emergence - ISSUE 07 by portrait magazine

PORTRAIT emergence

PORTRAIT issue #7 : fall 2021 emergence

cover design Phoebe Jacoby

t i a r t r o P o T e m Welco e n i z a g a M ’ s t n e d u t Vassar’s Asian S

illustration Phoebe Jacoby

letter from the editor Dear Reader, Following in the footsteps of my two amazing predecessors, being Portrait’s third Editor-in-Chief brought with it a pressure I’ve never felt before. I was burdened with self-doubt and criticisms, hoping I was doing a good enough job. But as the semester progressed and I saw our seventh issue emerge, I realized that Portrait is not just about merit or capability. Rather, it is about sharing parts of ourselves with others through creative processes, intermingling vulnerability with imagination. It is an honor to be a part of Portrait. And with that, welcome to our seventh issue, Emergence! While contemplating the theme, we came across Emergence, as a nod to the changing normality of our culture and sense of self. Having spent the better part of the past two years on our own during this pandemic, we wanted to center on the act of self-reflection. It is the exploration of the many facets of our identities, how they merge together to form a complex and wonderful person, and the ways in which we strive to understand ourselves and each other. What does it mean to emerge, to grow from and honor our past experiences? What parts of ourselves are core to our identities? How do we harmonize our multiple selves to create the Self? What does it mean to be You? To all of the brilliant and wonderful contributors who continue to create such incredible works, I am deeply grateful for all of you. It is because of your contributions that Portrait is as beautiful as it is. And to everyone who is flipping through the pages, we thank you sincerely for your support. Whenever the AAPI community feels vulnerable and othered, it is important to remember that we are resilient and loved. We hope you enjoy Portrait: Emergence. With love and warmth, Jane, Editor-in-Chief On behalf of the Portrait Executive Board

table of contents 8

Myth

Chenyu: A Simple Wisdom

Duc Dang

Nightmare at Night Market Kai/Lauren Yung and Gabor Fu Ptacek

Gwen Ma

Emerging In Style: A Photoseries Kanako Kawabe

Peach Lips Heejae Jung

these aren’t tears, this is eye sweat

Untitled Zoe Mueller

Mai Nguyen

Emergence: An Exhibition

Seowon Back

Annie Xu and Elena Furuhashi

Papillon Janus Wong and Katherine Lim

bhut Kiran Rudra

Jane Ahn 5

Family Portrait Fall 2021 · Issue #7 · 36 contributors

Jane Ahn

Aidan Fry

Editor-In-Chief

Writer/Projecter lead, Editor

Elena Furuhashi

Alexander Pham

Content Editor

Designer

Phoebe Jacoby

Alicia Hsu

Creative Director

Writer/Projecter lead, Editor

Assel Omarova

Annie Xu

Publicity and Social Media

Writer/Projecter

Heejae Jung

Arlene Chen

Launch Coordinator

Editor, Social Media

Wyejee Jung

Ceci Villaseñor

Treasurer

Editor

Stephen Han

Duc Dang

Producer

Writer/Projecter lead

Gabor Fu Ptacek 6

Writer/Projecter lead, Editor

Gwen Ma

Katherine Lim

Writer/Projecter lead, Designer

Writer/Projecter lead, Editor

Hannah Hu Editor, Designer

Jaida Larkin Editor

Janus Wong Writer/Projecter lead, Editor

Josephine Man Writer/Projecter lead, Editor

Joy Yi Lu Freund Designer

Julia Peng Editor

Julianna Aguja Editor

Kai/Lauren Yung Writer/Projecter lead, designer

Kanako Kawabe Writer/Projecter lead

Kiran Rudra Writer/Projecter lead

Melah Motani Designer

Ruby Chen Designer

Sandro Luis Lorenzo Designer

Seowon Back Writer/Projecter lead

Sharon Nahm Designer, Social Media

SK Kapur Designer

Taylor Gee Editor

Zoe Mueller Writer/Projecter lead

Karen Mogami Designer, Social Media

My grandmother passed away on a cloudy autumn afternoon.

x x

was playing on the swings in my school’s playground when I heard my mother calling my name from behind and telling me to go home. As usual, without turning around, I shouted “Cho con chơi tí nữa!” nữa!” which normally would have given me ten let me play a bit more more minutes of precious swing time. Yet I immediately noticed the sound of footsteps shuffling through the fallen oak leaves and rushing toward me. When I stopped the swing and turned around, I saw my mother looking at me with red eyes, shaky lips, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows. She moved closer, hugged me, carried me down from the swing, and whispered to me: “Về nhà thôi con, bà mất rồi.” come home son, grandma passed away

I was six years old then. Now, every time I look back at that afternoon, I cannot find any words or phrases to describe how I felt. Instead, what always comes to mind are sensations, images and sounds. I felt a sudden weight pulling down my feet, shivers enveloping my body, my mother’s hands holding mine tightly as she walked me home. I saw my mother’s eyes, red and shiny, yet never allowing themselves to shed any tears, for Mom hated crying in front of her children. I heard the seven syllables “Về nhà thôi con, bà mất rồi.” circling in my ears, drowning out the infamously chaotic noise of rush hour Hanoi traffic. Then there were the ways my world changed. I remember how the gentle autumn wind transformed into sharp cold needles that pierced my skin, how the gray clouds of the gloomy autumn day, which so often looked like sauntering sheeps, started to shake and move in my eyes. If there was one word in my limited Vietnamese vocabulary at that time that I could have used to describe my feelings, it would have been “buồn” - sad. I remember the word being uttered a lot at the funeral, where my family and relatives were mourning, crying, and telling me “Buồn quá nhỉ cháu ơi,” I replied “Buồn lắm ạ” and cried isn’t it so sad?

yes, i am very sad

with them. Was I sad? Were the tears I cried mine? It must have been sadness because what kind of grandson am I not to be sad at your grandmother’s funeral? Yet it was hard to accept that all the sensations, the images, the sounds, and the way the world changes, can be encapsulated into a single syllable of “buồn.” Too simple, too neat. It has been fifteen years since my grandmother’s funeral. In those years, I have gathered words and phrases in both Vietnamese and English to describe emotions, and have grown fascinated by them. I am delighted by how I can describe my everyday feelings with short one-or-two-syllable Vietnamese words — “buồn” for sadness, “vui” for joy, “thất vọng” for disappointment, “hạnh phúc” for happiness. I am intrigued by how I can see random images in my mind from hearing certain English words. In “elation” I see a bird soaring through a clear sky. In “emptiness” I see one drop of water falling onto a perfectly still pond. In “suffocation” I see a branch dangling from a fallen oak tree. I am even more fascinated by phrases in poems or in novels, which come so delicately close to capturing the essence of emotions. “A fin in the waste of water” — such is loneliness. “A check in the flow of my being; a deep stream presses on some obstacle; it jerks; it tugs; some knot in the center resists” — such is yearning.

