By Oliver Wang

I couldn’t really tell you when I first met Gina Hotta, but only because I ran into her so many times, it’s impossible to untangle the chronology. You could not have been interested in Asian American community and culture issues in the Bay Area in the 1990s and not have crossed paths with Gina. She was seemingly at every event—whether rally or concert—and wherever she wasn’t in bodily person, she was there on the radio or in print. She was so omnipresent that even now, several weeks after her untimely passing, it’s hard to fathom a world where I don’t expect to run into her…and I don’t even live in the Bay anymore.

There are two things about Gina that have stood out for me over the 10-plus years I knew her. The first was her consummate dedication as a journalist. She was a multimedia warrior before the term “multimedia” was that vogue—a skilled host, engineer and writer who wanted to make sure that the larger community was aware of what was happening in both their backyards and across the world.

But perhaps even more impressive was her generous curiosity and open-minded-ness. As my friend Jeff Chang reminisced about her, Gina was a “bridge” between the ‘60s/‘70s Asian American movement activists and a younger hip-hop generation of politically engaged young people. She really embraced the cultural creations of that younger cohort and brought those stories to the airwaves and print readers. I wonder if I will ever be so catholic as I slide into my 40s and 50s.

Mostly, Gina inspired by example. I’ve described her as a mentor to a generation of Asian American journalists not because she directly worked with us, but because her mere presence and prolificness were a revelation of what was possible if we only set out to follow upon what she had built so tirelessly.

By Kathleen Wentz

You could still see the dried blood on Sudok Choi’s bandaged left ear. A week before, the owner of Koryo BBQ in Oakland had been in a car accident, which had also left her arm in a cast. But it wasn’t her wounds that most worried Choi; it was the cost of her health insurance.

“It’s my biggest financial concern right now,” she said through the translation of her 19-year-old son, Tae Kim, as she waited for customers inside her restaurant on a recent Saturday afternoon. Currently, 58-year-old Choi shells out about $1,600 a month for private insurance to cover herself, her husband, son and mother. And the economic downturn has only made that cost more burdensome. “Business has gotten really slow lately and it’s gotten really hard,” she said, her empty restaurant starkly demonstrating.

As a small business owner, Choi says she has little choice; she’s forced to either pay exorbitant amounts for private insurance or risk going uninsured. Given the current hard times her business is suffering, lately, she’s considering taking that risk, she said. If she does, she’ll join the growing number of Americans priced out of a health care system whose costs are ballooning out of control while also denying millions of people access to care.

Choi’s case isn’t unique to the American experience. But it turns out that Korean Americans are disproportionately impacted by the troubling state of the health care industry. That’s because Korean Americans have one of the highest uninsured rates in the United States at about 31 percent, according to the Kaiser Family Foundation, based on data collected between 2004 and 2006. As a racial group, Hispanics have the highest rate, at 32 percent. For Koreans, the lack of insurance is primarily due to the fact that so many are self-employed or work at small businesses. (About 53 percent of the U.S. population receives health insurance through their employer.) In essence, it’s the cost that prevents them from getting care.

As a result, many Korean Americans are at risk for chronic diseases—not to mention financial ruin. Increasingly, they seek care in South Korea, where a universal health care system means it’s cheaper to buy a $1,000 plane ticket to fly thousands of miles away to see a doctor than it is to see a physician down the street. To boot, those, like Choi, who are insured, still face high deductibles and out-of-pocket expenses. Language barriers and inadequate translation services also impede the ability of doctors to effectively communicate with patients. In some cases, it’s even led to death.

Now, with the prospect of a major health care overhaul looming, there’s an opportunity to dramatically alter this troubling picture. As of press time, members of Congress were still massaging three different proposals, with a final bill expected on President Obama’s desk possibly by Christmas. Late last month, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-Nevada) announced that a public option—meaning insurance that’s administered and funded by the government similar to how Medicare works—will be in the Senate’s final bill, despite initial uncertainty about its inclusion. All of the bills would require everyone to be insured or face penalty, and would ban private insurers from denying coverage because of pre-existing conditions.

The impact of these changes could be far-reaching for all Americans, and especially Koreans. “When we say that Korean Americans have the highest uninsured rate among Asians, and this rate is twice the rate of the United States, it’s saying that Korean Americans desperately need health care reform,” said Dr. Ricky Choi (no relation to Mrs. Choi), who heads the pediatric department at Asian Health Services in Oakland and resides on the board of the National Council of Asian Pacific Islander Physicians.

