Dear Asian Youth, The Philippines is a strange country. It has been subject to years of colonization, international occupation, and suppression of culture. It has seen fascism thrive in the modern age with Duterte in a position much more akin to a dictator than a president. It is a place of fiercely passionate people, unshakeable in spirit. My parents are immigrants. They both came here young, with their families. A question I recall immediately popping up at every first encounter they had was “are you a nurse?” It happened everywhere. From restaurants to salons, all small talk reverted to nursing. I remember it most vividly when we first moved to Texas. It was a question I got asked from all types of people, whether they be family or complete strangers. My parents are both nurses. It is a noble career, and extremely common among Filipino-Americans due to American colonization efforts that have trickled down for generations. There are over 150,000 Filipino nurses who have immigrated to the U.S. since the 1960’s. It seems that the career is almost traditional. I myself have received the question, unprompted, from friends and family on whether or not I would pursue working in the medical field. Subsequently, I would also feel a disproportionate amount of guilt when I would say, “No, I don’t have any plans to be a nurse.” So early on, there was this feeling that I was worth less than someone actively working towards being in the medical field. It felt selfish and foolish whenever I’d say no to nursing. There was always a voice in the back of my head asking, “Are you really Filipino?” I have struggled with understanding my cultural identity for as long as I can remember. What exactly does it mean to be Filipino-American? What do I consider my culture? Does it make me any less Filipino if I don’t adhere to the same traditions as my peers that are also Filipino-American? Does it make me a bad Filipino if Jollibee makes me kind of sick? What is a Filipino, anyway? Up until I was 5, I thought I was Latina. It never crossed my mind that I was anything else. People who looked like me in the cartoons I watched weren’t ever Filipino (thank you, Dora the Explorer). I didn’t even know what the word Filipino was, and I didn’t exactly fit the bill for what I thought “Asian” was. I found out eventually, though I can’t quite pinpoint when. Perhaps it was a culmination of different interactions with my parents and with my family. Mostly concerning the food we ate or the language I so often heard them spoke. I think I first put a name to my culture when my parents mentioned it in passing to strangers who would ask about our ethnicity. I was never hyper-aware of my skin color or the ways in which my family was different from your average white family. But hearing that I was a Filipino brought those differences to a greater light. Filipino. So, Asian, right? Well, yeah, but there exists an overlap in culture. Pre-Colonial Philippines consisted mostly of chiefdoms that competed against each other as exporters to countries like the Malay kingdoms and China. There was a focus on craft specialists, like textile workers and metalsmiths, and wealth was equated with foreign luxuries. It seems that the Philippines had a rather complex political structure that leaned into socioeconomic disparities, and many of these chiefdoms developed into kingdoms. There are small remnants here and there of early Filipinos that exist with indigenous tribes, with 10% of the total Filipino population belonging to over 40 of these distinct ethnolinguistic groups. Nowadays, indigenous peoples (called IPs) who are small remnants of a pre-colonial time are often discriminated against and marginalized. Historical oppression against IPs has resulted in displacement, socioeconomic disadvantages, and exclusion from political decisions/processes. A major concern is the loss of ancestral lands, and some programs have been put in place to combat the issue. The Certificates of Ancestral Domain Claims (CADC), for example, allow IPs to reclaim not just their ancestral land, but also completely hold domain over it. However, it is not enough, as many IPs are unable to provide sufficient evidence of their entitlement to their land. Furthermore, it does not erase the blatant disadvantages IPs have in nearly every facet of living. This issue, while serious, is a microcosm. Most of modern Filipino culture is undoubtedly influenced by colonization. Perhaps the answer to my early ethnicity confusion is the heavy Spanish influence within the Filipino world. Catholicism, art, architecture, language, my own name- Agustin- are all directly lifted from Spanish culture. People assume my ethnicity all the time, the most common guess has always been some kind of Latino. Mexican, Cuban, Guatemalan- I’ve gotten it all. To be completely fair, there’s not much distinction in my face to indicate my race right away. Filipinos can have rather diverse features. I have even met people who didn’t even know what a Filipino was before they met me, usually vying to say I’m basically just Spanish after I explain what I am to them- but that’s not true. Some say Asian and leave it at that, but I find that many Asian experiences are things I don’t really relate to. I don’t have many of the same cultural commonalities or traditions. I bear the brunt of microaggressions, but they’re not the same kind that my East Asian counterparts do. I’ve been talked down to, especially by customers at my former workplace. While I usually brushed it off as someone having a bad day, it was pretty easy to notice how different treatment was between me and a white coworker. There was a stark contrast in tone and language that occurred consistently with the few POC at my job. I’ve been exoticized for the color of my skin, too. I remember: It was in a Staples. The woman likely meant well, and I even laugh now looking back at it. She had asked me the cliché”Where are you from?” and added that my skin “was such a lovely brown color”. The part of me that’s Filipina wonders what that even means. Is it Asian? Pacific-Islander? Latina? In a way, I feel that I’m all three, since there isn’t really one umbrella I can fully identify with. There’s a distinct fusion of culture within the Philippines. We have seen influence from China, Malay Kingdoms, Spain, America, and more. And we furthermore exist in pockets, with varied differences. There are over one hundred dialects within the country, likely due to us being fragmented in islands, as well as a notable Muslim population. Its uniqueness is charming, yet a little sad, mostly due to the vast impact of colonization. Colonization has undoubtedly suppressed much early Pinoy development, and the culture of the Philippines that we know today has somewhat stemmed from the oppression of IPs. Centuries of foreign occupation has resulted in a concern for the preservation of tribal culture. Pinoys in America- Personal Experience and a Mini History My parents aren’t very traditional Filipinos. They’re rather laid back: not super Catholic, don’t speak Tagalog too much, don’t own a karaoke machine (yet). So there’s a divide between me and the culture of my parents, seeing as our household isn’t a very traditional one. They never emphasized learning the language or knowing my roots to a greater degree than just eating Filipino food. My parents have experienced cultural immersion that’s completely foreign to me. I’m not just a Filipina after all, I am an American. Finding Filipino friends has always been a struggle for me, as most of my life has been spent in the midst of white suburbia. It’s been difficult relating with other people, and there’s a limited amount of Filipino-American media, none I can name off the top of my head. I’ve never had something to find comfort in that helps me understand that I’m not alone. I mean, we’re by no means an insignificant minority, accounting for 4% of America’s 44 million immigrants. However, I’ve never felt fully at ease discussing my cultural identity and the struggles that come with it, usually kneecapping my beliefs and experiences with jokes or lighthearted anecdotes. I never realized how much that catered to white comfort until recently. But let’s discuss a more general scope. In understanding the history of Filipinos in America, I would be remiss to not mention American colonization. The Philippines is heavily westernized. The government and structure was modeled after American democracy. Looking back over a century ago, in the 1890s when the Philippines was annexed to the states, the American goal was to reform “uncivilized” countries. Manifesting that destiny, if you will. Or perhaps the better term is “white man’s burden”. This helps us understand the density of Filipino nurses, as many educational institutions were prepared with such an