Pacific Ties Winter 2024: Rage

In many ways, rage speaks to an intensity of emotion as much as it does the feeling of anger. In this issue we’ve posed for ourselves a challenging goal: revealing rage in all its various facets.

Rage can be passed down through generations, transforming within the circumstances of every new era. On page 4, staff writer Chloe Nimpoeno visits this phenomenon in “Tiger Mothers: A Complicated Conversation”. This dialogue is later taken up within staff writer Julianne Le’s “A Stuck And Unmoving Pit”, which speaks to the hereditary nature of rage and trauma.

Our writers have also found empowerment in their explorations of rage. On page 35, writing intern Maya Salvitti tackles the harsh effects of contradictory beauty standards in “Raging Beauty”, concluding that it is impossible for young Asian American women to adhere to both, and that instead our communities are better served discarding them altogether.

We hope the expressions and explorations of rage within these pages encourage you to draw out kindred experiences and reflect upon the same.

Best,

Varsha Ravi

Varsha Ravi Editor -In-Chief

Pacific Ties is the oldest studentrun Asian Pacific 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 Pacific 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” (Pacific 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 communities that we all have ties to. Currently, we publish quarterly print magazines and weekly online articles at pacificties.org

Pacific 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 office at 118 Kerckhoff Hall @ 310-825-9898.

Six Word Stories

Written by Pacific Ties Staff

Designed by Varsha Ravi

Illustrated by Dora Gao

cliffside.

replacesit?

Releasing my rage — what

Parked your car off the

Why rage when you can nap?

Your incompetency shouldn’t ruin my future.

Tiger Mothers: a complicated conversation

Written by Chloe Nimpoeno

Designed by Elle Hatamiya

When Amy Chua published Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother in 2011, little did she know that her book would popularize the concept of “Tiger Mother” to the scale of sparking national conversation on approaches to parenting, Chinese culture and ethnic stereotypes.

Despite Chua’s claims that her book was supposed to be a mocking reflection of herself, her detailed outline of her parenting strategies paired with an attitude of superiority caused her book to be read not as a satire, but as a self-help book on how to raise children the “right” way — the “Tiger Mother” way.

A “Tiger Mother” is a mother who raises her children under extremely strict parenting, while pressuring them to excel academically.1 At times, these mothers may turn to harsh regulations to uphold their expectations. Additionally, the term “Tiger Mother” usually refers to an Asian mother, specifically Chinese. These mothers are typically immigrants or from immigrant families — Chua herself is a daughter of immigrant parents.

Mother, interactions with their mother become their first interactions with a slew of emotions. In an excerpt from the book published in the Wall Street Journal,2 Chua looks back on a particular memory with daughter Lulu, where an argument had turned the house into “a war zone.” Chua recalls how she threatened Lulu to donate her toys, stop feeding her, not give her presents and not throw her birthday parties. On top of that, Chua said Lulu struggled to play a piano piece correctly because she was secretly afraid she couldn’t do it and to “stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.”

Responses to Chua’s essay, book and approach to parenting were understandably mixed.

In an article for The Telegraph, author Allison Pearson compares Chua’s parenting with one of indifference and constant neglect in front of the TV, asking whether Chua’s can really be considered more cruel than the latter.3 On the other hand, there are critics such as David Brooks who calls Chua a wimp, believing

For children who are raised under a Tiger

1. Cambridge University Press, “TIGER MOTHER definition,” Cambridge English Dictionary, https:// dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/tigermother.

2. Amy Chua, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior,” The Wall Street Journal, January 8, 2011, https://web.archive. org/web/20110214004115/http://online.wsj.com/article/ SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754. html.

3. Allison Pearson, “Why we all need a Tiger Mother,” The Telegraph, January 13, 2011, https://www.telegraph. co.uk/education/8255804/Why-we-all-need-a-TigerMother.html.

that she is actually coddling her children by not allowing them to undergo cognitive learning experiences while growing up.4 Almost all articles highlight the disparity between “Western” and “Eastern” parenting styles, and almost all are quick to categorize the ill public response as a representation of fear of a national decline5 in academic performance from American children.

There are a number of problematic things linked to the Tiger Mother that are not quite captured by those who may not have had similar experiences growing up or who are grouped into the image of a stereotypical, overachieving Asian child.

The most obvious one is the effect it has on the child. Popular responses to Chua’s methods center the parent in a debate of what is the best method of parenting. Responses fail to include any real acknowledgment of the children who are subjected to these methods. Elizabeth Kolbert’s piece in the New Yorker is one of the most well-rounded responses to the idea of the Tiger Mother (apart from the accompaniment of an illustration of a Chinese mother and children with big foreheads that walks the fine line of being a racially caricatured), as it addresses the side of the child alongside the parent.6

the Chinese Parenting Experience, and having been surrounded since birth with hundreds of CPE graduates, I couldn’t not say something [...] The article actually made me feel physically ill.”

Kolbert’s article also includes statistics showing that Asian kids are significantly less confident in their abilities despite their high performance in said fields. American kids were found to be the opposite.

It is also significant to note that one of Chua’s daughters gave her thoughts on the situation in an open letter to her mother7 shortly after the publication of Chua’s infamous article, a response generally not taken into account in journalist think pieces on the subject.

In the letter, Sophia ChuaRubenfeld shares candidly, “I admit it: Having you as a mother was no tea party. There were some play dates I wish I’d gone to and some piano camps I wish I’d skipped. But now that I’m 18 and about to leave the tiger den, I’m glad you and Daddy raised me the way you did.”

Kolbert notably includes comments from Asian Americans, such as those of Betty Ming Liu from her blog: “Parents like Amy Chua are the reason why Asian-Americans like me are in therapy.”

Another response includes an anonymous quote from a contributor on the website Shanghaiist: “Having lived through a version of

4. David Brooks, “Amy Chua Is a Wimp,” The New York Times, January 18, 2011, https://www.nytimes. com/2011/01/18/opinion/18brooks.html.

5. Kira Cochrane, “The truth about the Tiger Mother’s family,” The Guardian, February 7, 2014, https://www. theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/feb/07/truth-abouttiger-mothers-family-amy-chua.

6. Elizabeth Kolbert, “The Tiger Mother, America’s Top Parent,” The New Yorker, January 31, 2011, https://www. newyorker.com/magazine/2011/01/31/americas-topparent.

Another problematic thing to consider is how the Tiger Mother works to reinforce stereotypes surrounding the Model Minority myth8 and Asian academic performance. Especially given how much Chua leans into the cultural side of the Tiger Mother— continuously referring to it as “Chinese” parenting—it becomes all too easy for critics to correlate the concept with Chinese people, and as an extension, all Asian people.

In the same article by Elizabeth Kolbert, an inserted comment by Frank Chi on the Boston Globe’s opinion blog reads, “What’s even more damning is her perpetuation of the media stereotypes of Asian-Americans.”

The Tiger Mom’s claim that the spotless success of a child is made possible through the Chinese methods of grueling hard work, strict regimens and a number of personal

7. Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld & Mandy Stadtmiller, “Why I love my strict Chinese mom,” New York Post, January 18, 2011, https://nypost.com/2011/01/18/why-i-love-mystrict-chinese-mom/.

8. Helen Gym, “Tiger Moms and the Model Minority Myth,” Rethinking Schools, Summer 2011, https:// rethinkingschools.org/articles/tiger-moms-and-themodel-minority-myth/.

sacrifices, is the exact myth Asian Americans have been plagued with for decades. Every time a new Tiger Mom appears in pop culture,9 a new perpetrator of the Model Minority myth appears with it. From Mrs. Kim in Gilmore Girls, Minh Souphanousinphone in King Of The Hill, Eleanor Sung-Young in Crazy Rich Asians, the mothers in Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club—there are plenty of strict Asian moms in the media to go around.

Perhaps the biggest fault of the publicization and popularity of the Tiger Mom trope is the failure to examine the complexities behind the cold, hard exterior. Just like how anger, sadness and joy are all emotions that are capable of being unpacked to discover something deeper, the Tiger Mom is made up of multiple layers that cannot be ignored.

In fact, such overt displays of emotion, especially those that are considered strong and negative, work against stereotypes of Asians (particularly Asian women) as passive, docile people who avoid confrontation in the face of adversity. One can even say that when these women feel they are not allowed to show any sort of rage or disappointment in the world they live in, their home becomes the only channel to do so.

The Tiger Mom can also work as a form of protection from a mother’s own childhood experience and calls into question a deeper conversation of intergenerational trauma and breaking familial cycles.

Amy Chua reminiscing how her immigrant parents called her “garbage” as a child when speaking on how she then called her own daughter the same just goes to show how emotions and behaviors are so easily mirrored through generations.

There is always a hidden element of fear that drives the Tiger Mom. Fear, like any other emotion, does not connote a weakness or flaw that society has long driven us to believe. For the Tiger Mom, especially those who have been part of some form of the immigrant experience, there is fear for their child’s future. Fear of not doing enough to make sure their children achieve the success they hope for.

