Age 1 “Ba-ba-ba-baaa-ba-ba…” “No, bunny, say ma-ma-mmmma. Mama. Mama.” Age 3 “When I’m big, I want to be an artist.” “No, muffin, that’s not a job.” Age 5 “When I grow up, I want to work at a check-out.” “No, sweetie, that’s a job for dumb people.” Age 7 “When I grow up, I want to be a mail carrier.” “No, dear, you hate walking!” Age 9 “When I grow up, I want to be a librarian.” “No, honey, librarians have no personality.” Age 11 “When I’m older, I want to be a nurse.” “No, you couldn’t handle blood!” Age 13 “When I’m older, I want to be a marine biologist.” “But you’ve never even been to the ocean!” Age 15 “When I’m older, I want to be a doctor.” “But math and science aren’t your thing!” Age 17 “When I go to college, I want to study art history.” “But that’s such a waste of money!” Age 19 “When I finish this year, I want to study abroad.” “But that’s such a waste of time!” Age 21 “When I finish college, I want to work for the—” “But you need to go to grad school!” Age 23 “Graduation is May 15 at 11 a.m.” “But it’s too far to drive.” Age 25 “I’m enjoying my independence.” “But you need to settle down.” Age 27 “I met someone—he’s brilliant.” “But your cousin said he’s an atheist.” Age 29 “We’re moving across the country.” “But that’s so far from me!” Age 31 “Your first grandchild.” “Beautiful—maybe she’ll be the success I’d always hoped you’d be.” Erika is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

In the Savannah Quiet and silent Stalking their prey Out in the jungle In the sun all day All of the creatures They play hide and seek Looking for food Looking to eat Preying and lurking They hide in tall grass Their strategies working As the long hours pass Poems Sometimes I rhyme Sometimes I do not Taking my time I am what you sought I tell you emotions There’s no right or wrong In form of a poem Or form of a song Write what is fun Everything you desire Let creation flow Let your thoughts take you higher Lauren is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

Seasons Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall Every season, I do recall A moment in which I was filled with cheer At least once per season, every year Challenges rose and hard time came I treated my life just like a game Summer is too hot, then leaves start to die Never once did I ask why Winter is frigid and Spring bring rain Now my life is filled with pain I hope one day on a summer’s noon I’m lucky to feel like a Spring flower’s bloom Education I do what I am able But the system is not stable I teach you what they want I am sorry if I’m blunt The school system is broken At 6am you’re woken To learn something you won’t use Instead of learning virtues I know it’s knowledge you desire But I grow very tired This material isn’t needed The Man is so conceited Let’s teach about life skills And how to pay our bills Instead you know quadratic And they just say we’re over dramatic What I’ve Learned I’ve done a lot of reading I’ve done a little writing I’m not gonna stop until we can stop fighting People against one another Race against race We’re all the same people sharing the same space I can’t imagine the life that you’ve lived The struggle that you’ve faced But you can’t let all that experience go to waste I’m done being silent I’m done being kind If I hear another slur I’m gonna lose my damn mind I am a person and that is that You don’t need to know where I’m from because you know where I’m at I live next you You see me everyday But you treat me different because I’m a different race I’m the same as you and you’re the same as me Difference is the way we view ”liberty” Stand with me in the fight for our lives I don’t care if you’re Asian, Black, or White We need to come together and show them what we’ve got You may think we’re small, but we can change a lot. Lauren is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

The biological imperative is a force that all organisms abide. From a single-celled organism to the largest plant, animal, or virus, all have one purpose; to procreate. As an artist, a woman, and a mother, I have tracked the course of this imperative as it has played out in every stage of my life. From my birth mother’s surrender, my importation, my American and religious education, my education as an Asian woman in American society, my marriage to a white man, the birth of my sons and the subsequent issue of raising them in the American south. The seed of procreation remains constant. The procreation of religion, social ideas, and political structures were all well-aligned like a cattle shoot for my life. A western colonial war and subsequent military industrialization facilitated the circumstances of my birth mother’s choices, or lack thereof. The Christian missionary machine fostered me and ferried me into the arms of another seemingly Christian home in a white suburban society. Some people search for purpose or are told there is a plan for their life. The plan for my life was clear in the beginning; I was to be a descendant of my adopted mother’s dreams, her culture, and her version of the great white-American kingdom of God. It sounds uncouth to say it that way, the sarcasm tinges too bitter, but how else will you taste all the flavors of the American pie? It is a very romantic hook to say, God has a purpose for you, and He does. You can follow him, if you want. He does have a plan for you but let us be clear it is his plan. My earliest memories, perhaps my Korean ones spoken in my head with a language I no longer recognize told me my “adoption” was a mistake. But the plan was in motion, and I was a child on the wave of history much larger than myself; and so I was offered to the God. In the Roman canon, the one I was raised in, women are likened to flowers, nature’s reproductive organ. At times, she is revered and worshiped like Aphrodite, but more often among the mortals she is desired, conquered, raped, scorned, metamorphosed, and then at times used in death as Medusa was. There may be construed some sense of justice. Medusa’s head did prevent the death of another woman, the princess (i.e. a woman) was saved. But upon closer examination the saving of a princess through the death and dismemberment of another is a less discussed narrative in polite society. In all honesty, Perseus could have asked Medusa if she would kill the monster herself, but he was given poor advice from the three cursed witches. Too many tropes to unpack there. Let us simply say when one inserts a male protagonist, things often don’t logically or happily unfold for women who are not princesses. Fiction and myth, as lovely as they are, offer us poetry so we mortals can bear all in life that is not. In the Korean cosmology women are also identified with flowers. There is a tradition of paper flowers, Jihwa created for rituals. The “sinmyeongkkot (spirit flower) or muhwa (shamanic flower), are considered sacred,” and used as ornamental offerings. There are large imaginary flowers believed to frighten off