“Welcome to the club,” said a femme editor of a local publication. “Do you know what it’s like to have your face photoshopped onto cremated bodies and corpses?”

God damn, I thought. She helped me change all of my passwords online and protect my private information. Unlike my usual go-to passwords that are all variations of the same thing, this one had lowercase and caps, numbers, and symbols, in baffling complexity. It was like a secret code, and probably what legit passwords should look like. I wasn’t about to let anyone track me down or break into my personal accounts.

I’m not alone in what happened to me. Women from all intersections are made targets of horrendous Internet attacks, particularly if they’re outspoken journalists and feminists. Particularly if they’re women of color or queer or disabled. It’s so common that many sites have removed their hate-filled comments sections. It starts with one unhinged person and rapidly transpires into hundreds and hundreds of strangers ripping apart someone’s character, dehumanizing them, gutting them, threatening their safety, and tarnishing their mental well-being.

Women from all intersections are made targets of horrendous Internet attacks, particularly if they’re outspoken journalists and feminists. Particularly if they’re women of color or queer or disabled.

As much of an inflammatory leftist as I may have been at times, especially in my twenties, I tried to conduct myself with grace and patience. I was entangled in several Facebook debates a day. It was hell but it was also a hobby. Maybe an addiction? I never resort to name-calling, i.e. “White supremacist! Nazi!” or immediately shutting someone down, unless they’re there to troll, edgelord, play “devil’s advocate,” or spew stone cold hate. I’ve never made a threat toward another for disagreeing with me. Those on the left who weaponize their jargon to blindly attack others are basically as fallacious as those from the right. Or any side. The point is discourse. Though the burden should never fall on the oppressed.

When I received a photo of a mutilated breast, after hundreds of hateful messages, I finally had to look away. I was done explaining myself. I knew I couldn’t win this, because there was nothing to win — these people were 100% set in their beliefs, ones that cost me, a woman of color in my twenties, to be “cancelled.” To lose my job, voice and, more importantly, a space to help cultivate the voice of marginalized people in a largely conservative city.

***

My radio show, “Brat Chat with Belinda Cai,” (“BC with BC!”) averaged a small group of 30 to 50 listeners per day. It was brand new, and the first of its kind in the mid-sized city of Cincinnati, my hometown. The one-hour weekday live talk program was a platform for me to showcase diverse artists, musicians, activists, writers, and other creatives in our area. This was desperately needed, as our arts and culture scene was not nearly highlighted enough at the time. It was an independent project that was part of a brand new start-up; we had yet to acquire many listeners or followers.

The one-hour weekday live talk program was a platform for me to showcase diverse artists, musicians, activists, writers, and other creatives in our area. This was desperately needed, as our arts and culture scene was not nearly highlighted enough at the time.

When Treehouse Patio Bar in Over-the-Rhine engaged in blatant racial profiling, I had two of the victims who were denied entry because of the color of their skin come on my show to share their experiences firsthand. These are the people who do not get a voice. In mainstream media, their statements are ignored, tampered with, or partially silenced. Despite the page’s endless 1-star reviews from so-called “social justice warriors” attempting to shut it down, the bar was thriving as ever. When it comes to businesses that profit, problematic behavior quickly slips the mind. The owner happens to be white, with felonies. He had killed a woman of color while recklessly driving and received a few years of jail-time. With money and entitlement, he is now a thriving racist bar owner.

The Treehouse Bar is located in an urban center in the now exceptionally gentrified Over-the-Rhine, which went from being dubbed Cincinnati’s most notoriously dangerous and violent location (avoid at all costs!!!) to a hub for yuppies, white suburbanites looking for a weekend escape, and the few tourists the city may attract. The success of the re-branded “OTR” comes at the cost of vast displacement of the African-American population there, with white people drinking beer on pedal wagons and drunkenly singing along to questionable hits from the early 2000s, and expensive businesses springing up like weeds.

When the two victims, both men of color, spoke up on my radio show, I had garnered my highest listenership to date: 180 people. And this was in the first few weeks of my show, which only made it to a little more than 40 episodes total. I can say without hesitation, it was forty hours of brilliant, exceptional people sharing their ideologies and wisdom, and giving a voice to all of the marginalized individuals out there — in intersections of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, ability, age, and more.

***

It was heartbreaking that a band comprised of mostly white men, twice my age, with a mostly white fanbase, decided to “end me,” in their words, because of claims of reverse racism and what many suggested to me to be white fragility and toxic masculinity. I made a mistake, and to this day, I won’t deny that. I’ll say it again: I made a mistake. I owned up to it, apologized sincerely through multiple online platforms, but nevertheless got blocked, dragged, libeled, threatened, and ultimately doxxed. At some moments, I genuinely feared for my life in my grungy Midwestern city.

I was also told I was a “white” girl and not a “person of color” (perhaps because I’m not Black) — so I essentially was stripped of my own identity in light of mistaking someone else’s identity. I was also told Asians don’t experience racism. All of this, or most of this at least, came from white people who actually don’t experience racism in this country where they hold the power. Many had dreadlocks. Some supported Donald Trump. The thing with social media is, albeit performative at times, it captures a fairly accurate snapshot of a person’s character. And I knew what these people were about, and I didn’t like it.

“I don’t think it’s a good fit for me to have an all-white reggae band on my show. It doesn’t go along with the show’s brand because it seems culturally appropriative and insensitive,” is what I told my assistant producer Mia when I checked out the band’s website. My Wednesday culture and diversity co-host and I would discuss topics like the problems with cultural appropriation — oppressors and colonizers borrowing shiny objects from the oppressed to be worn as adornments. They get to reach down and take what they like without having to suffer any of the repercussions associated. Black people are denied jobs or reprimanded for their natural hair. When white people adopt it, they’re “fashionable” or “edgy,” and it’s more acceptable.

The photos of the band were distasteful to me and did not fit my show’s aesthetic, but also portrayed a reggae band as entirely white with some quick glances. I was wrong to jump the gun and do something so many had done to me. Two of the members are biracial; they should not have been stripped of their biracial identity, something I did in assuming that they were all white because they are lighter skinned. It’s almost like racial profiling, right? But are these individuals allowed in Treehouse Patio bar and do they get threatened by the police? Are their livelihoods threatened each and every day? Light skin privilege exists in almost every community. Being more white passing is a privilege.

I’ve been called Chinese slurs, mocked, denied opportunities, sexualized, and have been made to feel ashamed of my race all my life; but also called white-washed, “practically white,” and “not even Asian.” It’s terrible all around. There’s also some kind of made up Asian monolith in which many non-Asians assume we are all one dark-haired, yellow-skinned blur when we are composed of so many unique and beautiful diasporas that span thousands of years of history and culture. Despite all of this, as a lighter skinned East Asian, I know I am privileged.

***

My assistant and I were the only two people who worked on my show, which was two segments and an hour a day, five days a week. That’s ten segments a week. That’s ten sets of guests giving valuable insight on ten sets of different topics. It took a lot of work and we didn’t have enough help, with the company being a start-up. We were overburdened in that I was being paid to work twenty hours a week, and my assistant, just a few hours.

Mia sent a message to the band saying that an all-white reggae band was not the best fit for my show (echoing my words), cancelling the interview she booked just 24 hours in advance. The message, the timing, and the delivery were all admittedly unprofessional. I shouldn’t have cancelled. The program was just starting up, and we were doing our best. We could’ve and should’ve done better. Bringing them on to discuss their thoughts on cultural appropriation would’ve actually been a fascinating conversation and was a missed opportunity.

When the lead singer struck back at her, Mia was destroyed. She talked about how her voice was silenced at a young age by a male caretaker but she has a very passionate fire burning in her, and a very strong online feminist presence. Despite everything, she felt like she had made a huge mistake.

“I would give my right arm to take back that message,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I swear I would.”

I held her, and reassured her she would be okay. That she was the messenger. And that the band should take it up with me, and me alone. I’m no good at consoling people but I felt deep solidarity with her at that moment.

I couldn’t cry then. But I cried on my father’s birthday a few days later, for him — a strong individual who endured some of the worst trauma under Mao Zedong’s totalitarian regime in ’60s China but never shed a tear. His father was persecuted and sent to a concentration camp, dying in front of his eyes on a hospital stretcher when he was 13. My dad felt ashamed. He internalized his pain. And then he moved forward. His silent, hard work and honest values have helped inspire me to become the person I am. He is a wise, country music-loving, poetry nerd who enjoys cooking and finding solitude in the mountains and trees. He shouldn’t have had to be as resilient as he was.

***

I passed onto the lead singer a sincere apology for mistaking his identity, and he told me that he pitied me, that I was “fake,” and then blocked me on social media. He wouldn’t answer the start-up’s calls. This closed off any direct dialogue between us. But that’s where it all began. From that one message to hundreds of alt right Internet “warriors” hurling slurs, threats, and forms of intimidation at me. I “hated white people.” I was disgusting. We’re in the 21st century — why do I still see color?