intent. There was an advantage for Pinoys in America, as in 1948 they could come to the states as nurses under the Exchange Visitor Program. Being able to train in American nursing had worked to their advantage. But most came over to the states under the Immigration Nationality Act of 1965, ready to join the medical workforce. The act greatly benefited Asian communities, with the majority of visas going to Asians who migrated through the reunification clause. All in all, it drastically changed the social landscape of America through encouraging diversity. As you can see, that tie between nursing and the Philippines came about alongside American colonization and the curriculums put in place some time around the early 1900s. As a major advantage for many immigrants, it’s still a very common job today among Filipinos. My feelings on the topic are mixed. It is a path of exploitation, as COVID-19 takes a hard-hitting toll on the Filipino community; but I cannot deny the ingrained sense of pride that seems to sprout from it. Being positioned as a nursing exporter has indeed aided the Philippines in growth and helped people pursue a better life. Guilt and Shame So, I have a decently sized family. The vast majority of them are nurses. My parents are nurses! You know, nurses are pretty great. They put up with long and odd hours, are super motivated, and are working to help people who are in need. That’s great! It’s kickass and I’m thankful every day for healthcare workers. But it’s not for me. I’m a total fine arts/linguistics person. I don’t even think I’ve ever gotten a full 100 on a math test. The fact that I want to pursue something fine arts as a career is a subject I’m ashamed of and I sincerely dread discussing it with my family. For me, it feels as though I’m doing less than those around me. It just seems like my parents came here for a better life for their children, and I’m not aspiring to do enough. The guilt stems from looking at the other Filipinos around me in a comparative light. Especially comparatively. Look at my cousins! Doing tennis, or hockey...why haven’t I picked up a sport? Oh! My friend’s ranking in class is way higher than mine...how shameful. I should study more. In all honesty, I have felt the pressure to do as much as I can from them and my culture- all the extracurriculars, straight As, an instrument, competitions and tournaments, etc., etc. I doubt that this pressure to be brilliant is exclusive to Filipinos- heck, it’s something all my Asian friends seem to deal with. It was a major stressor for me, even when my parents told me not to worry about achievements. I didn’t want them to have the one kid in the family who wasn’t a prodigy. There’s a bit of the Model Minority idea in there, though much more internalized and self-imposed. I couldn’t fulfill that perfect, multi-talented, Filipino child image I had in my head, so didn’t that mean I was a failure to my own people? Again, there’s that voice in my head doubting my own heritage. Tsk tsk, I’ve brought dishonor upon the family name. What a fake Pinoy! Beyond that, the shame extended to my lack of education about my own culture. There has always been a rift for me, especially not knowing Tagalog or Bisaya. My family also never really had the luxury of being able to visit the Philippines, and I have yet to go there. It’s the concern that I’m a fake-asian, or a “twinkie.” I fear that I may never get to influence my children with Filipino tradition. I would be a barrier between my parents and them, a heavy responsibility. So now, I scramble to learn as much as I can about my parents, hoping to ensure that their culture does not end with me. However, I’ve come to understand that in my own existence, there is no possible way for me to fully emulate what it means to be Filipino. Because my identity is not just Filipino. As a Fil-American, a first generation child of immigrants, I have to acknowledge that my life and my experience will be fully different from my parents. And that is okay. I don’t believe you have to sacrifice one culture for another. That’s the beauty of being a child of immigrants. To be honest, American culture is strange. Perhaps because I don’t exactly know what it is. There are so many different kinds of Americans with so many different cultural experiences. I live a different life from an African-American, for example. I love Filipino culture because it is a part of me, even if I may never be truly immersed in it. I’m not worth less as a Filipino or as an American just because I have both of these parts to me. Overlap exists. And to be honest, it’s a wonderful thing. I’m still trying to understand my cultural identity. Because I have no ambitions to be a nurse and pursue what my parents and grandparents have, I’m scared that it establishes another wall between me and my Filipino heritage. A long and winding century-old past. Does not pursuing medical work mean that I’m less Filipino? But the part of me that is American acknowledges that being so comes with certain privileges, like being able to pursue what I want. My mother was forced into being a nurse, because it proved to be a failsafe area of study that almost every member of her family had fallen into. I haven’t received a pressure that extreme from my own parents, and more resources exist for me to look into alternative jobs. I am learning to embrace both parts of myself. I am learning to relinquish shame and understand that I am not a lesser person if I’m not as in touch with the parts of me that are Filipino as I think I should be. All I can do is educate myself- but know that since I was never fully immersed in the culture, I will never just be Filipino. My life differs from the Caucasian Americans I grew up with and differs from many other Asian communities. I want other Fil-Americans to celebrate this vivid culture of ours. I want them to appreciate it and understand that we forge our own path that mixes with tradition- an experience I believe many children of immigrants go through. Cultural identity is unique to every person, and I want to create things that remind people that they are not alone in trying to navigate their heritage. I may never be a nurse, but I strive to help others, in my own way. -Billy P.S. Junk the Terror Bill.

Dear Asian Youth, As kids, we dreamt about being doctors when we used toy stethoscopes, dreamt about being scientists when we mixed random substances together, and dreamt about being engineers when we built Lego sets. Our imagination and curiosity got the best of us, questioning how the world worked around us, and attempting to come up with out-of-the-box answers, which would later pertain to our studies in STEM. One of the most popular reasons why people pursue a STEM degree is its objectivity. However, applications in a career, such as the healthcare industry, often arise moral and ethical quandaries. The classic example of a moral and ethical quandary is deciding who should be prioritized on the organ donor list, while the most overlooked, yet prominent examples involve racism and racial bias. It is expected that people who specialize in medicine and biology should not be racist. After all, as scientists, it should be a no-brainer that every human is made up of the same chemical composition and functions the same way. However, racism in STEM industries persists, endangering the lives of many BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color). In many past studies, Black people have been used as subjects without proper compensation or knowledge of the ongoing studies. For example, the 1932 Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment involved six hundred Black, male sharecroppers who were promised free healthcare by the Public Health Service in collaboration with Tuskegee University. 