Lunchbox: Renewal (Vol. 1 Issue 3) - Spring 2022 by Lunchbox Zine

volume 1. is sue 3

STAFF DIRECTORS

J. FAITH MALICDEM MARIESKA LUZADA

DESIGN

HANNAH BRADEN (MANAGER) LAUREN ISHIKAWA (MANAGER) FAITH GUANGA KATSUMI STERLING ANNA BRENNER VISUAL MEDIA REBECCA CALVAR DELLIN ZHANG (MANAGER) NAOMI ASH (MANAGER) HAILEY BOCHETTE JENNIFER CHAN VINCE KUNAWICZ

EDITORIAL

AUDREY SILALAHI (MANAGER) SHRUTHI KRISHNAN (MANAGER) HANNAH NGUYEN COMMUNICATIONS KARENNA UMSCHEID MADDI CHUN (MANAGER) AUDREY CAI (MANAGER) CHARLIZE TUNGOL MARKETING QIYUE ZHANG (MANAGER) CHLOE CHEE (MANAGER) THERESE LABORDO NEEKA BOROUMANDI AVA SPARICO

CONTRIBUTORS Zoe Leonard Audrey Silalahi Rodrigo Mariano Carys Hirawady Ananya Dutta Katelyn Reddy Belle Tan Karenna Umscheid Aiya Faith Guanga Communications Team Jennifer Chan Shruthi Krishnan Chris Thach J. Faith Malicdem Marieska Luzada jehan ayesha Visual Art Team

Letters from the Co-Directors

Marieska Luzada & J. Faith Malicdem

很漂亮 Zoe Leonard

Jika Cinta Ditolak, Disko Bertindak: Revival of Indonesian Disco

Audrey Silalahi

Welcome Home Visual Media Team

Fil-Am Spider-Man Rodrigo Mariano

Food for Thought Carys Hirawady

Stretched Thin: A Bay Area Story Ananya Dutta

sakuma drops

A Pawikan’s Journey Belle Tan

Katelyn Reddy

Appropriation of Buddhist and Hindu Religious Practices 44 Karenna Umscheid

a hundred grains of rice Aiya

Words with a Cost

Faith Guanga

Lunchbox Renewed: a Collage Communications Team

Reimagining the Asian American Dream Jennifer Chan

Two R&B Artists to Listen to Right Now Shruthi Krishnan

I’ll Be Here Chris Thach

60 the commute home J. Faith Malicdem

moment of introspection pt. 2 Marieska Luzada

ASIA E-Board 2021-2022 jehan ayesha, Marieska Luzada, & the Visual Media Team

With a new year comes a fresh page. A fresh page that’s eager for words and doodles and blurbs and everything imaginable in one’s cranium. A fresh page with ears, excited to listen to what you have to say or write. A fresh page that’s patient, that will be there for whenever you are ready. As we approach a year since the beginning of Lunchbox, I’ve been reflecting on what renewal means to me. Lunchbox has gone through a series of trials and errors–thousands of times crumpling papers, and starting anew. Starting a brand new publication is scary, and it’s inevitable that mistakes will be made, sometimes even starting over. Renewal has taught me that it’s okay–sometimes we may fall back, but there’s always a way to move forward. Renewal has taught me that fresh pages were made to be filled with mistakes, and made to be scribbled across lines and beyond the margins. Thank you to ASIA and its E-Board for continuously supporting us, and for being my forever safe haven. Thank you to our managers and team members for continuing to be so hardworking, ambitious, and beyond creative. Lastly, thank you to Jo (my fellow co-director, dance partner, and dear friend) for always being there, and for continuing to be on this journey with me. This has been one hell of a year for Lunchbox, and I’m so grateful for the mistakes that I’ve made. I hope you enjoy the stories of renewal these contributors have to share, and remember to continue celebrating the work of Asian creatives.

- Marieska Luzada

The release of Lunchbox: Renewal marks the one year anniversary of the publication’s beginnings. In the past year, it has been a remarkable pleasure to watch Lunchbox grow from a seed of an idea to an outpour of stories in one of the most glorious tangible forms: 8.5 x 5.5 inch glossy paper. There is an abundant pool of stories and experiences in the Asian community at Emerson – ones that defy the pressure to parallel a single story of tradition and modernity, an overwhelmingly common theme in the presence of Asian people in American media. The question of tradition vs. modernity remains the root of analysis in me and Marieska’s Asian American Literature class. Because of the course as a whole, I’ve grown to realize the value of an Asian-run zine featuring Asian work: through publications like Lunchbox, the single story of Asians in America is slowly being dismantled. Our stories are renewed. I’d like to thank our contributors and the Lunchbox team for your trust, patience, and determination to shape Renewal into what it is today. My heart goes out to jay, Vince, Katelyn, and Hannah – there would be no Lunchbox without ASIA. Thank you to Prof. Rani Neutill for guiding me through the realm of Asian literature. My highest regards belong to my sister, Marieska Luzada – you sure know how to run a darn good publication!

- J. Faith Malicdem

新年快樂 By Zoe Leonard

Happy New Year! It’s time to rip my skin off. This is my chance to become brand new. It’s the tiger year, but I’ll make like a snake and shed my skin. The man-sized fetus I emerge in are all lucky colors: RED, YELLOW, SLIME! My sixth grade drama teacher asked me what my superpower would be. I said I wanted the powers of a druid. What’s that, she asked? Oh, you know…the powers…of a druid…from World of Warcraft, I stutter, and avoid eye contact, refusing to mention the part about shapeshifting into animals. Well, she said she wanted the power to shed her skin and emerge smooth and blemish free. As a middle-aged woman of course she’d say that. As a mixed-raced person, I want another go at the lottery. Give me another dip in the gene pool, so when a random lady looks at your naked body in the mirror while you are recovering from almost fainting in the hot springs, she won’t say 很漂亮, are you Taiwanese? She’ll just know. And instead of looking at my mom, and saying, you must look like your father, she’ll say, oh, I see it now! It’s all in the eyes. Yeah, the eyes that my mixed-raced best friend from high school wanted to surgically widen. I could have dropped to my knees and wailed, don’t you know what those eyes mean? Those eyes that are your mother’s, and your grandmother’s. It’s fine, do what you want. Cut up your eyes. I want to rip my skin off, sometimes—but being born again this year would make me a tiger, which is good but not better than a dragon, which is me. And this skin is me, it matches my dad’s. This hair is me, it’s like my mom’s. The jade around my neck is me, it’s from my grandmother. How did the cops know to write ASIAN/UNKNOWN on the police report when I lost my wallet? They saw my name on my ID—the hidden one that shows up on legal documents, Tsi-Yu. I don’t need to say anything. I don’t need to prove anything. I can be anything I want to be. This is why I like video games. Look, I just shapeshifted into a bear, and I can turn into a bird, too. During Lunar New Year, it’s the shapeshifting druids of Moonglade that throw a party and sell you fireworks. In World of Warcraft, I am a night elf, and that’s what I’m going to write in the race box next time I have to fill out a form.

