UAAO Zine Ed. 5 - This Past Year

TABLE OF CONTENTS pg. 2

SHOOTING STAR — Chelsea Padilla

pg. 6

PHOTOGRAPHY —Yoon Kim

pg. 7

PHOTOGRAPHY, MODELS & ILLUSTRATION—Nellie Shih

pg. 8

AMAR AKBAR ANTHONY: UPHOLDING THE POLICE STATE THROUGH RELIGIOUS PLURALISM — Ashvin Pai

pg. 11

june, perhaps july now — Nicole Tooley

pg. 12

anatomy of rojin (& OTHER WORKS) — Rojin Shirwan

pg. 14

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM THE ISLAMIC FIGURE OF SATAN — Zainab Hakim

pg. 16

HER — Anonymous

pg. 17

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE RECIPE— Anonymous

pg. 18

SHE LIKES SILENCE, I NEED THE NOISE — Ally Choi

pg. 20

an honors thesis (& artwork) — Jacob Sirhan

pg. 26

CHILDHOOD ARRIVALS: A DESERVING IMMIGRANT NARRATIVE— Anonymous

pg. 28

WE’RE THE MILLERS: CAPITALIZING OF THE DRUG WAR AND VILLAINIZING MEXICO — Claire Pelletier

pg. 32

PHOTO ESSAY: CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’— Lola Yang

pg. 39

LETTER TO A DEAD FRIEND — Aarushi Ganguly

pg. 40

PHOTOGRAPHY —Duy Nguyen

pg. 41

A FLY (& ARTWORK) —Zeyuan Hu

pg. 42

PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS — Jack Wiarda

pg. 44

ARTWORK — Nami Kaneko

pg. 45

MS.MARVEL/KAMALA KHAN: MORPHING MULTICULTURALISM INTO INDIVIDUALISM — Gina Liu

pg. 49

AN INTERVIEW WITH JANE-WILDER — Nikki Rossiter

UAAO Zine Edition 5 — THIS PAST YEAR Within this zine, we hope to showcase what life has been like for a variety of our community members within the timeframe of the past year. Now, more than two years after the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, community care is integral. Community and cultural organizing is rendered necessary in the face of the current political, societal, and, well, regular climate — not only for activism, but for what comes before, after and in between as well. Small joys, rest and celebration (all of which can be found in art) are non-negotiable to the vitality of both individuals and communities, especially in the face of oppression. So, too, is expression, both joyful and solemn: we invite you to join our spaces, to organize with us, and to engage in community care and love.

SHOOTING STAR — Chelsea Padilla On the first cold night of his first American winter, Isko watches a star fall out of the sky.

He’d been walking home from the campus library with two books tucked under his arm, carefully picking through snow-covered sidewalks on the way back to his dorm building.

But he stops as soon as he notices the star, craning his neck up to look at the sky. For a moment, a thin line of bright, white-blue light streaks across the shadows above him before disappearing, fading into the dark horizon.

Back home, his father used to tell him little folktales before bed, a soft chorus of crickets and cicadas and warm night air wafting in from the window. Storytelling had been a strategic move on his father’s part – he would change the language of the story each night, going from Bisaya to Spanish to English. The ones about the shooting stars had always been Isko’s favorite.

“It’s good luck to see a shooting star falling,” his father had told him.

“But it’s even better luck if you meet the star yourself.”

Each star, he said, has a body, heart, and soul – but even more importantly, an immense amount of pg. 2

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magic ability, greater than any human magician.

“More powerful than you?” Isko had asked. “More powerful than you and Mama?”

His father laughed. Outside Isko’s bedroom window, the molave tree next to their house laughed with him.

Isko had been too young to understand what the tree was saying – his parents hadn’t yet taught him how.

But he could hear its branches rustling, as if an invisible gust of wind had moved them.

“Oh, yes,” his father said. “Far more powerful than either of us. A star can grant any wish you want.”

“Have you ever met one?”

His father shook his head. “I’ve only seen pictures in the paper. Stars fall, but it’s very rare.” He squeezed Isko’s shoulder. “But maybe you’ll get lucky.”

The memory makes Isko smile.

But then the wind blows, biting at his cheeks and hands, and he remembers where he is.

Isko glances up again. The other stars in the sky seem fixed to the black background of the night, distant and soundless. It’s so quiet at night in winter, he realizes.

The streets around him are still, the trees silent. Asleep, like the blades of grass buried beneath the snow.

He wouldn’t be able to hear their thoughts even if he tried.

His fingers gripping the spines of his library books are beginning to feel too bare, almost raw in the bitter cold.

He thinks he would ask a fallen star for gloves if he could.

Adjusting to the cold is taking longer than Isko thought it would.

At home, he could never shake the feeling of heat, as if warmth had always been a part of him, soaked into his blood and threaded into his bones. The two monsoon seasons – the amihan and the habagat – and the small breaks in between used to be all he’d ever known. Warm winds rustling against the pale green leaves of the narra trees, the leftover paper lanterns from Christmas hanging from the roof, swaying, the candles inside flickering. The breeze carrying the sweet smell of his mother’s sampaguitas as the white blossoms whisper to him from their vines.

Even still, he’d enjoyed the fall semester and how summer had cooled into autumn. He’d watched as the

trees slowly shifted to shades of red and orange and yellow, listening as their voices quieted to soft murmurs.

The cold had been bearable, then.

Winter is an entirely different beast.

Isko hates how the wind wraps around his body, bites at his skin.

Whenever he steps outside, the air is cold, foreign. Sharp, like a knife slicing at his cheeks whenever he walks around campus. And the stillness – the silence. It makes him ache for home.

He’s made a habit of lingering near the radiator in the common room every morning before he leaves the dorms for class. His roommate Charles gives him a look when he notices Isko standing by the radiator for the first time. He checks his wristwatch. “Don’t you have class?”

Isko shrugs, opening his wool coat to usher in one final wave of heat.

“Yes,” he says, “and I don’t need to leave for another minute.”

Charles snorts. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad if you layer up. And it’d be even better if you charmed your coat with a heating spell.”

Isko resists the urge to roll his eyes.

As if it’s that easy. Charles had grown up with winter. His parents had likely taught him heating spells, just as pg. 3

Isko’s parents had taught him how to speak to plants. He imagines a younger version of Charles toddling around with his hands full of snow, unfazed.

“I think I only know cooling spells,” Isko says lightly.

“Oh,” Charles repeats, blinking.

“I’ve got a book on heating spells up in our room I can give to you when you get back. You’re a pensionado for a reason, so you’ll get the hang of it eventually, right?”

The corners of Isko’s mouth twitch upwards. He closes the buttons on his coat and lifts the strap of his school bag onto his shoulder.

“Maybe.”

As he leaves, a fern in the corner of the room parrots Charles’s words.

You’re a pensionado for a reason!

Isko does not, in fact, get the hang of it.

That night, back in the common room, he starts out small. Charming an entire coat had seemed a little too ambitious, and if he messed up – what then? He’d end up without a functioning coat at all, and he’d rather not waste his scholarship money to buy a new one. So he settles on trying to cast a spell on a button. In the end, pg. 4

he casts the spell too hot. Isko almost burns a button-shaped hole into one of the wooden tables.

Isko brushes whatever’s left of the button into the trash can. In its wake, it leaves a soot stain on the table’s smooth brown surface.

“Hell,” he mutters.

Across the room, Isko hears Charles laugh. “Things are sounding unsuccessful over there.”

Isko looks over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. Charles is sprawled across the couch, the latest issue of the campus newspaper in his hands.

One of his friends from across the hall is sitting next to him, flipping through a thick red textbook titled Theory of Magic. Dirty blonde, glasses. He wears a stiff collared shirt, clearly pressed, and a sweater vest that screams money. Isko can’t remember his name.

“You would’ve said the same thing if you stained a table with a burnt button,” Isko says.

That earns him another laugh from Charles. “Maybe you should practice your heating spells on a non-flammable surface. You know, like – not something made of wood?”

“Maybe the book you gave Reyes should have said something about

that,” Dirty-blonde-glasses says. For a split second, Isko’s thoughts snag.

Reyes. Some students – and professors – only ever call him by his last name, clearly avoiding his first name even though they’ll say the first names of his white classmates. Like they’re incapable of saying Isko, as if it’s too Filipino for them. As if Isko didn’t come from Francisco. “Come on, Charles. You should know better.”

“What?” There’s a frown on Charles’s face. “I’m only trying to help. You can’t fault me for that.”

Dirty-blonde-glasses raises an eyebrow. “The guy’s not from here. Some things need to be stated explicitly for our little brown brothers.”

Isko stiffens. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the potted fern is just slightly mirroring his posture.

He can hear it hissing, its leaves shaking. Little brown brothers. The phrase had first been used by an American politician, and Isko has wanted to rip that moment from existence ever since. Each time he hears it is a cruel reminder of home. The words are derogatory and paternalistic in the worst way possible.

If Charles notices Isko’s change in demeanor, he doesn’t say anything

about it. Isko shouldn’t be so surprised.

“Maybe it should’ve,” he agrees, his voice a little dismissive. “Listen, Isko, did you see the news today?”

Warily, Isko shakes his head.

Charles flashes a headline at him: Fallen Star Enrolls at ‘U.’ “Oh.” Isko thinks back to the other night. The bitter cold and the shooting star. He glances down at the dark stain on the table. “I think I saw that star fall, actually.”

“Did you really?” Charles grins. “I’d love to meet him. The paper says he’s in the history department with you.”

“Maybe I’ll see him in class.” Isko runs his thumb over the soot mark, idly. “And maybe he’ll grant my wish or something. My father used to say that stars could do that.”

Dirty-blonde-glasses raises an eyebrow again, but he doesn’t look up from his textbook. “How quaint.”

“It is a nice thought,” says Charles, pleasantly.

Again. Isko bites at his tongue. The fern in the corner lets out a scream, and for once, Isko wishes that the others could hear it too.

