There is something quaint and yet so familiar in sitting at a local bar in a small provincial Italian town where I do not speak nor understand more than a few basic phrases, and yet I can imagine the conversations and sentiments of those sitting around us. A table of four old, weathered men playing cards in a game similar to Hearts brings about a heated conversation between partners that one does not need to speak the language to understand the losing pair is upset by each other’s method of play. All of this brings a smile and a deep sense of joy within. The world may be divided by language, culture, and country, but the fact is that people are people and so much the same—no matter where they grow up or call their ‘country’. It makes me consider my own sense of connection to the world. I was born in Korea and raised in America. Yet, neither make me feel as if I belong. However, when I sit in strange lands where I can barely communicate with words, I find a sense of peace in the gestures, eye contact and facial expressions that can say everything that needs to be said without aural expression. I love to wander back streets and see what the “locals” do and how they live. The truth is that it is simpler for me being a stranger in a truly strange land (to me). There’s no confusion about where I belong or to which culture I identify with. Instead, the human-to-human connection is what gives me a sense of belonging. To make eye contact with a smile lets me know that I am part of this world. I am seen. I am understood. I belong right here, right now—in this or that moment. What else is there, really? Many have questioned my lack of interest in returning to my adoptive country. Some assume that I would want to return to my land of birth. I love being American and all the ideals that are attached to calling myself so. However, I was born in a country that holds my heritage and blood history. Yet, I don’t speak my mother tongue (and probably first language) nor could I easily slip into a world where I could confidently call myself Korean. So, it’s a strange juxtaposition that must constantly be negotiated for definition each time I speak to someone new or settle in a different place. Therefore, being an expat has made the requisite explanations easier to justify or push aside in some ways. This is not to say that I don’t have my frustrations of being asked “Where are you from?” Followed by, “No, where are you really from?” The difference is that I can blame the persistent questions on lack of world exposure or use my "white privilege" to chalk it up to a lack of education. If I were being asked the same questions by my fellow Americans, I would add to my eye-rolling judgment disdain and rage for their ignorance that I am not deceiving them about claiming to be a fellow American. If I were being asked in Korea, I would feel embarrassment or discomfort in the fact that I was born there but not really from there pushing back any underlying disappointment in being a result of a society’s inability to accept unwed mothers so that they can keep their children close. Still, people are people. It’s only me who does not stay put as I wander the world trying to find where I can finally rest and enter the flow of society as one of the crowd. My mother once said to me that there is a selfishness to expats. They leave loved ones behind for their own desires. I am not sure if she meant it as a criticism or a neutral observation, but she wasn’t the only person to tell me this. A childhood best friend also lamented in an email argument some years ago about how I had left her behind without seemingly caring that she had to struggle early adulthood minus a kindred spirit. I do not deny their sentiments as truths nor dismiss their feelings of being ignored or left behind. However, I do argue that there is a selfishness in their perspective as well in that they believe(d) I felt comfortable and content in their kind of world. A world of convention, tradition, and consistency was removed from my future when I was given up for adoption, sent overseas, and thrown unwittingly into a system that would introduce me to abuse, further abandonment, and a struggle for acceptance that I would “belong” to any one family before I had lived eight short years of life. So, while I might have appeared on the outside to fit in. I never did on the inside. Thus, I continue to wander the world. I do not do it alone nor with discontent. In fact, I often feel closer to those with whom I cannot communicate than with those who have known me as an adopted person. In foreign lands, I can be whomever I want to be. My identity does not need to be neatly wrapped up in a box for other’s comfort. Instead, I can be me. I can focus on what is important to me, which is having a human connection to others and finding the commonality of our spirits. When an understood smile is passed in a shared experience that did not require any other form of communication, I renew my faith in individuals, societies, and the world. Indeed, I feel free. I feel I belong as a person, as a global citizen, as a universal Asian.

Mike Talplacido is a Filipino freelance writer and a podcast host based in North Carolina. He enjoys cooking, gardening, hanging out with his two basset hounds, raising backyard chickens, and of course, pop culture! His writing has been published by Moments Between and Queer Southeast Asia. He recently published a book called “Kiss My Mike.” Talplacido decided to publish his book because he felt like there’s not a lot of Filipino-American LGBTQ stories out there, and believes it’s about time we hear about the often unheard Filipino voices and stories. More About Mike Talplacido Born and raised in the Philippines, Mike Talplacido grew up fantasizing about the United States. From famous landmarks to historical events, to pop culture—Mike was obsessed with it all. Aside from belting out hits from divas like Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey, binge-watching "Beverly Hills 90210" on TV, and idolizing Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts, Mike’s obsession with watching the Miss Universe pageant year after year caused him to be teased bakla or gay, mostly by his male cousins. As he went through puberty and adolescence, he started questioning his sexual identity. He had a girl crush named Andie in high school, but also found Luke Perry and Keanu Reeves both attractive. As Mike transitioned into adulthood, he discovered a lot more about his sexuality. Additionally, his dreams of moving to America became a reality when he turned 23. Two years later, Talplacido came out of the closet and accepted his gay identity. He then spent the next few years of his life navigating the complex world of being gay in America. Along with that, he went through a series of ups and downs related to his career, his dream of getting an MBA, his family drama and a whole whirlwind of gay sex and pursuit of love, romance, and long-lasting relationships. About “Kiss My Mike” ​"Kiss My Mike" is a memoir about Mike Talplacido’s life as a gay Filipino immigrant in America. It’s a story about navigating sexuality and racial identity, interwoven with the pursuit of the American dream, the pressures of a religious Catholic family, and the ultimate quest for love and acceptance. The book shares about the fabulous but sometimes ordinary adventures of a gay Asian in America. "Kiss My Mike" is like "Sex and the City" but with a Gaysian flavor! And, in a typical Carrie Bradshaw fashion, the question is, will the story end with a happy ending or will it end up with Mike becoming a male version of a cat-lady? You can find out more info about Mike by checking out his website or following him on Instagram.

