The Universal Asian got to know Helenna Santos: actor, writer, and producer. Her poetry book “A Long Dark Summer” is available for purchase. See her website for details! Tell us about yourself. Where are you from/where did you grow up? Well, I was born in California, and my mom is from the Vancouver, British Columbia area, so I had dual citizenship from when I was really young. My dad is from the Philippines, so we actually lived in Singapore and the Philippines before he ended up immigrating to Canada when I was 5. I was in Canada from 5 to 26-ish; then I moved down to L.A. for 10 years. I’m back up here in Vancouver now, working and living. I’ve been a little bit all over the place, but I’m grateful that I had such a varied experience and life as an artist. The thing about Vancouver is that it’s stunningly beautiful five to six months out of the year, and then the other six is torrential downpour. I always tell people: if you’re going to visit Vancouver, you want to see her as beautiful as she is, but if you want to move there you should probably go in the fall so you understand the reality of what it’s like here half the year. It shocks a lot of people. When did you start acting? Like, earnestly? Probably when I did the BFA—I got my Bachelor of Fine Arts in college; graduated in 2004. Before that I’d done musical theater shows and plays in school, but not a lot of it. I was actually a jazz singer, and I was planning on doing that for my life. I had scholarships to go to places, but I actually decided to stay closer to home, which I’m glad I did, because deciding I was really bored just doing jazz music theory all the time is kind of what propelled me into finding acting and everything that goes along with that. With the creative endeavor of being an actor, you can be a writer and a director and a producer, and all of the other things. It’s a fully collaborative art form that I don’t think I would have found if I had just stayed in the track to be a jazz singer. Do you have a preferred genre in film or TV? I love so many different things for so many reasons. I really love episodic television in general, whether that’s a limited series or a long-running network show. There’s just something about, as an actor, being on set in something that has this life that goes on for years and years and years, in some cases. It’s just really exciting to be a part of. I do really enjoy the CW network shows; some people find them cheesy or whatever, but I really love acting in that kind of stuff because there’s always a little bit of comedy you can throw in there, but the stakes are really high. There’s a lot of room to play with stuff. I also love independent film. I’ve produced two indie features and I’ve done a lot of indie films, and I love that for completely different reasons. That’s the fun part about being an actor; you get to play in all of these different worlds, whether that’s a world you helped create or somebody else’s world. It’s kind of the best thing, truly. Who is your dream director to work with and why? Oh my gosh, so many. Okay, if I had to choose one director right now, it might have to be Karyn Kusama. She did Girlfight (2000), Jennifer’s Body (2009), Æon Flux (2005), and then she did The Invitation (2015), which is an amazing indie horror film. I really love her work, and I feel like she doesn’t get recognized enough for how absolutely incredible she is. Her work is great; her sensibility is amazing. She kind of floats between genres a little bit, in a way that a CW show kind of does. She does really hard-hitting drama, but then Jennifer’s Body (2009) is this really subversive, cool movie that got slammed when it came out, but it’s got so many levels in there that, since it became a cult favorite, people are now starting to discover. I feel like it’s time for her to really get recognized, and it would be such an honor to work with her and learn from her. There’s so many people, but she’s top of my list right now for sure. What advice do you have for aspiring actors? Ooh. Hours of advice. When I started out, there wasn’t really much in the way of guidance. I mean, the Internet was just starting to be a thing. I graduated in 2004 so Facebook hadn’t even started yet, there was no Instagram, no Twitter, podcasts didn’t exist, and YouTube wasn’t a thing. Now with so much at our fingertips, it’s imperative for anyone interested in being involved in the industry to educate yourself on what that really means. You can be an actor who does community theater or you can do your own short films—you can go about it that way and really enjoy your life and have fun and be an artist that way, but if you want to make it a business and you want that to be your career, it’s a whole different thing. I would say one of the best places to start off is just listening to podcasts. There’re so many podcasts now that are amazing resources for actors, that can help you dip your toe into the world and see if that’s what you want to spend time and energy and training on, or if you want to have it be a hobby, which is completely fine. Being an artist in any form can be a hard road, but if it’s something inside you that you have to do, it’s a calling. For most of us that stay in this business a really long time, it’s not an easy “do it or don’t do it.” It’s like, we have to do it and figure out a way to make that work, whether it’s a hobby or a career. What do you want to see in the future of AAPI representation on screen? More, more, and always more. I was actually watching a Hollywood Reporter roundtable the other day that had the comedic actresses of this year, and there was zero AAPI representation. We think it’s getting better, and it is getting better, but in these tiny, incremental steps. It’s not enough. But, the great thing is that one of my favorite shows, Kung Fu (2021), is an accurate picture of people living their lives. Yes, it’s about her (the lead character) background and stuff, but the people in it, they’re just humans living life. It doesn’t have to be a show about specific heritages and things; it can just be humans. Why can’t the lead in whatever thing—you know that whole thing #StarringJohnCho, it was shocking to me when I did see those posters because I was like, woah that is weird to see him in those lead roles. Why is that weird? Oh yeah, we haven’t seen any of that. I haven’t seen any of that. Part of the reason why I started producing work is because I didn’t see anybody who looked like me. Why can’t this other character, who is white, in a show just be a POC or mixed-race actor instead? The CW and Freeform do a really good job with that. I think that because those are networks that are skewed to slightly younger viewers, it’s expected. Everyone knows the world is changing and growing, and that representation is different and needs to be important. So it’s kind of a non-issue, whereas, some of the longer standing studios and networks, it’s a little harder to break down their ideas because they’re still run by very powerful, older white men. It’ll take some time, but we just need to keep championing each other’s voices. You recently published “A Long Dark Summer.” How did that come to life? For so many years I had written poetry as a hobby, and one of my things was that I always wanted to publish a book of poetry one day. At the top of the pandemic, I really wanted to put it all together and figure out a way to do that in a narrative form that would make sense for all the different pieces—and there was a whole lot of new stuff I was working on. I just wanted to do it because I love writing poems and telling stories in that way. So I put together what I call a pseudo-memoir, because it is loosely based on my experience as a biracial woman, growing up where I grew up, and my experience in Hollywood. It takes the reader through 1993 to now, 2021, and it has an overarching narrator that you go on a journey with. It’s got a dark tone, but it also has a lot of nice bite to it, and some humor. It’s very indicative of who I am; I always say that my Filipino side and my Russian-German side are at odds with each other. There’s this bright Filipino and then there’s this brooding Russian. It’s kind of like, if you want to get to know who I am, just read this book. It’ll tell you exactly what kind of person I am and what I am as an artist. “A Long Dark Summer” Cover photo: Bjoern Kommerell

The Universal Asian got to know Danny Cho, an engaging stand-up comic currently based in Korea. See his TEDx Talk here! You can also find him on Instagram. Tell us about your background. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. I grew up in a predominantly Latino neighborhood, where I was the only Asian family there. So, up until the end of middle school, I was part of the minority. Then in high school—my parents basically said, you need to go to a better high school because you’re not going to have a better future if you go to a high school in this area—so I went to a high school in the suburbs of South Pasadena. I went on to UCLA, and graduated with an international economics major and an accounting minor. So, that’s kind of my educational background. When I was a kid, there was this comedy series called "Deaf Comedy Jam." It was on HBO, and the kids would illegally record it and share the tapes around. Back then, "Deaf Comedy Jam" was a huge thing. A lot of stars broke out of there, like Chris Tucker, Dave Chappelle, Bernie Mac. It was all the Black comics, actually. I didn’t even know this was a thing. Like, people do this for a living. People make money doing this. I think for me, growing up in East L.A., there was a juxtaposition of being the only Asian kid in a predominantly Latino neighborhood. I learned the Pledge of Allegiance in Spanish, which doesn’t make sense, but they taught it. During recess, kids would do “Yo’ Mama” jokes, and we would basically just trash each other’s mothers. I think that was kind of the gym for me in terms of learning how to be funny or mean, or both, really. How did you get into stand-up comedy? Basically, the summer between high school and college, my friends dared me to do stand-up comedy. Even after I graduated and got a job at a consulting firm, I was doing stand-up part-time. I would leave the office, go to the comedy club, tell jokes, then come back to the office and finish work. I did that for three years. Then I decided—well, not just me—there were a handful of people who convinced me to quit my job to pursue stand-up comedy full-time. Number one was a comedian named Bobby Lee. Bobby Lee goes, “Hey, I need someone fat and weird looking on set tomorrow.” So instead of getting angry, I said, “What time do you need me there, buddy?” So, I get on set, and in between takes, he’s like, “Hey, man, do