red pocket.
REMEDY VOLUME 3 APRIL ‘21
Letter from Table of the Editor Contents
It’s been a difficult time. CONTACT US TRADITIONAL MEDICINE 4 Rena Su Last year was a year of tragedy - tinged by a global pandemic, the death of George Floyd, an anti-Asian hate crisis, and the crushing feeling of being alone. Isolated. Website: A DECEMBER DAY 6 redpocketmagazine.ca Kun Zhu However, Red Pocket Magazine’s team was determined to bring some form of goodness back into these moments. After much deliberation, we decided to encourage others to find “Remedy.” We asked E-mail: BETWEEN THE LINES 8 for stories that showed how we heal from emotions just as we heal from a fever or a headache. [email protected] Sophia Guan
I must say, I was truly impressed by the sheer quality of the work we received. Every piece was Facebook: ALL I KNOW 12 beautifully crafted and embodied the message we wanted to convey with “Remedy”. facebook.com/redpocketmagazine Anonymous Submission
If you find a soothing herbal broth to be your source of comfort, then Rena Su’s “Traditional Instagram: STANDING OVATION 15 Medicine” and Ian Wu’s “High Fever” might resonate with you. @redpocketmagazine Tiya Tanaka
If you’ve ever experienced the long-lasting effects of racial discrimination, you might empathize with TikTok: RESPONSE TO FUSION 16 Jasmin Rostamirad’s “Once Upon a Time”. @redpocketmagazine Diane Huang
If you find respite with nature and the outdoors, you might enjoy Beverly Ma’s painting “Fish and DAYLIGHT 17 Leaves” or Kun Zhu’s poem “Daylight”. Kun Zhu
I am deeply grateful to all the contributing writers, artists, and Red Pocket team members for making FISH AND LEAVES 18 all of this possible. We hope that Volume 3: Remedy inspires you to heal from all that has been and Beverly Ma what is yet to come. HIGH FEVER 20 Ian Wu
Best regards, TWO WORLDS 24 Joyce Xi (She/Her) Vienna Kerfoot Director of Curation Red Pocket Magazine REMNANTS IN THE MORNING 25 Catherine Lieu
SHADOWS OF THE PAST 26 Diane Huang
PRESCRIPTION 30 Rashmeet Kaur
ONCE UPON A TIME 31 Jasmin Rostamirad
VOLUME 3: REMEDY 5 Traditional Medicine Poem by Rena Su Collage by Raymund Santos
Bitterness is lavender in midwinter, roasting by the fireplace. mugwort-laced mixtures of traditional medicine, dripping into my mouth. Reluctantly or all at once. My mother brings shēngjiāng tea and mixes it with alfalfa honey and drains it down her throat. I pick at her scabs and call it pseudoscience; saying that I will not revere a paper-thin concoction of ginseng & hóngzǎo & goji. That I prefer powder-white pills in translucent boxes.
In the outskirts of Chinatown in my city, there is a corner-store baring glass jars of names and prices in indecipherable neon orange calligraphy. In this store there are dried plants & dead bugs & the bitterness is easy to detect. I have always avoided the fish heads with deflated eyes, staring with undead glances no matter which aisle I stand. They seem to judge in incompleteness, positioned there to watch over me at all times. I’m not sure if they guard the store like a secret or if they scare thieves.
In this part of town both the weather and the people get colder. The boiling medicine shrivels at the cold and heats up the air. I am drawn to it, a frozen animal clawing towards something that resembles fire. The fire becomes my world and I become a termite drawn to the momentary warmth. In this frigid town with frigid people it is hard to find heat for the winter. But my mother’s imperfect embrace is close enough. The boiling concoctions fill the room and I willingly inhale the bitterness.
So be it pseudo-science. So be it bitter. All I want now is to whisper odes to hawthorn & lotus seed & be wrapped & interlocked with the roots of ginseng if they could bandage away the tradition-laced words that hang in my ears and stitch me back in whole.
