TASC VOICES 2022 by Tufts Asian Student Coalition

BODY

VOICES 2022 an asian american literary and arts magazine

voices: body !"!!

-)(.&,1"'"%/&)."'$1# Yumei Lin Reina Matsumoto Maddie Wong -)(.&-(2$3'&.)#"/%)1# Ashley Jin Nacie Loh Kelly Tan )."'$1#&(%.&.)#"/%)1# Megan Berja Anneke Chan Matthew Cho Abigail Der Elizabeth Endo Alice Fang Sarah Goldstein Kaya Gorsline Anne Hu Emily Hu Matt Hui Jojo Kuo Rachel Liang Gordon Liao Katrina Lin Erica Luo John McKean Maya Ng-Yu Gabe Reyes Ava Sakamoto Nicole Setow Alexandra Ward Angela Wei Judith Weng Michelle Zhang

iii - Voices 2022

!"##"$%&#'(')!)%' Voices is published annually by the Tufts Asian Student Coalition. We are a Pan-Asian student-led organization seeking to mobilize toward progressive change. Recognizing the multiplicity of global diasporas, TASC aims to reflect on an celebrate our collective histories and lived experiences. We publish Voices annually because our realities are inextricable from the wellbeing of communities of color beyond our campus gates — whether they are a few train stops or an ocean away. (*+%$,-)./!)%'#0 Thank you to our TASC community members for holding each other in strength and support as we get to be closer to one another this year. Thank you to the Asian American Center’s Aaron Parayno and Emily Ding, and Professor Emeritus Jean Wu for all their guidance and support. Thank you to Professor Courtney Sato for her generosity in time, knowledge, and kindness while educating Asian and Asian American students on campus. !"#$%"&'#()!*$+*,*#-. #$%&'()*+,-&*./'*&'0123.,4'1)'.5,'$)2,4,4'.-34*.*1)30' 03)4&'16'.5,'7893):3;'<73=93)13>?'3)4' @3&&325$&,..'#-*A,B'C,.'.5*&'32;)1D0,4>,=,).'-,=*)4' $&'16'1$-'1)>1*)>'21==*.=,).'.1'.5,'-*>5.&'16'3)4'1$-' &10*43-*./'D*.5'E)4*>,)1$&'9,190,&'A1.5'5,-,'3)4' *)'1$-'=1.5,-03)4&B

Dear Reader,

The !"#$%& theme this year, '()*, holds so much. We have loss, anger, hope, joy, and so much love. What does it mean to inhabit our bodies? How do we exercise agency over our bodies? What violences and injustices have our bodies weathered? In what sincere, silly, and crucial ways do our bodies take up space each day? Our fragile and resilient bodies, capable of so much care and so much resistance– they persist despite the hardships of this life and thanks to so many dedicated hands. We’re thinking about our place as Asian and Asian Americans in a country that has historically broken and erased us. The violence we face because of our +,-.//0,,— how we look, speak, and exist. But our bodies know more than we give them credit for. They hold our histories and are evidence of our ancestors’ survival. As these systems continue to press on us, we dig our heels in and ground ourselves in tending to the needs of a body. Body is flesh and bones: our hands, mouths, stomachs, eyes, legs, feet — yes. But “body” is also 1(22013-40. May we move like a body against forces intent on scattering us. As individuals with all our own lived experiences, stakes, and ties to one another, may we also move in solidarity. We must hold each other to be a body. With watching eyes and open arms, we must care and fight for each other. The !"#$%& team is proud to present this issue as an ode to our agency, our movement, our care. To remind ourselves, this campus, and those that come after us that we were here, and our voices mattered. As you take in the works that follow, we hope you will remember to be gentle with yourselves. Hold yourselves, your loved ones, and perhaps a hot cup of tea. Given our theme, we ask that you be aware of the following: !"#$%&'%()*+*%,-*.*+%.&#("-#% /-+.0++-&#+%&'%1&/$%-!"2*%"#/%3-&4*#.*5%6//-(-&#"4%.&#(*#(%7"8#-#2+%7-44%1*%,8&3-/*/%"1&3*% +,*.-9.%,-*.*+5 Be gracious and kind to yourselves, and our contributors, as you enter into a space of vulnerability. Hold time. Hold space. Hold still. With love and solidarity, Yumei Lin, Kelly Tan, and Maddie Wong

iv - Voices 2022

!"#$%&'(&)'*!%*!+

&2:#%./#()4#4.:)%H Kelly Tan

!"#$%#&'()*+ Chloe Cheng

6")?3+ Anne Hu

, -./0'(#123(#45(#6)*(#7('+."8 Sam Liu, Maddie Wong, Matt Lem

*/+?D(#*(*.'% Ivi

$.45('#2"#9(: Reina Matsumoto

92G+ Ava Sakamoto

1%""0+#;'23( Anneke Chan

6./E Weiwei Chan

<)#2"#=)'4('#>.4?5 Nacie Loh

$.'"2"L#=/::D(+ Olivia Ting

-5

@5*)0+#A./+(B#C2(+4) Nacie Loh

M.2?( Malia Brandt

!#+*2D(#/E."#45(#F/DD#*.." Sonya Bhatia

D..32"0#L..: Elizabeth Endo

&."04#-./#9(*(*G('H Aidan Chang

+32""%#5/'4+#N+.*(42*(+O Anonymous

A)':#4.#<()' Nuha Shaikh

=5.2?(+ Lina Huang

9)*):)"#924/)D+ Nuha Shaikh

CD2L54# Theo Nunez

-0

A.I#&.##-./#;)3(#=)'(#.F#-./'#<.:%H Collaborative Spread

=52")#<'()45B#KG)?5)"#P#7)/D Jay Guo, Sarah Goldstein

-2

J24"(++ Kevin Tang

C.'#=5('#Q#92R('+2:(#@L)2"B#$(D4I)4('#<)::2( -3 Jay Guo and Sarah Goldstein

v - Voices 2022

K/'#<.:2(+ Matthew Cho

!"#$%&$'"()"* Yoon Sung

H3(18%(,I%"%%"A(1$#&()>(%"=J47,;#;8$#(J,;(8(1&$="K Rei Xiao

+,-.#(/,,0(+,1Emrys Schwebber

C";%L(M(N"90,-$-G Nicole Setow

2&"(3-45"#1""-(6789" Maya Ng-Yu

)$-" Emily Hu

:$98;$,<%=> Daniel Nguyen

G;,1$-G Gabe Reyes

O-#$#="A Rowan Gonda

Staff Credits

Lena Leavitt

?,-@,$-"A(5,A$"% Michelle Zhang

6$=B";(5<=="#(?,8# Michelle Zhang

C,1(#,(D;$"B" Ashley Jin

!"#$%&'(!)%'*+,*-$!./ P.S.