Well, for one, because as a woman of color, I live it every day. From the time I was a young child, I wanted to hide my racial identity. “I’m not Chinese!” I would scream. I even went so far as to lie about my ethnicity, claiming I was part Mongolian when I was in grade school. I wasn’t sure what Mongolian people looked like, but I assumed they were whiter than me.

I was ashamed because I was different and, from day one, I was harassed for it, like so many other immigrant children. It’s a ubiquitous tale. This became so deeply ingrained in me that I, today, am still trying to unlearn my internalized racism.

Despite attempts from me, my boss at the time (who founded the start-up), and others, the band would not open direct communication with us. I’m not so sure they ever wanted an apology. It felt like they wanted to “end me” by asserting their masculinity and white (or white-adjacent) privilege over me. I’m not sure they did this consciously or know the language and jargon more progressive folks freely exercise. Their intentions, regardless, were to hurt me. And they succeeded.

***

The day after this mishap in booking and communication, I awoke to about 50 one-star reviews on my Brat Chat Facebook page, calling me “racist,” “a stupid, ignorant bitch,” “someone who hates white people,” and the list went on. I was stunned. I was also being likened to the KKK, Nazis, Donald Trump, and all sorts of bigots. I hadn’t cried at this point.

The one-star reviews, much like the ones for Treehouse Patio Bar in OTR, kept rolling in and there were demands for accountability, particularly with my mistaking the lead singer to be just white when he is biracial. To this day, I regret my irresponsible assumption.

The longstanding question from everyone against me was: So if he WAS white and it WAS an all-white reggae band, you wouldn’t have booked them? How incredibly racist, they shouted. My answer now is no. I would not have, because I had autonomy over my show. Their presentation and music, including using a false patois, did not sit well with me; that is my discretion. There are far worse things that happen on far bigger shows that actually have an audience.

Did these guys realize that they’d come on air and all of ten people plus their fans would be listening? I was essentially a nobody. And for whatever reason, they wanted to make me out to be somebody — albeit the opposite of everything I stand for. I just wanted to give a platform to unheard voices. My own, included.

***

I do not believe in reverse racism, or racism toward white people, here in the United States. As the holders of every form of power there is (economic, political, social), and whose ancestors were colonizers who made this country what it is today from the bloodshed of indigenous people and on the broken backs of African-American slaves, I do not believe white people are treated with “racist” intentions because they are white. They can experience prejudice, yes, and I may have perpetuated that, but it’s not the same as systemic, intergenerational, blatant racism and oppression.

I do not believe in reverse racism, or racism toward white people, here in the United States. As the holders of every form of power there is (economic, political, social), and whose ancestors were colonizers who made this country what it is today from the bloodshed of indigenous people and on the broken backs of African-American slaves, I do not believe white people are treated with “racist” intentions because they are white. They can experience prejudice, yes, but it’s not the same as systemic, intergenerational, blatant racism and oppression.

This is not only my opinion; it’s backed by scientific and sociological studies. That’s not to say white people don’t struggle from various forms of oppression, because they do… unless they’re cishet, able-bodied, neurotypical males in the one percent. I never said white people don’t struggle. I know many who do. I empathize.

The one-star reviews and messages on the social media page kept building and building. One message had nothing but 50 middle finger emojis. Someone really had the time to do that? Oh, but of course they did. I had remained silent and was being called into question for that.

***

I got reviews like these:

“You should change your logo to a swastika, eagle, and a hood.”

“1 star for you because ‘Negative 5 stars’ doesn’t exist. Racist trash is racist trash. Belinda Cai, you’re a piece of work. I hope you trip and fall off a curb while everyone is watching.”

“I wish I could give 0 stars to this bigot. You really are not showing the music scene any love with your whack ass comments…… hey [get] a job changing tires or cleaning hotel rooms and get out of the music scene cause you done fucked up big time. Take your racist ass off social media please.”

“Ignorant and racist idiots. Apparently reggae is only allowed to be listened to and played by Black people. Bob Marley could be on the show because he’s partially Black, but his all-white dad would not be allowed on the show.”

“I’m just here to watch the ship burn and sink to the bottom of the internets.”

Every comment treated me like I was an ignorant child when I, in fact, had years of journalistic and radio experience, along with a master’s degree. Many of the comments referred to me in a sexist manner, i.e. “bitch,” “ignorant woman,” “privileged white girl.” (Guys, again, I’m not white.)

***

So I drafted a long and sincere apology. It read:

“Hey everyone. This is Belinda from Brat Chat. I want to again apologize to [said band] and the community at large. I’ve already taken full accountability for my mistake of falsely assuming everyone in [said band] is white when there are members who are biracial, and I’ve already apologized to the band and asked how I can rectify this situation. I am asking this still.

My show intentionally promotes diversity, cultural awareness, and has featured people of all races, diasporas, ethnicities, genders, sexualities, ages, identities, and skill sets. It delves into complex and sometimes thorny concepts like cultural appropriation, the misconception of reverse racism, systemic oppression, the myth of the model minority, and other rather sociopolitical ideologies. This is not an unbiased news program — it is a talk program hosted and curated by me, with my voice.

At the time, I mistakenly did not think [said band] would have best represented the reggae community in Cincinnati. I admitted that I made a mistake (and I am admitting that again), and I especially apologize for assuming members to all be white when they are not. And even if all the members were all white, there is nothing wrong with an all-white reggae band. I am not saying that should not be allowed to exist. At the time, I just didn’t think it would best represent the local reggae community or be the best fit for my show.

I, like most people, am still learning. I think we are all learning every day about how to be more empathetic and how to be a better ally and how to better understand systemic issues of race and inequality.

I know these topics are divisive in that not everyone is a. Equally aware of these concepts (lack of accessibility of education) b. Not everyone shares the same opinion about these concepts. But again, this is my show and I am trying my best to use it as a platform that highlights creative locals and also social issues I find relevant.

As a woman of color, I’ve dealt with racism and sexism (from microaggressions to overt verbal attacks) my entire life. My goal would never be to perpetuate that divisiveness that I’ve personally experienced. I want to actually dispel any racist or bigoted outlooks and I apologize if my actions demonstrated otherwise.

Again, I have realized my mistake here and have sincerely apologized several times. I am sorry, also, to have cancelled the program with only a 24-hour notice. I was blocked on Facebook by members of the band after my apology, so the dialogue I wanted to create between [said band] and myself was closed; that silenced my ability to explain myself and my views further before others started discussing this.

Everyone who is calling me a racist bigot and likening me to Nazis and the KKK (and using harsh language) — do you truly believe this is productive? Because I do not support those values in the slightest and I want to make that very, very clear.

I am presenting this to [said band] as an open dialogue. I am willing to apologize in person or do what they would like me to do to rectify this situation. Instead of creating more divineness by pegging me as something I am not, which has hurt me significantly, I am willing to work — through transformative justice — to rectify this with the band.

Thank you.”

***

This garnered nearly 200 comments, a majority of which continued to berate me. Examples include:

“How fucking dare you make this a pity party for yourself and try to justify this? The backlash from this will be worse than the original!!!”

“Are white people not a race now? This Bullshit is retarded. So it’s ok to kick white people out of a show? That was your intention. Replace white with any other race and see how that sounds. I hope the group sues you for discrimination.”

“You fuckin suck at damage control. Absolutely not ok what you said and this doesn’t make it any better. I agree with Brock. The reggae community does not want your shit. Really sad and dumb what you said…. have fun with the backlash on this”

“#ratchat”

“Don’t lump me in with your ‘we are all learning!’ People are people not colors!! Music is felt, not seen. No color should be put out because of what YOU think! Your apology sucks!!!!!”

“Hahaha all you see is race and sex. You are a racist. The more ‘sensitive’ you pretend to be, the more it affirms that you are a sexist racist bigot just like all ‘PC’ people. The sole creation of political correctness was to demonize segments of the population and to create a political lever for socialist to use against the communist. IT’S CALLED SUBVERSION and it’s nothing new. You can walk down the street with a Klan hood or a gay pride flag, it’s all the same shit. Your zealots and capitalist that support your self peddling racebait to support your irrelevant ‘art.’ Music was a lot more fun before the PC Nazi skum like yourself started pushing around everyone who just wanted to have a good time.” (This one confused me.)

Fortunately, people within my community chimed in with their views:

“Please excuse all the sensitive white people that are going to comment on this. For most of them, this will be the only time they get to experience prejudice… even if it wasn’t directed at them.”

“Belinda is Asian, not white, just so you know. I don’t know that much about this situation but feel that’s a distinction worth making.”

