The Plight of the Modern Chinese Restaurant

THE PLIGHT OF THE MODERN CHINESE RESTAURANT: UNDERSTANDING THE EFFECTS OF CORONAVIRUS ON CHINESE RESTAURANTS THROUGH A DEEP EXPLORATION OF THE HISTORY OF CHINESE FOOD IN AMERICA AND XENOPHOBIA

Abstract

In this piece, we attempt to use the history of Chinese restaurants in the U.S. to better foreshadow the differences in COVID-19’s lasting effects on urban Chinatowns that serve authentic Chinese food and Chinese restaurants in more suburban, primarily non-Chinese neighborhoods that primarily serve takeout Chinese food. We also evaluate how the COVID-19 pandemic exacerbates existing populist sentiments and draws on implicit biases regarding Chinese Americans, putting both types of Chinese American cuisine at risk.

The following paper addresses these two different types of Chinese cuisine in relation to the different neighborhoods because of a discussion we had about our relationships to Asian restaurants in our respective neighborhoods. Two of our authors live near two large Chinatowns (New York and Boston) and another lives in the suburban town of Cornwall. Regardless, these Chinese locations are extremely important to us.

Chinatown is often overlooked as a place of unique culinary expertise, a hub of language exchange, and a cultural safeplace for Chinese Americans. Such a loss would cause a huge hole in part of the American immigration narrative, as well as a loss for new generations who would no longer have a cultural epicenter. Chinese restaurants outside of Chinatown are equally important, assimilating Chinese cooking techniques and ingredients into the American palate. 

Given its historical resilience and internally facing nature, it's likely that Chinatowns will persist through the pandemic. The virus and consequential xenophobia, for independently-owned Chinese restaurants outside of Chinese neighborhoods however, will be far more destructive.

Introduction

The dissonant clamor of voices mixed with hearty laughter soothes the soul. Two pairs of wooden chopsticks have a bashful encounter in a dish of bok choy, and one nudges the other to go first. “多吃点儿, 多吃点儿!” Eat more, eat more, Aunty beams, using her chopsticks to heap yet another serving of braised pork onto one slightly horrified child’s plate. The glass Susan lazily spins around the table, intercepted by clammy fingers, serving spoons, and yet more chopsticks playing a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Half a bowl of white rice is plopped onto a plate, then passed to the right.

  From hot pot to street snacks—  小吃, little eats — to just a regular old dinner out, communal style eating is the heart of authentic Chinese eating culture. Eating together is a way to express love and share joy. Leave the cozy indoors of restaurants to find vibrant signs, yelling fruit stand owners, and pungent smells of fish from one street to soy milk on the other: Chinatown’s personality is irreplaceable.

  A scene like this would have been considered ordinary in Chinatown mere months ago, but now feels utterly unimaginable. 

Aunty’s extended family has a restaurant in Bakerville, the epitome of a peaceful suburban town. But with COVID-19’s emergence, they feel particularly perturbed. Announcements of hate crimes decorate the headlines of all media outlets and while Aunty often suggests they sign up to be a grubhub vendor, they wonder if the risk is worth it.

In today’s COVID-19 climate, everyone must ask: Will Chinatowns, immigrant enclaves concentrated with small businesses and reliant on a steady stream of customers, survive the xenophobia it is encountering? What about takeout restaurants outside of Chinatown? Or will stir frys, communal style dinners, Chinese vegetables— even the heavily Americanized kung pao chicken and egg rolls— disappear off the menu forever?

Even with the recent climate of xenophobic populism and uptick of anti-Asian hate crimes, we believe Chinatowns’ internally directed natures and historical resilience will allow it to persist even after states reopen, but that take out restaurants outside of this Chinese bubble are the ones who are truly at risk. An exploration into the history of Chinatowns and early Chinese food in the U.S. shows these neighborhoods' resilience to white disdain, deliberate attempts to destroy Chinatown for real estate, the Chinese Exclusion Act, and even being scapegoated for the black plague. One hundred twenty years after the bubonic plague, COVID-19 will now test the resilience of Chinese restaurants with an almost exclusively non-Chinese consumer base.

Section I: Chinatowns and Xenophobia During the Coronavirus Pandemic

Chinatowns Today

Empty seats, flickering OPEN signs, and eerie silence suffocate a city usually bustling with eager tourists and customers: Chinatown. Following the first wave of news in December about the outbreak of a virus in Wuhan, China, Chinatown restaurants and businesses across the globe began to immediately falter in sales. Tourists stopped visiting hotels and eating at beloved Chinatown restaurants. Even locals began to avoid Chinese restaurants, shops, and other businesses out of the association of Chinatowns and Chinese-Americans with COVID-19 by the general public. Foot-traffic plunged just ahead of the Chinese Lunar New Year and Spring Festival tourist season as well, which is normally one of Chinatown’s most successful and profitable times of the year. In the past months, Chinatown, in the eyes of millions, has become eviscerated as the epicenter of the coronavirus pandemic, resulting in a staggering loss in business that has plunged thousands of business-owners and employees into a financial crisis. 

Besides hurting individuals, the xenophobia brought about by the coronavirus threatens to permanently destroy communities, and Chinatowns seem to have the most to lose. Well before restaurants were forced to close, Chinese restaurants in Flushing, Queens had already begun reporting a 50% drop in sales. One hundred and twenty years after the bubonic plague hit Hawaii, people cannot shake the association of disease with the faces of Asian Americans. With the restaurant industry driven to unprecedented lows, it is uncertain if the Chinatowns will survive this round.

Currently, the Chinatowns in San Francisco and New York are facing more than a 70-80% decline in business. In an interview with NPR, Kevin Chan, the owner of the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory, reveals that this recent Chinese Lunar New Year was the “worst new year I ever had in my life,” and that he had been forced to lay off staff and turn off his machines in order to barely stay afloat— despite its status as a legendary tourist attraction and there being no positive cases of coronavirus at the time in San Francisco. Even when House Speaker Nancy Pelosi visited the San Francisco House district to reassure residents that any fear about the spread of coronavirus was unwarranted at the time, locals remained risk-averse to visiting Chinatown, depicted by the uniquely drastic loss in sales concentrated in businesses run by those by Asian Americans in comparison to other businesses. Despite having made great strides towards racial equality in the United States in the past few decades, the political climate of the United States and the Western world finds the story of struggling Chinatowns ultimately unsurprising.

