echo - ISSUE 08

PORTRAIT ECHO

PORTRAIT issue #8 : spring 2022 Echo

cover design Phoebe Jacoby

Welcome To Portrait

Vassar’s Asian Students’ Maga zine

Dear Reader, How have you been? Well, I hope. This semester has been a difficult one in many ways, but as it comes to a close, I feel bittersweet. What about you?

Perhaps my bittersweet feeling comes from the fact that this issue marks my eighth and last issue with Portrait. When I first joined the org in its inception my first semester at Vassar, I was simply interested in writing an article for fun. I never imagined how Portrait would introduce me to new friends, improve my nonexistent writing abilities, and challenge my perspective on identity. I am forever thankful for the wonderful people I have met and lovely memories I have made from these past four years. They have touched my life in more ways than one.

It is fitting that the theme of our eighth issue, Echo, is all about the dialectical relationship between ourselves and our external worlds, referring to the reverberations of us and our communities. Some of the questions we urged our contributors to consider were: What experiences, people, and ideas have resonated with you? How do you think your thoughts and actions have influenced others and your surroundings? As you flip through the magazine, you will see that the pieces in this issue honors that dynamism through poetry, stories, letters, and more.

Thank you so much for supporting our contributors and their incredible talent and dedicated hard work. We are so excited to share this beautiful issue with everyone. And I am looking forward to seeing what Portrait brings in the future. This org holds a very special place in my heart.

With love, Jane Editor-in-Chief

art SK Kapur design Phoebe Jacoby

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Iris Heejae Jung

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The World Aidan Fry

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Crossword Puzzle Arlene Chen

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Sophomore Slump Or The Comback of the Year Kiran Rudra

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Words of Our Days, Shapes of Our Thoughts Jane Ahn

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Birth Alicia Hsu

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27 Bad Survival Tips for Teenage WOC Nandini Likki

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A Silent Echo: My Eyes and Their Shapes Annie Xu

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Untitled Isabelle Paquette

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Crossword Answers

The Shells Elena Furahashi

my parents’ echo Katy Wu

Opia Zoe Mueller

Po r tr a it Fa m i l y , Q. What are ideas, values, etc. that you hope to echo, or hope for people around you to echo?

Editor-in-Chief Content Editor Creative Director Publicity Launch Treasurer Producer

Jane Ahn Elena Furuhashi Phoebe Jacoby Arlene Chen Heejae Jung Wyejee Jung Stephen Han

Writers/Project Leads Nandini Likki Aidan Fry Seowon Back Alicia Hsu Annie Xiyang Xu Heejae Jung Arlene Chen Isabelle Paquette Zoe Mueller Kiran Rudra Jane Ahn Katy Wu Elena Furuhashi Editors Gabor Fu Ptacek Heejae Jung Jaida Larkin Katherine Lim Julia Jiaqi Peng

Designers Hannah Hu Am Chunnananda SK Kapur Seowon Back Joy Yi Lu Freund

Media Sharon Nahm Tina Ai

Aidan Fry Taylor Gee Julianna Aguja Janus Wong Ava McClure Cecilia Villaseñor

Sandro Luis Lorenzo Sharon Nahm Serena Liu Melah Motani Lavanya Manickam Maggie Dawkins

Minkyo Han

Designed and Illustrated by Sharon Nahm

written by: H E E J A E J U N G

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he summer light dances in spirals, like the effortless twirls of a figure skater, as it bounces off the pool’s gentle waves. My friend Emilia floats lazily in a neon-pink tube and runs a sleepy hand through the water, emitting tiny ripples in its wake. Behind her, I spot the frantic motions of my mother inside the house as she scrambles to gather her things for work. My younger brother enters the hectic scene, his flailing arms signaling to me that he is in the midst of another noisy tantrum. I cannot help but close my eyes in an attempt to lose myself once again in the stupor of high school bliss. I envision lumps of green and yellow floating around the dark mass, aimless yet contained like the globs trapped inside lava lamps. And while I can block out the chaos unfolding inside my home, I cannot stop the July sun from piercing through my closed eyes.

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Miniscule droplets of chlorine-scented water land on my carefully-done face, causing me to immediately reach for my towel. The aftermath of Emilia’s boyfriend’s unexpected dive. Her shrill giggles and his teasing splashes prick my ears and puncture my serene demeanor.

cal brow raises. The ice-blue morning turns into multiple shades of gray, and I am no longer in a pool of mirth. Instead, I am drowning in embarrassment as all the irksome features of today–my mother’s lingering presence and the reflection of my insecure self in the glass door–sweep over me. I fumble with the clenched towel, falling into an awkward spiral and losing my grip on the cool and unfazed image I try so hard to project. In my eyes, my onlookers remain pristine and composed while I wither in self-doubt. I begin to sweat profusely, worried that my cakey foundation and rosewood lipstick have melted and mixed like a Neapolitan ice cream sundae gone wrong.

My moment of solace ends just like that, crudely and abruptly like the motion of my jaws when they chomp into the ice cubes of an empty glass. Angry and mortified at the thought of my makeup coming off, I inadvertently elicit their collective gaze. With a quick flick of my wrist, I take cover under my sunglasses, feeling myself grow hot at their quizzi-

All this happens in a matter of minutes, no seconds. For Emilia and her boyfriend happily resume their animated bickering. And my mother starts her car engine, leaving behind a brother placated by the popsicle in his mouth. Only I remain bothered, burning and disoriented, once again the sole casualty of a self-conscious script I wish to escape.

It leaves traces of itself in the faint streaks of color that imprint themselves onto the back of my eyelids. The only place the glistening sunlight cannot penetrate is my lashes, so heavily coated in mascara that they would remain matte even in the face of a thousand twinkling diamonds.

splash!

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s a seventeen-year-old, I subscribe to the latest tabloid gossip, adhere to a strict caffeine diet, and mentally compare shades of coral pink a million times before making my next Sephora purchase. In other words, I am a “normal” teenager. At least in the eyes of my preoccupied parents and unconcerned teachers.

In classrooms and on sidewalks, my thin white peers rant and rave in a language that I imitate and hope to master one day. That calm confidence, that understated yet full presence, that thoughtless ability to comfortably take up space and not worry about the subtle hooks of judgment that frequently latch onto my backside. The acidic jolt of my morning Americano cannot possibly compare in cruelty to the experience of being talked over in a public space.

Call it senior year stress or the worries of an insecure girl with an unhealthy obsession with makeup. All I know is that the seeds of self-consciousness have been planted and dispersed a long time ago by the very same types of people who continue to nourish and cultivate them into further existence. Whether from a store clerk or a concerned principal, a friend’s mom or a passing stranger, all it takes is a displeased glance or a dismissive remark to ruin my mood. Instances like the pool fiasco merely scratch the surface of why I feel the need to conceal myself, why I feel the need to cover my skin.

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ith summer comes bikini season, and I would rather bury myself in polyester and empty chatter than subject myself to another standardized test question. College admissions lie at the core of any parent’s mind these days, oftentimes trapping the hearts of poor East Coast kids such as myself. Everyday at hagwon, sitting in the same squeaky chair, I try to parse through the identically sounding answer choices. The letters A, B, C, and D circulate and fume throughout my already fried brain for hours on end. On good days, I bite into my acrylic nails, relishing the sensation of cartilage against chemicals. On bad days, the red slashes

of wrong answers remind me of paper cuts–both so raw and unforgiving in their sudden appearance.

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nce again in direct contact with the beckoning warm sun and the dry dust that gently grazes my ankles, I close my eyes. Like the faceless and constantly shifting shape of light as it lands on its next object, sometimes I wish I had no one identity. In that way, I would be able to escape the burdens that come with being Asian or a student or a girl who should not be left alone too long with her thoughts. I desperately crave the ability to see the world in rosy hues, to see the good in things, to be reminded of pink salt at the sight of dead skin, to transform fake smiles into crumbling clay, to will migraines away as if they were plump rubber balloons meant to be freed. I wish to have the courage to no longer care about things that only harm myself. But for now, I reach for my thick mascara and rosewood lipstick. For now, the desire to belong supersedes everything else.

edited by: A I DA N F RY designed by: S H A RO N N A H M

Arnold Casal’s oThce building was half an hour away from his son’s school. His wife was already en route in a taxi. He took his car. At 2pm in Manila, traThc was only slightly better than usual, so he texted Eliza: “traThc is bad. won’t arrive for another 15min. will meet you at the gate of the school.” Arnold planned to return to work later in the affiernoon, just to set a good example, so he promised as much to his coworkers. He didn’t say anything else. fiey hadn’t heard the news of the flre, and they didn’t need to.

Arnold considered himself a calm man. He never once raised his voice at his son, Rodrigo, and he certainly never complained about traThc. No point in changing that now. Glancing at his phone, the GPS suggested he make a turn down a winding alley to skip ahead of the congestion. He ignored it. Not that it was even possible to turn with his car surrounded in the middle lane. Other cars were certainly trying. fieir angled bodies stuck out among the sea of parallel backlights, blocking the gaps between cars that motorcycles weave through.

He thought of giving Eliza a call, but she was probably on the phone with one of her girlfriends.

Another mother with another child caught up in all of this. fie school still hadn’t sent out anything 12

about the Thre. Arnold had found out through Eliza, who had found out through Renee, who had found out through her son (or was it daughter?), who was apparently in the bathroom when it happened. It was in the auditorium, they said. Renee only had to tell her PTA friends, affier which it spread like rumors and gossip usually do. One good thing came out of Eliza’s obnoxious group of friends, at least. fiey would all be there, too. Oh well.

