Sweet and Sour: Issue Three by Sweet and Sour

Issue Three, Autumn 2021

Issue 3 - Growth

enjoy reading

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acknowledgement acknowledgement of of country country In the the spirit spirit of of reconciliation, reconciliation, In Sweet and and Sour Sour acknowledges acknowledges Sweet the Ngunnawal Ngunnawaland the and Ngambri people, Traditional Traditional Custodians Custodians people, of the the land land on on which which Sweet Sweet of and Sour Sour was was conceived conceived and and and produced. produced. We pay pay respects respects to to the the We Elders both both past, past, present present and and Elders emerging of of the the Ngunnawal Ngunnawal emerging Nation. Nation. We extend extend that that to to Aboriginal Aboriginal We and Torres Torres Strait Strait Islander Islander and peoples reading reading this this Zine. Zine. peoples

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introduction Growth is something that we all experience in our lives. In our early years, our parents are enamoured with our physical and mental growth, developing from newborns to kids, kids to teenagers, then teenagers to adults. Once we get a bit older, the concept of growth becomes more complex. Growth no longer just means how many centimetres taller you are or what shoe size you’ve grown into. When maturing, growth begins to encapsulate your identity, who you are growing up to be. For Asian Australians, the notion of identity is fraught with complexities and contradictions. Is who we think we are, also what other people think we are? Are we growing up to be who we want to be, or what other people expect us to be? Much of this soul searching includes the reconciliation of one’s upbringing and heritage with their physical context. This, such as growth, is a continuous process. It is physical, mental and spiritual. Sometimes this process is expedited, sometimes it is gradual. Other times, we may suffer setbacks, but nonetheless this just means re-growth. Over the last 12 months, we were all forced to grow faster than we are used to. As the world continues to move around us impatiently, we are left with very little time to breathe, rest, adapt and adjust. We are expected to constantly and quickly shapeshift according to changing circumstances around us, and this often leaves us feeling drained and burnt out. As you read this issue, take the time to breathe and rest. The pieces in this issue provide insight into how we have grown as Asians in Australia, and we are so grateful we get to continue sharing these intimate experiences with the world. No matter how you interpret the notion of growth, it is a deeply personal process that everyone experiences. How have you grown?

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CONTENTS CONTENTS 1

An Appetite for Growth ANGE YANG

Lunar New Year’s Eve ALEX TRUONG

Apart LEO MIRZAIE Scattered In Situ JULIA FARAGHER GRACE SUN

Great Ocean Road GURMEET KAUR

13 13

My Flower Garden DESTINY HARDING

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Woman RIAHTA RANFORD

Interview with South Asian Today Dilpreet Kaur Taggar and Viv Wang

SHARAM NAHIN AATI?

ANUSHA RANA

24 24

Breaking the bamboo ceiling JAHIN TANVIR

On eating and memory LOUISA LUONG

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The Oaf FRIDAYNIGHTGALLERY

Cicada JUDY KUO PAULINE KUO

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Aoi Aoi Mai Mai LISA LISA MIWANO MIWANO LE LE

Down the Rabbit Hole SHALINI RAJ

Time has slowed down GEMMA TRUONG

34 34 34 34

Take My Hand JOEY LEE

35 SWEET AND SOUR Postcard Collaboration www.sweetandsourzine.com/postcards

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Ange Yang

An Appetite for Growth I can write my Chinese name. That’s a pretty poor return for three years of Chinese School and missing the Majin Buu saga of Dragon Ball Z. However, it has transformed trips to the grocery store into their own saga of “spot the difference” between the blurry screenshot of the jar in the family whatsapp group and the similarly coloured but different shaped jar on the shelf. I think it’s doubanjiang. A quick check on wikipedia and google translate seems to corroborate that. It’s not often that I play this game without reinforcements (namely, my mother). However, the looming spectre of a joint housewarming-lunar new year celebration with friends made me race to the store solo, with the frenzy of cooking show contestants being told that they have four hours to recreate a three course meal for service. On the one hand, the stress and self-doubt that comes with a trip to the grocery store seems silly. I’m old enough to shop for myself. I pay taxes,

I’m repaying my HECS debt and I’ve just purchased my own Netflix subscription. If I can regularly order Taiwanese beef noodle soup via uber eats, why does walking into a grocery store cause so much angst? The butcher calls out xiao jie and I shuffle my way forward. The sea of dyed perms, slouchy caps, and shopping trolleys slowly part to reveal a wall of pink marbled with layers of fat. When I ask for pork, she looks at me quizzically, her eyebrows pinched. I try again.

