Pacific Ties Winter 2023: Mirrors

editor’s note about us about us

editor’s note

What do you see when you look in the mirror? What distortions or inversions are refected? How do self-perceptions hold up to others’ perceptions of you? In this issue, our staff refect upon these questions.

There’s a certain self-surveillance of the image we see in the refection. On page 14, staff writer Van Tran’s “Infndentity” embraces her VietnameseAmerican identity, grappling with perceptions of her English and Vietnamese name. In “A love letter” on page 4, staff writer Amber Phung turns her focus outwards. Rich with love, Phung’s piece explores how she sees herself mirrored in those she holds dear.

What’s normally obscured but can be shown through refections? In “Refections of the palace” on page 22, staff writer Louise Lin takes on the perspective of refective objects. Lin pieces together an unfolding palace drama in ancient China, blurred by deception and scheming but where refections are clear.

We hope these pieces provide a glimpse through our staff’s lenses and push you to refect upon the same questions.

Best, Charlotte Chui Editor-in-Chief

Pacifc Ties is the oldest studentrun Asian Pacifc Islander Desi American (APIDA) newsmagazine in the nation. Publishing at UCLA since 1977, we showcase the rich and diverse stories of the APIDA community on and off campus through news and commentary. The name Pacifc Ties was chosen as a representation of what the publication seeks to accomplish: “to encompass all Asian groups nondiscriminantly; to include each in their individual sense, to engulf all in a collective sense” (Pacifc Ties Volume 1, Issue 1).

Today, our mission is to create and contribute to the ongoing dialogue that offers insight into the dynamics of being APIDA, challenges the perceptions of APIDA identity and celebrates the achievements of the communties that we all have ties to. Currently, we publish quarterly print magazines and weekly online articles at pacifcties.org.

Pacifc Ties Newsmagazine is published and copyrighted by the ASUCLA Communications Board. All rights are reserved. Reprinting of any material in this publication without the written permission of the Communications Board is strictly prohibited. The ASUCLA Communications Board fully supports the University of California’s policy on non-discrimination. The student media reserve the right to reject or modify advertising whose content discriminates on the basis of ancestry, color, national origin, race, religion, disability, sex or sexual orientation. The ASUCLA Communications Board has a media grievance procedure for resolving complaints against any of its publications. For a copy of the complete procedure, contact the publications offce at 118 Kerckhoff Hall @ 310-825-9898.

SIX WORD STORIES: SIX WORD STORIES:

Written by Pacifc

STORIES: MIRRORS STORIES: MIRRORS

Pacifc Ties Staff

A LOVE LETTER

Written by Amber Phung

Designed by Van Tran

Illustrated by Van Tran

Like many people, I grew up believing in the idea of true love. I read books where the main character would meet their perfect person in the bookstore, or have an enemies-to-lovers arc, or fall in love with their summer fing and they’d all live happily ever after. But the older I got, the less faith I had in the notion of “true love” or even romantic love itself. My parents always fought, and hearing the vitriol they fung at each other pushed me to question whether or not healthy love and commitment were possible outside of all the books and movies I endlessly consumed.

So when I began dating, I was so afraid of someone knowing me — really knowing me, to the point that they could read my every move like a psychic reading a palm — that I never really felt comfortable being myself around a guy. After all, as long as I didn’t share with him real stuff about me – the way I get mad when my food touches, my parents’ frst names, how my hair really looks when I wake up, my deathly fear of alligators and crocodiles, my dream of being a writer someday — then when the relationship eventually ended, we could part ways indifferently and simply be grateful to have crossed paths in life without lighting our footsteps on fre.

Finding platonic love with my friends proved an even more diffcult task. I always felt like everyone secretly hated me and was talking trash about me behind my back, or that one day all my friends would decide they didn’t want to be in my life anymore and leave. (Obviously, none of this was true, but I’d sometimes randomly wake up on a perfectly normal day and believe these things.) The fact that someone could love me for me intimidated me, so I was always tip-toeing around, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing that could send someone running. I was held back by my fears about love, a concept misconstrued by my past experiences and hurt.

platonic – that I fnally won over.

But one day in high school, when I was in the throes of teenage angst and self-doubt, a friend told me she started ordering coffee in the same way as me. She just thought it sounded really good when she overheard me tell it to the Starbucks barista a couple weeks ago, and she loved it! Although it was such a small act, it meant so much to me that what I did in my everyday life, the mundane minor stuff that I never really paid attention to, affected the people around me for the better. I felt valued and appreciated, even if it was only a coffee order.

Right after this experience with my friend, it got me thinking about all the other little things I’ve picked up from other people and how I was afraid of impacting people in the wrong way. I had been fearful of being “too much” or “too little” around people who actually mattered because my intrusive thoughts allowed me to believe that once I was myself, I would change people for the worse and their love for me would disappear. That’s when I realized that I should stop being scared of what others thought of me and instead be more thoughtful about how I could nourish the people around me simply by being myself.

In fact, we’re all merely refections of the people we love. The kaleidoscopes of our personalities are only rainbow and multifaceted because of the colorful mixture of traits we’ve picked up from those we spend the most time with.

With this revelation, I understood that we actually mirror the people we surround ourselves with – perhaps more often than we’re aware. In fact, we’re all merely refections of the people we love. The kaleidoscopes of our personalities are only rainbow and multifaceted because of the colorful mixture of traits we’ve picked up from those we spend the most time with.

And though I knew I deserved love, it somehow felt wrong to indulge in it because I was so self-conscious of the person that I was – or more so, the person that I presented to others. This doubt about my own identity spurred a fear of making an impact on others; I was terrifed of messing up the “love” – romantic or

And there’s actually a scientifc basis to this: limbic synchrony occurs when one mimics the nonverbal behavior of someone else to symbolize a connection. It is a process that’s hardwired into the human brain and from an evolutionary perspective, being in-sync with other people is key to survival. This cycle of imitation commences even before birth when babies match the rhythm of their heartbeat to their mother’s.

On a more biological level, mirror neurons are a set of cells in the brain that spur us to respond to other

people’s actions in the same way we would respond if we recreated that action ourselves. Mirroring is something we do with people we like or admire: picking up people’s body language and mannerisms is a non-verbal way to demonstrate empathy and affection. Mimicking builds up social rapport and is indicative of a strong, reciprocal bond. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of fattery.

Just think about the last time someone close to you started speaking in the same way as you, or wearing a similar style of clothing, or doing their hair in the same manner. They were subconsciously conveying their endearment for you, just like saying, “Hey, I think that the way that you live life is really admirable. I want to be like you, and I’m going to pick up things that you do to feel closer to you.”

Once I started looking at life through this perspective, I became much more comfortable being myself around others because I loved mirroring others and being mirrored. It meant that whatever connection I had with a friend, boyfriend or family member would leave an everlasting imprint on me, even if the relationship ended one day. The idea of loss wasn’t as daunting to me anymore because no matter what, I’d still have parts of the people I love with me all the time. Unlike copying, the act of mirroring epitomizes a desire to grow and infuence each other to be better. Compared to a shaky foundation of being unsure of yourself, mirroring is grounded in authenticity, affection and respect.

