Beloved readers,
Isn’t it incredible how quickly time passes? The hours become days, the days become weeks, the weeks become months, and the months become years…it seems like only yesterday we were brand new first years, fresh out of orientation and absolutely elated/terrified/nervous/bewildered to be at Scripps. And even though we come from very different places, we all somehow managed to find our way to the Asian American Student Union. AASU is where we make our home—a place in which we have the opportunity not only to grow as individuals, but as a collective. At its core, uNbound is the living manifestation of this idea; where we can share our art, our poems, our stories, and our opinions both inside AASU and with the greater community. In short, this publication cannot exist without you. We would like to thank everyone for contributing to uNbound, and we hope you enjoy this issue!
Unbound Staff: Anna Cho Candace Kita Heidi Hong Rachel Poutasse Tina Hsu
-uNbound
In this issue...
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Love..........3 Autobiography - A Political Journey..........4-5 Drums, Zines, and Social Justice: Thoughts on the Womyn of Color Conference..........6 Reclaiming My Shoes.......7 The Shotgun: In the Style of an Old Fairy Tale..........7-8 Religion/Spirituality..............9 Time To Say Goodbye..........10 maternal: hair index to the now..........11 Zines..........12 Notes on the Honduras Justice Tour..........13 A Plea..........14 Meet the Women of the Asian American Student Union..........14-15 Fall 2009 Retreat..........back cover
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“On this piece of paper, draw your own immigration experience,” the discussion facilitator commanded during the first workshop of the Claremont Colleges Asian American Conference. I looked around. Each one of my neighbors drew maps, difference by mastering English and disassociating myself little misshapen representations of the world. I, too, began from my Chinese heritage. Even though my language abilto draw a map, even as my mind rebelled. I wanted to draw ity was indistinguishable from my classmates by the time I a well of tears, shed for leaving a vivacious community to reached middle school, I remained an outsider. arrive at a bewildering emptiness, for my shattered family, Throughout grade school, I was consumed by a sense for a sense of cultural shame that infused my consciousness. of alienation from both the dominant whiteness of my high Yet, I chose silence over risking the possibility of reliving school and the stereotypes associated with the Asian comwhat I would rather forget. I believed that my immigration munity. I refused to connect myself to Asian culture because story was unique, and so I decided to bury it within myself I did not want to be defined by my race and ethnicity rather and mourn the loss of my past. Guarding my memories was than my unique ideas and interests. I did not listen to Asian the only way I could hope to outlive them. I was carrying music, worship Taiwanese pop stars, or watch Chinese drathe scars of my first generation immigrant experience along mas. I did not aspire to be a doctor, engineer, lawyer or with a profound loneliness. During the workshop, I wonbusinesswoman, and I fiercely rebelled against people in my dered whether other Asian American students left stories of community who seemed to believe practical careers were despair and perseverance unsaid behind drawings of geogthe only path to success. As an Asian woman interested raphy, and I wondered if those stories were similar to mine. in the humanities, I realized I had little guidance and supThrust into an unfamiliar environment as a child, I was port from my community. When I told family friends that I keenly aware of my differences from a young age. Growing wanted to study literature, I was asked not only “What do up in a single parent household distinguished my family life you plan to do with that?” but also “How do you expect to from other Chinese immigrants. After my parents divorced, compete with White Americans in their field?” I felt alienated from the Chinese com- “I wondered whether other The summer before I entered colmunity because of my family’s failure to lege, I returned to my hometown meet a standard of traditional values. At Asian American students left sto- in China for the first time since school, I was the only Asian in a class of ries of despair and perseverance moving to the United States nine twenty-five 4th graders, and one of two years ago. I found myself in the children who were foreign-born. From unsaid...and I wondered if those midst of a developing city that I no being one of the top students in my stories were similar to mine.” longer recognized. KFC and upscale old classroom, I became deaf and mute shopping centers had replaced with these strangers, suddenly incapacitated by my lack of traditional food markets. On the surface, Urumqi was proslanguage. For weeks, I remained silent. Gradually I became perous, but the economic disparity between the poor and accustomed to the fluidity of the English language. My elewealthy was glaringly obvious. My image of Urumqi as idylmentary school teacher was exceptionally patient and comlic and unchanging had been clouded by childish nostalgia. passionate. But when she told me that I would always speak In reality, Urumqi, the capital of China’s western frontier, with a Chinese accent, I protested angrily and resolved to was dangerous, plagued by restive ethnic violence. As a overcome my background. I vowed to erase my cultural young, ethnically Han Chinese woman, I could not walk on the streets alone without fear of violence.
