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

The 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.

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

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

Alice Stephens is passionate about writing and adoptee voices. She’s spent her life honing her writing skills and adoption knowledge, making her an essential figure in both spaces. Her debut novel, "Famous Adopted People," challenges the traditional adoption narrative. As part of the first generation of intercountry adoptees and a well-traveled adoptive family, she offers a unique perspective through the lens of someone intimately familiar with what it feels like to be an outsider. But, she didn’t always possess the awareness and skill she has now. Alice knew she wanted to be a writer from an early age, saying, “I had the desire to be a writer before I had the ability.” She loved to read and wrote silly stories throughout high school. Continuing to pursue her love, she majored in English in college, then got a job in academic publishing in New York City. After a time, she realized it wasn’t the profession for her and decided to take on writing her own novel. She and her partner moved to New Mexico, where she wrote that novel. “It sucked. It was really terrible. But I did it, and it was a very good learning experience. It was also very discouraging. I stopped writing for a long time, but I didn’t stop having the desire to write,” she confessed. In addition to needing space from the discouraging experience, she started a family, which consumed all of her time. While Alice took a break from writing for herself, her work was always based on writing. Once her children were older, the family moved to Japan. Alice’s husband gave her the idea for a historical fiction novel based on a mixed-race Japanese man. After seven years and a lot of research, she had a product she was proud of. They moved back to the United States, where she got in on the ground floor with the Washington Independent Review of Books. She started writing book reviews, her first public-facing pieces, and to date, has over 100 reviews and her own column, Alice in Wordland. “I think that’s a really important first step: to have that confidence to say ‘I wrote this!’ and be really proud of it,” she reflected. Her success with the book reviews and column did not translate into success for her historical novel. She got two agents, who believed in her and her work and sent her novel to some of the top publishers in the U.S. None of them picked it up. She decided to tuck that away and write about what she knew: adoption. Unlike the historical novel that took seven years, her novel came out in only 10 months. Alice’s agent relentlessly sent her book out, but couldn’t get anyone to publish it. In a last-ditch effort, Alice sent the novel to an independent publisher, Unnamed Press, on her own. In what felt like a fairytale, Unnamed Press published her book, "Famous Adopted People" (read more about the journey here). This achievement not only validated that her story was important and she had the skill to tell it but also prompted her to write more about adoption. Born in 1967 to a Korean woman and an American soldier father, Alice’s fate was cast before memory could capture what was happening. She was adopted by a white family in the United States, to whom she attributes her solid self-confidence. “I was a lucky adoptee. I was adopted into a family that told me that I was very smart and always gave me confidence in my mind. In fact, they told me I was the smartest one in the family. That’s an incredible gift to give an outsider child.” Although her confidence in her capabilities was high, like many adoptees, her confidence in her personality and ability to gain friends was not. She experienced the same types of racism most Asians face in America. Writing provided a refuge because she could get her words out into the public without being physically present. Alice’s family traveled extensively when she was growing up. Those experiences, in tandem with her transracial adoptee identity, gave her a fearlessness in exploring the world and discovering how vast the range of human experience is. “Traveling the world is wonderful because it opened my perspective on life, so I understood there’s more than just black and white. Like adoption, there are so many nuances and complexities to everything.” Speaking of nuances and complexities, although Alice said, “I’m a lucky adoptee,” she by no means subscribes to the traditional adoption narrative. She owns that her life couldn’t exist without adoption: If she had been a mixed-race baby left in Korea in the '60s, she wouldn’t have the life she has today. She said, “I’m not anti-adoption; there is a need,” but she also believes, “the more you learn about adoption, the more rotten it becomes.” The first thing that set her alarms off were all the stories she read about adoptees that painted them as helpless objects. “It’s not that adoption is wrong; the narrative around