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.”

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.

“The Tiger’s Apprentice” (2024) is a fantastical, fast-paced animated movie that sits comfortably in its seat on the streaming platform Paramount+. Filled with every familiar aspect of The Superhero Journey, the movie isn’t trying to be anything other than what it is: a fun adaptation of award-winning author Laurence Yep’s 2003 fantasy novel that kids and parents can enjoy together this Lunar New Year. The story follows quippy Chinese-American teenager Tom Lee, an excellent candidate for a rising superhero. He’s a heartfelt boy who gives off strong second-gen vibes and lives with his quirky, traditional (in the fun way) grandmother in a beautifully decked out house that is often confused for a temple. Apparently people keep leaving them oranges, but hey, free oranges! Tom has no other family to speak of, which unfortunately means that we see his grandmother’s death coming from miles away, but not before she and a seemingly random daddy-type stranger drop a huge bomb on him. All of the stories Tom’s grandmother told him when he was little are real. The Zodiac is a circle of elite warriors who each represent an animal of the Chinese zodiac, and A-ma stands at the center of them all as the Guardian of the Phoenix. Oh, and daddy-type stranger is one of said Zodiac warriors; his name is Hu, and he, y’know, can shapeshift into a handsome, muscular tiger. Things move very quickly after that. Tom gets the full run-down on the Zodiac and begins training with Hu, as he is now truly the Tiger’s apprentice. The film hits all the required beats: the full team lineup (featuring one flawless dragon with a drool-worthy hairstyle when in human form), training montages showcasing various levels of skill paired with a killer soundtrack, identity-related challenges, friction between mentor and apprentice mostly stemming from adolescent angst (who knew parenting a grieving teen was this hard, right Hu?)—all while playing an elaborate game of keep-away from the overwhelmingly evil Loo, voiced by a dark, slinky, and still elegant Michelle Yeoh. (See the full star-studded voice cast at the bottom of the page.) In the end, after the Zodiac has spent a considerable amount of time teaching Tom how to fight and the importance of fighting, what ends up defeating Loo once and for all is something that Tom’s grandmother told him in the first ten minutes of the movie. “A-Tom, we don’t use these,” she says, indicating his fists. Then she points to his heart and head. “We use this and this. We don’t have to fight. Besides, you’re not too good at it.” There is nothing surprising or new about this movie, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that the moral of this story should still ring true today. Life shouldn’t be about who’s the best at fighting, and maybe, we can solve more problems by unclenching our fists and choosing to stop. “The Tiger’s Apprentice” (2024) is now streaming on Paramount+. Directors: Raman Hui, Yong Duk Jhun, Paul Watling Screenwriters: David Magee, Christopher Yost Cast: Henry Golding, Brandon Soo Hoo, Lucy Liu, Sandra Oh, Michele Yeoh, Bowen Yang, Leah Lewis, Kheng Hua Tan, Sherry Cola, Deborah S. Craig, Jo Koy, Greta Lee, Diana Lee Inosanto, Patrick Gallagher, Poppy Liu Cover photo: Courtesy of Paramount

Can you share a bit about yourself and how your Asian identity shaped who you are? Today I am an artist, music producer, and songwriter living my dream of doing creative things every day and having my work be valued. I make it one of my primary goals to collaborate with as many Asian American artists as possible. So much of my life and work is informed by my personal journey as a human, a refugee, and Asian person in America. I was born in Vietnam, in a town called Dalat. I can only remember as far back as being a new immigrant in Southern California in the mid 80s. My mom was a single parent of five children, and I'm the youngest. We were dirt poor. We had to figure out how the American system worked, learn English, and meet our basic needs. The community who sponsored our immigration helped, and we made new connections in Southern California because it has such a large Vietnamese population, but it was challenging. I remember seeing my teenage siblings getting their first jobs and learning to speak English. I really respect all of my siblings for going through that process. We used to dumpster dive and collect cardboard and recyclables to redeem for small amounts of money. When I was small, they tossed me into dumpsters so I could fish out whatever we could find that we could use at home, like toys, food, or other household items. All of that really informed the way that I grew up, and I knew that our efforts counted for a lot. What has your journey as a creative been like? Even as a young child, I discovered that I had a knack for drawing and the visual arts. When I was around 5, I remember I drew this crazy drawing of a bird hovering above a neighborhood in a bird's eye view. The teachers asked how I knew how to draw from a bird’s eye view, and it just came naturally—or supernaturally. My mother recognized and supported me, and even my first grade teacher gave me free art supplies. I stayed after school to do art, and they submitted my work for exhibitions and contests. I ended up being accepted into a program called GATE, Gifted and Talented Education. As a teenager, I moved to Houston, Texas and went to a regular high school for my first year. There, I met some kids who asked me to join their pop punk band, and I didn’t know anything about music then. That was my first exposure to making music. I picked it up pretty easily, and I didn't realize I would eventually go into music. While in that band, the drummer attended a magnet high school, called HSPVA, which stands for High School for the Performing and Visual Arts. It was too late to apply, but everyone encouraged me to do so anyway. I ended up submitting my portfolio, and they actually accepted me, which changed my life. This changed my experience with art because I presented my work during critiques and actually had to verbalize why I was doing stuff. HSPVA introduced me to conceptual art, which blew my mind and definitely changed the way I thought about art. It wasn't purely about the artifact and how skillful the execution was anymore, it was about the idea and the process. To learn that as a teenager made me believe that the world really is my oyster, artistically. I'm so grateful to have had that experience and to meet all these other kids going through the same process. It was an environment where you just grew because you were encouraged by seeing everyone else grow. That high school was one of the top ten most informative moments in my life. What was your experience as an Asian American in the creative industry? During that time as a teenager, my mom told me even though we didn’t have a lot of money, I never had to feel guilty asking about money as part of my creative process and growth as an artist. That's pretty rare coming from an Asian household and a first generation immigrant household. I saw many of my friends feel so much pressure to go into careers that they were not compatible with because of the perceived stability and the obligation to honor your elders. I never felt that pressure, and how blessed is that? I always knew that I am supposed to create new things that people can engage with, and everyday I know I am doing the right thing. I never have any doubts, which feels so good and I don't think a lot of people have that feeling. However, I did have a moment after my incredible experience in high school that shattered my ambitions as an artist. I attended art school at the San Francisco Art Institute, and I found it unappealing to see the commercial side of art, hobnobbing with elites and selling fine art. This art was for a rarefied class of people, and that wasn’t who I was. I got really depressed, and I dropped out of art school because of that. However, the silver lining is when I dropped out of school, I started a music project called Ming & Ping. I just wanted to make some electronic synth-pop inspired by the Vietnamese obsession with a genre known as Italo Disco. The Viet diaspora calls this music “New Wave” for some reason. Our elders were exposed to this genre of music, and that kitschiness was endearing to me. I wanted to make a modern version of that. Ming & Ping was a viral artist for Asian representation at the time. Can you share more about that project? One day these electricians came into the cafe where I was working, and their van was parked outside with “Ming and King Electricians” written on it. My coworker joked that that should be my band name. That weekend my imagination went wild thinking, “What if my musical artist persona were twins? What if their Asian identical twins?” That’s when Ming & Ping were born. I took some photos of myself and photoshopped together these new wave twins holding hands. I knew this image would be catchy because in American culture during this time, you didn’t see two men holding hands. However, here are these two hot little new wave identical twins holding hands and looking “cool.” I put that on the Internet and gave my friends some of my music to put in their homemade skate videos, and it actually started catching on. That was the beginning of my music career. During my year off of art school, I was also concurrently applying to design school because I wanted my work to impact everyday people, not just elite collectors or museums. I ended up at the ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, CA while working on the Ming & Ping project. I used every class project to create something for Ming & Ping, which generated a lot of content to share, and we began to have a national and global presence. Even though we didn't tour globally, I fully embraced the Internet as a venue and I immediately went