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I left China at the end of the summer feeling saddened by the absence of a sense of belonging that I had expected to rediscover. Yet, I harbored a connection to Urumqi that inspired me to work to eliminate the violence and social inequality that I saw around me. When I entered college in fall 2008, I was ready to reconcile my fractured identity as a Chinese-American. I began to acknowledge my heritage through simple gestures, such as hanging a framed Chinese paper cutout in my room, and taking a Chinese conversation class at Pomona. I wanted to study international relations and focus my efforts on issues of global inequality. However, I did not see my aspirations as political. Before coming to Scripps College, my definition of political engagement was limited to a vague understanding of the intricate processes of electoral politics. As a non-citizen, I was disillusioned with the government and did not believe that my opinions and actions could effect change. In my politics classes, I learned to intellectualize theories of power and oppression. I began to form connections between harmful stereotypes such as the model minority myth, and corresponding social realities such as the lack of resources for Asian American students. I learned to articulate my experiences. I redefined a racial and ethnic identity that I had long neglected and declared myself Asian American, even though (or perhaps because) I have never felt completely Asian or completely American.
As a member of the Asian American Student Union (AASU), I began to reconsider the significance of identifying as an Asian American woman. Before joining AASU, I averted sharing my experiences with others, because telling my story would have rendered me vulnerable and helpless. The support of a community of Asian American women helped me begin a process of healing and transformation. Realizing that my struggles are not unique to me, but part of a greater movement for social justice has been monumental to my political development. Politics is about compassion, about personal identity, about criticizing structures of power to allow for the greatest degree of personal liberty. Politics is about how we see and evaluate ourselves, others, and our relationship with the world around us. Today, I hold love as the sacred, central core of my politics. Love was the catalyst that enabled me to reclaim my identity as an Asian American woman, feminist, and activist. Though my experiences are colored by pain, loss, and degradation, the compassion of my community has allowed me to express myself without fear. My politics are formed by the power struggle that is replayed over and over in my everyday experience, the forces that I must combat to validate my inherent worth as a human being. By engaging in politics, I seek to create a community of love and support, encouraging those who are forced to be silent to live without fear.
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Drums, Zines, and Social Justice: Thoughts on the Womyn of Color Conference Candace Kita
There are very few things in this world that motivate me to voluntarily wake up before 10am on a Saturday morning. That being said, rising so close to dawn on the morning of November 7 to attend Cal State L.A.’s Womyn of Color Conference was not especially pleasant, especially since I had no idea what to expect from the event. Yet the energy I gleaned from the conference, which built a space in which to explore issues pertinent to the experiences of womyn of color, was so sustaining that, in the end, I didn’t even miss those lost hours of sleep. Organized by the University’s Gender and Sexuality Resource Center, the Womyn of Color Conference was the first of its kind at Cal State L.A. With its theme “Bridging Movements: Past, Present, and Future,” the Conference addressed the herstory and current state of womyn’s involvement in community activism, social justice, and creative expression. Through a series of interactive workshops, participants like myself were given the opportunity to engage with a wide spectrum of topics, touching on everything from raising socially-conscious youth to creating one’s own homemade zine. From the workshops I attended, I learned about punk rock-based feminist movements, L.A.’s recent ClitFest (Google it!), sixteen-year-old community organizers, and the sometimes-tenuous political solidarity of CSULA sororities— which not only led me to consider AASU’s own possible directions but also gave me some potential thesis ideas (which is simultaneously exciting and terrifying). With the Conference’s choose-your-own-adventure format—we could attend the four workshops we found most intriguing out of a total of sixteen offered—our experiences at the event truly catered to our individual needs and interests. I appreciated that the workshop structure provided us with the agency to educate ourselves in whichever topics we chose, and ultimately apply that knowledge to our own work, whether on a personal or organizational level. While the workshops were excellent, the Conference also included alternative forms of education and empowerment for womyn of color. The event was peppered with a variety of artistic performances, including Korean drumming by the group Freedom Sounds, son jarocho music (a style originating in Southern Venezuela) by L@s Cafeteri@s, and spoken word pieces. These performances were more than simply enjoyable filler. Rather, hearing the power of the sounds and the words that the performers shared with us was a cathartic, healing experience. Especially after coming out of a difficult week on many multiple levels, the creative energy expressed at the Conference was quite honestly restorative; quoting my highly articulate and verbally-eloquent reaction to the performances, I told those around me that I felt “so happy!” The fact that the Conference openly embraced creative expression to the extent to make it an integral component to the event was refreshing. All-around, the Conference was a valuable—and certainly invaluable—experience, and I am incredibly grateful to have been able to attend. Not only did it propel me to consider alternate definitions of feminism, the potentiality of art and activism, and even to recognize the complications of spelling “womyn,” but it expanded upon the social and political discourses created in spaces like AASU. If Cal State L.A. holds the Womyn of Color Conference in the future, I know I would be more than willing to wake at dawn on a Saturday morning—or even earlier—to attend.