ghosts and other ornamental flowers created to invite one’s ancestors. As a universal symbol of femininity, desire, and reproduction I draw flowers on the golden silhouettes of my adoptees. The flowers inspired by the desires of their adoptee mothers, ornament the shadows of their “adopted” daughters. Are they idols, reliquary figures, fertility offerings or just golden dreams, dreams of gold? For five years, I was infertile, and my work reflected the counting of days, red and white. I also created drawings of large ornaments. I imagined my reproductive organs had become just that, useless ornamental designs. After miscarrying, my husband and I did two things. We took a trip to his hometown in Buffalo, NY, and on a lark, we crossed the border to Ontario and visited the Temple of the Ten Thousand Buddhas Sarira Stupa. In the temple, I stood in front of the golden buddha and said one prayer. After our trip, we both got tattoos. I chose the flower of White Tara—the goddess of consolation—and he chose a rendering of an octopus by E. Haeckel. Soon after, without hormones or interventions and perhaps kickstarted by my previous miscarriage, my body opened like a flower and we conceived our first son Maxim; my truth. Sinmyeongkkot—my spirit flowers, I have named each of these children as I know they have become, or as I have read in their expressions and their postures. Each one is not just a single flower, but rather a garden of Eden. A.D. Herzel is an Asian-American artist and writer who has shared her work nationally and internationally. You may learn more about her and her work by following her on social media and visiting her website. Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/pseudopompou FB: https://www.facebook.com/PseudoPompous Website: https://www.pseudopompous.com Medium: https://medium.com/@pseudopompous

Stray Kitten Fur as soft as a goose down bed Button nose and small round head Catching mice and playing round Then at night they sleep so sound Walk all over you when trying to work Opening food and see their ears perk Once a stranger and now a friend I’ll take care of you until the end Beautiful koi Watch as they grow The magnificent koi fish swims to and fro Down in the shallows, down below These wonderful fish have nowhere to go Never once do they complain As they swim in the rain Nothing to let go, nothing to gain Beautiful koi They swim round and round Sit next to their pond Get lost in the sound Lauren is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

For decades, Asian Americans have been referred to as the “model minority” because we’ve seemingly achieved the American dream by working hard and keeping our heads down. While some may view the term as harmless—positive, even—it actually has many negative consequences that hurt our selves, our children, and other communities of color. The Truth Behind the “Model Minority” The term “model minority” first appeared in 1966 in a New York Times Magazine article by sociologist William Pettersen. In "Success Story, Japanese-American Style," Pettersen praised Japanese Americans for overcoming war-time oppression and poverty to attain an integrated, middle-class status in only two decades. This, he claimed, was achievable because Japanese Americans were a hard-working, law-abiding, respectful, morally sound group; they were like white people and perfect models for American success. However, Pettersen’s praise, given in the height of the Civil Rights Movement, was pointedly duplicitous. It implied that African Americans had only themselves to blame for continued poverty, discrimination, low achievement, and lack of opportunity: the “if they can do it, why can’t you” brand of ignorance. So in this way, the white establishment separated Asians from Blacks, hailing the former as perfect examples of self-made success, and dismissing the latter as both inept and indolent. Since then, many ethnic and national groups have been looped into the “model minority” circle with Japanese Americans, and white institutions still use all of them as a tool of oppression. They continue to blame African Americans themselves, not systemic racism, for persistent gaps in opportunity and achievement. In just 2017, Andrew Sullivan wrote for New York Magazine: “Asian-Americans, like Jews, are indeed a problem for the ‘social-justice’ brigade. I mean, how on earth have both ethnic groups done so well in such a profoundly racist society? It couldn’t possibly be that they maintained solid two-parent family structures, had social networks that looked after one another, placed enormous emphasis on education and hard work, and thereby turned false, negative stereotypes into true, positive ones, could it?” I don’t know—maybe I shouldn’t feel so shocked. Pitting minorities against one another in order to downplay (or ignore) systemic racism is a well-worn strategy. What isn’t commonly discussed, however, is just how much damage the “model minority” label does to Asian Americans themselves. The Asian Diaspora in America When people hear the term “Asian Americans,” they tend to think of East Asians; therefore, “model minority” is typically applied to people of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean origins. Over the last few decades, Indians have also “earned” model minority status. A Pew Research analysis of US Census data from 1970 to 2016 shows that Indians—as well as Filipinos, Sri Lankans, and Japanese—tend to attain degrees and earn income well above national averages. So, if we have data that supports the model minority ideal, what’s the problem? Well, the Asian American community is extremely diverse. Asian Americans originate from 20-plus different countries throughout the East Asian, South Asian, Southeast Asian, and Central Asian regions. The “model minority” label magnifies the experiences of just a few groups while rendering the others invisible—others who struggle to obtain things like education and employment, as well as respect and understanding in their American communities. Glaring Disparities: Not All Asians are Crazy Rich The same Pew analysis I mentioned above went on to show glaring disparities among Asian Americans. There are many groups—particularly the Hmong, Bhutanese, Burmese, Nepalese, Bangladeshi, and Mongolians—with higher-than-average numbers of households living below the poverty line. These groups are less likely to complete higher education or training and subsequently hold skilled employment. They originate from poorer countries and are more likely to face language barriers. Many come to the US through refugee or other resettlement programs, not as students, H1-B workers or other people with sought-after skills. The way in which different Asians start their lives as Americans is not equitable. The “model minority” label magnifies the success of a few and generalizes those experiences across the Asian diaspora. Meanwhile, the stories of our most vulnerable stand largely unknown or ignored. The label