Moon face. I have a really big, round moon face. I never really considered my face until the boys at school wanted to point out that my face was flat. So, I was then known as flat face. I added this to the list of taunts that already got fired at me like missiles. Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees, Look at these. Ching Chong. I used to wish I could change my face to be small and petite. That the large bridge of my nose wasn’t so protruding, and my cheeks weren’t fat, flat tortillas on either side of my nose. I wanted blonde hair that was light and fluffy. You could spray that hair with hairspray, and it actually stayed in place. My thick dark hair refused to curl, always straight an hour after I got to school. Those rag curls my mother put in my head, futile. My mom said I was pretty. But no one cares what their mom says. Moms have to think you’re pretty. They are blinded by love. My eyes have monolids. It’s where the top lid doesn’t roll back into the eye socket. Instead, it curls up, under, and folds on top of itself like an accordion fan. That means if you put thick black eyeliner on, it’s going to smudge and disappear under your top lid and you end up looking like a raccoon. The discount version of a smokey eye. Oh, and Heaven forbid, you smile big or close your eyes tight when you laugh. Your eyeliner ends up on top of your fat tortilla cheeks. My ears connect to my head awkwardly. There’s no distinction between my cheek and my lobe. The bottom of my ear just sort of blends into my face like a merge lane. There’s no cute round lobe on the side of my head. Just a little triangular flap of skin I got pierced when I was eight at a mall kiosk in Indiana. The holes aren’t even. My unicorn earrings always sat weird, one dipping lower than the other. The real crux of the six-word memoir is that this face, this awkward, Korean-looking face, does not match me. My face doesn’t represent who I am. People who don’t know me look at my face and make a lot of assumptions. They assume I am Asian of some sort. They assume my face is Korean—if they are a good guesser. Some people assume I don’t speak English, that broken English should come out of my mouth, or that I’ll speak a language that sounds like pots and pans falling down the stairs, as the racist joke goes. When I was a greeter at Olive Garden in college, an older woman complimented me on my English saying I spoke English well. I said, “Well, I ought to since I’ve been here since I was 6 months old.” I thought I was American. I grew up in America. I ate American food. My lunch was Chef Boyardee. My family drove through McDonald’s and my parents’ favorite restaurant was Cracker Barrel. I spoke English. Yet, my face would say otherwise. My face came with baggage that wasn’t mine. My face gave some people permission to think they knew a part of me. When this happens, you are constantly trying to prove you are someone or something. How many times did I overcompensate for this? Did I speak extra American-like? I tried to do all the American things like cheerleading or ballet to show how white I was. I dated the white boy in high school…to be fair, there was only one Asian boy in my school, so choices were limited. I think I’ve spent a lifetime trying to combat my outward appearance instead of accepting it’s a natural part of what makes me, me. Acceptance is what we crave so much in our youth, yet we tend to find it much later in adulthood. I wish acceptance had come earlier. I wish I had given myself permission to feel like an outsider but had the confidence to know I really did belong. I know my face does not match who I am inside, but now I know it doesn’t matter. Cover image: Cathy Lu

I had always dreamed of having children. I grew up in a big family with lots of siblings, relatives, and cousins. There were so many adventures—it was a great experience. I just assumed my spouse and I would have kids of our own one day. He came from a big family, too. So far, there’s none. Apparently, it’s complicated. But that’s a different story. Over the years, I have done a lot of research on adoption, and I’ve certainly learned a lot. I always wanted biological children, but I was interested in adopting as well. There’s a lot of things to consider when it comes to adoption. As a woman of Asian descent living in America, there’s additional things I think about. What is the best for the child? What is the best fit? Does race matter? I had first looked into domestic adoption and spoke to an agency based in America’s Midwest. When I told the representative that my husband and I were both of Asian descent, he informed me that it would be difficult for us, as the Asian population is small and there are rarely Asian children to adopt. He also said that Hispanic children are a rarity, because they have large families and some relative typically steps up to take care of the child if the parents are unable to or have passed away. The representative encouraged me to consider adopting African American children, many of whom are in need of a loving, supportive home. My first thought was, yes, race doesn’t matter. A child is a child, a valuable human being, regardless of ethnicity, social constructs or labels. As a minority myself, I don’t discriminate. I just want to take care of someone, nurture, and guide my child, let the kid know that I’ll always be there for them and will help them through life. At the same time, I fully understand that pushing the colorblind narrative is outdated and actually harmful, especially when it comes to adoption. Even if I, as an adoptive parent, see past the child’s race, that doesn’t make race or ethnicity less important. As much as some say race shouldn’t matter, the reality is that race has always mattered. Whether I like it or not, race—with all the assumptions that go along with it—is the first thing that people see when they meet someone. People stereotype and make judgments simply based on surface appearances. I know that a child who is of a different race than their parents will have experiences that are unique and distinct from their family members. If I were transracially adopted, I would want my parents to hear me and see me and appreciate all aspects of who I am. I would want my concerns and feelings validated. I believe that transracial adoption puts the onus on adoptive parents to learn about their child’s unique ancestry and cultural heritage and to share that knowledge with their child. Adoptive parents need to build a network of cultural relationships and activities that develops their child’s self-identity, supports good mental health, and keeps their child safe. Interestingly, I also spoke to a woman from an adoption agency in California who asked me to describe my husband and me. I told her that we were both of Asian descent. We were both born in America and raised in white suburbs in families with a Chinese American cultural context. Neither of us can speak Chinese or any other Asian language, though. We only speak English. She asked me if we are considering adopting white children. I was kind of surprised and told her that I hadn’t thought of it. I explained that I live in a part of the country that is very homogenous, so the child would likely comfortably fit into the community; he or she wouldn’t stand out. Since there were so few minorities where we live, however, I wondered how the child would feel about having two Asian parents. I admitted to her that I’ve never seen nor met Asian parents with a white child. The woman seemed taken aback and told me with sharpness in her voice that I should be open to adopting a child regardless of skin color. She stated that they have had several families of non-white backgrounds, including Asians, who adopted Caucasian children. I explained that I used to live in California where it was racially diverse, open and progressive in general, so I understood where she’s coming from. I don’t live in California anymore though, and I wondered how a white child in the more conservative, traditional Midwest environment would feel growing up with parents who looked different from their friends’ and classmates’ parents. Would the child be teased and grow to resent us? Transracial adoption when the child’s ancestry is from a race that is the same as the dominant culture could be easier, but surely some work must be done to ensure the child adjusts and grows up feeling good about themselves and their family. Ultimately, I see that an open adoption—whenever possible (and usually the case with all domestic adoptions) —is always the best for the child. I have read stories that feed into the fear of things becoming complicated when birth parents get involved. But, I believe that the inherent desire and need to know where I came from and how I got here is often undeniable. I would rather have the opportunity to support that journey than not at all. Overall, I have personally seen more in the past few years than ever before, that life is incredibly short. Why not help make the experience, while we’re here, as positive, painless ,and encouraging as possible? Despite our multitude of differences, there is something that bonds all of us humans together. We all experience the same thing. Something beyond our control caused us to enter this world from somewhere none of us knows. We live our lives, and then eventually, inevitably, we transition back over to some other place—a place that I like to believe is peaceful, inclusive, wholly accepting, all understanding, and beautiful. Cover photo: Kevin Liang

Reposted from The Korea Times This is the 14th article of the series on Korea’s policies on adoption. The history of the politics of adoption permanently affects and fundamentally changes the lives of those it touches. The reason we should know the truth of this history is not for contemplating or passing judgment but for moving forward to restore the rights of adoptees. — E.D. In 2018, an adoptee recounted to me a meeting with a group of Korean government officials. They had met to discuss measures to support deported adoptees’ resettlement in Korea. When they sat at the table, the adoptee noticed that on the official’s agenda, deported adoptees were referred to as “people who failed their adoptions and returned to their birth country.” Upon seeing this, the adoptee became infuriated and questioned how these officials could essentially blame the adoptees for their unfortunate circumstances. He said, “It is not the adoptees who failed their adoptions; it is the Korean government that failed to protect its own children.” These words hung in the air and brought me back to the previous year. Between July and December of 2017, the Korean media had reported the deaths of two adoptees. This news affected me because I had personally known a third adoptee, who had taken his life that same year but whose story was never reported. Philip was born in Korea in the 1970s, but after living in the U.S. for 27 years, found himself deported to Korea in 2012. He had tried to survive here, but it’s not easy for a middle-aged man to suddenly find himself thrown into a “foreign” country. He was not just adjusting to Korea; he was starting an entirely new life in his 40s in a country where he did not know the language nor had the requisite educational background and skills to earn a living. Without adequate connections to his friends or family in either country, he struggled over the years, going in and out of mental health facilities until he eventually committed suicide in 2017. Like Philip, Jan was also born in Korea in the 1970s. Adopted to Norway in 1980 at the age of 8, he chose to return to Korea, settling in the city of Gimhae along the southern coast. He had been on a five-year journey to find his birth parents, which led him to a small orphanage in the city. This orphanage facility was mentioned in his adoption file and served as the only link to his origins. It historically functioned as a “feeding orphanage.” Like many of the child welfare