Dear Asian Youth, Although March 8th is National Women’s Day, women all over the world should be celebrated daily. However, many women in South Asian countries continue to suffer abuse at the hands of the men in their lives. Women who live in poverty often find themselves in a system they can never beat, as seen by the issue of abortions in South Asia. The stigma that surrounds abortions originate from and continue to perpetuate the gender oppression women face. As an Indian teenager myself, I am appalled when I see South Asian girls my age married and pregnant. It is crucial to bring awareness and break down the patriarchy dominating our nations. I hope to touch Asian youth, especially our dear Asian girls, and remind them that our fight for gender equality must stand strong in the face of repression. Before looking at abortions in South Asia, one must compare it to that of a developed socio-economic hub: the United States of America. On April 2, 2019, the Human Life Protection Act was signed in the state of Alabama, which worked to ban abortions at any stage of pregnancy. The act also delivered criminal charges for doctors who perform the procedure, except for cases of a medical emergency. With the Human Life Protection Act, even a rape victim would be denied access to an abortion during any trimester. Although U.S. District Judge, Myron Thompson, issued a preliminary injunction that prevented the act from entering into effect, just the proposal of such a legislation proves the fragility in a woman's right to choose. At first glance, abortions in Asia do not seem like a problem one would consider prevalent, as abortions are widely legal in most of the continent. However, after further analysis, the social stigma that comes with the procedure is unmatched. In most, if not all South Asian countries, gender inequality is kept alive by both patriarchal values and the opposition of women in places of power. In South Asia, children are nurtured from birth to take on traditional roles: girls are raised to be submissive and to keep their mouths shut, while boys are told to fight for dominance and be the caregiver of the family. In children's books I've read, the husbands becomes angry whenever their wife has a daughter, as males are supposedly the only “worthy” sex. Subsequently, young girls are brought up under the belief that they exist to submit themselves to men. According to Unicef, 1 in 2 girls are married before the age of 18. Countries like Bangladesh and India have child marriage rates over 50%. As India is one of the most populated countries in the world, it is not difficult to connect India’s skyrocketing population to the number of child marriages. Due to South Asia’s recent industrialization, South Asia "has the second-highest number of maternal deaths worldwide". The health service is still in a state of disarray due to the divide between South Asian regions and classes. Many girls, therefore, become pregnant at a young age, but are incapable of raising children as they are children themselves. However, many young women in South Asia cannot access these safe abortions that they desperately need and when they do, the environment is far from sterile. Additionally, women who live in regions of poverty are not allowed to choose to have an abortion—if one is available to them, the male would make the ultimate decision. The real issue here is not the legality of abortions in South Asia, but the lack of quality and the stigma surrounding abortions. In too many South Asian countries, abortions are seen as taboo —a procedure that “must be kept a secret." How are women expected to live happily when they are not given the right to voice their opinions on matters that concern their own wellbeing and body? South Asian women are forced to endure this constant cycle of repression. For the voices of these women to be heard, they must first have the right to speak. Organizations like Unicef give South Asian women the education that they need to be self aware. Unicef has provided these women with paid school tuitions and other assets to fortify them for the future. While high levels of oppression continue to exist in South Asian countries today, feminists are actively fighting against it. Women worldwide are finally standing up to tell their stories and fight for their natural rights to, ultimately, have complete control over their bodies. - Prerna Kulkarni

Dear Asian Youth, The pandemic has been a mental rollercoaster for everyone. Personally, I have been bombarded with work, a multitude of deadlines, essays, and AP testing. While my struggles pale in comparison to others, I have seen a notable trend in the decline in happiness in all people, whether it be because of loneliness or the inability to work efficiently. However, with more research, I have noticed that the decline in happiness, in women specifically, isn't a new phenomenon. Now, I understand how absurd it sounds. The notion that women are becoming increasingly dissatisfied despite the undeniable progress we have made seems juxtaposed. Glass ceilings are shattered every day to mitigate stereotypes and attain equal rights. And with so many media outlets, it has never been easier for women to support one another. So the question begs: Why? Why is female happiness decreasing, in spite of our continuous progress? In short, there is an expectation that women should continue to do disproportionately high amounts of housework, despite having equal/similar jobs as men. It has been observed that for those employed for over 30 hours a week, whether that be a part-time job or being a housewife, happiness drastically decreases. Therefore, due to the increased levels of work, female leisure time is cut short, resulting in the rise of discontent. This downward trend has been recognized since the 1970s, just ten years after second wave feminist movements integrated large amounts of women into the workforce. This idea can be represented as a “second shift”, meaning women provide for both familial needs as well as entrepreneurial ones. The workload is then reinforced by gender roles that push for separation. There exists this expectation for women to “work like they don't have children” and “mother like they don't work outside the home”. Women are propped up to be submissive housewives, yet