For immigrant families that have found themselves within a society that is built on the idea of survival of the fittest, outside pressure to constantly assimilate and adjust coupled with desires to stay connected to one’s roots and culture manifests in a storm of internal conflict. This internal conflict translates to external expressions, and in this case, that expression becomes the Tiger Mom.

As someone who grew up with a fairly strict mother, I see both sides of the coin. It doesn’t necessarily matter where the child stands on how they were raised as much as it matters to take their views and experiences into account when attempting to dissect the Tiger Mother narrative.

In no way is this a defense of certain parenting methods. Like many people, I believe that there is a line between pushing children towards their full potential and allowing themselves to find their own strengths. But something as emotionally lauded as the Tiger Mom should not simply be taken at face value. No emotion or mindset belongs on only one side of a positive / negative, good / bad binary—it is multifaceted, and all angles need to be equally appreciated to fully understand the bigger picture.

Perhaps Amy Chua was on the right track. While Chua’s infamous book may not have dived as deeply into reflection as needed, it successfully started a conversation about the inner workings of something as complex as the successes and failures of family.

“Hand drawn roaring yin yang tigers” by Freepik is licensed under CC BY 2.0

9. Bourree Lam, “How the Tiger Mom Became a Pop Culture Phenomenon,” Refinery29, May 12, 2018, https:// www.refinery29.com/en-us/2018/05/198459/tigermoms-in-pop-culture.

hello ba

HHello Ba,

Goodbye Father

Written by Branden Barnes

Designed by Jasmine Fung

Illustrated by Branden Barnes

ello Ba,

HELLO BA

As the steam clouded the opening of my teacup, you sat there in silence. A face unforgiving of Mother’s. Not wanting to look at what was in front of you because the very thing you brought to life also reminded you of what we both lost.

hello ba

As you held my hand, I felt secure, knowing that if I ever fell, you would pick me back up again. Yet that grip now leaves behind a shadow that hurts to touch. A bruised memory of a living fear, not wanting to let go ever again.

I miss the sunshine you had when we would play in the grass at the park, not too far away from our little run-down house. As you held my hand, I felt secure, knowing that if I ever fell, you would pick me back up again. Yet that grip now leaves behind a shadow that hurts to touch. A bruised memory of a living fear, not wanting to let go ever again. I know that you’ll never be the bright sun you once were, and I can never be that little girl you once held in your warm embrace.

goodbye father

On the train, we would go visit Grandma; you told me stories of your childhood and how we were so much alike. Our lives together are a journey that I wish I could’ve departed from with the memories I had of you from a long time ago. Each stop is a future that you thought should’ve happened, had I only been the daughter you wanted me to be. The me you loved is

Goodbye Father

Hello Ba Hello

Ba

not the one you care about, but a passenger pre-determined by your destination that isn’t my stop.

goodbye father

You never liked being alone, so you built a bridge made of makeshift wood. Something that I never wanted to cross, in fear it would collapse soon enough. To force me to come over, you smothered my side with fire but only burnt the bridge between us. Leaving scars that remind me of your anger — which you always said sorry for — but never extinguishing the flames still burning underneath the broken rubble where I was trapped for so long.

We used to watch as the lanterns flew by and the lunar skies shone. I remember the mandarins you brought home to celebrate the new year. The fruit was meant to be a symbol of our family’s everlasting love. Yet, one year, they remained unpeeled, bruised like the hands that were meant to peel them. The night before, my sleep was disrupted by the surrounding sounds of clatter. However, I knew those weren’t the drums of dragon dancers, but of a tyrant who feared his wife’s desire for freedom. Mother would be the one to give me a red envelope the next morning, but what I began to notice wasn’t the money inside. Instead, it was the tears that flowed down her welted cheeks, redder than the envelopes themselves.

Just like the father whom I knew long ago, I, too, will follow in his footsteps and leave you behind. Maybe one day you’ll figure out that what you were protecting wasn’t us, but a broken shadow of your former self.

It’s hard to say, ‘I love you’ still because I hate what you’ve done. Becoming the very reason for your isolation. Your own warden for a prison that you built for me but instead caged yourself. Just like the father whom I knew long ago, I, too, will follow in his footsteps and leave you behind. Maybe one day you’ll figure out that what you were protecting wasn’t us, but a broken shadow of your former self.

HELLO BA

I never became the person you always wanted me to be. I never became the person you feared I would become. I can never be the daughter you once knew, I can never stop at the place you wanted me to go. You wanted to mend the bridge you already burned down, but I already left with the dad I once loved.

I love my Ba, but I’ve come to hate my father.

Goodbye, Father.

Goodbye Father

goodbye father

HELLO BA GoodbyeFather

Saigu

A Short Story

Written by Katie Choo

Designed by Katie Choo

Wednesdays were always slow days. People rarely needed to buy anything halfway through the week, and we didn’t get any new shipments then. I relished the quiet. It made it easier to study on the job. Mom and Dad always thought it was a good thing that I worked in college. It built character.

It’s hard to believe that five years have passed. I distinctly remember every detail of that day, even if most of those details don’t matter anymore, and the ones that do ought to be forgotten.

It was a few hours before sunset and the only sounds in the store were the radio on the counter and Mom’s shuffling footsteps as she moved empty boxes to the storage closet. Dad was at the register, counting the few crumpled dollars we’d earned. He shook his head as he listened to the muffled voice of the radio. We were getting live coverage of the court case

that was rocking our city to its core. A man senselessly beaten in the streets, a community in mourning. It’s awful, Dad said to no one in particular, it shouldn’t have happened. We knew that. All we could hope for now was that things would eventually get better.

There was a brief lull as the voice of Radio Korea was drowned out by static. We were all in the back of the store then, packing up and getting ready to close for the night. By the time the static stopped and the voice returned, we’d missed the verdict.

We were halfway out the door when we saw the smoke. It rose among the buildings in the distance, a shadowy monolith that threatened to engulf everything around it. With every uneasy step I took backward into the store, the realization sank deeper in. It was coming from the same direction as our neighborhood. We couldn’t go home.

The smoke we had seen was only the beginning. We had been teetering on the edge of a knife, and we had finally fallen over.

I spotted three of our regular customers — a single mother and her two boys — running across the street. I shouted after them in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. I pulled them into the store one by one and slammed the door shut. Dad pushed me aside and sealed the locks. There wasn’t much more we could do.

Mom turned the radio on high and clutched it in one hand as she led our regulars to the back of the store. Static cut through the host’s panicked voice, but I heard every word. The people at the courthouse were rising up.

The smoke we had seen was only the beginning. The air was already thick with the acrid smells of burning metal; the evening sky had turned a bloody orange. We had been teetering on the edge of a knife, and we had finally fallen over.

This photo by Daniel Tafjord is

On the top shelf of the storage closet was a faded green box that I was never permitted to touch. Yet, on that day, I found myself hugging it in both arms as I carried it to the counter. We didn’t have much to use as a barricade, and Mom was desperately piling things against the door and the glass panes that made up the front of the store. It was pointless. A single brick, a single piece of debris, was all it would take to bring down our one line of defense. The one thing standing between us and the fire.

I watched in horror as Dad pulled a pair of rifles and cases of ammunition out of the box. Without hesitation, he placed one in my hands and stuffed my jacket pockets with half of the ammunition in the pile. I could hardly bring myself to look at it, much less use it.

Not him, though. He worked with precision, keeping one eye on the door while loading the rifle. Mom stood right beside him, one hand gripping the radio and the other fingering the delicate silver cross that she wore around her neck every day. She prayed in whispers, in fear of the ominous silence we were trapped in. Dad tucked the empty box under the counter and embraced Mom with his free arm. She reached out and pulled me in with her, and we stayed like that awhile, just like we had when we first opened the store. I had hardly been a year old then. This place had grown with me. It was home. I took one last look around before following Dad up the back stairwell to the roof.

insisted that she and our regulars would be safer locked inside the storage closet. I wanted to believe her. The crisp night wind nipped at one side of my face and the heat of the fires warmed the other side. They were getting closer, but we weren’t going anywhere.

Someone yelled my name just then. I turned around and was stunned to see Mr. Kim and his nephew on the roof of the restaurant next door. Dad turned to the other side and sure enough, Mr. and Mrs. Baek from the bakery were there too. Across the street, the six Hwang brothers were lined up on the roof of the supermarket, and they waved and called out to us. Every one of us was armed and prepared to stand for as long as the fire burned.

We opened fire at the sound of shattering glass. Guided by the light of burning cars and flickering lamp posts, we aimed at sidewalks and marquees and street signs. We weren’t aiming to hurt anyone. We had to trust that help was coming, and until then, we had to keep the fire at bay.