When I first sat down with Tom Ko, he was already somewhat of a hero to me. We have stood side by side through many rallies. Fighting to bring awareness to the rise in anti-Asian hate crimes happening across the world since the pandemic hit. I had been introduced to him during the first Asians With Attitudes rally in Oakland, California, by Will Lex Ham. He’d been standing right beside me, and we didn’t know it; two strangers in a crowd who’d only known each other through Instagram. We started chatting and I discovered that he traveled to attend rallies just like me. What I didn’t know is that he was doing it while healing from his fourth brain surgery. ​Tom’s very first rally was in Los Angeles, California for They Can’t Burn Us All. He showed up on September 5th, 2020, in McArthur Park, to stand against hate and march the two-mile route, in 108°F heat. A mere six months after undergoing brain surgery to repair a cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) leak. This surgery was the fourth, the first took place in 2000, when he’d been diagnosed with a pituitary adenoma (a tumor located at the base of his skull). ​Let’s rewind to six months earlier: Tom is recovering at home in March 2020. He has ample amounts of time to check out COVID-related information on the news. But, all he ends up seeing are cases starting to be reported of violent attacks against a community of people that look like him. That’s when he made the decision to get active online. Combing through social media he was desperate to find anybody speaking up about this increasing issue. Then, like the universe was answering, a video was posted of a group of people marching through the streets of New York City, holding up signs reading, “Stop Asian Hate,” and yelling chants lead by Will Lex Ham (one of the founders of They Can’t Burn Us All) holding a megaphone. That’s when he felt the call to action. And, he responded. “I thought, I have to do it before I die, before this life is done, there’s no choice, I must,” Tom explains. ​So, he got active. Now, when attending rallies, he can be identified by the two flags he flies, side by side on the same pole: one Vietnamese, one South Korean. The two cultures in him were brought together during a time of war. It seems fitting, then, that it would be coded in his DNA to stand and fight when a battle’s happening all around us. ​Tom was born the last year of the Vietnam War, in Saigon. His biological father was a South Korean soldier stationed there fighting for the allied forces. That’s when he met Tom’s Vietnamese mother. They were only together for a short time before the chaos of war separated them. Believed to have been relocated to a different station, Tom’s mother had no other choice but to flee from Vietnam with her two children. Tom’s brother who was three, and Tom, who was three months old at the time. They arrived in Seoul, South Korea, as refugees—his mother not knowing the language, with two small children to feed and no money. "I consider her the strongest, bravest woman ever. By the simple fact [of] what she did in my childhood years. She survived war. Taking these two children under her arms and getting the fuck out of war-stricken Vietnam. And going into a foreign country and surviving. So, I give her kudos for all of her strength." The family struggled for years, but were fated to end up living a life far from Korea. Stationed in Seoul at the time, Tom’s adoptive father was a career military man from Logansport, Indiana. He had been fighting in wars since he first stormed the beaches of Normandy at the age of 17. He’d then gone on to fight in the Korean and Vietnam Wars, as well as conflicts in the Middle East and Saudi Arabia. "I have that sort of influence of my dad and his stories that he told me about World War II. And just how much pride I had in my white dad and how much I respected him for what he’s gone through." When Tom was 7 or 8, he moved with his new father, mother, and brother across the sea to America, where they settled in Seattle, Washington. "I think it was because of all of his experience in war and everything that he’d seen in war, and the atrocities and death. I think he scooped us up because it was sort of later on in his life, and he wanted to save some innocence from war. And, he just happened to meet my mom and these two kids that really needed help." When speaking to Tom, you can hear the admiration he has for his dad. The two remained close even after his parents divorced during his high school years. Sadly, Tom’s father passed away in 2010 after a battle with cancer. He recalls the exact moment after his father’s death, that he felt the very profound separation from that side of his life. "I was in Indiana for his funeral, and I remember this thought, or I kind of felt like my connection to the white world has ended. I just noticed it, not just because I wasn’t hanging out with my friends that were white. I think that was the beginning of me reconciling things about my Asian heritage and feeling like, I guess I need to connect back with MY heritage now. He’ll always be my father and I’ll never forget that, but the connection was severed." ​Tom explains that he felt a sort of freedom within this realization. He’s began peeling away some of the psychological layers of his white-worshiping conditioning. He explains to me that the more layers he peels away, the more he’s being attracted to his cultures. Also, the more he’s growing in his identity, he’s having trouble not feeling the division between himself and the white relationships he has in his life, especially since the rise in hate crimes toward the Asian community began. Tom isn’t the only one who’s felt the silence of his white family, friends, and co-workers, placing an invisible divide in our relationships. "For those Asians that were raised by white parents, it’s our conditioning our whole lives, and the whole stereotype of being a banana, it’s kind of true. We’re kind of white people inside, because we were raised by white people, and that’s why. That’s the definition. But we’re adults now, and we’re confronting that reality. So, yes, we do have that conflict inside. But we don’t need to feel guilty about their discomfort. Their discomfort has been put on a pedestal forever and ours has been minimized, not even addressed, forever. It’s time for us to actually amplify our discomfort. Sorry for your discomfort, we’re amplifying ours right now." ​Amplifying our discomfort isn’t something Tom’s a stranger to. He’s been fighting hard to raise awareness at his place of work, relentlessly pushing important issues on education about how cases of racism should be handled in the workplace while accomplishing the task of having Anti-Asian Hate awareness banners hung up. For anyone who works for a large company, you’ll know the huge accomplishment this is. Tom plans to keep working toward progress. He’s found his true calling during one of the darkest time’s he’s lived through. ​“Awareness ripples out from one person’s actions. I believe.” ​During my time chatting with Tom, I often felt overwhelmed by the all the struggles, trials, and obstacles he’s had to overcome to get to where he is today. He’s survived a life that is something out of a movie or a novel. The only thing that could possibly be left is a twist ending. ​Tom received a phone call one day. The voice on the other end of the line was a South Korean investigator who specialized in reuniting families. He disclosed that Tom’s biological father had hired him, and that he’d been searching for him his entire life. Since then, Tom has opened communication with him. This has ultimately bravely opened himself up to finally connect with all of who he is. ​He’s a warrior, he’s an artist, he’s a survivor, he’s an activist. He’s Tom Ko the Hybrid.