“Please don’t take their ‘reverse racism’ comments seriously or personally… every person of color has to deal with that made up concept on the daily. This is your show and if they don’t like it, they can listen elsewhere. There are PLENTY of all-white Reggae bands who are and will be featured elsewhere now and forever.”

“I BETTER see every last person on here crying have the same outrage when this happens to BIPOC or any actual marginalized group of people! Or you can literally have several seats and quit fake crying when it only affects people with the same skin color as you.”

“Wow it would be great to see white folks get this up in arms when Black, Brown, and Indigenous folks are being harmed by systematic racism. While Belinda Cai made an apology, the problem here is far less her actions than the hugely over-reactive white folks calling all music and all races one. Sorry. Not the case. White supremacy is still the law of the land and the history of Reggae must not be whitewashed into a kind of one love that ignores racism and genocide. Folks that have light skin privilege are 9 times outta 10 going to benefit from light skin. In this case, there was a hurt. It was rooted in an appropriate call to center music in its own history. There was an apology. Now white folks are fighting the wrong fight imho.”

***

And I could go on and on, but I think this is enough of a vignette of the overall scenario — for my own sanity. I also received graphic images and gifs. I was even made into a meme. (Dream come true but maybe not in this light.) My Instagram was also attacked, screenshots of my apology were posted on an “anti-social justice” Instagram with more demeaning comments, and someone went as far as to find my personal website and make a fake Wordpress account to leave a hateful comment. They were “coming after me.” I had to wipe the slate clean of anything related to my radio program. I was officially “Cancelled.”

As someone who had to call out an abusive former partner online (so his band wouldn’t play shows at “safe spaces” as someone who isn’t exactly safe) just a few months ago, I guess I got a taste of my own proverbial medicine. Except, I don’t think I deserved what happened to me. My ex, a serial abuser at the time, did (to some extent). But the Internet does what the Internet does. The mobs will get you either way.

While I don’t always agree with call-out culture and public shaming, there is a time and place for it. We’ve seen some success with this as sexual predators and abusers are being called out through the #MeToo movement and beyond (though sometimes with no lasting consequences). In those cases, call outs are necessary.

On a smaller scale, if it can be worked out, it’s best to call in — to open a private dialogue with problematic folks who may be able to change. It saves so much time and energy. Before calling out my abuser, I had been blocked, ridiculed, ghosted, and ignored. There was no dialogue. It was my last resort. For calling out “reverse racism” and mistaking racial identity, I was blocked, ridiculed, ghosted, and ignored. There was no dialogue. It was the band’s first resort.

***

The Internet is one of my favorite places in the world, and has connected people in unprecedented ways that allow for public discourse, education in every corner, solidarity with those around the globe, the rapid spread of breaking news, people freely voicing their opinions, people organizing mass movements, and the planning of entire revolutions, even (i.e. Egypt during Arab Spring). It is political theorist Jürgen Habermas’s “public sphere.”

I love the Internet dearly and could probably not live without it, but like many of the other things and people I loved at the time, it can be so, so toxic.

RIP, Brat Chat. It was good while it lasted.

When it’s that time of month, people with uteruses are almost programmed to give the fuck up on life. We’ll curl up under the covers with mild narcotics, heat pads, and tears, never to see the light of day. Bed rot all day, baby! (Me right now.) Periods have long been dreaded in Western society and popular culture. While menstrual discomforts are real, the negative perception and period-shaming make things worse.

“Our society is pretty ‘period-negative.’ We believe periods are gross, should be kept secret, and menstruating women* are crazy and/or sick,” Carolyn Peterson, Undergraduate Director and Educator Instructor in the Women’s Gender and Sexuality Studies Department at the University of Cincinnati tells me.

She goes on to explain that we have a long medical and cultural history of demonizing menstruation and women’s bodies in general. This makes people see their periods as a hurdle to overcome — something they have to quietly survive, versus a totally natural experience or even something sacred.

“It wasn’t that long ago that doctors thought that the cantankerous uterus was to blame for literally every medical condition a person could experience,” explains Peterson. “Combine that with the generally sex-negative, still-sexist society we live in now and it makes sense.”

When Chinese Olympian swimmer Fu Yuanhui talked about her period on an international scale a few years back, it was a revolutionary act. She claimed that her period coming the night before the race made her feel tired and weak, but did not blame her performance on it. (If it were me, I definitely would have.) Few women athletes have discussed how their periods affect them, though the ones who have, like tennis player Heather Watson, unfortunately draw negative media attention.

While it makes sense that women athletes may feel drained and exhausted when they are bleeding, how do women in less physical fields compare? Can it be a neutral or even positive? An artist friend of mine, Taleen, posted on social media that she feels so much more creative when she bleeds — and she isn’t alone in feeling that way.

“I’m usually an emotional Tasmanian devil when I’m on my period, but not in a negative way. It’s actually very positive most of the time. I take that week to relax when not at work, giving me time to focus on my art.”

My friend, another musician and visual artist Rachel, has heavy periods, physically and emotionally. She creates work that pertains to anatomy, decay, and the unknown like space and the afterlife. A lot of what she produces is specific to her emotions and inspired by them.

“I’m usually an emotional Tasmanian devil when I’m on my period, but not in a negative way,” she says. It’s actually very positive most of the time. I take that week to relax when not at work, giving me time to focus on my art.”

What it boils down to is that her periods give her time and space to really focus on herself, which augments her creativity. She’s grateful for what her body does, despite not being someone who wants children in the future. But this positive perception wasn’t always the case for her.

“I had an abortion at a young age, and working through that mentally involved a lot of resentment towards what my body was capable of,” Rachel confides in me. “So even though it can be scary, my period is a beautiful thing in my mind now.”

“I don’t know if it’s because I tap into this feeling of ancient communal with every person who’s ever menstruated or if my period is so routine that I know what to expect and what I have to do, but it’s definitely the one week a month where I allow myself to hand over the reigns.”

Another one of my musician pals, Jordan (pronoun: they), admits to feeling less productive but, like Rachel, dedicates more time to themself when they have their period. They say bleeding reminds them they’re a living being that needs to care of themself, especially when they get too caught up in stressors that complicate life.

“I don’t know if it’s because I tap into this feeling of ancient communal with every person who’s ever menstruated or if my period is so routine that I know what to expect and what I have to do, but it’s definitely the one week a month where I allow myself to hand over the reigns,” they say. “Music is something essential to me, so I find myself indulging in, creating, and listening to music that is very raw and personal to me.”

Rachel has created some abstract art as a reaction to bleeding through her pants in seventh grade, a moment that is horrifying for teens (very Carrie). While not all period-inspired art is period-themed, there are people creating art directly related to their periods.

For example, artist Jen Lewis, has used her period blood to create a project called “Beauty in Blood.”

She writes on her website:

“There is more to my art than simply bleeding into the toilet each month. Each image is substantially more than a crass or vulgar image thrown up on a wall for mass shock appeal. Creating each piece of work is a four-step process bookended by concept and intellect: media collection, pouring/design layout, photographic capture, and finally photograph selection.”

“in older civilizations this blood was considered holy. in some it still is. but a majority of people. societies. and communities shun this natural process. some are more comfortable with the pornification of women… we menstruate and they see it as dirty… as if this process is less natural than breathing. as if it is not a bridge between this universe and the last. as if this process is not love. labour. life. selfless and strikingly beautiful.”

Rupi Kaur may be a bit of a pop poet and meme nowadays, with books all over Urban Outfitters, but she made an important point before gaining mass popularity:

“i bleed each month to help make humankind a possibility. my womb is home to the divine. a source of life for our species. whether i choose to create or not. but very few times it is seen that way. in older civilizations this blood was considered holy. in some it still is. but a majority of people. societies. and communities shun this natural process. some are more comfortable with the pornification of women. the sexualization of women. the violence and degradation of women, than this. they cannot be bothered to express their disgust about all that. but will be angered and bothered by this. we menstruate and they see it as dirty. attention seeking. sick. a burden. as if this process is less natural than breathing. as if it is not a bridge between this universe and the last. as if this process is not love. labour. life. selfless and strikingly beautiful.”

There are photographs that accompany this piece aimed at lessening the taboo surrounding periods. The image Kaur shared on Instagram of her lying on a bed with period stains through her sweatpants was twice removed for violating community standards, but was eventually kept up after Kaur challenged it publicly. The photo has gained international attention and has helped in defying the stigma of menstruation.

Peterson says menstrual cycles can affect a person’s mental, emotional, and physical states but it doesn’t have to be a negative experience, contrary to mainstream media portrayal and common perception. Like the artists that try to subvert the norm through their work, she tries to make period-positivity known to the public.

“Some people report feeling more empowered and in-tune with themselves during their period, and that is really positive to me,” she says. “If we respect our periods for the amazing potential for life that they are instead of treating them like temporary torture, I think we would feel differently towards ourselves as bleeders.”