I was reluctant to leave Mom, but she

The night grew long and the fire finally reached us. The Hwangs retreated as a horde of people crashed into the supermarket, and they watched, stranded on the roof, as they took everything they had. Our street was hit at the same time. A bullet from below struck Mr. Kim in the shoulder, and his nephew couldn’t hold off the looters alone. Nothing was stolen from the Baeks’ bakery, but everything inside was broken and burned. I lost sight of the couple when they fled the building altogether.

“a burning rose.” by Gaspar Uhas is licensed under Unsplash.

Mom and the family were still inside when the front of the store vanished in a shower of shattered glass. By the time I made it back onto the ground and burst through the back door, half the store was already gone. Shelves and displays were in ruins on the floor, and everywhere I stepped there was something spilled. Without thinking, I lifted my gun to the ceiling and fired. The dozen people rushing around what was left of the store took what they could carry and bolted outside.

We weren’t the only ones facing down the fire; it had already surrounded the entire city, eating it away little by little until none of us could keep it away anymore.

I couldn’t bring myself to walk through the wreckage. I could only stand and stare. The fire had swallowed us whole, and there was nothing we could do to put it out. I had taken some of my first steps through that door; it was nothing but shards of glass now. Some of our closest customers came every week for our assortment of liquor and cigarettes; it was all gone, every last bottle and pack. We helped out families—parents and kids like the ones hiding with Mom—with discounted food and homeware; it was reduced to nothing more than a cesspool of garbage.

Looking back on it now, I understand why it happened. We weren’t the only ones facing down the fire; it had already surrounded the entire city, eating it away little by little until none of us could keep it away anymore.

We all paid the price that night.

The riot ended five days later. We spent those days hiding, with Dad and I emerging every so often to fire a meaningless warning shot. We were wrong to believe that we could put out the fire, and we were wrong to think that help was coming.

On the morning of the first day after the violence stopped, the three of us finally left the store. We sat on the curb and watched the clouds go by. I would’ve been perfectly content to stay there forever. I was all cried out, and what remained was an anger I wasn’t ready to face.

The Baeks appeared before us then and handed us each a broom. They didn’t say anything, and they didn’t have to. We stood up, headed back into the store, and started cleaning up the wreckage.

The peace march began a few days later. It’s probably the only bright memory I have of this time. Hundreds of people came together—they showed it was possible to come together again. This city belonged to all of us, and we were ready to build it back up.

We couldn’t grieve forever. We all lost something that week—the Kims, the Hwangs, the Baeks, all our friends and neighbors and customers—and we were the only ones who could make things better. We will never forget what we lost, never forget our anger. But we will move forward and keep moving until the last fire settles.

This photo by Prateek Katyal is licensed under Unsplash.

Snippets

Written by Sydney Gaw

Designed by Varsha Ravi

My brother sits in the hairdresser’s chair for three hours as a girl my age crimps and curls his slick black hair. Gloved hands slather his roots with chemicals that break bonds —centuries’ worth of heritage in fine, straight strands.

For his fifteenth birthday, my brother asks for a perm.

Says he wants to look like the other boys on the soccer team with curls that defy gravity in a way ours never could. A familiar sentiment comes to mind:

I feel the pressure of a curling iron searing into my scalp, frying texture into naturally smooth dark hair. A hand driven by rage and frustration brandishes the weapon with a mind to destroy, change, transform. Leave nothing. There is no naturalism in the ideal. What we want is to be reborn.

Something different, something likable, what he doesn’t know is that everyone yearns to be something they’re not.

I wanted to be someone else, not me, definitely not me.

my sense of self at 13 was a girl with a blonde balayage, curls that trickled down to my waist in perfect waves, What a waste, this body that stared from depthless pools of brown, wished for irises coated in amber, cerulean, violet, viridian. what if I pierced mine with a needle, let a river of crimson flow, and thought maybe someday it will be enough to simply be.

II.

My earliest memory of a mirror and the power it wields started in Ms. M’s classroom. First-graders were easily disappointed by locks of hair that don’t coil around their small fingers. At home, my mirror seemed to agree. If I punched glass, would it shatter not to pieces, no, but to oblivion? If there was nothing left to see, would it lose its grip on me or perhaps, I would be swallowed by refractions and fading. Light changes, as I too beg to be changed.

III.

I wonder when I will be American enough; Asian enough. I, with tan skin and freckles from years of sports under a California sun, stubborn, dark hair, streaks of bleach grown out.

I wonder who the pretty girl sees in the mirror. like many before and so on, my fondest memory isn’t of me at all.

Tug- A -War

Designed by Lisa Ramos

Written by Lisa Ramos

Illustrated by Ella Liang and Lisa Ramos

Engaged in this game of Tug-A-War, motivated to maintain our distance,

Yanking each other’s strings in this back-andforth cycle.

Get a rise out of me with your morning silence, Then send me late-night texts to push me down spirals.

You make me irritated, irrational, infuriated, In spite of my adamant refusal to get attached.

Yet you keep me on my toes, keep me infatuated,

As I relish these split-second moments we interact.

I wrestle at this held rope and curse you out, Limp myself home after and nurse my wounds.

But this chain of yours wraps around me like a leash,

And I sleep hoping my longing dreams will come true.

As classic stages of grief proceed, No longer do I enjoy our banter and arguing. This once-ignited, hated, pushed-down crush, simmered down from denial and anger, to bargaining.

I’ve quenched this burning rage and settled instead for fiery liquid, to wash down these choked-up, unspoken feelings in my throat.

Praying that you don’t end our elusive, sidestepping waltz, Halt its tune and leave me behind anguished, all alone.

While you continue to play with my emotions, I’m still tied up playing this twisted Tug-A-War. Having just played along, clinging desperately, Though the rope has scarred both my hands and heart.

Tired now, perhaps I’ll discard this furious facade, Forfeiting my remaining strength, I’ll loosen my grip.

Accept this chance to finally lose and fall to the ground— Fall inlove , and purposely trip.

Two players are needed in this game, And so let this masochistic feud continue. Better angry than alone so stay, hang on to this rope—

And pull me closer to you.

A Stuck and Unmoving Pit

Written by Julianne Le

Illustrated by Ella Liang

Designed by Chelsea Tran

I started taking Professor Jolie Chea’s “Southeast Asian Refugee Communities in the US” course this quarter. Due to my eagerness to learn more about my Vietnamese-American heritage, I naively failed to consider just how heavy of a course like ASIA AM 135 would be. Since the first day of class, I’ve been learning more and more about how American betrayals began long before what is considered the “Vietnam War.” I have since internalized the fact that the historical presence of U.S. imperialism within Vietnam exists in connection to past eras of colonization, namely by the French and Chinese. I was not there when Saigon fell or when my grandparents were raising their children in refugee camps, yet there is still a weight that I carry within me like the stony pit of a fruit. I have a feeling that this pain has been around much longer than I have; it is the closest thing that I have to a family heirloom.

Within my family, French influences only remain through common cognates – like cà phê – or fusion dishes like bánh mì. American influences are better described as standards rather than influences. The American flag that marked my grandparents’ trailer home and the way that our first names are Western while our middle names are Vietnamese are just hints of how my family has attempted to prove that we belong in this country for generations. I’ve begun to believe that pain can be passed down through families just like our dark hair and plump noses. How could the trauma of being refugees not be embedded

within us? It only makes sense that this pain has taken root even after the war has ended, gripping us each in different ways.

When my mother lies buried in her bed for what feels like entire days, I know that I will only anger her if I question her. I picture her rage occupying her body like how a vase holds flowers. My youngest brother refuses to attend school most days, and I know that he shares more with her than just their rounded eyes.

My sister is less than four years younger than me, but she told me last year that I raised her. Sometimes, after she wins an art award or plays me her newest song, I look at her as if I was the one who carried her for nine months in my belly. I feed her every affirmation I can think of because she has been working since she was 15, and she is also tired. We cannot completely blame our parents for working multiple jobs or having short tempers, but we will always wonder how things would have been if they had worked a bit less and spoke more about things that aren’t related to saving money. I know that we would have less to write and paint about.

My brother hates hearing that he looks just like our dad; I think that this has very little to do with beauty. None of us want to be compared to the man whom we used to associate with broken furniture and glares full of disdain. I want to be angrier at him, but I feel something closer to defeat. I have always known that our

chances of obtaining anything close to the American Dream were always slim. Thanks to their sponsors, my family immigrated to the U.S. – specifically rural Louisiana and snowy Chicago. The Online Archive of California describes sponsorship as “a resource to introduce the Vietnamese refugees into the society while they become self-supporting.”1 These sponsors were oftentimes White Christians who provided Vietnamese refugee families with social and financial resources. Sponsors lessened the burden of getting to the U.S., but my family still arrived desperate and speaking a language that was completely unfamiliar to most residents of Louisiana and Illinois. Fleeing after the war forced our existence into something inherently political. Like most political situations, there was little chance of winning for us underdogs.