VOLUME 3: REMEDY 7 A DECEMBER DAY
Personal Essay by Kun Zhu Illustration by Lisa Wang
This was the first day she was permitted to go out- furrowed her brows at the absurdity of the sug- side after the 14 days of quarantine. Half a month gestion. Yet there she was, standing amidst the ago, she arrived home after a 10-month stay in the frosted landscape, deeply rejuvenated by the spa- country of her birth. While the visit was only meant ciousness and quietude of the wintry air. A myriad to last for a month, numerous flight cancellations of snowflakes swirled around her, glimmering like had occurred during her time there. countless infinitesimal fragments that she had previously taken for granted. This was his first year studying abroad. The North- ern land that he found himself upon has yet to Closing his laptop, he removed himself from the begin to feel like a home. Within the first month of desk he was sitting at all day and walked towards arrival, lockdown was announced in his region. All the windowsill. A small blizzard was unravelling of his classes shifted to virtual and his plan to visit outside, the empty street in his view appeared as home during the holiday became subsequently a monochrome scenery painted from charcoal. It cancelled. rarely snowed where he came from. He allowed his thoughts to wander to the geography half a The cultural re-immersion was a wide-eyed expe- globe away. rience, as a different yet familiar history paved the sidewalks beneath her. The street never ceased to Upon returning, the smell of freshly brewed coffee pulse with electricity, while the amorphous sea of infused the interior atmosphere. As she wrapped crowds captured the silhouettes of countless vivid her fingers around the mug, the warmth of the lives. While she appreciated the serendipity along beverage permeated gradually through her skin. the way, she felt increasingly homesick in her She stood quietly in the living room, surrounded motherland. by the familiar furniture and embraced by the comfort of simplicity. There is no remedy like com- You will be able to meet new friends, he told him- ing home, she thought to herself. self whenever the walls of the apartment room felt as though they were enclosing around him, as The ringtone of an incoming call interrupted his soon as all of this is over. In the meantime, he was stream of thoughts. He picked up his phone from caught in disorientation while trying to navigate the desk, the screen lit up and a familiar face ap- through this new chapter in a foreign landscape. peared. “Hi, mama.” The woman on the other end Loneliness lingered in the air like frostbite. He was of the screen beamed like the daylight, capable of unaccustomed to the cold. melting away the invisible tension carried on his shoulders. There is no remedy like the feeling of She trod onto the snow. If someone were to tell her home, he thought to himself. a year ago that she would voluntarily come out- side in the frigid weather, she would have simply
VOLUME 3: REMEDY 9 BETWEEN THE LINES
Personal Essay & Illustration by Sophia Guan
It’s more painful to hear my dad ments, until we are I may refrain from ordering Chi- chokingly utter broken English both rubbed raw nese at restaurants for the rest of beside me, sending the familiar I stumble, poked relentlessly and seething. I am my life, but I will forever remem- wave of embarrassment over me. eight years old and ber how to say Doctor Horse and After a beat, I step into the role I’ve by my mismatched footwear. wondering when we Evil One-Eared Rat, characters of been playing for years: Translator, I’m asked how I’m doing. Stab. will be the barbe- our storytime world. I keep a little interpreter, speaker, and won- que-grilling, game- Chinese, for him. der-er of how much of what I’m Where I’m studying. Stab. night-playing, Christ- saying he truly understands. I feel mas-celebrating Constant rejection in Chinese my throat lock and my tear ducts families in the books builds a case of resentment release with the same key. I borrow at the li- around the language. When I Why I don’t have a boyfriend yet. brary. She is in her late thirties take Mandarin in high school, the It’s in doctor’s office lighting that Our conversations have always Stab. I slink to the shadows on the agonizing over where she went teacher asks me if I already under- we discuss putting our dog down been like this, even in our own balls of my throbbing toes, but my so wrong with me. Ba works late stand it. I shake my black-haired for the first time. He’s our first household when no third party is mom thrusts me into the spotlight into the night. Mom is around, Chinese head, blink my Chinese dog, therefore our first encounter involved—the cogs in our heads for the thousandth time, loudly and therefore can be blamed for eyes, and use my Chinese lips to of even considering the process. whirring wildly as we both try shining the spotlight on my frag- everything. I gleefully overlook her say no because it’s easier than His health issues are rampant our best to translate in our minds mented Chinese, a mix of jeering encouragement of my creativity saying yes. On job applications, and getting more expensive by what exactly we mean in languag- disgust, laughter, and disappoint- and her nurturing care as she sits my pen hovers over the second the minute. Most recently, his leg es that never quite overlap. As we ment on her lips. She laments my me down with a pencil and four- language box, wondering if it’s has seized up, making him hop speak of matters of life, death, and loss of the language, how I reject- square Chinese writing paper. accurate to write down Mandarin around like a three-legged circus money, our emotions flowing over, ed the verbally abusive Chinese There aren’t many ways to fight Chinese. I spell out proficient in animal, and we’re beginning to the cracks in our conversation are lessons in the basement of the authority