“I wish I had done more with my life. I wish I had stayed in school. You’re going to do much greater things than I have and ever will do, Stella.” His words, filled with sorrow and regret, echo off the walls of our dining room. He’s been saying these words to me since I was young, when I still thought he stood 10 feet tall and could do no wrong in this world. But his parents separated when he was young, and his mother whisked him away from Taiwan, everything he had ever known—his school, his friends, his hometown, and his sister—to come to the strange land that was America. At 13, he stocked shelves and lifted heavy boxes at grocery stores, evident by the back pain he carries as a sore reminder of having to grow up too quickly. He didn’t finish high school, but he managed to get his GED. He went to college but couldn’t find it in himself to finish that either. He wishes that he did more with his life, and I know it; if it weren’t for the fact that he told me this every once in a while, I would’ve known anyway. The heavy bags under his eyes, calloused hands, deep sighs, and the even deeper wrinkles on his face tell me more than any words could. My father is not a success story. He’s not some immigrant rags-to-riches tale to pass on to my kids and grandchildren. He’s not a genius or a suave CEO. In a couple of years, when I walk off the stage with my diploma in hand and look into his proud eyes, I know all my hard work will have been worth it. Because I don’t want to live with the heavy burden of regret that he does. I don’t want to carry the weight of wishing I had done more or worked harder. I want to get on the cheapest flights possible and feel the cramp of my legs as I squeeze into a seat too small for me. I want to meet my soulmate in the quiet corner of a bookstore in Venice and my future maid of honor at a night market in Seoul. As I try new foods, I want to feel the uncomfortable twist of my tongue as I speak a language foreign to me. I want to build a life outside America, multiple lives, and leave a piece of me in every corner of the world. It is not only a wish, but a promise. But I know it wouldn’t be possible without the struggles my dad endured. And that’s why I’ll be the somebody he always wishes he was. I’ll do it for the wrinkles in his face, for his chronic back pain, and for his heavy eyebags. As my father worked to build his life in America, he was unknowingly giving me the freedom to choose. All those years ago, my father chose America so I could choose the world.

100 MOST DANGEROUS THINGS ON THE PLANET AND WHAT TO DO IF IT HAPPENS TO YOU! From natural disasters and wild weather, to getting lost in the wild and fighting off dangerous animals, readers learn how to face and survive the world's most dangerous situations. Feeling as if everyone else at the Scholastic Book Fair had vanished into thin air, I read the blurb inscribed on the glossy back cover of the book with morbid curiosity. If the ferocious bear, with its jaws wide open and gleaming teeth the size of my fists, on the front cover wasn’t enough to intrigue me, the promise of being the next Bear Grylls definitely did. Realizing my class was almost ready to head back for recess, I hastily handed over a crumpled ten-dollar bill to the cashier by the booth and joined my classmates in line. As soon as I got home that day, my fingers were flipping through the colorful pages, each one more interesting than the last. On each page was a ‘risk rating,’ a scale of one to five skeletons, five being the most, on how deadly each danger was. I poured over every page of the book, frantically trying to store as much information as I possibly could in my little brain. The book went everywhere with me; school, restaurants, sitting on top of my clothes while I showered, and under my blankets when I was supposed to be sleeping. What if one day, during a volcanic eruption, I get bitten by a snake, and on the way to the hospital, my car slips into quicksand? What will I do then? To me, everything became a five skeleton risk rating. While eventually, the book stopped being by my side physically, it became a part of me, and I found myself constantly bracing myself for the worst scenario possible. As I grew older, it was no longer about wild tigers or earthquakes, but instead, the constant anxiety that anything and everything would go wrong. The shadow of Dread, rearing its ugly head and bearing a sharp-toothed smile, loomed over me wherever I went. Watching my mother pack her bags and her figure, getting smaller and smaller, retreat into the distance away from our little house, only solidified my fears. Told you so, Dread whispered into my ear. But I grew up. And as I started getting taller, even taller than Dread, who once looked down on me, I began to feel its grip on me loosen. Looking back now, all the anxieties and fears I had about the unknown seem so small to what could be. At seventeen, almost nothing in my life is definite nor permanent. There are chances to take and opportunities to be seized that will flicker once, then fizzle away forever. To be able to truly grasp this feeling is what buried Dread into those pages for good. Still, to this day, I’ll come across the book when cleaning my room. As I dust it off and riffle through the now disintegrating pages, looking so different from the colorful and vibrant pictures they once were, I remember the whirlpool of anxiety I let myself get sucked into. But things are different now. I’m no longer the insecure little girl who only found comfort in preparing herself for the worst. I’m someone who can look past any skeleton rating and simply embrace what is to come. In the confines of those pages is an anxiety that once defined me. Sitting on my bookshelf and watching me grow up, that book, untouched for so many years, no longer holds the power that it did. I’m learning how to trust in my future. I’m learning that even the worst-case scenario is not the end of the world. I’m learning hope. All I had to do was close the book.

