Warning: possible spoilers ahead! Available in cinemas on March 25th On behalf of The Universal Asian, I had the privilege of attending an early screening of A24’s latest offering: "Everything, Everywhere All at Once," written and directed by the dynamic duo known as Daniels (Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert). Starring Michelle Yeoh, Ke Huy Quan, James Hong, Stephanie Hsu, and Jamie Lee Curtis, this frenetic film is nothing short of brilliant insanity. Previously known for "Swiss Army Man," Daniels have crafted a film that truly manages to be everything, everywhere all at once. It encompasses every genre, every tone imaginable all while offering a kaleidoscopic commentary on family, intergenerational trauma, and existential ennui. Michelle Yeoh is inimitable as Evelyn Wang, an exhaustedly numb Chinese immigrant everywoman, as she tries to juggle a tax audit, her emotional distance from her daughter (Joy [Stephanie Hsu]), her father’s perpetual disapproval of her life choices, and a mission to save the multiverse—unceremoniously dropped into her lap by an alternate version of her mild-mannered husband, Waymond (Ke Huy Quan). As she pinballs between versions of herself, she slowly pieces together a realization that family, simultaneously enduring and dysfunctional, is the answer to everything and nothing at all. “She is just absolutely incredible in this role,” says Ke Huy Quan. “Michelle Yeoh, the person, the actress, is very glamorous and beautiful, and for her to so willingly shed all of that and get into this humble, middle-aged woman who is struggling to keep a family together and to finish her taxes at the same time, to see her deliver that performance is amazing to watch, and I’m just in total awe of her talent.” “[This movie] shows the depth of her talent,” James Hong, esteemed veteran actor, adds. He plays Evelyn’s austere father with surgical precision, able to cut into Evelyn’s most vulnerable parts with a single word, in a way only family is capable of. “She’s not just a kung fu artist, as they cast her in a lot of other movies. She is truly a brilliant actress. I think people will see the different dimensions of her.” Photo: Courtesy of A24 In my conversation with Ke Huy Quan, it is surprising to learn that this is his first major role in decades. The resurgent actor delivers his performance with a sweet sincerity, completely natural and believable. “I don’t think I could have done this character had it been given to me 10-15 years ago,” Ke admits. “I was really nervous when the role was offered to me because I hadn’t done it for so long. So, I hired myself an acting coach, a dialogue coach, [and] a voice coach so the [versions] of Waymond could sound slightly different, and most importantly—and more interestingly too—a body movement coach. I wanted the audience to be able to tell which Waymond you’re looking at just by the way he stands and the way he walks and the way he moves.” His hard work most assuredly paid off, giving us three solid facets of Waymond Wang. In a glittering world of entertainment industry success for Evelyn—which takes inspiration from Michelle Yeoh’s own phenomenal career—and corporate success for Waymond, Ke Huy Quan channels the slick vulnerability of a heartbroken ex-lover against a backdrop awash with a sumptuously saturated color palette straight out of Wong Kar-wai’s "In the Mood for Love." In another universe, Alpha-Waymond is a fighting force to be reckoned with in a jaw-dropping fanny pack sequence. But, my favorite version of Waymond is the one in “our” universe, an unfailingly kind, empathetic, nurturing soul with an endearingly meek physicality. He is the backbone of the film, a steady reminder that sometimes strength is not found in battle, but in surrender. It is Waymond who breaks the cycle of trauma in his family with a desperate plea for peace. Photo: Courtesy of A24 “I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to go there emotionally when we did that scene,” Ke Huy Quan reflects. “It was in front of so many people. [But] once I stepped in front of the camera and I started speaking—the first word out of my mouth—it began to hit me. What this character means and what it represents. I’m glad I was able to go there, to give the performance the Daniels wanted. I’ll let the audience decide, and hopefully I don’t disappoint them.” “I wanted it more than anything on the planet when this was presented to me,” he continues, recalling the audition process. “And I’m so grateful to [Daniels] for offering me the opportunity to play this kind human being that believes in empathy and love and respect for each other. And to do this with Michelle and James Hong and Stephanie, and of course the great Jamie Lee Curtis, was just a dream come true.” “The two Daniel guys, they’re crazy,” James Hong says with a chuckle. “In [writing] this movie and directing it. Of course, the producers did a very good job and A24 took a chance in distributing it. I hope it’s a success. I sit here and I wonder, will the people like it? Will they understand what this movie is about?” Amidst the chaos that is "Everything, Everywhere," it’s difficult to hold onto the idea of a single narrative, theme, or message. To me, that is exactly the point. This film is a massively ambitious attempt at a theory of everything, and not in the sense of theoretical or quantum physics. The film swings wildly between existentialism and nihilism. It proposes a meaningless universe in conjunction with a directive to find meaning as a mode of survival. In other words, the world is what you make of it, nothing or everything. Perforated throughout the film is a recurring discussion of the complexity of family and the movement of trauma down and alongside the generations. “There’s a great valley of difference between the two generations,” James Hong acknowledges. The Minneapolis-born actor is a son of immigrants himself. “The old generation from a foreign land, between that group and the one that is born here into rock and roll and jazz and all that modern stuff.” It is this valley that’s slowly and steadily crossed in "Everything, Everywhere." There is a tangible divide between Evelyn and her father, which leads to a jagged edge between Evelyn and her daughter. The friction between the three characters sends sparks flying in a particularly tense scene when Evelyn balks at her father’s seemingly cruel order to kill her daughter to keep them all safe. And, in the background of the multiversal madness, Evelyn struggles to balance her support of her daughter’s sexuality and her fear of her father’s reaction to it. There is something precious in the imperfection of Evelyn’s character, a monument to the somewhat hypocritical nuance of humanity. Cover photo: Courtesy of A24

"The Wedding Banquet" (2025) is now in theaters. Photo: Courtesy of Bleecker Street and ShivHans Pictures In 1993, Ang Lee’s “The Wedding Banquet” broke ground as one of the earliest films to bring a queer Asian love story to a global audience. It was a story of compromise, of navigating the delicate balance between cultural tradition and personal truth. For many, it was a revelation, a rare glimpse of queer life framed not by tragedy but by humor and heart. Thirty years later, the world has shifted in profound ways, and with it, the story of “The Wedding Banquet” has found a new chapter, reimagined for 2025. At the heart of the original film was a singular question: How can one stay true to themselves while upholding the expectations of family? In 1993, the stakes were clear. Marriage was portrayed as the finish line, a hard-won victory for those who could claim it. For Wai-Tung and Simon, balancing a sham marriage and a closeted existence was as much about survival as it was about love.  Photo: Courtesy of Bleecker Street and ShivHans Pictures The 2025 reboot, helmed by an ensemble cast including Bowen Yang, Kelly Marie Tran, Lily Gladstone, and Han Gi-Chan, takes that foundation and builds something bolder. It shifts the focus from marriage as the ultimate goal to the broader, messier questions: What else is part of an evolving relationship? Marriage is great, but what about parenthood? Choosing a family? How do we navigate the responsibilities and uncertainties of queer love in a landscape that is both more accepting and more precarious? Bowen Yang reflects, “I feel like we're still collectively figuring out how to move into those spaces of acceptance that feel uncomplicated and don't have an asterisk to them. It just feels very relatable. And there's the power in that.” The reboot captures that relatability by refusing to shy away from the complexities of queer life today, where the victories of the past coexist with the challenges of the present. Photo: Courtesy of Bleecker Street and ShivHans Pictures Family, of course, remains central to “The Wedding Banquet,” but the film reexamines the theme through the lens of chosen family. In this updated vision, family is not just a biological bond but a conscious act of connection and support. “Between Angela and Min, they choose their biological family, to bring them into the fold after years of being alienated by them,” says Bowen Yang.  “It’s kind of a double meaning. There’s the family you choose, and then there’s the act of choosing your family,” adds Lily Gladstone. “I have my own perspective that is shared widely through Indian country. We're not a homogenized society, but there are some things that are kind of common. And one of those is this concept of chosen family. We keep really tight record [of our family lineage] orally and [for] the last couple hundred years for government purposes, on paper. Adoption is as good as blood. Like when you're coming of age, and you're starting to date around, your family lets you know who you're related to and who you're not, so you don't cross those lines.” Bowen Yang and Han Gi-Chan, who play one half of the central couples, bring a contemporary depth to their roles (Chris and Min, respectively). Their characters delve into the complexities of queer relationships today: the shadow of generational trauma, the weight of societal expectations, and the joy of building something entirely new. Their story isn’t just about coming out; it’s about staying out, about the daily acts of courage required to live authentically in a world that still resists full acceptance. Photo: Courtesy of Bleecker Street and ShivHans Pictures “Min feels like he can't come out to his family because it would cut him off from something that he feels rooted to,” says Bowen Yang of his co-star’s character. “[And] Angela had a pretty tumultuous coming out that ended up boomeranging back into overcorrected acceptance. She still feels alienated even though it feels like it's this thing that's being embraced about her now. The movie does a really amazing job of mending those wounds as the story progresses.”  “I agree,” Kelly Marie Tran adds. “I also think Kendall’s coming out and the idea that Chris takes care of them in this process is also such a beautiful depiction of what a coming out can be if you have a family that doesn't accept you.” Photo: Courtesy of Bleecker Street and ShivHans Pictures Perhaps the most beautiful aspect of “The Wedding Banquet” is also its most coincidental: the timing of its release. While the film was crafted as a deeply personal story about queer love and family, its arrival feels a little bit like fate, or at least a blessing, shining as an inadvertent beacon in a sociopolitical climate battered by conflicting waves of progress and backlash. “We didn't make a political film,” says Lily Gladstone. “We made a film that had really solid bedrock with socioeconomic, cultural comments without being explicitly about queerness, about culture, about gentrification. Those are all just the world that this family finds themselves in. And I think that makes a film that represents people really authentically where they're at. And the rest of the ship was just built so well that it can weather a lot of different seas. So I do feel like it does have this timeless element because it embraces and acknowledges the culture and the time that we find ourselves in, and each character's proximity. It makes space for widening the lens and the conversation about queerness globally and culturally.”  “I learned just now that it is not a safer time for LGBT communities to live peaceful lives,” Han Gi-Chan says. “We didn't plan this timing [for the movie] to come out. And not only for those communities, but every humanity on earth could see this movie and feel what family means, what love means to them. It's a story for all times. We live with a family, we live with love.” “I feel like we did create this big warm hug of a film for people that we always intended to,” Gladstone adds. “We didn't know that we were making such good medicine for the times ahead for people who needed it.” Bowen Yang echoes this sentiment, noting, “They say hyperspecificity ends up being universal. I feel like this kind of hyperspecificity ends up being relevant and timeless. And it's never not going to be important to touch on these things, just like how the original movie was relevant at the time [and] still is.” About "The Wedding Banquet" (2025): Run: 87 minutes Director: Andrew Ahn Screenplay: Andrew Ahn and James Schamus (Based on the screenplay by Ang Lee & Neil Peng and James Schamus) Producers: Anita Gou, p.g.a., Joe Pirro, p.g.a. Featuring: Bowen Yang, Lily Gladstone, Kelly Marie Tran, Han Gi-Chan, Bobo Le, Camille Atebe, Joan Chen, Youn Yuh-Jung Directors of Photography: Youn Yuh-Jung Production Companies: Bleecker Street, ShivHans Pictures, Kindred Spirit & Symbolic Exchange Cover Photo: Courtesy of Bleecker Street and ShivHans Pictures