as a child, but I can rebel Mandarin Chinese on my resume. wonder how much time he has thrown into sharp relief. I substi- local Chinese teacher’s home at against her language. I can make Undo. Redo left. In week-old conversations tute English for Chinese while he eight years old, how I never both- Chinese insults impossible. If she and long car rides to the vet, we patches and reroutes his sentenc- ered to polish the rough edges of refuses to be proud of me, I can re- I know it’s an easy fix in theory. spoke of it in practicalities and for- es with simpler language for me. my tongue since. It used to be al- move her from my vocabulary. Just learn more Chinese. But can malities, but now we stand with It’s a strange kind of dance, where most a quirk, a party trick, my illit- I be blamed for walking to the tears running into our masks in linguistically we both hop around eracy in Chinese, but as I get older, He is ba, not dad. His English is Western side of the room when the veterinarian’s uneasy onlook- with the grace of wearing one six- it gets less and less cute. terrible, and he is a quiet man. I’m constantly reinforced with ing gaze. inch heel and one wooden clog. He tells me Chinese stories at doses of insecurity whenever I wear these same shoes when I She is mom, not ma ma. She is nighttime, teaching me about thrust into Chinese conversation? enter family-friend functions, and excellent at English. Mom and I the world of spinning improvised Why bother being jeered at by the How we can make him unlike the Vans I can leave at the are like sandpaper to skin from yarns. These Chinese tales are the Chinese international students go away? Have happy? door, these are ones I can’t take the minute I learn to talk. We are only thing that puts me to sleep when I can speak English and be off as I limp around perpetual Chi- abrasive, aggressively exfoliating at night. I am unable to recognize perfectly eloquent, spinning poet- How to say bye-bye? nese conversation. each other’s identities through the irony in seeking entertain- ry and personal essays like it’s sec- eighty-percent-English argu- ment in the language I push away. ond nature? Why consider cob-
10 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 11 bling together sentences to connect with Love is something we don’t say. Ai, the Chi- people whose culture has never held space nese word for love, comes into play even less, for me? Just learn more Chinese. For me, unless it is in the form of Ai-ya, what did you Chinese means ridicule. It means screaming do? At my Canadian school, we throw love matches between my parents downstairs. It from wall to wall, paint it up and down the means a huddle of Chinese parents compar- ceiling. I love this. I love that. love you. I love ing grades, extracurriculars, proficiencies. It this colour. I love your sweater. I don’t know means yelled conversations in the car about what it’s like in China, but at home, love is my every deficiency. It means getting locked nowhere to be found, and Ai is just as scarce. out of the house. Just learn more Chinese. I I love you, baby, my friend Nicole’s mom know, OK? says to her as she drops her off at elemen- tary school. For me, there is no love, there Yet here I stand in the veterinarian’s office, is goodbye and a closing car door. In my looking at the water in my father’s eyes, won- house, love is sacred. Ai is the holy grail. yet dering: In the spaces between our shared at the same time, they have gone unused for words, what falls between the cracks? What so long that the words have become rusted, expressions have we never been able to and the meaning is peeling off. communicate? What has been thrown away But what use are Love or Ai or Ai or Love if by my own willful ignorance and stupidity? they can’t encapsulate the way my dad cra- What parts of my father have I lost along dles our dog in his arms? If, in between their with the language? What doors closed when letters or strokes, they don’t hold the image my lips did? of my dad calling out our dog’s name first thing every evening when he comes home from work? If they don’t have a subscript de- tailing the way my dad carefully hooks his We love our dog, Ba says to leash around his collar, being sure to avoid the vet. snagging his curls?
We speak of my dog’s healing in fractured It almost surprises me. communication. After his x-rays, we trundle to the car with medication in our hands. I do Because I did not know he not tell my dog I love him. I do not tell my loved our dog. father I love him.
The car ride home is quiet. But if he speaks to me, I will listen. .
12 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 13 All I Know Poem by Anonymous Illustration by Deon Feng
Dear Past Self, Come sit down and talk with me About how life has been. I’ve been watching you every step of the way; You hunger for every last scrap of knowledge, Every fact, opinion, person and place, To soar above others and live with grace. But your curiosity will lead you to pain. Each drop of honey said into your ear By someone you think you hold close and dear Corrodes the framework of your fragile brain.
I remember you as a child, On the first day of school. You sat down next to that girl like a fool, Not because she was friendly, But since she had pretty, venomous eyes And whispered and charmed you to sit by her side. Your teacher would always tell you to share, ‘Cause it meant you cared and you wanted to show Your new “friend” you were loyal and couldn’t compare To others. But then she would know The truth about your nature, so every day, She would ask you—or rob you, I should say, Of first a pencil during that test, Then your jacket on that field trip in May, And finally, your friends, on that day when She spread poisoned words with her forked tongue And tore your heartstrings one by one. The gaping wounds she wreaked on your soul Weren’t enough for those fangs to take their toll.