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“...for, uh shao rou?” I try to enunciate the way my mum taught me, but it comes out as a question. I’m afraid that my voice can’t cut through the wave of conversations in a chorus of dialects, the whirr of the fans and the poor father trying to calm his child down next to the chicken frames. Most of all, I’m terrified that my voice cannot be heard over my inner monologue of shame, the one that reminds me that “I should have learned Mandarin”. Later, when my friend asks where I got the pork I simply reply, “oh, from the asian butcher”.

English term for the black caramel-like sauce that my grandma used to throw into the wok, or how I finally learned to recognise the Chinese characters for my favourite condiments. A part of me is embarrassed; another part of me feels fraudulent. “Is this, like, traditional?” another friend asks. The shao rou is next to a brussel sprout salad with bacon bits. The coconut biscuits sit on the coffee table next to a bag of unopened doritos, their red colours fit for the season. At some point, the curry is mixed with the mash, the hokkien noodles with tabasco. “Kind of,” I hedge.

I don’t tell her about my small victory. I say nothing of the hours trawling through food blogs, youtube tutorials and crisis calls to my mum. I don’t say how long it took me to find the coconut biscuits that my aunt seems to have on tap during the lunar new year, or that the small assortment of lollies I have on my coffee table pales against the mega factory that my uncle offers his guests when they arrive to exchange greetings for the new year. I don’t share how the preparation of this feast taught me the

Because in some ways it isn’t. No one is wearing red. I didn’t prepare a yee sang. There are no red packets, no mandarins laid out and nobody’s hastily putting up a cabbage for the lion dancers. But in many ways it is. The table before me is filled with food. I’m sharing a meal with people who are important to me. We’re laughing at our Chinese zodiac horoscopes for the year, someone shares a podcast that they were

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listening to on the way to dinner, and we collectively celebrate the end of a turbulent year.

“Of course there was a Chinese store,” she says. “It’s still there, in the city. Much bigger now I think.”

And if I’ve learned anything it’s this: while growing into my identity may be more awkward than the layered side fringe I had in middle school, it’s made for some fantastic meals and good company.

Maybe new traditions grow from small moments like this - when change meets circumstance. It makes me grow a little more comfortable with myself. Or maybe that’s the feeling we all get after being well fed. Hosting my own new years’ dinner made me wonder how my grandparents did when they moved into their first home in Australia. Did they exchange red packets? Did they substitute plum sauce with honey? Did they even bother celebrating at all? My mum laughs when I ask, her jade bracelet knocking against the seat belt buckle.

She directs me to turn right at the next traffic light. Her knowledge of the roads isn’t borne from google maps or dog eared street directories. It comes from years of driving these roads, taking the wrong terms, matching numbers with highways and word of mouth. To her, Burswood will always be Burswood, despite the million dollar ad campaign that rebranded it to Crown. The city is always too busy and never worth the drive, and the beach is only good for tracking sand back into the house. Sometimes I forget that she has grown with the landscape here, witnessed the construction of the freeways and highways that now form the backbone to the urban sprawl. She’s seen shopping centres built, trees being bulldozed down to make way for train lines and

Lunar New Years Eve (2007) by Alex Truong

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more Chinese grocery stores pop up with each new development. She isn’t shy about stating her opinion on each. “Yee Seng is larger, but expensive. Go to the da ba sha for fresh veggies but get your meat at Hong’s.” It’s a tone I’m familiar with. It’s the same tone I heard from her after each school term, my dad after school interviews, and the tone used by my aunts and uncles when they were discussing my future whilst longs of dumplings, chicken feet, sticky rice and buns slowly circled the table. At that moment, I’m twelve again sitting next to my cousins on the children’s table, being told I’ve simultaneously gained too much weight but not eating enough, smart but not tall enough, have nice skin but aren’t pale enough. I’m sixteen again, holding back tears in a dressing room in Myer, resigned to the fact that anything with sleeves will be too long for me, and that I’m too big to be petite.