institutions that existed throughout the country at the time, these places provided children to adoption agencies. Jan rented a small one-room apartment near his orphanage to continue his birth search. However, despite his attempts, he failed to find any new information. He grew depressed and spent his last few months mostly alone before the building staff found him. He had died from what doctors described as excessive alcohol intake. The third death of 2017 was Joe. He was born in the 1970s and adopted to the U.S. He grew up with a loving family and became an award-winning teacher. In the early 2010s, he returned to Korea to reunite with his birth family who’d been searching for him. However, despite this reconnection, he still could not overcome the unanswered and unresolved questions plaguing him and ultimately took his own life. Some have argued that focusing on such tragedies undermines the “love” of adoptive parents and harms the “dignity” of adopted people. But, can we divide inter-country adoption into such dichotomies? Can we say there is only darkness and light? No life is free from pain or suffering, so why must we judge an adoption as “successful” if it only seemingly lacks such experiences and feelings? So-called optimistic narratives seek to portray adoption as ethical and safe while downplaying the tragedies do a disservice by overly simplifying adoption experiences. Furthermore, dismissing cases of abuse and suicide as “exceptional” and “rare” ignores the system under which all adoptees were processed. It must be noted that four adoption agencies have monopolized transnational adoption in Korea and employed the same set of practices. In other words, rather than being atypical cases, the so-called “failed” adoptions were conducted under the same procedures as every other adoption. Over the years, a number of adoptees have shared their adoption records with me, so I’ve examined these issues from a variety of positions—as a professional, a scholar and a witness. I’ve seen numerous documents from immigration officials from different receiving countries from different periods and from different agencies. Despite such diversity, the records reveal a surprisingly similar pattern—a massive quantity of files approved in such a fashion that it seems as though bureaucratic machinery indiscriminately processed cases. There was no evidence that any public or private entity in either the sending or receiving countries conducted individual case assessments or reviews on Korean children to determine whether they were adoptable or should be placed in alternative care. Instead, a collection of Korean government bodies issued orphan-related documents, including the orphan hojuk, orphan certificate, and guardianship certificate (granted to the head of adoption agencies). Many, if not most, adoptees have questions about their origins and identities. While their individual experiences are unique, their cases remain connected in a sense. Regardless of the differences in their lives, they all began life under the same set of adoption procedures. It can also be said that even today, all of us in this country are connected under the same legal system and laws. Therefore, rather than turn away, we must confront the uncomfortable truth. We must avoid dividing people’s lives and experiences into darkness or light and success or failure. If we hope to find answers, then we must acknowledge and begin to understand the prejudices and discriminatory actions that, although they happened yesterday, constitute the problems of today. Click here to read the 15th article of this series, "The search for origins is also a search for dignity" by Ross Oke. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

The Korean Consulate sits on a busy roundabout in the Dupont Circle area of Washington, D.C. It is indistinguishable from the surrounding buildings except for the life-size statue of Phillip Jaisohn, the first Korean-born U.S. citizen, looking proudly into the distance. Inside the gold-colored doors, I step forward into 1980s Seoul, the fluorescent lights bouncing off the bland walls and the faces of five stern Korean women behind five glass-covered windows. Large blue signs in both English and Korean cling to the walls designating each one for some service that does not match what I need. There is no sign saying, “DNA Tests for Abandoned Babies Looking for Their Birth Family.” When I tell people I am adopted, the conversation often turns to my birth family. “Do you know your birth family? Have you searched? I saw something on the Today Show about these adopted twins reunited through a DNA test.” Asked with innocent curiosity, these questions feel voyeuristic, a yearning for proximity to a sensational story, a casualness to something so intimate. If I had infinite time and a bit more gumption, I might explain that a birth family search for a Korean adoptee is a daunting and mostly futile process. Adoptees, who search, regularly find the alarmingly scant paperwork in their files falsified, their names and birth dates fabricated, and the adoption agency social worker telling them that there is nothing more to be done. I might explain that DNA testing is expensive, requires giving up your anonymity to private companies, and those twins on the Today Show are the exception not the rule. I could explain that the options offered by Korea, fought for by the hard work of adoptees, involve making public pleas in newspapers, on YouTube, and even on the back of government health insurance mailings akin to those “Missing” notices on milk cartons in the 1980s. I imagine my picture lazily strewn on a table with a coffee mug stain on it, a grocery list scrawled in the margins, or looked at with a quick, “Aw, sad,” and then thrown into the trash bin. These options are desperate, unsettling, and for the majority of Korean adoptees, our only choice. It took thirty plus years for me to initiate my search. The desire roused by the adoption of my sons from Korea and galvanized by my pregnancy with my daughter, I contacted the American agency that handled my adoption and they contacted the Korean agency. I received an email with a few documents attached, all of which I had seen before in the green binder in my mom’s closet. As a child, when no one was looking, I would open the binder, hide under the powdery scent of my mother’s clothes, and read the same words over and over again. Birth mother: unknown. Birth father: unknown. Status: Foundling. Both adoption agencies said there was nothing more they could do. Over the next several years, in starts and stops, I took various DNA tests in hopes of connecting with someone from my biological family. With each test, hopes ran high and my imagination ran with them. I fantasized that my birth mother made her way to America settling somewhere on the East Coast, just hours away this whole time, waiting for me to come or that a sister adopted by another family in another town yearned for that elusive connection to Korea and found it in me. For a blissful few weeks as I waited, I lived in these reveries, only to be yanked out with each negative result. I berated myself for being hopeful, for jinxing the results, and each time I vowed never to test again. Of course, I always do. The most recent DNA test brings me to the Korean Consulate, surrounded by beige, trying to make eye contact with the woman behind window number three. “Hi,” I wave and smile, trying to hide the nerves that turn my stomach every time I speak with a person who looks like me. “I have an appointment at 3:00,” hoping she does not notice it is already 3:22. She does not wave back as she glances at the clock. “What for,” she asks without smiling. There were lots of answers I could give but somehow, even though she speaks English, I did not think these things would translate. I give her a paper with a certification stating that I am an abandoned child and entitled to a DNA test on the Korean government’s dime, another service fought for by my fellow adoptees. She skims the paper and looks back up at me for a second too long, and then picks up the phone. I look around as other Korean people navigate this world effortlessly, approaching the stern ladies with a bow that softens their faces. Would this have been me if I hadn’t been adopted? A short, slightly pudgy man in his 20s rushes in, a binder swinging in his hand reading “Adoptee DNA Tests.” I take a breath and follow him to a separate area. He efficiently explains how we got here, like a lawyer reciting the procedural history of a case, and I played the role of the defendant nodding along as if her future were not on the line. “Your DNA will be matched against the DNA of Korean families who declared their children missing. God willing, there will be a match. After today there is nothing else we can do for you. I will pray for you,” he says, pity in his eyes that infantilized me despite being at least a decade his senior. After the paperwork is completed, an older gentleman comes down with a box in hand. “Annyeonghaseyo,” he says to me. “Annyeonghaseyo,” I return and quickly follow it with, “How are you?”—the perfect defense to stop him from continuing a stream of Korean I cannot understand. “You don’t speak Korean?” he says more than asks. I quell my conditioned response to apologize for my inability to speak the language my face tells him I should speak, a habit I have had my whole life to allay the confusion of my existence to Americans and Koreans alike. “Can you write your name in Korean?” he says, like a teacher asking a kindergartner. “Yes,” I respond, a pupil eager to please, conjuring the image of the Korean name given to me by the adoption agency and trying to copy the letters. And, just like a kindergartner, I write one of the letters backwards. “Open your mouth, please.” He proceeds to take a flat circle shaped cotton swab that looks like a lollipop and rubs it on the insides of my cheeks and under my tongue. My face flushes as this older Korean man inspects the inside of my mouth and swabs my Koreanness onto that tiny cotton lollipop. My chest hardens, my fists tightens, and tears blur my vision as I submit to this act of desperation and violation. When he mercifully finishes, he wipes the swab on two circles on a cardboard card with my handwritten Korean name, places it in a sterile bag, and walks away, back to his paperwork and coffee. Whatever happens after that moment is a blur. I rush out of that room, that office, that building, pushing down the rock in my chest and holding my eyes open to evaporate my tears. I run to my car and as soon as the door shuts, I let it all go. The embarrassment, the pain, the anger, the loss, and the abysmal yearning folded in the depths of me emerged in a piercing scream. I imagine my DNA, the microscopic proteins that live in my cells and make me who I am, flying back across the ocean I flew over decades ago, in an airplane marked along with other diplomatic mail to a government that sent me away, a country I am not a citizen of, and who, despite its status as a world economic leader, still cannot properly support its own families. Groveling to the government that embedded the trauma in me, in my two sons, and now in my new baby is its own kind of re-traumatization. Amidst the tumult in my heart, sitting in my car on a side street crying alone, a streak of light emerges. I imagine my birth family waiting in Korea, hoping their child will send a part of herself back home before it’s too late. The fantastical hope of another DNA test. I wait. Born in Busan, South Korea, Cynthia was adopted to Washington, D.C. by her Jewish adoptive family as an #importedAsian. As a recovering perfectionist and overachiever, she left her legal career in favor of caring for her two sons, both adopted from Korea, and her biological daughter. Cynthia looks forward to exploring issues around parenting, adoption as an adoptee, and the overall adoptee experience. You can find more of her writing at her website.