adoption is wrong.” That’s why she wrote "Famous Adopted People." She was tired of all the fairy tales, sappy stories, and false narratives. The adoption landscape has changed quite a bit since Alice was a child. As part of the first wave of adoptees, she was incredibly isolated and didn’t come across another self-identified adoptee until eighth grade (around 14 years old), or a Korean adoptee until her 20s. All the social media communities, conferences, books, and podcasts we have now weren’t options then, so she had no support or reason to wonder why she felt bad about herself; she just figured she was a rotten kid. Looking back on it, she recognized the deep sense of alienation, self-loathing, and desperate attempts to get people to see her the way she wanted to be seen. She had no idea the adoptee community existed until she published her novel, which connected her to this community that provided more context, language, and support for her experience as an adoptee than she ever had before. Alice admitted that "Famous Adopted People" didn’t garner the grandiose success she hoped for, but she also knows she shouldn’t have been surprised, possessing the knowledge of the publishing world as she does. Her novel doesn’t follow the traditional narrative, which makes people uncomfortable. But, Alice isn’t concerned with making those who uphold the status quo comfortable; she’s on a mission to shift the narrative—both through her own writing and helping other adoptees publish their stories. Writing has shown her how people think about and interrogate their past. She mused, “One of the gifts of being an adoptee is that we can look at our lives and say, ‘oh, I’ve changed my mind,’ and that’s ok. The world is changing all around us all the time, every day.” After perusing Alice’s work, it may not seem like she runs into creative blocks like the rest of us, but she assured me that she does. A lot. Working through them includes being part of a writing group, where prompts help to either spark something for her current work-in-progress or simply give her a nice piece, temporarily assuaging the frustration of not making progress on the main piece. Another way she works through the writing block is to not write. She suggests, “Take in other art, not just reading but movies, media, painting, sculpture, nature, whatever. Just kinda let your mind wander, but wander in a good way, in a way that focuses your mind on what you’re trying to write through.” Swimming also helps her empty her mind, making space for ideas to come up. Writing presents numerous challenges, including motivation to get going, finding a balance between being disciplined and too tough on oneself, and perhaps the hardest of them all, rejection. Alice notes, “The rejection is really hard. It happens a lot, and it happens even to famous writers. That’s the most difficult, but that goes back to self-confidence. You always have to have some sort of confidence if you want to be published.” While there are challenges, writing is also immensely rewarding. Alice’s face lit up as she enumerated the myriad benefits: it’s great for introverts because all she needs is power and the Internet, she loves creating stories and seeing them take shape on the page, having a finished product she’s satisfied with, seeing her work out in the world, reading what others write, and she especially loves the writing community and nurturing those fruitful exchanges. “That helps as a writer to know you’re not alone, having others who support you and genuinely want to see you succeed.” Due to countless situations, many adoptees are afraid to tell their stories. Her advice? Write your story and worry about the fear after it’s written. Just get it out of you first. If finding the words is the hard part, she said, “That’s a little trickier. The big thing about writing is organizing your thoughts, and the way to organize your thoughts is to write. So it’s kind of a circle, but the only way you can start that is by sitting down to write. You have to sit down and write and refine it and refine it and refine it until it makes sense and flows well. That takes time. Don’t get discouraged. Take writing classes, become part of a writing group, submit your work and see what people say when they return it. There are lots of ways to get better just by practicing, but really, you have to sit down and do it. That’s the first step.” Practicing what she preaches, Alice not only participates in writing groups, she’s also a co-facilitator in one, Adoptee Voices Writing Group, founded by Sara Easterly. Alice got looped into the group after Sara heard her on Haley Radke’s podcast. She admits she was skeptical at first, but after the first cohort, she was blown away by the adoptees and their stories. Though she facilitates, the experience helps her as a writer too, providing a broader view of the adoptee experience, which translates into her ability to write fuller characters. As a participant in this group myself, I get to witness the empathetic support, strategic feedback, and