As the years have gone by, I 

have come to realize that “Sex 
and the City” is a lot like a cool 
aunt. For the sake of the analogy, 
imagine this aunt is white. As a 
child, you thought this aunt was 
glamorous, witty and exciting, 
but as you’ve matured, the façade 
crumbled. In reality, this aunt 
is not as smart as she thinks she 
is, she disguises prejudice as 
humor, and fetishizes Black men 
uncomfortably too much to be as 
colorblind as she claims.

I sighed with relief upon 

realizing “Sex and the City” 
turns 20 this year, because with 
two decades under its belt, the 
show, 
like 
the 
hypothetical 

aunt, is eligible to be deemed 
“of a different time.” It’s easy to 
write off “Sex and the City” as a 
problematic fav, a guilty pleasure, 
something not to be taken too 
seriously. After all, there is no 
clear malice in the show’s tone-
deafness. It’s just that — tone-
deaf. Ignorant. Despite this truth, 
it is undeniable “Sex and the City” 
had a hand in promoting the 
symbolic annihilation of women 
of color on screen. And as much 
as I would love to stop writing 
this article, sit down and watch a 
marathon of Season 2 (the show 
at its finest), I can’t. There needs 
to be an open discussion about 
the role “Sex and the City” and 
others have in indoctrinating 
women of color into the culture 
that heralds white women as 
beautiful, central and worthy 
of love while women of color, 
in contrast, are discarded to 
the margins without a second 
thought.

I grew up on “Sex and the 

City”. I’ve seen every episode, 
can identify seasons by Carrie’s 
hairstyle and for a while listed 
Carrie Bradshaw as my role 
model and sole aspiration for 
adulthood. To me, “Sex and 
the City” was infallible … until 
I re-watched an episode that 
threw my entire perception of 
the show into question. It’s called 
“No Ifs, Ands, or Butts”, and the 

B-plot centers around Samantha 
partaking in the “revolutionary” 
act of dating a Black man, Chivon.

Conflict quickly arises when 

Chivon’s sister, Adeena, tells 
Samantha she doesn’t want her 
brother dating a white woman. 
No deeper explanation is given 
as to why Adeena thinks this 
way, making her appear to be an 
irrationally prejudiced, cracker 
hater. Mild disapproval from 
Adeena eventually erupts into 
a fully-fledged altercation at 
a nightclub between her and 
Samantha.

While watching, I paused. Not 

only did I find myself mentally 
cheering for Adeena, but for the 
first time in all of my viewings 
of this episode, I felt a bizarre 
sense of connection to her that 
typically does not apply for one-
episode characters.

I now assume that my long-

standing 
ignorance 
of 
this 

episode’s (and in a larger context, 
the show’s) problematic nature 
was a result of its striking 
parallel to my everyday life. 
From second to eighth grade, I 
was one of two Black students 
(the only Black female) in a class 
of 60. The oversaturation of 
whiteness emanating from my 
television screen felt normal — 
I felt as though I was the thing 
that needed to be adjusted. This 
habit of adjusting myself was 
taken to the next level when I 
indoctrinated my middle school 
friends into the fandom. We all 
attempted to covertly alter our 
personalities to better match 
the women’s of “Sex in the 
City”. I was almost completely 
successful in my inhabitation of 
the role — the only thing missing 
was a love interest. To say the 
least, my friends did not have this 
affliction. I began to wonder why 
I was never asked to slow dance 
awkwardly to “Drops of Jupiter” 
at the winter dance. Why did 
all of my friends get special 
Valentine’s Day gifts while I 
was left with nothing but Fun-
Dip stained fingers and a shitty 
attitude for the remainder of 
the day? The same exclusionary 
feeling I’d get momentarily while 
watching “Sex and the City” had 

begun to creep into my everyday 
life.

When you watch television, 

by definition, you are a detached 
spectator of the action. But, 
a part of you is supposed to 
relate to the characters and the 
situations. Without a doubt, I 
related to (as much as a middle 
schooler 
could) 
the 
central 

characters of “Sex and the City”, 
but I always knew I did not look 
like them. Characters that looked 
like me were either invisible or 
two-dimensional, 
stupid 
and 

buffoonish. For a while, my 
coping mechanism was to assert 
it was “just TV,” and it couldn’t be 
completely accurate in relation to 
my life. This resilience began to 
cave when the same scenarios 
that I had written off as “fake” 
started to occur for my friends — 
just not me. In addition, I began 
to question, with every new show 
I started, why did I always have 
to strain to picture myself in 
these everyday situations? Why 
can’t someone look like me and 
share my personality traits?

