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It was on a cloudy day in August when my mother told me that we would be visiting a temple to pray for the dead. Feeling confused, I asked her why. She told me that it was the 17th month of the lunar calendar, also known as the ghost month, and that we needed to pray and make sacrifices for the hungry ghosts (餓鬼) to avoid being haunted. When we got to the temple, the entire congregation stood in a dark room of red, gold, and black in front of a grand statue of the Thousand Armed Guanyin (the Bodhisattva of Compassion). We kowtowed to her and the monks began chanting, their Chinese Buddhist prayers almost sounding like a song. The chants filled my heart as I knelt on the floor, before eventually the chants ended and the service was over. Afterwards, the celebrations began with people lining up to receive stir fried food that the monks cooked, which, although seasoned very mildly, satisfied me completely. This memory is one of my favorites and is often what comes to my mind when someone asks me what being a Buddhist looks like. It was because of experiences such as this that led to my shock when I entered school and began to see how Buddhism was taught in an academic environment. The way that the doctrines and core beliefs of the religion were presented as being so different from what I had personally seen was something that I could not comprehend. In my classes, I remember being taught that Buddhism was an atheistic religion that based its view of the world around suffering and taught that the only solution to this pain was detachment. Not only this, but oftentimes when people are asked what comes to mind when they think of Buddhism, their first answer is almost always meditation and images of monks living aesthetic lifestyles. These prevalent and common misconceptions about the religion resulted in incorrect conclusions such as the idea that Buddhism is not a “religion” but rather a “philosophy,” or that Buddhism is somehow a world-disaffirming religion teaching its followers to turn away from the physical world and live ascetic lifestyles. All in all, Buddhism is presented in such a pessimistic light that it results in an unfaithful view of the religion, discolored by misconceptions. The most common of these misconceptions for me was the belief that because Buddhism lacks a creator deity, that the religion is atheistic or that Buddha is not a “god.” Both of these misconceptions are discolored by a fundamental misunderstanding of Eastern religions as well as an improper comparison of Buddhism to Abrahamic religions. Buddhism is very internally diverse, and while atheistic or non-devotional schools of Buddhism certainly do exist, there are Buddhist theists as well. In certain instances, Buddha is referred to as “Lord Buddha,” with his ascension into enlightenment being akin to becoming a part of all of existence. Many people view Buddha not only as a higher power to whom they pray, but also one that actively calls on them. In many cultures such as in Chinese Buddhism, reciting the Buddha’s name is a form of prayer and is believed to actually be the Buddha calling on them. With so many different sects and internal cultures, it would be wrong to say that deity worship or veneration of the Buddha is entirely absent from Buddhism. At the same time, Buddhism is flexible and some sects of Buddhists are allowed to worship whichever deities they would like — including deities from other spiritual traditions. Altogether, the various sects and differences within Buddhism demonstrates that while Buddhism can be an atheistic religion, not all of its followers are atheists. Similarly, another prevalent misconception that has discolored the views of others towards Buddhism is the belief that Buddhism is a world-disaffirming religion that teaches its followers to be detached from a world that is characterized by suffering. This explanation is only partially true and serves to paint Buddhism in a much more pessimistic light. The word Buddha, used to describe one of the many constants in our lives was not exactly describing suffering, but instead something more akin to “dissatisfaction.” This was meant to explain that human attachment to material things and material desires ultimately result in these feelings of dissatisfaction. This, however, does not apply to our feelings for others, particularly loved ones. Righteous feelings such as love are understood to come out of positive attachment, and in many schools of Buddhism, it is for this reason that a certain degree of attachment is actually encouraged. This is even reflected in the way that certain Buddhas are conceptualized, with the aforementioned Guanyin being an example of a Buddhist deity that represents attachment in her compassion and selfless love for her devotees. All of these misconceptions seem to ignore that the largest aspect of Buddhism is not mindfulness nor detachment, but rather to reduce suffering and harm. A majority of Buddhists live common lives never practicing things such as meditation or even reading scriptures. To most Buddhists, their religious duties involve preventing further suffering by minimizing the harm that they cause and by taking up practices that prevent harm to themselves. All Buddhist doctrines such as the eightfold path are presented in this framework; for example Buddhists are taught to not lie because it is viewed as a form of verbal harm. While one reason why Buddhists are taught to prevent harm is because of the karma that their negative actions will accrue — another Buddhist doctrine that is commonly misunderstood. Karma is not divine punishment but rather more akin to Newton’s third law of motion and its idea of equal and opposite actions and reactions. Karma is something like cause and effect, rooted in the belief that every action has equal consequence. In this way, doing harm to others is doing harm to yourself, and doing good to others is doing good to yourself. This belief in positive actions having universal consequences, though, does not only come out of karma but also the belief that Buddhism is the universality of life — another belief often left out of the discussion in Western circles. Buddhists believe that the lives of all sentient beings can and possibly will be the past or future lives of individuals or loved ones. This extends not only to the animals around us but also to the people that we interact with. In this way, Buddhism teaches that life is universal and that we should be kind to others as we are to ourselves, a principle that is arguably the most important foundational belief of the religion. Ultimately, I find that my experiences with Buddhism have almost run completely contrary to the way that I have experienced learning the religion in Western academic circles. Simply put, the anecdote I began with is one that demonstrates the spirituality, kindness, and attachment that remains consistent throughout the many lives of Buddhists. While Eastern spirituality is becoming increasingly better known about in the West, it is far too often discussed in a way that is disingenuous to the true beliefs that Asians themselves hold. Altogether, although Buddhism is a well-known world religion, it deserves to be seen without misconceptions and in a way that is representative of the spirituality of its followers.

There is something special about sharing a cultural dish with your family that is hard to describe, but it always leaves you feeling satisfied, loved, and comforted. At least, this is my experience when eating home-cooked Japanese meals in my kitchen with my family back home in New York City. It was a way for me to connect with my parents, my ancestors, and my other relatives back in Japan. I feel a bit of the very rich Japanese culture that I have the immense privilege of experiencing whenever I go back to Japan to visit family. Coming from a home where many core memories of my family revolve around food, moving to Georgetown, where home-cooked meals were noticeably absent, plunged me into homesickness for the first couple of weeks. There is a strong connection between memory and your senses, specifically smell. This correlation is due to the fact that, unlike other senses that pass through the thalamus before going to the cortex, the area of the brain that controls memories and consciousness, olfactory senses are rounded directly to the cortex (Matt, 10). This physiological shortcut creates a very powerful association between smell and emotions that gives way to specific memories such as those that remind us of home. Furthermore, the idea of “comfort foods” further deepens olfactory memories, as selecting particular food objects as sources for comfort highly depends on social and cultural systems. In many cultures, food plays a vital role in different situations emphasizing different ways of life, making the cultural significance of food complex (Locher et al., 2006). Many people of various cultures crave meals that are not rich and complex in taste when homesick, but rather foods that are simpler and remind them of home. Finding Japanese food in DC is not impossible: On Wisconsin Street, there is Oki Bowl, which serves primarily ramen, and M Street has Kintaro, which specializes in an array of Japanese foods. While they satisfy the Japanese palate to a certain extent, they lack the simplicity that home-cooked meals have. This is completely reasonable, as demand would be low for simple dishes that Japanese people eat daily. Thus, finding mundane Japanese dishes in Georgetown becomes surprisingly difficult, and when one is found, it is to be savored. On campus, we have the ability to make our own meals, however, this presents itself as a financial challenge to many students as all students are required to pay for a meal plan as part of their cost of attendance, which hinders them from splurging on quality ingredients to recreate dishes from home. I am certain that many students can relate to my dilemma, but I argue that it is much more complicated than feeling homesick solely because you miss home-cooked meals. It is the removal of the cultural significance of foods that prompts homesickness and the traditions that come alongside it. Moreover, the most accessible foods on campus such as Leos, Epicurean, and Royal Jacket do not satisfy a Japanese palate that longs for flavors such as miso, dashi, and goma, all of which can be found in nearly any Japanese dish. There have been moments where I am able to seek temporary comfort when I make miso soup in my dorm or maze gohan with other Japanese students. However, I feel a major shift in how I approach food now. Food used to be something that had cultural and familial significance, but now, it simply serves as sustenance. The feeling of homesickness is not foreign to anyone, but the subtle differences in which each cultural community experiences homesickness through food create paramount distinctions in the ways we can ease this discomfort. Works Cited Locher, Julie L., et al. "Comfort Foods: An Exploratory Journey into the Social and Emotional Significance of Food." Food and Foodways, vol. 13, no. 4, Oct. 2005, pp. 273-97. Taylor & Francis Online, https://doi.org/10.1080/07409710500334509. Accessed 30 Oct. 2021. Matt, Susan J. "A Hunger for Home: Homesickness and Food in a Global Consumer Society." The Journal of American Culture, vol. 30, no. 1, 23 Feb. 2007, pp. 6-17. Wiley Online Library, https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1542-734X.2007.00461.x. Accessed 30 Oct. 2021.