are simultaneously subjected to contemporary ideas. The sheer complexity of juggling two different lives and keeping them as separate entities is a taxing experience. While this may increase male happiness due to their reduced domestic responsibilities, women generally experience more stress. This counterbalances leisure-based satisfaction and destabilizes work-life balance. This double standard has penetrated every aspect of modern life -even mine. My mother was raised on the idea that she should be a good housewife and homemaker. Yet today, she defies many of these ideals by becoming a successful scientist. I can see her exhaustion after long days, yet she still determines to provide for my family to the best of her abilities. While this can be interpreted as her simply being a caring mother, it is important to recognize the gender norms that ultimately shape this type of behavior. Similar trends can be seen in the idea of a trophy wife. A trophy wife is often regarded as an achievement, but when the idea is flipped to a woman marrying a young, attractive man, it sounds off-putting. A comparable principle is applied here: a stay-at-home mom is normal, but many cannot sit comfortably with the idea of a stay-at-home dad. Essentially, these gender roles encourage traditional, as well as harmful patterns of increased stress among women. To lessen the burden of what we expect of women and what they expect of themselves, it is critical we first recognize that there is an issue. While it sounds simple enough, you’d be surprised to what degree we have ingrained the idea of gender roles into our daily lives. For women, this means self-evaluation of their circumstances and recognizing what expectations are placed on them. The more honest she is with the conditions, the more effective the outcome. Next, open communication within partners should be addressed. If someone is unhappy and feels they are overworked, then the issue should be approached and action should be taken. For example, conversations can be made to compromise switching off days doing the dishes, cooking for one another, etc. Finding that balance will ensure accommodation for both people's needs and provide arrangements accordingly. Fortunately for my mother, my father often cooks and does the chores with her. Between them, there is a mutual agreement that they need to share equal responsibility in the home. This mindset breaks down standards that would otherwise cause friction when combined with the lack of open communication. We must understand that the idea of gender roles is a false dichotomy, and realizing such helps to reduce stigma in society and increase happiness in women. - Allison Li

Dear Asian Youth, Does anyone else distinctly remember when boys would come up to you, pull at their eyes, and yell, “Ching chong”? Yes, Connor, I’m looking at you (don’t think that I’ve forgotten!). It’s experiences like these that made me feel insecure about my Vietnamese features. Growing up in a predominantly white town in North Carolina, I was one of four Asian American students in my 5th grade class. Naturally, being surrounded by European features, I grew self-conscious and subsequently hated my small eyes and flat nose. My childhood is plagued with memories of me standing in front of the mirror, widening my eyes with my fingers, and pushing up the sides of my nose—all in an effort to conform to the eurocentric beauty standards around me. Beauty trends come and go. We’ve seen the era of big fluffy eyebrows, glowy glass skin, and the Kim Kardashian hourglass body shape. This summer, however, the trend seems to lean towards the notorious "Asian eyes". I’m sure you’ve heard of the fox eye trend on TikTok, where people shave off the ends of their eyebrows, slap on a bold liner, and tug at the corner of their eyes. Sounding familiar? People used to make that eye-pulling gesture to make fun of our small, narrow eyes, but now that non-Asian influencers are doing the same, it’s considered beautiful. Not only is this insensitive, but it’s hypocritical that, for years, I was told by society that my features were ugly. In a society where minorities’ cultures are often appropriated, I wasn’t surprised to learn that Asian features have become the new trend. We did not undergo years of ridicule for pop culture to turn our distinct features into the next beauty craze. The history of this mockery dates back to when the term “chink” was conceived as a racial slur in the 1860s towards the Chinese immigrants who built America’s transcontinental railroad. To this day, I have been called a “chink” by strangers passing by, and even by my own classmates. Society has a history of overlooking racism and normalizing offensive gestures and phrases. A classic case of this pattern of hostility was demonstrated in an incident that occurred during the 2018 FIFA World Cup. After South Korea’s staggering victory over Germany, Mexican T.V. hosts, James Tahhan and Janice Bencosme, used the slant eye gesture on live television as a sign of “appreciation” to South Korea for securing Mexico’s spot in the knockout stages. A simple “thank you” would have sufficed, but no. They had to use a demeaning gesture to imitate and poke fun at our features. Similarly, the Argentinian soccer manager, Diego Maradona, was seen at the FIFA games making the eye-pulling gesture to South Korean fans cheering for Argentina. It was only after he received widespread backlash that he released a message stating, “I, from afar, tried to tell them how nice it seemed to me that even the Asians cheer for us. And that’s all, guys, come on.” Maradona fails to recognize that hiding behind the cover of being “nice” does not even begin to justify the degrading and insensitive nature of his actions. Now, I’m not saying that this fox eye trend’s intention is to be racist, but it is ironic that the very people who participate in this trend today are the same people who insulted us for our eye shape. If you search up #foxeye on TikTok, the videos are flooded with comments of people voicing their opinions on this trend. @tvboba wrote, “It’s ok. They’ll just get wrinkles faster for pulling their eyes back so much.” I guess that’s a consequence they’ll have to deal with, right? At least we won’t be worrying about wrinkles in our 20s. Another