into digital design as a career. Ming & Ping were one of the first music acts to use a mobile app to promote our music. We designed a game called Ming & Ping Pong, which is an app where you use the accelerometer to play Pong and the soundtrack was the Ming & Ping music. The fictional personas of identical twins shielded my work from my own personal identity and allowed me to express myself in a way that was magical and not based in reality. It also gave me an opportunity to create costumes and fantastic sets so our stage show was extremely elaborate visually. For over a decade, I created music while also expressing myself as a visual artist by creating visual art experiences for the twins. What does community and giving back mean to you? The Ming & Ping project coming to its evolutionary end and having a design career as a Creative Director in digital marketing brought me to a point where I was not very satisfied with what I was doing. I was using all of my creative capital to further somebody else’s career at a big corporate office. This depleted my creative energies, so I quit everything and reevaluated my values. I realized I do want to be an artist and create music, but I want to share that with the community and work with younger Asian American artists so that they have the resources, knowledge, and support system that I didn't have when I started my music career. I tried to start a nonprofit and wrote a mission statement about supporting specifically Asian American artists. A few weeks later, Simon Tam from a band called the Slants whom we used to perform with called me up and said their band is retiring but they will replace it with the Slants Foundation. Their mission statement was almost exactly the mission I wrote for my nonprofit, so I decided to abandon my idea and join his. Simon had already gone to the United States Supreme Court in a multi-year civil rights battle, made a lot of connections from that, and worked in the nonprofit space. And so The Slants Foundation was the perfect venue for me to live out those intentions of supporting younger artists from the Asian American community and hopefully inspiring them to incorporate activism into their life and work too. We've organized events with thousands of people, where we’ve registered hundreds of people to vote. We've given tens of thousands of dollars to creatives, musicians, and writers to produce their work, start their podcast, etc. The Slants Foundation also introduced me to a community of collaborators and friends, and I think that's where I am now. That's the culmination of my journey, and has allowed me to explore who I really am and what my values are in network with other creatives. Do you have any final words or advice? I actually never set goals, but I uncover intentions that I’m passionate about. I realized the universe delivers your wins in forms that you never could imagine they would come in. The wonderful place I am in now is a reflection of how my intentions came together in such unexpected forms. I set these intentions years ago then forgot about them. I didn’t write them down, but I fully believed in them every day. If I were to give any advice to people, it'd be to find the most true intentions deep inside you and not worry about how they manifest. Don't set such hard goals as they are actually limiting to how beautiful things eventually take form. Just put a pin on the map and keep moving in that general direction, and embrace the detours and all.

You either know exactly who Michael Chow is, or you’ve never heard of him before. For the first time in his life, the mysterious figure behind the swanky restaurant chain MR. CHOW is allowing us a deeply personal glimpse into his life and history. “The first time I met him [in person] was the first day of the shoot,” says producer Diane Quon. “I would have to say, just like the film, you see all sides of his personality. It was an amazing experience meeting him.” “He was in his full artist outfit, a white coat,” editor Jean Tsien adds. “And he was really warm. He was super warm.” There are many parts of Michael Chow’s life and career that some would say belong in the spotlight more than others. He built an international empire with his chain of restaurants with locations in London, New York, California, Miami, Las Vegas, and Riyadh. He regularly rubbed shoulders with the crème de la crème of the art world, Hollywood, and miscellaneous social elite. He provided opportunities to immigrants of all backgrounds, making it a point to hire diverse staff at his restaurants. His career is absolutely astounding. And yet, that’s not what this documentary is truly about. “aka MR. CHOW” peels back that glittering curtain, pushes aside the Wikipedia page bullet points in favor of pure, stark honesty. Michael Chow’s story is not “just an immigrant story,” Jean Tsien explains. “I see Mr. Chow as someone who had to leave everything behind. And this story is really the universal story of the consequences of war.” Michael Chow was born Zhou Yinghua 周英华, in Shanghai. His childhood was cut short by the devastating impact of the Cultural Revolution, leading to his immigration to England at age 12. There, in a completely foreign land with no grasp of the language, he faced racism and discrimination as he tried to adapt to his new surroundings. He never saw his parents again. His father, a beloved master of Beijing opera, was imprisoned until death; his mother, beaten to death. Mr. Chow may be a larger-than-life persona, but Michael Chow’s tragedies and trauma are all too real. They shaped his life just as much as his successes did. That’s what this documentary sheds light on, especially in the political and global context of the film’s release. It’s an endorsement of empathy, an acknowledgement of pain, and a reminder to look for the human behind the headlines. “aka MR. CHOW” is currently streaming on Max. Find information about M aka Michael Chow’s art here. Cover photo: Courtesy of HBO

Available in theaters July 7. “Joy Ride” hits like a solid punch to that white kid’s face: satisfying, but maybe not quite right. For many, this movie is just another fun summer feature to see with friends. For the AAPI community, it’s another inch gained in the enduring battle for more representation. For adoptees like me, however, it’s all that and more. The story goes like this: Audrey (Ashley Park) and Lolo (Sherry Cola) are best friends. They are both Chinese. But there’s a twist! Audrey is adopted. Fast-forward a decade, and Audrey is a polished, stressed-out overachiever chasing validation in the workplace, while Lolo swaggers through life as a broke artist revolutionizing the sculpture world one penis or vulva at a time. Oddly enough, the duo work perfectly as they are. Of course, that’s when everything changes, and what follows is almost too insane to put in words. Stephanie Hsu shines in the role of Kat, delivering a performance as devastating as her Oscar-nominated turn in “Everything, Everywhere All at Once” (2022)—only this time, the reason I couldn’t breathe was because I was laughing too hard. As enjoyable as the drug-infused, sex-crazed, tattooed shenanigans were, I found I was more moved by the quieter moments—the moments where, as an adoptee, I could recognize parts of myself on that screen. Ashley Park was fantastic in those anchoring beats, inviting the audience into the closely-guarded insecurity of Audrey with each flicker in her expression. I understood the dissonance in dealing with culture shock when entering your own birth country, the way she automatically gravitated towards white people instead of Asians. I flinched with her when Ronny Chieng implied she was incomplete without a family history to call her own. How are you supposed to know who you are without knowing where you came from? Identity is a lynchpin in so many AAPI films. Heritage, home, ancestors…these are the things an adoptee grows up without. This is the first movie I’ve seen that has allowed a character to react to a statement like that in a way that I truly understand. When Audrey found a piece of her past—the awkward convenience of Daniel Dae Kim being exactly where he was that day aside—I cried with her as she was introduced to the human behind the myth of Mother. I’m so glad I got to see those moments. With that said, here’s the reason why I’ll say that “Joy Ride” is not quite there for me. For a story centered on an adoptee, there seems to be little input, to my knowledge, from adoptees themselves in this creative process. There’s something fundamentally missing from this story, and it feels like what’s missing is an adoptee’s voice. There were plot and character things that stood out in a painfully awkward way, and I asked myself, “How did this get in here? Where were we in the writer’s room?” I don’t want to label “Joy Ride” as either a success or failure, because it’s not. It can be both, and still make sense as something to invest in and keep investing in. There are so many wins for the AAPI community in this movie that I can’t help but cheer it on and recommend it to everyone I meet. There’s sex positivity, diversity, queerness, comedy, family, and a heartfelt friendship to celebrate. But I want to be able to start a critical conversation parallel to the well-deserved praise, where we adoptees can feel like our voices are heard in the discussion of our representation. It’s past time to let adoptees have a hand in telling their own stories. So, almost. And I can’t wait to see what comes next. Cover photo: Courtesy of Lionsgate

Studio ATAO is raising funds for their first food education program “Food Systems 101: An Introduction to the Politics of Food & Beverage.” It was created specifically for food systems workers, and examines the evolution of the U.S. food system through a political lens—with a focus on social justice and BIPOC contributions. To donate to the campaign, click here. For more information about the program: Read more about Studio ATAO here.

