YOUR WEEKLY

ARIES

Focus on your values this week. 
Only when you know what truly 
matters to you can you make 
some difficult decisions. 

AQUARIUS

GEMINI

The truth turns out to be a flexible 
thing this week – be careful not 
to assume that your truth is the 
same as anyone else’s. 

SAGITTARIUS

CAPRICORN

SCORPIO

CANCER

Pay your debts – financial or 
otherwise – so that you can move 
forwards with a clean slate as the 
future beckons. 

TAURUS

Show off your leadership skills by 
staying calm at work in the face of 
increasing levels of stress. 

VIRGO

PISCES

LIBRA
LEO

Ask the universe to help you with 
your work-life balance – nobody 
finds this dilemma easy, but 
solutions are on the horizon. 

Read your weekly horoscopes from astrology.tv

Curb restlessness and resentful-
ness by insisting that others pull 
their weight, at work and in your 
personal life. 

You’re putting your own needs 
first, which is a healthy thing to do, 
but watch out for a rare selfish 
streak emerging in you. 

Allowing your inner child out to 
play will help relieve the stress of a 
situation where you and your 
family are at loggerheads.

Bold ideas need bold communica-
tion, so don’t give up if others are 
not taking you seriously at first. 

Financial confusion and an edge 
of recklessness persist – be careful 
with your money until the fog 
clears. 

A tumultuous week ahead finds 
you front and center of the cosmic 
battleground created by the 
Saturn-Uranus square.

Don’t be spooked by strange 
happenings or weird dreams; this 
is part of the process of getting 
comfortable with your spiritual 
gifts. 

WHISPER

“Spencer, real talk. You’re 
going to hate this.”

“Sandcastles in the sand.”

“Not that bad!”
“Noooooooooooooo.”

The oft-cited high road in social 

settings is to not (never!) talk 
politics. Don’t make it awkward! 
Be the middle ground between 
the uber-polarized battleground 
of the left and right. If anyone asks 
where you may stand, take the 
position of neutrality, the middle-
man, the mature arbiter — be 
apolitical.

In today’s day and age, it may 

seem as though taking no stance 
amidst the frenzy of American 
politics 
is 
the 
best 
route. 

Especially in a college setting 
such as our own, some of us think 
a surefire method of not making 
friends is to be vocal about our 
political stances — the last thing 
we want to do is alienate ourselves 
by potentially alienating a group of 
others. William O’Neal exhibited 
a 
similar 
mindset 
preceding 

his infiltration into the Black 
Panther Party (BPP) in the late 
1960s, as portrayed in the highly-

anticipated 
Shaka 
King 
film 

“Judas and the Black Messiah.” 
O’Neal, 
played 
by 
Lakeith 

Stanfield, sets to wave his own 
criminal record by informing the 
Federal Bureau of Investigation on 
the proceedings of one of the most 
influential Black revolutionaries 
of the 20th century — the BPP’s 
Chairman Fred Hampton played 
by Daniel Kaluuya. Though the 
film offers many lessons, one 
of its loudest is the eventual 
assured disintegration of apathy. 
What begins because of a sense 
of political indifference ends in 
the death of the Chairman by 
the hands of the United States 
government. What starts as no 
stance eventually teeters one 
way or the other, and in the case 
of O’Neale, slips too deep to the 
wrong end.

Throughout the unfortunate 

tragedy, the FBI wields O’Neal like 
a puppet, hanging his potential 
prison sentence over his head 
in an effort to keep him docile 
in his informancy. At one point, 
the agent working with O’Neal 

discusses his own thoughts on 
the Black Panther Party and 
likens them to the Ku Klux Klan, 
and O’Neal mumbles in neither 
agreement or disagreement — the 
neutrality persists. As the film 
progresses, the agent observes 
O’Neal at a rally during one of 
Chairman Hampton’s speeches, 
later remarking to him that it 
looked like he believed what the 
Chairman was saying. And here 
and there, it really did look so: 
O’Neal’s glass shield of apathy 
seems to chip as the crowd shouts 
in vigor “I am a revolutionary!” It 
makes sense why the American 
government would see Chairman 
Hampton as a threat: He wove 
together similarities in groups 
that would never have seen the 
commonality in their causes prior. 
With the Rainbow Coalition, 
Hampton created a multicultural 
coalition with the most unlikely 
participants at face value, the 
Young Patriots Organization. The 
film displays Chairman Hampton 
walking into their meeting, with 
him on one side and a group 

