[In the heart of an African society, I clung to the shimmering fragments of the day I was born, a day veiled in my infancy yet etched in the legacy of my people.] Societal expectations, like ancient echoes of the ‘signs of the time,' weighed heavily upon me. I had grown up engulfed in my own myth in which childhood was supposed to be carefree, playing in the sun until witnessing the sunset, getting involved in some minor misdemeanor, making new friends to play toys with and having adventurous experiences every day. This had been my own dimension of life. Every member of the society who knew or thought they knew me believed that my arrogance was congenital. [I still remember vividly, on the 12th of May in 2008, when my mother, who had been carrying her third pregnancy, finally gave birth to my little sister.] A swarming crowd of relatives, neighbors, and members of the society was dispersed in the yard. The outdoor cooking area buzzed with people, while inside the house, my mother sat on a chair, cradling my baby sister amidst a throng of guests. A lot of singing and ululating came from both young and elderly women, who looked perfect in their African attire, accompanied by penetrating whistles from the men. Children of my age were taking turns dancing in the center of the circle, surrounded by a clapping and cheering crowd. I was the only one lost in a mish-mash of thoughts, wishing every day could be like this. Everyone was highly spirited and filled with nude exhilaration. [Eager to have a look at the special, newly introduced family member, I walked into the house and stood right next to my mother.] I gazed at her as she swayed the baby gently from side to side fluttering her with kisses while boils of joyful tears formed in her eyes. Her tears of joy spoke of a time gone by, when I was the star beneath a similar sky. She politely whimpered, “Simba this is the same thrill that overflowed our hearts the day you were born, all the celebration and gifts once belonged to you.” Her words painted a picture of celebration so true. In those moments, I felt the echoes of my past, wishing for days where such bliss could last. [The week of my fifth birthday and my sister's birth marked a pivotal moment as my parents enrolled me in kindergarten-which began with teachings so true.] I was taught societal values that included showing respect to elderly members and honoring their presence by prioritizing them in every possible way. This involved greeting elderly people either by kneeling down, bowing my head, or performing the rhythmic African clapping of hands. I was told to relate and share with neighbors, help the needy and apologize after having done something wrong. Grandfather told me folktales aimed at passing on life survival skills, which include hunting, herding cattle, fetching firewood, fishing, preparing the land for rain, and assuming the fatherly role in my father's absence. My mother's kitchen beckoned for assistance, while my father's garden called for care. Each task a step in the life I was to embrace, yet my youthful heart longed for a different space. [The state of being consumed in my own dimension of life hindered me from accepting the entire norms and core values.] The resonating memories of the day I was born kept me contemplating to the extent that I wanted to live the same day, free of duties and the cumulating orthodox. I struggled to execute the norms and values and become responsible. There was this one time when I got home very late, far beyond my carefully set child curfew. I went to play with my neighborhood friends. We had our own custom-made football made of plastics and papers. I was enjoying the match in the dusty road when I heard my mother shouting out my name. I knew it was time up for me. I refused to comply with my conscience and decided to ignore her regardless of my friends who opted I rushed home. When the sun had completely set and everyone was heading home, I walked home covered in mist of dust. When I reached home, my mother flogged me, and I was so angry that I skipped supper. At that moment I felt I wanted to be alone especially being extremely inspired by the popular western movie “Home Alone”. [As I grew up, I matured in my appreciation of being African, and to this day, I still value African culture.] I strongly believe that the mandate of our culture is to place a good background foundation, uplift one another regardless of our differences in sex, change our lives through embracing and showing love to our native country's beliefs, practices and mode of contact and lastly, to take pride in our skin color. I can testify because I have been able to make good conduct with people at school, church and the society despite the time it took me to accept the morals. So now I see the norms as the map to my quest, in every lesson learned, in every test. The essence of culture, in each guiding light shows me the way to success, through both day and night

Bodhivanam Agro Farms, an Agro Venture by Ayngaran Foundation is located in Palani, TamilNadu. We are a growing agro manufacturer company focussed on Agriculture Products, Dairy Products and Poultry Products.#sasikrishnasamy

Bodhivanam Agro Farms, an Agro Venture by Ayngaran Foundation is located in Palani, TamilNadu. We are a growing agro manufacturer company focussed on Agriculture Products, Dairy Products and Poultry Products.@Sasikrishnasamy

Bodhivanam Agro Farms, an Agro Venture by Ayngaran Foundation is located in Palani, TamilNadu. We are a growing agro manufacturer company focussed on Agriculture Products, Dairy Products and Poultry Products. #agriculture #agro