you have an agent?” He goes, “There’s two types of people that get famous on TV. Really good looking people and fucking mutants. And you, my friend, look like a mutant. You’re weird looking and you look like a human thumb.” On the spot, he calls an agent. He goes, “Hey, there’s this kid. He’s hilarious. He looks weird, he’s perfect.” And, the next day, I go to the agent’s office. No headshot, no resume, nothing. They signed me right on the spot. I quit my stable, high-paying salary job to become a person who tells dirty jokes. But, the high you get from performing in front of a live audience, them giving you that energy, you’re chasing that high. You know what I mean? It’s like a high that you’re going to continue to chase. I feel like I’m fully addicted to that feeling. How would you describe your sense of humor? I’m an asshole. I’m a jerk on stage, really. You know what I mean? I’m pretty filthy on stage. I’m pretty blue. So that’s also culturally shocking to be like, why is he talking about that on stage? In English, I’m not that dirty anymore, but in Korean, I just do it just to show it’s possible that there is this type of stand-up too. In the beginning, there’s going to be a lot of pushback because people are not familiar with it. But, the idea of stand-up doesn’t always have to be political. It doesn’t always have to be smart. It doesn’t always have to be dirty. There’s a variety of styles and genres of stand-up. So, it’s just me wanting to show people that it can work. And, it’s been working so far. How do you deal with tough crowds? In the beginning, if there were a hundred people in the audience, I wanted all of them to like me. But, as you do it for a long time, you realize that’s impossible. That’s just life. All I can do is be myself if I bomb. I’m not going to try too hard to not bomb. There’s a comedian, Patrice O’Neal who died many years ago, and one of his philosophies was, “I’m not going to die alone. We’re all going to die together in this experience.” He makes bombing worse so that everyone feels uncomfortable. There’s something admirable about that philosophy. I try to do that now and again, especially in Korea, where dirty jokes aren’t always everybody’s cup of tea. Once I venture into that, I can see people pull back, and sometimes I’ll attack them. I’ll be like, how do you think you got here? Like, do you think some magical bird dropped you off at your parents’ doorstep? The way you got here is because of what I’m talking about right now. Personally, stand-up is kind of like omakase. You eat what I make. If you can’t eat it, don’t eat it. How does Korean comedy differ from American comedy? In Korea, the concept of comedy, it’s usually more slapstick-y. I wouldn’t even say SNL, I would say more high school talent show improv. I personally don’t think it’s any good. I think most consumers in Korea go, oh, that’s what comedy is. There’s a lot of props, a lot of makeup, costume changes, things like that. I think that’s the number one thing people probably don’t get [about American comedy]. They’re like, “Wait, so let me get this straight. All you have is a microphone. You’re not going to get dressed, you’re not going to put on makeup or a funny wig. You’re just going to talk?” I’m like, “yeah, that’s what that is.” But, I think because a lot of people watch Netflix here and stuff like that, the sound of comedy exists, and they know that it exists. Even on YouTube, there’s a lot of people that subtitle stand-up comedy bits. What advice do you have for up-and-coming comedians? Don’t do it. It’s hard. It just sucks. I would not consider myself an actor by any means, but I’ve been in a bunch of commercials, I’ve been in movies and sitcoms and whatever, and it’s a rough business. My only advice is: you better really want it, because if not, all the hardships are going to really kick your ass. It’s going to kick your ass if you don’t love it—and even if you love it. People will say, for example, “Oh, my god, that’s like one day of work and you make $30,000. That’s amazing.” That’s not including how many auditions you failed, you know what I mean? That’s not including all that other stuff, the callbacks, all that stuff. So to me, the entertainment business as a whole is filled with so many talented people, you know? Nothing in this world is a meritocracy. Just because you think you’re good doesn’t mean that you deserve it. That’s something that I had to learn the hard way. That’s what I would tell aspiring entertainers:  you’re going to get your ass kicked a lot in this business. Also, I would say be you. You know what I mean? Draw some lines, stuff that you wouldn’t do. Don’t do it just to get famous. Don’t do any of this just to get famous. Do it because you love it. It has to be love. If it’s just to get famous, then get the fuck out of here. What would you tell your younger self? Don’t drink like that. I would tell my younger self: it’s kind of like being at the DMV or a deli line that’s fucked up. Your number is eventually going to be called. It’s just a matter of when. It’s a matter of "are you willing to stick it out till your number is called?" There’s no order. It’s like 1 and then 350, and so you go, wait what about me? I’m 10. I thought I was nine people back. But no. There are people who get their break early and there are people, like Morgan Freeman, who didn’t get his big break until he was in his late 50s. I would say "don’t give up" or those types of things. And, yes, I believe it. If you love it, stick with it. Oh, one more thing. Younger self—read some more books.

The Universal Asian got to know Mao Sun, an actor and producer. He has appeared in a variety of short films as well as network television, including the Netflix series “The Stranded.” As a producer, he works with Satellite Films, a company that creates content for a diverse clientele, from biotech to The CW network. “I was born in Springfield, raised in Northampton,” began Mao Sun. The L.A.-based actor grew up in Western Massachusetts, a progressive area. “It was a very liberal town,” he recalled, “but I was always the only Asian kid.” During his childhood, his close relationship with his family was a balm and a blessing. “I was crazy quiet growing up,” he said. “In being quiet, I didn’t really have to explain as much about my culture as opposed to if I did talk.” However, his inner performer found ways to shine through, despite his outward shyness. “I always kind of acted as a kid,” Sun described. “I did historical renditions and stuff like that, and I really, really liked it. In sixth grade, I was a big fan of my reading and English classes—and even my music classes. I got to express myself. I didn’t really get to do that at home.” Still, it wasn’t until after college that Sun seriously considered committing to acting as a career. “I didn’t really think anything of it,” he said. “But then the next day, I said screw it, I’m going to take an acting class. The first scene I did was from "Scent of a Woman" with Al Pacino. We did the scene, and I felt so good whether I acted well or not. It [was] just so liberating. I’[d] never done this before—cried or showed imaginary anxiety in front of a bunch of strangers. And I [thought]: this is what I want to do.” “It’s a form of therapy,” he continued. “It’s stepping into somebody else’s shoes and thinking from an outside perspective, altering a state of mind in order to see why certain steps within a script or character are legitimate. And to have that perspective has really opened my eyes to just general life as well.” It wasn’t an easy decision, by any means. Sun left behind a job in advertising, a job he’d been at for over two years. “When I was working in advertising, it was great because I knew my trajectory in five years,” he said. “I knew [it would be] junior account manager to account manager to senior account manager. That [would] take three to four years.” Unfortunately, most actors do not have the luxury of stability or certainty. “I can’t make plans a month in advance,” said Sun. “[I don't have] a schedule or financial comfort at all. People don’t want to admit it, [but] it’s still a very objective industry. The product is yourself, and so you’re kind of selling yourself, which sucks. That’s the business of show business. There’s a facade you have to put on in order to appease people. It’s skill-based to a certain extent.” The harsh reality of show business is something that all actors must come to terms with at one point or another, and what sets the truly dedicated actors apart is the ability to push forward despite the overwhelming hurdles in their path. “Don’t do it unless you absolutely want it,” Sun advised, “because it’s not worth it unless it’s what wakes you up in the morning, unless it’s what truly makes you happy, [unless] you can’t see yourself doing anything else. Don’t you dare get in this industry because you see all these actors and everything on TV, [because] that’s literally five percent of people. Even though I got a few co-star roles, that’s not equivalent to getting a job at Google and being able to get a job anywhere else. Do it only if, deep down, you know this is what you’re meant to do.” Aside from actual politics, the entertainment industry could arguably be called the second most political industry in the U.S. The ongoing debates about authenticity, diversity, and so on have no end in sight, and neither should they. Our understanding of culture and identity is ever-changing, ever-growing to fit the society and people we are today, tomorrow, the day after. “I want to be able to bend the stereotypes,” said Sun, when asked about remembrance, “push a way forward for myself, my family, and hopefully the culture. I don’t want Asians to be in movies for being able to fight—which is fun and everything—but it’s such a stereotype. I [want] people to know that I’m American. I just want to be American. I want to pave the way in 50 years for Asians not just to be Asian, but to be fully American. This is what Americans look like.” “I don’t think all art should be political,” he went on to explain. “If it’s forcefully political, then it’s not really fun to watch. You’re kind of just putting more gas in the fire. It’s not funny. I think art itself doesn’t need to have an agenda. I think it could. It’s art. It doesn’t have a criteria of what it should be. Art doesn’t need to have a purpose, so you can make art however you want it. I think if you’re political in art, then go for it. But make sure you go all the way with it, make sure it’s true to your heart and that you’re not just going with a trend. As long as art comes from who you really are, then that’s all that matters. “Just appreciate who you are and who you’re surrounded by,” Sun finished. Find Mao Sun on IMDb.

