This is our seventh issue, Emergence! While contemplating the theme, we came across Emergence, as a nod to the changing normality of our culture and sense of self. Having spent the better part of the past two years on our own during this pandemic, we wanted to center on the act of self-reflection. It is the exploration of the many facets of our identities, how they merge together to form a complex and wonderful person, and the ways in which we strive to understand ourselves and each other. 

1. P O R T R A I T
e m e r g e n c e

3. issue #7 : fall 2021
emergence
cover
design Phoebe Jacoby
P O R T R A I T

4. Welcome To Portrait
Vassar’s Asian Students’ Magazine

5. illustration
Phoebe Jacoby

6. Dear Reader,
Following in the footsteps of my two amazing predecessors, being Portrait’s third Edi-
tor-in-Chief brought with it a pressure I’ve never felt before. I was burdened with self-doubt
and criticisms, hoping I was doing a good enough job. But as the semester progressed and
I saw our seventh issue emerge, I realized that Portrait is not just about merit or capability.
Rather, it is about sharing parts of ourselves with others through creative processes, intermin-
gling vulnerability with imagination. It is an honor to be a part of Portrait.
And with that, welcome to our seventh issue, Emergence! While contemplating the theme,
we came across Emergence, as a nod to the changing normality of our culture and sense of
self. Having spent the better part of the past two years on our own during this pandemic, we
wanted to center on the act of self-reflection. It is the exploration of the many facets of our
identities, how they merge together to form a complex and wonderful person, and the ways in
which we strive to understand ourselves and each other. What does it mean to emerge, to grow
from and honor our past experiences? What parts of ourselves are core to our identities? How do
we harmonize our multiple selves to create the Self? What does it mean to be You?
To all of the brilliant and wonderful contributors who continue to create such incredible
works, I am deeply grateful for all of you. It is because of your contributions that Portrait is as
beautiful as it is. And to everyone who is flipping through the pages, we thank you sincerely
for your support. Whenever the AAPI community feels vulnerable and othered, it is import-
ant to remember that we are resilient and loved. We hope you enjoy Portrait: Emergence.
With love and warmth,
Jane, Editor-in-Chief
On behalf of the Portrait Executive Board
letter from the editor

7. table of contents
8
10
13
18
21
25
28
34
36
39
48
Myth
Duc Dang
Chenyu: A Simple
Wisdom
Gwen Ma
Emerging In Style:
A Photoseries
Kanako Kawabe
Papillon
Janus Wong and
Katherine Lim
these aren’t tears,
this is eye sweat
Jane Ahn
Nightmare at
Night Market
Kai/Lauren Yung and
Gabor Fu Ptacek
Peach Lips
Heejae Jung
Untitled
Zoe Mueller
Mai Nguyen
Seowon Back
Emergence:
An Exhibition
Annie Xu and
Elena Furuhashi
bhut
Kiran Rudra
5

8. Family Portrait
Fall 2021 · Issue #7 · 36 contributors
Jane Ahn
Editor-In-Chief
Elena Furuhashi
Content Editor
Phoebe Jacoby
Creative Director
Assel Omarova
Publicity and Social Media
Heejae Jung
Launch Coordinator
Wyejee Jung
Treasurer
Stephen Han
Producer
Aidan Fry
Writer/Projecter lead, Editor
Alexander Pham
Designer
Alicia Hsu
Writer/Projecter lead, Editor
Arlene Chen
Editor, Social Media
Ceci Villaseñor
Editor
Duc Dang
Writer/Projecter lead
Gabor Fu Ptacek
Writer/Projecter lead, Editor
Annie Xu
Writer/Projecter
6

9. Gwen Ma
Writer/Projecter lead, Designer
Ruby Chen
Designer
Sandro Luis Lorenzo
Designer
Seowon Back
Writer/Projecter lead
Sharon Nahm
Designer, Social Media
SK Kapur
Designer
Taylor Gee
Editor
Melah Motani
Designer
Kiran Rudra
Writer/Projecter lead
Josephine Man
Writer/Projecter lead, Editor
Joy Yi Lu Freund
Designer
Julia Peng
Editor
Julianna Aguja
Editor
Kai/Lauren Yung
Writer/Projecter lead, designer
Kanako Kawabe
Writer/Projecter lead
Karen Mogami
Designer, Social Media
Katherine Lim
Writer/Projecter lead, Editor
Janus Wong
Writer/Projecter lead, Editor
Jaida Larkin
Editor
Hannah Hu
Editor, Designer
Zoe Mueller
Writer/Projecter lead
7

10. x
x
My grandmother passed away on a cloudy autumn afternoon.
was playing on the swings in my school’s playground when I heard my mother
calling my name from behind and telling me to go home. As usual, without turning
around, I shouted “
“Cho con chơi tí nữa
Cho con chơi tí nữa!”
!” which normally would have given me ten
more minutes of precious swing time. Yet I
immediately noticed the sound of footsteps shuffling through the fallen oak leaves and
rushing toward me. When I stopped the swing and turned around, I saw my mother
looking at me with red eyes, shaky lips, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows. She moved
closer, hugged me, carried me down from the swing, and whispered to me:
let me play a bit more
let me play a bit more
I
“
“Về nhà thôi con, bà mất rồi.
Về nhà thôi con, bà mất rồi.”
”
come home son, grandma passed away
come home son, grandma passed away
I was six years old then. Now, every time I look back at that afternoon, I cannot find any words or phrases to
describe how I felt. Instead, what always comes to mind are sensations, images and sounds. I felt a sudden
weight pulling down my feet, shivers enveloping my body, my mother’s hands holding mine tightly as she
walked me home. I saw my mother’s eyes, red and shiny, yet never allowing themselves to shed any tears, for
Mom hated crying in front of her children. I heard the seven syllables “Về nhà thôi con, bà mất rồi.” circling
in my ears, drowning out the infamously chaotic noise of rush hour Hanoi traffic.
Then there were the ways my world changed. I remember how the gentle autumn
wind transformed into sharp cold needles that pierced my skin, how the gray clouds
of the gloomy autumn day, which so often looked like sauntering sheeps, started to
shake and move in my eyes.
It has been fifteen years since my grandmother’s funeral. In those years, I have gathered words and phrases
in both Vietnamese and English to describe emotions, and have grown fascinated by them. I am delighted
by how I can describe my everyday feelings with short one-or-two-syllable Vietnamese words — “buồn” for
sadness, “vui” for joy, “thất vọng” for disappointment, “hạnh phúc” for happiness.
I am intrigued by how I can see random images in my mind from hearing certain
English words. In “elation” I see a bird soaring through a clear sky. In “emptiness” I
see one drop of water falling onto a perfectly still pond. In “suffocation” I see a branch
dangling from a fallen oak tree. I am even more fascinated by phrases in poems or
in novels, which come so delicately close to capturing the essence of emotions. “A fin
in the waste of water” — such is loneliness. “A check in the flow of my being; a deep
stream presses on some obstacle; it jerks; it tugs; some knot in the center resists” —
such is yearning.
If there was one word in my limited Vietnamese vocabulary at that time that I could
have used to describe my feelings, it would have been “buồn” - sad. I remember the
word being uttered a lot at the funeral, where my family and relatives were mourning,
crying, and telling me I replied and cried
“
“Buồn lắm ạ
Buồn lắm ạ”
”
yes, i am very sad
yes, i am very sad
“
“Buồn quá nhỉ cháu ơi,
Buồn quá nhỉ cháu ơi,”
”
isn’t it so sad?
isn’t it so sad?
with them. Was I sad? Were the tears I cried mine? It must have been sadness because what kind of grandson
am I not to be sad at your grandmother’s funeral? Yet it was hard to accept that all the sensations, the images,
the sounds, and the way the world changes, can be encapsulated into a single syllable of“buồn.” Too simple,
too neat.
8