On March 28, 1942, Minoru Yasui violated a curfew imposed on Japanese Americans, with Yasui intending to use the arrest as part of a test case to challenge the constitutionality of the curfew laws, which ultimately led to Executive Order 9066. Minoru “Min” Yasui was born in Hood River, Oregon in the middle of World War I. His parents were issei, first-generation Japanese, who emigrated to the U.S. Masuo Yasui, Min’s father, came to this country in 1902. The elder Yasui struggled and educated himself, eventually opening a store in Hood River. Min’s parents were married in 1912. His father was one of the few Japanese who could not only speak English, but also was able to read and write. As such, he served as a de facto civic leader, reviewing all manner of documents for people in the Japanese community. Min and his siblings were all nissei, the first children born in this country. They grew up in a warm home that was always full of ideas. Min graduated from the University of Oregon with a law degree, and took a job in Chicago, working for the Japanese Consulate. At the beginning of WWII, Min took leave and returned to Oregon where he opened a small practice in Portland. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese American community was plunged into an atmosphere of fear, recrimination, and confusion. The leaders of the Japanese communities were targeted and isolated in prisons and camps, and virulent misinformation campaigns targeted organizational structures the Japanese community had built over a few generations in the U.S. There was great discord in the Japanese community in the Pacific Northwest. Many felt Japanese Americans should comply with the legislative humiliations that racially targeted their families. On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. This order paved the way for the creation of internment camps. Min’s small act of civil disobedience occurred on March 28, 1942; the offense: walking around downtown after 11 p.m., or violation of a curfew that institutionalized a form of discrimination based on ethnicity. The arrest was used as part of a test case to challenge the constitutionality of the curfew laws imposed, which ultimately led to Executive Order 9066. In 2015, I participated in a reading of "Citizen Min," by Holly Yasui. The reading was part of a moderated panel that explored the role of social activists in our historical narratives. In 2016, this reading toured 17 cities in New Mexico, Oregon, and Washington. The play is a biographical dramatization of Minoru Yasui during the 1940s. It allows storytellers to educate audiences about an important civil rights leader and offers his story as a thread in the story of life in the U.S. I didn’t grow up learning about Minoru Yasui or Lt. Susan Ahn Cuddy, who was a Korean American gunnery officer during WWII; or Hazel Ying Lee, who was a Chinese American WASP pilot during WWII. Fred Koramatsu, Gordon Hirabayashi, Yuri Kochiyama, Vincent Chin, Soh Jaipil, and others are not figures in the American historical narrative. AAPI civil rights leaders were not part of a cultural heritage easily accessible when I was a child. I had an understanding of the role Martin Luther King Jr. played in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. I knew of Rosa Parks and Malcolm X, had an awareness of Thurgood Marshall and Booker T. Washington. But, even Caesar Chavez and Harvey Milk were distant and vague ideas. Movers and shapers who were of non-white, non-European descent were few and far between. Media representations matter. Experiencing stories that reflect how we live gives us a vision of what our communities can look like and ultimately, who we are and who can be. We need to see people from all cultures and subcultures and ethnicities and nationalities represented in magazines and books and in film and television and plays and music and art and advertising and history books; when we hide the accomplishments and battles and failures of the people who came before us we disrespect the real work of real people finding ways to live together. I want to know Yurok stories and Hopi legends. I want to hear about Chinese American immigrants building the railroads, and to understand how our economic and drug war policies forced waves of families into displacement, causing generations to search and struggle for a chance to escape poverty and violence. These are all American stories. This is a time when we need representations of Americans of all shapes and sizes standing up and offering their truths. We must strive to understand the totality of the voices that raise families and build communities; we need to reject an ahistorical, linear narrative and embrace the turbulent and rich complexity that is human history on this continent. Learn more here. Heath Hyun Houghton (he/him) is a Korean American adoptee who grew up in rural Michigan and is currently based in Portland, OR. He is an actor, writer, and director. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing with a focus in playwriting from Goddard College and a B.A. in Theatre with a focus in performance from Humboldt State University. He also studied Korean dance and performance styles in Jinju, South Korea with USD Modern Dance. To read more about Heath, click on his bio in the Contributors’ tab.

“Writing Your Truth.” It’s a phrase I hear a lot nowadays. It implies there’s a hidden story, a secret one that no one knows. Maybe your voice has been stifled by more powerful voices in the room. Maybe a writer has been scared to share their truth for others to hear. Writing is such a powerful tool that can expose the author and invite unrequested judgment and criticism. And, what if you do share your truth and it involves someone else? Is there a line where exposing my truth exposes their truth and they weren’t ready for that exposure? Do I owe that person their right to privacy? To what point do we censor ourselves to protect someone we love, yet still share our truth and create our authentic story? There’re lots of stories I can share and not worry about repercussions. I can share the story about how in first grade Monroe Nugent threw me down on the playground and punched my gut until the wind was knocked out of me, how I cried and told the playground supervisor but she ignored me. And then, how I saw his name in the arraignment section of the newspaper 13 years later. There’s not a lot of risk in that story. My sharing is pretty vanilla and clearly the other party can’t complain about my sharing since it was in the newspaper for all to see. I can share the story of how my grandmother got the passenger window of her Chevette shot out when she was driving at 12:30 a.m. on a Halloween night and got caught in the crossfire of some conflict. Grandma lived on the rough side of town in Saginaw. It was one of those cities that was racially and economically separated by a bridge and she was over the bridge. We asked her why the heck she was out driving at night that late and on Halloween! She said she had to take bread to someone. Grandma has been gone since I was in high school; so again, there is minimal risk in sharing her story and those who knew her are mostly gone as well. But there are the good stories, the deep stories. The ones you really sink your teeth into and come out the other side all exhausted and spent. But, these stories often involve other people who are close to you and who you care about. As I want to share my truth, how much can I share the story of others? As I work to create my own boundaries of what is and is not acceptable, is sharing my truth going to cross my husband’s boundaries or my new found sister’s boundaries? I have a strong desire to write my truth. I know others can relate to my story and learn from my journey. My life is not a Hallmark Channel movie, more like a Lifetime Original. Can you tell your truth at the expense of others? My husband’s grandmother used to write journals. She used those old spiral bound steno notebooks. By the end of her life, she had pile after pile of stories she had written about her life. She was a crazy lady. I have this series of pictures of her and her friends when she was in her 20s—laughing, smoking, and drinking in a park. She evidently ran with the Saginaw mob at times. She was in the psych ward of the hospital when my husband was born, diagnosed as manic depressive, going through shock therapy, and eventually going on lithium. I was dying to get my hands on those notebooks when she passed. I wanted to read her stories, unearth her secrets, and really see her for her. Right before she passed, she purged them all. They were all gone by the time they entered her home to prepare her for burial. All those memories—gone. Her truth was never told. Maybe some truth is too much. To share or not to share is a question no one can answer for you. But, it’s nice to know I have the option to write my truth, in a little notebook, that may just happen to disappear before I die. Cover image: Cathy Lu

(Part 1) America’s entertainment landscape continues to evolve. In the past, Asian/Asian American men typically could not get romantic lead roles in studio-produced Hollywood films. Malaysian-British actor, Henry Golding, changed that with the film "Crazy Rich Asians" (2018) co-starring Constance Wu. "Always Be My Maybe" (2019), starring Ali Wong and Russell Park was another Netflix romantic comedy hit where the leading couple are both Asian American. Hollywood also rarely, if ever, cast an Asian male with a non-Asian female in a leading romantic role. We seem to have turned a corner with that as well. Henry Golding co-starred with Blake Lively and Anna Kendrick in the film "A Simple Favor" (2018). Henry Golding also co-starred with Emilia Clarke in the romantic comedy "Last Christmas" (2019). Chinese-American actor Jimmy O. Yang also co-starred with Nina Dobrev in the romantic comedy "Love Hard" (2021). Twenty-two years ago, in the movie "Romeo Must Die" (2000), which was based on the romantic "Romeo and Juliet" classic, Hong Kong actor Jet Li gives his co-star Aaliyah a hug in the final scene. Today, Asian actors, like Golding and Yang, actually get the girl in the end and kiss her. Critics have also long complained that the “model minority” image is a myth perpetuated by the media. Not all Asians are wealthy and successful. This too is changing as we have begun to see stories of Asian Americans with more varied backgrounds. Actress Awkwafina aka Nora Lum, for example, defies blanket assumptions about Asians with her role in the HBO comedy series "Awkwafina is Nora from Queens" (2020–present). Her character, Nora, didn’t go to college, gets fired from her job, accidentally burns down a friend’s apartment, works at a cannabis dispensary, and lives in a modest, urban home with her dad and quirky grandmother. While a number of releases have been mentioned in this article, there have been many other successful movie, book, music and streaming TV projects that have featured Asians/Asian Americans artists in the past three years. Many more are currently in development and in production. Opportunities have clearly opened up in recent years for Asians and Asian Americans in entertainment.  A few of the many recent “firsts” for Asians in entertainment must be mentioned. Actor Simu Liu is the first Asian Marvel superhero. He plays Shang-Chi in the movie "Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings" (2021). Bowen Yang is the first full Asian on-air cast member of "Saturday Night Live" hired in 2019. Awkwafina is the first woman of Asian descent (Korean and Chinese) to win a Golden Globe award for Best Actress in a Motion Picture – Musical or Comedy for her role in the film "The Farewell" (2019). Chinese-born filmmaker, Chloe Zhao, is the first Asian woman and second woman ever to have won an Academy Award for Best Director for her film "Nomadland" (2020). "Nomadland" also won for Best Picture. Actress Yu-Jung Youn is the first Korean actress to win an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for her role in "Minari" (2020). The previous year, at the 92nd Academy Awards, the South Korean film, "Parasite" (2019), won four awards: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Original Screenplay and Best International Feature Film. It was the first non-English language film to win an Oscar for Best Picture. Speaking of non-English speaking entertainers, the Korean wave or hallyu, has made a significant impact on American pop culture as well. The Korean streaming TV series "Squid Game," released in 2021, is Netflix’s most-watched series, ranking number one for the most watched show in 94 countries, including the United States. Other milestone “firsts” include those in music. The South Korean K-pop band, BTS, for example, is the first group since The Beatles to have six No. 1 songs on America’s Billboard Hot 100 in just over a year (Aug 2020–Sept 2021). Imagine turning on the radio in Oklahoma City and hearing Suga rap in Korean! BTS has turned the Empire State building in New York their signature purple in 2019; had a McDonald’s meal named after them—the BTS meal in 2021; are regular guests on late night talk shows; were on the cover of Time magazine in 2018 and were named Entertainer of the Year by Time magazine in 2020. They have won countless awards, including many from American cultural institutions—MTV, iHeart Radio, and the Billboard Music Awards. Most recently, they won Artist of the Year, Favorite Pop Group, and Favorite Pop Song at the