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Frustrated, Sam went to his mother to see if she could change his father’s mind. “Your father and I have talked about this, and we both agree that you aren’t ready yet. You aren’t responsible enough, so wait another year,” she replied, not conceding to his sullen attitude. Even more annoyed now, he went to Mattie to complain. Mattie listened to him for a while, then calmly said to him, “You need to show your parents that you are grown up now. What is the one thing that your father has that you don’t?” After thinking for a while, Sam concluded that it was a real gun. But where could he find one? He had no money, and surely his father would not give him one yet. “We can leave and go to the next town where we can find work. Once we have money you can buy your gun. Of course I’ll come with you; there’s no way you’d be able to survive in the woods on your own,” suggested Mattie. Sam, excited at the thought of an adventure, agreed. They decided they would leave in a week, and would escape in the dark of night. Over the week they slyly gathered food and other necessities. On the final night, they met up by the edge of the forest, and walked into it together. They took a less known path to avoid the inevitable search parties their parents would send out to find them. After traveling a few miles, they found a place to set up camp for the night. Sam and Mattie shared the task of setting up camp equally. While Mattie put up the tent, Sam started the fire and cooked the food. They were quite comfortable and excited to be out on their own. After a few days of traveling, they were nearing the next village, but dark was falling and they needed to find a place to set up camp. Their food supply was also running low. They had used the last loaf of bread to deter the search party by leaving a trail of bread crumbs in the opposite direction. Fortunately they found a narrow path that looked well traveled. “Perhaps this leads to a stream, or some other place where we can stop for the night,” pondered Mattie. They walked down the path, and were surprised to see the shape of a house in the distance. It was not an enchanted house made of candy or a huge mansion built for an enchanted prince, but a mere shack, cozy in its handmade fashion. Perhaps an old hermit lived there who would be willing to share his lodging and his food with them. There were no signs of movement in the shack, and no answer when they knocked. “Should we open the door?” Mattie wondered. “It’s not polite to go barging into other people’s dwellings when they’re not there.”
To be continued...
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religion spirituality what immediately comes to mind when we think about religion/spirituality? aasu members shared their responses at a recent workshop on the subject. Religion. first thing that comes is institutional construct. so many years indoctrinated in christian schools. celebrating the holidays without knowing why participating in traditions that aren’t mine. I think to spirituality what is it? a confusing term in my mind. only link is intuition…i am intuitive but wouldn’t label spiritual in any way. I think disillusioned with my background? I don’t want any rules, just want to trust my emotions, my mind. i am a source of knowledge and truth, no? I have lived experience, that should be enough, not to follow a book.
Religion (the socially constructed but highly unavoidable term) makes me think of order—a way of being inscribed or some way built up thousands of years ago. A form of dictation that is absolute and can’t be broken of its generational legacy. But when you ask for it to be flexible to changes in time, to changes in lifestyles and values, it barks back; “Then why have a set of values at all when you can easily change them?” Rather, I choose to believe that there is an order, but a self constructed one, where every choice one makes is the right one because there is no one/right path of being.
