Michelle Zauner recounts when she put her life on hold to fly home and care for her mother. As a woman in her mid-20s, Zauner was forced into a role no child wishes themselves to be in. Zauner’s mother eventually succumbed to cancer and Zauner continued a journey of struggling with her Korean-American identity that was now compounded with loss and grief. "Crying In H Mart" is a gripping memoir about family, loss, identity, and how food can connect you to what you love most. I began reading "Crying In H Mart" knowing that it would be heavy and thought-provoking. While I am not biracial, I resonated with many of Zauner’s sentiments about culture and identity. She struggled with the language and did not know how to cook the food. When caring for her mother, Zauner began experimenting with Korean recipes to try and kickstart her mother’s fading appetite. The cancer and chemotherapies meant her mother could not eat more than a few bites, but Zauner understood and recognized that this food was a significant connection to her mother and her Korean heritage. Zauner detailed the decline of her mother’s health and weaved in anecdotes of visits with relatives, the rise of her music career, and the beginnings of her relationship and eventual marriage. The passages are gritty and Zauner does not sugarcoat anything. Her vulnerability and authenticity forced me to put the book down several times to take a breather. I took several weeks to read it even though the memoir moves at a nice pace. Despite her mother’s death being the ultimate event that underlies the events in the memoir, we read about it two-thirds of the way through and then watch how Zauner processes the grief and continues the work to connect with her Korean heritage. While I don’t want to “review” Zauner’s life and experiences, I can say "Crying In H Mart" was a phenomenal memoir that was both heartbreaking and hopeful. I cried with Zauner as she struggled and grieved and confronted my own challenges with self-acceptance and being between two cultures. This book is a must-read and will have everyone resonating with the experiences of mother and child depicted in the pages.

Just when we thought that 2021 was over and ending on a high, The Universal Asian team faced some internal disruption that unfortunately resulted in the stepping down of two core members. While saddened by their departure, we wish both Kim (Associate Editor) and Hanna (Social Media Specialist) well in their future endeavors. We truly thank them for giving so much of their time, effort, and selves to building up the platform to what it is today. Although change can be unsettling, it also creates an opportunity to reflect, adjust, and solidify future actions. First, to emphasize our New Year’s post on our social media, we want to remain true to our mission and values to provide a balanced and open space to any and everyone who wants to share their story or point of view on any and every topic. The Universal Asian, as a platform, does not stand in judgement, discriminate, nor censor what or how our stories and voices are shared. We provide a space for this as long as it falls within our mission and values. Unfortunately, this means that some may dislike some of the content put out on the platform. It also means that some may be triggered emotionally or mentally by some of the content. We do not intentionally wish to harm anyone with our content. Full stop. However, it is important to keep in mind that we cannot please everyone in our Asian diaspora. Our aim is to mainstream discussions on all topics so that a deeper understanding of who we are as a community—both good and bad—can be gained. This is only achieved through communication, even on the heaviest, darkest, and most difficult of topics. We hope that the respect we hold for everyone in our diaspora can also be held for us, as a platform, as we strive to provide an unbiased, open, and safe space. Still, this does not mean that the individual team members of The Universal Asian are in agreement with everything shared through this platform. Therefore, we ask that you be kind, compassionate, and understanding of the fact that while we work on this platform with a shared mission and common values, we are still human beings with our own feelings and emotional and mental triggers. We would also like to point out that no one person is the spokesperson or face of The Universal Asian. Although it might feel acceptable to reach out to us individually, we request that any concerns, comments, questions, or feedback you may have regarding the platform be directed to info@theuniversalasian.com or DM’d on the platform’s social media accounts and not to individual team members directly. With that said, we are very much looking forward to what 2022 holds for TUA. After a long break with some behind the scenes changes, we are excited to bring you two events toward the end of the month: “Dating is Hard. Asian Dating is Harder!” with Dr. Vivi Hua on January 22; “Learn About the Artists Behind the Up Close Zine” with An Laurence Higgins & Annie Tong Zhou Lafrance on January 29. Furthermore, you may notice that we have changed up our post releases on our site with new content coming out every week. Keep checking our FB / Instagram / Twitter / LinkedIn / YouTube for updates throughout the month. Finally, we want to continue highlighting members of our Asian diaspora and expanding our engagement. So, if you—or someone you know—would like to: be interviewed, submit your own pieces, or share other content ideas for events or something new with the TUA platform, please reach out to us at ​​info@theuniversalasian.com. We want to hear from you! Here’s to an amazing 2022! — OSH, Editor

"…and Room in the Bag of Stars (…et de la place dans le sac aux étoiles)" — "SAEKDONG색동DIASPORA" PHI Foundation; Tiohtià:ke/Montréal; Exhibition date from September 22, 2021 to January 9, 2022. Free admission; Reservations required On September 22, we had the opportunity to visit the new exhibition "SAEKDONG 색동 DIASPORA" by artist-activist kimura byol lemoine (ze/zer). Adopted from Japanese-Korean origin, kimura was one of the five artists selected for the bilingual exhibition "…and Room in the Bag of Stars — …et de la place dans le sac aux étoiles," which takes place at the PHI Foundation located in Tiohtià: ke/Montreal. Founded in 2007 by Phoebe Greenberg, the PHI Foundation for Contemporary Art is a non-profit organization dedicated to presenting impactful contemporary art experiences. International in scope, but fitting into the Montreal context, the PHI Foundation deeply believes in the role of art as a vector of exchange. Its programs combine reflection and pleasure, all in a space that is friendly, accessible, and inclusive for all. In reaction to the health crisis that has forced people to distance, even isolate, themselves, the PHI Foundation has decided to set up a collaborative project that presents works produced as part of the inaugural PHI Montreal residency in the summer 2021 by PHI. Based on "The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction" (1986), a science fiction work by author Ursula K. Le Guin: “How can we, after a moment of prolonged isolation, imagine spaces, temporalities, conditions, or systems where we might all find ourselves, again?” The five winners of this edition of the residency, including kimura, have designed projects in response to this theme. These pieces were as diverse as they were engaged, and despite the eclecticism of the visual works on display, it was "SAEKDONG색동DIASPORA" that caught our attention the most. "SAEKDONG색동DIASPORA" (2021) The installation "SAEKDONG색동DIASPORA" is made of eight elements that bring together a multitude of objects in careful arrangement to reference their transnational experiences. The work explores themes of identity formation based on ethnicity, nationality, adoption, migration, and how all these might be expressed through objects and organic materials (kimura-lemoine 2021). The first part includes two paper works: "The Seed from the East" (1956, USA), a book in which Bertha and Harry Holt recount the events that led to the adoption of 220,000 other South Korean “orphans” internationally, and sauvé·e des eaux, which is a flooded Japanese rice paper booklet, a souvenir from zer repeated trips between Japan and South Korea. The second part exhibits four works, made from organic materials, that all refer to the number 100. While talking with kimura-lemoine, ze explained to us its symbolism: baek in Korean means “100,” but also the color “white.” "dying in japan (water)" and "counting days (wood)," respectively, contain 100 indigo and lotus seeds to represent the dying process in Japan and zer immigration to Canada. "unseeded land (earth)" and "uncovered stories (metal)" highlight Canadian Indigenous’ stolen land and Australian Aboriginal perspectives. Finally, "seedless ajumma (wind)" symbolizes the the cities the artist has lived (Busan, Watermael-Boitsfort, Bruxelles/Brussels, 서울/Séoul/Seoul, Tiohtià:ke/Montréal, Berlin, Kyoto, Tokyo), and "seeded ajumma (emptiness)" represents adoptees as packaged gingko leaves given to their future Western adoptive parents. The third part of the exhibition features digital works, such as the video installation works "yikinging spaces (time)" et "sarang han tiohtià:ke (air)." These works evoke the artist’s diasporic journey through a meditative ballad based on elements of Yi-King and the emotional connections of nostalgia in the city of Tiohtià:ke. As Chinese adoptees ourselves, we were moved by kimura-lemoine’s authenticity and generosity during our visit. We were impressed with how kimura-lemoine’s artistic works have evolved throughout the years and continue to grasp profound changes in our contemporary society. We hope these unique works will resonate within you the way they did in us. Artist Bio kimura byol lemoine – 키무라 별 르무안 is an artivist (artist-activist) and committed archivist of South Korean origin. Born in Pusan ​​in 1968 and adopted by a Belgian family, kimura-lemoine now resides in Tiohtià:ke/Montreal. Described as a conceptual artist and feminist in multimedia, kimura-lemoine juggles sensitivity from one medium to another. Between videos (alone or in collaboration), writing, short films, photography, and calligraphy, kimura-lemoine’s hybrid identity is transposed through zer work. In this regard, zer themes revolve around immigration, adoption, the QUEER LGBTQ2S+ community, and social injustices. By using the body as an object that is both commercial and claimant, ze calls into question gender binary, ethnic and linguistic identities. kimura-lemoine is recognized for zer involvement and support not only within the QUEER LGBTQ2S+ community, but also with ethnic and social minorities. It is moreover thanks to zer meticulous work of archiving stories and photographs that kimura-lemoine gives voice to the most marginalized with the aim of challenging Eurocentric artistic and social codes. Zer involvement transcends geographic and artistic borders. kimura-lemoine is the co-founder and active member of several groups and associations, including Euro-Korean League (E-K.L., 1991, Belgium), Korean Overseas Adoptee (KOA, 1996, South Korea), Global Overseas Adoptees’ Link (GOA’L, 1998, South Korea), Asia/Afro-descendants/Aborigninal Queer Adoptees (AQA, 2007, Facebook group), Adoptees Cultural Archives (ACA, 2015, Canada), and CARÉ (2021, Asian Coalition for an Emancipatory Succession). kimura-lemoine is a model of perseverance and self-acceptance. Authors’ bios Adopted from Chinese origin, Marie Blouin/Gong Li is a Canadian anthropologist specializing in East Asian studies in Tiohtià: ke/Montreal. Through the analysis of various artistic mediums, her researches examine the trajectory of people in situations of transnational mobility in Korea and Japan. She is also interested in issues related to hybrid identities with the adopted diaspora. Her personal interests, as well as her academic background, enabled her to receive a mobility grant to perfect her knowledge at Inha University 인하 대학교 용현 캠퍼스, in South Korea. In addition, this fall she will complete her Master’s degree in Anthropology at the University of Montreal. Beyond her contribution to the advancement of knowledge about Asia in the social sciences, she is involved with several organizations, including the Asian Coalition for a Relève Émancipatrice (CARÉ). Born in Nanchang, China in 1995, André-Anne Côté/陈安妮 is a Sino-Canadian adoptee living in Tiohtià:ke/Montreal. As an anthropologist, she is interested in autoethnography as a source of creative writing. Her Master’s thesis at Peking University focuses on the identity issues of the Chinese diaspora. Her texts have been published by Moebius, Le Devoir, the Huffington Post, NüVoices, and Inkstone. André-Anne lectures on anti-Asian racism and the rights of international adoptees. She is involved with L’Hybridé (an organization for adoptees in Quebec province), the Asian Coalition for a Relève Émancipatrice (CARÉ), and in the Directory of Asian Artists in Quebec at the invitation of the artist and curator Claudia Chan Tak.