399 of those men had syphilis and were never notified of the disease - one that is contagious and deadly when left untreated. However, they were told they were treated for “bad blood,” given ineffective methods, and prevented from utilizing syphilis treatment programs in their communities. By 1947, the establishment of penicillin as the standard treatment for the disease caused the study to lose funding. However, the study continued to actively examine untreated syphilis. The experiment did not terminate until it was leaked to the press, but by then, twenty-eight men had died, forty wives had contracted the disease, and nineteen children were born with it. It is no coincidence that all participants were Black, impoverished, and illiterate. These scientists clearly saw their lives as disposable and treated them as lab rats. Because of this unethical study, Black patients now have less trust in the medical system than their white counterparts. Studies conducted by Stanford Medical School and the University of Tennessee found that after public revelation of the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment, the life expectancy of Black men over forty-five reduced by a year. The reason for this is that those of a similar demographic to the participants developed more distrust in doctors. Thus, the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment scarred generations of Black people from seeking proper medical help. Racism in STEM clearly has larger implications of damage than those directly affected, and continues to hinder these demographics from receiving proper diagnosis and treatment. Another example of unethical studies is when parents were misled to believe they were signing up for a free child-care program at Johns Hopkins University in the 1970s. Blood samples of 7,000 young boys–95% of which were Black–were checked to determine whether they had an extra Y chromosome. This was done to investigate the conjecture that boys with XYY are more likely to be criminals. The children’s blood results were given to courts to use as they pleased, further contributing to systemic racism, as the courts justified their discrimination. Black people are more likely to be disproportionately affected by prison experimental abuse due to the high Black incarceration rates. Pseudoscience, such as the previous example, directly correlates to white supremacy. The origin stems from social darwinism, where Darwin’s natural selection theory about the survival of the fittest was implemented into societal issues. As a result, scientists justified experimenting on African slaves, viewing Black people as inferior. Even hundreds of years later, Hitler favored eradicating everyone who did not fit the Aryan race, allowing his scientists to conduct inhumane tests on those kept in the internment camps. Thus, science has been manipulated to support racial agendas. This instance is not the only one of Johns Hopkins taking advantage of the Black community. Henrietta Lacks, a Black woman, was treated for cervical cancer at the university in 1951, where a sample of her cancer cells were taken during a biopsy and sent to Dr. Gey, a cell biologist at the Johns Hopkins hospital. Unlike the other cells Dr. Gey had retrieved, Mrs. Lacks’s cells doubled instead of dying. Eventually named HeLa cells, they have been continuously used for cancer cell, virus, and drug research due to their unique life span. Overall, these cells have helped the progression of scientific research immensely. Henceforth, the cells have brought in hundreds of thousands of dollars profit for the researchers. However, her family still has not received any compensation from the university, and was unaware of its phenomenon until 1975. Ted Slavin, a white man, had an abundance of antibodies for Hepatitis B that he was able to sell and create a business out of collecting blood from others like him. It is evident why Ted Slavin did not have this valuable information hidden from him and was able to profit off of his cells, while the Lack family has yet to see compensation for Henrietta’s contribution to science. In yet another instance of medical research abuse: in 1950s Puerto Rico, women unknowingly signed up for the largest scale human trial of birth control, without knowledge or consent of harmful side effects. Three women were found dead, but their deaths were not reported and autopsies were not performed, despite strong circumstantial evidence linking the two. Racial biases within scientific research reveal ethical violations that have yet to be dealt with. Medical racism kills. I have seen social media posts of nurses saying they cannot ignore “I can’t breathe” or people comparing that doctors can lose their licenses due to malpractice, while police still have their jobs after abusing their power. However, the healthcare industry is more complicit in racial death without receiving punishment than most realize. An example is of a live video of Jessica Love Burnside, a Black woman, who exposed nurses finally assisting her son as he goes into cardiac arrest after multiple requests for help. While Seth made it out alive, it is important to note that many others like him were medically discriminated against and didn’t survive, nor delivered justice. According to data from the CDC, in 2017, Black women are two to three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women, and the Black infant mortality rate is more than twice as much as any other race. Even with increased education and income, Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate. Statistically, the average lifespan for Black individuals is six years less than white individuals, Black adults are 40% more likely to have high blood pressure, and a Black woman is 71% more likely to die from cervical cancer than a white woman. In a Harvard study, Nancy Krieger found that being born in a Jim Crow state “heightened Black women’s risk of being diagnosed with tumors that have a worse prognosis” (Felschder). Kreiger concluded that the increased discrimination has correlation to breast cancer ER status, driven by non-genetic factors. Thus, the stress from racism can contribute to poorer health. Social determinant factors emphasize health disparities. Even today, during a time of a global pandemic with COVID-19, Black people face discrimination from a virus that does not genetically discriminate, because their communities are being affected at a disproportionately high rate. A Yale study found that the Black American mortality rate for COVID-19 is 2.4 times higher than the white American mortality rate. Systemic racism contributes to this large difference. Black people make up the majority of essential workers and economic factors such as the racial pay gap prevent affording healthcare. Their communities tend to be higher density, limiting the social distancing needed to flatten the curve. As the pandemic persists, it highlights inequities stemming from systemic racism, impacting healthcare access. Fixing racism in STEM fields requires curriculum changes. On June 10th, 2020, more than 5,000 scientists and two prominent scientific journals went on strike to protest racial inequalities in their fields. Black and Hispanic workers make up 9% and 7%, respectively, of the STEM workforce. As demonstrated by the numbers, diversity and representation in STEM definitely must increase in order to decrease racial bias. A 2016 Pearson nursing textbook falsely stated that “Blacks often report higher pain intensity than other cultures.” Students pursuing a medical degree should be required to take classes regarding racial disparities and take a psychological evaluation regarding racial biases before practicing. Racist medical students should be exposed and punished, ruining their careers before they kill any innocent people. The common citizen sees scientists dressed in white coats and equipped with a kind smile- benevolent and objective, ready to serve and save lives. But perhaps the real issue does not lay in a glass slide beneath a microscope, and instead in the hearts of far too many: racism is the deadliest yet most unnoticed virus alive. - Tia

America doesn’t smell like this, was my first thought coming back after seven years, seven years inking myself redwhiteblue. Cigarette butts fill the gaps between pavement, diseased daisies in this industrial meadow. Enter here: Follow the familiar curve of your grandmother’s eyelid to your own, kiss her gentle brow, kiss hands that pucker from monsoons of acid past. If her love is the bowls of fruit on your nightstand, half past eight, or cold jade pressed into palm, you must know that it is love, all the same. Mandarin may sometimes feel like sandpaper against skin, and niceties slip through the cracks that seem to show over and over in quiet places. Your memory will be quite selective—you will remember the conversations that flited between yellowed walls: How sad it is that she has an accent. You can trace stitched satin in the damask that flowers across your pillow, under your sheets. You will feel as though it is all in vain, this trying, all this trying, but you must try to see this wrinkled love. Xiǎo gū niang, little princess, little girl, you must yell. You must grow like the zhǎng that lingers on your mother’s tongue. "An Abecedarian for Szechuan" explores the bittersweet relationship between immigrant and homeland, and the generational burden that this bond carries. Biography: Sabrina Mei is a junior at Richard Montgomery High School in Rockville, MD. Her work has previously been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, John Hopkins University, Montpelier Arts Center, and the Yellow Barn Studio. In her spare time, she enjoys rereading Sherlock Holmes and watching an objectively excessive amount of cooking videos. You can find her on instagram @s.abrinamei.