AUDREY SILALAHI

Before Jakarta had its rows of bars and clubs in South Jakarta, it had Tanamur. The year was 1970. The fall of the Orde Baru regime was still fresh. Soekarno had just been impeached after a 21-year old rule as Indonesia’s first president. Jakarta was a blank slate. Ali Sadikin, Jakarta’s governor at the time, wanted the city to turn itself into its own money-churning factory. The lack of restrictions post Soekarno’s-fall and Sadikin’s aspirations made for a more freeing environment for the youth. On Nov. 12, 1970, Ahmad Fahmy Alfady, an Indonesian-Arabic artist and activist, held Tanamur’s first-ever opening night. Alfady just opened the first discotheque in all of Southeast Asia. This was going to take Southeast Asia’s music and entertainment scene by storm, and begin the golden age of disco in Indonesia. In the 1980s, Tanamur was its own egalitarian madhouse.

It is not possible to discuss the golden age of disco in Indonesia without mentioning Tanamur. Abbreviated from Tanah Abang Timur, Tanamur was its own untamable and uncontrollable beast. With an exterior comparable to the current beach clubs spread throughout Bali, Tanamur made for a crowd magnet from the who’s-who of Jakarta. The spread of land was vast with different mezzanine levels and outdoor areas. It not only introduced nightlife culture to Jakarta, but was a gateway to the assimilation of Western pop culture in Indonesia. This was Jakarta’s first taste of globalization. In Jakarta in the 1980s, disco kids were those considered as ‘hipsters’. Thus,

Boogie and city pop became the alternative. When Tanamur first opened, Indonesian music was banned. There was a clear binary between Indonesian disco music and songs played in clubs. Fariz RM, a disco legend in Indonesia, says to Vice, “They played western songs in clubs and then they’d go home and listen to Chrisye or Guruh.” It is only now that older disco music is really appreciated among the youth— it is not absurd nor odd to hear songs by Iwan Fals or Chaseiro in nightclubs or bars. The re-emergence of city pop and boogie in Indonesia has been a long time coming. Indonesia’s first introduction of disco were the Beatles, then adapted to Indonesian with Melayu influence by Koes Plus. To this day, Koes Plus still remains as canonized icons in the Indonesian music industry, but their music was not music to dance to. It was artists like Guruh Soekarno Putra, Chrisye, Fariz RM, Chaseiro, Denny Malik and many more that made Indonesian music fun again. The celebration of culture through music. With the rise of Diskoria Selekta in 2018, the emergence of culture celebration through music is palpable among Indonesia’s youth. Gone are the days of exclusively playing Western songs in nightclubs and bars. Chrisye and Guruh Soekarno Putra are cool again. Artists like R.A.N. and Iwa K with their hip hop influence are back to topping Indonesian charts. What were considered tacky in 2012 are now camp-y and alternative. As trend-forecaster Sean Monahan would say: There has been a vibe shift.

Jakarta’s nightlife is a world of its own. It is impossible to completely experience the city’s nightlife culture without visiting its many live music bars. From there, many artists including Lalahuta have emerged and made it into mainstream radio. Festivals like Java Jazz Festival, one of the largest Jazz festivals in the world and arguably in the southern hemisphere, as well as Djakarta Warehouse Project, the largest dance music festival in Asia have been consistently holding multiple day-long festivals annually pre-pandemic. Pesta Remaja by Remaja Nusantra: Celebrating wastra and music Remaja Nusantara is a movement founded by Swara Gembira, an annual theatrical performance that features artists from all over Indonesia. Remaja Nusantara’s movement focuses on the preservation of culture through fashion, specifically through the use of traditional textile in everyday life. On Jan. 30 of this year, Remaja Nusantara held a social event in Jakarta they called, “Pesta Remaja”. This event was made for everyone in South Jakarta’s famous club, Lucy In The Sky, featuring Indonesian DJs playing music by various Indonesian artists from different eras. The rule was simple: Wear wastra, or traditional Indonesian textile. Pesta Remaja is only one among many events organized by young people all over Indonesia as a way to celebrate the fusion of tradition and pop culture. Not only is this the definite impact of nostalgia, but an attempt of centering pop culture around Indonesian, Asian, and Southeast Asian culture instead of the West. If in the 1980s, Tanamur visitors could not dance to Chrisye, in 2022, we know all the words.

Her e ar e 10 songs by Indonesian musicians for you to listen (and dance) to: “Pemuda” by Chaseiro “Jalan-Jalan Sore” by Denny Malik “Juwita” by Chrisye “Serenata Jiwa Lara” by Diskoria, Dian Sastrowardoyo “Gelora Asmara” by Groove Bandit “Dansa Yok Dansa” by New Rollies “Hip Hip Hura” by Chrisye “Selangkah Ke Seberang” by Fariz RM “Dia” by Sheila Majid “Surat Cinta” by Vina Panduwinata

We’ve all traveled a distance to Boston, leaving behind families and friends in pursuit of our ambitions. However, although we are physically distant from our homes, home is also something that can be cultivated in our lives every day. And sometimes, we find our homes in what brings us most joy.

photos by jennifer chan

Sophia Cheung places her home in the comfort of art. Cinema and photography are her medium to express identity and capture what she values in the world around her.

Sophia Cheung

Karenna Umscheid Karenna’s pictures were taken in Savin Hill, the closest we could find to a “woodsy” area. Being from the Pacific Northwest, Karenna realizes she took nature for granted. The city can be claustrophobic with little room to breathe, so escaping to the woods reminds Karenna of her home back in Oregon. Although the nature looks quite different than what she’s used to, the freeing feeling is still the same.

photos by hailey bochette

Linda Tang

Linda chose to have her pictures taken in Chinatown because they bring her childhood memories. Being from China, she frequently visits for the atmosphere and the food. Boba reminds her of when she would go out with her mom on weekends. Together, they would drink boba and walk in the city square at night to watch people with their cute dogs. And oranges bring good luck in China!

Sophie Severs

Sophie says her room reminds her of home because of all the music elements surrounding her. She connects with a lot of her life through music, so being surrounded by it makes her feel at home, no matter where she is. Music comforts her because you don’t have to look a certain way to like or play music.

photos by hailey bochette

Yuchen Dong

photos by dellin zhang

Marieska Luzada I chose to photograph Marieska, our Lunchbox co-manager and ASIA co-communications chair, during one of the ASIA general meetings. I know that for her, for myself, and I assume everyone else who attends these meetings, it’s a relief to have this time at the end of the week to relax, converse, and have fun.

photos by vince kunawicz

Lacey Burns

“Studio spaces are so special to me because they’re the only places where I feel fully immersed in my work. I can go to the library or campus center or common room to focus on academic assignments but none of those places are particularly connected to what I’m working on, they just happen to be a good environment to get things done. Art-making is so different from my academic studies; the studio itself is so intrinsically connected to the art I create. They take on a very home-y and comforting atmosphere in my routine.”