American Music Awards in 2021. They are nominated for a Grammy in 2022. The fact that BTS first became popular in the United States and worldwide by singing in Korean is another testament to changing times. CNET reporter Roger Cheng, in a July 12, 2021 article, references today’s “golden age” of representation for Asians. When one compares images of “Long Duk Dong” from the movie "Sixteen Candles" to the hysterical American fans screaming saranghae (I love you) to Asian K-Pop and K-Drama actors, it is striking to think how far we’ve come. While there is a lot of hate and self-hate that Asian Americans must deal with, there is also a whole lot of love for the people and culture. Asian America will undoubtedly continue to evolve in new and surprising ways. As mentioned, social media has certainly helped to increase awareness and access to Asian and Asian American artists, musicians, creators, and entertainers. The intimate and personal nature of platforms such as YouTube have also helped to legitimize and humanize minorities who were previously unseen. Changing demographics in the U.S. have also created an environment more receptive to Asian faces on screen and on stage. Darnell Hunt, dean of UCLA’s social sciences division said in an Associated Press article dated October 26, 2021: “People basically want to see the TV shows that look like America, that have characters they can relate to and have experiences that resonate with them.” How Americans look and racially identify will also continue to impact how Asians and Asian Americans are perceived and accepted online, on-screen, and in real life. Interestingly, the fastest growing demographic in the country is multiracial people. According to U.S. census data, in ten years, there was a 276% increase in multiracial people—from 9 million in 2010 to 33.8 million people in 2020. That equates to roughly 1 in 10 Americans now identifying as being of two or more races. A Washington Post article dated October 8, 2021, quotes Richard Alba, demographer and professor of sociology at the City University of New York: “The mixing of all sorts [of races] is really a new force in 21st-century America…. We’re talking about a big, powerful phenomenon.” U.S. Census data showed that from 2010 to 2020, the population of specifically multiracial Asians grew faster (55% increase) than the Asian alone population (35.5% increase). In 2020, there were close to 5 million Americans who identified as Asian American or Pacific Islander in combination with another race group. When 1 out of every 5 AAPIs is mixed race, that will certainly affect social/cultural perceptions and behaviors within and outside the AAPI psyche. The influence of these demographic changes can be seen on social media. Some of the biggest and most popular, most watched YouTubers are of mixed race—Alex Burriss (Filipino and white) with 11.5 million subscribers; Liza Koshy (South Asian and German) with 17.5 million subscribers; and Lauren Riihimaki (Japanese and Finnish/Ukrainian) with 8.6 million subscribers. Recently trending are also the highly watched channels of members of a new creator house in New York City called “urmom’s house.” The roommates include Korean American Elliot Choy and three American biracial Asians—Kelly Wakasa (Japanese and German), Ann Marie Chase (Korean and Finnish/German), and Ashley Alexander (Korean and British/French). Their videos also include people in their circles—an ex, siblings, and friends of the group—who are also multiracial Asian. The talk is that these fun-loving roommates are “the modern day ‘Friends.’” In their videos, the creators are high energy, entertaining, and funny. There’s even a possible Rachel-Ross love dynamic developing.They comment how well they relate to each other, how they’re like a family and feel at home with each other. Multiracial Asian Americans have their own distinct experiences and common identities and may not fit traditional Asian stereotypes. The rapid expansion of this particular Asian American demographic has spawned terms on social media, such as “Blasian” (Black and Asian) and “Waysian” (white and Asian). It has also led to the creation of online community groups like r/hapas on Reddit, tags on social media, and the growth of multiracial student clubs on college campuses. The growing trend of multiracial Asians dating other multiracial Asians as seen in media and offline is also an emerging social dynamic. Rather than trying to blend in to either race, multiracial people are taking pride and ownership of their own unique communities. Life for Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders hasn’t been easy, but the experiences and identities of the group have continued to develop in unique and positive ways. Today, it is more plausible than ever to become all that you can be—in any field. Courageous Asian Americans have been reaching new milestones; they are achieving many “firsts” and inspiring others to reach for the stars. Cathy Park Hong writes in her book, "Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning": “I like to think that the self-hating Asian is on its way out.” Hopefully the kind of extreme self-hate and subsequent Asian repulsion for other Asians, as Hong describes, will be diminished given the increasing prevalence and popularity of relatable, well-rounded Asians/Asian Americans in film, TV, music, books, and social media. Of course, the world is not without challenges; but each day is a new opportunity to move past all the haters, go after your dreams—in a way that’s authentic and on your own terms—and make them a reality. America is waiting. Cover photo: Joseph Gonzalez; @prettysleep1; HiveBoxx

I was in fourth grade when I had my first mental breakdown…over a B+. Over the years, I would reference this moment and laugh at it, finding humor in the fact that something as minuscule as a grade of B+ could make me cry so many tears when there were “so many other real-world problems.” I also found humor in the fact that one of my teachers in elementary school placed me in a math competition when in fact, math was one of my worst subjects (still is). In college, a mental health educator introduced me to the model minority myth, and suddenly I realized that my elementary school mental breakdown was only the beginning of my challenging relationship with my mental health. More importantly, I realized that so many fellow Asian-American students suffered from the same pressures of finding success in a country that already expects so much from us, and that this pressure ties heavily into our mental health. Welcome to the model minority myth. The model minority myth creates a false narrative that all Asian individuals are naturally smart, hard-working, and successful. What is seemingly a positive stereotype actually has the capacity to produce negative circumstances and experiences for victims of the stereotype that can never seem to live up to these standards. The model minority myth could sound like, “You’re Asian, aren’t you supposed to be smart?” or “So-and-so’s son is a doctor now, why aren’t you one yet?” I began struggling with anxiety and depression in my early 20s, finding myself unable to cope with my emotions and a never-ending quest to be “good enough” for anyone, or anything. At the time, I had no resources and no knowledge of how to help myself besides scrolling through Google for hours trying to diagnose myself through the internet. We’ve all been there, right? I thought to myself so many times, that something must have been wrong with me. Why did the thought of failure scare me so much? Why was not being “enough” such a burden on me? We all grew up hearing the stories of how our parents and ancestors went through so many lengths to provide us with a better life here in the states, so in return, we had to succeed…right? According to Mental Health America, Asian-American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) adults are the least likely racial group to seek mental health treatment, about three times less likely than Caucasian adults. Some of the most common reasons that AAPI individuals experience mental health issues include intergenerational trauma, anxiety over integrating both American and Asian identities, and trying to reach unrealistic standards set by the model minority myth. According to the American Psychological Association, one of the most common reasons that deter AAPI individuals from seeking mental health treatment is the stigma and taboo that surrounds the topic of mental health. What they don’t teach us in schools growing up is that being Asian-American and children of immigrants or refugees meant that we were more susceptible to becoming victims of the model minority myth, living in the shadows of the high expectations placed upon us. So many of us would grow up minimizing our mental health issues and our pain, because we felt ashamed seeking help when our ancestors literally fought in wars and escaped to the states in boats. Those of us who were brave enough to speak up about our mental health issues were returned with lectures about what “real” problems were. Those of us who finally expressed that we were depressed were told that “it’s all in our heads.” I wish someone back then would have told me that I could simultaneously honor my parents’ and ancestors’ past hardships while still acknowledging my own. I wish I would have known that my ancestors’ struggles do not make mine any less deserving of attention and care. Our parents experienced a type of trauma that we may not ever truly understand, but if we want to break this pattern of intergenerational trauma, we need to teach them that our experiences matter as well, no matter how big or small. It took years and years of unlearning these toxic cultural norms and messages before I was able to finally admit that I needed help. I had to keep reassuring myself that my problems were valid, that I truly deserve to feel better, and that I could feel better. Most importantly, however, I had to get myself to make that appointment with a therapist and remind myself that it doesn’t make me any less of a person to do so. We need to advocate for our fellow AAPI individuals and get rid of this stigma around mental health that has permeated our communities for so long. We’re currently living in an era where hate crimes are continuing to increase due to stereotypes that have been created by the pandemic. Our AAPI communities are especially vulnerable to the anxiety and uncertainty surrounding this pandemic, and the lives of the loved ones we have lost. If you are someone who has been silent on mental health issues in the past, begin speaking out on these topics. If you don’t personally struggle with mental health issues, speak out on these issues anyway so that the ones you care about feel comfortable doing it. Stay informed on mental health resources and outlets so that you could refer yourself or someone you know to get treatment. Create and share the space for someone who is going through a difficult time, because being a good listener is one of the most important ways you can be a support system for someone who needs it. Finally, if there’s one thing the failure of the model minority myth can teach us is to not compare our path to anyone else’s, that we are all valid of love, care, and healing. Photo: @jeshoots

Let’s be real. Right now is a pretty dangerous and trying time for folks of Asian descent who live in America. The ongoing pandemic has triggered hostilities that make it clear that Asian Americans have always been perceived as “other.” It is not easy to seek peace and a place in a divided and racialized country. And yet, in the midst of these bleak times, something curious, something fascinating has been happening. An explicable burgeoning new era is revealing itself—right before our eyes and ears. Who are Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders (AAPIs)? The U.S. Census Bureau defines “Asian” as a person with origins from China, Korea, Japan, the Philippines, Malaysia, Pakistan, the Indian subcontinent, Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. “Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islanders” include a person with origins from Hawaii, Guam, Samoa, or other Pacific Islands. The reality is that AAPIs are a minority, coming in at 6.2% of the total population or 20.6 million, according to data from the U.S. Census Bureau in 2020. If you add those who identify as AAPI and another race, there are 25.6 million people as per the U.S. Census data from 2020. Despite having lived in the United States for centuries, AAPIs are often still perceived as foreigners, different, and not the “norm.” In today’s polarized environment, it isn’t surprising that a group of people are experiencing both extreme lows and highs. Poet and essayist, Cathy Park Hong writes in her book, "Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning," that “Asian Americans inhabit a vague purgatorial status: not white enough nor black enough; distrusted by African Americans, ignored by whites.” Asian Americans are considered people of color; but some have said they enjoy “Asian privilege,” are “white adjacent” and are, therefore, immune to racism. What has been happening since the start of the pandemic has shown otherwise. Because of their race, this heterogenous group of people have experienced ongoing surges of verbal attacks and physical assaults, some brutal and fatal. In fact, a total of 10,370 hate incidents against Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) persons