A Populist Climate

In the forty years that followed World War II, the developed world experienced an unprecedented period of growth, peace and stability, inciting a movement towards Postmaterialist views. Postmaterialists tend to emphasize “peace, environmental protection, human rights, democratization, and gender equality.” As the Silent Revolution argues, the postwar generation came of age in an environment where they did not have to worry about survival, consequently resulting in values that are more tolerant of new ideas and people. In the mid-to-late eighties, however, the developed world began to see a divergence of classes. Despite steady GDP growth, income inequality began to rise, eroding the middle class and tearing at the security in the West—a trend that has continued through today. In response, populist movements have gained enormous traction in Western countries, with the election of Donald Trump in 2016 often cited as one of the most prominent examples.

The COVID-19 pandemic represents one of the greatest, if not the greatest, threat to existential security in modern history. Thanks to an increasingly globalized world, a virus that originated in Wuhan, China—a place most people had probably never heard of before a couple of months ago—has made its way to every corner of the world.

Since the stay-at-home orders began in mid-March, over 30.3 million Americans have filed first-time claims for unemployment. The official unemployment rate reported by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics at the end of April stands at a staggering 14.7 percent. As we enter into another global depression, this time coupled with a highly contagious and deadly disease, we must beware the danger of scapegoating. In times of “insecurity,” people tend to seek “in-group solidarity and a rejection of outsiders.” For populations with little exposure to Asian culture, like those in suburbia, the perceived existential threat is likely to be even greater than the real existential threat. Populism seems like the inevitable consequence of human nature’s tendency towards tribalism, and its potential fallout on Asian Americans will remain long after we are able to leave our homes.

Consequences for Asian Americans

Poised against the backdrop of a rise in populism, the xenophobic consequences of the coronavirus have unsurprisingly already begun manifesting themselves. President Donald Trump referred to the coronavirus as “the Chinese virus,” in several Tweets back in March, eventually deciding to stop using the term after facing severe backlash from critics who feared the term would incite racism towards Chinese Americans. In addition to being dubbed the “Kung Flu,”these alternative names have been widely circulated across media outlets and used by conservative politicians. Indeed, xenophobic attacks against Asian Americans have become increasingly common, with instances of Asian Americans being avoided in public spaces and called racial slurs published in articles as early as the beginning of February, when the virus had not yet significantly impacted United States.

Since then, the Asian Pacific Policy and Planning Council has been spearheading a movement called “Stop AAPI Hate,” with hopes to document xenophobia targeting Asian Americans. Between March 19th and April 26th alone, the A3PC received 1,497 reports of racism against Asian Americans.

Today, the detrimental effects of deeply-rooted xenophobia mixed with the general fear and economic instability that has mounted due to COVID-19 on Chinese-American businesses are taking place in Sunset Park, New York, which houses New York City’s largest Chinese population. When interviewing some of the 74,000 Chinese immigrants, it is clear that the anti-Asian sentiment that has broken out over the rise of coronavirus has taken an enormous toll on the immigrants and workers that populate the community. An employee of Pacificana, one of the only dim sum restaurants in Sunset Park that still currently remains open, noted that they lost “about 90 percent, or maybe more, of our customers.” Most other dim sum restaurants in the area have closed, unable to stay afloat. Assembly member Yuh-Line Niou condemned the xenophobia and racism that has targeted the Chinese-American businesses in New York’s Chinatown, arguing that even though “every single one of our restaurants, our businesses, have the same safety inspections, commercial standards, and health codes as anyone,” people still are “urging others to avoid Asian American restaurants or businesses.” With the rise of COVID-19, the general American public and media has portrayed COVID-19 as something to be directly associated with Chinese-Americans and Chinatown – a harmful rhetoric that has always reared its ugly head amid global pandemics. 

Furthermore, anti-Asian rhetoric has infiltrated all aspects of life for Chinese-Americans and workers, from verbal harassment on the street to physical assault to actions taken upon by the federal government. Residents of Sunset Park admitted that “a part of me is worried that the [federal government] is going to impact people seeking help if they are showing symptoms of something more serious,” after a series of raids by the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents (ICE) prompted residents to stay indoors out of fear. Also, while wearing face masks has been recommended to protect individuals and reduce the spreading of the COVID-19 virus, for Sunset Park residents, “many community members have started to associate wearing face masks with xenophobia, so they avoid doing so because they don’t want to be attacked or discriminated against.” The anti-Asian racism that has skyrocketed due to the outbreak of COVID-19 has not only destroyed Chinese-American run businesses and restaurants across the country, but has injected fear for the safety of the Asian American community across the globe. 

While Chinese food has become widely popularized in today’s society, the general public’s devastating aversion to Chinese food and restaurants today in response to the outbreak of COVID-19 demonstrates how prevalent anti-Asian xenophobia still remains deeply embedded in the social, cultural, and political fabric of society. This simultaneous celebration for the economic success of ethnically exotic Chinatowns while being vilified as filthy and diseased perpetuates the notion that we, as Asian Americans, are still foreign and racialized bodies out of place in Westernized cultures. Now, more than ever, must we open our eyes and hearts to the struggling Chinese-American populations that continue to face this degradation in the face of COVID-19. 

These consequences are rooted in a long history of xenophobia against Chinese Americans and the reluctant assimilation of Chinese style foods into mainstream American culture.

 Section II: Historical Contextualization of Xenophobia against Chinese Americans and Chinese Food

The Introduction of Chinese Americans and the Chinese Exclusion Act

Chinese food in America began as an important slice of home to early Chinese laborers. Chinese 49ers (1849) were the first overwhelming wave of Chinese immigrants to America. Initially arriving in response to the California gold rush, these immigrants did not find wealth in gold, but instead found opportunities for themselves by proving their work ethic and developing a community amongst themselves. Chinese restaurants were extremely crucial to this community, becoming the main place for resting, socializing, and networking as Chinese laborers could find food that resembled meals from home, and get it for as low as ten cents in 1878 compared to the twenty five cent dozen of eggs and engage with others of their native language and facing similar American trials, all in one place. Here, men discussed potential job opportunities and shared crucial resources. Railroad labor opportunities were one such opening for the Chinese immigrant community as these companies began to recognize the value of Chinese laborers who were cheap and reliable, and in 1870, when they were looking to build a railroad in Calvert Texas, hired these Chinese men in massive numbers. During this process, Chinese community leaders were successful in negotiating for Chinese ingredients such as ginger and cooking utensils such as the “frying pan shovels” and “forty sets of chopsticks.”  This conveys the value of Chinese food to the Chinese community as necessities for their food, not higher wages, were their specified employment conditions. It also demonstrates their ability to advocate for themselves to maintain their communities despite work requiring them to stray further from their initial cultural centers. By ensuring the travel of Chinese food with them, they ensured Chinatown would always be nearby; restaurants always attracted other Chinese businesses, and these small Chinese enclaves began to be established all along the railroad. 