When I met my roommate, she bought me fowers, and since then, I’ve been buying my friends fowers to show them how much I love them. One of my friends likes leaving Post-its on my stuff with silly little encouraging notes, and I’ve started to do the same. And one time, a friend told me that the full way to experience a potato chip was to chew it 20 times. So now whenever I have the time to spare, I know how to wholly undergo the catharsis of eating a Hot Cheeto. My dad always watches nature documentaries, and when I frst moved into college and felt a little homesick, I’d open up the National Geographic website and watch a documentary. When one of my friends starts using a new slang word, it inevitably makes its way through the group and becomes our “word of the month.” I always make the effort to get to know my friends’ music tastes, just so I can send my friends songs I think they would like. When I go to the store, I sometimes see a piece of clothing and immediately think, “Hey, this friend would totally wear that.”

It’s the little things that matter. Being conscious of how you affect others and how others affect you is crucial to being the best version of yourself. When you think about it, we’re all just mirrors of the people we love or once loved. Even if you’re scared of the idea of love like I was, just remember all the beautiful, profound ways you’ve changed people’s lives – no matter how mundane. Love is mirroring each other. After all, we’re all merely love letters to the people dearest to us, with sentences composed of their mannerisms and punctuation dotted by our adoration for them.

All The Ifs

Written by Jasmine Fung

Designed by Jasmine Fung

SometimesI wonder if I could exist in a parallel universe where there is a version of me that is whole. Not as an “ABC” or “American Born Chinese” but rather the original version of her that was supposed to exist on the other side of the world.

I imagine she was raised in Asia surrounded by people just like her. She never doubts herself and is confdent, knowledgeable and articulate. She understands subtle cultural references and is never the odd one out in her family or community. She feels included in her family’s conversations in Cantonese and never has a reason to second-guess her ability to communicate with them. This other “me” wouldn’t worry about cultural barriers and obstacles all the time, but just live the life I was meant to. That was who I was supposed to be – version 1.0.

But instead, I always worry about the hidden reference to an American piece of pop culture that I know I’m missing. I clung onto Disney Channel during my childhood years, not simply because I liked watching it, but because I wanted to feel included in the jokes and conversations. The family friendly sitcoms, original movies and music videos during commercial breaks helped me navigate American culture as a child, but it wasn’t enough when I realized I knew nothing about the “Harry Potter” franchise, the “Percy Jackson” series or the “Star Wars” flms beyond the scope of Disney on TV. In middle school, when my class was watching “Legally Blonde” or “Mean Girls” years after its initial release, I felt embarrassed because I didn’t even know it had existed until that moment.

And yet, after everything I’d done to catch up to everyone else, it only made me drift further from what my parents grew up watching and listening to. My vain efforts to Westernize and assimilate myself into American pop culture earned me alienation from my own heritage. Only when I began getting into Korean dramas did I feel admiration and envy to be raised in Asia instead.

When I saw how their lives on screen were not fxed around learning how to ft in when they already

Photo Credit: Stephen Leonardi, Unsplash

had that foundation built for them, it subverted my entire life’s emphasis on the American standard. They couldn’t care less about whether they were Asian or not while my entire life revolved around determining that exact sentiment.

Although Asian standards are not in any way perfect or ideal, I spiraled into thinking about how so many of my insecurities would have been eliminated or at least lessened if I had also grown up on the other side of the world, not tugged back and forth between multiple cultures. Here, I can’t help but feel lost in the mix of people around me and attribute it to my lack of cultural knowledge on both sides.

What if I had been raised in an environment where everyone looked like me? Or what if the

language I spoke at home was the same language I spoke with my friends at school? What if Lunar New Year was not a bonus cultural holiday but rather a nationally celebrated one? What if using chopsticks or those stackable lunch boxes at school was just the normal way to eat lunch rather than an ethnic indicator? These questions, and so many more, plague my mind from time to time. The existential recalculation of my life path replaying over and over, wondering if my parents had gotten it all wrong from the beginning. How would I live life if I didn’t feel behind all the time?

But, the version of the girl staring back at me isn’t the original draft. She was some version down the line that had edits, redrafts and critiques. The older she was, the further she strayed away from the frst one. Although I could ruminate on all the possibilities of a life before it was mine, I am struck back to reality: my parents would never have otherwise met if it weren’t for them both living and working in America. My mom, who immigrated to San Francisco from Hong Kong, and my dad, a Vietnamese refugee who sought opportunity in the same city with the rest of his family, seemed like an unlikely match at frst, but that’s how it worked out anyway.

While I could go through this dreadful wishing for an alternate reality every now and then, I am reminded of the futility of wondering such things. Though there are things that I wish for in that other happy, imaginary life, I am eternally grateful for the nuances that the diversity of people, cultures and backgrounds that being born and raised in America has taught me. I get the opportunity to earnestly explore so many cultures, foods, ideologies and so much more in this fawed melting pot that I probably wouldn’t have been able to experience otherwise. At the same time, my exposure to a blend of cultures has forced me to be open and understanding to others who are fundamentally different.

I will never be that girl in an alternate reality who is ignorant of the identity struggles many understand intimately here in America and in many other places, but I will always be someone who is able to appreciate and understand the complex nuances of being from a multicultural background. Best of all, I truly get to pick and choose the best of both worlds as Hannah Montana once said to me in my living room at 7 years old.

Photo Credit: Jasmine Fung

Refection of Diversity or Is It Just an Illusion?

Whenever I see a beauty ad on Youtube or apply for jobs at companies I’m interested in working for, there is usually a statement about embracing diversity. Growing up in a world starting to embrace diversity in its different forms has motivated me to pursue opportunities that I would have never thought of doing as a child. Ever since the Great Resignation during the pandemic, companies have published widespread statements about their diversity efforts in hopes of attracting and retaining talented candidates. The talk about the need for diversity is not just limited to the workplace. Colleges and other academic institutions have also pressed for the need to have a diverse student body and faculty in all of their respective academic departments. For example, UCLA recently set a goal to become a HispanicServing Institution (HSI) by 2025, hoping 25% of the student body will identify as Latinx. While diversity is part of the equation toward a more equitable workplace, it can end up as an illusion if companies do not prioritize the inclusion and equity of all groups of people.

Written by Kelly Ou

Designed by Jasmine Fung

Despite many companies acknowledging the importance of a workplace with people from different backgrounds, inclusion is often neglected and is crucial to employee retention. Companies may neglect to acknowledge inequities in the workplace that have only been exacerbated by the pandemic, or they may forget to implement mentorship opportunities for individuals to grow. To be inclusive is not just hiring people based on surface characteristics but rather building a culture that addresses implicit biases that might prevent people from feeling comfortable working there.

Unfortunately, despite the illusion of diversity, women and people of color often feel “othered” or fear being tokenized at their workplace. One reason is the lack of women and people of color in corporate leadership positions, despite companies verbally pushing for a “diverse” workplace. For example, in 2012, only 1.5% of Asian Americans held offcer positions in Fortune 500 companies. Asian Americans are stereotypically seen as hard-working individuals due

Photo Credit: Bruno Pires, Pexels

to the model minority myth. However, the model minority myth obscures the complexity of the Asian American experience and stigmatizes those who speak about valid issues affecting their communities. Asian Americans historically were seen as the “Yellow Peril” or dangers to established white institutions in the Western world. The model minority myth exacerbates the “Yellow Peril” and silent stereotypes. As a result, Asian Americans are seen as threatening and lacking social skills needed in leadership positions. Despite talk about diversity, many Asian Americans feel discouraged from advocating for themselves in higher positions because they fear they will be looked down upon for defying the silent and reserved model minority stereotype at work.