This piece originally appeared in the now-defunct Gazillion Voices in August 2014 when the writer was in her fifth year of living in Seoul. It has been updated seven years later in August 2021, four and a half years after leaving Seoul, to reflect the passage of time etc. The image above is from Holt Heritage Camp at Camp Lane in Oregon 1986. Stacey, Kim, and Tara are seated fourth row up; second, third, fourth in from the left. I carry with me a bundle of letters. A bundle of letters that I have carried with me every place I have lived in this world—from Lake Worth to London to Mittersill to Vilnius to Minneapolis to Seoul to Portland and to every city/country in between. In this bundle, which I always keep in a place so that if there is a fire I can save them, are letters from Tara Bilyeu Footner. Tara and I met when we were 9 and attending Holt Heritage Camp in Oregon for the first time in the summer of '86. We became lifelong pen pals, and I would dare to say, some 36 years later, we are lifelong friends. When I am asked about my experiences at Holt camps, I cannot speak about them without first mentioning my friendship with Tara, and when I think of Tara I think of Stacey. The three of us all met that summer at camp, and though sometimes months, or even years, can elapse in between, we are still in contact. I value this, and I always will. The first thing that comes to mind when I recall Holt Heritage camp is the friendships. My friendship and correspondence with Tara as we were growing up kept me from feeling so isolated. To know as I wrote her in Oregon from my home in Florida about things such as what it would be like to meet my “birth mother” or what she felt when she thought of her “birth mother” or being adopted…to know that I was not alone in my thoughts/feelings helped me to not only keep sane, but to be honest, it probably at times helped to keep me alive. And so, yes, I do have Holt Heritage Camp to thank for this. My memories of attending camp are nothing but happy and pleasant ones. I first attended at the age of 9 when Holt Heritage Camp was held at Camp Lane in Oregon, and then was a camper when it was at Camp Harlow in Eugene when I was 12. I returned as a counselor in ’94, just days after graduating from high school. I loved my camp counselors—Monica and Julie Mayberry—I loved being a counselor to my cabin of the “8-Non-Blondes,” I loved the friendships, and I loved being around faces that looked like my own. I am amongst the few 200,000 Korean adoptees who can say that not only have I seen Susan Cox dressed up as a giant crawdad, but I have been “anointed” by Susan Cox dressed up as said crawdad for being one of that summer’s good or best campers. I am of the generation of Holt campers in Oregon who crushed out on Chris Linn and John Bae. I was like so many campers who go away from their first experience at a Holt camp saying things like: “I never knew that Korean boys were so cute”; “I feel prouder of being Korean/Cambodian/Indian/etc. than before camp”; “I’ve never had any friends who were adoptees before. I’m going to miss everyone”; and…“I realize how lucky I was to be adopted.” And this is where the genuine sweetness of memory pauses for me as an adult. This is when the other reality of my life kicks in…when the me that is here now, who until my late 20s still identified as “white on the inside, yellow on the outside”; who spent eight years living in Seoul; who has dealt with Holt Korea and other adoption agencies in Seoul and Daegu and seen and experienced first-hand how corrupt their practices are; who was directly lied to by the adoptee search case worker at Holt Korea and was called “a bitter and ungrateful adoptee” by her when I asked for my umma’s name and address… It is then that I view my experiences at camp in a different light. Not in a “bitter” light, but in the light of one who can both appreciate the goodness of an experience and still analyze and critique exactly what it was I was experiencing. I have my bundle of letters, my very sweet memories, and my very dear friendships—all of which I will always be grateful for, all of which I will always cherish. But now, I also have my realizations and experiences as an adult who is engaged in her identity as a queer Korean-American-adoptee. These realizations and experiences do not taint what I cherish. Instead, they help me understand the importance of loving a moment for what it was whilst still being able to critique that moment for what it was. I am now able to tell my story of my experiences at Holt Heritage camps in a more complete manner. When I made kimchi with my 할머니 in the way that she learned from her mother and her mother learned from hers in the hanok that three generations of my family lived and grew up in, I was reminded of how Holt told us in “Korean Cooking Class” at camp that kimchi is made by digging a hole and burying the head of cabbage in the hole for months. No one spoke of the kimchi 온기 (clay pots). No one spoke of the fact that these days you’re more likely to just make it in your kitchen or that you’ll just go to Hanaro or Hyundai department store and buy it, store it in plastic kimchi containers, and stick it in a kimchi fridge. It would be when I was out in Seoul with friends, and on the very rare occasion would order bulgogi and grill it, or had it served on a hot stone platter, that I would be reminded of how we were told in cooking class that “all” Koreans eat bulgogi almost every day and that they eat it cold. I asked my good Korean national friend about this when we were hanging out one night in Seoul, if eating bulgogi like this was some kind of “old-fashioned practice,” to which she responded, with a rather horrified look on her face: “NO! Who told you that? That’s disgusting. Is that what people do in America?” It was when I would find myself in Insadong with someone who was visiting and I would see the hanji (traditional Korean paper made from mulberry bark), that I was reminded that in “Korean Arts and Crafts Class” at camp we were told that basically mulching shreds of newspaper and other scraps of paper in a blender was akin to hanji. It was when I NEVER once saw a circle of children dancing in hanboks to the traditional Korean song of "Arirang" in all my years in Seoul and exploring the nooks and crannies of Korea that I would be reminded of how we were taught this song and dance at camp and were told that this is what children did in Korea—with the implication that this was a pretty regular occurrence. All of which had created an image in my mind as a child, of a country filled with boys and girls in traditional garb dancing about in circles to "Arirang," pretending to fill their imaginary baskets with flowers pretty much non-stop. Instead, what I would see as I walked to my local GS25 편의점 were children running, screaming, and kicking soccer balls or riding their bikes up and down the side streets, whilst the latest song by YG Entertainment’s latest sensation blasted from the 편의점. To be fair, all of these bits of misinformation could be written off as minor cultural mistakes that anyone could make from having read poorly researched tourist books written by authoritative white men one too many times. (Nonetheless, it is worth noting that to this day my friend, who told me about bulgogi not being eaten cold, remains horrified at the thought of heads of kimchi just being plonked in the ground to ferment in the dirt and feels that it’s really too bad that we were told such things. She would tell me that it was good that I lived in Korea so that I could “find out the truth.”) However, there were bigger truths about our Korean identity that were not just merely misconstrued, but omitted. Things like: the existence of yellow fever; the exotification of Asian women in the West; the demasculinization of Asian men in the West; the sexual, emotional, verbal, spiritual, and physical abuse that can happen in adoptive families; how addiction, depression, and suicide are very real issues in the adoptee community; LGBTQ+ identities; how our very bodies will develop and what we can expect; how attachment issues impact romantic and platonic relationships; how internalized racism is a very real thing; etc. Whatever the argument might be for these topics being too heavy for a week of fun at camp, if they were able to find the way to talk to us about our mothers giving us up and show us videos on how physical abuse occurred in privately-run Korean orphanages, thereby “making us even more fortunate to have been saved by Holt,” they could have found a way to give us the tools we would need to thrive in the predominantly white settings that most of us were growing up in. Witnessing the aging of my umma and my 할머니 reminded me how as a child I had never actually seen what my very body might begin to look like. I think back to when Stacey, Tara, and myself were 9 and mortified, as only 9-year-old girls in the States can be, at the thought of using the communal showers at Camp Lane. As we lay in our bunks, which spiraled up the walls of our cabin, we talked about this “shocking” revelation that our bodies were not going to develop like our adoptive moms. We spoke in serious, giggling whispers, about seeing one of the older female campers come out of the shower. “Can you believe she was ok showering without wearing a bathing suit?” we gasped. And then confiding in one another the even “scarier” realization, which was that our areolas were going to look a lot different than we’d ever seen before. “They’re