Christine Ha is a powerhouse of creativity and resilience. She was the first-ever blind contestant and winner of Gordon Ramsey’s amateur cooking show MasterChef, defeating over 30,000 home cooks to win the title of MasterChef, a $250,000 cash prize, and a cookbook deal ("Recipes from My Kitchen"). Ha also holds a Master of Fine Arts from the Creative Writing Program at the University of Houston and a Bachelor of Business of Administration from the University of Texas at Austin. In addition to those accomplishments, she has also served as the culinary envoy for the American Embassy as part of the cultural diplomacy program in several countries, spoken on disability advocacy at the United Nations, given Tedx Talks, opened two successful restaurants, and much more. The deeper you get to know Ha, the more you realize that, even without sight, there’s nothing she can’t do. Tell us a bit about your story. I am best known for being the visually impaired cook that won MasterChef Season 3 in the U.S. I’m also a New York Times best-selling cookbook author and owner of two restaurants in Houston: The Blind Goat and Xin Chào. What was your childhood like? I’m California-born, Texas-raised. I grew up an only child. My parents were Vietnamese refugees. Was cooking always one of your passions? No. I started cooking when I was in college, mainly because I had to learn to live independently. It wasn’t until I began teaching myself to cook that I realized I enjoyed it a lot. It was just a hobby, though, until I competed on MasterChef, which opened many opportunities for me in the culinary world afterward. What challenges did you face as a second-generation Asian American, and how did you work through them? I felt the burden of straddling two different cultures growing up. Like many who grew up like me, I wasn’t American enough at school and not Vietnamese enough at home. Eventually, I realized that I didn’t have to identify as one or the other, but that I could be both. And being both is beautiful. When you found out you had neuromyelitis optica (NMO) at 20, how did you feel? What helped you transform what many perceive as a limitation into one of your biggest strengths? I felt lonely and isolated as it was—and still is—a rare disease. I didn’t know anyone losing their vision nor who had NMO at the time. I decided to educate myself as much as possible about the disease and become my own best advocate for my healthcare. Once I found a treatment plan that stabilized my health, I learned to adapt to what was my new normal of being visually impaired, and having to understand my condition, and recognizing the onset of symptoms, and knowing what to do when that happens. How do you navigate a kitchen and cooking without sight? I have to be extremely organized, but that goes for any kitchen and cook, whether sighted or not. I have a few adaptive tools in my kitchen, like raised bump dot stickers that help mark my stovetop and appliances with tactile markers, but otherwise, my kitchen operates like most others. What are your favorite foods to cook and eat? I love cooking and eating everything. I always enjoy trying new things. A comfort food that I do love to eat is fried rice. I like that it uses up leftover ingredients, can be cooked in one pan (wok), and is eaten out of a bowl with one spoon. That is the quintessential comfort food. What and/or who has been the most essential support as you’ve built your business and brand? Why? My partner in life and business, John. He brings certain strengths to our businesses, like branding, technology, and marketing. We complement each other well because we bring different things to the table, but most importantly, we respect each other’s opinions and trust that even though we may not always see eye to eye, we both want the very best for our companies and share the same long-term vision and goals. What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment? Why? Creating two restaurants, building a team, and seeing them grow and be successful. What goals do you have for the future? Continue to work on the restaurants, start new ones, write another cookbook, finish my memoir, and finish the documentary film I’ve been working on for the past three years. What advice would you give to others receiving a life-altering diagnosis like yours? Know that it’s normal to go through the grief process, but at some point, understand that life will continue on. You must find a supportive community, whether that means family, friends, other patients, a healthcare team, or all of the aforementioned. When you have a good support network and the right, positive attitude, you can and will be able to achieve great things. Find out more about Christine and what she’s currently up to: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook: @theblindcook YouTube: ChristineHaTube Website Cover photo: Julie Soefer

Upon first seeing an article on the now defunct April Magazine about Chef Jenny Dorsey, we were curious to know more about the woman who has taken on the mission of using food to get people to challenge their beliefs and understandings through discussion with others as they experience each intentionally thought-provoking dish. Continue on as we learn how Chef Dorsey struggles with identity and how she works toward helping others to understand our universal Asian identities. So, where did life begin for you and what was your experience like growing up? I was born in Shanghai, and then I immigrated here to New York, originally, when I was three and a half with my grandparents. My parents are both scientists and they had already come to the States so they could pursue their doctorates. So, I didn’t see them for the first couple years of my life. After that, I have vague memories of being really bad at English in kindergarten or maybe it was first grade. I would get really good grades on things like participation or being friendly, but my actual English was terrible. Obviously, slowly over time I became like a native English speaker. Now, I’m actually trying to learn Chinese again. Still, it’s kind of a struggle trying to balance the two sides. Because I was very close to my grandparents growing up, I felt more attached to my Chinese side. However, I grew up in the Bronx where there were really very few other Asian kids. When I was about eight, we moved to Bellevue, which is a suburb of Seattle, where again it was not super Asian. So, it was a weird dichotomy of always wanting to be white and always feeling like I was different, but I couldn’t change it. How did you cope with that or learn to cope with it? It took a really long time. Actually, I just started talking to my parents again about six months ago. I hadn’t talked to them for like two years. I had cut off ties, as I had a lot of resentment and anger. I was an only child. So, I understand that they didn’t have a trial run before me. Everybody’s trying to learn how to parent. But, I learned there were a lot of issues in my childhood that I felt went unresolved. Even to this day, we haven’t really talked about them. So, what I really have had to do, through therapy, was to decide that I can either ignore my parents forever, or I can just let it go and move forward with them. So, I think in terms of coping, it really has been just clarifying what are my boundaries and what am I going to allow in my life now. With all that as your background then, how do you identify yourself now, either ethnically or in general? I think if I’m talking to an Asian person, I will specify that I’m Chinese. But, I feel like with other races, I don’t really have to say anything. Often, they’re too nervous to probe too deeply. It’s funny though, after I married a white man, I changed my last name for various purposes. The main reason is because there are so many Jenny Wangs. I actually had a Chinese first name, but then I changed it as my middle name to make it more “accessible.” That’s a complicated decision and I know many Asian-Americans have mixed feelings about it. All I can say is, for me, it works. However, the thing is that unless you see a picture of me, you don’t inherently know that I’m Asian. So, it has been kind of interesting to see the reactions of people when they do realize. So, how do you feel when someone shows surprise that you’re Asian? There’s always a little bit of amusement in it for me. I kind of enjoy it. I tend to wonder how would their reaction or how would our