Similar to the workplace, diversity and inclusion in academia still have a long way to go. I am currently a senior majoring in environmental science, and I hope to be able to work in the environmental feld after I graduate. Although I love my major and all the classes I have taken so far, there have been many times I questioned whether or not I would ft in as an Asian American woman in this feld. The lack of people of color studying environmental science or going into environmental felds only exacerbates my concern. In 2015, around 73% of people who earned environmental degrees in the U.S. were white. This percentage is signifcantly higher than people who earned biological or physical science degrees at 47%, making environmental science one of the least diverse STEM felds.

of the Environment and Sustainability acknowledges the lack of diversity in academia and therefore established the Center for Diverse Leadership in Science, which is “the nation’s frst university center to focus on diversity in environmental science.”

While this is a major accomplishment, the content from environmental science classes at UCLA is still not inclusive of the experiences of people of color with the environment. There is only one class in the department offered once a year that solely focuses on environmental justice. As a result, I have felt distanced from what I’m learning and have even considered leaving my major to another one that seems more inclusive of people who look like me. I have only taken one class for my major that was taught by a person of color, and none taught by a woman of color. I know this experience is not unique to me because several students of color in the environmental science major have started clubs like the UCLA Environmentalists of Color Collective to discuss this issue with other peers regarding the lack of inclusivity in UCLA’s environmental science classes.

In 2015, around 73% of people who earned environmental degrees in the U.S. were white. This percentage is signifcantly higher than people who earned biological or physical science degrees at 47%, making environmental science one of the least diverse STEM felds.

The lack of people of color studying environmental science is also refected in the courses I have taken for my major. I have taken over 15 major courses and can only recall two classes that have explicitly mentioned how people of color are more likely to be impacted by environmental racism and other inequities with environmental policy regulation. For example, many people living in disadvantaged unincorporated communities (DUCs) in California’s San Joaquin Valley lack access to safe drinking water. These are mostly low-income communities of color, with two thirds of people identifying as Hispanic. The UCLA Institute

Living in a world that is starting to embrace diversity in different arenas of life has been refreshing but at times also feels like a false promise. This commitment for more inclusive representation is not refected in the higher structures and leadership roles in both academia and the industry. My experience being an environmental science major is only one of many experiences people of color and women have had which left them feeling isolated from the spaces they are meant to be in. While diversity is important, it is also just as important to have opportunities for different groups of people to feel included. Companies can work towards creating an inclusive culture that will not just attract but also retain qualifed individuals from all backgrounds. These small important steps might break through the illusion of diversity that is typically advertised on a company’s website or a college pamphlet and instead make it a reality.

That Girl I See

Written by Sophie Vansomphone

Designed by Sophie Vansomphone

Illustrated by Sophie Vansomphone

Slowly, I turn the sleek silver handle to step out of the Nordstrom changing room. Across the hall, I can already see her. Her dark brown hair is slightly attened down from the tight blue sweater she’s trying on, price tag dangling from the sleeve. Her hair is not quite curly but not straight either, not truly embodying the e ortlessly messy look. It is just, well, messy. The makeup she has on is in need of a slight touch up, her lips require a swab of pink lip gloss to conceal the cracking surface, and the mascara stains her under eyes faintly gray.

Our eyes lock in an intense staredown. It is unwavering. It is unblinking. I observe every detail of her from head to toe. I see every pore, every blemish. The shoes she’s wearing aren’t even all the way on, canvas heels crushed under the weight of her foot so as not to touch the changing room oor’s dark carpet. It isn’t until the lady from the next dressing room walks down to the trifold mirror that my re ection is obscured.

Our re ections are everywhere. From the bathroom mirror, to sun visors in cars, to the translucent surfaces of department store mirrors, we can see our-

especially with the mixed messages I received from my Asian background contrasting my American perspective.

Being part of an Asian American family, my mom, cousins, aunt and even my grandma always reiterate to me what it means to preserve beauty. Whether that means putting sunscreen on to the point where my skin becomes as white as Casper the Ghost or burning my face off with apple cider vinegar to clean it after I pop a pimple, these are the norms I practice. However, once I left middle school and moved to a largely white high school, I began to truly understand what it meant to have a completely different lifestyle from my friends and Western media.

Whereas I work hard to keep my skin as pale as possible, my friends would all gush about maintaining that sun-kissed glow once swim season came to an end.

Even now, I am always struggling to fnd that balance between being accepted by both Western society and my Asian culture.

One girl even gave us all coupons to go get self-tanned at her parents’ salon. Not wanting to feel left out from my friends, I considered going with them to get it done, but I didn’t feel ready to lose the complexion my mom instilled in me to preserve. Even now, I am always struggling to fnd that balance between being accepted by both Western society and my Asian culture.

perfect woman. She must be tall, curvy, naturally

Beauty should come in all shapes and sizes, and it shouldn’t be dictated by what would make companies money or what we see in movies and TV shows.

of bringing sunscreen in fear of being perceived as lame, every “cool” girl takes tanning oil to the beach. It doesn’t help that celebrities are buying into this trend as well. For example, as stated in the Byrdie article, Paris Hilton is rumored to have bought her own tanning machine. With celebrity infuence, it can produce a desire for adjustments the average person would want to make to themselves.

In the modern era, Asian culture is notorious for being strict when it comes to their standards for beauty. A 2021 article from the Diversity Story2 details how Asian beauty ideals include slim and dainty fgures, pale skin and double eyelids, with celebrities and companies contributing to these standards. As a whole, the phenomenon of the Asian beauty standards sparks the rise of popular challenges such as the A4 waist challenge, where women hold an A4 sheet of paper over their abdomen to display they are smaller than the sheet. But some women go beyond that and turn to other methods to adjust their appearance. For example, plastic surgery is a prominent way to obtain these ideals, with Eastern Asia being the prime demographic of those getting double eyelid surgeries.

While Asian women are broadcasting the “Escape the Corset,” the U.S. is having a movement of its own known, as the body positivity movement. Here in the States, women are accepting that they don’t need to be the Victoria’s Secret size 00; rather, they celebrate their cellulite and stretch marks.

She must be tall, curvy, naturally blonde, blue-eyed and have tan skin-basically, the exact opposite of what my culture has always sought.

However, many have fought back against these harmful trends. In 20193, an NPR article details a movement initiated by Jeon Bora, a South Korean photographer, and her female subjects in a feminist revolution called “Escape the Corset.” The exhibition showcases women with short hair and no makeup in black and white photography, ultimately allowing for an expression of self-love.

Meanwhile, Western ideals for beauty are on the other side of the spectrum. Years of magazine spreads and TV shows, such as Sports Illustrated and Baywatch, exemplify typical American conceptions of the

2 The Diversity Story. “The Contrast between East Asian and Western Beauty Standards.” The Diversity Story, 28 Sept. 2021, https://www.thediversitystory.org/post/the-contrast-betweeneast-asian-and-western-beauty-standards.

3 Kuhn, Anthony. “South Korean Women ‘Escape the Corset’ and Reject Their Country’s Beauty Ideals.” NPR, NPR, 6 May 2019, https://www.npr.org/2019/05/06/703749983/south-korean-women-escape-the-corset-and-reject-their-countrys-beautyideals.