user (@mina_myer) said, “I love how they like POC features when it’s not a POC.” Remember all the times the Kardashians wore cornrows in their hair? Or when Kacey Musgraves wore a traditional ao dai (a traditional Vietnamese dress) without pants? “Unless you're Asian… you don’t get to decide whether this trend is offensive or not. You haven’t been mocked at school for having small, upturned eyes,” wrote @amylei0. Today, the fox eye trend is just another example of the normalized racism that we experience on a day to day basis. This distinct feature of ours went from being something thousands of Asian Americans were bullied for and became insecure about, to a look that became “trendy,” just like that. Fortunately, we are seeing more Asian Americans come together as a community to speak up about the injustices we face. This surge in activism may be partly because of the recent rise of Asian representation in mainstream media. Blockbuster movies such as Crazy Rich Asians and the Academy Award-winning film, Parasite, have paved the way for diversity in Hollywood to be the norm. Even in the music industry, we are seeing genres like Kpop attract listeners from various races, not just the Asian community. On social media, movements such as #IAmNotCOVID19 and #RacismIsAVirus have emerged in light of the current pandemic to bring awareness to the recent surge in xenophobia. The good news is, we are not alone. Our voices and sense of empowerment are amplified by the support of fellow minority groups, such as the Black and Hispanic communities, who continue to stand by our side. It’s time that we stand up against the normalized racism in our society because eurocentric beauty standards shouldn’t be the norm, and racist gestures and phrases shouldn’t be a daily encounter. However harmless the fox eye trend may seem, the hypocrisy behind it disregards the years of torment we’ve endured. - Sunna Mai

a spoken word poem. watch the performance here. Dear Asian Girl, Let me tell you a story. She was young, at first. Young and proud, at first. Roots nurtured by her ancestors, she would lie on the ground to soak up their wisdom. Short, stubby branches reached out to touch their souls and she would feel the life that once danced on this sacred land. She would taste the golden nectar of her language from the seeds her mother planted. Her pride: the sunlight that fed, her stories: the sweet water that nurtured, her traditions: the soil—a structure of all things beautiful. But soon her branches grew, grew into the unknown and she went into the world in search of greener pastures. But instead she found dying roots. Savage—they called her. Chink, Paki, Dink, Gook, Raghead. They claimed she stung with her thorns but they didn’t know her thorns were her beauty. And they tainted her sunlight until the fire burned her insides, casted a dry spell until it robbed her of her water. Stole her fruit, Snapped her branches, Colonized her soil. Until her songs became only a faint memory on her lips and her stories stayed forgotten dreams. But Dear Asian Girl, Do not forget where you came from. Lie on the ground again and turn back the clock. Revisit your mother’s kitchen, fill the air with notes of sour and sweet and feel prickles of spice soothe your throat. And Dear Asian Girl, you know you’re home. Like that of a child, let your people’s lullaby sing you to sleep. Harmonize to a chorus so sweet that you can taste the wonders on your tongue. Because Dear Asian Girl, we sing our tunes in different tongues, different swirls and different drums beat the same beat. Our hearts still beat the same beat. And together, Asian girl, we create our own harmony- a battle cry so loud, you can hear it in your chest when you breathe and smell the burning fire when you scream. Look around you, see how far we’ve come? Well dear Asian girl, we’ve only just begun. - Stephanie Hu and Ashley Lee

Dear Asian Youth, If the pandemic could end right now, what would you want from 2020? Here are some of the answers I received after asking my friends the same question: "I want a chance to play spring sports this year." "I want to go to that concert I've been waiting so long for." "I want to have the chance to get that summer body for the beach." "I want to have my senior prom and graduation with my friends." The list goes on and on, and I've never related to anything more. I've already lost the hope of having a huge 18th birthday celebration in June; I won't be able to see my senior friends for the last time; I haven't had bubble tea for two months! Needless to say, this year has changed our habits, our plans, our lives. But the fact remains: two pandemics are ravaging the world right now, and one has plagued us for centuries. The pandemic that never left us is xenophobia. We've all heard of Asians selling and eating infected bats or snakes, both raw and cooked; we’ve all seen the horrifying news circulating on social media. Headlines ruptured from various social media platforms: Elderly Chinese Man Collecting Cans in S.F. Assaulted by Group in Heartbreaking Viral Video, Korean Student Punched in the Face in NYC for Not Wearing a Face Mask, Teen Who Spat On, Threatened Asian Women With Knife for “Bringing Corona” to Australia is Arrested. The list never ends, and bullying and abusive language towards Asians have increased over 900% since COVID19 ransacked the word. However, these racist and seemingly intolerable actions are being justified and overlooked. How much more blatant racism do we have to endure before we start speaking up for ourselves? Everything is ignored until it's your grandpa who gets assaulted, your friend who gets attacked at school, or your mother who gets threatened and spat on while getting groceries. Allow yourself to be scared, but also allow yourself to be angry. We are repeating history. An official commission report dated back to 1884 concluded that “the Chinese are the filthiest and most disgusting, overcrowded hotbeds of disease and vice, disseminating fever and polluting the air all around.” The report also stated that syphilis, leprosy, and smallpox came from Asian communities. Over the next couple of decades, any and all recurring epidemics were miraculously blamed on the Asians -just as they are today. In example, President Trump’s recent choice