looking glass - ISSUE 09

PORTRAIT

ISSUE 09 | fall 2022 looking glass cover photography Stephen Han design Sharon Nahm featuring Kiran Rudra

Welcome to Portrait Vassar’s Asian Students’ Magazine

photos by Stephen Han featuring Kiran Rudra

a letter from the editor-in-chief

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the ninth issue of Portrait! Thank you for your support and for taking the time to flip through the pages of our magazine. As this semester comes to an end, I hope you can look back on certain memories or conversations with fondness and warmth.

For the past few months, I witnessed the hard work and dedication of our incredibly talented contributors. Under their hands, I saw this issue flourish into a collection of hauntingly beautiful poetry, wonderfully imagined prose, playfully clever projects, admirably honest accounts, and more.

Our theme for this issue, looking glass, asked our contributors to reflect on moments that are imbued with both familiar and unfamiliar qualities—an observation, experience, narrative, or perspective that involves inverted facets and dimensions. The responses were, simply put, incredible. In a way, they embodied the very spirit of Portrait: fearless, provocative, raw, whimsical, and above all else, indicative of home. A safe space of creativity, exploration, and growth. A medium to showcase and embrace the voices of our Asian, Asian American, and Pacific Islander artists.

It is hard to believe that this marks my last issue with Portrait. But please join me in my sense of wonder, joy, and amazement at what this brilliant publication has to offer. In the same way that Alice falls down the rabbit hole and enters an alternate universe, let us marvel at the various worlds contained within this publication.

Yours truly, Heejae, Editor-in-Chief

spread, letter from the editor design Sharon Nahm

of contents design Haiyi (Olivia) Xiao

family portrait family portrait

visit our website: https://www.readportrait.com and our instagram: @vc.portrait

Learn more about Portrait’s history by accessing our website.

Amongst other features, the website includes quick links to all eight past issues of Portrait, blog entries or short Portraits, and Portrait films/documentaries produced by our producer team..

family portrait, media page design Sharon Nahm website and social media curation Assel Omarova & Media/Publicity Team

M E T E O R

Meteor—

My spine feels like it has been folded twice near my neck, my face scratched and numbed by the wind roaring forth. I search amongst words to navigate a broken compass. All painful, aimless wanders. I stare at Cassiopeia for too long that I get the illusion that even if I close my eyes, I can still see the stars branded on my eyelids, unchanged, everlasting. Unchanged, everlasting, my letters shall be branded on the pages like how the stars would be on my eyelids. My body will rot, but my letters are eternal. Then—the arcsecond I see it pass by—a sole flash of fleeting light against the atmosphere, against the keen air that I breathe in. That flash of brilliance! Its trail cuts through the sky then all stars lose their glares. Shall I too lose mine? Its friction with the air sings a soundless rhythm, the residue of its body blends with the air, still shimmering like an unreadable epitaph, the stardust with brightness in my lungs. Ignition. My lungs turn to electric balloons, I inhale, then they ignite like how charcoal would when it encounters air. But because they contain what used to be a star, instead of red, they glow indigo. Inhale, oxygen pumped in, cells lit, I alone shall resurrect a shattered star, wake the silent pages; exhale, they disperse into the night air, I can never gather again these shattered words. This instant with its genius lost. I am still numbed in the wind; my words never made a sound. The gilded trail of the meteor fades eventually. I have a feeling that I must have told it a thousand years ago, for it to come to me at this moment. Was I anticipating the arrival of my epiphany and hoping it would last? But before I see it, neither it nor I remember our oath. When it comes, it’s the coincidence that fulfills our promise and breaks it at the same time.

Edited by Arlene Chen Designed by Ziyi Che

Written by Xiaohan (Grant) Wu

by Stay True: A Memoir by Hua Hsu

Inspired

dad,

how old was i when i first unlearned childhood? you sent me somewhere blue, where the sky would be clear and cloudless. while you worked yourself into your grave. you breathed in urban smoke, inhaled it, hungry, (the way i never asked you to) so you could see photos of your little girl under the big blue sky , no shadows cast on her, no darkness on her skin ever again. so when she grew up, she wouldn’t be shot dead under a flag red with the life seeping out of her 红领巾. so when she grew up, she wouldn’t grow up to be like you. how old was i when i first unlearned love?

on the thirteenth floor, you walk in on me crying, you say, “don’t kill yourself.”

in my daydream, i lean back, out, fall, through the window, spin, and spin, and soar. i have someone i love, dad. a girl, dad. a girl i love, dad. dad? you say, “i don’t know how to do this either. it’s my first time being a parent, you know.” i laugh. i cry. i laugh. oh, i know.

the blue sky, mirrored gray, you call me i pick up you don’t say bye.

love is a bowl of fruit. love is your death. love is your death at my hands, dad.

written by Miley Lu edited by Jiaqi (Julia) Peng designed by Aspen Wang

artwork by Elia Smith

There once was a girl with ebony hair and snowwhite skin.

She lived in a castle in a land of Queens, made of painted wood with a yard and a white picket fence around it. It was just her and her stepmother in this big house, the rest of her family dead and gone. What was once homey, filled with lacquered wood and mother-of-pearl, was now sterile and clean, covered in floor-length mirrors. Just her, her stepmother, and the mirrors.

The girl’s name was Snow White.

Carlton walk away. Then she leaned in with a secretive smile. “I like Superman too, you know,” she said. “You’re right. He’s an asset. How could we go on without him?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Clark. “I mean, he’s just trying his best, isn’t he?” Rita smiled at him.

“You’ll have to take me on one of your outings some day,” she said. “You’ve always got the inside scoop.”

the eyes as “almond-shaped.”) He thought it was fairly handsome, but perhaps not in a way that appealed to everyone. Papers said he had “an alien beauty,” which Clark wasn’t huge on, but beauty itself was better than nothing, he supposed. Still, it made him squirm for reasons he couldn’t quite name.

As he investigated the ship, he suddenly spotted engravings in the wall—a foreign alphabet, yet familiar. Clark traced the letters with his fingers. He knew where the ship had come from.

All the kids in Snow White’s school told her she was ugly; as she grew older, they kept it to themselves, but Snow White could see it in their faces. When she walked home, it seemed that the buildings grew prettier before her eyes. Where once dilapidated, yet familiar homes stood, there were now clean, modern homes and pretty White families with their pretty White children. At the center of it was Snow White.

wouldn’t have happened. But it’s not as if he wanted to come.”

“It isn’t?” Rita said curiously.

“He got sent here,” Clark said. “His planet was having a crisis. He didn’t want to leave—he was just a baby.”

“So you think he would go back if he could?”

“No,” said Clark, suddenly feeling desperate, wanting the words to change something he knew they couldn’t. “No, that’s not—he’s lived here all his life. He’s human.”

“Well, he isn’t really,” said Rita. “I mean, he’s an alien. He’s got superpowers.”

“Yeah,” Clark said, “but—”

“Hey,” said Carlton from across the room. He glared at Clark and Rita. “Stop the chatter and get back to work! One front page story and you get all cocky? Forget about it.”

Linda didn’t like her.

“Hm,” said Mr. Carlton. He tapped his pencil to his mustache.

“What?” said Rita. She had coiffed brown hair and a long pencil skirt. She sat erect at her desk, fingers poised above the computer. Clark leaned around his cubicle to look, as well.

“They say there was an asteroid of some sort,” Mr. Carlton said. He tapped his newspaper once with a thick finger. “Made landing somewhere outside the city. They say it could be otherworldly.” He shook his head. “Bad business. Bad business, this is.”

“Do you think it’ll cause trouble?” Rita asked. She had wide, white eyes which she cast at Clark. She reminded him of a doe. Clark raised his eyebrows at her and shrugged.

Mr. Carlton sighed. “Just more of that alien business, I expect,” he said.

“Oh,” piped Rita. “Well, it’s a good thing we’ve got Superman, then.”

“Hrmph,” said Carlton. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll make a fine mess of it.” He glanced at Clark then with his beady eyes. “Well, what do you think of it, Kim? Since you’re the resident expert on him.”

“Oh,” said Clark. He cleared his throat. “Well, I think it’s nice that he helps out. The world needs protection. Can’t be an easy job, can it.”

Carlton harrumphed again. “Maybe we wouldn’t have so much need for protection if Superman weren’t here at all,” he said. “He’s an alien too, you know.”

“We know,” said Rita. She and Clark watched

Snow White’s mother had died when she was very young. Snow White didn’t remember her. She remembered her father, though, who had been almost broken by the grief. Eventually he had remarried to Linda, who was loud and blonde and smiled a lot. Men seemed to find Linda very beautiful. Linda wore makeup that made her eyes look big and her nose tiny; Snow White had thin eyes and short black hair.

Later, when she was five, Snow White’s father died. It was just her and Linda in the house after the funeral, her in her little black dress. Linda drank from her glass of red wine and said, “Well, sweetie, it’s just you and me now. But don’t worry. I’m gonna get settled real well.”

When Clark emerged from the phone booth, the blue latex and emblazoned logo stretched over his chest, he felt slightly stupid, as he always did. Still, he waved to the awestruck children as he ascended to the sky, and to the awestruck helicopter pilots as the helicopter banked slightly. The city, blue and glittering on the riverline, fell away as he flew west, to the mainland. He wondered, as he always did, if he should chuck the cape. It felt silly, no matter how many adoring fans ensured him it looked dashing.

There was a large, smoking crater a few miles inland. Clark slowly lowered down below the treeline, looking on at the spherical metal pod. It was open, with an empty orange pilot’s seat in it and nothing else. Clark glanced at his reflection in the front window—black hair with a curl at the forehead, thin brown eyes usually covered by glasses and a face he had always thought was round. (Nowadays, news outlets described it as “wide,” and

But things were going well in her household. Linda had some sort of business that Snow White didn’t understand—Linda walked around their house saying things like “big name clients” and “expansions,” and seemed generally pleased with how things were going. One day, Linda glanced at Snow White’s face and announced that she was going to teach her to do makeup. She sipped rosé on the couch as she watched Snow White struggle— she said, “See, it’s hard to do eyeliner with eyes like yours. What do they call it? Monolid. I don’t know how to help you with it.” Eventually, Linda grew bored and logged her on to YouTube, so Snow White could teach herself. It was hard—she poked her eye a lot and had to watch it turn red and well up with tears.