As much as I’ve disliked my period throughout my life, I have to agree. When I bleed, I get emotional and introspective. Creative and deeply empathetic. I want to tap into my deepest traumas and hold myself (and others). I say this As I Lay Bleeding and bed rotting — but trying to heal during this sacred time.

*This applies to not only those who identify as “women,” but also trans men, nonbinary individuals, and all others who have uteruses/periods

I open my eyes.

There are trees, shabby gardens, shrubs, garbage cans, and colorful used cars lining the streets of my family’s modest apartment in Muncie, Indiana. That, and an inexplicably bleak feeling in the air. Every day seemed overcast here, in this tiniest of Midwestern towns. In this quaint suburban prison.

My family lived in near-poverty when I was a child. My father was a full-time student, full-time waiter, and supported a family of three (and eventually, five). That’s changed now after decades of hard work from my career-dedicated parents, but we once relied on government welfare to get by, like so many immigrant families. My dad was granted asylum in the United States when he was an exchange student in Muncie, Indiana, during the Tiananmen Square protests and unrest in China, when he saw tanks destroying students on television. My mom joined him three long-awaited years later.

We lived in the hood. There were sometimes roaches crawling around our small two-bedroom apartment kitchen. My mom and I collected fresh, speckled duck eggs from the university pond to bring home to eat. I wore hand-me-downs and wasn’t allowed to buy the toys I wanted at department stores. A dentist assaulted me; tied my hand to the seat and sedated me as he forcibly inserted silver caps on my teeth to prevent cavities, leaving me bloody, teary-eyed, and in a daze. “She’s a fighter,” he said to my parents, who knew then and there that they fucked up by leaving me alone with this maniac. State-assisted dentists and doctors don’t care about minorities. That’s why my sister, who was a breech baby, almost died and had to be resuscitated at birth due to a careless OGBYN.

When I open my eyes and look around, I don’t see anything. The air is static. There are sprinkles of distant giggles here and there.

I couldn’t really speak English as a kid. I had never felt so lonely as when I was in a classroom with a sea of students and a teacher speaking incomprehensible words. Their mouths moved but only bizarre sounds came out. My mom raised me speaking Mandarin Chinese and I was often teased. When I called my mother “māmā,” Chinese for “mother,” a group of older Black girls at the neighborhood playground mocked me. That’s right, little girl, call yo mama, they joked. It didn’t bother me. On the contrary, I felt heard as these girls spoke an iota of the same language as I did.

That day, I was the seeker. The group of seven or so kids had dispersed and hidden around the apartment complex in our weekly game of hide-and-seek. I was wearing a pink, frilly dress because my mother liked to dress me up like a doll and put my thick hair in droves of pigtails. I always wore these black Mary Janes. They were too slick at the bottoms for me to climb this particular tree. My neighbor friend would always tease me because she could climb the tree, but I was “too girly.” I hated it.

I was maybe five or six years old but had a keen sense of “stranger danger.” From as early as I could form memories, my mother would warn me about “strangers” and how they weren’t to be trusted. Especially men. Especially if they talked to me when I was alone.

“If you see a stranger, someone you don’t know,” she would say in Mandarin, “run away. Don’t talk to them. They’re dangerous. Find your dad. Find me.”

And it was always ingrained in me. So, in a way, my mother saved my life. Just as she had saved her brother’s life when he was a young child being led astray by a mysterious man, holding his hand, and my mom — always bold, always brave — demanded he return her brother at once, in front of the crowd.

That day, as I’m searching for my neighborhood friends, two men dressed in all black come out of nowhere and spot me. I see the Men in Black and instantly feel uneasy. Nauseous, even. Why are they looking at me? The other kids were hiding. I’m isolated and in full view. A small Asian girl in a bright pink dress. There is no one else in the vicinity, and it’s early evening, the sun setting.

My mom’s words echo in my ears and I begin to walk quickly towards our apartment unit. The men follow. They are just two blocks away from me, inching closer and closer. I start a light jog. They are still behind me, tracing my steps. I begin running and running, to our building, up the stairs, into our unit, into my room, and under my bed, hiding my face. My heart is pounding. My eyes burn with tears.

My parents come in.

“What’s going on?” My mom asks.

“There are bad guys outside. Strangers!” I cry. “They’re trying to get me! Help me.”

My mom, in disbelief, accuses me of lying or overreacting. She doesn’t think it’s possible, and she knows my anxiety makes me afraid of so, so much around me. She goes to the door and looks out. There they are — the two men had followed me into my building and up the stairs. They are using some sort of hook, as my mom describes to this day, to finagle with the apartment door next to ours. My mom spots this, and calls for my dad. The two men, upon seeing my parents, swiftly exit the building and vanish.

In some alternate universe, one in which my mother didn’t love me enough or wasn’t wise enough to realize, sadly, a young girl needs to be reminded every day to guard herself from danger, I was abducted. Kidnapped. Sex trafficked. Raped. Murdered. As painful and dark as parts of my life have been, I wouldn’t have gotten to experience the growth, immense joys, healing, self-awareness, and self-love that comes with age.

A young girl’s body, like the body of so many minorities and other marginalized persons, is never quite her own and is never totally safe.

Women, children, the elderly, members of the LGBTQIA+ community, disabled individuals, and other vulnerable persons are constantly taken advantage of. People of color, immigrants, and those of lower socioeconomic status are exploited. People from other countries stricken with war and poverty indubitably have it even harder; their pain makes me sick, especially when so much of it is caused by the U.S.’ imperialist agenda. There are few people in my social media newsfeed and in my day-to-day life who haven’t experienced some form of abuse, exploitation, or assault, and it’s a damn tragedy.

In this current universe, I am still that little girl who has to protect herself. Who has thick skin by now, but has to ward off sexist and racist microaggressions, comments, threats, and systemic violence on a regular basis. Most non-white, non-cis men do. We’re experiencing violence all the time, in forms subtle and overt. When I was five or six, all I could do was run. The older I get, the more I’ve decided: I’m going to fight.

With this new Trump administration, here we are again, back in 2016 but with the dangerous Project 2025 looming over us. We can’t trust either party, both of which are controlled by lobbyists, super PACs, billionaire donors, and greedy Silicon Valley tech backers. Our voting system desperately needs reform to reach anything near true democracy. All we can do is band together.

Change is made from the bottom up, through collective action, starting at the local level. We must organize, unionize, protest, provide mutual aid, boycott, donate, sign effective petitions, and educate our friends and family. We must find community. I’d never felt so alive and empowered as during the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests, surrounded by likeminded people in unwavering solidarity. There is power in the people. There always will be. We must fight.

Cincinnati radicalized me. In old alleyways between historic homes — some picturesque and others ramshackle — dressed in wannabe punk revival meets ’90s chokers and black denim, I discovered a foundation for inner peace. The Comet, our “home bar,” was my safe space, perfectly liminal with its ambient pink neon lights and checkerboard floor. I’d chainsmoke Camel Silvers and sip on a Hudepohl or PBR at the beginning of each week on the back patio for “Monday Night at the Comet,” a recurring event, live music buzzing in the background.

Sometimes it was Flesh Mother performing inside, John bellowing atop a table — a more modern Melvins meets Sepultura — with a worshiping mosh pit beneath him. To avoid getting trampled in the small confines of The Comet, I too would stand on a table and observe the chaos surrounding me, stray beer cans chucked in the air, sometimes grazing me or splashing me with foamy backwash. Every time there was a DIY show at a dive bar or in an abandoned church, basement, backyard, living room, warehouse, or even barn (because, Ohio), I was there for it.

I was 25 and still young enough to be able to throw back well drinks and cheap beer three or four nights a week while at shows or readings or protests. I needed to get out. Growing up in the suburbs, a half hour away from the city-center, as a first generation American born to immigrant parents, I was tortured behind a desk in my room during my pre-teen and teen years. I was sheltered, repressed, and miserable. The rambunctious child in me, who always had scraped up knees and the biggest grin, was beginning to fade. Feeling inadequate at all times, I wanted to please my parents and be their golden child. This continued in iterations of: depressed undergrad, depressed yuppie-in-the-making, depressed grad student.

When I managed to escape all of that, I was fully onboard for those late nights in Northside, Cincinnati, that ran on “punk time,” dubbed so unironically. Events never started before 10 p.m. The point was to drink late into the evening, despite the presence of many straight edge kids. Cincinnati is a place where you drink because you are in a red state surrounded by some of the worst people and ideologies this country has to offer. When you are battling against so much oppression in your tight-knit progressive enclave, you fight back hard. Plus, sometimes, there’s just not much else going on.