profound value she brings to the table, providing a safe place for adoptees to learn how to effectively tell their stories and hone their craft. Aside from her role as a co-facilitator in the adoptee writing group, Alice always has several irons in the fire. Her goals moving forward are to get two historical novels published, complete the current novel she’s working on, and maybe, just maybe, write a memoir. She also partnered with poet Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello to facilitate the Adoptee Literary Festival on April 9, 2022. The full details are still in the works; however, you can look forward to hearing from the keynote speaker, Nicole Chung, during the event. Alice is an inspiring example of an adoptee who’s boldly shifting the adoption narrative while guiding and supporting other adoptees to do the same. She’s already made a profound impact, and she’s nowhere near finished. Cover photo: Bruce Guthrie

The Universal Asian got to know Mai Young Øvlisen, lead singer of Meejah. The Danish-Korean band recently released their debut album Queen of Spring (2021) which is available to stream on Spotify. Follow them on Instagram here! Tell us about yourself. All right. My name is Mai Young Øvlisen, and I live in Copenhagen, Denmark. I grew up in Aarhus in Jutland. It’s the second biggest city in Denmark. And I’m adopted from South Korea. So I was born in Seoul, and then I came to Denmark when I was two months old. How did you get into music? When did you start playing? I started playing when I was about 7 years old. I started playing classical piano, but before that, I started dancing classical ballet as well. My father is very passionate about music, so we were listening to a lot of classical music and also a lot of American singer-songwriters, like Neil Young and some other bands and acts like Janis Joplin—people with big voices or big emotions. I was playing the piano for several years, but at some point I felt the need to express some of my inner emotions more, and I started singing and playing with bands. When I was about, I don’t know, 16–17 years old, I started writing music on my own. How would you describe your sound or genre? It’s definitely alternative. It comes out of alternative rock music. I like acts like Radiohead, Nick Cave—some have large soundscapes and some have a sort of melancholy through them. Then, I also like bands that think of their album as a whole piece of art, a concept album. Our sound and my band, Meejah, is a combination of singer-songwriting and big soundscapes, but also various inspirations from electronic music, from edgy, gritty hip hop, post-metal (new genres that have evolved from artistic metal in the last decades), experimental music, and then I also combine Tibetan singing bowls. I’ve also taken inspiration in Korean Pansori singing. Like the concept of the album, it’s a mixture of the North and the East. We also try to do it with the sounds. Is there any significance to the name of your band? Yeah, it’s called Meejah, and it’s a paraphrase of the romantic period that thinks of the artist as a medium for divine inspiration. I also learned that it’s similar to a Korean female name. That was by mistake, but it makes a fine story: that I carry some of my unconscious Korean heritage with me. Do you have a songwriting process? I can tell you about what happened when the album started taking form. I was in a very heavy sorrow process at the time. There were a lot of feelings of loss and also feelings of—I think you can call it [urgency]. It felt like it was bigger than my body could contain. And then, it happened in this sort of overspill state. In just over a weekend, 2–3 days, I created four songs. It was a crazy weekend. It was almost like I couldn’t be inside myself, but I could create music. They just came one by one. And they were quite significant. It felt like that “medium” thought, like they called me in or something like that, like “It’s time!” Then it became very clear that there was sort of a concept to them. They were created over the four elements in the Korean flag: fire, heaven, water, earth. After that weekend, I felt quite relieved. I think that’s how I write songs in general. I think it’s when I’m in a process and things are just about to land or transform themselves, it’s then that I use the music to take them further. I also just think of all these emotional states as states of energy. It’s a way of molding the energy, changing it, building something with it, instead of it being a heavy weight. Can you tell me more about Queen of Spring (2021)? It’s the philosophy of the elements of the Korean flag. Also, I have been lucky to go on some trips back to Korea with other Korean adoptees—not just from Denmark, but from Scandinavia, Australia, Europe, and the U.S. Sometimes, the adoptee story is very much a fairytale story. Somebody goes into the woods to find something or to slay the dragon and returns and lives happily ever after. But, I don’t think that’s how an adoptee feels in real life. It’s an