I’d like to believe that there is free will involved, that someone can choose to use their rage as either a catalyst for success or as an excuse for violence. Yet a part of me hopes that this is untrue because I hope that my father does not choose to yell. Even then, I am grateful because this is the closest that my siblings and I will ever be to hearing sounds of the war.

I am not sure where these sentiments come from, but I’ve convinced myself that I can overwork myself into someone to be proud of. If I write enough articles, volunteer at enough events, and attend enough meetings, then maybe I can make myself into something more than I was destined to be. On days that I find my fuel running low, I resemble my mother as I draw up the blinds and fold myself into my bedsheets. I want nothing more than to carve this pit out of myself and just be full of fruit. Instead, I continue to feel myself grow around this stone that rests at my core.

I often think about an excerpt from Catherine Lacey’s short story, “Cut”.

If you’re raised with an angry man in your house, / there will always be an angry man in your house.2

It does not matter that we moved from the trailer park to the suburbs or from Louisiana to California – I fear that I will spend the rest of my life inside of this house stained by remnants of war.

1. “The Formation of a New Refugee Community: The Vietnamese Community in Orange County, California.” Online Archive of California

2. Catherine Lacey, “Cut.” The New Yorker, 2019.

AGrain of SandCan Cre a teWav se

Written by Sophie Vansomphone

Designed by Sophie Vansomphone

Illustrated by Sophie Vansomphone

Hugewhite waves crash against the sandy beach. They thunder and roar, yet I still feel a calm sensation as the salty scent sails through the air around me.

With a slight creak, I step down from the last step on the old boardwalk stairs and slowly approach the ocean. My eyes snap open as two little girls almost collide into me, their mother shouting a quick apology from behind. Their energy and excitement radiates out, and I can’t even be mad at their desire and wonder for the shore ahead. They rush past me in their bright swimsuits to the dancing tide, their heavy footprints creating deeper indentations in the wet ground as they get closer and closer. But just before the ocean splashes them, they shriek with delight and run back the other way, to the safety of dry land. As they huff and puff, the two girls share some sort of telepathic conversation, the kind that includes a sly smile for a secret only sisters share. Then, as quick as lightning, they take off running again to play with the water.

I watch on, reminiscing to a time when the scariest thing to me was the cold splash of the ocean jumping up. But not now — now, I’m a little braver than I was at six years old and decide it’s okay to get my feet a little wet.

The water seemed to rush at the little girls in a flood, but now it gently creeps up as though hesitant to touch me. I step forward in invitation, and the chill of the waves slowly washes up over my feet. The gentle water is a welcome feeling, cooling me off from the summer heat. All too soon, the friendly tickle begins to recede, and I feel each little granule of sand begin to cling to my feet, not ready to go off and get lost in the mass of the big blue sea.

That can’t be fun, I begin to think. To be present to everyone in the world, only to be swept away under the endless waves. We know that the sand resides in the ocean, but we no longer see it anymore. Its existence is becoming more subjective as more people lose the ability to feel the soft pillow against their feet with the water sinking too deep. Unseen until the waves slowly lift them back up to the surface, to crash back down on the shore once again.

Perhaps, in a way I dread something similar has happened to me. For my identity as an Asian American girl, my one granule of sand, also seems to be swept up and trapped under the waves.

My whole life I have felt some sort of confusion about where I fit. Growing up in Las Vegas, I’ve been told

by

This photo by Ivan Bandura is licensed on Unsplash.

“Ah, I can spot a fellow Chinese person from a mile away.”

The waves were trying to drag me in a swirl of different directions, and I’m not any one of these varying interpretations of my identity.

This rip current of homogenizing Asian identity is not an isolated instance. According to a New York Times article in 2021, “the stereotype that all Asians look alike was an idea sewn into the American psyche more than 100 years ago.”1 With the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and the Immigration Act of 1924, Asians of all backgrounds were regarded as the same collective mass. It was as if we all derive from the same origin, culture and history, at least to our other ethnic and racial counterparts. Soldiers were instructed to regard Asians as all the same, so why should that change now?

We must all be able to read and understand one another. We have the same interests and pop culture representation with K-pop and anime. We all have the same religious disposition. It is not hard to see that this can be quite problematic, but this issue is still present even when your physical features don’t project the stereotypes expected. A Pew Research Center study noted2 how many people have felt “Asian” means you come from one of the larger Asian ethnic groups: you’re either Chinese, Korean or Japanese.

The Pew Research Center has also conducted several interviews with people of all Asian backgrounds, from an Asian American whose family has been in the United States for generations to a recent immigrant who moved within the last year.

In one of these interviews a young Filipina woman expressed her dismay with her Asian identity: “Interacting with [non-Asians in the U.S.], it’s hard. … Well, first, I look Spanish. I mean, I don’t look Asian, so would you guess – it’s like they have a vision of what an Asian [should] look like.”3

From there, you feel claimed by racial identities and connections placed onto you, even if it is not the most welcome. I am put in a dilemma of what ethnicity I should choose to express and relay to others, even if I feel no relation.

Although I was treated as Asian by some of my peers due to my physical features, others have conversely reduced me to not feeling Asian enough whether that be not speaking the language or ironically from my physical appearance as well. As a Pew Research Center interviewee points out, even when “identifying as Asian American, when I would go into spaces where there were a lot of other Asians, especially

“When I would go into spaces where there were a lot of other Asians, especially East Asians, I didn’t feel like I belonged. […] In media… people still associate Asian with being East Asian.”

East Asians, I didn’t feel like I belonged. […] In media… people still associate Asian with being East Asian.”4

As I mentioned, in comparison to my brother, my Chinese roots are a lot more physically prominent. However, I still feel a strong disconnect in my portrayal to others. My parents always ensured I had resources to all of my Asian roots from cuisines to certain traditions and getting to

“Interacting with [non-Asians in the U.S.], it’s hard. … Well, first, I look Spanish. I mean, I don’t look Asian, so would you guess – it’s like they have a vision of what an Asian [should] look like.”

This woman’s experience is not alone. Even as a twin, I find myself and my brother receive different perceptions, even from other Asians. While I take on the fairer complexion and almond eyes of my Chinese-Laotian dad, my brother has the darker hue, bigger eyes and nose of our Filipina mother. I get treated as the stereotypical Asian, while my brother is constantly referred to as Mexican or Latinopassing.

1. Brian X. Chen, “The Cost of Being an ‘Interchangeable Asian.’” The New York Times, June 6, 2021.

2. Neil G. Ruiz, “What It Means to Be Asian in America.” Pew Research Center Race & Ethnicity, August 2, 2022.

3. Ibid.

4. Ibid.

This photo by Annie Spratt is licensed on Unsplash.

However, I feel like the biggest judgment of all comes from not being able to speak or understand any of the languages. A man from Pew Research sums up exactly how I feel with his remark: “Because I don’t identify, speak or understand the language, I really can’t connect to the French roots… I’m in between like Cambodian and Thai, and then

“Because I don’t identify, speak or understand the language, I really can’t connect to the French roots… I’m in between like Cambodian and Thai, and then Chinese and then French.”

Chinese and then French.”5

By not being able to speak any languages, I am marked as a whitewashed Asian. But to be honest, I never felt disconnected from my roots until my other Asian peers in college made it known that I am not like them. They are a part of an inner circle where I am not welcome. Because I was never taught any languages or went to Chinese school, I can’t understand them. I am just a granule stuck in the tide waiting to join them as they are clumped together as a sandcastle that everyone on the beach can admire.

So you can see where the frustration starts. I am too Asian outside the Asian community, but I’m not Asian enough for my Asian community, feelings not just those in the APIDA community face such as those who are mixed, immigrants, or even first and second generation individuals. I don’t understand how in 2024 this is still a prevalent issue when racial diversity keeps increasing. Are all of our identities just buried deep in the ocean? Is that all society has reduced us to?

Pew Research Center is a prevalent source I have relied on as they have designed a project called “Being Asian in America.” The ultimate goal is to encourage all Asians, no matter their story, to open barriers and connections to others outside of the community. They are, as the Pew Research Center puts it, designing “focus groups to better understand how members of an ethnically diverse Asian population think about their place in America and life here… their focus group study aims to capture in people’s own words what it means to be Asian

In a way one little grain of sand can cause a ripple, and that

I find myself staring at the ocean, hoping the water can just somehow miraculously give me my answer. I know deep down, I’ll never fit into a certain group neatly. I am the sand spilling out from the bucket, the pieces crumbling off the edge of the sand castle.

But I am not a part of the sand trapped under the water. Everyone of multiethnic or multiracial backgrounds have their own unique and wonderful stories and experiences that belong to them. There should be no picking or choosing a group to belong to but rather they should be able to identify themselves as not only all their origins, but also the ones they choose to see themselves belonging to — the one that truly encompasses them. If you think about it, sand is the foundation of the world—everyone’s involvement is part of a bigger encompassing

6. Ibid.

CNN has also released an incredibly

7. Nicole Chavez and Priya Krishnakumar, “We Speak about Asian Americans as a Single Block. Here’s How Incredibly Complex They Are.” CNN, May 1, 2022.