photos by naomi ash

Fil-Am Spider-Man

Rodrigo Mariano

In 2002, Matt Gatchalian, a four-year-old FilipinoAmerican, was dragged to a theater in rural Connecticut by his parents. At the time, the theatrical experience was bigger than it had ever been, albeit with broken seats and watered-down soda machines. In a damaged world, it was also the easiest way to escape. In that auditorium the lights dim to the visual splendor of web-slinging, goblin gliders, and pumpkin bombs; To the record books, Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man was the biggest movie of the year. To Matt, it was the movie that changed his life. Matt is the son of two immigrants, Aida and Bong Gatchalian. Coming from Luzon, the biggest island in the Philippines, during the early 1990s, our family split themselves into groups. Aida, Elma, and my mom found a home in Southeastern Connecticut, while the remaining five siblings went to Chicago or stayed in the Philippines. The middle sister married Bong’s brother, and Aida fell in love with Bong. Matt was born in 1998. I wouldn’t be born until three years later. After the visit, his parents raved about the film. “My parents’ enthusiasm for the hero rubbed off on me,” Matt recalls. “They were captivated by the performances and Tobey Maguire.” But above all that, it was how American it felt. What does “American” mean to an immigrant, less than a year after two planes crashed into the World Trade Center? In this case, an identitystruck outsider struggling to make ends meet saving the greatest city in the world felt like something to strive towards. Grounded and relatable. Aida also thought Maguire looked like her brother Ming Ming. Going forward, a love for Spider-Man was always prevalent in the family. (A picture of a young Matt posing next to a costumed Spider-Man at Universal comes to mind.) The recurrence always stood out among other

pastimes—going to mass on Sundays, watching The Filipino Channel (TFC), singing karaoke, making pancit, and ube for friends and family. But when it came to movies, “My mom is a very casual movie watcher. She thinks Adam Sandler’s Murder Mystery is a masterpiece… If a movie makes her feel good, it makes her feel good. Those original movies made her feel good.” As a nine-year-old, Matt was disappointed that Spider-Man 3 would be the last one with Tobey Maguire. He considered Maguire’s Peter Parker to be an idol of his, but it wouldn’t be long until someone else took the mantle. He remembers poking his mom during the screening, “[Sandman] looks like Uncle Taniel.” Reacting defensively, Matt backtracked, “Hindi naman.” When Andrew Garfield was cast in The Amazing Spider-Man, Matt showed his mom. “Yung gwapo sa Facebook? Yung magaling umarte?” To her, it was a good choice. During our grandma’s first death anniversary in Chicago, ten of us cousins went to see the movie to escape from the family. We had to split up because the theater was so crowded. In 2014, Matt and I saw The Amazing Spider-Man 2 in 3D. It was also the first time I hung out with a girl named Julianna outside of school. At the moment of this writing, we’re dating. Years later, Tom Holland’s Spider-Man wouldn’t connect with Aida. “My mom did not enjoy Captain America: Civil War. She was so lost… They watched it because Spider-Man was there, but halfway through she was falling asleep.” I remember showing Matt the trailer for Civil War at a New London pizza joint. The excitement was palpable. But that wasn’t something that translated all too well with the family he often shared this love with. I for one was ecstatic to see a person my age on the screen. I aced an algebra test the same day Peter Parker did. Matt ended up watching SpiderMan: Homecoming in the Philippines, near Manila in Cogeo Village. The title of the movie stood out for that reason. He pestered Kyla, our eight-year-old cousin,

that Spider-Man’s best friend, Ned Leeds, looked just like him. Wait, Spider-Man’s best friend looked just like him. It took him a while to process. After all, he was in the Philippines. Ned Leeds, Spider-Man’s best friend, looked like everyone he saw on a daily basis. Jacob Batalon was born in 1996, the son of two Filipino immigrants, in Honolulu, HI, on the coast of Oahu’s south shore. His mother, Eva Andres, came to the United States from Pangasinan, in the Ilocos region of Luzon. Taking notice of his singing skills, Andres encouraged Batalon, who ultimately went to Hollywood. It wouldn’t be long until The Philippine Star, the country’s most successful print publication, had Batalon plastered on the front page. The headline—“Spidey’s Best Friend is a Pinoy.” In Batalon’s words, “Ned [Leeds] is very sweet and very genuine. You could even say that he’s somewhat nerdy. He loves technology, he’s super-duper smart… it’s cool having Spider-Man as his best friend.” There is a scene in Spider-Man: Homecoming where Peter sneaks into Ned’s house to find him building a LEGO Death Star. If that’s not Matt, I don’t know who is. When Matt first heard that Tobey Maguire was coming back, he told his mom that they had to watch the new Spider-Man. She didn’t really care. “This Spider-Man will be different. There is a surprise.” “Yung lumat. Babalik.” She guessed it. It’s been 20 years since they watched Spider-Man in the theater for the first time. This was important to Matt. It felt important to all of them. Aida recorded Matt’s reaction in the theater when Alfred Molina’s Doctor Octopus first appeared in No Way Home, sparring with Tom Holland’s Peter Parker, to the dismay of her son. They were all looking forward to Andrew Garfield and Tobey Maguire’s return at this point, after all, it was Hollywood’s worst kept secret. Five minutes and forty-seven seconds. That’s how long the scene is, the one where Andrew Garfield and Tobey Maguire enter the universe against a multigenerational

Spider-Man rogues gallery. The scene that every fan, audience, and their mother was looking forward to. But something stood out to Matt right away. But not only Matt, but his family as well. Not only his family, but the millions of Filipino and Filipino-Americans who were sitting in auditoriums all over the world. I know it stood out to me. Push-in to Ned’s Lola’s apartment. Chairs from the ‘80s, flower walls, money plants, a tablecloth covered with plastic (so it won’t get dirty), crucifixes, displays of Santo Nino, and a painting of Kalabaw on a farm. This list is endless. Before I can catch up with my own thoughts, Ned takes Doctor Strange’s sling ring and opens a portal. Andrew Garfield comes out, but I’m still occupied with the location. “Salamangkero!” Ned’s Lola throws a pillow at Andrew Garfield and screams in shock. Lola dressed in a duster, not unlike my own. Zendaya then throws a piece of pandesal at Garfield. From then on, Lola proceeds to interweave her cleaning needs in one of the most monumental scenes in film history. “Ned sabnihin mo diyan sa mamang yan na alisin ang agiw sa sulok.” “Ikaw ha, nagkalat ka na naman. Linisin mo lahat ng mga basura mo dito. At ikaw naman, alam mo naman na gusto ko na itong bahay natin maayos pero tignan mo, dumi dito, dumi doon.” Pure Tagalog, no subtitles. Sure, Tobey and Andrew have arrived. But I was laughing too hard to focus, to the distraction of the confused rural Connecticut audience that surrounded me. I never understood or spoke Tagalog, but what makes this alienating conversation different from anything at home. There was a sense of pride there, laughing in that theater, in a way that only myself and other Filipinos around the world could. “Sorry Lola,” Andrew Garfield says after shooting his webs across the dining room table. It was something unlike anything I’ve felt watching a superhero film. Here

