STATIC Zine Volume 1 Issue 2

Diasporic Sentiments

static zine series. volume 1. issue 2.

Table of Contents diasporic sentiments..........................................................................................Robert Bacchus, Jr. The Ribcage; The Tongue.............................................................................................Pio Thompson Revolution............................................................................................................................Juliana Chang Boricua Conflict; Paint the Town Turquoise.........................................................Jonathan Fisk untitled........................................................................................................................Jacqueline Ramos The Beggar; On Walking in “Nice” Neighborhoods.........................................Joshua De Leon Ustedes; El que se va de Quito......................................................................David Albán Hidalgo The Great (7x) Granddaughter of Chief White Eyes Visits South Africa Anadarko, Oklahoma, USA // Franschhoek, Western Cape, SA...........Mia Ritter-Whittle We the Advocates...............................................................................................................John Rafael SURFACE TENSION......................................................................................................Katie Mansfield Ariel..........................................................................................................................................Ariel Bobbett untitled..................................................................................................................................Terence Zhao Today....................................................................................................................................Maarya Abbasi Portrait of myself as my father; Honeycomb don't live here no more..............Eva Grant sentiments on loneliness in individualism and displacement....................Freida Somata untitled..................................................................................................................................Lewam Dejen

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STATIC Staff Editors Janet Chen Tinuola Dada Lewam Dejen Heejoo Ko Ali Zilversmit

Staff Contributors Hamzeh Daoud Tony Hackett Mehr Kumar

Cover: 민중을 기억하다. 올림. // i remember the masses. [untranslatable]. by Yeji Jung Cover Description: Tonight I read the Wikipedia article on the Gwangju Uprising for the first time. This is what I couldn't put into words.

Biography: Yeji Jung (she/her/they/them) is majoring in Comparative Studies in Race and Ethnicity (CSRE) and minoring in Studio Art and Human Biology. She has very recently started conjuring a creative thesis on narratives of intergenerational trauma from her Korean and Korean American family.

Letter from the Editors To our readers-To begin, we are grateful to the many members of our community. Thank you to all who submitted their work, for transforming segments of your narratives into creative pieces, and for sharing that with us.

Thank you to those who came before us, for establishing STATIC as a space to amplify activist voices, a space for us to share, disrupt, and heal. Thank you to our new members, for bringing unbridled enthusiasm and passion, and for your openness to personal growth alongside STATIC’s growth. Lastly, thank you to all for your readership and continued support. Thank you for your reception of our voices.

In this second zine, ‘Diasporic Sentiments,’ we ask what it means to hold a diasporic identity--specifically, what it means to experience a shift in our conceptions of home and self. Because of the current domestic and international political climate regarding migration, this project is an invaluable tool to deconstruct the rhetoric of movement and identity. We want to emphasize a few things--that migration occurs in different forms for different people, but is often demonized for people of marginalized racial, ethnic and class backgrounds; that justice can entail the right to migrate or the right to stay in place (as this right of Indigenous peoples stands in opposition to settler colonial projects globally); and that a shift in conceptions of home and self can absolutely be figurative, as many of us grapple with what to make of our multiple identities and labels and communities.

Diaspora is often intimately tied to narratives of trauma--kin to experiences of war, identity-based violence, displacement due to settler colonialism, poverty, and more. Through visual art, poetry, prose, and mixed media pieces, these contributors share what diaspora feels like. They share sentiments of grief, trauma, empowerment, emptiness, and healing. They share answers, conclusive and inconclusive thoughts, and ask questions of their own. Thank you, creators and readers, for engaging critically and compassionately with the concept, experience and language of migration. Thank you for your time and labor in creating and sharing your stories, and allowing us to learn from your narratives.

With love and in solidarity, STATIC editors '16-'17 Janet Chen, Tinuola Dada, Lewam Dejen, Heejoo Ko, Ali Zilversmit

1

diasporic sentiments

home is a language,

formed by the roof of mouths loving with shared tongue.

home left that year my great grandfather was stripped from East India for work as indentured servant. home decomposed in that place where West African indigenous tongue was ripped from great grandmother’s throat. my mother found a hostel in that essay she wrote for a Jamaican essay travel contest.