KRYPTONIAN SHIP FOUND IN ASTEROID CRASH! ALIEN INVASION NIGH?

“I’m serious!” Rita insisted, swatting his arm. “What are they putting in the water you’re drinking? How do you get such good stories?” She shook her head, smiling. “I’d be pissed if I weren’t so impressed.”

Clark smiled half-heartedly at her, fingering the page of his story as he sat in his chair. “Just gotta know where to look,” he said. “This is serious stuff, though. I wish I could be happy about it.”

“I know,” Rita said, sobering. “Isn’t Krypton where Superman’s from? I wonder what they want with us.”

Clark nodded, staring at the photo on the front page of the crashed ship. “Hey,” he said. “Do you think that it’s really his fault?”

“Whose?”

“Superman’s,” said Clark. “You know, maybe Carlton is right. Maybe if he hadn’t come, these things

It was Snow White’s fault, she was sure.

She tried to be better—she had mastered Linda’s makeup techniques by now, though it never looked quite as good as Linda’s—and listened when Linda complained about work, tried to smile when Linda looked at her. But it never worked. There was something about the way Linda looked at Snow White, the curled lip and the slight squint. “Why aren’t you wearing makeup today?” she asked one morning. “You look so tired.” So Snow White spent hours in the mirror every day, making her eyes bigger and her face more contoured—and at the end of it, when she pulled away and looked at the new face she’d painted on, it was never enough.

Linda’s business seemed to be going well, though. Very well, actually—Linda barely spent any time in the house anymore, always working (and maybe avoiding her, a thought Snow White would push deep, deep down as soon as it occurred). When Linda was home, she snapped at Snow White and rolled her eyes and sighed when Snow White said something stupid.

“Go play with your dolls, or something,” she’d say, despite the fact that Snow White was now a teenager. “I don’t have time to deal with you right now. Jesus, Snow. Just stop annoying me.”

But Snow White would be better. She had to be. She would just wipe off her makeup and try again.

After Clark had punched one of the alien’s minions into the ground, forming a crater in the street, he took an interview on the side of the road.

“Looking dashing today, Superman,” said the reporter. She had very red lipstick. Clark grinned. “Just doing my best to help the city,” he said, and flexed one arm. The reporter giggled.

“So, Superman, what is it that these aliens want?” she asked.

“It’s not clear yet,” Clark said. “But don’t worry; they don’t belong here. This is our—” He stopped. The reporter looked at him expectantly, as did the crowd of people with shining eyes. Everything seemed to grow very quiet and distant. “I’ll make sure to keep Earth safe,” Clark said, almost like words coming out of someone else’s mouth. He mustered up a smile once more for the reporter before drifting away.

Later, Clark stood in front of a mirror, adjusting his bowtie and flicking at his cowlick. He was attending a fancy party, as Superman—funny, how all he needed to do was take off his glasses and he was Superman. He could stand in the middle of the street with his glasses on and his work shirt, an absurdly muscular rookie journalist, and no one would bat an eye. It was just Clark Kim, from the

Daily Planet. Friendly, nice, good at his job. Distant.

The radio suddenly crackled to life. “A terrible alien force is descending from the skies! Clouds of alien beasts and warriors alike, and—oh. Why, that man—it isn’t him, I know it isn’t, but gosh, he sure does look like Superman, doesn’t he?”

Clark looked in the mirror.

It was just that, Snow White would have liked to be pretty. She knew it wasn’t everything, she knew that. But it would be nice. Wouldn’t it. To have people look at her for once and think, why, that girl is very pretty indeed. It was fine, anyway—people said she was nice, and she was nice. She did good things. She cleaned around the house and made dinner when Linda was out, and she didn’t complain. She never complained.

She went through all of school this way, and it was fine. It was fine, Snow White told herself. Truly, it was fine. She got into Columbia, close to Linda, and walked through the campus feeling very far away and not far at all. Almost like nothing had changed.

She met up with a high school friend. The friend was quite pretty, with her wavy blonde hair and long, fluffy lashes. Snow White mentioned it to her during their lunch, and she’d frowned.

“What do you mean?” she’d said. Snow White had shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’d just be nice to look like you—to be as pretty as you.” The way she said it felt pathetic—Snow White was sure her friend could hear the thoughts she was trying to swallow back. She’d stared at her plate until her friend put her fork down and looked Snow White in the eyes.

“Snow White,” she said, “do you think you’re not pretty? Because you’re, literally, actually, the prettiest person I know.”

After a moment, Snow White smiled. “What?” she said.

blood-red strip of fabric that flapped in the wind. He had glowing green eyes.

“You,” he said. “You are Kryptonian?”

Clark was bruised and bloodied, breathing hard and barely staying afloat above the destroyed city. Buildings were collapsing in on themselves, aliens running amok through the streets and smoke pouring from wrecked structures.

“Yes,” said Clark. “No. I don’t know.” Zod’s eyes burned into him.

“How do you not know?” he said. “You either are or aren’t. There’s no in-between.” He said something else, then, in a tongue Clark didn’t recognize but knew he should. Clark reached desperately in his mind for something to spark, click, for him to suddenly know the words. After a moment, Zod wrinkled his nose. “You are not Kryptonian,” he said.

Clark was exhausted. There was a tiredness in his bones, his soul, his everything. He spread his arms. “What am I, then?” he asked. “Please. Just tell me.”

“I don’t know,” said Zod. “Why would I? You’re some sort of—half-Earthling thing. I don’t get it. No, a real Kryptonian would fight for his people. His real people, not those bastardizing ones.” He raised an eyebrow. “Will you? Fight with me?”

Snow White sat on the couch, in their nowbeautiful home, shining and clean and modern. The flatscreen was dark; Snow White looked at her hazy reflection in it.

The door slammed open, and Linda came in, throwing her bag on the marble island and pulling open the wine fridge. She poured herself a generous glass, threw it back.

“Well?” she said. “No hello?”

“Have I been pretty this whole time?” said Snow White. Linda frowned.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Why would I fight?” said Clark. “For you.” Zod shrugged.

“Have these people ever accepted you?” he said. “Do you feel at home here?”

“You don’t know who I am,” said Clark. He held onto his bleeding arm with one hand. “I barely know you.”

“I know your kind,” said Zod, as the skyline collapsed around him. “I’ve met thousands like you before. I’m a general, Superman. Superman? Is that even your real name?”

“Clark,” Clark said. “It’s Clark.”

General Zod floated before him. He wore clothing like Clark had never seen—a black tunic underneath a

“Clark,” Zod said, like it was an indignity just to say it. “You know these people could never give you a real

home. You’re not like them; they won’t understand you. They’ll try their best, but they won’t.” Zod had wrinkles around his eyes. “You’re meant to be on Krypton,” he said. “Not here. Come, Clark.” He extended a hand, against the sky. “Maybe it’s not too late.”

his throat:

“I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE!”

“Hi,” he said, sticking his hand out. “I’m Clark. Clark Kim.” After a moment, Snow White took it.

“I never said you weren’t beautiful,” Linda said. “I never said that.” Her mascara was beginning to give her a racoon look. She was wearing a very tight black cocktail dress.

“You thought it,” Snow White said, through tears. “I know you did. Please don’t lie to me, not anymore—”

“Lie to you?” Linda hissed, her long fake nails balling into fists at her sides.

“You made me do all that makeup!” Snow White cried. “Why?” Linda stared at her, eyes burning with black and fury.

“I made you?” Linda said. “You wanted that, Snow. You know you wanted that.”

“No,” said Snow White, “no, I didn’t, I never did,” and she put her face in her hands and tried, desperately, to stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks.

“What, you want me to tell you that you’re beautiful?” Linda said. “That you’re pretty and special and that everybody loves you? Well, guess what, chump! That’s not how the world works! You just get you, and you just get me. And to be honest, Snow, you’re not very remarkable! You’re just a girl who lost her dad, who nobody likes. You think it’s my fault that you have no self-esteem? That’s all you, baby girl. That’s all you.” Snow White was dimly aware that Linda took another swig from her bottle—she stared at her pale, shaking hands. “You know what, Snow?” Linda said. “You are beautiful. You’re really fucking pretty. But you carry yourself like a bitch. Like a little bitch who can’t stand up for herself, because she knows, deep down, that she will never be the way she desperately wants to be.” Snow White looked up from her hands to the wine glass to the mirror behind Linda— behind her bottle-blonde hair, her tanned, damaged skin, and her tall heels—and for the first time, she saw herself. She looked at her round face and brown eyes and her eyes looked back.

Her hand was suddenly wrapped around the glass—the next moment, shattered glass and blood-red wine covered the floor.

“No,” said Snow White. She was trembling, her face stained with tears, but she was standing. “That’s you.”

Snow White sat alone on a park bench, holding her phone in her hands. Her hair was barely brushed, falling around her face, and the lamplight flickered above her. The park was quiet, as it had been for the last half hour. Snow White sat for a little while longer—then she turned and stared as a man slammed open a door and stumbled out of the phone booth.

He was almost certainly dressed differently from when he had entered, though Snow White couldn’t say she had been paying close attention. Now he was wearing a white pressed shirt and a tie slung over his shoulder. His face was badly bruised and bloodied; he held a bundle of blue and red cloth in his arms. He closed the door, turned to walk down the path, and stopped. Stared.

“Um,” said Snow White. “Hello.”

“Hi,” said the man, standing very still. Snow White cleared her throat.

“Are you—okay?”

“Yes,” said the man quickly. “I mean, no, but—yes. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Snow White stared at the dried blood on his face.

“Okay,” she said. The man sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, then stared at it.

“Can you keep a secret?” he said after a moment. Snow White knew she should be scared, wary of this strange man, but something about this moment felt important.