11. Yet even with all those words and phrases, I cannot describe how I felt at my grandma’s funeral. I want
to reflect on that day and say “That was not sadness, but . Yet that has
always eluded me. Even when I had written down everything that I saw, heard, and sensed that day, there
was still something essential lacking, some sort of cry, scream, fissure in objects and cracks in reality
— something of solitary disorder that words and phrases cannot convey. Without appropriate labels to
capture the shades of pain, sadness, melancholy, confusion, excitement, serenity, joy, … I had often found
myself disconnected from my true feelings.
It must have been during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic that I found my
own private way of understanding emotions. Being stranded on campus half the
earth away from my family, I spent most of my time on my own, and labels gradu-
ally lost their meaning. Words like “sadness” and “loneliness” expressed even less if
you could say them to almost no one but yourself. With words losing their sig-
nificance, I began to grasp feelings in the moments where powerful images, vivid
sounds, and intense sensations emerged from the world — moments of emergence.
Fifteen years ago, I experienced such a moment when I sensed the needle-sharp
wind, my mother’s teary eyes, my leaden feet and my shivering body. After that,
there were moments when walking outside at night, I became conscious of how the
streetlights shone sharp light spears that pricked my eyes, how other people’s glances turned antagonistic,
and how my body shivered and yearned for the calmness of my room. Yet there were also moments at
night when I saw gentle hue from streetlights, I heard people’s voices bursting through the night’s silence
like fireflies, and I felt my skin warmly blanketed with moonlight. Were I to search for words that encap-
sulated those moments, what would they be? Sadness, apprehension, serenity — maybe, but all of them
stripped away the complexity and nuance of my experiences, and reduced them to neat and compact
designs. No more searching. Now, I embrace and understand my feelings in the moments of emergence
themselves.
ometimes, I think how ironic, and even cruel, it is to have words and phrases as the most common
expressions of our emotions. They are neat, compact, and pretty, but never adequate. With words, I can
never describe exactly how I feel. Yet at the same time, I have come to appreciate this gift that I have given
myself, the ability to embrace feelings for what they are and the moments of emergence that accompany
them. I feel content with how I understand what I feel and what I experience without the burden of find-
ing neat labels for them.
S
written by: Duc Dang, edited by: Gabor Fu Ptacek and Heejae Jung, designed by: Sharon Nahm

12. Writer: Gwen Ma
Editors: Josephine Man, Ceci Villaseñor
Designer: Karen Mogami
Chengyu
Recently I have noticed that I’ve been
using a lot of Chinese four-character idioms
in my conversation with other people. I some-
times use them intentionally, but other times I
simply can’t find a better way of expressing my-
self. My mom sent me a picture of a beautiful
sunset yesterday, and I said, “Wow the clouds
are 五光十色 (wǔ guāng shí sè),” which directly
translates to having five rays and ten colors.
My parents were very impressed by my usage
of the idiom—when most people were just
commenting “so pretty,” I took the compliment
to the next level. I was taken aback that my
parents thought I did something impressive by
using this phrase—it was plain and clear to me
that the four-idiom expression I used was the
best way to describe the sunset. The exchange I
had with my parents made me wonder if many
Chinese people have completely eradicated
four-character idioms from their vocabulary,
and if simple expressions like this were even
cherished anymore.
A Simple Wisdom
Chinese four-character idioms are
called chengyu, which means “set phrases.”
Chengyu is a type of figurative language that
helps us express complex ideas in a simple
way. Similar to English idioms, most chengyu
can’t be taken literally since they are derived
from ancient literature, stories, poems, or
historical facts. However, there is chengyu,
like the above-mentioned expression that
can be understood literally. Personally, I
categorize chengyu into two kinds, aesthetic
and clever. Most chengyu that is poem and
literature-based, describe scenery and people,
and that can be taken literally fall under the
aesthetic category. The idiom that I used to
describe the sunset belongs to the poetic and
imagery category as well, since those four
words paint a beautiful scenery in front of
our eyes. Most chengyu that is linked to fables
and has meanings based on context belongs to
the clever category. The elegance, refinement,
and morals that chengyu provides prove that
10

13. it is an exceptionally versatile literary device
and has the variety that English idioms do not
possess.
Chengyu is an essential part of the Chi-
nese language and culture. There is about twen-
ty-two thousand chengyu in the Chinese lan-
guage, and their creation can be traced back to
thousands of years ago. Though English idioms
also have a long history, they are not as concise
or poetic to read as chengyu. The feelings of
pure bliss, amazement, and pride rush through
me every time I come across chengyu because
of its extreme elegance and solemnity. The use
of chengyu guarantees a powerful story because
each of these idioms touches on life morals and
wisdom. It is a way Chinese people connect
with each other through sharing the same cul-
tural understanding and custom acknowledg-
ment. Chengyu contains motifs that are unique
to Chinese culture. For instance, nature motifs
such as mountains- 山 (shān), water- 水 (shuǐ)
or moon-月(yuè) appear frequently in chengyu
and are linked to fascinating metaphors. One
of my favorite chengyu that contains these
motifs is 高山流水 (gāo shān liú shuǐ), which
literally translates to water falling from high
mountains. However, the contextual meaning
of the chengyu is the difficulty of finding a
soulmate. There is a famous story behind this
chengyu. During the spring and autumn period
in China, a renowned Guzheng musician was
playing by the river when a woodman came up
to him and told him that he understood what
he was playing. The musician was surprised by
the woodman’s cultivation in music because
his songs were improvisations that represented
towering mountains and roaring rivers, yet the
woodman immediately recognized the scenery
he was trying to create through his music. The
musician was extremely moved to meet a soul-
mate who completely understood him. Thus the
chengyu of high mountains and running waters
is derived from this story, indicating that find-
ing a soulmate in life is extremely difficult.
As I mentioned above, I categorized
chengyu into two kinds: aesthetic and clever.
One instance of an aesthetic chengyu is
水天一色 (shuǐ tiān yī sè) which comes from
a famous poem and is used to describe the
dazzling scene of the sky and ocean merging
into one. This chengyu can be easily understood
from the words that composed it, which directly
translates to “water and sky are of one color.”
From such a description, we can picture an im-
age of the vast ocean endlessly extending into
the horizon and becoming a part of the blue
sky. Besides aesthetic chengyu, my favorite clev-
er chengyu is 爱屋及乌 (ài wū jí wū), directly
translated to “love a house and love the crow in
the house.” This chengyu can’t be taken
11

14. literally but makes sense when given the
context behind it. This chengyu is based on
a historical story, in which a military strate-
gist was advising the emperor on what to do
with the enemies they captured. According
to the military strategist, if you like some-
one you will also like the crow on their roof-
top, but if you hate someone, you will hate
everything related to this person. Therefore,
he suggested killing all the enemies because
they were led by a hated leader. I found this
chengyu very relatable because this holds
true even today. When we like someone, we
cherish and appreciate everything related to
them even though they might not
necessarily be nice.
Being able to use the appropriate
chengyu in a sentence earns you admira-
tion and respect. It is a sign of scholarship
and erudition as it is an indicator of one’s
avid interest in ancient literature. In mod-
ern times it has also become a fun way to
impress others. People who know a lot of
chengyu can easily stand out and triumph
in games like Idiom Solitaire, in which
someone has to name an idiom, and then
the next person needs to come up with
another idiom that begins with the same
Fun interactive game:
character as the last one of the previous
idiom. Chengyu is such an indispensable
component of the Chinese language and
culture. I hope that people can preserve this
elegant way of expression and pass it down
to future generations. Using chengyu ver-
bally helps us refresh our memory of stories
and morals from the past and reminds us of
our roots. For people who are interested in
Chinese culture, chengyu is always a great
starting point to help gain more insight into
Chinese culture and philosophy.
胸有成竹 (To have confidence)
竹篮打水 (To be in vain)
水到渠成 (To happen naturally)
成人之美 (To help others)
美玉无瑕 (To have reached perfection)
胸有成竹 ------________------________------________------________
12

15. Emerging in Style: A
Photoseries
Kanako Kawabe
Models:
Kiran Rudra (he/him)
SK Kapur (they/them)
Joy Yi Lu Freund (they/she)
Debora Mun (she/her)
Edited by Gabor Fu Ptacek | Title page by Joy Yi Lu Freund

