As one of the Bay Area’s stalwart Flamenco dancers, Cruz has carved out a niche in the traditional Spanish art form — becoming one of the most prolific practitioners in the East Bay where she makes her home. And yet, when it comes to heritage, Cruz’ chops aren’t Spanish at all — she was born in the Philippines. 

“It is a very curious,” she said with a pause, “I guess very unique thing to do.” 

Cruz’ life has traversed the unique since early on. She was four when her father moved the family from the Philippines to Brooklyn to take a medical job. Not long after, the family decamped to New Orleans where Cruz grew up. In a city known for gumbo and zydeco, the Cruz family instead found home ground among the city’s small Filipino community, where Cruz came to know her heritage. 

“I remember being sort of immersed in two very different cultures,” Cruz said, flanked by walls of mirrors in her Oakland dance studio, “New Orleans culture and Filipino culture.” 

It was in New Orleans that she began to discover yet another important culture – the world of dance. She took tap, jazz, ballet and a requisite New Orleans skill — baton twirling. But it wouldn’t be until later on, after she’d moved to the Bay Area to attend Cal Berkeley that she’d find her true calling. She planned to study law at Cal but a different seed was planted when her Spanish teacher showed the class a film of the opera Carmen put to Flamenco. 

“I don’t know how to describe it,” she said, “but I felt an urgency that I needed to do that.” 

She sought out Flamenco dance classes and then dove head-first to the art form. She was drawn to Flamenco’s simple yet powerful alchemy of guitar, voice and dance. The percussion of heels pummeling floor, hand claps, castanets and the dramatic gyrations of the dancers drew her in.  

As she progressed into Flamenco, more and more of her personality began to come out in her dancing. On occasion her footwork would summon the syncopated flurries of a rock drummer as she floated along with the rolling staccato accompaniment of a nylon string guitar. 

“The moments of most joy,” she said, “are those moments when I feel free in my interpretation.” 

And yet, as a Filipina woman performing a different culture’s signature art, Cruz felt a tinge of guilt. Perhaps what weighed on her most was the historical fact that Spain had occupied the Philippines for three-centuries. The other uncomfortable moments came when people would assume because she danced Flamenco Cruz she was of Latin heritage. 

“It’s very rare that people look at me and they identify me as Filipina,” she said. “It reminded me of my identity as being Filipina and how I feel doing this art form that is not mine really.” 

Cruz said the guilt comes and goes, but she carries on headfirst into a passion she loves purely. In her two decades as dancer, she performs as often as she can and now even teaches Flamenco classes from her Oakland studio. On top of that, the rhythms that percolated in her feet now permeate her entire being — as she plays drums in several bands, sometimes doing double duty as a dancer/percussionist. 

It’s almost as if Cruz had to dive into a different culture to truly find her place within her own, a melding of cultures and discovery that are hallmarks of the great melting pot. Those thoughts sometimes come to Cruz when she’s on a stage, in her traditional Flamenco clothing, with the music pulsing and a crowd’s emotions rising and twisting with her every move. 

“Those moments I’ve come to appreciate as being really unique and different every time,” Cruz said, “which in my mind is the best way to find out about yourself and who you are.” 

It’s a passion that Narasimhan has nurtured since she was four years old growing up in Bangaluru and Chennai in Southern India. Her family moved often, but the dancing — a classical form of South Asian dance called bharatanatyam — always followed.  

“Everywhere I went my parents had like two duties,” Narasimhan laughed, “one was to find me a new school and they had to find me a new dance class.”  

The bharatanatyam dance is a cantata of jumps and leaps, fast movements with percussive foot stomps — emotion is conveyed with facial expressions, all on display as Narasimhan practiced in her Sunnyvale studio. 

It’s a scene that Narasimhan once thought unlikely, after parting ways with dance earlier in life to pursue higher education in India – following that path into the practical career of software developer.  

But no matter how far she waded into the world of code, it was always dance that lit up her spirit.   

“Slowly I began to realize this is what I’m meant to do,” she said. “I think I can distinctly remember that when dance is a big part of my life how happy I am.” 

Narasimhan returned to dance professionally, choreographing and performing across India. When her husband took a job in the U.S. Narasimhan brought her love of classical dance to her new home in the South Bay. 

She realized she could spread bharatanatyam exponentially if she could also teach it — which is how the garage was sacrificed for the need of a proper dance space. Several times a week, Narasimhan fills the room with groups of dance students, from elementary school kids to adults, all aspiring to learn a dramatic art form from the old country. 

The majority of her students are first or second generation Indian, seeking to embrace a piece of culture their parents grew-up with. On a recent day, Narasimhan prowled the studio keeping time on a woodblock as a group of students wearing crisp matching red blouses and baggy yellow pants followed her instructions. 

“It’s pretty important because we have a lot of festivals where you have to dance for it,” said Anika Subbiah, a South Bay elementary school student who studies dance with Narasimhan. “My mom did it too, she did the same dance.” 

The pandemic threw a wrench into Narasimhan dance momentum, with performances and travel to India cut-off —  but it also revealed a new teaching tool. With the world shut down, Narasimhan began offering virtual dance classes which proved a silver lining. The virtual world allowed her to earn a living while continuing to spread her love of dance. 

“There was a lot of learning that was happening virtually,” she said, “because suddenly you have access to a wealth of knowledge online.” 

