Arts

I’m the kind of person who looks for 

herself when she reads. I want so badly 
to find bits of myself in characters that 
I love. From Hermione Granger to 
Lizzy Bennet, I crave a connection to 
beloved characters, so much so that 
I force similarities. I try to become 
the characters instead of finding a 
natural connection, instead of finding 
something real.

And then I read Uzma Jalaluddin’s 

“Hana Khan Carries On.” 

I’ve seen attempts at Muslim 

representation in art in the past 
and 
have 
almost 
always 
been 

wholeheartedly disappointed. Seeing 
the trope of “Muslim girls gone wild,” 
taking their hijabs off and straying 
from the religious morals, troubles me. 
In other cases, the characters face a 
great, dramatic internal conflict, where 
they agonize over whether or not they 
can be both a desi Muslim and an 
American student — something along 
those lines. I’ve never felt this pressure 
about maintaining both aspects of 

my identity. There are probably desi 
Muslim girls who do face these issues 
or who are in these situations; it’s just 
not how I’ve grown up. It’s not who I 
am. So where’s the representation for 
the kind of Muslim I am? 

I’m a 21st century Pakistani-

American girl who was born and 
raised in Michigan. I have a connection 
to my culture, but it feels strained 
at times, feeling more surface-level 
than anything else because of the 
Americanization I’ve been accustomed 
to all my life. I’m lucky enough to hold 
a stronger connection to my religion: 

Islam is a constant in my life. There are 
aspects of being a Muslim girl that are 
hard, I’ll be the first to admit. Being the 
only kid in school wearing long sleeves 
and pants instead of tank tops and 
shorts was rough — it can get really hot, 
really fast. I would fast in Ramadan, 
feeling my mouth water when I saw my 
friends snacking. But all of these things 
feel remarkably small in the grand 
scheme of things. So what if my life 
was a little different than my friends? I 
was lucky enough to have friends that 
accepted me and loved me the way 
that I was, regardless of cultural and 
religious differences. I have a family 
that loves and supports me. I work 
hard. I do well. I do good. 

And yet, I still craved something. 

Understanding, maybe. 

It’s taken 20 years, but I’ve found it. 
“Hana Khan Carries On” is a 

retelling of the 1998 film “You’ve 
Got Mail,” following the Indian-
Canadian hijabi Hana Khan as she 
works to accurately represent herself 
and her culture and her religion. She 
has a podcast — which is where the 
anonymous, online romance comes 
in — and she uses her platform to talk 
about herself and her life in a very 
unfiltered way. Similarly, she works 
to create a radio show that depicts 
people like her truthfully, without 
mindlessly subscribing to stereotypes. 
There’s a love story in the book too, 
of course, and while I did thoroughly 
enjoy the halal romcom feel of it all, 
Hana’s strength as a Muslim woman 
facing 
microaggressions 
in 
the 

workplace, working to understand her 

background and ultimately finding her 
voice mattered more to me than the 
admittedly very sweet romance. (I’m 
sorry, Aydin.)

I actually saw myself in Hana. 

Sure, she’s Indian-Canadian, and I’m 
Pakistani-American. She’s a hijabi, 
and I’m not. The details don’t matter. 
Her cultural and familial traditions 
are the same as mine. She has the 
same respect for her religion that I do. 
Her perspective on identity mirrors 
mine. Not to mention she’s a Swiftie, 
and so am I — and so is author Uzma 
Jalaluddin. 

In an interview with The Michigan 

Daily, 
Jalaluddin 
explained 
that 

she wanted to write for people like 
herself. Muslim girls deserve to see 
themselves in books too. Just because 
we don’t date in the traditional sense or 
because our attire is more modest than 
others doesn’t mean that we should 
be excluded from the romcom genre 
altogether. And just because we have a 
different perspective on life, a different 
identity, doesn’t mean that we don’t 
want to be understood.

“I didn’t grow up with that (kind 

of representation),” Jalaluddin said. 
There were hardly any books about 
South Asians, when she was growing 
up in Toronto, and even fewer about 
Muslims. “The ones that were there 
were rife with really toxic stereotypes; 
most of the time they were written 
by white authors … peering into the 
experience of what it’s like to be a non-
white person. I would read … them and 
get really angry.”