in language has enraged the Asian community. He referred to COVID19 as the “Chinese virus”, and subsequently revived and provoked long-standing anti-immigrant narratives. In consequence with his rhetoric, we are seen as the physical embodiment of the virus. In the eyes of many, we are the disease itself. Hate speech and violent acts will not halt this pandemic. It will only deepen disunity in an already divided nation and undermine the collaborative effort necessary to defeat this virus. We must directly address issues of discrimination by dispelling negative attitudes and celebrating our nation’s diversity. It shouldn't be one race versus another race;it should be our humanity versus the virus. If you see hate, speak out. Be bold. People will support you. Stand by what you think is right. Be the person you will be proud of. If your family or friends are going through a hard time, be supportive. Offer to cook the meals, clean the house, and buy the groceries. Call your friends to remind them that you love them. Words mean more than you can imagine. If hateful words can hurt you, then kind words can cure you. If you are in a position to do more for your community, get involved. Volunteer for non-profit organizations. Help is accepted everywhere. Campaign for donations. Buy masks for frontline workers. There's so much you can do. So to answer my question, here is what I want from 2020: I want the underrepresented to be encouraged to speak up for themselves. I want to take our fear and transform it into words. I want to be able to safely say, "I am Asian, I look Asian, and I am proud to be Asian." I want 2020 to be the end of the pandemic known as xenophobia. Now, it’s your turn: if this pandemic could end right now, what would YOU want from 2020? - Emily Xu

Dear Asian Youth, Part I: The Early Years It took a long time for me to fall in love with my name. It was beautiful in Chinese. It meant unity, and peace, and the image of a glowing moon over a serene lake. It sounded like the soft brush of flowers against your cheek in the spring, like the warm caress of evening sunset rays in summer. It rolled off my family’s tongues gracefully, like smooth honey and pearls. When I was four, my family immigrated to the United States. My parents uprooted their lives in their mother country and started from scratch in a place with a language they scraped off of nineties’ TV sitcoms. All of a sudden, my name no longer seemed beautiful. No one could pronounce it. Even with the alphabetized pinyin system to spell out how the characters were said, my name was met with a wince and awkward silence on every attendance sheet I encountered. Within a few years, I learned to react to any utterance bearing the slightest resemblance to my name—Ian, Yen, Yee, Yahan, Yai-ahn, or the worst: complete silence followed by “... last name Li?” My English was barely enough to get me through the day, and I could not communicate with many of my classmates. No matter how hard I tried, my words didn’t come out quite the same. At first, I despised the English language. It had butchered my name, which had become the soggy, moldy leaves of autumn, and the dry, dead branches of winter. It had butchered my identity, and butchered the promise of a better life, better friends, and better opportunities I was supposed to have. Because as long as my hair was not blonde or brown, my eyes not wide and blue, and my pronunciation not cunningly melodic, I would remain an outsider. Silent stares would follow me wherever I walked, and whispers would haunt me through the hallways—even if I didn’t know what they were about. I filled the empty silences with books. Determined to prove that I could fit in, I taught myself how to read chapter books, and then novels. In my remedial speech class my schools placed me in, I kept an eagle eye on the shape of my tutor’s mouth, perfecting the forms and sounds of vowels and consonants, and mastering the phonics of the language that kept me in my shackles. Eventually, my English was deduced to be proficient, and finally fluent. I managed to keep up in English classes and make a few friends. When I opened my mouth to speak, people stopped asking me where I came from. And although my hair wasn’t blonde or brown and my eyes not wide and blue, I began to sound like them. Part II: The Middle Years I despised being Chinese. I despised the way teachers would hesitate before my name in roll call, and despised the face people made at my work ethic and drive to succeed. I despised the dumplings my mother would pack for lunch, which almost always guaranteed turned heads and crinkled noses. I despised my above-average school performance, and the way my classmates watched my achievements like a soap opera, building more and more levels to the pedestal they had already unjustly thrust me upon. One day in freshman year, we were receiving our most recent math tests back. My teacher customarily announced the students who had achieved a hundred percent; and to no one’s surprise, I was a regular recipient. One day, however, I was not. The whispers were immediate, with people quietly making teasing remarks about my “fall from grace,” slipping in snarky comments on my supposed “failure” when no one was looking, and pitifully coddling me over my shortcoming. I had received a ninety-eight. I felt like I was climbing a never ending ladder—every time I was nearly at the top, one more rung was added. I was either too smart to be white, or not smart enough to be Asian—the Asian everyone wanted me to be. I couldn’t win. I yearned to shed myself of my Chinese identity, but was too cowardly to cease my efforts in my academics. And so began the ironic self-deprecation; the days spent loudly agreeing with the difficulty of exams I in truth studied for; forcing laughter at jokes diminishing Asian-Americans and the model minority; convincing myself and everyone around me I had no talents, no abilities, no work ethic—that I was lazy, a master procrastinator, and sure to fail like everyone else. To others, it was relatability and humility. To me, it was a lie I pretended I loved. I despised any show of my native culture with my family and in public. I asked my mom to stop packing me lunch. I stopped speaking in Chinese on the phone in public. And I did everything I could to