S T A T E M E N T

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Wednesday, February 16, 2022 — 9

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MichiganDaily.com

Bimbofication is a revolutionary act

Have you seen the bimbofication meme? 

In most iterations, it depicts a woman in 
plain clothes holding a book and quizzically 
flipping through its pages. She then begins to 
stretch the book farther away from herself, 
and over time, becoming more scantily 
clad, drops the volume on the ground. Long 
blonde tresses, fuck-me shoes and a pink 
bodycon mini dress adorn her bodacious, 
fake-tanned figure. This transformation is 
bimbofication. A woman turning her back 
on scholarly material, on knowledge, on 
cognizance, is bimbofication. 

If you haven’t seen it yet, here’s a popular 

image of it:

***

When I think back to my first encounters 

with the word “feminism,” I think of the 
19th Amendment that gave all women 
— in practice, only white women — the 
right to vote in America. This was my first 
encounter with the fact that women have 
been marginalized throughout history and 
that there was, and still is, an ongoing fight 
for liberation.

Feminism has evolved in many ways 

since its first wave at the end of the 19th 
century, when it centered around the role 
of women in a rapidly industrializing world. 
Though it was first created to uplift only 
white, wealthy women, there are now waves 
of feminism that include, and even focus on, 
sex workers, trans women and women of 
color. In the fight toward total and equitable 
women’s liberation, we still have a long way 
to go. And unfortunately, misconstruing the 
term “feminism” has led to many setbacks in 
the furthering of women’s equality around 
the world. 

In recent history, feminism hasn’t exactly 

centered on uplifting all women of all walks 
of life. Baby boomers sought to advance the 
rights of women through corporate means. 
“Breaking the glass ceiling,” so to speak, was 
understood to be the ultimate achievement 
of a woman in a man’s world, hustling in 
corporate America alongside her male 
colleagues.

This so-called feminist rhetoric, in turn, 

demeaned women who chose to be stay-
at-home moms and women who never had 

access to a high-powered career in the first 
place. Intersections of race, class, sexuality 
and other identities were cast to the wayside 
as women with privilege were empowered 
to rise to the top of the Fortune 500. Think: 
rich white woman in a power suit, Sheryl 
Sandberg’s “Lean In.” This iteration of 
feminism was completely blind to realities 
of inaccessibility, systemic racism and 
inequitable opportunities, and it remained 
complicit in the very systems that generate 
sexism: capitalism, the patriarchy and so on.

Once this ideation of feminism was 

introduced to the internet, we were gifted 
with the #GIRLBOSS trend. This was 
the ‘glass ceiling feminism’ reparceled for 
millennial consumption. Still completely 
corporate, the #GIRLBOSS movement 
praised women for their economic output 
and disregarded the immense privilege of 
crafting a go-getter mindset in a high-level 
workplace. 

#GIRLBOSS was taken from the title of 

Sophia Amoruso’s autobiography, in which 
she tells the origin story of her fashion brand 
Nasty Gal. The term is deeply rooted in the 
notion of putting work above all else, and 
stopping at nothing to garner career success. 
Nowadays, the term is insulting, often 
existing as a “personification of tokenism 
and unhealthy attitudes” in the workplace.

It is especially tone deaf when we 

recognize the barriers women of color and 
trans women face when entering corporate 
America. While #GIRLBOSS may have 
begun as an empowering appreciation 
of a woman’s financial independence, it 
oozes with the same lackluster ideals of the 
corporate feminism before it, reinforcing 
the value of women solely based on 
their contributions to the economy and 
overlooking the non-inclusive, ignorant 
notion that all women have a chance to 
succeed in the workplace. 

Flash forward to one of feminism’s newest 

iterations now: full of post-irony with regard 
to the #GIRLBOSS era that came shortly 
before it. With the resurgence of Paris 
Hilton’s popularity in online culture, the 
pink aesthetic of the early 2000s has been 
combined with the workings of 21st-century 
feminism to birth bimbofication. The 
bimbofication meme became a way to cope 
with the emergence of a new form of passive 
feminism: dissociative feminism.

Dissociative feminism, a term coined by 

Emmeline Clein of Buzzfeed, refers to the 
use of deadpan, nihilistic humor to cope 
with reductive ideas of womanhood. It is a 
form of feminism with no real outcome or 
imprint. To rephrase, dissociative feminism 

signifies an understanding that women will 
always remain marginalized. Instead of 
working to diminish sexism, a dissociative 
feminist would rather make fun of their 
marginalized condition and accept it as the 
only possible outcome.

