Category Archives: Immigration Experience

Why I Hate Writing Essays

By Neel Archis-Manish, age 17, Michigan.

It’s the fault of a rigid and purely grade-based public education system. I’m talking about why in today’s world, writings in schools have become a series of boring, formulative, information-stacked essays instead of genuine pieces of creations. I’m not blaming the public school teachers who simply mean well and are horribly underpaid. No, I blame historical education practices.

As a fourth year high school student in the US, I have written many essays in my ELA classes that respond to a specific prompt, include quoted sources, and require annotations on the side. All this basic system does is it makes me hate writing. I hate to say it, but it’s true.

I used to LOVE writing. I wrote poetry (it wasn’t great) and short stories (it was a laughing matter) and started writing my biography several times (I swear I’m going to get past Chapter 1 some day). But no matter how bad it all was, at least writing it didn’t kill my soul a little bit every time.

Language is a powerful tool that can be used to build empires and destroy them. Words are mightier than the sword not because nobody uses swords anymore, but because humans have the right to use words freely. High schoolers are so worried about their Grammarly scores and the 11:59 PM deadline that they often forget the importance of being present as a writer in their writings.

Quoted sources from all across the internet are great, and so are annotations. But neither helps an individual grow as an individual writer. The ‘classics’ we read in our English classes today weren’t classified as classics because they contained a well-researched bibliography, they were titled ‘classics’ because they were written from the deepest emotions from a true heart.

Formality kills humanity. Sure, you could decide to put on a fancy shirt and a suit and a tie and act like a functioning human being to charm yourself into some high-paying corporate job that covers dental insurance, but then what’s the difference between you and a slightly good-looking robot? Feelings are what humans have been doing best since the dawn of time. Let’s not forget our origins.

Love, respect, kindness, greed, envy, jealousy, selfishness, selflessness, humility, humanity, power, hunger, disgust, fear, sadness, anxiety, awkwardness, joy, pride, shame, disappointment, calmness, rage, confusions, desire, and so many more HUMAN emotions and feelings the world possesses. Why are adults teaching kids to bury all of them deep inside and instead turn to writing informative 2000-word essays about a global issue that then students pretend to care about for the sake of getting an A on a summative assessment?

I used to spend hours and hours reading books of mystery, fantasy, and historical fiction. I loved the feeling of being lost in a world where the real words ceased to exist. I loved the feeling of having to imagine, to create, and to be surprised. I used to come up with my own characters when reading stories about people. I used to make up landscapes and roam across Rome and Romania. I don’t do that anymore.

Writing based on information as opposed to human nature has killed the excited kid inside of me that once upon a time lived happily ever after. I’ve stopped reading books for fun. I’ve stopped being excited to enter a library and find a good book and open it in the middle and smell the smell of the fresh paper. I’ve stopped scribbling terrible poetry and weird short stories and unfinished memoirs on scraps of paper.

I once wanted to be one of those writers who wrote the first line of the first chapter of their first hit book on a napkin in a small bistro in a corner of a small town. I don’t want to do that anymore. Now, I just want to turn in my essay before 11:59 PM on the day of the submission deadline.

—Neel Archis-Manish, age 17, Michigan. He adds:

I was raised in Pune, Maharashtra, India in a house with two decent parents (they’re great!), a sister whom I hate passionately (it’s just a sibling relationship: I would give her my kidney, but not my phone charger), and a loving grandmother who’s cooking is, in one word, divine.

Growing up, I went to a Marathi-Medium school and learned Marathi (my mother tongue), Hindi, and English. When I was 15, my dad was fortunate to get an inter-company transfer. So in the midst of the Covid-19 Pandemic, our family relocated to Michigan in the United States of America.

I am currently enrolled at a good public school where I am able to make my Indian ancestors happy by performing well in academics, all while doing what I now love most: theatre. I am now the President of our school’s Drama Club. I participate (act, student direct, and head publicity and programs) in three productions each year, write and perform for our social justice theatre troupe, and have won numerous awards by doing forensics (competitive public speaking). Life is good.

