TW: self-harm It was five stops from 59th to Queens. The doors opened, and I stepped in, the air thick. An ochre hue settled on everything and everyone, carrying a stench that infiltrated our noses. This cart was crowded. The lucky ones had lunged towards a seat and avoided the eyes of those forced to cling to the pole. The doors shut, subduing everyone to a silence. The old man in front of me had his eyes closed, his body gently swaying, the train rocking him back and forth. He was bent a little forward, as though something was pulling on his neck, dragging him towards his feet. It was pulling and pulling, wrapping around his head, gripping his collar tighter and tighter. He was fighting it with all that he had left. He wasn’t sleepy; he was tired. His face was etched with weariness - the eternal kind. The wrinkles on his face were like cuts, an elegant scraping knifed by his life, his job, his family, this city, and his pain. It was a record. He succumbed, finally, and his head fell forward. Any further would have severed it. The shock of the snap jolted him awake. He frowned, embarrassed by his surrender to exhaustion. The train slowed to a stop and he got off. I watched him hurry away. In his place was a lady and her little boy who had stepped in just as the doors closed. The boy ran to the very end of the cart and slapped his palms on the two seats left open, glaring at anyone who dared to come close. His mom followed, and the two sat together cheerfully, grateful for the rest. The boy leaned on his mother’s arms, and looked about him, his eyes settling on the strange woman before him. Her head was shaved, every inch of her ears pierced, her nails a deep black. She didn't let the fragility of her body, however, reveal vulnerability. She was skinny – too skinny. Her cheekbones too sharp, her wrists too bony. Her wrists were also an elegant scraping. She knifed as well, an artist of her own kind. The boy stared at her wrists and then stared at her. She stared back. The boy, too frightened to keep looking, looked at his mom instead. The girl raised her eyes to the mom. The mom smiled, and the artist, who was preparing for vehemence, was taken aback. She swallowed her surprise and let a small smile through. As the stops went by, the quiet mutters of the passengers slowly went from English to Spanish. The accents grew heavier, the voices a bit stronger. We got off at 111th Street, and walked around a small neighborhood. We made it to the Queens Night Market, which radiated a liveliness that couldn’t be found in Manhattan. Vendors were sweating under the heat, which hung on everyone's shoulders. They were put to work. Long lines for food covered the entire area, and the nearby field was filled with people lying across picnic blankets. People were smiling here, genuine smiles, and I realized that this market was more than just a place to eat; it was an escape from exhaustion, an opportunity for repose. A youth group was setting up in the middle of the field. The lead girl, who looked about my age, began to sing. And when she sang she let go, her voice a person of its own. In her softness, we heard a scream. When she belted, we felt her bullets. Everyone was silent. She had suffocated us with her voice. When she ended, the field erupted in applause, and she smiled sheepishly. The night went on. Queens was alive; it had escaped the eternal exhaustion, at least for a few hours. Editors: Nicole O., Nadine R., Marie H. Image Source: Unsplash, Hanyang Zhang.

I have not paused and thought for a while Not about school, career, direction, future but just about the moment Fear, that bullet quietly lodged inside, somewhere, doesn’t make itself visible but also prevents itself from being forgotten, Sometimes it thrives, like a nurtured seed, and sometimes it frails I always forget that I get to control its growth, somewhat If I don’t pause I don’t pause to think about what I want; the seed grows I am at an intersection, facing crossroads that seem daunting, like each wrong direction could mean misery of a lifetime But as I pause I wonder what is it that I really desire Love It comes in so many forms, and sometimes I forget that the souls of these forms are in fact one One of pure joy and care A lover is, at its core, no different than a sister, a mother, a friend in the purity and sincerity of their love for you, for me Love connects, heals, creates, and even in the toughest of times it makes us better But when I forget to pause I forget to love Forget the winds carry messages of strength the grass beckons us to interact and congregate forget that this life is more than just what we see, feel, hear, taste but also how we simply be Pause and be, then all will fall into place. Editors: Luna Y., Nicole O.

