just plain trash

In recent years, I’ve seen a lot of talk about how and why diversity and representation matter so much in the media. Despite agreeing wholeheartedly, I always felt that when people talked about “representation”, they weren’t really referring to the representation of Asians in the media. In all my 19 years on this planet, the first real story about Asians that was presented in western media was “Fresh Off the Boat”, so it’s not an exaggeration when I say I was jumping with joy when I heard that a Warner Bros. was adapting Kevin Kwan’s best-selling novel Crazy Rich Asians into a major motion picture. 

The night Jon M. Chu’s Crazy Rich Asians came out in theatres, I bought tickets for my family. We got the absolute worst seats you could possibly get – all the way up front and in the back corner – but I couldn’t care less because I was finally getting to see people who looked like me on the big screen. We rushed into the theatre and to our seats as the commercials and trailers played before the movie began. As I adjusted my lounging seat, I mentally prepped myself. It was just sinking in that I was finally going to see a movie whereby people who looked like me would be the majority. The majority. Soon, the lights dimmed and silence fell over the room. We were watching history. When the legendary Michelle Yeoh stepped into the frame in the very first scene, I felt a sense of happiness and pride that I had never felt before. I wasn’t quite sure what it was until I realized that this is what it felt like to be represented. 

That feeling didn’t go away. Not for a single second throughout the entire two hours. I cried. A lot. Not because there were heartbreaking scenes, which believe me, there are plenty of. No. I cried because I couldn’t believe my eyes. From the montage of local Singaporean dishes being served in the busy food court to the extravagant, sweeping shots of Marina Bay Sands, I was watching a massive part of my life be portrayed so beautifully on the big screen. I swooned as I listened to Henry Golding and his smooth-as-silk British accent woo every single member of the audience. I laughed my ass off watching Awkwafina and Ken Jeong hilariously improvise one line after another. And I sat there in awe, watching Constance Wu and Michelle Yeoh skillfully play a game of Mahjong while delivering beautiful monologues about love and family in Asian culture. 

I’ve seen plenty of stories about love and overcoming obstacles in the name of love. It’s a universal experience. However, I never felt as though I could completely relate to the way those stories were told in mainstream and big budget movies. Whether it was the obstacles a couple faced, or how those said obstacles were overcome, there was always something that felt unfamiliar to me. Crazy Rich Asians was the first time I understood every single step of the journey the characters went through. Sure, I’m Asian, but I’m definitely not crazy rich. However, even though I couldn’t relate to Astrid’s ridiculous shopping habits or the Young’s extravagant mansion, I could certainly relate to the core idea that was delivered throughout the movie. The idea of love and family and how different those two individual concepts are, as well as when they interact, in Asian culture compared to Western culture. For the first time in my life, I felt as though the interactions between each and every character in the film were ones that I had either experienced myself or were extremely familiar with. As someone who grew up with Chinese culture, I completely understood Eleanor’s attitude toward Rachel as well as why she made the choices she did. I understood her reasons and motivations because I understood the culture. Those who felt as though Eleanor’s actions and attitude toward Rachel were harsh and unnecessary definitely did not grow up in a traditional Chinese household. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I was on the sidelines, observing part of a story, but rather in the dead centre where I could see and understand every aspect of it.

In addition to Crazy Rich Asians, a film adaptation of Jenny Han’s YA novel To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before is also currently streaming on Netflix. Han’s story centres a Korean-American high schooler, played by the extraordinary Lana Condor, who writes love letters which are mysteriously sent out, leading her into a less-than-ideal situation which dramatically changes her life. As someone who was a massive fan of the books, I was extremely excited to watch the story come to life. Not only because I was going to have a brand new, quality romantic comedy to watch, but also because it was one with a teenage Asian American girl in the forefront of it all. Having watched every single rom-com to ever exist in this universe, I was finally seeing someone who looked like me have the love story I had always dreamed of. No longer did I feel as though I couldn’t have the crazy love story that rom-coms showed us because I didn’t look anything like the lead. Both Crazy Rich Asians and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before made me feel as though I was worthy of and able to have that love story that only white people ever seem to experience in romantic comedies. 