Being on campus for the first time, I perceived whiteness as something tangible and permeating. Last year, attending a predominantly white institution through Zoom lectures just meant seeing faces that did not look like mine. In person, I’ve come to realize that whiteness is not just about the school’s demographic makeup: it’s the statues of old Caucasian men in Healy Lawn, the “ethnic” food at Leo’s which is worse than Panda Express, and the exclusive clubs that tend to admit students who attended fancy boarding schools. In the first week of school, I cried twice for opposite reasons. Once because I felt out of place, missing the comfort of my home. It’s not that I missed specific people, rather, I craved the sense of security – a support system which gave me the confidence to slay any monster that comes my way. The second time, I teared up during the first class for Asian Americans in the Public Sphere with Professor Christopher Shinn. Seeing people who looked like me, I felt an overwhelming sense of belonging. Here we were, making and taking space for ourselves. In Asian Americans in the Public Sphere class we read The Collective by Don Lee, a novel that follows three Asian-American college students and their journeys as artists. The protagonist, Eric Cho, is a third generation Korean-American from Southern California, where he felt lost as one of many Asian Americans. He initially believes that at a predominantly white college, his ethnicity “might work in [his] favor, sort of as a reverse exoticism” and he is reluctant to associate with other Asian Americans because it would “lessen [his] distinctiveness” and “[he] might be stereotyped.” This is a sentiment that resonated with me. My high school student population was 28.7% White and 42.9% Asian. In the program that I attended, nearly 90% of the students were Asian. I knew college would be a change—in fact, I even anticipated it. Georgetown would be my exposure to the “real world” where people’s perspectives were shaped by cultural experiences and backgrounds different from my own. But my arrival to campus challenged my optimistic ideals of what college life would be like: attending an institution where 21% of the students are from the top 1% was far from a dive into the real world, it was a sneak peak into the privileges of intergenerational wealth. Asian Americans in the Public Sphere has reaffirmed my love for Asian American literature and art over and over again. The class explores a wide range of literary genres and media forms, from the graphic novel Shortcomings by Adrian Tomine about the experiences of being a young Asian-American male, to the novel Oriental Girls Desire Romance which follows a Chinese-American woman in 1980’s New York City. Despite how different these characters are, they ultimately ask the same question: where do I belong in America? When mainstream society shuts out Asian Americans, we create our own spaces: ethnic neighborhoods, literary groups, film production companies, restaurants, and more. On campus, Dear Asian Youth is an organization making room for the voices of Asian diaspora. However, the fight is far from over. The university has yet to establish an Asian American studies program and sponsor a permanent gathering space for Asian and Pacific Islander students. As grateful as I am for the community I have found in my Asian Americans in the Public Sphere class and at Dear Asian Youth, the burden of finding belonging should not lie on us alone. The university should be doing much more to welcome us into the collective campus community. This starts with recognizing the uncomfortable fact that not all Hoyas are comfortable calling Georgetown home.

Although Indian-Americans have been a part of the American story since the 19th century, they have been the victims of discrimination aimed at denying their place in America for the majority of their long history. Starting in 1917, efforts were made to ban Indians from immigrating to the United States, and it was not until the passage of the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act that all restrictions were repealed. Yet Indian-Americans face continuing discrimination and a lack of acceptance in their own home. However, we have fought back against this harmful narrative, continuing to assert our place in America. One of the most visible places that this has occurred is in the representative body of the people: Congress. The second half of the 20th century to the present day has seen eight Indian-Americans elected to Congress, and in doing so has shown that Indian-Americans not only belong here but also deserve to play an active role in shaping the future of our country. The first Indian-American elected to Congress is a man who is too often forgotten: Dalip Singh Saund. He was an immigrant from a small village in Punjab who worked his way up from being a ranch foreman to a judge in Imperial County, California. Elected in the 1950s at a time when the ability of an Indian to serve in Congress was still under deep scrutiny, Saund was truly a trailblazer in Congress. Not only was he the first Indian-American, but he was also the first Asian-American and first member of a non-Abrahamic faith elected to Congress. As Saund writes in his memoir, Congressman from India, “every effort was made to make it appear that I was an Indian, not an American. In newspaper ads I was not called D. S. Saund, but Dalip Singh in big letters and Saund in small letters.” Throughout his campaign in 1956, efforts were made by his opponents to cast doubt upon his loyalty, to which he responded that, were he to be elected, he would return to India and say, “I am a living example of American democracy in action. I was elected by the free vote of the people in a very conservative district of the state of California to membership in the most powerful legislative body on earth. Where else in the world could that happen?” In this announcement, Saund showed his commitment to American democracy, and by election night, he had closed the gap between him and his Republican opponent, winning a seat in Congress, and in doing so establishing a precedent of greater inclusivity. Saund would serve in Congress from 1956-1962, representing California’s 29th District. However, the end of this third term would be the last time an Indian-American served in Congress for almost 18 years. But in 1980, Mervyn Dymally, the 41st Lieutenant Governor of California, was elected, serving for six terms until 1992. Dymally is another forgotten figure. He was born in Trinidad, to a Trinidadian mother and Indian father, and upon his election, he became not only the second Indian-American member of Congress but also the first foreign-born African-American Congressman. He would serve on the House Foreign Affairs Committee, as well as serving as the Head of the Congressional Black Caucus. After Dymally, the next Indian-American Congressman would be Bobby Jindal. To date, Jindal is the only Indian-American Republican to serve in Congress. He was elected in 2004 from Louisiana and served for two terms. He would serve on the Committees of Education and the Workforce, Homeland Security, and Natural Resources. Jindal is perhaps best known for successfully running for Governor of Louisiana after his tenure in Congress ended in 2009. However, it is important to acknowledge that Jindal significantly downplayed his Indian heritage during his initial campaign, trying to distance himself from it. By doing this, Jindal, whether intentionally or not, did play a role in the continued othering of Indian culture, and by extension, Indian-Americans. While in some sense, his having to do this to get elected was a consequence of racism beyond his control, his continued association with this othering is harmful for the majority of Indian-Americans, and so he must be called out as such. Jindal would not be the only Congressman to gain fame after their legislative career. Perhaps one of the most well-known Indian-American members of Congress is former Senator and current Vice President, Kamala Harris. She is thus far the only Indian-American senator and served from 2016 to 2020. Harris served on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, as well as on the Senate Judiciary Committee. On January 20th, 2021, Harris became not only the first South Asian, but the first African-American and first woman to be sworn in as Vice President of America. Today, there are four Indian-Americans in Congress, all of whom serve in the House. Each of them has made a name for themselves and has contributed significantly to Congress, proving just how far Indian-Americans representation has come. One of these four is Representative Pramila