Pacific Ties Spring 2022 Vol. 1: Growth by Pacific Ties

Spring 2022 Vol. 1

Editor's Note, Abita Venkatesh Growing Pains, Anisha Menath Quiescence, Louise Lin A Rose Needs to Grow, Lisa Ramos Japanese and American, Shune Kawaoto Coming of Age During Quarantine, Kelly Ou Two is Better Than One, Sophie Vansomphone Self Portrait As A Week’s To-Do List, Ashley Kim I Remember, Abita Venkatesh Six Word Stories, Christine King My Heritage and Identity, Manisha Wanniappa Changing Portrayals of Inclusivity in Television, Amber Phung Growth of Asian American Activism, Kara Chu Staff Page

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Dear readers, How do we measure growth? First and foremost, how can we define it? In our day-to-day lives, we are subsumed by messages about how we should grow, whether personally or societally. Especially during our time in university, young people like the Pacific Ties staff undergo exceptional changes and learn more about themselves, their friends, their family, and the world around them. For many, personal goals change, and we learn the values that we will then go and spread to the world outside. As a society, how have we grown? With contemporary social movements and overall awareness of issues previously swept under the rug, one can argue that we have made rising strides. However, we also note that there is room to do better, to do more – for growth. To me, both forms of growth have characterized this past year. I have learned that my own growth journey is not linear; rather, there are ebbs and flows of learning and acting. Who I am today is not who I was at the start of my time here, or even who I was at the start of this year. Our hope through this issue is to highlight the various facets of growth and its interconnection with identity, time, emotions, physicality, and more. We hope you will appreciate this collection of narratives and artworks, and perhaps resonate with them as well. Sincerely, Abita Venkatesh Editor-in-Chief 2021-2022

Growing Pains Written by Anisha Menath Edited by Lisa Ramos and Charlotte Chui Designed by Anisha Menath Layout by Charlotte Chui

As you grow, it's normal to feel some physical and mental discomfort. I felt both multiple times. Things don’t look or feel the way they used to. But that’s okay – people label this as the awkward stage: the only point in your life where it’s okay not to fit the norm or conform to a certain beauty standard. Maybe this is where it all begins. Where the “Fair and Lovely” products that line the wall of the Indian grocery store promising “melanin suppression” become more than a soap. When insecurities started to develop into tangible issues, not just for me but many others, I lacked words to express what I was feeling. I did not know that I had to undo colonialist thought or that I had to understand colorism. Western expectations and beauty standards are a remnant of colonization as they were a quiet effect of the imposed rule on

nations in the Middle East, Africa, and across Asia. But when I started to notice the rise of my self-doubt in my body, I did not know that this was the effect of many years of racism and sexism. We often talk about racism and sexism existing in different spheres, missing their intersection. Body image is not just a gender issue; it's also a race issue and an ableism issue. It intersects with so many other identity factors but is rarely discussed as such. Then again, during the moment I felt uncomfortable in my skin and body, I did not have the language to address it as such. Looking back, I was probably able to describe my feelings through education on racism and sexism. But the education I received in school was not enough. It was often through talking with others and learning about their struggles and

experiences that I knew that this was an intersectional problem built from white supremacy. I had to work to undo my own thoughts on it. While I often turned to books, TV shows, and music to address undoing internalized racism, I also had this ongoing discomfort. Body dysmorphia and eating disorders are often considered taboo topics within the South Asian community, although cultural education on these issues is gaining support. Nevertheless, many conservative communities of South Asians, particularly in the U.S. diaspora, fail to address this topic. Oftentimes, these conservative communities reinforce colorism and “white” ideals of beauty, imposing them on the next generation. For example, I’ve heard people praise others for “fairness” and “whiteness” not as a marker of difference from the community but rather as a

well as American beauty standards and media. With these multiple intersections of race and gender, community and country, it is easy to feel isolated and unsupported. Many South Asians are not encouraged to explore fields of therapy and psychology therefore making them a small portion of therapists out there. At the same time, seeking therapy still remains a taboo topic. Many are left to seek out support by themselves, and while this is empowering, it is also upsetting that professional support is rarely available.