Stella Chu’s Radically Mystical and Awfully Complicated World The spookily wistful teenager was always deemed ‘mature for her age’ until she realized it was just depression in disguise. LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK—A thick cloud of smoke billowed through the windows of the first floor, engulfing the overly-priced suburban house in a ghastly sight that resembled an amateur bonfire gone horribly wrong. The shrill sirens rang off in the distance, as if judgement day had arrived early. This isn’t a scene from a bad superhero movie or a headline pulled from the local newspaper. It’s a story from Stella Chu’s early childhood, when she decided to play with the stove and almost burn her house to the ground (by accident, of course). A fitting start to what would be a fiery (no pun intended) personality, the story remains a family favorite to pass around the table during the holidays. Chu’s bold and spirited personality has afforded her countless stories that make for easy family inside jokes. Like the time she was attacked by a rabid monkey in the mountains of Taiwan. “It just wouldn’t let go,” she said. “And I thought, man, do I look like its mother or something? The thought really sucked. It hurt more than the claw marks it left in my leg.” But her charisma and unparalleled humor comes at a cost. “I’m mentally ill,” she admitted. “And I’m not afraid to say it. Too often in the Asian American community, mental health is sweeped under the rug and parents refuse to acknowledge the possibility that their perfect child could possibly be mentally ill.” When she first started showing symptoms of depression, anxiety, and O.C.D. in seventh grade, her parents simply dismissed her concerns for a therapist. “I flat out told them, ‘Hey, I need therapy!’, but they couldn’t possibly comprehend how I was depressed with a roof over my head and food to eat. And although eventually they took me, they still don’t understand.” Chu, who grew up bisexual in an emotionally repressed Asian household, says that the lack of understanding on her parents’ part made everything ten times harder. “One thing that helped, though, was writing,” she explains, pulling out years and years worth of ratty journals. “I needed to find an outlet. It just so happened that my pain spilled out in the form of words onto pages.” An aspiring writer, Chu hopes to extend a hand to those who struggle with mental illnesses in the Asian American community as a journalist reporting on mental health issues. Still, despite her struggles with mental health, Stella is as vibrant as ever. Her strong personality and witty commentary still manages to shine through. “As the old saying goes, ‘fortune favours the bold,’ so I try to live every day as if it’s my last.” Before parting, she added one more thing: “My mental illness is an unfortunate part of me that I have to live with. But it does not define me. Only things like almost burning down my house can.”

For much of my youth, I turned to diving between the print lines of my history books. One person bigger than printed ink, however, is Patsy Mink. The first woman of color in Congress, first Asian American woman to run for president and author of the Title IX bill. Patsy Mink went to law school at the University of Chicago, where she became the first Hawaiian woman to earn a JD. When she was refused her right to take the bar exam due to her marriage status, she challenged the court and won. Later, she was elected to Congress, and sought to challenge the sexist statutes that existed in our laws. She authored Title IX, that prohibited discrimination upon sex in any federally-funded programs, like sports in schools. At every step of the way, Mink faced barriers of sexism and racism, yet still persevered. This is what leadership looks like to me. Every day I look in the mirror and see her face, and the path she has paved for me. Without women like Mink, I would not have the privileges I enjoy today. As an aspiring woman in politics, I admire Patsy Mink’s tenacity and resilience that has allowed her legacy to outlive her.