Jayapal of Washington’s 7th District, who has become a leading figure in progressive politics. Elected in 2016, Jayapal was the first Indian-American woman to be elected to Congress, and she has attained such prestigious positions as Vice-Chair of the LGBTQ Equality Caucus and Chair of the Congressional Progressive Caucus. Like Saund before her, she is a first-generation immigrant, one of only 24 in Congress. Another leading progressive is Representative Ro Khanna, of California’s 17th District. He is the Deputy Whip of the Congressional Progressive Caucus. He has made a name for himself as a leading figure in the fight to get corporate money out of politics, being one of only five members of Congress who does not take money from PACs or lobbyists. Indian-Americans have not only become leaders in Congress but also innovators as well. A great example of this is the representative from Illinois’s 8th District, Raja Krishnamoorthi. He not only serves as Co-Chair of the Congressional Asian Pacific American Caucus Immigration Task Force, but as the Chair, and founder, of two committees: the Congressional Caucus to End the Youth Vaping Epidemic, and the Solar Caucus, demonstrating a deep commitment to public service. Finally, the longest-serving Indian-American congressman is Dr. Ami Bera, of California’s 7th District. He serves as the Chair of the Subcommittee on Asia, the Pacific, Central Asia, and Nonproliferation, and his twenty-year career in medicine has made him a leader in the fight for affordable and high-quality health care. Clearly, not only are Indian-Americans an integral part of American politics, but also representation and acceptance of Indian-Americans has come a long way. From the groundbreaking election of Dalip Singh Saund in 1956 to the equally historic election of Kamala Harris as Vice President and to the continued work of Indian-American members of Congress, Indian-Americans have proven that we do belong here and that we do have a part to play in the future of this great country that we love. And as the fight to end racism against Indian-Americans continues, we can look to our past leaders in Congress as inspiration for the future. Works Cited “About.” Congressman Raja Krishnamoorthi, December 3, 2012. https://krishnamoorthi.house.gov/about. “About Me.” Congressman Ami Bera, December 3, 2012. https://bera.house.gov/about. “About Me.” Congresswoman Pramila Jayapal, n.d. https://jayapal.house.gov/about-me/. “About Rep. Khanna.” Congressman Ro Khanna, February 2019. https://khanna.house.gov/about/about-rep-khanna. Batalova, Jeanne Batalova Mary Hanna and Jeanne. “Indian Immigrants in the United States.” migrationpolicy.org, October 15, 2020. https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/indian- immigrants-united-states-2019. Dalip Singh Saund. Congressman from India. Amritsar, India: Satvic Books, 2002. “DYMALLY, Mervyn Malcolm | US House of Representatives: History, Art & Archives.” history.house.gov, n.d. https://history.house.gov/People/Detail/12563. “JINDAL, Bobby | US House of Representatives: History, Art & Archives.” history.house.gov. Accessed October 17, 2021. https://history.house.gov/People/Detail/16063. “SAUND, Dalip Singh (Judge) | US House of Representatives: History, Art & Archives.” @USHouseHistory, 2019. https://history.house.gov/People/Detail/21228. “The Honorable Mervyn M. Dymally’s Biography.” The HistoryMakers, n.d. https://www.thehistorymakers.org/biography/honorable-mervyn-m-dymally. The White House. “Kamala Harris: The Vice President.” The White House, January 20, 2021. https://www.whitehouse.gov/administration/vice-president-harris/. Vaishnav, Sumitra Badrinathan, Devesh Kapur, Jonathan Kay, Milan, and Sumitra Badrinathan Vaishnav Devesh Kapur, Jonathan Kay, Milan. “Social Realities of Indian Americans: Results from the 2020 Indian American Attitudes Survey.” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, June 9, 2021. https://carnegieendowment.org/2021/06/09/social-realities-of-indian- americans-results-from-2020-indian-american-attitudes-survey-pub-84667. ‌

I learned to cook by watching my mom, who learned to cook by watching her older sister, who learned to cook by watching their mother — whom I’m sure learned to cook from her mother. I don’t have the metal spice container that my mom has or the kadai she sometimes cooks in. But when I pull out spices to toss into my wok, it certainly feels like I’m standing in a family tradition. On my elaborate spice rack, I’ve got turmeric powder, cumin powder, cumin seeds, dried red chilies, red chili powder, coriander powder, dried bay leaves, fenugreek seeds, dried fenugreek leaves, asafoetida powder, black mustard seeds, black pepper powder, cloves, green cardamom, and anise. I use most of these spices to cook famous paneer dishes, popular street foods like pav bhaji, and daily staples like dals and sabjis. I could describe all those meals as “traditional” Indian food. After all, they’re what I grew up on, what I learned watching my mom cook, and what I get at Indian restaurants and from party catering companies. The culture I consider myself a part of has passed these meals and the methods used to cook them down to me. These foods embody “tradition.” But the spices that seem to distinguish “traditional” Indian food aren’t of Indian origin. Cumin originated near Egypt. Fenugreek traces back to Iraq. Asafoetida is from near Iran. Mustard seeds seem to originate from North Africa and Europe. Anise comes from the Middle East, bay leaves come from around the Mediterranean, and cloves are native to islands in Indonesia. Garlic and ginger, essential additions to Indian cooking that I can’t call spices, come from Central Asia and the Austronesian peoples in Southeast Asia, respectively. Other popular spices are foreign, too: the best variant of nutmeg comes from Indonesia’s Bandanese islands, star anise comes from China and Vietnam, and saffron comes from the Mediterranean. (Only turmeric, black pepper, and cardamom are native to India. And I don’t even use black pepper all that much.) This is the first contradiction in the idea of “tradition.” Ingredients might “belong” to a tradition — in this case, a set of cooking practices — yet originate from thousands of miles away. The spices I use in my food are hardly the only thing that confuses me about my cooking tradition. The more I’ve learned about the history of globalization and its effects on what people eat today, the more I’ve come to believe that the idea of “traditional” food itself is a flawed concept. Aloo, Tamatar, Mirch, aur Makka My dad claims his potato sabji is a secret family recipe. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but I can say for sure that it conforms pretty neatly to what I know as a traditional Indian meal. I have to prepare a tadka (hot oil for spices) of mustard, and cumin seeds, after which I throw in onions, ginger-garlic paste, and fresh-cut green chilies. On top of that, I add turmeric and cumin powder and — well, the rest is a secret family recipe. (If it wasn’t before, it is now.) But I can tell you that it involves potatoes at the end. If I have tomatoes, that’s necessary, too. The potato and the tomato are also defining markers of traditional Indian food. Nearly every Saturday breakfast of my childhood featured some Indian potato dish. Ubiquitous street foods such as bhel puri, pav bhaji, chaat, samosas — and, of course, my dad’s sabji — rely on it. And my Sunday lunches always included rasam, made of boiled tomatoes. The most popular masala and curry dishes also require tomatoes, so it’s a shame I still can’t cut them that well. This is where the idea of “tradition” gets more interesting. “Traditional” Indian food rests on vegetables that come from the Americas. The stereotype that defines Indian food — “spicy” — comes from a Mexican plant, the chili, that only reached Eurasia in the 1500s alongside tomatoes and potatoes. It’s the same with maize: snack foods made of corn, another popular sight on Indian streets, also originate in the Americas. This phenomenon isn’t limited to India. Can you imagine Italian food without tomatoes, Northern European dishes without potatoes, or the world without corn? All of these plants, staples of the world’s “traditional” dishes, come from the Americas — meaning they only entered Eurasian cuisine in the 16th century. History books claim that the “modern” world began only around 1500 after the discovery of the Americas. With modernity came the potato, tomato, maize, chilies, and five hundred years of globalization. How can the Indian foods I cook be traditional if the vegetables they rely on belong squarely to the modern era? The Western notion that cultural