Also during the pandemic, Narasimhan gave birth to a child — and a new arts organization called Prayukti Arts, which is a new nonprofit aimed at fostering South Asian arts in the Bay Area. 

“We’re trying to curate platforms for artists like other South Asian artists,” Narasimhan said, “and try to give them a platform not to just engage and perform but to go deeper into their art forms.” 

As she takes her own choreography and performances to a new level, Narasimhan is straddling two worlds; her native India and her adopted world in the U.S. — spreading her unique sense of dance in both. The culture of her native India is etched on her DNA – and follows her wherever she ends up. 

“The culture is just a part of me,” she said, “so I can’t separate myself from it a lot of times.”  

As she dances, or watches others dance her choreography or follow her teachings, Narasimhan is reminded of the times where she and her dancing strayed apart. It was that period of separation that revealed just how much dance meant to her. 

“I never thought that this is what I would do for a living,” she said. “I think for me I just need it to be a big part of my life.”

The 31-year-old Newark native is re-writing her own journey, finding her voice and doesn’t care what others have to say about it.

NBC Bay Area’s Audrey Asistio caught up with her when she visited her alma mater, Newark Memorial High School to meet up with some special fans.

Tiger print pants paired with a lilac-colored sweater. A fur cap topping layers of prints and solids. The neighborhood’s colorfully striking fashion sense caught the eye of Valerie Luu as she wandered through the neighborhood. 

“We wanted to understand where did they get their clothes, and how did they put together these awesome outfits,” said Luu, outfitted in a bright lemon top with matching rubber shoes.

Luu’s interest in the fashion sense of the area’s seniors soon evolved beyond simple curiosity. She and photographer Andria Lo began to visit Chinatown to stalk the area’s elders, stopping them to inquire about their stories and asking to snap a photo. 

“Our success rate is 10%,” laughed Luu, who is of Vietnamese heritage and only knew a few words of Chinese. “Most people will say ‘thank you’ which means ‘no thank you.’”

Armed with a limited Chinese vocabulary that included the phrases “nice hat,” “hello” and “I like your outfit,” Luu applied a strategy of time-plus-tenacity-plus-frequency to eventually persuade enough seniors to open a brief window into their lives and fashion sense. With their burgeoning success in San Francisco, the Luu and Lo pair expanded their cultural gatherings to Chinatowns in Oakland, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York and Vancouver.  

“From there we shot every month for the next seven years, and we eventually turned the collection into a book,” said Luu.

The book the pair created is called Chinatown Pretty, published by Chronicle Books. It’s a collection of photos of senior fashions mixed with a bit of wisdom and storytelling from some of the nation’s most culturally dense neighborhoods. 

“I think what captivates us at first is their style,” explained Luu. “From there we try to learn more about what they did before they retired — why they immigrated here and how they lived their lives in these urban centers.” 

It turned out the fashion was the gateway to a deeper dive into the culture of Chinatown, touching on issues of immigration, isolation, aging and relocation. Luu learned many of the elderly women in Chinatown had worked in sewing factories in China before immigrating to the U.S. She discovered some of their outfits had been re-fashioned from clothing they’d made in their professional sewing days – now touchstones of previous lives as they began anew in a foreign land. 

Among the book’s stories that emerged from the serendipitous encounters was a profile of Estelle Kelley, who was born in San Francisco’s Chinatown, shuffled off to China, and returned not long after to Oakland’s Chinatown where she was raised in foster homes. Kelley went on to work as a dancer in San Francisco’s legendary Forbidden City nightclub and cabaret. She died not long after the book’s release. 

“She was in show business for all of her life,” said Kelley’s granddaughter, Kelsi Seid. “To know people were still talking about her and are still talking about her, I know that was so important to her.”  

Luu walked through San Francisco’s Portsmouth Square where a group of Chinese seniors hovered around a picnic table engaged in an intense game of cards. Luu pointed out the women wearing bucket hats — a popular accessory among the neighborhood’s seniors — and men dressed in tidy Members Only jackets paired with khaki pants. 

Luu said of all the Chinatowns profiled in the book, San Francisco’s seemed the most fashionable because the city’s persnickety weather requires multiple layers, creating the possibility for more sophisticated clothing ensembles.

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Luu paused, mouth agape, as an elderly woman strolled down Grant crowned in a large fur hat. Luu employed one of her few Chinese compliments to stop the woman and pepper her with flattery and questions, which the woman’s friend translated:  

“Wow! That’s a bold hat.” 

“The colors you have on are very good.” 

“Shopping? What are you shopping for?”

The encounter was a brief peak behind the curtain into Luu’s natural curiosity and reverence for the area’s seniors. It could also be their stories strike a chord for Luu, whose own parents came to the U.S. as refugees from Vietnam, imbuing her with an appreciation for the international wanderer. 

“Part of the reason why we started this is cause we see our grandparents in these people that we see on the streets,” she said. 

Chinatown Pretty was initially released in 2020 during the global pandemic lockdown and at a time when a series of attacks on elderly Asians left Chinatown seniors more isolated than ever before. The book’s spirit seems a balm for the dark times. 

“Sometimes they’re lonely,” said Cathie Lam of the Chinatown Community Development Center in describing the seniors profiled in the book. “I feel this really highlights them.”