hurts in other ways too. It promotes the idea that the US is a meritocratic society. It perpetuates the myth that those who “fail to achieve” have done so because they simply made poor choices, didn’t work hard enough, or refused to adopt the norms of the dominant (i.e., white) culture. It unfairly poses the “they’ve done it, why can’t you” question to even more people who exist outside of a system that wasn’t created for them. A Backhanded Compliment The “model minority” label certainly hurts disadvantaged Asians, but it also hurts those to whom the label is applied. To be a “model minority,” we are asked to assume a white identity, yet no matter how acculturated we become, we’re still the “forever foreigner.” “Model minority” hurts our children. It perpetuates the stereotype that Asian students are both bright and studious with two parents who actively foster educational achievement. This ideal masks the social realities of Asian students who do not fit that construct. As such, many Asian children and teens are overlooked when educators are identifying students who could benefit from additional support, whether it’s subject-specific, English language, or psychological and emotional support. The worst consequence of being a “model minority” is that we are expected to be silent. “Model minorities” don’t create waves. We don’t call out injustice, we don’t demand more—and we don’t speak up for the brothers and sisters who don’t share our privilege. In this way, “model minority” is the perfect tool of oppression. Not only does it aim to keep us separate from other people of color, but it also keeps us divided among ourselves. Conclusion The model minority stereotype may seem harmless or even complimentary, but it’s problematic in so many ways. It promotes false realities, ignores institutional racism and other systemic barriers to success, and minimizes the experiences of many other Asian Americans. “Model minority” takes the experiences of a select few (who had certain privileges to begin with) and generalizes them across 20-plus nationalities and ethnicities, as if race is the only thing that determines success. “Model minority” isn’t an honor; it’s an oppressive tool with damaging consequences. For more information, please see the articles that are linked throughout this piece, as well as the following academic article: Impacts of the Model Minority Myth on Asian American Individuals and Families: Social Justice and Critical Race Feminist Perspectives by Kristy Y. Shih, Tzu Fen Chang, and Szu Yu Chen. See also Other People’s Success: Impact of the Model Minority Myth on Underachieving Asian Students in North America by Guofang Li.

Here I am standing in the big living room in the house I grew up in. My mother used to put cheap Christmas decorations on every inch possible. It was always warm, unorganized, and beautiful. I have depicted myself dressed in an imaginary hanbok, with colors and patterns from the Swedish national dress, specifically those from the northern area where I was raised (Västerbotten). In the cute and romantic Christmas postcards that were sent every year to family and friends, I saw small Santas, horse sleighs, and blonde kids playing in the snow. I put myself in this postcard. I’ve always been here. I have just never been a postcard. Merry Christmas from Cecilia Hei Mee, Stockholm, Sweden

The Korean Nationality Act Article 12 states: “Any national of the Republic of Korea who falls under one of the following subparagraphs shall lose his or her nationality (1948-presently Art. 15)" 2. A person who has been adopted by an alien and has acquired the parent’s nationality… — Korean Nationality Act Article 12 I was adopted in 1984 from South Korea, and according to this Nationality Act, I should have lost my Korean nationality when I was naturalized as an American citizen on December 5, 1989 through my adoptive parents in the USA. As a result of my paternity suit that I won in June 2020, I have gained the right to be legally recognized as my biological Korean father’s daughter and put on his family register. However, in processing this registration as a foreign citizen, I found out that my Korean nationality was never expunged. Furthermore, since I’m not interested at this moment in becoming a Korean citizen, I had to prove that I was indeed naturalized so that Holt could expunge my Korean nationality. I’m apparently still a Korean national, which means this process was never followed up on after my adoption was finalized with Holt back in 1984. If it had been, you could also conclude that there wouldn’t be a single adoptee from South Korea out there without citizenship in their adoptive country. If government institutions had mandated that adoption agencies expunge every finalized adoptees’ Korean nationality, then they would have had to confirm that the process of naturalization was completed by sending a naturalization certificate to their adoption agency, just as I recently did. However, once we were adopted out the final checks were not in place and that is the reason why there are an estimated 26,000 Korean adoptees currently without citizenship in the U.S. alone. Furthermore I recently learned via a lecture given by Professor Kyung-eun Lee (Ph.D. in law) hosted by KoRoot in Seoul (a non-profit organization that fights for Korean adoptees’ legal rights to origin while also hosting visiting adoptees in their guesthouse), that when adoption started in Korea (1955) after the Korean War it was actually illegal to relinquish your child. So, in order to combat local law and follow international requirements for adoption, they circumvented them by creating “abandoned” children. Even if a family member physically relinquished their child to an adoption agency, they would fabricate a story to comply with local laws and international standards. Hence, the reason why so many of us were “found on the doorsteps of…” or “in a parking lot,” “at a train station,” etc. If a child was labeled as “abandoned,” then a new family register was created in order to easily process the paperwork for adoption. I’ve encountered so many adoptees who, post-reunion, have found out that even though their paperwork from their adoption agency states that they were “found”; in actuality their parents, grandparents, aunts or uncles, etc had actually physically relinquished them at the adoption agency. One of the two recent cases where I’ve had the privilege of helping find the adoptee for their birth families matched this exact story. A year ago, one of my good Korean friends after hearing my story, had reached out about how her mother had been searching for four years for her sister who had been adopted back in 1973 at 3 years of age. Four years ago, my friend’s mom had found her half-sister when the adoptee had come searching for her birth family. Sadly, after meeting, the family found out that she was actually the half-sister instead of the biological sister they had been searching for. The