fall 2021
vol. 1 issue 2
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STAFF
Co-Directors
Marieska Luzada J. Faith Malicdem
Editorial Team
Sam Hwang (manager) / Shruthi Krishnan (manager) / Sheri Hasan / Hannah Nguyen / Cassandra Phan / Audrey Silalahi
Design Team
Hannah Braden (manager) / Lauren Ishikawa (manager) / Anna Brenner / Faith Guanga / Katsumi Sterling
Marketing Team
Neeka Boroumandi (manager) / Chloe Chee (manager) / Therese Labordo / Ava Sparico / Qiyue Zhang
Communications Team
Maddi Chun (manager) / Audrey Cai / Meera Singh / Charlize Tungol
Visual Media Team
Naomi Ash (manager) / Dellin Zhang (manager) / Hailey Bochette / Gloria Cao / JJ Chan
THIS ISSUE’S CONTRIBUTORS Abigail Andersen Gloria Cao Maddi Chun Rosamund Chung Shruthi Krishnan Zoe Leonard Audrey Silalahi Katsumi Sterling Belle Tan Cynthia Tu Karenna Umscheid
Table of 1 || Letters from the Co-Directors Marieska Luzada & J. Faith Malicdem
3 || How to leave a home Audrey Silalahi
7 || Scratch
Zoe Leonard
15 || My Hong Kong Rosamond Chung
21 || Over Coffee and Chocolate Cake Audrey Silalahi
25 || The Only Chinese in the Room Cynthia Tu
27 || A Beginner’s Guide to South Asian-American Music Shruthi Krishnan
CoNtents 31 || Guest Aiya
35 || Don’t Go Near the Mango Tree Belle Tan
39 || i think i miss quarantine Maddi Chun
46 || A Comprehensive Review of the Most Popular Boba Shops in Chinatown Karenna Umscheid
51 || So Far So Close Gloria Cao
59 || Living Outside the Box Abigail Andersen
Letters
from
What a semester it has been for Lunchbox. Going from just two people to an entire team contributing to the platform is a huge adjustment, and many lessons were learned. For that, I have to thank all of the people on the Lunchbox team; all of you are so talented and hardworking, and I couldn’t be in more awe of what you guys have helped create for the past several months. Thank you to the managers (Hannah, Lauren, Shruthi, Sam, Neeka, Chloe, Maddi, Naomi, and Dellin) for being so patient, flexible, and just along for the ride. Thank you to my second home, a.k.a. ASIA (Asian Students in Alliance), and my fellow E-Board members (Jay, Vince, and Katelyn) for always being of great support throughout this entire journey. Lastly, I give my greatest thanks to fellow co-director, dance partner, and dear friend Jo—thank you for always believing in me when I couldn’t, and for always being there to lend a helping hand. It’s unbelievable to see how far Lunchbox has come in just a few months. Thank you for picking up our second issue, and I can’t wait for you to be blown away by the stories these contributors tell.
- Marieska Luzada
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*Doodles by Katelyn Reddy
the
Co-Directors
It is with great honor and pride that I present Lunchbox Volume One Issue Two alongside Marieska and the entirety of the Lunchbox Team. Starting a magazine is one thing, but it is a whole ‘nother feat to keep it running. Many lessons were learned in the last few months, but I am so blessed to have had the opportunity of working with such gracious team managers who were more than willing to help build Lunchbox from the ground up. Thank you to Sam, Shruthi, Dellin, Naomi, Hannah, Lauren, Maddi, Neeka, and Chloe for your patience and for your passion. Thank you to the entirety of the Lunchbox Team for your bountiful presence and ideas. Thank you to Jay, Vince, and Katelyn for your continued support in ASIA (Asian Students in Alliance), where I derive all of my motivation, comfort, and reassurance. Finally, thank you to Marieska, who has fearlessly tackled the role of Co-Director, leaving me in perpetual awe. Take in each and every detail of this issue with care and love. Continue to celebrate the work of Asian storytellers.
- J. Faith Malicdem
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How to leave a home Audrey Silalahi
This one time, someone that I considered a friend, someone who was tall, blonde, pretty, white, Someone who once told me that she wanted to visit Bali, had asked me, “So, wait, what passport do you have again? Like a European one or something?” I had ordered Indonesian food for us to share only a couple weeks prior. A month before that, I had written a piece about the complexities of my Indonesian, Asian, and Asian American identity and she had shared it on her Instagram, adding two heart emojis. Indonesian. Asian. Asian American. I thought, “Does this mean nothing?” Grandpa, born four years after the Japanese colony left Indonesia went to college to become a doctor but is not a doctor. Grandpa, who never yells or raises his voice, would always come rushing to my room when he would hear that I was crying. Grandpa, who doesn’t know how to rest is always told to stay home, get some rest, you’re not young anymore, it’s okay if you’re not working. But he’s always out, keeping himself busy, doing some work
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somewhere. Making sure his kids are doing okay, asking if his grandkids are healthy, if we already ate, if there’s anything we need, if, if, if. Once, I asked Mom why Grandpa never talks about his family. She says, “He doesn’t want to talk to you about anything sad.” But how do I tell him that it is a brave thing that after all of the chaos and the screams he endured growing up, he is still continually healing? Dad still doesn’t know how to say goodbye. Instead, he says: you should stay out of trouble, make sure to call your grandparents, okay? And don’t skip classes. Do you know how privileged you are? Do you know how privileged you are? Do you know how privileged you are? Our relationship is complex but this is what he usually says when he calls: Take up space, okay? Speak up What he doesn’t tell me is this: Take up space, okay? Speak up because I can’t. Because I couldn’t.