14 RED POCKET MAGAZINE Standing Years later you entered sixth grade But blindly told yourself it was okay To act the same as you once did With that girl, pouring your heart Ovation For strangers that never cared one bit. You went too far down that path to be saved, Poem by Tiya Tanaka And I remember you crying, hiding in your cave. Illustration by Raymund Santos Watching the others spreading dark lies That could never subside even when you saw Them showing their scars like trophies of war. Line after line, game after game, Ridges of memories and scathing pain. Let’s give a standing ovation To the girl who stands right-side-up in this upside-down world You wondered if you should do the same. But then at the sound of your voice breaking free, Staring at flashing kitchen steel She stands despite the death, despair, and dread The leeches draining your humanity Of knowing that time cannot rewind And wondering how it would feel Shriveled into the dust of the past. To have chilling drops of warm crimson run deep And from the cloudless sky countless helping Let’s give a standing ovation Into the very essence of what makes you. hands Or I should say what breaks you? To the girl who stands right-side-up in this olive brown world Descended upon you, offering a way out of the Still, she smiles as her surroundings wilt After each lap around the field of your fears, darkness You gulped down water clouded with tears; And somehow their decaying stems seem to close in on her That had plagued you for so long. Yet she still stands with a smile Not your enemies’, but wholly your own, You recognized them as parents, teachers, close Milked from the torment of what you controlled. friends. Let’s give a standing ovation But every time your dreams would shatter The very few who had stayed with you And rumours, lies, secrets you couldn’t hold To the girl who stands right-side-up in this runaround world Even as your once flawless façade She rides the tides of life Would tear through your will like iron through butter. Tarnished into undeniable truth. And for all the times you failed to capture Despite the white-water rapids You knew you couldn’t walk through misery any And the sharp rocks that penetrate her skin The hearts of others, longer Every cell, every nerve, every thought in your body And this time, you were sure those hands were for Let’s screamed: comfort, “I can’t take it anymore!” Let’s not give her a standing ovation Not curses. At least not right now To the girl who barely stands Dear Past Self, To the girl who locks her emotions in a vault buried deep in her chest You would never sit down and talk with me To the girl who is standing About how life has been. But as the years went by, I watched you Just Blossom and flourish with new family and friends. So I am proud of how much you learned, Standing But remember, this is far from the end.
That is all I know.
16 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 17 Daylight Poem by Kun Zhu Illustration by Winnie Chen
What does strength mean to you? She asks and I respond: daylight. the willingness to stay through the night and forsake the ashes of yesterday upon the sight of the sunrise.
What do you define as healing? She asks and I respond: the luminescence of sunrise, penetrating through the wintry night. The way shadows collapse into dawn, a sunlight-drenched hour not previously seen - There is no room for me the remedy at RESPONSE TO There is no dish for me daybreak. There is no one for me There are only greasy Formica tables FUSION Lazy Susans and Pu’erh cha Stay Wafting out of porcelain teapots for another day. There is only disgusting food Mystery meats and cheap fried rice I hear her whisper. Presented on chipped ceramic plates Poem by Diane Huang There will be sunlight Illustration by There are only dim sum carts Lisa Wang And aunties, uncles, and cousins pouring in over the windowsill; There are no Mrs. , Mr. the watercolour blend of sunset every night; Ma’am’s or Sirs There are only lucky cats and scenes of a histor- a myriad of small miracles each day. ic past No matter how strenuous the Sticky carpets and kitschy décor There is no gentrification next breath feels, Disguised as “fusion” I always find Seeking to erase Remedies of cultural scorn it again. Food.
18 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 19 Fish and Leaves
IN REFLECTING ON THE Illustrated in this painting is a blooming cac- tus plant, yellow ginkgo and translucent bam- THEME OF “REMEDIES”, I AM boo leaves, as well as orange and black koi REMINDED OF THE RELATION- fish. All of this is depicted against a blue back- SHIPS BETWEEN HEALING AND ground with dark lines swirling throughout. Transformations in relation to healing are rep- TRANSFORMATION. resented in all these elements. The soft flow- ers blooming out of the spikey cactus plant represents the beauty and resilience which emerges when healing takes place. The falling ginkgo and bamboo leaves alludes to the cre- ation of space for new beginnings. The swirl- ing blue background, which can be interpret- ed as water or sky, represents the fluidity of transformations that may not often be appar- Painting by Beverly Ma ent. Contrasted against this are koi fish that are swimming/flying in the background. They are a representation of chaos despite typical- ly symbolizing harmony and prosperity— just as how healing may be thought of as a calm and gentle process, engaging in this work will more often be unpredictable and turbulent.