English essay was passport to foreign citizenship. gave us this new tongue called access. now we try to rebuild home with Patois. lower-casing colonial tongue with West African verbiage. i come alive when they call me Brett.

Patois for breath. a name first given to my father for his long-distance runs. i wonder if he ever ran from home. i am “Robert” only when they are mad. or when I have done something wrong. this is their way of saying I have broken a rule. it sometimes feels like i am outgrowing home in this Black gay body. was there ever a language that made room for my full existence? was it spoken before a colonial time?

2 though it need not be spoken. today i watched Zulu dancers use their bodies to communicate in mother tongue at an International Mother Language Day (2/21) celebration in Johannesburg. young men of the Zulu nation redressed and defied colonial gender (re)presentations that have chained my body out West. i wowed, really wanting to ask how can we really be so free? the strange home of colonial tongue has only ever emphasized articulation and disconnection. has only ever brought death-sentence to black queer existence. how do i rewrite the dictionary in this language. which is to ask, how do I build a home that can sustain me into the future. the other day a taxi driver from Malawi told me that home will be a place where I can be without second question. home is of place yes. maybe. but as black and queer, already always feeling displaced, home is really in those persons that help me feel free. that use their mouths to love. that teach the tongue of healers.

Robert Bacchus, Jr. is a third year student from South Florida and St. Catherine, Jamaica majoring in African & AfricanAmerican Studies. He is currently studying in Cape Town, South Africa as part of a year abroad that began in D.C. and culminates at Oxford next spring.

3

The Ribcage The ghost of my mother gets caught up in my hair, And only chili oil gets her out.

Some mornings I spend hours Teasing out all her little bones And teeth.

Once she’s free she floats to windows, Sits there stacking herself up and down and Sometimes tries to jump.

But she can barely make it Past the sill, Forgetting ghosts are without Momentum Or gravity.

When I leave for school, She hides in the creases of my undershirt Or the soles of my socks.

I leave class Head to the bathroom Wring her out And fold her gently Into my pocket.

Where she stays Rocking back and forth.

At night she curls up beside me To tell me stories of the motherland Where the rain was bitter and burned her skin, Where there were loud sounds everywhere, Where she walked five months straight Till her feet became Stubs of yellow bone.

Home she asks And cries face-down into the pillow Crusting the walls of our room And our lotus eyes In layers and layers of salt.

On weekends when her sisters visit She cooks curry and purple rice.

Tonight she chops the ginger with her sharpest knife, Lays out the lemongrass like a ribcage Bring me the oil she tells me While her ghost collects herself in pots.

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The Tongue Son, I will press ginger against your lips and lemongrass over your eyes to cast the away. I will lay basil at your bedside to off the memories you inherited of the war. Memories of the day the bombs first fell like rice and carved into our and did not stop for nine whole years. This is why my hands tremble at the sound of helicopters, and your hands have learned to tremble too. Even though you never saw the red and leaking. I will never speak of the men that our homes and and our shrines and our forests. The men that our children against trees. The sound of flesh across bark, you will know this only in the of my sleep. The smell of fields, you will know this only in the of my sleep. The true names of those places, I will speak them only in the of my sleep. And when it gets hard to keep up the forgetting I will sleep a lot. This un is dirty work. This un is survival. I am sorry that we must not remember. I am sorry your inheritance is , a in your ribcage, and longing. There is so much longing for all that is lost in our bodies. At night I will the off the floor so that in the morning it does not soak into your feet. I will speak of the motherland only in English because our language is full of and . I will pray that this does not haunt or heavy you. But it will ache. It will ache a lot, this hollow. I will press ginger against your lips and lemongrass over your eyes.

