TW: mention of death, violence, and murder On July 24th, 1983 Sri Lanka fell They call it Black July Streets were wrecked Stores were raided Tamils were murdered My father was ten. He witnessed the hatred He tells me his stories The stories of the crowded trains Desperate to escape He tells me of the fear Of the people Trapped in a massacre I remember these stories But Forty years later And across the world My history class began to cover South Asia And on one slide There was one bullet For my people and their blood. I remember feeling struck Looking around the classroom I realized that I was the only one that knew About the mobs and the massacre The bombs and the blood The genocide. I felt small I felt weak Against the shadow that had swallowed The history of my country It was dark and ignorant It refused to remember the ravished Simplified versions of history can erase An entire people Real history demands details It demands truth It demands. It demands blood. It forces us into reality The reality of those people My people It forces us to remember Because we can’t afford to forget Editor(s): Chris F., Leandra S. Photo Credits: Unsplash

THE SUMMER THIS BODY TURNS 16 I’M GONNA BE NOTHING MORE THAN A SOUNDLESS PLEA– TURN MY KNEES JAM-SMEARED AGAINST CHAINLINK FENCES & CHLORINE DIVOTS & A FALLEN GOD’S WORD. & I don’t know, love, I’d like to say I understand Judas but you know how it goes on and on. what confuses me, really, is how every damn year my words fly out of me endlessly like locusts in a plague & I & I CAN NEVER FIND MYSELF AGAIN. IF THERE ARE ANGELS ROAMING THE STREETS I’LL LET THEM BUY ME A DRINK. I’LL FIT THEIR NAMES BETWEEN THE RIDGES OF MY TEETH, BETTER THAN MY OWN TO find myself hanging laundry & doing grossly normal things. Somehow, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing– I haven’t started answering either. Instead I palliate bread with raspberry jam, treat my numbed mouth with kindness. Sort my mail, admit that every love poem I write with “You” is about more than one person. They say angels now come in any form they can, ornate themselves in thrifted bikinis & cowboy boots & psalms out their car window. If divinity can quietly shapeshift, I can too. Start mornings with beginner’s yoga or reading a bookstore-fresh recipe book or even saying your name again & again. The truth is that there are no ulterior motives other than vowing to never turn & JUNE WATCHES ME HALF-CRAWLING OUT OF MY WINDOW, DIVINE INTERCEPTION THROUGH BEER CANS WHITTLING MY MOUTH INTO PRAYER & PRESSING MYSELF UP AGAINST ANY WRONGDOING I CAN FIND, LIKE THE wrong sides of knives against myself. There is no need for x-rays of possibly broken ribs or misaligned bleeding. Your last injury was a paper cut. Your last score was zero, at least, upon the body. SUMMER WILL BE WILD. / SUMMER WILL BE WILD. SUMMER WILL BE WILD. / SUMMER WILL BE WILD. Summer will be gentle. / Summer will be gentle. Summer will be gentle. / Summer will be gentle. Editor(s): Alisha B., Uzayer M., Blenda Y., Luna Y. Photo Credits: Unsplash

The concept of time has always been so peculiar to me. When I was younger, an hour's car ride felt like a century. Now, five hours on a train passes in a flash. I had a theory that perhaps, as we grow older, each second that passes counts for a smaller fraction of the cumulated time we’ve experienced as a whole. Hence each second feels shorter, like a short breath that escapes and is forgotten. Naturally, a year flies by. Before long, I am an adult, a decision maker, an explorer stumbling in the dark trying to carve a path for myself. I fell. I got up. I was joyous. I was in love. I was confused. I was disheartened. I was motivated. I pushed through. Looking back, the lessons I learned, the once concealed truths now seem stark and blatant. I know nothing, and nothing is more important to me than connecting with those I love, holding their hand, and knowing that they will bloom. Time is truly a love potion. We drop the quarrels, the pranks, the “I hate yous”, and only forgiveness that remains. Forgiveness for you who safekeeps a piece of my heart, as I hold a fragment of yours. I know the labels I made for myself, the definitions, the expectations, are all sand castles that crumble. Perfection is a myth, like Athena’s omniscient wisdom or a dragon’s breath: “It’s all of nothing.” “Go big or go home.” “100% is the only acceptable outcome.” These voices, repeated by the raspy throat of our parents, still ring in our ears after all this time. But perfection is the enemy. When I am not 100% sure I can complete something perfectly, I am petrified or I run. I don't try things that I can't definitely succeed in, so I don't try at all. The flaw purifies, it cleanses, and it fills the gaping void. I know the temporality of pain. Acknowledgment is the great enemy of pain. Don’t react, but just notice the pain. The feeling that crawls around your heart and pecks at it is just a feeling. You are healthy and your heart is still pumping. The cloud of anxiety that fogs your head is just in your head. You are not a cloud. You are a boulder. With time, it dissipates. God’s hands on the clock hold onto the past like an elegy and reach into the future like a battle cry. The hands cover the wounds but make more cuts. As each second passes the denominator increases though the numerator remains the same. We sit and wait until one day each second seems as trivial as a sesame and as gargantuan as a galaxy. Editor: Chris F. Image source: Unsplash