Personal Story Transitioning lives I was 3½ years old when I was adopted from Korea by my German parents, and was raised in a predominantly white town in southern Germany. Without any memory of the previous years of my life in Korea, I immediately adapted to the new environment. I stopped speaking Korean and didn’t want to engage in anything that reminded me of my Korean origins until I turned 18. From the outside, things seemed to go well, and I tried everything to fulfill the sweet and perfectly assimilated adoptive daughter image. Deep inside, though, I struggled with my conflicting emotions and felt like an alien to my Korean cultural roots, and desperately wanted to blend in with the other kids. My fear of rejection and feeling ashamed left me often shy and insecure in expressing my honest feelings and needs. I grew up in a very loving and caring home, and I had many moments of happiness and acceptance. Still, I also had challenging feelings like sadness, melancholy, shame, and frustration, which I was suppressing. I didn’t have the language and awareness that I was coping with the traumatic experience of the loss over my culture of origin, my previous world, and my birth mother’s unknown. As a result, I immersed myself in a different reality through drawing and the fantasy worlds in my books. It wasn’t until adulthood that I started to question my behavior, emotions, and beliefs more. Who am I, where am I from, where do I belong? Longing to find answers and acceptance. When I turned 18, I looked into the mirror and was all of a sudden awakening to my Korean-ness and adoptee self, and questions, like: “Who am I?” “Where am I from?” “Where do I belong?” The world was wide open for me, but I felt like it was falling apart. An inner voice started to raise many questions about my origin, biological parents, and cultural roots—questions that I couldn’t answer, but that left a heavy, frustrating, and upsetting feeling inside me that I couldn’t understand or name. I felt dissociated from my body, confused and lost in my emotions, and suffered from an identity crisis. When I tried to share with my parents, I struggled to express myself, and my parents reacted in shock and were emotionally overwhelmed. I had to distance myself to connect to my story in my own way. I escaped into the melting pot of New York after graduating from design school. All of a sudden, it was so natural to blend in and to find acceptance, and social comfort amongst my multicultural circle of friends and colleagues. Deep inside, though, I felt there was still something missing. I felt an inner yearning to explore my Korean origins and find some answers. Visiting Korea for the first time was surprisingly comforting, but also confusing. I remember stepping out of the subway in Seoul, looking around, and realizing:WOW this is how I LOOK. It was like a cultural mirror that had to remind me of my Korean-ness. I was confronted with what it means to be Korean and questions like: “How can I reclaim being Korean when I don’t even speak the language and don’t know how to navigate the social codes, and how can I do this my way?” And, “Do I even want to be Korean?” For I also didn’t feel I belonged here [in Korea] either. This is me, Sun Mee. Finding belonging within. A healing journey. Coming back to Germany after my first visit to Korea, I immersed myself in research and literature on identity formation and adoption. It helped me to start understanding on a mental level first what I was going through. Furthermore, creative writing and visualizing my inner world allowed me to express my creative self and find artistic refuge for my unexplored feelings. Moreover, I recognized that I needed to claim and create conscious space and time for myself to truly feel into my story’s complexity. As a recovering perfectionist and self-critic, it took me some time to seek help from outside. Playing strong wasn’t working anymore and I got frustrated with my internal fears that kept blocking me from truly living a fulfilled life. Accepting professional support in the form of life coaching and talk therapy was very helpful. However, I realized the limitations of talk therapy and learned that we cannot talk our way out of trauma since it is stored in our bodies. Exploring alternative healing modalities that connect the mind and the body was the missing link in my healing journey. Finding solitude in nature, connecting to the local and online adoptee community, and reconnecting to my adoptive parents with love, understanding, and compassion for one another has been an integral part of my healing. It’s been an intense and challenging journey of self-discovery and transformation, riding waves of discomfort as well as blissful moments. These have all shifted me into who I have become and am still evolving into. Today, I embrace my Adoptee Self as part of my wholeness. I found true belonging within, which allowed me to find it with my partner, my family, my chosen communities, as well as my home base in Berlin. Last year, I quit my corporate work and found my professional journey by creating NUMARU—A Community Space and Holistic Support Program for transracial adoptees to be heard and feel be seen. My mission is to raise more awareness on the complexity of adoption, to share what I have learned, and to hold space for fellow adoptees on their healing path! Adoption is a lifelong growth journey. But, we can learn to navigate it with more calm, clarity, compassion, and confidence! Do you believe so too? Holding space for you here: sunmee@numaru.space Sun Mee Martin www.numaru.space IG: @numaru.truebelonging About Sun Mee Sun Mee is a Korean-German Adoptee, Conscious Creator, Holistic Coach, and Founder of NUMARU—A safe Community Space and Holistic Support Program for Transracial Adoptees to be heard and feel seen. Through mindful and creative explorations, she invites fellow adoptees to find clarity, courage, and compassion in their healing journey. Her mission is to raise more awareness of the complexity of adoption and offers an intimate and personalized approach to explore the meaning of true belonging within. Mindfulness practice led by Sun Mee This mindfulness practice will connect participants in the shared virtual space and find present awareness to stimulate the mind for discussion and the heart for connection. Cover image: Carina Adam

Penny and Mimi raced around the house, climbed up beds and clamored up couches to look out every window. The children were excited to see all the wonders of the world outside. “Look at the birdie flying!” said Mimi peering just above the window sill. “Look at the parade!” said older sister Penny. “It’s a march,” explained Grandmother. “A storm against hate.” “There’s a lot to learn, girls,” said Mother glancing at Grandmother. “Come close.” Penny and Mimi had never been inside the empty school nearby. When students began to succumb to illness, Mother had decided to teach them at home. It was safer. After story time, Penny asked if they could go to the store, like the children in the book they just read. Penny promised they would wear their masks. But Grandfather had been punched at the store by strangers. “Leave!” they had yelled. “We don’t want you here with your masks and disease!” Grandmother quickly interjected, “Look at the beautiful orange skies, girls!” Her finger pointed upwards. “But why can’t we go to the store?” asked Penny. “Mimi said she wants to look for a dragon fruit. The girl in the book said if you eat them, you turn fierce like a dragon! And I want to find a kumquat like the boy in the story. He said kumquats mean good luck and prosperity!” Mother knew the shelves at the markets were empty and said nothing. “I want to go outside!” screamed little Mimi. Father stepped to the window and studied the horizon. Mother looked worried. Wildfires had broken out. “How fast are the flames?” she asked. “The burning’s moving this direction. Already there’s gridlock,” said Grandfather who entered the room. The Great Global Weather Disruptions have begun.” Mimi started to cry. Father looked at Grandfather, nodded to his wife and hurried to a console. “Children, come sit with the family,” said Mother with urgency in her voice. Everyone held onto each other as Grandmother yelled out the countdown, “5-4-3-2-1!” The family home rattled and roared. Slowly it rose above the fires and pollution; high above the chaos, sickness, anger and hate; away from the dark, sticky webs of ill weather. Soon they were soaring through the skies. The family ran from window to window to see the extraordinary world views. All except Mother, who collapsed near the window and screamed a horrific sound. Penny cried and yelled out for her sister. But little Mimi was gone. Panic clutched their stomachs as each member raced around the house. They found the front door swinging wide open. Had Mimi fallen out of the house? Father would not stop scouring their home for his child. Penny wouldn’t stop calling out, “Mimi, Mimi!” over and over. Grandmother and Grandfather held each other up and grasped each other’s arms. From the family living room, they peered through the brittle pane and scanned the grounds below. Their tiny, sunken, petrified faces were framed by the window of the frayed and fragile house that dangled high in the sky. Earlier, a larger-than-life, silver haired, couple—both Thujarati creatures—crept upon the charcoal grounds of little Mimi’s old neighborhood. They ate from a charred peach tree of immortality. When the twenty foot-tall wife named Enassa with long, shiny, white hair, looked up, she saw a child falling from the sky. She had reached out her hands and caught the little girl in her arms. She turned to her frosty-haired husband and cried: “A child is all I’ve ever wanted! My heart was broken, but now it is healed.” And when she smiled from her soul, the couples’ hair turned a vibrant green and fluorescent violet. Back in the