I LOVE comedy. I have watched and re-watched and re-re-watched a ton of comedy sitcoms and TV shows. If you’re looking for someone to understand and laugh with you on niche Saturday Night Live references, I am your guy. Laughter is simply the best medicine, even when you’re not ill.

Currently, I’m looking at colleges and thinking about what I want to do. I’m at a point where ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ is a legitimate question and not what an adult uses as an ice-breaker when talking to a child. Anyway, I’m fairly certain that I want to become a Secondary English Educator. Which led me to look into writing and publishing opportunities.

Save Them Bears

By Ya-Ting Yu, Taiwan

Black Bear recently moved north for climate change research. During the festive season, Black Bear’s colleague, Polar Bear, invited him to her family dinner. “No Bear should be alone on Christmas Eve,” she said when she heard the un-partnered Black Bear planned to hibernate in his cave. With no excuse to say no, Black Bear obliged.

That evening, Black Bear arrived at Polar Bear’s home with a basket of cloudberries in his paws. He’d agonized over the gift, unsure what to bring. Though he’d seen Polar Bear’s lunch boxes: ringed seals, whale carcasses, geese eggs, he still preferred chestnuts and persimmons. Honey and beetle larvae were rare treats he savoured after long hours of foraging through data at the lab, but to be inclusive, a value Polar Bear emphasized, he chose cloudberries, safe for vegans, vegetarians, and the nut-allergic.

Polar Bear’s family welcomed Black Bear warmly, hugging, kissing and thanking him profusely for the cloudberries. Flustered by the sudden physical contact, Black Bear forced a courteous smile and awkwardly patted Polar Bear’s Mom’s back, relieved when she finally let go of his paw. It was his first time receiving kisses from complete strangers. Where he came from, in the East, Bears rarely even shook paws, sniffing was usually as close as they got.

But their habitat differences didn’t stop there. For an occasion like Christmas Eve, Polar Bear’s family usually indulged in seal and whale fat. Vegetation was more for decoration, except for the hippie Cousin who’d recently turned vegan to combat the melting ice.

Before dinner, the family gathered in prayer positions, bowing their fluffy heads to say grace. Black Bear, unfamiliar with their faith, looked from left to right at the table and hurried to mimic their gestures.

“Amen,” Black Bear echoed, a pace too slow.

“Do Bears in your forest also celebrate Christmas?” Polar Bear’s Mom asked.

Black Bear scratched his ear. “I guess so? But it’s more of a time when Bears hunt for deals—shopping sprees, fancy meals. We don’t get the day off, you see. Lunar New Year, now that’s a feast worth hibernating in Taiwan.”

“Oh, are you from Taiwan?” Polar Bear’s Aunt leaned closer, her snout twitching. “My son volunteered to build homes for the poor children in rural parts of your forest. Right, Cubby? He, sorry—they have an igloo architectural license.”

Mortified, Polar Bear injected, “Auntie, Cousin went to Thailand, not Taiwan.” Her fur bristled as she glanced at Black Bear.

“That’s cool,” Black Bear said. “But igloos? My Sun Bear friend told me they melt once the volunteers take off. At the end, it seems easier for them to sleep in trees.”

“In trees!” Polar Bear’s Aunt gasped. “Son, you must go back and build them un-meltable igloos next time. The poor cubs. Just imagine—they don’t even have blackout curtains!” She sighed sympathetically and turned to Black Bear. “Do you have blackout curtains in Taiwan? Don’t tell me you also sleep in trees.”

“Oh no,“ Black Bear said with an uneasy laugh. ”Mostly caves or tree cavities. The only time I climb trees is when I’m hungry—for honey and bee larvae. Have you tried them?”

“Bee larvae? That sounds disgusting,” Polar Bear’s Cousin said, wrinkling their nose, unfazed by Polar Bear’s death glare across the table. “Thailand fed us Pad Thai and Green Curry every day.”

