1. Back when I was in elementary school, Mother used to pin up my hair with chopsticks—soft pink with cherry blossoms creeping along its narrow circumference. The silky threadlike strands of hair that hung from the top of my head never stayed up for longer than a few…
My mother propagates plants next to the kitchen sink, slipping cuttings into plastic bottles, laying seeds down in shallow dishes. They soak, stagnant, in their isolated pools of water. In between cycles of dishwashing, my mother watches them. She waters them. She sets them towards the sun, these…
TV Screens glaring Everyone stares, unaware History repeats (Kyla) Discrimination Everyone is a human Why do our eyes judge? (Bryce) 88rising – An ode to Asian artists Making space for us. (Azure) Cycle of abuse Empty textbooks, empty minds And we never learn. (Azure) See you dabble in…
When I write my name in my assignments, I write: Sophia Bautista. In most American legal documents, it’s written that way, too. On my passport, though, when I visit the Philippines, my name comes like this: BAUTISTA (last name), SOPHIA (first name). Which is more fitting because as…
I cannot explain nai kham vao thikhony husuk. When huachai khongkony drops, and chakkauaan aemn totan khon, wallowing khuaamhen ohk henchai pensingthi khonyyak hed. Options appear more cham kad nai ve la chao mirai khuaam tunten, but bo mi phai to share with dud phova phuakkhao bokhaochai. Pretending…