Tonight is the last chance to catch English actress Jessica Henwick in “Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery” (2022) in select theaters! Known for her roles as Nymeria Sand in “Game of Thrones,” Jessika Pava in “Star Wars: Episode VII – The Force Awakens” (2015), and Colleen Wing in the MCU, Jessica Henwick was the first East Asian actress to lead a British television series—“Spirit Warriors,” with Benedict Wong. She can also be seen as Bugs in “The Matrix Resurrections” (2021) alongside Keanu Reeves and Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. Henwick is a budding filmmaker, having produced her first short “Bus Girl” (2022) this June. A follow-up short, “Sandwich Man,” is currently in post-production. About “Glass Onion”: Jessica Henwick plays a pleasantly understated Peg in Rian Johnson’s latest whodunit. Peg is Birdie’s (Kate Hudson) harried assistant/publicist/do-er of all things that need to be done. “Peg is at the end of her tether,” says Henwick. “She has been working for Birdie for quite some time. In my head, it’s been like 10 years. Every year she says, ‘This is the last year,’ but she just can’t seem to get herself out of that. They have this almost familial relationship at this stage. They love each other and hate each other. And poor Peg, I think she understands Birdie better than everyone and Birdie really drops her guard around her. And so Peg sees that Birdie does have a good heart and does try to help her to the best of her ability. But it’s just so tough because Birdie does not make it easy to help her.” Set on a private Greek island, “Glass Onion” is a sunny departure from the indulgent coziness of gothic New England mansions and cream-colored knit sweaters. Detective Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) returns with another cast of colorful characters, each with a motive for murder. Bringing his signature wit, Southern drawl, and penchant for theatrics, he must find the culprit before the death toll outdoes him, all the while looking fabulous in tailored leisure wear. “I think [Peg’s] also probably the most ‘normal,’” Henwick adds. “This is a group of people who can say ridiculous things like, ‘Well, I was on my yacht last week,’ and Peg is the only one who knows well enough to roll her eyes at the casualness of that statement.” Without spoiling anything, I can say that “Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery” is just as entertaining as its predecessor. This massively talented cast features Daniel Craig, Edward Norton, Janelle Monáe, Kathryn Hahn, Leslie Odom Jr., Jessica Henwick, Madelyn Cline, with Kate Hudson, and Dave Bautista. See “Glass Onion” in select theaters November 23–29, and globally on Netflix on December 23. All quotes and images courtesy of Netflix

There’s a sea of different people in this world. While everyone is unique and different, there are enough commonalities between us all to lump us into various groups based on personality, interests, and experiences. I don’t view the Zodiac signs as the ultimate source of truth. But every time I see a Capricorn description, I inch closer to acceptance that groups of like-minded people exist and we can be somewhat predictable. We seem to form tribes whether we want to or not. But for some of us, the journey to find our tribe can take forever. When we are young, our tribe is our family. They are the first group we spend hours with by choice and by force. Growing up, I didn’t have a lot of cousins my age. Most of them were older, between six to 15 years ahead. I can count more times I felt awkward in family gatherings than I felt comfortable. They were always playing kickball or monkey in the middle, things I failed at on a daily basis. To this day, if a ball is headed my way, my first instinct is to duck and run. Right from the beginning, I felt like a square peg and my family was the round hole. They were my family, but I can’t say they were my tribe. To their credit, they have always loved me as Heather, their little cousin. For this, I am forever grateful. But love without belonging is hollow. The next forced community is school. For kids who go to a large school, the odds increase for finding a group you can call your own. But for kids in small schools, like mine with a graduating class of 120 students, it’s a lot harder to find your tribe. You search for a group of people who have baggage that matches yours, but when the odds are against you, you could be the only one. Feeling alone in school can create alienation and depression, devastating feelings when you are young. From this alienation emerges stereotypes that damage young kids before they have a chance. You become the gay kid. The nerd. The weirdo. The stoner. School becomes a horrible sorting system that pigeonholes kids into social and intellectual categories and stunts any possible growth as a human being. So for some, finding one’s tribe in school is impossible. For others, they aren’t allowed to explore and really discover who they are. For me, I made friends well enough, and have lifetime friends who are genuinely good people. I explored various identities throughout high school. But did I really find my tribe? No. So then comes college. This is where some young people really flourish. They can reinvent who they want to be. They can join the theater group, play intramural sports, and find friends interested in the same career path. College can be a place where people find their tribe. For me, it was in theater class. We didn’t have a theater program in my high school so I never really experienced “theater kids.” In college, I found my people…dramatic, ridiculous people. For the first time in my life, I was with a group of people where I excelled; and I felt like I belonged. I threw out references that people actually caught. I never sang a show tune alone. I made dramatic exits that were appreciated. They got it. All of it. And it was glorious. As I moved into full-blown adulthood, my tribe changed. I got married, had a child, and moved to the profession of teaching. My tribe changed to those who understood marriage and all its nuances, to other mothers who agreed that motherhood was not the end-all-be-all identity, and other teachers who struggled every day to help students in an unforgiving world. Each time the tribe changed, it became more difficult to find that square hole I fit in. The sea of people became smaller. Interests became more narrow until you got to a point where you didn’t have a tribe but rather a mini gathering. The struggle was real. As an adoptee, I never truly found my tribe until I joined some Korean Adoptee (KAD) Facebook groups and attended a KAD conference. In every previous example, even when I fit in there was always an underlying imposter syndrome that made me feel like I wasn’t fully a part of the group. My identity held me back from giving myself permission to feel at ease. But in this group, this group of Korean Adoptees, I finally felt like I found my tribe. Their family pictures on Facebook looked like mine, a gaggle of white people with a solitary Korean face in the middle. I met people with whom I had an unspoken understanding. I didn’t have to fully explain myself because they already knew the situation I was talking about. When I said I felt like an outsider growing up, this group didn’t need me to explain at length. You could see in their faces they’d already felt that isolation, the idea that we are “…one of those things that’s not like the other.” We are a tribe built on Han, abandonment, and loss. We’ve all been asked, “No, where are you really from?” and rolled our eyes in annoyance. We’ve all felt completely alone in a crowded gymnasium. We all were in awe that first time we were in a room where everyone was of our ethnicity—every single face looked like ours. It’s an amazing, surreal moment to finally just blend in. Finding this tribe is a gift. It completes a part of me unlike any other experience. While it may take some time, it is worth finding your tribe.

