Tag Archives: love

MOONROOT: an exploration of asian womyn’s bodies

we did it, y’all!

MOONROOT is an ongoing collaborative project about race, gender, and bodies that was born/e out of gchat conversations, love, and pure genius.   it was released yesterday at the baltimore zine bazaar and presented by (most of) the baltimore crew.

check it: READABLE PDF | PRINTABLE PDF

big ups to these homies for making this process beautiful: Sine Hwang Jensen (creator of our lovely lotus root stencil), Amy Dewan, Sun Hashmi, Marilla Li, Jess Kealiihoalani Toshea Mease, jackie wang (layer-outer of the zine! and the one from whom i got the bulk of the content for this post <3), mai c. đoàn, linda nguyễn, and Bhanu Kapil.

do you..

– want to donate seed money for future issues?
– want a copy with a fancy spray-painted cover?
– want to distribute the zine?
– want to give us feedback?

talk to us at moonrootzine@gmail.com!

also! if you self-identify as an API womyn/woman, trans, or genderqueer person, WE WANT YOU WITH US. please submit and/or collaborate with us, because we need your voice/vision/wisdom/story.*


Sine and Amy posing with newly printed zines


moonroot production factory (it’s worker-owned, y’all)

*psst.. nonster, stacey, nisha, manasi, mandy, aileen, zena, claudia, and my sisters… i am looking at you. ❤

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mouth stories.

originally written and sent as an email almost a year ago. title borrowed from poet aimee nezhukumatathil.

01.
when my family moved to the bay from orange county, my mom started working for my uncle’s catering truck business in santa rosa, while my dad took esl classes at contra costa community college. eventually, they got their own lunch truck in hayward, with a route in milpitas serving a predominately latino clientele, service workers of the silicon valley. as such, my mom learned how to make menu staples like tacos and burritos from the previous cook. she did all of her prep work at home, which meant there was a lot beef being chopped on the kitchen table all the time.

and i remember she would make huge amounts of barbacoa in this fatty stock pot, and then sit on the floor pulling at the meat that fell apart on itself, it was so tender. she would feed it straight to me and my sister’s mouths like we were little babies. (she would do this with homemade meatballs too; who knows how much meat i ate as a child.) i didn’t actually learn that the meat was called barbacoa until i went to a chipotle for the first time in college and saw it on the menu. my mom picked up bits of spanish on the job, and spoke it quickly, pronouncing the ending syllable quà, like a gift.

02.
a few summers ago, i was at my aunt’s house in orange county with my parents, and there was kind of a food gathering going on, with my other aunt and uncle and grandmother over. they were making spring rolls, the usual kind with pork and shrimp, and i mentioned that bò bía was my favorite, which always comes with the special peanut sauce. so i asked one of my aunts what hers was, and she was sassy in her response and said to ask my grandmother–she only ever made boiled vegetables and rice for dinner.

i was confused at first, mostly shocked at her audacity, but also the truth of situation. my parents were farmers in rural viet nam, and they grew the same vegetables they ate, which has now become a novel concept in my life: “gardening.” my mom said she learned how to cook “traditional” (in my re-imagination) vietnamese dishes by eying them at the grocery store, just like how she watches the food network channel and can recreate meals from there without ever paying attention the recipe. and i sat there, the only person from my generation, reeling from my idea of culture and its connection to food and history–how diaspora doesn’t always work the way you imagine it to.

03.
last weekend i visited my sister l. in madison on a fifty cent megabus ticket. we hit up the farmers market where we passed on the cheese curds and tried our best to purchase from farmers of color, most ostensibly hmong. l. was super hyped on the butternut squash and bok choy offerings (her boyfriend j. says she has an addiction,) but we bought a few other things, including cải làn, which i never enjoyed because it was one of those boring boiled vegetables we had at every other dinner growing up.

but now, after college and separation from home, i have come to crave these foods. so l. and i called our mom that night to ask her for directions on how to cook the greens, and she was totally nonchalant about the affair, as always, saying to parboil them for a bit and then stir-fry it up with some sauce or whatever, and we’d have to interject and ask her to specify how long, and how much. she asked what else we were having for dinner, and after i rambled off some things, she remarked, what? veggies only? i had to reassure her, no mom, we have fish too. and it was then she said, good. you’ve done well. now you can come home and cook for me.

to the one who always knows the right song to play

dear nonster,

remember the day we met?  of course you do.  we connected over pantene pro-v and mediums, the kind of silly things that make for a rock-solid foundation and a great story to tell.  we became the kind of people who assemble each others’ furniture and know each others’ tea orders, pick up on each others’ accents, slang, and mannerisms, and go on car adventures even when our destination is in walking distance.  we’re the kind of people who can’t get over how funny and smart we are, who hold on to our genius by saving gchat conversations, who read books and listen to music simply to have our hearts broken.  we’re the ones who cling to each other in madness, in sadness, in joy, and know that letting go doesn’t have to mean losing anything.

and today, this is what i want you to remember:

you are always, always, always braver and bigger than you know.

happy birthday.

love,
mongistan

ps.  for some reason, in my head, this is the song that characterizes our friendship.  i think you get it.

you’re so much better than you know.

for lovers who have left and are soon leaving.

oh, california.

you make me weak at the knees.