ongoing inner discussion or dialogue you have with yourself, and that can bring really beautiful things if you want to interact with that part of yourself. So, I think I collected experiences and questions that I wanted to translate into sound, into songs, and into a collaboration with my bandmates, Daniel and Andreas, because they weren’t as involved in the inner conversations. They just hear the sounds and the songs and the structures, and use their ability to understand and to translate stories into music. So maybe it’s not a direct inspiration, but it is an artistic rite for me to collaborate with others and to be in that space where you create something new. Is there a significance to the order of the tracks? Yes. After I created the first four tracks on a composition, I found out that there were other tracks that wanted to be written. They felt a little bit like bridges between the four big elements. I looked into Korean philosophy and found out that there are not just four trigrams, but eight trigrams. The others are thunder, wind, lake, and mountain. So, the album is built over these eight trigrams, and the philosophy is the unity of all opposites. And also, the only principle is the principle of change—which is also from Chinese Taoism. The album is called Queen of Spring because, as I understand it with my Western mindset, you have to go through a full circle of these heavy elements—and some of them are challenging and some of them are beautiful—and then you purify, and the next time you play the circle, it will have changed and you will have elevated your understanding and your level of enlightenment. I just like the way the album, and the way we have planned the eight tracks, sort of transforms your inner emotional state. What do you want listeners to take away or experience from your music? I want them to feel the change. I want them to feel the elevation. It is an exploration of how you can tell stories in sound. And, I think the Asian-European narrative is not that known. I also think we have other stories or other nuances to tell than the Asian-American community, and I think that we can interact with each other and inspire each other. I’m from the North, from Denmark and Scandinavia, and I’ve also spent a lot of time on the Faroe Islands, which is a very small group of islands north of Scotland, just before Iceland. The Faroese culture tells me very much about old historical roots. It tells a story just in how they are, how the culture is about how it was before in other Scandinavian countries. So, I hope that the listener will try to connect to all these historical movements that we have tied together in a new sort of story. I also hope they will get inspired to think about their own heritage—it’s not just about ethnicity or different continents coming together, it can be just the meeting of any two cultures. It can also just be your mother’s line and your father’s line and how they’re different and how they influence who you are. What advice do you have for aspiring musicians? First of all, I think that they should believe in their own expression, and insist on their own expression. Find playmates, soulmates that they really enjoy spending time with. I think communication outside the music is very important as well. Because, you can have different opinions on genre, and you can have different musical inspirations, but if you can understand each other on that existential level, then it can really be a benefit. So, the communication also means to me that you are able to translate your ideas and thoughts, and understand them, of course. I have tried to be very mindful about what I wanted to tell, and I wanted to build something new. I wanted to build a new line of stories, and I think it’s also very cool if you just want to spread good vibes or party or be the coolest person in the room. I just think you have to be honest. It is some kind of change you want to create, because when people press play on your music, it immediately affects the body and the brain. So yeah, just some kind of honesty. Be honest with yourself. How do you feel when you perform your music? Do you still get nervous from time to time? I try to stay open to that particular evening and that particular audience. Also, our own states. Because then every concert feels different when you perform it. I also try to have a rooted connection to what each song wants to express, and it’s a lifelong rehearsal to do that, to be that medium, to step aside and be an instrument for that story to tell itself. I try to be as good as I possibly can on my instruments. I think a lot about what I want to say between songs, and how I can compose the concert as a whole. If I stay focused, I don’t get nervous. I just get excited. It’s a good thing, because then the energy rises and you have something to send out. A big congratulations to Mai, who was nominated for the Danish Music Critic’s Award “Steppeulven 2022″ as the first Asian Female leadperson/frontperson in a band ever in the category "Hope of the Year."