The rise in hate crimes against the AAPI community has left many of us questioning not just our identity as Asian-Americans, but how we can move forward from the cycles of trauma in a society that has conditioned us to minimize our experiences. What does it mean to be Asian-American in the 21st century? If you’re a part of the Asian diaspora, it means simultaneously navigating the trauma of the current climate while also trying to understand and address the intergenerational trauma that is so heavily tied into our identities as children of immigrants and refugees. It means having our identities rooted in the dichotomous nature of collectivistic values and western individuality. It means living in that void between our proximity to whiteness and the perpetual foreigner stereotype. It means having to play catch-up with the transmission of trauma passed down to us by our parents and relatives, understanding our own personal trauma, and coming together in solidarity against the collective trauma caused by senseless attacks on our communities. For those of you who are feeling burnt out, ignored, and misunderstood; you are not alone. Many of us are navigating issues of race, gender, and class in a modern world that seems to repeat the same cycles of oppression and violence. The question we’re all left with now, is how we can simultaneously recognize and break these cycles of trauma when so many of us, including our parents, are still afraid to admit that we are suffering. Some decades ago, our parents and relatives migrated to the states to escape oppressive and violent conditions that plagued their countries during historically tragic events such as the Vietnam War and the Khmer Rouge. Facing war, genocide, and the loss of their home countries; many of our relatives arrived in the States carrying with them the trauma of witnessing large-scale deaths, poverty, and displacement. Alongside PTSD, they also brought over the resilient nature of their determination to survive, socioeconomic struggles, maladaptive coping patterns, acculturation and assimilation stress, and the traditional and collectivistic values of their era. “Why can’t you be more like me when I was your age?” is a common question that many of us have heard growing up through moments of navigating between our collectivistic cultures and our individual identities. Our methods of self-identifying have always included our sense of belonging in the communities and families that we represent, a common characteristic of collectivistic Asian cultures. Because of this, our experiences and perspectives are often so interdependently intertwined with those of our families. Our current generation may not have lived through the severity of war-related events of our parents’ and ancestors’ eras, but we have felt the multitude of trauma transmission through factors such as harsh parenting styles, dysfunctional communication patterns, domestic and family violence, and parental withdrawal growing up. Our parents’ and ancestors’ struggles are a large part of us whether we accept it or not. Over the course of history, millions of our ancestors have suffered from being forcibly displaced from their homes, experiencing gross humans’ rights violations, and witnessing violence and destruction brought on by oppressive systems. Existing literature and research on intergenerational trauma suggest that horrific events such as the Holocaust, the Vietnam War, and the Khmer Rouge genocide in Cambodia have long-term traumatic effects not just on the mental health and well-being of the victims, but on the descendants as well. These considerable studies call our attention to the topic of intergenerational transmission of trauma and how the lives, mental health, and experiences of victims and their descendants are interdependent and reciprocally impacted by trauma. On the one hand, our individualistic tendencies are craving to be our own person through the independence and uniqueness that is so common of western cultures. On the other hand, however, we can’t ignore that all our experiences are interconnected with other members of our AAPI communities. That is the dichotomous nature of being Asian in America. It is up to us, now, to find healthy ways of honoring our parents’ and ancestors’ pasts while also addressing and unlearning so many of the maladaptive coping patterns that have been conditioned and ingrained in us. We can simultaneously respect and appreciate the hardships that our parents have gone through, while also rejecting some of the values and perspectives that they have brought with them which no longer resonate with us. If we want to break the cycle of trauma and PTSD, it is important to encourage healthy conversations around topics that have been traditionally considered taboo by Asian cultures such as mental health and sexuality. We need to be able to openly discuss how our elders are being violently targeted while our women are constantly being sexualized and fetishized. Breaking the cycle of trauma means being able to recognize and address the areas where trauma arises. It also means being able to recognize where feelings of shame and embarrassment arise around these topics and giving ourselves permission to change the traditional narratives that surround mental health and trauma. We can advocate for the healing and recovery of our parents’ generations and ours, while also unlearning harmful and outdated worldviews that cause us to minimize ourselves and our experiences. A study done by the Asian American Psychological Association found that due to the COVID-19 pandemic and current climate of anti-Asian racism, the population of Asian-American young adults with depressive and anxiety symptoms have risen to 41%. Those of us who have been discriminated against are more than twice as likely to report with depression and anxiety. Today’s generations of Asian Americans must navigate the collective trauma of the current climate while also dealing with the intergenerational trauma from our parents’ and grandparents’ eras. It is not easy being Asian in America in the 21st century, but we are fortunate to have so many resources and organizations that are committed to elevating our voices and experiences. We can continue this important work by elevating the voices of our parents, our relatives, and ourselves. The first step is recognizing some of the common symptoms of trauma which may include: dissociation feelings of shame and guilt feelings of helplessness and worthlessness isolation and withdrawal difficulty regulating our moods and emotions nightmares feelings of depression feelings of anxiety Secondly, to give ourselves permission to seek help by confiding in our loved ones and reaching out to organizations that are committed to helping AAPI communities such as: Asian Mental Health Collective Asian American Psychological Association Asian American Health Initiative National Asian American Pacific Islander Mental Health Association Cover photo: Jason Leung

Growing up, I lived in one of those unremarkable suburban neighborhoods everyone has seen and no one remembers. Two-story houses. Well-manicured lawns. A driveway leading to a garage filled with bikes for the 2.5 kids living in the house. An asphalt paved bike path ran by these cookie-cutter homes and around a man-made pond, a gazebo sitting pretty to the side. This pond was the farthest I was allowed to bike without an adult and so I came here often, putting as much distance as possible between me and the vibrational tension of unhappily married parents that filled what was supposed to be home. I sat on the grassy hill, back propped against a rectangular metal box that filtered the pond, and watched the geese float about. I wondered why the geese chose this place to make their home, a pond with a view obstructed by houses set to the constant humming of electricity. They voluntarily lived in water littered with Fritos bags and Slurpee cups, an inorganic home not worthy of them. Did someone pluck them from their families and drop them here, like what happened to me? I was 6 months old when the Korean government stamped the paperwork authorizing the erasure of my Korean citizenship, all 13 pounds of me, too heavy a burden for a government to bear. I soared across the Pacific Ocean, across the land of the free and the home of the brave, 14 hours to Washington, D.C., to a Jewish couple, to my new unnatural habitat. I watched these geese, their brown feathers preened perfectly, their black necks imperial in posture, and as their necks click a few degrees to look around. Then, without warning or apparent reason, the geese begin to paddle faster and their wings lift, an invisible force turning them into marionettes. Their necks stretch, their backs elongate, their beaks point just a bit more towards the sky. And, like magic, an orchestra of noise beats as their wings flap, their feet tuck in, and they fly. Free. Untouchable. I always wanted to be those geese, to escape, to lead a life as different as possible from my parents, with their paper-pushing government jobs. I fantasized about living in New York City, melding seamlessly into the throngs of people walking along First Avenue each morning, hustling to my job as a doctor or a lawyer. Anonymous in the best of ways, the crowd would act as a bulwark from the smothering feeling of being an object of curiosity all the time—an adopted Korean Jew. But then, for no clear reason at all, the geese tilted their wings in succession and circled back down. All of their movements in reverse order was like watching a video as it rewinds. Beaks down. Backs contract. Neck curves. Wings shrink. There is a brief eruption of flapping, a slight splash, and then they are floating again in the same place. They look satisfied, peaceful, and regal. They are the monarchs of their artificial habitat once again. I would always leave after they returned, never understanding why they came back, feeling angry at them. They could leave but did not. Now, in my late 30s with three kids and a garage full of bikes living just a handful of miles from that same artificial pond, I realize that despite a brief stretching of my own wings, I nestled right back where I started. I could have left too, but did not. I made no conscious choice to build my life this way, so close to the landmarks of my childhood. Instead, an unspoken force kept me close, daring me to stay, daring me to make this contrived home my own, daring me to be happy, here. My personal redemption simply could not have happened in New York City, a lovely place to hide but not to be found. As ridiculous as it sounds, my life as a suburban mom is an act of defiance, an act of power, an act of resilience. It is a message to that baby who was placed here, in the most artificial of habitats, that she belongs. Like the goose with his head held high, I am the queen gliding on her fake pond, daring anyone to tell her, especially the voice in her head, that she should go away, that this is not home.