have been reported to the Stop AAPI Hate coalition from March 19, 2020 to September 30, 2021. Furthermore, a national survey conducted by Stop Asian Hate and the Edelman Data & Intelligence team found that one in five Asian American and Pacific Islanders—an estimated 5.1 million AAPIs—have experienced a hate incident in the past year. The survey results, published November 18, 2021, showed 31.5% of Asian American and 26.4% of Pacific Islander respondents experienced a hate incident at work in 2021. One in three or 30.6% of Asian American parents and 31.4% of Pacific Islander parents stated that their child experienced a hate incident at school in 2021. Unfortunately, it’s not just hate from non-Asians that AAPIs have to contend with. Some of the hate comes from within. Asian Americans who internalize racism, often develop feelings of self-loathing and are repelled by others who look like themselves. “Not enough has been said about the self-hating Asian,” writes Pulitzer Prize finalist Cathy Park Hong in her aforementioned book published February 25, 2020, right before the pandemic shut down. “Racial self-hatred is seeing yourself the way Whites see you, which turns you into your own worst enemy. Your only defense is to be hard on yourself, which becomes compulsive, and therefore a comfort, to peck yourself to death.” Hong admits to feelings of discomfort with other Asian Americans. She explains, “You hate that there are so many Asians in the room. Who let in all the Asians? you rant in your head.” She also writes about receiving a pedicure by a young Asian boy: “We were like two negative ions repelling each other” and speculates that “he treated me badly because he hated himself. I treated him badly because I hated myself.” Indeed, solidarity among Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders, for belonging or protection—even to fight against racism and discrimination—cannot be assumed. Whether it’s identity challenges or ethnic differences, AAPIs do not think or act similarly; they are not a monolithic group. They are comprised of more than twenty ethnicities. Their heritages are uniquely different with distinct cultures and languages. Some also bring with them various prejudices and biases against people from other Asian countries due to contentious political histories. Additionally, there are often strong generational differences, including differences in expectations and behaviors, between Asians who were born and/or raised in America and those who were born and raised in another country and immigrated to the U.S. as adults. Moreover, Asian adoptees have their own unique experiences and outlooks. AAPIs are, therefore, a vast and varied group with some even questioning the meaning or purpose of the label Asian American itself. The challenges of being a minority, of growing up Asian American, of having an Asian face in America right now, are inarguable. Nevertheless, the assumption is that educational, economic and career opportunities, especially for women, are better in the United States than in the ancestral home country. For many, the benefits still outweigh the disadvantages. Many people of Asian descent do find happiness and fulfillment in America. Celebration of one’s unique individuality; personal self-acceptance; belief in the intrinsic value of all humans; cultivation of healthy, meaningful relationships; and having a sense of purpose can lead to great life satisfaction. To recognize one’s Asian cultural heritage while maintaining one’s American identity is also accepted and supported in the many multicultural communities of the United States. Regarding unjust harassment and racial targeting, Asian Americans draw on personal strength, friends, family and communities for support and solace. Education and activism have also been constructive responses. After the violent killing of 84-year-old Thai American Vicha Ratanapakdee in San Francisco in January 2021, the Atlanta spa shootings of six Asian women in March 2021, and ongoing racially motivated attacks and murders across the country, Stop Asian Hate, anti-Asian-violence rallies were held across the country that Spring. Over 1500 participants rallied in San Francisco; 1200 rallied in Berkeley, for example. Engagement was widespread with a total of 105 Stop Asian Hate rallies in 43 U.S. states, Canada, and Taiwan. AAPIs are organizing, standing up for themselves and making a difference. On May 20, 2021, President Biden signed the COVID-19 Hate Crimes Act into law after overwhelming support from both chambers of Congress. He also stated, “My message to all of those who are hurting is: We see you and the Congress has said, we see you. And we are committed to stop the hatred and the bias.” The law specifically addresses the “dramatic increase in hate crimes and violence against Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders.” While the hate has unfortunately continued, something else remarkable and unprecedented has been happening. The love for many things Asian/Asian American has been on the rise over recent years. Sometimes the adoration can even be fanatical. Overall, though, there has also been a refreshing mainstream movement towards an appreciation for authenticity, nuance and diversity that’s intimate and personal. Take food, for example. Chinese American cuisine has long been part of the staple of mainstream American fare. Americanized dishes like egg foo young, chop suey, and fortune cookies, however, were created to please the Western palate. First wave immigrant Chinese Cantonese restauranteurs typically cooked more authentic food at home. By comparison, today’s third wave Chinese immigrants open restaurants that serve authentic food that Americans enjoy—spicy Hunan and Sichuan dishes. Likewise, Korean restaurants didn’t have to modify their cuisine for American mass consumption. There is no crab Rangoon, Americanized Korean dish equivalent. Instead, mainstream America has grown to love and appreciates Korean food like kimchi and galbi in its original, unadulterated form. Moreover, the popularity of Asian food chains in America has also been unexpected. Across the country, there are Korean Bonchon Chickens and Filipino Jollibees, H Marts and 99 Ranch Markets. As Asian food offerings have evolved, mainstream tastes have become bolder. Similarly, after decades of limited authentic representation, there has been a visible rise of prominent Asians and Asian Americans in American pop culture, the arts, film, music, and entertainment. Social media platforms such as YouTube, launched in 2005, have played a significant role in helping to fuel the surge in popularity of Asian entertainers, creators, and artists. Some of the earliest and most influential American/Canadian YouTubers were of Asian descent, including Lily Singh (3.5 billion channel views); Ryan Higa (4.36 billion views), and Mark Fiscbach (17.1 billion views). American born Ryan Higa, who is of Japanese descent, was the first person on YouTube to achieve 2 million and 3 million subscribers. His channel also had the most subscribers on YouTube for 677 consecutive days from 2009–2011, an achievement surpassed only by PewdiePie. Social media gave Asian Americans like Ryan Higa the opportunity to freely showcase their talents and prove their worth when established industries like TV and studio movies were nearly closed off to Asians. The widespread popularity of these influencers meant that the image of Asians as stereotypes, racist tropes, and insignificant one-dimensional side actors began to erode. American audiences got to know people of Asian descent as real people with personalities, emotions, and depth. Before social media, traditional mediums like television influenced how society perceives minorities. The 1994 TV sitcom "All American Girl" was groundbreaking, because it was the first show to feature stories centered on an Asian American family. Asians were historically seen on TV as minor characters or sidekicks. Unfortunately, the show was short-lived and it would take another 21 years before a television show revolved around primary characters who were Asian. The year 2015 brought us two shows, "Fresh Off the Boat" and "Dr. Ken"; both focused on the comedic interactions between members of an Asian American family. "Fresh Off the Boat," starring Randall Park and Constance Wu, was the more popular of the two and was on air for six seasons. Then, in 2018, the major motion picture release of "Crazy Rich Asians" featured an all-Asian cast, something that hadn’t happened since "The Joy Luck Club" in 1993. "Crazy Rich Asians" was the highest earning romantic comedy film of the decade, grossing $237 million worldwide. The success of the film opened doors for other stories featuring Asian actors in more prominent roles. “‘Crazy Rich Asians’ success has Hollywood scrambling for similar Asian-centric stories,” read a headline for an NBC News article written September 5, 2018. “When a movie with all Asian leads brings up $35 million in the first week, executives sit up and take notice.” Consequently, there has been an increase in the visibility of Asians in movies, books, music and streaming TV. They are also being portrayed in ways they haven’t been before. The Netflix teen romance film "To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before" and its subsequent installments, for example, would never have cast an Asian American female to play the main character in the past. But in 2018, it did. Vietnamese adoptee Lana Condor played Lara Jean, a typical, all-American teenager. The series was told through her character’s point of view, which again, is a notable achievement. Asian women historically only played minor roles or were portrayed as prostitutes, dragon ladies, or foreigners with broken English. Recent years have shown that Asian actors are getting more diverse opportunities. Like Lana Condor, they are able to take leading roles where the story is not about being ethnic or Asian. Korean American actor John Cho, for example, played a father in San Jose, California who is desperately searching for his missing daughter in the Hollywood studio produced movie, "Searching" (2018). Incidentally, the film "To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before" was based on the book of the same moniker written by author Jenny Han. The book is noteworthy for two reasons: the story is about a teenager who is half Korean American and the novel was on the New York Times Best Seller list for 40 weeks. In regards to the literary arts, analysts Kate Hao and Long Le-Khac have stated in the Post45 Journal dated April 21, 2021, that “Asian American literature has grown dramatically in recent decades, reflecting a broader acceleration in contemporary cultural production.” (to be continued) Cover photo: Jasmin Chew, Milo Milk, Jason Leung, and Cottonbro

Five 20-year-olds are about to experience the adventure of a lifetime. Called to Beijing by a mysterious Chinese corporation, they unite as a crew to steal back China’s beloved art pieces from the various museums displaying them. Each member has a complicated relationship with China and their identity as a Chinese-American, but they all hope that they can right history. Splitting the 50 million–dollar reward for the art retrieval is also a pretty attractive offer. Can this group of amateurs pull off the perfect heists? I have mixed feelings about this book, though mostly positive. I was very excited to read this, and the summary and hype had prepared me for a truly thrilling story. However, it was more subdued than I had expected. The beginning started off very strong, but after the first heist, that plot line became less important. The heists were a bit rushed, but I wasn’t expecting an extremely detailed and accurate description of multiple heists from a young adult fiction novel. For a novel that seemed to be mostly about stealing back art, I had expected a bit more, though. I tend to prefer plot-driven stories. The thrill of stealing back art dissipated as the book progressed and I didn’t feel the rush to turn the pages quickly like before. This was balanced with more insights into the characters I really enjoyed the five crew members and being able to see how each struggled with finding themselves. They were all connected in different ways and the heist is what brought them together. While they all seemed very dissimilar on the outside, I also saw how they shared similar sentiments about not being American enough nor Chinese enough…how they wanted to prove themselves and claim their Chinese identities. As a Chinese adoptee, I related to a lot of this and their feelings of loss over family and culture. I wanted to see their relationships a bit more. The characters were complex and deep and their connections with their friends/crew members could have been too. There were some hints about their relationships and tension during the planning, but their interactions felt a bit shallow. The ending was redeeming, and I got to experience each character’s coming-of-self moment as well as their relationships deepen. It was the last chapters that had me hoping for a sequel. "Portrait of a Thief" is a solid debut novel that explores the complexities of being between two cultures and wanting to claim an identity. While for a novel about art heists it lacks a bit on the thrilling side, it is a unique and creative story about five individuals willing to lose it all to strengthen their connections to their culture and themselves.