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Grandma always stands up for her grandkids. She’s not afraid to raise her voice at anyone. Once, in an airport in Chicago, TSA shouted at her because she had forgotten to remove one small bottle of water she had buried under her bag. He said, “There’s water in there. Do you understand? Do you know English?” My grandma, who’s never afraid to raise her voice at her daughter’s husband for his malignant anger; my grandma, who once, when I was nine, while I was crying over my parents fighting, hugged tightly and whispered to me: you have to tell me when you’re hurting, okay? You can’t keep things bottled up; My grandma, who has never swallowed any lump in her throat but always makes sure to release them, only stayed quiet this time. “We do speak English. She didn’t know there was one more bottle of water in her bag. Don’t scream at her,” I said this time, making sure to raise my voice. I make sure to take up space only because my grandma taught me to. The immigration officer asked me where home is and I couldn’t answer. What were you doing in Indonesia over the summer? Where do you live? Where is home? How do I tell him that home to me is not made up of
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walls and a bed but of a person? How do I tell him that home is the way my mom always makes sure I bring frozen Indonesian home cooked meals here because there is none in Boston? How do I tell him that home is my grandpa keeping me company while I cook his favorite dinner? How do I tell him that home, despite my father’s anger, stemming from frustration and years of generational trauma, speaks only so tenderly to me over the phone? How do I tell him that home is not a place but a feeling? In Indonesia, the Indonesian language is often just called ‘Bahasa’, cutting down ‘Indonesia’ from the term, an assumption that you are speaking our mother tongue. But if translated directly to English, ‘Bahasa’ means ‘Language’. Does this mean that my mother tongue is not a singular language but a universal one? I’d like to think that Bahasa will never be extinct in my semantics; only constantly evolving, an indication that home is not so far away but is right there in soliloquy; it is the words I speak and write and the food I cook and eat and the stories I’m going to preserve forever. So, when my mom asked me last night if I missed home, I told her: I want home cooked meals but I don’t wish I was somewhere else anymore.
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Scratch
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By Zoe Leonard
ue-li Huang was going to make an apple pie from scratch. She came to this decision after being humiliated for showing up to a Friendsgiving celebration with a store-bought apple pie. Her brother had called her the night before asking her to check for a mistake in his company’s books— they were missing over $800. It took her late into the night to find the mistake, and when she woke up at 11 the next day, she remembered the annual Friendsgiving with her old sorority girlfriends at Carla’s house and cursed herself for not remembering sooner. The dinner started at 5, and she had to pick her mother up from the bus station at 12, so she had to leave immediately and stop at Costco sometime before dinner. “Oh, Shelly!” said Carla as she opened the door. “Come in, what did you bring? Apple pie? How wonderful! I can take that from you.” Xue-li smiled weakly but did not offer the pie. She had put it in a ceramic dish to make it easier on the eyes and to put into the oven, but she hadn’t removed the plastic cover. “It’s from Costco,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to make anything.”
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For a moment Xue-li saw Carla’s mouth twist into a grimace. “No, of course,” said Carla sweetly, nodding her head. “We’re all so busy nowadays, never enough time to relax with friends. But that’s why we’re here! Come in,” she said again. “Why don’t you put it with the other desserts?” Xue-li nodded and weaved through the room, brushing by her old sorority sisters, each one greeting her, “Hey Shelley!” or “Shelley’s here!” or “So glad you could make it!” She put the pie down with the others— pumpkin, pecan, another apple, and all in glass or ceramic dishes, scraps of black crust burnt on to the pan. Xue-li put down her pie and joined the party. When it was time for dessert, Carla said, “Shelley and I both brought apple pie, but I baked mine from scratch.” “My pie is from scratch too,” said another woman. “Oh, and mine,” piped another. “Yes, I think they’re all from scratch,” said Carla. “Well, all except . . .” Xue-li took a slice from her pie and brought the rest home in shame.
