Reflections Issue No. 2: GROWTH by UT_AAJA

REFLECTIONS | ISSUE NO.2

GROWTH

UT ASIAN AMERICAN JOURNALISTS ASSOCIATION

growth

The second issue of The University of Texas at Austin's AAJA zine, Reflections, tackles the theme of growth with honesty and vulnerability. In the midst of growing pains, uncertainty, transition and inward looking, how do we reflect with self-compassion and love? How do we embrace change with grace and tenderness? How do we grow?

CONTENTS 1

Stop Using "Whitewashed" as an Insult

The Eye of the Storm

I (Sometimes) Feel Pretty

Love of Mine

24 let grieve and grow 28 The Risk to Bloom

32 Fair & Lovely: A Case Study 36 Bowls of Fruit 43 Damn, You Can Cook

Stop Using “Whitewashed" as an Insult by Alishba Javaid ‫اليشبا جاويد‬

It was the silent little judgments I made in my head The ones that made me feel better about myself “They have to speak in English with their parents?” “They haven't visited their parent’s country since they were 8?” “They’re so whitewashed.” I questioned why they couldn’t navigate their dual identity Between their American culture and their Asian immigrant culture Between where they were planted and their roots I didn’t realize how difficult it was finding a “perfect balance” between the two Wear shorts and you’re whitewashed Have an accent and you’re a *fob Does the perfectly assimilated yet “cultured” first-generation immigrant even exist? I didn’t fully realize that living in America, each one of us is a little whitewashed That it is not an either-or but a spectrum And where we fall on the spectrum is determined by a number of factors I was fortunate my parents spoke their mother tongue with me in my home growing up That I never felt embarrassed speaking it Urdu with my family members abroad That there was no language barrier between me and my grandparents Whereas many parents had to sacrifice passing on their mother tongue In order to ensure English proficiency for their child

D DO OE ES S

T TH HE E

P PE ER RF FE EC CT TL LY Y

“ “C CU UL LT TU UR RE ED D” ”

F F II R RS ST T-G GE EN NE ER RA AT T II O ON N

II M MM M II G GR RA AN NT T

A AS SS S II M M II L LA AT TE ED D

E EV VE EN N

E EX X II S ST T? ?

Y YE ET T

I was fortunate my family had financial means to visit our home country every year And create an abundance of childhood memories there Coming to view it through the lens of a second home Not through one of a foreigner visiting a third-world country I was fortunate to go to a K-12 school district with a significant South Asian population Where I felt connected to the South Asian community Instead of isolated being isolated at a school where I was one of the only South Asians Feeling pressured to conform to be like my white peers We are merely products of our environment We, as first-gen Asian Americans had no choice but to assimilate into American culture Sacrificing bits and pieces of our Asian culture along the way Some fared better than others But only due to certain life factors Many of which were out of our control I now look at my fellow first-gen peers through a lens of compassion, not judgment And I catch myself if I find myself falling into these thought patterns And recognize there is no perfect dual identity And think twice before throwing around “whitewashed”

*FOB: THE PHRASE FRESH OFF THE BOAT (FOB), OFF THE BOAT (OTB), ARE SOMETIMES-DEROGATORY TERMS USED TO DESCRIBE IMMIGRANTS WHO HAVE ARRIVED FROM A FOREIGN NATION AND HAVE YET TO ASSIMILATE INTO THE HOST NATION'S CULTURE, LANGUAGE, AND BEHAVIOR, BUT STILL CONTINUE WITH THEIR ETHNIC IDEAS AND PRACTICES