Stella Chu’s Radically Mystical and Awfully Complicated World The spookily wistful teenager was always deemed ‘mature for her age’ until she realized it was just depression in disguise. LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK—A thick cloud of smoke billowed through the windows of the first floor, engulfing the overly-priced suburban house in a ghastly sight that resembled an amateur bonfire gone horribly wrong. The shrill sirens rang off in the distance, as if judgement day had arrived early. This isn’t a scene from a bad superhero movie or a headline pulled from the local newspaper. It’s a story from Stella Chu’s early childhood, when she decided to play with the stove and almost burn her house to the ground (by accident, of course). A fitting start to what would be a fiery (no pun intended) personality, the story remains a family favorite to pass around the table during the holidays. Chu’s bold and spirited personality has afforded her countless stories that make for easy family inside jokes. Like the time she was attacked by a rabid monkey in the mountains of Taiwan. “It just wouldn’t let go,” she said. “And I thought, man, do I look like its mother or something? The thought really sucked. It hurt more than the claw marks it left in my leg.” But her charisma and unparalleled humor comes at a cost. “I’m mentally ill,” she admitted. “And I’m not afraid to say it. Too often in the Asian American community, mental health is sweeped under the rug and parents refuse to acknowledge the possibility that their perfect child could possibly be mentally ill.” When she first started showing symptoms of depression, anxiety, and O.C.D. in seventh grade, her parents simply dismissed her concerns for a therapist. “I flat out told them, ‘Hey, I need therapy!’, but they couldn’t possibly comprehend how I was depressed with a roof over my head and food to eat. And although eventually they took me, they still don’t understand.” Chu, who grew up bisexual in an emotionally repressed Asian household, says that the lack of understanding on her parents’ part made everything ten times harder. “One thing that helped, though, was writing,” she explains, pulling out years and years worth of ratty journals. “I needed to find an outlet. It just so happened that my pain spilled out in the form of words onto pages.” An aspiring writer, Chu hopes to extend a hand to those who struggle with mental illnesses in the Asian American community. Still, despite her struggles with mental health, Stella is as vibrant as ever. Her strong personality and witty commentary still manages to shine through. “As the old saying goes, ‘fortune favours the bold,’ so I try to live every day as if it’s my last.” Before parting, she added one more thing: “My mental illness is an unfortunate part of me that I have to live with. But it does not define me. Only things like almost burning down my house can.”

Every week, six months of junior year, I sat down with several survivors of the Nanking Massacre, where they shared their stories with me. With furrowed eyebrows and clenched teeth, they recalled painful memories of the traumatic six weeks that Japanese soldiers terrorized the people of Nanking. As I listened to their fast-paced Chinese, my mind began to question: how could anyone let something this horrific event happen? How do tragedies like the Nanking Massacre, or the Rwandan Genocide, or the Holocaust, or the Armenian Genocide, and countless more happen? How did the international mechanisms that existed not prevent them from happening? Behind history’s darkest tragedies, there lies a failure in international relations. This realization is what has led me to want to study the field of international relations and politics. International relations, concerned with foreign policy and the relations across nations, has been especially prominent in my coursework. Taking classes like AP World History, AP American History, and AP US Government and Politics has broadened my understanding of the inner workings of our world’s politics and their deep-rooted connections to our everyday lives. While the rigor of these AP courses challenged me to work my hardest, one particular class, my Honors Social Studies Research class, introduced me to citizenship and civic engagement on a global level. In my sophomore year, we connected with SVYM, or the Swami Vivekananda Youth Movement, a Southern Indian NGO focused on sustainable solutions to develop rural Indian communities, led by Dr. R. Balasubramaniam. From our initial connection, we went on to make videos showcasing what daily life was like for us versus them; seeing such a stark difference in the way we and the Indian students lived opened my eyes and pushed me to see the world through a different lens. This new perspective led me to a deeper understanding of U.S. and Indian bilateral relations. Having the opportunity to not only participate, but be the Secretary-General of my school’s Model United Nations club has provided me with countless experiences that have only fueled my passion for international relations. Analyzing and debating from a point of view I was not accustomed to played a key role in shaping my public speaking and diplomacy skills. In one particular instance, I Not only this, but the responsibilities that come with being Secretary-General: organizing hotel and food accommodations, keeping track of a delegation of over fifty students, and keeping quick and efficient communication with my team have enhanced my skills as a leader. As an American, I recognize how my existence could not be if it weren’t for international relations and the role it has played in making the country what it is today. Many people in the United States are geographically and politically illiterate when it comes to the rest of the world. Striving to separate myself from this narrative, I look forward to the plethora of knowledge, opportunities, and challenges that await me at university, as well as the journey to further understanding international relations.