E,#8#,"%F(?,B"; John McKean

G"-#="(#,<9& Ansel Link

?,-#89# Adrian Wong

6<))";(5,A> Jiamin Li vi - Voices 2022

Moonfish

by Kelly Tan / monoprint / 2022

Did you eat today? by Kelly Tan did you know feeding is not just about eating hunger and humane rhythm remembering to take and giving to something wanting did you eat today? did you remember to ask: what am I craving, needing, detesting today? did you remember to want today?

or: do you sit with your dry throat? have you become quietly, unhappily acquainted with your malnutrition? once, I was swallower of words and wants tight throated, fractured, brittled when did we learn to suck on these bones? recipes must be learned but first practiced spoonfuls to wet mouths waiting

1 - Voices 2022

Snacks, body, mind and heart

by Anne Hu / digital art / 2022 2 - Voices 2022

muscle memory by Ivi

my skin is the bronze of rice paddies and sweat; my hair, the dark silk of buried women, hands rough with calluses i have never owned. my hands—smooth, bare, untrained— will neither coax out the sun nor summon the rain an emperor demands. my mothers and i were born from his fear— born to harvest and sow and toil across his barren plains. and so they tell me with weighted tongue that my body is too soft, too unwieldy to be of use. and i say: that i have never known a day in the fields but my back still knows to bend, my eyes still seek the ground, my hands still grasp at scythes, and earth, and grain– anything to soothe a sovereign’s rage. when i am blustered at, when words assail this woman of bronze and silk and fear, i swallow my tongue and bow at a perfect ninety degrees. how can i be of service? the body remembers a peasant’s debt.

3 - Voices 2022

ribs by Ava Sakamoto Woodblock print 2021

4 - Voices 2022

Soup/tong/ /sup by Weiwei Chan Soup/tong/

/sup

Both sets of my grandparents worked in restaurants or owned restaurants of their own in Malaysia. Now my dad is a chef in the city I call home: Flushing, Queens. I am spoiled. I have been surrounded by good food my whole life and have never had to learn how to cook these elaborate dishes for myself. My favorite dish is a soup, a soup I call hum choi tofu tong, roughly translating to “pickled mustard greens and tofu soup”. It is an elaborate dish. A labor of love. The list of ingredients is extensive, and it requires hours of constant attention to make. The taste is one of slight sourness and saltiness. The tofu acts as a sponge for flavor that is extracted from the ingredients that are slowly boiled together for hours. Whenever winter rolled around at home, and the air got a little crisper and a lot sharper, I would ask for hum choi tofu tong so we could eat it for the days following. My dad would always feign annoyance, saying that I just eat what is cooked and never cook myself. We laugh, but the soup is always there the next day. When I eat this dish, the warmth of the soup envelopes my whole body like a tight hug. My heart is warm, my mouth is happy, I am satisfied. In college, approximately 200 miles away from home, the privilege I had at home becomes even more apparent. I cannot request my favorite soup for Dewick to cook, fresh white rice is a treat, meals are fleeting moments, occasionally savored. The food fills my stomach, but I am left untouched. I am sustained, but far from fulfilled. Winters in Boston are harsh, harsher than the ones in New York. The wind is persistent, sharp, and relentless. In a time where so many new relationships have blossomed, I long for my old ones. I am hungry. Whenever I want soup, I make miso soup in my dorm. It’s easy and satisfying. The miso paste dissolves in hot water, and when I am feeling particularly fancy I add enoki mushrooms and tofu. It is not a labor of love, but it is reminiscent of the love that is labored for me 200 miles away. Now, whenever I am a visitor in the place I call home, my dad always makes sure to cook hum choi tofu tong for me at least once. It is part of an unspoken request. A part of me is always worried that it will never be as good as I remember, but I am always wrong. It is just as good, if not better, than my memory of it. I miss it. I long for that warm embrace. My hands crave the touch as they wrap around a full bowl. My stomach aches for a serving of warm rice and soup. I am hungry.

5 - Voices 2022

Morning Cuddles by Olivia Ting

right side heavy. hands drawn in between two bodies tucked underneath some covers. back turned on drawn shades that, despite their best efforts, still let the morning light in.

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The Stairway to the Other Side by Malia Brandt Collage 2022

To me, sometimes the worst thing about having a body is feeling like you have one at all. I often find it hard to escape the feeling of being watched, looked at, pointed at, or generally perceived. I never really hated my body, even though I felt like I was supposed to, but the only times I ever felt uncomfortable with my body was when I felt watched. The left half of the collage is about being self conscious when watched. The right half is just the opposite of that: free of judgment. Sometimes it’s hard to get to the right side, and sometimes it’s easy. And when I am on the right side, there will be those moments, either big or small, that will drag me back to the left side. I hope we can all learn to live on the right a little more.

7 - Voices 2021

heyo lookin’ good

alternatively titled: getting ready for my hot date by Elizabeth Endo Watercolor, digital 2022

8 - Voices 2022

skinny hurts (sometimes) by Anonymous TW // talk of body image and appearance Maybe we have already passed the epoch of the body as an attribute, and maybe I’m just wasting time to lament the passing of time, but — #1. My arms only fill up one-half of the sleeves on my T-shirt. I yearn for three quarters. #2. I wish to use the fat on my legs to dress my shoulders. #3. Imagine football padding on a skeleton. Comic and unattractive. My upper body. #4. There is such a thing as a thin person’s blessing: unlimited food intake. Or at least people seem to think so. Nothing I intake is taken by my body. I want food to grow from under the skin. #5. I like baggy clothing. They make balloons out of my features. #6. Mom said avoid black because the color “swallows” me. I wear it regardless. I wear black baggy clothing just as a nocturnal beast would, except it makes me smaller. #7. Sometimes I fill the mirror with junk. The mirror knows & smiles back. The mirror is particularly good at storing my emotions. #8. Beastly figures in the gym scare me. They might be able to swallow me whole and make a shadow out of my existence. #9. When I choose to be a nocturnal animal, my skin deflates like a balloon in the morning. All my T-shirts run big. #10. The mirror reminds me to check my shoulders before stepping into the shower. I do pushups before leaving the room. #11. There is no such a thing as a thin person’s curse. Or at least I seem to think so. Sometimes. #12. Sometimes my relatives tell me I should work out. They say, “you are tall enough, but not strong enough!” I reply, yes, yes, I’m comic and unattractive. We laugh. #13. I wouldn’t stand a chance in football. #14. Sometimes I feel like nothing I feel is felt by anyone. #15. Sometimes maybe only half of what I feel is worthy to be written about. I yearn for three quarters. 9 - Voices 2022