THE EYE OF THE STORM by Angela Lim

When Typhoon Ondoy hit central Luzon in 2009, I had only turned six. I remember sailing in a refrigerator with my siblings to the nearest church, trying to stay afloat from neck-deep floods. The rain continued to crash down sonically, painful to the touch. Despite our house being submerged by the storm, my parents never seemed to waver. Under candlelight, they could only grab what they could save, hold us even closer, and recover along the way. From watching my parents over the years, I began to understand how their strength overflowed out of necessity. After all, the Philippines endures about 20 typhoons annually. Whenever we had to brace for another storm, we planned and prayed for safety. I just wish we didn’t have to suffer repeatedly over what was out of reach. “Let’s just take things one day at a time,” my mom would say. Admittedly, having to remain buoyant can gradually grow cumbersome, but I still carried her words with me no matter where I went—because what else could be done? Although resilience is a value heavily rooted in Filipino culture, it can also be used against us. For most Filipinos, especially those of underprivileged backgrounds, calamities usually paint a glorified narrative of persistence that deflects accountability from government officials. So, many end up persevering because they have to.

When the media excessively highlights stories of “bayanihan” (or being united as a community) in the midst of disaster, they also help propagate a selfsufficient message instead of inviting further action. To make matters worse, they often only speak to people in positions of authority when assessing the situation in affected areas rather than to those who’ve experienced it firsthand, leading to one-dimensional coverage for the masses. In December, Typhoon Odette, one of the most destructive of its kind to strike the Philippines, made landfall in parts of Visayas and Mindanao. My dad’s birthplace, Siargao, was completely decimated. “I would say around 90 percent of the island is destroyed,” Nature Kids of Siargao founder Sanne Sevig said. “Infrastructure-wise, there’s no power, and I don’t think we can expect any power, maybe in 3-6 months.” With thousands of homes destroyed and even more families without food and clean water, the same people have taken initiative in gathering donations for the sake of their community, again, out of necessity—because who else would?

We have been repairing ourselves only to break again while those in power sit idly with a roof over their heads.

As much as I concede that adversity has made me and others more resolute, there is greater empowerment in realizing that we deserve more, whether it’s support from the government or general help during times of need. Succeeding in spite of hardship is commendable, but we shouldn’t romanticize it. The “Filipino resilience” mindset is intrinsic to so many of us, though it is harmfully fostered due to our circumstances. We shouldn’t be handling all of this on our own. We need to grieve and heal. Beyond braving through every single tragedy, there is growth in forgiving ourselves too.

TALKS

BODY

I (SOMETIMES) FEEL PRETTY by Razyl Yanez

I don’t feel pretty. At least, not all the time. I see bodies of all shapes and sizes and think they all look beautiful. Why couldn’t I hold myself to those same standards? Growing up in a Filipino and Mexican household, my weight and the way my body looked was always a point of contention. There was hardly a time in my life where I didn’t have issues with how my body looked. At the young age of eight years old, the realization that I was not skinny hit me like a freight train. Sitting in my 3rd grade classroom, I distinctly felt the need to hide my stomach under my desk because it wasn’t flat. I started to become much more aware of how I looked. I stopped wearing form-fitting clothing, often opting for a baggier option instead. When I got to middle school, I would almost never sit at my desk without my binder in my lap to cover my stomach. After I discovered that my body was not pretty, I started to grow self conscious of how my face looked. I didn’t want to cut my hair, desperate to grow it out so that it would be able to cover more of my face. I changed the way I parted my hair in a frantic hope that it would somehow make me prettier. If not in the superficial sense, at least for an ounce of a feeling, no matter how fleeting it was. I felt the need to at least try to make my face prettier to make up for the fact that my body was not. I hated seeing full body photos of myself because it always revealed to me the sobering reality: I could cosplay as someone pretty with just my face, but I couldn’t do the same with my body.

IMAGE

ISSUES

I could cosplay as someone pretty with just my face, but I couldn’t do the same with my body.