Chelsea is a Filipino-American woman with roots in Davao and Cebu.

pg. 5

PHOTOGRAPHY —Yoon Kim

Yoon is a queer Korean-American woman.

pg. 6

PHOTOGRAPHY, MODELS & ILLUSTRATION—Nellie Shih

Nellie is an Asian American creative.

pg. 7

AMAR AKBAR ANTHONY: UPHOLDING THE POLICE STATE THROUGH RELIGIOUS PLURALISM — Ashvin Pai Amar Akbar Anthony is a popular Bollywood masala film made in 1977. Produced in the aftermath of India’s tumultuous and traumatic Emergency period, the film is usually hailed as an attempt to reunite a fractured nation through the messages of religious pluralism and composite nationalism. However, through its melding of Hinduism with the state, Amar Akbar Anthony conceives of state-sponsored, secular Hinduism as the backbone of religious pluralism in India. Though such a view champions basic tenets of religious pluralism and composite nationalism, the main function of pluralism in Amar Akbar Anthony is to uphold and celebrate the Indian police state.

To begin with, Amar Akbar Anthony presents secular Hinduism as the backbone of religious pluralism in India. In some sense, the premise of the film makes this conclusion inevitable. The fact that Amar, Akbar, and Anthony are all lost brothers ensures that their camaraderie and cooperation in the film is not driven by a respect and understanding of each pg. 8

other’s religions, but rather the uncovering of their mutual blood ties, especially problematic because these blood ties are Hindu. Though Anthony goes on to become a Christian and Akbar a Muslim, the opening sequence serves to remind the viewer that no matter where the three brothers end up religiously, they are all cut from the same mutual Hindu cloth.

This idea of a mutual Hindu cloth is exemplified in the manner through which Akbar learns of his true familial origins. The day after learning that Bharti is his mother and Kishanlal is his father, Akbar rushes to Bharti in order to inform her that her husband is still alive. But rather than tell her directly, Akbar takes a roundabout approach. Bringing her a box of vermillion he excitedly says “I’ve brought your whole life in this little box, mother” (2:08:07 Desai).

Akbar continues, exclaiming “the forehead which lay barren, apply this vermillion on it!” (2:08:22 Desai).

Confused, Bharti initially acts in offense, but after Akbar explains to her that her “nuptials are still intact” she

bursts into tears of joy and acquiesces to applying the powder (2:09:03 Desai). Just as the vermillion means that Bharti’s forehead is no longer “barren”, the discovery of her husband’s survival means that Bharti is no longer a “barren” woman.

Not only does the vermillion reignite Bharti’s identity as a Hindu wife, it also signifies Akbar’s recognition of his Hindu origins. For it is Akbar who brings the vermillion in the first place and it is Akbar who encourages his mother to apply it. Bharti, on the other hand, only takes a passive role in re-accepting this Hindu womanhood. By choosing to present this scene through the context of a Hindu tradition, the viewer is made to understand that Akbar has not only rediscovered his roots in the biological sense, but also rediscovered his Hindu spiritual roots.

However, it is important to note that though Anthony and Akbar recognize their Hindu origins, they never re-convert to Hinduism. In this way, the film “rejects the political narrative that casts Christians and Muslims as wayward, misled Hindus, even while it appears to support the idea that all Indians have some essential ‘secular Hinduism’ at the

core of their being” (140 Elison et al).

As such, the film does not essentialize Indian identity into Hindu identity, thus promoting a sort of basic composite nationalism which allows for the existence of non-Hindu religious minorities in India, even if it mis-characterizes their origins and heritage.

Having established that a backdrop secular Hinduism is necessary for religious pluralism, we now turn to the question of how such a pluralism is to be maintained. Amar Akbar Anthony argues that secular Hinduism must be maintained by force through the state. This is accomplished by using the state to concretize the thus far ambiguous notion of ‘secular Hinduism’.

This conflation can be seen in the character Amar. The only one of the three brothers to remain a Hindu after the family’s separation, the film conveniently assigns him the role of police officer. Unlike his two brothers, who are adopted by overtly religious men, Amar is found by Inspector Khanna, a police chief, who is a “secular Hindu, privy to the power and privilege of India’s dominant religion but more concerned with the rules of state than those of Hindu pg. 9

orthodoxy” (39 Elison et al). Amar certainly takes after his adopted father, “he is never seen in prayer or in temple, his home has no shrine, and he wears no identifying religious insignia” (39-40 Elison et al). Further, unlike Anthony or Akbar who are imbued with stereotypical mannerisms, Amar is never portrayed in a caricatured manner.

So if it’s not religion, prayer, or caricature, what does Amar spend his time doing? As it turns out, Amar is always a police officer; he does not have “a private life separate from his role as state functionary” (54 Elison et al). This lack of distinction between public and private can be seen clearly in Amar’s relationship with his wife Lakshmi.

When they first meet, Lakshmi is posing as a prostitute and Amar as a client. Yet through dramatic irony, the viewer understands what Lakshmi does not, Amar is really a police officer out on a sting operation. As such, even before Lakshmi and Amar meet, dramatic irony begins to create a blurred distinction between Amar’s personal and public life. One gets the impression that Amar’s private life doesn’t really exist; “personal Amar” is just a character Amar plays when pg. 10

outside of his official policing role.

Yet, even after Lakshmi attempts to extort Amar and learns of his true identity as a police officer, their relationship does not leave the realm of policing and criminality. After Lakshmi is caught by Amar she pleads with him to arrest her. Amar refuses, returning with Lakshmi to her house to arrest her step-mother who coerced her into a life of crime. After further learning that Lakshmi and her grandmother are at risk of eviction from their home, Amar offers to take them into his own home. At this point, the rising violins of the background music and Lakshmi’s coy smile convey that Amar has done a noble and moral act (47:35 Desai).

Yet this is anything but a moral act. In an extrajudicial enforcement of the law, Amar has essentially kidnapped a woman. The film’s portrayal of this kidnapping as moral is made all the more concerning given that such kidnappings of women were very real acts perpetrated by the Indian police during the Central Recovery Operation of 1948-56 (58 Elison et al). Even more ominous, during the romance number in the film, we see that Lakshmi has developed a sort of Stockholm syndrome

for Amar, clutching his framed picture to her breast and doing his laundry while singing “if you tell me [you love me] I will die for you!” (1:31:36 Desai). Lakshmi has also gone through a distinct transformation appearance wise. Gone are her Western/European clothes from when the viewer first saw her, traded instead for a traditional sari and modest hairstyle. In other words, by bringing her into his home Amar has rehabilitated Lakshmi from prostitute to “wifey” material. In this sense, Amar and Lakshmi’s relationship never left the context of policing. Like prison, the purpose of Lakshmi’s internment in Amar’s home is her personal rehabilitation. Amar engages in a romantic relationship with Lakshmi not out of love for her, but because it is his duty as a police officer to catch and rehabilitate criminals.

Through his conduct towards Lakshmi, the viewer understands that Amar not only has no life outside of his role as a state functionary but is, indeed, a direct embodiment of the state itself. The viewer is led to an inevitable conclusion; secular Hinduism and the state are one and the same.

june, perhaps july now — Nicole Tooley this is a summer full of silent surrenders pheromones escaping my belly spilling on the sidewalk and love feels exceptional these days i watch street lights arc and remember mountains. both containers illuminating bodies i start my sentences with, there is something beautiful… and come up short surrendering to language surrendering to wayward rivers and interstate markings that carry me home there, i slumber in surrender let my head get caught in a hoodie steep my ligaments in soft sheets for this body of loving is tired

Ashvin is South Asian & Indian-American.

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pg. 11

in childhood videotapes, apparently 19. i don’t watch videos of dead little — Rojin Shirwan girls 20. not so milky skin wraps my 1. brittle touch of cindered split worry-infused flesh whole 21. i tried ends 2. once, i lied about curly hair purifying my skin from their searing in elementary school halls 3. thirsinning eyes 22. instead, i melted teen years later, my hair cascades their eyes and lathered it all over 23. ripples of collecting puddles of stress hateful legs shiver from kentucky 4. forehead creases from furrowed (tap) water squall 24. around my brows 5. demolished ripe flesh of waist is a basket for picking cherries teeth indented lips 6. a lady once told 25. someone once asked me why do me i had the eyes and lips of womyou always write about cherries– as en from dubai 7. pill-popping locked a child i ate pitless cherries picked by jaw 8. stop imagining yourself as an my mother’s hands, then i swallowed outsider they told me, i told them cherry pits to make my stomach feel how can i stop myself from believwhole, then i coughed up blood but ing myself? 9. flocking nights cause i liked how the pits rot flesh and sagging muddled under eyes 10. my thrash my thoughts, so now i spit sick tarot cards like to tell me i have too to my stomach…it’s a twisted game many swords in my back 11. cher26. i told them i don’t know why 27. ry cough syrup coats the insides of clickity clackity joints 28. even my my crackled throat 12. i’m waiting joints seem to be a tell 29. my foot to taste memories of primal days taps incessantly when it’s that time where i could scream till my voice for my fingers to fall into formation starts bleeding 13. pools of ashes and and my mouth to christen the bud cigarette butts adorn my clavicle, 30. my father once told me that we trace the trail 14. unzip the zipper should treasure sparks because they and you’ll see ribs stitched together create 31. all i know is that a spark with red wine twine 15. try to poke on a windy day causes the flames 32. through these holes 16. it’s all fun stitched to my big toe is my how-to and games, the boys say 17. my wrists handle tag 33. it reads in petite amare thrashing with hungry veins 18. biguous words: this body is a tainted my finger bones used to flock around garden.

anatomy of rojin

pg. 12

in the name of purifying (a poem about the kurds)

Rojin is Kurdish/Middle Eastern & queer

— Rojin Shirwan consecrated dirt roads are my homeland/you wouldn’t understand/holy red is the saint i worship/you wouldn’t understand/the poppy fields are soaked in once palpitated pulses/you wouldn’t understand/constellations that glow of rested boys scatter our sky/you wouldn’t understand/worn-out limbs coated by age rest in wicker chairs/ you wouldn’t understand/we are a “malady”/you wouldn’t understand/ brief stays before the dust shall rain down on our village once again/you wouldn’t understand/thrash thrash thrash/you wouldn’t understand/our graceful skinned knees refuse to fall/ you wouldn’t understand/we bear the mark of the sun burned in our skin/ you wouldn’t understand/they envy our flesh that reaps this land/you wouldn’t understand/slivers of the moon keep hopeful mothers alive/you wouldn’t understand/we wrestle with lucid drowsy faces of holy red/you wouldn’t understand/martyrdom is etched with our name/you wouldn’t understand/we flock up to mountains because our saint is holy red.