interaction have gone differently if they had known beforehand? Or, what about my personality traits make them expect that I am white and not Asian? So, I want to know what they are toggling in their mind that changes their expectations of me? I’m always curious, because usually I’ve already interacted with them via email or phone, so why is there a disconnect? A favorite discussion point of mine is on the question of “Where are you from?” What is your reaction to that? Oh yeah, I get that all the time. I get it all the time online, too. I’ve been on a couple of reality cooking competitions. And, someone literally messaged me like multiple times trying to figure out where I am from. I think it is really fascinating that whenever I’m somewhere that isn’t a big city or cosmopolitan area, if I get into an Uber without my husband, that is the first question. They just can’t help it. Most of the time, I try not to encourage the behavior by not responding. But, some are really persistent and they want to know the answers. Sometimes, I will deflect or I just refuse to tell them. I’ll say I’m from New York. But, you can tell it’s not satisfying and it’s not what they wanted to hear. So, they try to figure it out in a different way by asking about my family. At times, I will be exhausted and just say I’m from China. They always look so excited that they finally figured it out. What I think is so interesting is not them asking, but the fact that they feel it’s their right to have ownership over your face and your identity. Both minorities and non do this, it’s like an ingrained feeling people learn towards minorities, in general. What is your sense as to why Asians are stereotyped in the way that they are? As with stereotypes in general, I think it comes from taking one small nugget of truth and it just gets blown up because of an unwillingness to be uncomfortable. The reality is that we are only going to be acutely aware and attuned to our own experiences. I don’t know what it’s like to be a black woman, or undocumented person, or someone who presents as racially ambiguous. But, the only way we are going to learn more about others’ experiences is to ask. Many times people asking about others’ real life experiences is very uncomfortable. This is especially true if you are in a place of privilege; it’s very discomforting and jarring. People don’t want to do that. Moving now to your career: how did you decide to become a chef? In college, I started as a finance major. I wanted to go into management consulting. So, I ended up in fashion, which was the glamorous thing that I wanted to do. I moved to New York and worked really hard at it. I thought I had it all. But, the funny thing is, when you reach a goal that you construct in your mind based on other people’s expectations, you hit that goal and you’re like, wow, I’m here. That’s it? I was really unhappy. What really made me want to change my direction was seeing a higher up manager on my team who just desperately was trying to fill a hole in her heart with clothes, which were never gonna fill it. So, I quit my job and went to culinary school on a whim. How would you say, if at all, that your sense of identity has influenced your cooking? A lot of my cooking now is about making sure that I can talk about symbolism in the right way. There are always stories with every person’s food, and I really want my food to make sense on multiple levels. So, for example, there’s a dish in one of our series called "Asian in America" that discusses the model minority myth. The main protein is veal sweetbreads. Since this is an organ meat, it’s usually perceived as distasteful. But, in the particular case of veal sweetbreads, we usually see them as gourmet; I draw a parallel to how Asians are always told that if we present ourselves properly, we can also be distinguished as “better” than other minorities. And that’s a lie, as we obviously can see now. I feel like my talent has been in bringing about a sort of translation through my food. So, how do you compile your food projects or choose what you want to present? It really starts with a concept I care about. So, for example, the latest series that we’ve been working on is something called "Glass through Skin," which is about the normalization of female pain. I really wanted to talk about the fact that women are suffering everywhere. But, the problem is that both men and women are used to it. We accept that that’s how things are supposed to be. So, for the first mini course I started with what is the concept of pain and what use it serves. One of the ideas that stood out to me was the trope that women needed to suffer some sort of violent act against them in order to grow and evolve. We see it all the time in books, movies, TV, even everyday conversation. So, how do I get that into a food idea? I was inspired by a line from Sansa Stark on "Game of Thrones" in response to being asked if she regretted her decisions that had caused so much pain. And she more or less says, "If I hadn’t suffered being raped, abused, etc. I would have remained a ‘little bird’ forever." That is infuriating; in her moment of having overcome so much she is attributing her own abilities to those of their abusers. I created a dish where the dish itself is like a bird cage and people are reaching in with this idea of helping to free the little bird. So, they grab this ball made out of partridge and it’s adorned with fancy things, but it’s been speared with an edible glass shard. As you eat through it, you find the actual flavor of the dish lies in the center, which is this molten mousse made out of chicken liver, while the glass shard, or the perpetrator, has no taste at all. The idea is that the complexity and the strength of females have always been inside them and owe nothing to their oppressors. So as you’ve been doing this in creating your own food projects, do you feel or do you think that you’ve ever faced any racism or setbacks because of your ethnicity? Yeah, for sure. I think a lot of times when people are uncomfortable, they usually act in one of two ways: they either withdraw or get really angry. We’ve never really had anger at our dinners because, for the most part, our dinners are self-selecting. People know what they are paying for. However, we’ve had public demos where we get invited to film festivals, conferences, and random people come in. People who have never had to contend with their privilege or been asked to. So, they feel uncomfortable and they can say snarky things. Often because I’m female and young, they tend to be dismissive instead of possibly being more aggressive if I were male. Instead, they make comments like, “very cute” or “what a cute idea.” How do you find yourself responding to that? I used to get very angry and I do still complain about it, but I think I have just become unfazed by it because I realize it has nothing to do with me. What do you want people to most gain from one of your culinary experiences? Our big mission is always about how we can create empathy. Because at the end of the day, it’s one thing to see someone, but unless it pertains to you we can’t imagine how it feels since we haven’t lived their experiences and it’s difficult to really care about their struggles. So, how do we bridge that gap? We really believe that if you can sit across the table from someone who is experiencing something and you can have an open conversation, that’s the beginning of opening your mind in a new way and hopefully changing your worldview. From there, maybe you take a small action like posting on social media and sharing about a new topic. Any step is better than nothing, even if it does feel demoralizing at times. This is the sad reality of the slowness in social change. We’re just trying to create every step we can. What would your takeaway be, then, for younger, aspiring universal Asians? Because Asian-Americans don’t have great representation in so many industries, you don’t even know what’s available to you. I think any time you perhaps don’t know what you want to do, or you literally haven’t seen an example of a person doing what you may want to do, there may be a feeling of discouragement. My biggest advice would be to encourage the next generation to not listen to anyone else. It doesn’t really matter what other people think because you’re the person that you have to go to bed with everyday. You are the only person responsible for you.