we are, welcoming Tobey and Andrew to the MCU, all under the roof of Ned’s stern and concerned Lola. For Matt, it felt like a justification of his family’s love for the franchise. In a way, it’s because of this love that he always felt it could end up here. Among others, it was also an unabashed leap in representation for Filipinos in American media, one that was never advertised for the novelty of it all. Including and keeping Ned’s Lola as a pivotal part of the scene, without any restraint or shame in Filipino culture, is a crucial step forward in retaining what makes cultural differences unique and special rather than reinforcing the cultural stereotypes that American media has often boxed minority groups into. Representation in the biggest franchise in the world, though small, felt voluminous. Afterwards, Matt’s family buzzed about the scene, curious of the actress Mary Rivera, talking about it to their siblings back in the Philippines. It was a highlight for all of us, a point of discussion when we went over to our cousin’s for New Years. Someone said that Tobey looked like Uncle Steve, the one white uncle in the family. “Lola” was trending on Twitter the weekend No Way Home came out, filled with Filipinos gushing about the scene and their experience with it. Artist and animator Benjamin Lee DeGuzman (Spider-Man 3, Call of Duty: Black Ops IV) took the prompt a step further, creating a series of comic book variants titled “The Further Adventures of Ned’s Lola.” Covers included Lola stopping the Green Goblin with a rosary, using the Venom symbiote as dinuguan, and doing the “Electric Slide” at a party alongside Electro. I reached out to the Filipino-American artist to ask what compelled him to make these. “First and foremost, it’s because I finally saw myself in a superhero film,” DeGuzman said. “I draw geeky things all the time, but it was a huge priority for me to celebrate Ned and his Lola in some way. I was raised in

a house like Ned’s. His Lola reminded me of my own… It’s like I’m partially drawing me and my grandma.” There is a scene in Spider-Man: No Way Home that may allude to why we gravitate towards Spider-Man so much, why minorities who feel underrepresented or unseen relate to Peter Parker, Miles Morales, or any Spider-Man. As Electro gives up his fight, he says to Peter, “You’re from Queens. You got that suit. You help a lot of poor people.” He continues by saying he just thought Peter would be black. The idea of Spider-Man is the idea of the everyman. It always has been. Creator Stan Lee once said, “What I like about the costume is that anybody reading Spider-Man in any part of the world can imagine that they themselves are under the costume. And that’s a good thing.” That’s what puts the “man” in Spider-Man. While animating for a school project a few years ago, Matt, surrounded by his LEGO Star Wars displays, heard his mom open the door. On his monitor, she is not surprised at all, he was making a model of SpiderMan. “You know, you’ve always liked Spider-Man.” To him, that felt like a no-brainer. She proceeded to remind him of a memory he’d forgotten. In the Summer of 2004, Aida and Bong brought Matt to Six Flags. He couldn’t ride many of the attractions yet, so they took him to a magic show. There was a small crowd of families gathered at the pavilion, but once the show started, it was not long until they needed a volunteer. Knowing Matthew was nervous, his mom offered him up in a way that was noticeably nonchalant. Standing in front of the crowd, the magician asked six-yearold Matt who he was. Masking his identity, he said, “I’m Spider-Man.” Art by: Benjamin Lee DeGuzman

These photos are meant to represent the duality of growing up in America while staying in touch with your cultural background. I specifically chose to depict this through food, combining foods that are typically “American” with foods that are typically Asian. It can be difficult navigating the line between two cultural identities and food is often a source of familiarity and comfort whenever I start to feel disconnected from either side.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

by Carys Hirawady

Str etched Thin: A Bay Ar ea Story

by Ananya Dutta

TW: Brief mention of suicide, eating disorders, and depression. “If I am not making money, I am worth nothing to this country.” The minute I said those words, I regretted them. Not because they were untrue, but because the minute they left my mouth they became real. The weight of this revelation floated in the air for a bit and settled on my shoulders, crushing me. I grew up in Northern California, which I like to describe as a collection of little treasures. Home to the world’s finest wine counties, beautiful beaches, cutting-edge innovation, and the iconic Golden Gate Bridge— NorCal is also known for gentrification, insanely high rent, mind-numbing traffic, and one of the worst educational stress crises in the nation. The intense pressure felt in Bay Area schools is all too familiar. Having attended California public schools from kindergarten to junior year of high school, I had a front row ticket to the failings of our educational system. It’s important to note that not everyone from the Bay had the same experience as I did. White people are a minority in Fremont, the town I’m from. The total minority enrollment in the high school I attended was 88%. Cultural values and connection were heavily encouraged. Although we were all from different parts of Asia, there was a mutual understanding and respect between communities for the most part. Most parents were fresh off the boat or first-generation immigrants; this further strengthened our connection to culture.

Along with the culture came negative aspects as well. Silicon Valley kids grew up bearing the burdens of our parents. Most of our parents escaped poverty and coped with the burdens of racism through education. The first generation Asian-American need to excel ended up nurturing a culture of workaholism in our schools. In high school, our popularity and respect around the school traced directly back to the amount of APs you were taking. Bonus points if you had an SAT score above 1500— which is more common than you’d think. Students were expected to take part in at least 4 APs, 2 extracurricular activities, start a nonprofit, and get a 4.0 starting at the age of 14. This toxicity is more than just harmful; it’s deadly. Sadly, far too many students respond by taking their own lives. The shame of disappointing their parents was too much to handle. If you took a look at my grades from when I was younger, you likely would’ve concluded that I was a mediocre student. Since 5th grade, my transcript became littered with B’s and C’s… and perhaps the occasional A., almost every teacher I encountered had the same thing to say to my parents at those dreaded conferences: “She’s smart. She just needs to work a little harder.” Struggling with symptoms of unmedicated ADHD, a rapidly developing eating disorder, and depression meant I was working hard, but I just couldn’t seem to get it right. My assignments were always turned in late or missing and I either zoned out or talked too much during class. This had a detrimental effect on my education. After transferring schools, I was in a much better place since a lot of the pressure was taken off of my shoulders. I was able to find a way to focus and started getting all As. When I graduated and made plans to move to the East Coast for school, I thought to myself: thank god, I’m finally free. I was wrong.

My first semester of college was possibly one of the best of my educational career. I enjoyed every single one of my classes. For the first time, I felt like I was finally speaking the same language as my peers. I actively participated in all my classes and by the end of the semester, I found out that I made the Dean’s List for my grades. On top of this, I also jump-started my professional career and joined the Asian alliance at my school. But it wasn’t enough. Despite how much I padded my resume, the happiness I got from my success was limited. I realized that I had brought a piece of home with me to the East Coast. I started comparing myself to the students not just from the Bay Area, but others around me as well. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. This was high school all over again. My best, when compared to others, was mediocre. As a friend put it, “When you’re up against white kids who have generations of wealth and connections… who wouldn’t feel the need to compete?” My answer to this was to work harder. If I wasn’t overwhelmed, I wasn’t doing enough. That piece of home I brought with me was the pressure that had been instilled in me from the seventh grade. Culture has a funny way of sticking with you despite the distance between you and the source. My culture taught me that hard work to the point of burnout was the only way to gain respect from those around me. At this point in my life, I can recognize this inclination of mine as a byproduct of the hyper-capitalist and racially biased society we live in. By holding myself to the standards set by this society, I will never feel like I am enough, no matter what I accomplish. I still stand by the statement that I opened with: if I am not making money, I am worth nothing to this country. At the same time, I hold another statement to be true as well: my worth could never truly be determined through an unattainable standard set by an unfair system.