sooooo big…and…brown,” we giggled before falling silent…and then one of us saying: “That’s not what my mom’s look like… are we going to look like that?” There are two ways to view this realization. One is that it was in some way sort of endearing and oddly beautiful, and that because of Holt camp we finally came into this all-important awareness. The other is this: what kind of way is it to grow up, where in 1986, when computers took up entire rooms and 24/7 access to information that the Internet provides did not exist, where by the age of 9 we had absolutely no clue as to what it looks like to be a 15 or 22 or 47 or 63 or 80-year-old Korean person? I have multiple ways of viewing my experiences at Holt Heritage camps. One is that I still carry all of Tara’s letters, and when Tara came to Seoul, we drank soju, and ate forms of gogi (meat) that far surpass the boring tourist cliché of bulgogi. We had a lot of great laughs talking about camp. We reminisced over how when we were 12 we got in trouble for excluding Stacey; how she was really sweet and funny, and we were probably little shits to her sometimes. How when we were 9 we salted the slug outside of the girls bathrooms; how we remembered the A-frame building at Camp Lane; the names of the “boyfriends” we had at camp; how we were so appalled at the thought of communal showers at the age of 9; how we loved Chris Linn; how so-and-so was such a little snob but we couldn’t remember why; how we have photos of Susan Cox dressed up like a crawdad; how we had so much fun doing this or that; how it would be great if one day Stacey, Tara, and myself could all meet up…how being a counselor was a very positive experience for me, and that the things we talked about as campers at 9 and 12 I heard my campers say to me when I was 18. And there is the other way, in which I remember being at camp and watching a video on orphanages in Korea and being told that if you aren’t adopted by 18, you are turned out of the orphanage; that most girls end up as prostitutes, usually in the seedy red light districts of Seoul, and then as prostitutes they would often end up pregnant and would abandon their children on Holt’s doorstep. I remember going home after camp and asking my adoptive mom with a sense of horror: “Is it possible that my ‘birth mother’ was a prostitute?” to which she replied: “Oh no…I’ve dreaded the day you would ask this.” I remember it being made very clear that we were VERY LUCKY to have been adopted, because well, we all know what happens after 18 to Korean orphan girls. I remember being told how lucky we were to not have grown up in Korea, how our lives were so much better. I remember understanding the importance of my being grateful for not having grown up in Korea. I remember that we were told our ummas gave us up because they loved us. I remember being told the “beautiful story” of how Harry and Bertha Holt saved all the “poor war babies,” and then over time, the rest of us…how Bertha Holt, aka “Grandma Holt,” would come to our last day of camp, usually dressed in hanbok, and she would hug us, and I just knew I owed my life to her. I do not recall anyone ever mentioning that “the war babies” were mainly mixed-race children who had been abandoned, along with their ummas, by their American GI fathers and by Korean society; that starting in 1945 when the U.S. military took over “comfort stations” in Korea all the way into the 1990s, the U.S. military and Korean government regulated prostitution in areas surrounding U.S. army bases to specifically service American soldiers. Not a word was mentioned about the known and proven fact that adoptions in the '60s, '70s, and early '80s often involved child brokers hired by Holt Korea and the other agencies, who would coerce women into giving up their children or would work with another member of the family to “kidnap” the child. No one ever said anything about how Korea, left desolate by the war, went through an economic recovery known as “The Miracle on the Han” during the early '50s and was far from a “bad place” to grow up. We were not told the truth that to this day 90% of ummas, who are pressured by agencies like Holt, Korean society, and their families into giving their children up for adoption, are single unwed mothers. Nothing was spoken about how Holt Korea, which is currently housed in a large shiny blue-tinted glass building paid for in part by the profits from the exporting of Korean children to the West, “just so happens” to be, and has for decades been, located at the top of a street that has long been known as one of the red light districts in Seoul. Susan Cox never warned us as campers or counselors that if you one day question Holt and its version of events you WILL be labeled as “bitter” and “ungrateful.” …And for me…for me…more importantly... What they didn’t tell me was that actually my umma had been housed in 1975 at one of Holt Korea’s “secret” single mother homes called “Capok”—a place that they still deny any real knowledge of in terms of what it functioned as, but that I can say for certainty what it was because SHE told me. What they didn’t tell me was that they told her this was her only option—that if she loved me she would give me up. What they didn’t tell me is that they unabashedly lied and said that my date of birth was unknown, when in reality the birthday they “assigned” to me was always my real birthday, and they always knew that because they were housing her at THEIR shelter for unwed pregnant mothers and at least one of them was with my umma the day that I was born, making sure she signed the paperwork to relinquish me. What they didn’t tell me is that she knowingly, with fully informed consent and intent, wrote her name and address so that if I ever wanted to find her I could. What they didn’t tell me was that she returned to Holt looking for me and all they would say was that I was gone. What they didn’t tell her is that Holt Korea and Holt International blatantly lied and told my family I was found abandoned on the doorstep of a hospital, and that they had no records of my umma’s name or address. What they didn’t tell her was that the name she very specifically and thoughtfully chose and gave to me as a sort of “blessing/protection,” they would claim to be some random name that they, Holt Korea, made up for me. What they didn’t tell her was that when I was growing up—during my late teens and 20s—I would regularly write Holt International asking for information, who would then in turn write Holt Korea on my behalf (or so they said), and they would always tell me that there wasn’t any. What they didn’t tell her was that I was always looking for her when she thought I had moved on. What they didn’t tell her is that her child would never forget her, that her daughter would always love her, that her daughter would one day turn heaven and earth upside down to find her, that post-reunion would just be a real bitch…that she would regret the decision that Holt Korea guided her into making as a young 21-year-old girl and that Holt International helped facilitate by brokering her daughter to a family in the States. What they didn’t tell us at camp is that chances were our mothers never wanted to give us up. They didn’t tell us that true love does not equate abandonment; that growing up in the rich white West isn’t better than growing up with your blood. They didn’t emphasize to us that there is NOTHING wrong with referring to your umma as your “real mom” or your “first mother” instead of as your “birth mother.” They didn’t mention that Holt Korea and Holt International work as separate entities, and Holt International, which for their 2020 Annual Report alone publicly declared 23,841,393 USD in total assets, will constantly try to wipe its hands clean of whatever run-around Holt Korea puts you through when you are searching. They did not explain that Holt International refuses to take responsibility for any unethical practices that Holt Korea may or may not have been involved in, and that neither corporation does any real work to promote family preservation in our motherland(s). In fact, they just never talked about the concept of family preservation at camp. They never assured us that questioning the practices of your agency doesn’t make you “bitter” or “ungrateful.” They never affirmed to us that you can truly LOVE your life and the people in it, but still question and call out practices that are corrupt, unethical, and for-profit. However, what they did tell us at camp was that the friendships we would make there would be important. I have a bundle of letters and 36 years of friendship to testify to just how right they were about that.