One morning during my senior year in high school, I was excited to go on a trip for my fashion design class. I wore a tight long-sleeved shirt, already not feeling the most confident with how I looked. I debated wearing a blazer on top, but my mother made a remark about how I looked. She brought attention to the fat on my stomach and grabbed it, telling me that it was showing excessively in that shirt in particular. My self-esteem for that day was completely shattered. Distraught, I changed into a plain grey t-shirt I had in my locker at school. To this day, I feel frustrated about how awful I felt towards my body after that conversation. I still feel frustrated with the fact that I let my mother’s remarks about my body get to me. Her words hurt me, maybe more than she meant them to. This situation really made me take time to reevaluate why I hated my body so much. Fatphobia ran rampant in many Asian countries. The Philippines, where my mother grew up, was no exception. Fat bodies were used as the butt of the joke or as an example of what not to be. They were looked down upon. Every comment my mother made when I was younger about how I was bigger than my cousins or family friends. Every comment in high school about how I was too young to have stretch marks. Every comment in college about how I needed to lose weight. Almost like her way of telling me that thin was ideal, and I should be ashamed for allowing myself to be anything but. I knew that her comments about my body were likely a product of how she was raised and what she knew, but they still made me feel bad about myself. She didn’t understand that; she still doesn’t.

I started to regress. I hated my body. I remember wishing to be “more Asian,” because maybe that would mean I could be skinnier. I chased after my desire to be “skinny.” Eat less. Exercise more. You need to lose weight. I would have internal battles in my mind that maybe, just maybe, if I stopped eating for just a little bit I would lose weight and finally be thin. But it never lasted long. My body knew when it was too much, and I would cave and feel awful about it. Why couldn’t I just have discipline? Maybe then I wouldn’t be here in the first place. Because I wouldn’t have to try to be skinny.

Almost like her way of telling me that thin was ideal, and I should be ashamed for allowing myself to be anything but.

Over the course of 2020, I had to spend a lot of time with myself. I didn’t wake up every day thrilled to see what looked back at me in the mirror, but I knew my body was trying. It woke up every day, for one. My body could walk me places. It could stretch and dance (badly). My body could type out a paper and talk for hours on end about the things that I found interesting. My body kept my heart pumping and my cells rejuvenated. And, most importantly, my body kept me alive. As I was preparing myself to return to in person classes in the latter half of 2021, I told myself that I was going to put myself out there; to try new things. And, with the freedom of living on my own, there was no one to hold me back. I started wearing shorts and skirts and dresses more often than I wore pants. The clothes I wore were fitted better to my body instead of being baggy and shapeless. I took mirror pics of myself, documenting my outfits and how I looked in them. I pushed myself to have a better relationship with the way I looked. By the time the semester ended, I felt so much more comfortable in my own skin. I was able to wear form-fitting clothing and felt comfortable and confident. I could look at full-body photos of myself and not recoil in disgust. I liked the way that I looked. I was… pretty. I felt pretty.

With the freedom of living on my own, there was no one to hold me back.

But some days are definitely harder than others. There are days that I feel awful about myself and wear shapeless clothing to hide the body I still have a complex relationship with. I have a hard time cutting my hair, afraid that cutting it too short would leave me with nothing to hide behind. I’m still a very long way from fully accepting my body as it is, and finding healthy ways to improve it and my relationship with it. But for now, I’m incredibly grateful for all the times that I do feel pretty. Even if it is only sometimes.

ateful for all the r g tim ly b i es ed th r c at in

But f or

tty. pre eel of Id

no w, I’m

en i

f it is o n ly s o m et

s. e im

love of mine

by Jenn Xia

My model of love for myself was built on something entirely external, separate from myself.