“Him” (2024) is now streaming on Apple TV+ and Amazon Prime.  Tomorrow marks the close of another AAPI Heritage Month, and the conversation about Asian representation in media continues to evolve. While progress has been made, there remains a persistent need for nuanced portrayals, especially of Asian women, who are often still caught in a web of stereotypes. These tropes — from “Dragon Lady” to “China doll” — may be less ubiquitous than they once were, but they haven’t entirely disappeared. This year, “ Him ” (2024), starring Kira Omans, Tess Higgins, Sydney Battle, Margaret Berkowitz, Lucie Solène Allouche, and Lisa Barnes, adds a fresh perspective to the ongoing discourse. The film follows five contestants on a reality dating show as they come to realize the true nature of their roles and collectively decide to strike back against those who seek to use them for their own gain. In a narrative that deftly blends critique with entertainment, the film examines not only the portrayal of Asian women in media but also the power dynamics that dictate which stories are told and how. It exposes the calculated manipulation of an industry infamous for distorting on-screen identities to serve hidden agendas. For Omans, playing her character required confronting both societal narratives and personal biases. “Before delving into my character, I really didn’t have a lot of sympathy for people who went on reality TV. I thought they signed up for this, that they knew what they were getting into,” she says. “But my character, Jenna, she’s super accomplished. She’s a Stanford grad studying marine biology. She’s an avid swimmer. And so I really had to put my own judgements aside and reconcile how this woman would end up on a reality dating show.” Through Jenna’s arc, the film highlights how societal expectations — particularly those tied to appearance and traditional gender roles — can shape women’s decisions. “The story delves into how our worth becomes intrinsically tied to our desirability and how we’re taught to aspire to marriage,” Omans continues. “I hope the audience goes on a similar journey to mine, rethinking their biases about reality TV and humanizing its participants. Viewing them as undeserving of empathy only reinforces the troubling nature of the reality TV industry. If no one cares, no one will ever push for change.” The film doesn’t shy away from unpacking deeper issues, particularly the challenges faced by women of color. Omans notes, “We wanted to show how women, especially women of color, are treated off-camera — the exploitative contracts, microaggressions, and psychological tactics used to make them feel worthless and replaceable.” Jenna’s storyline becomes a platform to explore the difference between tokenism and true representation, revealing how surface-level diversity often masks the absence of real agency in narratives. Photo: Renteria Photography “Jenna is very overlooked in the narrative of the reality show she’s on,” Omans says. “She’s not framed as a real romantic prospect and faces racist microaggressions that stereotype Asian families. Her cultural background is seen as an obstacle, and there are subtle moments that demonstrate how she lacks power in her story.” The film also confronts stereotypes of Asian femininity, a representation that Omans describes as historically polarized between passivity and hypersexuality. “Jenna is more of an everyman,” Omans explains. “She’s a mild personality amidst bolder characters, but she isn’t passive at all. She’s strong, funny, smart, and flawed.” But the harm in a stereotype isn’t solely in depiction, it’s in isolation. When a character is reduced to that generalization, it truly becomes an issue. “The way to challenge stereotypes is to add depth and nuance,” Omans says. “Jenna isn’t immune to emulating model minority behavior at times, but she grows throughout the film, learning to challenge societal ideals and the systems that benefit from her complacency. She makes active choices, and she contains multitudes.” With “Him,” the creative team has crafted a story that doesn’t just question how Asian women are portrayed but also critiques the systems that uphold these portrayals. It’s a reminder that representation isn’t just about being seen; it’s about who gets to tell their story, how it’s told, and the power to reclaim narratives. Photo: Renteria Photography Beyond its critique of representation, “Him” tackles themes like exploitation and agency, which resonate deeply with Omans’s personal experiences. “I’m a Chinese adoptee and I work in adoptee advocacy,” she shares. “International and transracial adoption is very romanticized, and mainstream narratives rarely touch on the fact that all adoption begins with loss. Adoption can be a very exploitative industry that robs adoptees of identity, removes agency, and our rights, in many cases. Film and media often feed us what is most comfortable for audiences to understand about adoption.” Regarding how these themes have affected the larger Asian American community, Omans says, “I don’t think we need to look any further than how Jenn Tran , the first Asian Bachelorette, was treated during her season.” The manipulative tactics of reality TV reflect a broader issue: how media shapes narratives to serve specific agendas beyond entertainment. News outlets, political campaigns, and even corporate messaging use similar techniques to guide public opinion. The result is a distortion of reality that perpetuates harmful stereotypes, fuels division, and obscures the truth. “Him” highlights the human cost of such manipulation, encouraging audiences to critically examine not only what they consume but also the motives driving its creation. Ultimately, “Him” is a call to action — a jarring reminder that change begins with collective resistance. “I do believe that the unity of the women in ‘Him’ can be seen as a mirror for how marginalized groups can come together to dismantle the systems that attempt to hold them down,” Omans says. “We get a very comprehensive look at how each of these women are treated and manipulated in different ways that serve the desired narrative. And that absolutely extends beyond reality TV.” As AAPI Heritage Month draws to a close, Omans hopes the film underscores the transformative power of solidarity, even in spaces designed to fracture it. “Unity doesn’t always mean we agree about every single thing. But in systems manufactured to keep us apart, unity comes from caring for one another, holding space for all experiences, especially those that challenge dominant narratives.”  Simply put, “Him” calls on us to rewrite the story, together. About “Him” (2024): The final five contestants on a reality dating show unite against a deceitful suitor and producers who manipulated them into falling in love. They revisit pivotal moments from their journeys as they struggle to come to a collective decision. Director: Rebecca Wahls Screenplay: Rebecca Wahls, Tess Higgins Starring: Kira Omans, Tess Higgins, Sydney Battle, Margaret Berkowitz, Lucie Solène Allouche, Lisa Barnes Director of Photography: Kevin Galloway

As May draws to a close, so does AAPI Heritage Month — a time to celebrate culture, identity, and history. But for adoptees like myself, especially intercountry and transracial adoptees, heritage can be an infinitely layered and emotional conundrum. Grief, hurt, shame, confusion, loneliness, disappointment — all of these and more may linger beneath pride, joy, and belonging. For some, heritage is a vital thread that connects them to their roots. For others, it’s a puzzle with missing pieces that will never be completed, a story they’ve never felt fully part of. The adoptee experience is as diverse as it is personal, with some diving headfirst into their origins, while others approach with hesitation, unsure of what they might find or how it fits into their lives.  For many adoptees, the relatively recent rise of commercially available DNA testing (Ancestry, 23andMe, and more) has revolutionized the birth family search. What was often a labyrinth of dead ends and unanswered questions has, through advancements in technology and the rapid expansion of genetic databases, transformed into something unexpectedly tangible. Connections once thought lost are now within reach, reshaping not only the search but the emotions surrounding it. For those who were told — or resigned themselves to the belief — that finding biological relatives was a futile dream, these tools have delivered a fragile, cautious hope, a bittersweet reminder of the profound complexity of heritage and identity. This gap between curiosity and connection is where organizations like the Nanchang Project  step in. “Nanchang Project’s mission is to help reunite Chinese adoptees with their first families,” says Katie Lauder , communications manager at the Nanchang Project. “We offer free DNA tests to birth families in China and have a search partner referral program for adoptees who want to conduct their own searches, whether remotely with a searcher or in person in China. We also offer assistance with registering in the National Reunion Database , which is China’s own system, through the mail. The whole point of everything is to support Chinese adoptees in reconnecting with their heritage, learning more about their time in China, or anything that has to do with their adoption and relative search, if they’re interested in that.” The nonprofit eases the weight of navigating the technological potential of DNA testing alongside the emotional, logistical, and cultural complications of conducting a birth family search. Through a combination of advocacy, education, and direct support, Nanchang Project offers adoptees not just resources but also community and understanding.  “We are the only Chinese search organization that has adoptees in leadership positions,” Lauder says. “Everything we do centers the adoptee and supports them on their journey because it’s not really about anybody else. You’re the one who’s making the decision about whether or not you actually want to start [searching] and why. We always want to make sure that anybody we help or interact with knows that their priorities and desires will be honored. I think that’s one of our biggest strengths. We’re not going to pressure people to reconnect with family or start a search they aren’t ready for, either. We also offer our blog  as a platform for adoptees to express how they feel about their search, the One Child Policy, and their adoptions in general.” Language barriers can make searching for birth families in China especially challenging. Understanding documents, communicating with relatives, and navigating the process can be overwhelming without support. Knowing this, Nanchang Project has a network of volunteers who can assist as translators. “We do have translators on our team,” Lauder confirms. “They are currently working on our book project, which is a compilation of birth family stories and adoptee stories. They’ve been busy with that, but [a translator network] is something that we’re hoping to build out too.” Beyond language support, Nanchang Project helps simplify what can feel like an overwhelming journey, offering adoptees a clear path to follow in their search. The search process itself, as Lauder explains, involves several key steps.  