a daughter's humorous hope for a mom desperately missed OK, so first things first …of course Mom has Vidal Sassoon himself doing her hair and is looking fabulous! Mom met Nora Ephron at orientation and thought she was a cool chick. The two of them hitched a ride to the party with Ferdinand Porche in his 911. The excitement and grandeur was beyond words. Everyone was still buzzing about their Secret Santa gifts. Mom got a painting of a tree next to a cottage, all signs point to Thomas Kinkade. Soon after arriving Nora made a beeline for Helen Gurley Brown. "Are you seriously wearing nylons in heaven Helen?" Mom is definitely wearing "pantyhose" in heaven too, regardless of their extinction on earth. To the squish squash of rubbing thighs she approaches the ballroom in awe. Spotting an empty seat at Henry Hill's table, she goes for it. "This guy has to have great stories" Even in heaven, the scene is reminiscent of high school; the jocks sit at one table, the politicians, actors and musicians all with their respective cliques. The champagne flows. In one far corner Robert Bork, George McGovern and Arlen Spector can be heard having a spirited conversation about the recent election. Daniel Inouye is clearly the most excited. Ernest Borgnine and Larry Hagman haven't budged from the buffet. Sally Ride has clearly had one too many Tangtinis and is chasing Neil Armstrong around with mistletoe. Richard Dawson leads a rousing game of spin-the bottle. Phyllis Diller is thrilled to be the only woman this round. Andy Griffith, Jack Klugman & Sherman Helmsley don't seem to mind indulging the harmless fun until Zalman King takes things too far.James Herr stops by to offer some potato chips. Oh boy Mom, I know you're a sucker for a man in uniform but don't go stormin Norman yet, he just got there! And now, the moment Mom and everyone else in Heaven's Class of 2012 has been waiting for…Don Cornelius introduces Whitney Houston and Donna Summer! Let the party begin. Mommy could not walk for some time, now she grabs Robin Gibb and dances the night away. She never sits down and sings along to every song at the top of her lungs with boundless energy. Adam Yauch is teaching her to rap though she has no clue who he is. Davy Jones stands on a chair for a better view. Free from physical pain and mortal concerns everyone is smiling & laughing. At last, Etta James takes the stage and slows things down. Dick Clark presides over the big ball drop while the room counts down in unison. The Class of 2012 has graduated and the calendar begins again.

Corona was said to be approaching, spreading across the borders, officially reported in Italy and Algeria. The weather this winter has been all but wintery. It was said that the virus doesn't survive in the heat, that's why spring rushed in and February has been warm enough for the bees to hatch. I found it uplifting to see a premature hatching of the bees! It was said that the virus's fatality was overrated. They reported statistics in the radio this morning about it and the Taxi driver said it was America. Why wasn't it spread in Denmark, why wasn't it in I don't know where in Europe? How come China's economy was getting too strong? he said; they built a frigging hospital in 10 days! One expects anything in politics, indeed; not everyone, however is endowed with such level of political analysis. My friend Sarah, fond of documentaries, said that the Chinese ate everything that moved: bugs, bats, turtles, maggots… you name it! From another perspective, the virus was associated with God's revenge, which accounted for divine justice. But I doubt this theory is still valid now that precautions are recommended from our own ministry of health. A doctor in the radio said that they had almost found a medicine, one that was, not newly created, but an old one that when tried out on patients, they sort of breathed better… On the other hand, it was a virus, my father said, and viruses don't have a treatment. It was exactly like a flu only a bit stronger (he knows about the stats) and it was common for the flu to kill tons of people every year. It was just that the Chinese are too many. That's why it appeared like an epidemy. Temperature has started to drop down. Well, gladly! It hasn't rained for too long and it was said that we might instead die of hunger if the rainless heat persisted. Even after the official declaration of the first Tunisian case (Taxi man said it was probably a hundred cases already but they wouldn't say), one would still scroll among all kinds of jokes in the social media. I even saw the virus itself having a fb account and commenting that it had never been so humiliated, so disgracefully slandered! Mom hears the radio, and all they talk about is prevention methods. She said it was a ball of crap. The garlic price went from 8 to 30 dinars! A mere exploitation. People have no mercy toward each other and expect God to have mercy! She told my brother to wash his hands frequently, but he didn't really believe in soap. “They found no medicine that would kill it, and you think soap will?” I'm actually seeing a professionally illustrated poster by Tunisian Red Crescent saying literally “Don't kiss me, don't hug me. A smile to my face makes me happy!” Dad, with an almost gay detachment insisted it might only be serious to people who were vulnerable: The old, the sick, the frail… otherwise it's just a flu. The mail man at work whose heart's been operated more than once said “So what? Let it drop down a little” (referring to the population), “some filtering would be good”. I think he's the only one who heartily acknowledges the virus's right as a lifeless organism to coexist. Does this thing only affect humans? I wonder, because I care to see more bee swarms coming along in the spring; I might even catch some and populate a hive or two.