Between drinks, I encountered people I have yet to meet anywhere else, including Los Angeles, my current home. It was a time warp. There were Cinci punks with true-to-form ’70s colorful mohawks contrasted against all-black leather, studs, pins, and piercings, more extreme versions of Darby Crash or Sid Vicious. There were others who thrifted, painted, patchworked, sewed, and DIY’d everything on their bodies. There were the neo-Riot Grrrls. You could tell apart the ‘trust punks’ from the less privileged non-trust fund kids. Were the rich ones in their immaculate outfits cosplaying? Weren’t we all? I didn’t care. I wanted to tear off my skin — mark it up and stick ’n’ poke it to fill in the blank canvas of a previously unlived life.

We hung out at freespaces and dives, often discussing how fucked up Ohio politics were. We protested the killing of Sam DuBose, an unarmed Black man, by the police; marched for women’s safety when rapists in the community surfaced; did workshops on how to protect the trans community; provided free resources and safety tips to sex workers; and offered mutual aid. The people in my newfound community were anarcho-communists, anarchists, and democratic socialists. When I was first introduced to the philosophy of ACAB, for example, I was just green enough to question how the police could possibly all be bad. It took some explaining from fellow activists for me to grasp the full scope of oppressive police tactics used to maintain class structure, and to fuel the prison-industrial complex. This anti-capitalist knowledge made the world, in all of its horror and beauty, suddenly make more sense.

After completing undergrad, working some office jobs, unwittingly becoming a rising yuppie, and then attending grad school in L.A. — where I’d ultimately end up — I first returned to Cincinnati. I was planning to move to the East Coast, but landed a job at the local NPR-station as an assistant producer for a daily news program. That’s when I moved to Northside, my beloved historic neighborhood filled with some of the best food and cafes, a renowned record store, and as many drug houses as there were dive bars. It was a grungy, sometimes hopeless feeling place, at least back in 2015. Not everyone was perfect. Like anywhere else, there were problematic people and the insular nature of it all eventually became suffocating. But when it was good, it was good. I’d met some of the most progressive people I know, up to this day.

The personal is political. Our sociopolitical views aren’t just private, compartmentalized bits of us; they inform who we are as people. As a leftist, Marxist, and democratic socialist, I finally feel in touch with myself and my values. Politics can be a litmus test for connecting with others too. While I wouldn’t rule out befriending those whose worldviews differ from mine, I find I am instantly attracted to those who share my beliefs. In broad strokes, these are deeply empathetic and kind people who understand systemic injustices, and how we all experience it. We see the power in collective action for all marginalized communities, and band together.

We heal together. Where there’s music, alt lit, visual art, performance art, cinema, or anything like it, there’s community. I have personally found overlap in artists and leftism anywhere I go, as was my experience in Cincinnati for the years I lived there, during which I learned to shed my neoliberalism. However, in Cinci, I was a token Asian. I both hated and loved it. I felt othered and I felt special. I’m no longer a token Asian in L.A. There are almost always BIPOC around me, and I’ve found community beyond just white punks (and feel even more special and cherished).

Now, in my 30s, I can’t imagine living anywhere other than L.A., a diverse megalopolis enveloped by nature. We’ve got mountains, beaches, bluffs, canyons, forests, deserts, lakes, caves, and coves. With no hint of irony, I see nature as my cathedral. I no longer need to drink or chainsmoke to get by — though I am Cali Sober, also unironically. The proximity to national parks is something I wouldn’t trade for anything, and a luxury we didn’t have in the midwest. I adore how the rugged deserts of the Southwest meet the lush forests of the Pacific Northwest, blossoming out in a lovely obtuse angle from L.A. on the map. I guess I needed to get out even farther than I thought.

Sometimes I can’t believe my life is my life. I feel an overwhelming sense of freedom; as much as one can in the confines of this cisheteronormative, white supremacist patriarchy we call the U.S. I work hard but I have had help with my transition from freelance writer to social justice communications professional, while establishing a new home in L.A. I recognize that privilege. I am grateful and acknowledge it every day. I’m also grateful I now have the ability to travel abroad: to Europe and South America, most recently, and to wherever I’d like to go. Even though I love kids, being childfree helps, and that’s a whole other topic I will delve into in the future. I had been on the fence for so long, brainwashed by a pronatalist agenda to reproduce, but think I know my answer now.

Mostly, I feel free in my mind because I finally have an idea of who I am. And who I am not. I know what I stand for, and what I will never tolerate. This gives me purpose and a sense of control. I owe so much of that to Cincinnati — to the crust punks and activists and art kids who helped educate me, radicalize me. I don’t take them for granted and I look forward to visiting Cinci every holiday season, always noticing new and compelling developments. The spiral of time that is non-linear and happening all at once, showed me that one day, I’d get to where I am. That kid, tortured behind a desk, always had a glimmer of hope. I remember that. I remember her. She’s still existing in between, but she’s radicalized in all of the ways that have made her softer and more whole.

poetry on the complex relationship between a daughter and her immigrant mother, and on the concept of motherhood

to my mom and anyone who has mommy issues

mary janes
slip the short bouffant dress
over her pigtailed head
her big, dark eyes stare
no different than a doll’s
mommy’s little asphyxiated princess
pretty and deranged in pink
if you peel away the porcelain,
there’s a sucrose-fueled gooey core
with a tree-climbing pair of
scraped up knees stretching down to
glossy mary janes you call píxié’s
delicate and feminine bound feet
bound like great grandma’s
torturous and slick so she can’t make it
above the first branch
and she wants nothing more
than to rip off the rosy tulle
buff the shine out of her shoes
move up and up and up
and up and up (and away)
into the trees
where they meet the clouds
her head always in the clouds

ocean circling back
you don’t hear me
and I don’t get you
our minds
across the ocean from each other
but sometimes, in hushed tones
we speak a language
only we understand
words crafted by misguided dogmatism,
passion, agony and fever dreams
face-melting highs and kill-me lows
that we don’t actually understand at all
the source of life but death by dehydration
we are a living antinomy
one and opposites

when there was a god
you taught me to pray
forgive me father
everything was easier then
for my sins
when I lived inside
in jesus’ name
your bubble of warmth
I pray
soft blankets covering my eyes
amen
in the lord’s kingdom
see you in heaven
away from the demons
that tear off my skin after dark
I didn’t know much or maybe even anything
anything at all
except that the god you taught me about
looked like you
and, rightfully so,
death never scared me then

only you
can utter words
like tiny spears
that carve slices on my tender skin
etching something I don’t recognize
leaving me delirious
with fury and pain
without even trying
I want to scream
and then
when the scar tissue forms
I wonder how many times
you have confused me
for yourself

lake of gold
bunny tails encircling our pond
so soft, I caress them with my inexperienced fingers
we scour the lake for speckled eggs
drop them into a basket
mentally prepare our special feast
we are hungry
but won’t leave before basking our souls
in the water, lake of gold
glistening ripples that don’t stop
dance with the wind, whoosh
you were everything to me then
as I was to you
sometimes I yearn for the simplicity
of finding duck eggs with you
in this world in another lifetime
the bunny tails swaying around me
as I was fully present in your love
safe and protected from it all

baby
we once spoke the same language
I was 宝宝
you understood me
I understood you
as my Zhōngwén slipped
so did we
no longer tethered together
by words and culture and necessity
sometimes I didn’t want you to be my
Mǔqīn
your words became foreign over time
not because I didn’t understand
but because they cut me
and mine cut you too
I’m sorry
I wish we spoke the same language again
one of tenderness and holding each other
through the night

calling for you
in the hood, our hood
seesaws and chipped plastic slides
my manic legs raced
or kicked the air
as I hung with my arms pulled tight
and said 妈妈 // Māmā
妈妈 // Māmā
妈妈 // Māmā
my tongue, one of
the daughter of foreigners
broken sounds, staccato shrieks
mandarin a mile a minute
a beautiful Black girl
said, momma, yeah, that’s your momma
and that was the first time
I felt understood
outside of you

jiù jiù wǒ
you saw me cry
and tried your best to tend to my hurt
by then, I knew a kiss
couldn’t heal my wounds
or my disturbed mind
Māmā jiù jiù wǒ
but I trusted
you knew better
because while I haven’t seen it
you told me about all of the times you cried too

other lives
brushstrokes sublime
garden full of green and the color of all flowers
moving to the rhythm, bringing you back to your roots
you are and were so much
one
two
three
and then
minus one
who died on purpose
did we ruin what you wished for yourself
I wash off my guilt at night
thinking about the other lives
you were meant to live
or at least could have lived
but you chose this one

back in time
I already know
I’m going to miss you when you’re gone
I’ve saved so many tears for you
but I’m afraid to connect with you now
because what if I fumble
or you shoot me to death again
pow pow
I just started living
my demons are tired
it feels comfortable, peaceful
to just hold on to those
Halcyon Moments
shiny distant memories