minimize when my parents spoke English in front of others. I was ashamed of their accent for fear that it would label us as outsiders—the same accent I carried for years in elementary school, which I managed to finally shed with hours of immersion and practice—hours that my parents had instead chosen to dedicate to their careers and building a loving home. I knew they were just as ashamed as I was. And it broke my heart on the inside. It broke my heart every time my mother triple checked if she was pronouncing a word correctly. It broke my heart every time my father asked me to edit his emails and employee reviews—for the very colleagues he managed and led. It broke my heart every time I corrected a word my parents pronounced incorrectly, and heard them silently repeating it to themselves under their breath hours later that night. It wasn’t until I lived through the most cliché moment a minority individual can experience in this country—when a man had rudely shouted at me on the street to “go back to where I came from,” and my anger had kept me up all night—that I realized I didn’t despise being Chinese. I despised the force with which immigrants and their children are shoved aside and thrown miles behind as they attempt to assimilate into a society that encourages them to fall short from the start. Part III: The Present Years My teachers still often hesitate at my name on the roll call sheet. I still get “Ian,” “Yay-ann,” “Yahn,” or “... last name Li?” I once had a teacher who went the whole year without addressing me by my name—I was reduced to “she,” “her,” or a finger pointed at me. But instead of fuming and saying “here,” I say “here” and “here” only. Because now I know, no pronunciation by silver-tongued, cunning, melodic voices can capture the beauty my name encompasses in its native language. I still edit my father’s work emails, and occasionally correct my mother’s pronunciation. But only when she asks. And I praise them both, and speak Chinese at home as much as I can. I help my family fold dumplings. And the stares don’t bother me as much when I speak on the phone in my language that others don’t understand. I still face regular pressure at school to achieve perfection and maintain my track record of high achievements—pressure that I suspect would maybe ease if I looked different. But I choose to keep my work ethic and drive to succeed, because my parents gave up everything they had and crossed an ocean to give me a better future, and I owe everything to them. It isn’t always easy. Although my English abilities have been polished under the guidance of my school teachers, and my free time is dedicated to both Eastern and Western cultures—I have played classical piano for more than a decade, and thoroughly enjoy it; and I love watching Netflix and spending the Fourth of July with my friends—I am not always in love with both my Chinese and American side. Some days, I wake up wishing I had blonde hair and blue eyes to fit the conventional Westernized standards of beauty. Some days, I wake up wishing I was lazier and a bigger procrastinator, so more people can talk to me about gossip instead of group projects. I fall victim to the perpetuation of model minorities, and occasionally find myself openly self-deprecating for the sake of seeming “less Asian” and seeking approval from others. One day, I hope that families who choose to start a new life here can live out the full potential of the American Dream, instead of having the caveats of that dream hold their own potential hostage. I hope people can walk down the street without being told to go back to where they came from. I hope people can eat what they choose, and study what they choose, and fail and succeed where they choose, without having internalized judgements thrust upon them based on the slant of their eyes. I hope children can grow up here and not feel ashamed to share their native culture in a country that ironically prides itself on freedom and diversity. I hope the youth can grow up in a space without being shoved into a box that is wholly Asian or wholly American. And I hope the price for acceptance is not an ultimatum to choose between the two worlds. But at least for now, I have fallen back in love with my name. Through winter, spring, summer, and fall, my name remains a calming force that reunites the clashing worlds I grew up in: reconciling Chinese and American, and slowly finding a proud and comfortable space in between. - Yi-Ann Li

Dear Asian Youth, "OMG, you’re from China?” This is a comment I hear way too often when I visit the United States. It sounds innocent enough, but something about it always feels off to me. Though I would love to believe this question comes from a place of genuine curiosity and interest, that is sadly almost never the case. Maybe it’s the intentionally exaggerated “OMG” that gets me, or the eye-widening look of surprise printed on the face of my inquirer - as if they’ve just discovered an unfathomable secret. Yes, Chad, I’m from China. And no, Chad, I do not eat dogs. But why this reaction? I constantly ask myself. When everyone else proudly introduces their hometown of Louisiana or Seattle, I see polite nods of acknowledgement and appreciative smiles from their peers. But when I calmly present myself as a Chinese citizen, all eyes around the room widen in shock. People crowd around me for information. “How can you speak English so well? Is it true you guys actually eat dogs? Do you guys have to wake up at 8:00 a.m. for the government to inspect your houses? Can you even watch TV? Have you ever tried Starbucks before? No… Wait. Do you even know what a Starbucks is?” I know what you’re thinking: what the hell are these questions? As shocking as it is, real teenagers have asked me these questions. I would like to point out an important distinction here. Curiosity and a willingness to learn is definitely not a bad quality; in fact, I actively encourage people to educate themselves. However, this interrogation disguised as a Q&A session has clear undertones of superiority, and is phrased in a manner that undermines my culture. To them, China is this exotic and underdeveloped country. They know so little about what life outside the United States is actually like. They make me feel scrutinized, or somehow drastically different