house in the sky, Mother ran to the console. Father looked up from his searching and quickly joined her. Together they turned around and raced the house back to look for Mimi. With a lion-like roar and a commotion of flying debris, their home carefully landed back on top its solid foundation. The front door flipped open and the whole family spilled out onto the streets of an unrecognizable neighborhood now bruised, burnt and desolate. Their hearts were in free fall as they ran frantic through the abandoned, ruined land, searching for signs of their lost, little, loved one. Their legs grew weary as the soles of their shoes grew warmer and warmer as they walked the scorched Earth. Father carried Penny as the family moved together and came upon a curious, large bush. It smoldered with incense and sage. From behind the smoky bush, a family emerged and entered the clearing. It was a man, a woman, an elderly couple, and a little boy. Their clothes were tattered and seared from the fires. Their bodies were covered with ash and soot, and their faces carried a look of defeat. “Hello,” greeted Penny. “We are looking for my sister, Mimi. Have you seen her?” “We have lost our child,” explained Mother. “And we are lost without her,” said Grandmother. “Will you help us find her?” asked Penny. “We are Timucua,” said the grandfather who stood hunched in burnt rags. “Our people disappeared in the storms of hate long ago,” explained the Timucuan grandmother. “We are lost, too,” said the Timucuan mother. “But we will help you find your child,” stated the Timucuan father. “My name is Pomo!” shouted the Timucuan boy. “Please come to our home to rest,” insisted Mimi’s Grandfather. “We have food. Come eat.” “Thank you, but let us help you find your Mimi first,” said the Timucuan grandmother. “Yes, we must hurry. The Great Floods are coming soon,” said the Timucuan grandfather with sorrowful eyes. And so they searched together, this union of two large families. “Mimi! Mimi!” they called out as they walked the earth, searching with their hopeful eyes. After they crossed a splintered bridge, the large group discovered a pair of charred fruit trees that grew near a quiet, blue pond. Mimi’s family picked peaches and kumquats for everyone to eat as the Timucuan family washed in the water. Penny was excited when she saw the kumquats. “Kumquats mean good luck and prosperity!” she exclaimed. As they all ate the fruits, the families began to hear voices that sounded like knives slicing the air. Everyone grew tense when the shouting of men in the distance grew louder and louder. “Get up and get outta here! Shoo. You people need to go back to where you came from. You are the root of all problems. This is not your home!” The steaming mad voices directed at their group made Penny and Pomo cry from fear. “These sacred lands belong to the universe of all life,” said the Timucuan grandfather. “This land is not your land. Leave!” rebutted the male voices with a piercing, shrill pitch. From the sky, curtains of vibrant green and florescent locks dropped all around the bullying men and large, two-family group. “Stay and eat as much as you like!” commanded the Thujarati giant, Enassa, whose booming voice was sweet and rich and shook the earth all around them. So strong was the vibrating bellow of her voice that all the fruit from the trees fell to the ground. “Who the heck are you?” yelled the menacing men. Enassa grabbed an electrified rain cloud from the high sky and tossed it towards the men who quickly dispersed and ran away towards the fields where their large armored trucks sat. Pomo pointed to the girl in Enassa’s arms said, “Look!” Penny looked up and cried, “Mimi!” “Penny!” yelled Mimi who immediately leapt out of the arms of the Thujarati giant. From the grasp of Enassa, Mimi landed in the arms of her mother who wept; she was so happy. The two families gathered around Mimi in a warm embrace, relieved and overjoyed to have Mimi back in the family fold. “You were lost and now you have been found!” announced Enassa who opened her empty arms up and out wide. But then she discreetly turned away and hung her head low. The men had now returned and began firing shots at Enassa who began to cry a river of fluorescent, pink tears of hurt and pain. The men turned to the two families and began to run towards them. Enassa reached into the skies and shook the ceiling hard. Sheets of hail, wind and rain assaulted the grounds below. The angry men recoiled and the two families battled their way back home as fast as they could. Once they were all safe back inside, they shut the front door and looked out the living room window. That’s when they saw the 100-foot wave of debris, trees and churning, grey water barreling down the burnt streets right towards them. “Everyone, get to your places!” instructed Mimi’s father. An immense bolt of lightning lit up the sky as a crash of thunder jolted the house and knocked them all down to the floor. Father scrambled to the console and yelled, “Hold on!” Everyone braced themselves and held onto each other as they helped the children and elders onto the protective, deep-seated, couches. The plush, velvet, over-sized sofas soothed their nerves and comforted them as the house rose out of harm’s way. Up high into the sky, the house with its inhabitants flew away from the conflict, anger and destruction. Once again, they were boundless. Mother brought fresh clothes, warm blankets, biscuits and cocoa for their guests who they now considered family. Steadily, the house sailed across the tranquil space scape. A sense of quiet and peace filled the family home. When all the members of the household gathered near the family room windows to look back at their planet together, they were not prepared for what they saw. They had to look away and bury their faces into each other’s shoulders and shield their eyes with their blankets. A feeling of dread came over them. It was ghastly! Mother Earth looked like a diseased organ with red, inflamed patches, gangrene depressions and pulsating, infected pustules that erupted, oozing raw pus. They saw missiles crisscrossing continents as a sinister, dark veil creeped over the globe. The planet mass also began to emit a chilling, low moan that travelled desperately across the dark, outer space. The two families held each other and cried as they comforted each other. What happened? What now? Finally, they all held hands and gathered close. They closed their eyes tight. What else could they do? After a long pause, the Timucuan grandparents sang an ancestral song that vibrated with the same frequency as the ancient universe. Afterwards, Mimi’s grandparents sang a song from their ancestors as well. The beautiful sounds inspired both families and uplifted each other. Soon they were borrowing melodies, combining chorus notes, harmonizing together and creating brand new music that elevated their spirits and sent hope and a force of positive vibes throughout the solar system. The floorboards beneath their feet began to rumble and a flash of bright light sailed past them. It was headed straight to Earth. They watched through the wide, family room window and witnessed the all-encompassing global explosion. The light was so bright, the families ducked and shielded their eyes as they crouched in the house that continued to float alone in the black space. The adults in the house feared Earth was destroyed and gone. With trepidation, they slowly creeped back up to have a peek. As they watched the smoke clear, a remarkably healed green and blue Earth was revealed. The glow of a nascent, florescent and ethereal halo slowly appeared and encircled the planet. The view was breathtaking. The adults quietly discussed what they should do. Should they return? Where should they go? Was there, in fact, any life left on Earth? This was a second chance. A chance to start over. “We must return and help rebuild,” they all decided. But Mother was still nervous. “I wish we had some sort of sign that there was still life; some kind of sign of what might be left; what we might find back on Earth,” said Mother. And then the phone rang. Penny ran to answer it and turned on the speaker. It was an automated voice: “In order to prevent your extended warranty from expiring, I’m giving you a courtesy follow-up call before I close out the file. Press 1 to speak to a warranty specialist. Press 2 to be removed and put on a do-not-call list.” Penny pressed 1, but instead of reaching a live representative, they all just heard static. They didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They agreed that remnants of mankind are certainly hard to snuff out. As they flew back to their home planet, they were hopeful, yet cautious. “Mama,” said Mimi. “Yes, my little, daughter,” said Mother to the child who she loved so much that she tried to do everything she could to protect her. And yet she still failed. “Mama, Enassa, the Thujarati giant was very nice. She gave me dragon fruit to eat, just like what the girl in the storybook got to eat.” “Is that so?” said Mother. “Yes. And the dragon fruit makes us fierce and strong!” Mimi reached into her pocket and pulled out an oval shaped piece of dragon fruit. She held her hand open to her mama. Mother took the fruit from her daughter. “We’ll be okay, Mama,” added Mimi. Mother was struck by her daughter’s bold, little face. Mama’s worries melted away and she smiled. “You know, you’re a brave, little girl, Mimi. I’m so very proud of you!” No matter what happens, Mama decided, they were going to be okay. Cover image: Pixabay

December I will leave you still flush from April and July, a fresh scar unveiled, an amniotic window tender not porous. taught, fragile, necrotic, with a promise; pink formations, freshly sewn carapaces, prickly seeds, cloud laden skies. If you appreciate A.D.’s work please support her Patreon or help fund the Seeds from the East: The Korean Adoptee Portrait Project.