et even with all those words and phrases, I cannot describe how I felt at my grandma’s funeral. I want to reflect on that day and say “That was not sadness, but . Yet that has always eluded me. Even when I had written down everything that I saw, heard, and sensed that day, there was still something essential lacking, some sort of cry, scream, fissure in objects and cracks in reality — something of solitary disorder that words and phrases cannot convey. Without appropriate labels to capture the shades of pain, sadness, melancholy, confusion, excitement, serenity, joy, … I had often found myself disconnected from my true feelings. It must have been during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic that I found my own private way of understanding emotions. Being stranded on campus half the earth away from my family, I spent most of my time on my own, and labels gradually lost their meaning. Words like “sadness” and “loneliness” expressed even less if you could say them to almost no one but yourself. With words losing their significance, I began to grasp feelings in the moments where powerful images, vivid sounds, and intense sensations emerged from the world — moments of emergence. Fifteen years ago, I experienced such a moment when I sensed the needle-sharp wind, my mother’s teary eyes, my leaden feet and my shivering body. After that, there were moments when walking outside at night, I became conscious of how the streetlights shone sharp light spears that pricked my eyes, how other people’s glances turned antagonistic, and how my body shivered and yearned for the calmness of my room. Yet there were also moments at night when I saw gentle hue from streetlights, I heard people’s voices bursting through the night’s silence like fireflies, and I felt my skin warmly blanketed with moonlight. Were I to search for words that encapsulated those moments, what would they be? Sadness, apprehension, serenity — maybe, but all of them stripped away the complexity and nuance of my experiences, and reduced them to neat and compact designs. No more searching. Now, I embrace and understand my feelings in the moments of emergence themselves.

ometimes, I think how ironic, and even cruel, it is to have words and phrases as the most common expressions of our emotions. They are neat, compact, and pretty, but never adequate. With words, I can never describe exactly how I feel. Yet at the same time, I have come to appreciate this gift that I have given myself, the ability to embrace feelings for what they are and the moments of emergence that accompany them. I feel content with how I understand what I feel and what I experience without the burden of finding neat labels for them.

written by: Duc Dang, edited by: Gabor Fu Ptacek and Heejae Jung, designed by: Sharon Nahm

Chengyu A Simple Wisdom Writer: Gwen Ma Editors: Josephine Man, Ceci Villaseñor Designer: Karen Mogami

Recently I have noticed that I’ve been using a lot of Chinese four-character idioms in my conversation with other people. I sometimes use them intentionally, but other times I simply can’t find a better way of expressing myself. My mom sent me a picture of a beautiful sunset yesterday, and I said, “Wow the clouds are 五光十色 (wǔ guāng shí sè),” which directly translates to having five rays and ten colors. My parents were very impressed by my usage of the idiom—when most people were just commenting “so pretty,” I took the compliment to the next level. I was taken aback that my parents thought I did something impressive by using this phrase—it was plain and clear to me that the four-idiom expression I used was the best way to describe the sunset. The exchange I had with my parents made me wonder if many Chinese people have completely eradicated four-character idioms from their vocabulary, and if simple expressions like this were even cherished anymore. 10

Chinese four-character idioms are called chengyu, which means “set phrases.” Chengyu is a type of figurative language that helps us express complex ideas in a simple way. Similar to English idioms, most chengyu can’t be taken literally since they are derived from ancient literature, stories, poems, or historical facts. However, there is chengyu, like the above-mentioned expression that can be understood literally. Personally, I categorize chengyu into two kinds, aesthetic and clever. Most chengyu that is poem and literature-based, describe scenery and people, and that can be taken literally fall under the aesthetic category. The idiom that I used to describe the sunset belongs to the poetic and imagery category as well, since those four words paint a beautiful scenery in front of our eyes. Most chengyu that is linked to fables and has meanings based on context belongs to the clever category. The elegance, refinement, and morals that chengyu provides prove that

it is an exceptionally versatile literary device and has the variety that English idioms do not possess. Chengyu is an essential part of the Chinese language and culture. There is about twenty-two thousand chengyu in the Chinese language, and their creation can be traced back to thousands of years ago. Though English idioms also have a long history, they are not as concise or poetic to read as chengyu. The feelings of pure bliss, amazement, and pride rush through me every time I come across chengyu because of its extreme elegance and solemnity. The use of chengyu guarantees a powerful story because each of these idioms touches on life morals and wisdom. It is a way Chinese people connect with each other through sharing the same cultural understanding and custom acknowledgment. Chengyu contains motifs that are unique to Chinese culture. For instance, nature motifs such as mountains- 山 (shān), water- 水 (shuǐ) or moon-月(yuè) appear frequently in chengyu and are linked to fascinating metaphors. One of my favorite chengyu that contains these motifs is 高山流水 (gāo shān liú shuǐ), which literally translates to water falling from high mountains. However, the contextual meaning of the chengyu is the difficulty of finding a soulmate. There is a famous story behind this chengyu. During the spring and autumn period

in China, a renowned Guzheng musician was playing by the river when a woodman came up to him and told him that he understood what he was playing. The musician was surprised by the woodman’s cultivation in music because his songs were improvisations that represented towering mountains and roaring rivers, yet the woodman immediately recognized the scenery he was trying to create through his music. The musician was extremely moved to meet a soulmate who completely understood him. Thus the chengyu of high mountains and running waters is derived from this story, indicating that finding a soulmate in life is extremely difficult. As I mentioned above, I categorized chengyu into two kinds: aesthetic and clever. One instance of an aesthetic chengyu is 水天一色 (shuǐ tiān yī sè) which comes from a famous poem and is used to describe the dazzling scene of the sky and ocean merging into one. This chengyu can be easily understood from the words that composed it, which directly translates to “water and sky are of one color.” From such a description, we can picture an image of the vast ocean endlessly extending into the horizon and becoming a part of the blue sky. Besides aesthetic chengyu, my favorite clever chengyu is 爱屋及乌 (ài wū jí wū), directly translated to “love a house and love the crow in the house.” This chengyu can’t be taken

literally but makes sense when given the context behind it. This chengyu is based on a historical story, in which a military strategist was advising the emperor on what to do with the enemies they captured. According to the military strategist, if you like someone you will also like the crow on their rooftop, but if you hate someone, you will hate everything related to this person. Therefore, he suggested killing all the enemies because they were led by a hated leader. I found this chengyu very relatable because this holds true even today. When we like someone, we cherish and appreciate everything related to them even though they might not necessarily be nice.

Fun interactive game:

Being able to use the appropriate chengyu in a sentence earns you admiration and respect. It is a sign of scholarship and erudition as it is an indicator of one’s avid interest in ancient literature. In modern times it has also become a fun way to impress others. People who know a lot of chengyu can easily stand out and triumph in games like Idiom Solitaire, in which someone has to name an idiom, and then the next person needs to come up with another idiom that begins with the same

character as the last one of the previous idiom. Chengyu is such an indispensable component of the Chinese language and culture. I hope that people can preserve this elegant way of expression and pass it down to future generations. Using chengyu verbally helps us refresh our memory of stories and morals from the past and reminds us of our roots. For people who are interested in Chinese culture, chengyu is always a great starting point to help gain more insight into Chinese culture and philosophy.