“Son,” Polar Bear’s Uncle rumbled as he lumbered over with a platter of barbecued seal fat. “Don’t you know Formosan Black Bears are battling Giant Pandas to protect their territory? What propaganda are you watching all day on TikTok? Read the news.”

Polar Bear’s Aunt sniffled. “I heard about that conflict. Is that why you left, Black Bear? It must be so dangerous back home. Don’t worry. Stay here in the Arctic as long as you want. We’ll sponsor you.”

No longer able to tolerate her extended family’s political incorrectness, Polar Bear tried to stir the conversation. “So, Black Bear, how’s your research? Any insights to share?”

“Yes, actually,” Black Bear said. “Before coming here, I thought Taiwan did a terrible job on climate change initiatives. Sure, we mostly rely on fossil fuels, but imagine squeezing Australia’s population into an area the size of Switzerland. Add typhoons and earthquakes to the mix. Our islands need to generate energy for millions and the semiconductor industry, which, by the way,” he added, fixing his gaze on Polar Bear’s Cousin, “powers your AI, EVs, solar panels, and wind turbines. Charity case, eh?”

A beat of silence followed as Polar Bear’s family exchanged looks. The Cousin shifted in their seat, ears flattening. Minutes passed. Polar Bear cleared her throat.

“Did you know Taiwan is smaller than many of our icebergs?” she asked, her voice tentative, like a kind schoolteacher. “Every Bear does what they can with what they have. And really, isn’t that what this is about? Climate change affects us all—even those big-headed humans. Here we are, just bears trying to adapt.”

She surveyed her family, looking each in the eye, and finally at Black Bear. “And if Black Bear can adapt to seal fat and bear kisses, maybe we can try a little harder too.”

For the first time that evening, Black Bear felt the tension in his shoulders ease, melting faster than glaciers. Maybe he didn’t fully belong in the Arctic yet, but any bear could find a caring companion who understood, even in this icy corner of the world. He leaned in to sniff the barbecue seal fat and said, “Hold up. Let me get my soy sauce.”

Story and illustration by Ya-Ting Yu is a Taiwanese writer based in Taipei, with roots stretching to Toronto and Edinburgh. Writing in English as her second language, she weaves themes of identity and belonging, drawing on her background in counseling and psychology to tell the stories of East Asian expatriates and international students.

Save Them Bears was inspired by my own experience as a Taiwanese expat, navigating the nuances of cultural assimilation and identity. I hope to highlight how cultural misunderstandings can be wrapped in well-meaning gestures. By anthropomorphizing the characters, I aim to create a story that is somewhat ‘trigger-free’ yet thought-provoking.

Memories of Dumplings

By Julia Qi, educator, Nevada.

I remember a time when steaming dishes of dumplings were laid out before me on the dining table. I was five years old, and a bowl of Chinese vinegar with two drops of sesame oil sat under my nose, eagerly awaiting the three hot dumplings that my grandma would soon drop in.

She’d always break the dumplings in half for me so my little fingers could navigate my chopsticks, and that day, I was the pride and joy of my family for devouring a total of nine dumplings.

That was the last time I remembered looking at a plate of dumplings without fear—at least until recently.

Somewhere along the way, food transformed into something I avoided. Any plate became a conversion of fat-protein-carbs in my eyes. The rich fat on decadent, red-braised pork belly remained untouched on my plate, and even my mom’s delicious stir-fried dishes were secretly rinsed off in the sink before I’d attempt to pick away at them. Passing by bakeries consumed me with conflict for the rest of the day because they looked so, so delicious. I wanted a taste so bad, but no, I couldn’t.

What my family saw as a “glow-up” before college was, in reality, my refusal to cook with salt or oil. I limited myself to raw foods for weeks and pretended I had simply outgrown my love for my childhood favorite foods. Steering clear of soup dumplings, BBQ skewers, and hearty pots of Chinese stew, I opted instead for bland salads and spinach smoothies.