Family is the first context we know of love. Tight-fisted, wailing at the world for comfort, babies demand for love. They know the primacy of love for their survival, unafraid to ask for it. Growing up, I never once doubted that I was cared for. My parents, even as immigrants entering a country that didn’t speak their native tongue, no drivers license, and a graduate student stipend to live off, gave me and my sister a life of abundance and thoughtfulness. My dad stocked the fridge with blueberries because they were my favorite. My mom told me she wanted me to know what it felt like to be taken care of by someone kind. But even with an absolute belief that I was cared for, feeling loved was still an insecurity. I saw that I was easier to love when I was seen as helpful, intelligent, someone they could be proud of. Every incident of my parents’ projected outrage made remarks at my lack of contributions around the house, their lack of confidence in my academics, at my moments of pain I at the time did not yet know the vocabulary to articulate. As a young child, I constantly sought out external validation for a sense of reassurance. I found comfort in peace not for the sake of resolution, but for the safety I could not find in conflict. At my worst, I lied. Fitted masks of composure and excellence. I longed to be accepted by my own parents. My model of love for myself was built on something entirely external, separate from myself.

It’s at 21 years old that I finally understand that care and love are not the same, that our bodies know the difference. The kind of love I was looking for, to be loved whole and flawed, was here all along. Waiting for me to be ready to receive it. My very own. I felt empowered knowing that I could love myself unconditionally, author Bell Hook’s words from All About Love: New Visions clipped to my side: “We can give ourselves the unconditional love that is the grounding for sustained acceptance and affirmation. When we give this precious gift to ourselves, we are able to reach out to others from a place of fulfillment and not from a place of lack.” What had I ever done that was solely for myself? I undoubtedly still want my parents’ love, their trust and confidence, but after accepting that I did not have to wait for it, I found a sense of true peace.

Committing to loving yourself feels like being born, learning how to exist in a world for the first time. Lost, but open. As I move forward in both platonic and romantic relationships, I know that my love can be from a place of security, to love as I am, to love as they are. Unafraid to ask for it.

What had I ever done that was solely for myself?

to love as I am, to love as they are

unafraid to ask for it

let grieve and grow by Dilen Lee 24

my least favourite part about growing up is death. not that i necessarily fear death, but losing something is a sadness i loathe feeling. yet every time i grieve, i grow it may not always be good, but i learn something about myself each time. the first time i grieved, i lost my dog at ten years old. i grew into someone who experienced a lot of remorse, crying many nights and feeling guilty for not caring for him well. but i was only ten, and we had had him since i was three. i didn’t know how to properly take care of a dog. the second time i grieved i lost a sense of happiness. like a lot of people, middle school was a really rough time. i was still riddled with guilt from my dog’s death, even if it had been only one, two, three years since he passed. but everything that followed his death led me to another loss— the loss of my innocence and happiness. the dynamic of my family had shifted. i would get called useless, be told i was stupid, and that i wouldn’t be successful. i realized that i was at an age where i could no longer get away with being a child, and i became depressed. i felt like i was to blame for a lot of things which resulted in me feeling like i didn’t have much worth. my parents ignored the times my sister would berate me, and sometimes they would do the same. i lost the familial affection i desired. i never wanted others to feel the same loss of care as i did. then, i grew into a person who cared for others the way i needed to be cared for.

I never wanted others to feel the same loss of care as I did. the third time i grieved, i lost what would have been one of the most exciting experiences in my adolescence. covid took over the world, and my junior year ended up in a shipwreck. our band's spring trip was to disney world, which would have been my first time on a plane and to a state other than texas or oklahoma. i was also part of an independent study and mentorship program that would have allowed me to learn more and be active in my desired career of music education. but the depression and anxiety that overcame me prevented me from trying academically at all. throughout the year, more and more chaos occured in the news. different cultures and people of color were being mistreated and written about poorly. i felt like there was something i had to do to fix that. then, i realized what i truly wanted to do as a career, and who i really was. the fourth time i grieved, i lost my second eldest aunt to breast cancer. it was december 2020. she fought her battle for many years and died just a few days before christmas. i saw sadness in my family i hadn’t seen before, and i felt the loss for my mother more than anything. i grieved like i never grieved before. it was then—i realized— what type of griever i am. there were many things i learned in the short amount of time i spent frequently visiting my aunt before her passing. she gave me words of support, and i kept that support with me even after her passing.

i realized death didn’t have to be so sad, and that what i lost didn’t mean everything that came before was lost too. grieving is not a bad thing. we all grieve in multiple ways, and we all grieve different things. it’s okay to be sad over a loss, whether it be a life being lost or a part of something else being lost. let yourself grieve. it is all part of a process to have yourself grow.