CW: mentions of blood Blackberry Thorns I want to steal a blackberry from the thorns and choke it. Choke it and watch it bleed. “The tradition of ‘blackberrying’, to scour the summer hedgerows to take advantage of the wild bounty on offer, is still a popular British pastime. During World War One, however, it was considered something of a necessity after food rationing was introduced. Schemes were established to make the most of the natural resources available, and English children were given time off school to pick blackberries for the production of juice and jam that were sent to soldiers fighting on the front line.” – Royal Horticultural Society ~ “We’ve decided to go for another candidate that has more experience with children.” “Okay.” “Get more experience and keep a look out for vacancies on the website.” “Okay…” ~ There are long branches obscuring the pathway, with blackberries blooming near the root and a sparse amount of thorns threatening to cling onto my blouse when I walk around them. How did I just notice the blackberries? ~ Closing the door, I immediately took off my brogues to get redressed in less formal clothes. I threw my blouse into the washing machine and turned the dial for the synthetic setting. The fabric dripped in joyful sunlight from the vivid yellow, a blaze of mellow honey in the machine, small tick..tick tick…ticks chimed from the dainty collisions between the plastic gold buttons and the drum. I kept the elasticated leather belt on my navy trousers and tossed them onto my office chair. Not fresh, but not ready for a wash just yet. I started redressing my fingers with new plasters. I didn’t want the interview panel to think I was messy or clumsy wearing four plasters on my hands. One for a splinter I accidentally got wedged into the base of my left middle finger from smacking the wooden table above the washing machine. One for the deep cut across the right pinky where I was washing dishes and sliced the finger against the edge of a mackerel tin. One on an index finger and one on a thumb to stop me from chewing on the threads of skin that appear at the cuticle. Now home with no employers to perceive my bandages for incompetence, I patched myself up again. I thought I had that one. I was so confident; they said I interviewed so well and they loved my ideas. I never noticed the sprouts of thorny branches, the way they planted themselves in the corner between the front window and the door. The way they would soon touch the artificially placed pebbles and overhang across the door. I didn’t see the blackberries find a home in mine. I didn’t see them, but I can imagine the wash of burgundy ghosts between the crevices where fingers meet palm – like a phantom of dried blood that clings to the edges of its parameters and maps out the contours of a stain. I thought I did well. But now…I’m picking at it, picking at every part when I think, I know, I failed. ~ Closing the door, I immediately took off my brogues to get redressed in less formal clothes. I threw my blouse into the washing machine and turned the dial for the synthetic setting. The fabric draped in an electric emerald, a cyclone of lavish green in the machine, small tick..tick tick…ticks chimed from the dainty collisions between the plastic gold buttons and the drum. I kept the elasticated leather belt on my navy trousers and tossed them onto my office chair. Not fresh, but not ready for a wash just yet. I reapply all plasters back to the four injured soldiers attached to my knuckles. The wild stems crawl out of its corner into the pathway, covering the left side of the doorway and grazing the steep stone steps with plush berries. The friction between the fruit and the stone left juicy abrasions in an angry pink. The cuts in the blackberries’ plump flesh lingered, crimson catching the eye every time I pushed the door to check it was locked. I saw the beautifully budding berries and wanted to reach. To lean into fond memories of berry picking at the park, to feel the red seep out of black beads. Weeding out handfuls of my youth, plucking away the naive wants, and withdrawing my hands from the scarce thorns that only knew how to greet with bite. I wanted to inspect the fruit, admire the young buds that have yet to buldge and burst, and slow my leave the same way there are stains on my steps. I couldn’t, the red on my hands would not have left a good impression. “The standard of applications was extremely high. Unfortunately, on this occasion, you have been unsuccessful. Many thanks for your application.” ~ “The majority of blackberries and hybrid/species berries produce their fruit on stems (or canes) that grew the previous spring and summer.” – Royal Horticultural Society Closing the door, I immediately took off my brogues to get redressed in less formal clothes. I threw my blouse into the washing machine and turned the dial for the synthetic setting. The fabric was enriched in an opulent magenta, a swirl of decadent plum in the machine, small tick..tick tick…ticks chimed from the dainty collisions between the metallic raspberry buttons and the drum. I kept the elasticated leather belt on my navy trousers and tossed them onto my office chair. Not fresh, but not ready for a wash just yet. The branches were savage, clawing at the concrete, grasping for the sun. Its saturated fruit was taught, brimming with violent raspberry flesh and a floral scent you could only detect if huddled in the embrace of thorns. Attempting to push away a feral branch thrashing in the wind, a blackberry breezed the back of my hand. I felt the phantom of rich wine dishonoring the uniform pigment of my skin and settle amongst the wrinkles. A wretched stain. A stubborn keepsake for the young berry whose life had spilt onto my wrist. A sun-soaked spot that does not politely wash away the pomegranate paint, like dye blotching the frail fibers of a pristine white shirt. “You were very strong with your answers. For example, with one question, you scored a 3.5 and they scored a 4. So, it was close. We went