As her first short, Ella Wu wrote, directed and produced “Patterns,” which is one of those story-within-a-story films. The narrative unfolds through the lens of a young author struggling with writer’s block, unable to find an appropriate ending for her character, when in reality, she’s talking about herself. It was filmed over the course of a week on Nantucket Island, MA, and due to COVID-19, all of the filming was done on her own. She even biked 10 miles to get that lighthouse shot! Website: www.ellawu.com

Join us in supporting A-Doc’s latest storytelling initiative, a series of micro documentaries sharing Asian-American stories during the time of Coronavirus (#AsianAmCovidStories/#ADocGoesViral). Asian American Documentary Network (A-Doc) is a national network that works to increase the visibility and supports the work of Asian-Americans in the documentary field. They are committed to sharing ideas and resources while advocating for equity and diversity in the production and distribution of non-fiction storytelling. Due to the impact of COVID-19 in disrupting people’s lives around the world, these non-fiction storytellers share these largely invisible stories from a unique perspective as members of the Asian diaspora. With the goal of increasing awareness and archiving current realities, these documentarists hope to inform the current population as well as future generations. Their CALL TO ACTION is: Share A-Doc’s Storytelling Initiative with your followers and community by directing them to our social media accounts. Encourage AAPI Storytellers in your community to tell their own stories (video/written+photo) and participate using #AsianAmCovidStories “Share your AAPI story using #AsianAmCovidStories” You can watch a replay of a Facebook Live discussion on virtual theatrical distribution scenarios here. Their entire playlist is available on these platforms: IG: bit.ly/adoc-igtv Facebook: bit.ly/adoc-stories-fb YouTube: bit.ly/adoc-youtube-stories For more information or queries, you may email A-Doc at aadocnetwork@gmail.com

Referring to themselves as “East Coast-bred, West Coast-living Asian ladies, but not the status quo,” The Universal Asian spoke with Joan and Esther. They are the duo behind "Ajuma Squad," which is a YouTube channel and Instagram TV series that sheds light on their stories of motherhood and being second-generation Asian-Americans. We learned more about their channel, the origins of "Ajuma Squad," and their views on Asian-American representation. Friends for over 10 years now, Joan and Esther first met in New York and reconnected, both as mothers, in California where they now reside. It was from there that their friendship blossomed and grew into "Ajuma Squad"—two good friends vlogging as mothers. The idea “spawned from us just having funny conversations,” explained Esther, “We used to joke around and say ‘we should post that somewhere’ or ‘I wish we could make a video out of this’.” This conversation sparked the start of Ajuma Squad, which came to realization in October last year. The term ajuma is Korean for a married, middle-aged woman and is sometimes used to call someone “aunt.” However, the duo decided to go with this name because, as Joan said, they “wanted to play on that word and make it like we’re not just washed up ajumas; we have things to talk about too.” Their channel appears to be the first of its kind and made Joan question “why we didn’t do this earlier.”  Esther also went onto explain: “We did a deep dive to see if there was anybody else who was Asian-American and who are moms and who are out there representing and talking about these issues, and there really weren’t a lot of people.” Now, with over 250 followers and 17 IGTV episodes (and counting!), the pair are no strangers to delving into a range of different topics, such as dating, self-care, and Asian-American representation in the media. Joan admits that “we have a calendar of all the topics we want to do, but we never stick to it because it just so happens that all these issues are just coming up naturally, so our conversations are always going to shift to what’s relevant.” Their conversations are on-the-fly and organic, which seems to be a central theme in their videos. “I think we just want to be real. We wanted to show that there is another side of motherhood that isn’t represented by what people think Asian American women are,” said Esther. They reiterate not being the status quo, as Esther explained: “The reason why we are kind of against the grain is that motherhood is not something that comes with a handbook and you kind of have to roll with the punches.” They also started "Ajuma Squad" to have their voices, as Asian-American moms, heard. “I feel like there hasn’t been much representation of Asian moms,” said Joan, adding, “It is really important for us because we want our kids to be able to grow up with being able to see the different sides of being Asian-American.” But why is it that Asian-American moms are not being heard? Is there another barrier or layer to being a mother and Asian-American? “I think it’s because people generally don’t care for what Asian moms really talk about,” said Joan. Esther added: “We are a lost demographic and we don’t have the time or skills to really go out there and tout things that millennials might.” Yet, this has not stopped them from delving into the nitty gritty of motherhood, rather it has become a way for them to create a sense of community for other Asian-American moms. “I think we have a sense of relatability that a lot of Asian-American women have not had,” Esther mused. Acknowledging that the struggles of the pandemic has meant many individuals have not been able to communicate with friends or family, she hopes to “provide a little sense of community and bring a little joy into their homes for a few minutes [and give them] that sense of ‘this is my squad’.” As well as building a community, they also look ahead to the type of representation they both want to see for their children. Wishing that they had seen other Asians in the media and on TV screens Joan shared: “It’s very important for my kids to see and recognize themselves and identify with and find someone that they could look up to.” One of the reasons they started "Ajuma Squad" was because, as Joan put it: “We want to have these conversations and maybe push that needle so that we can get more Asian-Americans in the media.” Esther expressed similar concerns and made the point that she does not want future generations of Asian-Americans “to feel they don’t fit the status quo, like they don’t belong. They belong here just like anybody else does.” Creating positive representation of Asian-American mothers has become the forefront of their channel. Many of their conversations around this serve as passing on knowledge to raise the next generation of Asian-Americans. “Moms are the ones that shape the kids…we are raising a generation,” Joan stated. After experiencing a recent racist incident, Esther shared some wisdom with her daughters. Wisdom that can be passed onto Asian-Americans of all ages: “Sometimes people treat others unkindly because we are a little bit different; that doesn’t make you any less of a human. We are Asian-American. We are Korean-American and that is perfectly okay.” Follow Ajuma Squad here: Instagram (@ajuma_squad) YouTube Twitter (@AjumaSquad)

As a child, I carried this fantasy that my umma was “the Queen of Korea.” I told myself the fairytale that she had me when she was still the crown princess, and that just a month or so before I was born, my appa—the prince—had been killed by an evil uncle who was trying to grab my parents’ rightful place on the throne. I told myself that in order to keep my identity a secret so as to protect me from this evil uncle, she had sent me to the far-off foreign land of hot sands, a bathwater-warm Atlantic, overly-chlorinated neighborhood swimming pools, and right-wing Baptist churches in a place known as Florida. I assumed that once she had gathered her army of loyalists and disposed of this evil uncle, thereby securing her rightful place on the throne, that she would send for me, and that I would be freed from my place of exile in the suburbs of South Florida. I spent my childhood waiting for her to send for me…. As I entered adolescence, I then carried in my other hand the possibility that she might have been “a prostitute.” I know for certain that I arrived at this because of when I was 12 years old attending a Holt Heritage adoptee camp in Eugene, Oregon. One of the staff said that if “girls at the orphanage” weren’t adopted by the age of 18 they were no longer able to stay there; that most of them would end up “becoming prostitutes,” and