Mom says “What a shame.” Says, “People should stop yelling on the streets. The neighbors might be disturbed, how terribly loud it must be.” Dad says, “They’re just kids out for free loot, stealing is second nature. Kids who think cardboard will create change, what do they know?” Mom worries. She is anxious for the cities, for tangibles that will never be replaced. I see the hesitation in her eyes, how she scans the TV and glances down while the gruesome images fill the screen Dad worries, more for the businesses lining the street than the protesters lining up on sidewalks, their cries for justice ringing from building to building, echoing across the nation. But all of a sudden, Dad can’t hear anything but shattered windows and broken bottles or the frantic rhythm of footsteps of feet, dashing from store to store. Mom cries, “Oh my, now they’re burning down shops and stations." Dad tells me, “Do not ever go to a protest.” Mom, Dad, open your eyes. You’re being picky like children, only indulging in the ripe, sweet apples but blind, oblivious to its rotting core. Something needs to change. Before another person dies, before more crowds are teargassed, before our voices get caught in a chokehold. Shoes can be replaced. Cars can be, too. Buildings can be rebuilt, and cities in flames can be extinguished. But what about Martin Gugino? A 75-year-old American who was shoved to the ground by officers, lying on the concrete, blood rushing out of his head. They called it an “accident.” What about Mando Avery’s son? He was seven-years-old when his eyes clamped shut, the burning sting of the pepper spray, cold milk pouring down his tear streaked face, he screamed for someone to make the pain go away. Mom, Dad, you agonize for the wrong things. Why don’t you worry for the brave change makers, kids my age who now stand in bruises and scars, their masks drenched in blood. Sweat and tears falling onto the pavement 400 years of our nation filled to the brim with enslavement, suffering, fear, and overflowing with injustice. Still, you cry. Cry over a revolution, cry over change, cry over common sense. Listen to us. Try to understand. Open your eyes. Please. -Ashley

Dear Asian Youth, When an injustice in our society is pointed out, our first instinct is to tell people to vote. From a young age, we learn about “rule by the people” in which we, as individuals, have the power to speak up and enact change. As a Californian, my history teacher specifically emphasized three processes we have—initiative, referendum, and recall—where voters can vote to change laws or even vote out elected officials. This gives an incredible amount of control to the citizens because we can tackle issues without government consent. We are supposed to take pride in our country’s democratic traits, and America is often compared to other autocratic countries to highlight our democracy as a defining quality. But what is it about the “Land of the Free” that sets it apart from other countries? Certainly, we are not the only country in the world with representative democracy, and a majority of the sovereign countries in the world have “freedom.” To operationally define it, the Human Freedom Index measures human freedom as the absence of coercive constraint, taking into account many factors like legal systems, property rights, the size of government, and security. On a scale from zero to ten, where higher numbers correspond to more freedom, the United States has a ranking of 8.46, putting us in 15th place as of 2019. Furthermore, the Democracy Index quantifies democracy by measuring the electoral process and pluralism, the functioning of government, political participation, democratic political culture, and civil liberties. According to this scale, America is categorized as a “flawed democracy.” Using the same scale from zero to ten, we have a score of 7.96, earning us 25th place. Yikes. So much for the “Land of the Free.” But this is no surprise. Although suffrage is the cornerstone of our democracy, for many people, it is not a right granted to them as a citizen—rather, it is a privilege. In many places, politicians are passing measures that make it harder to vote. This voter suppression compromises democracy and can severely manipulate political outcomes. For example, voter ID laws dictate where voters must present a certain government-issued photo ID in order to vote. This reduces voter turnout by tens of thousands of votes per state because obtaining these IDs can be costly and time-consuming, discriminating against lower-income communities and those with certain disabilities. In addition to ID laws, states often use the process of cleaning up voter rolls—a list of people who are eligible and registered to vote—to prevent eligible voters from voting for illegitimate reasons. A single purge can prevent hundreds of thousands of people from voting by undoing their registration without their knowledge, and these people often do not have adequate notice before Election Day. A voter purge is supposed to update registration lists as voters move, die, or otherwise become ineligible, but this process is often done irresponsibly and this stops many Americans from casting a ballot that counts. Between 2014 and 2018, 33 million Americans were purged. If several more million Americans were eligible to vote in 2016, could that have changed the election outcome? (YES.) Although voter suppression impacts all of us, groups like people of color, younger voters, senior citizens, and those with disabilities are disproportionately affected. Counties with larger BIPOC—Black, Indigenous, and People of Color—populations have fewer polling sites per voter. Polling sites can be frequently changed, making it hard for these voters to find their polling locations. Only 40% of polling places completely accommodate people with disabilities, and 1 in 3 of voters with disabilities report difficulties voting. Additionally, in some states, a felony conviction can lead to disenfranchisement. This rule specifically targets African Americans—across the United States, 1 in 13 African Americans cannot vote due to disenfranchisement. Additionally, states with the most extreme disenfranchising laws have the longest records of suppressing their rights, and voter purge rates can be 40% higher in states with a history of voting discrimination (literacy tests, poll taxes, voter harassment, etc). Furthermore, even when people do vote, gerrymandering schemes in some places manipulate district boundaries to pack BIPOC voters into as few districts as possible, giving whites significantly more power. There is a lot of evidence proving how, in 2016, the aforementioned tactics created Republican advantages and how Trump may have been elected not only by appealing to supporting voters but also by silencing opposing voters. More BIPOC voters miss the registration deadline compared to whites, and this isolates certain groups and silences their voices. In Wisconsin, the biggest decreases in voter turnout were in black neighborhoods, and the number of Democrats who could not vote due to the lack of proper ID exceeded Trump’s margin of victory. Voter suppression has the power to change the course of a national election, so if we want to continue to be known as a country that values the voice of every individual, we need to make sure we are providing equal opportunities for everyone to vote. Attempting to address the racial discrimination in our voting system, the Voting Rights Act was passed in 1965. It prevented districts from changing their election laws and procedures without official authorization and required certain districts to prove there were no attempts to negatively affect minority voters. However, in 2013, the Shelby County v. Holder case challenged the constitutionality of those sections, and the Supreme Court ruled in a 5-4 decision that the Act was designed to prohibit what no longer exists and was therefore no longer necessary. This ruling removed crucial protections against voter suppression and discrimination. Justice Ginsberg was of the dissenting opinion and pointed out that “throwing out the Voting Rights Act when it has worked and is continuing to work to stop discriminatory changes is like throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm because you are not getting wet.” African Americans are often criticized for not voting but what is not considered are the severe restrictions that hinder their ability to do so. We expect them to fight for rights they have been systematically denied while simultaneously refusing them the right to vote. We need to join this fight not only because it is the right thing to do but also because their fight is our fight—tolerating a country that disregards and silences its vulnerable communities devalues our existence in our nation. We cannot take pride in America’s successes without acknowledging its failures. Voter suppression attacks our civil rights and threatens our democracy. Currently, the Voting Rights Advancement Act is on the Senate floor and would restore voting protections and defend our communities against discrimination. Tell your senators to pass it! In the meantime, the best tool we have to fight voter suppression is—unsurprisingly—to vote. :) - Erika Make sure you know your voting rights! Here is a great resource from the ACLU: https://www.aclu.org/know-your-rights/voting-rights/#someone-is-interfering-with-my-right-to-vote. Learn about the voter registration requirements for your state here.