20 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 21 High Fever Personal Essay by Ian Wu Illustration by Deon Feng
I wake up.
It’s 11:30 AM. I overslept. My body feels uneasy and clammy. Ugh, not another fever.
Regardless, I head downstairs to check my tem- perature: 103.5F. I do it as if I need to confirm my ailment. I take two aspirins from the cabinet and prepare a mug with hot water to warm myself. I add two lemon slices and one teaspoon of honey for my sick-day remedy. Three hours later, I feel no better. I think that the aspirins should have kicked in by now so I move to take another one. My dad stops me and I am in no I wonder, why do I feel cold when state to resist. Because of my apparent sluggish- I’m supposedly hot? ness, I already knew that he would want to take me to the doctor. He grabs the car keys and walks straight out the door. I get up and drag my feet to the car. I am sick. No, not of a fever. That is only a symp- tom. I am stuck, mentally or physically I don’t After a short drive, we arrive at a run-down Chinese know. There are so many questions floating in my plaza. The patrons don’t seem to notice the age of head. Lately, I’ve struggled with school and my the establishment and neither do I. I smile weakly. future. I find it puzzling how I spend all of school The plaza’s ambiance brings back distant memo- trying to answer questions yet I can’t answer my ries of simpler times. Back when it seemed like the own. How a projectile flies in the air. Why Harper most tiresome things in life was to do the house Lee included this detail. What will happen when laundry. Though I am struggling right now, I pause two solutions are mixed. So many questions. But to reminisce. It’s the charm of this place, the people, when it comes to myself, there is no answer to be the culture—it brings me warmth. found. I have questions too, about life, why this is happening to me, what will become of me… I’m We park the car and walk into the central mall. The told it is part of growing up, a case of teen angst. doctor we’re seeing shares the lease with a photo A passing storm. I’m told that instead of asking I printing store. He keeps his practice in the back half should start doing. I’m told many things but never of the store, secluded by a wooden screen. He has the answer I’m searching for. also hung a provincial certificate on the wall; it’s supposed to accredit him as a licensed practitioner. Finally, I sit down at a little table, face to face with the doctor.
“Fever, 103.5 degrees,” I declare.
22 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 23 He leans over and reads my pulse, first holding the The dispensary is much like an apothecary, and the *Chi or Qi - the circulating life force left wrist and then from the right one, feeling the woman behind the counter is the bygone pharma- or energy whose existence and chi flow through me. cist. As we step in, I sense an intense rush of aro- properties are the basis of much mas from the countless dried specimens lining the Chinese philosophy and traditional Next, the doctor asks me to stick out my tongue, he shelves. I’d be quick to judge this form of medicine medicine. takes a good look at it. if I didn’t know the aspirin I took earlier was derived *OHIP - Ontario Health Insurance from willow bark. Plan, public health insurance in the province of Ontario, Canada “How are you doing?” I hand over the prescription, and her hands imme- *Haw Flakes - thumb-sized, thin diately fly over the shelves; first gathering the con- sweets, commonly used as diges- “Are you sleeping well?” tainers of the numerous herbs required. I counted tive aids for Traditional Chinese “How’s school?” twelve items on the prescription, each with specific Medicine weights. Next, she moves to one of the many hand- held scales to measure the prescribed amounts, He barrages me with questions and I answer producing three sachets in total. They sit neatly “poorly” to all of them. in a clear plastic bag, along with a handful of Haw Flakes. My dad hands her $30. “Your chi is out of balance,” the doctor tells me. Is this any different from a pharmacist compound- There’s just too much happening in my life: too ing antibiotics? many sleepless nights, rushed assignments, and internal conflicts. I am out of balance. Even though During the drive home I reflect on the lady behind I’m usually skeptical of the existence of chi, at this the counter. The image of the teetering scales the moment, I find it hard to disagree. Could he be lady at the dispensary used. She was remarkably right? Can you doubt a doctor’s word? skilled in balancing the handheld scales. They re- mind me of what the doctor said, how my chi is out Like any other experienced doctor, he’s studied and of balance. Seeing that she balances these scales apprenticed for long hours before reaching this every day makes me wonder if her life is in balance. level. His returning clientele proves his mastery. He Unlike her steady hands, I am a wobbly person. I’m quickly jots down a prescription that should restore glad though, there are people here that will help a semblance of balance to my body, resolving the me through my hardships. People who can help fever along the way. My dad hands him $30 before me find my own balance. we walk to the Traditional Chinese Medicine dis- pensary in the same plaza. Of course, this isn’t cov- We arrive home and my dad gets to work, empty- ered by OHIP. ing one sachet into a Pyrex pot before filling it with four cups of water. He boils it on the stovetop, care- The dispensary is much like an apothecary, and the fully monitoring the slow process. The smells of the woman behind the counter is the bygone pharma- dried herbs penetrate the house and will linger for I take a sip. “Ah! So bitter,” I grit cist. As we step in, I sense an intense rush of aro- a few days. After forty-five minutes there is only one under my teeth. After all, what mas from the countless dried specimens lining the cup remaining. Dad removes the pot from the heat shelves. I’d be quick to judge this form of medicine and swiftly pours the contents into a ceramic bowl. sweetness could be expected from if I didn’t know the aspirin I took earlier was derived from willow bark. I sit down at the dinner table and he places it in a concentrated brew of herbs? front of me. Thankfully, the sweet Haw Flakes I stare into the deep black soup. My reflection stares back at me. I’m not pleased by my swollen face. help with the bitterness, as does my fever-impaired sense of taste.