backstory is that my friend’s grandfather had two wives. Apparently, in Korea in the '70s/early '80s it wasn’t unheard of to have what Korean’s call a “big house wife” and a “little house wife,” or in other terms a first and second wife. When they found themselves in financial difficulties, each wife gave up their youngest daughter (3 years old) for adoption. The mothers physically went to Korean Social Services (KSS), an adoption agency in Seoul, and put their daughters up for adoption. Sadly, when the adoptee had returned searching for her family, her mother (second wife), had already passed away and my friend’s mom realized that it was her half-sister due to a burn mark on her stomach. What this means is that KSS had mistakenly switched their files during the adoption process and had labeled both of them as being “abandoned.” After the meeting, my friend’s mom kept returning to KSS asking them to find the other sister, but their response was always “we emailed them but have not received a response.” Last year, when we met I introduced them to the possibility of DNA testing and they took a test I gave them through 325KAMRA (a non-profit whose aim is reuniting families through DNA) in the hopes that they would find her this way. Unfortunately, there weren’t any matches. When I was in Korea for my trial in June, I met her mother for lunch, as she wanted to meet her daughter’s friend, but came also with the hopes that I could help her find her sister. She brought pictures that she carried around with her everyday, and shared that her sister was adopted through KSS in Korea and LSS (Lutheran Social Services) in the States to Minnesota. She shed heartfelt tears during the lunch expressing her sadness due to her age and how long she had been searching without any success. I promised at this lunch to do what I could. After returning home, I reached out to Minnesota adoptee groups and posted on Facebook groups asking with the adoptee’s details if anyone was my friend’s aunt. I also reached out to LSS via email (posing as my friend’s mother during all correspondence) and phone but initially, there wasn’t a response from either outlet. Surprisingly, after two weeks, I received an email from LSS willing to help me if I verified through KSS in Korea all the information I had shared in the email with this social worker. After KSS did this, they started searching and within one month they found her. It took another two months for her to respond after sending a few emails in between and the last one with urgency, detailing the rapid health decline of her birth mother. The adoptee never realized her family could possibly be searching for her as her file said she was “abandoned on a street corner,” and needed time to process this all with her family. However, after receiving this urgent notification, the adoptee responded directly to my friend and four months later adoptee, mother, and sister/family have been reunited virtually, and she is currently quarantining in Korea waiting to meet her mother and family in person. Four months…. The second case is with a birth mom who had been searching for three years. She had been spreading her search quest via social media and asking any person she met to help find her daughter. A friend of hers reached out to me after I had participated in an adoptee discussion panel regarding my lawsuit shortly after I returned from Korea in June. She requested my help, as the U.S. adoption agency where her daughter was adopted through was coincidentally the same as mine—Bethany Christian Services in Michigan. I followed the same steps as I did with LSS, sending emails posing as the birth mother begging for them to do their utmost to search for her, and within three months her daughter was found and has received the letter her birth mom wrote her. The adoptee had no idea that her birth mom was or could be searching for her, and is quite shocked by it all. She needs time to respond, so the birth mother is anxiously waiting. Three months…. Why is the search process so difficult? Even for birth families? Why isn’t there a sense of urgency or empathy from agencies and government institutions in the importance of this to adoptees and first families? Father: No Record Mother: No Record Need for protection: Abandoned Child When/If an adoptee gains access to their file from their adoptive parents or adoption agency, seeing these words above, immediately has a discouraging effect on an adoptee’s inkling to search for their birth family. When strangers ask us as we get older, “Don’t you want to find your birth family?” they cannot possibly comprehend how weighted a question like that is, when we constantly hold “abandoned” in the back of our minds. Since Korea used “abandoned” as a legal way to bypass local laws to accommodate international laws, it created for us adoptees a lie that we carry with us our entire lives. Just as it was unknown to my friend’s aunt and most likely the other adoptee that they were never “abandoned,” it was also probably the reason why they never searched themselves for their birth families. It was the reason why I never searched for my birth family until four years ago. I believed fully in the “lie” used by the Korean government and agencies to cover up relinquishments, that I was “abandoned”; and therefore, could never find my birth family even if I had any urge to do so. However, with the development of DNA testing the whole ball game has changed. Access to DNA has pushed a door wide open that government institutions and adoption agencies could never have imagined. Adoptees are finding out the truth behind their “abandonment,” and in the majority of cases we are finding that we were never abandoned. Governments need to take responsibility for their creation of these lies, and one step in doing so is to give adoptees their legal right to origin, opening up records completely, and allowing direct contact between birth families and adoptees. Only then, can there ever be forgiveness and peace found in the trauma of inter-country adoption that was founded on a lie. During the 2012 Paris gathering of Korean adoptees, Le Monde (a French newspaper) did a special feature about this gathering and sums up a portion of this struggle quite accurately: “The Problem, it’s not having been adopted, but having been abandoned.” There are certain cases of adoption that were what some may consider out of necessity, but the fact that the government allowed us to be legally registered as being “abandoned” allotted for the continuous turmoil many of us who search for our identities later in life face. As a result of this label, the search is painful, defeating, tiresome, degrading, and many of us give up. To the Korean government I would say: “I urge you to give us our legal right to origin, restore justice for us who were never ‘abandoned’ and want to know who our families are.” To fellow adoptees I say: “I urge you to never give up and fight for your right to know!”

