08 Mar Represent Yourself!
A large black and white poster of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz (almost) kissing hangs in our office above the computer desk where I do most of my writing and book-keeping for our family and business. The poster harkens back to an advertising campaign that Apple launched in the late 90’s to “Think different”. Besides Ball and Arnaz, Apple had the likes of Amelia Earhart, Jim Henson with Kermit the Frog, Cesar Chavez, Ghandi, as well as others, all visionaries in their field.
I Love Lucy premiered in our home in the early 80’s, three decades after premiering on television in the United States. Our multi-generational immigrant family had very little time for leisure but when the opportunity to watch television (after having saved enough money to buy one) arrived, Lucy’s hijinks gave us reprieve from our worries and an occasion to laugh during the most difficult of times. Sometimes, after finishing up my schoolwork and the Quran, I would sit as close to the TV as possible so I could watch Lucy’s every movement and facial expressions (she was a master) not realizing that behind me other family members had gathered while coming in from school or work, going to school or work, or just taking a moment to laugh. The chance to laugh stopped us dead in our tracks.
Celebrate differences.
Besides the show gifting me laughter, Lucy’s husband Desi, an immigrant from Cuba, proudly showcased his heritage through dance and song, wasn’t bothered that his accent was different than everyone else’s on the show, and forged his identity even while residing in the United States. It was a game changer! So was there a possibility that I could hold onto my South-Asian culture while adjusting to America or was the American Dream more about assimilation? Try as I might, there were no other shows that came close, for me, to accessing the immigrant’s journey than a comedy that was from a bygone era.
“As I grew older, it became more and more difficult to find faces and voices on television that represented me.”
As I grew older, it became more and more difficult to find faces and voices on television that represented me. I have no recollection of ever seeing a South-Asian actor on American TV; my family rented Indian movies and Pakistani dramas all the time, but the overall landscape of the small screen was white with a spattering of black characters. The uniformity was so vast that at one time as long as one of the main characters was a brunette, I felt like that was my guy, gal, voice and story all rolled into one: from Janet on Three’s Company, Bo on The Dukes of Hazzard, or Ponch on Chips. If they had brownish/black hair – I was good! Sadly, that was the bar.
When adults weren’t around and I could sneak into the basement to watch shows besides I Love Lucy or National Geographic Presents, I would laugh uproariously at the comedy of The Jeffersons, What’s Happening Now, Fat Albert, and Good Times, all African-American based comedies but which I could somehow relate: the sense of never belonging, economic struggles, elders know best, backtalk will get you a whoopin’, and their varied skin colors were the closest I got to relating to any characters.
When The Cosby Show premiered, the Huxtables weren’t just breaking barriers for African-Americans but all people of color: Finally showcasing a program with both parents at home and highly-educated, a stable family foundation including grandparents, and once again, a variety of skin tones even amongst one family. Once a week, Puppa made sure to get home early from FedEx, where he was now manager, Umme tried to get shifts so she could also be home from Montgomery Wards, I would take a break from my studies, great-aunties, grandparents, younger cousins (if they weren’t picked up by my aunt or uncle yet) – our entire clan – would sit for 30 minutes captivated by Mrs. Huxtable’s sage advice to her children or what lesson Mr. Huxtable would teach through comedy. (I realize the darkness that Bill Cosby has created for so many women, the impact so very brutal, and beyond my heart’s understanding, but I cannot disregard the hundreds of good women and men and thousands of hours in creating a show that did redefine what it means to be an American, especially an African-American.)
Slowly the landscape began to change – very slowly. In my forties, I have seen a handful of South-Asian actors finding their niche on television and in the movies, such as Mindy Kaling (one of the only South-Asian females in the industry) from The Mindy Project, Kumail Nanjiani from The Big Sick, Aziz Ansari from Master of None, and Kunnal Nayar from The Big Bang Theory to name just a few. And yet there was still a longing for me to find my place in this tapestry we call America, a feeling or emotion to know that I have arrived.
It happened this past Monday night. After a busy day running a household and researching and feeling what my soul wants to share on this week’s blog, I was reminded that A Wrinkle in Time premieres this week: A sci-fi, coming of age story about Meg Murry, portrayed by Storm Reid, in Disney’s adaptation directed by Ava DuVernay, the first African-American woman director to have a budget over $100 million for a film. DuVernay’s vision – a cast and crew from all walks of life, ethnicities, cultures, and experiences – showing a microcosm of the real world, centers around faith in humanity – in one another. For all the talk of inclusion and authentic story telling, we still live in a world where money overshadows so much of our existence, so my pocketbook is letting Disney and other studios know – keep up the diversity. We value your investment and as consumers will pay it back.
As Damon and I lay in bed, my head on his chest and his arms holding me, I talk about the importance of this movie – a form of art – representing a part of our own bi-racial family dynamics; Ms. Oprah Winfrey, my first influential woman of color on TV, Kaling, my people, and Reese Witherspoon, actor turned real-life warrior for the #TimesUp movement, all celestial beings guiding Meg on a hero’s journey to save her father from the darkness in the Universe.
“And Sade sings the title song. You know how much I love me some Sade,” I say getting choked up. “I know it’s just a movie, but our children will see representations of themselves.” The dam breaks. Tears – lots of them.
“You know how important that is,” I continue. “A highly-intelligent, loud-mouthed, Jewish kid with a multitude of hobbies and a kind heart…Did you ever see your image on TV or hear your voice?” I ask.
Damon shakes his head no. He tears up a lot more than he used to in our earlier years. It’s not the age but the gratitude we both feel in our hearts at being who we each are, building what we have within our marriage, continuing to raise our own Light Warriors, and finding ourselves humbled by the shifting Universe.
“Maybe a seat wasn’t offered up to me at the table but I nudged my way into the forefront, determined to pave a way like so many countless souls have done for me.”
My tears flow freely, tears of gratitude for having arrived at a point in my life where I am represented on screen as well; my image – brown and inviting – now a part of the landscape that was so pure before, never having truly been a depiction of real America. I’ve found my voice and a platform to share my own stories through blogging. Maybe a seat wasn’t offered up to me at the table but I nudged my way into the forefront, determined to pave a way like so many countless souls have done for me. I have arrived – fully, presently, authentically – me. The journey continues.
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