Sakuma Drops Candy Cans

Katelyn Reddy

The first time I went to C-Mart was the first time I saw Sakuma Drops. Tiny, colorful cans framed the entry and cashier booths. The cans’ wrappers showed small, hard candies paired with fruits; the candies’ colors corresponded to their flavor and their shapes were either circular or rectangular. At the time, I didn’t end up buying any cans–I just remembered the bright colors and cute designs. Immediately, they were something I wanted to draw. Apparently, they’re iconic in Japan and have been sold since the Meji period of 1908. The tiny tin cans are also considered collectible items due to the frequent changes of the detailed designs on the cans’ wrapper. In America, Sakuma Drops aren’t a mainstream cultural item. However, fans of Studio Ghibli may recognize it from Grave of the Fireflies (1988), as it was a significant motif in the film. To portray the two contrasting, situational perceptions from the East and West on these candies, I thought the genre of pop art would be the best way to express it. Additionally, I was specifically inspired by Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans (1962) and The Marilyn Diptych (1962) paintings. The purpose of pop art––themes and conventions that are included within the pop art movement–– appropriately compliment the sentiment I’m trying to portray. Although for the audience, the choice of pop art may affect one’s perception. Through an Eastern lens, the bright colors and repetitiveness could emphasize its significance and acknowledge its cultural impact or influence. Through a Western lens, the ‘commonplace’ items are brought into the spotlight and could be considered a playful imitation or character. Though both would unconsciously recognize that there is an intent–as pop art often stimulates– to solidify the ability to utilize any source as art. Additionally, the themes of consumerism and commercialization should be identifiable.

A Pawikan’s Journey Belle Tan

“Grab that pawikan,” a man calls out to another from across the beach as he puts a net around a sea turtle, “She’s getting away.” A man in a black cap runs as fast as he can and holds Kia in his hands as she hobbles hurriedly to the open sea. His hands slip off as he tries to clasp on to her wet, hard shell. “Tulong! Tulong! I need a net. Ang bigat niya,” the man in the cap calls out. Kia continues to move through the sand, trying to withstand the pain, as the man attempts to get his hand on her shell. “Wait!” Another man yells as he ties the net quickly onto another pawikan. “I’m almost done.” Kia continues to use her flippers to push herself forward towards the sea. The man yells, “Malapit na siya sa dagat!” The man finishes tying the net around another pawikan. The man in the cap waves his hand up high and runs after her. He clasps her shell. “Gotcha.” Kia turns her head and bites his hand. “Ah!” The other man runs towards Kia and continues to catch her. A rush of water hits the beach’s surface, pulling Kia back into the sea. The man clenches his fist and kicks the sand in the air. ***

Under the deep blue sea, Kia paddles her flippers with all her might as all the colorful fishes pass by her. It was nice to be back in the ocean after being tied down on the beach under the scorching sun. She’s lucky, yet, she knows she is not safe— not even in her own home. She follows the white streaks created by the sunlight. Kia moves upwards and bobs her head up to get some fresh air. The sun slowly says goodbye as it becomes dusk. Not so far away, she sees white sand. She bobs her head back down, diving into the water. She continues to push herself forward, her blood trickling into the water. The white light fades, as the water turns into a midnight blue color. Unaware of her surroundings, scared and unsure, Kia heads straight, turning her head left and right from time to time, cautious of her surroundings. I’m almost there. I’m almost there. I can do this. Soon she feels the white sand softly brush over her right flipper. The undercurrents give her a hand, gently pushing her back to the surface as she glides on the sand. Slowly, she hobbles away from the ocean and digs a hole. She shuffles into the hole, making herself comfortable. She sighs with both relief and fear. Kia, the majestic green creature of the ocean,closes her eyes, wondering if she will make it through the night, if her babies are okay. *** As the daylight broke out, Eleanor and her husband walked on the sand, holding hands with one another. As they drew closer to the water, Eleanor saw Kia lying on the sand. Eleanor had never seen a pawikan before. She lets go of her husband’s hand and points to the side of the beach, where Kia is lying down. She walks closer and closer. She clasps her

hand to her mouth. In pictures, pawikans had this beautiful patterned shell and skin with a mixture of brown and light green, their skin smooth and delicate with square shapes that surround their body, almost mimicking their shells’ pattern. A God-given beauty on the endangered list. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Up close, the hard and protective shell had a bunch of scratches. Her left and right front flippers, marked with thick red lines as if someone had held her as a hostage, and her hind flippers, her left one, in particular, bore a long deep cut; one of many. She looks down at the sand and sees some traces of dark red blood near her spot. She clasps her hands to her mouth, as her stomach knots with one another. Under her breath, she whispers, “How did this happen? Who did this?” “A-A-A-Angelo… You might want to come here,” she says as he sets a picnic blanket on the sand. He drops the bag he is carrying and jogs to Eleanor. “Bakit?” He looks at Kia, her eyes still closed. As he lays a finger on her shell, her huge black eyes open, and fills with fear and anger. I don’t need these people. I’m fine on my own. Kia moves closer towards them, as they take one step backward. Eleanor sees the daggers in Kia’s eyes. “Ellie…I’m just going to circle around it.” He moves slowly away from Kia’s eye line and towards the side. He mouths, “distract it.” Eleanor moves one step back and Kia follows her. When Kia moves forward she makes a loud metallic scream as her hind leg accidentally grazes on a rock hidden underneath the coarse sand. She puts her head down. As Eleanor moves forward, Kia doesn’t move. Angelo then moves towards Kia’s eye line, so she knows that he isn’t sneaking up on her. He talks

softly to her, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” At first, she flinches, her eyes widen, and she whines when Angelo touches her. What does this man want from me? Stay away. Stay away. As he continues to evaluate her, she relaxes a bit more, yet, she’s still on edge as she squirms on the sand. “Is it okay?” “Her cut grew deeper. She needs care and quick,” he picks up his phone and dials the animal hospital, “If she won’t she might lose the babies.” Once the ambulance arrives, four veterinarians wearing dark green jackets arrive and bring out the stretcher. When they approach Kia, automatically, she goes back into defense mode, overwhelmed by everyone surrounding her. All she wants is peace and quiet. She doesn’t want these people’s help. “She’s pretty feisty,” Dr. De Leon says. “Well, she’s a mama,” Angelo replies. “Will you be able to bring her to the hospital? Will she give birth there?” Eleanor asks. Dr. De Leon, Eleanor, and Angelo look at the three other veterinarians trying to approach her. Kia snaps at one of them, trying to bite off their finger. Dr. De Leon looks at Eleanor, “Doesn’t look like it.” He observes Kia and the little burrow she created on the sand. “Luckily, we came prepared. Anyways, by the site she made, it seems like she’s going to give birth soon. But first, I think we have to figure out how to approach her.” He puts his hand to his temple and looks at Angelo, “Kuya Gelo, can you go near her again.” “I can try.” Angelo walks over to the other vets and waves them away. As he goes closer to her, he says, “it’s just me, it’s just me,” and kneels on the ground, patting her back. Angelo looks at Dr. De Leon, and he nods his head. On the sand, Dr. De Leon