As an African leader to be, I identify proper management of natural resources as an opportunity or rather the best approach to promote African intra-trade which will, in turn, unlock agricultural potential in the entire African continent. Rapid urbanization is indeed taking place all over Africa although most African countries still endure numerous challenges like adverse climate change which hinder agricultural potential. Depending on the situation, climate changes can have either positive or negative effects on the environment, people and agriculture. As a leader in a bustling African metropolis, I have to approach this situation in an innovative way to ensure that climate change challenges are solved through appropriate management of natural resources. Generally, adverse climate changes in African countries have caused havoc and hunger since time immemorial and this situation is yet to change. Mismanagement of natural resources has greatly limited the potential of agricultural sectors in various economies entirely in Africa which has prompted global inter-trade while crippling African intra-trade. The African continent is globally ranked top for its great heritage in natural resources and I am a firm believer that if these resources are utilized appropriately, vision 2030 would be a real deal and not farfetched. Climate change challenge which is a great impediment to agricultural potential is as a result of Africa not conserving its natural resources like forests which are water catchment areas and trees which help attract rain. Harsh climatic conditions which at times cause either drought or floods in Africa will be prevented if natural resources are not abused for selfish gain but instead well managed by respective authorities to sustain African intra-trade. Cartels and corruption which are major threats to Africa's agricultural economy make management and sustainability of natural resources difficult. I recognize efforts by African leaders to boost African intra-trade. For instance, “In March 2018, African countries signed the African Continental Free Area Agreement (AfCFTA) which is a commitment by African countries to remove tariffs on ninety percent of goods, liberalize trade in services and address a host of another non-tariff barrier. If successfully implemented, the agreement will create a single African market with not only enormous financial potential but also the enormous agricultural potential of over a billion consumers with a total GDP of over $3 trillion. This will make Africa the largest free trade area in the world” (Songwe, 2019). This is a good move, although much needs to be done. My Innovative approach would be, centralization of the management of natural resources and agriculture i.e. from the country level to continental level as this would be the true basis of reviving and promoting African intra-trade. For example, the African Union could consider establishing a body and formulating policies to govern natural resources in entire Africa as this would ensure sustainability. I, therefore, conclude that natural resources must be well managed and preserved in order to tackle agricultural challenges in Africa, promote African intra-trade and unlock agricultural potential in the continent. REFERENCES Songwe, V. (2019, January 19). Intra-African trade: A path to economic diversification and inclusion. Brookings. Retrieved from https://www.brookings.edu/research/intra-african-trade-a-path-to-economic-diversification-and-inclusion/

The last week of May and the entire month of June was a very dark period for me. As I was working from home and trying to keep safe in these precarious times, social media had become my go-to for some relief (as well as the consumption of news as I see fit for my mental health). However, when I opened my Twitter app on this fateful day in May, I realised that I could no longer find succour on social media. A young woman had been raped and murdered. Again. As someone who is extremely invested in the protection and progress of the girl child, this news shattered me for weeks. I couldn't go on social media for fear of what I would see and the pain and tiredness I could feel from the tweets and posts from other women. Another thing that made me lose all interest in social media at this point was the "hot take" dropped by men about the heinous act of rape and how women somehow contribute to it. Being someone that already volunteers as a content creator to one of the most responsive rape centres in the country - Mirabel Centre - I quickly got to work expressing my frustrations the only way I new how, by writing. Below is what I had to say; On Saturday, May 30th 2020, the Mirabel Centre's Twitter account was tagged on a tweet about finding justice for a young lady named Uwa, who had been viciously raped and physically assaulted in a church in Benin. We immediately reached out to this young man via his DM on Twitter and provided contact details of lawyers and NGOs in Edo state that could help. Unfortunately, barely 3 hours after the conversation, the poster informed us that Uwa had passed and requested that we do all we could to get justice for her. With heavy hearts and a black cloud over our heads, we got to work and quickly put out a tweet announcing the tragic event and