Wednesday, May 4, 2022 — 5
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
The cartoonishly-evil women characters of
Asian entertainment
One-dimensional is an
understatement
when
it
comes to the majority of
female characters in East
and
Southeast
Asians
movies and TV — if they are
even present at all.
Of course, we are all too
familiar with the doe-eyed
damsel in distress with her
dyed caramel locs getting
scooped up, fireman-style,
by her love interest in soapy
dramas. If this Mary Sue
were not a helpless orphan
waiting to be rescued by her
mythical hero, her mother
would be strict, but loving
nonetheless.
And
then
there is her best friend, who
is quick-witted and sharp-
tongued, providing comedic
relief in scenes where the
main protagonist is too
much of a proper lady to do
so. Aside from these three
core female characters, in
an average Asian movie or
TV show, you can find a
slew of women who can be
described as plot devices
at best, and misogynistic
caricatures at worst.
To
me,
the
binary
between
the
perfectly
angelic main protagonist
and the other cartoonishly
evil women who serve as
mere plot devices in these
films revealed some deeply
ingrained cultural attitudes
toward women.
First of all, rarely, if ever,
are these “evil” women
in Asian media written
as fleshed-out characters
with
personalities,
background
stories
and
moral grayness akin to
real
life
women.
Take,
for example, the “other
woman” who is competing
against
the
protagonist
for the male love interest.
She is often depicted as
a seductress who wears
an above-average amount
of
makeup,
revealing
clothing and excessively
loud
jewelry.
Even
the
demeanor of this particular
archetype remained almost
unchanged
throughout
the
emergence
of
entertainment
industries
in Asia: They curled their
lips,
hurled
snarky
but
nonetheless
dispositional
insults and seduced the
male love interest with
almost comical overtness.
Of course, their intention
behind
approaching
the
male love interest is almost
always for money or some
other reason to serve the
plot. Aside from the “other
woman,” there is also the
caricature of the cruel,
often bourgeoisie mother-
in-law who disapproves of
her daughter-in-law’s every
move, believing her son
to be deserving of a better
partner. There is also the
genius yet arrogant female
classmate who vocalizes
passive-aggressive remarks
to the academically inferior
protagonist. And finally,
who can forget the peer
who
is
jealous
of
the
protagonist’s beauty and
therefore tries to sabotage
her many pursuits?
ZOE ZHANG
MiC Columnist
I am my mother’s child, or at least I hope to be
Throughout
my
life
I’ve
experienced two types of love. There’s
the love you get from friends and the
people you meet. It’s the type of love
you can speak about and describe
your feelings with words and actions.
It’s a beautiful feeling created just
by you and the other person. A bond
that just you two share, that only
you two know about. It’s a love that
consists of random “i love you” texts
and “text me when you get home”
reminders when they’re leaving your
place. It’s a happy birthday Snapchat
post and a comment on every one of
their Instagram posts. It’s a check-
in text or a four-hour-long Facetime
call. It’s non-stop conversations at the
library when you both have an organic
chemistry exam the next day. This
type of love is beautiful and fulfilling,
and it’s enough to get you by.
But then there’s the second type of
love. The love you don’t realize until
you’re 19 years old sitting in your dark
bedroom alone on a Tuesday night,
or in a random conversation with
your roommates all talking about
your futures. It’s a love I’ve been
lucky enough to experience from the
very minute I was born, only getting
stronger every day. It’s the love I’ve
realized my mother holds for me.
But it’s more than motherly love.
Describing it as such reduces the love
to something that is expected from
every mother, when my mother’s
love surpasses the bare minimum
a mother should hold. It puts a box
around her love, labeling it, defining
it as something able to be defined. It’s
not motherly love, it’s stronger and
deeper. It’s emotional, healing, curing,
adoring and warm. It’s a deadly love. A
heartbreaking love and a devastating
one.
My parents were alone when
they came to the U.S. It was a time
my mother described as filled with
curiosity and excitement, but one I
know was masked by the extreme
feeling of fear and loneliness from
navigating a country by themselves
with no family. My mother kept these
feelings secret so I would never worry
or feel bad for her. And although she
tries to hide it, I know that I’m one
of the only reasons she has not gone
back to India to be surrounded by her
mother and her sisters, the people she
hasn’t been able to see for longer than
two and a half months at a time in over
25 years.
Growing up, my mother and I had
a rocky relationship. It was one filled
with accusations, anger and arguments
that turned into yelling matches over
simple misunderstandings. It was one
filled with resentment stemming from
my willful ignorance for my mother’s
situation and spiteful words on my
end for no legitimate reason. These
were all actions that would normally
push the people that love you away,
something I have consistently done
for reasons I don’t understand, but
she never budged. With everything
she’s endured both from me and the
situation, her love for me only grew
deeper. Her love for her kids is the
strongest love I’ve ever felt.
Her love is so powerful that it can
be felt miles and miles away. I feel
it when I come home after a hard
week, when my mother immediately
senses something is wrong when
no one else could. I feel it when she
texts me to remind me to take my
vitamins every night. I feel it when
I realize how upset she was that I
didn’t text her that week, and when
I found out she keeps my room door
closed every time I leave for college
because it pains her to go in it from
how much she misses me. I felt it when
she hugged me the one night I was at
my lowest, immediately sending me
into a melting puddle of tears on her
lap. When she stayed up that entire
night comforting me without a single
complaint. When she spent every
second of her deserved winter break
from work searching the depths of the
internet on ways to help me. When she
begged for appointments with fully
booked professionals for me.
ROSHNI MOHAN
MiC Columnist
Soy el dueño de mi
propia vida
Masking
parts
of
my
identities
felt
like
dying
from
lack
of
oxygen.
Transferring as a junior
from a conservative college
in Grand Rapids, I felt that I
had to conceal parts of who I
was to fit the status quo of my
university. However, once I
arrived at the University of
Michigan, I felt that I could
breathe again. I remember
my first day of French class,
when the professor went
over the core curriculum and
mentioned how we would
be
discussing
LGBTQ+
topics. LGBTQ+? Is that even
allowed here? Won’t they be
fired? These questions might
seem odd to the average U-M
student, but for someone
like me who came from a
conservative institution, I
felt that I was given a rare
opportunity to start fresh
and define who I wanted
to become on my own
timeline.
Coming
from
a
marginalized
background,
I still marvel at how I even
got to such a prestigious
university in the first place.
Being the first in my family
to attend college, my brothers
and
sisters
have
always
looked up to me as an image
of success, even though the
pressure to succeed often
comes at the expense of my
mental
health.
Growing
up Latinx and Queer felt
like
a
daily
challenge,
as I had to navigate the
heteronormativity from my
own Hispanic culture while
also navigating the white-
centric
presence
within
my own Queer community.
Balancing these two sides of
my identity continues to be
one of the biggest struggles
of my life.
I
joined
student
government
with
the
purpose of redefining what it
means to have intersectional
identities.
BRANDON DE MARTÍNEZ
MiC Contributor
ROSHNI MOHAN/MiC
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