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

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

Foundation 649 is a nonprofit focused on providing college scholarship opportunities to Asian American and Pacific Islander students across the nation. Scholarship applications for 2022 are now open! To apply: For more information visit their website or email team@foundation649.com.

In her daring and confrontational artwork, An Laurence Higgins explores transnational identity as an adoptee of Chinese origin. “My teacher once told me that I should not go into music because it’s a very hard life, and I was almost convinced that I was not going to lead my life as an artist,” says An Laurence Higgins, 安媛, from her flat in Montreal, Canada. “I could give everything up tomorrow and very easily, do a degree in whatever, but to not be able to do Music would be very depressing,” says the Canadian musician, performance artist and guitarist. An Laurence recalls the hesitation she had before deciding to pursue a degree in music: “I was never afraid of not being able to see what to do with my life. So, it was always in my mindset that if music doesn’t work out then I just do something else.” “I was not very confident about my skills. And, in Quebec, it was pretty affordable to just reorientate yourself.” However, when she started to play music when she was 12, she found a love for it. “I always was a very introspective person even as a child and I feel like music was really helping me to cope with loneliness and not being able to connect so much with a lot of people around me. I was able to really dive into the music I was listening to.” She also describes how she started to play guitar because she wanted to play “electric bass in rock bands.” Now, An Laurence is a specialist in new and experimental music whose works often address human relationships, memory and transnational identity. She says, “New music is a dissonant branch of classical music, of contemporary music. In the 20th century, there were a lot of experiments around classical music as a performance, in visual art or some other form.” For An Laurence, sometimes she uses visuals or electronics to make different narratives of music. She tells me she also likes to collaborate with other artists. “I like to enter into the dialogue with other artists and to find common points that we share, that we can recognise ourselves in,” she says. As a Chinese adoptee, she was brought to Canada by a French-Canadian couple when she was very young. Her transnational identity has since played a significant part in her works. In 2018, she created a multimedia installation “Confidences en trois temps” and in 2021, the interactive performance “Approchez, je vous raconterai ce que j’ai oublié/Come Closer, I’ll tell you what I forgot.” In “Come Closer, I’ll tell you what I forgot,” which is the latest performative installation that An Laurence has done, she shared monologues about her birth, her mother’s struggles due to China’s birth planning policy, and how she was finally given up by her mother due to pressure from her in-laws to have a son. An Laurence remembers the disconnection she had when producing this piece: “It was a question I had when I started working on it as I had already been doing research on it for about a year and a half talking about adoption. But it was not really associated with the story of adoption, I felt that there was a strong disconnection between when I was talking about my own adoption or just adoption in general; I felt I was talking about something else.” She added: “There was no music in the performance because I didn’t feel like any music would belong there.” An Laurence also recounts the struggles she had in telling a personal story she had no traces of. “When I started working on this project, my research project question was ‘how can we or how can I relate to a story that I don’t remember, that I don’t have traces of?'" “And I had no idea how to answer this question.” After reading a book in which real accounts of adoption were documented, An Laurence suddenly felt a connection. “When I was reading them, it was, for me, really, really strong, because it was the first time I ever felt a feeling of belonging. Before, my birth parents were just concepts; they were not really people in my mind.” When she read the stories about other people who were adopted just like her, An Laurence felt that her birth and her birth parents were real. “It could not have happened any other way. When I was reading them, I kind of found an answer.” Therefore, in this multimedia piece "Come Closer, let me tell you what I forgot," An Laurence depicted a very original story behind its very interactive components. “I wanted also to create a relationship with the public, and also I was a bit confrontational.” If it wasn’t for COVID-19 where social distancing must be followed, An Laurence says she would have invited people to come into a space and sit around a table. She says: “Every time a person would sit in front of me, I would start telling this story of adoption. It would be a different story every time a different person sits. “So, all of those stories are adapted from stories I’ve read from the books. And the idea there is that I’m not telling my personal story but I’m embodying the room, a collective narrative that belongs to all of us.” Now, as an avid collaborator, An Laurence collaborates with artists of various disciplines, and thrives in settings that stretch the limits of traditional music performance. Her performance style ranges from contemporary classical to electronic music, as well as spoken works and sung performances. An Laurence along with Annie Tong Zhou Lafrance have also launched a 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). You can read more about how to get a copy here.