“Having a public option will add competition to the health insurance market, help bring costs down, and therefore allow more people to have access to the health care system,” he said. “Without health insurance, you can’t work, you can’t go to school, you can’t plan for the future.”

Yet Koreans continue to be largely uninformed about how the country’s health care system works, and, like many Americans, of how pending legislation might affect them. Mrs. Choi, who immigrated to the United States in 1982, said she was confused as to which of her insurance companies—car, life or health—would be paying her hospital bills. Navigating such complex bureaucracy would be difficult for anyone, let alone someone with limited English-speaking ability.

And she wasn’t any clearer on health care reform. Choi admitted she didn’t really understand what reform would mean for her, but said it would be unfair if her taxes were going to be raised as a result. However, when told that reform could mean cheaper insurance for her, Choi said she’d “jump at the chance.”

So might 46 million other Americans.

That’s how many people in this country don’t have health insurance, according to 2008 census data. Such individuals often go years without seeing a doctor and must resort to visiting the emergency room in times of desperation. It’s hardly an effective way of getting care.

“No one would be able to say that you can treat cancer successfully by episodic ER visits,” said Dr. Choi.

What about treating a heart murmur condition that requires a pacemaker?

“I don’t have insurance, and I don’t have a primary care doctor,” said Joseph Cho, 23. “What I do have is a pacemaker. What I will need is surgery” to replace it.

About every six months, Choe visits the emergency room of a county hospital in the San Fernando Valley section of Southern California, waiting about three to six hours to be seen by a doctor—“and that’s if I arrive two hours early,” he said. If he needs a prescription, he has to wait another three hours. “Usually,  I reserve one whole day dedicated to the county hospital,” he said.

Choe, studying computer science at Glendale Community College and who up until recently was also working part-time at an internet company, was diagnosed with a heart murmur at age 4. At that time, he received a pacemaker, which regulates his heartbeat, and has had one ever since. Each one, as well as the battery, lasts between six to 10 years. He is also on three different medications. His medical care at the county hospital has resulted in about 10 bills, each running about $1,300, he said, but he’s only had to pay between $60 to $100 of each. The cost of his care is subsidized through a Los Angeles County program called ORSA, which covers medical care at Department of Health Services facilities, on an outpatient basis only.

The Los Angeles native said he has been following some of the debate about health care, and despite the difficulty of telling truth from fiction, he said he is in favor of reform. “I know all around this country, there are people like me who have a pre-existing medical condition who need insurance, but have difficulty getting insured,” he said. “I think everyone should have the right to a healthy life.”

But under our current health care system, Korean Americans, who are predominantly immigrants and own or work for small businesses, remain particularly vulnerable.

One 55-year-old owner of a small clothing store in Flushing, New York, said that she has gone without insurance since emigrating from Seoul 10 years ago. “My friends tell me that it costs $80 each time you go to the doctor,” said Minjung, who did not want her last name published. “I am not sure what I would do if I got sick,” she added, as she coughed violently.

Mihi Yi, a florist in Union City, New Jersey, said, fortunately, she and her husband do have private insurance, but that they cannot afford to buy it for their two employees. “It is better set up in Korea,” said the 52-year-old, referring to the country’s universal health care system. “In America, people with a lot of money have medical care, but people like me who are middle class and small business owners, we pay a lot of taxes and fees and we don’t get any benefits. We are worse off than the poor.”

“I think Korean Americans are emblematic of what is the issue with health insurance in the United States,” said Dong Suh, associate director at Asian Health Services and chair of the board of directors at the Korean Community Center of the East Bay. “They make too much money to qualify for public programs, but are too poor to afford health insurance. It’s hard for anybody who’s not offered insurance through employment or public programs to purchase insurance on their own. That’s the dilemma they’re in—they’re vulnerable to great financial risk if they get sick and if they’re hospitalized or need long-term care of some kind.”

And, yet, oftentimes, Korean Americans sacrifice their health for other expenditures, like their children’s college funds. For others, it may also be a case of lacking a tradition of regular doctor visits and preventive care.

Charlie Jun has never had health insurance. Even though his late father was a manager for a Korean market and his mother worked at a mainstream retail-clothing store, they did not receive insurance through their employers.