And she’s right. There exists 

this need to try to push all Muslim 
characters into this box of “bad” or 
“evil.” Even some of the stories that I 
love most do this. The film “Iron Man” 
comes to mind, where vaguely Muslim 
characters are the bad guys, torturing 
and tormenting the hero. And if the 
characters aren’t evil, they’re not 
represented as being “really Muslim,” 
like when those aforementioned hijabis 
decide to pursue relationships that 
aren’t exactly halal.

“What happens with this sort of 

‘girls gone wild, let me whip off my 
hijab when the first white boy smiles 
at me’ type of narrative, what you’re 
seeing is what other people think about 
Muslim women versus what happens 
when you write about an experience 
that is your own,” Jalaluddin said. “I 
don’t think about my hijab; I just wear 
it. I’ve worn it for years. It’s part of my 
identity.” 

That’s why her books, both “Ayesha 

at Last” and “Hana Khan”, have 
meant so much to me, why they’ve 
made me feel seen. She’s a member 
of the community that she’s writing 
about. She’s writing about people like 
her, people like me. She represents us 
truthfully. 

“I think I just really wanted to 

write a funny, entertaining book about 
Muslims, because it always pissed 
me off that we got the sad stories, the 
victim stories, the arranged marriage, 
forced marriage, extremists running 
off to do violence somewhere else 
stories … Those aren’t the books I like 
to read. I love romance. I want to read 
romance books.”

Uzma Jalaluddin and representation: the legacy of ‘Hana Khan’

Design by Sam Turner

SABRIYA IMAMI

Film Beat Editor

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Wednesday, December 8, 2021 — 5

“I’m leaving the country because I have no 

friends.”

This is the opening line to one of my favorite 

books, “Again, But Better” by Christine Riccio. 
The second I read that line, I knew that this story 
was going to change my life (as cheesy as that may 
sound). I first read it shortly after graduating high 
school. Riccio has a big following on YouTube 
and documented her writing process in video 
diaries. One of my best friends was a huge fan, 
and when the book finally came out, she would 
not stop talking about it. She even drove down 
to Chicago to meet Riccio and have her sign her 
copy of the book. This same friend was gracious 
enough to let me borrow such a prized possession, 
and immediately after finishing it, I drove to three 
different Target locations to get my own copy.

“Again, But Better” follows Shane, a 

20-something student who impulsively signs 
up for a study abroad program in London after 
realizing that she has “done college all wrong.” 
The move is completely out of her comfort zone, 
but she meets new friends (and a very attractive 
housemate), travels all around Europe and gets 
a fancy internship. The only problem is, the 
semester is part of a creative writing program, and 
Shane’s parents want her to go into the medical 
field instead. Throw in a bit of magic and Taylor 
Swift references, and you have my ideal story (and 
my entire personality) summed up in less than 
400 pages. 

Since I bought my own copy, I’ve reread the 

book several times. While some of the smaller 
details have gradually become cheesier as I’ve 
grown older, the overall story has been a source 
of personal comfort. The romance has me 
grinning like an idiot every time, and the travel 
scenes reminded me of my own trip to Paris after 
graduation — if I ever study abroad, it will be solely 
because of this book. My most recent reread was 
this past May, and this time around something 
just clicked. 

I see myself in Shane in many different ways. 

For one, we share similar interests and dreams. 
We are also both naturally anxious people. Up 
until the start of the novel, Shane spent all her 
time reading alone in her dorm room and went 
home for the weekend every chance she got; 
I have to admit my freshman year experience 
was a little too similar. But just like Shane took 
matters into her own hands and traveled abroad, 
I transferred colleges. This year, I enrolled at the 
University of Michigan, the place I wanted to be 
all along. After a year of physical isolation — and 
two years of feeling left behind for not having the 
typical “college experience” — I began to feel like I 
was doing something right.

I was also finally honest with myself about 

wanting to be an author. It’s no known secret 
that careers in the arts make it hard to support 
yourself financially. Despite how much I loved to 
write, the idea of subjecting myself to such a high, 
constant level of stress scared me more. But no 
other potential career excites me nearly as much. 