Luu hopes the book will remind people to take notice of the people whom they share a swath of asphalt — and to take an interest in the senior citizens who bring generational color to a neighborhood.  

“Seniors have a lot of wisdom to impart,” Luu said. “So we try to get the fashion wisdom along with the life wisdom.” 

For more information on the book, visit chinatownpretty.com.

Third State Books is the first publishing house to focus solely on Asian American and Pacific Islander voices, issues and stories. The company launched in the new year and has already lined up some well-known names.

Gia Vang has more in the video above.

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“We didn’t know what to do with all these emotions,” said Liao. “Being pissed, sad, all of it at the same time.” 

Liao and his friends would gather together in their outrage, hoisting beers and strategizing what they could do to help. Finally, they landed on the formation of a new nonprofit group called Asians Are Strong.  

The group’s first effort was to stage a pair of rallies in San Francisco, denouncing the attacks and offering self-defense demonstrations in Civic Center Plaza. But members of the group, which include a restauranteur, a tech CEO and a financial risk manager, felt they needed to do more to empower seniors. And so, Asians Are Strong self-defense classes at Chinatown’s YMCA were born. 

“I’m born and raised in San Francisco,” said Liao, who leads the classes. “We’ve dealt with racism, we’ve dealt with this stuff. Racism is not new. What was new was the attacks on our seniors and our women.” 

Twice a month, Liao and his fellow group members slip on navy-colored T-shirts emblazoned with the Asians Are Strong logo and lead a couple dozen Asian seniors through a class aimed at helping them fend off attackers. 

Liao begins each class instructing the group to scream “Stop!”– the first line of defense in an attack. Liao said the scream is not only intended to startle an attacker, but it’s also aimed at activating the seniors in a different way. 

“So we’re getting them used to using their voice,” Liao said. “We start every class with that to break the years of generational training to really start using the voice cause it goes the farthest.” 

Liao teaches his eager pupils, who range in age from 50s to 80s, how to break the grip of an assailant who has grabbed them from behind  how to block a punch or deliver a kick to the groin. Despite the heavy nature of the material, the sound of laughter reflects across the sleek floor boards of the gym’s basketball court, creating a somewhat joyful din. 

“It’s very important to really approach it in a more open, joyful way,” said Zeien Cheung, the group’s head of operations. “Empowering them in a positive kind of vibe.” 

Although some of the group had martial arts experience, none had ever taught self-defense. Liao said he wasn’t even aware of any other self-defense classes aimed at seniors. Liao and members of his group often gathered outside of classes to arrange the curriculum for future lessons.

“When all these attacks were coming up, we were looking,” Liao said. “What are self-defense tools that we could teach people? What would we do?” 

Liao said the seniors taking his classes routinely share stories of attacks – getting shoved, punched or harassed. On a recent day, one of the seniors told Liao she’d recently been pushed by a stranger.

During that class, a TV crew from the Netherlands was on hand filming for a report on the rise of Asian attacks in the United States. 

“It’s happening to our community every single day,” Liao said. “That’s trauma that is not recorded and is not talked about every single day.” 

Siaoyin Cai, a senior who lives in Chinatown, said her newly-acquired skills for protecting herself have brought her some reassurance as she walks to markets and stores around the neighborhood. 

“Coming to this class has given me self-confidence, given me the skills to protect myself and a sense of safety,” said Cai, through a translator.

The intangible of the program is that it’s also become an inter-generational connection between the elderly pupils and the 30-something instructors who are doing the training. 

“During this pandemic a lot of people got very isolated by themselves,” said Cheung. “And with these classes is kind of bridging this generational gap, that these elders feel they’re not alone. We’re here for them.”  

Liao called the classes the “silver lining” of the attacks, giving him the chance to bond with older generations from his old neighborhood. And yet, the necessity of seniors having to take self-defense classes at all, carries its own heartbreak and continually fills him with rage and frustration. 

“It comes from a lot of guilt too to be honest,” he said, his voice breaking and his eyes beginning to tear. “I felt like I should’ve done more.” 

For now, Liao and his group are at least fulfilled by the fact they’re helping equip seniors with skills to potentially protect themselves. 

On a recent day, Liao sparred with an elderly woman in a knitted sweater vest, who screamed and broke from Liao’s grip, inspiring applause from the rest of the group. 

“There’s a problem. It sucks there’s a problem,” Liao said after the class. “But we’re going to find a solution and make it better.”  

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Reporter Gia Vang features Wong and highlights her tireless work in the video above. NBC Bay Area provided Wong questions ahead of time and she used a text to speech app in the interview.

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Instead of making her exquisitely crafted nail art for a roomful of salon customers, she instead took her hand-painted nail art to the global market of e-commerce. TikTok and Instagram videos nudged her business into the next stratosphere and, voila, a sensation was born. 

“It’s very interesting what nails have become,” said Rahey, from inside her office in a Fremont industrial park. “It’s something of a cult following.” 

If nail art is a cult, then Rahey is its de facto cult leader, gaining fame for painting tiny images of movie characters, horror movie scenes and anything else someone can think up onto the face of a plastic nail – all the while assembling a dedicated crew of designers who are helping to push the burgeoning art form forward. 

Rahey, who previously worked as a software engineer in Southern California, has even turned to her engineer roots to create nail applications that morph and move with body and environmental temperatures. 

