S T A T E M E N T
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Wednesday, February 16, 2022 — 9
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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
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