She gave me words of support, and I kept that support with me even after her passing.

B o t losso k s i R m e h by Hillary Ma

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk to blossom." Anais Nin

Long black locks weigh down on my shoulders. Each strand dries and splits at the ends — yet I stubbornly refuse to cut them off. At some point, it gets tiring trying to maintain my long and coarse hair. The shaft of my strands has been plagued with brittleness, preventing new ones from ever growing healthier and stronger. But I still held onto them, even if it served me more damage than good. Growing up, I have always been convinced that long hair equated to the feminine archetype for an Asian woman; that because of who I was born as, I was supposed to have long hair. Everyone in my class idealized long hair, treating lengthy locks as a blueprint to gain attention from the fellow middle school male gazes. As if they were even worth the effort for attention. Long hair was glamorized even more so for their only Asian friend. Caricatures of my personalities and physical features started crystallizing at this age among middle schoolers; stereotypes beginning to be treated as ultimate axioms of who I was. Like any middle school kid, I was also searching for what made me unique. What exactly made me special amongst my peers? The easiest thing I could think of was the fact that I was Asian— that I could become my circle of white friends’ token Asian. After all, I was one of the very few Asians in my predominantly white middle school. People-pleasing got the best of me, and I intentionally manifested every single stereotype of an Asian female: stellar math skills, quiet and docile personality, squinty eyes, milky pale skin, and long black hair. “Cover your smile behind your hands and laugh quietly,” my family would retort. “Asian women never laugh loudly.”

Adolescence

is what they call it.

Adolescence is what they call it. Dealing with a myriad of things as if the whole world was against you while desperately avoiding being an outcast. At age 13, I was blindly conforming to racial standards outlined by my peers while internalizing traditional norms from my Chinese-Vietnamese conservative house. Expectations were set by myself to feel accepted into my middle school circle. Whatever standard I seemed to miss from that archetype would only leave me feeling disappointed in myself. Adolescence is what they call it. When are you going to live to be yourself, I would ask myself. For so long, I tried living up to a servile personality for the sake of acceptance by my peers. I fawned over back-handed compliments that undermined the beauty and pride of being a Chinese-Vietnamese girl. Asian femininity, to my realization, was not reduced to a singular mold of traits and phenotypic traits; we are a spectrum of personalities, shapes, ideas, and love— all encapsulated in the power of womanhood.

Maturity is what they call it. At some point I’ve become more comfortable with allowing myself to be myself unapologetically. Why did I easily let myself believe that femininity for an Asian woman was defined by only a few racial stereotypes when I was younger? Why couldn’t I let go of those things earlier? Now nearing the age of 21, I couldn’t hide my bubbliness anymore. I couldn’t hide how much I love laughing wholeheartedly. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was loud and outgoing. I couldn’t hide the real me. So as I stared off into the distance of my own reflection, gazing right at my long black locks, I grabbed my scissors from my desk drawer and began snipping. One strand for the self-gaslighting, one strand for the middle school internalization, one strand for the need of external validation — and so on. I continued to snip away until the length of my hair dropped to my collarbone. Dead and split ends left on the ground; I released the mental shackles of what hindered growth of my aspired true self. Confident, assertive, strong-willed. Yet I wanted to also stay gentle, bubbly, and lighthearted. Softness coexisting with being headstrong. Fear no longer controls my disposition. Instead, a new type of love is replaced and guides me through what God holds for me. For the first time ever, I feel at ease to be my own true self. And more than anything else, I am eager to get to know the true me.

Maturity is what they call it.