eventually getting pregnant, and leaving their babies on the doorsteps of hospitals or orphanages because…they were prostitutes. Even as an adult, something in me carried these two very opposing “dreams” of who my umma was—a princess or a prostitute. It was not until I first returned to Korea that it began to really hit me that the reality was that she was more likely to have been just a normal woman—that she was probably not much more than a girl herself when she had me. That more likely than not, she was in her late teens or very early 20s in the 1970s and facing the prospect of being a single mother in a country that to this very day stigmatizes unwed mothers and their children, and where only in April of 2019 did the Constitutional Court of Korea rule that the criminalization of abortion was unconstitutional (effective January 1, 2021). That not only was she not a princess nor a prostitute, but that she had probably been like one of the high school or university students I’d see out in Hongdae or Sinchon over the course of my eight years living in Seoul. That…she was like one of the young single mothers in Korean-Danish adoptee director Sun Hee Englestoft's profoundly moving documentary "Forget Me Not," which provides a quietly powerful portrait of the lives of three young mothers who are residing at Aeshuwon, a shelter for single/unwed mothers in Jeju, South Korea, as they must make the impossible decision of whether to keep their children in a society that treats unwed mothers and their children with contempt, utter disregard, and close to zero support in regards to social services, or give them up for adoption. Watching "Forget Me Not" made me feel that I was in some way peering back in time and being allowed to see her—my umma—in these women, many of whom are also not much more than girls themselves. She, too, stayed at a shelter/home for unwed pregnant women that was run by Holt; though where she stayed did not do as Aeshuwon does by allowing the expectant mothers to choose what they will do. Where my umma stayed, it was a requirement that she first agreed that she would relinquish me to be adopted out through Holt in order to stay there. Holt Korea denies that they ever operated these kinds of homes, but seeing as my umma told me she stayed at one of their shelters and what she had to agree to, I believe the person who lived it versus the industry that profited from her impossible situation. And, though it is clearly shown in Sun Hee’s work that Mrs. Im of Aeshuwon tries to provide a safe space for the mothers to weigh their options and choose, as the documentary goes on it becomes abundantly clear that the realities of Korean familial and societal pressures mean that no matter what each mother might truly intend and desire to choose for their child and their self—the decision was made for them long before they themselves were even born, just as the decision was made for my umma in 1975. For me, as a Korean adoptee, watching "Forget Me Not" was/is the closest I will probably ever come to understanding and seeing what my umma was like at 19/20 years old. It is a collision of times and worlds in that I saw my umma in these three young mothers. It is as Sun Hee says over the footage of the mothers at Aeshuwon rocking their babies as they try and decide what to do: “Being at the shelter is like traveling back in time. The women are all versions of my mother—and I’m a version of their children.” I saw my umma giving me up as a baby and myself as a baby being given up by her. I saw and heard myself from 14 years ago in Sun Hee’s opening footage of herself as she sits in that same silence I have sat in and felt and know in every fiber of my very being as she waits for the social worker to translate the Korean text in her adoption papers and interpret them into English. The pause…that pause...the necessary time it takes for a translator/interpreter to translate from Korean into English…. It is one of the longest, most suspenseful, scariest, uncertain, loneliest pauses I have ever known—for in that pause entire fairytales will be made real or destroyed. An umma will be found or lost, or worse—where you and she will remain in permanent limbo—in a pause with no end. I heard myself in Sun Hee as she addresses her own umma, juxtaposed against the backdrop of the monsoon-swollen skies of Jeju: “At least now I recognize the sorrow I have to live with and carry with me. It’s the sorrow we share that will tie us together. Always.” And though I did find my umma, unlike portrayed in stories of reunion told by non-adoptees, the story did not end there. She was neither a princess nor a prostitute. She was a woman, who was once a young girl, who had a decision made for her that for over three decades she kept as a secret in her heart. And, when you keep a secret like that for so long, eventually you are not the one keeping it, but rather that secret keeps you and there can be no fairytale ending. There can only be the consequences of time that change a young girl at 19 or 20 to an ahjumma too haunted to restart or rebuild a connection she was forced to sever when our umbilical cord was cut now more than 40 years ago. Even now, I wait for her, hoping she will send for me. From my vantage point, knowing what I know from my years of living in Korea being actively engaged with adoptee activist friends in Seoul and my now—more than decade of living the realities of post-reunion—"Forget Me Not" makes it clear in its compellingly truthful portrayal of the unwed mothers at Aeshuwon, without ever blatantly saying so, that the dominant narrative of adoption perpetrated by agencies like Holt in which they propagate the widely-accepted notion that we were adopted out because our ummas just coldly abandoned us on doorsteps is nothing but a lie that has been told in order to make us more marketable and to enable Korea, which has the 10th largest GDP in the world, in still not having to take serious social or economic responsibility for single parents and their children. It accurately conveys that Korea as a society at large does little to care for its own citizens and children, and that unwed mothers have little right to their own autonomous decision-making whilst we­—their bastard offspring—are shameful secrets to be sent away. "Forget Me Not" is, to my knowledge, if not the first, then one of the only Korean-adoptee directed documentaries that tells the story of adoption not from the important Korean adoptee-centric vantage points of search, reunion, post-reunion, memories of being in the orphanage, returning to Korea for the first time, etc. but from the only other voices that adopters and the adoption industry complex have spent more than six decades erasing—those of 우리 엄마 (our mothers)—made possible by one of their daughters. Near the end, when Sun Hee puts the camera down on its side to comfort the grieving mother who has just lost her child to adoption, I found myself wondering if this is the closest an adoptee can ever truly get to being able to travel back in time to comfort our own umma back when she, who was neither a princess nor a prostitute, but rather quite simply a woman, a mother who had just lost her child, and who in that moment of loss could only succumb to her grief just as this young mother does and letting her know…and letting her let us know, “It’s the sorrow we share that will tie us together. Always.” Click here to follow on Facebook. Trailer and and rental availability here. Starting June 3, 2021, "Forget Me Not" will be screening in 55 cinemas throughout Korea. Free online screening for KAAN Conference attendees (free to register): Friday June 25, 2021 9-10:15 p.m. EST (Saturday June 26, 2021; 6-7:15 a.m. CEST, 1-2:15 p.m. KST)

TEDx Woosong University Through his life story, Eric McDaniel shares the different sides, angles, and varieties to a true second chance to life, family, and discovering his true identity. From abandonment to adoption, reconnecting, reestablishing, and rekindling; McDaniel explains the life lessons that he learned and other possible outcomes. This talk is about finding love, identity, dreams, and passion through the life of a Korean American adoptee. Eric McDaniel is from a small suburb near Kansas City, Missouri. He was raised in a typical but hardworking, blue-collar family. Learning from his father’s hard work and his mother’s compassion, he tried to achieve his goals and dreams by exuding those values that he learned. Though his life has been faced with many obstacles, McDaniel used that as fuel to become a promising athlete as well as exploring various business ventures. His interests include entrepreneurship, entertainment and education. You can connect with Eric on Instagram.