I began to see the world as 

solely white. I saw courtship, 
love, sex and dating through a 
solely white and heteronormative 
lens. I’d realize in my later teen 
years that by seeing only white 
people depicted as glamorous, 
complex, dynamic and witty, 
I and clearly others began to 
conflate 
those 
characteristics 

with the skin color with which 
they 
were 
most 
regularly 

associated. Spoiler: it wasn’t my 
own. Being white meant being 
the default, being regular. Being 
Black or another race meant you 
were there to serve a purpose. I 
could not simply be. Everyone 
wants to believe they are smart, 
charming and worthy of love. I 
thought I was these things. The 
television disagreed with me. I 
fell victim to one of American 
society’s greatest traps: Rather 
than 
vilifying 
the 
horrible 

depictions, I began to vilify my 
own Blackness and the over-
pronounced 
“Blackness” 
of 

characters onscreen.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, March 19, 2018 — 3A

As a Muslim in the United 

States, it wasn’t unusual for 
me to feel like I didn’t belong 
here. As if I was taking up space 
that wasn’t mine to occupy. 
I’ve spent too much of my life 
trying to convince people that 
I’m American enough, while at 
the same time almost doubting 
it myself. As a South Asian 
Muslim, I didn’t expect to see 
myself in any of the exhibits 
at the National Museum of 
African American History and 
Culture, and yet, as I walked 
through rows of artifacts, one, 
in particular, caught my eye. It 
looked like Arabic calligraphy. 
I took a step closer and realized 
that it was a verse from the 
Quran. In fact, it was one that 
I had learned as a small child 
and I said it out loud to myself 
as I read the description — a 
slave had written this Surah and 
their 
Arabic-illiterate 
owner 

thought it was a sign they had 
successfully converted the slave 
out of Islam. This was one of 
many moments at the museum 
where I was suddenly overcome 
with emotion — as I blinked 
rapidly and tried to focus, I 
thought about what it must be 
like to be forced to stop engaging 
with one’s faith.

Though 
my 
own 

circumstances 
are 
vastly 

different, and the ways in 
which my family suppresses 
our engagement with Islam are 
drastically less, in that brief 
moment I felt extremely touched 
by the story behind this artifact. 
My 
family 
avoids 
running 

errands before or after attending 
Masjid 
because 
we 
never 

know if someone will refuse us 
service because we’re dressed 
differently. My dad introduces 

himself 
by 
a 
stereotypical 

European name at work because 
his real name, Husain, combined 
with his long, dark beard remind 
people too much of terrorism. 
I don’t like telling new people 
I’m Muslim — the inevitable 
questions about “my thoughts” 
on the latest act of terrorism 
are too exhausting to keep 
answering. Visiting the National 
Museum of African American 
History and Culture reminded 
me that the problem wasn’t me 
— my feelings of not belonging 
in the United States stemmed 
from other people’s perception 
of me and my identities, not my 
identities themselves.

To clarify, I have not been 

enslaved, 
forced 
to 
convert 

from my religion or experienced 
oppression at the scale that 
the slave who wrote the Surah 
had, and yet, I reacted to this 
particular 
artifact 
in 
such 

an unexpected way. It was a 
reminder that the South Asian 
Muslim 
community 
can 
do 

better. We cannot simply value 
Black 
Americans 
for 
their 

contributions to sports and the 
entertainment industry; we must 
also recognize the contributions 
that Black people have made 
to advance society, including 
fighting for the rights of other 
minority groups in the United 
States. Despite a history of anti-
Blackness within the South 
Asian community, the Black 
community has always stood 
in solidarity with us. We must 
recognize the ways in which 
we benefit from the civil rights 
work the Black community has 
done — all of our oppression is 
tied together and standing up for 
Black Muslims is also standing 
up for ourselves. As Fannie Lou 
Hamer said, “... nobody’s free 
until everybody’s free.” We 
cannot be free if we continue to 
exclude our Black siblings from 

practicing our faith together.