胸有成竹 (To have confidence) 竹篮打水 (To be in vain) 水到渠成 (To happen naturally) 成人之美 (To help others) 美玉无瑕 (To have reached perfection) 胸有成竹 ------________------________------________------________

Emerging in Style: A Photoseries Kanako Kawabe

Models: Kiran Rudra (he/him) SK Kapur (they/them) Joy Yi Lu Freund (they/she) Debora Mun (she/her)

Edited by Gabor Fu Ptacek | Title page by Joy Yi Lu Freund

Peach Lips Written by Heejae Jung

Edited by Katherine Lim & Janus Wong Designed by Hannah Hu

As I sink my teeth into the fuzzy skin of a ripe peach, its juice slivers down my neck and rests uncomfortably in the cotton folds of a now-sticky dress shirt. Staring at the fruit’s indented flesh, I am reminded of a child’s blushing cherubic face from the dusty cover of Life magazine. I had fingered the chalky pages and blurred print, remarking on the paper’s flimsy composition, all the while my mother conversed seriously with my principal. The wrinkles on her usually clear face scared me, so I fixated on the overly cheery kid and turned to thoughts about similarly pleasant things. The first image that popped into my mind was my fifth grade classmate Katrina who would glow like a cherry whenever someone complimented her. Then came Milo, my neighbor’s dog, whose rosy tongue would randomly peep out and contrast the chocolate brown complexion of his fluffy exterior. All living things blushed in one form or another, and I enjoyed uncovering and dissecting them through my eyes, lips shut. Enclosed in the safe comforts of a distant desk or peering out of my kitchen’s small glass window overlooking the nextdoor neighbors, I felt at home. I did not know why they wanted to force me out, why they needed to break down the walls that would hug me whenever people tried to open me up like a jar of pickled radish. I still don’t. I continue to swirl the nectar in my mouth, hoping it seeps into my gums. Maybe if my breath drew bees instead of curious glances, I could be left as is. The only person who met my lack of words with warm indifference was my aunt. I do not remember her age, nor her full name. What I do know is how family members often joked that she could pass as my older sister, how in spite of her youthful demeanor she had divorced twice, and her

peculiar talent for whistling elaborate tunes while making the best jeon, or Korean pancakes, in the world. Years later, when my mother finally decided to give me my aunt’s diary, the one she left me with before her sudden departure, I ran across the following words: the space between me and your words fall short on my mouth, no lips society’s lisp– the molten set of your unwavering lips; a million paperweights… (I couldn’t read some of her cursive writing.) a dreamlike flurry of fragmented reality, tee you are teething and choking in silence, shh… I remained unfazed the first time I read this entry. Slowly, confusion began to creep in about the overwhelming torment she felt toward my silence. In stark contrast to her easygoing attitude around me, her literary heartbreak about the selectively mute niece irked me. Sprawled in a purple gel pen, buried in a sea of other entries and further concealed by the diary’s lock, her words left me disorientated. If she had felt so strongly about my silence, why had she not openly stated it to me? Why, instead, did she feel the need to hide it in a diary entry? Why did she have to ruin my memory of her as the always compassionate, unquestioning and understanding aunt that I wished everyone could be? (At the time, knowledge that the same questions could be asked of me and my unwillingness to communicate with others arose briefly, but quickly evaporated.)

After my first encounter with these unspoken words, I fell into a dramatic, fourteenyear-old spiral. One night, when I managed to fall asleep after numerous punches to the pillow and the bitter satisfaction of shoving the diary into my drawer beneath the heavy textbook of my least favorite subject, I had the most ghastly dream. Suddenly back to my preschool classroom, the girl in front of me, my ex-best friend Lily, had a nosebleed. I turned to look at the teacher and then to the boy next to me who carried all the tissues. To my surprise, when I tried to reach for a Kleenex, he hugged the box closer to his chest. Frustrated, I reached for it, only to be met by his downturned face and the teacher’s furious glare. I tried to point to Lily’s nose, which would make everything okay, but she had somehow secured a tissue during this chaos, getting rid of the only evidence that would articulate my good intentions. I woke up that night with a sudden need to brush my teeth and scrub my skin. When my mom came to the bathroom due to the noise, dazed and half asleep, I made a beeline back to my room and tried to fall asleep. Time and time again, begrudgingly, I returned to my aunt’s diary. Gradually, I realized that my frustration about her unforthcoming

nature and inability to verbalize her sadness could be experienced by others about me. I keep it beside me because of the fleeting desire it elicits for me to speak, to slip out of my silence. Evolving from a paperweight to a bedside companion, the diary becomes my version of a fidget toy; I stroke the spine absentmindedly with my index finger whenever I am bored or daydreaming. Sprawled on my picnic blanket with the sun kissing my eyelashes, I blindly grab another peach, but instead of consuming it this time, I hold it against my cheek and inhale its sweet perfume. A smile sprawls across my face when I hear the fumbling footsteps of Milo. Sitting up, I offer it to him, curious to see if he will eat it, but he only looks back at me, equally expectant and silent. I wonder if he would have more fun if I were to treat it as a ball, so I stand and throw the peach. His tail wags, but he remains still, watching me. “Fetch!” I say with a giggle. Milo barks and runs to retrieve it. I laugh again, giddy that only him and I are in this backyard, free of witnesses to my unbecoming behavior. He prances back to me, and I position myself to throw it again. I open my mouth to say the word once more. My silent spell, magically broken.

Papillon.

Janu s Wong & Kath erine Lim Desig ned by Ruby Chen

French lit. “butterfly” A toy spaniel with ears shaped like butterfly wings Freedom and escape

a photostory about growth

Uneasy and unfocused Moving on always means Leaving a piece of you behind

0 2 Laughing in the sunlight, swimming at the beach One moment together, the next drifting apart Time pointing down opposite paths As the waves pull away the sand

0 3 A star is a hope and a wish

They fall with the realization that Dreams are just delusions 22

Changes come as constant as the seasons Bursts of color before they fall Flashes of beauty drifting by As you disappear into the horizon

Sunsets mean sunrises because Whenever the sun sets It is surely going to rise again

Written by: Jane Ahn Edited by: Julia Peng and Jaida Larkin Design by: Sandro Luis Lorenzo The first time I cried during class was March 18th, 2021. I had heard stories here and there about friends who, having felt frustrated and upset in class, had shed a tear or two. Some even left the room entirely to calm down in the bathroom. I sympathized, but this was not an experience I understood until that day. My morning went as usual: I woke up for class, ate lunch, and played with my cats. As I got ready for my second class of the day, I logged onto Zoom and watched my classmates’ pixelated faces pop up on the screen one by one. Once we were all present, I waited for my professor to begin his usual routine of salutations and a checkin question. Instead, he began to speak about Atlanta, Georgia. Atlanta? I remember thinking. Oh good grief, what happened this time? In my curiosity, I minimized the class and Googled Atlanta, Georgia. I don’t know what I was expecting: a politician, perhaps, whose corruption was exposed, or maybe even a natural disaster or a car crash. What I was not expecting were headlines like “Georgia spa murders: Suspect charged with 8 counts of murder” or “Atlanta-area shootings leave 8 dead, many of Asian descent.” I froze in my seat. My professor dedicated the first few moments of class to talk about and reflect on Atlanta. Reflect? How was I supposed to reflect when my bones felt ten times heavier, pushing my body down and slowing down my brain activity? My entire being was numb, my brain in dizzying disarray. Did I speak? Should I speak? Was I expected to speak, being one of the few Asian students in class? Having cut off social media and news for myself for mental health reasons, I had just learned about the shooting and had no time to understand what was going on. I couldn’t process my shock, thoughts, or emotions. Thankful that my professor was offering space, I let myself sit in the silence. This was short-lived, however; though I had nothing to say, some of my white peers had plenty to share. I don’t quite remember what they said, but I do know that their comments compelled me to turn off my camera and cry into my pillow. Another classmate privately messaged me, and we shared our anger at the insensitivity of those who spoke, turning this tragedy into a learning tool and debate. She seemed to understand what I was trying to say through my disjointed messages, my linguistic ability impaired by my intense shock. Throughout the class, I’d turn my camera back on, ready to focus on the material, only to start feeling my eyes water and turn it off again. Eventually, I broke down. I turned off my camera for the rest of class time and sobbed my eyes out. 25