Looking around and you’re all different from me. “You look like your Mom, you got your dad’s teeth.” My parents are white, but I’m not the same. Feel so alone and I feel so ashamed. I got love, friends, and a roof over my head. I should be grateful and happy, but simply instead, I feel left out, there’s no one like me! Too Asian for the whites but still not Asian enough, Hold back these emotions though, I need to be tough. Words of affirmation but lacking affiliation, I don’t know who I am. Damn. “You’re cute for an Asian dude or go back to where you’re from,” Backhanded comments beat me like a drum. Racist faces behind welcoming eyes, Ignorance is bliss but it shouldn’t be a disguise. Come on, guys. I took this stuff and I just shoved it to the side, Kept pressing on, because there’s nowhere to hide. I reflect. I’m blessed. I grew up better than the rest, I digress, “Hey! You better do good on that math test! Asians are smart, you guys are good in school.” Maybe I wanted to be “less Asian,” and be more “cool.” You see the problem here? You see what’s lacking? Culture and education simply ain’t happening. But that isn’t the point folks, that’s not what these words are for, I write these things down to open the door, to love and acceptance, and a welcoming presence. Times are crazy right now, the world is askew, But maybe, just maybe guys, this is our cue. To be better than before and to rise above hate, And maybe, just maybe guys, we really can be great. To that little boy or girl that faces that opposition, rise above it and be strong, you’ll end up better than the competition. Learn to accept you’re different and to love your background. You’ll find yourself, your identity, and remove all doubt. You. are. you, not because of where you’re from, or where you ended up, To all my people out there you. are. you. That’s where it ends. And that is enough. Looking around and you’re all different from me. That’s just fine, I love who I am, where I came from, and now I’m free. Jacob Soltysiak loves to spend time with his beautiful family, play baseball, and help be a voice to all adoptees that have felt or still feel as I do. He has been inspired and will continue to work on interesting ways to help express what so many others feel.

On a dreary, rainy day ten years ago, I begged my grandmother to teach me her recipe for dumplings. It’s a dumpling I was most familiar with at home, rarely spying it at even San Francisco’s sprawl of dim sum shops and restaurants. The closest I could find was at one Clement Street hole-in-the-wall. The fried pockets reliably waited on the second shelf closest to the door—an aluminum tray next to the wispy taro-shrimp dumplings, but above the mountain of potstickers and rolling fields of dried shrimp cheung fun. My grandmother’s iteration was steamed, with a translucent, chewy skin, but the savory, salty fillings were otherwise similar. This occasion felt momentous since my grandmother stopped cooking after her Alzheimer’s diagnosis and after the death of my grandfather. My grandmother’s memory, at that point, had already rapidly begun slipping away. My grandmother collected the bits and pieces of ingredients in neat rows on the cutting board. Seeing how little my grandmother grasped of each ingredient was a reminder that she could manifest something so wonderful out of the smallest things; like the time at a banquet meal she folded an entire fried flounder into a rigid takeout box and I was convinced that she was secretly a magician. Like so many Depression-era immigrants, she found a way to get by on so little, and wasted nothing. As my grandmother seasoned the filling for the dumplings, I couldn’t pinpoint how then, but I knew by smell that it was familiar. When the raw filling mixture sizzled in the hot oil of the wok, she dabbed in oyster sauce and tossed the mixture around. She passed me a spoon to taste the cooked filling. It was just like I remembered. My grandmother then dumped wheat starch and boiled water into a mixing bowl for the dumpling wrappers. She didn’t really measure, she just felt when it was right. She had a skill I only dreamed I could have—that knowledge of feel after cooking something undoubtedly dozens, if not hundreds, of times. After approving the texture of the dough, my grandmother proceeded to form the dumplings—each dough ball pressed to a flat round with a tortilla press, a few teaspoons of meat slapped into the center, then crimped with the precision of three folds to seal the pockets of filling. Her hands—with nearly 90 years of life whipping through the folds—just did. Alzheimer’s Disease is a thief that decides whether my grandmother remembers if she had porridge for breakfast or if she went for a walk already. She had undoubtedly prepared these dumplings hundreds of times. For what she couldn’t remember in the present, her body could remember in the past. Since that initial lesson ten years ago, I’ve only attempted the dumplings a handful of times. I would make the filling but avoid the dough. I even avoided the dough long after finishing culinary school and working in professional kitchens, for fear that my abilities would never match my grandmother’s. The bag of the wheat starch I stowed away for a rainy day trial and error activity got long forgotten in the pantry. Often, I would instead rely on that one dim sum shop to satiate my craving for these particular dumplings. A theme I have returned to during this shelter-in-place is: just