54%

of respondents of a 2018 survey in Mumbai, India had used skin whitening products before Source: Frontiers in Public Health

characteristic that holds them above others. But many South Asian children of immigrants feel the force of pressure rom their South Asian community as

I am still grappling with and growing from body image struggles. It doesn’t magically get “fixed,” but it’s something that I’m constantly dealing with. However, there are moments when my race and ethnicity empower rather than oppress me. I try to be proud of the fact that my face and body

show my heritage, especially the parts that remind me of family members. I love my thick hair and prominent nose. Not every day is filled with body positivity, but I try to fill it with acceptance and care.

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A Rose Needs To Grow Written by Lisa Ramos Edited by Yusra Akhundzadah and Charlotte Chui Designed by Lisa Ramos

Lisa Rose. First day of introductions — The first falls out of my mouth With ease While the latter remains concealed Unseen.

First I need to grow on my own Before I can be a gift for others. Too many times I am overwatered Soaking in my own tears. I am ripped apart from the ground Unable to reach the cerulean skies Ruining my roots For the following years.

Why hide such a beautiful name? Imagine a full-fledged rose Bright, startling scarlet Leaving the bushes To become a gift of enjoyment. Me? I am a short, stagnant jade sprout That has yet to grow Yet to reach my desired potential. But there is no denying The dreams hazed with crimson Carmine, vermillion. I still want to be a rose Spread love and glee Unite the world by the millions.

For now I will remain In my green bush Enabling my own growth Supporting my own growth Sustaining my growth. Thanks to Mother Nature In due time I will become the full-fledged rose That people desire. Filled with love of oneself Matured. But until then — “Nice to meet you all, My name is Lisa!”

Japanese and American Written by Shune Kawaoto Edited by Yusra Akhundzadah and Charlotte Chui Designed by Amber Lee and Shune Kawaoto

“My mom told me to not play with you because you aren’t fully Japanese.” I remember at this instance, 4-year-old kindergarten me was taken aback by my classmate's statement. At this young age, I didn’t understand why I didn’t “qualify” as a Japanese person in my classmate’s mother’s eyes. My father is Japanese and my mother is Taiwanese, but I’ve always been culturally raised as Japanese. My family speaks Japanese at home, and Japanese is even my first language. A sad expression was visible on my mother’s face when I asked her why I wasn’t considered Japanese by my classmate’s mom, and she struggled to answer, though she finally said some people are obsessed with staying around people who are the “same” as them. Looking back, she may have felt guilty for being the reason why I was ostracized from a group of people I thought I belonged to.

Of course, I didn’t blame her, nor did I understand what she meant back then; I still saw myself as Japanese, but I didn’t realize that other people around me who were part of the Japanese community didn’t view me as one of them since I was mixed. As I grew older, I recognized a trend of second-generation Japanese kids being told to steer away from me and stay in their own bubble with other second-generation, fullblooded Japanese kids. By the time I reached middle school, I had become aware of such discrimination in the world and accepted my situation as something out of my control. At that point, I no longer saw myself as a second-generation Japanese, but rather as an Asian American who had assimilated into an American culture and lifestyle. I had a friend group made up of Americans that didn’t exclude me for being only half Japanese, and I was satisfied with that.

However, my identity crisis was yet to be resolved. When I brought natto — Japanese fermented soybeans — for lunch in seventh grade, my friends were all disgusted by the smell and appearance of my lunch. I tried convincing them that it was a common Japanese meal that tasted better than it smelled, but my efforts were in vain.

This was the moment when it clicked for me that I didn’t exactly belong with this group of people either. There were multiple signs before that indicated this, like them not understanding why I attended Japanese school on Saturdays, why I spent most of my summer in Asia visiting family instead of hanging out with friends and why I listen to Japanese music instead of American music. However, I mark this instance as the tipping point that forced me to see that I didn’t really fit into the crowd of Americans either.