Choices by Lina Huang

My heart beats rapidly, it’s like I can’t breathe. I don’t even know what to say or think, except listen. The person on the phone talks in an upbeat chirpy voice. He says, “Congratulations! On behalf of X Company, I’d like to extend an offer for the full time position of Z in our Sacramento, California office!” I was overjoyed and wanted to cry out tears. This was what I had been working so hard for for four years-- no, I think even before that. Maybe even as early as middle school because I desperately wanted to help my mom pay bills. Although it may seem pathetically capitalistic that attaining a job was such a monumental event for me, the hard reality is that a job would provide me with the ability to move out of home, help my mom finally buy food at retail price instead of waiting for sales or food pantries, and help pay for that overpriced ointment my grandpa wants but can’t afford. After a couple days, the prospect of moving out so far was becoming unsettling. Sacramento. Holy f*cking shit. How would I tell my mom? All my life, I had lived in Boston, Massachusetts. Truthfully, nothing is wrong with life here. However, after graduation, I would return to a very mundane life. Provide social services at home, ride the T to work from nine to five, eat dinner together with my mom and sister at 6:30pm, and finally, after a long week, hangout with my Boston friends on the last two free days. It’s predictable. But I knew that this is what my mom defined as a “perfect” life. To her, Boston had everything. So, it was with no surprise that while on the phone with her one night, I heard the heartbreaking plea: Lina, can’t you settle for a similar job in Boston? Is it so special that you need to leave home for it? Can’t you find some normal job here and work your way up to whatever you want to do? A wave of deja vu hit me. Four years ago, my mom guilt tripped me into choosing BU over Colby. It kills her to admit it, but she regretted her actions back then. So in the case of my first job, why does she still act the same? Four years later, I don’t feel the same about my mom’s words anymore. I love my mom and I love Boston, but the world is so large, so vast, and I haven’t seen any of it because of family circumstances. My therapist once said to me, if doing everything the “right way” has not led to my desired changes, then why not try doing things that don’t feel right and see? I think this is the step she was foreshadowing, nearly two semesters later. If my mom immigrated to America for a better life, then this should be the step towards that, at least for me it is.

10 - Voices 2022

Flight by Theo Nunez “Want to make a crane?” Jamie asked. I had been wondering why he pulled out his wallet and retrieved a few small square sheets of paper. This marked the beginning of the next phase of our connection. I had always felt a kinship with Jamie and, in this moment, I sensed my intuition would come to life. Jamie started to open up about completing El Camino de Santiago, pilgrimage that spans roughly 500 miles across Spain. Before beginning the 20+ day journey, he met a man who would make paper cranes and leave them in random places in public. Jamie said the man was quite the character — a really cool person who clearly impacted Jamie since we were sitting on my porch, 2 years after their meeting, about to make some cranes. As Jamie explained the first few folds, he told me more about the crane guy and those couple of days leading up to the camino. I listened as he described the start of the journey and the cadence he developed: leaving around 7 or 8 am, walking for a few hours, stopping for lunch and resting his feet, and walking more until eventually reaching a hostel for the evening. Other than listening to audiobooks here and there, it didn’t seem like Jamie used his phone much, and one thing he committed to doing everyday was journaling no matter how tired he was. I was entranced by this raw and human experience. He crossed paths with so many different people — sometimes never seeing them again and other times, bumping into them days later. He met one person who became a close friend, and they walked together on most days. He met another person who had walked El Camino many times before, a pair of sisters, one of whom would obnoxiously be ahead because she was biking, and many others. He reflected that this experience taught him how to embrace his solitude, and as I listened to him, I was in awe of so many things, including his gratitude, his self-awareness, and his strength, mental and physical. We eventually finished our cranes. He and I crafted these origami pieces, sometimes looking over to see what the other was doing and other times locked in on our own process; this was pretty similar to the nature of our friendship. We ended up with products that had the same parts: a head, a tail, and two wings. However, our creations were inevitably quite different because every single crease and fold was unique to us. All of the moments that lead up to two people bonding are different for each individual right up until they share that moment of connection. Jamie began his Camino journey with a heavy weight on his heart: the death of a close friend. In some ways, his life paused when that happened, and this experience helped him to move forward. He and his body went through such a transformative experience, yet here he was sitting across from me: a person who looked pretty much the same as when we graduated high school but now ready to spread his wings.

11 - Voices 2022

by Theo Nunez Photography 2022

12 - Voices 2022

China Breath by Jay Guo

I want a tongue hibiscus-sweet, pink as flesh, sharp enough to lap the tea from the leaf and hold the bitter two counts in my mouth. I want lips split in the Eastern bluster, exploitable, fuckable, brimming like a firelit pearl. I want hands dripping in dragon fat, running through ruby-sheened exuviae, itching to rip the sky a profit. I want fingers like threads of sweetgrass, deft, unweaving miracles from the air. I want eyes huge and pale and wet, irises greedy enough to suck the moon, plunge the country into darkness— Leave the Chinese scrambling and blind until I exhale the pale light. I want lungs bursting with China air— thumb down the throat, hammer on the pulse, but a heart still beating with enough plum blossoms to keep the sun alight.

Obāchan & Paul by Sarah Goldstein Photography 2021 13 - Voices 2022

For Cher November 13, 1999 - March 13, 2022

Riverside Again

Meltwater Baddie

by Jay Guo

by Sarah Goldstein Graphite, 3 1/2” x 3 1/2” 2022

I’ll imagine for the both of us: Glass balcony by the riverside— stonewalk smooth and gray, sun hung cool and flat. A place you could probably live. Last snow eating lacunae by the dock; the current feeling. A pale, mild light on the broadside of your face. Look down. The water so soft. Look out. Sky passing in lightness. Soon I’ll be the older. Let’s walk riverside again.