Shane’s love for writing was a source of family 

conflict in “Again But Better.” Her parents 
disapproved of the idea, for many of the same 
reasons that I couldn’t fully commit to it. My 

parents have always been supportive of me in any 
path I would choose to take, so I didn’t have to 
resort to fabricating an entire pre-med program 
in order to go to London for a semester. Instead, 
the source of conflict lies within myself. But once 
I was able to admit out loud that I was at least 
willing to give it a try, it was suddenly worth it. 
Since starting at the University, I’ve switched 
my major and joined The Daily, where I am 
surrounded by people who love to write as much 
as I do.

If anyone reading this article relates to feeling 

lost and afraid like I was, I have two pieces of 
advice that I hope do not come off as too cliché. The 
first is to go after your passion. It may be difficult 
at first, but it has the potential to pay off in the long 
run — either in success, or in the experiences and 
friends you gain along the way. You won’t know 
unless you try. The second, of course, is to read 
this book (though I would recommend it in any 
circumstance).

Riccio captures everything I felt in her author’s 

note, before the book even begins: “I so badly 
wanted to read a coming-of-age story about 
someone who was 20 — someone who was still 
finding themselves and struggling with becoming 
an adult even after they hit the double-decade 
mark. I needed to know there was at least one 
other 20-plus person out there feeling as alone 
and lost as I was. This is for all the teens/young 
adults/adults who feel like they’ve been left 
behind. You’re not behind. You have time to find 
yourself and love and adventure. It’s all out there, 
and when you’re ready to push yourself out of your 
comfort zone and look for it, you’ll find it.” 

I think I’m finally finding it.

Oh, to be an octopus, slowly slithering 

my way through the dark, only to 
stumble on vestigial remains of an 
ancestor’s home. Aki Inomata’s moving-
image piece “Think Evolution #1: Kiku-
ishi (Ammonite)” describes what a good 
piece of art feels like: stumbling on a 
piece of home that you separated from 
lifetimes ago. Inomata was inspired by 
the instinct that octopuses had to huddle 
inside shell-like objects despite having 
evolved out of their shells millions of 
years ago. Thus, she decided to create a 
resin model based on the shells found of 
distant ancestors — ammonites. And so, 
in the moving image, the octopus slowly 
feels around the new shell it has fallen 
into — something it wasn’t necessarily 
looking for, but that seems to understand 
the octopus and its constitution. 

Some people would argue that is the 

point of consuming art: to see forms of 
humanity that vaguely mirror our own. 
We love finding our shells and holding 
them close. But sometimes, the shells 
don’t want us inside. I read books, a 
decent amount of them old. I can see 
myself in the good ones. But for a while, 
I didn’t read stories that wanted to see 
anyone who wasn’t white. I grew up 
reading “classics” like “Little House 
on the Prairie” and “Tintin” — looking 
back, it’s pretty easy to find racist 
undertones in these works. Consuming 
and internalizing these classics as a child 
is not an uncommon experience. To 
convince me that only these works are 
the “classics” or the pinnacle of literature 
is to do a disservice both to myself 
and those around me. To believe that 
only certain white artists are capable 
of highbrow expression and that only 
certain white characters are allowed to 
have humanity ultimately perpetuates 
white supremacy, and while these beliefs 
are easy to deny at face value, they are 
often still held subconsciously. 

As I’ve grown, I’ve stopped expecting 

authors to capture the world that I see. 
With all of the different experiences in 
the world, how could someone possibly 
articulate in print the out-of-place 
feelings that I find hard to admit to 
myself? At the beginning of 2019, I picked 
up a book from my school library with a 
gorgeously golden cover, and a West Side 
Story lyric in the title — “A Place for Us”, 
by Fatima Farheen Mirza. In the book, 
an Indian-American Muslim family’s 
past unravels as Amar, the youngest 
sibling, comes back to California for 
his eldest sister’s wedding. I think I’ll 
always be chasing the feeling I got from 
reading that book, from seeing Amar’s 
devastating choices and the family’s 
quiet love for each other (there’s a good 
chance my tear stains are still visible on 
the copy’s last chapter). Until that point, 
I had never seen a dynamic, intimate 
portrait of a family that felt like it was 
pulled from real life — from my life. 
Since, I have made it a point to seek out 
Asian American literature. 

