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college AA studies classes & AAPI student organizing

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college AA studies classes & AAPI student organizing

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growing up with fear being the primary emotion

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growing up with fear being the primary emotion

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exclusion & tokenization of WOC in Women’s March and Strike in Jan 2017

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exclusion & tokenization of WOC in Women’s March and Strike in Jan 2017

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Asian American History; Race Formation and Critical Race Theory; Identity and Subject Formation; Criminalization of Urban Youth; Video Ethnography

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Asian American History; Race Formation and Critical Race Theory; Identity and Subject Formation; Criminalization of Urban Youth; Video Ethnography

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being an SF native from an immigrant household and experienced multiracial SF (pre-tech).

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being an SF native from an immigrant household and experienced multiracial SF (pre-tech).

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In the fall of 2019, we had the honor of premiering "Sự Hồi Tưởng," an immersive altar and ritual performance space, at SOMArts Cultural Center in San Francisco for "City of Souls", that year's edition of their annual Dìa De Los Muertos exhibition. "City of Souls," an exhibition on display from October 12th to November 8th, asked artists to meditate on San Francisco's rapidly changing landscape to answer the question: Who are the ancestors we need to call in to help fight for the soul of the city and what kind of future can we collectively envision?

At this time, I was deeply reflecting upon my mother, Mai Do, and her story of coming to North America as one of the Thuyền Nam or Boat People. Leaving her home and family behind, she fled the communist regime of Vietnam alone at the age of 24. She was crammed into a small fishing boat with over 100 people, with hopes of crossing the South China Sea to either Hong Kong, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore and the Philippines. After one and a half days at sea, she and her companions found themselves stranded when their boat's engine stopped working. Days passed, as she waited to die and join the many others who had risked the perilous journey before her, claimed by storms, disease, starvation, dehydration, or pirates. However, fate would have a different hand for her. On the fifth day, a French trading vessel en route to the Philippines came across their boat and ferried them to the refugee camp there. She eventually landed in Canada and I came to be born four years later. She was able to sponsor the rest of her family when I was eight years old.

My collaborator and co-artist, Giang Trinh has a similar family story. At the time of the exhibit, she was 30 years old, the same age at which her mother, Nga Phan, fled Vietnam. It took her three tries before successfully fleeing on a small fishing boat with 66 other people. Like my mother, she was left waiting in limbo as her boat drifted along. There was not enough food and she had to steel herself, as Taiwanese pirates were raiding nearby boats. Thankfully, her boat evaded the pirates and was eventually rescued by a larger boat and she was taken to Pulau Bidong ("Hell Isle"), a refugee camp in Malaysia. She spent two years in the refugee camp struggling with loneliness and missing her home, family, and friends. In that time, she spent her days attending English school in the mornings, volunteering in the afternoon, and studying to be a hairdresser at night. Her now husband, Le Trinh eventually found Nga, after seven years of separation, and sponsored her to Canada.

Many of the Boat People were not so fortunate as our mothers. According to the UNHRC, an estimated 200,000-400,000 Boat People died at sea. Other wide ranging estimates are that 10-70 percent of Boat People did not survive their journey. For us to exist, to be alive in this time, we felt a deep calling to honor these lives lost, to grieve these futures and lineages cut short, and to bring forth a remembrance through our bodies. Although those who died at sea were not our blood relatives, we still consider them our ancestors, as the journey of the Thuyền Nam is so intimately linked to who we are. For these lost ancestors, we wanted to create a space that was warm, inviting, and beautiful. We wanted to create a space that would make them feel special.

Connecting with the central question posed by the "City of Souls" exhibition-Who are the ancestors we need to call in to help fight for the soul of the city and what kind of future can we collectively envision?-we also felt an urgency to link our mothers' stories and those of the Thuyền Nam to the current crisis at our southern border and the plight of refugees and asylum seekers worldwide. Meeting either of our mothers, many people would not perhaps realize they went through such a dangerous journey themselves to arrive here as refugees. This is probably the same for many people we cross paths with everyday and yet the refugee story is such an integral part of the American story. We wanted the altar to center these narratives, to be a space that invited the viewer to reflect on what it is to be a refugee, to leave everything you love behind and risk your life in hopes of a better future, and ultimately to be called to compassionate action in the present moment.