calling for justice from all and sundry. As the news spread to demand #JusticeforUwa, voices began to rise and statements were made to express that #WeAreTired. However, there were people (read men) who thought that a fight against the injustices that women constantly face somehow meant that men's rights were being neglected. Here is the thing; we all know “men also get raped”. Another thing we know is that no one makes jokes about these stories when they are shared more than men themselves. Infact, saying that the rights of men are not fought for is a big slap in the face of the many women who have been at the forefront of fighting battles that directly impact men's lives. We've called out police brutality, the offences of SARS, we've stood with men who were at one time or the other sexually assaulted and are now ready (and brave enough) to share their stories. The Mirabel Centre recently published a post about male-on-male abuse and we have also been known to take on cases of sexual assault against boys and men. So the issue here is that you're not really concerned about the support men supposedly do not receive when they share their stories. The real issue is that you are trying to derail the conversation currently being had and we will not stand for that. And to those of you who ask inane questions in order to shame and discredit victims, we can categorically tell you - drawing on the number of cases we have dealt with at the Mirabel Centre since existence - that it really doesn't matter where she was, what she was wearing, why she was there, what she said, what she did, how she walked/eat/slept/breathed, who she is, whether she fought or not, screamed or otherwise, MEN RAPE BECAUSE THEY WANT TO. In a bid to help, we also see people talking about self-defense and how it can help women avoid getting raped. This is shortsighted because it exposes the underbelly of the issue, which is that our society sees the crime of rape as something the woman should take responsibility for. This goes to prove just how deeply rape is ingrained in our society that it is subtly permissible to an extent - that being as long as the larger society does not raise awareness against it. So, we'll leave you with this - rather than teach girls how not to get raped, teach your boys that they have absolutely NO right to a woman's body! IT'S ABOUT TIME OUR SOCIETY STOPS FAILING THE GIRL-CHILD.

Have you ever asked yourself the following question? How much respect did I pay for my culture? Let me remind you of a few things. Your culture is the base of your knowledge, beliefs, arts, policies, habits, and a pretty thing that you share with your most loved ones. There is no doubt your culture plays a major role in your capabilities. Please take this idea into account: carry and respect your culture along the way of your development because you deserve to do so. We talk a lot about peace, justice, and strong intuitions for the development of our societies. Without considering approval, the possibility to achieve and handle these issues is very little. The characteristics like language, religion, music, cuisines, dances, and belief systems play a significant role. You are the leader, a leader of a nation, a leader of the world. I am a supporter of your leadership have a dream, I want peace and developing world and I highly value my culture. Your duty as a leader is always to promote the culture of your people in the united circumstances on behalf of your people. Our civilization has been facing challenges like violence, human rights issues, security, and justice problems. What are your goals? What are the things that you can share with the world and the whole civilization as a person? Your lifestyle is your heritage. People will value your way of life as the level of respect you show to your traditions. You spend your time learning other people's culture and to accept the things you agree with (I hope so). I want to share a belief of mine with you because you are good. We can go to the goal of peace by sharing our culture while developing our progress and process. I want you to know I respect you and your culture and hope the same from you.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy, with no name, no color and no place to live. They say he lived in the sunflowers as there was his favorite place, but the thing is that he couldn't, actually see them, he was blind. The only color he had on him, was the black of his beautiful curly hair. Fed up of not being able to see the beauty around him, the little boy went to the wisest man in his village, he was known as “THE EBONY GUARDIAN”, he lived in a small, humble house just out of the beautiful sunflowers field, he was known to be the darkest man of his village and therefore, the wisest. As in the whole village, black was considered a sign of nobility and wisdom. “Master”, said the little boy, in sign of respect. “May I ask you something?” “sure, go ahead little boy!” said the man, looking at him. “do you know who I am, or where I come from or why I have no color at all?! I wish I could have a color just for me” said the boy looking sad and frustrated at the master. “I don't know what color you are or what is your name or where your place on the Earth is, but I can show you a place in this word