14 - Voices 2022

MY MIND IS A MAZE by Chloe Cheng

My mind is a maze Of hazy smoke and cracked lips Of empty bottles under my bed “I’m sorry about the wine, I didn’t mean for it to spill” But I did, didn’t I? Red wine on gray sheets I hope the stain comes out and we can both forget. Forget about me As I have already forgotten you, Your name a jumble of letters in my Mind Is a maze Is a box Is a grave Is a home for her To mourn her ripped jeans Her favorite ones with the brass button And the white stitches That she ripped scaling The roof To see him To suck smoke from the air While he cut her hair As she cried out in laughter. She’s sober now, Don’t you know? So-ber So boring She barely climbs anymore Never sneaks out Doesn’t sleep around. Her body is a temple Don’t you dare disturb it. Her body is a temple, Her mind is a maze Is a tangled ball of string Is a thread hanging off an old sweater That she’s too scared to pull. “Sober,” Robert says, Is a strange word in one’s mouth One’s mouth that had always been filled

15 - Voices 2022

With something sharp and dangerous. She thinks of it like peace It exists outside of recklessness and adrenaline It washes over her like a wave of worry And as the tide goes down She feels calm. Calm tingles like head rush on an empty stomach It lies in wait It anticipates Sometimes when she’s sitting alone It sneaks up on her The riptide threatens to pull her back in She knows to swim sideways But sometimes she doesn’t want to. She’s tired. She’s so tired. Of trying so hard And getting nowhere Of losing what had made her feel whole. God, sometimes she just wants to sleep But the whole world is shining a flashlight in her face Telling her “Wake up!” Like a rat in a cage Learned helplessness There’s nothing more she can do Nothing but wait Wait Wait Wait Until wait doesn’t feel like a word anymore. Until tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better. Her body is a temple Don’t you forget it. The ink violates the skin And she sighs Frames cover holes in the sheet rock Don’t touch them. Behind them is a problem for yesterday. It’s a string we don’t dare pull on, A maze of bloodstained sleeves. She’s sober now Don’t you know?

“You’re Like the Same Person” by Maddie Wong, Samantha Liu, & Matt Lem Photography 2022

They met the summer before senior year

Maddie cooks

Sam drives

And now they dye each other’s hair

16 - Voices 2022

Mother in Red by Reina Matsumoto Photography 2022

17 - Voices 2022

Lynn’s Trike by Anneke Chan Oil on wood panel, 24” x 36” 2021 i

18 - Voices 2022

Ba in Carter Notch by Nacie Loh Silver gelatin print 2019

19 - Voices 2022

Ahma’s House by Nacie Loh Silver gelatin print 2018

Fiesta by Nacie Loh Silver gelatin print 2018 20 - Voices 2022

I smile upon the full moon by Sonya Bhatia

The pale, white light of the telephone screen captivates her In those minutes, her fingers stroke across the keys As each connection is made, feebly, as in traditional fashion To be created and never nurtured, a notch to a belt of disillusioned social fabric It’s routine at this point, according to her My fingers Drum on the white makeshift nightstand I look out the window, the moon a waning crescent and suppress my instinctual urge of flight I wonder if I could feel more warmth shrouded in icy winds outside For tonight I waited, as in traditional fashion Cyclical; until The exposition—to yearn for growth, a way to ease the nausea when immersed in a dimension of homogeneity— the continuation—the right words to distract from the fundamental truth of an unwillingness to stray from the self-convenient— the deposition— I finally walk outside away from the bright yellow covers that adorn her bed The breeze caresses my cheeks I smile upon the full moon

21 - Voices 2022

Don’t You Remember? by Aidan Sky Chang Digital painting 2022

22 - Voices 2022

Hard to Bear by Nuha Shaikh

Heavy fruit hanging from my chest Unwanted harvest should be better Enjoyed by someone else’s body Memory falters to find me before Growing, only know I was as flat As a pumpkin seed, fresh-like, Little green bean still on the vine, The coming season an unmade promise I did not want my body To become something Hard to believe in So now I keep the binding beneath intact Hold for better weather, dormant dependent Cues I must live quietly to collect, Regenerate my repair, to one day Keep the bud but lose the bloom It is hard to bear, this unyielding softness To lack and be left wanting To want and to be left lacking

23 - Voices 2022

Ramadan Rituals by Nuha Shaikh

!"#$%&'("&)$'"&*("%&'("&+,%&$+&-.*/ !"#$%"#&'(#&)"*'&+,,-* & $.%'#*&,+&-%'#*&%/-&0"1*$&+"21'&%/-&/2'* & 0,,.&3,42"'&+,"&'(#&*255#"&5,/'(* & *,5#'(1/4&*5%..&%/-&+"1#-&1+&3,2&(%6#&'15# 7(#/&'(#&.14('&1*&*8%..,8#-& & 93&'(#&(,"1:,/;&%&)/#&-%"<&'("#%& *1/<*&'(#&*<3&1/',&1/-14,&1/< 01'2(&'("&2-.23&(1%455&1-6.+'7&8.*9&8.*:&$'&$+&'$6"/ =&>210<&$"%3#";&*14/%.&'(#&#/-&,+&3,2"&1/'#/'1,/* & *'"1/4*&,+&="%910&0,5#&'259.1/4&,2' & ,+&53&5,2'(&.1<#&"16#"&",0<*;&*5,,'(&%* & 51.<&'##'(&2/#%"'(#-&+",5&9#/#%'(&'(#&'"## ?5%..&91'#*&/,8;&*8##'&"10(/#**&,+&'(#&-%'#&)"*'@@ & 8(%'&8#%.'(&%A#"&%9*#/0#B&C(#&-#*#"' & 0,5#*&%.16#;&8%'#"&42.$#-&4"%'#+2..3 ;("&21--&'.&<)1=")>&2.6"&?,$237&@$+'"%&1%4&)"<"1'/ D1*#&',4#'(#";&*'%/-&*(,2.-#"&',&*(,2.-#";&+,,'&',&+,,' & E%4("19;&'("##&"%<%'*&',&02$$#-&(%/-*;&53& & +%6,"1'#&-2*<&*$#%<*&*,A.3&,2'*1-#;&0%"#+2.&*2/*#';& & -%"<#/#-&52"52";&-2%&',&%*<&+,"&'(#&9#*'&,+&#/-1/4* F"##'&'(#&/#8&/14('&81'(&0(##<&<1**#*&+,"&'(#&#.-#"* & +%51.1%.&"24&+,.-#-&,"&'(#&0.#%/&*(##'&.#A&',&#%'&,/; & +,,-&1*&8%1'1/4;&%.(%5-2.1..%(;&4"%'1'2-#&,/0#&%4%1/ 013"&'.6.)).*&A"B.)"&41*%>&4.&$'&1--&1#1$%/

24 - Voices 2022

How do you take care of your body? lift with the big plates I take a moment to simply be outside every day

by eating well and going on walks!

by ingesting an obscene amount of matcha latte

I eat a lot of tofu and I take long, hot showers!

bathroom haircut grooming

naps! hugs! cuddles! eating!

singing

I imagine my grandma is taking care of me and do all the things she would want me to do (eat a good meal, sleep, take a break, etc)

take loooooong walks, usually night walks

stretching it, a little bit too much sun, and holding my special people close

I order Uber Eats past midnight when my body craves it. 25 - Voices 2021

I try to take a lot of walks when it’s sunny and nice outside I laugh

watching tv. talking to my buddies, eating comfort food, napping Paint my nails and put a face mask on <3 and long hugs

9 hours of sleep by working out, eating good food, and resting Sleep, and go out for Asian food once a week

i drink alka-seltzer the first second i feel im getting sick! i use a shower poof with a lavender scent body wash!