Stella Chu’s Radically Mystical and Awfully Complicated World The spookily wistful teenager was always deemed ‘mature for her age’ until she realized it was just depression in disguise. LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK—A thick cloud of smoke billowed through the windows of the first floor, engulfing the overly-priced suburban house in a ghastly sight that resembled an amateur bonfire gone horribly wrong. The shrill sirens rang off in the distance, as if judgement day had arrived early. This isn’t a scene from a bad superhero movie or a headline pulled from the local newspaper. It’s a story from Stella Chu’s early childhood, when she decided to play with the stove and almost burn her house to the ground (by accident, of course). A fitting start to what would be a fiery (no pun intended) personality, the story remains a family favorite to pass around the table during the holidays. Chu’s bold and spirited personality has afforded her countless stories that make for easy family inside jokes. Like the time she was attacked by a rabid monkey in the mountains of Taiwan. “It just wouldn’t let go,” she said. “And I thought, man, do I look like its mother or something? The thought really sucked. It hurt more than the claw marks it left in my leg.” But her charisma and unparalleled humor comes at a cost. “I’m mentally ill,” she admitted. “And I’m not afraid to say it. Too often in the Asian American community, mental health is sweeped under the rug and parents refuse to acknowledge the possibility that their perfect child could possibly be mentally ill.” When she first started showing symptoms of depression, anxiety, and O.C.D. in seventh grade, her parents simply dismissed her concerns for a therapist. “I flat out told them, ‘Hey, I need therapy!’, but they couldn’t possibly comprehend how I was depressed with a roof over my head and food to eat. And although eventually they took me, they still don’t understand.” Chu, who grew up bisexual in an emotionally repressed Asian household, says that the lack of understanding on her parents’ part made everything ten times harder. “One thing that helped, though, was writing,” she explains, pulling out years and years worth of ratty journals. “I needed to find an outlet. It just so happened that my pain spilled out in the form of words onto pages.” An aspiring writer, Chu hopes to extend a hand to those who struggle with mental illnesses in the Asian American community. Still, despite her struggles with mental health, Stella is as vibrant as ever. Her strong personality and witty commentary still manages to shine through. “As the old saying goes, ‘fortune favours the bold,’ so I try to live every day as if it’s my last.” Before parting, she added one more thing: “My mental illness is an unfortunate part of me that I have to live with. But it does not define me. Only things like almost burning down my house can.”