Pio is a pretty tall dude who spends a lot of time talking to ghosts. He’s not the biggest fan of romcoms but does enjoy extended walks on the beach. High places are definitely his favorite. His roommates hate that he takes super long showers, but this is where he feels most like a rockstar.

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Revolution remember fourth grade. remember coming home with your weekly homework and a head full of questions about Paul Revere and the thirteen colonies and I wonder if the ocean still tastes like tea. remember sitting in your green chair, the way you sounded out “re-vo-lu-tion”, how the noises fell from your tongue, clumsy, clunky, like there was an apostrophe lodged in your throat, how you did not know what it meant. remember asking your mother for help, the nervous way her finger slid across your paper, the look in her eyes as she shook her head no, she did not know either. remember the feeling in your stomach as you sat together in silence, you, confused, her, ashamed, both of you helpless against a language you did not understand. she tells you to underline the word, ask your teacher about it tomorrow. it was not until years later that you realized this was the first battle line you ever drew. remember the overdue library fines that followed, how you studied a page, a sentence, until you conquered it, every sentence was another frontline, every word a bullet.

remember the way their language became a quiet revolution on your mouth. how you demanded to command it, because if she could not, then you would, because if you did not, then nobody would, and you already learned that every war needs a victor. ten years later, you still tell everyone that Ting Wei on your passport was a logistical mistake. ten years later, she calls you in college to ask about the word “exhume” in the latest poem you wrote, and you reply in the impatient, broken Chinese that you always do. that night you will think of a different sort of revolution. you will think of your mother, reading glasses on, one finger sliding across an email from a language and a daughter she has spent a decade trying to understand. you will think of the way she soaks each word on the inside of her cheeks, ponders over each unfamiliar line, the only lifeline you ever offered her. here is the daughter I have given to another world. here is where her heart lies. here are the words I did not know how to give her.

remember refusing to answer her dinnertime questions in any language she could comprehend, how you ate spaghetti for days because requesting your favorite meal required using Chinese, your tongue, a prisoner inside your own mouth. tell me, do you even remember who you were fighting?

Juliana Chang is a sophomore majoring in Linguistics and Creative Writing. She has spent her life moving back and forth between Taiwan and the Bay Area, and considers herself Asian-American, American-Asian, Americasian, and all other possible permutations of bicultural identity. Outside of writing, Juliana is passionate about dance, small furry animals, and Shin Raymun.

6 boricua conflict The product of those from stolen lands, who were stolen from their lands, and who stole from all lands.

The pulls of my ancestors in every direction - a great web with the turmoil of a fluttering moth at its core.

The past delivers crippling pain and loss, and the future promises only uncertainty.

The call to bear arms passed to each new generation, fighting to restore our island's honor.

paint the town turquoise Our stubborn fire refused To be covered or quelled.

We tended the great flame, Sharing our stories of pain and love Across numerous lost generations.

The time for reclamation signaled – Our stubborn fire climbing the horizon.

Gather your brushes in sure fists And let them know we will thrive.

Paint the town achiote and ash.

Paint the town turquoise.

Jonathan Fisk is a fifth year in Earth Systems. Born and raised in Long Beach, California, their heart still lives on their island, Boriken (Puerto Rico). They try to live by the wisdom "be who you needed when you were growing up."

7 Why did I go to the Philippines instead of an internship at <ambiguous Silicon Valley company>?

2,000 miles of land and 7,000 more miles of ocean separated me and the Philippines. Even more years of the American experience cut me off from my history.

And so I was blind to it.

I became lost in the US, for within its structure of diversity, there seemed to be no place for me. Me, a Filipina whose history has been erased from the Amerikan textbooks. I looked from the other side of the pages, reading about slavery, NIMBY, internment camps, never able to claim my own history or relate with the histories of others. Always learning about the Western game changers, but I, we the Filipinos, were seemingly never a part of it. We were erased. American Colony. Filipino Repatriation Act of 1935. San Francisco Evictions. The Delano Manongs.