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The next day, Xue-li quit her job, sold her apartment in Harrisburg, and moved back into her childhood home to live with her mother on their arable three-acre property just north of the Pennsylvania-Maryland border. She cut up a Honeycrisp apple for her mother, since they were her favorite, and saved the seeds. She placed the seeds inside a wet paper towel and put that wet paper towel in a Ziploc bag by the window. After a few days, they began to germinate. She separated the sprouts, planted them in medium-sized sod pots, and cared for them on the back porch until they became veritable saplings. When she cut away the sod pots, she found that the roots had grown so dense that they resembled a wicker basket. She transferred the saplings to spots in the yard. After planting the saplings, Xue-li took an ax out of her late father’s shed and used it to chop down a dying oak tree on the edge of her property. She cleaned the trunk and split the logs into uniform pieces of lumber that she used to make a fence around a 16-by-16 foot area of garden space. She plowed the ground and planted wheat seeds and sugar beets. The sugar beets were all eaten by rabbits, so she bought a basset hound and named him Zhao
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Tu Zi. She trained him to kill rabbits while she planted sugarcane instead of beets, and meanwhile tended her wheat and apple trees. She organized and cleaned her late father’s office and installed fans, lights, and tables to grow nutmeg, allspice, and cinnamon plants. They wouldn’t grow well outside, but could grow into a practical-sized shrub if kept well indoors. She ordered the plant starters online and repotted them in some of her mother’s unused ceramics. Xue-li’s mother always watered the plants on Saturdays, though Xueli would have watered them herself. She knew her mother’s habits, and if Xue-li watered the spice plants, her mother would not check before watering them again. One of the allspice plants was lost by overwatering. Xueli left the spice plants in her mother’s hands, where they thrived and radiated a delicious autumn aroma all year round. Xue-li used more of the lumber to create a square wooden bucket, 2 feet on all sides with a half-foot wall that sloped outwards. She went down to the river with a wagon and brought back two giant flat rocks, which she chipped away at and whittled into two stone disks, each a foot in diameter. She attached one disk to the bottom of the wooden bucket
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and carved a donut-like hole in the other stone. She put the donut-shaped stone on top of the other flat stone, then attached a wooden handle to the top stone. This is how she crafted a millstone to grind the wheat from her harvest into flour. She drove her mother all the way down to the ocean one weekend and gathered jugs of seawater while her mother waded in up to her ankles. Back at home, she boiled the water down until it became a salty sea slush, then dried it in the oven until it became salt sheets, then ground them up with a mortar and pestle until they became sea salt. She stored the salt in a jar. In a similar process of reducing and grinding, she chopped up her sugar cane and boiled it down until it became cane syrup, then separated out the plant matter and reduced the syrup down into almost pure sugar. She baked and dried the sugary syrup, then ground it up into fine crystals and stored it in a clearly labeled jar next to the sea salt. She bought a few hens from a local farmer, nailed together a chicken coop, and painted it red with a yellow roof. She trained Zhao Tu Zi to leave them alone and put up a wire fence so that foxes couldn’t get in. She
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cleaned up the barn and bought some hay and a young cow from the same farmer she bought the hens from. She named the cow Jasmine. She kissed Jasmine on the nose and brushed her hair and grew a close bond with her, so that when Xue-li milked her she stood as happily and still as a tree stump. The hens produced eggs daily, which Xue-li’s mother considered a great boon upon her kitchen, and the milk, which also came daily, was given freely to appreciative neighbors. Xue-li used a hand-carved dowel rod and glass jar to churn some milk and sea salt together into a thick and fluffy butter. It took 9 years for the apple trees to begin bearing heavy, sweet fruit. That November, Xue-li picked Honey-crisp apples. She cut them into slices; then combined flour, salt, sugar, and butter into dough; kneaded; then rolled it out into a thin crust. She laid the crust into a glass pie dish and cut away the excess. She mixed the apples with sugar, flour, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice, and poured the filling into the pie. She laid on the top crust, brushed it with a beaten egg, and sprinkled sugar on top. She made four seed-shaped slits in the crust and baked it in the oven for an hour until the pie was flaky
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and golden. “Shelly!” said Carla as she opened the door, “Come in, that pie smells wonderful! I wanted to make a pie this year too, but I just didn’t have enough time to cook—the girls had their dance recitals yesterday.” Xue-li stepped inside. The kitchen counter was packed with aluminum-covered dishes and pre-packaged treats. “Did you make anything from scratch?” she asked Carla. “No, we did catering this year. I was just so busy—” “Everyone’s so busy,” said Xue-li. “I made my pie from scratch. Entirely from scratch. I grew the apples, and milled the flour, and churned the butter from my cow, and used an egg from my hen, and collected the salt, and reduced the sugar from cane, and even grew and dried the spices.” “Why, Shelly, that’s—!” “I know, but I can’t stay. I have another dinner to get to, but I wanted to bring this pie for you to at least admire, since I know you love baking from scratch. Sorry you can’t have a taste.” Xue-li shrugged and left. She returned home, where her mother, brother, sister-in-
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law, and two young nieces were waiting for her with roasted duck and sweet potatoes. They gobbled down the entire pie and used their forks to scrape gooey cinnamon filling off their plates.
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My Hong Kong Rosamond Chung
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Over Coffee and Chocolate Cake
T
Audrey Silalahi
oday, coffee and bagels will be painful. I’ve circled the block twice since arriving, but my mind keeps on wandering back and forth between the smell of freshly baked bagels and overpriced coffee. I dread the thought of having to face you again. I’m slowing down my steps, reloading emails on my phone, opening then closing my journal, making sure there isn’t anything else I could be doing instead of hovering awkwardly in front of the clear glass door of this cafe. I wonder, if I walk in there and remind you that you used to tell me that we could plant coffee beans in the middle of Jakarta, will you remember? Or, if I bring up the time you drove us 45 minutes to our favorite bagel place in South Jakarta that was closing only for us to miss its last order, will you even let me finish? I’ve finally built up the courage to walk in. I tug on the scarf around my neck. The bell hits the door signaling my arrival but your head’s still looking down, probably way too focused reading something on WhatsApp to notice that I’m here, walking past you and ordering my coffee. I stand close to the window as I wait for my order, taking my time to really look at you from the short distance between us. I expected you to look aged, and you do. Your usual black polo shirt is replaced with a brown button up, those jeans that you used to spend way too much money on are now black slacks and your hair, while still in a buzzcut precision, have gone a little bit gray. I know what you’re having, too — iced passion fruit tea