I take the time to drink plenty of water and tea throughout the day cook good meals and stretch out my shins! honestly I don’t really find time to -- listening to music if anything

I try my best to get at least 7 hours of sleep every night!! Getting a good night’s rest is so important for our bodies!

Forcing myself to do the things I may be too tired to do. Skincare, showering, exercising, drinking water, going out and seeing friends, dressing up everyday… intentionally doing things I know would make me happy

26 - Voices 2022

six thirty am by Kevin Tang

six thirty am my body yearns for sleep but my mind must consent !&'%)*"%2/*"-$%"=1)'#2"/,-""-$% (""7%21"%1")</,"##%&(%!&'*%"!"#% 21"%(),%41/**/,0%"<"*%#&%#&;7! /,</2/,0%!&' #"-'5/,0%!&' 6"00/,0%!&' 2&%5'*7%'8 2&%-*")9 ),-%>,-%#&9"21/,0 4&*21%*"9"96"*/,0 4&*21%4*/2/,0 4&*21%7&</,0 i am afraid to leave this reality there is still so much to discover how can i enter the unknown when the known has not yet been realized (?) will i not be consumed by this dream (will) my memory be one of terror my writing a reminder of innocence my love a way to cope (?)

!"#$%!&'%(")* +),-. !&'%)*"%*/012%+2&%(")*. +!&'%3,&4%1&4. 21"%',3,&4,%5),%6*")3%!&' 6'2%/%4/77%8*&2"52%!&'$%9/,-%9"% + (&*. /%)9%5)77"-%6&-!$% 9'-$%9&21"*$ 2")51"*%&(%7/(" !&'%)*"%5)77"-%),0"7 -"9&, 21"%()21"*%&(%9"),/,0 /,-""-$%*"5)77: (&*%21"%0/;%&(%)%7/("%4&*21%*"9"96"*/,0 4"%9)-"%)%9)**/)0" )%8)52 21)2%/%4/77%3""8%!&'*%1")*2%6")2/,0 !&'*%7',0#%6*")21/,0 1")7/,0 (""7/,0 /#%/2%,&2% (it is) #&7/2)*!$%8)/,('7$ ",7/012",/,0 (terrifying) /%)#3%!&'$%5&98"7%!&': 2*'#2%/,%9!%5&,</52/&, 2&%3""8%!&'%)7/<" 2&%#4""2",%6/22"*%9"9&*! +),-.%2'*,%)<&/-),5"%2&%5'*/&#/2! it is six thirty four. i cannot keep my eyes open. it seems ill take his word for it. he hasnt failed me yet ~

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Our Bodies by Matthew Cho

From 1838 to 1917, more than 419,000 South Asian indentured laborers, also commonly called Coolies, were put to work under labor contracts in British West Indian plantations in British Guiana, Trindida, and Jamaica. Additionally, another 140,000 Chinese men were sent to Cuba from 1847 to 1874 as well as 90,000 who were sent to Peru from 1849 to 1874. The work of these individuals has been recorded as bitter, as many were coerced into this so-called servitude that was commonly reffered to as “slavery all but in name.” They were kidnapped from their homelands, treated like cattle, and forced into inhumane working conditions. Many trying to provide a stable economic foundation for their families were grossly coerced into working nonstop on plantations with virtually no rights, in which death by overwork was common. Throughout history, Asian bodies have been racialized as cheap workers, who are docile and readily available for exploitation by white capitalist empires. They were seen as greedy individuals who steal work opportunities from white Americans. They have also been seen as objects of gross desire and fetishism. Afong Moy, the first Chinese woman to enter the US was subjected to this voyeuristic white gaze. Seen as a Chinese commodity, Afong Moy was placed in an exhibit that was staged with various other Chinese artifacts such as paper lanterns and Chinese furniture and paintings. She wore a “national costume” and was on display for paying viewers to watch her speak in Chinese and use chopsticks. As historian Erika Lee writes, her exhibit portrayed “China and the Chinese [as] exotic, different, and as Moy’s bound feet further illustrated, degraded and inferior.” The use of

Afong Moy’s body as something that was performative and used for capital consumption relays ideas of orientalism that had been present since the era of Hippocrates and the Greeks. These histories and stereotypes continue to define and racialize Asian bodies today. From the horrendous murder of Vincent Chin to the recent shooting spree resulting in the deaths of 6 Asian American women in Georgia, this animosity against the existence of Asian bodies is not new. This specific construction of Asians as exotic, inherently different, and thus inferior and ripe for subjugation, is not new and continues to try to define Asian and Asian American bodies today. Understanding these histories of racialization is important in understanding how, as Asians and Asian Americans, we can move towards reclaiming our bodies and denouncing the ways in which they have been commodified, exploited, and murdered. Asian America is a diverse entity of histories, stories, and individuals that does not conform to one narrative. We deserve to find ways in which we feel pleasure, joy, comfort, and love from our bodies. We deserve to feel safe and at home in our own bodies. We deserve to feel whole and nurtured, knowing that our bodies are our own.

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Fetishize me! by Yoon Sung Comic (Digital art) 2021

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Don’t Look Down by Emrys Schwebber Acrylic on canvas 2021

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The In-Between Space by Maya Ng-Yu CT: Hate crime, violence

The breeze from the departing train hits Ally’s face, slapping around her frosty hair. Her white headband keeps everything in place. Ally readjusts her headband using both mittens. She can remember, right after she graduated college, her mother traveling from Brooklyn to visit and frowning at her white headband. It’s bad luck. Wearing white in your hair means a family member has died. Because Ally is half Chinese and half white, her mother always assumed she only half understood the importance of Chinese superstitions. In reality, it was less. Ally sighs and looks at her watch and then up to the announcement screen. Her train is late. She takes another scan of the platform. An elderly Asian lady holding two bulging bags of groceries. Scallions, gochujang, and strawberry flavored Hello Panda cookies pop out from the bags. This woman must be a grandma with very hungry grandchildren. Ally smiles. Her mother used to buy Hello Panda cookies for her whenever she received a smiley face on her math exams. “Smart, just like your mother,” she said. This was a long time ago. Later, when her mother spotted the cookies in Ally’s apartment, she simply said, “Americans love their sugar.”

and rise from benches, starting to approach the edge of the platform. Ally stays put and covers her ears. The screech of the train bothered her since she was young. Her mother used to say the sound was coming from the screams of her ancestors’ grief and regrets. Ally still believed this even though her mother always laughed after seeing the horror on Ally’s face. The grandma holds her grocery bags and walks towards the edge. She stops a safe distance away and looks down at the tracks. She wears a red hat, lavender patterned pants, green knitted vest over a blue checkered button-down, and puffy magenta jacket with little animal figurines emerging from the creases. Her mother dressed like this. Ally occasionally poked fun at her mother’s clothes, which her mother took as an insult to her immigrantness and said, “If I didn’t leave Hong Kong, you wouldn’t be here. Aiyah, always ungrateful.” She eventually learned to stop commenting on her mother’s fashion.