"The Global Orphan Adoption System: South Korea’s Impact on Its Origin and Development" by Dr. Kyung-eun Lee is an informative and eye-opening explanation as to how so many Korean adoptees have been placed around the world since the Korean War in 1950. Written as her Ph.D. dissertation, Dr. Lee published this text in English only for international adoptees as the first readers, followed by researchers, and ultimately with a hope that the policymakers of countries will also eventually read the information she has revealed. As a Korean citizen and being involved in the South Korean government for over 20 years, she only became aware of the severity of the South Korean adoption issue in 2015. Since there is no social dialog on adoption in the country, it was all new to Dr. Lee. But, once she became aware, she started her research for her Ph.D. with completion in 2017. This led her to publish a book in Korean in 2019, followed by the publication of her "Dialogues With Adoptees" series in 2020. Her activities culminated in this book published in 2021 and led to taking "Dialogues" online on the Korea Times site (that we have also republished). She explains in her lecture with Adoptionspolitisk Forum that the reason she has not published her work in Korean is because this adoption system is a human rights issue so the voices need to first be heard and pushed forward by those who are the victims of it. Throughout the book, Dr. Lee provides the history of adoption both domestically and internationally not only in South Korea, but internationally as it developed as a human rights issue through the Hague Conventions. In 1980, the South Korean adoption system was scrutinized heavily, but then forgotten about, much like the Korean War, on a global scale. However, this invisibility allowed the country to develop an international adoption program that systematically created “orphans” to create opportunities for private entities to benefit financially at the expense of thousands of individuals. Despite Hague Conventions being created to protect the rights of children in other countries, South Korea was able to escape being required to adjust their practices, but instead became more skilled at ensuring a steady stream of children, whether actually orphaned or not, to be sent abroad. “In reality, a majority of intercountry adopted children [in South Korea] are not orphans. More than 90% of them have living birth parents whose consent relinquished them for adoption.” (p. 206) Dr. Lee suggests that now this system in South Korea is too deeply embedded for the country to be able to stop the international adoption system as an explanation as to why the country has yet to end their exportation of children and continues to be one of the highest senders of their citizens abroad to be adopted. The excuse of the effects of the war are no longer applicable as anyone who has visited South Korea now can see that it is no longer a poor and suffering country. Through this text, we learn about how human rights are being violated for adoptees. “Hague Adoption Convention prescribes that children receive information and counseling on the effects of adoption, and this should be delivered in a means that gives consideration to the children’s age and level of maturity.” (p.205) Further, “Decades of disjointed and flawed child adoption legislation in conjunction with a history of abusing intercountry adoption as a child protection measure have undermined the basic capacity of child protection authorities to such an extent that even searching for missing children can be severely impaired.” (p. 214) What is key in reading this text is the feeling that adoptees have an ally in Dr. Lee as she states, “For children, the often-hidden cost of finding a new home abroad is the loss of their cultural, social, and emotional ties” (p. 248). This perspective is so often ignored by other actors within the adoption system. Although it is an academic text, it is an insightful explanation about the adoption system in South Korea as it relates to the rest of the world and human rights issues for the thousands of Korean adoptees sent abroad. No matter how you feel about being adopted or having adopted, this is a worthwhile read to better understand how adoption is seen from a governmental perspective at the expense of the victims of this system. We highly recommend Dr. Lee’s book: "The Global Orphan Adoption System: South Korea’s Impact on Its Origin and Development"! You can also watch our book talk with Dr. Lee here.

That night, as she stood alone on the water’s edge, the expanse of the ocean before her felt as dark and infinite as the universe. A soft crush of waves melted into the earth and rose back up, frothy, pulsing, pulling, and dissolving the sand beneath her feet. Glistening, fingerlike threads caressed and grabbed at her toes. She imagined being dragged out and swallowed up by the vast unknown. Gia was terrified and yet, she dug her heels in and stayed her ground. In the distance, on that stretch of beach, college kids drank beers, ate sushi, and played beach volleyball near a raging bonfire. This was a world unfamiliar to Gia—coeds, fraternity sweethearts, Asian sorority sisters from Sigma Phi Omega, and frat boys from Gamma Epsilon Omega, the Asian fraternity. She was out of her element. “Has anyone seen Gia?” asked Josh making his way through the group. “No,” is what they each said before returning to their partying. Except for Josh, himself, and his frat bro, Luke, who drove them there, no one knew who Gia was anyway. Josh had only recently met Gia a few days ago while standing in line at the university bookstore. Josh had been struck by Gia’s beauty. She was tall, slim, and had the most perfect oval face and pretty, sunny eyes. Her long black hair was radiant—sleek and glossy. Josh was taken aback at first, but it only took him a couple of seconds to get over any hesitation to talk to her. Josh was a tall attractive young Asian man himself—and he knew it. All the guys from the Gamma house were known for their handsome, good looks. All the girls from Sigma Phi Omega were also reputedly gorgeous. This was Southern California after all. Josh and Gia had made small talk in the bookstore, and Josh learned that Gia was a transfer student from Virginia. Josh was a California valley boy, born and raised. When Josh asked Gia if she wanted to go to this beach party, he was pleased when she agreed. “Gia!” called Josh above the rushing, rhythmic ocean sounds. He thought that was her standing alone by the waterfront. Josh noticed how the moonlight cast a glow on her enchanting face. Her silhouette against the dark blue shoreline was almost picturesque. She looked peaceful—or maybe troubled. He called out again, “Gia!” as he ran up next to her. “You okay?” “Oh, hey,” responded Gia glancing over at Josh. “You’re out here by yourself. You wanna join the party? I’ll introduce you to everyone.” Gia looked at the ground. “Uh, Josh. I’ve actually got a lot on my mind.” She looked back up. “I shouldn’t have agreed to come tonight. I’m sorry.” “Oh…okay. No worries.” “I mean…I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. It was great of you to invite me. You and Luke even came and picked me up. It’s just…I’m just not up to it all, ya know?” explained Gia. “Don’t worry about it,” said Josh. “If you need to go, I can get Luke’s car and take you back to the dorms…if you need to get outta here.” “Yeah, cause I’m just…stressing.” “What’s wrong?” asked Josh. “It’s…well, family stuff,” said Gia. “They’re all coming into town tomorrow to support my sister. She plays soccer.” “Soccer? Cool—I mean, not cool if you’re not happy with them.” “I hate 'em.” “Hate? That’s a strong word.” “I hate them all.” “Wow, okay. Well, I’m sure you have good reason…to be unhappy with them,” said Josh. “How anyone could do something to cause you hardship is beyond me. You seem like a nice person.” “You don’t know anything about me. You just met me.” “That is true. I don’t know you.” Josh pushed the front of his hair back with his hand and paused. “Can I take you back home?” Gia looked out at the ocean water pensively, and then looked into Josh’s eyes. “Josh,” she said. “Could you come with me tomorrow for brunch?" “And meet your family?” “Sure.” “I think we’re moving a little fast here,” laughed Josh. “As a friend. Just come as my friend.” “Friend? So now we’re friends? I don’t know anything about you. I just met you, remember?” teased Josh. “Please, Josh.” Gia stared at Josh and searched his eyes until she knew she had him. She knew her eyes were one of her best features; she had already figured out the power she had because of them. “For moral support,” she added. Josh was intrigued by this attractive, strange, and complex woman. “Well…. Okay. Just for brunch.” The next day Josh picked up Gia and drove to The Huntington in San Marino. Brunch was being served in the Rose Hills Garden Court that day. As Gia and Josh walked through and approached the area, Gia noticed her brother and sister standing