20. As I sink my teeth into the fuzzy skin of a
ripe peach, its juice slivers down my neck and rests
uncomfortably in the cotton folds of a now-sticky
dress shirt. Staring at the fruit’s indented flesh, I am
reminded of a child’s blushing cherubic face from
the dusty cover of Life magazine. I had fingered the
chalky pages and blurred print, remarking on the
paper’s flimsy composition, all the while my mother
conversed seriously with my principal. The wrinkles
on her usually clear face scared me, so I fixated on
the overly cheery kid and turned to thoughts about
similarly pleasant things. The first image that popped
into my mind was my fifth grade classmate Katrina
who would glow like a cherry whenever someone
complimented her. Then came Milo, my neighbor’s
dog, whose rosy tongue would randomly peep out
and contrast the chocolate brown complexion of his
fluffy exterior. All living things blushed in one form
or another, and I enjoyed uncovering and dissecting
them through my eyes, lips shut. Enclosed in the
safe comforts of a distant desk or peering out of my
kitchen’s small glass window overlooking the next-
door neighbors, I felt at home. I did not know why
they wanted to force me out, why they needed to
break down the walls that would hug me whenever
people tried to open me up like a jar of pickled
radish. I still don’t. I continue to swirl the nectar in
my mouth, hoping it seeps into my gums. Maybe if
my breath drew bees instead of curious glances, I
could be left as is.
The only person who met my lack of words
with warm indifference was my aunt. I do not
remember her age, nor her full name. What I do
know is how family members often joked that she
could pass as my older sister, how in spite of her
youthful demeanor she had divorced twice, and her
peculiar talent for whistling elaborate tunes while
making the best jeon, or Korean pancakes, in the
world. Years later, when my mother finally decided
to give me my aunt’s diary, the one she left me
with before her sudden departure, I ran across the
following words:
the space between me and your words
fall short on my mouth, no lips
society’s lisp– the molten set of
your unwavering lips; a million paperweights…
(I couldn’t read some of her cursive writing.)
a dreamlike flurry of
fragmented reality, tee
you are teething and choking in
silence, shh…
I remained unfazed the first time I read this
entry. Slowly, confusion began to creep in about the
overwhelming torment she felt toward my silence. In
stark contrast to her easygoing attitude around me,
her literary heartbreak about the selectively mute
niece irked me. Sprawled in a purple gel pen, buried
in a sea of other entries and further concealed by
the diary’s lock, her words left me disorientated. If
she had felt so strongly about my silence, why had
she not openly stated it to me? Why, instead, did she
feel the need to hide it in a diary entry? Why did
she have to ruin my memory of her as the always
compassionate, unquestioning and understanding
aunt that I wished everyone could be? (At the time,
knowledge that the same questions could be asked
of me and my unwillingness to communicate with
others arose briefly, but quickly evaporated.)
Peach Lips
Written by Heejae Jung
Edited by Katherine Lim & Janus Wong
Designed by Hannah Hu

21. After my first encounter with these
unspoken words, I fell into a dramatic, fourteen-
year-old spiral. One night, when I managed to fall
asleep after numerous punches to the pillow and
the bitter satisfaction of shoving the diary into my
drawer beneath the heavy textbook of my least
favorite subject, I had the most ghastly dream.
Suddenly back to my preschool classroom, the
girl in front of me, my ex-best friend Lily, had a
nosebleed. I turned to look at the teacher and then
to the boy next to me who carried all the tissues.
To my surprise, when I tried to reach for a Kleenex,
he hugged the box closer to his chest. Frustrated,
I reached for it, only to be met by his downturned
face and the teacher’s furious glare. I tried to point
to Lily’s nose, which would make everything okay,
but she had somehow secured a tissue during this
chaos, getting rid of the only evidence that would
articulate my good intentions. I woke up that night
with a sudden need to brush my teeth and scrub my
skin. When my mom came to the bathroom due to
the noise, dazed and half asleep, I made a beeline
back to my room and tried to fall asleep.
Time and time again, begrudgingly, I
returned to my aunt’s diary. Gradually, I realized
that my frustration about her unforthcoming
nature and inability to verbalize her sadness
could be experienced by others about me. I keep
it beside me because of the fleeting desire it elicits
for me to speak, to slip out of my silence. Evolving
from a paperweight to a bedside companion, the
diary becomes my version of a fidget toy; I stroke
the spine absentmindedly with my index finger
whenever I am bored or daydreaming. Sprawled
on my picnic blanket with the sun kissing my
eyelashes, I blindly grab another peach, but instead
of consuming it this time, I hold it against my
cheek and inhale its sweet perfume. A smile sprawls
across my face when I hear the fumbling footsteps
of Milo. Sitting up, I offer it to him, curious to see if
he will eat it, but he only looks back at me, equally
expectant and silent. I wonder if he would have
more fun if I were to treat it as a ball, so I stand and
throw the peach. His tail wags, but he remains still,
watching me.
“Fetch!” I say with a giggle.
Milo barks and runs to retrieve it. I laugh
again, giddy that only him and I are in this backyard,
free of witnesses to my unbecoming behavior. He
prances back to me, and I position myself to throw it
again. I open my mouth to say the word once more.
My silent spell, magically broken.
19

23. Uneasy and unfocused
Moving on always means
Leaving a piece of you behind
French lit. “butterfly”
A toy spaniel with ears shaped like butterfly wings
Freedom and escape
Papillon.
0 1
a photostory about growth
21
Janus Wong & Katherine Lim
Designed by Ruby Chen

24. A star is a hope and a wish
They fall with the realization that
Dreams are just delusions
Laughing in the sunlight, swimming at the beach
One moment together, the next drifting apart
Time pointing down opposite paths
As the waves pull away the sand
0 2
0 3
22

25. 0 4
Changes come as constant as the seasons
Bursts of color before they fall
Flashes of beauty drifting by
As you disappear into the horizon

26. 0 5
Sunsets mean sunrises because
Whenever the sun sets
It is surely going to rise again
24

27. The first time I cried during class was March 18th, 2021.
I had heard stories here and there about friends who, having felt frustrated and upset in class, had shed a
tear or two. Some even left the room entirely to calm down in the bathroom. I sympathized, but this was not an
experience I understood until that day.
My morning went as usual: I woke up for class, ate lunch, and played with my cats. As I got ready for my
second class of the day, I logged onto Zoom and watched my classmates’ pixelated faces pop up on the screen one
by one. Once we were all present, I waited for my professor to begin his usual routine of salutations and a check-
in question. Instead, he began to speak about Atlanta, Georgia. Atlanta? I remember thinking. Oh good grief,
what happened this time?
In my curiosity, I minimized the class and Googled Atlanta, Georgia. I don’t know what I was expecting:
a politician, perhaps, whose corruption was exposed, or maybe even a natural disaster or a car crash. What I was
not expecting were headlines like “Georgia spa murders: Suspect charged with 8 counts of murder” or “Atlan-
ta-area shootings leave 8 dead, many of Asian descent.” I froze in my seat.
My professor dedicated the first few moments of class to talk about and reflect on Atlanta. Reflect? How
was I supposed to reflect when my bones felt ten times heavier, pushing my body down and slowing down my
brain activity? My entire being was numb, my brain in dizzying disarray. Did I speak? Should I speak? Was I ex-
pected to speak, being one of the few Asian students in class? Having cut off social media and news for myself for
mental health reasons, I had just learned about the shooting and had no time to understand what was going on. I
couldn’t process my shock, thoughts, or emotions. Thankful that my professor was offering space, I let myself sit
in the silence.
This was short-lived, however; though I had nothing to say, some of my white peers had plenty to share.
I don’t quite remember what they said, but I do know that their comments compelled me to turn off my camera
and cry into my pillow. Another classmate privately messaged me, and we shared our anger at the insensitivity
of those who spoke, turning this tragedy into a learning tool and debate. She seemed to understand what I was
trying to say through my disjointed messages, my linguistic ability impaired by my intense shock. Throughout
the class, I’d turn my camera back on, ready to focus on the material, only to start feeling my eyes water and turn
it off again. Eventually, I broke down. I turned off my camera for the rest of class time and sobbed my eyes out.
Written by: Jane Ahn
Edited by: Julia Peng and Jaida Larkin
Design by: Sandro Luis Lorenzo
25