As the tree lights glistened, they illuminated the delicate ornaments, creating a magical effect. The fire pit cracked as the scent of warm firewood and fresh pine flooded my senses. The background noises from "Home Alone" playing in the other living room reminded me of my American childhood. As I took the first sip of the perfectly hot oolong tea and reflected on all the unimaginable opportunities presented to me, I couldn’t get rid of a feeling of longing and isolation. I thought back to my childhood when times were simpler. I thought back to when I excitedly hand picked each ornament to place on the tree, when I would spend hours creating paper “gingerbread” houses as a present for my mother, and when the holiday street lights would transport me to a world of inspiration. I wondered when my childlike spirit dimmed, silenced from the world. For many, the holidays are a time of celebration, joy, and reunion. I listened to my coworkers and friends share their favorite family traditions like spending their day making pasteles, a traditional Latin American food, or celebrating quality time through hot pot and karaoke. The more I listened, the more I ached for a genuine connection with my family. When I was younger, I never noticed I was the only person of color in my family. I used to think I was awkward which was reinforced when family members asked why I was so shy, as if this would suddenly change my personality. It wasn’t until I got older and began to understand the complexities of being a person of color that I realized I’m actually outspoken and lively. However, during family parties I was expected to code-switch to fit in with white culture. Because of their ignorance, I was forced to be the token individual, gaslighted when I tried to share my experiences. With age, I realized I would rather be alone than surrounded by people dedicated to misunderstanding me. One Christmas Eve, one of my extended cousins asked if I was going over for Christmas lunch. She was one of the whopping two family members that understood white privilege, and my spirit beamed at the hope of a close family connection. My father and I had originally planned to eat lunch together, but I didn’t see the harm in postponing until dinner. On the drive home, I asked what he thought of the idea of changing our plans, and asked what time we should head over to my cousin’s. “We’re not going, we’re eating lunch at ours,” he stated in a firm tone. I was confused at his unwillingness to listen, especially because it was only us two and we had planned to eat together the next day, so it didn’t really matter which meal it was. I expressed how much this meant to me, but he stayed firm in his answer, each time his tone getting sharper and firmer. As his voice began to raise, it became harder to control my frustration. For me, this was something deeper; it was a chance for a relationship I always craved. Within minutes, speaking morphed into shouting and hope dissipated into tears. Without the communication skills and knowledge I needed to have this conversation, I couldn’t control my reaction. “You don’t understand what it’s like being the only person of color in an all white family! I’m finally connecting with a family member who understands, and you’re keeping me away from them. I’m asking one small thing, and you can’t even explain why you’re so adamant about not going tomorrow.” I cried with tears streaming down my face. “Why do you always need to bring up race? No one sees you as different because of it, and we’re eating lunch tomorrow here. That’s it!” he shouted as we arrived at our house. I grabbed my bag, wiped my tears, and hopped out the car heading straight for my room. That night, I cried myself to sleep, longing for any type of connection. A loud crack from the fire brought me to the present moment. As I recalled that memory, I reminded myself that we are allowed to feel a range of emotions simultaneously. Being grateful for a supportive family can coexist with feelings of emptiness, and we don’t need to feel guilty about those emotions. Holidays, birthdays, and other special occasions can often be particularly emotional times for some adoptees. These times may represent the mysteries of our lives, whether that’s the unknown piece of our story, the missing traditions of our heritage, or the thought of what our biological families are like. However, as we continue to heal, there is hope. With increased advocacy and awareness, we’re able to connect with our community and fight the feelings of longing and isolation. There is hope to build those strong connections, hope to begin new traditions and customs, and hope to create a healthy family of our own.

It’s hard for adolescents to find themselves. They weave through personalities and identities trying to find the right fit. They switch friend groups, hobbies and goals hoping something sticks. But, is finding identity harder for an adoptee? Does the fact that we begin our lives with a family who isn’t biologically tied to us level-up our journey to finding our identities? We have defining moments as we grow, both good and bad, that help shape who we are today. Like the time that blonde girl fell into the orchestra pit during rehearsal. The time my cousin lost her 2-year-old son and I had to watch a tiny casket roll down the church aisle. The first time someone close to you betrays you, or worse, when you betray yourself. When I think about my moments, many seem centered around my race and my “otherness.” Like, when I went roller skating with friends and the only boy who asked me to skate was the one other Asian in the rink. I was repulsed. I didn’t want to be associated with him. Hanging with him just affirmed how different I was. I think that’s why I had such a hard crush on Ricky Schroeder when I was younger. He was blond and blue-eyed. He was my ticket to normalcy. My identity revolved around not being different. Then, there was the time I took a student trip to Russia and the counselor had me room with the only other Asian girl on the trip. She was a skinny little Chinese girl who sang like Snow White with too much vibrato and she thought she was the shit. I was less than enthralled. I remember thinking, ugh, why am I rooming with her? Did they think I had some subconscious bond with her because our hair was black and our eyes were slanted? I hated standing out like that. But really, is that any different than any other kid growing up? Sorry I didn’t skate with you Ross. I’m sure you were a nice boy. And, sorry Snow White. I was too judgmental back then. I’m a little better now in my old age. I think by the time high school came around I got tired of trying to fit in. I got used to the fact that the small town boy wasn’t going to taint his bloodline for the dragon lady. I started dressing in black, listening to The Cure and wearing a fake nose ring. There is no way in hell Carla—my adoptive mother—would’ve allowed a real one. I think children who are constantly ostracized begin to own it and revel in it. It’s like, you’ve felt like an outsider all your life, so why not own it and find others you can identify with. We rationalize our treatment, thinking it’s deserved. I was always so dramatic anyway, so the whole persona really welcomed me in—teenage angst mixed with loner insecurities. I went from the girl who hated to stand out to the girl who said fuck it; might as well find joy in standing out since I’m going to anyway. But really, is that any different than any other kid growing up? Can the non-adoptee fall back into a family that looks like them, that are tied to them by blood? Can they at least feel like they have a place where they belong? I was always loved by my parents. They did their best to raise me like I was a Bradford. I never felt like the “adopted” child even next to my brother who is their biological, bonus baby. But, when you’re Korean and your mother is an overweight strawberry blonde Christian and your dad looks Amish, it’s hard not to feel “other.” Finding one’s identity can be a daunting experience. But for the adoptee, there’s more layers of complexity as we begin our life abandoned. Whether conscious or unconscious, we were alone and separated from all we knew. For us, finding our way back to self has extra detours. Heather Lewis, or 노 영 미 as her biological sisters have named her, was born in Seoul, South Korea and raised in the U.S. at 6 months old. Heather has had many professions: waitress, ballroom dance instructor, middle school English teacher, and her current role in operations. She has a Master’s in English, a Master’s in the Critical Studies of Teaching English and a Master’s in Business Administration. She is a proud KAD (Korean Adoptee) and likes to explore identity through writing. She loves being married to “fake Dave Grohl” and raising her only daughter. Despite still not knowing her birthday, she’s sure she is a Capricorn. Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lewie73

I met up with Nathan, K.J., and Patrick, hosts of "The Janchi Show" podcast, over Zoom. Surprisingly, this is their first group interview. Today, I took on their role as interviewers and flipped the script. "The Janchi Show" guys are so genuine and humorous. After playing our interview back, I wanted you, the reader, to hear directly from them as much as possible. I hope you enjoy this “interview style” article for a change. Lauren Burke (L.B., Interviewer): For the people of the world that don’t know who you are, please introduce yourselves to us. A lot of people know "The Janchi Show," but maybe they don’t know you. Nathan Nowack (N.N.): My name is Nathan Nowack and my Korean name is Lee Sang-Gil (이 상길). I was born in South Korea in 1976 and adopted at the age of 5 months old to two Caucasian parents of German Irish and German Czech descent, and raised in Oklahoma. I am in reunion with my biological family and keep in contact with them online, and I’ve met them three times now. K.J. Roelke (K.J.) I feel like Nathan gets weirdly specific. “I was raised in Oklahoma, specifically the northwestern corner of Bartlesville, from approximately December 2nd, 1920…” K.J.: My name is K.J. Roelke, I use he/him pronouns, I am a South Korean adoptee. I was born in Daegu and then adopted by white people to Dallas, Texas where I currently reside. N.N.: I live in Denver, I forgot about that. K.J.: Sir, this is my time, c’mon. [Laughs] I think that’s it though. N.N.: Mine is so specific and yours is so general. Patrick Armstrong (P.A.): She’s going to need an app to transcribe this… K.J.: An app isn’t going to like this, we talk too much! P.A.: My name is Patrick Armstrong, I also use he/him pronouns. I was born in Seoul in 1990 and adopted to [sic] white people as well in a small town in Indiana. I currently reside in Indianapolis and my birth name was Kim Yung Jin (김영진) since we are mentioning that. L.B. (Interviewer): Tell us more about "The Janchi Show"…how did it get started? P.A.: Two years ago, we didn’t know each other, [but] we all ended up being guests on the podcast "Dear Asian Americans." Nathan was friends with Jerry [Won, host of the show], and K.J. and I just happened upon the podcast in two separate manners. Right before I was getting ready to go on for the interview, Jerry said: “You’re about to listen to an episode that has Nathan, he’s a Korean adoptee, and another person in an episode coming out, K.J.