and economic globalization has replaced previously insular traditions with a worldly modernity leaves a bitter taste on my tongue: the food I cook tells me that globalization and modernity are my traditions. Whose Globalization? Power dynamics inevitably shaped what ingredients were adopted where, when, and how. Most spices in the food I cook originated around Eurasia and reached India by way of the maritime and overland Silk Roads. Until the 1500s, there were no European empires involved. It’s certainly possible that the global exchanges of foods and spices across Eurasia and the Americas could have happened without European imperialism. But that’s not what happened. In Northern and Western Europe, spices became a status symbol among populations whose diets had been fairly bland. Roman and Medieval European demand for spices had, by the 1400s, made Venetian and Eastern European merchants the gatekeepers to these edible objects of cultural and culinary fascination. Spices embodied wealth — and Western and Northern Europeans wanted them. Hoping to one-up the European merchants sailing around Africa, Christopher Columbus headed west. In search of a more profitable route to those spices, he began a continent-wide genocide in the Americas and introduced to Eurasia the foods my family and I eat today. Potatoes and maize were imported from the Americas to feed Europe’s growing working classes while Europeans committed genocide against the peoples who first cultivated these crops. And Europe’s growing stomach for colonial produce grew with their stomach for colonies. “By feeding rapidly growing populations, [potatoes] permitted a handful of European nations to assert dominion over most of the world between 1750 and 1950,” argues historian William McNeill. As colonists do, they claim to bring modernity to backwards people — and, to the British, the potato was modern enough to push on tradition-locked Indians. They brought the potato to India in the 1800s in an effort to promote “modern,” “scientific” agriculture; they introduced the tomato in a similar way. When Indians adopted both vegetables en masse just two hundred years ago, what was once hailed as modern became what I know as traditional. I could argue that potatoes, for example, are modern because they’re comparatively new to most cuisines. The biggest argument in my favor is that modern European imperialism introduced the potato to Eurasia. But I could also argue that potatoes belong to certain groups’ traditions because they appear everywhere within those groups’ cuisines. I could also take a tangential route and argue that, because Indians already used spices from around Eurasia well before 1500, we ought to push the beginning of “modernity” far, far before Columbus; then all Indian food could be modern. The fact that all of these can be true at once suggests that bifurcating the world into tradition and modernity is an exercise in futility — not least because such a division conforms to the imperial European notion that globalization and modernity are synonymous. Where Food Belongs White friends of mine love chicken tikka masala. While they usually don’t know too much about Indian food, they know chicken tikka masala is Indian and they know that it’s the best. Chicken tikka masala, one of the most popular Indian-identified meals, consists of yogurt-marinated chicken roasted in an oven and a masala made of tomatoes and cream, not to mention all the other spices involved. Unofficially — no other food seems to put up a contest — chicken tikka masala is considered to be England’s national dish. (Traditional British food isn’t all potatoes.) Nobody knows where exactly the dish originated, but the best rumor available is that, in the 1970s, a Bangladeshi chef in Glasgow, Scotland, served a customer chicken tikka in the tomato-cream masala, birthing the dish in the process. If the rumor is true, it means that England’s national dish was made in Scotland. Chicken tikka masala is wildly popular in India, too, and it’s featured at nearly every North Indian restaurant I’ve ever been to. Food historians might consider it a fusion dish, and that’s true enough. But is it Indian food? I’d argue that categorizing it as “British” or “Indian” or “Bangladeshi” or “Scottish” erases the dish’s history and everything that had to happen, globally, for someone to think up such a dish. Mixing chicken tikka with a tomato-cream gravy blurs any lines separating tradition and modernity. Locking Up Tradition There’s an easy line drawn between a bloody European quest for spices abroad and the fact that English people claim chicken tikka masala as their national dish: both satisfy an imperial-style craving to own what comes from “elsewhere.” Chinese and Arab and Persian and Indian and Austronesian merchants had traded with the Bandanese for their variant of nutmeg for centuries. But the Dutch couldn’t accept middlemen; the Dutch East India company ethnically cleansed the Bandanese islands and enslaved its remaining population to secure exclusive control over what was then the world’s most valuable spice. Meanwhile, Europe colonized the Americas and exported potatoes and maize and tomatoes to the world. Europe concurrently owned, bought, and sold West African slaves to grease the wheels of globalization. Some time later, Europe colonized the African continent to get at its abundant raw materials and spread “modernity.” This perverted motive to own what’s “elsewhere,” taken to its logical conclusion, hints at a scary future for global food production. In the 1990s, the United States granted RiceTec, a U.S. rice seed genetics company, a patent over “basmati rice” strains, which grow indigenously across India. International patent law would have made it illegal for Indian rice farmers to grow the rice that they’ve cultivated for decades, that their lands have let thrive for centuries, lest they pay RiceTec for a basmati rice license. To secure nutmeg, the Dutch ruined the lives and livelihoods of the Bandanese; a U.S. company threatened to ruin the lives and livelihoods of Indians to secure basmati rice. While the Indian government successfully fought off the basmati rice patent challenge, it wasn’t the only challenge that came its way. Corporations have claimed patents on neem, tamarind, and turmeric — all of which are plants and roots that grow naturally in India. Globally, three corporations exercise legal control over half of the world’s seed market through patents on the seeds’ genomes, threatening local biodiversity across much of the developing world. To say that a substance belongs to a person or corporation as their exclusive property is a plausible end result of unchecked imperial European efforts to lay claim to what comes from “elsewhere.” Just as chicken tikka masala is the unofficial dish of England, patents on the naturally growing plant species that fill our stomachs are an unofficial perpetuation of European empire. The West still wants spices. Disowning Tradition In pursuit of the exotic, European empires changed the world’s agricultural practices, created the global food supply chain we know today, and made certain foodstuffs ubiquitous on all continents. They also redefined “tradition” to contain anything that came before a globalizing imperial Europe brought “modernity.” Yet even that definition wasn’t consistent — most “traditional” foods across Europe rely on quite “modern” ingredients, by Europe’s own standards. When seemingly everyone can lay claim to peppers and potatoes, when chicken tikka masala is beloved across continents, a food’s origin has no bearing on whether or not it’s “traditional.” What may look like an insular tradition from the outside (often, from the eye of the imperial European observer) is likely a process of evolution inside. Just as plants can evolve over generations without necessarily changing their outward appearances, nothing in religions or governments or cultures or cuisines stays put. Change is the only constant in a world where people learn and borrow from one another. Though European imperialism gave India the potato and the tomato, that doesn’t mean imperialism was a good thing. Far from it. The history of the spice trade before 1500 hints that good foods would have eventually made their way across the world without empires, anyway. It also hints that at least in India — and definitely across Eurasia — there was hardly anywhere where tradition was “insular.” Even if the way I cook meals follows a particular Indian tradition passed down over generations, the common foods piled onto peoples’ plates around the world are the tasty proof that there has always been more that connects our traditions than separates them.