Whatever delusion of belonging I had built up for myself was shattered. No matter how much I spoke or thought like white Americans, no matter how much cultural code I understood or media interests I shared with them, I would always be denied a right to live on this land. How did this and other attacks on people who looked like me, people with whom I identified and shared culture, make me feel so alone? Just earlier that day, I was telling my cats how beautiful they were and eating lunch with my family. Yet, so soon after, exhaustion and isolation overwhelmed me. A torrent of thoughts ran through my head, trying to make sense of them feeling like wading through honey. The interactions I had after class only compounded my internal anguish. Few friends reached out; only one of them was white. And while I deeply appreciated their kind words and support, I began to feel guilty and lonely—guilty because I had never reached out to my BIPOC friends who had gone through similar experiences, lonely because the people I was interacting with during those days were exclusively nonwhite; guilty because I felt cramped by their messages, lonely because I couldn’t be more vulnerable with them; guilty because I didn’t want my white friends to reach out, lonely that nearly none of them did. It hurt. I had never felt my otherness more acutely than the days following the shooting. My purpose in sharing this is not to elicit sympathy or guilt anyone into taking action. Rather, my purpose is to explore the emotional complex that exists within the Asian American diaspora—and within myself. All my life, my parents taught me that to show emotion was to show weakness. You want to be strong, Jane, and taken seriously. Don’t let anyone ever see you cry. They’d massage my shoulders and bring me cut-up fruit. Tell me to work hard. To stay focused on my goals. So I chose to ignore my feelings, opting instead to suppress them and figure out a logical, rational approach. So when I found out about the shooting during class, I turned to academia, reading as much as I could about the shooting, articles about being Asian American, papers on trauma. I was more focused on getting the facts than understanding my source of chaos. Thus, when I tried to connect emotionally with my Asian American friends, I found myself at a loss for words, unable to articulate what was going on internally. But turning to academia proved to be useful and validating in other ways. I discovered that these principles I received from my parents were widespread across Asian American households - so much so that it has been researched. Anne Saw of the University of Illinois and Sumie Okazaki of New York University share studies that have shown a difference in the ways in which white and Asian American children are raised. For example, Asians tend to remember memories that are centered less on personal experience and more on historical or social facts (Saw & Okazaki, 2010). This finding correlates to the distinctions in child-rearing. Asian and Asian American mothers convey love through actions and helping their children find success, while white mothers show love through language and emotional support (ibid.). Moreover, Asian American parents tend to not openly display emotion, particularly love, a stereotype that is inherited by their children. Novelist Viet Thanh Nguyen writes about love as “the silent sacrifice of the parents, the difficult gratitude of the children, revolving around the garbled expression of love” (Nguyen, 2019). Parents show love through sacrifice, children show love through obedience, and other expressions of love are seen as extraneous. To summarize, language does not seem to exist as an avenue for expressing emotion, leaving Asian children with an inability to vocalize their inner monologue. Rather, children are expected to prove their love and filial piety through actions.

When I think back to last spring, I found myself holding back from fully opening up to the people around me. I didn’t want to be seen as an irrational human being who couldn’t control her feelings. Nguyen warns against this, asserting that “we just [need] to be at the center of a story, which would include the complexities of human subjectivity, not just the good but the bad, the three-dimensional fullness that white people took for granted with the privilege of being individuals” (ibid.). By confining ourselves to the role of emotionless beings, we inadvertently contribute to our own dehumanization and the deterioration of our communities. We can’t help but do this; our communities have taught us that suppressing emotion is the same as controlling it. So, how do we resist this? I have no answers to that question. But I do wonder how different my spring would have been had I known this back then. I don’t know how my reactions would have changed, yet I hold hope that, perhaps, I would’ve understood why I was crying. Anger, sadness, and fear were all present, but it doesn’t feel right to credit them as the basis for my tears. It feels like there’s something deeper, something fundamental that I’m missing, and it’s frustrating to be unable to pinpoint it. And to cry during class, with my camera off! The Asian tiger mom in me was shocked and disappointed. Still, I had to cry. Holding in my tears was not an option. I had to cry. If I hadn’t, I don’t know that I would have acknowledged how deeply distressed I felt. By crying, I was forced to face my stunted emotional acumen. In an odd way, it’s because of my insensitive peers during that unforgettable class that I came to these realizations and investigated why and how I feel the way that I do. They’ll never hear a “thank you” from me, though.

Sources: Nguyen, Viet Thanh. “Why We Struggle to Say ‘I Love You’.” The New York Times. The New York Times, January 12, 2019. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/12/ opinion/sunday/sandra-oh-golden-globes-speech.html. Saw, Anne, and Sumie Okazaki. “Family Emotion Socialization and Affective Distress in Asian American and White American College Students.” American Journal of Psychology 1, no. 2 (2010). https://doi.org/10.1037/a0019638.

NIGHTMARE AT NIGHT MARKET

A D&D 5e One-shot by Kai/Lauren Yung and Gabor Fu Ptacek Edited by Jane Ahn SCANNABLE CODES FOR BACKGROUND Special Thanks to: Aidan Fry Janus Wong Jane Ahn

Hannah Hu Seowon Back Kiran Rudra

MUSIC AND MONSTER STATBLOCKS

Throughout our experiences with Dungeons and Dragons (D&D), both playing in and running games, we’ve been struck by the ubiquitous European influence on the game. There’s a severe lack of representation in officially published books and player communities, and even some blatantly offensive depictions of groups based on race, ethnicity, religion, etc., some more coded than others. We are not hoping to “solve” any problems with representation, but we want to explore this system of storytelling and community building in a setting designed by two Asian American identifying people, specifically for

the Portrait community at Vassar. In a culture that demands our continued productivity and labor, we view creating art for enjoyment as a rebellion. To have fun is valuable, especially in a space where we can play without any worries, such as code-switching or catering to whiteness. We can simply enjoy the game. We bring our identities and experiences into how we game without aiming to “elevate” D&D. We are Asian people that simply want to have fun playing games. Whatever emerges from that is just an added bonus.

NIGHTMARE AT NIGHT MARKET! Things in quotes are to be read to your

players

BACKGROUND (ENTERING MAIN BUILDING) Choices before you begin! • Important item for each player • Each player’s language (Languages: fruits, vegetables, grains, protein, dairy) Through which entrance does your party enter Main? “You and your friends have heard lots about the upcoming night market event hosted by ASA with a bunch of other orgs. They have set up their tasty tables with scrumptious food, and you can smell it as you step into Main! ” ADVENTURE HOOK • “You and your friends get in line to buy the tickets you need to purchase food. As you reach the front of the line, the world grows large around you and the bustling passerbys freeze. You are shrunken on the ticketing table! Nearby, a silver pot stirs and a dragon made of noodles emerges. The dragon informs you that to be unshrunk, you must bring them tickets (one ticket per person, found on the food tables) and a password.” ADVENTURE STRUCTURE ENTER MAIN ➜ TICKETING TABLE ➜ TABLE 1 ➜ TABLE 2 ➜ FINAL BOSS (NOODLE DRAGON) THE PASSWORD The password is “PORTRAIT”, and to figure this out, the players must decode a menu or buy the password from the shopkeeper. The puzzle follows the rules of Tasha’s Cauldron’s puzzle: “What’s on the menu”. MENU (In alphabetical order-- scramble order to increase difficulty) Spam musubi ..... 2 (units of currency) Tteokbokki .... 7 Stir fry noodles .... 4 Horchata .... 7 Fried rice .... 2 Thai bubble tea .... 13 Dumplings .... 6 Tostones .... 1