from everyone else. Sometimes, people follow-up their initial comment with reassurance, telling me to “not worry”, and that they would’ve never guessed I live in China. This reply suggests that I should be relieved people don’t think I’m from China. That is the inherent problem - China’s tainted image in the eyes of westerners. Western society has a history of viewing Asian and African populations as barbaric - their justification for colonization and imperialism. A classic case of white man’s burden, colonizers believed that they were “making our ancestors more civilized, and improving our wellbeing” with their forceful entrance. This idea of being ‘better-than’ other ethnicities is deeply ingrained in western history, thus allowing for prejudice against other cultures, including mine, to continue. Western media has also portrayed Asian countries in an extremely negative light. News sources that claim to produce unbiased reports are creating articles directly criticizing and dramatizing the “Chinese lifestyle”. Furthermore, I rarely see articles or videos that address China’s real developments and improvements. Take the Coronavirus, for example. In China, we are celebrating the perseverance, sacrifice, and bravery of our nurses and doctors. Since January, my local community has come together to support one another, and I was lucky enough to witness stores, restaurants, and even schools reopening. My school opened up around three weeks ago, and everything has been going great. We have temperature checks, sanitation stations, and personal seating arrangements to ensure our safety. I was so excited to finally return to school and resume my education. However, in western media, the recovery of China from this dreadful pandemic is barely touched upon. Instead, my social media page is flooded with content attacking Chinese people for their eating habits. I even see foreign political figures referring to this pandemic as the “Chinese virus”. I stumble upon memes after memes about the coronavirus and Chinese people, an example of social media users perpetuating and reinforcing racism under the guise of “dark humor”. The coronavirus is just one of many examples of people hopping on the bandwagon to hate on an entire group of people, for the crime of maybe just one. Because once a bias is set against a certain group of people, an entire population subsequently becomes the target for hate crimes. This pattern of hostility and superiority over another race will continue if we keep overlooking xenophobic content. Western media, with its immense power and influence, needs to use their platform informatively, positively, and responsibly. If not, gossip and misinformation will spread like wildfire, resulting in serious false perceptions about Chinese people, or any other group for that matter. As summarized by Kevin Han, an associate professor at Iowa State University, “If you read a lot of negative articles, that leads to negative concerns and perceptions. Media provides a certain type of experience for people who don’t have personal or direct experience with a country, so they get the message mainly from the media.” As a person who has lived in China for almost her entire life, I can confidently dispel many ignorant misconceptions about my country. No, most people do not eat dogs. No, we are not robots controlled by the government (a shocker, I know!). Yes, I can watch TV and access the internet (wait, no, I am secretly writing this article online and risking my freedom, because the Chinese government will put me in confinement if they ever find out!). Yes, I have had Starbucks before. In fact, we have almost all international brands and stores in China. I want people to know that I love living in this country and I love honoring my culture. China is just another country. And Chinese people are merely humans, just on the other side of the world. I see Americans taking huge pride in their country, praising their land with colors of red, white, and blue. I wish to do the same with my country. My ethnicity is an enormous part of my identity, and I should not have to be ashamed of the blood in my veins. Additionally, many Americans need to understand that the reality of China is not always the way it is portrayed in the media. I implore everyone to properly vet the information you are taking in as “facts”, and stop the spread of misinformation about life in China. I sincerely hope that China’s labels of “exotic”, “scary”, “underdeveloped,”and “inhumane” can be replaced with kinder adjectives. So to answer your question, yes, I am from China, and I am very proud to be Chinese! - Eva Zhong

In times of crisis and strife, we need to take time to reflect on ourselves in order to muster the courage and strength to hang on. Only then, can we grow stronger. By uncovering this reflection of myself, I hope to convey that it is ok to not be okay. More than ever before, we need to be able to express our innermost thoughts and emotions in order to create a happier, more connected world with more love and empathy. Biography: Jacqueline Wu (16) is a writer and artist from Long Island, New York. She is involved with her acclaimed school magazine, Cinnabar, and other magazines like TeenMind and ReadThis. She has received several writing and art awards, including the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Jacqueline enjoys painting and playing the viola, and hopes to continue to empower through her words. You can find her on instagram (@jacquelinewu96).

I come home to apples with a word on them. Mother slices it in half. She hands me the word-part-- fu. I eat the word, whole, slowly biting the juicy radical, swallowing smoothly, but choking on the dry phonetic. Mother nods, knowing I can’t move my mouth the way she does, so she lightly pats my back. She silently crunches through her half, bruised insides, wordless words stuck in between each hollow crevice. I take a breath, hastily dive into crispy firm skin, juicy young flesh, leaving me, full and her, empty. fu: 福, meaning prosperity, good-fortune, blessing The inspiration for this piece came from an apple in Karen Zheng's house that was stamped with the word: 福. From that, Karen explores the language barriers between her and her mother, morphing it with the act of ingesting the word.