Walking alongside the plastic newspaper boxes that line the streets of Flushing, the front page of the World Journal, an entirely Chinese newspaper, catches my attention. FRIDAY, AUGUST 9TH, 2019: 楊安澤擦進民主黨笫3輪辯論! Quickly scanning the characters, I find out it’s about how Andrew Yang managed to make it to the third round of the Democratic presidential debates. His image, superimposed on top of all the other candidates, makes it clear that he’s the focus of the article. The excitement from the Asian American community, particularly the Chinese, doesn’t surprise me. We’re very proud when one of our own makes it big, as we felt about Jeremy Lin back in 2012. We’re that annoying mom at your child’s piano recital, nudging the elbows of those next to us in the audience and saying, hey, that one’s mine! But Andrew Yang is one of many of us. And Asian Americans are infamously apolitical. With a 47% voter turnout rate, we’re often overlooked; a mere 31% of Asian Americans reported that they were contacted by any sort of political campaign. While some may not see this disengagement of our community as a big problem, it’s about to get a lot bigger: Asian American voters are among the fastest-growing in the United States—our proportion of the electorate has more than doubled since 2000. We’re growing at an exponential rate—so why are we still so underrepresented in our democracy? One of the main culprits is the internalization of Perpetual Foreigner Syndrome, or the stereotype that minorities, particularly Asian Americans, are inherently foreign and not ‘truly’ American. Through this lens, it is not uncommon for many older Asian Americans, particularly those who have immigrated to America and earned citizenship, to feel as if politics don’t concern them because they are not ‘true’ Americans. Another piece of this miserable puzzle is the infamous model minority myth, which praises Asian Americans for our socioeconomic achievements while keeping our heads down and staying silent about politics. But this stereotype accredits our successes to a gross generalization of our hardworking and obedient nature. It doesn’t help at all that we’re scandalously underrepresented in our government; of the 535 members in Congress, 20 are Asian American; about three percent. With all these factors, it doesn’t take much to see why Asian Americans don’t participate in politics as much as we should. Seeing Andrew Yang up on the big stage with all the other candidates might’ve inspired Asian Americans across the country, but did it motivate us? Did it finally convince us that we should snap out of it and get ourselves to the polls? Honestly, probably not. At least not for the older generations, who make up most of the apolitical Asian American population. My only hope is that younger Asian Americans, like me, felt just as empowered as I did watching Andrew Yang make his voice heard from a community that has time and time again opted to stay silent. We’re not the dutiful, compliant robots that we’re stereotyped to be. We’re not just doctors and lawyers; we’re politicians, artists, writers, actors, and changemakers. And we won’t be compliant in a world that so desperately wants us to be. My life as an Asian American is nothing like the movies portray it. I did not have a ‘tiger mom’, a workaholic dad, nor did I have to endure countless hours of piano or violin lessons. But one thing my nontraditional Asian household has granted me is the gift of language—I’m lucky enough to know how to read, write, and speak Mandarin. Through this gift, I’ve been able to take part in the most rewarding experiences of my life, such as my role in the Nanjing Witness Theatre Program. Every week for six months, I had the opportunity to sit down with elderly survivors of the Nanjing Massacre that took place during WWII. Along with other students in the program, I recorded the details of their stories of resilience and survival, ultimately creating a play based on their experiences. This unique opportunity not only improved my Mandarin skills, as the seniors exclusively used Chinese, but further developed my understanding of our history and the tenacity of my people. But I am not the only one I seek to enrich in the APA community. Through the Melanie D'arrigo Congressional campaign this past spring, I led a coalition of campaign interns focused on getting out the vote to people of color. I concentrated on heavily Asian American neighborhoods, making thousands of phone calls and reaching out to contact voters. Asian Americans are infamously apolitical, with the lowest turnout rate among any race group. One major reason for this is the language barrier, and I hoped to bridge this gap by recruiting bilingual interns and printing campaign materials in different languages for more voter contact. By doing this, we increased political participation from the people who have the most potential to tip the scales in any election. Finally, most recently, I’ve curated a project to collect and share the experiences of Asian Americans living in the Coronavirus age. Taking form responses of several dozens of Asian Americans, I’ve created an interactive website where anyone can read and learn about our experiences. Even better, my school’s social studies department has come to me asking if they could use the website in their lesson plans, from elementary to high school classes. Once I publish it on a public domain, it will be available for all, but for now please feel free to take the time to browse through: https://sites.google.com/view/naen/home.

“I wish I had done more with my life. I wish I had stayed in school. You’re going to do much greater things than I have and ever will do, Stella.” His words, filled with sorrow and regret, echo off the walls of our dining room. He’s been saying these words to me since I was young, when I still thought he stood 10 feet tall and could do no wrong in this world. But his parents separated when he was young, and his mother whisked him away from Taiwan, everything he had ever known—his school, his friends, his hometown, and his sister—to come to the strange land that was America. At 13, he stocked shelves and lifted heavy boxes at grocery stores, evident by the back pain he carries as a sore reminder of having to grow up too quickly. He didn’t finish high school, but he managed to get his GED. He went to college but couldn’t find it in himself to finish that either. He wishes that he did more with his life, and I know it; if it weren’t for the fact that he told me this every once in a while, I would’ve known anyway. The heavy bags under his eyes, calloused hands, deep sighs, and the even deeper wrinkles on his face tell me more than any words could. My father is not a success story. He’s not some immigrant rags-to-riches tale to pass on to my kids and grandchildren. He’s not a genius or a suave CEO. In a couple of years, when I walk off the stage with my diploma in hand and look into his proud eyes, I know all my hard work will have been worth it. Because I don’t want to live with the heavy burden of regret that he does. I don’t want to carry the weight of wishing I had done more or worked harder. I want to get on the cheapest flights possible and feel the cramp of my legs as I squeeze into a seat too small for me. I want to meet my soulmate in the quiet corner of a bookstore in Venice and my future maid of honor at a night market in Seoul. As I try new foods, I want to feel the uncomfortable twist of my tongue as I speak a language foreign to me. I want to build a life outside America, multiple lives, and leave a piece of me in every corner of the world. It is not only a wish, but a promise. But I know it wouldn’t be possible without the struggles my dad endured. And that’s why I’ll be the somebody he always wishes he was. I’ll do it for the wrinkles in his face, for his chronic back pain, and for his heavy eyebags. As my father worked to build his life in America, he was unknowingly giving me the freedom to choose. All those years ago, my father chose America so I could choose the world.