Currently, there are countless terrifying experiences that Asian diasporians in the West have experienced in regards to anti-Asian violence and racist rhetoric that ever since the start of this pandemic have been on the alarmingly rapid increase not just in the States, but in Western Europe, and as reported by the U.N. around the world. Recently, in the States, there has been story after story in the mainstream media about violent attacks against members of the Asian community where the perpetrators shown are predominantly Black. This narrative is an incredibly dangerous one as it negates the reality that the overwhelming majority of attackers are white. It is incredibly dangerous for numerous reasons, one being because it adds fuel to the fire of anti-Black sentiments that are held by some Asian diasporians. Quite bluntly put, it is a tactic used by white supremacy to pit us against each other and for white supremacy to quietly sweep itself under the proverbial rug. There are numerous articles and pieces addressing this fact, and just doing a simple online search about anti-Blackness in correlation to Asian-American and Asian diasporic communities will give you countless hours of reading material. Anti-Blackness is never justifiable even from Asian communities that have and continue to experience horrific hate, violence, and vitriolic racist comments every single day from yes, SOME non-white, non-Asian folk, but predominantly white people. As the Associate Editor of TUA, I am writing this editorial to state very clearly for all of our readers and contributors that we DO seek and proactively work to exist as a safe space for a wide gamut of opinions and views by #hyphenatedAsians and #importedAsians. We do so in order to increase both awareness and representation, and to encourage healthy, robust, and respectful dialogues. However, the voices that we will never provide any kind of space for are ones that express anti-Black sentiments or any kind of homophobic, transphobic, or misogynistic views. The answer to combating racism, and in the case of Asian diasporians—to stopping anti-Asian hate—is not more racism. One of the many steps in combating the current and dramatic increase in anti-Asian hate is to take a stand against and call out all forms of white supremacy, even when it is voiced from within our #hyphenatedAsians and #importedAsians families and communities. Anti-Blackness IS white supremacy, and when an Asian person or community expresses such abhorrent rhetoric they are embodying and empowering white supremacists and white-colonist thinking. So, for our readers and contributors, whose voices we truly value and hope to provide a platform of amplification to and for, know that your opinions and experiences matter greatly to us. We, at TUA, want to share your stories, projects, art, thoughts, and more, even when we, as individual staff members, may not always agree with every single thing you have to say. This platform exists for you. The only “opinions” we do not exist to amplify or represent are voices that express anti-Black, racist, misogynistic, homophobic, and transphobic beliefs because TUA does not exist to give power to white supremacy. We exist to do the complete opposite—to reclaim our voices and power as #hyphenatedAsians and #importedAsians that white colonization has sought to stifle. Kim Thompson TUA Associate Editor

The glint off the top of the commercial plane made Monica’s eyes hurt. She grabbed her bag and moved to a different seat where she felt more comfortable, away from the glare. She would have to wait at least another half hour before boarding her flight to L.A., but she didn’t mind. She was just happy to be moving somewhere new. The time had come to get out of Dodge—or Shiwanosh. Perhaps things hadn’t been insurmountably terrible; but to be honest, she had been getting some pretty weird vibes from people in town. At the time, she didn’t quite know what to make of it. Shiwanosh College was a small, local school nestled among the cornfields of rural Wisconsin. Just two weeks ago, Monica was sitting in a barn off-campus sipping beer with a bunch of sturdy, nineteen-year-old Wisconsinite boys, who were smoking cigarettes and swapping cow-tipping stories. She recalled how there was a distinct earthy scent of fresh hay and ripe farm animals. She was proud of the heartland where robust crops and dairy farms produced food and nourishment for so many. She was grateful for nature’s abundance, the result of hard work and grace of the universe. There were, however, a few things that made her feel a bit uncomfortable in that barn. For one, there was something concerning, something peeking out from under the brush on the ground, not too far from her feet. She wondered what it was and, to be quite frank, she started to really obsess about it. But, Monica made a massive, concerted effort to ignore it and not overreact. I mean, if she jumped up and down and started shrieking and pointing and running around like a chicken with her head cut off, that would be rude. She also didn’t want to lose her cool with her peers, these young folks she had just met. So instead, she leaned back on the creaking, rickety crate she was sitting on and tried to act all laid back with a frosty bottle of Schlitz in her hand. Yep. Just blend in with the boys. Speaking of the crate she sat on, uh, that was another little issue. Monica noticed that it seemed to have some quite large, possibly dangerous, sharp splinters. But no biggie. She just kept a laser focus on the dudes shooting the breeze. They were so chill and funny. When they laughed, she laughed heartily along with them. They were genuinely hilarious and they seemed to accept her in that moment. Someone once told her to ‘Just be yourself. Don’t try to be like someone else.’ A certain amount of acclimation made life a little easier at Shiwanosh though. She certainly pared down what she used to wear, and left at home the white leather boots, studded t-shirts, and gold necklaces that were all the rage at her high school. The 'oy vey iz mir' princess mentality certainly wasn’t a thing here. She may have dropped some of the glitzy attire and attitude, but the fact remained that she still stood out from the others at Shiwanosh, perhaps just as much as she did back home. Monica noticed that Chris, the tall, lanky blond, had been constantly staring at her in the barn. Monica wondered if her hair looked okay or totally gross. She had recently had her long, dark locks permed. That morning she had also lightly sprayed the sides to form wings, but they had already collapsed in the heat and humidity. She awkwardly pushed her hair behind her ears, still feeling the weight of Chris’s eyes on her. Then, Chris opened his mouth. “If I brought you home with me to where I’m from, my parents and I might accept you, but a lot of people would stare,” he said. “What?” replied Monica, who felt his comment was strange and out of place. “They’ve never seen someone like you. They wouldn’t know what you are,” explained Chris. Monica was annoyed. “Are you saying I’m like some kind of alien?” She forced to herself to lightheartedly chuckle. There was no response from Chris. His eyes were locked on Monica’s face, but his mind was somewhere else. Monica wanted to snap her fingers and say, “Hey, you. Snap out of it!” She tried to ignore him, but his staring was relentless. It was as if he was entranced. Monica seriously wanted him to stop. She had a notion to cross her eyes, pull her face into twisted contortions using both hands, stick out her tongue and make funny noises, just like she and her siblings and cousins would do as kids when they visited a relative, and a bunch of neighborhood ragamuffins would yell out, ‘ching chong!’ Monica and her siblings and cousins actually shared quite a bit of fun and laughter with their silly antics. Power in numbers, I guess. Anyway, Monica didn’t say or do any of the above. She had zero romantic interest in Chris, so he need not worry about taking her to his hometown to meet the parents and such. She did try to play off his odd behavior and ease the awkwardness though. “So where are you from?” asked Monica. “Me? I’m from a small town in upper Wisconsin called Eagle River,” answered Chris. “Where are you from?” interjected Jake, another guy in the group who had been clowning around wearing a Cheesehead hat, clearly a big-time Packers fan. “She’s from here, Shiwanosh, right?” said Chris. “She works at the sandwich shop.” “Oh, yeah, you’re the waitress girl Chris mentioned,” said Scott as he lit up his fifth cigarette and blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “You work at Mitchell & Michelle’s?” he asked. “Yes,” answered Monica. It’s true that she had been waiting on tables that summer for extra money at the local soup and sandwich bistro. It was there that she had recently met Chris, who invited her to hang out with some friends that evening. What Monica didn’t say was that a relative of her family had randomly bought that on-campus restaurant. For some reason, they thought it was a good investment. The distant uncle had hired managers to run the place and didn’t show his face, because he was concerned about racism in that homogenous town. Jake took off his Cheesehead hat. “Where’d you get your accent from?” he asked Monica. “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Monica. “You talk like you’re a news anchor, like someone on TV. Your English.” “I don’t know,” replied Monica. She honestly didn’t know what Jake was talking about. “Where are your parents from?” asked Jake. “My Dad’s from out East…” “Yeah, see,” nodded Jake with an of-course-look on his face. “And your Mom?” he asked. “My mom’s from the West Coast. It’s funny because my parents were from opposite coasts and yet they met here in the middle, in the Midwest,” said Monica smiling. Jake sighed and shook his head. “Where were they born though? “My mom was born in the Bay Area and my Dad was born in upstate New York.” “NO!” said Jake with sudden irritation in his voice that took Monica by surprise. “So, like where were your grandparents born?” Monica was flustered and answered the question. “They were both born in California—" “Oh, come on!” yelled Jake. He actually sounded angry. Monica tried to better explain, “Well, see, my great-grandparents were also—" but she was abruptly cut off. “OH MY GOD! She’s not getting it!” snarled Jake who abruptly got up, grabbed his can of Pabst and walked off. Monica was stunned. What just happened? She was genuinely confused. What wasn’t she getting? What was she missing? She was answering his questions. She wondered if he wanted to know what her ethnic background was. But, he didn’t ask that. She was on her way to telling