Harkening to Vietnamese tradition, our altar would pay homage to traditional ancestor altars, but with our own artistic interpretation. Our altar was constructed completely from all white elements-white being the Vietnamese color of grieving and also allowing its surfaces to be a blank canvas . Using projection mapping, the entire altar and its enclosing walls were completely bathed in a looping ocean visualscape, inviting the viewer into stillness as the waves traveled along the floor, up the altar and its walls. These visuals were accompanied by a soundscape of singing bowls honoring the dead with the voice of Thich Nhat Hanh periodically layering over the tones, reminding all present that the dead never truly die, but only change form. I had little experience with projectors before this project, let alone any experience with projection mapping, so the technical aspect of the installation was a huge learning curve, but as with most art, it is about saying yes to inspiration first and figuring out the details later.

The installation also contained a total of 400,000 black marks, divided between the floor and interpretive ancestor photos, to symbolically honor the up to 400,000 Boat People who died at sea. Oftentimes, we hear such numbers in passing and do not grasp their gravity, but we wanted this number and its sheer weight to be truly felt by ourselves and the viewer. Each tick was painted by hand-a small act acknowledging its representation not of a statistic, but a life-the differences and imperfections in each tick reflecting the individuality of each life. It was countless sessions of several hours late into the night over weeks between Giang and I, as we balanced our service industry jobs and other artistic projects with taking the time to remember. To do this was a spiritual initiation for us, processing such a massive loss of life. Feeling it in our bodies, especially the hands, it took its physical toll. Giang, painting nearly 300,000 marks on her own, suffered a repetitive strain injury of her thumb in the process, which fortunately healed quickly after the process was completed. In the finished altar, the marks would first appear to be a patterned floor, but upon a closer look would reveal their nature as marks made by hand on canvas.

Acknowledging ourselves as the embodiment of our parents' hopes and the collective hopes of the Thuyền Nam, it was crucial for us to activate the altar through embodied practice in some way. As a dancer and performance artist, I initially thought to engage in a performance ritual for the opening and closing nights of the exhibition, as a way to welcome and bid farewell to the Thuyền Nam respectively, bringing the body itself as an offering. Studying Vietnamese mourning rituals, I recalled how my grandmother observed the traditional 100 days of mourning after my grandfather passed. She visited the temple each day without fail. Inspired by her devotion, I committed to coming in each day for the duration of the exhibition and making an offering of movement to the altar. Additionally, Giang would cook vegetarian dishes every Saturday to add to the altar's food offerings and we would host a community meal, inviting gallery attendees to sit with us and share in the offerings to our ancestors.

After an intense week of ten-hour days installing and troubleshooting in the gallery, the altar was complete and the opening night was upon us. I had a custom áo trắng, another homage to Vietnamese tradition, made for me by Mary Hogue of Mission Praxis, to wear as a ceremonial garment for the opening performance ritual and my movement offerings in the weeks to follow. Giang brought beautiful flower arrangements for the altar along with a plethora of snacks from the Asian market as food offerings. Rolled wafers, lychee jellies, melon gummies, shrimp crackers-we had our bases covered. The wave of emotions was palpable the entire day, as I felt the Thuyền Nam walking with me. I would find my tears flowing earlier that day as well as during the opening performance ritual, when I poured tea for one of my elders, Hang Le To, who was in attendance.