If not erased, then trivialized. White Man’s Burden. Little Brown Brothers. Imperialism. Upstart Aguinaldo. Philippine-American War. There was no place for my brown skin that seemed to be misplaced. Asians are yellow. Mexicans are brown. Who are you? Chinese? Japanese? Korean? TAG-a-log? Other.

This is who I am here in Amerika:

My short stature means I’m a child.

My brown skin means I’m subordinate.

My voice is frail, as English words lie strangely in my heart.

My physical nature, my upbringing all tells you that I am other in this society.

My history instead lived on through the food I ate, the ‘Filipino’ parties, the stereotypes, but it was diluted by the distance, the land and ocean, by cultural silence. My history became other, obsolete.

What my parents and what other parents remembered and regaled us with were stories of the Philippines of the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, full of conflict and strife, martial law, revolution, and chaos, they fled with the Filipino diaspora and took with them that impression of the Philippines.

Danger. Third World. Developing country.

8 But the Philippines is still here. Now. Continuing its long, complex history. From the datus and babaylans, the sultanates, to the Spanish colonial period, to the American colonial period, to the Japanese occupation, American colonialism again, to independence, to now, it is continuing with the people here in the Philippines and with the Filipino diaspora spread throughout the whole world. It’s still the motherland, it’s a work-in-progress, it’s a place with opportunity.

So I came back to the Philippines again to re-learn how to say “Bayad po”, hand wash my clothes, converse with the shopkeepers in the tiangge. Deftly maneuver the streets of Manila. Experience the Philippines in all of its beautiful diversity from the city, to the mountains, to the caves, to the beaches. Meet Aetas, Bisayas, Ilokanos, Tagalogs.

So. I came back to re-member. To know what was erased, to know what happened, to think about what could happen and where my people and I stand in all of this history.

Well I stand knowing this: My short stature lets me fit inside the jeepney, to sit alongside my kababayan. To walk eye-to-eye.

My brown skin lets me claim the land that I stand on and the history that has taken place here in the Philippines.

My voice quickly embraces my native tongue. This is how my heart yearns to express itself.

I cannot help looking around and seeing the brown skin of my kababayan, the mga mukha that looks like me, and feel like here, it is here, I re-member, where I came back to finally be-long.

Jacqueline Ramos is a junior in getting rid of cars (aka Urban Studies), who is all about coffee, onion rings, jeepney rides, equitable transportation options, and confusing my family about why she always goes back to the Philippines even though she grew up in *~America~*.

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The Beggar Two soup bowls (unused takeout, gold and white) At the corner of the intersection (bustling with the pace of the day) And the silent man prostrates himself (sun-burned against paved gray) Before his altar of nothing (cardboard, brown like him, like me) As the stream of shows and shorts (crisp and trendy) Cross the streets and fill the sidewalks (but not his bowls) I sacrifice the contents of my coin pounch To his minor god of sustenance One invisible man to another

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On Walking in "Nice" Neighborhoods

by 22 I am well-acquainted with the tentative backpedal & apologetic tone emphasizing syllables to prove I don't have an accent forcing eye contact a substitute for seeing me I know these too well my half of this call & my response chorus that begins with get off my driveway begins with you people begins with a whistle & a threat ends with me & then without me

Joshua De Leon is a senior studying International Relations and Creative Writing. He is the son of Filipino immigrants and is currently writing an Honors in the Arts thesis exploring the Filipino diaspora to the United States.

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Ustedes (Desde Huáscar y Atahualpa aquí acurrucaditos entre los ombligos del mundo Por la dolorosa alegría Por el amargo rencor Por el culpable alivio de lo que hubiese sido de lo que soy.) ...

Todo lo que soy se los debo a Ustedes Ustedes Madres Mantañas que me nacieron la nostalgia perpetua de mundos más mágicos de los mundos que viven en las quebradas rellenadas de los mundos que siempre estarán un poco más allá Ustedes Playas Pacificas donde quedó extraviada mi niñez entre tantos sabores tantos temores un bocado de agua salada tratando de volar sobre los olas y después los corriente que te lleva, nomás.