The idle mind is the devil’s playground. An all too popular maxim. Hard work, toil, and activity are conducive to good character: it is a belief held by many. And like many things, when taken to extremity, this belief can be a harmful perversion of its initial self. Within Filipino culture, there is a dominant narrative that underscores much of our history. We are devastated by natural disasters, poverty, censorship, colonialism, and corruption. Yet we, a small but spirited people, stand strong in the face of hardship. We remain friendly—ever the hospitable, wish-granting local. The simple but strong islanders and that is our way. We Filipino individuals are resilient. I am guilty of buying into this myself—being born in the States to a middle-income family, I am gifted with much more comfort and privilege than many in the Philippines. A tour guide once relayed his story to me, how he earned about twenty dollars a day and worked his way up from poverty to live just shy of a comfortable life. Though he worked tirelessly day after day, diligently and humbly serving those who requested his help, he was still a poor man. My first thought was to admire his resilience, not to question the system that had forced him to spend his life like this. As immigrants, we take pride in our toil. We have worked and earned our way to a better life. We have fought for our seats at a table that was not built to accommodate us. In the homeland, the hardships we face are dealt with daily. Should a typhoon ravage our home, we will find a way to rebuild on our own. No matter how long it takes. Suffering, after all, builds character. It is not difficult to understand why this narrative has endured. Resilience is an easy way to normalize struggle. Promoting a cultural idea that there is pride in hardship is very exploitable, as we can commend suffering instead of getting to the root of why those people should suffer at all. It is not exclusive to Filipino persons. The popular expressions of commendable resilience used by Filipino politicians echo the mindless and empty phrases of American politicians, specifically their notorious utilization of the phrase, “thoughts and prayers.” It is an acknowledgment of hardship that tries to alleviate all burdens from those in power by distracting from the fact that active change is possible. Think of the value of labor, of people applauding nurses who work 48-hour shifts, teachers who are underpaid and devalued, and parents who work while caring for their children. We don’t immediately question what puts people in these circumstances –why do hospitals refuse to properly staff their floors, why doesn’t the government allot more funding to public schools, why don’t better welfare programs and support systems exist for struggling parents? In almost every society, on almost every minuscule level, there is a glorification of resilience that not only encourages people to endure suffering–but actively pits people against one another. People are lesser, selfish, or callous, for shamelessly honoring their mental and physical health. This is a practical ideology for those in power, weaponized against the helpless. I have spent my one life coming to terms with the idea that I am not stronger, deeper, or more important simply because I suffer. In academic institutions, amongst young people, especially those well-off and privileged, there is something appealing about having some sort of chip on your shoulder. There is the constant comparison of workloads and conversations that go like so: “I’m so tired..” “You think you’re tired? I only got three hours of sleep!” There’s pride taken in juggling extracurriculars, AP courses, advanced college curriculum, a job, full course loads, doing everything a human being is capable of, and pushing your limits mentally and physically. This is not a sustainable or healthy idea. But it is remarkably enduring. The pessimist in me is not hopeful that this narrative, which is worked so finely into the threads of our society, will be extracted any time soon. I catch myself buying into it sometimes. What is needed is work from those who actively profit from the belief. And unfortunately, those individuals and organizations won’t be attempting to unravel their own power structure any time soon. In the meantime, perhaps all we can do is focus on ourselves individually. We must decry the veneration of suffering. We must honor ourselves, our health, and our prosperity. We must aim towards the acknowledgment that suffering is not necessarily conducive to a good character, and especially not to a good society. Editors: Lang D., Claudia S., Erika Y. Image source: Unsplash