“This is what I’m obsessed with, creating as many animation or sort of hidden effects, which has become really popular,” she said.

In addition to designing custom nail sets, Rahey’s company, Pamper Nail Gallery, is regularly hired by movie studios to create nails for red carpet premiers, including Marvel’s Thor 11 and Dungeons and Dragons. Progressive Auto Insurance hired her to make a set of nails with its iconic Flo character. Rahey appreciates a challenge — there’s virtually no image she can’t fit onto a nail. 

“It’s such an interesting canvas,” Rahey said. “It’s not like a sheet of paper or just kind of a rectangular board. It’s 10 little pieces of plastic essentially and what you’re doing is you’re telling a story.” 

In the story of Rahey’s early life, there’s nothing that even hinted of the life path she would undertake. She never studied art — an aunt’s harsh review of one of her childhood paintings dashed any enthusiasm she might’ve had for the form. 

Rahey was born in Shanghai, China, moving with her family to the U.S. when she was 6 years old. It was a hard transition. 

“When I was just a little kid, barely spoke English very well,” she recalled. “I was crying every day at home because it was pretty rough on me. All I could feel back then was pure shame about who I was and my culture.” 

When she entered into the stressful career world of software engineering, she would often retreat to the bathroom, pulling out multiple bottles of nail polish to trick out her nails. It became her regular escape. 

By 2017, she’d given in to a creative calling, opening her Fremont nail salon, which emphasized artistic applications for nails. Sometimes the nail painting sessions would stretch as long as 11 hours. 

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Rahey hired others designers without any artistic experience, giving them an opportunity to blossom from within the craft as she had. Jasmine Sap began as a front desk receptionist in the salon, working her way up to becoming a lead designer in the company. 

“I’ve actually hired a lot of girls here who started with no nail art experience either,” said Sap, sitting at her desk surrounded by bottles of nail polish. “To see them grow into these amazing and capable artists really has been amazing.” 

For Rahey, something odd happened as she dove headlong into her new career: the deeper she fell into her art, interpreting images from Japanese anime and Chinese culture, the more she began to appreciate her own Chinese heritage from which she’d once strayed. 

“It really allowed me to fully kind of come full-circle with appreciating some of the cultural aspects that I was ashamed by when I was little,” Rahey said. “And most of that I think is spoken through art.” 

Rahey’s company has expanded with the exploding popularity of nail art, opening two offices in the Bay Area and another in Las Vegas. Inside her Fremont warehouse, designers sit at desks decorated with stuffed animals and Hello Kitty. One designer showed off her unique creations, a series of nails that came together to form a five-finger octopus, a larger-than-life dragonfly that sat on a nail appliqué, and a set of rattlesnake tail nails that actually rattled when shook. 

For Rahey, a look back on her own life trajectory revealed a journey where one unexpected event seemed to guide her to the next, landing at this place at the fingertip of the nail art world. 

“I just pursued, I guess, like happiness or that emotion that art evoked for me,” Rahey said. “And then it turned into something I didn’t expect.” 

There has been a lot of talk about book bans and for one Asian American children’s author who had her book banned, she used that experience to write her latest novel.

Kelly Yang, a UC Berkeley graduate, wants her book to start conversations and for young people to be “finally seen.”

Watch more in the video above.

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South Korean superstars BTS met with President Joe Biden on Tuesday as part of the administration’s ongoing celebration of Asian American, Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islanders Heritage Month.

The arranged meeting saw group members Jin, Suga, RM, J-Hope, Jimin, V, and Jungkook join the president in a powerful discussion about the importance of Asian representation and inclusion amidst ongoing anti-Asian hate crimes and discrimination.

“We were devastated by the recent surge of hate crimes, including Asian American hate crimes,” Jimin said. “To put a stop on this and support the cause, we’d like to take this opportunity to voice ourselves once again.”

J Hope added, “We are here today thanks to our Army — our fans worldwide — who have different nationalities and cultures and use different languages. We are truly and always grateful.”

Jungkook shared that the band was “still surprised that music created by South Korean artists reaches so many people around the world… we believe music is always an amazing and wonderful unifier of all things.” Suga also added, “It’s not wrong to be different, equality begins when we open up and embrace all of our differences.”

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Ahead of their visit, the group’s management company BIGHIT MUSIC shared in a statement that, as “artists representing South Korea,” BTS were “honored” to receive an invitation to the White House, adding, “We look forward to discussing various topics including inclusion, diversity, anti-Asian hate crimes, culture and art.”

Throughout the years, BTS — who attended the United Nations General Assembly last September as former South Korean President Moon Jae-in’s “special presidential envoy for future generations and culture” — has used their platform to denounce racism in all forms. Amid a rise in anti-Asian hate crimes in May 2021, BTS shared their “grief” and “anger” in a moving Twitter statement condemning racist violence.

“We have endured expletives without reason and were mocked for the way we look. We were even asked why Asians spoke in English,” the statement read in part. “We cannot put into words the pain of becoming the subject of hatred and violence for such a reason.”

It continued, “Our own experiences are inconsequential compared to the events that have occurred over the past few weeks. But these experiences were enough to make us feel powerless and chip away our self-esteem.”

In June 2020, the group donated $1 million dollars to the Black Lives Matter movement and tweeted, “We stand against racial discrimination. We condemn violence. You, I and we all have the right to be respected. We will stand together. #BlackLivesMatter.”