with the other candidate.” ~ “Left unpruned, plants will grow into a tangled, thorny mass of stems that are less productive and hard to access for harvesting.” – Royal Horticultural Society Mom says she’s proud of me and how resilient I am, but what’s the alternative? ~ Closing the door, I immediately took off my brogues to get redressed in less formal clothes. I threw my blouse into the washing machine and turned the dial for the synthetic setting. The fabric beamed a brilliant white with yellow and navy embroidery, a billowing of chantilly in the machine, small tick..tick tick…ticks chimed from the dainty collisions between the pearlescent white buttons and the drum. I pulled the elasticated leather belt off my navy trousers and tossed them into my laundry basket. They’re ready for a wash. All fingers are in solid condition, I don’t need to reapply any plasters. The wretched stains. My arms are veiled in long sleeves, but I feel it. I feel where the blackberries want to seep into my skin like water making contact with deprived porous soil. Pooling in my palms and spilling through the valleys in between my fingers. A blossom of deep blackberry, budding from my dirtied nail beds and branching out in soft leaf-shaped bruises up to my elbow. My hands are painted in the berries’ saccharine syrup, as if I carried the weight of the world’s fruit in my fists and squeezed. Bitter lines flared above the sangria red marks, exposing where I tried to drag the color with my fingernails and pull out the blackberry blemishes. Out. With soap and a disheveled sponge, I flush out the blushed colors and scorn towards my door. Something must be done about the blackberries, but I hesitate to prune their wicked plumage. “Overall, you scored very highly, and were a brilliant candidate for the role, demonstrating a great working knowledge, fantastic experience and personal qualities. It's only that on this occasion another candidate scored a little higher than yourself.” ~ I want to steal a blackberry from the thorns and choke it. Choke it and watch it bleed. Watch its blood find passage along the small branches embedded in my palm. I want my fingernails to push and create the same beautiful bruises as the blackberry’s blood until I can’t indicate a difference. I want one act of defiance, one act where I’m not pristine, I’m not logical, I’m messy. If it weren’t for the white blouse I was wearing… I would take a blackberry outside my door and watch its ripe life bleed out. What’s the point, anyway? I plant seeds that never fruit. I plant again, and again, and again, and again. And they never fruit. They always die. They always fail. It’s not enough to harvest, I'm not eno– Exhale. ~ Rushing out of the house, hand in my pocket to reassure myself I definitely had my keys on me before I closed the door to automatically lock, I scrambled with my suitcase and felt my limbs move faster than my racing heartbeat. I had fifteen minutes to get my train. Almost swinging my suitcase off the stone steps, I looked back at the blackberry branches crawling across the pathway to my door. Still wild, still untamed, never pruned. I gave up applying to the same job at different branch locations. Nothing will be done about the blackberries whilst I’m at Mom’s, nor when I come back. I’ll look for new vacancies when I come back. I can’t be late for the train. I need to keep moving. The blackberries will remain, still. Editors: Joyce P., Claudia S. Image: Unsplash

Ever since I’d started my first semester at college, my dreams have become harder to see. In high school, I had written my college essay about how my dreams were like fireworks waiting to be lit, destined to illuminate the sky. But now being in college, I can’t even get the lighter to spark. This entire summer I’ve woken up in my childhood bed, rummaging through my mind for a piece of the person I used to be. I reread my journal pages and look back at the gullible champion I’d been a year ago. All I could find was envy. She didn’t have money, half a degree, or a semi-sturdy resume, but she had hope. It’s like the ability to believe in God and never question if he’s real. What drives me nuts is how fast it all happened. She didn’t have a slow, peaceful death, not even a slow painful one. She was ripped from my body like a shadow and smothered in my sleep, leaving me behind. But that isn’t what happened. I let her get away– I released her not knowing that part of me would be missed– craved, and now, ultimately, lost. It isn’t all my fault though. High school’s celebratory senior year hoists you up so high only to drop you from a cliff, supposing you’ll land in the success you wrote about in your ‘Why Me’ essay– or at least near it. It feels like the world was ripped from under your feet and thrown onto your back. You begin to wish that once you started to believe in God, you’d be killed right there on the spot so you wouldn’t have time to question his existence– no time to catch the world. My thumbs twiddle over the globe, trying to find a comfortable place for them to sit. I keep shifting them all over, but their placement feels wrong everywhere. Knowing I could drop the whole thing– I fear to and want to all at once. If only I had the strength to spin it backwards. I’d find her again. And dismiss her replacement. It’s not that I want my past. Just my whole. Buried in grown-out sheets, I still dig a grave. I can’t remember her touch, her smiles I used to feel. But I hear mourning from her funeral. It sings from my dry mouth. She’s the only thing I can talk about with friends anymore. But I’ll listen to their new reflection, hoping I’ll be able to accept mine. Editors: Cathay L., Claudia S. Image: Kaysha Siemens