I was 10 years old when I first visited Japan. As I rode a local train passing by the meager, quiet off-roads of suburban Japan, I felt a sense of contentment like never before. How quiet and quaint the neighborhood was as the train slowly rumbled through. The sky was shrouded in thick clouds creating a perfect postcard image framed by the window. It was a stark contrast from the Shinkansen — the world’s fastest train — as my little brother and I admired the countryside, encircled by flashing waters. Only an elderly couple in the same carriage as us. The old lady fumbled with her hands, seemingly occupied with a piece of square paper. I only took notice of her when she reached towards us, hands outstretched with two little paper cranes. I took one crane into my hands, admiring the perfect crisp edges of talent. To my little brother, she held out another crane and, pulling on the tail, moved its wings. Despite the language barrier, a display of gentleness expertly wrapped in origami paper, and given away through a simple but profound gesture was demonstrated through this gift. As it so often is, there are many great journeys in life, but the greatest is that of contentment; being able to embrace the way things are in moments that seem like a gift. Gifts like the one created from the old lady’s hands may show how life is brief, transitory, and worth clinging on to because of it, but it is also an extraordinary reminder of solace in a discordant world. Editors: Chris F., Marie H. Image Source: Unsplash

Dear Boston, To the strange and funny places I end up calling home. Your brick and mortar homes, your towering glass and metal skyscrapers. You were the city I didn’t know I wanted, the city I didn't know I needed. Pulling me away from the sunny California coast— replacing it with snowstorms, nor’easters and more wind than I could imagine. You are the opposite of where I grew up, crowded, loud, busy, bustling. The train that rolls past my apartment window until past 1 am, the sports games, tourists, and cars. To me, it’s life, to deal with the messy and the gritty. To have to chase a train in the early morning hours and a bus late at night. Keeping me on my toes, never knowing what the next day will bring. For all your rough edges, you have sanded me down, polished me, until I no longer resembled the scrappy nineteen-year-old that first moved into your ancient apartments. You grew me, fed me, and gave me what I needed– a bit of no-nonsense love, kindness, and care. What my eighteen-year-old heart craved. A second home, a fresh start, and another chance to bloom. Love, Chris Author's Note: This piece for me explores the idea of how we find home in unexpected places. I moved to Boston in 2019, having never visited the city before. I had no idea what to expect. I ended up falling in love with a place I never expected to call home. Editor: Amelia P.

Our Father, who art in heaven, they told me You are the eternal remedy they said You perform miracles can You show me? i’ve been a good catholic or i’ve tried i’ve battled my logic i’ve confessed my sins i’ve begged and begged for dominion at Your feet until my tired knees gave out and i collapsed with clasped hands like a desperate fool but i am not a fool, right? according to them, i can’t be; the Bible is more than a fantastic piece of literature, they told me the gospel does bear all objective truth, they assured but it doesn’t matter– i’ve tried but the tempest prolongs as if the Word of God is just words and nothing more. auntie says You’d have mercy if i stayed attentive during mass, frequented faith formation, and prayed before every meal. i ask what if the french never came, we never suffered imperialism, and this religion never reached vietnam? she responds with nothing, then says that You were meant to find us but sometimes i wonder if You have lost me. Amen; i mean, i shall not bear false witness, and so i swear i haven’t given up, but in righteousness this faith is unsure yet unshaken hence i return to Your house this Sabbath– Lord, i promise, i believe in You or i’m trying so vindicate me show me salvation pacify this internal crusade cease the weeping and the gnashing of teeth, and deliver me from evil. Amen. Editors: Chris F., Marie H., Nicole O., Nadine R.