“The Korean mentality is you can’t afford to get sick,” said the 25-year-old Jun, who emigrated from Korea with his family at age 3. “I knew if I got hurt or sick [as a child], I wasn’t going to the hospital. The yearly check-up was non-existent. I didn’t know what that was. I thought that was a luxury white people had.”

Now, a graduate student studying British literature at California State University, Northridge, Jun said he got used to walking off aches and injuries. “I’m still the same status, where I can’t afford to get hurt.”

It was only in recent years, while living and working in South Korea as a university instructor, that he realized he didn’t have to live this way. Jun suffers from scoliosis, a curvature of the spine, and would often touch his back in pain. One day his friends asked why he didn’t just see a doctor.

“They didn’t see why I would be living in pain,” he recalled. “They thought it was ridiculous.”

Jun did end up visiting the doctor’s office in Korea and said, for $60, he received first-rate care that included a three-hour appointment with physical therapy. For that cost in the United States, he said, a chiropractor saw him for five minutes.

Not only are people being shut out of the current U.S. health care system because of the exorbitant costs, but those who are willing to pay for private insurance are being denied coverage.

After graduating from business school a few months ago, Dean Choe, a Los Angeles resident who asked that this pseudonym be used to protect his privacy, lost the affordable health coverage he received as a graduate student through his university. While the 30-year-old could have purchased COBRA to extend his coverage, that would have cost him $650 for the first month and $450 each month thereafter, he said.

Then, when Choe, who works as an independent business consultant, tried to get insurance privately, he was turned down. After losing his mother to a long battle with cancer, he had started seeing a therapist. The company saw that the therapist had prescribed him an anti-depressant and considered that a pre-existing condition. “I mean, I am an otherwise very healthy 30-year-old male in pretty good shape,” said Choe. “I don’t know much about this health care debate, but it just seems like something is wrong when people who need help the most don’t get it.

“Now I have no insurance, and I can no longer see a therapist, and I can no longer take [my anti-depressant].”

Notably, the United States is the sole industrialized nation that allows private for-profit companies to provide primary health care insurance. Many countries offer a mix of public and private nonprofit options.

Because of this for-profit mentality, oftentimes, the bottom line, versus a doctor’s opinion, dictates what procedures and treatments are covered by insurance. Winston Chung, a child and adolescent psychiatrist based in San Francisco, said that, sadly, this approach has affected the way that some doctors treat patients. He said patients sometimes aren’t able to receive appropriate medication if an insurance company doesn’t cover it, or some doctors, concerned about the high cost of hospital stays, will prematurely discharge patients.

Yanghee Park, whose family does have employer-provided health insurance, questioned whether this concern for the bottom line delayed her daughter’s diagnosis of a back problem. When the 15-year-old daughter complained of severe back pain about a year ago, Park took her to see a physician in Los Angeles’ Koreatown, even though she lives nearly 20 miles away in Torrance. The immigrant from Korea wanted to be able to communicate with a doctor in her native language and couldn’t find a Korean-speaking doctor in her plan closer to where the family lives. She said, initially the doctor just told the family to “wait and see” if the teen’s back would feel better. But Park said, meanwhile, her daughter was in so much pain, she would cry.

It would take six months from the initial visit to the doctor to the final diagnosis by a specialist who, after X-rays, found a herniated disk. “As a mother, I felt really, really upset, not being able to get the care my daughter needed,” said Park. “I felt, what’s the difference between being insured and not being insured, when I’m still in this situation? If the doctor had connected her to a specialist early on, maybe we would have been able to get treatment started earlier. When I spoke to the doctor about this, how it’s not fair, he said it’s a problem with insurance and not within their control.”

The irony is, even after the diagnosis, her daughter’s medical condition is still not resolved. She was prescribed painkillers, and now Park is thinking about seeking out an acupuncturist for treatment—a form of alternative care that would not be covered by insurance.

With experiences like this, it’s not surprising that, increasingly, Korean Americans are opting to seek health care in Korea. In fact, Korea has been marketing to attract foreign patients in an effort to help cash-strapped hospitals and boost the overall economy. Last year the New York Times reported on the building of Health Care Town on the island of Jeju, a proposed medical hub that was to boast 370 acres of clinics, along with surrounding golf courses and beaches.