In Clein’s article, she cites the British 

television series “Fleabag” as the catalyst of 
this moment in feminism. The dissociative 
feminist “medicates through sex, alcohol, 
and inflicting pain on others.” As a coping 
strategy, dissociative feminism captures 
the damsel in distress through a different 
perspective, wherein the damsel flocks to 
her distress. 

The problem with this recent iteration of 

feminism is this: engaging in dissociative 
feminism means staying complicit in 
heteropatriarchal 
colonial 
institutions 

— like European beauty standards and 
the wage gap — and believing that the 
acknowledgement of women’s struggle is 
as good as taking action. The bimbofication 
process descends from this brand of 
feminism, retreating to the subservient, 
frivolous role that has been imposed 
on women for much of history. The 
oversexualization of the female body and 
the depiction of women as unintelligent — 
with the woman abandoning her book in 
favor of a pink clutch — is a harmful ploy to 
reinforce heteropatriarchy.

However, 
by 
overdoing 
this 
self-

degradation in an intentionally artificial 
way, bimbofication works beyond the 
passivity of dissociative feminism, with a 
subversion of the once-harmful stereotypes 
of women who love pink and are often half-
clothed.

To self-bimbofy means not only feeding 

into gender norms, but also embracing and 
simultaneously subverting them. Yes, the 
stereotype of a dumb, curvy blonde woman 
is exhausted and degrading. But to look and 
act like this as a conscious choice is a form 
of resistance. If someone calls me a bimbo 
and I embrace it as a compliment, I am 
stripping the insult of its power. Choosing 
to be perceived like this is a revolutionary 
act against sexist rhetoric because it renders 
this language useless in keeping women 
down.

Bimbofication 
reflects 
this 
passive 

approach to feminism, but in a way that 
illustrates the complex humor-mechanisms 
that Gen Z uses to resist larger structures. 
Instead of bottling up our experiences of 
sexism and letting them ruin our lives, 
bimbofication lets women show the world 
what it has wanted from us all along. To 
actively choose to play into the stereotypes 

of women is a post-ironic game. Women are 
told that we are dumb and useless. When 
we display these traits in a gratuitous way, 
it is a secret that only the bimbofied can 
understand. 

Bimbofication is a profoundly subversive 

act that revolutionizes the idea of a 
woman’s choice. In it, we can choose to defy 
corporate feminism, which tells us that a 
woman’s purpose is to expand the economy 
as efficiently as her male counterpart does. 
We can play dumb as a way of being less 
productive, because we understand that 
productivity is not everything. 

Bimbofication is also a challenge to 

misogyny, which holds that women should 
dress modestly and be subservient to 
men. As a way of breaking these molds, 
bimbofication enables women to reclaim 
the degrading rhetoric characteristic of the 
patriarchy. Think of the boys who bullied 
you in elementary school, claiming that your 
pink clothes must denote your weakness 
and that you must be bad at math since 
you’re a girl.

Bimbofication is the post-ironic response 

to larger issues of misogyny and sexism, 
empowering women to let the world think 
of them as stupid and vain. Transposing 
onto reality, bimbofication takes the shape 
of many influencers on TikTok, Instagram 
and other social sites, namely, Chrissy 
Chlapecka.

Chrissy Chlapecka — a 21-year-old 

Barbie-like blonde from Chicago — is at the 
forefront of this movement. Across social 
media, she is an explosion of sparkles and 
pink. Most of her content focalizes her 
queer identity and being true to her own 
story, which she shares to her followers in 
her vocal-fried, nasally pitch. She also posts 

silly videos that make sense only to those 
who’ve had hyper-feminized experiences, 
like getting an ear piercing at Claire’s.

Beyond her comedic presence, she is a 

source of positivity and confidence for her 
more than 4 million TikTok followers. In a 
recent interview with the Chicago Tribune, 
Chlapecka explains that her hope is to be 
an “older sister” for her viewers who, like 
herself, did not always hear messages of 
being unapologetic and genuine. This is the 
true power that bimbofication can harness. 

However, like most internet offspring, 

the meme does not come without its 
faults. It is a white European approach to 
reclaiming one’s own body that reflects 
immense privilege, especially when the 
right to bodily autonomy has been stolen 
from many women around the world. And, 
not all women who may choose to partake 
in bimbofication feel safe doing so. 