First: gathering adoption documents. “It’s really important to find as many of your adoption documents as possible,” Lauder says. “There should be a white booklet with your adoption certificate, which includes your name, the year, your adoptive parents, and a notarized seal confirming the adoption date. Another key document is the certificate of abandonment. It can contain important details, like where you were found, who found you, and any specific conditions — for example, if you were found with a note or anything like that.” After gathering documents, Lauder recommends reaching out to social welfare institutes and connecting with online communities. “You can check if your social welfare institute still has information,” she explains. “You can do that by joining Facebook groups or any type of search group on any platform. There are a lot of adoptive parents who started these communities in the 2000s, and they have a lot of information to share.” Finding others from the same social welfare institute or province can also be helpful. “There’s tons of information that isn’t documented, but through other people’s experiences and word of mouth, you can get a sense of what was going on when you were adopted,” Lauder continues. “You can learn whether your social welfare institute had good record-keeping or find commonalities in people’s situations, like whether it was common to be found in a specific location or transferred elsewhere. This is all basic information you can gather without starting anything or purchasing stuff.” The next step is to take a DNA test. “You can do an autosomal DNA test , like 23andMe or Ancestry, or a paternity test through the National Reunion Database,” Lauder says. “After that, you can upload your autosomal DNA to GEDmatch, which is a genealogy website. It compares your results to a bunch of different tests, so you’re not stuck in just one database. It’s important to spread out to as many databases as possible, so you can make connections to cousins, possible siblings who may have also been adopted, or birth families who’ve been tested by various organizations.” The National Reunion Database stands out for its accessibility and reach. “It has the highest number of birth families because it’s based in China,” Lauder adds. “It’s free for Chinese families, and they can do it at their local police station.” After DNA testing, Lauder suggests leveraging search posters and social media. “You can join province-based search poster groups or use Chinese social media,” she says. “It comes with its own navigation because there’s that language barrier and cultural barrier too, but those are all things that you can do without leaving your home.” The final step is deciding whether to travel to China and hire a search partner. “Visiting villages is definitely a big, important thing. A lot of people have their finding location listed as a capital city, and it’s a lot harder to search in a capital city because it’s just so densely populated. You have to decide whether or not searching there is worth your time because it’s like a needle in a haystack. That’s why it’s good to join a community and try and find locations that are outside of the capital where children were most likely found.” Logistical and administrative preparation is indispensable before a search, but emotional preparation carries just as much weight — if not more. It seems like an impossible task, to prepare for uncertainty while also facing the chance to gain clarity about every hope, fear, fantasy, suspicion, and estimate. How can adoptees come close to being fully prepared? “Learn more about China during the time you were adopted,” says Lauder. “The majority of us were adopted during the enforcement of the One Child Policy, so learn about what that actually meant for people in China. I was adopted in the ‘90s, so the story I was told was ‘oh, your family just couldn’t keep you, so they gave you up for a better life’ or whatever. But I think one of the missing aspects is that Chinese families did not want to be separated from their children. If the One Child Policy hadn’t existed, they wouldn’t have been abandoning their children. The whole concept of forced separation is a big one that isn’t talked about a lot.” “It was also a super traumatic experience for these families to have lost their child,” she continues. “That can cause a lot of strain within the birth family’s relationships, so sometimes parents aren’t together anymore. And the likelihood of having older siblings is very high because [the adoptee] is the over-quota child. At least one older sister and one younger brother is pretty common. Some families have multiple older children, so there may be one to two or three older siblings and then the younger brother, and you’re some middle child in there, so that can be a lot to take in.” “Also birth dates,” Lauder adds. “Those are all just estimated by the orphanage because not everybody was left with a note from their parents saying they were born on this date at this time. There’s also the added layer of: is it through the Gregorian calendar or is it the Lunar calendar? The date that’s in our documents is probably the Gregorian calendar, but when you’re searching, [birth] families don’t always know what day you were born, and a lot of them maybe remember it through the Lunar calendar, so being able to convert to the Lunar date is helpful. If you do find your first family, they may not remember your birth date because technically all of our births were supposed to be secret, so they were probably not paying attention — and lots of other stuff was going on at the time. It was also probably a really traumatic time for them. They were separated from their child, and this is painful for them, so they may not have committed to memory the day that you were born and the time that you went missing.” And possibly the biggest blow to prepare for: “There’s the fact that you may never find answers to your questions. Realizing that your birth family are their own people who went through their own trauma, and most likely did not heal from that trauma, so trying to get answers from them — if you do find them — will be hard. Or they might just not give them to you. Just prepare yourself for that possibility,” says Lauder.  Fear often speaks louder than reason, and for adoptees and birth families alike, the path to reunion is often fraught with unspoken anxieties — fears that bind them together yet keep them apart. “Adoptees and birth families are scared of interrupting each other’s lives,” Lauder observes. “And scared that the other is not willing to reunite. There’s that shared fear of secondary rejection.” For birth families, this fear is compounded by decades of shame, regret, and loss. Many grapple with the haunting reality of why they had to let their child go, and the guilt of believing their child might resent them for it. Adoptees, too, bear the weight of uncertainty. “There’s the fear of the unknown,” Lauder says. “I think that’s why a lot of people don’t want to start searches. They’re content with what they have right now and they don’t want to disrupt that.” While the search process can uncover truths, it also opens the door to unexpected emotions and outcomes. For some adoptees, this journey may lead to a sense of closure, connection, or understanding. For others, it may lead to answers that are as difficult to process as the questions they sought to resolve. Every step of the way, it’s important to approach this process with compassion — not just for oneself but also for the family on the other side of the search. As AAPI Heritage Month concludes, let’s remember that heritage is not just about what we inherit but also what we build. For some, it’s a tether to the past; for others, a story still unfolding. And an adoptee’s exploration of identity and connection isn’t simple or universal. This article isn’t a call for adoptees to go now and seek out their birth families — every individual’s journey is incredibly personal and valid. Instead, it’s an invitation to recognize the work of organizations like Nanchang Project and the possibilities they offer to those who choose to walk that path. The Nanchang Project (NCPT) is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit founded in 2018, fully operated by volunteers. Our mission is to help connect adoptees to their roots in China. To date, we have assisted in 90+ reunions and registered over 400 birth families. We are proudly also the only organization of its kind that is co-led by Chinese adoptees and adoptive parents, with the intent to be fully run by adult adoptees in the future. To learn more about the work Nanchang Project does, you can explore their website here . Nanchang Project will be conducting a search trip to Guangxi Province this winter.

Kam Raslan's “ Malayan Spy ” is the kind of novel that sneaks up on you. It spins espionage, history, and unadulterated humanity into a tangled, captivating web, leaving readers questioning what really drives the tides of geopolitical change: grand ideologies or good old-fashioned vices like greed, lust, and ego? (Spoiler alert: it’s probably the vices.) Set in hazy post-war Britain and Berlin, with a lens that zooms into Malaysia’s pre-independence struggles, “Malayan Spy” introduces us to Hamid, an ambitious young man who is at once sharp and self-destructive. Told entirely through Hamid’s perspective, the narrative holds an intimacy that feels confessional. In this way, Raslan’s work is reminiscent of the brilliance of Viet Thanh Nguyen’s “The Sympathizer”; like Nguyen’s novel, “Malayan Spy” unfolds largely as an extended flashback as Hamid revisits the twists and turns of his past, bringing things back full circle to his present as an old man where his story — and the weight of his memories — comes to a quiet rest. “The character of Hamid, he would be my father's generation,” Raslan says. “My father died when I was very young, so I never knew him. But I knew his friends. And so he is an amalgam of people like my father, my father's friends, but also older than my father, almost reaching toward my grandfather. And so I wanted to capture a generation.” “[And] really, it was for me to try to capture my youth, to try to remember youth and the kind of crazy things you do.” Raslan adds.  Make no mistake: Hamid is far from a polished James Bond. He’s messy, morally ambiguous, and, dare I say, a little too human for comfort. “We all have our foibles,” Raslan says. “With Hamid, his one thing is he just likes nice things. But he can’t afford them. So he has to go around to get money, and he’s constantly blackmailing people — but in a charming way. You don’t even notice you’re being blackmailed.” His story is a deeply interior one, offering us an unfiltered view of his insecurities and vices as much as his schemes. It’s these flaws that make him such a compelling lens through which to explore the geopolitical tremors of the era. Raslan doesn’t just hand you the history; he makes you feel it — its betrayals, its bargains, and its body count.  Hamid is someone who lives with the consequences of his own choices. He carries the weight of history, but he’s also markedly shaped by his self-interest and incompetence. This duality of the personal and political runs through the novel like a live wire, never letting you forget the stakes of the games Hamid plays.  As Raslan remarks, “We think that things are decided upon through careful thought. But the actual impulses are just basic greed, lust. And lo and behold, there’s a nation’s destiny laid out by individuals.”  And yet, Raslan doesn’t drown the reader in cynicism. His prose is sharp, often witty, and never wasteful. Beneath the political intrigue and personal flaws lies a deeper meditation on betrayal — not just as a plot device, but as the very glue holding the story’s structure together. From the opening pages to the closing twist, “Malayan Spy” unfolds as a loop of consequences, each more apt than the last. “We are betrayed by time,” Raslan reflects. “We are fundamentally betrayed by time as the nation moves on. [Hamid] is betrayed by time in that in that he's relating this story to us now when he's in his 80s, and the land that he had invested in has turned its back on him. But the one area where he's not betrayed is by the woman who is just a great betrayer and she's just doing everything it seems to serve herself. But actually what she wants more than anything else is normalcy. And that's the one thing that he can offer. So he doesn't betray her and he doesn't go on to betray her in future either.” In the end, “Malayan Spy” stretches beyond its genre, offering an intimate examination of the baser instincts that drive both individuals and history. Kam Raslan’s Hamid, with all his flaws, reminds us that behind the grand narratives of nations and politics lie deeply human stories fueled not by noble ideals but by the messy realities of desire, self-interest, and betrayal. This is a story that lingers, inviting readers to look beyond the surface and confront the uncomfortable truths about power, loyalty, and time’s unforgiving march. It challenges us to question who truly pulls the strings in history — and at what cost. About the Author: Kam Raslan is a Malaysian writer and broadcaster. Originally a filmmaker working in London, Los Angeles, Malaysia, and Indonesia, he has written for many publications including “The Economist,” “Mekong Review,” and a long-running column in “The Edge Malaysia.” He hosts two shows on BFM Radio: “A Bit of Culture” and “Just For Kicks.” Kam Raslan is the author of “Confessions of an Old Boy,” a collection of short stories, the various adventures of Dato’ Hamid from the 1940s to the 2000s. The book was first published in 2008 and has been re-issued in 2024. Cover Photo: Courtesy of Penguin Random House SEA