Amidst the chorus of car horns, Arnold heard a knock on the window of his car. Outside, begging children in soccer uniforms walked between cars, holding up white flower necklaces to sell. He put up his hand to wave them away.

Any money he gave them would just be going to a gang. fiough if Eliza was there, she would’ve made him roll down the window regardless. As if the donations every Sunday during oftertory weren’t enough. Besides, it wasn’t their job to help; the police were supposed to be taking the children to homeless shelters. So Arnold simply stared at the steering wheel and waited for the traffc to let up. fiere, on the corner, tucked between two single-storey houses was the entrance to the school.

It was a thin road leading to the campus inside. fie iron gate was closed, so Arnold rolled down his

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join us?” Tita Ona asked him.

“I’m alright,” Arnold replied. “Eliza can join you.” He leTh them and made his way to a less crowded spot on the road. ffien he got a good look at the red-and-white facade of the main building.

He could see no smoke. Why hadn’t a faculty member come out and say something yet? Where was the principal? Arnold had the feeling that this was all a misunderstanding or a rumor gone awry, but there was no way of knowing. Why wouldn’t the security just let the parents in? Surely they understood their concern for their children.

Arnold realized he hadn’t tried calling Rodrigo’s phone yet. He gave the number a ring, covering his other ear to block out the noise of the crowd, but it went to voicemail. He hung up and leTh a text instead:“Hi Rodrigo, heard news of fire at school. Please let us know if you’re alright. Dad.” Suddenly, the commotion became even louder, and when Arnold turned to look he saw everyone yelling and pointing at a man in a suit at the top of the stairs. He stood in between the line of guards– no, behind them, probably atop a desk or a chair. He had a loudspeaker. Arnold didn’t know if this was the principal or the superintendent or someone else, but he was certainly someone important.

“Attention parents!” the loudspeaker blared out. “ffiere is no cause for alarm. Please disperse. ffie children are safe and sound at the moment.” ffie crowd erupted with questions and shouts all at the same time, drowning out the principal’s attempts to calm the situation. ffien the security guards raised their machine guns into the air and everyone went quiet.

“Alright, thank you,” the principal said.

“Now, can I get a show of hands for questions, please? You, ma’am, up front.”

“Hello, I’m the parent of Gabriel Lopez.

We’ve heard news of a fire. Is this true?”

“Yes, thank you for asking. But the fire is under control now. People, please! Quiet down. I can barely hear myself think. OK, next question.

You over there. Yes, I’m pointing to you.”

“Where are the fire trucks? Why isn’t the alarm going ofl?”

“Like I said, the fire is already under control. ffie alarm has been put on silent mode.”

“We want to see our children! Where are

they?”

“OK, sir, I didn’t pick your question, but I can answer it anyway. The children are being evacuated right now, and you’ll be able to see them shortly. We’re just making sure they’re safe.”

Someone screamed, and everyone took their gaze offi of the principal to look at the cloud of smoke peeking out behind the main building. Was that a lot of smoke or a normal amount of smoke?

Maybe someone was just burning trash. Maybe it was just from a smokestack.

“Oh my God, the fire department!” someone next to Arnold yelled. “The fire department!

Someone call 911!”

Then people began to really scream. Into their phones, at the guards now gripping their guns with clenched hands, at each other. Arnold thought of taking out his phone, but looked at everyone around him already calling and shouting over each other and decided against it. Then he remembered Eliza and made his way back to where he last saw the friend group.

There they were, all wailing together, and Arnold didn’t know what to do so he just stayed back. He wanted to escape the sickening sound of sobs, but he felt obligated to stay even if he could do nothing. He looked away from them and tried to focus on the patch of clear sky opposite the school.

He stood there dumbly until he heard the sound of sirens approaching, and then they really did have to leave to make room for the emergency workers to convene.

Outside of the entrance gate, they couldn’t see the smoke anymore. The press was busy gathering up people to interview on the sidewalk, so Arnold and Eliza hid from the cameras inside the car. Looking out the window, Arnold saw the last of the ambulances and fire trucks drive into the school grounds. He could do nothing but sit and watch them.

“We have to go inside and find Rod,” Eliza mumbled. “We can’t be sure they’ll find him.”

“We can’t get inside now,” Arnold replied.

“We shouldn’t get in the way.”

“I could climb over the walls and make a run for it.”

“How would you do that?”

“It’s not that tall. I can make it.”

“There’s barely anything to hold onto.”

“Jesus Christ, Arnold, just stop,” Eliza cried.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Arnold tried to think of the last time he had seen Rodrigo. It was last night, because Rodrigo leffi for school at 6am and he woke up at 9. Then it must have been during the family dinner. Did they say anything to each other? It was mostly just him and Eliza talking. He pictured Rodrigo eating his chicken adobo in silence. It can’t happen again. Not if Rodrigo came home tonight.

Arnold saw another prayer group had formed outside in the middle of the road, and he felt a tug in his heart. “I’m going to pray,” he said, before exiting the car. Eliza followed him. As they approached, the circle opened and held out two hands for them to join with. As a young man with glasses began with “Our Father who art in heaven,” everyone closed their eyes and raised their hands above their shoulders as if holding up an invisible weight together.

Arnold hadn’t asked for much of anything from God before. Well, what was the harm in doing it now?

He opened his eyes and watched as everyone prayed.

Some had clenched jaws and furrowed brows, while others had serene looks on their faces. Those not in the prayer group were pacing around or standing still. Some were moaning, others were silent. What else were they supposed to do? What else could they do?

Suddenly, a mother from behind them cried out, “They’re alive! Look!” Murmurs of “alive” began to spread through the crowd. The prayer group broke up as people gathered around the phone held in the mother’s quivering hands, and the muttering became shouting, “The fire department is saying all students have been rescued!” Soon those words became a refrain, “They’re alive! They’re alive!” Yet the screaming and crying continued. They threw their arms into the air and wailed. They banged and rattled the gate with their fists. They collapsed onto the road and writhed. Eliza pulled Arnold close and kissed him while sobbing, and he allowed it.

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By: Arlene Chen Edited By: Jane Ahn Designed By: Melah Motani

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2. rice porridge 4. last issue’s theme 8. in the near future 9. bird with beak 11. 2017 Korean film “along with the ____” 12. geographic term for soda 16. comma for lists, somewhat controversial 17. made with pinkies 18. jack and jill went up the hill for this

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down 1. animal of 2022 3. loved himself 4. two four six eight 5. bats have ____ location 6. rich in potassium 7. patently unfalse 10. generic fruit 13. self ____ 14. whose moving castle 15. early bird gets the ____ 17. he’s a semi aquatic / egg laying mammal of action

it’s been long enough, might as well start calling this home i’m my own best kept secret. tried to sink this ship, reclaim the drowning ocean. there are plenty of fish and i got stuck with me.

i forget who i am. never. a woman. mostly(?) a man. a body i’ve reluctantly carried.

i wear my body like a car crash and i am a backseat driver. my body wears me with fear. we’re best friends, ex-friends, from now on we are enemies.

i’d never thought i’d live over my dead body. they call me the grim weaper. how do i love an absent boy i never dreamed of knowing?

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you can tell your organizers that i am not your token (of appreciation) the devil’s in the details and i saw him in your eyes. you’re his advocate and his preacher. tell me how you’ll save me. send me to hell and back. make me your golden boy beam of light then stick me in the shadows. i can be your poster child until i speak of the devil. and yet you show up every time. how could i forget that i am but a candle held up to your flame? the racial salvation you’re bringing me. oh pious one, teach me to dogmatically follow my be[lie]fs like you! teach me to never look inwards like you! the patron saint of liars and fakes. you can lead a racist to theory, but you can’t make them think.

empty pockets in the deece never stopped me (they have) i still get angry about the way you hurt me. maybe it’s not real. maybe it’s justified. but the trauma wraps around me like a straight-jacket confused for a hug every time you walk past like nothing happened. waiting for you to apologize is putting my hands on a hot stove over and over and being shocked i’m getting burnt. and yet i keep doing it and doing it. what is it called when you do the same thing over and over and expect different results? break me in like new shoes. i know you love to walk all over me. i’m tired of chasing tracks of a one track mind. you only know how to run backwards and you stop for no one. i’ve waited for you to catch up long enough. but for you its two steps back, one step forward. willing you in the right direction won’t get you to learn. you have to walk forward yourself.

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you can have your piece of cake, but you bit off more than you can chew (by the skin of your teeth) last years wishes are this years apologies and i saw a shooting star every day then. you can’t blame me for having stars in my eyes. they were aligned, and for a second, i thought that we were a constellation written in them. maybe i was too greedy. maybe you made me think i was selfish for asking to be heard. but you made a mime out of me. you wanted me silent. you wanted me to think outside of the box, but never exist outside of it. i’ve been acting for so long, i do not know what my face looks like. my home is a stage. every day i paint my face and i get ready for my show. break a leg! put it on thin ice. i’ll never finish healing from your scars.

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i’ve burned more bridges than i’ve jumped off of (but you can take this one off my shoulders) i’m from florida so i’m familiar with alligators. but you, white woman, and your crocodile tears won’t last forever. so why would i even bother trying to figure you out? cry me a river. build a bridge and cross it. i’ll burn it once you’re on the other side. it’s not water under the bridge. it’s sinking ships and struggling to keep your head above hell or high water until it runs dry. i do not fear you anymore. i know how to swim.