The opening ritual was originally scheduled to be only 30 minutes, but once it had started, it took on a life of its own. It ended up being two and a half hours; spurts of energetic expenditure flowing into pauses of stillness and other times, repetitive gestures, as if I was being thrown about by the sea itself. My body and I had only one role to play-to channel the energies present. I was visited by multiple guests-their physicalities taking residence within my body, one at a time. Spirits of women, men, and children. I was tapping into collective memory as I felt their suffering, their fear, their sorrow, allowing their emotions and experiences to flow through my body and disperse themselves through movement. I remember my body at one point, taking on disjointed shapes reflecting the claustrophobia that one man had felt. At another point, I found myself visited by a young woman, my hands compelled to rub my face repeatedly, as she smudged dirt and oil across her face, in hopes of not being abducted during pirate attacks. At yet another point, I found myself visited by a mother and then her baby. These spirits were able to feel witnessed, remembered, and held within my body and when they left, I felt a sense of peace wash over me much like a gentle ocean wave. The ceremony concluded with me clearing the space with this sense of peace and laying the food offerings into bowls arranged at the table for the ancestors, calling them to sit with us.

Over the duration of the exhibit, the communion with ancestors continued daily with the movement offerings. Every day would be different. Some days I would find myself channeling more spirits, who were visiting the altar, in my body. Other days would be me more preparing the space and performing for the ancestors as they came to collect their offerings. And of course, there was daily maintenance of the altar-sweeping, straightening, changing the flowers. The remembrance was in the action much like how I would come to understand as an adult that love in Vietnamese families is often more about the action than the words. Making a practice of dedicated remembrance was spiritually fulfilling, as I intentionally took time even in the busiest of days between daytime rehearsals and my evening service job, to move and be with these lost ancestors.

For the closing night of the exhibition, Giang made delicious rau câu khuôn in both pandan and coffee varieties as a sweet farewell to the spirits of the Thuyền Nam and I performed my final offering of movement. The next day was de-install and as we were taking down the altar, we had time to reflect on what this entire undertaking had meant to us. For me, it helped me to gain a deeper understanding of the resilience and richness of my Vietnamese American identity. Growing up, our family did not participate in many Vietnamese cultural traditions and we spoke English at home. In retrospect, I can see both as efforts for us to assimilate for better opportunity. On the opening night, before going into the gallery to perform the opening ritual, I looked in the mirror and saw myself in my áo trắng, and in that moment, I had never felt more Vietnamese and connected with my lineage. For Giang, the piece brought her closer to her mother, giving her a much better understanding of who she is, why she is the way that she is, her way of raising her children and her logic behind everything. For both of us, we wished we had these understandings when we were younger. Perhaps we would have empathized and handled many situations with our parents better, knowing what we know now. Creating this piece, we truly recognized the resilience of the Vietnamese people, linking their stories with larger global narrative of human migration, and hopefully increasing the empathy in the world for the plight of the refugee.
Special thanks goes out to Kimberley Arteche, Lenora Lee, Genny Lim, Saki Noguchi, August Sage, Elaine Nguyen, Drea Murillo, and Rich Trapani along with Carolina Quintanilla, Rio Yañez, and the SOMArts staff for their contributions in making this project happen.
About the Author & Artists

Johnny Huy Nguyen is a first generation Vietnamese American multidisciplinary artist based in the San Francisco Bay Area and has been creating work since 2011. Centering his practice on the body, he weaves together dance, text, ritual, and performance art to navigate the intersections between the personal and political.

Drawing from a multifaceted movement practice informed by fluency in multiple forms, including a strong foundation in street dance (Black vernacular dance), his artistic vision is to activate dialogue, healing, and action in ways that are raw, vulnerable, and honest. johnnyhuynguyen.com

Giang Trinh (born 1989) is a Canadian-born artist now living in San Francisco, California whose work is based on creating experiences, emotions, and awareness. Her work is site-specific and has been exhibited in the US and Canada. giangtrinh.com

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An Altar to Resilience: "Sự Hồi Tưởng" Installation at SOMArts - DVAN

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In the fall of 2019, we had the honor of premiering "Sự Hồi Tưởng," an immersive altar and ritual performance space, at SOMArts Cultural Center in San Francisco for "City of Souls", that year's edition of their annual Dìa De Los Muertos exhibition.