The restriction ate away at me as I started college. I refused to eat before drinking water to “avoid” the calories. Despite the arrays of dishes in the dining halls, I spent 90% of my time at the salad bar, and the rest of the time lurking in the dessert section mustering the occasional courage to nibble a cookie. The additional walking in New York City resulted in me rapidly losing weight my first semester, which, as I anticipated, was celebrated not only by my peers, but also by my family.

My mother’s beauty was hard to miss. She’s a slender petite woman with voluminous curly hair, big bright eyes, and her classy fashion choices were always a topic of envy. She taught me the meaning of strength, independence, and courage as I saw her create the life she wanted for us in America. When she bought her first house in 2019 after 13 years of moving here, those walls represented something only immigrant parents can really understand. Her words were, “I just wanted to give you a home.” What she meant was, this is something that is finally ours. In a place where we had to start over, we had something that finally belonged to us.

My mom imparted many invaluable lessons growing up, but our culture also taught us that a woman’s beauty is paramount. Despite her exhaustion our first few years in the states from working consecutive night shifts and still managing to get up in time to wake me, cook breakfast, and take me to school, my mom maintained her elegant appearance. She always reminded me that as immigrants, we must pay extra attention to how we looked; we shouldn’t give anyone a reason to look down at us. My naturally tan complexion contradicted the porcelain-white Chinese beauty standard, and the fixation on my appearance naturally grew towards my weight as I got older. While genetically slender, my mom and her three sisters dreadfully feared weight gain. As I rounded out my teenage years, comments about my weight, what I was eating, and what I was wearing gradually took up a dangerous amount of space in my head.

Eating disorders are addictions. You’re stuck in a cycle, and even though you know it’s bad for you, you don’t know how to stop. Years of restriction led to an overwhelming preoccupation with food, which manifested in binging, then overcompensating by purging. The painful details of my four-year struggle with bulimia are oddly blurry, numbed by a filter of shame as I walked around hiding this part of me that I despised but couldn’t let go.

In a culture where famine was still a childhood memory for many, food was not meant to be wasted. Food was nourishment, and the idea of intentionally restricting or purging would have been absurd to those like my grandparents who grew up in the countryside and never had enough to eat for their four little girls. Northeastern Chinese stews were hearty, crafted to keep hunger at bay. Buns and baos were designed to fill you up for hours. My actions were completely at odds with what I was taught, which is likely why I wouldn’t touch my favorite foods for years, at least without bringing it back up.

This past March, I visited my family in China for the first time in six years. There was a stillness unlike earlier springs. The winter chill overstayed its welcome, seemingly in response to my grandpa’s passing just a few weeks prior.

My grandpa always requested peanuts with his dumplings, sometimes a Tsingtao beer, if my grandma allowed it. He liked sauerkraut or chive filling, since meat was hard on his dentures, which made clicking sounds when he chewed. This time around, we bought giant sauerkraut dumplings from the morning market made of purple forbidden rice. My grandma still broke them in half for me, except only one giant dumpling could fit in my bowl. This time, I couldn’t eat nine, but I ate until I was full, and over the memories of my grandpa’s clicking and the warmth of my belly filling up, I found solace.

—Julia Qi, received her undergraduate degree a few years ago, Nevada.

Born To Be A Chef: Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

The Woman Who Taught America How to Cook Real Chinese Food

By Fanny Wong, author, New York.

Standing on the kitchen stool, Yin-Fei could barely see the wok on the stove. Who would expect a five-year-old to cook with a wok and a spatula?

It was Ah Po, Yin-Fei’s grandmother!

“Just the right age to learn cooking,” Ah Po said. “And never have a short temper or use bad words when you are in the kitchen.” She then pointed to a paper image of Jo Kwan, the Kitchen God, and added, “You want Jo Kwan to think well of this family.”

Baba, Yin-Fei’s father, instructed her, “Eat first with your eyes, then with your mind, then with your nose, and finally, with your mouth.”

Luk Gu Jeh, her aunt, was another teacher of hers. “With patience and practice, you can create something that brings happiness and miles of satisfaction,” she told her.