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i misgendered an emo guy and all i got was this shitty poem written about me you know how to please everyone around you. kind words, soft heart, baby face. i know you like the gas lights the flame. you’re as straight and as narrow as they come but were never good at archery. always a miss from you. but i [do]n’t miss you. my gender is the squeaky wheel you never learned to grease. i hope your ignorance rings in your ears for hours. my pain was only ever an inconvenience to you.

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get your mind out of the gutter (and the gutter out of your mind) you see me like a kaleidoscope of a person: fragmented through rose colored lenses. pieces of trauma pieced together that you move back and forth and back and forth. hold me up to your eyes to see the fractured image of a person you created. twisting the kaleidoscope, you hold me in your hands and you manipulate me into the shapes you want to see. i’ll never be the perfect work of art. golden boys are only golden plated. melt me down and you’ll find copper. there is no perfect daughter. she is the ghost of a boy and i stand in their footsteps. when i came out, i signed my own death certificate. call me a ghost writer. i’ve always known there was someone else speaking from inside me. we speak different languages from the same forked tongue. one that spoke yours, and the other, speaking mine. i don’t blame you for pretending. but you can’t blame me for hating it.

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writen by Katy Wu edited by Gabor Fu Ptacek and Julia Peng designed by Serena Liu

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discovery bay, hong kong taiwanese mother chinese american father 5.4 pound baby girl.

their culture their food their holidays ours.

long island, new york a year and one month later halloween young immigrant.

家 我成長的地方 我學習的地方 在那裡我被愛著。

home, long island learning english learning mandarin baby babble.

bilingualism a skill i am proud of communicating more with those i hold dear.

慈濟中文學校 taiwanese american students why saturday school ㄅㄆㄇㄈ i can do this 謝謝老師。

11 years of saturdays friends i finally relate to doing what my father did not 橫、豎、捺、撇、折、點 yet now forgetting much of what i learned.

cherokee street elementary school new friends predominantly white lunar new year involved parents 恭喜發財。

sharing culture teaching others asian enough proud grateful for my parents 闔家歡樂。

kitchen table, home 包餃子 jealous friends 肉、菜、蔥、姜、皮 媽媽 makes the best 好吃好吃。

vassar college, away from home 新的朋友 常常想家 doing what i can speaking, celebrating, remembering 愛我的文化。

彰化,台灣 hi2公公婆婆 我只能講中文 但 this 不會說 聽不懂 that still my comfort place.

scared i will lose connection scared i will disappoint 我需要做我能做的 希望我會記住 希望我會繼續 the story of our lives.

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written by zoe muell

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lim and julia pe edited by katherine

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designed maggie dawk

Would you pocket this secret? If only for a small duration of time, I’m too tired to carry it all on my own.

I never knew what it meant to be beautiful: for me, for myself. But I could recognize it in others: the unraveled socks in my roommate’s hair, drowsy from post-cinnamon roll dreams.

I wish I could capture her in a polaroid, a collage of bed-heads taped on a shared wall. Or on repeat in studio II, when her gibbon arms offer hugs like a pez dispenser. If I’m knee-deep in sadness, she has been there - wavering on drunk nights with a perpetual craving for cheese. I want to fold these intangible moments into handwritten letters, the memories unfurling in a zoetrope loop.

The bluest eyes and strawberry blonde hair colored my childhood vision in unattainable hues. Named after an autumn bird, her willow limbs were perfection, almost pristine - too far away to touch. As I grew into self-disillusion, vulnerability unpeeled itself like an open blister. I labeled my body into spare parts, fantasizing that my thighs would vacuum into a gap or that my rib cage would deflate overnight. I eventually settled into neutrality, the roundness of my cheeks and high nasal bridge became facts of my existence: static insecurities I had to accept.

There is one exception, however. My eyes: an asymmetry I’ve attempted to rub away every morning. An infliction of redness as I pull at my epicanthal folds, morbidly wondering if I could cut my eyelids in two. Fingertips dripping with faucet water, I scrub at my eyes until they are swollen - a soft, perhaps instinctual violence. I avoid the intimacies of conversation, when you’re close enough to another person that you just might start to like them.

But never close enough for them to realize how uneven I could be.

My early obsessions said they loved me, a past tense that was inevitable and briefly painful. They loved that I was a hardass, someone whose affection was never cookie cutter but enough to attract flowers on my birthday. In an effort to commodify myself, my hair remained uncombed and my smile was a bit too bright.

I thought, in those instances, I could be beautiful for others. I could be overly sweet - like these words - for you to swallow whole.

I write for me, but I also write for you, dear reader. I want this to be a diary page, my fragile shame rendered spare by your gaze.

The word “plastic” is onomatopoeia in my mouth - hard and artificial - pressed against my gums. “Cosmetic” offers more temporality, akin to cherry lip gloss or lemonade bottle caps. Yet both these words have a metallic sheen, a foreignness that punctures my natural aesthetic. Like a threading needle stitched through a ripe orange, its skin a patchwork of cotton and citrus. I could be an unnatural portrait, mythologized just at the edges, a slight fog that collected stares. I could press their validation through a silk screen, printed on my pajama shirt before I sleep.

I joke about plastic surgery, soothing others that I would never compromise my authenticity. But what I withhold is that I’ve been pretending this entire time, as if Asianness was ephemeral or performative, a state of being that could loosen and float away. I’ve never experienced sliced fruit as an apology or watched the fireworks on July 4th. I am Asian in America, but at times, I feel rejected by both, unable to claim either for myself. If I could surgically fix these bodily anxieties - to feed into capitalist profit - would I? As if beauty was an imperative to belonging, a tether - or rather a conditioned impulse - to fit into stereotypes for the majority to call me pretty.

I hold whiteness close to my heart, cupped gently in my father’s tomato jar hands and my mother’s loving pinches. A permanent stain, a spill that has never - and will never - rinse out. Do I seek difference, to disregard societal stigma and emulate Eurocentric features: a blank canvas for you, the artist, to drag your nails through like sand? A fear is that beneath my architecture, there is nothing to unearth - a shallow, cheap narrative unworthy of your time.

Dear reader, do you see me yet?

Do you think I could ever be beautiful?

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Words of Our Days, Shapes of Our Thoughts Sunday - Heejae Jung Monday - Annie Xiyang Xu Tuesday - Wyejee Jung Wednesday - Julia Peng Thursday - Minkyo Han Friday - Janus Wong Saturday - Taylor Gee Sunday - Jane Ahn

Jane Ahn

Designed by Joy Yi Lu Freund

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Full English Translations 22.3.20 Sunday Dear Diary, It has been such a long time since I’ve written a diary entry so I feel a bit awkward but… I feel so bittersweet about spring break coming to an end… Although the weather can never make up its mind, I am so glad to finally have a sunny and flower-blossom-filled semester! And always, good songs somehow help me deal with the upcoming Monday blues.

Of the four seasons, spring feels like the most transitory, in ways a mirror to my own thoughts about soon leaving Vassar and having to fumble and learn about the world as a grad. Two campus visitors asked me where “the commons” was and it took me many awkward beats later to realize that they were referring to the deece–a reminder of how encapsulated I am in the Vassar bubble. (My dog Rosie likes to play with bubbles… suddenly I randomly miss Rosie… again haha) Anyways my hope is that like the number 2022, my days will be filled with more symmetry and evenly handed out nuggets of joy and growth rather than a pile of spiky twists and turns.

The following lyrics have inspired me to list a handful of random things that make me smile: “... The day you left my side, the pink-tinted, countless memories that I held in my heart have faded into blue…”

Because I Love You, Yoo Jae Ha (+ Blackpink Rose Cover)

~ peach jellies ~ warm citrus tea ~ ticklish sand ~ pick hearts ~ filling memories ~ the happy feeling of being full ~ the end to this (and every) school week ~ heart-filled “hwating’s” (you-can-do-it’s)

- Heejae 45

Monday - Annie Xiyang Xu 徐禧洋 I hardly ever journal. I do write but I write to others--to friends, to family, but rarely to myself. I suppose I didn’t really feel the need. My closest friends would know. I grew up having the habit of talking to myself, sometimes out loud. Pretending to be a different character, I tried to hold a conversation as another person with myself. Sounds funny right? I guess partially this habit results from my relatively low self-awareness. It is only through the eyes and voices of others do I soundly feel my own presence. Yet that is something I didn’t come to terms with or even realize for a very long time. Taking this opportunity to reflect, I want to be as open and as honest as I can.

To be honest, it requires me to refrain myself from using English, Japanese, or even my now 600-day-streak Duolingo French. Oftentimes, I feel as though I am hiding within the shield of my multilingual ability so that I can indulge myself solely in the words without being unsettled by the turmoil of its emotional connotations. Speaking a foreign tongue makes me reckless. With recklessness comes carelessness. Therefore, from here I choose to proceed predominantly in Chinese.