“Where are you going, sir?” Although the atmosphere had been pleasantly dulcet, with the officer now in close proximity, all smiles were lost. They should’ve known better than to drive around these kinds of states, neighborhoods, towns—but they hadn’t known what to expect until now. Glancing back at his wife and son, Roy gave a small, tight-lipped expression to the police officer. “I’m a chauffeur, officer. I’m taking my employer’s maid and her son,” he nodded back at Kahlil, who was attempting to look as normal and unfrightened as possible, “to their home.” The officer squinted his eyes, not confronting the lie. “Where’s your chauffeur hat?” “In the back of the car, officer.” While the white man was an officer, an owner of an honorable title, Roy was handed a simple “sir.” Officer, officer, officer. The word “sir” was more dulled down, mellowed, weak. Kahlil held the black hat higher, bringing it into the view of the sheriff, who then tipped his own hat and not so subtly observed the insides of the car. It was expensive—not quite what a white officer expected (or wanted, for that matter) a Black family to own—but Roy had a stable and well-paying job at a railroad company. Their car, with its clean 1950s red sheen and lively engine, was one of their proudest assets back at home. But here, it was a threat. The white man in the uniform finally let them go, waving them off as Roy hesitantly started up the car again, and the family drove in silence for the next several minutes before exhaling loudly with relief. “Thank goodness for that hat,” Janelle noted, chest heaving from relief. “Thank goodness for that hat.” They knew that taking Route 66 was a risk. Black motorists were constantly targeted by the residents, who were all white. The businesses that Roy’s family drove past were named with three K’s in them, like Kozy Kottage Kamp, and many refused to serve Blacks. The constant presence of three K’s meant that the Ku Klux Klan was near—always near—and ready to use violence as a way to eradicate any unwelcome Black people. Roy’s family was familiar with cover stories to deal with an encounter with a racist and suspicious white person. It was mostly due to The Negro Motorist Green Book by Victor H. Green, a unique traveling guide that listed all the places that were willing to serve Blacks. It was the best way to travel without harassment. If one didn’t have this information, an African American family could easily end up on the wrong side of town—with no way of receiving help. Kahlil stared out the window, admiring the greenery and nature that was gently provided by Route 66, a common road trip route. Despite the dangers of driving here, he had pleaded with his parents because of all the beautiful things he had heard about it: romance and unconventional attractions. The mountains ahead kissed the sky, flirting with the wind, while the Cadillac Ranch (they weren’t there yet, but it was what Kahlil was most excited for) exploded with vibrant colors and were stuck nose deep into the dirt. This “Mother Road” was the hope and pathway to easier times for people who had suffered from the Great Depression. It left traces of that hardship and beauty. Roy’s family was driving further West, which, if he was honest, frightened him. He knew that the further West they rode, the fewer services they would be provided. Roy kept his hand tight on the wheel, lips pressed together to prevent them from trembling, heading straight on the empty road ahead of him. His wife gazed at him and gave him a small smile. They were on vacation, for God’s sake. Couldn’t they just enjoy a vacation without fear? Roy and Janelle’s equally flustered look said it all. They couldn’t, and there was nothing they could do about that. Janelle turned around to her son, who was busying himself with the pretty views of the road she couldn’t distract herself with, and asked, “Should we play some music?” Kahlil nodded vivaciously. “Yeah!” Roy laughed his usual belly laugh that was only ever ignited by the joy of his family. He clicked on the radio and switched the channel to Kahlil’s favorite tunes, and they kept on driving. The family sang together, humming and giggling and harmonizing, even knowing the prejudice that they would face for the rest of their lives. Instead of letting the fear rage on, Roy relaxed his fingers on the wheel and held onto his wife’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Janelle squeezed back. “Look at those trees!” Kahlil pointed out, pressing his forehead against the car window. “Yeah, look at that,” his parents mused. The three of them grinned, wishing that they could stop there and then climb those trees and admire them in detail as white families could, but they drowned away those desires quickly. Because they had each other, and, in times like these, it had to be good enough. - Hannah

Dear Asian Youth, I was talking to my therapist the other day about a mantra—which is a phrase or incantation repeated as a motivator, reminder, or meditational aid—I had come up with for when I’m experiencing a dissociative episode and how it keeps me feeling connected to the world, when out of the blue she said, “I don’t usually tell people this kind of thing, but I feel like you’re the kind of person who would be interested in it: I had an experience where I saw the world as a tapestry through my third eye.” I was completely shocked. Not because she believed in the third eye, or saw through her own, or even because she trusted me to divulge her experience to—but because she recognized me as someone who would believe in that as well. My Vietnamese mother is a mix of her Buddhist roots and the Christian indoctrination she experienced as a young refugee. So as a child myself, while my mom lit incense, offered up fruit, and prayed to Quan Yin every night, she also taught me to believe in God, heaven, and the like. And around the age of ten, when I told my mom I didn’t really believe in God, she warned me not to even think that. While I doubted and tried to reject Christianity, I did believe in karma, reincarnation, and the enlightenment of Buddhism. But growing up in a white conservative town, it was clear that if I didn’t believe in God, and if I wasn’t Christian or Catholic like everybody else, I didn’t believe in anything—and to believe in nothing was to be nothing to them. So because I knew I wasn’t exactly an atheist, and wanted to have something acceptable to believe in, I continued to internalize the white Christianity I was surrounded with. I engaged in the spaces of faith that were comfortable to those around me, spoke about spirituality in rhetoric that was familiar to them, and allowed them to try to convert me. The first boy I dated my freshman year was Christian, as was my best friend during my junior and senior years. Several people I was very close to, as well as a large portion of my school, were Catholic, and they all attended the same church positioned right beside my high school. I often went to Christian services, Bible study, and Catholic Mass with my friends for “educational purposes,” as I would say. I’d sing along, pray along, listen to their sermons and conversations. And they loved my enthusiasm and curiosity, and the chance to bring me into their world. Meanwhile, I had decided to publicly call myself “agnostic.” But of course, that wasn’t necessarily true. I would openly talk about my Buddhist beliefs to my friends, but I would only describe myself as a Buddhist “philosophically”—by which I meant I believed only in the secular values taught in Buddhism, such as the necessity of change and impermanence—and that, to them, was passable. Of course, throughout my friendships with my Christian and Catholic peers and my explorations of their faiths, I had the sense that they regarded me as being less than. Little things, almost imperceptible, like their patronizing words that showed me they thought of themselves as better people because of our religious differences, or their lack of interest in my own beliefs, showed me that. But I ignored it. I ignored it until I couldn’t anymore. One day I was on a walk with my closest Catholic friend when we got on the topic of spirituality. While I was talking about my own spirituality, I referred to myself in part as a Buddhist, and he told me that, well, Buddhists could still adopt other religions (which is simply not true if we are referring to any person who devotes themselves to following a religion). It was the first time one of my friends had overtly alluded to me converting, and not only that, had also implied Buddhism to be lacking in seriousness and devoutness enough to be a real and valid religion. It gave me an itch that I had to scratch. So later I asked him if he thought I was a faithful person. And he said no. While it wasn’t all his fault, given that I did my best to pass off my spirituality as mere philosophy, we were close enough and had had enough conversations for him to know the extent of my beliefs. Which is why I knew when he said these things that it was meant as a condescension to Buddhism, him clarifying that my faith would always be below his. It was something I hadn’t been prepared to face: not only would I never be Christian, but I was a Buddhist, which set me apart from and below my Christian and Catholic peers in their eyes. And this is only a subsection of the reality that we, as Asian-Americans, eventually come to learn: that we will never be white, and that to white people, we will always be inferior, perpetual foreigners. As I reflected on my friendships and engagement with Christianity, I saw how I had told myself I needed to learn about a culture that was already ingrained in me, in all of us. Christianity, and the ideas of white