Play, search the stars, chase the clouds. It has taken millions of years to create that “reality suit” you are wearing. There is nothing on the earth like it. Respect it, explore it, use it. Yes, there is work. There is suffering. There is justice that needs pursuing, but rest, play and wonder. Lay on a hill, feel the synchronicity of all the world in motion and give yourself the gift of play. The things that mushroom will do. The things that mushroom will do to take the spotlight. Venture into the surreal with clouds so full and clear with a pink and gold confection. Flower Mountain with her head in the clouds Living among the Blue Ridge Mountains in Southwest Virginia, I am surrounded by overwhelming beauty every day. I have taken to cloud chasing. Welcome to the Fair Photos of the Salem Fair in Salem, Virginia. The clouds were everything. Cotton Candy Sky A little pink, a little perspective. Hot Round up When I was a teenager this was my favorite ride. Feeling the centrifugal force press me against the wall was the most comforting feeling. The Pink Tent We have so little time at the carnival. Give yourself time to play. All images and text by A.D. Herzel Image inquiries welcome! mailto: notyourkitty18@gmail.com / subject = Photo purchase https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/ad-herzel/shop

While researching this article, I came across countless headlines with a very similar ring to the one above.  Post after post were filled with other writers’ thoughts and viciously opposing opinions. Some spout that anti-Asian hate is being reported by Asian Olympic athletes’ such as karate champion Sakura Kakumai and gymnast Yul Moldauer. While others believe that holding the games in Tokyo as well as the amount of Asian representation in so many categories will surely lower the heightened level of discrimination still being experienced by the Asian community. Meanwhile, another article pointed out the harmful ways the media has often poorly represented the Asian athletes in the past, and therefore, dehumanizes an entire race. Words like “tiny, pint-sized, fragile, and delicate,” have been used to describe both males and females alike. A coach was quoted talking about Asian women’s “very little boobs, and tight hips.” A 16-year-old Olympic skater was nicknamed “China doll,” by journalists. Author of "Transnational Sport: Gender, Media, and Global Korea" Rachel Joo was quoted saying, “If we’re going to talk about bodies, let’s not generalize by race or nation.” I came across another piece from earlier Olympic reporting with a sub-headline that read, "American Outshines Kwan." Unsure how that connected with the Olympics, I clicked the link. This was my first time reading about the time the media previously made a huge oops after figure skater, Michelle Kwan, from California, lost the gold medal to a New Yorker named Sarah Hughes. As you can see, the headlines like this are problematic given both competitors were, in fact, American and continues even today. And, while the Internet can squabble among themselves, trying to speak over each other on how the Olympics will or won’t stop Asian hate, I simply want to say—none of it matters. Sure, there’s validity that the recent attacks will be affecting these athletes’ mentally. But, at the end of the day, this event isn’t going to erase racism. These athletes aren’t here as crusaders for this cause. They’re here to do what they’ve trained their whole lives for: kick some serious butt! I’m not someone who normally watches the Olympics. But, in the spirit of writing this, I decided to tune in for a while. I was fortunate enough to start watching just as the Team USA's gymnasts were beginning. My focus was immediately drawn to Sunisa Lee, a Hmong American from St. Paul, Minnesota, not because she was Asian, but because her performances in all her subdivisions were powerfully dynamic yet gave an illusion of effortlessness. Her body vaulted up into the air, flipped and twisted as her limbs remained tensed before her feet planted squarely on the blue mat, arms reflexively jetted upwards in a proud "V." As I watched her, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Maybe it was simply because I didn’t realize how powerful or beautiful gymnastics are. Or, maybe it was because, for one of the first times in my life, I was seeing this girl lighting up the screen in front of me, and I resembled her. And, although I’d never heard her name or laid eyes on her before this moment, I was overwhelmed with pride in her. Watching her, my face mirrored the faces of her family members, who would flash onto the screen, broadcasted from their home as the scores were waiting to be announced. All of Lee’s loved ones squashed together on every piece of furniture, smiling, and cheering, and crying, letting the world know that they were behind her all the way, supporting her with their whole hearts, a warmth that you could actually feel radiating through the screen. Every time Lee would twist into the air, and then nail the landing, my chest swelled with pride. Every time she’d walk off the mat smiling ear to ear, I beamed with joy and cried, as though her triumphs were saying to the entire planet, “Do I look weak to you?” Then, I watched Yul Moldauer, from Denver, Colorado. His gymnastics performance exhilarated me. His speed and proficiency executing strenuous maneuvers had me watching with my mouth gaping open as he spun his legs over and around the pommel horse with his arms straight and firm as they suspended his body while walking forward and back on his hands across the apparatus. Every subdivision he performed in had me straining at the edge of my seat as he would hold himself horizontally, his body in a perfectly straight line, as he gripped a gymnastic ring in each hand. The silver metal rings hanging from their own individual chains that attached to a high overhead bar. The feat seemed impossible. A magic trick. Then, he would flip his body a couple times before flinging himself up toward the ceiling and landing perfectly in one spot. His arms shot up above his head, hands clenched in prideful fists before he yelled out through a huge, satisfied smile. Every time they won, I felt like I was also winning. And, every moment you could see them feeling pride in themselves, it made me feel pride in myself. I felt proud to see their representation of all the strength, perseverance, and resilience the entire Asian American community has inside them. I felt proud I looked like them. I felt proud that finally, after Asians have been made to appear so weak over the last year and a half, we were able to show our strength—our fighting spirits and the power we have to move mountains. I felt proud to be Asian AND American, for the first time in a very long time. So, when I say, none of it matters—whether the Olympics will aid in stopping anti-Asian hate—what you should take away is, maybe it’s okay to not put our agendas on these athletes and Tokyo. Maybe it’s okay to simply let them do what they do, and in showing up, they’ve already won a huge battle. Our children will have people who look like them to look up to. Asian names will become more familiar to hear and see. People will gain more awareness to all the different range of ethnicities among the Asian population. Maybe, there is good that can be found, if everyone would just stop for one minute…and watch the Olympics.

We are pleased to introduce Dominic, Geoff, and Andrew in their own words on who they are and how the "4Bananas" Podcast came to be. Can you tell us a bit about who you all are? Dom: I’m Dominic, and I was born in Malaysia and grew up in Sydney, Australia. I’m a single child and an extrovert. You will often find me browsing OzBargain for a good deal or diving into one of my hobbies. Geoff: My name is Geoff. I’m a mechanical engineer graduate, started working in the tech consulting field, but eventually quit my job to pursue art full time. Why? Because I’m a weeb and just want to draw 2D waifus all day. Andrew: I’m Andrew and I’m an Asian-Australian that started the "4Bananas" Podcast as a hobby to express our views of living as an Asian within Australia. In my spare time, you can find me playing Genshin Impact and watching Netflix. How did you start the podcast? Andrew: So, the podcast came about as a spur of the moment idea one morning when trying to think of other hobbies to undertake that could be done even during lockdown. Having enjoyed some podcasts from Asian-Americans primarily during the COVID lockdown period, I thought it would be great to create a podcast focused on Asian-Australians. It would be a different view on Asian traditions and culture, and would allow people around the world to see what it was like growing up as an Asian-Australian. What is the aim behind this podcast? Dom: The aim of this podcast is to share our experiences of being Asian in a predominantly Western country whilst having a laugh along the way. Our episodes generally cover all aspects of life, but we try to focus on topics that Asian-Australians encounter throughout life, such as expectations from parents, celebration of the Lunar New Year, and the effects of technology. With the three of us being born overseas in Asia and brought up in Australia, we know many of our listeners have varying levels of connection with their heritage, and so we seek to empathise via our personal experiences. Combining these experiences with a healthy dash of interesting facts, we have learnt a lot, and we hope this podcast will broaden the perspectives of our listeners. What advice would you give to those who want to start their own podcast? Geoff: We had no idea what we were doing during Season 1 recording. We looked at other Asian podcast channels for research and inspiration. However, the process of putting the episode together was something we still had to work out. Throughout Season 1, it was mostly trial and error. However, there were a few things that definitely helped us reach a point where the process became super comfortable for the three of us. Shared vision: We all agreed on a vision for this podcast, which is to be light-hearted and fun. Therefore, when making an episode, we were all on the same page when creating content. Consistent schedule: All three of us are working full-time. A consistent schedule allowed us to commit to this podcast. Not to mention the unspoken accountability a consistent schedule brings. Right tools for the right job: I know I said the process was very trial and error, but even our trial and error had a process. We used Metro Retro and Trello (free online tools) to make incremental improvements to our process week by week. Correct equipment: This is obvious advice and a no-brainer. But, for our first episode we recorded the session with a laptop mic, thinking it was no big deal. It was a big deal and editing was a nightmare, the episode didn’t even sound nice post-edit. What are your general feelings towards the podcast right now after doing two seasons? Geoff: I joined this podcast because it seemed fun, but it has become an extremely interesting self-discovery experience for me. In the early stages of our podcast, we had a really hard time brainstorming ideas for episodes because we asked ourselves: “What is something Asians would do? What is something only Asians would understand?” But the truth is that we’re already Asian; whatever we did would 100% be relatable to others with upbringings similar to us. From that point on, I started discovering more about myself and how both Western and Asian cultures have influenced me. Living life day by day, my habits and superstitions were things I took for granted. But, each episode had me reflect on myself, how my past influenced who I am today, what I value in the present, and what I want to do in the future. Dom: Like many of the hobbies i dive into #seekdiscomfort, I enjoy the struggles of learning and the challenges that come with a new project. With the podcast, I’ve had consistent opportunities to play around with editing softwares and techniques, which compliment my other hobbies of videography and photography. Having social accounts for the podcast has also allowed me to have a creative outlet that otherwise would be almost non-existent. For me, the podcast is a voice to young Asian-Australians who might be going through or [are] yet to face challenges that I’ve already passed through. It is a voice and mentor that I wish I had when I was younger. Andrew: Creating this podcast was primarily a hobby for me, and it has been super fun throughout the past two seasons. Creating something from scratch has always brought excitement for me, and through this podcast I was able to have control over every aspect of the process. From recording and editing to social media creation and scriptwriting, each task has brought on its challenges, but has also exposed me to a new way of problem solving and communicating. The podcast has also allowed me to be more in touch with my Asian heritage, and it has been a great way to share my perspective with the world. I hope that listeners are able to learn something unique from this podcast and are able to embrace their Asian heritage as we live in a more globalised community. You can listen to "4Bananas" here. Follow on Instagram @4BananasPodcast.