While Asian women are broadcasting the “Escape the Corset,” the U.S. is having a movement of its own known, as the body positivity movement. Here in the States, women are accepting that they don’t need to be the Victoria’s Secret size 00; rather, they celebrate their cellulite and stretch marks.

While both sides illustrate amazing examples of what it means to be beautiful, both also have their own faws. Beauty should come in all shapes and sizes, and it shouldn’t be dictated by what would make companies money or what we see in movies and TV shows. People are going to be tall and blonde, of course, but there are also going to be those who are short with dark hair and brown skin. We should capture what the movements mentioned have been striving for.

Self-love and body image have always been important to me. Every time I look in the mirror — whether in a Nordstrom changing room or through the sun visor in my car — and see my refection, I always try to remind myself that I am beautiful just the way I am. It’s okay that my skin isn’t a crystal clear surface or that my thighs rub together. There is no one in the world out there like me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

4 Lin, Su-Jit. “The Secret Beauty Issue Asian-Americans Deal with Every Summer.” Byrdie, Byrdie, 12 Feb. 2021, https://www.byrdie.com/asian-american-beauty-standards.

Diving In

Written by Shune Kawaoto

Designed by Shune Kawaoto

Looking into the mirror, Kai saw an unfamiliar version of himself dressed up in school uniform. He stared at the embroidered Japanese characters spelling out the name of his new school. The frst day hadn’t even started yet, but he was already missing the freedom to wear any clothes he wanted back home in California..

Although his parents were from Japan, he never really felt in touch with his Japanese side. He was brought up with American customs in the American school system, so as far as he was concerned, his identity was an American one. After reminiscing about his old California lifestyle for a little too long, he was brought to the present by a sudden shout from his mom: “Kai, hurry up! You’re going to be late!” He grabbed the bracelet that his swim friends gave him as a parting gift and hurried out of the house.

When Kai arrived at the train station, he was taken aback by the sheer number of people fghting their way through rush hour to make it onto their train. Back home, he simply drove himself to school. Sure, he had to deal with traffc, but it was never as busy as this train station. However, time was ticking, so

Photo Credit: Masha Yeremeyev, Dribbble

he pushed, side-stepped and navigated his way to the right train platform – only for his woes to continue as he endured the packed train ride uncomfortably squished between multiple people. In an attempt to pass time without any personal space, he stared at his faint refection in the train window, barely visible thanks to the dirtied glass.

Once he arrived at school and gave the whole self-introduction spiel in front of the classroom, Kai realized there was still a road of obstacles to overcome. The frst on the list? The language barrier. He grew up speaking Japanese at home with his parents, but the diction used at home vastly differed from the kind he heard outside of the house. The vocabulary used in history lessons and the slang students used among themselves sounded like gibberish, unlike anything he had ever heard in his life. Even in subjects like math and science, language wasn’t the only issue, and he found himself staring at equations and calculations far more advanced than anything he had seen in his old high school.

At the end of the day, his homeroom teacher asked Kai if there were any clubs he was interested in joining. Kai thought about it for a moment: back in California, he was part of his old high school’s swim team. Hopefully, joining the swim club would be a good frst step in getting used to life in Japan.

Kai was introduced to the swim club a few days later. He scanned the existing members. To his dismay, it looked like everyone here had already ft into their own little niches, and he didn’t get the feeling that he would be easily welcomed into them. Nevertheless, swim practice started swiftly once everybody introduced themselves. Kai found himself alone once again while getting ready for warm-ups. He climbed onto the starting block and caught a glimpse of himself in the water below him – his refection, distorted from the waves and ripples, stared back at him. Taking a deep breath, he put his head down and dived into the water, merging with his mirrored image.

The freezing water didn’t pull any punches when it came to stinging Kai’s skin – but for the frst time in this new country, he was fnally in a familiar environment, despite how cold and dark it appeared. As his head broke through the surface of the water, he came into contact with a nostalgic sight: fellow students diving into the water and complaining about the cold, others monkeying around with each other and the coach yelling at said students. Seeing the familiar chaos unfold around him, a glimmer of hope sparked inside of him. Maybe it was possible to get used to this new life after all.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Kai eventually became accustomed to living in Japan. The organized chaos of the rush hour train station was now a familiar and navigable crowd. He befriended the students in his classes who were also on the swim team; his Japanese fuency improved to the point where he could at least understand the school curriculum. One evening, while scavenging through his backpack for his pair of goggles, a notifcation popped up on his phone. It was from his old group chat of friends back in California.

“Hey Kai, how’s life in Japan? Are you missing California yet? You’re welcome to crash at one of our places if you wanna come back.”

While laughing, Kai replied,

“Buy me a plane ticket and I’ll fy back right now.”

After sending the reply, he paused and pondered for a moment. Sure, he missed his old friends, the California weather and the familiarity of the English language. But, to go back to that just as he was getting used to life in Japan? In the early days of moving here, Kai defnitely would not have hesitated to admit he wanted to go back to California. He spent hours languishing the differences between his lifestyles in California and Japan, unwilling to adapt to the customs of this unfamiliar country – now, he was enjoying the process of discovering the other half of his identity that he had neglected throughout all the years in America. He quickly followed up with another message.

“I’m kidding, it’s been great so far. You guys should come visit. I’ll show you around.”

The coach blew his whistle, signaling the start of warmups. Kai climbed onto the starting block and knelt down, getting ready to dive in. While kneeling, he saw the refection of himself on the calm water below. It was a crystal clear image of himself, the clearest refection it’d ever been. Kai smiled to himself and dove into the water.

Infn-dentity

Seven years later, I still fnd myself in between two refections. The refections are the same at every orientation. I can’t observe them both, but when I turn my back to one to observe the other, the infnity mirror reveals a refection similar to the prior. And the prior. And the prior.

Do refections manifest when not observed?

Throughout my childhood, this refection of mine went unobserved. For seven years, it lingered over my shoulder, unacknowledged. I kept my back to it hoping it would go away, so I could ft in with all my peers.

The answer: refections do indeed manifest when not observed.

This refection left unobserved is named Van. Van is Vietnamese-American, a name shared with a dad who was born and raised in Vietnam, and pronounced like “lung” with a “v”’. Many people don’t say Van’s name correctly, opting for Von or van (like the car). If Van is anything, Van is a people pleaser. So sprouted another refection.

The refection favorably observed is named Vanessa. Vanessa is whatever they are shaped to be. The name colonizes Vanessa from within – it’s easy to pronounce for their fellow American peers, it ripped them from the roots of their culture, and, most importantly, it pleased the people.

Vanessa was observed. Van was ignored. But Van never left. Van grew alongside me, just as Vanessa did. They grew the same hair, the same height, the same eyes. Yet, they differed in one thing – authenticity.

See, the more Vanessa was observed, the harder it was to keep observing – like looking at a word for too long until it began looking strange, distorted, and out of place. When people faced me, they saw the refection behind me.

“Van!” they’d say.

Written by Van Tran

Designed by Van Tran

Illustrated by Van Tran

“Vanessa,” I’d correct them.

To every new person, to every new teacher, I had to disclose that my name was Vanessa. The name written on that attendance list? That’s not my name. My tongue tired quickly.

When I moved to a new town, I began to meet many who were like me: Vietnamese-American, names rooted in culture. Some coexisted with an English name and a Vietnamese name too. The thing was, they did not identify with their English name, but with their Vietnamese one.