normalcy and white supremacy, are the norm for those of us in America. They infiltrate every textbook we read, poison every idea of right and wrong, plant themselves into the minds of children of color. So then, why did I still feel the need to teach myself about white Christianity if it was already something I was steeped in? Because I knew that, no matter what, I would never be accepted as an equal to my white Christian peers. But because I strove for that, I forced my beliefs to become more palatable to my peers, framing Buddhism as merely being a casual philosophy to me, rather than the enriching and ancestral source of light and peace that it has been in my life. This brings up how the culture of New Age ‘mindfulness’ that is a part of Western Buddhism in America and other Western countries is further effacing Buddhism as a valuable spirituality. The concept of spiritual mindfulness among white people is mostly based on meditation and yoga (both of which originated in ancient India) and may also include such rituals as lighting incense. However, that is usually the extent of their understanding of Buddhism. Western Buddhism focuses on the practice of mindfulness and Buddhist rituals without the belief or values linked to it, and without an understanding of these rituals’ cultural and religious significance. It is more about a rejection of commonplace Christianity and church as a ritual than it is about Buddhism as a faith—which is, of course, why most of those who teach and practice it are white. Buddhism is thus turned into nothing more than an aesthetic, a label for white people to flaunt as something that makes them seem more “cultured.” This is an undermining of Buddhism as a religion. In fact, the name “Western Buddhism” in itself is an oxymoron. Buddhism is not, and can never be, Western. It is and always will be an Eastern religion, inseparable from its culturally and geographically determined origins and influences. And to take a highly complex and culturally significant faith, separate it from its South Asian origins, and condense it down to nothing more than a few rituals with no backing that is then taught and practiced by white people, is an act of colonization and erasure. So how is it fair that, while a white person halfheartedly believing in and practicing Buddhism as a philosophy, as a Western mindfulness exercise, is acceptable and good, an Asian person such as myself believing in and/or practicing Buddhism with culturally competent earnestness, is not? This is why it took me a lifetime to embrace Buddhism and all it meant to me. It wasn’t until I was seventeen, in fact, that I visited my first Vietnamese Buddhist temple with my mother. It’s located in San Jose, CA, the predominantly Asian city my mother and her family used to live in, and which I had lived in when I was first born. It’s difficult to explain the beauty and comfort of such a place as this temple. There were beautiful trees and gardens with ponds surrounding the temple, as well as small shrines with incense burning or burnt out before them. We could hear a recording of a Vietnamese chant playing all around us. In front of the entrance to the temple were small prayer books to take and cubbies to place your shoes in before entering. Inside the temple, beautiful tapestries hung around the walls and pillars, and golden statues sat at the front of the room, facing the people who were praying. My mother and I met a monk while walking around the grounds who said to my mother (in Vietnamese) that she could tell I had a pious nature. Given that I was so used to being a religious outsider in white Christian spaces, to have this said about me by a Buddhist monk made me feel invited, not only into the temple, but into the religion. I wasn’t quite an insider here, of course, with so much more still to learn about Buddhism—but it was a space in which I felt safe enough to simply believe without judgment and fear. Now I know that therapy is also a safe space for me to believe. My experience with my therapist was one of deep validation, and is exactly why I sought out an Asian person to help navigate and manage my mental health and identities—and it’s nice to know that I made the right decision there. I’m not sure if my therapist could tell how much she made me smile when she said what she did, or if she could hear the excitement in my voice when I started telling her all about my spiritual beliefs, but I know I’ll be talking about Buddhism a lot more with her from now on. More than that, I’ll be continuing to educate myself on and exploring my faith with my newfound confidence to be fearless in my believing. And being fearless in your beliefs? It’s not an easy thing, especially when you’re a kid growing up in a world where your religion is barely seen as a religion at all. But it’s in that same world that being fearless in your beliefs is most needed. Because faith is a powerful thing. Faith is what keeps us going, keeps us loving, keeps us fighting against an unjust, unethical society for change. Faith is what can never be taken from us. - Kyla-Yến Giffin

Dear Asian Youth, Activism is not a trend—and it’s terrifying that I have to bring that up. Genuine activism can only come from one’s passion for it. There is no “right” way to be involved; while some people post on social or attend protests to express their support, others may start educating themselves or their families. Regardless, you must always ask yourself: “Do I believe in what I am saying? Or is it to make me look better because everyone else is doing it?” The Black Lives Matter movement has taken hold of the world with millions fighting to bring about change and fix the injustices of America’s corrupted system. Yet, despite the importance of getting justice, many individuals, as well as large corporations, are taking advantage of what has become appealing. Performative activism is quite literally what its name describes it to be. Rather than advocating for what is right because of one’s passion for the topic itself, performative activism refers to utilizing activism as a way to gain recognition or approval from their peers. Participants don a caring facade: performing for their followers to see, acting like thoughtful saints. But, once the cameras are off and the spotlight is no longer on them, they couldn’t give a shit about what this is all about. Performative activism has existed for as long as true activism has; just think about the difference between a vague tweet that basically says “racism is bad,” and doing absolutely nothing else, versus people marching on the streets and waving signs at protests. While the murder of George Floyd has united many with the common purpose of bringing about change, it has brought to light the problematic normalization of this brand of activism. Let’s start off with one of the most prominent examples of this: #blackouttuesday. The hashtag was flooded with countless pictures of black screens, and I admit that I was one of the participants as well. Though the purpose was to demonstrate our unity and to stand in solidarity with the Black community, this movement faced backlash, and for good reason. Performative activism can be compared to color-blindness. It is only the illusion of alliance. It allows white guilt to become suppressed instead of addressed, since people feel as if they have “done their part” when they have done, quite frankly, nothing. Even with racial injustices appearing left and right in this country, white privilege still allows the racial majority to live at peace. #Blackouttuesday only continued to nurture this toxic status quo. Instead of providing ways for non-black to come to terms with their racial advantage and use it to assist in the fight for equality, performative activism allows them to continue to deny reality. Celebrities and popular companies are also partaking in performative activism. Social media paved a path to new ways to warp true activism into performative activism. Remember when people would post the “Black Lives Matter” chain on their Instagram stories to “spread the word” by tagging their friends? Well, celebrities Kendall and Kylie Jenner did just that, tagging their other famous friends with the idea that their stories would make an impact. Additionally, let’s not forget the controversy Madison Beer was caught in when pictures of her posing at a Hollywood protest like a photoshoot were leaked. The pictures show Beer standing on top of a car and posing with her signs, and though she denies the allegations of her doing it for her social media, a lot of people appear to be unphased by it. Along with these public figures, large companies are also at fault regarding performative activism. Amazon, an online shopping powerhouse, is under fire for their ulterior motives concerning bullshit messages about how they support BLM. Although they tweeted a public statement regarding their support for the movement, they were attacked immediately with claims of workers’ abuse and racist products sold. The social aspect of sustainability involves corporations treating workers humanely, so for Amazon to be talking about their support for a social justice movement would be completely hypocritical. As if that wasn’t enough, Spotify, a popular music platform with a history of underpaying artists, merely added 8 minutes and 46 seconds of silence to some playlists during blackout Tuesday. Instead of showcasing Black artists and promoting songs that raise awareness, Spotify has chosen silence. Were these empty acts born from kindness? Or were they just another tactic to get users to believe that celebrities and corporations actually care? They are another example of how bigger organizations manipulate their users’ interests. In the case of these companies, the answer is loud and clear: they keep up their reputation for money, but do not have a care in the world for actually obtaining justice. So, what can you do to help? Trust me, I know how it feels to be powerless when standing up to seemingly stronger figures, whether it’s corporations or even your own parents. But do not let performative activism deceive you or give you an easy way out. Different people support the movement in different ways. Some may find that it comes easy to speak up on their platforms, while others are just beginning to educate themselves. Demonstrating solidarity doesn’t always mean you should feel the need to validate yourself through social media. Continue to sign petitions, donate whatever you can, protest, and speak your mind. Because nothing is more important than participation, especially right now. NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE. -Julianne Tenorio

