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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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