In the Texas prison system, my name is Chino. You will not know who I am unless you are immediate family or one of my few friends.

By Hoàng Vu Tran
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Essays

In the Texas prison system, my name is Chino. You will not know who I am unless you are immediate family or one of my few friends.

Essays

Imagine the tens of millions of years that American prisons have stolen, woven back into society.

Essays

The green fruit would collect on the ground before we threw them to be devoured with the fervor we reserved for galas and granny smiths.

Essays

“Giving women voice” does not necessarily mean they will be heard or believed. From feminist refusal in Chang-Rae Lee’s A Gesture Life to the quiet resistance of comfort women statues.

Essays

Fearing the fruit cutting expectations of Korean mother-in-laws

Essays

When they called me spoiled, they meant that I was a rotten fruit, left out to waste in the humidity, sullied by forces beyond their control.

Essays

The kumquat’s sweetness was a disguise, and once it was disrobed in your mouth, the meat inside was sour enough to make your mouth buck, to wring your tongue of its language.

Essays

Who would keep the tree living, years after my grandparents have passed?

Essays

As a historian and musician, Julian Saporiti has toured past and present sites of migrant detention. He calls his project No-No Boy.

Essays

John Okada deserves credit for framing his book around the character of a resister—but he missed the opportunity to portray the depth and breadth of principled protest by incarcerated Japanese Americans.

Essays

Two women write about imprisonment, one from the outside and one from the inside.

Essays

Mom and I would share toast, shedding crumbs all over the bed while I asked her other questions, like if it was possible to move things with your eyes, what the word “fuck” meant, if angels existed or if she could tell me the story about when she and Dad got me from Nanchang.

Essays

There’s no shame in loving durian at this New York City haven.

Essays

To fix myself, it seems, is to become a ghost of myself.

Essays

Sometimes, I only want to eat the skin.

Essays

What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.

Essays

I wondered how many cherries babies could eat, and what they might think of the taste, or if they just know that the sugar tasted good.

Essays

Pauline Park, Myles Markham, and Xoài Pham on the queer historical figures across Asia that have inspired in them a sense of belonging

Essays

Earlier this year, Penguin released a competing edition of John Okada’s 1957 novel No-No Boy, claiming that it was in the public domain. They didn’t grasp how the history of the novel’s publication is as important as the novel.

Essays

In 2019, No-No Boy is bigger than it’s ever been. But the book that was saved was always haunted by the books that were lost.

Essays

In the Texas prison system, my name is Chino. You will not know who I am unless you are immediate family or one of my few friends.

Essays

Two women write about imprisonment, one from the outside and one from the inside.

Essays

Imagine the tens of millions of years that American prisons have stolen, woven back into society.

Essays

Mom and I would share toast, shedding crumbs all over the bed while I asked her other questions, like if it was possible to move things with your eyes, what the word “fuck” meant, if angels existed or if she could tell me the story about when she and Dad got me from Nanchang.

Essays

The green fruit would collect on the ground before we threw them to be devoured with the fervor we reserved for galas and granny smiths.

Essays

There’s no shame in loving durian at this New York City haven.

Essays

“Giving women voice” does not necessarily mean they will be heard or believed. From feminist refusal in Chang-Rae Lee’s A Gesture Life to the quiet resistance of comfort women statues.

Essays

To fix myself, it seems, is to become a ghost of myself.

Essays

Fearing the fruit cutting expectations of Korean mother-in-laws

Essays

Sometimes, I only want to eat the skin.

Essays

When they called me spoiled, they meant that I was a rotten fruit, left out to waste in the humidity, sullied by forces beyond their control.

Essays

What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.

Essays

The kumquat’s sweetness was a disguise, and once it was disrobed in your mouth, the meat inside was sour enough to make your mouth buck, to wring your tongue of its language.

Essays

I wondered how many cherries babies could eat, and what they might think of the taste, or if they just know that the sugar tasted good.

Essays

Who would keep the tree living, years after my grandparents have passed?

Essays

Pauline Park, Myles Markham, and Xoài Pham on the queer historical figures across Asia that have inspired in them a sense of belonging

Essays

As a historian and musician, Julian Saporiti has toured past and present sites of migrant detention. He calls his project No-No Boy.

Essays

Earlier this year, Penguin released a competing edition of John Okada’s 1957 novel No-No Boy, claiming that it was in the public domain. They didn’t grasp how the history of the novel’s publication is as important as the novel.

Essays

John Okada deserves credit for framing his book around the character of a resister—but he missed the opportunity to portray the depth and breadth of principled protest by incarcerated Japanese Americans.

Essays

In 2019, No-No Boy is bigger than it’s ever been. But the book that was saved was always haunted by the books that were lost.