It’s not difficult to find people 

who roll their eyes at the mention 
of 
representation. 
Due 
to 
the 

commodification of identity politics, 
widespread representation often focuses 

on the visibility of a few specific traits. 
They’re often used as tokens to make 
art “appealing” to as many people as 
possible, 
rather 
than 
representing 

members of these communities as 
complex human beings that exist 
within the intersections of their identity 
but are not solely defined by them. 
Representation 
is 
often 
dismissed 

as an agenda that is permeating the 
culture — altering the sanctity of what 
art “was” (which, by the way, is an 
incorrectly singular perception of the 
artistic zeitgeist of the “good old days”). 
This aforementioned viewpoint lacks 
empathy. “Forced” representation, while 
frustrating, is an important stepping 
stone. And honestly, there is victory in 
just seeing someone who looks like you 
exist and be considered as worthy of a 
story. Maybe the novelty might wear off, 
but for now, I am happy when I see South 
Asian people being their truest, complex 
selves in art.

What does good representation 

entail? This is a difficult question to 
answer. If I knew exactly what I wanted 
out of art, then maybe I would react 
to art differently. But connecting with 
people who have lived through relatable 
experiences is a reason why we love 
art. Now I know what that octopus 
felt, swiping around in the dark, when 
it landed on a home — something that 
seemed to know the octopus better 
than it knew itself, something that is a 
testament to something big. A collective 
experience intertwined with evolution 
and history and being alive on this planet.

I know that feeling when I read “A 

Tale for the Time Being” by Ruth Ozeki, 
a hilarious writer who has changed 
the way I think about what a life is and 
what a novel should be. I snuggle up in 
bed with Tahereh Mafi’s “A Very Large 
Expanse of Sea” and “Counting Down 
With You,” by Tashie Bhuiyan when 
I’m down, because they are beautiful, 
comforting stories that understand 
what it feels like to be a second-
generation teenager, to be othered in 
a sea of whiteness. And when I read 
Charles Yu’s “Interior Chinatown” 
in a day — I don’t think I’ll ever read 
a more genius marriage of form and 
function, or a portrait of what it means 
to live with stereotypes. And this 
summer, when I went into the Strand 
Bookstore before meeting a friend; after 
wandering around, I picked up “Good 
Talk” by Mira Jacob. Before I knew it, 
the quietly hilarious 349-page graphic 
memoir was done, my feet were hurting, 
and I had a few missed calls from my 
friend, who eventually decided to 
wander around the bookstore and read 
a few titles herself. And “Gold Diggers,” 
don’t get me started on “Gold Diggers” 
by Sanjena Sathian — it’s everything I’ve 
never known I wanted out of a book.

Cathy Park Hong’s work changed 

the way I think about myself. Upasna 
Barath’s podcast and writing for 
Rookie speak to me like no one else 
can. Ocean Vuong’s poetry. Aimee 
Nezhukumatathil’s “World of Wonders.” 
Arthur Sze’s “Residence on Earth.” 
Jillian and Mariko Tamaki’s “This One 
Summer.” Fatimah Asghar’s “My Love 
for Nature.” There are too many to name, 
these artists who have made me. Me and 
my shells.

MEERA S. KUMAR

Daily Arts Writer

Finding ammonites

When Taylor Swift announced that she would be 

releasing a 10-minute version of her 2012 breakup 
ballad “All Too Well” on her re-recorded album 
Red (Taylor’s Version), fans everywhere erupted 
into excitement. The original cut, already over five 
minutes long, was never released as a single, despite 
being one of Swift’s favorite songs off Red. Once the 
album was released in 2012, however, fans quickly 
gravitated to the song on their own and have been 
obsessed with its tragic story of a head-over-heels 
romance gone wrong. On a Thursday night, curled 
up in bed waiting for her new album to drop, I was 
in shambles when midnight arrived, immersing 
myself in an extended version of one of Swift’s most 
beloved songs. 

“All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (Taylor’s 

Version) (From the Vault),” has only been out for a 
couple of weeks, but is already smashing records. 
Overtaking Don McLean’s “American Pie” as the 
longest song to top Billboard’s Hot 100, the song 
provides more context to the original recording, 
supposedly recounting the break-up between 
Swift and Jake Gyllenhaal.