Dear Asian Youth, My hands grasped the home phone a little too tightly as I looked to my mom; she was silently mouthing what I should say on her behalf. “Hi, yes, this is, uh, Mai,” my voice wavered out, “I’m trying to arrange a doctor’s appointment.” The woman on the other end asks curtly, “How old are you?” Moments such as this have repeated over the last eighteen years: “Um, my mom doesn’t speak English well... so I’ll be translating for her.” In my family, I’m not just a daughter. Rather, I live up to a myriad of other roles too: I’m the one who fills out voter registration forms, translates health insurance correspondences, and composes emails under my parents’ names. Being the one your parents depend on should be a noble duty, a way to give back to the ones who’ve crossed expanses of ocean for the prospect of our success. But the pervading narrative of hardworking immigrant children fails to acknowledge the struggles of an immigrant family, one, in some circumstances, separated by culture and language. A barrier is something that seeks to divide and at ten, I believed the only barrier to exist between my parents and I were our cultures. They didn’t understand talk show humor, and I didn’t have the slightest affinity for Vietnamese musicals. But as I got older, the notion of familial barriers expanded: a barrier didn’t have to only be one’s culture, and culture and language weren’t exactly mutually exclusive. For some, language barriers are synonymous with dutifully filling in the gaps of our parents’ native tongue. It’s a mother reluctantly pronouncing a string of American phrases over the phone, her eyebrows furrowing, teetering between frustration and reluctance before beckoning her child over for help. For others, it’s hearing incoherent jumbles from their grandparents, wondering what in the world they spoke of— a world they ought to know of, but one that would definitively remain in their blindspot. As for me, a familial language barrier came in the form of volatile banters, a hurricane of angry phrases sewn together and subsequently torn apart, upending any peace in my household. Over 9,036 miles of land and ocean, my family fled from the war-torn remnants of Vietnam, leaving behind a communist government and all they’d ever known. Pursuits of new dreams in America were accompanied by a foreign culture and language— one they’d struggle to wrap their head around, girding them in both awe and confusion. As such, growing up, I sensed this growing mountain between us. What I wanted to convey to my parents rarely aligned with what they’d hear: a sarcastic, wry joke rang shrill as disrespect to their ears and any attempts to correct me came out as borderline patronizing. One night, I mentioned to my mom how crazy she was, a joking remark as she told me her childhood tales from Vietnam of excursions to the city. Thus ensued an argument over my unwarranted use of the word “crazy” and its negative connotation I had only heard of as we prepared dinner. My mom’s face scrunched up in confusion and anger— had I disrespected her? Had I crossed a line I shouldn’t have? She sat right across from me as dad stood in my peripheral, silent as our jabs began. Monolingual families had it easier, I thought, to converse in one language and never misinterpret words because there I was, in our dining room trying to dissect every aspect of my tone and syllable to understand “crazy” and my unintentional provocation within the Vietnamese language. Evidently, context and culture drew a fine line between praise and offense, and from experience, words hold meanings that can become lost in translation. That evening, sick and weary from all our incessant arguing, I proclaimed to end any meaningful communication with my parents —  why continue when all of our conversations would invariably end in anger? It was silent, as I looked back to my parents, my own words reverberating through the room. Dad stared at me before laughing hysterically at my outburst. I was dumbfounded— did he really find our circumstances funny? “You can’t understand our Vietnamese,” he stated matter-of-factly, “But I hope you understand our love.” Albeit cheesy, it’s true. The moment I read an interesting book or saw my favorite show televised, all I could do was jabber endlessly to my parents in flawed Vietnamese. It didn’t matter that my parents perceived me as a ten-year-old based on syntax and semantics alone. It didn’t matter that my mom would laugh whenever I mispronounced a word and giggle until she eventually forgot to correct me. Every time our conversations erupted in arguments, words sharpened into weapons, the anger seemed to dissipate by the next day— we never held grudges. Those challenges didn’t stop me then, so why would I allow them to stop me now? Trying to express simple sentiments or even unsolicited rants of trivial school drama to my parents allowed me to express my love. By listening and painstakingly sifting through broken, misplaced words, my parents demonstrated theirs. They had always gone to great lengths to decode the words of my foreign tongue— even when I didn’t notice—in the same way I decoded theirs. This eventual understanding underscored how the language barrier between my parents and I was at the very core of our unique family dynamic. It was the fervent act of trying and trying despite constant misunderstandings that strengthened our affection. Instead of mulling over who was wrong or right, we now try to learn at least something new from our banters. After our argument that day, my parents calmly expressed to me how they felt when I used the word “crazy”: it came off disrespectful, as if I were calling them irrational or insane. I then explained to them my feelings, giving them a little more context into how Americans use the word: “you’re crazy,” we say to our friends in jest or disbelief. This interaction set the precedent for how we would fight, reconcile, and understand each other from that day on. While strangers may hear unforgiving words, I see two parents trying to communicate with their daughter. While others may interpret seething phrases, my parents find a daughter longing to be understood. Now, as I look back on all of those fraught moments, I still stand by my statement that, yes, monolingual families may have it easier in certain aspects. But in my family, misunderstandings have proven essential in our plight to understanding one another. Although initially divisive, language has shown me how full and transcendent love can truly be. - Angela H.

Growing up I was told to never speak up. I was told that voicing my opinions would only begin a war of words and violence hurts. I learned at a young age that I hated pain, tripping on undone shoelaces, scraping elbows and knees, needing bandages to make the sting go away. So I stayed silent. Passed the time reading books: fiction, mystery, history. History books, their pages filled with stories of white men stealing land without a second thought, enslaving families and earning riches. 373 pages later, a railroad is built by hand by hands of Chinese workers. 15,000 men, 15,000 buried stories and for 6 years, Silenced. 72 pages later, My great-grandmother and her sisters Have been enslaved Kidnapped and forced to become comfort women for Japanese soldiers Living as objects, and nothing more- I check the cover of the book again, Because I thought I was reading history, not horror 38 pages later, The Boston Sunday Globe publishes a “magazine of humor and stories,” But I don’t find calling Filipinos barbaric humorous, The White Man takes credit for turning Barbarians into civilized men When will this book tell me tales That do not sound exactly the same? How many pages do I keep reading Of my people Silenced, tossed around at others enjoyment, Brushed under the rug until our struggle becomes numbers, Becomes normalized, Becomes nothing? When the stranger across the street yelled at me to go back to where I came from, I stayed silent. When friends mocked my culture’s traditional food, I stayed silent. When the president of this country replaced “corona” with “Chinese” I stayed silent. When the news showed videos of innocent Asians violently beat and targeted, I stayed silent. Time and time again, I have stayed silent. We have stayed silent. Bandaids don’t heal broken spirits, my people’s spirits, this ache in my heart dripping, ringing our history. 121 years later, a 92-year old Asian man is attacked, shoved to the ground and tortured with racist slurs. A young Asian girl is surrounded by ignorance, punched in the back of the head- they called her, “the virus.” One page later, nothing. It’s a blank slate. My people, we have stayed silent for too long. So shout, yell, heal, cry, write, breathe, love, stand- and never stay silent.