around, waiting to be seated for their reservation. “Jackie! Mike!” Gia called out to them. But, there was no response. When they got closer, things got awkward. Josh tried to lighten the mood by making a comment about how nice they redid certain sections of the botanic gardens and art museum. Gia engaged back with a light conversation with Josh. Although they stood near her brother and sister, neither of Gia’s siblings acknowledged her. Josh thought it was odd. “It’s like I’m invisible,” said Gia sullenly to Josh. Josh shook his head. He stared at Jackie and Mike who were oblivious. Gia’s siblings appeared to be intentionally ignoring her, and it began to anger him. “Hey! Your sister’s here!” he shouted. “Josh—” pleaded Gia. But, her parents had just arrived and her siblings had turned their attention to them. “Mom, Dad,” said Gia as she approached her parents. Gia’s mother had a puzzled look on her face and walked away. The host had waved to the group and Gia’s parents and siblings began following the young hostess who was taking them all to their seats. Josh and Gia joined the line, trailing behind. When Gia and Josh sat down at the table, Gia’s mother’s brow furrowed and she let out an incredulous gasp. “Uh, excuse me!” “Mom, it’s me,” said Gia. “Mom, Dad, this is Josh.” Gia’s parents looked stunned. Gia’s siblings, Mike and Jackie, were speechless. They didn’t even notice Josh. Jackie stared at her sister. “Is that really you, Gia?” she asked. “What did you do to your face!!” sneered her brother, Mike. Gia’s mother put her hand over her mouth. Josh looked around at the family and didn’t know what to think. “Gia, I didn’t even recognize you,” said her father. “What did you do to yourself?!” demanded Gia’s mother. “You’re not impressed that I lost all the weight?” asked Gia. Josh’s brow wrinkled. He was as confused as the others. “You know how big she was before?” shouted Mike obnoxiously to Josh. “She was humungo!” Mike’s laughter was full of snorts and whistles. Congestion went down the wrong windpipe and he began hacking on his own phlegm. Jackie was laughing and chortling along with her brother. “We called her Giant Gia!” mocked Jackie. Josh stared at Gia in disbelief. “Gia, you gonna load up at the omelet station? Gonna grab yourself ten stacks of stuffed French toast? It’s all you can eat!” taunted Mike. “Stop it, Michael!” chided their mother. “I prefer the salmon and berries, thank you,” retorted Gia with an air of indignance. Josh nodded towards her in support. Gia’s mother slid her glasses onto her face and looked Gia over more carefully. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m glad you lost the weight, but your face. You don’t look like you,” said her mother. “You had work done,” said Jackie. “A lot of work done…all over,” interjected Michael who made a sweeping motion with his arm towards Gia. “The whooole thing.” Gia turned to Josh. “See what I’ve had to endure my entire life? Non-stop bullying.” “That’s why you were in such a hurry to leave for LA,” said Jackie snarkily. “I had it all done in the early part of summer—yes, that’s why I flew to LA so early.” “What. What did you have done?” asked Gia’s mom stoically with only a hint of a twitch in her upper lip. “Everything—eyes, cheeks. Jawline shaved. Rhinoplasty, blepharoplasty, liposuction. I even had a vampire facial.” “Vampire facial?” asked Josh. “It’s when blood is drawn from your arm, processed, and then injected back into your face. The result after scabbing is regeneration. My skin glows!” “You learn something every day. Even for an LA guy like me, that’s the first time I’ve heard of that. You do have beautiful, glossy skin,” commented Josh. “So, what do you all think?” asked Gia looking expectantly at her family. Her parents, sister, and brother had no response. “You have nothing to say?” Her family members either looked at the ground or averted their eyes. Gia raised her voice. “Not even a ‘you look great, Gia’?” Finally, Michael sat up in his seat and jeered, “Well, you’ll always be Giant Gia to me!” He began laughing again, uncontrollably. Jackie tried to conceal her chuckles, but finally, let out a muffled howl. Gia fell silent. She looked around the table as tears welled up in her eyes. She pushed her chair away from the table, stood up, and shouted, “I can never win with you all! No matter what I do! And, you know what? I don’t give a flying F about anything you all say. Say whatever. I just don’t give a crap. It does not affect me, whatsoever!” As Gia walked out, her family had fallen silent. They were in shock. They had never heard Gia speak this way to them before. Josh got up and went after Gia. “You okay?” Josh asked after catching up with Gia. “Yeah, thanks for checking up on me,” responded Gia. “Can we just go?” “Where do you want to go?” “Anywhere but here.” Josh and Gia pulled up at the beach. They walked until they found a spot and settled in with a beach towel and boba they had picked up along the way. “I know they’re family. But, I’m sorry that you have to deal with all of that,” said Josh. “I’m used to it. Been dealing with the harassment and abuse my whole life.” “Well, you know what I think?” asked Josh. “What?” “I think you’ve got incredible, inner strength—and you look beautiful!” “Even if it’s all not real? Even if it’s all fake?” “It’s okay. You made your decisions. Embrace them. It’s who you are now. Accept the fact that you’re absolutely gorgeous now,” said Josh encouragingly. “I’m just not sure how to handle it all, though.” “Sure, you do. Just forget about your family for now. You’re not going to change them. Focus on yourself. Get to know the new you and enjoy it.” “It’s like I have a costume on. I don’t know who I am anymore,” admitted Gia who looked lost. “I saw what you did yesterday. You had me. You’re learning. You got me here, didn’t you?” “I don’t know what to say.” “Welcome to the pretty club, baby!” “You’re freaking me out, Josh.” “Doesn’t sound like your plastics doc gave you a manual on how to use your newfound beauty powers. Well, I’m here to tell you that now that you’re all healed up, you’re gonna find that being young and attractive’s gonna give you all kinds of advantages. Stop hanging by the edge and just jump in the water, Gia!” “But Josh, I don’t think I’m ready. You saw what I’ve been subjected to my whole life. That’s what I’m used to. Being the outcast. I’m not prepared to manage these so-called powers that you talk about. I’m…I’m scared.” “I got you, Gia. I got you. Hey, listen. I understand you,” said Josh looking directly into Gia’s eyes. “No,” said Gia searching Josh’s eyes and face. “You too?” “Yup, double eyelid, rhinoplasty, chemical peel. Even butt implants.” “Really?” “Nah, not the implants,” laughed Josh. “Oh.” “It’s really not a big deal. Everyone gets something done eventually. That’s life. This is LA.” Gia looked away. “So…are friendships fake out here too?” “Some. Not all.” “What about us?” “I just met you,” teased Josh. “But I think I know a little bit more about you now. You can count me as a friend…if you’re comfortable with that.” He smiled. “Sure. I’d like that, Josh. Beauty is only skin-deep. You being there for me…it’s everything.” “You know, you’re pretty grounded for a gorgeous girl.” Gia smiled, and for the first time, accepted a compliment. The two sat quietly and looked out at the immense, moving body of water before them. Gia sat perched like a delicate bird with her thin, sculpted legs beneath her. The afternoon sun seemed to shine through her translucent skin. Her careful face, gleaming hair, and perfect features made her look ethereal, almost otherworldly. For a moment, Josh thought he saw himself reflected back from the glossy depths of her eyes. He searched again and found the earth’s powerful ocean waters within her orbs that sparkled like stars in a dark universe. Josh smiled back at Gia. He thought to himself, “she’s dazzling.” Cover photo: Pixabay