lotus soup
rising from mud,
pure, delicate, sacred
lotus flowers float with grace
and beauty
you always ask me if I want
lotus soup, my favorite
the dish of your hometown
in Asian culture, lotuses represent
rebirth and resilience
they thrive in onerous conditions
few make it to the surface
as I drink the broth flavored by the root
rich and savory
I am reminded of your strength
and your elegance as you dance
like lotus flowers blowing in the wind
the way you did when you were young

baby part 2
when I took the poison root
and the concrete beneath me became lava
it twisted my guts
as I tried to painfully piss
whispered to me whispered to me
that perhaps a 宝宝
is not what I want in this one short life
and would split my fragile body in two
you wailed by her grave and said
孙子, you were ready for them
maybe a new 宝宝 could replace
the unrelenting pain of losing your 宝宝
and the other ones too, how many
hospital bloodbaths like fountains
I imagine the tenderness you
had for each 宝宝 and how
no one taught you how to be a 母亲
in an alien world, but you found a way
like you always do
I may not be able to give you
what you want
our wants don’t usually align
but I hope I’m still enough
and I’m still your 宝宝 too

mèimei
she was your other half
if other halves existed
daughter, bǎobǎo, confidante
when she died
ensuring her own last breath stopped
dying on purpose
it killed something inside you too
inside all of us
but it gutted you empty
I journaled every day for a year
that first year
whispering to her across dimensions
streaked mascara
puppy dog whimpers
I promised her I’d try for her
you and I are opposites but so similar
I whispered if our timelines were different
maybe she and I could’ve been
best friends too
Jiějiě // Mèimei //
Zuì hǎo de péngyǒu

wechat secrets
everything is fine
her job is going well
she’s a happy girl
(she died from suicide)
last part unspoken
ma I love and miss you
your granddaughter is just fine
she’s thinking about you
don’t you worry
her job is going well
she’s a happy girl
(she died from suicide)
last part unspoken

expectations
I’m lucky
to have been so desperately
loved and adored
as a concept
your hopes and yearning
something akin to your own rebirth
contained in my budding cells
an idea to top all ideas
the antithesis of a mistake
I’m lucky
to have been held inside you
so tenderly
despite kicking hard, always
before I came headfirst
no medicine to soothe
your bleeding gashes
did I materialized into
someone
a living, breathing person
you love as much?

candy
small and circular,
adult smarties
sliced down the middle
mostly yellow, a few orange
a color blind test in the tube
what if I chewed them all up and melted into this mattress
melted
melted
melted straight into heaven
they don’t leave a lump in the throat
they go down smooth
you took them first
because you went to the hospital
a few times
dad talked about how the peanut
sweets were your favorite
and he’d buy them for you on dates
I don’t know when I’ll stop eating candy
I loved it as a child
was addicted to the taste
and I love it now
*published by Dream Boy Book Club (August 2023)

old things and places
wrigley’s double mint
juicy juice
robitussen I would gag on
something chinese, herbal and bitter
a toy dinosaur
my innocent hands concealed
you ran back in to return it
value city, kmart
toys-r-us on a lucky day
remember when you took me
there when I cried all afternoon
because of a bitch ass bully
aldi’s and big lots
you called it big-a-lau-se
sheepy, the very best companion
the little books I would create
with my imagination alone
blockbuster or hollywood pictures?
twin dragon
house of sun
next to the smutty sex store
with thonged mannequins
in the windows
and the wizard plumbing van
in the lot
no Chinese restaurant could beat it
that first house in the cul-de-sac
after leaving the apartment I was
almost kidnapped from

foreign woman
the American Ladies
acted like the Little Girl
knew more than the Foreign Woman
rolled their eyes in plain sight
scoffed, chuckled,
shooting the Little Girl
knowing glances,
initiation into a club she didn’t want to be in
when the Foreign Woman made her mad
the Little Girl learned to weaponize
this against the Foreign Woman
how many times did the Little Girl
make the Foreign Woman
wish she never got on that train
in Hubei to go to the airport
the Little Girl
now an American Lady
thinks of the Foreign Woman
buying colorful fish for her aquarium
& seeds for her garden
& brushes for her paintings
& self-care items to treat her aches
seethes at the idea
of any American Lady
making the Foreign Woman
feel like anything less
than an Accomplished, Worthy Human
she loves

mommy undearest
he said stop it, stop it
you’re like a fucking mom
one he disdained with all his heart
she gave away her entire being
cut open her skin, spilled the blood
drip drip drip
into his veins
PLEASE LOVE ME
turns out they weren’t the
same blood type
held his hand as his fingers turned blue
wiped his drool as he convulsed
eyes rolled into the back of his skull
called, waited, prayed for the antidote
did things she swore she’d never do
she would do anything for him
literally anything
she would die for him
he said it meant nothing
because he would die too
for anyone
why didn’t she just let him die?
she wanted to save him
because she didn’t know
how to save herself

ahhhhhhh
what would she have thought
if she could think
coming into this world
red faced, shrieking
screaming hard with
a fresh set of strong tiny lungs
ahhhhhhhh
what would she have said
other than thank you
thank you Māmā
for the Ultimate Sacrifice
I guess
everything is disorienting, fuck
I’m not sure what’s going on
someone make it make sense
ahhhhhhhh
I’m glad you survived the carnage
you’re a warrior but I am not
I am afraid, afraid in my soul already
for so many reasons
the suffering ends with me

take care
you lied to me
she howled, on your grave
you said you’d take care of me
when I’m old
YOU PROMISED ME
you lied
HOW COULD YOU
it’s not really about that
she just wanted to ensure you’d still be around
and be able to live past 23
she was worried you may not
with your thoughts of walking into headlights
and wishing to be murdered
when mom got her hysterectomy
you took care of her
those selfies from when she was pale-faced
and you were smiling big, holding her
will always be there
just like you will be for mom
when she is old, like you promised
from wherever you are now

Fang Fang
it draws blood
the way a fang is supposed to
I shriek STOPITSTOPIT
ITFUCKINGHURTS
the kids spit in my face
I bite you
it makes wiping the spit off easier
xenia ling
is easier to swallow than zhenling
fang fang (fong fong)
the kids go for the jugular
the blood drips like a hot syrup
Māmā jiù jiù wǒ
Zhenling
you rescue me
I don’t cry like I used to
I sharpen my fangs
Fang Fang, call me by my name
my mother’s daughter
always and forever

mommy issues
I have them
and I have issues
with the idea of
being a mommy
one can be a mommy and many things
undoubtedly
but I just want to be
Me
there’s only one of me
and she comes first
finally

Will You Be A Thread
In the fabric of my being
are millions of cross-stitches
the long ones
painstakingly crafted by those
who are now living ghosts
who shape me
shape you
It’s funny
the people we leave behind
past and future memories
stain our clothes
prick our hands

Get Better Soon
It’s almost like one day
you wake up
and the knot in your stomach
that once made you gasp for air
caused your insides to bleed
has untangled itself
and you don’t realize it at first
and by the time you do
you’ve almost forgotten
what it felt like
to writhe in pain

Displaced Feelings
At the intersection
of having healed
and hurting broadly
is an empty space
that should be a lone thing
or person
but they’re gone
Who will I mourn for?
but myself

Accepting Reality
The person I thought you were
or rather so desperately wished
you to be
didn’t exist
it was an idealized fantasy
version of you
I had made up
out of thin air
When this
and this
and this
improve, I decided
we will be happy
but that’s not you
it never will be
and we would have never been happy
I wish recovery were a straight line

Edges Smoothing Out
I used to get high
off the Thrill of the Chase
now that intoxication
is replaced
with a shrug
a numbness
novocaine
dripping off a name
on looseleaf paper
If you don’t want me
I don’t want you
One minute I’m in love
and the next
you were never here

Strangers
I don’t even know you
he said
as he took off his clothes
and then mine
he smirked and said
It’s better that way, isn’t it?