4-7. broken record — Rojin Shirwan I consume, i am a ravenous jangled mechanism that brokenly dry swallows.

Soft baby blue pills of willingly wallowed weeps.

I look in a mirror, i swallow I see their dull stare, i swallow I notice i am outside(r), i swallow I sleep, i swallow I wake up the morning after, i swallow I can’t focus my personal lens, i swallow I see black soot under eyes, i swallow I close the door goodbye after they leave, i swallow I hang up the phone after the call with my mom, i swallow I remember my old Kentucky home, i swallow I rest, i swallow I dry swallow and down down down it goes, down the hole of my esophagus.

I am mad. pg. 13

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM THE ISLAMIC FIGURE OF SATAN — Zainab Hakim Zainab is brown, queer, muslim and the child of immigrants.

The tenth century Iraqi epistle, The Case of the Animals versus Man, tells of a group of talking animals who testify against humans before the King of the Jinn. They spend many pages giving many compelling reasons for their superiority over the human but at the end, it is determined that, despite this cogent argument, humans are, in fact, of a higher status. This is because of our potential. The control we have over our own actions can lead us very far from God or very close to Him. Satan is often seen as a being that is wholly separate from the human self, an external figure on who to, at least partially, place blame for our sins. It would be more accurate, though, to understand Iblis as a reflection of our own human potential and to then look at him and see just how far we can go in whatever direction we choose.

Since the creation of Adam, it seems that humanity has been in this sort of reciprocal relationship with Iblis. Sura two tells us of the initial encounter between the two parties: pg. 14

“When We told the angels, ‘Bow down before Adam,’ they all bowed.

But not Iblis, who refused and was arrogant: he was one of the disobedient. We said, ‘Adam, live with your wife in this garden. Both of you eat freely there as you will, but do not go near this tree, or you will both become wrongdoers.’ But Satan made them slip, and removed them from the state they were in. We said, ‘Get out, all of you! You are each other’s enemy” (Qur’an 2:34-36) Adam, upon creation, was a test for Iblis and then Iblis, by God’s will, became a test, not only for Adam but for all of humanity. There is a realization here that Iblis, this creature that we are always taught to fear, is much more similar to us than we would like to think. Just like humanity, Iblis is limited by a lack of knowledge.

When asked by God why he didn’t bow down to Adam, he replied “I am better than him: You created me from fire and him from clay” (Qur’an, 7:12). His literal understanding of monotheism precludes him from un-

derstanding why God could possibly command him to bow to another.

He sees Adam as only a clay statue, not seeing the divine spirit God has placed within. Furthermore, the expulsion of Adam from Paradise in the Tales of the Prophets is strikingly similar to that of Iblis from heaven.

Just as all of the angels force Iblis out, all of paradise turns against Adam and Eve (Al-Kisai, 40-42).

Both experience violent expulsions and their appearances are changed as well. Iblis is transformed into the devil and Adam’s “crown flew off his head, his rings squirmed off his hands, and everything that had been on both him and Eve fell off” (Al-Kisai, 41). They are all made to feel ashamed in this way. It is almost as if humanity and Satan are two mirrors placed across from each other with God as the light in between them. Ultimately, we are all His instruments.

In sura 95, the Qur’an states “We create man in the finest state then reduce him to the lowest of the low, except those who believe and do good deeds” (95:4-5). Clearly, the possibilities for us in this world are many and our status is subject to change.

Iblis, through his confusing and often contradictory behavior, embodies

this range. His refusal to bow can of course be read as arrogance but it can also be read as sincere devotion to God. God certainly expels him for his arrogance (2:34, 7:13), but, the mystic Ghazzali controversially asserted that “who does not learn tauhid from satan is an infidel”.

This multiplicity of meanings can be found again and again in regards to Iblis. In The Tales of The Prophets, he is repeatedly referred to as “Iblis the Accursed”. He is also said to be called “The Worshipper”. His worship was greater than that of the others so “God raised him to the heaven of the Earth, where he worshiped God for a thousand years” (Al-Kisai, 22). In fact, God continued to elevate him until he reached the seventh heaven (Al-Kisai, 22). The angels would say of Iblis, “God has given this servant an ability to obey God such as he has given to no angel” (Al-Kisai, 22). Iblis, just like humanity and unlike angels, has free will. He can grow his love for the Creator beyond even the capacity of the angels.

Not only does Iblis perform the best and the worst of actions, he speaks and acts in ways that appear to combine the two. In Iblis’ query to God in The Tales of the Prophets, God tells pg. 15

Iblis he “will surely fill hell with you all” (Al-Kisai, 51). He continues saying Iblis will dwell in places of filth and prey on women to which Iblis responds “By thy Might and Splendor [...] I shall put love of women into the hearts of men” (Al-Kisai, 51). In this moment when Iblis is promising to do a horrible thing, he is still not only invoking God but decisively following his orders.

In the poem “Satan wakes Mo’aviya for the dawn prayer,” Iblis explains to Mo’aviya his role as the devil. He says the following: “I can’t make good men bad-I’m not their Maker!

I call to God’s path-I’m not their Creator!

I can’t make fair men ugly suddenly; I’m just a mirror for each kind, you see!” (Rumi, 157).

Satan is a reflection, not just of who we are, but of who we can be. He shows us just how expansive our free will is and, consequently, the power of the gift God has given humanity as well as the enormity of the trust He has placed in us. Most importantly, he proves that there is no restriction on our devotion to Allah and no limit on how much we can love Him. pg. 16

Works Cited: Haleem, Abdul, translator. The Qur’an. Oxford University Press, 2018.

Kisāʼī, Muḥammad ibn ʻAbd Allāh. Tales of The Prophets: Qiṣaṣ Al-Anbiyāʾ. Translated by Wheeler M. Thackston, Great Books of the Islamic World ; KAZI Publications [distributor], 1997.

Rumi, Jalal Al-Din. The Masnavi. Translated by Jawid Mojaddedi, Oxford University Press, 2007.

HER — Anonymous I can’t tell them that she kissed me in the garden that night while the cicadas watched.

She was soft, nearly velveteen, with palms of silk that smelled of cream and lavender.

We would listen to the ocean sing to the moon with our legs and hands and hair intertwined, our breaths heavy and overlapping, ebbing and flowing.

Her voice would dip in honey and ice, stick to my throat, drip down my stomach, slide down my thighs.

I can’t tell them that I was the one who sent the peonies her father found first, that she yelled at me for almost giving away our secret, that she hugged me while I sobbed and apologized.

When our parents weren’t home we would curl up under blankets, joke about our wedding dresses and lily bouquets, whisper about running away.

I can’t stand up in my fine church dress to say a few words about her— that she loved them too much to leave but was too scared to stay—because I’d start crying, and they’d start to ask questions that I swore not to answer.

I knew too late what she was going to do and couldn’t stop her. She chose her exit and left me here alone, dreaming of her last magnolia smile.

I can’t look at her rouged lips, her fragile eyelashes on ghostly skin, her long, lacy dress, the blooming rose in her fingers, the beauty of her composure.

I can’t, because there are too many tears in my eyes.

high altitudes) OR .5tsp baking soda + .5 tsp baking powder if you want that soft center/ crispy edge OR 1 tsp baking powder instead of soda for more cakelike texture 2tsp hot water .5tsp salt 3c all purpose flour 1c semisweet chocolate chips 1c dark chocolate chips (two types of chocolate adds ~pizzazz~ but if you suck and only have one type, so be it)

1. preheat oven to about 350F/175C, my oven doesn’t really work so the temp is always a tossup.

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE throw everything together and mix well.* RECIPE— Anonymous 2. cover and fridge for like an hour (optional, for chewier cookies).

Yields a large number of cookies 1c softened butter (melt if you must 3. drop spoonfuls onto an ungreased pan. size of spoonful is not my rebut don’t you dare put cold butter sponsibility. space like an inch apart into this) minimum, more if you squish them 1c white sugar + 1c packed brown down flat flat flat or have used melted sugar (.75c of each if you don’t like butter. really sweet stuff) a. squish down a tiny bit for softer OR 2c packed brown sugar for that cookies butterscotch flavor b. squish down 50-75% for flatter 2 eggs (room temp) cookies 2tsp vanilla extract Continued on next page...

1tsp baking soda (.75 if you live at pg. 17

4. bake ~10 min; begin to check lovingly like a helicopter parent at about 7 min.

5. eat. burn your mouth whilst doing so, then realize you should let it cool for a few minutes first. *if you have more patience, cream together butter and sugars first, then beat in eggs and vanilla. dissolve the baking soda/powder in the hot water, then add it to the batter along with the salt, flour, and chocolate chips. calories: absolutely none fat: no sugars: at least one gram sodium: a little bit vitamins: you’re not eating cookies for the vitamins iron: maybe

since she left in August. It’s kinda unfair, she says to no one at dinner. Not only has he outgrown me, but he has it all figured out, four years younger.

She gesticulates, chopsticks whacking the air, at the place her brother usually sits. He stops by to eat dinner later that night; she cleans his dishes come morning. At least she’s of some use. The time leading up to the dwindling end-of-year countdown is spent tapping her feet together, drawn into her thoughts, horizontal. Her brother has apparently become allergic to staying home. The rare times he’s in, Mr. Laidback’s always occupied.

With his red rubber ball. He bounces it against the wall, the floor, updown, up-down. She’s on the brink of yelling, Shut up, hand it over!, when This author is queer & Asian American. like clockwork, the thumps stop. And SHE LIKES SILENCE, I he’s out again.

NEED THE NOISE In the meantime, she worries. Worries that they’re not close and about — Ally Choi the barely-there greeting. And that Ally is Korean American. they haven’t caught up yet, when When Oldest Sibling returns home Christmas Eve is already tomorrow. from her first semester of college, A big sister knows and keeps all her brother isn’t there. Instead, he’s the secrets of the world (she doesn’t, out and about with all one-hundred- hasn’t figured them out yet). Doesn’t and-one of his friends. Jetlagged, she he want to be in on them? carries her luggage up four flights of On the blue bathroom tile, she stays stairs. The elevator’s been jammed in the same place so long that the aupg. 18

tomatic lights click off. Doesn’t bother waving her arms to get them back on. Shadowed, she peers through the door.