This spring, I had the great privilege to spend some time chatting with Justin Cardona from Asian All American, a media company based in Oakland, CA. “Through filmmaking, photography, I highlight, I try to tell the stories of my community through basketball,” Cardona, a Filipino American, noted. “It’s quite interesting how people react when looking at themselves…it kind of helped them redefine a little bit about…how they see themselves.” Asian All American features profiles and interviews with students and athletes as a way to lift up voices of the next generation, to educate on the importance of the history of Asian Americans in the U.S., and to promote and build up solidarity between communities in the Bay Area. “We need to see every day Asian Americans, of different shades, of different social and economic backgrounds, make different choices; we need to know there are other ways to navigate through this thing called life.” Justin Cardona began Asian All American as an all-star basketball league. This in turn led to the creation of the media company to feature participants. The focus on rising, Asian American athletes in the Bay Area, allows Asian All American to offer opportunities for young people to share their stories of successes and failures. “My responsibility is to be able to share these stories, but more importantly be honest about where we are now, also doing a better a job of knowing history and connecting the two.” Cardona further noted the goal of the organization is to “uplift, educate ourselves and other Asian Americans, make them feel prideful, and build confidence.” Cardona’s beginnings really speak to the importance of showing up and being present. “You know what, it came through basketball. I started filming just the games, I had a simple camcorder and then it just grew, and I became this maniac with the equipment and then I learned how to use the equipment properly, and became more professional. I started to do simple interviews and it just grew from there.” This led to the creation of Asian All American. “As soon as the pandemic ended, I had the opportunity to work in the schools covering sports. I’m just trying to use my connections in a way so I can create opportunities and these bridges to communicate and tell the stories of, not just only of Asian Americans now, it’s an opportunity to talk in real time—everyone’s stories.” Cardona’s choice to focus Asian All American on local, underrepresented stories in the world of sports has had big impacts on young athletes in the Oakland community. When discussing the importance of seeing themselves in media, Cardona opined, “When I saw these young ladies win the state championship, I flashed back on my own life, and how many times I’ve reached a certain pinnacle in my life, we need to talk about those things, those successes. It’s important. And on different levels, you don’t need the star athlete or CEO. I also need to relate to an everyday person.” Cardona emphasized the importance of the organization’s mentorship. This tenet is rooted in Cardona’s upbringing. “[My father] started using basketball as a way to talk to kids who just needed some mentorship; he used basketball as a way to do that, communicate the importance of education. So that was his start in community development, community service.” That ethos has carried through in Cardona’s work in creating programs for Asian All American. “Big ups to all the coaches. Because the coaches have a tough job of balancing out being Xs and Os and also being that mentor they [the young athletes] need to navigate through regular life.” Cardona believes young athletes translate their experiences in sports into other areas of their lives. “Promoting youth athletes to be able to take the life building skills deeper into their lives. Life takes on many forms, and opportunities come in different forms.” Asian All American is a forum for a community. “I think, although there are dark stories, and we have to talk about those things, right? I think right now, our community needs to see Asian Americans in a way where people can get a source of inspiration.” Ultimately, Cardona hopes to “build a movement amongst the youth. The youth is going to bring us along. I do feel a responsibility to show them in the best light.”

Reposted from Ildaro.com As Koreans from the diaspora who have returned to the motherland we are acknowledged by the government as part of the minjok, but that identity is disputed by many. First, those of us who were adopted sometimes find it difficult to identify as Koreans. Then, because we usually arrive with very bad or totally absent Korean language skills, and often with bare understanding of Korean culture, people who lived the majority of their lives on the peninsula see us only as foreigners. Even those Koreans who are 1.5+ generation diasporic Koreans see us as similarly kyopo, or totally whitewashed. My experiences are atypical, though. Since I was so active in the Korean-American community and lived among other immigrants, I transitioned to Korea quite easily. I had close friends from NYURI waiting for me when I got off the plane in Incheon. We quickly and effortlessly resumed our friendship from New York. I also knew a lot of people who had also been adopted and who had returned to live in Korea. Daejeon, however, took more getting used to. For the first time in 15 years, I was mostly socializing and working among white people again. Most of the native English teachers (NETs) and English language department administration were North American white men married to Korean women. Their behavior and attitudes belied their privilege, and their plainly evident white supremacist ideology was something I had to get used to again. My bubble in New York had been thick and had lowered my defenses against being in the stark minority. What a paradox to be in the minority as a Korean in Korea! I heard co-workers repeat Fox News pundits’ claims and read ex-pat [sic] uninformed netizen chatter like: Korea was better because it was more socially conservative; taxes were rightfully lower than in North America; the government stayed out of peoples’ private affairs. I nearly fell off my chair when a co-worker from North Dakota claimed that Korea could not possibly be sexist because the president was a woman. The term “expat” became insufferable. I realized it was used to separate migrants from rich countries from those who are from the Global South, although both populations are seeking economic opportunities they do not have in their native countries. And what about returned migrants? In the U.S., I was clearly an immigrant. In the ROK I needed a visa to live and work in the country, but I had been born in Incheon (probably?), so I wasn’t a foreigner, and I certainly was not an expatriate since I wasn’t “outside my country.” I believe I have a right to live in the country where I was born without being labeled as a foreigner by either the government or its citizens. While in Daejeon, I tried to get an F4 visa, but the ROK immigration office requires U.S. citizens to show their naturalization certificate. I never needed the certificate in the U.S. after I got a passport, but ROK rules that U.S. passports are not acceptable proof of U.S. citizenship because Samoa (whose population is less than 56,000) are U.S. nationals holding U.S. passports, but not U.S. citizens. I worked for a year on a professor visa, essentially as property of my university, because I did not have my U.S. naturalization certificate to prove my U.S. immigration status. I had applied to replace it, but I was running into red tape with the U.S. Customs and Immigration Service (USCIS). It took two years, intervention from my Congressional Representative, and about USD 500 to get a replacement certificate. I was caught between the immigration services of both countries, and classified as an immigrant in both. Around the time I was wrestling with USCIS, adoptees without citizenship in their adoptive countries, mainly the U.S., were in the news again. The U.S. was deporting adoptees back to Korea and other countries that had sent children overseas to be adopted. It was a part of the draconian Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996, (IIRIRA) that made misdemeanors deportable offenses that adopted people were getting caught up in. Sometimes this was fatal. In Brazil Joao Hubert was killed after being forcibly removed from the U.S. by the USCIS. In Korea adoptees compelled to live in the ROK for various reasons stemming from problems with U.S. immigration were treated as Koreans legally, but as foreigners socially. Korea has been known as the Hermit Kingdom, hostile to foreigners for centuries. I understand the reasons. Foreign invaders and colonizers were historically bad news for Korea. The state of the ROK was built on the dubious claims of pure blood and race by Syngman Rhee (who was married to a non-Korean white woman). That is the often-repeated story of why intercountry adoption began after the 6.25 war—mixed-race Koreans and their mothers were marginalized so severely that adoption agency workers “rescued” them by sending them overseas to be adopted. Another myth promoted by the adoption industry is that Koreans don’t adopt, but even Rhee adopted three children, one of whom legally ended the adoption. The antiquated view of 우리 나라  needs to expand the idea of “Korean” and reboot the definition of “foreigner.” Mixed-race Koreans, diasporic Koreans, Koreans from both Korean states are all Korean. And what about Korean-born people whose parents have no Korean blood? Who are culturally integrated but not biologically? Furthermore, why is there a hierarchy of people not “typically” Korean? Why are mixed Koreans who have a white parent treated so differently than Koreans who have a Black parent? Or “multicultural” children who are not mixed race, but who have one Korean parent and a parent from Southeast Asia? Why does society use “International Family” to mean that the non-Korean parent is from a rich developed country and “Multicultural Family” to mean that one parent is from a country that the ROK society deems less