Reflections Issue No. 4: CHERISH

Cherish

a note from the editor

BY FIZA KUZHIYIL

There is nothing to writing, Hemingway said. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. That’s what we have done in this, the fourth issue of the zine by our chapter of AAJA here at the University of Texas at Austin. Our words come during a fraught time on the 40 acres — Senate Bill 17 has shut down our beloved diversity offices and laid off caring members of our community. It blocked some of our key funding, but still, our community prevails through protesting, fundraising and the one thing we do best — writing.

When I logged onto my first AAJA Zoom meeting as a freshman, it offered me the first taste of comfort during the pandemic. Now, as I close out my senior year and walk towards graduation, I know AAJA members carried me halfway there. From late night study sessions to the chapter meetings that turned into yap sessions, this community has become one where I never have to worry about how I’m perceived. This is what AAJA offers us — a place to unabashedly bring all of yourself to be supported, to be loved, to be cherished.

The words in this zine are a testament to our voice, our power and our grit. Our words showcase our love for journalism, yes, but more so our love for each other. We invite you to cherish these words with us.

In every life, I will always cherish you

BY KEVIN VU

I wish I could see you again.

I wish I could eat the homemade yogurt you’ve made, that’s tart and silky smooth.

I wish I could hear you complain about me about not speaking Vietnamese.

I wish I could speak Vietnamese so that I can hear all your stories about you in your youth.

I wish I could hear you talk about how to become a better person and a better man.

I wish you could see how I’ve become a better man.

I wish you didn’t have to miss my high school graduation because of COVID-19.

I wish I knew you would miss my college one too.

I wish I had gone to you one last time before my last semester started.

I wish I could hear your laugh again, as it fills the room with joy and innocence.

I wish to hear your singing as it puts me to sleep, as you tell me you love me, and kiss me goodnight.

I wish in another life for you to still take care of me as my grandmother, to hold me with your warmth and care, and tell me that everything will be alright.

I wish I could tell you that I love you one last time.

I wish I could see you again. I wish I could.

BY AOIFE HOPKINS

Why we can’t have nice things

The passing of SB17 feels like a devastating and pathetic low blow to ethnic minorities and the systematically oppressed in our community. The Texas GOP’s efforts to make life worse and less joyful for all Texans keep chipping away at our state and I couldn’t be more livid that many programs, such as the Monarch Program, The Multicultural Engagement Center (MEC) and more have closed. However, I kept seeing the bill’s impact through the lens of how it would impact other people, and I forgot that it would impact my joy and comfort on campus too.

For context: It’s an open secret that I have a complicated, painful relationship with my cultural heritage. I was born into what I consider the most exclusive and homogenous of societies, Japanese culture. Despite being “motherland born,” active in traditions, and my ability to read,

“Some of the only spaces where I felt seen and included based on my ethnicity were in Asian American interest or POC interest events on the UT Campus.”

write, and speak my language, other Japanese people do not see me as one of our own. It is upsetting but I’ve come to terms with it. Some of the only spaces where I felt seen and included based on my ethnicity were in Asian American interest or POC interest events on the UT Campus. I hadn’t thought about my identity and how it affects me for a while recently, but the passing of SB17 and the discontinuation of the MEC had saddened me on multiple levels. The MEC is a place where I could enjoy events centering on other Asian cultures, which is a true blessing as being able to experience other Asian traditions and foods from students my age in a university setting is a kind of niche joy I won’t be able to have again post-grad. It was truly the little things that created the biggest sense of relief and community for me and countless other individuals.

Having these celebrations to look forward to was one of the few times I felt seen as an AsianAmerican, where diaspora students who feel the impact of multiculturalism in their homes see me and uplift me where I can’t in other parts of school or even in Japan itself. When you see the leads who promote bills like SB17, they don’t look like us, feel like us, or think like us. They would never know nor understand what it’s like to feel excluded, alienated or even humiliated due to their background, and would never get why these niche celebrations are so meaningful. make restoration possible.