10 DIFFERENT TABLES

REWARD AFTER EACH TABLE: TABLE 1: 1 health potion per player TABLE 2: each player gets a +1 weapon/spellcasting The players can decide which tables seem interesting and go explore! Asian Students’ Alliance • “Blocking you from moving across the table is a plate of egg tarts. You hear a crash— a block of grass jelly has knocked over its bowl and is inching towards you, leaving a trail of ooze in its wake.” • Hint: ASA has grass jelly that is just as tasty, no matter how small you cut it apart! • Egg Tart Soldiers -1 Skeletal Swarm • Grass Jelly Ooze - 1 Sentient Ochre Jelly Southeast Asian Students’ Association • “In your path is a tall tub of ube ice cream, and around the corner you notice tiny vegetable people wielding bows and sharpening dried noodle arrows.” • Hint: The tub of ube ice cream provides good cover and a potentially tasty distraction! • Dried Noodle Archers - 5-6 Wood Elves South Asian Students’ Association • “The entire table is covered with bowls of pani puri with napkins strewn about. You hear snoring.” • Hint: Using the environment to help your stealth will prevent you from waking up too many. • Pani Puri Monsters - 5-6 Ice Mephit Chinese Student Community • “A huge steaming pot that smells of roast beef coupled with that of garnished vegetables takes up the whole table. ” • Hint: Expertly making your way around the pot seems to be the only way to get across! • Noodles in Hotpot - 2 Enormous Tentacles Korean Student Association • “A tray of lying tteokbokki begins to stir and rise from the plate. They flop towards you!” • Hint: Don’t let these spicy fellas get too close to you! • Tteokbokki - 3 Galvanice Weirds Black Student Union • “A steaming plate of mac n cheese blocks one side of the table and three plantains float into the air on the other side”

• Hint: This food looks too hot to get close to! • Plantain Snakes - 3 Fire Snakes Multiracial/Biracial Student Alliance • “Some spam musubi soldiers are standing at attention guarding the tickets. They wield utensils as weapons and don’t look happy.” • Hint: They know more than they let on— watch out for some surprising spells! • Spam Musubi Soldiers - 3 Feathergale Knights Japanese Association for Students • “You spot a takoyaki machine, similar to a waffle maker but with sphere-shaped indentations. Each space contains a ball of dough with cooked octopus and veggies inside, but 5 of them start to float in the air…” • Hint: These little guys don’t know what they’ll attack with when they launch some ingredients at you. • Takoyaki - 5-6 Gazers Vassar Muslim Student Union • “A plate of naan lies in front of you and after a moment the naan rises up and folds itself into the shape of a bear, but its head doesn’t quite match its body” • Hint: The naan creature seems to be really dangerous at close range! • Naan - 1 owlbear Vassar Latinx Student Union • “A cooler filled with some liquid is by the edge of the table and a plate full of quesadillas is at the other end. Four of these quesadilla slices shake and the end of each slice opens up as it lets out a growl. You see some of the liquid leave the spout and take a humanoid shape.” • Hint: The quesadilla creatures seem ready to eat something, but they probably won’t eat you. • Horchata-mancer - 1 Apprentice Wizard • Quesadilla monsters (eats food weapons) - 4 Rust Monsters

Shopkeepers

“As you near the ticketing table after trekking across the College Center, you spot a little stand near the foot of the table that you didn’t see before. It seems to be run by a piece of nigiri sushi and a cup of boba. As you approach the stand, it seems they have some wares for sale.” The piece of fish on the back of the nigiri has arched into the shape of a dinosaur and a couple of boba pearls float as the cup’s eyes. They can communicate in protein, grains, vegetable, or dairy languages or English if necessary. Use the commoner stat block for both of them. These shopkeepers will have to be bartered with using the belongings your characters have in their possession as they have no money. Successful persuasion or deception checks can convince them of the value of an item (particularly an item important to the character). Wares for sale: • Wasabi potion: After drinking this potion, you gain resistance to fire damage for the next hour. • Chili pepper: After eating the pepper, you can use a bonus action to exhale fire at a target within 30 feet of you. The target must make a DC 13 Dexterity saving throw, taking 4d6 fire damage on a failed save, or half as much damage on a successful one. The effect ends after you exhale the fire two times or when 1 hour has passed. • Green Onion Bracelet: While wearing this ring, you can turn Invisible as an action. Anything you are wearing or carrying is Invisible with you. You remain Invisible until the ring is removed, until you Attack or Cast a Spell, or until you use a Bonus Action to become visible again. After one use, the ring wilts and cannot be used again. • Popsicle Wand: This wand has 3 charges. While holding it, you can use an action to expend 1 of its charges to cast the magic missile spell from it. For each charge, you cast the 1st-level version of the spell. • Hi-Chew Shield: +1 Shield (gives +3 AC while equipped). • Shrimp Chip of Shielding: When the owner is attacked, as a reaction, the shrimp chip can be consumed to have the same effect as the Shield spell. (+5 AC until the end of that player’s next turn).

Final boss - ticketing table “After collecting the necessary tickets and decoding the password, you go (back) to the ticketing table. As you come before the dragon and present your findings, it stands on its legs and flaps its wings. The winds buffet you as it’s throat and mouth glow red. It opens its mouth and you only have a fraction of a second to react.” Hint: don’t group up or it’ll breathe fire on you! Noodle Dragon - Red Dragon Wyrmling Adjustments for the stat block: • The noodle dragon is resistant to fire damage instead of immune. • The noodle dragon has access to lair actions (which occur at initiative count 20). • Hot soup erupts from the bowl and crashes to the ground at a point on the ground the dragon can see within 120 feet of it, creating a 20-unit-high, 5-unit-radius geyser. Each creature in the geyser’s area must make a DC 12 Dexterity saving throw, taking 10 (3d6) fire damage on a failed save, or half as much damage on a successful one. • A tremor shakes the table. Each creature other than the dragon on the table must succeed on a DC 12 Dexterity saving throw or be knocked prone. • Steam forms a cloud in a 20-unit radius sphere centered on a point the dragon can see within 120 feet of it. The sphere spreads around corners and its area is lightly obscured. It lasts until initiative count 20 on the next round. Each creature that starts its turn in the cloud must succeed on a DC 12 Constitution saving throw or be poisoned until the end of its turn. While poisoned in this way, a creature is incapacitated.

YOU DID IT! “You did it! Now you can enjoy Night Market! You may look at some of the dishes differently now...” 33

Occupying (Un)belonging “May I feel your head?” Unrolled. “Lucky” they say as their small hand passes over my rounded head. Rolled. Lucky that I was loved in some capacity, perhaps held in my unaccounted nine months before the orphanage? I remain unfamiliar with the physicalities of the adoptee body - the occasional indentation or immunization scars carrying histories of unbelonging. I control my own stories now, like the “dimple” on my cheek (a clumsy fall in 2nd grade) or the tattoo of my middle name (a permanent reminder of my imposter syndrome). I change my eye color like jewelry, wondering if this desire for (ephemeral) validation derives from internalized eurocentrism. My conception of beauty is mired in trails of yellow fever (to my dad: “is she young enough for you?”) and inauthenticity (incessant in airport security). In my prolonged exposure to whiteness, I crave(d) the colonial gaze, enveloping myself in their exotification. Who was I but collateral damage of the One Child Policy - an excess of migration to satisfy savior narratives?