sets down a white medical box and pushes it in his direction. Angelo opens the box and disinfects the wound on her hind flipper and applies a gauge on top of it. As he examines her to make sure it’s okay, he notices a slight cut within her skin. “Ellie, can you please help me? I need you to help me calm her down. This doesn’t look good.” Angelo whispers to Kia, “Ellie will take care of you too, don’t worry,” he says as he gently pats her shell. Eleanor moves to the other side of Kia, “What happened?” He looks at Eleanor, “There’s a slice on her skin, and it’s near the shell. It’s not that deep, but it will hurt.” “You’ll be okay,” Eleanor tells Kia. She looks into her eyes and sees her black eyes turn glassy, a tear dripping down her face. She yelps once more. “We’re almost there,” Angelo says as he treats her wound. “And….we’re done. There you go, girl.” Kia takes a deep sigh. Maybe I’ll make it after all. Maybe things will get better from here. Maybe they’re okay, just maybe. Eleanor furrows her eyebrows and looks at Angelo and Dr. De Leon, “Do you know what happened to her?” Dr. De Leon looks at Angelo, “Kuya Gelo?” “I’m not exactly sure. She could have scraped herself, although, based on these red marks on her flippers, she could have been poached. She’s lucky she got out and that the injuries are minor.” “And that she still managed to carry the babies,” Dr. De Leon chimes in. “Did they know she was pregnant?” “Probably not.” “From the cut, they probably wanted her shell,” Angelo says, “if they knew, they probably would’ve waited until the hatchlings were born, that way they would have taken both her shell and the babies.” He

takes his wife’s hands, “But, we can never be too sure.” Kia begins to wiggle herself on the sand, pushing her hind legs as she moves her body a bit upward. “Ellie, it’s time. I think that’s our cue.” Angelo begins to stand up, removing the sand from his shorts, picking up the picnic blanket and medical kit. He hands the kit to Dr. De Leon, “Thank you.” He nods back at Angelo and he and the other vets head back to the ambulance. “W-Will she be okay?” Eleanor asks. Angelo pulls his wife closer to his chest, “We can only hope. I do hope she does.” Eleanor and Angelo look back at her and smile. *** After laying her eggs, Kia looks at them. Six perfect round eggs. Her precious hatchlings. Her perfect little everythings. She smiles. For a couple of minutes, she stares at them, taking it all in, knowing that this will be the first and last time. Tears well up in her eyes as she moves back towards the ocean, knowing that she will never get to know them, that she will never know what will happen. There will always be a question mark lingering in her heart and mind, wondering what the answer might be. No matter how many scenarios she may want to envision, this question may remain unanswered. Still, she prays that they’ll never experience the pain she has, that things will get better for both of them—a mother’s wish. Although, if things go south and the cycle of pain and trauma continues to haunt them for the rest of their lives, at least she knows that there is some goodness in this world. It turns out, they’re not too bad after all.

Appropriation of Buddhist and Hindu Religious Practices By Karenna Umscheid Cultural appropriation is not new. White society is constantly appropriating Black culture and profiting off of it. The attitude of white, American society is rooted in colonialism. Since deciding that they have the right to colonize and decimate any land they choose, colonizers have continued to steal the cultures and traditions of those people as well. And after decades of violent discrimination against Asian people, American society has decided to adopt parts of Asian culture to appropriate and take credit for. This includes the fox eye trend, Anime, and Asian religions. White women on TikTok make videos showing viewers how to manifest money, love, and success. They charge extra money for their one-on-one services, detailed instructions on how to claim certain energies, hailing themselves as “witchtok.” On Instagram and YouTube, white women lead yoga classes. White celebrities host meditation sessions and repost photos of the Dalai Lama. The white commodification of Buddhist and Hindu religious practices is highly offensive and completely goes against the actual teaching of those religions. Though Buddhism and Hinduism are treated with disdain by foreigners, those same people love to exploit the aesthetic of it for profit or status. Meditating was seen as weird until suddenly white celebrities could find ways to profit off of it, and not at all credit the religions it is based in. In Thailand, visitors take photos pretending to pray in front of Buddhist temples, treating them as tourist attractions

instead of sacred locations. Desiring material goods is against the teachings of Buddhism, yet TikTok users post advice on manifesting money and other material goods. This is not to say that people who aren’t Buddhist or Hindu can’t practice manifestation and other aspects of it, but to co-opt it as your own is very problematic. It is harmful to ignore the Buddhist and Hindu roots of these traditions, and instead claim them as a new brand of “witchiness.” When practicing or sharing manifestation and other practices that originated from Buddhism and Hinduism, it is crucial to understand they are Buddhist and Hindu practices. American society treats Western religion as highly sacred, making Churches tax-exempt and keeping Christian ideals widely recognized and respected. But when it comes to Asian religions, American society will ridicule and ignore them until they suddenly find a way to benefit from it. Manifestation and meditation are both healthy, beneficial practices when done respectfully. And before they were commodified by TikTok and American celebrity culture, they were parts of Buddhism and Hinduism. The way they have been appropriated is abhorrent and completely goes against the teachings of the religions. This is a slow erasure of sacred practices that opens it up to mockery because of how incorrectly they are handled. Respect for Buddhism and Hinduism is lost in the way white people have claimed it and profited off of it. It is far more difficult for non-Buddhists and Hindus to understand the religions as something genuine, and separate from a greedy white culture. These religions build the culture of the places they originate from.

a hundred grains of rice by Aiya

in me are a thousand words a million questions unspoken a dozen unexplored paths a zillion tokens, uncashed each has the same question the same direction, motion forward, how, when all I can do is sort options rewrite the outlines of chapters carefully planned deconstructed

all I can do is count the change in my hands discard labels crave transitions and remember what’s loved all I can do is make new reimagined uncontained fair, to myself and what matters as a farmer who lovingly covets each grain

Wor ds with a Cost

Faith Guanga

Sir Ian filled the last empty line with his signature, completing the table of collection of swiftly-written names I was tasked to gather since the beginning of my last week. “So how was your experience overall?” He asked me. “Going to school here or living in the Philippines?” “Both.” I looked up to give him a smile and nodded before saying, “I learned so much here, it was an experience I’ll never forget.” He returned the smile and handed back my clearance form. I quickly made my exit and allowed my smile to drop as soon as I reached the door. My chest suddenly felt nothing but relief knowing that I’d never be coming back here again. I couldn’t really speak Tagalog, but I understood enough to get by with basic interactions when I needed to. I thought I’d be completely fluent in the language after living in the Philippines for a year, but this was never the case. “Naintindihan mo ba ako?” “Oo.” “Nagsasalita ka ba ng Tagalog?” “Konti lang.” “Ahh okay. Don’t worry, you will learn.” I moved to the Philippines after five years of living in England. Of course, readjusting was more than difficult for me. You’d think that after having lived most of my life moving from place to place, I would have gotten used to the transition just like other places I’ve moved to, but not here. Not here. It wasn’t just the tropical heat that I had a hard