[Translation] For an extended period of time, I am troubled by what people may term the “imposter syndrome.” I am afraid to reveal or to be exposed of my internal emptiness. I think of myself as a ball of cotton. “绵里藏针” is an old Chinese saying. Literally it means “there might be a needle hidden inside a ball of cotton.” The phrase has both a positive and a negative connotation. It can be used to describe people who are soft on the outside and ruthless on the inside. It can also be used as an equivalent to “an iron fist inside a velvet glove.” Yet, I don’t think there was ever a needle inside my ball of cotton. I only feel emptiness, filled with air and easily crushed with the mildest force. Fortunately, I do not identify with essentialism. The lack of needle (essence) inside the fabric of human nature does not bother me that much. Nevertheless, I am not exempted from this tickling self-doubt. Every once in a while, I caught myself confused by my own inthe-moment thoughts and emotions. Being a potential psychologist whose academic work includes asking people to rate and describe emotions and thoughts, I do feel the irony. Unless I am laughing my lungs out or crying a storm, I often wonder if what I considered emotions are but my deductions based on situations. When I was still in highschool, someone exclaimed that I often made biting comments (the chinese phrase is 一针见血). That’s quite interesting. For me, biting remarks are rarely weapons I use to hurt others. Rather they resemble a kind of coping mechanism that I use to elicit more emotional reactions within myself. Similarly, I feel a sense of liberation when I use my second or third language, presumably due to it being a more cognitively demanding task. Well, these are just my assumptions and my fleeting thoughts. Note that I didn’t cite anyone here so I am not scientifically supported, to say the very least. My picky use of language is not without its price. I cannot voice my disappointment and shock when I come to realize my embodied difficulties in conversing with my mom in my mother tongue. I gestured in a circular motion to hide my uneasiness. Mom thought I was restless. “Did you drink too much coffee?” she said. Damn it, she didn’t even say that in English. Yet that is another story.

It is precisely my fragile sense of self-awareness and my die-hard self-consciousness that gave birth to a doubt about the sincerity of speech. Do people really mean what they say when they praise or appreciate what they exclaim to be “amazing!” Is that insincerity or exaggeration? I 46

confessed to my friend who is also devoted to the art of speech (I mean it in the most sincere way). “I don’t want to utter nice words that I don’t myself relate to!” “Hmm, that is a good introspection,” she said. “You don’t mean that.” I rolled my eyes, “Your face says it all.” After many instances like this, I began to embody a sharp mouth, a tongue that cuts and stabs for the sake of my proclaimed honesty or to glorify my “suffering” stemming from my own paranoia. For those who are close to me, I became a closed door, a dead end, a silence that sparks no response. The inside of me crunched up as I saw their unshed tears, their hesitant turning away.

Yet, they forgave me after all. They said, I know you didn’t mean it and I want you to feel happy too. Without much explanations or justifications, I felt the weight of their hope, a message I can believe in without having to choose to. For a moment, a sea of voices as such harmonize inside me. They washed over me and I cannot speak. Perhaps the empty inside me is to let others come through such that in the darkest moments of my self-doubt, jealousy and discouragement, I retain a seat next to a “someone”, a place where I find peace.

And such, is my thought on a random Monday.

Tuesday - Wyejee Jung Today’s Tuesday and it is one of my busiest days of the week. On Tuesday, I have three classes and one lab in the evening. I don’t know what I was thinking when doing course registration for this semester.

At that time, it seems like I didn't think much while “trusting” the future, present me. Although there's a discrepancy between how I imagined myself (ant-like studious student) to be now and my current reality (just the grasshopper itself), I'm living through every Tuesday this semester.

One of the best things about Tuesday is that day nearly ends after attending classes “diligently”.

People say when you're physically occupied your mentality is relatively in better shape and when you’re physically free you are more likely to be mentally exhausted. Likewise, I can say that I'm relatively mentally fit on physically busy Tuesday. That is also true today. Honestly, I have a lot in my mind recently.

As a rising senior with an uncertain future, I feel anxious. Thoughts about my career and future keep repeating as if they were on a treadmill, but I decided to take a break from all these today because today is my busy Tuesday. Let me put it off just for one more day. Who cares? Because I attended all the classes "diligently" (even though most of the time only my physical body was present in class), I think I deserve it.

Before I tended to be obsessed with fairy tales “happily ever after” like seemingly beautiful and happy aspects of life, now I learned a little to embrace/accept without the sugar coating – whether it is someone else’s words or my own emotions. (Of course, in the meantime/meanwhile, I've also become an expert at justifying myself.)

Anyway, before Tuesday is over, I'd like to tell myself that I did well today. You’ve done a good job today (others might have different definitions of the word good. But whatever)! Your “JonBeo” (hanging in there while respecting) was successful today! Let’s go tomorrow! (I can bear with my cringe and cheesy self because I’m in a good mood today.)

Wednesday - Julia Peng Only one class today, which means I have plenty of time to spend on my phone wandering through the internet. The thing I’ve been most preoccupied with is the Xuzhou Chained Woman Incident. Someone discovered her in a Chinese TikTok live streaming channel, standing in an outdoor shed, missing some teeth, no jackets on even though it was winter, food scattered on the bed and floor, an iron chain with a lock tied around her neck. A human trafficker had sold her to a family and she gave birth to 8 children, 7 boys and 1 girl. She has a mental health condition, but local officials had no problem issuing a marriage license to validate the trafficking and even offered monthly subsidies to the family. When questioned about the legitimacy of the marriage license and the true identity of the woman, the local government sparked national outrage with carelessly written, self-contradictory investigation reports. Unbelievably, while waiting for a reinvestigation, more women in similar conditions were discovered, yet the government began cracking down on citizen questioning, deleting online discussion posts and even arresting two women who wished to visit the woman at the hospital.

On eastern time Wednesday, after over a month, the investigation group appointed by the central government released its report: Got up from my chair, walked out of Olmsted… // “Believed to be the same woman as Xiao Huamei, the woman identified in previous reports…”

Swiped into Main… // “Due to aging in skin and hair…her appearance has changed…”

“Hello, can I have beef chili with cornbread please?” // “Diagnosed with schizophrenia. Due to her current mental state, we cannot approach or communicate with her in a normal way…”

“Thank you, have a good one.” // “Diagnosed with severe chronic periodontitis. No objective evidence indicating teeth loss by external force was discovered.”

She’s very faraway. I read about her in a safe spot 7000 miles away, where no one knows about her story. But my dear sister whom I’ve never met: only a human trafficker stands between you and I. That is so close a distance. Like many women, I yelled in a whisper and then lost my voice, watching online posts that spoke out disappear into the void, watching people who stood up disappear. Sure, I can study the contested cyberspace in China, the rise and fall of civic activism, the structural issues of law enforcement and the stigma around mental illnesses… But amidst the deafening roar of rage and the silences of voicelessness, I just want to know who you really are, where you are at, and how you’ve been doing. Perhaps I shouldn’t shed tears, for faced with what you have gone through, I no longer have the right to imagine suffering. Perhaps I should neither sigh, for faced with Wuyi and Quanmei, women who are arrested for coming to Xuzhou to visit you, I no longer have the right to define loss or the price of action. We generated so much attention and anger, yet we still couldn’t receive an answer. I don’t know what else I can do.

When this thing “ends”, maybe more government officials would be removed from office, but what about your entire life ruined by trafficking? What about the lives of thousands of women ruined by trafficking? I am so furious that I want to howl with rage, howl with insanity, howl like a “mad woman”, howl so that the earth trembles and the mountains sway, so that the chain around your neck smashes into pieces. But can the mountains echo? Can the mountains echo?

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Thursday - Minkyo Han 메아리 (Echo) Once I figured out my truth, I was so eager to hide it.

The things I grew up watching, the things I heard at church that my mom would force me to go to, made me into a coward.

I felt like I was losing my voice, as I was scared to even confront my truth.

People’s echoes were filling up in my head already. The echoes came back twenty times louder than my own voice and swallowed me.

Yet, the truth can never be hidden, and the harder I tried to hide, the harder it got for me to endure the pressures. Eventually, I succumbed to those echoes in my head and slowly started to lose myself.

It wasn’t until I realized that it wasn’t just other people’s voices that echoed. My voice spread out like echoes just like others’ voices. I finally acknowledged my power, stemming from the resistance I experienced daily. Now, I began to truly accept my truth.

Friday - Janus Wong colour: orange FRI 3/19/22 went to thessaloniki, greece with kelly & jason for 3 days! the weather was really good and it was a very chill & relaxing trip. the only problem was kelly & I got (really) sick on day 1 lol. so for 3 days it just seemed like we were taking drugs… just drug abusing strepsils & panadol… Thessaloniki reminds me of Cheung Chau though. like a small seaside town with village houses and a cycling path along it. people in greece were also really nice. They were really nice haha… For the quality of food we had those 3 days, it was actually not expensive~ and we had nice conversations about race, family therapy etc. in cafes and in the hotel. Quite enjoyed my time at Greece - really peak travel vibes… just sleeping for 12 hours, late brunch, last minute planning etc. Reminded me of Japan & Taiwan 2019. on another note, i heard that HK quarantine is only 7 days long now. I kind of want to go back home but it doesn’t seem worth it lol especially if i’m only going back in August… ok I really need to stop coughing now, I still have to head to Venice lolol… this time it’s really like what Ernest said - traveling through Europe broke >< 49

Saturday - Taylor Gee I feel like my entry might be different from the others, since I’m not writing from the perspective of a language-learner and not a native speaker. I rely more on English and intersperse Japanese as writing practice. For native-speakers reading this entry, please excuse my grammar/spelling mistakes >o<

３月１２日２２年（土曜） Back into the flow of academic life! I’m not prepared for this week in the slightest but I’m going to attempt to listen to all the necessary video lectures, then do as many readings as time permits. Today was a day of resting. Rest! Rest rest rest.