“Late one night, I was walking home from the train station…” author Rueben Dass begins, sounding eerily like the opening scene of a Netflix thriller. Fortunately, no hooded figure lurked in the shadows. What did leap out, however, was a sudden flash of inspiration — an idea that would become the foundation of an entire novel, now realized by its simple, chilling title: “ Skin .” “I never actually planned to write this story,” Dass clarifies. “This is my second novel. Once I finished my first novel , I was like, okay, I think I’m done. You know, I’ll just maybe wait and see. And I just got this idea for a story, which I thought would be a nice continuation of my first one. So just like that, one thing led to another, and I wrote the story.” “Skin” is a gripping tale steeped in suspense, twisted psychology, and carefully crafted characters. Yet, what truly sets it apart is its vivid cultural backdrop. Dass brings a uniquely Southeast Asian perspective to the crime fiction genre, weaving in threads of Malaysian culture and geography that are often absent in the traditionally Western-centric world of thrillers. “I would like people to get to know the country and nuances of how Malaysia, for example, works,” Dass explains. “Of course, I'm not saying that Malaysia is full of serial killers. Malaysia is a very peaceful, very safe place.” So how does one build a narrative so layered and captivating? For Dass, it starts with a meticulous yet fluid writing process, striking a balance between structure and spontaneity. “I usually outline to a certain degree,” Dass shares. “I would flesh out all the characters [and] write synopses for each of them. As I’m doing that, I let the plot mature in my head. Once I’m done with all the characters, [once] I know them inside out, then I would start outlining the story.” “I actually use a screenwriting technique,” he continues. “So I would usually outline to the point where I know what the beginning, the middle, and sort of the end would be. And then, when I’m ready to take the plunge, I start writing and leave [the rest] to the process.” As Dass mentioned, finding the shape of his characters is the foundation of the story’s development. This dedication to character detail absolutely shines through the persistent darkness of “Skin.” There’s such a specificity to the protagonists, Inspectors Aly and Raj — the way they talk to each other, the way they go about solving the case or digging up clues. Yes, everything is vast and cinematic, but it’s also intimate and rooted in reality.  “My two main characters were very much inspired by real life,” Dass says. “For the book, I spent quite a lot of time with police officers. I interviewed an ex-police officer and a serving police officer. I spent a significant amount of time over the years talking to them, listening to their experiences and things like that.” These conversations gave Dass a deeper perspective on law enforcement, allowing him to look beyond their uniforms and write them as individuals navigating the delicate balance between their demanding profession and personal lives. “I really wanted to bring out the human aspect,” he says. “At the end of the day, when they come home, they are a mom, a dad, a brother, a sister, facing problems that other people face — but with the extra challenge of their job.” This fascination with human psychology and its darker corners is what ultimately drew Dass to crime fiction as his genre of choice when he began to write. “The question of why people commit these crimes, why people end up becoming serial killers — that’s always interested me,” he says. “Skin” certainly reflects this curiosity, exploring themes of obsession and the psychological toll on everyone involved in the story — from investigators to victims. The result is a novel that’s as emotionally resonant as it is horrifying. After about six years of writing in this dark space, Dass recognizes the toll it took on him. “If I’m writing a crime book, I only consume crime stuff, whether it’s documentaries or movies or books,” he says. “By the end of [this] book, I was quite drained, I think, worn out. I told myself, okay, I think I need a break.” That realization inspired a change, a pivot to something brighter. His next project? A love story. “It’s a good time for me to start this project. It’s set in my grandfather’s village in South India,” he reveals. “It was inspired by my travels and the time I spent there.” As Dass steps into this new chapter of his writing, fans of his thrillers can take comfort knowing that while the darkness may fade, his storytelling prowess will continue to shine — now in an entirely new light. About the Author: Rueben Dass is a researcher by day and a novelist by night. Born in Kuala Lumpur, he spent most of his youth in the bustling city before moving to London for studies and later Singapore for work. He began creative writing whilst a student in London, in between classes and during his free time. He regularly publishes short stories and poetry on his website  and other literary platforms. He is also the author of “The Number Four,” a prequel to “Skin” and Part I of the “Inspector Aly and Raj” series. Cover Photo: Courtesy of Penguin Random House SEA

There’s a quiet brilliance to “ A Sky of a Thousand Colors .” What might seem at first like a straightforward mystery — a missing person, unanswered questions — reveals itself as an achingly tender exploration of friendship, endurance, and self-discovery. This is not just a story to be read but one to be felt, its themes resonating long after the final page. For Dumatol, part of the inspiration for the novel came from a deeply personal source. “I actually live with an artist here at home,” she shares. “My younger brother is a visual artist — he’s actually the one who drew the cover. I’ve always been amazed at how he’s able to translate ideas into concrete pictures, especially since I cannot personally draw to save my life. I wanted to write a story focused on the visual arts. It was just a matter of when and particularly what story.” “The main push that actually had me drafting this story was an anecdote by Dr. Oliver Sacks,” Dumatol continues. “Outside of writing, I’m actually a doctor, and one of the things that I really treasure about my job is being able to bear witness to so many stories about the human experience, and that anecdote was just one part of it. So, I wanted to translate that kind of experience into my writing and to have those stories serve as inspiration to other people, just as they inspired me.” What makes “A Sky of a Thousand Colors” particularly poignant is how the narrative explores the costs of genius and the burdens of expectation. “It’s so easy to be blinded by the splendor, the win, the applause,” Dumatol says. “We forget that behind those wins, there’s so much that the person still has to overcome before they reach that point in their life. We tend to forget that journey, that hard work, all the perseverance, the effort you put in against all odds. Finding your colors in the midst of what appears to be such a very bleak world, that in itself is a victory. I wanted the story to remind others about that.”  The book’s narrative structure — a dual timeline weaving between past and present — only heightens the emotional impact and suspense. Originally drafted with the timelines separated, Dumatol later experimented with alternating chapters, discovering that the shifts added layers of tension and intimacy. “It was supposed to be Part 1 and then Part 2,” she explains. “But while I was in the middle of writing it, I found the pace to be quite dragging. So, I experimented with the idea of alternating the timelines instead and was pleasantly surprised to find that it works.” The true essence of the story, however, is in the evolving bond between Gwen, Jet, and Jasper, three characters whose paths converge in ways that are both deeply human and profoundly moving. It’s undeniably through its characters that the novel sheds light on the sacrifices and quiet resilience often overlooked, honoring the unseen struggles that shape our greatest achievements. “‘A Sky of a Thousand Colors’ is, in its heart, a story about friendship,” Dumatol confirms. “I knew right from the beginning that I wanted it to be character-driven. Gwen, Jasper, and Jet actually were the first characters I developed while drafting this story.”  To bring these characters to life, she created intricate backstories and assigned each of them “color personalities” as a creative starting point. “Jet is, of course, black, Gwen is white, and Jasper is orange,” she says. These symbolic traits provided a foundation, but as the story progressed, the characters grew and transformed in ways that surprised even their creator. “As the writing went on, similar to how a person develops as they go along with their life, have many experiences, meet other people, so did the characters,” Dumatol says. “Beyond the colors, I think they took on a life of their own.” Bringing the visual arts to life on the page was another unique challenge, one that Dumatol approached with unwavering dedication. “I had to translate a lot of visual imagery into words and hope those words translated back into that visual imagery for the readers,” she recalls. “Two different artistic mediums that I had to bridge using words. So, while I was writing, I tried my very best to immerse myself in the world of painting, which brought me closer to my brother.” From art classes to museum visits, she delved into the artistic process, working to make every scene feel authentic and vivid. This commitment not only enriched the narrative but also lent the story a tangible, tactile beauty. But readers don’t need a visual arts education to connect with Dumatol’s novel. Her story speaks to fears that resonate with artists and non-artists alike. The fear of losing abilities — especially those that define or drive you — is universal. It’s the struggle of an artist, or any individual, faced with the daunting question of what comes next. Dumatol captures that emotional complexity with gentle empathy, offering a powerful illustration of the quiet strength needed to navigate such challenges. “As a doctor, I really wanted to show how impactful disease can be, not just to the person afflicted, but also to the people around them — especially the ones who care about them,” Dumatol says. “But above all, I wanted to show that even during the darkest of times, even when the world seems at its worst, hope still remains. We’re not alone, and there is still a very colorful life worth living.” About the Author: Angeli E. Dumatol is a nuclear medicine physician by profession and when she’s not in the clinics, she can be found writing stories, reading books, or getting lost in a daydream. She was a Fellow of the 3rd Amelia Lapeña-Bonifacio Writers Workshop and the 1st Kabanata Young Adult Writers’ Workshop, as well as an awardee of the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature in 2011. With a firm belief in the healing power of smiles and stories, Angeli’s ultimate wish is to be able to use both medicine and literature in making a difference in people’s lives. She’s a part of #RomanceClass, a community of Filipino writers, readers, and creatives dedicated to happily ever afters. Angeli currently lives in Quezon City, Philippines with her ever supportive family. Cover Photo: Courtesy of Penguin Random House SEA