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a platform to share artistic work, inspiration and daily tidbits, for creative people unlike twitter and fb interfaces at the time.

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a platform to share artistic work, inspiration and daily tidbits, for creative people unlike twitter and fb interfaces at the time.

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a platform to share short pieces of content outside of the traditional sphere of long-formed, detailed articles.

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a platform to share short pieces of content outside of the traditional sphere of long-formed, detailed articles.

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We've been talking a lot about Annika Hansteen-Izora's Lessons Taught by Gardens at New_ Public. The metaphor is rich for community guidance and care, especially as we foresee the progression of new online platforms and consider the design opportunities for democracy-building. Hansteen-Izora is a queer, Black designer who is the creative director and UX designer for Somewhere Good, a family of brands that center people of color and include, soon-to-launch social platform of the same name; Ethel's Club, an online wellness platform; and Form No Form, a 24-hour content channel.

She has become a visionary in rethinking the purpose and virtues of online platforms through seminars and workshops on tending to digital gardens. Hansteen-Izora is a passionate advocate, from intentionality and communal care, to design community ecosystems and creative systems. She writes, "I feel like when faced with large changes, societal or self, I tune into the lessons provided by elders and nature, lessons that are always available and are constantly revisited."

In this way, gardens provide the metaphor for the constant maintenance and community care needed online. Hansteen-Izora translates the digital garden mission into the work she does in building Somewhere Good. The social media site is designed to feel like a welcoming playground, a place for imagination and where users can learn from each other. The landing page is a vibrant expression of blue sky opportunity stickered with fun visuals that bestow happiness. What is most interesting about the intended design of the space is that there will be no advertisements, no user profiles, no friending, no following, and no feed. We look forward to circling back on how these values manifest in the design after launch later this year. We are so excited and curious to experience it ourselves.

This week, we had the pleasure of speaking with Hansteen-Izora on how to become better digital gardeners. We received a sprinkling of their UX design thinking magic, and got schooled on Disability Justice tomes. The following conversation occurred by phone and has been edited for brevity and clarity.

Q&A

New_ Public: How did the idea of tending digital gardens come about?

Annika Hansteen-Izora: I'm a kid of the Internet. I grew up on Tumblr. I grew up on early IG. I've always understood the Internet as a space for possibility and learning. We're still so early in the days of social media and navigating what that looks like. I've noticed the ways that these platforms fall short for the needs of the people on these platforms. Instagram serves a lot of different purposes that it was never made for. It's become the mutual aid space, the mall, the community forum, the therapy couch. And it's failing at all of it. People are feeling unseen in so many different ways.

I love the idea that we can use gardening as a metaphor to better learn about online spaces. Gardens have an organized chaos. Gardens are communal. You have to have many hands supporting the work of maintaining a garden. Gardens are messy. You're going to have things die, rot, and tangled roots. Gardens embrace that messiness. The platforms that we currently have move away from messiness. There's a level of curation that becomes a flaw in the ability of people to actually connect to one another and to connect with knowledge. Digital gardens create this metaphor and opportunity to reimagine online spaces.
How do you teach communal care?
Communal care is a concept that was developed and named by Disability Justice advocates. It's grounded in what it means to care for one another. Folks that are not embedded in white supremacy have been forced to survive off of communal care. Communal care is embedded in our practices in how we live and how we move through the world. I can feel tension when I'm not in a space that centers communal care.

We can bring communal care into our everyday interactions and spaces. We can start with questioning: What it would look like if I created support mechanisms that were connected to my people? Looking to the work of Disability Justice and queer and trans and Black activists who've embedded communal practices in their work. I think of:
How does a hyperdimensional network play into communal care?
There is this need to create linear narratives about ourselves, something that is clean, concise, and digestible. It is an effect of capitalism, but we are multimodal beings. We are the culmination of everything that has happened to us in the past and everything that we may become in the future. So there's this possibility and constant change. What does it look like if we can create an online space that is considering the ways that communal learning and communal connection can exist? How can we take on these subjects, while completely diverting from the ways that platforms have done it before?