“Yes,” she said. The man sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m Superman.”

Silence. A mosquito flew into the beam of the lamp, buzzing over the man’s head, before disappearing into the blackness of the night.

“Oh,” said Snow White, having nothing else to say. Then she looked at his face—squarish jaw, long, dark eyes, black hair. He looked more real up close, less of Superman’s shiny bravado and instead a younger, sadder, tired face. But it lined up; it was him. “Oh,” she said again. “That makes sense.” The man’s head shot up.

“Really?” he said.

“Well, you look like him.” The man—Superman— stared at her. There was something shocked and pale in his face. Then, suddenly, tears started rolling down his face. “Oh my goodness,” Snow White said, standing up. “Oh— uh—are you—”

“Snow White,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.” Clark laughed a little bit, his eyes still wet, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out some glasses. He put them on his face.

“Please don’t tell anyone this, okay?” he said. His eyebrows were creased in worry. “I mean—I guess you can, if you want, but I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t. It’s just—easier.”

“Of course,” said Snow White. Clark nodded.

“Thanks.” He turned, stood for a moment, then began walking away, and Snow White found herself speaking up.

“It must be hard,” she said, and Clark stopped. “To look in the mirror and be two different people. Not knowing which one is real.”

“Yeah,” said Clark after a moment, exhaustion winding through his voice. “It is.”

“I know how you feel,” Snow White said, and there was a sudden lump in her throat. “What it’s like to not

recognize yourself. But I look in the mirror and I know I’m in there, somewhere, and—and—” Clark stood there on the path, back to her. Snow White felt her eyes prick with tears. “Every day I look in that mirror,” she said, “I’ll look a little bit more like myself.”

Clark was still. Then he turned around, looked at her, and said, “Would you—want to get lunch some time?” Snow White stared at him. Then she sniffled, wiped at her eyes, and said, “Huh?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, running a hand through his hair. “We don’t have to—just to—talk. But I’d like to. I think we have a lot in common.”

“Oh,” she said. “I would really like that.” Clark looked up at her, and a relieved smile broke through.

“Cool. Cool,” said Clark, wiping his hands on his pants and smiling at the ground. He pulled out his phone and began typing into it. “Uh. Great. You said your name was Snow White, right?” Clark’s hand was extending the phone to her. Snow White looked at him for a moment, smiled, then took it.

“Yes,” she said. “But my Korean name is Sun-hee.”

“Come with me, Clark,” said Zod. “Fight for your people.”

Clark stared at him. His blood pumped in his ears, slow, steady, regular. Like a drum. The scream ripped from

“Sorry, sorry!” the man blubbered between tears as he covered his face with his hand. “I just—it’s really hard, to have a secret identity, and it just feels—really good—” he sniffled, hard, and wiped roughly at his eyes.

“Hooo.” He took a deep breath, tear tracks staining his face.

Edited by Janus Wong

Designed by Ayane Garrison

Estranged.

i was always fascinated with the stranger. and yet afraid. cold glass separated me from this seemingly perfect other half. in my youth, i was vaguely familiar with the dangers of identification. with this desire to wholly consume another. i felt this anxious excitement, adrenaline rush when met with my reflection. so many horror movies, sci-fi stories, allegories, telling me that my mirror was some form of portal. some form of something, my mirror holding this being on the other side back and away from me. it is too easy to believe, because in some ways it feels plausible.

and so i stared. blankly, thoughtless into the eyes of this beautiful brown girl staring back at me. visual self-awareness refers to the ability to recognize yourself in the mirror. as much as i wanted to see myself in the mirror, i could not help but feel held hostage by an idea. it felt like the image in the mirror saw more of herself in me than i did her. i am much too big for this body and i had to mutilate myself just to siphon into her.

i have been chained to a body that i never desired to occupy. i searched for belonging in this residence, some kind of joy in these walls of flesh but still i am only reminded that i am not built for a body like this. it was less of a home and more of a life sentence. i have learned to view my body as a place that i live in, but not a place that is mine to stay in. i hated it for so long. i still do. it looks nothing like i want it to. it does not know how to house all of me. i sobbed the tears to fill the ganges and scatter my ashes. i’ve wanted to burn this body as long as i can remember.

staring in the mirror felt more like panic than recognition. millions of hands reaching from the cosmos, pulling from all directions, out of this body, and yet chained to it as well. i felt suffocated, violated, trapped. eyes sept into mine, burning myself with their empty. i am nothing but a hollow shell of a person. flesh and bones wielded together to keep me from escaping this body. but all i wanted was to melt the flesh off of my bones.

the mirror was just the beginning in my estrangement. a reminder of my imprisonment only led to a desire for escape. i found myself in an abusive relationship. my reflection held me hostage. it forged a dissonance between who i am and who i was expected to be. and expectation was intoxicating. i gutted myself from the inside and used my innards as fuel for desirability. all that mattered was to be loved and to be in this body that everyone loves. i got high off of approval and destroyed my idea of self in doing so. why be yourself when you can be hot, right? even if it burns you.

and when you become so used to burning yourself, the difference between friend and fire disappears. burning the self becomes almost as appealing as burning the body. realizing that this reflection is a trap only onsets a desire for true existence. why only gut yourself from the inside? tear your whole skeleton apart. why chain yourself to this body? releasing yourself from this is so much more fantastic.

i broke out of my body and i feel so refreshed. expanded beyond flesh and blood, i permeate the air like a gas. i’ve destroyed my body and made myself so much bigger. there is so much fear in socalled mutilation. so much protection of the innocent, unharmed, golden, feminine. that which held me hostage for years and years. you are made the demon for failing to protect her. beautiful, golden, innocent, precious, brutalized. and it can be suffocating to constantly protect and preserve your captor, your abuser.

sometimes you just need to strike back and kill the bitch.

Written by Kiran Rudra

by Wyejee (Sara) Jung

with contributions from Taylor Gee, Stephen Han, Heejae Jung, Sharon Nahm, Abigail Wang, and Professor Choi Sea Hee edited by Tiffany Kuo designed by Am Chunnananda

How’s your first year in college going? I’m pretty much tired every day these days, but I’m enjoying my fourth year at Vassar. The other day, someone asked me what the highs and lows are in college. High was very easy because a lot of happy memories popped up in my head (no spoiler, but you’ll encounter them more or will be able to realize you lived through one of those moments.). However, I couldn’t think of any lows, except for the days I stayed up trying to fulfill my responsibility as a student – cramming for tests and writing redundant papers (which you did surprisingly okay). I’m not saying the difficulties that you are facing are negligible (it is really not, they have shaped who you are today), but that you are more than capable of digesting those hardships and emotions that come with them in a healthy way. You will eventually let go of those moments without struggle. I can say this somewhat confidently because I read the diary you wrote just before writing this letter, and I was pleasantly shocked to revisit your past emotional turmoil. I definitely have learned to let go of those moments.

I don’t want to limit how you deal with your emotions before you get to learn by yourself, but I want to say one thing. I don’t think there’s good or evil & right or wrong in feeling things. You don’t have to feel shame or guilt about feeling a certain way. I think you can do less of hiding, suppressing, and denying, and more of embracing yourself and your emotions. It is not easy, but through practice, you will learn how to love yourself more. (It is still very challenging but don’t worry, I’m doing better than you :) ).

Thank you for reading, and I hope you didn’t fall asleep. At least I had fun reflecting on my past few years in college, so thank you. I don’t know what month you’ll be reading this letter but enjoy (or hope you enjoyed) your first snowy winter. Maybe I’ll get back to you again in the sunfilled summer. I miss you and I love you.

You’ve grown so much in the past three years, and I’m so proud of you! You’ve had your highs and your lows: studying abroad in London instead of Kyoto; that horrific month of not using shampoo; and making your first quilt. The Pandemic Year was a blur of being adaptable and persistent. I admire your ability to keep chugging along despite the odds but also knowing when to quit. My piece of advice to you is to keep learning more about yourself. What is the best way you study and learn? What makes you happy, or how do you like your chocolate chip cookies? In these past three years, you’ve tried things and grown in ways I couldn’t have previously imagined– an unknown, unknown. I wonder what we’ll do next.

With post-graduation plans looming, we have some big decisions to make. Maybe we work; maybe we travel; maybe it’s Maybelline. Regardless, we’ll figure it out. Deep breaths; you’ve got this.

How are you? Not to freak you out, but this is you from two years in the future! Who knew you’d make it this far? Give yourself a pat on the back.

There is no greater time of imposter syndrome than becoming yet again the little fish. Coming into Vassar as just a first-year, you’ll think so highly of everyone, especially the upperclassmen. It’s all too easy to catch yourself in a spiral of self-deprecation and never-ending chase for perfectionism. I always believed that one day, perhaps by the end of my college years, everything would resolve itself.

I think a small part of you already knew how naive it was to think that. Still, sorry to burst your bubble.

Yours truly has just turned 20, and it’s a big milestone, of course, to leave your teens. But what does a birthday, an age, really mean?

When you’re younger, birthdays are a reason for celebration - a mark of a new age and new privileges. But as the years go by it seems like an endless adjustment to new responsibilities and new burdens, where each succeeding age loses its coming-of-age glimmer. Society tells us that it is in your 20s that you start to build your “real” life. This is the decade were we graduate, start our careers, get married. And hopefully become a functioning adult, whatever that means. There’s so much pressure to make the most out of every living second that every moment spent doing “nothing” is a moment simply wasted.

When it feels like the time is running away from you, take a moment to pause from your busy life. You’ll realize how much more you’ve grown, and how much more you understand about yourself and the world.

Because before you know it, you’re the one giving advice, giving the advice you wish you had gotten. I realize now that no one truly has it all figured out - and that vulnerability is a beautiful thing. It humanizes us; it pushes us to pushing boundaries. It’s hard not knowing who you are or what you want to do with your life. But if I were to give you advice? I would tell you to make bold decisions, and perhaps even be a little rebellious. I hope you take this opportunity to learn more about yourself. Take these years to find out what truly matters to you, to discover what brings you joy

I think you’ll realize that it’s when you start taking those leaps that things will pan out better than you could have ever imagined them to be. You’ll realize that you are truly deserving of love and wonderful things. Because there will be tears, but there will also be laughter. Just know that when things get tough, I’ll always be rooting for you on the other side.