With a family like hers, Yin-Fei was born to be a chef.

Yin-Fei’s skills grew with Ah Po’s instructions.

“Chop the choy sum properly.”

“Stir the fish mixture in one direction to make it stick together.”

“Pour the hot peanut oil and soy sauce on the steamed fish.”

For Yin-Fei, the learning was easy, but finding the joy in cooking was hard.

Too much time cutting and dicing.

Too much time waiting for the oil to be hot enough to stir-fry.

Too much time waiting for the meat to be tender in the braising pot.

But then Ah Po’s birthday changed everything for her.

Yin-Fei was to contribute one dish for Ah Po’s birthday. She picked the White Cut Chicken recipe because in her Chinese culture, a chicken was always cooked for special occasions.

Yin-Fei placed the whole chicken breast side up in seasoned boiling water and covered the pot. When the water returned to a boil, she lowered the heat to simmer, turned the chicken and let it simmer again. She had to time the cooking just right, and allow the chicken to rest in the pot to finish the cooking. Otherwise, the chicken would be overcooked or undercooked.

Yin-Fei lifted the chicken from the pot. She prepared a dipping sauce of soy sauce and ginger. It looked perfect, but did it taste perfect?

Yin-Fei watched Luk Gu Jeh cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces with a cleaver. Ah Po, surrounded by her family at the table full of many delicious dishes, chose to eat the chicken first. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and chewed it slowly.

Yin-Fei held her breath and waited for Ah Po to finish swallowing.

“Hm….” Ah Po opened her eyes that crinkled with a wide smile and commented, “That was the best chicken I ever had.”

Everyone at the table loved the chicken! Not a single piece was left over! An eleven-year-old girl had made her loved ones happy with her cooking skills! From that moment on, making delicious dishes was her gift to others in the family, a way of showing her love and respect.

Now, she was eager to learn more from Ah Po. She learned that what people ate had to be balanced within their bodies.

Foods such as fish and most vegetables brought them coolness.

Foods such as most meats and some fruits brought their bodies heat.

The combination of these two types of food brought balance and good health to the body.

Yin-Fei learned to cook balanced meals for good taste and good health.

But life was not balanced in their village of Sun Tak. To escape the repressive government in China, 12-year-old Yin-Fei fled with her family to Hong Kong. There, she continued to improve her cooking skills by learning from her aunt. She also learned English in night school and picked an English name for herself—Eileen.

When she was 21, she met an American journalist named Fred Ferretti, and they fell in love and soon married. They moved to New York City. And that was when Yin-Fei’s life took another turn!

Her new in-laws brought her to a Chinese restaurant.

“What is this? This omelet is like an overdone pancake covered with a brown sauce,” she remarked.

“This is egg foo yung, our favorite Chinese dish,” her in-laws said.

From that moment, Yin-Fei had a mission! She wanted to teach Americans how to make good-tasting, authentic Chinese food.

First, she gave her friends Chinese cooking lessons at her home.

“You must write a book!” her friends said.

And she did. Eleven books in all! Each book taught readers how to cook traditional Chinese food at home.

She also taught at cooking schools and appeared in cooking demonstrations on television.

And when a renowned chef invited Yin-Fei to create a dim sum menu for his restaurant and teach his cooks, that’s exactly what she did. She took charge of his cooks!

“No, no, no, do it this way, let me show you.”

If she felt a Chinese restaurant was not up to her standards, she was not shy to say to the chef, “Make it this way, don’t Americanize your food!”

Yin-Fei had found a new passion. She wanted to teach others about how to make good Chinese food.

“Always learn, learn, learn, and never take a short-cut in cooking,” Eileen Yin-Fei Lo told her students. “The food you cook shows your love and respect.”

Yin-Fei became a great chef and a teacher who taught Americans how to cook authentic Chinese food. Born and raised near Canton, the capital of Guandong Province, Cantonese cooking was her specialty.