member speaking on the other, 
the Young Patriots Organization’s 
Confederate flag hanging proudly 
in the background. By the end 
of their discussion, members of 
the Young Patriot Organization 
realize the common goal that 
unites their interests with those 
of the BPP: minimizing and 
eventually ending poverty. In the 
same way, Chairman Hampton 
also joins forces with Young 
Lords, a predominantly Latinx 
based organization that, through 
his convincing, realize the same 
common 
goal. 
Following 
the 

creation of this organization, 
many of its subgroups advanced 
social programs like free breakfast 
programs, medical clinics and 
clothing drives. It seems as 
though the BPP isn’t as extreme 
as most media and historical 
recounts push us to perceive 
them as; it seems as though at 
the end of the day, their stances 
and programs were nowhere near 
extremist, 
rather 
increasingly 

applicable and greatly beneficial 
to a wide array of Americans from 

varying backgrounds. This may be 
why FBI director J. Edgar Hoover 
cited them as the country’s biggest 
threat — they, and as this film 
aptly displays, certainly Chairman 
Hampton, filled the void created 
by the American government in 
its disregard for and perpetuation 
of racial and economic injustice, 
by 
serving 
as 
the 
unifying, 

benefactory role that many would 
expect a just government to do.

But fear-mongering of the other 

unfortunately works too well, and 
combined with the FBI’s pressure 
on O’Neal, he undoubtedly was 
more of a pawn than a willful 
perpetrator. 
However, 
it’s 

important to note that O’Neil’s 
initially 
nonexistent 
stance 

became grossly misappropriated 
to serve another stance, a vested 
interest by the preservers of 
the status quo. Moreso, the film 
provides a contrast that may 
be even more telling — groups 
that 
initially 
solely 
looked 

inwards 
in 
their 
advocacy 

realized the inherent universal 
political deterrents of their own 

causes — realization spurred by 
conversation, debate and for lack 
of a better term, initially awkward 
encounters. While O’Neal ran 
from ascribing to any political 
or social movement, he actively 
worked against the interests of 
his own community; whereas 
Chairman Hampton unearthed 
commonalities in the pursuits of 
communities that, until that point, 
were others to one another. The 
real kicker to me? As I watched the 
film, picking up my phone every 
other second to research if that 
aspect they just mentioned was 
real or made up, I came across the 
ages of both O’Neal and Hampton 
at the time of these events. 20 
and 21, respectively. Any of us 
could be either of them right now: 
We could either be a vessel for 
vested interests that aren’t ours, 
or we can be an instrument to 
deliver long-awaited justice in a 
world that seems devoid of it. The 
decision we make incrementally 
becomes clearer and clearer based 
on the stances we take, or more 
significantly, don’t.

The Dangers of Political Apathy: Lessons from Judas and the Black Messiah

ELIYA IMTIAZ 
MiC Senior Editor

Every time I see a red envelope, 

I feel as though I’m entering a time 
machine. 

This red envelope is more 

than just paper. It’s filled with 
lucky money, given from adults to 
children during the Lunar New 
Year as a way to wish them health 
and a long life.

As I clean out my room and 

stumble upon a stack of my favorite 
red envelopes, I’m teleported 
through a catalog of memories 
I associate with the Lunar New 
Year. 

My first stop: Texas, circa 2009. 

I’m surrounded by many things: 
the humid air that makes my skin 
sticky; the sounds of firecrackers, 
which deafen me for a week; 
the sight of the dragon dancers 
that makes my back ache just by 
watching. The drums and cymbals 
grow louder and louder. Parents 
shoot Vietnamese profanities out 
of their mouths at their kids who 
won’t stop running around. My 
first stop is overwhelming. But at 
least I have a red envelope in hand.

The next place I visit is a temple 

in Warren, Mich. It’s 2010. The 
smell of the burnt firecrackers 

overtakes my nose, and I can no 
longer smell the glutinous sticky 
rice made by the temple nuns in 
the basement or the smell of the 
freshly peeled oranges that the 
monk handed out to everyone. 
I remember the happiness I felt 
every time we celebrated the New 
Year at temple because the most 
important thing to me was that 
I got to skip school the next day. 
And suddenly, before I know it, the 
clock reads 12:30 in the morning, 
my eyes droop and the voices 
around me gradually get quieter as 
I fall asleep on the temple floor. My 
second stop is pure childhood. I get 
money in a red envelope and get to 
skip school — what more could I 
want as a kid?