leaning into the terrifying stillness discovering that nothingness isn’t emptiness it’s abundance abundant time abundant peace abundant creativity abundant connection abundant healing i am doing nothing to fill my life writing my pain into joy acknowledging and embracing the darkness that leads to finding and basking in the light taking a break from goals leaning into learning how to be not be good not be impressive not be accomplished just be leaning into the stillness once terrifying now a refuge a place to release the pain in my chest a place to close my eyes to the blinding screens of output and open them to dreams awaiting fulfillment Haiku Kwon is a regular contributor and writer for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, click here.

Izumi grew up without her father, but she and her mom have done just fine. One day, while browsing through her mother’s books, Izumi learns who her father is…the Crown Prince of Japan. Despite never having connected with her Japanese heritage, Izumi is whisked off to Tokyo to learn about her family and culture. Will she crack under the pressure? I didn’t expect to relate to our main character, Izumi, as quickly as I did. Izumi never knew her father and, as a result, always felt a little displaced. Furthermore, she has been disconnected from her Japanese heritage. When people ask her about her Japanese roots, she can’t answer. Even within the first few chapters, I saw my own struggles as a transracial, international adoptee reflected on the page. "Tokyo Ever After" may be something of a modern fairytale, but it instantly resonated with me and had me hooked. The remaining book was a whirlwind of royalty and fairytale amidst an identity crisis. She experiences great pressure to be the perfect Japanese princess under the public’s eye. She grew up not knowing her father and with limited information about her mother’s family. As a result, she wasn’t exactly sure where she belonged or what her roots were. Again, while I can’t relate to Izumi discovering she is a princess, I can relate to her intense struggles with not connecting with her culture. The story was nicely paced and Jean was able to fit a lot of character development into this YA novel. I lost track of some of the characters, but there was a handy family tree diagram at the beginning that I could refer to. Even with a lot of plot developments, I appreciated seeing Izumi’s relationships with her family and friends. Each person helped her develop while having their own identities. Overall, this was a very fun read. "Tokyo Ever After" not only provides some Asian representation in a modern day fairytale, but also introduces challenging themes surrounding identity and culture. There was a lot packed into just 320 pages and there is so much more that could be explored. The sequel, "Tokyo Dreaming," will be released in 2022, and I am eagerly awaiting its publication date.

Be part of a movement by helping fundraise for a groundbreaking project that Janet Yang, the legendary "Joy Luck Club" executive producer and Governor of the Academy of Motion Pictures called “an ode to the bond between mother and son, told with radical vulnerability and honesty,” and “a deeply moving look into the love that binds a family.” "Journey of a Thousand Miles" is directed and produced by Dr. Zhu Shen when Shen’s husband Changyou was stricken with terminal cancer, she throws herself into a six-year odyssey to produce their 12-year-old artistically gifted son Perry’s animated film—"Changyou’s Journey," unleashing a mother-son tug of war. Shen must learn to look inward to reconnect with her son, reclaim her own buried artistic prowess, and transform from “Tiger Mom” to “Zen Mom.” Changyou’s Journey—a young animator Perry Chen who crafted this labor of love to inspire his father during his long battle with cancer and to pay tribute to the life he led, beginning with his childhood in rural China. A story of grief, loss, perseverance, and enduring hope in the darkest times of our lives. The fundraiser includes access to exclusive scenes from this personal documentary feature "Journey of a Thousand Miles" and its companion short "Changyou's Journey" + Q&A with director/producer Dr. Zhu Shen and other prominent film panelists to raise awareness and funds for this groundbreaking project All funds will be used to fund production and post production activities like cinematography, editing, sound mixing, color correction, music, licensing, marketing, legal, and distribution costs. The program features a brief introduction by Director Zhu Shen, a short sample from "Journey of a Thousand Miles," followed by screening of "Changyou’s Journey"—the 2019 Oscar-qualified animated documentary short, written and directed by Zhu’s young son Perry Chen who became the youngest director with an Academy Award-qualified film while still in high school. The event ends with a dynamic Q&A featuring director/producer Zhu Shen and other prominent documentary filmmakers, entrepreneurs, and advisors, moderated by Gordon Skinner, executive producer of [Re]-Frame Media, LLC., who has produced and directed numerous feature films about the human experience in a myriad of genres. Streaming is available for a limited time only, so click here to watch. If you’d like to connect with Dr. Zhu Shen, you can find her on these platforms: LinkedIn | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter

As adoptees, we share our stories with each other and that is the burden. That is the work; the remembering, the rephrasing, the reflecting on things that should not be true on lives that could have been different. We reconstruct our stories, retell them to each other; and they seem less tragic, more bearable, because they have been borne. So, we know it can be done, has been done. Tragic, not a tragedy, a phrase that echoes in my mind each time I hear a new story. And as my Korean adoptee portrait participants are all still alive, we do not delve into the tragedy of suicide or death though those thoughts hang in the ether as they have whispered to some of us, much like the lotus eaters with seductive fruits promising emptiness and forgetfulness. "Butterfly dreams" is the latest drawing portrait in my "Seeds From the East: Korean Adoptee Portrait Project." The drawing is of Lisa Jackson, Han Jung Ja, and her Korean mother, Han Ok Hee. The adoption photo I referenced was likely taken circa 1966. Lisa was relinquished in 1968 and finally adopted in 1969 by a loving African American couple. As a Korean American mixed child, Lisa lived with her birth mother until the age of 5. In those five years, she was loved and cherished. In those five years, Han Ok Hee waited for the man who had spent 11 months with her and impregnated her. He would not return. In Korea, Han Ok Hee may have been ostracized for having a child with an African American soldier. That is not the catalyst for Lisa’s story. Lisa told me that according to the story, she had been so abused at school by the other students that she would often come home in tears. For that reason, and because of tensions within her own family, Lisa’s personal safety had been in jeopardy. Lisa’s birth mother believed she had no other choice. She dressed Lisa up and brought her to the orphanage. She also escorted her to the plane that would take her daughter to the United States. Han Ok Hee would wait her whole life for that daughter to return. She knew her name was on her daughter’s adoption file. Her daughter was also registered in her grandfather’s family registry even without a Korean father. She was desired. She was loved. At the age of 81, Lisa’s birth mother would succumb to Alzheimer’s. Han Ok Hee would regress mentally to the year she surrendered her daughter to the orphanage, 1968. Lisa would not see her adoption document with her birth mother’s name on it, until two years after Han Ok Hee had passed. Lisa unwittingly had the document in her possession. It was filed in her adoptive father’s boxes which she inherited after his passing, two years prior to Ok Hee’s passing. Lisa knows all this because she is “in reunion” with her birth family. In the adoptee community, this means an adoptee has found someone in their birth family and they are communicating. The level of communication and engagement for adoptees “in reunion” runs the gamut and it can come with a variety of complicated and new emotional hurdles and trauma for some. Lisa has been to Korea and met with her biological aunt and uncle. She also reunited with her birth father, an African American military man. She found him through DNA and connected with him, a multitude of siblings, and an extended family here in the U.S. In addition to her African American siblings, she has a half German sister and a half Vietnamese brother. Lisa is the eldest of six. I tell the breadth of Lisa’s story because what she knows of her mother so moved me. I was born in Korea in 1968, the same year that Lisa was in an orphanage. Though we were in different parts of the country, we were both in foster care through Holt and could have passed each other, though I was still a baby. The bravery, or foolishness, of Ok Hee to fall in love with an African American soldier is contrary to the general accusations of racism during the time. There would not have been these babies if everyone were willing to be segregated. She never married and never had any other children. As the story sometimes goes, some women marry and want to keep their past a secret. Some will not reunite with the children they relinquished, now adults, for fear of the repercussions in their current families and lives. I interpret Lisa’s birth mother’s refusal to build another family as a refusal to wholly relinquish her daughter. This feels tragically sad and beautiful to me. Han Ok Hee lived the rest of her life never knowing the beautiful woman, wife, mother, and grandmother her daughter had become. She would not ever learn of the tribe of 19 great-grandchildren she would have and the beautiful legacy her love had created. After my two-hour long interview with Lisa, I sat with her story for weeks. I avoided the portrait and then each drawing attempt eluded me, as if I did not truly want to know Han Ok Hee’s face, as she, too, belonged in the picture. Part of my