When asked by Variety about their donation — which was matched by their passionate fanbase, ARMY, in just 24 hours — eldest member Jin shared, “When we’re abroad or in other situations, we’ve also been subjected to prejudice. We feel that prejudice should not be tolerated; it really has no place.”

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In his more than two decades at the helm of San Francisco’s cable cars, Lupiz has practically become as much an ambassador for the cars as they have for the city. 

“I think they just like the way I dress,” Lupiz said, punctuating the line with his typical full-body laugh. 

Dressed in his old-timey gripman hat and vest, Lupiz indeed looks like a character from the pages of San Francisco’s back story, yet it’s more likely it’s his work ethic that gets him calls from the city brass whenever they need an especially reliable hand. He’s also got a keen appreciation for cable car history. 

“I mean, how great is that I can look at a photograph of one of these things from 1930 and, ‘Oh, I was driving that last week,'” he said. 

Lupiz has something in common with the cable cars: both were born and raised in San Francisco. Lupiz grew up in the city’s Mission District, the son of a Japanese mother and a Filipino father. His parents met just after World War II when his military dad met Lupiz’s mother working in the office of Gen. Douglas MacArthur in Japan. They found their way to San Francisco.

Lupiz’s mother had friends in Chinatown and would often take her son along with her, allowing him to roam while she visited friends. One day Lupiz ventured up the hill and saw his first cable car. 

“I thought, ‘Oh, that’s cool!” he remembered.   

He became a frequent visitor to the cable car barn and his interest was stoked by the crews who took him under their wing and showed him how everything worked. He made up his mind when he was 8 years old what he wanted to do with his life. 

“Little kids, you want to be an astronaut or a police officer,” Lupiz said sitting in a cable car in the barn. “I always wanted to do this.” 

But when it came time to begin his career, Lupiz talked himself out of chasing his cable car dream. He’d gotten the idea in his head that maybe it wasn’t a professional career and that he should do something serious. He ended up working in a store, confessing his unhappiness to a friend. She asked him what kind of job he’d do if he could pick anything? He wanted to drive a cable car. 

“I had to get over my own mental obstacles about not some childish fantasy,” Lupiz said. “Well, sometimes childish fantasies come true.” 

Twenty-three years ago, Lupiz joined MUNI as a bus driver. Not long after, he jumped at the chance to transfer to the cable car division where he’s been the last 21 years. It’s no small feat in a job where some 90% of candidates wash out.  

In addition to a clean safety record, Lupiz also boasts his long-standing tradition of decorating the cable cars for Christmas every year – where he applies his fastidious standards. 

“I know I’ve gotten a really good design for Christmas when I see locals turn around and say, ‘Oh, look at that,'” he noted.

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Lupiz has also taken up the mantle of diversity programs within the department and applying his decorating skills to the department’s AAPI month cable car. 

“To have the attitude not only of being a cable car operator but the whole racial equity part as well, that’s way beyond whatever I could ever explain about Val,” said Fred Butler, Assistant Division Manager of the cable car division. 

As someone with a passion for his job, Lupiz was devastated when he couldn’t do it for a year-and-a-half as the pandemic grounded the cable car fleet. Lupiz was put to work washing busses and other duties around the city which he says he was thankful for. But on the rare occasions when cable cars were taken out for practice runs, he was overjoyed to get back to the grip. When service finally resumed, he’d gained a new perspective. 

“It’s really made me appreciate even more what I have,” Lupiz said. 

Growing up Asian, Lupiz faced discrimination as a child – incidents he doesn’t like to dwell on. Instead, his mother paved his road ahead with a piece of advice.

“She always said being Asian, I would have to work harder to prove myself,” Lupiz said.

Lupiz credits that challenge with helping him rise to the ranks of the cable car division’s elite gripmen, propelled by a devout work ethic. 

On the days when the crowds are thin and the sun is shining, Lupiz sometimes imagines he’s back in the late 1800s, shepherding a car down Hyde Street hill toward the sparkling bay. He can’t help but think he’s living out his childhood dream. 

“I don’t bother playing Lotto,” he said. “I don’t do any of that. I used up all my luck.”

“President Biden has previously spoken about his commitment to combating the surge of anti-Asian hate crimes,” a White House statement said. “President Biden and BTS will also discuss the importance of diversity and inclusion and BTS’ platform as youth ambassadors who spread a message of hope and positivity across the world.”

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BTS has been vocal about anti-Asian hate in the past, speaking about it during their post-pandemic tours and in statements to social media.

“We stand against racial discrimination,” the band said in a statement, which was shared on the group’s Twitter last year. “We condemn violence. You, I and we all have the right to be respected. We will stand together.”

Read the full story on NBCNews.com here

“Having to be pulled away from high school and pack up everything into suitcases … and be hauled into a camp,” said Karen Leong, describing what her uncle Tatasuki Kanada endured at just 17 years old, ripped from Mt. Diablo High School and sent to an internment camp with his family during World War II.

“I was shocked knowing that people who actually attended my school had to go through something so bad,” said student Stephanie Patino. “It was just shocking.”

When the school’s ethnic studies students learned the Japanese American students never got their diplomas, they set out to change that.

“Innocent students that go here that wanted an education were stripped away from their education and sent to these camps,” said student Brandon Dominguez.