Content warnings: mentions of death, weight loss, ill physical and mental health. One night later With a purple paddle brush littered with multicolored zig-zagging bristles, the daughter smoothed out the back of her head, gracing her hair upwards into her left hand, cupping, holding, then securing a pink and red strawberry scrunchie three times around the mound of tangling hair into a high ponytail. She then felt the strands of short hair at the back of her head slowly crawl down from the scrunchie vice, and tugged out the elastic in defeat, letting the long stretch of rich mahogany cascade down her shoulders and spine in dented and frayed waves. A few pieces landed softly next to her left ear to frame her face at the front, snaking down past her navel. On her right side, she dragged her fingers against a metallic silver headband sitting on top of her Sony boombox. She pushed the headband up onto her head to comb flyaways back – particularly the ones at the side of her face that were just long enough to tuck behind her ears but not quite, looking like mutton chops detaching from her cheeks. Illuminated by a healthy honey glow from the lamp, greased up like a Christmas turkey with all of her bottles and tubes of skincare, wearing an oversized t-shirt with Snoopy lying on their iconic red hut decorated with Christmas lights and snow floating from the neckline, she was ready for bed. ~ One week earlier “Shall we drive to the venom eyes?” The smile lines near Mum’s eyes lifted as she asked that question, thinking she made an incredibly witty remark and inside joke. “I brought that up ONE TIME! One time! I made a fleeting comment about how they looked like Venom’s eyes and now you won’t let it go. I regret ever bringing it up now.” After dramatically flouncing her arms in the space between her and the glove compartment, the daughter smacked her left forearm onto the car's windowsill and leaned her body weight into the anchor. The daughter sighs into her left shoulder, hoping if she crumples her body closer to the car door she could exit this line of conversation. A whisper of embarrassment swirls in her belly like a draining sink, a familiar sensation whenever her mother decides to repeat something she says as the new insole joke she did not mutually sign up to, feeling mocked rather than endeared. “Well, I can’t unsee it now whenever I go up there!” “Oh my god, get over it. I didn’t expect you to bang on about it for weeks after I’ve said it.” ~ 5 days earlier “Do you want a drive to the venom eyes?” “Stop it! We need to stop calling it that!” “Well, what else would you call it? The deerstalker spot?” “I prefer that over bloody Venom eyes. Let’s go to the deerstalker spot, then.” ~ Present day A drizzly mid-tone blue veils over the broad and vacant skyline, the long sunlit days slowly closing into nighttime hues. The monolithic silhouettes of trees and fields replace the distinct patchwork of countryside greens and sun-bleached browns. Inside the dusty silver Suzuki Jeep was a strawberry-blonde mother grasping the steering wheel and her daughter in the passenger seat, the meat of her palm resting against the edge of her tanned jaw as she leans her elbow against the windowsill. Both stare down the shape of a tree in front of the single country lane, the weighty corners of the branches bent downwards and create two oblong convex shapes in the negative space between the tree and the road – angular, distorted, and glaring, they stare back at the two women like a pair of Venom’s eyes, the symbiote and anti-hero from Marvel comics. “Have you had as bad of a week as I have?” The Mum asks with a rising pitch in her inflexion at the end of the question. “Yep.” Responded the daughter in a low, defeated but accepting tone. A thunderous explosion of delirious laughter bounced across the car’s glass windows and pulsed in the spaces between the daughter’s ribcage, wheezing from the inevitable breaking point. It was too dark to see the Mother's scatter of freckles bob on her rosy cheeks and blushed face as she laughed. In daylight, they delicately spread across her face and body, as if the melanin was gathering like Army troops to shield her from overexposure to the sun. In daylight, they replaced the awe of stars in a sky untouched by light pollution; seeing the details of her freckles was like finding the constellations hidden in a bright night sky in the countryside. The same night sky that the mother and daughter sat under in a car held upright more by duct tape than metal and plastic, laughing hysterically like a weeping dam that had burst to the brim and exploded. It was drastic and sudden, almost relieving. “These two weeks have been...shit, to put it lightly.” “Tell me about it.” The daughter flung her left hand to her forehead, resting the weight of her skull against her elbow on the door's windowsill – as if merely mentioning the weeks were tiresome and draining. The mother continued, “What with your Grandma being her usual self, you not getting the job, and your Dad almost dying.” “Yep.” She repeated, this time pushing it out with a guttural exhale, like a breath she held to keep herself from deflating. For the past two weeks since the news about her father’s near-death experience, the daughter felt that the mechanics keeping her alive weighed heavier in her body. Her heartbeat thudded faster at any pause in a routine, and exhaling exerted more energy and effort than before. It was the core reason why both of them were having such bad, terrible, awful, nightmarish weeks. When the father thought he was speaking his final words to his ex-wife. He wasn't obviously in hindsight, but no one knew that at the time. The daughter taps at the fragile silence; "I'm sorry you had to deal with all that by yourself. I know why you did, but still. I'm sorry he rang you and you had to talk to him. That's not fair. That's not fair on you." The mother exhales, "I mean...it's not your fault honey, you were stressed out with your interview–" "I wasn't stressed, but yeah I get what you mean–" "It was on your mind, and I didn't want that to color how you did." "Well, I guess it doesn't matter now, anyway." "I'm sorry, sweet." "I'm sorry too." ~ “I think...another thing I’m having a hard time coming to terms with, is that…considering how Dad doesn’t speak to his family, when he does die I will, as a result, would