The Universal Asian had the privilege of interviewing Moses Farrow as he shared his adoption story, surviving an abusive and chaotic adoptive home, and his journey to becoming an advocate for mental health, more adoptee research, and the telling of adoptee stories to maintain a living history of the adoptee experience. Moses Farrow was born in South Korea with cerebral palsy. He believes this is telling of the condition and situation that his birth mother must have been in during her pregnancy and his birth. At about 2 years old, Farrow was adopted into his high-profile family—though at the time his adoptive mother was recently divorced—as the youngest of seven children in the house but the first to be adopted into the family. His adoptive mother would later adopt another seven, mostly disabled, younger children over the years. Most of his early childhood memories are centered around physical and speech therapies to address his disability. This created in Farrow a need for control and ownership, especially over his own body. He struggled to accept that he couldn’t musically or athletically join in with his older siblings or peers. Still, he said he was fortunate enough to not feel that he suffered from teasing or ridicule at school, though he felt his challenges internally. This lack of confidence was further exacerbated by the abuse he experienced at home. He described growing up in a New York City apartment with his seven other siblings, who were all a wide range of ages, as being chaotic where everyone shared rooms and spaces. Underneath the hubbub of life was a growing sense of fear and anxiety for Farrow as he grew older and gained more independence with his disability. He shared that he was constantly having to be on high alert as to when he might get yelled at, in trouble for some unknown offense, and blamed for things. He worried about what might be said or what he had unwittingly said. Initially, he thought this was a normal way to live. One early memory, Farrow recalled, was when he was about 5 and was abruptly awakened by his adoptive mother dragging him to her bathroom accusing him of taking her pills despite his half dazed denials. He second-guessed his own denials and received the punishment of a bar of soap in his mouth for an unknown period of time until his adoptive mother decided it was enough for him to go back to bed. Another example Farrow gave was when he was playing with a Speak & Spell and the sound became garbled. He took it to his adoptive mother, and she immediately blamed him for breaking it. “The next thing I know, I’m laying across her lap getting spanked. It was just a switch; from playing, bringing it to my mom to find out what’s up with it, and the next thing I know there is screaming and crying and getting blamed for it.” In the end, he found out that all it needed was a new battery. While independently these examples may seem benign, the consistency of such behavior took a toll as he felt the environment was always unsafe and unstable. Although some are able to survive these kinds of situations, like Farrow has, there are others who do not. Within Farrow’s own family, the lack of safety and trauma experienced was unbearable for three of his adopted siblings, who are recorded to have been lost due to suicide or suicidal decisions. Because he was (still is) estranged from his adoptive mother’s side of the family, which includes many of his adopted siblings, Farrow sadly acknowledged that it still weighs heavily on him that he was not there for them as an older brother. Despite the difficulty and stigma around suicide, Farrow believes that it is important to talk about it and address the pain. He admitted that there have been points in his life where he also felt suicidal. Farrow believes that although one could argue that anyone who is raised in an abusive home can feel tremendous isolation and loneliness, which are often the catalyst for a suicide victim, he also emphasized the additional weight of adoption trauma. “You can’t undo lived experiences. You can’t undo relinquishment. You can’t undo a forced separation. You can’t undo something that might have happened to you during pregnancy.” Adding on to the trauma of adoption, abuse and external lack of validations are pieces that challenge the survival of adoptees. Farrow feels it is important to understand that “too many of us wonder what is wrong with me, and am I really to blame?” and that there is more to the overall context than just the individual. Farrow expressed that adoption itself stems from a series of losses that causes trauma to the adoptee that moves beyond just needing to survive, so his own experience is multilayered with the chaotic nature of his adoptive home. When he became a young adult, Farrow was able to make a change for himself. He was asked by an adviser, “Who is Moses?” This started him on his journey to self-discovery and created his ability to live fully rather than react to life