With just a single sheet of paper, three folds, and one cut, you can create an eight-page zine. Handmade and self-published, zines are mini magazines driven by passion, not profit.

Zinemaking is as simple as it sounds and as creative as it gets. A quick Google search for “how to make a zine” brings up over 45 million results. These self-published works are easy to reproduce and are an intriguing tool of expression for communities, fan cults, and political movements. Yet for Asian American creatives, there’s no single definition of what a zine is—its meaning evolves across generations. 

“Zines became holding spots for all sorts of experiments with paper. A world of creativity and imagination,” says Sophie Wang, 32, a second-generation Chinese American zinester. She primarily creates educational zines at the intersection of technology, science, and social justice, weaving in her own Chinese American experience, which she reflects was largely “shaped by the U.S. immigration policies.”

One of Wang’s works, Do You Speak Second Gen?, is a 12-pager that’s stab-bound and printed on transparency paper, and it delves into the complexities of growing up in a Chinese immigrant family. Her parents arrived in the U.S. in the ’80s through the H-1B visa expansion, which brought a wave of highly skilled workers from East Asia and India due to the tech boom. As each generation of immigrants carries distinct perspectives, struggles, and cultural identities, these evolving narratives are reflected in all of Wang’s zines.

Beginning in 1965, the U.S. began to dismantle over a century of exclusionary immigration laws, allowing thousands of Asian families to build new lives in the land of freedom. By the early ‘70s, children of Asian immigrants were still grappling with self-identity and the concept of being “Asian American.” It was a time when calling any East Asian-looking person “oriental” was still common, when orange chicken hadn’t yet made its debut on the West Coast, and students were actively protesting the Vietnam War on campuses.

During this time, five UCLA students each contributed $100 USD to launch Gidra, a monthly newspaper that proudly proclaimed itself the “voice of the Asian American movement.” With limited access to printers and the high cost of using computers, producing a publication like this in the 1970s required a community effort. Printed in the space that would later become the UCLA Asian American Studies Center, Gidra ran for about five years, filling a crucial void that many traditional newsrooms couldn’t.

The zine was uniquely wide-ranging and eclectic —from documenting Manzanar, where over 11,000 Japanese Americans were incarcerated by the U.S. government during World War II, to covering the rise of grassroots student coalitions, the struggles of Asian American women in prostitution, political cartoons that blended humor with cultural critique, food recipes, and even a guide on how to fix a toilet.

Gidra paved the way for Asian creators to build something that felt close to home, inspiring well-known publications like A. Magazine, Yolk, KoreAm Journal, and the Santa Monica-based Giant Robot.

“In the ’90s, being Japanese American wasn’t cool, but it was cool to me. So I published Giant Robot to be different,” said co-founder Eric Nakamura in an interview with PBS SoCal. 

This was before boba went viral, when chrysanthemum tea and Ramune soda were the “It” drinks, Wong Fei Hung and Jackie Chan were household heroes, and Sailor Moon and Dragon Ball Z took the country by storm. 

It wasn’t just a zine for fun. Nakamura described it as simply everything he loved. With its third issue, Giant Robot made a bold statement by adding the phrase “a magazine for you” to its cover. For the first time, a zine wasn’t just for Asian Americans —it was for anyone drawn to Asian culture in all its loosely defined, expansive forms.

Creative details were woven throughout, from content exploring Asia and Asian American communities to underground punk rock, skateboarding, Japan’s racing cars and motorcycles, Hong Kong cinema, anime, and manga—terms that had replaced “Japanimation”—along with discussions about “yellow fever.” The fonts, layouts, and typography were just as thoughtfully designed, even including two blank pages for readers to draw whatever they wanted. Every editorial decision aimed to make the experience immersive for its readers.

The rise of Giant Robot was also shaped by a new wave of immigration. By 2010, Asian immigrants outnumbered Mexican immigrants in annual arrivals to the U.S. for the first time. It was a shift that coincided with the rise of the internet generation, who live much of their lives online. According to Pew Research, 95% of English-speaking Asian Americans used the internet in 2015, the highest rate among all racial and ethnic groups. 

In this digital age, Banana magazine was born in New York’s Chinatown, proudly declaring its mission to cover “all things AZN” (aka Asian Pride) as a statement of panethnic solidarity. Later, the literary magazine Slant’d joined this creative activism, providing a volunteer-run space to explore “what it means to be Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI).”

Slant’d features fiction and poetry that blend English with other Asian languages, omitting full English translations to preserve authenticity and embrace linguistic pluralism unapologetically. Its pages explore a diverse range of stories not just on racial identity, but also on mental health, gender, and sexuality: a photo essay on the Ati-Atihan Festival, known as the “Mother of All Philippine Festivals;” a personal journey to heal one’s inner child; and, of course, a recipe for homemade veggie dumplings.

But why care about print when everything, it seems, happens online? Founded in the social media era, Banana and Slant’d chose print as a deliberate act of resistance, valuing the physical touch and face-to-face connection that come with exchanging something deeply personal and communal. At zine fests, they became more than just publications. They became platforms for tactile intimacy, where zines passed from hand to hand, fostering a kind of interaction that social media simply can’t replicate.

Zine fests are rapidly emerging across the U.S., with a growing enthusiasm for independent publishing. The San Francisco Zine Fest and Los Angeles Zine Fest each attract over 200 exhibitors annually. Creators often share tables with others, and the entry line for readers is almost always wrapped around the venue. Chapel Hill, North Carolina held its inaugural zine fest last April. Additionally, over 300 libraries in more than 23 countries now house zine archives, according to the Barnard College Zine Library. 

Zine culture, built on grassroots creation and DIY ethics, has long been a space for marginalized voices and independent expression, often standing in stark contrast to corporate interests. Last month, Pitchfork, owned by Condé Nast—the luxury magazine conglomerate—launched its new quarterly zine, sparking widespread criticism for allegedly violating the zine community’s code of conduct: self-publishing. 

As Asian American creators continue to carve out their space in media, they still face significant challenges in reaching a broader audience. But zine culture isn’t defined by popularity—it’s defined by authenticity. It thrives on deep-rooted cultural expression, preserving stories, languages, and identities that might otherwise be overlooked. For many, creating zines isn’t just about being seen, it’s about staying true to who they are.

Cover image via Slant’d.