I’m twenty again, being cross-examined about my decisions about a world that they’ve tried to shield me from, a world that they labelled a distraction for most of my adult life. In these moments, I question whether or not I have grown. When we return, the only positive thing she says about my rental is that the grocery store is only fifteen minutes away. The floorboards do not impress her, nor the north facing windows or the glimpses of the ocean or the little herb garden I’ve tried to grow in the corner of my cramped kitchen. The fact that I have an induction stove as opposed to a gas powered stove horrifies her, but we manage steam eggs for our dinner nevertheless. I learn that growth to her is adaptation. It’s being able to learn from the things we have - not the things we want.

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It’s similar to the way that I’ll always struggle with not learning Chinese. I’ll always have to call her when I want to recreate a dish. I’ll only know the grocery stores by their English names, not their Chinese ones. I won’t be able to stop the gossip that compares so-and-so’s daughter to so-and-so’s son at each family gathering. But I’ll learn. With each cooking project, with each youtube tutorial, with each small celebration I hold. With the patience I show to my colleague when he asks me what dim sum is. With each trip to the grocery store. With the unparalleled ability to connect to my past through technology - something my parents and my grandparents before them didn’t have.

I’ll learn by making choices for me; not because I want to avoid conflict at a dinner table. I’ll learn new things by not being afraid to be seen trying. I’ll learn what traditions can grow from a new foundation. And if I’ve learned anything it’s this: while growing into my identity may be more awkward than the layered side fringe I had in middle school, it’s made for some fantastic meals and good company. Regardless of where I buy my groceries from.

Apart

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Leo Mirzaie

I remember when I was young, being the first one to wake up in my aunt’s house, quietly stepping over my cousin still asleep on the floor in the bedroom we all shared. Unlocking the door, closing it quietly behind me and going downstairs to watch cartoons. Turning on the big box TV, minding the volume so as to not disturb the other people living in the house but wanting to hear over the honks of cars from the street. It’s an uneventful memory that seemed to be the routine every morning I woke up in that house. Now that I’ve grown and have moved away from the place I was born and from the people that raised me, I find myself missing all of it. However much I miss it, it’s been hard asking myself to reconnect with that part of my life. And as the time I spent away from home grew, so did a sense of guilt. I hadn’t spoken to my extended family in years: to ask them how they were doing or even just to hear their voices and let them know I thought about them. The most I could muster was a ‘like’ every so often when they posted a photo onto Facebook of their Mother’s Day outing with my grandma; who in her old age, despite her toughness, I worry if I’ll get to see again.

I worry a lot about the things I’ll lose as a result of not talking to them more. The recipes of all the food I loved eating and smelling when growing up. All the people who were a part of their lives and were brought into mine. All the folk stories they told to keep me well behaved. All the stories my mom told me of her childhood. I think about how I won’t hear those stories told to me again and how they live only in what I remember of them.

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Scattered In Situ

Julia Faragher and Grace Sun

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“Scattered In Situ” highlights experiences and emotions of Asian diaspora in Australia and provides a visual representation of multicultural identity. The series features five Australians who are connected to Japan, Vietnam, India, China, Pakistan, the Philippines and Cambodia. These are the countries where they grew up, where their parents grew up, where they were born or where their parents were born. These countries remain important even though they do not live there. Just as these individuals exist across, between and beyond dualities of place and culture, the series transcends the confines of photography and painting. The portraits have been tailored to reflect each person and they were taken outdoors in the natural environment of their current home of Canberra, Australia. Each photograph is superimposed by the foreign presence of physical paint which is not yet dry. This process of creating the work through digital media, transferring to analogue and then back to digital mimics the transformative experience of diaspora itself.

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Great Ocean Road Gurmeet Kaur

Specks of stars scatter across oceans beds at the end of the world you said. We drive on unrolling mountain roads, always close to the edge of saltwater and tarmacked yellow lines, dropping distance like burning widths of an incense stick. Rosewood clings to the car today, yesterday I spilled sandalwood oil on a doormat, the scent a broken prayer. Palm to palm, we raise hands in the wind, spilling through windows, drifting to diaphanous dreams, praying in disarray. Together we leave to gather tides, saffron flags lie cluttered by washing waves, foaming at the mouth of untethered seas.