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with less sugar and a slice of chocolate cake. That order is more you than you will ever understand; the overcompensating nature of all your less-sugar orders only to enable your love for something much sweeter, less healthy. Aren’t I right, Pa? That’s why you haven’t stopped chain-smoking cigarettes but run at least twice a week and have five air purifier machines at home. I walk over to you, slow in my approach as I take a sip of my iced chai latte, no sugar, with only a little bit of milk, stripped as naked as it can be. This is me telling you that this is me, look at me. You finally look up with that gentle smile, an unfamiliar trigger to moments of instant regret while second guessing whether I’ve talked back to you or if I’ve gone home too late. My bagels are still warm, bits of lox peek out through the sides and I can tell that you wish that, that’s what you’re having instead of that overly manufactured chocolate cake on your plate. You then tell me to sit and ask me how I’ve been — if I love Boston or if I want to come home, if I need money or … wait, didn’t I just get paid? That you finally made the move to Bali and that everyone misses me. But, Pa, when you say everyone, who are you speaking for? You don’t call me by my name, replacing Katrina with ‘Kak’. In Indonesia, the eldest children with younger siblings are sometimes just called ‘Kak’ by their parents. My disposition among my siblings has always been an identity embedded in me. To you, I am a sister first before I am a person; you’re always expecting me to give up my space for my sisters and then celebrating my loss for it. You’re always kinder to me after. I’m now telling you things that I think are safe for you to know — I tell you that I’m seeing someone but that it isn’t serious
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and he’s out of town for some work thing so we he won’t be able to see you anytime soon but don’t worry, he’s a good guy and you and Mama will meet him one day. I tell you that I finally got a new job that pays better so I think I might move to a nicer apartment soon, wish me luck. And I tell you that I drink way too much coffee because of you. But there are things I don’t tell you that I think maybe one day I will: I’m seeing someone and it’s serious. He’s not out of town, he’s 10 minutes away from where we are. I think he’s a good person and he treats me well but you won’t like him and that won’t change anything. I finally have a new job at the production house I told Mama about and it does pay better and all of my bosses suck and my coworkers are assholes. I need to get a new apartment because I had a falling out with my roommate and I want to live better. I drink too much coffee, it’s a problem, and it is because of you--so many of my bad habits are because of you. You nod, not knowing what to say, awkwardly telling me about work or some other thing you have going on with your golf friends. We sit in uncomfortable silence until one of us brings up the weather or work or my sister or Mama like we usually do. Between us, it is only you that still lives with Mama but I think I still know more about her than you do. What’s up with that, Pa? I used to think that the moment I finally move out of Jakarta on my own, I’ll be able to leave the mess that is the two of you. But the residue of your malignant anger still lingers like a stain I can’t get rid of. We continue to sit for a while exchanging harmless information until you tell me that you need to head back for another work thing at nine. “Kak, can you get me iced coffee and that bagel you’re having for to-go? Here, take my card. Order something for yourself too.”
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You ask for a favor like it’s a command, handing me your credit card like it’s a way to blur out the reason why you always make me order whenever you’re visiting. Pa, your fear for them not understanding you is nothing but years and years of cultivated internalized disdain of your un-American-ness. But I get up anyway, aware of where I’m standing in this space we are both sharing: I am your daughter — a position so immortal that not even death can obliterate it. A position so potent that I am now still trying to learn how to say No to people. The cafe is quiet now. Almost everybody else is gone. And the silence is now as loud as every lawnmower in this city combined. But I know that we axre here. And I know that the ghosts of old tragedies are still looming ahead of us. And I know, too, that soon, you’ll fly back home to the city you’ve built so much of yourself around, but if you ask me if I want to see you again before you leave this Sunday, I’ll say — there’s this other cafe, 30 minutes from here, it’s nice and quiet, and I think it’ll remind you of grandma’s old cafe in Jakarta— do you want to come with me?
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The Only Chinese In The Room Cynthia Tu
Brown eyes and black hair a funny language, grotesque characters on the phone. Everyone wants to be seen while all I hope is to become invisible. 10 p.m. at the T station, leaning against the wall, Echoing in my head, a story that my friend told: “I heard a Chinese man in New York was pushed in front of the train and killed.” Eager stares in a silent room, questions flood over me like a November storm. During class a girl said, “I would never live in a place like China - I feel so bad for its people.” But how, how could you feel pity for me for living in the place I love the most? The place where people accept me as who I am, the girl who kept her head up, the girl brave enough to speak up. The place where mothers and fathers work diligently to send their kids across the ocean, hoping they will achieve big things
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How would you feel, when the name of your motherland becomes a nasty adjective And people in this country suddenly decide you are the enemy. I know each country has its own flaws but why point your finger at me, like I am the one at fault? They say the Chinese are taking over America, stealing wealth and jobs. Then tell me, why do I feel like white America has eaten my soul? Communist, dog-eaters, spies sent by the CCP Throw your stones at me, I don’t care anymore. All my fears and pains, they burn to ashes. Tomorrow I’d still be the same person, the Chinese girl who speaks a beautiful language. Her brown eyes and black hair, Olive skin and almond-shaped eyes; a gift given by her roots, what she forever holds dear to her heart.
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Beginner’s Guide to South Asian-American Music n
Shruthi Krishna
My musical inventory, growing up, felt very much black and white. I would have an archive of white, American artists on one side and Bollywood, or traditional Indian artists on the other. I always felt the desire to listen to people like me—Indian American. I wanted to see these two aspects of my life, and myself blend. The lack of South Asian-American representation (in general, but specifically in the music industry) is a problem that has a long way to go before it’s completely gone. However, this small guide to South AsianAmerican albums is a start.