28. Whatever delusion of belonging I had built up for myself was shattered. No matter how much I spoke or
thought like white Americans, no matter how much cultural code I understood or media interests I shared with
them, I would always be denied a right to live on this land. How did this and other attacks on people who looked
like me, people with whom I identified and shared culture, make me feel so alone? Just earlier that day, I was tell-
ing my cats how beautiful they were and eating lunch with my family. Yet, so soon after, exhaustion and isolation
overwhelmed me. A torrent of thoughts ran through my head, trying to make sense of them feeling like wading
through honey.
The interactions I had after class only compounded my internal anguish. Few friends reached out; only
one of them was white. And while I deeply appreciated their kind words and support, I began to feel guilty and
lonely—guilty because I had never reached out to my BIPOC friends who had gone through similar experiences,
lonely because the people I was interacting with during those days were exclusively nonwhite; guilty because I
felt cramped by their messages, lonely because I couldn’t be more vulnerable with them; guilty because I didn’t
want my white friends to reach out, lonely that nearly none of them did. It hurt. I had never felt my otherness
more acutely than the days following the shooting.
My purpose in sharing this is not to elicit sympathy or guilt anyone into taking action. Rather, my pur-
pose is to explore the emotional complex that exists within the Asian American diaspora—and within myself.
All my life, my parents taught me that to show emotion was to show weakness. You want to be strong, Jane, and
taken seriously. Don’t let anyone ever see you cry. They’d massage my shoulders and bring me cut-up fruit. Tell
me to work hard. To stay focused on my goals. So I chose to ignore my feelings, opting instead to suppress them
and figure out a logical, rational approach.
So when I found out about the shooting during class, I turned to academia, reading as much as I could about the
shooting, articles about being Asian American, papers on trauma. I was more focused on getting the facts than
understanding my source of chaos. Thus, when I tried to connect emotionally with my Asian American friends, I
found myself at a loss for words, unable to articulate what was going on internally.
But turning to academia proved to be useful and validating in other ways. I discovered that these prin-
ciples I received from my parents were widespread across Asian American households - so much so that it has
been researched. Anne Saw of the University of Illinois and Sumie Okazaki of New York University share studies
that have shown a difference in the ways in which white and Asian American children are raised. For example,
Asians tend to remember memories that are centered less on personal experience and more on historical or
social facts (Saw & Okazaki, 2010). This finding correlates to the distinctions in child-rearing. Asian and Asian
American mothers convey love through actions and helping their children find success, while white mothers
show love through language and emotional support (ibid.).
Moreover, Asian American parents tend to not openly display emotion, particularly love, a stereotype that is in-
herited by their children. Novelist Viet Thanh Nguyen writes about love as “the silent sacrifice of the parents, the
difficult gratitude of the children, revolving around the garbled expression of love” (Nguyen, 2019). Parents show
love through sacrifice, children show love through obedience, and other expressions of love are seen as extrane-
ous. To summarize, language does not seem to exist as an avenue for expressing emotion, leaving Asian children
with an inability to vocalize their inner monologue. Rather, children are expected to prove their love and filial
piety through actions.
26

29. When I think back to last spring, I found myself holding back from fully opening up to the people
around me. I didn’t want to be seen as an irrational human being who couldn’t control her feelings. Nguyen
warns against this, asserting that “we just [need] to be at the center of a story, which would include the com-
plexities of human subjectivity, not just the good but the bad, the three-dimensional fullness that white people
took for granted with the privilege of being individuals” (ibid.). By confining ourselves to the role of emotionless
beings, we inadvertently contribute to our own dehumanization and the deterioration of our communities. We
can’t help but do this; our communities have taught us that suppressing emotion is the same as controlling it. So,
how do we resist this?
I have no answers to that question. But I do wonder how different my spring would have been had I
known this back then. I don’t know how my reactions would have changed, yet I hold hope that, perhaps, I
would’ve understood why I was crying. Anger, sadness, and fear were all present, but it doesn’t feel right to credit
them as the basis for my tears. It feels like there’s something deeper, something fundamental that I’m missing,
and it’s frustrating to be unable to pinpoint it. And to cry during class, with my camera off! The Asian tiger mom
in me was shocked and disappointed.
Still, I had to cry. Holding in my tears was not an option. I had to cry. If I hadn’t, I don’t know that I
would have acknowledged how deeply distressed I felt. By crying, I was forced to face my stunted emotional
acumen. In an odd way, it’s because of my insensitive peers during that unforgettable class that I came to these
realizations and investigated why and how I feel the way that I do.
They’ll never hear a “thank you” from me, though.
Sources:
Nguyen, Viet Thanh. “Why We Struggle to Say ‘I Love You’.” The New York Times.
The New York Times, January 12, 2019. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/12/
opinion/sunday/sandra-oh-golden-globes-speech.html.
Saw, Anne, and Sumie Okazaki. “Family Emotion Socialization and Affective Dis-
tress in Asian American and White American College Students.” American Journal
of Psychology 1, no. 2 (2010). https://doi.org/10.1037/a0019638.
27

30. NIGHTMARE AT
NIGHT MARKET
A D&D 5e One-shot by Kai/Lauren Yung and Gabor Fu Ptacek
Edited by Jane Ahn
Special Thanks to:
Aidan Fry
Janus Wong
Jane Ahn
Hannah Hu
Seowon Back
Kiran Rudra
SCANNABLE CODES FOR BACKGROUND
MUSIC AND MONSTER STATBLOCKS

31. Throughout our experiences with
Dungeons and Dragons (D&D), both play-
ing in and running games, we’ve been struck
by the ubiquitous European influence on the
game. There’s a severe lack of representation
in officially published books and player com-
munities, and even some blatantly offensive
depictions of groups based on race, ethnicity,
religion, etc., some more coded than others.
We are not hoping to “solve” any problems
with representation, but we want to explore
this system of storytelling and community
building in a setting designed by two Asian
American identifying people, specifically for
the Portrait community at Vassar.
In a culture that demands our contin-
ued productivity and labor, we view creat-
ing art for enjoyment as a rebellion. To have
fun is valuable, especially in a space where
we can play without any worries, such as
code-switching or catering to whiteness. We
can simply enjoy the game. We bring our
identities and experiences into how we game
without aiming to “elevate” D&D. We are
Asian people that simply want to have fun
playing games. Whatever emerges from that
is just an added bonus.

32. NIGHTMARE AT
NIGHT MARKET!
Things in quotes are to be read to your players
BACKGROUND
(ENTERING MAIN BUILDING)
Choices before you begin!
• Important item for each player
• Each player’s language (Languages:
fruits, vegetables, grains, protein, dairy)
Through which entrance does your party enter
Main?
“You and your friends have heard lots about the upcom-
ing night market event hosted by ASA with a bunch of other
orgs. They have set up their tasty tables with scrumptious food,
and you can smell it as you step into Main! ”
ADVENTURE HOOK
• “You and your friends get in line to buy the tickets you need to pur-
chase food. As you reach the front of the line, the world grows large
around you and the bustling passerbys freeze. You are shrunken on
the ticketing table! Nearby, a silver pot stirs and a dragon made of
noodles emerges. The dragon informs you that to be unshrunk,
you must bring them tickets (one ticket per person, found on
the food tables) and a password.”
ADVENTURE STRUCTURE
ENTER MAIN ➜ TICKETING TABLE
➜ TABLE 1 ➜ TABLE 2 ➜ FINAL BOSS
(NOODLE DRAGON)
THE PASSWORD
The password is “PORTRAIT”, and to figure
this out, the players must decode a menu or
buy the password from the shopkeeper. The
puzzle follows the rules of Tasha’s Cauldron’s
puzzle: “What’s on the menu”.
MENU (In alphabetical order-- scramble
order to increase difficulty)
Spam musubi ..... 2 (units of currency)
Tteokbokki .... 7
Stir fry noodles .... 4
Horchata .... 7
Fried rice .... 2
Thai bubble tea .... 13
Dumplings .... 6
Tostones .... 1