5. Ruiz, “What It Means to Be Asian in America.”

This photo by Boshoku is licensed on Unsplash.

money, money, money.

i need a high paying job i need to work more hours i need to iasefbubfkabfawiubf

everything is all twisted. since when did our desire to live comfortably get in the way of actually living comfortably? life has been a constant grind ever since i learned what money was in elementary school. i’m only 22, yet my friends and i all worry about the same things: if the majors we chose will allow us to become successful or not, if we made the right decision 4 years ago, if we will ever have a break.

1. get good grades to get into a good college.

2. get into a good college to get a good job.

3. get a good job to get enough money.

4. get enough money to live.

happiness is no longer a priority. i feel like a shell of a human being. everything we consume nowadays is a product of the pain and sacrifices of others who get exploited by those at the top. fast fashion and sweatshop workers. amazon and factory workers. food industry and agricultural workers. the list goes on. only the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. AND the ethical options aren’t even accessible. if they do exist, they aren’t typically affordable. no matter how much i try, i will never be able to detach myself from this machine.

it doesn’t help that the earth is dying. microplastics, toxins, pesticides. our bodies are constantly being poisoned anyway, SO WHAT IS THE POINT OF ALL THIS GRINDING?

i’m tired. 22 and I’m tired. life should not be this way. my life shouldn’t be shortened because some rich white man out in the world wants to add another million to his billion.

I. Am. Tired.

Written by Joshua Huang, Shune Kawaoto, & Chelsea Tran

Illustrated

by Dora Gao Design and Layout by Chelsea Tran

CAPITALISM

MEDIA

CONSUMPTION

i’m so afraid we’re getting to this point that everything we consume is being spoon fed to us. maybe it’s print media elitism bleeding through but when’s the last time you read ink on paper of your own volition? we went from oldtimey newspapers to digital publications to youtube news recaps all the way down to literal bite-sized tiktoks you randomly scroll across on your for you page. beyond the lack of fact-checking or journalistic credibility, tiktok ends up algorithmically showing the most bizarre or frightening news to keep us engaged, but the news should be both the mundane and exciting, highway construction updates and the newest celebrity court drama. we obviously live fastpaced lives, but there are some things we should take time to properly address and process, especially the world around us.

AGAINST

EDUCATION

you know, i really hate how we’re pushed to go to college even if we can’t afford it. like my cousin knew she couldn’t afford college without loans bc she’s broke and her family’s broke right? but they were still like you’re the smartest in the family you have to go so she went.

you know what happened after? her dad gambled their family savings away in cryptocurrency, went broke and then had the audacity to demand that she help them support her siblings.

AND SHE ACTUALLY DROPPED OUT TO WORK?? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? she should’ve just left them behind.

idk man it just feels so unfair bc she’s literally the only competent person in the family. she didn’t even want to take out loans in the first place, and then she had to drop out halfway so she could help pay the bills and now she has to pay off loans for a degree she couldn’t finish.

like this was objectively a terrible decision to force her to go to college just so they could brag that she has a degree. why is there such an unhealthy obsession with sending your kid to college? it’s not like it’s the only option. especially bc they live in the countryside of japan where it’s normalized to just go to a vocational school or go straight into work out of high school.

i by no means am not part of this issue. i can spend hours laying in bed scrolling mindlessly and endlessly, but i can never seem to muster up the motivation to spend a little time reading a book on my phone, let alone a physical one. this steady stream of constant gratification and attention-grabbing has not only ruined our attention span but our general ability to comprehend information. you’d think that with the amount of media we consume from the plethora of sources online, we would develop a better sense of media literacy, but just by reading movie reviews alone, i’m starting to question whether people can even understand the point behind saltburn or the latest suzanne collin’s movie. long story short for those of yall skimming or skipping straight to the bottom, watch the newsroom, it plays into the watching tv all-day issue but at least you can learn something from it, call it the early-adult pbs.

i know that our culture values education but i feel like this level of unhealthy obsession is more detrimental than anything else. i guarantee you that 90 percent of the reason they forced her to go was for bragging rights. she would’ve been the first in the family to be smart enough to go to a uni so they couldn’t wait to show her off to family and friends. they thought that she could get a good paying job in tokyo after uni and help them retire early.

living through your kids so you can retire early is absolutely vile. they actually ruined her future and i can’t believe i’m blood related to those imbeciles.

YOUR BEST AMERICAN GIRL:

Mitski and the Multidimensionality of Feminine Rage

Written By Allie Estepa

Designed by Justine Lim

Mitsuki Miyawaki, more commonly known as Mitski, is a Japanese-American singersongwriter who is currently in the midst of a sold-out tour through North America.1 Mitski’s certified Platinum track “Nobody” from her 2018 album Be the Cowboy, saw its TikTok heyday in the year 2021.2 With its groovy chord progression, hypnotic building drum-beat and addictingly catchy chorus, it is likely the song which Mitski is best known for.

The indie rock and art pop artist’s music has become a staple for those creating content on social media platforms like TikTok or Instagram. Mitski’s dreamy love song, “My Love Mine All Mine” from her 2023 album release has also reached viral status,1 which has played a large role in catapulting her name into the mainstream. These two tracks are both delicately written pieces of pop music that still manage to stand out from the crowd, but they merely represent a small fraction of Mitski’s 11-year career as a

With her eccentric, ever-changing sound and poetic lyricism, Mitski depicts the visceral nature of difficult emotions, such as cynicism, resentment and rage through her own unique lens.

For most of her childhood and early adolescence, Mitski’s father worked for the U.S. State Department which saw them constantly moving to different countries across the globe. This upbringing points to an intriguing quality of worldliness which manifests in her music, as well as recurring themes of displacement and uncertainty.

Through listening to Mitski’s repertoire, an overarching narrative forms, revealing a story about the turbulent transition from girlhood to womanhood.

The New Yorker’s Margaret Talbot says about the singer’s adolescence: “Changing schools almost yearly, she was always the new kid, always the foreigner, trying on personae–the studious girl, the party girl–with varying degrees of success and self-alienation.”

This article, with quotes from the musician, also provides much insight into her adolescent self’s obsession with her appearance and desirability. Mitski says, “I spent all my teenage years being obsessed with beauty, and I’m very resentful about it and I’m very angry.” expresses this anger and resentment in her 2012 debut studio album entitled Lush.

The young artist, only 20 years old at the

1 Snapes, “Mitski: How the US Songwriter Scored the Year’s Quietest Global Chart Smash” (The 2 Pellot, “‘nobody’ TikTok Trend: Users Are Running

3 Talbot, “On the Road with Mitski.” (The New Yorker 2016)

Away from Their Problems, ‘Icks.’” (In the Know

time of the album’s release, paints an impressively vivid picture of this difficult and isolating period in her life. Lush sees Mitski deeply concerned with her own body as she expresses shame for her physical inadequacies. She confronts the temporary nature of youth in “Liquid Smooth”, with her lilting, girlish voice inviting the listener to come touch her skin while it’s still ‘plump and full of life’. The fourth track on the album, “Brand New City”, finds Mitski at a breaking point in which she is coming to terms with her body breaking down. She sings:

“...IF I GAVE UP ON BEING PRETTY I WOULDN’T KNOW HOW TO BE ALIVE. I SHOULD MOVE TO A BRAND NEW CITY AND TEACH MYSELF HOW TO DIE.”

delivery of this heart-wrenching lyric oozes with fury–her voice growing guttural as the drums thud and the electric guitar comes roaring in. In Mitski’s story— and perhaps every woman’s—being pretty is not just about being desired, but also about survival. With its poignant, thematic lyricism and unconventional sound, of artist—one who is willing to visit these dark places within herself, even if it required some ‘selfalienation’.

hellish nightmare that is the modern-day job market sound poetic, as seen in tracks such as “Because Dreaming Costs Money, My Dear” or “Jobless Monday”.