Lucid - Raveena
This mellifluous voice is no stranger within the South Asian-American community. Raveena has developed quite the loyal fanbase throughout the years. The masterpiece that is her debut album will take the listener on an ethereal journey exploring themes of sexuality, heritage and familial bonds. The alternative R&B bedroom pop tracks blend together seamlessly with transitions placed in between songs. The stacked harmonies and dreamy strings pay homage to the album’s title, Lucid, as they come together to form a sensual atmosphere. The track “Salt Water’’ stands out from the rest of the album with its highly memorable chorus and intricate production. This song is a symbol of the artist’s healing following a traumatic event, where she sings “A year lost in an hour, I cry into my limbs. I froze in a hot shower, I scrub away his sins.” Raveena makes use of a lot of traditional instruments on this track (e.g. piano and guitar), but the usage of the flanger effect (mixing two identical sounds, one of them being delayed) gives the
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song an angelic feel. Despite the quick BPM of this song, the rhythm of the drums slows it down, giving the song and the artist space to breathe; Raveena really takes her time with the vocals. The track ends with the sound of rain pouring down, which blends into the next track—“Stone.” The soul heavy feel of the record combined with the traditional gospel elements gives the artist’s emotions a more raw sentiment.
Skin - Joy Crookes Joy Crookes, known for her vocal resemblance to Amy Winehouse, is a half Bangladeshi artist from South London, whose latest album, Skin, showcases her voice above anything else. The opener of the album, “I Don’t Mind,” is a synth-heavy, orchestral string-sounding self-produced track, where the 808 doubles as the bass and a part of the melody.. The song fades out with a jazzy brass interlude and a spoken message — her saying goodbye to her grandmother. Crookes stated in an interview that she wrote this song about “being alright with not having a serious relationship; and being alright with [her] body.” “19th floor,” the album’s second song, starts off with cinematic strings, centering the feeling of belonging and finding home. There are a number of topics explored in addition to that, including: the immigrant experience, gentrification, and the opportunities given to Crookes by her mom and grandmother. All of this is tied together with pop-punk percussion. Moving onto the gorgeous ballad that is track six, Crookes starts off the track with a spoken intro of her grandmother sharing some lessons. In this lyrically dominant track, she sings “Will I hurt you like they hurt me?” She explores the fears that come with loving something—fear that you will let them down, or not be enough. Overall, the album is highly produced. She puts herself at the front of every track; while there are background instruments supporting her vocals, Crookes is clearly the focal point. The sound engineer was incredibly consistent in making sure each track was balanced.
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The Seven Deadly Sins - Shreea Kaul Bollywood fusion anyone? Shreea Kaul scratches the itch perfectly. Her powerful R&B ballads explore broken relationships and female power while adding a dash of Bollywood spice. In this no skip album, Kaul explores each of the deadly sins in a catchy manner. Her voice fully shines throughout the entire album; the dominating vocals link with messages promoted in Kaul’s lyrics. The concept of the album is very innovative— the artist explores one specific experience and writes about it through the perspectives of the seven deadly sins: lust, gluttony, pride, anger, sloth, greed, and envy. Some songs on the album sample some classic Bollywood hits. These tracks include “Gluttony” and “Envy.” The album starts off slow and erotic with the track “Lust.” The bass is hard to miss and will have the listener grooving in their seat. In the chorus, Kaul sings “baby come inside, the water’s fine.” During this part of the song, she layers a water droplet sound over the snare to give the chorus a punch. The next track, “Gluttony,” is easily the most notable one on the album. It incorporates innovative techniques by mixing traditional R&B with Bollywood music by sampling from “Zara Zara Behekta Hai.” The highlight in production of the entire album comes when Kaul sings an intricate riff that is matched perfectly with an 808 riff, showcasing the producer’s talent. Towards the end, the album gradually transitions from R&B to hip hop. “Envy” closes out the album nicely, by reinforcing the artist’s Desi identity incorporated with her R&B sound.
Water, I’ll Grow - Sanjana This record takes on another spin of R&B, as it sits on the more acoustic side of things. While the chord progressions are very bumpy, the album provides the best songs to chill out to. The album grapples with a lot of personal growth themes mixed in with relationship struggles. The
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song “Falling” centers around a breakup, but that isn’t the focal point. It starts off with a rhythmic guitar riff in a minor key. The highlights of this song definitely has to be Sanjana’s vocals. She uses this song to show off her strong vibrato and breath control. The second song “Can I” takes the cake as the top track of the album. The chord progression as a Tori Kelly feel and the guitar riff in the intro is captivating. While this song is melody heavy, the song “Beautiful Mind” shines in the lyricism. It poignantly lays out the struggles of a perfectionist who is too hard on herself. Sanjana sings “On her dinner plate, a lovely array of her favorite failures … When she makes a mistake, she magnifies the blame and she breaks.” This is a universal struggle, however, it is extremely prominent within the Asian American experience. Most of us, especially those with immigrant parents, put an enormous amount of pressure on ourselves to perform better than anyone around us to make our parents proud, and show appreciation for the sacrifices they made in order for us to have the opportunities we do. Apart from family, societal expectations cause Asian Americans to become perfectionists, due to the stereotypes placed on us. This South Asian American album starter pack is more than enough to suit any mood — from having a dance party to crying yourself to sleep — these artists have you covered. The next time you find yourself wanting to discover new songs, support these South Asian musicians and give these records a go.
