinese adopted child, I did not characteristically look like those framed by my family, school, or society. The sense of not belonging created threads that sought to strangle my mind and then my heart.

As I sought to loosen the threads, I began to see how I had previously given words the power to create intrusive thoughts. With time, words felt safer on the pages. I questioned the truth of what I had come to believe about myself and life. What evidence made these twisted thoughts so convincing and damaging? Most of the time, I could not find evidence to support the dark reality I created. The reality is I do have people in my life that accept and love me. As the new reality was emerging on the pages, I could see I was not defined by my struggles, mistakes, ethnicity, or intrusive thoughts.

The black leather journal initially came into my life as a cold and manufactured product. As time brought change, the leather became worn and many of the pages became curled and messy as if they held the scars of a well-fought war. When I look through the pages, I can see the messiness of change and how we fought the war together.

Perhaps it is true, there are those experiences that can be life-changing. For 343 days the black leather journal not only held me but helped me learn how to gently hold myself. It was almost surreal when I reached the last page as I realized I had changed – I had changed a lot. After I dated the last page, I wrote these words, “I AM very proud of MYSELF.” A new black leather journal has been purchased and the journey of a thousand miles or perhaps a million miles continues.

Stop Killing Us by Tricia D.

Mixed Race by Allison A

Neesha-Ann. What a strange middle name. Why take two unalike, askew, noncomplimentary names and put them together? As if the hyphen yearned to be some kind of glue, morphing Neesha (Thai traditional name) and Ann (my caucasian grandmother’s middle name) together. However, they cannot be crafted into one, I was never modeled into either or. My mother. The dazzling woman who immigrated to America. The woman who taught me to be the strongest version of myself. Vulnerability is a weakness. Shutting down shows the coward that burrows in the abyss of my heart. Hurt in private, heal in silence, thrive in public. I believe the yellow tint of our skin showcases sunlight, intelligence and perseverance, but being sought out as the model minority created a hungry, ugly, monster inside my mother and I.

“You have Kumon at 1, soccer at 5, tutor at 8,” these events created a rhythm inside my mind. My middle school days were filled with academic boosters. My mother was always looking for the next best learning opportunities to place me into. I was stretched thin to make sure I covered all subjects; making sure I was on the correct pathway to college…college, I was twelve. The college concept landed me in therapy.

My father. A tall pale-skin broad man, from North Dakota and San Jose. In my elementary and middle school years, he referred to me as a “soft petal.” My brother’s teasing or my friend's comment caused me to burst into tears in seconds. When I was high on emotions, tears filled my baby blue bedroom. I desperately yearned to understand why I had episodes of intense hyperventilation or why my body shook uncontrollably on stress-filled nights. My therapist referred me to my pediatrician, who diagnosed me with anxiety and prescribed me medication. However, that prescription was never filled.

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Mental health was always danced around in my household. Like it was a choice. I am mixed. It doesn’t mean much to most. However, the sliver of expectations is what crafts the pain of being biracial. The pain escapes deeper than, “I didn’t know where to sit at lunch.” Rather the pain is the gauging agony that homed in my stomach when my neck was bent over the toilet seat from crying so hard because the “full” kids got praised in my APs, and I got the side eyes and snickers.

“Sorry, the non-asian side of me took the exam.”

I lived in a world where I was asked, “what kind of asian are you?” As much as I was told, “It’s ok you're only half asian, a B is fine.”

I found an urge to speak for those silenced by the rules of our society. This became my motivation for becoming an officer for the Foreign Exchange Mentorship Organization, helping Japanese students learn English. After my time spent as an officer, I was invited to speak on the Samasakee Thai Youth Panel. I discussed the importance for our generation to use our voice where we see it to be fundamental. I spoke about my participation in the “Stop Asian Hate” protest at the California Capitol, depicting each drop of sweat that raced down my face, and how my voice was lost the next morning after screaming, “STOP ASIAN HATE!”

The hate isn't only the violence my people face on the streets. It’s the violence of Western culture expecting us to be the model minority, and when we fail we are to blame. And if we succeed? That’s the monster that curled under my AP kid personality.