where all the colors live together in the light that you can see and in the dark that hides everything”. saying that the master led the boy to the most beautiful place he'd ever seen, full of butterflies and flowers. The boy looked at the master curious and said: well, these are all the colors the world can be? Where's mine then? What color should I be? Do they speak any language that I could learn or am I a stranger even here? Whispered the boy so disappointed. “shhh! Whispered the master smiling at the boy, “watch”, added him pointing at the sky. The boy couldn't see anything so far. “White as the light before to show up its shades, black as the night where all the colors rest, until a new day comes and the rainbow lives again”. As soon as the master pronounced those words a wonderful rainbow stood up in the sky, with incredible, brilliant colors. Those colored lights hit the boy who had finally found what color he wanted to be, not just one but all the colors of the light, all the magic of a rainbow. “what's your color then?” asked the master “All the colors of the light!” exclaimed happily the boy. “And what's your name?” “Rainbow!” “And, finally: where do you come from?” “I come from the light that spreads in the world all the wonderful colors of the rainbow! The boy eventually, had found his colors, a name and his place, he always kept on the top of his head the black where the colors were hidden. And while the world goes on, fighting to decide who sparkles more than everyone, somewhere in a nowhere there always will be a rainbow to show the light with its colors and a dark, quite night to let them rest until tomorrow.

My beloved and I cannot be together–or so they say. But why? I still don't really understand, but they say we are not the same–or so his mother claims. We are not the same? Like how? I'm confused. On the day my beloved and I go to visit his mother for the first time, she makes it clear to me that ‘we' can never happen. I sit there like a log, speechless, as if my tongue is tied but really, it is because I find no words to express my bafflement. He asks me to excuse them–‘Wait for me in the car Emefa, I'll be with you shortly.' He appears to be quite stunned by his mother's mien himself. I obey and leave the room, but I stand by the door and eavesdrop. I need to hear something, at least to help me comprehend why the woman who sounded so sweet and welcoming over the phone, is being so indifferent to me now that we finally meet. ‘Mom, what is the meaning of all this? Why are you being like this?' I hear him say. ‘I'm not being indifferent Akwasi, I'm telling you the reality.' ‘Which is…?' ‘That you cannot marry her, no son of mine is ever marrying from that tribe or any other!' ‘But mom why? She's the one I love.' ‘No way...Never! Then find someone else to love because I am not accepting this one. Not today nor tomorrow! There are equally good Ashanti women around you can choose from, maybe even better.' ‘But she's the one I like. I don't want anyone else. Why can't it be her?' ‘Mm-mm. Impossible!, I will not accept an Ewe as my daughter-in-law.' ‘You know you're being irrational mom. You're much too educated to be speaking like this. You of all people should know better!' ‘Me? You dare call me irrational? Call it whatever Akwasi!, I've said my own. See? She hasn't even married you yet, and she's already turn you against me, your own mother. That is all they are good at!' ‘Mom! Emefa has done nothing wrong. She deserves to be given a chance please.' ‘It's either her or me then. Let me know when you've made your choice. I have nothing left to say.' ‘Ah-ah mom, this is too much. You can't just…' Door opens and bangs. Soon afterwards, dead silence. Bitterly, I turn away, my heavy heart pregnant with words my lips may never utter. I head calmly in the direction of the car. Another door bangs, I know it's him coming out. I sit in the car and watch him tread over, shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped the way they do when he is fatigued. My own eyes sting from the struggle to hold back tears that threaten to trickle down any time soon. He joins me in the car, I stare in the opposite direction into direct nothingness. ‘I know you heard everything. Right?' It was not so much of a question as it was a statement. I nod. Hmm. ‘I'm sorry you had to hear all that Emefa. My mother is not a bad person. I promise to sort everything out. Don't worry dear, we'll be fine.' I smile, a painfully forced smile. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently, a feeble attempt made to comfort me when he himself needed it the more. I am not convinced. How can I not be worried? He doesn't sound confident like the Akwasi I know; I can tell he's scared, that he isn't so sure anymore. I stare out the window at the house one more time. Who knows? It could be my last. As we leave, I close my eyes and allow the tears to trickle, caressing my cheeks as they make their way slowly down my chin. I bite my lower lip and wonder, 'Why must it come to this?'. Due to circumstances beyond our control, families we didn't ask to be born in, identities we had no choice but to embrace, because of this division called tribe; my beloved and I can never be–or so they say. A short story on tribalism and ethnicity.