Where do I even begin? Strangely… when it comes to you, I’m always at a loss for words. Maybe it’s not even that though. Perhaps there are too many words, too many feelings, and too many things that I want to say. Perhaps I simply don’t have enough time to sift through the beauty and chaos of our brain, our body, and our memories.

As you can probably tell, the overthinking has yet to end. It probably won’t be a long time until it does. Fear not. Take this letter as a sign, a symbol of hope, and a beacon of light as you embark on your freshman year of college. Take this letter as an affirmation that you, that we, are doing the best we can – taking everything day by day, step by step. And, this is more than enough. Trust me: this is more than enough.

You’re going to go through a lot from here on out. I know, I know… I wish you didn’t have to. But you will. As if the past eighteen years weren’t enough! The questions, thoughts, and feelings in your head that have echoed for so long: some will wither away in silence; others will resound louder than ever like a broken record that jumps, skips, and repeats itself. Your body – one made up of so many rolls and stretch marks – will change. The scale will slide back and forth, jump up and down, ever so flexible and unbound yet heavy always.

Never enough, always too much. This is what you’ll feel like a lot of days – if not, most days.

There will be times you are filled with so much frustration, there will be nothing else for you but to scream. Tears will be shed, falling down and caressing your cheek like a salty kiss. There will be times when you look into the mirror, and all you can see and hear is the person you’re most scared of being and becoming. There will be times when you feel nothing, moving on auto-pilot, going through the motions – the rhythms and routines of daily life.

But…

There will be times you laugh so hard until your face hurts. You know, the way your cheeks ache and tears well up in your eyes. There will be times when you feel on top of the world – like you’re flying. There will be times when you feel so much love, excitement, and wonder – with the fam’, from making movies.

Remember…

Feel joy unapologetically. Do good everyday. Take chances even when it’s scary. Eat what you want. Just be.

It probably sounds like nothing’s changed. Trust me, everything’s changed. Some for the better. Some for the worst. I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.

You are imperfect.

You have flaws.

You’re going to fuck up. And, you definitely need therapy.

But…

You are human. You are beautiful. You are worthy of love.

You are alive.

You are a body in and of this world.

You are alive.

What a gift – even when it doesn’t feel that way.

You are alive. And, that is more enough

I feel silly writing this letter (at 10 p.m., post midterm), because while many things have happened since the first time I stepped foot on campus, I have no particular wisdom or magic recipe for happiness to share. I still get overwhelmed when I enter a crowded room, I still feel a jolt in my heart whenever I strike up a conversation with someone new, I still worry about the wrong things that I said and try to erase them from my mind, I still contemplate about the future and what I will be doing as an adult, I still get homesick, I still… the list goes on.

A friend told me recently that whenever she plays certain songs, wears particular clothes, or revisits specific places, she gets reminded of the “self” she was at the time she first discovered them. I think all human beings exist as shades–as various facets, dimensions, and versions of ourselves that darken or fade over time. We modulate and fluctuate based on the circumstances, moods, and whims of a day or phase in our life—be okay with these changes, and operate at your own baseline. I hope you can learn to enjoy and explore the different sides of who you are, to not necessarily push but guide yourself to venture down a new path or explore a fleeting urge.

Spoiler alert: a new furry friend will enter (and completely transform) your life, you will be graced with the presence of Meryl Streep, you will (voluntarily) do a lot more public speaking than you anticipated, you will master the art of eating alone at the Deece, you will decide on a major that fits you like a snug glove, there will be things better than carrot cake to uplift your mood, and all the close friendships you hold dear will flourish into a more detailed insight into who you are.

Please be kind and gentle with yourself. You deserve all the warmth and joy that these next few years have to offer.

It’s been three years since i first arrived at vassar and and yet i think this year is the first year that i can say vassar feels like my home. Despite the unpredictabilities and ups and downs of years past, today and this semester i feel content overall. I think that I have a good sense for the general direction for where my life is headed, although this direction is something I couldn’t have even fathomed when i was a first year.

so I have recently been thinking a lot about what kind of advice would i tell my first-year self? what would i have done differently if i could do it over again?

maybe: grasp at any opportunity to make more friends. don’t isolate yourself and do open up, i look back at my first year self and question why I was so hesitant to connect with other people. At the same time though, I question whether this advice would matter, given the atypical college experience my peers and i have had.

To fill you in, halfway through the second semester of freshman year, a pandemic disrupts life around the world forcing shutdowns and in my case, sending me home to los angeles for the remainder of my semester. After spending a stagnant and unfulfilled spring and summer back home, i decided to take an academic leave of absence from vassar and move to south korea for a year, where i had what i would consider the best year of my life. I made lifelong friends and was able to live (and adult) in a real city, a walkable city. But when I returned to vassar, i was conflicted with a series of emotions: happiness and excitement in returning to life as a student, yet unhappiness and boredom in returning to a regimented life in a small town. As i continued through my second year of college and now experience my third year of college, i think that the latter emotions have faded away, and what’s left is a desire to hold onto my remaining four semesters of vassar because of the realization that time has gone by so so fast, and this small, warm, bubble-like existence at vassar will only remain as a fragmented memory soon. I guess rather than regretful, retrospective advice to my first year self, i would tell myself to hold on to, cherish and appreciate the precious memories i am currently making, whether at the time i see it as positive or negative… because in the future, all of vassar will simply remain as a nostalgic memory of a place i called home for four years.

I did not know that I would write this type of letter now (I thought I would write it much later) but I think this could be a good opportunity for me to think about what I have done and how I have lived so far… myself in younger years, I know you are still struggling to figure out what is the right path to pursue and what you should do at each stage of your life, but what I want to say to you now is that you can just do what you want to do without fear. What you always feared (living without a job) never happened. And fortunately, at some point of your life, you will get married and have a beautiful child. And one day you will realize that your life is not too bad after all. I know sometimes you feel like everything is unpredictable and frustrating, but as time goes by, you will realize what would be the best for you.

To myself right before deciding to come to the US, I know you want a clear answer, but sorry, I still do not have an answer for you. What I can tell you is what you are going to go through if you make that decision- You will meet many new people and experience what you’ve never imagined. Was it always good? No, but it was a worthwhile experience. Will I make the same decision if I go back? Honestly, I don’t know. I still have many questions about my life too. Maybe I can answer this question better in 10 years. And to myself in college years, please do not worry too much and have more fun! Especially myself in the senior year, you might think that you are too old, and it is time for you to make an important decision of your life, but trust me, you are not old at all, and you will have a lot more opportunities in the future. But your college years will never come back! Please spend more time with your friends and do crazy things so that you do not have any regret later. You might think they are meaningless, but those times will make you laugh later and enrich your life. All in all, myself in younger years, I know you are (kind of) doing your best to make your life better. I promise you that I, living in the present, will not let you down. I promise you that I will do my best to make my present life better. 화이팅!

The Boy From My Statistics Class Won’t Stop Materializing Near My Window

Last night as I waltzed in my room, unable to dream, you appeared to me

as a dark, vibrating haze in the corner only visible on the periphery, hurting my eyes. You told me it’s futile and I scoffed because when has that stopped me before? These loves are a series of futilities. There’s a reason why I enjoy

seeing the tops of breasts more than their full bravery. You said if I met you again

it would shatter my rose glass into a million pieces. That I would pick up anyway.

I replied, can we at least wait until

written by Nandini Likki edited by Katy Wu designed by Mindy Nguyen

*dreamy psychedelic river vector design courtesy of Hana from Trendify

In these breaking-the-speed-limit days, And when the house burned down, finally Or decomposed to its original beauty We saw love emanating from the ash.

Unspoken Resonances:

1. the nostalgia you get when you visit a place for the first time, but something about its landscape suddenly gives you flashbacks to a place you’re familiar with

2. the intense frustration that afflicts you when you feel that you could’ve been good friends with someone, but there’s not enough time for you to get to know them before you part ways

3. the momentary tranquility of sitting in the sun’s warmth, not having to think of the things that have been bothering you for the rest of the day

4. seeing your favorite singer from high school perform in front of your eyes. feeling the high-school-you inside, and for one moment you stop judging how stupid and childlish she was. instead, you just sing along together

5. when you want the present moment to last forever but you can’t stop thinking about how it’s going to end soon so you end up never being able to just be in the moment

o the magical properties of comfort food - that first bite when everything cluttered and disjointed in your life suddenly feels right side up again

o scared about going home after being away for a long time, worried about homesickness refilling itself once you depart again

o loss turns into a milestone, everything before that becomes defined as the time when you still hadn’t lost that person/thing

A Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

o filled with so much love and awkwardness at the same time, e.g. when your friends sing happy birthday and you don’t know how to behave yourself in front of a recording camera

6. an untrimmed hangnail or the itch beneath your palm. the soft pressure of butterfly wings inside your skull. like your screams underwater, slowly sinking into the deep end of the pool

7. paralyzed in the liminal space of nightmares: between metaphors of madness and waking hours, it’s cold and nearly emptied of sensation, but somehow it already feels like home

8. the hallmark desire for cliché - a scent of cinnamon sugar pressed behind the delicate places of your ears and wrists. a queer, platonic love letter (to you)

9. you write poetry for others, never yourself. as if you hold candle light in the barren archives of your heart - a dim, uncomfortable perch for the ephemeral

10. how can one decolonize grammar - to lose the rationalization of expression through punctuation. can you hear me outside your internalized whiteness?