It took the students two years, writing letters and making speeches and in March, they learned their efforts paid off. Those diplomas will be issued in the names of each of the 40 students.

“I think it’s important because it gives them a chance to experience something they didn’t experience before,” said student James Hutalla.

“It’s just a small gesture really. We understand this is 80 years too late but we just wanted to tell them they matter to us and they’re part of our community,” said Ethnic Studies teacher Laura Valdez. 

Kanada’s niece and nephew will accept the diploma on their uncle’s behalf. The army veteran died in 2007.

“If he was still alive today he’d be humbled and overjoyed,” said Leong.

He and his three brothers all fought in World War II. One of them died in combat earning the Purple Heart.

“They were faithful to the country that’s why they served in the war to prove their worth as an American,” said Leong.

They say they’re grateful to kids who fought to right a wrong, getting Kanada’s diploma means everything to their family.

“I just wish he was here to get it himself,” said Leong.

Chen is the executive director of The Asian American Foundation (TAAF), which is celebrating its one-year anniversary this month.

Chen has a 30-year career in entrepreneurship, health care, community and philanthropy.

NBC Bay Area’s Janelle Wang recently sat down for a conversation with Chen. Watch the interview in the video player above.

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One of them is 14-year-old Peninsula teenager, Ashlyn So, who during the height of Asian hate, decided to use her voice and creative talent to speak up.

NBC Bay Area’s Janelle Wang has the story in the video above.

The composition titled Hope, stands as a fitting musical synopsis of Arben’s life, a Polish Jew who survived numerous Nazi concentration camps — which claimed the lives of his entire family — and took comfort in his violin during a long career in U.S. orchestras. 

For Korean American Jackson-Picht, music and friendship wove a cross-cultural connection to Arben, devoting much of her recent years to a one-woman performance paying homage to her musical mentor who died in 2017. 

“It’s such a great example of how music is a bridge across cultures,” Jackson-Picht said in the practice room of her San Jose home. “It connects humanity in a way I don’t think anything else does.” 

Jackson-Picht grew up in Santa Cruz — her first musical memories were of listening to her Korean grandmother singing Korean folk songs. She wasn’t yet 5-years-old when she started violin lessons – her memories don’t include a time when the violin wasn’t part of her life. 

She first encountered Arben at a music camp where she was struck by his rapt dedication to helping aspiring musicians. After the camp she sent a thank you card to Arben’s home in Philadelphia, where he spent 34 years as a member of the Philadelphia Orchestra. The letter touched-off a friendship. 

“If you’re fortunate, someone will come into your life and have a profound impact,” Jackson-Picht said. “For me that person was definitely David Arben.” 

When Jackson-Picht attended the Juilliard School of music in New York, she frequently took a Greyhound Bus to Philadelphia to study with Arben. The lessons lasted hours, followed by long strolls and meals around Philly. That’s where Arben’s life-story began to unfurl; the painful details of his time in concentration camps — how he’d narrowly avoided death when a guard plucked him last-minute from a group of camp prisoners chosen for execution – because he’d seen the boy play violin and declared a need for his virtuosity. 

“He attributes the violin and the love of his family saving his life,” Jackson-Picht said. 

The friendship endured after she returned to California and began performing professionally with organizations like the San Francisco Ballet. Fifteen years ago, when Jackson-Picht organized the Music In May chamber music festival in her hometown of Santa Cruz, she honored Arben with a newly commissioned piece by Polina Nazaykinskaya called Haim. 

During one of the performances, a pianist suggested Jackson-Picht document Arben’s story, which inspired her and her father John Jackson to write the biography Arben; David Arben’s Life of Miracles and Successes. It came out two years after Arben’s death at the age of 89. 

But Jackson-Picht’s devotion to her mentor didn’t end there. She created a one-woman performance to share Arben’s story through solo violin playing, storytelling and visual projections. 

“We took that program into schools, community centers, churches, synagogues — basically anywhere they would have us,” she said, “so we could share the life of David Arben.” 

From her practice room, flanked by a poster from one of Arben’s orchestral performances, Jackson-Picht plunged her bow into a deep musical exorcism of Hope, another Nazaykinskaya piece she commissioned for Arben. The title takes its title from one of Arben’s many sayings; “music is hope, music is peace.” 

Just as the violin became young Arben’s family following the death of his entire family in the Holocaust, Jackson-Picht became part of his familial constellation in his later years. It’s a friendship that stretched across cultural lines in the grand tradition of the great melting pot.  

“He’s such an extraordinary individual I don’t want to just reap the benefits of his life and story teaching me, inspiring me,” Jackson Picht said. “I want to share that with other people.” 

Ibarra, who grew up in the East Bay, uses her music to talk about her culture and what it was like growing up as an immigrant.

NBC Bay Area’s Marcus Washington sat down with Ibarra to learn more. You can watch the interview in the video player above.

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Miyamoto, who is Japanese and Chinese, has spent 26 years with the department.

NBC Bay Area’s Robert Handa sat down with Miyamoto to talk about his family’s history. You can watch the interview in the video player above.

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Actor and producer Daniel Dae Kim and actress Jamie Lee Curtis joined the 93-year-old Hong in speaking at the 11:30 a.m. ceremony in front of Madame Tussauds Hollywood on Hollywood Boulevard. Kim sponsored the star, while Curtis was a castmate of Hong’s in the absurdist comedy-drama, “Everything Everywhere All at Once,” which was released March 25.