My beloved and I cannot be together–or so they say. But why? I still don't really understand, but they say we are not the same–or so his mother claims. ‘We are not the same? Like how?' I'm confused. On the day my beloved and I go to visit his mother for the first time, she makes it clear to me that ‘we' can never happen. I sit there like a log, speechless, as if my tongue is tied but really, it is because I find no words to express my bafflement. He asks me to excuse them–‘Wait for me in the car Emefa, I'll be with you shortly.' He appears to be quite stunned by his mother's mien himself. I obey and leave the room, but I stand by the door and eavesdrop. I need to hear something, at least to help me comprehend why the woman who sounded so sweet and welcoming over the phone, is being so indifferent to me now that we finally meet. ‘Mom, what is the meaning of all this? Why are you being like this?' I hear him say. ‘I'm not being indifferent Akwasi, I'm telling you the reality,' ‘Which is…?' ‘That you cannot marry her, no son of mine is ever marrying from that tribe or any other!' ‘But mom why? She's the one I love.' ‘No way,...Never! Then find someone else to love because I am not accepting this one. Not today nor tomorrow!. There are equally good Ashanti women around you can choose from, maybe even better.' ‘But she's the one I like. I don't want anyone else, why can't it be her?' ‘Mm-mm, impossible my son, I will not accept an Ewe daughter-in-law.' ‘You know you're being irrational mom. You're much too educated to be speaking like this. You of all people should know better!' ‘Me?, you dare call me irrational, call it whatever Akwasi, I've said my own. See?, she hasn't even married you yet, and she's already turn you against me, your own mother.' ‘Mom, Emefa has done nothing wrong, she deserves a chance.' ‘It's either her or me then, let me know when you've made your choice. I have nothing left to say.' ‘Ah-ah, this is too much, you can't just…' Door opens and bangs. Soon afterwards, dead silence. Bitterly, I turn away, my heavy heart pregnant with words my lips may never utter. I head calmly in the direction of the car. Another door bangs, I know it's him coming out. I sit in the car and watch him tread over, shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped the way they do when he is fatigued. My own eyes sting from the struggle to hold back tears that threaten to trickle down any time soon. He joins me in the car, I stare in the opposite direction into direct nothingness. ‘I know you heard everything. Right?' It was not so much of a question. I nod. Hmm. ‘I'm sorry you had to hear all that Emefa, my mother is not a bad person. I promise to sort everything out. Don't worry dear, we'll be fine.' I smile, a painful smile, when he takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently, an attempt made to comfort. I am not convinced. How can I not be worried? He doesn't sound confident like the Akwasi I know; I can tell he isn't so sure anymore. I stare out the window at the house one more time. Who knows? It could be my last. As we leave, I close my eyes and allow the tears to trickle down, caressing my cheeks as they make their way down to my chin. I bite my lower lip and wonder why it has to come to this. Due to circumstances beyond our control, families we didn't ask to be born in, identities we had no choice but to embrace, because of this division called tribe, my beloved and I can never be–or so they say. A short story on tribalism and ethnicity based on a true experience.