Monogamy
I used to think
I wanted to be loved
by everyone
But it’s mostly You
I long for
Why, why
don’t I know you yet

Madonna
I am a helpless slut
and a hopeless romantic

Decluttering
What if
you could see the expiration date
on each person you meet
who means something to you
one week or year
or decade
and then
you have spoiled milk
What if
you dehydrate me into powder
so I have a longer shelf life
and I’ll do the same to you
because this mountain of cartons
is cluttering up my house

Mosh for Jesus
Who decided god was a He
god would be a lot more punk
if they were a qwoc

I Never Sleep
What do you do
when your refuge
turns on you
you don’t dream
you sweat out nightmares
trauma from pre-k to today
insecurities
warped into sick art films
with half cogent storylines
a criterion collection of
everything that’s
ever haunted you

Out Of Hiding
My many selves
have lived in different homes
They used to peek through their blinds
come out
only when it felt safe
They had never met
But I want to be dangerous
take to the streets
the many me’s
in one place
vulnerable and naked
a gang of Me

Just Enough
I am done appeasing people
I am not too much
or too little
both of which
are symptoms
of the same disorder
forced down the throats
of innocent women everywhere
like geese whose livers
Become foie gras
for the privileged to consume

Hurts So Good
Let the masochism engulf you
your muscles rip open
your eyes swell shut from tears
your frame shrinks from hunger
your skin pales from substances
your organs cry from neglect
let it out
let it out
let it destroy you
Rip off your skin
so you have something
to rebuild on your bones
a fresh canvas
after the carnage

I Believe It’s Called An Addiction
I choose when to shut off my brain
inhale, swallow
inhale, swallow
until everything is softer
with a warm, glowing filter
inhale
I want to be held, desired
swallow
I am back in the womb
inhale
can I block out the world?
swallow
It’s just this very moment
and nothing else
no past no future
just now
and you
And I am wanted
until the fog fades
and I leave the warmth
step out into the harsh light
of day
the harsh light of reality
where I don’t want anything

Aries Forever
I’m not sure I believe in astrology
but I do know, just know
I am an Aries
full of fire and passion
and
the blood of my enemies
:~)
I’m impulsive and flawed
Intense and open
No secrets, ever, but
something unknown
burning within me
even when I’m
cold and dark and sad
a spark
however small
keeps me alive
creeps its way through my veins
a brand new mania

Infinite Sadness
Depression’s an odd thing
I go from feeling sad about my life
to sad about all of the sadness
in this world
infinite sadness
that makes mine pale in comparison
And maybe it’s not depression
but a breakthrough of empathy
and for these moments
I feel like I am not in a bubble
What, what can we do
when we can feel the pain of
millions of souls around the world
but do little more than lie in bed
and try not to cry

Live Slow
Aging is painful
mentally and physically
It’s like your bodily functions turn on you
your skin sags
you get cellulite
you throw your back out from moving
you think you’re having a heart attack
but it’s just heartburn
like every other night
and in the end, your body betrays you
The Ultimate Betrayal

But in the meantime
aging is a so-called ‘gift’ not everyone is blessed with
I’ve already had the chance to outlive
James Dean
Selena
John Keats
Buddy Holly
Tupac (though this is up for debate)
and the millions of youth who die
from starvation and disease
Have you?

Sometimes I wonder though
Is it better to live fast and die young
like in that MGMT song
I only have a few months left to be in the 27 Club
But that’s bullshit
I haven’t accomplished anything
Can I get famous in four months?
The answer is
no

Also the idealization of martyrdom
Is Troubling At Best
I guess I’ll live slow and die old

Distractions
You’ve heard of stress eating
It’s
A tear
An ice cream pint
Feelings of hopelessness
A bag of Cheetos
Utter failure
An extra sloppy Sloppy Joe
Dysphoria
Eating Arby’s alone in your car
in the parking lot

I just bought a hamster
I think I’m sad but I can’t tell
But what if
Disappointment
A hamster
A broken relationship
Dutch bunnies
Self-loathing
A Chow Chow
Long-term depression
A Siberian Forest Cat
Not wanting to wake up
A Pot Bellied Pig
The seemingly muted malaise of life
Children

DNA
Sometimes I think trauma
is passed down in your DNA
My grandfather was humiliated
persecuted
locked away in a labor camp
under a totalitarian regime
in 60s Mainland China
He suffered, deeply
and so did my dad
who was ashamed

I have nightmares
where I’m trapped
and can’t escape
the darkest recesses of history
I’ve never even experienced
In my cushy, Midwestern life
I’ll wake up crying
to make up for the tears
my Father could never shed

Not Caring
Not caring means

being vulnerable
and unabashed

being human with all of its fallacies
and not being ashamed

taking up space
being “too loud” and “too much”

being
annoying
dramatic
extra
sensitive
blunt
selfish
intense
emotional
needy
demanding
passionate
emotive
but not Crazy like you’d like me to believe

doing what you want
when you want

saying what you want
not policing your voice

not giving a shit about societal expectations
or so-called milestones in life

discovering who you really are
including what’s bad and painful
being okay with alienating some people
and making enemies
realizing you can’t please everyone
but you can be enough for yourself

The books didn’t come in time for her, but they came in time for me. They arrived in the mail after she was already gone, now ending up in my hands instead. I opened up the package to discover “A Tale for the Time Being” by Ruth Ozeki and American University Studies’ “East Asian Philosophy” by John E. Ho. Through my burning tears of pain at having so recently lost my dear sister, I felt a moment of connection with her — an opening of a portal towards a deeper kind of understanding.

“A Tale for the Time Being” is a magical realism novel that explores the narratives and timelines of two women: Ruth, a Canadian author, and Nao, a sixteen-year-old Japanese girl who battles the many challenges of adolescence. Nao struggles, like my sister did, with severe depression and suicidal ideation. She decides, however, to stay alive long enough to document the story of her great-grandmother — an anarcha-feminist Buddhist nun she admires — who’s lived for over a century. Through her great-grandmother, Nao learns about family secrets and intergenerational trauma and wisdom.

The book is all about timing and how in the metaphysical realm, through dreamlike states, you can hop between timelines and influence people from across the world, in different periods of time, some of whom you may have never even met. The more I glanced at the gifts from my sister, the more I’m convinced these books were meant for me, drawing transcendent parallels. I received the books in the mail from my sister in another realm like Ruth unexpectedly received Nao’s diary, washed ashore. My sister and I are Ruth and Nao, whispering secrets to each other across dimensions, my sister now possessing intergenerational insight to guide me.

An unanticipated perfect companion, the East Asian philosophy book, seemed more than coincidence as part of the package. My sister wanted to shed her ego and understood, to some extent, that “the self” is an illusion. According to the National Library of Medicine, “East Asian people believe that through family names and rituals they are able to keep their spirits alive symbolically. Therefore, a person is never forgotten nor dies.” In this sense, my sister and I are also Nao and her great-grandmother; I now have a responsibility to tell Kelly’s story.

Kelly didn’t use social media much, being especially private with sparse publishing habits. She did have an Instagram account, though with only a few posts. However, found within her bio section is a link to a video with looping scenes from Satoshi Kon’s “Millennium Actress.” In the film, protagonist Chiyoko is searching for an important man she never finds. She says, in the end, that the search was what she loved most. Like Chiyoko, I am searching for my sister.

Day to day, I go through life piecing together the indecipherable, desperately looking for answers I’ll never find.

Kelly died by suicide the first year of the pandemic on August 23, 2020. She was 23 years old. What was her reason for ending her life, and at such a young age? Why did this senseless and agonizing loss occur? What could we — her family and friends — have done to prevent this horrendous tragedy? This is the unsolvable puzzle, and maybe I do enjoy the search. Maybe it gives me purpose; a way to derive meaning where there may or may not be any. Maybe it comforts me.

This is the unsolvable puzzle, and maybe I do enjoy the search. Maybe it gives me purpose; a way to derive meaning…

My sister feels alive as I connect the dots. It’s clear Kelly loved art and found solace in so much of it. This includes books, first and foremost, movies, TV shows, music, online videos, illustrations, and memes. She saw both herself and the person she wanted to be in the characters she adored, learning about both the unspeakable horrors of this world and the possibility of a better one through others’ stories.

Like Joan Didion in her nonfiction novel, “The Year of Magical Thinking,” in which she can’t get rid of her deceased husband’s possessions in case he somehow comes back, I want to believe my sister is still here. This search is like art itself; you glean what you can and want from it. No two people will view the same painting or read the same book and come to the exact same conclusion. There is beauty and magic in the abstract and unknown.

I was in Los Angeles when I received the phone call. It was 7 a.m. and I glimpsed an incoming call from my dad in Ohio, immediately wondering if everything was alright. As I answered, my father’s tone was solemn: Belinda… Kelly committed suicide, followed by his and my mother’s uncontrollable, choking sobs. The sentence rang in my ears until they burned, reverberating in my head until time slowed down. Everything froze. This couldn’t be happening. I screamed and screamed, and cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“NOOOOO! NOOOOO! NOOOOOOO!” I bawled, as the neighbors knocked on my door. I was inconsolable.

“My sister killed herself!” the words seeming surreal and strange as they left my mouth. The neighbors’ expressions of concern became muted gurgles as I entered a deep state of despair that felt both untethered yet visceral, like I was being gutted. I faded away into an unfamiliar place.

It’s my worst memory, and one that will forever haunt me. It will always walk alongside me and maybe, one day, it will sit still with me. But then it will inevitably get back up when I do. No matter where I am in time, it feels like that moment is eternal.

My sister didn’t leave a note.