The kid across the hall – ball spinning on his palm – is bathed in pulsing LEDs. To tell the truth, he can’t even listen to three of his own consecutive breaths without feeling his heart beat straight out of his chest, itching. But where to scratch?

Christmas now, and here she was, couch-ridden, watching reruns. He’s barely uttered a word to her this whole day. Giving no indication, he plops himself down, sitting without asking. Because wasn’t that the point? The question of whether they were ‘close’ or not did not apply, nor matter. The rule of thumb, the principle of the thing, a sibling, is that she can just exist and he’s not forced to like her or playact in front of her, but can slacken his tight-knit, tie-doneup self and not freak or flip out. Like her, every day he gropes the ground blindly, seeking something to make him feel solid and okay.

He tosses Ball, she catches. Stops its spinning, handles with care.

Laying her feet on the glass table, she holds it with him. The tree lights reflect on its surface, like a sheet of

water holding its breath, just waiting to break. He places his feet beside hers; she braces for ripples that bloom from his heels.

There is not a splash.

Two ships in the night bathe in stillness, which neither strains to slice.

Ever since she left for college, the house has been all too quiet.

The night before Christmas was no exception. Not a creature was stirring, but his ball did bounce. Toppling out of his hand, it drums erratic, ringing like a death march gong.

His heart skips at its last beat, and he skitters over creaky floors to retrieve it.

At the end of the hall lies Older Sibling’s doorway, closed-shut. His sister is often in her room, but she never leaves it open.

“I feel best when I’m alone,” she’d once said. Well, that made one of them.

There is a fine line between lonely and alone. When you’re alone, who is there to gulp down your noise? To gulp up theirs?

Boys are such bundles of energy, his mom said when he was younger.

As if voicing this aloud manufactured her son into its corporeal form, he pg. 19

became fizzy. Bubbly and sociable, a spitter when he spoke. He’d pour himself into each person, with each word, but always mis-spilled. Fizzled out, he’d see the stained carpet, realizing too late that there was no glass at which to take aim.

With a mother out on the twelvehour workday, and Older Sis’s room off-limits, out the door it was. Avoiding home became a habit before he knew it. Only natural– taking off was in the family gene after all.

Younger brothers never know what they need. This is where big sisters are supposed to come in.

After a month of no calls, the radio silence started to get old. Hyper-ridden with the knowledge that he’s been forgotten, he suddenly felt, with pressing alarm, that he would forget her too. So of course he snuck into her room, to look for traces she might have left behind. Upon fretting at the near-purged shelves, he found this ball he used to play with– probably confiscated per petty annoyance– and took it back.

He wishes he were portable like the knick-knacks, once-shelved. So she could pack him into her suitcase and take him with her. Or ship himself later, a package she would light up at. pg. 20

For now, the ball has become a second limb. He tight-fists it. He uses it to make more noise.

But it’s Christmas, the most silent night of all.

He has been a dick (the way brothers are) her whole stay, and yet she welcomes him without ceremony.

Bears the lull of noise like it’s nothing.

The ball clams in his hand. To hand it over is so hard, but he does.

He lets himself unravel, to feel cold on the warmest day of the year.

Part of him still feels his leg a-bounce, rattling the table. Like he wants to kick off and launch back out into the world again.

But she encases the boxy living room with her sisterly touch, wrapping them in with parcel paper. It’s bumpy being delivered to the post, but inside, it’s calm, quiet, content.

No jumping legs here.

an honors thesis (& artwork) — Jacob Sirhan This excerpt is taken from my honors thesis titled “Speculative (im)possibilities: Palestinian Futurisms in Diasporic Visual Art.” This section is the second part of my analysis for the second work of art I wrote about: Nation Estate, a short film

vitation “to revisit, rearticulate, and reshape the Question Of Palestine as a question about symbols.” To her, these symbols and objects that Palestinians use to represent their identity and their struggle are often cliché and thus lose their value—similar to the way that the idea of ‘nationhood’ as an end-goal has lost its utopic appeal for many. Reflecting on this loss, she uses these symbols as “though they are objects in a museum”—and this skyscraper estate does feel much like a museum, especially with the replicas of the cities and sites of historic Palestine as well as the floors “A gathering place for objects that for a “Heritage Museum” and “Nahave no place” tional Archives.”

Not only does Sansour’s work quesCrasnow takes this critique one step tion the role of the nation-state, but further. She agrees with Sansour that also the nationalist symbols that are these symbols are emptied of their associated with Palestinian national original meaning but claims that they identity. In Nation Estate, Sansour are now able to be “repurposed” and makes reference to many historical re-saturated with new meaning, parand iconographic symbols including ticularly a feminized one. With the the Right of Return key, the Pales“adoption and reimagining of tratinian flag, the keffiyeh pattern, the ditional Palestinian nationalist imMoon of Bethlehem, the olive tree, agery such as embroidery, the olive and the “Visit Palestine” poster. tree, and the keffiyeh, along with her Many of these symbols, as claimed by character’s pregnancy, she articulates Sansour and evident in the film, are a particularly feminized resistance emptied of their original meaning. contrary to typically masculinized With this film, Sansour poses an innarratives of colonization and liberdirected by Larissa Sansour. The film is part of a sci-fi trilogy, and weighs depictions of utopia and dystopia to provide opportunities to rethink and potentially intervene in the ideas of ‘the nation’—including statehood and Palestinian identity. The film depicts a future state of Palestine as a skyscraper, in which each historic village/city as well as iconic Palestinian sites and landmarks are replicated on their own floor. The premise of the film is that the Zionist state has encroached on so much land that the whole of Palestine has been reduced to a single skyscraper.

pg. 21

ation.” Crasnow’s claim captures a difficult sentiment to reckon with, in the fact that for Sansour to present the nationalist imagery associated with Palestinian identity as cliché or emptied of meaning, it might lead one to think Sansour is saying that these symbols thus have to be accepted as they are or be abandoned and devalued entirely. But symbols can be valuable and hold meaning to different people for various reasons, and Crasnow highlights how objects can evolve in meaning, and thus someone’s identification with them can also change. In giving these symbols new, more feminized meanings, Sansour not only furthers the critique of nationalism as something that is historically male-dominated and heteronormative, but also demonstrates the possibility and potential value of redefining and re-understanding Palestinianness and the future of Palestinian existence.

Revisiting the question of Palestine as a question of symbols allows one to see the objects Palestinians have historically and often still do place much value on as “[commodified symbols] in the name of resurrecting cultural heritage.” In using Palestinian national symbols as a cliché, pg. 22

this film almost “mocks the helpless situation of the stateless Palestinians and perhaps the nostalgic clinging to national symbols” given the museumized feel of many of them. This is especially visible when you recognize the clash of these objects and historical visuals with the futuristic, clean-line design of the estate. One notable example of this is the olive tree breaking through the floor of Sansour’s apartment, functioning as a symbol of the land yet also reduced to an impossible object kept in a living room like a houseplant (Figure 4). This is not to say that these cultural objects and symbols no longer have a significance in Palestinian histories and identities. But too much of an insistence on them might feel limiting to some; it might feel as if Palestinians are being reduced as a people and as an identity to relics (of disaster), as if the idea of Palestine itself is a museum rather than a ‘nation’ lived through people across space and time.

While this film imagines a way out of some constraints imposed on Palestinians by the occupation, it calls attention to different kinds of constraints: those that Palestinians impose on themselves and their iden-

tities as a people. These symbols are obviously significant, as they appear in abundance in Nation Estate—and notably much more so than in A Space Exodus. But the crucial question is then, why are they significant?

Is it to demonstrate their historical cultural value or to remark on how imposing, over-relied on, or even limiting they can be? I do not see ...

tique of the constructedness of Palestinian (national) identity and the reliance on nostalgia often behind it.

Palestinianness is described by writer and cultural producer Chrisoula Lionis and Nat Muller “as an identity that uses nostalgic motifs connected to pre-Nakba historical Palestine (for example, oranges, olive groves, agricultural landscapes, peasants).”

However, some scholars such as Sophia Azeb, have written about what Palestinianness will mean when Palestine is free. She poses the question: “What if we became Palestinians, together, in catastrophe?” That is, what if the understanding Palestinians have of themselves as a collecwhy both sentiments cannot be true, tive people—informed by the identity but by replicating the historical markers, symbols, and nostalgia that ‘nation’ in a single building, as an are often clung to—means that Palesassemblage of symbols, cultural obtinianness is limited to being defined jects, sites—everything that makes up by the suspended state of the “forev‘Palestine’ or the idea of a collective er-catastrophe.” What Azeb is alludPalestinian entity and history—San- ing to is finding new ways to define sour seems to be leading to the ques- ourselves—beyond disaster, beyond tions: What is Palestine? Is it “a col- the past. Looking at Nation Estate’s lection of things? a place? a people? critique of the nation-state and naan idea(l)? Is it something more; or tional identity markers with this lens, rather, can it be more? one can argue that Sansour is sugA critique of the markers of Palesgesting a reunderstanding of Palestinian national identity brings in a tinian identity as a malleable, unfixed potentially controversial idea: a criidentity that cannot be nor should be pg. 23

defined by any static symbol or other marker.

By utilizing the genre of Palestinian sci-fi to critique the conditions of the present, Sansour not only offers ways to imagine radical new futures but also radically different modes of existence. If our historical and present notions of identity are informed by disaster, where does that leave the future? Azeb offers another way to understand Palestinianness, as “always in the process of becoming Palestinian.” By asking who will Palestinians be in the future, it might allow for the “[insistence] that our future-selves are always in sight, that our freedom is always in sight.” A future-oriented reading of Nation Estate might still see the value in acknowledging historical symbols as part of a collective cultural history, but also take into consideration how Palestinians might try to move beyond fixed markers of identity, into the realm of possibility, imagination, and creation as a way to consider Palestinian futurity.

In Dawn, Octavia Butler phrases a question to speculate about the future of humanity in the face of extinction. Presented with the possibility of transcending their own self-conceptions of humanity, Butpg. 24

ler’s character Joseph asks: “What will we be, I wonder?” For Palestinians, I see a similarity in this to think about how to move beyond the historical self-conceptions of what being Palestinian means. I do not claim to have an answer to that, or to all of the themes I have drawn out from Nation Estate. But ultimately what I understand from Sansour is that her films present an invitation to enter the realm of the speculative, to enter a discussion about the things that Palestinians have historically placed value on or imposed on themselves— whether that be a utopic end-goal as a nation-state, a collection of national symbols and nationalism itself, or the idea of a static and definitive identity. If we take all of these various critiques about the ideas that make up the Palestinian ‘nation’—the nation-state, nationalism, and national-symbols, and thus a national identity that needs those objects and ideas to sustain it—we are ultimately asking not only what is Palestine?