The experiences of Muslims 

in America were unpleasant (to 
say the least) from the very start. 
In the past, we can safely assume 
this oppression stemmed from 
colonizers — the people who 
enslaved other human beings 
and treated them like property. 
However, in the present day, 
we must acknowledge that the 
oppression of Black Muslims 
also comes from other Muslims. 
To my fellow South Asians, I 
implore you to think critically 
about whether we are truly 
making 
Black 
Muslims 
feel 

welcome in our Masjids, our 
communities and our lives. The 
Muslim diaspora in the United 
States has continuously erased 
the voices of Black Muslims in 
our community. I’ve seen fellow 
South Asian Muslims supporting 
various movements across the 
world, and yet, when it comes to 
supporting Black Muslims, the 
silence is deafening.

The Muslim community as 

a whole has a lot of work to do 
to make sure all Muslims feel 
included, including our Black 
siblings. We must realize that 
though it seems the South 
Asian and Black communities 
are distinct, there are many 
ways in which we are also 
connected. The artifact from 
the museum is proof that some 
of these connections go back to 
long before the founding of this 
country. The overlap between 
the Black and South Asian 
communities 
are 
numerous, 

and exhibits like the one at the 
National Museum of African 
American History and Culture 
are 
important 
not 
only 
to 

showcase the history of Black 
Americans, but to remind non-
Black Americans that the link 
between our communities is 
built into our country’s history.

Asian/Pacific 
Islander 

American 
Heritage 
Month 

celebrations have begun, and 
while I am actively taking part 
in celebrating A/PIA history, I 
have also taken time to reflect on 
my engagement with the A/PIA 
community on campus.

A/PIAs are often subject 

to narratives that paint us as 
a monolith — a homogeneous 
group 
of 
people 
from 
an 

arbitrarily 
drawn 
region 
of 

the world. These narratives 
constrain what we and those 
outside of our circles perceive as 
A/PIA, and they are — as I have 
increasingly come to realize — 
violently perpetuated not only 
by the forces of white supremacy 
but by our own communities.

The notion that all A/PIAs 

come from similar classes and 
cultural 
backgrounds 
paints 

all A/PIAs as holding equal 
privilege, entirely ignoring the 
ethnic hierarchies that exist not 
only in Asia, but in our Asian/
Pacific Islander communities 
in the diaspora. The forces of 
exclusion 
and 
elitism 
these 

dynamics create, however, go 
largely unacknowledged.

This 
is 
despite 
the 
fact 

acceptance in self-proclaimed 
A/PIA spaces on campus often 
necessitates assimilation into an 
upper-class, mono-racial/ethnic 
and East-Asian consciousness.

I have often felt the need to 

qualify my presence in these 
spaces 
with 
explanations 

regarding my bi-ethnicity or 
assertions that I am, in fact, 
just as entitled to the label of 
“A/PIA” as everyone else in the 
room.

It has been a lifetime of these 

qualifications that leads me to 
this; it is so crucial that we are 
able to confront the fact the 
monolith is not only an idea that 
is arbitrarily imposed on us, but 
also a rhetoric that defines who 
is recognized as a valid member 
of this community. I feel this 
every time I walk into an A/
PIA space where there is no 
one of my skin color, my openly 
bi-ethnic identity or my cultural 
background. I feel it every time 
we preach “unity” but fail to 
vocalize the ways in which 
intra-Asian/Pacific 
Islander 

imperialism has created tension 
between us. I feel it every 
time the notion of a unified, 
invincible A/PIA identity masks 
the realities of exclusion in our 
community.

Thus, 
“A/PIA 
Heritage 

Month: 
Combating 
the 

Monolith” begins today. This 
spotlight series will highlight A/
PIAs who may not necessarily 
fall into the notion of what an 
A/PIA is or should be. Though 
this series will not paint a 
comprehensive picture of all A/
PIA narratives, I hope that this 
month we can begin scratching 
the surface of a community that 
harbors an immense diversity in 
culture and experience.

My reflection is not indicative 

of the thoughts, feelings or 
convictions 
of 
those 
who 

will come after me. They are 
simply my own. In this vein, 
the stories you will hear over 
the course of this month are 
not ones that should be viewed 
as 
representative 
of 
their 

respective 
identities. 
Rather, 

they are individual narratives 
that 
have 
developed 
and 

emerged from experiences just 
as vivid, intimate and whole as 
yours.