Like most freshmen, I attended our schools’ annual club fair with unparalleled enthusiasm. At one particular booth, flags of the world adorned the edge of the plastic table where a navy blue trifold sat. RAGE AGAINST THE MUNCHINE, it read. MODEL UN: DEBATE, POLITICS, & MORE! Despite the tacky headline, I signed up, eager to discuss the politics of the world. After fumbling to wrap my head around the flurry of rules, procedures, and the new language of debate, I had a firm grasp on Model UN. At the end of my sophomore year, I ran for Secretary-General. I beat out the senior candidates and was made the first junior student to assume the position. With the help of the Board, I spent the summer working out a full-year plan, and soon enough, the beginning of junior year came, with about fifteen students to teach in the MUN class and an upcoming conference in Rhode Island, where we boasted a delegation of fifty students. While the conference was a success, the connections I formed with the Board were the most meaningful to me. Chilly afternoons of walking down cobblestone streets in painful heels, staying up late in our hotel rooms to talk about our committees, and even the endless Tuesday meetings, where we would stay behind when everyone else had long gone home. These connections are what allowed us to band together in the midst of a global pandemic and plan a virtual conference in a matter of weeks. Although initially disappointed at the obsolescence of our full-year plan and the physical loss of our annual conference, HMUNC, we knew it was important to make some sense out of the chaos. It was difficult to feel motivated; but the passion and enthusiasm the Board showed for our conference reminded me of why I joined Model UN in the first place. We tirelessly worked together on creating five committees, gathering delegates, and even designing a t-shirt that students could buy online. I felt the same unparalleled enthusiasm I had as a freshman. Although now less naive and more wise, I know that everything changed for me the day I set my eyes on that navy trifold. MUN has not only shaped my high school experience and influenced my career path, but changed the way I understand the inner workings of the world and their deep roots in the connections we form.

Amatonormativity: Romantic Love Isn’t All What Society Chalks It Up to Be As a society, we’re lead to believe that the pursuit of romantic love is a priority, and that our success and happiness relies on the acquisition of such love. Turns out, there’s a word for this notion: Amatonormativity, the culture-wide obsession and emphasis on chasing romantic love. Coined by Arizona State philosopher Elizabeth Brake, amatonormativity has a dangerous hold on our society. Amatonormativity champions romantic love above all other types of love: familial, friendship, and self-love. It not only creates an arbitrary relationship hierarchy, placing romantic love at the top of the pyramid but ostracizes those who may prefer these other types of fulfillment. According to the ancient Greeks, humans were originally created with two heads, four arms and four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing that these creatures may be too powerful, Zeus split each in half, condemning them to spend their lives searching for their other half. This is where the idea of ‘soulmates’ was born from, and indeed some spend their entire lives searching for their ‘other half’. But what if we don’t need another person to ‘complete’ us? What if we’re all one, whole person by ourselves? Why do we feel the need to see ourselves as incomplete without a romantic partner? Even as the over glorification of romantic love rears its ugly head in our society, there’s one thing we can do: remind ourselves that our lives are three-dimensional, and doesn’t only consist of one aspect. Appreciate the other types of love in your life. Hug your friends. Call your parents. And make time for loving yourself. But when I was broken up with this past summer, I couldn’t help feeling as if I wasn’t worth anything if I wasn’t with anyone. These dark thoughts had made me realize the toxic hold amatonormativity had on my mind, and many other teenage girls like me. It wasn’t until time passed until I realized that there are more aspects to my life than a mere romantic relationship. So what does happiness without a romantic relationship look like? I’ll tell you. Happiness without romantic love is being able to see my friends more. To laugh so hard with them to the point where I can’t breathe. It's looking in the mirror and falling in love with who I see. It’s having more time to myself so I can finally get around to playing my ukulele. It’s climbing onto my roof at five am to watch the sunrise, and at 8 pm to watch it set. It’s vibrant. It’s colorful. It’s possible. Once, it seemed like a life without romance would kill me. Now, it makes me feel alive.