But as Palestinians, what are we… what will we be…what do we want to be?

Jacob is queer & Palestinian.

Footnotes: (1) This section title is adopted from the title of a contribution to The JVC Palestine Portfolio (Journal of Visual Culture 20.2): “A Gathering Place for Objects That Have No Place: Nour Bishouty’s 1-130.”

(2) Hochberg, “‘Jerusalem, We Have a Problem,’” 45.

(3) Buali, “The State of a Nation: Larissa Sansour in Conversation with Sheyma Buali.”

(4) Crasnow, “Subverting Narratives of Occupation.”

(5) Ibid, 45.

(6) Hochberg, “‘Jerusalem, We Have a Problem,’” 44.

(7) Ibid, 43.

(8) El Shakry, “Palestine and the Aesthetics of the Future Impossible,” 683.

(9) For more on this idea, Professor of American Culture and Film, Television, and Media Umayyah Cable also discusses the idea of limited notions of Palestinianness in the context of compulsory Zionism and the politics of cultural authenticity: Umayyah Cable, “Projections of Palestine: Negotiating Diasporic Palestinian Identity in the United States through Film Festival Participation,” in Sajjilu Arab American: A Reader in SWANA Studies, ed. Louise Cainkar, Pauline Homsi Vinson, and Amira Jarmakani, Critical Arab American Studies, 2022, 191–201.

(10) In Muller’s “Lunar Dreams” where she references Lionis’ description of this concept, it is quoted as “Palestinianess.” However, other scholars such as Azeb spell it as “Palestinianness,” which is the spelling I have opted to use.

(11) Muller, “Lunar Dreams,” 131.

(12) Sophia Azeb, “Who Will We Be When We Are Free? On Palestine and Futurity,” THE FUNAMBULIST MAGAZINE, June 28, 2019, https://thefunambulist.net/ magazine/24-futurisms/will-free-palestine-futurity-sophia-azeb.

(13) Ibid.

(14) Ibid.

(15) Ibid.

(16) Octavia Butler, Dawn (New York, NY: Warner Books, 1997).

The events in Dawn, the first novel in Butler’s Xenogenesis trilogy, take place 250 years after a nuclear war. An alien race called the Oankali have rescued (or captured) the remaining surviving humans, including the main character Lilith, and have begun to make Earth habitable again. However, the Oankali are “gene traders” and the future prescribed for the survival of both species involves interspecies reproduction—an act many humans resist.

pg. 25

CHILDHOOD ARRIVALS: A DESERVING IMMIGRANT NARRATIVE— Anonymous “I decided then that I could never give anyone reason to doubt I was an American. I convinced myself that if I worked enough and achieved enough, I would be rewarded with citizenship.

I felt I could earn it” (Vargas). As a childhood arrival and DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) recipient myself, this quote from Jose Antonio Vargas hit really close to home. In the New York Times article

by Jose Antonio Vargas, “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant” and Karla Cornejo Villavicencio’s book entitled “The Undocumented Americans,” one has the opportunity to encounter the stories of childhood arrivals and gain insight into their life struggles and desires. From these texts, and informed by my own experience as a childhood arrival and DACA recipient, I argue that while stories of childhood arrival often serve as examples of exceptionalism and inspiration in the current political discourse, they present an interesting relationship to the deserving immigrant narrative. Notably, immigrant narratives often do this by using education as a means to attain pg. 26

and resolve the struggles in their own lives and the lives of their loved ones by attempting to access social mobility. Moreover, they have a particular desire that drives them to prove themselves to society and/or to their families. Despite this drive and desire for education, they continue to be on a journey with no resolution to the source of their frustrations, immigration status.

Education is presented in the cases of Vargas and Villavicencio as the means to a better future for themselves and/or their loved ones.

Throughout the Vargas piece, he demonstrates the many ways he’s been able to excel academically and in his career despite his circumstances. Similarly, Villavicencio excelled academically and in her career. For the sake of this argument, they represent two ways in which childhood arrivals/ DACA recipients struggle with a deserving immigrant narrative.

Jose Antonio Vargas represents a poisonous relationship to overachieving in hopes that it will lead to proving himself worthy of citizenship.

Even after having a steady career, he

indicated these same sentiments: “I convinced myself all would be O.K. if I lived up to the qualities of a “citizen”: hard work, self-reliance, love of my country” (Vargas). I remember feeling this same way every time I began to dwell on the unique obstacles in my path. I was 11 years old when DACA was announced. I cried with my mother that day in June of 2012 because I no longer felt the impending consequence of deportation for myself. Instead, I felt overwhelming gratitude for having been given a chance at a better future. This is my chance. There began the incessant need to be an overachiever and prove myself worthy of citizenship.

On the other hand, Villavicencio’s own reflections on her status point to a different facet, one of proving herself worthy of her parents’ sacrifices.

One powerful indication of this is at the end of the “Flint” chapter where she mentions overhearing the teenagers. They were “...talking about how they wanted to be waitresses at some local bar because they heard you could make mad tips that way” (Villavicencio 116). She has a strong emotional reaction to this recalling that she “...grew up on her dad’s tips and knew what kind of life that gave

you, and [she] wanted to save them from that” (116). But it didn’t end at wanting to save them; she reflects and prescribes her own feelings onto these children. ...I knew to the gram how much blood they had shed for me over the past thirty years and I had to repay it in gold. And I didn’t understand these kids who didn’t think the same way. I felt like it was our one fucking job--they were alien to me. I didn’t know how to talk to them. So I didn’t.

(116) These feelings and words represent ideas that scarily seem to come straight out of my own college entrance essay. The need to ensure that those sacrifices have not been made in vain is a constant pressure that motivates me every single day.

It’s the need to find some light and purpose in the shadows, to make a beautiful story out of a traumatic experience. It’s the need to feel like a deserving immigrant daughter and resolve those sacrifices for my family by embodying the ideal outcome.

And yet, even with all these intentions, there is a breaking point. Jose Antonio Vargas reached his in the New York Times article, “I’m done running. I’m exhausted. I don’t want pg. 27

that life anymore” (Vargas.) As carefully put in the introduction, Karla Cornejo Villavicencio reached hers in her desire to make this book not about her and others like her, but to tell the stories of “...the people underground” (Villavicencio xviii). She set the intention for her book to give the reader “...permission to be free” (xviii). Free from what? I understand us being set free from the limitations of the common undocumented immigration stories that have been circulated. We’re being released from the very notion of being a deserving immigrant and of being worthy in the ways I’ve outlined. If our parents are being represented by the resilience and hard work in the stories of the undocumented workers in this book, there is no questioning worthiness or any level of “deserving.” There is only questioning why we continue to be on a journey with no true resolution.

This author is Mexicana, neurodivergent & DACA-mented.

Works Cited: Vargas, Jose Antonio. “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 22 June 2011, www.nytimes.com/2011/06/26/magazine/my-life-as-an-undocumented-immigrant.html.

Villavicencio, Cornejo Karla. The Undocumented Americans. One World, 2020.

pg. 28

WE’RE THE MILLERS: CAPITALIZING OF THE DRUG WAR AND VILLAINIZING MEXICO — Claire Pelletier In a time where drastic political shifts have become commonplace with a recession fast approaching the justifiably wary citizens of the United States, it is vital to approach the content and intentions within mass media, both past and present, with the same keen eye. While appearing to be just another Hollywood blockbuster comedy, upon closer viewing of the 2013 film We’re the Millers, it’s apparent that the movie is a tool for the recreation of harmful narratives surrounding Mexican culture and the U.S.-Mexico border. The damaging reality of this film has gone almost entirely undiscussed, or possibly just intentionally disregarded, by film scholars, members of the industry, and U.S. audiences. We’re the Millers heavily racialized portrayal of the drug trade has been blindly accepted under the guise of comedy designed to appeal to the deep-seated fears, economic struggles, and racial biases of the general American public.

The film We’re the Millers follows

the ludicrous adventures of a makeshift family as they become international drug smugglers. David, the main protagonist, is a small-scale drug dealer. When he’s robbed of all his money and drugs, his boss forces him to smuggle marijuana across the U.S.-Mexico border to settle his debts. In order to go unnoticed, David builds a fake family consisting of a broke stripper on the brink of eviction, a homeless teenage girl, and an awkward teenage boy abandoned by his parents to slip across the border with him without suspicion. When they get to Mexico, they find themselves at a Mexican drug compound surrounded by aggressive and dangerous cartel members. Eventually, the cartel hunts them down after realizing the drugs they took were not actually meant for them, but for a violent drug lord. The “Millers” are able to escape harm through their personal quirks as delinquents in society and with the help of friends they had made on their journey. Upon returning back to the U.S. successfully, David turns his deceitful boss into the DEA and is able to live in peace under the protection of law enforcement with his newfound family. In order to fully grasp the multifaceted

effects of this film, the recognition of relevant contextual information is necessary, as well as a detailed analysis of key images supporting the above claims.

The conditions that produce any piece of media are unique and multiple. Many factors influence the creation and interpretation of a cultural artifact, ranging from the historical period to the political climate. Taking a look at the representations of Mexico and the U.S.-Mexico border within popular American films, both past and present, provides a relevant contextual framework in which to analyze the images of these places within We’re the Millers. Mainstream portrayals of the U.S.-Mexico border within Hollywood films, such as We’re the Millers, are problematic and historically ‘othering,’ as they repeatedly create fictional communities that are not representative of real life in Mexico, specifically along the border.

The article “The Border, Performed in Film” explains the pervasive nature and subsequent effect of these stereotypical representations on public opinion surrounding Mexican culture. In her piece, Kathleen Staudt explains how representations focus pg. 29

on the problems within Mexico as a way to appeal to what is familiar and arousing to the American public (Staudt 465). As mainstream films constantly reinforce negative stereotypes associated with Mexico and the border, U.S. audiences distance themselves from a culture that they are told to view as lesser or ‘other’ (Staudt 466). Specifically, westerns and border films have a history of glorifying the white male protagonist while demonizing Hispanic antagonists (Staudt 469). Many Hollywood action films revolve around violence initiated by Mexican drug cartels that must be stopped by “civilized” American morality (Staudt 474). Each of these plots pushes a good guy-bad guy dynamic that paints a single and inaccurate picture of Mexican identity.