To this day, I’m still certain there are plenty others like me who are going through the same internal struggle of determining what exactly we are. I am used to behaving like a typical American when I’m out in public, but my lifestyle also reverts back to my Japanese roots when I’m alone or at home with my family.

I am now more familiar with the English language, but Japanese still flows naturally out of my mouth in times of half-conscious mumbling or instinctive reactions. My identity is made up of two cultures – American and Japanese – yet not completely one or the other. It is a fusion of the two, with a constant ebb and flow of one side being more dominant than the other, or both sides being at equilibrium. At this stage in my life, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am both Japanese and American while not being 100% one or the other, and for now, I’m satisfied with the compromise that I’ve reached.

March 2020. I had just gotten back to my dorm after going to my TA’s office hours when I got an email notification informing everyone that the following spring quarter was going to be remote for the first two weeks. It was still the beginning of the pandemic, so I had not begun to process the severity of the situation. Another follow-up email was sent out a few weeks later notifying everyone that remote instruction was extended until the end of spring quarter. Quarantine transformed from being an unused word to being a lifestyle within a matter of days. Little did I know that this new lifestyle would uproot everyone’s lives in ways we have never expected.

My image of my college experience shattered. Like many bright-eyed eighteen-year-old freshmen, I imagined and hoped that college was going to be the best four years of our lives. After a rough first quarter of college, things were starting to look up. I had switched to a major that I was more passionate about, joined clubs to make new friends, and was learning how to take better care of myself. When I moved back home, I slowly felt myself facing an identity crisis.

I went to college in hopes that I could ignore the institutional barriers that I had to overcome and instead focus on rebranding a better version of myself. Initially, I was overwhelmed from having two midterms in a week and from the fast pace of the quarter system. Due to the support of my classmates and friends, I was able to overcome that quickly.

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After quarantine started, I moved back home and lost the close proximity of my friends. As quarantine progressed, the hidden inequities to my higher education surfaced. I was forced to come to terms with my identities as a first-generation student and an Asian American amidst social upheaval. There were many times I thought that the pain and frustration would never end, so I would spend many days isolating myself to avoid dealing with my emotions.

Kelly Ou Chelsea Tran and Ashley Kim Kelly Ou

However, quarantine has also forced me to unlearn several societal expectations that I had aspired to accomplish before the pandemic. I realized that taking small breaks in a day or not being able to attain a job or internship within a specific time frame does not indicate that you’re any less of a person. It’s okay to quit things that you’ve once had an interest for, and it is not a sign of weakness. More importantly, I have gained a greater self-awareness and greater appreciation for the things in my life that I have been fortunate to have. My growth through quarantine has not been linear and it certainly wasn’t an enjoyable experience. I still face multiple identity crises in a given day and will most likely face more as I finish college and begin a new chapter of my life. However, I know that growth comes in all shapes and forms, and while painful at times, I am slowly becoming the person that I am meant to be. I wish I could go back in time and tell my eighteen-year-old self how proud I am of how far she has come and will continue to go.

Two is Better Than One Written by Sophie Vansomphone Edited by Lynette Caballero and Vanshita Gupta Layout and Design by Sophie Vansomphone

Two is always better than one, right? I mean, some of the best things in life come in pairs. You’ve got peanut butter and jelly, day and night, and even left and right. And let’s not forget the iconic sitcom duo from Full House, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. However, being half of my pair is far from glamorous. Never once in my life have I ever been alone, and I mean that literally. You see, being a twin sister to an angsty, hormonal brother meant not getting the chance to be my own person growing up. We were always the same, right down to the matching denim BabyGap overalls. My brother and I did everything together from the beautiful, graceful dance of ballet with frilly tutus to the musty, sweat-inducing sport of basketball. While I always had a friend for the ongoing after-school activities, it came at the cost of my individual identity. I was constantly approached with “Oh your (my brother’s name)’s sister” or “Hi (my brother’s name)’s sister.” I understand why my parents put my brother and me in the same activities–it was convenient for them. However, this bred competition and led to the endless comparisons of who was better at what. I never got to explore my interests on my own. Growing up, I slowly began forming an interest for the arts, such as acting and painting, but since it was never a shared interest, I didn’t get to explore it too much when I was younger. It was these things that provided me with an outlet to express my feelings and provide it in a concrete form whether that's on a canvas or a camera video. We just never had the time to be in two places at once. Well, that was until my brother and I left to attend different high schools.