drawing process is memorization. I draw the portrait until I know it from memory, intuitively. In conversations around adoption, often the spotlight shines on the new adoptive mother and her joy, her grace. With this project, I stand on the other side of the river reflecting on the loss of a birth mother, of a child. In truth, I too am the child, and the loss. I surprised myself after listening to Lisa’s story. Tracing the footprints of other adoptees’ stories makes me confront unexamined possibilities. The story I was told about my own adoption was that I had been dropped off at the orphanage, and my birth mother had died. I still had not quite forgiven my own birth mother. I understood the sacrifice, but the truth of her possible sorrow I had never allowed to be considered. I thought I had passed through that gate. I had not realized it was a circle. Hearing Lisa’s story woke me to forgiveness, a land far from understanding, and for that I am truly grateful. As I continue to interview adoptees and draw adoption portraits, my fortune grows with the new friends I am making and the lives I am witnessing. In any story the pieces can be made shiny and romantic, but for many adoptees, the day-to-day work of knowing, not knowing, of being, and accepting continues. I believe the sorrow, the love, and the work intertwined create beauty, not because they are tragic or romantic, but because these acts create and endure hope. It is this hope that has saved so many of us, and if shared, may save or bring peace to many more. In the spring of 2022, I will kick off my national tour of the "Seeds From the East: Korean Adoptee Portrait Exhibit," at the Phillip Jaisohn Memorial House in Media, PA. The meaningfulness of this Foundation in Korean American History is profound, and I am honored to be sharing the Korean adoptee experience in this of all places. Dr. Philip Jaisohn (Soh Jaipil) was the first Korean American immigrant to become a naturalized US citizen in 1890. He was an activist, revolutionary, and during his time living in Korea he printed the first Korean paper typed in Hangul called The Independent (Tongnip Sinmun). He settled in Media, PA, and worked in Philadelphia for 25 years as a surgeon, a medical researcher, and an activist. He was the first Korean American to receive a medical degree in the United States. He is credited with bringing together the first Korean American Congress in 1919 and establishing “21 Chapters of the League of Korean Friends all over the United States.” Dr. Philip Jaison’s spirit of activism and his belief in cultural freedom were welcomed by America back in 1890. It is a spirit still needed today. The exhibition will also be exhibited in Virginia at the Eleanor D. Wilson Museum at Hollins University from September 29th to December 10, 2022. With funding and support, the show and accompanying workshops on transracial adoptee issues will travel to Minnesota and Oregon in 2023. If you are interested in learning more about and supporting the project, click: Seeds From the East Touring Exhibition, or subscribe to A.D. Herzel’s Patreon. All funds will pay for the shipping, travel, framing, and cost of the portrait donations to the Adoptee Participants. You will get access to free swag, and first looks at the new portraits, Limited Edition prints, process, and stories. You can also join us at the #UniversalAsianVoices: Making Change-Seeds From the East- event Cover image: Drawing "Butterfly’s dreams" 20 x 24, A.D. Herzel Image: "Mother Ship" Ordering window opens Nov. 1 – Nov. 30

In March of 2021, eight people were killed in three Atlanta spa shootings. Six of these people were Asian women. In 2019, rapist Brock Turner’s victim revealed her identity as an Asian-American woman. From the overrepresentation of Asian women in violent porn categories, to the hyper sexualization of Asian female characters in movies; harmful stereotypes of Asian women have been around for generations. Many of us are still feeling the negative impact of them to this day. A global report on trafficking by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime found that Asian women are the most trafficked group worldwide. An organization called Stop AAPI Hate found that since the pandemic, Asian women reported hate crimes 2.2 times more than Asian men. So, why these alarming statistics? And, why is this false narrative of the Asian woman as an exotic temptress so dangerous? Because for so many of us Asian-American women, our very existence is reduced to a punchline. For Asian-American women, the experiences of racism and sexism are oftentimes inseparable. To grow up as an Asian-American woman is to experience a very sexualized form of marginalization that is rooted in misogyny, masked as complimentary Asian fetishization. Hollywood’s favorite way of placing Asian female characters on screen is to reduce them to the stereotypical exotic sex worker, the fierce dragon lady, or the forbidden lotus flower—an exotic fantasy for men to chase after. The constant in all these character depictions is the presence of sexuality. This portrayal of Asian women is echoed in movies, porn, literature, and even talk shows and comedies. In 1989, the musical "Miss Saigon" debuted, which attempted to portray life in Saigon during the Vietnam War. A synopsis of "Miss Saigon" online describes it as a “powerful tale of love” in a war-torn country between a Vietnamese orphan and an American GI hero. Underneath this romantically painted portrait however, exists a twisted distortion of the traumatic experience of Vietnamese people during the war, glamorized as a sexual fantasy. The overrepresentation of Vietnamese women as submissive and passive sex workers looking to be saved by the white American hero reinforces the objectification of Asian women and the entitled ownership over their bodies, even justifying violence against Asian women. This constant dehumanization of Asian women in media is a result of the long history of violence and inequality against Asian women in the United States, reinforced through larger institutions such as the U.S. military and the government. Dangerous stereotypes of Asian women can be dated back to the 19th century, where Asian women were seen as exotic conquered objects by American military officials and missionaries during their time in Asian countries. The 1875 Page Act, which was the first U.S. immigration law based on race, prevented East Asian women, predominantly Chinese women, from migrating over to the United States. The reasoning for this was rooted in the false narrative that Chinese women were all prostitutes who wished to come to the United States to marry American men. Laws such as this and The Chinese Exclusion Act were the blueprint for the anti-Asian sentiment that continues to exist in the United States to this day, and especially during the pandemic through phrases such as “kung flu” and “Chinese virus.” During the mid-20th century where various wars occurred between the United States and Asian countries, such as Vietnam and Korea, American soldiers experienced a version of these countries that was reduced to the sex industries surrounding military bases, or the service workers that were on base. This limited interaction with Asian women perpetuated the narrative that most Asian women existed as a service to men, either through their sexuality or their obedient hard work. These layers of stereotypes, such as the exotic sex worker and the obedient service worker, create a misogynistic view of Asian women that is birthed from toxic masculinity and male entitlement. The hard truth about “yellow fever” is that it isn’t a compliment, an advantage, and especially not a privilege. We need to continue to change this dangerous narrative by telling our stories as Asian-American women, by shutting down rude comments such as “me so horny,” and by continuing to advocate and raise awareness for our fellow sisters. For Suncha Kim, Hyun Jung Grant, Soon Chung Park, Yong Ae Yue, Xiaojie Tan, Daoyou Feng, and the many Asian women outside of the Atlanta spa shootings who have been victims of hate crimes. In May of this year, the Georgia district attorney stated that she will seek the death penalty and hate crime charges against the suspect of the shootings, Robert Aaron Long. This is a victory for Asian-American women everywhere, and a stark reminder that we aren’t your property, your “sex addiction,” your temptresses, or your model minority. We are human, and our experiences matter. Cover image: Jason Leung

She couldn’t put her finger on it. What was it? Could she have known that restlessness and a je ne sais quoi draw would lure her down this grunge-dressed rabbit’s hole? Don’t be tempted by the evil bunny who both teeters on the edge and dwells in den, cocooned, wrapped up, in utero. Oh, but maybe she plays anyway. She’s young, it’s fun—and this is LA! It was half past midnight in North Hollywood. Kristen Chien turned up 'Come as You Are' from Nirvana’s Nevermind. She pulled off her black and white lace choker necklace, undressed, threw on a flowy nightgown, and went downstairs to get some water. As she walked by a window, someone—or something—caught her eye and she let out a blood-curdling scream. When she moved, it moved, mocking her. Okay, so it turned out to be her own translucent reflection that appeared like an apparition in the darkness outside. Who could read twelve to fifteen horror screenplays a week and not feel a little on edge? When her friend, Ethan Hong, an actor, called her the next day about a CAPE party on the Columbia Pictures lot, she was like, “Yeah, let’s do it! I need to forge a new path.” “You don’t want to be a script reader anymore?” he asked. “I don’t know. I feel a need to explore and change things up a bit.