start. Propelled by a newfound bravery, I decided to try my hand at the dumpling dough one day. With my kitchen scale handy, I dumped a cup of wheat starch in a mixing bowl, and added boiled water until it felt like the dough was coming together. Forming the dumplings, I could tell something wasn’t quite right about the dough. But I pressed on, fumbling my fingers through some awkward pleats. As I clumsily formed and sealed these dumplings, I ached to visit my grandmother. I recognized how 80 years ago this month she first arrived in the United States. Immigration was less about courage and bravery than it was an imperative of survival. I sighed about the challenges my family has grappled with her inevitable declining health, especially with the silent sadness of her Alzheimer’s Disease. So much of my reluctance to make these dumplings meant conjuring a memory of who she was prior to her lesson with me, prior to her disease. I longed to perform even a fraction of my grandmother’s muscle memory. She defied all trust and reliance I had on proper measurements and weights and precision, the tangibles I claimed were holding me back. I raged against the constant pursuit of perfection, especially for Asian-Americans under the thumb of the model minority construct. I realized how that pressure—even on an otherwise therapeutic task like making dumplings—was in fact its own sort of sabotage. This notion that I should intuitively cook based on heritage and cultural assumption was fatal. In all honesty, the only thing I needed to do was just start. No, the dumplings weren’t Instagram-perfect, but they tasted just fine. Diann Leo-Omine was born and raised in San Francisco (Ohlone land). She now resides in the North Central Valley (Nisenan land), between the expanse of ocean but before the ascent of mountains. Her writing is influenced by her experiences on the trails and professional kitchens. Follow more of her musings on Substack and Instagram.

The Field She has such a way with words Everything just rolls off the tongue She sits outside in a field of grass So bold, so beautiful, so young Everyday is just the same She sits alone in field of green What to draw or what to write She needs to let her mind take flight Back outside to the field of dreams A boy her age, only seventeen They sit and share ideas of their own She has found a new friend with whom to share her home Social Media A picture is a memory A moment for anyone to see It’s for likes, and follows, reposts Make it nice, pleasing, aesthetically Social media now has complete control It clouds our minds, our judgement, and soul When in time will this horrific reign of terror end To save ourselves, our families, as well as our friends There’s no end and this nightmare is what we’ve become But this could be good, we could spread joy, peace, and love Maybe this way, somehow, if all came together and join as one Lauren is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here. Cover photo credit: Thought Catalog

New York, New York Walking down the crowded streets The rush of the people, the city beats All around the people chatter All around, construction clatter. New York, I love you With your beauty and lights Despite all your sins and secrets at night Broadway classics and new shows about Singing and dancing and laughing aloud Never does the city sleep Not for student, nor actor, yet they all follow dreams A Book A book. What is a book? When in school, it’s a nuisance. When not, it’s a treasure When compared to reality, it comes as a pleasure Little thin pages making a pile The hundreds of pages, well worth the while It takes you to a far off land That only you create, only you can understand The fantasy place is yours in your mind Until the book ends, where your land gets lost in time But a well written story is never truly gone The sequel is here, and it is a new dawn Raindrops One on my hand, one on my face Curiously, I gaze towards outer space People rush, hurry into shops Avoid getting hit by all the raindrops A little spritz,a little rain A little downpour, a little game Down a window two raindrops flow “Mine will win!” She shouts “Maybe so” Soon enough the rain near stops All that’s left are little raindrops Lauren Kofalt is her adopted name, but she’s taken back her birth name of Zhu Ling Jin as of the past few months. She was adopted from China at age one and is currently in the United States. Zhu Ling Jin has been writing poetry since she was little and has always had a passion for it. She is currently attending Penn State University and is happy to share her poetry with our Universal Asian community!

The best action we can take to honor Breonna Taylor is to vote. The best action we can take to honor George Floyd, and so many other murdered Black lives, is to vote. To the person who removed the “Black” from the “lives matter” and “Defund the” from the “police” etchings on the local tree: How do we have a discussion on systemic racism if you wordlessly eliminate the parts of the equation that matter? At least, we can agree on love. But mere “love” will never bring Breonna Taylor back. Justice has not been served. Diann Leo-Omine was born and raised in San Francisco (Ohlone land). She now resides in the North Central Valley (Nisenan land), between the expanse of ocean but before the ascent of mountains. Her writing is influenced by her experiences on the trails and professional kitchens. Follow more of her musings on Substack and Instagram.