then be cut off from them too. Like I know we weren’t even close to begin with, but without Dad, I won’t have a reason to speak to them at all." “Well, in reality, you have family in other ways–” “No no, what I mean is like, you know, the only thing I have that is Indian about me is Dad’s family – which isn't anyone's fault! It's just the way it is what with Dad's relationship with his family, you know – so when he dies I guess I, technically, won’t have any tangible connection to being Indian anymore. Not like others would.” And there it was, the silent confession that was kept close to the daughter's chest for so long was now shared information, it was too revealing but still wasn't enough to explain what she was feeling. Even if it felt like she had already said too much but couldn't take it back now. "Ah. Well, we really need to sort that out then. You still in touch with your cousin." "I mean, we don't not talk to each other if that makes sense. Like we don't purposefully avoid talking to each other, we're friends on Facebook. But I don't use Facebook that much and, yeah. I just don't talk to Dad's side of the family much, he barely talks to his brothers at all, to begin with." It was a well-spoken truth between the mother and daughter that the father's relationship with his siblings was thinner and colder than the film that starts to form on water in sub-zero temperatures – like an ice cube tray that was taken out of the freezer too soon. Each brother and sister filled the spaces in those trays. How was the daughter supposed to interact with a dynamic like that? What was she supposed to do when the only thing that gives her the 'you're South Asian' pass can suddenly disappear at the notice of her father's cremation? The two women continue to sit in the car, exchanging rambles and silences, at staggered – yet prolonged...intervals. Under the sunken stars in a dark ocean of a solemn cerulean sky, the unshed tears and invisible scars were exchanged for words too honest to document. Too much for dialogue in one sitting but too little for the two generations to explain all that has happened before the Venom eyes. The sinister shape created by the tree's negative space was as sharp, piercing, and unnerving as their "I'm sorry"s, "You have nothing to apologize for"s, and "If you need this, I forgive you"s. The words they needed to hear, but neither knew how to comfortably carry them in their chest and breathe steadily at the same time without staccato. At the sunless and moonless boundary between too late in the night and too early in the morning, the mother and daughter decided it was time to head home. Waking up the Suzuki Jeep, the mother drove back so they could finally go to bed for their restless – but perhaps more peaceful – sleep. ~ One night later Walking past her desk where the daughter was getting ready in her Snoopy shirt and slippery skincare, she left her room and was at the door to her Mum's bedroom in three steps. The distance between them was often very short. She scanned over the cluttered heap of duvets and sheets to find a pop of warm tangerine hair and a pair of glasses peeking out from the pile; a cool stream of light poured from a phone, painting peaks and valleys onto the woman's face where the desk lamp wasn't strong enough to brighten the dim room. The mother craned her neck over the duvets to look at her daughter, standing diagonally in her doorway. One foot in, one foot out. She lifted her glasses to the crown of her head, "I must say, you are glowing", the daughter huffed out a breath in disbelief, ready to pivot out the doorway. Wasn't interested in hearing another tease about her looking slimy and sticky from skincare. "I'm serious", the mother added, "you look better than you've done for a long time." The daughter's skin was improving slowly, and she apparently looked like she lost weight. At least according to Mum on the first day she came back to visit her this week. It wasn't meant out of malice, she knew what she meant. And not that the daughter was purposely trying to lose weight either; she likes who she is regardless. Quickly, she understands how her Mum felt when she was losing weight from stress and people were complimenting how well she looked. Quite an ugly thing, to praise plus-size bodies for looking nice and well in the context of weight loss. They don't know how hellish June has been. Pausing, thinking, remembering, the daughter replied, "Remember not long ago, when you were wearing all those dresses you barely wear because you couldn't be fussed do the laundry for your normal clothes, and everyone was complimenting you on how nice you looked, and you kept telling them you didn't get that because you were feeling your worst? I get that now." Erupting from the duvet pile was an earthquake of shakey laughter, followed by wheezing. The figure still standing by the duvet pile's door joined the hysterics and wheezed in tandem, hunching over to catch their breath and contain the sprites of pain escaping her lungs. "I seriously get it now. Because you think I look great when I really fucking don't feel it." The laughing continued, "I don't feel good at all! These past few weeks have been an absolute nightmare. I totally get how you feel when people say that now!" They couldn't stop the fits of unhinged giggles, gasping for air at intervals like commas, a shared ache from the seconds of joy after a fortnight-long tidal wave of being not okay. "Fucking sucks, doesn't it?" "Yeah!" "What a week – what a month we've had, honestly." "Yeah." "I'm glad we had that conversation, at least to talk about some stuff about your Dad." "Yeah..." "Do you feel better about it now?" "Yeah." "You sure?" "Yeah, I feel better. Do you?" "I do." "Good. Alright, well, goodnight Mum." "Love you lots." "Love you lots, too." "Goodnight, sweet." "Yeah, you too." The daughter started walking back to her room. "Have a good night, and best of luck attempting to get some sleep, Mum." "Will do!" "Goodnight." "Goodnight." Editors: Joyce P.