her whole family history anyway, but he obviously didn’t want to hear it. She couldn’t believe Jake just walked out on her. Things got a bit more weird and awkward after that. Monica was still trying to recover from the whole Jake incident when one of the big, sharp splinters on the crate started to really poke her tender tuchis and cause great discomfort. Perhaps those few sips of beer had gotten to her head too, because Monica began babbling that she was thinking about transferring to a school in California. “You’re not going anywhere,” grumbled Chris. “You’re just a waitress girl. Don’t get too big for your britches!” Monica was shocked by Chris’s rude reaction. “Meshuggeneh, you’re grody to the max!” was on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to blurt out that she was actually from Chicago, not Shiwanosh. In fact, she was actually from a pretty progressive, swanky suburb where she was raised to know that she could pursue whatever she wanted and expect the best. Sky’s the limit! She wanted to tell Chris off. She wanted to say, “Do you know who I am!” But, she knew how local Shiwanosh people viewed people from Chicago. They called them 'city slickers' and believed people from the big city were not to be trusted. She already didn’t exactly fit it. She wasn’t going to make things worse by divulging every detail of her background. Perhaps, she had already said too much. Then, she saw it come out. She had thought it was a piece of cow dung, but no. A mangy, brown rodent ran out from under some brush and headed straight towards Monica’s feet. Immediately, yet discreetly, Monica stood up from that horrible crate and put her foot down. She stomped once with her white Nike gym shoe with printed colored laces, and the little creature turned and scampered off to a corner under some hay. That was it. Monica was out. “I have to go back to the bistro for my shift. It was nice meeting you all,” said Monica as she put down her Schlitz and picked up her purse. Chris said nothing. He just watched as Monica walked towards the open barn door. Scott was preoccupied with trying to light up another cigarette. When Monica walked through the open doorway, she paused and then turned around and stared at Chris. Even from a distance, her bright, brown eyes held a laser focus. The intensity made him look away. “Don’t be such a schmuck, Chris,” said Monica. When Chris looked back up, perplexed, she added, “I hope you take care.” And then, she was gone. The airport gate was full of waiting passengers and Monica was still waiting along with them. The gate agent had announced they were cleaning the airplane cabin. Monica thought about tracking Chris down and telling him that she was on her way to L.A.—UCLA. Ha! But, what purpose would that serve? He would figure out his life. And, she was discovering hers. It was best to move on. Monica rummaged through her big, white leather purse embellished with studs and tassels. She finally pulled out a plastic bag filled with assorted treats that she had tucked away—some no-fat matzah, a small roll of haw flakes candy, and a round and flaky, black bean pastry. Monica chose the sweet and rich pastry. She had just sunk her teeth into the crisp, buttery shell when the gate attendant got on the microphone. “Calling group number two. United Airlines Flight 2649, Chicago to L.A. Group number two may board.” Monica quickly wrapped up her food and stuffed it back into her purse. She got up, pushed her sunglasses up on her head, collected her big, fake, Louis Vuitton bag and swung it over her padded shoulder. Onward to brighter, sunnier times, thought Monica. Monica Shue was nineteen and turning twenty soon. She was ready for new experiences and the next big adventure. Hopefully L.A. would be more her style. Samantha Der is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

My eyes trace the swirling vines of tiny white leaves—the imagery sharp against the dark tan color of the clay vase that Josh slowly turns in his hands. The next piece he picks up is a jewelry box. Its flawless execution of shape and craftsmanship is enough to make you hold your breath as he turns it downward. This reveals the intricate micro-design twirling to life in a garden of pale leaves bending around flower blossoms. He explains to me that in Korean culture, flowers can represent meanings, such as “prosperity” or “longevity.” For example, he uses the plum blossom, “that blooms in the winter, [which] means this kind of prosperity because it’s blooming despite winter conditions.” Josh uses ceramics as a way to connect to his history and culture. Being raised as an Army brat meant moving… A LOT! He told me that moving every other year during his childhood, and living in six or seven different states, really made it hard for him to find a community. As the son of a Korean mother and a white father, he struggles with his identity. Although his mother exposed him to the Korean language, history, and culture at a young age, he was conflicted by the expectations of his father to be “American.” Growing up, Josh rejected his Asian side and searched for belonging by trying to “fit in.” He found challenges, however, due to his appearance. Being the only person in school and public environments that looked like him, he struggled to validate his place of belonging among the Asian community, and is just recently reclaiming his identity at the age of 29. “I’m not Asian enough to be Asian, but I’m not American enough to be American,” he states. While we both agree that visibility for Asians like him is improving, he explains that there’s still a lot of objectifications of Asian Americans on both sides. Josh brought up the incredible book, "Crying in H Mart" by Michelle Zauner, as an example. Its pages contain a story about a person of mixed Korean and white identities that so many others can relate to as many are similarly searching to connect, or reconnect, to their Asian roots. Through his work, Josh has found it therapeutic to find ways to connect to his culture and history. He’s found that it makes him face issues he’s suppressed and, in many ways, didn’t know that he had—such as his insecurities about being Asian. He also admits that his work often conjures up memories of his mother and his family’s expectations of him to go into medicine. However, his need to create and express himself through this outlet is ultimately how he chooses to honor himself and reclaim his identity. Josh began this journey in 2015, when he was shown Korean ceramics during his time in art school. So much of his inspiration is taken from forms and silhouettes that are historically inspired, with his own ceramic twist to it. Josh finds inspiration in the works of artists like Steven Lee and Sam Chung. He explains to me how they use their pieces to express contemporary thoughts and he compliments their technical skills. He continues on to describe the beauty he finds in another artist’s masterpieces that she creates on skin. Sion Kwak, whose medium is tattooing, reveals complex flowing lines that create beautiful traditional Korean knots. Red and bursting open like a lotus flower as the tail flows, appearing to lay over the body rather than an image embedded in the flesh. Her imagery, which is created as though printed onto delicate fans, can only be described as something you could find hand-painted on ancient East Asian porcelain plates and tea pots—so soft and intricate, the beauty of her art is undeniable. It’s easy to see how Josh is drawn to these artists. His detail and designs captivate the eye and evoke a deep connection to his Korean heritage. When showing me the lid of a jewelry box, he explains that it is inspired by historic cosmetic boxes. He hand-carves out wedges from the lid and fills the space with a white-colored clay, creating a beautiful inlay pattern around the lip. “This technique was invented by Koreans,” he explains to me as he slowly turns the piece over in his fingers. One of the most endearing traits I find Josh to have is that he isn’t afraid to put in the muscle and get down and dirty for his work. He makes all of his raw materials himself; stirring up large batches of clay that start as a powder similar to concrete. He said it took him two years to master his craft. And, while he may work six to seven active hours on a single piece, the entire process can take up to four weeks from start to finish. In the future, Josh hopes to continue to network and participate in more online art shows. His hope is to keep creating until he makes his break into the ceramic and art world. As the conversation winds down, I ask him if there’s any advice he could give other artists or anyone out there trying to achieve what he has with his work. His response is as genuine and as chill as he is: “Nothing anyone else will make will ever be exactly the way you’re making it, with all your different influences. It’s going to be uniquely you. No one else is going to be you. You have the right to your own identity, whatever that may be. There’s never a perfect time. Even if I’m not having the perfect day, I’m still working on it, I’m still trying.” To view and purchase Josh’s work go to: joshsingletonceramic.Etsy.com. Follow him on Instagram: @joshsingletonceramic

Artists An Laurence and Annie Tong Zhou Lafrance, both Chinese adoptees, launch their collaborative zine UP CLOSE detailing their creative processes that led to the creation of their works “Come Closer, I’ll tell you what I forgot” (An Laurence) and “From China, To Canada” (Annie Tong Zhou Lafrance). This project was made possible by the Chinatown Biennial. Description: UP CLOSE offers a behind-the-scenes look into the creative processes that birthed our artistic works as Chinese adoptees raised in Quebec. How can transracial adoptees reappropriate their stories? Why use artistic creation as a means to search for what’s been lost? We hope that UP CLOSE can help amplify transracial adoptees’ voices and spark conversations with other Asian diasporic communities. How to buy UP CLOSE in presale (USA and International outside Canada) CAD 20 USA delivery CAD 25 International delivery Send CAD 20 (USA) or CAD 25 (international) to @anhiggins/anlaurence.higgins@gmail.com via Paypal Send An Laurence a private message containing your mailing address Use: Instagram messages, Messenger, email (anlaurence.higgins@gmail.com) How to buy UP CLOSE in presale (Canada) CAD 15 pick-up in Montreal, next to Jean Talon station CAD 18 delivery included Send CAD 15 (pick-up) or CAD 18 (delivery included) via e-transfer to anlaurence.higgins@gmail.com Send An Laurence a private message containing the e-transfer password + mailing address if you want delivery Use: email, Instagram messages, Messenger