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