Her aptly-titled sophomore album, Retired from Sad, New Career in Business, features a much more stripped-back sound, almost as if there are instruments missing from the mix. Mitski’s voice on this album fills the negative space–building a sonic environment which almost feels like standing in a dark, dingy and barely-furnished

While Lush is a bleak voyage through Mitski’s internal struggles, the lyricist also dives deep into the external, which undoubtedly adds to her relatability. One recurring topic throughout several of her albums has been the hopelessness and impossibility of aspiration under the weight of capitalism. Somehow, she is able to make the

The lyrics reflect this setting, too. Walls, beds and doors are constantly referred to throughout the album, framing the doomed love story at the heart of it. It seems that in this narrative, Mitski is contending with the harsh realities of adulthood, particularly with the disappointment and anger of not being at the place in her life that she once aspired to be. With every track, Mitski loses hope of her and her lover making it through the difficulties of

In this album’s final track, “Class of 2013”, Mitski’s anger and desperation turn into shame. Against the backdrop of nothing but a few simple piano chords, Mitski speaks to her mother in song. Shame restrains her voice at the beginning as she asks her mother if she can sleep in her house, assuring her that she will only be a temporary burden. During the short song’s climax, she sings at the top of her lungs:

“MOM, WOULD YOU WASH MY BACK? THIS ONCE, AND THEN WE CAN FORGET… AND I’LL LEAVE WHAT I’M CHASING FOR THE OTHER GIRLS TO PURSUE.”

One can almost imagine Mitski in tears as she begs her mother to fulfill her longing for this childlike comfort, for one last escape from

Photo Credit:Feyza, Destan, Pexe l s

the ruthlessness of her current situation before she finally gives up on her dream. Her shame and insecurity see her comparing herself to ‘the other girls’, revealing how she believes herself unworthy of aspiration.

At this point, I have made it clear that I am an avid admirer of Mitski’s work, so I would be hard-pressed not to talk about my personal favorite song of hers. As I see it, the song “Your Best American Girl”, exhibits every quality which makes Mitski a singular master of lyrical and sonic storytelling.

The fifth track from the album, Puberty 2, opens with a dynamic, but gentle bassline. The singer’s voice is just as subdued, her voice not as up-front and intimate as it normally is in her other songs, constantly at risk of being buried entirely underneath the instrumental. She evokes a sort of yearning in her vocal delivery and within the lyrics:

“IF I COULD, I’D BE YOUR LITTLE SPOON AND KISS YOUR FINGERS FOREVERMORE. BUT, BIG SPOON, YOU HAVE SO MUCH TO DO AND I HAVE NOTHING AHEAD OF ME.”

She is content with this mundane and unfussy kind of love, but immediately we sense that she feels small, perhaps even inadequate in the presence of her ‘big spoon’. In the first verse she goes on using celestial metaphors to describe her lover, but admits that she is not even worthy of being compared to the moon or even a star.

And as the rest of the instruments join the mix, the chorus builds into another symphony brought together by an electric guitar tearing right through it. Her voice is sturdy and stable, but she almost sounds resigned to her situation. It is as if she is singing about this relationship from the near-past—as if she is once again coming from a place in which she has granted herself the mercy of moving on from a hopeless situation.

“YOUR

MOTHER WOULDN’T APPROVE OF HOW MY MOTHER

RAISED ME BUT I DO, I THINK I DO AND YOU’RE AN ALL-AMERICAN BOY I GUESS I COULDN’T HELP TRYING TO BE YOUR BEST AMERICAN GIRL.”

Here, Mitski directly wrestles with the strain that exists in relationships with a cultural disconnect. In under four minutes, Mitski succinctly captures the yearning, resentment and rage that comes from that feeling of not belonging—not just in a place, but with someone you love. “Your Best American Girl” is a perfect illustration of Mitski’s raw emotionality, revealing her remarkable ability to transform an auditory environment into a safe space for her listeners to experience, express and feel their emotions fully.

Despite the dark sentiments of the previous tracks explored, it must be

emphasized that Mitski’s discography is not devoid of joy or celebration.

In fact, some of her more recent LPs are filled with tracks that are more upbeat and feature much less cynical subject matter. Her 2022 album Laurel Hell sees her delve into the sonic world of 80s synth-pop, her lyrics a bit more straightforward and playful, without losing her penchant for deep introspection.

Laurel Hell is undoubtedly a break-up album and it sees Mitski going through all of the stages. In “The Only Heartbreaker” and

Photo Credit: Vitaly Gorbachev, Pexels

“Should’ve Been Me”, Mitski reminds her ex-lover that they lost something truly great. Her softer vocal delivery and brighter, more conventional pop melodies are juxtaposed with the subtle pettiness underneath the lyrics, revealing the ever-present nuances of her own resentment.

Ultimately, the final two tracks, “I Guess” and “That’s Our

Lamp”, reflect how Mitski has finally arrived at a place of acceptance–emphasizing that despite the desperation, frustration, and hardship, there will always be room to celebrate in the aftermath.

In an interview with NPR, Mitski says about the nature of her writing about her personal experiences: “I go back into that world I’ve cultivated for myself that’s just mine, and when I go there, I dig up something and try to express it in some abstract way.”

Mitski’s choice to depict her own world in an ‘abstract’ way reveals an intent to keep details of her personal life out of the public eye. Despite the honesty she displays in her music, it is well-known that Mitski makes an active effort to preserve her

4

privacy, even discouraging parasociality between her and her ever-growing fanbase.4 Though she is at the height of her popularity in the mainstream music scene, Mitski continues to keep her shows as intimate as possible, maintaining them as a safe space for her listeners to escape to.

As I see it, Mitski’s seven-album discography depicts a powerful musical odyssey from girlhood to womanhood through the eyes of an Asian-American woman. From lilting lullabies and glittery pianos to screams and screeching guitars, she explores the sheer range through which anger can be musically expressed. Most importantly, Mitski shows us that after the screams, there is quiet, and that after the rage, there is healing.

Ultimately, we will never really know who Mitski is behind the music and lyrics. But, through her art, she offers up these honest explorations of sadness, cynicism and resentment so that we could perhaps reconcile with the multidimensionality of our own rage and—eventually—find peace.

Mitski may not be ‘your best American girl’, but neither am I. And I am no longer angry about it.

Works Cited:

Zoladz, Lindsay. “Mitski Is More than TikTok.” The New York Times, March 11, 2022. https://www.nytimes.com/ interactive/2022/03/11/magazine/mitski.html.

Pellot, Emerald. “‘nobody’ TikTok Trend: Users Are Running Away from Their Problems, ‘Icks.’” In The Know, June 10, 2021. http://www.intheknow.com/post/nobody-tiktok-trend-runningaway-icks/.

Talbot, Margaret. “On the Road with Mitski.” The New Yorker, July 1, 2019. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/07/08/ on-the-road-with-mitski.

Staff, NPR. “Mitski on ‘puberty 2’ and the Nature of Happiness.” NPR, June 19, 2016. https://www.npr.org/2016/06/19/482375750/ mitski-on-puberty-2-and-the-nature-of-happiness.

Snapes, Laura. “Mitski: How the US Songwriter Scored the Year’s Quietest Global Chart Smash.” The Guardian, October 13, 2023. https://www.theguardian.com/music/2023/oct/13/mitskihow-the-us-songwriter-scored-the-years-quietest-global-chartsmash.

Goddu, Charlotte. “To Know Mitski Is to Never Truly Know Mitski at All.” The Ringer, September 14, 2023. https://www. theringer.com/music/2023/9/14/23872815/mitski-privacyinterviews-concerts-new-album-land-is-inhospitable.

A House Is Not A Home

Written by Anisha Menath

Designed by Anisha Menath

When I was a child, I remember always being in deep, pensive thought. I would stop on the playground and lose myself in thought, leaving others around me to wonder if I was okay. Often, I was not thinking about anything in particular, just letting the world pass me by as I focused on minute details and zoomed into different pieces of the puzzle.

I’ve always had quite a sad disposition, even from childhood. It was constantly mistaken for seriousness or coldness. As I sat on the doorstep of my childhood home waiting to enter a Christmas party, I felt like that girl on the playground again.

Christmas in my neighborhood was sweet dew drops on grass that turned into soft white pillows. Growing up, my father was reluctant to the tradition of decorating our house, but every year he gave in and, along with the other families on the street, brought the ladder out to adorn the house with lights. I could imagine his frustration when the lights shattered and my mother’s fear that he would slip. I missed these small interactions that made holidays memorable, but I spent most of my time away making a new home for myself.

My eyes gazed gently at the front lawn that was not yet filled with snow or, in fact, not even dew. It was soggy and muddy like an English summer, ones that my mother used to tell me about from when she was a graduate student at Oxford. It was something I could never picture her as: a student, a young adult like myself. I thought of her as the antithesis of me: someone who was warm, collected, and kind. I worried that I was not always kind.

I was no longer prepared for the cold. My California legs shivered as I stood watching the precariously standing

mailbox sway with the wind.

The wooden stand of the box was splintering and the white paint was fraying at the edges. Glints of blue paint chips that shifted by the wind could be mistaken for actual snow.I thought about going in many times but nothing, not even the cold chill on my ankles, could move me. The sound of Christmas last year was the shatter of glass when it landed on the floor after I screamed. The house had never been so quiet at that moment. Not even my mother’s wind chimes that craved the Chennai sea breeze even thought about movement.

I could not stop my mind from racing, reliving that moment of when I dropped my glass when my mother said, “You have changed so much.” It wasn’t even the you that hurt me like so many other you’s in my childhood did. It was the change and I hated how I had not even been the one to cause it.

