I would argue that it becomes impossible to really talk about LGBTQ+ rights without delving into religion because religions the world over have long called us sinners. This is as true in America as it is in India.
Fabiola’s story taps into a real dynamic in queer communities, but “Never Have I Ever” couldn’t bring itself to actually identify the problem for what it truly is: racism.
I think of the moment I was born, how I must not have cared at all how loud I screamed. I needed to breathe. I needed everyone to know I was here.
This is the story of the birth and death of my name, which means that it is a story about transition, which means that it is necessarily a story about the border between two places and the force with which one rends it.
This is the legacy of colonization. It is the mass extinction of identities and languages that can no longer exist because someone else said they were bad.
Trans Vietnamese artist, Jean Pham, shares an original portrait series, spotlighting and revering trans Asian leaders as subjects in the midst the heightened violence in both Asian and trans communities.
What are you to do when you are a Vietnamese asexual and aromantic woman who grew up in white, cishet, francophone-dominated Montreal in the 1980s and 1990s?
Our trans subject editor Xoai Pham speaks to Jayda Shuavarnnasri, Thai-American sexuality educator and resident #SexPositiveAsianAuntie, about sexual violence, myths about polyamory, and what it means to take up space as Asian women.
Loneliness is an old bedfellow of mine; despair, my oldest friend. If I can come to embrace those parts of myself I’ve always tried to push away — perhaps, that is the only lifelong love I can count on.
I don’t think it matters much whether Avatar: The Last Airbender is “respectful” of Asian culture. I think the show is racist, and also I like it. I’m interested in what we do with the sense of agency it gives us, how it allows us to critique the structures that exist and envision our own worlds.
I’ve been told I should try to reclaim my ancestral healing practices, and this is something I would like to do. When I try to learn about Chinese things, it feels performed. I wonder if me learning qigong is any better than white lady yoga.
When it comes to Buddhism and cultural appropriation, I still sometimes worry that I’m making a big deal out of nothing, that I’m angry for no good reason.
The first time I encountered a book with queer characters must have been James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room. At the time I remember feeling afraid of its intensity. Now it’s one of my most returned-to books along with Lydia Davis’ The End of the Story.
At my Catholic all-girls middle school, I liked to tell people I was Buddhist. It was my feeble attempt at preteen rebellion. I enjoyed interjecting, “Oh yeah? Well, I don’t believe Jesus was real because I’m Buddhist!”
I don’t see it as a culinary failure to plan to have instant noodles for dinner. But before I get into my favorite ways to elaborate on, accessorize, perhaps even elevate a pack of instant noodles, it’s important to note that not all instant noodles are created equal.
Real commitment to Black lives requires us to consider why we’re fighting and for whom. It’s time we ask ourselves: if our liberation weren’t intertwined, if your well-being weren’t tied to that of Black people, would you still defend Black life?
The reason I didn’t like “Never Have I Ever” wasn’t because I didn’t feel seen. It’s because Mindy Kaling and I are clearly looking at the same world, but Kaling is expecting me to overlook all of its pain.
We have been drafted to protect white institutions that come at the cost of Black lives. We have been named a “model minority” to convince us that we’ve been saved a seat at the table among white peers — but that table was cut, assembled, and varnished by Black slaves. Asian Americans should look into the face of Tou Thao and see their own brother. It is our responsibility to bring him to justice, because he is not the only one.
Through my mother’s recipes, I’m reminded of the resilience that flows in our blood. Instead of disconnecting from my body to survive, I nurtured it. Like me, cooking is hella queer and fluid. Every time I reimagine a dish, it can taste different depending on my mood.“How spicy do I want this dish to be today? “How sweet do I want this dessert?” It’s never fixed or prescribed. That’s what makes these evolving recipes — and the queer experience — so delicious.
When love is a matter of desperation, how do you even begin to know what it is you desire? It doesn’t matter what shape love takes. Or does it?