Artist Spotlight: Hana Rafee

Hana Rafee is a multi-media artist and graphic designer based in the Chicagoland area. A second-generation Asian American and eldest daughter, Hana brings a “get it done” energy to everything they make — while honoring the communities that raised them. Drawn to storytelling and the magic in small moments, Hana illustrates the connections that shape who we are. Instagram: @hanarafee.art

A Search, A Spark, A Zine: Finding Hana Rafee

Some collaborations begin with a plan. Others begin with a feeling that something shouldn’t be created alone.

As I read my mother's translated essays, I wasn't only uncovering her voice—I was discovering stories that deserved to be experienced from more than one perspective. Her words had already crossed one boundary, from Korean into English. But with each essay, I realized translation alone wasn't enough. Her words stirred images and emotions I couldn't express visually myself. Her words stirred images and emotions I couldn't express visually myself.

I wasn't looking for someone to illustrate my mother's essays. I was looking for an artist whose own experiences might resonate with them. I hoped those shared experiences would bring an authenticity to the work—revealing emotions and details that neither translation nor words alone could fully express.

So I began exploring the work of emerging Asian American artists in Chicago, hoping to find someone whose artistic voice resonated with the emotional landscape of my mother's essays.

That’s where I found Hana.

Her work felt honest, expressive, quietly bold. I didn’t overthink it—I just sent an email. No expectations—just a message and a bit of hope.

October 15, 2025

Building Poor Answer Together

We finally met on Zoom, and the conversation came easily. We talked about art, storytelling, and process—our shared curiosity, a willingness to experiment, and what Poor Answer could become.

I realized I wasn't looking for an illustrator. I was looking for someone who could enter into conversation with my mother's words.

Hana became the first artist to join Urikkiri. She didn't simply illustrate the essays—she translated them into a visual language that invites readers to encounter my mother's voice in a new way.

Have a question or interested in collaborating? Email: partnerships@urikkiri.com

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Originally published in a Chicago Korean newspaper in the 1980s, “Poor Answer” explores my mother’s experience raising a Korean American family as an immigrant in the United States. Through her daughter, she reconsiders the cultural values she inherited and discovers when patience gives way to speaking up.

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Inside the Issue

The artwork in this issue tells as much of the story as the words do. This illustration is one of my favorites. Which one was yours?

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Original Article

Full English Translation of “Poor Answer”

By On-Hi Lee

There is nothing more joyful or important or inspirational, nothing that fulfills love and compassion more than being a mother. Motherhood taught me patience and humility. My spirits cannot be lifted further when my children are happy and cheerful, and nothing makes me more disheartened than their sadness. Motherhood means going through life with a full spectrum of emotions—joy, pride, appreciation, anticipation, tearfulness, fear, worry, anxiety, and much more.

My youngest daughter, a first-grader, has been a little gloomy for the past few days. Sending her to school this morning without knowing what was bothering her made me feel heavy-hearted all day. The process of reading my children’s facial expressions before and after school has become a ritual ever since my oldest started kindergarten. If anyone asked me what I most wanted for my children, my answer would unshakably be “All I want is my children to be happy.” However, the truth is that I cannot make that happen for them as they grow and become independent-minded and free-thinking individuals who face their own challenges in their lives.

So it is only logical that I feel delighted when my children are happy, as though a passing storm rolls away to reveal a cloudless bright blue sky. When my children are unhappy, I feel sad and helpless and my mind roams aimlessly through deep dark mysterious gorges. However, I am blessed to have children like mine; they are smart and do well in school (most Korean children are like that). I know that my kids always listen to their teachers and never misbehave in school. But for some unknown reason, I always tiptoe around my kids after checking their faces to figure out whether they had a good or bad day at school, as if I have done something wrong.

I cannot think of any reason why I feel this way around my children, though I have questioned it often. Is it because I am not raising my children in my own country, where people look like me, speak the same language, and share cultural uniqueness? Is it because I worry that my children could be unfairly treated in school because of how they look? Whenever I go to open houses and parent-teacher conferences at their school, I cannot stop thinking about how proud I am of my children. My kids compete with yellow-haired kids who live in the land of their own heritage and do as well as any other kid in school. But when I walk out of that school, I always have the feeling that I am sending my kids to a place that exacerbates their visual differences from other kids, like baby chicks in a yard full of ducklings.

I could not figure out why my little girl was so moody this morning. Maybe some little rascal called her a “flat-nose.” It hurts my feelings even to think about it. How could I know? I prepared French fries, her favorite snack, to cheer her up a little. But I heard her very excited voice even before she came to the door. She called “Mommy!” as loud as she could and jumped into my arms when I opened the front door. It was an unexpected, pleasant surprise. So I asked her, “Did you have a good time at school?” The tiny little innocent face looked at me with a look of blame and said, “Mommy, you were wrong.” Her answer made me even more awed and curious. So I asked her, “What are you talking about, honey?” She began her story with, “You know…”

So her story goes—the student sitting right behind her in class, who used to be a good friend of hers, had been bothering her for the last few days. The student pulled her hair when my daughter tried to focus on her schoolwork. However, she was tolerant of the other student because she had remembered something I said: “Being patient with others is winning.” I know this is a funny way to word it, but what I meant was that being patient with others will make you a better person. My daughter continued, “I was being patient with the kid yesterday and the day before, but I could not do it anymore today.” It seemed she had had enough of this student. “I was so annoyed and angry because I could not do any schoolwork, so I grabbed her by the hand, almost pinched her hand, and dragged her to the teacher’s desk.”