“Can we be friends?” I stared at the seemingly ominous message sitting in my inbox on the Chinese dating website. Since arriving in China over a year earlier, that question had popped up repeatedly. In my American culture, friendships are assumed to be platonic. So, the romantic undertones in the frequent messages sent to me by male "friends," were bewildering. However, by the time I sat in front of my computer reading this specific message, I had begun to have a vague idea about what that question meant. I took a deep breath and typed, “yes.” My online “friend,” whose English name was Joseph, began contacting me regularly. He was friendly, but I wasn't convinced a cross-cultural, long-distance relationship was a good idea. So, I never texted him first, and looked for ways to end our conversations early. “I don't understand it,” I told a Chinese teacher, as we sat together on the wooden pew during music rehearsals. “Why does he still contact me so much?” She shook her head, “American girls are pushy.” She leaned closer so she could be heard over the noise of the electric guitars. “By Chinese cultural standards, you're already showing interest.” She told me more. A girl should not initiate contact more than the guy does; the guy is responsible to directly ask the girl to be official; "friends" should be exclusive. My mind spun. In spite of my doubts, Joseph kept pursuing me hard. Sometimes, we had light, fun conversations - like about his plans to deal with the mouse problem in his parent's house. Other times, things went deeper, and he would ask, “What qualities do you want in a future spouse?” Then, out of the blue, he invited me to spend Lunar New Year with his family. “He's serious about you,” American friends told me. “He could be planning to propose." I wasn't convinced. A battle ensued in my mind for days. In the end, I knew I had to give him a chance. A couple weeks later, darkness had fallen around the high speed train, as it breezed smoothly down the tracks. Passengers kept sneaking glances at the foreigner, who couldn't seem to sit still. “Well, if nothing else, we'll get to celebrate the Chinese New Year,” my friend Ruth was traveling with me for safety. A blast of cold air hit us as the door opened at the stop. As we walked towards the entrance of the station, I lifted my head, and saw Joseph waving. He grinned. Joseph carried my suitcase, and helped us get settled into his uncle's car. His uncle greeted us from the driver's seat. Joseph handed us a paper bag with burgers inside. Ruth ate, but I couldn't. I stared out the window at the bright signs with Chinese characters lighting up the dark night. Between small talk, Joseph kept glancing at me. When we arrived at his family's house, his parents and sister ushered us into the house, where food was waiting. I picked up the chopsticks, and forced down rice and vegetables. During the five day visit, there were intense mountain hikes, conversations around the dinner table, and Chinese cooking lessons. However, one thing was obvious: Joseph was very distant. As we hiked, he would walk in front or behind, but never beside me. He was busy with other things, and I spent a lot of time by myself. Even though I know cultural differences were at play, I still could not imagine a scenario in which his behavior could be a good sign. Our return train was at 2:00 am, but Joseph insisted on taking us to the station. Sitting beside me in the drafty waiting room, Joseph said, “The time went so fast.” I rolled my eyes. I assumed he was just being polite. Getting on the train, I escaped to the safety of the hard sleeper for the overnight trip home. I slept for hours, and when I woke up, the tears were trickling down. After meeting him, I could see that he was good guy, but it obviously wasn't to be. However, it wasn't over. The communication from Joseph was just as warm as before, and one day, after passing a test, he texted, "It would be more fun if you could celebrate with me." I began to rethink that visit. Chinese acquaintances said that in expecting Joseph to do things the American way, I had misinterpreted his behavior. Time stretched on. Nine months in, we remained unofficial. So, I waited, wondering if other peoples' advice was wrong, and I was right. It was after midnight one night when I got the text: “Can I ask you something?” Then, my phone feel silent for several minutes. I stared at it. There was a long silence. Finally, it buzzed. “Will you be my girlfriend?” Unfortunately, misunderstandings often bring premature endings to cross-cultural relationships. Cultural differences impact much more than diet or holiday traditions. Culture can also shape our views on what is right and wrong. For this reason, cross cultural relationships can be a challenge. However, they are worth the fight. It is important to be patient, and seek advice before jumping to conclusions. Who knows? A guy who claims to be your "friend" may want to be your husband!