The spookily wistful teenager was always deemed ‘mature for her age’ until she realized it was just depression in disguise. LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK—A thick cloud of smoke billowed through the windows of the first floor, engulfing the overly-priced suburban house in a ghastly sight that resembled an amateur bonfire gone horribly wrong. The shrill sirens rang off in the distance, as if judgement day had arrived early. This isn’t a scene from a bad superhero movie or a headline pulled from the local newspaper. It’s a story from Stella Chu’s early childhood, when she decided to play with the stove and almost burn her house to the ground (by accident, of course). A fitting start to what would be a fiery (no pun intended) personality, the story remains a family favorite to pass around the table during the holidays. Chu’s bold and spirited personality has afforded her countless stories that make for easy family inside jokes. Like the time she was attacked by a rabid monkey in the mountains of Taiwan. “It just wouldn’t let go,” she said. “And I thought, man, do I look like its mother or something? The thought really sucked. It hurt more than the claw marks it left in my leg.” But her charisma and unparalleled humor comes at a cost. “I’m mentally ill,” she admitted. “And I’m not afraid to say it. Too often in the Asian American community, mental health is sweeped under the rug and parents refuse to acknowledge the possibility that their perfect child could possibly be mentally ill.” When she first started showing symptoms of depression, anxiety, and O.C.D. in seventh grade, her parents simply dismissed her concerns for a therapist. “I flat out told them, ‘Hey, I need therapy!’, but they couldn’t possibly comprehend how I was depressed with a roof over my head and food to eat. And although eventually they took me, they still don’t understand.” Chu, who grew up bisexual in an emotionally repressed Asian household, says that the lack of understanding on her parents’ part made everything ten times harder. “One thing that helped, though, was writing,” she explains, pulling out years and years worth of ratty journals. “I needed to find an outlet. It just so happened that my pain spilled out in the form of words onto pages.” An aspiring writer, Chu hopes to extend a hand to those who struggle with mental illnesses in the Asian American community as a journalist. Still, despite her struggles with mental health, Stella is as vibrant as ever. Her strong personality and witty commentary still manages to shine through. “As the old saying goes, ‘fortune favours the bold,’ so I try to live every day as if it’s my last.” Before parting, she added one more thing: “My mental illness is an unfortunate part of me that I have to live with. But it does not define me. Only things like almost burning down my house can.”

I have commitment issues. Just kidding. I don’t, really—that's just an oversimplified term for my overzealous enthusiasm to barrel forwards in anything I do. And if anything, they’re not issues—I’ve just got a little too much ‘pep in my step’—so much that I end up running full speed. I get too excited to move onto the next thing, whether it’s attempting to learn an instrument or trying on seven different outfits. No matter what people might say about my overambition, I’m bright, passionate, a talented writer, and I have big plans to write a book one day. A Pulitzer Prize-winning one. A New York Times bestseller. A Nobel Prize—I’ve made my point. But my inability to stay on one project or task for extended periods of time has proved this to be a daunting challenge. In the past, I’ve attempted to craft manuscripts, only to lose steam a couple of chapters in. But if there’s anything about me, it’s that I love proving people, especially myself, wrong. And that’s why I’ll be publishing my first book in college. It might not be the one bedazzled with awards like I planned, but it’ll be a start to overcoming my biggest enemy—my impatience. I won’t be working in spite of my overambition, but instead using it to propel me forward through each page I can crank out. And eventually, I’ll be the bestselling author I’ve always dreamed of being. I don’t have commitment issues—read all about it in my future book.

LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK—A thick cloud of smoke billowed through the windows of the first floor, engulfing the overly-priced suburban house in a ghastly sight that resembled an amateur bonfire gone horribly wrong. The sirens rang off in the distance as if judgment day had arrived early. This isn’t a scene from a bad superhero movie or a headline pulled from the local newspaper. It’s a story from Stella Chu’s early childhood when she decided to play with the stove and almost burn her house to the ground (by accident, of course). Chu’s bold and spirited personality has afforded her countless stories that make for easy family inside jokes. Like the time she was attacked by a rabid monkey in the mountains of Taiwan. “It just wouldn’t let go,” she said. “And I thought, man, do I look like its mother or something? The thought really sucked. It hurt more than the claw marks it left in my leg.” But her charisma and unparalleled humor come at a cost. “I’m mentally ill,” she admitted. “And I’m not afraid to say it. When she first started showing symptoms of depression, anxiety, and O.C.D. in seventh grade, her parents simply dismissed her concerns for a therapist. “I flat out told them, ‘Hey, I need therapy!’, but they couldn’t possibly comprehend how I was depressed with a roof over my head and food to eat. And although eventually, they took me, they still don’t understand.” Chu, who grew up bisexual in an emotionally repressed Asian household, says that the lack of understanding on her parents’ part made everything ten times harder. Still, despite her struggles with mental health, Stella is as vibrant as ever. Her strong personality and witty commentary still manages to shine through. “As the old saying goes, ‘fortune favors the bold,’ so I try to live every day as if it’s my last.” Before parting, she added one more thing: “My mental illness is an unfortunate part of me that I have to live with. But it does not define me. Only things like almost burning down my house can.”