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My Flower Garden

Destiny Harding

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Woman

Riahta Ranford The sun drunk off its vanity, has slipped behind a violet mountain ridge and, like my Mother, leaves the earth singed a lifeless yellow. The undergrowth is unfamiliar with my feet and my partner’s gloved working hands, the earthworms scarce and vacant from the dried stiff fauna and clay. In frustration, I have tried to collect the memory of atmospheres from a Facetime call with my Nini Karo (one of my many Grandmas), her sunken lazy eye laughing with me, eternal light worker with an arresting gaze, she leans forward—eyes wet and full, yearning to cup my face with rough, sun-weathered hands. It is the sweet orange I can still smell, wafting off her orchard. My soft tumbling young feet ambling through, beating my heels against her chest, pointing and reaching for the dimpled looming domes of syrupy pulp. They sag into my hands, and how I miss them. Nini Karo shows me her own garden jungle, a comfort during this strange, lonely time. I collect her tips, her soft smile, head thrown laugh that stirs my hair. I press them into a sculpture, a monument of evidence, of mother-tongue that shakes off any darkening Doubt I had. But it is a falsehood. For a true moment, I am suspended in the orchard, until I hit the dirt in my front yard. Nini Karo would die of shame if she knew. If she knew who beguiled me, who lifted the corners of my mouth and followed the hem of my cotton underwear. Who is a woman with a woman to a woman and for a woman. The young lemon tree in our front yard hasn’t yet bear fruit, its supple leaves reach upwards, stretching further purring at the flies. I am waiting for a citrus genesis of blooming deep yellow rind to cover the tips of our fence. Sharp but candied spheres dipping down, cousins to the orange orchard, I keep my roots hidden here under this fading tribute sun.

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South Asian Today A conversation between Viv Wang and Dilpreet Kaur Taggar Viv: Could you please introduce what South Asian Today does and the motivations behind creating such a platform? If you could tell us a bit about the main faces behind the organisation too that would be cool! Dilpreet: South Asian Today is Australia’s first media organisation for and by South Asian women, non-binary people and gender diverse folks. It is an unapologetic, progressive and open space for South Asian writers and artists to dig deep into South Asian history, stories, politics, pop culture and push the conversation further by talking about Islamophobia, Anti-Blackness, Caste and other inter and intra oppressive exercises. I am the founder of South Asian Today and started it solely in April 2020. I was born and raised my whole life in India to Sikh Punjab parents and only came to Australia 3 years ago.

With no financial support or organisational guidance, I thought it would fail terribly. But the kind of love we have received is very reassuring. Tanya Singh is my co-editor and is based in Delhi, Danushi Rajakapse is the Head of Design and is helping me launch Australia’s first South Asian art store where artworks made by our designers Sathya Thavendran, Charanja Thavendran, Ayonti Mahreen Huq, Sahana Arun, Mahima Chavan and Anjana Ram will be sold. It is an exciting yet nerve-wracking project. Fingers crossed! We have the privilege to work with writers like Ria Mazumdar and Gayatri Sethi who have done some incredible work on the South Asian diaspora in the US and Blindian lens. It is beautiful how borders have truly broken down as only a couple of people are in Melbourne where I am! Rest digital love connections.

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Viv: What about South Asian Today do you think sets you apart from other media organisations? Dilpreet: South Asian Today likes to move beyond chai-tea. We know chai-tea is annoying but we also know this surely can’t be the beginning of our sorrows or the end of our activism. Let’s roll our eyes and move ahead. We still have so much anti-Blackness in our communities, Islamophobia is on the rise, intersectional feminism is still not intersectional enough and there’s nearly not enough anti-caste work being done by upper caste South Asians. This is where the power of media, stories and art can make a difference. In a world where we are frankly thinking less and consuming more, it is crucial for people of colour [POC] to take time with their stories and publish them with POC supported organisations. We truly believe in quality over quantity and would happily wait before publishing, even if it means delay, as long as we are certain the story is intersectional and has the capacity to push the envelope.

Viv: What is an aspect of South Asian Today that you are most proud of? Go ahead and humble brag- we’re all here for it! Dilpreet: I am proud of how small yet impactful South Asian Today has been. I get numerous messages from the South Asian diaspora telling us how they had never indulged into matters of caste and how the content on South Asian Today has put them on a journey of finding more resources and doing anti-caste work. I am so proud of all the artists and writers who have been with South Asian Today from Day 1 when even I didn’t know what the lifetime was going to look like. I am proud of the chances we take, the risks we laugh at and the stories we tell. It is not easy. I have sleepless nights just thinking about my visa sometimes. Having grown up in a very middle-class family in India, the fact that South Asian Today is a reality in Australia makes me happy. Haters will never go away so we shall happily bask in the glory of our work!