a spoken word poem. watch the performance here When you think of your stereotypical Asian girl, do not envision me. You see, in my house, my mother cooks rice. 1. I. Hate. Rice. I once told my mother I preferred cheeseburgers over kimchi. 2. I did not survive. My friends say that I am their favorite Mulan. 3. I am Korean. Don’t ask me to answer your misconceptions of who I am. I don’t need to add or subtract my identity to please you -that’s your problem to solve. My mother did not sign me up to play tennis like you thought she did. I can’t even hold an instrument but I can beat you with an argument. I can see perfectly fine, my vision is 20/20 and when I get my license, don’t look at me funny. You see, I am not your Asian stereotype. God painted me with all the right shades, perfected my being with every imperfection it takes. You, you expect me to be quiet, exotic, docile? Be a walking stereotype? Judge me when you’re perfect because these hands are made for something more. Girls like me are treated like queens back home, respect given with no hesitation, wait for me to start eating before their meal devastation. But you tell me, I am just your average Asian girl. So average, I can move mountains with my words. So average, I speak every tongue known to man. So average, I make you dance to every song. You say I am too weak to lift your man roles but my hands can carry your sharp words out the door. -watch me drag it and set it in a place where you can find forgiveness. I refuse to be silenced by drowning in your words, drowning in your ignorance, drowning in your perception of me. The waves of your voice trying to swallow me, churning in my soul and I can’t breathe. But I see you. I recognize your flaws. Because I am proud of my heritage, my culture and you cannot strip that away from me. I am a writer Healer Producer Filmmaker Doctor Musician Engineer Lawyer Artist Activist And the goddamn president of the United States. I am what I want to be and so much more and that is not your stereotypical Asian girl. - Ashley Lee

Dear Asian Youth, As a kid, did you ever forget the importance of Mother's Day? I know I did. I recall a time in 5th grade when we were assigned to make a gift for Mother’s Day. Our teacher didn’t want us to create anything cliché, so that meant no cheesy Mother’s Day cards or paper hearts decorated with drawings. She wanted us to dig deep into what we knew about our mothers. For me, food was the first thing that came to mind. Making food with my mom was a time when we could talk about anything: we could gush over our favorite TV show characters or tell each other about our days. Determined to create a gift that accurately represented the importance of food in our relationship, I grabbed the glue and scissors from a plastic tub and busted out my (arguably nonexistent!) artistic skills. After what seemed like a hundred hours of working, my glitter-covered hands wiped the sweat off my forehead and I stared in admiration at my greatest creation ever: a recipe book with “love” as the only meal. I remember getting creative with how I crafted the recipes, using ingredients like a pint of kisses and a sprinkle of hugs. That day, I went home with a huge grin plastered on my face, putting a little extra pep in every single step and a little extra groove in every single move. When I presented my mother the masterpiece, she smiled with joy and embraced me with tears in her eyes. I felt comforted and safe as she held me in her arms, and my heart tingled with a warm feeling I knew I could never get anywhere else. The Sunday of Mother’s Day, we made Spam sandwiches with our own little Filipino twist to them and cut them into adorable heart shapes. I munched down a couple and saved a few for Monday’s lunch. All giddy and excited, I couldn’t wait to show off my meal to all my friends. That Monday morning, I sprung out of my bed and for once felt excited to get up for school. I daydreamed about lunch during the entirety of class time and as soon as the lunch bell rang, I rushed out of the classroom and ran to the lunch tables. Plopping down next to my friends, they looked at me as if I was some sort of crazy person. I didn’t care. This was the moment I had been waiting for all day! My hands scrambled to unwrap my heart-shaped food, but as soon as I did, I was met with disgust and crinkled noses. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Everyone exchanged glances at once. Awkward silence consumed the table. I sat, dumbfounded. Finally, my friend interrupted the silence. “There’s a smell, and it’s coming from you.” What? A smell, coming from me? A million questions ran through my mind at that moment. Did I shower well enough last night? Did my breath stink? Do my clothes need to be washed again? Suddenly, the boy sitting across from me grabbed my lunch with pinched fingers, as if it was some sort of roadkill. It finally dawned upon me that it was my food that was making them feel queasy. I felt as if I was going to explode. Flailing my arms to take it back, I desperately yelled at him to stop. My heart was racing uncontrollably and I could feel my face getting hot as he continued to taunt me. After having a laugh with his friends, he finally tossed my lunch back to me. I couldn’t believe it. The Filipino meal that I was so looking forward to eating had been ridiculed, tossed around, treated like garbage. All I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry. I balled up the sandwich with my fists and chucked it into the trash can, running to the bathroom in tears. When I came home that day, my mom asked, “Did you enjoy your lunch?” I didn’t even want to open my mouth to respond. My eyes were visibly bloodshot, and my face was still fresh with tears. The silence was deafening, and my mom knew something was wrong. The look on her face at that moment was unforgettable: her skin paled, her eyes narrowed, her mouth agape. She realized what had happened. It was then, when I decided that I would completely renounce my Filipino culture. My efforts began immediately. I would beg my mom to stop packing leftovers for lunch. As soon as dinner ended, I would immediately pipe up and ask if I could have lunch money, instead of scooping my food into a container like before. There were some days when I would “accidentally” forget my lunch at home, so that my only option was to buy food from the cafeteria. Slowly but surely, pizza was the only lunch I had and I no longer ate adobo or tinola. When Mother’s Day came around the next year, I refused to have anything to do with