Ustedes. Ustedes.

Ustedes, pues.

Con los que nos hemos visto Con os que he cargado y no me conocerán Con los que compartimos risas e historias lágrimas y sonrisas: golosinas, mismo chupando despaciiito saboreando las novelerías chupando despaciiito con cuidadito te ayudo a subir arriba como me ayudabas a bajar abajo Dios te pague, mijito. de que?

Si ustedes son los que ____ que a pesar de todo todavía rezan todavía nos esperan chupando despaciiito porque quién sabe cuando habrá más?

Author's Note: Both of these pieces are in Spanish, more specifically, the Spanish I speak, the Andean Spanish I hear my parents speak over the phone, the type of Spanish I remember my grandparents whisper to me. While I could translate them, the fact they're in Spanish is so intrinsically tied to their meaning and what I feel in my daily life. So tied to being able to think in a language that is suppressed and oppressed in the US. So tied to what and who I have left behind and why.

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El que se va de Quito...

Quito Quito muy bonito ya no tán chiquito Cierto ha sido cierto es el que se va de Quito pierde su banquito se pierde (de) su ciudad ancestral pero el que se va también se queda como los que se quedan también después ya se van No te vayas no te vayas no te vayas porque te vas? porque te vas? si aún no te enseño las fotos de cuando estabas bien chiquito? porque te vas si recién llegaste mijito?

Me voy a volver, mamita, ya he de regresar me fuí a volver como los barquitos saliendo del pueblito de Mompiche sólo Dios sabrá Pero cuándo cuándo cuándo será que regresará?

David Albán Hidalgo is a 4th year undergrad from Quito, Ecuador and Redmond, Washington. Su existencia consiste casi completamente de un sentimiento de nostalgia ajena. He is “majoring” in CSRE and SymSys. He enjoys crying (sometimes) because it’s such a relief. Email him for his fave place to cry.

13 The Great (7x) Granddaughter of Chief White Eyes Visits South Africa Anadarko, Oklahoma, USA // Franschhoek, Western Cape, SA

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Mia is a mixed Irish, Jewish, Welsh, Caddo, and Delaware (White & Native American) Two-Spirit person. Her mother is Terra Snyder. Her maternal grandmother is Jodi Ritter. Her father is Joe Whittle. He is Hasinai and Lenape. Her paternal grandfather is Thomas Whittle. Her step-father is Jason Snyder, whose mother is Claudine Sharp, they are Cherokee. Mia grew up in the homeland of the Nimiipuu, goes to school in the homeland of the Ohlone, and is currently visiting the land of the Nama people.

15 We the Advocates

She tells me about her first day. Stuffed with four others inside the Mercedes Benz, she closes her eyes and holds her breath, desperately trying to stay quiet as the car traverses the mountainous terrain, searching for a route to evade the police dogs. On the recruiters, the flights, and the exorbitant fees, she somehow reaches the Termini train station at the brink of dawn. She breathes a sigh of relief. Tears are in her eyes as she gets out of the car with the resolve of trying carving out a better living.

You are strong and selfless. You are valued.

She told me that for over 25 years she’s been on a “vacation”. Forced to live a transnational childhood without her mother for the first ten years of her life, she spent her first year in Italy crying because her mother had lied to her. She had promised her they were in Rome “just for vacation”, but it hasn’t really.

More than two decades in a society that has very slowly accepted those like her, she has carved out a livelihood but not a solid identity. But she’s a fighter; she is fighting for those like her, her kababayan, and the millions of others displaced by the system.

Your time will come. Your story is heard. Your words can move mountains.

He told me of his dreams to one day return to his homeland and live the “simple life”, with family, friends, security, and a sense of validation for the work he’s done for his family. His Pinoy pride is strong; he utters these words with gusto, a sense of urgency. However, his tone shifts. The urgency leaves as he resigns to his situation, a longing for a dream that is far off in the distance. I ask him why he can’t renounce his current livelihood and go back now. “It’s not practical, right?”