This was strange. Who would identify with their Vietnamese name in American society, speaking predominantly English?

The more I met and surrounded myself with AsianAmerican peers, the more I was reminded of my heritage. And with the Internet being more accessible, I grew to understand that being Asian in American society wasn’t something to be ashamed of. More and more Asians are represented in the media every day, with more Asian-American-centered flms and appreciation for culture from Asia.

Though it took time, this community allowed me to fnally turn away from Vanessa and embrace Van. The name Van rolled off my tongue much more easily. Although some people of the past still observe the refection of Vanessa, the majority now observe me as Van. I return to my roots as a Vietnamese-American.

To have representation means little if not to teach children to be proud of their culture. Representation mirrors our lives as much as we let it.

MIRRORED

MIRRORED

Written by Manisha Wanniappa

Designed by Van Tran

Illustrated by Van Tran

I am a refection of every person I’ve met Every experience I’ve had Every cultural tie I share with a motherland I have yet to visit

I hear myself in my mother’s voice My father’s laugh In passed down stories that remind me of who I am

In these stories

I see pieces of myself I catch a glimpse of my refection in the mirrors that lie between the lines

My grandfather who swam through the Indian Ocean His arms propelling him through the water between two countries Shared a love for the sea that I now share As I draw lines in the waves beneath me

My mother and grandmother Musicians, artists

Who play the piano when the house is empty Sing when they drive alone And encourage me to follow my dreams

I see myself in them And I hope they see themselves in me

INHERITANCE

Written by Lisa Ramos

Designed by Varsha Ravi

Aloathed,

yet alluring parasite whose presence has long resided in her pocket, whose poison has long infltrated her perception.

An antique, round compact mirror that perfectly fts within her palm. Every day she snaps it open to take a peek at herself and snaps it closed with disappointment. Does she do so expecting to see something different each time? She doesn’t know, only that it is now routine. Passed down by generations of women before her, she eventually inherited the mirror from Mother. What may have once been a bright gold casing is tarnished and dull, the mirror itself slashed with scratches and cracks. Yet while she may have contributed to its decline, the mirror had sustained such wounds when she frst received it years ago. She theorizes its infictions had come from the same vicious cycle of being opened and closed by ancestors as insecure as her.

But not Mother, whose perfection is a dream forever chased and envied but never quite achieved. Silky straight hair and milky skin. A petite fgure. Painted, unchapped lips. The only thing within her own reach is this cursed mirror that never fails to remind her of what she can never be.

“Tsk, your hair! I can’t tell if you are trying to be a witch or her broom. At least try to fatten it a little. If Grandma could see you now, she would rise back from hell to smack you with a comb, then drag me down with her for letting you be born with such hair in the frst place!”

After hovering and fretting all over her like previous times when she makes such comments, Mother walks away and closes herself off in her room, not unlike hiding from the repercussions of her sharp words.

And each time the door shuts, she sighs, fipping her mirror over once again. She tangles her fngers in her curly, frizzy, unruly hair without much luck as always.

Sometimes when she passes strangers out on the streets, she catches herself making negative comments about them out of impulse in her head. Besides the immediate shame and regret, she can’t help but laugh bitterly that other than inheriting this stupid mirror, she comes to refect Mother’s personality instead of her lovely appearance. At the very least, most of the time her internal insults are directed toward herself.

But as she stares longer in the mirror, she can’t help but realize that maybe she does share some similar

features to Mother — their eyes. Not only in the sense of shape and size but something within them. Their eyes carry the same feel and weight, the same look of exhaustion. —

It’s 4:00 a.m. and a restless night of spiraling refection brings her out of her room to shake it off, mirror in hand. As she trudges down the hallway, she notices a slight hint of light and a door slightly ajar. Mother’s room.

As she walks closer, she hears a few rustles. She isn’t usually awake at this time, so she is confused as to what Mother is doing at this time. Bewildered, she looks inside through the gap.

startles as she looks back at her daughter, dainty hands failing to disguise the various products that lay before her. But with frantic movements, they roll off the desk, revealing themselves in plain sight.

She walks up slowly to Mother, who looks up at her with fear swirling in her eyes. Perhaps it is reminiscent of a memory decades ago, a fashback to a young girl being looked down upon by her own hovering mother. She realizes that her mirror’s old scratches may have occurred more recently down her ancestry line than she previously thought. And so her previous perception of her mother now bears resemblance to the mirror on the ground, lying in fractured fragments within her head.

But as she stares longer in the mirror, she can’t help but realize that maybe she does share some similar features to Mother — their eyes.

Peeking in, she sees Mother sitting at her vanity mirror, fretting with a hair straightener. Various products — hair and cosmetics — are scattered before her. But what truly draws her attention is her hair.

She never did question her Mother’s touchedup appearance, pristine and proper every time she sees her in the morning. But here Mother is, in her barest form. Her silky straight hair is instead thick and voluminous, falling down her shoulders in poofy, loose curls.

It’s like hers. And it’s beautiful.

The handheld mirror slips from the now loosened grasp of her fngers, shattering on the foor. Mother

She reaches to remove this tool of deception from Mother’s hands, replacing the intense heat of the straightener with the warmth of her hand. She pulls Mother into an embrace. Mother slowly brings her arms around her daughter and clutches her.

As shards of glass lie broken inside, another mirror still makes its presence known, a huge vanity. In its refection is a mother and daughter, maybe not quite healed, but slowly being pieced back together.

“Antique Edwardian Silver Hand Mirror Chester 1903” by Lamerie is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Into the Looking Glass

written by Christine King designed by Chelsea Tran illustrated by Chelsea Tran

It is a truth universally acknowledged within fairy tales, that a girl in possession of a refective object, must have some serious character development in store for her when the face looking back is not her own.

Here is a story: A snow-pale girl sits, oblivious, under the evaluating eye of a magic mirror. Her name is offered up on the tongue of this mirror, let slip as the answer to a singsong question — Who is the fairest of them all? A girl both fair of heart and fair of face, made good by the pureness of her soul and whiteness of her skin. Red lips, black hair, a description that plants itself as kernel of fear in the heart of a queen still cradling her wrinkled youth. You cannot take this from me, she thinks. I am not yet ready to give this away.

Here is a story: A girl clutches a handheld mirror in a castle of enchanted cutlery, singing cabinets against the walls, a dark shadow lurking at the other end of a dining table. In the refection, faraway people shift like a scene from an old movie, sepia-toned and untouchable behind the screen. They move through the daily motions of a life she had once lived, the family she once lived it with. This is a world she had left behind, pushed aside in a furry of heroic self-sacrifce, a daughter for a father, a life for a life. She watches the fgure of her father from the confnes of a slow-wilting tower and thinks, I knew what you meant to me when I saved you. But I did not know how much more you would mean to me once I left you behind.

Here is a story: A girl, face painted and hair tied, sits at the edge of a pond and watches her future wash out from under her, spilled from the brim of a matchmaker’s teacup. She stares at the face of the perfect daughter she should have been, someone with

powder-white skin and rouged cheeks and a future spent by someone else’s side, and says, Oh. I do not recognize you.

So here we hold three girls in our hands, three mirrors held in theirs, three discordant refections trapped in the glass. One mirror is telling its owner what she does not want to hear; another is showing her what she most wants to see. The third refects an image of who she should want to be. Each has warped with the pressure to be a perfect beauty, a perfect daughter, a perfect wife, these refections made signifcant by the discrepancy between what is looking into the mirror and what is looking back.