33. 10 DIFFERENT TABLES
REWARD AFTER EACH TABLE:
TABLE 1: 1 health potion per player
TABLE 2: each player gets a +1 weapon/spellcasting
The players can decide which tables seem interesting and go explore!
Asian Students’ Alliance
• “Blocking you from moving across the table is a
plate of egg tarts. You hear a crash— a block of
grass jelly has knocked over its bowl and is inching
towards you, leaving a trail of ooze in its wake.”
• Hint: ASA has grass jelly that is just as tasty, no mat-
ter how small you cut it apart!
• Egg Tart Soldiers -1 Skeletal Swarm
• Grass Jelly Ooze - 1 Sentient Ochre Jelly
Southeast Asian Students’ Association
• “In your path is a tall tub of ube ice cream, and
around the corner you notice tiny vegetable peo-
ple wielding bows and sharpening dried noodle ar-
rows.”
• Hint: The tub of ube ice cream provides good cover
and a potentially tasty distraction!
• Dried Noodle Archers - 5-6 Wood Elves
South Asian Students’ Association
• “The entire table is covered with bowls of pani puri
with napkins strewn about. You hear snoring.”
• Hint: Using the environment to help your stealth
will prevent you from waking up too many.
• Pani Puri Monsters - 5-6 Ice Mephit
Chinese Student Community
• “A huge steaming pot that smells of roast beef cou-
pled with that of garnished vegetables takes up the
whole table. ”
• Hint: Expertly making your way around the pot
seems to be the only way to get across!
• Noodles in Hotpot - 2 Enormous Tentacles
Korean Student Association
• “A tray of lying tteokbokki begins to stir and rise
from the plate. They flop towards you!”
• Hint: Don’t let these spicy fellas get too close to you!
• Tteokbokki - 3 Galvanice Weirds
Black Student Union
• “A steaming plate of mac n cheese blocks one side
of the table and three plantains float into the air on
the other side”
• Hint: This food looks too hot to get close to!
• Plantain Snakes - 3 Fire Snakes
Multiracial/Biracial Student Alliance
• “Some spam musubi soldiers are standing at at-
tention guarding the tickets. They wield utensils
as weapons and don’t look happy.”
• Hint: They know more than they let on— watch
out for some surprising spells!
• Spam Musubi Soldiers - 3 Feathergale Knights
Japanese Association for Students
• “You spot a takoyaki machine, similar to a waf-
fle maker but with sphere-shaped indentations.
Each space contains a ball of dough with cooked
octopus and veggies inside, but 5 of them start to
float in the air…”
• Hint: These little guys don’t know what they’ll at-
tack with when they launch some ingredients at
you.
• Takoyaki - 5-6 Gazers
Vassar Muslim Student Union
• “A plate of naan lies in front of you and after a
moment the naan rises up and folds itself into the
shape of a bear, but its head doesn’t quite match
its body”
• Hint: The naan creature seems to be really dan-
gerous at close range!
• Naan - 1 owlbear
Vassar Latinx Student Union
• “A cooler filled with some liquid is by the edge of
the table and a plate full of quesadillas is at the
other end. Four of these quesadilla slices shake
and the end of each slice opens up as it lets out a
growl. You see some of the liquid leave the spout
and take a humanoid shape.”
• Hint: The quesadilla creatures seem ready to eat
something, but they probably won’t eat you.
• Horchata-mancer - 1 Apprentice Wizard
• Quesadilla monsters (eats food weapons) - 4 Rust
Monsters
31

34. 32
Shopkeepers
“As you near the ticketing table after trekking across the College Center, you spot a little stand near the foot of the
table that you didn’t see before. It seems to be run by a piece of nigiri sushi and a cup of boba. As you approach
the stand, it seems they have some wares for sale.”
The piece of fish on the back of the nigiri has arched into the shape of a dinosaur and a couple of boba pearls float
as the cup’s eyes. They can communicate in protein, grains, vegetable, or dairy languages or English if necessary.
Use the commoner stat block for both of them.
These shopkeepers will have to be bartered with using the belongings your characters have in their possession as
they have no money. Successful persuasion or deception checks can convince them of the value of an item (partic-
ularly an item important to the character).
Wares for sale:
• Wasabi potion: After drinking this potion, you gain resistance to fire damage for the next hour.
• Chili pepper: After eating the pepper, you can use a bonus action to exhale fire at a target within 30
feet of you. The target must make a DC 13 Dexterity saving throw, taking 4d6 fire damage on a failed
save, or half as much damage on a successful one. The effect ends after you exhale the fire two times or
when 1 hour has passed.
• Green Onion Bracelet: While wearing this ring, you can turn Invisible as an action. Anything you are
wearing or carrying is Invisible with you. You remain Invisible until the ring is removed, until you Attack
or Cast a Spell, or until you use a Bonus Action to become visible again. After one use, the ring wilts and
cannot be used again.
• Popsicle Wand: This wand has 3 charges. While holding it, you can use an action to expend 1 of its
charges to cast the magic missile spell from it. For each charge, you cast the 1st-level version of the spell.
• Hi-Chew Shield: +1 Shield (gives +3 AC while equipped).
• Shrimp Chip of Shielding: When the owner is attacked, as a reaction, the shrimp chip can be con-
sumed to have the same effect as the Shield spell. (+5 AC until the end of that player’s next turn).

35. 33
Final boss - ticketing table
“After collecting the necessary tickets and decoding the password,
you go (back) to the ticketing table. As you come before the dragon
and present your findings, it stands on its legs and flaps its wings.
The winds buffet you as it’s throat and mouth glow red. It opens its
mouth and you only have a fraction of a second to react.”
Hint: don’t group up or it’ll breathe fire on you!
Noodle Dragon - Red Dragon Wyrmling
Adjustments for the stat block:
• The noodle dragon is resistant to fire damage instead of im-
mune.
• The noodle dragon has access to lair actions (which occur at
initiative count 20).
• Hot soup erupts from the bowl and crashes to the ground at a
point on the ground the dragon can see within 120 feet of it,
creating a 20-unit-high, 5-unit-radius geyser. Each creature in
the geyser’s area must make a DC 12 Dexterity saving throw,
taking 10 (3d6) fire damage on a failed save, or half as much
damage on a successful one.
• A tremor shakes the table. Each creature other than the dragon
on the table must succeed on a DC 12 Dexterity saving throw
or be knocked prone.
• Steam forms a cloud in a 20-unit radius sphere centered on
a point the dragon can see within 120 feet of it. The sphere
spreads around corners and its area is lightly obscured. It lasts
until initiative count 20 on the next round. Each creature that
starts its turn in the cloud must succeed on a DC 12 Consti-
tution saving throw or be poisoned until the end of its turn.
While poisoned in this way, a creature is incapacitated.
YOU DID IT!
“You did it! Now you can enjoy Night Market! You may
look at some of the dishes differently now...”