My family looked through her computer, phone, notebooks, and all around the house. In her search histories, we found questions like “Why is the world so cruel?” and various instructions on suicide methods. It was harrowing. I didn’t want to keep looking. Any clues discovered at the time made me feel panicked and sick. However, our other sister, Lisa, pointed out something that didn’t sting quite as much. On Kelly’s phone, as a final screenshot, was an image from Kate Bush’s music video for “Cloudbusting,” displaying an almost calming passage:

But every time it rains
You’re here in my head
Like the sun coming out
Ooh, I just know that something good is gonna happen

M y dad claims to never cry. After he had a heart attack and, more recently, cancer, I told him to read “The Body Keeps the Score” by Bessel van der Kolk, to help him understand the mind-body connection for health reasons. I sent him article after article about the benefits of crying, something I strongly advocate, and how it prevents heart disease. I wanted him to shed much-needed tears and, above all else, for him to be okay.

My father’s father was persecuted during the Cultural Revolution in 1960s Mainland China. My dad was only 13-years-old when he watched my Grandpa — who had been sent to a labor camp for once having been a part of the Kuomintang Army, despite being a reformed communist — die in front of him. Instead of crying, he felt deep shame and hopelessness.

At his father’s funeral, my dad squeezed a twig until his hand bled, spouting something like red tears for the Red State. I created a radio documentary in graduate school about my dad’s story of surviving the Cultural Revolution. I believe Kelly listened and understood. Maybe, in whatever realm she is in, she has met Grandpa.

In her “Cloudbusting” music video, Kate Bush is dressed up as a young boy, accompanying her father, who is working on a contraption that literally busts clouds to create rain. Outraged at the inventor’s gall and him designing something potentially illegal, a group of men in suits arrive to take the boy’s father away. Kate watches helplessly as the father glances back from the very vehicle that will forever separate them. Resolutely, the boy then goes back to the contraption and successfully makes it rain, forming tears from the sky, as his departing father smiles.

Both the song and video are based on Peter Reich’s “A Book of Dreams,” a tribute to Peter’s well-known father Wilhem Reich, a persecuted psychoanalyst who attempted to idyllically meld the world of dreams and reality. I’d like to believe my sister saved the “Cloudbusting” screenshot for our dad, whom she similarly admired and also as someone whose life draws parallels to Peter’s.

When my sister died, my dad did cry. He still cries about it sometimes. He is also now reading “The Body Keeps the Score” aloud to her each night.

M y mother, on the other hand, has not stopped crying since the day my sister left us. Of all of the people in Kelly’s life, mom had the closest bond with her. They were nearly inseparable and this loss has irreparably shattered my mom’s world.

To ease the pain, my mom keeps busy as best as she can. She enjoys working in her garden, planting everything from tomatoes to zucchini to bittermelon, the last of which was the affectionate namesake she and dad gave Kelly. It’s been raining a lot in Ohio, where they live and where I’m from. Where my sister is buried. Where my mom’s crops are large, healthy and nourishing. When she was alive, my mom always made sure my depressed sister ate, and now my sister is ensuring that my mom eats, even through her infinite sorrow.

I have a framed painting of my mother’s in my apartment: a little boy flying a blue kite in a village. Painting is another hobby through which my mother finds comfort. I was, in a subconscious way, immediately drawn to the village scenery, until I eventually realized it’s because Khaled Hosseini’s “The Kite Runner” is one of my favorite books. My mother painted a child uncannily similar to several characters depicted in the book. “The Kite Runner” was also one of Kelly’s favorites.

When I pulled the same novel out from my bookshelf one day, thinking about Kelly, my heart skipped a beat. On the cover of the version I have is a small blue kite, just like the one in my mom’s painting. It’s almost as if across dimensions, my mother painted something for my sister while mourning her. Or maybe, in some sense of channeling that grief, my sister inspired her to paint it.

With any suicide, those closest to the person who dies feel inexplicable regret and self-blame. My mom blames herself the most. She blames herself relentlessly. The “Kite Runner” tells a tale of family, love, loss, guilt, shame, grief but, ultimately, redemption. Intergenerational redemption. While my mom is Christian and yearns for an afterlife with my sister, I’d like to think there is a kind of redemptive closure for us in this lifetime.

When I visit Kelly’s Goodreads account, it says that she’s 25 years old (26 as of April 1st), not 23 frozen in time. It’s like she’s alive and active on the site. Her profile photo is the character Lapis Lazuli from the show “Steven Universe,” an animated series both she and our sister Lisa loved. (The two of them shared a special fondness for animated shows, manga and horror films.) Lapis has a disdain for existing on her ‘miserable’ planet, but eventually, through much character development, finds happiness. I often wonder if Kelly has found her happiness.

Kelly has several favorite quotes on her Goodreads profile, including one from “Cloud Atlas” that reads, “All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so. Moments like this, I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own, and I know that separation is an illusion. My life extends far beyond the limitations of me.”

My sister sometimes claimed her mind was a prison. Her mental illnesses, ranging from the more detectable depression to the more internal OCD and social anxiety, prevented her from acquiring what she most desired: friendship, self-acceptance, and self-love. She was painfully aware of her perceived shortcomings and limitations. But her YouTube channel, which includes three short videos she created, holds a special power.

The first video, something she made during a summer internship for her computer science program, is titled “Pulse.” In it is a beating red dot, a pulse, that moves from left to right, with small trackers. When I saw this for the first time, maybe a year after the suicide, I bawled, realizing it was her beating heart on display. Separation really did feel like an illusion in that stirring moment.

Another video, “N E V E R L E T M E G O,” conveys her message in the title. The video features characters from the show “Neon Genesis Evangelion.” There are smiling, applauding faces and the protagonist Shinji, a young boy who has to make sacrifices for the greater good of humanity and eventually grapples with his own reason for existence. The song Kelly samples in the video is a slowed-down version of “Satellite” by Fantaholic.

“Still a romance / life and afterlife / a secret double life.”

I often wonder how closely Kelly identified with Shinji and the lyrics in that song.

The title of that video also shares a name with one of Kelly’s favorite novels, by author Kazuo Ishiguro, which is — according to Goodreads — “a scathing critique of human arrogance and a moral examination of how we treat the vulnerable and different in our society.” A lot of the literature towards which Kelly gravitated explored concepts like the detriments of conformity and outmoded social constructs leading to dystopia.

This segues into her last video, a floating bag in the wind very similar to the one from the movie “American Beauty.” That film is all about the ennui and quiet anguish of suburbia: the repression, imprisonment, performance, unfulfillment, and utter loss of self. This is also something I believe Kelly experienced, growing up with my traditional parents in suburbia and living there in her final days during lockdown. But within the infamous scene, Ricky, showing Jane a plastic bag he filmed blowing in the wind, explains why it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever recorded.

The bag takes on many forms while it’s freely blowing around, almost playfully, whimsically. When we see the bag again at the end, protagonist Lester describes the most profound aspects of his ostensibly miserable life replaying before his blank eyes. It’s the freedom, authenticity, and simplicity that bring him the most joy. I contemplate what Kelly saw in those final moments as she lay in a coma in the hospital ICU, her brain waves coming to an eventual halt, as we collectively sobbed and kissed her goodbye.

I ’m still piecing it all together. The groundwork has been laid out and I’ve only just begun my investigation, but what does it all mean? Again, I may never know, or I may only ever think I know. But one thing’s for sure: I’ll have years, if not a lifetime, of art to consume in an attempt to better understand my sister. Death ends a life but not a relationship, and art is eternal. On Kelly’s Goodreads alone are hundreds of books she’s read or wanted to read.

I’ll have years, if not a lifetime, of art to consume in an attempt to better understand my sister. Death ends a life but not a relationship, and art is eternal.

Some of her favorites include David Foster Wallace’s “This Is Water: Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life,” Jeanette Winterson’s “Written on the Body,” Diana Wynne Jones’s “Howl’s Moving Castle,” Yukio Mishima’s “Confessions of a Mask,” Osamu Dazai’s “No Longer Human,”

Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart,” Ryū Murakami’s “In the Miso Soup,” Toni Morrison’s “The Bluest Eye,” Yann Martel’s “The Life of Pi,” F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby,” Koushun Takami’s “Battle Royale,” Khaled Hosseini’s “A Thousand Splendid Suns,” Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird,” George Orwell’s “1984.” The list goes on.

I only wish “A Tale for the Time Being,” the book now in my possession, had gotten to her in time. Nao would’ve been ever-relatable to someone like Kelly and, however dark and bleak the themes are, the book remains hopeful. Perhaps my sister has already read it in the other dimension, in which she is at peace. I continue to think, in my way of magical thinking like Didion’s, that Kelly sent me the book from that place to tell me something. To help guide me in breaking generational curses. To remind me that despite life’s challenges, despite how much I miss her and have to live with this very heavy grief — there is hope.

There is art, and so much of it. It is not a suicide note, but a love letter that never ends. It is magic that is real.