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Guest aiya when I’m in my country I am home because life, culture, history is an open, ongoing book unfinished, generationally I am no expert what makes you one? because you’ve been to my motherland? I may never go but that doesn’t make my thoughts feelings culture history Less they’re all a part of me I am a student as my grandfather taught me to be and somehow this has translated to incompetent and incomplete perhaps you’re forgetting something
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if we both went to China spoke Cantonese we would be equals guests but here in my country I cater to privilege and white walls white-ness and honor what my ancestors said to forever keep growing shoots and stalks not bamboo leaves this is our country and my respect is not permission for you a neighbor to smile, lord and bow as if I understand nothing when your privilege speaks it’s condescending do you realize what you’re saying?
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the toe you dipped into my people’s history isn’t equivalent to my century before you appropriate and lord your humility it may be good to consider that a crucial part of your perspective is missing here in my country in my home neighbor I am not a guest I refuse to be
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Don’t Go Near the Mango Tree Belle Tan
go outside my house and feel the summer heat on my face. My face drips with sweat as I stare at my friends playing Patintero. “Maria! Go! Maria! Go!” They say as Gina moves left and right, trying to block her. “Hindi mo kaya!” Gina teases. From the corner of my eye, I see someone sitting on the bench under the mango tree beside my house. There’s a girl wearing a bright yellow sundress with white polka dots, taking a bite of the sweet ripe mango as she reads a Geronimo Stilton book. I hear the little angel on my shoulder say: Don’t. Don’t. I walk towards her. “Do you want to play with us?” She looks at me with this blank expression, moves to the left side of the bench, and pats the right side of it. “No,” I say and repeat the question. She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you from the village? How long have you been here?” “Yes. For a long time. I live at the end of the street.” I look to my right and see the yellow house beside the cluster of mango trees.
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“Lay, come and play with us,” I hear Maria call out. “Are you sure?” She nods her head and continues to read her book. I run towards the middle of the street and my friends surround me. Gina says, “What were you doing?” I point to the bench. “I was talking to the girl.” They laugh. The skies turn dark and we say our goodbyes. I go back inside the house, where Hallie is in her pink pajamas telling mama and papa I didn’t take out the trash. They look at me, scowling. “Ay naku, Laila. Wala dito si Yaya Tati. You’re in-charge.” Mama takes a deep breath. “Go, now. No excuses.” I enter the kitchen and pick up the black plastic bag sitting beside the small rectangular garbage can. As I walk out the front door, Hallie sticks her tongue out. I roll my eyes. It is her turn, not mine. I put the plastic bag inside the big blue trash bin, swatting the flies that are flying towards my face. I hear a loud groan and see the little girl. I walk towards her. “Hey, are you okay, umm.. What’s your name again?” She looks at me and drops her book while trying to grab a mango. “Momu.” I sit on the ground and move through the pile of leaves, throwing the leaves in the air as I look for her book. “What does it look like?” “It’s yellow and has a picture of a mouse with glasses.” Someone squeezes me from behind and lifts me into the
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air. I bite their arm and flail my hands and arms. They put me on their back and all I see is blinding greyish-white light and long jet black hair. “Let me go.” The person cackles and carries me off into the darkness, past the mango trees. Momu waves her hand and smiles at me. Her eyes turn bright crimson red. She’s gone. The woman drops me to the ground. My hands are shaking. I scream. She crouches down. Her hair covers her face. All I see is her red lipstick. She puts her index finger to my mouth. She comes closer, puts her hands on my eyes and stretches it. She murmurs something and her hair raises in the air. Her white eyes turn to a neon red glow. I fall flat on the ground. I yell and hear my voice echo throughout the entire village. My eyes are still open. I can feel it, but I can’t see anything. I know I am not dead. She digs her sharp teeth into my skin, piece by piece. I hear her slurping my blood like it’s a bowl of delicious ramen. The smell of iron wafts the air. My head starts to spin. I can’t feel anything. All I hear is Yaya Tati’s voice whispering: Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t go near the mango trees. Five years ago, I remember Yaya Tati telling a seven year old Laila, “Don’t go near the mango trees, ha. If you see someone, don’t talk to them. Don’t even look. Baka may mangyari sa’yo.” I rolled my eyes, “Whatever yaya.” She pointed her index finger towards the mango trees, “There are very bad spirits. They know everyone, pero, they only
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show themselves to their prey. Remember Kaya, yung daughter ng neighbor natin, she wasn’t kidnapped. One of the demons took her, lured her to the nearby pond and tried to drown her.” Kaya survived. I didn’t. I can see my parents, waking down the foggy, dark streets, the yellow and white lights illuminating from the lamppost guiding their way, while blaring sirens from police cars zoom all over the village looking for me, but with no luck. There are no remains. My body is gone, my bones grinded and sprinkled all over the soil like powdered sugar dusted on a cake. My parents would have no body to mourn, nothing, as if my existence had been wiped out from history. It wasn’t a story meant to scare me like I had always believed. It was true. But only those who fall victim to this tragedy know it is true. No one wants to believe demons are everywhere. I wish I believed. I wish I listened. Don’t go near the mango trees.
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i think i miss quarantine
Maddi Chun
This won’t be a popular opinion, but as I sit in my bed on Friday night, I can’t help but miss the spring of 2020. For the first time in my life, I was allowed to put a pause on everything. While the world I knew was falling apart, I was sitting in my childhood bed, watching coming of age movies until 6 a.m. every single day. My normal routine of waking up, school, work, socializing, and homework had paused. My new routine was non-existent. I loved it.
I was home in Southern Oregon, a rural area where Covid-19 cases were pretty rare in the beginning, so getting Covid didn’t feel like a huge concern back then. I was just back in my hometown, blowing bubbles in my backyard with my dogs.