She taught at The New School in New York City and beyond—from Singapore to Helsinki. Cooking shows on television invited her to demonstrate how to make authentic dishes. She won two International Association of Culinary Professional Awards. Many Chinese food writers that came after her still think of her as the foremost Chinese expert chef.

Yin-Fei passed away at age 85 in 2022, leaving a delectable and mouth-watering legacy.

By Fanny Wong, Asian American author, New York. Fanny has written often on multicultural interest topics and been published in Skipping Stones frequently.

Being Split

Being Split
By Preston Young, age 10, New York.

Illustration by Preston Young, 10, New York.

Being split,
Korean and Taiwanese,
I can’t process two different cultures,
It’s hard for me.

On Korean New Year,
I bow to elders and eat Duk Bok Ki (rice cakes).
On Chinese New Year,
I get red envelopes and eat dim sum with herbal tea.
I call my Korean grandparents Halmoni and Haraboji;
Ah ma, I call to my grandma who is Taiwanese.

The Taiwanese flag has red, white and blue.
The South Korean flag has those colors too.
The American flag has them too, oooh!

Being split,
Korean and Taiwanese,
Sometimes people don’t understand me.
When my friends talk about their one culture,
I want one of my other cultures to be unseen.

I try to tell my friends over and over;
I scream and I shout and whisper over their shoulder.
They never understand when I say,
I am both Korean and Taiwanese!
They look confused and annoyed like fleas.

Sometimes I wonder if being Korean and Taiwanese is right for me.
I sit there and think until I can finally see,
I am special with being multicultural,
Being Korean, Taiwanese, and American,
Can all fit in my soul.

Being split,
Korean, Taiwanese, and American is hard.
But the three cultures,
Are forever in my heart!

By Preston Young, age 10, New York. Preston adds: “My mom is Korean and my dad is Taiwanese. I was born in the USA. I speak English but I am learning how to write, read and speak Korean because my friends at school can speak fluently, and I want to be able to communicate with them. My dream is to become an author and entertain kids. I was inspired to write this poem because when I am in school people always assume that I am full Korean or full Taiwanese. Sometimes people think I’m Chinese but I always correct them. I wanted to express how I feel and what that makes me feel like. I made a collage out of construction paper and some magazine clippings with markers to show my feelings about being split in three different cultures.”

The Presidency

There have been 45 presidents of the United States. The current one, number 46, has a similarity to all but one of his predecessors. They are all White, and all 46 are male. Asian Americans have been in the country since the 1800s, and have come nowhere close to the presidency. Could someone of Eastern Asian ethnicity ever become president of the United States?

Loyalty is an act of faith in which you do not betray or desert your cause no matter the circumstances. I believe most of the issues faced by Asian Americans are to do with loyalty. When using a search engine to research, the question, “Are Asian Americans loyal to the United States?” it distributes a plethora of discussion posts, disagreements, newspaper articles and more. For example, in a survey conducted by the Asian American Foundation of over 4,000 U.S. citizens, 32 percent agreed with: Asian Americans are more loyal to their perceived country of origin than to the U.S. I find this response disgusting and shocking. These questions and polls are not done on Irish Americans, Italian Americans, Norwegian Americans or African Americans; who whilst facing an uphill struggle in many areas, they would not be questioned if they are serving another country. Where does the questioning of loyalty of this specific ethnic group come from?

As an Asian American, I have not felt any urging for ongoing loyalty toward any country other than the U.S. In fact, Asian Americans have contributed to the United States as much as others. So what causes this unique form of discrimination? I believe one of these reasons is fear. For decades, the U.S. has been the world’s global superpower, with no country since the fall of the Soviet Union coming close. Over the course of recent years though, China has grown and empowered their economy, as well as modernized their military to the extent where there is a possibility of them overtaking the U.S. in a decade. Politicians, media pundits, and some American people are fearful of losing their global hegemony. I believe this fear has spilled into affecting Asian Americans citizens. The buildup of tension between China and the U.S has led to a buildup of tension against Chinese and other Eastern Asian ethnicity.