We will fight to make your dreams a reality. The people united will never be defeated.

She is enthusiastic while she tells me about her kids. Since coming to Italy for work, her mindset is solely fixated on her family. She looks out at the window as if daydreaming of her son and daughter. “They’re longing for me,” she comments, eyes directed at the sunshine peering into the room. “I tell them, ‘I’m not enjoying my life here, but I’m doing this just for you.’”

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You are doing a selfless thing. We appreciate all you do. We value your dedication and your love. Your children are proud of you.

He tells me how he schedules his day around the timezone of his kids. Even with a long shift as a bellboy at a winery, he’s up until midnight, virtually sending his kids to school and wishing them well through his iPad, and he’s up at 6am, making sure they’re doing their homework on their lunch break before they head back for their afternoon class. He has spent the last couple of hours showing them their gifts that he will bring back once tourist season is over: some running shoes for his daughter’s cross country meets and knee pads for his oldest son’s volleyball tournament. He’s on the brink of tears as he talks about his kids, but he continues to rave about his return in the next few months.

Thank you for all you do for them. We know it’s hard, and we know you miss them. This situation is not your fault; you will be reunited with them soon.

We thank all of you, the millions who leave your home behind in search for stability, for your hard work, your selflessness, your sacrifices for those you care about. Having to live thousands of miles away from your family to assure your family’s livelihood is not your fault: the postcolonial legacies of oppression leave you with only this sense of direction, and with that impression, you seek greener pastures. We promise that your stories are heard and your words are validated. We fight for you. We fight for all of us. We fight for a just world. We are your advocates.

John Rafael (he/him/his) spent the summer of 2016 hanging out with Filipino migrants in the guise of ethnographic research. Inspired and awed by the narratives of the diaspora, he is thrilled use this zine to provide an outlet for their voices to shine and be acknowledged. He hopes to shed light on both the difficulties his fellow kababayan (fellow countrymen) face and the resilience they carry as an advocate for migrant empowerment.

17 “…the property of the surface of a liquid that allows it to resist an external force, due to the cohesive nature of its molecules.” –USGS Water Science At the Vietnamese mall there is a man on the elevator & my first thought is: he doesn’t belong here. blue-eyed, blonde, bearded. his wife looks like me: 5’2”, shoulder length black hair, tapioca pearl eyes that meet mine & nod. this is our shared space. molecules mingling. my mother leaves me at the mouth of the store, my hands cupping my elbows awkwardly. glittering ginger candies, shiny green plastic. the shopkeeper approaches. presses a pickled hibiscus, red & waxy, into my palm. watches me chew & holds up flashing silver tongs, asks something in Vietnamese & I am exposed, trespasser, head bowed as I back away babbling cám ơn, cám ơn, cám ơn— I am selfish with this language. my tongue takes what it likes the taste of, rejects the rest. my sister & I only know the names of things we are hungry for: nước dừa, bánh xèo, jade green waffles that pull apart in our hands.

SURFACE TENSION

the difference between learning a language & living it is to be a fish swimming in the wrong direction. the difference between the man on the elevator & me is I am fiercely protective of a place I don’t quite belong.

I read that it’s easier to move through water when you’re completely under it. all I want is to be submerged but I am amphibious & have lived on land for too long. inside me is a forgotten aisle. here, speckled quail eggs. lychee jellies. golden sticks of incense, a paper lantern. the dull shine of copper pots throws my reflection back at me, distorted funhouse mirror. outside, the lions with their stony, pockmarked hides stare me down. they can smell the foreigner on my skin. across the green pond’s surface, a thin film. a single leaf, held afloat. my face, blurred, mirror of all that I’m not.

Katie Mansfield is currently a fish flailing in the water (read: extremely undecided freshman). A member of Stanford’s Spoken Word Collective, she is mainly interested in exploring familial relationships, identity, and ideas of yearning, belonging, and hope. Besides poetry, some other passions include punning and hoarding stickers.