Realities shattered like glass on a daily basis and that was part of growing older. It angered me that I was growing up and changing before I was even ready. How I lost parts of me like they were loose threads, unraveling slowly. And if my own family did not know who I was, then what am I?

So I continued to sit on the doorstep like the child that I was, still in deep thought. I walked halfway to the mailbox and glanced back at the house. It was funny how a place which knew my footsteps better than anywhere else could look so foreign. Yet, the house swelled with a warmth that I recognized from thousands of miles away. The windows were golden with light, so bright that it might burn my hand if I were to just touch it.

A path in front of me led to the house; a path behind me led to the street. I thought about which direction I might turn when my eyes fixated on the “For Sale” sign.

“Bird shard” by Cyndy Sims is licensed under CC BY 2.0. Changes have been made.

“Kilauea Volcano at Mauna Ulu” by Image Editor is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Guilty Rage and Rageful Guilt

Written by Amber Phung

Designed by Varsha Ravi

Guilt is an emotion sometimes experienced in conjunction with rage – a complex antithetical combination that many like myself are familiar with. However unpleasant guilt and anger make an individual feel, these emotions are essential to maintaining a personal sense of identity and serve as prosocial regulators of norms and widespread principles. While anger often spurs powerful, protective behavior, guilt motivates transgressors to repair the damage they have done and subtly alter their behavior so as to not experience guilt again. In fact, many scientists and researchers have postulated that without guilt, a society would not be able to function properly1. Emotions and emotional expression can be seen as a performance of one’s identity. The psychological conflict that arises with the combination of guilt and anger can be understood in an intersectional framework of 1 Amrisha Vaish, “The prosocial functions of early social emotions: The case of guilt.” Current Opinion in Psychology, 2018: 25–29.

culture. Asian American cultures have a long history of advocating for pacifism, holding back one’s anger in public spaces, and focusing on the bigger picture of harmony. In fact, there are proverbs dating back to ancient China that emphasize calmness as a key component of a morally cultivated Chinese society: “Harmony is the best policy.”2 One popular Korean proverb translates to: “Birds hear the words spoken in the day, and the mice those at night,” demonstrating how individuals should always be conscious of their outward presentation and emotional expression. This norm to keep anger – and the guilt that comes with it – behind closed doors carries weighty implications with respect to how Asian Americans experience these two emotions, as they may struggle to reconcile their own mental unease with further external pressures.

Consequently, as an Asian American woman my own upbringing was saturated with this

2 Chun Liu, “Chinese, why don’t you show your anger? — a comparative study between Chinese and Americans in expressing anger.” International Journal of Social Science and Humanity, 4(3), 2014: 206–209.

combination, and it vastly transformed my perspective on the world. I feel that guilt and anger have become so painfully intertwined in my mind that I cannot experience one without the other; this convolution has shaped my behaviors, interactions, and attitudes. Putting my experience in the broader context of Asian American culture can provide a more holistic understanding of the social aspect of emotions, and enhance our overall comprehension of how to grapple with guilt and shame.

Throughout my life, I’ve known both my parents to be strict when it comes to their children – imposing rules and expectations in almost every realm known to man. And inevitably, I would get into fights with them, whether it was over something small like what time to go to the mall with my friends or something big like what college I wanted to commit to. In the most intense of these fights, I would end up crying from my anger and distress, while simultaneously fighting guilt over my tears; and there also was an additional level of embarrassment underneath the surface that manifested itself in emotional suppression. My parents would often tell me, “Stop crying, it’s not a big deal,” “I’m just telling you what’s best for you,” “Tears don’t do anything.” Their

words only further conflated the experience of guilt with anger. With my rage would come frustration with how to properly express my emotions, and they all came pouring out from my eyes instead of from my words.

I feel that guilt and anger have become so painfully intertwined in my mind that I cannot experience one without the other; this convolution has shaped my behaviors, interactions, and attitudes.

This amalgamation of guilt and rage is not uncommon among most Asian cultures. Compared to Western cultures that emphasize individualism and personal rights, Asian cultures are centered around familial and relational obligations. In fact, Confucian cultures conceptualize family as “the great self,” as the individual’s boundaries of identity adapt to their loved ones. Under this framework, Asians are consistently expected to sublimate a considerable fraction of their agency to serve their ‘greater self’. Rather than through personal choice as emphasized among Westerners, AAPI individuals must define themselves through the relationships they are involved in3. Thus, “the greater self” can be regarded as ‘relational identity,’ as individuals are prompted to understand themselves with respect to others’ needs and conceptions of themselves. Relational identity connects to a collectivist organization of society, where individuals exist within highly integrated and cohesive in-groups, with emphases on loyalty and a general avoidance of discordance.4

3 Olwen Bedford & Kwang-Kuo Hwang, “Guilt and shame in Chinese culture: A cross‐cultural framework from the perspective of morality and identity.” Journal for the Theory of Social Behaviour, 33(2), 2003: 127–144

4 Liu, “Chinese, why don’t you show your anger?”

When a big component of one’s identity is linked to the identities of those who surround them, guilt becomes an “effective means of social control in systems where maintaining harmony in relationships is valued over maintaining behavior according to an objectively defined right or wrong”.5 While this emotion has a psychological function, it also works in synchrony with cultural norms of collectivism and relational identity to normalize the conjunction of guilt and anger. The old Chinese saying, “The bird that takes the lead usually bears the brunt of the attack” perfectly encapsulates the sentiments of relational identity prompting suppression of expression –– being upfront and indignant about one’s emotions can only lead to further pain, so it is best to internalize it.6

In turn, when guilt and anger are continuously internalized, they serve as powerful silencing mechanisms on the individual, implying that to express their emotions is to go against the grain and disrupt relational harmony.

However, as I’ve matured, I have surrounded myself with people who encourage me to healthily communicate my emotions rather than allowing it to fester into intense guilt and rage. Having people in my life who motivate me to acknowledge the complexities of my emotional experiences has truly changed me for the better. Although I sometimes still struggle to communicate how I feel , my desire to break the cycle overcomes my fear. I refuse to feel guilty for feeling anger, expressing my anger, or shedding tears. When I feel rage now, I let the emotion pass through instead of immediately processing it into guilt like my parents conditioned me to – only in doing this have I been able to heal and flourish into the person I am today.

5 Bedford & Hwang, “Guilt and shame”.

6 Liu, “Chinese, why don’t you show your anger?”

Woman, Scorned

Written by Christine King

Designed by Chelsea Tran

There was once a story of a man and a woman and what happened in the time they were apart.

Do you recognize it yet?

It is a tragedy, one lifted from the pages of a short story written by an American lawyer1 and projected onstage into an opera by an Italian composer. These characters granted voice and physical form—the better to stand the test of time—solidified into stereotypes strong enough to be born again in different bodies.

How about this? I’ll leave the details blank—you fill them in. See if you can guess at the pieces of this story told time and time again in books, on screens: familiar roles repeated throughout history to form narratives we can recognize.

A Navy man from _______ set sail for the East, where the women were ____ and _____. He married a _____ girl, naive and ____ in age than he was, isolating her from her family to make her his own. And then ___ left ___ behind, abandoning a yet unknown child.

____ waited patiently for days, for months, but ___ didn’t return.

And the impossible day that a ship came back to port, he was there with an American girl on his arm.

____ died in the end.

Can you guess who? Even if you have not read this story before, have you seen enough of this narrative, its iterations and reiterations, to know how it ends? Who does the coming and who does the going, the giving and the taking, the living and the dying. These roles are filled by the people we expect to fill them, based on the path we are used to watching them follow.

Here’s our cast.

An Asian woman, mild and loyal, ready to wait a lifetime for her husband to come home. An American man, carefree and loud, false promises on his lips and a sweetheart in every port. Their child, bald and improbably violet-eyed, a surprise waiting for the man’s dragging return.

Here’s our plot.

Lieutenant B.F. Pinkerton sailed to Japan for service and married a seventeenyear-old girl named Cho-Cho San, called Madame Butterfly. He isolated her from her family and her religion, leading to her becoming disowned. He molded her into an English-speaking, validation-seeking wife who became ostracized from the rest

This photo by Karolina Grabowska is licensed on Pexel.

of society; she didn’t mind, clinging to the belief that he would one day take her with him to America where men never divorced and castles were waiting to house her. And then he left with his ship.

Madame Butterfly did not remarry, not even when another man promised her a castle and servants. She waited, their child by her side: a surprise she was sure would draw him back into her arms. She grew poor with the waiting, unable to support herself, unable to remarry due to their marital ties and the deep-sunk belief he would come back and whisk her away to his castle in America. And when she finally saw him in the harbor, he was with an American woman, blonde, who called him her husband.

She took a sword to her chest that night, and she wept.