As I slowly sip the medicine, I feel a sensation flowing inside of me, something good.
24 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 25 Two Worlds REMNANTS IN Poem by Vienna Kerfoot Illustration by Winnie Chen THE MORNING Poem by Catherine Lieu
Between two worlds, a girl looks in She’s caught on the terrace of the space between in the morning I wake with his face next to mine, Between two worlds, a girl is caught One feels right, but yet, somehow not white fingers lunge toward me grasp my neck, pull me close— Reconciled feelings come rushing to the surface he whispers and tells me that A reminder from another time I am all but someone to love Standing on the fringe, she flirts with I am only his lover in the sheets the edge I am only who he wants me to be. Never leaning enough to fall in in the afternoon I rise when he’s done with me, No commitment means no hurt gone with the morning No blood, sweat, tears or dirt The worlds run parallel; they’ll never my fingers graze my cheeks, my neck once held hostage collide There’s no real place she can run to, in the mirror I see nothing. or hide just me and my face, just me and my hair that I will soon comb, Feet planted firmly on semi-solid ground just me and my tired skin that will be woken by Not a long time before the world splashes of water and coffee that spins around A choice to make - which world will it be? I will make myself She must decide ever so carefully without anyone else.
Out in the open now, exposed he is gone, gone, gone Nude, yet still fully clothed I remind myself. Between two worlds, a girl must leap over the chasm that runs so deep tomorrow morning I hope that I will wake only with scars, ones that will Instead, she’s built a bridge that spans across both A kind of structure that reflects all of fade her growth and lighten
And once it’s done, anyone may walk it Travelling across the once unknown abyss Uniting the two worlds with love and as each day passes happiness
26 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 27 SHADOWS OF THE PAST
Personal Essay by Diane Huang Art by Deon Feng
There are two malls in my town. One has its his- tory proudly displayed in the shopping centre: withered photographs of the past. The other has nothing. Like a ghostly gap in the archives, only memory can verify the mall’s existence in history. In 1997, China took back Hong Kong. A rush of Hong Kongers fleeing an oppressive regime landed in British Columbia and eventually, Coquitlam. In 2002, my parents made a trip to a little mall, by the name of Henderson Place Mall. When I ask my parents about that trip, both re- count with voices tinged in a nostalgia so heavy it wells inside me. They tell me in golden voices about the bus- tling crowds chattering in the fast tones of Cantonese and Shanghainese and Mandarin. The energy marked it as different, non foreign, something so familiar it re- minded both of home. Back then, Chinese diaspora spaces were rare, existing but on the fringes of society. Henderson changed that. In 2008, we returned from a two-year hiatus in China. Since 1997, many Hong Kongers figured out that life wouldn’t be different after all and moved back. Without the support of the Hong Konger com- munity and due to the changing demographics of the city, Henderson fell flat.
VOLUME 3: REMEDY 29 The vibrating energy in the cavern- like hallways dissipated, leaving gaping holes behind. The monstrous atrium with the skylight crumbled into decay. The walls sagged with yellow faces, their tears leaving stains.