March 20, 2023 marks 20 years since the US invasion of Iraq and the eight long years of war that followed. Known as the Second Persian Gulf War, it began after the September 11th attacks that prompted George W. Bush’s War on Terror. A survey conducted by Pew Research Center in 2002 showed more than half of Americans supported Bush’s efforts. However, 20 years later, the Iraq War has had long-lasting, damaging impacts on Iraq. The invasion was initiated by the Bush administration’s claims of Saddam Hussein’s possession of weapons of mass destruction, which were later proven to be false. Yet, post September 11, the beginning of the War on Terror marked a wave of colonial violence by the United States which left five million Iraqi children orphaned, over 100,000 Iraqi individuals dead, and countless more displaced in a country that faced and continues to face wide social and economic change. The US invasion of Iraq was unjust and its impact on the region cannot be overlooked. The United States also did significant damage to the preservation of Iraqi cultural heritage. According to the Global Policy Forum, over a thousand artifacts were smuggled out of the country by the United States, and several Iraqi museums and libraries were damaged as well. Such actions damaged the cultural and historical preservation for generations to come. We cannot let history repeat itself. Currently, Iraq is still undergoing social, economic, and political issues that were further exacerbated by the war. We cannot forget the countless lives, families, and generations devastated by US military action and the overwhelming support from the American people for an invasion based on falsehoods spread by an administration within the American government. Editors: Phoebe H., Alisha B., Chris C., Lang D. Image source: Getty Images via CNN

Moonbin was a former Southern Korean idol from the group “ASTRO.” Known for his debuts in music videos and TV shows from 2004 to 2016, Moonbin had his breaking hit in the KBS drama Boys Over Flowers before joining Astro and showcasing the group’s first album Spring Up in February 2016. Passing away on April 19, 2023 in Seoul, South Korea, his manager on Wednesday evening showed initial concerns when Moonbin was unresponsive. His manager visited Moonbin’s home in the hopes of speaking to him after the period of silence and failing to attend rehearsals. Discovering Moonbin in his home, his death at 25 years old shocked numerous fans as he was in the middle of hosting a world tour as a part of a subunit with fellow K-pop idol and Astro member Sanha. To the public, the cause of death remains unknown as the investigation continues, yet police have spoken to news outlets informing the public on Moonbin who “appears to have taken his own life.” Living alone, the reasons remain unknown to numerous fans and family why Moonbin’s death was caused, yet many suspect the continued pressures of Korean idols face demonstrates the rigor of the industry. Flowers and notes were placed by fans at street memorials in South Korea, continuing the hashtag #MoonbinWeLoveYou to commemorate the idol’s legacy on social media. With MoonBin’s last performance in Thailand, purple and silver balloons adorned memorials as both colors were prevalent in the last show. The Astro’s management company, Fantagio, released a statement on the issue, saying, “On April 19, ASTRO member Moonbin suddenly left us and has now become a star in the sky. Although it cannot compare to the grief of the bereaved family that had to part with their beloved son and brother, his fellow artists and the staff here at Fantagio, who have been together with him for a long time, are also deeply mourning the departed amidst tremendous shock and sorrow.” While the family hosted a private funeral, Moonbin’s sister, Moon Sua, canceled and postponed all her upcoming shows as a member in the K-pop group Billie. If you or someone you know are experiencing thoughts of suicide or mental-crisis, call or text 988. In emergent cases, call 911 or seek aid from a local hospital or providers. Editors: Blenda Y., Chelsea D. Photo Credits: The New York Times

TW: slight mention of bruises my paper butterflies crumple like your eyes when you're hurt and when my feet remain cold after hours under the blanket, i know you are up to something. the walls of my room are covered with you and it takes every fiber of my control to refrain myself from burning my house down with myself in it my lips turn chapped on their own and my skin parades pretty reds and blues, i get dressed in the dark so i can’t see your face on my body i am happy and i am secure, i do not hold my head in my hands, and i do not tell myself "you do not exist to others", my things are only mine, i have turned selfish i go to my garden the wet grass stains my breath, and when i go inside i fog up the room with disgust, and mirth. i thought you would be happy to know that i am happy. Editor(s): Alisha B., Blenda Y., Uzayer M. Photo Credits: Unsplash

Editors: Alisha B., Uzayer M., Blenda Y.