HEALTH: Yesterday and today: my body, esp my legs are so sore! → I’ve done +70,000 steps in the last four days and that’s roughly +35 miles. TT ^ TT I didn’t realize I was walking that much until I stopped stoped stopped moving.

I can’t spell *sigh* → On Thursday in Paris it was 38 flights of stairs. D: wtf I don’t remember the last time I felt so physically exhausted. No regrets though. Paris was so fun, so much good food. It was really fun to when Danica ordered her macrons(?) macarons(?) in French then I ordered in Japanese. Super amusing. Core memory <3 Today I went shopping. I bought things like bread, lemons, and pasta. Next, I studied and read in a cafe.

Geography economics Sleepy time now. I’m immensely grateful to my legs for supporting me, taking me to amazing places, for my body carrying and nourishing me. I love you <3

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Sunday - Jane Ahn After a semester and a half since Grace first told me about the webtoon “Purple Hyacinth,” I finally read it. All 110 chapters? Read in one sitting. I always forget how intense my binging abilities can get. But it was so GOOD. The worldbuilding didn’t take too long, the build-up to exciting scenes were well-executed, and the pace of the story was great. I am hooked, but now I have to wait for the weekly updates like a commoner. I’ll just do what I normally do, and ignore the webtoon for a few months. Surprisingly, I haven’t forgotten any of the storylines of the webtoons I’m reading.

Right now, I’m subscribed to: Let’s Play unOrdinary Cursed Princess Club Dead Life Hellbound Sweet Home Strangers from Hell (Yeah, yeah, these three are Netflix shows, and I did watch all of them. But the webtoon version offers a new experience!)

I’ve also been meaning to read Flat Diary - it looks so wholesome and sweet! But I have less than a month to finish my thesis, so I can’t afford to get sucked into a webtoon black hole (especially after losing an entire night of reading and writing to “Purple Hyacinth” - no regrets, I guess?).

Speaking of thesis, working on it has really shown me how much I love academia (!!) and also how little self-discipline I have (!!!). To combat this, I put a note on my mirror that says “Jane Ahn get it together” so I don’t become complacent. I really like my thesis idea, and I really want my final draft to become something I’m genuinely proud of, not something I’m relieved to be done with. I am looking forward to sleeping 10+ hours a night once I’m done, though.

These days, I crave kimchi jjigae like crazy. I don’t know why, either; I just know that kimchi jjigae is My Truth. It’s so delicious! Out of the YouTube mukbang videos I watch often, there’s one from “Tasty Guys” where they eat kimchi jjim - everytime I watch it I get so happy! Geez, I’m hungry now.

Jane’s Favorite Mukbang Videos SEVENTEEN Seungkwan and Mingyu’s buckwheat noodle mukbang on “Battle Trip” (dude I can’t even digest buckwheat noodles) Comedian Moon Seyoon’s fresh kimchi and boiled pork mukbang on “House Husbands” Argh, I’m so hungry! I really want to eat ramen, but I can’t T_T I gave it up because of Lent. . . .

God, I’m so sorry but I regret that decision so much.

Listening to: “SOCIETY” by Valley

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Birth Written by Alicia Hsu Edited by Heejae Jung and Taylor Gee Designed by Seowon Back

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52

our a nge r i s f i b er : gen era t i o n s lo n g, p re gna nt p a u ses a n d h o l low q u i et s voi ce s curl i n g f ro m t h e t i ps of our ton g u es, m el t i n g i n sa l iva a s qui ck ly a s o u r f i n ger s f l i t a c ross p i a no keys . gh os t notes, gh ost let ter s, gh ost wo rd s a nd i fe e l yo u p u l l i n g. your eye s swa l low m i n e i n desp era t i o n ( se e k i ng c a t h a r si s) : to say i n a p l a ce u n sa i d . w hy d i d yo u st u f f u s with h oneye d sa u sa ges? h o p e i n stea d o f ea r t h so now th e so u n d s ro p e to get h er i n my stom ach. te ndons to en gl i sh a n d i lea r n h ow to sway to th e rhyt h m o f i t s p u l l even w h en my throa t g ra bs a t t h e st r i n g : a n um b i l i c a l c o rd to o ro o ted , t h i c k . yo u pull p ul l , p ul l ( a m a g i c i a n ’s t r i c k ) : b o t h o f o ur han d s i ncr i m i nat i n g n ow, b lo o dy w i t h a st u b b o rn ref us al to be a nyo n e el se’s d a u gh ter. i t h u r t s to a s k , b u t yo u p u l l . p u l l u n t i l my j aw i s un hin ged a nd a pr i l c o m es b a c k to c o lo r t h e b i r t h s un gold , blue.

IN TERMIS S ION : eve r y se nte nc e s po o l s itse l f from my m out h c r im so n thre ads t a ut , le av i n g t h e c a rd b oa rd rol l c o ld agains t my c he s t. i i m a g i n e so m a ny le tte r s that my d re a m s g row si le n t wi t h wa n t i n g : do yo u re m e m be r yo u r ha n d p re ss i n g de e p i n to my s to m ac h, r ibs l i ke b on e s from v ul t ure de n s, how yo u tr ie d to c raw l in to my l un g s t h rough my m out h and i he l pe d yo u? i i m a g i n e so m a ny eve rg re e n world s l u s h w ith yo u r vo ic e u nf url i n g a roun d my b ody bu t i c an no lo nge r w ri te my ow n word s, fe e l my ow n vibrato. re m e m b e r t h e wa rm t h of your sle e py ga z e se e ping into m in e , te n fold ? i d ri n k m i l ky p l um e s o f Nove m be r bre ath; it’s h a rd to re m e m b e r wh e re we s t a rte d , e asy to fo r ge t w hy we b e ga n . l i ps to te m p le s , p raye rs to b od i e s , yo u te ac h m e that tak ing i s ge n t le . p ry m e from myse l f w i t h nim ble f inge r s an d wry s m i le s, soon sp e e c h le s s . i dr ink c u ps o f f l am e and won de r wh e re wh e re w he re u ntil we a re J uly. t i m e p a sse s l i ke t h i s in the so f t o f eye l as h- c he e k b on e b l i n k s a n d ton g ue - i n - c h e e k re m ark s k is s ing t h e b l a de s of my sh oulde rs, bu t i neve r lo o k bac k . i d ri n k c ups of fl a m e a n d le t the war m th c o il de e p i n s i de , h op e i c a n h old a be ating he ar t in my pal m , forge t t h e p urp l i n g sc a rs . yo u f ind that i have a l l t h e se n te n c e s you wa n t : fo re he ad to fo re he ad, le a d m e i n to your b l a c ke n e d ga p e s ag g ing c irc le s aroun d our wa sh e d - out eye s . b ut your s t a re is no lo nge r bl ank it te l l s m e h ow i fe e l eve n wh e n i b e g i t q ui e t . eve n w he n i o pe n my m out h it’s q u ie t .

ech o somet imes i t h in k i can maste r the wo rld. t h rough t h is invis ib le tele pho ne line our alp h ab et is s t accato bu t we have know n lit t le else, fluen cy p as te d to the ro o f o f o u r eager mout h s . i los t myself in t h eir s , fo u nd yo u in the ve rnacu lar. you: remin d me h ow to w rite w he n i scre am h an d s over ear s , h ear t ove r che st, re ach de e p an d un roll my ton g ue, unw rap the wo rds alien to you car n ivore t raitorous p er s is ten t i h ate wh en you t r ip t h e way i do. run n in g so fas t our lun gs catch dirt, catch win d b efore you can p ee l paragraphs from b ooks an d tell me how Go d scribble d on your soul 一 on e 二 t wo 三 t h ree

27 BAD SURVIVAL TIPS FOR TEENAGE WOC

Kiss your body hair and think twice about plucking it off of your skin.

One time when I was in fifth grade, heavy Ohio rain decided to pour at exactly 3:10 when we were let out at the end of the day.

It slicked my arms and made my thick Dravidian hair clump in front of a boy I loved. Whether he noticed or not doesn’t matter, because I did. Do you remember the last time you thought of your natural body as pure?

Written by Nandini Likki Edited By Ceci Villaseñor Designed by Lavanya Manickam

I spent too many of my teenage years trying to e s c a p e t h e m , t r y i n g t o e m u l a t e t h e m e n t a l l y i l l Tu m b l r twenty-somethings I knew I would one day join.

I’ve only been to two high school graduations and I’m already exhausted of all their cliche advice, grown stale in the wake of pandemic-driven disillusionNot everything ment and depression. Luckily for you, finishing revolves around you. an exhausting four years of papers and sleep deprivation has given me the false air of There are some people who someone who knows what she's talking will take the time to pronounce about. Maybe there's a your name with sugary care and sliver of nirvana in here tenderness and there are some somewhere.

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You can’t save your culture being bastardized.

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People ask me if they can play Holi with me or whether I think Karva Chauth is sexist and I say I don’t know, not because they’re white but because I’m not that Indian. I come from Ugadi and navel fetishes, but if you ask me about those I’ll still stay silent because I don’t have the perspective they’re really looking for. At the end of the day it really doesn’t matter.

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Sometimes your parents will oscillate between the two.

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Run fast and run far. Most people I’ve met who struggle with depression are nice, but some will use it to manipulate you into staying by their side. You are too young to be a mother, even to a man-child. Stupid people are going to tell you this is mean, tell them they’re right and do it anyway.