Malcom Seah’s “ Swimming Lessons ” takes a deeply emotional dive into grief and the complexities of family dynamics. In his debut novel, Seah doesn’t just tell a story — he offers an intimate portrait of loss, memory, and the mental toll of watching a loved one change. As he reflects on his own experiences with grief, Seah’s writing brings a raw authenticity to the page, without relying on grandiose gestures or sweeping narratives. Speaking candidly about the creative process behind “Swimming Lessons,” Seah reveals how the journey of writing the novel became something of a personal reckoning. "I never actually wrote with a plan," Seah says. His protagonist, Michelle, developed almost organically, and the narrative evolved as the character’s voice took shape. “When I would just start a chapter or a sequence, I write one word, and then it just completely flows out,” he explains. This spontaneous process allowed him to examine emotions and memories that were both surprising and deeply personal, making Michelle’s story, with its moments of painful reflection, not just a fictional narrative, but an illustration of his own emotional terrain. The novel is rooted in Seah’s own experiences with his mother’s battle for her health. “I was there in the hospital with her for four straight months,” he shares. “It formed the backbone of [my] writing, because I was there. I was physically there every single day. This was the only way that I could channel my grief, in a way. I think it really inspired [the story] to take on a whole new voice. It became something obsessive, like this was like the only thing I thought about at the point.” For Seah, the experience of watching a loved one undergo a profound transformation sparked a flood of conflicting emotions: the desire for recovery mixed with the fear of what that recovery might mean. This tension between holding on and letting go is at the heart of “Swimming Lessons,” where characters grapple with the push and pull of life and death in ways that feel both broad and deeply intimate. Seah’s portrayal of family, especially the bond between sisters, adds another layer of emotional depth to the narrative. Through Michelle, he captures a nuanced understanding of sibling relationships, tinged with the intricacies of loss, love, and unresolved tension. Seah himself notes the resonance of these themes, saying that while Michelle’s experience with grief comes from his own, writing them down opened up an even deeper connection with his past. “I ended up writing something that I never thought I would have experienced again, but it’s something buried so deep down.” What makes Michelle's character stand out, however, isn’t the fact that she’s, well, herself , but rather the way her struggles with identity and familial expectations are made universal. Seah explains, “It sounds cruel, but Michelle is not special, you know? The things she goes through, the things that she thinks about, these are not things that other people don't, regardless of anything.” This sentiment rings true across the entire narrative: the novel refuses to reduce Michelle — or any character — to a singular identity or struggle. Rather, it paints a picture of a person who is multifaceted, someone struggling to reconcile their own desires with what is expected of them by others, much like anyone else might. This theme of personal tension is, for Seah, a cornerstone of the novel’s emotional depth. In “Swimming Lessons,” Seah goes beyond simply creating a sympathetic protagonist. He captures the essence of human complexity in Michelle’s character with both empathy and clarity. By not framing her queerness, for example, as the central challenge of her life, he allows readers to see her as fully formed, with all the contradictions and subtleties that come with being human. “I just wanted to tell a story about these two sisters,” Seah says. “It’s just a human story.” While Michelle's story is grounded in the reality of her sister’s coma, Seah uses a subtle thread of the supernatural to tie together emotions that defy straightforward articulation. It adds a haunting layer to the narrative, one that Seah admits evolved significantly during the writing process. Early drafts of the novel featured a shadowy figure as a literal character, a choice Seah later found “distasteful.”  “I looked at it, I deleted everything,” he says, recalling the moment he decided to strip the story back and rebuild it with a fresh perspective. Realizing that his initial concept didn’t align with the emotional truth of the novel, Seah took a bold step to approach the narrative with renewed clarity. The result was a more metaphorical approach, where the shadow became a manifestation of Michelle’s inner turmoil and unresolved grief. Seah’s decision to integrate a supernatural aspect wasn’t just a creative choice — it was a necessity. “A lot of things you can't convey through the reality of certain things,” he explains. “You need that supernatural to maybe talk a little bit more about how characters really feel.” This abstract figure, while never fully explained, mirrors Michelle’s emotional state and deepens the sense of mourning that permeates the novel. By weaving in this spectral presence, Seah captures the inescapable weight of loss — the way it lingers, shadows us, and forces us to confront what can never truly be left behind. It’s a testament to his ability to marry the ordinary with the extraordinary, creating a narrative that resonates deeply with readers on both a personal and universal level. Seah’s work stands as a quiet but powerful excavation of the ways we deal with loss, identity, and the passage of time. “Swimming Lessons” is a testament to the author’s ability to channel deeply personal experiences into a narrative that feels both intimate and universally relatable.  In the wake of “Swimming Lessons,” Seah’s personal and creative journeys have intertwined once again. Reflecting on a solo trip to Chongqing, China — a city with deep familial significance — Seah describes the experience as transformative. “It was like going to a whole different world. I promise you, I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says. While Seah is no stranger to travel, having backpacked across Europe and spent a month in Ho Chi Minh City, his time in Chongqing was uniquely eye-opening. “I saw people who looked like me, who spoke like me, but it was so different in so many ways, you know — their lifestyle, the things they eat, the stuff they talk about, accents are different.” The trip also deepened Seah’s connection to his cultural roots, sparking a fascination with Chinese identity and traditions. “I never realized China had an identity that was so strong that [meant] so much to me,” he says. This rediscovery of heritage has already begun shaping his next creative endeavor. “Recently, I’ve started thinking of writing a second book,” he reveals. “I realized that what I wanted to tell now, at this point in my life, is so rooted in Chinese culture, tradition, religion, and mythology.” “That is something that I’ve been divorced from because of the diaspora in Singapore. We take on a different identity. I never got to learn this side, but I’m so interested,” he explains. Though still in the early stages of development, the project promises to delve into the rich tapestry of Chinese mythology and tradition, blending it with Seah’s distinctive storytelling voice. As Seah continues to explore his own identity and heritage through his work, readers can look forward to a narrative that is as deeply introspective as it is culturally resonant. With “Swimming Lessons” behind him and a new project on the horizon, Seah’s creative journey shows no signs of slowing down. “It will be [published], I promise you,” he says with a quiet but assured confidence — a promise that readers will undoubtedly hold him to. About the Author: Malcom Seah is a Singapore-based writer who is currently pursuing a Bsc. in Economics. In the 2023 Epigram Books Fiction Prize, he attained a long-list finish. “Swimming Lessons” is his debut novel. He is also a struggling full-time dog-dad to a grumpy Chihuahua-Maltese and an enthusiastic Bichon. Malcom apologises for the diminutive author bio, courtesy of him only turning 23 in 2024. You can grow up with him on Instagram @malcomseah .

All 10 episodes are now streaming on Hulu. At some point, we all wonder: are we the star of our own story or just another face in the crowd? Through the journey of Willis Wu — a man stuck between aspiration and the reality he's expected to accept — "Interior Chinatown" (2024) delivers a tale that is both strange and achingly familiar. Willis exists in a world where everything is scripted, literally. Conventionally cast as Generic Asian Man in a fictionalized cop show, he dreams of transcending the background role he's been relegated to. But breaking free means confronting the invisible rules that shape not just his life but the lives of everyone around him. "Interior Chinatown" weaves together biting satire, surreal imagery, and poignant drama in a humorous and heartfelt exploration of identity, ambition, and the spaces between who we are and who we long to be.  The novel that the show is based on bears the same name, and, ironically, is told through the unconventional framework of screenplay format, with shifting fonts and typography that mirror Willis's fragmented internal life. Despite the already-cinematic feel of the book, adapting it to the screen was no small feat. Author and show creator Charles Yu  recalls the challenge of manifesting the novel's dual worlds outside of a reader's imagination without losing their complexity. "I might just type a few words casually, and then all of a sudden I have 50 people asking me, okay, so what color is that? Or what does that look like?" he says. "In a bigger conceptual sense, the challenge is the book plays in a kind of liminal space, I would say. How do you make it clear that Willis is caught between two worlds? How do you make the world of the cop show, make it feel very real and literal, and then drop Willis into that world?" Taika Waititi , director of the pilot episode, brings those coexisting planes to life with strikingly different visual languages. "If you're thinking about the world around [Willis] from his point of view and how he sees himself, it's kind of bland and muted colors," says Waititi. "And it's all handheld, so it feels a bit rough and clumsy. Then you contrast that with the world of the show-within-the-show 'Black & White.' We wanted that to be heightened. People are backlit, and it's all special lighting, and the camera work [is] always smooth and slick." "We worked really hard on trying to make it feel like a '90s-style police procedural," Charles Yu adds. "Sometimes a little bit off-kilter and hopefully funny, but real enough that you get it, that it feels like the world that Willis wants to enter." "The really interesting thing is that [the procedural] is a world that [Willis] aspires to get into," says Waititi. "Coming from New Zealand, that would be like how I imagined everything to look [in Hollywood]. But when you think about the closer you get to those dreams or the closer you get to being a part of that world, the more you realise the world you come from is actually more beautiful." For Jimmy O. Yang, who plays Willis Wu, the character's struggle to break free from stereotypical roles is deeply personal. Reflecting on his own career, Yang sees many parallels between his journey and Willis's. "I think I've actually done a lot of these characters that Willis ends up being assigned to or has gone through through," he says. "I was Generic Asian Man. I was Chinese Teenager #1 on ' Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. ,' a show that Chloe [Bennet] was a star in, funnily enough. I also snuck in as the tech guy, right? Like on ' Silicon Valley .'"  