With that, I wish you all a 

happy A/PIA Heritage Month! 
Let us engage in the celebration 
of the rich cultures and identities 
that make up our community, 
and let us strive toward an ideal 
of unity that recognizes and 
celebrates our difference.

The University of Pittsburgh. 

The 
University 
of 
New 

Hampshire. 
Oklahoma 
State 

University. 
Kansas 
State 

University.

And 
the 
University 
of 

Michigan.

Predominantly 
white 

institutions all over the country 
have repeatedly failed to fulfil 
their due diligence and protect 
their students of color from anti-
Blackness and racist acts that 
occur on their campus.

And 
just 
this 
weekend, 

a 
picture 
of 
a 
white 
girl 

named 
Lauren 
Fokken 
and 

her 
non-Black-person-of-

color-yet-complicit 
friend 
in 

blackface 
with 
the 
caption 

“#blacklivesmatter.”

This is not a joke.
Your picture, Lauren Fokken, 

is exactly why we need a Black 
Lives Matter movement.

You believe your pompous, 

degrading picture was funny.

You think that you can put on 

a black-colored face mask and 
undercut an organization and 
movement that has organized 
to 
expose 
and 
eventually 

ameliorate the unfair treatment 
of Black people by police. This 
organization 
recognizes 
the 

incarceration of Black folks 
at astronomically high levels 
compared 
to 
their 
white 

counterparts. This organization 
is 
expansive 
and 
affirms 

the lives of Black queer and 
transgender 
folks, 
disabled 

folks, 
undocumented 
folks, 

folks with records, women and 

all Black lives along the gender 
spectrum. Black Lives Matter 
works to center the narratives of 
those who have been repeatedly 
marginalized 
within 
Black 

liberation 
movements. 
Black 

Lives Matter repeatedly affirms 
the humanity, contributions to 
society and resilience of Black 
people in the face of deadly 
oppression.

And 
so, 
Lauren 
Fokken, 

and 
mysterious 
non-Black 

oppressive person: Making a 
mockery of Black people’s fight 
for survival in an increasingly 
racist and white supremacist 
nation is not funny.

It’s racist.
Now we could brainstorm a 

few solutions to this problem: 
Stop the watering down of the 
race and ethnicity requirement 
so that you can take almost any 
class and have it count for race 
and ethnicity. Put cameras in 
residence halls so that ignorant 
little white kids don’t keep 
writing “N*****” on the back of 
Black kids’ doors.

These are proactive steps in 

the right direction.

But truly, a complete change 

of the University campus culture 
needs to take place. 

This 
campus 
needs 
to 

start 
encouraging 
cultural 

competency at every corner and 
classroom.

Maybe if Becky had paid a bit 

more attention in that watered-
down race and ethnicity class 
she took, she wouldn’t have 
harmed an entire community 
and perpetuated racist minstrel-
like ideology and golliwog vibes.

But in the meantime, Lauren 

and your non-Black POC friend:

Stop using Black people as 

the butt of your jokes. The 
minstrelsy, 
tokenization 
and 

caricatures must stop.

I do, however, want to note 

how ironic this picture is.

Here, 
a 
white-presenting 

woman and an Asian-presenting 
man are trying to make their 
skin smoother and happen to 
make a reference to Black people 
in the process.

In the words of abolitionist 

John Swett Rock:

“If old mother nature had held 

out as well as she commenced, 
we should, probably, have had 
fewer varieties in the races. 
When I contrast the fine tough 
muscular system, the beautiful, 
rich color, the full broad features, 
and the gracefully frizzled hair 
of the negro, with the delicate 
physical 
organization, 
wan 

color, sharp features and lank 
hair of Caucasian, I am inclined 
to believe that when the white 
man 
was 
created, 
nature 

was 
pretty 
well 
exhausted 

— but determined to keep up 
appearances, she pinched up his 
features, and did the best she 
could under the circumstances.”

Keep doing your face masks, 

boo.

CARRIE’d away from your issues

ROSEANNE CHAO/Daily

Connecting our Muslim histories

SAM SO/Daily

To the people who still do racist shit

Combating the monolith: Part one

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

“A complete change 

of the University 
campus culture 

needs to take place.”

ALLISON OWENS

MiC Contributor

ALLISON BROWN

MiC Contributor

PRIYA JUDGE

Assistant MiC Editor

ZAINAB BHINDARWALA

Senior MiC Editor