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IF SOMEONE WHO IS SUPPOSED TO LOVE YOU TELLS YOU THAT THEIR GREATEST FEAR IS YOU LEAVING THEM, OR THAT THEY’LL KILL THEMSELVES IF YOU DO LEAVE THEM, RUN.

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Putting the word ‘bad’ in the title of a writing piece absolves you from criticism, because you’re warning the reader that this isn’t meant to be taken seriously and it’s just a way for you to get all your awful sardonic thoughts about the world out in a way that’s socially acceptable.

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IS A FORM OF THERAPY. I TNG I R

STOP COMPETING WITH OTHER WOMEN. Seriously, stop it. Stop putting them down for simply existing and stop using ‘ugly’ women to make yourself feel better about your self-image and especially stop pitying yourself if they get more male attention than you. Male attention is gross and overrated, anyway. Refocus that negative energy into loving women. It’s a lot more fun.

WHITE WOMEN ARE EVIL.

I’ll tell you a story: I’ve always loved writing and, by extension, English classes.

Naturally, I got along great with my freshman year English teacher. She gave me the validation I desperately needed despite my rubbish one-word-per-line poems and I projected my mommy issues onto her, as I did with most of my female teachers. One day, I explained to her that this memoir I was reading, one about a doctor with cancer, felt detached and aloof despite the intense tragedy of the situation. She took my hands into hers and proceeded to break down completely in the full classroom, confessing her survivor’s guilt over an old high school friend who died after being hit in the head with a soccer ball and an AP Lit student’s recent suicide. I tried my best to comfort her, although I had never been more disturbed in my entire life. Basically, adults are trying their best. They’ve already been assaulted by the same conformity and the horror of the mundane that you are being indoctrinated into as I write this. Be patient with them.

ADULTS ARE A LOT WEAKER THAN YOU THINK.

D

TV sh ow sa fucke d u nd mo vies will trick pi to ge s t fu fu n a n elect d rify ck disap in in pea e d u p to l l a t d a n h thinking that getting et rw disap ut pea it h ying a ke g stands a ll the reasons you’re tr rw Whit n eC i yo don’t law t h ke g stands u ’re running away from a n yellin s tt g a d o e s n mea lso, yg ’t n yo tt t u m my bear-vodka. A and whe h g ei g h e ny r kids ty drinkin u , o o y ou m d o es. Shou s l f A gum nt o ld sh th my bear-vodka. t in fro he tra ro w na ur shir d in t n u o o range pee lcoholic. Unbuttoning yo s k ls h i e a clin ld k s mak IS now that beer bottle AME em N UR L. ?

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never invite you over. They’ll go on rants about how Asian racism is overlooked but they’ll refer to you as ‘Chinese.’

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Too expensive. If you need to vent, talk to a wall. In fact, don’t trust anybody.

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DON’T TRUST PSYCHIATRISTS.

DON’T BE AFRAID TO BE AN ASSHOLE. After I moved to a different high school sophomore year, I lost contact with most of my friends. One of them contacted me after eight months of nothing. I was too lonely to reject her warmth, which soon turned into a full-on fire. I put it out before letting it consume me. Life is too short to smile at the people who spit at you.

o f sho wing anybody.

LET PAIN WASH OVER YOU. Stop indulging and feeding it further.

Whenever I wanted to feel sad for myself, I would look up ‘white’ on POC Tumblrs and scroll and like and scroll and reblog posts about how awful white people are. While it’s fun and satisfying in the moment, it doesn’t make you feel better in the long run. It’ll only build up the insecurities you already have about yourself and the hate will seep and ooze out of your skin like an awful radioactive disease. Instead, cry. Scream. Eat your college acceptance letters. They’ll pass through you, just like every emotion.

SPREAD OUT YOUR TRAUMA EQUALLY BETWEEN YOUR FRIENDS.

Don’t tell all of them about the creepy way your dad talks about your sister. You still want them to share calculus notes with you tomorrow morning.

OVERSHARING ABOUT YOUR ISSUES IS SOMETHING THAT CAN BE REALLY SEXY, ACTUALLY!

It gives you power and doesn’t make you look weak at all! It even forces people to come to terms with all the awful parts about yourself, which will help them appreciate you as a human even more!

OF

’T PRO N O D

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AD.

Saves time.

KEEP GOING. I missed out on really enjoying my

senior prom because I kept looking at my ex looking at me. I don’t remember anything positive from freshman year other than dissecting a cat and getting to touch a cadaver. I spent most of high school wishing I was dead. Which is painful, obviously, but I don’t regret it. What I would have actually regretted was acting on those wishes. What kept me going? I wish I could give you a straight answer. I want to say something sappy and idiotic, like wanting to watch the next episode of a T.V. show or wanting to laugh until my stomach hurts. But the truth is that I didn’t think about it, I just kept going. Being a teenager is difficult but I would rather feel all these ridiculous, frenzied, overwhelming, and dizzying things than feel nothing at all. The trick is to convince yourself to feel the same.

A Silent Echo: My Eyes and Their written by Annie Xu edited by Janus Wong designed by Serena Liu

Shapes

Vassar is a very small campus. We hear and read people’s stories all the time in passing. Never have I ever stopped and looked back to figure out whose stories these were. Now that I am about to depart, I am struck by a strong sentiment to linger.

Reminiscence is the strongest hook.

A story can take on many forms. It can be a quote on the bathroom wall. It can be a set of graffiti on classroom chairs. It might even be a displaced portrait that no one knew who took or for what purpose it was taken. There was no certainty in these stories I witnessed and there is always a story within a story. It is perhaps easy to recall and repeat a spoken sentence, but how does one converse with words that no longer have an origin? Seeing echo as the theme of this issue, I am seized by an urge to challenge myself and document these scattered narratives as a graduation gift for myself and a salute to whoever so generously shared their stories with me, perhaps unknowingly before and during my four years of stay.

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Library Basement: Abby Loves Sarah My first stop is the basement of the main library, where I spent most of my first year working on various projects. I remember snuggling myself into a corner table in the senior section right below a little square window. From midday to sunset, I counted the number of times a leaf-shaped shadow was casted on my bookpage, waiting for inspiration to strike like Gatsby waiting for the green light. Those were the days when the very act of thinking stretched time into eternity. I felt as though college would never end--a romantic commitment. Now that I live on the outskirts of the campus, I rarely study in the library anymore. On the rough surface of one old table hidden behind shelves of books, someone scribbled “Abby [heart] Sarah.” Is that a heart in the middle? I could hardly tell. It may very well be an x, representing some form of parallelism. There is a high chance that whoever wrote this also no longer recognizes their own handwriting.

After all, having sustained many intellectual conquests by my studious peers, this table is in its decaying stage. Yet, this writing, almost carving, settles firmly in the chipped wood, like a busy signal urging me to send my best wishes to Sarah and Abby for their love in whatever capacity and timeline.

I suppose I was once very caught up in the very definition of love, wanting to know its limits and true nature. You can ask my friend who has suffered many occasions of arduous discussions, mostly me being self-contradictory. I ponder whether it is possible to love someone without understanding love itself. I have long banished the notion of unconditional love and therefore would not bend my principles for anything overtly irrational-sounding. If one cannot access the belief and thoughts of another (or even oneself), then perhaps the only way to understand love is by observation. On seeing this ambiguous confession, I confirmed my suspicion. Love is not of any particular nature. It is a persistent act of enduring possible forgetfulness and uncertainties to one’s capacity. The very emotion itself stems from the connection of two people and builds a barricade against external and eternal security such that, in response to my unresolved yet never to be asked curiosity (about Abby and Sarah), this carved sentence protests in silence. I can and will never verify the duration or truthfulness of their love, or even categorize it as any kind. What I can do, however, is to fall in love with this mysterious and uncertain love shared between Sarah and Abby. Affectionately, I took down some mental notes. To love deeply is to be delighted even by its unknowingness--the healing of a stinging wound.

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Strong Parlor: Strongly, I feel your absence

Most of my second year, I was involved in house team meetings and activities. My steps naturally led me from the library lobby to the Strong House parlor where I liked to spend my cozy afternoons playing the piano as the sun gently stroked my back. Quite mysteriously, someone seemed to have taken a Black feminist art piece off the wall, resulting in a caution note posted in its place. I stood by the sofa with my mask half covering my face, the warm breath leaking from the gap between my glasses and my nose bridge blurring my vision. Which piece was that? A student was calling her mother over the phone about some math problem sets. She was loud and clear in her dissatisfaction. Always taking a guilty pleasure in eavesdropping, I subtly turned around. Her eyes met mine and then quickly glanced through the space I occupied, landing precisely yet timidly in the blank space where the art piece would have sat. Her voice lowered a little. Fixated on the note, she didn’t seem to notice anything missing on the wall. A quote emerged in my mind unexpectedly:

visibility is a complex system of permission and prohibition, of presentation and absence, punctuated alternatively by apparitions and hysterical blindness (Kipnis 1988: 158).

Lingering like white noise in the background of a cocktail party conversation, this note haunts the Strong House parlor. Many, myself included, have become accustomed to its presence and stopped taking issue with its disappearance. Yet, every once in a while, I am awakened by a loud noise from the peace. Only then am I startled by the deafening ignoranceI am part of. The note, which I included below, is the loud noise that says “I see they are not there.” The note not only addresses the unknown hands that had taken away these black feminist portraits but also the many eyes that have failed to acknowledge their absence. Erasure is not always an intentional act. Sometimes it comes across in the form of habituation as though your own mind is playing tricks. Thinking of the many beautiful objects and people I may have inevitably become habituated to and therefore ignore, I shivered despite the powerful and loud radiators. Another beam of sunlight hits the wooden floor. In this perfect tranquility, the air smelled a little empty.