For the first time in my life, I got the taste of freedom that so many teenagers seek but in a slightly different way. I was finally on my own and not connected to someone else. I had a whole new set of friends, teachers, and coaches. I wasn’t forced to be a part of clubs or sports I had no interest in. This allowed me to dive into art and theater, a vast contrast to my brother’s world of science and math. At first, I might have developed those interests just to be different from him in a small way, to establish myself in a way that will never garner comparisons to him. Eventually, I found a true love for what I got to do. I got to play roles in my school plays, join art and writing contests, and push even further into other mediums like photography and writing. I explore all the desires I remotely wanted to see for so long, some still thriving today and others brief stints. Finally, the long-awaited journey of shaping myself into my own person has begun. While two is good to have, sometimes you just need to be one.

Self Portrait As a Week’s To-Do List Written by Ashley Kim Edited by Abita Venkatesh and Lisa Ramos Designed by Amber Lee Layout by Ashley Kim Listen to random Strokes songs on repeat until they get boring. Discard the moldy blueberries and stick them in the empty dog food bag so your mother doesn’t know. Wash your face. Evade your mother’s pleading to start caring about your skin. Apply moisturizer for the first time in a month. Draw a few complicated syntax trees. Practice Korean verb conjugation. Talk in toddler Korean at the grocery store. Yell “GEESE! MY FRIENDS! GEESE!” whenever you see Canadian geese, regardless of your previous conversation. Split your ends despite it being a waste of time. Bite your lip until it bleeds again. Binge-eat through an entire bag of root vegetable chips. Binge-inhale mango sorbet while watching ABC7 News with David Muir. Memorize the way that David Muir says “coROnavirus” and “TOnight.” Mimic David Muir instead of listening to the news. Chase your dog around the living room. Dance to LEENALCHI’s pansori pop. Dream of the Little People and Fuka-Eri’s awful sex scene. Regret posting about “1Q84” on Facebook. Remember that most people you know couldn’t finish 1Q84, so no one will know what you’re talking about. Go to Costco with your mother. Watch her selectively swap oranges from individual cartons to make an Infinity Gauntlet of oranges. Beg her to buy a leather-bound book of David Day’s accumulated research on the “Lord of the Rings” at the same Costco. Jump for joy when she does. Miss your sister. Observe some cows grazing on the drive home. Laugh as your mother yells, “DARK BROWN COWS! NOT LIGHT BROWN KOREAN COWS! KOREAN COWS ARE LIGHT BROWN!” Carry the groceries up two flights of stairs. Add the David Day book to your eternal to-be-read list. Forget to eat dinner. Forget to eat breakfast. Write several terrible poems. Walk your dog. Watch the orange sunset.

I Reme Written by Abita Venkatesh Edited by Emma Ong and Vanshita Gupta Designed by Amber Lee Layout by Abita Venkatesh

What I remember most vividly is the confusion. Drenched in this feeling from head to toe, it seemed impossible to escape it. In numerous ways, it still does. I remember the ups and downs, the backs and forths. I remember the conflicting messages as to how my body should present itself. I remember not knowing how I could tailor my body to fit my identity. Identity. The notion itself is a dichotomous assertion. Am I Indian or am I westernized – and how much of me is each? Am I meant to split the various components of my identity into simple ratios, a quantitative representation of who I am? My parents, my aunts, my uncles, and my family friends have made me no stranger to the art of subtle commentary. While their remarks were not direct, I nevertheless internalized a plethora of messages on what it means to be the “ideal” Indian woman -- the one who would be most “desirable” in the eyes of those who judge. Not too petite. Not too pudgy. My dimples were lauded, my dark skin was not. Around the time I began paying heed to the skin whitening creams stocked at the Indian markets; I began internalizing the comments and comparisons. They began young, and with them so did the excuses: your skin is only dark now because you were sick as a baby. Otherwise you’d be fair like your sister… I remember being screamed at to finish my plate on days when I was too sick to wish for meals, and the comments to stop eating when I felt self-assured enough to reach for the platter.