My name, Haruko, means “spring child” in a direct translation. It is not an unusual name though girl names with -ko at the end are becoming less and less popular in Japan these days. I have always liked my name. Spring is the time of the year everything comes alive: plants, animals, people. The world suddenly becomes more vivid in color and the warmth in the air makes you smile. Well, at least it makes me smile. I was born in May, so naturally, I love spring. Yet, there is another meaning in my name. Most Japanese kids get Chinese characters for their names. The sound of the name, as well as the Chinese characters for it, gives the extra meaning to your name. Almost all people think of my name as 春子 when they hear my name. 春 simply means spring. Yet, my parents decided not to use this character but used 東 instead. 東 means east. It also means orient. It is pretty rare to use this character and read as Haru, so most of the time I meet Japanese people who have only saw my name in Chinese characters, they read it wrong. I once asked my mother why she had named me with this character. I think she was at the terrace, putting up the fresh laundry. Simply out of curiosity, I turned to her and asked. She said, "because when the first wind blows from the east, it means the spring is near." Then she smiled. I am not sure how long ago it was, how old I was, or which season it was. But in my memory, it was always spring, with soft sunlight bouncing on my mother's face and the towel she was putting up. I just loved how she said it. Whenever someone asks why I have an unusual character for my name, I proudly tell this story. With a smile. After I moved to the U.S., the first reaction I got whenever I told my name to people has always been “huh?” Many people misheard my name as Erika. I cannot tell you how many times I've told my name at Starbucks and got my drink in a cup named Erika. Nowadays I just tell my name as Erika at Starbucks. Maybe I should just pick a random name, such as Elizabeth or Beyoncé. Still, when I write down my name, especially in Japanese, I feel a little sense of pride. I remember the thought my parents put into naming my name. I remember my mother's smile. I remember the slight feel of triumph when non-Japanese people remembered my name perfectly. As I write this in freezing winter, I long for spring. I long for my season. I would love to see the soft sunlight bouncing on the fresh towel at the terrace. I long to feel the warm east wind on my face and to know the spring is near.

My childhood weekends are filled with memories of napping on long car rides and having my mom shake me awake as we reached the Golden Gate Bridge. Crossing the intersection of quiet Petaluma and the bustling streets of San Francisco marked a segue to a different world. For as long as I can remember, my family and I took the hour long trip to San Francisco almost every weekend to get traditional Chinese groceries. We would spend the day browsing the aisles of D&T Shop, Sheng Kee bakery, and countless other nameless stores. The best ones didn't have names, just patched up signs and unorganized aisles that bore elusive specialties. I would run through the aisles mesmerized by the assortments of ramen, the spiked vegetables, and the barrels of bitter spices; Costco and Safeway just couldn't compare. Mom would buy the jiu cai he zi that she used to eat for breakfast in her youth, and Dad would pick up the lotus root and tofu knots that his mother used to cook with. When we returned home, my mom would prepare traditional Chinese dishes for dinner with the fresh groceries. San Francisco brought my parents the comforts of their home, and immersed me in my Chinese culture. As the years passed, my childlike fascination in the endless aisles of noodles and live catfish butchery gradually waned. My parents began dropping me off as they shopped, and I began a cycle of visiting each art museum in San Francisco. Perusing the rooms at the De Young, MoMA, and Asian Art Museum sparked that childlike curiosity in me once again. I began painting and drawing and sketching at home, desperate to embody Dalí's mystique and Picasso's emotion. It was when I turned 16, I was finally allowed to volunteer at the Asian Art Museum. I remember the first day; it was a chilly Sunday and the opening day of the new kimono exhibit. I expected my partner to ignore me because she seemed so professional, whilst I barely knew what I was doing. However, Evelyn and I immediately hit it off and talked for the entire shift. She told me her story immigrating from the Philippines and about her career as a patent attorney. Evelyn gave me advice for my future and even offered me an intern position. In just a few hours, a stranger had become a friend and a mentor. In the next few months, I found myself meeting someone new during each volunteer shift and learning all about different life stories, careers, and experiences. One of the most memorable interactions was with Alex, who had studied art history at Duke University, and just gotten a curator position. She told me all about the intricacies of popular Asian art pieces, bringing us back into the social conditions that explained and inspired different aspects of many works. Those three hours inspired me to enroll in an art history course at the junior college, where I'm learning about worldwide cultures and history that have produced artistic expressions. It's so satisfying to see art as a vehicle that connects everything – culture, psychology, politics, aesthetics, etc. To understand why and how the Sistine Ceiling, Rembrandt's portraits, Van Gogh's landscapes, and Munch's Scream still touch people today, is to truly realize the extent of the visual language. I see the Asian Art Museum through a new lens now, wondering how the distinctive life experiences of each visitor allows them to interpret different pieces. San Francisco has given me a broader view of the whole world. Each month, I've met someone new, learned a unique story, and discovered interests. In San Francisco, I've traveled to my homeland, and visited places around the globe, experiencing thrills in the unique experiences of others.