“The Border, Performed in Films” explains that Hollywood pushes a view of Mexican culture rooted in a colonialist ideology– belittling groups the U.S. wishes to dominate (Staudt 467). The power dynamics at play here have harmful effects offscreen, as these colonialist notions put the lives of Mexican Americans at risk of racial profiling and manipulation. Very few blockbuster Hollypg. 30

wood films that came before We’re the Millers attempted to defy or deconstruct the negative stereotypes so often shown on-screen surrounding Mexico and border culture (Staudt 472). The above contextual information on the inaccurate images repeatedly portrayed within Hollywood films allows a greater understanding of how harmful the deep-seated prejudices and colonial attitudes found within We’re the Millers are for the Mexican community.

The larger media within the United States greatly affects American society’s understanding of the border, Mexican culture, and the relationship between the two nations. Negative images of Mexico go beyond the film industry, as these inaccurate portrayals show up in news stories about violence at the border at unprecedented rates. “The Cultural Production of Mexican Identity in the United States: An Examination of the Mexican Threat Narrative” analyzes the multitude of articles released by the Los Angeles Times that fed into the moral panic of U.S. citizens in the early 2000s. The authors discuss how this newspaper dedicated an entire section of its publications to drug related violence that pointed to Mexico

as an increasing threat to American safety (Aguirre et al. 697). In order to fully grasp the racially charged ideologies present within We’re the Millers, an audience must be aware of the extent to which the United States media paints Mexico as a violent threat to the American way of life. Despite statistics demonstrating that violence along the U.S. side of the border had been on a steady decline at the time, Congress passed a multitude of laws criminalizing Mexican bodies, putting Mexican-Americans at risk of interrogation and deportation based on racial profiling (Aguirre et al. 700).

The fear that the news media instilled in the American public pushed policy changes that had devastating impacts on everyday people. We’re the Millers is a piece of media that continues to take advantage of the entertainment value attributed to the destruction of the Mexican reputation in the U.S. for its own gain.

The disproportionate repetition of these stories and negative images of Mexico provides Americans with a public enemy to blame for all economic, political, and ethical problems within the U.S. “The Cultural Production of Mexican Identity in the United States” points out that neg-

ative portrayals of immigrants grew with the recession and economic halt in the 2000s, leading to “the implementation of laws that selectively target immigrants” (Aguirre et al.

698). This timeline matches the production era for We’re the Millers, giving even more insight into the power dynamics of class and race within the film. The movie, whose plot revolves around economic hardship, uses society’s perception of Mexico as immoral to scapegoat the protagonist’s problems that are actually embedded in U.S. failures.

Claire is gender fluid, uses they/them pronouns, and is a part of the LGBTQ community. This paper was written within the department for my film degree. They also have a degree in Gender and Health studies that influenced a lot of their research and perspective in the piece.

Read the full piece using the below QR Code

pg. 31

PHOTO ESSAY: CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’— Lola Yang Last summer was my first time in California. I visited my friend, H, who was researching statistical modeling at UCLA. We hung around LA for a week after her program ended, taking a two-hour bus ride into the city everyday. During the bumpy journeys that carried us into the heart of LA, we caught each other up on our summers: H told me about her newfound love for Joan Didion and LA’s indie bookstores; I ranted to H about working during this supposed period of freedom as she witnessed my struggle to maintain my freshly acquired bangs. We also happened to be walking distance from CalTech, so before I left, I didn’t forget to snap a triumphant shot for my family WeChat group: “Hey laoma and laoba, I made it.”

So naturally, when H and I were discussing the possibility of a brief spring getaway with C, both of us were dying to return. LA is imbued with an air of acceptance that we longed for as students who felt stuck in a predominantly white town. Wandering around Koreatown, where we stuffed our faces with cream breads, pg. 32

I felt grounded for the first time in a long time, knowing that for a fleeting moment while I do not belong to this country, this city belongs to me.

Our plane glided west on a late February afternoon, overlooking valleys that glowed like jewels illuminated by the sun. An hour away from landing, the sun-lit landscapes suddenly bulleted from our peripheral vision.

What dominated instead were the swarms of uniform middle-class homes. Palm trees protruded between the narrow streets like feeble limbs wavering in the wind. I could count the number of highschools by adding up the football fields that descended on surrounding neighborhoods. “This is such a poorly planned city,” said C, the daughter of two urban planners.

We planned on staying in San Gabriel, a suburb east of Los Angeles known for its vibrant Asian and especially Chinese American communities. As the sedan dove into the night, the three of us sat in silence, unfurling our jet-lagged bodies in the backseat. But H and I’s eyes gradually lit up when streams of Chinese street

Lola identifies as a queer Asian femme.

signs and family businesses appeared after one another. In my heart, I read aloud each character that swept the corner of my eye, a spell conjuring home.

A perk about lodging in an immigrant enclave is the abundance of family-owned restaurants. On our last day, H accompanied me to a Hong Kong breakfast bistro. The waitress greeted us cordially upon entrance, and quickly code-switched to a slanted Mandarin after noticing that we didn’t respond in Cantonese.

We sipped on lemon black tea and looked around as we waited for our steamed rice noodle rolls and fish filet congee. The 9AM sun, dripping on my right hand, felt like splashes of warm honey. A middle-aged man at a window seat gulped down small spoonfuls of his congee. A mother deftly split a curry fish ball with her chopsticks and fed it to the boy, whose eyes remain transfixed on the narrow, rigid screen, his small fists clenching onto its corners for dear life. I, on the other hand, became drawn to the pitcher of condensed milk on our table. Limitless condensed milk (sweetened moonbeam) within my hand’s reach? What more can one ask for in life!?! Wonder pg. 34

filled the tranquil air between H and I as we relished in the diner’s homely comfort, in spite of our inability to locate the source of our inexplicable nostalgia, us being neither Cantonese nor Californian. “Eek.” I raised my eyes to locate the object of H’s repulsion. She pointed me to the advertisement on the paper placemats beneath our silverware, the slogan screamed in bold Chinese fonts: “The Most Full-Stocked Gun Store in Eastern LA” and “Go-to Arms Shop for Chinese Americans.” We turned over the sheets in silence. The sun gnawed at the blank pale rectangles before us, molding a shape for grief.

I began listening to audiobooks just days prior to our excursion. Putting on a novel chapter when I was commuting or doing chores was a source of delight. During our journey through LA, I alternated between two books: Anthony Veasna So’s “Afterparties” and K-Ming Chang’s “Bestiary,” both of which are by queer Asian American writers from California. So and Chang’s narratives represented a boundless world that I both felt removed from yet intimately connected to, a dreamland where diasporic communities and their love and sorrows can claim the center of

the stage.

“Afterparties” is an intensely personal story collection about second generation Cambodian Americans forging their own identities while bearing the weight of generational trauma from the Khmer Rouge genocide. A queer Cambodian American writer, Anthony was dissatisfied with the pervasive melancholia that haunts Asian American literature. His prose is characterized by a biting, almost grim humor that seeks to overthrow the passive voice prevalent in diaspora narratives centered around racial trauma and

the anguish of displacement. I only became acquainted with Anthony’s work after his death. This self-proclaimed “tall and tan ocean vuong,” tweets-about-bottoming, anti-milk millennial writer who disappointed his parents by being gay and majoring in English embodied a playful yet solemn approach to life that I was deeply drawn and even aspired to. I rushed to scour the internet for more crumbs about Anthony and his writing life: his thinkpiece on Crazy Rich Asians, memorials by his writer friends and mentors, an article about his creative process by his partner of

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seven years, plus many more. And finally, when I knew that I was going to spend three days of my spring break in California, my inner dramatic gay compelled me to listen to “Afterparties” in the state (not even the city, being Stockton, Anthony’s hometown) that inspired it, a ritualistic commitment that I now find silly in retrospect.

But for some reason, as I started listening, words from the opening story of the collection “Three Women of Chuck’s Donuts” scrambled in and out of me and I kept having to rewind. The accented, cadenced English of the narrator escaped me, became background noise, blended in with the conditioner’s roar above us and the bus riders’chit-chat. I could only catch a few words in between: Noodle soup. Math nerds. Genocidal dictator. The bus rocked to our right as it stopped for a pair of Asian elders. Carrying time’s weight, the couple moved through the bus and fell in each other’s embrace onto their seats. The back of their peaceful, fuzzy heads is still imprinted in my memory, and I think of them often.

By nature, the immigrant family drma that Anthony chronicles is no different than the prolonged silencpg. 36

es and messy quarrels that fuse my own extended family. Nevertheless, I still struggle to discern why I couldn’t focus whenever I returned to “Afterparties” in California; perhaps I was getting too excited about seeing the ocean, or that I was distracted by the vibrance of the world outside our vibrating vehicle. Perhaps, I no longer sought comfort in the realist fantasy that Anthony’s fiction erected for me when I was experiencing the dream in real life. Bearing witness to the history and preservation of Chinese American cultures in LA, I regained a sense of hope for my own future, for a love that belongs to me and my people, which can persevere despite our world. Perhaps our plot to escape the omnipresent whiteness of a small midwestern city was never rooted in a wish for departure, but rather, a desire to return.

In “Giovanni’s Room,” James Baldwin wrote: “Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.” To write diaspora entails engaging with a specific loneliness that fails to inhabit a definite domain.

Our pain has no country; our tears trespass borders and often find their home on a stranger’s body. As an immigrant who walks on stolen land,

I am a settler with no motherland to return to. My trip in LA reminds me that with each loss of a home, there are always chosen families to be found.

When I get a chance to return to California, I would like to see the beach in Half Moon Bay. The choice of this location bears no significance; I merely enjoy attaching meanings to places, objects and names that pose little connection to me, just to feel a sense of belonging wherever I am. Beneath mountains hugged by the sky, I want to touch the sun as

it becomes devoured by the blue of the ocean; I want to feel the winds’ whispers on my skin; I want to hear the children who build sandcastles by the shore, like ringing a bell that will never chime, yearning for a beauty that will forever remain a dream, but trying anyway. And when the last lingering light on the earth is drowned out, I will seek out the tenderness that survives this cruel world, and call it “ .”