Most adoptees, at least in my experience, are adopted into Christian homes. I put an emphasis on this as “Christian” is interpreted in many different ways depending on the religion one follows and how deeply-rooted the parents are in their beliefs. I was raised in and adopted to the U.S. Midwest­—Michigan to be more precise. My father worked and my mother was a stay-at-home wife, as many were in the generation and region I was raised in. I was raised Baptist, and we went to the local Baptist church close to our home. Our social circles outside of school were primarily, if not exclusively, related to our church. I became a Christian when I was 13 years old. Before this period, I went through the motions of what my family seemed to approve of, but never made the decisive decision myself until the brink of my teenage years. God became a symbol of someone who would never abandon me, loved me no matter who I was, and was a source of joy founded not in the moment, but deep within myself. With this kind of foundation, my life as a teenager and young adult were filled with certainty. I didn’t question God or my faith, as I knew who God was to me, and that was all that was important. Because of my faith, I was able to focus on always moving forward and the bright future that was laid out before me. I was a relatively smart student, and was very focused on my studies as I always had a desire to accomplish more than what my small town of Plainwell, Michigan seemed to offer. I knew that the world was bigger than the world I was living in, and that there were more adventures to be had. In my mind, the only way to pursue these things was to get a high-paying job that would then afford me the opportunities to travel and see what was out there. I remained strong in my faith and never questioned who God was in my life. I knew He rescued me from far worse, as I was often told this, and any inkling of curiosity regarding my birth mother was stifled quite quickly with the realization that the past was the past, and I had only the future to look forward to. Being an adoptee wasn’t relevant to who I was at this point, and being a transracial adoptee was even more irrelevant. I was Kara Bedell, an American. I didn’t see color, and continued chasing after the dream of becoming anything I wanted to be as long as I worked hard to achieve it. This is the dream that is promised to every immigrant that overcomes the hurdles of entering the USA, as it’s what continues to make America so special in the eyes of the outside world. My university years didn’t differ from my high school ones in regards to who I surrounded myself with in relation to race or like-minded individuals. I never sought out diversity as many adoptees do at university, as it didn’t occur to me that I was ethnically different as well. I truly saw myself as Caucasian as those I hung out with, and never diverged from that path. I majored in business, as I thought this would offer me the most access to the outside world, and would allow me to make the most money. I minored in Japanese, but not because I wanted to know more about Asia–as you the reader may be thinking. Instead, it was based on practical reasons. I come from Michigan where the auto industry is prevalent, and so I foresaw more opportunity to work for General Motors, or even Toyota, if I could be bilingual. However, being bilingual is no small feat, and with only a minor at university, I wasn’t adept enough even though my ambitious mind had thought two years was a realistic goal. Upon graduating with honors, I managed, even during a recession, to immediately land my first job with Nestle. My career had begun. Thoughts of my adoption and who my birth mother was never crossed my mind. I could only think of whom I might marry, which was the next phase in the rat race of society. Fast-forward to today… I’m almost 39 (at least I think so, my date of birth is still unknown). I have had a successful career in pharmaceuticals, am the founder and owner of a business. I travel the world. I’m happily married with two children, and live in Amsterdam, Netherlands. A lot of the dreams of my youth have been fulfilled. I’m still a Christian, and have a relationship with God. However, I no longer view myself as part of the white racial majority and recognize what it means to be a transracial adoptee. I know I’m American, but I’m also Korean. Those questions that were stifled and never given the room to be asked, I’m now asking: “Who is my mother?” “Why was I put up for adoption?” “What does it mean to be Korean?” “How do I assimilate these new identities of now being Korean but not really Korean, being Dutch but not really Dutch, and being American but also not feeling very American after having lived more than 10 years outside of America?” I’m confronting my past, and no longer believe that God desires us to leave the past there. How God fits into my adoption story has been a difficult journey that I’m still struggling with. Just as with many social injustices around the world, religion has been the banner flown to rally people to act in the most hideous ways. Think of the Holy Wars, the countless wars between Protestants and Catholics in Europe, domestic and international terrorist attacks done in the name of religion and continuous conflicts with radical Islamists, and adoption. “What? How can adoption be on the same list as wars and terrorist attacks?” Being confronted with this truth makes many people uncomfortable, as adoption has been neatly packaged and sold under the slick marketing skills that: “Poor impoverished children are being saved, and without the West’s help, these poor children would meet far worse ends.” This notion then becomes a duty or even a “calling in the name of God to rescue these children.” However, as more and more adoptees are coming forward with the blatant truth and evidence of falsified records, illegal adoptions, baby farms, stolen children, lost children, embryo farms, and the list goes on...shouldn’t we question this quest that has been countlessly sold as being God’s work? Shouldn’t those of us who identify as Christians take a more proactive approach in protecting these children, single mothers, and families from being torn apart? Shouldn’t we, as a society, call on governments to prosecute and change this malfunctioning process of adoption if it’s creating so much corruption? Magdalene laundries were designed by the Catholic Church and the Irish state to hide away the delinquents and people who didn’t conform to the identity of being Irish at the time. Many of these delinquents were “fallen women”—those who had children out of wedlock. The mothers were then kept on to “work” as slave labor at these laundries as penitence for their sinful behavior; some for the rest of their adult lives. The UN Committee on the Rights of the Child filed an inquiry after a mass grave of children was found in 1993 on the grounds of a former convent in Dublin. Even after this atrocity was discovered, it took another 20 years before the Prime Minister finally apologized; therefore, taking responsibility and admitting to Ireland’s dark past. Many victims