Fair&Lovely A Case Study

By Anita Shiva

Up until a few months ago, “Fair&Lovely'' hadn't entered my mind in years. I happen to have darker skin than both of my parents, and it was rarely ever brought up as an issue. I figured that the South Asian community had mostly moved past it, and learned to embrace people of all skin tones and reject the idea that fair skin was more beautiful. Bollywood actresses were finally being held accountable for their previous skin-lightening ads, and it felt like we had finally left Fair&Lovely in the past. That is until June 2020, when I read that Unilever, the company that distributes Fair & Lovely products, were changing their product’s name to “Glow&Lovely.” Fair & Lovely ads are an uncomfortable subject that most people try to ignore. They generally featured a young woman (usually a recognizable fair-skinned actress/model) being ostracized by her peers for her dark, undesirable, skin tone. A friend, parent, coworker or complete stranger offers her a bottle of Fair & Lovely that changes her life for the better. She earns her peers’ respect, and whatever else wants, for doing nothing more than achieving fair skin.

Despite what their ads may claim, Fair&Lovely probably never worked in the first place. Unilever’s website claims that the combination of Vitamin B3, UV Filters and antioxidants in the product result in a decrease of melanin in the skin. Aneel Karnani from the University of Michigan’s School of Business conducted a case study on Fair and Lovely’s marketing tactics. According to Karnani, because Fair & Lovely is not categorized as a pharmaceutical product, Unilever is not under contract to prove the efficacy of the product. The case study includes testimony from Preya Kullavijaya, head of the Department of Dermatology at All India Institute of Medical Sciences, who states that whitening creams cannot be effective without the use of skin-bleaching agents, such as hydroquinone, steroids and other harmful chemicals. Kullavijaya also states that there is no medical evidence to support Fair&Lovely’s testimony that an externally applied cream can change your skin color. I compared the ingredient lists of Fair&Lovely to Glow&Lovely and found that they were almost identical. If Unilever wanted to turn their image around, why not reformulate their product into one that enhances their client’s natural skin tone?

By utilizing marketing tactics that were intended to shame women with darker skin, Fair&Lovely managed to promote an ineffective product to the top of South Asia’s beauty industry. It is no wonder that in the midst of racial conflict in the United States, where millions of South Asian clientele reside, Unilever would want to change its marketing to reflect the changing attitudes among younger consumers. However, by doing nothing more than changing their branding, they still bring in their old consumers who pine for lighter skin. But a brand’s insincere effort to cover up their unlikable image with a simple name change isn’t going to fix South Asia’s colorism-rooted issues, and we never should have expected it to. I never felt bad about my darker skin because my parents learned about the harmful effects of colorism, and made it a point to teach me that skin color has nothing to do with self-worth.

Bowls of Fruit By Michael Zhang

Tough love.

It is a common phrase that we hear used over and over again to describe the trope of a hard-shelled person in your life; that while treating you roughly and sternly, they’re just responsibly expressing affection and care.

And they tell you,

It's for your best interest.

It's to make you better in the future, of course.

It's just their way of caring for you.

For many with Asian heritage, this term is built into their daily life.

For me, it’s especially within my childhood family car rides. The slow lull of the car engine, the warmth of the heater, and the comfort of knowing that you are in a safe place make childhood nighttime car rides a supposed fond memory. My friends would describe their memories with such feelings of joy and nostalgia.

I would smile at them— but it was never a genuine smile. The feeling was unfamiliar to me.

I hated my childhood car rides. My parents would always spend that time rattling off what I could always do better, comparing me to my friends who seemingly always did better than me. I didn't practice enough for piano, "look at how good your friend Maddie is at piano.”

I didn't try hard enough in soccer,

"Thomas always seems to put in his best effort.” I was too fidgety and loud,

"look how well mannered your friend Samuel is."

And in all, it was always the same conclusion:

you aren't trying hard enough, and you need to "man up and be strong."