While these roles were welcomed at the time, Yang recalls how he didn't fully realize he was being put in a box. "I think I kind of had a blind optimism about me in my younger self, that although I didn't see a lot of myself on TV or I didn't see people like me being the star, I was like, you know what? It's one thing at a time. It's one step at a time." As Yang's career evolved, so did his understanding of Asian representation in Hollywood. Reflecting on this particular project, he explains, "It means everything. I think I'm very fortunate to have actually gone through every single number on the call sheet to be able to inform and help tell this story. But just being able to be a part of this and bring my own self and my experience to bring this character to life was quite special." "I think people talk a lot about representation and seeing someone that looks like you on screen and how much that means, and I absolutely agree with that," Charles Yu confirms. "I also think it's important to see yourself in people that don't look anything like you. And I think we got to make this [show] with a really inclusive crew. Yes, I mean a lot of Asian Americans, but I also mean a lot of non-Asian Americans." "Getting to tell this story on a platform like Hulu with people like Taika and our cast and so many other people is an amazing chance to tell stories about people that don't normally get that treatment," Yu says. "To really humanize and add dimension to them." Just as the show spotlights characters who are often overlooked, "Interior Chinatown" also offers a critique of how women — especially women of color — are often defined by their relationship to men or reduced to a simplified version of their identity. Detective Lana Lee, played by "Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D." star Chloe Bennet, makes her grand entrance on screen in slow motion, hair blowing in the conveniently-aimed wind, glowing with the magical light of heroism behind her. Initially presented as Willis's ultimate fantasy — both as a woman and a main character in his story — Lana is promptly hoisted onto a pedestal of tokenized desirability with little attention paid to who she actually is and what she might want for herself or struggle with.  Yet as Willis's story progresses, so does Lana's. She exists beyond her connection to Willis and the role she plays in catalyzing his so-called awakening, giving her character something far more complex and layered than the part that was written for her. "There's a mystery within Lana that is revealed throughout the season," says Chloe Bennet. "Tonally, I really wanted the performance to be something that you could watch the first time around and be like, oh, that makes sense. But then you could watch it again. And if you're really paying attention, there are cracks to her façade, whether it's just little glances or just acknowledging the larger truth of who she is or what she doesn't know about herself right away." "Each character has their own version of discovering who they are and ultimately finding where they belong," Bennet continues. "I think Lana is seemingly a real asset to help Willis figure that out. At the same time, she's stuck in her own world trying to find out where she fits, how she is her own main character." "I think it's relatable for women," Bennet adds. "The trope of your relevance depending on whether you're in tandem with a man or how you're servicing a man. For a lot of women in film and TV, that is a constant box that we are put in. And I think that the show addresses that in a really smart way." The mystery of Lana also cannot be separated from her race. Through her, the show points to how mixed-race characters navigate a tightrope of identity, forced to exist somewhere between idealization and marginalization. In the fictionalized cop show, Lana's purpose is to be proof that the police department is "culturally considerate" — a statement made openly and with poorly-hidden resentment. "She toes the line as being this icon that is ethnic enough," says Bennet. "Ethnically ambiguous. She's white enough that we can let her in." Bennet's connection to Lana's struggle with identity feels deeply personal, as she navigates her own experiences of balancing belonging and alienation as a mixed-race actress. "It's more than just not fitting in, not necessarily feeling whole," Bennet says. "Psychologically, you can start to tell yourself a lot of things about what you are or what you're not, especially if you're just constantly referred to as half of something. It's not something that fits into a box in a way that's satisfying for an entirely white world or an entirely Asian world. I didn't have to fake a lot of the feelings of frustration or feeling like an interracial pawn to satiate both sides of things." "And certainly, for [Lana], it's breaking out of that in a lot of ways," Bennet finishes. "For Lana, her bigger journey is trying to take another step closer to finding out where she belongs, what she wants, and what her story looks like if it's not about somebody else." Through "Interior Chinatown," Charles Yu reminds us that identity is never as simple as the roles we play or the labels we're given. Whether it's Willis striving to be more than Generic Asian Man or Lana's search for her own identity, the show peels back the layers of performance to reveal the intricacy of humanity. "It's about who we really are underneath and how we sometimes feel like we have to perform aspects of ourselves or aspects of other people's expectations — and then what happens when some of that starts to slip," says Yu. "Just finding those genuine moments of connection between people and authenticities is what I hope people really start to see the show is about." All 10 episodes of 'Interior Chinatown' (2024) are now streaming on Hulu. Based on Charles Yu’s award-winning book of the same name, the show follows the story of Willis Wu, a background character trapped in a police procedural called "Black & White." Relegated to the background, Willis goes through the motions of his on-screen job, waiting tables, dreaming about a world beyond Chinatown and aspiring to be the lead of his own story. When Willis inadvertently becomes a witness to a crime, he begins to unravel a criminal web in Chinatown, while discovering his own family’s buried history and what it feels like to be in the spotlight. CAST: Jimmy O. Yang, Ronny Chieng, Chloe Bennet, Archie Kao, Diana Lin Recurring guest stars include: Tzi Ma, Chris Pang, Annie Chang, Chau Long CREDITS: Series creator Charles Yu serves as executive producer, along with Dan Lin and Linsey Liberatore for Rideback; Jeff Skoll, Miura Kite, and Elsie Choi for Participant; Garrett Basch for Dive; John Lee; and Taika Waititi, who also directed the pilot. The 10-episode limited series is produced by 20th Television. Cover Photo: Courtesy of Hulu

Many people think of classical music as a thing of the past. Its compositions have stood the test of time, holding a unique place in cultural history. Works by people like Bach, Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven, Mahler, Wagner, Schubert, and more still have the industry in a chokehold, dominating elite classical music institutions and programs worldwide. However, classical music is undergoing a remarkable transformation. The world today is immensely diverse, and musicians are reimagining classical works, infusing them with new perspectives and cultural influences. So, instead of fading into stagnancy, classical music is expanding thanks to the dedication of musicians who are reshaping its narrative and relevance in ways that continue to captivate. Dr. Xenia Deviatkina-Loh , a talented violinist, pedagogue, and advocate for diversity in classical music, is one of the individuals leading the charge for change. Born in Sydney, Australia, and now residing in Los Angeles, Deviatkina-Loh’s journey with the violin began with her mother. “I was a fidgety child,” she jokes. “And she thought, hey, let’s get her into violin. Maybe my kid will be less fidgety.”  (That plan never worked out. Deviatkina-Loh is, she admits, still very fidgety.) While she found her passion for classical music early in life, Deviatkina-Loh’s pursuit of that track also revealed the inequalities entrenched within the industry. She became acutely aware of the challenges faced by musicians from low-income or underrepresented backgrounds. “It isn’t just down to basic costs, like violins,” she says. “Your strings, bows, maintenance, and lessons all amount to a big dollar sign.” “A kid in college, if they want to pursue [violin], the instruments probably go between a four-figure to a low five-figure. It shouldn’t be normalized,” she insists. “Where does that money come from? Not every family has the financial stability to do that.” Deviatkina-Loh is not one to shy away from a challenge. Recognizing the need for change, she got involved with the Asian Classical Music Initiative (ACMI). “It’d be easy if I just put my head down, which is such an Asian thing to do, right?” she says. “But I was always that kid who told my mom, ‘this isn’t fair.’” The ACMI is a pioneering effort committed to promoting the work of AAAPI classical music composers and musicians. Founded by graduate students at the University of Kansas, ACMI holds concerts and conferences to raise awareness and celebrate the cultural traditions of Asia, Asian America, and the Pacific Islands. ACMI’s work comes at an important time when conversations about DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) are at the forefront of both the classical music industry and the wider world. The initiative aims to address the often-invisible racial inequalities within the classical music community, particularly for Asian and Asian-American individuals. As a platform, ACMI offers musicians of all backgrounds a place to showcase their talents and contribute to a more inclusive classical music landscape. “It’s hard,” Deviatkina-Loh says. “It’s a lot of work, and yeah, that’s a reality. People don’t get comfortable with you speaking up.” Deviatkina-Loh’s work with ACMI is part of a larger movement within the industry to make a positive impact on issues related to diversity, representation, and inclusion. While there has been some progress made in recent years, there is still much work to be done to make sure that musicians of all backgrounds are given equal opportunities. ACMI’s efforts, along with those of individuals like Dr. Deviatkina-Loh, are paving the way for a classical music community in which talent knows no boundaries.

Now streaming exclusively on Apple TV+. On the rocky shores of Jeju Island, a remarkable culture hangs on by a thread, embodied in the lives of the haenyeo — South Korea's legendary female divers. "The Last of the Sea Women" (2024), a poignant documentary directed by Sue Kim, invites viewers into the underwater world of these resilient women, who have spent generations free diving for sea urchins, abalone, conch, and much more. But the traditions of the haenyeo face an uncertain future, as the film sheds light on the alarming environmental threats that jeopardize their livelihood and the delicate marine ecosystems they depend on. In exploring the intersection of culture and conservation, Kim's documentary serves as a powerful reminder of what is at stake — and the urgent need to protect both the haenyeo and the waters they call home. "I wanted to make this film because I wanted some sort of documentation out there and memorialization of who these incredible women were," says director Sue Kim, "whether or not we would continue to have them in future decades. So it was sort of an urgent mandate to make sure, at least for now, [that] the world knows who they are, even if they won't be around in the future, which I desperately hope is not the case. The history of the haenyeo goes back centuries — though it’s unclear how exactly the haenyeo came to be. Their legacy, however, is undeniably rich and complex, shaped by the ebb and flow of societal norms and economic pressures. Traditions passed down from generation to generation saw young girls starting their training at the tender age of 10, mastering the art of diving and navigating the unpredictable tides. Their risk-inclined lifestyle not only provided sustenance but also forged unbreakable bonds among the women, who continue to support each other through the myriad of life's challenges.  Today's haenyeo possess a vibrant spirit that defies their age, with most women in their 60s, 70s, and beyond — yet their energy remains undiminished. These fearless divers are far from delicate figures; they are a force of nature, often seen teasing one another, sharing laughter, and singing songs that echo across the water. Their camaraderie is palpable as they squabble and jab at each other playfully while donning their gear, a testament to their enduring bond. Each dive is a reflection of their physical strength, fierce independence, and an unapologetic embrace of their identities as proud matriarchs. Their spirit is a powerful reminder that aging does not diminish strength — it amplifies it.  