“Lack of biological background information means not being able to place self in the social context expected by others. It also means not being able to envision self as a single entity with distinguishable physical traits. Searching adoptees express a sense of incompleteness from not knowing the source of their physical characteristics. This sense of incompleteness creates personal doubt about their bodily perceptions”

Expired Optimism There were late nights spent driving too fast, street lights and music bleeding into my senses. I remember screaming until I couldn’t cry anymore, profanity wrenching itself free from my mouth. I wondered, childishly, if throats could form calluses from overuse. Microwaved dinners prescribed post-guilt bloats as I stood swollen in front of the CD cabinet. Slipping into sleep as I brushed my teeth, my reflection distorted like a fever dream. Forgot to set my alarm. Again. Glitter smeared across my eyelids, my hair neatly braided. These mechanical reflexes were a controlled regaining of self: You’re fine. You’re ok. Repair was forced, dishevelment contained in impulsive apologies and reserved elegance. I can fix everything that feels wrong because there is nothing wrong with me. I refuse to sink into floral couches, blankly staring at the bills pressed into her hands as she itemizes repair like a grocery list. I wondered when this perpetual resignation, ugly and almost desperate, would no longer hurt. 1 March, Karen. “Who Do I Look Like? Gaining a Sense of Self-Authenticity Through the Physical Reflections of Others.” Symbolic Interaction, vol. 23, no. 4, [Wiley, Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction], 2000, pp. 359–73, https://doi.org/10.1525/ si.2000.23.4.359.

Lost in Translation Stretch marks puckered underneath the harsh lights, my calves straining in pointe shoes that didn’t quite fit. That youthful glow, warm and bright, dimmed as my body sunk into rounder curves. I no longer liked skirts, and I wore leggings underneath my gym uniform. I tucked myself into long sleeves, even in Kenyon’s late summer heat. “You’re strong.” You are. Strong. Bigger? “You’re graceful.” You are. Grace. Weak? “You’re heavier than you look.” Why would you say that? She was barely sixteen and had hated her body since she was ten. It was an uncomfortable fact, this unrelenting feeling of inadequacy. She still holds these words like a secret an unspoken absence and tangible presence. The decay was slow, but deliberate as the wreckage seeped into chronic disquietude.

Internalized Colonization Birds dangle from the fingers of little Hmong girls, their bodies draped in beaded textile. Feathered wings twine against the handwoven cages, and for a brief moment, their softness lies flush against my palms before they take flight. In mid-afternoon heat, gold leaf and orange cloth slacken, a sacred space discolored by tourists. Monks make merit in the early morning, our First World hands pinching rice into a procession of brass bowls. Night market vendors sell silver spoons crafted from bombshells, an ugly, unforseen practicality that was Nixon’s Operation Menu. Nestled in youthful ignorance, my innocence has soured into complicity. I am a settler, my guilt invisibilized as I sip orange juice by the Mekong. Siloed in privilege, reality was glossed over in a sheen. I exist in a landscape of cognitive dissonance, between undeniable physicalities and psychic invasions. I trample over Their histories, pocketing trauma like souvenirs as I leave in a daze - high off colonial bliss.

Unrequited Attraction Her Spotify playlists were sweet ... like a spoonful of honey for sore throats. “June bug” and “Winter Saturdays” she called them, but my favorite was “animal soup”. She reminded me of Anya Taylor-Joy, her eyes plucking at untempered emotions. I couldn’t stop staring at her; it was involuntary and almost instinctual, that warmth of morning light in her gaze. It was so easy to fall into cliches, imagining how her skin would feel if I slipped my hand along her ribcage. I reveled in this lovely ache, addicted to these Hallmark obsessions. I fixated on her small details: the faint freckles splattered like watercolors, loose spirals of cornsilk hair, and how her voice resonated like lullabies. To the doe-eyed girl in San Francisco summer, I free-fell for you in my unsustainable delusions. But those days were filtered like polaroids, a stale sepia. Tangled in this selfish desire to be ruined, she slowly became abstracted into imaginaries. She was satin and lavender, and I wear her memory like perfume.

Writer: Zoe Mueller Editors: Alicia Hsu and Julia Peng Designer: Melah Motani

MAI NGUYEN

ART & WORDS BY SEOWON BACK | DESIGN BY ALEXANDER PHAM

ARTIST’S STATEMENT BY SEOWON BACK | EDITED BY AIDAN FRY In what ways can visual art manifest and reimagine Mai Nguyen’s personal blogs?

want to memorialize Mai Nguyen’s feelings around advocating for farmers of color. Mai grows heirloom grains on leased land in Sonoma County. They also travel across California with the National Young Farmers Coalition and work to reduce barriers for minority farmers through new legislation like the Farmer Equity Act of 2017. The act helps farmers of color have equitable access to resources for navigating the largely, white male agricultural world. Recent research demonstrates how demographic and socio-economic factors significantly influence network centrality of small farmers. As a farmer and farm advocate, Mai Nguyen is personally aware of the challenges farmers of color face while striving to address their collective needs. The art piece will focus on the significance of their knowledge as an Asian American with a Critical Ethnic Studies background in the movement for humanizing America’s food systems.

he subject of my art piece will be Mai Nguyen. I think they are important to memorialize their individual story as an activist because they are presently navigating this role. In class, we learn about challenging a hegemonic history by describing the challenges and successes of Asian Americans in descriptive and emotional ways. On Mai’s website, they have a page dedicated to blogging their weekly anecdotes and personal history. I think their blogs are a form of oral history, like the ones we describe in class. Their blogs will help navigate my illustration process by reliving their initial logic and feelings for choosing to be a farmer and farm advocate. I will

explore how Mai Nguyen grounds their identity as a Queer Vietnamese American farmer while fighting for a larger movement for food equity. I think it is important that I am examining a young Asian American in the present because my envisioned audience of college students can have conversations with the art piece that are more relevant to them. I will describe how food systems illustrate the transnationality of the present because through the cultivation of wheat, Mai constructs and performs their identity for the world. I admire how in their blogs and interviews, they consistently emphasize how they are “more than just a producer of a product.” They are “a person who has developed knowledge and skills.” ENDNOTES “Mai Nguyen Farming for Everyone - Berkeley Food Institute.” Berkley Food Institute. Accessed October 2, 2021. https://food.berkeley. edu/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/3-changemakers-mai.pdf. 1

Khanal, Aditya, Fisseha Tegegne, Stephan Goetz, Lan Li, Yicheol Han, Stephan Tubene, and Andy Wetherill. 2020. “Small and Minority Farmers’ Knowledge and Resource Sharing Networks, and Farm Sales: Findings from Communities in Tennessee, Maryland, and Delaware”. Journal of Agriculture, Food Systems, and Community Development 9 (3). Ithaca, NY, USA:149-62. https://doi.org/10.5304/jafscd.2020.093.012. 2

Lee, Matthew R. 2008. The effects of Asian American studies on Asian American college students’ psychological functioning. Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 3

Alkon, Alison Hope, and Dena Vang. “The Stockton Farmers’ Market:” Food, Culture & Society 19, no. 2 (2016): 389–411. https://doi.or g/10.1080/15528014.2016.1178552. 4

Emergence: An Exhibition Annie Xu & Elena Furuhashi From a selected photo, a voice emerges. Sometimes it comes as a single word, other times a phrase, an onomatopoeia, or even a white noise. Sometimes, it is lingual, metalingual, or even completely beyond the capacity of language, making it hard to put down into text form. Reflecting on a fleeting thought that comes and goes as we proceed in life, we want to explore the momentary discoveries so as to honor the exchange between different worlds/words. We want to write as though to think, perhaps courageously enough so that minimally processed words might freely emerge. A double is a set of two unstable expectations, infiltrating each other to create a brand new entity. The layering of two photos denaturalizes the taken for granted and enables a curious emergence that was previously deemed impossible. The double here means more than just the collapsing of two photos but also the collision of visual and auditory sensations—the synesthesia of perception and interpretation. We will each provide a photo, which we then layer, discuss and respond to carefully with a word of sound. The conversational process in which we drew inspiration from each other’s worlds/words will make up this journey. We invite you to introspect on your senses as you go through this exhibition called Emergence with us.