As I entered the last couple years of high school, I began to prioritize my mental health as an Asian American. I yearned to diminish the monster inside of me, it was causing illness to my mind. I seeked help. I encouraged others too as well. I spend days looking out for myself first, as I reflect on the past four years. I used to believe that in order to tackle my anxiety, I had to stay busy. However, I learned it is important to let myself sit and process what I believe is going ary in my life. I used to look at the “bigger picture” from a birds eye view, rather I wished I looked at the present more thoroughly. I encourage the Asian American community to prioritize their mental health first not four years later. The yellow tint of our skin showcases intelligence and perseverance. We deserve to put our minds first before we burn out from expectations. Through language barriers and citizenship hurdles, I yearn to be the voice. I am the voice for my mother and my grandmother. By ordering take-out on the phone, managing doctors' appointments, and helping my grandmother practice for her citizenship test, I use my voice for them. My parents gave me the gift of being biracial. With this gift, I have experienced the feelings of being the minority in a small suburban town but also the privilege that comes with it.

I advocate for the mental health of my people.

Plate of Fruit

by Alexandria M.

In words, I cannot comprehend. In actions, I do not recognize. Apologies are never how they’re supposed to be.

Arguing for minutes. Silence for hours. Ignorance in seconds.

This is not how it’s supposed to be. Why?

Other families don’t have this. Other families can look each other in the eye and see. Not look, but see.

The rising heat dissipates from my body. I can’t bear to be angry, knowing everything they’ve been through. Generations. Ancestors. Centuries of a stigma one cannot hope to overcome in a night.

But I can try.

Why am I the only one trying?

Our speech bubbles become more jagged and sharp as we fail to find the words.

Suddenly, frustration.

Slamming a door shut is all I can do. The echo rings across the house, and into their head. At least, that’s what I hoped for.

Talking is synonymous with taboo.

Actions, ever so subtle, is what we can afford.

Knock Knock

My Mom. A porcelain plate of freshly cut fruit enters before her. No words of importance are spoken. Small steps seem to be taken, but they lead nowhere. Avoiding the piercing eyes that desperately seek comfort, she leaves.

Here is my apology. Laid out like a dish. One easy to accept, but hard to swallow.

Cantaloupe is my “sorry.” Pear is my “I understand.” Mango is my “I love you.”

I see the fruit, and the eyes that stare back are my own.

It Ends With Me

by Gianna P.

Generations of my father’s relatives hide their feelings to seem more stable than they are inside. To prevent the thought of others from thinking that they're powerless. If someone shows signs of vulnerability, they are shamed. Therefore, you are pressured to put on a façade to please this pervasive stigma developed through generations of Filipino ancestors. I was a victim of this stigma.

I used to be a naive innocent child. Running around in the streets of Villamar Subdivision, Cagayan De Oro. The comfort of the hot Philippine sun. Though the comfort of my mother’s family was warmer. It was them who gave younger me such a happy care-free childhood. But all good things come to an end.

2015, Missouri. I was in the airport with my mother. Still naive as ever. I thought this was the start of a new chapter for us. Live out the American dream. I thought wrong. I was left with my father. While my mom created a life for herself somewhere else.

My father was never really involved in my childhood. I never even knew I had a father. Just until I was 7, he suddenly had a “change of heart” and took me in for the time that was supposed to be until my mother had built a stable life in the States for herself. I didn’t know how drastically my life would change. What used to be a child filled with happiness turned into someone with such distress.

We shared last names, my father, stepmom, and half-siblings. Yet they never made me feel like I was a part of their family. “Illegitimate child, fake sister,” the many names my stepmom has told my siblings to call me and the unfair treatment I received went on. I couldn’t tell anyone because I thought I’d be shamed if I confessed how I felt. Because my father made me think that way, I hid my true emotions.

One day in middle school, I broke down. First period of the day, a stream of tears ran down my face. My teacher sent me to the counselor. The first time I felt so vulnerable in front of someone. I thought I was safe venting to the school's "therapist." Weeks later, I felt ill and went to the nurses' office. "Are you sure you want to go home? Don’t you want to avoid your stepmom?" I turned to the nurse, who was looking at me with “worry.” How did she know that? I excused myself to the bathroom in the nurse's office. Sitting on the toilet with my head filled with questions. The rambling stopped once I heard the nurses' conversation. She’s probably just faking it. Not only did I never speak about my emotions again, I also never confessed to any illness since that day.

I’ve neglected how I was feeling to the point I was deteriorating. Despair turned into anger. My grades turned into F’s. I was skipping school. Hanging out with the wrong people. Once a child filled with happiness, was now a person filled with hate. I knew I needed help, but I never asked for it. I was weak, pretending to be strong.

In High School, I knew enough was enough. I begged my mom to get my father to put me into therapy.