For some time, Henderson The atrium would be filled with faded into the background of the the impossible sounds of Chinese developing city. It became a shad- dialects, the x’s, q’s and c’s of Man- ow, real but not worth noting. Only darin, the ongs of Cantonese and the East Asian community contin- a smattering of Korean and other ued to seek its comforts. Asian languages. In my past, I was like a Henderson is the China- ghost. I was the quiet dark-haired town of Coquitlam. There is no oth- girl blurring at the edges into some er space like it. Ask any East Asian- other consciousness. My existence, -any Asian-- and they will tell you Henderson is not just a din- like many other Asian histories, that they have been to eat, shop, gy mall. It is filled with the tradi- was not of importance. talk, to celebrate Asian identity de- tions, dreams and hopes of Asian At Henderson, that spite the sentiments scarred in the businesspeople working for new changed. I was allowed to, simply, land. lives. It is composed of the mem- be. I was allowed to speak Man- The centre is a gem. Hidden, ories and experiences of Asian darin loudly with my parents, eat but precious, elusive like a shadow. youth, shunted between two cul- “disgusting” food and have hot When the SkyTrain extension came, tures. water to drink rather than having things got better. Young East Asian Collective memory of Hen- to bring thermoses. The shopping entrepreneurs moved into the sec- derson is the only thing to verify centre can be traced in my memo- ond floor and business sprung. its history. The Web is sparse, the ry as far as memory goes. press releases bland and the pho- I remember the food court, tographs either lost or never taken. with its narrow rows of ta- Whatever may happen, I bles and seats with grooved Now, it could be a ghost hope, dream and yearn for a space edges. One of the only town. The virus cut open where the sounds and tones of redeeming features. The unfamiliarity ring true. Where the buzzers from the vendors stitches of past Anti-Asian shops aren’t big names, and the that would gleefully jump racism and erasure en- building retains its character. A when an order was ready. space for marginalized cultures The large Chinese bun sues in our safest spaces. to share and learn together as we sandwiches filled with beef navigate the unknown. and cilantro from a shop In 2020, I write this for the long gone. future. For the children of the fu- Any day before the pan- Henderson was sold in 2019 as the ture who grow up knowing their demic, it would be filled in the city develops and attempts to cre- history, for the elders dreaming of food court. The white-haired el- ate a metropolis. Will it become the past. For the hope that nobody ders reading newspapers printed what my parents experienced ever needs to feel like a shadow, in simplified Chinese in the- cor eighteen years ago? Or will it join slipping in and out of obscurity. I ners, while the younger genera- the other Chinatowns as cities write this so Henderson isn’t for- tions congregated in the middle. “fondly” bid farewell? gotten. So, that I am not forgotten.
30 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 31 Once Upon a Time Short story by Jasmin Rostamirad
PRESCRIPTION
Poem by Rashmeet Kaur Illustration by Lisa Wang
ONCE UPON A TIME, YOU BEAT ME I wonder who teaches TO THE GROUND. Doctors to hide away WE WERE YOUNG, AND I DIDN’T KNOW Behind their awkward ANY BETTER. Slanted chicken scratch In a limited choice of I didn’t know to run when I saw you coming around I never understood why. Blue or black inklings the corner. I didn’t know you could hate someone Your parents were rich, your clothes always new. Filled in hurriedly for being different. I didn’t know you could tell My parents were poor- we lived in a basement, with someone was different because of their looks. You only one room. Sometimes, you’d pull on my hair, As polite euphemisms beat me to the ground, and I didn’t say a word. strands of curls clenched in your fists. Deciphered by the Days went by, then weeks, then months, Sometimes, you’d make fun of my accent, how Pharmacist who dispenses and it was the same continuous cycle. Sometimes, words sounded foreign when I spoke. 50 mg of pill-sized hopes you would slap me. Sometimes, you spat words. The Sometimes, you’d make fun of my family, how we To be taken once a day words hurt more. I was damaged goods. A shard of weren’t born here like you. As you walked away glass, with a jagged edge. Just another broken kid, each time, I slouched down- curled into myself, too On an empty stomach to be thrown around like junk. Your skin was whiter scared to stand up. than mine, and your eyes the coldest blue. When they saw me, I swear they would flash red. I saw you again, a few years later. Your mother was killed in an accident. Your fa- ther was arrested for abuse. Everywhere I went, it seemed, there were people speaking of it in hushed, reverent tones. I felt sorry for you. In the streets, people would cast you pitying glanc- es. They would give you wide clearance when they walked past you. They’d look, look away, then look again. I grew up. I spoke fluently now. My accent was but a rare shadow, which would cast its glare and disap- pear quickly. A passerby, who never stayed. I forgot about you.
32 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 33 YOU WERE THE Now, you were only a meek wanderer. I saw you again, broken down in an alley. I didn’t know someone could cry like their flesh was being torn with every breath. BLACKHOLE OF MY I didn’t know someone could hurt, because they were only hurting themselves. UNIVERSE ONCE. I walked away.