36. “May I feel your head?” Unrolled. “Lucky” they say
as their small hand passes over my rounded head.
Rolled. Lucky that I was loved in some capacity,
perhaps held in my unaccounted nine months
before the orphanage? I remain unfamiliar with
the physicalities of the adoptee body - the occa-
sional indentation or immunization scars carrying
histories of unbelonging. I control my own stories
now, like the “dimple” on my cheek (a clumsy fall
in 2nd grade) or the tattoo of my middle name (a
permanent reminder of my imposter syndrome).
I change my eye color like jewelry, wondering if
this desire for (ephemeral) validation derives from
internalized eurocentrism. My conception of beauty
is mired in trails of yellow fever (to my dad: “is
she young enough for you?”) and inauthenticity
(incessant in airport security). In my prolonged
exposure to whiteness, I crave(d) the colonial gaze,
enveloping myself in their exotification. Who was I
but collateral damage of the One Child Policy - an
excess of migration to satisfy savior narratives?
Occupying (Un)belonging
“Lack of biological background informa-
tion means not being able to place self in
the social context expected by others. It
also means not being able to envision self as
a single entity with distinguishable physical
traits. Searching adoptees express a sense
of incompleteness from not knowing the
source of their physical characteristics. This
sense of incompleteness creates personal
doubt about their bodily perceptions”
There were late nights spent driving too fast, street lights and
music bleeding into my senses. I remember screaming until I
couldn’t cry anymore, profanity wrenching itself free from my
mouth. I wondered, childishly, if throats could form calluses from
overuse. Microwaved dinners prescribed post-guilt bloats as I
stood swollen in front of the CD cabinet. Slipping into sleep as I
brushed my teeth, my reflection distorted like a fever dream. For-
got to set my alarm. Again. Glitter smeared across my eyelids, my
hair neatly braided. These mechanical reflexes were a controlled
regaining of self: You’re fine. You’re ok. Repair was forced, dishev-
elment contained in impulsive apologies and reserved elegance. I
can fix everything that feels wrong because there is nothing wrong
with me. I refuse to sink into floral couches, blankly staring at the
bills pressed into her hands as she itemizes repair like a grocery
list. I wondered when this perpetual resignation, ugly and almost
desperate, would no longer hurt.
Expired Optimism
1 March, Karen. “Who Do I Look Like? Gaining a Sense of Self-Authenticity Through the Physical Reflections of Others.” Sym-
bolic Interaction, vol. 23, no. 4, [Wiley, Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction], 2000, pp. 359–73, https://doi.org/10.1525/
si.2000.23.4.359.

37. Her Spotify playlists were sweet ...
like a spoonful of honey for sore
throats. “June bug” and “Winter
Saturdays” she called them, but
my favorite was “animal soup”. She
reminded me of Anya Taylor-Joy,
her eyes plucking at untempered
emotions. I couldn’t stop staring at
her; it was involuntary and almost
instinctual, that warmth of morn-
ing light in her gaze. It was so easy
to fall into cliches, imagining how
her skin would feel if I slipped my
hand along her ribcage. I reveled in
this lovely ache, addicted to these
Hallmark obsessions. I fixated on
her small details: the faint freckles
splattered like watercolors, loose
spirals of cornsilk hair, and how her
voice resonated like lullabies. To
the doe-eyed girl in San Francisco
summer, I free-fell for you in my
unsustainable delusions. But those
days were filtered like polaroids,
a stale sepia. Tangled in this self-
ish desire to be ruined, she slowly
became abstracted into imaginaries.
She was satin and lavender, and I
wear her memory like perfume.
Birds dangle from the fingers of little Hmong girls, their bodies
draped in beaded textile. Feathered wings twine against the
handwoven cages, and for a brief moment, their softness lies
flush against my palms before they take flight. In mid-after-
noon heat, gold leaf and orange cloth slacken, a sacred space
discolored by tourists. Monks make merit in the early morning,
our First World hands pinching rice into a procession of brass
bowls. Night market vendors sell silver spoons crafted from
bombshells, an ugly, unforseen practicality that was Nixon’s Op-
eration Menu. Nestled in youthful ignorance, my innocence has
soured into complicity. I am a settler, my guilt invisibilized as I
sip orange juice by the Mekong. Siloed in privilege, reality was
glossed over in a sheen. I exist in a landscape of cognitive disso-
nance, between undeniable physicalities and psychic invasions.
I trample over Their histories, pocketing trauma like souvenirs
as I leave in a daze - high off colonial bliss.
Internalized Colonization
Unrequited Attraction
Stretch
marks puckered under-
neath the harsh lights, my calves
straining in pointe shoes that didn’t quite fit.
That youthful glow, warm and bright, dimmed as
my body sunk into rounder curves. I no longer liked
skirts, and I wore leggings underneath my gym uniform. I
tucked myself into long sleeves, even in Kenyon’s late sum-
mer heat.
“You’re strong.” You are. Strong. Bigger?
“You’re graceful.” You are. Grace. Weak?
“You’re heavier than you look.” Why would you say that? She
was barely sixteen and had hated her body since she was ten. It
was an uncomfortable fact, this unrelenting feeling of inade-
quacy. She still holds these words like a secret -
an unspoken absence and tangible presence. The decay
was slow, but deliberate as the
wreckage seeped into chronic
disquietude.
Lost in Translation
Writer: Zoe Mueller
Editors: Alicia Hsu and Julia Peng
Designer: Melah Motani
35

39. M
A
I
N
G
U
Y
E
N
ART
&
WORDS
BY
SEOWON
BACK
|
DESIGN
BY
ALEXANDER
PHAM

40. ARTIST’S STATEMENT
BY SEOWON BACK | EDITED BY AIDAN FRY
In what ways can visual art manifest and re-
imagine Mai Nguyen’s personal blogs?
Iwant to memorialize Mai Nguyen’s feelings
around advocating for farmers of color. Mai
grows heirloom grains on leased land in Sonoma
County. They also travel across California with the
National Young Farmers Coalition and work to re-
duce barriers for minority farmers through new leg-
islation like the Farmer Equity Act of 2017. The act
helps farmers of color have equitable access to re-
sources for navigating the largely, white male agricul-
tural world. Recent research demonstrates how de-
mographic and socio-economic factors significantly
influence network centrality of small farmers. As a
farmer and farm advocate, Mai Nguyen is personally
aware of the challenges farmers of color face while
striving to address their collective needs. The art
piece will focus on the significance of their knowl-
edge as an Asian American with a Critical Ethnic
Studies background in the movement for humaniz-
ing America’s food systems.
The subject of my art piece will be Mai Nguy-
en. I think they are important to memorial-
ize their individual story as an activist because they
are presently navigating this role. In class, we learn
about challenging a hegemonic history by describing
the challenges and successes of Asian Americans in
descriptive and emotional ways. On Mai’s website,
they have a page dedicated to blogging their week-
ly anecdotes and personal history. I think their blogs
are a form of oral history, like the ones we describe
in class. Their blogs will help navigate my illustration
process by reliving their initial logic and feelings for
choosing to be a farmer and farm advocate. I will
explore how Mai Nguyen grounds their identity as a
Queer Vietnamese American farmer while fighting
for a larger movement for food equity. I think it is im-
portant that I am examining a young Asian Ameri-
can in the present because my envisioned audience of
college students can have conversations with the art
piece that are more relevant to them. I will describe
how food systems illustrate the transnationality of
the present because through the cultivation of wheat,
Mai constructs and performs their identity for the
world. I admire how in their blogs and interviews,
they consistently emphasize how they are “more than
just a producer of a product.” They are “a person who
has developed knowledge and skills.”
ENDNOTES
1
“Mai Nguyen Farming for Everyone - Berkeley Food Institute.” Berk-
ley Food Institute. Accessed October 2, 2021. https://food.berkeley.
edu/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/3-changemakers-mai.pdf.
2
Khanal, Aditya, Fisseha Tegegne, Stephan Goetz, Lan Li, Yicheol Han,
Stephan Tubene, and Andy Wetherill. 2020. “Small and Minority Farm-
ers’ Knowledge and Resource Sharing Networks, and Farm Sales: Find-
ings from Communities in Tennessee, Maryland, and Delaware”. Jour-
nal of Agriculture, Food Systems, and Community Development 9 (3).
Ithaca, NY, USA:149-62. https://doi.org/10.5304/jafscd.2020.093.012.
3
Lee, Matthew R. 2008. The effects of Asian American studies on Asian
American college students’ psychological functioning. Ph.D. diss.,
University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign,
4
Alkon, Alison Hope, and Dena Vang. “The Stockton Farmers’ Mar-
ket:” Food, Culture & Society 19, no. 2 (2016): 389–411. https://doi.or
g/10.1080/15528014.2016.1178552.
38