I had a conversation with my older sister about moving out for college, and I worried about the amount of guilt I’ll feel leaving home. She resonated with me, feeling the exact same way for leaving our parents. "Our parents came to America with a black box over their heads," she told me. For the twenty years my parents have lived here, they’ve only known what their friends and newspaper rankings had told them. Other than that, they’ve continued to stick with their traditional norms — staying close by to take care of our family the way they’ve taken care of you. My parents ultimately refused to adapt to the western expectation, something that I had always dreamed of changing one day for them. While I still haven’t been successful, my sister and I work our hardest. Moving to SoCal, and being stubborn about accepting my offer at a university a ten-hour drive away from home was my attempt at doing so, just so they know I’m going to grow up to be successful. I needed a new network of people, and being restricted to a thirty mile radius from home is not going to let me have that. My sister is renowned in our family as the “strong-willed” sibling, and I, the “yielding” one. However, now is the time for me to be bold and put myself first, without feeling so ashamed of who I want to be. It was time they understood that there are so many other opportunities for me to grow outside of Sacramento, and that when in doubt, there will always be a choice — a new hobby, career, a new partner, a new different perspective. The famous line, “The Universe Is So Much Bigger Than You Realize” from Alpha Waymond embodies what I wanted my parents to have, that is just a simple understanding of how big the world can be for just their reluctance to grow, and that’s what I want to be for my parents. I want them to trust me: to know that I will one day repay their debts for having me and make some use of a degree they looked online to make $40,000 in California. I want them to see that I am brave and capable of navigating my way to a goal. I want them to be understanding, and I want them to support me. My life is only going to get bigger, and letting my parents grow with me is the only way they’ll know how big the opportunities in the world are. They are bigger than what their fears and comfort zone reduce them to, and I can only make the world a bigger place if I am given the space to. Editor: Chris F.

Scroll down to the bottom to listen to the author read this piece! You often hear the saying, “the world is your oyster,” at celebrations. Graduations, ceremonies, you name it. I’ve always liked that saying because it signified that with the right amount of hard work and determination, even the roughest grain of sand can become a luminous pearl with time. Perhaps they are a stellar student whose hard work was returned as an acceptance to a prestigious school. Maybe they’re a hard working athlete with D1 offers. Regardless, “the world is your oyster” symbolizes a world full of opportunity. I recognize that this saying has its nuances. “The world is your oyster” fundamentally depends on the grain of sand. No grain of sand is the same, and therefore no pearl will ever be the same. And what about the oyster? What if the oyster couldn’t create pearls like its kin? “The world is your oyster” ultimately encapsulates what life is like. There are aspects that we cannot control: we are all born a small grain of sand on the beach of humanity and cannot change how we are born or what oyster we are born into. As a senior in high school, this saying has circled around in my head a couple of times. I often think about the endless possibilities that lie ahead of us and what kind of pearl I will become. I think about how my future successes are not dictated by my college acceptance letter. I think about all the brilliant and ambitious people I am fated to meet in my freshman year of college. I think about turning 18 years old in the beautiful city of Washington D.C. and what living by myself away from home will be like. Of course, I am nervous. I am nervous and excited looking at endless possibility. Possibility inherently implies impossibility, and I am always dreading what comes and what doesn’t. Life is never stable or constant. Like the oyster, the world is constantly changing and it takes time to become that pretty pearl. This means that I am bound to experience hardship and uncertainty. But the end product, the idea that I will improve and become a better person and experience new things, is exhilarating enough to push me forward. Good luck, class of 2027. The world is our oyster! Editors: Amelia P., Chris F. Picture credit: https://theenglishtree.it/news/the-world-is-your-oyster/

The first time I encountered Hurricane Kimchi (he/she/they) in person, I didn’t even really meet them. It was a humid June, the hustle of the city both gutting and tangible at once. Lorde blasting on the speakers: when summer slipped us, underneath her tongue. Two friends and I made plans to get ready together and go to Yagangaejang (야간개장, lit. night-time viewing/tour, colloquially referred to here as YGGJ), a queer block party-esque event taking place in the alleyways of Seoul’s Jong-ro district. June 2022 was the first time in three years it was being hosted, due to pandemic restrictions and other organizing complications. The Ikseon-dong alleys—normally home to trendy pop-up stores and cafes populated by young 20-somethings—transformed into something else entirely under the pride flags and bold pink-black decorations. Yagangaejang promised a night full of performances, workshops, a flea market, free HIV testing booths, and more; artist-activist Hurricane Kimchi, as part of Seoul Drag Parade, happened to be participating in the drag concert