Category: Literary Art

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The Daughter Who Refused to be Silent

This is a story of becoming — not in spite of the silence, but through it.

Creator:
Lavleen Walia ਲਵਲੀਨ ਵਾਲੀਆ

For South Asian women, one cannot escape the clutches of izzat – a cultural concept (akin to “honour”) that dictates nearly ever aspect of their lives including how they carry themselves in the home and in public, who they are friends with, and who their partners are. Moreover, asymmetrical gender expectations in many South Asian communities (including diasporic ones) often mean that South Asian women and girls are held to a much higher standard for maintaining the family’s honour than are South Asian men and boys (who are certainly also subject to expectations based on izzat too). In a series of poems, Lavleen articulates the different ways in which her life (which is stereotypical of many other South Asian Canadian women’s), along with familial interactions and her connection with herself, have all been strongly impacted by izzat. Even if your langauge doesn’t include the concept of izzat, has your life been impacted by a similar concept?


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Perfumes on my Nightstand

Sniff well.

Creator:
K. Siy 施颖洁

We use all sorts of literary devices to describe ourselves and unravel our complex identities and experiences; but have you ever considered how our entire beings might be communicated by perfume? Just like how identities can have layers, complex tones, and sophisticated notes, so, too, can perfumes. In this anthology of poems, K. showcases how complex migration histories, multi-faceted cultural identities, deeply-rooted societal stereotypes, and a fight for individuality can be symoblized by culturally important scent notes such as calamansi zest, creamy ube, star anise, and ylang-ylang. If you were think of the different notes that can describe you in all your complexity, what would they be?


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Other(ed) Body At Home

A myth of the yellow body

Creators:
Royce Uy

The migration process is often hopeful one for everyone involved; but it is also often mired with obstacles – obstacles that have more to do with how others see them than anything that the migrants have done. Over time, the racialization of Asians has come to be intricately entangled with the model minority myth, which has driven wedges between Asians and other racialized minorities, and sometimes even among Asian communities. This is then also complicated by notions of racial essentialism tinged with queerphobia based on contemporary conservative notions of gender and sexuality. Royce’s collection of poems speaks to all of these phenomena, and invites the reader to think about discrimination both from outside and inside of Asian diasporic communities, especially from an intersectional perspective. What kinds of images and emotions do these pomes evoke in your mind?

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Finding the “Myself”

When was it that I became aware of my drowning?

Author:
Anonymous

CW: suicidal ideation in the author’s statement

Different genders are subject to different societal pressures. The author uses poetry to describe the struggle, the pain, the coping mechanisms, and the realizations he has wrestled with regarding being a Chinese man trying to live up to family expectations. Within a family, we are often many things – we are ourselves with our own aspirations; but we are also a cultural being, and we are children of people with aspirations for us. When these identities clash, it can create an immense burden on the individual in question. These are all issues that the author has had to deal with, all issues that the author has sought escape from. His poem details his pain as he plays one question over and over in his mind: What does it mean to be a man of Chinese heritage?

The Myself

You are a man. Never forget this.
You are Chinese. Never forget this.
You are a child. Never forget this.
You are not yourself. Never forget this.

Their voices, ringing in my head.
It hurt.
It hurt me to realize that I was never acknowledged.
This torturous isolation within a community; the common paradox.
Where could I go?
Those with muffled voices are no better off than those without.
There was no one that could hear me.

Home is where the hatred is.
Hell is where everyone else is.
Is there any escape outside of the bridge?

So I drank.
The nectar that set me free.
I can retreat into the paradise of my mind.
There are no voices left, except for my own.
Just forget.

As I watched everything I ever feared slip away, all I had was Myself left.
Not a single time I had been able to refute this horrible truth.
There was nothing there at all.

I was their child. A construct of their dreams.
I was Chinese. A construct of the millennia of accumulated stories.
I was a man. A construct of systems, societies, and those influential enough to control them.
I was a construct of a structure that needed me to fit my assigned identity.
That was all there was to it.
Do your job.

How could I come to terms with such a reality?
The decision was easy.
I returned to my refuge of half-empty bottles.

\

When was it that I became aware of my drowning?

When I realized that there was nowhere else to hide.

Only two places to find resolution; within yourself, or with God.

There are days where I have chosen God.

There are days where I have chosen to pick up the shattered glass and try to make something out of it.

\

Do you know where I found my paradise?
A horrible twist of irony.

.

The phrase my name was based on:
“”
“Everyone under the sky is happy.”

Funnily enough, the truth was always with me. This prescription of mine.

You know what?
I chose to live up to it.
Not everyone, mind you.
Everyone under my sky.
As much as I can do.
I’m not a hero by any means; I often find that I am the antagonist of my own stories.

That’s fine.
We all do our best.

Where exactly do I wish for this legacy of mine to endure?

Perhaps, in the journals of my friends?

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