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Ariel Ariel Is a name beautiful for the way it sounds or for how well it describes you?

I. I’m named for my mother’s favorite cousin.

His name came from the Philippines by way of Spain—the colonizer.

Do I take the Spanish pronunciation? or, wait, is that the Filipino one?

II. my mother tells me proudly your ancestors were from Barcelona but aren’t they also from the Philippines? you have a Spanish name like your sister’s

III. Maria wishes she had our mother’s maiden name not for the history Urgena carries around its neck not for the culture it signifies— (adobo, and ube staining your dreams purple bare feet kissing the floor as you dance) IV. she wants a new name not because our mother raised us but because it flows Maria Elena Urgena has rhythm a river running over smooth stones V. But I think we should accept the gifts we are given.

Ariel Bobbett is a senior studying earth systems and modern languages. She’s an RA in Okada and loves reading, dancing, coffee, and eating things that are bad for you.

19 Hey c hink, you asked me, Why don’t you go back where you came from?

So I did, to the place I was born, The place I lived before I was interviewed by the ICE and Signed myself away on some forms And flew across an ocean to a place I didn't know But where I still saw you every day, just from a distance.

Hey chink, you asked me, Why don’t you go back where you came from?

Wher e I came from, we suffocate on air of brownish grey, So you can get your Christmas list on the cheap.

Wh ere I came from, we make our signs into your language, So you can feel at home for the three day vacation you’ll take here after you retire.

W here I came from, we build our houses like yours, and name our towns after yours, So you wouldn’t think we are weird, or backward s, or uncooperative.

Where I came from, we then raze those houses, build a big stadium, and show that on your TV, So you can learn the name of the place where I came from, and should now go back to.

Hey chink, you asked me, Why don’t you go back where you came from?

Where I came from, we empty our savings for a knife that we use to Cut a scar on our eyelids, so we’d finally look like you.

Where I came from, we leave our last penny with that man Levi Strauss, Or with Starbucks, or Nike, so we’d finally live like you.

Where I came from, we huddle to hear the words flowing out of tongues of the departed like me, And we mimic me like parrots, so we’d all finally sound like you.

Where I came from, we leap through hurdles to get our children (who we might never see again) To come to your schools, and learn from your books, so we’d finally think like you.

You said it was better over here.

And I just wanted a taste, too, like you promised I could have.

And I just wanted to belong, like you promised I could, if I just tried to be like you.

But I guess not really, because Hey chink, you asked me, Why don’t you go back where you came from?

I guess so you won’t have to hear me, see me, Disturbing your little peace.

But where I come from is no place, Because over there is just like here: I’d still see you every day Just from a distance.

Terence Zhao '19 was born and raised in Beijing before immigrating to the US when he was nine years old. Since then, he had lived in an immigrant enclave and suburb of Los Angeles. In his spare time, he likes to explore cities and contemplate the end of imperialism.

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Today Today

America, You would like to interrupt my own death.

As Blood in baghdad, istanbul, dhaka, medina, learns the taste of concrete.

So i inform You that i condemn all terrorists i know as a muslim i must offer Our sincerest apologies.

Maarya is a second generation Pakistani American coterming in Anthropology and majoring in Science, Technology, and Society (STS). She is also minoring in Global Studies, with an emphasis on what is normatively labeled the Islamic World. She is a sap for stories that suture and stories and savor and stories that suggest; a student of multitudes and membranes because they compel her to move; and a writer who recently took on this title with the hope that it will bring her home.

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Honeycomb don't live here no more

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Portrait of myself as my father

Eva Louise is an indigenous storyteller living in Muwekma Ohlone territory, erroneously referred to as the Bay Area. A seamstress running their needle through a tapestry always embroidered with threads of truth, their short stories, poems, plays, and films speak of identity, memory, and the ever-changing nature of home.

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sentiments on loneliness in individualism and displacement I am lonely.

Alone.

I feel disconnected.