Despite their tough nature, the haenyeo find themselves poised on the edge of extinction, confronting unprecedented threats from climate change and environmental degradation. "We had a scene where two of the haenyeo are [talking] about how dirty the water is and the pesticides that are running off and destroying the seagrass," Sue Kim recalls. "That's just part of their everyday conversation." Their connection to the ocean runs deep, intertwining their identities with the rhythms of the sea that have sustained them for generations. For the haenyeo, the ocean is not just a source of food; it is a vital part of who they are, fueling their determination to protect its fragile ecosystems. As they shoulder mounting pressures from a warming ocean, overfishing, and pollution — including the alarming discharge of treated radioactive wastewater from the Fukushima disaster — they are driven to activism.  "When the Fukushima nuclear water crisis really kind of confronted them, we just covered it exactly as they were learning about it," Kim says. "We had no intervention in the actions of the haenyeo. And you can see that in the town hall scene, where they're first learning about what this decision might mean for the health of the sea, they [get] so angry, and then it turns into this sort of unified, collective determination to protest it. That's just who they are. And it was such a gift for us to be able to cover it as it was happening." In a remarkable display of courage, haenyeo Jang Soon Duk even traveled thousands of miles to speak to the U.N. on behalf of the community, seeking to shed light on the challenges the haenyeo face and rally support for their cause.  Unfortunately, and the release of the wastewater will be continuing.  The consequences of that decision may not be seen for decades — which is precisely the issue. What future awaits the haenyeo? In 20, 30, 50 years, will there be an ocean healthy enough to support the society these women built? And within their community, as younger generations' interest in the hard lifestyle wanes, how can the haenyeo preserve their culture?  The documentary is able to comment on the latter. Sue Kim introduces Jin Sohee and Woo Jeongmin, two younger divers working to encourage other young women to keep the legacy of the haeneyo alive.  "We thought it was important to highlight Jeongmin and Sohee's haenyeo occupation as young women," says Kim, "and how they've kind of rebranded it by using social media and TikTok and YouTube to talk about what they're seeing under the water, [and] talk about what a cool and fun occupation it is for them." "One thing I appreciate about them is that they bring a very postmodern sensibility to the occupation," she continues. "They are haenyeo because it works; it solves very postmodern problems. Jeongmin needs a flexible working schedule as a working mom, and she can have that being a haenyeo. Sohee worked for eight years in a stuffy office with a cubicle, and she really longed to be outside. So she came to the haenyeo occupation wanting to commune with nature and have a more fulfilling work life. So I love that they've put this sort of new youthful spin on this ancient culture." As for the other uncertainties, unfortunately, there are no concrete answers. But one thing remains clear: the spirit of the haenyeo is resilient. Their deep-rooted connection to the ocean transcends generations, reflecting a way of life that is both unique and precious. Haenyeo Geum Ok Lee says it succinctly, "Even in my next life, I will dive again. Just an old woman and the sea, forever." About "The Last of the Sea Women" (2024): Run: 87 minutes Director: Sue Kim Producers: Sue Kim, Malala Yousafzai, Erika Kennair Featuring: Soon Duk Jang, Hee Soon Lee, Joo Hwa Kang, Im Saeng Ko, Geum Ok Lee, Jeongmin Woo, Young Ae Jeong, Sohee Jin, In Sook Park, Soon Shil Seo, Soon-E Kim, Mari Chang, Joo Hyun Kim Directors of Photography: Iris Ng, Eunsoo Chu Underwater Cinematographer: Justin Turkowski Production Companies: A24, Extracurricular

In the summer of 2008, Chris Wang, a 13-year-old Taiwanese-American boy, stumbles his way through friendship, family, and identity. He slouches in and out of the house where he lives with his mother, sister, and grandmother, never truly knowing what he’s doing or where he’s trying to go. He runs around with his friends—new and old—never feeling like he fully belongs with either group. He attempts to get closer to his crush, Madi, but fumbles and ends up alienating her in the midst of his angst. He tries so hard, and fails equally hard.  This is the curse of adolescence—an overdramatic existential ennui where everything is simultaneously A Big Deal and Not A Big Deal At All—and Chris serves as a painfully authentic reminder of how much we also struggled when we were 13.  Young actor Izaac Wang plays Chris perfectly, capturing an earnest desperation that is both sympathetic and repulsive. “It’s funny,” Wang says. “My initial impression was that I didn’t really like the character very much at all. It really wasn’t because Sean [Wang] wrote a bad character or that the script was bad. It was mostly just because [the character] was insecure, you know?” Like many 13-year-olds, insecurity is Chris’s primary driving force. It’s evident in the way he carries himself, the way he looks down more than up, and the expression on his face when his crush Madi’s insipid little friend makes fun of his last name.  He never feels like enough. Not smart or accomplished enough for his mother to brag about to her acquaintances, not charming or man enough to woo Madi, and not sure enough of what it means to be Taiwanese-American. And at his quietest, most vulnerable moments, free from the posturing and performance of immature masculinity, Chris’s humanity shines.  I keep fucking everything up , he writes, depressed, to a rudimentary AI chatbot. Everyone hates me and I have no friends. It’s so easy to judge Chris throughout this film. We cringe, roll our eyes, and sigh at his behavior—right up until this moment, when all of his protective layers have been flayed to reveal the raw flesh beneath.  “I’ve never tried to book a dramatic lead role,” Wang says. “And specifically for a character that was a little bit more vulnerable than me, and a little bit more under-confident. [Chris] just had an urge to fit in, which I didn’t have at that time. I had to dig a little deeper into myself and realize that my younger self—my 13- to 14-year-old self—was actually just like Chris.” That’s what makes “Dìdi (弟弟)” (2024) such standout from other coming-of-age films. This isn’t a typical hero’s journey where the protagonist struggles a little, overcomes obstacles, defeats his enemies, and gets the girl. In this film, the hero struggles a lot , trips repeatedly over obstacles, turns his friends into enemies, and doesn’t even come close to getting the girl. Because Chris isn’t a hero and we shouldn’t expect him to be; he’s a 13-year-old boy trying to learn how he fits into society just like everyone else.  In giving Chris a little grace for his very normal teenage messiness, we give our past selves grace for our own messiness.  The end of the film signals a shift, subtle but tectonic. It’s not quite a new beginning, because Chris is not reinventing himself. Instead, he’s getting more comfortable with himself, holding his head higher and walking through high school halls with shoulders relaxed instead of slouched.  When asked about what Chris’s high school experience might be like, Izaac Wang answers, “He’d probably gain more confidence. He’d probably make more friends. But I feel like he would never, ever get a girlfriend.” Perhaps not. Or perhaps he will.  “Hopefully he’d get a haircut and get rid of his bowl cut,” Wang jokes. “Hopefully he increases his fashion sense a little bit.” But whatever choices Chris makes in high school and beyond, “I hope the number one thing that he takes away from this is to gain more self-confidence and be more proud of yourself and who you are.” “Dìdi (弟弟)” (2024) is now playing in select theaters, Everywhere August 16. Director: Sean Wang Writer: Sean Wang Cast: Izaac Wang, Joan Chen, Shirley Chen, Zhang Li Hua, Mahaela Park Cover photo: Courtesy of Focus Features

Skateboard wheels on asphalt and a mellow, pulsing instrumental ease us into “Sunflower Girl” (2023), a tender yet poignant coming-of-age short film. Rosie (Malea Emma Tjandrawidjaja), the narrator and protagonist, is a girl on the cusp of teenhood, her pale yellow shirt a nod to her true name, Kui — which means sunflower.  Rosie has a crush on a boy in her neighborhood, which leads her to make some hasty decisions that she may or may not end up regretting in the long run. It’s this awkwardly desperate, gentle spirit of early adolescence that director Holly M. Kaplan taps into in her nostalgic short film.  “So, COVID happened, and I moved back home [to New York City],” Kaplan explains. “Being in my childhood neighborhood and everything, old stomping grounds and the school I went to…it was really desolate. The city was completely dead. So [I] was just doing these walks to go outside and by myself and just be in these old environments. That kind of sparked this idea, these memories I had.” “I was remembering all these people from school,” she continues. “All of these things kind of just started coming into my head, and that’s when I think the wheels started turning.” There’s a warm haze that blankets every shot of the film, bathing the screen in a vintage summer glow. It’s not just aesthetic; it’s a thin veil cast over the past that both softens the edges and intensifies the emotions. It’s evocative, luminous, and absolutely gorgeous. This visual poetry complements Rosie’s journey in a time when the character’s world seems both expansive and suffocating. “I owe it to working with my incredible DP, Michael Cong,” Kaplan says. “We ended up choosing an older camera with vintage lenses. It helped sell that look, that [the film] was nostalgic.” Beyond her age, Rosie’s identity contains another layer that the film makes space to examine. She’s a second-generation Chinese-American, lending a specificity to the character’s perspective and filtering how she moves through the world and the choices that she makes.  “I hope [this story] resonates with Asian-American femmes,” Kaplan says. “Or Asian diasporic people who have the experience of feeling like they are an outlier in their family. Sometimes it’s lonely to be [that] one person. You’re kind of going against the grain and you’re doing what you like. That’s really the whole story of the film. It’s okay to be human.” “Sunflower Girl” has been selected for and screened in film festivals worldwide, from India to Sweden to the U.K. and Canada, a promising triumph for Kaplan. “We’re finishing up our last year of festival [submissions],” she says. “We’re waiting to hear back. Hopefully it’ll get into even more and we’ll be all around the world and still in the U.S. and all that.” “I think this honestly just taught me to believe in myself,” Kaplan concludes. “That’s the biggest lesson, I think.” “Sunflower Girl” will be screening this June  in Singapore, Poland, and Canada.  About the filmmaker: Holly M. Kaplan is a Chinese-American filmmaker, born and raised in New York City. Inspired and driven by ties to her mixed Cantonese heritage, Holly is invested in bringing narratives about the Asian diaspora and diversity to the forefront. She earned her BA in Film & Media Arts at American University and completed a filmmaking program at FAMU International Prague, where she filmed her first short, “THE LESSON.” A former apprentice to the late Independent Director/Producer Ben Barenholtz, Holly served as Director’s Assistant to Executive Producer/Director Lisa Soper and Director Alex Pillai on “PRETTY LITTLE LIARS: ORIGINAL SIN” (HBO Max). In 2022, Holly was selected for NALIP’s Latino Lens: Narrative Short Film Incubator for Women of Color sponsored by Netflix to write, direct, and produce “SUNFLOWER GIRL.” About the film: When a 13-year-old Chinese-American girl has the opportunity to go skateboarding with her crush, it comes at the cost of abandoning her little sister. https://sunflowergirlfilm.com/ Cover photo: Malea Emma Tjandrawidjaja as Rosie. Photo by Luna Cristales. Courtesy of NALIP.