And it’s not just Koreans going on so-called “medical tours“ to countries like South Korea, India, Singapore and Thailand. Last year, an estimated 750,000 Americans traveled abroad for various medical procedures including hip replacements and dental work that cost only a fraction of what it would in the United States. The wait time for procedures and follow-up also tend to be much quicker overseas.

Many Korean immigrants and nationals who have experienced both the American and South Korean health care systems overwhelmingly report the superiority of the latter. Because citizens there have universal coverage, it only costs about 3,000 won, or about $2.50, for a regular doctor visit, according to Dong Suh of Asian Health Services. Generic prescriptions cost about 1,500 won (about $1.25). One Korean national living temporarily in the United States with her family said it cost about $200 per month, in Korea, to insure her entire family of five, when it costs that much per person in the United States.

Beyond the issue of cost, there is also a certain ease for limited-English-speaking Korean Americans to seek care in Korea. Indeed, one of the most pressing issues for Korean Americans and other immigrant communities is having proper translation services. While the Civil Rights Act of 1964 stipulates that all physicians, clinics and hospitals that receive federal funding be required to provide interpreters, the law isn’t always strictly enforced. “The prevailing attitude is it’s the responsibility of the patient to bring in people” who can interpret for them,” said Suh.

Technically, a doctor is supposed to know the person’s language needs beforehand and have an interpreter there when the patient arrives. But “that is not the norm,” said Suh, whose own community clinic does offer services in 10 different languages and caters to mostly immigrant populations in the Bay Area’s Alameda County.

In some cases, language barriers lead to substandard care, and even death. Stella Han, patient navigator supervisor at Asian Health Services, recalled the story of a liver cancer patient, who came to the clinic a few years ago. Though he had known about his condition for more than six years, the 56-year-old did not seek treatment earlier because he had no health insurance and did not speak English. As his condition worsened, he went to the county hospital, but was turned down because he did not have a referral to see a specialist. When the patient finally made it to Asian Health Services, Han arranged that day for a doctor to see him. The doctor gave him the referral he needed, but by the time he was admitted, it was too late. He died a few weeks later.

That’s why immigrant advocacy organizations like the National Korean American Service & Education Consortium have pushed for health care reform proposals to include provisions that address linguistically- and culturally-appropriate care. They’re urging lawmakers to incorporate the Health Equity & Accountability Act of 2009 into health care reform, in order to equip the system with bilingual workers, for example.

Working with a broad coalition of organizations, NAKASEC, a supporter of the public option, has also been a leader in pushing to advance other health reform policies that would benefit the Korean American community—including eliminating the current five-year waiting period for legal immigrants to access Medicaid and making sure all immigrants regardless of status are eligible for insurance. They have the support of U.S. Rep. Mike Honda (D-San Jose), chair of the Congressional Asian Pacific American Caucus, who along with other like-minded lawmakers, has penned letters to key players in the reform debate in the House of Representatives and the Senate. The letters urge the inclusion of these immigrant-related provisions into the final health care bill.

Honda has also argued against Senate Finance Chairman Max Baucus’ much-publicized proposal to exclude undocumented immigrants from purchasing health insurance coverage and prevent legal immigrants here less than five years from accessing tax credits. “American taxpayers are already paying for the health care costs of immigrants when they use emergency and social services,” said Honda in a statement released by his office. “Americans currently pay $56 billion annually to ensure the uninsured’s use of emergency care. The fiscally prudent response, then, would be to seize the opportunity to have the uninsured help pay for their own health care, instead of spreading the cost to others.”

But Hemi Kim, the D.C. director for NAKASEC, said it will be an uphill battle to get provisions to improve health care access for all immigrants into the final legislation. “We know immigrants are a wedge issue,” she said. “So the fight isn’t just about a policy fight, but how do we make sure people see immigrants as not [a group to] be scapegoated, but to be embraced. There’s a policy fight and there’s a public-messaging fight.”

She added, “They are among us, too,” referring to the undocumented population. “They are one-fifth of the Korean American community. So, it’s important for all members to have access to health care, including the undocumented.”

Meanwhile, health care costs are continuing to rise. Government spending on health care has now reached 16 percent of our GDP—double what it was 30 years ago—and is projected to reach 18.4 percent, or $3.6 trillion, by 2013. “Every year the premiums and insurance go up at a pace faster than inflation,” said Dr. Ricky Choi. “So I think the numbers of uninsured will continue to grow. And certainly for Korean Americans, if cost is a big obstacle, which I think it is, then that percentage will only grow as well.”