time adjusting to, but the culture and the language barrier as well. Even though I lived in a house where both my parents would speak their native tongue I was never properly taught the language, and because I had never lived in the Philippines before I knew close to nothing about what the culture was really like. From the bayad po’s to the para po’s on the Jeepney rides, the magkano’s at the local markets, and even the parhirams and joke langs at school. “You moved here from England?” “I lived there for about five years, yeah.” “You must be rich.” “Not really.” “Pahiram ng pera.” “What?” “Lend me money you’re rich.” “I’m not-“ “Hahaha joke lang. I’m just joking.” I understood most of what they said to each other, but I still wasn’t completely fluent in the language. I stayed extra hours after class to learn the language. I memorized vocabulary words, sentence structures, and the differences between past, present, and future tense, but I never was able to hold a proper conversation. “Sobrang tahimik niya.” “Ayaw niya mag-interact, sobrang tahimik.” “Tsk ayaw niyang matuto ng tagalog kasi eh.” “Dapat matuto siya para makapag usap tayo.” I dropped Tagalog courses entirely during my second semester there and took the F. We lived in a house painted orange and blue on the outside with green walls within. It wasn’t much, but it was at least a house with a big enough space for a kitchen, two small bathrooms, a small living room space, and three decent bedrooms. We could afford it easily with the occupation my dad worked overseas, which wasn’t an affluent job, but compared to our neighbors,

who could only afford to live in a house that was the size of a large garage, we might as well have been considered living in a mansion. We were raised to speak English. It was how we had communicated within our family. My parents would always speak their native language to each other, and when speaking to us they’d mix in some Tagalog words with the English they spoke- Taglish- so we could learn a little bit of the language, but that was the extent of our learning at home. The rest was English. We didn’t really need to learn Tagalog when we spent most of our lives living in Europe. My mom came home one day and told me to try to keep the English I spoke outside of the house to a minimum. She knew I already had a difficult enough time speaking Tagalog fluently, so I didn’t understand how she expected me to communicate with her when we were out in public. It was the lady she met at the shopping center. She told me she wanted me to be cautious because of what happened when she was out shopping with my sister. Of course, my sister wasn’t as fluent in the language as I was, so she spoke to my mother in English. As they were preparing to leave the shopping center, a woman came up to them and warmly greeted my mother as if she was family, even though my mother could’ve sworn she had never seen the woman before in her life. But we had so many members in our family that it was hard to keep track of them all. Out of politeness, my mother acted as if she had recognized her too and greeted her like she would anyone else in our family. Luckily for her, it was the woman that mainly spoke during their exchange, while my mother nodded and smiled out of courtesy. She rambled about the shopping she had done, talked about her own sons, and mentioned that she was actually on her way to visit them. She even offered for us to attend a “family get-together” that was coming up the

following weekend. My mother told her that she would do her best to make it and gave her a hug goodbye before they each got ready to part ways. But before the woman made her leave she asked my mother if she could spare some pesos for the trike. My mother didn’t think twice and gladly gave her more than enough money for the ride. The woman warmly smiled, thanked her, and left. My uncle, who acted as our trike driver for us from time to time, saw the whole interaction from the side and asked my mother why she gave the woman money. My mother related the whole interaction back to my uncle and asked why he didn’t come to greet her. My uncle knew more about all the members of the family better than she did and after hearing her story, he told her that she was not a part of the family at all, that he had never even seen the woman before in his life. He pointed out that she only started to head in their direction when she was close enough to hear my sister and mother’s English conversation. The woman didn’t ask for much, and if it was anyone else that she had deceived I would’ve been impressed with her methods. But what didn’t sit well with me was how my mother’s own polite and giving nature was completely taken advantage of. If my sister had been talking to my mother in Tagalog instead, would the woman have walked right past them? It was a common assumption in the Philippines that those who spoke English were those who were well off, is that why the woman chose to come up to my mother? I couldn’t care less about the twenty pesos she lent the woman, but the sinking feeling I got after finding that my mother was taken advantage of simply for choosing to speak to my sister in English never left me. Her English had cost her, and my mother warned me that if I wasn’t careful, it could cost me too.

*Collage by Lunchbox Communications Team (Maddi Chun, Audrey Cai, Charlize Tungol)*

R eimagining the Asian Amer ican Dr eam

Jennifer Chan

Breaking from the boundaries of familial hopes and the American standard, one can represent themselves and their identity into their own Asian American Dream.

This spot in Boston’s Chinatown captures the youthful dreams of Asian Americans. The playground set encapsulates the colorful hanging lanterns. By viewing them in different perspectives, these images represent the power one has to choose their own path.

Two R&B Artists to

LISTEN TO RIGHT NOW! By Shruthi Krishnan It’s time to spruce up your spring playlists with some up-and-coming South Asian-American artists! Given the fact that South Asian musicians rarely get recognition in pop culture media, it’s important to explore and support these artists. Much of their music incorporates elements of their rich culture and can broaden listeners’ perception of both music and the world around them.

Sanj @xoxosanj on Instagram describes her musical style as, “Cloudy R&B with a Desi twist.” Originally from Chicago, Illinois, she is currently based in Los Angeles, California. Growing up, Hindu culture was very prominent. She was classically trained in an Indian style of music known as Carnatic. These classical South Indian roots are prominent throughout her entire discography— often showing up in background vocals or transitional riffs. Sanj is committed to her ethereal sound, which she accomplishes by utilizing a generous

amount of reverb to her instrumentals and background vocals. Her hit single “Cloudmind” displays this pattern perfectly. She also shows off her production skills by transitioning from her typical dreamy sound to a fast-paced percussion-heavy hook with punchy kicks from sidechaining in her dark pop song “you did me dirty.” Regardless of her versatility when it comes to production, her traditional Indian and R&B influences stand out in every track. One of her biggest goals as a songwriter is to flawlessly blend her South Asian upbringing with her Western experience growing up.

Rehma @mangorehma on Instagram is a PakistaniAmerican musician, who has strong Bollywood and R&B influences. She had a nomadic upbringing, filled with road trips across the country and colorful experiences from each stop. Her debut studio EP “Mercy” which was released in August of 2020 tells stories of personal growth, identity, and love. The concluding song of the EP, “One Night,” showcases her sweet voice while bringing each element of her instrumentals to the forefront of the song. She perfectly emphasizes the 808’s and snares during the hook while gorgeous melodies from her piano and guitar flood listeners’ ears, along with her heavenly harmonies. Her talents prove to be multi-faceted, as she is able to jump between different genres with no difficulty. She is also featured in Shrea Kaul’s song “Ladke.” In this song, her R&B verse effortlessly blends

with the Bollywood pop hook Kaul sings. The percussion in the song is perfect, yet REHMA doesn’t rely on it. Her other song “Lavender’’ strays away from her typical usage of 808s and incorporates a sub-bass instead. REHMA’s voice takes on a soulful persona with a powerful kick. She constantly breaks down norms and strives to cultivate an innovative sound that is a beautiful fusion of her culture as well as life in America. So, while exchanging your winter jams for fresh spring ones, make sure to consider these two underground musicians. Both of their unprecedented approaches to R&B will leave you coming back for more. Happy listening!