Dan Patrick, Dade Phelan, Brandon Creighton and Greg Abbott, have likely never suffered feelings of solitude based on their race, and yet they got to put our cultural celebrations on the chopping block because they are confused about what racism actually is. SB17 sets a dangerous precedent for erasing history, ignoring the work Texas has yet to do to create equity, and preventing transformative justice. I hope that Asian students never stop talking about this robbery and that we make restoration possible.

SB17 sets a dangerous precedent for erasing history, ignoring the work Texas has yet to do to create equity, and preventing transformative justice.

BY RIDDHI BORA

you say “i want to know something good, i’m tired and i want to know this world is still sweet” so i tell you about the first thing that comes to mind. i tell you about honey

i tell you about liquid gold packaged in a plastic bear, i tell you about honey 24 fluid ounces of nature’s finest crafted by the busiest of bodies, the busiest bees i tell you about the buzz on my tongue that is the aftermath of a spoonful of honey silver and sweet in my mouth i tell you about sensations accidental brush of fingers, rain splatters on bare skin i tell you about honey

u.s grade A honey, dries on your lips, drips down your chin, sticks to your fingers kinda honey i tell you about attachment how that’s the way we love, like we won’t survive if we lose this or if we lose them, how the monks preach against it but i really couldn’t love another way i tell you about honey amber drizzles on my plain toast, not everything we have is sweet but it can be with just a little squeeze i tell you about honey the last drops in the bottle, the ones that take their time moving to the spout, i tell you about moving slow sleeping in on sunday and savoring the first bite of a meal i tell you about honey, about something 100% pure and raw, platonic loves, a school crush, shy touch somethings are best left unrefined

https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fvemaps.

somedays you think you know nothing good, some days you’re tired and think the world can’t be sweet on those days i hope it’s the first thing that comes to mind, i hope you remember honey

A scene of summer before revolution

BY KEANA SABERI

For my grandmother, Nasrin Behnam Shabahang, who protested against the Islamic regime and championed civil rights in Iran after the 1979 revolution

Summer of 1974, marigold sun rays merging with the lilt of Farsi.

The waves of the Caspian as magnificent and intrinsic as our youth.

We were naive, bathed by blissful ignorance.

We waded in the jewel tones, turquoise glimmering below our waists.

Silver sandshifting beneath our feet.

How expansive the world seemed then, my curls performing acrobatics in the salt-studded air.

My daughter watching from her father’s arms, bundled in her blanket, sleep heavy on her eyes.

How I wished to give her the world.

When I cradled her in my arms, I forgot how envious I was of the stars.

Our summer’s sonata:

journey of passing ships, blending with the symphony of our laughter.

Men playing backgammon, dice dazzling on the chesnut board.

Their competitive banter reverberating with Mashhadi and Tehrani accents.

Grilled corn bathed in salt water sold by the seaside.

Children’s fervent hands grasping the green stalks, coal staining their hands.

Taste of charcoal, taste of childhood.

I thought of that day at the seaside often, held the memory like a secret confession close to my chest, sewn in pastel in the linen of my handkerchief.

In the steel confines of the cell,

I thought of movie ticket stamps, late nights in Tehran, girls dressed in the style of Googoosh: stylish short hairstyles, scarlet lips, cerulean eyeshadow.

I listened to her songs as I waltzed around the living room, barefoot, bright nail polish dotting the vibrant shades of the Tabriz rug.

I dreamt of faloodeh and bastani sonati in cafe confectioneries on emerging spring days, books I’d kept in my bag biking to Shahanshahi Park, leather spines creased open, my emerald dress and him leaning against his car as apricot trees blossomed.

Our hair, uninhibited on that blistering July day.

I wish I had known to savor the taste of freedom. It seemed so decadent now, like cream tucked in the layers of the Shirini Napoleoni.

Chai with sugar crystals dancing in the pool of ruby liquid in our beachside traveling thermoses.

For a moment, my feet slipped, balance rejecting me. The tide receded swiftly, freedom flowing along with it.

Cherish