What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.
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.
In a guest laden living room to the side in a corner, / I tried to wear a coat like skin, // And in that moment, that precise moment, / I’m asked, “Are you Tibetan?”
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.
when i was six, / i scooped prayer into my palms, sipped / jesus’ sweat out of a soju bottle ten / years after. the prayer screamed / under my skin
the manner / in which the oaks nod to me it’s funny / I swear there are no magnets / lining my boots / maybe just a few nickels
What this deli in Manhattan offers to mostly immigrant taxi drivers is priceless.
This involves modulating my voice and accent so that I sound more Malay. It’s like having to work for my right to eat there.
5 writers named to 9-month fellowship to write about NYC’s Muslim American and Asian American communities.
The questions of who can eat what, and where, and with whom, are facts of Malaysian life, negotiated daily and often subconsciously.
Interrogating the Asian American disconnect
in the debate over NYC’s specialized high schools
I reenter my body as a highway, then a Monday, then a demo / of a pop song that never made it to the surface.
As a historian and musician, Julian Saporiti has toured past and present sites of migrant detention. He calls his project No-No Boy.
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.
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.
it was such a big no-no that I had this impression of dialects 方方言言 being like swear words, or haram
We are becoming hardened. I sense a hardness in the so-called liberal circles, artist circles, activist circles.
having grown up using utensils she will never understand the comfort it brings: someone forming little mounds of rice that are pushed by the thumb into your mouth
America swallowed my parents / spit out skeletons / Waleed became Bill / the Clintons stretched / their skinny vowels / over my father’s father’s father’s name
My friend uses words I know: / desert, rainfall, homeland. Speaks with / dead wet sea eyes of a house where her / grandfather found peace.
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.
I reenter my body as a highway, then a Monday, then a demo / of a pop song that never made it to the surface.
In a guest laden living room to the side in a corner, / I tried to wear a coat like skin, // And in that moment, that precise moment, / I’m asked, “Are you Tibetan?”
As a historian and musician, Julian Saporiti has toured past and present sites of migrant detention. He calls his project No-No Boy.
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.
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.
when i was six, / i scooped prayer into my palms, sipped / jesus’ sweat out of a soju bottle ten / years after. the prayer screamed / under my skin
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.
the manner / in which the oaks nod to me it’s funny / I swear there are no magnets / lining my boots / maybe just a few nickels
What this deli in Manhattan offers to mostly immigrant taxi drivers is priceless.
it was such a big no-no that I had this impression of dialects 方方言言 being like swear words, or haram
This involves modulating my voice and accent so that I sound more Malay. It’s like having to work for my right to eat there.
We are becoming hardened. I sense a hardness in the so-called liberal circles, artist circles, activist circles.
5 writers named to 9-month fellowship to write about NYC’s Muslim American and Asian American communities.
having grown up using utensils she will never understand the comfort it brings: someone forming little mounds of rice that are pushed by the thumb into your mouth
The questions of who can eat what, and where, and with whom, are facts of Malaysian life, negotiated daily and often subconsciously.
America swallowed my parents / spit out skeletons / Waleed became Bill / the Clintons stretched / their skinny vowels / over my father’s father’s father’s name
Interrogating the Asian American disconnect
in the debate over NYC’s specialized high schools
My friend uses words I know: / desert, rainfall, homeland. Speaks with / dead wet sea eyes of a house where her / grandfather found peace.