—he’s also a Korean adoptee. It would be a pretty cool idea if you all got together and did a podcast about this.” I was like…maybe? I didn’t really feel…I mean…I wasn’t necessarily feeling it. K.J.: He was like, “what if they’re weird…” P.A.: They were two strangers…I mean, I didn’t know these people. But after all of our respective episodes came out, Jerry set up a meeting. I was on a lunch break at work, wearing a tie looking very sharp, and these two bozos coming in looking very plain dressed. K.J.: Basically, how I look right now, for the readers (K.J. is lounging on his living room couch, wearing a light gray hoodie, for reference) P.A.: I remember the awkward feeling. I was unsure coming out of that meeting… N.N.: [It was] kind of like speed dating. K.J.: Speed dating but, with all the awkwardness of a middle school dance. P.A.: We landed on janchi (잔치) because we liked the idea of celebrating. Janchi in Korean means to feast, usually together or with others. We wanted to make a podcast that wasn’t like all the other [adoptee] podcasts out there. We didn’t necessarily want to be the “deep divers,” we wanted to really have a good time conversing, and bring light to it. It was about sharing our story, and eventually became about sharing other people's stories. N.N.: …and having a snack or drink at the end. It’s my favorite part. L.B. (Interviewer): I honestly just remember watching the Soju episode with Jerry Won, because K.J. sent me the link, and I thought…"that’s it. I love this podcast. I’m listening to it all the time.” (And I am not an avid podcast subscriber, readers) L.B. (Interviewer): What is your favorite part about the celebratory element of sharing in other people’s stories, and to have this podcast for adoptees—and honestly, for those who are not adopted but, have adoptees in their lives? P.A.: We have nuanced guests who come from all different perspectives and walks of the Korean adoptee journey. Even if it doesn’t really feel like a celebration, it is, because we’re uplifting a person’s voice. For a fair number of our guests, they’ve never shared before, and it’s a lot of emotional labor. We just happen to be three people who are going through the same thing and we can feel those feelings with them. That’s the celebration. The community that we build. N.N.: The bonding that we get from the guests, some of them have become friends now, the stories that they tell, being shared to our listeners. It makes people less lonely and more connected, and it can be cathartic to tell them [adoptee stories]. K.J.: The thing that I celebrate the most on our show is the freedom to explore intersectionality, and identities—what makes us who we are. The privilege for the three of us is helping others into greater acceptance of who they are. To listen, and to hear the diversity in stories has been really fun, and a thing that we do well—staying true to the heart of it. L.B. (Interviewer): To your point, K.J., I think you are doing it well. You’re 68 episodes in, you just received a huge media arts award, and you just celebrated your first year with a live show in California (which I was sad to miss). Talk about those milestones. N.N.: I don’t think any of us ever expected or dreamed that we would be getting awards or having a live gathering. We did it for the purpose of telling other stories and hearing stories. It wasn’t about winning awards, having a large function, or making money—any of that stuff. So it’s truly an honor to be recognized for doing what we love and have fun doing. P.A.: We go week to week, we press play, and that’s it. We don’t go in seasons. K.J.: …Nonstop. N.N.: Pretty soon we’ll be wearing body cameras. P.A.: Yeah, 24-hour Janchi Unlimited subscriptions [laughs]. L.B.: “Janchi on the Street.” P.A.: So hitting that year was wild but, getting to be able to go out to L.A., especially in a pandemic, to meet people in person was so incredible. To hold a show where other adoptees, not just Korean adoptees, but listeners who have been impacted by the show, to sit in that space with them was amazing. Taking the show from the digital space to the real world is a testament to the power of creating relationships online. K.J.: [Regarding their recent award] There’s an episode out recapping the 59th Heritage Gala of the Korean American Federation of L.A. The theme this year was “we are with you.” "The Janchi Show" started after quarantine sent us into our homes, after we saw George Floyd murdered, and this huge conversation about race reared its head. Then, there was a massive spike in anti-Asian hate. So many adoptees were like "oh, shoot. We’re Asian.” There’s no marker to say “we’re adopted”—that doesn’t give us a pass, so we have to wrestle with what it is to be Asian. To be recognized at this gala, to be a Korean adoptee show about community, and what it means to fit in and find ourselves was such wonderful symmetry. Although there is a divide between Korean Americans and Korean adoptees, we’re working together to bridge that gap. L.B. (Interviewer): It’s been 65 episodes since people were introduced to you in episodes 1, 2, and 3 respectively…so tell the community what you have been up to! L.B. (Interviewer): Patrick, you just started an Asian Adoptees of Indiana group. Can you talk about that? P.A.: Back in May 2021, there was a vigil in Indianapolis for the Asian American community, and I was one of three adoptees who spoke. I knew there were other adoptees in this area but I wasn’t necessarily seeking them out. About 10 of us started to meet, we launched and we’ve had people signing up and coming in. It’s been amazing. We meet Sundays at 6 p.m. EST and we just sit and chat for an hour, not just about what it’s like to be an adoptee, but also life in Indiana. Outside of the show, that meeting is one of the things I look forward to most. I wanted to find ways to do what we’re doing [with "The Janchi Show"] in my local community. L.B. (Interviewer): Nathan, I really appreciated everything you shared during National Adoption Awareness Month, or as I like to call it, National Adoptee Awareness Month. I was particularly appreciative of the post about your reunion. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is the first time you’ve participated at that level; can you tell me more about your decision to do so? N.N.: Doing the podcast has shown me the level of participation Patrick does, and K.J. with his music. It kind of inspired me to be more involved as well. On top of that, meeting other adoptees in the community, and seeing all the amazing things that they have done, I felt like doing something on my own. It was hard…it was definitely harder than I expected. In the end, I did 25 out of 30 days, and I really enjoyed reading what everybody was posting, and writing my own thoughts down into posts. [Regarding the reunion post] I wanted to discuss reunion from my point of view, and what I had been going through with it. If it helps anybody, or can relate to it, then it was worth putting it out there. I am a little worried if my biological family reads it someday and is offended by it, hopefully, they won’t be. But, I do keep some of the [personal] details to myself. P.A.: [Jokes] He tells us the personal details. K.J.: [Jokes]…and then I put it in my songs. P.A.: [Jokes] I also secretly tweet about Nathan’s story. L.B. (Interviewer): Speaking of music…K.J., you just released a new song. I listened to it the other day, and what I love about your music is that it has really personal, and deep meaning. “To the Dawn” came from a personal place, and in this song, “Don’t Let Me Go,” you talk about the 3,800 [AAPI hate incidents reported] and what mental health looks like for adoptees. Can you talk about your songwriting and how music has helped you? K.J.: Coming out of November and doing "The Janchi Show" for as long as we have, it was unbeknownst to me how finding the adoptee community, creating the show, getting connected with broader Asian Americana, has all helped me develop my own voice and understand my approach to songwriting. The first three songs I released, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” “To the Dawn,” and “Don’t Let Me Go” all came out of this need to give to the adoptee and Asian American community. One of the things we talk about on the show a lot is the need for language, and at the time, my own life was falling apart and there was too much in my brain. I needed to unpack, deconstruct, and work through all of my intersectional identities, so I started counseling and my therapist asked if I did music for therapy. In that process, I found I was giving myself space to feel my feelings, and space to explore the language so someone else could potentially relate. With “To the Dawn,” I knew I had a song when I wrote the line “I feel like I’m falling, I feel like I’m falling apart.” I was in the midst of depression and wanted to explain what that was, and the undercurrent of that song is that you are making your way, you haven’t given up hope yet. Even though everything seems cloudy and grey, eventually dawn breaks and everything changes, you see in full color again and you feel the warmth of the sun. We’re always making our way to dawn; even though we can’t see it, it happens every 24 hours. “Don’t Let Me Go” happened shortly thereafter and I was too afraid to promote it. I did…seven months later. I might have written it right after Atlanta [the tragic mass casualty shooting], and I wrote that song for myself. I didn’t know who I was singing to but I thought, I’m dealing with this, and I hope you will still be in a relationship with me, even though I don’t know the dawn is coming. Very much a dark night of the soul piece. Broadly, I’m working on an album now for the [Korean] adoptee community. [I’ve been] collaborating with other adoptees and thinking about how we can give language and give music to our community. The song I’m working on that I’m most excited about is actually one that was inspired by something another adoptee wrote during National Adoptee Awareness Month, and collaborating with you [Lauren]. It’s not something that I really feel but, I know that it’s something so many in our community feel. What does it look like and feel like to go through a birth search, and know that’s a longing and loss of family and culture that sits in your heart? The show has been a wonderful way to find my own voice and to give back. You can find the three of them as hosts of "The Janchi Show" on all major podcast platforms (Apple, Spotify, and YouTube). You can also listen to all of their episodes and find out more about the show at their website. K.J. Roelke: @kjroelke on Spotify (music), Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. Nathan Nowack: @nnowack and @nowackphoto on Instagram for his professional photography. Nathan will also be attending the KAAN 2022 conference in Denver. Patrick Armstrong: Instagram @patrickintheworld, or his website.