For a brief period, Americans' attitude towards San Francisco’s Chinatown also began to shift as Americans began to view Chinatown as an exotic tourist destination. For the first time, Chinese food was not just being served exclusively to Chinese clientele. This success, however, was extremely short lived.

Towards the very end of the 1800s, Chinese people became the scapegoat for declining wages and fewer job opportunities, culminating in the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act. White miners, bitter with failure in California gold mines, flooded the cities for other low skill jobs. This influx of laborers in combination with the “discovery of gold in Australia,” which “brought on a financial panic...Prices, rents and values fell rapidly and many business houses failed,” caused wages to be glutted and left many unemployed. Americans shifted the blame onto the most conspicuous immigrant group at the time, the Chinese, because they acknowledged this group as a threat. “Californians found the work ethic of Chinese laborers (admirable),” and recognized their willingness to work hard despite low wages. Anti-Chinese sentiment grew out of fear of the potential of this capable group and eventually, this sentiment became law. The Chinese Exclusion Act was the first in history to ban immigration and citizenship of an entire ethnicity. To give context of how ignorant and racist this document was, we have highlighted the passage “Mongolians are alien to our civilization, aliens in blood, aliens in faith...they are a degraded peoples,” from the writing of the Chinese Exclusion Act itself. Here, “Mongolian” is used as an umbrella term the document writers used for all Asians, to capitalize on images of the savage Genghis Khan.  

History of Chinatowns: Disease and Resilience

Similar efforts were taken to scapegoat the Chinese for the bubonic plague, attacking Chinatown as dirty, nonnative (smelly), and connecting Chinese food to rats. In the 1900s, California was hit by the bubonic plague, a devastating epidemic spread from Asian trade routes to European countries and then the Americas. Not only was it deadly, assaulting the lymphatic system and causing “black boils that oozed blood and pus,” but it was also highly infectious. After the US public health service announced that this Black Death was spread through rats and fleas, people immediately found reason to blame the Chinaman. As previously mentioned, anti Chinese sentiment had already been established. In addition, San Francisco’s Chinatown was dilapidated to say the least. Property law at the time did not allow Asians to own land so they had to rely on well-networked white men who directed them to owners of tenement houses who preferred Chinese residents because they reliably paid their rent but themselves neglected their properties. The Chinese endured such conditions, deciding not to pay for any fixtures in order to send income back home. Chinatown’s unsanitary state was thus not a product of any uncleanliness of the Chinese but of neglect by property owners. 

On top of that, other white businessmen who wanted to run Chinatown out of business finally saw an opportunity to claim Chinatown’s valuable real estate. They pushed for wholesale demolition of the area to create yet another sector of white commercial business, capitalizing on the dilapidation and filth associated with Chinatown. They claimed that the Chinese themselves bred disease with a particular emphasis on rats. This effort was so successful that a 1907 investigative report of the bubonic plague called it a “typical oriental plague,” a spooky parallel to Trump’s insensitive naming of COVID-19 as the “Chinese flu.” These associations resulted in Chinatowns being forced into blanket quarantines and Chinese food immediately being rejected by Americans who claimed it to contain rat meat. These incidents show exploitation of the Chinese, in this case, white businessmen scapegoating Chinese people for the plague, which was built upon previous exploitation of the Chinese: property owners not managing their tenements properly, not throwing away trash and neglecting repairs. 

Ultimately, however, Chinatown has withstood these historical efforts and its continued survival gives us optimism to project that it can persist despite the coronavirus pandemic. This ability to survive the harm it has historically incurred can be attributed to its unique identity as an immigrant bubble. Chinatowns mainly serve the Chinese communities within themselves and are thus fairly self sufficient bubbles, even in the face of xenophobia. Moreover, such an enclosed immigrant enclave naturally lends itself to forming a strong community with strong community leaders. Chinatown never actually was forced into wholesale demolition as Chinese community leaders continued to defend their civil rights, and while it is true that fear of Chinese spaces spreading disease led to blanket quarantine laws and the burnings of Honolulu's Chinatown to sanitize it, our current federal government does not have the authority to order state quarantines. These are moreso state powers. Honolulu’s Chinatown has since been rebuilt and Chinatown’s presence in American metropolitans is still very strong, because as long as there are large pockets of Chinese Americans, the demand for authentic Chinese cuisine will remain. Even now, the Chinatown community is still venturing out to shop for groceries at local Chinese supermarkets and we are beginning to see the reopening of several Chinatown restaurants, albeit temporarily. 

The Emergence of Americanized Chinese Food

But what happens to Chinese restaurants not within the safety of Chinatown? 

A large portion of Chinese food’s narrative in America is its adoption into the diets of other American minority groups, and it is at this stage that we begin to see Chinese food shift to the mainstream Chinese American takeout of today. Even while Chinatowns were forced into blanket quarantines, Chinese laundromats spread, a pervasive new business that became a necessity for many non-Chinese minority neighborhoods. Following the laundromats were Chinese takeout restaurants which adapted to serve many Black and Jewish populations and their need for cheap and convenient food. These restaurants began incorporating elements that suited western palates more, such as adding heavy sauces to pack flavor and familiar American vegetables such as carrots and broccoli. These minority groups, although also suffering from social discrimination, still had some impact on what became cool or mainstream. Through entering these palettes, Chinese food gradually also gained white acceptance. Rather than being appreciated for its rich cultural history or unique cooking techniques, Chinese food instead was able to work around xenophobia by adapting to solve food service demands of Westerners. 