Rep. Judy Chu, D-Monterey Park, the chairwoman of the Congressional Asian Pacific American Caucus, presented a proclamation to Hong. The ceremony included a traditional Chinese lion dance by the Shaolin Entertainment Group to bless the occasion.

The ceremony coincides with Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month. It was streamed on the Walk of Fame’s website.

The star is the 2,723rd since the completion of the Walk of Fame in 1961 with the first 1,558 stars.

Hong appeared in four films that were nominated for the best picture Oscar: “Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing,” “The Sand Pebbles,” “Chinatown” and “Bound for Glory,” along with “Airplane!” “Blade Runner,” “Big Trouble in Little China” and “Wayne’s World 2.”

Hong’s television credits include “Seinfeld,” “All in the Family” and “Perry Mason.” He has supplied voices for such animated films as “Kung Fu Panda” and “Mulan.”

Hong has said his breakthrough came in a 1954 appearance on Groucho Marx’s game show “You Bet Your Life,” when he did impersonations of Marx, James Cagney and others, which resulted in a huge flood of fan mail and landed Hong an agent.

Hong is the only living actor to have worked with Clark Gable and Marx, appearing with Gable in the 1955 adventure film, “Soldier of Fortune.”

Hong was among the Asian American artists who founded the East West Players in 1965, seeking to create roles beyond the stereotypical parts they were offered in mainstream Hollywood. It has become the nation’s premier Asian American theatre.

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Some call the anniversary therapeutic as it offers an opportunity to help others fully understand that dark time in history.

Angel Island in the San Francisco Bay was a front line of discrimination during that time, serving as an immigration port in the early 1900s where Chinese citizens were detained before being allowed into the country or deported.

On Friday, a number of people took park in a candle-lighting and wreath-laying ceremony at the Angel Island immigration station to commemorate the anniversary.

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Rev. Norman Fong spent Friday honoring his dad, who immigrated to the U.S. during the Chinese Exclusion Act and arrived at Angel Island.

“We suffered because the Chinese Exclusion Act forced everyone to be undocumented or create some false identity in order to survive,” he said. “And then realizing that is was really racism that created this. The Chinese in America should be proud of their history, not ashamed of it, like my dad.”

Fond said he’s grateful more youth are starting to care and invest in learning about Asian American and Pacific Islander history.

He also said education and understanding are the best ways to embrace differences.

The museum reopened with a powerful exhibit on the life of Chinatown’s most famous native son, martial arts master and actor Bruce Lee, born just a block away in Chinese Hospital. 

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But following a two-year hiatus due to the pandemic, the museum also opened with a karate chop to its own mission statement, expanding its historical panorama to include other nationalities. 

“We took it upon ourselves,” said the museum’s new director Justin Hoover, “to reimagine what the museum could be.”    

The museum’s “reimagining” took the shape of physical changes; from expanding exhibit ceilings, to adding state-of-the-art projection equipment, to taking over an adjacent parking lot to hold community events. 

But its rebirth is also something of a spiritual transformation. 

In the days before the museum reopened in April, artists and workers were busily putting final touches on exhibits that displayed the brick building’s expanded cultural perspective. Downstairs in a lower room, an African-American artist painted a scene that included a young Black girl along side a caricature of an Asian-inspired dragon.  

Another wall featured three paintings by the first female Black Panther Tarica Lewis, depicting one of her ancestors, the legendary boxer Joe Lewis. 

“It’s a pivot toward inclusivity of non-Asians as well,” Hoover said, bounding through the exhibits in between meetings. “We’ve got a lot of African-American voices, got a lot of voices of artists of all walks of life.” 

The museum is still focused on its mission highlighting the history and experience of Chinese immigrants in Chinatown, which traces its roots back to Gold Rush times. In one room, behind glass sat a dark symbol of that immigrant story; the original 1902 document making the Chinese Exclusion Act permanent, along with the pen President Theodore Roosevelt used to sign it. 

Hoover explained how the room where the document sits, is also a place for people to practice empathy — including an instruction to write a message of “inclusivity” on a note card. 

“Who could you help? Who could you support?” Hoover said, offering suggestions. 

Visitors entering the museum will be most taken with its front and center Bruce Lee exhibit — featuring movie memorabilia, pictures, Lee’s quotes and a colorful state-of-the art light projection that bathes Lee in morphing visuals. 

One section of the exhibit focuses on the racism Lee faced throughout his career, including a list of salaries from the Green Hornet, in which Lee starred as Kato, receiving the production’s bottom salary. 

“Bruce made less than anybody on set, even the stuntmen,” Hoover said. “He was paid less than anybody yet he was the blowout star of this TV show.” 

On opening day of the exhibit, Lee’s daughter Shannon Lee toured the roomful of artifacts, as videos of her father’s movies played her father’s martial arts scenes and images of the late-actor beamed from every angle.  

“There’s a sense of wonder, there’s a sense of pride,” Lee said gazing around the room, “there’s a sense of energy, a sense of satisfaction and a sense of excitement being here.” 

The pandemic hit Chinatown hard, as businesses still struggle to recover. The long closure of the museum seemed to reflect the somber economic state of the neighborhood as its streets sat empty for more than a year. With street banners now trumpeting the Lee exhibit, there’s hope it will give a swift kick to the neighborhood’s recovery. 