Dear Asian Youth, It’s no secret that the college admissions process is becoming more competitive as the years go by. Higher standardized testing scores, higher GPAs, and more outstanding extracurriculars are just a few requirements that are necessities for today’s youth in the application process. As the race to college gets progressively more intense, it seems like minorities still face specific racial barriers. This fact was highlighted in 2019, when the Students for Fair Admissions (SFFA) launched a lawsuit against Harvard University, which centered on Asian-American discrimination. It was found that Asian-American students made up 22.9%, were required to have a higher average SAT score, but had a lower rate of admission than any other racial group. Furthermore, it was discovered Asian-Americans would make up 43% of Harvard’s admitted class if only academics were considered. However, they are not the only minority that faces significant struggles in the admission process. According to the New York times, African-Americans represent only 6% of college freshmen, but make up 15% of college-age Americans. Hispanic populations at colleges are no different. No matter how you look at it, college campuses still are not diverse enough, considering students and staff alike, even with affirmative action. This is a huge issue because, without diversity, students are not exposed to different perspectives and backgrounds that can further educate them. Thus, working in a diverse group of people can make society healthier and stronger. So what exactly does the college application process look like for Black and Hispanic minorities today? There have been some observed trends regarding these students that make college and higher education for Blacks and Hispanics a complex and prejudiced process. Often, gaps can be seen discouraging minority students to pursue degrees and careers such as engineering and education, mathematics and statistics, the physical sciences, and many STEM fields. In addressing the phenomenon, there are three main aspects: if people of color are choosing not to pursue certain majors, or if they are switching out them, if pricing is an encouraging or discouraging factor to different groups to push students into specific majors, whether or not introductory/general ed “weed-out” courses are having a harmful effect on diversity. In addressing the first and second issue, it is important to note that in high paying majors such as engineering, the cost to earn the credential is proportionately just as expensive. Take for example, in Dayton, where minority earnings have lowered 17% in a span of ten years while college prices have skyrocketed. This means a perpetuating cycle of loss in which minorities do not get the same opportunities to even attend institutions with high levels of education is present. In turn, the choice to not pursue high risk majors is a financial issue, where at the same time, encouraging lower feedback careers. More so, many institutions have recognized that students of color receive disproportionately lower primary educations. This means, in taking general courses, those who had better learning opportunities earlier in life are put at an advantage. Therefore, by having certain classes that are advantageous to those who have received a better K-12 education, it disheartens the chances of breaking the cycle. Later in life, this excludes many from professions and makes reform extremely difficult. Recently, ACA-5 has wrongfully come under fire for supposedly setting a “racial proportion system,” or essentially, a “race quota.” ACA-5 bill, as well as the repeal of Prop 209, encourages, supports, and protects ALL BIPOC. What ACA-5 truly stands for is the consideration of race as part of the admissions process, so as to increase diversity in public California universities. This misinformed and groundless outcry against ACA-5 is yet another reminder of the fight we all face in bettering the college admissions process. It is a reminder that we must always stay informed and that we must fight for all BIPOC. To my Asian-American peers, remember that we are not a “tool” to be pitted against other minorities. We must stand in solidarity with other communities, never against them. This leaves us with the question: what can be specifically done to improve the admissions process? One solution has been already put into place: affirmative action. This race-based policy was designed to help minorities by increasing diversity on college campuses (a benefit to all students), creating greater equity in the admissions process, and aiding social mobility. Affirmative action did come under fire for allegedly discriminating against Asian-American applicants, but it remains a crucial policy for increasing diversity, especially for Black and Latinx populations. Asian-Americans are stereotyped, studies have shown that they need 140 points on the SAT for the same consideration as white applicants, but Black and Latinx students also face a racist system that has been working against them, a system that goes way beyond stereotyping during the admissions process. Varying amounts of financial aid, college counseling during high school, and financial support once on campus, all affect the enrollment of Black and Latinx students. Moreover, African American students are more likely to attend for-profit colleges, thus taking more loans, which is yet another barrier in higher education. And so, we must acknowledge that there are severe barriers against all minorities, but we must also rectify the barriers that are deeply rooted in our society. As we’ve seen with the recent call to defund the police and refund communities in the BLM movement, issues that are deeply ingrained into our society need to be fixed by putting more money into the welfare of the people. Improving education using state-level data, looking at schools with greater amounts of diversity and learning from them, creating a “federal student-level data system to track outcomes by race,” using affirmative action to remove the systemic racism in higher education, all of these, and more, are potential solutions we need to implement to remove the racism in our education system. Things like affirmative action are trying to remedy the racism that is rooted in the college admissions process. It was selectively for white people, and that focus was never fully removed in the admissions process. College education remains a prominent tool for social mobility. Trade schools, taking a gap year, entering a profession, all immediately remain viable options besides college, but they aren’t as popular in our culture today. Making sure that all potential college students get a fair admissions process, better access to resources they need before college, and removing the systemic racism that permeates our nation is an absolute priority (this, of course, goes way beyond college). Additionally, college campuses, and towns they take up, are often “liberal hotspots” where changes and different movements express themselves. We need more minority voices in those places to enact nation-wide change. We, as a nation, need to work better on increasing diversity, justice, and accessibility for minorities across America, and college campuses seem like a good place to start. - Allison Li and Kaitlyn Fa

A spoken word poem. Watch the full performance here. In Korean, the word “이웃” holds a deeper meaning than just “neighbor.” 옛날 한국 사람들은 이웃들과 가족같이 친했습니다 Years ago our ancestors and their neighbors were one, becoming family, related not through blood but being human. We cared for one another rejoicing and crying together. But recently, we’ve been far too busy to focus on our neighbors. Occupied with school, work, social media, our own desires— whatever it is that distracts us from the burdens our neighbors carry. The same burden Amadou Diallo carried. An immigrant, he came from Guinea, seeking to start a new business, a new life, but instead he found bullets 41 bullets hailed down from police in his own home. Trayvon Martin carried a can of iced tea and a bag of skittles. He was only seventeen when he was followed back home shot and killed by a man who claimed he was just “protecting his neighbors”. The same burden Sean Bell carried just hours before his wedding, officers fired 50 bullets, struck his neck, cutting off all circulation. He had to fight just to breathe, to live, to breathe and George Floyd couldn’t breathe. For eight minutes and forty six seconds, he was pinned down to the ground, pleading for his mother Ten times too many he said, “I. CAN’T. BREATHE.” It is so easy to turn away, to ignore the violence, oppression, abuse, racism, and injustice that’s happening right next door. This is the time to rise up. This is the time when our society, our neighbors, 우리 이웃들, our family need us most. So stop ignoring. Stop turning a blind eye to Breonna Taylor, to Sandra Bland, Aiyana Jones, Oscar Grant, Eric Garner, Oluwatoyin Salau, John Crawford— the list of names goes on and on. And start listening to the Black community. Care, take action, fight for justice— we will fight for justice. And we will not stop until we are done.