mber My peers, whether intentionally or not, fostered a wholly different set of conditional body standards. It was the mid-2000s and early 2010s -- the slim “waif-like” look was in, and therefore, I was not. I remember staring at myself in the mirror, wondering why my stomach was not as flat as the other girls’. I think back to my acute awareness of how I was the only friend to suck in with a one-piece swimsuit. I remember being asked one day in middle school if I was pregnant with a pointed look to my stomach -- an area where I was predisposed to have more fat, I later learned, as a South Asian woman. My tenacity newly ignited, I chose one identity over the other. I played the harmful game of “how little can I eat” combined with “how much can I run.”

"I had one goal, and it was not to grow. It was to shrink." They say, and this is showcased through movies, television shows, and young adult fiction, that one undergoes quite a lot of growth in their adolescent years. However, my mood, tolerance, and health shriveled up. I was left with a shell of who I had grown to be. I remember the pride surging in my heart as the numbers on the digital scale plunged. 110 pounds. 105. 101. 98. 96. I can recall the excitement of the countdown despite the fact that I had no finite end point. I had one goal, and it was not to grow. It was to shrink.

I remember my own voice, desolate and hoarse, yelling against my mother’s tears when she traced her fingers against my fragile arms. Kanna, she begged. What are you doing to yourself? The same words would pour out from her tongue and echo into my own ears when I wore bathing suits, and she could see the protrusions from my back. When I wore short sleeves and my veins were prominent on my arms. Bones showing here and there. Ribcage much more visible than it should have been. I convinced myself, while trying to convince her, you don’t understand, Amma, this is what is normal. I remember refusing the plates of cut-up peaches and apples that my mother would bring up to my room while I did homework, just as she had done since I was in elementary school. I remember eyeing the spoonfuls of coconut oil she would pour in the avial pan, convinced that even one taste would ruin the years and effort I had put in to come this far. I remember meticulously telling myself, “Just two more minutes, just one more minute, just add 30 seconds,” as the treadmill ran at 5.5 miles per hour, then 5.6, 5.7.

I remind myself of those times now. When I get dressed for bed and shamefully feel the twinge of guilt that comes with the realization that my hipbones no longer stick out sharply. When I view the part of the floor where my scale once sat in my room before it was confiscated, a reminder of how humiliating it is to not be trusted with the numbers I once felt defined me. Am I better now? I can never be totally free of this mindset, but time has allowed me to grow past the most toxic components. If I can remember it all – the identity confusion, the hollowed body, my family’s anguish – then I grow outward and inward, hopefully toward an upward trend.

In this series of six-word stories, writers sum up one aspect of their growth in a single sentence. From humorous realizations to deep reflections, these stories give a peek into personal experiences on growing up and living with the changes that come with it. The six-word constraint allows writers to communicate in succinct, poignant quips, letting their short stories represent a brief moment in their lives. By putting together these fragments of the many different forms of identity development, we can step back and see a bigger picture of growth—from the joyful to the bittersweet and everything in between.