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LETTER TO A DEAD FRIEND — Aarushi Ganguly Dear K, I want to say that it was easy leaving, letting go and never looking back. It was not. I waited and waited, and I tried to make sense of your life.

I tried to make sense of the brief time our paths crossed, and I realized grief never leaves. And for no other reason than the fact that we met, I miss you.

I miss the quiet hours of pondering and the saving of each other’s lives.

I miss the realization of not hating you.

You’re not supposed to live life with regrets, but the very thought of you brings an onslaught of possibilities and what could have been. And then I’m reminded to stop living in the past because it kills.

I sit at the door waiting for a knock or the feeling of another person on the other side, a shift in the shadows. I sit thinking about all the times I killed you— the times I spoke of your death too soon and too late.

You barely knew anyone, and yet the times I ended your life by saying those words outnumbers anything I’ve ever done.

I don’t think we value friendships enough because the pain of your loss is so striking— an unkindness

profound. It’s the feeling of moving through the mundane routine of your day and suddenly realizing you’ve gone without your shoes and clothes, except when you go back to your home— the closet is empty. It’s the feeling of a complete and utter removal, with only the fleeting moments of someone slipping out of your grip.

It is amazing the way we’re written into people’s lives, the tales we weave for others. You were written to ruin everything— a cataclysm. And you died a hundred times in my story, but I would write you back in a thousand times more.

And so when they ask me about the letter I’ll never send, I think of this one. But I also think of the other three sitting in the corner of my room— sealed up, all but stamped to send. I think of the words that will never be read again, not by you nor me nor the person who finds what’s left of them— the last scraps sat beneath the embers of the fire.

So I sit, lighter in one hand, pencil in the other. These words are all that’s left and soon too will they be gone.

-A Aarushi is Bengali-American.

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PHOTOGRAPHY —Duy Nguyen

Duy is Vietnamese.

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A FLY (& ARTWORK) —Zeyuan Hu A fly rested onto my window screen, wings fluttering to a stop. I snuck up and “boom,” slammed the window shut, sending the fly darting around in shock within the tight confinement of the screen and the glass window.

Two feet to its right, in the other living room window, its fellow prisoner crawls up the screen for the hundredth time since I shut it in yesterday afternoon.

My mom and I devised this perfect trick to get rid of the occasional fly that trespass inside. Unlike the small but cunning house flies back in Nanning, these American flies are large and gullible. They shoot around the room after a grand entrance, flaunting their speed and strength. We chase after them, despite recognizing the futility of the effort. It wasn’t long before we picked up on their universal gravitation towards open windows letting in fresh air. We started keeping our windows open and screens shut, waiting for these Hulksize flies to make their way towards the false portal to the outside before we cut off their way back.

After our tenth consecutive success, we declared this approach fail-proof.

Not once did a mark detect our con-

spicuous motion towards the window and attempt to turn back; every one of them had latched tight onto the wires, drunk on an illusion of freedom.

“Even American flies yearn for freedom,” I joked in Mandarin.

My mother laughed. “That’s right!”

I stared at the left window as our new captive began familiarizing with its cell. How ironic, the promise of freedom being the very thing that confines and traps. I shuddered as I consider my similarity to this fly, being a recent immigrant. Did my pg. 41

parents, hard-working winners of the upward-mobilization lottery, not answer to the promises of the American way of life? Right into a curated carbon copy of the suburban trap, devoid of the pulsing energy of bustling urbanity, however nascent and makeshift. Devoid of people who speak their dialects and understand their minds, not even proximity-based community — placid, lifeless, soul-sucking? Did I not, from my first day at my Christian middle school, walk right into the ring of the white man’s game, following rules that designate inherent shame to the labels which describe me? After seven years of pretending to be American, I can’t cleanly bring myself to say I’m “from China,” or that I want to “go back to China.” I hide behind the ambiguity of “I’m Chinese,” say that I want to “go Home home” to see my grandparents. As if I constantly, direly, need to reinforce that I’m from here, as if that is requisite to being considered worthy here.

In three to four days, our new prisoner would starve and fall into the ravine between metallic and glassy walls, its corpse supine, awaiting disposal. Outside, sunlight lavished our manicured lawn, visibly peppered with mowed-down wildflower stems pg. 42

that were by no means uprooted. A raincloud loomed in the sky afar.

Zoe is a Chinese immigrant(non-citizen), queer & gender non-conforming.

PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS — Jack Wiarda I feel like a mountain never moving, in pursuit of a happiness type feeling But can you really blame me? Racism is very much alive and present in my story It’s like all they see is the race inside of me, but they don’t ever try to know the inner me It’s like they put me at odds with my enemies, stack the odds so high they topple over me But why can’t they see the better side of me? I may not fit all the descriptions you want for me I have a lot of anomalies in my life, it’s a different type of story Most of it I’d rather put on ice, they all go away over time like money and mice But why can’t the things in my life suffice?

Man, my Grandpa just passed last night, I wonder what that means for me later in my life? you should see the look on peoples faces when I tell them my mom’s

white But then the confusion when I also tell them my dad’s white I swear acceptance just doesn’t come easily these days, if you’re anything but straight and white The key to acceptance is to get rich and famous overnight But even then, that doesn’t make class discrimination right Just because you have money, doesn’t mean you should flex your financial might I swear, people in the dark just need to see the light But you can’t do this without shedding light on the mental and emotional fight Cause that can really tear you up inside I feel the scope of the problem needs to be resized Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean they aren’t hurting inside.

I swear, you don’t know if I cried last night And that’s only because you can’t see my side But one day the world will return to the light I’ll be able to speak without fear of judgment about my fight

This is my fight, but don’t be afraid of my life It looks all too similar to millions of fights Or so I’ve heard, right?

I guess that’s what happens when a lost generation finds their voice It creates a vortex of emotion, leaving us to make our own choice Do we follow the path of our elders, keeping our head down and out of trouble Or do we start to gather ourselves, tell our stories, emerge from the rubble Jack is a Taiwanese-American immigrant. They were adopted from Taipei, Taiwan in 2008 by two white parents, where they spent the majority of their childhood living in predominantly white suburbs.

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Nami is half-Japanese.

ARTWORK — Nami Kaneko

MS.MARVEL/KAMALA KHAN: MORPHING MULTICULTURALISM INTO INDIVIDUALISM — Gina Liu In 2013, Marvel announced that their newest reiteration of superheroine Ms. Marvel would be a 16-year old Pakistani Muslim American from Jersey City named Kamala Khan, thus becoming the comic giant’s first ever Muslim comic lead. Co-created by Pakistani-American editor Sana Amanat and writer Gwendolyn Woodrow Wilson, Kamala Khan was seen as a breakthrough of not only South Asian and Muslim representation. When it was announced that Kamala Khan as Ms. Marvel would be getting her own Disney+ TV show in 2022, Marvel fans applauded the “cultural infusion that [Ms. Marvel] is set to bring to the MCU” (Mathai, 2021).

However, despite the fact that Kamala Khan is the first Muslim American comic lead, Muslims characters have actually long existed in the Marvel Comics universe. They are not usually comic leads, but rather nameless long-bearded or mysterious veiled women. Most importantly, Muslims have been historically portrayed as villains who live in desert climate mythical lands, such as Mur-

katesh. Portrayals of Muslims have also manifested in contemporary post-9/11 representations as well, including the Ten Rings terrorist organization, which detained Tony Stark in an Afghanistan cave in the original Iron Man (2003) movie. Kamala/Ms. Marvel has represented a supposed change from the typical terrorist image Muslims have been portrayed in Marvel and a different kind of Marvel superhero. What prerogative does Marvel Comics have in choosing Kamala Khan to assume the role of Ms. Marvel? Does the iteration of the character as a Pakistani-American truly flip the script of Muslim representation, or is it simply another example of tokenism in media?

Kamala Khan and her Pakistani-American heritage were seen as breakthroughs in Marvel’s representation by many, yet her distinct identity actually follows a pattern of how many Marvel characters were conceptualized. Dating back to the Cold War, Marvel legends Stan Lee and Jack Kirby created characters such as Spiderman and Iron Man with the intention of revamping pg. 45

Marvel superheroes as heroic but flawed to counter the “one-dimensional” fears surrounding the spread of communism (Genter, 2007). Their individualistic flaws, such as being a teenager and a playboy respectively, each represented forms of authenticity that were all supposed to elicit a sense of anti-communist individualism. Accompanied with their authentic personalities were corresponding explicitly-communist villains who debuted alongside them. For example, Spiderman’s first formal supervillain was a Soviet spy named The Chameleon. One of Iron Man’s adventures included a trip to Southeast Asia where he faces The Mandarin, a Fu Manchu villain caricature (O’Neil, 2016). Analyzing how Marvel has conceptualized their superheroes and their villains demonstrates that their superheroes are denoted not only by their fight against foreign villains but also their flaws and personalities that are indicative of American individualism. Using this reading of the importance of individuality in Marvel Comics history, the conception of Kamala Khan becomes less of a deviation from the norms of representation, but a transformed version of individualism because of her cultural pg. 46

background. This reading that prioritizes the importance of individuality in Marvel Comics history presents Kamala Khan as less of a deviation from the norms of representation.

Not only have the U.S. military and its global conflicts influenced storylines in Marvel Comics, but they have also directly influenced how Marvel and the U.S. military forces depict their stories on the silver screen. The majority of MCU films have been produced in part with the U.S. military. In most instances, the U.S. military has provided equipment like tanks, fighter jets, and missile ranges for filming, in exchange for executive approval of all scripts (Secker, 2019). During their partnership in the 2000s, the Department of Defense would remove historical references in films if they portrayed the U.S. military in an unfavorable light. An example would be in Hulk (2003), when the Marine Corps sent back the script removing a reference to Operation Ranch Hand, which released herbicide on the Vietnamese countryside to starve the Vietcong (Secker 2019). Although this relationship between the U.S. military and MCU would fizzle out after The Avengers (2012), when the storyline

featured the nuking of New York City without permission from the Pentagon, Captain Marvel (2019) marked the re-initiation of the military-Marvel relationship, when Marvel Studios loaned fighter jets from the Air Force (Secker, 2019). As Captain Marvel (2019) was applauded as a feminist film, the Air Force was using lead actress Brie Larson as their new face for their recruiting in an ad campaign displayed in 3,600 theatres nationwide (Secker, 2019). The relationship between Marvel and the military further illustrates how Marvel superheroes are beholden to the U.S. military and how the U.S. military would like to be portrayed in the media, no matter how radical their superhero’s origins or background may be.