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Viv: Running a media organisation in this digital age can be fraught with challenges. Logistically, how does your operation run and what challenges do South Asian Today face? Dilpreet: We 100% run on guest submissions. Writers and content creators pitch their ideas to us and Tanya and I edit and work with them closely to reach the final stage. I do social media and other marketing and promotions while Danushi and I team up on working with the artists for our upcoming store. I run our podcast series, Roots with South Asian Today as well the Youtube series, Zooming In With, where I interview South Asian leaders and artists from across the world and go deep into some of our most pressing issues. To be honest, the internet is an exhausting, endless vacuum. It often feels like nothing is ever good enough and no one will ever be happy with things. Sometimes, I am up at 4 in the morning just overthinking a tiny comment. People are mean and people are often angry. What this can do to migrant solo entrepreneurs is something I am only experiencing now and I had never even thought about before. Mental health takes a toll sometimes and things can take longer than expected because of our small team and long-distance.

It is important to remember the bigger dream every day.

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Viv: I saw that South Asian Today is in the process of raising funds to start Australia’s first online store with only artworks by South Asian women and non-binary artists. That is SUPER cool! Could you please tell us a little about how it will work and what motivated you to develop this market idea? Dilpreet: That’s right! We are so excited. When all of this was zilch and I was just gathering ideas and talking to some artists, I met some of the most wonderful designers and humans. They have been with me from day 1 and it was always on my mind to open an online store with the artists once South Asian Today takes off and here we are! All our artists come from incredibly diverse backgrounds and cultures and their work is distinct, progressive and does not capture the South Asian identity in one single frame. The shop will help create a micro-economy for the artists as more often than not, Brown art is fetishised not respected. Since we do not currently have any regular monetary support, we are running a small fundraiser of $2500 to cover the costs: chuffed.org/project/ support-south-asian-artists The store, for its first batch, will have prints and a tote bag! We can’t wait to share it! Hopefully, in a couple of months, you will be adding items to your cart.

Viv: Issue Three of Sweet and Sour is about growth. Where do you see South Asian Today going in the future? Are there any big plans for the organisation that you can let us in on or any major milestones that South Asian Today is working toward? Dilpreet: I see South Asian today become a one-stop platform for South Asians to consume content on race, gender, sexuality, history, pop culture, cinema and intersectionality. I am also working on launching Australia’s firstever festival for South Asian women and gender diverse peoples. We are constantly evolving and are open to partnerships and collaborations to undertake bigger projects that can serve as a community build-up for South Asian Australians.

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Viv: How can we support South Asian Today and their work? Dilpreet: One of the many ways to support South Asian Today is to engage with it. Tell your circle about us! Share our content, pitch to us and donate if you can. Our PayPal is: PayPal.Me/southasiantoday Currently, our shop is a big priority to us so supporting us to raise money for it or share about it will be a huge deal too. 10% of any money we raise is donated to the Indigenous Literacy Foundation. Viv: How do you get involved with South Asian Today if you want to be a contributor or editor? Do you have any tips for anyone who wants to get involved in this space?

Dilpreet: Absolutely! If you are a writer, send us a pitch to write@ southasiantoday.com.au and if you’re a multimedia content creator, hit us up on contact@southasiantoday.com.au We are always on the lookout for South Asians who are keen on telling a story or covering a topic that matters to us. We are also pretty shameless and don’t mince our words. If it sounds like you, more details on how to pitch and what to expect are here: southasiantoday.com.au

“SHARAM NAHIN AATI?”

SHARAM NAHIN AATI? (2019) by Anusha Rana

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SHARAM NAHIN AATI? (2019) by Anusha Rana

SHARAM NAHIN AATI? is a concept shoot with a focal point on fashion, where I took adornments of my family’s heritage and coupled them with symbols of western power. The title is Hindi for “You have no shame?”, playing with the conservative reception we expect to receive with outfits like these. 21 Sweet and Sour

To embolden these different cultural forces into the way we present ourselves is allegorical of our growth. Growth in navigating the Australian – South Asian diasporic nuances. Growth in intertwining the wisdom of heritage and the experience of our reality. Growth in understanding what power looks like to you.