“Chinatown has been disproportionally hit by the pandemic in terms of reduced business,” said activist Natassia Kwan. “And it’s super exciting to see the excitement surrounding this exhibit — bring that renewed energy to Chinatown.”   

Hoover, who was hired as director a year ago, is excited to see what the future will hold for the museum — and its role as a cultural hub for San Francisco’s famous neighborhood. 

“I feel like this museum is just an anchor in the community,” Hoover said. “People looked to it for many years to be a leader in not only education but community.” 

Hoover paused at a broken wooden sign reading “No Chinese or Dogs Allowed,” which Lee smashed in the film Fists of Fury. Likewise, visitors are now asked to write their own message of oppression on a board, and smash it with a karate chop. 

Hoover scribbled “fake news” on a board and then smashed it in two, yelling “karate chop!” as the blow was struck. 

“Come in and you can do your karate chop,” he laughed. “This is the only museum where you can break things.”   

Undaunted by that, UCSF Infectious Disease Specialist, Dr. Peter Chin-Hong, delivered the science with the added bonus of cultural understanding.

“Once I was more credible in terms of the science, I was able to infuse some other themes,” he said. “Themes of equity, understanding, tolerance to other communities.”

And thile Asian American Pacific Islander community got hate, they continued doing the things that protected not only the AAPI community, but their greater Bay Area communities as well.

A total of 75% of Californians are vaccinated, but more than 93% of the Asian population got their shots — and they can claim the highest vaccination rate among all age groups.

“That notion that we should all protect not only ourselves but our communities is something that’s really strong in Asian American communities and vaccinations having community benefit as well as individual benefit resonated with the asian American community,” said Chin-Hong.

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The doctor also said that Asian Americans didn’t have the aversion to masking that some other groups had.

While Asian American Pacific Islanders make up about 15% of California’s population, their case rate was lower, accounting for fewer than 9% of all COVID cases, and fewer than 11% of all COVID deaths.

But, Chin-Hong said the model minority notion leaves some communities out, like Filipinos and elderly Chinese people, who were hit harder by COVID.

That’s why he is still pushing for a focus on sub-populations and equity. Work he considers a privilege.

“I can’t think of any better way to use what I’ve learned throughout my life,” said Chin-Hong. “It almost seemed like everything I’ve done in my life reached a peak to really be able to utilize that during the COVID pandemic.”

Stop AAPI Hate, a cooperative group comprised of the LA-based AAPI Equality Alliance, the San Francisco-based Chinese for Affirmative Action and San Francisco State University, has been tracking hate incidents against AAPI individuals since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Their latest survey was released on March 4, 2022, and recorded 10,905 hate incidents against AAPI individuals in the United States, Guam and Puerto Rico in just under two years.

The report breaks down where those incidents happened and the kinds of people they happened to, alongside first-person stories that serve as examples and policy recommendations aimed at limiting discrimination in the future.

Race was, by far, the most common reason for a discriminatory incident to occur, listed as a reason in 91.5% of the 10,905 reports. Ethnicity — the specific Asian culture an individual is a part of —Í was the second most common reason, included in 52.6% of reports. More than one reason could be selected in each report, Stop AAPI Hate said.

Of the 4,632 incidents reported in 2020 (42.5% of the total) and the 6,273 incidents reported in 2021 (57.5% of the total), a majority of the incidents occurred in California. New York, Washington, Texas and Illinois rounded out the top five states with the most reported incidents, according to the report.

Most of the incidents took place in public spaces, the report said. 31.2% of incidents took place in public streets, for example, and another 26.9% took place in businesses, serving as “the top sites of anti-AAPI hate.”

The kind of discrimination experienced in the reports ranges from denial of service and avoidance to physical assault and harassment.

Individuals reporting a hate incident could report more than one kind of discrimination at a time in each report, and 66.9% of the 10,905 individuals who sent responses to the survey said that harassment was part of the incident they were reporting.

The data in the report breaks down “harassment” into “Verbal hate speech and/or harassment,” “Behavioral” harassment such as stalking or bullying, “Gesture” harassment like a middle finger or “slanted eye gesture,” “Written” harassment like propaganda signs, and sexual harassment.

Verbal hate speech was the most common kind of harassment reported.

Physical assault and being avoided or shunned were the second most common parts of reported hate incidents, with each kind of discrimination reported in just over 16% of the 10,905 incidents.

The report also broke down the data by gender, allowing those reporting to identify whether they are male, female or non-binary.

Harassment was the most-reported kind of discrimination in all three gender groups, but AAPI women were by far the most likely group to report harassment overall, with 69.8% of reported incidents from women stating they were harassed as part of the hate incident they experienced.

Non-binary AAPI individuals were the most likely to report being shunned, with 21.4% of reports from non-binary individuals including avoidance or shunning as an element in the hate incident.

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The organization hopes that by collecting detailed data about just how common hate incidents are in the current era, they can “advance equity, justice and power by dismantling systemic racism and building a multiracial movement to end anti-Asian American and Pacific Islander hate,” according to their website.

Read the entire report here.

The book, which is called “Yes We Will,” comes out Tuesday.

Yang wrote it not just for her children but for others to see what it possible.

NBC Bay Area’s Janelle Wang talked with Yang about the book. Check out the conversation in the video above.

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