First generation Chinese-American Henry Zhang shares his story in "Dragons on the Spectrum." After nearly being institutionalized for his rage—caused by people close to him claiming he had no future due to him being autistic with ADHD along with ableism prevalent in the AAPI community—Henry (Hen) Zhang got his life together with the help of an MMA gym that gave him a place to train in exchange for tech support, somebody he fell in love with—a classmate who taught him social skills—and a fellow martial artist who connected with him due to shared activities. Zhang moved up the professional ladder (initially masking as a neurotypical), as a school psychologist, a doctoral student, and by running his own tech start-up when he encountered a new problem in 2020: a violent form of anti-Asian racism that the country pretends does not exist. From this, Zhang was forced to use what he learned in leading a double life, with the help of people he formed relationships with, by kicking off an initiative that helps keep those around him out of the hospital or morgue, all while being a psychology doctoral student in a school that is oblivious to what his community has to face. To read more of Henry Zhang’s story, you can get his book "Dragons on the Spectrum" on Amazon. Zhang also offers self-defense classes through Dragon Combat Club (@dragoncombatclub) in NYC and remotely. Sign up here to get more information. You can connect with Hen on Instagram or his website.

The Universal Asian writer, Steph, sits down with her co-producer Chris and photographer Vanessa to reflect on the ESEA photoshoot that they worked on in May 2021, which was created in response to the escalation in racially motivated incidents against the ESEA community in the U.K. Over 20 British East and Southeast Asians collaborated to produce the non-profit photoshoot, titled: "Take Your Place: A Celebration of BESEA Identity." The purpose of this shoot was to empower our community by humanising a group of people who are typically misrepresented or under-represented in mainstream media, and to encourage donations towards the "Stop ESEA Hate" campaign championed by Gemma Chan, Henry Golding, and Benedict Wong. The shoot was also a celebration of the traits, passions and differences that affirmed to each of us that the complexities and fractures of BESEA identity is something to be proud of, not a wedge to further divide and alienate. To read the stories of all the participants of the photoshoot, please head to @AsiansinBritain. Credits and a massive "THANK YOU" goes to: @chrispoonmd — Producer @stephfungal — Producer @vng2_ — Photographer @jordancoxtv — Assistant Photographer @nanayumua — Makeup Artist @lecreaturedibeatrice — Makeup Artist @asaleem92 — Stylist @rayroberts — Videographer

The Danish-Korean band Meejah has released a shamanistic noise ballad about the Korean Queen Min. Danish-Korean band, Meejah, has released their first single: “Queen Min, Rise (Fire ☲)" from their debut album Queen of Spring (released on 18 June 2021)—a concept album cycle written over eight trigrams in Korean and Taoist philosophy. Queen Min was a Korean empress, who was assasinated in 1895 in the royal palace in Seoul. Composer and front person, Mai Young Øvlisen, who is a Korean adoptee, uses her artistic work to reconnect to her Korean female lineage—like a shamanistic ritual—and interpret her transnational identity, growing up in Scandinavia, and to heal the separation through singing and taking on the influence of Korean traditional music and pansori singing. “When you grow up in the West you don’t learn much if anything about Asian history. So you have to ‘invent’ it yourself. Queen Min’s story opened the heritage of my ancestors. So, I can tell it to others and contribute to the understanding that Eastern and Western history are interconnected. Like our life story as one of the 200,000 Korean adoptees is an evidence of.” The song represents the element of fire in the band’s album cycle, and is an anthem to all phoenix souls who rise after injustice. About Meejah Meejah is Daniel Nayberg, Andreas Isbrandt Løvenskjold, and Mai Young Øvlisen. The Danish-Korean experimental/alternative noise band, Meejah, has created a cyclical album Queen of Spring (released on 18 June 2021) around the eight trigrams in Korean philosophy and Taoism: Fire ☲ Thunder ☳ Mountain ☶ Lake ☱ Water ☵ Earth ☷ Wind ☴ Heaven ☰ The album was recorded in BlipBlop Studio in Roskilde, Denmark, and mastered by Magnus Lingberg from Cult of Luna in Stockholm. The band did the opening gig for the Korean band Jambinai the last time they played in Copenhagen. They also played at Joy Ruckus Club—a global virtual festival for Asian artists in the West, who fights for more Asian representation. Influences: Björk "Army of Me," Sightless Pit, Chelsea Wolfe, Tool, Radiohead, Sigur Ros, experimental hip hop, industrial, Korean pansori singing, noise. Youtube link (song link): You can find more about Meejah available on Spotify and connect with them on Instagram. Also, Korean Indie just wrote this article about "Queen Min, Rise." Cover photo: Frej Rosenstjerne

It was an empty, rainy morning. The late summer weather had produced a thin, bland sky that spread above the flat, Midwestern suburb. The dial on the television set was hard to turn, but Kimberly managed to flip it, haltingly, round and round. “Kimberly!” her mother yelled from the kitchen. “What? There’s nothing good on, Mom,” replied the young girl. “You’re going to break it! Turn it off then.” Kimberly shoved the skinny, silver knob back into its socket. A flash of an image from I Dream of Jeannie dissolved with a click. Kimberly watched the little, white dot in the middle of the gray screen fade to nothing. She plopped herself onto the tight backed, bare legged sofa. Her feet dangled above the stone patterned floor. She began to tap the tops of her Mary Janes against each other. Click, click, click, click. Kimberly’s mother walked by with big rollers in her hair. “You’re scuffing your shoes. Now stop it!” Kimberly stopped and slumped back into the stiff, olive couch. “I’m bored,” she sighed to herself as she lay alone in the recess of the room. Her eyes drifted to the dark brown paneling that surrounded her. She hated the den, because of that dark wood paneling. It felt like a dungeon. As the scattered showers outside subsided, a subtle sun beam made its way through the netted, burnt-orange curtains. Patterned shadows fell upon Kimberly’s face and moved across her large, almond-shaped eyes. She brushed her shaggy, black bangs away from her forehead and stared at the bookshelf lined with a set of encyclopedias, her favorite Laura Ingalls Wilder books and a number of unopened Barbie coloring books. Kimberly reached over and pulled a leather album out from the shelf. She opened the heavy cover page and stared at the familiar, glossy photographs that captured moments of her parents during their courtship days. Everything looked marvelous in this story book to Kimberly. The album pages were filled with perfect poses at Hearst Castle and sunset shots near the Golden Gate Bridge. There were also plenty of crystal clear pictures of banquet dinner and dance events, dated from back in the '60s, back on the West Coast where her parents met, back in the shining, city by the bay. Young Kimberly was captivated by the aura of these astute young adults pictured in their American born prime. Friends laughed at the camera wearing skinny ties, fashionable suit dresses and bouffant hairstyles. The photos came alive through the warm monochrome tones. Handsome couples danced, laughed, smiled, and sang. Her parents and their friends, with their dark hair and flair for style, reminded her of Rob and Laura on the Dick Van Dyke Show. Kimberly thought her parents looked especially like movie stars. Her mother was prom queen at Bay Area High School after all. “Kimberly! Kimberly!” her mother was