My Heritage and Identity Written by Manisha Wanniappa Edited by Shune Kawaoto and Ashley Kim Designed by Amber Lee Growing up as a Sri Lankan girl in America has its challenges. In childhood, I often struggled with feeling neither Sri Lankan nor American enough. This conviction stemmed from the fact that I could not speak the Sri Lankan language, Singhalese. When members of my family conversed in front of me, I felt left out and ashamed by the disconnect from my culture. On the flipside, I also felt I was not American enough because of my ethnicity. I attended a predominantly white middle school where my differences from others were often highlighted. I still have vivid memories of bringing Sri Lankan foods to school and having to endure rude remarks from classmates during lunch. These comments alluded to the smell or the appearance of the food I brought, and after a while I swapped my rice and curry lunches for Lunchables. At the time I felt I had to reject my Sri Lankan heritage in order to feel a sense of belonging in America. Now, as an older and somewhat wiser version of myself, I see my heritage as a key part of my identity that must be embraced. My connection to my culture grew when I graduated from middle school and learned how to surf. I like to think of surfing as the first common thread that pulled me back to my Sri Lankan heritage. As I delved into the world of surfing, I learned there was a rich surfing culture in Sri Lanka. A simple Internet search led to numerous articles about iconic surf spots in Sri Lanka and the history of the sport on the island. I felt empowered when I learned about the all-female surf club in Sri Lanka and the ways in which they challenged gender norms. I began to tie my identity as a surfer to my identity as a Sri Lankan woman. I started asking my father about my grandfather – a legendary waterman who swam from Sri Lanka to the tip of India. I began to wonder if perhaps there was saltwater in my blood, and if I was meant to connect back to my roots through surfing.

Today I feel more connected to my culture than ever before. Over the quarantine, my mom taught me how to make various Sri Lankan dishes and I got to listen to her stories about her childhood in the kitchen. I began to feel more connected to a place I had never been. In my free time, I read about Sri Lankan landmarks and the history of the country. When given the opportunity to explore my heritage in an Asian American Studies class, I decided to write about the Sri Lankan Civil War. This research project helped me understand the experiences my mother lived through and heightened my interest in Sri Lanka’s position in the international arena. As I was learning all of this new information, I felt ashamed for not finding this curiosity earlier. But I decided that it was time to make up for lost time, and learn what I can. Nowadays I frequently call my grandmother, who made it her mission to teach me the language of Singhalese. My dad shares Sri Lankan music with me and tells me about the Sri Lankan pop stars he revered when he was young. With all these things making me feel more connected to my culture, I now know that my Sri Lankan heritage is something to embrace, not reject.

Changing Portrayals of Inclusivity in Television Written by Amber Phung Edited by Chelsea Tran and Ashley Kim Design and Layout by Vanshita Gupta The depiction of inclusivity in popular culture has grown and morphed over the years: for both the better and the worse. With the rise of social movements such as Black Lives Matter, Stop AAPI Hate, and #MeToo, more and more people are acknowledging the harmful hierarchy that institutional discrimination has inundated into our lives and mindset. To reflect this sudden shift in focus, corporations and mass media companies are attempting to address racism, sexism and homophobia by disseminating anti-racist discourse in the workplace, celebrating racial, ethnic and queer holidays, and publicly announcing their support for marginalized groups. Although these endeavors are mostly conducted with good intention, they often perpetuate the narrative that doing the bare minimum can pass off as being “inclusive.” In relation to the entertainment industry, the concept of a token minority figure is a trope that we are all familiar with. How long can we sit around and pretend like the gay, Black, Chinese, or whatever ethnicity or sexuality “best friend” or “sidekick” is really a sign of inclusivity? Mass media continues to popularize the notion that if there’s one member of a minority present, that’s enough to represent the whole. For instance, “Gilmore Girls'' remains a favorite bingeworthy show amongst today’s teenagers. But regardless of how lovable the Gilmores are and how engaging the plot is, it is a paradigm of the token minority phenomenon, as Lane Kim, the Korean best friend and sidekick to protagonist Rory Gilmore, is a harmful cliché of the Asian community. Lane’s appearance throughout the show checks all the token minority boxes: she has a militant Asian tiger mom, she is a loyal, reliable, but onedimensional friend, and she has a high-achieving attitude. Lane and her family are also only some of the few people of color on the TV show. In spite of the comfort and entertainment the show offers, it preserves the idea that having one Asian actress in the media is enough.