With the icy relationship between Taiwan and mainland China has started to make headlines more frequently, the debate over the possibility of reunification has become increasingly contentious. The issue of reunification has largely been portrayed as a dispute between two Chinese governments that, at least officially, view Taiwan as an inseparable part of China; however, it is often forgotten that the island had a long history of settlement by its indigenous population long before the arrival of Chinese settlers in the 17th century. As the status of Taiwan remains insecure, it is incredibly important to recognize the place and role of Taiwan’s aboriginal population in discussions over the island’s future. Despite this, Taiwan’s aboriginal population has often been sidelined in these discussions, with both their claims to the island and their history as victims of colonial violence being largely ignored. As such, the voices and history of Taiwan’s indigenous population must be recognized in conversations around Taiwan’s future in order to secure the livelihoods of Taiwanese aborigines but also to reaffirm the rights of indigenous people across the planet. Taiwan’s colonial history is one that needs to be recognized, especially in discussions around the ownership of the island. The island of Taiwan is home to one of the oldest cultures on the planet, with Taiwanese aboriginals having inhabited the island in relative isolation for over 8,000 years before multiple periods of violent colonization violated their claims to the land. Colonization began largely with incursions from the Spanish and Dutch in the early 17th century, but eventually became dominated by Chinese colonists after the island was seized in 1662. During this period, Chinese settlers from Fujian began taking land from Taiwanese aboriginals, slowly relegating them to the mountains of Central and Eastern Taiwan. The Taiwanese aboriginals experienced another wave of violent colonialism two centuries later when in 1895, the island was occupied by Japan after the Treaty of Shimonoseki. This new wave of colonialism brought not only Japanese colonists, but also Western colonial ideals, such as Social Darwinism, to the island. The Japanese held that the indigenous Taiwanese were racially inferior, and used this to justify horrific acts of colonial violence such as the Musha Incident, where a raid committed by Taiwanese aborigines was met with a brutal campaign of retaliation that resulted in 600 deaths. While Japanese colonialism ended in 1945 with the dissolution of the Japanese empire, the colonial violence towards Taiwan’s aboriginal population did not. The reigning Chinese Kuomintang continued to suppress the identities of Taiwan’s aboriginal population through forcing Chinese identity onto indigenous and continuing to promote the belief that indigenous lifestyles were inferior. This harsh discrimination culminated in the 2/28 Incident when a push for Taiwanese (both Chinese and Aboriginal) self-determination was brutally crushed by the Kuomintang military. While Taiwanese aboriginals continue to face discrimination in contemporary times, the historic brutality that the aboriginals of Taiwan endured has prompted current Taiwanese president Tsai Ing-Wen to issue an official apology for centuries of injustice committed against Taiwan’s native population. While this apology represents the beginning of attempts to make amends for the historical injustices that Taiwanese aboriginals have faced, it is more telling of a need for the experiences of Taiwan’s native population to be recognized. Especially in the current political climate, with mainland China’s desire to acquire Taiwan, it is incredibly important to consider how this conflict may affect the lives of Taiwanese aboriginals in the future. It must be acknowledged that Chinese dominance over the island has led to centuries of colonial oppression, and how the possibility of this continued dominance may impact the lives of one of the oldest cultures on the planet. Altogether, this discussion highlights the necessity for the international community to recognize the historical injustices committed against indigenous people across the world, as well as their claims to the lands that they have inhabited for thousands of years. Works Cited LIOU, LIANG-YA. "Taiwanese Postcolonial Fiction." PMLA 126, no. 3 (2011): 678-84. Accessed May 1, 2021. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41414140. Ramzy, Austin. “Taiwan's President Apologizes to ABORIGINES for Centuries of Injustice,” August 1, 2016. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/02/world/asia/taiwan-aborigines-tsai-apology.html.

As India grapples with a soaring number of COVID-19 cases, questions about the severity of the outbreak should be accompanied by a recognition of the international community’s responsibility in helping other countries manage the crisis that threatens the well-being of the human population as a whole. If not for altruistic reasons, the situation in India should be treated with urgency at least out of self-concern over the threat posed by genetic mutation and large-scale transmission. India’s situation is currently second in severity only to that of the United States. With nearly 400,000 new cases reported on April 28, the spread of the virus is growing at an alarming rate and will quickly outpace the US if not controlled. The Indian healthcare system is also under severe strain, seeing major shortages in hospital bed space and oxygen supplies, the latter of which being especially important in combating the effects of this respiratory virus. As a result, patients with severe cases are unable to be seen or are faced with improvised care conditions. In the most stressed areas, patients are being left outside of clinics, in ambulances, or in their homes, and many have died there without full treatment and oxygen access in a hospital. COVID-19-related deaths in India, which are currently at about half of the deaths in the U.S., are likely being underreported due to the limited capacity of hospitals and other institutions that contribute to the official tally. In addition, reports of mass cremations and burials suggest that the wave of deaths is so overwhelming that they cannot be dealt with in a proper manner. Indian authorities have noted the significant presence of a COVID-19 variant, B.1.617, which they blame for the current outbreak. Though the exact underlying factors in this wave are unclear as of now, the spread of the variant, which is now the dominant strain in the state of Maharashtra, could jeopardize inoculation efforts and safety measures both in and beyond the country. Throughout the region, neighboring countries are reporting their own spikes in cases, particularly involving the B.1.617 variant. In countries like Bangladesh, Pakistan, and Nepal, authorities are on high alert, but India’s crisis should be a concern for the greater international community as well. Failure to contain the virus throughout the world, especially in populous countries ripe for large-scale transmission, only threatens to extend the pandemic and augment the tally of deaths. Previous waves of the virus have shown that border shut-downs and national isolation are not enough to stop the spread of COVID-19, and concerns over restricted economic activity may hamper further lockdown measures, especially in the United States. A year on in the pandemic, our governments now have the power of hindsight in evaluating their courses of action, and one should hope that they learn from the errors of last year. If border controls and isolationism only buy time, then how does the international community successfully manage the virus? This late in the game, it is nigh-impossible to orchestrate a fast and effective response to quickly stamp out the virus, but the answer lies in engagement with other countries and the sharing of resources where necessary. Immediate elimination of the virus is not possible; We must instead adapt to the changing situation and chart long-term solutions. For the United States, the uncomfortable truth in the matter was finally acknowledged: India needs aid, and intentionally withholding it is not only bad for public relations but also for domestic pandemic responses. After criticism for its efforts towards curbing the export of PPE and vaccine production equipment, the Biden administration switched stances and announced American aid to India in the form of COVID-19 tests, oxygen support units, and Oxford-AstraZeneca vaccine materials. The US currently does not administer the AstraZeneca vaccine, instead administering vaccines produced by Pfizer-BioNTech, Moderna, and J&J. These relief efforts, however wonderful they may be, only came after heavy pressure on the Biden administration. The lobbying process and the fact that sending aid was not an intuitive reaction begs the question of whether the norm is to prioritize domestic interests at all costs, even in the face of a humanitarian crisis. The U.S. has already recently encountered the issue with this view: Failure to stem crises elsewhere leads to an international spillover. In this case especially, the accumulation of natural mutations in COVID-19 RNA means that the more opportunities the virus has to spread, the more chances it has to develop evasions against protective measures. Given India’s large population and heavy density, the spread of COVID-19 offers plenty of opportunities to further mutate, and if the international community does not coordinate to slow the spread, the burden of the virus will only worsen, both in India and elsewhere. Yes, the world should be paying attention to India, but it should also be pitching in with relief efforts, too, as the current system puts the burden of crisis response on countries that are ill-equipped compared to nations that can afford to aggressively hoard resources and isolate. Even with what the U.S. has done, there are more actions to be taken to lessen the severity of India’s COVID-19 outbreak and its effects on the rest of the world. If you have the resources, seek out opportunities to contribute to relief efforts towards India’s strained healthcare system. In addition to large charities and relief organizations, local mutual aid networks are also taking money and donations, but no matter where you choose to give, ensure that the money and equipment you donate go fully to the cause. (This article was published on 29 April. The statistics referenced may now have more recent updates, and we encourage you to follow their developments.)