Written by Zoe Mueller and Julia Peng

o the precarious edge of perpetuating harm, trapped in the ambiguity of apology and closure. but the unknowable will remain sewn closed in your mouth

Figure 2.1

o those post shower ruminations when you’re half staring at the fogged over mirror - that sweet spot when your skin is just beginning to dry and nonsense gains clarity, just momentarily

o the frustrating disappointment after waking up from a dream and then realizing it’s just a dream

o physical description matters less than the color she is - lavender. or the tea she drinks every morningearl gray with honey. she holds her coffee mug tucked close to her body, like a flower bleached by sunlight

o sensing a heartbreak approaching its end but unwilling to let it go

o sleep deprived, head prickling like static - your face is a fever dream, the edges of reality colorized as you blink last night away

Edited by Natalie Junio-Thompson

Designed by Tina Ai

Playlist Recommendations

Krystal C. Mack

To me through you:

Truth be told, I’m curious to know what you’re feeling and why you feel the way you do as you read this. I suppose it’s me being too privy now, and I don’t know if I can still be privy with this. But I do believe that as artists, tuning into our feelings is still the best way to ground and inspire us. So thank you for teaching me that, and I guess, in that sense, I can’t really be blamed for being privy, can I?

I’m still struggling with speaking to myself. I’m getting better at it though, so let’s just have this as the product of my recovery. I can already anticipate your laughter - I’m trying, okay. I paint, I don’t write. I just feel like trying whatever this is out. It’s the combined product of me wanting to write a letter to you and to myself. It’s a bit of a mess, but you just have to bear with it.

Here it goes -

In the depths of my last night at Oxford, I found myself shaking alone. I remember thinking, if this is the night I cry myself to sleep, let it be. Except sleep never came, and my cries for help drowned in the dissonance of my laboured breathing and the oddly comforting birdsong. Right, it was the birdsong that grounded me that night. It was the kind of birdsong that was poignant, airy, and curious, and it was a regularity in my sleepless nights - you know those nights when I would just toss and turn with cluttered thoughts on my mind, and though there were times I hated how I was my most vulnerable self in front of these birds, I would feel weirdly relieved when I heard their song at the break of dawn. At least there was always an end to those nights. I wonder if it was a coincidence that I had always found similarities between your music and the birdsong that has accompanied my time here.

I’m all the more grateful that my last night at Oxford was the shortest night of the year (and the longest day), for the delayed advent of birdsong would have been unbearable that night. Oddly enough, sometimes I wish that night would never end. Sometimes I think that even if that night was a

nightmare, I would still want to stay asleep forever. If only I could freeze time and just live in that moment, and everything before that night, forever.

But it’s also funny that when I was trudging down that familiar path into town, it did not feel like goodbye. It felt like another day I was walking to town to get coffee, plans to walk along the meadow made spontaneously. Except I also knew that those days were no more, and I was burdened with overweight baggage that would not budge as I dragged them down the cobblestone path. I had always imagined my final departure to be marked by a strong surge of emotion, but all I felt was my quickening heartbeat and the familiar, unexplainable need to pick at my cuticles. Perhaps it was because I had cried most of my tears out the night before, so I didn’t experience the outburst I had expected earlier. Instead, all my slightly blurring vision did was to make the goodbye feel like a “see you later”, both to the city and to you, by preventing me from making out the familiar scenery one last time. It was at that moment that I thought I would have to return to etch these final memories to my heart again and to bid a proper goodbye.

You know most of this already, but I came to Oxford about a year ago, having moved halfway across the world. Much like most of the people I met here, I was looking for a fresh start. I suppose it’s a good thing that now I only vaguely remember the fights I had before moving here - all those times when I locked myself in my room while doors slammed outside, when I knelt on the ground begging for someone to listen to me. But back then, I resented that period of my life so much that I just had to act impulsively when I could, to choose what I believed was right for me then: I moved here with what mattered to me the most - my canvas, paint, and brushes.

“I think we see art as either a talent you naturally have or something you have to acquire the skill for. We don’t think of our lived experience as the act of acquiring a skill or even as art itself.”

Storyinspiredby 追風箏的孩子 - 張敬軒 (TheKiteRunners-HinsCheung), aCantonesesong,andmyJYAatOxford,EnglandinSpring2022

restless mind that slowly came to suffocate me. At some point, I found myself unable to create without the lingering taste of bitterness in my mouth, and I knew I had to seek another avenue of release.

Shortly before I moved to Oxford, amidst the fights I withstood tirelessly, I started to find painting as a vehicle for escapism from a black and white world. I slowly acquired an expanded colour palette and sought new techniques to experiment with. For the first time in my life, I felt relieved creating possibilities I could not have imagined previously. Instead of feeling as if Mercury were in perpetual retrograde, it seemed as if the planets were in perfect alignment - even if it was just for a moment, it gave me the liberty to set my heart on an alternate reality where the world was not monotone. But these moments never persisted. I gradually felt the burden of forced positivity weighing on me, and I soon resumed to a state of emptiness as I realised how improbable these dreams were.

When I first set up my booth across the old library, I didn’t know I had put myself under the Bridge of Sighs. I learnt about this through a customer - they told me that the bridge was named as such because of the prisoners who sighed when they enjoyed their last glance of the outside world while walking across it to their cells. It was oddly fitting that I decided to start my life in Oxford under it. A glimpse of self-manifested hope was all it took for me to paint, and my racing mind would be tamed temporarily by a certain wistfulness - before I scrunch my eyes close and let out that breath I was holding onto unknowingly. In many ways, I was a prisoner back then: I was trapped by a strong sense

drawn to the many artists in the area. Perhaps they were there because the Bridge was a tourist hotspot, but I liked to believe that as artists, we ended up in the same place because of the same reasons. At least for myself, I could see how my paintings mirrored the sighs and namesake of the arch at that time.

Enough about Venice. I think I told you about Venice already, and you were understandably shocked when you realised I only recalled being at the Bridge there after visiting it. The Bridge was, it still is, an important part of my time at Oxford. I didn’t know it would be, back then, but then again, I also didn’t know that this city would change me so much. And though I’m leaving pieces of my broken heart in this letter and in this city, I’d like to think that Oxford has changed me for the better.

I’m going to start by considering the differences between seeking and creating purpose. I’ve always been someone who sought purpose. It’s inherent in the way I paint - from when I aimed to illustrate my racing thoughts as an amateur to when I used painting to search for that idyll. In retrospect, I yearned for validation of my somewhat turbulent youth, and I hoped to trade these memories for a carefree future. As much as I had enjoyed painting, it was but a deliberate tool for these purposes, and while that had satisfied me for a long while, I learnt at Oxford the potential creating purpose can free me with.

When I first heard someone say they admired my bravery for setting up an art stall in an unknown city, I was startled. I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not. I remember giving them a half-hearted smile while taking out my brushes from my backpack, but when I turned to face them directly, I knew from the glisten of their eyes that they truly meant what they had said. That was the day I came to realise how lovely the people in this city were, the day I felt the defences within me disarm for the first time in my life. The rest of my early days were a bit of a blur. All I remember was how people approached me again and again - some eagerly, some hesitantly, but all inquisitivelyto learn more about what the pop-up art stall in the middle of town had to offer. Initially, I felt awkward engaging in conversation about what brought me here, which I almost always sugarcoated with the “dream chasing” explanation. I wasn’t entirely wrong - I just omitted parts of my story, and that’s okay. What I didn’t expect was people gaining greater interest in me and my paintings after I shared with them the partial truth. They would widen their eyes, break into a smile, and nod earnestly at everything I talked about, from the abstract concepts of my art pieces, to the problems of searching for the right type of paint and canvas in Oxford, and even to my rants about painting as a career.

On one of those grey days, I saw you wandering alone down the street. I say “one of those grey days” because England is perpetually grey. In this sense, Oxford was predictable: The weather was always about the same, the line to Hassan’s kebab van always extended down a block, and the bell tower always rang five minutes later than Greenwich Mean Time. But that day, you were the anomaly. I didn’t think I had seen someone look so lost and desperate as you. It seemed as if you were searching for something as you paced down the street restlessly. I was curious, and as I was getting comfortable with the city and its loving community, I found some courage within me to call for you. I still find it funny how you immediately froze in your tracks and turned to me, eyebrows furrowed. The stall was empty at the time, so when you walked to me, I remember feeling like I was stripped bare. And truth be told, you made it worse by maintaining that silence for what felt like eternity, looking like you were inspecting my paintings. Yes, I’m blaming you a hundred percent on this. None of this had to do with me inviting you to have a look at my art pieces.

And when the silence became unbearable, I gathered up the remaining courage in me to ask you what was on your mind. I still remember how your features softened immediately, how the creases on your forehead smoothened, and how the corners of your lips turned up slightly, before you replied with “I’m thinking about the power of individual stories, so tell me a story behind your art”. I had never been a very trusting person, but at that moment, it seemed as if I could just hand you my heart and I could trust you to protect it and make sure the edges to the book would not crease. As you may know now, I didn’t end up telling you everything that day. You were a stranger and I could only bring myself to share with you the partial truth, as I did with all other curious visitors.

But then you returned again and again, and what I did not expect was that you would willingly share with me your sto ry. While the others would show me and my paintings some interest, very few would let their guard down to a struggling artist on the streets. Gradually, I learnt about how you gave up pursuing a prestigious degree for your aspirations in music, how you felt like your world was crumbling down when you first came here, just a couple months before me, because you were having second thoughts about your de cision. I remember holding my breath as you rambled on about how you were desperate for some sign that this was the “right” choice, because much like you, I hated uncer tainty and wanted the universe to tell me that I was meant to be where I was. It was at that moment that I felt like I wanted you to know my story; the complete, unfiltered ver sion. And so I told you about how I struggled with painting in my early years, when it had gnawed on me relentlessly to just make something to make sense of the disordered

thoughts and fights in my previous life. I shared about how I had felt so overwhelmed by this passion of resentment that I could no longer find joy in painting, which was why I decided to channel these fixations into hopes and dreams for better days in my creations. Even so, I still found myself

As the weeks flew by, you had inserted yourself into my life, and I had in yours as well. It happened so naturally that it didn’t feel like anything had changed. I would go on with sketching drafts for my latest idea, and your voice would merge with the calming ambience. There were times you would enthusiastically fight for my attention to show me your latest composition, and I would look up from my canvas, sometimes bleary-eyed, only to melt into a smile effortlessly at your excitement. Those were the times I was reminded that you had become a constant in my life. And we would talk about anything and everything, just the two of us and sometimes with the curious visitors. Those were the moments that defined my time in Oxford, the stories we exchanged between ourselves, and the stories we humbly offered to people who sought my paintings and your music.