Edited by Hannah Hu Designed by Joy Yi Lu Freund 39

纷纷 / Fēn Fēn 纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is the sound of falling, flowing, and then falling again. 纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is when a snowflake melts in midair and arrives at the tip of a kitten’s tongue. 纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is when the pale blue of the sky collides with the building at dawn, violet nightgown. 纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is half dimmed light in Strong 413. I closed my eyes to see a flower shed its pumping heart.

ぽろろん / po-lo-lon The tune of a single piano key leaking from the next room—ぽろろん (po-lo-lon), is what I hear when I see this. ぽろん (polo-n) without the repeated "lo" expresses a small particle falling off—like a single tear dropping from the eye. The tattoo my friend recently got—a single flower growing straight out of her belly button— feels powerful to me. At the same time, the single line it is made of makes it seem like a little tug or push could undo its posture. ぽろん (po-lo-n), a drop of a petal. The whole thing may all unravel to the ground. The sound ろん(lo-n) has such a transient sentiment—the ringing of a single piano key, the short life of a rose, a drop of salt water before it reaches the ground. It is the release of the built up summed into small particles of beauty.

とろーん / to-ro-n とろーん (to-ro-n) can describe the drooping sleepy eyes of a child, the half cooked egg yolk slowly dripping out of its outsides. This scene of my hometown, captured this summer, brought me back to days in elementary school when I would walk back from school with my neighborhood friends. These walks would be full of detours: kicking around pebbles, trying to catch a frog in the rice field, gossiping about our classmates. とろーん (to-ro-n). If the time was just right, the sun would be setting, and the pink-orange would provoke a rumble in my belly, adding weight to my eyelids. I realized that I started looking at the ground much more after elementary school. Yes, there was no sunset to witness nor enough light to notice the mountains that stood around me. Where has my in-between time gone? とん、とん、とん (ton, ton, ton) I hear my clock tick.

咕噜咕噜 / Gū Lu Gū Lu

咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu), we gulped soup, ice cold water, and then more soup. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) is the sound of mundane life, a casual kind of content that needs no explanation at all.

咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) is a versatile sound. Though mostly used to describe circular objects, 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) can be written in many different ways depending on the subject at hand. For instance, you can write 轱辘轱辘 if you see a pumped tire. You can write 骨碌骨碌 if you see a particular slyness in your dog’s eyes. I chose 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) because, in all honesty, I was really hungry when I saw this picture. The lotus root looked crunchy in a hot pot of flaming clouds. A desire to have comforting stew with red chili bean paste emerged from the bottom of my stomach. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) goes the stove, rusty iron rims heating up like two sleep-deprived eyes. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) goes the vegetable broth, tumbling with complaints that I have left it in the fridge for so long. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) goes some freshly chopped zucchini, shying away from the heat of action. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) goes a spoonful of sesame oil, sending a scented invitation to my housemate downstairs, who arrived at the scene bearing almond milk.

噢，乖 / Ò Guāi When you tell someone 噢，乖 (Ò Guāi), you are telling them to “be good.” It’s a comforting sound that mothers sometimes make to calm their babies. It’s not disciplinary like “behave yourself ” nor is it demanding like “be excellent.” It is an acknowledgement, a casual pat on the shoulder (or head, depending on how tall you are). This phrase emerged from the image because of the phonetic resemblance between 噢 (Ò) and 藕 (Ŏu), the word for lotus roots. 糖藕 (Táng Ŏu), lotus root stuffed with sweet rice, is one of my favorite dishes. It is a casual dish made from a hearty recipe. The sugary sticky rice amends the empty holes in the lotus root, blossoming a pink lotus flower inside your chest. The lingering sweetness clings to the roof of your mouth, making you want to secretly lick it without anyone noticing. “Be good!” My grandma used to say as I ran across the kindergarten playground. I turned half way back only to see her off. “Be good! I will get you some sweet lotus root for dinner.” Searching everywhere for this hollow-hearted plant to no avail, I heated up a pot of sticky rice with my imagination. My elementary school teacher once said that the worst thing in life is when you look back all of a sudden and the person who has always waited for you is no longer there. No longer waiting, regardless of whether

できた！/ de-ki-ta! できた！(de-ki-ta!) My inner voice would say after I finish making a meal, topping it off with some scallions. できた (de-ki-ta) means that something has been done, implying a satisfactory "I did it!" This playful photo makes me think of moments of fulfillment as I completed a goal that took me long endurance and hard work. In elementary school I had a friend a couple years older than me whom I looked up to very much. In my eyes, she was an exquisite artist, intelligent soul, and master of life. I remember showing her my drawings with sparkling eyes, excaiming できた！(de-ki-ta!) I have come to enjoy sharing work and thoughts more and more, not just for approval but in order to share that very できた！(de-ki-ta!) sensation with the people around me.

窃窃私语 / Qiè Qiè Sī Yǔ 窃窃 (Qiè Qiè) means secretive, but of a particular timid kind. 私 (Sī) means self or for self. Together, 窃窃私语 (Qiè Qiè Sī Yǔ) becomes the word of whispering. When my mother was a child, she used to have two cats as her faithful spectators during table tennis time. My grandmother’s apartment was an old Shikumen (石库门) building in Shanghai where all the neighbors could see and hear each other’s lives. In between narrow alleys, the walls had exchanged secret and intimate messages for almost a hundred years. In these same narrow alleys, my grandfather set up a ping pong table where my mother played with her childhood friends, before everything was fully polished, before everything had yet to wear down. Whenever she played, the ping and pong sound would attract two cats, one of them white with orange fur around the collar, like a Shakespearian hero. The cats looked attentive throughout and turned their fluffy heads left and right to follow the trajectory of victory. Occasionally, both chased after the rolling ping pong ball, a soft groan from the back of their throats. What was the message there? Has anyone ever decrypted their 窃窃私语 (Qiè Qiè Sī Yǔ)? In 1990, my mom moved out of her old apartment, left behind a shattered ping pong table, four walls of neighborly gossip, and two cats that were never seen or heard again.

ちらり、ひらり/ chi-la-li, hi-la-li ちらり (chi-la-li). When something shows itself for a brief second, when you steal a secret glance of something, this is the sound I envision. ひらり (hi-la-li) on the other hand, the "chi" replaced by a softer "hi", provokes an image of flowing thin material-- a falling petal, a curtain, a sundress. Through the gentle breeze that ひらり (hi-la-li), flutters the curtain, This photo brings me visions of old memories, ちらり (chi-lali). People fear forgetting, being forgotten. But these moments of unexpected whispers can bring you back to a particular feeling of remembering.