First, it was my uncle. In my small family, the news traveled fast, and soon enough Grandma was shouting down his ear all the way from Taiwan, where she, too, contracted it. But then it was my dad, who had a subpar health history, and he stayed in bed for a total of 12 days, fever-ridden and defunct. He was lucky to not have to go to the hospital, and the rest of us: me, my sister, and my stepmom, were unlucky enough to contract it from him. At first, I barely felt anything, but one by one, symptoms started showing up: my sense of smell was the first to go, then taste, and finally, the excruciating body aches that rendered me unable to get out of bed. It sucked. There’s no other word for it. The four of us mulled around the house in misery, taking turns taking care of my baby brother, who had been spared from the sickness that ravaged our bodies. But we healed, and we’re still breathing. And I’m thankful, but my takeaway from this pandemic will not be ‘it could’ve been worse,’ because it was. For almost 300,000 people. No matter how people will try to spin this disaster, there is no ‘silver lining’ or ‘bright side’ to a pandemic that has truly highlighted the deeply flawed institutions in which we had previously trusted. And I’ll think about those lost, by the hands of the government, every day for the rest of my life.

Walking alongside the plastic newspaper boxes that line the streets of Flushing, the front page of the World Journal, an entirely Chinese newspaper, catches my attention. FRIDAY, AUGUST 9TH, 2019: 楊安澤擦進民主黨笫3輪辯論! Quickly scanning the characters, I find out it’s about how Andrew Yang managed to make it to the third round of the Democratic presidential debates. His image, superimposed on top of all the other candidates, makes it clear that he’s the focus of the article. The excitement from the Asian American community, particularly the Chinese, doesn’t surprise me. We’re very proud when one of our own makes it big, as we felt about Jeremy Lin back in 2012. We’re that annoying mom at your child’s piano recital, nudging the elbows of those next to us in the audience and saying, hey, that one’s mine! But Andrew Yang is one of many of us. And Asian Americans are infamously apolitical. With a 47% voter turnout rate, we’re often overlooked; a mere 31% of Asian Americans reported that they were contacted by any sort of political campaign. While some may not see this disengagement of our community as a big problem, it’s about to get a lot bigger: Asian American voters are among the fastest-growing in the United States—our proportion of the electorate has more than doubled since 2000. We’re growing at an exponential rate—so why are we still so underrepresented in our democracy? One of the main culprits is the internalization of Perpetual Foreigner Syndrome, or the stereotype that minorities, particularly Asian Americans, are inherently foreign and not ‘truly’ American. Through this lens, it is not uncommon for many older Asian Americans, particularly those who have immigrated to America and earned citizenship, to feel as if politics don’t concern them because they are not ‘true’ Americans. Another piece of this miserable puzzle is the infamous model minority myth, which praises Asian Americans for our socioeconomic achievements while keeping our heads down and staying silent about politics. But this stereotype accredits our successes to a gross generalization of our hardworking and obedient nature. It doesn’t help at all that we’re scandalously underrepresented in our government; of the 535 members in Congress, 20 are Asian American; about three percent. With all these factors, it doesn’t take much to see why Asian Americans don’t participate in politics as much as we should. Seeing Andrew Yang up on the big stage with all the other candidates might’ve inspired Asian Americans across the country, but did it motivate us? Did it finally convince us that we should snap out of it and get ourselves to the polls? Honestly, probably not. At least not for the older generations, who make up most of the apolitical Asian American population. My only hope is that younger Asian Americans, like me, felt just as empowered as I did watching Andrew Yang make his voice heard from a community that has time and time again opted to stay silent. We’re not the dutiful, compliant robots that we’re stereotyped to be. We’re not just doctors and lawyers; we’re politicians, artists, writers, actors, and changemakers. And we won’t be compliant in a world that so desperately wants us to be.