Soon enough, I started to understand that it was in these conversations and story-exchanges that I was creating my purpose in my art unintentionally. We were creating this purpose together. In simply living and enjoying the moments of art-making - whether they were the friendly faces that passed by the stall, the comforting, familiar rhythm we established unknowingly, or the refreshing conversations we shared - we were linking the community around us together. I realised that in the past, resentment and the desire to escape these troubling thoughts had driven me to paint for the purposes of recognition and finding release in an alternate reality. I was so fixated on these ideas that I had drowned myself in the process, consumed by my creation and suffocated by an aimless sense of unreachable purpose. But in creating purpose through art, I was tuning myself back to my feelings, the origins that had grounded and inspired me. In expressing myself outwardly in the form of story-telling, I was creating a community bonded together by a heartwarming sense of trust and appreciation of art. The process of painting was really the crux of it all, with this process defined by all the moments we had simultaneously experienced and created together. I learnt that there need not be a purpose in all that I do and that more healing and freedom can be found in living simply and painting just for the sake of painting. Art in itself did not dictate specific purposes, it was up to the artist and their community to define it out of nothingness.

In retrospect, it was funny how I was the one reaching out for you when we first met, when in fact you were the one who saved me from drowning in the end.

The days we spent together seemed like an infinite pocket of time. Deep down, I was aware that my time in the city was only temporary, and I believe you knew yours was too. That didn’t stop me from thinking that it could last though. How could I not? Everything fell in place so naturally, as if the world had tilted on its axis just the right amount - so slightly that no one would have noticed, but so perfectly that you couldn’t imagine a time before then. It was setting up my stall every morning as usual, then having you drop by with two coffees and whatever lunch box you managed to pick up before noon, and sitting side by side working on our respective projects. Some days you would head to class in the middle of the day, or come by after lunch, and I would feel slightly disoriented before I recalled that you were an actual, matriculated Oxford student who had things to do apart from spending time under the Bridge. But that was all fine, as it gave me the space and time to think about all the thoughts and words I wanted to say to myself through you. Some other days, we would be laughing so hard that the people on the pavement would give us these puzzled looks that just made us laugh even harder. Those were the days I thought the skies weren’t grey even if they were.

And there was that one day when the skies turned pink at sunset after a drizzle. You stopped composing abruptly, and before I could even ask you why you had haphazardly stuffed some of your sheet music into your backpack, you pulled me out of my stool to the cobblestone pavement outside the Bridge. And I remember how my breath hitched in my throat when I craned my neck upwards and found a rainbow hovering above us. I think I froze for a moment back then, because never had I seen a view so stunning in this grey city, in what I had considered a colourless existence. My mind ran at a couple hundred miles per second again, but that time it wasn’t racing on without purpose. I felt a surge of emotion in my chest, a reminder of all the decisions and events that had brought me to that particular moment in time. It wasn’t like I was reminded of everything in particular details, but my heart was telling me that this was where I was supposed to be. Right there when you dragged me from my stool, and right then when you brought my restless mind to a halt, clasping my hand in yours and indulging the both of us into a spontaneous dance on the streets. And in that moment, a silent hush settled around us, a reminder of the world’s natural shift on its axis: a perfect pocket of time I wished would last forever.

That was the day that inspired me to paint the kite. It happened when we stumbled back to the stall from our placebo tipsiness and you knocked over one of the brushes attached

to the easel I was working on. I felt cold instantly when I saw the smudge on the canvas, as I was planning to paint something else. Still more or less drunk from enjoying ourselves, you then told me that it looked a bit like a kite in splattered colours. I could work with that, I had thought, and so I did. The outcome was a kite with a tail that dissolved into dust, its colours fading into the backdrop, painting the muted Bridge of Sighs with tinges of pink and orange and yellow. It was a kite as you had suggested, a kite created by the beautiful coincidence of that fairytale day, a kite that told the story of free spirits under the cotton candy sky, a kite not bound by a predetermined, abstract kind of purpose it had to seek.

I was beyond thrilled when I first received the invitation to work for a large-scale art programme in New York. A dream come true, I thought, someone must have had an eye on my work. It was early morning when I saw the letter, and I was thinking of all the things I could accomplish when I move there in two months. But I also didn’t know how to break it to you, and a part of me didn’t want to break it to you either. For months I had put aside what I had known earlier - the fact that I was but a temporary visitor - to fully immerse myself in everything the city had to offer, but now I had to face reality. So even when you came with coffee and lunch, just as usual, and settled comfortably next to me on your stool, I couldn’t bring myself to look you in the eye, because I was afraid I would break to know your reaction. You noticed fairly quickly though, you always did. There wasn’t any point trying to hide from it anyway, and so I just told you about it.

I remember how your eyes lit up and you enveloped me in a hug immediately. For a moment, I forgot about the part where I had to leave you soon, and I told you all my ideas for the programme when you started bombarding me with questions about it. You teased me for being an overeager golden retriever, and I lightly punched you in the arm for being the more excited one out of the both of us. We laughed about how it would only be fitting for me to at least visit Canal Street, where apparently New York’s Bridge of Sighs was located. And then you asked me when I would be coming back, because you thought it was just a one-time art showcase. Perhaps it was because I had recited this part at the back of my mind several times before you came, so I managed to deliver the message without breaking myself. But still, you did shortly afterwards, and that was what really broke me then. Your eyes remained glazed as I told you this was a permanent position, and they reddened up when I said I had to leave in two months. You blinked any tears away really quickly and shifted your glance to a point slightly off my left shoulder, and you were fidgeting slightly under the desk. Moments later, you seemed to regain your composure as you said you were still happy for me and that we could get each other’s numbers, keep in touch, and per-

haps meet some time in the future. Though I tried to lighten the mood by talking about how nice it’d be for us to meet again as successful artists, I noticed how you shrunk in your seat, nodding with a ghost of a smile. And even though I noticed all this while my fingernails dug into my palms uncontrollably, nothing hurt more than your reaction then, and I paused mid-sentence, breathing in the dry, heavy air. The next couple moments of pure silence was deafening as we both struggled to find the right words to say, and it was as if the world as we knew it had shattered. The idyllic, infinite pocket of time was no longer infinite, and the world was about to tilt back to its original axis. I felt that feeling I hadn’t felt in ages: that gnawing, wrenching feeling in my heart. I couldn’t bear you hurting. That was what broke my heart.

When I dragged my suitcases down that familiar cobblestone path on my last morning, the birdsong echoed in my mind. It lingered on from the previous night, tethering me to the Oxford from before I’d stepped out of my accommodation. Perhaps it was because of the summer solstice, so the birdsong sounded louder than normal, much like a pendulum for its familiarity and rhythm, but unlike it for its twinkling airiness. The birdsong had accompanied me through all the sleepless nights, when I paced restlessly in my room, frustrated by the lack of inspiration during my early days in the city. Towards the end, I understood that the birds did not mean to remind me of my initial struggling state. They were singing because it was a way of communicating their own experiences and sharing their lives. To learn to interpret the birdsong as a loving friend was much like my revelation of purposes and art being created bottom-up through lived experiences, not as something predefined by my initial desire to represent the ups and downs in life. And so, amidst my uncontrollable crying that very last night, the birdsong enveloped me in a warm embrace. It reminded me of your playful tunes, and as I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep (although to no avail), I swore I could see the kite flying out of the Bridge of Sighs, reaching for its escape in an alternate universe where I never had to leave.

The Land of Mystical Tales

Written by Ambica Kale Edited by Joey Lin Designed by Jill Wong

Cars stream-light over this once barren land, And the pavement swells with memories of a long-forgotten past. Upon introspection, it came back to me The allure of the myths, The stories of those who’ve conquered and lost. But how long has this Land of Mystical Tales been forgotten? Or better yet… ignored.

Cruising o’er the periphery, Sun-roof down

My hands up and my hair undone. O’ to be one with the wind

Like the ones who flew lives before O’er the horizon, where the sun meets the sea And after every dawn emerged once again.

The grandeur of the scene disillusioned me. Those vast plains of simplicity and ignorance grew to form dunes engulfing meI stand on the beach.

Sand coursing through my toes Deep breaths of salt-laden air Whisk me back to a time unknown.

Identity is a funny thing, A nomadic state was adopted. We grew yearning for the same metropolitan rush Despite absorbing every debris bone crush.

Thoughts were ingrained in my mind

Before I could think for myself, Repeated continuously, like sermons. This weekly plight of going to mass Became an all-consuming thought taking over one half.

For when I arrived back to this Land of Mystical Tales I was introduced to the ruse.

This trickery and deceit stemming from a well-intentioned thought Deepened the divide between the past, the future, The present’s gone rot.

It was those painstaking lies. They prophesied, Sitting back in their chairsFools none the wiseTelling me, (bless her for she’s naïve)

To look past the point the eye could see To find that this place was the Land of Broken Dreams.

“Escape!” My old man cried, Or you’re bound forever within By the chains of traditions’ graves And fires, holy smokeHow it rises and cannot cleanse the soul. “It’s uncharacteristic of who you are and what you believe For you so clearly belong in the Land of the Free.”

So I embraced the false Utopia, (As the thieves had done before) And grew distant from the birthplace The place once called my home. I traversed the world in my mind Whereabouts unknown. And then loneliness emerged from the solitude, Identity done thrown.

For the lungs barely breathed, Suffocated by foreign dreams. Young girl, the silhouette gleams, But now older, wiser, And the mountains and rocks now reek of greed.

Yet we leave, To find a sense of being.

And so I leave, To be something free.