at Saladaeng Bangkok. The crowd at the venue was bigger than we’d expected, so we watched the show from outside with a smaller crowd of stragglers instead. Even though the sound was muffled by the floor-to-ceiling glass we were looking through, we cheered when the audience did and let our breaths fog up the window. Some small record of our presence here, however brief. I’d done my fair share of slinking into drag shows and gay bars as a teenager but this block party marked the first time I’d been back in Seoul after turning 19, the official age of majority. I felt far from an adult, but I finally had legitimate access to the sacred, transgressive space of nightlife—one deemed doubly deviant for not only refusing the confines of a 9-5 workday, but also for its frank presentation of desire, sexuality, and liberation. My friends and I have always talked about how to grow up queer in Korea is a form of grief. Our experiences were fraught with the loss of communities around us, the loss of being able to rely on our parents, the loss of a future in the country we were nonetheless entangled with. It was queer cultural workers and nightlife artists of all mediums who let me believe in a future. For many personal reasons, I am honored to be able to interview South Korean queer artist-activist Hurricane Kimchi; in addition to that, he continues to do amazing work in different areas that align with DAY values. Below are some snippets from our written exchanges, where we discuss creative processes, LGBTQ+ issues in Korea, and the personal and political stakes of activism. This project is a collaboration with DAY Prism, who have created the lovely graphics soon to be featured on our Instagram! Hurricane Kimchi (he/she/they), also known as Heezy Yang, is a self-described “South Korean drag queen, singer-songwriter, event organizer, illustrator, and LGBTQ+ rights activist.” Their most recent single, “The Journey” (가는 길이 있어요, lit. there is a way) came out in May and is available wherever music can be streamed. Eunice Kim [EK]: What was the process of writing and producing your latest song, “The Journey”? Who or what did you take inspiration from? Hurricane Kimchi [HK]: I’ve tried many different genres since I started producing my own music in 2020 – ballad, folk, EDM, pop-rock, holiday music, etc. People have said that I have a good voice and skills for singing Trot and I’ve actually performed covers of some Trot songs at shows before. So I’ve always wanted to try the genre with my own music too. So I wrote the song back in 2021 but it took 2 years for me to record everything and mix and master as it required a lot of work and input from a lot of talented people. I wanted to mix the older Trot vibe from decades ago and more recent vibe. I would say the sound may be more older/traditional but the wittiness of the song and the (upcoming) music video reflect the modern Korean music vibe. The lyrics really reflect what I’ve been thinking about life a lot in the past few years. I felt like people (including myself) were missing out a lot of important things and a lot of fun that are around us, because we are so focused on chasing shallow goals and going forward too fast. And like the song says, we lose some friends along the way, and we realize that we didn’t even get to say goodbye to them because we were so damn busy. So musically, I was very much inspired by the Trot genre, and lyrically I was inspired by my own life and what I was going through and experiencing in it. EK: My favorite song of yours is actually one that came out last year, “I Know Where You’ve Been” with Samuel Tolley; I looped it obsessively last summer! What were your intentions behind that song? Did you have an audience in mind? HK: It was actually a song that Samuel and I wrote, for a drag show we did together back in 2016. It was for just that one time. But as he was deciding to leave Korea after his time here, to go back home to the states, we wanted to have a little souvenir that contains our friendship and memories so we decided to record and release the song. As a person with chronic mental issues – depression and anxiety – I know how hard it can be to just hang in there when you are going through a tough time, and you feel alone, but actually I think the world is full of people who are all going through tough times and feeling lonely. I always feel comforted and better when someone says they have had a similar experience so they know how I feel and I will eventually get through this. So I wanted to say that to others through this song, hoping it would make them feel less alone and comforted. So the people who’d need to hear that they’re not alone would be the audience. My music or other art, I always consider LGBTQ+ people as one of the main audiences because I’m deeply in the LGBTQ+ scene and community myself, and I know what it’s like to live as LGBTQ+ people in this world. EK: In addition to being an amazing musician, you’re also a drag and visual artist who works with comics, prints, etc. Do you think working in multiple mediums has impacted how you create and view art? For instance, does your drag make its way into your music videos, or does having a visual arts background help you create looks for performing? HK: Having a background in visual art definitely helps with my drag, and vice versa. I think the more mediums you can use, the better you can express yourself. For me it’s easier to say certain things to certain audiences with music, live performance, and sometimes it’s better to explain who I am and what I think with different mediums – comics, posters, photos, etc. All the artistic mediums can be all just similar yet very different at the same time, so it’s fun to play with them all, and who says you can’t? So