Ally starts to emerge. She adjusts her white headband and face mask, making sure it’s tight before she heads into the crowded train. Her Her mother picked apart everything Ally ate, fingers are cold even with the mittens. She rubs wore, and accomplished. No choice was without them together and then sticks her hands in her criticism about Ally’s abundance or lack of pockets. As she digs her hands deeper in her Chineseness. coat, searching for warmth, a man walks behind Ally, then moves in front of her. He looks closely A slight chill invades the already frigid air and at her eyes, stopping for at least five seconds, Ally faces the tunnel. Two lights shine back at which seems like a minute when you’re in her. Slowly people look up from their phones New York. His eyes are abnormally large and 31 - Voices 2022

Ally thinks that if someone squeezed him, his eyes might pop out of his head. Most alarming though, is that Ally can see his nose, mouth, and frazzled facial hair. He wears no mask. Ally holds her breath as to not inhale any air he might’ve used.

She reaches up and removes her white headband. Ally drops it down the gap as she straddles the in-between space. She’s never been grateful for this space; it was always a burden and only caused arguments between her and her mother. But today, Ally lives because of her in-betweenness. She passed. The man continues down the platform and then And the pandemic caters to whiteness. makes a direct path to the grandma. She’s still holding her grocery bags and inching closer to the edge as the train is almost here. He peers at her face and simply glances at her eyes before smiling. His teeth are blindingly white. Perhaps he’s friends with this woman. He gives the grandma a familial look. A look of longing, but with no remorse. His look changes as his smile grows wider. His facial hair seems to part to make room for his mouth. The man circles back behind the grandma and, with two hands, pushes her forward. The woman falls onto the tracks. Her groceries leave her hands. Her red hat flies behind her. ***** Thirty minutes, then an hour, and three hours pass and Ally doesn’t move. But as the next train screeches to a stop, Ally removes her hands from her ears and boards the train, passing over the gap between the platform and train. As she peers down, she spots an already crumpled box of strawberry-flavored Hello Panda cookies. The police must have deemed them as trash. Ally pauses between the gap, one foot on the yellow edge and one on the train.

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Vicariously by Dan Nguyen My parents visit me once a month. We go out for dinner, catch up on the stories we simply cannot retell over a FaceTime call, and hug many times. On our last visit, what stood out to me in the few hours we were together was not the cơm tấm I longed for, the funny stories about Bà Ngoại, or the haircut I desperately needed but did not want to spend money for. It was on the way back to Haskell when my mom sighed. “College seems so fun, con.” When she came to the States from post-war Sài Gòn, she had a dream to study psychology to find a remedy to the mental illnesses that afflicted her family. She sacrificed her dream to take care of me when I was born. She followed the many Vietnamese immigrant women before her and earned her nail technician license, and even attended cosmetology school to stand out and become a hairstylist. College is the privileged experience she never had. Following my daily calls with her, I reflect on my privilege. I hate that I am here to pursue a passion while she works for forty hours a week instead of pursuing hers. I feel guilty complaining about exams while her arthritis worsens with every head of hair she cuts. Looking back, I never truly understood the meaning of sacrifice until I went to college. I am honored to be here, but I am shameful of my privilege. I recognize that I am the product of her blood, sweat, and tears. I want her to fulfill her dream to go to college vicariously through me. With every molecule I draw in organic chemistry with my cramped hand and half-closed eyes during lecture, her worn and hardworking fingers grow tired of holding scissors and hair products in her overly repetitive work from dawn to dusk. She does vicariously through me. Each glance at myself in the studio mirrors, swaying my head and popping my chest to the beat of the music, she rhythmically folds foil and washes newly cut hair in the way a dancer practices and blocks their moves. She does vicariously through me. Leading fellow club members to spread Vietnamese culture or fundraise for clean water and sanitation projects, she instead leads a team of one, simultaneously managing to cut hair, wax hair, and sweep hair by herself. She does vicariously through me. Every laugh I share and tear I shed, fighting between my first-generation survivor’s guilt and my desire to enjoy college to the fullest extent without any regrets, she smiles while cutting the hair of the clients she has genuine relationships with, but sobs from the wear and tear fifteen years of haircutting has on her body. She does vicariously through me. But she is not in college. She only knows it vicariously, and I consciously feel guilty about that. One day, I hope to give you this experience, Mẹ. I hope you can pursue your passion, too. 33 - Voices 2022

by Lena Leavitt Digital drawing 2021

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Conjoined Bodies By Michelle Zhang Oil and acrylic on hardboard 2022

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Silver Bullet Coat By Michelle Zhang Nainai had already begun peddling out random articles of clothing she had buried away in boxes and closets. “Why don’t you take this—this will be better than the one you have now. Try on this! Bring it with you when you go back. Take this. Try to give these to your dad for me, will you? It’s never been worn, but he won’t listen to me. Please take it. Can you do this for Nainai?” I shook my head no each time. I kept my hands to my sides, afraid of where I stood. I mentally drew a small square box to lock myself into. Her hair was already short, but she kept fussing about cutting it shorter before the funeral. With the way she rambled, I felt as if she was preparing to take leave as well. The house was perpetually cold, and I often found myself wearing a coat and two layers of pants to bed. Nainai had already moved bedrooms. She didn’t want to be in the old one they shared. But his memorabilia still managed to make its way to the new one, entrapping anyone that entered. Regardless, the first night he was gone, she still complained about how she felt left alone and forgotten despite being surrounded by him.

“What about this one? Your yeye loved it. It was his favorite coat. He would always go on and on about how warm and light it was. It’d be a pity if someone didn’t take it. Gugu will just donate everything that remains. I don’t want a random stranger taking his things.” It would be a pity. I reached out to grab it—soft and silver. The coat was gentle and painless. I always believed I was the least favorite, unsure if there was even a space for me to exist. Sweet words and gifts oftentimes felt like afterthoughts. But the coat was all mine. For once I didn’t have to compete. That night, I went to sleep with the coat on.

“How could he forget me so easily? Didn’t even bother to visit…” I hoped this was simply a directional error. Could ghosts get lost? If not, was I forgotten too?