She explained to her teacher what had been going on between her and the kid for the last few days. Her teacher told her sympathetically that my daughter should have approached her sooner. The teacher advised the kid not to bother my daughter anymore, and she got an apology from the kid. Afterwards, it seemed everything was fine again. She said they played together nicely in the afternoon.

From her tiny cute mouth, she said, “Mommy, don’t be patient.” I take this to mean: “Being patient with others is not always the best choice.” And my little girl was right. I felt uneasy—not because of what she said to me but because my little girl had tried to endure something she did not like because of what I had told her. I gathered my thoughts and looked at her face with a regretful heart and told her, “What I meant was that we should be patient with people who we love and adore, like your sisters and the Korean people we meet in our church. Sometimes, you need to speak up for yourself when you think something is not fair instead of just accepting it. What happened today at school is a good example of that. I am sorry that my unclear words led you to misunderstand me.” That was how our conversation ended. Many times, I thought I was teaching my children valuable life lessons similarly to how my parents once taught me. However, in a deeper sense, I realized it is the other way around.

I cannot recall how many times my mother had told us, “Losing is winning.” I took this to mean: “Giving up little for those around us makes us better people.” I wanted to teach my children the lessons my mother had taught me. I know that my mother would want that too. But I also know that she would want her granddaughter to speak up for herself when she needs to. So, if anyone asks, “Is it better to say ‘Winning is winning’ sometimes?”, my answer is a sincere “Yes” with a profound smile on my face.

Upcoming Zines….

Nearsightedness
Illustrated by Victoria Goite | @victoriagoite.tattoo | @goite.art | December 2026
My mom reflects on how true vision comes not from our eyes, but from the heart.

My Mossy Life
Illustrated by Jessica Herrera | March 2027
After years in a new land and domestic life, my mom finds her voice again.

Circus Performer
Illustrated by Hero See | @heropaulsee | June 2027
My mom compares parenting to a circus act of love, pressure, and constant anxiety.

Join the Urikkiri community.

Choose the subscription that’s right for you, or collect individual print editions.

Subscribe Here

Shop Print Issues

Have a question or interested in collaborating? Email: partnerships@urikkiri.com

_{Urikkiri (oo-ree-KEE-ree)
noun}

_{1 : a Korean phrase meaning “among ourselves” or “just between us.”
2 : a deep sense of communal belonging or unity based on shared identity, mutual support, and collective experience.}

I found my mother's voice tucked away in a drawer.

Urikkiri began with forty-two essays my mother wrote for Chicago’s Korean newspapers, Korea Daily News (JoongAng Ilbo) and Korea Times (Hankook Ilbo), from the 1980s through the turn of the millennium. Although her words reached thousands of Korean immigrants, I never read them. Written in a language I couldn’t understand, they remained a mystery to me for decades.

Years later, after I had become a wife and a mother myself, I couldn’t stop wondering who my mother had been when she wrote those essays. Whenever I asked about her writing, she brushed it aside as old newspaper columns—not worth revisiting.

Then one day, I discovered a scrapbook tucked away in a drawer, filled with carefully preserved newspaper clippings. Without telling her, I had them translated.

As I read her essays, I came to know a version of my mother I had never known—thoughtful, observant, vulnerable, and resilient. Between her words were the quiet realities of immigrant life, the challenges of building a home between two cultures, and the hopes and fears she rarely spoke aloud. For the first time, I wasn’t simply reading my mother’s writing. I was allowing her to tell me who she was.

That discovery eventually became Urikkiri.

As my understanding of my mother deepened, I began to wonder how others might experience her stories. I believed Asian American artists who, like me, had grown up navigating multiple cultures would recognize the quiet details—the family dynamics, the unspoken expectations, and the small moments that often go unnoticed. Their lived experiences wouldn't change my mother's stories; they would deepen the conversation around them.

Today, each issue of Urikkiri pairs one of my mother’s translated essays with original work by a contemporary Asian American artist. Together, words and art create a conversation across generations, cultures, and lived experiences, inviting readers to discover their own families, memories, and questions within the story.

I’m grateful my mother knew I was bringing her essays back to life before she passed away. Through her words, I found not only a deeper understanding of her, but also a deeper understanding of myself.

If you’ve ever wished for one more conversation with a parent, wondered who they were before you knew them, explored your family history, or questioned how well we can ever truly know the people we love, you’re in the right place.

What’s Next….

We’ve launched Issue 01: Poor Answer, but the story doesn’t stop here. Three incredible artists are locked in for our upcoming releases:

Nearsightedness
Illustrated by Victoria Goite | @victoriagoite.tattoo | @goite.art | December 2026
My mom reflects on how true vision comes not from our eyes, but from the heart.

My Mossy Life
Illustrated by Jessica Herrera | March 2027
After years in a new land and domestic life, my mom finds her voice again.

Circus Performer
Illustrated by Hero See | @heropaulsee | June 2027
My mom compares parenting to a circus act of love, pressure, and constant anxiety.

Join the Urikkiri community.

Choose the subscription that’s right for you, or collect individual print editions.

Subscribe Here

Shop Print Issues

Have a question or interested in collaborating? Email: partnerships@urikkiri.com