I 'll Be Here by Christopher Thach I’ll Be Here is inspired by a generation of kids who have grown up watching their parents struggle to make sense of the weird, middle stage of their adult lives. [Scan to watch the film!] While the parents juggle their difficult marriages and family dynamics, the younger generation is burdened with the knowledge of what cracks lay in the foundation that their families are built upon. Knowing these shortcomings, and with the aid of the internet, they’re able to arrive at stronger conclusions of how they’d like to live their lives, in regards to marriage, career paths, and kids. Because it also just makes sense— the world is in a different place and our parents’ paths just don’t seem as ideal anymore. The dilemma is to then be able to love and hold space for parents and an older generation that we have a difficult time seeing eye-to-eye with.

the commute home j. faith malicdem

i walk to Boylston inbound to transfer to Park Street so i don’t have to walk up the dark downtown street on my way home it’s a routine. i’m alone, so it’s a no brainer. i tally up the times i felt my ears perked up in class today. and how many times they grew hot. one of my best friends tells me i have a glimmer in my eye, and that’s why i get called on often, because i always look like i have something to say. when in reality, i’ve there are only complaints shooting up from the stem of my brain and straight into my amygdala when i make it to the red line, i stand near the foot of the staircase, ten feet away from the yellow line between awaiting passengers and the train tracks i just want to go home. i wonder if this conductor will slow down when they pull into the station, and when they do, i wonder if they do it for people who look like me. it’s a routine. i’m an asian woman, so it’s a no brainer. “Pink in the Night” plays into my right ear, and my right ear only, so i can be aware of my surroundings, just like my dad always said.

i think of how he used to pick me up from school each day, then how he’d be half an hour late every time so that he could pick up my younger siblings first. i told him i understood, and that i knew it was because they were younger, but being the last to sit on the electrical box a block down from the last bungalow with one earbud in my right ear made me feel almost as alone as i feel right now. at least i had a backseat dedicated to my siblings and i. at least i could listen to my music with both earbuds in. but even with one ear occupied, i’m not wary enough to pull away from a hooded figure charging at me, yanking my cell phone out of my hands. in a train station full of awaiting passengers, i am alone until i finally scream and i exhale and i realize it felt good to have an excuse to let it out. i am asked if i’m okay. and i realize routines change, i guess. i won’t be listening to music on the way home for a long time. H-Mart is right off my stop. it’s where i peer through the ceiling-to-floor glass windows to avoid a large crowd. curry sounds so good... so i walk in and tame Mitski’s cries, still echoing in my ear canal with no playback to

pronounce her grief, hyper aware of Michelle Zauner’s memoir title being the name of a piece of literature, not an order, nor something to enact myself. but there’s a wet floor sign propped up at the entrance and i wonder, is this a routine for sad Asian people? with $13 left in my EBT funds, i zoom towards the instant ramen aisle, and then to the Spam aisle. i need something comforting and quick. and cheap. they weren’t kidding about the broke college student rite of passage,

nor the craving of home away from home in the faces that look like mine, sorrow and hope and all. this routine stays the same icy bricked sidewalks humble my stride as i try to balance my fright with my pride the lapis lazuli from lola will protect me, my Spam and my instant ramen. they had to, with her daily prayers and devotionals and cries out to God for my safety, my nourishment, and my assuredness. then i wonder if the guilt of leaving home is driving my fear to return to my own, Alone. with back aching and fingertips peeled, i let my door shut behind me, as it locks by itself, i tip into bed and sink into my sheets where there’s a sea of dried contacts, days old makeup stains, snotty crewnecks, and tears awaiting me. on the day to day i clench my jaw so much for the no brainers. my head, my soul, and my being’s been shut off.

a moment of introspection pt. 2 By Marieska Luzada

on the move from eight to midnight, no place for me to stop, no chance to exhale or so it seemed. … a year and two variants later the world still stays in motion. the uniformed going to their nine to five’s children getting on yellow buses the archedbacks heading to a full lecture hall all for the sake of returning to normal. i was one of those archedbacks, couldn’t tell if it was from leaning forward just enough for the screen and i to be only millimeters apart, or from the endless weight of carrying this damn ambition and hard work. returning back to normal. back to normal. normal. what is normal anyway?

when did we ever say life was normal? if normal is defined as conforming to a standard, usual, expected, typical, whoever equated normal to the unending cycle of working? is being productive from the rise of the sun till your head hits the pillow, never being alone– normal? i couldn’t stand straight. i couldn’t remember the last time my back was aligned. from arching forward to examine the chapter, from arching forward to arranging the elements on the spread, from arching forward to listen to the background vocals once again, from arching forward to walk faster, from arching forward to not stop, CRACK. i pull my shoulders back as my elbows make ninety degrees.

i raise my head and stand straighter as i gaze at the reflection. in her eyes i see a girl who loves writing pen pal letters a girl who likes building her monthly playlists a girl who squeals over matcha and tiramisu a a a a

girl girl girl girl

who’s proud of being filipina who’s proud of being an immigrant who loves telling stories who loves to live.

she looks out the window and catches those brown eyes in the reflection. she may not be productive twenty-four seven, she may not be on call for every second of the day, and she may not know who she is just yet, but that’s okay. it’s a wonderful life to just be living, and that’s normal. Exhale.

d r a o B ASIA E *doodle by jehan ayesha

(2021-2022)

A Letter from the Executive Chair a new season carries hope, and the breeze of spring creates faith from that hope. there’s no better time for change loss renewal. in the past year, i got to witness a major shift in ASIA’s operations. we renewed our commitment to our values, and we welcomed the comeback of Radio Hour and the creation of Lunchbox Zine. as Asian students, we’ve put out a lot of love to a college that doesn’t always love us back. we’ve had many difficult conversations i wish we didn’t need to. nevertheless, the memories i’ve made with our members are some of my favorite by far. i couldn’t believe it. my greed in taking over Emerson was matched by the collective ambition of our Executive Board. whatever they could dream of, it was my job to help make come true. i owe it all to Hannah, Katelyn, Jo, Marieska, and Vince, not just for their hard work but also for all the joys and all the pains they’ve shared with me; and to the Lunchbox team, for their labor and creativity. with this renewal, there were new people! new things to look forward to! the jokes we’ve made (shoutout to Pakdhe James) as a form of cultural exchange, even going to a concert together, it all helped heal my inner child. from the wonders of teh tarik and the delicacy that is old town white coffee, i can now be proud of where i come from. i owe all this to ASIA. and so ends my reign of terror (/lh). our ambitions will outlive us, yet they remain as we were last year–hopeful and true. thank you for taking up space, here, with me.

- jehan ayesha

jehan ayesha (Executive Chair) “it’s always springtime with ASIA < 3”

Katelyn Reddy (Treasury Chair) “All my brain cells aligned just for me to say that to you.” - Emily Ramos

Marieska Luzada (Co-Communications Chair)

“Win, lose, I don’t care because at the end of the day, I still have this face-so who’s the real winner here?” - Kim Seokjin

Hannah Braden (Co-Communications Chair) “Generasian ‘Gee’ 4ever!”

Vince Kunawicz (Co-Operations Chair) “A healthy cow lying on her side is not immobilized; she can rise whenever she chooses.” - Wikipedia, “Cow tipping”

Jo Malicdem (Co-Operations Chair) “The wind is rising!...We must try to live!” - Paul Valéry