Tales like these have molded public perceptions of Asian women into something exotic and sexualized, yet somehow still naive. It brings to mind characters like Suzie Wong and Lotus Blossoms, delicate in the hand, ready to be molded into someone else’s fantasy.

It’s a story where the woman, submissive and trusting, is always waiting. Where she is the one left behind.

It’s her tragedy, sensationalized and heart-wrenching. And that’s the thing about tragedy—there must be someone suffering, someone losing something, for it to work; between the girl and the man, it would not be Lieutenant Pinkerton. In this story where he scooped her up and wedded her and placed her behind closed doors, how could she ever touch him in a way that hurt? Not in this place where he shut her family from their home, where he allowed only his foreign language within the walls of a house planted in the soil where she was born, American locks on Japanese doors. What power does she have, to hold something out of his grasp? To leave him behind, when he never planned on staying.

And so her wholehearted belief in the illusion of forever turned to desperation turned to weeping.

There is a saying about the actions

of a woman scorned, and it says nothing of tears. Of sitting in dark rooms waiting with a sword in one hand and an estranged family’s honor in the other. Of bleeding as a husband walks away with another wife, her hair blonde and her back straight as she looks at your child and asks to take the baby with her.

This girl sunk deep with yearning and belief, with sorrow and weeping. There was no room in her for fury because she was only ever meant to be tragic. To be used.

And it was a dangerous thing, to do this to her. To market this story to the Western audience, to take this girl and cast her on the ground, bleeding and heartbroken and somehow deprived of fury. To glorify her helpless tragedy, setting the precedent of a stereotype that would last for generations.

You may say that this is just a story written long ago, the year 1898 far away from us now in 2024, the name John Luther Long one familiar to few. You may say that you have never heard of the opera written by Giacomo Puccini, these singers and their songs slipping from mainstream relevancy.

But how many of those blanks were you able to fill without having seen this story? Here. Check your work.

A Navy man from America set sail for the East, where the women were meek and mild. He married a Japanese girl, naive and younger in age than he was, isolating her from her family to make her his own. And then he left her behind, abandoning a yet unknown child.

She waited patiently for days, for months, but he didn’t return.

And the impossible day that a ship came back to port, he was there with an American woman on his arm.

The girl died in the end.

1. John Luther Long, Madame Butterfly (Century Magazine, 1898)

The More I Say

The More I Say, The Less You Hear

This piece explores the rage resulting from being misunderstood and unheard, despite repetition. The more the words are repeated, the more challenging they become to read. This symbolizes the gradual fading of voices when left unacknowledged. As anger exponentiates with each repetition, the phrases are lost into a black void. The brick-like arrangement of the text serves as a metaphor suggesting we are constructed from our emotions. With regard to generational trauma, unaddressed anger and hurt is built up from parent to child to grandchild. The viewer is asked to consider the complex nature of identity and inheritance.

Written by Ella Liang

Designed by Ella Liang

Illustrated by Ella Liang

The Less You Hear

Inheritance

Written by Manisha Wanniappa

Designed and Illustrated by Dora Gao

Rage is a flame in my chest

A weight I carry on my back

Spanning generations and generations Of wild women

Who could never fight back

Anger is a fire

Coiled in my DNA

It dances, it moves With every disapproving look Cast my way

How dare you dream big?

When you are destined to be small?

You were made to be used

If you climb high, you will fall

Rage is my compass

Telling me where to go

The voices of my grandmothers

Aunts

Sisters

Paved the way before

The dreams they burned

Smoke signals in the sky

Linger in my heart forever

Now I know why

Raging Beauty

Written by Maya Salvitti

Designed by Maya Salvitti

We are angry. We, the women of the world, are angry and exhausted from trying to maintain arbitrary beauty standards.

Asian American women are angry because we feel that we have to maintain both Western and Asian beauty standards. The feminine beauty ideal of Western society often portrays a curvy woman who also maintains a thin waist. She should have long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She should be tan and have flawless skin. The feminine beauty ideal of many Asian cultures is a slim, slender woman with pale, porcelain skin. She should have sleek, dark hair, a small jaw, and double eyelids. There is some overlap between Western and Asian cultures’ ideas of beauty, but many aspects are stark opposites. For Asian Americans living in the United States, we often feel as though we have to live up to both standards, which subsequently forces us to feel like we will never fully live up to either. This feeling of inadequacy leads many Asian women to undergo procedures and utilize unsafe methods to attempt to obtain an unattainable goal. There is surgery for women with mono-lids to create a crease, and skin lighteners which often come with health complications. One of the ingredients of some skin lighteners is mercury, which can result in mercury poisoning and kidney problems.1 Furthermore, Asian family members can be more comfortable commenting on weight

than in Western culture which can add further pressure to women of the APIDA community. We are constantly bombarded with images on social media promoting stereotypical beauty standards, despite the rise of the body positivity movement. I have found that it is a lot more difficult to find images of mid-sized or plus-sized women who are Asian, adding another facet to the difficulties Asian women in particular face when it comes to ideal beauty.

Another aspect of many Asian cultures that makes dealing with these standards difficult is the mental health stigma that exists in many communities. There is a deep-rooted idea in our communities that it is rude to express anger and rage, and that expressing these feelings is a burden to those around you. Instead, these feelings are repressed and bottled up, but they don’t disappear. They appear in the form of depression, anxiety, and disordered eating.2

I felt the pressure of appealing to the conflicting ideals of a curvy body and a pencilthin figure. I repressed my feelings about the way that I looked, but I didn’t know that repressing them wasn’t the same as destroying them. They inevitably appeared in the form of disordered eating habits which I dealt with for three years, trying to grasp at this impossible assemblage of Western and Asian beauty ideals. No matter what I did, that image that

1. “Mercury Poisoning Linked to Skin Products.” U.S. Food and Drug Administration, FDA, www.fda.gov/ consumers/consumer-updates/mercury-poisoninglinked-skin-products. Accessed 12 Feb. 2024.

2. Nguyen, Angela. “Healing from Asian American Female and Femme Body Image.” Yellow Chair Collective, 28 Sept. 2023, yellowchaircollective.com/healing-fromasian-american-female-and-femme-body-image/.

I held in my head as the essence of beauty remained out of reach. And then I got angry. I got angry at society for forcing young women to feel as though they have to live up to these arbitrary standards to function in society. I got angry at the patriarchy for feeding and profiting off of our insecurities and convincing us that a feminine beauty ideal even exists. I got angry that as women, we feel that we have to shape ourselves into something that is pleasing for other people to look at. I just got angry.

Getting angry allowed me to see how ridiculous it all was—the truth is, there is no feminine beauty ideal because everyone’s ideals are different. Asian countries may prefer a flat chest while Western countries prefer large breasts. Western countries want women to be tan while Asian women take precautions to avoid dark skin. If we examine the beauty standards around the world, some of the images we come across may shock us because they are so different from our ideals and the expectations that have been ingrained in us from a young age. Even within specific regions, everyone has a different version of what beauty is, so it is impossible to appeal to the fantasy that is the ideal of feminine beauty.

I got angry enough to finally seek out help, breaking the barrier that my community had set around mental health. I had been struggling with my eating habits for years, and it took this level of rage for me to even admit to myself that I was struggling. After bottling up my feelings and putting up a brave front for my entire life, I had gotten pretty good at convincing everyone around me that I was fine.

Instead of repressing our feelings and our rage at society, we can harness this anger and use it as a tool of liberation. Instead of pointing anger at ourselves for not being good enough, we can point that anger outward and get angry at society for making us feel that we are not enough, because we are enough.

So, women of the APIDA community and women of the world, we have been angry, and for a long time. It’s time that we release that anger and take back our power.

This piece has been designed using assets from Freepik.com

Meet The Staff

RAGE RAGE

Varsha Ravi Editor-In-Chief

Chelsea Tran Internal Managing Editor

Lisa Ramos External Managing Editor

Christine King Internal Managing Editor

Anisha Menath External Managing Editor

Not pictured: Amber Phung Staff Writer, Andrew Shingo Green Writing Intern, Joshua Huang Copy Editor, Kailani Tokiyeda Social Media, Kara Chu Copy Editor, Manisha Wanniappa Copy Editor, Rajana Chhin Staff Writer

RAGE RAGE

Jasmine Fung Social Media

Hannah Song Copy Editor

Emily Wong Writing Intern

Julianne Le Staff Writer

Maya Salvitti Writing Intern

Katie Choo Staff Writer

Justine Lim Design Intern

Shune Kawaoto Copy Editor

Ella Liang Staff Writer

Dora Gao Staff Writer

Chloe Nimpoeno Staff Writer

Elle Chang Hatamiya Design Intern

Anusha Puri Copy Intern

Amanda Chan Social Media Intern

Allie Estepa Staff Writer

Branden Thanh Barnes Staff Writer

Sydney Gaw Staff Writer

Sophie Vansomphone Staff Writer