This food service demand for cheap and tasty food has not gone away with the introduction of the coronavirus. However, when weighed against potential fears of contracting disease, it will probably not be enough to, at least in the short term, ensure the survival of such Chinese restaurants whose clientele are mostly non-Chinese. After all, this acceptance of Chinese takeout cuisine into mainstream culture was very gradual and reluctant. Moreover, these Chinese restaurants will be more so penalized for not being able to adapt to serve popular delivery platforms. Immigrant businesses are notoriously slow in adapting new technology, but in the age of social distancing, this is where the bulk of customers are now ordering from.

A New Wave of Chinese Immigration

Around the same time, the Open Door Policy was passed (1978), leading to the normalization of U.S.-China relations for the first time in decades and causing a second wave of Chinese immigrants to the United States.

With the arrival of airplanes, Chinese immigrants no longer congregated in big cities, but instead began to settle down in larger waves to suburban areas, bringing with them Chinese restaurants beyond the borders of Chinatowns. These restaurants tend to serve Americanized Chinese food in the form of takeout and buffets.

For these Chinese Americans, there is no safety in numbers. In most of these suburban areas, Asian Americans make a very tiny percentage of the population. Limited exposure to Asian faces and culture understandably bolsters the perception of Asian Americans as unfamiliar and foreign.

The increase of Asian American restaurants in majority non-Asian suburbs makes COVID-19’s effects extremely pervasive as these restaurants now encompass a significant portion of the Chinese restaurant industry. 

Section III: Conclusion

The world is scared and on the defensive— and not surprisingly so. In such dire circumstances, people will turn towards the familiar to get answers.

In light of this, anti-Chinese sentiment flourishes and takes its toll unequally on Chinese restaurants. Chinatowns have historically proven themselves to be sturdy against external threats because of its internally facing nature. Chinese restaurants outside of Chinatown’s safe boundaries, on the other hand, can expect to face profit delineations due to increasing reservations of its non-Chinese customers about the food’s cleanliness, and we will have to play our part to help prop these essential businesses up.

Our implicit biases born from the historical associations between Chinese immigrants, disease, and unsanitary processes simply will not disappear overnight. The rise of populism, quick readoption of anti-Asian sentiment by our politicians, and increase in hate crimes conveys how deeply ingrained xenophobia is in our culture. Moreover, these biases are being affirmed and perpetuated by the current media portrayal of COVID-19, which continues to alienate the Asian American population through the frequent associations of the disease with the imagery of Asian Americans in masks. As states begin to reopen their businesses and attempt to return to normalcy, we must open our eyes to the xenophobia that has endangered the lives and livelihoods of millions of Asian Americians around the world. 

Our address of the rise in xenophobia is not an accusatory stance. Oftentimes, simple cognizance of where we stand in this moment of history, coupled with a willingness to have tough conversations about potential microaggressions, can make important first strides towards eliminating implicit biases. 

Namely, it is critical that we work to change media portrayal and public perception of Asians in America. While we cannot stop politicians from using derogatory terms such as the “Chinese Virus” and “Kung Flu,” we can be cautious of our perception of them to make sure such terms do not lead to rash decisions against Chinese businesses altogether. Furthermore, to redirect these biases more head on, our influencers to, whether those be bloggers, celebrities, representatives from new outlets, and especially political figures, make well-known trips to Chinese restaurants and assure people of the cleanliness of these businesses. The public has historically been very receptive to these publicised trips, especially when they are from a 

Now, more than ever, we must acknowledge the ever-prevalent implicit biases that shape both our perceptions and actions, and unite in solidarity amid the global pandemic. We should be cautious of repeating history by scapegoating those who have been subject to decades of unjust xenophobia. Only when we move away from this anti-Asian narrative and towards the fact that COVID-19 is a global issue will Chinese-American-run businesses begin to thrive once more.




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red

 

i realized you could never be a painter,

because you could never get the colors

right. the passion dripping from your

chin like crisp watermelon on a

summer evening, or the blood

slashing your sheets in time

with the tide, tracing

crescent moons

up your thighs.

it indeed was a fool’s errand:

could you coat your lips and

laughter in sunset blush, but

swallow down the flames

that’d lick the canvas?

or suck on a strawberry jolly rancher

and nothing else til your stomach

shrivelled to the size of

a cherry pit?

or polish and click those shiny

heels like a dolled-up dorothy

to get to your oz?

or, even glow like a licked

cherry on an ice-cream

sundae,

but

shhh,

quiet

blend away trembling

palms with those

silent

soothing

blue-greens?

(because doesn’t acrylic paint wash out without stains anyway?)

so, you really did stuff yourself

up: with hello kitty bows and

tinted lip gloss, with roasting

embers of lonely nights spent

too close to the milky way, with

all those frowning ruby ravines

creasing your stomach that do

not goddamn belong there.

plugged yourself up with all those

moist rose petals inserted in your

mouth — your only chance before

they, you,

wilt.

you stuff it up, shove it in,

and pat the corners of your

lips clean with a dainty

handkerchief so you won’t

ever bleed anymore.

now, i don’t bleed anymore. i wield

no palette, only moon, gray, and tear.

like a desert, but even dusk knows

to drown the sand dunes in crimson.

everything in and nothing out, nothing

comes barreling out like the blinding

river styx unleashed to flood away,

let rust the oh-so tender fingers and

burning autumns and close breaths

and magnifying glasses that brand

my skin like cowhide.

you have no choice

now, but to fight fire

with fire: any spark

you can muster.

i’ll nurse tiny flames, light

small temples in the night

for you. i’ll set a bonfire on

the scarlet glitter, fahrenheit

decrees, and feverish embraces,

send smoke streaming up to mingle

in the supernovas of stars past.

strike, strike, strike again

that match, til your hands

are marred with leathery

amber calluses and

softened by baby pink

peaches that fill my belly

and stretch you whole.

maybe,

you’re not

a painter.

but it’s enough to smear cloud and war

paint on your cheek, close that bloodshot

eye, and let the arrow cut through your

thumb and strip through the air with

wound as its escort. you’ll miss the

heart, and i will bleed for it.

because i’ve shot down nine suns,

but you could never shoot down

the last one.