The coronavirus began November of 2019, and has only escalated this recurring issue. When the matter is brought up to classmates, all point directly to China as the one to blame. About 1.4 billion people populate the country of China, fingers pointed to every single one. During the coronavirus pandemic, the quantity of Asian American hate crimes increased rapidly. People of various Eastern Asian ethnicities were affected by this as well. The differences between Asian and American cultures itself is a leading cause, as we human beings tend to point fingers at those most different to us. For example, there is a mass of cuisine differences between Asians and Americans. Asian cuisine is based mostly on older type traditional recipes, including foods considered exotic to others. American cuisine is based highly on dishes from other ethnicities, although are home to modern dishes.

In addition to these previous points, whilst all nations have fostered racism, The United States has had government policies introduced specifically pushing these racist policies. When schools were divided into white and black, Asian Americans found themselves questioning where they belong. Asian Americans were not mentioned in the laws themselves, as if they were forgotten and the law makers didn’t know they existed. This sense of idea of being an “other” or not being a part of the nation itself I believe still carries on to modern society.

In conclusion, I do not believe an Asian American could ever become president. As much as we as the Asian American community continue to integrate ourselves with the nation, humans will always find a way to exclude parts of our people and treat them as outsiders. Asian Americans are constantly challenged on our trustworthiness, loyalty, and dedication to this country. Attempts to prove ourselves feel disregarded by the same continuous subgroup of people. I truly hope to be proven wrong in my lifetime.

Author’s Note:

In the past few weeks, the political climate has changed. Vice President Kamala Harris has become the Democratic Party’s nominee for the President of the country. She is half African American, and half Indian. Despite this sudden change, I still stand by my previous assertion. My piece is focused on Eastern Asian ethnicities, and their uniquely questioned loyalty to the nation. Kamala’s nomination is what I believe to be a step forward in our nation, due to her being female as well as a woman of color. However, due to the still-rising tensions with China, as well as the Coronavirus-19 pandemic, I still believe an East Asian American could not currently be elected the president.

—Abigail Lee, Age 12, Grade 7, Illinois. She writes: “I have a passion for writing. I enjoy reading realistic drama stories. I am socially conscious about Asian American discrimination in our country, in particular since the Coronavirus Pandemic. I am an Asian American, born as well as raised in Illinois. My essay focuses on my belief that an East Asian American could never become president due to racial discrimination.”

Embracing the Unknown

By Maggie D., Washington.

Her smile was as great
Big and beautiful as
A sunrise above the
Grand Canyon
Gripping the
Stars and Stripes
The Pledge of Allegiance
Was softly spoken
Without a hint of hesitation
Her human spirit
Held onto a future
Hope
Of making her free
From the tyranny
She once experienced
With a salute to her
Deepest desires of what
She was about to
Become

—Maggie D., retired educator and African American poet, Washington.

Name the Past for Our Future

Name the Past for Our Future:

On the Armenian Genocide

By Laurel Aronian, age 17, Connecticut.

In 1915, the Armenian Genocide commenced—the systematic mass murder of 1.5 million Armenians by the Ottoman government. I wrote this poem as a representation of the ongoing effects of the genocide on Armenians; even survivors found their lives uprooted as they were forced to move to other countries and begin from nothing. This poem not only serves to comment on my ancestors’ abrupt relocation from their homeland but also as a reflection on how my opportunity to visit Armenia in 2019 allowed me to return to the place my ancestors unwillingly left behind—metaphorically restoring them to their native land and simultaneously instilling in me an appreciation for a culture and history that I will carry forward.

“The Land Ahead”

Soot swirls around our footsteps,
the dust from our lives before.
Before, when we lived in the stony
cliffs of the Caucasus.

With my family who sent me
on my own.
To start a new life.
A life away from those who had taken
it from us.

The land that my family had lived
on for hundreds of years was seized.
Bitlis, Diyarbekir, Erzurum, where I had
played in the long grass of the mountains with my brothers.

