"Menial" My nostrils have been ransacked by the pungent smell of nail polish remover since the age of five. My parents and I immigrated to the United States a week following my second birthday. Leaving everything behind, they sought their American Dream and landed on “Angel Nails.” The grand opening of “Angel Nails” marked a new chapter of my childhood. Courtesy of the “employees-only” backroom, I had my family’s version of “bring-your-kid-to-work day” every day. You’d typically find me snoopily roaming between rows of pedicure chairs, chatting up clients, awaiting my mom’s voice to cut my scheming short: “Anson, time to go!” A client would soon likely be startled by an eager second-grader, Power Rangers rolling backpack in-hand, dashing out the door; I’d unintentionally mess up many drying mani-pedis stumbling out of “Angel Nails.” In sixth grade, “menial” was one of our vocab words, “not requiring much skill; lacking prestige.” My classmate, a past visitor of “Angel Nails,” asked, “Aren’t nail techs kinda menial, Anson?” I pieced together a shrug, but as the day went on, the word “menial” continued to echo in my head, reverberating the whispers of humiliation I had previously tried to suppress. This comment had struck a deeper, familiar nerve: on career day, as my friends’ parents presented their lab coats and doctorate-level educations, I questioned if my working-class upbringing was inferior. Hearing my parents’ American Dream described as “menial” solidified a perceived “Devil Nails,” tainted with shame and embarrassment. What I’d failed to grasp was that within those pedicure chairs laid hidden inspiration and passionate hearts— far beyond what met the eye. On either side of me, as I strolled through the halls of “Angel Nails,” were my parents and the rest of our technicians, all first-generation Vietnamese immigrants without college degrees, impassioned with a legacy of perseverance tracing back to post-Vietnam War chain migration, working diligently to perfect their craft. Watching my mom make free mani-pedi house visits for a client undergoing chemotherapy treatments, I realized there was nothing about “Angel Nails” to be ashamed of; my parents and the rest of our technicians were undeniable role models and didn’t need Ph.Ds to show their worth. As I began embracing my upbringing at “Angel Nails,” stories from our “employees-only” backroom enriched my after-school days: each one of our technicians fought for their place — against the odds — overcoming educational, linguistic and cultural isolation, abject poverty, and xenophobic immigration policy. Their stories ignited newfound passion in my mission of social justice; the possibility of alleviating these same barriers for future immigrants inspired me beyond the vague framework of “helping people” I had haphazardly adopted — sparking tangible goals of reform in social mobility, immigration policy, education, and accessibility to fight for. Today, I advocate for change by shining a light on stories formerly written off as “menial.” Whether I’m calming peers down during pregnancy scares or spreading LGBTQ+ allyship praxis to sex educators across the country, I strive to center empathy and open-mindedness as a catalyst for progressive political change. I like to think that through this work, I’m writing the next chapter of Angel Nail’s story. I now know that my nail salon upbringing doesn’t make me “less than,” but rather empowers me with a unique perspective I can lean on as I work to create change. Ironically, I now find comfort in the same smell of nail polish remover that irked me years ago: a sense of familiarity…of home.

“Break My Soul” by Beyoncé As a Queer Vietnamese American immigrant and reproductive justice activist, I consistently find myself the target of hateful rhetoric and discrimination. During the height of COVID, this often took the form of xenophobic comments about my race, and within my right-wing Floridian community, slurs attached to my queerness are just as common. On days when I feel like throwing in the towel, Beyoncé’s “Break My Soul” inspires me to persevere even in the height of this marginalization. As an advocate with Planned Parenthood, I’ve been harassed and looked down upon by protesters, classmates, and even family. As I’ve walked through Planned Parenthood’s doors, through my headphones, Beyoncé’s infectious chorus, repeating the mantra “You won’t break my soul,” has drowned out the screams of protesters, relaying an unrelenting message of optimism and bringing newfound courage. I’m reminded that my goals of advocating for comprehensive sex education and LGBTQ+ allyship remain impactful no matter the naysayers, and the motivation from an artistic icon like Beyoncé never fails to reinvigorate me. Even in the height of reactionary waves against social justice: the overturning of Roe V. Wade, Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay Bill,” I know that through my work, “I'm buildin' my own foundation… and I'm takin' my new salvation,” across my community — laying the groundwork for change, even when it feels like our government is moving backward. Whether I’m calming peers down during pregnancy scares or sharing my story within magazine articles to thousands of youth and sex educators across the country, I strive to center empathy and open-mindedness as a catalyst for progressive political change — never allowing my soul to be broken, and uplifting others’ souls in the process.