~~

In Chinese mythology, there were ten suns that would take turns lighting the Earth. One day, they decided to all come out together, scorching the planet. Hou Yi, a skilled archer, saved humanity by shooting down nine of the ten suns, the last one remaining to maintain balance and life in our world.

 

Harvard College ‘23 | instagram: @_peachyvanessa_ | facebook: vanessa.hu.566

 

This is Not a Poem

This is not a poem
Not a poem
A poem
Poem

Poem.
A poem –
Not a poem.
No, this is not a poem.

Poems stand erect,
Fourteen rows of soldiers marching to the pounding of the supreme leader’s heart.
Inspected, inquired, inputted
To withstand the test of time.

So, this is not a poem.

This recounts creatures that ride the billowing winds
Whisper in my ear
Tickle my mind
And float into fading fumes

This consists of words
Unused
Unspoken
Unwritten

This is not a poem.


“‘This Is Not a Poem’ was inspired by a prompt to craft a new poem based on a tenth of an existing Chinese poem. Naturally, I selected the first stanza of XiXi's 這不是詩 (This Is Not a Poem). Having grown up in Hong Kong, I have studied her work in detail and come to admire her simple yet elaborate style. In questioning the role of a poem, I sought to emulate XiXi's style and gently provoke thought about art.”

Cigarettes, Coffee, and Polaroids: An Evening with Mellow Fellow

Artist Spotlight: An Interview with Mellow Fellow

Filipino musician Polo Reyes (alias Mellow Fellow) describes his music as being “comprised of pearlescent guitars, and a golden voice that drives distinct jazzy tunes seasoned with luster from synthesizers.” Starting out by writing music in college as a platform to channel his loneliness and frustration into warbling love songs, Reyes has gained a massive online following and toured in various countries in Asia as well as the United States.

When asked to describe his music pictorially, Reyes left me with three words: “Cigarettes, coffee, and polaroids.” Infused with a warm brew of memories, Mellow Fellow’s songs stand out with drowsy jazz melody lines, as if cigarette embers slowly wilting, leaving behind a soft, silent trail of smoke. In our coffeehouse-like conversation, Reyes and I talked about some of his most personal lyrics, the triviality of the label “bedroom pop,” and the struggles of being a musician in the Philippines.

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Let’s first talk about your background, what drew you to music and how did you start out as a musician?

I always answer this question with one answer: a film I watched when I was 12 years old called, “La Bamba” starring Lou Diamond Phillips. It’s a real-life story set in the 50s about American singer-songwriter Ritchie Valens and his musical career. The same Christmas of the year I watched it, my dad bought me a guitar. I never really picked it up until my first year of high school. That’s when I started listening to a lot of Jimi Hendrix, Cream, and Daddy Rock.

When I entered college, that’s when I discovered more alternative bands that are into songwriting more than instrument proficiency, and I started writing songs when I was 17 or 18 years old. I actually took up marketing in business school, so I never had any expectations or aspirations with music. It was mostly a passion project, music for the love of music. Here in the Philippines, the culture is not to really encourage new kids to dabble into arts or music, especially if you’re not in the upper-middle class.

Though music was just something to pass my time with, I met a bunch of people in college who introduced me to alternative and newer music, which I was drawn by. I thought, “You know what, if I keep myself anonymous, I have nothing to lose if I upload some songs on SoundCloud, since nobody’s ever going to know it’s me.” Even my parents didn’t know I was making music.


Could you tell me more about your artistic process?

When I was in college, music was more of an escape and an outlet for my emotions. When I was feeling sad, angry, or tired, it was easy for me to pick up a guitar and then write a song on a notepad. I have one song aptly named “Tired,” and it’s just about me being really tired. I think I wrote that as soon as I got back from school.

With my friends, we’d share our lives through music. We would go around my subdivision near my village, bringing an acoustic guitar and a horn, and we’d write songs. People would be complaining, flashing flashlights, and we never stopped.

Nowadays, I’ve exhausted that part of myself. My process now is engaging with newer sounds in terms of sound design. Learning the more technical aspects of songwriting, sound production or engineering, is how I approach music now. The older you get, the more mature your approach is, but regardless, I think music is music and making it is the most important thing. 

I think my approach will keep progressing until my music gets crazy as if I were a mad scientist, trying to rush-discover all these newer techniques. But I feel like I’ll reach a certain age where I’ll drop it all and go back to my roots, to settle down and just pick up a guitar and sing really simple songs. I want to return to the simple stuff once I’ve experienced everything.


As well, could you tell me more about the technical aspects of producing your songs?

I recently moved into my studio last year with all the gizmos and gadgets and stuff to help record. But back then, I didn’t have anything at all. I only had a really bad Windows laptop with a bad audio interface, a badly set up guitar, and a mic that I borrowed from my friend. So I had to make do and I remember writing and producing songs here in this room. I’m not a good pianist, but I started using the synthesizer for my songs, and that’s when I started getting addicted to sound design. Most of my songs that you hear are almost always improvised on the spot—the guitar solos, the riffs, none of them prewritten. That’s the most natural way for me.

I’m thinking of maybe dropping a project where I redo all of my old songs to do them justice. If anything, I want to go back to all my songs and remaster them, remix them, and reproduce them. Back then, I didn’t have a sound engineer, a producer, or session musicians to play instruments. I had to do everything by hand on my own and I had to make do with what I had. So to younger musicians in the Philippines at least, I tell them that you don’t need the best stuff. You need decent equipment, but you don’t need the best equipment. What you need is 15 minutes of practice every day, listening and learning because learning never stops.


Your song, “How Was Your Day?” was listed by Joaquin Phoenix as one of the songs he listened to while getting his iconic Joker make-up done. How did you react to that? 

When I found out, it was by accident. I just saw my name over this article, and I was quite surprised that Joaquin Phoenix listens to bedroom pop. That was cool. It was really funny because people in the basketball court were congratulating me when he won the Oscars. It was a fun discovery but very humbling as well. You can never be too old to listen to newer music. 


Any particular songs or lyrics that have meant something personal to you?

There’s this song called “Until The Time,” which I remember writing because my ex girlfriend broke up with me for the first time and it hurt. It has pretty simple, cheesy lyrics here, “We make a living by what we get / We make a life by what we can give.” It’s from a quote by Winston Churchill. The next few lines right after that was, “I can't give you the world, but I can give you every single thing in me.” During the time I was writing the song, I was a simple guy, and I didn’t have everything. It was my way of saying—maybe I can’t give you all the money in the world, but maybe I can give you all my time, a hundred percent of me. 