“ “Let’s just go and meet some cool people!” said Ethan encouragingly. “Are you talkin’ men?” “Heck, yeah!” And they both chortled. The events put on by the Coalition of Asian Pacifics in Entertainment (CAPE) were always a blast. Kristen made her way through the crowds of hip, beautiful people—minglers who worked in 'the industry'—actors, producers, assistants and such. The Asian community in Hollywood is such a small world, she thought to herself. Kristen got herself a Midori sour from the bar and caught up with Ethan, her college pal who had graduated a year after her. Ethan had always made Kristin chuckle. His parents thought he was studying pre-med at Pepperdine, but he had actually transferred and was studying theater at UCLA. “So I assume you eventually told your parents about your major and all?” “Oh, Kristin, sweetheart. I had to come clean! My dad’s a pastor. They were gonna find out anyway. But we’re good now. I’m actually helping them make the coolest t-shirts for the youth summer camp.” Ethan laughed. “I think they always knew…” “That’s awesome, Ethan.” “Hey, girl, we gotta mix and mingle. We need jobs—and guys!” They laughed as they looked out at the busy room around them. A young man surrounded by a group of people caught Kristen’s eye. He was tall, slim built, and clad all in black—t-shirt, jeans, and steel-toed Doc Martens. “I wonder who that is,” commented Kristin. Even from a distance, this mysterious man gave off a laid back, silent type vibe—and oh, that subtle but noticeable mischievous smile. “Oof, what a hottie!” remarked Ethan, checking him out. Kristen tried to play it cool as she didn’t want the guy to see them gawking. Her heart skipped a beat. Something about him seemed almost devilishly alluring. Ethan stole another glimpse out of the corner of his eye. “What an enigma. Soo cute!” he remarked, trying hard not to stare. Hunter was totally bad-boy cute. In fact, in today’s terms you could say he was 'K-pop' cute. But this was the '90s. Kristen would later learn almost his entire wardrobe was black. Hunter chain smoked and listened endlessly to Kurt Cobain. He had vices. But Kristen didn’t know about any of that yet. “Ugh, but too straight for me,” said Ethan, dejected. “I can tell.” Hunter seemed to notice Ethan and Kristen. He looked over their way again. “Oh, those eyes!” gushed Ethan. “Like a dagger to my heart!” Ethan shot another glance at Hunter and then turned to Kristen; his face brightened, eyes wide open. “Oh, it looks like he’s coming over to talk to you!” He leaned into Kristen and whispered, “That’s my cue to skedaddle!” “Ethan!” squeaked Kristen, but Ethan had already left. Inside she was screaming, but she tried to remain calm. She tossed her long hair over her head and knocked over her drink. And then he was there right in front of her. “Whatcha doin’?” said the guy dressed in black, sporting a sly, boyish smile. Kristen looked up and was struck by his dark, silky eyes. Kristen nonchalantly turned her cup back upright and took a sip of what was left. “Huh?” she responded. It was as if a spell was being cast over her. Her mind was already mush. But then she remembered that this attractive human came over to talk to her, and she regained her confidence and composure. His name was Hunter Ro. He was twenty-four, like Kristen, and had studied filmmaking in college, like Kristen as well. Hunter was visiting from New York and was thinking about moving to LA as he was trying to get his latest film made. “You definitely should move here,” said Kristen trying to hide her expectant eyes. “LA is where it’s at.” Hunter flew back to the East Coast, but they stayed in touch and talked a few times on the phone. With student film and French film festival awards to his name, Kristen realized what a true talent he was. Hunter, in turn, encouraged Kristen not to quit her job, not to give up. By the end of the month, Hunter had left New York City and had moved into a place off of Melrose in West Hollywood. “Are ya gonna come over and visit me?” teased Hunter. “I can make you my famous hot dog fettuccine Alfredo.” How endearing and charming, Kristen mused. Her office was nearby and she agreed to stop over after work. “Uh, don’t be afraid of my roommate,” cautioned Hunter. “Why, what do you mean?” “Harley doesn’t have eyebrows. He’s cool, though,” he chuckled. “Um, okay,” said Kristen. “I won’t call him out on it.” Kristen was starving, but she tried not to eat too much. Hunter’s habits weren’t exactly healthy. Plus, all that sour cream. Dairy often caused Kristen to become dangerously bloated. After dinner, Hunter sat on the couch and they watched some films. Kristen was fascinated by Hunter’s avant garde storytelling style. His directorial skills were creative genius, an auteur in the making. Hunter even allowed her to read his script about a girl living in dystopian times. Kristen was in awe. Hunter sat down and played some Nirvana CDs. The smoke from his cigarettes churned and twisted like paisley snakes. Its wisps wound its way through the air, moved in lockstep to the moody, light and dark beats of 'Heart Shaped Box' and 'All Apologies'. Hunter quietly looked at Kristen. He smiled sheepishly and said, “You’re beautiful.” Kristen’s heart was pounding in her chest. Hunter leaned in and playfully pushed Kristen with his shoulder. “You’re too good for me,” he said. “Why do you say that?” “I’ll be nothin’ but trouble for ya.” “You don’t seem bad,” offered Kristen. Hunter paused and took a drag from his cigarette. Billowing clouds of smoke unfurled from his mouth like a dragon. “I once stole a little baby Jesus from the Catholic church. I stuffed it in my pocket and I never got caught.” He chuckled and glanced over at Kristen who sat next to him, clothed in a soft grunge, flower patterned, babydoll dress. Hunter took another drag. When the air cleared, he squinted his eyes and added, “I was a bad kid. I caused a lot of heartache. I’ll be no good for ya, Kristen.” But it was already too late. She could feel herself falling into his world of addictive, tragic emptiness. The seductive charms of this angst-ridden, talented soul had already taken hold of her. When he kissed her, she could feel herself drifting among the ethereal clouds he created with his magical Marlboro lights. Hunter was a brooding film artist, who had an aura about him a lot of people were attracted to. Kristen introduced him to her film school connections and contacts she had in the industry. He made friends easily and hung out while Kristen worked all the time. With his easy nature and X factor charms, he made even more friends. Next thing you knew, a well-known director was reading his script, and then he was partying with another famous director and an actress about to debut in a television show featuring her character. Kristen wondered what risqué things Hunter might be doing with these famous people. Hunter bought Kristen a candy pop ring and told her that he loved her. Kristen was enamored, but when she turned twenty-five, an uneasiness began to nag at her. She wasn’t really looking for a job—that had stalled—and as the months wore on, she wondered about her future with Hunter. He had joked that they were opposites, and she knew that it wasn’t totally untrue. She wondered what Hunter would be like at her extended family events back home in the Midwest. She envisioned Hunter at her grandmother’s home, around her baby niece, smoking cigarettes around the corner outside, being antisocial, just wanting to do his own thing. How was that going to work? One day, Hunter called Kristen and told her that he would be busy that Saturday night and not to be alarmed if he didn’t pick up. When Kristen asked why, he admitted that he was hosting a birthday party for his roommate, but he felt Kristen wouldn’t have fun if she came. Of course, Kristen was upset. “Why? Why wouldn’t I have fun? What’re you all doing?” “Stuff.” “What stuff?” demanded Kristen. “Just stuff.” Hunter wouldn’t say. Kristen called Ethan for moral support. “If you want me to go with you to crash that party, girlfriend, you just let me know!” said Ethan. “You know, that’s a great idea,” said Kristen. “You’re the best, Ethan. It’s time to pay these party people a surprise visit.” On Saturday, Ethan drove up to Kristen’s place in a brand new Polo Green Chevy Corvette convertible. “Sweet mother muscle car!” howled Kristen. “Took it from Daddy’s garage,” said Ethan beaming. “Nice ride, Pastor Hong,” said Kristen. “Only in LA!” She laughed. Ethan was wearing a white t-shirt that read in bold letters, 'AGAPE, Godly Love'. Kristen smiled. “And I love that t-shirt, Ethan!” “Thanks! We’ve got loads of these in the church basement,” explained Ethan showing off his shirt. “That shirt gives me strength for whatever we find over there.” “Well, let’s go!” exclaimed Ethan as he stepped on the accelerator causing their heads to fly back. And, off they raced to the party in West Hollywood! As they came up to the front door of Hunter’s apartment, Kristen could hear music playing and lots of people talking and laughing inside. They knocked and rang the door bell and waited. Finally, Hunter answered the door. He was surprised to see Ethan and Kristen. He told them to wait a minute and closed the door. What the heck was happening in there, Kristen wondered. Her heart was racing and her adrenalin was so high, she could taste the acid reflux in her mouth. After what seemed a good amount of time longer, the door reopened. Hunter looked Ethan up and down. “Who’s he?” he asked. “My friend, Ethan,” replied Kristen. “Nice shirt,” remarked Hunter. Kristen and Ethan walked in. A sweet, smoky smell permeated the air. Asian American Hollywood Gen-Xers were crammed into the two bedroom unit. Up ahead, Kristen saw there were people in Hunter’s bedroom as well. Hunter himself was standing in the doorway. He seemed to be trying to shield Kristen from something. Kristen pushed her way past him and went in. Ethan followed. “Hey, Kristen!” greeted Hunter’s roommate. Kristen was startled by Harley’s sudden appearance. His eyes looked a bit wild, framed by his hairless eyebrows and a goofy smile. “You want some tequila? We got plenty in the kitchen.” “You look red, Harley. Are you okay?” asked Kristen. And then she saw her. Standing behind Harley was a late middle–aged woman with long, frizzy hair. Hunter’s black leather jacket hung on the woman’s sagging frame. Kristen stared at the woman’s bare, leathery legs. The woman turned and revealed a big, wrinkled belly. She was naked! Kristen’s mouth dropped. She was stunned. She turned to Hunter. “I’m not cheating. She’s a stripper!” explained Hunter. He had hired her as a present for Harley’s birthday. Kristen gave Hunter a dirty look. “What?” he protested. “She’s all I could afford. You know how much the younger ones cost?” Kristen spat on Hunter and walked out of the room. “Shame on you!” scolded Ethan as Hunter wiped the spittle off his face. “You…you…adorable scoundrel. Geez, you’re cute.” “Ethan!” Kristen had re-entered the room. “Geez, uh, Jesus. You need Jesus!” said Ethan to Hunter. Hunter looked at Ethan. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere. You’re the pastor’s kid at the church in Diamond Bar, right?” “Small world—” giggled Ethan. “Ethan!” yelled Kristen. Ethan and Kristen hurried out of the apartment as Hunter yelled after them, “Jesus loves me too!” The next day, Kristen got a call from Hunter. He wanted to check up on her. “We need to talk,” said Kristen. Hunter agreed and Kristen made her way back to his apartment after work. Before Kristen could begin, Hunter sat down and said, “I have something to tell you, too.” “What is it?” demanded Kristen. Hunter looked down on the floor. Finally, he confessed, “Well, I kinda met this girl…and I kissed her.” Kristen stared at Hunter. “Are you kidding me? Who?” Hunter didn’t readily respond. “Who is she?” “She’s just a girl I met. I kept running into her at different film festivals in different cities around the world. We finally hung out at an Asian film event in Honolulu, the Hawaii International Film Festival. She’s a filmmaker.” “Well, so, what is it about her?” “I dunno. She’s a lot like me. It’s like she’s running and running. And if she stops, she’ll die.” Kristen was in shock, despondent. Hunter’s charming looks meant nothing to her at that moment. They both sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity as Hunter smoked cigarette after cigarette. Finally, Kristen said, “Perfect. You’re like two dramatic peas in a pod.” Kristen started to laugh, but suddenly felt sick to her stomach and had to focus on not barfing on that stinky, brown, shag carpet Hunter had tacked in, wall-to-wall, in his apartment. Kristen got up. “I have to go. Good luck with everything.” “I’m sorry, Kristen,” said Hunter. But Kristen was already out the door. For some reason, the tears didn’t come, but she felt queasy throughout the drive home and threw up on the desert plant near the steps outside her front door. Kristen went inside and cleaned up.  She told herself that Hunter was nothing but a sad rabbit in a beanie cap. How could she have been charmed by this trickster clad in poser anti-fashion? Kristen looked at the huge pile of scripts she still had to read for work. She wasn’t sure she could stomach any more horror stories. She had planned on finding a new job, but had taken a detour and was at the same place where she started. Kristen went to her PC and typed up a resignation letter. The next morning she turned it in. The warm afternoon sun was comforting. The sky was a hazy, baby blue. Kristen jumped into her Laguna Blue Mazda Miata convertible, made her way to the Pacific Coast Highway and slammed on the accelerator. The tears that streamed down her face were immediately dried by the arid winds, warmed by the distant fires that burned in the Santa Monica mountain range backdrop. The rolling, misty ocean waves cooed and hushed her quiet gasps. As miles of velvet asphalt stretched out before her, she began to feel a vibration in her feet. The sounds of rhythmic beats grew louder from her car body’s chest; it was New Order’s 'Blue Monday'. Soon a wash of colorful New Wave vibes energized her synthpop drive. The playful, tumbling bars of 'Bizarre Love Triangle', 'Blue Savannah', and 'West End Girls' surrounded her in a moving, open air club. The rush of melodies and uptempo beats cheered her on along the lush, scenic highway. Kristen didn’t know what she really wanted. She still felt dazed and confused. But at least she knew what she did not want. Kristen held onto the wheel, pressed on, and navigated the beautiful, winding road. The California sun kissed her and the invigorating coastal winds gave life to her hair. The high tech, futuristic sounds of Erasure’s 'Chains of Love' felt like a song announcing the promise of days to come. Kristen felt relief, and all at once a sense of hope and even excitement. She felt free. Cover image: David Mark

20/20 is usually recognized as perfect vision. I have astigmatism in my left eye, I will never have perfect vision; and so it goes with my past. I will never know why I was abandoned as a newborn, taken to a police station, and sent to a local orphanage near Seoul, South Korea. Yet, the year 2020 brought into focus and provided a little more clarity to my unknown past in a very unexpected way. All the world was panicked and hunkered down in 2020 because of the COVID-19 pandemic. Like many, I decided to try out some new recipes. Time to get out the dusty, rarely-used cookbooks from the old boxes in the garage. What I found instead, was a tattered cardboard box. In it was a manila file folder that held only three pieces of obscure information about my past: a concocted “Korean Family Registration,” a statement of release for immigration and overseas adoption, and a 1988 U.S. Congressional teletype transmission, which stated my abandonment at birth had brought me to my Korean orphanage, Yangju Childcare Center. Knowing the name of my orphanage was the key to telling my "Seoul Story." After looking at the file folder, I screamed: “Yangju Childcare Center! That’s the name of my orphanage!” I had long forgotten the name of my orphanage because I had been informed by Korean Social Services that Yangju Childcare Center had closed in the late 1970s and locating my biological parents would not be possible without the proper background information and necessary legal papers. Even if I went back to South Korea, what was there to look for, what would be found? Nothing. I didn’t speak Korean. I knew nothing about Korean culture. I gave up. Now that technology has changed at warp speed and any information needed is quite literally at our fingertips, I quickly ran back into the house and my husband and I Googled the name, “Yangju Childcare Center.” Lo and behold, a former U.S. Army soldier, CW2 Larne Gabriel, who had served with my non-biological dad in South Korea, 1969–1970, had created a website and dedicated it to its orphanage director, Kwak Sun Yong. I only have a few obscure memories of my time at the orphanage; my brain was too overwhelmed and couldn’t handle the overnight trauma of leaving all I had ever known to a whole new life of unknowns. While viewing the Yangju Childcare Center website, one year of my forgotten past was in front of me as I quickly scanned the pictures of the orphanage and its many innocent orphans with brown eyes and bowl haircuts staring back at me. They had a longing look, for food, for a family, for love? I don’t know, but I do know, I became emotional; streams of tears were flowing down my cheeks as I was viewing unseen pictures of me! I was one of those orphans…longing. Just a small moment in time was given to me, the rest, unseen, lost, and forgotten. Then and there, I decided to share and write a bilingual children’s book about my transnational, transracial adoption. I wrote "Seoul Story" for three reasons. Firstly, I always wanted to write my personal and unique story of adoption. It is an untold story that needs to be told; every Korean adoption is a single, solitary story that stands on its own, unparalleled, and incomparable. My vision for the book was to use the black and white photos I had come across; to tell an authentic story of how one orphan arrived in America. Once I am adopted, the story with its black and white photo album format transitions to color photos to infer a bright new beginning in America. Secondly, I wanted to dedicate my book to my adoptive dad. He was career military and enlisted in 1959 and retired in 1990. He served in multifarious positions throughout the world and the United States. As you can well imagine, he was extremely formal, regimented, and very evasive and ambiguous about his various jobs. In 1969, he was sent to South Korea as a Unit Executive Officer, Battalion Operations Officer, and Commander in the 7th Aviation Battalion. He did not go to Korea looking for a young orphan girl to adopt; but you know the story, as fate would have it… While protecting and maintaining South Korean democracy, my adoptive dad and his fellow soldiers chose to put their recreational down time, money, and hearts into helping the local Yangju Childcare Center where he inevitably crossed paths with a happy 4-year-old girl with a sunny disposition. He opened his heart and adopted me. Sadly, my adoptive dad passed away from COVID-19 on January 28, 2021. Thirdly, educating adults and children about a true, Korean adoption was important to me. My "Seoul Story" is unique and specific to my experience. Adult readers may be fascinated, how on its face, a seemingly simple children’s book has a multilayered, complex construct. Familiarity and understanding of the backdrop of Korean culture, the devastations of the Korean War and its aftermath, allows adult readers to navigate and impart the story to children in a more enlightened way. "Seoul Story" is not just a children’s picture book. It connects readers to a story that they otherwise may not have been exposed and present an opportunity for anyone to begin an open conversation about adoption, why are children adopted and what makes a family. Since finding my orphanage website, I have been able to connect, via Zoom, with several of my “first family” members from Yangju Childcare Center. We were at the orphanage in the same years. What an exhilarating experience! November is Adoption Awareness month. Help educate others by sharing your personal story of adoption using social media, reading about adoption, and donating time and money to organizations that support and value positive adoptions and celebrating your heritage. Susie Lawlor was adopted to an Army military family of five children and has lived in many states. She is one of four adoptees in her adoptive family. Lawlor is married and has two grown children. Currently, she is a substitute teacher, author of “Seoul Story” and a cat rescuer. She received her B.A. in Journalism. Lawlor is pursuing her MAE at Pepperdine University and is writing many more stories and books.