On April 14, US Climate Envoy John Kerry landed in Shanghai to meet his Chinese counterpart, Xie Zhenhua, seeking cooperation at the US-led climate summit that would be occurring approximately a week later. At the same time, across the Taiwan Strait, former US Senator Chris Dodd and former Deputy Secretaries of State Richard Armitage and James Steinberg paid an unofficial visit to Taiwan to deliver what a White House official called a "personal signal" that indicated President Biden’s support of Taiwan and its democracy. This diplomatic arrangement by the White House required careful political deliberation. The timing of the two delegations' trip seemed more like a soothing signal than a provocative gesture to China and Taiwan. It’s fair to say that the Biden Administration preferred a sustained regional status quo through this arrangement. Apart from the timing, the members involved in the delegations allowed room for speculation of the diplomatic message that was behind such an arrangement. It appears that the Biden Administration sought to appease both sides in a balanced and restrained manner so as to not provoke them. First, an unofficial delegation that consisted of former senators and former deputy secretaries would provide insights regarding Taiwan's strategic significance under the current US administration. Presumably, in Biden’s mind, an unofficial delegation would sufficiently deliver his support to Taiwan, but not to an extent that would provoke the Chinese government. Therefore, Biden’s envoys to Taiwan were deemed nothing more than a symbolic gesture, a mere practice of the US's strategic ambiguity policy to Taiwan. In fact, the Chinese government did not seem to heed the unofficial delegation, remaining open for talks with John Kerry the day after the unofficial delegation's visit to Taiwan. In fulfilling his dual role in the White House, John Kerry sent a dual message to officials in China. On the one hand, Kerry came to reach a climate deal as the incumbent Special Presidential Envoy for Climate. However, Kerry’s identity as the former Secretary of State under the Obama-Biden Administration more or less implies that the long-standing US foreign policy of “Cooperate and Compete” towards China would return, marked by his efforts in “constructively managing [both countries’] differences and constructively coordinating [both countries’] efforts on the wide range of issues where interests are aligned” (Kerry). As such, the Biden administration sent two teams of former officials to both sides, delivering a political message that was neither dismissive nor uninterested. However, these intentions might be interpreted by China as leverage from the US against Taiwan, which ultimately serves to push China to reach a climate deal, therefore giving the Chinese government an incentive to re-evaluate its advantages under China-US relations and leverage its enormous carbon emission in exchange for economic or geopolitical gain. For example, China deployed a record number of 25 aircrafts to the Taiwan Strait on the day of Biden’s envoys’ visit to Taiwan, seemingly sending the message that China had undermined the American government’s strategy. It remains unclear how the Biden Administration will handle its tie with the Greater China Region and how his foreign policies will play out. Many critics of Biden's “Cooperate and Compete” foreign policies believe that it is unlikely to reach a deal with China under strained relations, given China's multiple cases of failing its promises in the past two decades, such as its non-militarization pledge of the South China Sea and its vow to not implement the Hong Kong National Security Law retroactively. As Kerry wrapped up his three-day visit in China, both countries issued a joint statement, "recall[ing] their historic contribution to the development, adoption, signature, and entry into force of the Paris Agreement through their leadership and collaboration" (Office of the Spokesperson). Kerry spoke to reporters in Seoul after the visit, stating that this was "the first time China has joined in saying it’s a crisis... The language [of the Chinese delegate] is very strong." (White and Hook) Kerry held high hopes for China’s strong commitment. Nevertheless, Xi's remark on the Earth Day Climate Summit did not seem that attractive compared with its Western counterparts. While the US, Canada, and Japan unveiled tighter greenhouse gas emissions targets for 2030, China announced that its carbon emission would peak by 2030 and reach net-zero by 2060, despite "no clarity about how to get there" (Shih). How Biden’s engagement with China aiming to achieve his climate ambition will play out is yet to be known. However, while Biden’s foreign policies will stall the deterioration of the US’s relationship with China to some extent, the US and its allies will continue to strain their ties with China. Works Cited Kerry, John. "Secretary Kerry on U.S.-China Relations." 4 Nov. 2014, Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies. Speech. https://china.usembassy-china.org.cn/secretary-kerry-u-s-china-relations/ Office of the Spokesperson. "U.S.-China Joint Statement Addressing the Climate Crisis." United States Department of State, 19 Apr. 2021, www.state.gov/u-s-china-joint-statement-addressing-the-climate-crisis/. Accessed 9 May 2021. Shih, Gerry. "Biden’s climate summit shows rivalry with U.S. complicates China’s green push." The Washington Post, 23 Apr. 2021, www.washingtonpost.com/world/asia_pacific/climate-summit-china-biden/2021/04/23/6e6ef800-a349-11eb-b314-2e993bd83e31_story.html. White, Edward, and Leslie Hook. "US and China Pledge Joint Action on Climate Change Despite Strained Ties." Financial Times, 18 Apr. 2021, www.ft.com/content/71f724ff-a25c-4ff7-8713-b0aa02d3adb5.

My family took me to the movie theaters to see the new, heavily animated live-action Jungle Book in 2016. It was a Jon Favreau-directed remake of the 1967 Disney film, which adapted Rudyard Kipling’s 1894 Jungle Book, itself a collection of stories of animals in the Indian jungle. The Jungle Book is a relatively well-known story, thanks to the Disney film and a dubbed Japanese TV show from the 1990s. Many people, Indians, and others know of Mowgli and his adventures in the jungle with Baloo the bear, Bagheera the panther, and Shere Khan the tiger. Most of us can probably sing along to at least a few lines of “Bare Necessities,” myself included. I guess I grew up with it: I remember watching the TV show at my grandparents’ flat in Mumbai. I think I’ve read some of the associated Jungle Book comics. Among Indian children, I’m not alone. The 2016 Jon Favreau adaptation earned nearly a billion dollars at the box office, so this isn’t a story the world is new to. It’s a fine tale, even a beloved one. What’s not to like? That would be the original author himself, Rudyard Kipling. Readers have probably encountered the phrase “the white man’s burden.” A common shorthand for racist imperialism, though unironically bandied around by U.S. intellectuals and writers in 2003 on the way to war in Iraq, “The White Man’s Burden” is actually the title of a poem Kipling wrote in 1899, encouraging the U.S. to colonize and civilize the Philippines. Like many Britons in his time, Rudyard Kipling – otherwise a celebrated author and poet – was an imperialist. But not every imperialist gets to claim credit for the phrase that more or less defines Western imperialism as we understand it today: “the white man’s burden.” Kipling grew up in colonial India and hung around there for much of his adult life. Many of his books are set there, including some of his best and most beloved works. For all his professed love of the country, he was still a colonizer. He’s on record praising the 1919 Jallianwala Bagh Massacre, calling the man who ordered the killing of 400 Indians by British numbers – 1500 or more by Indian National Congress numbers – “the man who saved India.” (The British government still has not formally apologized for the massacre.) And if that’s bad, then writing a whole poem justifying the white man’s need to civilize the Philippines is also bad, and quite racist, at that. This claim isn’t projecting today’s anti-imperialist values backward onto an era where “that’s just what people believed”: many of Kipling’s white contemporaries in the U.S., including Mark Twain and Andrew Carnegie, denounced the U.S. occupation of the Philippines. But ideas have power. Before “The White Man’s Burden” was even published, Kipling sent it to his friend Theodore Roosevelt, then governor of New York, who approvingly forwarded it to his friend Senator Henry Cabot Lodge. Kipling intended to encourage the U.S. government to take over the Philippines; he was not shy about his love of British imperialism, either. In 1907, Kipling was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. The Nobel Committee recognized that “his imperialism is not of the uncompromising type that pays no regard to the sentiments of others.” The “others” being referred to here were South Africa’s white Boer (today, Afrikaner) population. But “quite naturally,” said the Committee, “during the Boer War Kipling sided with his own nation, the English” – who set up some of the world’s first mass concentration camps to subdue the Boers. The Committee also noted how much of a lively writer Kipling was: “His marvellous power of imagination enables him to give us not only copies from nature but also visions out of his own inner consciousness. His landscapes appear to the inner vision as sudden apparitions do to the eye. In sketching a personality he makes clear, almost in his first words, the peculiar traits of that person’s character and temper. Creativeness which does not rest content with merely photographing the temporary phases of things but desires to penetrate to their inmost kernel and soul is the basis of his literary activity.” This is some heavy praise. But the Nobel Committee wasn’t alone: both critics and admirers acknowledged Kipling’s talent. Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first post-independence prime minister, apparently counted Kipling’s Kim among his favorite books. V.S. Naipaul, from the Caribbean but of Indian descent, remarked that “nobody has written as accurately about Indians” as Kipling did. Evidence of Kipling’s talent abounds, and the newest iteration of The Jungle Book proves that, as a writer and a poet, Kipling is alive and well in the public imagination. He continues to charm children and adults alike with his stories of the Indian jungle, and not just in the Western world. Indeed, the 2016 Jungle Book film was one of Hollywood’s best showings in India ever. Its Hindi dub had a star-studded cast of Bollywood actors – and I mean star-studded, considering it included Irrfan Khan and Priyanka Chopra and Om Puri. The story was simple, and Indians loved the film. Irrfan Khan, who played Baloo in the Hindi dub, argued that, “even though the book was originally written in English, The Jungle Book is an Indian story at heart. Also, its overall theme of good winning over evil is universal, which is seen in other cultures.” This is just a story about a boy learning the “laws of the jungle” from animal mentors. But can I, you, or anyone separate this beloved story from its author, a man who wanted to civilize nonwhites? Nehru and Naipaul and Khan have all come to some sort of understanding. My parents and grandparents did, too. The Jungle Book and Kipling’s other works are a part of all their upbringings, literary and otherwise. And, I guess, it’s a part of mine. But their understanding doesn’t mean at all that artful works like The Jungle Book can or should be separated from their creator. Salman Rushdie puts it best: “I have never been able to read Kipling calmly.” As in, it’s complicated. “It’s complicated” still feels like a maddeningly unsatisfying answer. But, for what it’s worth, maybe it’s better to know that an author is complicated – and to feel conflicted about reading them – than not to know at all. Lots of works in the U.S.’s shared English curricula are written by people just as morally suspicious as Kipling. No doubt other countries sanitize their curricula, too. Yet we read on and read people like Kipling anyway. Maybe it’s not worth tallying up the good and the bad. But it’s certainly worth knowing them if only to better understand the author, their works, and the world in which they saw themselves. And what’s the alternative? Getting rid of Kipling and The Jungle Book from our collective Anglophone consciousness won’t dismantle the imperialism that still exists today in our global economic and social arrangements, systems in which you and I and anyone else who may cringe at “The White Man’s Burden” nonetheless perpetuate through passivity. Keeping Kipling and The Jungle Book in our collective Anglophone consciousness, on the other hand, probably won’t make white saviorism as it exists today – in development economics and in armies of NGOs and charities – any worse than it already is. Indeed, Kipling wasn’t the only one who thought that white men carried the burden to civilize; he just wrote it into a catchy poem. Others did, and still do, the work of civilizing. The U.S. could just as easily have colonized the Philippines and occupied Iraq without quoting Kipling along the way. This doesn’t absolve Kipling of what he did. He still coined the shorthand for racist imperialism by being a racist imperialist. But his ideology is a public fact. I know now what Kipling’s role in imperialism was, and knowing is far better than blissfully appreciating The Jungle Book without acknowledging that such a beloved work would never have existed without the British Empire. South Asians, like other non-white peoples, are already burdened by a perpetually complicated relationship with the white man’s imperialism, simply because it happened. Kipling or not, that legacy isn’t going away anytime soon. Might as well acknowledge and discuss it. “It’s complicated” is the best answer I have.

This piece is a part of a series of reviews and reflections on Asian literature. Trigger warnings: eating disorders and suicide I have read several memoirs by Asian-American writers in the past year, but none have been nearly as haunting as much The Magical Language of Others (2020) by Korean-American author E.J. Koh. When she was fifteen, her parents returned to South Korea for her father’s work, leaving her alone with her brother and mental illness as her only companions. Through a series of translated letters from her mother, Koh explores the histories of the women in her family — her mother and her grandmothers — and how they shape her own experiences. Despite growing up feeling stifled, Koh begins to heal the relationships -- characterized by her mother’s physical absence and her own lack of response -- with herself and with her mother through words. Poetry and translation fill the gaps, reaching both inside to her buried emotions and outward to others, creating a memoir that at times feels uncomfortable and raw. Koh’s voice is incredibly heartbreaking, her poetic talent obvious through her simple yet lyrical prose. However, much of Koh’s life is conveyed subtly by what is not said — the gaps in translation, the inability to express such complicated emotions, the lack of explicit thoughts on her mother’s absence. The memoir also lacks a clear ending in the sense that Koh does not directly outline what she has learned or fully reconciled with her mother. Her story and relationship with her mother are unfinished, still evolving. The memoir’s theme of intergenerational trauma catalyzed an examination of my own relationship with my mother and her past experiences. For so long, my view of my mother was filtered by her family duties: driving me around, cooking, and cleaning the house. She’d remind me that she wasn’t my maid before bringing me a plate of sliced fruit. Only after crossing into my teen years did I begin to see her as a complex being with a past, capable of experiencing a full range of emotions. I learned she was adopted. I didn’t believe her at first, not understanding how she’d kept such an important detail of her life from me. Suddenly, I was bombarded with new relatives and stories: how her adoptive father carried her home on a crowded cross-province train, how she’d only found out about her own adoption as a young adult, how her biological sister had found her just a few years ago. I saw my mother cry for the first time during the Chinese coming-of-age film Youth (2017). Voice dripping with nostalgia, she told me she was reminded of her own college graduation. At her reunion parties, I started to notice how she radiated charisma. She commanded the attention of the room, sparking laughter among her ex-classmates. In “Pasts to Remember,” a reading from my History of the Pacific World class last semester, anthropologist Epeli Hau’ofa contrasts the Fijian and Tongan concepts of circular time with the Western notion of time as linear. Whereas the West labels the past as behind us, the Fijian and Tongan languages describe the past as “front” or “ahead,” which is a “conception of time that helps us retain our memories and be aware of its presence.” Similarly, the Mandarin phrase for the past is 以前, the second character 前 meaning “before,” “forward,” or “ahead.” Intergenerational trauma and the ghosts of family history reflect this circular notion of time. As Koh writes, “the present is a revenge of the past.” During the pandemic, every walk with my parents is a chance to uncover their history. I’ve begun to learn the origins of their parenting habits that have shaped my growth. For instance, my grandmother — a teacher — was barred from college by the Chinese Communist Party but held high academic expectations for my mother and would hit her as punishment. Though my own relationship with my mother lacks this violence, it inherited the academic pressure — the unspoken agreement I’d receive nothing less than straight A’s. Living in D.C. this semester, I’ve spent the most time away from home. Others would yearn for this refreshing taste of freedom, but I find myself still tethered to my mother, bearing the new weight of homesickness along with the ever-present academic pressure. As Koh discovered, distance is unable to sever the knots that entangle mother and daughter. *** I wrote to E.J. Koh a few months ago and this is an excerpt from her reply: I’m thrilled to hear you are reading so many Asian American authors. Reading, also citing who we read, is a part of activism. I always post books that I’m reading — many already posted on intergenerational trauma & trauma. Have you read my poetry collection A Lesser Love? Maybe it might be something to hold close. I love The Future of Silence translated by Bruce & Ju-Chan Fulton. It’s a collection of short stories translated from Korean. A collection of vital Korean women writers. As a Korean American woman, I hold dearly onto my relationships & dialogue with Korean women & their work. How do histories connect across the world? How do traumas connect or intersect with one another? I believe the answer leads to a deeper understanding of how to secure a sense of peace & love.