Stop three takes place in 2012 at 

an annual New Year’s celebration 
in Berkley, Mich. A huge group 
of us temple children nervously 
wait backstage as we get ready to 
perform. Jittery nerves, hearts 
wildly beating. Onstage, I begin to 
love it — the lights, the cheers, the 
all-eyes-on-us feeling. Everyone 
claps loudly and I spend the rest 
of the night running around in 
my áo dài that came straight from 
Vietnam, munching on the over-
toasted bánh mì that spreads a trail 
of crumbs behind me. My third 
stop is heartwarming. Everyone 

is having a good time with the red 
envelopes tucked deep into the 
pockets of their pants.

Next: California, 2018. I’m 

older now, so the feelings are 
much clearer — like the feeling of 
excitement I get catching the plane 
to California and heading straight 
from the hotel to a temple there. 
This temple is big. It’s bright. It’s 
one of the nicest I have ever seen. 
Large red paper lanterns and 
yellow flowers adorn the doors 
and walkways, making me feel like 
I’m somewhere straight out of a 
movie. We see someone my uncle 
knows, and she gives my sister and 
me a red envelope. Here, I feel at 
home. Surrounded by the smells of 
food sold at the stations and tasting 
the crispy egg rolls in my mouth, I 
feel like I’m in my kitchen at home 
eating all of my mom’s home-
cooked meals. My fourth stop 
gives me comfort. I’m blessed by 
the envelope and the opportunity 
for good food.

For the last stop, I’m back home 

and it’s 2020. It’s my family’s 
second year hosting a Vietnamese 
New Year’s celebration with all 
our family friends. The younger 
children painting, the older kids 
taking photos or playing video 
games in my room, the moms 
singing the night away with 
every karaoke song they know by 
heart and the dads drinking and 
discussing whatever dads like to 
discuss. At around 11 p.m., the 

dads sit along the couches and we 
children go down the line, wishing 
them a happy new year, health 
and happiness in exchange for 
these little red envelopes, holding 
in their clutches a $2 bill. This 
memory is loving. The interaction 
between giving and receiving is 
nothing short of pure warmth and 
tenderness in my heart.

Stepping 
out 
of 
the 
time 

machine, I feel full, though I begin 
to wonder: What is the Lunar 
New Year going to bring me this 
year? As Feb. 12 gets closer and 
closer, I realize how different 
the celebration will look with 
the pandemic looming over us. 
No more firecrackers and large 
celebrations in the main temple 
room where everyone sits knee-
to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder. No 
more long lines of dads passing 
out money, or trips to California 
or Texas where I can still feel at 
home. 

Despite all these memories I 

associate with the Lunar New 
Year, which I will definitely miss 
this year and as long as COVID-19 
is around, I stay grounded in the 
fact that the one common theme 
among all these memories is my 
family. My family that makes me 
feel loved, makes me feel at home, 
makes me connected to who I 
am. So as long as I’m with them, 
the Lunar New Year will always 
be valuable. With them, and a red 
envelope.

HANNAH NGUYEN 

MIC Columnist

Within seconds of watching 

the trailer of “Minari” last 
fall, my eyes were immediately 
filled with tears. I barely 
even knew the title of the 
movie or what kind of story 
it would tell, but I was so 
unshakably 
emotional. 
And, 

strangely enough, the same 
thing happened to many of 
my Korean-American friends. 
Looking back, I don’t think it 
was only because the movie 
seemed so well-written, or 
because it foreshadowed such 
moving 
performances 
from 

Han Ye-ri and Steven Yeun or 
that it looked so aesthetically 
beautiful. While “Minari” did 
turn out to be all those things 
and more, I realize I was 
so moved because it simply 
looked so … familiar. I could 
not help but cry in those first 
few moments because for the 
first time in my life, I could see 
myself on screen. 