THE SUPERNOVA THAT Years passed.
I never thought I’d see you again. We grew up, THREATENED TO WREAK grew apart. But then once, I saw a man in the streets, with the palest skin, and eyes that froze me to the ground. HAVOC AT EVERY TURN. They were your eyes. You dropped something onto the ground. A piece of paper, out of a briefcase. You wore used shoes, and a wrinkled suit. I lived most of my life in a spacious apartment in Manhattan. I picked up the paper, and handed it to you. You recognized me, I was sure. You looked at me a second too long. Recollection flashed in your fea- tures as you took in my dark hair, the familiar brown tones of the skin you once mocked. In your face I saw shame. Then regret. You opened your mouth, as if to say something, when I realized that I could forgive you.
I had forgiven you, already. I just needed to see you, to be sure. Before the words that were at the tip of your tongue could spill, I excused myself hastily and walked away. This time, I no longer slouched.
Once upon a time, we were kids. One hurting, one hurt. Once upon a time, I believed I was worth nothing. Once upon a time, I believed you were worth everything. I used to think that my skin and my family defined me. That these things defined you. It took me years to decide what defines you. It took me years to let go of how small you made me feel. But now we’re adults, from different worlds, on dif- ferent paths. Both of us, imperfect. Both of us, only human. You were the one who felt small. So you hurt me. So I forgive you. Sometimes, I feel there’s nothing to forgive.
34 RED POCKET MAGAZINE VOLUME 3: REMEDY 35 VOLUME 3: REMEDY 37 Artists & Authors
Sophia Guan Jasmin Rostamirad Sophia Guan is a psychology student who is constantly questioning her past and future life Jasmin is a Persian-Canadian high school student who moved to Canada when she was eight choices; so much that she often forgets to return to the present. She enjoys reading, creating art years old. She needed to learn to speak English for the first time, and now enjoys reading, writing, (@phiagallery) , long walks, and learning. Thank you for perceiving her work and learning more about both the Persian and Canadian culture.
Kun Zhu Beverly Ma Kun is a Mathematics student who spends her days surrounded by algorithms and equations. Beverly grew up on the unceded and shared homelands of the xʷməθkʷəy̓ əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱ wú7mesh Outside of studying, Kun is wide-eyed before artistic expressions of all forms. Having grown up in (Squamish), and səl̓ilwətaɁɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) peoples. She enjoys painting as a way to explore the teach- China, the two landscapes mean home to her in different ways. ings and stories of her Cantonese ancestors.
Rashmeet Kaur Ian Wu Rashmeet Kaur is currently an undergraduate student at the University of Guelph completing a Ian is a 17-year-old high schooler who loves telling stories. He is a Canadian born Chinese and Bachelor of Science degree. Her mixed media artwork and poetry have been published in explores his heritage in this short story. In his free time, he likes to relax by playing video games, Kaleidoscope and Margins Magazine. You can visit her online at https://dissectionoftheself.word- running, and taking care of his pet rabbit. press.com/ or follow her @_rashmeet.k on Instagram for more artwork and poetry.
Rena Su Catherine Lieu Rena Su is a writer from Vancouver, Canada, and the author of the chapbook Preparing Dinosaurs Catherine Lieu is a bookseller and writer living in Canada. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in En- for Mass Extinction (ZED Press, Jun 2021). Her work has been recognized by Simon Fraser University, glish and Creative Writing. While her main focus has been Creative Non-Fiction, she has recently the City of Surrey, and the Pulitzer Center. You can find her on Twitter @RenaSuWrites ventured into the world of short fiction and poetry. She currently writes a sporadic newsletter of book-related discourse. This is her first piece to be submitted to a publication.
Tiya Tanaka Tiya Tanaka is a young poet who hopes to use her writing to spark positive change in people’s lives by sharing her personal experiences. She enjoys writing in her free time to self-reflect and learn more about herself. She encourages you to explore the world of writing poetry!
Vienna Kerfoot A modern-day Renaissance woman, Vienna was born and raised in Vancouver, BC. As a mixed race Asian and musician/actress, she is passionate about promoting diversity, equality and Asian culture and awareness in the arts. After graduating from the New York Film Academy, Vienna went on to study a wide range of topics ranging from graphic design, architectural design, and marketing and communications, finally culminating in a business administration degree. She also loves reading, martial arts, and cat memes.
Diane Huang Diane Huang is a first year arts student at the University of British Columbia. She was a staff report- er and senior editor at the Edge, an award winning Canadian secondary school newspaper. If not reading for school, she can be found daydreaming and drinking tea.