That’s the point of it, isn’t it? The refection as a pivot point in their stories. A fulcrum where the balance of their current lives is measured against what was and what could be. To be content sitting on their current trajectory or to teeter to the other side.

They could have lived within the confnes of their current lives without questioning it. A woman with her vanity, a young lady with her captivity, a girl submerged in a future set so frmly ahead of her she was halfway down it before she knew she had started sinking. This was a life they had grown used to living, complacent with a familiar refection of the world they had ceased to question.

The everyday affrmation that she would always be fairest, unchallenged. The monotony of days spent in an enchanted castle, the memories of home growing fainter with distance. The endless trek towards becoming the flial daughter and faithful wife, growing up into a pair of too-small shoes and told to walk the path set down in front of her, expectations trailing at her sleeves.

They could have lived like that till the end of their stories, but they did not. Because one day, they refected on their own lives in front of a mirror and said, No. I cannot keep living like this.

Each of them made their choice — to pull the refection close or to push it away, an action borne of this reminder of what once was and what could be. So let us follow the curve of their stories down the paths they chose after seeing these images in their mirrors.

Here are the endings to their stories:

A woman, riddled by insecurity, sees a face not her own in the mirror and knows she has been replaced. Another name, another girl, given the place she had fought for and feared for and protected like it was something that the gentle wash of time could not take away. One small judgment from a man in a mirror, one giant fall for a woman looking into the re-

fection. A precarious foothold lost to someone else’s fairness, reducing her to an old hag with an apple in her hands and poison in her heart. She fnds herself turned into the thing she most feared becoming, transformed by her desperate pursuit of regaining what she had once been. Staring at a child with the skin of snow, she thinks, This is not the end of her story. But it is the end of mine.

A girl, grown complacent with time, sees an image of a father she used to know and lets him remind her of home. She fnds herself reaching for the memories she pushed back as she dug for pieces of humanity in the heart of a beast, fulflling a whispered duty to assemble them into someone worth redeeming. Looking into the refection, she remembers the life she had once freely lived and the care she had once freely given. I loved you enough to save you, she thinks. And I love you enough to come back.

A warrior in the making sits by the water and thinks of twirled umbrellas and spilled tea, a world of future in-laws watching her pour. She looks for herself in this picture and comes up with her hands empty, her face missing from the line of painted faces and perfect hair. Wiping half her face with a sleeve, her skin laid bare underneath, she looks into the water and says, Oh. There I am. A perfect daughter, saying goodbye.

Diamonds of the Past

Written by Anisha Menath Designed by Anisha Menath

Ichi would sit on her large wooden swing, rocking herself before she went outside to feed the crows. If crows were capable of showing signs of fondness, it was love and care that flled their eyes as she plumped them up every day with leftover idlis and appam.

She believed these crows were her ancestors coming to pay her a visit, and while the rest of the house thought this was an odd ritualistic belief, they never looked at her with disapproval.

Idli as white as her sari, Ichi would send the small moon into the sky before it landed in the rich Kerala soil that truly belonged to her. She was something of a magician. As a 5-year-old, I watched her expel fames from her fngers as she lit her puja lamps, whirling in a cloud of incense as if she was levitating.

drew close to her. She gave the diamonds to my grandmother before leaving, not knowing what they could do in the future. —

Coming back from India was depressing. Life back in California suburbs was boring without the attention of multiple family members and the comfort of a home, not just a house. But I would move on quickly as the school year rolled around. I wouldn’t go back for 10 years, and by that time, Icci had swiftly moved on.

While she was rarely seen in anything other than a plain white sari, Icci’s diamond earrings with seven stones each radiated when the sun drew close to her. She gave the diamonds to my grandmother before leaving, not knowing what they could do in the future.

While Uma Aunty and Mani Chechi still lived in the house, the swing was empty, and the puja room was closed. The crows would gather at the front, scavenging for leftovers that were never thrown out. While it got harder for Uma Aunty to move, she would never leave the house, and she spent her days chasing after her husband’s spirit which Ichi followed.

But I spent most of my time in Kerala cooped up in small corners watching “Tom and Jerry” and eating Maggi, hiding from the myth of an auntie who lived in the house across the feld and supposedly cast spells that made the doors and windows move on their own. Later, I would learn that she was a single woman without children, and these were mere rumors to scare young girls into thinking their choice was to become a married woman or a village witch.

While she was rarely seen in anything other than a plain white sari, Ichi’s diamond earrings with seven stones each radiated when the sun

For the frst time in 10 years, I returned to India. This time, Chennai. While village life in

Kerala was not always easy for me, Chennai heat was tiresome. I slogged through hot streets in full sleeve salwar kameez to ward off mosquitos. “They like sweet foreign blood,” my grandmother would say. But there was something magical about being able to drink burning hot chai in intense humidity and how my hair would curl perfectly in the mornings.

This visit was when Icci’s diamonds were divided in an uneven half. Three for my earrings, four for Anshula – I guessed because she was older, the frst granddaughter in the family. The jeweler handed me the package and said, “They say that diamonds are mirrors of our lives, and as we pass them down, they don’t let go of the essence of who the owner was.” I strategically avoided any further conversation, as sometimes such spiritualistic beliefs intimidated me.

for the moon to toss to the crows. This state of consciousness was between reality and the imagined, the past and the future, but I was aware enough to push my hands to my ears to check if the earrings were still there and of course they were. I went to her swing to sit and let it all click into place.

The past, the present, the future were all in Icci’s hands. She had left these diamonds to bless me not only with the constant of family and love, but everything that came with it. The fear of people leaving made sense — she passed that to me. Her own daughter abandoning her, her son leaving too early and my grandmother being stuck in the middle of it all.

The more I speculated, the clearer it became — these earrings had everything about Icci and they were mine because I am hers. We may not speak the same language or embody the same spaces, but our paths crossed on this earth and that is a unique, beautiful thing.

Back at my grandmother’s house, I laid down with the fan on, circulating the heat around the room. I got stuck with the smallest bedroom as I arrived late, and now it was sweltering with tropical heat, oozing the essence of mosquito repellent. I picked up my overheated body and forced the earrings through my ears.

The weight of them got to me immediately. I had never worn anything so heavy. My ears started to throb intensely, but it was either the heat or the pain that prevented me from moving. I tried to sit up straight, but as the ceiling fan sped up, so did my head. Icci appeared and moving in a puff of incense, she and the white smoke whisked me away as I closed my eyes, waiting for the journey ahead.

And while this land was her home, she wanted me to move beyond because she knew the familiar love would follow me wherever I went. I was scared I would lose this, but she proved you could not.

The more I speculated, the clearer it became — these earrings had everything about Icci and they were mine because I am hers. We may not speak the same language or embody the same spaces, but our paths crossed on this earth and that is a unique, beautiful thing. —

When I opened my eyes, I was back in the Chennai heat. The ceiling fan seemed to be having electrical issues, but it seemed okay because a cool sea breeze fltered through the window like a package sent from the Coromandel coast. The earrings still weighed heavy on my ears but there were idlis and appam for lunch, Icci’s favorites, so I couldn’t wait.