41. From a selected photo, a voice emerges. Sometimes
it comes as a single word, other times a phrase, an
onomatopoeia, or even a white noise. Sometimes, it is
lingual, metalingual, or even completely beyond the
capacity of language, making it hard to put down into
text form. Reflecting on a fleeting thought that comes
and goes as we proceed in life, we want to explore the
momentary discoveries so as to honor the exchange
between different worlds/words. We want to write as
though to think, perhaps courageously enough so that
minimally processed words might freely emerge.
A double is a set of two unstable expectations,
infiltrating each other to create a brand new
entity. The layering of two photos denaturalizes
the taken for granted and enables a curious
emergence that was previously deemed
impossible. The double here means more than
just the collapsing of two photos but also the
collision of visual and auditory sensations—the
synesthesia of perception and interpretation. We
will each provide a photo, which we then layer,
discuss and respond to carefully with a word of
sound. The conversational process in which we
drew inspiration from each other’s worlds/words
will make up this journey. We invite you to
introspect on your senses as you go through this
exhibition called Emergence with us.
Emergence:
An Exhibition
Annie Xu & Elena Furuhashi
Edited by Hannah Hu
Designed by Joy Yi Lu Freund
39

42. 纷纷 / Fēn Fēn
纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is the sound of falling,
flowing, and then falling again.
纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is when a snowflake
melts in midair and arrives at the tip
of a kitten’s tongue.
纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is when the pale blue
of the sky collides with the building at
dawn, violet nightgown.
纷纷 (Fēn Fēn) is half dimmed light in
Strong 413.
I closed my eyes to see a flower shed
its pumping heart.
The tune of a single piano key leaking from
the next room—ぽろろん (po-lo-lon), is
what I hear when I see this. ぽろん (po-
lo-n) without the repeated "lo" expresses
a small particle falling off—like a single
tear dropping from the eye. The tattoo
my friend recently got—a single flower
growing straight out of her belly button—
feels powerful to me. At the same time, the
single line it is made of makes it seem like
a little tug or push could undo its posture.
ぽろん (po-lo-n), a drop of a petal. The
whole thing may all unravel to the ground.
The sound ろん(lo-n) has such a transient
sentiment—the ringing of a single piano
key, the short life of a rose, a drop of salt
water before it reaches the ground. It is the
release of the built up summed into small
particles of beauty.
ぽろろん / po-lo-lon
40

43. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) is a versatile sound.
Though mostly used to describe circular objects,
咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) can be written in many
different ways depending on the subject at hand.
For instance, you can write 轱辘轱辘 if you see a
pumped tire. You can write
骨碌骨碌 if you see a particular slyness in
your dog’s eyes. I chose 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū
Lu) because, in all honesty, I was really hungry
when I saw this picture. The lotus root looked
crunchy in a hot pot of flaming clouds. A desire
to have comforting stew with red chili bean paste
emerged from the bottom of my stomach. 咕噜
咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) goes the stove, rusty iron
rims heating up like two sleep-deprived eyes. 咕
噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu) goes the vegetable broth,
tumbling with complaints that I have left it in
the fridge for so long. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu)
goes some freshly chopped zucchini, shying away
from the heat of action. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu)
goes a spoonful of sesame oil, sending a scented
invitation to my housemate downstairs, who
arrived at the scene bearing almond milk.
咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu Gū Lu), we gulped soup, ice
cold water, and then more soup. 咕噜咕噜 (Gū Lu
Gū Lu) is the sound of mundane life, a casual kind
of content that needs no explanation at all.
咕噜咕噜 / Gū Lu Gū Lu
とろーん (to-ro-n) can describe
the drooping sleepy eyes of a child,
the half cooked egg yolk slowly
dripping out of its outsides. This
scene of my hometown, captured this
summer, brought me back to days
in elementary school when I would
walk back from school with my
neighborhood friends. These walks
would be full of detours: kicking
around pebbles, trying to catch a frog
in the rice field, gossiping about our
classmates. とろーん (to-ro-n). If the
time was just right, the sun would be
setting, and the pink-orange would
provoke a rumble in my belly, adding
weight to my eyelids. I realized that I
started looking at the ground much more after elementary school. Yes, there was no sunset to witness nor
enough light to notice the mountains that stood around me. Where has my in-between time gone? とん、
とん、とん (ton, ton, ton) I hear my clock tick.
とろーん / to-ro-n

44. When you tell someone 噢，乖 (Ò Guāi), you are
telling them to “be good.” It’s a comforting sound that
mothers sometimes make to calm their babies. It’s not
disciplinary like “behave yourself” nor is it demanding
like “be excellent.” It is an acknowledgement, a casual
pat on the shoulder (or head, depending on how tall
you are). This phrase emerged from the image because
of the phonetic resemblance between 噢 (Ò) and 藕
(Ŏu), the word for lotus roots. 糖藕 (Táng Ŏu), lotus
root stuffed with sweet rice, is one of my favorite
dishes. It is a casual dish made from a hearty recipe.
The sugary sticky rice amends the empty holes in the
lotus root, blossoming a pink lotus flower inside your
chest. The lingering sweetness clings to the roof of your
mouth, making you want to secretly lick it without
anyone noticing.
“Be good!” My grandma used to say as I ran across the
kindergarten playground. I turned half way back only to see her off. “Be good! I will get you some sweet
lotus root for dinner.” Searching everywhere for this hollow-hearted plant to no avail, I heated up a pot of
sticky rice with my imagination.
My elementary school teacher once said that the worst thing in life is when you look back all of a sudden
and the person who has always waited for you is no longer there. No longer waiting, regardless of whether
噢，乖 / Ò Guāi
できた！(de-ki-ta!) My inner voice
would say after I finish making a meal,
topping it off with some scallions. でき
た (de-ki-ta) means that something has
been done, implying a satisfactory "I did
it!" This playful photo makes me think
of moments of fulfillment as I completed
a goal that took me long endurance
and hard work. In elementary school I
had a friend a couple years older than
me whom I looked up to very much.
In my eyes, she was an exquisite artist,
intelligent soul, and master of life. I
remember showing her my drawings
with sparkling eyes, excaiming でき
た！(de-ki-ta!) I have come to enjoy
sharing work and thoughts more and
more, not just for approval but in order
to share that very できた！(de-ki-ta!)
sensation with the people around me.
できた！/ de-ki-ta!

45. 窃窃 (Qiè Qiè) means secretive, but of a particular
timid kind. 私 (Sī) means self or for self. Together,
窃窃私语 (Qiè Qiè Sī Yǔ) becomes the word of
whispering. When my mother was a child, she used
to have two cats as her faithful spectators during
table tennis time. My grandmother’s apartment was
an old Shikumen (石库门) building in Shanghai
where all the neighbors could see and hear each
other’s lives. In between narrow alleys, the walls
had exchanged secret and intimate messages for
almost a hundred years. In these same narrow alleys,
my grandfather set up a ping pong table where my
mother played with her childhood friends, before
everything was fully polished, before everything
had yet to wear down. Whenever she played, the
ping and pong sound would attract two cats, one
of them white with orange fur around the collar,
like a Shakespearian hero. The cats looked attentive
throughout and turned their fluffy heads left and right to follow the trajectory of victory. Occasionally,
both chased after the rolling ping pong ball, a soft groan from the back of their throats. What was the
message there? Has anyone ever decrypted their 窃窃私语 (Qiè Qiè Sī Yǔ)? In 1990, my mom moved
out of her old apartment, left behind a shattered ping pong table, four walls of neighborly gossip, and
two cats that were never seen or heard again.
窃窃私语 / Qiè Qiè Sī Yǔ
ちらり (chi-la-li). When
something shows itself for a
brief second, when you steal a
secret glance of something, this
is the sound I envision. ひらり
(hi-la-li) on the other hand, the
"chi" replaced by a softer "hi",
provokes an image of flowing
thin material-- a falling petal,
a curtain, a sundress. Through
the gentle breeze that ひらり
(hi-la-li), flutters the curtain,
This photo brings me visions of
old memories, ちらり (chi-la-
li). People fear forgetting, being
forgotten. But these moments of
unexpected whispers can bring
you back to a particular feeling
of remembering.
ちらり、ひらり/ chi-la-li, hi-la-li