Voices 2022 - 36

How to Grieve by Ashley Jin CW: suicide, death A student died on campus this week. It wasn’t suicide, thank god. I remember quietly breathing a sigh of relief when I found out that it wasn’t -as if even without the devastating, bizarre cruelty of suicide, grieving the loss of a human life could be easy. It’s never easy, just different. The guilt is different. The institutional response is different. Without the intention of death, the university wouldn’t have to send out an apathetic email condemning the epidemic of mental illness, with empty promises to better support students through counseling. The students, then, wouldn’t realize so soon that the school doesn’t actually care about their well being – rather, its need for prestige perpetuates the very mentality that forces young people to labor fruitlessly over. Because the truth is that institutions immortalize carceral conditions that commodify minds and drown bodies into desolate submission before they even have a chance to come up for air.

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But then again, that’s not an easy revelation to put into words when you’re sixteen and your friend’s just fucking killed herself. There were no candlelight vigils, no moments of silence, of stillness, for you. No celebration of your life that burned so brightly before it burst because the school was afraid that any attention to the situation would condone a repeat of your actions. The administration insisted that the only way to move on was to force a sense of normalcy. I wonder, now, what was normal about having to take midterms the very next day, explicating the importance of Gatsby’s unwavering green light through bleary eyes and puffy lavender skin. I wonder what was normal about playing your solos in band because you could no longer breathe life into them, as if they were never yours to begin with, quietly raking in the guilt for months before imploding alone in the practice room where we had our last conversation. On bus rides home after rehearsal, I would look out the window with hunting eyes, searching through fleeting vignettes of the barren woods, wondering where it was that they found your body.

I mourn for you still, and I think of you often in origami cranes and thunderstorms and last snows and crumbly pineapple cakes. But looking back now, I also mourn for the girl I was at sixteen, who spent far too long blaming herself for what was out of her control. I want to tell her that I’m sorry, sorry for believing that she had no right to grieve so intensely. I wish I had given her the space to let feelings pass when no one else would. I’m in awe of what she did in those months to survive, despite the insurmountable loneliness, confusion, and sadness. I didn’t know my own strength then, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have the same grit again. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but I’m not sure that after all these years I came out any stronger because of what happened. If anything, I’ve become softer. I wear my heart on my sleeve and give myself away like a fool every chance I get, crying easily at presentations in class about Japanese-American incarceration, and unexpectedly, after phone calls with my mom when she says “I love you”. I’m not sure how I would cope if you came back to life today and I’d have to lose you all over again.

Maybe the thing that I’m learning now is to find strength in softness, in the tender way the light cradles the shimmering shadows of dancing leaves at dusk, and in the kindness that my friends and I hold each other in during our hours of need. Strength in softness to be malleable and resilient at every unexpected turn. Things have a funny way of taking unforeseen twists these days. My hair’s blue now like yours was before, because you were always ahead of the curve on what was cool. I’m still not quite sure why I did it, maybe a combination of peer pressure and heartache and wanting to see more of yourself in me, because I was afraid that I would forget you. I’m still working on remembering the version of you that you’d want to be memorialized, if such an identity even exists. All I can say with certainty is that I miss you, and I don’t think that that will ever change. 38 - Voices 2022

reconfiguring my world by P.S.

My senses have been failing me; they are hijacked by the past. In my heart, I shiver as snow falls onto my delicately calloused palms, and trains make the air hum. I can hear a film playing beneath a purple sky, I can hear the lullabies of your soft Indian language that rounds its As into Os. Here I have made a home for you, but you are suddenly absent. Nothing is mine anymore, only the ghosts of what you used to call yours. My bones threaten to press their silhouettes against my skin, I am fading away. I cannot bear to lay like I used to, as the you-shaped space sears into the contours of my body with an everlasting sting.

used to make me feel. But this time, perhaps you will not be the source of that warmth, but my own spirit, nurtured by how I have worked through all this pain. To those lost in love: know that when your person walks out of your life, your body turns inside out. Your inner struggles feel more tangible as your physical presence begins to fade. It’s very easy to channel anger at all those tied to your pain, but right now, who I resist most is myself. When my intrusive thoughts are a noose around my neck, when my eyes project caliginous tones on innocent skies, I know I must resist the destructive reactions that can compromise my mind and body. Resistance can become resilience if we simply Can my body be molded into the words we used to share? If you and I are no longer, can take time to step out of our outlines, to admire the scars. Our bodies are so malleable, there “enamored” and “found” lay against each is beauty in the marks past lovers leave. Scars other for the night? What happened to the of a love unraveled remind us of the love we people who fell in love with each other’s words, with the hushed whispers of our voices had to give, and how it’s never really lost… just recycled in a different place within us. over the phone? Our bodies are repositories of all the souls In our abandoned world, paint peels, spiders we have touched, and all those we have yet begin to crawl. Glass fractures, falling shards to meet. Not long ago, I thought I had lost making incisions on my heart. My hand rests myself forever. Yet today, I am excited by the stoically at my chest, as it ponders ripping out smallest joys and loving more sincerely than ever before. The most revolutionary thing of this pulsating weight, spreading its tainted chambers across the sky as a warning sign for all is the way the body can heal on its own, and learn how to be alone and in control, even the naive lovers of the world. when it was fused with another for so long. But perhaps one day my tears will become Still, to speed up the process, I can’t help but my nourishment, perhaps they will make ask: we fell in love during a pandemic, so can crimson flowers grow through this winter we get an inoculation for broken hearts? snow. Perhaps my cries are the reservoir for the impending April rains, perhaps water will finally be my change. Perhaps in May, the sky will blush pink, the color I love, the way you

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Cover by John McKean photography 2022

Potatoes by John McKean photography 2022

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gentle touch by Ansel Link

your footsteps echo vibrating through time the gentle touch of your hand grasps the past like the white clouds drifting by the full moon do you remember when my fingers held onto your pants in the grocery store? my small strides exhausted by the long rows longing for your embrace, my hands reached up and you carried me across the canyons ensnarled hanging on my grown arms they drip moments spilling upward transcending time the warmth of your eyes shining softly through me do you remember reading every night in Japanese? the summer breeze carrying your strong voice across the expansive sea till i fell asleep cocooned in your arms dreaming of being in Japan with you do you remember cooking together? your hands tending a whole meal in an hour hugging the meat in the dumpling wrappers, each fold tugged into place. plump and happy the mist from the fresh rice kissing my cheek the taste warming my chest. the feeling seeped deep within every part of my body your love becoming energy to live on the first day of school, you watched me leave your voice wavering like your outstretched hand standing there till the bus was like moonlight the lunch you made a memento of the past like sea foam in the ocean waves, i shifted the whispers still sinking into my soft flesh my clasped hands are cold but your hug lingers like the future where open arms await

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Contact by Adrian Wong Photography 2021

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Summer Body: Two Halves of A Self by Jiamin Li Oil on canvas, 16”x20” 2019