My throat tightened. My eyes burned. I tried to hold back my wavering voice as I would repeat this message in my head. Crying would only prove that they were right. It would only prove that I wasn't strong enough. I would hate myself for every tear running down my cheek, drawing long wet lines and putting cracks into the stoic porcelain mask I would show to my parents. What exacerbated my loneliness was the unfamiliarity of my experiences to my peers. My friends never understood me. The way their parents loved them wasn't the same. They didn't experience the same tough love I did. While their parents still criticized and tried to help their child grow, it wasn't non-stop. It seemed that their parent's love was unconditional; that no matter what they did, their parents loved them the same. I felt needed to earn my parents' love, and that I always needed to improve— or else they wouldn't give me the same affection.

I would deal with this “tough love” by diving into western literature and media hours on end. I could essentially escape my current situation and put myself into the characters' as they enjoyed a form of parental love that I was missing.

At times like this, like clockwork, my mother would show up into my room every day with a fresh-cut bowl of fruit. No words of affirmation, just a silent act of service. She did this once a day for months on end.

But this missed feeling went on for years and only worsened over time.

It was then that I began to see a part of them that was buried beneath all the strictness and criticism. It was hard for them, and wrong for me, to expect my parents to show love in this new American way. They were only showing love the way their parents and generations did before: advice, criticism, and an uncompromising attitude— in hopes that their child would be better than them.

At my lowest point, my views changed. During this point, I would shut myself out from everyone else. Unknowing of how to help, my parents gave me ample emotional and physical space— hoping that my problems would sort themselves out.

And that unconditional love that I never saw as a child was still always there, just hidden in a small porcelain bowl of fruit.

But seeing this side of them didn't make their actions any less hurtful. Thinking back, the memories of those car rides still gives me a sense of nausea. The words of my father, "you didn't try hard enough," still echo in my head in the face of failure. The occasional feeling that I'll never be able to compare to my peers still haunts me.

However, this memory isn't a disease I could cure through a single realization. It's become a part of me— a part of me that I can learn from, and grow from.

It's their mistake that I'll never repeat.

Damn, You Can Cook by Kevin Vu

Growing up, I was never taught how to cook.

Whenever I asked my mom if I could help out in the kitchen, she would shoo me away and tell me I am too young, that I could cut or burn myself. “Được rồi, Không cần phụ đâu! Con sẽ bị phỏng bây giờ.” That’s all I would hear every time I asked. And while I understood her worries, somewhere inside I was frustrated. My friends would talk about what they cooked up in high school, how they baked together or made this grand dish.

And here I was with a knife and fork on both hands, like a spoiled toddler banging on the table waiting for the food that their parents made. “Food! Food! Food!” I would watch TikToks of people making food. You know those food TikToks. The ones where they make the food in fast cuts, woosh, chop, bang, and then they would eat it as if it was the greatest thing they ever ate, even though it was just instant ramen or a breakfast bagel sandwich.

Watching those videos always left me the impression that cooking is easier if you can put in the effort, further giving me that itch to cook. A month before moving into Austin, I had an epiphany: “Shit, I don’t know how to cook.” I never touched a stove, I never cut vegetables before, hell I didn’t even know the difference between tablespoons and teaspoons. How am I going to live on my own in Austin, 300 miles away from Houston, and feed myself?