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Library Lawn Tent: Story Carnival Needless to say, junior year was quite different, like a picnic in the rain. I had to really dig deep to find this picture again because all the tents are gone by now. Initially, I wanted to really go the extra mile to find this chair again. Unfortunately, it is not as easy as one might think to find a particular chair in an educational institution. There are just as many chairs at Vassar as there are peanuts in a jar of peanut butter.

Well, at least I have this picture for reference.

On this chair existed (or perhaps still exists) an assemblage of narratives. Some negative, some positive. They created a weird dynamic when cropped in a shot that clustered them together. Some have been sanded down, only traces traces of ink to be seen. Others were newly written at the time, in maybe markers or more visible stationery. It’s rare to see different or even opposite emotions expressed in the same place and at the same time. These days, most of us are masked (both physically and mentally) with basic decency and refrained from showing disapproval or approval unless really provoked. By default, I am appeased by a tilt of the head and an ambiguous “that’s okay.” Every once in a while, I will be told to calm down during a controversial exchange of ideas. Calm down, sometimes I would even say that to myself, “like a civilized person.”

To calm down for this chair is to be sanded down. Although the layers of different writings will never truly dissipate, displaying the many ways students truly feel on campus—lonely, dissatisfied, restless, etc, some feelings are to be erased. If not, they need to be justified. Why? Why the hate? What did you hate? The chair is a museum of feelings and a carnival for stories curated by the many who have been seated there in class, maybe bored, a little distracted. It documented sentiments that might not be shared because otherwise the beholder would need to justify, or experience the consequences. The erasure and the emergence signify something bigger than a mental health questionnaire can ever document. I do not know for sure whether this is the story behind this chair.

But on the verge of sentiment, I mistake my feelings for facts.

TA 42D: World in a Tiny Room Dear anyone and everyone: This is a letter for you. It is yours because you are reading it. When you look away, it might belong to another person. That is right. When you gently lay your eyes on this piece of paper, you are making a commitment to become my temporary friend. Thank you for the stories you have shared with me, whether secretly or unintentionally. Thank you for the honesty you gifted me and your tolerance for my intrusive and guilty pleasure. In this little room of mine, I savored the fruit of my walk of reminiscence. It is an endeavor I take on with many who I cannot name or have never even seen.

In the many years to come, perhaps we will each be living lives that are sometimes messy, sometimes planned out. We may be terrified by the harshness of life or pleasantly surprised by the ineffability of human relationships. We may forget each other’s name and then be made aware by a notification from facebook about a birthday or an anniversary. I might get a little misty-eyed thinking about the good old times we shared. You might regret the countless promises we made and then casually break. Yet, these stories, told in silent languages will forever echo each other in the safest place on earth--the distance between us.

Yours for now, Annie

Written by:

Isabelle Paquette Edited by:

Jaida Larkin Designed by:

Sandro Lorenzo

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INTRODUCTION

Throughout my life, being Asian American has been a label I’ve worn both with pride and shame. Ethnically Chinese yet culturally American, my story is one of many within ‘the ‘Asian American experience.’ Yet, this experience is not a monolith, especially when we recognize that the term “Asian American” con-

tains a myriad of lived experiences across different cultures and countries. In the wake of COVID-19, nationwide panic quickly manifested into increased violence and harassment towards the AAPI community. The rise in anti-Asian hate perpetuates America’s longstanding history of xenophobia and disregard towards Asian American suffering. Belonging is only possible by way of assimilation, the model minority myth, or labor. In grappling with my own identity, I’m struck by the sheer multitude of environments, experiences, and interactions that collectively echo the strength and hardship of being ‘Asian American.’

For a long time, I’ve been silent on issues relating to race, particularly due to an internalized desire to assimilate: to speak up was to be seen as “other” or classified as divisive. Growing up in a white household added an extreme feeling of guilt that sunk my confidence in feeling “enough” to participate in a discussion I felt was inaccessible. But as I’ve become exposed to a world I was once sheltered from, I recognize that continuing to hide behind fragments of privilege does a disservice to not only myself, but also to the community I am proud to be a part of. I cannot provide the AAPI community the visibility it deserves by remaining silent.

In the following archive, I tell my experience as a Chinese American adoptee, but more explicitly my experience as an East Asian American woman. I hope that by sharing both the joyful and shameful moments that have shaped mevv readers can gain more perspective on how real the Asian American experience is. We must acknowledge it, because it’s happening whether or not Asian Americans are talking about it.

PART I. BEGINNINGS 2004. Preschool. Craft Room.

Crayola markers and printer paper were scattered all over the low plastic tables. I remember wanting to draw a self portrait and reaching for a “skin color” or peach marker. The white girl sitting next to me grabbed it out of my hand and said, “you can’t use that.” I don’t remember her giving me an alternative color.

Another white girl deliberately pushed me to the ground outside on the playground after telling me that I “didn’t belong” in her friend group with another white girl.

Between 2006 and 2007. Cumberland, Rhode Island.

One of my favorite picture books was called, Round is A Mooncake by Roseanne Thong. It was a shapes book that incorporated Chinese culture in describing each shape. I loved the illustrations. My parents accumulated an extensive collection of Chinese cultural children’s books for me and my sister. I am forever grateful for those growing up. More of my favorite books included: Sam and the Lucky Money, The Seven Chinese Sisters, and Zen Shorts.

Between 2006 and 2007. New York City, New York.

The American Girl Doll Julie had a new best friend: Ivy Ling, a Chinese American girl. My mom wanted to get it; it was the first doll that looked like me. She had straight-cut black bangs and a traditional red qipao. I played with her a lot. I learned that in 2014 her entire collection was archived.

Around 2010. Providence, Rhode Island.

I was close friends with one other Asian adoptee in my class. For years we would frequently have playdates and sleepovers at each other’s houses.

One day, she invited me to a local celebration for the Lunar New Year in Downtown Providence. It was my first introduction to a Chinese cultural tradition. I ate moon cakes, watched lions and dancers perform, received a red envelope, and wore red.

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PART II. GROWING 2012. Middle School. Hallway at recess.

One Halloween, my friend group was discussing dressing up as the Disney Princesses. As we were all choosing who was going to be who, I remember saying I wanted to be Snow White. A girl in the group reminded me that Snow White had “skin as white as snow,” and that Mulan would be better.

2013. Middle School. Classroom at recess.

A white girl asked me if I planned on ever finding my “real” mother one day.

When I told her I didn’t know, she responded, “Well, if you go to China to look for her, be careful. They eat dogs and bugs and the water is dirty.”

Summer 2014. China. Guixi, Jiangxi Province.

My family and I traveled back to China the summer of my 14th birthday in a large group of adoptive families. For the two weeks we were there, we traveled to many tourist attractions and famous cities before separating to visit our individual orphanages. My orphanage, which welcomed me home with a red and gold banner hung against its pillars, was no longer fully functioning. Most of the babies we met had disabilities or health issues. Another building was remodeled into an elderly home. I remember eating cut fruit on napkins while sitting in low mahogany chairs as we waited. The foyer was white, large, and vvopen; sunlight and wind easily drifted in and out just like the people there. I was wearing my favorite floral dress my mom bought me. We met the manager of the orphanage, who had been working there since before I had arrived. Sitting across from him at a large mahogany table, he offered a file containing information about my past. I learned that day I was left in a basket in front of the gate and was noticed by the security guard. After our meeting, we went out to lunch together and had some of the best home cooked food I’ve ever tasted.

2016. Junior Spring. The atrium room outside the performing arts hall.

The cast list had just been sent out that morning for “A Chorus Line,” a musical which centers on a group of aspiring dancers eager to be selected for Broadway.

There is a notably stereotypical female East Asian character within the show as part of “the line.” Not amused by her role, I had not auditioned for it, yet still received a callback for her by my directors. After expressing within an email to them that I wished to be considered for other parts, I was cast in the ensemble with no prominent role.

While talking with a few other students, the student director, who was a year older than me, walked up to me and expressed his frustration toward my refusal of the Asian role. “It’s kinda a shame you’re not Connie because now we gotta cut out all the Asian jokes,” he told me. I laughed.

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2017. Senior Fall. The newly renovated performing arts center seating area.

During rehearsal for the fall plays, which were performed in repertoire, I was with other seniors in a seating area outside the theater during break. A joke was made, which everyone laughed at, including a boy who did so very expressively.

Another girl looked at him and commented, “you look so Asian right now.” After an awkward combination of silence and hesitant laughter, she turned to me and said, “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”

2018. Senior Spring.

I began to notice that my eyelids were uneven. That is, one appeared more “normal” or European and one appeared more “Asian.” I hated how my “Asian” eye looked on me. I did not think I looked beautiful. This was the first time I looked into double eyelid surgery at age 17 and bought eyelid glue and tape to create an epicanthic fold.

2018. Senior Spring.

I started watching some of my favorite Asian youtubers. All of them continue to inspire me. Some of my favorite female Asian influencers are: Jenn Im, Michelle Phan, Best Dressed, From Head to Toe, Remi Ashten, Lisa Phan, Jessica Vu, and Jasmine Le. 2018.