The air never tasted so sweet, For the first act is done. A decade has come and past, While the hourglass sands still fall.

A nomad lives amongst the trees, Yet echoes of concrete are heard even past seas. Return not yet seenBut she’s armored with pride in the soul and courage on the sleeve, And her heart’s in her home.

For she’ll come back eventually And through the glass, we’ll see, Once again, on the periphery…

The sun-roof’s down. My hands up and my inhibitions undone. For this land still swells with the glories of the past. And it will be taken forward, For my dreams will not be forgotten I will make my mark.

My Dear City

Written by Wenxi (Lucie) Ai Edited by Taylor Gee Designed by Aspen Wang

I have so many memories of this city.

I remember those summer nights, bicycles racing along the scarlet wall of Forbidden City, sprawling laughter across the

narrow alley, reviving the ancient Hutong with the rhythm of youth. I remember those ordinary days after school, clusters of shadows in blue and white uniforms rushing to the old-fashioned

food market, blocking up the barbeque booth, eagerly waiting for the next batch of freshly cooked mutton strings.

I also remember those evenings in the garden next to my old apartment, running again and again around the tiny artificial

pond, playing games with rules that only we can understand. Beijing is always so bustling but lively, like the forever crowded shoreside of Houhai, the nearly stagnant traffic on the third

highway, or the busy servers in the 5am hotpot restaurant. You may say this city is too large, too hurried, too crowded, but

no one can doubt its vigorous vitality. So when did it begin? This year? Last year? Since the beginning of Covid? Or even earlier? I don’t know. I see its pictures in

the news, hear the stories my parents tell, read the posts my old friends share. All of them made up a city that is no longer

recognizable to me-an unfeeling prison. A few days ago, I received a message from my parents: “Do you know uncle Zhou

is trapped in Zhang Jia Kou (a city not far from Beijing)? There was an outbreak of Covid. They already finished their quar-

antine, but aren’t allowed to come back. They have nowhere to go now.” I stared at this message until all the letters began to

twist. I try to picture an image for my city, but everything is being covered by a layer of gauze.

sitting in the middle of my classroom, maskless, participating in the heated discussion of post-pandemic healing. Post-pan-

demic, really? My mind begins to wander, drifting all the way across the ocean, trying to dig out the tiniest sign of revival

for my quiescent motherland. Is it too late? I ask myself. I still don’t know. Maybe if we dig down enough, there is still a 59 58

faint heartbeat left under that dark cloak, but I know it won’t last long.

pietà

anonymous edited by heejae

designed

by

jung

hannah hu Today I give you everything else. I tell you so many of the worst parts of myself and you sit and listen. You try to understand, even though you’ve seen the world differently for so many decades. I don’t think you can ever really understand all of me and I don’t give you the chance to. Oh, the little mistakes you made years ago that come to haunt you. You’ve tried everything else. But is there a limit to the unconditional? When I fall apart, when I’ve slept the days away and glued myself to an empty screen, I come crawling back to you. You’re always here for me; everything else is the corpse in your arms. Yet my queerness remains nailed to the cross.

My queerness wraps around me like a warm blanket. My queerness wraps around me like a burial shroud. And I can fashion it into the noose around my neck. And I can hold onto it as the last hope keeping me alive. Mama, do you know all the ways I have wanted to unravel it for you? Do you remember that I have tried? Part of me wants to tell you everything at the end of a long road trip, to leave you with something to think about while I’m away. Or maybe I’ll testify to you this time, after I’ve already fallen apart in the living room. But the rest of me is enmeshed in fear that turns hesitation into a factual “I shouldn’t”. I want to shove myself into a narrative of “I’ve always been like this”. Mother, someone as brilliant as you wouldn’t have raised a straight daughter. I want to bury you under the realization that I knew of my queerness long, long, ago. I almost want to strangle you with the confrontation that you denied some objective truth. Really, I only want to dissolve into your arms in a bath of salty tears and affirmations of “I will love you anyway, always”. But I also don’t know just how many layers I should peel back. I am not so radiant. I am so dull that I can piece together how you have failed to see. So I have decided to leave who I am for you to imagine.

After I tried to come out to you the first time, you shoved that moment out of your memory. I know you’re afraid. You’ve seen the signs the Christians post. You know what my father would say. You don’t know that I’ve been down part of that path already, so you don’t have to hold me every step of the way. Mother, I have a lot of thoughts about sin for a generational atheist. Dreams where I burn in hell and rot away haunt my childhood slumber. But time has shown me that this thing they call sin can feel so light. It is the joy that’s just around the corner that will keep me going. It feels so light, like the sensation of melting into a kiss on a rainy summer day. It feels so light I could just float away. How could it drag me down to a hell I hardly believe in?

ULYSSES BERGEL

Do you have those phrases you heard that come back to you every once in a while? For me, it’s an off-handed comment made years ago by, fittingly, someone else who is half Asian.

There’s something in there that rings in the back of my head like a bell whenever I make the reveal that -surpriseI’m not fully Korean. I’m half. There’s something in that moment when someone learns. It could be wonder, or surprise, or even shock, but it’s never a comment of, “Cool. I already knew”.

It makes me feel almost like an infiltrator sometimes, filtering into the crowd without issue but somehow existing apart from it. For all intents and purposes, I look fully Korean, I suppose. After all, my mom’s phone mixes me up with my fully Korean cousin, and so many other Asians have to do a double take when I mention being half. But, just looking like something doesn’t mean you really feel like it, right?

I certainly don’t think so. I’m a second generation immigrant, half white, and raised in a predominately white suburb, so there’s a feeling of being adrift. I’ve lost count of the number of times that I’ve waited out a family member speaking to me in Korean. Then, when the moment arrives, I make my grand reveal. I don’t know a lick of Korean. If I really was a spy, I was ill-prepared. Smile and wave is what I say I do in jest, but that’s all I really can do, isn’t it?

The reflection, the other half of it, isn’t much better, now is it? I can’t look in the mirror without being reminded of how Asian I look. During my time as a host at a sushi restaurant, the number of times I was confused for the owner’s son must be in the dozens. It’s a tiny thing, but it’s the example that always comes to mind. One of us is fully Chinese; the other is not. And, no, we do not look alike. “Passing isn’t something that’s doable, and it’s always a strange experi ence being made into an “other” in the town I’ve grown up in.

FACE VALUE

Written by Alyssa Gu Edited by Arlene Chen Designed by Sandro Lorenzo

So, what’s there to do about this funny little gray zone? So often, I feel like there’s this rendering down of us into parts of our identity. Location, occupation, ethnicity, and the list goes on. What about the people who aren’t neatly categorized? What about the people who smile and wave because they can’t grasp the language but are treated like they’re fluent? I don’t know.

My sister answered the problem with the determination and wit that I’d expect her to. She taught herself to read and write Korean, and is learning to speak the language through K-Dramas. She rejects the half of her that isn’t Korean and sinks into her group of Korean friends as a comfort, insulation against the microaggressions and slights of middle school.

For a time, I did the opposite. I wanted to learn every language possible but Korean. I wanted to assimilate and live in the US without any consideration of my Korean-ness. I studied European history without thinking about its Asian counterpart. I rejected half of myself and tried to live that way… maybe to spite my sister, but that’s a matter for another time.

It wasn’t until coming to Vassar that I realized something about myself. Going to Portrait meetings, talking to other Asians, and actually engaging felt good. I don’t have to break myself up into bits and pieces of an identity just to fit in somewhere.

Half Korean. Half white.

Fully tired of compensating for one for the other.

The sum of my parts is an infiltrator, trying not to get caught and doing a terrible job of it. Me, though? I’m so much more than the sum of my parts, and I’m done thinking that I’m a living contradiction.

edited by: Miley Lu designed by: Sharon Nahm

Hello, my name is Vivien Ke. My last name is pronounced as though you’re saying “uh” with a k sound before it, but with your mouth slightly less open. Not “key” or “kay” – “ke.” Friends call me Vivi, family call me Mingjing, but I would prefer if you just called me Vivien.

I was named Vivien because my mother loves the movie Gone with the Wind, and the lead actress was named Vivien. That Vivien is dead now, but I’ve seen her face countless times across the TV screen in my parents’ bedroom. She was pretty, all big eyes and cheekbones. At least, this was what my mother liked to tell me. We don’t tend to watch it together anymore.

My name is Vivien Ke and today I am going to meet me. I’m wearing a plain sweatshirt in a color I’m told flatters me. My face is bare and the last of my highlights were finally chopped off yesterday. The lady from Parfaite said that I need to present myself in my most natural state–-no makeup, hair dye, or perm, and only the simplest of clothing. Dad asked that, if I was going to meet these strange people, I at least tell them how to correctly pronounce our last name. My mother said I only needed to remember that I was named for a beautiful woman and that I was beautiful in my own right. She was never sold on this whole business, but Dad said I could have anything if I got into college, and this is what I wanted.

The website of Parfaite is warm and inviting, covered in pastels and rounded fonts. It’s easy to get stuck on the “Real Stories” tab, scrolling through the stories of so many smiling faces, their faces dewy and defined. I have the “Instructions” page open right now, which you can only access after inputting credit card information. They tell you to log into the Zoom call at least 15 minutes before the meeting is due to start. It’s been 13 minutes. The waiting room notice stares back at me. I itch the arch of my nose, where a mole the size of Jupiter appeared three years ago. I cover it from view with my finger. The waiting room notice tells me I will be let in soon.

I let out a breath and run through my introduction again. And again. The silence in the room makes my head want to burst.

Hello, my name is Vivien Ke and, if I’m being honest, I feel nervous about this whole situation. It’s nice to meet you though. What are your names?

I laugh at the idea of saying this, just as my screen changes. The waiting room notice disappears, replaced by a basic Zoom window. There are rows and rows of squares displaying the other participants—too many to count. All of the participants are in settings similar to mine, sitting alone with their cameras aimed fully at their faces.

And they all look exactly like me.