Directed by Lee Isaac Chung 

and premiered at the Sundance 
Film Festival in January 2020, 
“Minari” tells the story of the 
“American Dream” and, more 
importantly, that of those who 
pursue it. Set in a small town 
in Arkansas in the 1980s, the 
storyline follows Jacob, Monica 
and their two children, Anne 
and David, as they move from 
California to rural Arkansas to 
start a family farm and begin 
a new life. Mostly taking place 
in a run-down, wooden trailer 
home, the movie portrays the 
hardship and fear that comes 
with raising a family in a 
foreign country, as well as the 
shifting — and endearingly 
entertaining, to say the least 
— family dynamic with the 
arrival of David’s grandma, 
played by the legendary Yoon 
Yuh-jung from Korea.

As a first-generation Korean 

American raised in the Chicago 
suburbs in the 2010s, I grew up 
almost thirty years after and 
halfway across the country 
from where this movie was set. 
Yet somehow, “Minari” still 
felt so personal to me. Whether 
it was hearing the perfectly 
broken Korean of David talking 
to his grandma or watching him 
witness his mother’s joy at the 
unbagging of gochugaru (red 
chili powder) from Korea, there 
were so many small details 
scattered throughout the film 
that are incredibly particular 
to 
the 
Korean-American 

experience that I grew up 
with. Watching the characters 
undergo 
an 
experience 
so 

similar to my own made me 
feel so exposed, and liberated, 
and vulnerable and seen — so 
much so that I couldn’t help but 
wonder in amazement if this is 
how many of my white friends 
feel every time they watch a 
mainstream American movie 
in theaters or how my parents 
feel whenever they watch an 
old Korean movie set in the era 
of their youth.

After having seen the movie 

twice (my family loved it so 

much 
that 
we 
re-watched 

it less than two days after 
the first time), I realized 
that, at its core, “Minari” is 
a gentle film. Layered with 
the 
beautiful 
instrumentals 

of Emile Mosseri’s dreamlike 
soundtrack and shots of young 
David walking alongside his 
grandma in his cowboy boots, 
it is a kind and honest film, 
warm beyond measure. But 
much more than that, it is a 
healing film. While watching 
the movie, I found myself 
strangely wondering — and 
admittedly 
even 
becoming 

slightly possessive over — to 
whom this film really belongs. 
Even within the immigrant 
narrative, I thought this movie 
was made for first-generation 
Korean Americans like me; 
it is finally our story being 
told, and through the eyes of a 
fellow first-generation director 
at that. But as I watched it 
the second time through and 
saw my mom laughing and 
crying alongside Monica who 
reunites with her own mother 
or bashfully tries to speak 
English at the family’s local 
church, it made me realize that 
my mother sees “Minari” as the 
telling of her story as much as I 
do my own. 

I 
think 
that 
for 
many 

Korean Americans, we have 
a long-ridden desire buried 
deep within us to be seen, 
and to have ownership over 
something, anything, that we 
can truly call ours. And this 
film is monumental in gently 
unraveling 
that 
insecurity. 

“Minari” allowed me to feel like 
it was mine, something I could 
proudly hold onto and cherish 
without a need for justification. 
But, 
in 
the 
same 
healing 

process, it also reminded me 
that the immigrant experience 
is inherently a paired journey 
between both generations, and 
it is difficult and nuanced and 
lonely on both ends. It made 
me realize that my parents are 
more than valid in feeling seen 
by this movie and that this film 
— and the story it tells — is as 
uniquely important and special 
to them as it is for me. And it 
taught me that maybe sharing 
this ownership of the Korean-
American experience is a very 
necessary and beautiful thing. 

Even without its genuinely 

hilarious 
scenes, 
adept 

storytelling 
and 
striking 

visuals, “Minari” carries so 
much significance in its own 
existence. After watching it, 
I didn’t really care if it felt 
slow at times or if someone’s 
acting 
wasn’t 
perfect. 
The 

fact 
remains 
that 
this 
is 

an American film about a 
Korean-American family and 
is something that is, and will 
always be, so deeply special 
to me and to many others. I 
think I speak for many Korean 
Americans when I say that 
“Minari” — and even director 
Lee Isaac Chung’s decision to 
create it — truly feels like a 
gift I didn’t know I and many 
others had waited so long to 
receive. So, thank you, Lee 
Isaac Chung, for “Minari.”

“Minari”: it dances, 
it glimmers, it heals

YOON KIM
MiC Columnist

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Wednesday, February 17, 2021 — 7

A Li Xi in my palm