The film Crazy Rich Asians debuted with striking success and prominent media coverage. It was the first modern film with an entirely Asian cast and an Asian American lead in 25 years, only succeeding The Joy Luck Club. I remember watching it and feeling visible and proud. I loved Constance Wu’s dresses, which she wore for multiple red carpets during award season.

2018. Fall.

During my October break, an old friend introduced me to Asian artists on Spotify.

Since then, I love NIKI, JOJI, Keshi, 88Rising, BIBI, BLACKPINK, EXO, Hayley Kiyoko, Tiffany Young, and Sam Rui.

PART III. SHINY TRASH 2019— . College and onward. Any and every dating app I’ve tried.

I can count on more than one hand the number of times I’ve been called the following by men, all non-Asian, on dating apps: “ch*ink,” “china doll,” “Asian school girl,” and “fine China.”

One man told me that after viewing my profile he had “yellow fever.”

Multiple men have asked me: “What are you?” “What ethnicity are you?” “Can you speak Chinese to me?” (assuming I am Chinese)

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2019— . College and onward. General Discourse At a bar last semester, I was talking with a man I assumed to be in his late 20’s out of sheer cordiality. He asked me what I wanted to do after college. When I told him I wanted to be a journalist, he laughed and asked, “Aren’t all the pretty Asian girls in front of the camera doing the weather or something?”

I once tried getting into a party with an East Asian man, but the door was guarded by a white girl. A group of younger, white students proceeded to cut us in line and asked to be let in. It was clear they also did not know her personally, nor the people who lived there. Yet, she still allowed their group of five inside. Turning to us, she said, “sorry, I can’t let anyone we don’t know in.”

Last semester in an English class, I was consistently mistaken for another East Asian student, who I look nothing alike, by my professor. At the end of one period, he held the entire class over and publicly apologized to the both of us, claiming that our “spatial locations” and “lighting” from the window confused him. Before leaving, the other student complimented him. That evening, I received an email from my professor in which he apologized again. Immediately after, he thanked me for the compliment the other student had given him.

First year of college. In a study room, I was complaining to some other students about feeling invisible in the campus’ social life. One white girl turned to me and confidently told me: “You don’t need to worry. I’ve heard that the guys on this campus love Asian girls. I’d take that as a compliment if I were you. I’m jealous.”

First year of college. I went with a group of white girls to a pregame at an older student’s dorm room. Almost everyone played a sport and was white. None of the other girls nor I knew anyone before arriving. When we entered the room, every boy proceeded to welcome the other girls with hugs, “hellos,” and general interest. Not one of those guys did the same to me, barely even making eye contact. The only conversation I had with one of them involved a question in which he asked, “so, uh, who do you know here?”

In the car one night driving with a friend, the topic of alienation in social settings came up. After expressing how I felt invisible as an Asian woman, she claimed that my oppression was equal to hers as someone not particularly “skinny.” She said, “I just don’t believe that being Asian makes you invisible. Guys would always choose you over me.”

Sitting on the couch in my aunt’s family room with my three cousins–all of whom are white–we began discussing the frustrations we had with online dating. When I joked about how difficult it was to remain “pretty” in my profile and in person, one of my cousins told me, “you’re way too focused on appearance. That doesn’t matter.” I told them that when you’re not white, appearance does matter. They were silent for a moment. My second cousin brushed it off by saying, “nah, you’ll find someone who won’t see you for your race.” My oldest cousin, a white woman, visibly frustrated, joked loudly that I had nothing to worry about compared to her because I was “skinny.”

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2021. Spring, March. A Living room.

After the Atlanta Spa Shootings on March 16th, I indirectly brought “the news” up to someone I had been seeing while we were watching television. I remember saying, “yeah, it’s really shitty what’s happening,” attempting to downplay the severity so as not to look “upset.” He replied with little interest that he didn’t know much about it. I explained to him that a man had shot eight people, six of whom were Asian women, at three different spas. It was a hate crime. He didn’t seem to agree with the last sentiment, only replying, “yeah, I don’t really get into politics that much.”

2019— . College and onward. Fetishization.

After expressing my concern to a white friend that a boy I was interested in might have an Asian fetish since his friend group consisted mostly of East Asian girls, she responded, “you should take that as a compliment that he likes Asian girls. Wouldn’t you want someone that likes your culture?”

One man I invited in my room on a Friday night proceeded to overload the conversation with his fascination with Mandarin and East Asian culture.

At a bar with my friend, who is also East Asian, the bartender pointed to the elderly man in the corner who said we would pay for our drinks. After ordering and sitting down, the man approached us and, putting his hands on each of our shoulders, said, “I just love Chinese women.”

Summer 2021. Chicago, Illinois.

I was in Chicago for an internship and lived in an apartment building with other college-aged students. Every time I tried to go out with the white students in the building, they couldn’t care less where I was or how I’d get home. It got to the point where I knew they were deliberately making plans without me and lying about their schedules when I asked if they were free. All of my roommates were East Asian and all of the friends I made were Asian. They were the best part of my experience in Chicago. We would make Asian meals, explore the city, shop, order Asian takeout, and be together almost every day. I felt supported by them, and knew I was cared for every time we went out.

During that summer, I experienced some of the most aggressive comments and catcalls in my life.

One man, while driving slowly beside me, called out from the driver’s side, “ni-hao, beautiful.”

One man in passing stopped to tell me how “exotic I looked.”

One white woman physically distanced herself from me in line at a Target, when we were both masked, then proceeded to pass me when another cash register opened and whispered under her breath “go back to where you came from.”

An older white woman on the Red Line began to give me dirty looks once I sat down two seats away from her. When her destination arrived first, she got up and, before exiting the car, sneered “you’re the reason why I’m wearing this,” pointing to her mask.

One man began to follow me for a couple blocks on State Street, attempting to talk to me. Some of the things I remember him saying were: “Why are you not talking to me?” “Are all Asian women this quiet and shy?” “Am I not your type? Because Asian girls are absolutely my type.” He continued to follow me until I was able to call my friend and fake a meet-up.

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PART IV. NOW. I experienced conflicting thoughts when beginning to hangout with entirely East Asian groups of students. All of them go to a different university. Unlike me, they were perfectly fine not associating with anyone outside their race, particularly white people. When I’ve mentioned going to parties hosted and attended by white people, they were not interested. I’ve been told, “I can’t have a real conversation with a white person,” “that isn’t my scene at all…[why?]...because it’s all white people!” “Nah, I’m Asian. I hang out with Asian people, dude.” At first, I was frustrated. What was wrong with a predominantly white college party? It wasn’t until I experienced one myself outside of Vassar’s campus did I become aware of how marginalized I was. Nonetheless, I don’t take a strong stance on this. I attribute that to my efforts in reconciling my upbringing with my race.

In the beginning of college, I was in extreme conflict with myself over my identity. I went from not wanting anything to do with being “Asian” to not wanting anything to do with being white. Now, I am much closer to peace in understanding myself and balancing my upbringing with who I see in the mirror. I am learning everyday to love what I see. I surround myself with the people who see me too, and I do my best to do the same for them.

My Asian American Womens’ Oral History class is by far one of my favorite courses I’ve ever taken at Vassar. Taught by an amazing professor Amy Chin, I am not a minority in this particular classroom. For the longest time, I shied away from taking courses in the Asian Studies Program because of my fear of deviating too far from whiteness. Looking back, I would have loved to take more, but I’m so appreciative that I have taken one in my last semester of my undergraduate college education.

In Summer 2021, I got my first tattoo of my adoption date, 08.05.2001, on my hip. Around six months later, I got my next two tattoos, one of them being my middle name, which is also my birth name, in Chinese characters above my rib cage.

My name is Guo LanZhen, or precious orchid.

I have learned that talking about race in my family, especially with my parents who are part of the “Boomer” generation, is essentially fruitless. Of course, I do not mean to say that my parents and extended family shouldn’t be held accountable. Rather, I am not actively going out of my way to educate them on acknowledging their privilege and anti-Asian hate, and they are not coming to me about race-related issues. At least not now. I’ve often felt like the token minority within my extended family— racist comments can be said, but my sister and I are exceptions because we’re family, we’re untouchable. Maybe one day I’ll be able to talk to my family about race, but it’s not a battle I feel like I am prepared for yet.

I still feel traces of guilt and shame in voicing my opinion and in uplifting the AAPI community. I did not celebrate Lunar New Year this year, nor did I talk with many people about recent news. One of my goals is to free myself from the grasps of assimilation, of appearing “divisive,” by speaking out against racism. But I can’t say that I’ve made significant strides, at least not in the public eye.

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CONCLUSION

In the early hours of February 13, 2022, Christina Yuna Lee was returning home in Chinatown, New York, from a night out when she was brutally stabbed to death by a man who had been following her. She is not the first high profile case in which a member of the AAPI community was a victim of murder, or of violence in general. But it is one of the only stories in which I have seen the 1000+ people on social media I follow even begin to publicize. In fact, only my Asian friends have willingly shared informational posts and expressed feelings of anger or frustration. The dangers posed to Asian American women and elderly are significantly higher than any other Asian demographic.

What must happen now? I believe in a commitment to centering Asian voices and protecting Asian lives. Listen to them, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem, because they are every bit as important in seeing the ‘Asian American experience.’

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T C O I G E M E R G E N V C T R E H R T O U C A N G O D P E P O P H L W O X F O R D P R O M I S E R W R E T L M R R S R P A I L Y I T

N G E E A R B C E A I S O O N A S N U A S

back cover design Phoebe Jacoby

PORTRAIT Issue #8 | Spring 2022