SHARAM NAHIN AATI? (2019) by Anusha Rana

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SHARAM NAHIN AATI? (2019) by Anusha Rana 23 Sweet and Sour

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Jahin Tanvir

BREAKING THE BAMBOO CEILING Under the daze of stifling giggles, Shoelaces rammed under cracks, The glinting eyes of a migrant glow, Excited for their very first footprint. Systems left unturned for centuries, Frigid palms calloused with sacrifices, An inferiority complex beckoning from sunrise, Faltering anyone who dares to utter defiance. From the shackles of apathy, Unrest in the heart and veracious with tenacity, Stones pounding the opaque ceiling, One after another. When even materials failed to aid in the cry, Bloody hands clamoured through, A roar. A clack. The promise. No stone untouched in this land of the West, The refusal to remain lost in the oneiric plane that once encased, Heated breaths with jaws ready to speak, Unapologetically themselves, From dawn’s first light.

Cicada (2021) by Judy Kuo and Pauline Kuo

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On eating and memory LOUISA LUONG “Imagine you’re holding a pair of scissors,” my mother tells me as the chopsticks rested in the crook of my four-year-old hand would start to criss-cross. She offers hers as an example and I try to mirror her strong, poised hands. My index and middle finger squeeze the top stick while the bottom stick dangles on my fourth finger. “Now, grip

harder and hold it higher, towards the end.” I grip and grip and my hand stops looking like my own, and starts to resemble a claw. “Grip on the inside,

with your fingers, not your thumb.”

Impatient and defeated, I release the chopsticks in a dramatic ratatat on our dining table. My mother laughs and plucks a piece of ong choy from the dish and into my barren rice bowl. *** Food is stitched into the fabric of our existence. It’s been dissected and analysed in almost every sphere of human study: social, cultural, scientific, political, economic. We’re practically obsessed with it. Aside from eating it, we talk about it, write about it, take photos of it, and sometimes even dream about it. From the time we’re

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children, the tastes of food form such strong memories that they go on to infuse a durable nostalgia that we carry into adulthood.1 The tastes, textures and smells that come with food work together to translate sensory moments into social and cultural experiences that are embedded in our memory.2 So, of course the inextricable tether between memory and food would influence our eating preferences, habits and behaviours. In diasporic studies, this durable nostalgia around food goes further to bridge emotional and affective relations with place or rather, displacement. The smells and tastes of a lost homeland can temporarily deliver memories of a past life.3 Every sauce, starch and broth has a vital role in recreating home and the passing down of traditions, making it a vehicle for belonging and non-belonging.

of eating. In East-Asian culture, or any culture that has a big culture of commensality, the making and eating of food is a social compass marking our relations to family.4 While I do remember the dishes prepared by my parents, my more vivid memories are rooted in the act of eating itself rather than the actual tastes and smells. A lot can be learnt from watching a group of people, huddled around a table, interacting with each other. How they participate in the act of eating becomes symbolic, an expression of the intricate relationships between them.

So if food functions as a gateway to remembering, belonging and non-belonging, maybe the same can be said about the closely related act

Just like this country was foreign to my parents, we were each individually foreign to one another, tourists wading in and out of each other’s lives. But the daily ritual of eating became a guide to learning the unspoken language and customs of my family. The ever-growing worlds, generations and languages between us seemed less distant when the assortment of dishes were positioned carefully in the centre of

1 Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (1984). 2 David Sutton, Remembrance of Repasts: An Anthropology of Food and Memory (2001). 3 Jon Holtzman, ‘Food and memory’, Annual Review of Anthropology, 35(1), (2006).

4 Nancy Chen, ‘Making memories: Chinese foodscapes, medicinal foods, and generational eating’, Memory Studies 13(5), (2020).

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the table. It was a reminder that every step in the preparation, production and consumption of the food in front of us was an act of service. An undeniable and unconditional expression of love. And in this way our dining table became a stage, inviting its own unscripted rhythm, direction and action. Every gesture was a silent act of affection requiring tender observation (the careful division of rice based on my mood or appetite), negotiation (swapping my least favourite shitaki mushroom for my sister’s snow peas), sacrifice (the meatiest part of the roast duck would dance back and forth until finally settling in my mother’s bowl), compromise (but I would always get the glossy crisp duck skin). Through this performance of eating, personal and collective memories were created and shared, and the intricate connections in the little world of my family became a little less mysterious.

picture my own family tree as a seedling in an infinite network of adaptations in this new ecosystem – meanings lost, mis/re-interpreted and generated along the process of growth.6 And as traditions are passed down, the opportunity for permutations of meanings and relationships with food is left open. *** Even now as an adult, my mother will laugh at my less than ‘proper’ chopstick technique. She says that I still hold it wrong and put too much pressure with my thumb. But I’ve long settled into my bastardised version of chopstick-wielding and I’ve decided it’s much too late to change.