That has led us to think about topics like: What does safety look like online? What does it look like to hold someone accountable in an online space? What does it look like if we take an account profile, and we redesign it with safety and communal connection at the root? That is something that's leading to a whole bunch of different products, rooting the design in principles of safety and community and care.
Safety is a huge concern online. Every community has an infiltrator or someone who's having a bad day and lashes out on other people. How are you designing for that?
What is the design experience when someone is reporting or flagging a user for harm or conflict or disagreement? If we think about Instagram, what I often see is that a harm is done and someone has to rally their followers to alert Instagram that harm has happened. We click the settings bar, and then there's the thing that pops up and asks 'Do you want to report something?' Then it's just gone into the Instagram ether, and you have no idea what is happening. Oftentimes people don't feel very affirmed by the process. Our Somewhere Good designer is thinking about the ways that we can design for this process to bring clarity, thoughtfulness, and intention.
The work that you do is at the intersection of culture, education, and history. What would you like to see more of in the world? Black Design Schools? BIPOC curriculum?
Yes, to both of the things that you name. Ultimately, I'm moved by platforms that are much slower than the timing and pacing of what we currently have offered to us. I'm excited by design that is slow web, calm web. An experience that allows people to better connect to themselves and more deeply connect to others. The best social media platforms are my group chats. They allow me to geek out over very specific subjects, or share events, resources, products, whatever, that are interesting. I get excited about platforms that are thinking about, what does it look like if we explore the Internet, as an archive, as a library, as a garden, as something that is rooted in building knowledge alongside others? Building knowledge means divorcing from the dominant white perspective, dismantling the supremacy of the eurocentrism in design, in who we see as the designers.
Is a flourishing digital space one that is made for all, or one made to protect smaller communities?
I once made a Twitter post about how I believe that the future of social media is moving away from these very large, anonymous audiences, and is instead moving towards smaller and intimate spaces. But then the assumption is that small equals a better experience when you can have an absolutely dreadful experience online, and it's only you and one other person or a small group of people. So it's not exactly the smallness or the size of the group that lends itself to the flourishing. The flourishing is rooted in 'What is the intention of this group of people in this space?' Everyone has seen dead Facebook groups, dead Reddit forums. There's no activity going on. People have stopped contributing to it. A lot of that is because there is no communal goal.

You've posed this question in a seminar and I would like to pose it back to you: What does a web rooted in care look like?
The Internet and social media end up reflecting the power structures of society at-large. I do not think a perfect space can ever exist on the Internet. In real life, there will always be conflict. There will always be harm. When I think about what care can look like on the web, there are possibilities for designing from that experience. Care means the ways that you are showing up for others, with intention, with thoughtfulness, with compassion. That can translate to a whole lot of different things on the Internet, depending on what you're trying to build. But just starting with, what does a calm experience look like on the Internet? What does a compassionate experience look like? I think these can end up translating and moving us towards a more caring Internet.
To learn more about Annika Hansteen-Izora and their work follow them on Twitter or on their creative website.
Do you have a tip or story idea that you would like to share with New_ Public? We truly value your feedback. Please send us an email to hello@newpublic.org.

Here with rakes and shovels,

The New_ Public team
Civic Signals is a partnership between the Center for Media Engagement at the University of Texas, Austin, and the National Conference on Citizenship, and was incubated by New America.

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🌿 Tend to Your Digital Gardens: Flowers, Weeds, and All

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We've been talking a lot about Annika Hansteen-Izora's Lessons Taught by Gardens at New_ Public. The metaphor is rich for community guidance and care, especially as we foresee the progression of new online platforms and consider the design opportunities for democracy-building.

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Peter Kim's East Bay Asian Youth Center Project

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Peter Kim's East Bay Asian Youth Center Project

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BIPOC, Immigrant, and Refugee Solidarity Work

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BIPOC, Immigrant, and Refugee Solidarity Work