This is what the Parfaite “What We Do” page says:

Our service is a truly unique experience that allows you to finally decide on the LookTM. The LookTM is how you were meant to appear, the most beautiful visage you were unlucky enough to naturally lack in this life. Somewhere out there in the cosmos, however, is a version of yourself that has that LookTM. We here at Parfaite show you many different versions of yourself, or Alter-EgosTM, and, with our vast inventory of tools and services, help transform you into the Alter-EgoTM that has the LookTM.

I open my mouth again to say “Hi, nice to meet you, too, I’m Vivien Ke, pronounced like-”

“Ke Mingjing here. I ask that you say my full name like that. Nice to meet everyone, and our subject.”

Ke Mingjing has written her name both phonetically and in Chinese characters (柯明静). I squint to read the words, partially because they are small and unfamiliar, and partially because Ke Mingjing (柯明静) is sitting in a room flushed with golden hour. The sunlight shines on the glitter spread across her eyelids and the heavy pink blush spread across her cheeks. There is no mole on the arch of her nose, but a beauty mark that seems almost intentional in its placement rests just below her daintily glossed lips. I have seen girls like Ke Mingjing (柯明静), but only in the last few years and never in real life. Girls who look like Ke Mingjing (柯明静) exist in curated Instagram profiles with captions written in another language.

I open my mouth for the third time and hear the beginnings of “Hello, my name is-” from somewhere else on the screen. In my panic to introduce myself before anyone else, I cut the girl off and watch her face shutter close, cheeks flushed pink. Her display name is Vivien Key and she looks so much more like me than Vivi <3 and Ke Mingjing (柯明静) do. I want to backtrack, apologize, let her say what she wanted to say, but I don’t because she’s making my chest ache.

It’s too late anyway. I’m already talking.

“. . . call me Vivien. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you all. I guess I’m the subject? You guys can just call me Vivien though, I’m okay with that.”

As far as the news is concerned, Parfaite was first a scam, then a revelation, and then an insidious fiction factory run by a team of women. That made it hard enough to convince my parents, much less settle my own questions about where they could possibly obtain all these alter-egos.

But here is proof of the service’s advertising. There are slender girls and fat girls. Some are freckled and lightly tanned, others are pale and smooth-skinned. While I was told to keep my hair a “respectable” length and undyed, my alter-egos have gone all out, from bright blue bobs to bleached curls flowing out of sight of the camera.

I open my mouth – “Hello, my name is Vivien Ke and-”

“Hi, I’m Vivi! It’s so nice to meet you all! I’m really excited to be here today and hopefully we have a successful meeting with our subject here!”

The girl who has just spoken is named Vivi <3, in the center of the video grid. Something has been done to our face so that she seems to have a more angled and defined face: big eyes and high cheekbones and long, curling lashes. Her hair has been dyed a soft, warm brown. There’s no mole on her straighter, narrower nose, only a light spray of freckles. If her eyes were a bright blue, she would have been every pretty girl I ever wished to be.

I finish in a rush, watching carefully as Vivi <3 smiles and Ke Mingjing (柯明静) nods slowly and the rest of my alter-egos send thumbs-ups and muted claps in response.

“I can start the questions,” Vivi <3 says into the quiet that follows. It’s usually hard to know when someone is paying attention to you over Zoom unless they call you out specifically, but I can feel Vivi <3’s eyes peering into my face from where it hangs at the center of the video displays. “Vivien, let’s start off with the basics. What kind of face are you looking for?”

The attention makes my skin itch. “Um, I guess I haven’t thought about it as much as I probably should have. I thought I could just see all of you and pick the one that I found the prettiest – sorry, I don’t mean to offend any of you, or, I guess me?”

Vivi <3 nods understandingly, as though accepting my apology on behalf of all my alter-egos. Then she leans forward towards the camera, smiling conspiratorially. “So, who do you think is the prettiest?”

“Oh, well, um.” I watch some of my alter-egos preen, adjusting their hair as they wait to be crowned, while others shrink into themselves, subtly but just enough to be caught on camera. Might as well be honest then. “I think you’re the prettiest, Vivi.”

Vivi <3 beams from her video square. “Aw, thank you, Viv!”

“Vivien,” I correct, quietly though.

A scoff sounds from the video square next to Vivi <3, whose smile dims. “Is there a problem, Mingjing?”

Ke Mingjing (柯明静) leans forward, like Vivi <3 did before, but the look on her face is one of irritation. “Of course the subject chooses you as the prettiest. She is American-born. She does not care for faces like mine.”

Vivi <3 starts to say something, but this time I let my voice ring out loud and shrill. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant at all. I think you all look amazing, especially you, Ke Mingjing! Honestly, I was just picking kind of randomly, I mean, I know I was born in the States but that doesn’t mean that I would abandon my heritage and want to be totally whitewashed. Like, I’m Chinese-American, y’know?”

Ke Mingjing (柯明静) looks unimpressed, but Vivi <3 seems to accept this as enough to move on to the next question.

“Viv, what color palette are you thinking of?”

I feel my forehead wrinkle instinctively and rush to smooth it out. One thing every one of my alter-egos has in common is a lack of lines on their faces. “I’m not really sure what you mean by a color palette. I mean, my mom said that blue is a flattering color on me but that’s –”

“Vivi is not asking about your clothing,” Ke Mingjing (柯明静) cuts in. “We are not responsible for that part of the service. Vivi is asking about your visage. Do you want to be paler or tanner? Do you want to lighten your hair or would you prefer to maintain this black hair? Do you want the hyperpigmented sunburnt blush look or the softer, rosier sunkissed look or perhaps no blush at all? We ask this to decide what kind of look you will ultimately end with. I am sure you know where the lines are drawn here.”

“Mingjing,” Vivi <3 begins, glancing at me before quickly shifting her focus back on Ke Mingjing (柯 明静). “You know we’re not supposed to tell subjects these things. Viv probably has a ton on her mind already, and these questions are just meant to help her organize all those thoughts.”

“I am certain Vivien Ke would like some clarity on the process,” Ke Mingjing (柯明静) shoots back, “considering the primary person asking these questions cannot even get her name right.”

Vivi <3 reddens. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vivien Key peeling the skin on her fingers. I realize that I’m doing the same, the skin around my cuticles already irritated. Alter-egos even share nervous habits.

As I shift to sit on my hands, Vivi <3 begins her questions again. “We here at Parfaite have an open policy on plastic surgery. What type of face restructuring, whether through makeup or surgery, would you be interested in?”

“We here at Parfaite,” mimics Ke Mingjing (柯明静). “The question she is really asking is how far you want to go until you get an utterly white American face like Miss Vivi’s over here.”

“Mingjing!”

“Vivi!”

Vivi <3 snatches up the paper she has been reading questions from. I can’t tell if her hand is shaking or if the video quality has suddenly decreased. “Viv, please list some adjectives and other descriptive terms that would best show what kind of look you want. Some examples include striking, defined –”

“Elegant,” Ke Mingjing offers.

My hand shakes from its spot flat atop my now closed laptop. I inhale a shuddering breath and look for lower ground. Down from my desk chair I descend, curling into a heap in front of my closet door.

Striking. Defined. Elegant. Tanned. Toned. Porcelain skin. Glowing. Delicate. Dewy. Doll-like. Do I want to look this way or that? I’m not sure anymore. I just wanted to be pretty.

The late morning light catches against the mirror hanging from my closet door. It pushes me to shift into a cross-legged position, to truly study my face for the first time today.

It’s the same story every time. Small, heavily monolid eyes every book I’ve ever read has described as “almond-shaped.” Dark brown irises that rarely glimmer in the sunlight. A nose my cousin once described as looking like a trumpet, which required a reluctant translation from my mother for me to understand. Big, full lips I was made fun of in elementary school and envied over in high school. And, of course, the shape of my face.

My big, round face is an inheritance from my father. My mother likes to take pictures of our “doughy” smiles, when the fat of our cheeks gathers into either side of our stretched grins. During middle school, I resorted to smaller, close-mouthed smiles and tilting my head down, all in order to create the illusion of a small face ending in an elegantly narrow chin.

Yesterday, my mother sat at the kitchen table for hours, looking through photos from various vacations. She looked up when I came in and held up a relatively recent one I quickly averted my eyes from, a candid where I smiled too wide.

“You should let me take more pictures,” she said, cajoling. Her teasing smile faded a bit then. “Maybe this Par-fate thing will make you want to be in more pictures for your old ma.”

And this is perhaps what finally lets me cry. I shove a hand over my mouth, not wanting my parents to hear and come in out of concern.

I think about the hope I felt when Dad finally let me buy the Parfaite service. I think about this meeting I had been anticipating for so long. I think about the meeting itself. But instead of Vivi <3 and Ke Mingjing (柯明静), I hold the image of Vivien Key in my mind.

A big, round face. A doughy smile when she went to introduce herself. I move my other hand to press against the ache in my chest.

The thing is, I don’t like facing myself. Always avoided the mirror in the mornings, the reverse cameras poised for selfies, the truth of it all manifesting in an alter-ego who I thought couldn’t hold a candle to Vivi <3 or Ke Mingjing (柯明静). The problem is, no one ever told me I wasn’t pretty, but I could never get myself to believe the few who told me I was beautiful.

I force myself to straighten up and look at myself again in the mirror. My eyes are already red and puffy from the crying, my cheeks flushed and tear-stained. I attempt a doughy smile, my cheeks stretching to the sides. I never noticed how my face folds into a heart shape when I do this.

There’s a knock at my door. “Mingjing? Is your meeting done? I cut up some pear for you if you’re hungry.”

“Coming, Ma!” I call.

I take one last look at my face in the mirror, cup my face with both hands and let my doughy smile stretch to its fullest. A familiar discomfort presses against me. I ignore it, looking instead at the heart I hold in my hands.

Hello, my name is Vivien Ke. And today, I met me.

PORTRAIT

2022

thanks to Stephen Han for capturing these beautiful moments!

Thank you for reading our magazine. Portrait would not exist without you. sending love, Portrait Staff

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ISSUE 09 | looking glass fall/winter 2022