Each issue we feature the work of Asian female writers all over the world. Here are this issue’s poems:
Quick! by Chloe Limputra
before i sink into the stench of lavender sobs and the memory of cracked lipstick let me fossilize in my mother’s womb let my life’s corpse rot beside my first birthday cake hide me in a closet!make me shelter out of a blanket! why? you’re a fool to ask i’m not ready for adulthood i’m still weak i’m still a coward my fists still whimper and quiver just like when they clutched a teddy bear my eyes still dart back and forth in a twitch of paranoia like they did in the dark i will run i’ll have milk and morning dew for supper i’ll construct a house out of lego, clay and newspaper A papier-mâché home sealed with glue in a nest where paper cuts are the deepest wounds in a song where stars are the fairest creatures in the state of mind i once had where rent and politics were nonexistent only the whisper of a dry breeze, that i never thought to chase
The Broken Pieces by Lara Pena
I am like the broken pieces of porcelain china, divided into several areas my heart in too many places at once. My brain is along the mountains and valleys, the jagged edges that draw blood from wandering fingers. I am like one piece of porcelain china, the one my mother will glue together no matter how broken it is. No matter how I was before, I am whole once again. But Not Really Gari De Ramos Birthplace, home, and passport, ethnicity, blood, and family; I am just another export. But not really. There are thousands of miles between me and my countrymen. Thousands of miles keep me sheltered from slaughter. I do not smell the dry blood pave the streets,or hear loved ones wail in defeat. I do not cry at funerals or propose alternate solutions. I do feel for my countrymen. But are they even mine? I don’t know. I know no slave to the lords of cocaine; I did not grow up on the same block or drive in the same lane. I was abroad, I am abroadseeing headlines in the Times of the bastard’s foul crimes on the other side of the world wondering, what the fuck do I do? How do you push the man pushing the pushers literally out of helicopters? If it’s any consolation my family keeps me up to date. My family tries to participate, but my family is fourteen thousand kilometers away. I’m now registered to vote, but I don’t know what to vote for.
To my lola The words “Kumain ka na?” were the same as “Mahal kita” The words she would greet you with after opening the door Before ushering you to table laden with banana leaves In a house redolent of fresh fish from the palengke, lumpia, pancit Of all the fruits and vegetables born of the dirt behind their bahay kubo Raised in the run, kissed by the rain, and embraced by Mother Earth Then taken lovingly into the arms of my lolos to be Washed in the kitchen sink like newborn babies And then fondly prepared for the kamayan My lolos worked hard to infuse the food with love, trying to put their love directly inside of me Believing that the best way to the heart was through the stomach Before I learned how to take the food in my own fingers,Lola would skillfully hand-feed me, taking the ulam with the tips of her fingers, Pushing it into my mouth with her thumb When I got bigger, Lolo told me that we eat with our hands Because it connects us with the homeland and ancestors, humbles us, And makes us more appreciative of the kind family member Who pulled the ingredients from the ground so that we could push it into our mouths Passionately, he would explain how the metal utensils tainted the flavors of the food the same way they tainted our cultural history “So,” he would say, “When we eat this meal, eat well, and eat as a proud Filipino” Long after the sun had set, the feast would be over, but the food would not be all gone After every kamayan, there was always enough food to feed a village Since Lola habitually makes more than enough in case of unexpected guests While we sat around the table with full, warm bellies, Lolo still telling golden stories, mga pinsan still quarrelling over the last piece of kalamay, Tita still trying to get bunso to say ‘iná’ Lola would already have the containers out to send the baon home with guests Her way of ensuring that you would eat well the next day And even if your refrigerator and pantries were full,You know it would be rude to refuse the her sweet command Besides, its impossible to leave a lola’s house without taking a bag of baon The rest of the leftovers would be left out so that Lola could run next door to the neighbors and ask,“Have you eaten?”
Overachiever Magazine was started by Rehana Paul in October of 2018 to give a platform to all Asian women, non-binary people, and other gender minorities.
Our name is poking fun at the stereotype that all Asians are overachievers, especially Asian women, non-binary people, and other gender minorities. It’s also in recognition of all of us who have had no choice but to be overachievers: managing societal expectations, family obligations, and educational opportunities, all while fighting the patriarchy.
We have grown since then, putting out bimonthly issues (we are contributor powered: apply to write for our next one!), and weekly reviews of culture, and news that is important to us.
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We do not claim to speak for all Asian women, non-binary people, and other gender minorities. We are just here to give them a place to speak for themselves.