Of course it’s a little fucked up that while a global pandemic was going on, I was able to just sit in my room and watch movies. According to the CDC, that was my part in the war effort of fighting Covid-19, but it’s hard to describe what I
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felt when I think about those short days and long nights. I remember having rough and sad days, listening to “Somebody That I Used To Know” on repeat in my family’s garage while smoking out of my favorite bong.
People really enjoyed taking on hobbies during shelter in place, but, as hard as I try, I’ve never been much of a hobbyist (despite the $160 I spent at a craft store) and I never picked one up. What I did do was catch up on years of sleep. Mostly, I found myself in an introspective state. I started going on late night drives through my small town, driving past the parking lots where I would hang out with my friends, the coffee shops we would go to, the viewpoints where I had some of my first sexual experiences. I was back in a place where I had never before been content... except this time, I was.
I think quarantine was the time I needed to finally appreciate and understand my childhood and where I came from; a small town riddled with a meth problem. Everyone from a meth town has a story about it. My token story is about my
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father. During my junior year of high school, my parents sat my brother and I down. I vividly remember my dad saying he had “an addiction to addictions.” I didn’t find out what that addiction was until months later. I don’t know why he didn’t just rip the bandaid off– his delivery was so confusing. He said he was going to be gone for just a few months. I remained calm. I knew so little about what was going on, I didn’t know what to think or how to feel. Most of what’s left of that time is this strong feeling of confusion.
When my dad came back, everything went back to normal. It hadn’t felt that different when he was gone, really. Growing up, my dad had always lived in the same house as us, but it never felt like he was really there. He worked insane hours at the restaurant he owned, coming back home at 3 am and leaving long before I was up. I’m not sure when the transition happened from him working late hours to doing meth during those hours. I barely even have a clear memory of him before he went to rehab.
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I do remember the night he was arrested. It was a couple months after he had gotten back from rehab trip number one. My mom had been gone from the house for a while, and I was working on pre-calculus homework in my room. When my mom and her friend got back, they immediately came to my room. I didn’t think twice about it. But then my mom told me that he had been arrested. He got pulled over leaving a meth house, and he’d had guns in his car. I remember still trying to finish my pre-calculus homework, and being unable to.
We went over to my aunt’s house that night, and my mom finally got a call from my dad. But he never came back home. After he was released, he walked to a motel and stayed there until he went down to the Betty Ford in Palm Springs. While he was gone, my mom asked me to write a letter to him. I think it was some sort of rehab therapy assignment. I don’t recall what I put in the letter, except that I feared that I would become like him. He wrote me a letter back saying that he didn’t think that would happen.
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When he came back from California, he was almost a whole new person. I think that that was when my dad and I’s relationship really began. And I’m thankful for quarantine because it ended up being the extra time we needed to build our relationship.
Quarantine became a time for me to examine the people and places that defined my childhood. I wasn’t regressing, I was appreciating the things that defined who I am. I miss being able to have that type of time to just sit and think, even when the thoughts become sad. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to sit in my sadness. I realized I was always looking for a distraction from my thoughts, and quarantine left me with no distractions. I was finally able to piece together my past– to heal myself not because I was broken, but because I finally had the time to.
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MyThai Vegan Cafe Phở Pasteur Seoul Topokki Buk Kyung Korean Restaurant Happy Lamb Hot Pot Go Go Curry Punjabi Dhaba
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A Comprehensive Review of The Most Popular
Boba Shops in Chinatown Karenna Umscheid
“Illusion of choice" is a term that crops up more and more in our post-Industrial Revolution society, and is evidenced by the overload of bubble tea shops in Chinatown, making it near impossible to actually go and get a drink. Reviews are scattered across multiple sites and it's difficult to distinguish whether a shop is actually bad, or if the reviewer was angry that day. I'm here to set the record straight. I've visited a myriad of bubble tea shops, and I'm going to give my complete, unbiased thoughts on the drink I've tried at each one. All opinions (and taste buds) are my own.
T'Baar 32 Kneeland St. ITEM
AMT
Fresh Dragon Fruit Tea RATING:
1120132711423
$7.95
To get it out of the way immediately, here is the overtly bad. T'Baar is some of the most revolting bubble tea I have ever tasted. Not only are the cups rigid and aesthetically horrendous, the pearls inside are nothing to write home about. But it's the tea that's really unsatisfactory. The dragon fruit drink is especially bad, lacking any sort of flavor besides a blank, one-note sweetness.
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OneZo
83 Harrison Ave
AMT
ITEM
Hong Kong Style Milk Tea RATING:
1120132711423
$4.50
I was very excited to try OneZo, ordering the Hong Kong Milk Tea with Brown Sugar Pearls. Unfortunately, I was highly disappointed. The tea lacked greatly in flavor, tasting primarily milky with a touch of water and a bitter aftertaste. The pearls nearly made up for it, as both the flavor and texture of were phenomenal. But in the end, the taste of the tea was too unpleasant for me.
Kung Fu Tea, another chain bubble tea spot, is also nothing special. The teas are extremely basic, both in scope of flavor and in quality. The pearls are often hit or miss, sometimes great, and sometimes poor. Unsatisfactory pearls can ruin an entire drink. To be safe, I'd steer clear of this place; there are far better spots.