Jesus spiritual exclusive Hindu pain Buddhism life-giving Muslim faith good scary cults colonialism confusing Jehovah’s Witness American culture God fear culture life death love hope comfort power strength peace presence j-freaks courageous followers foolish intelligent amazing captivating unbelievable belief miracles sin evil
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Time to Say Goodbye By Indra Djojohadikusumo It rains, it pours. Life goes on without a beat. I sit here reminiscing about the years gone by, replaying every scene and attacking every missed opportunity. Was it your time to go? Yes, I believe it was. I stop and think, and even cry a little, confused about all the mixed emotions. I wasn’t sure how to handle it. Some days you praised me, other days you scolded. Regardless, I hold on to the very truth they tell me. Long before I came, you suffered so much and sacrificed so much, for the ones you love- for the ones I came to love. That truth pushed me to hold you in the highest regard. But in a way, it made me understand you more – how you became the woman that you were. Even with that, it was still difficult and exhausting. Putting on a smile and letting every cold comment pass was hard to bear. Still, I let it go on for years. As you suffered more and more, spending more and more time in the hospital being treated, it made me question everything, from how I felt about you and how it affected the whole family. I did not know what to say or how to act. But on that fateful day, the tears spoke for me. I finally realised how much I loved you and how much you meant to me. I now regret the fact I never mentioned those words to you, not once. I never got to apologise for all the things I did wrong and I never got to ask the questions that mattered most. I will also never know how proud you were when you found out I got into college. Thank you so much for all that you did. Thank you for being the woman that you were. I will be forever thankful.
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I. maternal: hair index to the now (Silence on Queer, Poetics of the Body Politic)
state of beauty beauty’s age New York 1 year States Euphoria. intuited Dark charcoal locks hir father’s notes Child. erect, soft, sinister blackness on egg-white yellow. Such is love’s generosity? state of beauty beauty’s age Kyoto 4 years Japan Hope. “a bob cut!” ze smiles (Precocious darling.) afterward, the stylist insists, notes かわぃいですよ ！ to think, perhaps: all the little J girls will at once Adore hir? for a second chance to evade 母 incarnate. state of beauty beauty’s age Iowa 7 years States Angst. ze won’t fondle the scissors, but nor will i. Is hir wish notes to hide in hazel camouflaged— Grown straight down to hir knees, or in waves like the chestnut rising?
refrain.
state of beauty beauty’s age Rome 16 years Italy Injury. Curls are the only melody i sing So ze draws notes the flat iron a silk pistol to fire, “sei bella, sei bella,” ho ditto, ma lei non capisce only to evaporate. state of beauty beauty’s age California 19 years States Despair. departed to wave my curls of envy thrown by the wayside with a razor blade’s revenge, notes a wimmin’s head shorn to the skin i can only see her eyes. --Gianina Tasca Anderson Sawada, Ph.D.1
state of beauty beauty’s age Nagoya 10 years Japan Pride. a 7:30 a.m. bamboo parade eyes hir, the tallest 外人alien notes still—without a ランドセル , the sole brunette, those are my French braids. “chin up, dear.” state of beauty beauty’s age Iowa 13 years States Assault. Hands to my side i sob as every strand is sliced to hir ear teeming triangular notes wet like neglected poodle hair too thick curly obtuse “enjoy the headband prison” but i
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G. Sawada is a second-generation Italian-American, born in upstate New York but internationally raised and educated in Vienna, Panama City, Caracas, and Rome. Upon completing hir Ph.D. at Columbia University in New York, ze married a Japanese immigrant from Mie, Japan and accepted a teaching position at Grinnell College in Grinnell, Iowa. Ze has since had two children—Xavier Gian, 18, and Emilia Roma, 20—and now serves as Professor of Asian & Religious Studies at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Hir passions include painting, Italian wine, e.e. cummings, and global travel.
