It has never sat well with me that we celebrate these holidays for particular cultures or “minority” groups on specific days of the year – or months, if you’re lucky or large enough of a population. Black history in February. Women’s history in March. Asian heritage in May. Pride in June. National Indigenous History Month in June. Filipino heritage…again in June. Latin Heritage Month in October. And the list goes on…

While the creation of these holidays may have been well-intentioned and a symbol for progress at the time, the reality is that it is performative in essence and limits us to the bare minimum.

It encourages all of us to learn of these histories, heritages, cultures, and communities only during these specific times of the year instead of all year round as an integrated part of our educational curriculum and our collective consciousness. It’s lazy at best, and deeply harmful at worst.

It’s harmful because these heritage months subtly reinforce the mentality of scarcity that plague so many of us who are part of these underrepresented communities.

“Justine, if Living Hyphen is all about amplifying diverse and historically underrepresented voices, then why is your Creative Director a white man?”

A handful of people have asked me this since launching Living Hyphen and to be quite honest, I’m surprised more people don’t continue to ask. It’s an important question and it’s one that I dwell on a lot especially now as Josh, our Creative Director, and I ramp up on the design process of Issue 2.

Here’s the thing — I believe deeply in amplifying diverse voices, but I also believe deeply in allyship. These two truths are not, in any way, mutually exclusive. If anything, achieving equitable diversity is impossible without allyship. While it’s important for our communities to create alternate spaces for ourselves, we also need allies to use their existing power and access to resources to share opportunities with us, to lift while they climb, and to redistribute their power.

Being an ally means being willing to act with and for others in pursuit of dismantling systems of oppression to achieve equality and equity at all times. Even when it is uncomfortable and inconvenient. Especially when it is uncomfortable and inconvenient.

How do I begin this post without sounding like a cliché about this most “challenging and unprecedented” time? By telling you instead that Living Hyphen’s second year has been bursting with unexpected opportunities and once unimaginable possibilities.

In the backdrop of a global pandemic that has brought so much chaos, anguish, and loss, we have been immensely fortunate to carve out a safe and tender pocket for ourselves to find new ways to thrive, create, and continue to connect.

It always feels uncomfortable writing “success” or “milestone” posts. I often worry that it comes off as arrogant and immodest––even more so now knowing that so many are struggling.

But as I repeatedly tell myself: we live in a world where there is always something more to chase, more to achieve, more to give and it is so crucial that we pause and recognize our efforts and all the fruits that they bear. And I guess it’s precisely because this year has been so full of grief that I want to take a moment to take stock of the good, to express gratitude for all we’ve been able to accomplish despite the messiness of 2020. To speak it out loud feels so much more crucial now more than ever.

And so, for our second rotation around the sun, I happily share all the meaningful, powerful, and significant things that Living Hyphen has manifested!

Curating the stories for our inaugural issue was a revelation to me. I saw for the first time the very real and very serious power that editors and publishers have as gatekeepers of stories in our society. Being back in the editorial seat after a year(ish) hiatus was a powerful reminder of that, and this time on an even bigger scale as we received triple the submissions and grown our platform in the thousands since launching back in 2018.

As I go through the editorial process, I keep thinking to myself—who am I to say whose stories get published, printed, and ultimately, told? Who are any one of us to hold this position of gatekeeper?