why not – that’s my mindset when it comes to being experimental with art and mediums. All my art is all connected – for example, my drag appears in my music videos, comics, and illustrations. It’s natural because the source is always the same – it’s me and my life. — Our conversation then shifted to the intersections of Korean and LGBTQ+ identity. Even the stage name of Hurricane Kimchi speaks to that juncture: when asked about it, he referenced BoA’s “Hurricane Venus,” a k-pop song he liked when just starting drag. Riffing off that phrase, he ended up “replacing Venus with Kimchi” to create a recognizably Korean name. “These days, everyone around the world knows about K-pop and K-culture, but nine years ago, it was a different story. The only thing people outside of Korea knew about Korea back then was kimchi, more or less.” This was a recurring theme in our conversation, and also resonated with my lived reality as a Korean American person. EK: In what ways do art and activism intersect for you? In what ways are they separate? HK: I initially started becoming interested in activism due to art – performances with messages, political illustrations and posters, etc. I thought that was cool, and thought I could try and do something like that, and so that’s what I’ve been doing. Like many people have already said to me, some people became aware of South Korea’s LGBTQ+-related issues thanks to my cute and simple comics. Some people became invested in some issues due to my drag performances. Just like that, art opens up easy entryways to activism I think. People may not read or understand long articles and news programs but they would happily read my comics and come and see my drag shows, and they understand what I’m trying to say with my art. In what ways are they separate? For me, some activism art comes out of me naturally, but for certain pieces or projects, I’d have to do a lot of research and studying – laws and political stuff. I wouldn’t say the two are separate but for me personally I just need to make an effort to connect the two in order to practice good activism with my art. EK: Recently, there has been a boom of Korean culture on a global scale. While this has been exciting, many outsiders tend to romanticize South Korea without thinking critically of its institutional flaws, which are especially evident to LGBTQ+ people here. What do you think about this attitude? How has it affected you as a queer South Korean artist? HK: First and foremost, we don’t even have an anti-discrimination law in Korea. That means you can discriminate against us for being gay, trans, and you can get away with it. You can be put in unfair situations for being a sexual minority and the authorities won’t do anything about it. You can lose your job, you can be kicked out of a bar, and sure there’s some things you may be able to do about it – call them out, try to fight them – but these things shouldn’t happen in the first place, and when these things happen, there should be a legal system that can handle them. We don’t have that. Same goes with xenophobia, racism, ableism, religious discrimination, etc. Korea has a long way to go, and it needs to be called out by the international society when it is wrong. Here’s what I said in a TikTok video I made a while ago: “All the cool, beautiful, amazing things you see in Korean dramas… well, they’re mostly made up. But all the terrible things you see in Korean dramas? They’re all true!” EK: I feel like international audiences are often not familiar with the challenges you mentioned, or the ongoing activism done by queer and trans people here. What are some current LGBTQ+ issues (victories, losses, landmarks) in Korea that you want to highlight? HK: In 2017, the Korean military used a gay dating app to find gay soldiers (Korea has a compulsory military service for “men”) and the soldiers were sentenced to two years in jail with probation. The legal battle went on for a long time, but the supreme court ruled in favor of the soldiers and they were found not guilty in 2022. Article 92-6 of the Military Criminal Act which was used to criminalize the soldier still remains. This year, after a long legal battle, the South Korean high court ruled that National Health Insurance Corporation should recognise a gay activist couple’s same sex common-law marriage. It was truly amazing news. But the National Health Insurance Corporation appealed so we will have to see what the supreme court says in the end, and in general same-sex marriages are not recognized in Korea. — Many Asian American individuals are familiar with the experience of (predominantly East) Asian culture used for aesthetics and “diversity” points, while our most vulnerable communities become further invisibilized as the dominant gaze fails to perceive them. The recognition of South Korean media and popular culture worldwide has created important visibility in some ways—it still amazes the older generations of my family, who came of age facing the direct aftermath of Japanese colonization, American war, and military dictatorship, that Korea is now a so-called global power in its own right. That I can go to college in America and be met with nods of recognition when talking about Seoul. Sometimes even excitement, both respectful and not. It’s clear that Korea now has a place in the Western imaginary. This imagination can be traced back to a long history of Orientalism. Even when explicit mistrust gives way to admiration, its foundations rely on the same logic of othering and alienating, refusing to see a land as inhabited by real people. We cannot talk about Korea without addressing the (South) in front of it, a divide created by US intervention and escalation in the “Korean” War. Similarly, it is this continuing