Another song of mine, “Dancing,” I wrote it when someone who I loved took another boy to her prom and he did not take care of her that night. I intend for my songs to be written in a certain way, but if the listener or audience interprets in their own personal way, I honestly encourage that. Some people say that “Dancing” reminds reminds them of their own prom or reminds them of just good times. And that’s what’s liberating about interpretation.


Some people call your music “bedroom pop.” Is that a fair description of your music? 

I don’t normally classify my music with anything because I don’t know how to. On this whole bedroom pop movement, we had this small community of musicians posting songs on SoundCloud back in 2014. Clairo, Vansire, Inner Wave, Bane’s World, Michael Sayer, Temporex, Triathalon—we all started from there. We never really agreed on the term “bedroom pop.” It’s just music for us. Maybe indie or jizz jazz, but we never termed it bedroom pop. It’s just a term that the industry has created to commercialize the sound. I don’t want to box someone’s music because it feeds into a stereotype.

But it’s inevitable for people to call my music bedroom pop or indie. I’m not offended when people call it lo-fi, chord, hipster, eBoy, fake jazz, but I'll never really say those things. I'll just tell you it's just my music. 


What are some pictures or words that you associate with your music? 

Cigarettes, coffee, and polaroids. When I was in college, I smoked a lot of cigarettes. But I don’t anymore. That held for a while as a constant social tool if anything and a stress reliever. The music that I used to create is somber, good for a cup of coffee I guess. And polaroids because I used to snag a bunch of them and use them as cover art on SoundCloud.


What are some highs and lows of your career as a musician? 

Some highlights are being on stage, being tight with my bandmates, meeting my fans, and absorbing the culture of the country that I’m performing in. For instance, when I was performing in Japan, Taiwan, and Korea, the crowds were very tame in a respectful way, almost as if I were in an opera performance. Finishing a song, from the production process to actually uploading it for the first time, is very rewarding and something I’m grateful for.

In terms of lows, I think I speak for both of us when I say that it’s not easy being Asian. I don't want to pull out the race card or sound like that dude on Twitter, but I’ve experienced some sort of injustice and oppression from white folk, legal firms, for instance, bullying me to accept deals and treating me differently because of my skin color. A lot of Western music is coming from Asia, but being not-white is not easy when you’re trying to penetrate an international scene. It’s a harder climb for us. I’m doing my best to get by with the cards that I’ve been dealt, and I am nevertheless very grateful for the opportunities that I have but this is just how I feel.

That said, there’s growth everywhere in many Asian countries, making international waves. There’s this really cool South Korean band, Se So Neon. I’ve also met many talented artists, to name a few, Summer Soul, Phum Viphurit from Thailand, 88rising with Rich Brian, Joji, Higher Brothers from mainland China. There’s a huge Renaissance that’s been going on, and I am honestly very excited for what we’re going to hear in the next couple of years.


Any advice you have to share with aspiring musicians? Any advice to your former self?

It’s not about what you have. It’s about what you want to say. Don’t focus on the equipment that you don’t have. Focus on what you have and focus on what message you want to get across. Focus on expanding your skills rather than purchasing gear. If you start down low, then you would know what it’s like to struggle and to work your way up.

If I were to give advice to myself, I’d tell my younger self to be patient and to make sure that what you're doing is right. Looking back, I wish I released my songs with better production and quality instead of bringing them out on SoundCloud right away. It’s not about the numbers game. It’s about you creating a piece of music that you will listen to forever. 

And drink a lot of water. It’s important to stay hydrated.

Normal

 

Through "Normal," Song hopes to begin to unpack oppression and privilege during COVID-19, question what "normal" people refer to pre-COVID-19, and how in these uncertain times there is great possibility to create a better norm, a most just world for everyone.

University of Pennsylvania, ‘22 | instagram: @kaignos | facebook: Kai JH

Tomato and Egg

 
 

My parents grew up teasing me about my love for the Chinese dish, a simple classic both my mother and father cooked for me and my brother. All you needed was tomatoes, eggs, and some sugar and salt. The dish was deceptively simple for a gustatory experience of sweet, sour, and salty delight. Yet it was chock full of memories from both childhood bliss at home, and of exhilarating memories on vacation—a piece of home that survived long flights to Australia, Italy, and Alaska. It was a luxury I took for granted until the permanence of home and our family nucleus was severed all too soon.  

2012—My mom and I moved to Chicago, and then less than a year later to Colorado Springs, pursuing the most elite coaching for my burgeoning figure skating career. I attended three high schools in one year, switched coaches twice, living out of a hotel room for five months, and then moving apartments twice more. Out of the discontinuity, the vibrant red tomato slices, sweet scrambled eggs, and juicy sauce anchored me to my family, and to my brother and father still in Seattle. 

2013—As competitions became increasingly demanding, I spent less time in high school. Instead, I trained during lunch breaks, and ate meals during class. My mom drove me from school to the rink, and then back and forth again, tossing my thermos over as I chased the ringing of tardy bells. My friend, a fellow athlete, would sometimes eat her mom’s dumplings at the rink, but I’d hear the skaters complain, “your food is so stinky!” So rather than risk opening up a thermos of my mom’s cooking in class, I’d go hungry instead.


2016—I’m a freshman now at Harvard, my head spinning with all the cultural organizations on campus that seemed not to suppress or deny our Asian heritage, but to celebrate it. Shocked by the centrality of cuisine in cultural events put on by HRCSA (Harvard-Radcliffe Chinese Students Association) or AAA (Asian American Association), and overwhelmed by eating in the packed hall of Annenberg, I came to desperately miss home-cooked food, while shoveling HUDS’ Dan Dan Noodles in my mouth instead—a truly incomparable experience. The first time I returned for winter break, finally re-inhabiting my childhood home in Seattle, my dad embraced my return not with a bear hug, but by rapidly whipping up a dish of tomato and egg. The moment I saw it on the kitchen table, I felt I was truly at home again.