Luck is what saved me from the massacres.
I do not know
what happened to my brothers,
who I had left
behind me.

The rocky road ahead is also littered
with dust.
It obscures my vision on all sides.
I do not know what is ahead of me
or what I have left behind.

The smell of gasoline is strong
as I board the plane.
I have left my home for the flight,
but will return in a jet
moving as swift as an Eagle.

The sign above is in letters
I can’t read
Թռիչք դեպի Հայաստան տերմինալ 4A
Only one word is clear to me,
Հայաստան, Hayastan, where my
second great-grandfather is from
and where I
am going.

Back in his day,
there were no planes,
when he traveled to the US
Alone.

Did he know that his
great, great-granddaughter would be going to his homeland?
His homeland where he had to leave
his home.

He left his country in the hope
that one day
the part of him in me
could return.

By Laurel Aronian, age 17, Connecticut. She adds: “I love to write in all genres (poetry, prose, journalism). I also enjoy taking photos and creating art. I have a passion for music and perform as a singer-songwriter and accompany on guitar. When I’m not writing or making music, I play competitive chess. My pieces also reflect the awe of nature, earth stewardship, and our planet’s majesty and magic.”

PS: Laurel entered the poem for our 2023 Youth Honor Awards last year at the age of 16.

United States v. Wong Kim Ark

By Fanny Wong, New York

In October 1895, Wong Kim Ark was lucky he didn’t get sick and die on his ten-week journey on the steamship Coptic from China to San Francisco. The third-class hold was crowded and poorly ventilated. He was eager to return to his small apartment on Sacramento Street in the city he loved. He missed everything about his city—San Francisco, even its fog.

At age 22, Wong had already visited China several times. So when he arrived at the dock, he was shocked to find out that he would not be allowed to land. How could the Collector of Customs, Mr. John Wise, not allow him to land? True, this man was known to be against Chinese immigration. But Wong’s identification paper was in good order. He even had three white residents vouch he was born in the city and was a good resident.

Wise had detained Wong on the grounds that he was not an U.S. citizen. And, Wong became a prisoner on the ship.

Wong Kim Ark, courtesy of the National Archives

Wong was born in San Francisco in 1873 to parents of Chinese descent. Around 1881, the parents had returned to China after a 20-year stay in San Francisco. However, Wong had chosen to stay in the United States, and now he found himself in a dire situation after another trip to China.

Fortunately, an aid association, The Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association, was ready to help him. Its lawyers argued that his rights as a citizen were being violated. The Fourteenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1868, stated, “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and the State wherein they reside…”

The U.S. Solicitor General, Mr. Holmes Conrad, disagreed and appealed the case all the way to the Supreme Court. He argued that Wong’s parents were subjects of the emperor of China and by extension Wong was also the subject of the emperor.

When the case was argued in 1897, the Supreme Court justices were, Stephen Field, John Harland, Horace Gray, Melville Fuller, David Brewer, Henry Brown and Rufus Peckham. The justices debated whether American citizenship should be based on the principle of “right of blood” (jus sanguinis) or “right of the soil” (jus soli). The Supreme Court did not agree with the Solicitor General and ruled in favor of Wong. Justice Horace Gray wrote the opinion on behalf of a 6-2 majority. The court established the concept of jus soli—the citizenship of children born in the United States to non-citizens.

The cloud over his citizenship had disappeared forever!

Wong’s landmark case set a very important precedent. It remains today the definitive interpretation of the 14th Amendment’s birthright provision. It affects all the children born to legal and illegal immigrant parents. It is reasonable to say that Wong never expected his case to have such long lasting and important consequence. Immigrants may not know his name, but they certainly know the rights of their children born in the United States.

—By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author and long-time contributor to Skipping Stones, New York.

Notes
1868: The 14th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution ratified.
1882: The Chinese Exclusion Act signed by President Arthur. It restricted entry and immigration of Chinese labor, both skilled and unskilled, into the United States.

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