Part 1: Reflections We’re afraid to say this. Why? Saying we’re alone, we fear this is a confession that we are unworthy of connection. We’re afraid this means we’re vulnerable, and unwanted.

But how did we become lonely? And why? I would like this conversation to be with you if you feel lonely, isolated, disconnected, alienated. This is for those of us who are making up ‘diasporas’, as well as those who don’t immediately see displacement and disconnect in their history.

For diaspora -- for some of us it’s striking, for others more hidden, but we have been separated from people, roots, place by violence. Who did the separating? What did they gain by our loss? When you tell your story of loss and suffering, with the labor that requires, will they accept the labors of accountability?

For the others -- How many generations ago did our families have to leave their families overseas, and become “American”? What was this like for them? What does being “American” mean in this broader history of having once not been American? What was lost for the security gained? Or did your family lay the groundwork for who would be safe and who would be unsafe, and profit from this? In other words, how and when did your family become American, and what does this mean for who you have become and how you live?

For both -- notice that success, fulfillment and worth are demanded of you on your own, as an individual. In this manner we are given, already, a lonely task. How many generations ago did your family have to embark upon the lonely task of leaving their family behind to come to this land? How did the world they encountered and the choices they made shape us? What would it mean for us to envision fulfillment in relation to ‘us’, and to togetherness? Who wants us to be living for lonely tasks? How are they benefitted and how will they be held accountable?

Our emotional lives, our relationships or lack thereof, are not accidental. When our communities are torn apart, we can no longer resist the exploitation by the powerful. When we are told to leave our communities to survive, when joining the elite and comfortable is incentivized by status and material wealth, again--they are profited by this. When we seek our individual achievement, we consume more, we produce more for the powerful, they profit.

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Part 2: Affirmations Don’t be ashamed of isolation. You don’t deserve it, and it is not your fault. Your loneliness is not a personal defect. Your isolation is not ugly. Your disconnect from family, from community, from history, is not your fault and not your only fate. Tell people about your loneliness, because they feel it too. Ask why. Allow yourself to feel it and reflect. Remember you are strong and vulnerable. Get angry. Connect and seek togetherness, within yourself and with people who reciprocate respect and care. If you are on your own, remember there are many others that feel similarly isolated.

Part 3: Organizing in Collective Isolation A passionate response to organizing that is centered around the ‘collective’ and ‘community’ centered: Many people with communities and families take this for granted as the natural state of things, and as something they earned and deserve. I’m not angry at them for enjoying this. It is hurtful and I am angry, however, when this marginalizes, disempowers and devalues people who have faced devastation of their connectedness and now live in isolation. This marginalization is often the impact of totalizing rhetoric about collective power and worth which shames and excludes people who are on their own and alienated. Many isolated people have been alienated by the very violence we claim to reject in collective struggle. Much of the social justice rhetoric around ‘collective’ action is meant to bring together people in an alienated society, or leverage the power of communities still surviving together. But we need to talk about loneliness and alienation, confronting these painful realities directly, if we’re going to confront the beasts that suck from our veins by dismembering interdependencies.

Freida Somata is a mixed race, queer woman who believes in our ability to work together to build social and economic systems based on nurturing and resilient relationships. She wants to talk about how alienation and displacement are experienced by wealthy people and white folks, as well as poor folks, immigrants and people of color, though if in different ways and for different purposes. She would love to hear from any folks passionate about creating cross-racial/cultural coalitions centering working class people, communities of color, immigrants, queer and trans folks, disabled and mentally unwell people, and other folks resisting white supremacist capitalism. Contact her at freida.soma@gmail.com.

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I gestated in blood, and sweat To enter a world that likes to Question me.

So I became many Who do not answer but, Question back.

Lewam Dejen is a STATIC editor and Eritrean-American student at Stanford who studies international systems and film/media in hopes of supporting a radical and democratized shift in the stories we're told.

If you are interested in submitting to STATIC's website or future zines, email stanfordstatic@gmail.com.