developed? While I lived in Daejeon, there was a Korean language course taught on our campus for multicultural families. Most of the students were either from the Philippines or China. A few were Vietnamese or NETs. There was one white Norwegian woman who had met her Korean husband in China. (I used my marriage to my now ex-husband to enroll in the class.) The classes reminded me a lot of the classes I had taught in New York, although more chauvinist—we learned words to honor husbands’ parents and vocabulary deemed especially useful for housewives like cleaning and shopping for groceries. The students were mostly very young and quick to learn Korean. I felt quite comfortable with my Filipina classmates, even if they learned more quickly than I did and were half my age. They spoke English better than almost any of my Korean students, and we became quite friendly despite our very different lives. I really felt a part of the migrant community. Sometimes, just like in New York, we had “Know Your Rights” presentations from the local police department. An officer told us how to get help in cases of domestic violence, and we got advice about practical matters about daily life in Korea. Although I am not a foreigner and certainly would never call myself an expat, I strongly identified as a migrant and being the recipient of migrant services. English-language Internet communities constantly ask for advice about what our rights are as tenants, workers, and non-citizens. I see discrimination against "foreigners" myself from my landlord and neighbors who claim I have noisy parties every day. The condescending and misguided attempts to “help” people whose Korean is not native-level is offensive and patronizing. Even the public rental bicycles assume that if one is using the English-language service, he or she must be 1) a tourist 2) a visitor. English-language websites for KoRail and bank services are similarly truncated compared to the Korean language services rather than the mirror images like I saw in the English and Spanish language sites in the U.S. Even so, I realize I am fortunate and privileged to be an native English speaker (even if jobs do not consider me a native speaker because I look Korean, or many other Asians to be native speakers even if they are very fluent from South Asia or the Philippines). If my native language were Bangla or Vietnamese, I know I would have even far fewer options. After two years in Chungcheongnam-do, I gambled and moved to Seoul even though I had no job. My friends and community were in Seoul, and although Daejonites are exceptionally friendly and generous, I felt isolated. I relocated and eventually co-founded an organization that does advocacy and activism around intercountry adoption issues and works in solidarity with other groups like migrant workers, unwed mothers, and queer activists as part of the larger social justice movement in Korea. South Korea has been called a very xenophobic and racist society, simultaneously granting unearned privileges to white people while still discriminating against them, which is is socially acceptable. Westerners who aren’t white are mimicked and their pop culture contributions have been appropriated by the hallyu touts, but still must contend with extremely ignorant and offensive stereotypes. Although Black Americans have told me that is preferable to being pulled over for DWB (driving while Black) like in the U.S., or being physically assaulted in ways that initiated the Black Lives Matter movement, it is still unacceptably common for Koreans to believe racist ideas about Black or Brown westerners. Migrant workers from Africa, South Asia, and Southeast Asia must fight for more basic rights such as the right to change jobs. Western and non-western workers, blue collar and “professionals,” all face wage theft and illegal workplace practices perpetrated by Koreans who take advantage of our lack of legal rights, racism, xenophobia, and native-Korean language skills. Even with my coveted job as a university employee, my prospects of promotion are nil because I’m a “foreign” professor. This kind of discrimination is illegal in most western countries and actively (although not always effectively) discouraged in many developing countries where quotas attempt to correct for social discrimination through legislation. We 재외동포 are given the F4 visa, as mentioned above. The visa restricts the types of jobs we can do, however. We are not allowed to do the 3D jobs, those that are dangerous, dirty, or degrading. Some adoptees from non-English speaking countries struggle to exercise our birthright to live in Korea due to these restrictions. Americans, Canadians, and Australians can earn sufficient salaries teaching English, but because of the ROK’s nonsensical belief that fluent, but non-native language teachers are not qualified to teach a language, plus the reasonable (but inadequate) requirement  of a university degree, adoptees from Scandinavia, French, Dutch, German, and Italian speaking countries must find alternative employment. Without a degree, some adoptees find themselves forced to do unauthorized work in kitchens, factories, farms, and or other menial jobs. Many people whose lives were spoiled by adoption to circumstances that did not give them the privilege and opportunity to get a degree. The rationale is that these low-skilled jobs should go to Korean citizens rather than “foreigners” who were supposedly privileged by living overseas. But Koreans migrated and sent remittances back or their bodies and labor were sold to create the miracle on the Han. I think at the very least we should have full employment privileges across the labor spectrum. Now as the ROK is facing the prospect of becoming an asylum for Yemenis, in addition to accepting refugees from DPRK. Who is labeled a refugee is always political, but some South Koreans’ reactions to this development just feels like xenophobia and racism. As the U.S. separates migrant children from their families (and perhaps sends them into the adoption industry system) it seems like an extension of the Trump agenda reaching Korea. I live near Seoul Station and see and hear rallies of right-wing Korean groups. They wave American flags and display photos of Park Chung Hee and Donald Trump weekly. Hundreds of thousands have signed Internet petitions in reaction to 500 people seeking relief from a war, despite so many Koreans having experience as refugees themselves during our war, the resulting poverty, or from dictatorial persecution. Only one person from South Korea has been granted political asylum by the U.S. Who is labeled a refugee is always political. When accepting refugees or asylum-seekers a government is labeling the situation that the person is fleeing from as unacceptably brutal or dire. It’s labeling another state as the perpetrator or unable to control abuse in that country. I assert it’s not really about being able to serve or support the 500 refugees themselves. Korea has a labor shortage and birth rate deficit. Koreans are taking irregular jobs in retail and factories, but the agricultural industries are struggling to find workers because Koreans won’t take these jobs. Even urban labor jobs are shunned by extremely schooled but poorly educated graduates who call Korea "Hell Choseon." Some even want to deny immigrants and migrants access to these jobs and scapegoat foreigners for their lack of prestigious or acceptably professional positions. Even with an F4 my fellow adoptees are legally disallowed from taking labor jobs. Some of my comrades were adopted into situations like mine where we couldn’t earn a degree. Although I eventually obtained a graduate degree, I had to postpone my return until my late 30s until I had finished my bachelors. All my work experience would be considered relevant, and in this land of excessive credentials and certifications, I only had a high school diploma. Documentation is a fact of life regardless of where one lives. Immigration documents, citizenship papers, and diplomas,  dictate our rights and define our qualifications around the world. Despite constant corruption scandals, the ROK tries to combat corruption with more and more paperwork. When we are legally made orphans, as required by law to be sent overseas for adoption, we are issued a family register, an orphan hojuk. This makes adoption agencies our guardians and our next of kin. When we return to Korea, even after finding actual family, since most of us are not truly orphans, we still have this relationship with the adoption agency. If we die here, they become responsible for our remains. Finally in death, Korea fully claims us. I hope to live in Korea for the rest of my life, assuming that the discrimination vitriol against foreigners here does not proceed to levels it has reached in the U.S. I believe South Korea can legislate better protections and the government has the power to turn public will around. I will continue to try my best to keep working on these issues as a migrant in Korea as a Korean.