Upon leaving the cinema, my mother lamented at how the movie we had just watched— Crazy Rich Asians— not only unfairly showcased Chinese culture but also had a “toxic American ending.” Confused by this unexpected criticism, I asked her why. Crazy Rich Asians depicts the story of Rachel Chu, a middle-class Chinese American, who goes to Singapore with her boyfriend Nick Young to attend a wedding, where she meets his wealthy and influential family. During the visit, she faces mixed reactions to her relationship with Nick from his friends and family, including disapproval from his mother. Nick’s mother perceives Rachel as someone who would bring shame to the Young family, as Rachel’s life motto of seeking happiness and her unwillingness to sacrifice her career would interfere with her duty to the family. My mother explained to me that, while the ending ultimately gave Rachel a happy ending with Nick’s marriage proposal, it was a tragic move that would inevitably lead to an unsuccessful marriage; Rachel would then cause Nick’s family to “lose face.” Listening to her explanation, I reflected on the ways in which my mother perfectly exemplifies the stark differences between the East and the West’s cultural priorities. In many East Asian cultures, especially China, the idea of face heavily dictates the way that people interact and the type of activities that people choose to engage in. People might buy certain cars, live in certain neighborhoods, and marry certain people in order to save face and in turn increase their social standing. The concept of face, which figuratively means one’s “dignity” or “honor,” plays a role in all societies by dictating the type of behavior that is considered appropriate in certain social situations and relationships. However, in Chinese culture, the concept of face is much more prevalent and widely accepted as a valid reason for making decisions, big or small. For example, in China, prestige, and face would be a perfectly valid rationale for choosing to attend a university of higher ranking, whereas, in the West, many other factors, such as college affordability, fit, and location play a more significant role in the decision process. On a more day-to-day basis, one might choose not to point out a glaring mistake made by their boss during a business meeting to save face for their boss, whereas this same behavior might be seen as kissing up in the West. Face, by acting as a driving force for the decision-making process, prevails in all facets of Chinese society and heavily impacts the progress of Chinese culture. So why does face matter so much in Chinese culture? Is it because Chinese culture places more emphasis on superficial outward appearance than the West? Are Chinese people wired to do whatever others expect of them? When we examine the historic origins of the concept of face, these possibilities are quickly disproven. Chinese culture is largely shaped by Confucianism, a belief system that heavily emphasizes the importance of a strict hierarchical structure in creating a harmonious society. In Confucianism, there are “five constant relationships (五伦)” that dictate the basic hierarchical structure of civilization: the relationship between ruler and subject, father and son, husband and wife, older brother and younger brother, and friends. In each relationship, the former has a superior social status than the latter, and each actor must behave accordingly to maintain this hierarchy. Granted, Chinese culture has rejected the expectation for wives to obey their husbands, but still heavily emphasizes the importance of respecting one’s role in other relationships. Any behavior that disrupts the power dynamic within these relationships is seen as destructive, inappropriate, and causes the other person to lose face. As such, face is not about maintaining some sort of outward appearance; it is about maintaining current hierarchical structures that make up the very fabric of Chinese society. So what would the ideal conclusion to Crazy Rich Asians be for my mother? Rachel, the protagonist, would rethink her goal of finding individual happiness, and instead, proceed in life with thinking about what would be best for the family unit. Rachel’s boyfriend would resign from his current position in New York to go work for his family business back in Singapore. The couple would produce heirs to inherit the family business in the future, and they would seek advice from their elders before making any life-changing decisions to see if it would align with the family’s best interests. Ultimately, they should uphold their roles in the social hierarchy in order to maintain face for the family.

Chloé Zhao, best known for her award-winning film "Nomadland," has become the first Chinese and Asian female ever to win the Best Director at the Golden Globe Awards - first in the 78-year history of the award (Gonzalez). At the Golden Globe Awards Ceremony, Zhao expressed her gratitude for the production team, "This award belongs to the whole 'Nomadland' team." In the film, Fern, the lead character, embarks on a journey through the American west, living an itinerant life and working along her journey, while meeting similar fellow travelers on the road. The story of Stern exemplifies the message it intends to deliver through its title: Nomadland. Growing up in Beijing, the U.K., and Los Angeles, Zhao's life is much like that of Fern’s in "Nomadland," as she is able to experience life on the go whilst immersing herself into various cultures around the globe, thus being able to view them introspectively through a multicultural lens. In a recent interview with The Philadelphia Inquirer, Zhao stated, "I'm always curious about how people would like to be remembered. It's not about what I think. It's not about my own point of view." Further, she expressed that people living in a country as wealthy as America should not have to see nomad life as their only option (Weaver). Chloé Zhao has always been fascinated by life beyond cities. She has "long been drawn to Middle America," which is where she was inspired to create this film about an independent woman whose life was on the go (Ryan). "I was feeling a little restless... partially because it was too noisy around me," Zhao says. "I needed a reset and that's why I first traveled to South Dakota" (Ryan). At the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, she became fascinated about the techniques of storytelling in Native American indigenous groups that "didn't focus on struggle," which she also employed when shooting her films. Zhao's semi-improvised shooting style yielded 100 hours of footage to reflect the itinerant lifestyle she and Fern had in common, which was then shortened. "Nomadland'' has been met with acclaim across the globe. The Times' co-chief film critic A.O. Scott commented, “‘Nomadland’ is patient, compassionate and open, motivated by an impulse to wander and observe rather than to judge or explain.” (Scott) Brian Tallerico, the editor of RogerEbert.com, found the film "gorgeous" in the way that it was "alternately dreamlike in the way it captures the beauty of this country and grounded in its story about the kind of person we don't usually see in movies" (Tallerico). However, the film was hit with backlash in China after initial celebration from Chinese media due to Zhao's criticism of China in an interview in 2013. Initially, Zhao's film was set to be released during April in theaters on the day she won the Golden Globe Awards, where certain Chinese state media outlets described her as the "Pride of China." However, Chinese netizens found an interview where Zhao described China as "a place where there are lies everywhere," resulting in hashtags and film posters of "Nomadland" being removed from major social media platforms in China, signs indicative of the possible outcome that "Nomadland" would not appear in theaters in China due to political censorship. Upon her accomplishment at the Golden Globe Awards, Zhao became the first Chinese woman nominated for Best Director at the Oscars in 2021. Further, in addition to shooting individual films such as "Nomadland" and "The Rider," Zhao is currently also participating in the production of Marvel’s commercial film, "The Eternals," as the director. Works Cited Chen, Xi. "The Pride of China! Chinese Netizens Congratulate Chloe Zhao, the First Chinese Director on Winning Golden Globe Awards." Global Times, 1 Mar. 2021, www.globaltimes.cn/page/202103/1216918.shtml. "Chloé Zhao." Filmmaker Magazine, 2013, web.archive.org/web/20201030224312if_/https://filmmakermagazine.com/people/chloe-zhao/#.X5yXErBxdnI. Accessed 30 Mar. 2021. Gonzalez, Sandra. "Chloé Zhao Makes History at Golden Globes." CNN, 1 Mar. 2021, edition.cnn.com/2021/02/28/entertainment/chlo-zhao-nomadland/index.html. Ryan, Patrick. "Meet 'Nomadland' Director Chloé Zhao, Who Just Made Oscar History (and Was Spike Lee's Student)." USA TODAY, 16 Mar. 2021, www.usatoday.com/story/entertainment/movies/2021/03/16/nomadland-chloe-zhao-oscars-marvel-eternals/6953255002/. Scott, A.O. "‘Nomadland’ Review: The Unsettled Americans." The New York Times - Breaking News, US News, World News and Videos, 25 Mar. 2021, www.nytimes.com/2021/02/18/movies/nomadland-review.html. Tallerico, Brian. "Nomadland Movie Review & Film Summary (2021)." Movie Reviews and Ratings by Film Critic Roger Ebert | Roger Ebert, 19 Feb. 2021, www.rogerebert.com/reviews/nomadland-movie-review-2020. Weaver, Hilary. "Everything You Need to Know About Chloé Zhao, the Director of ‘Nomadland’." ELLE, 28 Feb. 2021, www.elle.com/culture/movies-tv/a35649454/who-is-chloe-zhao-nomadland-director/.