Moreover, 
when 
much 
of 
the 

bimbofication 
aesthetic 
originates 

from underground queer communities, 
the meme’s ‘camp’ approach could be 
interpreted as an appropriation of queer 
culture. 
Though 
somewhat 
hard 
to 

define, camp is mainly an appreciation for 
intentional artifice and fakeness, centering 
subjects that are, “deliciously over-the-top, 
tongue-in-cheek, in earnestness or in jest; 
they breathe parody and irony.” Historically, 
participating in the camp aestheitc has 
provided a, “way for queer people…to 
connect in solidarity and survive injustice 
with humor.” 

MARTHA STARKEL

Statement Columnist

Last week, while in a hurry to get to 

a meeting across campus, I was laser 
focused only on the quick cadence of my 
steps. However, as I passed by two people 
in conversation, my attention diverted to 
the sound of one of their voices. The man 
appeared to be South Asian, and his voice 
was rich, thick and saturated with my own 
father’s accent. Immediately, I felt a wave of 
comfort wash over me despite my continued 
mad steps toward my meeting place. 

Since coming to the University of 

Michigan, 
a 
predominantly 
white 

institution, I have found myself missing the 
familiarity that comes from my parents’ 
Indian accents. Although I also attended a 
predominantly white high school, my home 
was a designated space for my family’s 
ethnic background to flourish. My parents’ 
distinct accents were synonymous with the 
warm and welcoming definition of ‘home’ 
they cultivated for me. 

However, on campus, there is not 

a similar place for me to retreat to. 
While nearly 15% of the University’s 
undergraduate population is international, 
with one of the biggest communities being 
Indian, I’ve observed a disconnect between 
native-born and international students. I 

don’t see the two groups mixing often, and 
that might partially be because of the way 
people with ethnic accents are othered in 
ways extending far beyond campus. It’s a 
prejudice that is most clearly evident within 
popular media. 

Indian characters in television are often 

comedically portrayed, with the punchline 
of the joke resting on their foreign accent. 
Caricatured figures like Raj Koothrappali 
from “The Big Bang Theory,” Ravi Ross from 
“Jessie,” and Apu Nahasapeemapetilon 
from “The Simpsons” are all male, awkward 
and speak with a thick Indian accent. And, 
while their characters speak as though they 
are directly from South Asia — or rather 
a misconstrued, stereotypical version of 
South Asia — on television, each of the 
actors speak with an American accent in 
real life.

If you closed your eyes and listened 

purely to the sound of the actors’ voices, 
they would be indistinguishable from their 
white American counterparts. In fact, Apu 
was formally voiced by actor Hank Azaria: 
a white man with no connection to South 
Asian culture, who later stepped down 
from the role due to his perpetuation of 
harmful stereotypes.

Moreover, the vast majority of these male 

South Asian characters — at least those 
with an accent — tend to be socially inept. 
They focus only on school, can’t find any 

romantic partners, have limited numbers 
of friends, are painfully blunt and don’t 
understand any American idioms — all 
characteristics that make them the butt of 
jokes. Any time I am introduced to such a 
character on television, I hold my breath, 
waiting for the moment someone makes fun 
of the character’s mode of speaking.

Take, for example, this scene from “The 

Office.” The main character, Michael 
Scott, feigns an Indian accent while 
pretending to work at a convenience store 
— depicting a long-held television trope. 
While mimicking the accent, Scott uses 
incomplete sentences to communicate, 
thus insinuating that all foreigners are 
poor English speakers and/or unable to 
hold conversation. Although this scene 
ultimately ends with an Indian-American 
slapping Scott, revealing the unacceptable 
nature of his mockery, the damage is done: 
reductive television stereotypes against 
South Asian men persist.

It 
is 
this 
harmful 
representation 

that makes me worried about others’ 
perceptions of my own family. My father 
speaks with a strong Indian accent, but 
he is a complex and interesting man. And, 
the fact that I feel the need to preface 
this assertion with “but” shows just how 
deeply rooted the stereotype is. My dad 
loves talking about history and politics, is 
a walking encyclopedia of idioms and gives 
exceptional advice. And yet, mainstream 
television 
never 
demonstrates 
these 

qualities. It only depicts the harmful, 
hyperbolic versions of South Asians — 
particularly South Asian men — that appeal 
to a white audience’s humor.