The sweltering Las Vegas sun beamed down into my eyes, blinding me from the flashing lights and scurrying bodies of the Strip. Even under the bus awning there was no shade, exposing my body to the unwavering beams that perfectly crisped my skin. With the little energy I had left, I sat on the boiling metal bench and waited for the bus. I was planning on getting off at Chinatown and stopping in the first restaurant I saw before heading back to the airport. As I waited, a light-skinned Black man, who looked like he was in his late 20s, walked over to me. I’m typically hypervigilant when men approach me while in an unfamiliar environment, especially when I’m alone, but there was something innocent and wholesome about his demeanor. “Is this the stop for Chinatown?” he asked me. “I hope so because that’s where I’m headed. I’ve been here for 30 minutes,” I replied with a smile. For some reason I felt connected to him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He laughed at my comment and asked where I was from. I told him I was getting food then heading to New England. I had spent the previous week exploring Utah’s Mighty Five national parks, as well as the Grand Canyon, and I was ready to head back. I shared how incredible this experience was, being fully present as the stars illuminated the quiet night sky, something you’d never see in my smog ridden city back home. I spoke about how refreshing it was to dive into a crisp river after hiking three hours in 100 degrees Fahrenheit heat, and the sense of autonomy while navigating this experience alone. I asked him why he was here, and he mentioned there was a multi-day festival called "Life Is Beautiful" that featured artists, musicians, and motivational speakers. As we began sharing stories, the bus arrived, saving us from the sweltering heat. As I searched for my bus pass, I lost track of the young man. I found myself sitting near the front of the bus in case I needed to ask the driver where to get off. I had already made that mistake today. Across from me sat a young man of Asian descent. I leaned over and asked if he was from the area. “No, I’m actually from Michigan,” he informed me. “Oh, okay. I was wondering because I’m looking for food recommendations,” I replied. He told me he was heading to a Japanese restaurant called Cafe Sanuki as he showed me the restaurant on his phone screen. The locally Asian owned restaurant had 4.5-star reviews on Yelp, and he extended an invitation if I was interested. Similar to the man I was speaking with before, the conversation flowed naturally, and I accepted his offer. I felt grounded, safe, and comfortable, so I acted against my typically overly cautious behavior. As I began speaking to him, he mentioned he was a pharmacy student and also came to Vegas for the "Life is Beautiful" festival. After he said that, I noticed the man I was speaking to earlier a few seats behind me. I couldn’t see him before because of the bus pole, but now I noticed he was looking at his phone. “That’s interesting, I was actually speaking to that man earlier, and he’s also here alone for the festival,” which caused the man’s head to perk up. He wasn’t eavesdropping, it just happened to be perfect timing as the Asian man asked him about last night. As the two began speaking, I took a moment to be mindful. If I was traveling in a group, I wouldn’t have connected with either individual in the way I had—with genuineness. In hindsight, it was the perfect ending to a new adventure, yet an unplanned beginning to a new friendship. I asked the first man if he was going to Chinatown to eat, and extended the invitation if he was. He enthusiastically accepted. As if this series of events were predestined, the bus driver stopped and the Asian man let us know this was our stop. While not the safest thing to do, my intuition was telling me to be vulnerable. As we walked into the spacious restaurant, the air conditioner hit us like biting into cold ice cream, causing my body to raise with goosebumps. The feng shui radiated clean and revitalizing energy, and the tables were spread apart due to the pandemic. Lights hung down from the ceiling, and the wooden chairs scraped against the floor as we sat an open table. Like the millennials we are, we opened the camera on our smartphones and scanned the QR code for the menu. The two began to speak, but I was hyper focused on the menu. Did I want the addictingly spicy tan tan ramen? I love spicy foods; my coworker from Hunan jokingly says it’s a part of my culture that I have kept. Or, did I want the filling curry beef udon? There’s something undeniably homey and wholesome about curry. After giving my first world problem some thought, I decided on the seafood tomato cream udon, just as my stomach growled. I asked them what they ordered to eat, and the Asian man said he got the shoyu udon and takoyaki for the table, and the light-skinned man stated he got the nabeyaki udon and jalapeno poppers for the table. I became increasingly grateful for the selflessness shown by the two strangers, especially as food is one of my love languages. There’s something immeasurably powerful when sharing a meal with someone, connecting through taste, quality time, and passion. I ordered chicken karaage for the table, and we began speaking again. “Are you Chinese?” I asked the Asian man. Throughout the years, I’ve gotten better at differentiating Asian ethnicities based on their features, but as a Chinese adoptee, I think part of me was unconsciously hoping he was Chinese, too. “Yes, but people say I’m whitewashed. I don’t speak Mandarin anymore, it’s been so long. I also live with my white roommates, and people say I ‘talk white,’” he replied. I related to his narrative, a story that many transracial adoptees (TRAs) and multicultural individuals understand. To lighten the mood on a sensitive topic, I replied, “Well, I’m transracially adopted, so it’s okay”; and he smiled. The other man looked at me, and I watched his eyebrows push together as he asked if I was really adopted. Typically, when I reveal this information, people begin prying into my life, treating it like a video game to uncover new mysteries for their own entertainment. In the past, I used to feel obligated to explain I was adopted. I would even inform people during the first interaction to avoid sharing my life’s story based on my Irish American name. My automatic reaction was to be defensive as I fought back from rolling my eyes. “Yes, I really am adopted.” I stated, thinking it would unlock the same questions and reactions as it typically does. While it can be empowering sharing my adoption story, it needs to be a safe space, and I prefer to be the one to initiate it. The power of vulnerability can be cathartic, but it can also come with a cost. Adoption and identity are lifelong journeys that can take years to heal from. Instead of sympathy and ignorance, his eyes lit up with hope. “That’s crazy, I’m transracially adopted too,” he said. My initial reaction shifted entirely from frustration to curiosity so now I was the one with a million questions. At the time I had only connected with Asian TRAs before, and I had wondered about common themes for TRAs of other ethnicities. It is important to acknowledge that all adoptee narratives are unique; however, I considered if I would relate to the Black TRA community more than my own Asian TRA community. In the beginning of my adoption journey, many Asian TRAs whom I connected with were invested in the white community, something that now makes me feel inauthentic. There are a multitude of reasons why TRAs choose to identify with a community, ranging from personal preferences, self preservation techniques, lack of exposure to diverse environments, etc., but I was particularly invested in hearing his story, curious as to how it may or may not be different for a race that was not Asian. He mentioned he grew up in a white town, and his adoptive parents didn’t acknowledge or encourage conversation surrounding race. Similar to many TRAs, I related to his story. While I was privileged to be raised in a diverse city, my immediate neighborhood lacked diversity. As a child, I longed for wide blue eyes like my father instead of appreciating my small almond-shaped eyes. I wondered why there weren’t people that looked like me in positions of power, but I was also discouraged from having conversations about race. When I tried to speak about this, I was gaslighted since my family took the colorblind approach. As he shared his story, I thought about the different implications in our lives because our parents avoided these conversations. As an Asian woman, I am considered the “model minority.” Even though these stereotypes are typically positive, they still hold serious and harmful consequences. At the same time, stereotypes of Black men being dangerous, lazy, or unworthy may take on more explicit and constant forms of violence. We covered topics surrounding the power of names to the conceptions others had of us. We shared commonalities like how interviewers are always confused, how people would noisily question our lives, and how we were teased growing up. Being a female, many people would assume I am married due to my last name, but he couldn’t hide behind that facade. Many TRAs are also questioned because others may believe there is human trafficking or a sugar baby/sugar daddy relationship happening. Luckily, I haven’t experienced those personally. We were so engrossed in conversation that when I looked at my phone, I hadn’t realized we’d been there for 2.5 hours. That was everyone’s cue to exchange names, numbers, and social media accounts to stay connected. As I hopped on the bus back to the airport, I reflected on how incredible my whole experience had been. I’d visited the most beautiful natural landscapes, felt true serenity, and made some genuine connections. One of the biggest lessons from the trip, however, was the power of vulnerability. I’ve only been on my adoption journey for about two years, still reveling and ruminating on my experiences, privilege, and trauma. Previously, I would keep my adoption a secret, something that I was embarrassed about. Kids at school laugh and make jokes about no one loving children placed for adoption, not knowing that I related to that story. Romantic partners would lose interest once they found out I belonged to a white family, not knowing that navigating these relationships are my biggest challenges and insecurities. My friends of color would make comments about how I’m not Asian enough because I’m adopted, not knowing that white friends would also tell me I’m not white enough. At the time, I didn’t have the courage to speak out against these comments and beliefs. I thought about my prior self and how she would’ve acted. After my mom died as a child, I placed barriers so high that no one could climb them. Vulnerability was my biggest fear. I wouldn’t have eaten with two strangers, shared my most vulnerable stories, and certainly wouldn’t have booked this trip solo. But, it’s through these moments of vulnerability that we can truly connect with others. People can feel energy transmission when you’re coming from a place of love and gratitude versus embarrassment and shame. Negative emotions will tear you down and bury you into a deep isolation, and feeling like there’s an abundance of people that care for you, but no one that truly understands you. Being vulnerable is being courageous. Being vulnerable is speaking about your experiences, not only so you can heal, but so you can provide hope for others. Being vulnerable is understanding that everything is bigger than us, and everything is connected. Being vulnerable is becoming comfortable with being uncomfortable, but putting faith into the universe that what’s for you will come back multiplied. That is when you can truly attract the opportunities, events, and relationships destined for you.

Artist Cathy Lu, a 20-something American born Chinese, has launched her debut children’s book. She shares this with The Universal Asian, in hopes for more Asian American children to learn the alphabet through fruits, vegetables, and other foods they see their parents cook and on the shelves of Asian supermarkets. Ambitiously written and illustrated during the COVID-19 pandemic, Lu brainstormed the range of fruits and vegetables to incorporate into the alphabet book. So familiar is the classic American “A is for Apple, B is for Banana.” She set out to create an alphabet book targeted for Asian Americans. She also wanted to focus specifically on fresh produce you would find at Ranch 99 Market. Lu strongly associates fresh-cut fruit such as Asian pears, dragonfruits, and persimmons with her childhood. Although often thought as exotic by Americans, these varieties of fruits were commonplace in her household and she wanted fellow young Asians to find comfort in familiar foods. After brainstorming, Lu then brought her realistic art style to the digital world through her iPad. She carefully drew each food item in the children’s book, as well as the front and back cover art. The book features 26 foods matching the 26 letters of the alphabet, from A is for Asian Pear and B is for Bok Choy to H is for Hot Pot and Z is for Zongzi. Lu self-published through Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing and began selling copies through Amazon. So far, “ABCs for the American Born Chinese” has sold over 1,500 copies. Lu has been able to connect with hundreds of excited parents eager to read the innovative alphabet book to their young children, and even non-parents excited to give their friends and family the book as gifts. You can purchase “ABCs for the American Born Chinese” on Amazon. You can learn more about her journey and process in writing, illustrating, and self-publishing on Youtube. Connect with Cathy Lu through these platforms: YouTube Instagram Email: abcsforabcs@gmail.com