as a child, i longed to be blue-eyed. with eyes like the ocean or perhaps the sky above, my life would be golden, maybe at last i’d be loved. so i wished and i wished, on every birthday, on every eyelash. and i prayed my drawings would come true, the ones i designed myself with eyes so blue. as i whispered to myself: “if my eyes were blue, maybe they wouldn’t stare. if my eyes were blue, those haunting words would no longer be my nightmare: “where are you really from?” if my eyes were blue, maybe i’d feel free. maybe whenever i turned on the TV, i’d see someone who looks like me. if my eyes were blue, maybe life would feel more fair, and i wouldn’t have to feel the wrath of everyone’s stare. if my eyes were blue, and my skin pale like snow, maybe then, and only then, i’d finally then know. if my eyes were blue, with golden hair like you, maybe i’d look in the mirror and see that i am beautiful, too.” Editors: Joyce P. Photo credit

Foreword: Within the last decade, Asian stories that decorate the silver screen have expanded past the international film category and have instead been celebrated across a variety of themes and stories. In the past, Asian representation was only present in ‘foreign language’ films and Asian-Americans in Hollywood were always cast as the ruthless warrior or the exotic dragon lady. However, Asian-Americans have climbed the steep ladder that the past has mounted, restoring representation and hope for young audiences. By telling the honest cinematic stories of Asian-Americans, stereotypes are being erased and heartfelt characters are being formed. These four collected pieces narrate the successes and growth of Asian-American cinema and document how representation has changed the lives of today’s Asian Youth. – Aubrey Meiling Evolution of Asian Representation in Western Media By Leila Wickliffe An opinion piece presenting the history of Asian representation in Western media and how characterization of Asian characters has changed— from the exotic foreigner character of Mickey Rooney to the dashing prince charming of Henry Golding. “The history of accurate and nuanced stories of Asian people has had its ups and downs, and progress is beginning to show. Mainstream media has reached a point where simply having an Asian person on screen is not enough. There is a difference between being on screen and being seen.” The Academy's Baby Steps By Yanitta Iew A personal essay recounting how the 2021 Academy Award nominations took big steps into diversifying the playing field, with many historical firsts for both Asians and women. “The moment I heard the nominees for the first category, Actress in a Supporting Role, I knew that this was going to be another year for us Asians in film. No, not only for us. I have a feeling this could be the most diverse Oscars in the history of the Academy Awards.” The American Narrative and Minari By Chris Fong Chew A deep dive into the meaning and background of the 2020 film Minari and how its story, background, and reception defines what it means to be (Asian) American. “As we are living through a particularly divisive and violent time in American history, we need stories like Minari that remind us of what it means to be American, and it was an absolute failure of the Golden Globes to say otherwise.” Michelle Yeoh Receives an AFI Honorary Degree By Amber Ting This collection would be incomplete without mentioning Michelle Yeoh– the Malaysian actress who has represented Asians in Hollywood for the past 26 years. An empowering piece about how Michelle Yeoh earned her well deserved Honorary Degree from the American Film Institute. “In the past, Yeoh has been vocal about the need for diversity and inclusion in the film industry, and she has paved a path for representation by bringing to life complex Asian characters on screen. Her role as Evelyn Wang is merely another demonstrative example. To this day, her flourishing career is one of the best examples of Asian excellence in Hollywood, and the doctorate is a deserved recognition of her talent.”