When speaking about Apu’s comedic 

contribution to “The Simpsons,” show 
co-producer and writer Dana Gould stated, 
“There are accents that by their nature to 
white Americans sound funny. Period.” 
Americans are afforded the luxury of 
finding light-hearted humor in ethnic 
accents, while these jokes serve as the 
foundation on which America’s ethnically-
targeted bigotry is built. Long before I had 
the language to express such injustice, I 
experienced this bigotry in the forms of 
shame and otherness.

As a child, I would feel ashamed to 

translate my father’s accented English 
to my non-accented English. Once while 
shopping in Walmart, my father and I spent 
20 minutes wandering through the store, 
asking store associates where the flowers 
were. We were repeatedly directed to the 
baking aisle, where the flour was. When my 
father shook his head, explaining that what 
we were looking for wasn’t in the baking 
aisle, we were met only with shrugs and 
confused faces. It wasn’t until my 7-year-old 
self asked that we got the answer we were 
looking for. 

The store associates’ confusion came 

from an innocent and genuine uncertainty 
of what my father was saying. But, despite 
living in the United States for my whole 
life, and despite my father’s American 
citizenship, I still feared that they viewed 
us as outsiders unworthy of our stay 
here. Their nonchalant attitude toward 
understanding what we wanted reinforced 
my idea that we were a mere nuisance. 

I 
experienced 
this 
same 
worry 
throughout 

my childhood, scared that my friends’ well-
spoken parents would judge my father 
for his way of speaking. Though I never 
experienced any bigotry from my friends 
or their families, I was concerned that my 
father’s stuttering or mispronunciation of 
words would categorize him as the cliche 
‘awkward Indian.’ After all, all of the media 
I was consuming told me that Indians’ 
accents immediately reduce them to one-
dimensional, laugh-worthy characters. 

During my brother’s college graduation, 

as my family and I watched my brother 
line up alongside his peers, we all felt sheer 
excitement. Seeing him before the stage on 
which he was about to receive his diploma, 
my dad proudly shouted his name — Akhil 
— to get his attention for a photograph. In 
response, a white graduate standing near 
parroted “Akhil! Akhil! Look here,” with 
an artificially thick and inaccurate Indian 
accent.

What was supposed to be a joyous and 

innocent moment quickly turned into one 
of shame and embarrassment. My father’s 
voice taught me multiplication tables at our 
kitchen table, guided me through the task 
of riding a bike and cheered for me during 
high school sports games. And now it was 

being mocked in front of an entire crowd of 
people.

Despite the loving nature of his voice, my 

father’s accent is the recipient of vehement 
hate and prejudice — treatment that is 
wholly unjust and racially-motivated. As 
a culture, we’re socialized to celebrate 
British and Australian accents, touting 
them as sexy. The difference between 
these two groups of accents? One is native 
to predominantly white countries and the 
other is native to predominantly non-white 
countries.

This bias, like most other racial 

biases, stems from colonialism. British 
accents belonged to those of the ruling 
class and Indian accents belonged to the 
subordinated class. While these power 
structures may have dissipated on a formal 
level, the power imbalance remains, woven 
into our country’s socio-political fabric. 
Social hierarchies, perpetuated by popular 
media, continue to treat ethnic minorities 
as second-class citizens. Or, in this case, as 
clowns that exist not as three-dimensional, 
dynamic American citizens but as the 
source of a cheap laugh.

Hearing the ethnic accent native to one’s 

motherland can feel like a warm embrace. 
To others, it is a symbol of unwanted foreign 
encroachment. If mainstream television 
perpetuates the idea that all Indian men 
with accents are awkward or inherently 
the ‘other’, the viewers will internalize the 
message and believe it to be true.

While this was once a painful point 

for me — causing me to be ashamed of 
my Indian family’s mode of speaking — I 
have found so much value in the richness 
of the accent. It doesn’t have to just be an 
opportunity for people to target and express 
their prejudiced views. It is a reminder of 
home and family.

And, while I no longer feel the 

embarrassment I once did with regard to 
my father’s accent, I still get nervous about 
offhand comments. I feel a need to protect 
him from the bigotry, but I feel powerless to 
do so. Ultimately, it is the media that shapes 
people’s thoughts and opinions. Only once it 
accurately depicts the wide range of Indian 
men’s personalities and interests will 
people understand the truth.

KAVYA UPPALAPATI

Statement Columnist

South Asian accents: Comfort vs hate

Design by Leilani Baylis-Washington
Meme courtesy of knowyourmeme.com
Page Design by Sarah Chung

Design by Reid Graham
Page Design by Sarah Chung