Kung Fu tea 66 Kneeland St. AMT
ITEM
Honey Oolong Milk Tea RATING:
1120132711423
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$4.75
TEa-DO 8 Tyler St. AMT
ITEM
Passion Fruit w/ Mango Jelly RATING:
1120132711423
$4.91
Thanks to the hospitality of ASIA and the bubble tea series, I've had the pleasure of trying the passion fruit tea with mango jelly, and, in my own time, the blue raspberry. The mango jelly was perfect in consistency, not too hard and not too soft, and there was a natural taste to the passion fruit tea that prevented it from being overly sweet. The general sweetness of both drinks was very welcomed. They're enjoyable, refreshing, and have the perfect amount of ice. As far as fruit-based drinks go, Tea-Do is the best standard bubble tea shop in Chinatown.
Tiger Sugar, on the other hand, offers no light and fruity drinks, but only thick, milky, brown sugar teas. The boba is perfectly chewy and warm, creating an amazing contrast with the cool tea. The sides of the cup are drizzled with a brown-sugary liquid, and every drink on the menu seems to fit this same theme. Be prepared for intense sweetness, for the drinks are best enjoyed by those with a strong sweet tooth.
Tiger Sugar 14 Tyler St. AMT
ITEM
Black Sugar Boba + Pearl Milk w/ Cream Mousse
$5.60
RATING:
1120132711423
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Taking the top spot, the passionfruit green tea at Gong Cha is amazing. Firstly, the customizations are accurate. Many bubble tea shops will offer less ice and not really do it, but Gong Cha does it extremely accurately, and the adjustability of the sweetness is perfect as well. I got white pearls in mine, which varied in size and texture, but complemented the drink very nicely. The flavor in the tea was absolutely perfect.
Gong CHa 44 Harrison Ave AMT
ITEM
QQ Passionfruit Green Tea
$4.95
RATING:
1120132711423
In the end, I still have an open mind about most of these shops, with the exception of T'Baar and Kung Fu Tea, because I don't plan on wasting my money. My ultimate recommendations are Gong Cha, Tiger Sugar, and Tea-Do. All of these shops have well-flavored teas, and pearls that are of a strong, reliably good texture. Although Chinatown has a plethora of bubble tea shops, some are definitely better than others, and I know I'd prefer to save my money avoiding poor or mediocre drinks. There's nothing worse than throwing five dollars away in a Chinatown trash bin, the disappointment still lingering on your tongue.
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So Far, So Close Gloria Cao
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Living Outside the Box
Abigail Andersen
G
rowing up in America as a minority, there was always a sense of feeling like I didn’t belong. Whether or not you were born here, how long you’ve lived here, or what languages you speak, there’s a constant sense of feeling like the odd one out. Over the few months I have been at Emerson, I’ve seen firsthand the active racial discrimination at this predominantly white institution. And that has also made me think about my Aunt’s experiences growing up as a first-generation immigrant in the ’70s; not just her experiences during that time but how that also affected the way she raised my sister and I, two adopted children from China. Being adopted by two white parents, it was difficult for me to feel
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connected and comfortable with either one of my cultures, a task that my aunt took. Racial inequality and discrimination have always been a pressing issue in the world. And for my Aunt she has a very interesting list of experiences growing up in the 70’s. For context, she is not my biological Aunt. Early on, she was originally my mom’s gym trainer. Originally she was my mom’s gym trainer, but was later hired by my mom to work for her production company as an assistant/secretary. When my mom said that she was adopting two babies from China, my Aunt made it clear that she did not want to be put in any sort of nanny position. But when we arrived, she was the first to hold us and switched career gears from assistant to guardian and family caretaker. She taught us about our culture and what to expect as a minority in America through sharing her own experiences. She and her 5 siblings were all first-generation immigrants in their family. As I grew up, she would tell me stories of the racism she would face on a day-today basis and how she learned to handle it. In the ‘70s, my aunt faced a lot of extreme
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discrimination and violence as a minority. She would share stories of her walking to and from school and being chased and mocked while having racial slurs spat at her face. She shared with me the story of when her church experienced a shooting, explaining to me the urgency of ducking and covering for her life, only because of how her family looked, lived, and spoke. As I grew up, she taught me to learn more about Chinese culture and how she dealt with discrimination. The way she approached it was to keep her head down and not fight back. Granted, that headspace was what saved her life in that church. I remember this one summer after a tragic shooting in a hair salon, my aunt drove me outside of the city. When I asked her where we were going, she explained with a stone-cold face, “They’re killing us, we’re getting pepper spray.” She explained that we would only ever be seen as “the other” or the odd ones out. We would only be seen as people whose language and words meant nothing, constantly having our voices stomped on. Though I am Asian by blood, I feel unwelcome in both white and Asian communities. I was adopted when I was 14 months old and I remember nothing
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from before the age of 4 when I was already living in Pasadena, California (a very white community just outside of the more diverse areas in Los Angeles). I did not know that I was adopted until I was 6 years old. I was asked by my classmates why I didn’t look like either of my parents. I was young and I did actually believe that I would somehow grow up to look like my father who had light grey/white hair or my mother with red hair. Simultaneously, the Asian students in school outcasted me when I wouldn’t understand what they were saying if they spoke to me in Chinese. From that moment on, my Aunt dedicated her time raising me to ensure that I was going to be more in touch with both of my cultures. I feel as though I have gotten a taste of different cultures, being Asian American and raised by two white parents. It’s difficult to feel welcome in either bubble, however I feel like my Aunt sharing her experiences has helped me feel more aware of my reality as a minority and the privilege that I have having white parents. Although society taught me that I will only ever be considered as the ‘other’ in my own country and will try to bubble me, I know that is not the truth.
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