Mirror on a Screen

We watch television for many reasons. Sometimes, we watch it to escape. Or to feel a rush of adrenaline. Sometimes, we watch it to laugh. Other times, it helps us learn, or grieve, or remember.

But sometimes, we watch it because it is a mirror on a screen. We see glimpses of ourselves through another reality. We pick up on threads that connect us to characters or stories. We tie those threads together to create tapestries of our lives - the little parts of us that make us whole.

When we want television to act as our mirrors, it's even more important that what appears on those screens represents - even if only in little pieces at a time - the parts that make us who we are.

So, when I see someone that looks like me on television, I jump at the opportunity to watch the movie or the show. I don't often care how good it is - I watch them because I think, in some small way, I'll find a mirror through the screen. I believe that I'm going to resonate with some part of their story, understand some joke in their language, or imagine the taste of something they cook.

Sometimes, those mirror images are the most powerful because they're not trying to tell a story for me. They allow me to find my own story within that of others - others that look like me and others in whom I can realistically see a mirror image. But what's more, the mirror image gets a little sharper when what I'm seeing speaks to the parts of me that aren't supposed to be. The parts that aren't told by the same old tales. The parts whose stories don't follow the usual script.

So, this isn't about changing stereotypes, but about normalizing one's experiences. Without question, the stories that make us unique deserve to be told. They celebrate diversity and enable us to learn about others. But our experiences don't always have to be different to deserve to be highlighted. The everyday deserves a mirror-screen, because it's often in the mundane that clearly see the little pieces that make up our mirrors - mirrors where the cracks look slightly different than the next person's, because while no one is the same, everyone's experience is normal.

So, when Crazy Rich Asians and Always Be My Maybe became box office hits, I started finding more and more pieces to put together my mirror-screen.

In Always Be My Maybe, I saw reflected the consequences when the dreams you pursue ruin the relationships you hold dear, because you're more focused on yourself than those around you.

In Go Back to China, I was reminded of the joy you feel when those you love are able to find and explore the things they love.

In The Farewell, I felt the pain of the dilemma of having to choose between wanting happiness for those you love and the honesty you owe them.

In Crazy Rich Asians, I felt the tightening of the tension between material and professional success, and the sacrifices you inevitably have to make to achieve it.

In Go Back to China, I saw how hard it was for relationships to thrive if you can't speak directly with the people you love - that passivity can often hurts more often than it does good.

In The Half of It, I felt the burden of taking on responsibility you weren't ready for, and the internal conflict you feel from that burden that seems to only grow heavier over time.

In The Farewell, I reflected on the pain of leaving your home and your family behind in pursuit of something you felt was right, even if those you left behind weren't too sure.

In Always Be My Maybe and The Half of It, I was reminded that there very little can surpass the love of a parent - that the moments where we were most annoyed at our parents were probably the moments that hurt them the most.

In all of those movies, what I saw in the mirror-screen didn't tell me who I needed to be. It didn't tell me I needed to be good at math and not-so-good at friends, or that I needed to eat certain foods, or that I would only be respected for my martial arts or my technocratic skills.

In all of those instances, the mirror on my screen affirmed the validity of the experiences I was living and the emotions I was feeling. I saw my stories on a screen that showed people that looked like me. I resonated with those stories - and those stories spoke to me. They told me that my stories were real and valuable. They reminded me that my stories are every bit as normal and as human than those of Brad and Chad. They affirmed that my stories didn't have to exotic to be worthy - that our everyday, mundane stories are worthy because they speak of our humanity.

Representation matters, because they enable us to see our stories in those mirrors. So, here's to all of us seeing a mirror on a screen - mirrors that help to piece together the many stories that make up who we are.