This month, over 1.5 billion people across the globe from different cultural backgrounds are celebrating Lunar New Year. In Chinese culture, the Lunar New Year is one of the largest and most culturally significant celebrations. From hongbao to haircuts and long-life noodles to night-long activities, the fifteen-day-long celebration is packed with many important traditions and superstitions to help ring in a new year. Yet for Chinese transracial adoptees, the celebration of the Lunar New Year looks slightly different. Despite being born in China and being of Chinese ethnic descent, Chinese transracial adoptees are adopted into non-Chinese families residing in different countries and, consequently, experience a disconnect from Chinese culture. Subsequently, many adoptees and their adoptive families have adopted non-conventional traditions to celebrate Lunar New Year. Growing up a Chinese transracial adoptee in the United States, I never felt fully connected to Chinese culture. My parents attempted to expose me to cultural events in my area, but I never felt a sense of belonging or inclusion. This feeling extended to Lunar New Year celebrations; my family would celebrate by decorating our house, going out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant, and exchanging hongbao, or red envelopes containing money and gifts. As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that I am not alone in this sentiment. Countless Chinese adoptees around the world have had a similar experience to me where our adoptive parents have attempted to celebrate with us, though there is some disconnect from the culture that was essentially taken from us. As we’ve grown into our own identities as young adults, many of us have found new adaptive ways to celebrate the holiday. Chinese adoptee Miki Kent says she learned about Chinese New Year from her white cousins who lived in China. “My family always looked for ways to expose me to Chinese traditions and introduced me to Chinese family friends who would invite us to celebrations and parties. Many Lunar New Years I spent time with other adoptees from our agency at an Asian buffet, during the dragon dancing events. It was always so comforting to be around the other girls I was adopted with.” As an adult, Kent likes to spend Lunar New Year going out to dinner at an Asian American restaurant and going on adventures looking for mooncakes locally. She wears something red along with her jade bracelet gifted to her as a baby. Others have found ways to celebrate with others in the adoptee community. Chinese adoptee Shelley Rottenberg looks back fondly on receiving red envelopes from her adoptive mother during childhood. Rottenberg was raised in Ontario by a single-mother of Jewish descent. Although Shelly often felt removed from the culture, she credits her mother for trying her best to connect her with Chinese culture and traditions such as Lunar New Year. She remembers meeting up with other adoptive families through different organizations to Lunar New Year together. “All of the families would get together at one family's house,” Rottenberg explained. “They would have like a little box at the front where you could pick like a red envelope, they would do fireworks. And so as a kid, I celebrated it to a certain extent with other adoptees, but I don't think I thought about all of that as much as I do now. So as a kid, it's like, maybe I should have appreciated it a bit more.” Now as an adult, Rottenberg celebrates Lunar New Year with friends she made through her involvement with the organization Asian Adoptees of Canada. This is her first year of involvement in the Lunar New Year festivities, and she expressed her excitement prior to the event. This year, Rottenberg joined the members of her organization in attendance at a Lunar New Year festival and grabbed lunch at a restaurant after. This was also her first year celebrating Lunar New Year with a large group of adoptees since childhood. “I feel like I'm coming full circle by helping kind of plan and create that community for other adoptees to get together to do something,” shared Rottenberg. “Otherwise, they maybe wouldn't know how to celebrate on their own.” Likewise, Eryn Peritz, a Chinese adoptee from Long Island, New York, and current student at Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania was also able to connect with Chinese culture and celebrate Lunar New Year through an organization she founded at her college called Bi-Co Asian Adoptees. “We're going to have a big or hopefully big decorating event where we go around camping and decorations like banners and fishes,” she explained prior to the holiday. “I'm very excited about it because I finally founded this club this year. I hope to include other adoptees in it and I hope that when people pass by the decorations, it’ll make them really happy.” Others have only more recently begun to truly look into traditions of Lunar New Year. “I wasn't quite aware of how deep and how complex these traditions went until later on, when I learned for myself these little things of what you're supposed to be doing. What's traditional, what kind of celebrations are out there,” said Jack Freeman, Chinese adoptee from the United Kingdom. When he and his sisters were younger, Freeman’s family mainly celebrated by cooking stir fry and eating prawn crackers at home. They also exchanged red envelopes with money. As Jack got older and gained more of a desire to learn about Chinese culture, he began his own traditions to celebrate. Freeman admits it has been tough finding a group of people or friends that celebrate Lunar New Year, he decided to embrace the culture in his own way. This year, Freeman spent Lunar New Year in London amid the celebrations within the city. For Lunar New Year, even though I don't feel fully connected with the celebrations and the traditions, I still want to celebrate in some way or do something around it,” admitted Freeman. “Because at the end of the day, it is part of my identity.” Despite having a large shared experience and collective identity, there are ultimately so many different Asian communities across the diaspora and many different aspects of Asian identity, and transracial adoptees are ultimately a small community within that. Chinese adoptees have a different shared experience from many others who celebrate Lunar New Year, and it is important to represent these experiences whenever possible. As Chinese adoptees find new ways to come into their Chinese identity and celebrate the traditions of the culture that has been taken away, it is always important to keep sharing these stories not only for other adoptees, but for the larger Asian community as well. Despite the disconnect from Chinese culture, adoptees remain a strong community and will continue to find new ways to celebrate their birth culture. Editors: Blenda Y., Phoebe H., Alisha B., Lang D.