militarism that allowed for a central Seoul and created the need for nightlife and other forms of transgressive entertainment in the area: the neighborhood of Itaewon, where many queer artists like Hurricane Kimchi now successfully live and work. Queer and trans performers were historically involved in highly unequal exchanges with US soldiers, and at the same time, able to congregate and organize in the physical space of Itaewon, which contributes directly to the wellbeing of queer Korean performers today. When I speak about queer grief, it is this complicated legacy—one example of many—that I grapple with. Coupled with the lack of comprehensive legal protections and institutional support that LGBTQ+ Koreans face, our realities cannot be simplified down to whatever the latest k-aesthetic is. It is crucial to make visible Korea’s larger systems, both historical and current, holding them accountable in a way that also humanizes the real people at stake. — EK: Where do you see LGBTQ+ activism going in the future? You can talk about your personal plans as an activist, more broadly about your community, or on larger scales. HK: (I will speak about Korea’s situation, specifically.) Not only do I know that there are so many fierce, hardworking, smart LGBTQ+ activists here, but also I know that the younger generations of this country are already so much more open minded and better educated on human rights issues, so I think things will definitely look up, and we all know things change very quickly in Korea. However, right now the people with political power and money are conservative older people and religious (mostly Christian) people. Even the liberal politicians in this country are homophobic, and our previous president who used to be a human rights lawyer stated that he is against homosexuality at a presidential debate on TV. So in the meantime, we will have to do everything we can to minimize the damage and reach out to and save those who are in need of help. EK: Finally, activist burnout is something I’ve had a lot of conversations about recently. We often feel a sense of urgency and forget our bodyminds have limitations. What do you do to take care of yourself? How do you sustain your activism while protecting your own capacity, especially as the status quo seems to get worse and worse? HK: I’m working on this but it’s so not easy! Burnout is one thing and I have to manage my chronic depression and anxiety as well. I’ve gotten better little by little in the past few years I think. I take some medications but I make sure I know what I’m taking and how they affect me and I think about how I would like to change my medicine consumption status over time, depending on how I’m doing. And also I started meditating recently and it really helps. And knowing and accepting that I’m not 20 something any more, and giving my body less work and more breaks is key I think! As a highly sensitive person, I do find all the things happening not just around me but around the world extremely exhausting, and that part gets worse and worse as I get older and I am aware of all the problems in this world. I’ve yet to find solutions for that but I plan on actively working on it! — This pride month, I want to think about queer futures; worlds where we survive and take care of our own. I remember my own younger self, watching hungrily from the sidelines, waiting for something I couldn’t have had the language to name yet. Queer grief is a blueprint. It means believing in something so hard you create it. — Follow Hurricane Kimchi online: Instagram: @hurricanekimchi, @heezyyang Linktree: linktr.ee/hurricanekimchi Portfolio: heezyyang.wixsite.com/hurricanekimchi Make sure to stream their music here and watch their latest music video here! Editors: Alisha B., Uzayer M., Luna Y., Lang D. Image Credits: PinkNews

take a cardboard box with base of roughly 300 square kilometres. secure only one of the edges with tape. remove any lingering hint of a breeze or the dwindling freshness of late spring. burn the piles of fallen leaves to a crisp. leave the smoke. start building. any stack of cards will work as walls. matchsticks too. construct them halfway only. at any given point at least 1 in 4 structures should be skeletal, either in the process of being broken down or rebuilt. leave little to no space to breathe. work on the roads now. you don’t have to do much but do it repeatedly. every summer, hammer them open just in time for the monsoon floods so the tar will never set. footpaths/overbridges are optional; no one will use them. pour plastic waste around the edges for a pop of colour. start adding people. made from toothpicks, flammable. in bunches around the corners, along the borders, until the weight starts pushing at the box. optional: draw on faces, remembering the heat. everyone is exhausted and just slightly apocalyptic. (traffic can be simulated using breadcrumbs and superglue.) make it so that an earthquake would kill 300 000, apprx. for best results, ignite the matches. fill the box with water. the floods will come and go. if the city falls apart, that’s part of the process. add a lid to brew humidity, let the car fumes coagulate. the sun should not be within reach, but should feel like it is. get creative! add a new airport (under construction), mall (abandoned project), metro railway (just opened!). begin development in the area meant for drainage (sewers are futile—it’s too late now). great for a summer swim. or substitute with lakes that are barely lakes, rather molten landfills. the sun should bring the odor to a boil. (at this point, the box should be spilling haphazardly outwards and possibly ablaze.) decorate with a coat of dust and a simmering sense of restlessness. Editors: Leila W., Erika Y.