Kim and other advocates are urging Korean Americans to contact their legislators and share their stories, so they can help change the public discourse on the issue.

“It’s very important that their voices are heard,” agreed Marguerite Ro, deputy director of San Francisco-based Asian & Pacific Islander American Health Forum, and a member of the Department of Health and Human Services advisory committee on minority health. “They pay taxes, they contribute to the well-being of, not just the Korean American community, but the nation overall.”

While a bill may not be a silver bullet to solving all our health care woes, its passage could be a crucial step toward better and cheaper access to health care for all Americans. That would help people like Sudok Choi, the small business owner from Oakland, focus on treatment of her recent injuries—instead of worrying about the cost of paying for it.

Additional reporting by Julie Ha, Smriti Rao and Ellis Song.

By Dave Yoo

Everyone I know thinks my working out of the home is the ultimate luxury, as if I’m some spoiled brat who gets to laze around all day long in my pajamas and bunny slippers, drinking multiple mugs of tea and watching Premier League soccer games every afternoon. Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely perks to the scenario—as my own day-to-day boss, I get to make my own hours and I don’t have anyone looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m working, but those same perks are just as powerful cons. It’s not easy to push yourself when nobody’s looking. The worst disadvantage to working out of the home, however, is that I have to constantly deal with my deep-seated fear of ghosts.

I was always terrified of ghosts growing up. I was that kid who couldn’t look over at his closet with the lights off, so fearful of the paranormal that in college I always chose the far bed because I figured it would force my naïve roommate onto the frontlines when dealing with dorm ghosts that slipped under the cracks of our door. This was the main issue I was struggling with when my wife and I decided to buy our first home last year. The notion of being “house poor” until we adjusted to the increased expenses of owning a house didn’t intimidate me in the slightest; instead, I hesitated before signing the lease because I was weary of the possibility of having to fend for myself all day with the local spirits.

The reason I bring this up is because of what happened last week. I was sitting downstairs typing away in my office when I heard a door shut upstairs. Instantly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood at high alert and I grabbed the letter opener on my desk and spent ten minutes mustering up the courage to venture upstairs to investigate. The guest bedroom door was the only one shut upstairs, and what creeped me out was that it’s the only carpeted room in the house, and the carpet is so thick you can’t even swing the door shut without it coming to a halt in the plush covering. I quickly peeked inside the room to make sure the bed wasn’t hovering four feet off the ground, before racing back downstairs and sitting rigid at my desk, staring unblinking at the open doorway of the office for the inevitable passing specter.

I realized that afternoon that the windows in the dining room were all open because my wife had burned some toast that morning and tried to air out the smoky kitchen before leaving for work, therefore, there was a draft in the house that was responsible for shutting the door upstairs. Despite the truth disproving my ghost theory, that night I still made my wife switch sides with me on the bed, because you can never be too careful.

“But you’ve always hated feeling scrunched up against the wall,” she said.

“I figured you’re the one who gets out of bed first every morning anyways,” I replied. “I feel bad that you have to climb out so awkwardly off the end.”

She beamed at me.

“That’s so thoughtful of you!” she said.

Sucker.

Courtesy of U.S. Navy/Brian K. Fromal

By Julie Ha

There were a tense few moments on Sept. 14 when the crew of the USS Anzio came across an unidentified vessel off the coast of Somalia. The Anzio is the flagship for a multinational naval force formed in January to patrol the area, where pirates from the politically unstable Somalia have attacked freighters, yachts and cruise ships. Normally, vessels in these waters know to fly a national flag, so others can ascertain if they are friend or foe. Not seeing a flag on the boat, the bridge of the United States guided-missile cruiser mobilized its counter-piracy plan, deploying its helicopter and ordering sailors to their gunning stations.

One of those sailors, Jae Yoon Choi, immediately went to the bridge wing to man his M-240 machine gun. Then, he got a tap on his shoulder. It was the commander of the counter-piracy naval force, Rear Admiral Scott E. Sanders. Sanders needed the 22-year-old sailor, the lone person onboard who was fluent in Korean, to become the ship’s voice  and attempt communication with the unidentified ship. Choi proceeded to the bridge, got on the radio and was able to find out that the mystery vessel was just a South Korean fishing boat with a valid license. The fishermen said their flag had been blown away by high winds. “For those 20 minutes, Petty Officer Choi was the most important person on the whole ship,” Sanders would later say.