passing by. He had to deactivate the survival instincts, or fear of threats, that he had developed, and learn to feel safe within himself and his social environment. To achieve this, he had to change his physical environment, which included distancing himself from his family. Farrow found friends who offered support and care. These friends became like family, which led him to redefine what family is. He also has a renewed relationship with his adoptive father that he still maintains. This change provided him with examples of love, compassion, and what it means to trust; thereby giving him a new perspective where he has been able to find emotional security and safety. He shared that it is still a constant exercise and effort to be aware of his past and of the activation points that set him off as a reaction against the imprinted traumas of his childhood. Furthermore, he found a way to survive by discovering a sense of purpose and giving back to the greater good so as not to give in to the personal suffering and weight of his own pain. Still, he shared that he continues to struggle with confidence, but a Ted Talk by Kristen Neff on self-compassion gave him inspiration to continue on his journey toward healing and advocacy. According to Farrow, there needs to be a stronger understanding of what it means to be adopted and about the types of adoptions. In other words: “Is a child abducted and adopted? Or, is a child trafficked and adopted? Is the relinquishment forced and then adopted? More research is needed around adoption origin stories.” He believes there will continue to be more interest, funding, and information available as more adoptees’ stories come out and are talked about. Farrow left us with this message: “We need to come together and have these platforms to acknowledge amongst ourselves our unique but shared experiences of being adopted. It is important to have these spaces as modern day historians to record our experiences as more children continue to be adopted so that we can continue to move forward and change the trajectory of experiences. No matter where one is on their own journey, whether a positive one or not, all that matters is that we have a historical record. The more that we share our stories, the more accurate a picture we create so that we know how to shift the conversations, adjust the adoption experience, and avoid repeating previous mistakes.” Everything in his life has culminated into now and what he can uniquely offer. As such, Farrow actively advocates for human rights, suicide prevention, and mental health. He is dedicating his life to raising awareness and representing the voices of those who are no longer with us.

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

In a place plagued by drought, the Wild West is where only the bravest would dare to tame nature. Only those with the most courageous and unbreakable spirits can adapt to thrive there. People made of resilience and emboldened with purpose. People like Kristyn, a California farmer looking to sow the seeds of education, with literal seeds. Her dream to one day have control over food access and supporting Asian American farmers, is one that she is making a reality as you read this. I have to admit, when I imagined how this interview would go prior to meeting the Namu Farm founder, I didn’t anticipate the rebel spirit behind the person I was sitting down with. Her life experience and fortitude extend beyond her years. Her mission couldn’t be clearer as she says: “Being in white areas can feel very isolating, and can be hard, psychologically, and emotionally, to deal with how communities of color have been pushed out. And, the ability to have land—I see this shifting more, and understanding this—is part of our shared history. And, erasing the contributions that our community has been responsible for helping to create, we’ve become invisible.” One of Kristyn’s recollections of her earlier years working on other farms was that she got to a point where it became obvious there was a disconnect from the vegetables she saw at farmers’ markets. She remarks on how they didn’t seem to be reflecting the communities that she was surrounded by—catering more toward the perceptions of who a farmers’ market is for. Fortunately, there were many Asian American chefs in the Bay area interested in having access to organic produce. So, Kristyn started her side project of growing primarily Korean vegetables. “Korean ingredients don’t have a good substitute. It’s something very special to speak to that relationship when something is distinctly ours. As immigrants, people were resourceful and traveled with different seeds because there wasn’t anything similar,” she explained. Kristyn shared that she’s putting most of her energy into seed preservation, and ways that she can gain access to seeds and ensure that they’re kept within loving and respectful environments. Her focus is on trials and breeding for seed production and