Being Asian was not a point of pride for me when I was younger. Growing up in a mainly white community, my being Asian meant I was immediately isolated from my peers. In addition, being adopted at a young age meant I was geographically and socially isolated from my birth culture. Korean culture was something I only ever interacted with in passing, once a year when my adoption agency would hold lunch for all the families. After the organization closed, I wouldn't be surrounded by that much Asian (let alone Korean) culture and language for over a decade. My college experience did much to separate me from my small hometown. Not only was my university more diverse in general, but had students who similarly wanted to reconnect with their cultures while managing the trauma of the diaspora. To further involve me with these marginalized populations at Hofstra, I worked within the student-led Office of Intercultural Engagement and Inclusion. Unfortunately, COVID-19 meant one year of my three undergraduate was spent away from campus. However, when I returned for my senior year, I was approached by another student named JR. JR, much like me, wanted to reinvigorate the Hofstra Asian Pacific Islander Association. Unlike me, however, JR was not employed by the IEI Office and could officially run for president to reestablish it. That fall semester, I became the liaison for the office of the API Association and the South Asian Student Association. The role was not easy. One club was struggling to reinstate itself, which meant lots of paperwork for both JR and me. The other club was trying to reestablish connections within the office after a year with little to no support from the faculty. It was my responsibility to help them both, through meetings and emails, scheduling, and more meetings. Their struggles made me wonder: How many other identity-based groups at the university were struggling to find connections with their demographic? So I began planning the spring club fair, this time with a focus on the marginalized groups that made up many of the registered university organizations. You would think, after how many calls and emails and Zoom meetings with faculty and students, that maybe I would enjoy doing such extensive organization. The best things for our student body, I found, were often not easily enjoyable. Very few college kids enjoy writing emails, let alone to university leadership. However, knowing what such contacts could do, I found joy in writing those emails. Graduation was not easy, especially after the time spent on clubs I would have to leave behind. Even if I was unable to enjoy them while at Hofstra, I'm glad future students will have the opportunity. As I've grown older, I can say with confidence that I've challenged my own internalized hatred and biases. I realized that my very Asian existence was not a problem inherently, but one other created around me. It is now, at twenty-one, that I've taken more and more steps to reconnect with that from which I was separated. I take Korean courses, taught with the focus of teaching adoptees their original languages. I can read Hangul, cook Korean food, and do little things like that. Even now, I'm listening to K-pop as I write this essay. When I sit down for my Korean class, I know the other people on screen are just as eager to maintain and preserve culture as I am. This language allows me to communicate, not only with others, but with a part of me I left behind with my adoption. To me, Asian culture and language is about community. It's about finding strength in one another to exist through sharing food, spaces, and words. It means solidarity against colorism, racism, and other systemic injustices. It means having the chance to reconnect with your culture through interactions with other people. It means saving space for each other and doing the difficult things to keep those spaces open for others to belong. Being Asian is recognizing the humanity in yourself and others like you.

Nothing is more bizarre than witnessing the slow erosion of cultural literacy. Time, like many things, reveals truths of the self and of the world. These truths, unfortunately, are not always pretty and often reflect the troubling dynamics of the contemporary world. As a student of political studies, my education has never been short on examples of human folly. Human beings, for all the knowledge we maintain, are shockingly unaware of our hubris. Examples can easily be found throughout history, but what that history means has become an exceptional point of contention. The visibility of the apparent lack of historical and cultural context has grown undeniably in the last ten years or so. Politicians make references to events without considering the real and troubling circumstances surrounding them. Wars and historical happenings are used as buzzwords for comparison while legitimate trauma and conspiratorial denial surround those same events. Individuals have decided to include history, seemingly without considering what that history means. Such decision-making as a study has always appealed to me for the relative relationships it creates and assumes. The rationality of actors, capital resources, and others may influence legislation but can be easily ceded to irrational beliefs and traditions. Regardless of the source of the behaviors or the actors’ decisions, I am fascinated by what causes an individual choice. It is the finest example of philosophical, sociological, and political connections. As an individual existing within several intersections of marginalized identity, the way others have chosen to interpret such marginalization is both fascinating and frightening. The aforementioned pattern of irrational beliefs and traditions has prevented the reflection necessary to achieve social progress. No individual can look upon the world in an objective manner, but subjectivity can be used for dangerous reasons. My education has largely focused on how to best address this phenomenon. I truly believe the psychological, philosophical, and sociological factors inform more than any political theory ever could. If such factors remain ignorant of the lessons of history, there is little guarantee life will ever get better for anyone. Pursuing further knowledge in politics and theoretical aspects of policy-making will invaluably influence my career trajectory, which I hope to use for the advancement of progressive legislation and the reallocation of resources to marginalized communities. The endurance of these groups relies on the support and existence of those who are in stark opposition to social norms, whether by choice or birth. Legislation, especially those of the presidential variety, have defined lifespans, religion, names, and real and imagined values. Familiarity with these concepts and their vehicles, to me, means that there is no room to be ignorant by will or circumstance. Sociopolitical illiteracy is life-threatening, and I have no desire to further its effects.

I was told on the way back from the movie theatre. Our school band and jazz band had taken a field trip to go watch "La La Land," which had just come out a week or so before. We had eaten lunch, packed back into the school bus, and gotten ready to go. I had just settled in a seat with my friend Jon when our band director's phone rang. Jon and I paid it no mind. Phone calls happened all the time during practices. But then our director looked at Jon and me. He said the words, "Your friend is dead." Death is often hidden away from everyday life. It is pushed away into closets, tamped down under layers of fear, and ignored until it becomes an expected guest at the front door of life. Unfortunately, death by suicide is rarely expected, unlike some other forms of death. Some will be fortunate enough to never have such close experience with the action, though others are not as lucky. My friend, we'll call him J for privacy's sake, had been struggling. Earlier in the year, J had dropped out of our chemistry class and we had written it off as little more than a normal decision. Maybe it was just a normal decision for him and he wasn't even thinking about suicide at the time. But now, in this crappy bus seat, I was told J had decided to end his life. I thought I was okay with death, having dealt with the deaths of three of my grandparents in one year when I was five. But I was a child then. I still technically was a child dealing with this. I went home that day and cried for the first time in a while. The following week at school, J's friend group (including Jon and I) were required to talk to the school psychologist to see how we were handling things. When I was called into the office, I spoke about my feelings and experiences as I normally would. The psychologist looked at me and said, "I think you need to see a therapist outside of school." In the next few years, I would be diagnosed with depression and anxiety, trying different medications to try to ease the pain that had long settled in my chest. The worst part about it, I think, was knowing it would never have happened without J killing himself. My parents, for as long as I can remember, had rebuffed my requests to see a therapist, even as I knew my depression was getting worse. It took my friend dying for me to finally speak with a professional about the thoughts I had been living with. It still feels bittersweet to truly reflect on the whole situation. I don't wish for suicidal ideations or thoughts to directly affect anyone. It is truly a terrible thing - to live with depression. I had done it for years and so had J. J, however, decided he couldn't anymore. I remember his family at the funeral, crying and wondering what had happened. My friends and I had known about the longtime issues plaguing his life, but none of us wanted to be the bearer of bad news. It's hard enough to process death as a friend, let alone a direct family member. My life since that funeral has been very different. I've finally been able to access and find care for the mental health crises surrounding me. He changed my life. Thank you, J. I don't know if or how I would have gotten here without you.