Once upon a time, there was a man who lived in a garden of the most vibrant colors. This garden overflows with flowers of every imaginable shape and blush, cascading as far as the eye can see. Pools of water hold dancing reflections. Bees and butterflies live happily alongside the hummingbirds. When I find myself in this magical place, created from the imagination of this brilliant man, I feel the most overwhelming sense of happiness. And so can all of you, just by visiting Jun Yang’s Instagram page. When I stumbled upon his page for the first time, I could have spent hours immersed in the visual serenity his pieces evoke. So, you can imagine my excitement of having the honor to chat with an artist whose work, personally, means so much to me. Like his paintings, his hair is bright and colorful when he appears on the screen in front of me. It’s dyed green and yellow. “Walking sunflower,” he tells me, smiling. He’s in his studio in San Francisco—the place Jun’s called home for the past 11 years. His journey to get here is one built out of desperation and loss. But, all I see when I look at him is his strength and perseverance. Jun was born in Seoul, South Korea and lived there most of his life. As he grew older, he remembers struggling as a queer man in Korea. He didn’t feel accepted and able to live authentically. The expectations to get married and start his own family, simply wasn’t the life he wanted for himself. As difficult as it was to have to sever his connection to his home country and everything he knew, staying wasn’t an option. He is simply too self-respecting to fake his way through the rest of his life. So, he fled to find a place he could belong. Jun explains that before he came to the United States, he’d tried living in several cities around Europe. But found it difficult to fit in with the language barrier. That’s when he decided to try again, someplace new, and that place was California. As a self-taught artist, Jun has used the influences of others as his muse to explore his craft by mimicking techniques and trying to create a painting that looks like something by Vincent Van Gogh or Claude Monet. Yet, his work, is always recognizable by his own unique touch. The many stages in his art exploration are clear when scrolling through his social media page or looking at his website. He also explains that his subject matter varies upon his environment and what surrounds him. When I ask him where he finds his inspiration for what he decides to paint, he replies: “I open my eyes and look around. There’s the mountains over here, the ocean over there, there’s everything. Everything is beautiful here. I go outside and see the flowers. So, I paint the flowers.” It’s not just beauty that inspires Jun, though. Many of his creative works represent bigger political, social, and environmental issues, such as paintings of the wildfires that consume California regularly; portraits of people of color, bringing awareness to the beauty of diversity; and so many in support of the Black Lives Matter movement. His incredible works unapologetically represent the queer perspective and have titles like "Love is Love." He has created breathtaking images of Harvey Milk and a memorial portrait of Ruth Bader Ginsburg; his passion has no end. I’m struck throughout our conversation by how much beauty Jun finds in the world every day. How his struggles haven’t dampened the wonder and joy he’s able to feel in life. And, it seems curious that he was able to find a way to share so much joy, through an outlet that was created out of necessity, from tragedy. When I ask Jun to tell me about what made him start painting, he tells me that it wasn’t until later in his life after he’d traveled back to Korea to be with his mother, who was dying of cancer. He explains that his struggles with mental health and depression became critical after she passed, and he became afraid for his own ability to continue in this life. That’s when he decided to start painting as a form of therapy. It was a way to expel some of the deep emotions of guilt and sorrow that weighed heavily on him. It’s amazing to think that art saved his life, and still is to this day. I appreciate Jun’s vulnerability he shows when telling me about his struggles with mental health. It’s courageous that he’s able to speak so openly, helping to normalize conversations surrounding the topic. These days, he isn’t afraid to express himself. Even his fashion sense is bursting with celebration of his unique identity. When I ask him to tell me a little bit about his personal style, he laughs before saying: “I’m Korean; Koreans always look good. Always dressed well; you can see Koreans in a crowd because they’ll always have the best style. And, I can wear whatever I want now because I’m my boss.” Throughout our conversation, I find my favorite trait about Jun is his charming sense of humor. When I ask him what his advice is for anyone trying to do what he’s doing and may not know where to start, his comical response is: “Just start making art. Make bad paintings so it makes my paintings look even better!” I urge everyone, who needs a bit of sunshine on their social media feeds, to go follow Jun Yang on Instagram and Facebook. I find my days have been brighter since discovering this vibrant, radiant, and very stylish Korean artist. His irresistible imagination will sweep you into his magical garden. And you’ll find that the real world is made more beautiful once you see it through his eyes. To Jun, for having the courage to create your own “happily ever after.” BIO: Jun Yang is an artist born and raised in Seoul, South Korea, but San Francisco has been his home for the past 11 years. The city inspires him and his art with its amazing cultural diversity, its celebrated urban landscape and natural beauty. He also enjoys the support and protection it provides him as a gay artist. Jun can be found on these platforms: Instagram @junyarts Website Tiktok @junyartsbyjun Twitter @junyartsjun Facebook

Have you ever had a screaming debate with your family about diversity? I don’t recommend you test drive it. It is a scorching hot topic that most people are nervous to talk about openly, and the complexity requires training, not explaining, until smoke is streaming from your ears. Still, a recent quarrel on racism that I experienced was an awakening because I had avoided rocking the boat on racial topics for a few decades. I finally admitted it was time to stop being withdrawn from the broader conversation because, after all, I am a former hillbilly raised by an Asian mom. The intense family dispute was in our backyard for the entire neighborhood to hear. I told my family that I would start writing articles on BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) topics, and when asked what that meant, the reply was, “You aren’t one of those.” I could not believe my ears. My husband impatiently shouted: “YES, she is! Her mom is Thai!” Then, the following comment revealed an interesting perspective, “But…you aren’t ashamed of your heritage.” I suddenly understood what happens to people who watch too much Fox News. I immediately explained that BIPOC people are not ashamed of their heritage; we are proud of our ancestors. From here, with my very white, redheaded husband courageously defending BIPOC people, we engaged in an hour and a half debate about the importance of diversity, whereas, usually, I entirely dodge these discussions. At one point, I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs with raging fury on how the workplace is not always a safe place to tell anyone about being discriminated against for gender or race. It is arduous to prove. Usually, we are damned if we do or damned if we don’t. I do not feel discouraged about my career life, but I don’t waste time dealing with this issue. Looking back, these limitations are often the main reason I change jobs. However, this family argument was my wake-up call; I had not been that infuriated in a long time and surprised myself for going that far. My mother was there and later scorned me for reaching that level of anger toward people I love and treasure. She was right. It was not the high road. On the bright side, we did give our neighbors the gift of education on race. I should email them the guided discussion questions! One part of me experiences white American camaraderie, and another part of me has emerged in Asian pride. So, do I focus my educational efforts to help non-BIPOC understand, or do I create content for fellow BIPOC to embrace our elevated level of acceptance? The answer is both; but I will not explain diversity issues to people who will never get it—if they don’t understand this by now, they will never get it. To convey the layered life I endured as a kid, being “In-Between” was a concept I titled my graduate thesis at Arizona State, examining mixed heritage, missing pieces, and our environments. For example, my paternal grandfather was a charming teddy bear of a man—a respected Baptist preacher in West Virginia. We would ride in his beat-up truck, singing silly songs for hours, and we howled with laughter. He created hours of mountain-living fun; we loved our Papaw. He had black hair like the color of coal with a big tummy like Santa Claus, and he wore suspenders over his white t-shirt and jeans. I adored him, and he loved me, but it was clear he was not fond of Asians. I remember sitting in his double-wide trailer listening to him refer to the Japanese as “Japs.” Pawpaw was in the Navy during WWII. He could not get past the overarching enemy and lumped all Asians together. I was never comfortable because of the obvious, and yet, I knew he relished our time together, and I loved him dearly. While growing up, my position at school was clear because I was not entirely white, but deep inside, I wondered where my place in our family was. Today, as a software sales professional, the tech world embraces our collective critical thinking around diversity, inclusion, and equality (DEI) to stay competitive in the marketplace. Yet, the remaining millions of BIPOC people share a displaced outlook on how we fit in. I don’t blame my grandfather for his view on people of color; I empathize with his inability to see people for who they are. Although he was a man who lived in a rural world, it had nothing to do with shaping his outlook on minorities. I have examined many individuals and considered their upbringing, current environment, social status, education, and more. A person’s ability to accept another person free from bias requires a humbling inner perception; one must admit how they genuinely do not know everything. As I came to terms with being selectively vocal, the startup world taught me to strategize user adoptions by the masses. Some would say each baby step is essential, but I know where and when to persist with family matters. Intense arguments are unnecessary when the people you are arguing with are possibly the kind who may never understand. Their lack of understanding is not my problem; it is theirs. Still, I am choosing to focus on a different approach, aiming to be scalable, as we say in tech. Taking that approach for an impactful DEI expansion, I have to consider time and effort; so, in short, arguing with family will not cut the mustard, plus it can be too damaging. It is a significant error to associate being BIPOC with victimhood because it will hold us back. It is our superpower. It is no longer our weakness. People in the mixed-race clan possess the ability to move among multiple worlds, which is an advantage. Moving forward, we must concentrate on how the magic of diversity enhances. The real journey begins with every one of us taking a long, hard look in the mirror to uncover our biases. Those fighting for equality have our battles with how we also perceive people, both racially and politically. My observation is that everyone is racist to varying degrees. With the discipline to expect the best while omitting to target white people as the only racists, we can advance the profound progress we crave. It is not “us against them.” That is a self-defeating position; we must aid in our greater understanding and run with these times as our chance to deepen our reach. We can identify occasional sour racial realities while making choices to reshape a modern world in real time. As a kid who grew up with a persistent mother who comes from a strong history of courageous trailblazers, self-pity is not an option. My Thai ancestors created a prominent city and have statues and shrines to honor their significant contributions. My family has an ingrained practice of looking at what we want and staying the course until the finish line. Diversity has earned a spot on center stage, and this is astonishingly positive. In general, America expects inclusion, and as my grandfather would roar like Appalachian thunder when he was happy, “AMEN!” Many come together to represent misunderstood and underrepresented populations. Our work relies on more storytelling, awareness of our perceptions, forgiveness, and adaptation. Stories are the highway to the heart and enable us to touch our humanity. People who want to understand the depths of inclusion will move upward. The willingness to empower diversity indicates that either you are a part of the journey or you are not. Beginning with myself is the most complex challenge, because who wants to admit they have racist tendencies? The meaning has evolved to an ugly accusation, when it is more effective to be self-aware of how we make decisions about other people, what we say, and how we treat one another. To see a person beyond their given stereotypes is to live in each minute of your life with attentiveness. Many call it “living in the present” and “being mindful.” I call it “opulent living.” My chosen conversations about race are with people embracing our fresh, fashionable reality. There is no disdain for those who do not get it; think of it like eating at a buffet—select whatever food you want and meet me back at our table to break bread. I’ll enjoy my stir-fry while you dig into your brisket, because this vision exists and is available to savor.