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Photos by Tina Hsu and April Wong
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Ki e c da n Ca
Notes on the Honduras Justice Tour Chantal Coudoux On November 11, 2009, speakers from Honduras The speakers were incredible. There were leaders in came to Scripps to talk with the community about the resisthe LGBT community, the women’s banana worker’s union, tance movement that has grown out of the coup d’etats in and the Garifuna community, who are a group of Hondurans June of this year. On June 28, President Manuel Zelaya was who are descendants of Africans and indigenous people who kidnapped and removed from office. A member of his own polive on the Northern coast. They each came from communilitical party, Roberto Micheletti, with the backing of the milities that are systemically marginalized and repressed; and tary, took power. Manuel Zelaya’s term was going to be up in they were all well-known leaders of their communities who November. In June, Zelaya proposed a survey of the people to are daily risking their lives to speak to us and to do the work see if they would want a fourth box on the ballot in Novemin Honduras. It was extremely moving to be in the presence ber, that would say they wanted a constitutional convention. of women who are organizing for their people, for their surThis survey was for the people to understand if people wanted vival and who are creating their own history. It was also into change the constitution. Conspiring to hear them speak about trary to what a lotof media is say- “It was extremely moving to be the connections between all of ing, it was not to extend Zelaya’s in the presence of women who are the communities that have been term or create more presidential working together in the national organizing for their people, for terms. On the day the survey movement. The leader of the was to be conducted, Zelaya was their survival, and who are creat- LGBT movement, Indyra Aguilar, forced out of office. said that even if LGBT members The speakers who came ing their own history.” are not present at a meeting she were leaders of the national reknows that the other people in sistance and most of them leaders in their own specific comthe movement and the other women are supporting her communities. Many members of the resistance movement are not munity completely. When asked where their power came from necessarily supportive of Zelaya’s government, but he was speaker Miriam Miranda declared that it came from years and beginning to listen to the workers and women in the country, years of struggle! The event was moving and inspiring. It was and slowly make reforms. The resistance movement, however, rare to be in the presence of such incredible people, and a reis not one based on support of the President but it is one callally amazing thing for them to share their lived experience. ing for the restoration of his legitimate government, an end to the militarized state, and an end to the violent human and civil rights abuses.
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A Plea by Heidi Hong To shatter that unfamiliar skin and unearth an intensity that you do not possess, as you stand there impassive your apathy exposed in those quiet eyes, and your limp frame submits to the complacency that consumes us our love cannot be sustained by weary acceptance. I wanted to learn from your strength. I wanted to inspire passion. I wanted to love. I wanted so much more.
Rachel Poutasse
Meet the Women of the Asian American Student Union Name one word that you really like. melancholia aardvark tufty peculiar spring picaresque enlight captivating
awesome radicalism nusiance defribillator phantasmagorical dream pudding uncouth
When you were a child, did you have an imaginary friend? If so, what was its name? -I didn’t have any imaginary friends...I was too much of a realist. And still am. -Paddington Bear was actually a toy, but I treated him like a person. -Yes- two, Tep and Tapata...they later became actual dolls. -Don’t remember. I don’t think so. I had my sister, who was very real. -Nope -Hmm not an imaginary friend, but I played make believe until I was 11. :O -No, but I dreamt of having long smooth black hair like all the Asian celebrities I knew so I took strains of black yarn/fabric/strings and made an amateur wig that I dotted EVERYWHERE -Yes, a penguin named Petunia -Yes, Lucy -I didn’t really have an imaginary friend, but my friends and I would make up games! One of our favorite characters was Finger man :D -I did not have an imaginary friend. My parents were my closest friends -Hhmmmm I did not, which is ironic.... -No...I had real friends. But if I did have an imaginary friend, her name would be Riley. -Uhhh I didn’t have an imaginary friend per se... I had an imaginary pet. It was a snowy leopard. And I don’t remember her name. :) -I think I had many haha.
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What song are you listening to right now? Heretics - Andrew Bird Uhhhh whatever Michael Ho is listening to...his speakers are very loud, and I can hear it from the hallway. The Cure - Tegan and Sara How Do You Say - Skim Better that we Break - Maroon 5 Never Gonna Give You Up - University Oregon On the Rocks (acappella version) I’m Yours/Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Straight No Chaser (acappella version) Be My Escape - Relient K Psapp - Tiger My Friend Black Wedding - Meg & Dia Hey Marseilles - Cities Everything but Ordinary - Avril Lavigne Doin Just Fine - Boyz II Men Why R U - Amerie The Bleeding Heart Show - The New Pornogra- phers Hearbeat - 2PM
Describe how you’re feeling right now... Caffeinated
Resigned Uber-stressed
mega-frustated frustrated Sleepy/Weary Empty-void Light Overwhelmed
busy stressed Cold
parched
Hopeful
mystified
Content
Confused
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aasu fall retreat