"Your mom told me you wanted therapy. Why?" My father said. I needed a professional. I couldn't say it was the unfair treatment of his wife. I couldn't say it was because most of my life was spent watching my back due to the toxicity this household radiates. I couldn’t say because there was no one who would help me.

"I just want it."

"Ate Gianna, you don't need it. Your childhood is easy compared to other kids." He rambled on about kids in low-income places and how he used to get into gang fights back in the Philippines, invalidating my feelings after back-to-back justifications of why I was being overdramatic until I found him trauma-dumping to me about how his father used to treat him. "It's just a part of life. You'll get used to it." He joked, attempting to steer attention away from his troubles. I bottled my feelings as my father advised. Yet again, I was a closed book.

It took my father abandoning me for the 2nd time to make me realize he was wrong. I always shrugged my need for help as me being selfish and weak. But being an individual with personal issues does not make you weak. Sharing it makes you strong. The amount of courage and strength it takes to speak your emotions. I wish I knew that then.

Slowly breaking the tradition of self-suppression that my ancestors have passed on to my father, then to me. I’ve escaped the stigma. I’ve changed for the better. I’m the realest version of myself. I am transparent.

Embrace of Peace by Audrey J.

My artwork is a mixed media of acrylic paint and colored pencils. In my painting, I wanted to emphasize how I deal with mental health issues. I go to my family and my friends, or more specifically, people that I feel comfortable with. With the support of my friends and family, I am able to successfully sustain my mental health because I am able to rely on people I trust. In my painting, a Mugunghwa is present, which is the national flower of Korea. Being Korean myself, I find comfort in things that remind me of home. Going to Korea and seeing these beautiful flowers everywhere I go brings me back to a place where I feel safe, comforted, and problem-free. My art is a visual representation of finding comfort in my roots and with my friends and family. Butterflies also tie back into my Korean heritage. Culturally, butterflies are known to contain the souls of deceased loved ones. I incorporated this aspect of my culture to showcase how people you love are always there for you, and knowing that there is always someone with you, though it may not be tangible, is a sense of comfort when one is lonely. I really wanted to emphasize that having a healthy mental health is a result of knowing that you are not alone, and understanding that there are people around you all the time to talk to.

Kaleidoscope.

By Ann N.

My life feels as though it is in shambles,

Only I am left to pick up the broken glass with my bare hands.

And perhaps one day,

I will use these same hands to fabricate a kaleidoscope out of the shards.

These fragments.

They are scrapped from the broken mirror that forced me to face my reality,

Yet there are bits and pieces of rose tinted glass that shattered alongside it.

To a bystander, it could easily be mistaken for pink diamond.

My bruised and sore digits begin to craft this distinguished artifact.

No one else will do so for me.

I must stand on my own witness stand,

For whom else will step aside to indulge themselves in my case?

The case number no longer holds value, though,

For the case has been dropped without my consent.

What good does saving do,

If one does not accept the heroic gestures?

The drop startled me, causing me to drop yet another fragile possession.

This chalice that once cradled my beverage had shattered completely. The liquid stained the fine fibers.

Any oblivious man may have easily mistaken it for pink diamond. We must remain vigilant.

Life’s beauty has its peculiar ways of revealing itself to us. My hands was where it divulged itself to me, But the mirror had shattered. One erroneous move and the fibers may wound me. This pain is so pleasurable. The same pain that brought me harm Had fulfilled me through my kaleidoscope.

Only I can cater to the mental distortion that this world had so desperately tried to pit against me.

I nurture myself in ways that no one may ever be able to fully comprehend, But similarly to our nourishment, Time allows one to assimilate what is presented to us on the platter.

I will mold these beautiful tragedies.

I will pursue them into a kaleidoscope, For it shall allow me to examine my life in multiple pairs of glasses all at once. Now, I view the world beyond its default dull tints.

I Just Can’t.

by Madison T.

Play Sound

My Becoming

I was falling

Too fast, too hard, too deepSinking and feeling my lungs fill with air that I knew, Air that I knew would never escape. With all this air inside my lungs the question became “Do I deserve the right to breathe?”

“Do I deserve the right to see?”

“Do I deserve the right to be human?”

Staring at my ceiling, It was too early in the morning or perhaps it was night who would know? Staring at my ceiling, I felt that I was akin to nothing; And things that are nothing have no right to hold things tangible for that is something I was akin to nothing.

I was meant to keep my secrets trapped in my lungs, Maybe gift it to my family, But a secret is a secret silent and becoming when muttered.