Entering the 21st century of Marvel Comics and U.S. military collaboration, the War on Terror would become the newest focus of media, not only for Marvel but for domestic media as a whole. When it came to portraying both the international and domestic effects of the War on Terror in media, scholar Evelyn Alsultany noticed a strange phenomenon of Muslim depictions emerging: whenever there was a negative por-

trayal of a Muslim in an TV episode or movie, there was also a countering positive Muslim character (Alsultany, 2013). Alsultany describes the balancing of Muslim representations as “simplified complex representations” (Alsultany, 2013). The idea of simplified complex representations did not emerge only during the War on Terror, but actually has been employed in America media dating back to WWII and the Cold War. Alsultany describes the goal of simplified complex representations as not to show good/bad sides of individuals, in this case Muslims, but rather to display the United States as a benevolent force that projects multiculturalism despite enabling racist legislation and attitudes (Alsultany, 2013).

This aspect of simplified complex representation has also been seen in how the MCU portrayed the characters of The Mandarin and Dr. Ho Yinsen, originally Chinese caricatures, as Afghani. In the comics, The Mandarin is one of Iron Man’s biggest rivals in the comics, whereas Dr. Ho Yinsen is the Chinese-American doctor that saves Tony Stark’s lives while they are imprisoned together under a different Chinese villain named WongChu. When translated into Iron Man pg. 47

(2003), their names are exactly the same, but their faces are now played

by British actor Ben Kingsley, who is of Gujarati descent, and Shaun Toub, an Iranian-American actor. In the movie, Dr. Ho Yinsen sacrifices his life in an Afghanistan cave, where they are being imprisoned by the Ten Rings Organization so that Tony Stark can live. Not only has Marvel justified the racist portrayal of Muslim-coded characters by deeming Chinese caricatures outdated, but they have used the simplified complex representation of savior Dr. Ho Yinsen to justify their broad stereotyping of Muslims as terrorists.

Is Kamala Khan a simplified complex representation? If she was co-created by a Pakistani woman, how could the representation of Kamala Khan be an inaccurate or incorrect representation? For many Americans, Muslim or not, Kamala Khan’s cultural background as Pakistani-American has become a symbol of resistance to Islamophobia for Americans, particularly during the era of Trump’s Muslim Ban. Fan art depicting Kamala as weeping over the plight of Muslim refugees and also punching Trump circulated widely on Twitter in 2017 and onward (Romano, 2017). Her pg. 48

presence in arguably the most successful comics franchise has already been applauded by many scholars for defying expectations about gender and countering discriminatory legislation (Cooper-Cunningham, 2020).

Kamala Khan as Ms. Marvel is no doubt a landmark representation for Marvel Comics, which features historically white, male, and Christian comic leads. Her representation in Marvel Comics and soon-to-be the Marvel Cinematic Universe may mark a new era in which stereotypical portrayals of Muslims are considered legitimately harmful and racist.

Much like how Iron Man (2003) viewed the original characters of The Mandarin and Dr. Ho Yinsen as too outdated for their film, derogatory depictions of Muslims as terrorists might become too painful to show on screen. At the same time, the usage of her image as Pakistani-American Muslim girl follows a pattern of Marvel Comics’ using different identities to support a U.S. agenda dating back to the Cold War. As the U.S. military continues to influence and even work with Marvel Comics, the role of superheroes like Ms. Marvel/Kamala Khan in the media must be analyzed further than benign and inspira-

tional representations. However, like her superpowers of morphogenetics, which includes being able to stretch her body in unimaginable ways, Kamala’s radical origin as a Pakistani-American may morph into something more transformative than a vector for Marvel and the U.S. military’s goals.

Gina is a Queer Chinese American woman.

Works Cited: Adams, Sam. 2021. “How Shang-Chi Tries to Correct for the Marvel Movies’ Most Controversial Villain.” Slate, September 4, 2021. https://slate.com/culture/2021/09/ shang-chi-ten-rings-tony-leung-mandarin-kingsley.html.

Alsultany, Evelyn. 2013. “Arabs and Muslims in the Media after 9/11: Representational Strategies for a ‘Postrace’ Era.” American Quarterly 65 (1): 161–69.

Cooper-Cunningham, Dean. 2020. “Drawing Fear of Difference: Race, Gender, and National Identity in Ms. Marvel Comics.” Millennium 48 (2): 165–97. https://doi. org/10.1177/0305829819889133.

Genter, Robert. 2007. “‘With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility’: Cold War Culture and the Birth of Marvel Comics.” The Journal of Popular Culture 40 (6): 953– 78. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1540-5931.2007.00480.x.

Mathai, Jeremy. 2021. “Ms. Marvel First Look: A Marvel Fangirl Becomes A Superhero.” SlashFilm.Com. November 12, 2021. https://www.slashfilm.com/659591/ ms-marvel-first-look-a-marvel-fangirl-becomes-a-superhero/.

O’Neil, Tegan. n.d. “How the Cold War Saved Marvel and Birthed a Generation of Superheroes.” The A.V. Club.

Accessed December 8, 2021. https://www.avclub.com/ how-the-cold-war-saved-marvel-and-birthed-a-generation-1798246215.

Romano, Aja. 2017. “This Muslim-American Superhero Has Become a Real-World Protest Icon.”

Vox. February 2, 2017. https://www.vox.com/culture/2017/2/2/14457384/kamala-khan-captain-america-protest-icon.

Secker, Tom. 2019. “Captain Marvel: The Latest Propaganda Collaboration Between the Military and the MCU.” InsideOver (blog). March 16, 2019. https://www. insideover.com/politics/captain-marvel-the-latest-propaganda-collaboration-between-the-military-and-the-mcu. html.

AN INTERVIEW WITH JANE-WILDER — Nikki Rossiter I was silent for a long time as Jane-Wilder worked in her studio. It was difficult in the moment to contain my frustration as an appreciator of art, difficult to understand that there were some pieces I would never be able to see because they were more important as personal pieces than public ones. As Jane-Wilder sat before me, tending the heat to her forge and the spinning of his glass, I understood that the dusty lumps that sat on high shelves above the two of us were likely pieces that were once shiny and new, stacked up high for decades, relics of the human experience that Jane-Wilder never wanted us to see. With art, some things that should have been released never will, and things that never should have been released are being shown in museums all across the world, given more acclaim than they have any right deserving. But that is the nature of art: as a facet of the soul, as a product of the human experience.

Akin to the human fire, the human spirit, art could be projected or kept inside as much as the originator of pg. 49

the spirit. You could do all you wanted to draw it out of someone, to force them to make art as much as you wanted, but it would do no good if they didn’t want to show you something they thought was worthwhile.

Interviewer

Do you regret not having a family?

Jane-Wilder

I do have a family now, they sit all around us. All those little dusty things on the shelves, they’re all little pieces of family I never got the chance to experience. I made that one while my brother was getting married, those two were the births of my son and daughter, my shelves are full of things like that. It’s a sign of addiction, you know? When something you’re choosing to do gets in the way of plans you’ve made, or of promises you were supposed to keep, it’s a sign that you’re putting more of your energy and time into your addiction than that which matters most.

Jane-Wilder

That conclusion’s been a long time coming. They say recognition’s the first step. I’m addicted to this thing that has brought me greatness, and a life that some dream of, a life many are actively striving for. It’s an... objectively good thing to be addicted to when we think about the world at large, but it’s transformed my life into something unrecognizable now.

I feel like everything is an art piece now, life itself is all just an opportunity to make something out of it. Every experience is just another chance to dedicate a moment to my other humans.

Interviewer

Have you ever considered stopping for a moment? Pausing to live without feeling the need to make note of things for later?

Jane-Wilder

I never have. I’m scared of it, scared to live in the moment. Because who will I be when I finally stop? I have no idea. That unknown is what really Interviewer Do you think that creation is an ad- scares me, I don’t really know who I am anymore, I just feel off. I almost diction to you? don’t feel human anymore, this is the only thing that’s reminding me that pg. 50

I’m human, while constantly being the thing that makes me disconnected from my humanity in the first place.

stayed plugged in all these years, and disconnected himself from that which had made him famous all along. At first, the lights in the studio flickered before fading entirely, Interviewer the only sounds were the two of us Are you tortured? breathing and the occasional falling of snow outside. We walked out Jane-Wilder into the world, the snow up to our Oh jeez, that’s such a melodramatic waists. Climbing up the snow was way to say it. I just think that I need an arduous task, but one that I beto get back to being human, I just lieve we both relished in. Falling was don’t know how to do it. common, and whenever one would help up the other, we’d both find ourInterviewer selves falling deeper, together. When Well, Janewe finally made our way back to It was at that point I stood up and Jane-Wilder’s house, we looked bebegan looking around for a power hind us to note that the yard looked source. Jane-Wilder stared at me as like someone had taken a black I looked around the room, for once paintbrush to a white canvas, and not looking at the art pieces strewn decided to scribble all over it with no about that could probably all change regard for form or function. To the my life in one way or another, but at two of us, it was the most beautiful the ground, for the physical means art we had ever seen, and it’d only be that had powered them in the first around until the sun came up. place. She smiled at me when he figI decided to publish this only after ured out what I was doing. He got Jane-Wilder recently retired, for the up, wiped her hands against her sole reason of thinking that it’s what apron, and walked into a corner of she would have wanted. The release the studio, pushing tables out of is tidily coincidental with the date of his way as he opened the way to the his departure from art, in the sweet power. She crouched down, restspot between raw emotions of an arted a hand against the wire that had ist’s departure and subsequent indifpg. 51

ference of retirement. The intended meaning of this interview isn’t so much an examination of Jane-Wilder’s end to her career as it is a release of her thoughts on the reason he ever started making art in the first place.

In the off-chance that Jane-Wilder ever reads this interview, I do hope you’ve found the peace you’ve been looking for, and I hope the road back to humanity is a short one.

Nikki is a trans-ish Asian-American.

Read the full piece using the below QR Code

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