Ien Ang describes diaspora as a scattering of seeds which form new cultures that germinate and mutate depending on its ecosystem.5 I

But when I sit with my friends around the lazy susan at yum cha, our chopsticks up and ready, I’m comforted to see that we each have our own permutations of technique. And I start to wonder about the tapestry of their dining tables growing up, and all of the silent acts of love that are rooted in their memory.

5 Ien Ang, On Not Speaking Chinese: Living Between Asia and the West (2001).

6 Anne Tong, ‘Chinese food in Australia: Diaspora, taste and affect’ (2017) <https://ses.library.usyd.edu.au/bitstream/handle/2123/18228/Anne_Tong-ood_in_Australia-_ Diaspora%2c_taste%2c_and_affect_Anne_Tong_PDF. pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y>.

The Oaf (2021), gouache painting by fridaynightgallery

The Oaf Sweet and Sour

FRIDAYNIGHT GALLERY

Aoi Mai (2021) by Lisa Miwano Le

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LISA MIWANO LE

Aoi Mai

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la ini R

bbit Ho l Ra

n the w o D aj

y S eb h

Where is the life that I recognize? Where have my senses disappeared off to? Who was that person? Into a hole that I have carved by myself, I crawl and lay. I dig into the dirt, as the rabbits have. Their home has become my solace. I cannot even see my hands, I cannot see anything.

Darkness is all I have in here. I followed the rabbits, that was how I got here. They always seemed to sense when I was in a frenzy. They appeared when you could not, when thoughts of you surfaced, when I was alone. They led me here. This hole is too dark. I burrow further in. My fingernails black with dirt and blood,

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my eyes pinpoint in this darkness and my body shriveled in desperation. I keep pushing, that is all I have. This strange drive that propels me through the daily. There, I have found it. Water is all that is needed to push this through my body. I fall as Alice had. And I am entrapped. Where she found her way out, I have not, or more accurately, want not. Why would anyone choose to be sane in this perfectly insane solace? Why would the rabbit lead me anywhere but here, here in my mind, where I have always run away from? I cannot bear the thought of such silliness, of such stupidity, of such blatant ignorance. You and me, we are not all too different here, you see. You want your escape and I want mine. But mine, oh, how sweet, sweetness is such sorrow, is such tragedy. You can only guide me, with your silly Cheshire cats and mad hatters and white queens. Why leave me these hints? These clues? So transparent in their nature that a child could pick it up. But you sly fellow, you know that I am a stubborn child. You know that I will stand still and throw a tantrum. You know that I will not budge. You know that I will refuse. You know this, you know me all too well. And yet you persist, with the journey, with the lessons, with the ending. What if that is not what I seek? What if I choose to stop and stand? To be mulish, headstrong and obdurate in

my misery. Why persist, when I choose to wallow in this self-induced bleakness and lunacy? And so, here the story deviates. Alice does not wear her pretty blue-white dress and saunter into the yellow sunlight of hope. Oh no no, you ignorant fool. She downs her little helpers and dresses in black. She closes her eyes and opens them in her mind. She stops worrying and starts forgetting. She wills the life away and she sits at the table having tea with these oddballs. For can you not see, she does not need the steady pace of the world above. She only craves the continuous loop of insanity pulsing through her veins. Life, the celebrant has to be refunded it seems. So does the groom, the guests, the family and all the other faceless people clad in grey. Missing, mysteriously so, they all wonder. But with time, they too will forget. They will only mention me in passing, when it arises. With hushed voices and furtive glances, I will be remembered. Within the winds of speculation, the thoughts of pity and curious bewilderments. But this loop is short lived. I wake up and I am on the bed that life has once again set out for me. I seek these magic pills, these thought enhancers, feeling suppressors, soul ignitors. “Why?”, they ask. “That’s enough,” they say. But they do not know. They have not seen. They have not felt. They have not heard. In short, they have not lived at all.