January 2017—Back on campus for my second semester at Harvard, I chanced upon another freshman from Singapore when we sat next to each other on a shuttle bus to a Model UN conference in downtown Boston. We ended up going out for dinner at Dumpling House, and commiserating about feelings of displacement and our longing for authentic Chinese cuisine in Cambridge. As we scanned the menu, sure enough we both pointed excitedly to “Scrambled Egg and Tomatoes with Shrimp.” As we became best friends, blockmates, and then roommates at Cabot House, rising through our undergraduate years and creating a home for ourselves in Cabot House and at Harvard, we made semesterly pilgrimages to Dumpling House to honor the genesis of our deep friendship, and our shared love for Chinese comfort food. With birthdays five days apart in May, we would sneak out from the caverns of finals cramming to share a dish of tomato and egg, and celebrate another year of friendship, growth, and joy to come.

September 2018—I never anticipated the darkness that was to shroud my junior fall, when I discovered that my childhood best friend had died. Wracked with grief, I wandered aimlessly around campus. One panicked night, I bumped into a Cabot tutor, and with their partner, drove me to Whole Foods. They knew exactly what to do, picking out swelling, ripe tomatoes, and a fresh carton of eggs. That night, in their suite, as they stirred the tomatoes and eggs around the skillet, glancing back and forth between the stove and the recipe they’d pulled up online, warmth slowly trickled back into me.

November 2018—all my friends were at Fenway for Harvard-Yale. Instead, I’d broken a sweat in bed with a fever. But Connie, another Cabot tutor, knew just what to do, taking me to some gentle yoga in Central, and then to another meal at Dumpling House, on Cabot. I can’t really taste, but the tomatoes and eggs slide smoothly down my throat with a satisfying gulp.  


May 2020—It is my last week here at Harvard, in a ghost-town campus. All the underclassmen moved out last weekend, and it is just us seniors, a measly five de-densified in our own suites, displaced from our Quad Houses and each overlooking an empty Kirkland Courtyard. HUDS closed when the other undergraduates moved out, so I’m ordering take-out everyday, while trying to squeeze meaning and closure out of my last few meals here.


Today, I order take-out one last time from Dumpling House. With each mouthful, memories flash by—of friendships and support shared through these very same bites, and of the deeper anchoring of familial ties through food. I think back to a childhood of displacement, of suppressing my heritage, and of finding home here at Harvard celebrating heritage and connecting to people through common dishes. As I swallow my last salty-sweet bite, I feel four beautiful years closing on my time here.

I’m packing now to fly home for the last time, headed into 14 days of quarantine. But the very first thing I expect to find waiting outside my bedroom door, replacing embraces from my parents, are their care and love cooked into a simple plate of tomato slices and scrambled eggs.


Selena: 

“For me, coming to terms with my cultural heritage has been a long and uncontinued process. In high school, in particular, having moved to diverse Seattle to the very homogenous and conservative Colorado Springs, I worked to suppress my differences, and thus my identity. Yet, some of the only continuities through this transition came from my mom's home-cooking. At college, I learned to re-claim my identity and to create new relationships by centering my love for my parents' tomato and egg dish, a simple and classic Chinese dish. This piece traces my relationship to the dish across time, life events, and personal realizations.”


Harvard College ‘20 | instagram: @selenazh88

 

Life Underground

 
 

Wen-hao Tien is a visual artist, community artist, and educator. Her studio practice focuses on language and translation, and explores culture and identity through a cross-cultural lens. Wen-hao is also Assistant Director at Boston University Pardee School of Global Studies for the Study of Asia.

In her professional role, Wen-hao builds interdisciplinary scholarly communities as well as enhanced visual tools for global studies. Originally trained in biomedical sciences and public health, Wen-hao’s work often draws inspiration from biological nature. Wen-hao is currently the artist-in-residence at the Pao Arts Center, Boston, MA, where she engages the community through her project “Unveiling Boston Chinatown”. 

Lesley University (MFA ‘19) | Columbia University (MPH) | IG @wenhaotien | Her website


“Life Underground”, Wen-hao Tien



Foraging in the woodland behind the house in Vermont where my family is staying, I have been pleasantly surprised to find many species of colorful wildflowers sprouting under a single tree. The colorful wildflowers are the result of a complex web of germination and symbiosis that is occurring underground. Exploring the subterranean world of ephemeral woodland flowers reveals how interdependent the root systems of various plant species are - like social networks!

These woodland flowers (Red Trillium, Trout Lilly, Bloodroot…) live only between the time the ground thaws and the deciduous trees sprout leaves that starve the flowers of sun. An “accurate” sketch of this site must begin below the ground level - from the bottom up. Aboveground it looks simple, but underground it’s complicated.

Solitary time during COVID-19 has pushed me to look below the surface of things. Days are filled with tasks aimed at achieving big ideas-and I feel busier than before. Many friends say the same. What are the big ideas?


If we want 2021 to yield a rejuvenated world, shouldn’t we be busy preparing our fields? Can we learn from the ephemeral wildflowers and build an underground network to support the miracle of rebirth?

 

To read the accompanying essay piece to “Life Underground”, and to see her other works, please visit Wen-hao’s site here.

 
 

Another Day


Another Day tells the story of two Asian American sisters who are grappling with issues related to the very real, present-day coronavirus pandemic. They cope not only with the grief of losing their mother to the disease, but also the heightened discrimination that they have been facing as Asian Americans during this time. Yet despite their challenges, the sisters are able to find hope and solace in remembering their mother and having one another. We chose to create and share this difficult narrative because we believe it is a very relevant and important story to highlight at this time. It is one that many of us can relate to in one way or another.

Although our current circumstances inspired our narrative, we were equally inspired by the methods employed in various East Asian films we explored. In particular, Ozu served as our main source of inspiration in creating our film. Like Ozu, we focused on the nuances that play out in familial relationships and incorporated several pillow shots to deepen the meaning behind our message. Additionally, we frequently borrowed from Ozu’s characteristic tatami shots, filming from a low camera height, avoiding tracking shots, and framing borders of a backdrop to the camera wherever possible. Furthermore, we were inspired by Ozu in our directing and editing techniques as well. As Ozu was often known for recording his actors’ lines separately before editing them together, we found it very helpful to use the same method for our film, especially given our circumstantially forced distance. In addition to Ozu, we also drew inspiration from Chungking Express by Wong Kar-Wai in order to connect our two sisters’ storylines together, and express the characters’ emotional states and backstories through nondiegetic sound. Through our film, we aimed to convey multiple messages. Although the ultimate message is left to audience interpretation, we hope that Another Day reminds audience members to be grateful for each and every one of our front-line heroes, to stay strong amidst the discrimination against Asian Americans, and to do their part during these difficult times. Most importantly, however, we hope our viewers are left with hope, as they are reminded of the importance of supporting each other through difficult times.