A month befo re m ov in g

to cook.” how ow kn ’t on

d an epiphan a h I y: “ in, t Sh s u it, A o Id t n i

I know I don’t want to eat out often because of money, my roommates barely know how to cook or even clean for themselves so I can’t rely on them, and I can’t go into the dining hall anymore. I guess I’ll starve. During that period of self-doubt, I visited a friend’s home to play with her dog. As I followed the little dude around the house, he made his way to the kitchen where we both saw our friend preparing ingredients to make kimchi fried rice. Both the dog and I watched in wonderment and hunger as our friend started cooking the fried rice with no effort. We watched as she sauteed the onions, garlic, kimchi, and pork belly, adding in the leftover rice and breaking them into pieces, and adding all the seasonings like soy sauce, kimchi juice, gochujang, and sesame oil. From plain, boring old white rice to sticky, somewhat crispy, sour orange rice, I was amazed by how effortless she made cooking seem in real life. As my friend scooped the rice into the bowl and handed it to me, I thought to myself, “If she can do this, I can too.” After going to Hmart and grabbing all the ingredients I needed, I went to work. The first thing I did was grab a white onion and cut it. As I stabbed through the onion, the pungent smell trespassed into my nose and the juices pierce through my eyes, causing a stinging sensation I wouldn’t wish upon my enemies. Behind my tears, I made sure I didn’t cut my fingers. Every crunch and chop that was made, I prayed it wasn’t the bones of my fingers. As soon as I heard the sound of wood, I wiped away the tears and saw that the onions were cut into small pieces. “Hurrah!” I said to myself. I cut my first vegetable ever. A feat that I never thought could be achieved.

I then went on to grab the most essential part of kimchi fried rice: the kimchi. Opening the kimchi jar, the first thing I noticed was the smell of sourness and acidity. Much like the onion, I started hacking away the kimchi into smaller and smaller pieces until I had enough. As I looked at the ingredients I prepared, which wasn’t a lot, my confidence in making kimchi fried rice began to grow. Turning on the stove, I went through my memory bank to remember exactly what my friend did. Drizzling in the oil, it began to pop to the point where I had to step back in fear of burning myself. I then added the onions, stirring them around for a minute until it was slightly cooked. Next, the kimchi. As I poured the kimchi, the pot began to sizzle. The kitchen was engulfed by the smells of the acidic kimchi and the pungent onion. Hearing it sizzle was like listening to ASMR, and I loved it. I then added my leftover rice and started breaking it down into little pieces, scooping up the red spicy paste of gochujang, and tirring everything, I began to panic as I saw how less orange my kimchi fried was compared to my friend’s. I added more gochujang, a drizzle of soy sauce and sesame oil, and a dash of kimchi juice, stirring constantly until it looked perfect enough. Looking at my kimchi fried rice, I teared up. It was the first time I ever cooked anything for myself. And while some of you may go, “It’s just fried rice. That’s not difficult.” Yeah, you’re right. It’s challenging dish to make.

not

But for someone who has never touched a knife, who has never made anything other than toast, who some see as incompetent, the fact that I made a dish was amazing to me. As I grabbed the rice with my spoon, I thought to myself, “What will it taste like? Salty? Sour? Maybe it will be like my friend’s fried rice.” It was bland. Sure, maybe I should have added more salt, or maybe I shouldn’t have made it based on memory, but that’s okay. Because as I keep improving and growing as an adult who is learning how to cook, I will begin to understand what works and what doesn’t. I didn’t give up after I made my first kimchi fried rice, because all I had to do was add more seasoning, testing how much works and when to stop. Much like in life, we can’t grow if we never cross that line. We make mistakes, we fail, we stumble and fall. But don’t be discouraged. Learn from your mistakes and adjust to them. Seasoning by seasoning, ingredient by ingredient, step by step, every little thing we do is us growing as a person. For me, my growth is through cooking. From pasta, katsudon, cookies, sundubu jjgae, and butter chicken, those are the few things I have learned to cook. And I think that growth and accumulation of what I’ve learned were shown when I recently cooked sundubu jjgae for my mom when she was sick. After years of rejection and denial, my mother called me and said what I always wanted to hear from her:

"Damn, you can cook."

"Được rồi, Không cần phụ đâu, con." (It's okay, you don't need to help)

"Con sẽ bị phỏng bây giờ." (You're going to burn yourself)

REFLECTIONS | ISSUE NO.2 UT ASIAN AMERICAN JOURNALISTS ASSOCIATION