are still awaiting compensation for the crimes committed against them. It’s estimated that around 2,000 children were illegally adopted to the U.S. during some of these years. How many more children in Ireland under the banner of the Catholic Church were killed, stolen, and sold during these 70-odd years without censorship? How many lives continue to be affected by the lies and loss of identity? And this is only in one country…. Shortly after the trial, my father kept asking me if I found my peace by fighting for this injustice so publicly. He does not approve of my methods, and thought it should have been handled behind closed doors or with the use of a private detective. One should note that the use of private detectives is illegal in Korea, and if I could have done any of this behind closed doors it would have been done. “Peace,” by definition in a social sense, usually means a lack of conflict and freedom from violence between individuals or groups. My answer to my father, and to anyone who asks this question, is “No” because there isn’t a lack of violence happening between my biological family and myself. There isn’t a lack of violence happening to the millions of adoptees out there without access to their files, families, and identities. Violence isn’t always physical; although, initially, for adoptees, it was since we were torn away from our first families and all links were severed. Even if our first families consensually chose to physically give us up for adoption, emotional violence occurred in that trauma that allowed these events to happen. Emotional violence continues to occur around the globe. It singles out unwed mothers, poverty-stricken population groups, and disaster-torn countries where children are labeled as abandoned even though they may be accidentally separated due to natural or man-made disasters such as war. As stated by the United Nations in the Convention on the Rights of the Child Article 8: 1. States Parties undertake to respect the right of the child to preserve his or her identity, including nationality, name and family relations as recognized by law without unlawful interference. 2. Where a child is illegally deprived of some or all of the elements of his or her identity, States Parties shall provide appropriate assistance and protection, with a view to re-establishing speedily his or her identity. Until legal rights to preserve identity are restored to adoptees, and State Parties take responsibility, and provide appropriate assistance and protection to adoptees, this peace can, and will, never be achieved. Christians will argue that if you just give your burdens or troubles to God then He will give you peace. My father argues this. I argue that God is a demander of justice, and that peace is not attained in this simple way. The justice of God is an essential part of His character, and in the Bible, Micah 6:8 confirms this: “He has told you, O man; what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” Peace is attained by not only giving your trauma or pain to God, but also doing justice; and in my case pursuing restorative justice for adoptees in giving us the right to know and reach out to our birth families, if desired, and the right to know our origins. Recent events in American politics with the nomination of Amy Coney Barrett to the U.S. Supreme Court has once again brought racism, along with adoption, under heavy public criticism. The right wing is praising the choice, and in their minds Democrats and Liberals don’t have a leg to stand on as she’s a woman who has two black Haitian children in her family; thereby, "proving” her not to be racist. However, the left is firing back by questioning the legality of her adopted Haitian children and the idea that just because she has children of color doesn’t mean she isn’t a racist. I do not know her, and feel that any person’s story is personal and their own. I recognize that there will always be criticism as a public figure in the media, and I am not interested in criticizing her personal choices. However, I do want to criticize the general public’s thought-process. As a transracial adoptee, I would say: “Yes, adoptive parents can definitely be racist even if they have children of color; just as any person can be racist if they don’t actively educate themselves not to be.” She may have educated herself and proactively encouraging her adopted Haitian children to get to know their roots and culture, and may be making these things easily accessible to them, so that they can maintain their Haitian identities as much as possible in the States. Or, just as I was not seen as a person of color in my family, her children may be being raised in a similar manner. When I was adopted in the 1980s, my parents were told to “raise me as an American, and forget about Korea.” I don’t fault them for their incognizance, which was due to the advice given by adoption agencies and social workers at that time. I’m an embodiment of this “advice.” However, later in life recognizing that I lost my Korean identity, just as the majority of adoptees have, has changed my skin color and my reflection in the mirror. I now see a person of color, and I do not despise the almond shape of my eyes, the color of my skin and hair, or want to be anything other than Korean. I am Korean, I am American, and I am now Dutch. These are my nationalities, but I choose to see color, and appreciate it in all of its beauty. Just as my lawsuit was representative of “a girl looking for her mother,” adoptees search journeys are “lost children looking for their lost identities.” Can governments and institutions get beyond the red tape and see this as well? Just as a beautiful lotus flower grows in muddy water but rises above to pristinely bloom above the water without being tainted by the mud, I hope we, as humankind, also rise above the muck of ignorance and become more enlightened to the truth of color and justice. But, until then, I will continue to “do justice” and see color. I hope that you will join me.

Too broken to be fixed Too loved to stop fighting Too tired to keep struggling Too dark to feel the green warmth of pulsating peace Too determined to give up Too hurt to feel pain Too many demons bound restless Too loose the threads that bind them Too insidious the flame dancing Too crowded the violent calls Too angry the scars Too fresh the open wounds with crimson cackles mocking Too dangerous to be ignored Too familiar with chaos Too volatile for testing Too contagious to continue even in quarantine Too confused to be lost Too many disappointments to be hopeful Too fast the seconds Too turbulent the heartbeat that only knows forward Too telling the lies Too fitting the masks To ever be naked To ever be Brian Krebs is a Korean American adoptee living in Manhattan. If the way we spend our moments reflects who we are, he is a lover, entrepreneur, poet, reader, sleeper, activist, eater, and traveler. He’s also spent significant time as a student, drop out, inmate, mental health patient, and mental health advocate. If you missed Brian’s previous poem "Walls," check it out here! Cover photo credit: Noah Silliman