Wonho Frank Lee is a freelance photographer who primarily shoots for Eater LA and recently received his MFA from Cal State LA. Follow him on Instagram @WonhoPhoto.
For the seven years I studied theology in Hong Kong in the 1970s, I didn’t have a single female professor or academic role model. I never imagined that I would spend a lifetime in academia and would later become the president of the American Academy of Religion, the world’s largest professional guild of religious scholars.
When the clip of Professor Robert E. Kelley’s interview with BBC News went viral, several of my Filipino friends and I feared that the Asian woman in the background might be a Filipina, one of the countless women who had left their families to care for the children of wealthy families in other countries.
“What are you doing with your life? Why are you always throwing away your life for other people?” It was my first time home in over a year; apparently, my mother was not very happy with my decision to become more involved in activism around the Seattle area.
Patriarchy exists and even thrives in Korean American and Korean immigrant churches. Hopefully, this isn’t news to most of us. As for me, I was excited and full of naïve bravado when I entered into ministry in that context.
On one particularly hot afternoon in Contra Costa, California, 20 Adult Education specialists entered an air-conditioned conference room, greeted by me and a couple of my colleagues. We were set to begin an undocumented student allyship training developed by the community college where we worked.
Serious business is being discussed around the conference table at San Francisco’s Chinatown Community Development Center. Chinatown finds itself at the frontlines of a heated gentrification battle. Crime is rising. So are evictions.
Behind barbed wire at the Manzanar War Relocation Center in California, Bill Watanabe entered the world, born with the face of someone who looked like the wartime enemy.
A church auntie snatched the microphone out of my hand. “Enough! You’ve said enough; now sit down.” “Young people,” I heard someone mutter as I sat down.
Ten years ago, I served as an AmeriCorps VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) at a refugee resettlement office in San Diego. Begun in 1965 as a domestic counterpart to the Peace Corps, VISTA is a national service program that connects volunteers to anti-poverty organizations.
With a sunshine yellow tracksuit, she was not hard to miss. As her arms rotated in controlled, windmill motions, my grandmother took her place among a dozen other Cantonese seniors at Washington Square Park in San Francisco.
I have power and privilege as a queer hapa yonsei pastor. This is not a sentence I would have imagined speaking just a few years ago.
In the library of the Alliance Evangelical Divinity School in Anaheim, California, I find Pastor Tai Nguyen hanging up a series of photos with an air of nostalgia, visual reminders of evangelism and his ministry in Vietnam before 1975.
“Get out of my country.” Those were the last words that I could remember hearing. Everything else was a blur of images and fragmented memories: the fluorescent beer signs gently hummed and looked down upon us above the entrance.
Sione Uvea Uipi lived life knowing that things were bigger than himself. He was born and raised in Fakakai Ha’apai, an island in the Kingdom of Tonga — one of the last standing monarchies in Polynesia.
I will never forget the day I was crying in a little room next to the English chapel, holding my newborn baby as my husband was preaching on the stage.
Imagine a suburban city in America which, in response to a rapidly growing Asian immigrant population, tries to make English the official language of the city, while also attempting to pass an ordinance that requires all business signs to display English lettering.
I had done my fair share of activism in college and post-graduation, but never quite long enough to see actual change on an institutional level. On paper, JoAnne Kagiwada had an impressive roster that placed her in the history books, and I was readying myself to meet a force of nature in this small-framed, Japanese American grandmother.
“What are you doing with your life? Why are you always throwing away your life for other people?” It was my first time home in over a year; apparently, my mother was not very happy with my decision to become more involved in activism around the Seattle area.
On one particularly hot afternoon in Contra Costa, California, 20 Adult Education specialists entered an air-conditioned conference room, greeted by me and a couple of my colleagues. We were set to begin an undocumented student allyship training developed by the community college where we worked.
Ten years ago, I served as an AmeriCorps VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) at a refugee resettlement office in San Diego. Begun in 1965 as a domestic counterpart to the Peace Corps, VISTA is a national service program that connects volunteers to anti-poverty organizations.
I have power and privilege as a queer hapa yonsei pastor. This is not a sentence I would have imagined speaking just a few years ago.
“Get out of my country.” Those were the last words that I could remember hearing. Everything else was a blur of images and fragmented memories: the fluorescent beer signs gently hummed and looked down upon us above the entrance.
For the seven years I studied theology in Hong Kong in the 1970s, I didn’t have a single female professor or academic role model. I never imagined that I would spend a lifetime in academia and would later become the president of the American Academy of Religion, the world’s largest professional guild of religious scholars.
Patriarchy exists and even thrives in Korean American and Korean immigrant churches. Hopefully, this isn’t news to most of us. As for me, I was excited and full of naïve bravado when I entered into ministry in that context.
A church auntie snatched the microphone out of my hand. “Enough! You’ve said enough; now sit down.” “Young people,” I heard someone mutter as I sat down.
With a sunshine yellow tracksuit, she was not hard to miss. As her arms rotated in controlled, windmill motions, my grandmother took her place among a dozen other Cantonese seniors at Washington Square Park in San Francisco.
I will never forget the day I was crying in a little room next to the English chapel, holding my newborn baby as my husband was preaching on the stage.
When the clip of Professor Robert E. Kelley’s interview with BBC News went viral, several of my Filipino friends and I feared that the Asian woman in the background might be a Filipina, one of the countless women who had left their families to care for the children of wealthy families in other countries.
Serious business is being discussed around the conference table at San Francisco’s Chinatown Community Development Center. Chinatown finds itself at the frontlines of a heated gentrification battle. Crime is rising. So are evictions.
Behind barbed wire at the Manzanar War Relocation Center in California, Bill Watanabe entered the world, born with the face of someone who looked like the wartime enemy.
In the library of the Alliance Evangelical Divinity School in Anaheim, California, I find Pastor Tai Nguyen hanging up a series of photos with an air of nostalgia, visual reminders of evangelism and his ministry in Vietnam before 1975.
Sione Uvea Uipi lived life knowing that things were bigger than himself. He was born and raised in Fakakai Ha’apai, an island in the Kingdom of Tonga — one of the last standing monarchies in Polynesia.
Imagine a suburban city in America which, in response to a rapidly growing Asian immigrant population, tries to make English the official language of the city, while also attempting to pass an ordinance that requires all business signs to display English lettering.
I had done my fair share of activism in college and post-graduation, but never quite long enough to see actual change on an institutional level. On paper, JoAnne Kagiwada had an impressive roster that placed her in the history books, and I was readying myself to meet a force of nature in this small-framed, Japanese American grandmother.