熙熙攘攘 / Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng 熙熙攘攘 (Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng) means crowded. Not crowded like a 7 a.m. subway, but a fish market at the same hour. 熙熙攘攘 (Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng) is used to describe a joyous crowd, a group of busy yet content people gathering for a particular spectacle. You might accidentally step on another person’s big toe but then you would both smile apologetically and rush together to the next open vendor. I have always had a particular fondness for 熙熙攘攘 (Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng) as a word. Perhaps because 熙 was going to be the middle character of my name. Then I would be 徐熙洋 instead of 徐禧洋. 熙 (Xī) means warmth and happiness whereas 禧 means good luck. I suppose there are certain things in life that are more important than good luck. As I layered the two images, the word 熙熙攘攘 (Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng) popped into my head. I was brought back to my childhood New Year’s Eve celebration where I was wrapped up in swarms of visitors like dumpling filling on the nine-folded bridge of Chenghuang Temple. The major attraction was the countless fish underneath the bridge, reaching for breadcrumbs with their eager mouths. They were koi, I suppose, and were of a vibrant shade of red. Far away from home, it has been almost ten years since I last stood on this bridge. In the fortress of my dream, I built a colorless castle where carps instead of koi (I guess I am not such an idealist afterall) patrol the property. Mouths wide open, they swallow fragments of my memory, daring me to overstep the boundary between the real and the imagined. 44

ぐーん/ guu-n

If you reach for something hard enough, you may hear this stretching sound "uu" in the tension of your muscles. ぐーん (guu-n) with the "g" adds on speed and vitality. I stand on my tiptoes and stretch ぐーん (guu-n) to the ceiling when I wake up in the morning. My little brother grew ぐーん (guu-n) so quickly, and now he is taller than me. The reaching of a hand, the pedaling of a swing into the midst of the mountain ranges of Nagano. This image makes me think of the yearning for something unknown. It is uneasy, it is in process, and you worry that the "uu" tension may cut off before you reach the other side. But with the ending "n", you are going to land, and it is going to be alright.

ちょこん / cho-ko-n

ちょこん (cho-ko-n) has the sentiment of something small existing or being placed down very gently. It's just like a candied cherry sitting on top of your dessert. In this image, my finger barely touches a piano key, ちょこん (cho-ko-n). I mark a point precisely on my ear, ちょこん (cho-ko-n), before it is pierced by my friend. It is done with care and there is a lingering joy that I cherish. It reminds me of my mother who has always had great appreciation for both seeing and acting on this ちょこん (cho-ko-n) feeling. She finds beauty and meaning in the little things around her, which has also made me imagine the intentional gesture or coincidental placement of small objects in daily scenes. I feel as though I have done something good by witnessing a thing that I could have just passed right by.

4’33”

4’33’’ is an experimental piece by composer John Cage during which the performers remain completely silent for 4 minutes and 33 seconds. This piece generates similar sentiment. Muted and rid of colors, I tried hard to grab inspiration by its tail. Yet, it is always fleeting as though serving a tennis ball across the court of temporal infinity, a hit and also a miss. I could have forced myself to give a summary about all the little details that had composed this double. By doing so, however, I would have also imprisoned the potential of this set of images. I chose not to in the end. In Ghostly Matters, Avery Gordon said, “in a culture seemingly ruled by technologies of hypervisibility, we are led to believe not only that everything can be seen (perhaps heard as well), but also that everything is available and accessible for our consumption.” Things, once possessed, owned, and analyzed, became reducible. Speechless, I stayed true to the blankness of my mind and only layered and assembled these two pictures. This way, I hope to pay tribute to the meaning behind all things that I have perhaps taken for granted or have just assumed to comprehend in the past. Given the lack of sound emerging from this photo, it is perhaps better to leave it unvoiced so as to have it emerge by and for itself.

bhut

BY KIRAN RUDRA Edited by Taylor Gee and Julianna Aguja Designed by SK Kapur

a ghost lives in my home. i did not invite him in and i am not entirely sure how he got here, or how long he has been here. i don’t know his name, but he reminds me of the little brown boy i never got to be. i know his bones are tied to my lungs because he rattles when i breathe. i try my hardest to ignore him. i turn my head, pretending that the shaking in my chest doesn’t exist, and it doesn’t follow every exhale. i close my eyes as tightly as i can. it’s just a dream. yet he stares back at me so hauntingly, occupying the mirror, a stranger in my own home. every time i turn around, he’s still there. i don’t know where he came from, if not from inside me. but i refuse to believe that i could have borne someone so despaired, someone so lost and alone to be tied to someone who denies their existence.

ii. i believe i am being possessed. by the ghost. the boy. he stepped into my body and he rattles my lungs, shaking and shaking, racking my whole body with anguish. every. time. i’m. reminded. of. him. how dare he? i was doing just fine until i found his ghost deep within myself. he took the place of a young girl i once thought i knew -- fooled into her existence, but he stands in iii. her skeleton; it was always him. he reaches deep within my core and rips away i wonder every freedom i’ve known, replacing it with despair and isolation. i want to what i could have hold him, down on my knees, and scream. scream for hours on end so done to prevent him from loud and so thunderous that my chest explodes. i’ve never felt appearing. how to erase the guilt, such rage, such grief. to be robbed of something i never the shame. i could have burned his knew i had. to know there is a ghost of a boy bones when i found them in my ribcage. i who never got to be. could have been the daughter i should have been. i should have been a better son. every part of me yearns to live in the world where i never knew the type of pain that washes over me, filling my lungs with water and my bones with melancholy. what is so wrong with me that i deserve such a burden? the boy knows i don’t want his ghost here. to his core, he knows he is unwanted. that i never wanted to grieve him. he cannot control his existence, and i cannot blame him for taking up the space he never had the privilege of owning. but he rattles my lungs every time i breathe and i am tired of choking. my chest holds the weight of the ghosts of all the boys that died inside me.

iv. he makes me so sad. he fills me with anguish, melancholy, despair, and grief. i wish i was in the world where he was born. i exist, i exist, i exist. i keep reminding myself that i did not die with him. i carry his corpse with me everywhere i go and i cannot help but think of all the things he never lived to see. and i am sad that i now have to live with his ghost. i carry this burden of grief alone, like rocks tied to my ribcage that drag on the floor as i walk. his thick fog of sadness fills the air, constantly clouding my vision. to truly see him is to forget everything i once saw as true. a spectre of wisdom that comes with a price of the constant reminder of loss. everywhere i turn, i see him. it is impossible to escape him. he is borne from me and we are tied at the core. we are one. and so i must carry him and his grief, his loneliness, and his emptiness.

i think i’ve learned to live with the ghost. i even let him step into my body sometimes. he is me, after all. even if he was never born, i can be all the things he dreamed to be. i get to take every step he never got to. i’ve learned that i can feel his sorrow, but i can feel his joy, too. feel the euphoria that spreads joy like fire through my veins when i see his future in myself. the more i let him step into my body the smaller the distance between us. his bones merge with the air in my lungs and i finally learn what it is like to breathe unencumbered. to let breath fill my lungs like rays of sunlight pooling through a window and breathe the beam of light i have become with him by my side. i find home in him now. even if he does mean sadness, he means growth, too. he means so many things i never got to be and infinitely more i can become.

little brown boy, you are me. and i am ready to live with that.

PORTRAIT i s s u e # 7 | f a l l 2 0 21 emergence