Strangely, a nothing can keep a secret

For secrets are like the shade -- cold and empty.

It was middle school,

Another boring day in a classroom full of people who could smile, People who could laugh and mean it, People who looked scandalized by the fact that I was not like them I would not smile.

My Lola and Lolo thought something was wrong with me; A constant look, an utterance to keep a smile on my face:

“If you close your eyes, it will go away.”

One day, into the classroom walked my teacher, My teacher who put on a video of three girls

Who had words sounding of vulnerability and strength

And so musical that I felt that I was watching a full orchestra until their voices fell silent and they walked off the stage.

Poetry

So I took up the pen and splayed open a journal, And in my childish handwriting I put everything down onto the paper until I felt like all that trapped air disappeared at once. It was as if I committed something sacrilege and cruel, For how dare I, a nothingness, create somethingness.

I was writing and writing and writing, Causing me to become something that was finding Into being someone who had made the most important discovery.

As my truth was spun onto the paper, Three journals later, holding the pen to the fourth, I take this moment to realize that life has changed so splendidly, so drastically, The person I once was has left me And told me “You should be on your way.”

I won’t stay silent.

Patched Up by Judy L.

I drew the piece "Patched Up" as a way for me to look back and reflect on everything I've been through, emphasizing my experiences after immigrating to America five years ago, which is symbolized by the different patches seen on the face. I also used stitches to patch them together because they reminded me of my cleft lip and palate, which were stitched up during my multiple surgeries. I intended to make the meaning behind it subjective, so there isn't exactly a definite interpretation of this work.

Sarani: “Protector”, Three Syllables, Six Letters, One Word

by Sarani P

For a majority of my life, I’ve carried the burden of an uncommon name. I would pick up Starbucks, the coffee bean aroma triumphed by the piercing Sharpie smell, only to give the same fake name, Sara, each time. ‘Sara’ held no meaning to me, but ‘Sarani’, meaning protector, the name my parents took months to choose, meant nothing but discomfiture to me.

After freshmen year on Zoom, the first day of sophomore year stood to be even more special. Tempering my excitement, I prepped for a day of smiling patiently as teachers mispronounce my name during roll call.

By sixth-period PE, I was more than ready to greet my teacher with the same understanding smile. I waited for my name while sitting on the cold gym floor, craning my neck to see my friends in the class

I called out, “Here!” as a jumbled and disjointed form of my name was hesitantly mumbled. I sheepishly chose not to correct my teacher. Despite my name’s meaning, I neglected to protect my identity.

Walking out to the field, I avoided goose droppings and gopher holes and squirmed as the dampness of the grass seeped into my shoes. My teacher turned around, his classic New Balance dad sneakers squeaked on the wet grass, and began an attempt to remember our names.

“Ava, Chandler, and Sar..ani?” I laughed with my friends as they tried to correct his pronunciation of my name.

My teacher threw his hands up in exasperation, as he exclaimed, “Ugh, can I just call you Sara or something?” I felt my patient smile fall into the goose droppings littering the grass, my teacher’s squeaky New Balances stomping over it.

Sara had no meaning to me but it now felt like a prison sentence. Was I such a pushover about my name that I would be addressed by the most white-washed version of it?

Like a rabbit caught in a wolf’s den, I gathered my courage and declared, “No, it’s Sarani, not Sara.”

My peers may not dread roll call or a Starbucks visit as I do, but my name has become something I take pride in. By always correcting that teacher and waiting until that barista gets my name right, I use my uncommon name to remind myself that my identity deserves the protection my name signifies.

Softness, Strength, and Sweets

by Christy L

I am not one to have a sweet tooth. I grew up with Chinese bok choy, fresh Thai basil, and pickled carrots and daikon as the staples of my Vietnamese family’s kitchen, our fridge always stocked with vegetables and meats to dethaw. We were a savory household – not a sweets one. On the rare occasion my mother brought home pastries – a gift from a friend or sale at the supermarket – she would tear a piece off, take a bite, and draw her face away, scrunching her nose and squinting at the offending baked good.

“It’s too sweet,” she would complain, and confiscate the pastries, suggesting we don’t eat it.

I adopted my mother’s palate, rarely eating sweets of any kind. “It’s not too sweet!” was always a compliment, rather than a criticism, and I never had to worry about cavities. So with my aversion to sweets, I was surprised by the allure that baking them had on me.

“Wait – was it a half cup or one cup of sugar?”