If my point still isn’t clear, I’ll spell it out for you: representation matters. And just to make it even clearer, ALL representation matters. Now, in August, we’ve got two brilliant romantic comedies with Asian/Asian American leads, but that is not to say Asians are suddenly just as represented as Whites. Not in the slightest. We didn’t reach a goal, we simply progressed toward it; there is still a long way to go. Many people seem to believe this is a “one and done” deal. It isn’t. Just because we got a lot of Asian representation this month doesn’t mean we’re going to be happy with it and wait another 25 years for more Asian representation. Some people believe that just because we got two minority-led movies means there shouldn’t be any more movies with different minorities at the forefront because “minorities have been represented enough”. Guess what? One representation of one minority doesn’t represent all the minorities that exist on the planet. Furthermore, within each minority, there are many different types of people with many different stories. Not all Asian people are represented in Crazy Rich Asians or To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. These two films represent more of the Asian American experience, but not necessarily the experience of Asians in Asia. It’s a good step but there’s still a very long road ahead. Simply having two stories about Asian people isn’t representative of all Asian people, and therefore there is still a long way to go before people can even begin to think there is enough representation of minorities in the media. 

I know you and I have been missing some on-island nonsense, so here we have it! I love this idea. You’re an angel - this has been sat in my inbox for over two years, maybe? I AM SO SORRY. I kinda butchered the original prompt but I hope you still like it! (Slightly NSFW *shrugs*)

Saturday nights for Claire usually consisted of a glass of wine and something particularly trashy on Netflix. She enjoyed her own space, the peace and quiet solitary life gave her; more important than ever since she took up the mantle of Operations Manager at Jurassic World, and happened to be surrounded by twenty thousand people every day - not to mention her staff. Claire’s inbox would be left unattended - at least, for a few hours - her glasses on, hair swept from her neck and piled messily atop her head. Bliss. Alas, not tonight.

Claire regarded herself carefully in the mirror; conscious of her appearance and the fact she was about to move in social circles she wasn’t familiar with. Get over yourself, Claire tutted at her reflection. You owe this to Zara. It was her assistant’s thirtieth birthday, and although Claire had told her it was fine to head home to the UK to celebrate; they were in the final stages of clinching an incredibly lucrative deal with Verizon and Zara had refused to leave her boss’ side. Claire was glad for it, as the sponsorship they were chasing was a major coup - and one that would make a certain Mr Masrani very happy indeed.

ANON: Claire and Owen have a housewarming party for their newly finished cabin and invite all of their friends, family and former JW co-workers over for the event.

Thank you to the prompter who gave me an excuse to write this little idea I had. I think I kinda butchered it but you can be the judge of that. I am also dying of a sinus infection so like impaired judgement. 

Also, if you don’t get the reference in the title I am disappointed in you.

AO3

OWEN AND CLAIRE’S FANCY PARTY

It was the perfect afternoon. Autumn in its finest element, the trees starting to brown amongst the green. The grass was speckled in yellow leaves, Maisie collecting those she found the most vibrant. They had strung faerie lights in the trees, the yellow light starting to glow as the sun started to set.

Their modest yard was littered with guests. Those they wanted around them for a housewarming they would never forget.

Summer had left them, warming the bones of the cabin as it faced its first seasonal test. It kept their little family cool in the hot months, sheltering them when Maisie needed relief from climbing trees and running through the woods.

Nicky, thankyou so much. You’re a darling for this. I hope you enjoy it!

Owen moved around his trailer slowly, sorting piles of laundry and stowing them away neatly. It was part of his everyday routine; wake, jog, shower, work on the cabin, eat, chores, sleep. Once in a while he treated himself to a beer; tonight was one of those nights. It was his domesticated military regime, one he’d become more than accustomed to in the past six months. He bothered nobody, and in turn nobody bothered him. It was beautiful. Tomorrow he’d head on down to the local town, spend some time in the laundromat before picking up his groceries.

The girl behind the counter, Jodie, pushed him for a date every time he ended up at her till. She was gorgeous, with her all-American smile and highlighted blonde hair, but she was a good fifteen years younger than him. Owen wasn’t quite old enough to be her dad; but he felt that he damned well could be. Her grin was achingly carefree as her lashes fluttered his way; but she wouldn’t wear him down, not even as she giggled breathily at his mediocre conversation. Owen’s resolve was tougher than ever, his solitary lifestyle suiting him just fine.