In the days following the release of Red (Taylor’s 

Version), I obsessively expressed my love for the 
10-minute version of “All Too Well” to just about 
every person I know. While raving about the song 
to a friend, he asked me, “What makes this song so 
great?” Like many Swifties who also love the song, 
my immediate answer was, “it’s relatable,” but that 
wasn’t enough to convince him. What’s relatable 
about a breakup between two celebrities? Why are 
people obsessing over a song that’s far too long?

Perhaps the 10-minute version of “All Too Well” 

dropped right when I needed it most, which makes 
it all the more impactful. As a newly-single college 
student, the song hits close to home when I think 
about my own failed relationships. Throughout 

the song Swift dives into the gritty details of her 
failing relationship, weaponizing specific details 
in the face of gaslighting. In one of the song’s newly 
released verses, Swift describes a scene in which 
her then-boyfriend makes claims to feminism as he 
makes her drive his car: “You were tossing me the 
car keys / ‘Fuck the patriarchy’ / Keychain on the 
ground / We were always skipping town.” In these 
lines, Swift paints a heartbreaking picture of an 
arrogant boyfriend tossing the car keys to his naïve 
girlfriend, not even bothering to hand them to her 
as he makes his way to the passenger seat. 

Although some may consider this a small 

inconvenience, this scene alone confronts a subtle 
evil many women face in relationships. For me, 
this verse reminded me of all the times guys have 
imposed negligence in the name of feminism 
— whether that be making me take a cab in an 
unfamiliar city when they could’ve picked me 
up from the airport or pushing the check across 
the table for me to pay, claiming that it’s because 
they believe in “gender equality.” By addressing 
these subtle moments that often go unnoticed, 
Swift is validating the disappointment and anger 
so many women feel when they’re forced into 
uncomfortable situations under the false pretext of 
feminism. 

At the bridge’s close, Swift, despite being 

surrounded by friends and family for her 
21st birthday, describes the loneliness and 
disappointment she felt while waiting for her 
significant other to arrive. Swift perfectly depicts 
the bitter irony of spending what should be one 
of life’s most exciting milestones mourning the 
absence of a careless boyfriend, but what I find 
even more heartbreaking about the scene is the 
way Swift recalls how her father “watched me 
watch the front door all night, willin’ you to come 
/ And he said, ‘It’s supposed to be fun turning 21.’” 
Last year I spent my 21st birthday in the wake of a 
breakup and a global pandemic, so Swift’s retelling 
of her own tragic 21st celebration felt particularly 

personal. Young love is notorious for being an all-
consuming experience, and I too can relate to the 
overwhelming feeling of falling in love and allowing 
my emotions toward a single person to overpower 
my own sense of self and better judgment. 

The lesson here, which many 20-somethings 

have come to understand, is that it’s difficult for the 
people who love us — parents, siblings, friends — to 
watch us drown in our emotions, especially when 
they know that we’d be much better off without the 
person causing us harm. Here, Swift acknowledges 
that sometimes the people in our lives know us 
better than we know ourselves. This bridge took me 
right back to the time when my mom confronted 
me about the way my then-boyfriend was talking 
down to me, or the summer before my junior year 
of college when I cried to my parents, admitting 
that my relationship was falling apart and I needed 
to end things, to which my parents glanced at each 
other and sympathetically nodded their heads as if 
to say, “We’ve known this for months now.” 

Some fans believe that the final two minutes 

of the song, where Swift repeats the line, “It was 
rare / I was there,” is a way for her to legitimize 
the gaslighting she’s experienced — in a world 
that’s so quick to tell women that they’re being 
dramatic, remembering the gritty details is 
often the only way to affirm that the pains we’ve 
experienced actually happened. Swift claims a 
significant amount of time and space to retell her 
experiences in “All Too Well,” which is a bold feat; 
most female songwriters are only allowed two or 
three minutes to unpack the emotional baggage of 
a painful breakup. 

While Swift bravely confronts the small ways 

women have been slighted by their male partners, 
the song is more of a retrospective narrative 
than a pointed assertion pinning men as the sole 
perpetrators of unsuccessful relationships. I don’t 
think Swift’s intention was to blame men. 

Negligence in the name of feminism, I know it ‘All Too Well’

KAITLYN FOX
Music Beat Editor

My college experience: ‘Again, But Better’

HANNAH CARAPELLOTTI

Daily Arts Writer

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