Bowls and measuring spoons sprawled across my friend’s kitchen table, while my hand poised above the electric mixer. My friend reached to her laptop, fingers disturbing the lightly floured keys, to check the recipe.

Despite the haphazard mess, baking days have become a tradition between me and my friends since middle school. Cupcakes, sugar cookies, cake pops – we’ve tried it all. Our afternoons and evenings filled with laughter at forgetting to read the recipe, agony at our indecisiveness of what to make next, and sated happiness as we snacked on the abundance of goods in the end.

I found joy in baking and the break it gave me. I always pushed myself to do well in school. With my parents’ high expectations, influenced by my high achieving older siblings, I internalized the belief that it was my duty to excel in school, that my self worth resided in my success.

I always asked myself: what do I need to do next? If I finished the class work early, I could get started on the homework so I have free time later. With free time later, I could start the assignment due next week so I have more time later. With more time later, I can start reviewing for the test. I prioritized what I believed would make life for future me easier without ever enjoying the time, burden after burden self-imposed.

Baking gave me a reprieve from the spiral of always needing to do more. The clear, simply laid-out steps of the recipes forced me to focus on the present. I couldn’t worry about making sure the skewer comes out without cake crumbs – I could only focus on making the batter first. Baking made me realize I didn’t need to continuously worry about the future, draining my mental health and wellbeing, and that I could simply enjoy the present.

But deeper than the peace recipes gave me, I found something else in baking, too. As we took turns kneading the dough for bread, or passed the piping bag to decorate the sugar cookies, I was surrounded by those I love. It was a place where I felt safe.

A community.

A community where our trust with each other means we are able to be vulnerable and honest about our emotions.

Growing up a child of immigrant parents, I didn’t understand how to be vulnerable. Like how my parents didn’t have a palate for sweets and baked goods, they didn’t have a practice of opening up. Immigrating from Vietnam after the aftermath of war, my parents became practical, straightforward people with one goal in mind: create a better life. They viewed the world through their black and white lens: how beneficial would this be to their family’s well being?

Why eat sweets when vegetables are healthier? There’s no nutrition in cakes or chocolate. Why remember the war when life is better now? The past is the past. Why talk about your feelings when it will only make you sad?

Be happy.

Vulnerability had no place in our home. I grew up not understanding my emotions, being confused why I would cry or be angry at the smallest thing, not knowing it was the tip of the iceberg of many repressed emotions. My parents didn’t understand, either.

But around the kitchen table, with my friends, I was able to open up and be vulnerable. I felt seen, and knowing that I wasn’t alone gave me the ability to breathe.

Taking care of your mental health means practicing vulnerability and honesty. Though baking provided the first avenue for me to be vulnerable, since then, I’ve learned to be open with others and myself about my feelings in other ways.

I started journaling, a place for me to focus on myself in the present. I realized sports also helped me be present, venting my frustrations or energy in the moment through running or hitting the tennis ball. I became comfortable reaching out to friends for help, finding spaces where I could vent about how I was truly feeling.

To embrace mental health in the Asian American community, we need to embrace vulnerability and build lasting trust with one another. Acknowledging our parents’ pain, and our own pain, is the only way we can heal from past wounds – over a plate of warm cookies, or not.

Welcome to America by Sabrina J.

Once in elementary school, some of the other students had convinced the teacher to put on the “Asian People Song”, riddled with racist stereotypes and caricatures, while they laughed, and I cowered in the corner. “We played the ‘White People Song’ as well. It’s not that deep.” I was told. But to me, it was. I felt ridiculed and ashamed for just being Asian, the only Asian in class, but nobody else seemed bothered.

This moment stuck with me, even now, as I spent nights lying awake to this memory. Since then, I built up a wall of self-criticism, anger and hatred for every aspect of my character, identity and abilities. But over time, I began to accept myself, and the fact I was Asian-American. Part of that journey was learning how to draw myself as distinctly Chinese, to embrace my features: the flared nose, wide face and “slanted” eyes.

The piece, Welcome to America, is about my struggle and pride in my identity after the influx of Asian-American hate. The bold white letters showcases the refusal to accept divisions and hatred, that it isn’t happening with phrases like, “EVERYTHING IS GOOD” and “WE ARE ALL UNITED”. My self-portrait looks straightforward, however, to dare others to feign ignorance. Underneath the white, hidden from plain view, is my anger about the injustice and my journey of my identity.

I will not cower in fear any longer. I am Asian and proud. Instead, I will take great strides and change the song.

Soul(Seoul) Walker

by Georgia N.