When I opened my eyes, we were back in her home in the night, and there she was, reaching

Written by Varsha Ravi

Designed by Varsha Ravi

Illustrated by Amber Lee

You turned 18 and dreamed of immortality. Before then, you thought of it abstractly – it was beautiful, a little morbid, irrelevant to the things you wanted from life.

The ceremony had already begun when you arrived at the marriage hall with your family. The howl of the clamor, the slam of the drums, the high, acerbic screech of the horns – there was so much to distract you from your cousin up on the raised platform. It was easy, until it wasn’t.

BLOOD∞TIES.

BLOOD∞TIES.

She found you afterwards, and you weren’t even really surprised it had come to that. You were surprised it had taken months. But then again, you didn’t see each other for months: her, holed up in another home, and you, fastidiously pretending the wedding had never happened.

There was a baby, when she came up to visit your family. Not out of the womb, thank God, but that was what she’d told your mother – there’s a baby.

Even now, you think of those words and shiver. Not at the thought of her son, the nephew who would begin the long line of children you’d never know. But at the look on your mother’s face, on your father’s, the look on her mother’s. It was always going to happen: the marriage, the baby, the two children in the suburbs, the white picket fence, the mortgage, the cost-effective mini-van. It was always going to happen to her, to you. Anything else was a pipe dream.

You exchanged small smiles out on the balcony, but there was something different between the two of you. Something lost. She leaned over the rail. “You’ll be next, you know.”

You think that might’ve been when it began.

Then again, part of you thinks you’d never really considered it until you were staring down the barrel. Down at her fangs, glinting in the dim light fltering through from the party in the living room. You felt a lurching sense of unreality, a vertiginous sweet chill not unlike peering over the ledge of a ragged cliff.

It’ll only hurt at the very end, you thought. And by then it won’t matter.

BLOOD∞TIES.

BLOOD∞TIES.

The vampire cocked her head from underneath you. She still seemed a little surprised that you’d caught her out and hadn’t started shrieking. “Are you sure you want this? You might be better off letting me drain you.”

You rolled your shoulders. “Am I supposed to be grateful you’re offering to let me die?”

She shrugged, gaze dropping to your neck. The way it had when you met outside, her eyes darkening with desire for something you didn’t quite understand. She shook her head, lightly. “You’ll have to drink my blood, after. There’ll be a bond there since I’m your sire. And you can’t go out in the sun, though I’m sure you know–”

You cut her off with a kiss. Her mouth lowered to your neck swiftly, almost without thought. In the end, it wasn’t at all how you imagined the fall would be. There was pain, at the beginning, a low aching warmth. And then a leaden numbness, an utter absence. Death, maybe. It hasn’t left since.

and sharp-edged.

There was a sheer chill to the air. A frost that lingered on the windows of closed up shops that tried to dig past bloodless skin into bones where it might burrow itself home. But there was no warmth in you left to steal.

The church was emptier than it should’ve been. Abandoned, and so there was no one to see you wince at the sight of the cross.

They went out on Fridays, and you went with them. You felt better when someone else was doing the hunting. They tricked the humans, lied to them, yelled at them, laughed at them. You were only there after they’d blissed out halfway through the feeding. Some of them made fun of you for it; you think some of the others were frightened. For all their cruelty, no one else wanted to kill the humans.

You imagined there was a divot where you could’ve been, a heated shimmer in the air. But it was just the smear of burnt metal where you’d touched the cross, the destruction that proved your existence.

It hurt to be so close to something holy. It hurt like being turned had hurt – a slow, diffused burn that whispered across your skin like the warmth of early dawn. You moved towards the pain, towards the slick, shining cross at the base of the apse, as if it might save you, reverse you, remake you back into a child that still had somewhere to call home.

There was an odd shine to a human’s eyes before they died. They’d lost enough blood by then; feeding just sped up an inevitability. But there was some sliver of them still there, some light that made their gaze half-conscious. When they stared up into your eyes, it refected everything in the world but you. But you

The lights shifted across the shadows of the cross you drew closer, distorting the refection of the world behind you. You imagined there was a divot where you could’ve been, a heated shimmer in the air. But it was just the smear of burnt metal where you’d touched the cross, the destruction that proved your existence.

You raised your head to a world glistening, gripped by dripping spatters of blood. There had been so many of them, you thought distantly. You had killed so many. The hotel room had become a funhouse of crimson mirrors that jostled the bloodless corpses against one another and multiplied them a thousandfold.

It was a story of a massacre. It was a crime scene already cooling. There was no one left to scream, no one left to breathe or weep or fnd themselves refected in the blood on their hands.

You stood up anyway. Pressed your palms together as the blood went tacky, brought them up and reached for the walls and their scarlet tapestries. But every single one of the mirrors gave way under your fngertips, distorting their refection of the room as if by magic, by will.

And it was good to be hidden from yourself. It was a relief to not exist in the eyes of the death you’d wrought. It was for the best. This was what you told yourself.

But whatever features we share have long since gone horribly wrong. Her brown skin turned the sickly color of sand, stretched against jutting bones. The rich darkness of her eyes appears glossy and unseeing, bulbous like a corpse’s.

My fngers brush against the mirror and leave no mark as they drag across my refection. There is no warping of the glass like I remember from every mirror I have encountered since my turning.

I have spent so long throwing myself into life, into humans and their blood. Ripping myself into life, cleaving it in grotesque designs, desirous and monstrous in the same unwilling breath.

But my death writes itself into every curve of my body, every contour of bone. I’d never really understood my own death –I can admit that now. In the old family tree written up in my mind, my name sat beside my cousins’, even as their lineage branched off into intricate tangles and mine remained slim and barren. But I know now that my branch has long since snapped.

You have never been immortal, only dead. You are a severed thing, a loose thread on an endless tapestry hidden just out of sight. Something that should’ve been trimmed decades ago, something that only survives because no one knows of it. And yet you hunt your own ghosts, you stalk the smears of ash where your sires burned away, you come to graveyards and dream of being mourned. And yet you dream.

It would be lovely to exist. It could’ve been so lovely.

I always thought it was a curse that vampires couldn’t see themselves in mirrors. I think now it might’ve been a blessing, the only one we were ever afforded.

The door cracks open, Helena poking her head in. “Do you want any more time with the spell? I’m sorry, I just – I have to ask. Did it work?”

She hadn’t expected it to. She’d told me as much. I mean, obviously you’re not the frst to ask. It’s not like vampires are raring to see themselves, but there’s always the odd apple. No one’s ever really been able to make it work before, but I do love a challenge.

I stare at the refection. My refection. I can’t remember the last time I saw myself, and the longer I stare at you, the longer I fnd myself convinced that we aren’t the same being at all. After decades hidden from my own refection, I’m convinced that Helena botched the spell – that the monster in the mirror is a distortion somehow, and in truth I haven’t changed at all.

I reach for the mirror and think of the girl I saw outside my old house a month ago. My niece, several generations removed. I thought if I saw myself in her again there might be some similarity to bind us both, some proof that once, long ago, I had had a family.

Helena looks at me now, a little hopeful. And I know that I have to be honest – she deserves the credit, the glory, her name in all the magical history books.

“There’s nothing,” I tell her. “Sorry to trouble you.”

And yet you dream.

REFLECTIONS OF THE PALACE

Written by Louise Lin

Designed by Varsha Ravi

Illustrated by Amber Lee

eyes.