Scroll down to the bottom to listen to the author read this piece. Whenever I meet with my Vietnamese, humanities professor, he always brings up the idea that "my prince charming" is coming– a rich prince who will sweep me off my feet and love and support me forever. Over the past two semesters, I’ve met with him at least once a month with another (male) student. Meetings typically consist of listening to my professor’s extended philosophical lectures and providing updates on how our classes are going. And at some point in the meeting, he talks about marriage and eventually his expectations for my nonexistent love life. At first, I saw his concerns for my marital status as a joke and at times heartfelt. He’d tell both of us that we need to find people who we respect and who respect us. People who we can talk to and constantly learn from and who support us. But the conversation would always end with me and my need to find a husband. With the constant push for marriage at each meeting with my professor, I considered finding a guy to pretend to be my boyfriend in order to temporarily satisfy my professor’s concerns. This idea made me think of the viral boyfriend rental services that have popped up all over East Asia, digging into the true purpose behind them rather than the silly tourist attraction that the media has painted them as. In the US, modern relationship standards have led to the normalization of hookup culture and the preference for "partnership" rather than the legal act of marriage. In Asian countries, specifically Japan and China where boyfriend rentals are popular, marriage is still seen as an exchange between two families in which the family of the groom secures the continuation of their family line, and the family of the bride is assured that their daughter will have a supported, happy life. This pressure is especially prevalent in China due to the effects of the One-Child policy that has produced more men than women, resulting in a smaller pool of “opportunities” for the men to continue their family line. An additional outcome of the One-Child policy is that since boys are favored over girls, the girls of China who were kept were encouraged to be as strong as boys and to get an education. “A girl with a degree equals a boy,” says Leftover Women’s Qiu Huamei. But this encouragement has backfired on the parents of these Chinese girls since they have learned and gained independence through their education. In China and Japan the derogatory term “sheng nu” or leftover woman, has been created to label educated, professional women in their mid-’20s and ’30s who are still single. This label is what initially prompted the boyfriend rental business which has allowed “leftover women” to temporarily satisfy their parents’ concerns for a husband. It is a paradox of a situation with young girls being told to be equivalent to a son only to grow up and be told to marry as soon as possible. This same paradox was reflected in my discussions with my professor. He’d tell me that as a young girl, I needed to be assertive and independent, but he’d also tell me about the benefits of a husband and how he’d be the one to support me. Our last meeting for the year was for dinner where he promised we’d meet his wife. In attendance was my professor, my male peer, a girl from his other class, myself, and, as promised, his wife. As we slurped down our bowls of pho, my professor did his usual routine, giving notes on philosophy, asking about our finals, and providing marriage advice for us girls. For most of the dinner, his wife was very quiet and the only exchange of words we students had engaged in was our initial greeting. But as my professor got to the point in his conversation when he specifically addresses the girls about finding an intelligent man to rely on, his wife interjected and defended that we “are independent women.” In China, “strong woman” is another derogatory label pushed onto ‘older’ women who remain unmarried. These women are strong women. The women who tried to make up for their gender by earning a degree, obtaining a well-paying job, and becoming self-reliant. But neither a masters degree nor a doctorates is equivalent to a parent’s dream for a MRS. degree. While this contradictory push for girls to become ‘strong women’ but also marry young is heightened in China and other Asian countries, the issue is still relevant in America. This contradiction became prevalent in the US after World War II. During the war period, women followed Rosie the Riveter into the workforce, proving they could do "men's" work, and do it well– performing as ‘strong women.’ But when the war ended, gender roles were reinstated and women were expected to go back to the kitchen and be stay-at-home moms, painting the 1950s American Dream household we know today. A similar reversal occurred with the popularity and later condemnation of China’s “Iron Girls.” While men also carry this burden of securing marital status in order to confirm the continuation of their family line, they are allowed more freedom for when this task needs to be completed. Additionally, boys are encouraged to become strong, independent men. But for girls, the dream to become a strong, independent woman is often not advertised– if it is, know that it is temporary and contradictions live in our path. To be a truly strong, independent woman means to be strong and independent, whether it is encouraged or not. To become deaf to the labels thrown into our ears. To be married or not to. To be a woman who pursues what she wants. Ariel became a human, Cinderella made it to the ball, Bell saved her father, Tiana got her restaurant, and Mulan won the war– but they also happened to fall in love. A prince charming may be part of the journey, but he is only a part, not my whole. Editors: Lang D., Claudia S., Leila W.