Landscape: the Valley by Jiamin Li Oil on canvas, 16”x20” 2019

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“I was obsessed with my self-portrait for a while” by Rei Xiao Acrylic on paper, 5”x10” 2020

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Hers. A Reckoning by Nicole Setow

!"#$$#%&'(#)*#+),-#./&01#&2,#&331&4&251# Her body is her home. The vesicle through which she experiences the world and through which the world perceives her. The vesicle through which she may leave a mark on the world once she survives it. Her body is her enemy. A reminder of her limitations. A reminder of who she is and who she isn’t. 4’10’’ size 6 shoe. She struggles to take up space in a world that often feels too wide, too distant to embrace her. Her body is her history. Every person she has been. Every person she will be. Her mother’s tapioca-brown eyes, her father’s dimples. A birthmark that kisses just outside the corner of her eye. The scar that sits on her right shin from before fear had ever scared her. Her body is her temple. Built with love. Showered with pride. Doused in the dreams that others held before her. Blossoming with the dreams that are hers and hers alone

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you created this body. grew it inside of you, giving it life while almost giving up yours. how could you have hated it so much? you would never admit it, yet you never failed to let me know. how disappointed you were, how the body is the greatest determinant of a person’s worth, how perfect this body was not. you never failed to let me know how I let you down. how could I possibly be okay with this body, with myself, the way it is? you always wanted to know. but I never was. and that should have been obvious, but I always wanted to know how it wasn’t to you. because for as long as you have hated this body, I have hated it too. how could I not, when that’s all I’ve ever known it to deserve? it was worthless, a failure, on my part and yours. but distance taught me that you were wrong. that this body is capable of more than I ever realized, ever gave it credit for. of sharing warmth, giving comfort, carrying me for miles and miles and miles. biking, lifting, kayaking across lakes, dancing in basements, embracing, laughing, strumming a guitar, soaking up the sun, holding hands, lying down. giving and receiving love. for all these things, or none of them, it is beautiful.

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i n g by Gabe Reyes

loooooong hair. like past the shoulders long. like disney princess, flowy-and-free, “is that a boy or a girl?” long. that’s the kind of hair i always liked, always wanted. but my hair repeatedly met the cold, sharp snip of clippers before ever reaching such a length. haircuts were a reminder of what the world was doing: garden shears nipping me in the bud, sledgehammers splintering my true self into pieces. i was shoved into boyhood at all angles. and i wasn’t just a boy, i was a k-12 catholic school boy, the love (fear) of god ingrained in me by parents, priests, teachers, administrators, and myself since day 1. so, because god-loving principal x met with god-loving vice principal y and decided that “boys’ hair must be cut above the eyebrows, ears, and [mandatory polo] collar,” god’s word was set forth and my hair remained short. although i never failed to tease the line between ‘long’ and ‘too long,’ i always chose clippers over the god-willed detention slip. when college rolled around, i could finally let my hair grow longer than ever before. still, i would eventually cut it. it was safer that way, keeping it short. contained. familiar. the potential repercussions of growing it out past my shoulders,—judgments, exclusion, violence—felt too scary, too out-of-control. and each time i cut my hair, i relearned that i didn’t like doing it. it felt bad. like losing a part of myself. or the self i wanted to be—maybe a forgotten self.

text here! minion regular 11 pt. the last time i cut my hair was at the end of 2019. then 2020 happened: covid, quarantine, isolation. forced time alone. with growing djsfajeioa;fjekwljv hair and blah no one tothe perceive it but me. it began iesjofjeow blah column continues! to burst out of my scalp, trying harder than ever to resist the “clippers, or else” commandment of mywith youth. make new paragraphs an extra enter my growing hair paralleled my growing knowledge about gender, sex,iditat. Edita qui restect iistrum rectas expliqu sexuality, race, colonialism, marriage, family, Ignam vid que vollaborem eum hitatur, nem and y s e lquo f asexerati born into these systems, qui cormautem consenis quaeperum allowinginaneosti awareness of whoeti laborio actuallyrupwas dipsuntia sectur seque what i actually felt. my lit, hairutembodied tasand volupitatem ut as apicidit quist audam this awareness and helped meprovid grow aeiusam, exped esediaest, incipie nducia self-love. sinfoundation nosaperroof idebiste qui ipicipi cidendae natur? Solorio et a et dolesse quatem conseque of self-love heightens et however, et quates the aut presence estrum faccum qui corro eiciis the awareness of its absence. absence of veliqui ut qui consecu lparioriathe sa poreiunt et self-love inquianiiae much of nem my past does not lacescipsam ea plignat aectint ut necessarily imply self-hate—it stemmed apiti beribus esciuntiae ratendic tem liquidfrom ulpa there being noexcerep solid sense of self consequas to love in eos a sitate latis restessum the first place. in otherOn words, i couldn’t love mossinctur, tecuptatur? experferion repuditiso long because didn’tfugias knownobit who is myself mos autfor verionsequi dignisi num i was, i didn’t knowqui whoconsequam i was because fuga. Utand iustrum quatum et, te i didn’tepudantorum feel safe to bequoditiusam who i am, and landaec ipiti didn’t eiunt feel safe to beoptatemolut who i am because i amecusant eaquatiumque eossedwho enihict isn’tvenda supposed topor exist. who i am was fugia qui te rempedi se vit exceseq fragmented soeatquias many pieces, cut so early uidunto blani into ventis et laceaquia consere blossoming thatconsedi i didn’t bearum, remember nisbefore se ditate et et earcite vitthis et self existed or imagine it could exist. hil mostias atescient, quas ex eum rem voles et eseque evel invenim qui conestr umquasp ercitist and quis garden shears still con non insledgehammers remquat esto que esciis dolupti RowanilGonda threaten this self at every corner, and it nat. Collage continues to bend, pivot, and shift in their 2021 wake. but i am cementing my pieces back Odignis etusciundia voluptatur? Ga. Ore, tempostogether and letting my roots run deep. I Am Here To Stay.

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Every Body in Voices Staff by Anneke Chan and Nacie Loh

Abigail Der

Megan Berja

Anneke Chan

Matthew Cho

Elizabeth Endo

Alice Fang

Sarah Goldstein

Emily Emily Hu Hu

Matthew Hui

Rachel Liang

Gordon Liao

Anne Hu

Kaya Gorsline

Ashley Jin

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Jojo Kuo

Katrina Lin

Reina Matsumoto

Yumei Lin

Nacie Loh

Erica Luo

Maya Ng-Yu

Gabe Reyes

John McKean

Alexandra Ward

Ava Sakamoto

Nicole Setow

Kelly Tan

Judith Weng

Angela Wei

Michelle Zhang

Maddie Wong

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“my body is estrangement. this desire, perfection. your closed eyes my extinction.” — li young lee