Representation Matters — Now More Than Ever
And why it should matter to you too.
Last week, there was an internal virtual event held by my office for employees to have a safe space to discuss the recent rise in anti-Asian violence that we’ve been seeing across the U.S. It’s been incredibly upsetting and disturbing to hear these stories so I’m grateful when employee resource groups help us all find the time and space to come together to acknowledge difficult moments like this.
At some point during the conversation, someone mentioned that they have always felt that the Asian community is invisible in the U.S. Throughout our history in this country, Asian communities have been treated as foreigners, as others, like we don’t belong — even though some Asian families have been in the U.S. for more than a century. Or we’re simply seen as something to overlook. That part made me pause. I knew exactly what they meant. We started talking about how we barely saw people who looked like us in movies, on TV shows, in comic books. But then someone asked what was the point in talking about representation at all? What is a fictional Asian character in a book or a TV show supposed to do in the face of actual physical violence against our communities, particularly our elders?
It’s an understandable question. There are many people who don’t see the point in fighting for representation. They don’t see what’s all the fuss over #OscarsSoWhite or why everything is so “politically correct” these days. Who cares if Chloé Zhao is the very first Asian woman and only the second woman ever to win a Golden Globe for best director? But representation is not meant to be a practical solution to our problems. It’s not going to automatically provide equal opportunities to jobs, housing, education. It’s not going to heal the sick or right the wrongs of discrimination. What it does have the slightest chance of doing is changing people’s views.
While growing up in the Midwest, most times I was one of two maybe three kids of color in all my classes. There were lots of moments with teachers, bullies, and at times even my own friends where I remember feeling different and invisible at the same time. Still, I was lucky to have a close group of friends so I never felt completely like an outcast. Instead, I often felt dismissed and misunderstood. I remember thinking all the time to myself, “If only they actually knew me. If only they knew what my family was actually like. What people in Pakistan are like.” Those thoughts only grew bigger after 9/11.
I started acting like a customer service rep for my entire religion, my entire culture, anyone who looked like me. It wasn’t until after I graduated from college when I realized how exhausted I was from carrying all that weight for so many years. I thought I could change the way people thought about me and all Muslims by simply having more conversations with them. But I can’t do that with everyone. I can’t become friends with everyone who thinks of Asians as diseases or Muslims as monsters. We can barely converse with each other on social media. So that’s where movies, TV shows, and books come in. They offer a chance to tell our stories. No, not everyone who needs to see and hear and read these stories will come across them. But for the ones who do, they just might learn something new. They just might learn something about their neighbors, their coworkers, their fellow citizens. Just like our words, our stories on screen and on the page have power too. Stories about us don’t just have the power to change others, they can change how we see ourselves — and what we’re capable of.
If I had grown up reading the Ms. Marvel comics as a kid going to high school in Cincinnati, Ohio, without a doubt, it would have changed how I saw myself. I think I would have walked a tiny bit taller back then.