Dear Asian Girl

Dear Asian Girl,

Let me tell you a story 

She was young, at first

Young and proud, at first.

Roots nurtured by her ancestors,

she would lie on the ground

to soak up their wisdom.

Short, stubby branches reached out 

to touch their souls

and she would feel the life 

that once danced on this sacred land.

She would taste the golden nectar of her language

from the seeds her mother planted.

Her pride: the sunlight that fed,

her stories: the sweet water that nurtured,

her traditions: the soila structure of all things beautiful. 

But soon, her branches grew, 

grew into the unknown,

And she went into the world 

in search of greener pastures,

But instead she found dying roots.  

                                                      

Savage—they called her

Chink, Paki, Dink, Gook, Raghead.

They claimed she stung with her thorns

But they didn’t know her thorns were her beauty

And they tainted her sunlight, until the fire burned her insides

Casted a dry spell until it robbed her of her water

Stole her fruit,

Snapped her branches, 

Colonized her soil.

Until her songs became only a faint memory on her lips

And her stories, stayed forgotten dreams

But Dear Asian Girl,

Do not forget where you came from.

Lie on the ground again and 

turn back the clock.

Revisit your mother’s kitchen,

fill the air with notes of sour and sweet, 

And feel prickles of spice soothe your throat

And Dear Asian Girl, 

you know you’re home. 

Like that of a child,

let your people’s lullaby sing you to sleep,

Harmonize to a chorus so sweet

That you can taste the wonders on your tongue

Because Dear Asian Girl,

We sing our tunes in different tongues

Different swirls and different drums

beat the same beat, 

Our hearts still beat the same beat

And together, Asian girl, we create our own harmony- 

A battle cry so loud, 

you can hear it in your chest when you breathe

and smell the burning fire when you scream  

Look around you, 

see how far we’ve come?

Well dear Asian girl, 

we’ve only just begun.


Stephanie:

“Stephanie Hu is a 16 year old Chinese American living in Southern California. She is the founder of Dear Asian Youth, an organization that works to empower Asians from across the world. She wrote this piece to celebrate the incredible strength Asian women possess, especially during trying times like this." 


Tesoro High School | instagram: @stephaniee.hu & @dearasiangirl

Quaranzine Poetry

2:13AM journal entry

failed to fall asleep 

even though my body is 

exhausted to the core

my mind was thinking 

too much so I got up and 

drew in my sketchbook 

I am feeling nostalgic and

sentimental for the 

past, even though I would

never choose to relive 

the moments in real life

I much prefer re-living 

them through my journals

I am enjoying this

self-inflicted sadness

the kind that makes you 

appreciate life just

a bit more 

when your college friend

texts you a long

affectionate paragraph that

makes your throat choke up

with gratitude

and you think, oh no

when was the last time

I cried

and suddenly you are

hyper-aware of your 

emotions and the 

tumultuous state that

they are in 

back to being tired now

post-catharsis in this 

modern day love letter

DAWN

I’m going to try something new

even though new is out of my 

comfort zone (but what else isn’t) 

what are the barriers that stop 

you from pursuing the new?

are you living in fear of 

goodbyes that are too early and 

greetings that you don’t 

feel prepared for? 

that emotion that envelops

your core, do you know

what that means?

recognition of the unknown and

of the unfamiliar — that is 

what I’m chasing after but 

I can’t, no I don’t think I can, 

if the boundary between the 

core and the surface 

thickens

like a cell

I need to breathe

in the new day and feel

the gratitude that is meant to 

keep me moving in these uncertain

waves

like a fierce ocean clashing

against dawn.

EARTHLY PLEASURES 

Besides celestial bodies and 

interstellar happenings, let us 

thank our home on earth for 

enduring so much for us without

asking for much in return

I wish this could mean that 

the earth could last forever

but no, the earth needs love

too, just as humans seek

our own desires and lustful 

yearnings — as silly as it 

may seem

If we lived in a world without

physical contact, is this what 

it’d be like? Afraid of

breathing the same air? 

If we could only have each

other without being able to

touch, would we feel the same way? 

I wonder. If all we really 

yearn for are the sparks 

we feel in a moment of

excitement when we are 

calling for each other’s

skin, if the core of our 

satisfaction derives from

your body wrapping around

mine. But that is

forbidden now

so tell me

do you still want me

would you still want me 

in this war? 

GROWTH / DECAY 

An exponential change in feeling

does not eliminate the mundane 

nor should it! Daily life full of 

spontaneous conversations, endless

tasks to accomplish but never enough 

time to do so. Is this how each day

used to go? The mundane holds

power in itself and

credibility over the extraordinary

as a resting state, a baseline

to rely on, and isn’t that

something we could all use more of

Up and down

fluctuations intertwine with a 

steady rate of constancy 

companionship in a modern

lonely story 

do you hear the rustle of 

change? Disrupting the flow

of what the people are used to. 

I crave change but only 

the kind of change that will 

shift my light

forward, against all odds. 

IS ANYONE LISTENING? 

you are all wonderful

everything we could’ve asked for

I feel heard, I feel seen

in moments when I can take the

mic and speak to my 

audience 

we can control how we 

respond to events and yet I 

feel dominated by the other

voices; those of fear and

anxiety and rejection

pouring over my shell

I crave a listener

to receive my

woes with open

arms and 

turn them into 

silver linings

let me collect

these pockets 

of stillness to

soothe my soul


Hayoung:

“Upon returning home after leaving campus with the knowledge that I would not be coming back as a student again, I searched desperately for ways to cope with my despair. I turned to my journal, as I often do in these types of situations, and put pen to paper to create this anthology of quarantine poetry. I speak on loneliness, intimacy, and dealing with change.  


Harvard ‘20 | instagram: @hay0ung