The term “Asian American” is like a balloon: weightless, hollow, all skin. It seems ready to burst at any moment, and yet refuses to be tied down. Coined by UC Berkeley students in 1968 and inspired by the Black Power movement, “Asian American” was once a term of hope and revolution. Replacing words like “Oriental,” […]

In quarantine, as men bereft of the services of barbers took to wearing hats indoors, they were adopting a long practice of mine.

Reading frightening stories with my children in turbulent times.

The novelist discusses the politics of silence, questioning your idols, and the accumulation of shame.

Girlhood was gone. Girlhood was over and dead for us all. We didn’t miss it. In its place, anything could happen.

As we moved through different neighborhoods, my family stayed in a Japanese American bubble.

The sweaters my grandmother made hung loose, so I could grow into them.

Soft fabric shoes plus a large crowd equaled a big mistake. They were ruined by the end of the day.

She wore an electric blue wig and what I can only describe as a blue thong over fishnets.

I guess I wore that shirt a lot, though I never really thought of it as my favorite shirt.