seed banking. Up until now most seed banking has been held by governments that are only concerned about crude data and the utility of potential breeding schemes. “If you look at places that have had wars or civil unrest, governments go to take seeds from those places. But that often doesn’t show cultural diversity. It shows a narrowness to those whose tastes are being catered to.” She went on to explain that her hope is to be able to strengthen the narrative and bolster economic channels. “Reclaiming our culture through food.” Namu Farm was manifested into existence out of pure love. When I asked Kristyn what made her decide that farming was her passion, she explained that at an early age she recognized how valuable this skill was—a way to have the means to make sure that the people she loves are taken care of. For her, that meant tapping into the most primal of needs—food. She admitted that she wasn’t strategic about the long term when she was younger, and that she has found that a lot of her progress has felt accidental in very serendipitous ways. Finding that many of these opportunities were simply connections she’s become aligned with while riding a current that’s lead her to communities of many other young Asian American farmers who are returning to agriculture. Kristyn herself confirmed that the people who have been most responsive to the success of her farm thriving have been people around her own age that are wanting to teach their children about these traditional Korean foods. One of the biggest challenges that requires regular adaptation to is drought. “It’s not so much a drought, so much as a constant state of being,” she laughed. Heat and dry conditions have been the central stressors working on a farm. Soil management and finding natural ways to reduce tillage have remained an ongoing focus. Kristyn explained that they use earthworms to create pathways through the soil to mimic tilling. Namu Farms has also utilized natural farming methods from Korea and East Asia in order to disturb the soil less, and operates using the elegance that eco systems do. Endless hours are devoted simply to the time spent calibrating to the surroundings. However, the rewards are far greater than the struggle. Kristyn’s connections throughout the years have created some of the most meaningful partnerships. Namu, a restaurant in San Francisco, buys produce to use in their modern and creative eatery. She describes their food as being able to feel both new and very old by not only looking to the past to take cues about what makes us Korean, but giving the latitude to move forward, evolve, and reinvent those traditions. “Chefs provide such an amazing platform. The rise in food culture is this glamorous thing, and chefs are powerful storytellers. It means a lot in terms of farms trying to diversify,” she said. It has been incredible to learn how many different channels there are linking us to food and the history and stories behind what makes Namu Farm so vital. Not only is this a retreat to learn about plants, culture, and the effects of climate change, but it’s also become a place where children and families can find a real sense of collective ownership of. Kristyn holds community events and programs sharing about food and cooking. She shared: “In these moments when we’re experiencing this trauma, talking about food builds trust so quickly and also gives us something to talk about. In this climate where there’s been this really, kind of noxious narrative and contempt toward Asian communities, that’s always been here historically, but for kids to find these inroads of being really proud and recognizing that these stories are linked to ancestral wisdom. There’s a sense of collectivism and accountability moving forward. It’s hopeful for young people to be saturated in a positive narrative, and [they] can have this solid footing in being proud of their culture and their food.” Namu Farm: https://www.secondgenerationseeds.com/

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

Studio ATAO has started their end-of-year fundraising efforts to support their 2022 initiative, "The Neighborhood’s Table," that aims to combat gentrification by creating a responsible development framework for hospitality businesses in gentrifying areas to combat displacement and sustainably invest in their community. Their goal is to raise USD 20K so they can properly apply their methodology to this initiative, equitably compensate their advisors and group participants, and appropriately allocate the internal resources needed to reach multiple communities in the U.S. If you would like to donate, visit https://bit.ly/theneighborhoodstable. If you’re unfamiliar with Studio ATAO, they are a 501(c)3 nonprofit that creates educational tools, resources, and spaces for individuals and organizations to advance systems-based change through a social justice lens and the all-affected principle. You can read more about their work on their website.