Sweet and Sour

Take My Hand (2021) Joey Lee

As a young child, I kept rejecting my own Asian culture. Growing up surrounded by mainly White kids, I thought to myself, “I don’t want to be different. I need to be like everyone else. If I’m too different, no one is going to like me”. I refused to learn either of my parents’ native languages, I swore to myself I would not get into Asian pop culture like anime or K-pop, I felt embarrassed to dress up in traditional clothes. All I wanted to do was fit in with what I at the time thought was ‘the norm’, in fear of becoming an outcast. It was only until my final years of highschool did I come to really accept myself, my culture, my identity. I came to the conclusion that it was okay; that I am actually so unique and it’s amazing to have such a different and

beautiful background. Now, I ask my parents to teach me Cantonese and Hmong whenever they can. Now, I watch so much anime and listen to kpop everyday. Now, I love showing off the beauty of our traditional clothes. Regardless of who I was, things would not have changed at all—I was and still am loved and cherished by my friends; if I had realised that perhaps I would’ve embraced my identity at an earlier age. In the end, I was finally able to reach out to the younger me who was still trapped inside, constantly telling me, “no, no, no. We can’t ever be different, we have to stay the same as the others” and happily brought her out into a light of acceptance.

Issue 3 - Growth

Time has slowed down Gemma Truong

Time has slowed, Down Each day Seems the same Each day Seems the same As yesterday But in our minds We are running On questions And fear And quiet streets And how to use this time “Do something useful!” It’s a time to reflect To read To run To cook To clean To create To write To make To consider, our future It’s time to take a long hard look at what we are becoming It’s time to change our story and the tune we will be humming! Time is slowly, quietly, gracefully Bending backwards And it’s showing us the way.

For Nick Le

Sweet and Sour

Being Asian today in Australia is not easy. The year of 2020 saw Covid-19 spread across the world, bringing along with it a rise in xenophobia catalysed by the pandemic. As we battled the virus and persevered through the ups and downs of life during the pandemic, we were forced to reconsider what it meant for us to be Asian. Sweet and Sour designed a series of postcards, and sent them to individuals who identified as Asian from all over Australia. We asked each person to reflect on the year of 2020 with consideration to their Asian identity, and confront the xenophobia and racism that accompanied the arrival of the pandemic. Here are some of the postcards we received.

Each postcard is honest and genuine, and offers a wealth of insight into our intimate experiences. It is a powerful feeling when we realize we are not alone and many of our experiences are shared with others. We are international students, mixed-race individuals, second-generation immigrants and many of us belong to multiple cultural identities – while the world reduced this to the single generic term ‘Asian’, we are so much more than that. This project would not have been possible without the support from Diversity Arts Australia and funding from the Asian Creative Grants View them all using the QR code or sweetandsourzine.com/postcards

Issue 3 - Growth

Suhaib Kawish

Sarah Yeung

Sweet and Sour

Nina Pirola

Mark du Potiers

Issue 3 - Growth

Judy Kuo

Kristoffer Kang

Sweet and Sour

Writing Louisa Luong IG: louluong Gemma Truong IG: the1987projects Riahta Ranford IG: wipsaule Twitter: wipsaule facebook.com/wipsaule Jahin Tanvir IG: jaytanvir Twitter: Jahintanvir_ facebook.com/jahintanvir17 Gurmeet Kaur Twitter: GurmeetKaur01 Ange Yang IG: vegemitecongee Twitter: vegemitecongee vegemiteinmycongee.substack.com Leo Mirzaie IG: leo.mirzaie Shalini Raj IG: videogames_trip South Asian Today IG: southasiantoday

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Art Julia Faragher IG: juliaperture Grace Sun IG: gracegx.sun Judy Kuo and Pauline Kuo IG: judyk__ Alex Truong IG: infinitecreatives Lisa Miwano Le IG: miwamata Anna Yao Mei IG: fridaynightgallery Anusha Rana IG: ranana._ anusharana-portfolio.squarespace.com Destiny Harding IG: jungefh Joey Lee IG: vanillaaacaramel joeyleedraws.mystrikingly.com

Issue 3 - Growth

Postcard Collaborative Mark du Potiers Nina Pirola Judy Kuo Suhaib Ahmed Kawish Kristoffer Kang Sarah Yeung

Sweet and Sour Sydney Farey Roy Fennis Malcolm Fortaleza Joanne Leong Melodie Liu Chetan Kharbanda Eleanor Hsu Aleyn Silva Aveline Yang James Yang Yvonne Yong Viv Wang Cover by James Yang IG: sweetsourzine FB: facebook.com/sweetsourzine www.sweetandsourzine.com