However, in recent years, the media has become more embracing of the APIDA community. TV shows like “Never Have I Ever” and “Kim’s Convenience” and movies like “Shang Chi” and “Crazy Rich Asians” signify a step in the right direction, as Asian characters are finally portrayed as multidimensional and authentic. In comparison to the token minority characters of the past, Devi Vishwakumar and Janet and Jung Kim are real: they make mistakes, they have flaws, they are dynamic. They aren’t just the same repetitive stereotype in different fonts. It is by watching and supporting these forms of entertainment that we can further grow and nourish the concept of inclusivity in media. We need to realize that we cannot settle for the bare minimum and work to galvanize change in this sector. If the idea that having a cliché minority side character is enough for “inclusivity” becomes universalized, we are essentially telling those minority groups that they don’t matter enough to be the main character. That they don’t deserve the spotlight, both on TV and in real life. In inclusivity-restrictive shows like “Gilmore Girls,” the presence of only one person of color spreads the concept that “one is enough.” We must work to transform this narrative and instead turn our efforts to furthering more complex forms of diversity in media, where minorities aren’t just flat, one-dimensional side characters that appear in rare scenes. The first step for us to abolish this toxic cycle of veiled prejudice is to acknowledge it. It has become so embedded into our daily lives that we all accept the fact that most actors in movies are white, that a majority of popular singers are white, that people of color only deserve to be a sidekick to their white best friend. This normalization of harmful standards can become hard for us to realize how distressingly discriminatory these practices are. And although we as a society have grown in recent years to address these issues, it is important for each of us to continue applying a mindset of all-encompassing inclusivity and intersectionality in order to truly dismantle systemic bigotry.

A Ripple of Change: The Growth of Asian American Advocacy Written by Kara Chu Edited by Shune Kawaoto and Ashley Kim Layout by Kara Chu

As anti-Asian hate crimes skyrocketed due to racist rhetoric surrounding COVID-19, more and more Asian Americans have become advocates to fight for their community. Since the pandemic began, over 10,000 anti-Asian hate crimes have been reported in the US. Experts attribute the rise in anti-Asian violence to former President Donald Trump’s inflammatory remarks, which included calling COVID-19 the “kung flu” and the “Chinese virus.” I remember watching the headlines roll in one after another across the nation, horrified as I saw countless videos of Asian Americans getting stabbed, shot, beaten with hammers, shoved to the floor and assaulted. In every victim, I saw my grandma, my parents, my friends and myself. When my friends and I visited San Francisco this summer soon after an elderly Asian woman was stabbed nearby, we were terrified that we were going to be targeted next. In order to be less visible, we had to create a walking formation where my Asian American friend and I walked between the others.

Photo credit/Viviana Riche, Unsplash

I felt like I was being swept away by the raging tsunami of violence against my community. This towering wave of anti-Asian sentiment was forcing me to hide my identity that I was so proud of. I, along with many fellow Asian Americans, wanted to change that.

~ Young Asian Americans like myself took to the streets and social media to make our voices heard. We organized rallies and marches across the country against anti-Asian and anti-Asian American violence. We demanded reform, spurring local governments and the federal government to condemn anti-AAPI bias and to address Asian American inequities such as linguistic isolation, xenophobic policy and lack of representation. The hashtags #StopAsianHate and #StopAAPIHate flooded social media, creating an online movement to spread awareness and resources for the community. This made advocacy more accessible to all, especially as people stayed at home because of the pandemic. Social media provided a platform where people were encouraged and emboldened to speak up and tell their own stories. “Asians are not a monolith,” actress and “Top Chef” host Padma Lakshmi tweeted. “The continent includes around 48 countries and 3 territories, all with unique cultures, food customs and traditions. But a racist attack against one of us is an attack against all of us. #StopAsianHate.” Lakshmi was among the dozens of Hollywood celebrities to speak out against the anti-Asian sentiment.

Although this movement has been a step towards making ourselves heard, we must keep fighting. “The Stop Asian Hate movement is only scratching the surface of the problems that we have as Asian Americans,” says Brandon Le, the Community Advocacy Coordinator for the Vietnamese Student Union at UCLA. “As much as it has grown, there is still a lot more that needs to be done to address systemic issues.” In order to ensure real and lasting impacts, Asian Americans are now emphasizing the need to organize as a community.