Asian food and asked if we could have something else. It broke my mother’s heart, and when I realized what I’d done, it broke mine too. I hid my fear with hatred, and those whom I loved paid the consequences. Today, I am a freshman in highschool, and it has been 5 years since this incident occurred. I have been able to move past my ignorance and grow into who I am today. My mother and I have rekindled our relationship throughout the years, but I still feel immense heartache for the pain I caused her. However, I realize today that there is a silver lining to this. At the time, those whom I called friends laughed along with the joke, and those who didn’t sat there in silence. The supervisors who were supposed to keep us safe from discrimination promptly ignored the incident despite having witnessed it all. If someone, anyone, was brave enough to speak up, maybe I wouldn’t have felt as damaged. I learned that it is crucial to stand my ground in the face of prejudicial behavior, and to not only remain proud for who I am, but also for those who sacrificed so much to give me this life of privilege and happiness. With today being Mother’s Day and this month being Asian American/Pacific Islander Heritage month, we must stand united against the bigotry that tells us to abandon our cultures, and be thankful for the very mothers who stood by us when we were too blinded by our own self-hatred. Mom, thank you for giving me the recipe for loving, appreciating, and honoring my heritage, even when I spilled the pint of kisses on the ground and added too little hugs. - Julianne Tenorio

Dear Asian Youth, Last year, I was prescribed birth control pills. Ah, yes, birth control: the tiny, mysterious pill with a huge dose of hormones. The gynecologist told me that I might experience several side effects, including but not limited to: migraines, weight gain, mood changes, irregular menstrual bleeding, dizziness, abdominal pain, fatigue, blood clots, breast swelling, painful yeast infections, nausea, infertility, and death. Okay, so I was kidding about the death part, but it’s not like the other side effects aren’t serious. That day, I went home with my neatly packaged blue baggy, giddy about the prospect of becoming a “real woman”. Little did I know, I would forget to take the pill at least twice a week (which, to be quite honest, I was to blame). I would experience breast swelling, nausea, and migraines. I would snap at my friends for no apparent reason. And at those moments, I couldn’t help but wonder why I, alone, bore the responsibility of taking the pill everyday? Why don’t men have birth control pills readily available to them? In a world where men too often dictate what women should do with their bodies, it wasn’t surprising to me when I realized women hold the primary responsibility for sexual health in a male-female relationship. Let’s set a few things straight. I understand that birth control pills have their benefits. For women, they can regulate menstrual cycles, cure hormonal acne, and relieve period pains. However, for women who just don’t want babies, this burden seems unfair in comparison to a man’s responsibility (or rather, the lack thereof). But what about condoms? Men are using condoms as a contraception! Indeed, but condoms are cheap and safe to use. They offer little side effects in comparison to the hormonal birth control pill. Standing at an 85% success rate compared to the pill’s 99%, condoms are also less effective than the pill because it is often misused. As a result, the burden to prevent pregnancies often falls into the woman’s hands. With taking the pill comes the financial liability of prescription. According to Planned Parenthood, birth control pills typically cost between $0-$50 per month; this means that it could add up to $600 a year. That’s $600 many American women can’t afford to spare, especially considering that 78% of Americans live paycheck to paycheck. In addition, just the mere idea of having to take a pill everyday at the same time makes birth control sound like an unappealing option. Dedicating the time to visit a gynecologist, pick up the prescription at a CVS, then face protestors telling me contraceptives go against their religious views? Nah, I think I’ll pass. In 2016, feminists all around the world received a glimpse of hope when a study found that an injectable form of male birth control was both effective and reversible. However, the study was quickly dropped when the men involved complained about their side effects. They reported acne, fatigue, mood swings, and increased libido. Guess what? Women have been experiencing the same side effects, or arguably worse side effects, for 60 years now. We are expected to “just suck it up”, a clear reflection of the power dynamics in our society. Fortunately, in 2019, we saw another study alluding to the potential of the male birth control pill. In a research study conducted by the Los Angeles Biomedical Research Institute, 30 men ranging from ages 18 to 50 took an oral pill mixed with testosterone and progesterone for 28 days. At the end of the study, the blood hormone tests revealed that the pill could suppress both sperm and testosterone production, meaning it had succeeded in preliminary testing! But even then, Dr. Christina Wang, the lead researcher at LA BioMed, says that such forms of birth control are more than a decade away from being commercially available. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying to get rid of birth control for women. Rather, I am advocating for an oral contraceptive to be designed for men, while still keeping this option available to women. It is time for men, too, share the responsibility for contraception - they are, afterall, half the population and half the equation to creating a child (who would’ve known!). On the other hand, the lack of control men may feel in regards to fertility in a sexual relationship may be resolved with the development of male birth control, opening a door for them to become more active in family planning. During a time when the Trump Administration is working tirelessly to chip away at our reproductive rights and our freedom to choose, it is imperative for men to step up and become more involved. As the 60th anniversary of the female birth control pill approaches, it’s time that we welcome the 1st anniversary of the male birth control pill. - Stephanie Hu P.S.: While we wait for the development of the male pill, couples in a male-female relationship could engage in open discussions in an effort to share equal responsibility :)