Fortunately, most days aren’t as intense as this one for Choi, who normally is in charge of managing helicopter maintenance parts. He talked with KoreAm last month about what it’s like being part of a crew that protects the sea from modern-day pirates.

What can you share about your ship’s mission?

[My shipmates and I] work very hard to keep people safe and the sea lanes open. Our mission of “counter-piracy” around the coast of Somalia is a challenging one, but it is a mission we are proud [of].

Has your ship actually captured pirates or had to engage in combat with any?

We’ve had lots of unknown surface contacts. Every time we had those contacts, we deployed our helicopter, boarding team and Small Caliber Arms Team. Fortunately, we didn’t have a chance to engage those contacts. I heard that the ship before us [patrolling this area] actually captured pirates.

Why did you join the Navy?

I really wanted to have experiences [that] would help me be a part of American society. I was born and raised in Seoul. I moved to Queens, N.Y., with my parents and younger brother nine years ago. There is a lot I can learn from the Navy, such as teamwork, useful skills, honor, courage and commitment. And I’m able to travel the world. Currently the Navy is paying for my college… and I got U.S. citizenship. These things are really important because my goal after the Navy is to be an FBI agent.

It must have been stressful when your ship was faced with the unidentified vessel in September.

When I was up there talking [with the South Korean boat], it was really the most nerve-wracking moment, but Rear Admiral Sanders talked to me about how important my job was.

Did you ever think your Korean-language skills would come in so handy?

I’ve been waiting for the moment to use my Korean. I received the maximum score for the language test in boot camp. I didn’t think that I would have a chance to use it during this mission at all. Who would have thought a Korean ship would be around the Somalia coast?

Do you miss land?

Oh, yes! I can’t wait until I get back home and have my mom’s [cooking]. Did I tell you that my mom is a chef?

Co-founders and co-artistic directors Chil Kong (left) and Philip W. Chung, photographed in Los Angeles.

By Ellis Song

It’s a bittersweet moment for the cast and crew of the Lodestone Theatre Ensemble as their final curtain call after 10 years of innovative and edgy theater nears. And their latest and last production, Grace Kim & The Spiders From Mars, set to open on November 14, hopes to capture the essence of one act ending and another beginning.

“I wanted this to be a gift for our supporters,” says Philip W. Chung, who wrote Grace Kim and is one of the founders of Lodestone. “I don’t want to give too much away, but I really wanted to bring in what I thought was best about Lodestone into this play and embody it with the spirit.”

Grace Kim was announced before Chung had the chance to even finish writing it, and he worried about whether he would be able to complete it in time. However, this was a story that he had wanted to do for 20 years.

“The skeleton of that story has always been with me,” says Chung. “It was inspired by old screwball comedies. As a kid, when you watch [these comedies], you say ‘Wow, that’s really good,’ but why can’t you do that with Asian people?”

As a maverick theater company, Lodestone is not only known for pushing the boundaries of Asian American storytelling, but will also be remembered for providing opportunities for young Asian American actors and actresses.

“I’ve gotten more confident with each challenging role that I’ve had,” says actress Elaine Kao. “It’s amazing that I’ve had these opportunities at Lodestone. I don’t think I would have had these opportunities to play these parts elsewhere.”

“I’ve seen an improvement in acting,” says Jeff Liu, of the changes he’s noticed in the Asian American theater scene since Lodestone opened. Liu, the director of Grace Kim who also directed the very first Lodestone production (Texas, 1999), is proud of the work they’ve produced but also realizes that it’s time for a different voice to contribute. “We’ve built something that’s recognized, but the funny thing is…we have become sort of an institution as well. So, maybe it’s time for someone else to say, ‘No, you don’t have it right; we’ll show you how it’s done.’”

Chil Kong, co-founder of Lodestone, is looking forward to life after the last bow. “I’m excited because I feel this is a new venture for all of us,” he says. “It’s not just about ending. It’s about beginning something else.”

Liu echoes those sentiments.

“A lot of people think that it’ll be a sad occasion, but I don’t know if I feel that,” he says. “I don’t feel these relationships that we’ve built and actually earned over 10 years will end after working together, staying up late, and doing this for no money simply because we love stories. We’re all going to carry this forward to whatever we do, and I’m really confident that some of us or many of us will work together on other things.”