“I prefer the term organizer over activist,” says third-year Nancy Khuc, Community Advocacy Coordinator for the Asian Pacific Coalition at UCLA. “Activism is more about an activist’s own perception of righteousness without confronting social problems as a collective. It isn’t permanent.” On the other hand, Khuc says, “As an organizer, you’re building collective power to help your community.” Organizing is crucial if we want to make a change for the wellbeing of our communities.

"a single act of courage" “You can witness real change and touch real lives with a single act of courage,” says Le. This past summer, I saw how this was true. I rallied alongside fellow Asian Americans and black Americans at the Los Angeles “Love Our Communities: Build Collective Power” march. My image and advocacy were photographed by Associated Press photographer Damian Dovarganes and, within a few days, featured in national news sources such as AP News, CBS and NBC and overseas in Mainichi Japan. One of my peers messaged me and told me that they were inspired to join the movement after seeing me in the news.

My picture was used by grassroots organization Next GenerAsian in a forum to spark necessary discourse about allyship. I even saw it included in UCLA’s Association of Chinese Americans’ orientation video on political advocacy this year. I was shocked at how far my picture went, and I learned the power that our voices hold. People, no matter what age, can make a difference. Whether it’s as big as coordinating a march or as accessible as joining a club on campus, just one small action can start a ripple that grows into something bigger. All it takes is the first step to organize and stand in solidarity for the APIDA community and all marginalized groups. https://www.npr.org/2021/08/12/1027236499/anti-asian-hate-crimes-assaults-pandemic-incidents-aapi https://stopaapihate.org/national-report-through-september-2021/ https://www.nbcnews.com/news/asian-america/trump-can-t-claim-kung-flu-doesn-t-affect-asian-n1231812 https://www.nbcnews.com/news/asian-america/asian-woman-94-stabbed-multiple-times-san-franciscon1271112 https://abcnews.go.com/US/dozens-rallies-protesters-call-end-anti-asian-violence/story?id=76727278 https://www.kpbs.org/news/2021/04/07/supervisors-resolution-condemning-anti-asian-hate https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/statements-releases/2021/03/30/fact-sheet-president-bidenannounces-additional-actions-to-respond-to-anti-asian-violence-xenophobia-and-bias/ https://twitter.com/padmalakshmi/status/1372237487515578369

MEET TH Abita Venkatesh

Amber Lee

Amber Phung

Christine King

Charlotte Chui

Jeffrey Sandoval-Medina

Editor-in-Chief

Copy Editor

Internal Managing Editor

Louise Lin

Lynette Caballero

Sophie Vansomphone

Vanshita Gupta

Staff Writer

Designer

Staff Writer

Copy Editor

External Managing Editor

Staff Writer

Social Media

HE STAFF Anisha Menath Staff Writer

General Managing Editor

Ashley Kim

Chelsea Tran

Kara Chu

Kate Ly

Lisa Ramos

Morgan Chu

Shune Kawaoto

Staff Writer

Social Media

Copy Editor

Staff not pictured: Emma Ong, Varsha Ravi, Kelly Ou, Manisha Wanniappa, Kai Tokiyeda, Nidhi Ramesh, Noelle Chang Yusra Akhundzadah Copy Editor

Acknowledgements: Creating this magazine was truly a team effort, and we would like to thank our amazing staff for contributing their pieces. We would also like to thank UCLA Student Media, as well as our readers for supporting this issue. Various design elements provided by Canva

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About us: Pacific Ties is the oldest student-run Asian Pacific Islander Desi American newsmagazine in the nation. We have been publishing at UCLA since 1977, and strive to provide the UCLA community with a plethora of diverse narratives, poems, and art that capture various facets of the Asian Pacific Islander Desi American community experience. Pacific Ties aims to provide commentary, stories, and news related to the APIDA community at UCLA to all of our students. We hope to be the forefront of narratives surrounding this community, and aim to provide an open space for the discussion of important, pertinent, and sensitive topics.

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