Sandy Nguyen

In the entertainment industry, we’ve seen countless portrayals of Asian characters and “Asians” (looking at you, Allison Ng from Aloha) in American films, television, comedy sketches, Broadway, and music, with the “representation” of Asians and Asian Americans in pop culture and the Hollywood industry being overwhelmingly inaccurate, negative, and stereotypical. Looking back, we have: Long Duk Dong from Sixteen Candles, Mr. Yunioshi from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Mr. Chow from The Hangover, Trang Pak and Sun Jin Dinh from Mean Girls, Cho Chang from Harry Potter, the Vietnamese prostitute in Full Metal Jacket, Kim from Miss Saigon, Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls… and so on. 

Then, kids and adults of all backgrounds think it’s okay to “talk with an Asian accent”, pull their eyes back, call Asian women cute China dolls because “I meant it as a compliment”, joke that Asian men have small penises, use racial slurs, or make microaggressions because “I saw it in that one movie”. As a young girl, I felt that many of these characters were blatantly racist, sexist, homophobic, and wondered why people would laugh when they were on screen. When I would point out these issues to others, people would tell me, “It’s not that serious. It’s just a joke. At least there’s some Asian characters.” I know a lot of people may think that something is better than nothing, because if Asians aren’t being characterized as a stereotype, then we’re given no roles at all and have no visibility in an industry that has influence over millions of consumers. 

But we know that constant portrayals of Asian characters as dragon ladies, nerds, quiet, shy, submissive, emasculated, speaking with broken English, hypersexualized and desexualized, or prostitutes, further marginalizes the Asian community and perpetuates the negative beliefs that Asians and non-Asians have about Asians. This is what allows for audiences to internalize the false belief that Asian men aren’t attractive, that Asian women are either aggressive or have no agency over their voices or bodies, and that we’re a great option for the punchlines. This is not representation. Representation should offer a fuller spectrum of our humanity as Asians, far beyond the dehumanizing images and beyond being the butt of the jokes. 

While there are movies and shows like Kim’s Convenience, Fresh Off the Boat, Always Be My Maybe, The Farewell, The Namesake, and Parasite that Asians have praised for representation, when the movie Minari was released, I felt like another door was being opened to help us leave those awful stereotypes about Asians behind. 

Minari was directed and written by Lee Isaac Chung, loosely based on Chung's real-life childhood and experiences growing up on a farm in rural Arkansas with immigrant parents. What Minari did for the Asian and Asian American community was offer a story of love and family—something I haven’t seen before in mainstream media. Although I’m not Korean, watching Minari felt like watching a compilation of memories and experiences that I’ve had in my own life, growing up in a first generation immigrant household. 

I didn’t see jokes at the expense of the Asian characters. I didn’t see a mix of Asian surnames mashed together. I didn’t see a model minority, or the exceptional immigrant myth, or the sensationalized picture of the “American dream” for the white gaze. I didn’t see their issues instantly disappear just because they “worked hard”. I didn’t see trauma porn or a white savior trope. I didn’t see a complete story either, because one movie is not going to be representative of ALL Asians, or even all Koreans (and that’s okay, because Asians are not monolithic). 

I saw a family whose survival was driven by love and hunger. I saw the day to day lives of working class immigrant families in low wage, “unskilled” labor. I saw a language other than English being spoken with care, familiarity, ease, anger, and passion. I saw real names. I saw a father disciplining his child. I saw a family struggling while striving to build community. I saw a family eating traditional foods at the dinner table and sharing it with others. I saw arguments that I’ve heard between my parents a thousand times, with the same amount of rage and frustration. I saw young Asian immigrant parents carrying trauma. I saw what my sisters and I might have looked like living in that exact household. I saw a father’s deep dedication, pride, and shame. I saw a mother who found strength in belonging and prioritizing her children, while staying true to her emotions. I saw sweet moments of bonding and companionship between a grandmother and her grandchild, despite generational and cultural gaps. I saw the complicated relationship I have with my parents as an American-born daughter painted in an understanding and empathetic way. I saw my immigrant grandparents, my immigrant mother, my father, my aunties, my cousins, my neighbors—their stories were told with transparency and kindness.

And I felt seen and heard. As Asians, we saw ourselves on screen and it was authentic, joyful, relatable, and unapologetic. 

The weekend that Minari was available for streaming, I read about Vicha Ratanapakdee, an 84-year-old Thai immigrant who was assaulted in broad daylight and later died of his injuries. It was another heavy reminder that Asians in the U.S., especially the most vulnerable and targeted, face so many barriers that prevent us from living our lives. I hope we can continue the dialogue and start real conversations about being Asian American in this country and what it means to support the Asian community (ALL of the Asian community). So while grieving for the many losses that the Asian American community was facing, I watched Minari and felt empowered, rather than hopeless, to remember that as an Asian American, I can still experience a full range of emotions and despite the harmful image that Hollywood has built against Asians, I can still exist as a full individual outside of that narrative.