yelling. “You need a haircut. Come on. Let’s go.” Kimberly closed the book and got up to go. “And don’t forget your new glasses!” added Kimberly’s mother. The cold, open room was buzzing with dozens of trainees cutting hair. Her mother walked swiftly. Her neatly tailored, bold patterned jumpsuit with wide, flared pant legs swooshed back and forth with her tall, long strides. Kimberly rushed to keep up but was distracted by a woman hovering over an electric green chair, sharpening her scissors with a certain fierceness on her face. “Go on!” directed her mother. Kimberly was startled but took a step forward. A black cape suddenly swirled around her and was fastened firmly around her neck. “Off with the full head of hair we go!” exclaimed the lady with almost taunting delight. “I hear you want the Dorothy Hamill bob,” she quickly added with a wide, wry smile. Kimberly looked up at the woman with big, feathered hair and scissors in her hands. She noticed a stain of red lipstick on the trainee’s front teeth. “I guess so,” stammered Kimberly. She looked around for reassurance, but her mother had already left. The lady introduced herself as one of the student trainees. Her name was Sheila. Sheila wrapped two hands around Kimberly’s head. Her cold acrylic nails tapped on Kimberly’s forehead. “Oriental hair is supposed to be coarser,” she said, staring at Kimberly in the mirror. Sheila reached for a swath of Kimberly’s long, black hair and rolled it between her thumb and index finger. The hairdresser’s brow furrowed and Kimberly felt a sting of embarrassment. Sheila began snipping as severed, silken locks fell to the floor. “Do you like ice skating like Dorothy Hamill?” asked Sheila. “I take skating lessons at the Shorefield Sports Complex,” mumbled Kimberly. “Oh uoh, fancy!” Sheila pursed her lips and continued trimming all around. She eyed Kimberly’s reflection in the mirror. She pulled Kimberly’s hair up and snipped some more. “Did you know that Dorothy Hamill’s famous hairstyle was created by a Japanese? His name is somethin’ like Yuke-Yusookie?” Kimberly picked at a bit of clipped hair that had fallen near her eye. Sheila took a towel and brushed away the stray pieces. “So is your family Japanese?” continued Sheila. Kimberly didn’t know what that meant, so she stayed quiet. “Are ya Chinese?” asked Sheila studying Kimberly’s face. Kimberly looked down and focused on the loose hair that lay on the lap of her smock. Sheila continued clipping. “Okay, so what kind of Oriental are yous?” pressed Sheila with impatience in her voice. Kimberly looked up and felt Sheila’s glare. Kimberly could feel her face turning warm and quickly looked away, trying to escape. She wanted to say, “I don’t know what that is,” but she said nothing. “Okay, we’re done!” quipped Sheila as she removed the bib. She handed Kimberly a mirror. “What do ya think?” Kimberly angled her head from side to side to check out the new haircut. Her hair had grown long and she had sometimes worn a barrette that swept her overgrown bangs off to the side. Now she had shockingly short hair and very short bangs. Her new hairdo looked like the shape of a little round bowl. It even appeared a little lopsided. “Well…” said Sheila, waiting for an answer. Kimberly opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out for the moment. “C’mon, nothin’?” “It’s good,” Kimberly finally mustered, her voice faint and dry. “Now you have a proper hairstyle! It perfectly suits you, you know,” announced Sheila. “It’s adorable!” added Kimberly’s mother who had suddenly reappeared. “Don’t forget your glasses, Kimberly!” she scolded. Kimberly got up, took her glasses from the counter and slid them on. She was still getting used to them. The rims were 24-carat gold-plated and rectangular-shaped. Her mother had said she looked smart with them on, like Benjamin Franklin. Kimberly thought she looked like Jan Brady with her glasses, when she used to have long hair that is. Kimberly’s mother tipped Sheila a dollar and thanked her for her work. Kimberly and her mother began to make their way towards the door. “Sayonora!” yelled Sheila after them. Suddenly, Kimberly’s mother turned around and unexpectedly screamed with a sarcastic sneer, “We’re not Burmese!” Kimberly immediately noticed the startled and confused expression on Sheila’s face. She turned away quickly and scurried after her mother, her new, little wedge cut flying with the movement. A smug, little smile formed on Kimberly’s face. The radio was already blaring Manfred Mann’s Earth Band when Kimberly opened the car door of their classic 1968 Mercedes. The sweet energy of music was already pulsing, drawing her in as she climbed into the back seat. She shut the door and her mother took off. The car was full with song. Kimberly breathed in the lush smell of the red, leather seats. She cranked the handle to unroll the window and the late summer’s wind whipped up her hair as the fast rolling words engulfed her. The words were often puzzling but her thoughts felt loose like liquid. The song was rising to a crescendo as the car was ascending her favorite big hill, up and up towards the billowing clouds and gold setting sun. Kimberly stood up and a gush of excitement moved through her body. She imagined their car flying off into the sky, just like Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Just as they reached the top, a propeller plane zoomed close overhead. “Whoa, that was close!” shouted Kimberly over the chorus roar. When they eventually settled at the bottom of the hill at a stoplight, Kimberly exclaimed, “This car is like magic!” “This car,” explained her mother, “was a wedding gift from your great-grandfather in Arizona.” “You mean Great-Grandpa Tang? The one that has Angus steak cook-outs at the ranch?” “Yes, that’s your father’s grandfather.” “I remember he always eats Wheaties for breakfast and calls me 'baby,’” laughed Kimberly. Kimberly’s mother changed the station and another song began to play. It was Terry Jacks singing “Seasons in the Sun.” “Mom—” Kimberly stepped up onto the hump in the middle of the car’s floor so she could see better. “Mom…what does ‘Oriental’ mean?” she asked. The light turned green and Kimberly’s mother stepped on the accelerator. Kimberly fell back onto the seat as the music grew louder and drowned out her thoughts. Kimberly sat up and perched herself on the edge of her seat. Her small face appeared low in the backseat window. She pressed her face against the glass and peered out at the passing green trees, the A&P grocery store and the Protestant church they attended. When Meadowbrook Elementary came into view, Kimberly suddenly felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach. She recalled her mother saying school would be starting again in two weeks. Then Kimberly saw their white, colonial, two-story home. The lawn and hedges were freshly cut and perfectly manicured. They slowed down as if they were going to enter the driveway. But then they whizzed right by it. “Let’s go for a ride,” said her mother. Kimberly leaned back, low in her seat and gazed out through the front windshield. She was savoring the drive and song, not wanting to let go of it all. Her father’s college fraternity charm, dangling on a chain that hung on the rear view mirror, caught her eye. It swung back and forth and to and fro to the musical voices that cried out from inside the car. Kimberly had wanted to tell her mother about what happened that day. But it was already washing away, and they were all untethered shadows anyway. Instead her head was filled with the wistful melody that echoed through the empty miles of bedroom suburbia that flashed outside her car window. Like the rhythm of her breath, Kimberly could feel the melodic sweet notes echo inside of her. The addictive, broken music played on. She wished they could keep driving on forever. But the chorus kept returning as their car had been curving into