46. 熙熙攘攘 (Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng) means crowded. Not
crowded like a 7 a.m. subway, but a fish market at the
same hour. 熙熙攘攘 (Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng) is used to
describe a joyous crowd, a group of busy yet content
people gathering for a particular spectacle. You might
accidentally step on another person’s big toe but then
you would both smile apologetically and rush together
to the next open vendor. I
have always had a particular
fondness for 熙熙攘攘 (Xī
Xī Rǎng Rǎng) as a word.
Perhaps because 熙 was going
to be the middle character of
my name. Then I would be
徐熙洋 instead of 徐禧洋.
熙 (Xī) means warmth and
happiness whereas 禧 means
good luck. I suppose there are
certain things in life that are
more important than good
luck. As I layered the two
images, the word 熙熙攘攘
(Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng) popped
into my head. I was brought
back to my childhood New
Year’s Eve celebration where I
was wrapped up in swarms of
visitors like dumpling filling
on the nine-folded bridge of
Chenghuang Temple. The
major attraction was the
countless fish underneath
the bridge, reaching for
breadcrumbs with their eager
mouths. They were koi, I suppose, and were of a vibrant
shade of red. Far away from home, it has been almost ten
years since I last stood on this bridge. In the fortress of
my dream, I built a colorless castle where carps instead
of koi (I guess I am not such an idealist afterall) patrol
the property. Mouths wide open, they swallow fragments
of my memory, daring me to overstep the boundary
between the real and the imagined.
熙熙攘攘 / Xī Xī Rǎng Rǎng
44

47. If you reach for something hard enough, you may hear this
stretching sound "uu" in the tension of your muscles. ぐーん
(guu-n) with the "g" adds on speed and vitality. I stand on my
tiptoes and stretch ぐーん (guu-n) to the ceiling when I wake up
in the morning. My little brother grew ぐーん (guu-n) so quickly,
and now he is taller than me. The reaching of a hand, the pedaling
of a swing into the midst of the mountain ranges of Nagano. This
image makes me think of the yearning for something unknown. It
is uneasy, it is in process, and you worry that the "uu" tension may
cut off before you reach the other side. But with the ending "n",
you are going to land, and it is going to be alright.
ぐーん/ guu-n
45

48. ちょこん (cho-ko-n) has the sentiment of something small existing
or being placed down very gently. It's just like a candied cherry sitting
on top of your dessert. In this image, my finger barely touches a piano
key, ちょこん (cho-ko-n). I mark a point precisely on my ear, ちょこ
ん (cho-ko-n), before it is pierced by my friend. It is done with care and
there is a lingering joy that I cherish. It reminds me of my mother who
has always had great appreciation for both seeing and acting on this ちょ
こん (cho-ko-n) feeling. She finds beauty and meaning in the little things
around her, which has also made me imagine the intentional gesture or
coincidental placement of small objects in daily scenes. I feel as though
I have done something good by witnessing a thing that I could have just
passed right by.
ちょこん / cho-ko-n
46

49. 4’33’’ is an experimental piece by composer John Cage during which the performers remain
completely silent for 4 minutes and 33 seconds. This piece generates similar sentiment.
Muted and rid of colors, I tried hard to grab inspiration by its tail. Yet, it is always fleeting
as though serving a tennis ball across the court of temporal infinity, a hit and also a miss. I
could have forced myself to give a summary about all the little details that had composed this
double. By doing so, however, I would have also imprisoned the potential of this set of images.
I chose not to in the end. In Ghostly Matters, Avery Gordon said, “in a culture seemingly
ruled by technologies of hypervisibility, we are led to believe not only that everything can
be seen (perhaps heard as well), but also that everything is available and accessible for our
consumption.” Things, once possessed, owned, and analyzed, became reducible. Speechless, I
stayed true to the blankness of my mind and only layered and assembled these two pictures.
This way, I hope to pay tribute to the meaning behind all things that I have perhaps taken for
granted or have just assumed to comprehend in the past. Given the lack of sound emerging
from this photo, it is perhaps better to leave it unvoiced so as to have it emerge by and for itself.
4’33”
47

50. i.
i.
a ghost lives in my home. i did not invite him in and i am not
entirely sure how he got here, or how long he has been here. i don’t know his
name, but he reminds me of the little brown boy i never got to be. i know his bones
are tied to my lungs because he rattles when i breathe. i try my hardest to ignore him.
i turn my head, pretending that the shaking in my chest doesn’t exist, and it doesn’t
follow every exhale. i close my eyes as tightly as i can. it’s just a dream. yet he stares back
at me so hauntingly, occupying the mirror, a stranger in my own home. every time i
turn around, he’s still there. i don’t know where he came from, if not from inside
me. but i refuse to believe that i could have borne someone so despaired,
someone so lost and alone to be tied to someone who denies their
existence.
i believe i am being possessed. by the ghost. the boy. he stepped into my
body and he rattles my lungs, shaking and shaking, racking my whole body
with anguish. every. time. i’m. reminded. of. him. how dare he? i was doing
just fine until i found his ghost deep within myself. he took the place of a
young girl i once thought i knew -- fooled into her existence, but he stands in
her skeleton; it was always him. he reaches deep within my core and rips away
every freedom i’ve known, replacing it with despair and isolation. i want to
hold him, down on my knees, and scream. scream for hours on end so
loud and so thunderous that my chest explodes. i’ve never felt
such rage, such grief. to be robbed of something i never
knew i had. to know there is a ghost of a boy
who never got to be.
ii.
iii.
i wonder
what i could have
done to prevent him from
appearing. how to erase the guilt,
the shame. i could have burned his
bones when i found them in my ribcage. i
could have been the daughter i should have been.
i should have been a better son. every part of me yearns
to live in the world where i never knew the type of pain that washes
over me, filling my lungs with water and my bones with melancholy. what is so wrong with me that i
deserve such a burden? the boy knows i don’t want his ghost here. to his core, he knows he is unwanted.
that i never wanted to grieve him. he cannot control his existence, and i cannot blame him for taking up
the space he never had the privilege of owning. but he rattles my lungs every time i breathe and i am tired of
choking. my chest holds the weight of the ghosts of all the boys that died inside me.
bhut
BY KIRAN RUDRA
Designed by SK Kapur
Edited by Taylor Gee and Julianna Aguja

51. iv.
he makes me so sad. he fills me with anguish, melancholy, despair, and grief. i wish i was
in the world where he was born. i exist, i exist, i exist. i keep reminding myself that i did not die
with him. i carry his corpse with me everywhere i go and i cannot help but think of all the things
he never lived to see. and i am sad that i now have to live with his ghost. i carry this burden of
grief alone, like rocks tied to my ribcage that drag on the floor as i walk. his thick fog of sadness
fills the air, constantly clouding my vision. to truly see him is to forget everything i once saw
as true. a spectre of wisdom that comes with a price of the constant reminder of loss.
everywhere i turn, i see him. it is impossible to escape him. he is borne from me and
we are tied at the core. we are one. and so i must carry him and his grief, his
loneliness, and his emptiness.
little brown boy,
little brown boy,
you are me.
you are me.
and i am ready to live with that.
and i am ready to live with that.
v.
i think i’ve learned
to live with the ghost. i even let him
step into my body sometimes. he is me, after all. even if he was never
born, i can be all the things he dreamed to be. i get to take every step he
never got to. i’ve learned that i can feel his sorrow, but i can feel his joy, too.
feel the euphoria that spreads joy like fire through my veins when i see his future
in myself. the more i let him step into my body the smaller the distance between
us. his bones merge with the air in my lungs and i finally learn what it is like to
breathe unencumbered. to let breath fill my lungs like rays of sunlight pooling
through a window and breathe the beam of light i have become with him
by my side. i find home in him now. even if he does mean sadness, he
means growth, too. he means so many things i never got to be and
infinitely more i can become.

52. P O R T R A I T
issue #7 | fall 2021
emergence