Tim Thornton is an adoptee, and identifies as a Korean-American adoptee (KAD). After becoming more curious about his Korean heritage, he discovered he was eligible for South Korean citizenship and decided to apply at the Seattle Embassy. The Universal Asian spoke to Tim to learn more about his KAD story, his experience applying for citizenship, and how he got in touch with his Korean roots. Tim’s origin story begins in 1953 when he was born as a Korean war orphan, who was adopted at 5 ½ years old to parents in Washington. It was here that he grew up in what Tim calls a “white bubble.” As a result, he said, “Most of my whole life, I didn’t really have any curiosity about my Korean roots because, looking back, a lot of it was because I thought I would never know.” It wasn’t until he was in his late 40s that he became curious and “tried to contact the orphanage in Seoul.” The orphanage revealed that all of Tim’s records were given to his adoptive parents, and so he stopped pursuing his journey to find out more about his Korean heritage. However, it was when his wife encouraged him to get a DNA test that he decided to have another go at seeking his Korean roots. “The DNA results didn’t show anything on my Korean side, but they did find my biological father, who passed away about 10 years ago,” Tim shared. From there, he discovered that he has six biological sisters on his father’s side, living on the East coast. “We’re all pretty close now. We have a lot of chats and FaceTimes and other ways to talk, and we visited them,” he said. While he is happy to have met his biological sisters, he still holds, what he calls “this really strong desire that just keeps snowballing” to find more information about his Korean heritage. This strong passion of his started when he joined the Air Force at 23. Being stationed in the Philippines meant he often saw military personnel and their families from Thailand, Japan, and Korea, which enabled him to get to “know more and more [about] Asian culture from that.” His desire to tune into his Asian roots grows “stronger [with] the more information I get, the more excited I get about trying to find the rest of the story.” This led to Tim finding out about South Korean citizenship, which he learned about from various Korean Adoptee Facebook groups. “[I saw] some links to stories, so I started following the stories. Then, I started researching myself, and then I contacted the Korean consulate,” he explained. For many, this may be a daunting process, yet for Tim it was the opposite. He said, “It’s not near as complicated as I thought [it would be].” Instead, the hardest part was “getting somebody to get the papers supplied translated into Korean.” Otherwise, this is something that Tim encourages other adoptees to pursue in the hopes that it may help them to get in touch with their Korean roots. He tries to “encourage the ones that are thinking about going [to Korea]. Sometimes it’s good just to get the information and know, because parents at my age level or generation aren’t around forever.” While he recognizes that not everyone wants to pursue their background, for those that do, he shared: “You have a clock that you might regret later if you waited too long,” and he encourages folk to use different resources to find out about their heritage. For Tim, Facebook groups have served as a lifeline for him to find a lead in regards to his family. Networking with other adoptees so that they can share their stories and give advice to each other has also helped him, which is something he didn’t always have. “I would say there was [a] lack of support for me growing up, [but] with the addition of social media…it’s helped a lot because the Facebook group is how I connected with 325KAMRA,” he said. 325KAMRA (Korean American Mixed Race Adoptees) is an organization that helps adoptees search for their families through DNA tests, which is something Tim used to help him find his biological siblings. The organization has also been instrumental in highlighting KAD stories, as Tim was part of a book by 325KAMRA that sheds light on adoptees. “I helped just write my story only, and then we had people that were brought together in that book,” he explained. Tim contributed to "Together At Last: Stories of Adoption and Reunion in the Age of DNA" so that he could “give back, because [325KAMRA] were so instrumental in helping me find everything I never would have done without them,” and is happy to be a part of the book. Though he has been able to find some of his biological family, he is still keen to search for his Korean mother, which he has a lead on. A friend of Tim’s took his records back to Korea who, via various online genealogy groups, was able to reach out to various members of the Woo clans and one of them said, “He [Tim] is one of ours.” Excited that he may have a paper trail of his family, Tim hopes to pursue that by visiting Korea in October. Tim will collaborating with us in the event "Korean Citizenship Restoration with Tim Thornton" that will be held on May 26, 2021. Click here for details to register to join this free event.

The Universal Asian got to speak with Justinian Huang, author of "The Emperor and the Endless Palace." Lockdown in 2020 was a massive change for all of us, and we had to find our own ways to cope with the isolation. Many people used the now-empty slots in the day for reading books, finally crossing titles off of lists that had been abandoned for years, maybe decades. Some people might have even tried their hand at writing a book. That’s what newly-published author Justinian Huang did.  And he didn’t just write a book. Inspired by personal heartbreak, he wrote a breathtakingly large, unapologetically spicy queer Asian love story that spans three lives and a total of two thousand years.  Justinian Huang didn’t start out as a writer. Before publishing “The Emperor and the Endless Palace,” he was a career film executive. “To be honest,” he admits, “I really miss being a film exec.” (His most recent position in the film industry was VP of Creative at Sony Pictures Animation, citing the wonderful team there as his main reason.) “Being in that seat as an executive, being a gatekeeper, you can really enact a lot of change,” he continues. “When it comes to my projects, I need to make sure that at least one of the directors in every project is a woman, is a person of color, or is queer. And that was my directive.” Before Sony, Huang worked as the head of development at Dreamworks Pearl in Shanghai. It was there that the first sparks of what would become “The Emperor and the Endless Palace” were lit. “When I was young and I came out to my family, I was told by other Asian folks that me being queer doesn’t work because Asian people aren’t gay,” he says. “That’s not a thing for us. So when I heard about this Ancient Chinese emperor and his lover, Dong Xian, and how their epic love story brought down the first Han dynasty, I was just like, holy shit. We queer Asians have been fucking up shit for a while. And not just that; it means that, as a queer Asian person, I’m descended from the most noble of lineages.” “I knew then,” he continues. “I was like, I need to write something about these two boys—because they were boys. They were 19 and 20 when they met. It’s just so epic. It’s the greatest love story never told.” It wasn’t just their love story in Huang’s mind when he wrote the book. It was also his own. “During that time [in Shanghai], I fell in love with two men. One of them was born in China, the other one was born in Taipei. And when I came back home because of the pandemic in 2020, I wasn’t thinking about my career. I was thinking about them. And I realized, what if they are the inspiration, finally, for this book? I want to write about this emperor and his lover. What if I can put their personalities into this?” Dong Xian and Emperor Ai are among the most notable queer figures in history (at least in Asia) despite the lack of records about the details of their individual lives. “There’s not much known,” Huang says. “The most famous story is called ‘The Passion of the Cut Sleeve,’ in which the emperor and his lover were taking a nap. The lover was asleep on the emperor’s shoulder, and instead of waking his lover up, the emperor cut off his own sleeve.” Ultimately, in blending the emperor’s love story with his own, Justinian Huang was able to put the major pieces together for his book. “When [I’m] writing historical fiction, I focus more on the fiction and less on the historical,” he says. “What will create the most compelling story for my reader is what I focus on.” “I wrote the first draft in two months during the pandemic lockdown of summer 2020, and it just spilled out,” he recalls. “I didn’t sleep for like four weeks. My mom came to visit me at one point, and she thought I was dying because I was so thin and haggard. It [was] just one of those things where you wait and wait and wait, and it just explodes out of you.” Now, after publishing “The Emperor and the Endless Palace,” Justinian Huang is still processing what it means to have broken that glass ceiling in publishing a romance novel with two queer Asians as the leads. Being a queer Asian himself, he’s also stepping into the spotlight as an identifiable voice in both the queer and romantic literature spaces. It can be rewarding: “I’ve been getting complaints that people have been losing sleep,” he laughs. “Three times, I’ve gotten messages on Instagram from people, at 4 a.m. in their region, being like ‘damn you, I didn’t sleep last night because of your book.’ And that’s such a great compliment! I also get so many messages from queer Asian folks saying that they felt so seen by this book and that they’re so happy it’s out there.” It can also mean more challenges to overcome: “In the book community, there is a lot of gatekeeping that happens. There’s been some resistance to my book by people who, for whatever reason, don’t think it’s valid and don’t think that it deserves to be stacked alongside other romance books.”  However, that’s about to put Huang off. “I worked in the film industry a long time,” he shrugs. “I like shepherding projects of huge scopes and then seeing how people respond to it. I’m actually well-trained in it, and it’s easy for me to sort of dust it off my shoulder. Ultimately, when I think about the last couple of weeks since my book came out, I just have enormous gratitude.” “[The experience] has been very humbling, and I’m very proud,” he finishes. “When I first started writing this book and I told people I was writing a book about queer Asian folks—a romance between queer Asian folks, I was told all the time that none of the big publishers will ever touch this book because [it’s] way too niche. But we got a deal with HarperCollins, and they really believe in this book. And so I’m just very appreciative that the people that matter are embracing this book.” “ The Emperor and the Endless Palace ” is Justinian Huang’s debut novel. It will not be his last. “Similar to how my first novel is about the Eastern concept of reincarnation, my second book is about the Eastern concept of superstition, but told in the context of an epic family drama,” he shares. “So I’m very excited. I’m working on that right now. I like to call the tone of ‘Endless Palace’ romantic anguish. The tone of my second book is bitchy gay brunch.” About the Book: “A sweeping triumph in queer romance.” - Booklist “What if I told you that the feeling we call love is actually the feeling of metaphysical recognition, when your soul remembers someone from a previous life?” In the year 4 BCE, an ambitious courtier is called upon to seduce the young emperor—but quickly discovers they are both ruled by blood, sex, and intrigue. In 1740, a lonely innkeeper agrees to help a mysterious visitor procure a rare medicine, only to unleash an otherworldly terror instead. And in present-day Los Angeles, a college student meets a beautiful stranger and cannot shake the feeling they’ve met before. Across these seemingly unrelated timelines woven together only by the twists and turns of fate, two men are reborn, lifetime after lifetime. Within the treacherous walls of an ancient palace and the boundless forests of the Asian wilderness to the heart-pounding cement floors of underground rave scenes, our lovers are inexplicably drawn to each other, constantly tested by the worlds around them. As their many lives intertwine, they begin to realize the power of their undying love—a power that transcends time itself…but one that might consume them both. An unpredictable roller coaster of a debut novel, “The Emperor and the Endless Palace” is a genre-bending spicy romantasy that challenges everything we think we know about true love. Author’s Note: “The Emperor and the Endless Palace” is a heart-pounding romantasy, full of shocking twists, morally shifty characters, and erotic thrills. When it comes to the romance within this novel, you can expect equal parts mess and swoon, but its central thread is an epic tale of true love against all the odds. About the Author: Born to immigrants in Monterey Park, California, Justinian Huang studied English at Pomona College and screenwriting at Oxford. He now lives in Los Angeles with Swagger, a Shanghainese rescue dog he adopted during his five years living in China. “The Emperor and the Endless Palace” is his debut novel. Before becoming a novelist, Huang was a career film executive, most currently as the VP of Creative at Sony Pictures Animation. Prior to Sony, Huang was the head of development at Dreamworks Pearl in Shanghai where he worked on “Kung Fu Panda 3,” “Abominable,” and Academy Award–nominated “Over the Moon.”