a huge, wide circle. And the powers around her felt heavy and beyond her control. Her mother pulled the car up the driveway and into the garage. Their joy ride had ended. Kimberly pushed the heavy door of the Mercedes open. Her stomach felt strangely hollow and queasy. Frozen meatloaf TV dinners sat defrosting on the countertop in their avocado colored kitchen. Kimberly’s dolls, with curled hair and vapid eyes and frozen smiles, sat on the shag carpet waiting to engage in Kimberly’s make believe world. Kimberly knew she was lucky to have beautiful things. Like real gold glasses and a new haircut. Her mother would often remind Kimberly how lucky she was. Kimberly went up the stairs to her bedroom and sat on her bed. Her pale pink bedspread was laced with pretty, white, popcorn ball patterns. The quiet purr of central air cooled her white, lacquered furniture. Kimberly sat still and listened. But she was an empty face. She was unmoved. Somewhere. And there in her Dreamhouse. Samantha Der is an interethnic #hyphenatedAsian. She is a fourth-generation Chinese American and third-generation Filipina American. She graduated from the University of Southern California’s School of Cinema Arts; she wrote for Yolk magazine and later for a number of blogs she created. She has covered topics in banking and senior care. She also writes about identity, family and the dynamics of American microcultures. Samantha Der is now a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

Wild Entertainment Group (WILD) is prominently known as a hybrid management, media production, and marketing company running in South Korea. CEO Leonard Lim founded the company to help his Southeast Asian (SEA) creators find a means to dip their feet in the South Korean entertainment market. Hence, Leonard has been putting in all his effort since August 2020, building WILD into the hub for international talents. WILD has showcased massive growth for the team in numbers and quality, as a result. Having been founded less than a year ago, WILD currently operates with 50+ creators located throughout the world from the USA all the way to Singapore. Not only does WILD boast a network of partnerships and collaborations, but the team promotes to its audience in a healthy and engaging fashion in support of everyone involved. WILD’s talent roster spreads from content creators on social media apps, singer/songwriters, video editors, and much more. Some of their earliest signed talents are content creator Sabrina, from Malaysia; influencer and entrepreneur Richard Juan from the Philippines; and singer/songwriter Candace Sosa from the U.S. Their more recent talents include content creator Kieun from Korea; creator Nalu from Latin America; and influencer Erna from Indonesia. With their team, WILD launched their positively growing YouTube channel three months ago, gathering 34.6K subscribers and impressive engagement. In more recent spotlight, Leonard Lim and Melodi Flack—two of their mental health advocates—have collaborated with Psych2Go, the leading channel for raising awareness on sensitive topics. In each of their live YouTube streams, both the talents dive deep into what they face as humans and how their life revolves around in the safe space they are given. Continuing on the steady journey, WILD and Leonard strive towards developing a culture crossover working with creators across all niches and identities.

Lava Buckley is an award-winning filmmaker based in New Mexico. She is driven to create films for her community that encourage overcoming challenges and identity journeys. Currently, Lava is creating a documentary about honoring traditional clothing and writing a dramedy about an Asian American daughter living with her immigrant mother. When not creating films, Lava loves spending time off the grid in a camper van and taking photos. Here are a few short films that Lava has created: "The 3 Day Nun": "This short documentary is from my point of view during my brief novice nun experience in Ubon Ratchathani with my family. "The 3 Day Nun" was created mainly by myself (DP, writer, director, narrator, and editor) and the support of the temple community. It’s a personal piece about reconnecting to my culture and spirituality as a first-generation Thai American." "Darkside" music video for John Courage: The music video was created in six states by the New Mexico duo John K.D. Graham and Lava Buckley while trekking across the Southwest in their RoadTrek camper van. "Darkside" was created with over 4,000 still photographs to animate the love story that unfolds during the song. "Your Cow is Dead": This was part of a stop motion series funded by the City of Albuquerque. Based on a true story that happened to me a few years ago.

Expected publication date: August 17, 2021 (delayed from August 3) Nancy and her friends are shocked when their ex-friend and star student, Jamie, is found dead. Now, a mysterious person called The Proctor is hiding behind social media and exposing their secrets one by one. The friends have their scholarships and social lives at stake if their darkest secrets are revealed. Nancy races to identify The Proctor and hopefully solve who killed Jamie. A bit like "Gossip Girl" and "Pretty Little Liars," "How We Fall Apart" was a great debut from Katie Zhao. It hooked me from page one, and I kept hoping for more free time so I could read faster. I didn’t predict the end at all. Even though it did seem a bit unrealistic at times, it gave me the drama and suspense I was hoping for. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew the book would give me representation and some dark academia. It succeeded without being overwhelming or stereotypical. I was hoping for a bit more character development, but I did like how there wasn’t a typical fairy tale ending. Nancy wasn’t a perfect human and she and her friends did do something pretty serious that is now coming back to haunt them. While she did her best to keep her secrets hidden, I do think Nancy gained some self-awareness about her actions and took a step forward. The characters all had their own flaws, and seeing that those flaws didn’t just go away at the end felt authentic. I’m not sure if a trigger warning is necessary for this book, but readers should be aware that death is a prominent theme. Overall, I really enjoyed this book and look forward to reading more by Katie Zhao!

The Korean American Adoptee Adoptive Family Network (KAAN) is hosting their annual conference virtually this year from June 20-26, 2021. Though we are not able to gather in-person this year, it is our hope that attendees will still be able to connect and be supported during the conference. All are welcome, including adoptees, birth families, family members of adoptees (adoptive parents, spouses/partners, siblings and children of adoptees), service providers, and Asian Americans. Adoptee-only sessions and general audience sessions are available. Programming is available for ages 17 and older, although a limited number of activities are appropriate for youth with adult participation. There will be live sessions, panels over Zoom, documentaries and pre-recorded videos on your own time, opportunities to engage with fellow attendees via our conference website, fun games and giveaways, and more. As a registered attendee, individuals will be able to log in to the conference site, view the schedule and materials, engage with other attendees, get notifications, and more. Sharing registration accounts is discouraged; one registration/ticket per person is requested. All conference programming will have closed captioning, transcripts, and/or American Sign Language (ASL) interpretation. The KAAN 2021 Virtual Conference is free of charge, with a suggested donation of 25 USD per person; however, any amount is greatly appreciated. You can view the full schedule of events and register on the website. Click here for our conference announcement in ASL.