The papers fap on the town bulletin, stark black ink on fragile white approximating the likeness of a new culprit of a crime. We press against the town crier as an endless swarm, peering with the intensity of hundreds of eyelids unwilling to shutter, waiting for them to begin. We track their brushcalloused hands smoothing down their scholar’s robes, the bobbing of their throat as they clear it, the short intake of breath before the storm.

“Quiet!” they call, and our compound eyes that were spinning in all directions snap to attention as a hundred entities become linked by the sonorous cry to attention.

“On the eve of this day, His Majesty’s most loved Noble Consort of Lovely Countenance was murdered! A generous prize will be offered for capturing the one who committed this heinous crime, alive or dead.”

As she lifts her hand, her nail guards glint coldly. Your face snaps sharply to the side, and I can see when the faraway stars of your eyes fade.

Our gazes fit to other faces then, likenesses shining back to each other, mouths futtering to create overlapping murmurs. Who was it, he has dozens more women, what is for lunch, why have they done it, how much is the prize money.

They nod, self-satisfed, and step away from the bulletin. Some of us scrutinize their leave, but most of us turn away. Another day in an unreachable world, another day in the drama of our invisible rulers. Politics mean little when all we see are the dirt-packed roads, a stumbling horse, and the high, high wall of the palace that keeps us out as much as it keeps hundreds of girls in.

lake.

You lean forward to look into me, eyes holding the trembling shine of faraway stars. I have often seen you here before, but without your shield of elaborate jewelry and shining rouge, I can plainly see the set of your mouth stiffened in a straight line and an old wisdom set in the face of someone far too young. But I have seen it in so many others, brought into the palace too young. It is the look of someone resigned to their fate.

Shivering in the sheen of the moon that watches overhead, you turn to look behind your shoulder and rise into a curtsy to hide your face, the trailing futter of your ill-ftting maid robes dipping toward me. I reach out to soak them in. I cannot see your face, but your back straightens as you gesture frantically toward me.

I catch a glimpse of colorful silk, then a haughty, painted face and high, elaborate hair. As she lifts her hand, her nail guards glint coldly. Your face snaps sharply to the side, and I can see when the faraway stars of your eyes fade. You push her into me. Together, we hold her, that haughty woman, her elaborate hair feathering undone.

Where you and I meet, we look at each other. I warp your face with bubbles that escape from below. Humans are such curious creatures to attempt to swim in such a strange manner. So unlike the fsh I harbor.

Finally, you draw away from me, and I feel the loss keenly. Yet as you slowly come back to focus and the ripples clear, I can see your hands tremble still. Disappointed, I notice your eyes do not refect the stars anymore, nor do they refect me. Just an empty space that once housed a spark, extinguished too soon.

But nonetheless, your face is sharp with triumph as you lower your mouth down to me, whispering, “I’m not a palace maid, my dear Noble Consort. I brought you here on a personal vendetta.”

I always keep the secrets you tell.

hairpin.

The frst indication of warmth was the sunlight trickling into the box where I was housed. A careful hand lifts me out, and I pass to your grasp. At the point where your hands meet hers, they linger as one, with me encased safely within. Upon parting, you lift me up. I can see the other’s lips, slack with surprise.

“Let me adorn you, my Lady.”

Her smile is strained. “I am your Lady as much as you are mine, my Lady. It is only by cruel Fate’s design that we are both Consorts of the Emperor.”

You hold me tighter with both hands, drawing me close. I feel the added weight of the Lady’s hands when you intertwine with them again. You stand with her in silence for the length of a breath.

A sudden cold rush compels you to push away from her. From where I peek out through your hand, a colorful rustle of silk approaches quickly, then a third hand reaches for me, ripping me from your grasp. Held with only two fngers, I fnally catch sight of a haughty, painted face. Two nail guards tap at my surface, the metallic pinging like an executioner’s toll.

“How dare you both, Noble Consorts each, debase yourselves in such a flthy manner!” I see the way her thin, reedy voice crawls into your posture.

Drawing yourself up straight, your voice is stable with a low-burning fury, “Noble Consort of Lovely Countenance, you forget yourself in my residence.”

Her Lovely Countenance, marred by a sneer, says, “It shall be mine soon enough, o’ Noble Consort of Cultivated Brightness. With such shameful acts, you will both be sent to the Cold Palace by the Emperor.”

With a fnal look of disdain, I am thrown toward the lacquered vanity, knocking a pot of rouge off. Its shatter rings out, fnal.

sword.

I am being dragged through the palace halls by the hilt, my sharp edge marring the lacquered wood. I can see the terrifed scampering of servants making way for him. I can feel the scuttling reverberations as they fall to their knees, prostrating for mercy in the force of his grief and rage.

He levels me against the neck of his elderly aide, and I watch dispassionately as his throat bobs, swallowing dryly. His lips move, “Please, your majesty, quell your anger. We cannot interfere in matters of the Inner Palace; her Majesty the Empress has already decreed it a murder from the outside!”

The Emperor presses me more insistently into the folds of his neck, his pulse beating into my edge. He must have said something severe, because the aide moved aside immediately after. I am lowered, and he continues dragging me along.

We hit the edge of a room, and he walks in without pause. He raises me again, this time against the neck of a young woman. You. I cannot see your whole face, but your lips are in profle, parted slightly. You speak slowly, “A surprise to see you at my chambers, your Majesty. How may your humble servant serve you today?”

A waver runs through me, and he presses my edge

A careful hand lifts me out, and I pass to your grasp. At the point where your hands meet hers, they linger as one, with me encased safely within.

A waver runs through me, and he presses my edge deeper in as a warning. He must be speaking.

“Be that as it may, I was in my chambers the day the Noble Consort of Lovely Countenance passed. I am grieving too, your Majesty.”

I feel his Majesty’s hold on my hilt slacken, unsure. You continue, “I do not blame you for suspecting me, your Majesty. Our fathers are on opposing factions in your Majesty’s court. She held no great love for me either. But you would do well to remember our family’s support.”

A slender hand, fngers twined by gilded nail protectors, comes up to tap my surface. He lifts me up slowly, as if you are a threat. Perhaps you are. Right as he pulls me away, I see your red lips curl into a slight smile.

mirror.

“Enough powder,” my Lady, the Noble Consort of Pure Deportment, orders the little maid. “When the Noble Consort of Cultivated Brightness arrives, leave us.”

There is a soft call at the door and the maid moves to leave, but my Lady seems to think of something.

“I will gift you a set of maid robes at another time. Thank you for letting me borrow them.”

“Yes, your highness,” she mumbles softly and disappears, closing the door behind her.

My Lady looks at you, the Noble Consort of Cultivated Brightness, reaching a hand to trace the tension lining your shoulders. Moving around, she eases you to sit at the bench in front of me.

“The palace is in an uproar,” my Lady begins, glancing to the side. “Why did you steal my maid’s clothes?”

You tilt your head, the downturned set of your mouth trembling slightly. “You told me about cruel Fate, once, my Lady of Pure Deportment. We can only do what we can.”

My Lady turns back to me, eyes flled with that wavering light, like stars from afar. I have not seen her wear such an expression since she entered this palace with me.

Rising, you approach the table in the middle of the room, already set with an elaborate pair of cups, flled to the brim with alcohol. A night ritual to bless a union of love. My Lady follows after you. Picking up a cup each in that dim candlelight, you link your arms through hers and down its contents.

“water ripples texture 1 of 3” by JunCTionS is licensed under CC BY 2.0

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